PART VI
    
    
  While I was at Wat Boromnivasa this time a large number of people from 
  Bangkok, Thonburi and Lopburi came to practice meditation.  One day 
  there was a strange event.  A woman named Mae Khawm, a native of 
  Lopburi, came and presented me with three relics of the Buddha.
    
    "Where did you get them?" I asked her.
    
    "I asked for them from the Buddha image right over your pillow," she 
  told me.  This Buddha image belonged to Nai Udom, who had brought it 
  down from Keng Tung during World War II.  From what he had told me, it 
  seems that there have been a lot of strange events connected with this 
  image.
    
    Here I'd like to back up to tell the history of the image.  
  Originally Nai Udom was a person who never felt much respect for 
  monks.  He was a government official working with the Radio Division 
  of the Mass Communications Department.  During World War II he went 
  along with the Thai Army, headed by General Praphan, to Keng Tung.  
  One day he went to set up quarters in an old temple with a group of 
  enlisted men.  That evening, after lying down but before going to 
  sleep, he saw a bright light shooting out from the shelf over his 
  pillow, so he sprang up to see what was there.  At the time he was the 
  sort of person who, even though he was staying right next to sacred 
  objects, never showed them any respect. But that day he became 
  curious.  He craned his neck up to see what was on the shelf, and 
  there he found a gold-alloy Buddha image, about eight inches tall and 
  three inches across at the base, black and glistening as if it had 
  been polished every day.  Seeing it, he grabbed it and put it in his 
  suitcase.  From that day on, his fortunes improved greatly.  People 
  started helping him, and he began to have more than enough money to 
  spend.  He got the money from people native to that area.
    
    When the war was over he headed back to Thailand.  On the way back, 
  he spent a night on the bank of the Mae Jan river.  That night the 
  Buddha image entered his dreams and said, "Dom, you bastard, you're 
  going to take me across the river, but I'm not going to stand for it."
    
    Nai Udom didn't pay any attention to the dream.  "What power could a 
  metal Buddha have?" he thought. In the end, he brought the image back 
  to Chanthaburi, retired from government service and set himself up in 
  business as a merchant.  During this period, he started looking wan 
  and unhealthy.  Life was becoming more and more of a hardship.
    
    After a while his wife and children started falling ill, one after 
  another.  Nothing seemed to cure them.  "Luang Phaw" entered his 
  dreams again.  "I'm staying here with you against my will," he said. 
  "You're going to have to take me back to my home!"
    
    That year it so happened that I had gone out wandering in Prajinburi 
  province, staying at YoungSavage Mountain.  Around April I crossed the 
  wilderness and returned to Chanthaburi. When Nai Udom learned that I 
  had returned, he came running to see.  "I'm really in a mess, Than 
  Phaw.  My children are sick, my wife is sick, I don't have any money, 
  and now this Buddha image enters my dreams and tells me to take him 
  back to Keng Tung where I found him.  What should I do?"
    
    ""Luang Phaw" is a forest Buddha," I answered him. "He likes staying 
  where it's peaceful and quiet.  If you want, have him come stay here 
  with me."
    
    So Nai Udom brought the image and left it with me -- whether he 
  actually gave it to me or simply left it with me for safe keeping, I 
  couldn't tell for sure.  I kept it and showed it respect as a matter 
  of course.  From that day on, all the illnesses in his family 
  disappeared, and in 1952 he moved to Bangkok.  There are a good many 
  more strange things connected with this Buddha image, but this is all 
  I want to say about it for now.
    
    After the event with Mae Khawm I became curious about the Buddha's 
  relics and how they came about.  Never during my life as a monk had I 
  ever been interested in them at all, but I did accept the relics from 
  Mae Khawm and treated them with respect.  Later I learned that she had 
  received more relics, but by then I had put the Buddha image away in 
  the Raam Khae quarters at Wat Boromnivasa.  And as for myself, I had 
  taken my leave of the Somdet and gone to Lopburi province.
    
    That year I celebrated Visakha Puja at Wat Manichalakhan in Lopburi.  
  On that day I said to myself, "If I don't see the Buddha's relics 
  appear with my own eyes, I won't believe in them, because I have no 
  idea whether or not they're for real."  I made a vow to sit in 
  meditation until dawn.  I set out four receptacles and made the 
  following invitations:  "1) May sacred relics of the Buddha -- from 
  his ears, eyes, nose and mouth, which were the sources of his splendor 
  -- if they really exist, come to this altar tonight.  2) May relics of 
  Phra Sariputta, one of the Buddha's important disciples, also come.  
  3) May relics of Phra Moggallana, whose powers were equal to those of 
  the Buddha, also come.  4) May relics of Phra Sivali, a monk of good 
  will who was safe at all times wherever he went, also come.  If these 
  relics really exist, may they come and appear.  If I don't see 
  anything appear tonight, I'll give away all the relics that people 
  have presented to me."
    
