PART IV
                                          
    
    
  I  passed through the city of Chanthaburi and went to stay in an open 
  field to the south of town, by the canal to Baan Praduu, before going 
  to visit Khun Amnaad at his home.  He found me a quiet place to stay:  
  a burial ground about 800 meters from town.  This was an area of 
  bamboo and //taew// trees, thickly overgrown with grass, with only one 
  clearing large enough to stay in:  the clearing where they held 
  cremations.  The place was called Khlawng Kung (ShrimpCanal) Cemetery.  
  This was how I came to stay there.  By this point there was only one 
  other monk staying with me -- an old monk who had followed me from 
  Prajinburi -- and one boy.  The others had left to return home.
    
    As the rains neared, a number of Chanthaburi people asked me to stay 
  and spend the Retreat there, so I went to inform the ecclesiastical 
  head of the province, but he wouldn't allow it.  So I had Khun Amnaad 
  go in person to inform the ecclesiastical head of the Southeast, Phra 
  Rajakavi at Wat Debsirin in Bangkok.  Phra Rajakavi sent a letter to 
  the provincial head, having him give me permission to spend the rains 
  there in the cemetery.
    
    I first came to stay here in Khlawng Kung Cemetery on March 5, 1935.  
  That first rainy season the practice of the Dhamma began to catch on 
  among a number of different people in the city of Chanthaburi.  A monk 
  and a novice came to spend the rains with me.  At the end of the rains 
  we went off, wandering from place to place in the province, and even 
  more people became interested in practicing the Dhamma.  At the same 
  time, though, a number of people -- both monks and lay people -- 
  became jealous and resentful and started a full-scale campaign against 
  me.  Posters began appearing on the sign boards in the middle of town, 
  making charges against me that became more and more serious as time 
  went on.
    
    One day an old woman, claiming to be a follower of mine, went 
  through town taking up a collection, asking for money and rice, 
  claiming that she had accompanied me on my wanderings.  She canvassed 
  the town until she came to the house of Prince Anuwat Woraphong.  The 
  Prince called her into his house to question her and afterwards 
  started spreading invidious remarks about me, even though I was 
  completely ignorant of what was going on.  He talked to people on the 
  street, in stores and in their homes, saying that I was a no-good 
  vagrant monk, letting my followers wander about pestering people, 
  taking up collections.  This suddenly became a big issue all over 
  town.  I had no idea what had started the issue.
    
    It so happened that Khun Nai Kimlang, the wife of Khun Amnaad, and 
  Nang Fyang, both of whom knew well what sort of person I was, learned 
  of the rumors and went straight to the home of Prince Anuwat, were 
  they also found the provincial governor.  They began to take issue 
  with the Prince, saying, "You've been going around making vicious 
  unfounded charges against our ajaan, and from now on we want you to 
  stop!"  This started a big scene right there in front of the 
  provincial governor.  Finally, after making an investigation, they 
  discovered that the old woman was connected with the monks at Wat Mai, 
  and was no follower of mine; and that I had never had any women 
  accompany me on my wanderings.  That was the end of the matter.
    
    During my second rains in Chanthaburi there was another affair.  
  This time a number of lay people went to the Supreme Patriarch at Wat 
  Bovornives in Bangkok and charged me with being a fraud.  The Supreme 
  Patriarch sent a letter to the provincial head, Phra Khru Gurunatha of 
  Wat Chanthanaram, telling him to look into the matter.  So I 
  immediately copied down the information in my monastic identification 
  papers and sent it to the Supreme Patriarch, who then told us to wait 
  where we were, that he would come and see for himself after the end of 
  the Rains Retreat.
    
    And when the rains were over, he came to Chanthaburi.  When I 
  learned that the boat he was traveling on had docked at Thaa Chalaeb, 
  I had a contingent of  lay people go to greet him.  He spent the night 
  at Wat Chanthanaram and the next morning, after breakfast, came to see 
  me at what was now Khlawng Kung Forest Monastery.  I invited him to 
  deliver a sermon to the lay people present, but he declined the 
  invitation, saying, "I'm afraid I've never practiced meditation.  How 
  could I deliver a meditation sermon?"  He then went on to say, "I've 
  learned that a great number of people here hold you in very high 
  esteem.  Monks like you are hard to find."  With that, he returned to 
  Wat Chanthanaram and then to Bangkok.
    
