Chapter 7
Chapter Seven – (i)
Once the Auspicious One stayed at Rajagaha, at the Squirrels’ Feeding-ground in the Bamboo Grove. At that time a certain monk named Thera lived alone and praised living alone. Alone he entered the village for alms, alone he returned, alone he sat in private and alone he used the ambulatory. Then some monks told the Auspicious One of this monk’s lifestyle, and the Auspicious One spoke to a certain monk, saying, “Come, monk, tell Ven. Thera, ‘The Master calls you, friend Thera.’”
“Very well, sir,” replied the monk, and called Ven. Thera.
“Very well, friend,” replied Ven. Thera, and he came to the Auspicious One, bowed down, and sat beside him.
The Auspicious One said to him, “Is it true what they say, Thera, that you live alone and praise living alone?”
“That is so, sir.”
“How, Thera, do you do so?”
“Here, sir, alone I enter the village for alms, alone I return, alone I sit in private and alone I use the ambulatory. Thus, sir, I live alone and praise living alone.”
“That is living alone, Thera. I do not say it is not living alone. But, Thera, I will tell you how living alone is perfected in detail. Listen well. I shall speak.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“And how, Thera, is living alone perfected in detail? Here, Thera, that which is past is given up, that which is future is renounced and, in the present, through development of mind and heart desire and lust are fully dispelled. Thus, Thera, living alone is perfected in detail.”
The Auspicious One said this. Then the Wellfarer, the Master, said further:
“He’s wise, the man for whom all things are known and overcome. Unstained is he. The world renounced, desire’s dead. He’s free. Of him I’d say, ‘He lives alone.’” Bhikkhu Samyutta 10
The third alternative was to set up on my own, as ‘Sumana had done. I left the Hermitage with a list of places to check out and, by bus and foot, traveled around the country, finding out how rare suitable places were. Here it was too wet, there too hot, at a third place the villagers were too poor to support a monk. The North of Ceylon was impossible, for it was all Tamils, a Hindu minority who felt oppressed in a Buddhist land and would not likely consider it a privilege to support me.
South of them were the plains, dull and mosquito-plagued. The beautiful East Coast desert was nearly uninhabited. The South and West coasts were heavily populated, heavily farmed. The picturesque Upcountry, where it wasn’t cultivated for tea by hopelessly poor Tamil workers, was unpeopled jungle, dense with fogs and menace. The edge of Upcountry, around Kandy, had good climate and fine rolling hills, as ‘Rasa had told me; but everywhere there were people.
There was a time limit: during Vas, the rains-retreat, bhikkhus stayed in one place. If I hadn’t managed something by then there would be no alternative but to return to the Hermitage. Just as bad, I was running out of places to check out. At each likely-looking locale I stopped for a few days at the nearest vihara, met local upasakas, and explored. The viharas were all musty with years of tropical decay and lost plaster. Sometimes the upasakas showed me places they thought might suit my needs. None of them did.
“This one is too far from the village. It would take me all morning to go on pindapata from here.”
“The people from the village would wish to bring your danas to you, sir, and to receive the pańca sila and hear Dhamma-talk and worship Lord Buddha.”
Elsewhere, “This one is too near the village. Listen to the noise. Look at the traffic.”
“But reverend, here you’ll be safe from the tigers.”
And, “This one is just the right distance from the village, sir, as you specified.”
“Yes, but it is right beside the pond where the women do laundry. You can see the problem there, can’t you?”
“Sir, we could build the kuti with the door opening on the other side.”
When finally I didn’t know where else to look I returned to the Kandy area to linger in its good climate a while. Outside of Kandy was a monastic residency used largely by monks from the Colombo viharaand the Hermitage. The building was damp concrete; the steel doors clanged no matter how gently they were closed; but it was located in some fine hilly forest where I could hang out for a while and ponder my choices. I didn’t want to return to the Hermitage to reclaim my kuti from Crackers; but of the places I’d seen the best of the lot still promised to be, at most, barely adequate.
Since there was a village not too far off from the residency I went on pindapata daily. Once as I returned from the village, walking along the footpath, I noticed for the first time the faint tracings of a path leading off to one side of the footpath, and I wondered where it might lead to.
The bowl was heavy in my hands; it had been a steep climb from the village and I wanted to get out of my warm outer robe. I hesitated, then decided to have a quick look anyway.
The path took a gentle curve and within a few paces led to a clearing of several acres that had been entirely hidden from the footpath. It was the only clearing I’d found in the entire forest. It looked West across to more forested hills, a coconut estate, and, beyond, to the graceful bald peak which dominated the landscape. I listened for several minutes and heard, once, the distant honking of a car horn. The surrounding jungle protected the clearing from most noise and, I guessed, most weather. I decided: if I could get the support necessary I would live here. As soon as the decision was made I felt something cold and moist touch my feet. I looked down to see several leeches fastening themselves to me.
Against the rhythm of the crickets a night bird sang two notes. Against the close of day the muezzin called the hour of prayer: a mosque in Kandy served the Moorish community, who were Moslem. Then behind the wail I heard, like distant thunder, the beating of large-boweled drums: the Temple of the Tooth. I set my teacup on the packing case by the kuti doorway and came in with a 7/8 on the water jug. It was a mismatched band, but it was the only one in town.
I’d been to the Temple of the Tooth once, in company with an elderly Cambodian monk. When we’d entered the building the full force of the drums reverberating against the massive walls had made my bone marrow echo. Against that thunderous rhythm the piercing runs and trills of the clarinet-like instruments danced with a compelling solidity that lacked all grace. It reminded me of the temple music in Nepal. It had been long since I’d lived in the magic of the Himalayas. That was a place I’d return to if I ever happened to go back to India. Some day it might be nice to revisit my teacher, Ven. Dharmapal.
Over a moat, up turnings of stairs, through ornate doors hung with gold lamé curtains, up another stone staircase, and past intricate frescoes depicting scenes of lore. Around us people bustled, performing their appointed tasks, carrying silver trays, censers, and water jugs of beaten and wrought metals. Here, as much as Anuradhapura, was the heart of the traditional Buddhism that ruled Ceylon. Piety and reverence pervaded the walls of the Temple like settled smoke of long-dead incense.
Reverence had been done to this tooth for twenty-five hundred years now, for here, preserved by zealous monks through centuries of shifting fortunes, was the very tooth with which the Buddha had eaten his almsfood. And that tooth — a canine, it had looked to be — was still not done with alms (as, long since lost, destroyed, or decayed, were the other thirty-one), for unavoidably close by was the collection box. People slipped bills into the box and placed offerings of flowers and incense on a table whose every oil-lamp was filled and burning. Nobody, as far as I could see, offered toothpaste or a toothbrush.
Afterwards, as we’d walked along the shores of the Kandy tank, the old monk had said in a very kind and very wistful voice, “Very joyous and good, dat. But two tousand five hunnerd years — dat pretty old for a toot. I don’ know. I don’ know.” And he’d gently shaken his head, quietly and a bit doubtfully.
I held the water jug between my legs as I made rhythms. It had a long narrow neck. The mouth was just the right size for my palm, and by shaping my cupped palm I could weave tonal effects through the rhythms I beat out. It was, I told myself, my evening pirith.
“Making music, are you, V?”
Startled, I nearly dropped the jug. If it were to break there’d be a mud patch on the earthen floor.
