The auditorium was freshly vacuumed. About a hundred novices stood within it, of various heights and colors, all of them wearing the traditional black cassocks that smelled as new as they were.
Behind them stood a number of older men, wearing the same uniform, just more worn. Some were overweight, others chiseled with large protruding cheekbones.
At the front arrived a man, who came in abruptly through the wooden doors. He crossed the stage in his jeans and inside-out ripped tee-shirt he wore underneath an old leather jacket. His hair was as unkempt as those watching him wasn’t. He was maybe in his late 30’s but he looked late 40’s. All eyes were on him and he could feel it.
He sat down immediately which startled some of the novices, dismissing all formalities.
His face was serious. He looked deep into the back, recognizing, faintly, the faces of some.
You could hear him breathe for a moment into the microphone in front of his face before he finally spoke.
“Once upon a time,” he said, in dramatically cadenced monotone. He stopped abruptly as he could hear a fury of pen scratching in the front-most seats.
“Put your notebooks away,” he said, “Look. At me.”
There was a very awkward moment of dramatic silence before he restarted.
“Once upon time,” he said, “there was a Buddhist monastery, placed high in the mountains of Nepal. It had been there for hundreds of years and was well-renowned in greater Asia and beyond.”
The novices were already wide-eyed; those in the back, not yet.
“It was so high in elevation,” he continued, “pupils who were interested in becoming monks there had to camp several times during the climb before reaching the place to allow their lungs to adjust to the mountainous air.”
“Some of them turned back,” he said, “But most of them continued.”
“Upon reaching the estate, and after months of testing, prayer, and discernment, most of those who made it to the top were allowed to shave their heads and become novices.”
The novices in the audience giggled as only novices do; the priests in the back, laughed at them.
“In one such group, there was a novice named Sashu, who came from a very large family, and all his life had wanted to do something noble that would make his family proud.”
“Upon receiving his robes, Sashu began his duties with the utmost fervor and intensity.”
The novice master in the room gave a large, crooked smile; several of the novices he caught looking at him cowered when they saw he was looking around the room.
“Together with his fellow novices, early in the training, Sashu entered the Great Hall one morning to receive, in simple ceremony, a small pot filled with dirt, no bigger than a cup that could be held by two hands.”
“In the dirt, they were told, was a seed from some sort of plant or another that could somehow grow at those high heights. Their task was to keep it alive, nourish it, care for it, protect it from the elements - as a test, they were told, to their overall fervor and dedication to their new way of life.”
“This task, they were told, would last the full two years of novitiate. Failure would result in immediate expulsion, and only those who succeeded could become true monks.”
“And so it began: Sashu and his fellow green-eared monks became mountain gardeners overnight. And it was no small task. Each day they had to find sufficient water, and sunlight, and perhaps most challenging of all - protection from the bitter cold mountain wind.”
“The catch, of course, was they had to bring the potted plant, wherever they would go.”
“For instance, if the novice was assigned to shovel the path of snow, he had to bring the pot with him, and wrap it perhaps in a burlap sack or build an igloo for it as soon as he got there. If washing pots and pans, he had to keep it from getting squashed by the mess around. When sleeping, if the plant was small, one had to keep oneself from crushing it, et cetera.”
“What seemed a simple task to begin with, soon became an arduous burden.”
The man looked around the room: he could see more than just novice eyes widen, wondering where this story was going to go.
“One by one, the flies began to drop. A particularly cold winter had wiped out one third of the plants, and therefore one third of the students. Sashu remained, of course, his body becoming thin, yet strong amid the rugged austerity.”
The speaker paused to drink from a glass of water on the table.
“After an entire year with no lessons other than this arduous ritual, the novice master descended from the High Castle in the monastery (for that was what they called it), and assembled the remaining shivering young men in the Great Hall.”
“He was a frail old man, with deep sunken eyes and a rough leathered face.”
“Each young monk stared at him, clutching his pot, now flowing over to some small or large degree with feeble vegetation.”
“‘Follow me,’ the headmaster said, walking out of the Hall into the cold. One of the novices lost his plant right then and there, in a sudden chill gust that sprinted over the mountain.”
