I wrapped the package, then sat down, wanting another cigarette already. I read a few pages of the Vinaya, then tired of it. In Calcutta it would be getting near tea time. For the first time in weeks I thought of the lanky Swedish girl I'd been with in Katmandu, our opium pipe had been more exciting than our sex, but a clear image arose of her naked body on the tigerskin rug on which we slept. Aroused by the memory of blond pubic hair, I put on the outer robe and went outside, into brilliant sunlight where a wash of heat wilted my passion.
I couldn't really leave the vihara without good reason, for it had been made clear to me that it was proper conduct, before going out for anything other than pindapata, to announce my departure and purpose to another monk. Nor could I talk with Ven. Khirti, for his door was closed. No one seemed to be about. I was uncertain what to do with myself, for to return to the relative coolness of my room might rekindle a passion I preferred dormant. When I tired of standing on the verandah I meandered finally towards the library to examine once again titles I'd inspected before.
All the books were kept behind locked glass doors, making it necessary, for more serious browsing, to get the key. I didn't feel like seeking out the chief monk and pursuing the sociabilities that were a requisite part of asking for his keys, scores of them, connected to each other by a tangle of chains and loops of twine. The front of the vihara was abandoned to the afternoon sun. I circled the stupa alone for a while, keeping my right shoulder towards it and walking clockwise. Then I poked around the shrine room, and finally drifted back towards the living quarters.
I didn't think much about anything in particular; I tried to be merely an observer. I felt neither content nor discontent, only a vague sort of psychic twitch or buzz in some remote and otherwise void corner of my mind, fretting over this lack of interest, of variety, of stimulation. I felt a trifle bored: I didn't quite know what to do next, and looked for some event that would hold my attention, when I noticed an unfamiliar monk walking down the corridor.
I watched him. He hadn't seen me. He stopped at each door and peered oddly at it, craning his neck and twisting his squat body as if he hoped by so doing to be able to see through, or around, the closed door. Then, after a pause, he moved on to the next door, almost as if he were prowling.
I didn't know what he was looking for, but I was looking for something to do. Maybe we were looking for each other?
He had a slightly disreputable look about him. His every gesture betrayed his awareness that he was out of place in this temple, and I thought to receive him with friendliness, a fellow traveler on the path to enlightenment or the grave, and a potential source of diversion as well, but he saw me.
He had turned to look one last time at a particularly opaque door when he saw me watching him, and at once his demeanor changed. Without smiling his eyes lit up; he came towards me, robe dragging a bit in the back, with hands in namaste, like a newly-ordained samanera anxious to bow, although he was middle-aged.
Samaneras don't bow to each other, so I put my hand out to stop him, but instead of bowing he bobbed his head repeatedly while he slowly walked around me, inspecting me curiously from all sides, muttering in Sinhalese. My friendliness dissipated as I watched cautiously, trying to figure him out.
"Sinhala ba," I told him. No speakee Sinhalee.
"Sinhala ba?"
"Ba."
He considered the problem for a moment, then took hold of a fold of my robe, and kneaded it in his fist.
"Civara, civara." That, I remembered, meant robe.
"Civara. Yes. Robe. Englaisi: robe. What about it?"
"Civara, civara." And with Tarzan/Jane gesturing he made it clear that he wanted me to give him a robe.
At first I doubted my understanding of him. I found it difficult to believe that a monk would find it necessary to get robes by begging for them in other viharas. Why, just yesterday the dana dayakas had presented each monk here with a new under-robe, and windfalls of robes, towels, and such-like items seemed to come along with some frequency. Did this fellow actually have trouble, then, in getting robes?
"Civara? Give you civara?"
"Give. Yes, yes. Give civara."
His temple was, perhaps, poorly supported or (unlike this one) supported by the poor. Anyway, I didn't really need that new under-robe and decided to give it to him.
