The Prison Guard's Journey: From Earthly Debt to Eternal Light

Chi Hung-min was a man who spent his life navigating the complexities of human relationships and karmic debts. After a life marked by the cycle of birth, aging, sickness, and death, he sought deliverance through the compassion of the Buddha. Having served as a prison guard in the underworld for over a century, he now resides in the Western Pure Land of Ultimate Bliss. This interview was recorded on February 12, 2021, at the Hsiang Kuang Pure Land Buddhist Centre.

Chi Hung-min speaks:

"Namo Amituofo. I am Chi Hung-min. This life of mine was filled with countless experiences, yet in the end, I had to let go of everything. My departure from the human world brought sorrow to those who knew me, yet they could not have known that hundreds of years later, this moment would become the greatest day of joy for my spirit. Before my eyes, there is nothing but brilliant light. I am standing here with fifty-nine other prison guards, all of us holding our heads high as we journey toward the Western Pure Land of Ultimate Bliss. Every one of us wears a smile. We have seen the Buddha, and we have felt the warmth of His words: 'Child, you have returned!' It moved me to tears—tears that welled up from the very depths of my heart. At this moment, my memories of the human world seem to have been purified; I no longer dwell on the past that occasionally haunted me. I am filled with gratitude toward the Buddha and Practitioner Su. We, the sixty prison guards, bow our heads in reverence."

A Life of Simple Beginnings

"My life, as seen by others, was a bumpy road, but I always strove to keep my heart calm and steady. I was married three times. My first wife was Chun-hua, who lived next door and grew up alongside me. She had liked me since we were children, and from the day she knew she would be my bride, she was as cheerful as a little sparrow every single day. Our family backgrounds were similar; we were both young people who had never left our small town by the age of sixteen. Chun-hua knew how to read a few characters, while I was completely illiterate. My entire fortune consisted of a single bicycle. Every day, I would ride it to deliver newspapers or run errands for others, while Chun-hua wove goods to sell to help make ends meet.

Two years after we married, we had a son named Chi-cheng. He was a bright child from a young age and was deeply loved by the whole family. If the family said one, he would do one; if they said two, he would do two. After Chi-cheng was born, Chun-hua poured all her heart and soul into him. One day, when Chi-cheng was three years old, Chun-hua was not paying attention for a moment. The boy walked out the door alone, wandered to the creek, and as he bent down to touch the water, he fell in. We searched for him all day. Finally, a villager discovered a floating object. When we pulled him up, we found Chi-cheng’s cold, bloated body. Chun-mei and I rushed to the creek. He was lying on a large rock, and we could barely recognise him; his features had changed, but the clothes he wore were undoubtedly his. Chun-mei wailed in agony, a sound so piercing and shrill. She picked up his cold corpse and kept blaming herself over and over. I helped her up, and she knelt and kowtowed to me, saying she was wrong, truly wrong. I patted her back and told her, 'Let us take our child home.' I carried his body, Chun-mei leaned on me, and we held a simple, sorrowful funeral to send him off."

The Weight of Unspoken Grief

"From that time on, Chun-mei began to mutter to herself constantly. She became thin and listless, weeping often. She could not walk out of the sorrow of losing Chi-cheng. Sometimes she would tell me she dreamt of him, that he wanted to come home and was calling for us to pick him up. I always tried to comfort her, but within a few years, she was a completely different person. Several times in the middle of the night, it was as if she were being pulled away by an invisible force, walking out of the house not knowing where she was going. Fortunately, I always found her and brought her back. This happened too many times in a short span, so for her own safety, I had to lock her up whenever I went out to work. Years passed, and Chun-mei never recovered. Many times, I felt as though the person before me was no longer the Chun-mei I knew. Locked in her room, she would sometimes scream, and other times she would soil the floor with waste. I sympathised with her and patiently cleaned up after her while she sat there, dazed and unresponsive.

One day, when I brought her a meal, Chun-mei seemed to return to her true self. She wept and apologised, telling me how hard these years had been on me. Before I could react, she dashed out the door, ran to the creek where Chi-cheng had drowned, and jumped in. Everything happened too fast. By the time I reached the bank, she had already drowned. I dragged my heavy body back to an empty, silent home."

A Second Chance and the Burden of Expectations

"The pain of losing my loved ones made me look like a man in his forties even though I was only in my thirties. I tried my best to pull myself together because I still had my elderly parents. They had been worried about Chun-mei and me for years, and now that she was gone, they were even more anxious. To spare them further worry, I moved back to my childhood home to live with them. My mother, seeing me alone, kept insisting that I remarry. At first, I had no such intention, as the years of marriage had been truly exhausting, but my mother kept pressing me and even found a matchmaker. I had to follow her wishes. Spread out on the table were several photographs, and my mother insisted I choose one. I reluctantly picked one up, looked at it three times, and chose a young woman. On the back of the photo, it was written that her name was Tsai-to, and she looked easy-going and filial. Without even meeting her, my mother told me to bring her home as my wife. On our wedding day, I treated her with great respect. She was exactly as I had sensed from the photo—simple, honest, and very hardworking.

After we married, we lived with my parents. Tsai-to was ten years younger than me, yet she was diligent and managed the household beautifully. However, five years passed, and there was no news of a child. My parents were anxious; they were getting old and wanted to see the Chi family line continue. Tsai-to knew their hearts, and every night she would kneel in our room, begging Heaven to grant her a child. Two more years passed, and I was nearing thirty-seven. One night, in despair, Tsai-to asked me to take another wife to bear children and show filial piety to my parents. She said, 'After so many years of trying, there is no hope for me. For the sake of the Chi family, please take another wife.' I could feel how heartbroken she was as she spoke; the lack of a child was a deep crack in her soul."

