sky began to lighten and the first glow of dawn appeared on the horizon. It was only then that he noticed his mouth was dry and his limbs weary.
He stopped in a quiet glade and took a pull of water from his goatskin. By the time he had returned it to his knapsack, a watery sunshine had filtered through the treetops. He rubbed his eyes wearily and rested his head in his hands. His anger had gone, leaving him exhausted. His mind began to replay the events of the previous evening. Prajnatara had reacted strangely to his outburst. He had not disagreed or protested. In fact, he had agreed that it was all pretense. It made no sense.
A dwarf deer wandered into the glade and nibbled on a patch of wild grass, unaware of his presence. Sardili clicked his tongue and the little deer noticed him and darted away. He found himself smiling at the creature’s stupidity. One moment it had thought the glade safe, the next, a place of danger. But the glade had not changed. Only the deer’s mind had changed.
He wondered if he was the same. Could it be so simple?
He dismissed the idea. It was nonsense. But even as he did, he knew it was true, and his life would never be the same. He rose and walked in circles, checking and rechecking his revelation. Was there a flaw in his thinking? A gap in his logic? There was no flaw, no gap. This was beyond intellect or logic. It was something more profound, a simple acceptance that needed to be made. It was the truth about himself.
Until that moment, he had been like the deer, seeing things as he had wanted them to be rather than as they truly were. He had been demanding the truth when it had been under his nose all along. He had been searching for miracles when the miracle of life had been playing out before him every second of every day.
He thought of the Lotus Sermon. How simple the answer seemed now. The flower had been just that—a flower, nothing more, nothing less. It was perfect as it was. To attempt to describe a flower was laughable when its beauty was on display for all to see. Yet only Kasyapa had understood the inadequacy of words. No wonder he had smiled at The Buddha’s little stunt. No wonder The Buddha had handed the lotus to him.
Sardili felt a burning excitement in the pit of his stomach, a delicious secret he now shared. He was walking on air, his mind alive, his senses alert. He had seen the true nature of his own mind, and with it, the true nature of all things. He began to laugh, long and loud, at his own stupidity. His thoughts turned to Prajnatara and his laughter turned to a long howl of shame. How ridiculous he must have appeared to the little master; and how rude, shouting and thumping the table like a spoiled child, manhandling poor Brother Jaina! He had to return to the temple and beg for forgiveness.
He would go soon, and quickly, but not immediately. First, he wanted to continue through the trees and wander beside rivers and streams, fields and flowers, seeing everything in this new and perfect light. He wanted to climb high hills and look down on the earth with new eyes, to visit the towns and villages of India and talk with old men and children, beggars and noblemen, Brahmins and Untouchables. And he wanted to do these things with all the breathless excitement of a newborn child entering the world for the very first time.
It was midnight, some days later, when Sardili returned to the temple. An attendant monk was dozing in the entrance. He woke at Sardili’s appearance and welcomed him back with the news that his room was waiting for him, untouched. Sardili slept peacefully that night, and in the morning he visited Prajnatara in his study once more. He found him sharing breakfast with Brother Jaina and stood before them, wringing his hands in shame.
“Welcome back Sardili,” Prajnatara said with a broad smile, unsurprised to see him.
Sardili took a deep breath. “Master Prajnatara, Brother Jaina … I hardly know where to begin. I behaved disgracefully and I am truly sorry. I have come to beg your forgiveness.”
“There is nothing to forgive, Sardili,” Prajnatara said, holding out his hand to him. “Come and sit with us.”
“I wish to make amends,” he said, taking the master’s hand gratefully.
“Then join us, and have some food.”
“I can’t believe I said such things …” he said, shaking his head, only his dark beard hiding the depth of his embarrassment.
“Think nothing of it. We have each been through the same things. I am just delighted you came back, and if I’m not mistaken, you seem a little happier too?”
“I am, Master.”
“Excellent. It must have felt good to get a few things off your chest.”
“It was stupid of me. Thoughtless.”
“Nonsense, it is forgotten. Now eat,” Prajnatara ordered.
Sardili helped himself to some fruit from the master’s table and rolled it in his huge hands as he spoke.
“When I was away, I was able to think more clearly than I have for a long time. I decided that I would like to stay at the temple after all, if you will take me back.”
“Of course,” Prajnatara said, his face suddenly serious, “but only on one condition …”
“Name it, Master.”
“You must teach wrestling again. I’m sure Brother Jaina won’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Jaina said. “After all, Sardili’s skill is far greater than my own.”
“If Brother Jaina will assist me,” Sardili said.
Jaina nodded his consent.
“Then it is settled,” Prajnatara beamed. “Now take some rice too, Sardili. You have a busy day ahead of you.”
And so Sardili returned to the daily life of the temple. Each morning he taught wrestling to the young monks and their skills improved quickly under his expert tutelage. Prajnatara watched from the shade of the banyan tree, enjoying the atmosphere created by the strange monk who had returned from the jungle like a man reborn.
Until one day, when the lesson had finished, he touched Sardili gently on the arm. “Come, walk with me by the river. It’s quiet down there.”
They strolled to the water’s edge in silence and turned to follow the course of the river through the trees. In the shade of a great banyan Prajnatara stopped and spoke. “You can stay at the temple as long as you wish, stay forever if you like, but why waste any more time?”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Sardili said with a frown.
Prajnatara took him by the arm and they continued along the riverbank. “We both know you have arrived at the truth, Sardili.”
“That is not for me to say,” Sardili replied, his voice husky, barely more than a whisper.
“No, it is for me to say, and I say it to you now.”
Sardili halted and his eyes filled with tears. No words could pass his lips. Prajnatara took his hand and gave him time to weep, then led him along the river’s edge once more, as if holding a child in danger of falling, until Sardili finally found words.
“I
