Mangala: Chapter Six

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Author's Note

This story is intended to be both a partner to the novel ‘The Pilgrim Kamanita,’ written by Karl Gjellerup in 1906, and a tale that stands on its own. There is no need to have read the earlier book in order to make sense of this one, however, should you wish to go to the source from which many of the characters and scenes of this tale have sprung, an English version of it is to be found on this same web-site at http://www.abhayagiri.org/main/book/366/.

This book is being published here as a ‘serial novel,’ which is to say that it that it will appear one chapter at a time, on the first day of every month, over the next couple of years. The plan is that, after the entire twenty-six chapters of the story have been released, a pdf file of the complete book will be posted, and available for free download.

Finally, gentle reader, please note that the original author (Karl Gjellerup) switched freely between using Sanskrit (the language of the Northern Buddhist and Hindu scriptures) and Pali (the language of the Southern Buddhist scriptures) during the course of his tale. In our efforts to be true to his original style we have maintained this mixture of usage.

Amaro Bhikkhu
Abhayagiri Monastery
December 2008

* * *

mba watched silently, her tears running as the men gently lifted her mother’s body onto the litter that they had crafted from bamboo poles. They had cut these nearby, binding the lengths together with slender vines.

“The men will carry her for a while,” said Mitta quietly, “there’s a charnel ground out beyond the next village, a league or so up ahead, and when we reach there we’ll… we’ll have a ceremony for her.” He couldn’t quite bring himself to say, “We’ll burn the body,” but Amba was smart enough to know what he meant.

“I hope that the other soldiers will have found Tamba by then, we should Page 2 of 18

both be together when we say goodbye to mum.” Mitta’s large round eyes wrinkled in his equally round face; he smiled at her with affection and a pang of sadness. A wave of warmth washed through him for this kind and serious little foundling.

“Well, young lady, we’ll just have to wait and see what the future brings.” He wanted to be encouraging and to provide some fatherly reassurance, however in his gut he felt a ripple of dread – knowing the dangers of the forest and its denizens; four-legged, two legged, no-legged and many-legged – he did not hold out much hope for this gentle little girl’s younger sister. Even in the light of Amba’s vaunting the resourcefulness and grit that Tamba possessed, Mitta didn’t want to think about what might have become of her, alone in the woods on a cold-season night.

As the platoon of troops shouldered the bier upon which Sita’s stiffened corpse lay spread, Mitta hoisted himself, huffing noisily, into the back of a wagon. His years of service in a wealthy household, in a prosperous kingdom, had rendered his girth expansive. He now leaned over the bulk of his paunch and stretched an arm down to
Amba. She was just reaching up to grasp his hand when she felt a firm grip clamp her beneath both arms and hoist her swiftly from the ground. She was plumped down on the heap of cushions that formed a cozy lining to the wagon’s interior. As she caught her breath she turned to see a dark and shining face smiling at her broadly and fixing her with fiercely piercing eyes.

“Get in, Khujjuttara,” Mitta said, addressing the bright-eyed girl, “I’m going to need your help in looking after our new charge here. My wife Sundari and I have raised a lot of children but I’m out of practice with small ones. Besides, she’s back in Kosambi and you’re the only woman of Master Ghosaka’s staff here.”

The dark girl clambered clumsily into the back of the vehicle and crawled over the rugs and Page 3 of 18

cushions to seat herself beside Amba and opposite her boss. As she settled and organized a comfy spot for herself, Amba realized that the young woman was hunchbacked, her upper body seemingly twisted in what looked an uncomfortable way.

“Well, young miss, you’ve done me a real favour here,” the new arrival said, in a rich country accent, “the likes of me, being a slave and crook-backed and all, we never get to ride with the nobs, not usually.” She laughed gleefully at her own observation, tickled by the absurdity of things, and flashed a guileless smile at both Amba and her high and mighty governor.

“Don’t you listen to her,” said Mitta, “Khujjuttara is supposed to be the humblest of slaves in this household but she knows exactly what’s going on in the minds of everyone around her and, even though Lord Ghosaka is the Minister of Finance for the kingdom of Vamsa, I have a suspicion that she understands the ins and outs of business and taxation, production and consumption better even than he does – when he thinks no one is looking,” he confided to Amba in a stage whisper – “ he frequently asks her what she thinks about this or that policy, or what to do about such-and-such a debt from abroad. I don’t know how she does it – the girl can’t even read!”

