In the Shadow of the Banyan (11 page)

Papa caught me staring at the stains, came over with a wet rag, and scrubbed hard until they merged into one big pinkish blob on the wall. Then, turning his attention to the blackboard, he erased all the marks and scribbles. His gaze traveled up to the words at the top,
Knowing comes from
. . . He put the rag down and, with a piece of chalk from the pile of swept-up rubbish, finished the sentence, so that now it read,
Knowing comes from learning, finding from seeking.

We unpacked our belongings and spread out the straw mats. The sun had set, and the sky darkened to the color of a water buffalo’s skin. Mama said she would get started on dinner. The Revolutionary soldiers hadn’t come back to offer us rice or food. Auntie India suggested maybe we should wait. They might still come. Big Uncle reminded her that those two boys didn’t look like they knew where
their
dinner would come from, let alone ours. “We’ll have better luck with the frogs in the pond,” he added, winking at me, harking back to the previous night’s incident with the frog. “
Oak oak oak,
” Papa croaked, imitating the distant muffled cry from outside. “Stop it, you two!” Mama chastised. The twins and Radana, hearing the word “frogs” and croaking, started jumping about on all fours
across the room. Once again, we all burst out laughing, Tata the loudest. Then all of a sudden her laugh turned to a cry. “We won’t ever go back home, will we?” she sobbed. “We’ll die here.” Her entire being shook, and my otherwise formidable aunt, always poised and erect with self-assurance, was now a dribbling mess. No one knew what to say or do.

Radana toddled over, and with one arm around Tata’s shoulder, kissed her on the cheek, like she would a fragile doll. “Tata hurt?” she asked. Tata nodded. Radana kissed her again and, puffing her cheeks out, blew the hurt away. “All gone!” she declared, palms splayed, chubby and cheerful. Mama’s eyes watered. She turned and walked out the door, taking the rice bag and pot with her.

Darkness fell all around us, save for the small flame from the half stick of candle Papa had taken from the prayer hall, and as we prepared to settle for the night, I felt the spirits among us, their shadows commiserating with our shadows, their whispers imitating our thoughts,
Knowing comes from learning, finding from seeking
. . .

•  •  •

Raami,
they called out to me.
Raami, wake up, wake up
. . . I opened my eyes and in the dark saw Papa’s face above mine. “Wake up, darling,” he whispered. “I want to show you something. Come—before it dissipates.” I sat up, rubbing my eyes, and scooted out of the mosquito net as Papa held the edge open for me. Gathering me in his arms, he carried me tiptoeing across the room.

Outside, it was bluish grey, dawn’s dark gown laced with strips of fog. The ground was wet and the air held the memory of rain, which, I recalled now, had traipsed in during the night like some nocturnal sojourner, waking me with the patter of its steps, and, as I fell back into sleep, slipping seamlessly into my dream.

Papa put me down and we walked hand in hand through the sieve-like mist, the cool air filling my nostrils and lungs, coaxing me awake. I looked around. All was still. Through the open doors and windows of the school buildings I could see patches of mosquito nets and felt everyone breathing deeply, collectively, as if dreaming the same dream. The whole place seemed under a spell, wrapped in serenity as palpable as brume.

We came to the prayer hall, and it was like entering that mythical cloud-bound kingdom of the
Reamker
. Ribbons of fog, thick as vapor in some parts, surrounded the open-air prayer hall, weaving the spaces between the pillars and balustrades, winding their way up to the ceiling, then down again toward the pond, where they gathered in loose swirls, like smoke contours left behind by vanishing dragons.

“It looks like Ayuthiya,” I murmured, afraid that if I spoke too loud it would all evaporate. I wasn’t able to find the torn page from the
Reamker
. It must’ve fallen out of my pocket while traveling. But I didn’t need the illustration. Here was the real thing. “It’s so beautiful.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Papa squeezed my hand. “That’s why I want you to see it.” He let out a long, slow breath, adding to the vapor around us. “It’s a gift to be able to imagine heaven, and a
rebirth
to actually glimpse it.”

“Is this heaven then?” I asked, blinking away the last remnants of sleep, thinking perhaps I was still dreaming.

