“And you think your god is in a stone?”
“Of course not. But this murti represents Shiva, and he’s an aspect of God.”
Dhiman was not listening. In his world, there was only one way—Lord Buddha’s way. God and deities had no relevance. What mattered was to see through the delusion of life and comprehend true reality. They walked on in silence. Yeshua would tell Dhiman later that he thought the Lord Buddha could also be an incarnation of God.
After the bland meals of the desert, the foods of the Indus Valley made their mouths water: deep-fried fish fritters rich with the flavors of garlic, ginger, chilies, and coriander; chicken biriyani sweetened with cardamom and cinnamon. Yeshua’s favorite was rogan josh, a peppery lamb stew that set his throat on fire.
But the first time Yeshua entered a Sindhi marketplace, the locals no longer appeared so friendly. A screaming merchant chased him through the market, lashing after him with a belt. Yeshua ran as fast as he could between the stalls, knocking down piles of mangoes and baskets of spices, to avoid being whipped. When at last he stopped, out of breath, and looked back at the merchant, the man stared at him with hateful eyes.
“I don’t understand. What did I do?” Yeshua called out.
The merchant tipped a cauldron full of lentils onto the ground. “This is what you’ve done, you ignorant donkey. You looked at my food.”
“Looked at your food? But what—” Yeshua pressed his palms together. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” His eyes filled with tears. The man had lost a whole pot of food because of him. “Can I make it up to you somehow? I have no money but—”
“Just stay away from me. And never, ever look at anyone’s food, you son of a demon.” The merchant stabbed him with his stare before he disappeared back into the market. There was money still to be made.
Immediately, a throng of children appeared and threw themselves on the ground to scoop up the lentils with their bare hands. Yeshua, too, rushed forward, but by the time he got through the crowd, only soggy earth remained. His stomach ached with hunger, but he knew he had no right to benefit from the merchant’s loss. And it pleased him to see the famished children lick their hands to savor every last bit.
“Do not worry, my friend.”
Yeshua turned to look at a young boy in a yellow turban.
“One rich man lost a little money, a few coins, but not to worry. Watch those children, their tummies full. Very good karma.”
“I don’t understand what happened. Why was he angry?”
“A nonbeliever’s eyes can poison the food of true believers. But praise be to Shiva, the more deserving gained a good and proper meal.”
When Yeshua entered the market again, he kept his eyes on the ground. He heard clanking as merchants covered their pots wherever he went. Yeshua followed the rich scent of hot foods and stopped when he detected freshly baked bread. Without looking up, he greeted the merchant. “Namaste, my good sir. Do you have it in your heart to spare a piece of bread for a pilgrim?”
Gratefully accepting half a naan, Yeshua pressed his palms together in gratitude and recited a prayer in Aramaic to bless the generous baker. The baker chuckled with delight and waved him off with a friendly “Namaste.” People here always appreciated a blessing in a foreign language more than familiar mantras. His gaze still cast down, Yeshua found a stall that smelled of curried meat. “Blessings, my honorable man. Can you please spare some food for a poor pilgrim on his devotional journey, his yatra?” In this manner, morsel by morsel, Yeshua filled his stomach and shared benedictions among the people of the Indus River Valley.
The day they finally reached his village, Dhiman fell to the ground on his knees, as if to kiss the earth in gratitude. But then he rose, pressed his palms together in front of his heart, reached them over his head, and lowered them back to his heart. Again he knelt, placed his palms on the ground, and walked them forward until he lay flat. Rising, he took a step forward and repeated the movements over and over, approaching his home like a centipede while mumbling mantras of devotion. Yeshua followed close behind, reciting the prayer he had altered over the course of his journey, “The Lord is my God, the Lord is One. Blessed be his glorious kingdom forever and ever. Every day, in every moment, I love the Eternal One with my entire mind, with my entire body, with my entire soul, and with all my might…”
The villagers gawked as Dhiman and Yeshua passed, and children gathered behind them in a long line. Some ran from house to house, calling for one and all to come see. Together they walked through the village center and crossed a small hill on the road leading out of town until, finally, the monastery appeared before them. Dhiman’s home. A rectangular mud-brick temple with a straw roof stood in front of a ring of low huts. Its steeple rose like a pile of flatbreads toward the clouds.
