Miss Buddha (54 page)

They had not expected any crowds, nor were
there any. Once they cleared immigration and customs the little
group, consisting of Clare and Lars (who were attracting some
attention, what with her recognizable face, even here, and what
with his impressive camera), Ruth, Melissa, and Ananda, were met by
a single monk in a saffron robe holding up a hand-painted sign
saying “Marten” in blue letters.

Ruth went up to him. “I am Ruth Marten.”

The monk lowered the sign, and looked at
Ruth up and down and up again, at loss for words. Then said, in
slightly sing-songy English, and not a little surprised, by the
looks of him, “You are Marten?” He then looked over at Ananda as if
hoping, somehow, that he was the Marten and they were playing a
trick on him.

“Yes,” said Ruth.

“But,” said the monk, and then fell silent.
Apparently looking for words. Then found some, “You are a
girl.”

Lars, ever the professional, had
unobtrusively hoisted the camera onto his shoulder and was getting
this. Clare nodded in acknowledgement.

“I guess the Venerable Bhante Mahathera did
not tell you,” said Ruth.

The monk suddenly realized his rudeness.
Clare could practically see embarrassment pouring into him, filling
him toe to head. He seemed unable to answer, and no answer
came.

“Please take us to him,” said Ruth.

The monk then bowed so deeply his head
almost touched the floor, then turned, motioning with the hand that
held the sign for them to follow.

The ride to the Mahavihara Monastery went
from slow—through chaotic traffic, to slower—through worse traffic,
to crawl when the paved road stopped, and the old van more
navigated than rode the rutted track that took them to the old
monastery.

“So sorry,” said the monk with each bump in
the road that seemed determined to shake the old vehicle apart,
with a few “so sorrys” in-between bumps for good measure.

Everyone smiled as well as they could, what
with the jet lag and what with the pathetic air conditioner, whose
attempt at cooling the inside of the van amounted to nothing but
futile gesture.

Arriving at last, the monk turned to Ruth
and said, “The Venerable Bhante Mahathera would like to see you
right away.”

Two other monks appeared to help unload the
van, and to bring their luggage to guest quarters as the group made
to follow their guide. Who, when he noticed turned and said, “Only
the Marten,” he said.

“I have promised them,” began Ruth, looking
over at Clare and Lars.

“Only you,” said the monk, and with such
finality that there was no arguing about this. Clare saw that
writing on the wall and touched Lars’ arm in a let’s-go gesture,
then turned and followed Ananda and Melissa and their luggage.

:

The Venerable Bhante Mahathera was
ninety-five years old, though you were hard pressed to guess. Old,
yes, that was plain enough, but that old could be anywhere between
seventy and a hundred plus. He was a small, somewhat emaciated man
with all of his teeth and a soft smile that seemed to reflect a
subtle amusement at some private joke.

Ordained at age fifteen, he had been a
Theravada Buddhist monk for eighty years, fifty or so of these as
the leader of the Mahavihara Sangha. He retired his leadership on
his eighty-fifth birthday, announcing that he would live out his
days in seclusion and meditation. This decision was, of course,
greeted and accepted with respect, and the new leader had built for
him a small bungalow at the far end of the large compound, somewhat
secluded, that he may live, undisturbed, to reflect and meditate
for his remaining days.

As a rule, he would only see his attendant
(the monk meeting Ruth and company) and on rare occasions the
leader of the Sangha, to advice as needed. Other than that he
dwelled alone, and saw no one.

The front of his bungalow faced a worn
pathway, the back—with its two small windows—faced the forest.

He was standing at the door, watching Ruth
and his attendant approach, smiling softly, now as if at some
distant memory.

:

I feel his presence even from this distance.
He is a true bhikkhu. He has walked the path and he has laid down
his burden. His next step will be Parinibbana, the final
destination-less journey.

My guide still seems mortified that he did
not know I was a girl. He says nothing to me, nor does he turn
around. I don’t know what Bhante told him about me, but I’ve
certainly disappointed his expectations.

