Diving into the unknown…
If tourist popularity could be measured by the density of beggars with jagged members, Bodhgaya and its surroundings would most probably be in the most in sight regions of the Indian subcontinent. That’s one of the memory we’ll keep, me and my friends of a trip: the Dutch Ward and Marie, and the Germanic newcomer Dominic.
It is at the university metro station, inevitable meeting-place, that I get to know the latter, in saturday late afternoon. He just arrived in India and is not close to leave: he intends to visit it from top to bottom in 4 months. He didn’t come unarmed: a little bag that he always wears contains a LSR camera (Nikon D2X), an analog camera and not less than five different lenses. One might as well say that he is a passionate of photography ; I’ll learn soon that it’s his job.
First discovery for me as well as for him of the train journey. Indian train stations are like their country: overpopulated ; I’ll have the occasion to confirm that later. After having filled up the pockets of chips and cakes of all kinds, we end up on our seats, graciously booked by Ward in sleeper class. Not the supreme luxury, but always better than the seating class where finding a breath of fresh air is a rare thing. Before the night, the middle bed is lowered. The two Indians occupying the upper beds are the smartest: the can start their night without further delay. That’s the interest of travelling in train at the end of the day: the night comes quickly and the trip seems shorter. It is, by the way, at these unique moments that we can enjoy a public place in the silence. A luxury that I appreciate.
Who says early bedtime says early wake up, and Indians are here to remind us of that. First of all, by these young women who ask some coins for their ultra-morning singings. One of them notices my fair skin and keeps on. Later, that’s the people of the train who starts his day and gets back into his old noisy habits.
We arrive soon, indeed after 16 hours of trip, two of which of delay, but without really having the impression of it. Ben, a delhite english friend and Ajan, his buddhist master are here to welcome us. Actually, that’s their presence that made the trip possible: after a few months of discussions and meditation from his room of the International Hostel of Delhi, Ajan, a Lao buddhist monk studying a Ph. D. in Buddhist Studies at Delhi University, decided to bring further the spiritual training of his young disciple by urging him to the Mecca of Buddhists: Bodhgaya, where Buddha attained enligtenment, 25 centuries from now.
Autorickshaw drivers and their announcements make us understand plainly that here, Bodhgaya is the center of attention, making of Gaya a simple arrival stop for visitors, whether coming by the railways or the air. It’s on the back of the vehicle, all along of the 11km that separates us from the little holy city, that with Dominic and his big smile, I’m saying to myself that I finally see India, the real, the bush. So, the smile is quickly shared.
After a eating break, the rest-time is fully deserved. The invitation is sent for 5:30pm in order to meet Ajan at the little renovated building serving as a monastery for monks from Laos. We introduce ourselves one after the other, waiting for the coming of Ajan’s master, an obviously very calm man in his forties, who shares a few words with us, through the translation of Ajan, before leaving soon, because of a fragile health. We are offered to stay for the dinner ; we meet Shitoung, little brother of Ajan, and another young Lao, both studying here or there in India. Meanwhile, I use toilet paper sheet after toilet paper sheet to wipe the tears running on my cheeks: spicy, Lao food.
Finally, we end up this first day with a little glance at the center of the little town: the Mahabodhi temple and the tree to which it got built up against, two centuries after Buddha’s death. Shitoung calls on us of this gigantic place full of monks or simple amateurs. A kind of lecture is given a few meters ahead the tree but the noise level remains of course at one with the very solemn atmosphere. Masters rub shoulders with disciples but we can’t discern them, throughout the open passage surrounding the temple. We go around it, in the manneer of practitionners of walking meditation, after having spent a few minutes meditating inside the temple, facing a huge icon of Siddhartha.
This first contact broadens my mind to a world that I didn’t think of: the institutionalized Buddhism, organized in a social link, where women, children and diverse social classes have all their place. The site obviously welcomes monastic communities from all over Asia, but also a lot of simple practicionners, among which a not insignificant number of Westerners. Some of them seem to have made the big move and took Holy Orders. The impression that emanates from this moment of continuing celebration reminds me that we are far away from the solitary practice of the Western sage, hardly alone in a society whose values are opposed to his. Here, it’s, on the contrary, the society that is Buddhist. First real encounter with the world towards which i’ve been heading for, for the past few months.