“Scared you, did I?” Crackers came into the kuti.
“Yes, a bit.”
“Didn’t mean to. But I just got in. I’ve been on carika.”
“I heard you’d left the Island again.” Crackers had been up to Kandy once before to help when the kuti was being built.
“I’m coming from Upcountry.” He set down his bag.
“Yeah? I found Upcountry quite refreshing, what little I saw of it.” I set down the water jug.
“Good for carika, maybe. Not for setting up.” He bowed: he was still only a samanera.
“Good for tea, too. Like some?” I made a small fire to heat some water.
“Playing a bit of music there, were you?”
“Just a rhythm, actually. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“I bet you weren’t. Aren’t rhythms considered music?”
“I don’t know. But sometimes I just have to do it to get it out of my system.”
“A water jug’s a good idea. I had a guitar string, myself, until it broke. Used a desk drawer as a sounding board.”
“I’m glad it was you and not one of the villagers. They already think I’m peculiar enough.”
“Why, what else do you do? Howl at the moon?”
“Nobody saw me, but one night I went dancing naked down the hillside.”
Unlike samaneras, bhikkhus didn’t lose their ordination taking off the monastic cloth. Bound by vows, a bhikkhu remained bound regardless of what he wore (although deviation from accepted dress was a lesser fault) unless he either committed an offence entailing defeat or formally announced his intention to disrobe.
“You hope nobody saw you. How’d you escape the leeches?”
“It was dry. They only come out when it’s wet.”
“Too bad you didn’t have some village girl to romp with.”
“Thanks for the suggestion. I’ll try to not think about it.”
In the last light we could just see the clearing, pinned in place on the steep hillside by a scattering of thorny berry bushes and three-foot high ant mounds. Marigolds grew in profusion: I’d introduced the first seeds to the clearing and they’d taken a liking to the place, as had I.
“So the villagers think you’re peculiar, do they?”
“They don’t quite know what to make of me.”
“Of course they don’t. They’re not monks.”
“It goes farther than that. The monk who lives in the village doesn’t know what to make of me either.”
“I don’t go to laypeople for understanding. I go to them for food.”
“But when I go to them for food or anything else they treat me as if I were either a saint or a lunatic. They won’t relate to me as a human being, and I find myself falling into posturing.
“You still get your pindapata from the village, though?”
“I still get a good bowl of food.”
“I’ll go with you tomorrow.
“They’ll like that. Double-merit day.”
Tucked away at the bottom of the hill, out of sight like the outhouse, was the village where I collected food. I visited each — outhouse and village — once a day in its turn. I made the almsround before mid-morning and ate my one meal early, unlike at the Hermitage, where I used to spend the last part of each morning waiting for the bell to announce dana. How Pavlovian my reactions had become to ringing bells!
“How’s the carika been, Crackers?”
“It’s over. I’m heading back to the Hermitage.”
“You don’t sound enthused by the idea, though.”
“What else can I do? I tried to find a place to set up on my own. But I’ve been kicking around from one unsatisfactory situation to another ever since I left the Island.”
“I was lucky to have found this place, or I’d have gone myself.” I’d just finished the Vas, my third as a bhikkhu, in this kuti.
“What else can I do?”
“You could continue on carika.”
“Carika! How can you even suggest that?”
“What’s wrong with suggesting it?”
“You know. When you came back to the Hermitage after your first carika you were negative about the whole thing, too.”
“I remember saying how grueling it had been, but that concerned my own capacity for solitude without diversions; it wasn’t a comment on carika. But that’s only what I recall.”
“It’s strange that my memory of it is so different.”
“That shows how unreliable the past is for getting at truth.”
“History and biography must have some relevance to understanding.”
“Not if they’re taken as just history or just biography. They’re only relevant if they’re used as mirrors.”
When the tea was prepared we sipped at it in silence, looking out to the jungle which bordered the clearing.
“Somewhere there must be another place.”
“Even if you find the place, don’t forget the hassles you saw me go through while I was getting this place built. There was so much involvement with activity I started getting headaches. I never used to have headaches.”
“But it was worth it. Look what you’ve got.”
The kuti’s walls were stone, under three feet high. In good weather the area between the top of the wall and the roof was open. Straw mats hanging beneath the cajan roof could be unrolled to keep out bad weather. There had been no point to installing a gate in the entranceway.
“It’s great. But once you’ve got it what do you do?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you don’t just build a kuti and then sit down and spend all your time meditating. It’s not that simple.”
“That’s the trouble with the world. Nothing is ever simple.
“That comes from addiction to structuring time and space.”
“That’s why carika is so difficult. It’s so unstructured.”
“And it’s also why living in one place is so difficult. It’s so easy to get settled, like dust.”
“It’s easy enough to get unsettled. In fact, getting settled was the hard part.”
“But as soon as I got settled my life got structured. It began with maintenance things. Then there were repair things, improvement things, and now there are book things. I’m making a thorough review of the Suttas.”
“That doesn’t sound like a bad thing.”
“I’m hardly the one to condemn Sutta-knowledge. But between the books and the other tasks I almost have to schedule unstructured time.”
“You can only meditate for so long. Then you’ve got to do something and let being assert itself.”
“Anyway, books are a harder habit to give up than opium ever was. And it’s so easy to get lost in them.” By now, though, I was able to manage with only the sort of books that recommended giving up books (as well as all other addictions).
“Anyway, I remember you saying the Hermitage was like a hospital for addicts, so maybe I should go back there.”
“I said the Sangha was a hospital, not just the Hermitage, even though so few patients take the prescribed treatment, or even know that a treatment has been prescribed. Most of them don’t even knowthey’re sick with greed, hatred, and delusion.”
“Maybe this kuti is an isolation ward.”
“And maybe carika is the intensive-care unit.”
“I don’t know if I can survive that much care.”
“But there’s a certain exhilaration that goes with the hardships of carika, an exhilaration well-earned, like a mountaineer of the spirits.”
“If you feel that way, why don’t you go off on carika yourself? I’ll stay here and watch your kuti for you. That way we’ll both be happy.”
I looked at him, startled by the suggestion as I’d been startled at his arrival, caught drumming.
“You don’t think I’d do that, do you?”
“No.”
Chapter Seven (cont.) (ii) Their selves the ones of mindfulness exert. In no association they delight. Dwelling after dwelling they desert, as from its marshy ground the swan takes flight. (Dh. 91) On untraveled back ways I walked slowly, mindfully, until I’d walked enough. Then I looked for a suitable place off the road: a tree, a rock, an undisturbed copse, to sit cross-legged until I’d sat enough. Then I walked some more. Towards late afternoon I began to watch for a suitable place to spend the night. A dry patch of ground with some straw or leaves near a windbreak or beneath a tree was as much as I needed. Failing that there was usually a vihara, a Hindu kovil, an empty shed, or some other sheltered place. Eight or ten miles and I was usually satisfied that I’d gone as far as I needed to that day. On a good day I was satisfied with five or six miles.
I traveled unencumbered by the confines of a map: I didn’t care which way I went. The tea estate roads of Upcountry, then, were ideal, for they led nowhere except to the next estate. When I came to a fork in the road I took whichever way I fancied, for I wasn’t trying to get anywhere.
One morning I came to a fork in the road. An estate worker rested in a nearby leaf-collection shed, his machete on the ground beside him.
“Where does this road go to?” I asked, pointing in one direction. He named a place I’d never heard of.
