Thomas walked us through the gate, explaining his role to us. As steward he was the link between the monks and the lay community on whose generosity they relied. I decided he was probably on the run from the law. I couldn’t see him killing anyone, he was too slight and weaselly-looking, so I made him some kind of internet fraudster. I hesitated at the perimeter of the courtyard, always wary of places of devotion. They were guarded by invisible forcefields that you could only pass through if your intentions were honourable. I stepped carefully. The dust held my weight and I walked through the forcefield without being fried.
Between the pillars four skinheaded monks in holy robes were playing a game of doubles. They danced round the table as if on springs, their faces intense in competition. An unbroken stream of unerring power shots flowed from their paddles. They looked magnificent. The thock-thock of paddle on ball was the repeated punchline to a joke they were playing on the unenlightened.
The matchwinner was a forehand rocket that went through a wormhole and came out the other side covered in slime from the birth of the universe. The winning team accepted their victory without emotion. The defeated team greeted their loss in the same manner. It was all very diplomatic, as though the intensity of the battle already belonged to a different time and in its ending they’d found release from the torment of human rivalry. They laid down their paddles and greeted Bibhuti with handshakes and smiles. He got down to the business of charming their sporting and spiritual philosophies from them, scratching away at his notepad while the Turbanator lined up his shots, crouching himself into a predicament to capture the monks’ timeless weirdness from all angles.
Thomas interpreted for me. He told me how these monks out of all other orders had come to believe in table tennis as the ideal way to practise their religion. They found a peace of mind through ping-pong that couldn’t be achieved by any other means. They were in training right now for a big tournament coming up in Singapore, where they’d pit their skills against other ping-pong orders from around the world and through their contests amplify the peace and love that flowed from them, creating a surplus that would circle the earth, healing manmade ills and setting lame animals back on their feet. They were seeking donations to make the trip possible. They weren’t allowed to handle money directly, so any contribution had to come through the steward.
I tightened my grip on my bag of money and watched the monks as they posed for their close-ups. One of them was older than the rest and I took him to be the chief. I caught his eye and raised my eyebrows, pointed to the table and wiggled an imaginary paddle. He smiled his consent.
I gave Jolly Boy the nod. His face lit up mischievously and he followed me to the table. I let him serve. I chased the feeling the monks had already captured, of being expert and unbeatable. It didn’t work out that way. The boy beat me mercilessly. I lacked the skill and the audacity to wipe the smile off his face. My body creaked and wobbled. Every shot of his flew past me unquestioned. By the time I gave up I wanted to kill someone.
‘Good game,’ the boy offered, buzzing with the glory of an easy victory. I didn’t respond. I walked back to the others without looking at him. Bibhuti had finished his interview and was steadying himself for a kicking. The youngest of the monks planted a beauty between his legs and his righteous companions applauded the endeavour, all of them bonded over a shared devotion to the sporting principle.
The Turbanator rounded up the monks for their action shots, switched lenses to catch them in play. The thock-thock of the ball rang out like a fearful pulse between the flagstones, and the clouds went sticky again, teasing us with the suggestion of rain to come.
When Bibhuti said we were going to be blessed I felt my blood go cold. I told him I didn’t believe in that sort of thing. But he said it was safe and would offer us protection in the trials to come. I went along with it to avoid offending anyone. We had to take our shoes off before entering the temple. I had a hole in my sock and seeing my toe made me feel acutely godless and fond of myself.
We followed the monks inside. There was a strange smell, something ritualistic and sweet. My head filled up with all the small and stupid things I’d done, and with the biggest stupidest thing of all. Something was waiting for me in the dark heart of the place. It would come dressed in the splendour of religion but it would be vicious and there’d be no way around it. I’d be told what my life’s definitive failure was and I’d have to stand there and hear it read back at me in front of everyone. I got ready to run away from it.
Then there was every colour all at once and too many gods hanging from the walls. A woman in a spiky hat dancing with elephants. An altar with a Buddha looking sleepy and self-satisfied with his bowls of fruit arranged around him, and flowers that masked the stink of human sacrifice. The monks bowed to the Buddha and we did the same. They went to the far side of the room where a new monk sat cross-legged, wearing robes of a different colour to the rest. The chief snake-charmer. He was a pearl and his minions were the grit that stuck to him. He saw me and his fat face split into a warm smile.
Bibhuti bowed to the chief. I copied him. We were told to sit down on the floor. I folded myself up as best I could. My heart was beating so loud I was sure the monks could hear it and from its pattern tell how salt-rich my diet had been.
The youngest monk approached the altar and lit candles and incense sticks. Smoke whispered up and more of that sweet smell filled the air. He picked up a ball of orange string from the altar and started winding it out. He threaded it round the Buddha then he walked the ball over to us and wrapped the string round our shoulders so we were loosely bound together. Then he gave the ball of string to the chief, who held it softly and started mumbling a prayer to himself.
The younger one sat down next to him, all of them lined up in a row. The chief unwound the string and passed it down the line. Each monk wrapped it around his hands before he passed it on. When they were all joined together they raised their hands in prayer and the chief closed his eyes and started chanting. The rest joined in. The chant built up in layers until it was a wave they were all riding. The wave rose and fell and repeated and with every repetition the swell became stronger. The noise grew louder and expanded like a feeding fire and the walls seemed to stretch out to contain it. The noise carried the monks off in its arms to some other place I didn’t know about.
I glanced at Bibhuti and saw that he was being carried too. A look of blank serenity had come over him, the look of someone who believed with ease in man’s aptitude for self-cleaning.
They kept on chanting. The noise made the thread around me vibrate. I plucked it like a guitar string but it didn’t stop them. I was the only one left awake. I sat there waiting for them to come back from where they’d gone. The thread was cutting in to me and I was just about to slip out of it when the chief monk opened his eyes and stirred slowly, as if coming round from anaesthetic. He stopped chanting. The others stopped a heartbeat later and the silence that fell was shocking and wonderful.
The chief monk let go of the string. He looked extravagantly gratified, as if his sing-along with the unknown had unpicked a knot in his belly that had been bothering him since the day he was born. His minions came round and dropped their portions of the string and all together they let out a communal breath. The string fell away from our shoulders and the chief monk gathered it in. With the scissors the younger one passed him he cut a length off. He cupped the loose thread in his hands and mumbled another prayer to himself and then he blew into his hands. He leaned towards me and gestured for me to reach out my arm. I gave him both my arms, wrists up as though ready for handcuffs. He swatted my left arm aside and turned the right arm fist-up and he tied the string round my wrist.