Album Bodhgaya, day 1
The heart of our stay at Bodhgaya is a little journey, concocted by Ajan, as far as Nalanda University, 80 km away from there. Only just started, the mini-bus bounces on the not always flat roads, following the beat of the incantations that we proclaim. These are kinds of prayers in Pali (an oral dead language used at the time of Buddha) ; Ajan and Shitoung lead the dance, we try our best to repeat the series of syllables that we read on the little book displaying roman transcripts.
I open a discussion with Shitoung, after the friendly invitation of his brother. Shitoung already spent a few years at the monastery and would have gladly followed the path of Ajan but here it is: the two first sons of the family already took Holy Orders, so the last one has the duty to honour the family name by continuing the lineage. I bombard him with questions. In particular on the moral imperatives of monks (more than 220!) and of the simple believers. Also, on the motivation explaining the project of becoming a monk. He replies that it’s simply his brother who was a role model ; I question the latter. He answers, as a good master, that we will talk about that later, and I should better have some rest.
After about an hour, first stop ; we’ll learn soon that our little tour will consist of the visit of several historic places rather than of the only goal to reach Nalanda. To start, we observe the traces dug in the rocks by carts’ wheels, unique means of transport for centuries, in order to reach this remote zone in the forests. What strikes me, it’s that for a place with so few interest, there are half a dozen of beggars, most of them children. However, no town or even little village a few kilometers around. Even if trying to live with it, I won’t really get used to that density of mendicants, that we will see again all day long.
Hardly enough time to rest, we arrive to the basis of Griddhraj Parvat or Vulture peak. The place is famous for having welcomed the meditations of the Buddha, as well as his teaching of the Heart Sutra (Prajnaparamita Hrdaya). Three centuries after his death, here took place the first buddhist council. We start off the steps of this 700-meters high hill, glancing at the many old men, women or children begging for mercy. Many are blinds, I guess the slashed eyes of a newborn.
A little bit higher, we meet a group of Singapourian tourists; their Western clothing style gives a strange impression mixed with their Asian faces. Ajan shares his tremendous knowledge, commenting on two places, a few meters below the top, where two disciples of the Buddha, Mokalana and Sariputta, spent a few years of their life, the latter reaching the enlightenment under a rock.
The temple on the other mountain, Wishwashanti Stupa, is in effigy of the Japanese master Suzuki.
At the crest is, guarded by two soldiers, the remains of fortifications of the little residence where the Buddha stayed to meditate during a few years. The place is holy for the Buddhists and Ajan reminds the fact to us by animating a series of prostrations and recitations of chants in Pali. Moreover, we’ll have the occasions repeatedly during the day to train to these rituals. A few minutes later, after that an Indian asked for remuneration for having allegedly waxed Ben’s plastic flip-flops, it’s to a dozen of minutes of meditation that we try our hand at, under the rock of Sariputta. I stopped my practice when leaving Angers, and the presence of a tourist group around us (taking pictures of us furthermore), doesn’t help. Difficulties to focus, and legs and back pains. Classic, you know.
On the way down, Ajan buys fruits to small itinerant salesman. We taste them, around a little meal, at the “restaurant” of the place. In honor of us, Western musics are played. We are really grateful.
We resume our journey. The next stop is close, and, not really helped by Ajan’s accent, I don’t understand much of the explanations. FYI, it’s about ruins of Jivaka Komarabhadda, an hospital at the time of the Buddha. The fact remains that a few needy are still around. Ward and Marie are successful with the distribution of candies, whereas an old man is compelled to stay crouching for a kind of skin tendon linking his knees to the top his the feet. Even though we have a class one guide in the person of Ajan, another man, after having showed us pebbles, cries out when we leave: “I’m an old man and I don’t ask for nothing, your help would be greatly appreciated“…
A few hundred meters further, we are proposed packets of peanuts to give to monkeys “who are really vicious!“. We are at Bimbisara Bhandagara, refuge place for monks in the season of rains. Apparently, a treasure is hidden in the walls of the dug cave, to whom could decrypt the painted writings…
Back: Shitoung, Dominic, Marie - Front : Ajan, Ward, Ben
Umpteenth break, this time at Maniya Mah, little temple where stayed relics of the Budda during a few centuries. Prostrations and chants reign. A little discussion with a group of Indian jains teach us that the place is also holy for the believers of that religion.
