Getting Off: A Portrait -- Chapter Seven, Part 3

It was a lonely place I'd got to. Against the twiggy dullness of the tea bushes was nothing more interesting than a few outcroppings of rock and, farther off, a few rows of trees planted as windbreaks. I sized them up professionally. The outcroppings were unsheltered. The ground was likely still damp from the morning's shower, and thus no protection against the growing threat of rain. For that, all I had was the new umbrella that I carried slung across my back by a strap, rifle-style. The outcroppings wouldn't be a good reststop. The trees might be suitable nighttime shelter, if there were a leafy groundcover: I couldn't tell from here. It was a bit far off, too far for a short daytime break.

From the top of the hill there was no village in sight, only hill after hill of tea. From the distance they seemed velvet-textured, but up close they just looked like tea bushes. The higher hills, in the distance, were jungle-shrouded. But there wasn't a village in sight, not even a house, and I knew I was going to go hungry today.

I didn't know in which direction might lie the estate lines, from whose shanties the dark-skinned Tamil children would stolidly stare at me, each naked save for the black string worn around his protruding belly. The women would all be in the fields, plucking leaves. The men would be out doing their work. Just the children and the old people would be here, and perhaps some almsfood as well.

A thin cloud layer covered the sky. Behind it, from time to time, I could make out the round disc of the sun, which was high. I knew I wouldn't come to any estate lines until well into the afternoon, far past the time allotted for gathering food. I'd managed to wander through Upcountry the entire morning without gathering more than one small banana and a piece of cold toast, and now there wasn't even a dry place nearby where I might sit down to eat them, and I wasn't happy about it. When the wind blew it was cold and damp. I wore my angsa.

I slipped my hand into the bowl, broke off a crust of toast, and munched it as I walked down the estate road. A few puddles remained from the morning's rain. That water was frigid.

A few miles back I'd passed some tea pluckers. In their cotton saris and white headscarves the women ranged through the fields dropping young leaves into large wicker baskets strapped to their backs. As I'd walked past them I'd hesitated, then stopped and waited for a minute, almsbowl in hand. These people weren't Buddhists, and I wasn't sure if they would even understand that I was accepting offerings of prepared food.

I'd had a vague acquaintance with a Hindu swami back in Kandy and knew how different his food collection methods were. Once a week or so he went through the villages ringing a bell and pulling a small four-wheeled wagon, collecting money as well as uncooked rice. So I didn't know if these Tamil women would understand my customs. Nor could they easily spare any food, for their wages were insufficient for even bare survival and their bellies were dependent upon the government's weekly rations of rice.

Nevertheless one woman shyly approached me with a small banana, which she dropped unceremoniously into the empty bowl. She hesitated a moment, uncertain perhaps whether anything else was to be done by either of us.

Without bowing she hastened back to her tea field. None of the other women remarked on her deed nor followed her example, but the field supervisor -- probably a Buddhist, since he was a manager -- offered me toast from his food bag which I now ate as I walked down the empty road.

Cold toast was small cheer, and I grumbled inwardly at my lot. Oh, I knew, I knew: Not for the sake of one's belly does the monk go forth, and: content with any scrap gleaned from the refuse-heap, a monk unwaveringly devotes himself to etc., etc. Nor was it that I was actually hungry, although I actually was. It was more simply that my expectations hadn't been met.

I expected a daily meal. That wasn't asking too much. I was more than willing to collect it. I wasn't asking for any service. I would be content with whatever could be spared. I only wanted one a day. It wasn't like expecting three squares. I was right to be dissatisfied, for the world had let me down. It was small compensation that now I walked along nibbling at the toast instead of sitting down to eat it, as prescribed. I shall eat the almsfood carefully ...: training rule 31.

How could anybody expect me to keep the training rules in these circumstances? If the universe couldn't get its trip together enough to keep me from going hungry then these training rules were too petty for me to bother with. I tried to ignore my awareness of the absurdity of this logic but failed, and with each drop of sweet reflection that seeped into the vinegary petulance of my mind my rebellious mood became less tenable. The less tenable it became the more dissatisfied I felt, for I couldn't even be petulant in peace. There was no end to oppression.

