A River Sutra (3 page)

Today those alleys are being carpeted in my family's wealth, bank notes trampled into their melting tarmac. Through my visor of diamond solitaires I glance at my father. He is smiling with pleasure as he watches his relatives flinging fistfuls of money to the crowds. The paper currency hangs suspended in the air for a second, like confetti, before floating gently down into the forest of grasping hands.

My father hands me a silver urn. Grateful that no one can see my shame, I plunge my hands into its glittering depths and throw pearls, diamond chips, silver coins in high arcs over the shifting mass of heads.

Silver coins clink against the tin roofs of the bazaar shops, pearls roll down the broken steps that span the gutters. For a moment the glinting gems, the mirrors in the singers' veils, the golden cloths that cover the horses, this silver chariot, all render the scene weightless and unreal. Then the crowd pushes against the guards, screaming and waving at my carriage, fearful of losing such treasure.

There is a riot as the procession turns from the bazaar. People are clambering over each other's shoulders to reach the silver carriage from which fortunes are being dispersed so carelessly into the air. I can hear the riders shouting at their rearing horses, see the guards trying to clear a way through the surging crowds as the camel carts rock wildly from side to side and the drivers fight to steady the camels.

Our chariot feels as if it is coming apart under our feet. I grip my father's arm so he will not fall. He turns and I see fear in his eyes.
I know it is a fear of violence.
When I was a child my father had taught me the

cardinal doctrine of the Jains.
"The most important thing in our faith is
ahimsa, the practice of nonviolence. That is why
we are bankers or merchants. There are so many
activities we cannot undertake for fear of harming
life. If we were farmers we might unknowingly kill
creatures under our plows. In industry the earth is
drilled for oil, iron, coal. Can you imagine how
much life is extinguished by those machines?" "Diamonds are mined from the ground," I had
argued as a child.
"I have never bought a diamond mine," my
father reminded me. "Even though diamond
mines would have increased the wealth of the
company immeasurably. But if a man believes in
the doctrine of ahimsa, he must follow it to its
logical end."
Growing up I came to realize my father s dignity rested on his widely acknowledged genius as
a merchant and his private adherence to the principle of nonviolence, which led him to distribute
much of the company's profits in charitable trusts.
I admired him more than any man alive. Before I joined university I spent a year traveling around the world with my father acquiring an understanding of the diamond trade. During that year my attitude toward him changed. I was shocked to see he was unmoved by the conditions under which the diamonds were mined, or the dis
tressing poverty of the miners.
I had once dared to ask, "How can you worry
about a dead insect more than you care about a
human being?"
My father had raised his voice at my impertinence. "What about our trusts? Are they for insects? Do you know how many people are assisted
by me every day who would otherwise die of neglect? Fed and clothed, their hospital bills paid,
their dead cremated. We cannot solve the problems of the world. We can only help those within
our reach."
For the first time I had recognized that wealth
had excised my father's emotions, freeing him to
examine people as if they were abstractions. His
benevolence had a cold mathematics that left him
unmoved and without curiosity about those he
helped.
The inhuman nature of his philanthropy had
frightened me. Part of me still wished to become
like him. On the rare occasions when he had allowed me to conduct a minor negotiation, I had
been gratified by his congratulations, and yet all through that year I had felt an undercurrent of fear that in inheriting my father's business acu
men I might also inherit his inhumanity. Now I see the fear in my father's eyes as fists
smash against the sides of our silver chariot. My father does not comprehend poverty. He
does not know why people might kill each other
for the chance to escape their lives with a handful
of gems thrown by his son or why, at the very
moment of his greatest charitable act, he has unleashed what he hates most, violence.
The elephants are becoming agitated by the
riot. The elephant keepers try to control them,
striking the heads of the great beasts with ironpronged prods until blood rolls down their ears.
The elephants trumpet in rage and the mobs fall
back in terror of being trampled under their immense gray feet. Ahead of us the horsemen spur
their mounts into a gallop, clearing the street to
allow the procession to move out of the bazaar. There is a more sedate atmosphere as we enter
the main avenue of the city. Lines of policemen
are patrolling the tree-shaded pavements to prevent the spectators from climbing over the steel
barriers at the side of the road.
We halt briefly. One of the elephants has twisted
its foot in the rope, throwing the other elephants
into confusion. The mahout dismounts to free the rope, and the animal moves sideways. I suddenly see a painting of myself embracing a featureless
woman.
She does not need features. It is enough for the
spectators that she is haloed in clouds of blond
hair. Catcalls and wolf whistles fill the air. Even
the policemen are laughing. The mahout remounts the freed elephant. I watch the blond hair
melting back into the panorama of my life. My brother is enjoying the reaction of the
crowds. He leans back on his elephant seat to
wave at me, and I know he is remembering my
father's rage when I told him I wished to renounce
the world.

