Under the Bodhi Tree

Heading for the Mahabodhi Temple, the sangha moved through the lively crowded streets full of beggars and merchants, Indian and Tibetan. We walked toward a colorful wooden archway topped with a gold Wheel of the Law flanked by two gold deer. The wheel and deer were flat and the entire archway was probably made of plywood, since it was a temporary display. Across the archway, on a blue background, were the words:


HEARTILY WELCOME TO 18TH NYINGMA MONLAM FOR WORLD PEACE (19-28 JAN. 07) SIKKIM NYINGMA MONASTERIES AND CO-ORDINATED BY ECCLESIASTICAL DEPT. GOVERNMENT OF SIKKIM.

Above this bold white lettering in English was the message in Tibetan. Looking around at the many red-robed figures, I said to Val, “Tibetan monks are so pretty, I think because of the colors they wear.” “It’s also because they look so different from us,” Val said. We came to a long, pale stone staircase descending down, down, down. From the top of the staircase I enjoyed a frontal view of the Mahabodhi Temple, a very tall stone structure shaped like a really steep pyramid and covered with elaborate carvings of Buddhas and lotuses. The staircase descended to a path leading to the front door of the temple, and on either side of the path stood little stupas in different colors and styles, some red, some pink, and some grey. We reached the bottom of the staircase, and on the left hung a big brass bell with a rope dangling from inside.

A little boy in red monk’s robes walked up to it, reached up, grabbed the rope and yanked it, but the bell was silent. It could have been like that for centuries, for all I knew. John, who was walking beside me, said quietly, “I love naughty boys.”

The Mahabodhi Temple

 Tibetan butter sculptures next to the Mahabodhi Temple

We went around to the left side of the Mahabodhi Temple and walked toward the back. Next to the tall temple, and dwarfed by it, stands the tree itself. Approaching the Bodhi Tree, under which the Buddha achieved Enlightenment on a full moon night, I saw that a stone fence encompassed the tree and also contained a flashy little gold Thai shrine. Marble tile covered the earth around the little carved stone fence that was decorated with floral and humanoid designs. A larger and similar stone fence circumscribed the marble tile in a much larger square; we were inside that square. I was a bit on the disappointed side. I had visualized the Bodhi Tree as a huge gnarly tree amid bright green grass and other trees out in the wild. It hadn’t occurred to me that it would look different today than it did twenty-five thousand years ago.

I circumambulated both the tree and the temple, while I admired the elaborate detail and architecture of the tall Mahabodhi Temple. I walked mindfully but also kept looking at the façade and admiring the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas carved into the pale beige stone walls and in some instances painted or gilded. During the second circumambulation, I went inside the somewhat crowded temple, looked at the large gold Buddha statue inside a glass display case, and went back out to continue circling. I felt very calm and peaceful, even though the setting was completely different from what I had always imagined. I completed the third circumambulation and joined our sangha in a corner of the larger carved stone fence, where we faced the Bodhi Tree. It was only a few feet in front of us. We used our handmade straw mats that Shantum gave us at his house, rather fortunately since the floor was hard marble rather than soft earth.

Shantum rang the singing bowl, and we meditated. I visualized the tree in the Buddha’s time, and how I had expected it to look. My vision of the Bodhi Tree no doubt would have been more accurate when the Buddha sat beneath it. I pictured Siddhartha Gautama sitting cross-legged in front of the tree, facing me and wearing ragged yellow robes. The same intense emotion I had had in the cave on Vulture Peak came over me; I was shaking and tears almost came, but this emotion ended in a matter of seconds. I opened my eyes and looked at the tree, closed my eyes again, and wanted to return to that emotion. It had ended in a flash and never returned.

I’ve read in books about meditation that you shouldn’t try grasping onto or repeating an experience you had on one occasion, no matter how blissful it was. That would not be in keeping with cultivating detachment, because you’d be attached to that experience. Some people think they gained enlightenment while in India, but after they return to their humdrum American life, they eventually return to their customary anger, depression, and dissatisfaction. They thought that since they had a particular experience while meditating, an experience that seemed like a major breakthrough, they would be able to return to that experience again and again. But like everything else, the experience was impermanent.