We reach the little bungalow which is
Bhante’s home, and my guide steps aside, “Mahathera,” he says.
“This is your guest, Ruth Marten.”

Bhante looks up, as if in recognition, and
his smile broadens. “Welcome,” he says in good English. “Please
come.” He turns and enters his building. My guide does not follow,
but motions for me to.

The inside is quite dark at first, though my
eyes soon adjust. I see one large room to the right, a smaller one
to the left, where I spy the edge of a low bed, not more than a
mattress on the floor. Bhante enters the larger room, which is part
kitchen, part sitting room, prepared, it seems, to receive its
guest.

He motions for me to sit down on one of the
two pillows by the low table, while he turns to the stove to
prepare my welcome tea. He is very agile for his age, and seems in
perfect health. I notice his movements as he strains the tea and
pours it into two small cups, which he places on a small copper
tray. He says nothing while he does this, for there really is
nothing to say. He does not feel the need to fill silences.

He places the tray on the table, sits down
and hands me one of the cups.

“You said you were a girl,” he says. “I
found that a little hard to believe. But here you are.”

“It was the best attire,” I reply.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You can speak across such distance,” he
says. “That is impressive, but how do I know that you are the
Buddha? Others know the voice, too.”

“How did I recognize you, Bhante
Mahathera?”

“Yes, that is true.”

“Have you heard anything about Ruth Marten?
Anything in the papers or on television recently?”

“I don’t have a television. I don’t read
papers.”

“Has anyone spoken of her?”

“Not in my presence.”

“I am here, Bhante Mahathera, for the world
needs another wakening.”

“I agree it does.”

“It has grown complacent and blind.”

“And placed most of its trust in dogma,”
said Bhante.

“Even in the Sangha?”

“Even in the Sangha.”

“Will they recognize me?”

“I have yet to recognize you.”

I am not sure he is being entirely truthful
about that. I get the feeling he is testing me, something that
under the circumstances I cannot take umbrage at, of course. It’s
age asking youth to make its case—yet, I cannot shake the feeling
that he does know me, that he does not truly have the doubt he
presents me. But these are shadowy waters.

So, instead I ask, “How can I prove
myself?”

“Is there such a thing as proof?” he
asks.

“Experience,” I answer.

“Yes, there is that.”

And so I fill him with my recent past, with
Ananda, with my hopes and my plans and the need for both. His face
does not change expression, but his smile widens.

“Venerable Sir,” he says. Then adds, “You
brought Ananda?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I should like to meet him,” he says. “He is
a him, yes?”

“Don’t worry. He’s exactly what you’d
expect.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” he says and
chuckles. Then he turns serious again. He drinks a little from his
cup, and takes a long look at me. “They may not believe you.”

“The Sangha?”

“Yes, that is what I mean.”

“Will they not perceive me?”

“Few, if any, these days, know this chamber
of hearing.”

“What should I tell them? How can I convince
them?”

“Why do they need convincing?”

Which is a good question.

“I need to be believed,” I answer. “Not only
by the Sangha and the Buddhist world, but through them by the
Western world as well.”

“I think you are too late for that.”

“Can that be true?”

“See for yourself.”

:

When Ruth returned from her audience with
The Venerable Bhante Mahathera she found them all in varying
degrees of asleep in the guest quarters.

Clare was the first to stir at her entering,
then Ananda. Lars seemed out cold, as did Melissa. It had been a
long flight, and KCRI had not sprung for first class (expensive
enough as it is, her producer had told Clare when she asked about
the tickets).

Ruth sat down, tired, concerned.

“It went well?” Clare asked.

Ruth looked at her for some little time
before answering. “With Bhante, yes. But he does not hold out much
hope for the Sangha itself.”

“Why?”

“That’s what I am trying to understand.
These are my people; this is my Sangha. But I fear that Bhante
might be right.”

“What did he say?” she wondered.

“He said that they are mired in dogma.”

She frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means that they cling to the word rather
than perceive and understand its message.”

Over on a low couch, Ananda stirred, then
sat up straight, the better to hear.

