“It is, this year, Mahapra’s lot to assign the cells,” he explained to Oman. And, leaving the young man where he was, Hushka himself plunged into the crowd.
So long a time elapsed before he emerged, that Oman, tired and bewildered by so much that was new, squatted down on the floor, to the left of the entrance, to wait. Finally Hushka returned to him, a look of satisfaction on his face; and, signing Oman to follow, walked rapidly across the hall, through a small door at the end into the cloister, across this open space, and finally down a narrow passage that ended in another open square surrounded by small doors. Here Hushka stopped, looking round him till he found a door inscribed with a certain letter. This he threw open.
“Behold, Oman,” said he, “here is your home. This is the square of novices, and I have got you a cell with an outer window. It will be well that you should remain here for a time. The Vihara will be all confusion to-day. But, if you come forth, do not forget the letter of your door.”
Then, without further ado, Hushka turned and hurried away, having himself much to accomplish before nightfall. Oman, peremptorily left alone, looked around him, at his new abiding-place. The room was extremely small, considering the size of the Vihara. Opposite the door was a small window, with a straw shade rolled up from it and bound round with a string. From the window could be seen a strip of hillside, where the light of noon glared over shadowless gray earth, dotted here and there with clumps of stunted bushes. This, with a bit of deep blue sky, was his view. The furniture of the room consisted of a straw bed with a sleeping-mat, an earthen water-jug, another jar, and, under the window, on a low, stone platform a foot square, a small bronze image of the Buddha. The stone walls of the cell were nearly covered with carvings and bright-colored frescoes, which, crude as they were, gave the room an air of comfort and furnishing.
Oman, accustomed to absolute simplicity, looked around him highly satisfied with his dwelling-place. He was not, however, so well pleased at the prospect of spending the whole afternoon without food; for his breakfast had been scanty, and the morning long. Nevertheless, Hushka had bidden him remain here, and Hushka’s slightest wish was law. So, calling up some of the Vedic fortitude of his childhood’s fasts, he remained for an hour or more gazing out of the window, considering some of the features of the new life; and then, since there seemed nothing better to do, let down the curtain over his window, threw himself upon his bed, and, in a few moments, had lost himself in sleep.
The first week of the Vassa life passed without order, in a jumbling way. Then, suddenly, as if by magic, everything changed, and existence ran as if by clockwork. Without knowing how it had all come about, the novices found their studies begun, and perceived that they were living under stringent laws. Only Oman, among the twenty youths that had received the Pabbagga ordination, found nothing to chafe him in the rules of the day, which were enforced with a rigor that defied disobedience. It was a long time, indeed, before the young Brahman, occupied with the unusual joys of companionship and congenial work, awoke to the fact of how much was being accomplished by himself and by those around him.
At dawn—which was early enough at this time of year—the whole Vihara was roused by the clanging of a bell, which rang till the most persistent sleeper could no longer retain his drowsiness. Then monks and novices alike made the prescribed ablutions and put on the outer robe. After this came half an hour of meditation, each one sitting alone in his open cell, while masters of the day passed through the corridors at irregular intervals to make sure that meditation did not lapse into sleep. This over, the whole company repaired to the Uposatha hall, and, seating themselves on the floor in orderly rows, repeated in concert the creed and prayers for the day. Now came a scramble to the refectory, where a meal was served:—a meal such as could scarcely have been duplicated in any Rajah’s palace. For if the Bhikkhus were accustomed to begin the Vassa with yellow robes hanging on their emaciated frames, they were sure of setting forth on their pilgrimage in October well fortified for the rigors of the fasting season.
The morning meal at an end, monks and novices separated, and the succeeding hours were occupied with varying tasks. The novices repaired to the smaller audience hall, where they were taken in charge by one of the four masters. Squatting in an orderly row on the floor, they listened in decorous silence to the reading of passages of the law, and then to a long lecture expounding all that had been read, with paraphrases by certain of the more notable commentators. This ordinarily occupied from two to three hours, after which followed lessons in the Dharma, the novices themselves being called upon to interpret chapters previously learned by rote. Then came a period of silent contemplation of the longed-for state: the cessation of desire and the extinction of feeling. This over, the second meal was served, and after it came relaxation, the novices being allowed to watch the distribution of the remains of the meal among the poor of the village who, at this hour, came crowding to the Vihara gates. This was the one period of unrestrained liberty in the day; and novices were permitted to indulge themselves in games and amusements forbidden to the doubly ordained.
By three o’clock this was over; and the two following hours were spent in the library, in the perusal of sacred manuscripts, of which the Vihara of Truth owned a large number. Of all the day’s occupations this was, to Oman, the most deeply engrossing. He had a great advantage over most of his companions, in being able to read easily both in Sanscrit and the older Pâli; for the scholarship of his youth had not left him. The working day was ended by the most difficult task of all:—three hours of silent meditation on some tenet announced at the time. At first, to those unaccustomed to it, these three hours seemed as long as the eight months of the Sugata’s retirement; and the novices whispered, and yawned, and eyed each other, and let their minds wander, till the length of their penances became startling. But gradually the time seemed shorter, the habit of abstract thought more fixed, until it was sometimes a surprise to hear the great bell ringing out the close of day, when all save penitents were commended to seek a needed rest.