Dogra Magra (10/47)

by Hisashi Yumeno

I only remember Dr. Wakabayashi's explanation up to this point. As I listened to his explanation, I casually opened the small booklet with the red cover. As I read the title on the first page, I was drawn into the main text before I knew it, and I continued to read it frantically.

"The Madman's Hellish Heretical Sermon"

—Also known as, The Dark Ages of the Insane—

Authored by Menkuro Manji,

Doctor of Science (Austria)

Doctor of Philosophy (Germany)

Doctor of Literature (France)

"Ah, ah, ah, ah. To all of you, on the right and on the left. Masters, young ladies, gentlemen and gentlewomen, from the elderly to the young, everyone. All of you present, it's been a while, hasn't it? You'd be surprised if I said that. And you should be surprised, for the three thousand worlds. It's been a long absence even before it could begin. Today, for the first time, a mad monk has appeared on this roadside... Skaraka, chakapoko. Chakapoko chakapoko..."

"...Come now, gather 'round, gather 'round. Come and see. Listen. It's a story for you. No money needed. It's truly free. Don't push or crowd here. Chakapoko chakapoko..."

"...Quick, quick, they've come, they've come. Come and see and be amazed... Sucharaka, chakapoko. Chacharaka, chakapoko..."

"Ah, ah. I am the mad monk who has appeared. My height is about five shaku and one sun, and I am about thirty-five or thirty-six years old. My head is a smooth bald, my eyes are sunken, and all my teeth are dentures. My thin ribs are like a washboard. The cloth I wear is like a scarecrow in a field, and the straw sandals dragging on my feet are like Kachi-kachi Yama hardened with mud. I am a strange fellow, almost a beggar, like a badger's mud boat. Exposed to the winds of the countries I've wandered through, burned by the sun, and today, under the same blue sky. I spread my bag by the roadside, and with 'Skaraka, chakapoko,' I reveal my reputation. If you ask about my origins, my stories, my history... Skaraka, chakapoko. Chakapoko chakapoko..."

"Ah, ah. It is said that karma and destiny, if asked of a mokugyo, reveal that one has no parents, siblings, relatives, family, wife, or concubine. I am but a lone Sukarakachan. My name and origin are Sukaraka, Chakapoko. A single bag is my only possession. My parents are the crotch of a tree, and I live a carefree life, blown by the wind. It is a journey across the world. Beijing, Harbin, Petersburg, red Moscow, square Berlin, drunken Munich, singing Vienna, dancing Paris, dozing London, and across the sea, free America. The market for women is New York, gambling in San Francisco, and liquor in Chicago. It's been ten years of staggering around, pretending to be American, utterly foolish. Among all I've seen and heard, the only souvenir I have is a terrifying tale of hell... Sukaraka, pokupoku. Chacharaka, pokupoku..."

"Ah, indeed, it is a terrifying tale of hell. Moreover, it is a true story that I have seen with my own sunken eyes. Today is the premiere, and no money is required. Not only is it not required, but for your listening fee, I will give you this book. It is a letterpress print of the lyrics of the song I am currently singing. Some of you may suspect that this is a trick to force you to buy something later, but such worries are entirely unnecessary. This is my hobby. It is a propaganda project for human culture. It is not for reference at all, just a topic of conversation. Come now, gather, listen, and see... Heretic—Festival—E—Text. Mad—A—I—Hell—U—... Sukaraka, chakapoko chakapoko chakapoko chakapoko..."

One

“Ah, ah. The crazy hell of the Gedo Saibun. Now, if you ask where hell is, this area here is the Saha world. The karma I created here will eventually come to pick me up, round and round. It's a fiery chariot that I ride with my eyes rolling. The destination I fall into after circling around, past the worlds of Asuras, beasts, and hungry ghosts, is the form of hell when I hit rock bottom. From the mountain of needles to the blood pond hell, the great cold hell to the scorching heat hell, the sword tree hell and the stone-cutting hell. The fire torment, boiling water, and upside-down hells, these are the eighty thousand hells I created. As a retribution for the karma created in the Saha world, I am cut, crushed, roasted, and boiled. The Avici and Raurava hells, writhing in agony. It is an endless torment where one cannot die even if one wishes to. If you hear that voice, it's the end. Your head will burst open, so says the monk from a high place... Skaraka, Chakapoko Chakapoko Chakapoko Chakapoko Chakapoko...”

“Ah, ah. The monk's sermon from a high place. However, this is not reliable. It's a rumor of hell that one cannot go to unless one dies. It's a living monk collecting offerings. It's a thousand lies that even Shakyamuni doesn't know. The hell I've seen is different in quality from such hells; it doesn't involve striking gongs, chanting sutras, or spending train fare to the Pure Land, and there are plenty of them right here and there. It's the hell of this world, while still alive... Chakapoko Chakapoko Chakapoko Chakapoko Chakapoko...”

