‘Shelter, kind sir, grant me succour, holy father!’ Dara said, her voice and her limbs quivering.

Raising his hand in benediction, his face radiant with peace, the monk said reassuringly, ‘Calm yourself, my daughter.’

The young monk appeared with a small mat of kausheya grass, which he spread on a stone platform in the shade of a pipal tree opposite the door of the monastery. The elderly monk sat on the mat, and making a sign to Dara to sit in front of him, enquired, ‘Tell me what is on your mind, my daughter.’

‘O Fountain of Pity, reverend sir, grant shelter to this unfortunate child and its mother!’ Dara said beseechingly, her eyes filled with tears.

‘Lady,’ the elderly monk spoke after some thought, ‘the solutions that you desire are not ones that can be found on the path leading to the shelter of the Buddha, of the Holy Faith, of the Monastic Order.’

‘No, Father, your humble servant desires nothing,’ Dara cried out. ‘She only begs for shelter from tyranny. O Ocean of Compassion, grant that at the feet of the Buddha your humble servant may be able to keep her child with her.’

A smile of pity illuminated the calm countenance of the monk. ‘Lady,’ he said, ‘all worldly relations are nothing but infatuation, a source of pain. A soul disturbed by infatuation cannot achieve peace.’

Dara was left staring at the face of the monk. Despair stifled her eagerness. Picking up courage, she said again, ‘Holy Father, your humble servant begs to be admitted into the fold of the all-pitying Buddha, in this monastery. Under its threefold shelter, your humble servant shall conduct herself with propriety and humility and shall thereby be redeemed from attachment.’

The calm countenance of the elderly monk remained unruffled. She laid down her son near the monk’s feet and bending her forehead so as to touch the stone platform, implored once again, ‘It is for the sake of this helpless creature that your humble servant seeks refuge in the Holy Faith. She will act upon the commands of the Faith and freeing herself from attachment, shall enter the sacred fold.’

Feeling the hard stone beneath him the child opened his mouth wide and began to cry.

‘Lady, take the child in your lap,’ the elderly monk said, turning his eyes away from the pathetic sight. ‘Who are you that is so desirous of adopting the Buddhist Faith?’ he asked.

‘Holy Father, I am the mother of the helpless child,’ Dara replied.

‘Do you have the permission of your husband to adopt the Buddhist Faith?’

‘I have no husband, Father.’

‘If you have no husband, do you have the permission of your father to join the Buddhist Faith?’

‘I have no father, either,’ Dara said, shaking her head.

‘If the husband and the father are not there, do you have the permission of your son to adopt the Buddhist Faith?’

‘Holy Father, your humble servant’s son is in no position to grant permission,’ Dara again replied, shaking her head.