Not This, Not That ~ STOLEN-STUFF
SAGA
I bought
a mountain-bike to take to India with me, but it was
quite a heavy one, and I’d not ridden a bike
for years, so my first long ride from Madras south
to Mahaballipuram ~ a distance of about 65 kms ~ was
hard-going, and I was quite worn out by the time I
got there. I spent several days wandering around the
ruins and stupendous rock-carvings, then went back
to Madras. From there I took a train to Hyderabad,
and had some difficulty finding a cheap hotel. I set
off to visit the massive Golconda Fort a few kms away.
I explored the lower ruins and climbed to the highest
point. This had been the seat of a Muslim dynasty,
which derived its wealth from nearby diamond-mines,
and had long resisted the Moghul armies led by Aurangzeb;
with ring after ring of fortifications, I could see
how. The number of forts across the land, and museums
bursting with weapons, are mute witness that Indians
have been a martial race throughout history, and not
just recently; war is strongly in their blood, and
peace not dear to their hearts, despite their claims
to the contrary, and Gandhi’s call to non-violence.
Nor is it surprising, when Hinduism’s main scriptures,
certainly as understood by most Hindus ~ the Ramayana
and the Mahabharata ~ strongly seem to extol
war and violence; all the heroes are warriors, and
even their god, Krishna, instructs Arjuna to kill
his relatives in the course of duty; there’s
no need to speak of Islam, as it’s not an indigenous
Indian religion, and its own history speaks for it
any-way.
I made my way around Hyderabad, visiting mosques,
museums, and of course, the famous Char Minar, but
I could only guess at the former splendor of this
city. Until today, although it is far from the sea,
Hyderabad is renowned for its pearl-trade.
The great Buddha-image in the middle of an artificial
lake be-tween Hyderabad and its sister-city of Secunderabad
was either still under construction when I was there
or had fallen into the lake and had yet to be salvaged,
so I didn’t get to see it.
From Secunderabad, I went to Aurangabad, and visited
Ajanta and Ellora again; it is always good to be there.
I bought several kgs of geodes and crystals, and sent
them off by sea-mail from Bombay, which was my next
stop. Having seen little of this city during my earlier
visits, I hired a guide to show me some of the sights
by taxi, visiting the Parsee Towers of Silence,
where the dead are exposed for the vultures to eat,
a magnificent Jain temple, the Hanging Gardens
(so called not because they hang, but because in the
time of the British, criminals were hanged there),
the world’s largest open-air laundry, where
they have such an efficient system that clothes seldom
get lost or mixed up. Bombay was very hot at this
time, and quite trying for me. Even so, I made an
effort to visit Kanheri, a group of Buddhist
caves north of the city; it wasn’t easy to get
there, as it was a Sunday, and by the time I did and
had a look around, I was drenched in sweat.
It was at this time that I was told that Bombay now
had a popula-tion of about 16 million people, one
million of which were beg-gars! Near the Gateway
of India ~ a monument built by the Brit-ish to
commemorate the visit of the King-Emperor George V
in 1911, but not completed until 1924 (it earned its
name because it was often the first sight beheld by
visitors as they arrived in In-dia by way of the country’s
busiest port) ~ I met a street-kid, and was appalled
by his story: Aged about 12, he’d come to Bombay
from a village somewhere, as do countless people,
and lived on the streets with other kids, sustaining
his life by begging. One night, while he was asleep,
some kids had grabbed him and cut off one of his ears!
He was a pleasant little kid, not rude or greedy,
and was delighted with the few rupees I gave him,
im-mediately ordering tea for himself; I wish I’d
given him more.
The name of Bombay has been changed, but I refuse
to use its new name, Mumbai, because it shows
nationalistic chauvinism; in several states, all road-signs
in English have been replaced by Marathi or Hindi,
making it hard to get around. English used to be the
official language of this polyglot nation, and to
a large extent still is, but years ago there were
riots in the south when the Federal Government tried
to make Hindi ~ a northern tongue ~ the national language.
Tamil ~ a Dravidian language ~ is much older
than Hindi.
I wasn’t sorry to leave Bombay, and make my
way north to Udaipur, a city on a lake in Rajasthan,
where I stayed for a few days. While there, I came
down with bronchitis, a sickness that afflicted me
quite often, brought on by the pollution and dust
in the air; it responded only to antibiotics, the
alternative being to go on suffering for months. I
see now that antibiotics have weakened my system.
My memory fails me again here, and I don’t recall
how I got from Udaipur to Agra, where I stayed in
a hotel near the Taj Mahal. It was run by a shrewd
old Haji, who persuaded me to exchange my bike for
a small inlaid marble table-top and some gem-stones,
he getting the better part of the bargain; I didn’t
really want these things, but he refused to pay with
money. I’d had enough of my bike by then anyway,
so it didn’t matter.
