Faithful to Buddha, Faithful to You Chapter 2

Chapter 2: A monk and a nun

When I regain consciousness, I find myself surrounded by a group of strange-looking people: high nose, deep eyes, thin lips, round faces, short necks, smooth white skin, their pupils a dark brown. The men are thick and tall, the women plump and healthy. They all have curly hair, a reddish hue, down to their shoulders. Their clothes are even more unusual. The men are dressed in collared tunics with fitted sleeves and cinched at the waist. They wear boots high up to their knees and a sword slung on each of their back. The women’s dresses are knee-length with fitted sleeves. They wrap their shoulders in shawls and also wear high boots.

I am impressed with myself. Even in a state of exhaustion, I can still observe and describe the appearance and clothes of people around me like a professional with only a few glances. The information loses meaning when I start to smell the food.

There are only bread and bowls of hot noodles, but that is enough for me to salivate. I quickly take the food from the hands of a woman in her forties. After mumbling a thank you, I dig in ravenously. The bread soon vanishes and the noodle bowls follow after a few mouthfuls. My stomach finally regains some feeling. I still want to eat some more and hesitantly I begin to ask, only to realize a problem—we don’t speak the same language.

Not a surprise since a glance could already tell me they are not Han people, and I am still not certain whether I have returned to the past or not. Who knows, maybe this experiment is merely a free plane ride that can take me to some desert in the Middle East or Africa, only to meet a primitive nomadic tribe by chance. Maybe I am still in the 21st century. I try to use English, to no avail.

As I contemplate my dilemma amidst the strange sounds, two new people suddenly arrive in the tent. The others immediately stop their discussion and appear to be very respectful toward the newcomers. I can already guess their ident.i.ties, but when they come closer, I get such a shock that renders me agape for a long minute.

They are a nun in her thirties and a young monk around fifteen, sixteen. But what surprised me the most is the dignified and n.o.ble aura they exude. They just stand there silently, and still their otherworldly aura spreads around me.

The nun’s face is similar to the other women, but her skin is a smoother white, her eyes are big, her eyebrows long and sleek. In her eyes there is a glimpse of worry. With her round and full body, even the simple brown kāṣāya* cannot hide its beauty. However, it seems the nun’s forehead is different compared to others—it is pressed down and back toward the nape, a somewhat bizarre image. I recall that ancient Egyptians and Persians used to have a custom of pressing their foreheads flat when young, but that practice was only limited to members of the royal family. I wonder whether the nun’s forehead was already like that at birth or got pressed afterward. Still, the flat forehead does nothing to lessen her beauty.
*kāṣāya: robes worn by Buddhist monks and nuns

My observation moves onto the fifteen-year-old monk and with a start, I realize how strangely bewitching his handsomeness is. Still the same high nose and deep eyes, but not as rugged as the others’. His face is exactly like a Greek statue, the lines radiant like a sculpture that was chiseled with great attention to detail. His countenance is a work of harmony: his eyebrows long and dark, his pupils a light gray and endlessly deep, untainted like the blue sky atop the desert. He may be young, but the air he exudes is majestic and bright, giving me a feeling of both warmth and intrigue.

His lips are thin but the lines are clear; when they are closed, the edges curved into an elegant line. His face is long, his chin sharp, situated on top of a thin and long neck like a swan, each line a vivid brush. Unlike the other men in the tent, his skin is the color of a honeycomb. Wrapped in a long cloak that covered his entire body, with his height at 1m70*, it makes him look even more imposing, but also renders his clothes rather plain. It is obvious he will continue to grow, maybe to 1m80* or taller.
*1m70 = 5’7” in height, 1m80 = 5’10”

I study those two strangers intently, my mind a mess, until I wake with a start when they begin to speak to me in broken Han.

It takes me a while before I realize they are asking me where I come from and why I am lost wandering here. I look at them with anguish and reply, “Please tell me, where is this place, and to which country does it belong to?”

The nun looks uncertain but the little* monk seems to have already grasped a few things. He suddenly bends down next to me; his handsome and pure face s.h.i.+nes brightly. Bewitched by that beauty, my heart beats fast and I feel disoriented for a second.
*little as in age

“We arrive in Wensu, almost. You are Han?” he asks me.

