Miss Buddha

by Ulf Wolf

“You mentioned religious recognition.” said Melissa.

  The Abbot may or may not have heard this, but looked at Melissa as he continued:

  “She must not give up,” he said. “She is too important.”

  Then looking back at Ruth: “You are a light, Miss Marten. You must not give up.”

  “I’m not about to,” said Ruth.

  “You must be recognized,” he added, as if Ruth had not spoken.

  “How?” said Ruth and Ananda both, and with a voice so single that they all laughed.

  Then the Abbot asked, “Who can recognize you for who you are?”

  “Ananda does. Melissa and Julian do.”

  “No, I mean broadly. Religiously. Who can provide you a platform? Who, in the Buddhist world can recognize, and vouch for you?”

  “I see,” said Melissa, and did.

  “That’s a thought,” said Ananda.

  “Who is the most prominent Buddhist in the world, today? And would he, or she, recognize you for who you are?” asked the Abbot.

  “The Dalai Lama would have recognized me,” said Ruth. “But, as you know, he recently passed.”

  “And they have yet to find the next,” said the Abbot.

  “Still looking,” confirmed Ananda.

  “Who else?” said the Abbot.

  “There is someone at the Mahavihara Monastery in Sri Lanka,” said Ruth.

  The Abbot looked from Ruth to Ananda to Ruth. “How do you know?” he said. Then quickly added, “Sorry. I didn’t mean.”

  “A feeling,” said Ruth. Not unkindly.

  “Who?” said Ananda.

  “Bhante is his name,” said Ruth. “The Venerable Bhante Mahathera. He doesn’t know me yet, but I know that he will recognize me were we to meet.”

  “Do you think he can shore up your platform?” said the Abbot.

  “Perhaps,” said Ruth. “Yes, perhaps he can.” Then said, “Do you want to come?”

  “Come where?”

  “To Sri Lanka,” said Ruth.

  “Oh, I see. No, I’m afraid I couldn’t do that. Too much to see to here in Los Angeles, still. You’d think I’d be out on the scrap heap by now, but still they come to me for far too many things. But,” he added, then paused. “If I may make a suggestion.”

  “Sure.”

  “Perhaps it would help your cause to invite that reporter along?”

  “Clare Downes?” said Melissa, feeling sure that’s who he meant.

  “Yes, that who I mean,” said the Abbot.

  “That’s an idea,” said Melissa. Both Ananda and Ruth agreed.

  :

  Clare Downes saw there was a story in the trip and encountered only token resistance from her producer who, while she felt a little uneasy about letting her star reporter out of her sight for a full week, soon could see the story as well. Yes, time and money well spent. Documenting international Buddhist acceptance of Ruth as the Buddha. Yes, quite a story indeed.

  And yes, of course she could bring Lars.

  And yes, finally, the station would pay for all of them.

  :: 102 :: (Sri Lanka)

  The temperature at Bandaranaike International Airport in Colombo put the unseasonably warm Los Angeles they had left behind to shame. And the humidity, my Lord. Clare asked Lars if the equipment would actually work okay here. He sniffed the air, as if testing it for something, and nodded, “Sure. Not quite under water yet.”

  They had not expected any crowds, nor were there any. Once they cleared immigration and customs the little group, consisting of Clare and Lars (who were attracting some attention, what with her recognizable face, even here, and what with his impressive camera), Ruth, Melissa, and Ananda, were met by a single monk in a saffron robe holding up a hand-painted sign saying “Marten” in blue letters.

  Ruth went up to him. “I am Ruth Marten.”

  The monk lowered the sign, and looked at Ruth up and down and up again, at loss for words. Then said, in slightly sing-songy English, and not a little surprised, by the looks of him, “You are Marten?” He then looked over at Ananda as if hoping, somehow, that he was the Marten and they were playing a trick on him.

  “Yes,” said Ruth.

  “But,” said the monk, and then fell silent. Apparently looking for words. Then found some, “You are a girl.”

