Autobiography 06
Phra Nirōdharaṅsī Gambhirapaññāvisiṭṭha
Luang Pu Thate Desaraṅsī
Wat Hin Mak Peng, Si Chiang Mai District, Nong Khai Province
19. Twelfth Rains Retreat: Staying at Wat Arafiyawāsī, Tha Bo, Nong Khai (1933)
This Rains Retreat, I prepared myself to go after Ajahn Mun in Chiang Mai Province. Throughout the retreat, I practiced using the same methods and approaches I had used at Wat Pa Salawan in Khorat, and I held onto Ajahn Mun as my motivation to spur on my practice. But my mind was not as refined as before.
After the retreat, I discussed with Ajahn On Si (Phra Khru Sīlakhanthasangworn): "I am going to follow Ajahn Mun to Chiang Mai Province. Will you come with me? If you come, I must set down some ground rules beforehand:
(1) On the journey, we will not complain about any hardships — whether travel, food, or shelter. Even if we fall ill, we will care for each other to the best of our ability, and if death comes, then death comes. (2) When we miss home or our companions — parents, etc. — we will not give in to that longing. (3) We must be prepared to sacrifice our lives in any and all situations, regardless of the cause.
If you can agree to follow these three rules, then come. If you cannot yet follow them, then don't come. You will regret it later, and it will also cause me suffering."
He said: "I am willing. I ask to come along." There was also a layman who had ordained as a white-robed practitioner and asked to join our journey. We took a motorboat from Vientiane, going upstream to Luang Prabang. We stayed overnight at villages and on sandbanks along the way. After three nights and four days, we reached Luang Prabang. Along the banks of the Mekong River, we enjoyed the natural scenery. The cool air made our minds feel secluded and inspired, and we were very happy. There were few passengers; most slept. Only the captain and a few crew remained. The landscape had no villages — just forests, jungles, and cliffs jutting out over the river. Sometimes animals like monkeys and gibbons leapt about, chasing and playing with each other as animals do. When our boat approached, they would gather in groups to watch us.
Today I understand that such scenes are hard to find. Even now, when I recollect that image, my mind still feels secluded. We reached Luang Prabang and asked to stay at a new temple near the royal palace of the King, where the Phra Bang Buddha image — the cherished treasure of Luang Prabang's people — was enshrined. It happened to be the day that the queen was celebrating the platform for the Phra Bang image. This was fortunate for us, as we were able to witness the merit-making customs of the Luang Prabang people. But I will not describe that here.
After the celebration for the Phra Bang platform was finished, we took leave of the abbot and went to stay at Wat Nong Sra Kaew, which is on a mountain on the opposite bank of the Mekong from Luang Prabang, to wait for a boat to go up to Chiang Saen District, Chiang Rai Province. We waited four nights before taking a boat up to Chiang Saen District. The journey was also four nights, the same as coming down from Vientiane. We stayed in Chiang Saen District for 4–5 nights, then traveled to Chiang Rai and Lampang. We then stayed at the orchard of a Muslim (?) "Phra Bat Tak Pha" — at the entrance to the mountain. At that time, the white-robed man traveling with us fell ill — no fever, but he was tired and achy, with thick red urine like meat-washing water. We were far from any doctor, so we used the Buddha's medicine to treat him: we had him drink his own urine, even though it was reddish. He drank it while still warm. How marvellous! After less than ten days, he recovered completely.
After that, we traveled on foot barefoot for about 35 kilometers. Then we took some rides and walked some more until we reached Lamphun and Chiang Mai. When we entered Wat Chedi Luang and inquired about Ajahn Mun, we could not get much news. Worse, some monks even spoke of him with disparagement and contempt.
19.1 The Adventurous Life of a Monk
I ask the reader's forgiveness for a little while as I relate this story of my adventurous life as a monk. It may seem to have no substance, and telling it is embarrassing to myself. But if I don't tell it, the autobiography will be incomplete.
In the past, while we were staying at Wat Chedi Luang in Chiang Mai, I felt that my health was excellent — better than ever before, probably because I liked the cool weather. I went to have my photo taken as a souvenir. Two days later, I went to the shop to pick up the photos myself.
While I was looking at the photos, a woman — I don't know what kind of person she was — walked up behind me and said, "Older brother, could I please have one print?" Her manner suggested provocation. When I heard her voice, I was startled, because I had just arrived and didn't know anyone at all.
When I saw her behavior, I responded in the opposite manner. She then turned and fled, hiding her face. Hearing her words and seeing her actions was like hearing a great Dhamma sermon.
I then reflected broadly on the nature of women. I had seen such behavior from women many times before, but I had paid no attention because I was focused on the Dhamma and Vinaya, the Buddha's teaching, seeing women only as a danger to the holy life.
But this incident caused me to look back at past events one by one. There was a woman whom I respected as a faithful layperson; she was quite mature in age. I had trained her to meditate according to my method, as I had trained others. Later, she said that when she was close to me, her mind felt less troubled. Sometimes when a large group gathered, she would come and sit for long periods.
At that point I understood her game. I taught her to correct her mind through meditation, but it didn't work. I tried scolding her and speaking harshly to make her angry, but that also didn't work. One day, around dusk, she rushed up to my kuṭi. No matter how I tried to stop her, she wouldn't listen. She came up, sat down glumly, and said nothing. I called her relatives to pull her down by the arm. She became furious. The next morning, while I was doing walking meditation, she walked straight up to me, stood at a distance, and shouted: "Why do you teach meditation like this? You're teaching people to go crazy! No teacher is free from sensual desire!" Then she turned and walked away.
I felt uneasy about this. Her relatives took her to the hospital, but the doctor examined her and said nothing was wrong. Later, she went to stay at another mae chee center where she had previously been close. After three months, she returned to see me. By then she realized her own fault. She confessed, thinking that I had a certain charisma that made her fall in love with me. She asked my forgiveness, and that was the end of the first story.
