This story describes ten selected days in the life of a man practicing Buddhism within a monastic system. Nine of these days take place consecutively in a single location, while the final day jumps forward in time, placing the protagonist in entirely different circumstances that necessitate a change in his approach to practice. Over the course of these ten days, the protagonist guides the reader through key aspects of Buddhism, monastic life, and duty within a Buddhist temple. The narrative introduces this belief system to readers unfamiliar with Eastern traditions, often correcting misconceptions about monks and their daily practices. The principles are explained step by step, demonstrating their application and the mental states they can produce.

The protagonist of this work is a complex and contrasting figure. On one hand, he leads a seemingly monotonous and uneventful life — waking, meditating, eating, and meditating again. Occasionally, something stirs in his surroundings, but he himself takes no deliberate action to bring about change. On the other hand, his inner world is vibrant and fascinating. In his mind, he travels through time and space, recounting his own history, the stories of people he has met, their customs, and their beliefs. This internally perceived reality starkly contrasts with the physically experienced world, acting as its counterpoint. However, unlike the fantasies that introverts often use to compensate for an unsatisfying external reality, the protagonist’s inner world is even more real than the external illusion. The polarity between these two worlds is completely reversed.

Readers come to understand the protagonist’s experience of reality not through observation of his outward behavior but by delving into his inner world, which is swept up in a storm of emotions and reflections. Drawn into this extraordinary journey, readers not only learn about Buddhist practices and the path to enlightenment but also receive a wealth of insights into the realms of technology, science, and religion.

The plot of the book may seem deceptively simple, yet its retrospective and intertwined narrative captivates completely. The protagonist takes no active part in the events; his role is limited to passive, yet intensely mindful, observation. As an involuntary participant, he is solely a witness to the events, not a conscious instigator. He floats with the current of the action, lying still on its surface. The current carries him from port to port, revealing an astonishingly diverse and colorful world. He drifts across unknown seas, neither resisting nor judging the places and situations he encounters. His experience reshapes his perception of reality — illusion becomes reality, and reality turns into illusion, ultimately breaking apart, blending together, and losing any foundation in mental constructs.

If the book turns out otherwise and readers see it differently… well, that was at least the author’s intention. The journey he intended for the reader is a voyage into the mind. The action follows the trail of consciousness, attempting to leap beyond thoughts and beliefs, striving to reach the source of existence — not merely the origins of perception and experience but the very womb where they are born. Whether the trail leads there or strays onto tangents is for the reader to decide upon finishing the book.

Day One

I drop three tablets of aspartame into a metal mug and pour in drinking water from a nearby street dispenser. The tablets dissolve slowly in the cold water. I light an incense stick and sit cross-legged on the mattress. A pleasant jasmine scent spreads through the small, dark room.

The building housing this room is typical of a Moroccan riad. A riad is a veritable fortress. In keeping with Islamic cultural norms, all doors and windows face the inner courtyard. Two majestic palms — a date palm and a coconut palm — grow in the courtyard alongside a few smaller shrubs. The expansive crowns of the tall palms block the intense sunlight, which can be harsh in this climate, casting the courtyard into a state of perpetual twilight. This effect is especially pronounced in the ground-floor room where I stay, its single window fitted with translucent panes.

The room is not large. It accommodates two single beds pushed together, topped with a mismatched king-sized mattress. The only other furniture is a small, narrow table. Above the bed hangs a rusty, battered ceiling fan that makes an unbearable racket when turned on. Opposite the bed, a faded and aging mirror decorates the wall, next to which a small clothing hook is mounted.

Adjoining the blue-toned room is a bathroom. The bathroom has no windows, but there are a few small holes punched high into the wall. These holes are too small to look through or be seen from. A spigot juts out of the wall near these holes, with a showerhead mounted about a meter above it. The bathroom is also equipped with a sink and, somewhat unusually for this region, a proper toilet with a flush tank. Blue mosaic tiles on the walls and floor harmonize with the room’s overall color scheme.

The incense I use for meditation here is scented, unlike the unscented varieties I encountered in Thailand. Here, incense primarily serves to perfume statues of deities and temples, offering the most pleasant aromas possible. The jasmine fragrance adds a unique charm to meditation. Subconsciously, I anticipate the joy of each inhale after an exhale. When the scent fades, I slowly open my eyes, as if awakening from a deep trance. Stretching my stiff legs, I glance into the mug, stirring with a spoon to see if the aspartame has dissolved. I add instant coffee and powdered creamer, filling the mug to the brim with bottled water. My morning coffee is ready — deliciously sweet despite being sugar-free and perfectly chilled right from the start.

