PART I

PART I

I WAS BORN at nine in the evening on Thursday, the 31st of January, 1907—the second day of the waning moon, the second lunar month, the year of the Horse—in Baan Nawng Sawng Hawng (DoubleMarsh Village), Yaang Yo Phaab township, Muang Saam Sib district, Ubon Ratchathani province. This was a village of about 80 houses, divided into three clusters: the Little Village, the Inner Village, and the Outer Village. In the Outer Village was a temple; that was the village in which I was born. Between the villages were three ponds, and surrounding the villages on all sides were scores of giant rubber trees. To the north were the ruins of an ancient town with two abandoned Buddhist sanctuaries. The spirits there were said to be so fierce that they sometimes possessed people, causing them to go live in the spirit shrines. From the looks of the ruins, I’d say they were built by the Khmers.

My original name was Chaalee. My parents were Pao and Phuay Nariwong; my grandparents on my father’s side were named Janthaari and Sida; and on my mother’s side, Nantasen and Dee. I had five brothers and four sisters. About nine days after I was born, I became such a nuisance—crying all the time—that my father left home for a good while. Three days after my mother left the fire,* I developed a swelling on my head, and couldn’t eat or sleep for several days running. I was an extremely difficult child to raise. Nothing my mother or father could do ever seemed to satisfy me.

My mother died when I was eleven, leaving my father, myself, and a little sister whom I had to care for. My other brothers and sisters by that time had all grown up and gone off to find work, so there were just the three of us at home. Both my sister and I had to help my father in the rice fields.

When I was twelve I started school. I learned enough to read and write, but failed the elementary exams, which didn’t bother me in the least, but I kept on studying anyway. At 17, I left school, my main aim in life being to earn money.

During this period my father and I seemed always to be at odds with each other. He wanted me to start trading in things that seemed wrong to me, like pigs and cattle. Sometimes, when it came time to make merit at the temple, he’d stand in my way and send me out to work in the fields instead. There were days I’d get so upset that I’d end up sitting out alone in the middle of the fields, crying. There was one thought in my mind: I swore to myself that I wasn’t going to stay on in this village—so I would only have to put up with things just a little bit longer.

After a while my father remarried, to a woman named Mae Thip. Life at home became a little more bearable after that.

WHEN I WAS 18, I set out to find my elder brother, who had found work in Nong Saeng, Saraburi province. News had reached home that he had a salaried job with the Irrigation Department, which was in the process of building a watergate. So in October of that year I moved in with my brother. Before long, though, we had a falling out, because I happened to mention one day that he ought to make a visit back home. He was dead set against going, so I left on my own, heading south, looking for work. At the time, I felt that money ranked in importance next to life itself. Although physically I had now come of age, I still thought of myself as a child. When friends would ask me to join them in going out to look for women, I wouldn’t be the least bit interested, because I felt that marriage was for grown-ups, not for kids like us.

From what I had seen of life, I had made two resolutions that I kept to myself:

I was determined that I’d have both the money and the ability to support at least three other people before I’d be willing to get involved with a woman.

But there was yet another reason for my aversion to the idea of marriage. During my childhood, at the age when I was just beginning to know what was what, if I saw a woman pregnant to the point where she was close to giving birth, it would fill me with feelings of fear and disgust. This was because the custom in those parts when a woman was going to give birth was to take a rope and tie one end to a rafter. The woman, kneeling down, would hang on to the other end of the rope and give birth. Some women would scream and moan, their faces and bodies all twisted in pain. Whenever I happened to see this, I’d have to run away with my hands over my ears and eyes, and I wouldn’t be able to sleep, out of both fear and disgust. This made a deep impression on me that lasted for a long time.

When I was around 19 or 20, I began to have some notion of good and evil, but it wasn’t in me to do evil. Up to that point I had never killed a large animal, except one—a dog. And I can remember how it happened. One day when I was eating, I took an egg and put it in the ashes of the fire. The dog came along, found the egg and ate it—so I jumped up, grabbed a club, and beat it to death on the spot. Immediately, I was sorry for what I had done. ‘How on earth can I make up for this sin?’ I thought. So I found an old book with a chant for sharing merit that I memorized. I then went and worshiped the Buddha, dedicating the merit to the dead dog. This made me feel better, but my whole train of thought at that time was that I wanted to be ordained.

