The cremation forest was Luang Por’s Room 101 and that he entered it of his own accord

 In the Cremation Forest

For thousands of years, the Thais have perceived themselves living in a universe inhabited by unseen forces, malevolent and benign. It is unusual to discover a blind belief in the non-existence of ghosts, even amongst the most materialist of modern urban dwellers. Fascination with ghost stories is almost universal. Although secular values have spread relentlessly throughout Thai society, there is no sign of them displacing the deep belief in spirits.

Many different kinds of ghost are spoken of in Thailand. The three kinds that can possess people are particularly feared: pee tai hong (victims of a violent death), pee tai tong klom (women who died during childbirth) and pee pob who, greedy for raw meat and offal, enter people’s bodies and chew away voraciously at their intestines. Pee pret (Pali: peta), meanwhile, are the hungry ghosts met with in Buddhist texts. They are horrifyingly ugly: gaunt and emaciated, with dishevelled hair, long necks, sunken cheeks, deep-set eyes. They feed on pus and blood and have huge bellies as well as tiny mouths no bigger than the eye of a needle: their appetite is never satisfied. They dwell in cremation forests and desolate areas and emit long, shrill and plaintive cries as they approach human beings. In the time and place in which Luang Por grew up – Isan of the 1920s and 1930s – fear of ghosts was normal and rational: they were all around.

While the modern Western mind is not so terrified of ghosts, it has its own profound fears. In George Orwell’s novel 1984, prisoners under interrogation are confronted with the deepest and most visceral of these in the dreaded Room 101. The following passage might be best appreciated if it is considered that the cremation forest was Luang Por’s Room 101 and that he entered it of his own accord.

It was late afternoon, and I was really afraid; I didn’t want to go. I was paralyzed. I told myself to go, but I couldn’t. I invited Postulant Gaew to accompany me. ‘Go and die there,’ I told myself. ‘If it’s time to die, go and get it over and done with. If it’s all such a burden, if you’re so stupid, just die!’ That’s the kind of thing I was saying to myself, even though, at the same time, I still really didn’t want to go. But I forced myself, ‘If you’re going to wait until you’re completely ready, you’ll never go’, I reasoned, ‘and you won’t ever tame your mind.’ In the end, I had to drag myself there.

As I got to the edge of the forest, I faltered. I had never stayed in a cremation forest before in my life. Postulant Gaew was going to stick close, but I wouldn’t have it. I sent him off a good distance away. Actually, I wanted him to stay really close, but I was worried that I’d become dependent on him. I thought if I had a friend close by, then I wouldn’t be afraid, and so I resisted the temptation and sent him away. ‘If I’m so frightened, then tonight let me die. Let’s see what happens.’ I was afraid; but I did it. It’s not that I wasn’t afraid – but I dared. ‘At the worst’, I told myself, ‘all that can happen is that you’ll die.’

Well, as the dusk started to thicken a little – just my luck! – they carried a corpse, swaying from side to side, into the cremation forest. Why should this happen on this very day? As I practised walking meditation, pacing backwards and forwards, I could hardly feel my feet touch the ground. ‘Get out of here!’ my mind screamed. The villagers invited me to go and chant the funeral verses. I wouldn’t have anything to do with it. ‘Get out of here!’ I was still thinking. But after I’d gone a short distance I returned. They came and buried[25] the corpse right by my glot and then made a sitting platform for me from the bamboo they’d used to carry the body.

What should I do now? The village was two or three kilometres away. ‘This is it for sure. What shall I do? … Just get ready to die.’ Postulant Gaew moved closer. I sent him away, and told myself: ‘Just go ahead and die! Why are you so terrified? Now we’re going to have some fun with this. If you don’t dare do it, you won’t know what it’s like.’ Oh! It was such an intense feeling. It hardly seemed as if my feet were touching the ground. And it was getting darker and darker. ‘Where are you going to go now? Go right into the middle of the cremation forest. Die! You’re born and then you die, isn’t that the way it goes?’ I battled with myself like that.

After the sun had gone down, I felt I should get into my glot. My legs were refusing to move. My feelings urged me into the glot. I’d been practising walking meditation in front of it, opposite the grave. As I walked towards the glot it wasn’t so bad, but as soon as I turned towards the grave – I don’t know what it was – it was as if there was something pulling at my back. Cold shivers went down my spine.

That’s what the training is all about. You feel so frightened your legs refuse to walk, and so you stop; then, when the fear has gone, you start again.

So, as it got dark, I entered my glot and a wave of relief swept over me. I felt as happy and secure as if the mosquito net was a seven-tiered wall. My alms-bowl seemed like an old friend. That’s what can happen when you’re on your own: you can even see a bowl as your friend! I had no one to rely on, and so I felt happy and took comfort in its presence. It’s on occasions like this that you really see your mind.

I sat in my glot and watched for malevolent spirits right throughout the night. I never slept a wink. I was afraid – afraid but daring to train myself, daring to do it. I sat staring into the darkness the whole night. I wasn’t sleepy once; drowsiness was afraid to show its face as well. I just sat there like that the whole night … In practice, if you’re that scared and you just follow your mind, you’d never do it. It’s the same with everything: if you don’t do it, if you don’t practise, you don’t get any benefit. I practised.

