Very little remains of the old Chang’an beyond the South Gate. The imposing avenues have shrunk, through the centuries, to narrow streets lined with restaurants, shops and government offices. One of them brought me to the Monastery of Great Benevolence, where the Big Wild Goose Pagoda stands. This is Xuanzang’s monastery, where he spent many years of his life. This was where I wanted to be in Xian, to learn as much as possible about him.
It was much smaller than I expected, containing little more than the pagoda, a single shrine hall, and the monks’ quarters, surrounded by village houses and fields. Clouds of smoke wafted up from the altar in front of the main temple. Long queues of people were waiting to light candles and burn incense. The hypnotic sound of monks chanting sutras reached me from the loudspeakers in the temple shop. Busloads of tourists, foreign and Chinese, poured through the gate and rushed to get their pictures taken: this is Xian’s second most popular tourist attraction, after the famous Terracotta Army. The pagoda is what they come to see, and there is a good view of the city from the top. Xuanzang designed it himself in a graceful and slightly austere style, reminiscent of India.
Sixty-four metres up, from the topmost of its imposing seven storeys, I could see the whole of Xian – low houses lining the street leading to the pagoda, streams of people and cars moving at a snail’s pace, high-rise buildings dwarfing the magnificent city wall, and vast stretches of fertile land to the south that have nourished the city for more than two thousand years. No wonder that after the pagoda was built in the seventh century, young men used to climb up here to celebrate when they had passed the imperial exam and joined the ruling class. They must have felt the world was at their feet and their ambition could soar into the sky. Even today, the Big Wild Goose Pagoda is one of the tallest structures in Xian, dominating the scene – in fact it is the city’s symbol.
I used to go to monasteries as a tourist myself, enjoying the quietness, the chanting and the old trees in the courtyards. I would look around, take a picture or two, and then go away, vaguely comforted. Now, having learned something of Grandmother’s faith and Xuanzang’s, I began to understand what it was to feel reverence for this place. There are three treasures of Buddhism: the Buddha; the Dharma, the Buddha’s teachings; and the Sangha, the community of monks who make up the monastery. The monastery is the outward symbol of Buddhism. It tells the world a different way of life does exist – we crave love, fortune and fame; the monks and nuns live happily without them. As Grandmother used to say, it was the centre of our life. I had to try and find out what that means.
From a row of traditional courtyards on the left, one or two monks appeared now and then and disappeared quickly back inside. That was where they ate, slept, prayed and meditated, and where they could not be disturbed. I decided to be bold, and the next time I saw one, I went up to him and greeted him. I asked him where the abbot’s office was. He pointed to one of the courtyards on the left. But the abbot was away, he told me and he asked if he could help me. I told him I wanted to find out more about the monastery and Xuanzang. ‘You definitely should go and talk to an old man in the village outside. His name is Mr Duan,’ he said. How would I find him? ‘No problem, if you ask for the ex-monk.’
It was indeed very easy to find Duan’s house, barely a hundred yards from the monastery, down a small lane. Casual workers were squatting on the ground. They had just finished their lunch and were washing out their bowls in a bucket of grey water and emptying the bowls on to the hard-baked road. Dogs and chickens came up looking interested. Mothers were screaming at their children and shouting threats of punishment. It was just the kind of hectic scene which Duan must have become a monk to get away from. I asked an old lady who was busy chatting with her neighbour and she said Mr Duan was meditating. She was his wife. Did I mind waiting? Or could I come back in an hour?
I asked her if she knew the monastery well. ‘My family has been living here for almost a hundred years,’ she said, ‘and I am married to one of its monks.’ We went off and sat on a bench. She pointed to the dusty square in front of the monastery and the fields in the distance. ‘All this area used to be the monastery’s land. We leased it from them and gave them grain as rent after the harvest. The monks were really kind – they let us use their mills for free and take water from their well. There weren’t many of them, only six or seven.’
The land became the villagers’ in the Land Reform of 1950. Monasteries used to be among the biggest landowners in China and so were the first targets. Monks were told to give up their ‘parasitic’ life and work just like everyone else, growing what they ate and weaving what they wore. Mrs Duan found the turn of events puzzling. ‘Their job was to pray, meditate and perform ceremonies for the dead and the living. How could they know about growing soya beans?’ She shook her head. ‘We wanted to help them, but the village Party Secretary told us we were masters of the new China and shouldn’t allow ourselves to be exploited by them any more.’
I asked Mrs Duan what happened to the monks. She said that her husband would know more about it. He should have finished his midday meditation. ‘Eight hours a day he does it. Three in the morning, two around now and three in the evening. He might just as well be in another world. But it’s what keeps him going,’ she sighed.
Just then I saw a man walking slowly towards us from across the street. I told Mrs Duan her husband was coming. She looked over her shoulder. ‘Yes, that’s my old man.’ She turned back to me. ‘How did you know it was him? Have you seen him before or seen his picture?’ I didn’t know what to say, but I just knew it was him. He was thin, even stick-like. Behind a pair of dirty glasses were sunken eyes in a wizened face, and his straggling hair came down to his neck. He had on a threadbare blue Mao suit, faded from what must have been hundreds of washings, and an ancient pair of soldier’s shoes, which he wore without socks. He looked as if he were sleepwalking – perhaps he was still meditating. ‘Come on, hurry up!’ his wife shouted. ‘This lady wants to talk to you about Xuanzang and the monastery.’
He ambled up to us murmuring, ‘I am a sinner. I am a sinner. What is there to talk about?’ As we walked back to their house, I asked him if he would tell me about his meditation.
‘He’s been doing it for thirty years,’ Mrs Duan said petulantly, pulling at Duan’s sleeve until he sat down next to her. ‘Nothing distracts him. Even if a bolt of lightning dropped on his head he still wouldn’t move.’
‘She’s exaggerating,’ Mr Duan said, looking at his wife fondly. ‘I am just a worldly man distracted by mundane thoughts. So you want to know about Xuanzang?’ He paused, then continued, his voice becoming more animated at the sound of the monk’s name. ‘Now there was a great man. He was above it all. When I worked in the monastery I used to walk around the pagoda whenever I had problems. But really, they were so trivial. Master Xuanzang was very brave to go on that journey, risking his life. He never gave up, he came back with the sutras. All I have to do is to sit and meditate in a comfortable room – I don’t call that difficult.’
I told him I was surprised that he loved the monastery so much, yet he had given it up and returned to secular life.
‘It is a long story. You are too young to understand,’ Duan said, his voice suddenly sombre.
After the Land Reform in 1950, the monasteries were left with very little land, barely enough for the monks to live on. Donations