In 1925, when I was 20, my stepmother died. At the time, I was living with relatives in Bang Len district, Nakhorn Pathom province, so toward the end of February I returned home to my father and asked him to sponsor my ordination. I arrived with about 160 baht in my pockets. Soon after my arrival my elder brothers, sisters, brothers-in-law, etc., flocked around to see me—and to borrow money: to buy water buffaloes, to buy land, to use in trading. I gave them all they asked for, because I was planning to be ordained. So in the end, out of my original 160 baht, I was left with 40.

When ordination season arrived, my father made all the necessary arrangements. I was ordained on the full moon day of the sixth lunar month—Visakha Puja. Altogether, there were nine of us ordained that day. Of this number, some have since died, some have disrobed, leaving only two of us still in the monkhood—myself and a friend.

After my ordination I memorized chants and studied the Dhamma and monastic discipline. Comparing what I was studying with the life I and the monks around me were leading made me feel ill at ease, because instead of observing the duties of the contemplative life, we were out to have a good time: playing chess, wrestling, playing match games with girls whenever there was a wake, raising birds, holding cock fights, sometimes even eating food in the evenings.* Speaking of food in the evenings, even I, living in this sort of society, joined in—as far as I can remember—three times:

1) One day I felt hungry, so in the middle of the night I got hold of the rice placed as an offering on the altar and ate it.

2) Another time I was invited to help deliver the Mahachaad sermon* at Wat Noan Daeng in Phai Yai (BigBamboo) township. It so happened that my turn to read the sermon came at 11 a.m. By the time I had finished, it was after noon, so it was too late to eat. On the way home I was accompanied by a temple boy carrying some rice and grilled fish in his shoulder bag. A little after 1 p.m., feeling really tired and hungry, I told the boy to show me what was in his bag. Seeing the food, I couldn’t resist sitting right down and finishing it off under the shade of a tree. I then returned home to the temple.

3) One day I went into the forest to help drag wood back to the temple for building a meeting hall. That night I felt hungry, so I had a meal.

I wasn’t the only person doing this sort of thing. My friends were doing it all the time, but were always careful to cover it up.

During this period the thing I hated most was to be invited to chant at a funeral. When I was younger I would never eat in a house where a person had just died. Even if someone living in the same house with me went to help with a funeral, I’d keep an eye out, after he returned, to see from which basket he’d eat rice and from which dipper he’d drink water. I wouldn’t say anything, but I’d be careful not to eat from that basket or drink from that dipper. Even after I was ordained, this habit stayed with me. I was 19 before I ever set foot in a cemetery. Even when relatives died—even when my own mother died—I’d refuse to go to the cremation.

One day, after having been ordained a fair while, I heard people crying and moaning in the village: Someone had died. Before long I caught sight of a man carrying a bowl of flowers, incense, and candles, coming to the temple to invite monks to chant at the dead person’s place. As soon as he entered the abbot’s quarters, I ran off in the opposite direction, followed by some of the newly ordained monks. When we reached the mango grove, we split up and climbed the trees—and there we sat, perched one to a tree, absolutely still. It wasn’t long before the abbot went looking for us, but he couldn’t find us. I could hear him losing his temper in his quarters. There was one thing I was afraid of, though: the slingshot he kept to chase bats from the trees. In the end, he had a novice come look for us, and when the novice found us, we all had to come down.

THIS IS THE WAY things went for two years. Whenever I looked into the books on monastic discipline, I’d start feeling really uneasy. I told myself, ‘If you don’t want to leave the monkhood, you’re going to have to leave this temple.’ At the beginning of my second rains retreat, I made a vow: ‘At present I still sincerely want to practice the Buddha’s teachings. Within the next three months, may I meet a teacher who practices them truly and rightly.’

In the beginning of November I went to help preach the Mahachaad sermon at Wat Baan Noan Rang Yai in Yaang Yo Phaab township. When I arrived, a meditation monk happened to be on the sermon seat. I was really taken by the way he spoke, so I asked some laypeople who he was and where he came from. They told me, ‘That’s Ajaan Bot, a student of Ajaan Mun.’ He was staying about a kilometer from the village, in a forest of giant rubber trees, so at the end of the Mahachaad fair I went to see him. What I saw—his way of life, the manner in which he conducted himself—really pleased me. I asked him who his teachers were, and he answered, ‘Phra Ajaan Mun and Phra Ajaan Sao. At the moment, Ajaan Mun has come down from Sakon Nakhorn and is staying at Wat Burapha in the city of Ubon.’

