Saffron Days in L.A.

by Bhante Walpola Piyananda

  “That is not what I read,” he replied with emotion. “It completely contradicts your statement.”

  “Mario, have you read the early Buddhist canon, which was recorded before the fourth century BCE?”

  “I have not, Bhante.” I could see that Mario was beginning to become a bit uncomfortable.

  I continued with, “In the Middle-Length Discourses of the Buddha,1 ‘The Noble Search,’ and ‘The Greater Discourse to the Saccaka,’2 it is explicitly mentioned that Prince Siddhartha left the palace with his parents’ permission. Furthermore, in Lalitavistara, a Sanskrit text from the first century BCE, it says, ‘My son, your desire for the emancipation of the world is worthy of encouragement as it will be beneficial for all mankind. May your wish be fulfilled.’3 According to the early texts, the Prince never abandoned his wife. He provided for all of her needs, and for luxuries as well, and with her permission, he left the palace to pursue his enlightenment.

  “I’ll also tell you this, Mario. There was a well-known Buddhist commentator who lived in the fourth century CE, named Buddhaghosa. It was he who misconstrued the facts and added the abandonment myth to give the story a poetic, or even somewhat dramatic, effect. Also, I would like you to read Old Path, White Clouds by Thich Nhat Hanh. He, too, through his investigation of the early texts, supports the fact that Prince Siddhartha left his wife and family with permission.”4

  “Bhante, I suppose you are right, but you are talking about the Theravada interpretation. I am following Zen practice, which is Mahayana. Therefore my detachment is Zen detachment.”

  “Mario, just so you are informed, Thich Nhat Hanh is a Mahayana Zen master. Also, you are not the only Westerner who calls himself a Buddhist who only understands the literal definitions of attachment and detachment. The fact that you practice Zen meditation has nothing to do with your understanding of this very important Buddhist theme.” I could tell that Mario was on the verge of getting angry with me, particularly because I wasn’t impressed by his Zen practice, or by his reading of Herman Hesse.

  I paused for a moment before I continued, and I thought of an anecdote that I felt was appropriate. “Mario,” I began, “I would like to tell you a story about a man named Ted who was constantly changing his girlfriends. When I questioned him about this, he replied unabashed, ‘I practice nonattachment. If I stick to one person, I will become attached to her. This I have learned from my master.’

  “I replied to Ted that I believed he had misunderstood his master. I also told him that it seemed he was attached to his nonattachment, much the way I think you are, Mario. When a person is in love with another person, then he or she has to accept the responsibilities that go along with that love. Otherwise, it is not love at all, but merely an impersonal lust. Love is a state of unity, which is experienced physically as well as mentally. With love, there is caring, forgiveness, and commitment. Buddhism teaches that love unites, whereas your theory of detachment results in fragmentation.”

  Mario replied, “Getting back to Ted, I think he is right, Bhante.”

  “Mario, I believe you were born a Catholic.”

  “In Italy nearly everyone is a Catholic, Bhante, and for a number of years I even studied in a seminary to become a Catholic priest.”

  I was very surprised to hear this, but I responded, “That’s good, Mario. Do you remember Luke fourteen, verse thirtysix? It says, ‘If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children, and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple.’5 What Jesus meant here was not literally to hate your family and yourself, but to renounce the world. If you take this passage literally, you would hate your family and yourself. But what he meant here was to renounce.”

  “I see your point, Bhante.”

  “Even the Buddhist Dhammapada has a story very similar to the Christian one, and I’ll share it with you. One day when the Buddha was in his Jetavana monastery, he saw a monk named Bhaddiya coming toward him. The Buddha remarked, ‘Bhikkhus, look at that monk. He has killed both his father and his mother and he goes about without feeling any remorse.’ The Bhikkhus could not understand this statement because that particular monk had committed no crime.

