Coattail Karma

by Verlin Darrow

  And what was with the cave dwelling? Was this a secret cult that hid out underground? Maybe the cave was a deprivation deal so the monks could meditate without distractions.

  Next, I wondered why Sam trusted Bhante. And what did she know about all this? What sort of group was RGP? Another branch of Buddhism—feminist Buddhists? Finally, I decided to just focus on the shampoo in my hand. Mindfulness was my go-to remedy for pretty much everything, despite its inability to help me since Bhante’s goons had shown up.

  When I’d finished cleaning up and dressing in well-worn jeans, a white T-shirt, and a brown hooded sweatshirt with a gold rocket logo across the chest, I explored the room more thoroughly. The walls were solid all the way around, which felt a bit claustrophobic. Also, they conveyed a timeworn quality. It’s hard to describe, but it was more than just the hand-tool marks or the antiquity of the stone itself. Somehow, I knew these walls had been here a very long time. I also knew that New Zealand itself hadn’t been. If it hadn’t been the last large settled land mass on the planet, it was close to it. Of course it was possible I wasn’t even in New Zealand. I only had other people’s word for that.

  I ventured out into the hallway, expecting to find an escort, but I was alone. So I wandered several doors down, where I found yet another me sitting cross-legged, looking at a hot rod magazine on a purple yoga mat on the floor.

  “Is that a new kind of meditation?” I asked.

  He answered me in an unfamiliar language and shrugged. Maybe it was something Slavic. It sounded odd coming out of an Asian mouth—my mouth.

  “He just got here,” a voice called from down the hall. “He doesn’t speak English yet.”

  I pivoted and spied yet another me. This one was wearing a navy-blue warm-up suit. He tilted to the right as though he were about to steal second base in a softball game.

  “I’m Ken,” he said. “You must be Sid.”

  “That’s right.”

  I waved goodbye to hot-rodder me and walked down the hall toward Ken with my hand extended.

  “I’m getting over a cold,” he said. “I’d better not. Where are you from?”

  “California. You?” I listened to myself. My voice was poised and steady. Maybe I was adapting.

  “Florida, sort of. Air Force brat. Adopted, obviously.” Now he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. He reminded me of a fireman client who’d suffered from unmedicated attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder. I’d liked the guy, but the sessions had been exhausting.

  “Do you know where the others are?”

  “It’s teatime. Follow me,” Ken said.

  He practically ran down the long corridor, so I did too. At the end of it, just around a sharp corner, another set of steps were carved into the limestone. They led up to a large, surprisingly well-lit room that seemed to be a library, with several floor-to-ceiling bookcases on three of the four walls. I looked up to find the light source. Wall-to-wall banks of fluorescent lights clung to the ceiling.

  “It’s full spectrum,” Ken told me, grinning like he’d just won something. “You miss the sun down here after a while.”

  That was worrisome. Was Ken a cheerful underground prisoner? Would I be one soon?

  At the far end of the room, Bhante, Sam, Jason, and another clone sat in an ensemble of antique teak chairs grouped around a low wooden table. I strode toward the empty seat next to Sam. Ken peeled off and headed back.

  “Jason is here to apologize,” Bhante began, nodding his head amiably.

  “Oh?” I felt my gut tighten a bit.

  “I’m sorry,” Jason said.

  Other than the words, I saw no evidence of this on his face or in his body language. “Well, that was short and sweet, wasn’t it?” I said. “What are you sorry about?” I’ll be damned if I make this easy for him.

  “Everything. I allowed my personal feelings to keep me from cooperating with how things needed to be.”

  “That’s really vague, and it sounds like a hand-me-down aphorism,” I said. It felt great to be back in my power. I found myself sitting up straighter.

  “I’m very sorry my apology isn’t better,” Jason said. Again, his declaration struck me as insincere.

  “Here’s what I want,” I said, swiveling to address Bhante. “Answers. Forget the apologies, the fluffy towels in the bathroom, and the tea you’re pouring right now. I want answers.”