As the dawn broke, I was overjoyed: I was still alive. I felt so happy. From now on, I just wanted there to be only the day. In my heart, I wanted to kill the night forever. I felt good; I hadn’t died after all.

Even the dogs were out to test me. I went on alms-round alone and some dogs chased along behind me and tried to bite my legs. I didn’t chase them away. Let them bite! It seemed that something was out to get me. They kept snapping away at my ankles. Some bites got home, some didn’t. I felt shooting pains and every now and again it seemed as if a wound had been opened up. The village women didn’t try to get hold of their dogs. They thought spirits had followed me into the village and that’s why the dogs were barking. They were chasing after spirits and biting them, not me – so they just left them to it. I didn’t drive the dogs off, just let them bite me. ‘Last night I was almost frightened to death, and now I’m being attacked by dogs. Let them bite me if I’ve ever hurt them in past lives.’ But they just snapped away ineffectually. This is what’s called training yourself.

After alms-round, I ate my meal and started to feel better. The sun came out and I felt warm and at ease. During the day, I had a rest and by then my mind was getting back to normal. I thought everything was alright; it was only fear. ‘Tonight, I should be able to get down to some meditation practice. I’ve been through the fear. Tonight, it should be fine.’

Late afternoon and here we go again. They carried in another corpse, an adult. It was even worse than the previous night. They were going to cremate it right in front of my glot. This was much worse. At least the villagers burned the body, but when they invited me to go and contemplate the corpse I stayed where I was. Only when all the villagers had left did I go. ‘They’ve all gone home and left me alone with the corpse. What shall I do?’ I don’t know what similes I could use to describe to you this fear – and in the night-time too.

The fire had burned right down. The embers were red, green, blue. They spluttered and every now and again broke into flame. I couldn’t bring myself to practise walking meditation in front of the fire. As soon as it was completely dark I got into my glot as I’d done the night before. I sat in that thick forest with the smell of the corpse-burning smoke in my nostrils the whole night. It was worse than the night before. I sat with my back to the fire with no idea of sleeping. How could I sleep? I didn’t have the slightest desire to; I was nervous and wide awake the entire night. I was afraid, and I didn’t know who I could depend on. ‘You’re here by yourself and you’ll have to rely on yourself. There’s nowhere to go; its pitch black out there. Just sit down and die! Where do you want to go anyway?’

If you were just to follow what your mind told you, you’d never go to a place like that. Who would willingly put themselves through such torment? Only someone with a firm conviction in the Buddha’s teachings of the fruits of practice.

It was about ten o’clock, and I was sitting with my back to the fire. Suddenly I heard a sound from behind me, ‘toeng-tang! toeng-tang!’ I thought that maybe the corpse had rolled off the fire and perhaps some jackals had come to fight over it. Or something. But no, it wasn’t that. I sat listening. Then came the sound, ‘khreut-khrat! khreut-khrat!’, like someone moving ponderously through the forest. I tried to dismiss it from my mind. Shortly afterwards, it began to walk towards me. I could hear the sound of somebody approaching me from behind. The footfalls were heavy, almost like a water buffalo’s. But it wasn’t a water buffalo. Fallen leaves thickly covered the forest floor – it was February – and I heard the sound of someone treading on the big brittle leaves, ‘khop! khop!’

There was a termite mound at the side of my glot. I heard the steps skirting it as they approached. I thought, ‘Whatever it’s going to do, let it, because you’re ready to die. Where do you think you’d run to anyway?’ But in the end, it didn’t come towards me. The sounds thudded off ahead in the direction of the postulant. After it moved away there was silence. I don’t know what it was, all I was aware of was the fear and that made me imagine all kinds of things.

It must have been about half an hour later that I heard the sound of someone walking back from the direction of Postulant Gaew. It was exactly like the sound of a human being! It came straight towards the glot as if it was determined to trample whoever was inside. I just sat there with my eyes closed. I wasn’t going to open them for anything. If I was going to die, then let me die right there. When it reached me, it stopped and stood silent and motionless in front of the glot. I felt as if burnt hands were clutching at the air in front of me. I was sure the end had come. My whole body was petrified with terror. I forgot ‘Buddho’, ‘Dhammo’, ‘Sangho’ – everything. All that existed was the fear; I was as stretched and tight as a monastery drum. ‘Alright. You’re there – but I’m staying here.’ My mind was numb. I didn’t know if I was sitting on a seat or floating in the air. I tried to concentrate on the sense of knowing.

It’s probably like tipping water into a jar. If you just keep adding more and more, then eventually it overflows. I was so frightened, and the fear kept increasing until finally it overflowed. There was a release. I asked myself, ‘What are you afraid of? Why are you so terrified?’ I didn’t actually say that, the question arose spontaneously in my mind, and the answer arose in response, ‘I’m afraid of death.’ That’s what it said. So I asked further, ‘Where is death? Why are you so much more afraid than an ordinary householder?’ I kept asking where death was until finally I got the answer: ‘death lies within us.’ ‘If that’s the case, then where can you run to escape from it? If you run away, it will run with you. If you sit down, it will sit with you. If you get up and walk off, it will walk with you because death lies within us. There’s nowhere to go. Whether you’re afraid or not makes no difference, you still have to die. There’s no escape.’ These reflections cut off my thoughts.

