of me. Thoughtless.”
“Nonsense, it is forgotten. Now eat,” Prajnatara ordered.
Sardili helped himself to some fruit from the master’s table and rolled it in his huge hands as he spoke.
“When I was away, I was able to think more clearly than I have for a long time. I decided that I would like to stay at the temple after all, if you will take me back.”
“Of course,” Prajnatara said, his face suddenly serious, “but only on one condition …”
“Name it, Master.”
“You must teach wrestling again. I’m sure Brother Jaina won’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Jaina said. “After all, Sardili’s skill is far greater than my own.”
“If Brother Jaina will assist me,” Sardili said.
Jaina nodded his consent.
“Then it is settled,” Prajnatara beamed. “Now take some rice too, Sardili. You have a busy day ahead of you.”
And so Sardili returned to the daily life of the temple. Each morning he taught wrestling to the young monks and their skills improved quickly under his expert tutelage. Prajnatara watched from the shade of the banyan tree, enjoying the atmosphere created by the strange monk who had returned from the jungle like a man reborn.
Until one day, when the lesson had finished, he touched Sardili gently on the arm. “Come, walk with me by the river. It’s quiet down there.”
They strolled to the water’s edge in silence and turned to follow the course of the river through the trees. In the shade of a great banyan Prajnatara stopped and spoke. “You can stay at the temple as long as you wish, stay forever if you like, but why waste any more time?”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Sardili said with a frown.
Prajnatara took him by the arm and they continued along the riverbank. “We both know you have arrived at the truth, Sardili.”
“That is not for me to say,” Sardili replied, his voice husky, barely more than a whisper.
“No, it is for me to say, and I say it to you now.”
Sardili halted and his eyes filled with tears. No words could pass his lips. Prajnatara took his hand and gave him time to weep, then led him along the river’s edge once more, as if holding a child in danger of falling, until Sardili finally found words.
“I have never spoken of this before, but I saw you once, many years ago, in Kanchipuram.”
“Kanchipuram?” 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