While sipping coffee, I open my laptop and browse world news and Facebook. Facebook reminds me of a memory: „Four years ago, you were in Egypt. Want to share this memory with your friends?” No, I don’t! I scroll through the photos from that trip: Cairo, a Nile cruise, the Giza Plateau, the Great Pyramid… Exactly four years ago, I fulfilled one of my greatest childhood dreams — perhaps the greatest dream of my life. In 2015, I stepped inside the Pyramid of Cheops! What an emotional experience it was! People said my eyes sparkled with joy, and the trip meant so much to me at the time. Yes, Facebook, that was a nice reminder. You’ve given me an idea for the day — after all, I’m currently in a similarly mysterious and almost equally ancient place.

That trip to Cairo four years ago marked the beginning of my transformation. I decided there was no point in waiting any longer, and fulfilling the unfulfilled became my top priority. There’s no sense in postponing anything. I live here and now, so here and now is where my adventure begins. Cairo was the first step. Afterward, I changed my pace of life: six weeks of work followed by a week, sometimes two, of vacation. It didn’t work at first — too many obligations, too many investments, too few hands to help. But I learned to organize my tasks and time to make these brief escapes as frequent as possible. I also picked up tips on how to travel economically, with the ultimate goal of never returning from the last trip. Travel became my entire life.

After finishing my coffee, I head to the beach.

The sea is about 200 meters away, accessible by an asphalt road. The beach is wide and sandy, dotted with small flat-bottomed fishing boats. When not in use, they are pulled ashore with tractors and placed on the dry sand, perpendicular to the waterline. There are dozens of boats, in various colors and shapes. Some fishermen sit nearby, untangling and mending their nets. Between the boats and a distant ancient temple lies a stretch of pure, golden sand. There aren’t many beachgoers — just a few individuals scattered here and there.

I walk toward the far end of this section of the beach, near some eroded rocks jutting out from the sea.

Though it’s still well before noon, the sun is already blazing, and the sand burns my feet. Nearby, an Indian family is relaxing. A man lies on the sand in just his swim trunks, while a woman, fully dressed in a sari and jeans, wades a few meters away in the shallow water, keeping an eye on her two young sons. High, energetic waves have completely soaked her, occasionally even knocking her over.

I leave my belongings on the shore and ask the man, in English, to watch them. He glances at me and nods when I point to the small pile of clothing, but he doesn’t say a word. I step into the water and push through the incoming waves. The ocean here is said to never be calm. The waves rise to nearly two meters on the shallows — perfect for surfing.

Despite my limited experience with ocean swimming, I quickly notice that the best way to handle an approaching wave is to lie flat on the water, parallel to its direction. This minimizes the impact. The wave simply lifts and lowers me. A similar effect can be achieved by diving under the oncoming wave. However, if I face the wave head-on, it delivers a painful smack of water straight to my face. Such waves can move with significant speed, and colliding with one feels like diving off a springboard — except it’s your sensitive face, not your hard skull, taking the brunt.

Turning your back to the wave can also be risky. It might unexpectedly bend your body at an awkward angle or even flip you over. This is especially true because you can’t see the wave’s height and can’t prepare for it. Fortunately, breakers form only near the shore in shallower waters. They occur when two opposing currents meet — water flowing out from the shore at the bottom and water moving toward the shore at the surface. To avoid them, you simply swim a little farther out to deeper waters, where waves still lift and lower your body but breakers are much less frequent and significantly smaller.

Swimming regularly is excellent for spinal health — but that’s not all! Vipassana meditation focuses on maintaining awareness of the activity you’re engaged in. In meditation courses, practitioners often demonstrate and explain “walking vipassana.” An extreme version of this practice is called “slow-motion walking,” a term borrowed from cinematography techniques where high-frame-rate footage is played back at normal speed for a slowed-down effect. The meditator moves at an intentionally slow pace, concentrating entirely on maintaining balance.

I’ve developed my own variation of this method: walking with closed eyes. In this version, staying upright relies solely on the vestibular system. I’ve even pushed this practice further by meditating on the rooftop of a tall building. This setting ensures a serious approach to the exercise — before taking a step, you must first confirm there’s solid ground beneath you.

Vipassana meditation can also be practiced while swimming. My method involves swimming breaststroke exclusively, shifting all my attention to the movement of my arms. Because seawater’s high salinity increases buoyancy, staying afloat is much less demanding than in freshwater. This allows me to completely eliminate leg movements, focusing solely on my arms’ activity.