    That night I went without sleep and sat in meditation until dawn.  
  At about 4 a.m. I had a feeling that there was a bright red light 
  flashing right where I had placed the receptacles.  At daybreak I 
  discovered relics in each of the receptacles.  The room where they 
  were placed had been locked up tight from sunset to dawn -- no one 
  would have been able to enter, and I myself hadn't gone in.  I felt 
  really taken aback:  This was the first time anything like this had 
  happened in my life.  Quickly I wrapped the relics in cotton wool, 
  placed them in a pouch and kept them with me.  Altogether I received 
  three relics of Phra Sariputta, three of Phra Sivali, two of Phra 
  Moggallana and seven of the Buddha.  Some were the color of milky 
  quartz, some were black, some a dark yellowish grey.  The ones Mae 
  Khawm had given me, though, were the color of pearls.  I took them 
  with me as I headed north.  As time passed, a number of other things 
  occurred that I'd rather keep to myself for the time being.
    
    
                                 * * *
    
    
    As the rains approached I went to stay in Mae Rim district, Chieng 
  Mai province.  I had made up my mind to go deep into the forest, and 
  so, leaving Mae Rim, I went to Baan Paa Tyng, which took a day of 
  walking.  From there I went deep into the wilderness, up the mountains 
  and down, reaching my destination at what must have been no later than 
  four in the afternoon.  This was a spot where one of my students had 
  once spent a Rains Retreat, and that year I spent the rains there.
    
    It was a village of Karen and Yang hilltribesmen, with about six or 
  seven households.  There was no level ground at all -- nothing but 
  mountains and hills.  The place where I stayed was at the foot of a 
  hill, a little less than a kilometer from the village, near a flowing 
  stream.  The weather was bitter cold both day and night.  I reached 
  there the day before Asalha Puja, and on the day we took our vows to 
  spend the rains I started coming down with a fever.
    
    This was a really primitive place.  The people were all 
  hilltribesmen, and my basic diet that rainy season consisted of salt, 
  peppers and rice -- that was all.  No fish or meat.  During the latter 
  half of July I became seriously ill.  Some days I almost lost 
  consciousness.
    
    One morning, at dawn, I tried to get up to go out for alms, but 
  couldn't.  I felt dizzy and faint and was shivering so violently that 
  my hut started shaking.  I was all by myself -- the monks with me had 
  all gone out for alms.  So I went to warm myself by a fire and began 
  to feel a bit better.
    
    I suffered like this all through the rains.  I could hardly eat at 
  all.  During the entire three months, I was able to eat no more than 
  ten mouthfuls of food a day.  Some days I couldn't eat anything at 
  all.  But my body and mind felt light, and my heart was at ease -- not 
  the least perturbed by my illness.
    
    My symptoms got more serious on July 29.  I started running a high 
  fever and felt really faint -- numb all over my body.  This made me 
  begin to have doubts about my survival.  So I got up and took out my 
  pouch of relics, wrapped it in an old worn-out shoulder cloth and 
  placed it up high on a shelf.  Then I made a resolution:  "If you 
  really are sacred, give me a sign.  If I'm going to die here, I want 
  you all to disappear."  I then entered my umbrella tent and stilled my 
  mind.
    
    At dawn the next day I found the pouch and shoulder cloth in 
  opposite sides of the room, but none of the relics were missing.  They 
  were still there, scattered all over the shelf where I had placed 
  them.  It looked as if I probably wouldn't die that year, but would 
  still be sick for a while longer.
    
    One day I was thinking over events in the past and started feeling 
  disgusted.  So I made a resolution: "I'd like some good resources to 
  have at my disposal in the future.  If I don't acquire them, I don't 
  want to leave the forest.  1) I want to attain supranatural powers.  
  If I can't, may I go all the way in seven days.  Even if my life is to 
  end during those seven days, I'm willing to give it up as an offering.  
  2) Wherever there are any good, quiet, restful spots, may the forest 
  spirits lead me there."  After making my resolution I sat in 
  meditation.  A vision appeared:  a bright light and a cave reaching 
  clear through a mountain.  It occurred to me, "If I enter this cave, 
  I'll probably go all the way through."  But just as I decided to go 
  right then and there, I started feeling so faint that my body swayed.  
  I had to grab hold of one of the posts in the hut -- so that was as 
  far as I got.
    