The second story: much later, I was teaching Buddhist laypeople in various rural areas out of genuine goodwill and compassion, without regard for hardship. Sometimes at night I would teach for two or three watches without tiring. I especially felt compassion for young women with no family responsibilities, wanting them to see the suffering of their female condition and to keep the precepts and celibacy purely, so that after death they might be reborn free from that condition, or as men who could ordain as monks or novices.
This foolish thought of mine was directed at women in general, not at any particular one. My compassion unknowingly became a kind of charisma. That is, many people came to respect me, and many — both men and women, young and old — came to ordain and stay in the forest with me. Some meditated and achieved wondrous results, apparent to themselves and to the group. But those who couldn't meditate ended up creating even more defilements for themselves.
One day, I had to leave that place on business. A mae chee asked to follow me. I refused and set out. After that, that mae chee became dazed and confused, not speaking to anyone. No matter who asked, she wouldn't talk — she just smiled. I was away for several days. When I returned and saw her condition, I tried speaking harshly to make her angry, hoping to break her out of her state, but she just kept smiling.
I tried using religious methods but they didn't work. So I had her taken back to her relatives. I didn't pay much attention after that, realizing that all these incidents arose from sensual desire. After that, I continued to teach Dhamma to laypeople with genuine goodwill. I had encountered many such small dangers to my celibacy, but I paid them no mind and never thought they could actually happen. I was also very ashamed of such events, so I won't speak of them. But I will relate the most hair-raising incident of my celibate life.
When I was newly ordained, sometimes at night I would take children to visit laypeople who had supported me. One day, when I went up to the house of a certain laywoman, she came out and closed the door. I was startled. At that time, she was alone with a small child. We began talking about various things, as acquaintances do. Whenever I visited, she would always ask: "Do you want to disrobe?" I, being honest and shy, would always say no, and then talk about Dhamma.
This time was the same. She asked the same question, and then talked about her past: she had been married before, there was a monk who loved her but they didn't marry. Her current husband she married because both families approved and arranged it. They lived together — who knew when they might split? I just sat and listened, thinking that we were familiar with each other, speaking honestly. But strangely, she kept edging closer. The candlelight was dim, almost out. I asked her to trim the wick, but she just smiled. (This was the era of candles.) I began to feel uneasy and hot with desire, but also afraid of the sin and afraid that someone might find out.
At that moment, I couldn't speak at all — my mind was blocked. As for her, from what I observed, she was in a great state. Her face showed that she almost had no mindfulness left. She couldn't bear it; she had to go outside to drink water and splash her face, then came back in. She did this many times. But each time she came back, she sat even closer to me. I felt uneasy, confused, and irritated. So I said I was leaving for the temple. But when I looked for the child who had come with me, he was asleep leaning against the wall. She begged me to stay the night and return in the morning. I became even more confused and extremely embarrassed. I told her to wake the child. Only the second time did she agree. The child woke up, and the two of us walked down the stairs of the house, dazed and deeply ashamed. I was afraid that my friends and teachers might find out.
I reached the temple around midnight and reflected on what had happened: "What is this? Why did it happen like this?" I couldn't sleep until dawn. In the end, I miraculously escaped safely. All these past events that I have related were triggered by that young woman — whom I had never seen before — who came to ask for my photo that day. It was as if she had given me a Dhamma sermon.
Ah — this is the cunning of women who are still deluded and infatuated with sensual pleasures in this world. So I thank her very much on this occasion. The first story I told happened as if I were listening to a sermon, so it wasn't strange. The two later stories — perhaps because I paid no attention to worldly matters, or as others might say, because I was stupid — but I am willing to be stupid in such matters. That is why I renounced and ordained, ordaining in a way that truly sacrifices my life to honor the Buddha's teaching. Moreover, if I had not been so stupid, or if my merit had not sustained me, and if I had not been willing to sacrifice my life for the religion — by now I would long have become hawk or crow droppings.
When I recollected those hair-raising escapes, I felt such rapture and fullness that my body trembled for several days. Even afterwards, whenever I recalled those incidents, the same rapture arose for nearly twenty years. I was very ashamed and didn't want to say that women are a great danger to the holy life, because my own mother was a woman, and the Buddhism that I now take shelter under is largely sustained by women. Even in the Buddha's time, Visākhā was a famous great laywoman. Nevertheless, when the Buddha wanted to warn his disciples to be restrained in the holy life, he warned them mostly about the opposite sex.
For example, in his final instruction, answering Ānanda's question about how to deal with women after his parinibbāna: "Not seeing them is good. If you do see them, do not become familiar or converse with them. If you must converse, then keep your mind well restrained." And so on.
As for women who have trained their minds to be pure and free from all suffering, they also speak of men as the opposite sex and as attractive objects, showing their danger until they become disenchanted. As the story of Ven. Bhikkhunī Uppalavaṇṇā says: "I have seen the danger in sensual desires. When desires crowd into anyone's heart, they make that person blind and dark. Even a father can have intercourse with his own daughter."
In conclusion, one of the most deadly dangers to the holy life is sensual pleasure. But that does not refer only to the opposite sex, because all beings born in the sensual plane are born from two parents. So no matter what one does, one cannot escape the opposite sex. But to transcend sensual desires, one must use them as a cause, as a basis for reflection — especially the opposite sex, which is the physical object that symbolizes sensual lust. Lust and desire are abstract mental phenomena that already exist in everyone's mind. When they arise, they focus on a physical object as a sign, then grasp it as an object. And that physical object — form, gender, color, shape, behavior, manners, speech — is ready to gratify lust and desire in every way. Therefore the opposite sex, as well as sensual objects, are of great assistance to those who see the danger in sensual desires and wish to free themselves from the sensual world. Without that, the Dhamma and Vinaya, the Buddha's precepts, meditation practice, methods, and wisdom would all be worthless and useless.