“And where does it go this way?” I pointed in the other direction. He named another strange name.
“Which place is bigger?” And he told me. I thanked him and walked off in the direction of the smaller of the places. Not only was I not trying to get somewhere; I was positively trying to avoid doing so. But it was difficult: I kept getting places.
“Now I’m getting somewhere,” I thought when concentration seemed a quantum easier, an iota more pleasurable. And with the thought the concentration was broken.
“I’m getting pretty sharp,” I told myself each time I reflected on the absurdity of trying to get someplace.
When I saw that the goal of getting nowhere was unachievable I’d laugh. “Stop the world. I want to get off.”
And if I stayed in one place for a few days the thought would occur, “I’m getting to know this place,” and it was time to leave, lest I find myself mired in marshy ground.
A dayaka led me to the building where food was offered. My bowl was taken from me and I was shown to a seat. My robes were arranged to cover both shoulders.
There were several empty chairs beside me, and a table with a clock on it which showed 10:00. I was left alone to stare at the rough walls of the vihara’s reception hall.
At 10:25 the two old monks came in. They had been engaged in devotional flower arrangements and gossip. Their teeth were rotted and stained red from a lifetime of chewing pan. They were the sort of old men who were made into monks and supported because they had a certain faith and were too old for anything else, and yet had to be supported anyway. Thus the Sangha was not only a hospital but an old-age home. It was also, at the other end of the age-scale, a reformatory. Tradition prescribed that each family should give one son to the Sangha; almost invariably the most unruly son was disposed of. But this vihara had only two old monks.
They sat down, their bowls were taken from them, and soon all our bowls were returned to us, filled with food. The old monk who seemed to be the brighter of the two wound up the clock. Then we sat silently until it was exactly 10:30, when that monk gave the pańca sila to the dayakas, followed by a sermon interspersed with cries of “Sadhu! Sadhu!”
The other monk joined in these cries.
At 10:40 the handsome old rooster strutted in. He had a red comb and lustrous body markings, and picked up and set down his legs in military fashion even when standing still, getting nowhere. He looked over the crowd, found them an uninteresting lot, pecked without enthusiasm, and finally turned to face the monks. He sat down and, it seemed, listened. His powers of concentration were poor, though, for soon he discovered a vagrant itch and pecked at it until it was assuaged or he gave up.
At 10:50 the rooster stood up, stretched, turned around to face the dayakas, sat down, laid his head on the ground, and closed his eyes. I would have liked to have done the same: afly was having a very intimate affair with my left eyeball and simply would not be discouraged.
At 11:00 by the clock the sermon ended, and without further ado the old monks rose and took their bowls. I followed them and, the dayakas remaining behind, we left for the danasala, the rooster close behind.
I ate with the other monks and the rooster in the gloomy old danasala instead of by the shady bend of a river. The two old monks bustled about arranging things the way they thought I’d like them (which was, of course, all wrong) and plagued me with petty favors, for they wanted me to stay.
When these people saw that the Dhamma had spread so far that an American monk should pass through their village it increased their faith, their devotion, their respect, and their donations to the vihara. The monks were eating better since my arrival and exploited my appearance. The dayakas seldom had occasion to offer a special dana (and earn, I supposed, special merit), and exploited my appearance. (I was satisfied with pindapata and had no desire for the curds and honey that came with today’s meal.) I could appreciate the feelings involved and could even be glad to be of use; but I couldn’t be glad that the use was to be catalyst to a reaction that generated more warmth than light. I thought it detrimental to my practice of the Buddha’s Teaching, and tolerated it only because nothing else was expected of me and because I couldn’t leave until my foot was completely healed.
I’d picked up a glass shard (or perhaps it had been a thorn) some miles back, and had been unable to extract it. I was lucky that this place had been nearby, for there were few Buddhist villages in Upcountry and still fewer viharas.
Properly tended, the foot was nearly healed now, and I planned to leave in a day or two whether or not Crackers answered my letter. Upcountry was colder than I’d expected (and wetter, too), so when I realized that I would be here a while I’d written Crackers, asking him to mail me the angsa I’d left there. The angsa was a one-shouldered vest that was needed for this December weather. I hoped the cold and rain wouldn’t force me to descend into the warmer but more populous lowlands, and onto bus roads, but I didn’t intend to wait here much longer for the angsa, even though it was hard-to-come-by nylon. I’d make do without it.
After dana I returned to my room. Through the open door I saw one of the dana dayakas. He had a large box containing hundreds of little clay oil lamps which he distributed along the main footpaths, as well as the path leading to the stupa on the hill. Behind him came another dayaka with a two-gallon tin of coconut oil, from which he carefully filled each lamp. Then two more dayakas followed, one with a large bundle of cloth wicks, the other with a large box of matches. The dayaka who lit each cloth wick was Mr. Pereira. He wore trousers. He was the village schoolteacher, and spoke English. When they’d finished setting alight as much coconut oil as they could he came by to visit.
“So many oil lamps! What are you doing with them?”
“We’re lighting them, reverend.” He bowed and sat.
“But it’s a sunny day.”
“We’re doing it, sir, because of my brother and his wife.”
“Is it a celebration?”
“No sir. They wish to have a baby.”
“And this is supposed to help?” I wondered whether Mr. Pereira taught biology.
“Sir, this is for the help of the devas.”
“The devas will help your sister-in-law have a baby?”
“That is what we believe.”
“But this vihara is for the Buddha, not the devas.”
But in such matters there were other views. “Yes sir. Buddhism is very important in the Sinhalese religion. Reverend, I hope you’re comfortable here.”
“Everything’s fine, Mr. Pereira. But I’ve decided to leave tomorrow if the weather holds. Or maybe the day after.”
“Reverend, may I ask you to reconsider our offer?”
“I’ve already explained my feelings, Mr. Pereira.”
“All the people feel it would be good to have a bhikkhu such as yourself staying here. We’ll provide your food and all needs. If you don’t like this vihara we’ll build you a kuti. There are places where it is altogether quiet, where no one will disturb you. Please accept our offer.”
“I appreciate your generosity, but I’m not interested in living anyplace for more than a few days. I’ve only stayed here so long because of my foot. Now I’m ready to go.”
“Naturally I’m disappointed you won’t stay longer, but I’m not surprised. To wander about is your wish, and you must do it. So we’ve taken up a collection from all the village to obtain this gift for you.” He handed me a long thin package.
“Thank you, Mr. Pereira.” It was wrapped, but from its shape and protruding handle I saw it to be an umbrella.
“We’ve seen that the umbrella you have is old and broken. The cloth is stained and torn. So we’ve obtained this.”
I unwrapped and examined it.
“It’s white, sir. One time I asked you about the proper color for a monk’s umbrella. Do you remember that talk?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know what you had in mind then.”
“Even then I had this idea, and now my wish has come true. So this is a happy day for me.”
He’d examined my decrepit old white umbrella and asked if a monk could use an umbrella that wasn’t white.
“Not in accordance with Vinaya,” I’d been told by Vinaya-masters (though a few reformists were willing to allow yellow). “Black umbrellas are used by upasakas. We’re monks. We’re different.” So we marked ourselves outwardly as different, lest inner differences be neglected. We wore russet robes. We shaved our heads. We protected our russet robes and shorn heads from rain and sun with white umbrellas. Only the rain and sun were the same for monks and laypeople.
