CHAPTER 21
Cass was also on a bus watching passing scenery when he felt a gentle touch on his arm.
“Where are you going?” the old monk asked.
Cass hesitated. Bangkok had seemed the most sensible place to aim for, but quite how he was going to sort out his predicament once he’d got there and then go home was still far from clear. “To Bangkok,” he replied.
“And where have you come from?”
“From Malaysia, sir.”
“You are Malaysian?”
“I am British, sir,” he said, but was he? Didn’t his passport say he was a Turkish student?
“I am Pa Ajahn Lee. What is your name?”
“My name?” Cass hesitated again. “Cass Siddiqui, sir. I am pleased to meet you.” He held out his hand as was his custom, but the monk merely touched it softly with his fingers. “Do you know London?” he asked.
“No, sir, my home is in Gloucester.”
“Ah,” the monk said, “you have a beautiful cathedral. Such wonderful singing.”
“You have been there?” Cass asked, amazed.
“I once met the bishop. I also met Archbishop Desmond Tutu from South Africa there. A wonderful man with the most infectious laugh. You now have a lady bishop, yes? It is good to see a lady bishop.”
Cass didn’t know that, but then, he’d been away awhile. Anyway, most people he knew never mentioned Gloucester’s famous cathedral, least of all visited it. Its spire was visible from almost everywhere, and yet, shamefully, he often didn’t see it either. Unconsciously, it had been off limits for someone from Park Road. The shame that he had never been taught to respect such a historic Christian monument hit him like a hammer. Perhaps the old monk sensed it. “You are Moslem?”
“Yes, sir. My family came from Pakistan, but I am British.”
The old monk’s look became so intense that Cass turned away.
“You are troubled, young man?”
Cass shook his head, but it wasn’t true, of course. He was a confused, angry, and emotional wreck. He blamed himself for his original naivety but felt deep anger towards those who had forced him into doing things he did not want to do. Above all, he now wanted to rid himself of all that, to put things right and start again.
“I heard you say mother.”
“My mother, sir?”
“You were sleeping, I think. You said, ‘Sorry, mother, but I am not a bad boy.’”
“Perhaps I did,” Cass admitted. “Maybe I was dreaming.”
“Perhaps,” the monk said kindly. “Try not to dwell in the past or the future, young man. Concentrate your mind on the present moment. You are not a bad person.”
Cass didn’t feel like a good person. If there had been any goodness once, then it felt as if it had drained away like gutter water. “How do you know that, sir?”
“I see it. I hear it. I feel it. You are polite. You are thoughtful. You are self-aware and self-critical. You are intelligent. I can see that you are kind and that you have been brought up to respect others. Be thoughtful and consider all things, but do not be ashamed.”
The monk took a plump ripe banana from his bag. “What is it you say in England? One good turn deserves another? Are you hungry?”
“Thank you, sir.” Cass took the banana, peeled it as slowly as his hunger would allow, took a bite, and felt the old monk touch his arm again.
“Are you running from something?”
Perhaps it was pent-up anger. Perhaps it was guilt, or perhaps it was the desperate need to talk to someone face to face, but Cass could not stop the sudden emotion that erupted from inside. His mouth was full of banana, and he was ready to swallow it, but he couldn’t. Instead, he choked, and a mouthful of banana squeezed between his lips and exploded onto his lap. With his eyes full of water, he tried to wipe it away, but it slid slimily onto the seat between his legs. He took a deep, shuddering breath and looked away, but the old monk’s hand was still on his arm.
“Never run away. Turn and face whatever it is. Do you have money?”
Cass struggled to speak. “A little, sir.”
They were silent for a while, but the monk didn’t move back to his position near the window. Occasionally, he would lean closer and touch Cass’s arm, as if to reassure him. Then, as they reached the outskirts of their destination, he touched his arm again and pointed through the window. “Do you know anything about the city of Nakhon Si Thammarat?”
Cass shook his head.
