My place was the last seat in the back row (for there were two rows) of monks. That place had been established 2500 years ago. I sat cross-legged, like the other monks, and covered my shoulders with the cloak. The monks began chanting. A few of the phrases sounded familiar and I thought I recognized the chanting as some Pali verses in which the Buddha is asked to tell what is the highest blessing and he enumerates some of the blessings one could have. I remembered a few of them: not to associate with fools, to reside in a suitable place, to support one's parents, to be generous, grateful, patient, to realize Nirvana.
I remembered those, but I certainly didn't remember any of the Pali. When he'd given me the list of things I'd have to memorize for the ordination Ven. Dharmapal had told me I should memorize those verses along with the other material. But it was about thirty lines long, and there was much else to be done, so I'd ignored it. Now I realized I'd made the wrong crib: I'd never even needed the one I'd made, for there had been Ven. Dharmapal to prompt me. What I should have done was to have written down these verses instead. Now I felt mortified that I had to sit there mumbling sounds to myself, trying to look like I was chanting.
Or did I? The question arose unexpectedly. I couldn't be fooling anyone else; why should I try to fool myself? To prove that I really belonged here? That I was no longer a homeless traveler? That I now had a purpose in life, a role to play? To participate? Tomorrow, I resolved, I'd start memorizing it; but for now there was no need to pretend. I sat silently and relaxed, and a smile came to my lips and stayed there.
After many more verses had been chanted my teacher said a few more words to the congregation, after which I was called forward to the front of the dais.
"Sit down here," I was told. Mr. Barua presented me with a large black almsbowl with a rust-colored stain. I hefted it and guessed it to be iron, large enough to hold perhaps a gallon.
"Do you have a handkerchief with you?" Ven. Dharmapal asked. "No? Well, then use your cloth for straining water. Put the cloth on the carpet, that's right, then put the almsbowl on top of the cloth."
"Whatever for?"
"These people want to make contributions. Don't touch the almsbowl. Just sit there."
I did so.
The devotees pressed towards me. Toothless old people took coins from knotted handkerchiefs, dropped them into the bowl, and with much bowing rasped, "Sadhu, sadhu." More modern adults made contributions less vociferously. Wide-eyed children eased up to the bowl, carefully dropped in their coins, and shyly retreated.
"Keep your eyes down," one of the monks whispered to me.
"Don't look around at all the people," whispered another.
"Just look at the bowl," said a third.
"Why?" I whispered back.
"That's the right way for monks," they all whispered.
It was something to do. To that measure I could be a participant and not just a spectator. But with eyes lowered to the stained bowl there was nothing to distract my attention from the money clinking against the sides of the almsbowl. I had time to reflect about what I was doing, and one thought stuck in my mind: hadn't I just taken a vow against accepting money?
It just didn't seem right, that out of respect for me for having taken this precept these people should now be rewarding me with money. It seemed more unfair than the dayaka system. It was Catch-22 in reverse. And where did it leave my vow of celibacy?
Already today I'd put my money and travelers' checks into an envelope and given it to Ven. Dharmapal to keep for me.
"You travel to India with so little money?"
"I used to have more."
"That's all you have now?"
"It's more than I'll have when I'm a monk."
"That's true. When you're a monk I'd like you not to use money. I have to use money to run the vihara, to help the refugees. But it makes me many problems. Sometimes I want to throw it all aside and go away."
"Do it, then. You can be my teacher in a hermitage."
"How can I? This is my life."
"I understand. That's your path." But I didn't think I'd find much satisfaction on that path, and was glad to be directed away from it.
"There's no reason you should be burdened. I think your path of renunciation begins with not using money."
As I watched money fall into the bowl I saw there was no way I could now question what was happening. I'd been given my role and I had to play it out.
"Sadhu, sadhu," the upasakas mumbled in praise of me.
When they'd all had their chance to contribute they prepared to leave. My guides came over to escort me back to my room. I got up and bent over to pick up the almsbowl.
"Leave that there reverend. The upasakas will take care of that. After all, monks aren't supposed to handle money."
I left the almsbowl where it was. Staring straight ahead, with attendants at my sides, I left the meeting hall.
* * * * *
The brass Buddha glowed in the lustrous light of three candles. The shrine, a little room just off the meeting hall, was faced in highly polished marble. The Buddha sat on a huge marble table which also bore brass vases of plastic flowers and brass offering bowls containing various foods. The brass candle holders were all empty except the three in which I'd placed candles. I'd lit incense as well; the smoke was quickly dissipated in the slight breeze that blew through the room.
I'd never made offerings before. I was still a bit surprised that I was doing so now. Until tonight I'd regarded the making of offerings to be a product of the ignorant mind, a mind still devoted to idol-worship. Tonight I accepted the idea as a valid way to express my feelings towards the world. I was happy with my new identity and a vast tolerance suffused my being.
I thought about the foolish things I'd done in my lifetime and smiled indulgently at the image of my former selves. I resolved that that was all behind me now. I wasn't going to pass up this opportunity to give up folly. This would be the end of it now.
I was glad to be able to give to a private display of my feelings not only my material wealth (now candles and incense represented a substantial part of what was left to me) but also of my time. I was glad to have the leisure to luxuriate in my feelings, as I might in a hot tub after the busyness of the ordination. Therefore it was with no sense of rush at all that, when the candles burned down and the flames drowned in their own fuel; when the incense had been consumed and no more smoke was carried off in the breeze; and when the chill in the air raised goose bumps on my arms; after having contemplated the extraordinary changes of the day, and having given in my mind what thanks I could to whatever quarters I could; and after having resolved again that I would hold onto this wonderful discovery of renunciation, that I took one final bow before the Buddha statue, got up, and prepared to leave. I didn't yet know the protocol of taking one's leave of Buddhas, so I nodded my head, smiled gently, murmured "Good night," and went to bed.
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