  Lars, ever the professional, had unobtrusively hoisted the camera onto his shoulder and was getting this. Clare nodded in acknowledgement.

  “I guess the Venerable Bhante Mahathera did not tell you,” said Ruth.

  The monk suddenly realized his rudeness. Clare could practically see embarrassment pouring into him, filling him toe to head. He seemed unable to answer, and no answer came.

  “Please take us to him,” said Ruth.

  The monk then bowed so deeply his head almost touched the floor, then turned, motioning with the hand that held the sign for them to follow.

  The ride to the Mahavihara Monastery went from slow—through chaotic traffic, to slower—through worse traffic, to crawl when the paved road stopped, and the old van more navigated than rode the rutted track that took them to the old monastery.

  “So sorry,” said the monk with each bump in the road that seemed determined to shake the old vehicle apart, with a few “so sorrys” in-between bumps for good measure.

  Everyone smiled as well as they could, what with the jet lag and what with the pathetic air conditioner, whose attempt at cooling the inside of the van amounted to nothing but futile gesture.

  Arriving at last, the monk turned to Ruth and said, “The Venerable Bhante Mahathera would like to see you right away.”

  Two other monks appeared to help unload the van, and to bring their luggage to guest quarters as the group made to follow their guide. Who, when he noticed turned and said, “Only the Marten,” he said.

  “I have promised them,” began Ruth, looking over at Clare and Lars.

  “Only you,” said the monk, and with such finality that there was no arguing about this. Clare saw that writing on the wall and touched Lars’ arm in a let’s-go gesture, then turned and followed Ananda and Melissa and their luggage.

  :

  The Venerable Bhante Mahathera was ninety-five years old, though you were hard pressed to guess. Old, yes, that was plain enough, but that old could be anywhere between seventy and a hundred plus. He was a small, somewhat emaciated man with all of his teeth and a soft smile that seemed to reflect a subtle amusement at some private joke.

  Ordained at age fifteen, he had been a Theravada Buddhist monk for eighty years, fifty or so of these as the leader of the Mahavihara Sangha. He retired his leadership on his eighty-fifth birthday, announcing that he would live out his days in seclusion and meditation. This decision was, of course, greeted and accepted with respect, and the new leader had built for him a small bungalow at the far end of the large compound, somewhat secluded, that he may live, undisturbed, to reflect and meditate for his remaining days.

  As a rule, he would only see his attendant (the monk meeting Ruth and company) and on rare occasions the leader of the Sangha, to advice as needed. Other than that he dwelled alone, and saw no one.

  The front of his bungalow faced a worn pathway, the back—with its two small windows—faced the forest.

  He was standing at the door, watching Ruth and his attendant approach, smiling softly, now as if at some distant memory.

  :

  I feel his presence even from this distance. He is a true bhikkhu. He has walked the path and he has laid down his burden. His next step will be Parinibbana, the final destination-less journey.

  My guide still seems mortified that he did not know I was a girl. He says nothing to me, nor does he turn around. I don’t know what Bhante told him about me, but I’ve certainly disappointed his expectations.

  We reach the little bungalow which is Bhante’s home, and my guide steps aside, “Mahathera,” he says. “This is your guest, Ruth Marten.”

  Bhante looks up, as if in recognition, and his smile bro
adens. “Welcome,” he says in good English. “Please come.” He turns and enters his building. My guide does not follow, but motions for me to.

  The inside is quite dark at first, though my eyes soon adjust. I see one large room to the right, a smaller one to the left, where I spy the edge of a low bed, not more than a mattress on the floor. Bhante enters the larger room, which is part kitchen, part sitting room, prepared, it seems, to receive its guest.

  He motions for me to sit down on one of the two pillows by the low table, while he turns to the stove to prepare my welcome tea. He is very agile for his age, and seems in perfect health. I notice his movements as he strains the tea and pours it into two small cups, which he places on a small copper tray. He says nothing while he does this, for there really is nothing to say. He does not feel the need to fill silences.

