by Helen Brown
She waved him on good-naturedly, keen to get to the Tooth Temple before the day’s heat set in and the crowds became overwhelming. I hadn’t appreciated the importance of the Temple of the Sacred Tooth Relic in Kandy. Housing a tooth (or more accurately, the remains of one) that once belonged to Buddha himself, the temple is one of the most religiously significant places in all of Sri Lanka.
The incisor was wrenched from Buddha’s funeral pyre in 543 BC and smuggled to the island in the hair of a princess in the fourth century AD. Whoever holds the tooth relic is said to have the right to rule the country. Because of its importance, the Tooth Temple has been bombed several times, most recently in 1998 when eleven people were killed in a suicide truck explosion. The buildings have been restored every time, so they give no hint of a troubled past.
Every Sri Lankan Buddhist aims to make a pilgrimage to the Tooth Temple at least once in their lifetime. Though Lydia had been many times before, she had never been on Poya day.
Rising above limpid Kandy Lake, the Temple buildings and royal palace complex were every bit as imposing as I’d expected. Thousands of people, almost all dressed in white, thronged toward the entrance.
I’ve always been claustrophobic, which is one of the reasons I stay away from rock concerts and footy games. When I saw the Tooth Temple crowd, I toyed with the idea of sitting under a tree with a cool drink while Lydia went inside and merged with the multitude. But I’d stared down other phobias during this trip. I could surely conquer one more.
We hired a guide, took off our shoes at the door, and shuffled up a broad marble staircase. Crammed against so many others in stifling heat, I felt the beginnings of a panic attack. I concentrated on staying calm – it was essential to maintain dignity; for my daughter’s sake, if nothing else.
‘Keep moving with the people,’ our guide instructed repeatedly, his tone reassuringly matter-of-fact.
My shirt turned clammy and clung to my back. A rivulet of sweat trickled down my cheek as Lydia bought three white lotus blossoms for offerings to Buddha. She handed one to me, and one to our guide. Clutching the flower, he stared at the floor, embarrassed. A security guard laughed and teased him.
I dropped my flower and stooped to pick it up.
‘No! You mustn’t do that!’ snapped the guard. ‘The offerings must be clean and pure, not off the ground.’
At the top of the stairs we were shepherded into an open space interspersed with columns. Brightly coloured banners hung from a ceiling made of gold lotus flowers. Musicians wearing white caps and sarongs, the latter tied with red sashes, stepped into a shaft of light. Drums set up a mesmerising rhythm. Wind instruments wheedled out a haunting melody – music to trance by.
Climbing more stairs, I kept concentrating on staying calm while moving forward. By the time we reached the casket room I was too busy focusing on breathing to take much notice of our surroundings. Lydia placed her flower on the tooth casket and we shuffled downstairs before stepping outside into searing white daylight. I’ve rarely felt more relieved.
Outside we encountered an imposing bull elephant the size of a large garden shed. I assumed the creature was a fine example of a taxidermist’s art. When his trunk swayed to life and drifted toward me, I almost bolted up a tree. The elephant’s eyes twinkled mischievously. A man held out a stem of bananas, and the creature unfurled his trunk, wrinkled and worn like an old vacuum cleaner hose, and deftly retrieved them. We watched amazed as the elephant devoured the whole lot in one mouthful – bananas, skins and branch.
The guide escorted us through a courtyard filled with hundreds of women in white sitting under trees while a recorded male voice droned teachings over loudspeakers. Some women were alone and giving the appearance of listening, but most were in groups talking softly to each other.
‘Why are they here?’ I whispered.
‘Because women know more about suffering than anybody,’ our guide explained. ‘They give their lives to their family and then they come here to catch up on time they missed out on.’
A pair of grandmothers nodded and smiled over a shared amusement. A group of middle-aged women sat in companionable silence. Their life stories were written on their faces. No one had discovered pain-free childbirth. They’d all worried themselves sick over their children – husbands and parents, too. They were all givers, taking time out together for a little peace and kindness.
