Читать книгу A Sudden Dawn - Goran Powell - Страница 7

Pallava, South India, A.D. 507

The Lotus Sermon

As the sun set over the southern kingdom of Pallava, a vast crowd gathered in a park in Kanchipuram, the elegant state capital. People had come from all over the city. Many more had traveled from the ports and fishing villages of the palm-fringed coast. Some had even journeyed from the remote villages of the interior. They had all come for one reason—to hear the words of the renowned Buddhist master Prajnatara. It had been many years since Prajnatara had spoken in public and the warm evening air crackled with expectation.

However, there was one young man among the throng who had no interest in the ramblings of an old monk. His name, like his father’s, was Sardili; and his only interest was in getting home after a long day of training at the Military Academy. He was halfway across the park when he caught a glimpse of a skinny little man sitting apart from the crowd. At first Sardili imagined it was a hermit, come to join in the occasion, but when he noticed all eyes on the little man and heard Prajnatara’s name spoken in awe, he realized it was the master himself.

The crowd was waiting for Prajnatara to begin his sermon, but Prajnatara simply held a flower aloft and gazed at it in silent wonder. Sardili paused to see how long the little master would keep such a multitude waiting. People grew restless and called out to Prajnatara urging him to speak, but if he heard them he did not respond. A mischievous young boy went forward and shook the master by the shoulder, but Prajnatara ignored him and continued to gaze at his flower. One of Prajnatara’s disciples gently ushered the boy away.

Sardili grew tired of waiting and turned to go, but at that very moment, Prajnatara spoke.

“Sit with me.”

His voice was powerful for such a small man, and oddly compelling. Those nearest him began to sit. When those behind saw what was happening they followed, until the entire multitude was seated before him. Then, Prajnatara held up the yellow lotus that he had picked from a nearby pond, and refocused his gaze upon it. Sardili wondered whether some strange magic was about to occur. Perhaps the flower would burst into flame or be transformed into a bird and fly away. He waited. No magic took place. Bored with watching, he rose to leave, but, just then Prajnatara spoke again.

“A thousand years ago, when The Buddha was coming to the end of his life, there was great debate about who would be his successor. Who among his followers understood his wisdom most completely? A gathering was organized to decide the matter, the last The Buddha would ever attend on earth, and it took place in a beautiful park not unlike this one, in northern India.”

Sardili sat again, compelled to listen to the master’s tale.

“Many thousands of people came to hear The Buddha’s final sermon. But instead of giving a lengthy speech as he usually did, he simply waded into a pond and pulled up a lotus. He showed it to his followers and, like you, they wondered what to make of it. Even his most senior disciples were puzzled. Normally, The Buddha spoke for hours and they listened, hoping that if they listened for long enough they would become enlightened like The Buddha. But now, in the most important sermon of his life, The Buddha did not have a single word to say.

“Eventually, some of The Buddha’s disciples began to debate and speculate on the meaning of the flower. Hearing them, The Buddha rose and held up the flower to each of them in turn. Each disciple guessed at its meaning, hoping to become The Buddha’s successor. The flower was Heaven? The root was Earth? The stem was The Buddha’s doctrine, which joined the two? Each tried in turn, offering a new suggestion, until finally The Buddha came to Kasyapa, the last of his disciples, who said nothing and simply smiled at his master. With that, The Buddha gave the flower to Kasyapa and turned to address the multitude. ‘All that can be said has already been said,’ he told them. ‘That which cannot be said has been passed to Kasyapa.’ And that is how Kasyapa became The Buddha’s successor.”

The crowd was silent, awaiting an explanation, but instead, Prajnatara returned to his silent contemplation of the lotus. People called to him to clarify the meaning of his story, but he ignored them and continued to gaze at the flower. Sardili wondered what Kasyapa had seen in the flower to make him smile. He stared at Prajnatara’s lotus to see if anything would become apparent. He even smiled as Kasyapa had done, but saw no new meaning in it.

The crowd began to disperse, bemused and disappointed, but Sardili remained with a handful of others watching the flower, intrigued to know its meaning. As darkness fell, Prajnatara’s disciples lit torches, while their master continued his silent study of the lotus. Hours passed. Shortly before midnight, Sardili accepted that Prajnatara would make no further revelations. The hour was late. His parents would begin to worry. He rose and left the little master still seated in the park and gazing at his flower as if he were seeing the most precious thing in the world.

Over the following days, the riddle of the Lotus Sermon returned to Sardili many times. Each time it puzzled him more. Days turned to weeks and still the riddle did not leave him. Instead, it grew into an obsession that gnawed away inside him, a terrible itch he could not scratch. He became distracted in his studies at the Military Academy. In lectures he no longer challenged the strategies of his teachers, as he had once done so keenly. In sparring matches, his opponents tagged him with practice blades, something none had succeeded in doing for many years. In training with real swords, his mind wandered to the lotus and he opened a deep gash in his own calf. His instructors grew concerned and visited his father, the renowned General Sardili.

