In the Shadow of the Banyan (12 page)

We remained on our knees, our palms on our laps, looking up at the Buddha statue. Again I felt the ghosts among us.

“What happened here?” Papa asked, his voice barely a whisper. “What happened to the monks?” It seemed that since he’d made the mistake of broaching the subject in the first place, he must have thought it best to ask right out.

“They came last harvest, these soldiers,” the old sweeper began.
“They emerged from every direction of the forest. They said they’d come to liberate us, set the town free. From what? We weren’t imprisoned. Why had they really come? we demanded to know. They couldn’t explain. They were just boys, freshly out of the jungle, hardly knowing left from right, let alone right from wrong. But they were polite enough, I suppose, asking us gently to abandon our old ‘feudal habits,’ speaking a strange Revolutionary language they themselves didn’t seem to fully comprehend. They didn’t convince us, of course. On the contrary, they made us weary, and we made things difficult for them, so much so that they retreated. Then, their commanders came, like a band of
kakanasos
.”

In the
Reamker,
Kakanaso was Krung Reap’s black bird, the harbinger of dark omens. While Kinnara was half human, Kakanaso was half demon.

“They headed straight for the temple,” the old sweeper continued, “knowing, as we all do, that this was where important and trusted members of our community gathered. Perhaps they thought, rightly so, if they could make the temple submit, then the rest of the town would follow.” He paused for breath, eyes squinting, remembering. “They ordered the monks to defrock and go back to their families, claiming that there was to be no more religious practice in the new liberated Democratic Kampuchea. You can well imagine, Highness, the shock and protest that followed. The monks refused to renounce their vows, the town stood by them, and the soldiers, abandoning their Revolutionary slogans and rhetoric, resorted to violence. They turned the whole place upside down and forced the monks out of their sleeping quarters. Most of the novices did indeed disrobe and return to their families, but the few senior monks remained, standing by the abbot, sticking to their faith . . .” Again, the sweeper paused, his voice faltering.

We waited quietly, giving him time to collect himself.

“For the next couple of days, they sought refuge in this pavilion—the abbot and the remaining monks.” He looked around the room. “They meditated and fasted, taking only water. To our great surprise, the soldiers left them alone. Then on the third day, a group of soldiers returned and
seized the abbot, forcing him down the steps. We pleaded to know why they were taking him. ‘To be reeducated,’ their commander shouted.”

The old sweeper shook his head. “To be
reeducated
? I don’t understand what this means, Highness. Monks are our country’s first teachers. Without them, a boy like me would never have learned to read. What could these illiterate soldiers have to teach our
teachers
? They know not a word of the Buddha’s dharma or a line of poetry. What could they know of learning when all they seek is blood?”

Papa made no reply. Then after a moment, he asked, “Where did it take place?”

“I will show you, Your Highness,” the sweeper said, struggling to stand up. “You must see with your own eyes their evil.”

As we exited the meditation pavilion, I glanced back at the mural. The old sweeper’s recounting of what had happened was nowhere as real to me as the story of the Buddha’s journey painted on the walls and ceiling. Here was a tale I could literally see and run my hand across, its message explained to me countless times: peace comes to one who understands. So to palliate my disquiet, I convinced myself I understood—that the disappearances of those whose presence I could still feel were a kind of
nippien,
a passing from this life into a place as desirable as the gods’ celestial realm.

•  •  •

He brought us to the monks’ sleeping quarters—a cluster of wooden houses on stilts. Torn leather-bound dharma books, children’s lesson books, pencils, rulers, boxes of chalk were scattered on the ground among broken alms bowls. Sleeping mats, pillows, chests of drawers, bookcases, along with the children’s desks and chairs, which must’ve come from the school buildings, were tossed into the surrounding shrubs and brush. Piles of saffron robes lay near an outhouse in the back, and flies as big as bumblebees buzzed about them in a steady drone.

“They made the abbot take off his robe there and put on civilian clothes,” the sweeper said, pointing to the festering mounds. “I don’t know why they bothered, if they were going to do what they did. Perhaps
they feared the cloth more than the man. I don’t know.” He looked at me, then at Papa, seeming uncertain if he should continue. Papa gave a slight nod, and he went on, “The abbot offered his life, in hope that they would spare the others. They took him to the forest.” He nodded toward the impenetrable green beyond the rice fields. “A shot was heard . . .” Tears brimmed the sweeper’s eyes and he fought them back. “Then . . . then they came for the others. The rest of the senior monks. The old
achars
and nuns who had thrown themselves on the ground pleading on the abbot’s behalf. The orphaned boys who had known no other home except here, in whose desecrated classrooms you now seek refuge . . .”

Again, the sweeper fought back tears. “No shot was heard this time, but if a sound could move the heavens, it would be the screams of those children. I shall never forget it. It will follow me into my next life.”

Papa remained silent, his eyes taking in everything. I followed his gaze, from one mound to the next, and for a fleeting second, I thought I saw echoes of ourselves, our own ghosts among the evanescent, mist-like presence of the slain monks, nuns, and orphans. I blinked the image away. Papa was right, I thought, dream and reality were one and the same. What existed in one could well be replicated in the other. We were far away from home, but even out here, I thought, my dream and reality were shaped by the adults who loved and cared for me. On this temple ground, Papa had constructed for me, as Indra’s celestial architect had for Melea, a world that
was
lovely and good. I had only to look past the stench and scattered heaps to see the glimpses of beauty. No sooner had I thought this than there it was—a jewel beetle resembling a giant blowfly, its metallic body reflecting green and gold. It emerged from the dark folds and crevices of the monks’ soiled robes, carrying with it the colors of these exquisite and broken things.