    After that, my illness slowly began to recede.  One day I took one 
  of my followers out looking for wood to make into charcoal so that I 
  could have a fire to keep myself warm at night.  The next day a boy 
  from the village told me, "It's not good for a sick person to go 
  looking for firewood.  There's an old saying that a sick person 
  looking for fire-wood is looking for wood for his funeral pyre."  The 
  boy's name was Teng, and he was a little deranged.  He went on to say, 
  "I really have it hard.  Every night spirits come and pull my legs and 
  won't let me get any sleep."  I didn't pay him any attention.
    
    Late one night, when it was quiet and I was feeling really ill, I 
  set some charcoal stoves all around myself.  After I had dozed off for 
  a moment, a woman dressed in white, followed by two girls and carrying 
  a white flag covered with a long string of Chinese characters, came 
  towards me and said, "I'm queen of the deities.  If you live here, you 
  have to bow down to me."  I wasn't willing to bow down, seeing as  I 
  was a monk.  Still, she insisted.  We had a long argument, but I stood 
  firm.  Finally she left the hut, climbed the hill and disappeared.  I 
  meditated in comfort for the rest of the night.
    
    Another day a while later -- September 16 -- I had a dizzy spell 
  early in the morning.  Afterwards I didn't have the strength even to 
  come down from the hut, and couldn't eat any food.  At about one in 
  the afternoon I got up and sat by the window.  The hut was at the foot 
  of the hill, and the stream flowed right past the window.  All around 
  the hut the ground was cleared and clean -- it was swept every day.
    
    A lot of things happened that day:  1) There was a foul stench 
  unlike anything I had ever smelled before.  2) A big green 
  foul-smelling fly came and landed right on my face.  It looked to me 
  as if I were going to die.  I sat in meditation until the fly flew 
  away and the stench vanished.  I began to have doubts about my 
  survival, so I made a vow:  "If I'm going to die, I want a clear sign.  
  If I have the potential to live on and be of use, I also want a sign." 
    
    After I had made my vow, I sat facing west, looking out through the 
  window with my mind under control. After a moment, two doves came 
  flying to the window.  First a male dove came from the south, made a 
  sharp cry and landed on the sill.  A moment later a female dove came 
  from the north.  They fluttered their wings and cooed to each other.  
  They seemed cheerful and confident.  And then, after another moment, 
  the clouds that had been covering the sky parted and bright sunlight 
  came pouring through.  Not since the beginning of the rainy season had 
  there been even as much as 30 minutes of sunlight in a single day.  
  The entire three months the sky had been dull, always covered by 
  clouds and fog.  But now the sun shone down all bright and dazzling.  
  The calls of the birds echoed clearly through the forest.  My heart 
  felt refreshed.  I came to the conclusion:  "I'm not going to die."
    
    One night afterwards, towards the end of the rains, I went down to 
  do walking meditation to the south of my hut and a vision appeared to 
  me.  I saw myself and an elephant tumbling around in the water.  
  Sometimes I'd be on top of the elephant, sometimes he'd be on top of 
  me.  A moment later, in the same vision, a sermon seat came floating 
  through the air, about six meters off the ground.  It was painted a 
  dull red and covered with cloth from India interwoven with gold.  The 
  vision seemed to say, "Please climb onto the sermon seat.  All your 
  aspirations will be fulfilled."  But there was no one in the vision.  
  "This is no time for lies," I thought, and the vision disappeared.
    
    Right at the very end of the rains I practiced walking around the 
  foot of the hill but I'd get tired and faint.  My ears would start 
  ringing and I'd almost pass out.  If this was the way things were, I 
  wouldn't be able to leave the mountains after the rains were over.  So 
  I made a resolution:  If I'm going to live on and be involved with 
  humanity, may I be able to get out of the mountains.  But if my 
  involvement is over, I'll write a letter bidding farewell.
    
    By the day after the end of the Rains Retreat, my illness seemed to 
  be over.  My symptoms weren't even twenty percent of what they had 
  been before.  The next day, the hilltribesmen accompanied us out of 
  the forest, carrying our things and at the same time crying in a way 
  that was really heartrending.
    