The next morning the young Sardili was summoned to his father’s office. It was at the far end of the Sardili residence and away from the distraction of the general’s large family. That part of the house had always been kept free of noisy children and chattering servants. Only a steady stream of military personnel had come and gone at all hours of the day and night. Sardili knocked. Normally the general’s adjutant would answer, so Sardili was surprised when his father appeared quickly and greeted him with a broad smile.

The general was an imposing figure. He towered over other men, not just because of his size—though he was tall, and built like a bull. There was a certainty in him that bent others to his will. His deep rumbling voice carried effortless authority and his piercing eyes held lesser men captive in their gaze. The general had always towered over him too, but now as he entered the study, the young Sardili noticed he was half a head taller than his father.

“Sit down young man,” the general said cheerfully, and Sardili felt himself drawn into his father’s irrepressible warmth. It was a side of the general few soldiers had seen, but one he had enjoyed often enough as a boy. “How are you?” his father boomed. “We haven’t spoken for some time. I’ve been preoccupied with affairs of state. You know how it is. My retirement hasn’t brought the peace I was hoping for.”

“You’re too young and fit to retire, father. Everyone knows that,” Sardili said dutifully.

“That’s good of you to say, but I’m not fit now, not as I once was. Not as you are now.” Then the general’s face grew serious. “Anyway, enough about me. Let’s talk about you, my son. One of your instructors from the Academy visited yesterday. We had a long talk. A good talk. He says you’re an outstanding young soldier, the finest the Academy has ever produced. He tells me you’re unbeaten in both armed and unarmed combat for the last five years, and at the trials earlier this year, no one lasted more than a few seconds with you in the arena.”

The general had been pacing the room restlessly as he spoke, and now he stopped and threw up his hands in defeat, “I must confess, I knew you were talented, but even I was surprised to hear this. You don’t think to inform me of your achievements?”

“I’m sorry, father,” he shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“Of course I’m interested! I like to hear of your progress. No one is prouder of you than I, Sardili. You must know that.”

“These things come easily to me,” he said modestly.

“That’s understandable. You are a Sardili of the Warrior Caste. It’s in your blood.”

Sardili smiled. He had heard the same thing countless times before and waited for his father to get to the point. The general rarely engaged in idle chatter and Sardili knew he had been summoned to for a reason.

“Your studies are also going well, I hear …”

“Yes, father.”

“Good. That is important, too. Soldiering is not all about brute strength you know. Your instructor tells me your understanding of strategy is advanced, and you’re well versed in the classics, the Vedas …”

“Yes, father.”

“When you graduate at the end of the year, there’s a place waiting for you in King Simhavarman’s Royal Guards. I served in the Guards myself, as you know. It’s the best start any soldier could wish for, the finest regiment in all of India.”

“Yes, father.”

“Nevertheless, your instructor also mentioned that you have been a little, how did he put it …distracted, recently …” His father paused, giving him a chance to comment, but Sardili simply waited for him to continue.

“I have to say that I have noticed the same thing,” his father said eventually. “Would you agree?”

“Perhaps,” he shrugged.

“Is something wrong, Sardili? If there is, you can tell me. We’re both grown men now, after all. A woman, perhaps …?”

“No,” he said, reddening.

“A man, then?” his father laughed, squeezing his shoulder playfully.

“No!”

“Well what is it then? Speak up now boy,” the general ordered gently.

“You’ll think it strange,” Sardili said.

“I have seen and heard many strange things in my lifetime,” the general smiled.

Sardili shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I saw a prophet, a few weeks ago, in the park.”

“Which prophet? There is no prophet that I know of in Kanchipuram.”

“His name is Prajnatara,” Sardili said.

“Prajnatara?” his father snorted, “Prajnatara is just a crazy old Buddhist monk from Magadha. What has he been saying?”

“Very little,” Sardili sighed, “but what he did say made me think.”

His father waited for him to continue, but Sardili raised his hands, as if to say he could not explain further.

“Made you think about what?” his father persisted.

“Life, I suppose,” Sardili said at last, “what we’re all doing here …”

“Oh son,” his father laughed, “these are big questions for one so young and best left for priests to worry about, not warriors. One day you’ll lead men into battle. It doesn’t pay to dwell on such matters, trust me on this.”

Sardili did not reply. He did not want to contradict his father, but the general saw the determination in his son’s eyes and his expression hardened.

