He answers his phone and, despite the fact that he is speaking thai, subconsiously strolls out of earshot. His voice, however, still pierces the silence that abounds in the temple complex in which we have found ourselves. I have now spent the better part of a scorching Chiang Mai afternoon with Pra Tawatchai but have come no closer to ironing out the ambiguities that confronted me about monkhood before I met this particular charming 24 year-old.
With nothing but a curious interest in Buddism and some free time on my hands, I decided to heed the recommendation of my guidebook and partake in "monk chat". Essentially this involves making one's way to Wat Chedi Luang, located in the centre of Chiang Mai, and conversing with whichever monk is 'on duty'. The purpose is two-fold. Firstly, it is for the tourist to shed some of his/her ignorance about the Buddhist religion and secondly, for the monk to practice his command of the english language.
Tawatchai's phone call is short and apparently involved organising two iced coffees, one for him and one for me. When our beverages eventually arrive they are the same colour as his robes- a redish-yellow. The drinks provide welcome relief from what must be 35 degree heat.
Earlier in the afternoon our conversation had begun with the usual formalities associated with meeting somebody for the first time. I discovered that Tawatchai was born in the same year as me- 1986- in Bangkok with only his mother as support until the age of twelve. It was then that he became a novice monk, something that most Thai men are obliged to do. This tradition, Tawatchai tells me, stems from when Sukothai was Thailand's capital and the king at the time decreed that every Thai man should become a monk for at least a short period of time. The purpose of this tradition was, and still is, to ensure the survival of Buddism.
Tawatchai spent eight years as a novice monk in Bangkok and the North-east before moving to Chiang Mai once he had become a full monk four years ago. He agrees with me that not having a complete family as a support base contributed to his decision to stay in the monkhood.
Having finished our drinks, we make our way through the temple complex and he suggests that we move on to another temple where he wants to show me a larger buddhist university than the one he attends at Wat Chedi Luang. Soon I manage to steer our conversation to pertainent questions I have entertained about his chosen path in life.
First and foremost, perhaps even naturally, I am interested in the vow of celebasy that he and other monks have taken. This includes, I might add, no masturbation. A rather awkward enquiry along the lines of, "How do you manage it?" is met (as one would expect with a monk) with a question directed right back at me- "Are you human?" he asks.
"Yes," I reply.
"Am I human?"
I pause, "Yes. Yes, you are human".
"Well then it can be done." Reflection. "Nicky, it is like this. Every rule is only surface-deep. Underneath lies the real reason for its particular existence. I cannot have sex, for example, means that any temptation to temporary worldy beauty is, in itself, partly disallowed." Understood. "So if I concentrate on the meaning behind the rule, the rule becomes more managable." Clear.
Tawtchai pauses, takes another sip of his iced coffee, and asks if he can take a photo of me. I oblige. So, in front of a gold leaf-encassed spire, in a temple complex in northern Thailand, I pose for a monk as he takes my picture on his camera phone. The light is not good. I move and we have more success.
"What do you regard as luxury items, Tawatchai?" I had seen earlier in a book on Buddism that the possesion of such items was forbidden.
"Anything that distracts," he replies.
"Like expensive cellphones?" I probe.
"We have had to move with the times," he says. "Some types of Buddhism do forbid luxury items outright and some also forbid the use of money, but as long as you remember the fundamental reason for the these particular rules, then you are in a better position than those who spend as much as they can on luxury items."
I was confused. It seemed at this point that one could break the rules as long as one knew why the rule they were breaking existed in the first place. I challenged him.
"So you can spend money and buy fancy phones and numerous iced-coffees then?"
"I don't though. I spend what is reasonable for somebody in this day and age and on things that are reasonable. My mother bought me this phone"
We walked for the next few minutes in silence through the temple, soaking up the late-afternoon atmosphere. Tawatchai said he needed another iced-coffee.
"So, you are you in some way addicted to iced-coffee, Tawatchai?"
He paused. Had I crossed the line? Had my lay-person interogation gone too far? I knew that addiction of any sort was fundamentally rejected by Buddhism. Quite suddenly, he broke the silence with a smile that subsequently turned into an adolescent giggle. "We don't call it addiction." And that is where we left it.
I wished Tawatchai well and made an arrangement to meet with him for lunch the next day. As I walked the two or so kilometres to my guesthouse I considered what Tawatchai had said about rules associated with the monkhood and the breaking thereof. I concluded that I would need to spend more time with the man to fully comprehend the ironies of a monk's lifestyle in the 21st century. That evening I googled some information on Buddhism and checked my Facebook. Tawatchai had already added me as a friend.
No comments:
Post a Comment