They came for me after dark; I was still reviewing my lines. Seated cross-legged on a cushion, I whispered to myself over and over the phrases I'd have to know. Even in the parts I knew best I was hesitant; after running through something flawlessly three times in a row I might stumble and falter on the fourth review. The parts I knew less well were doubtful indeed; I only occasionally got through them perfectly. The foreign sounds and rhythms, meaningless to me, wouldn't hold themselves in the right order, and my head seemed as well shorn on the inside as it was of hair on the outside: nacca gita vadita visuka ... visuka ... And it was back to the drawing board again.
My particular drawing board consisted of an elaborate cribsheet: I wrote most of what I'd need to recite in miniscule script on the palms of my hands. During much of the ordination I would, I knew, be squatting before Ven. Dharmapal with my palms held together in front of me in ritual supplication as I asked to be allowed to go forth from the life of the householder to the homeless life of a monk in the Sangha, the order of monks established by the Buddha, where I could study and practice the Dhamma, the Buddha's Teaching. By opening my palms hinge-wise slightly I could read out my lines, if memory failed me (as I was sure it would), and spare myself the embarrassment of a public failure.
My guides (two upasakas who'd participated in the photography session) led me with deference to the meeting hall. I'd had a few lessons on how Buddhists conducted themselves when with monks: deference, respect, rigid formality, were all part of a mystique by means of which the laity managed to endow the monk with an aura of magical potency and to keep that unknown object at a comfortable distance. This aura began to settle on me from about the time my head was shaved and grew rapidly now, as the time of ordination approached. I certainly didn't feel magically potent; but on the other hand there they all were, treating me as if I was, or was about to become so. Maybe it would happen to me? Put on the magic robes and ... Supermonk!
The hall was large; even with all the people in it it still seemed empty. A few framed photos of near-forgotten events -- soccer teams and foundation stones -- failed to lend any relief to the walls. The bare bulbs hanging from the high ceiling were inadequate. Incense, sweet and strong, failed to conceal a musky smell. A night breeze flowing though the open double doors chilled me.
At one end of the hall, on a high podium, sat a large plaster Buddha. His skin was golden, his lips bright red. His ears were unnaturally long and his hair black, but his face was that of an Apollo. I didn't understand why he wasn't portrayed with shaven head. Wasn't he a monk?
In front of the Buddha, on a lower podium, sat the monks of the temple. Facing them, and seated on some thin carpeting, sat the white-clad devotees. The spotless white clothing contrasted gently with their soft brown skin tone. I suspected that attendance was far above normal: they were making a big production out of this ordination. I knew this because I'd written and typed up the press notices.
I wasn't sure where to sit: on the floor with the upasakas or on the podiums with the monks? I stood uncertainly.
"Sit down there." Ven. Dharmapal pointed to the front row, and I sat among the men. Women sat farther back.
"I didn't think there'd be so many people."
"Many people want to share in this ordination. Now that you're here we can begin, with the pańca sila."
"The pańca sila?" That, I knew, was the ritual administration of the five precepts observed by Buddhist laity.
"Yes. You've learned it, haven't you?"
"Why? Am I going to take it too?"
"Of course. You're Buddhist, no? And not yet monk, no? So of course you should take it."
"But you didn't tell me about that," I wanted to say, but clearly he thought he had. And, "I didn't have time to learn it; there was so much else," but clearly he thought I had.
I tried to remember what I knew of it. Part of it was identical to the dasa sila, the ten precepts, which was a major part of the ordination procedure, but the third parts differed.
A signal was given and everyone stopped talking and sat quietly, praying or doing something that could easily be mistaken for prayer. I bowed my head in imitation of them and tried to think holy thoughts, but felt uncomfortable with the pretense. I didn't feel holy and didn't know what might be expected of me. Although in a short time I'd be a monk I still knew little about how to be an upasaka.
Two weeks ago I'd been simply another stray hitchhiker, a late-blooming beatnik who, unable to find anything meaningful in the States, had followed a meandering course that wound up eventually in India. I was still amazed that it had been so few days since I'd actually perceived the idea of ordination as a real possibility, not only as something which I might do, but also as something which I might do.