“Ah, ah. It is a living hell on earth. And it’s a hell of poverty with no time off, a hell of floating, floating river bamboo. A hell of obligation and human kindness. Or, as punishment for evil deeds committed, ‘Arrest him! I’ve got him! Walk quickly!’ And then being thrown into a fixed-term or indefinite hell. It’s vastly different from what one might call hell. Such reason doesn’t pass even a speck. It’s a hell where one cannot breathe, cannot see the light of day, and whose breadth and depth are unknown. The Yama there is a doctor of medicine, and the bachelors are far from ox-headed and horse-faced demons. However, the famous tools of hell, the eyes that discern and sniff out past sins, the nose that smells, Yama’s ledger, and the pure glass mirror that sees through people’s hearts from back to front—not even a shadow of them is visible. Whether there is sin or not, without distinguishing between sanity and madness, they indiscriminately corner and kick people, just hearing about it makes one’s hair stand on end. That is where hell exists. On the surface, it’s a splendid mental hospital. If you think it’s a lie, go in and see. All sorts of torments are at your command. What a terrifying madman’s hell… Chakapoko chakapoko chakapoko…”

“Ah, ah. What a terrifying madman’s hell it is. Indeed, a terrifying mental hospital. Even if I say such things, you all probably still won’t quite grasp it, but things are in order. Listen. As you listen, you’ll think, ‘Ah, I see, I didn’t know it was such a thing.’ You’ll understand. Once you understand, the eighty-four thousand pores on your body will tingle and stand on end. It’s a story about a hell in such a place… Chakapoko chakapoko chakapoko chakapoko…”

Ah, this is not just a story about hell. Now, let’s consider the origin of this hell. It begins with the letter "I" of karma, but if we were to ask about its very beginning, we could say it is thanks to the dawn of civilization. The dawn of civilization worldwide is progressing by leaps and bounds, and at its core lies the preciousness of scientific knowledge. Doctors' work, in particular, is specialized in curing human diseases… Chakapoko chakapoko…

Comparing the treatment methods of surgery and internal medicine, which correct physical imbalances, with those of psychiatric hospitals, which correct mental imbalances, within the work of doctors who cure human illnesses, one notices an astonishing difference in progress. The body has a visible form, so it can be understood by touch. The internal organs can also be seen by dissection. There are many diagnostic tools such as percussion, auscultation, X-rays, and blood tests. Even if it is an unknown illness, if the diagnosis and treatment differ, it can be immediately understood what was wrong by dissecting after death. However, even God cannot diagnose the human mind... chakapoko chakapoko...

The human mind cannot be diagnosed. How can even the most skilled doctor discern mental or emotional imbalance? Which pulse should be checked, which tongue should be extended, which suffering should be injected? There are no tools to solve problems of the mind. Can the passion you feel for someone be measured by a thermometer? Fake madmen and real madmen cannot be distinguished by X-rays. No voice is heard, no form is seen. The true nature of the mind is stranger than a fart. How can this be diagnosed? You cannot give medicine to a fool. Old lessons are still true today. In the end, mental illness is absolutely impossible to diagnose and treat, and it is understood as an inexplicable thing that cannot be elucidated by scientific knowledge... sukaraka, chakapoko. Chakapoko chakapoko...

Once one understands that it is something incomprehensible, one again realizes a strange fact here that defies logic. In the first place, if human mental and psychological disorders cannot be diagnosed or treated, then how is it that psychiatric hospitals and neurological treatments are being carried out everywhere in the current world? What kind of work do psychiatrists do, who put up square signs, have elaborately designed entrances, and charge expensive fees for diagnosis and treatment? Everyone would wonder if they are swindlers or merely some kind of tool. But wait a moment. There is an order to things. There is an incredibly absurd inside story. It is a story of how doctors profit handsomely precisely because diagnosis and treatment are impossible. This is the true "Ahodara-kyo" (foolish sutra)... Sukaraka, Chakapoko Chakapoko Chakapoko Chakapoko Chakapoko...

Ah, long, long ago, when scientific knowledge had not advanced, people's physical and mental illnesses were not understood, so diagnosis and treatment were guesswork. They thought it was due to something like house feng shui, directions, or astrology, and somehow managed with prayers, incantations, sacred water, and amulets. However, many illnesses could not be cured that way. Then, medicines were discovered, and it was found that taking them quickly improved illnesses. Based on this, research revealed that human illnesses are caused by imbalances within the body, and this marked the beginning of medicine. Now, with anatomy, physiology, pathology, medical chemistry, bacteriology, pharmacology, and specialties like surgery, internal medicine, dermatology, otolaryngology, ophthalmology, orthopedics, gynecology, and pediatrics, every corner is equipped with available instruments and medicines, and the great light of scientific knowledge for treating imbalances in the human body shines brighter every day... Sukaraka, Chakapoko Chakapoko...