“A happy day for me, reverend.”
“If this umbrella has already made you happy then its beginnings are auspicious.”
“I was worried that you might have gone on before I could return from Colombo.”
“I didn’t know you’d gone to Colombo.”
“Of course, reverend. I went there to get the umbrella.”
“You can’t get one from someplace closer, like Kandy?”
Not a white one, Mr. Pereira said. Colombo was the only place, and in Colombo there were few stores that specialized in bhikkhus‘ requisites. White umbrellas cost about three times as much as black ones. And the clerk at the shop had said that the price was due for another rise. The life of the almsman, it seemed, kept getting more expensive all the time.
There was a rapping on the open door and Crackers came in. After the bowing I introduced him by his monastic name.
“Mr. Pereira’s just given me this new umbrella.”
“That’s nice. Have you tried it out yet?”
“No, but I’m sure I’ll have the chance soon, this time of year. Would you like my old one?”
Crackers eyed it doubtfully. “It’s no better than mine.”
“Then I’ll leave it in the vihara. Maybe some monk will find use for the frame, or the handle, or something.”
“I brought the angsa you asked for.” He gave it to me.
“Thanks; but I’m surprised you didn’t mail it. Wouldn’t that have been easier?”
“I came because I wanted to talk to you.”
“Getting lonely, are you? Did you get a ride or take the bus?”
“I got a ride on the bus, and I’m not getting lonely. I want to talk to you about what’s happening to the kuti.”
“Oh-oh. What’s wrong with it?”
“There’s been bad storms in Kandy, and there’s going to be more. The place is flooded.”
It was the straw mats, Crackers explained. The wind had been strong enough to blow rain right through the protective mats (which were quickly disintegrating), leaving a heavy mist in the air which penetrated everything.
“What do you think should be done about it?”
“It’s your place. I can’t make any major changes without your say-so.”
“Major changes? It’s that bad?”
“Everything’s wet. There’s a film of mud on the floor.”
“So what do you want to do?”
“There’s only one way I can stay there. Build the walls up to the roof. Close it off. Get rid of those straw mats.”
“How about putting up another layer of mats? I bet if they were double-thick they’d stop the weather. One layer always worked fine for me.”
“It won’t work.”
“The nice thing about that kuti is how it can all open up in good weather. If you build walls you’ll kill it.”
“Then I’ll have to leave it.”
“If you do you know everything will be stolen. Remember that house that used to be on the small island near the Hermitage.”
“But I can’t stay there the way it is. I don’t want to stay there if I have to have continuous battles with the weather. Don’t forget, you haven’t stayed there in December. This is the heaviest weather of the year.”
I refrained from pointing out that January usually took those honors. “Why don’t you try putting up another layer of mats and see if that doesn’t work?”
“Because I don’t like even one layer of mats. Why should I like two? It’s a great location and a great view, but I like a kuti with walls all the way to the roof. And with a door instead of just an entranceway, so the animals don’t come wandering through at night. Sometimes in the morning I find shit on the floor. It’s like huge rat turds. Maybe you’ve got a forty pound rat living there.”
“I’ve seen him a few times at night. He’s a porcupine. He won’t let me get too close, and I don’t want to, anyway, but he’s not scared of me. Once I found a quill on the floor. But I don’t know why he comes there at night. I never leave food out for him. You don’t leave food out for him, do you?”
“I don’t want to feed him; I want to get rid of him. I don’t like him wandering around while I’m sleeping on that little pallet only a couple inches off the ground.”
“Maybe he just took a shine to the place. It’s obvious you haven’t.”
“Sometimes it’s nice to be able to close the door and shut out the world.”
“Is it? Maybe so, but I should think you’d rather be open than closed.”
“You have to get your comforts, V. You can be too hard on yourself. Remember the simile of the lute.”
“And don’t forget that the natural tendency of strings is to slacken. If your head is out of tune with your surroundings maybe you need to make extra effort instead of less.”
“Meaning?”
“Try putting up an extra layer of mats first, and see if that doesn’t make a difference.”
“Uh-uh. I don’t want to live there like that. It’s built for your lifestyle, not mine. It’s not my place.”
I thought back to the days I’d spent designing the kuti, the weeks of attending to its construction, the endless hours of maintenance and improvement. Now that I was away from it I recalled those times with neither pleasure nor unpleasure. It seemed so remote.
“These days I hardly think of it as mine either.”
“Then whose is it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I should give it to the Sangha.
“You mean you don’t want it?”
“I sure don’t want all the hassles and headaches you’re bringing me. I went off wandering to get away from problems, and you’re chasing after me with them.”
“How do you give something to the Sangha?”
“Like a kuti? I’m not sure. At the Hermitage when something was given to the Sangha that meant that Piyadassi put it in the storage room, didn’t it? Then if anyone needed anything he helped himself. But I don’t know how to give a kuti to the Sangha. Obviously we can’t put it in a storage room. But I didn’t say I was going to give the kuti to the Sangha. I only said maybe I should.”
“If you did give it to the Sangha would I be able to build up the walls?”
“You ask almost as many questions as me.”
“Do I?”
“The Vinaya probably describes some sort of formal procedure for giving a kuti. It prescribes procedures for nearly any situation likely to arise. But I don’t remember what the method would be. And I’ve never seen it done. I don’t know how it would work in practice today.”
“So it’s not a practical thing to do?”
“I don’t know. If I don’t know how to do it and I don’t know the results, how can I know whether it’s practical?”
“I don’t know either. I guess the only way to find out is by doing it. That’s what you told me.”
“I don’t remember saying that.”
“Before I was ordained. I came to ask you what to do, whether I should take ordination or not, and you didn’t tell me yes or no, you just said that the only way to find out about something was by trying it.”
“You really want the place, don’t you?’
“It’s a great location. But I don’t want it if I can’t change it to suit me. How about if I build my own place somewhere else on the hill?”
“Talk about doing things the hard way! You must be bored out of your gourd to dream those dreams. Have you forgotten the hassles I went through getting the kuti built? There’s a verse in the Theragatha, I think, where Ven. Sariputta” — the Buddha’s foremost disciple in wisdom — “said that if our shelter is enough to keep both knees dry when you sit cross-legged on a rainy day you should reckon it as sufficient.”
“But both my knees get wet in that place. Those heavy winds come straight in and blast mist everywhere.”
“If you put up another layer of mats that wouldn’t happen. That seems like the simplest way. Why begin with the hardest way? That’s really being impractical. Believe me. I built the place. I know what problems you’ll have.”
“It’s not just the rain. I could probably fix that with plastic sheeting. It’s the place. It’s not what I want. I need my own place.”
“Looking for a taste of the householder’s life?”
“Come on, V. You built that kuti because you wanted your own place.”
“I needed someplace to stay for Vas, and that possibility started opening up. But yes, I did want my own place. And look at the hassles it brought me. Having a place is better than wanting one, but not wanting a place is better than having one.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
“That’s what I asked you. Suddenly the burden of decision has been shifted to my shoulders. And I don’t want to do anything. I don’t even want the place. I’m happy to be wandering. I don’t know how long it’ll last, but I’m sure not ready to return and settle down again.”
“Either you have to make a decision or you have to give me permission to make a decision. And if you give me permission I’ll build up the walls.”