We come back to a urban environment with the next visit: the public baths of Tapodharama. The water coming from the mountains is naturally warm and the compartments, distincts according to the castes. It’s another holy place for hindus ; that explains the impressive number of beggars. On the way back, I hesitate to take the picture of a young man who carries his two legs on the shoulders. Dominic wonders as well ; we would talk about it at night. In front of such cases, we really wonder how, physically, such malformations are possible, and we can never put aside the hypothesis of volontary caused injuries. All that doesn’t help to raise the pervading misery.
Upper castes
A few meters below, the water is not lost…
... never lost.
You need to pay a little endowing to enter in the park of the Veluvana Monastery ; it’s annoying but this is a security for a place clean and without street people. Prostrations are really painful with the tiredness, but we all make an effort, hoping to maybe find some spiritual awakening. Coming back to the gate, some guards surround us and pretend to secure this desert and fully clear park… hoping that Ajan would make a gift to them of some little phial of natural essential oil facilitating breathing.
The road is longer, allowing me to treat myself to a little nap, before arriving to Nalanda University. The Buddhist institution was erected on 14 hectares, in 427 C.E. For 750 years, the university was one of the most important of the world, welcoming in some periods 10.000 students, some coming from China or even from Greece. It is a muslim conqueror from Turkey who put an end to Nalanda, burning it (in 30 days, still!), in 1197. Ajan doesn’t get out of his good habits and invites us, one more time, to a few minutes of meditation, but this time, clarifying a few advices about breathing and posture. That helps quite a lot.
During the two hours of our trip back to Bodhgaya, I maintain a background noise with Ben, while everybody sleeps. The day is not over: new lesson with Ajan, a few meters away from the Bodhi Tree, on the duties of parents and children, before one last session of meditation. The excellent Thai restaurant is even more appreciable.
Album Bodhgaya, day 2
Last morning in Bodhgaya, I open it by buying a shirt at the shop just round the corner from our hotel. The day before, I met Kundan, the young manager of the shop, which suggests on one side many books on meditation, Buddhism, etc, and on the other side, a whole lot of togs. There are always some hippy hymns from the 70′s that go out of the speaker hidden behind a little painting in sale, in front of the store. Kundan stays here, sit around a table, sipping a chai or a beer. His English is perfect and his wife, Belgian. After having spent 15 years in the streets of Bodhgaya, he worked in this library, of which he became the manager in 2001. He is now 26, and his Kundan Bazar is a compulsory stop for every European visiting the area, attracted by the melodies of the American youth in search of spiritual answers. The day before, it’s a German resting his elbows against the garden table that I met ; he lives here and works alone for a humanitarian project for the attention of diseased of polio, on a 20 km area around Bodhgaya. And I wonder if, me, I would be able to live in such a remote region of a world that I even merely understand.
We meet Ajan under the big tent reserved for Lao monks, a few dozens of meters away from the tree. He’s chating, with the aid of a mic, with two bald but smiling nuns (okay, not on the picture), who are on our side.
He starts the last visit of the stay: the monasteries of the city. Sri Lanka, India, Thailande, Buthan, and finally the gigantic statue of Buddha.
We go back to the tree to meet another monk, who accompagnies us further in the town, where meals are offered by thousands, under a giant tent.
Everybody is entitled to monks donations. Even the youngests.
Last minutes in the hotel and in the Lao monastery, to thank and to say goodbye to Ajan and Ben. We will see them again soon in Delhi.
Autorickshaw for Gaya, roads are really seldom in good condition but that makes us laugh. We wait on the platform of the train for Delhi. The departure is confirmed; a doubt hung over after that an accident took place the day before on some tracks in the region. Dominic stays with me, Ward and Marie taking the same train but continuing the spiritual journey, stopping somewhere halfway. After a little nap in our quite popular and noisy sleeper class, we are not cradled anymore by the train in motion and with good reason: it stopped, and will stay this way for several hours, because of disruptions on the lines. We make a great detour, lengthening our route from 14 hours to… 26 hours. Oh yeah. Then, we take grin and bear it, we listen to the great album of The National (recommended by the North-American adventurer François), we sleep well in spite of the fear scream of an Indian woman at 4 in the morning (there is a talk of a swindler…), and we spend the last hours away from the upper couchette, thinking that this sky, grey of pollution, reminds us that we arrived to Delhi, to home.
Album Bodhgaya, day 3
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