    During my third rainy season there, the people in Chanthaburi came 
  out in even greater numbers to hear my sermons, to the point where Nai 
  Sawng Kui, the owner of the bus lines, felt moved to announce that he 
  would give a discount to anyone who took his bus to hear the sermons 
  of this ajaan (meaning me).  As for myself and the other monks and 
  novices in the monastery, we could take his buses anywhere in town 
  free of charge.  Day by day, more and more people -- including the 
  provincial governor and district officials in every district -- came 
  to know me.
    
    When the rains were over, I went out to wander through the various 
  townships in every district of Chanthaburi province, teaching and 
  delivering sermons to the people.  When I returned to the provincial 
  capital, I would go almost every Sunday to deliver sermons in the 
  provincial prison.  At that time Phra Nikornbodi was provincial 
  governor; and Khun Bhumiprasat, the district official in Thaa Mai 
  (NewPort).  Both of them seemed especially eager to help me get about. 
  Sometimes they would ask me to give sermons to prisoners, either in 
  the monastery or in the district offices.  On other occasions, they 
  would ask me to give sermons to the people in the different townships 
  in Thaa Mai district, especially in Naa Yai Aam, a densely forested 
  area crawling with bandits and thieves.  I made a constant effort to 
  keep on teaching the people in this way.
    
    The provincial capital continued to be thick with incidents and 
  rumors concocted by people hot-eyed with jealousy, but none of this 
  ever fazed me in the least.  Sometimes Khun Nai Kimlang, a supporter I 
  respected as if she were my mother, would come to me and say, "They're 
  going to make things hard for you in all kinds of ways. They'll either 
  be sending women here, or else gangsters, looking for an opening to 
  smear your name. [*]  Are you up to the fight?  If not, you'd better 
  go live someplace else."
    
      *[There have been cases where people with a grudge against a 
      monk have arranged for a woman to visit him frequently, get on 
      familiar terms with him, and then accuse him of having molested 
      her sexually.   Since Buddhists are very concerned that 
      relationships between monks and women be pure, and since such 
      accusations are almost impossible to prove one way or another, 
      they are often judged by a form of mob mentality that is swayed 
      more by prejudices than the facts of the case:  Women who //have 
      // been molested have sometimes been ostracized by the 
      community, and perfectly innocent monks have sometimes been 
      driven out of town. This was the basis for Khun Nai Kimlang's 
      fears.]
    
    
    So I'd answer, "Bring on two more Chanthaburi's.  I'm not going to 
  run away.  But I can tell you that as soon as there are no more 
  incidents, I probably //will// want to run away."
    
    I kept up my efforts to do good. Some villages in the province 
  wanted meditation monks to come live on a steady basis, and in 
  particular, Khun Bhumiprasat wanted monks to go live at Naa Yai Aam.  
  I didn't have any monks to spare, but I promised to find some for him.  
  I sent a letter to Ajaan Singh, asking for monks, and he sent down a 
  group of five who then went to set up a monastery in Naa Yai Aam. 
    
    This was a really poor village.  They were hard pressed to find even 
  a shovel to dig post holes for the monks" quarters.  After I had sent 
  the monks to live there, I got together a contingent of lay people -- 
  headed by Khun Nai Hong, wife of Luang Anuthai, and Khun Nai Kimlang 
  -- to go visit them.  When we reached the monks" residence in Naa Yai 
  Aam and saw the destitute conditions under which the villagers and 
  monks were living, Khun Nai Kimlang lost her temper:  "Here we've 
  brought monks out here to suffer and starve!  Don't stay here," she 
  told the monks.  "Come back with us to Chanthaburi."
    
    When Ajaan Kongma, the leader of the monks, heard this, he lost 
  nerve and actually decided to return to Chanthaburi.  As a result, the 
  monastery fell vacant, with no monks staying on for the rains.  After 
  that, Ajaan Kongma went to start a monastery in Baan Nawng Bua -- 
  LotusMarsh Village -- and trained the lay people there, and in this 
  way helped to spread the Dhamma in Chanthaburi province.
    