All beings born in this sensual plane must fight this danger — whether ordained or lay. At the very least, if they don't have modern weapons, they must use the weapon their parents gave them (their fists). Whoever does not rise up to fight is worthless in this life. But the tactics of a monastic and a layperson differ: the monastic fights for victory; the layperson fights for defeat. The one who doesn't fight at all is a living corpse.
All this is for the benefit of those who have ordained, to preserve the holy life and continue the Buddha's religion. Women are a great danger to the holy life, but they are also of infinite value to the religion, because women are the physical bodies from which the Buddha and his disciples are born, and they are also the basis that gives rise to the Dhamma in those beings.
In my view, the most shameful offense a bhikkhu can commit is any rule concerning the opposite sex — matters of love and desire, what is called sensual pleasure. Not to mention a monastic who has renounced sensual pleasures to ordain — even a layperson who is immersed in the five strands of sensual pleasure, if they display such behavior in a civilised gathering, is considered a bad person.
I have led the reader through dangerous and exhausting territory. Now let me return to the story of following Ajahn Mun.
19.2 Following Ajahn Mun into Burmese Territory (1933)
We stayed at Wat Chedi Luang for 2–3 nights, then took leave of the abbot and set out to continue searching for Ajahn Mun. After inquiring at various places where he had previously stayed and getting nowhere, to put an end to our doubt, we decided to travel outside the country into Burmese territory, going via Muang Hang – Muang Tuan, then up to Pha Hang Hung (Rang Rung) near the border of Muang Pan on the Salween River. But we were disappointed: there was no sign that he had gone that way.
We couldn't stand the cold. We stayed with the Palaung hill tribe for two nights, then came back down. How cold was it? Even in March–April, we had to sleep by a fire all day and night. If it were winter or a severe cold year, how much worse would it be?
The reason Ajahn Mun fled into the forest was that Chao Khun Upāli Guṇūpamācārya (Chan Sirichantho) held him in great esteem. When he saw that he would not survive much longer, and at that time there was no senior monk suitable to take charge of Wat Chedi Luang, he entrusted the responsibility of Wat Chedi Luang to Ajahn Mun. But Ajahn Mun loved peace and did not want complications. He stayed one Rains Retreat to fulfill Chao Khun Upāli's intention, then after the retreat took leave and disappeared into the forest. Just then, Chao Khun Upāli himself passed away that Rains Retreat. For the next two Rains Retreats, no one knew where he was.
So the two of us — Ajahn On Si and I — searched until we found him. This tudong was a search for Ajahn Mun within Thai territory. Although there were many hardships, that is normal for tudong. But once we crossed outside Thai territory, we found many annoyances and difficulties — such as language and customs. Even though they were also Buddhists, some of their practices differed from what we were used to, and some were even inconsistent with the Dhamma and Vinaya, the Buddha's precepts.
It was very uncomfortable for us as guests. Especially when we traveled to various hill tribe villages, the hardships were immense. The terrain was extremely difficult. In some places we had to walk along stream beds in valleys, or else along the edges of steep cliffs. On the way back down, I slipped on a rock and fell, splitting my knee open. I had to limp along until we reached Ban Pong Pa Khaem, on the Thai-Burmese border. Then I went to stay at Tham Plong (Cave of the Chimney) for 10 nights to heal.
When we entered Burma, one thing worth noting is that the people there are peaceful, generous, and there are no thieves or cheats. They don't even raise chickens, ducks, or pigs because they don't kill animals. They eat vegetables seasoned with chili, salt, and sesame/beans. Occasionally, once a year, they might get some crispy fish from Cambodia to taste.
I heard that after the Japanese war, Field Marshal P. forced them to raise animals, causing much trouble. I admired their faithful generosity, and their peace and order was excellent. Even a temple right next to the village fence would be completely silent at night, as if there were no village at all.
When the wound on my knee had healed enough to walk, the two of us crossed over Mon Ang Khang mountain (khang means fierce, a fierce or haunted mountain). That day, we didn't reach the hill tribe village because this mountain was very high — we reached the peak at noon. The descent was so steep that by the time we reached the foot, it was dark. Walking along, we heard a tiger roaring not far from us. I was so afraid of tigers that I almost died, but I didn't tell my companion it was a tiger because he was from the lowlands and didn't know the sound of a tiger. If I told him, he would also be afraid. After the tiger stopped roaring, we got lost and decided to sleep in the forest that night.
That night, I was so afraid of tigers that I couldn't sleep at all. The dew was heavy, and it was cold. My companion snored loudly all night. I was afraid the tiger would hear him and we'd die. He slept soundly. Before dawn, we gathered our requisites, still wet, and continued walking. As we walked, I told him: "The sound last night — like a dying dog — that was a tiger. When it has eaten its fill, it plays and makes that sound." We walked until about 8 a.m. to reach a village. We prepared for alms round, ate, and continued. We then stayed at Tham Tup Tao (Turtle Cave) for a while to rest, then continued to Phrao District.
19.3 Bad Omen for Travelers
Something unbelievable but true: one day, after eating, we set out from Tham Tup Tao. A i kaeng (a type of deer) ran across our path, coming out from beside two houses that had been built in the middle of a faek grass field at the temple gate. It ran slowly, lazily. We paid no attention, thinking we were in its territory. After passing the village and crossing a rice field, heading toward the path entrance, a pair of i kaeng — male and female — were mixed with a herd of buffalo. When they saw us, they ran out ahead again. Still we paid no attention.
