Not This, Not That ~ NEPAL, INDIA,
PAKISTAN AND KASHMIR
Then,
because I intended to go to Nepal and India again,
I wrote to Raju in Kathmandu, asking if he would like
me to bring anything for him. He asked for a camera,
so I duly bought one, expecting him to pay me for
it when I got there. I got a visa from the Indian
High Commission in K.L. ~ what a rigmarole that was!
~ and flew out to Kathmandu in February ’98.
There, I took a room in the Snow-Lion Guest House,
and passed the camera to Raju, but he didn’t
offer to pay me for it, or even ask how much it had
cost; my mistake, perhaps; he probably thought I’d
brought it as a gift. But I later learned from someone
else that he had done this with others, asking them
to bring things for him, but not offering to pay.
He didn’t offer me a thangka
from his shop when I returned to Malaysia later on.
The reason I came to Nepal this time was to follow
the steps of the Buddha on His first journey after
becoming Enlightened, from Budh-Gaya to Sarnath, but
I had heard there were many dacoits ~ bandits
or robbers ~ in this area, so decided it would be
better to get someone to accompany me as a translator
and also to watch my back, as it were; I preferred
a Nepalese for this. It wasn’t easy to find
someone, but eventually, Raju came up with a trekking-guide
to go with me; we negotiated, and I agreed to pay
all costs and give him $5 per day, as this is what
he asked for. I forget his name, so let’s call
him Prabu for the sake of convenience.
We got a bus to the border-crossing at Raxaul, where
we spent the night, and the next day, went on to Patna,
but there was no direct bus to Gaya from there, so
we had to go in stages, getting to Gaya at night.
Now, the road from there to Budh-Gaya itself is notorious
for night-time hold-ups ~ bus-loads of foreigners
have been robbed of everything by armed dacoits along
its 15 kms length, and such acts have increased in
recent years because more people and a lot of money
have been coming in; some people have even been shot
in temples there! ~ so we spent the night in a hotel
and went on the next morning by taxi.
In Budh-Gaya, I directed the taxi-driver to the Japanese
temple, where I’d stayed before, thinking we
might get accommodation there, but when I went in
and spoke to the monk, he said, “Sorry, it is
only for Japanese people.”
“But the sign over your gate says ‘International
Buddhist Broth-erhood,” I said.
“Oh, that is only a name,” he said.
“Too right,” I thought. We went next to
the Bhutanese temple nearby, but the monk there said,
“This room costs this much; that room costs
this much.” I said nothing, but walked away
thinking, “Just like a hotel.”
I went into the Chinese temple, leaving Prabu outside.
When I told the monk there of my plan to walk to Benares,
he asked where I would stay until I started, and I
said I didn’t know. “You may stay here,”
he said.
“But I have a guide outside,” I said.
“That’s alright; he can also stay.”
I thanked him and went out to bring Prabu in. We were
assigned a room and told the time of lunch. There
was enough time to visit the Mahabodhi temple in the
meantime, and when we returned and sat down for lunch,
there was a strained feeling. Back in our room, a
Chinese visitor from Calcutta came to me with a message
from the monk: it was alright for me to stay, as I
was a monk, but Prabu would have to find somewhere
else. I was stunned, and was sure it was a mat-ter
of racism, but said, “He is my responsibility,
so if he must go, I also don’t want to stay.”
I told the man what I thought of racist Buddhists,
and we went to stay in a hotel. I knew, from previous
visits, that there have been the foundations of an
Indian Bud-dhist temple there, but it never got any
further because, no sooner was money collected to
resume construction, than someone would abscond with
it. Because of this, the various other temples in
Budh-Gaya won’t allow Indians to stay, as they
just don’t trust them. And Nepalese look like
Indians.
At the Mahabodhi temple one day, I met two Vietnamese
monks who were studying in India; one of them ~ Thich
Hanh Thanh ~ gave me his address in Delhi and
invited me to stay with him when I got there. I said
I would contact him.
One afternoon, I got talking to a Muslim money-changer,
who, learning I was from Australia, told me he had
met an Australian monk the year before, and when he
described him, I knew he was referring to no-one else
but Liem Dien. He’d been there making a big
show, distributing alms to beggars and being filmed
while doing so. And he’d told the man of his
intention to walk from Budh-Gaya to Delhi carrying
a large Buddhist flag in order to show people along
the way that Buddhism was return-ing to the land of
its origin. Poor Liem; always wanting to make a show!
He was fond of showing people the burns on his body
from napalm during the war, and after settling in
Australia, had gone to America to try to get compensation
from the government for his injuries; he didn’t
succeed.
Getting what we’d need for the journey ~ rush-mats,
blankets and sturdy bamboo staffs ~ we waited until
the weather cleared then set off early one morning.
It was my aim to go cross-country, through the villages,
as the Buddha would have done, and where life hasn’t
changed very much over the centuries; people still
till the fields with ox-drawn plows, draw water from
wells, and cook over cow-dung fires; most villages
still have no electricity, telephones or TV’s;
life there is simple.
Falling into an easy gait, we made good time until
we came to a large village where the festival of Holi
~ a Hindu Spring Festival ~ was in full-swing; I’d
not taken this into account, and we soon had to deal
with inebriated revelers who wanted to throw colored
powder over us or squirt us with water; we passed
through as quickly as we could, and stopped at the
other side for tea and a snack. I told Prabu to ask
directions (Hindi and Nepali are simi-lar, so he had
no problems with this), and he came back report-ing
what he’d variously been told: “Don’t
go that way; there’s a Muslim village; dangerous.”
“There’s a river ahead; you won’t
get across.” “You won’t be able
to find food along the way.”
