Monk's Chat

An account of a conversation with a young buddhist monk in Thailand

It took a long time to walk over to the temple because we had to walk around three sides of the city wall. It was a warm evening, a Friday, and the kids were coming home from school. They all wore uniforms. The older kids were in baggy blouses and skirts or shorts, frumpy by our standards, and were busy climbing onto bikes and motorbikes in twos and threes. Little kids wore pink and blue track suits and were offered snacks by their parents as they waddled home.

It was pleasant to be walking, but we were in a hurry, and we had to cross so many dangerous streets, constantly weaving around construction sites, vendors and other obstacles. We knew we were close when we saw the crowd of monks, the mass of shaven heads and saffron robes, clustered around the bus stop. I wondered vaguely what monks do on a Friday night. The monks, despite many of them appearing to be my age, held a certain mystique for me. I didn't know what to make of boys, who at home would be wearing baggy pants and embodying adolescent Mr Cool, wearing robes and carrying a simple shoulder bag.

The sun was setting as we passed through the gates of Wat Suan Dok. We looked to our left across a scrubby lawn at the crumbling white wash stupa. A monk passed below it, the brilliant orange of his robe striking against the white mound and the pink streaked sky. We followed the handpainted Monk's Chat signs to a comfortable sized hall, where we were greeted at the door by two smiling monks. They ushered us to a long table, and sat us opposite two more monks who looked up from a book, also smiling. The two usher monks brought us glasses of lukewarm water, and the conversation began with the usual small talk.

"Where are you from?" he asked us. "How long will you be in Thailand?"

The room felt warm and friendly. The walls were a dark teak, and lined with pictures of what I want to call famous monks. I think they were former abbots. The large shutter-only windows were open to catch the evening breeze, or at least ensure some air flow through the room. A small electric fan sat on a shelf behind me and quickly became the example for much our discussion on materiality and life as suffering.

"For example," the monk said, "I want this fan. It helps me, but then the fan breaks...I suffer."

It was interesting, to talk with a beginning English speaker about spirituality. I wondered how much we truly understood of what the other was saying.

I told him I was a biologist and he exclaimed,

"Ah! So you study life."

Somehow this struck a chord with him: he also studied life, though differently. I had this intense desire to say something novel and memorable, but I didn't know what that would be. I wanted my Monk's Chat to be something more than all the others, more than the usual questions. In reality, I don't know that it was, but it was interesting.

As we talked I was conscious not only of our conversation, but of something larger. I was aware of everything in the room in a way that was at once vibrant and muted. Like everything about our conversation was encapsulated in the open windows, the shelf fan, the lukewarm water, the portraits on the wall in front of me.

I was wearing a button down shirt, and I wondered if it was buttoned too low. We talked about what monks do in their free time.

"Anything we want except go to a bar," he laughed.

"So can you go buy anything you want?" I marvelled.

"Yes, we must only think about our motive and if it will bring suffering," he replied. I couldn't quite get my mind round the vision of monks buying teen magazines. This uncloistered freedom struck me. I was amazed by the individual nature of Buddhism and how I had thought I understood it at home but realized I didn't at all.

We had taken off our shoes at the door, and now I scraped my bare feet against each other, across the dirty floor in an effort to keep the mosquitoes away. I wondered if I had put on mosquito repellent before we left.

All the time, though, something was rattling around inside me, the feeling of the place, like my whole life was taking place in this hour of Monk's chat. Like past and present were mingled in my bare feet, my woven shirt, the muted voices of the monks. It was how ultimately comfortable I felt there, how alert my senses were. And how sitting at that table, watching him fold and unfold the arm covering on his robe was expanding my view of the world.

When I thought I understood what he had explained so patiently, I tried to paraphrase it back to him.

"So...is that it?" I asked

An expression on his face was my answer

"Not at all he exclaimed!" And again we began the effort to understand and be understood. The light faded outside the windows and the fan whirred behind me.