A Tiny Tale — Siddhartha
Willie Wit
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Willie Wit
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Siddhartha
The atmosphere, and mood in the temple was as it should be, calm and serene. A group of men clad in drab colours are spread across the main area, kneeling, intense with concentration. Sweat forms on brows, muscles flexing as great changes are taking place within.
This daily ritual had been carried out over months and years. Some had begun this journey as soon as maturity had been reached. Others now near old age still knelt daily, something they had done for decades. This action provides the food on their plates, and the luxury of life’s simple pleasures. Occasional groans could be heard but the general tone was a positive one.
The drinking of tea was an important part of the day, steeped in ritual, it gave the passing of time a defined structure. Some believed they could taste this constantly, always during lapses in concentration though, one of the dangers of daydreaming. The strict times for this ceremony were adhered too, regardless of other duties needing to be completed. A much needed respite for knees that would ache as the day progressed. Younger students secreted soft pads under loose garb, something frowned upon by the more mature. Generally seen as an unnecessary frivolity.
Silence was the norm, unspoken words passed between all. Gestures, a subtle nod, and the briefest of looks belied great understanding. This atmosphere was often found oppressive by outsiders looking in, but it was something borne of countless hours in each other's presence. They had now completed the day's tasks, incense holders were returned to their time honoured places, candles were lit once more, and flower vases filled with life's colour again. The mood changes subtly as the days work now ends. The simplest daily celebrations are restored once more, the old would now be experienced as new. As is the way.
A silence now fills this space, not unlike the one found after a tree falls in an empty forest.
The group quietens, tired legs are stretched, a feeling of satisfaction is shared communally. Unspoken thanks are given, as weary, yet fulfilled souls shuffle towards the door. The temple bell sounds, as if to announce their departure, now moving into the entrance area as one. The leader of the group stands waiting, his demeanour one of substance. Posed in front of a statue of Buddha, his bald head shines despite the low illumination. He strokes his long grey beard, allowing them a chance to relax and be still.
A voice as deep as a cave now speaks, one with a timbre that brings weight to anything said. He begins...
"...Sid, Arthur... The new carpet is laid, great work – the furniture is back in place... Job's done; It’s Friday, so get the gear in the van – and let's get back to reality!"
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