Now, because Agra was for a long time the Mughal Emperors’
capital, it is still very much a Muslim city. It was
at this time that I had a discussion with a Muslim
I met outside the Taj Mahal, and among the things
he said to me was “Right hand is good, left
hand is bad.” I knew what he meant, of course,
but wanted to play with him, so asked him why this
should be, and he replied, “Because the Holy
Koran says it is.” Upon my request for
further elucidation, he explained: “Well, the
right hand is for eating with, and the left hand is
for toilet purposes.”
Unwilling to let such gross unreason go unchallenged,
I then said: “But if you wash both hands with
soap and water after an-swering the calls of nature,
they will both be clean, and there will be no question
about one hand being better than the other.”
With this conversation fresh in my mind, I went into
a restaurant and ordered right-handed chapatties
(Indian unleavened bread). The waiter looked puzzled
and asked what I meant. I said: “Chapatties
made with just the right hand.”
“No such thing!” he retorted; “we
must use both hands to make chapatties!”
“Ah, but I thought the left hand was bad and
only to be used for toilet purposes,” I said.
“We wash both hands,” he said sullenly.
Having provoked him, I decided not to eat chapattis
there in case he spit on them or something, and went
out.
I went to another restaurant nearby and sat on the
verandah, and while waiting for the food I’d
ordered, I observed an old man pull down his pants,
in full view of everyone, and squat over an open drain
across the narrow street from where I was sitting,
and calmly and unconcernedly do his thing,
using a can of water that he had brought with him
to clean himself afterwards! This must have been his
regular spot! And people were passing by within arms-reach
of him! But this is not unusual in India; in fact,
the whole country is just one big open toilet, where
people do it anywhere and everywhere: on the streets
and in the fields, just wherever and whenever ~ so
it seems ~ the mood comes upon them. Beautiful beaches
and other scenic spots are befouled, and you really
must watch your step! I got the impression they consider
themselves invisible while doing it, as they seem
oblivious to everything going on around them. You
see rows of men and boys along busy highways and railway-lines
at dawn, separated from each other by a few meters,
hard at it, with traffic streaming past (women and
girls must work night-shift, as they are seldom seen);
indeed, some of them gaze up at the buses and trucks
as they go by, and smile! It’s remarkable to
anyone unfamiliar with such habits, but normal to
the natives, of course. Maybe they feel claustrophobia
inside enclosed toilets, or like to be close to nature
and see the sky and hear the birds sing while doing
it. Gandhi’s exhortations to dig latrines obviously
went un-heeded. Even in big cities, people pee wherever
they feel like, and attempts to rectify this by building
urinals have been in vain. Never, anywhere, have I
seen so many public urinals as in Delhi, and never
have I seen so many people peeing anywhere ~ anywhere
except in the proper places. Consequently, many people
associate the odor of urine with Delhi; it is omnipresent,
even in the tourist areas! Not just this, but many
urinals are avoided because they have been used to
defecate in!
Indians seem to have a fixation with shit,
leaving it around for all to see, as if it’s
something lovely. Cow-dung is at least useful and
forms an important item of their home economy, collected
while still fresh, and put to numerous uses, like
plastering walls and floors; much of it is mixed by
hand with grass or straw and cakes of it are then
stuck onto any available surface to dry, with a handprint
visible in every cake. It is then used as fuel for
heat-ing and cooking and burns without much smoke
or smell while giving off quite a bit of heat. Cow-dung
also forms part of their traditional pharmacopoeia
~ another reason why cows are so highly prized in
India. If only they would find use for their own excrement
instead of leaving it lying around; someone could
make a fortune from it. India really is a shitty country!
Cow-cake-covered wall
Most people in the West would not remember ~ or
only dimly ~ the days when many houses had no flush-toilets
but only an out-house in the back garden, with a bucket
that had to be emptied into a pit periodically. Now
we just press a button or pull a chain and our waste-matter
goes gurgling out of sight so conveniently. We’ve
come a long way.
Now, the whole world ~ or most of it, anyway ~ is
convinced that right is somehow better than the left.
Why do I say this? Well, just look at how we shake
hands: except for the Boy Scouts (al-though why they
should be contrary, I don’t know), everyone
offers their right hand for others to shake, and some
would take offence if they were offered the left hand.
But I can think of no good or logical reason why the
right should be regarded as in any way better than
the left; it is just a matter of convention and we
are stuck with it, because to change it now would
be almost impossible, and what would we change it
to that would not also be ~ or soon become ~ a thing
of convention? There are so many things we are stuck
with that have no foundations in real-ity, but to
change them would be very difficult. Another example
is our dating-system, which is really relevant only
to Christians, yet the whole world conforms to it.
Such things should be re-garded as what Buddhism terms
‘relative truth’ and as useful for the
purposes of communication; but they have nothing to
do with ‘ultimate truth’ ~ that is, to
things that are as they are, or to the principles
of life, that do not change. There is no need to change
them; rather, we should understand them as what they
are: just social conventions, which are useful as
such. We have lived with them for a long time already
and can continue to do so, as long as they don’t
cause inconvenience or trouble.
