YELLOW-ROBED
The moon had set before Oman finally lost himself in sleep. It seemed
to him that an hour could not possibly have passed when he felt a touch
on his brow, and, looking up, beheld Hushka bending over him.
“Up—up—my Saddhiviharika! The new day is here. Let us renew our faith.”
Oman, sleepy and confused, rose, and, following his master’s example,
knelt on one knee, lifted both his clasped hands, and repeated after
Hushka the short creed that he already knew by heart. Then the Bhikkhu,
rising, said:
“Let us now go and cleanse ourselves at a fountain. Is that in the
market-place the nearest?”
“No, my master. I will lead you to another, close at hand.”
“Come, then. And, as we walk, see that thou meditate upon this thought,
which should now be with thee constantly: the extermination of desire
for earthly things. For it is written in the book of the law: ‘Leaving
all pleasures behind, calling nothing his own, let the wise man purge
himself of troubles of the mind’.”
It was a fair morning. The sun was not yet above the horizon, but the
whole eastern sky glowed fiery crimson in the clear atmosphere. Gay
bird-notes filled the air; and a vagrant breeze shook the fragrance
from every jessamine and honeysuckle vine in Bul-Ruknu. It was an
ecstatic hour; and Hushka’s eyes were bright with the beauty of it when
he and Oman reached the well. As the young man filled Hushka’s bowl
with water, he turned to his master and said:
“The day, sir, is very fair. Does the Dharma forbid us to rejoice in
the beauty of the dawn?”
Hushka lowered his eyes, and answered softly: “We are told that the
extinction of feeling is the most desirable of all things. But, until
that comes, I think it can hurt no man to rejoice at the sight of a
sunrise sky.”
Their ablutions over, the two returned to the house of Gokarna, and
found Kota standing in the veranda, anxiously awaiting them. She had
prepared two large dishes of rice—a great luxury—and, as soon as they
came up, bade them sit and eat. Oman helped his master to the fullest
portion, and then ate his own from the wooden bowl in which it had been
prepared. This dish Kota offered to her son, to be used for his alms;
and Hushka himself thanked her for the gift to his pupil.
Oman, to his own surprise, found himself delaying the meal out of
sorrow at thought of leaving this home. He had never in his life
been more than twenty miles from Bul-Ruknu. Now, very probably, he
should never see the town again: never again look on his mother, his
father, or any of the familiar people among whom he had grown up. As
he reflected on this, the spoon dropped from his hand, and he bent his
head, conscious all the while that Hushka’s eyes were fixed on him. He
was blind with tears which he was struggling furiously not to shed,
when some one knelt beside him, and he felt two twining arms around his
neck, and a long kiss on his cheek. A thrill ran through his heart.
With passionate grief he returned his mother’s embrace. Then, breaking
suddenly from her clasp, a “Farewell!” choking in his throat, he ran
out of the veranda, down the street, and then halted, with clenched
hands, till Hushka should come.
Presently the Bhikkhu joined him, walking rapidly; and Oman perceived
that in his face there was no ridicule; only a mute sympathy. He
carried with him the two bowls, each of which contained some rice
which, he explained, they would keep for their midday meal. Oman took
his own dish, asking to carry both, which he was not permitted to do.
Side by side they went, through the narrow and ill-kept streets of the
town, till at length they came to its outer wall, and passed out by
the gate called after the street along which they had come: the street
which, outside of Bul-Ruknu, became a public highway leading straight
up into the Vindhyas.
“Ah! Go we up into the hills?” asked Oman, a note of joy in his voice.
“From now till we reach Bágh we shall be almost constantly in the
hills. And there are nearly three months of journeying before the
Vassa[6] can be begun.”
[6] Vassa: the customary sojourn in Viharas, or monasteries, from June
to October.
“I am glad. The hills are a delight to me!”
But no sooner had this simple thought escaped Oman’s lips, than he
repented of it; for he imagined that he should bring upon himself a
text commending the beauty of indifference to all things. But Hushka,
in the interval, had read his mind, and, smiling faintly, said: “Be not
afraid, Oman, that this religion will take from thee all thy delights.