Not far after that — even though we were walking on a footpath — why did we both leave the path and go back onto an old trail into a ravine? We walked along a stream with no way to climb the bank for about ten hours, because both sides were steep cliffs. Throughout the walk, the sun never shone. We didn't even stop for a drink. When I was tired, I suggested returning to the old path, but my companion refused. I thought the head of the stream must be formed by water flowing from hilltops joining together, like streams in the Northeast. But no — when we reached the head of the stream, it was a sheer cliff. We ended up following deer and wild boar tracks to their wallowing holes.
We had no way forward. When we turned back, unfortunately I stepped on a loose stone, fell, and cut the sole of my foot deeply. It was nearly dark. I wrapped my shoulder cloth around the wound and decided we should climb up the steep bank, which was covered with gravel. Oh dear — wherever we stepped, it slid. We reached the top around 7 p.m. and saw faint traces of a path winding along the ridge. I was glad — maybe we were close to a village. Suddenly, a deer saw the light of our cloth lantern, got startled, and screamed "beep beep" while stamping its feet. I was so startled my heart nearly stopped. Recovering, I thought: "That's a deer for sure." I looked toward the sound and saw a white chest — confirming it was a deer. It screamed again, then jumped down the mountain and disappeared.
Looking at the bedding of wild animals along the way, we realized we were still far from any human village. Also, it was late, so we found a place to sleep in the thick grass. But we couldn't sleep all night. We couldn't set up our umbrella-tents or mosquito nets. The wind was strong. Besides termites bothering us, ants swarmed to drink the blood from my wound and the sweat on our bodies. I had to wrap cloth around my eyes, otherwise they would swarm to drink our tears.
At dawn, I got up and looked behind us — the rice field was tiny. I determined the direction: if we went straight this way, we would surely hit the path we had lost. So we cut across forest and hilltops according to my reckoning. My foot hurt. Walking over gravel and stones, I almost couldn't go on, but I gritted my teeth. After walking for a while, we hit exactly the path I had predicted. We continued and reached a village around 9 a.m. I felt relieved. We set down our requisites by the village landing.
Soon someone came out. I told him everything. I wanted to ask for rice directly but was afraid it might be inappropriate, so I said tactfully: "We haven't eaten yet, and my foot is injured so I can't go on alms round. Can we get food here?" He said: "You can eat here." Then he went back into the house. We believed he would bring us food, so we went to bathe. After bathing and coming up — oh dear — the wound on my foot hurt so much I couldn't walk. All night it hadn't hurt. This morning walking was bearable. Now why did it hurt so much I couldn't even get up?
My companion in suffering, Ajahn On Si, also felt dizzy and couldn't get up. We waited for the man to bring food, but he didn't reappear. Hunger and exhaustion set in. Fortunately, we had wind medicine in our bags. We helped Ajahn On Si recover. It took until nearly 10 a.m. for him to get up. I sent him to ask. Only two children were guarding the house. He learned that the adults had all gone into the forest to find food. This village had two houses. Their livelihood was cutting young palm leaves to roll into cigarette wrappers for sale.
When Ajahn On Si reported back, I told him to bring the two children. I traded matches for rice. We had nothing else of value — only two boxes of matches each. We got two containers of sticky rice, two plates of fermented bean chili paste, and two bundles of boiled acacia leaves. We ate deliciously. After eating, my foot hurt even more — the pain made the flesh throb. We suffered there until after 3 p.m., then limped on another 3 km to another village. There we treated the wound and rested for 11 nights. Then we crossed over the mountain at the Karen village and came down into Phrao District at Ban Manora (Lukson).
That evening, we heard good news: someone told us that Ajahn Mun was at Pa Mieng, Mae Pang, and Ajahn San was at the entrance to Tham Khok Kham. We were delighted, thinking our wish had finally come true. After breakfast, we prepared to set out. We reached Tham Khok Kham, where Ajahn San was staying, that evening. We stayed with him one night, discussing Dhamma and various matters. After breakfast, he gave us directions, and the two of us took leave of him.
We reached Ajahn Mun's dwelling around 4 p.m. He was doing walking meditation. When he looked up and saw us, he recognized me immediately and called my name. He stopped walking, went and sat in his hermitage. We put our requisites down outside, but he didn't allow it — he told us to put them on the porch of his hermitage. Then we went in to pay respects. He asked a few questions about our well-being as a token of recollection. Then I told him:
"The purpose of searching for you this time is to ask for your kindness in helping to resolve my meditation methods. Because I have thought and studied much with the group, and I see that apart from you, no one else can resolve this matter for me." Then I told him everything — starting from my practice up to the incident with Ajahn Singh in Khorat.
He then spoke about his own training of disciples, essentially telling me to review the friends he had trained:
"If any of them follows my path with skill and stability, they will progress — at the very least, they will be able to stand firm and reach the shore. If anyone does not follow my path, they will not endure; they will decline or disrobe. For myself, if I have too many responsibilities and am busy with the group, my practice is not consistent; if I do not investigate kāyagatāsati (mindfulness of the body) thoroughly, my mind is not very clear. Do not let the mind escape outside the body. Whether this is clear or not, do not give up. Keep investigating right here. You can investigate as asubha, or as the elements, or see it as the khandhas, or see the three characteristics — all are fine. But you must investigate, focusing truly on that matter, throughout all four postures. And it's not that once you see, you stop. Whether you see clearly or not, keep investigating. When any investigation becomes clear and evident to your own mind, other things will also become clear in that same place."
He said: "Do not let the mind merge into bhavaṅga."
20. Thirteenth Rains Retreat: Staying at Pa Mieng, Mae Pang — I Begin Studying Meditation Anew (1934)
When he finished speaking, I resolved in my heart: "Alright, this time I will study meditation anew. Whether right or wrong, I will do as he teaches. Let him be the sole supervisor and arbiter." From that day onward, I established mindfulness and investigated only the body — as asubha, as the four elements, as a lump of suffering, all day and night. I practiced with heedfulness for six months (this Rains Retreat I stayed here) without any boredom.