“The rest of them began to trudge onward and eventually upward into the Himalayas.”
“Most of them came back, their plants intact. Others didn’t. They had begun their novitiate with around a hundred men and now were down to forty. The headmaster told them to rest up and be ready to climb again.”
“Some of them went to sleep, others ate then slept. Others scrounged for new shields for their fragile plants, ate, and then slept for what was left of the night.”
“Morning came too soon and the novice master was back, rounding them up for another walk along the cliffs. Some of the drop offs were for thousands of feet, and one, if he allowed himself to enjoy it, could see for hundreds of miles in the distance from up there when the clouds cleared.”
“This ritual continued every day. By week two, half of them were gone, their plants failed, they left down the mountain. But not Sashu. He had weaved a satchel from scraps he found around the monastery, and he had even shown the other brothers how.”
“The novice master bowed to him when he noticed this initiative and insisted Sashu lead the next expedition, pointing to a high cliff in the easternmost sky.”
“Sashu set out immediately, at a quick pace, feeling the adrenaline of being chosen such a ‘high honor.’”
“The hike continued through the day, but a series of icy mishaps kept them out later than usual. The sun had gone down and the wind had picked up incredibly.”
“They were huddled in a cave on the side of the mountain. The novice master came to Sashu and mumbled that they needed to leave the cave and head back to the hall.”
“Hesitating for a moment, Sashu waved to the group to follow him down the dark and icy slope.”
“It was a snail’s pace down; but after an hour or two they reached a cavern that the novice master said would take them to the short way home. The cavern held a small ledge that ran around a giant basin, the bottom of which was black. Sashu dropped a chunk of ice down but they did not hear it hit anything.”
“Being the leader, Sashu began edging around the ledge; the others followed, their fingertips blue from cold clutching the side for dear life, their plants hanging from their backs like shadows.”
“About halfway around Sashu realized the novice master was nowhere to be found, though no one could go looking for him, since they were literally between a rock and seemingly infinite crevasse.”
“He continued on, looking every which way to maybe catch a glimpse of his master.”
“Suddenly, it happened: a large sheet of ice fell from the the ceiling above them and struck Sashu in the left hand, ripping his left foot from it’s holding point. He screamed and shifted all his weight to his right hand side, in a desperate attempt to live.”
“It held.”
“However, his satchel had not, and was resting slightly below him.”
“He could feel the sheer fear mixed with anguish rush through his body while his brothers looked on helplessly, afraid to disrupt another avalanche.”
“Sashu reached in vain: it was just out of his grasp: the small plant inside the woven cloth he had worked so hard to keep alive.”
“His head turn as he felt a presence across the chasm: there suddenly to his left was the novice master: starting at him: a candle in his hands he guarded from the wind as a flame danced around the bony cage of his ancient hand.”
“The old man’s eyes were black and beedy: he stared at Sashu with all his might.”
“Sashu desperately reached again for the satchel, but this time, his footing on his right gave way, and his brothers looked on in horror as he fell deep down to his death, screaming all the way, the plant lying above on the ice.”
“They never heard him reach bottom, but the screaming died away.”
At this point the entire auditorium was silent. One could hear your own heart beat.
“After that incident,” continued the man, “and a long moment of paralyzing fear in between, the remaining novices shuffled their way around the basin to the novice master.”
“There he stood: seemingly not even human. He was so solemn, they gathered round him, feeling as if he was going to say something of great importance, which he was:”
“‘He should have dropped the goddamn plant,’ he said.”
Just then a roar of laughter erupted from the front of the room, in typical nonsensical novice style; followed by sneers from their actual novice master directed to the man on stage, and the chortling from the priests behind, aimed in the same direction.
This lasted for a moment until it became clear that there was something else the man was going to say.
He stood up, slowly, ripping the microphone from its holster, his hand and voice both shaking as he lifted it to his face. There were tears streaming down from his eyes; his voice could only muster a tearful whisper.
“Don’t lose your fucking minds!” he said.
The room was silent.
“Like I did.”
And he dropped the microphone, and walked out.
