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| Lin Hwai-min photo by Liu Chen-hsiang |
Bodhgaya
was a village with only a muddy track for access. Little shops and open-air
stalls gathered around the compound of Mahabodhi Temple to form a market.
Constructed in the sixth century, the Mahabodhi stupa, a stone structure, was
50 meters tall. Standing in the temple courtyard, it ascended towards the blue
sky. To the back of the stupa stood a bodhi tree, a fourth generation
descendent in 2,500 years; its trunk spreading into infinity, and its leaves
and branches shielding over mortal souls. The Diamond Seat of Buddha sat
beneath the tree; a fence had been set up around it. Monks and pilgrims of
different nationalities sat on the ground outside the fence. Under the guidance
of the monks, the pilgrims chanted Buddhist scriptures. Between the rising and
falling of the chanting, one could hear birds twittering from near and afar.
In
the afternoon I would sit on the banks of the Neranjra River outside of the
Temple compound and stare blankly at it. The water was muddy and seemed
motionless. From time to time, a big bubble would break out and pop, to remind
one of the turbulent life coursing underneath the smooth surface of the river.
I
suppose that the Neranjra river which Buddha saw would have been flowing in
much the same way. It was in the grove of trees on the opposite shore that
Prince Siddhartha engaged in six years of ascetic practice on a daily diet of
sesame seeds and a grain of wheat, at last reducing himself to skin-and-bones
before realizing that this consuming desire to be enlightened was the biggest
obstacle to his enlightenment.
So
Prince Siddhartha accepted the offerings of a village maiden. He crossed the
river to take his place in the diamond seat that destiny had prepared for him.
I
stood on the river bank and marveled at Buddha's determination to cross the
river.
To turn
away from the world and become self-reliant, to live the life of a hermit and
practice asceticism, is completion of the self. To receive, to accept another
person's bodily warmth was for Buddha, at the moment of receiving, a return to
the world of birth, old age, illness and death. Having crossed the river
himself, Buddha would now guide humanity to cross it.
The Agama
Scripture tells us that, at the time of his nirvana, Buddha did not, as popular
Buddhist mythology would have us believe, take leave of the world easily. He
summoned his beloved disciple, Ananda, to give him detailed instructions on his
cremation and the construction of the stupa. It was too much for Ananda to
bear, and he ran into the woods to cry. Buddha heard him crying and called him
back to his side and comforted him. There is infinite beauty within the beauty of
nirvana – the reluctance to leave, and the reluctance to let go.
On
the bank of the Neranjra River, I realized for the first time in my life that
Buddha was an ordinary mortal who also endured human confusion and struggle.
Out of his compassion, he practiced asceticism and meditation, and pointed out
to us the path of salvation. I felt warmth and was filled with love and
admiration for Buddha.
I sat
quietly under the bodhi tree, shoulder to shoulder with the monks. I opened my
eyes, and saw sunlight coming from the top of the stupa through the branches to
land directly on my forehead. My heart became full of joy; I felt a quietude
that I had never experienced.
Back
in Taipei, I often remembered the cool bodhi tree, and the Neranjra River that
ran quietly through time. Every day the dancers of Cloud Gate Dance Theatre of
Taiwan meditated. I created Songs of the Wanderers with great ease, a
work about practicing asceticism, the river's mildness, and the quest for
quietude.
As I
review this piece of work from 1994, it feels as though I am studying an entry
in my diary. The memory of the journey to Budhgaya causes my heart to be
overcome with joy, which I hope can be shared with the audience of Songs of
the Wanderers.