  “I agree,” he said. “It’s time for answers.” He gestured to Jason and the unnamed clone. “Would you two leave us, please?”

  They rose and walked away through a doorway in the side wall. The contrast between my clone’s frame and the Maori’s was startling.

  “Let me explain as best I can,” Bhante said, fussing with the blue ceramic teapot.

  Sam leaned forward; she seemed at least as interested as I was in what was coming next. This was the first time I’d even glanced at her, which said something about my focus. Her face glowed with life force, well worthy of my attention.

  “In the Buddha’s time—the Buddha most people are familiar with—things were very different,” Bhante began.

  I directed myself to face him again. It took some effort. “Wait a minute,” I said. “There was more than one Buddha?”

  “The one you know—Siddhartha Gautama—was not unique.” Bhante gestured elegantly with both hands. The smooth, measured movements looked like part of a formalized dance, but I didn’t see how they related to his words. “He was simply a man—an incarnation of consciousness—who became enlightened,” he continued. “Others came before him in like fashion. Who knows if Buddhist history is true in the ordinary sense? But do you think, amongst the multitudes of people who have ever lived on this planet, only one person has ever fully awakened?”

  “I suppose not.” In spite of enjoying my one-up position a minute before, I found myself intrigued enough by Bhante’s words to enjoy my current role as a student.

  “We are all sleepwalking our way through illusion. Periodically, we need someone to remind us there is another way,” Bhante said.

  “Okay, I’m with you so far. I can accept there were other Buddhas before the one I’ve heard of.”

  “Excellent.” Bhante paused and sipped his tea. Once again, his movements were ritualistic. “You know, they grow this a few kilometers from where I was born.”

  “Where is that?” Sam asked.

  “Kandy, Sri Lanka.”

  He sipped his tea again, and I tried mine. It was by far the best tea I’d ever had. Even the temperature seemed perfect.

  “Have a scone,” Sam said. “They’re delicious.”

  “Maybe later.”

  “So the Buddha’s story is well-known,” Bhante continued, studying me, perhaps to ascertain if I knew it.

  “Born a prince,” I said. “Never saw suffering, finally did, wanted to understand, left, became an ascetic, got enlightened, went around teaching?”

  “Yes!” Bhante clapped his hands together. Clearly, he was delighted by my one sentence synopsis. “But less well known are such things as his teachings to his inner circle, his prophecies, and various secret texts in Magahi Prakit, his birth language.”

  “Which may or may not exist,” Sam said. “Every other early Buddhist text in the world is in Pali. Magahi Prakit may not have been a written language at all. Certainly, it has no trustworthy translation if it was.”

  “We have corroborating texts in Pali, Sanskrit, and modern Magahi, which is still spoken in parts of northeast India,” Bhante told her. His hands were wrapped around his teacup, but his bald head bobbed from side to side. He seemed excited, but it was hard to tell with these spiritual types.

  “So is this like finding more books of the Bible?” I asked.

  “No, that would not be accurate,” Bhante said. “Let me explain. Buddha had a keen sense of what would be helpful for students—or anyone—to know. And also what might impede their progress, however true.”

  “So he knew more than he was willing to tell?” Di
d we really need all this background crap? Get on with it.

  “Exactly. When people asked him esoteric questions about the nature of the universe—the meaning of life and all that—he’d tell them it didn’t matter. If they were worried about what would happen after they died, he’d tell them to sit quietly and be with their worry. He wasn’t interested in dispensing answers. He was showing people how to live so they might arrive at things themselves. Always, it was practical—nuts and bolts. What worked, what didn’t work.”

  “But he knew all the esoteric stuff. That’s what you’re saying?” I asked. It was clear Bhante was a born teacher who wasn’t going to let an opportunity to teach slip by. Perhaps I could move things along by demonstrating that I understood.

  “Most assuredly. Buddha knew whatever there is to know. That is enlightenment.”

  “So what’s this about special teachings and prophecies?” I said. “That doesn’t sound like him.” I kicked myself for expressing an interest. Now another history lesson would be coming my way.