Papa and the sweeper saw it too. They watched it with the silence of those paying respects to the dead. The beetle, as if feeling our presence, spread its wings and flew off.

We walked back to the prayer hall, Papa escorting the sweeper as the old man spoke of the town, how since a new breed of leaders had replaced the traditional chiefs, Rolork Meas was not the same carefree place it had
been. The townsfolk, once gregarious and generous with one another, became withdrawn and taciturn, fearing retribution if they fraternized and spoke freely. They kept to themselves, wanting nothing to do with anyone new, and so we shouldn’t be surprised if no one came to visit us.

“You must be careful, Your Highness,” the sweeper warned, pausing in his steps as if to lend weight to his warning. “These soldiers and their leaders are watching . . .”

We kept moving, the fog having completely evaporated. Morning arrived, and with it, the sounds of waking. Birds chirped and flapped their wings, a rooster crowed in the distance and another answered, and over by the pond, frogs croaked and a fish broke the surface of the water. The sky wore a pinkish veil, borrowing the hue of the lotuses unfolding below. The marsh shimmered, as if at any moment it would spit out the sun, which, I imagined, it had soaked all night and polished to a new shine. When a soft breeze blew, the water rippled in long gilt bands, and it was obvious why this town was called “Waves of Gold.”

At the gate, the old sweeper pointed across the road to a small thatched hut. “My little corner of heaven,” he said. “If you should ever need anything, you can always find me there. Though I have not much to offer”—he smiled—“except for winds and rains.”

“Can we accompany you back?” Papa asked.

“Thank you, Your Highness, but I’ll make it fine on my own.” Then, nodding in the direction of the meditation pavilion, he added, “I’ll leave it unlocked, so that Your Highness will have a quiet place to write.”

Moved by the offer, Papa clasped the sweeper’s hand. The latter returned his gesture, and then, letting go, began to shuffle toward his hut, his torso curved like a scythe.

Papa watched him. Then his eyes shot to the distant hut and he murmured, partly to himself, “Its walls are the winds and rains . . .”

Behind us, a group of men had come out to enjoy the morning air. Papa approached them and asked if they could help him raise the fallen Walking Buddha back to an upright position. “Of course, Your Highness!” they chorused from the steps of the prayer hall. Papa smiled, grateful for their enthusiasm.

While the men were busy with this, I snuck back to the meditation pavilion. Inside, I studied the murals, thinking of the many tales carved into the balcony and walls of the house we’d left behind, how I thought they were fixed to that place. But, looking at the murals, I had the feeling the tales had followed us here, moving along with us on our journey, manifesting themselves in all sorts of ways.

Knowing comes from learning, finding from seeking.

It was clear what the message meant. If I looked hard enough, if I sought, I would find what I was looking for. Here, on the banyan-shaded ground, the temple harbored minute reflections of the paradise we’d left behind.

eight

I
left the meditation pavilion and returned to the temple. The whole place was abuzz with activities, with the happy sights and sounds of a new day’s beginning. People had come out to chat and stretch their limbs, looking as if they had always belonged here, talking to one another like longtime neighbors.

In the prayer hall, a group of elders was paying homage to the large Buddha statue. An old man, assuming the role of the
achar,
began with the familiar refrain “We offer homage to Him, the Holy, the Pure, the Enlightened.” The rest of the group followed, intoning, “In the Buddha, we seek refuge. In the Dharma, we seek refuge. In the Sangha”—the temple—“we seek refuge . . .” Children ran about, infusing the morning with laughter and playfulness. The smaller ones played hide-and-seek, weaving their paths between the pillars, bouncing up one stairway and skipping down another. If they became too loud or came too close to the Buddha statue, an elder would gently admonish, reminding them to keep a respectful distance. The bigger ones—a group of boys—volleyed a
kroma
wound tight into a ball, while the girls skipped rope barefoot on the soft, moist ground.

Papa, his back against the pedestal upon which the Walking Buddha statue once again rested, sat scribbling in his leather pocket notebook, which he must’ve saved among our belongings when we were forced to cross the river. I looked around to see if any Revolutionary soldiers were
watching, but I could see none. We were safe. Seeing Papa with his notebook made me think of the
Reamker
. Surprisingly, though, I didn’t miss it as I’d thought I would. It was clear to me now that while books could be torn and burned, the stories they held needn’t be lost or forgotten.

In the pond, a bright red bird flew out from among the lotus pads, sending a spray of water into the air, to the delight of the observing children and parents. I recalled a fable Milk Mother had once told me about a male bird that got trapped in a lotus blossom when it closed at sunset. Only when the blossom opened again at dawn the next morning was the bird finally able to escape. He returned to his nest, beautifully fragrant.

Milk Mother said that stories are like footpaths of the gods. They lead us back and forth across time and space and connect us to the entire universe, to people and beings we never see but who we feel exist. I felt that somewhere, somehow, Milk Mother was still alive, safe. I realized that with us she’d found temporary security in the enclosed space of our love and then, like that bird released from the lotus blossom, had flown back to her family.

As I approached him, Papa looked up from his scribbling and took a deep breath, tucking the notebook and his silver fountain pen in his breast pocket. “Shall we go back?” he said, standing up.

I grabbed his waist and pressed my whole face into his shirt, smelling him, sniffing for hints of the world in his notebook where he’d lost himself. Papa laughed. Then, just as I was thinking maybe we should go back to the pond, he reached back and pulled something from the waist of his pants. “For Mama,” he said, handing me an open blossom bobbing on its stem. “I thought you might like to give it to her.”

“How did you know?”

He shrugged, pleased that he could read my every thought.

“What were you writing?” I asked as we headed back to the school buildings.