by Helen Brown
Some monks were more interested in Neuroscience than others, she confessed, but the links to meditation and its effects on the brain were particularly relevant. Apparently, happiness can be measured by heightened activity in the orbital frontal cortex. Scientists had discovered that the man with the happiest brain in the world happened to be a Buddhist monk.
Before there was time to ask more, we needed to hurry back to the dining room to meet the fortune-teller. Neuroscience to fortune-telling seemed an easy leap in this unworldly place.
I’d expected a village fortune-teller to have white hair and no teeth. But she was a good-looking woman in her thirties with prominent hooded eyes and long dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. She looked like the sort of woman I might’ve made friends with at a playgroup not so long ago. Unfortunately, she spoke no English.
The senior nun, who’d had her fortune told with surprising accuracy on a previous occasion, agreed to translate while Lydia took notes. The psychic didn’t ask to look at my palm. She gazed disinterestedly out the window instead.
‘You make a lot of money but you waste it,’ she said.
I couldn’t argue with her there.
‘Your family lives near you. Brothers, sisters – some over the back fence, some next door.’
Well, even the best fortune-tellers miss the mark sometimes.
‘In your house there is the ghost of an old man,’ she continued. ‘He is followed up and down the stairs by a cat. Do you have a cat?’
I nodded.
‘The cat and the old man’s ghost – I think it is your father. They are good friends.’
Lydia and I exchanged glances. Perhaps Jonah had been trying to tell us something when he’d sprayed Dad’s old piano. Dad had always liked cats.
‘You’ve had a very hard time with your health lately,’ the fortune-teller went on. ‘But things are okay now. You’ll get another health problem when you’re sixty but don’t worry. It won’t be serious. You’ll live till . . .’
She took the pencil from Lydia’s hand and wrote ‘82’ on the paper.
I was happy with that.
‘You had a terrible time when everything was very bad,’ she added, her eyes suddenly veiled with a memory of pain. ‘You wanted to end your life, but you became strong instead. You lost all fear and started a new life.’
It’s only natural to want to catch a fortune-teller out. I asked how old I was when I had this experience. Without hesitating she replied ‘28’ – exactly the age I was when poor Sam was killed. She was right. There was no doubt I’d felt suicidal.
I asked her about my work.
‘I see two books,’ she said. ‘They will spread sunshine over the world.’
I was hoping the woman would go on to tell Lydia’s fortune, but she seemed to have run out of energy. She said Lydia would have three children and needed to be careful driving her car.
The fortune-teller then asked if Lydia and I might be interested in buying gems to clear impurities from our blood. Her partner, who happened to be waiting outside, sold such gems and would make them up into pendants for us at an excellent price, much cheaper than we’d pay in our own country. While I was happy to do anything to support the local economy, Lydia put her hand on my arm. Despite her spiritual tendencies, she’d always been astute with finances. Thanking the psychic, and paying her several times the going rate, she said we’d think about cleansing gems.
After the fortune-teller and her partner had left, Lydia and I savoured a lunchtime banquet of potato curry, green vegetables, salad, lentils flavoured with turmeric, and soy beans. Thanks to the Sri Lankan sweet tooth, desert was equally sumptuous – dry noodles decorated with yoghurt and honey, then drizzled with jaggery syrup. In case that wasn’t enough, papaya and bananas had been added to the table. The monastery cook was a food poet, a culinary Cezanne. And to think I’d considered starvation a possibility!
The Sri Lankan tuk-tuk is basically a lethal weapon on wheels. As a motorbike with a small cabin attached behind the driver’s seat, it offers several forms of torture. If you don’t choke to death on the exhaust fumes, it can shatter your bones as it bounces along goat tracks disguised as roads. It has potential to topple over and hurl you into a river, or simply smash head on into a truck full of livestock. Alternatively, you can try fitting three people into the cabin and risk having the life crushed out of you.