The courtyard had such a gentle ambience I wished I could sit in the shade and linger with them. Even though our lives were different on superficial levels, we were sisters under the skin.
Some of the older women stayed all night long, the guide continued, talking and drinking tea. Younger ones left early, around 5 p.m. – meaning they’d still spent most of the day there.
It was a living, breathing circle of women. In the way I’d found loving support from my yoga group, Mary and my women friends, these Sri Lankan women had formalised the union. I wished there was a place like it in Melbourne where women could go – and just be.
After another white-knuckle tuk-tuk ride up the hill, we returned hot and dusty to our hotel room.
‘Oh my goodness!’ said Lydia, opening the door to behold the sight before her.
Our beds were covered in red flowers painstakingly arranged in geometric patterns contrasting against triangular crimson leaves. Three red flowers had been placed in a row on each of our pillows. Lydia’s pyjamas had been lovingly folded into a rectangle beside her pillow.
Her admirer had certainly done something special.
We changed into our swimwear and walked through the warm evening air toward the pool, passing a sign advertising the hotel fortune-teller. Sri Lankans translate English into a more refined language. Tables have signs saying ‘Promised’ rather than ‘Reserved’. Activity organisers are called ‘Animators’.
A German woman called her toddler away from the water’s edge. A French couple sipped cocktails at a table. The luxury of this place was surreal compared to the monastery.
Sun drifted down toward hills across the other side of the valley. Clouds rose like temples lined with gold. Slipping noiselessly into the pool, Lydia and I were anointed in its turquoise cool.
Climbing out of the water refreshed, I shook my hair and sat on a lounger to admire the spectacle across the valley. There was no point getting my camera. No photo could live up to the reality. If any great artist – from one of the Ancient Greeks to Van Gogh – had seen this sunset, he would’ve put down his brushes and walked away.
Monks’ voices wafted from a nearby monastery, chanting in velvet unison. Giant rays of gold radiated from the sun and stretched across the sky.
Lydia stepped out of the pool, slipped into her Calvin Klein singlet top and walked toward me.
‘I can’t remember when I last watched a sunset,’ I said. ‘I mean really watched one.’
‘I suppose you could regard it as a form of meditation,’ she said, towelling her hair. ‘The beauty of every second melting into the next.’
I stood up and walked with her to the edge of the terrace to get a better view. As the sun sank into the clouds, majestic bands of colour flattened out to form red and gold brush strokes across the sky.
‘It is a magic country,’ I said, gazing across the hills silhouetted in the distance.
She nodded in silent agreement.
‘You’ll have to find another island to run away to now I’ve found you here,’ I said, only half joking.
Lydia smiled.
‘If I was your age, I’d have done the same,’ I added. ‘Especially if I could speak the language . . . except maybe not the nun thing.”
The scene was perfect now. I wanted everything to stop and stay frozen in this moment. This golden sky in the warm blanket of a tropic night with my beautiful, grown-up daughter in the land she’d chosen to be part of.
There’d been other times when I’d wanted to capture time – a summer when I was insanely in love; an autumn morning near a duck pond where baby Lydia
toddled toward me, her arms open for me to catch her soft weight in mine.
But clinging to moments, or for that matter daughters, is futile. The trick is to appreciate their beauty, do your best by them and let them go as graciously as possible.
Life is always in movement. One beautiful moment can evolve into another, more precious form. Every second, even when coloured with sadness, has potential to be richer than the last.
The mastery is in awareness and trust; in having enough wisdom to step back to allow space for the new to unfold. To avoid becoming a Hungry Ghost mourning the past and always craving for the future.
The red and gold brush strokes slowly darkened to crimson. The monks’ voices enveloped us in their liquid harmonies.
‘I love it here,’ Lydia said, as we watched the hills turn a misty lilac. ‘But I’ve done enough.’
Her words left me momentarily speechless.
