Maybe no one was there. It sure was quiet.
The vihara nestled between two spurs, still shadowed by the hill. A smell of dampness suggested a nearby spring. A shrine room stood to one side. The door to the residency was open and I stopped in to look around. Leading off a short hallway were half a dozen doors. A further step in showed me that the first door, ajar, opened on to a kitchen. I stuck my head in: nobody was there. A few more steps convinced me that all the other doors were closed, giving no clue as to what was behind them. I knocked on several doors, cleared my throat as loudly as I could, and coughed a bit, but no one appeared.
What if no one was here? The place was unlocked, I reasoned, so someone must be around; but it could be only a temple boy or a samanera. The proper way to disrobe, the way prescribed by the Vinaya, was to do so openly by making a declaration to another bhikkhu. There might not even be any bhikkhus here these days: there'd been no one the other time I'd come out here. It would be embarrassing, comic, and absurd to have to return to town still a monk, unable to disrobe because there were no other bhikkhus around.
I was trying one of the door handles when I sensed someone behind me. Turning, I saw a monk standing in the doorway partially blocking the light. I was about to explain why I was trying the handle of a door that wasn't mine when he spoke to me in a strange language, and another thought struck me. What if no one here spoke English? Even if I did find another bhikkhu it would do me no good at all if we couldn't communicate. How could I announce my intentions?
"I beg your pardon. I was looking for the chief monk," I said hopefully.
And, "Oh, you're English," he replied, so at least language wasn't going to be a problem.
"Actually, I'm American. Would you be the chief bhikkhu of this temple, bhante?"
"I'm the only bhikkhu of this temple, so I guess that makes me the chief bhikkhu, yes. There used to be another bhikkhu, that would be Reverend Amrita, but he's dead. Now there's just me. I'm Ananda. Ananda Thera." He stepped closer, peering into the dark of the hallway. "My eyes are getting weak lately. In this light at first I couldn't see, but, yes, I can see now; you're American. The English always have such bad complexions."
As he stepped closer and turned towards me I could see that he was getting old. I bowed before him.
There was the usual interrogation: who was I? how many rainy seasons had I been a bhikkhu? who was my teacher? where was he and what was the lineage of my ordination? Name, rank, and serial number.
When I declined his offer of a cup of tea Ven. Ananda showed me into the room whose door I'd been testing, and we sat down in what seemed to be his office.
"So, what can I do for you, Ñanasuci?"
I hadn't planned my words and suddenly realized that I saw no graceful way to lead into my subject. I chose to broach it bluntly: "I've come because I want to disrobe."
Ven. Ananda looked surprised only briefly. "Oh, really? Are you sure I can't interest you in a cup of tea? We have some very good Assamese this year. Just down."
"Well ..."
"I'd like some myself, actually. Why don't we go into the kitchen? We can talk there, too. And you can always change your mind about the tea."
"If you're going to have some yourself," I assented as we went next door.
Ven. Ananda fiddled with the primus stove, his back to me. "So you want to disrobe, do you?"
"That's right." I felt uncomfortable. I hoped he wasn't going to give me a hard time.
"And how could I be of service to you in that desire?"
"Bhante, you know that for a monk to disrobe properly it should be done openly, without hiding. So ..." My voice trailed off and I looked at Ven. Ananda hopefully.
"So you want me to be a witness?"
"More than a witness, actually. I remember reading the procedure in the Vinaya, but that was a long time ago and I'm not really sure of the details any more. But the Vinaya gives a formulary that's to be used."
He was having trouble with the stove. "Here, my eyes are getting weak, Ñanasuci. See if you can clean out the gas jet here. It's such a tiny opening. They've got this special little tool for it, you see?"
"Let me try that." I took the pricker and cleared the fuel passage for him while he puttered about organizing things.
"It's getting harder and harder to make the body do what I want it to," he said, but it sounded more like conversation than complaint.
"Maybe it's the dampness around here."
"Yes, it is damp. That's from the spring nearby. Lovely little place; I'll show it to you if you haven't seen it yet. But there's nothing I can do about the damp. That's the way of things, eh? Have to accept it. Sabbe sankhara anicca; sabbe sankhara dukkha, eh?"
"That's the difference between East and West, isn't it?"
"What's that you mean?"
"That the Western way is that when we're dissatisfied with something, with the way it is, we try to change it. The Eastern way is that we try to deal with the dissatisfaction."
"So which way is your disrobing, then, the Western way or the Eastern way?"
I thought for a bit, then shrugged. "I'm not really sure. I guess it's just my own way."
Ven. Ananda concentrated on measuring the tea leaves into a caddy and arranging things carefully. "It sounds like you've thought this out quite carefully."
"I'm pretty sure it's what I want to do, if that's what you mean."
"Only pretty sure? Do you still have doubts?"
"Oh, yes. I have lots of doubts. If I didn't have any doubts about doing this there'd be no point in doing it."
"How's that?"
"The only decisions I don't question are ones that are too insignificant to matter. So I guess doubts are a measure of how important the decision is to me. But I'm not going to let myself be immobilized by doubts, either."