Learning this, I hurried home to my temple, thinking all the way, ‘This must be what I’ve been waiting for.’ A few days later I went to take leave of my father and preceptor. At first they did all they could to dissuade me from going, but as I told my father, I had already made up my mind. ‘I have to leave this village,’ I told him. ‘Whether I leave as a monk or a layman, I’ve still got to leave. My father and preceptor have no rights over me. The minute they start infringing on my rights is the minute I get up and go.’

And in the end they let me go.

So at one in the afternoon, on a day in early December, I set out, carrying my necessary belongings, alone. My father accompanied me as far as the middle of a field. There, when we had said our goodbyes, we parted ways.

That day I walked, passing the town of Muang Saam Sib, all the way to Ubon. On my arrival, I was told that Ajaan Mun was staying at the village of Kut Laad, a little over ten kilometers outside the city. Again, I set out on foot to find him. It so happened that Phra Barikhut, a former District Official in Muang Saam Sib who had been dismissed from government service and was moving his family, drove past me in his truck. Seeing me walking alone on the side of the road, he stopped and offered me a ride all the way to the Ubon airport, the turn-off to Kut Laad. Even today I think of how kind he was to me, a total stranger.

At about five in the evening I reached the forest monastery at Kut Laad, where I learned that Ajaan Mun had just returned to Wat Burapha. So the next morning, after breakfast, I walked back to Ubon. There I paid my respects to Ajaan Mun and told him my purpose in seeking him out. The advice and assistance he gave me were just what I was looking for. He taught me a single word—buddho—to meditate on. It so happened that he was ill at the time, so he sent me to Baan Thaa Wang Hin (StonePalace Landing), a very quiet and secluded area where Phra Ajaan Singh and Phra MahaPin were staying along with about 40 other monks and novices. While there, I went to listen to their sermons every night, which gave rise to two feelings within me: When I thought of my past, I’d feel ill at ease; when I thought of the new things I was learning and experiencing, I’d feel at peace. These two feelings were always with me.

I became friends with two other monks with whom I stayed, ate, meditated, and discussed my experiences: Ajaan Kongma and Ajaan Saam. I kept at my meditation all hours of the day and night. After a while I talked Ajaan Kongma into going off and wandering together. We went from village to village, staying in the ancestral shrines, until we reached my home village. I wanted to let my father know the good news: that I had met Ajaan Mun, that this was the life I was looking for, and that I had no intention of ever returning to live out my life there at home. I had once told myself, ‘You’ve been born a person: You’ll have to work your way up to be better than other people. You’ve been ordained a monk: You’ll have to try to be better than the monks you’ve known.’ Now it seemed that my hopes were being fulfilled. This is why I went home to tell my father: ‘I’ve come to say goodbye. I’m going for good. All my belongings I’m handing over to you. And I’m never going to lay claims on anything of yours.’ Although I hadn’t made a firm decision never to disrobe, I had decided never to let myself be poor.

As soon as my aunt heard the news, she came to argue with me: ‘Don’t you think you’re going a little too far?’ So I answered her, ‘Look, if I ever disrobe and come back to beg food from you, you have my permission to call me a dog.’

Now that I had made a firm decision, I told my father, ‘Don’t worry about me. Whether I stay a monk or disrobe, I’ll always be satisfied with the treasures you’ve already given me: two eyes, two ears, a nose, a mouth, all the 32 parts of the body. It’s an important inheritance. Nothing else you could give me could ever leave me satisfied.’

After that, I said goodbye and set out for the city of Ubon. Reaching Wang Tham (CavePalace) Village, though, I found Ajaan Mun staying in the forest there, so I joined him, staying under his guidance for quite a few days.

This was when I decided to re-ordain, this time in the Dhammayutika sect (the sect to which Ajaan Mun belonged), in order to make a clean break with my past wrongdoings. When I consulted Ajaan Mun, he agreed to the idea, and so had me practice my part in the ordination ceremony. When I had it down pat, he set out—with me following—wandering from district to district.

