The Man Who Was Always Laughing: The Story of Budai Monk

Yesterday I went to the temple, and I ended up standing in front of the Maitreya statue again for a while.

You know the one — that chubby, big-bellied Buddha with the huge grin. Almost every temple in China has him right by the entrance. When I was a kid, I always thought he was different from the other Buddhas — the others are solemn, quiet, eyes cast downward. Only this one, laughing without holding back, belly so big it looks like it might burst through his robes, with a cloth bag sitting next to him.

I didn't understand back then. Just thought it was funny. It was only later that I learned there was a real person behind that laughing Buddha.

The Child from Changting Village

Legend has it that during the Later Liang dynasty of the Five Dynasties period, in Changting village of Fenghua, Zhejiang, someone found a baby boy by the stream. The child was adopted by a farming couple who named him "Qici."

Qici grew into a rather unusual person.

He was fat, with a big belly, and always smiling. He didn't sit properly chanting sutras or meditating like other monks. Instead, he wandered from place to place with no fixed home. He carried only one thing — a worn-out cloth bag. So people called him "the Cloth Bag Monk," or "Budai Heshang."

What was in that bag? Someone asked him once.

He set the bag down on the ground and said nothing.

The person didn't understand and asked again.

He picked the bag back up and walked away.

Later, someone figured it out: putting it down — that's letting go. Picking it back up — that's also letting go. He never explained anything, but he himself became the explanation.

When He Asked for Alms

The way Budai asked for alms was unusual too.

He didn't knock on wooden fish, didn't chant sutras, didn't set rules. When he arrived at a village, he'd just sit down among the people and smile. If someone gave him rice, he ate. If someone cursed at him, he smiled. If someone threw stones into his bag, he'd pick it up and walk away — still smiling.

Once, someone tried to challenge him: "Monk, how come you smile at everyone? Bad people too?"

Budai patted his belly and said: "A big belly can hold what the world cannot hold."

The person asked again: "Then what's the hardest thing in the world to hold?"

He didn't answer. He just pointed to his own heart.

I sat by my window for a long time after reading this story. Not because the words were profound — really, when you think about it, it's quite simple — but because I was wondering if I could do it.

Honestly? No.

Most of the time, a single unkind word from someone will stay with me for three days. Let alone "holding what the world cannot hold." But Budai wasn't preaching. He was demonstrating a way of living. He lived his whole life without ever getting into an argument, without ever losing his temper over anything.

I can't do it. That doesn't mean it's not worth thinking about.

Sleeping in the Snow

One winter, Fenghua got a heavy snowfall.

Someone saw Budai sleeping in the snow, wearing nothing but a thin monk's robe. Snow covered him completely, and he was snoring away, completely oblivious.

The person panicked, rushed over to check his nose — still breathing. Tried to help him up, but he just rolled over and mumbled: "The snow makes a fine bed, the sky makes a fine blanket. What's wrong with that?"

I laughed when I read this. Not a "hahaha" kind of laugh — more like a... how do I put it... a feeling of something loosening inside.

Sometimes I think we live too tensely. We need good houses, nice clothes, good food. Not that we shouldn't want these things, but all these "shoulds" weigh us down a bit. And Budai sleeping in the snow — it's not telling you "go sleep in the snow." It's saying maybe our definition of "necessities" is smaller than we think.

Of course, I'm not planning to go sleep in the snow tonight.

But the thought stayed with me.

Predicting His Own Passing

In the third year of the Zhenming era of the Later Liang, Budai came to the Yuelin Temple in Fenghua.

That day he sat properly on a stone and spoke four lines of verse to the gathered crowd:

Maitreya, the true Maitreya, Manifesting in billions of forms. Constantly showing himself to the people of the time, Yet the people of the time do not recognize him.

Then he closed his eyes, and he was gone.

He was about sixty years old.

Only then did people realize — he had been an incarnation of Maitreya all along. That chubby monk who was always grinning, carrying a cloth bag, surrounded by laughing children — he was Maitreya.

I'm not sure I believe in "incarnations." But I am sure that those four lines contain a deep sigh: "Constantly showing himself to the people of the time, yet the people of the time do not recognize him."

He's always been right beside us. He could be a stranger smiling at you on the street, that neighbor who seems a little "odd," anyone who doesn't quite fit the mold. But we don't recognize him.

We're always too busy recognizing the people who look impressive.

That Cloth Bag

After Budai passed away, people began sculpting Maitreya in his image.

Big belly, big ears, wide mouth, eyes crinkled into slits from smiling. A cloth bag always sitting nearby. Many temples have a couplet hanging by the entrance:

A big belly holds what the world cannot hold; An open mouth laughs at the laughable people of the world.

When I was young, this couplet sounded impressive. Reading it now, something feels off.

"Laughs at the laughable people" — it sounds a bit mocking. But Budai's smile wasn't mockery. He smiled because he genuinely felt there was nothing worth frowning about. He wasn't laughing at people; he was laughing at the absurdity and beauty of the world, which are really the same thing.

And that cloth bag? It holds the entire world. Yet he could set it down at any moment.

A Small Experiment I Tried

The day before yesterday, I tried something.

Not the carrying-a-bag-around kind of thing. I just tried, for one afternoon, not complaining about anything.

Left the house and realized I forgot my umbrella — fine. If it rains, I'll get wet. Shoelace came undone halfway — crouch down and tie it. Someone bumped into me — no problem. Got wrong change at the store — let it go.

Simple things. One afternoon.

The result? I lasted about two hours. By the third hour, someone was playing music out loud on the subway, and I still furrowed my brow.

So you see, I still have a long way to go.

But during those two hours, I did feel something quiet. Not "endurance" — endurance is gritting your teeth and holding it in — but more of a "okay, that's fine too" feeling. It happened, so it happened. No big deal.

Budai spent his whole life living something I broke after two hours.

But that's okay. He never said this was something you could learn in a day.

A Few Last Words

Sometimes I wonder why Chinese people love Maitreya so much.

Maybe it's because we're too tired.

How tired? From a young age we need good grades, after graduation we need good jobs, once employed we need to buy a house and a car, after buying a house we need to get married, after marriage we need to have children, and then the whole cycle starts over. Every stage has a standard answer, every step must be taken correctly.

And then you walk into a temple, and the first Buddha you see is a fat guy smiling at you.

He doesn't care about your grades, doesn't care if you own a house, doesn't care whether you're "successful." He just smiles. As if to say: You're here? Sit for a while.

I think that's why Chinese people put him at the entrance of temples.

Before you go in, smile first.

Three questions, for myself, and for whoever is reading this:

Is there one thing today that you could "set down the bag" for?
When was the last time you laughed from the bottom of your heart?
If that smiling person really were Maitreya, how would you recognize him?

The Man Who Was Always Laughing: The Story of Budai Monk