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Rude Awakenings - Forest Sangha Publications

Rude Awakenings - Forest Sangha Publications

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A J A H N S U C I T T O^0 T H I R D M O O N 06Letting go was good. It was good being alive; we exchanged stories andchuckled a lot. Destinations, plans, ideas about the purpose of the journey—itwas all so ludicrous now, funny to have held on to this stuff forso long. When it comes down to it, nothing really matters—all you cando is die, which you’re going to do anyway. It was hilarious.I suggested we rummage around to search for the bags. Nick checkedthe hole that he had stashed his camera and the money in. It was empty.After a while, we came across Nick’s yellow plastic mug; we saluted itwith glee. Then the cylinder of maps, chopped up like salami, its mutilationtestifying to the pointless feverishness of the violence. But Nickpicked up the mug like it was an antique and tenderly examined the brutalizedmaps the way a doctor might examine some mangled victim ofa car crash. “I think I can salvage these.” We even found his binoculars,hanging in a tree where he had thrown them. Well, well...That was enough for the day. The sun was going down, and weneeded to get back to Rajgir before nightfall; back to the BurmeseVihara, where there would be friends. Everything was so light; no bags,no money, no passports. We were trotting along ragged and laughing.But by the time we drew near to human habitation the evening haddescended, and dark intense faces peopled the gloom: hawkers and rickshawdrivers looking for customers jeered at us as we hurried by. We hadto get to the vihara, quickly. By the time we got there we were racing.2 4 2

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