I said to him, “The people who told you must
have been Hindus; if you’d asked Muslims, they
might have said there’s a danger-ous Hindu village
up ahead. And if there’s a river, there will
be boats. And where there are people, there will be
food. Come on.” We passed through the Muslim
village without any trouble, and when we got to the
river ~ oh yes, there was a river ~ it was very wide,
but also very shallow ~ about 20 cms at its deepest
~ so we simply waded across. And food? Well, as we
passed through villages, people ran out inviting us
to come to their homes and eat! At the end of the
day, we accepted one such in-vitation, but soon regretted
it, because although I appreciated their hospitality,
and the food they served was quite good, the whole
village gathered around to watch us eat, and I could
see that Prabu was as uncomfortable about this as
me. Later, when people drifted away and went home,
our host showed us to a room he’d prepared for
us, but although we were tired after walking all day,
we couldn’t sleep because some guy insisted
on accompanying us and playing his transistor-radio
~ oh yes, they had those alright, drat! ~ to/for us!
Finally, I had to ask him to leave us alone, otherwise
he might have stayed there all night!
Now, the type of sandals I was wearing, without socks,
had al-ready caused blisters ~ my old bane ~ on my
feet, so starting off the next day was not easy. Also,
I had miscalculated, and left it too late, as it was
already quite hot in the middle of the day, and Prabu,
being a mountain-man, was even less used to it than
me, and although he didn’t say so, I could tell
he wasn’t very happy. We continued, however,
but by the third day, I decided to swing back to the
Grand Trunk Road and walk along it. We slept that
night in a school-room somewhere, and on the fourth
day, set out to walk on. We hadn’t gone far,
however, when a truck-driver stopped just ahead of
us and asked if we’d like a ride. I looked at
Prabu and he at me, and we climbed in. It would have
taken us all the way to Benares had we wanted, but
I chose to get off at a town called Sasaram,
where there is the tomb of a famous ruler ~ Sher
Shah ~ that I wanted to see. We took a hotel-room,
saw the tomb, and the next day, got another ride to
the Ganges. I meant to take a boat over the river
instead of crossing the bridge, as there was no bridge
at the time of the Buddha, and I imagine He had crossed
by boat, too. We sought accommoda-tion in an ashram
near the river-bank, and were given room and board.
Early the next day, we negotiated with a boat-man
to take us across, and at the other side, walked the
rest of the way to the Deer Park at Sarnath. Our destination
achieved, after some time, we went into Benares to
find a hotel.
Now, we didn’t walk all the way as I’d
intended, but I did get some feeling of what it might
have been like at the time of the Buddha, and later
wrote an article called “The Buddha’s
First Journey,” which I will copy below. The
story of the Last Journey of the Buddha is well-known:
how, almost 80, He had said to Ananda, “I am
old now, Ananda, and full of years; this body of mine
is like a worn-out cart which can only be kept going
by constant attention. Three months from now, Ananda,
I will enter Parinirvana.” They then
set off from Vaishali to Kusinara, where indeed, three
months later, He passed away. As far as I know, however,
there is no account of His equally-important ~ and
maybe moreso ~ First Journey, so I took the
liberty of writing an account of it; it is not from
the scriptures, but from my own imagination. I wrote
it because the scriptures say nothing about this journey
of 200 kilometers. It is unquestioningly accepted
that He gave His First Sermon to the Five Ascetics
in the Deer Park, but what about all the people He
must have met along the way ~ did He have nothing
to say to them? I imagine He was bursting with joy
to share what He had found with others, and His words
would have been full of Dharma. A sermon need not
be long and wordy, but can be something short, pithy,
and to the point. I purposely left out elements of
the miraculous that are to be found in the scriptures
and which should be understood in the context of that
time; people were superstitious and what they didn’t
understand they explained in other ways. Here, then,
is my story of The Buddha’s First Journey:
“Don’t forget he’s a king’s
son, and always lived in luxury be-fore. Maybe we
expected more from him than he was capable of. But
come, let’s go to him!”
“We’re leaving, Rajaputra”,
said the stern-faced spokesman of the Five, Kondanya.
“We can stay with you no longer, since you abandoned
your search and started to eat again!”
“But I haven’t abandoned my search.
That was the wrong way, don’t you see? It brought
me nothing but exhaustion, and I al-most died! There
has to be a better way, an intelligent way that avoids
extremes like that!”
“No! If you had persisted, you would have found
that which you sought. We never saw or heard of anyone
else who went as far as you. We followed you for years,
thinking that if anyone could make the breakthrough,
it would be you. All our hopes were pinned on you.
And now you’ve let us down. We’ve lost
our re-spect for you!”
“And where will you go?”
“What is that to you? We can go wherever we
like; it doesn’t matter. But we’ve heard
of a park near Varanasi, where many yogis
and seekers stay. Perhaps we’ll go there.”
With that, they left Siddhartha in the forest, to
carry on his quest alone. But he soon recovered from
his disappointment, because, having seen the futility
of the way he had been on, he felt confi-dent now
of finding the right one.
Some weeks later:
“What peace, what clarity! Everything seems
to be different and vibrant, though it’s still
the same! It was here ~ all along ~ what I sought,
only I did not see it before. I feel light, as if
a great bur-den has been put down! Done is what needed
to be done. My search is at an end. I am liberated
from ignorance and the bonds of desire. I see the
past, the way by which I have come. Whoever would
have thought it would be like this, and that even
the bad things, the suffering, the pain, had parts
to play?
“But who will believe me? How to explain to
others what I have found? How can words convey it?
To try explaining it will only be needlessly troublesome
for me. Better stay here in the forest, enjoying the
peace and bliss of realization until I die.”
So He thought at first, but as the days passed and
His joy con-tinued unabated, He felt that His great
discovery should not ~ could not ~ be kept
to Himself; He would have to share it with others.
“But who would understand? It is so profound,
and be-yond the comprehension of people lost in the
world of sense-pleasures, seeking happiness and trying
to escape pain. Yet, like lotus flowers in a pond
~ some below the surface, some at the surface, some
above the surface but not yet open, and oth-ers in
full bloom ~ so there are people at different levels.