Ven. Ananda nodded noncommittally at my pretty speech and inquired, "Lemon? Sugar?"
"Please."
We sat in silence for a bit, waiting for the water to boil.
"Bhante," I finally said. "I wonder if you have a copy of the Vinaya so we could look up the exact wording of the disrobing formulary. I haven't been able to locate a copy, and I'd like to do it properly."
"Of course we have a collection of all the texts here. What vihara would be complete without them? If you don't have the Dhamma books and the Buddharupa how can you have a vihara? Have you seen our Buddharupas?"
"No, I haven't."
"Before you go I'll show them to you. We have a collection of Buddharupas from every Buddhist country. You know, pilgrims come here from as far away as Japan even, and each one, he wants to worship his own Buddharupa."
Each Buddhist country had its own variant belief on the precisely proper proportions and characteristics of Buddharupas. Distinctions were made in details as minor as the shape of an eyebrow, the position of the hands, and the length of the earlobes.
"What happens if you have just one Buddharupa for them to worship? Will they refuse to worship a Buddharupa if it has the design of another country?"
"They won't like it, I'll tell you that. We have over a dozen different Buddharupas here because sometimes people from the embassies come here, you know? From the embassies of Buddhist countries, and when they want to worship they must do it to the Buddha they know, not to some strange Buddha they've never seen before, from another country."
I remembered what Ganesh had said earlier about "us" and "them" labels.
"Would it be okay, bhante, if we looked up in the Vinaya and found out the exact procedure for disrobing? Unless you already know what it is, of course."
"No, I don't know. No one else has ever come to me wanting to disrobe."
"Then, I'm sure the formulary is given somewhere in the Vinaya, and I'd like to say it in Pali, just to be sure it's done properly."
Ven. Ananda pursed his lips and considered. "I suppose we could, if I can remember where I put the key to the bookcase. I'll have to think about that for a bit. Let's see." He thought for a while, shaking his head. "Anyway, you said before that the important thing was to do it openly, without hiding anything, didn't you? So we don't really need the books."
"I just want to make sure it's done properly, so later there won't be any doubts or questions."
"If the exact wording is so important to you, I'll see if I can't find the key somewhere. It might be in a drawer. The length of the earlobe can be important when someone wants to worship his own Buddharupa."
"That's not the same thing, is it?" I asked, then stopped, surprised at myself. "Or, maybe it is the same thing." I considered for another moment. "Yes. Of course it is. You're right. I didn't even realize I was doing that. I don't mean there's anything wrong with rites and rituals. It's just adherence to them that makes problems. I don't want to make problems. I'm not sure why, but your pointing that out to me, it confirms my decision to disrobe. It makes me more convinced it's the right thing for me to do."
The kettle boiled and Ven. Ananda poured water into the teapot.
"Fine. And as we go along, if we find any problem, we can always look in the Vinaya for guidance. But it seems simple enough, and straightforward. There shouldn't be any problems. You've informed your teacher, I assume?"
"Yes. I've got the letter here. I'll mail it when I go back to town. Of course, I still have to write to my first teacher, in Calcutta. But I'll do that no later than tomorrow."
Ven. Ananda looked up from the teapot. "I didn't know you had a teacher in Calcutta. Didn't you say your ordination was from Ceylon?"
"My upasampada is from Ceylon, bhante. But I took the samanera's ordination in Calcutta."
"And who was your teacher, then, in Calcutta?"
"Ven. Dharmapal Bhikkhu. He was my first teacher. He's at the Bengal Buddhist Association."
Ven. Ananda leaned forward in his chair and looked at me curiously. "Ven. Dharmapal was your teacher?" He seemed surprised. "Then, it's possible that you might know an American samanera by the name of ... let me think, I'll remember it in a moment ... named Vinayadhara. Yes, that's it: Vinayadhara."
I laughed. "Yes, I know him. I am him, or was, before I took upasampada. My name was changed when I became a bhikkhu. But bhante, how do you know about this?"
"Why shouldn't I know about it? After all, I'm a Bengali. I live in Nepal. I've maintained this vihara for fifteen years. But I'm Bengali."
"You're not Nepalese?"
"There are people who want a Theravada Sangha in Nepal. Rev. Amrita brought me here many years ago from Bengal. Now I hardly ever leave, but still, sometimes I hear news. Vinayadhara, eh?" And he peered at me more closely, puzzling out my features with his fading eyesight.
"How did you hear about me, then?"
"From your first teacher, of course. I know him well. We're both bhikkhus, no? We're both Bengalis, no? Why shouldn't we know each other?"
He got up from his chair. "Here, Vinayadhara -- I mean, Ñanasuci. The tea is ready. Pour some for yourself and pour some for me, too. I'll be back in a moment." And he left the room.
I poured the tea and started to sip mine, but it was still too hot, and I sat back and looked around me.