Not yet recovered from my skipping heartbeat, I chuckle at how serious he looks despite his accented Han and mixed-up order of grammar.

Shyness overcomes him and his face reddens slightly, “Han language, I, speak not good.”

He turns back to the nun and speaks with her for a long while. I stop chuckling, trying to guess the place he referred to. From his p.r.o.nunciation, it doesn’t seem like a place in the Central Plains [mainland China]. The monk turns back to me and continues with our conversation, “You, go, where?”

I reply eagerly, “Chang’an*, do you know it?”
*capital of ancient China for more than ten dynasties

Seeing the monk nod, I sigh in relief. So it is a landmark that exists and is known here.

“But…” the monk looks at me hesitantly. “Very far, alone, you?”

I nod my head tiredly. Right now, except for Chang’an, I cannot think of any other place. At the very least, I don’t have to worry about language barrier there.

“We, go Kuchi, you, on the way,” the monk says.

It takes him quite some effort to p.r.o.nounce a word. I am br.i.m.m.i.n.g with laughter but I try hard to suppress it. Saving my life, and now making conversation with me, that is plenty to be grateful for. I wonder what is this Kuchi place? I must have already landed for seven, eight hours, and yet still no clue on where and when in time. A student researcher majoring in history from a famous university like me, what an embarra.s.sment!

“You, your name?”

“Huh?” Lost in my own thoughts, it takes the monk asking a second time before I realize he is asking for my name.

“My name is Ai Qing*.”
*her name has the same p.r.o.nunciation as the word “love” in Chinese.

My name has long been in a topic of laughter for people. Ever since I was young I was nicknamed “Love” [English]. The boys loved to tease and shout out my name: Oh, my love! [English]

I have fought to change my name but my parents refused. After a while I got used to it. Being called “ai qing” [love] is no big deal, except that after bearing such a name for years, there is still no sign of my love cupid.

“My name is…” the monk then says a long string of strange sounds that I cannot seem to remember.

I can only smile in reply. The monk patiently repeats it three times. Based on the p.r.o.nunciation, I manage to find corresponding syllables in the Han language: Ku-ma-la-ji-ba, indeed quite hard to say. I try anyway, “Ku-ma-la-ji-ba, Ku-ma-la-ji-ba, Ku-ma-la-ji-ba…”

His lips follow the ups and downs of my p.r.o.nunciation and end in laughter—the sound high, pure and resonating like a stream of water against rocks. I suddenly remember, not too long ago it was me who laughed at his wrong Han p.r.o.nunciation, now it is me on the receiving end. My cheeks burn.

The monk laughs for a bit and stops, perhaps noticing my reddening face. He points toward the beautiful nun standing behind, “Mother, my, Jiba.”

The beautiful nun is his mother? They are both monastic? Since he is so young, his mother must have induced him into Buddhism? A feeling of regret pa.s.ses by me, but I soon chase it away. Jiba? I wonder if that is a given name or an honorific. I raise my voice and say her name. The nun nods at me.

“You, rest, we, tomorrow, journey,” are the monk’s last words.

After the two of them left, I stay back at the tent with four more women. I don’t understand what they say, but they seem friendly enough. Not daring to ask for more food, I lie down on the soft bedding they made especially for me.

So I am at a faraway place with a language barrier. Outside in the desert, the wind lets out a screeching sound, a terrible wail in the middle of the night. My heart weighs down, and every time I close my eyes, homesickness overcomes me and tears flow, wetting my pillow. I try to stop that pathetic feeling by using my most familiar method.

I begin to a.n.a.lyze the images that I saw before going to sleep and name each of the items: I lie on a bed with patterns sewn in rhombus shapes, my head lies on a pillow with flower patterns interspersed with small silver blocks, and my body is covered by a blanket with a triangle pattern. The item holding the water is a ceramic vase with one handle, patterned like a net. The bowl holding the bread earlier was a bowl made of clay. I guess that I have come to the ancient times because the techniques used to craft those items are still very primitive. Judging by the level of pottery skills in Central Plains, these techniques must have existed more than two thousand years ago. But I don’t know how it is here.

The screaming winds outside along with the steady breathing in the tent cannot stop the exhaustion and sleepiness coming to me. I curl up in the warm blanket and slowly fall asleep.