‘When I first started meditating, I thought if I tried hard for long enough something incredible would happen,’ she continued, her voice fractured with emotion. ‘You know, scientists have done tests and they’ve found physical changes in the brain when people approach higher levels of awareness. I thought I’d be able to achieve that. Maybe even find . . .’
The rest of her sentence hung in the air between us. Please don’t say it’s hard to explain.
‘Enlightenment?’ I asked quietly.
The Frenchman lit a cigarette and the German woman gathered her toddler in a towel.
A tear formed a crystalline river down Lydia’s cheek. Her pain was deep.
‘I just thought if I sat there long enough . . .’ she said, then started weeping.
I put my arm around her.
All the time I’d perceived her as being rebellious, Lydia had been focusing on the unattainable goal of perfection. It was the same determination she’d used to achieve high distinctions at university. Once she set her mind on something, her willpower was relentless.
I wondered what had instilled this drive and if it was to do with being born into a household grieving for an older brother she’d never met. While she was in no way a replacement for Sam, it’s true she would never have been born if he hadn’t been run over that day. Perhaps the darling girl really had burdened herself with the task of healing hearts.
Although I’d always made a point of not portraying Sam as a saint, maybe he’d seemed that way to her. Perhaps on a subconscious level she’d grown up measuring herself against an older brother who was untainted because he was dead.
‘I’ve wasted the last five years of my life,’ she sobbed quietly. ‘I could’ve been going to parties and having fun with my friends instead of striving so hard, meditating hour after hour.’
Rocking her gently in my arms, I pieced the past few days together. The fact that she’d let her hair grow, and the silence after her Teacher had publicly invited her to become a nun, now made sense. Far from being manipulated into committing herself to an ancient religion, Lydia was still in charge of her life.
‘I need to come home,’ she said.
Now I’d finally understood her love for the monastery and Sri Lanka, she was coming home?
‘Really?’ I asked. ‘No maroon robes?’
God, what was I doing? Trying to talk her into being a nun?!
‘This place will always be part of me, but . . .’
Her voice trailed off. I resisted the urge to try and finish her sentence.
‘But what?’
‘I don’t feel right here anymore. I’m sure I’ll come back some day, but not for a while. I want to do a Masters in Psychology. I’ve been in touch with Melbourne University and they’ve got a place for me. I want to combine what I’ve learnt here with Western knowledge somehow . . .’
She buried her head in my neck and asked if she could fly back with me in a few days’ time and live at home for a while.
My time with Lydia in Sri Lanka had taught me so much. All the energy I’d put into worrying about primitive toilets, vegetarian curries and mosquitoes had been wasted. The terrifying island of tears had turned out to be an oasis of delightful contradictions. Not only that, it’d taken me back to the adventurous woman I’d once been.
Most importantly, this beautiful island had helped me to understand Lydia. The tensions between us had been more about our similarities than our differences.
The sky became a crimson blanket, then purple.
‘I feel terrible about coming here when you were sick,’ she said, her cheeks glistening in the fading light. ‘I didn’t know what I was doing.’
‘But you came home when I really needed you,’ I said, rocking her gently. ‘You looked after me beautifully, thanks to your dad paying the fare.’
She straightened her back and wiped her eyes.
‘But it was my Teacher who paid for the fare,’ she said.
‘Your Teacher?! ’ I gasped. ‘I thought he was the one trying to keep you here!’
She shook her head.
‘He never did that. He refused to teach me anything that time. In fact he hardly spoke to me. He made it clear he thought I should be with you. Buddhism regards family as very important.’
The island of Serendipity had saved its biggest surprise till last. The charismatic monk I’d suspected of trying to ensnare my daughter and steal her away from us had been far more generous and understanding of family ties than I’d given him credit for.
I’d been a fool for misjudging the man so badly. He’d had our family’s interests at heart all along. No wonder Steve hadn’t replied when I’d sent him the thank you note.
Through all the turmoil, one thing had been consistent – my daughter’s determination to make a meaningful impact on the world.
