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The Life
and Teachings of Venerable Ajahn Chah
Adapted from Uppalamani
It was
in Bahn Gor, a small village a few hours walk to the south of
Ubon town in the Isahn region of Thailand, that one of the
greatest monks of the modern era was born, and close to which
he would later establish a forest monastery that was to attain
a world-wide reputation. His full monastic title came to be
Tan Chao Khun Phra Bodhinyana Thera, but he is known
familiarly as Luang Por (Venerable Father) Chah and to his
disciples as simply "Luang Por."
Luang Por Chah was born on the seventh waning day of the
seventh moon of the Year of the Horse, 1918. He was the fifth
child of eleven born to Mah and Pim Chooangchote, who, like
the vast majority of their generation, were subsistence rice
farmers. The name Chah means clever, capable, resourceful. In
accordance with custom, Luang Por's mother gave birth to him
kneeling, her arms above her head grasping a rope suspended
from the rafters of the house. Afterwards she endured fifteen
days of confinement, lying with her stomach as close as
possible to a charcoal brazier to "dry out" her womb -- an
ancient custom that still survived in the countryside despite,
some seventy years previously, King Mongkut railing against it
as "this senseless and monstrous crime of having women smoked
and roasted." In the first months after his weaning, Luang
Por's mother would have fed him by chewing and masticating
sticky rice in her own mouth first and then gently spooning it
into his.
Luang Por was born into an affectionate and respected
household, one of the wealthier families in a closely-knit
community. The Isahn villages of those days, isolated by
forests and vulnerable to the vagaries of the weather and the
caprice of spirits, put great store on sharing, generosity,
and harmony. The model was of an extended family, and over the
years marriages between inhabitants of a village tended to
make it one in fact. Houses were made of wood, roofed with
grass thatch, and raised on stilts as protection from floods
and wild animals. They were placed close together with no
fixed boundaries between them. Life was conducted on a large
open space upstairs, with rooms used only for sleeping. People
not only heard their neighbours' family dramas, they could see
them as well. There was no concept of privacy, much less a
desire for it. The villagers subscribed to respect for monks,
elders, and spirits; consideration for the feelings of others;
and a sense of shame. They relished laughter and conversation.
Luang Por grew up with a strong sense of community and place
and "the gift of the gab".
He was both
a talker and a doer, the natural leader of his group of
friends, the one whom everyone wanted to be close to and
without whom all games and adventures seemed dull.
The
adjective often used to describe Luang Por in his old age --
ebullient -- is the one that comes most readily to mind when
picturing him as a child. He was a chunky, exuberant young lad
and yet, at the same time, keen and perceptive -- nobody's
fool. He was full of fun and vigor, with the sunny, buoyant
disposition so common to his people; but even then he showed a
glint of steel in his ways. He was both a talker and a doer,
the natural leader of his group of friends, the one whom
everyone wanted to be close to and without whom all games and
adventures seemed dull. Luang Por bore the round face and flat
"lion's nose" common to his race. More distinctively, his
mouth was unusually wide and compelling -- surely destined one
day to have memorable things to say -- while in charming
contrast to the powerful symmetry of his face, his right ear
was larger than the left. His childhood friends remember Luang
Por's mildness. They say he never enforced his dominance with
bullying or coercion; no one can recall him in a fight. He was
a mediator in his companions' disputes and, from an early age,
drawn by the yellow robe. He relates a childhood memory of
playing the role of a monk. He would sit sternly on an old
bamboo bed with pahkaoumah draped over his left shoulder like
a robe, and his friends would be the laity. The meal time is
probably the only event in the monks' daily life that is
interesting enough to lend itself to drama, and it was that
which the children would enact. Luang Por would ring a bell,
and his friends would bring a tray of fruit and cool water.
After bowing three times they would offer it to him meekly. He
in return would give them the five precepts of the Buddhist
layperson and a blessing.
* * *
School
was not as yet a major intrusion on children's right to fun.
By the 1920s, some thirty years after its inception, a State
education system had still forged few inroads into rural Isahn.
During Luang Por's childhood, three years of primary education
were available, but they were not compulsory and few parents
saw their worth. Luang Por, by the age of nine, had completed
a single year.
Education of the young had traditionally been one of the
major functions of the village wat (monastery). Apart from the
fact that fifty percent of children -- the girls -- were
excluded, results were impressive. Foreign observers had often
expressed surprise at the high standard of literacy among Thai
men (at the same time, interestingly enough, praising what
they saw as the superior shrewdness and industry of the
women). The boys would help out with the monastery chores and,
through daily personal contact with the monks and
participating in the life of the wat, received an education
with a strong moral and spiritual foundation. It was a system
that forged strong links between the monastery and the
village, and it has been argued that the loss of this
educational role to the State was a body blow to the rural
Sangha's sense of purpose from which it has never fully
recovered. It was at the age of nine that Luang Por asked
permission from his parents to move out of the family home and
into the local monastery. It was a common practice for parents
to entrust sons to the monks but rare for a boy to volunteer.
