                                          
                                          
                                          
                                PART VII
    
    
  On the 10th of April I left for Lampang to help with the ceremonial 
  marking of the boundaries of the ordination hall at Wat Samraan 
  Nivasa, which lasted for several days.  When the ceremonies were over 
  I went to stay in Phra Sabai Cave.  My old stomach problems began to 
  flare up:  I had a bad case of diarrhea and fierce pains in my 
  stomach.  Word reached the city of Lampang that I was in bad shape.
    
    One day I went to rest in the inner cave.  I saw a rock stuck in the 
  mouth of the cave, 20 meters off the ground.  The thought occurred to 
  me that I'd like to build a chedi there in the cave.  I called to the 
  lay people staying with me to help push the rock out of the cave, 
  which they were able to do.  We then dug a hole and cut away at the 
  rock floor until about 1 p.m., when a car arrived.  The people in the 
  car said that they had come to take me to the hospital, but I had 
  already recovered from my illness without realizing it.  I told them 
  that we were going to build a chedi.  Before leaving the cave, I stood 
  at its mouth and looked out to the southwest, to a range of deep green 
  forested mountains.  Seeing the fresh green of the trees, I thought of 
  the Bodhi tree, and that it would be good to plant three Bodhi trees 
  there at the mouth of the cave.  I mentioned this to the monks and 
  novices, and then returned to Lampang.
    
    From there I went on to Uttaradit, because a lay person had come up 
  looking for me, asking me to return to Uttaradit because an old woman 
  -- a student of mine -- had started babbling incoherently for several 
  days.  I went to stay in Uttaradit a fair while, helping the woman, 
  and then went on to Phitsanuloke, where I stayed at Wat Raadburana, 
  near the home of a woman who was an "adopted child" of mine.  The 
  story of this adopted child is worth telling, although it dates back 
  to the year I spent the rains with the hilltribes people at Baan Phaa 
  Daen Saen Kandaan (The Cliff Village in the Land of Really Primitive 
  Hardship) in Chieng Mai.
    
    The woman's name was Fyyn; her husband's was MahaNawm.  One day I 
  had gone to teach meditation at Wat Aranyik, located in a forest six 
  kilometers outside of Phitsanuloke.  A lot of government officials, 
  shopkeepers and people in general had come to practice //samadhi//,  
  including the chief of police, Luang Samrit; Luang Chyyn, Khun Kasem, 
  Captain Phaew -- all of them people really earnest about practicing 
  meditation.  We were sitting, discussing the Dhamma, when someone came 
  and said to me, "Please come and visit a sick person in my home."  I 
  agreed to go. The chief of police then drove us there in his car.
    
    When we arrived they told me that a //dhutanga// monk had come down 
  from the north, made some lustral water for them, and then told them, 
  "I'm afraid I can't cure you, but a monk who can will be coming soon."  
  He had then left and continued on his wanderings.  As soon as MahaNawm 
  had heard that I was in the area, he had come looking for me. Talking 
  with him, I learned that his wife, Mae Fyyn, had been ill for three 
  years now, ever since she had lain by the fire after childbirth.  They 
  had spent more than 8,000 baht on injections, but nothing had cured 
  her.  All she could do for the last three years was simply lie there:  
  She couldn't get up at all.  For the past year she hadn't been able to 
  speak.  She couldn't even move.  Hearing this, I told MahaNawm that 
  I'd go have a look
    
    As soon as I set foot in the door, I saw the woman raise her hands 
  feebly in a //wai//. I didn't give a thought to her condition, but 
  simply sat in //samadhi//.  Mae Fyyn said two or three words, moved 
  herself a little, raised her hands in another //wai//, sat up and then 
  kneeled down by her pillow.  "Get well," I told her.  "Be done with 
  your old karma."
    
    That day I ordered her to pick up a match and light me a cigarette, 
  and she was able to do it.  I told the people in the house not to feed 
  her the following day, simply to place some rice and curry down next 
  to her.  She'd be able to feed herself.
    
    The next day, her husband came to the temple to present food to me.  
  When he returned home, he found that she had finished her breakfast, 
  washed the dishes and was able to get up and crawl around.  I went to 
  see her that afternoon, but found that the neighbors had all brought 
  jugs and pots to get some of "that fantastic lustral water."  Seeing 
  this, I felt ill at ease, and so hurried back to Bangkok. 
    
