PART V
    
    
  Altogether I spent 14 rainy seasons in Chanthaburi, to the point where 
  I almost came to regard it as my home.  At present there are eleven 
  monasteries that I founded in the province:
    
      1) Wat Paa Khlawng Kung (Shrimp Canal Forest Monastery), 
         Chanthaburi district;
      
      2) Wat Sai Ngam (Beautiful Banyan Monastery), Baan Nawng Bua, 
         Chanthaburi district;
      
      3) Wat Khao Kaew (Chinese Boxwood Mountain Monastery), 
         Chanthaburi district;
      
      4) Wat Khao Noi (Little Mountain Monastery), Thaa Chalaeb;
      
      5) Wat Yang Rahong (Stately Rubber Tree Monastery), Thaa Mai 
         district;
      
      6) Wat Khao Noi (Little Mountain Monastery), Thaa Mai district;
      
      7) Wat Khao Jam Han, Laem Singh district;
      
      8) Wat Laem Yang (Rubber Tree Point Monastery), Laem Singh 
         district;
      
      9) Wat Mai Damrong Tham, Khlung district;
      
      10) Wat Baan Imang, Khlung district; and
      
      11) Samnak Song Saam Yaek at the Agriculture Experimental 
         Station near the waterfall on Sra Baab Mountain. 
    
    All of these place have monks living on a regular basis.  Some of 
  them are full-fledged monasteries, while the others are officially 
  still just "monks" residences."
    
    In 1941 the war with the French and the Second World War broke out.  
  During the war and after, I wandered about in various provinces until 
  1949.  With the war finally over, I thought of going back to India 
  again.  So in November of that year I got ready to apply for a new 
  passport.
    
    Going to India this time turned out to be complicated by the fact 
  that the war was newly over.  When I got ready to apply for my 
  passport, I asked the person who looked after my funds, Khun Amnaad, 
  how much money there was.  His answer: "70 baht."  But just the 
  application fee for a new passport was 120 baht.  This being the case, 
  the lay people who knew of my plans came to dissuade me from going, 
  but I told them, "I have to go."
    
    "But 70 baht isn't enough for the trip!"
    
    "The money isn't taking the trip," I told them.  "I am."
    
    With this, my followers understood that I really did have to go, and 
  one by one they began to gather funds for my travel expenses.  One day 
  Phraya Latphli Thamprakhan, along with Nai Chamnaan Lyyprasoed, came 
  to stay at the monastery.  When they learned I was going to India, we 
  had the following exchange:  Phraya Latphli put two questions to me: 
  "1) Why go?  Each of us already has the Dhamma inside.  2) Do you know 
  their language?"
    
    I answered, "Burmese and Indians are people, just like me.  Are 
  there any people in the world who don't know the language of people?"
    
    Phraya Latphli:  "How are you going to go?  Do you have enough 
  money?"
    
    "Always enough."
    
    Phraya Latphli:  "What will you do if your money gives out?"
    
    "It'll probably give out the way cloth gives out: a little bit at a 
  time.  Don't you think I'll know in advance before it's all gone?"
    
    Phraya Latphli:  "Do you know any English?"
    
    "I'm 40 years old.  If I studied English or Hindi, I bet I could do 
  better than English or Hindi children."
    
    We didn't have the chance to talk further, so Phraya Latphli added, 
  "I was just testing you."
    
    "No offense taken," I told him, "but I had to speak that way."
    
    Not long after that, when the lay people, monks and novices had 
  canvassed among themselves and come up with a little more than 10,000 
  baht to help with my travel expenses, I left Chanthaburi for Bangkok, 
  where I stayed at Wat Boromnivasa.  With the assistance of a number of 
  my followers who were policemen -- headed by Police Colonel 
  Sudsa-nguan Tansathit -- I started to apply for my passport and visas. 
    
    Getting my money exchanged took a lot of running around, and almost 
  didn't succeed because at that time the price of the British pound on 
  the black market had risen to 50 baht, while the official exchange 
  rate was 35.  We were sent from one place to another, and as things 
  got more and more complicated we began to give up hope. So I made a 
  vow:  "I'm going to visit friends and the spots where the Buddha once 
  dwelled.  On my last trip things still weren't clear, so I want to go 
  once more.  If I'm really going to get to go this time, may someone 
  come and help get my money exchanged."
    
