Behind The Mask ~ THANKS
It has long been in
my mind to write a book about people to whom I feel
grateful for the help they gave me along my way, but
never made a start on it as I felt that if I began,
I would never finish because there were just so many,
and as I go on, I receive more help, like we all do.
Now, however, I’ve decided to delay
no more but to make a start, even if it’s not
a whole book on the subject, and even if I limit myself
to mentioning just a few people who helped and encouraged
me, as I feel that, in our day and age, when so much
is taken for granted, and we have become jaded and
mediocre, it is good to be reminded, now and then,
of how much we depend upon others. I hope no-one will
be upset for not receiving a mention, and that everyone
will understand and rejoice with me in expressing
my gratitude in these pages. I also wish to say that
if, in my humble and limited capacity, I am able to
pass on something useful to someone—and without
boasting, I know that this sometimes happens—it
is only because of the help and support I have received
from others. No-one acts alone, lives alone or dies
alone, but only in concert with others.
We are as we are not just because of our
own efforts (which, if analyzed carefully, contributed
not as much as we think to the overall effect), but
mainly because of the influence of countless others,
living and dead, met and unmet, known and unknown.
Just think of how much our lives depend upon the language,
for example—together with countless other things
of local and world-wide culture—that we were
born into; as we think, so we speak and act, and so
we become; our lives are greatly conditioned by words,
by language, and moreso if we are not aware of it.
We are all flowers on the human tree, and
it would not be incorrect to say that the whole of
human history and prehistory is present in all of
us, with the influence of active, inventive, thinking
individuals more present in us than that of the passive
and thoughtless masses which populate the Earth in
any age. However, it should not be forgotten that
the high rests upon the low—we can have the
foundations of a building without the roof, but we
cannot have the roof without the foundations or the
walls—and without the latter kind of people,
the former could not exist. The influence of the active
but negative people is also present in us, as positive
and negative always go together, inseparably, and
as we all know, it is easier to learn and acquire
something negative than something positive, just as
it is easier to fall down a tree than it is to climb
one.
If we’ve never thought of ourselves
like this it is not too late to do so, and to consider
this body-mind that we have somehow evolved into.
In taking stock of it and understanding more of it
than we did before, we will be better able to control
and direct our lives and have more choice in the way
we want to live, instead of always being under the
control of our feelings or outside influences. Right
now, we cannot talk of ‘free will’ as
our will is not free but heavily conditioned. If it
can ever be totally free, completely our own, I don’t
know and dare not say, but it can, I am sure, be more
ours than it is now.
Now, I do not claim to know myself very
well, as there are many things that I am only dimly
aware of and surely many things that I know nothing
of at all; in spite of this, however, I feel that
I know myself better than anyone else does, especially
as I do not live long in one place but move around
a lot. I am aware that I have a number of faults and
imperfections (who doesn’t?) and they do not
go away merely because I’m aware of them and
don’t want them. But, on the other hand, because
I do not accept the basic Christian idea that man’s
nature is totally corrupt and can only be redeemed
by ‘God’s grace’, I am convinced
that there is goodness in everyone, including myself.
I have some positive qualities (if I were to be falsely
modest and deny that I have any, it would be a contradiction
of what I have said above about positive and negative
always going together inseparably). And because I
know myself better than anyone else does, I advise
people not to look too closely at me or place importance
on my personality, but to divorce this from what I
say and try to find something in my words that might
be useful to them long after I’ve gone and been
forgotten. In spite of this exhortation, however,
I know that some people will insist on picking up
my ‘droppings’, as it were, instead of
the occasional pearl that might be found in my words.
(This applies not just to myself but to others, too).
What can I do about this? If that is what they prefer,
in spite of my warnings, well, let them have it!
Where my spiritual search began, I cannot
say, for if we look for the beginning of anything,
it leads us back and back, from one thing to another,
and outwards and outwards, and no sooner do we think
we have found it than we find something else before
that, and something before that, on and on, until
finally, we realize that there is no beginning to
anything, but just links in a chain—or knots
in a net, to use a better analogy—that stretches
out to infinity. And we may suppose, from such observations,
that just as a beginning to anything cannot be discovered,
so also, a final end to anything cannot be conceived
of. We are told now that nothing can be totally destroyed
but only transformed into something else. We might
consider ourselves in this light: where we came from
prior to our birth we do not know, and must admit
this, just as we don’t know what will happen
to us after we die. This, however, we do know: we
were born. We also know that we did not remain babies,
but grew and developed from that state to the state
we are now in. We can see, too, that we will not remain
like this but will grow older (even if we don’t
become old; not everyone becomes old), and sooner
or later we will die. This is certain. After that,
although we can see that the body is transformed,
either quickly, through cremation, to ash, heat and
smoke, or slowly, by decaying in the ground and becoming
something else, we cannot say for sure. And what happens
to the mind after death? We may surmise that such
a potent thing—and who would deny that it is
this?—can’t just abruptly cease to exist.