However, what about mental illness? How much progress has been made in the examination and treatment by doctors who heal the madness of the human mind? In ancient times, those with mental illness were feared, revered, and worshipped as if possessed by a divine spirit, or they were believed to be the work of living or dead spirits, and were treated with care by offering things. However, sometimes they were thought to be possessed by demons, and monks and miko (shrine maidens) acted as doctors and judges. Upon discovery, officials with spears, swords, lassos, bows and arrows, and clubs would point them out, smash their heads one after another, dismember their limbs and torsos, and burn or bury them. This was the same punishment as the current extermination of rabid dogs. This was the first examination and the first treatment for those with mental illness. It was the beginning of the madman's hell... Sukaraka, chakapoko chakapoko chakapoko...

This was the beginning of the madman's hell, and because the cause of mental illness was not understood, those who committed evil deeds using superstitions and wicked methods appeared. Moreover, these were very cunning individuals who harbored unreasonable hatred due to grudges, jealousy, strong dislike, or against political or business rivals. They would bribe miko, monks, or officials to seize anyone they deemed an obstacle without any warning. They were forcibly treated as insane, sometimes executed by national law, or in less severe cases, imprisoned... Chakapoko chakapoko...

In less severe cases, they would become residents of a prison. Examining world history, there are scattered examples of such methods being used to eliminate inconvenient individuals due to internal family disputes, such as those over high status, titles, honor, property, inheritance of territory, or conflicts over women and heirs. Now, when considering the present era, I want to say that the same things are happening, but not only can I not say it, the situation is now a little more atrocious... Sukaraka, chakapoko. Sucharaka, chakapoko chakapoko chakapoko...

Ah... this is the era of civilization and enlightenment. It's an age where scientific knowledge governs everything, yet only mental illness remains stuck in the dark ages of the past. To say that diagnosis and treatment are impossible sounds like a joke if you're not careful. Some people might say such a thing, and I would find those people admirable. They are excellent individuals who haven't forgotten reason, common sense, and scientific knowledge. I would ask such people to please visit a mental hospital, school, or library when they have some free time. You'll find books lined up, compiling the research of doctors and scholars from around the world who have successively studied mental illness. If you examine their contents, you'll see a long list of disease names, with round Western letters and square Kanji characters jostling for space. It's a struggle just to count them on your fingers.

It is now believed that mental patients, like surgical and internal medicine patients, are illuminated by the light of science, and are being diagnosed and treated. However, only amateurs are grateful... chakapoko chakapoko...

Ah, only amateurs are grateful. I don't mean to be critical, but please don't be surprised. Even if scientists from the West and Japan, who have investigated everything from the ends of the heavens to the depths of the earth, gather and research, they still know absolutely nothing about the workings of the most important part, the brain inside their own heads. Anyone who thinks this is a lie should try reading a book by scholars, ancient and modern, from East and West, who have studied the human brain. The brain is a warehouse for hearing, seeing, and judging things. It's a place where knowledge, experience, and old memories are stored. What's going on, it's mostly just lengthy preambles like a Naniwabushi performance, but not a single definite fact is known... chakapoko chakapoko chakapoko chakapoko...

Ah, I don't know a single certain fact. It's natural not to know. Even if they say the world is vast, if you truly examine the human brain, you'll find something infuriatingly simple and clear. If there's anyone who has discerned the strange and peculiar workings of the brain, I am here... If I were to say that, everyone might laugh and say, "Perhaps your brain alone was baked in the sun every day, causing your personality to change," but perhaps that's truly the case. That's also my hobby. I look forward to accomplishing research that will astonish doctors and scholars worldwide, and to replacing the minds of two billion people in human society. Eventually, that paper will be published by a certain university. You'll see it then. Scholars in other parts of the world don't know how to study the brain; they're full of misguided speculations, speaking things that only seem like the truth. They can explain one principle, but they can't interpret other facts. If you support one side, the other falls. Two shutters for a nine-foot by two-ken room... Skaraka, Chakapoko. Chakapoko Chakapoko...