“Then instead of giving you permission, I’ll give you the kuti. It’s yours. Do what you want with it. Remember that the materials were generously provided by dayakas. You won’t want to do anything that would make them feel their gifts aren’t appreciated.”
Crackers broke out in smiles “I’m glad you decided that, V, because that makes it a lot easier for me. Thanks for doing it. Now I can make decisions about the place without having to ask your permission first.”
“You’re going to build walls up to the roof, then?”
“And put in windows and a door.”
“Have fun.”
“Thanks.”
“Reverend, am I to understand, then, that you’re no longer possessing a kuti to return to?”
“That’s right. It’s his kuti now. I’ve just given it to him. I only have to return to get my things out of it.” Dhamma books, mostly.
“Of course you can leave your stuff stored there as long as you like. No storage charge, either.”
“That’s an offer I can’t refuse.”
“Then, reverend, you are now in a position to reconsider our offer for you to live here or to build you a kuti.”
I looked at Crackers. We both laughed. “Mr. Pereira, I’ve just rid myself of one burden. Now you try to give me another. I’m not the one who’s interested in kutis these days. I don’t want to spend my time designing spaces and enclosing them. But if you want to build a kuti for someone, why don’t you offer it to my friend? He seems interested in kutis.”
Mr. Pereira seemed unsure how serious to take my suggestion until Crackers laughed. “Two kutis. Just what I need.”
“Are you sure you don’t have one too many already?”
“Then what will you be doing, sir, if I may ask?”
“Now that I’ve got such a nice umbrella, I’ll go wandering again. I’ll leave tomorrow, or maybe the next day. The umbrella’s all the protection I want. That, and the angsa. Together they’ll keep me warm and dry. If I want to settle somewhere again I might accept your offer, if it’s still open then. I do have to spend the Vas season in one place. But that’s a long way off. There’s other places I might stay, too. Maybe Crackers’ll let me stay in his place. Or maybe I won’t even be in Ceylon by then. I want to find out what it’s like to live with as few attachments as I can manage, and like I said once before, the only way to find out is by doing it. I keep trying to do it, and keep falling back on comfort and security and familiarity and all sorts of things. But I guess I’m rested enough now to give it another try. Enough of the dust and accumulations of dwellings. I’m going wandering.”
Through many a birth did I traverse this round. I sought in vain and did not detect the architect. Repeated birth is pain. (Dh. 153)
Now you are seen, oh architect! Another house you’ll not erect. Your rafters all are breached. Your ridge-pole has been battered down; the mind has gone outside your bounds, and craving’s end is reached. (Dh. 154)
Chapter Seven (cont.) (iii) It was a lonely place I’d got to. Against the twiggy dullness of the tea bushes was nothing more interesting than a few outcroppings of rock and, farther off, a few rows of trees planted as windbreaks. I sized them up professionally. The outcroppings were unsheltered. The ground was likely still damp from the morning’s shower, and thus no protection against the growing threat of rain. For that, all I had was the new umbrella that I carried slung across my back by a strap, rifle-style. The outcroppings wouldn’t be a good reststop. The trees might be suitable nighttime shelter, if there were a leafy groundcover: I couldn’t tell from here. It was a bit far off, too far for a short daytime break.
From the top of the hill there was no village in sight, only hill after hill of tea. From the distance they seemed velvet-textured, but up close they just looked like tea bushes. The higher hills, in the distance, were jungle-shrouded. But there wasn’t a village in sight, not even a house, and I knew I was going to go hungry today.
I didn’t know in which direction might lie the estate lines, from whose shanties the dark-skinned Tamil children would stolidly stare at me, each naked save for the black string worn around his protruding belly. The women would all be in the fields, plucking leaves. The men would be out doing their work. Just the children and the old people would be here, and perhaps some almsfood as well.
A thin cloud layer covered the sky. Behind it, from time to time, I could make out the round disc of the sun, which was high. I knew I wouldn’t come to any estate lines until well into the afternoon, far past the time allotted for gathering food. I’d managed to wander through Upcountry the entire morning without gathering more than one small banana and a piece of cold toast, and now there wasn’t even a dry place nearby where I might sit down to eat them, and I wasn’t happy about it. When the wind blew it was cold and damp. I wore my angsa.
I slipped my hand into the bowl, broke off a crust of toast, and munched it as I walked down the estate road. A few puddles remained from the morning’s rain. That water was frigid.
A few miles back I’d passed some tea pluckers. In their cotton saris and white headscarves the women ranged through the fields dropping young leaves into large wicker baskets strapped to their backs. As I’d walked past them I’d hesitated, then stopped and waited for a minute, almsbowl in hand. These people weren’t Buddhists, and I wasn’t sure if they would even understand that I was accepting offerings of prepared food.
I’d had a vague acquaintance with a Hindu swami back in Kandy and knew how different his food collection methods were. Once a week or so he went through the villages ringing a bell and pulling a small four-wheeled wagon, collecting money as well as uncooked rice. So I didn’t know if these Tamil women would understand my customs. Nor could they easily spare any food, for their wages were insufficient for even bare survival and their bellies were dependent upon the government’s weekly rations of rice.
Nevertheless one woman shyly approached me with a small banana, which she dropped unceremoniously into the empty bowl. She hesitated a moment, uncertain perhaps whether anything else was to be done by either of us.
“Sukhi hotu,” I said quietly. May you be happy.
Without bowing she hastened back to her tea field. None of the other women remarked on her deed nor followed her example, but the field supervisor — probably a Buddhist, since he was a manager — offered me toast from his food bag which I now ate as I walked down the empty road.
Cold toast was small cheer, and I grumbled inwardly at my lot. Oh, I knew, I knew: Not for the sake of one’s belly does the monk go forth, and: content with any scrap gleaned from the refuse-heap, a monk unwaveringly devotes himself to etc., etc. Nor was it that I was actually hungry, although I actually was. It was more simply that my expectations hadn’t been met.
I expected a daily meal. That wasn’t asking too much. I was more than willing to collect it. I wasn’t asking for any service. I would be content with whatever could be spared. I only wanted one a day. It wasn’t like expecting three squares. I was right to be dissatisfied, for the world had let me down. It was small compensation that now I walked along nibbling at the toast instead of sitting down to eat it, as prescribed. I shall eat the almsfood carefully …: training rule 31.
How could anybody expect me to keep the training rules in these circumstances? If the universe couldn’t get its trip together enough to keep me from going hungry then these training rules were too petty for me to bother with. I tried to ignore my awareness of the absurdity of this logic but failed, and with each drop of sweet reflection that seeped into the vinegary petulance of my mind my rebellious mood became less tenable. The less tenable it became the more dissatisfied I felt, for I couldn’t even be petulant in peace. There was no end to oppression.
And when the toast was finished and I’d withdrawn the banana from the bowl and begun to peel it I grimaced, made myself stop, and sat down on a rock beside the road. Without further ado I popped the thing down in two large bites, flung away the peel and, still chewing, got up and walked on. I shall not make up an extra-large mouthful …: #39.
I attempted mindfulness of walking, but my guts kept calling attention to themselves. And when I attempted mindfulness of the guts I discovered therein an ugly mood that had the same dimensions as hunger. The mood was incompatible with mindfulness of it: it didn’t like being observed. And, hungry as I chose to be, I chose too to feed on the solidity of my dark mood rather than on the insubstantial fare of awareness.