‘Are the three of us going to fit in that thing?’ I asked, peering at a passenger seat wide enough to accommodate three budgerigars.
The senior nun and Lydia assured me we would.
‘Just hold on tight,’ said Lydia as the driver plummeted down the hill into the jungle. If the van had been adventurous, the tuk-tuk was plain suicidal. We crashed over pot-holes, through lakes of mud, then spun around corners narrowly avoiding toppling over precipices. When we finally staggered out on to the village street, it felt as though my heart had rearranged itself to somewhere in my abdomen and that my bowels had been transplanted to my chest.
As we started walking, two girls wearing headscarves stared at us as though aliens had landed. A group of women in saris nodded and smiled curiously. It felt strange to be pale skinned in a village of Sri Lankans. Almost everyone I encountered was friendly and polite. I quietly hoped Sri Lankans felt equally welcome when they visited our part of the world.
The senior nun led us into a supermarket to buy jelly for her ailing mother. Apparently, two weeks before, the eighty-three-year-old had felt dizzy. Sitting on her bed, she’d fallen sideways on to the covers and had been lying there ever since. Jelly was all she could eat.
Searching the shelves, I was surprised to see a range of skin-whitening creams, potions and even pills. Once again, priorities were the opposite to those back home, where young women dedicated much of their lives to making their skin darker, if not orange.
When Lydia found the jelly section, the senior nun asked her to check the best-before dates. Satisfied the product was in good condition, the nun made her purchase and led us out of the supermarket to a T-shirt shop.
Contrary to my assumptions about nuns, this one proved a wily shopper with a keen eye. She had no doubt the purple top with paisley glitter would be perfect to take home for Katharine – and her taste was spot on. The shopkeepers were surprised when Lydia joked and laughed with them in fluent Sinhalese. I took a step backwards and pretended I knew exactly what they were talking about.
On the way back up the hill, the tuk-tuk lurched to a halt outside a modest house half hidden in the trees. A group of people stood outside smiling and waving. Lydia explained they were members of the nun’s family.
‘Would you like to meet my mother?’ asked the senior nun. ‘She is very weak.’
Moving through the front door, I recognised a house close to mourning. Women sat talking quietly together. Men stood about hoping to appear useful. Children played upstairs. No matter what culture they’re from, the warmth and tenderness of people at such a time is profound. To be in a household in the presence of death is to see the human heart at its most sombre and loving.
Family members welcomed us warmly and the nun beckoned us to a room toward the back of the house. The space was small and darkened. Even though the window was open it felt hot and airless.
Lying on the bed was an elderly woman so wasted she was barely a shell. Bending tenderly over her mother, the nun adjusted a cotton blanket to cover her sticks of legs. A primitive drip was attached to her mother’s thin, leathery arm. Her lips were drawn back from her toothless mouth as though in a state of permanent thirst.
Yet her eyes blazed as if she was living with greater intensity now than she had all her life. Her smile was so luminous it filled the room with light. With a withered hand, she reached for Lydia’s sleeve and spoke to her in Sinhalese.
‘She says she’s very pleased to meet you,’ said Lydia. ‘And she wishes you a long life.’
I took the old woman’s hand and stroked her corrugated skin, which was surprisingly
soft and warm. To receive a blessing for long life from someone so close to the spirit world was a great privilege.
The closeness I felt to her reminded me of the circle of women who’d helped me through cancer and of the immense capacity we have to give strength and light to one another. I hoped some day I’d be able to pass the blessing the nun’s mother had given me on to other women, young and old – to wish each one of them a long life brimming with love.
After we thanked the nun’s family and started walking away from the house, I was unable to speak. I’d dreaded coming to this country yet, in the short time I’d been here, Sri Lanka had showered me with unexpected riches. The fluffy-towel addicted, fear-obsessed person I thought I’d become had given way to the life-loving adventurer I used to be.