It had been sweltering, that day, when I'd returned to the vihara, having just concluded my final fruitless effort to obtain a border permit to cross over into East Pakistan. I'd wanted that permit. I had a peaceful out-of-the-way spot picked out where I wanted to sit down and finish that novel. Or to just sit down: I was tired of traveling; I wanted to stop. My head ached. My feet hurt. I was tired of everything. I sighed a sigh of deep disgruntlement and faced up to the fact that the permit was simply not going to be granted. I felt out of sorts and didn't want to face the persistent question: Well? What are you going to do now?
The old Burmese monk who meditated on a cushion across from me had been undisturbed by my sighs. He looked serene and cool, and I felt unhappy that he should seem so content when I wasn't. He could do that, though: he was a monk. How could I be content when life was so pointless that my fate was controlled by faceless and feckless bureaucrats? And now that my own vision of a serene retreat had proven fruitless what could I do to find peace? Too bad I couldn't be a monk like him. Then I'd have no problem at all.
Well? The question appeared unexpectedly, like a beggar: Why can't you become a monk? And I felt within me a stillness of apprehension, as I reached into that drawer of my mind wherein I kept Stock Replies and Justifications That Go Without Saying. But (perhaps just then my head was a bit too tender for extensive probing, or perhaps my sour mood blinded me to what I was doing) instead of a Perfectly Good Reason, what I finally did pull out of that drawer, dangling by its question mark like a rat hanging by its tail, was the eternally unanswerable question: Why not?
Why not, indeed? And the words rose from some vortex deep within me -- I was on speed at the time -- and expanded in a crescendo which filled me full. And almost without my noticing it the intonation of the phrase shifted until it was no longer a question but an invitation: Why not? Instead of being an inquiry demanding of me that I always have a suitable reply on my person (like a cop demanding to see I.D.) it became a suggestion, a soothing suggestion that I stop looking for a reply, for an I.D., because any reply I would be able to find could be only of my own specious manufacture, not issued by any Competent Authority.
Too late a few tired and bedraggled reasons appeared and were dismissed as unconvincing and unworthy. My mind emptied, as if through that same emotional eddy from which the question -- Why not? -- had risen, and there was left only the winds of a curious and pondering "Hmmmm" for some while followed by a sort of mental shrug of the shoulders, then by a thoughtful but impassive "I dunno," and concluded by a nonchalant "Okay." Sure. As long as there weren't going to be a lot of hassles about it, anyway. I'd do it: I'd ask to be a monk. Why not?
* * * * *
The eldest members of the congregation kept to the old ways: they squatted barefoot and wore their silvered hair in topknots, men and women alike. Only a few of them had survived the hard times, partition, emigration, more hard times: most of the congregation sat cross-legged and wore modern dress. As they recited the opening phrases of the pańca sila ritual the rasping insistent drone of the old ones filled the hall as their bodies couldn't: Okasa aham bhante tisaranena saddhim ...; 'Hear me, venerable one: I ask for the five precepts together with the three refuges. With compassion for me, venerable one, grant me the precepts.'
Three times the people repeated their ritualized request, and three times I stumbled along after them, mumbling sounds. I tried to feel the proper reverence for such a venerable old ritual but the congregation was reciting faster than I could remember and I had no time for emotions, doubts or reflections. As the last of our voices faded Ven. Dharmapal sang out in clear ringing tones: Yam aham vadami tam vadetha: 'that which I say you say.'
Ama bhante, 'yes venerable one,' the assembly assented. The monks and laity raised joined hands; I followed a moment later, and as is done at the start of every Buddhist ceremony we chanted three times the words: Namo tassa Bhagavato Arahato Samma Sambuddhassa: 'Honor to the Auspicious One, Worthy and Fully Enlightened.' And then, in a chanting nasal voice, with precise and almost musical inflections and timing, Ven. Dharmapal called out the three refuges. At the end of each phrase the gathering repeated, in flat everyday tones, the Pali phrases he'd sung:
Buddham saranam gacchami: 'I go to the Buddha for refuge.'
Dhammam saranam gacchami: 'I go to the Dhamma for refuge.'
Sangham saranam gacchami: 'I go to the Sangha for refuge.'
And the formula was repeated for a second time, and then a third time. Ven. Dharmapal sang: Saranam gamanam sampunnam: 'The refuges as given are completed.' Ama bhante, 'yes venerable one,' the congregation responded, and then Ven. Dharmapal sang out the phrases of the pańca sila, the five precepts, one by one. At the end of each phrase the assembly repeated it in a murmur of disordered voices punctuated by the passionate rasps of the old ones.
