                                          
                                          
                                          
                                          
                                PART II
  
  
  The third Rains Retreat, my preceptor had me come stay in his new 
  quarters to help fix up the place and assist him with his hobby:  
  repairing clocks.  My old duties I was able to pass on to Phra Chyam, 
  which was something of a load off my mind.  But looking at the state 
  of my meditation, I could see that my practice had grown slack.  I was 
  becoming more and more interested in worldly matters.  So I decided to 
  put up a fight.  One day it occurred to me, "If I stay on here in the 
  city, I'll have to disrobe.  If I stay a monk, I'll have to leave the 
  city and go into the forest."  These two thoughts became the theme of 
  my meditation day and night.
  
    One day I went up to a hollow space at the top of the chedi and sat 
  in meditation.  The theme of my meditation was, "Should I stay or 
  should I disrobe?"  Something inside me said, "I'd rather disrobe."  
  So I questioned myself, "This place where you're living now, 
  prosperous in every way, with its beautiful homes and streets, with 
  its crowds of people:  What do they call it?" And I answered, "Phra 
  Nakhorn -- the Great Metropolis, i.e., Heaven on Earth."
    
    "And where were you born?"
    
    "I was born in DoubleMarsh Village, Muang Saam Sib, Ubon 
  Ratchathani.  And now that I've come to the Great Metropolis I want to 
  disrobe."
    
    "And in DoubleMarsh Village what did you eat?  How did you live?  
  How did people make their living?  And what did you wear?  And what 
  were the roads and houses like?"
    
    Nothing at all like the Great Metropolis.
    
    "So this prosperity here:  What business is it of yours?"
    
    This was when I answered, "The people in the Great Metropolis aren't 
  gods or goddesses or anything.  They're people and I'm a person, so 
  why can't I make myself be like them?"
    
    I questioned myself back and forth like this for several days 
  running until I finally decided to call a halt.  If I was going to 
  disrobe, I'd have to make preparations.  Other people, before 
  disrobing, got prepared by having clothes made and so forth, but I was 
  going to do it differently.  I was going to leave the monkhood in my 
  mind first to see what it would be like.
    
    So late in the quiet of a moonlit night, I climbed up to sit inside 
  the chedi and asked myself, "If I disrobe, what will I do?"  I came up 
  with the following story.
    
      If  I disrobe, I'll have to apply for a job as a clerk in the 
      Phen Phaag Snuff and Stomach Medicine Company.  I had a friend 
      who had disrobed and gotten a job there earning 20 baht a month, 
      so it made sense for me to apply for  a job there too.  I'd set 
      my mind on being honest and hard-working so that my employer 
      would be satisfied with my work.  I was determined that wherever 
      I lived, I'd have to act in such a way that the people I lived 
      with would think highly of me.
      
      As it turned out, the drug company finally hired me at 20 baht a 
      month, the same salary as my friend.  I made up my mind to 
      budget my salary so as to have money left over at the end of 
      each month, so I rented a room in the flats owned by Phraya 
      Phakdi in the PratuuNam (Watergate) section of town.  The rent 
      was four baht a month.  Water, electricity, clothing and food 
      would add up to another eleven baht, leaving me with an extra 
      five baht at the end of each month.
      
      My second year on the job my boss came to like and trust me so 
      much that he raised my salary to 30 baht a month.  Taking out my 
      expenses, I was left with 15 baht a month.  Finally he was so 
      content with my work that he made me supervisor of all the 
      workers, with a 40 baht salary, plus a cut of the profits, 
      adding up altogether to 50 baht a month.  At this point I was 
      feeling very proud of myself, because I was making as much as 
      the District Official back home.  And as for my friends back 
      home, I was in a position way above them all.  So I decided it 
      was time to get married so that I could take a beautiful young 
      Bangkok bride back home for a visit, which would please my 
      relatives no end.  This was when my plans seemed to take on a 
      little class.
      
      So now that I was going to get married, what sort of person 
      would she be?  I made up my mind that the woman I married would 
      have to have the three attributes of a good wife:
      
      1.  She'd have to come from a good family.
      2.  She'd have to be in line for an inheritance.
      3.  She'd have to be good-looking and have a pleasing manner.
      
      Only if a woman had these three attributes would I be willing to 
      marry her.  So I asked myself, "Where are you going to find a 
      woman like this, and how will you get to know her?"  This is 
      where things began to get complicated.  I tried thinking up all 
      sorts of schemes, but even if I actually did meet such a woman, 
      she wouldn't be interested in me.  The women who would be 
      interested in me weren't the sort I'd want to marry.  Thinking 
      about this, I'd sometimes heave a heavy sigh, but I wasn't 
      willing to give in.
      
      Finally it occurred to me, "Wealthy people send their daughters 
      to the high-class schools, like the Back Palace School or Mrs. 
      Cole's.  Why don't I go have a look around these schools in the 
      morning before classes and in the evening when school lets out?"
      
      So that's what I did, until I noticed an attractive girl, the 
      daughter of a Phraya.  The way she walked and the way she 
      dressed really appealed to me.  I arranged so that our paths 
      crossed every day.  In my hand I carried  a little note that I 
      threw down in front of her.  The first time, she didn't pay me 
      any attention.  Day after day our paths crossed.  Sometimes our 
      eyes would meet, sometimes I'd stand in her way, sometimes she'd 
      smile at me.  When this happened, I made it a point to have her 
      get my note.
      
      Finally we got to know each other.  I made a date for her to 
      skip school the next day so that I could show her around town.  
      As time passed we came to know each other, to like each other, 
      to love each other.  We told each other our life stories -- the 
      things that had made us happy and the things that had made us 
      sad -- from the very beginning up to the present.  I had a 
      salaried job at no less than 50 baht a month.  She had finished 
      the sixth year of secondary school and was the daughter of a 
      very wealthy Phraya.  Her looks, her manner and her conduct were 
      everything I had been hoping for.
      