My brother had been present in the room as I tried to convince my father that my decision was not a passing whim.

"It is!" my father had shouted, refusing to believe me. "I should never have allowed you to live abroad. The West has destroyed your peace of mind!"

I suppose there was some truth in my father's accusations. We had a tacit understanding that he would indulge my youth with all the wealth at his disposal until I assumed the responsibilities of the family empire. Then I would revert to the traditions of the Jains, even consenting to an arranged marriage if I had not already formed an appropriate attachment.

In doing this my father was gambling my youth and his wealth against my doubts. Over the years I had often insisted that although we did not perpetrate physical cruelty ourselves, our wealth was sustained by violence. I think my father recognized that I shared his implacable nature and feared my doubts might lead me to renounce his world.

For a while it seemed my father had calculated accurately. Knowing my years of pleasure in Europe were limited, I had seized on my irresponsible life with hectic delight. Beautiful women were lured by my fast sports cars, the wealth I squandered in fashionable discotheques, and by myself —for I was thought to be handsome with my aquiline features and my slender, muscular body. Then too, the family maintained luxurious holiday homes, and I was generous with my invitations.

If the indolent starlets from the film studios of Bombay, the ambitious secretaries from the European diamond companies, the bored girls who haunted the discotheques, sometimes felt I used a little too much force in our lovemaking, they soon laughed it off when they received my lavish presents, even boasting to their friends that I suffered from an excess of virility.

Gradually my life of unremitting pleasure ceased to satisfy me, leaving me exhausted from the last indulgence while anticipating the next. At the age of twenty-six I had already become fatigued by the world, knowing that even at the moment of gratification, the seed of new desire was being sown.

When my father suggested that it was time for me to marry, I raised no objections to sharing my life with a total stranger. The prospect of ceasing to find new means to amuse myself came as a relief.

It proved easy to control my restlessness after my return to India. My wife was a gentle creature who could not discard her formality, even in our marital bed. I treated her with corresponding courtesy, seeking only to make her comfortable with our intimacies, knowing she had neither the imagination nor the appetite for pleasure. For myself, I did not miss the sexual excesses of my earlier life, and once the birth of our daughter was followed by a son, my wife became so preoccupied with her maternal duties I no longer needed to play the husband.

In truth, I did not care what happened next. My life was like a dreamless sleep, office routine following domestic routine without a tremor.

My wife adhered to the practice of fasting twice a week, and in an idle sort of way I began to fast myself, if only because I was dismayed at the weight I was gaining with my inactive life.

Convinced he had won the battle against my doubts, my father sent me an elderly Jain monk to sustain the efficacy of my fasts by discoursing on our traditions.

The old monk's air of contentment was so beguiling I became quite attached to him although I paid no attention to his discourses.

Every morning before I left for work I listened to his soft voice behind the muslin mask that covered his mouth, as one listens to a piece of music that is neither too loud nor too soft, too fast nor too slow.

"Do not trust the tranquility of your present mood," the old priest warned me one day. "Some upheaval most certainly awaits you."

I teased him for making astrological predictions like a Hindu. He silenced me with unexpected severity.

"You think I am only an old man reading the scriptures aloud. But I can see you are suppressing something. And what is suppressed will erupt." I was astonished. We had never spoken of personal matters. "Why do you think so?"