The profound darkness of the tropics enveloped us. The monks’ voices faded away. Night birds and insects started up their own musical homage to the glory of being alive.
Completion
Happiness is the weight of a cat on your lap, and a contented daughter
As the car pulled up outside Shirley, a double rainbow arced in the sky above. The colours were so vivid and clearly defined in the lower arc I could pick them out individually. I’d never seen such a brilliant rainbow.
High above it, a hazy second rainbow formed a protective curve. A mothering arc, watching over her daughter, content to bask in her offspring’s beauty.
A familiar silhouette sat in the living room window. The moment Jonah saw us he stood up on his toes, arched his back and flicked his tail. Bending intensely, he peered down at the car. As he pressed his face against the glass we could see the blue flash of his eyes.
‘Someone’s pleased to see you,’ I said to Lydia.
As she ran up the path, Jonah jumped down from the window ledge and hurtled off to wait on the other side of the front door. We could hear him meowing. Lydia turned the key, and Jonah pushed the door open to spring into her arms.
‘Oh, I missed you boy!’ she said, sinking her face in his fur.
Jonah’s purr was so deep and resonant it reminded me of something I’d heard just a few nights earlier – the monks chanting at sunset. I thought of the slipper maker and the cat that was his monk. Jonah would be more than willing to take on the role of Lydia’s guru.
* * *
Adjusting back to ‘normal’ life was more difficult for Lydia than I’d realised. In her search for spiritual perfection, so many things had been sidelined. The first thing she did was update her Facebook page. Her old profile, featuring photos of her in monasteries or managing fundraising events, made her tearful. ‘I hardly look like a real person!’ she wept.
She shut herself in the bathroom and emerged twenty minutes later wearing full makeup.
‘Please take my photo,’ she said, thrusting a camera in my hand.
I was engrossed in my study writing a new book but there was urgency in her voice. We went into the back garden where she smiled self consciously under the tree. Unlike most of her generation who practised flashy smil
es taking self-portraits on their phones, Lydia had forgotten how to perform for a camera. She took the camera from me and deleted most of the photos. If I told her what I really thought, that she glowed with rare beauty, she’d have recoiled uncomfortably. Her teacher’s words echoed inside my head – ‘If there is a pearl in all the world, Lydia is our jewel.’
Getting back into the social scene was painful to begin with. Some of her friends only seemed to laugh, talk and drink. She found it hard to fit in. A couple of times she came home tearful, again regretting how she’d spent the past five years. I tried to assure her that while the benefits of her experiences mightn’t seem obvious to her yet, they’d added great richness to who she was and would stay with her forever.
Walking along Chapel Street with her one Saturday night, she glided along the pavement, oblivious to admiring glances from men. When I nudged her and asked if she’d noticed that cute guy trying to make eye contact, she seemed almost startled.
Katharine, Philip and I were delighted when she came along to operas, musicals and the occasional trashy film with us. During her devout phase she’d rejected entertainment as a ‘diversion’.
It was wonderful to see her wearing clothes that weren’t from a charity shop. To my surprise, she developed an addiction to a boutique specialising in conservative outfits with cashmere and leather accessories. Jonah was particularly pleased about that. He scurried into her bedroom whenever he could to steal her scarves.
‘I’m ashamed to confess it,’ she said one day. ‘But I have a weakness for animal skin prints.’
I bought her a fake leopard-skin handbag. Jonah naturally assumed it was his and started carrying it around the house.
Lydia took her cooking skills to new levels. Not only could she recreate Mum’s ginger crunch to perfection, Julia Child and Nigella Lawson became household friends.
Jonah galloped eagerly into the kitchen whenever he heard her rattling in the pot cupboard. It meant no end of games – jumping up on the bench and being shooed off again. Lydia solved the situation peaceably, placing his tallest scratching pole in the middle of the kitchen so he could supervise. This involved much ‘talking’, answering every question with a meow or a cluck – or, if he disapproved for some reason, one of his snitching sounds.