      Finally we agreed to become married secretly.  Since we loved 
      each other, I got to sleep with her beforehand.  She was a good 
      person, so before we were to be officially married, she told her 
      parents.  Furious, they threw her out of the house.
      
      So she came to live with me as my wife.  I wasn't too upset by 
      what her parents had done, for  I was determined to work my way 
      into their affections.
      
      We went to rent a flat in a better district, the Sra Pathum 
      Watergate area.  The rent here was six baht a month.  My wife 
      got a job at the same company where I was working, starting out 
      at 20 baht a month, but she soon got a raise to 30 a month.  
      Together, then, we were making 80 a month, which pleased me.
      
      As time passed, my position advanced.  My employer trusted me 
      completely, and at times would have me take over his duties in 
      his absence.  Both my wife and I were determined to be honest 
      and upright in our dealings with the company, and ultimately our 
      earnings -- our salaries plus my percentage of the profits -- 
      reached 100 a month.  At this point I felt I could breathe easy, 
      but my dreams still hadn't been fulfilled.
      
      So I began to buy presents -- good things to eat and other nice 
      things -- to take to my parents-in-law to show my good 
      intentions towards them.  After a while they began to show some 
      interest in me, and eventually had us move into their house.  At 
      this point I was really pleased:  I was sure to be in line for 
      part of the inheritance.  But living together for a while 
      revealed certain things about my behavior that rubbed my 
      parents-in-law the wrong way, so in the end they drove us out of 
      the house.  We went back to live in a flat, as before.
      
      This was when my wife became pregnant.  Not wanting her to do 
      any hard work, I hired a servant woman to look after the house 
      and help with the housework.  Hired help in those days was very 
      cheap -- only four baht a month.
      
      As my wife came closer to giving birth, she began to miss work 
      more and more often.  I had to keep at my job.  One night I sat 
      down to look over our budget.  The 100 baht we had once earned 
      was probably as much as we'd ever earn.  I had no further hopes 
      for a raise.  Our expenses were mounting every day:  one baht a 
      month for electricity; 1.50 baht for water; charcoal and rice 
      each at least six baht a month; the help, four baht a month; and 
      on top of it all, the cost of our clothing.
      
      After my wife gave birth, our expenses mounted still higher.  
      She wasn't able to work, so we lost her percentage of the 
      profits.  After a while she became ill and missed work for an 
      extended period.  My employer cut her salary back to 15 baht a 
      month.  Our medical bills rose.  My wife's salary wasn't enough 
      for her needs, so she had to cut into mine.  My old salary of 50 
      baht was now completely gone by the end of each month. 
      
      In the end, my wife's illness proved fatal.  I had to borrow 50 
      baht from my employer which, along with my own savings of 50, 
      went towards her funeral expenses, which totaled 80 baht.  I was 
      then left with 20 baht and a small child to raise.
      
      What was I to do now?  Before, I had breathed easily.  Now it 
      seemed as if life was closing in on me.  I went to see my 
      parents-in-law, but they gave me the cold shoulder.  So I  hired 
      a wet nurse for the child.  The wet nurse was a low-class woman, 
      but she took awfully good care of the child.  This led me to 
      feel love and affection towards her, and ultimately she became 
      my second wife.
      
      My new wife had absolutely no education -- she couldn't even 
      read or write.  My income at this point was now only 50 baht -- 
      enough just to get by.  After a while my new wife became 
      pregnant.  I did my best to make sure that she didn't have to do 
      any heavy work, and I did everything I could to be good to her, 
      but I couldn't help feeling a little disappointed that life had 
      turned out so differently from my original plans.  After my new 
      wife gave birth, we both helped to raise the children until both 
      my first wife's child and my new wife's child were old enough to 
      feed and take care of themselves.
      
      This was when my new wife started acting funny -- playing 
      favorites, giving all her love and attention to her own child, 
      and none to my first.  My first child started coming to complain 
      to me all the time that my new wife had been unfair in this way 
      or that.  Sometimes the two children would start fighting.  At 
      times I'd come home from work and my first child would run to me 
      with one version of what had happened, my second child would 
      have another version, and my wife still another.  I didn't know 
      whom to side with.  It was as if I was standing in the middle, 
      and my wife and children were pulling me off in three different 
      directions.  My new child wanted me to buy this or that -- 
      eventually my wife and children started competing with one 
      another to see who would get to eat the best food, wear the best 
      clothes and squander the most money.  It got so that I couldn't 
      sit down and talk with any of them at all.  My salary was being 
      eaten up every month; my family life was like falling into a 
      thorn patch.
      
      Finally I decided to call a halt.  My wife wasn't what I had 
      hoped for, my earnings weren't what I had hoped for, my children 
      weren't what I had hoped for, so I left my wife, was reordained 
      and returned to the contemplative life.
  
    When I came to the end of the story, my interest in worldly affairs 
  vanished.  The sense that life was closing in on me disappeared.  I 
  felt as free as if I were up floating in the sky.  Something inside me 
  sighed, "Ah!" with relief.  I told myself that if this was the way 
  things would be, I'd do better not to disrobe.  My old desire to 
  disrobe was reduced about 50 to 60 percent.
    
    Throughout this period a number of other events occurred that helped 
  turn my thoughts in the right direction.  Some nights I'd dream that 
  my old meditation teachers had come to see me:  Sometimes they'd be 
  fierce with me, sometimes they'd scold me.  But there were four events 
  -- you'd have to call them strange, and they certainly were important 
  in changing my thinking.  I have to beg the reader's pardon for 
  mentioning them, though, because there's nothing at all pleasant about 
  them.  But since they were good lessons, I feel they should go on 
  record.
    