“I just go to the market and keep my eyes and ears open. You don’t have to be that clever to see what’s selling and what isn’t, and why.” She winked at Amba, conspiratorially.

“She also remembers all the prices things were and compares them to what they are now; and she recalls all the conversations she has with the traders, and what they promised in the past… This girl is quite an asset.”

“You hear that?” She nudged Amba in the ribs, “You’re sat next to an asset, you are.” She chuckled at her own joke and wrapped her arm, ungainly but loving, around Amba’s thin and thread-bare shoulders.

* * *

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As the regal procession made its way through the countryside, Mitta the chamberlain and Khujjuttara the slave-girl did their best to take Amba’s mind of her current sorrows and her anxiety about whether the soldiers would manage to find her sister, or not. Khujjuttara had managed to get her to recount in great detail all the events of the night that had just passed as well as a lot of the history of the family and why she and her mother and sister had been alone on the road to Kosambi.

“So you really got to meet some kinnaris, eh? That must’ve been a treat – are they still around?” Amba was very pleased that at least one person seemed to believe her story about meeting the three beautiful sylphs. “Well, I’m not sure if they’re nearby but I certainly can’t see them close to us now. I think that’s understandable, though,” She said in her serious and thoughtful way.

“Why’s that then?” inquired her new friend.

“Well, it’s not very nice to say but they told me they didn’t like to be around humans very much because a lot of us smell very nasty to them; especially the ones who behave badly – they really stink…”

“I like that!” erupted Khujjuttara, highly amused at Amba’s description. “I think that makes a lot of sense, if you ask me.”

“Have you ever seen them?” asked Amba. ”You know, fairies, I mean kinnaris and spirits, yakkhas and devas and those sort of things?”

“To be honest, I’m not all that sure. Sometimes, out the corner of my eye I think I see something moving and then it’s gone; or a glimmer of bright colour; or, y’know, when a few leaves rustle on a bush and all the rest is still, it feels like something or someone’s there. But I’ve never seen them properly like you did, not to have a regular conversation, like. You and your sister must be real special.” Khujjuttara paused, realizing she’d unwittingly brought the conversation round to Tamba once again.

Mitta Page 5 of 18

had assured Amba that, once the soldiers of the King’s detachment had found her sister, they would catch up with them very easily, as they could travel much faster on horseback than the whole caravan of elephants and wagons, palanquins and foot-soldiers could. Amba’s eyes kept searching the road behind them, looking for signs of the approaching troops but nothing appeared as all the hours of the morning came and went.

* * *

Even though this was the cold-season, and only just past the shortest day and longest night, still the power of the sun in the open sky was great. The burning light sucked moisture from the forest and the fields around them, rendering the air tangy with humidity and the pungent aromas of fuming earth.

The sun reached its zenith just as the King and his cavalcade passed through the main street of the humble village that was the next area of human habitation along the high-road. The locals knelt in awe by the roadside, their hands pressed together in añjali, or they hid in their shacks and houses as the glorious apparition of the convoy flashed and flowed before them in the midday heat.

Beyond the limits of the village, three or four bow-shots past the last of the homesteads, a well-worn track into the forest opened up on their right, which was the south-eastern side of the road. Not far into the woods there was a broad glade, grassy and open at the centre and rimmed with full-leafed, shady trees. At the far end of the clearing the track continued, soon curving round the left and disappearing from view.

The captain of the King’s guard loudly called a halt as the end of the train of people and animals entered the open space. In a well-practised series of manoeuvres, a collection of portable pavilions and shade structures, mats, cushions and a low throne for His Majesty were dispersed around the area beneath the trees. A gentle murmur of instruction and discussion filtered amongst the members of the royal household as Page 6 of 18

all the regular arrangements were set in place.

