378 SCIENCE AND CULTURE, NOVEMBER-DECEMBER, 2016

TEACHING IN A MONASTERY

ANTONIA HOOGEWERF*

TRAVEL STORY

* The writer is British born and bred but has spent much of heradult life in France; the Lorie Valley, the Deep South, and she hasnow been living in Paris since 1999. Her passion is for travel,exploring the world and its peoples, experiencing their various anddiverse cultures. For the last 17 years she has spent the winterstravelling widely in India, a country she loves, always coming torest in Calcutta. These articles are random extracts from the travelnotebooks she wrote to record her experiences around the world.The author may be contacted at : antoniahoogewerf@hotmail.com

My readers may remember that having met theBurmese monk Zawana Ashin in Burma, hepersuaded me to come and teach at the Burmese

University in Bodh Gaya. On arrival I was swept off onan Expedition to the Cave of Sariputra, one of the Buddha’sdisciples, that was an adventure in itself. Now I had to getdown to the real business of teaching the monks someEnglish. I am staying at one of their Residences on theoutskirts of Bodh Gaya.

On Monday morning we set off together, Zawana,Lisa, Josh and I, to go to the University. Lisa and Josh arean American couple who have also volunteered to teachand they arrived about a week before me. There is a kindof conference with all the students and it is decided that Iwill give Zawana one-to-one coaching in English in themornings and an Intermediate class every afternoon from3pm at the University, as well as private coaching towhoever wishes at other times. This suits me well andZawana and I go back in a rickshaw and start our firstclass. He has quite an extensive vocabulary in English buthis pronunciation is poor, so he mostly reads to me from abook of Essays on Buddhism and I try out some of thelessons I intend for the afternoon class.

So the days pass gently – waking early at 7am toZawana’s rallying cry “Antonia! Coffee coffee coffee!” andbreakfast, which for me is several tiny cups of a Myanmar

brand of 3-in-1 coffee, then class with Zawana till 10:30and lunch at 11. After lunch it is hot and airless and weall rest till my class at 3pm.

During my rest, over the two weeks, I watch withfascination as five dark wiry workmen dressed in simpledhotis and singlets and with turbans round their heads sinka bore hole and create a Water Well and then build a wholehouse around it, just below my window. First they dig ahole (usually one man working and four watching) then20 metres away the water syphons up so they sink a longpipe into the ground with muddy water gushing out of thetop which they proceed to cap, a dangerous-lookingprocedure involving one man swinging from a kind of 5-metre high tripod. Having sunk the pipe to normal tap level,they then start building the walls. Lorryloads of bricksarrive, which the women carry in baskets on their heads tothe men who lay them, and within days free-standing wallsgo up. Strangely they put in the cement cornerstones afterthe walls are in place and even more strangely there areno doors or windows, these are later cut out of the erectedwalls. But in two weeks, there is an almost finished housecomplete with running water!

After class I sometimes go into the town to the“Middle Way Bookshop” run by the charming Shabah, orthe “Be Happy Cafe” where one can get a cup of realItalian coffee and a slice of carrot cake. I walk round theMaha Bodh Temple often, listening to the magical chanting.

In the evenings Zawana gives Abhidhamma – thestudy of Buddhism. We learn about Kusala(wholesomeness) and Akusala (unwholesomeness) and theFour Absolute Dhammas which are the main principles,the essence of Buddhism, the Cittas, Rupas, Cetasikas, andfinally Nibbana, the state of Nothingness so desired bybelievers. I do not question Zawana or debate or discuss. I

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am here simply to absorb and learn, I have no desire tochallenge him at this point. He teaches me a little Pali,which is like Latin or Ancient Greek is for westerners, deadlanguages but still spoken among the intellectuals and thesource of the modern languages we speak. I find fascinatinglittle similarities. For instance the letter “A” as a prefixmeans “without” in Pali, and of course in Greek this istrue too, as in amoral, atheist, apolitical etc. In Pali theyhave rupa and arupa, (form and formless) hetuka andahetuka (rooted and rootless) kusala and akusala(wholesomeness and unwholesomeness).