    Four days after I had made my vow, Nai Bunchuay Suphasi (now a 
  lieutenant with the Mounted Police) showed up and asked me, "Than 
  Phaw, have you been able to exchange your money yet?"
    
    "No, not yet."
    
    "Then I'll take care of it for you."
    
    For a week after that he went around making contacts with the 
  Treasury Ministry, the Education Ministry and the Interior Ministry.  
  He received letters of recommendation from his friends and a letter of 
  guarantee from the Assistant Minister of the Interior, Lieng 
  Chayakaan, now a member of the Lower House, representing Ubon 
  Ratchathani province.  He then went to the National Bank, where at 
  first he was told that my case "didn't qualify for permission to 
  exchange at the official rate."  So he went to consult Nai Jarat 
  Taengnoi and Nai Sompong Janthrakun, who worked in the National Bank.  
  Finally I was given permission to exchange at the official rate on the 
  recommendation of Nai Jarat, who supported my request on the grounds 
  that my trip was for the purpose of spreading Buddhism abroad, which 
  was in the interest both of the nation and of the religion.  I thus 
  exchanged my money for, altogether, 980 pounds sterling.
    
    Then, with my money exchanged, I applied for my passport and visas.  
  In the Foreign Affairs Ministry, Nai Prachaa Osathanon, head of the 
  Passport Office, took care of everything for me, including contacting 
  his friends in the Thai embassies in Burma and India. I then applied 
  for my visas at the British Embassy.  Everything was now ready for me 
  to go.
    
    So in February, 1950, I left Thailand by plane.  Nang Praphaa, a 
  follower of mine who worked with Thai Airways, helped me get a ticket 
  at a reduced rate, almost 50 percent off the full fare.  The plane 
  left Don Muang Airport at 8 a.m.  I was accompanied on this trip by a 
  monk named Phra Samut and a lay man, Nai Thammanun.  At about 11 a.m. 
  the plane reached the Rangoon Airport, where I was met by officials 
  from the Thai embassy:  M.L. Piikthip Malakun, Nai Supan Sawedmaan and 
  Nai Sanan.  They took me to stay in a sanctuary attached to the Schwe 
  Dagon Pagoda.  I stayed in Burma about 15 days, going around to see 
  the sights in Rangoon -- although there was little to see but 
  bombed-out ruins.  The Karen war was flaring up near Mandalay.
    
    One day we went to Pegu to pay our respects to a large reclining 
  Buddha image in a township near there.  We met Burmese troops keeping 
  a watch over the area.  They were very helpful:  Wherever we went, a 
  contingent of twelve soldiers went along.  When we stopped for the 
  night, they stayed as our bodyguard.  We spent the night on Mutao 
  Chedi, whose spire had broken off.  All night long we heard nothing 
  but the boom of the big guns, so I asked one of the soldiers with us, 
  "What are they shooting?"
    
    "They're shooting to frighten off the Communists," he answered.
    
    Early the next morning two Burmese women came to talk with us, and 
  then invited us to eat at their home.
    
    After I had finished seeing the sights in Rangoon, I got ready to go 
  on to India.
    
    While I was in Rangoon I met a Thai, named Saiyut, who had been 
  ordained as a monk in Burma.  He took me to an old palace to meet a 
  Burmese princess, 77 years old, the daughter of King Thibaw of 
  Mandalay.  We sat talking for a while.  I described Thai customs to 
  the princess, and she described Burmese customs to me.  In the course 
  of our conversation, she mentioned to me, "I'm Thai, you know," and 
  then asked me in Thai, "Do you like //khanom tom//?"  but didn't want 
  to say much more than that.  From what she said, I gathered that her 
  ancestors had been carried off from Thailand when the Burmese sacked 
  Ayutthaya.  Her name was Sudanta Chandadevi.
    