There are those completely lost in ignorance, others
with little intelli-gence, and some with greater intelligence,
people who are not completely ignorant and blind,
with not much dust clouding their vision. The two
teachers I spent time with before ~ noble-minded,
selfless men ~ who taught me all they could, are no
longer alive; the news of their deaths reached me
just the other day. And the five who were with me
before were deluded and convinced that the only way
to Enlightenment was through self-mortification, but
they were not stupid. They might understand
if I were to explain to them. But would they listen?
They aban-doned me before; maybe they would only harden
their hearts and turn away again. Then again, they
might not; it is possible they might listen and understand.
It is worth the risk. I will go.”
Having made up His mind, He set out towards the west,
but had not gone far when He met Upaka, a
wandering ascetic, who said to Him: “Your appearance,
friend, is pleasing, your countenance radiant and
clear. You must have found something extraordi-nary.
Might I ask who is your teacher and what he teaches?”
“I have no teacher. By my own efforts have I
attained Enlight-enment and become a Buddha.”
Upaka was unimpressed, and thought He was boasting
~ a thing not rare in those days. “It may be
so,” he said, “It may be so,” and
went off on his own way. The Buddha realized it was
a mis-take to be so forthright, and decided that different
approaches should be used with different people.
Traveling by day until the searing heat made Him seek
the shade of a tree, He would resume His journey in
the late after-noon, when it was cooler. He slept
wherever He happened to be at nightfall ~ usually
outside, but sometimes in a village meeting-hall or
hut ~ and ate whatever food He was able to obtain
along the way. He met many people in the villages
and countryside through which He passed, some of whom
greeted Him politely and offered Him what food they
could spare; but some were rude and either ignored
Him completely or rebuked Him for living off others
instead of earning his living by His own labor. Some
came to Him with problems and tales of sorrow, and
He listened sympathetically, saying little; people
would leave Him feeling calmer and clearer in mind.
Always, when He spoke, He used words and examples
suited to His listeners; mostly, because He was traveling
in the countryside, He used the language of the peasants
and farmers, speaking of the changing seasons, plow-ing,
sowing, reaping, seeds and fruit. He spoke of the
simple joys of life, and the need to do what is right.
Most people who listened to Him were impressed and
inspired by the sincerity and warmth of His speech.
“We have seen many wandering ascetics like this,
with matted hair and beards, almost naked and carrying
only bowl and staff,” said one man to those
around him; “But this one is different; he’s
so calm and dignified! Can this be the one we’ve
heard of ~ the one they call the Sakyamuni
~ he who was a prince but gave up everything to go
forth in search of Truth? It is said that our good
king, Bimbisara, offered him half the kingdom
of Magadha, but he declined, saying that
he had already given up one kingdom and was not in
search of another. Our king was amazed at his determination,
but respected it, and requested the rishi
to return when he had found what he was seeking, and
share it with him. It must be him. It can be no other.
Let us also pay our respects to him, and ask him to
speak to us.”
The Buddha consented, happy to share something of
what He had found with people eager to learn. Where
He saw that people were not interested, however, He
kept quiet. “I cannot make people understand,”
He thought; “When they are ready, only then
will they learn.”
One day, He came upon a party of hunters who, knowing
that such yogis were vegetarian, greeted Him with
derision. The Buddha remained silent and did not respond.
“Come, sadhu, and eat with us what
we have caught,” one hunter jeered. An-other
restrained his companion, saying: “Each to his
choice, brother; each to his choice. This sadhu said
nothing to us. Why do you taunt him like this?”
Chastened, the first admitted his mistake and apologized
to the Buddha, and He, seeing an open-ing, said: “While
I lived the family life, I also ate the flesh of ani-mals.
But, having gone forth, I abandoned this, and now
nothing lives in fear of me. All beings love their
lives and none desires pain. I restrain myself from
causing pain to even the lowest be-ing. I may still
have enemies, but no-one’s enemy am I.”
Often, He saw people at their religious devotions
in their homes or at their temples, making offerings
and beseeching the gods for help and favors, but He
heard no answers. Twice along the way, He chanced
upon bodies being cremated, and felt the sor-row of
the mourners.
Eventually, He reached the Ganges, which He would
have to cross. There were men who earned a living
by ferrying people over, but He had no money and could
not pay. This did not worry him, however, and He did
not ask to be taken across. In-stead, He sat on the
bank, quietly contemplating the river flow-ing silently
past, thinking of how it began as a tiny stream high
up in the snow-clad mountains far away, and merged
eventually with the sea, losing its separate identity
but not its substance therein. “Life is a process,
like this river,” He thought, “never still
for a moment, but always changing. Nothing stands
still, nothing stays the same; nothing can be grasped,
possessed, and called ours. If we understand this,
we can help others understand that while living here,
we should avoid doing evil as far as possible and
do as much good as we can. In this way, we may give
life a meaning, so that it doesn’t just flow
on purposelessly, like this river, which knows not
where it came from, where it is, nor where it is going.”
His musings were interrupted by one of the boatmen.
“I know you have no money to pay me with,”
he said, “but if you will wait until I have
other passengers, I will take you across.” The
Bud-dha smiled, inclined His head and said: “You
are very kind.”
Soon, other people came, and took places in the boat.
The man beckoned to the Buddha, and asked Him to sit
near him. Then, with strong arms, and quick, sure
strokes of his oars, he launched the craft from the
bank, out onto the broad river. The current wasn’t
strong, as the rains had yet to come, so he didn’t
need to exert himself much. The passengers chatted
among them-selves, most returning home from various
errands; the boatman knew them all, and spoke to them
by name. But the Buddha was clearly someone special,
and in mid-stream, he turned to Him and said: “I
know you are a homeless one, but may I know where
you have just come from, and where you are going?”
Courteously, the Buddha replied: “I came recently
from Gaya in Magadha, and am bound for the park known
as Isipatana. Per-haps you have heard of
this place?”
