Luangpor Lee
The Autobiography of Phra Ajaan Lee
Phra Suddhidhammaransi Gambhiramedhacariya
(Dhammadharo, Lee)
by
Ajaan Lee Dhammadharo
(Phra Suddhidhammaransi Gambhiramedhacariya)
Translated from the Thai by
Thanissaro Bhikkhu
Thailandamulets.com official temple agent
Phra Ajaan Lee Dhammadharo was one of the foremost teachers in the Thai forest ascetic tradition of meditation founded at the turn of the century by Phra Ajaan Sao Kantasilo and Phra Ajaan Mun Bhuridatto. His life was short but eventful. Known for his skill as a teacher and his mastery of supranatural powers, he was the first to bring the ascetic tradition out of the forests of the Mekhong basin and into the mainstream of Thai society in central Thailand.
The year before his death, he was hospitalized for two months with a heart ailment, and so took the opportunity to dictate his autobiography. He chose to aim the story at his followers people who were already acquainted with him but didn't know him well enough and he selected his material with a double purpose in mind, choosing incidents that made both for good stories and for good lessons. Some of the lessons are aimed at monks, others at meditators in general, but they deal primarily with issues he had not been able to include in his written guides to meditation.
As a result, the book contains very little on the substantive events in his own meditation. If you have come to this book in hopes of gauging the level of Ajaan Lee's meditative attainments, you have come to the wrong place, for on this topic his lips are sealed. Most of what he wanted to say on the subject he had already included in his other books. As for his own personal attainments, he never mentioned them even to his closest students.
What he talks about here are the events that surrounded his life as a meditator, and how he dealt with them: the challenges, the strange characters and the unusual incidents he encountered both in the forests and in the centers of human society. He presents the life of meditation as one of adventure where truth is a quality of the heart, rather than of ideas, and the development of the mind is a matter of life and death and it is in this that a large part of the book's educational and entertainment value lies.
Ajaan Lee's method of drawing lessons from his experiences is typical of Thai meditation teachers i.e., he rarely draws any explicit lessons at all. One notable exception is the fine passage towards the end where he discusses the benefits of living a wanderer's life in the forest, but otherwise he leaves it up to his readers to draw their own lessons from the incidents he relates. Rather than handing you lessons on a platter, he wants you to be earnest enough in your desire to learn that you will search for and find useful lessons no matter where you look. When you get used to being taught this way, the payoff is that you find you can learn from everything, for as Ajaan Lee says himself, there are lessons to be learned from animals, trees, and even vines.
Some readers will be taken aback by the amount of space Ajaan Lee gives to signs, portents and other supranatural events. Things of this sort tend to be downplayed in the laundered versions of Theravada Buddhism usually presented in the West in which the Buddha often comes off as a Bertrand Russell or Fritz Perls in robes and admittedly they are not the essence of what the Buddha had to teach. Still, they are an area that many people encounter when they explore the mind and where they often go astray for lack of reliable guidance. Ajaan Lee had a great deal of experience in this area, and has many useful lessons to teach. He shows by example which sorts of experiences to treat simply as curiosities, which to take seriously, and how to test the experiences that seem to have important messages.
In my many conversations with his students, I have learned that Ajaan Lee limited his narrative to only the milder events of this sort, and often deals so much in understatement that it is possible to read through some of the incidents and not realize that anything out of the ordinary is going on at all. When the book was first printed after his death, many of his followers were disappointed in it for just this reason, and a number of them got together to write an expanded version of Ajaan Lee's life that included many of the more amazing events they had experienced in his presence. Fortunately from Ajaan Lee's perspective at least this manuscript has since disappeared.
To be frank, one of the things that first drew me to Ajaan Lee, aside from the clarity and subtlety of his teachings, were the tales I had heard of his powers and personality. My teacher, Ajaan Fuang Jotiko, was a close disciple of his, and much of my early education as a monk consisted of listening to his stories of his adventures with Ajaan Lee. For me, if the Autobiography had lacked the drama of the event in Wat Supat, or the panache of his encounter with Mae Fyyn (having her light him a cigarette as one of her first acts after he had cured her paralysis), it wouldn't have been Ajaan Lee.
However, I should say something here about the miracles surrounding the relics that play a large role in the latter part of the book. There is an old tradition in Buddhism that many of the bodily relics of the Buddha and his arahant disciples transformed into small pellet-like objects that come and go of their own accord. The Theravadin version of this tradition dates back at least to medieval Sri Lanka, and may go much further back than that. There are old books that classify the various types of relics by shape and color, identifying which ones come from which parts of the Buddha's body and which ones from which disciple. The tradition is still very much alive in Thailand, especially now that the bones of many of the dead masters of the forest ascetic tradition have turned into relics. As for relics of the Buddha, I have talked to many people who have seen them come and go, and I have had such experiences myself, although nothing as dramatic as Ajaan Lee's.
I mention all this not to make a case for the existence and provenance of the relics, but simply to point out that Ajaan Lee was not alone in having such experiences, and that the rational approach of Theravada Buddhism has its uncanny side as well.
At any rate, my feeling is that Ajaan Lee mentioned the issue of the relics for two reasons:
1) He was compelled to because it was a part of the controversy that surrounded his name during his lifetime, and his students would have felt that something was amiss if he didn't provide some explanation of the topic. The incident he mentions at Wat Supat was not the only time that relics appeared while he was teaching meditation to groups of people, and in fact he once mentioned to Ajaan Fuang that the frequency with which this happened often irked him: Just as his students would be settling their minds in concentration, these things would appear and that would be the end of the meditation session.
2) As Ajaan Lee mentions in the book, he believed he had a karmic debt requiring that he build a chedi to enshrine relics of the Buddha, and he needed to convince his supporters of the importance of the project.
So keep these points in mind as you read the relevant passages, and be open to the possibility that throughout the book there are issues between Ajaan Lee and his audience flowing under the surface of the narrative that you can only guess at.
Also bear in mind that the book was left unfinished. Ajaan Lee had planned to tack on a series of addenda dealing with events scattered in time and place throughout the body of the narrative, showing their connections and providing more details, but he left only the sketch of the first addendum, a piece explaining why he chose to name his monastery Wat Asokaram. The sketch is so purposefully disjointed and cryptic, though, that I have chosen to leave it out of this edition.
You will find, as you read through the book, occasional details of Thai culture and the rules of the Buddhist monkhood that might be unfamiliar to you. I have tried to anticipate these points, marking them with asterisks in the text and explaining them in the footnotes at the back of the book, but forgive me if I have missed anything you find puzzling. The footnotes are followed by a glossary of Pali and Thai terms I had to carry over into the translation, and you might find it useful to read through Part I of the glossary to get some sense of what is conveyed by a person's name in Thai society before jumping into the book itself.
Ajaan Lee as a speaker was always very conscious of his audience, and I suspect that his autobiography would have been a very different book if he had written it with a Western audience in mind. My translating the book as it stands has been an act of trust: trust that the value of Ajaan Lee's message is universal, and trust that there are readers willing to take the empathetic journey into another culture and mind set, to see how the possibilities of the human condition look when viewed from another side of the globe, and to bring some of that new perspective back with them on their return.
Thanissaro Bhikkhu
(Geoffrey DeGraff)
Metta Forest Monastery
Valley Center, CA 92082-1409
January, 1994
The Autobiography of Phra Ajaan Lee
I was born at nine in the evening on Thursday, the 31st of January, 1907 the second day of the waning moon, the second lunar month, the year of the Horse in Baan Nawng Sawng Hawng (DoubleMarsh Village), Yaang Yo Phaab township, Muang Saam Sib district, Ubon Ratchathani province. This was a village of about 80 houses, divided into three clusters: the Little Village, the Inner Village and the Outer Village. In the Outer Village was a temple; that was the village in which I was born. Between the villages were three ponds, and surrounding the villages on all sides were scores of giant rubber trees. To the north were the ruins of an ancient town with two abandoned Buddhist sanctuaries. The spirits there were said to be so fierce that they sometimes possessed people, causing them to go live in the spirit shrines. From the looks of the ruins, I'd say they were built by the Khmers.