“You must spend time here,” the old monk said. “Do not just pass through with closed eyes. See it. Listen to it. Understand it. It is one of the most ancient cities in Thailand. It was once called the Kingdom of Ligor. It has many buildings, an old wall, and ruins of historical significance. The souls of our ancestors watch over it.” He paused briefly. “Look. Do you see that? That is Wat Phra Mahathat Woramahawihan. See how the golden dome glitters in the sun? There is a museum, and the pagoda is Sri Lankan. You must visit it.”
Cass turned his head to see.
“The pagoda belongs to the Lord Buddha,” the monk went on, nodding appreciatively. “We can all learn from it.”
“But I am Moslem, sir.”
He shook his head. “What does that matter? Buddhist history and culture? Islamic culture? Christianity? Judaism? Hindu culture? They overlap. Each has its own wonders. They are all here in this city—the Chinese, the British, the Portuguese, and the Dutch. Moslems, Christians, Protestants, and Catholics were all here. They are still here to spend time in Nakhon Si Thammarat to learn about human history.”
Cass looked at the old man’s face. It was serious but calm. His voice was soothing, and his manner was relaxed. His hands were laid together unmoving in the orange cloth covering his lap. His bare feet still rested one on the other, and Cass felt as if he wanted to choke again because—well, that was it. He’d almost forgotten why he wanted to travel. It was exactly that. It was to learn about human history, to be part of the complex human interactions over centuries that had brought us to where we are right now, and to unravel and understand things, to find solutions to intolerance and conflict because we are all in this together. These were the unanswered questions—the things that had bothered him since he’d sat in the mosque and listened to the Imam preaching about a fixed doctrine, as if it was not allowed, at aged twelve, to have the right to decide anything for himself. It was why he’d wanted a passport.
The bus stopped; the driver got out and opened the doors. The old monk, in his bundle of orange robes, clambered out, followed by Cass in his dirty jeans, stained tee shirt, and dusty backpack and beard. It was blisteringly hot. White-flowered frangipani trees scented the air, and a flock of pigeons flew up before settling to strut between a cluster of market stalls. The old monk headed to the shade of a shop selling temple gifts, brightly coloured plastic garlands, cheap buddha images, and pre-packed plastic buckets of day-to-day needs as offerings to the temple.
For a while, Cass stood in the sun and looked around. It was noisy and busy with cars, taxis, motorcycles, and people. Where should he go? What should he do now? He glanced towards the old monk and saw him beckon to him. Cass walked over. “Cass, my son, where are you going now?”
“Maybe I’ll . . .” he began but got no further.
“And where will you stay tonight?”
“Perhaps I’ll . . .”
“Join me. I am waiting for a lift.”
“But where?”
“I am visiting a temple nearby. Stay there for a while. Watch, listen, and learn. To understand is to live.”
“But I am Moslem, sir.”
“That isn’t a problem.”
“Thank you, sir, but I cannot accept such hospitality. I feel unclean.”
The monk smiled, perhaps touched. “You have been travelling, yes? Backpacking. On arrival, a shower would be very welcome, yes?”
And so, ten minutes later, Cass climbed into the back seat of an old and rusting Nissan truck beside a Buddhist monk—a man old enough to be his grandfather. Throughout the short journey, he could only think about Istanbul and the last time he’d accepted a lift on arrival in a strange place.
They had passed many Buddhist temples on the bus journey north. They had also passed many mosques, but the temple they arrived at that late afternoon lay at the foot of a steep forested hillside. They entered through a tall ornate arch painted in red, white, and gold. Inside, on the left, was a red-and-white building with steps and a high chimney. Smaller buildings and simple wooden huts lay beneath the trees, and at the centre stood the main temple with its steep, curved red-tiled roof. Wide steps bordered by red, white, and gold dragons led up to the door. Everything was bathed in a rosy glow from the evening sun, and the scent of frangipani filled the still warm air. The truck stopped outside a bungalow, and a group of young monks appeared from nowhere, bowing to the old monk, helping him down from the truck, and staring at Cass. Ajahn Lee spoke to them in Thai, and they laughed and smiled, bowing their heads and holding their hands together in welcome.
Later, Cass took his long-awaited shower and tried to remove his beard with an old blunt razor. Then one of the young monks led him to one of the wooden huts on stilts, and before darkness crowded in, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep to the sounds of the forest.