    We kept in touch by letter, though.  A month afterwards, Mae Fyyn 
  was able to get up and walk.  The second year she was able to go to 
  the nearby temple and donate food to the monks.  The third year she 
  came down to stay at Wat Boromnivasa -- walking all the way from 
  HuaLampong train station to Wat Borom, and walking every day from 
  where she was staying to hear sermons at the meditation hall, 
  perfectly normal in every way.  Altogether, it was an amazing affair.
    
    From Phitsanuloke I went on to Phetchabun to visit a student who had 
  set up a monastery at Lom Kao district with the help of District 
  Official Pin.  After staying in seclusion for a fair while, I went 
  with some others into the forest.
    
    We crossed mountains and streams for several days and then stopped 
  to rest on the slopes of a hill.  From there we followed the lower 
  slopes of the hills until we reached a tall mountain covered with a 
  bright open forest.  Off in the distance I could see a towering peak 
  called Haw Mountain.  My companions had gone on ahead; I was following 
  behind.  Thinking of Haw Mountain, my mind was at peace.  I thought of 
  a treasure that was beyond my powers:  "I'd like to be able to 
  levitate to the peak of Haw Mountain."  I stood still there for a 
  moment, my bowl hanging on a strap from my shoulder, and dreamed that 
  a cloud came down out of the sky while a faint voice said to me,  
  "Don't think about it.  When the time comes, it will happen on its 
  own."  The vision then disappeared.
    
    During this trip I was really thirsty.  On all sides of the trail 
  were nothing but packs of foxes, due to the fact that we were so far 
  from human habitation.  We kept on going and stopped off at Baan Wang 
  Naam Sai (ClearWater Village). We then cut across the forests and 
  streams, and when we came out of the forest, we arrived at the Phaa 
  Bing Range, a place where Ajaan Mun had once stayed.  This was an area 
  of caves and small hills.  We spent quite a few days there.
    
    Late one night, when it was quiet and still, I was sitting in 
  meditation until I felt like I was going to doze off, and suddenly 
  there was an incident.  I saw a mountain peak covered with trees to 
  the west of Phuu Kradyng.  A gigantic man, wearing a dark yellow cloth 
  tied around his waist, was standing on the mountain and holding up the 
  sky with his hands.  I was standing under his arm.  He said, "In the 
  future, life will be hard for humanity.  They will die from poisonous 
  water.  This water will be of two kinds:
    
    1.  Fog and dew that will hurt the crops wherever it forms.  People 
  who eat the crops may become sick.
    
    2.  Rain.  If you come across strange rain water, i.e.,
    
      a. reddish rain water or
      b. yellowish rain water with a peculiar taste,
    
  don't drink it.  If you do, you'll come down with diarrhea and a rash.  
  If you drink a great deal, you may die."
    
    This was the first point he had to say.  The second point:  He 
  gestured off to the northeast.  I saw a giant spring of water shooting 
  out of the ground.  Wherever its waters flowed, people became ill.  If 
  they used this water to irrigate fruit trees, the trees would become 
  diseased.  The life-span of people would become shorter and shorter.
    
    The third point:  Something strange began to happen on the mountain 
  top.  In whatever direction he spread out his hand, the trees would be 
  leveled in rows.  "What does this mean?" I asked.
    
    "Adults with no sense of morality will suffer in the future."
    
    "Can any of this be prevented?"
    
    "The diseases caused by water, if caught in time, aren't serious.  
  Otherwise they'll cause death within three, five or nine days."
    
    "Will I be affected?"
    
    "No, because you appreciate the virtues of your elders.  I'll give 
  you the formula for the cure.  If you hear that any of these diseases 
  have appeared, go quickly to help."
    
    I asked him, "Can't you tell them the cure yourself?"
    
    "I could," he said, "but it wouldn't do any good.  You have to make 
  the medicine yourself.  Take tamarind fruits, remove the shells and 
  soak them in a salt solution.  Then pour off the water and give it to 
  the diseased people -- or have them drink the brine from pickled 
  garlic.  The disease will go away -- but you have to make the medicine 
  yourself." He went on to say that his name was Sancicco Devaputta.
    