My original name was Chaalee. My parents were Pao and Phuay Nariwong; my grandparents on my father's side were named Janthaari and Sida; and on my mother's side, Nantasen and Dee. I had five brothers and four sisters. About nine days after I was born, I became such a nuisance crying all the time that my father left home for a good while. Three days after my mother left the fire,1 I developed a swelling on my head, and couldn't eat or sleep for several days running. I was an extremely difficult child to raise. Nothing my mother or father could do ever seemed to satisfy me.
My mother died when I was eleven, leaving my father, myself and a little sister whom I had to care for. My other brothers and sisters by that time had all grown up and gone off to find work, so there were just the three of us at home. Both my sister and I had to help my father in the rice fields.
When I was twelve I started school. I learned enough to read and write, but failed the elementary exams, which didn't bother me in the least, but I kept on studying anyway. At 17, I left school, my main aim in life being to earn money.
During this period my father and I seemed always to be at odds with each other. He wanted me to start trading in things that seemed wrong to me, like pigs and cattle. Sometimes, when it came time to make merit at the temple, he'd stand in my way and send me out to work in the fields instead. There were days I'd get so upset that I'd end up sitting out alone in the middle of the fields, crying. There was one thought in my mind: I swore to myself that I wasn't going to stay on in this village so I would only have to put up with things just a little bit longer.
After a while my father remarried, to a woman named Mae Thip. Life at home became a little more bearable after that.
When I was 18 I set out to find my elder brother, who had found work in Nong Saeng, Saraburi province. News had reached home that he had a salaried job with the Irrigation Department, which was in the process of building a watergate. So in October of that year I moved in with my brother. Before long, though, we had a falling out, because I happened to mention one day that he ought to make a visit back home. He was dead set against going, so I left on my own, heading south, looking for work. At the time, I felt that money ranked in importance next to life itself. Although physically I had now come of age, I still thought of myself as a child. When friends would ask me to join them in going out to look for women, I wouldn't be the least bit interested, because I felt that marriage was for grownups, not for kids like us.
From what I had seen of life, I had made two resolutions that I kept to myself:
1) I won't marry until I'm at least 30.
2) I won't marry unless I have at least 500 baht to my name.
I was determined that I'd have both the money and the ability to support at least three other people before I'd be willing to get involved with a woman.
But there was yet another reason for my aversion to the idea of marriage: During my childhood, at the age when I was just beginning to know what was what, if I saw a woman pregnant to the point where she was close to giving birth, it would fill me with feelings of fear and disgust. This was because the custom in those parts when a woman was going to give birth was to take a rope and tie one end to a rafter. The woman, kneeling down, would hang on to the other end of the rope and give birth. Some women would scream and moan, their faces and bodies all twisted in pain. Whenever I happened to see this, I'd have to run away with my hands over my ears and eyes, and I wouldn't be able to sleep, out of both fear and disgust. This made a deep impression on me that lasted for a long time.
When I was around 19 or 20, I began to have some notion of good and evil, but it wasn't in me to do evil. Up to that point I had never killed a large animal, except one a dog. And I can remember how it happened. One day when I was eating, I took an egg and put it in the ashes of the fire. The dog came along, found the egg and ate it so I jumped up, grabbed a club and beat it to death on the spot. Immediately, I was sorry for what I had done. "How on earth can I make up for this sin?" I thought. So I found an old book with a chant for sharing merit that I memorized. I then went and worshipped the Buddha, dedicating the merit to the dead dog. This made me feel better, but my whole train of thought at that time was that I wanted to be ordained.
In 1925, when I was 20, my stepmother died. At the time, I was living with relatives in Bang Len district, Nakhorn Pathom province, so towards the end of February I returned home to my father and asked him to sponsor my ordination. I arrived with about 160 baht in my pockets. Soon after my arrival my elder brothers, sisters, brothers-in-law, etc., flocked around to see me and to borrow money: to buy water buffaloes, to buy land, to use in trading. I gave them all they asked for, since I was planning to be ordained. So in the end, out of my original 160 baht, I was left with 40.
When ordination season arrived, my father made all the necessary arrangements. I was ordained on the full moon day of the sixth lunar month Visakha Puja. Altogether, there were nine of us ordained that day. Of this number, some have since died, some have disrobed, leaving only two of us still in the monkhood myself and a friend.
After my ordination I memorized chants and studied the Dhamma and monastic discipline. Comparing what I was studying with the life I and the monks around me were leading made me feel ill at ease, because instead of observing the duties of the contemplative life, we were out to have a good time: playing chess, wrestling, playing match games with girls whenever there was a wake, raising birds, holding cock fights, sometimes even eating food in the evenings. 2 Speaking of food in the evenings, even I, living in this sort of society, joined in as far as I can remember three times:
1) One day I felt hungry, so in the middle of the night I got hold of the rice placed as an offering on the altar and ate it.
2) Another time I was invited to help deliver the Mahachaad sermon 3 at Wat Noan Daeng in Phai Yai (BigBamboo) township. It so happened that my turn to read the sermon came at 11 a.m. By the time I had finished, it was after noon, so it was too late to eat. On the way home I was accompanied by a temple boy carrying some rice and grilled fish in his shoulder bag. A little after 1 p.m., feeling really tired and hungry, I told the boy to show me what was in his bag. Seeing the food, I couldn't resist sitting right down and finishing it off under the shade of a tree. I then returned home to the temple.
3) One day I went into the forest to help drag wood back to the temple for building a meeting hall. That night I felt hungry, so I had a meal.
I wasn't the only person doing this sort of thing. My friends were doing it all the time, but were always careful to cover it up.
During this period the thing I hated most was to be invited to chant at a funeral. When I was younger I would never eat in a house where a person had just died. Even if someone living in the same house with me went to help with a funeral, I'd keep an eye out, after he returned, to see from which basket he'd eat rice and from which dipper he'd drink water. I wouldn't say anything, but I'd be careful not to eat from that basket or drink from that dipper. Even after I was ordained, this habit stayed with me. I was 19 before I ever set foot in a cemetery. Even when relatives died even when my own mother died I'd refuse to go to the cremation.
One day, after having been ordained a fair while, I heard people crying and moaning in the village: Someone had died. Before long I caught sight of a man carrying a bowl of flowers, incense and candles, coming to the temple to invite monks to chant at the dead person's place. As soon as he entered the abbot's quarters, I ran off in the opposite direction, followed by some of the newly ordained monks. When we reached the mango grove, we split up and climbed the trees and there we sat, perched one to a tree, absolutely still. It wasn't long before the abbot went looking for us, but he couldn't find us. I could hear him losing his temper in his quarters. There was one thing I was afraid of, though: the slingshot he kept to chase bats from the trees. In the end, he had a novice come look for us, and when the novice found us, we all had to come down.
This is the way things went for two years. Whenever I looked into the books on monastic discipline, I'd start feeling really uneasy. I told myself, "If you don't want to leave the monkhood, you're going to have to leave this temple." At the beginning of my second rains retreat, I made a vow: "At present I still sincerely want to practice the Buddha's teachings. Within the next three months, may I meet a teacher who practices them truly and rightly."
In the beginning of November I went to help preach the Mahachaad sermon at Wat Baan Noan Rang Yai in Yaang Yo Phaab township. When I arrived, a meditation monk happened to be on the sermon seat. I was really taken by the way he spoke, so I asked some laypeople who he was and where he came from. They told me, "That's Ajaan Bot, a student of Ajaan Mun." He was staying about a kilometer from the village, in a forest of giant rubber trees, so at the end of the Mahachaad fair I went to see him. What I saw his way of life, the manner in which he conducted himself really pleased me. I asked him who his teachers were, and he answered, "Phra Ajaan Mun and Phra Ajaan Sao. At the moment, Ajaan Mun has come down from Sakon Nakhorn and is staying at Wat Burapha in the city of Ubon."