Buddhists also think of the right as better
than the left, as evinced in the way Buddhist monks
dress, with the right shoul-der bared in the case
of Theravada monks (monks of other sects also dress
with something distinctive about the right shoulder);
then there is the way they circumambulate stupas or
holy places: always clockwise, with their right side
towards the object of veneration. Once, in Budh-Gaya
~ where there are al-ways people circumambulating
the stupa, chanting, reciting mantras, prostrating,
telling their rosaries, or sitting quietly in meditation
~ I saw a Western monk going in the opposite direc-tion.
When I asked why, he said that you don’t always
have to do what everyone else is doing, but can do
whatever you want. Well, in principle I agree with
this, of course, but feel that to try to be different,
instead of letting your natural differences out, is
an expression of ego, and therefore defeats the whole
purpose. He knew the custom, but while he didn’t
see anything intrinsi-cally wrong with it, just wanted
to be different; or maybe just wanted to see what
would happen if he went the other way around. I don’t
know what ~ if anything ~ did happen, but
while I was there, nothing extraordinary took place,
and he wasn’t struck by a thunderbolt for his
‘impiety’.
There is nothing wrong with convention if we understand
it and it is useful, or at least, not harmful. If
we decided to shake hands with the left instead of
the right merely to defy convention and demonstrate
our ‘independent thinking’, we wouldn’t
be arrested and charged with committing a crime, but
it would create unnec-essary confusion and serve no
useful purpose.
We can be ~ as many of us are ~ bound by convention,
or we can understand and follow accordingly. To offer
our right hand to someone to shake rather than our
left means we’re being mind-ful to some extent,
and mindfulness is always good. To make a point of
giving with our right hand instead of the left might
mean we are aware of what we are doing, whereas to
give with either hand, not much caring which, would
indicate unawareness or even sloppiness. Better still
if we would give with both hands as that would indicate
much more awareness of what we are doing, and the
person to whom we are giving might feel honored to
be made the object of such special attention.
Manners are another convention, and though there are
certain manners which not everyone would agree upon
or share ~ for example, the custom, in some countries,
of belching loudly after meals to show satisfaction
over the food ~ many things are gen-erally accepted
without question, and courtesy and politeness would
facilitate our passage in most parts of the world,
whereas roughness and rudeness would cause doors to
close in our face.
Back to India, though, it is a place to really tax
your patience, and though we do, at times, meet friendly
people, I’ve found my-self becoming suspicious
and thinking, “What does he want?” as
you meet so many people who are not friendly. And
very often, it turns out that your suspicions are
justified. It is not good to feel like this, I know,
but what is the alternative? If you didn’t,
you’d be ripped-off on every side. Then ~ you
may ask ~ why do I keep on going there? I don’t
know; sometimes I think I must be mad, or masochistic,
or maybe I have to pay some ancient debt to that land
and its people.
Passing on from Agra to Delhi, I again made a search
for Ven. Dhammika’s small temple, even checking
a city-guide for the street name ~ I remembered it
was Church Street or Church Road ~ but had no more
success than the last time. I accepted the fact that
I would never see him again.
I’d never been to the old British summer-capital
of Simla before, so decided to make a visit. Boarding
a train for the steep climb on the narrow-gauge line,
I got to this formerly-prestigious town perched high
on the ridges of several hills. It was cold, with
patches of snow still around. I went to the old Viceroy’s
lodge ~ the administration-center of the Raj during
the hot season, and built of the finest materials
at great cost in the form of a Scottish castle ~ and
wandered right through it, even into parts normally
off-limits like the Viceroy’s bedroom, which
would have been the height of luxury at that time,
but which we would probably com-plain about today
~ especially the plumbing! I felt a very strong presence,
as of old ghosts, much stronger than at Mussoorie;
the Brits had never really left there; much of them
remained. I went along the Mall, past the English
tea-shops and the Angli-can Church, and even climbed
the steep hill overlooking the town, and from where
there is a good view of the Himalayas.
Back in Delhi, eating in a restaurant near the Red
Fort one day, I was served by a Nepalese waiter, and
was glad to see a non-Aryan face again after such
a long time. I admit to having racial preferences.
After numerous times in India, there is not even one
person I can call a real friend. Unable to find work
in Nepal, many people leave to find work in other
places, where they are often exploited, made to stay
in crowded quarters, and paid a pittance. Many Indians
look down on Nepalese and consider them uncivilized;
the highly reprehensible Hindu caste-system is largely
to blame for this and other ways of looking at others.
I went on to Benares again, and stayed at the Chinese
temple in Sarnath for a day or two; there was a young
Malaysian monk in charge at this time, and he was
quite friendly; pity he didn’t stay long. From
there, I went to Budh-Gaya to stayed in the Vietnam-ese
temple again. Thay Huynh Dieu was away in France,
so I didn’t get to meet him.