    This happened in 1956.
    
    After we left Phaa Bing Range and had gone to stay in a nearby 
  township, the people there came with a strange story to tell.  The 
  night before, a cloud of mist had passed through a tobacco field, and 
  the leaves of the tobacco plants had all fallen off.  Another time, I 
  heard that in Thoen district, Lampang province, villagers had drunk 
  rain water the color of tea, and more than ten of them had died.  Both 
  of these stories seemed uncanny because they were in line with my 
  dream.
    
    After that we went on to Wang Saphung district and then climbed the 
  great Phuu Kradyng Plateau, after spending a night at the foot of the 
  plateau.  Altogether there were five of us, two boys and three monks.  
  We climbed the plateau, reaching the edge of the top at about 7 p.m. 
  From there the walk to our campsite was a little more than three 
  miles.  The air on the plateau was chilly, and the whole area was 
  covered with pines.  As soon as we reached the top, it rained, so we 
  all looked for places to stay.  I spotted a pine log that had fallen 
  into a patch of tall grass and so I climbed up to lie on the log.  The 
  others had run off to find shelter elsewhere.  That night there was 
  both wind and rain, which meant that I didn't get any sleep all night 
  long. 
    
    At dawn we came out looking for one another, and then searched for a 
  place to stay.  We found a small cave with a fine rock ledge and a 
  tiny well filled with rainwater from the night before.  There we 
  stayed in solitude.
    
    The plateau was a great broad plain, seven kilometers square.  Once 
  you were up there, you felt as if you were on level ground.  The whole 
  plateau was covered with pines and tall grasses -- but with no other 
  kinds of trees, although there were many kinds of trees on the lower 
  slopes.  This, I would gather, was because the top of the plateau was 
  solid rock.  You could tell from the fallen pines:  Their roots had 
  crept along the crevices in the rock.
    
    This was a really restful, quiet place to stay.  Every day at 5 p.m. 
  when it didn't rain, we'd get together to sit in meditation on the 
  rock ledge.  I'd think to myself, "I don't want to return to the world 
  of human beings. I'd like to live on in the woods and the wilds like 
  this.  If possible, I'd like to attain supranatural powers or, if I 
  don't attain them, may I die within seven days, entering //nibbana// 
  on the seventh. Otherwise, may the deities take me off to live in 
  solitude, far from the congregating spots of humanity for at least 
  three years."  Every time I'd start thinking like this, though, the 
  rain would start to fall, and we'd have to go back into the cave.
    
    One of the other monks with us, named Phra Palat Sri, had never gone 
  out into the wilds before.  All along the way he had talked like a 
  salesman, which had me annoyed.  In other words, he liked to talk 
  about worldly matters.  Whenever we reached a village that looked 
  poor, he'd bring out his "Lopburi has loads of fish" story for the 
  villagers to hear.  He'd tell them that pickled fish from Lopburi was 
  sold as far away as Chaiyaphum province.  This annoyed me.  We had 
  come out for solitude, not to sell pickled fish.  I'd have to keep 
  after him about this, but he had more years in the monkhood than I.  
  When we'd go to stay on a mountaintop, he'd like to build a fire to 
  warm himself -- when I was asleep. He wouldn't dare do it when I was 
  awake. [*]  While  warming himself, he'd get the two boys, Man and 
  Manu, to join him and talk.
      
      * [Lighting a fire to warm oneself -- except for reasons of 
      health -- is forbidden by the monastic discipline, because fires 
      of this sort are often an invitation to sit around talking 
      rather than meditating.]
      
    
    After we had stayed for a few days, the group started getting less 
  and less quiet.  The first day had been fine:  No one dared talk 
  because they were afraid of the tigers and elephants that were 
  plentiful on the plateau.  After the fifth day our rice ran out, so we 
  got ready to go down the plateau.
    