    She then asked a favor of me. "At the moment I have no more income," 
  she said. This was because a new government had just come into power 
  and cut the stipends of the old nobility.  "Please take pity on me.  
  You and I are both Thai.  It would be good if you could put in a word 
  for me at the Thai embassy."
    
    "Don't worry," I told her.  "I'll help."
    
    So I took the princess" case to M.L. Piikthip Malakun.  Both he and 
  his wife were good-hearted people.  M.L. Piikthip took me to see Phra 
  Mahiddha, the Ambassador to Burma at the time.  Meeting him was like 
  meeting an old relative.  The entire embassy staff was very helpful. 
  Before I left for India I recommended that they help the princess both 
  on an official and on a personal basis.
    
    In March, 1950, I left Rangoon by plane, reaching Calcutta Airport 
  at about four in the afternoon.  The captain of the flight turned out 
  to be an old friend -- he has since died in an airplane crash in Hong 
  Kong.  When we took off he boasted that he could fly the plane any way 
  I liked -- high, low, reckless.  He said that he'd take me up to 
  10,000 feet.  We ran into a lot of turbulence near the Himalayan 
  mountains, and the air got so cold I had to leave the cockpit, return 
  to my seat and wrap myself up in a blanket.
    
    When we landed we parted ways because airline personnel had special 
  rights, unlike ordinary passengers.  As for me, I had to have my 
  things inspected, my health certificates inspected -- but when it came 
  to the "darkroom," they made a special exception in my case.  Inside 
  the "darkroom"  the light was blinding.  Everyone who went inside had 
  to strip naked so that the officials could inspect him.  But luckily 
  there was a Sikh who, when he saw me stick my head into the room, 
  smiled at me as a sign that he would help me out.  As a result, I 
  didn't have to be inspected.
    
    We waited there at the airport until sunset, when a Westerner came 
  and politely told us that a company car was about to come and pick us 
  up.  A moment or so later we piled our things into the car.  We 
  traveled a good many miles into Calcutta and went to stay at the Maha 
  Bodhi Society.  When we arrived we found that the executive secretary, 
  an old friend of mine, wasn't there.  He had taken some of the 
  Buddha's relics to a celebration in New Delhi and then gone on to 
  Kashmir.  The monks who were staying at the Society, though, were very 
  helpful in every way because I had been a member of the Society for 
  many years.  They fixed us a place to stay on the third floor of the 
  building.
    
    While there we spent many days contacting the immigration 
  authorities before our visa papers could be straightened out.  I 
  stayed at the Maha Bodhi Society until it neared time for the rains, 
  when I made plans to go on to Ceylon.  I took my draft to the bank, 
  but there learned that the bank that had sold me the draft had no 
  branches in India.  The bank therefore wouldn't accept the draft.  
  They went on to tell me that to exchange the draft I would have to go 
  all the way to London.  This is when things started looking bad.  I 
  checked our funds -- Nai Thammanun had about 100 rupees left. It was 
  going to be hard to get around.  Yet, at the same time, we had more 
  than 800 pounds sterling with us that the Indian banks wouldn't accept 
  because there was a lot of anti-British feeling at the time.  They 
  didn't want to use the British pound, and didn't want to speak English 
  unless they really had to.  So as a result, we were caught out in the 
  rain along with the British.
    
    Finally I made up my mind to chant, meditate and make a vow:  May I 
  receive some help in my monetary problems.  And then one day, at about 
  five in the evening, Nai Thanat Nawanukhraw, a commercial attache with 
  the Thai consulate, came to visit me and asked, "Than Ajaan, do you 
  have money to use?"
    
    "Yes," I answered him, "but not enough."
    
    So he pulled out his wallet and made a donation of 2,000 rupees.  
  Later that evening my friend who was the executive secretary of the 
  Maha Bodhi Society returned and invited me up to his room for a chat.  
  He gave me a warm welcome and then we talked in Pali.  "Do you have 
  enough money?" he asked.  "Don't be bashful.  You can ask for whatever 
  you need at any time."
    
    "Thank you very much," I answered in English, and he smiled in 
  response.  From that day on I was put at my ease in every way.
    
