Consequently, both her monks and those of the saffron robe wondered as to her appearance and sought to gain possible favor in her eyes. It was said that her blessing would ensure one’s being incarnated as a Brahmin. Only Gandhiji did not care, for he had accepted the way of the real death.
Since she did not pass along the hall as they stood there, the priest prolonged the conversation, “I am Balarma,” he stated. “May I inquire as to your name, good sir, and perhaps your destination?”
“I am Aram,” said the beggar, “who has taken upon himself a ten-year vow of poverty, and of silence for seven. Fortunately, the seven have elapsed, that I may now speak to thank my benefactors and answer their questions. I am heading up into the mountains to find me a cave where I may meditate and pray. I may, perhaps, accept your kindly hospitality for a few days, before proceeding on with my journey.”
“Indeed,” said Balarma, “we should be honored if a holy one were to see fit to bless our monastery with his presence. We will make you welcome. If there is anything you wish to assist you along your path, and we may be able to grant this thing, please name it to us.”
Aram fixed him with his unblinking green eye and said, “The monk who first observed me did not wear the robe of your Order.” He touched the dark garment as he said it. “Instead, I believe my poor eye did behold one of another color.”
“Yes,” said Balarma, “for the followers of the Buddha do shelter here among us, resting awhile from their wanderings.”
“That is truly interesting,” said Aram, “for I should like to speak with them and perhaps learn more of their Way.”
“You should have ample opportunity if you choose to remain among us for a time.”
“This then shall I do. For how long will they remain?”
“I do not know.”
Aram nodded. “When might I speak with them?”
“This evening there will be an hour when all the monks are gathered together and free to speak as they would, save for those who have taken vows of silence.”
“I shall pass the interval till then in prayer,” said Aram. “Thank you.”
Each bowed slightly, and Aram entered his room.
That evening, Aram attended the community hour of the monks. Those of both Orders did mingle at this time and engage in conversation. Sam did not attend it himself, nor did Tak; and Yama never attended it in person.
Aram seated himself at the long table in the refectory, across from several of the Buddha’s monks. He talked for some time with these, discoursing on doctrine and practice, caste and creed, weather and the affairs of the day.
“It seems strange,” he said after a while, “that those of your Order have come so far to the south and the west so suddenly.”
“We are a wandering Order,” replied the monk to whom he had spoken. “We follow the wind. We follow our hearts.”
“To the land of rusted soil in the season of lightnings? Is there perhaps some revelation to occur hereabout, which might be enlarging to my spirit were I to behold it?”
“The entire universe is a revelation,” said the monk. “All things change, yet all things remain. Day follows night. . . each day is different, yet each is day. Much of the world is illusion, yet the forms of that illusion follow a pattern which is a part of divine reality.”
“Yes, yes,” said Aram. “In the ways of illusion and reality am I well-versed, but by my inquiry I did mean to know whether perhaps a new teacher had arisen in this vicinity, or some old one returned, or mayhap a divine manifestation, the presence of which it might profit my soul to be aware.”
As he spoke, the beggar brushed from the table before him a red, crawling beetle, the size of a thumbnail, and he moved his sandal as if to crush it.
“Pray, brother, do not harm it,” said the monk.
“But they are all over the place, and the Masters of Karma have stated that a man cannot be made to return as an insect, and the killing of an insect is a karmically inoperative act.”