Dogra Magra (11/47)

by Hisashi Yumeno

Ah, yes. It's normal for them never to show their face again. Since it's already determined to be an incurable disease, seeing a doctor is merely for appearances. In truth, they come to abandon them. This disease, for which there is no meaning in living. Behind the greeting asking for their kind consideration, one can see the underlying thought that it would be a great nuisance if they were cured. This is the boundary between life and death for the patient, and a place where doctors profit greatly.

“Oh, don't look so alarmed. Such things...” I'm looked at with disdain because I've actually seen these things with my own eyes. However, it's not about Japan, but tales from Tang, Tenjiku, and the West. It's a story about a wooden fish that has no ears, no eyeballs, and speaks no words.

Ah, it's a story about a wooden fish that speaks no words. It's a story from Tang and Tenjiku. It makes no distinction between men and women. Once a person has gone mad, no matter how calm they appear, they might unexpectedly commit violence, kill people, or commit arson. They scatter unpleasant feelings and strange deeds everywhere. They are like beasts in human form. There's no need to treat them as humans. No matter how severely they are punished, even if stones or tiles are thrown at them, they don't remember the person against whom they committed the crime. Even if they seem to have recovered completely, one never knows when it might recur. It is said even to this day that one cannot be careless. On top of what has been said since ancient times, people say, "That's in their bloodline," and "How terrifying." What kind of curse or retribution is there? Society points fingers. If, among one's own family, an unexpected person with a mental illness appears, it's a major crisis.

Ah, it would be terrible if it appeared. And in the wealthy upper-class society, if it's a family that lacks nothing, they could just build a padded cell. Only those who don't know the hardships of upper-class society would lightly say there's no need to put them in a hospital with no hope of recovery. For a family with some public recognition, once the word "madness" is out, it's over. For eternity, it will affect their lineage. Simply put, their children's marriage prospects would be jeopardized. Moreover, the hardship of being looked down upon, scorned, and gossiped about by their subordinates in the neighborhood, with comments like "That's the curse of ill-gotten money" or "That's the retribution for their forced rise in status," affects the family's reputation and gate. So, they use their influence and power, exhausting all efforts to find connections, and secretly admit them to the red-brick hospital. If it's full, they make even more efforts, requesting special arrangements from the director. In any case, this world is all about money. Especially when it comes to mental hospitals. Even a director with an intimidating face will quickly change to a smiling Jizo, and instead of welcoming them with a hand of mercy, they'll send other patients to paradise. Even with money, this is how it usually is.

Ah, even with money, this is how it usually is. The higher one's status, family background, honor, and position, the more difficult it becomes to treat a mentally ill person at home. They must be secretly confined in the red-brick hospital to feel at ease. However, in middle-class society, a fixed monthly salary or annual income, a meager income, is their lifeline. If someone among the dependent head of the household or family goes insane, they'll be evicted if they're renting. A padded cell is out of the question. If the patient requires a little care, savings and pensions disappear in an instant. Furthermore, if the caregiver is the head of the household, they can't go to work, and if it's the wife, she can't do her job. If the children go to school, they'll be ridiculed and mocked with comments like "That's a 'madness' egg." Unspeakable sadness and hardship fall upon everyone at once. The only remaining lifeline is the director of the red-brick hospital, but if they go there after making impossible calculations, everywhere is full.

Ah, no matter where I go, it's always full. And I'm a step lower, earning just enough to live day-to-day. If my wife does piecework and my daughter works in a factory, the hardship and misery are beyond words. Far from being cared for, without even medicine, the whole family would immediately have to hang themselves from the ceiling. Even if I resented them, wishing they would just go mad and die, it would be better, but the person in question is far from going mad; they're eating heartily and show no signs of recovery.

