The Bhikkhu bowed, and silently handed his dish to the young man, regarding him the while with grave scrutiny. Oman carried the bowl inside, and requested his mother to fill it with whatever was at hand. Kota, decidedly taken aback, complied with the request, albeit it was the first Buddhist bowl ever filled in that Brahman household. Kota prepared a dish for her son at the same time; and Oman carried them both outside. The monk received his with humble thanks; and, squatting on the ground where he was, without prayer or ceremony began his meal. Oman watched him for a moment, and concluded that, since he was already half a day late, another hour would make little difference. So he sat down at some distance from the stranger, and himself began to eat. They finished at the same time, and, rising, faced each other inquiringly. This time it was the monk who spoke.
“For thine alms, I give thee thanks. One favor more I will ask of thee. Tell me in what direction lies the bazaar; for thither I must go to preach Dharma[5] to the people.”
[5] Dharma: Truth, the Word, the Law.
“O Bhikkhu, on my way to work I shall pass through the bazaar. If you will walk with me, I will lead you thither.”
The monk looked astonished at this civility, but agreed at once to the proposal; and, Oman having left his dish on the veranda, they started down the winding street in the direction of the market-place. As they went, they talked, scatteringly, and Oman found himself listening with delight to the low, mellow tones of his companion’s voice. The Bhikkhu’s name, he found, was Hushka. He was now returning from his pilgrimage and on his way to Bágh, where he was to spend the summer months, the Yassa season, in one of the Viharas there.
When they reached the bazaar, they found in it a busy throng of men and women, buying, selling, shouting, laughing, wrangling, gossiping together, each contributing in some way to the general tumult. Oman wondered not a little how his companion was going to obtain hearing here. Hushka, however, appeared as untroubled as if he had mounted a platform before a respectfully attentive multitude; and Oman, interested in the prospect, still lingered, watching his chance acquaintance.
First, the Bhikkhu reminded Oman of his own personal neglect, by going to the fountain in the middle of the square, and carefully washing out his alms-bowl. When it was cleaned and dried, he still stood, resting one hand upon the stone, looking thoughtfully around him. One or two people, passing, caught his eye, and halted, uncertainly. Then three or four middle-aged and old men drew out of the throng and stood still, close at hand. They were those that had a curiosity concerning the dying faith: perhaps even, in their secret hearts, leaned a little toward it; and usually availed themselves of each rare opportunity of listening to the Dharma.
Having now before him the nucleus of an audience, Hushka faced them, his back to the fountain. Absently he stuck his flat bowl into the pouch depending from his leathern girdle, fixing his eyes, the while, upon Oman, who, fascinated by the man’s simplicity, still stood, apart from the others, watching and waiting. And now the Buddhist lifted both hands, clasped them high before him, and repeated, in tones of greatest reverence, the Buddhist profession of faith, with which all mendicant preachers were accustomed to begin their discourse:
“‘Of all things proceeding from cause, their causes hath the Tathagata (Buddha) explained. The great Sramana (Buddha) hath likewise explained the causes of the cessation of existence.’”
At these words, spoken in a low, melodious, monotonous voice, addressed, not to the people, but, apparently, to Heaven, Oman, unconscious of himself, took a step nearer to the speaker. After a slight pause, Hushka, now removing his eyes from Oman’s face and using them at discretion, began his sermon, choosing language that was clear and simple, using figures calculated to appeal to the people, carrying his hearers with him by means of his own personal magnetism, which was never at so high a pitch as when he was engaged in this kind of speaking. Gradually, his audience increased in numbers. The little group of half a dozen became twelve, and then twenty, and then forty, till the clamor in the market-place was strangely diminished, and buyers and sellers alike stood still before the power of this wanderer of alien and dying faith, surnamed, by his brethren of the Vihara, “honey-throated”, and “golden-tongued”.