And when the toast was finished and I'd withdrawn the banana from the bowl and begun to peel it I grimaced, made myself stop, and sat down on a rock beside the road. Without further ado I popped the thing down in two large bites, flung away the peel and, still chewing, got up and walked on. I shall not make up an extra-large mouthful ...: #39.

I attempted mindfulness of walking, but my guts kept calling attention to themselves. And when I attempted mindfulness of the guts I discovered therein an ugly mood that had the same dimensions as hunger. The mood was incompatible with mindfulness of it: it didn't like being observed. And, hungry as I chose to be, I chose too to feed on the solidity of my dark mood rather than on the insubstantial fare of awareness.

"There are, monks, these four foods
staying creatures that have come into being
or assisting those seeking to be. Which four?
Solid foods, coarse or fine;
secondly contact,
thirdly intention,
fourthly consciousness."

"V, the whole problem is your lousy attitude towards being hungry, cold, and alone." But even that self-criticism didn't cheer me, and when I'd had my fill of dark moods I turned, for desert, to words.

I carried a toy, the Dhammapada. A collection of 423 short verses, this -- the most translated of all Pali texts -- had yet, I felt, to be rendered into English without great sacrifice to either the letter of the texts or the spirit or both. As I wandered I kept a few of these verses in my head (and the whole of them in my shoulder bag), mulling over them and sometimes finding English renditions that pleased me.

I'd titled the still-incomplete translation The Track of Truth, and already had fantasized its publication and popularity, in spite of multi-lingual warnings.

I'd already made a few preliminary notes for the preface and an extensively learned appendix as well as having translated about a quarter of the verses. And if I was no less involved in this project than I'd been in the Ñanavira project at least it had two redeeming features. First, there were no great stacks of papers to carry about with me -- not yet, at least -- and secondly, I didn't need to acquire any government permits.

Verse number 133 was a problem. I'd been working on it for days now, putting it aside for a while, then picking it up again for another go. Don't speak harshly to anyone./ As they are spoken to they will reply./ Angry speech is painful./ They will strike back. I rearranged the words, tightening them here, loosening them there, but after a while I gave it up again.

Next: try one more of the toughies. Maybe, number 200. The Pali had a peculiar lilting gaiety to it that I hadn't been able to capture in English. Happily, indeed, we dwell,/ we for whom there is nothing whatsoever./ Gladness-feeders, we shall be/ like the radiant deities. That, anyway, was the sense of it. But that second line was complicated, and I couldn't find any way of rhyming it with the fourth line.

Pali verse, of course, was unrhymed. Like all languages in the Prakrit branch of Sanskrit, words took case endings, and there were too few possible word-ending sounds to make rhyming of interest. But Pali, like English, had its poetic devices. My renditions translated both the words and the techniques into their English equivalents.

I tried every way I could think of to restate the verses, trying to find the rhythms and rhymes that pleased me and, as always, came to a standstill. I couldn't find a solution, not even with as pliable a phrase as radiant deities.

Abhassara deva: there were deities of all different types, from wood nymphs and rain gods to beings who inhabited spheres of existence beyond our ken, and I accepted the reality of all of them with the same credulity with which I accepted assurances, from other quarters, of the reality of, say, electrons, the unconscious, or vitamins. It took training to believe any of it. In fact, I was now less skeptical of Indian mythology (if myth was, indeed, what it was) than of the scientists' abstractions. Devas seemed no less reasonable than black holes, or the speed of light.

In the hierarchy of heavenly states I had been first surprised, then pleased, to discover that the heaven of those who create ranked a step below, rather than above, the heaven of those who delight in the creations of others. Was it better, then, to be a reader of books than a writer of them?

There was a full hierarchy of both the heavens and the hells, which I interpreted as metaphorically as the texts would permit, although sometimes those interpretations were still not as metaphorical as I would have been comfortable with. It was easier for me to accept Ven. Ñanavira's descriptions of the hierarchical structure of existence, and to ponder the levels of appropriation, than it was to accept such variety within the worlds of heaven and hell. And this despite the diversity of species on our own plane.

I had no idea where these abhassara deva fitted in the scheme. Were they a definite class of deity or was the word descriptive merely of the radiance of all those deities who fed on gladness?