Our lives, free from care, free from dread of the morrow, of any
concern for to-day, free from loneliness or the burdens of poverty,
want, and suffering, are almost wholly without pain; and this was the
great wish of the Buddha. We are taught to look charitably and kindly
on all living things, allowing each its place. And if, in our hearts,
we have cherished any evil thought toward any man, we are allowed the
relief of confessing it before the assembled Samgha. This frame of mind
is conducive to the greatest serenity. And you, O Oman, will find, in
one year’s time, that your whole attitude of mind is changed. You will
regard meditation on holy things, and the study of the Dharma, as the
highest privileges of life.”
Hushka paused, and Oman found in his words enough food for thought to
be glad of silence. They proceeded for a long time without speech. And
gradually, as Oman came out of his revery, he found his spirits growing
lighter. A sense of freedom had taken possession of him; and now every
step that increased the distance between himself and the home of his
unnatural and unhappy youth, increased also his delight.
When the sun hung in mid-sky, and they had reached the end of the first
pass and stood in a little valley, through which ran a stream of fresh
water, the two sat down to eat and take an hour’s rest. They seated
themselves on the thick grass, careful to disturb no insect visible to
the eye; and then, without any preliminary grace or offering to any
god, a matter as natural to Oman as eating, began their meal. They
faced each other, and Hushka kept an eye on his pupil to see that he
transgressed none of those rules of polite eating so minutely set forth
in the _Kullavagga_. But there was no fault to be found with the
student on this point. On the contrary, Oman ate as delicately as a
woman; and Hushka, after watching him for a moment or two, exclaimed
pleasantly:
“By the word of the Samgha, Oman, thou hast the look as well as the way
of a woman about thee, sometimes.”
Oman lifted his head, a gleam of terror in his eyes. “I am not a woman.
How, then, should I resemble one?” he demanded fiercely.
Hushka, still contemplating him, smiled, but did not answer the
question. Then Oman, distressed and angry, sprang to his feet, and
began to pace up and down the bank of the stream; and it was five
minutes before he could return to his meal.
At this time of his life, perhaps what Hushka said about Oman’s
appearance was more or less true. His slender figure, dreaming dark
eyes, face guiltless of any beard, and hair flowing to his shoulders,
might, indeed, have belonged to a woman of high caste. But there was
also something about him that was decisively masculine:—whether his
manner of carrying himself, the habit of looking any one piercingly in
the eye, or his taciturnity, it would be hard to say. But it is very
certain that the mingling of two elements in him had produced no weak
and vacillating creature, of meagre intellect and silly tongue. Freed
from the unhappy surroundings of his youth, Oman was likely henceforth
to command both interest and respect; and Hushka’s foregoing remark had
been nothing more than a thoughtless and haphazard jest.
Oman recovered himself before he sat down again; and, his rice
finished, he washed both bowls, and dried them with leaves. Then he
rose, supposing that they were to proceed. It seemed, however, that
this was the hour for meditation. In imitation of the Sramana, who was
wont to sit in concentrated thought for days at a time at the foot of
some forest tree, Hushka and his pupil, obeying one of the few rules of
“hours,” seated themselves, cross-legged, under different trees, and
remained there for a long time, motionless, wrapped in contemplation
of Nirvâna—the bliss of emancipation. It was the first time that Oman
had ever performed this especial act of worship, which is common to all
the higher Indian religions. He found it more interesting than he had
imagined it could be; and was glad to think that, at Bágh, much of it
would be required in his studies.
By two o’clock the wanderers were on their way again, and Hushka told
his pupil where they were to pass the night. Some miles farther on, in
a valley, was a large banyan grove, inhabited by hermits of various
sects, among whom were half a dozen Buddhists, who passed their lives
in rigid asceticism, but had abandoned the routine of pilgrimage and
Vassa.
For a long time they proceeded on their way, following the track of
the sun into the southwest, each wrapped in his own thoughts. Then
Oman, as much out of desire to listen to Hushka’s melodious voice as to
learn something of the Being both were worshipping, began to question
his master concerning the holy life. And Hushka, taking up his duty,
recited to his companion the history of the life of Gautama Sramana,
from the hour of his birth in the forest of Kapila-Vastu, until that
of his death in the forest of Tirhut, where he fell back into the arms
of his disciples, murmuring: “I am exhorting you for the last time.