    //The first event//:   During the period when I was spending my 
  nights thinking about worldly matters, there was one day I started 
  feeling constipated, so that afternoon I took a laxative, figuring 
  that if the medicine acted as it had before, I'd have to go to the 
  bathroom at about 9 p.m.  For some reason, it didn't work.  The next 
  morning I went for my alms round down the lane to Sra Pathum Palace.  
  Just as I was coming to a house where they had prepared food to give 
  to the monks, all of a sudden I had to go to the bathroom so badly I 
  could hardly stand it.  I couldn't even walk to the house to accept 
  their food.  All I could do was hold myself in and walk in little 
  pigeon steps until I came to an acacia grove by the side of the road.  
  I plunked down my bowl and hurried through the fence into the grove.  
  I wanted to sink my head down into the ground and die right there.  
  When I had finished, I left the grove, picked up my alms bowl and 
  finished my round.  That day I didn't get enough to eat.  Returning to 
  the temple, I warned myself, "This is what it's going to be like if 
  you disrobe.  Nobody's going to fix food to put in your bowl."  The 
  whole event was really a good lesson.
    
    //The second event//:   One day I went out early on my alms round.  
  I crossed ElephantHead Bridge, passed Saam Yaek and turned down 
  Phetburi Road.  There was no one to place even a spoonful of rice in 
  my bowl.  It so happened that as I was passing a row of flats, I saw 
  an old Chinese man and woman yelling and screaming at each other in 
  front of their flat.  The woman was about 50 and wore her hair in a 
  bun.  The old man wore his hair in a pigtail.  As I came to their 
  flat, I stopped to watch.  Within about two seconds, the old woman 
  grabbed a broom and hit the man over the head with the handle.  The 
  old man grabbed the woman by the hair and kicked her in the back.  I 
  asked myself, "If that were you, what would you do?"  and then I 
  smiled:  "You'd probably end the marriage for good."  I felt more 
  pleased seeing this incident than if I had received a whole bowlful of 
  food.  That night I meditated on what I had seen.  It seemed that my 
  mind was regaining its strength and, bit by bit, becoming more and 
  more disenchanted with worldly affairs.
    
    //The third event//:   It was a holiday.  I had started out on my 
  alms round before dawn, going down to the Sra Pathum Watergate market, 
  and then up the lane behind the temple.  This was a dirt lane where 
  horses were stabled.  Rain was falling and the road surface was 
  slippery.  I was walking in a very composed manner past the house of a 
  lay person I knew who frequented the temple.  My bowl was full of food 
  and I was thinking very absent-mindedly of worldly matters -- so 
  absent-mindedly that I slipped and fell sideways into a mud hole by 
  the side of the road.  Both of my knees were sunk about a foot into 
  the muck, my food was spilled all over the place, my body was covered 
  with mud.  I had to hurry back to the temple, and when I arrived I 
  warned myself:  "See what happens when you even just //think// of such 
  things?"  My heart was slowly becoming more and more disenchanted with 
  worldly matters.  My old opinions had reversed to the point where I 
  now saw marriage as something for kids, not for grownups.
    
    //The fourth event//:   The next morning, I went out for alms taking 
  my usual route down Phetburi Road.  I came to the palace of His 
  Highness Prince Dhaninivat.  This prince made a habit of donating food 
  to monks in general every day.  It so happened that someone had set up 
  a bowl of rice across the street from the palace that day, so I 
  decided to accept rice from the new donors first.  After accepting 
  their rice, I turned around to cross the street, when one of Nai 
  Lert's white buses came whizzing past, less than a foot from my head.  
  The passengers on the bus started yelling and screaming, and I myself 
  was stunned:  I had just missed being killed by a bus.  When I finally 
  went to accept rice from the prince, I had to exert a great deal of 
  self-control because I was shaking all over.  I then returned to the 
  temple.
    
    All of these events I took to be warnings, because during that 
  period my thoughts about worldly matters would start flaring up 
  anywhere and at any time.
  
    Now we come to the end of the Rains Retreat, 1930.  During that 
  third rainy season I had told myself, "You're going to have to leave 
  Bangkok.  There's no two ways about it.  If your preceptor stands in 
  your way, there'll have to be a falling out."  So I made a wish:  "May 
  the Triple Gem and all the sacred things in the cosmos help me find 
  another way out."
    
    Another night, towards the end of the rains, I had been lying on my 
  back, reading a book and meditating at the same time, when I fell 
  asleep.  I dreamed that Ajaan Mun came to scold me.  "What are you 
  doing in Bangkok?" he asked.  "Go out into the forest!"
    
    "I can't," I answered.  "My preceptor won't let me."
    
    Ajaan Mun answered with a single word:  "Go!"
    
    So I dedicated a resolution to him:  "At the end of the rains, may 
  Ajaan Mun come and take me with him out of this predicament."
    
    It was just a few days later that Chao Khun Upali [*] broke his leg, 
  and Ajaan Mun came down to pay his respects to him.  A short while 
  after that, Lady Noi, the mother of Chao Phraya Mukhamontri, passed 
  away, and the funeral services were to be held at Wat Debsirin.  Since 
  Lady Noi had been one of Ajaan Mun's supporters when he was staying in 
  Udon Thani, he made a point of attending her funeral.  My preceptor 
  and I were also invited, and I met Ajaan Mun up on the crematorium.  I 
  was overjoyed, but had no chance to have even a word with him.  So I 
  asked Chao Khun Phra Amarabhirakkhit where Ajaan Mun was staying, and 
  he answered, "At Wat Boromnivasa."  On the way home from the funeral I 
  got permission from my preceptor to stop at Wat Boromnivasa to pay my 
  respects to Ajaan Mun.
      
      * [Chao Khun Upali Gunupamacariya (Jan Siricando), a childhood 
      friend of Ajaan Mun's, was one of the highest ranking monks in 
      Thailand in the early years of this century, although he was 
      once temporarily stripped of his title and placed under 
      "monastery arrest" for making public remarks critical of King 
      Rama VI's request that monks encourage their followers to donate 
      money for a battleship for the Royal Thai Navy.  He was also the 
      preceptor and teacher of the Somdet Mahawiarwong (Tisso Uan) 
      mentioned later in this book.]
    