    When we reached level ground, we stopped to rest for a while.  A 
  person who worked for some Westerners saw us and came to spread out a 
  mat for me to sit on.  I didn't accept the offer, so he invited Phra 
  Palat Sri to sit on the mat, which he did.  A moment later we heard 
  thunder, even though the sky was sunny, and in that very instant a 
  branch from a nearby tree came crashing down less than a foot from 
  Phra Palat Sri's head.  Phra Palat Sri, his face pale, jumped up from 
  where he had been sitting.  "That," I told him, "is what happens to 
  people who don't have any self-restraint."  From that point on, Phra 
  Palat Sri became a very quiet person.
    
    After that we went on and stopped to spend the night at a school 
  near Phaa Nok Khao (Owl Cliff).  My followers were all tired out.  
  Late that night, when it was quiet, I could hear the sounds of people 
  sneaking out into the forest, so the next morning I asked one of the 
  monks what they had been up to the night before, and was told, "We 
  took your palm sugar.  We've been carrying it for days now, but 
  haven't had any, so last night we boiled it in water and drank it all 
  up."
    
    When we had finished our meal that morning, we left to cross through 
  a large forest.  Before setting out, I made up my mind:  "I'm going to 
  ride my own car all the way to Chumphae district," which was 80 
  kilometers away.  "I won't accept any offers to ride in a car or 
  truck.  I'm going to look for solitude in the forest."  A few minutes 
  later, after we had gone about a kilometer along the road, a car went 
  whizzing past and then stopped about 200 meters ahead of us.  A woman 
  came running in our direction and said, "Please accept a ride in our 
  car.  We've just bought it." 
    
    I looked at the faces of the others:  They all wanted to accept the 
  ride, but I didn't agree to it.  The woman pleaded with us for a long 
  time, but I still didn't accept the offer.
    
    We walked along -- our umbrella tents and bowls slung over our 
  shoulders -- through the heat and the sun.  After about four 
  kilometers I spotted a hill with a spirit shrine ahead, and so stopped 
  to rest and explore the caves there.  A woman came along with a child 
  in her arms and three dead lizards slung over her shoulder, which she 
  placed near the spot where I was resting.  I thought of asking her for 
  one of the lizards, but didn't dare say anything. 
    
    After I had rested for a moment, a parcel post truck from Loei came 
  past, with Nai Man and Phra Palat Sri sitting in it.  The driver 
  stopped, jumped down from the truck and came running towards me.  
  "I've seen you walking along the road for several days now," he said.  
  "Please accept a ride from me."  He pleaded with me for several 
  minutes, saying "I won't ask for any fare, not even from the boys."  
  One of my followers had gone on ahead; one was trailing behind. "Thank 
  you," I told him "but we can't accept your offer."  So my followers 
  who were in the truck had to get out.
    
    We walked into the Laan Wilds, an area of virgin forest.  At about 
  five in the afternoon, Phra Palat Sri had an attack of dysentery, so I 
  gave him permission to ride on ahead and wait for us at Chumphae.  Nai 
  Man couldn't walk any further -- he was barely able to drag himself 
  along -- so I gave him permission to take the ride to Chumphae and 
  wait for us there too.  So that left three of us:  myself, Phra Juum 
  and Nai Manu, a boy from Uttaradit.
    
    We reached our resting place -- a village called Baan Krathum -- 
  after dark, at about 8 p.m.  We had trouble finding a place to stay, 
  and ended up camping in the woods near a stretch of water.  Up the 
  next morning, we went for alms in the village and then, after our 
  meal, traveled on.
    
    After we had walked for about a kilometer the sun became so fierce 
  that we stopped for a while to rest in the shade.  At around five in 
  the evening the sky became dark and ominous.  It looked like rain.  
  Nai Manu wasn't willing to spend the night in the forest, and so asked 
  permission to ride on ahead to Khon Kaen, but when he went to wave 
  down a ride, no one would stop for him.  After a short while a storm 
  blew up, with heavy winds and rain.  The boy went for shelter to a 
  house nearby.  Later that night the roof of the house blew off in the 
  wind.
    