'I take the precept to abstain from taking life.'
'I take the precept to abstain from theft.'
'I take the precept to abstain from sexual misconduct.'
'I take the precept to abstain from lying.'
'I take the precept to abstain from intoxicants and liquors that cause heedlessness.'
I had little chance to think of the meaning of the phrases I stumbled over. Those, and more, I would be expected to keep as a monk.
"Sadhu, sadhu," the congregation murmured, and bowed down before the monks. I followed suit a moment late.
After a pause Ven. Dharmapal began speaking to the assemblage in a slow, quiet, and halting manner, extemporaneous rather than uneasy. He spoke Bengali, and the only word I recognized was my name; the only clue I had to his topic was the bit of newspaper he unfolded and read to the congregation.
"Robert," he'd said to me yesterday. "You know how to use the typewriter."
"Yes." I'd typed out some notes once and little kids and grown men had come to stare at me open mouthed as I touch-typed on the vihara's broken-down old machine.
"Perhaps you can type some things for me?"
"I'll be glad to. What do you have?"
"We need to send an article to the newspapers about the ordination."
"Do you think that's necessary?"
"But of course! Why shouldn't we inform people about such an event? I want you to write it."
"What should I write?"
"Something about why you're here, and so on. I'll translate it for the Bengali papers."
I was flattered, certainly, to have a story about me in the newspapers; but I couldn't help but feel that in writing it myself I was being immodest enough to not deserve the public recognition the article sought. How delicious it would be if someone else wrote nice things about me; and how tactless to say them myself. And how strange that I should have such a fine sensibility about the delicacies of such a small point of honor when I was perfectly willing, still, to write a crib on the palms of my hands.
"I'll see what I can put together," I had said.
I agreed not only in order to be co-operative but because I was the only one around who could do a decent job of it. And really, too, because it gave me a chance to be published: I was as pleased that the article was by me as that it was about me.
It had appeared in several of the newspapers of that day (the local papers, that is, rather than the national papers like the Statesman), edited and altered to suit Indian journalistic style:
A 27-year-old American, Robert R. Smith, will be ordained as a Buddhist 'samanera' by the Ven. Dharmapal Bhikkhu at Bengal Buddhist Assn. on Sunday evening,18th December, 1966. The ordination is to be conducted in solemn atmosphere before a gathering of local Buddhists.
When asked about his decision Mr. Smith spoke of his dissatisfaction with the acquisitive life he had led in the United States and his seeking of a more satisfactory way. After a year in Europe he found that the values there differed little from those in America. He wandered to Israel, where he lived for a year on a kibbutz (a collective farm based on socialist-Zionist principles), but found that in spite of its ideals of equality and common ownership of property that the kibbutz, too, stressed material gains, which led him only to further dissatisfaction. He left the farm and lived in the Negev desert, near the Red Sea, for six months, during which time he first became interested in Buddhism. By March he knew that he had to travel East. During the five-month journey from Israel to India he found that there was a large number of young wanderers from Europe, England and America who, like himself, were also uncertain and without values and among these people he found companionship and a life of seeking.
In India he continued wandering and learning until, after three months, he decided to seek a Buddhist monastery where he could practice meditation. Unable to find a suitable place he finally came to Calcutta, intending to depart for a Buddhist area, when he found the hospitality of the Bengal Buddhist Assn. After discussion and meditation he realized that the monastic life he sought would be of most use if he accepted it fully, and therefore he requested Ven. Dharmapal Bhikkhu to ordain him as 'samanera.'
When he departs from India he shall seek instruction in a Buddhist country.
When he'd finished speaking Ven. Dharmapal called me forward. As I rose I looked around me at the dark expectant faces and wondered silently: What in the world was I doing here? I had a sudden impulse to walk out right then, before I got involved any deeper. But Ven. Dharmapal told me to squat down in front of the podium and Mr. Barua handed me a bundle containing the requisites, and I was carried along by the movement of the moment. I had no time to decide how I felt about the proceedings and no experience on which to base a set of attitudes, for I'd never been ordained before. For that matter, if I wanted to be technical, I'd never been a Buddhist either, until a few minutes ago, for though I'd long felt an abstract sort of sympathy for the Buddhist spirit of tranquility and non-violence I'd never taken the five precepts of an upasaka until tonight.
"Go ahead, Robert. Begin: Okasa ..."