Amba watched the whole performance with great fascination: the burly soldiers with their weapons and helmets; Her Serene Highness Queen Vasuladatta and the other jewel-bedecked queens and grand ladies of the court; the dignified courtiers and ministers of state; the scurrying cooks and servants; the chattering maids; the great grey elephants and their glittering howdahs, draped with embroidered baldachins; the snorting oxen, moist in the heat of noon, glad now to be free of their yokes to graze the open meadow for a while – it was a magical scene. Amba had got so used to the hardships of the road, to being thrilled at the most modest of comforts and at anything at all to go with their daily rice, that for a moment she was breathless with wonder at the enticing aromas of the food that was being prepared and the sight of all that now surrounded her.

The spell was broken as she saw the clutch of soldiers, who had been bearing her mother’s body all morning, making their way with the litter to the path that led out beyond the grove where they had halted. During the journey thus far the body had been carried, out of respect for the dead, close to the front of the procession, just after the elephants of King Udena and the queens. Amba had not been able to see it, as the wagon she had been in was closer to the rear, among the yeomanry and staff of the court households.

She saw Mitta conferring with his employer, the Treasurer, Lord Ghosaka, as well as with a brahmin priest whose protuberant belly – exceeding even Mitta’s in circumference by a noticeable degree – stood out proudly over his dhoti and was matched in its glossy rotundity by his gleaming, freshly-shaven pate.

The priest did not look happy or the bit least holy, come to that; nevertheless she quickly guessed that he was being asked to perform the funeral rites for her mother, Sita. He seemed to Page 7 of 18

be finally agreeing, after much persuasion by word and gesticulation of the Minister and his chamberlain, and just as it was clear that things had been decided upon, Amba heard Khujjuttara say, “Looks like the grand poo-bahs have got themselves sorted at last – let’s go and find out what’s up.”

Khujjuttara heaved herself off the tail of the vehicle, in her own form of clumsy exactitude, and pivoted round to help Amba down in turn. Mitta came up to them and beckoned Amba to his side. “The men are going to carry your mother’s body to the burning ground, just around the corner there. They will gather the fuel they need from the forest and make a proper pyre for her. The er…holy priest of His Majesty, Rev. Maha-Baka, has kindly offered to recite the scriptures and the sacred verses for Lady Sita – you need have no fear that things will not be done properly and according to custom. His Majesty, King Udena was insistent,” and here Mitta’s face formed an expression which mixed equal measures of appreciation and surprise, “that your mother be treated as if she had been of a noble house of Vamsa and that you be cared for as if you too were an honoured daughter of the court. He’s taken quite a shine to you – and that’s rare, let me tell you – it must be something to do with a strange dream that he had this morning. It affected him very strongly; I’ll tell you about it later.”

Now that they had stopped for a break and were all going to rest here, to wait out the heat of the day, Amba felt sure that this would give the soldiers who had been looking for Tamba plenty of time to catch up with them. Her eyes kept straying to the gap in the trees that led to the main road – ever expectant, but catching movements that always turned out to be a branch waving in the wind, or a troop of langurs leaping through the foliage.

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Khujjuttara prepared them some food while the firewood was being gathered by the men. At first Amba was not interested in eating – she was far too anxious for that – but her new friend managed to coax her into accepting a mouthful or two and, once the flavours sparked upon her tongue, her belly growled with approval. She was ravenous, for, apart from the fruits that she had begun the day with, provide by her ethereal friends, the kinnaris, she had not had a decent meal for days, even weeks.

Just as they were finishing the last of their lunch, a troop of cavalry rounded the turn from the highroad. Amba’s heart leaped and she ran to see if any of the men had the slight and tawny figure of Tamba on the horse with them. Her eyes flicked from each to each but her sister was not there.

“She was nowhere to be found, Captain,” their leader spoke, above the puffing and snorting of his horse. “We searched high and low, and every village round there – not a sign. If she was there, well, now she’s vanished.”

* * *

Khujjuttara came up behind her, put her hands on Amba’s shoulders and said, “Come on young miss, we’ve got to get ourselves ready for the ceremony.” She turned Amba around, forcing her gaze away from the soldiers and away from the hope that they had carried.

“Can’t go to a funeral with grubby threads on, now can we?” she carried on, “now let’s take a look and see what we got in the baggage.” She hustled Amba along to another of the wagons, in which many of the household stores of the Minister Ghosaka were being carried.

“I’ve got my bundle in here somewhere, and we should be able to find something nice ‘n clean for you too.”

