Silpa: the Art of Love

Chapter 14
A Dream at Dawn

We drive away from the ruins back through the town, turning into a
secondary road leading through what must be Ayuttaya’s suburbs.
Once again we’re soon surrounded more by lush green than grey, passing
a couple of villages with traditional houses constructed in the same Thai-
style as the Bangkok temples with pointed apexes and curved roof ends,
only much more basic, unadorned and raised on stilts, and come to a
stop at a third such village, with houses built of weathered planks of
wood hoisted aloft on timber poles.

“This is the village where I was born,” he says, switching off the engine.

“Where’s your home?”

“Come, I’ll show you.”

This village is absolutely nothing like the Adelaide suburb where I’d grown
up; there are no pavements, the roads aren’t sealed, cattle are fenced
into pens, and children run loose among the hens and roosters. I imagine
a young Silpa running around half-naked, only they stop to stare at me
the foreigner, and then run away to hide. Beneath the houses, old people
dressed in chequered sarongs cast a curious stare at me and greet Silpa
with lazy waves. At the last row of houses before the river, we stop at
the bottom of a set of stairs and Silpa greets an old woman sitting on the
landing preparing food.

“Sawadi khrup,” he says, bowing.

“Sawadi ja, Silpa,” responds the woman, grinning at me with a nearly
toothless mouth.

We climb the stairs and Silpa introduces me to his aunt, the first of many
in his extended family, introductions that never seem to end. With Silpa
being the only member of his family who speaks English and my not
knowing a word of Thai we’re restricted to translated words, body
language and facial expressions. Though I don’t understand what they’re
saying, they are obviously overjoyed to meet me, and consider it great
fun to try out the limited English phrases they do know such as, “What is
your name?” and “Where do you come from?”

The house itself and the goods within are from a world unknown to me.
Here, the simple tools of an agrarian life are everywhere. If not for a TV
set, a few electric fans and a gas cooker as reference points, I could
easily have thought I’d stepped back through the centuries into Thailand’s
historical period before Ayuttaya’s sacking by the Burmese. Many of the
objects I recognise as being similar to those in Silpa’s last exhibition and I
study them with fascination. Everything surrounding me is imbued with
the life of this family; every scratch, every repair, nail, knock, floodwater
mark – everything pervades with the history and memory of the people
who’ve lived here.

I sit on the floor with the family and close my eyes, as I’d done in the
gallery with Silpa’s fishing net, feeling the rough grain of the wood
beneath me. I imagine each footstep that has made the undulating
indentations over the years – Silpa’s footsteps and those of his mother
and father – wearing down the floorboards unevenly. He was born within
these walls and this is where his mother died. So much intense joy and
sadness merging together and conveyed through this wood, yet despite
the maelstrom of emotions the sensations summon, I feel at peace with
what has taken place here and a sense of serenity overcomes me. Silence
replaces the cacophony of voices and I feel I’m alone only, as the noise
level rises again, it is the sound of laughter: everybody is laughing at me.

“We’re not boring you are we, Anna?” asks Silpa.

“No, I’m sorry. I was off in another world.”

“Pai non! Pai non!” Some of them shout at me.

“What’s that mean?”

“They think you fell asleep.”

Lunch is not only prepared on the floor, it’s served on it, which comes as
a bit of a cultural shock to me, especially to my knees, so I think of it as
being an indoor picnic. After our meal of fish, rice and fruit has settled,
Silpa takes me for a stroll around the village, sharing the memories of his
early childhood, before the death of his father and being taken into the
monastery. He tells me about the children he used to play with, and then
introduces them to me; they’re living in the same houses, only now with
children and grandchildren of their own.

Silpa talks easily with everybody and it’s plain to see the whole village is
justifiably proud of their most successful son. I wonder if they know the
full extent of how successful he’s become, with his name not just known
inside Thailand, but throughout the art world.

He takes me down to the edge of the river in front of the house; it’s
broader here than in Bangkok, I guess about a hundred metres across.
What he’d told me earlier about the river being polluted is plain to see. I
can’t take a single footstep without treading on a plastic bag or bottle,
Styrofoam food container or tetra pack. Silpa starts picking it up and
putting it in a plastic bag he takes out of his pocket.