I became extremely devoted to Ajaan Mun, because there were many things about him that had me amazed. For instance, there were times when I would have been thinking about something, without ever mentioning it to him, and yet he’d bring up the topic and seem to know exactly what my thoughts had been. Each time this happened, my respect and devotion toward him deepened. I practiced meditation constantly, free from many of the worries that had plagued me in the past.

After I had stayed under Ajaan Mun’s guidance for four months, he set the date for my reordination at Wat Burapha in the city of Ubon, with Phra Paññabhisara Thera (Nuu) of Wat Sra Pathum (LotusPond Temple), Bangkok, as my preceptor; Phra Ajaan Pheng of Wat Tai, Ubon, as the Announcing Teacher; and Ajaan Mun himself as the Instructing Teacher, who gave me the preliminary ordination as a novice. I was reordained on May 27, 1927, and the following day began to observe strictly the ascetic practice of eating only one meal a day. After spending one night at Wat Burapha, I returned to the forest at StonePalace Landing.

When Ajaan Mun and Phra Paññabhisara Thera returned to Bangkok to spend the Rains Retreat at Wat Sra Pathum, they left me under the guidance of Ajaan Singh and Ajaan MahaPin. During this period I followed Ajaan Singh and Ajaan MahaPin on their wanderings through the countryside. They had been asked by Phraya Trang, the Prince of Ubon, to teach morality and meditation to the people of the rural areas. When the time came to enter the Rains Retreat, we stopped at OxHead Village Monastery in Yasothon district. It so happened that Somdet Phra Mahawirawong, the ecclesiastical head of the Northeast, called Ajaan MahaPin back to the city of Ubon, so in the end only six of us spent the rainy season together in that township.

I was very ardent in my efforts to practice meditation that rainy season, but there were times I couldn’t help feeling a little discouraged because all my teachers had left me. Occasionally I’d think of disrobing, but whenever I felt this way there’d always be something to bring me back to my senses.

One day, for instance, at about five in the evening, I was doing walking meditation, but my thoughts had strayed toward worldly matters. A woman happened to walk past the monastery, improvising a song—’I’ve seen the heart of the tyd tyy bird: It’s mouth is singing, tyd tyy, tyd tyy, but its heart is out looking for crabs’—so I memorized her song and repeated it over and over, telling myself, ‘It’s you she’s singing about. Here you are, a monk, trying to develop some virtue inside yourself, and yet you let your heart go looking for worldly matters.’ I felt ashamed of myself. I decided that I’d have to bring my heart in line with the fact that I was a monk if I didn’t want the woman’s song to apply to me. The whole incident thus turned into Dhamma.

A number of other events also helped to keep me alert. One night when the moon was bright, I made an agreement with one of the other monks that we’d go without sleep and do sitting and walking meditation. (That rainy season there were six of us altogether, five monks and one novice. I had made a resolution that I’d have to do better than all the rest of them. For instance, if any of them were able to get by on only ten mouthfuls of food a day, I’d have to get by on eight. If any of them could sit in meditation for three hours straight, I’d have to sit for five. If any of them could do walking meditation for an hour, I’d have to walk for two. I felt this way about everything we did, and yet it seemed that I was able to live up to my resolution. This was a secret I kept to myself.)

At any rate, that night I told my friend, ‘Let’s see who’s better at doing sitting and walking meditation.’ So we agreed, ‘When I do walking meditation, you do sitting meditation; and when I do sitting meditation, you do walking meditation. Let’s see who can last longer.’ When it came my turn to do walking meditation, my friend went to sit in a hut next to the path where I was walking. Not too long afterwards, I heard a loud thud coming from inside the hut, so I stopped to open the window and peek in. Sure enough, there he was, lying on his back with his folded legs sticking up in the air. He had been sitting in full lotus position, gotten sleepy, and had simply fallen backwards and gone to sleep. I was practically dropping off to sleep myself, but had kept going out of the simple desire to win. I felt embarrassed for my friend’s sake—’I’d hate to be in his place,’ I thought—but at the same time was pleased I had won.

All of these things served to teach me a lesson: ‘This is what happens to people who aren’t true in what they do.’