And, holding the requisites on my lap and rocking slightly to keep my balance, I began to recite the Pali phrases I'd learned. 'Hear me, venerable one: grant me the going forth. With compassion for me, venerable one, take these dyed robes and, for the destruction of all sorrow, for the attainment of Nirvana, let me be ordained.' Three times I asked thus for permission to go forth from the home life to the homeless life of a wanderer. "Home life" was really just a metaphor for "lay life," I knew, but still the phrasing struck me as odd, for now I would cease my aimless wandering across Asia and settle down in a monastery somewhere. And, tired as I was of my vagabondage just then, the prospect pleased me.
My teacher took the robes. Around my neck he draped the belt. Then, with the razor, he made shaving movements over my skull: there was no blade in the holder. Three times I repeated after him the words kesa loma nakha danta taco: 'head hair, body hair, nails, teeth, skin.' This, Ven. Dharmapal had told me, was part of a longer list of the constituents of the body ( ... brain, bile, phlegm, pus, blood, sweat, lymph ...) the contemplation of which was used to induce detachment to the body by realizing its repulsive and impermanent nature.
I was glad I was already shaved and didn't have to have it done now, because my ankles had begun aching from the strain of squatting and the obtaining of ease was of growing concern. It was with relief that I heard Ven. Dharmapal tell me to go to a small anteroom where I could change into the robes.
A young monk named Mahinda came with me to help; left to myself I'd have had no idea how to put on the strange cloth.
"Here, first we put on the under-robe." Mahinda showed me how to fold the rectangle of cloth so it would stay in place. The cloth belt was taken from my neck and used to secure the robe; then I slipped out of my white clothing.
"I'm glad there's a belt, because I don't understand how that robe goes together."
"You will learn. It's not difficult."
But I wondered whether the under-robe wouldn't be a rich source of embarrassment.
My teeth chattered while Mahinda helped me with the second robe, the outer robe. By the time he was finished a simple square of cloth had turned into a wrap-around robe which left my right shoulder and arm exposed but provided a sleeve for my left arm. I had to hold that arm crooked against my side to keep the thing from falling apart. It felt very insecure. So did I.
The third robe, the cloak, was for cold weather and I started to wrap it across my shoulders, but Mahinda restrained me.
"No, for a ceremony you mustn't use that."
"But it's cold."
"Wait until the ordination is over."
Still shivering I was led back to the dimly-lit cavernous hall and clumsily got down again on my haunches, nearly tripping over the robes as I did so. Almost immediately my ankles began to ache again.
Holding my hands together I looked at Ven. Dharmapal and recited the Pali formulary asking for the three refuges (though I'd just taken them preceding the pańca sila) together with the dasa sila, the ten rules I would live by as a samanera, a novice.
"I'm a bhikkhu," Ven. Dharmapal had explained. "See, it's even in my name: Dharmapal Bhikkhu. But when I was first ordained I wasn't a bhikkhu. Then I was a samanera. Do you understand?"
"What's the difference between them?"
"First you're a samanera. Then, when you're experienced in the ways of the monk's life, you can become a bhikkhu."
"So it's like a promotion?"
"Not exactly. It's that a samanera is living under ten rules, but the bhikkhu has 227 of them.
"Then what shows whether someone's a bhikkhu or a samanera?" Does he wear different robes or something?"
"There's no difference in looks or dress. They live the same life of celibacy. Only the bhikkhu has taken a higher ordination and lives a more austere asceticism."
And I'd read the 227 rules, for Ven. Dharmapal lent me his copy, but the additional rules seemed more like elaborations than obstacles.
"What's so difficult about those rules?" I'd asked.
"Nothing, for those who don't want to do otherwise," I was told.
I looked up at Ven. Dharmapal. He cued me: Namo tassa ... And we quickly went through the rest of it: after the salutation to the Buddha the three refuges were repeated and then, with no surreptitious peeks into my palms, the dasa sila were recited. It wasn't difficult because Ven. Dharmapal spoke each of the phrases and I had only to repeat them after him. When I did stumble over the longer phrases he was ready to prompt me. And when I'd finished the tenth precept: 'I take the precept to abstain from accepting money,' I bowed down while he recited some words to the effect that as entry into the homeless life I'd been given the refuges and the precepts and that, having taken them, I should guard them diligently.
"Now, Robert: now you can sit up here with the monks. Now this is your place."
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