Prajnatara exclaimed. “A wonderful city. I have not been there in many years.”
“I was little more than a boy at the time,” Sardili said. “You gave a sermon in the park. You held up a flower.”
“The Lotus Sermon?”
“Yes.”
“I remember,” Prajnatara smiled. “It’s one of my favorites. It always gets people thinking.”
“You could say that,” Sardili said with a bitter laugh. “It certainly got me thinking. More than that, it bewitched me. Consumed me. The riddle of what Kasyapa saw in the flower made me give up everything to find the answer.”
“And did you find your answer?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it wasn’t a riddle.”
“What made you think it was?” Prajnatara probed gently.
“My mind.”
“The mind never tires of playing tricks on us,” Prajnatara said with a shake of his head.
They walked in silence until they reached the fork in the river and Prajnatara stopped, his expression suddenly serious. “Sardili, once you have discovered The Way, there is no need to keep re-reading the signs. There are countless souls waiting to be enlightened. You must go out and help to awaken them from delusion. This is your destiny.”
“What about the temple?” Sardili asked.
“Don’t worry about the temple. We will continue as we always have. Brother Jaina can teach the wrestling. His belly will grow big if he allows you to do all the work.”
“But I will miss it here, Master. It’s so beautiful.”
“And the temple will miss you, Sardili. But there is important work to be done. What has been passed to you must now be passed onto others.”
“How will I do that, Master?”
“How do any of us do it? It’s a difficult task Sardili, but The Buddha has set down his wisdom in the scriptures and rituals that we follow.”
“I don’t think I can teach like that,” Sardili said guardedly, “Scriptures, rituals, they are not the real truth.”
“Perhaps not, but scriptures are useful in pointing The Way. Rituals are an important discipline. What will you do instead?”
“I will point directly at the truth.”
“That’s a very ambitious method, Sardili.”
“I will make people see.”
Prajnatara’s eyes looked into his and for a moment, Sardili had the feeling they were seeing past his flesh and bones to a place far beyond the soft waters and rich jungles of Pallava. When they returned, they held him in their steady gaze.
“Yes, I believe you will Sardili,” Prajnatara said, smiling broadly and clapping him firmly on the shoulder. “I truly believe you will.”
PART 1
Bodhidharma
The monk followed the jungle path beneath towering rose-wood and teak, past tamarind trees laden with ripe fruit, and banana trees with giant leaves reaching out to the morning sun. He stopped at a mango tree and picked the ripest offerings for later in the day before continuing into the dark heart of the jungle. Here the trees grew so close that they formed a dense canopy over the earth. Only the occasional ray of light found its way through the mesh of leaves, to dance on the jungle floor or illuminate one of the flowers that grew in that hot dark world. And when it did, the monk considered himself blessed to see such wonders.
He moved quickly, carrying few possessions: a blanket, a bowl, an iron pot, and a pair of old sandals that hung from his walking staff and swung in time with his step.
The jungle’s carpet of twigs and leaves felt good beneath his feet and the scent of spice trees and decaying undergrowth filled his nostrils like a rich perfume. Fallen fruit littered the jungle floor, shaken down by the wind and the monkeys that jumped and shrieked overhead. Now and again a new piece of fruit would fall, narrowly missing his head. He would scowl up at the treetops and shake his staff at the monkeys, ordering them to show some respect to The Buddha’s messenger. The monkeys would screech in reply and turn, showing him their tails in a gesture that spoke as clearly as any words.
By late morning the jungle had begun to thin. Soon he left the shade of the trees altogether and emerged into the blinding light of the open country. It was springtime in the kingdom of Pallava and the distant hills were a startling blue. The kurinji was in bloom. It was a good omen because the kurinji flowered only once in twelve years. The monk considered making a detour to sit among these rarest of flowers, but time was against him and he pressed on.
He picked up a country road that twisted through fields of wild flowers and sharp elephant-grass. Hoofprints in the dried mud told of oxen that had walked the same path some time before. He followed their plodding footsteps until the shadows disappeared and the sun was directly overhead. Then he laid down his staff in the shade of a purple jacaranda and prepared to drink tea and meditate.
He collected a pile of twigs, which burst into flame at the first spark of his flint, then set a pot of water to boil. While he waited, he laid out his ingredients: tea leaves hand picked from the wild bushes that grew in the region, sugar crystals, cardamom, and cinnamon bark. When the water boiled, he added the ingredients to the pot and set it aside to cool before taking a sip. The tea was just as he liked it: strong, sweet, and fragrant.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, emptying his mind of all thought, fixing on nothing, until he was free to take in everything. The eye of his mind filled the sky and looked down on the green earth below before departing to explore the heavens. Moving freely in the farthest reaches of the cosmos, he occupied galaxies and worlds beyond description or knowledge, until his awareness filled the entire vast emptiness of the void. And then it was still. Neither moving nor seeking, unaware of self or other, it was one with all things, simply being.
By late afternoon, the monk had reached the banks of a slow-moving river. Reeds grew so tall that they obscured his view. He stepped among them, sweeping them aside until he saw what he was looking for, a rickety old jetty that stretched out into the brown water. He continued along the riverbank, enjoying the music of the reeds and the water, until a new melody reached his ears, the tinkling laughter of children.
A boy and girl were standing waist-deep in the water. The boy was young and bright eyed, with a ready smile. The girl was older, almost a woman. She was washing her brother’s hair and his dark curls glistened as she massaged coconut oil into his scalp. Her own hair had already been washed and combed, and hung long and straight down her slim back. She bowed to the monk and prodded her little brother to do the same.
“Greetings Master,” she called.
“Greetings,
