Robed reflections
It was some rustle of leaves, gentle breeze and an occasional
birdsong that master and disciple heard, and hardly anything else. They
walked in silence - master taking the lead and disciple lagging behind
as usual. They were enjoying this almost pathless wood.
They reached the monastery as the cool of the evening took a stroll
along their spines. With hindsight master went on further.
Truth is indeed the undying word; this is an ancient verity. Upon
truth, the good say, the goal and the teaching are founded.
Master knew they had to trace down this gentle yet solemn voice.
Going further down, they saw a half-shaven monk in a meditative posture.
Yes, the monk was half shaven – they noticed it very sharply - but his
features betrayed the happiness he is wallowed in within.
“Are you enjoying the woods?”
“Yes, very much,” said the master.
“So you are here to find out more about me?”
“Yes if the Buddha allows”
The monk smiled.
“As long as it encourages the spiritual development in you, the
Buddha doesn’t mind me talking to you.”
Then silence reigned. The monk looked at them. Master was not sure
whether it was all right to chime in. Gothama Buddha’s disciples are
said to be fond of silence. He knew the disciple will be bored like
hell. But this is monks’ territory, and that means the laity cannot
behave as they like.
“So master…?”
“We have been looking for your poetry in Pali canons. That’s somewhat
difficult though.”
“I know. So how do you like my poetry?”
The monk – Vangiisa, his name was – always smiled. Master wondered
what made him smile that often.
“Well it encourages our spiritual development.”
The monk smiled again, this time it lasted a little longer. It did
not turn out to be a laugh, all the same.
“You answer for the sake of an answer. Perhaps you may have different
feelings.” Said monk Vangiisa turning to disciple. Oh, no, not me,
thought Disciple. But it was late - he has to answer now, somehow.
“Most of your experiences are on a monk’s life. Well I see it as a
simple life always basked in beauty and happiness. I like the sound of
your poetry.
Uggaputtaa mahissaasaa sikkhitaa da.lhadhammino
samantaa parikireyyu.m sahassam apalaayinam.”
The monk smiled and said: “Yeah, that means Mighty warriors, great
archers, trained, steady bowmen, one thousand fearless men, might
surround me on all sides.”
The master was looking at both of them intently.
“You have a question master.”
“Venerable, I am wondering whether there is a specific place we can
locate your poetry…”
“That’s a good question. You can find them in Thera Gatha with other
monks’ happy utterances. Another place is Itivuttaka. And if you take a
little effort my poetry is strewn over Anguttara Nikaya too. Find John
D. Ireland. He has collected all my works in Pali canon.”
Disciple took out his notebook to write down the name. John D.
Ireland.
“And Venerable, I have heard that kind of artistic works are not
allowed in Buddhism.”
Monk grinned and asked: “Who says so, son? If you read my poetry, you
will see how it encourages and motivates inner spirituality. Most of the
Suttas are poetic too. I think the Buddha is the greatest poet in this
world.”
“But do you have enough time for poetry? Your hands must be full with
meditation and other obligations.”
The monk stood up and touched the bark of a tree. It seemed as he
speaks to himself.
“Kaamaraagena dayhaami cittam me pari dayhati
Saadhu nibbaapanam bruuhi anukampaaya Gotama.
(I burn with sensual desire, my mind is enflamed (with passion). Out
of pity please tell me, Gotama, the effective extinguishing of it.)
Son we are monks. Our whole life is a quest to get rid of our own
sensual burdens. We meditate. We clean our spaces. We attend to elders
and invalid. We speak to our people.”
The monk was studying the reactions of his guests and continued.
“There are moments of desperation too. Sometimes we just cannot
overcome that. But they are all temporary. They say sweet songs arise
from sorrows of life. But this robe taught me it is not. We are the
happiest on earth with concentrated mind. And now I have realized every
moment in this life is poetry. Every moment.”
Master and disciple were embracing the elegance of that moment. For a
moment all else was forgotten.
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