don’t know what you mean,” Kuang said tersely as he mounted the barrack steps on stiff legs.
“Yes you do. You know exactly what I mean,” Huo persisted.
Kuang ignored him and went inside. Huo looked back toward the commander’s house. The flicker of the lamplight could still be seen in the distance. He waited a moment, watching the light play against the dark setting of the surrounding mountains, and then followed Kuang out of the cold night air and into the warm, stuffy embrace of the barracks.
A Pilgrim in Magadha
Bodhidharma crossed many rivers on his journey to the northern Kingdom of Magadha, but none stirred him like the Ganges. In the clear morning light, the vast expanse of sparkling brown water filled his vision. The river was the birthplace of a civilization and the artery that pumped life through the Buddhist heartland of Magadha. The Buddha himself had lived and preached all his life in this fertile plain. As Bodhidharma sat by the waters edge, he pictured The Buddha bathing in the sacred waters, speaking softly with his disciples, the river clean and uncrowded.
Things were very different now. Hundreds of people were gathered at the water’s edge and standing in the shallows, washing their hair, their teeth, their clothes, cupping their hands to drink the sacred waters of the Ganges hoping it would endow them with eternal good health. The swollen corpse of a goat float by, followed by the body of an old woman. Bodhidharma filled his goatskin from the murky waters, but did not drink. He would use it later for tea. He knew the difference between truth and myth.
He had crossed the Ganges once already on his way to Kapilavastu, the birthplace of The Buddha, and from here he had visited the other sacred sites where The Buddha had lived and died. Now he prepared to re-cross the river for the final destination of his pilgrimage. He waited on the riverbank until a boatman noticed him and steered toward him. The boat was already filled with passengers, but there was always room for one more, especially if that person was a holy man who would bring good karma.
Bodhidharma stepped into the boat and sat beside a young boy, who cowed away from him and nestled closer to his father.
“You are going to Bodh Gaya, Master?” the boy’s father asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“To see the Bodhi Tree?”
“Yes,” Bodhidharma smiled, “I have read about it for many years but never seen it.”
“It is a very special place,” the man assured him.
“Why do you want to go and see a tree?” the boy asked, forgetting his fear of the fierce-looking stranger.
“The Buddha was sitting beneath that very tree when he became enlightened,” Bodhidharma answered.
“What happened to him?”
“He saw the true nature of things.”
“And what was it?”
“That is a good question,” Bodhidharma laughed.
“Have you seen it too?”
“Perhaps.”
“What did you see?”
Bodhidharma leaned closer so only the boy could hear him. “What I saw was not important. It was the light that I saw it in.”
“What sort of light?”
“A very clear light.”
“If I become a pilgrim, will I see it too?”
“Maybe one day,” Bodhidharma smiled, “I certainly hope you do.”
The dusty road to Bodh Gaya was crowded with pilgrims. Some were tall and slender with light skin from the north of India. Others were dark, with round eyes and tight black curls from the south, like him. Still others had come from beyond the Himalayas. There were white-skinned men with brown hair and green-eyed women in colorful costumes who, he imagined, had traveled from Persia or another unknown land far to the West. He passed a group of traders with smooth skin and almond eyes. Their features brought to mind descriptions he had read of Chinese people but when he asked their origin, he discovered they were from Burma.
A busy market had sprung up on the road to the Tree of Enlightenment. Stallholders sold paintings, tapestries, statues, and carvings of The Buddha seated beneath the Bodhi tree. A throng of wagons and carts had become hopelessly jammed. The drivers shouted angrily at one another while their mules and oxen twitched their tails against the swarming flies. Bodhidharma passed single-humped camels from the deserts of Arabia, and two-humped camels from Bakhtar beyond the Hindukush. On the edge of the market, a group of mahouts stood in a tight circle and joked among themselves while their elephants munched on mountains of leaves and looked down on the chaos before them with laughing eyes.
The market gave way to a park with a low limestone wall around it and cultivated gardens on either side. In the center was an expanse of dry grass filled with pilgrims, and rising above them all, a giant fig tree. A steady stream of pilgrims was walking round the tree, chanting prayers. Their endless footsteps had formed a rut in the ground that had baked hard in the sun. Other pilgrims lay prostrate toward the sacred tree, and yet more sat facing it in meditation, rigid and determined, as if waiting for a miracle. Some had clearly been there for many days and were on the edge of exhaustion.
Bodhidharma found a space near a group of hermit monks who were seated in a circle. Their matted hair and beards hung to the ground. Their skeletal bodies had been smeared from head to foot with grey ash. One of them noticed Bodhidharma through half-closed eyes, and turned to take a closer look. He watched as Bodhidharma lit a fire and prepared to make tea and heat a generous portion of flat bread and spiced vegetables. Finally he caught Bodhidharma’s eye and gestured to him. “May I join you, Brother?” he called out. His companions glared and whispered to him urgently, but he ignored them.
“If you wish,” Bodhidharma replied.
The hermit rose with difficulty and took a few faltering steps toward him, unsure of his balance. He bent to sit down, but his legs gave way beneath him and he slumped in a heap on the ground beside Bodhidharma.
“What is it that you are doing, Brother?” he asked, breathless from the exertion of moving from his seat.
“Drinking tea,” Bodhidharma said.
“We drink only the water from the sacred River Ganges,” the hermit said, shaking his head disapprovingly.
“The river may be sacred,” Bodhidharma said, “but the water is dirty.”
“The water of the Ganges is the water of life,” the hermit said, his dark eyes boring into Bodhidharma’s.
“The river contains death as well as life. Take a look next time you’re on the riverbank.”
“So where did you get the water for your tea?” the hermit asked triumphantly.
Bodhidharma looked at the hermit who was grinning broadly now, his broken teeth huge inside his fleshless skull. “From the river,” he sighed.
“Ha ha!”
“The fire rids it of the spirits of the dead.”
“You believe that?” the hermit scoffed.
“I do, and it also makes good tea. Here, try some,” Bodhidharma said offering him his cup, “it’s very refreshing.”
“I cannot accept, but thank you,” the hermit said.
“Why not? Is it because you might grow to like it?”
“The Buddha told us to free ourselves from earthly desires.”
Bodhidharma took a sip of tea and smacked his lips appreciatively. “He did. But did he not also say that to deny oneself life’s pleasures is wrong too? Did he not speak of a middle path?”
“Maybe