    Just as the rains were about to begin, a monk who was a very good 
  friend of mine -- an official at Sarnath named Sangharatana -- invited 
  us to go spend the rains there, and so I accepted his invitation.  The 
  following morning he went on ahead, and then two days before the 
  beginning of the Rains Retreat we followed along.  At about noon the 
  next day we reached his temple.  My friends there had fixed places for 
  us to stay, one to a room, in a large 40-room dormitory. Thus I spent 
  the Rains Retreat there in Sarnath.
    
    Things were made very convenient for us during the rains.  The 
  friends I had made during my first trip were still there.  Eating 
  arrangements were also convenient.  Every day, early in the morning, 
  they'd bring Ovaltine and three or four chappatties to your room, and 
  just that was enough to fill you up.  But then a little later in the 
  morning they'd serve a regular meal with bean and sesame curries and 
  rice -- but no meat.  We ate vegetarian-style, although some days 
  there would be fish.
    
    There was chanting every evening during the Rains Retreat.  They 
  chanted just like we do in Thailand, only very fast.  When the 
  chanting was over I'd go to pay my respects to the great ruined chedi 
  to the north of the sanctuary.  Some days I'd go into Benares to look 
  at the temples of the Hindus, Tibetans, Burmese, Singhalese, etc.  One 
  night, towards the end of the rains, when the moon was bright, I went 
  to sit alone in front of the sanctuary after we had finished our 
  chants.  I sat there in meditation in the middle of the bright, 
  moonlit night, focusing on the top of the chedi, thinking of King 
  Asoka, who had done so much for the religion.  After I had focused on 
  the chedi a long while, a brilliant light began to flicker and flash 
  around the trees and the chedi.  I thought to myself: "Relics of the 
  Lord Buddha probably really do exist."
    
    One day, when the rains were almost over, the officials of the Maha 
  Bodhi Society invited us to go to the airport to meet a plane carrying 
  relics of Phra Moggallana and Phra Sariputta that were on their way 
  back from a celebration organized by the Indian government in New 
  Delhi.  So we all went along to the airport.  When the plane landed, a 
  little after 11 a.m., they had us get on the plane to receive the 
  small bronze chedi containing the relics.  We then took the chedi to 
  the Sarnath Maha Bodhi Society.  I didn't ask for a chance to look at 
  the relics because I wasn't really interested.  Afterwards they sent 
  the relics for safe keeping to the Calcutta office, and so I never got 
  to see them.
    
    After the rains were over I began receiving letters -- some by 
  special delivery, others by ordinary mail -- from Thailand and Burma.  
  The gist of them all was that they wanted me to return right away to 
  Rangoon because Princess Sudanta Chandadevi was now receiving a 
  stipend and was overjoyed.  Her children had gotten their friends 
  together and were planning to build a temple in Rangoon, so would I 
  please come right away and help with the arrangements.
    
    Learning this I hurried back to Calcutta, got my travel papers in 
  order and flew to Rangoon.  There I was met at the airport by members 
  of the temple committee.  They took me straight to the princess" 
  palace, where a committee of 30 or so people were in the midst of 
  holding a meeting.  The committee -- composed of old nobility, 
  government officials, merchants and householders -- was discussing 
  plans to buy land for the temple: seven acres on a tall hill.  The 
  owner was willing to sell the land for around 30,000 rupees.  When I 
  had learned the general outlines of their proposal, I returned to 
  stay, as before, at Schwe Dagon.
    
    I then took the matter to the Thai embassy to seek their advice. By 
  that time Phra Mahiddha had been transferred to another country, 
  leaving M.L. Piikthip Malakun acting in his place. He told me that it 
  would be good to handle the matter through official channels so that 
  the embassy would be in a position to give its full cooperation.  As 
  for the temple committee, they were looking for help from Thailand 
  because their objective was to build a temple Thai in every way.  The 
  chairman of the committee was an old man of about 70, a former 
  politician who in the old days had commanded great  respect.  He was 
  the mentor of U Nu, the prime minister of Burma.  It seemed to me that 
  the matter was sure to come through. I was put in contact with scores 
  of Thai people in Rangoon, and everyone seemed enthusiastic about the 
  project.
    