“There are, monks, these four foods staying creatures that have come into being or assisting those seeking to be. Which four? Solid foods, coarse or fine; secondly contact, thirdly intention, fourthly consciousness.” “V, the whole problem is your lousy attitude towards being hungry, cold, and alone.” But even that self-criticism didn’t cheer me, and when I’d had my fill of dark moods I turned, for desert, to words.
I carried a toy, the Dhammapada. A collection of 423 short verses, this — the most translated of all Pali texts — had yet, I felt, to be rendered into English without great sacrifice to either the letter of the texts or the spirit or both. As I wandered I kept a few of these verses in my head (and the whole of them in my shoulder bag), mulling over them and sometimes finding English renditions that pleased me.
I’d titled the still-incomplete translation The Track of Truth, and already had fantasized its publication and popularity, in spite of multi-lingual warnings.
One thing is the way to extinction, another’s the means which bring gain. Understanding this distinction the Buddha’s follower should refrain from being elated by worldly acclaim. Seclusion should be the monk’s aim. (Dh. 75)
I’d already made a few preliminary notes for the preface and an extensively learned appendix as well as having translated about a quarter of the verses. And if I was no less involved in this project than I’d been in the Ņanavira project at least it had two redeeming features. First, there were no great stacks of papers to carry about with me — not yet, at least — and secondly, I didn’t need to acquire any government permits.
Verse number 133 was a problem. I’d been working on it for days now, putting it aside for a while, then picking it up again for another go. Don’t speak harshly to anyone./ As they are spoken to they will reply./ Angry speech is painful./ They will strike back. I rearranged the words, tightening them here, loosening them there, but after a while I gave it up again.
Next: try one more of the toughies. Maybe, number 200. The Pali had a peculiar lilting gaiety to it that I hadn’t been able to capture in English. Happily, indeed, we dwell,/ we for whom there is nothing whatsoever./ Gladness-feeders, we shall be/ like the radiant deities. That, anyway, was the sense of it. But that second line was complicated, and I couldn’t find any way of rhyming it with the fourth line.
Pali verse, of course, was unrhymed. Like all languages in the Prakrit branch of Sanskrit, words took case endings, and there were too few possible word-ending sounds to make rhyming of interest. But Pali, like English, had its poetic devices. My renditions translated both the words and the techniques into their English equivalents.
I tried every way I could think of to restate the verses, trying to find the rhythms and rhymes that pleased me and, as always, came to a standstill. I couldn’t find a solution, not even with as pliable a phrase as radiant deities.
Abhassara deva: there were deities of all different types, from wood nymphs and rain gods to beings who inhabited spheres of existence beyond our ken, and I accepted the reality of all of them with the same credulity with which I accepted assurances, from other quarters, of the reality of, say, electrons, the unconscious, or vitamins. It took training to believe any of it. In fact, I was now less skeptical of Indian mythology (if myth was, indeed, what it was) than of the scientists’ abstractions. Devas seemed no less reasonable than black holes, or the speed of light.
In the hierarchy of heavenly states I had been first surprised, then pleased, to discover that the heaven of those who create ranked a step below, rather than above, the heaven of those who delight in the creations of others. Was it better, then, to be a reader of books than a writer of them?
There was a full hierarchy of both the heavens and the hells, which I interpreted as metaphorically as the texts would permit, although sometimes those interpretations were still not as metaphorical as I would have been comfortable with. It was easier for me to accept Ven. Ņanavira’s descriptions of the hierarchical structure of existence, and to ponder the levels of appropriation, than it was to accept such variety within the worlds of heaven and hell. And this despite the diversity of species on our own plane.
I had no idea where these abhassara deva fitted in the scheme. Were they a definite class of deity or was the word descriptive merely of the radiance of all those deities who fed on gladness?
Feeding on gladness? What sort of food was that? Maybe consciousness-food? Too bad it wasn’t belly-food. If it was it would be a great way to get out of the pindapata racket. No need to go hungry if you were one who fed on gladness: there’d always be food, as long as you stayed happy, even after midday. Certainly gladness, like tea, must be allowable at all times of day. No preservatives either, nor any unnatural additives. Just knowing you lived on something as wholesome and digestible as gladness was a happy thought, and with the happy thought there was gladness, and as I partook of the gladness I found it satisfying. The hunger-shaped anger vanished. My spirits lifted; my step lightened. The tenseness in my gut relaxed. I was glad and, being glad, was no longer hungry.
Indeed we do dwell happily, we who’ve nothing anywhere. Like the radiant deities, joy shall be our fare. (Dh. 200)
The road topped the hill and started winding down. On the hill beyond I could see smoke rising. There would be estate lines over there, probably three or four twisting miles onward. That would be three or four hours away. There was no hurry. I spent the afternoon walking at my own pace, and resting at my own pace too. At the bottom of the hill was a rivulet with good water where I refreshed myself. In the early afternoon it sprinkled. Later I found the right words for another verse.
When carelessness the sage expels with care, and has the citadel of wisdom climbed, unsorrowing and resolute, then — like groundlings surveyed by a mountaineer — the sorry folk, the fools, appear. (Dh. 28)
In the late afternoon I passed through the estate lines, a string of rude houses scattered in barren soil beside the road. Unplastered mud walls. Roofs patched with rusting bits of scavenged scrap metal. An atmosphere gone beyond despair into lethargy. Just the other side of the lines I passed a covey of sarong-clad workmen squatting beside the road, their machetes in the dirt beside them. One of them got up and approached me.
“Hamuduruwo.” That was the Sinhalese form of address used for monks only. He asked me something I didn’t understand.
“Sinhala ba,” I said when he paused.
“Sinhala ba? Tamil ba?”
“Ba.”
“Anglaisi?”
“Americani.”
I knew little Sinhalese and no Tamil, but we established a few facts. I was Buddhist. I was walking. I didn’t want a bus. I spoke English. But that didn’t satisfy him, and he persisted. Where would I sleep? he gestured. I pointed ahead, indicating nothing in particular. He nodded as if he understood exactly what I meant. Or had we misunderstood each other? With a polite nod of the head I excused myself and started walking again.
As I continued down the road all three squatting men got up and joined me, talking among themselves and asking me questions. They didn’t understand that monks didn’t make conversation while walking: it was bad for the mindfulness. I tried to detach myself from them by walking at my own pace, but they exhorted me to go faster, as they did, and in spite of myself I sped up.
Some distance beyond the village the men indicated a turn-off that I would have missed, a footpath that climbed among tea bushes and led shortly to a secluded kovil. The single room was surrounded on all sides by a roofed verandah. Windowless, it had vertical bars in the door-way through which I peered in. The men pointed to the various deities in brass and plaster which filled the room and named some of the beings represented on wall posters. None of them seemed like gladness-feeders.
It was clear they expected me to stay the night here. Not in the shrine, which had no room for mortals, but on the cement porch. That was fine with me, for the ground was still damp and the weather uncertain. The winter monsoon was trying to get started, and there was the possibility that it would rain tonight. I was lucky to have come by such a suitable place so easily, for it was already close to sunset. I chose a spot beside one wall, unloaded my gear, and sat. I thanked the men for showing me here and forebore their questioning until they took their leave. Tired, I was glad of the chance to rest.
Once alone, however, I established myself. I arranged a sitting place, intending to meditate when I’d prepared myself. After sorting out the bag and bowl I decided to check out the area before nightfall: already the light was lessening.