Ah, a face with no hope of recovery. In this state, countless mentally ill people appear and pop out into the human world, like wheat smut, turnip horses, or the madness of flowers and vegetables, without reason or logic, stumbling along. Only universities in the wide world accept and hospitalize them for free. And even though they have hundreds of beds, they don't do it out of charity. They're used as research material for students and professors, as living specimens, and for lecture references. They pick and choose what's convenient, and then turn away the rest at the door. If you look at private institutions, they are, after all, business-oriented, and all are packed with important patients, full of money and authority.

Ah, a packed house of important patients. So, where and how are these countless, unmanageable madmen dealt with? If I ponder this, well, here's another story I've heard. A disabled wooden fish, unable to hear, see, or move its mouth, tells stories it has seen and heard, with an empty belly and impartial mind. It beats out the Aho-dara Sutra. The Chon-gare verses of the hell tour drop down one more level, deeper into the abyss.

Come, gather 'round, for a story. No money needed. You'll be surprised to hear it... Skaraka, Chakapoko Chakapoko. Chacharaka, Chakapoko Chakapoko Chakapoko Chakapoko Chakapoko.

Ah, ah, ah. Indeed, everyone, this is the situation: when one person becomes mentally ill, unlike other diseases, the remaining sane family members suffer unbearable torment. They absolutely cannot keep them at home like this. Even if they ponder what to do, they can't find a way. While doing so, they make unreasonable arrangements, lose money, and can't work. Soon, the family's demise is imminent. How sad, how sorrowful, how painful... Chakapoko chakapoko.

Ah, how truly heartbreaking it is. Sadness grips my chest, and pain churns my heart. I myself understand that suffering, but when I think of the future of my elderly parents and my beloved children, I feel utterly helpless. I can't find meaning in living for one person; is it logical to abandon them? Is it the right path to end my life with the patient before causing trouble for others? What karma has led me to such suffering? Even if I cry and resent, the patient, who is the crux of it all, merely looks around listlessly, just staring blankly.

Ah, they're just wandering around aimlessly. Their original form remains, but their heart is empty. They only have the shape of a person, but they're worse off than dogs or cats. There's a feeling of pity, but if I could take their place, I would lament and agonize over it. In a desperate situation, one commits a great sin. The sounds of chakapoko, chakapoko echo.

Ah, committing a desperate, grave sin. Pretending to move to some distant country, pretending to put them in an unknown hospital, and then, beyond the mountains and fields from which they will never return, tearfully abandoning the patient. But this is not like an abandoned child. There is no Buddha to raise them. Not only is there no one, but they are beaten and driven away wherever they go. Hungry, freezing, where they collapse, there might be tree roots or grass roots. Knowing this, the demon who abandons them looks around, searching. The lingering image of the pitiful patient, in the distant shadows or tree shades, praying with clasped hands.

Ah, I pray with both hands. According to an old tale from the Engi era, Semimaru and Sakagami-sama, for some unknown karma, were both abandoned by their father, the Emperor, as a blind man and a madwoman. The story of them leaving the flowery capital and crossing Mount Ōsaka to face unknown sorrows is, though regrettable, a poignant custom of this fleeting world, a desperate secret disposal that transcends ancient and modern times, East and West. It disregards wealth or poverty, status, right or wrong, and reason.

Ah, it disregards right or wrong and reason. Among the pitiful patients who wander to the ends of fields and mountains due to such circumstances, those with a little sanity left might rummage through other people's refuse heaps or receive things to survive. Even if they eventually regain their sanity, the sadness and hardship of this world will have permeated their being. Ashamed of their appearance, thinking of their remaining family, they give up on people and the world, shedding tears in the guise of beggars. If it continues for three days, it's unstoppable, and they fall into a carefree world. They become famous beggars, mingling with vagrants and mountain dwellers, living in huts at temple gates, in the shadows of shrine forests, or at the foot of bridges, picking lice. If you gather them, one by one, they amount to a considerable number. Moreover, the number of such miserable figures who disappear due to the cold treatment of a nation and society ignorant of the pity of hell, as if saying, "Just die already," is but one or two out of a thousand or ten thousand.