    Not long afterwards, though, I started receiving frequent letters 
  from Bangkok containing news that didn't sound very good, some of it 
  having to do with Nai Bunchuay Suphasi, so I decided to return to 
  Thailand in order to contact the Thai government and Sangha and inform 
  them of the proposal on my own.
    
    In December, 1950, I took a plane from Rangoon to Bangkok -- the 
  monk who had gone with me to India had already returned a good many 
  days before.  In Bangkok I stayed with Somdet Phra Mahawirawong (Uan) 
  at Wat Boromnivasa.  I informed the Somdet of the plans to build a 
  temple in Rangoon.  He thought the matter over several days, and just 
  as he was about to give me permission to fly back to Burma, I ran into 
  interference.  A number of monks, having heard the news that a temple 
  was going to be built in Rangoon, started getting into the act, saying 
  that Ajaan Lee wouldn't be able to succeed without them.  They had 
  received letters to that effect from Rangoon, they said.  How they 
  were able to know that, I have no idea.  These monks were all titled, 
  high-ranking ecclesiastical officials right here in Bangkok.
    
    When I learned this, I dropped the whole matter and was no longer 
  involved.  I sent a letter to the Thai embassy in Burma, asking to 
  withdraw from the proposal. That finished it off.  To this day I have 
  yet to see anyone build the temple.
    
    This being the way things were, I left Wat Boromnivasa and returned 
  to visit my supporters in Chanthaburi.  During this period there were 
  all sorts of people, jealous and angry with me, who tried to smear my 
  name in every conceivable way, but I'd rather not name their names 
  because I believe they helped me by making me more and more 
  determined.
    
    
                                 * * *
    
    
  With the approach of the rainy season  I left Chanthaburi to return to 
  Wat Boromnivasa, and then went to teach meditation to the lay people 
  at Wat Saneha, Nakhorn Pathom province.  From there I went to stay at 
  Wat Prachumnari, Ratchaburi province, at the request of Chao Jawm 
  Sapwattana, head of the temple committee.  I stayed at this temple 
  several days, and during that time there were a lot of very strange 
  events.
    
    One morning a woman of about 20 came and sat in front of the sermon 
  seat.  A moment later she went into convulsions.  So I made some 
  lustral water and sprinkled her with it.  I started questioning her 
  and learned that there was a spirit of a man who had died a violent 
  death dwelling in the area, and that it would possess people, causing 
  them to be covered with hives, each swelling about the size of your 
  thumb.  When I learned this, I had no medicine to give her, but I was 
  chewing betel nut, so I took the chewed-up remains, threw them down 
  next to her and had her eat them.  The swellings disappeared.  This 
  happened altogether three different times, and there were a good 
  number of witnesses each time.
    
    Several days later, just as I was getting ready to leave, a woman 
  named Nang Samawn, a niece of Nang Ngek in Bangkok, came to see me.  
  She had once been ordained as a nun, but had later returned to lay 
  life and married a former justice of the peace in Ratchaburi.  She was 
  about 40, and had a son aged 15.  She held me in great esteem:  
  Whenever I came to the Bangkok area she would always come to seek me 
  out.  That day, at about five in the evening, she came with an 
  offering of flowers, candles and incense, so I asked her, "What can I 
  do for you, Mother Samawn?"
    
    She answered, "I've come to ask you for a child."
    
    As soon as I heard this, I started feeling uneasy,  because there 
  were only a few people present, and on top of that she was speaking in 
  a whisper.  So I said out loud, "Wait until more people come."  I was 
  thinking of the future -- if she really did give birth to another 
  child, I'd be in a spot.  So I wanted the whole affair to be out in 
  the open to make sure that everyone knew the facts of the case.
    
    That evening, a little after 7 p.m., about 100 people came and 
  congregated in the main meeting hall.  Nang Samawn sat right nearby, 
  to one side of the sermon seat.  After I had given the precepts and 
  delivered a sermon to the people, teaching them to meditate so that 
  they could develop merit and perfect their character, Mother Samawn 
  spoke up in a loud voice, "I don't want any of that.  I want a child.  
  Please give me a child, Luang Phaw."
    