Learning this, I hurried home to my temple, thinking all the way, "This must be what I've been waiting for." A few days later I went to take leave of my father and preceptor. At first they did all they could to dissuade me from going, but as I told my father, I had already made up my mind. "I have to leave this village," I told him. "Whether I leave as a monk or a layman, I've still got to leave. My father and preceptor have no rights over me. The minute they start infringing on my rights is the minute I get up and go."
And in the end they let me go.
So at one in the afternoon, on a day in early December, I set out, carrying my necessary belongings, alone. My father accompanied me as far as the middle of a field. There, when we had said our goodbyes, we parted ways.
That day I walked, passing the town of Muang Saam Sib, all the way to Ubon. On my arrival, I was told that Ajaan Mun was staying at the village of Kut Laad, a little over ten kilometers outside the city. Again, I set out on foot to find him. It so happened that Phra Barikhut, a former District Official in Muang Saam Sib who had been dismissed from government service and was moving his family, drove past me in his truck. Seeing me walking alone on the side of the road, he stopped and offered me a ride all the way to the Ubon airport, the turnoff to Kut Laad. Even today I think of how kind he was to me, a total stranger.
At about five in the evening I reached the forest monastery at Kut Laad, where I learned that Ajaan Mun had just returned to Wat Burapha. So the next morning, after breakfast, I walked back to Ubon. There I paid my respects to Ajaan Mun and told him my purpose in seeking him out. The advice and assistance he gave me were just what I was looking for. He taught me a single word buddho to meditate on. It so happened that he was ill at the time, so he sent me to Baan Thaa Wang Hin (StonePalace Landing), a very quiet and secluded area where Phra Ajaan Singh and Phra MahaPin were staying along with about 40 other monks and novices. While there, I went to listen to their sermons every night, which gave rise to two feelings within me: When I thought of my past, I'd feel ill at ease; when I thought of the new things I was learning and experiencing, I'd feel at peace. These two feelings were always with me.
I became friends with two other monks with whom I stayed, ate, meditated and discussed my experiences: Ajaan Kongma and Ajaan Saam. I kept at my meditation all hours of the day and night. After a while I talked Ajaan Kongma into going off and wandering together. We went from village to village, staying in the ancestral shrines, until we reached my home village. I wanted to let my father know the good news: that I had met Ajaan Mun, that this was the life I was looking for, and that I had no intention of ever returning to live out my life there at home. I had once told myself, "You've been born a person: You'll have to work your way up to be better than other people. You've been ordained a monk: You'll have to try to be better than the monks you've known." Now it seemed that my hopes were being fulfilled. This is why I went home to tell my father: "I've come to say goodbye. I'm going for good. All my belongings I'm handing over to you. And I'm never going to lay claims on anything of yours." Although I hadn't made a firm decision never to disrobe, I had decided never to let myself be poor.
As soon as my aunt heard the news, she came to argue with me: "Don't you think you're going a little too far?" So I answered her, "Look, if I ever disrobe and come back to beg food from you, you have my permission to call me a dog."
Now that I had made a firm decision, I told my father, "Don't worry about me. Whether I stay a monk or disrobe, I'll always be satisfied with the treasures you've already given me: two eyes, two ears, a nose, a mouth, all the 32 parts of the body. It's an important inheritance. Nothing else you could give me could ever leave me satisfied."
After that, I said goodbye and set out for the city of Ubon. Reaching Wang Tham (CavePalace) Village, though, I found Ajaan Mun staying in the forest there, so I joined him, staying under his guidance for quite a few days.
This was when I decided to re-ordain, this time in the Dhammayutika sect (the sect to which Ajaan Mun belonged), in order to make a clean break with my past wrongdoings. When I consulted Ajaan Mun, he agreed to the idea, and so had me practice my part in the ordination ceremony. When I had it down pat, he set out with me following wandering from district to district.
I became extremely devoted to Ajaan Mun, because there were many things about him that had me amazed. For instance, there were times when I would have been thinking about something, without ever mentioning it to him, and yet he'd bring up the topic and seem to know exactly what my thoughts had been. Each time this happened, my respect and devotion towards him deepened. I practiced meditation constantly, free from many of the worries that had plagued me in the past.
After I had stayed under Ajaan Mun's guidance for four months, he set the date for my reordination at Wat Burapha in the city of Ubon, with Phra Pannabhisara Thera (Nuu) of Wat Sra Pathum (LotusPond Temple), Bangkok, as my preceptor; Phra Ajaan Pheng of Wat Tai, Ubon, as the Announcing Teacher; and Ajaan Mun himself as the Instructing Teacher, who gave me the preliminary ordination as a novice. I was reordained on May 27, 1927, and the following day began to observe strictly the ascetic practice of eating only one meal a day. After spending one night at Wat Burapha, I returned to the forest at StonePalace Landing.
When Ajaan Mun and Phra Pannabhisara Thera returned to Bangkok to spend the Rains Retreat at Wat Sra Pathum, they left me under the guidance of Ajaan Singh and Ajaan MahaPin. During this period I followed Ajaan Singh and Ajaan MahaPin on their wanderings through the countryside. They had been asked by Phraya Trang, the Prince of Ubon, to teach morality and meditation to the people of the rural areas. When the time came to enter the Rains Retreat, we stopped at OxHead Village Monastery in Yasothon district. It so happened that Somdet Phra Mahawirawong, the ecclesiastical head of the Northeast, called Ajaan MahaPin back to the city of Ubon, so in the end only six of us spent the rainy season together in that township.
I was very ardent in my efforts to practice meditation that rainy season, but there were times I couldn't help feeling a little discouraged because all my teachers had left me. Occasionally I'd think of disrobing, but whenever I felt this way there'd always be something to bring me back to my senses.
One day, for instance, at about five in the evening, I was doing walking meditation, but my thoughts had strayed towards worldly matters. A woman happened to walk past the monastery, improvising a song "I've seen the heart of the tyd tyy bird: It's mouth is singing, tyd tyy, tyd tyy, but its heart is out looking for crabs" so I memorized her song and repeated it over and over, telling myself, "It's you she's singing about. Here you are, a monk, trying to develop some virtue inside yourself, and yet you let your heart go looking for worldly matters." I felt ashamed of myself. I decided that I'd have to bring my heart in line with the fact that I was a monk if I didn't want the woman's song to apply to me. The whole incident thus turned into Dhamma.
A number of other events also helped to keep me alert. One night when the moon was bright, I made an agreement with one of the other monks that we'd go without sleep and do sitting and walking meditation. (That rainy season there were six of us altogether, five monks and one novice. I had made a resolution that I'd have to do better than all the rest of them. For instance, if any of them were able to get by on only ten mouthfuls of food a day, I'd have to get by on eight. If any of them could sit in meditation for three hours straight, I'd have to sit for five. If any of them could do walking meditation for an hour, I'd have to walk for two. I felt this way about everything we did, and yet it seemed that I was able to live up to my resolution. This was a secret I kept to myself.)
At any rate, that night I told my friend, "Let's see who's better at doing sitting and walking meditation." So we agreed, "When I do walking meditation, you do sitting meditation; and when I do sitting meditation, you do walking meditation. Let's see who can last longer." When it came my turn to do walking meditation, my friend went to sit in a hut next to the path where I was walking. Not too long afterwards, I heard a loud thud coming from inside the hut, so I stopped to open the window and peek in. Sure enough, there he was, lying on his back with his folded legs sticking up in the air. He had been sitting in full lotus position, gotten sleepy, and had simply fallen backwards and gone to sleep. I was practically dropping off to sleep myself, but had kept going out of the simple desire to win. I felt embarrassed for my friend's sake "I'd hate to be in his place," I thought but at the same time was pleased I had won.
