The Massive Pongyi
Early one Tuesday morning I answered a knock at the front door. Blocking out the background was a massive man who stood well over six feet. His snow-white bushy eyebrows guarded vivid blue eyes that never stopped twinkling. His burnt mahogany weathered features were those of a mariner with years before the mast. He had a closely shaven scalp and wore the saffron robe of a Buddhist monk or pongyi. He asked, `Are you the UBA pilot?’ I nodded, and motioned him to enter. Before I continue I must take a step back to when I was ten years old. My mother decided my brother and I should learn a musical instrument. The problem was that neither my brother nor I wanted to learn the violin. Mother took an executive decision that Richard would learn the piano and I the violin. Richard smirked and I sulked. Our Mother dropped the idea, but the urge to play the piano often came to mind, and lately the idea had strengthened!
My visitor spoke fluent English with a slight guttural accent. Perhaps, he gave each vowel a touch more value than needed but it pleased my ear. With a nonchalant sweep of my muscular arm I cleared the largest chair and got him comfortable.
He said, I have come to give you piano lessons.
What was happening, for I had told nobody of my urge? Was I ready to take lessons? I was not yet convinced that I should and we further talked. Have you ever felt like a spare part at a wedding? Well that day I did and I was. He decided that each Tuesday he would work with me. I agreed each Tuesday would be admirable - beginning next week. He decided now was better. My mind rebelled nobody would dictate to me! I’d show him who was boss - I began my first lesson, but he saved my face. The length of the lesson was my decision. He set the cost at 13 Rupees and 13 Annas a lesson and assured me that was the exact sum needed. Would I kindly have that exact amount, please? Without any money he couldn’t make change. I said let’s make it 14 Rupees but he refused. The amount required would buy medicine for his ailing teacher who he called his master.
My lessons had run for a month and I learned much of this strange man. He was of Polish stock and in his mid twenties he had established himself as a concert pianist. Important people fawned over his talent and decorations festooned his person. Women fell at his feet. Yet, his life seemed without purpose or direction. Surely, there must be more to life than this? One evening in the midst of a gala performance he walked from the stage into the austere life of a Buddhist pongyi. Now he lived on the charity of others. Had he retained any human failings of his previous way of life? Yes, he had. He relished a cup of strong black coffee and he allowed me the privilege of making it for him. That little gesture allowed him to overlook my lack of progress.
My visitor spoke fluent English with a slight guttural accent. Perhaps, he gave each vowel a touch more value than needed but it pleased my ear. With a nonchalant sweep of my muscular arm I cleared the largest chair and got him comfortable.
He said, I have come to give you piano lessons.
What was happening, for I had told nobody of my urge? Was I ready to take lessons? I was not yet convinced that I should and we further talked. Have you ever felt like a spare part at a wedding? Well that day I did and I was. He decided that each Tuesday he would work with me. I agreed each Tuesday would be admirable - beginning next week. He decided now was better. My mind rebelled nobody would dictate to me! I’d show him who was boss - I began my first lesson, but he saved my face. The length of the lesson was my decision. He set the cost at 13 Rupees and 13 Annas a lesson and assured me that was the exact sum needed. Would I kindly have that exact amount, please? Without any money he couldn’t make change. I said let’s make it 14 Rupees but he refused. The amount required would buy medicine for his ailing teacher who he called his master.
My lessons had run for a month and I learned much of this strange man. He was of Polish stock and in his mid twenties he had established himself as a concert pianist. Important people fawned over his talent and decorations festooned his person. Women fell at his feet. Yet, his life seemed without purpose or direction. Surely, there must be more to life than this? One evening in the midst of a gala performance he walked from the stage into the austere life of a Buddhist pongyi. Now he lived on the charity of others. Had he retained any human failings of his previous way of life? Yes, he had. He relished a cup of strong black coffee and he allowed me the privilege of making it for him. That little gesture allowed him to overlook my lack of progress.
His musing continued and as time passed he found his peace in a monastery nestling in the Himalayan foothills. I knew that range as Burma’s Icy Mountains. His life was hard but his mind was at rest – he had found his direction. The head of the monastery was a Bulgarian in his nineties who became his mentor and dearest friend. Then he told me a story of brutality that I still find hard to record. Early one morning he accompanied his teacher to a nearby village, but they returned to charnel house of blood that covered walls and floor. A band of Chinese troops had struck the monastery and butchered his friends.
Tears ran down his face as he described their barbaric behaviour. They had chopped off their hands and feet, gorged out their eyes, torn out the tongues of all but one. Then, the fiends cooked the eyes and testicles and ate them. Their departing gesture was to gut them. The one with the tongue told them all this and only died when he got their promise to immediately leave.
They broke their promise and spent the night fitting together their butchered friends and burying them in shallow holes scratched from the flinty earth. Only then did the two begin their long walk to Rangoon, which would take them a year. He told me of the wondrous things of nature they had seen. How they pushed through miles of white bamboo that flowers briefly every thirteen years. As they neared Rangoon his teacher was in distress. Yet, he was determined to die in the hallowed atmosphere of the Shwe Dagon Pagoda. The sentinels put them in a tiny cell where his teacher collapsed. He needed medication and this was where I came into the picture.
My lessons continued and he was never late. In spite of myself I was making progress, but I was not a good pupil. I knew it and he knew it. One day he announced, through a stream of spittle, that, We will do a little theory. I enjoyed listening to his voice but the subject matter left me cold.
