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through our trusts every day than he will do in a lifetime of being a monk. Without our work there would be no alms to allow him to live on charity."
I had leveled my old accusations at my father. "At least he has some humanity. You only help people to display your power."
Instead of rage, for the first time fear had colored my father's reply. "You do not understand what you are saying. There is no suffering as harsh as that of the Jain monks. Our ascetics don't believe there is any purpose to endurance. They only endure increasing pain, until they no longer fear it. I do more good than them every day without undergoing their pain."
My wife was standing at the doorway listening with concern to my father's passion.
"Their ways are bleaker than you can possibly imagine. Do you know what it means to be such a monk? Do you know the levels of asceticism he must suffer?"
My father was expressing himself with such urgency I dared not interrupt him. "Do you know how that serene old monk hopes to die? Starving himself to death. He observes respect for life when all the time he is working toward the goal of denying his own life."
He stared at me, waiting for my response, but I could not speak. His anguish had melted the numbness that froze my heart. I was overcome by compassion for him, for myself, for my concerned and curious wife, for the human helplessness that linked us all.
It was my first experience of ahimsa.
In his attempt to frighten me, my father had made me realize that to prevent suffering a man must be capable of suffering, that a man who cannot suffer is not alive.
My father could not understand why I needed to be with the monk more than ever and I could not explain, for the lesson of ahimsa must be learned by the heart, not the mind.
But I knew I could never return to the anesthesia of wealth that had for so long numbed me to the suffering that could make me human.
I told the old monk of the sudden, unexpected compassion that had overwhelmed me at my father's fear. "But it lasted for such a brief time and I have not experienced it again."
"The human heart must conquer many hurdles to recapture that vision until ahimsa can become a way of life."
"I am willing to cross the hurdles."
The old monk had smiled. "Oh, my innocent young friend. Can you overcome your disgust at all the things from which your father's wealth has protected you? Can you beg in the filth of the bazaars? Can you eat what has been discarded? Until you can do these small things you will understand neither the nonviolence of ahimsa nor gain freedom from the world."
    The procession has halted at our gates, and guards are steering the camel carts and mounted riders down a side street. People are running from the house to help my relatives dismount from the elephants.
    As I walk past the milling dancers I can see the women of the house weeping on the balcony—my wife, my mother, my sister-in-law, my cousins. But I know they are reconciled to my departure, their tears are only an overflow from the excitement of the day.
    On the veranda the children are waiting to bid me farewell. They are too young to understand what I am doing, and I do not wish to frighten them so I embrace them as I would have done on any other evening.
    When I reach my chambers the servants help me undress, freeing me of the diamond helmet and the garlands of gems that have suffocated me all day. I enter the silence of my marble bathroom. Standing under the shower I let the cool, clear water wash the caked dust from my body, the chaotic scenes of the procession from my mind. Suddenly I am paralyzed by fear. This is the last time I will embrace my children, or laugh with my brother. The last time I will enjoy the privacy of my bathroom.
    A servant is knocking at the bathroom door. "The barber has arrived. Your father is calling for you."
    I abandon all hope of retreat. The ceremonies of renunciation have progressed too far. I wrap a towel around my waist and come out to join the barber.