Zawana gives me a crash course in the Life of theBuddha, his royal birth in Lumbhini, his marriage anddecision to lead the life of an aesthete, his years in solitarycontemplation, then Enlightement under the Bodhi Tree.The Middle Way, his teachings as Buddha all over thecountry, leading finally to his death in Kushinagara at theage of 80. Some day I would love to make the Buddhistpilgrimage and visit all the important sites in the Buddha’slife. I am reminded of Hermann Hesse’s great little novelSiddhartha, an allegorical tale based on the Buddhahimself, and I find a copy at the bookshop and inscribe itfor Zawana.

I do not need to believe in the philosophy apart fromthe obvious fact that Buddhism is the path to a Way ofLife, a good way, leading to good works, kindness andlove (metta) and who can argue with that. The life of thesemen is simple, largely unaffected by the turmoil of theworld and yet they are well awareof what is going on. They seemhappy and contented with theirchosen path – and if they are notthey can simply leave. If they do notbreak any of the major Laws ofBuddhism they can return to themonastery at any time, even afterliving in the world for some years,marrying and raising a family.

Burmese Nuns no longer exist,they died out some time ago, in partaccounting for the monks shynessand lack of understanding women,which was certainly quite apparent!In Burma to be a monk is almostlike doing National Service – nearlyevery man and boy will enter themonastery at some stage of theirlives, many entering as young as sixand some coming back in old age.

One Sunday we do the rounds of all the otherMonasteries, from Tibet, Taiwan, Vietnam, Bhutan, Japan,China, Bangladesh, Thailand and many others, some moregloriously ornate than others, but all erected to worshipthe Buddha and house the monks and pilgrims.

A Day of Meditation is organised midweek, andeverybody gets up at 5am to be at the Bodhi Tree by 6am.It feels wonderful to be up at dawn, and to feel the warmsolidarity of these kindly simple yet intelligent men. Theychant and then Zawana shows me how to meditate – hesays it does not matter if I cannot hold the Lotus positionfor long, (and I cannot) just keep as still as possible andconcentrate on the philtrum, the space between the noseand the centre of the lips, and if that is too difficult, thenavel. In the end I just watch the light of the sun risingbehind the great stupa, and concentrate on the calmbeautiful atmosphere of this place. Then it is back to themonastery for breakfast and more meditation after anaddress from the Abbott, kindly given in English I suspectfor my benefit. At 13h starts the Noble Silence and no-one must utter a word till sundown, not too hard for me,remembering all those retreats at my Convent School inSurrey.

One day I come back to find a lot of Burmesevillagers in the kitchen, cooking and scurrying about. Laterthat evening at dinner time the monks are nowhere to beseen. I hear whispering in the Library and sure enoughthere they all are, huddled up and giggling like naughtyschoolboys. I cannot imagine what is going on, as they

The author Antonia Hoogewerf (sitting 3rd from left) with her monk students

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hold fingers to their lips and make sealed mouth signs atme. Suddenly it comes to me.

They cannot let the Burmese ladies see them eating!It is after midday of course, and the Rule says nothingshould be eaten till 7am the next day. Normally they joinus for supper, which I suppose would be frowned upon,so this evening they have to wait until the women haveleft before tucking in to their usual hearty dinner.

Another time three young men come from Burma,long-haired and in western dress. I am told these are the“Donors”. What on earth, I wonder, could they be donating?None of them speaks a word of English. They do not lookwell enough off to be giving money, though there weredonations of food and clothing every now and then in theother monasteries.