At the end of the rains, the group split up, each of us going off to wander alone, staying in cemeteries. During this period it seemed that my meditation was going very well. My mind could settle down to a very refined level, and one very strange thing that had never happened before was beginning to happen: When my mind was really good and quiet, knowledge would suddenly come to me. For example, even though I had never studied Pali, I could now translate most of the chants I had memorized: most of the Buddha-guna, for instance, the Cula Paritta, and the Abhidhamma Sankhepa. It seemed that I was becoming fairly expert in the Dhamma. If there was anything I wanted to know, all I had to do was make my mind very still, and the knowledge would come to me without my having to think over the matter. When this happened, I went to consult Ajaan Kongma. He explained to me, ‘The Buddha never studied how to write books or give sermons from anyone else. He first practiced meditation and the knowledge arose within his heart. Only then did he teach the Dhamma that has been copied down in the scriptures. So the way you’ve come to know within yourself like this isn’t wrong.’ Hearing this, I felt extremely pleased.

At the end of the rains, I thought of going to see my father again, because I felt that there was still a lot of unfinished business at home. Setting out on foot, I reached Baan Noan Daeng (RedHill Village), where I stayed at the ancestral spirit shrine. When the village people found me alone in the forest there, they sent word to my father. Early the next morning he came to see me, having set out from home in the middle of the night. He had prepared food for me, as best he knew how, but I couldn’t eat it, not even to please him. I was sorry I couldn’t, but I was now following the monastic discipline strictly—and it’s a matter that should be followed strictly: the rule against eating flesh from an animal killed specifically for the sake of feeding a monk. Afterwards, whenever I thought about it, I’d start feeling so sorry for my father that tears would come to my eyes. When he saw that his son the monk wouldn’t eat the food he had prepared, he took it off and ate it himself.

When he had finished, I followed him back to my home village, where this time I stayed first in the cemetery, and then later in another spot in the forest where the spirits were said to be very fierce. I stayed there for weeks, delivering sermons to people who came from many of the surrounding villages, and I did away with a lot of their mistaken beliefs and practices: belief in sorcery, the worship of demons and spirits, and the use of various spells that Buddhism calls ‘bestial knowledge.’ I helped wipe out a good number of the fears my friends and relatives in the village had concerning the spirits in the ruins near the village and the spirits in the spot where I was staying. We exorcised them by reciting Buddhist chants and spreading thoughts of good will throughout the area. During the day, we’d burn the ritual objects used for worshiping spirits. Some days there’d be nothing but smoke the whole day long. I taught the people in the village to take refuge in the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha, to recite Buddhist chants and to meditate, instead of getting involved with spirits and demons.

There was another practice I had seen a lot of in the past that struck me as pointless, and so we figured out a way to wipe it out: the belief that the ancestral spirits in the village had to eat animal flesh every year. Once a year, when the season came around, each household would have to sacrifice a chicken, a duck, or a pig. Altogether this meant that in one year hundreds of living creatures had to die for the sake of the spirits, because there would also be times when people would make sacrifices to cure an illness in the family. All of this struck me as a senseless waste. If the spirits really did exist, that’s not the sort of food they would eat. It would be far better to make merit and dedicate it to the spirits. If they didn’t accept that, then drive them away with the authority of the Dhamma.

So I ordered the people to burn all the ancestral shrines. When some of the villagers began to lose nerve for fear that there would be nothing to protect them in the future, I wrote down the chant for spreading good will, and gave a copy to everyone in the village, guaranteeing that nothing would happen. I’ve since learned that all of the area around the ancestral shrines is now planted with crops, and that the spot in the forest where the spirits were said to be fierce is now a new village.

As I stayed there for quite a while, teaching the people in the village, word began to spread. Some people became jealous and tried in various ways to drive me away. One day three of the leading monks in the area were invited to give a sermon debate. I was invited as the fourth. The three monks were: Phra Khru Vacisunthorn, the ecclesiastical head of Muang Saam Sib district; Preceptor Lui, the ecclesiastical head of Amnaad Jaroen district; Ajaan Waw, who had knowledge of Pali. And then there was me. The night before the debate, I told myself, ‘It’s going to be a knockdown, drag-out battle tomorrow. Whoever takes you on, and however they do it, don’t let yourself be fazed in the least.’ A lot of people went to hear the debate, but in the end it all passed peacefully without any incident.

