| 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: a fly 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)
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