“Indeed I have,” said the ferryman. “It
is a pleasant place frequented by sadhus
and rishis like yourself, and is about two
hours’ walk from here, going west.
“I always take sadhus, knowing they
have no money. Some are grateful, and others not,
feeling it their right to be taken across. Some say
they are holy men, and that I can make merit by tak-ing
them across. But I never see this merit they talk
about, and sometimes feel I’m being cheated.
These other people have to pay for my service, which
is my way of earning a living and sup-porting my family.
I cannot live on nothing.”
”Well said,” replied the Buddha. “You
perform a useful service by which you earn an honest
living. How else would people cross the river if there
were no-one like your good self to take them? There
is no bridge or ford. Now, just as you provide a useful
service to others, do you benefit from others in any
way?”
“Of course I do,” said the ferryman, “We
all depend on others for many things. While I am ferrying
people across the river, I can’t be working
in the fields, and consequently, I get my food from
others. And my clothes. And medicine when I or anyone
of my family need it. And whatever else I need.”
“Quite true,” said the Buddha. ”You
are perceptive. We all de-pend upon others, and it
is fortunate for us that different people do different
things. If all men were boatmen like yourself, for
ex-ample, how would they get their food? If all were
farmers and produced food, how would they get their
clothes and other ne-cessities? How would they cross
the river?
“But life is not merely a matter of exchanging
goods and ser-vices; there are other things that people
need, things that can’t be bought and sold.
We need friends. We need love. We need kindness. Now
and then, we need someone to listen to us. We are
not complete in ourselves; we need others; everyone
does. And just as we like others to be kind to us
and help us in various ways, so others like it if
we are kind to them. We should not al-ways count the
cost, and think of what we can get in return.”
“I understand,” the ferryman said, with
tears of joy in his eyes. “What you are saying
is that we should feel happy at the time of helping
others, without thinking of gaining anything from
it; that doing good or right is all the result we
need. Thankyou. You have given me something that will
help me for many a long day; I am well-paid for taking
you across. If ever you need to cross again, please
look for me. My home is over there, among those trees.
I will be honored to see you and serve you again.”
“May you and yours be well and happy,”
said the Buddha as He got out of the boat. “If
I pass this way again, I will look for you.”
The boatman watched Him with admiration as He made
His way up the bank and disappeared from sight. Later,
when he got home, his wife could see his eyes shining,
and asked him what had happened. He said: “I
took a very special person across the river today
~ one of these wandering ascetics we see now and then,
with long hair and beard and clad only in rags. But
he was different; there was something about him that
made me feel good; meeting him has given me hope and
a great feeling of self-worth. I have been blessed,
and will never forget him.” His wife felt his
happiness as if it were her own.
The sun was beginning to set and the Buddha didn’t
want to reach the Deer Park in the dark, so in the
remaining light, He bathed in a pond covered with
lotuses, and selected a tree be-neath which to spend
the night. There was a village nearby where He might
get some food in the morning.
As was His custom, He sat and reviewed the day just
gone, and the people He had met and spoken with. “Each
has his or her own story,” He thought; “each
sees the world in his own way; each has his hopes,
fears and aspirations; each wishes to be happy and
avoid suffering. We do not need to suffer as much
as we do. If only people would open their minds and
hearts and live considering others, the world would
be a much better place. I can help people see this,
but only if they are ready to see; if they are not
ready, or refuse to see, no-one can help them.”
The next morning, after He had been to the houses
nearby for alms and had eaten what people there had
kindly put into His bowl, He set off for the Deer
Park of Isipatana. Upon arriving, He asked
two yogis He met if they knew of a group of five others
who might be staying there. They told Him that there
was such a group in the park, and directed Him to
the place they’d chosen as their abode. Thanking
them, He followed the way indicated, and saw the five
in the distance. They also saw him coming.
“Look who’s coming!” said one of
them; “It’s Siddhartha! What can he want?
Maybe he’s on his way back to Kapilavastu, to
in-herit his kingdom, and is just stopping by to show
off!” Another said: “Why should we care?
He abandoned his search and re-verted to a life of
sense-pleasure. We don’t respect him any-more,
remember? That’s why we left him. Look how sleek
and well-fed he is! He’s obviously been stuffing
himself since we left!” Yet another said: “Ignore
him, and if he comes here, well, we can’t stop
him, but don’t get up to welcome him!”
As He came closer, however, they were so impressed
with His bearing and dignity, that they forgot their
resolutions to ignore Him and rose from their seats
as one to receive Him. “We re-spected him before,”
said one, quietly, “but there’s something
different about him now; something has happened!
He shines!”
“Welcome, Friend Gotama,” said one, “It
is good to see you again. How have you been? How did
you know where to find us?” One took His bowl,
one took his upper robe, one gave Him water to drink,
and another water to wash his face and feet, while
the fifth prepared a seat for Him.
“Do you not recall saying, when you left, that
you might come here? I took a chance on finding you.
But it is inappropriate for you to address me by name
or as friend,” said the Buddha. “I am
not now as I was then. I have found what I sought.
I am now a Buddha”. Remembering His encounter
with Upaka, He knew He was taking a risk in saying
this, but felt there was no other way.
“But how can that be?” said one of the
Five. “You tried every-thing in your search,
and went further in your practice than any-one had
ever gone, and became known as Sakyamuni
as a re-sult. But still you didn’t find it,
and now you expect us to believe you when you’ve
gone back to a life of sense-pleasure?”
“The ways I tried before were useless,”
said the Buddha, “and led nowhere. When I saw
they were wrong, I turned from them. But I did not
give up my search, and I eat only to sustain my life;
I have not gone back to a life of sense-pleasures
as you think. I have found a Middle Way that avoids
useless extremes.”
“It is hard to believe, and yet there is something
about you that was not there before.”
“When we were together earlier,” said
the Buddha, “did you ever hear me make such
a claim?”
“No; we always knew you as one who spoke only
the truth.”
