Shards of memory

Morning breeze was soothing, disciple thought. He wondered what's next on master's agenda, settling down with two cups of steaming coffee.

"I take it, you are bone-tired."

Master smiled: "I'm sore all over. But not so in mind, though."

"Searching and researching is something in your blood, isn't it?"

Master stared at the disciple's face. It's not just a commonplace statement. It must have took at least a few seconds for those words to sink in.

"Maybe something to do with my genes, you know, my father."

"Your father was a university teacher, you told me once."

"Yes, and he taught mass communication, if that's your next question."

"That's so cool master. You know me!"

"His expertise was creative communication. But deep beneath I saw a jongleur in him."

"A what?"

Master smirked, he sensed this too will come his way.

"A jongleur. Someone like a wandering poet. I see him as a wandering poet in a way. He had a well of stories. I have been tuned to them ever since my kindergarten days."

"Still remember those stories?"

For a few seconds master was thoughtful, stroking the edge of his cup.

"There was an 'Uncle Monkey'. He ate fruits with a kid. I was so lazy to get up for kindergarten. But everyday he would come up with something happening between uncle monkey and kid. I was up once I hear his voice in the morning just to hear what mischief uncle monkey is up to that day."

Master pulled up suddenly and seemed to sink in his own thoughts. He went ahead in a watered down spirit.

"Wish I could recall those stories. But I'm too old, you see."

Disciple was observing his face. He saw creases around master's nose - did they pop out just now or just that he didn't notice it earlier, he wondered silently. Master contemplated what he was to say.

"There were times we didn't actually shake hands. But I remember mother always say how he loved telling stories to me. Even more than my brothers. May be because I was the youngest and he was more matured when I was born. He had more insights to syringe thoughts into stories."

"What are the instances you didn't agree with your father?"

"Don't you think that's something either of us should rather not dig up? Father and I share a bond, we both hardly knew. Even now I can't simply grasp what kind of a bond it is. It outweighs many things, including our differences, that I know for sure." Disciple reached over for a second cup of coffee. Master's was not still over. Even so disciple did not need to disrupt the stream of thoughts.

"Very rarely did we talk about our personal things. Because he always liked to share stories even over our meals together. I have never seen anyone who knew more stories. He did research and all those serious stuff. But he was still a storyteller for me."

"What kind of stories were they normally?"

"Any story on the earth. He collected a lot of stories when he travelled around the world. When others busied themselves hunting for fridges, vacuum cleaners, this and that, he was hell-bent to meet some old man and trade stories. That's why his stories are so worthy. You cannot find some of them in story or folklore books."

"Didn't it sort of disturb his main study area?"

"The thing is he could somehow link it with his subject. He thought stories are the best thing of creative communication and that shapes the man."

"I see."

"Whether stories are made up or genuine, he was least worried. Whatever it is, if it strikes our heart then that story definitely shapes our lifestyle. That's the technique religious leaders followed when they tried to convince something. Parables, fables and sort of things have a big impact on us, he thought. Whenever he researched something he could find a striking story and share it with his students."

"Like father like son, huh?"

"If it's a stroll, I must say father is far ahead, and I am still lagging behind. He is the one who taught me to be up by early in the morning to see sun rise. No matter how late he goes to bed, he made sure he gets up early. And then he would write on and on for hours. Whenever I get up early in the morning, it brings back the memory of my father."

"It betokens his legacy."

"Of course, it does."

Master sipped the cup slowly. He breathed slowly as if he wants to relive the moments of past - shards of memory. Disciple tried to picture the old man who must be master's father. Neither did realize they were tight-lipped letting some minutes pass by.

"Would you mind if I ask you for something."

"Go ahead son."

"Can you share those stories of Uncle Monkey with me?"

"As I told you once, I wish I could remember those stories."

"You said your father made up those stories, right?"

"Yes."

"So then it's no big deal."

"Why?"

"I mean you can come up with your own version."

"Such as?"

"That's up to you, master."

Master was thoughtful for a moment. Disciple's words echoed off and were set adrift in his mind.

"Ok... here we go. Once there was an uncle monkey..."

It started off with occasional pauses. At length, however, words poured out with an ease simply unimaginable.

Disciple basked in that brief blissful instance when master's face beamed with joy.

I want to rewrite source stories

"Did you locate it?"

"No I am still looking for that."

"Keep looking for that. I am sure you will locate it."

"Here you go... We got it."

The disciple unearthed a stack of papers from the dust mountain. They slowly deciphered Ven. Dharmasena's handwriting.

Excerpt 1:

I read Amavathura and Dhammapadatta katha once again. I think I enjoyed Dhammapadattakatha most. I think my life is full of stories like those in Dhammapadattakatha. They actually brim with life.

The peasant I met today was sharing his food dearth. I know a famine is around the corner. I asked him to come to our temple's storehouse. These people give us food out of devotion, and they have no idea when they will run out of supplies. Isn't our tradition so precious?

What do our elderly monks do, other than writing down in bombastic language extracted from other books? They will be tossed into bookshelves forever and ever. I am aching to write a book to my people. My people who come to see me every evening to listen to a story or sermon.

Excerpt 2:

I had a pep talk with one of our novice monks. We had sort of an argument whether it is all right for a monk to engage in literary things, when he is supposed to concentrate on religions affairs. Halfway I agree with him. But I am so fond of these people. They do everything for the sake of us. I always feel we should give them something in return.

I have seen people doze off when I drone on sometimes. They like stories more than sermons. Can't stories be a good sermon that moulds the heart of a devotee, I started wondering. I shared my ideal with the novice monk. He seemed so bright at the idea.