Inside a low wall covered by blossoming vines, dozens of monks went about their business, sweeping the grounds or sitting cross-legged on blankets, cleaning stones out of grains or shelling pistachios. One by one, they noticed their long-lost brother at the gate. The murmur grew louder and spread like a wave, and they rushed to greet him as one. They huddled together in a tight embrace and covered his face and hands with kisses.
The chatter flowed in torrents as they asked him where the road had taken him and what he had experienced on his journey. Yeshua removed his sandals, took a seat on the low wall, and waited patiently. Dhiman had been away for three years; his friends were ecstatic at his return.
The monks entered the temple, leaving Yeshua outside. As the sun descended and disappeared behind the blue hills, Yeshua listened to their endless monotone chant. Faint with hunger, he had no other choice but to wait. He crossed his legs, turned his palms toward the sky, and observed his breathing. The soft wind caressed his soul, and the scent of incense painted the landscape with magic.
“Issa!” The voice reached him from another dimension. “Let’s eat.”
Dhiman’s cheeks flushed with elation as he grabbed Yeshua’s hand and led him to a large brick building that served as the dining hall. A monk handed him a bowl full of steaming hot beans, rice, and vegetables. They sat on a woven straw mat and ate in silence, using only their right hand, as Dhiman instructed. After months of traveling and begging for scraps, it seemed strange to be offered food without asking for it. Yeshua suppressed an urge to stand and recite a blessing of thanks in Aramaic. No one had uttered a single word since they had entered the hall, and he was well aware that if he wanted to stay here, he would have to follow their rules. Would they ever invite him into the temple to join their chanting? His heart sang at the thought. For now, though, the best thing in the world would be to get some sleep.
Dhiman and Yeshua rinsed their bowls in a vat of water and sat down, still in silence, in the courtyard. After all the other monks had gone to bed, Dhiman led Yeshua to a cluster of huts behind the dining hall to find a place to lie down.
“Here,” Dhiman said. They entered a small round hut with a pointed straw roof where a single monk was asleep. “But hide the ring. Valuables are not allowed here.”
Yeshua tied the golden ring into the corner of his head scarf, unrolled his sleeping mat, and was asleep before his head hit the ground.
The clanging of a cymbal shattered his sleep. Yeshua was about to curse whoever was making the noise when he remembered where he was.
“Morning prayer. Come.” Dhiman was already up and by the door.
Morning? It was still dark outside. Fearful of offending his hosts, Yeshua rolled up his mat and wobbled out to the temple on sleepy legs. The moon stood high above, and the stars sparkled in the boundless sky.
“Morning meditations are the best, you know,” Dhiman said. “Your mind is not awake yet.”
Yeshua shook his head. Had no one told them the meaning of the word morning? It started when the sun rose above the horizon. But enough of the grumpiness: he wanted to learn, and learn he would. He followed Dhiman into the rectangular temple building and sat behind the monks, facing the te
acher, his mind at peace. The temple embodied all he had dreamed of, a place where he could learn and grow and be respected as an equal among like-minded men. He joined the chanting as best he could, repeating each mantra again and again, but without sound so he wouldn’t distract the others. A few of the monks turned to smile at him. They, too, had been novices once.
The session seemed to go on forever. Yeshua’s legs ached from sitting still, and his mind wandered. But he was too self-conscious, too embarrassed to move. Instead, he focused on remembering the words and tried to disconnect from the pain. When the prayers finally came to an end, his legs were so stiff he could barely walk.
“I’m so happy I came here.” Yeshua played with some flat stones, piling them up, one on top of the other, under the shade of a banyan tree. “I think I love him, you know—the Buddha.”