“They have drifted from the Dhamma,” said
Ruth.

“What do you mean?” said Clare.

“It means that they pay lip service to the
Dhamma, but do not truly practice it. It means that they would
rather debate the Dhamma than understand it. I could speak to
Bhante the way I can speak to you, silently, in a co-knowing way.
He said they would not be receptive to that. That is a
tragedy.”

“Are you sure?” The question came from
Ananda.

Both Clare and Ruth turned to face him.

“I am not sure,” said Ruth. “Tough I have
seen this before, though I know this sickness, I cannot be sure
until I speak to them.”

“So you will speak to them?” said Clare.
“Even though.”

“Yes.”

Clare hesitated, then she asked, “Can I film
that. Will they be okay with that?”

“I will make sure they are,” said Ruth.

“What will you say?” asked Ananda.

“I really don’t know,” she replied.

::
103 :: (Mahavihara Monastery)

The Venerable Bhante Mahathera called the
Sangha’s leader to him as soon as Ruth left, requesting that he
gather the entire Sangha an hour before sunset the following
day.

The leader bowed and assured him that this
would be done.

:

The following morning, they were served a
refreshing breakfast consisting of many fruits and chilled tea.
Ananda, even though he had not slept all that much, or well for
that matter, felt nicely refreshed by it, and by the looks of them,
so did the rest of the little group.

When the two monks returned to retrieve the
breakfast dishes Ruth asked to see the Venerable Bhante’s
attendant, who soon appeared, bowing very deeply, apparently still
embarrassed by his airport rudeness.

Ruth asked him, “Will the Sangha
gather.”

“Yes,” said the monk. “One hour before
sunset.”

“My friends will be there,” she said.

“Naturally,” said the monk.

“My friend with the camera will film my
address.”

“That cannot be done,” said the monk.

“Then,” said Ruth, “there will be no
address.”

“I will let Venerable Bhante Mahathera
know,” bowed the monk, then turned and left.

“Was that wise?” said Ananda.

“I believe so,” said Ruth.

“I hope so,” said Clare.

“What if they refuse?” said Ananda.

“Then we leave,” said Ruth.

Ananda saw the wisdom in that. Should Ruth’s
address convince the Sangha, they needed a record of that,
something to broadcast. Besides, Ruth had promised Clare full
access, perhaps a little rashly—since she had no say in Sangha
matters. It behooved her to do whatever she could to keep her
promise.

The monk was not long in returning, a little
winded actually, as if he had been running, which he probably
had.

Ruth looked at him expectantly.

“The Venerable Bhante Mahathera says it is
fine, your friends can film the gathering.”

“They
can
film my address to them?” Ruth
wanted to make sure.

“Yes they can.”

Ananda could see Clare exhale in long soft
relief.

“Good,” said Ruth. “That is good.”

“The Venerable Bhante Mahathera wants to
know if you want to see the Monastery. He asked me to be your
guide.”

“Yes,” said Ruth. Then looked around. “I
think I speak for all of us. We would like to see it. And,” she
added, “they can film?”

“Yes,” said the monk.

“We’d like to freshen up first,” said
Ruth.

“Of course,” said the monk. “I’ll come back
in an hour.”

“Thank you,” said Ruth. Echoed by the
rest.

The Venerable Bhante’s attendant returned on
the dot one hour later. Ananda could not help but smile. A good
attendant that. Precise, punctual, if perhaps not the most tactful
(the airport faux pas still in mind). Yes, the Venerable Bhante
Mahathera had a good attendant.

“If you would follow me.”

They did. Clare and Lars at a distance,
stopping here and there to discuss and take shots. Clare looked
happy, engaged with her task, as did Lars. The monastery was not
only ancient, but beautiful, and they were given unrestricted
access. Ruth, walking beside Bhante’s attendant, asked many
questions, some out of politeness, some more pointed.

Ananda, a step or so behind them, said
nothing, but listened intently, trying to form a picture of the
state of the Sangha, and of the root of Buddha Gotama’s
concern.