“Remember what I’ve always told you. You are a Sardili. You were born to the Warrior Caste. You have trained your whole life to follow in the family tradition. Soon you’ll graduate from the Academy with the highest honors and King Simhavarman himself will welcome you to his Royal Guards.” His expression softened, “You’ll make us all very proud, Sardili. Just keep your mind on your training a little longer and years from now, when you’re old and retired like me, you can concern yourself with such questions.”

“Yes, father.”

“Good,” his father beamed, “I’m glad we had this talk and cleared things up. Let’s put it behind us and never speak of it again.”

But they did speak of it again, and when they did, an argument raged in the Sardili residence unlike any before and hung over the household for weeks like the brooding clouds of the summer monsoon.

Sardili had tried to obey his father, but the mystery of the Lotus Sermon had been too powerful. He had gone in search of Prajnatara to demand an explanation, but Prajnatara had vanished. No one knew where to find him. Sardili had tried visiting local temples and wise men seeking the meaning of the flower sermon, but none had been able to provide the answer. Eventually his father had heard of his absences and summoned him once more to demand an explanation.

It was then that Sardili told his father of his intention to become a monk, and the general’s fury had known no bounds. His mother had pleaded with him tearfully, night after night. His uncles and cousins had visited and spoken with him for hours on end. His instructors had come and tried to reason with him, one after the other. He had listened to each visitor in turn, politely, patiently, seriously, but steadfastly refused to change his mind. And finally, when all arguments had been exhausted, a terrible silence descended over the household.

Sardili waited for many days, hoping his father might relent and give him his blessing before he left, but the general refused all contact with his son. He was a warrior who carried the scars of many battles, but his son’s betrayal had cut him deeper than any enemy blade ever could.

And so on a bright day in spring, Sardili decided he could wait no longer. He kissed his mother goodbye, hugged his brothers and sisters, and took leave of his faithful servants before walking out of the lofty hallway into the fierce heat of the day.

On the veranda he paused to admire the beautiful gardens one last time, then walked to the gate and turned for a final farewell. His family had gathered in the entrance to see him off and behind them, he noticed a shadow. It was his father. He waited by the gate in silence until his father emerged and walked swiftly toward him. For a moment he thought his father might strike him but the general stopped, two inches from his face, and spoke in a low growl, “You are a stubborn, headstrong boy, Sardili. You always were. Ever since you were a child, you wanted everything your own way. You were never satisfied, always striving, until you got what you wanted. And I admit that I was glad of it, because I knew it would make you into a great soldier. Now you’ve chosen a different path, one I know you’ll follow with the same stubbornness. I only hope you don’t waste your life chasing an impossible dream.”

“I won’t,” Sardili said with a certainty he did not feel.

He looked into his father’s eyes and saw the love still visible beneath the hurt and anger. He could think of no other words to say and a great sadness welled up inside him. “Goodbye father,” he whispered, turning quickly to hide his tears, and walked away from his home forever.

Sardili learned that Prajnatara had gone to Sri Lanka; but when he arrived in Sri Lanka, he was told Prajnatara was in the western port of Kochi; and in Kochi he heard rumors that Prajnatara had retreated to the mountains of the interior. Three years passed and still he wandered in search of Prajnatara. He visited many temples on the way and met with many holy men. He studied the Buddhist scriptures and committed the words of the sacred Sutras to memory. He learned to still his mind in meditation. He begged for food and came to understand the virtue of humility. He starved his body of nourishment and his mind of desire. He grew weak, so weak that he saw visions of startling clarity. Yet he knew they were not the truth but merely illusions brought on by his weakened state.

Five more years passed and Sardili had become a wise and learned monk. Yet, in his heart, he felt no closer to the truth than the day he had left home, and he began to wonder if his father had been right after all.

Still, he wandered in the southern kingdoms of India seeking Prajnatara. Another year passed and he found himself in the jungles of Pallava, less than three days’ journey from his home city of Kanchipuram. On the banks of a slow moving river, he met an old ferryman who, on seeing his monk’s robe, offered him free passage across the water. As they crossed, the ferryman spoke of a beautiful temple located a short distance upriver and urged him to visit it. He smiled and told the old ferryman that he was seeking a particular temple, and a particular master.

“This is Prajnatara’s temple,” the ferryman told him.

Sardili had heard countless false stories of Prajnatara’s where-abouts, but something about the old man’s gentle confidence made him follow the ferryman’s directions. At a fork in the river, he saw the pale stonework of a temple, half-hidden by the jungle, just as the old man had described. It was smaller than he had imagined, the point of its stupa barely reached the surrounding trees, yet its lack of grandeur was part of its appeal. The temple was exquisitely beautiful. Sun-bleached walls were carved with scenes of The Buddha’s life and inscribed with passages from the Sutras. Flowers and shrubs decorated the temple grounds, and a tranquil bathing pool glistened in the shade of a banyan tree.