We must, for lack of evidence or personal experience,
plead ignorance and suspend judgment about this. It’s
no use repeating old beliefs and theories that we
have inherited from the past, for although these might
be comforting and reassuring, we still don’t
know!
However, for the sake of conveniently relating
part of my story, I will choose something that took
place in 1970, when I was in India. My purpose had
been to travel overland from Europe as far as possible
and then to go by plane or ship the rest of the way
to Australia to join my parents, who had recently
migrated there; I supposed Australia would become
my home too, and so, thinking that it might be my
last time in India (I had been there before), I decided
to wander around for a few months and visit some of
the ancient and holy places before leaving for Australia.
While in South India, in the holy town of
Rameswaram, where there is a huge and marvelous Hindu
temple, I was approached on the street one day by
a yogi or sadhu—a middle-aged man with very
long hair and beard, his thin and wiry body clad in
just a loin-cloth. He spoke no English and I spoke
very little Hindi, which was his native tongue, being
from North India; but somehow, we were able to communicate.
This meeting was a major turning-point in my life,
for whereas before, I had had no real direction in
my life, after that I embarked upon the journey that
I’m still on. He invited me to stay with him
in a nearby pilgrims’ rest-house known as a
dharma-sala, and I accepted, sleeping on the cement
floor and bathing at the well. I stayed with him only
a few days before resuming my wanderings, and although
during this time he gave me no specific lessons that
I can remember and put my finger on, I think of him—Jagadish
Narayan—as having played an important role in
my life. May he be well and happy now, wherever he
may be!
Leaving Rameswaram, my trip took me from
Kanyakumari—the southernmost tip of that vast
and fascinating country—through the southern
states of Tamilnadu, Kerala, Karnataka and Andhra
Pradesh, the central states of Maharashtra and Madhya
Pradesh, the Western states of Gujerat and Rajasthan,
to the northern states of Punjab, Haryana, Uttar Pradesh
and Bihar. In one of my previous books—BECAUSE
I CARE—I told of several illuminating experiences
I had at the caves of Ajanta-Ellora and the old Buddhist
site of Sanchi, so will not repeat that here. Instead,
I will pass on to New Delhi where, late one afternoon,
as I was making my way out of the city by foot to
a highway where I hoped to be able to hitch a ride
in the direction of India’s holiest city, Benares
(or Varanasi, as it is more commonly known), I was
overtaken by a Buddhist monk (the first I had ever
met), who asked me where I was going. When I told
him, he said that as it was getting late, it might
be better if I spent the night at his temple nearby,
and go on the next day. I accepted his invitation
and went with him to the temple, which was a simple
building of corrugated-iron with a banyan-tree in
the compound, and little else. He introduced me to
his brother-monk there who, like himself, was from
Chittagong in what was then East Pakistan, but which
soon afterwards became Bangladesh. I was received
hospitably and a charpoy (a wooden bed-frame interlaced
with rope) was placed out in the yard for me to sleep
on under the stars; in October, this was quite suitable
as the rainy season was over and the nights were mild.
I don’t recall being bothered by mosquitoes,
so there probably weren’t many, and those there
were I was able to tolerate, having traveled widely
in India and grown used to sleeping outside on a rush-mat
I carried with me.
The next day, Venerable Dhammika—for
such was the friendly monk’s name—invited
me to accompany him to the home of some of his supporters.
I accepted, and on the way there, by scooter-rickshaw,
he told me that, a few days before, one of the children
of the family we were going to visit had been knocked
down by a car and killed; the funeral was already
over, and he was going to the house to give a memorial
sermon.
Before I go any further, I should say that,
Venerable Dhammika being the first Buddhist monk I
had ever met, I knew nothing at all about the lifestyle
of monks. Therefore, I thought nothing of it when
he instructed the family to prepare a seat for me
alongside his against the wall, and to serve food
to both of us, while the family sat facing us. So
I sat there and ate what was served, unaware that
monks of the Theravada school of Buddhism—of
which he was a follower—never ate together with
non-monks but always separately. Maybe he thought
it would be inconvenient and embarrassing to explain
about this to me, or maybe he placed little importance
on this custom and was ready to overlook it; I do
not know. Maybe he was just kind; this I know.