    "All right," I told her, "I'll give you a child."  I answered her 
  this way because I remembered a number of events in the scriptures.  I 
  then said, as if in jest, "Set your mind on meditating well tonight.  
  I'm going to ask the gods and goddesses to bring you a child."
    
    After she had finished meditating, she came and told me, "I feel 
  really content and relaxed.  I've meditated many times before, but 
  it's never been like this."
    
    "There you are," I told her.  "You'll have your wish."
    
    The next morning, I left Ratchaburi, taking the train as far as 
  Prajuab Khirikhan.  Khun Thatsanawiphaag went along as my follower.  
  We spent the night in a cemetery near the station in Pranburi.  The 
  next morning, Khun That went to buy our tickets, with 120 baht in his 
  pockets.  This was right after the war, when they were using bank 
  notes printed in America.  The 100 baht bill and the 20 baht bill 
  looked just alike.  Khun That came back with the tickets, but without 
  the 100 baht bill.  He had mistaken it for the 20 baht bill, and so 
  had given it to the ticket agent.  He was all ready to return to the 
  station to ask for the money back, but I stopped him.  "I'd be too 
  embarrassed to have you go," I said.  He then got so upset that he was 
  going to go back home, so I had to console him.
    
    The cemetery where we were staying was on a tall forested slope.  
  They had told us that no one could sleep there because the spirits 
  were fierce, but we spent the night without incident.
    
    From there we took the train to Surat Thani and went to stay on the 
  slope of a tall hill near the train station.  As night fell, people 
  came to talk with us.  I got to meet two characters named Nai Phuang 
  and Nai Phaad.  They came together, and Nai Phuang let me in on their 
  secret. 
    
    "My home is in Nakhorn Pathom province," he said.  "I used to be a 
  big-time gangster, and killed a lot of people in my time.  The last 
  person was an old grandmother who died on the spot.  Someone had told 
  me that she kept 4,000 baht in cash under her pillow, so I snuck up to 
  her room and stabbed her in the neck.  But when I looked under her 
  pillow, there was only 40 baht.  From that day on, I felt so awful 
  that I decided to give up crime.  But even so, I still feel jumpy 
  every time I hear a gunshot.  Luang Phaw, could you help find me 
  something to protect me from bullets?"
    
    I told him, "If you really have sworn off crime, I'll give you 
  something that'll make sure you don't die from a bullet."
    
    He swore, "I've given it up for good," so I wrote down a //gatha// 
  for him to repeat over and over to himself.
    
    The next day, he came back and told me that his younger brother, 
  along with a group of nine others, were in the process of fighting off 
  the police in one of the outlying districts.  Some of the group the 
  police had already captured, but his brother was still on the loose.  
  He was afraid that his name might get dragged into the affair, so what 
  should he do?  I told him to go straight to the police and lead them 
  to his brother.  He did everything as I told him to, and a few days 
  later the entire group of bandits turned themselves in.  Nai Phuang 
  was able to get his brother out on bail.  Eventually, when the case 
  reached the courts, the entire group pleaded guilty.  The court 
  sentenced them to prison but, since they had admitted their guilt, cut 
  their sentences in half.
    
    I didn't feel very comfortable staying there in Surat because there 
  were always shady characters coming to see me.  I was doing nothing 
  but good, but I was afraid that other people might start thinking I 
  was aiding and abetting criminals, so I  left, heading for Thung Song 
  and then on to pay my respects to the Buddha's relics in Nakhorn Sri 
  Thammarat.  At this point Khun That took his leave to return home to 
  Bangkok.  He bought my ticket, got me on the train, and I then 
  traveled on alone. 
    
    That evening I reached the great chedi at Nakhorn Sri Thammarat and 
  stayed at the monastery connected with it.  A number of people there 
  -- including a monk who was a friend of mine living at the monastery 
  -- were interested in meditation, so I stayed on, teaching meditation 
  for a while.  I then left, heading for Songkhla province.  Reaching 
  Haad Yai, I went to stay in Pak Kim cemetery, which was all overgrown 
  and very quiet.  A few days later my friend, Phra MahaKaew, came 
  looking for me, and found me there in the cemetery.  We stayed on for 
  a while, and then went out wandering by ourselves from township to 
  township.
    