Then my mind attained peace, and an understanding arose in me: Everything in this world is merely the four elements. But people make conventions and then get deluded by those conventions themselves — that is why there is all this complication and suffering.
This understanding made my mind firm and stable, more than ever before. I became confident that I was on the right path, but I had not yet told the teacher because I was confident in my own understanding. I thought I could tell him whenever.
That year, the weather was extremely cold, so cold that we slept by a fire. A splinter of wood stuck in my hand, but no blood came out. After the Rains Retreat, Ajahn Mun came down to Ban Thung Mak Khao. The two of us — Ajahn On Si (Phra Khru Sīlakhantha) and I — remained at the same place but swapped: I came down to where Ajahn Mun was staying, and Ajahn On Si stayed the Rains Retreat. Ajahn On Si went up the mountain to where I had stayed.
One night, a tiger came and sat watching Ajahn On Si as he slept by the fire. When the fire died down, he got up to add wood. The tiger roared and jumped into the forest. He was a lowland man and didn't recognize the tiger's roar. I never told him, afraid he would be scared. Later, Ajahn Mun sent a letter for us to come down. I went and helped him with business for ten nights. Eh — the understanding that had been so clear started to become unclear. Now I was seeing people as people according to convention again.
After finishing the business, Ajahn Waen and I asked permission to go out wandering in seclusion again. As for Ajahn On Si, he was to stay and attend to Ajahn Mun. We set out, and after about 300 sen (1.2 km) we turned into the forest to stay at a tudong spot. That night, we heard a tiger roaring on the mountain peak, which made my mind feel very secluded. I recollected the Buddha's virtues as my meditation object. Then various wonderful and strange knowledges arose — things I had never thought or experienced before.
We stayed there two nights, then continued and met Ajahn San in Phrao District. But I couldn't stay with him long because I longed for seclusion. So I took leave of him and went up to the Musur (Muser) mountain, where I practiced for nine nights, thinking: "I will go live among people whose language I don't understand, so I can practice fully. I already know that they are generous enough that I will get food."
20.1 Delusion Arises
I practiced to the best of my ability until delusion arose: "The Buddha and the Saṅgha do not exist — only the Dhamma exists. Because the Buddha was just Prince Siddhattha who knew the Dhamma and thereby became the Buddha. Even the Buddha himself is a conditioned phenomenon of form and mind. The Saṅgha is the same — whether noble or ordinary, they exist because of this Dhamma." But then I turned back to examine convention: "Eh — this doesn't match." These two views debated within me for several days without resolution. Fortunately, I did not abandon convention; otherwise, it might have been quite enjoyable.
Just then, Ajahn San sent someone to invite me down to receive a donation. Part of me didn't want to go, but I thought of my robes — I had used them for three years and feared they wouldn't last the Rains Retreat. "Since I'm going, I'll seek complete requisites and then come back up." So I accepted the invitation. When I came down, I got everything I needed, and that deluded view disappeared on its own.
21. Fourteenth Rains Retreat: Staying at the Musur Village (Ban Pu Phaya) (1935)
After finishing my sewing and dyeing, I went back up again. But this time I didn't go to the same place — I went via Ban Pu Phaya. When I arrived, they kindly arranged lodgings for me.
Oh, at first I was very disappointed. I had thought that if we didn't understand each other's language, no one would bother me. But the first time I stayed in an abandoned house, they had never seen a tudong monk. Children, young people, old people all came to stand and stare at me — from far away, then close, until they were nearly stepping on my feet. They came and went. From noon until about 4 p.m., from standing to sitting to lying down — the filth and stench — I don't know what it all was — made me almost faint to death.
They made a walking meditation path for me. As soon as I started walking, they all crowded behind me in a long line, stretching the whole length of the path. I couldn't bear it and sat back down. They still walked around in groups, enjoying themselves. Later, I explained to their leader (Pu Phaya — equivalent to a kamnan) that they shouldn't follow me like that. If they wanted merit, when they saw me walking, they should pue (press their palms together) — that would give merit. After that, whenever they saw me walking, they would all line up and press their palms together. Those who weren't there would go call others, coming in groups.
I felt pity for these forest people, far from civilization, yet honest and upright. No one had come to teach them for ten or more years. Unless there was a serious crime, government officials never came to show their faces. They governed themselves, obeying their leader strictly. If someone was bad — stubborn, always picking fights — the leader would warn them; if they didn't listen, they would be expelled from the village. If they didn't leave, they had to flee from the leader. As for stealing — absolutely none.
When we traveled through the mountains and saw a single house or two, I could guess that they couldn't live with others. These hill tribes had suffered crop failure since last year. The village we stayed at had 12 houses, but only three had rice to eat. They were very faithful. When I went on alms round, only three people offered food, but they offered a lot, so I had enough to eat.
Later, the leader told me: "Everyone has faith and wants to give alms, but they are ashamed because they have no rice. They eat boiled wild yams instead of rice." I felt compassion for them. As it happened, I liked steamed yams. So I told them: "I like steamed yams, that's why I came to stay with you. Otherwise I wouldn't have come." After they learned that, from then on they dug wild yams, steamed them, and offered them in my bowl every day. They were delighted, smiling and laughing in an endearing way. They were afraid I wouldn't eat their offering, so they followed me all the way to see. I made a point of eating in front of them.
Even though they had planted rice that year, the rains were poor, so the rice plants wilted and turned yellow. With ten days left before the Rains Retreat, they finished arranging lodgings for me. Then rain fell miraculously. They were overjoyed, believing it was because of the merit of making a temple for me. The rice became lush and green, beautiful to the eye. That year they harvested so much rice that they had surplus, and some even sold it.