All of these things served to teach me a lesson: "This is what happens to people who aren't true in what they do."
At the end of the rains, the group split up, each of us going off to wander alone, staying in cemeteries. During this period it seemed that my meditation was going very well. My mind could settle down to a very refined level, and one very strange thing that had never happened before was beginning to happen: When my mind was really good and quiet, knowledge would suddenly come to me. For example, even though I had never studied Pali, I could now translate most of the chants I had memorized: most of the Buddhaguna, for instance, the Cula Paritta and the Abhidhamma Sankhepa. It seemed that I was becoming fairly expert in the Dhamma. If there was anything I wanted to know, all I had to do was make my mind very still, and the knowledge would come to me without my having to think over the matter. When this happened, I went to consult Ajaan Kongma. He explained to me, "The Buddha never studied how to write books or give sermons from anyone else. He first practiced meditation and the knowledge arose within his heart. Only then did he teach the Dhamma that has been copied down in the scriptures. So the way you've come to know within yourself like this isn't wrong." Hearing this, I felt extremely pleased.
At the end of the rains, I thought of going to see my father again, because I felt that there was still a lot of unfinished business at home. Setting out on foot, I reached Baan Noan Daeng (RedHill Village), where I stayed at the ancestral spirit shrine. When the village people found me alone in the forest there, they sent word to my father. Early the next morning he came to see me, having set out from home in the middle of the night. He had prepared food for me, as best he knew how, but I couldn't eat it, not even to please him. I was sorry I couldn't, but I was now following the monastic discipline strictly and it's a matter that should be followed strictly: the rule against eating flesh from an animal killed specifically for the sake of feeding a monk. Afterwards, whenever I thought about it, I'd start feeling so sorry for my father that tears would come to my eyes. When he saw that his son the monk wouldn't eat the food he had prepared, he took it off and ate it himself.
When he had finished, I followed him back to my home village, where this time I stayed first in the cemetery, and then later in another spot in the forest where the spirits were said to be very fierce. I stayed there for weeks, delivering sermons to people who came from many of the surrounding villages, and I did away with a lot of their mistaken beliefs and practices: belief in sorcery, the worship of demons and spirits, and the use of various spells that Buddhism calls "bestial knowledge." I helped wipe out a good number of the fears my friends and relatives in the village had concerning the spirits in the ruins near the village and the spirits in the spot where I was staying. We exorcised them by reciting Buddhist chants and spreading thoughts of good will and loving kindness throughout the area. During the day, we'd burn the ritual objects used for worshipping spirits. Some days there'd be nothing but smoke the whole day long. I taught the people in the village to take refuge in the Buddha, Dhamma and Sangha, to recite Buddhist chants and to meditate, instead of getting involved with spirits and demons.
There was another practice I had seen a lot of in the past that struck me as pointless, and so we figured out a way to wipe it out: the belief that the ancestral spirits in the village had to eat animal flesh every year. Once a year, when the season came around, each household would have to sacrifice a chicken, a duck or a pig. Altogether this meant that in one year hundreds of living creatures had to die for the sake of the spirits, because there would also be times when people would make sacrifices to cure an illness in the family. All of this struck me as a senseless waste. If the spirits really did exist, that's not the sort of food they would eat. It would be far better to make merit and dedicate it to the spirits. If they didn't accept that, then drive them away with the authority of the Dhamma.
So I ordered the people to burn all the ancestral shrines. When some of the villagers began to lose nerve for fear that there would be nothing to protect them in the future, I wrote down the chant for spreading good will, and gave a copy to everyone in the village, guaranteeing that nothing would happen. I've since learned that all of the area around the ancestral shrines is now planted with crops, and that the spot in the forest where the spirits were said to be fierce is now a new village.
As I stayed there for quite a while, teaching the people in the village, word began to spread. Some people became jealous and tried in various ways to drive me away. One day three of the leading monks in the area were invited to give a sermon debate. I was invited as the fourth. The three monks were: Phra Khru Vacisunthorn, the ecclesiastical head of Muang Saam Sib district; Preceptor Lui, the ecclesiastical head of Amnaad Jaroen district; Ajaan Waw, who had knowledge of Pali. And then there was me. The night before the debate, I told myself, "It's going to be a knock-down, drag-out battle tomorrow. Whoever takes you on, and however they do it, don't let yourself be fazed in the least." A lot of people went to hear the debate, but in the end it all passed peacefully without any incident.
Still, there were a number of monks and laypeople in the area who, thinking I was nothing but a braggart, kept trying to create trouble and misunderstandings between other monks and me. One day Nai Chai, claiming to represent the householders in Yaang Yo Phaab township, went to the offices of the District Official and denounced me as a vagrant. This simply increased my determination to stay. "I haven't done anything evil or wrong since coming here. No matter how they come at me, I'm going to stick it out to the very end." The outcome of it all was that the District Education Officer had no authority to drive me out of the village. I told the people that if there was any more of this sort of business, I wouldn't leave until my name had been cleared.
One day the District Official himself came out to check up on some government business, and spent the night in the village. The village headman, a relative of mine, told him about all that had been happening. The District Official's response was this: "It's a rare monk who will teach the lay people like this. Let him stay as long as he likes." From that point on, there were no more incidents.
* * *
After a while, I took leave of my relatives and set out for Yasothon. There I met Ajaan Singh with a following of 80 monks and novices staying in the Yasothon cemetery, the spot where the jail is now standing. Soon afterwards a letter came from Phra Phisanasarakhun, the ecclesiastical head of Khon Kaen province at Wat Srijan (SplendorousMoon Temple), inviting Ajaan Singh to Khon Kaen. So the citizens of Yasothon, headed by Ajaan Rin, Ajaan Daeng and Ajaan Ontaa, rented two buses, and we all set out for Khon Kaen. Ajaan Bot, the first meditation monk I had met, went along as well. The first night we spent in Roi Et; and the second at Ancestor Hill in Maha Sarakham, a spot where the local people said the spirits were fierce. Crowds of people came to listen to Ajaan Singh's sermons.
I began to realize that I wasn't going to find any peace and quiet in these circumstances, so I took my leave of Ajaan Singh and, accompanied by a novice, went to visit my relatives Khun MahaWichai, an uncle on my mother's side of the family in Nam Phong district. When I arrived there I found a number of families in the area related to me. They were all glad to see me, and gathered around to ask news of the folks back home. They fixed up a place in a forest of giant trees on the bank of the Nam Phong River, and there I stayed for quite a few days. The novice who had come with me took his leave to visit his relatives back home in Sakon Nakhorn, so I stayed on alone in the forest, which was full of nothing but monkeys.
After a while I began to develop a persistent headache and earache. I told my Aunt Ngoen about this, and she sent me to see a nephew of hers, a policeman in Phon district. He in turn had a driver take me to Nakhorn Ratchasima, were I stayed at Wat Sakae. I spent three days looking for my relatives there, but couldn't find them. The reason I wanted to find my relatives was that I had my heart set on going to Bangkok to take care of my illness and to find Ajaan Mun. Finally a rickshaw driver took me to the government housing settlement for railway officials, where I met my cousin, Mae Wandee, the wife of Khun Kai. Everyone seemed glad to see me, and asked me to stay on to spend the Rains Retreat there in Nakhorn Ratchasima. I didn't accept their invitation, though, because as I told them, I was set on going to Bangkok. So my cousin bought me a train ticket to HuaLamphong Station in Bangkok.