    
                                 * * *
    
    
  During the years I made Chanthaburi my home base, I wandered about 
  through a number of other provinces as well.  Once I went to Trat.  I 
  stayed next to the cemetery at Wat Lamduan along with a following of 
  ten or so people from Chanthaburi.  That night around 200 lay people 
  came out to hear a sermon.  Just as darkness was falling and I was 
  getting ready to preach, there was an incident:  Someone threw three 
  huge bricks into the middle of the assembly.  I myself had no idea 
  what this was supposed to mean.  Sounds of indignation spread through 
  the group.  That was the year the war with the French started.  I had 
  been constantly hearing the sound of guns out off the coast, and as 
  soon as the incident occurred, I thought of bullets.  Some people got 
  up and were getting ready to chase after the bandits, so I stopped 
  them.  "Don't get involved," I said.  "Don't go after them.  If 
  they're good people, you should follow them, but if they're bad 
  people, don't.  Follow me instead.  I'm not afraid of anything -- 
  including bullets, not to mention bricks.
    
      //If you're shot in the mouth, it'll come out your rear,
      So there's no one in the world you should fear//."
    
    As soon as they heard this, the whole group fell silent.  I then 
  delivered a sermon on the theme, "Non-violence is happiness in the 
  world."
    
    After we had stayed there a fair while, we went on to Laem Ngob 
  district to visit the wife of the district official, who was related 
  to one of the lay people in the group. Two days later, I got the group 
  to take a boat across the strait to Ko Chang (Elephant Island), where 
  we stayed deep in the quiet forest.  After teaching them for a while, 
  I took them back to Laem Ngob.
    
    We went to stay in an area to the north of the district offices, 
  under a giant banyan tree.  Altogether there were almost twenty lay 
  people with me.  Each of us arranged his own place to stay.  When we 
  were all settled, at about three in the afternoon, I started feeling 
  tired, so I entered my umbrella tent to rest for a while.  I wasn't 
  able to get any rest, though, because of all the noise the people were 
  making -- cutting firewood, talking, starting fires.  So I got up from 
  my meditation, stuck my head out of the tent and called out, "What's 
  the matter with you all?" 
    
    Before I could say anything more, I saw a huge cloud of sea 
  mosquitoes off the coast, heading for the shade of the banyan tree.  
  It occurred to me, "I'm a person of good will.  I haven't killed a 
  living being since I was ordained."  So I opened my mosquito netting, 
  folded it up and said to all the monks and laypeople there, "Everyone 
  put out your fires, right now.  Light incense, fold up your mosquito 
  netting and sit together in meditation.  I'm going to meditate and 
  spread good will to fight off the mosquitoes -- without pulling any 
  punches."  Everyone obeyed.  I gave a five-minute sermon on good will, 
  and the cloud of mosquitoes dissolved away and virtually disappeared.  
  Not a single one of them bit anyone in our group.
    
    We spent the night there.  In the evening a large number of lay 
  people, including the District Official, civil servants and others in 
  town, came to hear a sermon, so I preached the Dhamma to them.
    
    After staying on for a fair while, we set out on foot through 
  Khlawng Yai township and across Ito Mountain.  Reaching Laem Yang, we 
  met one of my followers who had brought a boat from Chanthaburi to 
  transport plowshares.  He invited us to return to Chanthaburi on his 
  boat, The Golden Prince.  His home was in Laem Singh (Lion's Point), 
  not far from the town of Chanthaburi.  So we returned to Khlawng Kung 
  Forest Monastery and there I spent the Rains Retreat as usual.
    
    
                                 * * *
    
  During the rains that year I fell ill.  I came down with fierce 
  stomach pains, and no matter what I took for them, they wouldn't go 
  away.  One night I sat up in meditation almost till dawn.  At about 4 
  a.m. I fell half-asleep and dreamed, "My disease is a karma disease.  
  There's no need to take any medicine."  That is, while I was sitting 
  in meditation, I felt absolutely still, almost as if I had fallen 
  asleep, and a vision appeared:  a birdcage containing a thin, famished 
  dove.  The meaning was this:  I had once kept a pet dove and had 
  forgotten to feed it for several days running.  This karma was now 
  bearing fruit, causing me to have gastritis.  Therefore, there was 
  only one way to cure it -- to do good by way of the mind.  I decided 
  it was time to go off alone.
    