I walked completely around the porch. Tea grew on three sides, widely spaced among rock outcroppings. On the fourth side, sandwiched between the kovil and a cliff which rose perhaps ten feet, was a walled cemetery with a pyre in the middle of it. Both cremation and burial were common in Ceylon. The graves, unmarked by stones, were identifiable by the shape of earth mounds and by handmade decorations. I looked at the mounds for a while and remembered verses.
Soon, alas! this body will be felled and senseless, will lie sprawled upon the earth, cast aside, its consciousness dispelled, like a log that’s lacking worth. (Dh. 41)
This body will perish; it’s old; a nest of distress. It breaks up, this putrid mold; life ends in death. (Dh. 148)
There was nothing more to explore. I was tired of walking and returned to my spot, still intending to meditate, but I looked at the place I’d prepared and sighed. I was hungry. No longer walking, tired from the day’s events and non-events, with no particular aim, the mind easily fell back to thoughts of food. I could no longer conjure up the thin cheer on which I’d fed this afternoon. It didn’t have the staying power of a good steak.
I was still undecided when I heard voices from the path. The villagers were coming back. I sat down, crossed my legs, and waited their arrival.
There were more of them this time. The one who’d first approached me carried a pot of tea and what was probably his best china, a chipped English-style cup and saucer. Their own style was a handleless brass cup, a good handwarmer on a cold day. He poured a cup of tea and they all squatted down to watch me drink it. It was far too sweet. No doubt they’d put in extra sugar for my benefit.
When I finished an old man with white hair tied into a top-knot offered me a small bunch of bananas, which I declined even though their aroma tickled my nostrils. Although as a samanera it had been permissible to accept food after hours to be eaten the next day, bhikkhus didn’t keep food after midday. There was no way I could explain that, though, so I politely declined and hoped it would be left at that. But the old man urged the bananas on me as if I were being shy, and when I repeated my refusal he took offense. I’d accepted tea from his friend, he pointed out. Why wouldn’t I accept the bananas from him? Wasn’t he just as good as his friend? But I didn’t know how to explain that tea was allowable at any hour, and as I declined again I could feel the mood of the group shift.
What is wrong with this sadhu that he should so insult someone by refusing a gift? These Buddhists certainly are proud. Yes, and Americani are strange. We invite him to stay at our kovil and he doesn’t show the good manners to accept an offering and permit merit to be made. What should we do with such a fellow? Throw him out?
So I interpreted their murmurings, and when once again — one final time? — the bananas were offered I tried to hide the reluctance with which I accepted them. I wanted to be neither the source nor the focus for criticism, but it was easier to be out of accord with the Vinaya than with them, for the Vinaya didn’t display anger or threaten me. I put the bananas into the almsbowl and closed the lid on them to clear the air of their aroma. Nobody objected that I didn’t eat them. The air cleared of the murmurings as well as the aroma, and I was offered a second cup of tea, which I thought it best to accept.
One of the men pointed to my legs, which were still crossed. My posture clearly lent me prestige in their eyes. Although squatting was a natural posture for them, the lotus position seemed to be as difficult for many Asians as it was for most Westerners.
The tea finished, I returned the cup, politely declining yet another refill. We seemed to have nothing more to say to each other. I fixed a benevolent smile on my face and stared contemplatively at the tea bushes, barely visible in the last light of a cloudy February day. Mollified by my acceptance of the bananas, impressed by my posture, they took the hint, I thought, for they whispered among themselves and then noisily shuffled away.
Alone at last. Solitude was hard to get. Now that I had it I had nothing left to do. But when I tried doing nothing I found that the effort was a doing. Doing nothing had to be effortless. But it could only be achieved through effort. The effort was more than I felt up to making. Instead of settling upon thoughts of food I turned again to my translations and fine-tuned a couple of verses:
As massive rock by wind is undisturbed, So by praise and blame the sage is unperturbed. (Dh. 81)
And,
Whatever they’ve done or not done, do not oppose anyone. Consider your own position, your own deeds and omissions. (Dh. 50)
I was thinking of lighting my candle to see what other verses I might work on when I heard voices approaching.
“Sadhu! Sadhu!
I felt annoyance that I should be disturbed, and my stomach tightened, but I sat where I was, seeing no alternative.
In the dark at first I could see only their light: a candle-stub stuck to the inside lip of half a coconut-shell. The shell created a dead-air pocket for the flame as they walked. Leading the way, a matronly woman offered me a ragged cotton blanket, then bowed. Behind her were some children and youths and two old women.
That’s only on loan; I want the blanket back in the morning, her words and gestures indicated.
“Sukhi hotu.” It would be useful for this night.
The children stepped forward for blessings. They gathered around and squatted down, silent save for an occasional comment. I sat quietly, testing my patience against the open stares of my hosts. I restrained (but didn’t dissipate) my annoyance at being so rudely examined. Anything I did would be of interest to them, therefore I tried to do nothing, not even to scratch a vagrant itch. I hoped thus that they would tire of me and go away. There was no chance, though, to learn whether this strategy might have worked, for some distant hallooing was answered by one of the children and soon another group of women and children arrived, picking their way carefully among the rocks and tea bushes.
“Sadhu! Sadhu!” they cried when they saw me.
A woman with a goiter offered me a lumpy pillow. The pillowcase had roses embroidered across it. I accepted it with a sukhi hotu and then blessed each member of her family as they bowed. This family squatted beside the first, jostling a bit for position. The woman with the goiter addressed me in Tamil.
“Tamil ba,” I told her.
“Tamil ba!” And she turned to the matronly woman to discuss this difficult situation.
I felt growing annoyance that I should be so stared at by so many people. Their lights hurt my eyes and their eyes hurt my dignity. Hope faded for my strategy of passivity, and when a third group arrived it failed entirely. This group included my original host, who gave me more tea, freshly brewed. Another family set beside me a kerosene lamp with a broken glass chimney, and lit it. No doubt walking with it lighted had proved impossible. The flame smoked so badly that the chimney was soon soot-blackened, and the only light the lamp gave off was from the broken top of the chimney, where rising soot absorbed most of the illumination.
Whiffs of kerosene fumes gagged me. I was repelled, and pushed the lamp away from me. The villagers discussed this act at some length, without conclusion, while I sipped the over-sweet tea. But I wasn’t thirsty; I didn’t want more tea. I was tired; I wanted to be alone. I wondered how I might best be rid of my hosts, who were now crowded around me. I tried some polite gestures.
Me sleep. You go. That seemed clear enough to me, but they looked at each other wonderingly and discussed with some liveliness what I might possibly mean. I tried again, this time with words, and heard myself say, “Me sleep. You go.” The discussion among the Tamils grew animated. Clearly something was happening, or about to happen. But what?
“Go! Go!” I made strong pushing gestures towards them with both hands and spoke emphatically. Everybody backed up a foot or two to give me more room, then they looked at each other with repressed smiles of amused nervousness, and slowly settled back to quiet again. They didn’t understand just how far away I wanted them to go.
I didn’t know what else to do. How could I chase them from their own kovil? I sat quietly while they all had a good look at me. At this hour where could I go? But on the borders of my attention lurked a dark anger that scuttled away crab-like each time I turned to it and returned when I looked elsewhere.