Ah, it's one or two out of a thousand or ten thousand. Everyone, how do you feel about this? If this were an ordinary illness, they would be cherished more than healthy people, and doctors, medicine, and nurses would have prepared soft beds and good food for them. Not only humans, but even dogs, small birds, and goldfish are sometimes cared for with great devotion. However, because the true nature of mental illness is not understood, mental patients, whether within red brick walls or at the ends of fields and mountains, will inevitably suffer the torments of hell.

Ah, the inescapable torments of hell. But everyone, listen to the story of hell I've been tapping out on my mokugyo. The hell of hospitals and the hell of the wilderness are, honestly and truly, hells where genuine, gold-leafed lunatics descend. They are ordinary, common madman-hells. Now, I'll gather my strength once more, raise my disrespectful, foolish voice, and expound on the story of hell. And I'll throw in another, truly incredible, monstrous story of hell. It's a hell where ordinary men and women, who know nothing of sin or retribution, whose sanity is not disturbed, and who understand things perfectly well, suddenly have their limbs taken from them, and are forced to die without being able to utter a sound. It's a madman-hell where they are forcibly and unreasonably dragged in and beaten down.

Moreover, upon closer inspection, there are grand buildings lined up in Tang, Tenjiku, and the West. Ah, such magnificent grand buildings. On polished golden signboards and large newspaper advertisements, there are only square-faced boasts like "Such-and-such Hospital," "Such-and-such Treatment." It doesn't explicitly say "hell," but it's a strange business where the police and detective agencies know its true nature but pretend not to. Once you step one foot inside the door, which is sanctioned by the world, it's a dark world from which you can never escape, no matter how much you cry, scream, go mad, or struggle. People walk around in the cultured world of the 20th century, in the age of omnipotent scientific knowledge, in the world of law, morality, and etiquette, strutting proudly, unaware that such a place exists. However, tomorrow, they themselves might fall into it. It's the bottomless pit of madman-hell. Chakapoko, chakapoko, chakapoko.

Ah, how money is the enemy in this world. First, there's the inheritance case. Political, diplomatic, and military secrets are also involved. When I want to acquire some magnificent sum of money, he feels like an obstacle. The target walks alone. It might be a mistress's residence, a gambling den, or a secret meeting place. I'll look for a quiet place to sneak in and pinpoint a nearby path. I'll bring along the psychiatrist I've employed for some time, portraying him as a greedy person. He's my close friend, but he's a bit mentally unstable and wanders in lonely places instead of going home. I want the doctor to examine him, but he might say, "There's nothing wrong with me," and become violent. It's an unavoidable emergency measure. Since I know he always passes through this area, I'll stake out to catch him. Then I'll ask a few of my associates for help. I'll give them some money, get the doctor's endorsement, and proceed with the procedures as I wish. If I drop him with a thud, the opponent will fall into the abyss, into a hell of mental illness from which he cannot escape alive... Skaraka, Chakapoko Chakapoko Chakapoko...

Ah, it's a hell of mental illness from which one cannot escape. If this is a family dispute, and the target is a young son or daughter, there are even more sophisticated methods. Especially with sensitive people influenced by modern thought, it saves effort. Treat them with a little irony, or exploit their position, and symptoms of neurasthenia will quickly appear. Their cheeks will turn pale, their eyes will sparkle, and their words and actions will change. Show this to a doctor who understands it well, and things will go as I wish. Rest is a superficial excuse, and like a flower bud that never opens, they will tragically fall into the hell of Avici... Chakapoko Chakapoko...