“You’re not supposed to adore him. You’re meant to find the Buddha within.”
“Well, that’s what I mean.”
Dhiman knocked over the pile of stones. “You’re such a sheep sometimes. The Buddha is our inspiration, not a god. He was a man who found enlightenment, and because of him, we have a set path to end suffering. But you can’t just sit under a tree and meditate for a few days and expect to become enlightened. First, you learn to control your mind. It takes time and a lot of effort to even get close. Are you sure you want to do this?”
Yeshua nodded. He was ready.
“Well, my sheep,” Dhiman said, laughing, “let’s start with the morning prayer.”
Dhiman explained the ritual. The first part of the prayer served to protect the world from negativity. The next part reminded the monks to detach from all material matters—the essence of Buddha’s wisdom.
“It’s important,” Dhiman said, “to memorize the prayer, because only then can we contemplate the meaning of the words and develop our natural wisdom. At the end of each session, we, the younger monks, praise the elders for keeping the Lord Buddha’s teachings alive. And then we all stand and bow in silent prayer before the service ends with a gong.”
Yeshua’s eyes stung from salty drops of perspiration, and the sun scorched his skin as he and Dhiman washed the monks’ robes in large vats. They beat the clothes with pipal tree branches and rinsed them in the cool river. Yeshua toiled with passion. What a blessing to work in the monastery among like-minded seekers! He scrubbed until his hands were red with blisters, and his shoulders and arms throbbed with pain from the intense physical effort, but he did not stop. This was his only means of repaying the charity from strangers. Miraculously, he had been fed every single day, and now he wanted to prove to God that he was a worthy recipient.
At last the meal gong sounded. The boys trailed the other monks into the dining hall, received their bowls of food, and sat on a mat to eat in silence. After a few weeks, Yeshua had adjusted to monastery life. Dhiman had taught him to eat slowly and mindfully. He paused a moment to contemplate each bite, repeating the mantra he had learned. “Thank you for this meal, this gift from the earth, the sky, the sun, and all who have labored to provide it. I accept my meal with humility, hoping I have truly earned this bowl of food. I take each bite with compassion. I thank all plants and creatures that have been offered as food, and I will eat only what I truly need. I accept this meal as nourishment for myself, for the community, for our village, and for all living beings.”
“Why do we say ‘creatures’?” Yeshua asked. The monks never ate meat.
Dhiman smiled. “Didn’t you see me eat beef and mutton and fish during our journey?”
Yeshua knitted his brow, considering, but nodded slowly. “But in here, in this community, we haven’t had meat for weeks. I assumed—”
“You’re right. But the Buddha said that we must be thankful for what we are given in our bowls, whatever it is. And we may eat pure fish and meat, if the animals haven’t been killed for the purpose of feeding a monk. We should never eat a creature slaughtered just for us.”
Before resuming chores, the monks were called to class in the temple. A monk almost as tall as the sunken straw ceiling led a chant about compassion and repentance. The men swayed and bowed, reciting the verses over and over. Light-headed, with his heart open and his mind cleansed, Yeshua returned to washing clothes with fresh enthusiasm and renewed spirit, despite his aching limbs.
At nightfall, Yeshua and Dhiman hung the last robes to dry on the low bushes and walked back to the temple. The large hall was dense with the smoke of incense. An oil lamp cast a faint glow over the rows of monks sitting cross-legged, palms pressed together in front of their hearts. Yeshua slipped into meditation, but instead of drifting into nothingness, he drifted into sleep. He shook his head and started over again, only to awaken a moment later from his guilty conscience. What a relief when the chanting started!
One of the oldest teachers, a monk withered like a dried rosebush, raised his hand for silence, smoothed out his mustard-colored robe, and spoke in a voice as soft as churned cream:
“The Buddha said that a monk who speaks without knowing, who says, ‘I have mastered this wisdom,’ speaks from a place of selfishness, of greed and anger. He holds himself too dear. He is like a poor person who talks about his riches, or a man who speaks about owning properties that he does not own, and when the day comes and they need to present the commodities or the silver or the gold, they have nothing to show.” The teacher chuckled to himself. “A wise man admits he does not know yet, that he is learning. Never let your mind be corrupted by evil longing to know it all, to know better than others.”
