CHAPTER 27
“You are a real monk,” said Brother Paul to Brother Francis. Paul lived at Shanthivanam but the two monks had not had the opportunity to speak until now.
“Why do you say that?” Francis asked in response.
“Because of the way you live your vocation. Monastic life is your entire call, like in the early Church and in the primitive monastic practice. Not like me,” he laughed, “who is also a priest.”
“That’s a wonderful vocation also,” the Salesian monk added, it’s just that too many were sort of forced into a “buy one get one free” vocation that in some cases distorted both vocations. Obviously it has not done that to yours.
“You are very kind Brother Francis.”
Brother Francis spent much of that day praying in the hut of the late founder, Bede Griffiths. His hut had been set aside as a sort of shrine or prayer room since the founder’s death in the 1980s.
Look at this book case. I have some of these very books at home. Here is one about Mount Saviour Monastery near Elmira, New York. I go there from time to time. Same spirit as here—simple monastic life—just not so much of the East-West dialogue going on there.
One monk praying in the cell of another monk. One still on earth, the other released totally into the world of the Spirit. Francis’ meditation was timeless and without geography. The scientists might call it a “non-local” experience. Hours passed and soon it would be dawn and time to leave Shanthivanam.
Francis tiptoed into the hut he shared with Andre. This time Andre woke him instead of the other way around. “Get a move on my brother. We have a car ride, a train ride, and a flight to Hyderabad to visit the clinics you have us lined up to see. I’m psyched!”
Andre took his shower and yelled the entire time that the cold water washed over him. Pony tail in place, he was ready to go.
A taxi driver took the travelers to the train station. He careened through the streets and once, on passing a roadside Hindu shrine, took his hands completely off the wheel and joined them palm to palm above his head in an act of reverence.
“That act of devotion was close to what we used to call ‘Last Rites,’’ whispered Andre to his monastic friend.
“I know. Now it’s called the ‘Sacrament of the Sick.’ Either way, I’m glad we made it through the traffic in one piece again.”
Once on the train, and again on the plane, the travelers slept.
The next few days were spent in the clinics of Ayruvedic, Chinese, and Western practitioners. The travelers observed or participated in various forms of healing: something resembling physical therapy, stimulation of acupuncture points by an electric device, hot oil treatments, herbal concoctions, meditation, prayer, and talk therapy. Some clinics catered to the very poor, some to the more affluent, but all were very caring and attracted patients and their families from miles around.
They flew out of Hyderabad, India, in the middle of the night. The airport was dominated by hundreds of burqa-clad women on their way East. The long black garments, covering everything but the eyes, gave way to flashes of color at the ankles where brightly colored pants could be seen peeking out.
It would take five airplanes to get home so the two friends who knew each other even better now, mentally and physically, settled in for another day of travel.