Ah, a nine-foot by two-ken room with two storm shutters. What's more, from morning till night, it changes one after another like a revolving lantern. Like a cat's eyes or a turkey, it cries and laughs, changing rapidly. I don't know what the true nature of the human heart looks like, why it goes mad, or where it is, like Han-shichi from the liquor store; I don't understand a single thing. As proof of this, the current psychiatry textbooks list numerous disease names. The scholars who wrote such books, without understanding anything, observe the patient's surface, watch their gestures and movements, give them a suitable name, and conclude the diagnosis. They just confine them within red bricks. There might be some who are misdiagnosed, but this, too, is nothing to worry about. Unlike other diseases, misdiagnosis in mental illness is undetectable. Once labeled with the "ki-no-ji" (crazy) character, it's a brick hell from which one can never escape. Even if one tries to explain, "No, no," that itself becomes proof of being "ki-no-ji." This fate remains unchanged, then and now. If Yaoya O-Shichi were dissected after being diagnosed with pyromania, it might be discovered by some twist of fate that she was a nymphomaniac. If Ishikawa Goemon were hospitalized as a specimen of a kleptomaniac, he might turn out to be a megalomaniac. Such worries never exist, so it's easygoing. Patients who cannot be diagnosed have diseases that are incomprehensible. What an easygoing mad doctor... Sukaraka, chakapoko. Chacharaka, chakapoko. Chakapoko chakapoko...

Ah, what a carefree psychiatrist. Well, what will be the method of treatment? Worrying alone won't start anything, that's a layman's thought. This, like the examination, is like fumbling in pitch-black darkness. It might be thanks to the current world that one's head isn't immediately smashed, but from a patient's perspective, there are things right before my eyes that I simply cannot understand. Please, look into a mental hospital anywhere. Not only iron-barred cells, but also tools that are not even seen in today's detention centers or prisons are lined up. Iron chains, sleeveless white coats, handcuffs and leg irons, crucifixion beds, and a row of stone boxes with small windows. Torture tools that would make even the most heinous criminal tremble... chakapoko chakapoko...

Ah, torture tools that make one's body tremble. In contrast, there are absolutely no medicines or instruments to truly cure the mental derangement of inpatients. Anesthetic injections for sleepless patients, sedatives for those who make noise. If they don't eat, there are only injections for nutritional infusion or enemas. It's worse than a poor internal medicine or surgical department. After that, if they recover, it's the doctor's credit, and if they die, it's dismissed as bad luck. They laugh "ahahah" and put on a calm face, but in reality, it's the hell of a terrifying mental hospital... sukaraka, chakapoko chakapoko...

Ah, it's the hell of a terrifying mental hospital. However, this is still just a preliminary test. It's the Sanzu River of the mental hospital. Just hearing about it makes my hair stand on end. The eighty thousand hells are foolish. A hell that continues endless foolishness and drives the mentally ill out of this world... the cycle, well, that's yet to come... sukaraka, chakapoko. sukaraka, chakapoko. chakapoko chakapoko chakapoko chakapoko...

Sukaraka, chakapoko chakapoko chakapoko. Ah, everyone, please don't be surprised. This isn't a story from Japan. It's a story from Tang and Tenjiku, from over there. The splendid hospital hells built by psychiatrists around the world with such merciless hearts are full of foolish, deceased patients. And that's natural. Even if the number of beds in hell were increased a thousandfold, ten thousandfold, it wouldn't be enough for the number of mentally ill people in the human world. Moreover, once admitted, not only is the recovery period long, but some patients can never leave, so it inevitably becomes full. There, doctors strut around, forcing anything on patients. If they get fed up and become stingy with money, they are immediately discharged. Some patients manage to leave safely with permission for home treatment, while others leave in a coffin with a diagnosis of another illness. The replacements come one after another, a push-and-shove ticket gate... chakapoko chakapoko...

Ah, a push-and-shove ticket gate. But this story is suspicious. It's strange and mysterious. Some might wonder why anyone would pay money to admit someone to such a place. Those are people who haven't experienced having a mentally ill person in their family. Please listen carefully first. Even more astonishing stories are about to emerge. Chakaraka, chakapoko...

Ah, I don't know, but Mok-eo knows. There's an even more surprising fact. Moreover, it's common everywhere. Anyone involved with a mental hospital knows it. It's a top-secret story, but if I were to tell it only here, it might seem a bit inconsistent, but Mok-eo's story fits perfectly. Among those who bring all mental patients to bow at the red brick entrance, parents, siblings, wives, and children often shed tears and beg for healing. However, among such close relatives, the only one who truly wishes for treatment from the bottom of their heart and cares for them is, in fact, the mother. And that's when the patient is her own son or daughter, whom she bore with pain. Other relatives, even siblings who share the same blood, are truly cold and heartless. Especially young wives, after staying for two or three days as a mere formality, sigh, and then leave quickly, as if waiting for someone from their hometown to pick them up. That's still better. After handing the patient over to the doctor, even before the room is assigned, they make phone calls, go to the restroom, look in the mirror between their sashes, pat their nose, and then subtly disappear. They never show their face again... Chakapoko chakapoko...