  “There is one widely known prophecy that belies his general message of self-reliance. He said another Buddha will appear when the world needs a great teacher again—when Buddha’s message has become lost. He said it might not be himself per se, and it might be either a man or woman.”

  “Like a messiah? Like Jesus?” I thought I knew quite a bit about Buddhism, but this was news to me. I was more familiar with the spiritual practices and general principles, as opposed to the literature or history.

  He shook his head, and his torso moved with it. “Oh, no. It will not herald the end of the world or be on the television news. It would just help everyone. A great teacher just helps.”

  “So you’re saying, in all this time, there hasn’t been a Buddha since Buddha?” I asked. “Surely there’s been a need lots of times.” I felt caught up in Bhante’s words now.

  “This is a subject of great debate,” Bhante said, steepling his hands together. “Various historical figures have proclaimed themselves to be Buddhas. And various eras have seen Buddhism on the decline. But there has never been a consensus about these things in terms of Buddha’s prophecy.”

  “So Buddhists have been squabbling about this for a long time?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t care to describe it in that fashion. But certainly there has never been a unifying figure since Siddartha.” He frowned as if he suddenly remembered something unpleasant.

  “A unifying figure?” I asked. “That makes it sound like a politician or a war hero. Eisenhower as Buddha. Is there something wrong with having a variety of religious leaders? A variety of Buddhists?”

  “Of course, there is never anything right or wrong about the way things are,” Bhante said. “It is arrogance to judge reality. Let me say it this way. One of Buddha’s realizations was that everything is connected—no, everything is One. So separation is an illusion. His message was so simple, the variety of perspectives you speak of merely represent a variety of misunderstandings. There is no need for all these separate Buddhist organizations. There are not even separate people within these groups. This is all a misunderstanding.” He smiled broadly, and I saw his teeth, which were a jumbled mess.

  “So a new Buddha would reunite Buddhists?” I asked. “And unity is a major part of his message?” I felt pleased with myself for this.

  “Yes. An incontrovertible Buddha—a consensus Buddha—would become the focus of all the groups. Even non-Buddhists would listen to a great teacher. A modern Buddha could retell the message using modern language that could speak to modern people.” He smiled and beamed his hope across the table to me.

  “So why now?” I asked. I sipped my tea, and he paused to sip his. Sam watched us both.

  “Theravadan Buddhism, which is pure, original Buddhism,” Bhante began, “moved to Sri Lanka from India when invaders arrived, and then spread to Southeast Asia.” He peered at me. I would’ve been wondering if my involuntary student was still interested. Bhante seemed to be looking past that—into me somewhere. “This could’ve been an era that invoked the prophecy,” he continued, “ ‘when the world needs a great teacher,’ but the message stayed strong in these new lands. So for all these years, no Buddha has been needed.”

  “And now?” I still didn’t know where we going with all this. What sort of payoff could justify such an extended preamble?

  “We had bloody civil war in Sri Lanka for decades and military rule in Myanmar—Burma. Pol Pot committed genocide far worse than the Nazis in Cambodia, and we all endured the sadness of the Vietnam War, not to mention the rampant sex trade in Thailand. Our Theravada bastions of Buddha’s message are no longer living true to it. Southeast Asia has regressed.”

  “But Buddhism is popular in America and Europe,” I said. “I know lots of people who read and meditate and try to be loving and kind. Especially in California.”

  “That’s well and good, but most of it is not real Buddhism. The Western versions of Zen and Tibetan Buddhism, for example, are watered down to make them palatable. At best, they are distortions.” He frowned, forming wrinkles below the corners of his mouth where none had been.

  “So what do your ‘secret’ texts say about this?” Sam asked, her passion animating her face. “You say you have access to esoteric teachings?”

  “Much as RGP does, Samavati. We are both caretakers of vital information, and I think neither of us would be interested in sharing it unwisely. Keeping secrets can be habit-forming, but we both know how our organizations came to be. Some secrets need to be secrets—at least for now. The Buddha taught us that.” He seemed tired now, as though he was no more accustomed to all this talking than he was to frowning.