    
    In the four years since my reordination, this was my first encounter 
  with Ajaan Mun. After I had paid my respects, he delivered a short 
  sermon to me on the text,  "//Khina jati, vusitam brahmacariyanti//," 
  which he translated in short as, "The Noble Ones, having freed 
  themselves from the mental effluents, find happiness. This is the 
  supreme holy life."  That's all I can remember of it, but I felt that 
  sitting and listening to him speak for a few moments gave my heart 
  more peace than it had felt all the years I had been practicing on my 
  own.
    
    In the end he told me, "You'll have to come with me this time.  As 
  for your preceptor, I'll inform him myself."  That was our entire 
  conversation.  I bowed down to him and returned to Wat Sra Pathum.
    
    When I told my preceptor about my meeting with Ajaan Mun, he simply 
  sat very still.  The next day, Ajaan Mun came to Wat Sra Pathum and 
  spoke with my preceptor, saying that he wanted to have me go with him 
  up north.  My preceptor gave his assent. 
    
    I began to get my necessary belongings together and to say goodbye 
  to my friends and the temple boys.  I asked one of the boys how much 
  money I had left for my travel expenses, and he told me, "Thirty 
  satang."  That wasn't even enough to pay for the ride to HuaLamphong 
  Station, which by that time had risen to 50 satang.  So I went to 
  inform Ajaan Mun, and he assured me that he would take care of 
  everything.
    
    The day before Lady Noi's cremation [*], Ajaan Mun was invited to 
  deliver a sermon at the home of Chao Phraya Mukhamontri, and 
  afterwards received the following donations:  a set of robes, a 
  container of kerosene and 80 baht.  Later, Ajaan Mun told me that the 
  set of robes he gave to a monk at Wat Boromnivasa, the kerosene he 
  gave to Phra MahaSombuun, and the money he gave to people who needed 
  it, leaving just enough for two people's traveling expenses:  his and 
  mine.
    
      * [Funeral services in Thailand may last for many days -- even 
      months or years -- before the actual cremation takes place.]
    
    
    After a while, when Chao Khun Upali finally let Ajaan Mun return 
  north, we took the train to Uttaradit, where we stayed at Wat 
  Salyaphong, a temple founded by Chao Khun Upali himself.  Before 
  getting on the express train at Hua Lamphong Station, we ran into Mae 
  Ngaw Nedjamnong, who had come down to Bangkok -- whether it was to 
  attend Lady Noi's funeral or what, I don't know.  Mae Ngaw was one of 
  Ajaan Mun's old students, and she agreed to help look after our needs 
  during the entire trip.
    
    This was the period when Ajaan Tan was abbot of Wat Salyaphong.  We 
  stayed there a number of days, and then went to stay in the groves 
  behind the temple, quite a ways from the monks" quarters.  This was a 
  quiet, secluded place, both by day and by night.
    
    One day I got into a disagreement with Ajaan Mun and he drove me 
  away.  Although I felt riled, I decided not to let my feelings show, 
  so I stayed on with him, attending to his needs as I always had.
    
    The next morning -- this was in early January, towards the end of 
  the second lunar month -- two monks came looking for Ajaan Mun with 
  the news that one of his followers was seriously ill in Chieng Mai.  
  The two monks then continued on down to Bangkok, after which Ajaan Mun 
  and I left Uttaradit for Chieng Mai.  When we arrived we went to stay 
  at Wat Chedi Luang (GreatChedi Temple).
    
    The ill follower turned out to be a lay man -- Nai Biew of San 
  Kampheng district -- who had become mentally deranged.  His older 
  brother and sister-in-law brought him to Wat Chedi Luang, and Ajaan 
  Mun cured him with meditation.
    
    That year I spent the Rains Retreat at Wat Chedi Luang.  When we had 
  first arrived, there were quite a number of our fellow meditation 
  monks staying at the temple, but as the rains approached, they left 
  one by one to stay in the hills.  At first, Ajaan Mun was going to 
  have me leave for the hills too, but I refused to go.  I told him I 
  had my heart set on staying with him and attending to his needs 
  throughout the rainy season.  In the end he gave his consent.
    
    That was 1931, the year Chao Khun Upali died.  I spent the rains 
  very close to Ajaan Mun, attending both to his needs and to my own 
  meditation.  He in turn gave me a thorough breaking-in in every way.  
  Each evening he had me climb up and sit in meditation on the north 
  side of the Great Chedi.  There was a large Buddha image there -- it's 
  still there today -- and Ajaan Mun told me that it was a very 
  auspicious spot, that relics of the Buddha had been known to come 
  there often.  I did as I was told in every way.  Some nights I'd sit 
  all night, without any sleep.
    
    We stayed in a small hut in a banana grove.  Lady Thip and Luang 
  Yong, the Chief of Police, had had the hut built and presented to 
  Ajaan Mun.  Nai Thip, clerk in the Provincial Treasury, and his wife, 
  Nang Taa, made sure that Ajaan Mun had plenty to eat every day.
    
    I made a regular practice of going with Ajaan Mun when we went out 
  for alms.  As we would walk along, he'd constantly be giving me 
  lessons in meditation all along the way.  If we happened to pass a 
  pretty girl, he'd say, "Look over there.  Do you think she's pretty?  
  Look closely.  Look down into her insides."  No matter what we passed 
  -- houses or roads -- he'd always make it an object lesson.
    
    At the time I was only 26.  It was my fifth Rains Retreat and I was 
  still feeling young, so he was always giving me lessons and warnings.  
  He seemed very concerned for my progress. But there was one thing that 
  had me puzzled, having to do with robes and other necessities that 
  people would donate.  He seemed reluctant to let me have anything nice 
  to use.  Sometimes he'd ask for whatever nice things I did have and 
  then go give them to someone else.  I had no idea what he meant by all 
  this.  Whenever I'd get anything new or nice, he'd order me to wash 
  and dye it to spoil the original color.  Say I'd get a nice new white 
  handkerchief or towel:  He'd order me to dye it brown with dye from 
  the heartwood of a jackfruit tree.  Sometimes he'd have to order me 
  several times, and when I still wouldn't obey, he'd go ahead and dye 
  the things himself.  He liked to find old, worn-out robes, patch them 
  himself, and then give them to me to wear.
    