  “Then the Buddha explained that he was referring to an Arahat, who has eradicated craving, conceit, wrong beliefs, and attachment to the sense bases and the objects of the senses. The Buddha had made this statement using metaphors. The terms mother and father are meant to be craving and conceit.”6

  “Oh, Bhante, that’s too heavy for me. I don’t understand.”

  “Let me explain an experience I once had. Several years ago when I was preparing to leave the temple for a funeral service, John, a meditation practitioner, came rushing toward me, pleading with me to listen to him. I told him to talk to the visiting Zen meditation master, as I was already late. I returned after two hours to find John still waiting for me. He was visibly upset and told me that the meditation master had agreed with him when he expressed his desire to end his own life. I told John that I didn’t believe this was true, because the first principle of monkhood is to never encourage anyone to take a life, including one’s own. I knew that John must have misunderstood, and I asked him to please explain exactly what had happened.

  “John answered, ‘Bhante, I was so depressed that I wanted to kill myself, and I told the Zen master of my intention. After a long pause, the monk said to me, ‘You kill yourself.’ I was shocked, Bhante, and I said to him, ‘I beg your pardon?’ Again the monk repeated, ‘You kill yourself. You kill yourself.’

  “Mario, if you were in my position, what advice would you have given John?”

  Mario replied with a grin, “I would tell John to file a complaint at the police station against the Zen master.”

  “Mario, let me explain. When the monk told John to kill himself, he meant that he should kill his ‘self,’ or his ego, not end his life or do harm to his body. Mario, you are faced with the same problem. You are using the word nonattachment as a shroud to cover your weaknesses and to run away from your responsibilities. You have to take care of Mary. You are legally married and you have children with her. She is your wife. Please understand that a successful relationship depends on three important elements: the first is metta, or loving kindness; the second is pema, or personal affection; and the third is raga, or sexual attraction.

  “Loving kindness means having compassion for all human beings. Personal affection means to have feelings of respect, love, and emotional attachment for your parents, siblings, and also for your wife and your children. Sexual attraction is a desire that is aroused in an individual and leads to satisfying his or her basic physical needs. Mario, it seems that you have sixty percent sexual attraction, thirty percent loving kindness, and only ten percent personal affection.”

  “Bhante, you have given me much food for thought. Could you help me find a way to live a happy medium and still be detached?”

  “As I mentioned earlier, your theory of detachment is completely incorrect. You are attached to that incorrect view. You should be able to face challenges, not run away from them. When you live with another person, regardless of your marital status, you are responsible for doing your best to promote each other’s happiness. You should help each other maintain a happy, well-balanced life. By practicing consideration you will be able to make Mary happy. If she is not happy, how can you or the children be happy? The root cause of family strife is lack of communication and understanding. Have you spoken to Mary about your European vacation?”

  “Yes, Bhante; she is furious with me, and she argues about it day and night. I am sick of it. She wants to make me feel guilty because she is pregnant. She wants child support for my son, but she doesn’t want the two-year-old to join me on my holiday.”

  “Mario, our Lord Buddha has advised all husbands to honor, respect, and be faithful to their wives. They should love, be attentive, provide for the basic needs, and take care of the children.”7

  “I think
the mother must also share this burden,” he replied.

  “Yes, both parents have to share this responsibility. A mother’s duty is to love, care for, and protect the children. Parents are responsible for the well-being and upbringing of their children. The father should be the son’s role model.”

  I continued, “Do you know that many Sri Lankans have immigrated to the United States mainly to educate their children? These people, whom I know personally, lived very comfortable lives in Sri Lanka and did not lack anything. Yet, for their children’s education they have sacrificed their lives of luxury to live in America. They do not lead an easy life here, and with great difficulty, they support the children until their education is completed. Most Sri Lankan students do not work while studying. The children of these Sri Lankans are very fortunate to have such dedicated and sacrificing parents. The children appreciate the hardships the parents endure, and they often become successful figures in this society.”

  “Bhante, I should follow the Sri Lankan tradition. On second thought, I may not go to Europe. I want to invite you to my house before you leave. I am being attached to you now.”