    After the end of the Rains Retreat I went off wandering, teaching 
  and preaching to the lay people as I went, by way of Thaa Mai all the 
  way to Paak Nam Prasae, Klaeng district in Rayong province.  There I 
  stayed off to one side of the town.  A lot of townspeople, mostly 
  Chinese, came to make merit and donate food.  There was one Chinese 
  woman about 40 years old who came and said she wanted to shave her 
  head and become a nun.  "I want to go off wandering with you," she 
  told me.  She was already dressed in white and ready to be ordained. 
  But an incident occurred:  two of her sons came and pleaded with her 
  to go back home.  It seemed that she had another child, only two 
  months old, but still she wasn't willing to go back.  This created a 
  big disturbance.
    
    All that while it seemed that the lay people wouldn't leave me in 
  peace. During the day, I had no time for myself.  At night I had to 
  preach.
    
    One day I crossed over to the west of town, hoping to evade the 
  Chinese woman, who had gone back home to gather her things.  As I was 
  going through town I passed one of her sons heading in the opposite 
  direction.  After I had finished my meal that day I decided to get 
  away from people by going deep into a thorn-infested cemetery.  Under 
  the shade of a low tree I spread out a reed mat and lay down to rest.  
  Before closing my eyes, I made a vow:  "If it's not yet 2 p.m., I 
  won't leave this spot."
    
    After a moment or so there was a rustling sound up in the top of the 
  tree.  I looked up and saw that a nest of large red ants had broken 
  open. This was because there was a vine wrapped around the nest.  I 
  had sat down on the base of the vine, and so now red ants were 
  spilling out onto my mat, swarming all over me, biting in earnest. 
    
    I sat right up.  They were all over my legs.  I made up my mind to 
  spread thoughts of good will, dedicating the merit to all living 
  beings and making a vow:  "Since becoming ordained, I've never even 
  thought of killing or harming a living being.  If in a previous 
  lifetime I've ever eaten or harmed any of you all, then go ahead and 
  bite me until you've had your fill.  But if I've never harmed you, 
  then let's call an end to this.  Don't  bite me at all." 
    
    Having made my vow, I sat in meditation.  My mind was still -- 
  absolutely silent.  The rustling sound of the ants disappeared.  Not a 
  one of them bit me.  I really felt amazed at the Dhamma.  Opening my 
  eyes, I found them swarming in huge numbers in a line around the edge 
  of the mat.
    
    At about 11 o'clock I heard the voices of two people coming in my 
  direction.  As they came nearer, they suddenly started crying out in 
  Chinese, "//Ai Ya!  Ai Ya//!"  I heard them beat themselves with 
  branches.  Laughing to myself, I called out to them, "What's the 
  matter?"
    
    "Red ants," they answered.  "They're biting us."  As a result, 
  neither of them was able to get anywhere near me.  When 2 p.m. finally 
  arrived, I left my resting place and came out to where I had 
  originally pitched camp.  There I learned that the two Chinese who had 
  come to see me were sons of the woman who wanted to go with me, so I 
  sat and talked with them.  They pleaded with me to help them, not to 
  let their mother go with me, because the baby was still small and 
  their father was an old man.
    
    When evening came, the Chinese woman showed up, dressed in white, an 
  umbrella in her hand and a bag over her shoulder.  "I'm coming with 
  you," she said.  I tried to discourage her with frightening stories, 
  but she answered bravely, "I'm not afraid of anything at all.  All I 
  ask is that you let me go with you."
    
    So I said, "If I don't eat, what will you do?"
    
    "I won't eat either," she answered.
    
    "And what if I don't even drink water?"
    
    "I won't either," she answered.  "I'm willing to die if I have to."  
  She continued, "I've been miserable because of my family for many 
  years now.  But as soon as I met you I felt at peace.  Brave.  Happy 
  and free.  Now I can even teach the Dhamma in your place."
    