“At least its mirror image. If one glimpses heaven’s reflection on earth, then somewhere must exist the real thing.” Papa’s eyes went to the pair of carved serpents along the balustrades. “The
naga
—from the Sanskrit
nagara
for ‘city’ or ‘kingdom’—is a symbol of divine energy, our link to the heavens. This place—this land of
naga
pillars and steeples and spires—was born of divine inspiration, so goes one legend among many. My favorite story is one of Preah Khet Melea, the son of Indra and his earthly consort. One day, the twelve-year-old Melea receives an invitation from his father to visit him.” Papa looked up and pointed at the carved image of a mythical creature, part human and part bird, adorning the top of every pillar of the prayer hall. “Perhaps on the wings of one of those—I like to imagine—Melea ascends the heavens.”

“It’s Kinnara,” I said, reminding him of the creature’s name. In the countless tales I’d read and heard, Kinnara could traverse back and forth between the world of the humans and that of the gods.

“Yes, that’s right.” Papa nodded, smiling. “Once there, Melea gazes in awe at his father’s celestial kingdom—the many-tiered-steeple palaces covered with precious stones, moats and pools shimmering as if made of liquid diamonds, causeways and bridges stretching to eternity and back.
You will have your own earthly kingdom, Indra says to his son, in the image of this one. Whatever you so desire here, I shall send my celestial architect to replicate it. Melea, moved by his father’s generosity, dares not request a replica of Indra’s own palace. Instead he humbly asks to recreate only Indra’s cattle stable.”

“
That’s it?
Just the cattle stable?” My mind was roused by the story.

Papa chuckled, “Ah, but even Indra’s cattle stable gave rise to the great Angkor temple, which became the inspiration for all later temples that adorn this land of your birth. You see, Raami, as beautiful as this temple is, it’s only a tiny, modest glimpse of what is divinely possible in all of us. We are capable of extraordinary beauty if we dare to dream.”

I kept quiet now, imagining Papa as Indra and myself Melea.

“Do you know why I named you Vattaaraami?” He knelt on one knee and looked into my eyes. “Because you are my temple and my garden, my sacred ground, and in you I see all of my dreams.” He smiled, as if allowing himself the indulgence of an early morning’s pondering. “Perhaps it’s natural for a father, for every parent, to see in his child all that’s unspoiled and good. But if you can, Raami, I want
you
to see it in yourself. No matter what ugliness and destruction you may witness around you, I want you always to believe that the tiniest glimpse of beauty here and there is a reflection of the gods’ abode. It is real, Raami. There exists such a place, such sacred space. You have only to envision it, to dare to dream it. It is within you, within all of us.” He straightened up again, letting out another long breath. “I see it all the time.”

He took my hand and we climbed the steps into the prayer hall. Turning, we faced front, looking out to the pond. Light was gathering quickly, breaking through the thinning mist, and with each breath I took, I could see more and more in front of us—the lotus pads and blossoms emerging like tentative brushstrokes in an artist’s painting.
Whatever you so desire here, I shall send my celestial architect to replicate it
. Somewhere I felt, even as I couldn’t express it, that a god was rendering my dream into reality, for all the loveliness around us seemed true and touchable. I believed we had walked into heaven, had been led through its gate. I felt certain our arrival wasn’t accidental.

There came shuffling by the gate. A hunched figure was slowly making its way toward us. My heart leapt and I blurted out, “Old Boy?” But it was a temple sweeper, with a broom in his hand. Every temple had one, this half-invisible, half-forgotten being. Often it would be an old man, the poorest of the poor, who, nearing death, felt that keeping the temple clean was his final plea to the gods, that when he died his effort would earn him enough merit for a better rebirth, so that he wouldn’t again suffer as he had in this life. The figure coming toward us now moved like a hermit crab in a human shell, his back bent as if he’d spent his whole life, not just old age, sweeping the grounds of this temple.

Papa left my side and hurried down the steps. “Here, let me help you,” he said, offering the old sweeper his arm. “Thank you, Neak Ang Mechas,” the sweeper said, using Papa’s full title, which meant he knew who Papa was.
But how?
On a few occasions during our journey people had turned to stare upon hearing us speak in the royal language. Papa had suggested that we should speak in normal Khmer as much as possible so as not to draw attention to ourselves. He hadn’t said anything just now to reveal who he was. How did the sweeper know? Maybe he was one of those mystic sages who could see into your soul and know exactly who you were.