The main door was unlocked. He pushed it open. The entrance was empty, but he could hear rhythmic chanting coming from the corridor that led away from the hall. He waited, expecting someone to appear. When no one came, he made his way down the dim corridor. The familiar smell of incense floated on the cool air. He came to a door ajar and peered inside. Young monks were studying the Sutras, and their earnest faces reminded him of a time when he had dedicated himself to understanding the sacred texts. Now he had begun to despise the same texts for their endless contradictions. Not one had revealed the truth to him.

A man appeared at his side. “Can I help you, Brother?”

Sardili was startled to see it was Prajnatara staring up at him, looking no older than the day he had seen him in the park almost ten years earlier. The slight frame and soft features gave Prajnatara an almost boyish look and he stood no higher than Sardili’s chest, but there was firmness in his stance that belied his gentle appearance. Sardili bowed and pressed his palms together in the traditional Buddhist greeting.

“My name is Sardili,” he said.

Prajnatara waited for him to continue.

“I have come to study here, if you will accept me,” he added.

“What is it you seek, Sardili?” Prajnatara asked.

“I seek what every monk seeks—enlightenment.”

“And what do you suppose that to be?” Prajnatara asked, his expression puzzled, as if Sardili had brought up a fascinating new topic for discussion.

“To see the world as it truly is,” he said, “to know my own mind…”

“You don’t know yourself, Sardili?”

Sardili shrugged.

“Yet you have studied a long time?” Prajnatara probed.

“Yes.”

Prajnatara waited for him to say more, but Sardili had no wish to elaborate. “I ask to be accepted as a student,” was all he said.

Prajnatara studied him silently for a minute, then shook his head. “You are too old for this temple, Sardili. All our students are young. You won’t fit in. I regret to say the answer is ‘No.’”

Sardili had never been refused entry to a temple before and found himself at a loss for words.

“I’m sorry,” Prajnatara continued, turning to go, “I hope you haven’t come far.”

“Wait, please,” Sardili stepped closer, “I have come far. It has taken me years to find you …”

Prajnatara stopped but did not look back, “You won’t find what you’re seeking in this temple.”

“I will do whatever is necessary to fit in.”

“It won’t help.”

Sardili put his hand on the little master’s arm. “Please, Master Prajnatara, I beg you to reconsider.”

“Take you hands off me,” Prajnatara said icily. “One monk must never lay a hand on another in this temple. That is our sacred rule.”

Sardili released him and took a step back. This was a disaster. “I’m sorry, truly. Please forgive me, it’s just that …”

Prajnatara turned back to face him, looking him up and down once more as if seeing him for the first time, then slapped him hard across the face.

Sardili was stunned. In all his years at the Military Academy no blow had ever caught him so unaware. His first instinct was to strike Prajnatara down, but he fought the urge. His second was to touch his own cheek, which smarted from the blow, but he refused to show he’d been hurt.

“Now you may join us,” Prajnatara said, “if you wish.”

Sardili stared in astonishment at the little man who, it seemed, had so little fear for his own safety.

“What do you say?” Prajnatara demanded.

“I thought you said one monk must never lay a hand on another,” Sardili said through clenched teeth.

“Did I say that?” Prajnatara asked, his eyes wide.

“Yes you did. I believe you called it a sacred rule.”

“Rules are for children, Sardili.”

Sardili’s eyes bored into the little master’s with barely contained violence.

“Make up your mind,” Prajnatara smiled, turning and walking away. He had almost reached the end of the corridor when Sardili, beaten, shouted after him, “I will join!”

Prajnatara hurried back, a broad smile on his face now. He seized Sardili’s hands and clutched them to his breast, “You will? Are you sure, Sardili? I am so pleased, especially after I treated you so poorly. You would be perfectly justified in leaving and never returning. But you will stay?”

“I came to study,” Sardili said struggling to control his temper, “and that’s what I will do.”

“Well I’m delighted to hear it,” Prajnatara said happily, “but please don’t be too determined my dear Sardili, as it can rather get in the way of things. Now, let me think … You can join the classes, starting from tomorrow. In the meantime I’ll get Brother Jaina to show you around and help you settle in. Don’t go away. I’ll be right back. I’m so delighted that you came to join us, truly I am.”

Sardili waited over an hour and when the little master eventually reappeared, he was accompanied by a thick-set monk with a square jaw and a heavy brow. Prajnatara introduced them to one another, and as he did Sardili thought he saw a fleeting look pass between Prajnatara and Brother Jaina. Then Brother Jaina led him away to the tiny monk’s cell that would be his home for the foreseeable future.

The room was empty except for a roll of bedding on the floor and a chest for his belongings. When Brother Jaina had gone, he arranged his few possessions in the chest and sat on the floor. A great loneliness came over him, and he vowed it would be the last time he joined a new temple in search of the answers that had eluded him for so long.