“I clean this spot where I meditate whenever I come but it makes no
difference, the next day it’s as bad as ever.”

“Why?” I ask naively.

“The simple answer is the tide will wash up more rubbish. The long answer
is the Thai people, who take so much care when it comes to their own
cleanliness and hygiene, thoughtlessly discard their rubbish practically
everywhere. You’ve only seen a little of the country, mostly around the
centre of Bangkok which is swept out of sight daily, but most of the
country looks like it does here. The country is choking in it’s own filth.”

“If it’s so bad, why don’t they do something about it?”

“It’s human nature to have a blind spot for our own failings. Like, it’s the
same thing with these women you’re working with. Thailand still has a
conservative society and traditional culture, yet it is the most well known
country in the world for sex tourism and prostitution; that’s why your
exhibition with them is so important. The Thai people, despite all their
fervent nationalism, mostly still have to learn what it is to put the common
good first and themselves second. It’s obvious in the corrupt bureaucratic
and political system we read about in the newspaper everyday, but applies
to everyone when it comes to other things like this,” he says, holding up
the plastic bag, now filled with litter, “and it being common practice for
Thai husbands to visit prostitutes and keep mistresses.”

I try to see past the trash, at a tugboat in the centre of the river
straining to haul three black barges lashed together with thick ropes, so
heavily burdened with loads of sand and gravel they’re submerged right to
the brim. I ask Silpa about it and he says it’s headed in the direction of
Bangkok, taking building materials to meet the demands of the rapidly
expanding city.

Returning to the house, Silpa says, “I have to leave you for a couple of
hours. Will you be all right?”

“Where are you going?”

“I have to go and pay my respects to the monks at my monastery.”

“Can’t I come with you?”

“Sorry, no women are allowed.” I’m about to say something about his
religion being patriarchal or discriminatory but think better of it. It is, but
I’m determined to learn more from the women I’m working with before
opening my mouth and sticking my foot in it. “I’ll be back for dinner. My
family will look after you.”

Aside from having no idea what a word they say means, I take pleasure in
helping the women prepare the evening meal, crushing garlic, herbs and
chillies, learning about Thai cuisine in the process. Silpa comes back late
in the afternoon and talks for a while with the men, who are puffing
cigarettes on the balcony. When one of the elder women calls repeatedly,
“Kin kaew, kin kaew,” they come running and squat down ready to eat.
Having eaten their fill they move back out to the balcony to smoke,
leaving the women to clean up after them. I want to say something about
this too only nobody but Silpa would know what I was saying and, by the
look of the taught muscles and sunburned skin of the men, I’d say they do
their fair share of work in some gender based division of labour.

Silpa takes me back by Chao Phraya as darkness falls, spreading a mat out
on the damp ground and sitting on the bank of the now still and black
river. There’s enough ambient light to gently silhouette Silpa’s triangular
shape, he’s sitting in the lotus position.

“I like to mediate here. This is the best place for me to do it because of
my connection with it. It’s especially peaceful when people are sleeping,
which they do early in the village.”

“Do you meditate often, Silpa?”

“Whenever I can.”

“Tell me about meditation, can you teach me?”

“I think you already know.”

“I don’t think so, not that I’ve tried particularly hard. Like today in the
temple I tried for a few minutes, only can’t get all the junk out of my
head.”

“You don’t think so? Then what was that in the house today before lunch,
when you were ‘in another world’? And what about when I met you in the
gallery before falling into the net, what do you think you were doing
then?”

“I was empathising through touch, not meditating.”

“Empathy is a key part of meditation. You’re a natural, that’s why you’ve
never tried to do it – you’ve never needed to try – you can without effort
as I saw you do today.”

“I still don’t believe you. That’s just me daydreaming. Perhaps if you give
me a lesson we’ll both see if I can.”

“Okay, I’ll give you a lesson, but first let’s start with some theory before
moving to the practical, okay?”