In truth, no monk had ever stayed the Rains Retreat with the Musur before. I may have been the first monk in Thailand to do so. When they had finished arranging my lodgings, I recollected the Buddha's life: Prince Siddhattha practiced and attained enlightenment at the age of 35. This year, my age was the same as the Buddha's then (I had ordained at nearly 22). So this year, I would practice to honor his enlightenment. Even if my life ended because of practice, I would accept it in every way. May this life of mine be like a lotus flower offered to the Buddha.
And I practiced according to my resolution throughout the Rains Retreat.
But my meditation did not progress — it just remained stable. To fulfill my intention, I tortured myself by fasting for five days. The Musur had never seen such a thing. Afraid I would die, they came to beg me to eat normally. I refused and continued according to my resolution for the full five days. They took turns secretly watching me. If I closed the door to practice inside, they would call me, and when I answered, they would go back.
In truth, fasting is not the way to enlightenment. Our Buddha already practiced that and called it self-mortification. All my teachers also said the same. I myself had done it before — it only torments the body, not producing wisdom to investigate Dhamma sharply. But this time I did it to test my own mind: between attachment to life and confidence in the Dhamma I had seen, which would be heavier?
Having confirmed the truth for myself, I returned to eating as usual. But I didn't eat rice — I ate only yams and taro, steamed, for 4–5 days, then returned to rice. The Musur were happy to see me eating again.
This Rains Retreat, I had a vision in meditation that showed the stability of my practice method, which pleased me greatly. The Musur boasted: "Tu Chao (Venerable Sir) staying here is very good. Our rice fields are abundant, giving more than we can eat. Some even sold their water buffalo (they raise them but don't use them for work). Those who never sold anything before made sales. (Normally they raise pigs as their regular income.) Dried chili is another source of income. Otherwise they have nothing. We have saved money left over. Tu Chao taught us not to play cards, dice, or shells, so we don't play. Before, the kare (town people) came and tricked us into playing, but now we listen to Tu Chao's teaching and don't play anymore."
After the Rains Retreat, the headman alone offered a piece of white cloth as a forest cloth-offering to me. Then I took leave of the Musur to go down and pay respects to Ajahn Mun at Ban Thung Mak Khao, Tambon Mae Pang. They were very sad to see me go, crying and asking me to return. I wasn't sure, so I told them: "Let me go see the teacher first. Maybe I will come back." When I reached Ajahn Mun, I told him everything that had happened. He was pleased and invited me to return.
This time, three of us went back: the teacher, myself, and Ajahn On Si. When we were about to go up, Ajahn On Si was unwell, so he stayed behind to wait.
22. Fifteenth Rains Retreat: Staying at the Same Place, Three Together (1936)
Going back this time caused me some difficulty, because they had become more familiar with me than with the teacher. Moreover, the teacher did not like cold weather. When he encountered the cold, his illness flared up so badly he could barely stay. But with his fighting spirit, he endured and stayed the whole retreat.
This time, I practiced very well because besides using my own methods, I had the teacher to help me, studying with him continuously.
Approaching the Rains Retreat, the teacher told me to go down and bring Ajahn On Si back to stay with us. After I left him for five nights, he was alone and practiced in seclusion with bold determination. He then gained a wonderful new understanding, and his illness disappeared at the same time.
This retreat, all three of us practiced with full effort. Whatever happened — whether external events or matters of Dhamma method — if something arose for one of us, almost always the others knew about it as well.
This retreat, the teacher prophesied his own age accurately. Sometimes he would prophesy about this or that disciple, based on visions and knowledge that arose naturally in his meditation. But then he would say: "Don't believe everything completely — it can be wrong."
As for me, I remained neutral, because such matters are individual and not the same for everyone. Such things are not the true purpose of meditation practice. The true purpose is to eradicate defilements completely without remainder.
This retreat, the teacher trained me with various tricks and methods in a way I had never seen him do before. I followed and responded correctly to each of his methods, until he murmured: "This Thate has a hot heart." Then he showed his true nature directly. I consider it my good fortune to have such a teacher. I understand that he would rarely have the opportunity to train a disciple like me, because the person, place, opportunity, and time did not often align. Even though he blessed me to be in the position of Dhamma heir, I never forgot myself or accepted that title. I hold that truth is just truth — nothing beyond truth.
22.1 An Interlude: Forest People Entering the Village
This Rains Retreat, some forest people — called Phi Tong Luang (Yellow Leaf Spirits), though they themselves dislike that term — came. They said: "Don't call us Phi Tong Luang — we are afraid of ghosts too. Call us forest people."
The Musur said they had been living there for over fifty years and had never seen these people come to them. This tribe is originally Thai. From conversations with people from Yawng and Ruang (north of Kengtung), their speech and language are similar. They migrated down to make a living in Chiang Mai by weaving, making khantok and khanphan trays — called khon khein (the work of the Khein people). Originally there were about 60, but later smallpox killed many. Now there are about 30 men and women. I will summarise what I learned:
Livelihood: No fixed abode. They cut small trees just as posts, then cover them with branches and leaves — just enough to shelter from rain and dew. Sometimes they sleep in caves, rock shelters, or under trees — just enough to cover. They have no soft cloth for blankets. Any cloth they obtain is used to cover their bodies when entering villages. They live in groups, afraid of ghosts and tigers. Their dwellings are rarely seen by others. If by chance someone does see them, the women will run away. If they can't run in time, they throw themselves on the ground and roll. If a man is seen, he will come out to fight with a spear (I understand this is because the women have no clothes to cover themselves). They believe that if a woman sees anyone outside their group, it is bad luck — they will be eaten by tigers. Wherever food is abundant, they stay long. When food runs out, they migrate elsewhere. That's why they are called Phi Tong Luang — when the thatch leaves turn yellow, they flee.