The next day began with the dawn call to meditation. At the sound of the bell, the novice monks filed into the cool hall and took their places on rows of cushions. Prajnatara was waiting at the front. When they were all seated, he lit an incense burner and rang a tiny bell to signal the start of the meditation. The sweet chime seemed to go on forever.

When meditation ended, they ate a light breakfast and studied the Sutras with one of the senior monks. With the sound of the temple gong, Brother Jaina arrived and called them outside to exercise before the searing midday heat descended. They performed the yoga asanas, which Sardili knew well and followed easily; but what happened next came as a surprise. The young monks fetched thick reed mats from the temple and laid them down on the hard earth. When this was done, Brother Jaina began to instruct them in wrestling. Sardili noticed they practiced a form that had originated in Kerala, a form now common throughout India.

Prajnatara appeared at his side. “Are you surprised, Sardili?” he asked with a smile.

“I have never seen wrestling in a temple before,” Sardili answered.

“We find it helps students to concentrate if they are fit and healthy. Brother Jaina did a little wrestling in Kerala before he joined our order. Tell me, do you wrestle yourself?”

“Once, a long time ago.”

“Splendid! Where did you learn?”

“My father taught me.”

“How fascinating! Your father was a wrestler?”

“No. My father was a general, but wrestling was his passion. He believed all the battlefield arts could be understood if one could understand wrestling.”

“Your family is from the Warrior Caste?” Prajnatara asked, warming to the subject quickly.

“Yes.”

“It must have been difficult turning your back on the family tradition to follow The Way.”

“It has been a humbling experience,” he answered truthfully.

“And do you think your father was right?”

“About what, Master?”

“About understanding many things from one.”

“I am not in a position to judge, Master. I gave up such pursuits a long time ago to follow The Way.”

“You don’t think The Way can be found in strategy?”

“I don’t know where it can be found. That is why I am here.”

“What do you know, Sardili?”

He saw the mischief in Prajnatara eyes. “I know it’s not common to see monks wrestling,” he answered stiffly.

“True, but your father sounds like a very wise man,” Prajnatara persisted.

“My father was a warrior. The Way is a way of peace …”

“Ah, beware of trying to define The Way with words, Sardili. It goes against the very essence of The Way.”

“Then please tell me, what is the essence of The Way?”

“Actions, not words, Sardili,” Prajnatara said loudly, clapping the back of his hand into his palm, then shook his head in bitter disappointment. “If only you had listened to your father instead of a lot of silly old monks! It’s too late now. You’re stuck with us. So come, let us see you wrestle. I will get Brother Jaina to select a suitable opponent for you.”

“It would be better if they wrestle among themselves,” Sardili warned.

“Oh come, Sardili,” Prajnatara laughed, “what are you afraid of?”

Sardili looked into the master’s face to see if he was serious and found he could not tell. He stripped down to his loincloth, as the other wrestlers had done, and Brother Jaina welcomed him onto the mat. “Do you wish to warm up, Sardili?” he asked.

Sardili was loose from the earlier exercises and his huge lean muscles glistened with a fine sheen of sweat.

“I am warm, thank you Brother Jaina,” he said.

Jaina called out an opponent for him, a big youth as tall as Sardili, though not quite as broad. Sardili smiled at the young man, but the youth simply watched him warily. They circled for a moment, before going into a clinch. The youth moved quickly, pushing and pulling fiercely to unweight the stranger who had appeared on their mat. Twice he attempted a throw, but Sardili was as immovable as a rock. The youth switched suddenly to a standing submission, hoping to lock one of Sardili’s arms in both of his own. It was then that Sardili tired of the boy’s childish antics. There was a blur, nothing more, as the youth was spinning in the air. It seemed to the startled onlookers that Sardili would drop the boy on his head, but Sardili turned him at the last instant and sent him crashing down safely on his back.

The youth groaned, stunned by the fall. Sardili looked to Brother Jaina, unsure of the rules of the match, but Jaina said nothing. It seemed a submission was needed to end the bout. Sardili knelt beside the boy and waited for him to recover. Slowly the youth rose to his knees and reached out to take hold again. It was a mistake. Sardili seized his wrist and pulled. His left leg snaked around the outstretched limb and trapped it between both knees. He raised his hips. “I submit!” the youth cried urgently.

Sardili released the lock and helped his opponent to his feet, massaging his elbow joint until the pain had subsided and some movement had been restored.