After eating, he took his long-handled fan
(which I since learned was used while preaching) and,
holding it before him so that the people could hear
his voice but not see his face, he began to speak.
Now, I understood not a word of what he was saying,
although I presumed it was about the death of the
child. But, whereas the people in front of him could
not see his face because of the fan, I, still sitting
beside him, could, and I saw that, while speaking,
he was weeping, with tears rolling down his cheeks.
This moved me, for I saw that he cared so much about
the people to whom he was speaking, and shared their
loss and sorrow. I didn’t know, at that time,
that monks are not supposed to show their emotions
so but to restrain themselves. On the other hand,
however, we are taught to consider others as ourselves,
and to feel their suffering and pain as our own, for
it is by identifying with others that compassion arises.
I will state unequivocally here that I was
far more impressed with Venerable Dhammika of New
Delhi, who was not ashamed to weep with the family
over their loss, than with all the stony-faced monks
and nuns I’ve seen performing ceremonies over
the years—far more impressed, and favorably
so! Should a monk make his heart cold and hard like
a stone, which almost nothing can move? We all know,
of course, that no-one lives forever and that it’s
only a matter of time before we all pass through the
gateway of death. Increasing detachment and equanimity
result from reflection on this and insight into how
things are, but have nothing to do with mere unconcern
or indifference towards others.
I stayed with the two monks for three days,
during which time, the brother-monk, noting my interest,
asked me whether I would like to become a monk, and
if so, he would ordain me. I told him that I would
(I’d already decided this after my experience
at Sanchi), but that I wasn’t yet ready as I
first wanted to go to Australia to visit my parents
and tell them, in person, that I would be going back
to India to become a monk. Thanking them, I left,
and went on my way.
Over the years, I have thought many times
about Venerable Dhammika and his kindness to me, but
this is the first time I have written about him; I
confess my neglect. In 1988, I was back in Delhi for
the first time since 1970, but I couldn’t remember
just where his tiny temple was located, as Delhi had
changed so much in the meantime. I made some inquiries
and a monk at another small temple that I came across
told me he had died some years before; I don’t
know if this was true (I remember feeling somewhat
doubtful about it at the time, as the monk didn’t
seem sure himself), and when I was in Delhi again
at the end of 1993, I made a further search for him,
by taxi and on foot, but had no more success than
in 1988. Reluctantly, I abandoned my search, but the
fact that I wasn’t able to see him again does
not diminish the respect I still have for him. He
was the first monk I met, and without intending to,
he gave me something that has stayed with me until
now: an example of humility, kindness and concern
for others. I am fortunate to have met him, particularly
at that stage of my life; his example has helped to
sustain me through times of doubt and depression.
Wherever and however he is right now, I wish him well
in every way, and am grateful to him forever!
The next year, after visiting my parents
in Australia and telling them of my intention to return
to India to become a monk, I went to Indonesia, as
the cheapest route out of Australia, and it was there,
on my 25th birthday, that I met the chairman of a
Buddhist Society in Semarang, Central Java, and was
invited to stay with him for a few days and make use
of his extensive library. His name was Pak Sadono,
and he was very kind to me, providing me with different
kinds of Indonesian food every day. He also gave me
letters of introduction to several other Buddhist
Societies and temples on my way, and I was thus able
to travel from one place to another in Java and Sumatra,
receiving much hospitality and kindness.
Then, in the North Sumatran city of Medan,
I met another beautiful person: an Indian gentleman
by the name of Kumarasami, who took me, a waif and
stray, under his wing during the few days I spent
in the temple there, making me feel like one of his
sons. I recall him speaking to me of the love that
develops as one follows the Path; he himself manifested
it in abundance, and I have since felt it at times
and know what a wonderful thing it is, but—like
humility—it cannot be practiced; it must come
from inside, as a result of understanding or seeing
things clearly. Before I left to go to Malaysia, he
also gave me letters of introduction to temples in
Penang and Kuala Lumpur, but sadly, these letters
were not received in the same spirit as they were
given to me.
In 1978, I was again in Indonesia, and was
looking forward to seeing both Pak Sadono and Mr.
Kumara-sami again, but alas, this was not to be. I
learned that Pak Sadono had died some years before.
And, two weeks before I got to Medan, my dear benefactor
there also passed away. This was a cruel blow to me,
but I survived and have good memories of both these
men, both of whom were householders and had families,
and it is because of this that I can say, with authority,
that the Dharma is not only for monks or other people
who stay in temples or monasteries.
If, now, I am able to pass on and share
something with others, it is only because I received
so much from people like those I have mentioned in
this article, and in so sharing, perhaps I am able
to repay them in some measure for their love and kindness
to me. I bow to their memories! |