  I was relieved to hear Mario’s decision, and I was happy that I had been able to lead Mario to understand his personal responsibilities and to redefine his understanding of Buddhist detachment.

  A short verse from the Dhammapada sums it up nicely:

  Why do now what you will regret later?

  Why bring future tears upon yourself?

  Do only what you are sure you will not regret

  And you will always be filled with joy.8

  TEN

  A Lady of the Night

  I arrived in the United States on July 4, 1976, the two-hundredth anniversary of America’s birth. The country’s determination to hold on to its old image of power, might, and right had collapsed under its own weight, and by 1976 these notions had disappeared within the pain of the Vietnam War. Nothing seemed sure any more. Despite the hopeful exterior, a crack had become noticeably apparent in the center of the collective American mind. In reality, most Americans found it hard to find any hope in this bicentennial celebration. Fear for America’s future was hiding beneath the surface of the American dream.

  These polarities of hope and fear seemed to display themselves in subtle ways. Yet it is the openness between polarities that allows for the flow of the river, and such openness has been one of the transforming qualities that attracts new followers to Buddhism. I was, in many ways and to many people, a symbol of the potential for change and openness, while at the same time I was feared as an unknown entity. I was everything and nothing at the same time. Buddhism, to those who were searching, became a symbol of possibility: an open locus of no dimension, the openness between the disjunctive pairs of hope and fear, the middle path, a potentiality for something as new as the vision of America’s forefathers. This was the secret dream. Some Americans seemed to be looking for fresh directions distinct from the vacuous materialism they had come to despise. Nineteen seventy-six. Red, white, and very blue.

  On Wednesday and Friday evenings I taught meditation at the International Buddhist Meditation Center in Los Angeles, where I had come to live. At that time I was the only Theravada monk in the area who worked with Westerners. Most other Theravada monks were Thai, working within their own community, and primarily with first-generation immigrants.

  One Wednesday evening before class, a lady came up to me and offered me an envelope. I thanked her and placed it beside me as we began our session. At the end of our meditation she came over and urged me to open the envelope. I had seen the woman a few times before, but she had always left very soon after meditation ended. I didn’t know anything about her except that her name was Kathy.

  “Bhante,” she said, “Don’t you want to open your gift, the envelope?” She pointed to it. “Go ahead and open it!”

  I thanked her and replied that in my country we usually do not open gifts in front of the giver. Kathy again insisted with the delightfulness of a child that I open the envelope. Reluctantly, I agreed.

  “Oh my gosh!” I said. I could hardly believe my eyes! I looked again and sure enough there were three one-hundred-dollar bills. This was more than I had ever received before, an amount considered a lot of money in my country of Sri Lanka, where even top executives didn’t make three hundred dollars in a month.

  I looked up from the envelope and responded, “My, this is quite a nice gift! Thank you so much for your wonderful thoughtfulness. You must have a very good position, my friend. Tell me, what do you do for a living?”

  She looked a bit uncomfortable, but she replied, “Bhante, you see, I am a hooker. . . .”

  Certainly I did not have the foggiest idea what a hooker was, but I thought to myself that such a large amount of money must mean that she held a very good job.

  I said, “Oh, what a wonderful career. You must be very happy.”

  Her face drew a puzzled look. Suddenly, like a dam breaking, she smiled and exclaimed, “Oh, Bhante, thank you! Everyone always puts me down, but you praise me. Thank you!”

  Almost instantly her happiness suddenly vanished, and instead she was crying. “Oh, Bhante,” she sniffed, “they wouldn’t even let me go to my mother’s memorial service! I was kicked out because they had called me a shameful person. Bhante, thank you for being so kind and accepting. Not one person has ever accepted me for myself.”

  I wasn’t sure just what was going on, so I thanked her again and asked if she would please come back for Friday’s meditation. She agreed and left like a flash, as if she wished to completely disappear. I feared I had somehow embarrassed her.