    That had been a damp, chilly place to stay.  Even salt, if you 
  didn't keep it shut tight in a container, would dissolve away.  We ate 
  hilltribe food all throughout the rains.  They'd take bamboo shoots, 
  calledium leaves and tubers, stew them until the were mushy, then add 
  salt, rice and pounded chili peppers -- leaves, stems and all --  and 
  boil it all down together in a pot.  This was the sort of fare we had 
  to eat.  In all the years since my ordination, this rainy season was 
  the ultimate in primitiveness as far as food was concerned.  Even 
  their peppers were strange:  When you swallowed one, it would be hot 
  all the way down to your intestines.  And yet the hilltribes people 
  themselves were all large and stocky.  I had thought that they would 
  be dark and sickly, but they turned out to be fair and plump.  They 
  had an admirable culture.  There was no quarreling, and none of the 
  people in the village ever raised their voices.  They refused to use 
  things bought in the market.  Mostly they used things they had made 
  themselves.  Their crops were vegetables and wild rice, because there 
  was no level land for growing white rice.
    
    After the rains I returned to Mae Rim and then went down to the city 
  of Chieng Mai.  The only symptom remaining from my illness was an 
  irregular heartbeat.  The lay people who had been most concerned about 
  my condition and had from time to time sent supplies from Chieng Mai 
  to where I was staying in the forest -- Khun Nai Chusri and Mae Kaew 
  Run -- brought me spice medicine for my dizzy spells. After staying in 
  Chieng Mai at Wat Santidham for a while, I went down to stay at Phra 
  Sabai Cave in Lampang, where a student of mine had spent the rains.
    
    While there I began to have the feeling that I would have to return 
  to Bangkok.  The Somdet was seriously ill and I'd have to stay with 
  him. But there was something inside me that didn't want to go.  One 
  night I vowed to have an answer to the question of whether or not I 
  should go to Bangkok.  I sat in meditation until dawn.  At about 4 
  a.m. I felt as if my head had been cut off, but my heart was bright 
  and not afraid.  After that my illness was virtually all gone.  I 
  returned to Bangkok and stayed at Wat Boromnivasa.  At the time, the 
  Somdet was very ill and gave me an order:  "You'll have to stay with 
  me until I die.  As long as I'm still alive, I don't want you to 
  leave.  I don't care whether or not you come to look after me.  I just 
  want to know that you're around."  So I promised to stay.  Sometimes 
  I'd wonder about what karma I had done that had me cooped up like 
  this, but then I'd remember the caged dove I had dreamed about in 
  Chanthaburi.  That being the case, I'd have to stay.
    
    
                                 * * *
    
    
  Once I had made up my mind to stay, the Somdet asked me to come and 
  teach him meditation every day.  I had him practice //anapanasati// -- 
  keeping the breath in mind.  We talked about a number of things while 
  he sat in meditation. 
    
    One day he said, "I never dreamed that sitting in //samadhi// would 
  be so beneficial, but there's one thing that has me bothered.  To make 
  the mind still and bring it down to its basic resting level 
  (//bhavanga//):  Isn't this the essence of becoming and birth?"
    
    "That's what //samadhi// is," I told him, "becoming and birth."
    
    "But the Dhamma we're taught to practice is for the sake of doing 
  away with becoming and birth.  So what are we doing giving rise to 
  more becoming and birth?"
    
    "If you don't make the mind take on becoming, it won't give rise to 
  knowledge, because knowledge has to come from becoming if it's going 
  to do away with becoming.  This is becoming on a small scale -- 
  //uppatika bhava// -- which lasts for a single mental moment.  The 
  same holds true with birth.  To make the mind still so that //samadhi 
  //arises for a long mental moment is birth.  Say we sit in 
  concentration for a long time until the mind gives rise to the five 
  factors of //jhana//: That's birth.  If you don't do this with your 
  mind, it won't give rise to  any knowledge of its own.  And when 
  knowledge can't arise, how will you be able to let go of unawareness?  
  It'd be very hard.
    
    "As I see it," I went on, "most students of the Dhamma really 
  misconstrue things.  Whatever comes springing up, they try to cut it 
  down and wipe it out.  To me, this seems wrong.  It's like people who 
  eat eggs.  Some people don't know what a chicken is like:  This is 
  unawareness.  As soon as they get hold of an egg, they crack it open 
  and eat it.  But say they know how to incubate eggs.  They get ten 
  eggs, eat five of them and incubate the rest.  While the eggs are 
  incubating, that's "becoming."  When the baby chicks come out of their 
  shells, that's "birth."  If all five chicks survive, then as the years 
  pass it seems to me that the person who once had to buy eggs will 
  start benefiting from his chickens.  He'll have eggs to eat without 
  having to pay for them, and if he has more than he can eat he can set 
  himself up in business, selling them.  In the end he'll be able to 
  release himself from poverty.
    