To be embraced so warmly by the nun and her family had been a gift beyond price. Receiving a blessing from her dying mother made the circle of women seem more powerful than ever. No matter how old we are or what country we’re from, women have great strength and compassion to offer each other.
Not only that, I’d found a place where old people weren’t despised but regarded as a source of blessings.
Most important of all, I’d grown closer to the daughter I’d thought I’d lost.
No wonder the island had been called Serendipity, land of happy accidents.
Disciple
Secret nuns’ business
As the tuk-tuk gasped and sputtered to a halt below the monastery, dark sponges formed in the sky. Chanting floated across the valley – male voices, slightly more melodic than the ones that had woken me before dawn.
Lydia explained they were Muslims in the mosque on the nearby hill. I lowered my head and smiled. People in this country lived and breathed religion. If in doubt, chant.
Raindrops tapped on the steps and pattered on the trees. As the drops grew larger, they drumrolled on leaves the size of pancakes. We hurried up the steps as the clouds squeezed together and unleashed torrents, the sound of which drowned the distant chanting, and every other human and animal voice.
The senior nun smiled warmly as we removed our shoes and scurried into her quarters. I found a non-monk-designated chair and sat to catch my breath.
Suddenly, the junior nun’s eyes widened. She drew a breath and pointed to a spot on the floor near the door. A glistening scorpion the size of a large crab marched across the tiles, his tail raised in an aggressive curve.
‘Don’t move!’ the nun whispered, reaching for a broom. ‘The rain brings them inside.’
Scorpion stings kill thousands of people a year. It’s said that for every person killed by a poisonous snake, ten die from scorpion stings. James Bond was scared of scorpions. This particular Buddhist nun was not.
With her broom poised over her shoulder, she crouched low and stalked the well-armed arachnid. Her concentration and muscle tension reminded me of Jonah on a hunt. At first I assumed she was aiming for the kill, but I gradually realised the situation was more complex. Killing a creature, even a scorpion, was against her belief system. Somehow this fearless woman would have to keep all of us from danger by removing the scorpion without taking its life.
Keeping her distance as much as possible, she nudged the creature with the broom. It stopped and raised a warning claw at her. The nun then sprang into action. With one hand on the broom, she swept the scorpion vigorously forward, using her other hand to lean forward, open the door and sweep the creature safely outside.
As the younger nun slammed the door shut, the senior nun, Lydia and I clapped and cheered. It had been a remarkable performance of courage and co-ordination.
Beaming modestly, the nun bowed and put the broom away.
We laughed and drank sweet tea to celebrate. The junior nun asked if Sister Lydia and Sister Helen would like to do some chanting. When in Rome . . .
While the junior nun prepared the chanting room, I asked her superior how she’d found her vocation.
‘I was good at school,’ she said. ‘My father didn’t want me to take robes. He wanted me to get a job. But I wanted to find peace and happiness inside my head and help others.’
She was in no way dissatisfied with her choice. Much of her life was spent visiting hospitals and being an important member of her community, doing what she could for women in particular. There were just two years between us, but our lives couldn’t have been more different.
‘Lydia my daughter!’ she said, touching her heart with her hand, her smiling face pure with love.
Lydia smiled back at her. Not so long ago I’d have felt a stab of jealousy if another woman claimed my daughter as her own. Not any more. The whole point of parenthood is that at some point you have to let them go. If any of our kids found love outside our immediate family, no matter what form it took, I would rejoice for them.
I still hadn’t found the right moment to ask about Lydia’s long-term plan. If becoming a nun here was on her agenda, I realised she would be loved and well cared for.
The holy women escorted us to an alcove off the main room. A statue of Buddha smiled benignly from a nest of flowers and candles. Lydia handed me what appeared to be a prayer book written in curly script that could’ve been squeezed out of an icing bag.
I’d never been much good at sitting through church, and I wasn’t too comfortable cross-legged on floors any more, but I wanted to be part of the chanting session. A kitchen worker appeared and sat on the floor alongside us.