  Sam nodded. I was struck again by her beauty. In that moment, the symmetry of her features was like a soft, mobile sculpture of a Scandinavian goddess. Some women exuded warmth through their eyes or their smile. Some stunned you with their raw sexiness or their model-like elegance. But best yet, the intelligence and awareness that rested in Sam’s eyes told me that she knew how to connect at the deepest level. It took my breath away.

  “But I will say this,” Bhante said. “We have a text that is more specific about when and how the next Buddha will appear. We have kept it in a buried reliquary, along with several of the Buddha’s toe bones. These were retrieved by his brother from his cremated ashes. The Buddha told his inner circle that he will come back ‘when his body reappears.’ ”

  He leaned back as though he were done expounding. Then Bhante looked at me expectantly. I’d more or less forgotten that all this applied to me somehow, which amazed me. Did Bhante have some special ability to hold people’s attention?

  “And?” I said.

  “Think about it,” Sam said. She smiled gently, as if she were waiting for a third grader to work through an arithmetic problem.

  I did. It didn’t help.

  “How does a body reappear?” Bhante asked.

  I shook my head.

  “How do they duplicate animals?” Sam added.

  Suddenly, I understood. “You think I’m a clone of the Buddha? From a bone relic?”

  “I know you are,” Bhante said. “The question is: are you Buddha himself? He has reincarnated in only one of the clones.”

  He studied me again as I absorbed this. Holy shit. My face froze, and my chest tightened. “Wouldn’t I be a lot nicer?” I said. “Or wiser? Or just an all-around better person?” I floundered, not even sure what I’d said. I’d been expecting intensely distressing news. Instead, his words overwhelmed me in a different way. Could it be true? Am I Buddha?

  “Perhaps,” he conceded. “But Buddha was only a man, not a god. He was much like you or me before his realization.”

  Sam spoke up. “Your answers to Paul’s questions show you’re the strongest candidate the RGP has found,” Sam said. “By far. There’s an uncanny correlation between your life and Siddhartha’s in terms of early life circumstances, personal preferences, and of course, your affinity for items asso
ciated with the Buddha.”

  Sam was in on this, too? Did that add weight to the idea or lessen it? I had no idea. “So it was the same kind of deal as when they show some little Tibetan boy a bunch of stuff to see if he’s the next Dalai Lama?” I asked. I knew that if I kept talking, I could get through this. Words were a refuge from the maelstrom of my emotions. My gut churned, the vise of my chest muscles strangled my ragged breath, and my heart pounded as if to split at the seams with each new beat.

  “Yes,” Sam said, her eyes soft. “I’m sorry we couldn’t reveal any of this to you.”

  “I think it’s time I heard about this ‘we’ that you keep talking about,” I said.

  “I don’t mean Bhante and I,” Sam said, turning to face me. Tingling energy flowed out of her, and I felt marginally calmer. I also felt oddly connected to her. Was her energy merging with mine? Gluing us together?

  Sam continued. “RGP has been interviewing potential Buddhas for years. We didn’t know about the clones, of course, because Bhante here has apparently been gathering and hiding them. I guess our organizations have been coming at this from different angles.”

  Bhante smiled. “The potential Buddhas are a fine group of men,” he said. “It’s been my joy.”

  “Did they all sign up to live in this cave and work for you?” I asked. That seemed unlikely, but Bhante’s lure of Buddhahood was certainly seductive. I’d already pictured myself sitting under a tree answering questions from a bevy of gorgeous women. Now I visualized myself leading a meditation at the UN.

  “Oh no. We’ve visited many candidates who chose not to leave their life situations,” Bhante said, bringing his teacup up to his lips although there was no tea left in it. “And no one does any work here that they don’t wish to do. Most feel a certain obligation when they learn of their heritage.”

  “Heritage, huh? You know that no one has cloned a human, right?” I said. “Aside from the ethics of it, the science hasn’t been there. How could someone have done it thirty-seven years ago?” I glared at him. In that moment, the whole deal felt like a hoax.