Transitory things are perishable. Without delay, qualify yourselves for
Nirvâna.”
The life-story, told simply, but with an eloquence born of reverent
love, moved Oman powerfully. Here, indeed, was a man!—a man who had
lived a comprehensible life and had died naturally. To his mind,
crammed with legendary tales of Vedic demigods and monsters, with all
their meaningless miracles and overinterpreted allegorical deeds, there
was something in this remarkable, but perfectly credible history, that
brought conviction of the truth of the Buddha’s doctrines. The life he
had lived was enviable. Evidently he had seen clearly from the very
beginning; had known his course and had run it, gathering strength as
he went on. True, the Buddha had been born into honor and riches, and
had never had the terrible struggles of loneliness forced on him. But
he had chosen these for himself; and he had voluntarily made himself
outcast from men.
These musings occupied Oman till the sun was setting on their first
day’s journey. They were now descending the slope that led into the
valley of the banyan tree. When they reached its level, and could look
down the long aisle of trunks into the green twilight of this natural
temple, Oman felt a throb of pleasure, as one at home. They entered
in silence, and had not walked far before the light of a fire became
visible among the trees in the distance. Thither they bent their
steps, and, reaching it, found that it burned before the entrance of a
small building, built around the tree trunks. Beside this shrine and
before the fire were half a dozen naked men, their black hair wild and
dishevelled, their bodies caked with dirt and disfigured with scars of
flagellation.
“These are Agivakas. We do not stop here,” murmured Hushka, as they
approached.
Oman looked at the repulsive creatures curiously. They were passed,
however, without any salutation, with not even a look, so far as the
ascetics were concerned; and presently the yellow-robed were out of
sight of their dancing fire. The green interior of the grove was now
nearly dark. Hushka quickened his steps; and Oman, spent though he was
with unwonted exercise, followed bravely, knowing that they must reach
protection that night, since to sleep in the open, in this mountain
region, was a danger not lightly to be undergone. However, further
firelight among the trees presently reached them, and they proceeded
with new heart, soon arriving at the Buddhist retreat. Here was no
temple. Five tonsured men, clean-shaven, clad in worn yellow robes, sat
round their fire, partaking of a supper of millet-seed and water. This
meal the Upagghaya and his pupil received a cordial invitation to join;
and it was taken for granted that they would also sleep there. To Oman,
weary as he was, the mere fact of eating, of being near a shining fire,
of seeing around him friendly faces, of listening to talk from which he
was not excluded, brought an almost overpowering sense of happiness.
Here was such companionship as he had not known since his baby days.
Here were no curious, repellent eyes upon him. And, suddenly, the
feminine in him rose, bringing to his eyes tears which it took all his
angry self-control to keep from falling.
That night Oman slept the sweet sleep of healthy fatigue; but he
wakened early, and in a new world. The fire had died. Far overhead the
first glimmer of dawn shone down in a veil of translucent, deep green
light—like the light in the sea. The air was vibrating softly with the
twittering chorus of myriad birds that made their home in the banyan
tree. Otherwise, there was a great, morning silence. Oman, drowsy,
and unwilling to move, lay like one in a trance, looking, listening,
wondering, at the beauty around him. Presently it was transformed.
Every one was awake, and up and moving about; but the past half hour
lay deep in his heart, and the pureness of it remained with him always.
The morning repast was hastier than had been that of the evening; and
about sunrise the pilgrims, after many good wishes and farewells from
those they were leaving, set forth again on their way. This time they
took no food with them in their bowls; for in the early afternoon they
should reach a mountain village where, after Hushka had preached in
the bazaar, they were sure to obtain at least one meal. This morning’s
walk was difficult, for it lay steadily uphill. Hushka, however, kept
the mind of his pupil too much occupied for him to feel the weariness
of the road. The master talked to him of religion, explained the canon
of Buddhist law in its simple form, and repeated long passages from
holy books. Oman listened intently to everything. His new religion
delighted him anew. The laws that he heard seemed to him divinely wise,
so well were they adapted to human weakness. And all the time, in his
subconsciousness, he had another joy: that to-day he should again hear
Hushka speak to many people. The Bhikkhu’s conversation was precious;
but Oman, thirsting for a broader triumph, was waiting to watch his
magnetism again gather up an antagonistic audience and draw them to his
feet.
