glanced at the two waiting figures. “State your business at Nalanda,” he said curtly.
“I am here to meet with The Venerable Ananda,” Bodhidharma said.
The guard glanced at the wild-looking monk, taking in the shabby robe, the bare feet, and the skin beaten black by the sun. He was little more than a beggar. “The Venerable Ananda does not give an audience to casual visitors,” the guard said.
Bodhidharma had only to produce Prajnatara’s letter of introduction, but he did not. Instead he planted himself firmly before the guard. “He will see me.”
“On what business?”
“No business of yours, Brother,” Bodhidharma answered, “and before I see him, perhaps you can enlighten me on this practice of turning away young monks who wish to study and barring the gates of a monastery to visitors?”
The younger guard stepped across to stand by the shoulder of his companion, who was about to answer when Vanya hurried forward and spoke quickly. “Brother Guards, it appears you have failed to recognize Master Bodhidharma! He is a disciple of Master Prajnatara himself and has traveled all the way from Pallava to meet with The Venerable One.” He leaned closer to the guard, speaking in a whisper, “You’re keeping him waiting at the gate like a novice. Do you think that wise?”
The senior guard hesitated.
“Perhaps you want to debate the scriptures with him?” Vanya smiled.
“No one is allowed into Nalanda without the correct papers or authority,” the junior guard said. “Those are our orders.”
“You are following orders. That is very commendable,” Bodhidharma said, keeping his gaze fixed on the senior guard, who looked more closely at the stranger before him. This time he noticed the expanse of hard muscle beneath the threadbare robe. The man was built like one of the wrestlers who competed in the arena at Rajagriha. His bulging forearm suggested many years of wielding weapons and the calloused fist that gripped the walking staff was that of a Vajramukti master, able to shatter bone as easily as snapping a twig. The guard looked into the fierce black eyes and saw that if the stranger wished to enter, two guards would not delay him for more than a heartbeat. At that moment, Bodhidharma smiled.
The guard made up his mind. “I will escort you personally,” he said, hushing the objections of the younger guard with a frown.
He led Bodhidharma into the monastery and Vanya hurried after them before anyone could object. In the broad courtyard, monks and nuns strolled in pairs, deep in conversation. Novices hurried to their lessons with scrolls under their arms and senior monks sat with one another in the shade of the many trees. The guard led Bodhidharma and Vanya down a wide avenue that ran between the many lecture halls, libraries, and temples of Nalanda. They entered a beautiful garden with fruit trees and flowerbeds of orange, purple, white, and yellow. Young monks bathed in tranquil pools of spring water. Towering above them all was the great stupa of Nalanda, so high that from where they looked, its top disappeared from view.
They entered a great hall lit by a wall of lamps and decorated with exquisite tapestries depicting scenes from The Buddha’s life. A gong as tall as a man stood in the entrance and reflected the flickering lamplight in its gleaming surface. An attendant monk emptied incense from a burner and ghostly clouds of white dust caught the lamplight and swirled up toward the ceiling.
The guard spoke privately with the attendant before bowing to Bodhidharma and taking his leave. The attendant introduced himself and led the two visitors down a maze of dark halls and passages. They climbed several long flights of stairs and Vanya became breathless with the exertion. On the upper floors, the corridors were brighter and the ceilings higher. These were the living quarters of the senior monks and sunlight poured in through high windows, falling on bookshelves filled with scrolls and manuscripts, comfortable seating areas and quiet rooms for private study. They passed a little meditation hall that housed a beautiful gilded shrine, complete with offerings to The Buddha and freshly cut flowers from the gardens.
At the end of the corridor, they came to an ornate screen door and the attendant tapped it once. After a brief wait, the screen opened a crack and another monk appeared. They spoke quietly and the screen door slid shut again. Vanya walked in circles impatiently while Bodhidharma took his time examining the paintings on the wall. Finally the door slid open and an older monk appeared with a smile. He invited Bodhidharma inside and instructed the attendant to show Vanya to his quarters.
Bodhidharma found himself in a lofty chamber with high windows. The walls were decorated with silk tapestries crafted with an artistry he had never before encountered and intricately carved panels gilded in silver and gold. The air brought a faint waft of incense, mixed with a subtle floral scent that reminded him of his homeland.
An old man was seated by the window at the far end of the room. He wore a simple orange robe like any other monk and no visible adornments, but The Venerable Ananda emanated power and Bodhidharma knew him instantly. He went closer, pressing his palms together in greeting and bowed low. The grandmaster looked up, noticing his visitor for the first time, and squinted to get a better view. With a yelp of delight he rose on unsteady legs and hurried forward until he was one step away. Here he stopped to examine the unkempt monk from head to foot, his mouth working silently as he did, before bowing long and low.
When Ananda straightened, he was beaming with delight. He extended his hands in welcome and Bodhidharma took them. Ananda squeezed, shaking them gently, his grip surprisingly strong, then released them and embraced him warmly. “Bodhidharma,” he said, his voice light and reedy, “you are exactly as I imagined you! Prajnatara describes you perfectly. It is wonderful to meet you at last. I am so very happy that you have come.”
“It’s a pleasure to be here. I have dreamed of seeing Nalanda for many years,” Bodhidharma said. “Master Prajnatara sends his regards. He always speaks most fondly of you.”
“Ah Prajnatara, what does he know?” the old man laughed. “Prajnatara is young and foolish, easily impressed, but at least he was right about one thing. He told me you would come, and you did! Come and sit beside me, Bodhidharma. Let us sit by the window, where I can see you properly. My eyes are not good any more.”
Bodhidharma helped Ananda lower himself onto his seat and they sat in silence for a moment. Ananda’s face filled suddenly with concern. “You have traveled a great distance to be here. You must be exhausted! Have they given you refreshments? A room? Have you had time to rest?”
“There will be plenty of time for resting,” Bodhidharma assured him.
“If you’re sure,” the old man said, still uncertain. “After all, I forget that you are still young and strong. Nevertheless, you must eat and take some juice to restore yourself.” He summoned his assistant and asked for refreshments to be brought, then sat back once again and fixed his watery eyes on Bodhidharma.
“You have only just arrived. You have not had a chance to see everything that we do here in Nalanda. Did you know we have over ten thousand monks, over five hundred teachers. Monks come from all over the world to study with us. They come in such numbers that recently, we have been forced to turn most of them away.
“I saw such an instance when we arrived,” Bodhidharma said.
“You did?” Ananda’s brow creased in concern.
“Yes, a young man was turned away at the gate.”
“Oh how tragic,” Ananda cried. “It saddens me greatly to deny the blessing of an education to anyone, but there