    To tell the truth, her Thai wasn't very clear at all.  So I turned 
  and started quizzing her.  Her reasonings and explanations were pure 
  Dhamma.  It was amazing.  When she finished, all the lay people 
  present -- who had heard plenty of Dhamma in their time -- raised 
  their hands to their foreheads in respect.  But I felt heavy at heart 
  for her sake. 
    
    Finally I had to tell her that women couldn't go with monks, and for 
  the next few days I continued to instruct and console her.  Ever since 
  setting out from Chanthaburi -- 31 days altogether -- I had been 
  suffering pains in my stomach every day, but as soon as this incident 
  occurred they vanished.
    
    I continued teaching her until she was willing to follow my 
  instructions.  Finally she agreed to return home.  So I told her, 
  "Don't worry.  Whenever I can find the time, I'll be back to see you.  
  I'm staying right nearby, in Khlawng Kung Forest Monastery."  Up to 
  that point she had had no idea where I was from, but as soon as I told 
  her this, she seemed both pleased and content.  So when we had reached 
  an understanding, I returned as usual to Chanthaburi.  The pains in my 
  stomach were gone.
    
    
                                 * * *
    
    
  When the rains came again, I stayed and taught the people in 
  Chanthaburi as before.  During my years in Chanthaburi I would go off 
  at the end of the rains each year and wander through the nearby 
  provinces, such as Rayong, Chonburi, Prajinburi, Chachoengsao, and 
  then would return to spend the rains in Chanthaburi.  In 1939, though, 
  I decided to travel through India and Burma, and so made all the 
  necessary arrangements to get a passport.  That November I left 
  Chanthaburi for Bangkok, where I stayed at Wat Sra Pathum.  I 
  contacted people in the various government offices and the British 
  Embassy, and they were all helpful in every way.  Luang Prakawb 
  Nitisan acted as my sponsor, contacting the embassy, guaranteeing my 
  financial standing and my purity vis a vis the rules of the Sangha and 
  the laws of the land. When everything was in line with all the 
  necessary legal procedures and I had all my necessary papers, I left 
  for Phitsanuloke.  From there I headed for Sukhothai and then on to 
  Tak.  In Tak I stayed in a temple while the lay person with me went to 
  buy plane tickets to Mae Sod. He didn't succeed in getting the 
  tickets, though, because all the flights were booked full.  (On this 
  trip I was accompanied by a follower named Nai Chin who, though a 
  little retarded, was good at making himself useful.)
    
    The next morning, after our meal, we set out on foot from Tak and 
  crossed over Phaa Waw mountain.  By the time we reached Mae Sod we had 
  spent two nights sleeping on the trail.  In Mae Sod we stayed in a 
  Burmese temple named Jawng Tua Ya -- i.e., Forest Temple.  There were 
  no monks there, though, only a Shan hilltribesman who knew Burmese.  
  We stayed with him a little over a week until I had learned a fair 
  amount of Burmese, and then went on.
    
    As soon as we had crossed the Moei River and reached the town on the 
  other side, a man of about 30 came running to welcome us.  He invited 
  us into his truck, saying he would take us to where we wanted to go.  
  He was Thai,  a native of Kamphaeng Phet, and had left home and come 
  to live in Burma for almost 20 years now.  The two of us -- Nai Chin 
  and I -- accepted his invitation and got into the truck.
    
    We rode into a forest and started up a tall mountain, the road 
  curving back and forth.  It was 2 p.m. before we left the mountain 
  range and reached level ground. We kept going until we reached 
  Kawkareik (Jik Swamp), and just as darkness fell we reached his home.  
  There we spent the night.  At about 4 a.m. a Burmese woman brought 
  some rice porridge to donate to me, and told me to eat it right then 
  and there.  I refused because it wasn't yet dawn, so she left and 
  waited outside until it was light.
    
    After daybreak, when I had finished my meal, the wife of the man in 
  whose house we were staying got us onto the bus to Kyondo (Steamboat) 
  Landing.  From there we took the boat to Moulmein.  The ride lasted 
  about four hours.  While we were on the boat, Indians and Burmese came 
  to talk with me, but I couldn't understand much of what they were 
  saying.  At about four in the afternoon the boat reached Moulmein.  
  From here we had to take another boat across the river to Martaban, a 
  ride that took a fair while.  Reaching the shore we could see the 
  railroad station far in the distance.
    