Still, there were a number of monks and laypeople in the area who, thinking I was nothing but a braggart, kept trying to create trouble and misunderstandings between other monks and me. One day Nai Chai, claiming to represent the householders in Yaang Yo Phaab township, went to the offices of the District Official and denounced me as a vagrant. This simply increased my determination to stay. ‘I haven’t done anything evil or wrong since coming here. No matter how they come at me, I’m going to stick it out to the very end.’ The outcome of it all was that the District Education Officer had no authority to drive me out of the village. I told the people that if there was any more of this sort of business, I wouldn’t leave until my name had been cleared.

One day the District Official himself came out to check up on some government business, and spent the night in the village. The village headman, a relative of mine, told him about all that had been happening. The District Official’s response was this: ‘It’s a rare monk who will teach the laypeople like this. Let him stay as long as he likes.’ From that point on, there were no more incidents.

AFTER A WHILE, I took leave of my relatives and set out for Yasothon. There I met Ajaan Singh with a following of 80 monks and novices staying in the Yasothon cemetery, the spot where the jail is now standing. Soon afterwards a letter came from Phra Phisanasarakhun, the ecclesiastical head of Khon Kaen province at Wat Srijan (SplendorousMoon Temple), inviting Ajaan Singh to Khon Kaen. So the citizens of Yasothon—headed by Ajaan Rin, Ajaan Daeng, and Ajaan Ontaa—rented two buses, and we all set out for Khon Kaen. Ajaan Bot, the first meditation monk I had met, went along as well. The first night we spent in Roi Et; and the second at Ancestor Hill in Maha Sarakham, a spot where the local people said the spirits were fierce. Crowds of people came to listen to Ajaan Singh’s sermons.

I began to realize that I wasn’t going to find any peace and quiet in these circumstances, so I took my leave of Ajaan Singh and, accompanied by a novice, went to visit my relatives—Khun MahaWichai, an uncle on my mother’s side of the family—in Nam Phong district. When I arrived there I found a number of families in the area related to me. They were all glad to see me and gathered around to ask news of the folks back home. They fixed up a place in a forest of giant trees on the bank of the Nam Phong River, and there I stayed for quite a few days. The novice who had come with me took his leave to visit his relatives back home in Sakon Nakhorn, so I stayed on alone in the forest, which was full of nothing but monkeys.

After a while I began to develop a persistent headache and earache. I told my Aunt Ngoen about this, and she sent me to see a nephew of hers, a policeman in Phon district. He in turn had a driver take me to Nakhorn Ratchasima, were I stayed at Wat Sakae. I spent three days looking for my relatives there, but couldn’t find them. The reason I wanted to find my relatives was that I had my heart set on going to Bangkok to take care of my illness and to find Ajaan Mun. Finally a rickshaw driver took me to the government housing settlement for railway officials, where I met my cousin, Mae Wandee, the wife of Khun Kai. Everyone seemed glad to see me and asked me to stay on to spend the Rains Retreat there in Nakhorn Ratchasima. I didn’t accept their invitation, though, because as I told them, I was set on going to Bangkok. So my cousin bought me a train ticket to HuaLamphong Station in Bangkok.

As the train passed through the Phaya Yen Jungle and burst out into the open fields of Saraburi, I thought of my elder brother who had a family at the Nawng Taa Lo watergate, the one I had visited back when I was still a layman. So when we stopped at Baan Phachi junction, I got off and walked all the way to my brother’s house. On arriving, though, I learned that he had taken his family and moved to Nakhorn Sawan province. The only people left that I knew in the village were some friends and older people. I stayed there until the end of May, when I told my friends of my plans to go to Bangkok. They bought me a ticket and accompanied me to the station. I took the train all the way to Bangkok and got off when it arrived at HuaLampong Station.

Never before in my life had I ever been to Bangkok. I had no idea of how to find my way to Wat Sra Pathum, so I called a rickshaw driver and asked him, ‘How much will you charge to take me to Wat Sra Pathum?’

‘Fifty satang.’

‘Fifty satang? Why so much? Wat Sra Pathum is practically just around the corner!’