    One morning I went together with him on our alms round, down past 
  the Police Station. We happened to pass a woman carrying goods to the 
  market, but my mind was in good shape:  It didn't stray away from the 
  path we were following.  I was keeping complete control over myself.  
  Another time when I was walking a little distance behind him -- he 
  walked fast, but I walked slowly -- I saw him come to an old, worn-out 
  pair of policeman's trousers thrown away by the side of the road.  He 
  began to kick the trousers along, back and forth -- I was thinking all 
  along that I had to keep my thoughts on the path I was following.  
  Finally, when he reached the fence around the Police Station, he 
  stooped down, picked up the trousers and fastened them under his 
  robes.  I was puzzled.  What did he want with old trash like that?
    
    When we got back to the hut, he placed the trousers over the clothes 
  railing.  I swept up and then set out the sitting mats.  After we had 
  finished our meal, I went into his room to arrange his bedding.  Some 
  days he'd be cross with me, saying I was messy, that I never put 
  anything in the right place -- but he'd never tell me what the right 
  places were.  Even though I tried my best to please him at all times, 
  he was still severe with me the entire rainy season.
    
    Several days later the old pair of trousers had become a shoulder 
  bag and a belt:  I saw them hanging together on the wall.  And a few 
  days afterwards, he gave them to me to use.  I took them and looked at 
  them.  They were nothing but stitches and patches.  With all the good 
  things available, why did he give me this sort of stuff to use?
    
    Attending to Ajaan Mun was very good for me, but also very hard.  I 
  had to be willing to learn everything anew.  To be able to stay with 
  him for any length of time, you had to be very observant and very 
  circumspect.  You couldn't make a sound when you walked on the floor, 
  you couldn't leave footprints on the floor, you couldn't make noise 
  when you swallowed water or opened the windows or doors.  There had to 
  be a science to everything you did -- hanging out robes, taking them 
  in, folding them up, setting out sitting mats, arranging bedding, 
  everything.  Otherwise he'd drive you out, even in the middle of the 
  Rains Retreat.  Even then, you'd just have to take it and try to use 
  your powers of observation.
    
    Every day, after our meal, I'd go to straighten up his room, putting 
  away his bowl and robes, setting out his bedding, his sitting cloth, 
  his spittoon, his tea kettle, pillow, etc.  I had to have everything 
  in order before he entered the room.  When I had finished, I'd take 
  note of where I had placed things, hurry out of the room and go to my 
  own room, which was separated from his by a wall of banana leaves.  I 
  had made a small hole in the wall so that I could peek through and see 
  both Ajaan Mun and his belongings.  When he came into the room, he'd 
  look up and down, inspecting his things.  Some of them he'd pick up 
  and move; others he'd leave where they were.  I had to watch carefully 
  and take note of where things were put.
    
    The next morning I'd do it all over again, trying to place things 
  where I had seen him put them himself.  Finally one morning, when I 
  had finished putting things in order and returned to my own room to 
  peek through the hole, he entered his room, sat still for a minute, 
  looked right and left, up and down, all around -- and didn't touch a 
  thing.  He didn't even turn over his sleeping cloth.  He simply said 
  his chants and then took a nap.  Seeing this, I felt really pleased 
  that I had attended to my teacher to his satisfaction.
    
    In other matters -- such as sitting and walking meditation -- Ajaan 
  Mun trained me in every way, to my complete satisfaction.  But I was 
  able to keep up with him at best only about 60 percent of the time.
  
  
                                 * * *
                                          
                                          
  At the end of the Rains Retreat, Wat Boromnivasa arranged Chao Khun 
  Upali's funeral, and nearly all the senior monks in Wat Chedi Luang 
  went down to Bangkok to help.  The abbot had Ajaan Mun watch over the 
  temple in his absence.  After the funeral was over, a letter came to 
  Ajaan Mun, giving him permission to become a preceptor.  When Ajaan 
  Mun opened the letter, he found there was more:   The letter asked 
  him, in addition to becoming preceptor, to accept the position of 
  abbot at Wat Chedi Luang.  Chao Kaew Nawarat (Prince NineJewels), the 
  Prince of Chieng Mai, was to make all the necessary arrangements.  
  Would Ajaan Mun please take over the duties of the previous abbot?  
  That, in short, was the gist of the letter. When Ajaan Mun finished 
  reading it, he sent for me.  "I have to leave Wat Chedi Luang," he 
  said.
  
    Two days after the end of the Rains Retreat he had sent me out on my 
  own to a mountain in Lamphun province, a spot where he himself had 
  once stayed.  I camped a little more than ten days at the foot of the 
  mountain, until one day at about three in the afternoon, while I was 
  sitting in meditation, there was an incident.  It was as if someone 
  had come with a message.  I heard a voice say, "Tomorrow you have to 
  go stay up on top of the mountain."
    
    The next day, before climbing to the top, I went to stay in an old 
  abandoned temple, said to be very sacred.  People had told me that 
  whenever the lunar sabbath came around, a bright light would often 
  appear there. It was deep in the forest, though -- and the forest was 
  full of elephants and tigers.  I walked in alone, feeling both brave 
  and scared, but confident in the power of the Dhamma and of my 
  teacher.
    
    I stayed for two nights.  The first night, nothing happened.  The 
  second night, at about one or two in the morning, a tiger came -- 
  which meant that I didn't get any sleep the whole night.  I sat in 
  meditation, scared stiff, while the tiger walked around and around my 
  umbrella tent.  My body felt all frozen and numb.  I started chanting, 
  and the words came out like running water.  All the old chants I had 
  forgotten now came back to me, thanks both to my fear and to my 
  ability to keep my mind under control.  I sat like this from two until 
  five a.m., when the tiger finally left.
    
    The next morning, I went for alms in a small village of only two 
  households.  One of the owners was out working in his garden, and when 
  he saw me he told me that a tiger had come and eaten one of his oxen 
  the night before.  This made me even more scared, so finally, after my 
  meal, I climbed to the top of the mountain.
    