Before long the two of them were skirted and draped with fresh sarongs and shoulder-wraps (Amba’s folded double as she was so small for adult sized apparel) and Khujjuttara had managed to Page 9 of 18

cajole some beautiful flower garlands and incense from some friends among the ranks of servants in King Udena’s retinue. Queen Vasuladatta – with whom King Udena had eloped from her father’s palace in Ujjeni many years before – was amongst the caravan and she had brought with her many ladies-in-waiting and maids. The royal concubines also had their own clusters of slaves and helpers so, even just on this journey, Khujjuttara had managed to make some new friends, strengthen connections and to earn a few favours among them.

They rejoined Mitta and the huffy priest and made their way to the lane that led beyond the main clearing. It made a few twists through the forest and then opened out once more but, whereas the place where the party had set up to eat lunch and rest for the noon-day heat had been a charming and peaceful space, this area had a stark and threatening feel to it. Despite the bright light and warmth of the sun, Amba shivered.

They had built a pyre at the centre of the clearing, a spot that had plainly been the site of many cremations in the past. The ground was bare and baked all around; charred butts of firewood were scattered here and there; families of crows sat perched on the high snags of trees that had long-since died. No one was interested in gathering wood or cutting down anything in a charnel ground, who knew what spiteful spirits and ghosts would come along with the timber?

Sita’s body had been wrapped in a fresh white muslin sheet, with the sarong she had been wearing and Amba’s old shawl arranged neatly around her. She lay without a coffin on the top of a rectangular stack of logs that had been piled up by one of the elder soldiers; they had no official ‘aggi-raja,’ a pyre-chieftan with them so he had been seconded to the job.

Mitta had arranged for some of the court women to dress Sita and to arrange garlands of fresh flowers all about the bamboo bier. One Page 10 of 18

or two of these ladies now accompanied them, having taken care of the body and heard something of the story – that Sita had been the wife of the great merchant Kamanita of Ujjeni and now, having fallen on hard times, had been slain by the deadly bite of a banded krait – they stood by young Amba and beside the stout form of the chamberlain as the priest now stepped forward to begin the obsequies. Khujjuttara dropped to the back.

The portly priest, sweat gleaming on the bare skin of his brow, put his hands, palms together at his chest and began to recite at high speed what must have been verses of the Antyeshti, the sacred Sanskrit texts for the dead. It was scarcely possible to distinguish one word from another as the stream of lilting verbiage murmured forth.

“Deardeparted!Afterdeathmaythepowerofyoursightbeabsorbedinthesunyoursoulintotheatmospheremayyougototheluminousregionortheearthaccordingtoyourreligiousmeritorgotothewatersifitbeyourlotortotheplantsassumingdifferentbodies…”

“Incense and flowers! Come on girl! Make your offerings – my goodness, people don’t know anything these days,” he barked, his face now liberally bedewed with perspiration. “Hurry up, hurry up! We haven’t got all day.”

Amba stepped forward gingerly but was not sure where she was supposed to place the mala of blossoms and the incense sticks that were smoking with a sweet and heady fragrance in her hands. She glanced back at her dark friend, the slave, who, along with the two elder women who had joined them, pointed to end of the pyre where her mother’s head rested.

She scurried forward, as did the two maids and finally Mitta; Khujjuttara, it seemed, was not allowed to come near. The impatient priest then launched into another bout of accelerated recitation, sprinkling the pile of wood and Sita with some kind of holy water, walking round it anti-sun wise as he went.

On completing his third lap he flung the remaining water over the body – increasing his volume at this peak of the preliminaries – roughly took hold of the clothes enfolding Sita’s body, tugged them all off with a grunt of exertion and held them out behind him disdainfully Page 11 of 18

at arm’s length. Fortunately one of the women, a brahmin lady by birth, had the presence of mind to step up a relieve the priest of this obviously (to him) distasteful burden. She deftly bundled these together as she stepped back from the stack of timber. The priest, now moving onto the next phase, reached for the burning oil lamp that he had brought with him.