When this dialogue had come to an end, familiar perceptions returned to the surface of my mind and the fear subsided. The change was as simple and total as when you flip your hand over from its back to the palm. I felt a great amazement that such fearlessness could arise right in the very same place that there had been such a strong fear just a few moments before. My heart soared to the heavens.

With the overcoming of my fear, it started to pour with rain – maybe it was the rain that falls on lotus leaves in the legend, the one that only makes you wet if you let it – I don’t know. There was the sound of thunder, of wind and of rain, deafeningly loud. It rained so heavily all my fears of death were forgotten. Trees crashed down and I was impervious. My robes, every piece of cloth I had was soaked. I just sat there, quite still.

Then, after a while, I started to weep. It just happened by itself. Tears started to roll down my face. Before that I’d been thinking how like an orphan I was, sitting there shivering in the middle of the pouring rain. I thought that probably none of the people happily asleep in their houses would imagine that there was a monk sitting out here in the rain all night; they were probably snuggling up in their warm blankets. ‘And here I am, sitting here, soaked to the skin – what’s it all about?’ As I started dwelling on those thoughts a sense of the sorrowfulness of my life arose, and I began to cry. The tears were streaming down: ‘That’s alright, it’s bad stuff. Let it all run out until there’s none left.’ That’s what practice is.

I don’t know how to explain what happened after that. Following my victory, I just sat there and all these things took place in my mind. It would be impossible to describe them all; I came to know and see so many things – too many to relate. It reminded me of the Buddha’s words: ‘Paccattaṃ veditabbo viññūhī’ – ‘to be seen by each wise person by themselves’. That was really true. I was suffering out in the middle of the rain and who could know how I felt? Nobody – only me. I was so deeply afraid, and then the fear disappeared. The people in their warm, dry houses couldn’t know what that was like. Only I could know that because it’s paccattaṃ. Who could I tell? Who could I relate it to? The more I reflected on it, the more certain I became and the more my heart was filled with energy and faith in the teachings. I contemplated the Dhamma until dawn.

As it became light I opened my eyes, and whichever way I looked the whole world was yellow. The danger had gone. During the night, I’d felt the need to urinate, but I’d been too afraid to get up. I’d held it back, and after some time the urge passed. In the morning when I got up, the whole world looked as yellow as the early morning sunlight. I went to urinate, and all that came out was blood. I wondered whether something inside me had torn or broken. I became afraid that something must have ruptured, and then I was confronted by an immediate retort, ‘If it’s ruptured, then it’s nobody’s fault; it’s just the way things are.’ It was an immediate and spontaneous answer to the worry, ‘If it’s ruptured, it’s ruptured. If you’re going to die, you’re going to die. You’ve just been sitting there minding your own business; if it wants to rupture, let it.’ The mind carried on this dialogue. It was like two people struggling for possession of something, one pulling it one way and the other pulling it back again.

One part of my mind elbowed its way in saying there was a serious problem. Another part fought with it immediately. As I urinated, the blood came out in gobs. I started to wonder where I could find some medicine. ‘Don’t bother. Where would you go anyway? You’re a monk, you can’t dig up medicinal roots. If it’s time to die, then just die! What can you do about it? Dying while practising the teachings is noble. You should be satisfied to die. If you were going to die for the sake of something evil, that wouldn’t be worth it; but if you die like this, it’s fitting.’ Alright, I said to myself, so be it.

That morning, Luang Por went on alms-round shaking with a fever that he bore patiently for a week before deciding to ask permission to convalesce at a nearby monastery. Ten days later, he had recovered sufficiently to continue his wandering.

By this time of the year, the nights would not have been so cold and the day’s heat stronger. Soon the hot season would glue the world together into a dense, smothering blanket, penetrated only by an occasional sweet and cooling breeze. As he made his way eastwards, the streams in which Luang Por bathed and from which he took his drinking water would have been diminishing rapidly, the paddy fields surrounding the occasional hamlets would be becoming hard as rock, cracking beneath a heat haze, while water buffaloes soaking in muddy pools of water would be making the most of them before they disappeared. At the edges of hamlets, he would have seen women searching in the woods for edible roots and leaves to supplement their meagre hot season diet.

In the thickly forested valleys of Nakhon Phanom, the huge hardwood trees – yang, pradu and daeng – stood like grave but kindly sentinels on the path. As he walked, he would have heard the sound of hornbills swooping above his head, or perhaps seen flocks of bright green parrots sweeping and weaving through the forest in perfect formation. Eventually, he arrived at his goal: Wat Pah Bahn Nong Hee[26] the monastery of Luang Pu Kinaree, one of the few tudong monks in the Mahānikāya Order. It was to be the beginning of a long and fruitful association.

Stillness Flowing 

The Life and Teaching of Ajhan Chah