A River Sutra Read Online Free PDF

Seven monks are sitting cross-legged in a row outside the room.
    I place my head before the barber and he starts cutting my thick hair. As the wet locks fall on the floor around me, the monks recite the afflictions I will endure when I become a member of their brotherhood.
    "You will be a social outcast.
"You will be insulted.
"You will be hounded."
My father is weeping and I can hear my brother
coughing, trying to restrain his emotion as the barber shaves my scalp.
    "You will depend on strangers for your most basic needs.
"They will despise your weakness that imposes on their charity.
"You will be heartsick."
The barber finishes shaving my head, and I put my hand up to make sure he has left the five hairs intact that I will require at the diksha ceremony.
"You will experience cold.
"Hunger.
"Heat.
"Thirst.
"Sickness."
The bare skin of my scalp feels strange under my hand. I can feel it prickling in fear as the monks recite their litany of afflictions, preparing me for the future. I look at my father but he averts his eyes. Neither he nor I can any longer avoid the reality of my renunciation, and I cannot tell him now that I should have heeded his warnings.
"You will suffer pain from constant walking.
"You will suffer loneliness.
"You will grieve for your children.
"You will be deprived of the ministrations of any woman lest she arouse your desire."
My father's personality seems to undergo a change as he listens to the chanting. After the excesses of the procession he is subdued, sitting with me all night but at a distance, as if already awed by my new role and the relentless reminders of the masked monks in the darkness outside my chambers.
He leaves me only when he has to return to the stadium to preside over the feast he has organized for the massive congregation.
Now the monks hand me a muslin mask to tie over my mouth. They give me the three pieces of cloth that will be my only garments from today, and I go into the bathroom to change. In the mirror I examine my reflection for the last time. Seeing the five hairs hanging from my shaved scalp, I know I do not have the strength to endure the deprivations of my new life. For a long time I stand there, my forehead pressed against the marble walls of the bathroom.
When I finally come out the old monk gives me a stick tied with woolen tufts to clear my path and a wooden begging bowl, and we climb into the cars waiting to take us to the stadium.
At the gate the monks leave me. Still chanting, they file toward the podium where only twentyfour hours ago I commenced my departure from my father's world.
My father comes to fetch me. Seeing me in the garments of a mendicant, he weeps again, but I can offer him no consolation. I touch his feet as a son for the last time and enter the stadium.
The crowds are silent, watching my approach. I cannot believe it is the same place or that these are the same people from yesterday. There is an atmosphere of tense expectation as I walk around the stadium. It takes me a long time, and I can hear the sound of my bare feet on the baked mud of the field as the crowds fold their hands to me in hushed respect.
At last I climb the podium steps to join the chanting monks. Suddenly the stadium explodes in applause. People are on their feet, clapping and shouting encouragement. For half an hour I stand before them their cheers pounding in my ears. Once more I descend to circle the field, seeking again the blessings of these thousands of spectators to my act of renunciation.
They are still cheering when I return to the podium. Now the monks take my staff and begging bowl. I raise my hands to my shaved head. A silence descends on the stadium as I prepare to imitate Mahavira's last gesture against vanity.
One by one I pull out the long hairs left by the barber, gritting my teeth against the pain. I can feel the blood trickling down my scalp. Each time I wrench my hand away from my scalp, the crowd screams as if sharing my agony.
The monks enclose me in a