On the edge of the verandah, behind the other villagers and off to one side, was a teen-aged girl. She wore a midriff blouse, Sinhalese style, and was heavyset and dour-faced. As I noticed her she stared directly at me and shook her shoulders: her large breasts quivered like Jell-o. Her expression didn’t change from an insolent pout, but she shook her shoulders several times so there could be no mistaking her opinion. I looked past her, into the dark night.
My legs began to ache and I wanted to do some pacing, but I knew I wouldn’t do anything so extraordinary in front of this audience. Instead I closed my eyes and tried vainly to attend to the breath. But the minute disturbances of these people became amplified,like feedback, until I was moreconsciousoftheir whispers and silences than of my breath. My irritation grew. And when I was just ready to give up and try something else I heard a vast rustling of cloth followed by fading footsteps as all the villagers went away and I was left alone at last!
I blew out the smelly smoky lamp, put the cup and teapot out of the way, and then selected a length of porch and walked up and down until my legs felt properly stretched. Instead of being mindful my attention rested mostly on my translations. That was okay. I was too tired to be mindful. This sort of Dhamma-thought was as much as I could manage for now. And at length I solved another of the toughies:
To others don’t use words that grate: addressed thus, they’ll retaliate. Vindictive speech leads but to woes: you may be struck by counterblows. (Dh. 133)
With that effort I was ready for sleep. I looked forward to a comfortable night, with the luxury of a pillow and blanket. But first I had to get rid of all that tea. I stepped off the verandah and walked a few feet out into the night. I nearly bumped into the four-foot high wall that surrounded the cemetery. It was both inconsiderate and a minor infraction of the Vinaya to urinate on living plants, so I availed myself of this wall. I listened to the sounds of the night: chirrups, croaks, and insect songs. Then in the distance I heard a different song: “Sadhu! Sadhu!”
They were coming back again! I couldn’t even piss in peace! They were returning with an incandescent gasoline lamp, for I could see its glow from a distance, and as they neared its hiss drowned out the gentler sound of urine striking rock. Would they stand about and discuss the way I passed water? I didn’t wait to find out, but climbed over the wall, where as their lights grew brighter I finished urinating. Then, staying out of sight, I moved to a dry part of the wall and sat down.
“Sadhu! Sadhu!”
They were on the verandah now. I could see the garish bobbing sharp-edged shadows of the gas lamp on the cliff that rose on the other side of the cemetery. I remained concealed, in the cemetery. I remembered wanting, once, to spend a night in one. Perhaps this was my chance. Perhaps I’d just stay hidden here until they went away, then return to the verandah to get my things. I regretted not having the sitting cloth, for the ground was damp. I hoped they wouldn’t find me. I listened carefully for clues.
From the movement of shadows on the cliff and the spreading cries of “Sadhu! Sadhu!” I guessed that a search had begun for me. Now I realized that they would certainly not give up their search until I was found. They would assume I was in need of help. The only help I wanted was for them to leave me alone; but clearly the longer I waited before being discovered the more upset everyone would be and the longer it would take for them all to calm down and go away. In hiding from them I had miscalculated. The only thing to do was to show myself now and keep the uproar to a minimum.
Just as I stood up the beam of a flashlight cut me in half, and with Tamil cries of “He’s found!” or something of the sort, the other villagers were summoned. I stood on one side of the wall. On the other side people gathered with glaring lights and strident voices. They were upset and I was upset. I was determined to be independent: I’d tell them. If they wouldn’t leave I would, and even at this hour of the night I would find someplace to sleep, perhaps less dry but at least free of gawkers and disturbances. But before I could express myself a large drop of water fell splat! on my bare head, and I heard several more rustle nearby tea bushes. Then it was raining, and I didn’t want to go searching, in the rain and dark, for a different place to rest, so I held my peace while I tried to understand why everyone was so upset.
The looks of dismay on the women’s faces and of anger on the men’s seemed excessive. Nor did I see any joy or relief at my having been found. One man drew my attention to a notice (in Tamil script) that was fixed to a post in the near corner of the wall. Then I saw there were posts at each corner of the wall. My first host drew an imaginary line along the wall which, I now realized, was some sort of boundary. And I seemed to be on the wrong side of it, for now I understood their words and gestures to be not concern for my welfare or anger at my disappearance but insistence that I get out of the graveyard at once.
I climbed back over the wall and walked back to the verandah while the people followed behind me, still upset. Had I broken a caste restriction? Perhaps some taboo I should have been aware of? I didn’t know. I only knew that everyone was upset about both my disappearance and the place of my discovery. Perhaps they would even send me away, in the rain. Where would I go? At least they hadn’t found me urinating on the damned wall.
But no one tried to evict me. Instead, they conferred among themselves, then turned to face me while my first host addressed me in Tamil. I didn’t understand what he said, but I took a guess.
“Sadhu, we’ve given you the hospitality of our kovil, even though we know you to be not a Hindu, and therefore of no caste. We welcomed you with tea and the few comforts we were able to offer. And now you have abused our hospitality by entering a place reserved for the caste-protection of our ancestors. Therefore we shall no longer offer you our company in the loneliness of this kovil at night.”
And they left. The owners of the blanket, pillow, lamp, and tea set took their property and without further talk the people left, and I was alone with the light rain outside.
It was chilly. My robe was damp. I wrapped the sanghati around me and walked up and down, calming myself from the emotions that had been roused by the evening’s events. I was upset with both their conduct and mine.
Finally I returned to my resting place, arranged my robes, and lay down, but was unable to sleep. My stomach was tense and tight. Cold came up through the cement, through the robes in which I’d rolled myself, and through the angsa as well. There were no tree leaves to insulate me from the ground chill.
To survive the intense Himalayan winters Milarepa had developed the ability to generate warmth. Too bad I didn’t have that. One night in Calcutta I’d thought I had it, but all I’d had was an alternate mode of perception, and the makings of a nasty head cold from exposure. All I wanted now was to be warmer.
I remembered that the bathing cloth was packed in the almsbowl. That was one more layer of cloth that I could put between me and the cement. I fumbled for the almsbowl and reached in to get it out.
Sitting atop the bathing cloth was the bunch of bananas. I looked at them in the dark. They looked back at me. Their aroma conferred with the tenseness in my gut and a mutual consensus was reached. I peeled one and ate it carefully, seasoning it with reflections about the Patimokkha. I flung the peel into the bushes as far as I could. Then I ate the others.
The bananas calmed me down and soothed the minor spasms of my stomach. Hunger and anger translated into each other so easily. What had happened to feeding on gladness? That had worked fine this afternoon. Strange that it should be so insufficient for this night. I wondered how the situation might be handled by a deva who fed on gladness. Would he become angry and upset? Would that make him hungry? Or would he then feed on the anger?
And I recalled another time when I’d eaten bananas after hours: that had been my custom in Colombo, when I’d first arrived in Ceylon as a new samanera. I’d been angry and upset then, too. I’d worried then about getting caught, about establishing a bad reputation. There’d been the argument with that monk, what’s-his-name. Remembering him reminded me of something else from those days: the anger-eating demon. His image stood in sharp contrast to that of the feeders on gladness. And somewhere in between were the banana eaters.
I could choose gladness or I could choose anger, just as, once, I’d chosen warmth over chill. Why, then, did I find myself most comfortable somewhere in between? I wasn’t sure what to make of that. It seemed to indicate to me something about myself. But what?
I lay down, rolled up in the robes, and fell asleep without answering the question. By the time I woke the next morning I’d forgotten it.