    "So it is with practicing //samadhi//: If you're going to release 
  yourself from becoming, you first have to go live in becoming.  If 
  you're going to release yourself from birth, you'll have to know all 
  about your own birth."
    
    As soon as I said this, he understood and began to beam.  He seemed 
  both pleased and impressed.  "The way you say things," he said, "is 
  really different from the way other meditation monks talk.  Even 
  though I still can't put what you say into practice, I can understand 
  you clearly and have no doubts that what you're saying is true.  I 
  used to live near Ajaan Mun and Ajaan Sao, but I never benefited from 
  them the way I've benefited from having you stay with me.  There seem 
  to be a lot of surprising things that occur when I sit in meditation."
    
    After that he seemed to be interested in meditating for long periods 
  of time -- sometimes two hours at a stretch.  While he was meditating, 
  he'd have me speak Dhamma to go along with his meditation.  As soon as 
  his mind would be quiet and steady, I'd start speaking -- and his mind 
  seemed to behave right in line with what I'd be saying.  One day he 
  said, "I've been ordained for a long time, but I've never felt 
  anything like this."
    
    From then on I never had to give him any more long talks.  As soon 
  as I'd say two or three words, he'd understand what I was referring 
  to.  As for me, I was pleased.  One day he said, "People who study and 
  practice the Dhamma get caught up on nothing more than their own 
  opinions, which is why they never get anywhere.  If everyone 
  understood things correctly, there wouldn't be anything impossible 
  about practicing the Dhamma."
    
    As I spent the rains there with the Somdet my mind was at ease as 
  far as having to explain things to him was concerned.  He told me, "In 
  the past I never thought that practicing //samadhi// was in any way 
  necessary."  Then he added, "The monks and novices -- and the lay 
  people as well -- haven't benefited enough from having you here.  If 
  you can, I'd like you to find the time to teach them too." 
    
    He then informed the senior monks in the temple of his intention, 
  and this was how the meditation-training sessions at Uruphong Hall 
  came about.  The first year, 1953, a number of lay people, monks and 
  novices from other temples came and joined in the sessions.  Thao 
  Satyanurak came to stay at Nekkhamma House, the home for nuns at the 
  temple, and practiced meditation with good results.  Her mind gave 
  rise to such unusual realizations that she decided to stay on at Wat 
  Boromnivasa until her death.
    
    At the end of the rainy season I took leave of the Somdet to go out 
  wandering in the provinces.  His illness by that time had abated 
  somewhat.  That year I returned to Wat Boromnivasa in time for Visakha 
  Puja.
    
    That night I went to sit in meditation in the ordination hall, and 
  there was another event:  I saw relics of the Buddha come and appear.  
  Earlier in the evening the thought had occurred to me, "My eyes are 
  small.  I'd like to have great big eyes, able to see for miles and 
  miles.  My ears are small.  I'd like to have great big ears, able to 
  hear all around the world.  My mouth is small.  I'd like to have it 
  wide, able to give a sermon that would echo for five days and nights." 
  With this in mind, I decided to adopt three practices:  1) For a wide 
  mouth, don't eat a lot or speak a lot on important days.  2) For big 
  ears, don't listen to matters that aren't worth your while.  "Cut off 
  your mouth,"  i.e., go without food.  "Cut off your ears," i.e., don't 
  pay attention to anything at all.  3) For big eyes, go without sleep.
    
    So with this in mind, I decided to go without sleep on Visakha Puja.  
  A little after 5 a.m. a lot of the Buddha's relics came to me there in 
  the ordination hall.
    
    I spent the rains with the Somdet again.  That year lay people came 
  out for the meditation sessions in even larger numbers than the year 
  before.  A number of bad events, though, began to interfere because 
  some of the monks had become envious and started looking for ways to 
  spoil things.  I'd rather not name names, though.  Whoever wants to 
  learn the details can go ask Thao Satyanurak or the Somdet.
    
    One evening at about seven, a monk named Phra Khru Palat Thien came 
  to my quarters and said in a low voice, "I hope you aren't upset, 
  Ajaan.  I'm on your side all the way."
    
