lay prostrate toward the sacred tree, and yet more sat facing it in meditation, rigid and determined, as if waiting for a miracle. Some had clearly been there for many days and were on the edge of exhaustion.
Bodhidharma found a space near a group of hermit monks who were seated in a circle. Their matted hair and beards hung to the ground. Their skeletal bodies had been smeared from head to foot with grey ash. One of them noticed Bodhidharma through half-closed eyes, and turned to take a closer look. He watched as Bodhidharma lit a fire and prepared to make tea and heat a generous portion of flat bread and spiced vegetables. Finally he caught Bodhidharma’s eye and gestured to him. “May I join you, Brother?” he called out. His companions glared and whispered to him urgently, but he ignored them.
“If you wish,” Bodhidharma replied.
The hermit rose with difficulty and took a few faltering steps toward him, unsure of his balance. He bent to sit down, but his legs gave way beneath him and he slumped in a heap on the ground beside Bodhidharma.
“What is it that you are doing, Brother?” he asked, breathless from the exertion of moving from his seat.
“Drinking tea,” Bodhidharma said.
“We drink only the water from the sacred River Ganges,” the hermit said, shaking his head disapprovingly.
“The river may be sacred,” Bodhidharma said, “but the water is dirty.”
“The water of the Ganges is the water of life,” the hermit said, his dark eyes boring into Bodhidharma’s.
“The river contains death as well as life. Take a look next time you’re on the riverbank.”
“So where did you get the water for your tea?” the hermit asked triumphantly.
Bodhidharma looked at the hermit who was grinning broadly now, his broken teeth huge inside his fleshless skull. “From the river,” he sighed.
“Ha ha!”
“The fire rids it of the spirits of the dead.”
“You believe that?” the hermit scoffed.
“I do, and it also makes good tea. Here, try some,” Bodhidharma said offering him his cup, “it’s very refreshing.”
“I cannot accept, but thank you,” the hermit said.
“Why not? Is it because you might grow to like it?”
“The Buddha told us to free ourselves from earthly desires.”
Bodhidharma took a sip of tea and smacked his lips appreciatively. “He did. But did he not also say that to deny oneself life’s pleasures is wrong too? Did he not speak of a middle path?”
“Maybe so, but where exactly does that path lie?”
“A good question,” Bodhidharma smiled, setting his flat bread to heat over the fire.
“And what is your answer, Brother?” the hermit demanded.
“In a place that cannot be named.”
“Then does it exist at all, one might ask?”
“Yes.”
“That is what you believe,” the hermit said, “but are you certain?”
“I am,” Bodhidharma said with a smile.
The hermit stared at Bodhidharma for a moment then looked around at the park of Bodh Gaya. He noticed his fellow hermits glaring at him and turned back quickly to the stranger in the black robe who was sipping his tea contentedly.
“If you are so certain of things, then why are you here?” he demanded.
“I am making a pilgrimage on my way to Nalanda,” Bodhidharma told him.
“You wish to study at Nalanda? I must warn you, it is very difficult to get in. They will turn you away at the gate.”
“I have an introduction,” Bodhidharma told him.
“An introduction, you say? From whom? They are very particular in Nalanda.”
“Prajnatara.”
“Prajnatara, you say? Master Prajnatara is your master? Why did you not say so before? Prajnatara is very famous here in Magadha, although I heard he went south many years ago to teach.”
“He is, and he did.”
“He must think very highly of you, to send you all the way to Nalanda.”
“He is sending me a lot farther than that,” Bodhidharma smiled. The hermit’s eyes darted over the body of the dark monk and examined his face, determined to take in every detail. “May I know your name, Brother?” he asked finally.
“Bodhidharma.”
“Bodhidharma, you say?” the hermit’s eyes widened in wonder, “and you were given this name by Prajnatara himself?” He shook his head urgently from side to side, “I should call you Master instead of Brother! Please forgive me.”
“You’re free to call me anything you choose,” Bodhidharma said, removing his flat bread from the fire and setting his pot of vegetables on the flame.
“I shall call you Master Bodhidharma,” the hermit said, pressing his palms together with a smile, “and I am honored to meet you. My name is Vanya.”
Bodhidharma reached for his bowl and began to fill it from the pot on the fire. “Would you like to share my food, Brother Vanya?” he asked.
Vanya’s face fell in dismay and he shifted uneasily where he sat.
Bodhidharma smiled. “Maybe later,” he said, “I can see you have no appetite at present.”
“Yes, thank you, Master,” Vanya said with relief. “Please don’t think me rude.”
Bodhidharma began to eat noisily, shoveling mounds of spiced vegetables into his mouth with hunks of flat bread and washing it down with slurps of hot sweet tea. Vanya watched uneasily. He wanted to look away, but felt the eyes of his fellow hermits on his back and did not dare to turn in case one of them should catch his eye. “Forgive me for being so forthright,” he said finally. “You eat and drink in a holy place.”
“I’m hungry,” Bodhidharma said.
“You cook for yourself, which is forbidden by the Buddhist law.”
Bodhidharma shrugged.
“And I see you carry possessions.”
“I am on a long journey, Brother Vanya.”
“How can a man who is truly free of worldly desire do such things?”
Bodhidharma looked at Vanya’s wasted body, the grey skin stretched painfully thin over protruding bones, the sunken eyes and festering sores that remained untreated