Many years later Luang Por spoke of his decision in the
following way:
"As a boy I had a fear of committing evil actions. I was
always a straightforward lad. I was honest, and I didn't tell
lies. When there were things to be shared out, I was
considerate; I would take less than my due. That basic nature
just kept maturing until one day I said to myself, 'Go to the
monastery.' I asked my friends if they had ever thought of
doing the same thing, and none of them had. The idea just
arose naturally. I'd say it was the result of past actions --
as time went on, wholesome qualities steadily grew inside me
until one day they led me to decide and do as I did."
On another occasion, in a more humorous vein, Luang Por
told some lay disciples that he had become a dekwat (monastery
child) because he was tired of watering the family tobacco
fields and because the humdrum daily round of chores was so
tedious and repetitive. As one of Luang Por's s remembers it,
a small accident brought things to a head: "His going to live
in the monastery wasn't arranged by our parents; it was his
own idea. One day he was helping his brothers and s pounding
rice, but he wasn't putting much heart into it. He
[accidentally] got hit by the wood we were using as a mallet.
It must have hurt him because he got angry and shouted out,
'That's it! I'm going to go and ordain!'"
A few days after the mallet blow, Luang Por's parents took
him to the village monastery. Wat Bahn Gor was situated in a
large sandy enclosure shaded by coconut palms, mango trees,
and tamarinds and consisted of a sala (main meeting and sermon
hall), a vihŕra (monks residence), and a samŕnam (water-ringed
ceremonial hall). Por Mah and Maa Pim entrusted their son to
the abbot with a predictable mixture of sadness and pride -
and Luang Por was now a dekwat. But this was not the beginning
of a long and painful separation from his parents; Luang Por
had by no means withdrawn into a pinched and cloistered realm.
The boundaries between the monastery and the surrounding world
were marked not by imposing walls but a rather half-hearted
bamboo fence. Indeed, the monastery was the central focus of
the communal life of the village rather than a symbol of its
rejection. In a sense, he had entered the world rather than
left it.
Few of the images that the word "monastery" is likely to
evoke in a secular Western mind would agree with the reality
of a village wat in rural Thailand. Wat Bahn Gor, where Luang
Por had gone to live, might be the abode of monks, but it was
considered the property of all. The path in front of the main
hall was a public thoroughfare, and the monastery well was
used by all the nearby houses. Important public meetings took
place in the monastery hall, which also acted as a hostel for
passing travellers and was thus the centre for the reception
and dissemination of news about other areas. The monastery
played a central role in the social life of the village. It
was the site for the important festivals that punctuated the
hard struggles of the year. With daily entertainment almost
nonexistent, every one looked to the lively ngahn wat
(monastery fairs) for excitement and fun. Some of the fairs
were of specifically Buddhist significance; others were of a
more earthy animist character, presided over by the monks and
sandwiched by offerings of alms to them.
As for the monks, they were not an hereditary elite. In
Thai Buddhism, temporary ordination has long been the norm and
constitutes a rite of passage for young men. Indeed, a man who
has never been a monk would have difficulty finding a wife.
Young women would shy away from him as a kon dip, literally an
"unripe" person. Customarily, the young men in a village would
ordain after finishing their military service, mostly for the
three-month Rains Retreat but sometimes for as long as two or
three years.
Apart from
their standing as members of the Buddhist Sangha, the monks
also had the extra prestige of being the most educated and
knowledgeable people in the community.
The result
was a fluid monastic community in which serious and dedicated
students rubbed shoulders with restless time-servers. One of
the great merits of the system was that with every family
having members who were or had been monks, the close bond
between village and monastery was constantly renewed. The
long-term monks would be few in number. They would almost all
have been born and raised in the local village and would thus
empathize deeply with the daily problems of the local people.
They would take participation in village affairs seriously,
sometimes as leaders in public works projects such as building
bridges, or frequently as the impartial adviser and referee in
lay disagreements and disputes. Historically, the wat was the
center of learning. Apart from their standing as members of
the Buddhist Sangha, the monks also had the extra prestige of
being the most educated and knowledgeable people in the
community. They would learn and transmit many skills such as
carpentry, painting, decorative arts, and tile, brick and
cement making. Some monks would be herbal doctors and many,
notwithstanding the prohibition in the Monks' Discipline, were
astrologers. But of course it was the monastery's religious
role that was, ideally, paramount. Primarily the monks were
expected to be, as far as possible, the embodiment of the
Buddha's teachings and to inspire by word and deed moral and
spiritual values. They were also called upon to perform
traditional rituals and ceremonies. They would be invited to
local houses to chant blessings and sprinkle lustral water
during marriages, house-warming parties, times of sickness or
ill luck. At the death of a villager they would chant the
rather abstract and philosophical Matika verses, traditionally
believed to be the teachings the Buddha gave to his mother in
Tusita heaven following her death.