    "Well, I'm glad to hear it, but I don't know of anything that would 
  make me upset.  Tell me what's up."
    
    So he gave me the details and then added, "The rumor has already 
  reached the Somdet.  If he has any doubts about you, he'll probably 
  call you to his quarters for questioning.  If and when he calls you, 
  let me know.  I'll stand up for you."  As it turned out, though, the 
  Somdet never said a word about the matter, and never asked me even a 
  single question.  We simply kept on discussing the Dhamma as always.
    
    An anonymous letter appeared and made the rounds:
    
      //Writing texts is Phra Khru Dhammasaan's daily habit.
      Ajaan Lee's is instructing his young ladyfriend.
      Old gray-haired MahaPrem would like to be abbot,
      While Luang Ta Paan babbles on without end//.
    
    Phra Khru Dhammasaan was given a thorough grilling as a result of 
  the letter -- people believed he had written it as an attack on me.  I 
  had no idea of what was going on. There seemed to be a lot of things 
  unworthy of monks going on, but I didn't pay them any attention.
    
    The day after the rainy season was over, MahaNarong came to see the 
  Somdet and then came down and asked permission to copy down the 
  information in my identification papers. When he had finished, he 
  returned to the Somdet and told him that the Director's Office at 
  Mahamakut Buddhist University had sent for the information so that 
  they could arrange for me to be given the title of Phra Khru. The 
  Somdet sent for me.  "This is what they have to say," he told me.  
  "What do //you// have to say?"
    
    "I'm the sort of monk who, if it's not necessary, has never wanted 
  to have anything to do with this sort of thing.  Whatever good I've 
  done has been for the sake of the group as a whole."
    
    So he told me, "I'll answer them myself."  And then he added, "I'll 
  tell them, "Phra Ajaan Lee came to stay here because I asked him to, 
  and he has stayed on out of respect for me.  For you to arrange a 
  title for him will, as I see it, drive him away from me.""  That, he 
  said, was how he would answer them.
    
    "Good," was my reply.  As a result, the whole idea was abandoned for 
  the time being.
    
    
                                 * * *
    
    
  As time passed, the Somdet's health improved, so I took my leave of 
  him to go off and find some seclusion as was my custom.
    
    That year was the 100th anniversary of the founding of Wat 
  Supatwanaram, the first Dhammayut monastery in the Northeast.  The 
  Somdet told me, "I want you to go help in the celebration.  I'm going 
  to give them the relics you've presented to me as a souvenir from Wat 
  Boromnivasa." Saying this, he went to look at the relics he had placed 
  on the altar over his pillow, and discovered that more than 40 had 
  come on their own into the glass bell.  I said I would present them 
  all to him.  "This is really strange," he said.  "Never in my life as 
  a monk has anything like this ever happened before."  He said he would 
  send them all to Wat Supat, and had me choose which ones to send in 
  his name, and which ones in mine.  When he said this, I decided to go 
  help in the celebration as a token of my appreciation for his 
  kindness.
    
    The celebration at Wat Supat turned out to be a major event.  The 
  government donated a large sum of money to help, and announced that 
  all those in Bangkok who were going in an official capacity would 
  leave the city together on March 18.  The notice announcing this was 
  signed by Field Marshal Phin Chunhawan, Minister of Agriculture, and 
  General Luang Sawat, Minister of Culture.
    
    One day, when I was in Lopburi, I learned that there had been a 
  change in plans, so I hurried down to Bangkok.  When I arrived, the 
  Somdet called for me.  "They've changed the schedule," he told me.  "I 
  want you to go with them.  I'll give you the relics.  They'll be your 
  responsibility."
    
    I didn't say anything one way or the other, but after I had returned 
  to my quarters and thought things over, I realized that I couldn't 
  follow the Somdet's orders.  I went to see him.
    
    "I can't go," I told him.  "The notice published with the government 
  seal says that on the 17th the relics will be set out for public 
  viewing here at Wat Boromnivasa.  Now the plans have fallen through.  
  I've already distributed the notice, and on the 17th large numbers of 
  people will be coming.  If I leave beforehand, I'll be in for a lot of 
  criticism.  That's why I can't go."
    
    None of the senior monks, it turned out, were going.  The problem 
  was caused by Nai Chao. It seems that Field Marshal Phin had mentioned 
  that he'd like to leave a day early and stop off for the night in 
  Nakhorn Ratchasima, giving the soldiers, policemen, government 
  officials and people in general there the chance to pay their respects 
  to the relics.  Nai Chao hadn't informed the ecclesiastical 
  authorities, and this is why there had been a mistake in the printed 
  schedule.
    
