Game of Greed Read online

  She doesn’t answer, but asks instead, “Why did you come here?”

  “You mean here to the monastery or here to your hut?”

  “Both.”

  “I wanted to bid you good-bye, really. Make sure you were okay. Francis is only half kidding when he talks about the danger of an interrupted retreat.”

  “I’m fine,” she says sharply.

  “I am sorry. Of course, you are. I came for purely egoistical reasons.” He sees her surprise and adds, “I am a monk. Or rather, a man living like a monk. I am not Buddha. So, yes, still a lot of ego.”

  She softens. “Why did you become a monk? It’s a rather dramatic choice of lifestyle.”

  “Not really. That is just the Western perspective. Here in Sri Lanka, as in other Southeast Asian countries, becoming a monk doesn’t have to be a lifetime decision. Many of the young monks you see around here will likely leave the monastery in a few years and start families. That is, the ones who are not part of the organization. Those monks may leave for different reasons, but chances are they’ll stay on longer.” He hesitates. “Actually, I didn’t become a monk first. I was part of the organization, and at one point, we needed someone to infiltrate a monastery. Since I’d grown up near a monastery, spending every weekend and all my school holidays training bando there ”

  Jo interrupts. “You practiced bando before you came here? But why?”

  “Well, there wasn’t a lot going on where I grew up. I sort of just started doing it out of boredom, but it seemed I had some talent for it, so one of the masters took me on as his principal student. And that’s a lot tougher than being a monk, I can tell you. Apart, of course, from the monks’ vows of abstinence.” He smiles at her, and again she feels her stomach turn. This man who is he and why does he have such a hold over her?

  “So, I trained with them for a very long time. All my youth, really, and then into my early twenties. Francis and I happened to cross paths, and without me actually knowing how it materialized, I was suddenly part of the organization. And quite happy about it, too. It makes a lot of sense to me, fighting greed and corruption. I need more than meditation and prayer.”

  Dhammakarati looks across the garden, now darkened by lengthening shadows. And for a moment, he seems to disappear from her sight as though he has the power to let his body follow his mind. But he’s only gone for a moment, and then he’s back again, fully present. “How about you? How did you end up here?”

  While asking her this innocent question, Dhammakarati allows his mind to follow another trail that takes him way back into the past. Which did not unfold exactly as he had told her.

  Chapter 7

  For him it was never a question of how to spend his life, having been born into a desperately poor family on a rubber plantation in the Northern Province. The family’s well-being was entirely dependent upon the capriciousness of the landowner. Dhammakarati’s destiny was to continue the longstanding tradition of poor farmers bending their heads and breaking their backs to survive in a world in which all the important decisions were made by somebody else.

  He was the fifth child out of eight, and parental guidance or even just parental care was rare and infrequent. He learned to expect little, to take care of his own needs, and to look out for his smaller siblings. Then one day, when he was about five, an elderly monk wandered into the village. And without Dhammakarati’s knowing how it happened, suddenly he was walking next to the monk out of the village, not to return for the next twenty years. Later, he reasoned that the old monk must have spotted a particular capability in the way Dhammakarati moved. And like parents of many poor families, his parents had been only too happy to let him go, knowing that at least he would be taken care of and leaving them with one less mouth to feed.

  The older monk turned out to be a grand master of the ancient and secret martial arts system of bando. Master Upali Ruhalo, as the boy came to know him, took Dhammakarati under his wing, gave him his name, dressed him in the ochre robes, shaved his head, and made him an apprentice. His tasks included making the master’s tea, serving his meals, and generally looking after his physical needs. Dhammakarati liked this work of serving the old monk, whom he had come to respect like an incarnation of the Buddha. The servitude, the shaved head, the saffron robes, the duty of starting each day by doing the rounds of the village to collect food, soon drove most of the inherent ego out of the young boy. He became a member of the monastic community. Nothing more, nothing less.

  Life as a monk was a pleasant and simple one. The day started early, long before daybreak, and each day had a set routine. The monotony of the days ensured that a monk’s mind was freed to pursue spiritual goals, unencumbered by making insignificant decisions about where, when, or what to eat, for instance. All of these practical matters were taken care of; all one had to do as a monk was to apply himself with full attention to whatever his body was doing, whether that was praying, eating, studying, working, or, in the case of Dhammakarati, martial arts training.

  Over the years, he practiced stillness of mind and precision of body. He was naturally strong, but he needed to learn how to bend his body with the fluidity of the bamboo and to enhance his speed to that of lightning.

  In the beginning, he trained in the basic standing and balancing techniques but soon learned defensive tactics using his arms and hands. Once he mastered defense, he moved on to offensive techniques using his shoulders, knees, feet, and head. Along with the offensive training, his mind was constantly challenged in such a way that, combined with intensive meditation, taught him to control any urge that might float through his body. The deadliness of bando is so great that if it is not combined with a very strong mind, trained to maintain equilibrium in the face of even the greatest of provocations, it’s like a weapon without a control mechanism a human tool of destruction gone wild. If the ego isn’t conquered, a bando practitioner is nothing more than a deadly and hugely unpredictable weapon.