Luang Por spent four years as a dekwat. During that time,
he learned to read and write, helped with the sweeping and
cleaning of the monastery, served the monks, and gradually
absorbed, if not their intellectual nutrition, then at least
the ambience and flavour of the basic Buddhist teachings. His
duties were not onerous, and there was plenty of time for play
with his fellow dekwat, of whom there was a constant supply.
It was the custom for rough lads to be sent to the monastery
by their weary parents for urgent moral reform; orphans, if no
relation could take them, could always find a refuge with the
monks. Apart from accepting boys for religious reasons, the
monastery was also the local social welfare centre. In the
Monks' Discipline it is laid down that an aspirant must be
twenty years of age before he can become a monk but that a boy
old enough "to scare crows" can become a novice. Luang Por
took the novice "Going Forth" vows in March 1931. He was
thirteen and could have driven off a raiding hawk. Luang Por's
sturdy frame and bulging belly together with his resonant
voice earned him the nickname Eung, or Bullfrog. Life carried
on in almost the same relaxed fashion, although wearing the
robe conferred a higher status and increased expectations; at
least in front of the laity, a restrained demeanor was de
rigeur. Luang Por would spend time everyday walking up and
down in the shade, memorizing the various Pali chants: the
daily service, meal blessings, auspicious verses chanted at
house-warming parties and marriages, and the more somber
funeral chants: Adhuvam jivitam, dhuvam maranam, avassam me
maritabbam -- Life is uncertain; death is certain; I too will
die.
He also completed the first of the three levels in the
curriculum of monastic studies. It included sections on the
Buddha's life and teachings, the code of Discipline and the
history of Buddhism, and provided a sound foundation in the
core teachings. At other times, gardening and building
projects served to work off teenage steam.
* * *
During his
novice years, Luang Por's teacher and mentor was a monk called
Ajahn Lung. In accordance with the reciprocal relationship
laid down in the ancient texts, Ajahn Lung oversaw Luang Por's
studies, and Luang Por in return acted as his personal
attendant. Every now and then in the evenings, Ajahn Lung
would kindly accompany Luang Por on visits to his family -- it
would have been forbidden for a novice to go alone -- and
indeed seemed to enjoy these excursions even more than Luang
Por, exuding a confidence and charm among Luang Por's family
that the young novice found a little eccentric. At Ajahn
Lung's instigation, the visits became steadily more frequent
and protracted, and sometimes it would be late at night before
the two of them walked back to the monastery, accompanied by
the barks of the village dogs their footsteps disturbed.
One day Ajahn Lung confided in Luang Por that he had
decided to disrobe and suggested that his protégé might do
likewise. A confused Luang Por agreed. He had been living in
the wat for seven years and, at the dangerous and wobbly age
of sixteen, a small push was enough. Some days after the joint
disrobing, Luang Por's parents were visited by elder relatives
of ex-Ajahn Lung to discuss a marriage proposal. The ardent
admirer of Luang Por's Sah, assured of her affections, was
free at last to declare his love.
Luang Por went to work in the family fields. Inevitably,
the novelty of mud and sweat soon wore off, and though he
applied himself to the regular round of the rice farmer with a
gusto that drew much praise, he bore quietly within himself a
sense of something lost and unfulfilled. It was not an
overpowering emotion -- he was a buoyant, vigorous young man
-- but a constant, unobtrusive shadow that he could only try
to ignore. For the moment Luang Por was content to divert
himself in the usual ways. Together with his best friend Puut
he would walk to neighboring villages to flirt with young
ladies at monastery fairs.
When Luang Por finally fell in love it was with a girl from
his own village. Her name was Jyy, the step- of his companion
Puut. The girl's parents were pleased with the prospective
match; Luang Por was a friend of the family, good-natured,
hard-working, and honest. In those days it was taboo for young
lovers to be alone together; custom dictated that they would
meet at the girl's house, upstairs on the porch in the
evening, where she would be sitting demurely, spinning wool.
Luang Por began to spend more and more of his evenings at
Puut's house. Relations between young men and women were
strictly overseen by elders. Lovers, forbidden to touch, were
quick to learn the nuances of the verbal caress. In Isahn
village life, banter between them was inventive and the
ability to extemporize much admired. The men would swagger and
flatter and ardently woo in the "I-can't-live-without-you"
style, while the girls would play shy and hard to get or else
wittily insult their suitor's manhood -- "the loud-mouthed
swain is holding a limp kite in a windless sky" was just one
of the well-known jibes gleefully repeated.
But witty repartee soon loses its charm when genuine
feelings are engaged, and late at night Luang Por and Jyy
would like to sit out in the starry coolness talking quietly.