    As a result I didn't go with the first train, because the Somdet had 
  told me, "Stay here.  If anyone comes, take the relics and display 
  them in the main hall."  I agreed to do as he said.  That night I 
  placed three relics, larger than lettuce seeds and the color of 
  pearls, on a glass tray, and took them to display in Uruphong Hall.  
  This person and that person wanted to look, because they had never 
  seen any relics before.  When I opened the cotton wool and they saw 
  the three relics, this person poked at them, that person picked them 
  up -- and so two of them disappeared, leaving only one.  
    
    The next day I took the express train to Ubon along with a group of 
  others, 14 in all.  Reaching Ubon, we went to help in the anniversary 
  celebration, which included the laying of the cornerstone for the 
  Mahathera building to be constructed there in Wat Supat. 
    
    One night there was an incident at a little after 10 p.m.  A group 
  of about 50 of us were sitting in meditation in the ordination hall 
  when a light appeared, flashing on and off like a fluorescent bulb.  
  We all opened our eyes and two or three people found relics in front 
  of them.  As it got later, more and more relics appeared.  People both 
  inside and outside the ordination hall were puzzled and one by one 
  began to suspect a fraud.  When it got fairly late we stopped for the 
  night.
    
    The next day rumors spread through town.  A man who had never before 
  set foot in a monastery came to tell me that the night before, he had 
  dreamed that loads and loads of falling stars had dropped into Wat 
  Supat.  I thought to myself, "If there really are sacred objects 
  connected with Buddhism, I want them to show themselves."
    
    That evening Nai Phit, of the Provincial Fisheries Bureau, brought a 
  friend, a lady teacher, to come and see me.  The teacher started 
  asking me a lot of bizarre questions and in the end announced that she 
  was going to leave her husband and come follow me, because the Dhamma 
  I taught was so amazing.  Her husband, Nai Prasong, worked in the Ubon 
  branch of the Government Savings Bank, and was a Christian.  Thinking 
  that his wife had become mentally unbalanced, he had made a habit of 
  following along wherever she went.  People would ask him, "If you're 
  Christian, what are you doing in a Buddhist ordination hall?"
    
    The teacher became even more reckless and bold, and came to sit just 
  a meter away from me.  I was sitting on a chair, and her husband was 
  sitting about three meters off to one side.  Altogether there were 
  about 50 people in the hall.  So I made a vow: "Today may the power of 
  sacred objects come and help me, because there is a rumor going 
  around, concerning the relics of the Buddha, that I'm tricking and 
  deceiving the people. With news like this, there's no one I can turn 
  to, unless the deities and sacred objects can help me. Otherwise 
  Buddhism is in for contempt and derision."  At the time, Chao Khun 
  Ariyagunadhara was sitting in front of the major Buddha image.  All 
  the other monks had left, because it was so late.
    
    I then had everyone sit in meditation and added, "Whoever doesn't 
  believe, just sit still and watch."  After a moment or so, I had the 
  feeling that sacred objects had come and were circling all around, so 
  I ordered everyone to open their eyes, and told Nai Prasong.  "Open 
  your eyes and look at me.  I'm going to stand up."  I then stood up 
  and shook out my robes and sitting cloth for him to see, at the same 
  time thinking, "May the deities help me so that he won't be able to 
  hold our religion in contempt."  Then I said in a loud voice, "Relics 
  of the Buddha have come.  People sitting right in front of me will 
  receive them.  But when you open your eyes, don't move a muscle. I 
  myself won't move."
    
    As soon as I had finished speaking there was the ping of something 
  small falling on the floor of the hall.  A woman got up to pounce on 
  it, but it sprang from her grasp and came near to where I was sitting.  
  Another person came running after it, but I ordered him to stop.  
  Finally the object came to rest in front of the teacher, so I told 
  her, "It's yours.  Nai Prasong, watch carefully."  The teacher picked 
  it up:  It was a setting from a ring, very finely done -- an object 
  that had once been offered in worship to the Buddha's relics. 
    
    As time passed, the teacher would sit there, sometimes with her eyes 
  closed, sometimes with them open, but she'd say, "Luang Phaw, you've 
  taken me up to sit on top of a mountain."  "All I can see is my own 
  skeleton, but how can that be if I'm still alive?"  "Even though I 
  have a salary of 500 baht a month, I've never known the happiness I 
  feel sitting here right now."  The things she'd say got wilder and 
  wilder all the time.
    