One by one, the other wrestlers came out to face him, each more reluctant than the last. At first, he allowed them a little dignity before defeat, a few moments to attempt a throw or submission. But after a while he tired of their dismal efforts and, without quarter, slammed them into the mat and wrapped them in excruciating locks and chokes. Each opponent submitted to a different hold, many of which had never been seen before, each yelped in pain and tapped frantically to be released. After each match, Sardili took time to treat the area of the body that he had traumatized only moments earlier.

Soon he had disposed of all the young wrestlers and only Brother Jaina remained. Sardili rose to leave the mats, unwilling to expose the young monks’ instructor to a humiliating defeat, but Brother Jaina called him back. Prajnatara nodded his approval for the bout and Sardili returned to the center of the mat.

Brother Jaina turned out to be a strong and skilful wrestler, but he was no match for Sardili, who forced him to submit in little more than a minute. To Jaina’s surprise, he did not feel Sardili’s enormous strength at work, nor his considerable weight. Sardili defeated him with a level of skill that required no strength, skill Jaina had seen only in the greatest wrestlers in the land. He bowed to Sardili while the young monks regarded the newcomer with barely concealed wonder.

In the evening, Prajnatara took Sardili aside and asked him to instruct the wrestling from that day forth. He agreed, and soon became something of a celebrity among his students, who progressed rapidly under his expert supervision.

Sardili enjoyed his new role as a teacher, but as the days became weeks and then months, he grew disillusioned with his life at the temple. The long hours of meditation and study brought him no closer to the enlightenment he sought. He tried discussing his concerns with Prajnatara, but Prajnatara evaded the subject, talking instead of the weather, the flowers in his gardens, or the progress of Sardili’s wrestling students. When Sardili pressed him on the subject, Prajnatara struck him hard on the chest and reminded him that he would not find what he was seeking in the temple.

The days grew shorter. Summer gave way to autumn and in those long silent hours of the evening, Sardili came to realize that his quest was over. There was no prize awaiting him in Prajnatara’s temple. No treasure to be discovered. No truth. No nirvana. It was time to abandon his fruitless search and dedicate himself to a more realistic goal, though he had no idea what that might be.

The hour was late when he went to inform Prajnatara of his departure. The temple lamps had already been extinguished and only a single candle burned in the corridor. He moved silently to the master’s quarters, not wishing to wake the sleeping monks, and knocked softly on the door.

Brother Jaina answered and stepped aside to let him in. Prajnatara was seated at his desk with paperwork laid out before him. He looked up with a smile. “You look concerned, Sardili. Come in. Take a seat. Talk to us. You will be a welcome respite from the tedious business of running a temple. What can Brother Jaina and I do for you?”

“Nothing. I am leaving,” Sardili answered.

“Leaving? So soon after arriving? Are you sure about this, Sardili?”

“Yes. I decided you were right. I won’t find what I’m looking for in this temple. I have come to thank you for your teachings and your hospitality, but The Way is not for me. It’s time I did something different.”

Prajnatara turned to give Sardili his full attention.” Different in what way?” he demanded with a frown.

“More purposeful.”

“The Way is eminently purposeful, Sardili.”

“Not if one cannot find it.”

“Perhaps you seek it too hard,” Prajnatara sighed.

“And perhaps you talk in riddles,” Sardili answered, unable to contain his mounting frustration.

“What will you do instead?” Brother Jaina asked.

“I have not decided yet.”

“Will you return to your family?”

“Perhaps.”

“Do you think your father will welcome you back?”

“That is my business, Brother Jaina.”

“It will be awkward,” Jaina continued, “returning home after so long with nothing to show for your efforts.”

Sardili felt his temper rise, and when he noticed Prajnatara and Jaina exchanging a knowing glance, he could contain it no more.

“I see this amuses you both!” He exploded, smashing his hand onto the table and sending papers flying. Brother Jaina flew to his feet to stand between Sardili and his master. Sardili grasped Jaina’s robe and he fought the urge to hurl the smaller man aside.

A splash of cold shocked him. Prajnatara had thrown a jug of water in his face. “Cool down, Sardili,” he ordered.

Sardili released Jaina and pointed a warning finger at Prajnatara. “I would advise you not to strike me a third time,” he growled.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Prajnatara said lightly, “but before you go, tell us why you’re so angry?”

Sardili glared at the little master, searching for the words to adequately describe the depth of his disillusionment. “It’s all false,” he said finally, his voice little more than a whisper now. “I have wasted so many years chanting, praying, reciting, debating—and all for nothing. You talk of the truth. You claim to possess it. But the truth is you have nothing. A man could waste a lifetime on this charade.”

He strode across the room and reached for the door.

“You’re quite right, of course,” Prajnatara said casually, taking a scroll from a cabinet and crossing the room to offer it to him. “These scriptures really are quite useless. Tear them up if it makes you feel better. Get rid of everything in this entire temple if you wish. None of it is necessary. Not one single thing.” He turned and swiped a bowl of incense from a nearby shelf. It shattered loudly on the floor creating a cloud of white dust. Sardili watched in bewilderment. It seemed he was not the only one who had lost his self-control.