Yeshua shifted in his seat.
The teacher continued: “To learn, you must come from a place of humility, of openness. Because when you share your knowledge, what is it you share? Before you can teach even the little beetle or the proud cobra, you must accept that your knowledge is like a drop of the entire ocean. You can teach something. I can also teach you something. But none of us can teach anyone everything.”
All the monks laughed, recognizing that they were still far from mastery.
“In fact, if you try to be perfect, you can only harm yourself. We can aspire to be good, yes, but it is not easy to do only what is beneficial to others all the time.
“That’s why the Buddha said one should always remain compassionate with oneself and with others. A man who ignores the teaching of the Buddha and the bodhisattvas is a fool, and like the bamboo, can produce only fruits of self-destruction. Because purity and impurity come from within; no one can purify another.”
Yeshua listened, trying to absorb it all. Suddenly, he missed the rabbi at the Capernaum synagogue, the simple potter who spoke with the same clarity and wisdom.
One after the other, the monks proceeded to ask questions.
“How will I know if I’m ready to teach?”
“The students will come when you are ready. Until then, keep learning. And remember, someone else will always know more than you.”
“But how can we possibly harm ourselves? Why would we?”
“By greed and pride, or guilt and shame. Those sentiments are not healthy. Treat yourself as you would treat a dear friend or teacher: with respect, compassion, and forgiveness.”
“If purity depends only on me, what can I learn here at the monastery?”
“At the sangha, we help each other to improve. You study the Buddha’s teachings that show you the way, and we encourage each other because mastery is nearly impossible to achieve on your own. However, you are responsible for putting the knowledge into practice. No one else can do it for you.”
Too tired to eat, Dhiman and Yeshua went straight to bed. Before falling asleep, Yeshua whispered to his friend, “This is heaven, Dhiman!”
Yeshua was impatient to absorb everything he could about Buddha’s teachings—dharma, as the monks called it: the four noble truths, the eightfold path, the five precepts, and the many suttas. He learned the daily chants and mastered inner stillness at meditation. He immersed himself in chores: he dug latrines, prepared fo
od, swept the grounds, and washed robes, staying present in every moment. He made meal offerings to the Buddha and posed questions to the teachers. Little by little, he was accepted into the sangha community as one of their own, but much to his chagrin, he was constantly reminded that he was not allowed to teach anyone, especially outside the monastery walls.
“If selflessness is important, why do the elders hold themselves above us?” he asked Dhiman as they were sweeping huts.
“You’re still a beginner. You’ve barely started the eightfold path, and—”
“And what? We taught the merchants when we were traveling, didn’t we? Surely I know enough to teach the villagers, don’t you think?”
“Issa, don’t be such a pigeon. You know nothing. The elders have studied dharma since they were little children. They’re masters. They’ve learned the right view, the right intention. They use the right speech, the right action. They’re probably right on the cusp of enlightenment—”
“I might be, too!” Yeshua said, and banged the broom into the doorpost, sending the dust flying right back into the hut.
“You?” Dhiman laughed with the empathy of a loving father. “Oh, Issa, you may be clever, but you’ve barely been here two months. You haven’t even mastered the first steps. You think you understand the Buddha’s teachings? It takes many, many years.”
“Why should I spend all this time studying to be a monk if I can’t teach others what I know? How’s that any different from working with my father and studying at the synagogue on the Sabbath?”
“It takes time, Issa. Every moment of practice is necessary. The Buddha said it takes many drops of water to fill a jug. You’ll be a teacher one day. But you must be patient.”
“You think I’m going to work as a slave my whole life so I can teach when I’m too old to care?”
“Think of the Buddha. It took him many years to reach enlightenment.”
“What if I’m the Buddha reborn?”
The Transmigrant Page 6