As the train passed through the Phaya Yen Jungle and burst out into the open fields of Saraburi, I thought of my elder brother who had a family at the Nawng Taa Lo watergate, the one I had visited back when I was still a lay man. So when we stopped at Baan Phachi junction, I got off and walked all the way to my brother's house. On arriving, though, I learned that he had taken his family and moved to Nakhorn Sawan province. The only people left that I knew in the village were some friends and older people. I stayed there until the end of May, when I told my friends of my plans to go to Bangkok. They bought me a ticket and accompanied me to the station. I took the train all the way to Bangkok and got off when it arrived at HuaLampong Station.
Never before in my life had I ever been to Bangkok. I had no idea of how to find my way to Wat Sra Pathum, so I called a rickshaw driver and asked him, "How much will you charge to take me to Wat Sra Pathum?"
"Fifty satang."
"Fifty satang? Why so much? Wat Sra Pathum is practically just around the corner!"
So in the end he took me for fifteen satang.
When I reached Wat Sra Pathum, I paid my respects to my preceptor, who told me that Chao Khun Upali had invited Ajaan Mun to spend the rains in Chieng Mai. So as it turned out, I spent the rains that year at Wat Sra Pathum.
My quarters were quite a ways away from my preceptor's. I made a resolution that Rains Retreat to practice meditation as I always had, and at the same time not to neglect any of my duties in the temple or, unless it was really unavoidable, any of the services a new monk is supposed to perform for his preceptor.
I was very strict in practicing meditation that year, keeping to myself most of the time, my one thought being to maintain stillness of mind. I took part in the morning and evening chanting services, and attended to my preceptor every morning and late afternoon. I had noticed that the way he was living left a large opening for me to attend to him in a way that appealed to me no one was looking after his bedding, cleaning his spittoons, arranging his betel nut, keeping his mats and sitting cloths in order: This was my opening.
So from that point on I observed my duties towards my preceptor as best I could. After a while I felt that I was serving him to his satisfaction, and had found a place in his affections. At the end of the rains he asked me to take on the responsibility of living in and watching over the temple storehouse, the Green Hall, where he took his meals. Although I had set my mind on treating him as a father, I had never dreamed that being loyal and good could have dangers like this.
So at the beginning of the hot season, I took leave of my preceptor to go out and find some seclusion in the forest. I left Bangkok, passing through Ayutthaya, Saraburi, Lopburi, Takhli, Phukhao, Phukhaa, all the way to Nakhorn Sawan where, passing through Thaa Tako district and around Boraphet Lake, I reached my brother's place. There I met not only my brother, but also many old friends from the days back when I was still a lay man.
During my stay in Nakhorn Sawan, I lived in a forest about half a kilometer from the village. One day I heard the calls of two elephants fighting, one a wild elephant and the other a domesticated elephant in rut. They battled for three days running, until the wild elephant could no longer put up a fight and died. With that, the elephant in rut went insane, running wild through the forest where I was staying, chasing people and goring them with his tusks. The owner of the elephant Khun Jop and other people in the area came to invite me to take shelter in the village, but I wouldn't go. Even though I was somewhat afraid, I decided to depend on my powers of endurance and my belief in the power of loving-kindness.
Then one day, at about four in the afternoon, the elephant came running to the clearing where I was staying and came to a stop about 40 meters from my hut. At the time, I was sitting in the hut, meditating. Hearing his calls, I stuck my head out and saw him standing there in a frightening stance with his ears back and his tusks gleaming white. The thought occurred to me: "If he comes running this way, he'll be on me in less than three minutes." And with that, I lost my nerve. I jumped out of the hut and ran for a large tree about six meters away. But just as I reached it and had taken my first step up the trunk, a sound like a person whispering came to my ears: "You're not for real. You're afraid to die. Whoever's afraid to die will have to die again." Hearing this, I let go of the tree and hurried back to the hut. I got into a half-lotus position and, with my eyes open, sat facing the elephant and meditating, spreading thoughts of good will.
While all this was happening, I could hear the villagers yelling and crying to one another: "That monk (meaning me) is really in a fix. Isn't anybody going to help him?" But that was all they did, cry and yell. No one not even a single person had the courage to come anywhere near me.
I sat there for about ten minutes, radiating thoughts of good will. Finally the elephant flapped its ears up and down a few times, turned around and walked back into the forest. A few moments later I got up from where I was sitting and walked out of the forest into the open rice fields. Khun Jop and the others came thronging around me, amazed that I had come through without mishap.
The next day, crowds of people from all over the area came to see me and to ask for "good things': amulets. The word was that since the elephant had been afraid to come near me, I was sure to have some good strong amulets. Seeing all the commotion, I decided to cut short my stay, so a few days later I said goodbye to my relatives and headed back to Bangkok.
I reached Wat Sra Pathum in the month of May. During this, my second Rains Retreat there, my preceptor had me take over the temple accounts from Phra Baitika Bunrawd. At the same time, my companions talked me into studying for the Third Level Dhamma exams. This meant that I had a lot of added burdens. Not only was there my preceptor to attend to, but also the temple accounts and inventories to keep. On top of that, I had to study Dhamma textbooks and keep up my meditation. With all these added responsibilities, my state of mind began to grow a bit slack. This can be gauged by the fact that the first year, when any of the other young monks came to talk to me about worldly matters women and wealth I really hated it, but the second year I began to like it. My third year at Wat Sra Pathum I began to study Pali grammar, after having passed the Third Level Dhamma exams in 1929. My responsibilities had become heavier and I was getting pretty active at discussing worldly matters. But when my way of life began to reach this point, there were a number of events, both inside and outside the temple, that helped bring me to my senses.
One day, towards the end of the second Rains Retreat, I discovered that more than 900 baht had disappeared from the temple accounts. For days I checked over the books, but couldn't find where it had gone. Normally I made a practice of reporting to my preceptor on the first of each month, but when the first of the month came around this time, I didn't go to see him. I questioned everyone who worked with me, but they all denied having any knowledge of the missing funds. Finally another possibility occurred to me: Nai Bun, a student who attended to my preceptor. Some mornings he would ask for the key to the Green Hall to keep while I went out on my alms round. So I asked Phra Baitika Bunrawd to question Nai Bun, who finally admitted to having stolen the money while I was out.
The whole affair was my preceptor's fault. One morning he had been invited to accept some donations on the day following a cremation at the house of a nobleman, but his ceremonial fan and shoulder bag were kept in my room, and since I had gone out for alms and taken the key with me, he couldn't get to them. So from then on he told me to leave the key with Nai Bun every morning before going out for alms, and this was how the money had disappeared. I was lucky that Nai Bun had admitted his guilt. I went back to check the books carefully and discovered that, of the missing funds, more than 700 baht had come from the temple funds, and the remainder from my preceptor's personal funds.
So on October 5th, now that everything was in order, I went to tell my closest friends, Phra Baitika Bunrawd and Phra Chyam, "I'm going to make a report to the abbot at five o'clock today."
"Don't," Phra Chyam said. "I'll make up for the missing money myself."
I appreciated his offer, but didn't think it was a good idea. It would be better to be open and aboveboard about the whole affair. Otherwise the boy would start developing bad habits.
My preceptor had gotten cross with both of my friends over the temple books many times before, so when the time came for me to make my report, they went to hide in their quarters, shutting their doors tight, leaving me to face my preceptor alone. Before I made my report, I went to the Green Hall, swept and scrubbed the floor, prepared the betel nut, spread out a sitting mat for my preceptor, and then sat there waiting for him. A little after four o'clock, he left the large new set of quarters built for him by Lady Talap, wife of Chao Phraya Yomaraj, and came to sit in the Green Hall. When he had finished his tea and betel nut, I approached him to make my report about the missing funds. Before I had even finished my first sentence, he got cross. "Why have you waited till the fifth this month to make your report? Usually you make it on the first."