I told him I want to rewrite some stories of Dhammapadattakatha. He was gladly saying he would copy them down. When would I start it, I wonder. Well probably today itself. We both worked on a title for the book.

The title will come out, perhaps when we already work on the book. That's what, I told my student, I enjoy as a monk. Sometimes I wonder if I have given up the idea of Nibbana for this service.

Excerpt 3:

It simply surprises me to think how inspiring this society is. The very same society with hypocrisy provides ample metaphors and similes. I realized this is the best way to reach my folks. They would probably remember me forever, and that means they would read the morals forever.

Title of the book dawned upon me, almost by accident. Sadhdharmaratnavaliya, chain of Dhamma gems.

Excerpt 4:

Sometimes incidents make me warm. They make me smile too. Whenever someone brings me something happens in the village, it creates vivid images in my mind. Listening to someone recount, I have already fleshed out a story in my book.

"What do you think?"

"I think there's more to decipher. I mean it takes time."

"Do you know what Martin Wickramasinghe said about the monk?"

"That he is chubby or something like that?"

"Yes, because he laughed every time."

"How did Wickramasinghe know that? I mean how did he imagine that?"

"By reading Saddharmarathnavliya. Most of the stories are full of sarcasm."

"But he never laughed at innocent people."

"He could smile without insulting anyone. He was in a way sympathizing with common human errors."

"Where else can we study about Dharmasena Hamuduruwo?"

"Best work is Sadhdharmaratnavliya itself. Anyway Professor M. B. Ariyapala has written a book trying to fathom how the monk life could have been in Dambadeniya era."

"He was a monk with a light way of thinking, I think. That's why he could reach common man. Why did Amavathura and Butsarana authors failed?"

"Because they were sort of snobbish. They did not want to fall into ground. I think they liked to float in air."

"And their books are still celebrated. And our modern people find it a little difficult to read Saddharmaratnavaliya too."

"That's something to do with time. But you try to read all three and compare. Bet anyone can understand Dharmasena Hamuduruwo's work better, though it may be hard." "Agreed. And also I think if we suit that style to the modern audience, then it will appeal them too."

"But you have to be very careful. We have to retain his use of similes and metaphors. See he was also concerned about that."

"Now what are we going to do with this stack?"

"We'll take it out. There's no one claim rights for this. We'll get them deciphered and get them published. We can send some excerpts for a paper, probably..."

I'm here

They shut me up in prose

As when a little girl

They put me in the closet

Because they liked me ‘still’

Still!

Could themself

have peeped

And seen

my Brain

go round

They might as

wise have lodged a bird

For treason – in the Pound

“Is that all?” Master asked

“So far, yes.” Disciple said, exhuming the inscriptions.

“What do you think about them?”

“Well, I didn’t get a thing.”

“You cannot do that instantly. We have to read Emily Dickinson line by line.”

“What time did she say she is coming?”

“She should be here now. I wonder why she is so late.”

Then they heard a whisper, “I am here.”

“Isn’t that her?” asked disciple.

“Yes. But where should she be?”

“Somewhere close by.”

“Where are you?” Disciple asked aloud.

Then they heard it again: “I am here.”

“Shall we walk down a little to find her out?”

“That’s a good idea. We have to put up with this, because Emily was more of a private poet. She was so careful in writing too.”

“How do you define that?”

“Her poetry had very short lines. Her famous poem ‘Nobody’ is only a few lines.”

“I remember.”

“What do you remember about that?”

“When we studied English Literature for O/Ls some of my friends didn’t like that poem, because it was too short. There was barely anything for them to byheart.”

This made master laugh; it sounded overly sarcastic.

“I know it sounds so funny.”

“It’s not only funny, son. It’s so tragically funny. We can see how teachers guide our students. What was your teacher saying?”

“She was saying it depicts a social issue. How nobodies feel about somebodies in the society and stuff, you know.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all I remember.”

“Most of her poetry didn’t have titles. She wrote about strangely small things. Something others hardly gave thought.”

Disciple listened to master with a keen ear. He wanted to know more. He wanted to be like Emily Dickinson for a moment.

“Who influenced her?”

“When she was 18, she had a friend called Benjamin Fanklin Newton.”

“Who later became her lover or husband?”

“Not exactly. I don’t think so. But he was a very good friend of her.”

“Many poetesses have male friends like that, don’t they?”

“Yeah, that’s the thing. Let’s have a talk on it later on. Franklin introduced William Wordsworth to her. She later wrote a poem on him too.

Whose name

my father’s law student

taught me, has touched the secret spring”

Disciple seemed mesmerized by the lines. He was silently listening.

“And quite later on Emily became so fond of popular literature. She even read Shakespeare.”

“But compared with her poetry, I think Shakespeare is a little gothic.”

Master looked at the disciple for a few seconds.

“You haven’t read Shakespeare properly. You are like all those nincompoops who label Shakespeare as unreadable. You have to read him carefully. Shakespeare is not the one everyone sees him to be.”

Disciple realized he had annoyed master. He nodded and spoke in drawl.

“I know. I have to study Shakespeare in more detail. So how did Emily get influence from him?”

“I have no mood to spell that out to you. Go read Shakespeare. And then read Emily. Now let’s go.”

“What about Emily? We are supposed to see her?”

“She is also hiding away from us. May be she doesn’t want to meet us at all.”

Walking further down, master and disciple heard that faint mumbling voice once again.

“I am here...”