  As soon as she was gone, I immediately jumped up and ran into the office. “Mike, Mike,” I yelled. “Come quick, come here.”

  Mike came running into the room. “Are you OK, Bhante?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes, I am fine. But I must ask you a question,” I responded.

  “Well, what is so urgent? I’ve never seen you in such a hurry,” Mike replied with curiosity.

  “Mike,” I proceeded, “I need you to tell me what a hooker is!”

  Mike’s look of astonishment, combined with his gasping for air, made me panic for a moment. With a start he replied, “What? You don’t need to know what that is! Why do you ask? You don’t need to know that. I am not going to discuss it.” Mike began to huff out of the room.

  I grabbed his arm softly. “Mike, please. I need to know. I don’t understand, but I asked one of our meditators what she did for a living. She had given me a large donation, and I was shocked at the size of it. So I asked her what was her career. When she told me she was a hooker, I praised her. Then she started crying, saying everyone puts her down except me.”

  Mike’s face was as white as a cloud, and suddenly he burst into laughter, like a spring shower. “You’re kidding me, aren’t you Bhante?”

  I wasn’t, and I guess Mike could tell by the look on my face.

  “Bhante, just a minute. I’ll be back in a minute.” With that, Mike left the room. I was still confused when a few moments later he returned with the abbot of the center and a few giggling others.

  “Bhante, please sit down,” the abbot requested, pointing to the chair. I slowly moved over, wondering what I had gotten myself into.

  “Bhante, I heard your story from Mike. You really don’t need to know what a hooker is, but in this case”—the abbot stopped speaking suddenly while the people in the hallway moved by—“in this case, obviously you need to know. A hooker is a harlot, a streetwalker . . . a . . . a prostitute!”

  I was astounded. I certainly knew what a prostitute was, but I was not up on all the new American slang. But there was the realization: Kathy—a prostitute. I felt so bad, and I wondered what might have happened in her life to bring her into such a livelihood. I thanked the abbot for his information and left for my quarters.

  All night long I could not sleep. I worried for Kathy’s well-being. I wondered if I should have accepted the
money that she had earned in such a way. I tossed and turned and got up and meditated, but I could not sleep. What was I going to do? How might I be of service to her without being judgmental?

  Then it came to my mind that the Lord Buddha worked with prostitutes, and he understood them. Sirima and Ambapali were prostitutes who eventually became two of Buddha’s greatest supporters. I should try to understand what happened, how Kathy had come to this kind of life. I decided that I would speak to her about it and hoped that she would be at Friday’s meditation, as she said she would be.

  She was.

  When Kathy sat down I quietly asked her if she could see me after meditation. I could tell by the look on her face that she was wondering if I was going to condemn her. I just smiled and struck the bell to start our session.

  Afterward, Kathy and I went into the Shrine Room. There, a large, beautiful, golden Buddha sat quietly in repose, next to where we settled. I gazed over at the image for inspiration and support.

  Turning to her, I said, “Tell me, why are you leading this kind of life? I want to ask you . . .”

  At this point Kathy interrupted me and blurted out, “I knew it! You’re going to put me down, too! Everyone puts me down.”

  I stopped her with a look. “No. No. No. I am being compassionate. I am not judging you. I am also worried about your welfare.”

  She stopped for a second and looked at me. “Bhante,” she said, “no one has ever cared for me except my dear mother, who is now dead. Could it be that someone I just met would care for me? Why? Why?” She sobbed on and on.

  “My friend, please. When I am of service to you, I am of service to the Lord Buddha. You and the Buddha have the same nature. Please tell me, how is it that you came to this way of life? Please tell me about yourself. I will not harm you; I only wish to help you.”

  She looked so alone and scared. I continued, “Kathy, in the Buddha’s time there were so many women who were prostitutes, but later became wonderful ladies; they became faithful supporters of the Lord Buddha, and some of them even became Buddhist nuns!”