    From the top, looking out, you could see the chedi of Wat Phra Dhatu 
  Haribhunjai in the town of Lamphun.  The mountain was named Doi Khaw 
  Maw -- Thumb Mountain.  At its summit was a deep spring -- so deep 
  that no one has ever been able to fathom it. The water was crystal 
  clear and surrounded by heads of old Buddha images.  Climbing down 
  about two meters from ground level, you reached the surface of the 
  water.  They say that a person who falls into the spring won't sink, 
  and that you can't go diving down under the water.  Women are 
  absolutely forbidden to go into the spring, for if a woman does happen 
  to enter the water she'll go into convulsions.  People in the area 
  consider the whole mountain to be sacred.
    
    Ajaan Mun had told me that there was an important spirit dwelling in 
  the mountain, but that it wouldn't harm or disturb me because it was 
  acquainted with the Dhamma and Sangha.  The first day after reaching 
  the top I didn't have anything to eat.  That night I felt faint -- the 
  whole mountain seemed to be swaying like a boat in the middle of a 
  choppy sea -- but my mind was in good shape, and not the least bit 
  afraid. 
    
    The next day I did sitting and walking meditation in the area around 
  an old abandoned sanctuary.  From where I was staying, the nearest 
  village I could have gone to for alms was more than three kilometers 
  away, so I made a vow:  "I won't eat unless someone brings food here."  
  That night I had a stomachache and felt dizzy, but not as bad as the 
  night before.
    
    At about five the next morning, just before dawn, I heard huffing 
  and panting sounds outside the sanctuary.  At first I thought it was a 
  tiger, but as I listened carefully, it sounded more like a human 
  being.  That side of the mountain, though, was very steep -- not too 
  steep to climb up, but I can guarantee that it was too steep to go 
  down.  So who would be coming up here?  I was curious, but didn't dare 
  leave the sanctuary or my umbrella tent until it was light outside. 
    
    When dawn finally came, I went outside and there, by the side of the 
  sanctuary, was an old woman -- about 70 -- sitting with her hands 
  raised in respect. She had some rice wrapped in a banana leaf that she 
  wanted to put in my bowl.  She also gave me two kinds of medicine:  
  some roots and pieces of bark.  "Take this medicine," she said, "grind 
  it down and eat it, while making a wish for your health, and your 
  stomachache will go away."  At the time I was observing the monks" 
  discipline very strictly and so, since she was a woman, didn't dare 
  say more than a few words to her.  After I had finished eating -- one 
  lump of red glutinous rice and the roots and bark -- I chanted some 
  blessings for her and she left, disappearing down the west side of the 
  mountain.
    
    At about five in the afternoon a person came to the top of the 
  mountain with a letter for me from Ajaan Mun.  The letter said, "Come 
  back right away.  I have to leave Wat Chedi Luang tomorrow morning, 
  because tomorrow evening the express train from Bangkok will arrive." 
  I hurried down from the mountain, but night fell as I reached Paa Heo 
  (GlenForest) Village, so I spent the night in the cemetery there.  
  When I arrived at Wat Chedi Luang the next day, Ajaan Mun had already 
  left.
    
    I asked around, but no one seemed to know where he had gone -- 
  leaving me with no idea of where or how to find him.  I had an inkling 
  that he had headed north for Keng Tung, which meant I would have to 
  leave for Keng Tung right away, but I couldn't yet, because there were 
  two things Ajaan Mun had said to me during the rainy season:
    
    1. "I want you to help me in the steps of the practice, because I 
  can't see anyone else who can."  At the time I had no idea of what he 
  meant, and didn't pay it much attention.
    
    2. "The Chieng Mai area has been home to a great number of sages 
  ever since the distant past.  So before you leave the area, I want you 
  to go stay on top of Doi Khaw Maw, in Buab Thawng Cave and in Chieng 
  Dao Cave."
    
    After staying a few days at Wat Chedi Luang, I left for Doi Saket 
  district, where I stayed in Tham Myyd (Dark Cave) near Myang Awm 
  village.  This was a strange and remarkable cave.  On top of the 
  mountain was a Buddha image -- from what period, I couldn't say.  In 
  the middle of the mountain the ground opened down into a deep chasm.  
  Going down into the chasm, I came to a piece of teakwood placed as a 
  bridge across a crevice.  Edging my way across to the other side, I 
  found myself on a wide rockshelf.  As I walked on a ways, it became 
  pitch dark, so I lit a lantern and continued on.  I came to another 
  bridge -- this time a whole log of teak -- reaching to another rock.  
  This is where the air began to feel chilly.
    
    Crossing this second bridge, I reached an enormous cavern.  I'd say 
  it could have held at least 3,000 people.  The floor of the cavern was 
  flat with little waves, like ripples on water.  Shooting straight up 
  from the middle of the floor was a spectacular stalagmite, as white as 
  a cumulus cloud, eight meters tall and so wide it would have taken two 
  people to put their arms around it.  Around the stalagmite was a 
  circle of small round bumps -- like the bumps in the middle of gongs 
  -- each about half a meter tall.  Inside the circle was a deep flat 
  basin.  The whole area was dazzling white and very beautiful.  The 
  air, though, was close, and daylight didn't penetrate.  Ajaan Mun had 
  told me that //nagas// came here to worship: The stalagmite was their 
  chedi.  I had wanted to spend the night, but the air was so close I 
  could hardly breathe, so I didn't dare stay.  I walked back out of the 
  cave.
    
    This mountain was about three kilometers from the nearest village.  
  The people in the area said that at the beginning of the Rains Retreat 
  the mountain would give out a roar.  Any year the roar was especially 
  loud there would be good rain and abundant harvests.
    
    That day I went back to stay in a village on the border of Doi Saket 
  district. After resting there a few days, I walked on to Baan Pong, 
  where I met a monk named Khien who had once stayed with Ajaan Mun.  I 
  asked if he knew where Ajaan Mun had gone, but his answer was no.  So 
  I talked him into returning with me to explore Doi Saket district.
    