Finally Ven Aruna explains. They are donating organs– that is, liver and kidneys. Apparently the liver regeneratesitself and it is simple to merely take a slice off andtransplant it into the recipient, and of course we are allblessed with two kidneys and if healthy, we can live wellenough with only one. It turned out they had been operatedon at a Hospital in Gurgaon on the outskirts of Delhi, andthe young men proudly showed me their scars. They areallowed to wear western clothes and grow their hair butthey are in fact monks and after a period of convalescencethey suddenly appeared shorn and dressed in the familiarburgundy robes. Evidently there is hardly any organdonation in India after death as we have in the West, butlive donation is quite common. I never did work out ifthere was any money involved in the transaction or if it ispurely altruistic, but it seems they sign up for this in theirhome monasteries and get properly registered and vetted,and blood groups determined. Then when a kidney or pieceof liver is required the hospital sends for a suitable donormonk who flies to Delhi for the operation. Afterwards theycome here to Bihar to convalesce before returning toBurma.

A strange quirky aspect of monastic life!

The classes at the University are fun. My studentsare shy at first but soon lose their inhibitions with me.They are all bright intelligent and enthusiastic young menstudying for their MA or PhD and it is a real privilege tobe teaching them. We always laugh a lot, they have a greatsense of humour and mischievousness, especially VenTejosara, he of the cheeky grin and twinkling eyes who,for example, is curious about how to write to his girlfriends– at which I feign shock and surprise and everyone eruptsinto laughter. Their favourite question is how old I am,and even how many sweethearts I have, they are eternally

curious about me and my life – and they certainly lovefootball, Lady Gaga and Madonna! When asked what theyknow about London their immediate reply is “Aston Villa,West Ham, Chelsea, Arsenal … ”

I make them play games, role play, they love writingshort essays for homework which we dissect the next day,especially Ven Kovida, who produces one unasked, everyday. One of the monks, Ven Aggadhamma, a gentle youngman with a fine quiet intelligence, usually brings me backon his motorbike or into town if I want to buy a fewsupplies.

A bookcase is delivered to the “Library”, a roughmetal affair, and the handyman monk puts all the booksflat in higgledy-piggledy piles on the shelves. I cannot bearto see books so treated, so quietly one day when everyoneis out I completely re-arrange it, sorting the books intocategories and language. I find apart from a lot of Englishgrammars and books on Buddhism, an eclectic collectionof English literature including John Donne, Milton,Shakespeare, Marlowe, Congreve, Bacon and Orwell! Asurprising choice, showing the level of erudition amongstthese men.

Soon it is drawing near to the end of my time here.A “Closing Ceremony” is planned for the last morning.Josh Lisa and I have to make speeches and comment onthe experience, and then it is their turn. Many of mystudents, Pandita, Dhirinda, and Tejosara of course, all getup and speak and the opening address is led by Kovida.They love standing up with the microphone and talking,all saying how wonderful we are and what a greatopportunity it has been for them to be taught by nativespeakers, a chance they rarely get. Then we are presentedwith an “Honourable Certificate” and a statuette of theBuddha along with bags of fruit and a solar-powered prayerwheel! And an envelope which of course I do not openbut later find to contain money, the last thing I expected.It is a charming ceremony and ends with the inevitablechanting and prayers and a speech from the Abbott andmany many photographs.

Later when I open the envelope, although my firstinstinct is to give back the money, I realise this is fromeach individual student out of their own pockets and reallycannot be returned.

That evening there is a small farewell party. I hadalready made a small donation to cover food expensesalthough Zawana insisted it was absolutely not necessary,and I give my favourite pupils and the house monks a Diaryeach. Also I order a whole delicious Carrot Cake to be

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delivered from the “Be Happy Cafe”, something they areextremely suspicious about until they taste it!

This was a very special and delightful experience. Ihope my students did learn something from me. I feel nowI was not really well-enough prepared, and if I ever did itagain I would know better how to organise the classes.But I loved being part of the monastery, going down tothe Maha Bodhi Temple of a morning to meditate andchant, feeling very much at one with these gentle, noblemen. To be here for these two short weeks in this little

corner of Burma transplanted into the deserts of Bihar –hardly feeling like being in India at all – has been aprivilege and an honour I shall never forget, nor thewonderful generosity and charm of the monks I got toknow. An enhancing and memorable experience.

I feel I could go to Burma, that is, Myanmar, in acouple of years from now when my learned students havegot their degrees, and have wonderful places to stay allover that lovely country.

And maybe that is just what I shall do …