The voice of a Buddhist mendicant, returning late from his round, was heard in the street, ‘O suffering men and women of the world, for peace and relief, come into the fold of the Buddha, into the fold of the Faith, into the fold of the Monastic Community!’

Dara, eager for shelter above all else, saw the mendicant’s offer of safety as a ray of hope.

In that blistering heat, dust rose on the roads of the town like grey flames. Even the hot air seemed to be rushing towards the forest for relief. In that dreadful time of the day, clasping little Shakul to her breast, Dara left the house of the priest and stepped into the cobbled street, which was burning like plates of metal. To protect the tender skin of the child from the scorching rays of the sun, she wrapped round him a dirty, threadbare piece of her stole.

On Dara’s body, there was just a rag of a bodice, which she tied at the back, and a thin well-worn piece of sari, wrapped round her waist. In the haste to get away from the Brahmin’s house, her tangled hair had come loose and was being blown across her face by the wind. She tripped again and again on the dangling end of her sari, tearing it further. The rays of the sun stabbed into her head and every pore of her sweat-covered body. Hot cobblestones burned her feet.

But Dara was oblivious to all this. In her ears rang the compassionate words of the mendicant’s invitation: ‘O suffering men and women of the world, for peace, come into the fold of the Buddha.’ Her eyes were fixed on the tall spire of the Mahabodhi Monastery, rising into the hot, dusty sky, above a cluster of pipal trees.

For more than a hundred years the spire of the monastery had stood as a symbol of the merciful sanctuary of the holy faith to suffering humanity. With her eyes on it, and holding her baby tightly to her breast, Dara headed straight to the monastery, in the howling wind that seemed to echo the mendicant’s message.

The great doors of the main entrance to the monastery were shut. Behind those closed doors was the abode of mercy and shelter. Dara raised her hand and struck the clapper of the large bell hanging at the main entrance. The hushed silence of the summer afternoon was broken by a deep resonant sound. To Dara, the reverberating notes seemed to be shedding drops of mercy.

A small panel slid aside in the door. Through it a young monk looked at Dara curiously, his eyes heavy with sleep. Dara implored, ‘Reverend sir, I have come to beg for shelter. I seek the protection of the Buddha, of the Faith, of the Monastic Community.’

The eyes of the young monk disappeared behind the door, and the peephole was closed. Dara, trembling all over in eager expectation, rested her head against the door. A short time later, a part of one of the door opened and a kind-looking, elderly monk emerged.