“Come, then, and pay attention. Open are the
gates to the Deathless. I will explain to you what
I have found.”
Convinced, the Five sat, listening attentively as
He spoke about Suffering, the Cause of Suffering,
the End of Suffering, and the Way to the End of Suffering.
His voice carried authority, wisdom and compassion.
And, as He spoke, the light of understanding appeared
on the face of Kondanya, and the Buddha saw it and
said: “Kondanya has understood! Kondanya has
understood!”
Thus was the Buddha’s message proclaimed. He
uttered His ‘Lion’s Roar,’ which
has not ceased to reverberate until now.
During the next few days, while speaking to them again,
they all became enlightened and free from ignorance.
And with these Five as the nucleus, the Buddha started
His Order of Monks that until today, we call the Sangha,
or more specifically, the Bhikkhu Sangha.
It is the oldest continuous organization in the world.
What Siddhartha achieved was not for Himself alone,
but for countless others. The impact the Buddha made
on the world cannot be measured.
In Benares, I showed Prabu around a little, and
even managed to get inside the Golden Temple dedicated
to Shiva, which is off-limits to non-Hindus. Knowing
that Hindus regard the Buddha as an avatar of Vishnu,
I used this to persuade the police at the gate to
let me in. Of course, there is nothing secret inside,
but lots of ritual and ceremony whereby the faithful
are fleeced. Prabu was a Hindu, so I told him to buy
some flowers to offer. As we were leaving, however,
a priest followed me demanding money, but since I’d
not asked for any puja or prayers, I refused. “Give
me money. I am a priest,” he persisted. I replied,
“That’s your problem.” They are
so avaricious!
In the bazaar, I suddenly got the feeling to call
mum and ask how she was, so went into an IDD station
to dial up. Sheila an-swered the phone and said, “Mum’s
gone to England.”
“What, again?”
“Yes, she suddenly decided to go and stay with
Glen for the rest of her life, and instructed me to
sell all her stuff again.”
Well, I was surprised, but what could I do? I wrote
to her in Eng-land saying that her decision was maybe
best, as Glen would take good care of her. I forget
what else I said in that letter but was later to rue
it.
It was at this time, too, that I thought about going
to the US again; “Why not? I can go to hell
and come out again.”
I paid Prabu and saw him off on a bus back to the
border. I then caught a bus back to Budh-Gaya to pick
up a bag I’d left at the Vietnamese temple,
and went on to Calcutta by train. My previ-ous perception
of this city as the end of the world was about to
change. I stayed in a hotel near Chowringee,
and had a great time visiting places I’d never
taken the trouble to visit before, places like the
museum, with its wonderful collection of Buddhist
artifacts, the Victoria Memorial, which was
designed to rival the Taj Mahal (it didn’t succeed,
although it is rather stupendous), the Park Street
Cemetery, with it’s poignant ex-pat British
grave-stones, the site of the Black Hole,
and other memorable places. Walking along one day,
a whore came up beside me and said, “Hello,
darling; how are you?” It sounded so funny,
and I had to laugh, but I’m sure her story was
not amusing.
Taking a train down the east coast, I stopped at Guntur,
to visit the ruins of Amaravati stupa again. During
the twenty years since the first time I was here,
however, many houses and other buildings had sprung
up around, and it took me some time to find it. I
circumambulated the stupa and sat for a while meditat-ing
before returning to Guntur to catch a train to Nasik,
many hours to the north-west. There, I visited a group
of Buddhist caves known as Pandulena which,
like other caves in this re-gion, had been carved
from the solid rock about 2000 years ago; they are
situated in a hillside overlooking the town. Again,
I felt good here, as I did whenever I’d visited
other caves. Some hours south of there, near the small
town of Shivneri, there are more caves, and
having heard of them, I just had to visit; it was
well-worth the effort needed to get there. I’m
sure there are lots more caves that have not yet come
to light. I could easily be convinced that I’d
lived as a monk in such caves long ago. Here it was
that the feeling, “Look what they’ve done
to my India!” welled-up from inside
me. And again, later on, I told someone that I was
more Indian than him, as he had only been born there,
and over that he’d had no choice at all, and
if he could choose, he would probably leave and go
somewhere else, as so many Indians have done. I, on
the other hand, chose to come to India, again and
again, when I didn’t have to. He didn’t
disagree.
Being so near, I couldn’t leave the area without
visiting Ajanta again. And there I met a French guy
who was traveling around by motor-bike; he told me
it was his 19th time in India. His name was Francois,
and we had lots to talk about, and when I men-tioned
my time in Goa and meeting Hussaid El Jabri, he said
he knew him well, and that he also came to India frequently;
he gave me the name of the hotel in Delhi where Hussaid
usually stayed. He himself was heading for Almora
in the mountains, and told me where to find him if
I got there; I assured him I would, as it was on my
itinerary, too.
Then, one of the stall-holders ~ Bhagwan
by name ~ took me by motorbike to a place in the mountains
where geodes are found, and I walked over the rocky
soil trying to find some myself; he showed me how
to weigh them in my hand, a light stone indicat-ing
it might be hollow; I got several that way. I was
also shown how they were split open: a sharp tap with
a hammer on a stra-tegic spot resulted in a clean
break, but slightly off, the stone would shatter;
the proportion of shattered stones was much higher
than clean breaks. At the Caves again, I stocked up
on my ‘thunder-eggs’ and sent them off
by post to Malaysia.
North, then, to Delhi. At first, I stayed in a hotel
in Paharganj, an area popular with back-packers,
near New Delhi railway-station, but there was a water-shortage
in the capital, and it was hard to shower in the hotel.