He told me another strange story and because of my Christian faith he told it with deep respect. Did Jesus of Nazareth come to Kashmir? Some say that he did. Others claim they have seen his tomb there! If this is correct what does it do to our Gospels?
This is his story, My teacher says there is a scroll in a Tibetan monastery that tells of the Isha Putra - the Son of God. He was born of a virgin and as a youth travelled deep into the Himalayas in search of spiritual wisdom. This was your Jesus of Nazareth. On his second visit he died in Srinagar – the scroll gives the location of his tomb. It is in the Rozabal area the oldest part of that ancient city.
One Tuesday morning my pongyi arrived as usual and we set to work. I handed him his due to the exact Anna. He refused to take it for his Master was dead. When I pressed him he assured me he needed nothing. He showed me his begging bowl and it was a hefty one. His other possessions were a needle, a razor to shave his scalp and a string of 108 beads for meditation. The 108 seem to be the number of things that go wrong in people’s lives. Finally, he showed me the filter he used to remove tiny insects from his drinking water. So, what use was money to him!
Tears ran down his face as he described their barbaric behaviour. They had chopped off their hands and feet, gorged out their eyes, torn out the tongues of all but one. Then, the fiends cooked the eyes and testicles and ate them. Their departing gesture was to gut them. The one with the tongue told them all this and only died when he got their promise to immediately leave.
They broke their promise and spent the night fitting together their butchered friends and burying them in shallow holes scratched from the flinty earth. Only then did the two begin their long walk to Rangoon, which would take them a year. He told me of the wondrous things of nature they had seen. How they pushed through miles of white bamboo that flowers briefly every thirteen years. As they neared Rangoon his teacher was in distress. Yet, he was determined to die in the hallowed atmosphere of the Shwe Dagon Pagoda. The sentinels put them in a tiny cell where his teacher collapsed. He needed medication and this was where I came into the picture.
My lessons continued and he was never late. In spite of myself I was making progress, but I was not a good pupil. I knew it and he knew it. One day he announced, through a stream of spittle, that, We will do a little theory. I enjoyed listening to his voice but the subject matter left me cold.
He told me another strange story and because of my Christian faith he told it with deep respect. Did Jesus of Nazareth come to Kashmir? Some say that he did. Others claim they have seen his tomb there! If this is correct what does it do to our Gospels?
This is his story, My teacher says there is a scroll in a Tibetan monastery that tells of the Isha Putra - the Son of God. He was born of a virgin and as a youth travelled deep into the Himalayas in search of spiritual wisdom. This was your Jesus of Nazareth. On his second visit he died in Srinagar – the scroll gives the location of his tomb. It is in the Rozabal area the oldest part of that ancient city.
One Tuesday morning my pongyi arrived as usual and we set to work. I handed him his due to the exact Anna. He refused to take it for his Master was dead. When I pressed him he assured me he needed nothing. He showed me his begging bowl and it was a hefty one. His other possessions were a needle, a razor to shave his scalp and a string of 108 beads for meditation. The 108 seem to be the number of things that go wrong in people’s lives. Finally, he showed me the filter he used to remove tiny insects from his drinking water. So, what use was money to him!
He sipped his coffee with noisy relish and remarked, Today I received my greatest blessing. I was allowed to hold eight hairs from the Buddha’s head. These glorious treasures are housed in Burma’s Shwe Dagon Pagoda.
When I expressed ignorance of these hairs he said, In the year 585 BC two Burmese merchants landed in India to trade. There they met the Buddha who pulled eight hairs from his head and gave them to the traders. When Tapussa and Bhalliks returned to Okkala (Rangoon) King Okkalapa enshrined them in a pagoda 66 feet high. In the reign of Queen Shinsawbu of Hanthawaddy (1455-62) that pagoda, the Shwe Dagon, assumed its present form.
With a gulp he finished his coffee and stood to leave. I asked him if he had forgiven the Chinese soldiers. His expressive eyebrows arched at my question. His teacher and he did that as they buried their mutilated friends.
As we moved towards the door he quoted from the Dhammapada. Hatred does not cease by hatred at any time – rudely, I finished the quotation, hatred ceases by love. His bewitching smile showed his pleasure at my recollection. I watched him start the trek to his distant home - that windswept monastery set deep in Burma’s Icy Mountains - for he now was its titular head. As he receded into the distance I realised that we had never even exchanged names. My piano playing ended that very day nearly 60 years ago, however I remember him with vivid affection.
When I expressed ignorance of these hairs he said, In the year 585 BC two Burmese merchants landed in India to trade. There they met the Buddha who pulled eight hairs from his head and gave them to the traders. When Tapussa and Bhalliks returned to Okkala (Rangoon) King Okkalapa enshrined them in a pagoda 66 feet high. In the reign of Queen Shinsawbu of Hanthawaddy (1455-62) that pagoda, the Shwe Dagon, assumed its present form.
With a gulp he finished his coffee and stood to leave. I asked him if he had forgiven the Chinese soldiers. His expressive eyebrows arched at my question. His teacher and he did that as they buried their mutilated friends.
As we moved towards the door he quoted from the Dhammapada. Hatred does not cease by hatred at any time – rudely, I finished the quotation, hatred ceases by love. His bewitching smile showed his pleasure at my recollection. I watched him start the trek to his distant home - that windswept monastery set deep in Burma’s Icy Mountains - for he now was its titular head. As he receded into the distance I realised that we had never even exchanged names. My piano playing ended that very day nearly 60 years ago, however I remember him with vivid affection.