  He learned. And he learned fast. Not only did he enjoy the classes with Master Upali Ruhalo, but he remembered only too well the looks of fatigue and latent fear on his parents’ faces. Early on, he vowed not only to provide his parents with an easier life, but to fight the corruption, the greed, and the evil of the ruling classes. He tried to talk to his masters about it on several occasions, but the answers they provided never changed, nor did they enlighten him. His Buddhist teacher told him that life is suffering and that the only way out is by controlling one’s mind. His bando master told him to harness his anger and only fight the causes his elders told him to fight.

  By the time he was eighteen, he was the youngest bando master in the monastery.

  So, although he had a happy childhood and a contented youth at the monastery, a constant, nagging voice told him he would not be free there to pursue his true life’s task. The day after his twentieth birthday, he left the monastery to seek further education elsewhere.

  The opportunity had arisen when a Western scholar came to stay at the monastery and study for three months. The scholar took a shine to the young monk and asked to have him as his assistant during his stay. And thus, it came about that Dhammakarati went from thinking in a traditional Eastern way to thinking in a modern Western one.

  The scholar left for England and soon after sent for Dhammakarati, who came to stay for almost ten years, during which time he completed a master’s degree in Buddhist studies. The scholar gave him a room and a reasonable wage and never laid a finger on him, despite the fact that his love was evident even to the innocent and pure Dhammakarati. By the time Dhammakarati was twenty-two, he had made enough to send money back to his family and thus keep the first of his youthful vows.

  He felt a greater sense of personal freedom living as a layperson in England, but he missed the stability, the peace, and the simplicity of monastic life. However, he knew that if he were to fulfill his life’s mission, he must stay in the West until this task was clear.

  Dhammakarati was not a man of imagination or initiative.
He had never been taught how to make the first move, nor to imagine a future series of events. But he was trained to deal with an existing problem, physical or mental, and to do so efficiently, with economy and grace.

  His was a defending nature, not an attacking one; an obliging nature, not a dictating one.

  Although he was trained to contemplate the nature of happiness, the fluidity and impermanence of everything, he never envisioned himself being happy in the mundane sense of the word. Of course, he mastered the lightness of being that comes as a natural consequence of steady meditation, but that was a happiness of the soul.

  As a young man, he obviously dreamed of women, but these dreams were abstract and intangible. And later on, when he did have a few sexual encounters, they proved to be nothing but short-lived physical releases. The desire he felt was soon replaced by distaste. The hunger he felt turned to satiety before he even got to know the woman. And as for money, prestige, accomplishment, and all the rest that constitutes the Western concept of happiness, his grasp of the futility of life and the frailty of the human ego was too strong for him to get caught up in these illusionary pursuits.

  His one and only quest, the one thing that would provide a sense of passion for him, was to find a platform, a vehicle with which to fight greed, corruption, and the plain evil of the ruling classes. This was his raison d’être, his one excuse for taking up space in the world. And his battle was not to be fought in the spiritual or academic realm. He knew that. He knew that all the learning he had acquired, all the mental and physical mastery, was meant for a different cause.

  But he had yet to find it.

  It was in a dank basement in a London suburb, where he maintained his physical capability by training daily with a handful of other bando practitioners, that he met Francis. Incongruous in his pinstriped suit, silver cufflinks, and Hermès tie, Francis walked in one day. Dhammakarati never learned what, exactly, Francis was looking for and how he had come to know of this place. But for whatever reason, he invited the five of them for a weeklong stay at a country house with the promise of pampering and excellent outdoor training facilities, provided they teach younger boys for the week. Three of the young men accepted two because they had nothing else to do, Dhammakarati because he sensed a very strong and important karmic connection with this man in pinstripes.

  They never did meet any young boys, nor were they required to teach anybody else. They were installed in circumstances that to them were luxurious and bid to demonstrate their skills for three serious-looking men whose names they never learned. By midweek, one of the young men was sent back with a substantial sum of money for his trouble, while Dhammakarati and the other one stayed on.

  On the last night of his stay, Francis asked to see him. Over the course of a very long evening, Dhammakarati began to understand the dynamics of the business world and the influence and power it yields, even in far-away rubber-tree plantations like the one on which his parents had worked. During the night, he was given a very disturbing insight into the dark side of this moneyed, greedy realm that Francis had vowed to fight. And by the time the sun rose, he had given his word. He had found his new master, even though his intuition told him that their relationship would be much more equal than those to which he was accustomed.

  From that night on, Dhammakarati spent part of his time on missions under Francis’s leadership and the rest of his time in a monastery an hour’s drive east of Colombo, a monastery not open to stray visitors. Over the years, he established a community of mentally trained fighters who easily blended in with the other monks and nuns, but who had a separate and secluded practice area and generally didn’t mingle with the ordinary Sangha in the monastery. Dhammakarati led these younger men with a mixture of the strict authority he had learned from Upali Ruhalo and the more democratic style he had picked up from Francis. The young men adored him. To them, he was the father most had never had, and the ultimate role model. They would do anything for him.