“You sound just like an art teacher with a fresh intake of first years,”
I jest.

“Thailand is mostly a Buddhist country as you know, and most of those
belong to a branch of Buddhism known as Theravada. Meditation plays an
important role for all Buddhists but especially for monks, who chant the
mantras for days to gain enlightenment and progress on The Path of
spiritual freedom to Nirvana. These monks and others are aiming to attain
the consciousness of infinity through the acceptance of the unreality of
reality and the unreality of consciousness itself.”

“I know a bit about the background from reading.”

“My master taught me knowledge is never merely intellectual but is a kind
of felt knowledge where everything is known from a different perspective
and takes on a new significance. I know you understand this because you
too have experienced this kind of tactile awareness, only someone who
has experienced it can comprehend it. This experience is timeless, that is,
it’s outside of time and space. The first step is to cultivate compassion
through meditation by contemplating the suffering of humanity while
remaining absolutely calm. The second step is visualisation, and the third
step is actualisation. I’m going to ask you some questions and I want you
to begin calming yourself. We already both know the answers to what I’m
going to ask, so simply answer as truthfully as possible. When I’m done, it
will be your turn to ask me some questions, and then we’ll start.”

“Fine.”

“So then, Anna, did you sympathise when you were meditating today?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And what was it you sympathised with?”

“Actually, you, because I was in the place you were born and where your
mother died. I felt a great deal of sympathy for you.”

“What about when you touched the fishing net in the gallery?”

“I imagined the life of the fisherman who had used it.”

“Did you see the fisherman?”

“It was my overactive imagination.”

“Now you call it imagination, before empathy. Compassion and empathy
are one and the same, the first step of meditation, of making contact
with the psychic. That net belonged to my father. Did you visualise him,
or imagine him, as you call it?”

I’m still afraid to be emotionally honest despite myself and answer tensely,
“No, but it did make me think of you. I pictured you and your wife.”

“Slow down, Anna,” he says steadily. “You hadn’t met me then, so how
did you know it was me? How did you know what I looked like if you didn’t
visualise?”

“I’d read an article about you on the Web and before, a few years ago,
in a journal. There must have been a photo and I subconsciously put the
name and face together before I consciously did. It’s explainable,
rationally.”

“How did you know about my wife? Another daydream?”

“That I can’t say, though at the time I didn’t know who she was.”

“And have you ever visualised any other time?”

“This is going to sound weird, and I don’t want to scare you off.”

“You won’t do that, Anna. You can tell me anything. Tell me.”

“I saw you. I mean I saw you before that day at the gallery, though I’m
sure, as I said, I’ve seen a photo of you which would explain it, only I
can’t remember the photo, which doesn’t matter—”

“Forget about the photo, tell me what you saw.”

“We’ve met many times before. You come to me in my dreams, Silpa,
I see you every night, at least I saw you every night for weeks before
we met. Sometimes I remember and sometimes I don’t. Of the times I
recall you’re with your late wife, who dies. You put her on a funeral pyre,
but she isn’t cremated, and you’re with me. Sorry, that sounds crazy,
but that’s how my dreams go. I recognised you the moment you touched
me in the gallery. I draw my dreams whenever I can recall them and I’ve
been drawing your face and hers. I can show you the pictures if you like,
they’re in my hotel room.”

“That’s visualisation, Anna, and this,” he says putting my hand on his
chest, “is actualisation. See, I can teach you about the technique of
meditation to train you to control this natural ability of yours and help
you develop it, but nobody has taught you in this life, for you it’s innate.
Your karma from your past lives is exceptional, which is why you’re
fortunate enough to be born into this one where you can practice and
develop Dharma, the universal truth. Now you’re really being honest with
me it’s your turn to ask me anything.”

I recompose myself and think of how to phrase my questions. “Okay,
you are compassionate for the suffering of humanity. Are you
compassionate for my suffering?”

“Yes, I am. The few occasions I’ve touched you that’s all I’ve felt,
compassion.”

“And have you visualised me, as I’d done with you in my dreams? I mean
to ask, have you seen me in yours?”