"The reason I didn't come on the first," I answered, "was because I had some doubts about the accounts and the people involved. But now I'm sure that the money is really missing and I've found the guilty party."
"Who?" he asked.
"Nai Bun," I answered. "He's already confessed."
"Bring him here," he ordered, and then added, "This is embarrassing. Don't let word of this get out."
So Phra Baitika Bunrawd fetched Nai Bun, who admitted his guilt to my preceptor. The final outcome was that Nai Bun had to make up for the missing funds.
Now that this was all taken care of, I asked to resign my position so that I could go off to the forest to meditate. Before the affair had been settled, there had been one night when I couldn't get any sleep all night long. All I could think of was that I would have to disrobe and get a job to make up for the missing funds. At the same time, I didn't want to disrobe. These two thoughts fought back and forth in my mind until dawn. But when I broached the idea of resigning with my preceptor, he wouldn't let me go.
"I'm an old man now," he said, "and aside from you there's no one I can trust to look after things for me. You'll have to stay here for the time being."
So I had to stick it out for another year.
* * *
The third Rains Retreat, my preceptor had me come stay in his new quarters to help fix up the place and assist him with his hobby: repairing clocks. My old duties I was able to pass on to Phra Chyam, which was something of a load off my mind. But looking at the state of my meditation, I could see that my practice had grown slack. I was becoming more and more interested in worldly matters. So I decided to put up a fight. One day it occurred to me, "If I stay on here in the city, I'll have to disrobe. If I stay a monk, I'll have to leave the city and go into the forest." These two thoughts became the theme of my meditation day and night.
One day I went up to a hollow space at the top of the chedi and sat in meditation. The theme of my meditation was, "Should I stay or should I disrobe?" Something inside me said, "I'd rather disrobe." So I questioned myself, "This place where you're living now, prosperous in every way, with its beautiful homes and streets, with its crowds of people: What do they call it?" And I answered, "Phra Nakhorn the Great Metropolis, i.e., Heaven on Earth."
"And where were you born?"
"I was born in DoubleMarsh Village, Muang Saam Sib, Ubon Ratchathani. And now that I've come to the Great Metropolis I want to disrobe."
"And in DoubleMarsh Village what did you eat? How did you live? How did people make their living? And what did you wear? And what were the roads and houses like?"
Nothing at all like the Great Metropolis.
"So this prosperity here: What business is it of yours?"
This was when I answered, "The people in the Great Metropolis aren't gods or goddesses or anything. They're people and I'm a person, so why can't I make myself be like them?"
I questioned myself back and forth like this for several days running until I finally decided to call a halt. If I was going to disrobe, I'd have to make preparations. Other people, before disrobing, got prepared by having clothes made and so forth, but I was going to do it differently. I was going to leave the monkhood in my mind first to see what it would be like.
So late in the quiet of a moonlit night, I climbed up to sit inside the chedi and asked myself, "If I disrobe, what will I do?" I came up with the following story.
If I disrobe, I'll have to apply for a job as a clerk in the Phen Phaag Snuff and Stomach Medicine Company. I had a friend who had disrobed and gotten a job there earning 20 baht a month, so it made sense for me to apply for a job there too. I'd set my mind on being honest and hard-working so that my employer would be satisfied with my work. I was determined that wherever I lived, I'd have to act in such a way that the people I lived with would think highly of me.
As it turned out, the drug company finally hired me at 20 baht a month, the same salary as my friend. I made up my mind to budget my salary so as to have money left over at the end of each month, so I rented a room in the flats owned by Phraya Phakdi in the PratuuNam (Watergate) section of town. The rent was four baht a month. Water, electricity, clothing and food would add up to another eleven baht, leaving me with an extra five baht at the end of each month.
My second year on the job my boss came to like and trust me so much that he raised my salary to 30 baht a month. Taking out my expenses, I was left with 15 baht a month. Finally he was so content with my work that he made me supervisor of all the workers, with a 40 baht salary, plus a cut of the profits, adding up altogether to 50 baht a month. At this point I was feeling very proud of myself, because I was making as much as the District Official back home. And as for my friends back home, I was in a position way above them all. So I decided it was time to get married so that I could take a beautiful young Bangkok bride back home for a visit, which would please my relatives no end. This was when my plans seemed to take on a little class.
So now that I was going to get married, what sort of person would she be? I made up my mind that the woman I married would have to have the three attributes of a good wife:
1. She'd have to come from a good family.
2. She'd have to be in line for an inheritance.
3. She'd have to be good-looking and have a pleasing manner.
Only if a woman had these three attributes would I be willing to marry her. So I asked myself, "Where are you going to find a woman like this, and how will you get to know her?" This is where things began to get complicated. I tried thinking up all sorts of schemes, but even if I actually did meet such a woman, she wouldn't be interested in me. The women who would be interested in me weren't the sort I'd want to marry. Thinking about this, I'd sometimes heave a heavy sigh, but I wasn't willing to give in.
Finally it occurred to me, "Wealthy people send their daughters to the high-class schools, like the Back Palace School or Mrs. Cole's. Why don't I go have a look around these schools in the morning before classes and in the evening when school lets out?"
So that's what I did, until I noticed an attractive girl, the daughter of a Phraya. The way she walked and the way she dressed really appealed to me. I arranged so that our paths crossed every day. In my hand I carried a little note that I threw down in front of her. The first time, she didn't pay me any attention. Day after day our paths crossed. Sometimes our eyes would meet, sometimes I'd stand in her way, sometimes she'd smile at me. When this happened, I made it a point to have her get my note.
Finally we got to know each other. I made a date for her to skip school the next day so that I could show her around town. As time passed we came to know each other, to like each other, to love each other. We told each other our life stories the things that had made us happy and the things that had made us sad from the very beginning up to the present. I had a salaried job at no less than 50 baht a month. She had finished the sixth year of secondary school and was the daughter of a very wealthy Phraya. Her looks, her manner and her conduct were everything I had been hoping for.
Finally we agreed to become married secretly. Since we loved each other, I got to sleep with her beforehand. She was a good person, so before we were to be officially married, she told her parents. Furious, they threw her out of the house.
So she came to live with me as my wife. I wasn't too upset by what her parents had done, for I was determined to work my way into their affections.
We went to rent a flat in a better district, the Sra Pathum Watergate area. The rent here was six baht a month. My wife got a job at the same company where I was working, starting out at 20 baht a month, but she soon got a raise to 30 a month. Together, then, we were making 80 a month, which pleased me.
As time passed, my position advanced. My employer trusted me completely, and at times would have me take over his duties in his absence. Both my wife and I were determined to be honest and upright in our dealings with the company, and ultimately our earnings our salaries plus my percentage of the profits reached 100 a month. At this point I felt I could breathe easy, but my dreams still hadn't been fulfilled.
So I began to buy presents good things to eat and other nice things to take to my parents-in-law to show my good intentions towards them. After a while they began to show some interest in me, and eventually had us move into their house. At this point I was really pleased: I was sure to be in line for part of the inheritance. But living together for a while revealed certain things about my behavior that rubbed my parents-in-law the wrong way, so in the end they drove us out of the house. We went back to live in a flat, as before.
This was when my wife became pregnant. Not wanting her to do any hard work, I hired a servant woman to look after the house and help with the housework. Hired help in those days was very cheap only four baht a month.
As my wife came closer to giving birth, she began to miss work more and more often. I had to keep at my job. One night I sat down to look over our budget. The 100 baht we had once earned was probably as much as we'd ever earn. I had no further hopes for a raise. Our expenses were mounting every day: one baht a month for electricity; 1.50 baht for water; charcoal and rice each at least six baht a month; the help, four baht a month; and on top of it all, the cost of our clothing.