Recalling Hanh Thanh’s invitation to stay with
him, I called and arranged to go over. He welcomed
me and I stayed with him some days and left one of
my bags there when I set off for Amritsar. There,
I got a bus to the one-and-only crossing-point between
India and Pakistan, Wagah. With the Pakistan-visa
I’d obtained in Kathmandu in my passport, I
waited for it to open, then began the process of leaving
India and entering Pakistan, with all the red-tape
it involved; it’s a wonder my passport didn’t
disintegrate from all the handling! Eventually, I
was over, and on a bus to Lahore, where I checked
into a cheapie and set out to explore. The day was
half-gone, so I didn’t go far, but got my bearings
ready for the next day, when I went first to the Shalimar
Gardens, laid out in the traditional Mughal geometrical
style by Shah Jehan in 1642, and quite well-cared
for, even if not in its former glory. At the Raj-era
museum, among many Buddhist exhibits discovered and
brought there by the British, is the famous Gandhara-period
image of Sakyamuni fasting; I was enthralled, gazing
at it for several minutes; the de-tails carved in
stone are fantastic.
Then there was the huge fort built by Emperor Akbar
in the 16th century, and the tomb of his son, Jehangir,
both of which I enjoyed visiting over two days. And
thrice in the same day, I was pleasantly surprised
when, traveling around the city by crowded buses,
people got up and offered me their seats! This had
never happened to me even once in India during all
my times there! It boded well for the rest of my trip
in Pakistan. I felt good.
The journey north from Lahore to Peshawar by comfortable
bus ~ better than in India ~ took about 6 hours, along
the excellent highway built by the Americans to facilitate
transport of war-materiel to the Afghan mujahideen
in their struggle against the occupying Soviets in
the ‘80’s. Peshawar is in the heart of
tribal-territory, where the law of Pakistan doesn’t
really hold; it wasn’t rare to see fierce-looking
characters walking around with semi-automatic weapons;
tangle with them, and you’re finished. But as
I had observed years before, if you walk without fear,
minding your own business and not acting strangely,
you should be al-right. Desert- or tribal-people are
not as sophisticated as city-people, but more instinctive;
like dogs, they can tell if you’re afraid, and
that will not be in your own interest. As elsewhere,
I wandered around, going to more-or-less anywhere
I wanted, making friends with people in the bazaar,
where someone obvi-ously felt so at ease with me that
he invited me to watch a porno-movie with him, but
I declined. They’re clearly selective about
things of Western culture that they admire or despise.
With the needed permit to go up the Khyber Pass, and
an armed policeman-escort in my taxi, I rode up that
historical road to stand looking into Afghanistan
from the top. Halfway up a ruined stupa stands in
mute reminder that not only armed invaders passed
this way, and that this was a Buddhist area 2000 years
ago. I hired another taxi to take me to the beautiful
Swat Valley, crossing the mighty Indus River
and the Malakand Pass on the way, and visiting
several ancient ruined stupas; according to one of
the Chinese pilgrim-monks who passed this way in the
5th century, there were thousands of monasteries here.
Back over the pass, I visited Takht-i-Bahi,
a large monastery-complex on a hillside. One of the
chowkidars (watchmen) there tried to sell
me a small image; finds from such places are for sale
illegally. Even so, I was heartened that the government
of Muslim Pakistan should be doing something to preserve
these ancient places, when the fanatical Taliban in
Afghanistan were soon to demonstrate its misguided
beliefs by destroying the great Buddha-images of Bamiyan,
and any other Buddhist arti-facts they could get their
hands on.
I enjoyed Peshawar so much that I was reluctant to
leave, but my visa was limited, and I had other places
to go. I moved on to Rawalpindi, just south
of the capital, Islamabad. Now, ‘Pindi
was what the British called a ‘cantonment’
~ a permanent military en-campment, such as they needed
to maintain some kind of order in the NWFP ~ North-West
Frontier Province ~ known as such until now.
I went there in order to visit the ruins of Taxila,
and was in for another treat. About 35 kms from Islamabad,
Taxila is one of the subcontinent's most important
archaeological sites, with the remains of three great
cities and dozens of monasteries dating from 400 BC
to 600 AD. Alexander the Great visited there in 326
BC. It was the principal university town of Gandhara,
a kingdom of the north from the 6th century BC to
the 11th century AD. I spent a day wandering around
there, not half long enough, but enough to get a long-lasting
impression of it, and the wish to go again sometime.
Unlike Nalanda, which was destroyed dur-ing the waves
of Muslim invasion, Taxila was destroyed much earlier
by marauders known as the White Huns, who
originated in Mongolia; they stormed through the passes
into India in the 5th century; Taxila ~ and Gandhara
in general ~ never recovered from their depredations.
I returned to Lahore for two more days, then crossed
the border and went to Amritsar, intending to stay
and have a better look around than I’d done
in 1970, but it was such a hassle finding a hotel
that I got on a bus to Jammu, the winter-capital of
Kashmir. Next morning, I bought a ticket to Srinagar,
and while waiting for the bus to move, was approached
by someone asking if I wanted to stay on a house-boat
when I got there. I did, but told him I would find
one for myself, thanks. His sharp eyes had seen my
name on the ticket, however, and he must have called
ahead. As we were nearing Srinagar after a tiring
trip of 14 hours, the bus stopped on an unlit stretch
of road, and someone got in with a flashlight, came
to where I was sitting, and asked if I were the person
on the paper he showed me.
Before I realized what was going on, he’d taken
my bags off the bus and into a waiting car, and I
followed. It could easily have been a kidnapping,
such as had happened to four other West-erners several
years before, one of whom was beheaded, one escaped,
and I forget what happened to the others ~ maybe still
missing. (Although there was a lull in the fighting
when I went, there were still many militants around).
I was lucky, as these were house-boat agents, and
on the way into the city, I negoti-ated about the
price of the house-boat, and was surprised at how
low it was ~ just like a budget-hotel; tourism had
fallen, so they were happy to get a customer. At the
lakeside, there was a shikara ~ sampan ~ waiting to
take me to the boat. I relaxed when we pulled up at
the steps, climbed aboard, and saw the luxurious interior
~ fully carpeted and with carved walnut furniture.