And Oman came to taste the fulness of this delight; for, wherever they
went, success followed Hushka’s preaching. What it was—the expression
of his great eyes, the low, musical, leisurely tones of his admirably
managed voice, or perhaps just the words he spoke—his pupil could not
determine: probably a measure of all three. At any rate, even in this
day of the fall of the great faith, in many towns from Bágh to Dhár and
even farther to the north, the annual coming of the Bhikkhu Hushka was
awaited as an event; and where he stopped for the first time, he was
remembered with delight, and his return hoped for. Nor, after one of
his discourses, was there to be found even a Brahman, that had heard
him, who had anything but words of praise for his eloquence.
March passed away and April followed, and still the two fought their
way through the mighty hills, surrounded by possible dangers, but
encountering none. The days were growing hot; and, when the moon was
full they sometimes travelled by night, but this not often, because of
the wild creatures that loved to roam abroad during the quiet hours.
The time passed too quickly. Oman, now inured to constant exercise,
throve on it and grew strong. His limbs began to show muscle, and his
body renewed its vigor, till he looked a straight and handsome youth.
And as his physique developed, so also his mind. Hushka never ceased
his instructions in the Dharma, nor did Oman fail to treasure his
master’s lightest precept. He was familiar now with what lay before
him during the Vassa season. He learned the mode of daily life; the
rules of procedure in the Samgha, or community of brethren; and also
the ritual of the general confession, the Patimokkha, held fortnightly,
on new and full moon days during the Vassa. But the multitude and
minuteness of the laws, and the petty tyranny they exercised, remained
happily unguessed by him; for Hushka was too wise to burden his mind in
the beginning with what would soon become a natural part of existence.
Oman’s present life was beautiful to him. The magnificence of the
scenery amid which they lived, the season of the year, when the earth
was at its height of joy, still more, perhaps, the beautiful influence
of Hushka’s companionship and the spirituality of what he taught,
combined to waken in Oman a buoyancy of spirit, a sense of hope and of
ideality, that furnished him strength to sustain the years of bitter
tribulation and trial that were still to be his.
At length one day Oman and Hushka, side by side, staves in hand,
reached the treeless summit of a high hill, up the side of which they
had toiled throughout the morning, Hushka for a purpose, Oman following
unquestioningly. When they stood upon the crest, there spread before
them a mighty prospect, fair and far-reaching in the clear light of
noon. In the distance, a mere sinuous, sparkling thread, was a river,
bordered by a strip of green plain. Nearer yet, a deep-hued patch of
foliage marked a jungle, dwindled by height and distance. Then came
foothills, curving round and out, like a rough causeway, toward that
fast-flowing river; and, in the midst of rocky cliffs and sudden tufts
of foliage, were to be seen the low roofs and white walls of many
buildings.
“Look,” said Hushka, gently: “yonder is Bágh. Our pilgrimage is over.
We have crossed the Vindhyas. June is here, and it is the Vassa season.
Art thou ready, Oman?” And he turned to examine his pupil’s face.
Oman neither spoke nor answered the look. He was beyond himself.
Suddenly, out of the dark fastnesses of the past, shot a gleam of
light. A new vista was opening before his eyes. Memory—fleeting,
evanescent—hovered over him. His mind was struggling to penetrate the
land of forgetfulness. The gates seemed still barred; and yet—here was
a key. That river—that shining river, yonder, in the light—he knew it
well,—so well that he was shuddering at sight of it.
“Oman,” repeated Hushka, disturbed at the look in his pupil’s eyes.
With that one word, the dream broke. Oman turned sharply, stared for a
second into his Master’s face, and then, in a voice of the far away,
answered: “Yes, I am ready, master. Let us descend. Let us enter the
Vihara of Truth.”