After my wife gave birth, our expenses mounted still higher. She wasn't able to work, so we lost her percentage of the profits. After a while she became ill and missed work for an extended period. My employer cut her salary back to 15 baht a month. Our medical bills rose. My wife's salary wasn't enough for her needs, so she had to cut into mine. My old salary of 50 baht was now completely gone by the end of each month.
In the end, my wife's illness proved fatal. I had to borrow 50 baht from my employer which, along with my own savings of 50, went towards her funeral expenses, which totaled 80 baht. I was then left with 20 baht and a small child to raise.
What was I to do now? Before, I had breathed easily. Now it seemed as if life was closing in on me. I went to see my parents-in-law, but they gave me the cold shoulder. So I hired a wet nurse for the child. The wet nurse was a low-class woman, but she took awfully good care of the child. This led me to feel love and affection towards her, and ultimately she became my second wife.
My new wife had absolutely no education she couldn't even read or write. My income at this point was now only 50 baht enough just to get by. After a while my new wife became pregnant. I did my best to make sure that she didn't have to do any heavy work, and I did everything I could to be good to her, but I couldn't help feeling a little disappointed that life had turned out so differently from my original plans. After my new wife gave birth, we both helped to raise the children until both my first wife's child and my new wife's child were old enough to feed and take care of themselves.
This was when my new wife started acting funny playing favorites, giving all her love and attention to her own child, and none to my first. My first child started coming to complain to me all the time that my new wife had been unfair in this way or that. Sometimes the two children would start fighting. At times I'd come home from work and my first child would run to me with one version of what had happened, my second child would have another version, and my wife still another. I didn't know whom to side with. It was as if I was standing in the middle, and my wife and children were pulling me off in three different directions. My new child wanted me to buy this or that eventually my wife and children started competing with one another to see who would get to eat the best food, wear the best clothes and squander the most money. It got so that I couldn't sit down and talk with any of them at all. My salary was being eaten up every month; my family life was like falling into a thorn patch.
Finally I decided to call a halt. My wife wasn't what I had hoped for, my earnings weren't what I had hoped for, my children weren't what I had hoped for, so I left my wife, was reordained and returned to the contemplative life.
When I came to the end of the story, my interest in worldly affairs vanished. The sense that life was closing in on me disappeared. I felt as free as if I were up floating in the sky. Something inside me sighed, "Ah!" with relief. I told myself that if this was the way things would be, I'd do better not to disrobe. My old desire to disrobe was reduced about 50 to 60 percent.
Throughout this period a number of other events occurred that helped turn my thoughts in the right direction. Some nights I'd dream that my old meditation teachers had come to see me: Sometimes they'd be fierce with me, sometimes they'd scold me. But there were four events you'd have to call them strange, and they certainly were important in changing my thinking. I have to beg the reader's pardon for mentioning them, though, because there's nothing at all pleasant about them. But since they were good lessons, I feel they should go on record.
The first event: During the period when I was spending my nights thinking about worldly matters, there was one day I started feeling constipated, so that afternoon I took a laxative, figuring that if the medicine acted as it had before, I'd have to go to the bathroom at about 9 p.m. For some reason, it didn't work. The next morning I went for my alms round down the lane to Sra Pathum Palace. Just as I was coming to a house where they had prepared food to give to the monks, all of a sudden I had to go to the bathroom so badly I could hardly stand it. I couldn't even walk to the house to accept their food. All I could do was hold myself in and walk in little pigeon steps until I came to an acacia grove by the side of the road. I plunked down my bowl and hurried through the fence into the grove. I wanted to sink my head down into the ground and die right there. When I had finished, I left the grove, picked up my alms bowl and finished my round. That day I didn't get enough to eat. Returning to the temple, I warned myself, "This is what it's going to be like if you disrobe. Nobody's going to fix food to put in your bowl." The whole event was really a good lesson.
The second event: One day I went out early on my alms round. I crossed ElephantHead Bridge, passed Saam Yaek and turned down Phetburi Road. There was no one to place even a spoonful of rice in my bowl. It so happened that as I was passing a row of flats, I saw an old Chinese man and woman yelling and screaming at each other in front of their flat. The woman was about 50 and wore her hair in a bun. The old man wore his hair in a pigtail. As I came to their flat, I stopped to watch. Within about two seconds, the old woman grabbed a broom and hit the man over the head with the handle. The old man grabbed the woman by the hair and kicked her in the back. I asked myself, "If that were you, what would you do?" and then I smiled: "You'd probably end the marriage for good." I felt more pleased seeing this incident than if I had received a whole bowlful of food. That night I meditated on what I had seen. It seemed that my mind was regaining its strength and, bit by bit, becoming more and more disenchanted with worldly affairs.
The third event: It was a holiday. I had started out on my alms round before dawn, going down to the Sra Pathum Watergate market, and then up the lane behind the temple. This was a dirt lane where horses were stabled. Rain was falling and the road surface was slippery. I was walking in a very composed manner past the house of a lay person I knew who frequented the temple. My bowl was full of food and I was thinking very absent-mindedly of worldly matters so absent-mindedly that I slipped and fell sideways into a mud hole by the side of the road. Both of my knees were sunk about a foot into the muck, my food was spilled all over the place, my body was covered with mud. I had to hurry back to the temple, and when I arrived I warned myself: "See what happens when you even just think of such things?" My heart was slowly becoming more and more disenchanted with worldly matters. My old opinions had reversed to the point where I now saw marriage as something for kids, not for grownups.
The fourth event: The next morning, I went out for alms taking my usual route down Phetburi Road. I came to the palace of His Highness Prince Dhaninivat. This prince made a habit of donating food to monks in general every day. It so happened that someone had set up a bowl of rice across the street from the palace that day, so I decided to accept rice from the new donors first. After accepting their rice, I turned around to cross the street, when one of Nai Lert's white buses came whizzing past, less than a foot from my head. The passengers on the bus started yelling and screaming, and I myself was stunned: I had just missed being killed by a bus. When I finally went to accept rice from the prince, I had to exert a great deal of self-control because I was shaking all over. I then returned to the temple.
All of these events I took to be warnings, because during that period my thoughts about worldly matters would start flaring up anywhere and at any time.
Now we come to the end of the Rains Retreat, 1930. During that third rainy season I had told myself, "You're going to have to leave Bangkok. There's no two ways about it. If your preceptor stands in your way, there'll have to be a falling out." So I made a wish: "May the Triple Gem and all the sacred things in the cosmos help me find another way out."
Another night, towards the end of the rains, I had been lying on my back, reading a book and meditating at the same time, when I fell asleep. I dreamed that Ajaan Mun came to scold me. "What are you doing in Bangkok?" he asked. "Go out into the forest!"
"I can't," I answered. "My preceptor won't let me."
Ajaan Mun answered with a single word: "Go!"
So I dedicated a resolution to him: "At the end of the rains, may Ajaan Mun come and take me with him out of this predicament."
It was just a few days later that Chao Khun Upali 4 broke his leg, and Ajaan Mun came down to pay his respects to him. A short while after that, Lady Noi, the mother of Chao Phraya Mukhamontri, passed away, and the funeral services were to be held at Wat Debsirin. Since Lady Noi had been one of Ajaan Mun's supporters when he was staying in Udon Thani, he made a point of attending her funeral. My preceptor and I were also invited, and I met Ajaan Mun up on the crematorium. I was overjoyed, but had no chance to have even a word with him. So I asked Chao Khun Phra Amarabhirakkhit where Ajaan Mun was staying, and he answered, "At Wat Boromnivasa." On the way home from the funeral I got permission from my preceptor to stop at Wat Boromnivasa to pay my respects to Ajaan Mun.
In the four years since my reordination, this was my first encounter with Ajaan Mun. After I had paid my respects, he delivered a short sermon to me on the text, "Khina jati, vusitam brahmacariyanti," which he translated in short as, "The Noble Ones, having freed themselves from the mental effluents, find happiness. This is the supreme holy life." That's all I can remember of it, but I felt that sitting and listening to him speak for a few moments gave my heart more peace than it had felt all the years I had been practicing on my own.
