CHAPTER 48
From the road, the pure white and gold Buddha had seemed close enough to walk to, but Cass hadn’t reckoned on the track leading through dense trees becoming so narrow, steep, and overgrown. At one point, when he seemed to be heading away from it, he stopped and almost cried. Should he go back?
“Whatever you do, wherever you go, remember the snail, Cass.”
So he walked on until, quite suddenly, the track turned sharply, the trees cleared, and there, looming above him, stood the huge white Buddha. Its hand was raised, as if to stop him from approaching, and its gigantic head, with its gold crown, was lit by low early evening sun and what seemed like a thousand stone steps leading up to it from lower down the hillside. But was it a temple with monks or just one enormous statue and nothing else? He kept going. The track was now leading downwards, until a high concrete wall came into sight. Behind the wall were buildings and a red-tiled roof of a temple, but there was no gate. There was no way of getting inside without climbing the wall. He followed the outside of the wall downwards to a garden with a trimmed lawn, low palm trees, pots of shrubs, and a low hedge of red flowers surrounding a gravel car park with cars and a few trucks and a decent-looking paved road that may well have led onto the main road from where he’d just walked. And then there was the main gate into the temple.
Two monks, sweeping the lower steps, saw him coming and dropped their brooms as he staggered towards them, almost tripping on the remains of the blue nylon cord wrapped around his trainers. They took his arms and helped him into the shade, and he almost collapsed onto the cool tiles.
They tried talking to him in Thai, he thanked them in English, and the younger one ran to fetch a bottle of water. He drank the entire bottle and, as they watched, unwound the nylon cord around his sore feet. He showed them the soles of his trainers and his shredded socks and tried to smile as they shook their heads and muttered to one another. Then he opened Ajahn Lee’s orange bag, took out the envelope, and handed it to them. They read it, nodded, and then left carrying the letter.
Sitting in the shade, Cass looked around. It was quite obvious that, because of the giant hillside Buddha, it was a popular place for visitors to stop, climb the steps, take in the view from the top, and, as always, take photos and selfies. Cass’s own phone was, of course, dead.
A lady waiting to sell meat balls and cold drinks from a sidecar moved closer and watched him as a group of people emerged from the steps, looked at him, and probably talked about him, as they headed back towards the car park. Did they recognise him from pictures on Facebook, the TV, or newspaper? Even if they did, he had no strength to do anything. He got up, and in his bare, sore feet, he walked over to the lady and bought himself another bottle of water and a plastic bag of barbequed meat balls with chilli sauce.
He was still licking his fingers when the two monks and a third older one holding Ajahn Lee’s letter in his hand appeared. Cass stood and did what he learned to do with Ajahn Lee. He put his hands together, bowed slightly, and the older man looked at him up and down then at the broken trainers lying at his feet. He nodded and then spoke in Thai, just a short sentence, “Kun poot pah-sah Thai dai mai?” Cass interpreted it correctly. Did he speak Thai?
Cass shook his head. “No, sir.”
“What is your name?” The older monk asked in heavily accented English.
“My name is Qasim Siddiqui, sir.”
The monk produced a pair of glasses from inside his dress, put them on, and looked again at the letter. “English?”
“Yes, sir, but my passport is from Turkey.” Cass bent to his bag again and produced his Turkish passport, but the old man held up his hand, as if not wanting to see it.
“Come.”
Cass picked up his bag and shoes and followed him towards the temple. They went up some steps, through a high wooden door, over a worn stone threshold, and onto a carpeted floor. The old monk then stopped, and Cass looked around.
The walls were covered from the floor to the red vaulted ceiling in wall paintings of old Buddhist stories, ancient depictions of village life, and forest animals, like deer, birds, and elephants. And, at the far end, centre stage, sat a Buddha in translucent green, wrapped in saffron cloth, and surrounded by burning candles, fresh flowers, and incense sticks.
The old monk turned towards him, took the old shoes and bag from Cass’s hand, handed them to one of the young monks, and beckoned him towards the green Buddha. Cass hesitated but walked forward slowly, uncertainly, hesitantly, and then turned to face the old monk who beckoned him, yet again, to go forward on his own.
And then he remembered the old lady and how she had also led him into the temple and shown him what to do.
She had knelt before the Buddha, lit small yellow candles and incense sticks from the bigger candles, held them, and sat for a while with her eyes closed and hands together in prayer. At the time, he had wondered what she prayed for, but Cass no longer had any doubt about his own prayers. He knelt down and repeated that simple ceremony, and when he’d finished, he placed the candles and incense sticks and bowed three times to the Buddha. Then he stood and wiped his eyes before turning.
He’d been brought up a Moslem, knelt with Moslems in the mosque, and pretended to be a Moslem for two years, but Cass had never really prayed before. Something had just happened to him.