I led the strange monk to my room. A faint odor of bananas pervaded the room, making me reluctant to invite him in lest he smell it. But he came in uninvited and immediately busied himself examining everything he saw, oblivious to anything so intangible as an odor. The fruity aroma reminded me that the under-robe was in the same drawer as the bananas, and I wondered how I could get the robe out without exposing the food.
I'd never before seen anyone quite so enthralled by things. There was something distasteful, gauche, even obscene, about the way he pounced on each object within his reach, fondling it, evaluating it, absorbed in it as ink is absorbed by a blotter, and I began to wonder just what kind of monk this person was, as well as what kind of person this monk was.
He seemed to have forgotten me entirely, and I began to feel put out. Then I realized that while he was examining other things it would be easy to slip the under-robe out of the drawer. While he examined the handsome green-and-gold satin Thai shoulder bag I'd been given in Calcutta I took out the under-robe and handed it to him. He took it distractedly and with neither thanks nor gladness stuffed it into his own shoulder bag, a ratty old thing.
Holding the satin shoulder bag he peered up at me expectant and hopeful.
Why not? I thought. Less is best. Here's a chance to rid myself of one more of the world's burdens, and at the same time to do something meritorious.
It gratified me to put myself in such a favorable light, the bright young novice, unattached to the world's fetters, generously helping one who, though senior, doesn't yet understand the attraction, the repulsion, the danger, or the escape from attachment to material things. And, as graciously as I could manage, I made it clear to him that the shoulder bag, too, was his to keep. Satisfied with his bounty he left, and I closed the door behind him. Being alone again was a relief after having had to tolerate the sadness that lurked behind the hunger of that monk's aggressiveness. Compared to him I was well along the path to nibbana.
I took off my outer robe, sat down on the bed, and thought about nibbana. The arahat, having already abandoned all passion, seemed as remote as he was perfect. It was the sekha, not yet uninvolved with the world of want, who was the more appealing figure. By picturing the attainment of the sekha I could indulge my fantasies of attaining to wisdom (trying hard to ignore the precipice that separated the fantasy itself from the clarity which was being fantasized) while at the same time sublimating that putative wisdom into a reverie of sexual encounter.
Outside, I'd been embarrassed and panicked when I'd been nearly unable to withdraw my gaze from a pair of lovely breasts. Alone now, I had time for a leisurely, if imaginary, inspection. Through the magic of tumescence the walls of the room were transmuted into the foliage of a jungle and I was transmuted into a sekha. Seated beneath a tree earnestly engaged in meditation a great peacefulness filled my being, and a pervasive sense of sanctity. And it was with no loss at all to that sense of sanctity that, as excitement rose within me, my fantasy leaped a chasm towards the culmination of a courtship. The object of my desires, a raven-haired Hindu beauty with perfect breasts who didn't know any better, was also the symbol of my selflessness. For whose sake, if not for hers, did I renounce my vows? She lingered with me beneath the tree.
"My, what a nice full lotus you have."
"The better to ravish you with, my dear."
Clothing melted from our bodies. We merged with the rhythm of the universe, and in orgasm I gave freely of myself without thoughts of ego-desire but (could I help it?) with a generous measure of libido-gratification.
Afterwards I reminded myself that although the Vinaya treated very harshly of sexual matters (the very act of sexual intercourse, for example, meant defeat for a bhikkhu: he couldn't in this lifetime be readmitted to the bhikkhu Sangha) I, I reminded myself, was only a samanera, and the extent to which the Vinaya actually applied to samaneras was, for me, a matter still in doubt.
Intercourse, certainly, was beyond the pale even for a novice, but masturbation, now; that was less certainly a fault. Or, since I wasn't really able to argue that it wasn't a fault, at least if it was a fault it wasn't that bad a fault. Or, if it was a serious fault it was so for the bhikkhu, not for someone who was only a samanera, like me. And I tried to ignore the little voice within me that shrilly insisted that my arguments were fruitless and that if I was going to allow myself the release of sexual fantasies I'd have to pay for them with a commensurate amount of guilt, just like everybody else. No freebies for monks.