In the end he told me, "You'll have to come with me this time. As for your preceptor, I'll inform him myself." That was our entire conversation. I bowed down to him and returned to Wat Sra Pathum.
When I told my preceptor about my meeting with Ajaan Mun, he simply sat very still. The next day, Ajaan Mun came to Wat Sra Pathum and spoke with my preceptor, saying that he wanted to have me go with him up north. My preceptor gave his assent.
I began to get my necessary belongings together and to say goodbye to my friends and the temple boys. I asked one of the boys how much money I had left for my travel expenses, and he told me, "Thirty satang." That wasn't even enough to pay for the ride to HuaLamphong Station, which by that time had risen to 50 satang. So I went to inform Ajaan Mun, and he assured me that he would take care of everything.
The day before Lady Noi's cremation, 5 Ajaan Mun was invited to deliver a sermon at the home of Chao Phraya Mukhamontri, and afterwards received the following donations: a set of robes, a container of kerosene and 80 baht. Later, Ajaan Mun told me that the set of robes he gave to a monk at Wat Boromnivasa, the kerosene he gave to Phra MahaSombuun, and the money he gave to people who needed it, leaving just enough for two people's traveling expenses: his and mine.
After a while, when Chao Khun Upali finally let Ajaan Mun return north, we took the train to Uttaradit, where we stayed at Wat Salyaphong, a temple founded by Chao Khun Upali himself. Before getting on the express train at Hua Lamphong Station, we ran into Mae Ngaw Nedjamnong, who had come down to Bangkok whether it was to attend Lady Noi's funeral or what, I don't know. Mae Ngaw was one of Ajaan Mun's old students, and she agreed to help look after our needs during the entire trip.
This was the period when Ajaan Tan was abbot of Wat Salyaphong. We stayed there a number of days, and then went to stay in the groves behind the temple, quite a ways from the monks" quarters. This was a quiet, secluded place, both by day and by night.
One day I got into a disagreement with Ajaan Mun and he drove me away. Although I felt riled, I decided not to let my feelings show, so I stayed on with him, attending to his needs as I always had.
The next morning this was in early January, towards the end of the second lunar month two monks came looking for Ajaan Mun with the news that one of his followers was seriously ill in Chieng Mai. The two monks then continued on down to Bangkok, after which Ajaan Mun and I left Uttaradit for Chieng Mai. When we arrived we went to stay at Wat Chedi Luang (GreatChedi Temple).
The ill follower turned out to be a lay man Nai Biew of San Kampheng district who had become mentally deranged. His older brother and sister-in-law brought him to Wat Chedi Luang, and Ajaan Mun cured him with meditation.
That year I spent the Rains Retreat at Wat Chedi Luang. When we had first arrived, there were quite a number of our fellow meditation monks staying at the temple, but as the rains approached, they left one by one to stay in the hills. At first, Ajaan Mun was going to have me leave for the hills too, but I refused to go. I told him I had my heart set on staying with him and attending to his needs throughout the rainy season. In the end he gave his consent.
That was 1931, the year Chao Khun Upali died. I spent the rains very close to Ajaan Mun, attending both to his needs and to my own meditation. He in turn gave me a thorough breaking-in in every way. Each evening he had me climb up and sit in meditation on the north side of the Great Chedi. There was a large Buddha image there it's still there today and Ajaan Mun told me that it was a very auspicious spot, that relics of the Buddha had been known to come there often. I did as I was told in every way. Some nights I'd sit all night, without any sleep.
We stayed in a small hut in a banana grove. Lady Thip and Luang Yong, the Chief of Police, had had the hut built and presented to Ajaan Mun. Nai Thip, clerk in the Provincial Treasury, and his wife, Nang Taa, made sure that Ajaan Mun had plenty to eat every day.
I made a regular practice of going with Ajaan Mun when we went out for alms. As we would walk along, he'd constantly be giving me lessons in meditation all along the way. If we happened to pass a pretty girl, he'd say, "Look over there. Do you think she's pretty? Look closely. Look down into her insides." No matter what we passed houses or roads he'd always make it an object lesson.
At the time I was only 26. It was my fifth Rains Retreat and I was still feeling young, so he was always giving me lessons and warnings. He seemed very concerned for my progress. But there was one thing that had me puzzled, having to do with robes and other necessities that people would donate. He seemed reluctant to let me have anything nice to use. Sometimes he'd ask for whatever nice things I did have and then go give them to someone else. I had no idea what he meant by all this. Whenever I'd get anything new or nice, he'd order me to wash and dye it to spoil the original color. Say I'd get a nice new white handkerchief or towel: He'd order me to dye it brown with dye from the heartwood of a jackfruit tree. Sometimes he'd have to order me several times, and when I still wouldn't obey, he'd go ahead and dye the things himself. He liked to find old, worn-out robes, patch them himself, and then give them to me to wear.
One morning I went together with him on our alms round, down past the Police Station. We happened to pass a woman carrying goods to the market, but my mind was in good shape: It didn't stray away from the path we were following. I was keeping complete control over myself. Another time when I was walking a little distance behind him he walked fast, but I walked slowly I saw him come to an old, worn-out pair of policeman's trousers thrown away by the side of the road. He began to kick the trousers along, back and forth I was thinking all along that I had to keep my thoughts on the path I was following. Finally, when he reached the fence around the Police Station, he stooped down, picked up the trousers and fastened them under his robes. I was puzzled. What did he want with old trash like that?
When we got back to the hut, he placed the trousers over the clothes railing. I swept up and then set out the sitting mats. After we had finished our meal, I went into his room to arrange his bedding. Some days he'd be cross with me, saying I was messy, that I never put anything in the right place but he'd never tell me what the right places were. Even though I tried my best to please him at all times, he was still severe with me the entire rainy season.
Several days later the old pair of trousers had become a shoulder bag and a belt: I saw them hanging together on the wall. And a few days afterwards, he gave them to me to use. I took them and looked at them. They were nothing but stitches and patches. With all the good things available, why did he give me this sort of stuff to use?
Attending to Ajaan Mun was very good for me, but also very hard. I had to be willing to learn everything anew. To be able to stay with him for any length of time, you had to be very observant and very circumspect. You couldn't make a sound when you walked on the floor, you couldn't leave footprints on the floor, you couldn't make noise when you swallowed water or opened the windows or doors. There had to be a science to everything you did hanging out robes, taking them in, folding them up, setting out sitting mats, arranging bedding, everything. Otherwise he'd drive you out, even in the middle of the Rains Retreat. Even then, you'd just have to take it and try to use your powers of observation.
Every day, after our meal, I'd go to straighten up his room, putting away his bowl and robes, setting out his bedding, his sitting cloth, his spittoon, his tea kettle, pillow, etc. I had to have everything in order before he entered the room. When I had finished, I'd take note of where I had placed things, hurry out of the room and go to my own room, which was separated from his by a wall of banana leaves. I had made a small hole in the wall so that I could peek through and see both Ajaan Mun and his belongings. When he came into the room, he'd look up and down, inspecting his things. Some of them he'd pick up and move; others he'd leave where they were. I had to watch carefully and take note of where things were put.
The next morning I'd do it all over again, trying to place things where I had seen him put them himself. Finally one morning, when I had finished putting things in order and returned to my own room to peek through the hole, he entered his room, sat still for a minute, looked right and left, up and down, all around and didn't touch a thing. He didn't even turn over his sleeping cloth. He simply said his chants and then took a nap. Seeing this, I felt really pleased that I had attended to my teacher to his satisfaction.
In other matters such as sitting and walking meditation Ajaan Mun trained me in every way, to my complete satisfaction. But I was able to keep up with him at best only about 60 percent of the time.
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