Just as I was about to head south again and return
to Malaysia, I met three Vietnamese ~ an elderly lady,
a younger woman and a young guy ~ from the US, who
had rented a car and driver, and were on their way
to visit the other Buddhist places; they in-vited
me to go with them. As a guide, they had an Indian
monk named Nanda, but he was a rogue, only
concerned with money. I sat with him and the driver
in the front, and we set off along the Grand Trunk
Road to Benares and Sarnath, where the Buddha preached
His first sermon, known as The Turning of the
Wheel of the Law. We stayed in the Chinese temple,
but the Malaysian monk had left and his replacement
was of a different tempera-ment. Now, temples at the
Buddhist holy places are dependent on the donations
of visitors and pilgrims, who visit during the cooler
months from October to March, after which it gets
too hot until June or July, and then the monsoon breaks.
I mentioned before that there are no Buddhists in
these areas, the population being mainly Hindu or
Muslim, and of course, they don’t support the
Buddhist temples. Accommodation is available for visitors
in most temples, and the Chinese temple in Sarnath
is particularly large, with many guest-rooms. Monks
from overseas volunteer to stay in temples to run
them for a while, and probably go there with good
intentions, but it is not long before they are faced
with the necessity of making ends meet; it is an unenviable
position, and soon they look at the visitors in a
calculating way, wonder-ing how much they will receive.
Now, most visitors, having come all this way, are
not stingy with donations, and would offer more than
they would pay for a hotel. Well, we got a warm welcome
here, and were given nice rooms, and when we left,
the Viet-namese people made their offerings.
After seeing something of Benares and the shrines
of Sarnath, we went to Kusinara, where we got rooms
in another Chinese temple, which, since my last visit,
had somehow been taken over by a prominent Vietnamese
monk from France, named Thich Huyen Vi (who
had studied in India years before, and knew about
the situation of the Chinese temples there: how the
Chinese Buddhists of India are hard-put to find monks
to run their temples); he had sent one of his nuns
to take care of this temple, and again, we were warmly
received. She was in the middle of extending the temple
and told us she was transforming it into a meditation-center.
More about her later.
Traveling by car like this was quite convenient, even
if we were a bit cramped, as we could stop where we
wanted, and make any detours. Our next stop was Shravasti,
after which we back-tracked to cross the border of
Nepal and check into a hotel at Bhairava,
and from there drove to Lumbini, but didn’t
stay. Then, paying off the driver, and giving Nanda
a handsome tip, they dispensed with the car, and invited
me to fly to Kathmandu with them. Arriving, we got
a taxi to the city, pre-paying the fare at the airport.
Getting down, we offered the driver a tip, and were
astonished at his reluctance to accept it; had it
been in India, he would have snatched it from us and
asked for more!
I led the way to a monastery near the river, where
I knew the abbot, Ven. Ashvagosha, from twenty
years before. We were welcomed, but the rooms were
spartan and it was very cold, so showers were out
of the question. We then proceeded to see the sights,
and at one point stayed overnight at Nagarkot,
a hill place from where there is a good view of the
Himalayan peaks as the sun rises.
After a few days, my benefactors flew to Delhi, and
I got a night-bus back to the border, and from there,
another bus to Benares. I went to the Chinese temple
in Sarnath again, but because I was alone this time,
the monk-in-charge was not so welcoming, and gave
me a very dark and dirty little room, although there
were many other empty rooms; he probably thought he
wouldn’t receive much from me. Anyway, I’ve
stayed in worse places over the years, and made the
most of it.
I was looking forward to spending time in this generally-peaceful
place, but the next day, when I returned from a brief
visit to nearby Benares, I found it very unpeaceful,
as ~ being January 1st, and a public holiday ~ it
was crowded. People were every-where, sprawled on
the grass around the central stupa and among the ruins,
picnicking, playing football and cricket ~ some young
people even dancing to music from their tape-players!
~ in spite of signs around the place forbidding such
activities. Rules like this are seldom respected or
enforced in India. At one side of the main stupa a
Tibetan lama was giving a Dharma-talk to quite a large
group of people, mainly Westerners, many of them monks
and nuns. I only wanted to be quiet, so didn’t
join them, but how to be quiet with so much noise
and harsh music blaring from the ubiquitous loud-speakers
outside the grounds? I felt sad at the irreverence
of the local people, although I’d seen so much
of it before in other places that it should have caused
me no surprise and I should even have expected it.
I passed through the park and went over to the Burmese
monas-tery on the far side, hoping to find some quiet
there. Well, it was quieter, to be sure, but none
of the monks I met or saw showed much friendliness,
and I was either ignored or met with quizzical looks,
probably because of my dress, which is different from
theirs. It has been my experience, over the years,
that Theravada monks, especially, find it very hard
to deal with monks who do not follow or subscribe
to their type of Buddhism (once, at the Great Stupa
at Bodnath, I greeted a Nepalese Theravada monk with
anjali ~ the traditional form of greeting
with joined palms ~ and the word “Namaste”.