“Here,” Prajnatara said, taking a carving of The Buddha from his window, “break the stupid little statue into little pieces if you like. It’s just a piece of wood, carved in the shape of a man.” The master’s voice was serious but Sardili still had the feeling he was being mocked.

“Keep your Buddha,” he said angrily, striding from the room.

“Sardili wait, please …”

He ignored the master’s pleas and went to his room to collect his belongings. When he emerged, Brother Jaina was waiting for him. “Sardili,” he said quietly, “at least wait until morning. You can talk with Prajnatara again, when you’re not so angry. Then if you still wish to leave, we will give you supplies for your journey.”

“I’m leaving now.”

“The jungle is a dangerous place at night.”

Brother Jaina was right but Sardili did not care. He yearned for the dark embrace of the jungle and strode from the temple without another word.

“Come back when you’re ready,” Jaina called after him, but Jaina’s words were already lost in the thick night air.

Sardili walked among the gnarled shadows of the moonlit jungle, driven by rage at the monks, the temples, the scriptures, The Buddha, and above all, at himself. He had hurt his father, his mother, his family. He had wasted his youth. Tears of frustration coursed down his cheeks and he left them to fall into the folds of his robe. He walked for hours, directionless, until the sky began to lighten and the first glow of dawn appeared on the horizon. It was only then that he noticed his mouth was dry and his limbs weary.

He stopped in a quiet glade and took a pull of water from his goatskin. By the time he had returned it to his knapsack, a watery sunshine had filtered through the treetops. He rubbed his eyes wearily and rested his head in his hands. His anger had gone, leaving him exhausted. His mind began to replay the events of the previous evening. Prajnatara had reacted strangely to his outburst. He had not disagreed or protested. In fact, he had agreed that it was all pretense. It made no sense.

A dwarf deer wandered into the glade and nibbled on a patch of wild grass, unaware of his presence. Sardili clicked his tongue and the little deer noticed him and darted away. He found himself smiling at the creature’s stupidity. One moment it had thought the glade safe, the next, a place of danger. But the glade had not changed. Only the deer’s mind had changed.

He wondered if he was the same. Could it be so simple?

He dismissed the idea. It was nonsense. But even as he did, he knew it was true, and his life would never be the same. He rose and walked in circles, checking and rechecking his revelation. Was there a flaw in his thinking? A gap in his logic? There was no flaw, no gap. This was beyond intellect or logic. It was something more profound, a simple acceptance that needed to be made. It was the truth about himself.

Until that moment, he had been like the deer, seeing things as he had wanted them to be rather than as they truly were. He had been demanding the truth when it had been under his nose all along. He had been searching for miracles when the miracle of life had been playing out before him every second of every day.

He thought of the Lotus Sermon. How simple the answer seemed now. The flower had been just that—a flower, nothing more, nothing less. It was perfect as it was. To attempt to describe a flower was laughable when its beauty was on display for all to see. Yet only Kasyapa had understood the inadequacy of words. No wonder he had smiled at The Buddha’s little stunt. No wonder The Buddha had handed the lotus to him.

Sardili felt a burning excitement in the pit of his stomach, a delicious secret he now shared. He was walking on air, his mind alive, his senses alert. He had seen the true nature of his own mind, and with it, the true nature of all things. He began to laugh, long and loud, at his own stupidity. His thoughts turned to Prajnatara and his laughter turned to a long howl of shame. How ridiculous he must have appeared to the little master; and how rude, shouting and thumping the table like a spoiled child, manhandling poor Brother Jaina! He had to return to the temple and beg for forgiveness.

He would go soon, and quickly, but not immediately. First, he wanted to continue through the trees and wander beside rivers and streams, fields and flowers, seeing everything in this new and perfect light. He wanted to climb high hills and look down on the earth with new eyes, to visit the towns and villages of India and talk with old men and children, beggars and noblemen, Brahmins and Untouchables. And he wanted to do these things with all the breathless excitement of a newborn child entering the world for the very first time.

It was midnight, some days later, when Sardili returned to the temple. An attendant monk was dozing in the entrance. He woke at Sardili’s appearance and welcomed him back with the news that his room was waiting for him, untouched. Sardili slept peacefully that night, and in the morning he visited Prajnatara in his study once more. He found him sharing breakfast with Brother Jaina and stood before them, wringing his hands in shame.

“Welcome back Sardili,” Prajnatara said with a broad smile, unsurprised to see him.

Sardili took a deep breath. “Master Prajnatara, Brother Jaina … I hardly know where to begin. I behaved disgracefully and I am truly sorry. I have come to beg your forgiveness.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Sardili,” Prajnatara said, holding out his hand to him. “Come and sit with us.”