He closes his ponderous eyes and looks inward. “Yes, Anna, I see you
there.”

I’m hit by a sensation of revelation rushing over, around, and through me,
as though the level of the Chao Phraya had suddenly swelled and swept
me down river and out to sea, swallowing my entire being as if I were but
a mere drop of water in all the oceans of the world, uniting me with all
things. I especially feel a sense of oneness with Silpa. If what he said
about visualising me is true – and I believed him as soon as he said it – I
know with absolute certainty we’re meant to be together spiritually,
mentally, and physically. I know Silpa loves me too.

“Silpa.” I place one hand on his and the other upon his cheek, feeling it
flushing with blood flowing to the surface. “Silpa.” Instead of words my
mouth speaks louder with actions, my lips finding his, locked in one long
embrace from which he withdraws.

“Anna, this isn’t—”

“This isn’t what? Why are you holding back from me? Don’t you feel for
me the way I feel for you? If you tell me you don’t I wouldn’t believe you.”

“I could never tell you that I don’t feel for you.” I kiss him again, and
again he pulls back. “Anna, what you want would be a temporary pleasure,
leading us away from what it is you’re – we’re – both after and what’s
drawn us together. If we did this it wouldn’t be an act of compassion for
the benefit of the salvation of the world, it would be selfishness,
succumbing to desire, when this is what we must rise above.”

“We have a special connection, Silpa. For me I know it’s a once in a
lifetime connection. It’s like what you said before about men and women
being mirrors that need each other not only to see each other, but
themselves. You’re my mirror, it’s only because of you I have any chance
of finding the truth in myself. But am I your mirror, Silpa? How do you see
yourself reflected in me?”

“I see our union as being spiritual, that’s pure. The bond between us
shouldn’t be lowered to the satisfaction of a physical impulse. True, it’s
the union of opposites that leads to the one truth and the great bliss of
enlightenment, but all your life you’ve been looking for what people
commonly call ‘love’ and have never found it before because you think of
this union as being physical and external to yourself, something entangling.
No, the truest love we can have is spiritual and now your search is over
because you have found that love, not in me, but inside yourself.”

“You haven’t answered my question.” I press him. “Am I your mirror?”

“I do see myself, but the extreme opposites of the spiritual and the
physical should only be mixed with tremendous care, or else it all be
ruined.”

Silpa’s sentences have become riddles and I look at him in confusion.
“I don’t understand.”

“Then close your eyes and you will begin to, if you’re ready to practice
some meditation?” Perhaps he’s right: I am rushing things. “Close your
eyes,” he continues, “straighten your posture, relax your muscles, calm
your mind, breathe easily and repeat after me, Om Mani Padme Hum.”

“Om Mani Padme Hum, what’s that?”

“It’s the mantra I chant to help unchain my mind and focus as a
preparation for and as a part of meditation.”

“Okay, but what does it mean, I mean, does it translate as something?”

“Well, yes it does, it literally translates from ancient Tibetan as ‘O, the
jewel in the lotus.’”

These details add little to my understanding and I say, “It’s very poetic,
but I thought you said you were a Theravada Buddhist, not Tibetan.”

“Yes, but I use this mantra because it’s a magic invocation to the
bodhisattva called Avalokitesvara, who has a special meaning for me
personally.”

“Okay, you’ll have to explain to me what you just said.”

“That doesn’t matter now. I’ll explain more to you later. What we’re going
to do is begin chanting the mantra by verbalising it, then when you know
it, you can repeat it silently in your mind and visualise something.”

“What should I visualise?” I ask.

“That’s up to you, something simple, a shape or a colour to begin with.
Later you can try something more complex.”

We begin chanting together, eventually falling into silence. Without telling
him, I decide to make Silpa the goal of my visualisation, picturing him as
he is now, after all, I’d successfully visualised him before we met so I
should be able to do it again. We stay by the river sitting opposite each
other for I don’t know how long. We could have been there for minutes or
hours or even nights, days, weeks, months. Time loses all meaning, as
does everything external.