The plan hatched on one such night was that they would marry
as soon as Luang Por had completed his National Service and
spent a rains retreat as a monk to make merit for his parents
in the time-honoured way. At that time Luang Por was nineteen
years old and Jyy seventeen. It would be another four years
before they could expect even to hold hands.
One day that year as the rainy season approached and every
household was busy preparing ploughs, rakes, hoes, yokes, fish
traps, and machetes for the upcoming work in the paddy fields,
Luang Por had just taken out a load of tools to the family's
small hut raised on stilts in the middle of their fields. As
he related himself many years later: "When I was eighteen I
liked a girl. She liked me too, and, as these things go, after
some time of liking her I fell deeply in love. I wanted to
marry her. I daydreamed about having her by my side helping me
out in the fields, making a living together. Then one day on
my way home from work I met my best friend, Puut, on the road.
He said, 'Chah, I'm taking the girl.' When I heard those words
I went completely numb. I was in a state of shock for hours
afterwards."
Simply, and with the unquestioned prerogative that parents
of his age and culture possessed, Puut's father and his wife
had decided that their two stepchildren should marry; there
was no more to be said. The reasons were pragmatic and
economic. If Puut married Jyy, the family would be saved a
bride price they could ill afford. They had just acquired land
some distance from the village that should not be left fallow.
The young couple could move out there and farm it together.
Luang Por, despite the coming of the rains, must have felt
his life suddenly beached in a dry and desolate land. But
other than trying to reconcile himself to the situation, what
could he do? It made no sense to be angry with Puut. His
friend had not plotted behind his back and was painfully
embarrassed by the whole affair. But this disappointment was a
profound one, a sharp and hurtful lesson in the uncertainties
that bedevil human affairs. Where should you, where could you,
place your trust? Luang Por maintained his friendship with
Puut, and indeed it was to last for the rest of Luang Por's
life. But with Jyy he had to be more circumspect; his feelings
could not be denied by an act of will. Even after becoming a
monk, if Luang Por saw her in the monastery, he would have to
do his utmost to avoid a meeting that might stir up painful
emotions. Luang Por admitted that for the first seven years of
his monkhood it was impossible to completely let go of his
thoughts of Jyy. Perhaps after all, by some miracle, she would
become free. The same tantalizing scenarios periodically
recurred in his mind, the same facile, happy endings. Could he
then in such a case remain in the robes? He didn't know. It
was only when he finally left his familiar surroundings and
through meditation practice gained a method of stilling his
thoughts and seeing them in perspective, that the fantasies
faded. In later years as abbot of Wat Nong Pah Pong,
describing to the monks the drawbacks of sensual desire, he
would often talk of the debt of gratitude he owed to Puut: "If
he hadn't married Maa Jyy, then I probably wouldn't be here
today," he would say.
When Luang Por's name was missing from the list of young
men from Ubon called up for National Service, he was free to
ask for ordination. But by this time his ideas about becoming
a monk had changed. He no longer considered it simply in terms
of making merit for his parents, an expression of the
gratitude he felt towards them. These were certainly noble
aims, but he desired something more, something that could
resolve the dis-ease in his heart. Lay life seemed hollow,
tedious, and full of vicissitudes; perhaps the monastic life
could lead him to meaning and peace. He would ordain for an
indefinite period. His mother and father were pleased. They
had enough children to help with the farm work, and it was
auspicious to have a son in robes. The ordination ceremony
took place on the April 26, 1939, at Wat Gor Ny, the local
monastery, on a hot, shimmering afternoon. Phra Kroo
Intarasarakun was Luang Por's preceptor and conferred on him
the monk's name of Subhaddo (well-developed).
You're on
your own now, I said to myself, and pulled out my copy of the
Pŕtimokkha and started to memorize it.
Luang Por
spent the first two years of his monastic life at Wat Bahn Gor:
"At the end of the rains retreat, the monks and novices who
joined the Sangha at the same time as me all disrobed.
Sometimes before disrobing they'd try on their lay clothes and
parade up and down. I thought they were completely insane. But
they thought they looked good, that their clothes were smart,
and they talked about the things they were going to do after
they disrobed. I didn't dare to tell them that they'd got it
all wrong because I didn't know how durable my own faith was.
After my friends disrobed, I became resigned. You're on your
own now, I said to myself, and pulled out my copy of the
Pŕtimokkha (the monks' rules of discipline) and started to
memorize it. It was easier than before with nobody teasing me
or fooling around. I was able to concentrate on it fully. I
didn't say anything, but I made a resolution that from that
day onwards until the end of my life, whether it be at the age
of seventy or eighty or whatever, I would try to practice with
a constant appreciation, not allow my efforts to slacken or my
faith to weaken. To be consistent. That is an extremely
difficult task, and I didn't dare to tell anyone else." |