“I wish to make amends,” he said, taking the master’s hand gratefully.

“Then join us, and have some food.”

“I can’t believe I said such things …” he said, shaking his head, only his dark beard hiding the depth of his embarrassment.

“Think nothing of it. We have each been through the same things. I am just delighted you came back, and if I’m not mistaken, you seem a little happier too?”

“I am, Master.”

“Excellent. It must have felt good to get a few things off your chest.”

“It was stupid of me. Thoughtless.”

“Nonsense, it is forgotten. Now eat,” Prajnatara ordered.

Sardili helped himself to some fruit from the master’s table and rolled it in his huge hands as he spoke.

“When I was away, I was able to think more clearly than I have for a long time. I decided that I would like to stay at the temple after all, if you will take me back.”

“Of course,” Prajnatara said, his face suddenly serious, “but only on one condition …”

“Name it, Master.”

“You must teach wrestling again. I’m sure Brother Jaina won’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Jaina said. “After all, Sardili’s skill is far greater than my own.”

“If Brother Jaina will assist me,” Sardili said.

Jaina nodded his consent.

“Then it is settled,” Prajnatara beamed. “Now take some rice too, Sardili. You have a busy day ahead of you.”

And so Sardili returned to the daily life of the temple. Each morning he taught wrestling to the young monks and their skills improved quickly under his expert tutelage. Prajnatara watched from the shade of the banyan tree, enjoying the atmosphere created by the strange monk who had returned from the jungle like a man reborn.

Until one day, when the lesson had finished, he touched Sardili gently on the arm. “Come, walk with me by the river. It’s quiet down there.”

They strolled to the water’s edge in silence and turned to follow the course of the river through the trees. In the shade of a great banyan Prajnatara stopped and spoke. “You can stay at the temple as long as you wish, stay forever if you like, but why waste any more time?”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Sardili said with a frown.

Prajnatara took him by the arm and they continued along the riverbank. “We both know you have arrived at the truth, Sardili.”

“That is not for me to say,” Sardili replied, his voice husky, barely more than a whisper.

“No, it is for me to say, and I say it to you now.”

Sardili halted and his eyes filled with tears. No words could pass his lips. Prajnatara took his hand and gave him time to weep, then led him along the river’s edge once more, as if holding a child in danger of falling, until Sardili finally found words.

“I have never spoken of this before, but I saw you once, many years ago, in Kanchipuram.”

“Kanchipuram?” Prajnatara exclaimed. “A wonderful city. I have not been there in many years.”

“I was little more than a boy at the time,” Sardili said. “You gave a sermon in the park. You held up a flower.”

“The Lotus Sermon?”

“Yes.”

“I remember,” Prajnatara smiled. “It’s one of my favorites. It always gets people thinking.”

“You could say that,” Sardili said with a bitter laugh. “It certainly got me thinking. More than that, it bewitched me. Consumed me. The riddle of what Kasyapa saw in the flower made me give up everything to find the answer.”

“And did you find your answer?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it wasn’t a riddle.”

“What made you think it was?” Prajnatara probed gently.

“My mind.”

“The mind never tires of playing tricks on us,” Prajnatara said with a shake of his head.

They walked in silence until they reached the fork in the river and Prajnatara stopped, his expression suddenly serious. “Sardili, once you have discovered The Way, there is no need to keep re-reading the signs. There are countless souls waiting to be enlightened. You must go out and help to awaken them from delusion. This is your destiny.”

“What about the temple?” Sardili asked.

“Don’t worry about the temple. We will continue as we always have. Brother Jaina can teach the wrestling. His belly will grow big if he allows you to do all the work.”

“But I will miss it here, Master. It’s so beautiful.”

“And the temple will miss you, Sardili. But there is important work to be done. What has been passed to you must now be passed onto others.”

“How will I do that, Master?”

“How do any of us do it? It’s a difficult task Sardili, but The Buddha has set down his wisdom in the scriptures and rituals that we follow.”

“I don’t think I can teach like that,” Sardili said guardedly, “Scriptures, rituals, they are not the real truth.”

“Perhaps not, but scriptures are useful in pointing The Way. Rituals are an important discipline. What will you do instead?”

“I will point directly at the truth.”

“That’s a very ambitious method, Sardili.”

“I will make people see.”

Prajnatara’s eyes looked into his and for a moment, Sardili had the feeling they were seeing past his flesh and bones to a place far beyond the soft waters and rich jungles of Pallava. When they returned, they held him in their steady gaze.

“Yes, I believe you will Sardili,” Prajnatara said, smiling broadly and clapping him firmly on the shoulder. “I truly believe you will.”