With increasing speed of delivery and a matching slur of words, he raised the lamp to his forehead. Suddenly he stopped reciting with an abruptness that startled them all, as if he had been riding a charging elephant and it had gone from a full gallop to a dead stop in a heart-beat. He turned toward the small group:

“Come on girl, do your job – there is no son so it’s you who has to light the pyre.” This was the last thing Amba expected and she winced visibly at the idea. Nevertheless the sheer force of the priest’s demand and the need of the moment carried her feet forward. She took the small brass torch containing the bud of fire, then forcefully thrust the flame into the tuft of oil-soaked rags that lined the lower layer of the wood-pile.

“Om Shanti! Shanti! Shanti!” He pronounced the final invocation with great precision and perfect vowel sounds – drawing the ceremony to a close. He brushed his hands off, turned his back and strode away.

“I don’t think he’s accustomed to doing funerals without a fat tip from the deceased’s family, even though His Majesty did already reward him for taking care of this,” remarked Mitta.

“I think he’s upset ‘cos he had to wait ‘til the funeral was done before he could have his lunch,” countered Khujjuttara, although both of them could have been right. The two senior maids who had become part of the group now also excused themselves and left Amba, Mitta and Khujjuttara by the growing fire. Amba held on tightly to the pieces of cloth that had been worn by her mother, the Page 12 of 18

last vestiges that she had of anything that had been close to her.

* * *

The flames climbed rapidly up through the stacked branches, the whole assembly held in place by four stout pillars, one on each corner. Amba’s tears ran freely as the heat grew; the fire began to roar and the three of them had to stand back from the blaze.

She stared at her mother lying there, so still, when she had always been so active and in control; and clad now only in a single layer of plain cloth, to preserve her modesty, when she had always been so proud of her jewels and fine silks when they had lived in the palace in Ujjeni.

Part of her kept half-expecting her mother to suddenly sit up and jump off the heap; she half-expected too that Tamba might appear at this last moment, she looked behind her again and again to see if her resilient little sister would come charging around the corner... but no… Sita lay there implacably as the flames licked ever higher and wrapped her static form – the shell that she had once been – and Tamba was nowhere to be seen.

The sound and raging power of the blaze filled Amba’s senses. The leaping sheets of fire sprang and surged while the wood and the body they fed on made small and gentle shifts – stiff limbs reacting mutedly to the fury and roar around them. She became transfixed and a strange mixture of moods washed through her being: there was the terrible ache of sadness at the loss of her mother and the brutality of the flames; there was an odd exaltation and sense of power and with it an eerie feeling that she stood not in this charnel ground on the Kosambi road, but by the River Ganga near Varanasi, and that there was a man, some kind of yogi who sat amid the flames; then it was she who was surrounded by a wall of fire and though around her there were Page 13 of 18

those in deep distress, who screamed and wailed, she was not afraid, not even excited – her skin burned but she felt cool, so very cool…

“Is it always so sad for everyone?” She asked Khujjuttara.

“Not everyone; not all the time,” she replied. She took hold of Amba’s hand, closed her eyes and recited:

“Man quits his mortal frame,
when joy in life is past,
E’en as a snake is wont its
worn out slough to cast.

No friend’s lament can touch
the ashes of the dead:
Why should I grieve? He fares
the way he had to tread.”

“Where did you learn that from?” asked Amba.

“Don’t rightly know, to be honest, but I remember it from somewhere.”

“What does it mean? It seems odd… I never thought of things that way before.”

“But it’s true isn’t it? Everything that gets born has to die someday. Everything that has come together has to fall apart – stands to reason, doesn’t it? Can you think of anything that has a beginning and no end? I can’t.”

Amba couldn’t bring anything to mind – but then she didn’t try very hard, her mind was not in the mood for puzzles.

“It’s very sad you lost yer mum, and who knows where your sister’s got to, but, if you think about it, we’ve all got to go some time so, why get upset? —it’s only Mother Nature following her way:

Uncalled he hither came,
unbidden soon to go;
E’en as he came, he went. What
cause is there for woe?

Though I should fast and weep,
how would it profit me?
My kith and kin alas! Would
more unhappy be.

As children cry in vain, to grasp
the moon above,
So mortals idly mourn, the loss
of those they love.

As broken pot of earth, ah! Who
can piece again?
So too to mourn the dead is
nought but labour vain.