Afterwards I felt that same aimlessness that had confronted me in the library settle again, like a robe, over my being, and I cast about for diversion.
I didn't feel like reading. I had no correspondence to catch up on. Memorize Pali? That was even less appealing. What else was there? Meditation? I really ought to: that was why I'd come to Ceylon. Okay; but first I'd eat those bananas, because their odor was tickling my nostrils.
Making sure the door was locked I dug the bananas from the drawer and set to work on them. And when I'd finished I reached my hand out between the bars which were set in the window and threw the peels as far to one side as I could. They landed out of sight some distance down the alleyway that ran behind the building. Then, not really dissatisfied, not really satisfied, I wondered what it was that I'd intended to do next. Oh, yes: a cigarette. I got out matches, tobacco, ash tray, and was about to light up, when a loud rapping on the front door interrupted me. Through the frosted glass in the door I could discern a bulky figure.
"Vinayadhara! Oh, Vinayadhara! Are you there? I want to see you in my room, Vinayadhara!" And the figure disappeared.
Shit. He couldn't know about my masturbating, could he? Had he smelled the bananas, then? Even worse, had he seen me throw the peels out the window? I was sure he was going to question me about eating after hours. Why had I done it? Now I was in trouble. What defense could I muster? How much did he know? What if he were to write the Hermitage and advise them not to accept me? Where could I go then? What could I do? Maybe I should confess and ask for forgiveness. But he'd never forgive me; he hated me. He didn't trust me. Why else would he go around spying on me?
I put on the outer robe, unlocked the door, and went down the hall to the Ven. One's room. He was reading some sheets of paper while lying on a couch styled after those found in psychoanalyst's offices.
"Vinayadhara?"
"Yes, bhante?"
"I'm glad you're staying at the vihara just now, Vinayadhara, because you have good literary sense."
"I used to want to be a writer."
"The printer has just sent me some proofs, Vinayadhara, the printer, because they're going to publish another of my articles. So much to do. So much to do."
"Sometimes now I don't even want to be a reader."
"You know how busy I am, Vinayadhara, all the time with my dhammadhuta" -- he referred to his missionary activities -- "so I'm asking you, Vinayadhara, would you mind, please, to help in reading these proofs for printers' errors?"
So it wasn't over my misdeeds at all! My heart lightened and I felt glad that the feared reprimand was not to be.
"I'll be glad to help, bhante."
"You know what proofs are, don't you, Vinayadhara?"
"Sure. But I've never proofread printers' proofs."
"You know the proofreader's marks though, don't you?"
"Most of them."
"The printers aren't always so familiar with English as we are, you and I, and sometimes they make mistakes."
"I've noticed that in many of the pamphlets I've read."
And I took the papers from him and turned to leave.
"Just a while ago, Vinayadhara, did you see a strange bhikkhu here? Now strange means, a bhikkhu who doesn't live at this temple?"
"I saw a strange monk; but I thought he was a samanera."
"No, he was a bhikkhu." Something about his manner made me sense trouble.
"I saw him. But I didn't know he was a bhikkhu, so I didn't bow to him as I should have."
"You should always ask a strange monk if he is a bhikkhu. How else can you know whether to bow? But I don't ask because of that."
"Then why do you ask me?"
"I ask because I also saw him, Vinayadhara. Just as he was leaving, you know. And he had a shoulder bag just like the one you use, so I wondered where he got it."
His bland tone tried to mask an underlying tenseness, and I warned myself to be wary; but instead of replying noncommittally I heard myself say, "Yes, that was my bag."
"He stole it from you?"
"No, I gave it to him, and an under-robe as well."
I could see nothing wrong in that; but my inquisitor could. He sat up on his couch.