Getting no response, I said: “No Namaste?”
He then hurriedly mumbled “Namaste”).
Sadly, sectarianism is widespread among Buddhists,
although it never gave rise to violence, as it did
among followers of other religions.
Preferring the noise of the crowds to the non-friendliness
of the Burmese monastery, I went back to the Deer
Park to find a place to sit, feeling that something
was about to happen. I sat cross-legged beneath a
tree, on the low wall of a ruined monastery, my eyes
half-closed and downcast; my mind soon became focused
and calm. Although people kept coming by to look at
me and make fun and silly remarks, I ignored them
and it didn’t disturb me. After a while, someone
came and stood at one side, looking intently at me;
I could feel his gaze; but I didn’t move or
acknowledge him in any way. After some more minutes,
he sat down nearby, and I thought: “He wants
something. Well, let him wait; I’ll test him
to see how long he’s prepared to wait.”
Continu-ing to sit there, unmoving, for maybe another
20 minutes, I then stirred, at which he stood up and
came over to me with his hands in anjali.
Respectfully, he said: “I saw you sitting there
and was impressed, so asked my friends to leave me
here for a while and come back later. I’m interested
in meditation,” he said, “and wonder if
you would explain something about it for me.”
I asked if he knew the significance of the place we
were in, but he said, “Not really.” I
found this a bit hard to believe, as he had already
said he was studying philosophy in Varanasi University,
so how could he know nothing about this Buddhist holy
place? Maybe he just said it to see what I would say.
Anyway, I told him it was here that the Buddha gave
His first sermon to the five as-cetics who had formerly
been his companions, and related to him the reason
they had left Him. Before his Enlightenment, they
had followed him in his austere and extreme practices,
waiting for him to make the breakthrough, and feeling
that he would then show them the way. But when he
failed to achieve his goal by fasting so much that
he was reduced to just skin and bones and almost died
as a result, he realized this was the wrong way and
that, just as a life of luxury and pleasure, such
as he had lived in the palace, was ignoble and unprofitable,
so was a life of self-mortification and deprivation,
which he had been following; both ways make the mind
dull and incapable of seeing things clearly. He felt
there had to be a middle way which avoided these extremes,
and that it would be the way of meditation such as
he’d experienced in his boyhood when he had
been taken out to the countryside and left in the
shade of a tree while his father and courtiers went
off to lead the Spring Plowing Festival.
Gradually, the young prince became aware of the suffering
all around him: how the oxen pulling the plows were
beaten and goaded to make them pull harder, how the
plowmen sweated and strained under the hot sun, how
worms and insects were exposed and died as the plow-shares
turned the earth, and how birds came down to eat them,
big birds attacking small birds; he noted how life
lived on life, from the smallest of its forms to the
largest, and how man was also a predator. His observations
moved him so profoundly that, seating himself cross-legged
and upright, his mind became calm and clear. It was
the memory of this incident so many years before that
now showed him the way to go: not by torturing and
starving the body shall I find libera-tion, he thought,
but by observing how things are.
When he began to eat again, however, the yogis attending
him thought he’d given up his search to return
to a life of pleasure, so left him in disgust. Undeterred,
he continued, and slowly, his strength returned. After
some weeks, recovered and refreshed, while seated
under a tree respected by Buddhists ever since as
the ‘Bodhi-tree’ or ‘Tree of Awakening’,
he became a Buddha, Enlightened, an Awakened One.
He had achieved His goal, had clearly understood Suffering,
the Cause of Suffering, the Ceas-ing of Suffering,
and the Way that leads to its Ceasing.
After His Enlightenment, He was at first inclined
to remain alone in the forest, thinking that what
He’d discovered was very hard to comprehend,
and that if He tried to share it with others, no-one
would understand, and it would only be needlessly
trouble-some for Him. But He eventually decided to
go forth and teach, and then He considered who He
should teach. He recalled His former companions. “They
were intelligent and good, even if a little misguided,”
He thought; “They might understand.”
So He set off to join them just outside Benares, about
200 kms from where He had become Enlightened. It would
have taken Him several weeks to walk there as He was
in no hurry. When He arrived, the five saw Him coming
in the distance, and said to each other: “See
who’s coming: Siddhartha! Ignore him; we lost
our respect for him when he abandoned his search for
truth.” But as He got nearer, so impressive
was His appearance and bearing that they forgot their
resolve to ignore Him, and sponta-neously rose to
receive Him respectfully. They gave Him water to drink
and wash His face and feet, and prepared a seat for
Him. Then, refreshed and seated, He addressed them
thus: “Open is the Gate to the Deathless. I
have found that which I sought! Pay attention and
I will explain,” and He told them of the Middle
Way, which avoids the extremes of a life of pleasure
and luxury on the one hand, and a life of self-mortification
and depri-vation on the other, and which leads to
Enlightenment. He ex-plained what He had realized
about Suffering. As He spoke about these things, one
of them ~ Kondanya, by name ~ be-came enlightened,
and the Buddha saw it on his face, because when a
person understands something very deeply and clearly,
it does show on his face, like a light radiating outwards
through the skin. The Buddha exclaimed: “Kondanya
has understood! Kondanya has understood!”