    The train wasn't going to leave until 7 p.m., we learned at the 
  station, so we went to wait under the shade of a tree.  A young man, 
  about 30 years old and very well-mannered, came and approached us, 
  saying, "You have special permission to sit and wait in the train 
  before it leaves, because you're Thai and have come a long way."  He 
  called me "//Yodhaya Gong Yi//."
    
    So I said in English, "Thank you very much."
    
    He smiled, raised his hands in respect, and asked in English, "Where 
  do you come from?"
    
    "I come from Siam."
    
    Then we went to rest in the train car.  Some of the railway 
  officials came to chat with me, and we were able to understand one 
  another fairly well, speaking in Burmese mixed with English.  When the 
  time came, the train left. We traveled by night, and the air was very 
  cold.  I slept all wrapped up in a blanket.  Nai Chin sat up and 
  watched over our things.  When the train reached the station at Pegu, 
  a woman about 30 or so got on and sat down right near where I was 
  sleeping and started asking me questions in Burmese, some of which I 
  could understand and some of which I couldn't.  I sat up to talk with 
  her, in order to be polite.  I said in Burmese, "I'm going to 
  Rangoon."
    
    "Where will you stay?"
    
    "Schwe Dagon."
    
    We talked using sign language. She seemed quite taken with me.  The 
  train traveled on until about 5 a.m., when she got off.  Nai Chin and 
  I stayed on until the train reached Rangoon at dawn, just as the monks 
  were going out for alms.
    
    A lay person came running into the train car and helped us with our 
  things, as if he knew us well.  He invited us into his car.  We got in 
  and sat down without saying a word.  He took us to Schwe Dagon Pagoda, 
  where we found a place to stay.  The man -- his name was Mawng Khwaen 
  -- turned out to be a very faithful supporter all during our stay in 
  Rangoon, looking after our needs and helping us in every way.
    
    We stayed twelve days at the Pagoda and got to know a good number of 
  Burmese lay people.  We were able to converse and understand one 
  another fairly well.
    
    Nai Chin and I then left Rangoon, taking the boat at the city docks 
  and heading on to India.  The boat took two nights and three days to 
  cross the Bay of Bengal, reaching the docks at Calcutta just at dark.  
  On the boat I met a Bengali monk from Kusinara.  We discussed the 
  Dhamma, sometimes in Pali, sometimes in Bengali, sometimes in English.  
  Sometimes in one sentence we'd have to use up to three languages 
  before we could understand each other, starting out in Bengali, going 
  on in Pali, and finishing off in English.  It never occurred to me to 
  feel embarrassed about not being able to speak correctly, though,  
  because I really //couldn't// speak correctly.  Even what I could say, 
  I couldn't pronounce properly.  We seemed to become close friends 
  during our time out on the ocean.
    
    When we  landed at the Calcutta docks we took a rickshaw to the Maha 
  Bodhi Society Center, where we stayed in the Nalanda Square Buddhist 
  Temple.  There I made friends with a Thai monk, a student of Lokanatha 
  named Phra Baitika Sod Singhseni, who helped get me oriented to India.
    
    The Society gave me special privileges there during my stay.  Living 
  and eating conditions were very convenient.  Altogether there were 
  eight monks staying at the temple.  We had to eat vegetarian food.  
  When mealtime came we would sit around in a circle, each of us with a 
  separate platter onto which we would dish our rice and curries. After 
  I had stayed for a fair while I left to tour the ancient Buddhist holy 
  places.
    
    It made me heartsick to see the state of Buddhism in India.  It had 
  deteriorated to the point where there was nothing left in the area of 
  practice.  Some monks would be sleeping in the same room with women, 
  sitting in rickshaws with women, eating food after noon.  They didn't 
  seem very particular about observing the monastic discipline at all.  
  Thinking about this, I didn't want to stay on.
    