It had four bedrooms, each with bathroom and toilet,
but none of them occupied. Now, during the time of
the Raj, the rulers of Kashmir ~ which was never part
of the Raj ~ barred foreigners from buying and owning
land there, so some enter-prising Brits got around
this by building house-boats on the lake. There are
now hundreds of them, self-contained and capacious.
I slept well, and the next day, over breakfast of
naan, butter and tea included in my rent,
the owner’s son persuaded me to sign-up for
several tours, showing me his record-book of others
who had paid much more than what he was charging me.
The owner himself then accompanied me around, first,
on a shikara-ride over the lake to the Shalimar
Gardens and then back through the floating-gardens
where flowers and vegetables are grown on islands
of weed dredged from the lake; then through the old
town to visit mosques and papier-mache factories where
I saw the artisans at work. He also escorted me to
outlying places. Everything was alright until I saw
a sign outside a tourist-office giving the rates for
the tours I’d signed up for, and I understood
why the old man had insisted on taking me everywhere
instead of letting me find my own way around: the
difference in prices was staggering! I used some pretext
to shake off my ‘minder’ and went to the
tourist-office to complain; there, I met someone who
knew my boat-owner, and told me that this was his
usual scam. He advised me to pack my stuff and check
out, telling the owner that I wanted a refund, and
that if he refused, I would go to the police. I did
this, and after an initial refusal, they gave me back
a reasonable amount, and I moved to a hotel. But,
thinking to prevent these cheats doing it to other
travelers, I lodged a written detailed complaint at
the tourist-office; they thanked me and assured me
they would take action.
It was so lovely there and cool while India to the
south was hot. I remained in Srinagar another week,
waiting for the pass be-tween there and Ladakh to
open, so I could go; in the meantime, I visited Gulmarg,
a famous alpine place to the north. As the days passed,
however, it became clear that the snows on the pass
were not going to melt for me, and I was unable to
get a place on a plane in, so I returned by the way
I had come in, to Jammu, and was in time to catch
the night-train to Delhi.
I stayed with Hanh Thanh for a few more days, and
made an ef-fort to visit the site of the Coronation-durbar
of Emperor-King George V in 1911 (I’d tried
to find it before but failed). It is in a surprisingly
out-of-the-way place on the edge of Delhi. Here it
was that the most fantastic pageant had unfolded,
choreo-graphed down to the smallest detail (both British
and Indians loving the theatrical). All India’s
maharajas were there, dressed like peacocks and resplendent
in jewels on their caparisoned elephants and with
uniformed retinues, each trying to outdo the others,
cannons fired in their honor according to their rank,
twenty-one being the highest. This spectacle had been
designed to awe the Raj’s subjects. The culmination
was the announce-ment of a well-kept secret: that
a new city would be built at Delhi, and the capital
shifted from Calcutta. The British must have known
about the legend that whoever set up a new city here
on the ruins of so many others before them would not
last long; they would have done well to consider this
carefully, as it came to pass less than forty years
later.
Old statues of Queen Victoria and her successors,
along with the various viceroys, had unceremoniously
been brought from around the city and dumped here,
bedecked now by creepers instead of garlands; an obelisk
with steps leading up to it on all sides stands on
the actual coronation-spot. The whole place ~ like
other Raj-era places I’d visited ~ had a melancholy
air about it (or was it just my imagination?).
Near Connaught Place one day, I met the same Sikh
fortune-teller I’d met there years before; this
was his pitch, but he didn’t recognize me, and
said exactly the same thing he’d said before:
“You are very lucky, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” I replied, playing him
along and wobbling my head.
“Do you know why you are lucky?” he then
asked.
“Yes, I know,” I said. “I’m
lucky because I can come to India and leave whenever
I like; I don’t have to stay here. If I had
to stay here, it would be terrible!” I told
him he was a cheater, saying the same thing to everyone
in order to catch them. Bystanders hearing this laughed,
as they knew it was true.
I went to the hotel Francois had told me of, and inquired
about Hussaid, but no-one there remembered him, and
though they showed me their register, and I checked
back several years, I did not find his name there.
I went to Almora, stopping off in Nainital
for two days on the way; like Almora, this is a popular
holiday-resort for Delhi-ites, being much cooler than
the capital during the summer. Almora, to my disappointment,
was very dusty, even though it is at quite an altitude.
I found Francois, and spent some time with him, tell-ing
him of my futile search for Hussaid. After a few days
in the hills, I returned to Delhi, to finally discover
the location of Barhut Stupa (I had long
been looking for it); I knew it was somewhere in Madhya
Pradesh, but now knew exactly where. Thanking Hanh
Thanh for his hospitality, I got a train to Allahabad.
It was a hot and stuffy ride through the night. From
Allahabad, I had first to get to Satna, so
bought a ticket and waited on the plat-form for the
train that was supposed to arrive at 11 o’clock.
It didn’t come until one o’clock; but
it wasn’t just two hours late; it was
twenty-six hours late! This was the train
that should have arrived at eleven o’clock the
day before; where it had been all this time, I had
no idea, but it was crowded, and I didn’t have
a reservation, as I wasn’t going very far. I
had to force my way into the carriage, and squeeze
onto the edge of someone’s seat. Some of the
ceiling-fans weren’t working, it was dirty and
smelly, and I was sitting there feeling miserable,
waiting for the train to move. When it finally did,
it went so slowly, and kept stopping for whatever
reason I didn’t know; the wind was blowing through
the open windows like the air from a blast-furnace,
and I was sweat-ing like mad and silently cursing,
hating this journey, when sud-denly, I remembered
some magic words: ‘Boleh Tahan’.