    In the end, no fewer than ten people received relics of the Buddha 
  that night.  All the people there had their eyes wide open and the 
  place was well lit.  Just before daybreak, Nai Phae came to me, 
  clutching in his fist a set of relics that he then gave to me, saying 
  he had received them the night before.  I turned them all over to Wat 
  Supat.
    
    The celebration lasted five days and five nights. One day they 
  arranged a raffle for donating sets of robes to monks who had come to 
  join in the celebration.  There were a lot of people in Ubon who still 
  mistrusted me, but none of them were open about it.  One person who 
  //was// open about it was Mae Thawngmuan Siasakun.  She made a vow:  
  "If this ajaan is really honest and sincere, may he draw my set of 
  robes in the raffle."  When we drew the raffle tickets, it turned out 
  that I actually did draw her set of robes.
    
    
                                 * * *
    
    
  With the celebration over, I returned to Bangkok and then went to 
  wander around from place to place.  When the time came to stop for the 
  rains, I returned as always to be with the Somdet.  That rainy season 
  his illness was much worse.  He didn't sit in meditation much at all.  
  Most of the time he'd meditate lying down.  After the rains he passed 
  away.
    
    During the rains he was very sick.  His asthma flared up and he 
  couldn't get any sleep.  One night at about 2 a.m., a monk came 
  running for me.  All the monks and novices were in an uproar because 
  the Somdet had told them to go for the doctor, but here it was late in 
  the middle of the night -- how could they go for the doctor?  Chao 
  Khun Sumedhi had had the monk go for me instead so that I could reason 
  with the Somdet, for the Somdet wouldn't listen to anyone else.
    
    So I went up to the Somdet and asked him, "What medicine did you 
  take today?  How many tablets?  How many times?"
    
    "I can't breathe," was his answer.
    
    I felt his body.  He was fiery hot.  I learned that he had taken one 
  tablet too many.  The doctor had told him to take one tablet twice 
  daily, but he hadn't felt like going to all that trouble, and so had 
  taken two tablets at once.  Now he had a bad case of heartburn, and 
  could hardly breathe.  I told him, "I've seen this sort of thing 
  before.  It's not serious.  In about 15 minutes it'll pass."
    
    A moment later he closed his eyes and entered //samadhi//.   Monks 
  and novices were sitting around on all sides.  After a while he said, 
  "I'm fine now.  You don't have to go for the doctor."
    
    During the cold season his asthma flared up again.  One morning he 
  sent a novice to fetch me.  At the time I had visitors, so the novice 
  simply spoke to me and left.  The Somdet then asked him, "Is Ajaan Lee 
  here in the temple?"
    
    "Yes."
    
    "In that case he doesn't have to come.  My mind is at rest.  If he 
  leaves the temple, though, go after him and have him come back."
    
    At about five in the evening he sent the novice to look in on me.  
  The novice didn't say anything to me because I was sitting in 
  meditation.  He returned to the Somdet and said, "Ajaan Lee is in."  A 
  little later, at about six, he came for me again.  This time I hurried 
  up to see the Somdet.  He made a number of directives concerning the 
  temple, and then lay still.  I went downstairs for a moment.
    
    Suddenly there was a commotion upstairs, so I hurried up again.  
  Along with the Somdet in the room were the monk who was nursing him 
  and Chao Khun Dhammapitok.  Looking at the Somdet's condition, I knew 
  he wouldn't last.  Monks and novices were running around in confusion, 
  and the doctors were all upset.  One of them had stuck his finger down 
  the Somdet's windpipe to remove some phlegm, but to no avail.  When I 
  could see that there was no hope, I ordered the doctor to stop:  
  "Don't touch him."  And a  moment later, the Somdet breathed his last.
    
    When we had finished washing the body, we met for consultation, and 
  the following day arranged for the ceremonial bathing of the corpse.
    
    The temple committee then began the merit-making ceremonies. They 
  asked me to be in charge of the kitchen, which I agreed to do.  Khun 
  Nai Tun Kosalyawit was my assistant.  The first seven days we didn't 
  have to draw on the temple funds at all because so many people came 
  and made voluntary contributions.  Altogether the merit-making lasted 
  50 days.  During this period we drew on temple funds from time to 
  time.  After the 50 days were over I decided I'd have to go off for a 
  rest.
    
    
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