  He places the tray on the table, sits down and hands me one of the cups.

  “You said you were a girl,” he says. “I found that a little hard to believe. But here you are.”

  “It was the best attire,” I reply.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can speak across such distance,” he says. “That is impressive, but how do I know that you are the Buddha? Others know the voice, too.”

  “How did I recognize you, Bhante Mahathera?”

  “Yes, that is true.”

  “Have you heard anything about Ruth Marten? Anything in the papers or on television recently?”

  “I don’t have a television. I don’t read papers.”

  “Has anyone spoken of her?”

  “Not in my presence.”

  “I am here, Bhante Mahathera, for the world needs another wakening.”

  “I agree it does.”

  “It has grown complacent and blind.”

  “And placed most of its trust in dogma,” said Bhante.

  “Even in the Sangha?”

  “Even in the Sangha.”

  “Will they recognize me?”

  “I have yet to recognize you.”

  I am not sure he is being entirely truthful about that. I get the feeling he is testing me, something that under the circumstances I cannot take umbrage at, of course. It’s age asking youth to make its case—yet, I cannot shake the feeling that he does know me, that he does not truly have the doubt he presents me. But these are shadowy waters.

  So, instead I ask, “How can I prove myself?”

  “Is there such a thing as proof?” he asks.

  “Experience,” I answer.

  “Yes, there is that.”

  And so I fill him with my recent past, with Ananda, with my hopes and my plans and the need for both. His face does not change expression, but his smile widens.

  “Venerable Sir,” he says. Then adds, “You brought Ananda?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I should like to meet him,” he says. “He is a him, yes?”

  “Don’t worry. He’s exactly what you’d expect.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” he says and chuckles. Then he turns serious again. He drinks a little from his cup, and takes a long look at me. “They may not believe you.”

  “The Sangha?”

  “Yes, that is what I mean.”

  “Will they not perceive me?”

  “Few, if any, these days, know this chamber of hearing.”

  “What should I tell them? How can I convince them?”

  “Why do they need convincing?”

  Which is a good question.

  “I need to be believed,” I answer. “Not only by the Sangha and the Buddhist world, but through them by the Western world as well.”

  “I think you are too late for that.”

  “Can that be true?”

  “See for yourself.”

  :

  When Ruth returned from her audience with The Venerable Bhante Mahathera she found them all in varying degrees of asleep in the guest quarters.

  Clare was the first to stir at her entering, then Ananda. Lars seemed out cold, as did Melissa. It had been a long flight, and KCRI had not sprung for first class (expensive enough as it is, her producer had told Clare when she asked about the tickets).

  Ruth sat down, tired, concerned.

  “It went well?” Clare asked.

  Ruth looked at her for some little time before answering. “With Bhante, yes. But he does not hold out much hope for the Sangha itself.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what I am trying to understand. These are my people; this is my Sangha. But I fear that Bhante might be right.”

  “What did he say?” she wondered.

  “He said that they are mired in dogma.”

  She frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that they cling to the word rather than perceive and understand its message.”

  Over on a low couch, Ananda stirred, then sat up straight, the better to hear.

  “They have drifted from the Dhamma,” said Ruth.

  “What do you mean?” said Clare.

  “It means that they pay lip service to the Dhamma, but do not truly practice it. It means that they would rather debate the Dhamma than understand it. I could speak to Bhante the way I can speak to you, silently, in a co-knowing way. He said they would not be receptive to that. That is a tragedy.”

  “Are you sure?” The question came from Ananda.

  Both Clare and Ruth turned to face him.

  “I am not sure,” said Ruth. “Tough I have seen this before, though I know this sickness, I cannot be sure until I speak to them.”

  “So you will speak to them?” said Clare. “Even though.”

  “Yes.”

  Clare hesitated, then she asked, “Can I film that. Will they be okay with that?”

  “I will make sure they are,” said Ruth.