Feeding on gladness? What sort of food was that? Maybe consciousness-food? Too bad it wasn't belly-food. If it was it would be a great way to get out of the pindapata racket. No need to go hungry if you were one who fed on gladness: there'd always be food, as long as you stayed happy, even after midday. Certainly gladness, like tea, must be allowable at all times of day. No preservatives either, nor any unnatural additives. Just knowing you lived on something as wholesome and digestible as gladness was a happy thought, and with the happy thought there was gladness, and as I partook of the gladness I found it satisfying. The hunger-shaped anger vanished. My spirits lifted; my step lightened. The tenseness in my gut relaxed. I was glad and, being glad, was no longer hungry.

The road topped the hill and started winding down. On the hill beyond I could see smoke rising. There would be estate lines over there, probably three or four twisting miles onward. That would be three or four hours away. There was no hurry. I spent the afternoon walking at my own pace, and resting at my own pace too. At the bottom of the hill was a rivulet with good water where I refreshed myself. In the early afternoon it sprinkled. Later I found the right words for another verse.

In the late afternoon I passed through the estate lines, a string of rude houses scattered in barren soil beside the road. Unplastered mud walls. Roofs patched with rusting bits of scavenged scrap metal. An atmosphere gone beyond despair into lethargy. Just the other side of the lines I passed a covey of sarong-clad workmen squatting beside the road, their machetes in the dirt beside them. One of them got up and approached me.

"Hamuduruwo." That was the Sinhalese form of address used for monks only. He asked me something I didn't understand.

I knew little Sinhalese and no Tamil, but we established a few facts. I was Buddhist. I was walking. I didn't want a bus. I spoke English. But that didn't satisfy him, and he persisted. Where would I sleep? he gestured. I pointed ahead, indicating nothing in particular. He nodded as if he understood exactly what I meant. Or had we misunderstood each other? With a polite nod of the head I excused myself and started walking again.

As I continued down the road all three squatting men got up and joined me, talking among themselves and asking me questions. They didn't understand that monks didn't make conversation while walking: it was bad for the mindfulness. I tried to detach myself from them by walking at my own pace, but they exhorted me to go faster, as they did, and in spite of myself I sped up.

Some distance beyond the village the men indicated a turn-off that I would have missed, a footpath that climbed among tea bushes and led shortly to a secluded kovil. The single room was surrounded on all sides by a roofed verandah. Windowless, it had vertical bars in the door-way through which I peered in. The men pointed to the various deities in brass and plaster which filled the room and named some of the beings represented on wall posters. None of them seemed like gladness-feeders.

It was clear they expected me to stay the night here. Not in the shrine, which had no room for mortals, but on the cement porch. That was fine with me, for the ground was still damp and the weather uncertain. The winter monsoon was trying to get started, and there was the possibility that it would rain tonight. I was lucky to have come by such a suitable place so easily, for it was already close to sunset. I chose a spot beside one wall, unloaded my gear, and sat. I thanked the men for showing me here and forebore their questioning until they took their leave. Tired, I was glad of the chance to rest.

Once alone, however, I established myself. I arranged a sitting place, intending to meditate when I'd prepared myself. After sorting out the bag and bowl I decided to check out the area before nightfall: already the light was lessening.

I walked completely around the porch. Tea grew on three sides, widely spaced among rock outcroppings. On the fourth side, sandwiched between the kovil and a cliff which rose perhaps ten feet, was a walled cemetery with a pyre in the middle of it. Both cremation and burial were common in Ceylon. The graves, unmarked by stones, were identifiable by the shape of earth mounds and by handmade decorations. I looked at the mounds for a while and remembered verses.

There was nothing more to explore. I was tired of walking and returned to my spot, still intending to meditate, but I looked at the place I'd prepared and sighed. I was hungry. No longer walking, tired from the day's events and non-events, with no particular aim, the mind easily fell back to thoughts of food. I could no longer conjure up the thin cheer on which I'd fed this afternoon. It didn't have the staying power of a good steak.

I was still undecided when I heard voices from the path. The villagers were coming back. I sat down, crossed my legs, and waited their arrival.

There were more of them this time. The one who'd first approached me carried a pot of tea and what was probably his best china, a chipped English-style cup and saucer. Their own style was a handleless brass cup, a good handwarmer on a cold day. He poured a cup of tea and they all squatted down to watch me drink it. It was far too sweet. No doubt they'd put in extra sugar for my benefit.

