“Yes, father.”
“Nevertheless, your instructor also mentioned that you have been a little, how did he put it …distracted, recently …” His father paused, giving him a chance to comment, but Sardili simply waited for him to continue.
“I have to say that I have noticed the same thing,” his father said eventually. “Would you agree?”
“Perhaps,” he shrugged.
“Is something wrong, Sardili? If there is, you can tell me. We’re both grown men now, after all. A woman, perhaps …?”
“No,” he said, reddening.
“A man, then?” his father laughed, squeezing his shoulder playfully.
“No!”
“Well what is it then? Speak up now boy,” the general ordered gently.
“You’ll think it strange,” Sardili said.
“I have seen and heard many strange things in my lifetime,” the general smiled.
Sardili shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I saw a prophet, a few weeks ago, in the park.”
“Which prophet? There is no prophet that I know of in Kanchipuram.”
“His name is Prajnatara,” Sardili said.
“Prajnatara?” his father snorted, “Prajnatara is just a crazy old Buddhist monk from Magadha. What has he been saying?”
“Very little,” Sardili sighed, “but what he did say made me think.”
His father waited for him to continue, but Sardili raised his hands, as if to say he could not explain further.
“Made you think about what?” his father persisted.
“Life, I suppose,” Sardili said at last, “what we’re all doing here …”
“Oh son,” his father laughed, “these are big questions for one so young and best left for priests to worry about, not warriors. One day you’ll lead men into battle. It doesn’t pay to dwell on such matters, trust me on this.”
Sardili did not reply. He did not want to contradict his father, but the general saw the determination in his son’s eyes and his expression hardened.
“Remember what I’ve always told you. You are a Sardili. You were born to the Warrior Caste. You have trained your whole life to follow in the family tradition. Soon you’ll graduate from the Academy with the highest honors and King Simhavarman himself will welcome you to his Royal Guards.” His expression softened, “You’ll make us all very proud, Sardili. Just keep your mind on your training a little longer and years from now, when you’re old and retired like me, you can concern yourself with such questions.”
“Yes, father.”
“Good,” his father beamed, “I’m glad we had this talk and cleared things up. Let’s put it behind us and never speak of it again.”
But they did speak of it again, and when they did, an argument raged in the Sardili residence unlike any before and hung over the household for weeks like the brooding clouds of the summer monsoon.
Sardili had tried to obey his father, but the mystery of the Lotus Sermon had been too powerful. He had gone in search of Prajnatara to demand an explanation, but Prajnatara had vanished. No one knew where to find him. Sardili had tried visiting local temples and wise men seeking the meaning of the flower sermon, but none had been able to provide the answer. Eventually his father had heard of his absences and summoned him once more to demand an explanation.
It was then that Sardili told his father of his intention to become a monk, and the general’s fury had known no bounds. His mother had pleaded with him tearfully, night after night. His uncles and cousins had visited and spoken with him for hours on end. His instructors had come and tried to reason with him, one after the other. He had listened to each visitor in turn, politely, patiently, seriously, but steadfastly refused to change his mind. And finally, when all arguments had been exhausted, a terrible silence descended over the household.
Sardili waited for many days, hoping his father might relent and give him his blessing before he left, but the general refused all contact with his son. He was a warrior who carried the scars of many battles, but his son’s betrayal had cut him deeper than any enemy blade ever could.
And so on a bright day in spring, Sardili decided he could wait no longer. He kissed his mother goodbye, hugged his brothers and sisters, and took leave of his faithful servants before walking out of the lofty hallway into the fierce heat of the day.
On the veranda he paused to admire the beautiful gardens one last time, then walked to the gate and turned for a final farewell. His family had gathered in the entrance to see him off and behind them, he noticed a shadow. It was his father. He waited by the gate in silence until his father emerged and walked swiftly toward him. For a moment he thought his father might strike him but the general stopped, two inches from his face, and spoke in a low growl, “You are a stubborn, headstrong boy, Sardili. You always were. Ever since you were a child, you wanted everything your own way. You were never satisfied, always striving, until you got what you wanted. And I admit that I was glad of it, because I knew it would make you into a great soldier. Now you’ve chosen a different path, one I know you’ll follow with the same stubbornness. I only hope you don’t waste your life chasing an impossible dream.”
“I won’t,” Sardili said with a certainty he did not feel.
He looked into his father’s eyes and saw the love still visible beneath the hurt and anger. He could think of no other words to say and a great sadness welled up inside him. “Goodbye father,” he whispered, turning quickly to hide his tears, and walked away from his home forever.
Sardili learned that Prajnatara had gone to Sri Lanka; but when he arrived in Sri Lanka, he was told Prajnatara was in the western port of Kochi; and in Kochi he heard rumors that Prajnatara had retreated to the mountains of the interior. Three years passed and still he wandered in search of Prajnatara. He visited many temples on the way and met with many holy men. He studied the Buddhist scriptures and committed the words of the sacred Sutras to memory. He learned to still his mind in meditation. He begged for food and came to understand the virtue of humility. He starved his body of nourishment and his mind of desire. He grew weak, so weak that he saw visions of startling clarity. Yet he knew they were not the truth but merely illusions brought on by his weakened state.
Five more years passed and Sardili had become a wise and learned monk. Yet, in his heart, he felt no closer to the truth than the day he had left home, and he began to wonder if his father had been right after all.
Still, he wandered in the southern kingdoms of India seeking Prajnatara. Another year passed and he found himself in the jungles of Pallava, less than three days’ journey from his home city of Kanchipuram. On the banks of a slow moving river, he met an old ferryman who, on seeing his monk’s robe, offered him free passage across the water. As they crossed, the ferryman spoke of a beautiful temple located a short distance upriver and urged him to visit it. He smiled and told the old ferryman that he was seeking a particular temple, and a particular master.
“This is Prajnatara’s temple,” the ferryman told him.
Sardili had heard countless false stories of Prajnatara’s where-abouts, but something about the old man’s gentle confidence made him follow the ferryman’s directions. At a fork in the river, he saw the pale stonework of a temple, half-hidden by the jungle, just as the old man had described. It was smaller than he had imagined, the point of its stupa barely reached