    We went to spend a night in a cave in the middle of the jungle, far 
  away from any habitation.  The cave was called Buab Thawng -- 
  GoldenGourd -- Cave.  This was because down in the cave was a place 
  where fool's gold had seeped through a crack into the bottom of a pool 
  of water.  To reach the cave you had to go through ten kilometers of 
  virgin forest.  The people of the area claimed that there was a fierce 
  spirit living in the cave.  Whoever tried to spend the night there, 
  they said, would be kept awake all night by the feeling that someone 
  was stepping on his legs, his stomach, his back, etc. -- which had 
  everyone afraid of the place.  When I heard this, I wanted to test the 
  truth of the rumor myself.  Ajaan Mun himself had told me that Bhikkhu 
  Chai once came to this cave to spend the night, but couldn't get any 
  sleep because he kept hearing the sound of someone walking in and out 
  of the cave all night long.
    
    It was a very deep cave but, still, Ajaan Mun had told me to come 
  here and spend the night. The outcome of my stay was that there was 
  nothing out of the ordinary.  We didn't encounter anything unusual at 
  all.
    
    After leaving the cave, we went down to stay at a spot where we met 
  another monk named Choei.  After talking a while, we seemed to hit it 
  off well, so I invited him to come with me and wander some more around 
  the Doi Saket area.  As for Phra Khien, he left us and returned to 
  Baan Pong.
    
    One day, as I was wandering with Phra Choei, some villagers built a 
  little place for us to stay in the middle of a large cemetery.  The 
  cemetery was full of graves and dotted with the remains of old 
  cremation fires.  White, weathered bones were all over the place.  
  Phra Choei and I stayed there for quite a long time.
    
    After a while some villagers came and invited Phra Choei to go stay 
  in another spot, which meant that I had to stay on in the cemetery 
  alone.  There were the remains of an old cremation fire about six 
  meters from where I was staying.
    
    A few days later, well before dawn, a villager came with a little 
  cone of flowers and incense, saying that he was going to bring someone 
  to stay with me as my disciple.  I thought to myself, "At least now 
  I'll be a little less lonely."  I had been feeling scared for quite a 
  few days running, to the point that every time I sat in meditation I'd 
  start feeling numb all over.
    
    Later that morning, after my meal, a large group of villagers came, 
  bringing a corpse with them.  The corpse hadn't been placed in a 
  coffin, but was simply wrapped in a cloth.  As soon as I saw it, I 
  told myself, "You're in for it now."  If I were to leave, I'd lose 
  face with the villagers, but the idea of staying on didn't appeal to 
  me either.  Then the realization hit me:  The corpse was probably my 
  "disciple."
    
    The villagers started the cremation that afternoon at about four, 
  not too far from where I was staying, giving me a very good view of 
  the corpse.  When it caught fire, its arms and legs started sticking 
  up into the air, as yellow as if they had been smeared with turmeric.  
  By evening the body had fallen apart at the waist -- it was still 
  black in the flames.  Just before nightfall, the villagers returned 
  home, leaving me all by myself.  I hurried back to my banana-leaf hut 
  and sat in meditation, ordering my mind not to leave the hut -- to the 
  point where my ears went blank.  I didn't hear any sound at all.  My 
  mind still had a certain amount of self-awareness, but no perception 
  of where I was, of courage, of fear, or of anything at all. I stayed 
  this way until daybreak, when Phra Choei happened back.  Now that I 
  had a companion I felt a little bit more secure.
    
    Phra Choei had a habit of sitting in the hut with me and having 
  Dhamma talks -- he'd do the talking, I'd do the listening -- but I 
  could tell from the tone of his voice that he wasn't all he made 
  himself out to be.  Once a villager came and asked him, "Are you 
  afraid of the dead?"  Phra Choei didn't say yes or no.  All he said 
  was, "What's there to be afraid of?  When a person dies, there isn't 
  anything left at all.  Why, you yourself can eat dead chickens, dead 
  ducks, dead cows and dead water buffaloes without a second thought."  
  That was the sort of thing he'd always be saying.  I thought to 
  myself, "What a show-off.  He doesn't want other people to know he's 
  afraid.  Well, tomorrow we'll have to see just how brave he really 
  is."
    
    It so happened that a villager had come to invite one of us to 
  accept donations at his home.  Phra Choei and I agreed that I would 
  accept the invitation while he stayed to watch over the hut.  I left 
  with the villager, but when I returned the next day, Phra Choei was 
  gone.  I learned that late the night before, after I had left, one of 
  the villagers had brought the body of a dead girl to bury in the 
  cemetery.  Phra Choei, seeing this, immediately gathered his umbrella 
  tent, his bowl and robes and ran away in the middle of the night.  
  From that moment on, I parted ways with Phra Choei.
    
    I headed back to Baan Pong, where I spent a few nights with Phra 
  Khien, and then went on to a township called Huei Awm Kaew -- the 
  Encircling Crystal Stream.  There, I was told, were the ruins of an 
  old temple, with lots of old Buddha images.  Hearing this, I wanted to 
  go have a look.
    
    By this point I had gotten really fed up with lay people and monks.  
  I no longer wanted to live with the human race.  The one thought in my 
  mind was to go off and live alone on a mountaintop.  So when I reached 
  Huei Awm Kaew, I stopped eating food, and began eating only leaves so 
  that I wouldn't need to be bothered with human beings any more.
    
    This turned out to be a fine spot, secluded and quiet, with a 
  shallow stream meandering all around. One night while I was sitting in 
  meditation with my eyes closed in a little dark hut, it seemed to me 
  that a brilliant ball of light, about a meter and a half in diameter, 
  came shooting out of the mountaintop and settled down next to the hut 
  where I was staying -- so I sat there meditating until dawn.  I felt 
  as if my breath had stopped.  I was absolutely still, feeling free and 
  at ease, and not the least bit sleepy.
    