    At that time India wasn't yet especially interested in Buddhism.  
  According to figures gathered by the Maha Bodhi Society, there were 
  just over 300,000 Buddhist in the country, and only about 80 monks -- 
  including monks from England, China, Mongolia, Tibet, Germany, etc. -- 
  living under very difficult conditions.  Hardly anyone seemed 
  interested in donating food to them.
    
    We set out for Bodhgaya, taking the train from Howrah Station at 7 
  p.m. and arriving in Benares at eleven the next morning.  From there 
  we took a horse carriage to the Deer Park in Sarnath -- the spot where 
  the Buddha delivered his first sermon, the Wheel of Dhamma, to the 
  five brethren -- about eight miles from Benares.  When we got there I 
  felt elated.  It was a broad, open area with old chedis and plenty of 
  Buddha images kept in the museum. 
    
    We stayed there several days and then went on to pay our respects to 
  the spot of the Buddha's //parinibbana// in Kusinara, which is now 
  called Kasia.  What was once a city had now become open fields.  
  Riding in the bus past the broad fields, bright green with wheat, my 
  eyes and heart felt refreshed.  At Kasia we found the remains of old 
  temples and the spot of the Buddha's //parinibbana//, which had been 
  excavated and restored.  There was a tall-standing chedi, not quite as 
  large as the chedi at Sarnath, containing relics of the Buddha.
    
    The next morning we went on to pay our respects to the site of the 
  Buddha's cremation, about a mile from the spot of his //parinibbana//.  
  This was now nothing but fields.  There was an old ruined chedi -- 
  nothing but a mound of bricks -- with a large banyan tree clinging to 
  the ruins.  A Chinese monk had fixed himself a place to stay up in the 
  tree and was sitting in meditation there.  That evening we returned to 
  Kasia.
    
    The next morning, after our meal, we took a bus to the train station 
  and got on the train back to Benares.  While I was staying in Sarnath 
  I had a chance to see the Hindus wash away their sins, as they 
  believe, on the bank of the Ganges, which flows right past the center 
  of Benares.  The old buildings of the city looked really bizarre.  I 
  once asked a professor of history and geography, and he told me that 
  for 5,000 years the city has never been abandoned.  It has simply been 
  moved to follow the changing course of the Ganges. 
    
    This river is held to be sacred because it flows from the heights of 
  the Himalayas.  To bathe in its waters during their religious 
  festival, they believe, is to wash one's sins away.  In the old days, 
  whenever someone was sick and about to die, they would carry him to 
  the edge of the river.  As soon as he breathed his last, they would 
  give the corpse a shove and send it rolling into the water.  Whoever 
  was able to die this way, they felt, earned a lot of merit and would 
  be assured against falling into hell.  If a person wasn't able to die 
  right there, his relatives would bring the cremation ashes to scatter 
  on the water.  At present, this custom has died out.  All that remains 
  is the custom of going to bathe and wash away one's sins during the 
  festival on the full moon day of the second lunar month, which they 
  hold to be an auspicious day.
    
    If you go to watch, you'll see huge numbers of people dressed in 
  their best clothes, their heads wrapped in cloth, coming in throngs 
  down to the river.  You'll hardly be able to get out of their way.  
  When they reach the river, they pay their respects to their gods at 
  the Hindu temples on the river bank.
    
    Before bathing, the people have to worship Siva.  Right in the 
  middle of the temples are symbols of the male and female genitals, 
  about the size of a rice-winnowing basket.  The people come and 
  sprinkle these with water, flowers, sweetmeats, silver and gold, and 
  then go stand in lines at the water's edge.  There you can see hairy 
  yogis with long scraggly beards sitting in meditation on the river 
  bank -- some of them not wearing any clothes at all.  The men and 
  women who are going to wash away their sins will get into a boat until 
  it's absolutely full.  The boat is then rowed out into the middle of 
  the river and overturned.  Everyone bobs up and down in the water and 
  this, they believe, washes away their sins.  Some people stand with 
  their hands stretched to the sky, some stand on one leg, some turn up 
  their faces to stare at the sun. If I were to give a full description 
  of all their different beliefs and practices, there'd be lots more to 
  tell.
    