    Meanwhile, Phra Juum and I had walked on, looking for shelter along 
  the roadside.  I spotted a shack, a meter by two and a half meters 
  wide, and thatched with grass.  The rain was pouring down and the wind 
  was blowing branches off the trees, so I called to Phra Juum and we 
  went to stay in the shack.  Phra Juum opened his umbrella tent and 
  rested under one half of the roof.  I stood resting under the other 
  half.  A gust of wind came, tore off the half of the roof under which 
  Phra Juum was resting, and carried it away into the middle of the 
  fields.  A moment later a tree came crashing down.  Phra Juum came 
  running to my half of the shack.  Seeing that we couldn't stay there 
  any longer, we went running for a clump of bushes that gave us enough 
  space to crouch, shivering and cold, for about an hour until the rain 
  stopped and the wind died down.  Our robes and things were soaking 
  wet.  We went and found another shack, lit a fire and spent the night 
  there.  During the night, it rained again.
    
    The next day the boy wasn't able to walk on any further, so we had 
  him ride on ahead to wait for us at Chumphae, leaving just the two of 
  us, Phra Juum and myself, to walk on by ourselves.  At about five that 
  evening we reached Chumphae.  Phra Palat Sri's dysentery still hadn't 
  cleared up -- his face was pale and sickly -- so we stayed on at 
  Chumphae until he had recovered somewhat.
    
    I received news that the date for the Somdet's cremation had been 
  set, and that it was to take place fairly soon, so I took the express 
  train from Khon Kaen to Bangkok.  This was in June, 1956.
    
    
                                 * * *
    
    
  Reaching Wat Boromnivasa, I learned that the ecclesiastical 
  authorities had met for consultation concerning the Somdet's 
  cremation. That very day there had been a meeting of eleven senior 
  monks to appoint a committee to run the cremation, after which they 
  had gone to meet with the Isaan Society in the Green Hall. About 100 
  members of the society were present at the meeting, which was chaired 
  by Nai Lyan Buasuwan.  When I reached the Green Hall, I could see Chao 
  Khun Dhammapitok and Chao Khun Dhammatilok sitting in on the meeting, 
  but they weren't saying anything at all.  All I could hear was the 
  voice of Doctor Fon Saengsingkaew.  I stood and listened outside, but 
  didn't like what I heard.  They were making plans to collect money in 
  the name of the Somdet to build a mental hospital for Doctor Fon in 
  Ubon.
    
    So I entered the meeting, sat down, excused myself and then said, 
  "The matter you're discussing makes me really sad. I helped take care 
  of the Somdet for three years, and now he's been dead for over 100 
  days, and yet with all the ajaans and members of the society sitting 
  here, I haven't heard anyone make any mention of plans for the 
  cremation.  I understand you've budgeted 700,000 baht for the 
  hospital, but I haven't heard anyone set a budget for the Somdet.  
  This makes me really sad, which is why I've asked your permission to 
  speak."
    
    As soon as I had finished, Doctor Fon said, "I went to see Field 
  Marshal Phin to tell him that we didn't have enough money to build the 
  hospital, and that I'd like to collect money in connection with the 
  cremation in order to augment our funds.  He agreed that it would be a 
  good idea, and contributed 10,000 baht of his own, which is why I 
  brought up the matter."
    
    So I responded, "Phin, schmin, I don't know anything about that.  
  All I know is that we haven't met here to discuss a hospital. We've 
  met to discuss a corpse."
    
    Hearing this, Doctor Fon got up and walked out of the meeting.
    
    Nai Lyan sat still for a moment, and then said, "In that case, what 
  do the ajaans have to say?"  Chao Khun Dhammatilok, Chao Khun 
  Nyanarakkhit and the others all sat absolutely still.  Nai Lyan asked 
  again, "What would the ajaans have us do?"
    
    So I answered, "It's not that I'm against the hospital, but I feel 
  that it should be brought up afterwards, because the Somdet's body is 
  still lying around smelling up the place, and so should be taken care 
  of first."
    
    When I finished speaking, Khun Nai Tun raised her hand in agreement 
  from the back of the room.
    
    In the end we had the secretary record the following three points as 
  the consensus of the meeting: 
    
      1. However the money is to be collected, have it go towards the 
         cremation until the committee in charge feels that it has 
         enough.
      
      2. If there is any money left over, appoint a committee to 
         consider handing the excess over to the hospital.
      
      3. If the committee doesn't see fit, the money needn't go to the 
         hospital.
    
    When these three points had been recorded, someone asked, "Who's 
  going to run the cremation?"
    