    A few days later I moved down to an island formed by the course of 
  the stream. A villager nearby, on his own initiative, had built me a 
  little hut there.  The floor was just off the ground, and the walls 
  were made of banana leaves.  When I moved into the hut I resolved to 
  make an all-out effort in my meditation.  I went without sleep, and 
  ate very little -- only four handfuls of leaves a day. 
    
    The first day I felt fine and there were no incidents.  The second 
  day, at about 9 p.m., after I had said my chants and finished my 
  walking meditation, I lay back for a little rest, letting my thoughts 
  wander -- and fell asleep.  I dreamed that a woman came to me.  She 
  was plump, fair and good-looking, and was wearing a blouse and an 
  old-fashioned skirt.  Her name was Sida, she said, she was still 
  single and she wanted to come live with me.  I had the feeling that 
  she wanted a husband, so I asked her, "Where do you live?"
    
    "On top of a tall mountain," she answered.  "It's a large place, 
  with lots of houses.  Life is easy there.  Please be my husband."
    
    I refused.  She started pleading with me in all sorts of ways, but I 
  stood my ground.  So she suggested that we simply become lovers.  
  Still, I wouldn't yield.  In the end, when she could see that she 
  wasn't going to get her way with me, we agreed to respect each other 
  as good friends.  And when we had reached an understanding, she said 
  goodbye and vanished.
    
    The next day, at about two in the afternoon, I bathed in the stream 
  at a spot where a log had fallen across the water.  One of the 
  villagers had told me that this was a very important stream, that 
  there was a small chedi at its source.  The strange thing about the 
  chedi was that sometimes it was visible, sometimes it wasn't.  
  Listening to the story, though, I hadn't paid any attention to it.  
  Before taking my bath, I took some rocks and dammed up the stream so 
  that it would flow over the log and I would have an easier time 
  bathing.  After my bath, I went and left the rocks where they were.
    
    That evening, after I had finished my chants and my walking 
  meditation -- a little after 9 p.m. -- I lay down for a short rest, 
  meditating all the while, and another incident occurred.  I felt as if 
  someone were rubbing my legs with his hands, making me feel numb first 
  up to my waist, and then all the way to my head.  I had almost no 
  sense of feeling at all, and thought I was going to lose 
  consciousness.  So I sat right up and entered concentration -- my mind 
  absolutely still, clear and bright.  I decided that if this was death, 
  I'd be willing to go.  The one other thought that occurred to me was 
  that I was going to pass out because I had been living on nothing but 
  leaves.
    
    As soon as my awareness was in place, it started expanding itself 
  out through my body, and the feeling of numbness gradually began to 
  dissipate -- like clouds when they float past the light of the sun -- 
  until there was no trace of numbness left at all.  My mind returned to 
  normal, and then a light went shooting out from it, focusing on the 
  log where I had bathed in the stream, telling me to get the rocks out 
  of the way because the stream was a path the spirits took.  So when I 
  awoke next morning I went to the stream and removed the rocks, letting 
  the water flow as before.
    
    That night it seemed as if there were going to be another incident.  
  Something struck the wall of my hut and shook it, but then that was 
  all.  I lay down to meditate, because I was feeling weak, and as I 
  began to doze off I had a dream:  Herds of strange-looking animals, 
  about the size of pigs, were coming down from the waterfall at the 
  source of the stream.  Each had the bushy tail of a squirrel and the 
  head of a goat.  Huge swarms of them were coming down the stream, 
  passing the spot where I was sleeping.  After a few moments I saw a 
  woman, about 30, wearing an indigo blouse and indigo skirt reaching 
  just a little below her knees.  She was carrying something -- I don't 
  know what you'd call it -- in her hand, and she said that she was the 
  spirit residing in the waterfall, that she had to go down to the sea 
  like this constantly.  Her name was Nang Jan. 
    
    For the next few nights I was very earnest in my meditation, but 
  there were no more incidents.
    
    After a while I returned to Baan Pong to a spot where Ajaan Mun had 
  once stayed, and there ran into Phra Khien again.  We decided that we 
  would have to go together and search for Ajaan Mun until we found him.  
  So, after saying good-bye to the villagers there, we set out for 
  Chieng Dao (StarCity) Cave. Before reaching Chieng Dao mountain, we 
  climbed up to stay in a small cave where Ajaan Mun had once stayed, 
  and then went on, reaching Chieng Dao Cave the twelfth day of the 
  waxing moon, the third lunar month (February 6).  We made an all-out 
  effort to meditate both day and night.
    
    On the night of the full moon -- Magha Puja -- I decided to sit in 
  meditation as an offering to the Buddha.  A little after 9 p.m. my 
  mind became absolutely still.  It seemed as if breath and light were 
  radiating from my body in all directions.  At the moment, I was 
  focusing on my breath, which was so subtle that I scarcely seemed to 
  be breathing at all.  My heart was quiet, my mind still.  The breath 
  in my body didn't seem to be moving at all.  It was simply quiet and 
  still.  My mind had completely stopped formulating thoughts -- how all 
  my thoughts had stopped, I had no idea.  But I was aware -- feeling 
  bright, expansive and at ease -- with a sense of freedom that wiped 
  out all feeling of pain.
    
    After about an hour of this, teachings began to appear in my heart.  
  This, in short, is what they said:  "Focus down and examine becoming, 
  birth, death and unawareness to see how they come about."  A vision 
  came to me as plain as if it were right before my eyes:  "Birth is 
  like a lightning flash.  Death is like a lightning flash."  So I 
  focused on the causes leading to birth and death, until I came to the 
  word //avijja// --  unawareness.  Unawareness of what?  What kind of 
  knowing is the knowing of unawareness?  What kind of knowing is the 
  knowing of awareness?  I considered things in this manner, back and 
  forth, over and over until dawn.  When it all finally became clear, I 
  left concentration.  My heart and body both seemed light, open and 
  free; my heart, extremely satisfied and full.  
  
  
                            * * * * * * * *
