LITMIR.BIZ

      By late afternoon, the monk had reached the banks of a slow-moving river. Reeds grew so tall that they obscured his view. He stepped among them, sweeping them aside until he saw what he was looking for, a rickety old jetty that stretched out into the brown water. He continued along the riverbank, enjoying the music of the reeds and the water, until a new melody reached his ears, the tinkling laughter of children.

      A boy and girl were standing waist-deep in the water. The boy was young and bright eyed, with a ready smile. The girl was older, almost a woman. She was washing her brother’s hair and his dark curls glistened as she massaged coconut oil into his scalp. Her own hair had already been washed and combed, and hung long and straight down her slim back. She bowed to the monk and prodded her little brother to do the same.

      “Greetings Master,” she called.

      “Greetings, child.”

      The boy bowed too, but there was mischief in his eyes. “Master, I have a question,” he shouted.

      “Then ask it,” the monk said.

      “Why don’t you wear your sandals?”

      The girl prodded her brother angrily. It was bad karma to poke fun at monks, but this monk answered good-naturedly. “I like to feel the earth beneath my feet.”

      “Then why carry them at all?” the boy asked, ignoring his sister’s efforts to silence him.

      “Sometimes the ground is covered in sharp stones or thorns. Then I wear them.”

      “If I had sandals, I would wear them all the time,” the boy said.

      “Then your feet would grow soft,” the monk laughed, “and you would be afraid to feel the earth against your skin. And that would be a sad day because you would forget how good it feels.”

      The boy was about to say more, but his sister pushed his head under the water and rubbed his hair vigorously. The monk chuckled to himself as he continued on his way to the jetty.

      The old ferryman sat in his usual place, watching the river go by, as he had for so many years. A tremor in the jetty’s ancient beams told of a new passenger approaching. The old man did not turn to see who it was, preferring instead to try and guess from the footsteps. These were unusual, and for a moment he could not place them. They were not the steps of one of his regular passengers, of that he was certain. The tread was light and balanced, yet the jetty swayed under a considerable weight. He could recall such an effect only once before, when he had rowed a tall young monk across the water.

      “Sardili!” he said, turning with a smile.

      The figure on the jetty was not the young monk he remembered. A tangle of black hair fell onto immense shoulders. A thick beard hung down over a threadbare black robe. Worn leather sandals swung from the end of a gnarled walking staff. The stranger would have been a fearsome sight, were it not for the eyes that twinkled with mischief and laughter.

      “Is that you, Sardili?” the old ferryman asked, shielding his eyes from the sun.

      “Yes, my friend,” came the answer.

      “I hardly recognized you,” the ferryman said with a frown, “Whatever happened to that clean-cut young man who passed this way before?”

      The monk grinned and spread his hands. “He has been wandering.”

      “Wandering? That doesn’t sound like him. He was such an earnest young fellow when I met him—so full of purpose. Did he lose his purpose?”

      “On the contrary. I think he found it.”

      “In Prajnatara’s temple?”

      “Yes.”

      “Well I’m pleased to hear it,” the old man said, slipping into his boat. “Come, climb in. We can talk as we cross.”

      Sardili obeyed and the old ferryman began to row, his strong, steady strokes belying his advanced years and the skeletal thinness of his body.

      “You’re visiting Prajnatara again?” he asked.

      His passenger nodded.

      “I’m sure he will be delighted to see you, if he recognizes you, that is, Sardili.”

      Sardili smiled. No one had called him by that name for a long time.

      “You have a new name?” the old man asked, as if reading his thoughts.

      “I do,” he smiled.

      “Tell me.”

      “I have been given the name Bodhidharma.”

      “Bodhidharma?” the old man chuckled to himself. “Well well, to be called ‘Teacher of Enlightenment’ that is quite an honor.”

      “And quite a burden.”

      “Perhaps, but Prajnatara is no fool. If he gave you such a name, you must deserve it. I will call you by that name from now on, Bodhidharma.” Then the old man saw the sadness in the younger man’s eyes and his tone softened. “Go and see Prajnatara again. He will help you, like he did before.”

      Bodhidharma put his fingers in the warm brown water, then raised his hand and watched the golden droplets return to the river from his fingertips. “I should have visited him long ago,” he said softly.

      “They say that to enlighten someone can take countless lifetimes, or a single moment,” the ferryman smiled, “so what’s your hurry?”

      “You were a monk yourself?” Bodhidharma asked.

      “I have been many things in my life,” the ferryman answered, steering the boat expertly to the shore and securing it against the blackened timbers of the jetty.

      Bodhidharma stepped ashore. “What do I owe you?”

      “Nothing,” the ferryman said with a wave of his hand.

      “You said that last time you rowed me across.”

      “Do you think I want bad karma by taking money from a penniless monk?” the ferryman asked testily.

      “You don’t care about karma,” Bodhidharma said, looking down from the jetty, “I have never seen anyone as happy as you are here on this river. You would row the whole world across for free if you didn’t need to eat.”

      “We all need to eat,” the old man said with sad smile.

      “I guess we do,” Bodhidharma said, bending to grip the old man’s hand in silent thanks before entering the waiting jungle.

      A parrot screeched a greeting and he returned its call without breaking stride. His thoughts were on the message he had received from Prajnatara and his fingers closed on the paper that he had kept in the folds of his robe. The hastily scribbled note had requested his presence at the temple. The tone had been casual and friendly, but Prajnatara never did anything without reason, and as Bodhidharma made

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