    None of the monks responded, so I answered for them, "The monks of 
  Wat Borom."
    
    MahaWichien, who worked with the Culture Ministry, spoke up.  
  "You're monks.  If you run the cremation, how will you handle the 
  money?"
    
    I answered, "I have lots of hands.  I'm just afraid there won't be 
  any money for them to collect.  I don't know how to handle money 
  myself, but I have followers who do."
    
    That silenced MahaWichien.
    
    In the end we decided to do away with the old committee and set up a 
  new one headed by Chao Khun Dhammapitok.  The meeting was then 
  adjourned.
    
    The next morning I passed by the quarters of Chao Khun Dhammapitok 
  and he called me into his room.  "There are some things I'd like to 
  tell you concerning the Somdet," he said.  "I've kept them secret and 
  haven't told anyone else at all."  He then went on to say, "Right 
  before he died the Somdet 1) told me to be in charge of his funeral 
  after he died; 2) turned over all of his belongings to me; and 3) told 
  me to help take charge of the monks and novices in Wat Borom."
    
    "That's good to hear," I told him.  Afterwards we held a meeting of 
  the monks in Wat Borom, at which the Somdet's orders were made public.  
  Chao Khun Dhammapitok was then given responsibility for running both 
  the funeral and the temple as a whole. 
    
    Before leaving the meeting, I spoke up.  "I'd like to beg your 
  pardon, but I was so disgusted yesterday I couldn't stand it.  When 
  the Somdet was alive no one ever spoke of his hospital; after he died 
  no one spoke of his cremation -- but started speaking about the 
  hospital instead.  If what I said was improper or wrong or caused any 
  hard feelings, then I'll take my leave of the temple and ask not to be 
  involved in the funeral." 
    
    Chao Khun Dhammapitok then pleaded with me not to leave, and told 
  me, "There was nothing wrong with what you said."  I thus joined in 
  and helped with the funeral until it was over.
    
    Not long afterwards, the cremation was held at Wat Phra Sri 
  Mahadhatu in the Bang Khen district of Bangkok. The Somdet had been 
  the first abbot of this temple when it was built by the government.  
  After the cremation, I went to spend the rains at Naa Mae Khao 
  (WhiteMother's Field) at what is now called Wat Asokaram.
    
    
                                 * * *
    
    
  Where Wat Asokaram stands today was originally called WhiteMother's 
  Field.  The owners, Sumet and Kimhong Kraikaan, donated about 22 acres 
  over a period of two years -- 1954 and 55 -- for the purpose of 
  building a monastery.  We then set up quarters and had one of my 
  followers, Phra Khru Baitika That, go to look after the place in my 
  absence along with five other monks. Thus when the monastery was first 
  founded we had six monks staying there.
    
    In 1956, after the Somdet's cremation, I went there to spend the 
  rains.  During this period I began making plans for the festival 
  celebrating 25 centuries of Buddhism in 1957 (2500 B.E.).  Actually, I 
  had already been thinking about the matter for a long time, ever since 
  the year I left the forest at Baan Phaa Daen Saen Kandaan in Chieng 
  Mai.
    
    During the years that I was contemplating holding a festival to 
  celebrate 25 centuries of Buddhism, I had gone off wandering to a 
  number of places.  One night, while staying at Phra Sabai Cave in Mae 
  Tha district, Lampang, I went into a deep cave behind Phra Sabai Cave 
  and lit a series of kerosene lanterns that I placed in a row in front 
  of the Buddha image there.  Directly in front of the image was a floor 
  of wooden planks.  As for myself, I went to sit on a large rock and 
  faced the wall of the cave.  I kept the lanterns lit bright all night 
  long.  I made a vow:  "This will have to be a big festival, but I 
  don't have any resources.  Should I go ahead with it or not?  May the 
  Dhamma inspire the answer to appear in my heart.  Or may the deities 
  who watch over the nation, the religion and the King, and the deity 
  who guards the Emerald Buddha -- which lies at the heart of the 
  nation's spirit -- help show me the way."
    