When I finished an old man with white hair tied into a top-knot offered me a small bunch of bananas, which I declined even though their aroma tickled my nostrils. Although as a samanera it had been permissible to accept food after hours to be eaten the next day, bhikkhus didn't keep food after midday. There was no way I could explain that, though, so I politely declined and hoped it would be left at that. But the old man urged the bananas on me as if I were being shy, and when I repeated my refusal he took offense. I'd accepted tea from his friend, he pointed out. Why wouldn't I accept the bananas from him? Wasn't he just as good as his friend? But I didn't know how to explain that tea was allowable at any hour, and as I declined again I could feel the mood of the group shift.

What is wrong with this sadhu that he should so insult someone by refusing a gift? These Buddhists certainly are proud. Yes, and Americani are strange. We invite him to stay at our kovil and he doesn't show the good manners to accept an offering and permit merit to be made. What should we do with such a fellow? Throw him out?

So I interpreted their murmurings, and when once again -- one final time? -- the bananas were offered I tried to hide the reluctance with which I accepted them. I wanted to be neither the source nor the focus for criticism, but it was easier to be out of accord with the Vinaya than with them, for the Vinaya didn't display anger or threaten me. I put the bananas into the almsbowl and closed the lid on them to clear the air of their aroma. Nobody objected that I didn't eat them. The air cleared of the murmurings as well as the aroma, and I was offered a second cup of tea, which I thought it best to accept.

One of the men pointed to my legs, which were still crossed. My posture clearly lent me prestige in their eyes. Although squatting was a natural posture for them, the lotus position seemed to be as difficult for many Asians as it was for most Westerners.

The tea finished, I returned the cup, politely declining yet another refill. We seemed to have nothing more to say to each other. I fixed a benevolent smile on my face and stared contemplatively at the tea bushes, barely visible in the last light of a cloudy February day. Mollified by my acceptance of the bananas, impressed by my posture, they took the hint, I thought, for they whispered among themselves and then noisily shuffled away.

Alone at last. Solitude was hard to get. Now that I had it I had nothing left to do. But when I tried doing nothing I found that the effort was a doing. Doing nothing had to be effortless. But it could only be achieved through effort. The effort was more than I felt up to making. Instead of settling upon thoughts of food I turned again to my translations and fine-tuned a couple of verses:

I was thinking of lighting my candle to see what other verses I might work on when I heard voices approaching.

I felt annoyance that I should be disturbed, and my stomach tightened, but I sat where I was, seeing no alternative.

In the dark at first I could see only their light: a candle-stub stuck to the inside lip of half a coconut-shell. The shell created a dead-air pocket for the flame as they walked. Leading the way, a matronly woman offered me a ragged cotton blanket, then bowed. Behind her were some children and youths and two old women.

That's only on loan; I want the blanket back in the morning, her words and gestures indicated.

The children stepped forward for blessings. They gathered around and squatted down, silent save for an occasional comment. I sat quietly, testing my patience against the open stares of my hosts. I restrained (but didn't dissipate) my annoyance at being so rudely examined. Anything I did would be of interest to them, therefore I tried to do nothing, not even to scratch a vagrant itch. I hoped thus that they would tire of me and go away. There was no chance, though, to learn whether this strategy might have worked, for some distant hallooing was answered by one of the children and soon another group of women and children arrived, picking their way carefully among the rocks and tea bushes.

A woman with a goiter offered me a lumpy pillow. The pillowcase had roses embroidered across it. I accepted it with a sukhi hotu and then blessed each member of her family as they bowed. This family squatted beside the first, jostling a bit for position. The woman with the goiter addressed me in Tamil.

"Tamil ba!" And she turned to the matronly woman to discuss this difficult situation.

I felt growing annoyance that I should be so stared at by so many people. Their lights hurt my eyes and their eyes hurt my dignity. Hope faded for my strategy of passivity, and when a third group arrived it failed entirely. This group included my original host, who gave me more tea, freshly brewed. Another family set beside me a kerosene lamp with a broken glass chimney, and lit it. No doubt walking with it lighted had proved impossible. The flame smoked so badly that the chimney was soon soot-blackened, and the only light the lamp gave off was from the broken top of the chimney, where rising soot absorbed most of the illumination.