So in the end he took me for fifteen satang.

When I reached Wat Sra Pathum, I paid my respects to my preceptor, who told me that Chao Khun Upali had invited Ajaan Mun to spend the rains in Chieng Mai. So as it turned out, I spent the rains that year at Wat Sra Pathum.

My quarters were quite a ways away from my preceptor’s. I made a resolution that Rains Retreat to practice mediation as I always had, and at the same time not to neglect any of my duties in the temple or, unless it was really unavoidable, any of the services a new monk is supposed to perform for his preceptor.

I was very strict in practicing meditation that year, keeping to myself most of the time, my one thought being to maintain stillness of mind. I took part in the morning and evening chanting services, and attended to my preceptor every morning and late afternoon. I had noticed that the way he was living left a large opening for me to attend to him in a way that appealed to me—no one was looking after his bedding, cleaning his spittoons, arranging his betel nut, keeping his mats and sitting cloths in order: This was my opening.

So from that point on I observed my duties toward my preceptor as best I could. After a while I felt that I was serving him to his satisfaction and had found a place in his affections. At the end of the rains he asked me to take on the responsibility of living in and watching over the temple storehouse, the Green Hall, where he took his meals. Although I had set my mind on treating him as a father, I had never dreamed that being loyal and good could have dangers like this.

So at the beginning of the hot season, I took leave of my preceptor to go out and find some seclusion in the forest. I left Bangkok, passing through Ayutthaya, Saraburi, Lopburi, Takhli, Phukhao, Phukhaa, all the way to Nakhorn Sawan where, passing through Thaa Tako district and around Boraphet Lake, I reached my brother’s place. There I met not only my brother, but also many old friends from the days back when I was still a layman.

During my stay in Nakhorn Sawan, I lived in a forest about half a kilometer from the village. One day I heard the calls of two elephants fighting, one a wild elephant and the other a domesticated elephant in rut. They battled for three days running until the wild elephant could no longer put up a fight and died. With that, the elephant in rut went insane, running wild through the forest where I was staying, chasing people and goring them with his tusks. The owner of the elephant—Khun Jop—and other people in the area came to invite me to take shelter in the village, but I wouldn’t go. Even though I was somewhat afraid, I decided to depend on my powers of endurance and my belief in the power of good will.

Then one day, at about four in the afternoon, the elephant came running to the clearing where I was staying and came to a stop about 40 meters from my hut. At the time, I was sitting in the hut, meditating. Hearing his calls, I stuck my head out and saw him standing there in a frightening stance with his ears back and his tusks gleaming white. The thought occurred to me: ‘If he comes running this way, he’ll be on me in less than three minutes.’ And with that, I lost my nerve. I jumped out of the hut and ran for a large tree about six meters away. But just as I reached it and had taken my first step up the trunk, a sound like a person whispering came to my ears: ‘You’re not for real. You’re afraid to die. Whoever’s afraid to die will have to die again.’ Hearing this, I let go of the tree and hurried back to the hut. I got into a half-lotus position and, with my eyes open, sat facing the elephant and meditating, spreading thoughts of good will.

While all this was happening, I could hear the villagers crying and yelling to one another: ‘That monk (meaning me) is really in a fix. Isn’t anybody going to help him?’ But that was all they did, cry and yell. No one—not even a single person—had the courage to come anywhere near me.

I sat there for about ten minutes, radiating thoughts of good will. Finally the elephant flapped its ears up and down a few times, turned around, and walked back into the forest. A few moments later I got up from where I was sitting and walked out of the forest into the open rice fields. Khun Jop and the others came thronging around me, amazed that I had come through without mishap.

The next day, crowds of people from all over the area came to see me and to ask for ‘good things’: amulets. The word was that because the elephant had been afraid to come near me, I was sure to have some good strong amulets. Seeing all the commotion, I decided to cut short my stay, so a few days later I said goodbye to my relatives and headed back to Bangkok.