    That night at about 2 a.m., while my mind was rested and at ease, 
  there was an incident: a sudden clatter from in front of the Buddha 
  image. It was the sound, not of falling rock, but of shattering glass.  
  I waited for a moment and then got up to have a look.  I walked around 
  about three to four meters from where I had been sitting.  The entire 
  cave was lit -- a small circular cave, no more than eight to nine 
  meters wide, ten to fifteen meters tall, and with an opening leading 
  to the open air overhead.  After walking around inspecting the area 
  and not seeing anything, I returned to my original spot and continued 
  sitting in meditation.
    
    While sitting, I dozed off and dreamed.  A deity came to me and 
  said, "You don't have to worry about the festival, but you'll have to 
  hold it.  Whenever you do it, it will be a success."  After that I 
  didn't give much thought to the matter.  I stayed on there in 
  seclusion for a fair while.  Then, before I left, I mentioned to the 
  monks there that I'd like to find three Bodhi trees to plant in front 
  of the cave.
    
    Afterwards I returned to Lopburi and stayed at Wat Khao Phra Ngaam  
  (BeautifulBuddha Mountain Monastery).  I had arrived there in time for 
  Magha Puja, and so led a group of lay people from Bangkok and Lopburi 
  in a three-day ceremony.  I taught the Dhamma to a contingent of about 
  300 soldiers, led a candle procession around the great Buddha image, 
  and then we all sat in meditation.  I made a vow:  "Concerning the 
  festival celebrating 25 centuries of Buddhism:  I don't know why, but 
  my mind seems to keep dwelling on the matter."  I then vowed to donate 
  my life on the day of the full moon -- i.e., to go without food; and 
  to donate my eyes -- i.e., to go without sleep.  But in spite of my 
  efforts, nothing happened until it was about to grow light.
    
    At about 5 a.m. I dozed off for a moment and dreamed:  The earth 
  opened wide beneath me, revealing a scattered heap of broken red 
  bricks deep underground.  Something inside me said, "This is a spot 
  where relics of the Buddha were once enshrined, but the shrine is now 
  nothing but a rubble of bricks underground.  Therefore, you will have 
  to help build a chedi to enshrine relics of the Buddha after the 
  festival celebrating 25 centuries of Buddhism.  Otherwise your old 
  karma won't be done with." 
    
    This was followed by another dream:  Once, in the distant past, the 
  Sangha was planning an important meeting in India, but after we had 
  all agreed to the date, I hadn't joined in the meeting.  The meeting 
  concerned plans for a celebration of the Buddha's relics.  It was to 
  be a very important celebration, but I didn't join in.  So my friends 
  placed a penalty on me:  "In the future you will have to gather relics 
  of the Buddha and enshrine them in a chedi at one place or another, 
  for the sake of Buddhists yet to come."  With this dream in mind, my 
  thoughts about going ahead with the festival celebrating 25 centuries 
  of Buddhism grew more and more earnest.
    
    The next day, in the dim light before dawn, I made a vow:  "If my 
  holding the festival celebrating 25 centuries of Buddhism will be a 
  success, may the number of Buddha's relics I have with me reach a 
  total of 80, equal to the years of the Lord Buddha's life."  (When I 
  made the vow I had just over 60 relics.)  When I finished my vow, it 
  was dawn.  After my meal I took out my pouch and counted:  exactly 80.
    
    The following night I climbed to sit in meditation at the base of 
  the great Buddha image on the slope of the mountain. I stayed up all 
  night, sitting in //samadhi// and doing walking meditation around the 
  image.  I set out a tray, along with flowers, candles and incense, and 
  made a vow:  "If the festival celebrating 25 centuries of Buddhism is 
  to be a success, may more of the Buddha's relics come -- from anywhere 
  at all."  At dawn, about ten tiny relics had come, mixed together with 
  red gemstones.  Quickly I put them into a container.  I didn't tell 
  anyone, but thought to myself that the festival would probably be a 
  success.
    
    That year -- 1956 -- I returned to spend the rainy season at Wat 
  Asokaram.  After the rains were over I received news that three Bodhi 
  trees had sprouted in front of Phra Sabai Cave in Lampang.  At present 
  the trees are four meters tall and very striking -- growing out of the 
  jutting rock.
    
    
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