If Truth Be Told: A Monk's Memoir Read Free Page A

shower from above and a rainbow will be seen.'
                  My birth might have been foretold but it certainly wasn’t planned, my father would tell me later. After losing their first child, my parents had gone on to have a boy and a girl, and were neither planning nor hoping for a third child. But, fifteen months after the holy man’s prediction, in the month of Margshirsha, on the twelfth night of the waxing moon, I was born in a government hospital.
    Except for a light drizzle, nothing else fell from the sky and there was no rainbow in sight. I was delivered before my father or other relatives could even reach the hospital. The customary gutti, the giving of honey to the newborn baby, usually done by mother's brother, was given by a nurse instead. My mother had remembered to carry the tulsi with her though. Squeezing three leaves between her thumb and fingers, she touched the juice to my lips. My father reached half an hour after I was born and named me Amit.
                  Hoping she might avoid what was written in the book of fate, my mother kept the mystic’s prediction to herself. It was only after my renunciation, more than thirty years later, when she saw me in my ochre robes, that she would reveal what had transpired long years ago.
     

     
                  The years went by, and I was now five. The summer vacation had just started. One day, my parents were at the office while my siblings and I were at home. Rajan and Didi were playing outside but I wasn’t interested in their games. Looking for something else to occupy me, I began browsing through the cupboard in the living room and came upon a stack of comics in the bottom shelf. Curious, I sat down on the floor and began to flip through the pages.
                  Within moments, I was entranced by the attractive illustrations though I didn't think I could read the sentences. But, when I paid attention to the dialogue bubbles, much to my surprise, letter by letter, word by word, the sentences formed. This was my first experience of reading sentences.
    My mother used to tell me bedtime stories every night, but I now discovered a whole new world of stories. Every word I read filled me with an inexplicable joy and I remember giggling as I read. It was as if a narrator was talking to me personally, telling me those wonderful tales. I felt I was walking with someone through a dark forest, being guided by the lamp he was holding up for me. With every step we took, the space before us lit up and a whole new world unfurled. I sat there reading one issue after another as the morning rolled by.
                  Finally, Didi came in to ask me to eat; it was lunchtime. I ignored her. I didn't want food, I wanted stories. She came again and then again, and I sent her away each time. She was only eleven herself but, being the eldest, was responsible for giving me the lunch my mother had made for us before leaving for work.
    'It's already 4 p.m. You must have your lunch now.'
    I kept reading.
    'Amit?'
    I didn't answer.
    'Amit! I'm talking to you.'
    'I don't want to eat.'
    She gave me a peck on my cheek and said, 'It's very late. Please, have your lunch.'
    She knew it was impossible to push me into anything even if it was in my own interests. Love was the only way.
    'Okay, after five minutes.'
    'You've been saying that all day.'
    'I promise this time.'
                  Didi came back half an hour later and the same conversation took place: I asked for more time. But she was having no more of this behaviour. Heating my lunch, she brought it to me.
                  'I'm not hungry,' I said without looking at her.
                  'Please, you must eat,' she said. 'Mummy and Papa will be home soon.'
                  'I must finish my comics, Didi. Please don't disturb me. '
                  She prepared a bite of chapatti, vegetables, lentils and pickle and