Urashima Taro: A Re-reading Through the Lens of Theravada Buddhism

This is an attempt to re-read a well-known folktale through the lens of Theravada Buddhism—specifically, through loving-kindness (metta) and wisdom (panna). In some places, I have gently adjusted the ending. Please accept this as another way of reading the story, to be placed alongside the one you already know.

Once upon a time, in a seaside village, there lived a kind-hearted young man named Urashima Taro.

Deep down, Taro had always harbored certain thoughts. Someday, he wanted to make his mother's life easier. Someday, he wanted to learn a trade and become a respectable adult. Someday, he wanted to face the things that were truly important deep within his heart. However, that "someday" was always being postponed. He was still young. He still had time. He told himself that if he didn't do it today, he could do it tomorrow.

One day, Taro saved a turtle that was being bullied on the beach. In return for his kindness, the turtle invited Taro to the Palace of the Dragon King.

The Dragon Palace was of a beauty beyond anything in this world. Every day, delicacies were served, fish danced, and the music never ceased. An indescribable fragrance drifted through the air, and the breeze that brushed against his cheeks gently enveloped Taro's skin. It was so pleasant and enjoyable that Taro forgot the passage of time.

Occasionally, a voice from within would ask, "Is my mother alright?" or "Shouldn't I be heading back soon?" It would ask if there wasn't something he was supposed to do today. But those voices were drowned out by the clamor of the banquet. It's fine for now, he thought. I'll enjoy it a little longer. I can do what's important anytime; there's always tomorrow. Taro continued to indulge in that "there's always tomorrow." Even while pleasure made him forget the time, time itself never stopped flowing for even an instant.

However, eventually, overwhelmed by his own inner voice and a sense of guilt, Taro finally asked to return home.

But the Princess Otohime invited him, saying, "Why not stay a little longer?" and the turtle he had saved also held him back, saying, "We have not yet fully repaid our debt to you."

Taro's sense of guilt barely managed to overcome the entreaties of the Princess and the turtle. Taro decided to leave the Dragon Palace.

Seeing his resolve, the Princess looked at him with deep compassion, handed him a jewelry box, and told him never to open it.

When he returned to the beach, a world he did not recognize spread out before him. Only the rocky mountains looked familiar, retaining the same shape. No matter who he asked on the beach, no one knew of Taro or his mother. The oldest person there barely managed to speak: Urashima Taro—ah, yes, that was the name of a young man who went out to sea a hundred years ago and never returned.

A hundred years. While Taro was intoxicated by the banquet, a hundred years had passed on land. His mother had long since passed away. The mother he had wanted to "make life easier for someday" had died without that "someday" ever arriving.

Witnessing this reality, Taro wept until he had no voice left. With nowhere to go, Urashima Taro wandered the beach like a man whose soul had been stolen. The villagers began to whisper that there was a mad young man about. Despair, loneliness, and regret took turns assaulting Urashima Taro's heart, twisting it. Then, he suddenly remembered the jewelry box. He remembered the Princess's words, telling him never to open it. Do not open it. But he felt that perhaps it could somehow alleviate this suffering.

And finally, he opened the lid of the jewelry box. White smoke rose up, and in an instant, Taro's hair turned white, his teeth fell out, his back bent, and he became a frail old man who could not see things in the distance.

The aged Taro stared at his wrinkled hands in horror. The jewelry box he thought would save him from his suffering had only brought him further misery.

His back was bent, his knees creaked, and he became breathless after walking only a short distance. His eyes grew dim, his hearing faded, and his hands trembled slightly. The body that had been young and supple until yesterday no longer obeyed him. In his youth, he had thought of aging as something distant, something that happened to other people. He never imagined it would visit him so easily. And then, Taro understood. There was not much time left for him to live in this body. He was standing at the very edge of the end of a human life. His youth, the years, the time to accomplish something—he had already used it all up. There was no time left for him.

When he realized this, the days of the banquet at the Dragon Palace came back to him. And for the first time, he understood their true nature.

—They were consuming my time (my life).

While I was intoxicated by the banquet, telling myself "it's fine" and "there's always tomorrow," I was averting my eyes from the most important things I had to do, and using that time to exhaust myself on trivialities. Making my mother's life easier, becoming a respectable adult, facing the things truly important deep in my heart—while I was thinking "someday" without ever touching any of them, the banquet was devouring that time, day after day.

Looking back, there lay empty years in which nothing had been accomplished, and looking forward, there was only a little time left.

Taro realized the truth. What drove the greatest fear was not that he had grown old.It was that he had grown old without doing what he should have done, and that there was no time left to do it.It was the fact that it was irreversible. One can only think "there is still time" while there is time. When time truly ran out, all that remained was the single, stark fact that "it is too late."

The aged Taro collapsed, his body failing, and he let out a raspy, wordless cry of an old man. Return me to that day once more. This time, I will not be intoxicated by the feast; I will do what must be done. I will not waste time. But there was no one to answer. The sea only lapped blue and quiet against the shore. The years that had passed would not return. No matter how much he begged, the days of the past would never come back.

—What must be done is usually put off. I am still young. There is still time. There is tomorrow. While we are absorbed in the comforts before our eyes, what must be done is postponed to the other side of "someday." And in most cases, that "someday" never comes.

By the time we notice, our hair is white and the time remaining is short. One day, "there is still time" silently changes into "it is too late." We usually miss that boundary while in the midst of the feast.

Perhaps the "once more" that Urashima Taro begged for on the beach has been passed down so that it might reach the ears of those of us who still have time.While there is still time, what is it that you truly must do now?Is it really okay to leave it for "someday"?

—Through the lens of Theravada Buddhism

In this story, two forces are in conflict.

Otohime and the turtle who try to keep Taro in the Dragon Palace. These represent the stimuli of form, sound, scent, taste, and touch that stir our inner defilements (kilesa)—the external stimuli that hold us back. The beauty of the Dragon Palace, the constant music, the fragrant scents, the delicacies of land and sea, and the pleasant sensations were exactly those five. The defilements themselves are within us. However,it is our minds, immersed in these pleasant external stimuli, that stir them up and set them ablaze. And those stimuli never say, "That is enough." They know no satisfaction, no stopping, and they try to keep us in comfort forever, whispering "a little more" or "not yet." That whisper has the same ring as the "it's still fine, there is tomorrow" that Taro had been chanting in his heart all along.

On the other hand, the remorse that sprouted in Taro's heart—the shame of drowning in pleasure without doing what he should have done, and the questioning of whether this was right—is calledHiri-Ottappa (moral shame and moral dread)in Theravada. Hiri is the shame before oneself for doing evil. Ottappa is the fear of the consequences. These two are the inner guardians that protect a person from evil.

Taro's Hiri-Ottappa barely managed to function, allowing him to shake off the entreaties of Otohime and the turtle and leave the Dragon Palace. But—it was too late. While he was being held back by "a little more, a little more," a hundred years had already passed. By the time the guardians awoke, there was no time left to do what needed to be done.

That is why this story asks those of us who still have time: while we are immersed in things, the life we have is consumed by defilements in the blink of an eye. If you do not do what is truly important now, it will be irreversible.