Whiffs of kerosene fumes gagged me. I was repelled, and pushed the lamp away from me. The villagers discussed this act at some length, without conclusion, while I sipped the over-sweet tea. But I wasn't thirsty; I didn't want more tea. I was tired; I wanted to be alone. I wondered how I might best be rid of my hosts, who were now crowded around me. I tried some polite gestures.

Me sleep. You go. That seemed clear enough to me, but they looked at each other wonderingly and discussed with some liveliness what I might possibly mean. I tried again, this time with words, and heard myself say, "Me sleep. You go." The discussion among the Tamils grew animated. Clearly something was happening, or about to happen. But what?

"Go! Go!" I made strong pushing gestures towards them with both hands and spoke emphatically. Everybody backed up a foot or two to give me more room, then they looked at each other with repressed smiles of amused nervousness, and slowly settled back to quiet again. They didn't understand just how far away I wanted them to go.

I didn't know what else to do. How could I chase them from their own kovil? I sat quietly while they all had a good look at me. At this hour where could I go? But on the borders of my attention lurked a dark anger that scuttled away crab-like each time I turned to it and returned when I looked elsewhere.

On the edge of the verandah, behind the other villagers and off to one side, was a teen-aged girl. She wore a midriff blouse, Sinhalese style, and was heavyset and dour-faced. As I noticed her she stared directly at me and shook her shoulders: her large breasts quivered like Jell-o. Her expression didn't change from an insolent pout, but she shook her shoulders several times so there could be no mistaking her opinion. I looked past her, into the dark night.

My legs began to ache and I wanted to do some pacing, but I knew I wouldn't do anything so extraordinary in front of this audience. Instead I closed my eyes and tried vainly to attend to the breath. But the minute disturbances of these people became amplified, like feedback, until I was more conscious of their whispers and silences than of my breath. My irritation grew. And when I was just ready to give up and try something else I heard a vast rustling of cloth followed by fading footsteps as all the villagers went away and I was left alone at last!

I blew out the smelly smoky lamp, put the cup and teapot out of the way, and then selected a length of porch and walked up and down until my legs felt properly stretched. Instead of being mindful my attention rested mostly on my translations. That was okay. I was too tired to be mindful. This sort of Dhamma-thought was as much as I could manage for now. And at length I solved another of the toughies:

With that effort I was ready for sleep. I looked forward to a comfortable night, with the luxury of a pillow and blanket. But first I had to get rid of all that tea. I stepped off the verandah and walked a few feet out into the night. I nearly bumped into the four-foot high wall that surrounded the cemetery. It was both inconsiderate and a minor infraction of the Vinaya to urinate on living plants, so I availed myself of this wall. I listened to the sounds of the night: chirrups, croaks, and insect songs. Then in the distance I heard a different song: "Sadhu! Sadhu!"

They were coming back again! I couldn't even piss in peace! They were returning with an incandescent gasoline lamp, for I could see its glow from a distance, and as they neared its hiss drowned out the gentler sound of urine striking rock. Would they stand about and discuss the way I passed water? I didn't wait to find out, but climbed over the wall, where as their lights grew brighter I finished urinating. Then, staying out of sight, I moved to a dry part of the wall and sat down.

They were on the verandah now. I could see the garish bobbing sharp-edged shadows of the gas lamp on the cliff that rose on the other side of the cemetery. I remained concealed, in the cemetery. I remembered wanting, once, to spend a night in one. Perhaps this was my chance. Perhaps I'd just stay hidden here until they went away, then return to the verandah to get my things. I regretted not having the sitting cloth, for the ground was damp. I hoped they wouldn't find me. I listened carefully for clues.

From the movement of shadows on the cliff and the spreading cries of "Sadhu! Sadhu!" I guessed that a search had begun for me. Now I realized that they would certainly not give up their search until I was found. They would assume I was in need of help. The only help I wanted was for them to leave me alone; but clearly the longer I waited before being discovered the more upset everyone would be and the longer it would take for them all to calm down and go away. In hiding from them I had miscalculated. The only thing to do was to show myself now and keep the uproar to a minimum.