Ah, falling into the Avici Hell of endless suffering. Dr. Mattaku, famous even in Hontou Country, makes a living specializing in such patients. He was an ordinary doctor at first, but he noticed that the gratuities from these types of patients were very large, and gradually he became a specialist in them. Now he is thriving. Surprisingly, his hospital is a place lined with torture devices that are the epitome of modern culture, equipped with silent killing facilities. At first glance, it looks like a hell of extreme cold, many degrees below zero, even in the dog days of summer. In contrast, the main street has a shining entrance, and the number of cars lined up is countless. Moreover, his strength lies in holding the secrets of wealthy and prominent families. He can extort money as he pleases. If that doesn't work, he will announce that he misdiagnosed the person's secret as a forcibly fabricated sane patient. He will either quickly discharge them fully recovered, or side with the patient and expose their secret to the world, somehow shaking the opponent, bankrupting them, or if they fear his own wrongdoing will be exposed, he will give the inpatient an injection, a drop of medicine. Even if an autopsy is performed later, modern medicine cannot determine whether the patient was violent enough to require such drugs. This is Dr. Mattaku's magic trick... Sukaraka, Chakapoko. Chakapoko Chakapoko Chakapoko...

Ah, the trick of the psychiatrist. And the wonders continue. As expected of Tamageta City, the home of the insane hell in Hontou Country, Dr. Mattaku is boldly doing such business, yet he is not pointed at by a single finger from his fellow diligent doctors, nor is he complained about or criticized. The government, the police, and even newspaper reporters are just quietly watching... Sucharaka, Chakapoko. Chakapoko Chakapoko...

Ah, I'm just quietly watching over it. The ongoing mystery is a large box of secret funds from the Kingdom of Hontou. The enormous amount of money leaking from it goes into Dr. Mattaku's pocket. Silently, without a sound. Not only that, but Dr. Mattaku's broad shoulders and large chest are adorned with numerous medals and decorations. These are the kind that civilian and military officials who have made great contributions to the nation rarely receive. Germany, France, England, Russia. It seems Japan was not among them, but even so, it's astonishing to think how great a contribution Dr. Mattaku must have made to these world powers to receive such decorations... Sukaraka, Chakapoko. Chakapoko Chakapoko...

Sukaraka, Chakapoko. Chakapoko Chakapoko. Ah, now, everyone, you might find this boring, but if I stop here, it would be like making a Buddha without putting a soul into it. I will break open and expose, from the very bottom, the true nature of the hell of scientific culture, the countless mysteries I've laid out since the desperate beginning, which are neither seen nor heard. This is truly an astonishing story. I will briefly entertain you until you, the audience, understand and agree, saying, "Dr. Mattaku is amazing, I see." This is the story of the unheard-of hellish Chongare, the most mysterious wooden fish in the world... Sukaraka, Chakapoko Chakapoko Chakapoko...

Ah—ah. A hellish world not worth hearing about. It's like an idiotic sutra chanted to the sound of a deaf-mute mokugyo. Well then, sukaraka, chakapoko. The true people's republic, in its outward appearance, boasts of being a world power. It's called the home of freedom and justice, but unlike Japan, not everyone can become the head of state. It's a country where money controls everything. The word "loyalty" doesn't even exist. Everything is about money. Justice and laws can be bought with money. Conscience and chastity, of course, too. Billionaires with the tenacity of a bear hawk, who will stop at nothing to seize and hold onto freedom and civil rights, treat the nation's interests as their own and wield political power with an unshakeable abacus. Even if the government changes, the prestige of the billionaires remains. From ministers and parliamentarians at the top, down to police officers and soldiers at the bottom, they hold the nation's prosperity in their hands. As the chief clerks for the money-making of the top billionaires, they wear masks of law and justice, and relentlessly trample on the freedom, morality, and human decency of the weak and righteous people.

Scholars and pastors, who are champions of justice and wholeheartedly despise the outrageous splendor of such wealthy individuals, begin to deliver speeches criticizing the rich in the name of freedom of speech. Or they write their thoughts in books, and everyone praises them. They gain popularity among the lower classes, and the call to overthrow the capitalists grows louder... sukaraka, chakapoko chakapoko chakapoko...