    
                                 * * *
    
    
  That year I spent the rains at Wat Khuan Miid -- Knife Mountain 
  Monastery.  I gave sermons and taught meditation to the monks, novices 
  and lay people practically every night.  After the rains were over and 
  we had received the //kathina//, I headed back and stayed at Khuan 
  Jong mountain, by a small village near Rien Canal. 
    
    One day I started seeing people pouring past in huge numbers.  This 
  went on for several days running, so I finally asked what was up.  
  They told me that they were going to see the giant snake that had 
  trapped a woman in its coils on Khuan Jong mountain.  The word had 
  gotten around that a giant snake with a red hood had trapped a woman 
  in its coils at the very top of the mountain, and that until the 
  allotted time came it wouldn't let her go.  On hearing this bizarre 
  story, people had become all excited and started coming out in huge 
  numbers to see, swarming all over the area near where we were staying.  
  But in Khuan Jong village itself, no one appeared to have heard the 
  story at all.  The whole thing was ridiculous.
    
    After we had stayed there for a while, we went on to stay at Baan 
  Thung Pha, Talaat Khlawng Ngae and Sadao district.  At that time the 
  police chief in Sadao had been shot and killed in a skirmish with the 
  Chinese communist terrorists.  While we were there, a lot of people 
  came to see us during the day, but as evening fell they hurried back 
  home, saying they were afraid the communists would attack.  So I told 
  them, "I want you all to come for a sermon tonight.  I promise 
  there'll be no attack."  Just after nightfall -- at about 8 p.m. -- 
  people came and filled the ordination hall of the temple where we were 
  staying, so I gave a sermon and taught them meditation.
    
    A few days afterwards we returned to Pak Kim cemetery in Haad Yai.  
  This time a lot of Haad Yai people came out every night to receive the 
  precepts, listen to sermons and practice meditation.
    
    From there we returned to Nakhorn Sri Thammarat, stopping off at a 
  meditation monastery in Rawn Phibun district, and then going on to 
  stay in Thung Song.  Nai Sangwed, a clerk in the Education Office, 
  followed along as my student.  We stayed at Tham Thalu (The Cave That 
  Goes All the Way Through) for a while, and then went on to Chumphorn.  
  From Chumphorn we caught the train to Phetburi.  This was when I 
  learned that Somdet Mahawirawong had been sending letters after me, 
  asking me to return to Bangkok, so I went on to Ratchaburi and stayed 
  at Wat Prachumnari.  Luang Att, the governor of Ratchaburi province, 
  and the district official of Ratchaburi City came looking for me, 
  asking me to return to Bangkok because the Somdet at Wat Borom wanted 
  to see me.
    
    While I was staying at Wat Prachumnari, a monk at Khao Kaen Jan 
  (Sandalwood Mountain) was captured by the authorities.  I learned that 
  four or five nuns from Baan Pong who were his followers wanted to come 
  see me, but didn't dare because of the uproar over the monk.  Although 
  the story doesn't involve me, it's worth telling:  It seems that the 
  monk had told the nuns that his legs hurt from sitting in meditation 
  and delivering sermons so much, so would they please massage his legs 
  -- and they actually started giving him massages.  That's when the 
  uproar started.  The authorities looked into the matter and discovered 
  that the monk had no identification papers, so they forced him to 
  disrobe.
    
    During my stay at Ratchaburi, Mae Samawn came out to see me.  "I'm 
  over two months pregnant," she said, and then went on, "I'd like to 
  dedicate the child to you right now, because it's your child, and not 
  my husband's."  She seemed dead serious about what she was saying.  I 
  didn't respond in any way, but I did feel surprised.  She hadn't had a 
  child in 15 years, so how had it come about?
    
    From there I returned to Bangkok and stayed at Wat Boromnivasa.  I 
  happened to arrive just as the Somdet fell ill, so I helped look after 
  him.
    
    
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