As the nun sat facing the altar reciting hypnotic phrases, I started nodding off. Lydia nudged me in the side and pointed at English phonetic pronunciations in the prayer book. I tried to keep up with her, but the words made no sense. It took me back to childhood Sundays in St Mary’s church when Mum would point out hymn book words that were equally indecipherable.
Religion was scary back then. The vicar had created some kind of kinky universe inside his head. What was he doing talking about Death’s Dark Vale when we had a perfectly nice park with a duck pond? According to him the entire town was overrun with sinners. I wished we could move somewhere without so many evildoers. Afterwards, when he waited at the church door to say farewell to his congregation, I’d do anything to avoid his soft paw enveloping my hand.
The chanting nun extended a white cotton thread to the kitchen worker, who passed the end of the thread to Lydia, who handed it on to me. Holding the one long cord zigzagging across the room like a spider’s web, we continued chanting. When it was felt enough chanting had been done, the thread was gently recoiled and returned to the nun.
Yet again, I was taken back to childhood where mysterious rituals occurred during my short, unsuccessful stint at Brownies. Smart in our brown uniforms and polished badges, we had to line up and take turns jumping over a toadstool. I obliged of course, but had no idea what it meant. Chanting with the cotton thread left me equally mystified. It meant Special Blessings, according to Lydia.
The nun then chanted and tied a bracelet of plaited cotton around my wrist for Very Special Blessings and Protection. Bowing and thanking all concerned, I headed back to my room.
Instead of showering ‘Western style’ under the tepid dribble with the cockroach downstairs, I decided to go local. Pouring a bucket of cold water over myself inside the ‘French-style’ bathroom was much simpler and more refreshing.
I hadn’t realised how busy monastery life was for Lydia. Apart from the hours she spent meditating and teaching the young monks, she guided her teacher through the intricacies of the internet. She also wrote emails and helped fill out forms for anyone eager to communicate with the English-speaking world.
When the van driver for the monastery had to make travel arrangements to import a van from Malaysia, Lydia helped him out. She was assisting the nuns with an application to attend a conference in Thailand for women in Buddhism. These and other undertakings involved much discussion and negotiation interspersed with occasional emotional outbursts. She handled them all with good humour.
Talking to Lydia about the d
emands on her, she said some of her earlier stints at the monastery had been physically demanding. Carrying bricks up the slope for a new building, renovating an old cottage and sweeping had been a hard slog that was part of her service.
I would have happily stayed on at the monastery; well, at least another couple of nights. It had been so important to see why it occupied such a special place in Lydia’s life and a delight to share the nuns’ world. I loved the way their solemn expressions could melt in girlish giggles. The discipline of their lives was interwoven with light-heartedness. Their commitment to religion and their teacher was enriched by their love of family and the village around them. Though familiar with suffering, they savoured the joyful aspects of being alive.
Fond as she was of the monastery, Lydia surprised me by confessing she was looking forward to a few nights in the hotel on the outskirts of Kandy. I figured the drive to get there would take about an hour. But Lydia’s teacher, who had finally disentangled himself from his other commitments, was determined to show us the tea plantations.
‘You mean they’re on the way to the hotel?’ I asked.
‘Not exactly,’ he replied in a voice both melodic and authoritative.
Once our bags were packed, I finally had a chance to meet some of the monks – smooth-skinned youths, each with a single bare shoulder showing. One had a crutch from a hernia operation. While he claimed not to be in pain, he was pale and could barely shuffle up the steps.
I wondered how their mothers felt. Were they relieved their sons were being fed and educated – or did they simply yearn for their boys?
The young monks listened attentively while Lydia gave them a Neuroscience lesson using PowerPoint on her laptop. As she explained how brain cells cannot be replaced after being damaged, but sometimes reroute themselves, it was hard to judge her audience’s response. While some boys were more engaged than others, they were all immensely polite and showed no obvious signs of boredom.