Food: They live on meat, wild yams, honeycomb, and honey. Some animals they don't eat — snakes, for example. They eat cooked food, grilling or roasting before eating. They eat only with meat — no rice or wheat as staple like ordinary people. If it's honey, they mix it with rotten wood or dirt to make more bulk before eating. For fire, they strike steel against stone (hunter's fire steel) or use friction sticks. If you give them a matchbox, they are afraid because it hisses when struck.
Hunting: They hunt with spears smeared with poison (from the yang nong tree). When they see animal tracks, they slowly stalk. If they see an animal resting during the day, they get close and thrust the spear directly. If they see an animal feeding, they slowly find cover, sneak as close as possible, then throw the spear into the air so it falls on the animal. They said from 20–30 meters they can get a kill. If the spear penetrates deeper than one niw fuut (about 2 cm?), the meat is poisonous and inedible. Shallower than that, it's edible. They once brought us some — grilled meat reeking of smoke and green. They left it hanging on a tree 10 meters away, and the stink kept us awake all night. The teacher told the Musur to boil it — half of it was dirt. I couldn't eat it.
Customs: They live in the forest, not coming out to be seen. When they do come out, it's usually to ask for cloth, rice, salt, and iron to make fire-strikers. It is understood that their ancestors fled from masters long ago. This is seen in their custom: they never walk through open, cleared areas or past any cultivated fields — whether crops or fallow. Even if a field is huge and remote, they will avoid it, even though no one forbids them.
This shows that the old ones deceive them to keep them from going into open areas, afraid they might be seen. The belief that if a woman sees an outsider she will be eaten by tigers is similar. When they come to ask for rice, wheat, taro, yams, they eat until nothing is left. I told them to share some with the women, but they said no — "If she eats it, she'll get a taste for it and want it always." When they enter Musur society, their demeanor shows fear of strangers — especially of government officials. They walk slowly, constantly on guard, pitiful. When they go into the forest, they move so fast I could barely follow — only saw leaves flying and the sound of their feet.
Marriage: Men and women are independent like ordinary people. When a man is wealthy — has meat and food — whichever woman he likes, he will go and sleep with her as a couple. As for how they divide things, I forgot to ask. Child-rearing is solely the woman's burden. They came to see me, and I interviewed them extensively, so I know their story well. I felt compassion for them because they are the same Thai ethnicity as us — we understood every word. Their appearance is exactly like ours.
I wanted to help them, to give them a stable livelihood — at least like the Musur or other hill tribes. If they would accept help, I intended to make a formal report to the relevant authorities so they could be assisted with tools, supplies, and seeds. Later, when they came to see me, I asked them: "How do you find eating rice, corn, taro, yams, chili, salt? Delicious?" They said yes. I said: "Then why don't you live in a group like the Musur, farm rice, taro, and yams?" As soon as I said that, they quickly objected: "We forest people — we can't do that. If we did, the earth would flip over." (A strong expression from the old generation, meaning it's impossible — if it were possible, the earth would have to turn upside down.)
When I heard that, my project ended there. What a pity — they have the precious treasure of human existence but cannot use it properly because they were born in an unsuitable place. But even more pitiable are those who, born with every comfort and education, become heedless, immersed in meaningless pleasures, letting time devour their lives uselessly.
This Rains Retreat, besides prophesying various things, the teacher also said that he still had the responsibility to take on the group again, and he spoke of establishing a center in Chiang Mai, inviting me to consider it. I was glad that he was willing to take on the group again. Then I spoke of the people of the Northeast, saying they are more suitable for Dhamma practice than any other region — especially the North, which produces few results. I pointed out: "Look, teacher — you have been here 7–8 years. How many have come to practice following you? The various groups that came here are all your old disciples from the Northeast. Now the people of the Northeast — both monks and laypeople, including Chao Khun Thammachedi — all complain about your absence. Everyone who comes asks me to invite you back. As for which route you return by, they are willing to take on all responsibility. Just let me send word."
Then he spoke of the mountains in Na Kae District, saying they were very pleasant and comfortable. "I like mountains like that. Let's all go and stay over there. But you must be the gatekeeper for me. If anyone comes to see me and you deem them unsuitable, do not let them in to see me."
After the Rains Retreat, he returned to Phrao District (as my friends later told me — he spoke to the group in a similar manner). As for Ajahn On Si and me, we asked the teacher's permission to continue practicing in that area to satisfy our own hearts. A few days later, the teacher brought Ajahn San, Ajahn Waen, and Ajahn Khao back to see us again. He again spoke of establishing a center to receive the group. I held to my original opinion: if he established it in this region, I did not agree. But in any case, if the teacher really did establish a center here, I would not come to help until three years after it was established. The teacher's group stayed with us for two nights, then dispersed.
Ajahn San, Ajahn Waen, and Ajahn Khao returned to Phrao District. Ajahn Mun and Manu went down to Mae Sai District, Chiang Rai Province, and stayed the Rains Retreat there. Ajahn On Si and I continued practicing at that place. After everyone had dispersed, we separated: Ajahn On Si stayed at the original place, and I moved to another mountain.
22.2 Mind with Underlying Defilements (Anusaya Kilesa)
What I am about to relate is embarrassing to myself — but defilements are even more embarrassing than me. What is it? When I separated from Ajahn On Si and stayed alone, one day a tiger roared. I was so afraid of the tiger's roar that my body trembled, I couldn't sleep, and I couldn't meditate at all. The villagers tried to chase it away — they even shot at it and threw burning sticks. It would run off for a moment and then come back. Sometimes in the morning, they would go to work and see it sitting at the crossroads. They would run away, but it never harmed anyone. I sat meditating, but no matter what, my mind wouldn't settle. I didn't even realize that my fear of tigers had soaked me with sweat. "Eh — what's this? It's cold — why am I sweating?" I took off my blanket but still trembled. When I couldn't meditate and was exhausted, I thought I'd lean back and rest for a while before getting up to meditate again.