After ringing the bowl three times, Shantum gave us a lecture about the life of the Buddha, and I took notes despite the distraction of seeing so many Tibetans and other Asian pilgrims. Shantum told us about Ashoka’s relation to the Bodhi Tree, such as how he spent so much time under the tree that the empress became jealous of it and had it poisoned. The tree we see now is the forth in this location, but the successors were all saplings from the original, so it is a direct descendant. Ashoka also sent a sapling from the Bodhi tree to Sri Lanka, where his daughter planted it. Meanwhile, he had the Mahabodhi Temple built, and it is in such great condition now largely because it was buried in dirt for centuries.

“Buddhists from many different countries come and make offerings and build stupas. It’s like a stupa factory,” Shantum said. Indeed, lots of stone stupas, in numerous styles and sizes, surround the Mahabodhi Temple.

“The Mahabodhi Temple,” Shantum said, “inside is mostly solid, but there’s a meditation hall with a beautiful statue way up high. We, however, are not allowed to go in there; the general public is only allowed on the bottom floor.”

At the end of Shantum’s history lesson, he asked me to begin reading to the sangha and passed me his big thick book, Old Path White Clouds, by Thich Nhat Hanh. I took it and started reading, but before I finished the first sentence, several people called out that they couldn’t hear me. Referring to the reading at our meditation sitting, Shantum said, “Who read this morning?” Jennifer had; she has a strong voice with a nasal New York accent and is good at projecting.
I was seated on my straw mat on the marble tile, and John was sitting on the marble ledge behind me and said, “I could hear you.”
I smiled and said, “That’s because you’re right behind me!”
He said, “Tough crowd.” I handed the book to Jennifer, and she got up and sat next to Shantum, who was facing us with his back to the tree. She began to read a chapter, and although I was more inclined to gawk than to listen mindfully, I was aware that the chapter was appropriately about the Buddha’s experience under the tree.

Gail, the schoolteacher, took over and read at least two chapters. Sometimes I listened; the book is a novel by Thich Nhat Hanh and based on the life of the Buddha, and I look forward to getting my own copy of it. Dornora had told me she has read it five times, and I said I’m definitely getting my own copy as soon as I get back to the States.

But while I was supposed to be listening under the Bodhi Tree, I often barely heard the words while I gazed at the tree, gawked at Tibetans and others passing by, and took many pictures of Tibetans. Some of them, especially monks, stopped to stare at us in awe or puzzlement. Just as Val had mentioned a few days ago about Indians, “We are just as exotic to them as they are to us.” So Tibetans stood about two feet away from me, not only children but also adults, and they didn’t object to my picture taking, though they mostly didn’t smile either. My attitude was: since you’re standing right there, I’m taking your picture!

A few of the monks somewhat resembled the Dalai Lama. One of them wore a surgical mask like many people around here; it’s a protection against germs and dust, and at least one wallah sells them. I made up a story that the Dalai Lama was in disguise: he slipped on a mask so he could visit Bodh Gaya without a mob, without armed guards, without recognition. I decided I wouldn’t give away his secret.

The thousands of Tibetan monks had been gathering and sitting cross-legged outside the outer stone fence, and amid the “stupa factory,” while we listened to Jennifer and then Gail reading. At least one of the monks chanted into a microphone, and the sound drowned out Gail’s reading, so she stopped and our sangha dispersed to later meet by the shoe stop, where everyone takes off their shoes. I got up, folded and tucked away my straw mat, stood close to the stone fence, and gazed at the sea of Tibetans seated cross-legged and clad in vivid maroon, red, pink, and yellow. If Tibetan monks and nuns had any idea how pretty they are, they’d trade in their red and yellow robes with drab grey ones.

I had time to circumambulate again, but first I stepped over to the tree and looked at it up close and observed the offerings of marigolds and of tall pink lotuses lying in front of the metal gate. Above, the heart-shaped leaves dangled from the branches and twirled around, catching sunlight, as if the tree were, instead of a part of nature, a gigantic mobile with leaves made of tinsel and green paper. Oscar Wilde had said, “Life imitates art,” and this sometimes seems true, although most of his witticisms were just for the sake of amusement. Looking at the tree, I no longer felt disappointed. I pressed my palms together and mentally recited a few lines I had memorized from Shantideva’s A Guide to the Bodhisattva Way of Life. I left my wilting marigold lei and a fresh marigold from Rikki in front of the Bodhi Tree.

I then circumambulated three times, listening to thousands of Tibetan monks chanting in surreal deep voices. I felt blissed out, hypnotized, and enchanted. A little smile settled on my lips and didn’t want to leave. This chanting was without drums, cymbals, horns or bells, but it was still a delight. While listening and watching and circumambulating three times, I was in a happy place.