  “What will you say?” asked Ananda.

  “I really don’t know,” she replied.

  :: 103 :: (Mahavihara Monastery)

  The Venerable Bhante Mahathera called the Sangha’s leader to him as soon as Ruth left, requesting that he gather the entire Sangha an hour before sunset the following day.

  The leader bowed and assured him that this would be done.

  :

  The following morning, they were served a refreshing breakfast consisting of many fruits and chilled tea. Ananda, even though he had not slept all that much, or well for that matter, felt nicely refreshed by it, and by the looks of them, so did the rest of the little group.

  When the two monks returned to retrieve the breakfast dishes Ruth asked to see the Venerable Bhante’s attendant, who soon appeared, bowing very deeply, apparently still embarrassed by his airport rudeness.

  Ruth asked him, “Will the Sangha gather.”

  “Yes,” said the monk. “One hour before sunset.”

  “My friends will be there,” she said.

  “Naturally,” said the monk.

  “My friend with the camera will film my address.”

  “That cannot be done,” said the monk.

  “Then,” said Ruth, “there will be no address.”

  “I will let Venerable Bhante Mahathera know,” bowed the monk, then turned and left.

  “Was that wise?” said Ananda.

  “I believe so,” said Ruth.

  “I hope so,” said Clare.

  “What if they refuse?” said Ananda.

  “Then we leave,” said Ruth.

  Ananda saw the wisdom in that. Should Ruth’s address convince the Sangha, they needed a record of that, something to broadcast. Besides, Ruth had promised Clare full access, perhaps a little rashly—since she had no say in Sangha matters. It behooved her to do whatever she could to keep her promise.

  The monk was not long in returning, a little winded actually, as if he had been running, which he probably had.

  Ruth looked at him expectantly.

  “The Venerable Bhante Mahathera says it is fine, your friends can film the gathering.”

  “They
can film my address to them?” Ruth wanted to make sure.

  “Yes they can.”

  Ananda could see Clare exhale in long soft relief.

  “Good,” said Ruth. “That is good.”

  “The Venerable Bhante Mahathera wants to know if you want to see the Monastery. He asked me to be your guide.”

  “Yes,” said Ruth. Then looked around. “I think I speak for all of us. We would like to see it. And,” she added, “they can film?”

  “Yes,” said the monk.

  “We’d like to freshen up first,” said Ruth.

  “Of course,” said the monk. “I’ll come back in an hour.”

  “Thank you,” said Ruth. Echoed by the rest.

  The Venerable Bhante’s attendant returned on the dot one hour later. Ananda could not help but smile. A good attendant that. Precise, punctual, if perhaps not the most tactful (the airport faux pas still in mind). Yes, the Venerable Bhante Mahathera had a good attendant.

  “If you would follow me.”

  They did. Clare and Lars at a distance, stopping here and there to discuss and take shots. Clare looked happy, engaged with her task, as did Lars. The monastery was not only ancient, but beautiful, and they were given unrestricted access. Ruth, walking beside Bhante’s attendant, asked many questions, some out of politeness, some more pointed.

  Ananda, a step or so behind them, said nothing, but listened intently, trying to form a picture of the state of the Sangha, and of the root of Buddha Gotama’s concern.

  “Yes,” confirmed the monk. “They study the Dhamma, naturally.”

  “The Sutta Pitaka?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “The Vinaya Pitaka?”

  “Yes, of course. But more than this, the Abhidhamma Pitaka.”

  “And the Visuddhimagga?”

  “Oh, yes. Most of all the Visuddhimagga.”

  “But,” Ruth pointed out. “The Abhidhamma and Visuddhimagga are not the Buddha’s words. They are organization, speculation, and commentary. Granted,” she added, “quite brilliant in places, and often true—especially the Visuddhimagga. But why focus on the mostly true? What is wrong with the Sutta Pitaka?”

  “Oh, there is nothing wrong with the Sutta Pitaka, how can you say that?”