At this point in my narrative ~ and I must confess
I have fleshed it out a bit in writing here for the
sake of further clarification for my readers ~ I asked
the young man to visualize the scene of the Buddha
speaking to the five yogis; it is most important to
do so. What the Buddha looked like, we really don’t
know, but He certainly did not look like the images
we have made to represent Him. If He had not yet shaved
His head at that time, as an example of what He later
asked His monks to do, He probably looked like a yogi
Himself, with long, matted hair and beard. And if
He didn’t look like that, the five
almost certainly did, and not as most Buddhist art
since then has shown them, as Buddhist monks,
with shaven heads and faces, clad in typical Buddhist
robes; we must keep it in mind that, at this point,
there were no Buddhist monks; they were about to become
the first; and it was some time after this that the
uniform of the monks was decided upon. They
~ and the Buddha Himself ~ would have looked weather-beaten
and not overly-clean, living the life they did.
We have idealized the Buddha so much that it is hard
to imagine Him as a normal-looking human-being, yet
such He was, behind all the deification of Him that
has gone on since. Indeed, there are still Buddhists
who believe that He was about five metres tall! In
Thailand, there is a beautiful temple built around
a de-pression in the rock that is believed to be a
footprint made by the Buddha, but it is so big that
a person could get into it and lie down! This is not
realistic and merely increases superstition and ignorance
instead of diminishing them! Buddhists are often guilty
of idolatry ~ as we are sometimes accused of being
~ but we are by no means the only ones; it is quite
common, and comes about through mistaking the form
for the essence. (Besides, the Buddha never left India,
and probably never went beyond the Ganges river-valley,
or even saw the sea, although he often used the ocean
as a metaphor in His teachings).
Continuing, I asked the young man if he imagined the
five yogis to all be sitting in the same position
~ the posture we associate with meditation: cross-legged,
upright, hands in lap and eyes downcast ~ like statues,
or photo-copies of each other, as they appear in Thai
or Indian pictures of this scene? Would they not probably
~ I went on ~ have been sitting in various postures,
maybe with elbow on knee, chin in hand, and so on,
relaxed, yet perfectly attentive? We can be attentive
without sitting cross-legged, can we not? And in that
attentive state, they would not have been thinking
about the past, the future, or even the pre-sent;
nor would they have been thinking about or practicing
meditation, as do so many ‘meditators’;
they would have been rapt, paying complete attention;
they were in the present, in meditation.
Have we not all known this kind of meditation at times?
Of course we have, but probably didn’t realize
what it was, and so we ask around about meditation,
thinking it must be something exotic and special instead
of something we have known ~ in one way ~ for most
of our lives.
It is because we have not understood what we have
known that we continue to jump around, seeking teachers,
doing medita-tion-courses and retreats, and so on,
looking, but not seeing, and in the end we have to
come back to ourselves, having gone a long, circuitous
way around, when a little intelligent thought would
have saved us much time and trouble. It’s rather
like rub-bing two sticks together ~ and wet sticks,
at that! ~ to produce fire, when there are matches
and other means of ignition at hand. Why insist on
doing things the hard way? What are we aiming for
with our pious and strenuous practices? What kind
of race are we running ~ a marathon or something?
If the aim of our meditation-practice is insight ~
insight into how things are ~ can it be ‘attained’
by sitting cross-legged for hours and hours? Obviously,
we think insight can be made to arise, and that it
is within our capacity to do it ~ to ‘storm
the gates of heaven’, as it were. The corollary
of this is to conclude that people who don’t
practice such things are incapable of experiencing
insight, which is a great misconception and reveals
our greed and desire to get something in return for
our efforts, instead of seeing things as they are
and what we’ve already got. There is so much
fearful self-concern behind our efforts. Thus, our
religious practices be-come materialistic ~ what the
late Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche ~ a well-known
Tibetan lama ~ referred to as ‘spiritual materialism’:
the craving for and attachment to results.