The Complexity of Family Life

"A few weeks later, Tsai-to told my mother she wanted to find another wife for me. My mother remained expressionless. Tsai-to held my mother's hand and wept, saying she lacked the ability to carry on the family line. My mother did not say much, only offering physical comfort. Tsai-to asked a neighbour to introduce a suitable woman. A few days later, a young woman appeared in our home. My mother, myself, and Tsai-to did not say much, nor did we react strongly; it was as if we had all silently accepted this arrangement. The woman was named Ya-yi. She had attended school, was five years younger than Tsai-to, and came from a modest family, yet she was willing to marry me as a second wife. Seeing my honest and steady nature, and knowing my parents were good people, she agreed. She brought a large dowry, and her parents even helped us repair our leaking roof.

After Ya-yi married into the family, I spent most of my time in her room to ensure we would have a child quickly. Tsai-to was understanding, though she inevitably looked a bit lonely. Unexpectedly, only two months after Ya-yi arrived, she showed signs of pregnancy. The whole family was overjoyed, and Tsai-to even went to the pharmacy to buy tonics for her. But Ya-yi was young and possessed a strong sense of possessiveness. She did not like Tsai-to at all. When no one was around, she would speak to Tsai-to with arrogant words. I overheard these things by chance, and my heart ached. That night, I went to Tsai-to’s room to comfort her, telling her that my heart had not changed. Tsai-to nodded understandingly and told me to take good care of Ya-yi and the child, promising that she would shoulder the burden of caring for my parents herself. I was deeply grateful to her.

Ten months later, Ya-yi gave birth to a boy. The whole family felt a sense of relief. Everyone took turns holding the baby, but whenever Tsai-to tried to hold him, Ya-yi would show a look of displeasure. To keep the peace, Tsai-to would only look at the child without picking him up. After the child was born, everyone in the family doted on him, even Ya-yi’s parents, who visited often with gifts and tonics for their grandson.

Since Ya-yi had married in, all the household chores had been carried by Tsai-to. After the baby was born, there was even more work, yet Tsai-to still picked it all up and continued to do it. Ya-yi only needed to feed the baby. Seeing Tsai-to exhausted, I would buy her herbal medicine, but when Ya-yi saw this, she was unhappy and would sometimes use sarcastic language toward Tsai-to. As a husband, I could not stand it, but thinking of how Ya-yi had borne a son for the Chi family, we tolerated her. Unexpectedly, Ya-yi’s temper grew worse by the day. She became calculating about everything and even threatened the family by saying she would take the child and leave. Finally, my mother could no longer stand it and scolded her, which made her restrain herself slightly."

The Final Departure and the Path to Deliverance

"When Tsai-to was nearly forty, she caught a cold during the winter. Her body could not withstand it, and she passed away while coughing blood. I was heartbroken by her departure. Looking at her portrait, I thought of Chun-mei. Both of them had walked through most of my life with me, yet they had left me one by one. While I was grieving, Ya-yi stood by and criticised me, asking why I was mourning a woman who couldn't even bear children, and what was so good about her. Her words truly enraged me. For the first time, I looked at her with anger and said, 'Shut up! Stop being such a mean-spirited person. The family has tolerated you for a long time. Now that she is gone, you are still being calculating? How much do you want to calculate in this life?' Ya-yi was shocked by my outburst. She turned red with anger, went to her room to pack, and said she was taking our son and leaving. I ignored her outburst. She really left. My parents had long since passed away due to illness, and in the end, I was left alone. This made me reflect deeply; my whole life had been spent in the cycle of joy and sorrow, meeting and parting.

After my parents passed, they left me some land. I rented it out, which ensured I had no financial worries. Now that I was alone, I gave all my extra money to the village head to build bridges and pave roads, making the village more prosperous. The villagers thanked me, and I would say, 'No thanks needed.' In the final years of my life, I spoke very little, wanting to realise the truth of life through silence. When I saw that every family was subject to the pain of separation, I became increasingly indifferent to worldly life. I wanted to know if there was a way to transcend this, but I could not find it. When I was seventy-one, my back was hunched, my hair was white, and my strength was fading. I knew my body was reaching its end. After a moment of dizziness, I did not wake up again, ending my seventy-one years of life and my human body.

Before the King of Hell, I recounted my life. He told me that this life was meant for me to repay the emotional debts I owed to those three women. Now that the debt was settled, I could truly let go. The King of Hell asked if I wanted to serve as a prison guard or return to the ancestral tablet. I thought about it and decided to become a prison guard. During my nearly one hundred years of service, I lamented that the human heart had changed. The entire Earth lacked education, keeping the underworld busy without a moment of rest. Watching everyone creating karma, I tried to guide them, hoping to save even one person, but the beings in hell are stubborn and difficult to change. It was not until Practitioner Su’s Dharma Body performed Chao Du and gave lectures that some beings in hell finally knew to chant the Buddha’s name and seek liberation. After serving in the underworld for over a hundred years, I am grateful for this opportunity today to be reborn in the Western Pure Land of Ultimate Bliss. I am travelling to the West with fifty-nine others. I am grateful for the compassion of the Buddha and the compassion of Practitioner Su."

This interview was recorded by the disciple Shi Fa-xin.