Just as I stood up the beam of a flashlight cut me in half, and with Tamil cries of "He's found!" or something of the sort, the other villagers were summoned. I stood on one side of the wall. On the other side people gathered with glaring lights and strident voices. They were upset and I was upset. I was determined to be independent: I'd tell them. If they wouldn't leave I would, and even at this hour of the night I would find someplace to sleep, perhaps less dry but at least free of gawkers and disturbances. But before I could express myself a large drop of water fell splat! on my bare head, and I heard several more rustle nearby tea bushes. Then it was raining, and I didn't want to go searching, in the rain and dark, for a different place to rest, so I held my peace while I tried to understand why everyone was so upset.

The looks of dismay on the women's faces and of anger on the men's seemed excessive. Nor did I see any joy or relief at my having been found. One man drew my attention to a notice (in Tamil script) that was fixed to a post in the near corner of the wall. Then I saw there were posts at each corner of the wall. My first host drew an imaginary line along the wall which, I now realized, was some sort of boundary. And I seemed to be on the wrong side of it, for now I understood their words and gestures to be not concern for my welfare or anger at my disappearance but insistence that I get out of the graveyard at once.

I climbed back over the wall and walked back to the verandah while the people followed behind me, still upset. Had I broken a caste restriction? Perhaps some taboo I should have been aware of? I didn't know. I only knew that everyone was upset about both my disappearance and the place of my discovery. Perhaps they would even send me away, in the rain. Where would I go? At least they hadn't found me urinating on the damned wall.

But no one tried to evict me. Instead, they conferred among themselves, then turned to face me while my first host addressed me in Tamil. I didn't understand what he said, but I took a guess.

"Sadhu, we've given you the hospitality of our kovil, even though we know you to be not a Hindu, and therefore of no caste. We welcomed you with tea and the few comforts we were able to offer. And now you have abused our hospitality by entering a place reserved for the caste-protection of our ancestors. Therefore we shall no longer offer you our company in the loneliness of this kovil at night."

And they left. The owners of the blanket, pillow, lamp, and tea set took their property and without further talk the people left, and I was alone with the light rain outside.

It was chilly. My robe was damp. I wrapped the sanghati around me and walked up and down, calming myself from the emotions that had been roused by the evening's events. I was upset with both their conduct and mine.

Finally I returned to my resting place, arranged my robes, and lay down, but was unable to sleep. My stomach was tense and tight. Cold came up through the cement, through the robes in which I'd rolled myself, and through the angsa as well. There were no tree leaves to insulate me from the ground chill.

To survive the intense Himalayan winters Milarepa had developed the ability to generate warmth. Too bad I didn't have that. One night in Calcutta I'd thought I had it, but all I'd had was an alternate mode of perception, and the makings of a nasty head cold from exposure. All I wanted now was to be warmer.

I remembered that the bathing cloth was packed in the almsbowl. That was one more layer of cloth that I could put between me and the cement. I fumbled for the almsbowl and reached in to get it out.

Sitting atop the bathing cloth was the bunch of bananas. I looked at them in the dark. They looked back at me. Their aroma conferred with the tenseness in my gut and a mutual consensus was reached. I peeled one and ate it carefully, seasoning it with reflections about the Patimokkha. I flung the peel into the bushes as far as I could. Then I ate the others.

The bananas calmed me down and soothed the minor spasms of my stomach. Hunger and anger translated into each other so easily. What had happened to feeding on gladness? That had worked fine this afternoon. Strange that it should be so insufficient for this night. I wondered how the situation might be handled by a deva who fed on gladness. Would he become angry and upset? Would that make him hungry? Or would he then feed on the anger?

And I recalled another time when I'd eaten bananas after hours: that had been my custom in Colombo, when I'd first arrived in Ceylon as a new samanera. I'd been angry and upset then, too. I'd worried then about getting caught, about establishing a bad reputation. There'd been the argument with that monk, what's-his-name. Remembering him reminded me of something else from those days: the anger-eating demon. His image stood in sharp contrast to that of the feeders on gladness. And somewhere in between were the banana eaters.

I could choose gladness or I could choose anger, just as, once, I'd chosen warmth over chill. Why, then, did I find myself most comfortable somewhere in between? I wasn't sure what to make of that. It seemed to indicate to me something about myself. But what?

I lay down, rolled up in the robes, and fell asleep without answering the question. By the time I woke the next morning I'd forgotten it.

Getting Off

Chapter Seven (cont.)

(iii)