Ah—ah. As the cry to overthrow the wealthy grows louder, the wealthy become a nuisance. They throw their claims and voices into magazines and newspapers, blaming the government. The government is greatly troubled. It's natural to be troubled. Because if they don't appease the wealthy's chief clerks, they won't get funding for the next election. However, individual freedom is freedom. It doesn't violate the laws of the country. They certainly can't chase away or imprison scholars and pastors, who are righteous allies and respectable individuals with sound reasoning. If they did that, it's clear that the voices of opposition would grow louder. So, the government, at a loss for ideas, falls into a crazy hell of going behind the scenes. Among such scholars and pastors, they target only the ringleaders, and if they are within their grasp, they use detectives to target them. They stealthily follow behind them as they walk alone in a desolate place, quickly drag them down, and restrain them as mentally ill. They put large handcuffs and leg irons on them, press an anesthetic handkerchief to their face, and throw them into Dr. Mattaku's waiting hospital car. The rest goes without saying... Chakapoko Chakapoko...

Ah—ah. The rest goes without saying. In civilized nations that sense this, there is no distinction between the state and the individual. Those who are at a loss for bad ideas all make secret requests, thinking there is no more convenient method than this. The patients admitted are politicians, scholars, military detectives, great inventors, the wealthy, heirs of prestigious families, and famous actors and stars. These were people who had the skill to obstruct others' ambitions, illicit gains, and secret planned projects, and they were in important positions. Without preliminary hearings, trials, or sentencing, not only life or fixed-term imprisonment, but also executions easier than the electric chair, are carried out as ordered. This is truly a judgment from hell... Chakapoko Chakapoko...

Ah—ah. This truly is the judgment of hell. Among the patients who fall into it, there are madmen and lunatics, but there are also excellent individuals. Heroes, strongmen, and geniuses are led away, hand and foot, by stiff-necked people in white clothes, while Dr. Mattaku grins and watches them go from atop a mountain of gold and medals... Chacharaka, chakapoko. Sucharaka, chakapoko chakapoko chakapoko...

Ah—ah. Oh, ladies and gentlemen, all of you present. This is my souvenir from abroad. It's a tale of hell on earth, accompanying the shadows of modern culture. Psychiatric patients wander amidst chirping birds, lush leaves, blooming flowers, and autumn foliage, as if in the Pure Land. Abandoned by their families, unable to cry over sins or retribution, they are the pitiful figures of mad beggars. In villages here and towns there, they are chased every night, pelted with stones and tiles, beaten by rain, exposed to wind, and almost vanish in snow and ice. The one who created such a hell on earth, even the round, bright sun, turned its face away, saying, "I don't know," or perhaps not, and is smiling brightly... Chakapoko chakapoko...

Ah—ah. It's smiling brightly, but that's still a relatively easy hell. The more brightly the lights of materialistic science and culture, like the ceaseless electric and gas lamps day and night, shine, the darker spiritual culture becomes. It's a competition of cunning, where money, women, rights, and duties are pursued without regard for means. Unreasonable struggles for survival crisscross and fly about like trains, automobiles, and airplanes in the sky. A person's fate is but a moment away. There's a secret door hidden in the darkness, and the old and young, men and women brought there, don't distinguish between madness and sanity. Fools and wise men alike are kicked in equally, and once the door is tightly shut, they are swallowed whole without a word of complaint. The destination, where they fall without sound or scent, is a world of darkness where the light of worldly reason and human compassion casts no shadow. Within this earthly hell of scientific knowledge, made of reinforced concrete, bricks, and cement, there are layers of insane hells, above which is the hell of kindness, followed by the hell of contempt and ridicule, below which is the hell of abuse and assassination, and at the very bottom is a hell of unknown nature... Chakapoko chakapoko...

Ah—ah. And what comes after the hell of unknown nature is another terrifying one. This is the hell where everything is understood. Even if you gnash your teeth, writhe, and stomp your feet, thinking, "Is that bastard throwing me, a sane person, into a place like this?", the more you stomp, the more it becomes a hell of kindness. If you still don't stop, it's a hell of abuse. After that is the hell of regretful bones, leading to an abyss from which one cannot escape even as a ghost... Chakapoko chakapoko...