SEVENTY-ONE DAYS IN A BUDDHIST TEMPLE When I woke up to the sound of a gong in the early morning, I was filled with a shiver. I lay on my back and listened for a while. The temple dogs were barking like crazy. It must have been four o’clock, the hour the monk had warned me to wake up after I had arrived here late last night. This was a temple built in the forest, forty or fifty kilometers outside the settlement, where three monks lived, and sometimes monks from the surrounding provinces retreated. I was not used to waking up at four in the morning, so I lazed around in bed. Soon I heard the monk’s footsteps outside my window, and as soon as I heard them, I jumped out of bed and went outside, feeling guilty. We walked along a dark path with the help of a dim flashlight. When we reached the building where morning prayers were held, the monk asked me to sit in the back and do whatever they did. In front of a huge Buddha statue under a high ceiling, the head priest sat on a floor cushion in front and two other monks behind, kneeling on the floor. In front of them was a small lectern with prayer books on it. The interior was lit by candles. In the candlelight, the transparent, emerald green statue gained depth, and with its conical gilded headdress and necklace, it gave the impression of a person who was adorned and decorated. The head monk recited hymns and prayers from his seat with an authentic tone of voice and mystical throat movements. The other monks accompanied him from time to time. They prostrated themselves several times and sat down again. They meditated silently with their eyes closed for a while. Then they finished the prayer with prayers. It was still dark when we got into the car driven by the temple driver and headed towards the city. Ajahn Sutep was sitting in front. He was a seventy-year-old, well-educated, respected monk known in religious circles throughout the country. At the temple, I was asked to address only him as ajahn (a Thai word meaning teacher or master; in Buddhist teachings, it is used for monks who have completed ten days of retreat). The other monks sat in the back next to me. I addressed them as monks (priest, monk). One was in his sixties, the other in his thirties. The driver dropped me and two other monks off at a marketplace at the entrance to the city and continued on his way to take the young monk to another marketplace. We walked together for a while along the side of the highway under the yellow light of the street lamps to reach the marketplace. One of the monks warned me to walk behind. I respectfully bowed, stepped back, and continued walking behind them. They were talking among themselves. Their voices were very distant. With their shaved heads and the saddlebags sewn from the fabric of their orange robes that draped down to their heels and slung over their shoulders, they seemed to belong out of this world. My childhood came to mind. Again at this time of day, on the way to the mosque, I would run behind my father in his white jalabi that spilled down to his heels. Now, years later, as I walked with short steps behind these monks who had turned their backs on the world, my memory, which had lost its cultural roots, was no different than a garbage dump. Apart from the occasional gamble with death, nothing excited me anymore. We arrived at the market area. At the entrance to the market area, the monks waited in front, with an aluminum bowl the size of a saucepan hanging from their necks, and I waited a step behind, with the empty saddlebags they had given me to carry, which I carried on both shoulders. As the darkness of the night slowly gave way to the twilight of the morning, the market became lively. In addition to the fresh vegetables, fruits and seafood on the stalls, the food prepared on the stoves, from fried foods to stews and even various desserts, were placed in transparent nylon bags, tied with elastic bands and made ready for sale. Although quite some time had passed, no one approached the monks and left food in their bowls, and people who had been visiting the market in a rush were passing us by with bags in their hands and walking away. When I saw this scene, I felt sorry for the monks who had no income other than the help of the people; but soon people started approaching the monks. First they would take off their shoes, do the wai (putting the palms together on the chest and slightly bowing the head), then they would leave the food in the bowl and step back, kneeling in the wai position and waiting motionless until the monks blessed them. As the bowls filled, the monks would empty them into the saddlebags on my shoulders. CONTINUE IN THE COMMENTS.