Still with my young inquirer: I asked if he’d
seen the Tibetan monk over near the main stupa, speaking
to a large group of Westerners. These people, I went
on, had left the comfort and luxury of their homes
on the far side of the world, to come to dirty and
smelly India where one must undergo so many hassles
as a matter of routine, in search of Dharma. And all
around them are Indians oblivious to this, just whiling
away their time with picnics and games. Why should
this be? And why are you dif-ferent? Why do you want
to know about these things? Why aren’t you enjoying
yourself instead, like your people here? Don’t
even try to answer, I told him, because you don’t
know, as the roots of the present ~ and of any situation
and thing ~ are hidden in the past, and very few of
them can be perceived. There are no accidents in life,
but neither is everything pre-ordained; all things
arise from causes, and there are so many contributory
causes to each effect that it is simply impossible
to imagine or perceive them all. You must accept the
fact that you are different, even though it is often
difficult to be different and ‘odd’. And
try to keep the flame of your inquiry burning steadily
~ not high one minute and low the next. Ask questions,
yes ~ ask questions of anyone and leave no stone unturned
~ but don’t accept their answers unthinkingly,
as their answers will not be your
answers, and in such matters, second-hand answers
will never completely satisfy you; at most, they can
reassure you somewhat and help you check and confirm
your experiences; we must find our own answers; there
is no substitute for this.
The young man seemed satisfied with my explanation
and went away with a light step; and as for me, I
knew that this was why I’d felt the need to
sit down; my feeling had been vindicated.
Our desire and search for results from our efforts
often blinds us to what is here. Moreover, there is
often a fearful self-concern in our search. The Buddhist
scriptures tell of many cases of people becoming enlightened
just by listening to the Buddha, and some of them
had no conscious knowledge of meditation and had never
‘practiced’ it. So, to claim that “meditation
is the only way” ~ as a well-known Buddhist
figure in Malaysia said ~ is not cor-rect, unless
we consider meditation in a much broader way than
most ‘meditators’ do: that there is nothing
outside of it, that it is all-inclusive. Enlightenment
arises as a result of seeing things clearly ~ not
with our physical eyes, but with the ‘third
eye’ or ‘eye of understanding’.
Understanding plays such a big part in our lives ~
from very basic things like how to tie our shoelaces
or make tea, to perception of reality. So, we might
say meditation concerns understanding, but understanding
is not something we do; instead, it happens to or
in us, something, in fact, that does us! In this way,
who doesn’t meditate? Who has not
known meditation? Away with foolish and elitist questions
of “Do you meditate?” “What kind
of meditation do you practice?” “Who is
your meditation-teacher?” etc. Come on; wake
up!
The Pali word ‘bhavana’ is usually translated
‘mental develop-ment,’ and includes what
we generally mean by words like concentration, meditation,
contemplation and mindfulness. What is it but
bhavana, then, when we learn how to read and write?
This is also mental-development, is it not? Moreover,
as a healthy kind of mental-development, it is in
line with the Buddha’s Teachings.
If you wish to ‘practice’ meditation,
by all means do; do whatever you like, as long as
it doesn’t harm anyone or anything and you are
prepared to accept the consequences without complaining
or blaming others for them. Whatever you do, however,
whether it be chanting, praying, meditating, keeping
precepts, giving, ab-staining from meat-eating, etc.,
take care not to become proud of it, as that would
only defeat the purpose, and you’d become like
a dog running round and round in circles, chasing
its own tail. It is not rare to come across people
who are proud of their practices, feeling better than
those who don’t do such things; but they
should be regarded as our teachers, too, in that they
show us, by example, what not to do or how not to
do it.
Care should be taken about our motives for ‘practicing’
meditation, and what we expect to get from it. We
should know why we are doing what we are doing.
Some people, overly concerned with getting results
from their efforts, not only become blind to what
is right in front of them, but sometimes become mentally
unhinged or disturbed. If one is not careful, and
in a great hurry for results, meditation
easily becomes maditation! It is not un-common.
Approach life with Dharma and everything becomes meditation;
anytime, anywhere, insight might arise.
Meditation is more about seeing than with looking.
Looking is active, something we do, while seeing is
passive, something that happens.
From Benares, I entrained for Jalgaon and visited
Ajanta again, leaving my bags in Jalgaon station.
Returning for my bags af-terwards, I went to Bhusawal,
and it was there that misfortune ~ or what might be
considered such ~ overtook me, in the follow-ing way:
To get to Madras meant a journey of 24 hours, and
I did not want to travel without a reservation, as
Indian trains are usually unpleasantly crowded. I
bought a ticket at Bhusawal junction, but
was unable to get a reservation for that evening’s
train and had to settle for one the next evening;
this meant I had to stay overnight in Bhusawal. Inquiring
about accommodation, I was told I might get a place
in the first-class air-conditioned retir-ing-rooms
of the station itself, but when I went there, I was
told that there was only one place left, and that
I’d have to share a room with someone else.
Well, since it was for only one night, and the rate
not excessive, I agreed to do so. This was my first
mistake; I should have sought out a room for myself.
But if we knew, in advance, that we were about to
make mistakes, we would not make any; it’s always
easy to be wise after the event.