Just then, I heard a tiger roar again, and I shook violently like I had a fever chill. Then I realized: "What is this — fear of a tiger's roar?" I got up, established mindfulness, fixed my mind on a single object, and resolved to sacrifice my life. "Didn't I already sacrifice my life to come here? Tigers and humans are both just lumps of the four elements. When dead, both have the same condition. Then who eats whom? Who dies and who doesn't?"
As I reflected with bold determination, I no longer heard the tiger. Later, when I heard the sound, my mind was neutral — I saw it as just wind striking an object, producing a sound. I had been a nervous, neurotic person since childhood. When the tiger roared, the old conditioning appeared, making me afraid without realizing it. The underlying tendencies of defilements buried deep in the heart are hard to abandon. If one is not willing to sacrifice attachment to this worthless body in exchange for the deathless truth appearing to the mind, one cannot overcome defilements. Even Ven. Sāriputta, the chief disciple who was an arahant, could abandon them but could not abandon habits and tendencies — unlike the Sammāsambuddha.
During that period of bold practice, a very ugly vision arose — something worth exposing to defilements' shame for the reader. Perhaps it may benefit those who see the danger of such defilements and become more restrained.
The vision appeared as a middle-aged woman. When she appeared, I recognized her clearly because about 5–6 years earlier, I had seen her and she had served me with sincere faith. I thought she was a virtuous, gentle person, a true laywoman in Buddhism. As for her appearance, I saw it as ordinary. After that, I never thought of her again except to recollect her kindness as a monk does for anyone.
When her image appeared, sitting close beside me on the right, my mind at that moment felt strangely familiar — as if she and I had lived together for ten or more years, yet without any lust or desire. I was startled out of my meditation and examined my mind — there was no memory or mental object of her. I had forgotten and never thought of her for 5–6 years. How could this happen?
Reflecting further, I came to understand the matter of the underlying tendency of sensual defilements that lies sunken at the bottom of the deep ocean, beyond the reach of the heedless — impossible to catch.
A person with wisdom but lacking faith, effort, and courageous endurance cannot dig it up and confront it.
A person with faith and courageous effort but lacking wisdom cannot kill it either.
A person with faith, effort, courageous endurance, and wisdom — who practices continuously without break — that person can eradicate the underlying tendencies completely.
I further reflected: meditators who attain jhānas fall into the deep pit because of this. When such a vision appears, they take it as real — as having been lovers in a past life — and then feel affection, compassion, lust, and love, flowing along with it. They even go searching for that person and tell each other things that shouldn't be told. When the two wires of electricity are live, even solid metal — when brought close — cannot resist; they will attract and connect.
Meditators — especially monks — even some who have become teachers, have fallen into this deep ocean many times. When such a vision appears, instead of seeing it as a danger and grabbing their weapons to fight for victory, they surrender to the enemy — a great pity.
The Buddha said: All humans and beings born in this world have been fathers, mothers, siblings, spouses, and relatives to each other — if not in this life, then in some other. The chicken and pork we eat may have been our parents' flesh. Because beings still have defilements, they die and are reborn countless times. So when a vision appears enticing us just once, to follow it...
Now that I have exposed defilements' shame, let me relate one more story. There was a beautiful young woman whom I and her parents respected. I helped her by teaching Dhamma, especially wanting her to see the danger of being female and to keep celibacy for life according to my intention. But it didn't turn out that way. She chose to do wrong and lost her virtue. When she realised it, she was full of regret and wept. I happened to learn of it and felt great disenchantment with the fickleness of women. From then on, she both respected and was ashamed before me.
I thought: "What is this? How could this happen?" Looking at her, she seemed to have a human body but the mind of an animal. The more I thought about it, the more it disgusted me with that woman — to the point of nearly vomiting.
This state lasted for years. Whenever I thought of it, the same reaction occurred. This kind of disgust — I had never experienced before, and it certainly was not the path of practice — but it happened.
Later, I thought about the danger of sensual desire itself — how deadly it is. When it arises in anyone's nature — apart from arahants and Sammāsambuddhas — whether that person is virtuous or a criminal, even one who has attained jhāna-samāpatti, it will use its power to devour them as prey without mercy, like a tiger calmly eating a puppy. Then I felt compassion for that woman: truly, she herself had good intentions toward goodness, but sensual desire is so deadly — it uses its power without choosing faces. So the blame lies entirely with sensual desire, unforgivable anywhere. Then I felt strong compassion for that woman.
Those still caught in the flood of sensual desire will be reborn in this sensual plane. This sensual plane is both a field for cultivating perfections for those who want spiritual progress, a battlefield for those who want to fight for victory, and a cemetery for criminals.
This sensual plane has all natural resources — internal and external — complete. It is a source for the wise to use as needed. If there are no trees in the forest, where will you find medicinal roots? Without roots, a doctor is useless. With roots and a doctor, but if the patient refuses treatment or medicine, the disease won't heal.
One who sees the value in the sensual plane and delights in sensual pleasures is called kāmaguṇa (strands of sensuality). One who sees the poison and danger in sensual pleasures as a deadly threat is called kāmadosa (danger of sensuality). One who renounces all sensuality is called nekkhamma (renunciation).
Later, I returned to my original place, swapping with Ajahn On Si so he went to where I had been. This time, I had a real encounter with a tiger. One night, a tiger came and killed a water buffalo right next to my kuṭi. I knocked on wood and shouted loudly to chase it away, but it wouldn't let go. It dragged the buffalo away and ate it. This time I wasn't afraid, but I dared not go out to help the buffalo for fear it would eat me too.
After the two of us had practiced there sufficiently, we moved to various Musur villages in that area in sequence. After building up their faith for an appropriate time, we returned to Phrao District, then traveled to Chiang Dao District, then looped back through Mae Taeng District.