  He likes his life, the alternating periods of action and peace, the feeling of doing something worthwhile. And yet, in spite of all his training, he still has the sense that he is missing something essential. Most of the time he puts it down to the common dissatisfaction of mankind. But occasionally, it hits him that he has been given a glimpse of two worlds: the material world of the West and the spiritual world of Buddhism, and that he is somehow suspended between the two.

  Just as Jo is about to answer his question, they both hear soft footsteps. Somebody seems to be making an effort not to be heard. She holds her breath while Dhammakarati, with a few measured movements and without the slightest noise, removes the teacups and is suddenly standing with his back to the wall beside her front door so that he’ll be hidden if it is opened.

  There’s a knock and a whisper. “Ms. Vermeer?”

  She opens the door just enough to speak through it. Outside is one of the gardeners. She has seen him often and deems him harmless. “Yes?”

  “May I cut the grass around your hut now, Ms. Vermeer?”

  “No. I am just about to meditate. Can you come back in an hour, please?” She smiles at him, and he nods before shuffling away. She and Dhammakarati share a look of relief.

  They are silent for a little while, and then Dhammakarati asks, “How does your family feel about you being away so much? Aren’t you close to them?”

  Jo shakes her head. “My family is a modern tragedy. Nothing seems to hold us together. We were brought up with courtesy and a resounding lack of love. Nobody ever raised their voices. Nobody cared enough to do so.” She runs a hand over her eyes. “It is sad, really.”

  Dhammakarati reaches out toward her tentatively but withdraws his hand before it touches her. She doesn’t seem to notice. He asks, “Friends?”

  She thinks for a while. “Yeah, I guess. But it’s hard to tell whether people are really friends or just people you pass in the night, isn’t it? I mean, there are people I enjoy spending time with. Or, at least, I used to. But with my current job,” she corrects herself, “our current job, it is pretty hard to be close to anybody, don’t you find?”

  “I think perhaps that my situation is different, Jo. As a practicing Buddhist, I am not really supposed to be close to anybody. Or rather, I am supposed to be close to everybody. No attachments, remember?” He smiles awkwardly.

  “Well, I am as good as a practicing Buddhist, then. My attachments are few and easily disposed of.”

  Dhammakarati looks closely at her. “You don’t seem sad about it. Are you?”

  “Not anymore. There was a time when I routinely yelled at my then-God you know, the God I was brought up to believe in for not giving me the same opportunities as other women. Husband, children, commitments, unconditional love. The whole fairy tale. But I am a grown woman now, and I have learned to face my destiny, to accept the life I have been given.”

  She gets up and stands by the window, staring into the night. “Actually, nowadays, I don’t think I would have wanted it any differently. We do good work. What we do matters. And that is quite something. Like finding unexpected treasure in a pile of dirt. How many people can actually say that about their lives, that what they do matters?”

  Dhammakarati moves to her side, a gentle smile on his lips. “You know, Jo. In a sense, you are a truer Buddhist than most monks I know since they never made a deliberate choice, but just followed a tradition. You put yourself at the world’s disposal, which is a rather un-Western thing to do. But somehow, I sense it is a fallback position rather than a deliberate choice.”

  She turns sharply to him. “Don’t patronize me, Dhammakarati, and don’t you dare psychoanalyze me!”

  Dhammakarati takes a step back so he can look her full in the face. “I am sorry. I really didn’t mean to. I just think we all have our reasons for doing what we are doing. And even though we may not be conscious of all the choices we make, they all make some sort of sense in our inner being.” He takes her hand hesitantly, testing how much he’s insulted her. “
I have my reasons, too, and they are definitely not all pure-hearted and noble. In fact, very few of them are. But I have spent sufficient time on the meditation mat to know my heart and mind. I don’t have a lot of illusions left, and sometimes that influences my conversations. Please, forgive me. I was out of line.”

  Jo gently pulls her hand from his and slides it slowly down his cheek. “I kind of like it when you’re out of line. It makes you human. Promise you’ll always be this candid with me?”

  He turns his head away, “Oh, but I am human. Too much so.” Too much to not be strongly affected by the closeness of your body and your vulnerable strength, he thinks. He moves closer to her.

  His arm is inches away from hers, and the heat from her body seems to penetrate his skin. He can smell her sweat. Like a fine sheen on her skin, it is an extra layer that makes her look oiled and glistening. Western people never get used to the hot, humid weather, regardless of how long they stay. But this woman doesn’t seem bothered by her own sweat. He wants her more than he has wanted anybody in a long, long time. All this training, hours and hours of meditation, vows of abstinence…and then a quite ordinary woman walks in, and he’s reduced to a hot-blooded teenager. So much for equanimity.

  Jo breaks the spell. “Why did you remove the mikes?”

  He doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, his voice is urgent, willing her to believe him. “I trust Francis implicitly. And I guess you do, too. But sometimes I am less certain of the rest of the organization. There are at least five people who listen in on your sleep. I’ll put the mikes back now.”

  When he finally departs, she’s left with an uneasy feeling. It’s not that she thinks she can’t trust him; rather, it’s that she senses an imminent loss of control when he’s around, and that frightens her. There is no way she can do her job and get out of it unhurt if she does not have full control over herself and her feelings. She needs distance from the world in order to function.