    That day I wandered around until dark and then returned to where I 
  was staying in Sarnath.
    
    Sarnath is a large, wide open area, at least 800 hectares in size, 
  with clumps of trees scattered about and lots of ruins of old 
  sanctuaries built entirely out of stone.  People still go to worship 
  the Buddha images in the ruins.  Several years ago a Hawaiian woman, 
  half-Caucasian, became so impressed with Anagarika Dhammapala that she 
  gave him money to restore the area and build a center for the Maha 
  Bodhi Society.  In the area there are four temples:
    
      1. A Singhalese temple.  This is a branch of the Maha Bodhi 
      Society.  The executive secretary of the society is a monk, and 
      the society's aim is to spread Buddhism throughout the world.
      
      2.  A Burmese temple.
      
      3. A Chinese temple supported by Ow Bun Haw, owner of the Tiger 
      Balm Drug Company.  The monks in the temple are from Peking.
      
      4. A Jain temple set right next to the chedi built by King 
      Asoka.  The spire of the chedi is now broken off, and what 
      remains is only about 16 meters tall.  Apparently it once held 
      relics of the Buddha, but these are now placed in the museum at 
      Calcutta.
    
    I wandered around making a detailed survey of the whole area and 
  became 100 percent convinced that the Buddha actually delivered the 
  Wheel of Dhamma here.  The spot where he sat while delivering the 
  sermon is still marked.  In another spot is a vacant, fallen-down 
  sanctuary with the inscription, "Built by King...."  And in the museum 
  is a fragment of a stone column, about three or four meters tall and 
  as large around as a mortar for pounding rice.  There is also a very 
  beautiful Buddha image carved out of stone, a yard across at the base, 
  with the inscription, "Built by Asoka Maharaja."
    
    After I had acquainted myself fairly well with the area, we went by 
  train down to Bodhgaya.  Getting off the train, we took a horse 
  carriage through the streets of the town to the resthouse run by the 
  Maha Bodhi Society.  The town is broad open and very pleasant, with 
  hills and a river -- the Neranjara -- flowing near the market.  
  Although the river is shallow, it has water flowing all year around, 
  even in the dry season.  A ridge of hills lies across the river, and 
  in the middle of the ridge is a spot where the Buddha once stayed, 
  named Nigarodharama.  The remains of  Lady Sujata's house are nearby.  
  Further along is the Anoma River, which is very broad and filled with 
  sand.  In the dry season, when the water is low, it looks like a 
  desert with only a trickle of water flowing through.
    
    We turned back, crossed to the other side of the Neranjara and went 
  on a ways to a chedi surrounded by a clump of flame trees.  This spot 
  -- called Mucalinda -- is where the Buddha sat under the shelter of a 
  serpent's hood.  In the area around the Bodhi tree where the Buddha 
  gained Awakening are scores of Buddha images and tiny old chedis 
  carved out of stone, which people of various sects still go to 
  worship.
    
    After staying a fair while in Bodhgaya, we returned to Calcutta for 
  a short stay at the Nalanda Square Buddhist Temple.  I then took my 
  leave of all my good friends there and got on the boat at the Calcutta 
  docks.  This was March, 1940.  The fumes of the coming World War were 
  growing thick and nearing the combustion point in Germany.  I saw a 
  lot of battleships in the Indian Ocean as our boat passed by.
    
    After spending three days and two nights out on the ocean, we 
  reached the docks in Rangoon.  We went to stay at the Schwe Dagon 
  Pagoda, visited our old benefactors, and after a fair while took the 
  train, heading back to Thailand.  At that time there were no 
  commercial flights, so we had to return by the route we had come.  
  When we reached Mae Sod, I was feeling weary from having crossed the 
  mountains, so we bought tickets for the Thai commercial flight from 
  Mae Sod to Phitsanuloke.  There we caught the train down to Uttaradit, 
  where we stayed at Wat Salyaphong.  After visiting the lay people and 
  my old followers there, I went down to stay for a while at the Big 
  Rock at Sila Aad (StoneDais), and then took the train to Bangkok.  
  There I stayed at Wat Sra Pathum before returning to spend the rains, 
  as usual, in Chanthaburi.
    
    
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