This is a Malay expression, and means, literally,
‘Can Stand’ or ‘Can
Bear’. Upon this, everything seemed to
change. I looked at the folks around me, and they
were also sweating, and when you see Indians sweating,
it means it is very hot. Usually, it’s just
me, and everyone around me looks cool and I feel like
a fool, but when everyone is in the same condition,
you don’t feel so bad. I said to myself: “I
have no right to complain. No-one made me come here;
I chose to come, and paid to do so, and anytime
I want, I can leave. These people have no such choice;
they must stay here.” This was followed by an
insight: It doesn’t have to be nice, and
I don’t have to like it. If we make it
a condition about everything we experience that it
has to be nice and we must like it, we will suffer
so much! Thinking like this, I began to enjoy the
rest of the five-hour journey, and started to smile,
and when I started to smile, other people did, too,
and became friendly towards me.
Arriving in Satna, I found a hotel, but the walls
had absorbed the heat during the day, and radiated
it back in the night, and even with the fan full-on
over my bed, it was impossible to sleep. The only
way I could get some sleep was by lying on the bathroom-floor
with a bucket of water beside me, and every now and
then dowsing myself from it! Of course, I didn’t
sleep much, but it was better than nothing. This was
another first; I’d never done any-thing like
that before, and hope I never have to do it again.
The outside temperature at that time was almost 50
Celcius!
The next day, I asked some auto-rickshaw drivers about
Barhut Stupa, but none of them had even heard of it.
Finally, I met someone who knew, and he directed a
driver how to get there, so off we went, using back
roads through small villages, until we got there,
but it was disappointing, as almost nothing remained;
I’d seen the best parts of it in Calcutta Museum.
But at least I’d made it, having wanted to go
there for years. I returned to Satna and Allahabad,
staying long enough to get a reservation in an air-conditioned
carriage to Gorakhpur (I’d never traveled in
such a carriage before, but decided to splurge); my
long and interest-ing trip in India was almost at
an end.
Arriving in Gorakhpur early the next morning, I immediately
got a bus to the border, and was back in Nepal again.
I reached Pokhara that evening, and took it easy for
a while. Then, rested and refreshed, I returned to
Kathmandu.
I don’t have to tell anyone about this, and
I’m not trying to show off, but I want to ‘confess’
here something I did that has both-ered me since.
In doing so, it might be useful in helping some others
avoid doing the same kind of thing.
While waiting to fly back to Malaysia, I went to a
second-hand book-shop. In keeping with the custom,
I haggled about the price of a book, and got it for
Rs300, instead of the marked-price of Rs400, the understanding
at such shops being that one may get a 50% refund
later. Some days later, having read the book, I went
to return it, expecting to recover Rs150, but there
was a different assistant in the shop. When he opened
the book and saw Rs400 written there, he asked if
that was what I had paid for it. I regret to say I
replied “Yes,” just one word. He therefore
gave me back Rs200, when I should actually, according
to our agreement, have received only 150. I walked
out thinking, “Well, he made Rs100 profit anyway,
and didn’t really lose on me.” Yes, he
made a clear profit and didn’t lose. It was
I who lost. I caused suffering to no-one but myself;
I was stupid! Thinking I’d gained Rs50 (about
US$0.80), I really lost much more, and wish I could
rewind the tape and undo what I did; it has bothered
me, and I’m ashamed of it. Telling of this incident,
most people un-derstood and agreed with me, but one
woman was aghast, and said: “But you are a monk!
How could you do such a thing?!”
“Yes, I am a monk,” I replied, “but
that doesn’t prevent me from doing wrong. And
I told this story to illustrate to you how this side
of Enlightenment, we are subject to doing wrong. Moreover,
I want even my weaknesses ~ not to mention my strong
points ~ to be a source of strength to others. It
is my gift to you, but if you regard it that way,
you will benefit nothing from it!”
I’m not in the habit of doing such things; I
try to practice what I preach. The very fact that
I said try, however, means that I don’t always
succeed, which is why I wrote an article in one of
my books called “DON’T FOLLOW ME.”
I’m aware of my limitations, and don’t
want others to get involved with them, as they have
enough of their own to deal with. But I do feel it
helps to know that we are all in the same boat, and
not in a position to point fingers at others and feel
superior. If we are weak, it is from weakness that
strength comes. I don’t want to boast of my
suc-cesses, but I have had some; indeed,
if I had had nothing but failures, I would not be
here now talking of it. I’m confessing my lapses,
not boasting of my successes.
We often expect too much of others, and often too
much of our-selves; consequently, we become faint-hearted.
This does not mean, however, that we shouldn’t
have ideals to aim for, but that we should accept
the likelihood of failure, and not be too disap-pointed
when it happens. It may be seen as an opportunity
for further striving and eventual success, instead
of an excuse for giving way to self-pity and despair.
We should be capable of in-trospection and self-criticism,
but objectively and fairly, without exaggeration,
self-debasement or self-flagellation.
If only someone had explained to me when I was young
the kind of things that I now explain to others, I
might have understood and saved myself so much time
and trouble! But it’s not too late to atone
for things that I now regret, and I can try to turn
my mis-takes and stupidity around, and make something
positive of them. Perhaps some others can learn from
my experience, and if they do, then my mistakes
will not have been in vain.
Following the Way is often an uphill battle, as we
must face and come to grips with our mental defilements.
Most people don’t even want to know of this
and prefer to live carelessly, wasting what Tibetans
term our precious human rebirth and sliding
back-wards. But although it often is difficult, something
in our mental make-up is on our side and helps us
on our journey upwards; we call it our Conscience,
or inner voice. It makes us feel un-comfortable at
times, but is in our own interests.
Because we have set out upon the Way does not mean
that we are incapable of doing wrong; we’ve
only just begun, so of course we can do wrong, like
people who know nothing of the Way. The difference
between us is that we cannot forget; our wrong-doing
bothers us and won’t let us live in peace. We
either feel remorse and try to correct our mistakes,
or confess them to someone else, and in this way,
put them behind us and try to see it as part of our
learning-process. It may be taken as an in-dication
of our progress in Dharma: that we can do wrong, but
not feel good about it.
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