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Brother?” the hermit demanded.

      “In a place that cannot be named.”

      “Then does it exist at all, one might ask?”

      “Yes.”

      “That is what you believe,” the hermit said, “but are you certain?”

      “I am,” Bodhidharma said with a smile.

      The hermit stared at Bodhidharma for a moment then looked around at the park of Bodh Gaya. He noticed his fellow hermits glaring at him and turned back quickly to the stranger in the black robe who was sipping his tea contentedly.

      “If you are so certain of things, then why are you here?” he demanded.

      “I am making a pilgrimage on my way to Nalanda,” Bodhidharma told him.

      “You wish to study at Nalanda? I must warn you, it is very difficult to get in. They will turn you away at the gate.”

      “I have an introduction,” Bodhidharma told him.

      “An introduction, you say? From whom? They are very particular in Nalanda.”

      “Prajnatara.”

      “Prajnatara, you say? Master Prajnatara is your master? Why did you not say so before? Prajnatara is very famous here in Magadha, although I heard he went south many years ago to teach.”

      “He is, and he did.”

      “He must think very highly of you, to send you all the way to Nalanda.”

      “He is sending me a lot farther than that,” Bodhidharma smiled. The hermit’s eyes darted over the body of the dark monk and examined his face, determined to take in every detail. “May I know your name, Brother?” he asked finally.

      “Bodhidharma.”

      “Bodhidharma, you say?” the hermit’s eyes widened in wonder, “and you were given this name by Prajnatara himself?” He shook his head urgently from side to side, “I should call you Master instead of Brother! Please forgive me.”

      “You’re free to call me anything you choose,” Bodhidharma said, removing his flat bread from the fire and setting his pot of vegetables on the flame.

      “I shall call you Master Bodhidharma,” the hermit said, pressing his palms together with a smile, “and I am honored to meet you. My name is Vanya.”

      Bodhidharma reached for his bowl and began to fill it from the pot on the fire. “Would you like to share my food, Brother Vanya?” he asked.

      Vanya’s face fell in dismay and he shifted uneasily where he sat.

      Bodhidharma smiled. “Maybe later,” he said, “I can see you have no appetite at present.”

      “Yes, thank you, Master,” Vanya said with relief. “Please don’t think me rude.”

      Bodhidharma began to eat noisily, shoveling mounds of spiced vegetables into his mouth with hunks of flat bread and washing it down with slurps of hot sweet tea. Vanya watched uneasily. He wanted to look away, but felt the eyes of his fellow hermits on his back and did not dare to turn in case one of them should catch his eye. “Forgive me for being so forthright,” he said finally. “You eat and drink in a holy place.”

      “I’m hungry,” Bodhidharma said.

      “You cook for yourself, which is forbidden by the Buddhist law.”

      Bodhidharma shrugged.

      “And I see you carry possessions.”

      “I am on a long journey, Brother Vanya.”

      “How can a man who is truly free of worldly desire do such things?”

      Bodhidharma looked at Vanya’s wasted body, the grey skin stretched painfully thin over protruding bones, the sunken eyes and festering sores that remained untreated on his limbs. “The Buddha once did as you do, Brother Vanya,” he answered. “He denied himself and starved himself for many years. In the end, he abandoned that path saying the true Way lies neither in denial nor excess.”

      “But to put oneself above the suffering of the great Lord Buddha, that could be considered pride, one of the greatest of all sins,” Vanya said.

      Bodhidharma rinsed his cup and bowl and set about packing his knapsack, but Vanya had not finished. “Detachment, that is the key to all things. That is what The Buddha said. Freedom from desires and cravings. Freedom from revulsion and loathing, until even death no longer holds any fear for us.”

      Bodhidharma rose to his feet and slung his knapsack over his shoulder. “Your mind is made up Brother Vanya, and my path takes me elsewhere. I wish you well.”

      “Detachment is freedom from the wheel of birth and death,” Vanya said repeating a mantra that he and his companions lived by.

      Bodhidharma planted his walking staff firmly in the ground. “Quite right!” he said, and then bent low so none but Vanya could hear. “Just beware of attaching yourself to detachment.”

      He walked swiftly through the throng of pilgrims, surprised by the strength of his sudden anger. The hermit had studied for many years, yet he was still so blind. Not for the first time, he wondered if he had the strength to enlighten a single person, let alone the emperor of China. His furious pace took him quickly through the crush of the marketplace, and by the time he had reached the road to Nalanda his anger was replaced by a sadness that reached deep into his bones. His pace slowed and his knapsack felt heavy on his back. Finally he stopped and closed his eyes in despair.

      Suddenly, there was the sound of urgent footsteps behind him.

      “Wait, Master, please!”

      It was Vanya, gasping for breath as he spoke, “I would like to walk with you, if I may. Please, wait a moment. I wish to follow The Way as you do. Let me travel with you as your disciple.”

      “No,” Bodhidharma said, setting off again on the road.

      “Wait just a moment, I beg you,” Vanya spluttered.

      “I’m sorry,” Bodhidharma said without looking back. “My path takes me far from here. I suggest you find a different teacher.”

      “But you said you were going to Nalanda,” Vanya said, urging his wasted legs to go faster and catch Bodhidharma.

      “I am going a lot farther than Nalanda.”

      “How much farther?”

      “To Nanjing.”

      “I have never heard of it. Is it far?”

      “Very.”

      “Let me go with you, at least as far as Nalanda. I have so many questions for you.”

      Bodhidharma walked. Vanya stumbled along beside him, his head so full of questions that he could not think of a single one, and soon he was too tired to utter a single word. Bodhidharma’s relentless pace quickly became too much for him and he fell behind. But Vanya knew the way to Nalanda and kept Bodhidharma in sight, far ahead in the distance.

      When darkness descended and Bodhidharma stopped to rest, Vanya joined him by the fire, just as his little pot of water began to boil. Too exhausted to speak, he simply smiled happily at Bodhidharma, as if they had been traveling companions for so long that words were no longer needed. Bodhidharma handed him a bowl of rice and a cup of hot, sweet tea and this time Vanya ate and drank without protest.

      Flowers on the Balcony

      “Come on, my friend,” Huo said, pulling on his overcoat and heading for the door of the barrack room. “Let’s go to Longpan. We’d better hurry up, or all the pretty girls will be gone.”

      Kuang remained on his bed and stared at the bunk above. “I’m not your friend, Huo, and I’m not going into that stinking town.”

      Huo turned

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