The old sweeper put his palms together and lifted them up to his forehead in an effort to greet Papa, but because his back was so curved his head only came up to Papa’s chest. “I am a great admirer of your poetry, Your Highness,” he said and then began to recite:

Once, in a journey’s dream,

I came upon a child bearing my soul.

“I read it many years ago,” he explained, smiling, “when it was first published in
Civilization
.” He tilted his head sideways to look at Papa, his expression one of awe and amazement. “It is truly incredible that Your Highness should stand here before me.”

Papa smiled, slightly embarrassed. “Let me help you,” he said again, one hand taking the broom and the other supporting the sweeper’s elbow.

“Thank you,” the sweeper replied. “I’ll just sit here.” He lowered himself onto the steps of the prayer hall.

I went over and offered him the traditional
sampeah.
He returned my greeting and, gazing at me in a rather peculiar way, added enigmatically, “You must be the child in the dream.”

I looked to Papa for an explanation, but he only shrugged, seeming glad to have the old sweeper’s attention shifted to me.

Then, to my astonishment, I realized he’d meant the poem! My confounder grinned, delighted that I’d caught on.

“A pleasure, my dear princess.” Again, I thought how like Old Boy he was, addressing me as he did, the formality of his language and manner, the playfulness of his grin. What was it that Old Boy said?
When you love a flower, and suddenly she is gone
. . .

“The late abbot . . .,” the old sweeper started to explain, his voice wavering, choked with sorrow. He stopped, steadying himself, and tried again, “His Venerable Teacher, who was also an avid admirer of your poetry, Your Highness, would often bring various literary journals from Phnom Penh. Over the years I’ve familiarized myself with your words as well as photos of you, which sometimes accompanied them. When I saw you yesterday, of course there was no mistaking who you were. My eyesight is my only remaining youth. Everything else . . .” He gestured to the rest of his body. “Well, as you can see, Highness.” He let out a sigh.

“You were here yesterday?” Papa seemed bemused. “I didn’t see you.”

“I was in the meditation pavilion. You’d just arrived, and the soldiers were with you. One does best not to be seen by them—to be invisible.”

Papa nodded. “Yes, all my life I’ve sought invisibility, but I’ve yet to attain it.” He smiled at our companion. “Even out here I am recognized.”

The sweeper flushed with guilt. “I’m sorry,” he said ruefully, and then, as if struck by a brilliant idea, asked, “Would you like to have a look at the meditation pavilion?”

I followed his gaze to a simple wooden structure on the edge of the pond, its silhouette partially obscured by the trunk of a banyan. I had seen it when we arrived, but, in awe of the more ornate prayer hall and stupa, I hadn’t paid it much attention.

“It is an ideal place for reflection, for poetry writing. One could be invisible there,” the old sweeper added amenably.

“Is . . . is that all right?” Papa waffled. “I mean, for us to have a look? I wouldn’t dream of it if the monks—” He stopped, the smile on his face gone. He hadn’t intended to bring up the monks.

The sweeper nodded, his solemnity returning. “Yes, at this hour, the monks would be in there meditating.” He struggled to stand up, and Papa again offered him his arm. “But now their presence is no more than mist. If Your Highness comes, I will show you.”

•  •  •

We took off our shoes and climbed the four short steps of the meditation pavilion. The old sweeper unlocked the wooden doors with a heavy skeleton key he wore on a band around his wrist. It was dark and humid inside and the smell of stale incense filled the small, tight space. Papa undid the hooks and pushed open a row of collapsible shutters, revealing the pond and marsh and forest beyond. It was a beautiful vista, so still and serene it made me think I was looking at a painting.

“Another story . . .,” Papa murmured, looking at the murals, painted in gold and black and red lacquer on the walls and vaulted ceiling.

“Yes, scenes from the Jataka tales, from the Buddha’s birth to his Enlightenment,” the old sweeper said. “Do you know, Princess?”

I nodded, and he seemed pleased. Turning to an unadorned wooden Buddha carving in one corner, he knelt down and bowed three times, letting his forehead touch the bare floor each time. Papa and I followed his example. “O Preah Pudh, Preah Sangh,” he chanted, invoking the name of the Buddha, the spirits of dead monks, “forgive our intrusion. We’ve come with pure intentions. Bestow upon us calm and insight.”