I was taken up to the room, but the other occupant
was out. When he returned, we introduced ourselves;
he seemed to be well-educated, decent and friendly,
and gave me one of his business-cards, saying that
he’d traveled overseas on business, and had
even stayed in the famous Raffles Hotel in
Singapore. He said he had to meet a business-associate
the next morning, and would not be leaving until the
afternoon. Other than small-talk, however, we did
not have much to say to each other.
The next morning, I rose at my usual early time and
went into the bathroom, careful to take with me the
small bag containing my passport, camera and Indian
currency; my travelers’ checks were in a waist-pouch,
and my other bags were locked beside my bed. Later,
when I went for breakfast, he must have noticed that
I took my small bag with me, and waited for a chance
to get his hands on it. This came later, when I went
into the bathroom for some water and carelessly left
my bag on my bed. No sooner had the door closed behind
me on its spring-hinges than he jumped up, bolted
the door from the outside, and made off with my bag
and his own stuff, ripping out the phone before he
went.
By the time my shouts brought someone to let me out
it was too late for pursuit, and I could do nothing
but make a report at the nearby police-station. When
I finally completed this lengthy and slow process,
I asked where I might change money, as all my rupees
~ enough, I’d thought, for my few remaining
days in India ~ had gone in my bag; I had not a single
rupee left. One plain-clothes policeman offered to
drive me to a bank on his scooter, which was very
kind of him as it was not part of his duty. The bank,
however, wouldn’t cash a travelers’ check
for me, and told me I’d have to go to the next
town for this, but I didn’t want to do so. The
policeman then dropped me back at the station, but
came running after me and pressed 40 rupees into my
hand, knowing I had none; then, without waiting for
me to get his name and address so I might send him
back the money, he went off.
I then went to the reservations-office to report my
lost ticket, and while there, met someone who was
willing to change $50 for me, though at a very low
rate. I was sent back to the ticket-counter to get
a replacement ticket, for which I had to pay a 25%
fee. I also went back to the police-station, but the
officer who had helped me had already gone home, so
I left a sum of money for him with other officers,
trusting them to pass it to him.
All this time, I had not been very happy, of course,
but consoled myself with the thought that whatever
can be lost will be lost, sometime
or other. I also reminded myself that I was lucky,
as it was my eighth trip in India and this was the
first time anything like this had happened to me.
It could have been much worse, I reasoned; I could
have lost everything, too, and even been wounded or
killed, instead of losing just one small bag and its
contents. I’ve heard of people going there for
the first time and losing everything except the clothes
they were wearing!
My train was 5 hours late, and I got on for the long
journey to Madras, thinking there would be an Aussie
Consulate where I might get a new passport, but there
wasn’t, so I had to return to Delhi. To save
time, I reluctantly paid US$170 for a plane-ticket,
and flew out the next day. In Delhi, I went through
the usual hassles of finding a taxi and a hotel, but
finally managed, and the next morning, went to the
Australian High Commission where I was told a new
passport couldn’t be issued then, and that I
should come back for it the next day. I was greatly
relieved to hear this, plus being surprised at the
friendliness of the staff there, as I fully expected
to have to wait at least a week for it.
I went to see the Nepalese waiter in the restaurant
near the Red Fort again; he was surprised to see me
and gave me his ad-dress, asking me to write to him;
I said I would, and I did. His name was Yam Bahadur.
Going for my new passport the next day, I met a guy
from Tasmania who was there for exactly the same thing;
his passport had been stolen in Madras airport,
just as he was about to leave for Australia! With
so much in common, therefore, we decided to travel
back to Madras by train together, so we obtained tickets
for that evening’s express, at about $10, with
sleeper reserva-tions for the 36 hours’ trip
south. We arrived in Madras tired and dirty from the
journey, and found a hotel before setting about getting
new Indian visas in our new passports, without which
we would not have been allowed to leave the country.
Some days later, new visa in new passport, I got a
flight back to Malaysia, it was perhaps the happiest
part of my trip in India; it was so good to get back
to friendly faces in Malaysia!
This was not the end of the stolen-stuff saga however;
there was a sequel to it: Three months later, while
I was still in Malaysia, I received a letter from
Sheila in Adelaide saying that a big enve-lope ~ containing
my old passport, address-book and some other papers
~ had arrived for me from the Aussie High Comm in
Delhi. They had received these things from the police-station
in Bhusawal. How the police-station had got them,
I don’t know, but I presume the thief had felt
some remorse at stealing my stuff and somehow handed
them in to the police, because if he had simply discarded
them at the roadside or somewhere, they would never
all have come back to me like that. I was very happy,
therefore, because although the old passport had been
cancelled, and I had back-up copies of most of the
addresses in my address-book anyway, it indicated
to me that the thief had learned something from it
all; had he not stolen my stuff, maybe he would not
have learned what I think he did. My loss appeared
quite differently, and I am, after all, in the business
of trying to help others understand things like this,
am I not? Can I expect any success without any outlay
or expenditure?
“The
best way to cheer yourself up is to try to cheer somebody
else up”.
~ Mark Twain
~
|