Ven. Dharmapal may have sent him a copy of that newspaper article: it had been reprinted in several Buddhist magazines. I remembered seeing my story in print. They wouldn't be likely to now print an article beginning, "A 32-year-old American, Ñanasuci Bhikkhu, disrobed today in a solemn ceremony before a gathering of local Buddhists ..." Or perhaps they would place it among the obituaries.
Ven. Ananda returned shortly carrying a cigar box which, I saw, was filled with papers. He sat down and began shuffling through them.
"Ah, yes. I'm quite sure it's in here, somewhere. Yes! Here it is!" And he took out an envelope that bore signs of aging, took three photographs from the envelope, and handed them to me.
Like the envelope, the photographs showed signs of aging. The cheap printing paper was already yellowed and curled around the edges. Whites had darkened and blacks faded into differing shades of gray. The images seemed washed out and distant. Nevertheless, there was no trouble discerning the figures in the photographs.
The first one showed a Bengali gentleman wearing loose-cut white muslin trousers and blouse, and a long scarf around his neck. He stood snapshot-stiff beside a bearded young man who looked most unhappy. A waterspot distorted part of the young man's face, so that it was impossible to tell the cause of his unhappiness.
In the second photograph the same Bengali gentleman stood beside a young man with white clothing and shaven head. He may have been the same young man as in the first photo. If so, the young man had lost some of his unhappiness. But the bewildered look on his face was indication of the uncertainty he must have felt about both the world and himself.
The third photograph, taken by flash at night, showed the same shorn youth wearing, now, the robes of a monk. In the brightness of the flash his features looked flattened out and his eyes had an unnatural reflectiveness to them, so that they shone, and it wasn't possible to fix an attitude.
"Mr. Barua, you know him, don't you?"
"Yes, bhante, he was my dayaka." Mr. Barua hadn't changed when I'd seen him on the trip up here. He'd still had a shy smile and somber eyes. Ven. Dharmapal hadn't changed either. I wondered whether my features reflected the changes I'd been through in my time as a monk. But no photos would be taken of this event that I might look at years from now, showing me first in robes and then in the lay clothes I'd brought with me. I wouldn't be able to look back, years from now, to examine whether this death and this rebirth were visible in any ways other than my clothing.
I finished the tea and declined a second cup.
"Well then, are you quite certain in your mind that you want to do this?"
"Yes, bhante."
"That's perfectly all right, then. As long as you're sure. There's no obligation for anyone to be a monk longer than he wants. Do you have something to change into?"
"Yes, bhante." I dug out the clothing from my bag.
"You don't have underwear?"
"No, bhante."
"Come here." He led me into another room, where he dug into a box of cloth and extracted an undershirt. "A dayaka left it here long ago." He handed it to me. "I'll never use it, so you might as well take it."
"Thank you, bhante."
"You can change behind that curtain there." He indicated a place.
"Shouldn't we say something first?"
"What should we say? You want a ceremony?"
"Like an ordination? I guess not. But I'll just say now that I formally announce to you my intention to disrobe."
"Fine. You can change over there." And I went behind the curtain to change.
I didn't need anyone to help me on with the trousers and shirt. They felt strange and constricting after the looseness of robes, but they also felt oddly familiar and not unpleasant. It seemed too simple. Everything proceeded too easily, as if I'd forgotten some vital and intricate step; but I couldn't think what it might be. I folded the robes as I'd been shown so long ago and returned to Ven. Ananda.
"You should have these robes, bhante. They still have some life in them." I felt an inane smile brush my face from the gladness of giving, and wondered if it was harbinger of a manic.
Ven. Ananda looked at the robes doubtfully, but accepted them without comment. I presented him with the tools of the bhikkhu's life: the outer cloak, the bowl, the razor, the sitting cloth, the white umbrella, the angsa, and a few odds and ends. I was sorrier to give up the almsbowl than the robes. I could think of nothing else to do.
"Perhaps you'd like to take the pañca sila?"
That was what I hadn't thought of. "I'm glad you reminded me, bhante. Now I have to start learning how to be a layman."
And I got down on my knees, bowed, and intoned the ritual request for the granting of the five precepts of the lay follower. I was no longer a bhikkhu, nor even a samanera. I was just an upasaka, or not even that.
When the ceremony was concluded I got up and prepared to leave. I declined Ven. Ananda's offer of another cup of tea, and he walked me to the door of the residency.
"Now, Robert -- Robert, yes? That's complicated, to learn one person by three different names in such a short time -- now, Robert, you'll find out how well you've prepared yourself for the lay life. Don't expect it to be any easier than the monk's life; but also remember that it's not what you wear that makes you a monk; it's what you do, and what you don't do. And how you do it. Awareness is always possible. The acts of coming and going are nowhere but where you are."
"Thank you, bhante, for making disrobing as simple and easy as possible. It could have been much more difficult, and I'm grateful to you for that."
There was nothing more to be said. From the doorway I could see that the sun had moved well into the Western quarter, and the porch and shrine were already out of shadow. I bowed to Ven. Ananda, took my leave of him, and walked out into the bright afternoon sunshine.
Colorado -- Guatemala -- California (-- Thailand/Sri Lanka)
1975--1978 (--1979 and later)
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