Ever since I have known her, almost a decade now, this dear neighbour has been visiting some quaint little place close by. I would see her often in the elevator, with a smile on her face and a spring in her step, off on yet another trip there. “What is there to see? What do you do there?” I would ask her. “Come along someday. It looks like you could use a break anyway,” she would answer. Over time, I found that some other friends had also been visiting. And while I hadn’t checked its TripAdvisor ratings, they all seemed fairly content with their experience.

After a particularly gruelling stretch, I finally gave her a call. “When are you going to your secret retreat next? I think I will come along this time.” “Sure, probably a few weekends from now. Even if I don’t end up going, I will make sure I organise a guide for you,” she said.

The day arrived — it was a sunny Sunday morning and I was ready. I had packed heavy — a couple of bags and backpacks — stuffed with many things I probably didn’t need. But rather be prepared than sorry, I figured, and reached the pick-up point with luggage in tow. My guide was waiting there already; he was a generous and jolly-looking chap, visibly happy to see me, and we travelled the short distance together. “Hey, so what all are we going to do there?” I asked, unsure whether to be tentative or excited. “Aaah, there will be a couple of other travellers there. Just go with the flow,” he smiled.

We got into a building and took the elevator. I don’t even know whose house it was — I just followed blindly. We removed our shoes and went inside. A couple of others had already checked in and were seated on neatly arranged floor mats in the living room. Many were facing what seemed like a scroll and I sat myself at the far end of the room and watched with interest. Paintings of the Buddha adorned the serene cream walls. And I looked up to see two crystal unicorns gazing down kindly at the group from the ledge they were perched on.

A quick round of introductions and then it started. A little murmur went around the room and it quickly picked up pace. Faster and faster, the chanting grew until it was a lyrical crescendo. Someone thrust a little book in my hand and pointed to a stanza but I just couldn’t keep up. The group chanted on in perfect rhythm. It wasn’t a song. It wasn’t a story. It wasn’t poetry. It was just magical vibration from a dozen or more souls reverberating through a room full of care. It was like horses galloping forcefully through the clouds. As if waves were ebbing and crashing into a cliff on a solitary island. An orchestra of angels tugging soulfully at one’s heart strings.  Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo  chanted the room and I sat there with my mind absorbed, eyes involuntarily and inexplicably reacting to the tempo of the room.  Nam-Myoho-Renge-KyoNam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo .

The harmony reverberated long after the chanting had stopped. A few individuals then shared personal experiences with the rest of the group. Some read from their phones and tabs, some spoke impromptu. There were some nods, some laughs, some long pauses of contemplation, but no judgement. “Rishi, do you want to say or ask anything?” my guide asked kindly. I looked at the Buddha to my left, the unicorns to my right, and all the Bodhisattvas around me, and shook my head. And then it ended with the now familiar chant pulsating through the room.  Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo . My introduction to Nichiren Buddhism had drawn to a close. I followed my guide out, slipped on my shoes, gathered my baggage and walked towards the elevator. I was feeling somewhat lighter — I think I may have left a bag or two behind. 

( Rishi Piparaiya is the author of Aisle Be Damned )

rishi@aislebedamned.com

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