After a long moment, I asked softly, “Your holiness, with your great age, experience, and wisdom you have encountered many things. You have certainly answered many questions. What question still perplexes you? When you sit in meditation, what question do you still ask yourself?”
The lama's nephew wrinkled his brow and haltingly translated my question. He launched into an explanation far lengthier than my own while the old lama nodded, peering occasionally in my direction.
I feared I might have crossed a boundary, perhaps offended him. But after an instant of contemplation, the old lama turned to me and fixed his eyes on mine. Then he spoke gently, and ended with the lilt of a question in his indecipherable Bhutanese.
He continued to stare into me as his nephew said simply, “The lama says he still doesn't understand why people are not kinder to each other.”
That was it. We got up slowly, made our bows, and climbed down the steep ladder to the dark, cold living quarters and the walled open-air courtyard. As we entered into the bright morning light, we could see the clouds dispersing from the valley. The young monks went about their business, sweeping the grounds and cleaning the morning dishes, smiling at us whenever we caught their eyes. As we left the compound and started down the mountain, we turned to see the old lama staring at us and waving from his dirty, chili-festooned windows, still fondling his scratchy scalp and munching down on his toothless jaw.
Another monk, another riddle. And, as with The Monk and the Riddle, the answer lies not in dollars and cents, but in who we are and what we believe.
—Randy Komisar
March 2001
THE MONK
AND THE
RIDDLE
Prologue
THE
RIDDLE
IT'S FEBRUARY 1999, and I'm motorcycling across the most arid expanse of Burma, now officially Myanmar. The boundless landscape is relieved only by one ribbon of life: the rich river basin of the Aye Yarwaddy that drains the Himalayas and wears a groove through the middle of this starkly beautiful country. My destination is Bagan, an ancient city studded with more than 5,000 temples and stupas over thirty square kilometers. The group I have been traveling with—American bicyclists mostly—are far ahead. Having loaned my bicycle to one of my compatriots whose bike never arrived for the trip, I have been waylaid and detoured pleasantly for hours.
I spot a makeshift taxi ahead, a rickety, Chinese-made truck onto which thirty or so passengers are clinging and clambering. Many of the riders, men and women alike, wear colorful longyis—simple pieces of cotton or silk that have been sewn into loops and resemble long skirts—to reflect their tribal affiliations. Most of the women and some of the men have streaked their cheeks, foreheads, and noses with a mudlike paste made from the bark of the thanaka tree, which serves as both cosmetic and sunscreen. Standing on the rear bumper is a young monk, his plum robes pulled over his head to block the sun. He motions toward me, communicating emphatically, if wordlessly. He wants a ride on the motorcycle. I nod in equally silent assent and stop angling to pass the truck, instead trailing it until it stops to lose some and gain some. The monk hops off the truck happily and walks slowly toward me, flashing a warm, penetrating smile. Unleashing my backpack from the seat behind me, I gesture for him to put it on. He dons it and tries to shove a wad of grimy, threadbare bills, kyat, into my hand.
“Just get on the back,” I say, then realize that he speaks no English. So I wave my palm and shake my head: “No.” Gently his hand rests on my shoulder. We take off, quickly overtaking the pickup truck. The monk's robes flutter in the rush of air that gives us both relief from the scorching midday sun. Half an hour down the road, we come upon my cycling friends, lunching at a little roadside inn—a dirt-floored shack, wallpapered with faded posters of Hong Kong beauties and far away beaches. They are clearly amused that I have been adopted by one of Buddha's apprentices. One by one they approach to greet my new companion, meet the insurmountable language barrier, and retreat to their plates of pungent stir-fry.
“You want some lunch?” I ask in a crude sign language that has served me well in my travels.
He shakes his head and slips off to a corner of the table. He might be able to manage one American, but twenty overwhelm him. I offer him a plate of my curry, but he won't touch it, preferring to sip at a sickeningly sweet local soda pop. He waits.
I wolf down my lunch, because I can tell he's ill at ease. He re-dons the pack, and we are back on the motorcycle, tooling down the road. His soft touch on my shoulder lets me know he's still there, but except for the buzz of the two-stroke Japanese engine, we travel without a sound. More endless highway. A scattering of thatched houses on stilts. An occasional open-air market. We slow down for water buffalo pulling a caravan of carts and weave paths around lumbering herds of cattle who wander onto the road, their bells chiming in the dust. At this rate, we won't reach Bagan until after dark.
Half an hour later, the monk signals me, with a tap on the shoulder, to pull over in front of a ramshackle, windowless shed. We enter a crowded room filled with farmers and loiterers, members of a full-fledged profession in Burma. The locals are excited to see an American where none usually tread. The monk sits down at a small bench and offers me lunch. I shake my head. Now it's my turn to wait, sipping green tea, cautiously, not understanding a word that is spoken. He sponges up the last bit of thick, brown sauce with a wad of rice, and we take off again.
Riding for hours, another 100 kilometers or so, we end up at Mount Popa, an ancient Buddhist temple built on a mountain of rock that erupts from an otherwise flat landscape. It's an old, shabby temple, popular with the monkeys. Nats, humans who have suffered tragic deaths and have been transformed into animist deities, are worshipped side-by-side with Buddha here and are feted with offerings of fruit, cigarettes, and chewing gum. At night, trance dancers take on the spirits of the Nats in their gyrations.
An older monk in sun-faded robes emerges from the temple's entrance, and the two greet each other with bows. My monk disappears quietly up the hill, without so much as a peep in my direction.
“I'm Mr. Wizdom, the abbot of Mount Popa Monastery,” says the older monk. An angular man with day-old stubble on his pate, he wears crooked wire-rimmed glasses that look like they've been mangled and bent back to form many times.
I'm relieved to hear English. I have no idea where the hell I am, my bicycling buddies are long gone, and now I'm almost out of gas.
With the noble hospitality of one who has nothing, Mr. Wizdom motions for me to sit down.
“You know, I picked him up 150 kilometers ago, and I have no idea where I'm taking him?” I say, gesturing toward the one who disappeared. “Is this where he wants to go?”
“Oh, yes, this is where you take him,” Mr. Wizdom replies elliptically. We talk briefly, travelers' chitchat, before I ask for and receive directions to Bagan. He hands me a dog-eared card, all unintelligible Burmese except for the odd English phonetic spelling of his name, “Wizdom.” Seeing that I'm not rushing to copy down the particulars, he snatches back what must be his one and only calling card. I accept a drink of water and shake Mr. Wizdom's hand. My work is done.
I head back to my motorcycle to find the young monk waiting for me. Confused, I look plaintively toward Mr. Wizdom who is gazing at us from the temple steps.