I reached Wat Sra Pathum in the month of May. During this, my second Rains Retreat there, my preceptor had me take over the temple accounts from Phra Baitika Bunrawd. At the same time, my companions talked me into studying for the Third Level Dhamma exams. This meant that I had a lot of added burdens. Not only was there my preceptor to attend to, but also the temple accounts and inventories to keep. On top of that, I had to study Dhamma textbooks and keep up my meditation. With all these added responsibilities, my state of mind began to grow a bit slack. This can be gauged by the fact that the first year, when any of the other young monks came to talk to me about worldly matters—women and wealth—I really hated it, but the second year I began to like it. My third year at Wat Sra Pathum I began to study Pali grammar, after having passed the Third Level Dhamma exams in 1929. My responsibilities had become heavier—and I was getting pretty active at discussing worldly matters. But when my way of life began to reach this point, there were a number of events, both inside and outside the temple, that helped bring me to my senses.

One day, toward the end of the second Rains Retreat, I discovered that more than 900 baht had disappeared from the temple accounts. For days I checked over the books but couldn’t find where it had gone. Normally I made a practice of reporting to my preceptor on the first of each month, but when the first of the month came around this time, I didn’t go to see him. I questioned everyone who worked with me, but they all denied having any knowledge of the missing funds. Finally another possibility occurred to me: Nai Bun, a student who attended to my preceptor. Some mornings he would ask for the key to the Green Hall to keep while I went out on my alms round. So I asked Phra Baitika Bunrawd to question Nai Bun, who finally admitted to having stolen the money while I was out.

The whole affair was my preceptor’s fault. One morning he had been invited to accept some donations on the day following a cremation at the house of a nobleman, but his ceremonial fan and shoulder bag were kept in my room, and because I had gone out for alms and taken the key with me, he couldn’t get to them. So from then on he told me to leave the key with Nai Bun every morning before going out for alms, and this was how the money had disappeared. I was lucky that Nai Bun had admitted his guilt. I went back to check the books carefully and discovered that, of the missing funds, more than 700 baht had come from the temple funds, and the remainder from my preceptor’s personal funds.

So on October 5th, now that everything was in order, I went to tell my closest friends, Phra Baitika Bunrawd and Phra Chyam, ‘I’m going to make a report to the abbot at five o’clock today.’

‘Don’t,’ Phra Chyam said. ‘I’ll make up for the missing money myself.’

I appreciated his offer but didn’t think it was a good idea. It would be better to be open and aboveboard about the whole affair. Otherwise the boy would start developing bad habits.

My preceptor had gotten cross with both of my friends over the temple books many times before, so when the time came for me to make my report, they went to hide in their quarters, shutting their doors tight, leaving me to face my preceptor alone. Before I made my report, I went to the Green Hall, swept and scrubbed the floor, prepared the betel nut, spread out a sitting mat for my preceptor, and then sat there waiting for him. A little after four o’clock, he left the large new set of quarters built for him by Lady Talap, wife of Chao Phraya Yomaraj, and came to sit in the Green Hall. When he had finished his tea and betel nut, I approached him to make my report about the missing funds. Before I had even finished my first sentence, he got cross. ‘Why have you waited till the fifth this month to make your report? Usually you make it on the first.’

‘The reason I didn’t come on the first,’ I answered, ‘was because I had some doubts about the accounts and the people involved. But now I’m sure that the money is really missing—and I’ve found the guilty party.’

‘Who?’ he asked.

‘Nai Bun,’ I answered. ‘He’s already confessed.’

‘Bring him here,’ he ordered, and then added, ‘This is embarrassing. Don’t let word of this get out.’

So Phra Baitika Bunrawd fetched Nai Bun, who admitted his guilt to my preceptor. The final outcome was that Nai Bun had to make up for the missing funds.

Now that this was all taken care of, I asked to resign my position so that I could go off to the forest to meditate. Before the affair had been settled, there had been one night when I couldn’t get any sleep all night long. All I could think of was that I would have to disrobe and get a job to make up for the missing funds. At the same time, I didn’t want to disrobe. These two thoughts fought back and forth in my mind until dawn. But when I broached the idea of resigning with my preceptor, he wouldn’t let me go.

‘I’m an old man now,’ he said, ‘and aside from you there’s no one I can trust to look after things for me. You’ll have to stay here for the time being.’

So I had to stick it out for another year.

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 deva-sons or deva-daughters 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.

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 because 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 layperson 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 grown-ups.

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 at large 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, toward 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. Because 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.

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.

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, toward 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 layman—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 requisites 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.