The Seven Lucky Gods Are Not All Japanese

Who Is Actually on the Boat Ebisu is the only native one — a fisherman's deity, usually shown with a sea bream under one arm and a rod, patron of fishing and honest trade, and identified in some traditions with the leech-child cast adrift in the creation myth.

Daikokuten, with his mallet and his rice bales, arrives from India as a form of Shiva, transmitted through Buddhism and softened along the way from a fierce destroyer into a genial god of wealth. Bishamonten, in armour with a spear and a pagoda, is a Buddhist guardian king, originally the Hindu Kubera. Benzaiten, the only woman among them, is the river goddess Saraswati, and she keeps her association with water, music and eloquence — which is why her shrines are so often on islands or beside ponds.

Fukurokuju and Jurōjin both come out of Chinese Daoism and are so similar — long foreheads, staffs, scrolls, longevity — that they are sometimes said to be the same figure counted twice. Hotei, the fat laughing monk with the cloth sack, is based on a historical Chinese eccentric and is the figure most of the world knows, incorrectly, as the laughing Buddha.

Why They Were Assembled The grouping is thought to have taken shape in the Muromachi period, drawing on an existing habit of grouping virtues in sevens, and it spread widely in the Edo period when it became a popular urban custom. What it represents is Japan's syncretic instinct working at full stretch: three religious traditions and three countries of origin, combined without anyone finding the mixture troubling.

That lack of trouble is itself the point. Japanese religious practice has generally been additive rather than exclusive, and a boat with a Hindu goddess, two Daoist immortals, a Buddhist guardian and a local fisherman's god on it is the clearest possible illustration.

The Treasure Ship and the New Year The takarabune, the treasure ship, is the image that carries them: the seven aboard a vessel piled with gold, rice and lucky objects, arriving at New Year. The associated custom is to put a picture of the ship under your pillow on the second night of the year in order to have an auspicious first dream — and, if the dream is bad, to float the picture away on water.

A palindromic poem about waves is traditionally written on the image, which is a nicely characteristic detail: the wordplay is part of the charm's function.

The Pilgrimage That Takes an Afternoon The practical reason to care about any of this is that most Japanese cities have a shichifukujin meguri — a circuit of seven nearby temples and shrines, each enshrining one of the seven, walkable in half a day. They are especially popular in the first week of January, when many run stamp collection with a dedicated board or scroll.

These circuits are among the most rewarding things a visitor can do and almost none do them. They lead through ordinary residential neighbourhoods rather than tourist districts, they are free or nearly so, the stamps are a genuine souvenir, and the route is a ready-made walking tour of a part of the city nobody would otherwise show you. Tokyo alone has a considerable number of them, and Kyoto's is among the oldest.

Spotting Them Afterwards Once you know the attributes, the seven turn up constantly: on shop shelves, in restaurant alcoves, on netsuke in antique shops, carved into shrine buildings. Ebisu with his fish, Daikoku on his rice bales, Hotei with his sack.

Ebisu in particular is worth watching for — he is on the beer, he is the name of a Tokyo district, and he is the one deity in the group whose commercial afterlife has completely outrun his religious one.