No friend’s lament can touch
the ashes of the dead:
Why Page 14 of 18

should I grieve? He fares the
way he had to tread.

Khujjuttara grew silent too, after reciting the final verse. She searched her memory to recall where she had learned those words of wisdom but it escaped her—unusually, as she had prodigious powers of recollection.

The strength of the consuming heat soon reached its peak and Sita’s body was swallowed completely into the jaws of flame. It began to be hard to tell what were her limbs and what were branches; what might be her skull and what was a glowing burl. They felt the pressure of the temperature from the pyre and the sun that burned ever hotter overhead, now that it was early afternoon. Mitta put his hand on Amba’s crown.

“Come, little friend, let’s put all that cloth up in the branches of a tree so that some wanderers who might be in need can help themselves.” For most people the cloth that had wrapped a corpse was taboo to use, or at least filled with the threat of being a vehicle for a restless spirit. Religious seekers and yogis, however, were outside of such constraints and concerns, so ’forest cloth‘ from such funerals as this was a regular source of what material they might need for their meagre robes.

They chose the nicest tree they could find in this unsettling, spooky place and carefully placed the small bundle of white and coloured cloth – the funeral shroud, Sita’s old sari and Amba’s own wrap – in the fork of a branch, easily seen from the central area of the burning ground.

* * *

As the three of them rejoined the larger group, they found everyone mobilizing –packing up the mats and awnings, tightening girths and re-yoking the oxen. Soon they were on the road again.

The following two days of travel brought them ever closer to Kosambi and down into the valley of the great River Yamuna. Khujjuttara did a grand job of keeping her young friend occupied with tales and discussions of a bewildering Page 15 of 18

variety.

“You know so much about everything,” exclaimed Amba, after a particularly erudite exposition by Khujjuttara on how it was that birds could fly and little girls couldn’t, “you are going to be a great and famous woman one day!”

“I don’t think so, dearie,” she chuckled and grinned showing most of her gleaming teeth. “Three reasons: reason #1, I’m a slave and the property, just like that there ox and this here wagon, of the good Master Ghosaka; to be disposed of as he chooses, not me; Reason #2, I’m a crookback – that’s where I got my name from, ‘khujja’ meaning ‘crooked’ – can’t hardly sit straight and I’m a bit lop-legged too, so walking isn’t that easy either; now what kind of a grand lady is going to have a gimpy body like this one?”

“Reason #3 is this,” she thrust out her right arm in front of Amba, who was flummoxed for a moment as to what the slave-girl meant.

“What’s wrong with your arm?” she finally asked, quite unable to guess what Khujjuttara was driving at.

“It isn’t my arm that’s the problem, girlie, it’s my skin – look! I’m as dark as monsoon mud – all the great and famous are fair-skinned or golden – like you are.”

“That’s not true. My little brother is much darker than you and the brahmin priest predicted he would become rich and powerful or maybe even a saint. His proper name is Komudi – white lotus – but he’s always been called Krishna ‘cos he’s as dark as the great god himself. He’s really black.

“So if he and the god Krishna, and all kinds of other famous people can be so dark and become great and powerful, I’m sure that you could too.” And, thoroughly pleased with her logic, Amba decided to remain convinced that her new-found friend, despite her many set-backs, would have her greatness recognized one day.

* * *

The last leagues rolled away beneath their wheels and soon they were within sight Page 16 of 18

of the sparkling river and the towering walls of the city of Kosambi, ranked along the eastern bank of the Yamuna. Over these days she had become more at ease in the company of Mitta and Khujjuttara and they, in turn, had grown to love the sincere and kind, serious little child. She had also impressed the King’s physician with the rapid healing of the wound in her foot; only a couple of days previously it had seemed angry and painful, and it had caused her to limp and hobble around, now there was a distinct mark on her sole where the cut had been but the skin had knitted together well and there was no inflammation or infection.

“Well, well, well – young lady, you must be favoured by the gods indeed, I never saw a wound like this heal so swiftly and so thoroughly.”

“It wasn’t the gods, it was the fairies… I mean the kinnaris – they are the ones who fixed it, I told you before.”