"You know, Vinayadhara, sometimes it's very difficult to advise you about what's proper behavior because you're sensitive and take offense easily. But I hope you won't take it wrong and become angry with me when I tell you that it's not right to have given away those things like you've done."
"You mean generosity isn't a good thing?"
"That's not what I said."
"You said giving things wasn't right."
"I never said anything about generosity. I said it was wrong to give those things to that monk because ..."
"... but bhante!" I was agitated. "That's what generosity is. It's giving things to other people!"
"Now you're not listening to me, Vinayadhara. You're not hearing what I'm saying to you."
"I heard you say it was wrong to give things."
"You interrupt me before I finish what I have to say. It's not proper for you to do that; it's not good behavior. It's not the way a monk should act!"
I stood in silence, waiting sullenly for him to finish whatever it was he'd started to say.
"You shouldn't give things to that monk, Vinayadhara, because we know him. He's been here before, always asking for things, always taking everything he can get his hands on, and do you know what he'll do with those things you've given him, Vinayadhara? Do you know what use he'll put them to?"
"I suppose he'll wear the robe and carry things in the shoulder bag."
"He'll take them back to the store where they were bought and sell them back to get money."
"Really?"
"Our dayakas spend much money to buy those robes in the first place, and now they'll spend still more money just to buy back the same robes again, and that's just because of what that monk does, because of his greed, Vinayadhara, that's all it is, greed, and you're helping him, and that's why I warn you about him, Vinayadhara, not because I'm against generosity, but because that monk isn't a proper field of merit, there's little merit in helping such a person, Vinayadhara. It's not good, it does much harm, to help someone like that."
I found nothing to reply to, and if he'd left it at that I would have kept within me the tumultuous mixture of emotions I was feeling: anger, humiliation, self-righteous indignation, a bit of sadness and frustration at my inability to prevent my meetings with this monk from degenerating into quarrels, and a measure of shock at learning the true purposes of that strange monk. If I'd known his intentions I would never have given him the robe and bag. But the Ven. One spoke again and I reacted with anger.
"Anyway, Vinayadhara," he said, "it's your duty, you know, your duty to help the monks of this temple before you give things to strangers."
And, "I'm sorry, bhante," I replied coldly. "The next time I get a robe or a shoulder bag I'll make sure that you get it."
I turned quickly and walked out, seething, before he could reply. Quickly I marched down the hallway back to my room and locked the door behind me. My duty! Who was he to tell me what my duty was?
First he calls that other monk greedy, then he puts in his own claims. And how can he have the nerve to ask me to proofread his lousy homiletic sermonette just before he attacks me? And generosity: what a thing to criticize me for! What a crime! The sooner I get out of this place and away from that kind of treatment the happier I'll be. That rotund effeminate conceited meddlesome gnome-like ass: who did he remind me of? Somebody very specific ...
Was it somebody I'd just met? An old friend? It was someone I'd been thinking of recently. Then I remembered: the anger-eating demon!
And gradually I recalled the story of how the demon had grown in stature at each display of anger, and suddenly I became aware of how with the increase of my own anger the Ven. monk came more and more to dominate my own mind. I was all puffed up, bloated with anger. And then I recalled how the demon, when confronted with amity, had vanished away.
With an effort of will I forced myself to calm down. I relaxed my neck and jaw muscles; I stopped chewing on my tongue; I eased the tension across my shoulders. As the tiny muscles around my eyes relaxed I realized how tense I'd been. I sat down on the bed and leaned back against the wall. Then the distention released itself, like pent-up flatulence, and I relaxed.
What was it I'd meant to do? I thought for a minute and then remembered: I'd intended to meditate. Right. I folded my legs and closed my eyes. I turned my attention away from the Ven. One and for the first time today concentrated on my chosen meditation object, the in- and out-breaths. I exhaled, and felt air rush past the nose-tip, a cool refreshing breeze.
Next >>>
Back to Contents | Back to Previous Page | Go to Chapter Four
Home Page | Site Contents | Introduction to Buddhism Page