"I see you withdrawing from your life, your possessions. You have even ceased eating."
I started laughing. "You came to these conclusions because I think I am too fat?"
The monk ignored my sarcasm. "You have traveled the world and think you have seen everything. Perhaps you have. But you have not yet learned the secrets of the human heart."
"How can you speak of secrets, with your blameless life?"
"My life is neither blameless nor unique. I have learned this from Mahavira's teachings."
"Ah, of course, the Great Teacher. What could he possibly know about mere mortals?"
"That they long to be free. Many men die before they learn the desire for freedom lies deep within them, like a dammed river waiting to be released. But once a man has had that momentary glimpse of freedom, he needs to be instructed further."
I sneered but at the same time I found myself intrigued by the possibility that this old monk, with his limited knowledge of the world, might know some secret of the heart that could shatter the shell of numbness that enclosed me.
As if reading my mind, the monk said slyly, "What do you lose by hearing Mahavira's description of the skepticism and nihilism that disturb a man when he finds he is not free, although he continues to perform the role that society requires of him?"
I was taken aback. "Mahavira spoke about these things?"
The monk was amused by my reaction and offered to instruct me further.
Over the months the monk's teachings continued to surprise me. He was able to predict how I would feel long before I arrived at the emotion myself, describing to me the states of my despair with greater accuracy than I seemed able to experience them. I told the monk I longed to share his knowledge.
"But I have no knowledge. I am only describing what has been observed by others wiser than myself."
I refused to believe him. I was convinced he had some unusual power and I wanted to possess it.
The monk tried to warn me against such ambition. I would not listen. I had become like my ancestor, determined to pass through each door the monk opened, as my ancestor had walked each alley of the bazaar until he learned its secrets.
Now the dancers are whirling under the lighted archway that marks the street leading to the sprawling house built by my ancestor's wealth. My father puts his arm around my shoulder. I see tears welling in his eyes. I push aside the strings of diamond solitaires, anxious to conceal my mortification at the scale on which he has orchestrated my renunciation of the world.
I turn smiling to him, but my father's grief humbles me, forcing me to understand that this massive procession, this immense display of charity are only his attempt to give away what I have denied him from giving me, his eldest son.
He pulls me into his embrace, and I am filled with remorse at my father's sorrow as I was once overwhelmed by tenderness at his anguish.
Throughout my childhood my father had told me the ability to sense approaching danger was something possessed only by the greatest merchants. As I grew older I came to realize he prided himself on being among the handful of men who had it.
Perhaps it was that instinct that led my father to dissuade me from seeing the old monk again. "His tranquility is seductive. But you have no idea what price he may have paid for it."
I had refused indignantly. "He is trying to alleviate the suffering around him. That's good enough for me."
"We do more good through our trusts every day than he will do in a lifetime of being a monk. Without our work there would be no alms to allow him to live on charity."
I had leveled my old accusations at my father. "At least he has some humanity. You only help people to display your power."
Instead of rage, for the first time fear had colored my father's reply. "You do not understand what you are saying. There is no suffering as harsh as that of the Jain monks. Our ascetics don't believe there is any purpose to endurance. They only endure increasing pain, until they no longer fear it. I do more good than them every day without undergoing their pain."
My wife was standing at the doorway listening with concern to my father's passion.
"Their ways are bleaker than you can possibly imagine. Do you know what it means to be such a monk? Do you know the levels of asceticism he must suffer?"
My father was expressing himself with such urgency I dared not interrupt him. "Do you know how that serene old monk hopes to die? Starving himself to death. He observes respect for life when all the time he is working toward the goal of denying his own life."
He stared at me, waiting for my response, but I could not speak. His anguish had melted the numbness that froze my heart. I was overcome by compassion for him, for myself, for my concerned and curious wife, for the human helplessness that linked us all.
It was my first experience of ahimsa.
In his attempt to frighten me, my father had made me realize that to prevent suffering a man must be capable of suffering, that a man who cannot suffer is not alive.
My father could not understand why I needed to be with the monk more than ever and I could not explain, for the lesson of ahimsa must be learned by the heart, not the mind.
But I knew I could never return to the anesthesia of wealth that had for so long numbed me to the suffering that could make me human.
I told the old monk of the sudden, unexpected compassion that had overwhelmed me at my father's fear. "But it lasted for such a brief time and I have not experienced it again."
"The human heart must conquer many hurdles to recapture that vision until ahimsa can become a way of life."
"I am willing to cross the hurdles."
The old monk had smiled. "Oh, my innocent young friend. Can you overcome your disgust at all the things from which your father's wealth has protected you? Can you beg in the filth of the bazaars? Can you eat what has been discarded? Until you can do these small things you will understand neither the nonviolence of ahimsa nor gain freedom from the world."