“Humm, yers, well… very good…” the doctor mumbled, feeling it would not be very useful to argue the point. “Have it your own way. But whatever has done the trick, it has worked well. You, young lady, are as right as rain.”

Amba noticed both Mitta and Khujjuttara looking on with an expression of condescending indulgence on their faces; a look that said: “Yes, little girls will have their fantasies…” Catching them in this she set her small jaw and glared at them, “I wasn’t fibbing and you shouldn’t look at me like that. It’s true what I said about them, and the yakkha, one day you’ll see I’m right.”

The two adults found themselves surprisingly chastened and Mitta even realized he was blushing. They apologized for not taking her seriously and passed the remainder of the journey peacefully together.

When the royal party finally reached the river bank, they were soon ferried across and ushered inside the city gates. Amba looked eagerly around her as their wagon rolled along the rutted lanes Page 17 of 18

to the Minister’s grand compound. Mitta took her hand and helped her down as they entered the courtyard of his house.

A bevy of servants appeared to look after the oxen, unload the bags and to receive their master home. Through the doorway also appeared Sundari, Mitta’s wife of almost 40 years.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he said to her, with a broad smile, “a little something that I picked up along the way.” Her curiosity was piqued. He brought Amba forward, his hand cradling her head, “Don’t be shy. My love, this is Amba; she’s an orphan. I think we should adopt her as our child.”


* * * * * *

Notes and References:

Chapter 6

1. Page 66 — “Get in, Khujjuttara… ‘Khujja’ in Pali means ‘hunchbacked,’ ‘uttara’ means ‘upper’ or ‘top,’ ‘high,’ or ‘superior’ – thus Khujjuttarā’s name means something like ‘the best of hunchbacks.’
She became unique in the history of Buddhism as the only layperson to have recorded and compiled an entire section of the scriptures on her own, ‘The Itivuttaka.’ The name of this collection is derived from the opening of each discourse: “This was said (vuttam) by the Buddha… so (iti) I heard.” Thus, literally, it is ‘The So-it-was-said Collection.’

2. Page 68 — their hands pressed together in añjali… ‘Añjali’ is the universal gesture of respect in Asia; the hands are held together at the heart, with the palms touching.

3. Page 70 — Maha Baka… This name means ‘Great Heron’ –a proud and haughty bird in Indian myth. ‘Baka’ was the name of a conceited brahmā god who was formerly a teacher of the Bodhisattva; the story of his encounter with the Buddha is found in The Discourse on the Invitation to a Brahmā, M 49.

4. Page 71 — who knew what spiteful spirits and ghosts would come along with the timber?... Fear of haunting by spirits attached to the possessions of the dead is very common in Asia. In the countryside cremations are held Page 18 of 18

in forests, and the forests are preserved in the belief that the spirits of the newly dead will be able to have somewhere to stay—i.e., in among the trees and NOT in the village.
Furthermore, it is often believed that, if you are foolish enough to cut down a tree that’s ‘occupied,’ the tenant might come along with the lumber and cause trouble in your home.

5. Page 72 — “Deardeparted!... These verses do indeed come from the traditional Vedic ceremonies for the dead, the Atyesti, or Antyeshti. They are recited after making five oblations, to: Agni, Soma, Loka, Earth & the Other World. See ‘The Oxford Dictionary of World Religions,’ p77

6. Page 72 — the mala of blossoms… A ‘māla’ is a garland or rosary.

7. Page 72 — walking round it anti-sun wise… Circumambulation for the dead is done anti-clockwise; for general devotional ceremonies, always clockwise.

8. Page 73 — “Om Shanti! Shanti! Shanti!... This is a common closing phrase for Vedic scriptures; it means ‘Peace! Peace! Peace!’

9. Page 74 — Man quits his mortal frame… These verses all come from Jat §354; Khujjuttarā is the reciter of the last ones, in a previous life with the Bodhisattva.

10. Page 76 — let’s put that cloth up in the branches of a tree… This custom is the source of the ‘pah bah’ or ‘forest cloth’ ceremony in Thailand. The presence of such funeral shrouds in the low branches of a tree in the charnel grounds is mentioned in the Vinaya and the Suttas as a regular source of robe material for the monastics.

11. Page 78 — Through the doorway also appeared Sundari… Sundarī means ‘beautiful.’