For seated meditation, lighting an incense stick is ideal to mark the session’s duration. For walking or swimming meditation, however, it’s essential to establish a specific distance beforehand. Defining the parameters of the practice before starting is a key element of vipassana. If my goal is to practice vipassana by focusing on arm movement, I do not shift my attention to another part of my body or change the type of meditation mid-session. I continue observing my arm movements until the session’s defined time or distance is completed.

These parameters should not be shortened, even if unforeseen circumstances arise — whether someone interrupts me, the weather changes, or I’m plagued by ants. Besides training concentration, meditation is, if not primarily, a test of willpower.

I swim for just under an hour. Pleasantly tired, I emerge from the water at the same spot where I had entered. Despite the time that has passed, the man I saw earlier remains in the same position, lying in the same spot with his head now covered by a towel. His partner, meanwhile, has moved a few dozen meters away, playing with the children. Fortunately, my belongings, though left unattended and unguarded, seem to have held no appeal to potential thieves. I had tied the key to my room onto a string at my waist, leaving only a towel and a wrap on the shore. In the event of theft, my losses would have been minimal.

I brush aside the warm sand, exposing the cooler layer beneath, and sit cross-legged, facing the sun. Its rays pleasantly warm my skin, while the gentle trade wind blowing from the sea cools and dries it. The rhythmic crash of the waves soothes my senses, like a mantra repeated tirelessly by nature. This is the perfect moment to meditate — to disconnect and embrace the bliss of a peaceful mind.

I light an incense stick and plant it in the sand before me. Its burning duration will mark the length of my meditation. I half-close my eyes, focusing on my breath and striving to think of nothing.

After about forty-five minutes, as the incense burns to its end, I feel thoroughly warmed. My body radiates heat, almost as if I had a fever. I glance toward the water, but the sight of towering breakers discourages me from taking another swim. Turning my back to the sun, I aim to extend the serenity brought on by meditation.

A group of children suddenly rushes over, eager to take a photo with me. One of them, a girl around ten years old, is dressed in a traditional sari.

A sari is a long, delicate strip of fabric, unstitched, wrapped around the hips and draped over the left shoulder. This method of wearing it is made possible by the sari’s length, which can reach up to six meters. Monks of the Theravāda tradition wear robes made of slightly shorter lengths of cloth but drape them in a similar fashion. The lower garment, called Antarvāsa in Pali, is tied around the waist, while the upper garment, Uttarāsaṅga, is wrapped around the torso, with its end draped over the left shoulder. Hindu monks also wear two pieces of fabric, though theirs are considerably smaller than the Buddhist ones.

Beneath the girl’s bright red sari, a short blue blouse with small sleeves — called a choli in India — is visible. Her long hair is tied into a braid that reaches almost to her waist. She wears gold earrings and a nose ring, while her ankles are adorned with metal chains that jingle softly with each step. Her younger brother, about half her age, is dressed only in a loincloth. His wild, jet-black hair is disheveled, and both children have dark, sun-kissed skin. Their mahogany faces contrast sharply with their snow-white teeth, meticulously cared for in India, and their large, equally white eyes.

I do my best to match their cheerful expressions with my widest smile. My gaze follows them as they run off toward a nearby boat where their father is working. At the center of the boat, a makeshift tent has been set up using tarps stretched over ropes. Sitting hunched at its entrance, a young woman busily sews something. It seems this family lives aboard the boat.

This sight reminds me of a conversation I had a few years ago with one of my Romanian clients — a kind, exceptionally helpful, and impeccably honest young man. He was adamant about dissociating Romanians from the Romani people. He argued, using himself as an example, that Romanians have typically European, even Slavic, features, whereas the Romani are Indian migrants with skin tones characteristic of South Asians. Watching this girl and her brother, it’s hard not to agree with his claim. The family living on the boat reminded me of the Romani people I’ve encountered in Poland.

It’s time for me to move on — enough sun for one day. I look toward the sea at a rock jutting out from the sand. The stones resemble the peak of an underwater mountain, with three rocky summits emerging where the sea meets the sand. The largest one stands about six meters tall, with a similar diameter and a slightly pyramidal shape.

Low tide has connected the rocks to the mainland. Earlier, while swimming, I noticed that the largest rock had a rectangular niche carved into its upper part from the sea-facing side, resembling an altar. I decide to climb up to the rock and take shelter in the carved opening, away from the blazing sun.

As I rise from the sand, I stretch my limbs. Sitting on the sand is far more comfortable than on a meditation mat — or even a spring mattress. The sand molds perfectly to the contours of my body, shaping an ideal seat. A simple wiggle is enough to align my body with the ground. Even hours of meditation cause no discomfort to my legs, which are unnaturally bent for a European. The thought of preparing such a sand seat for future meditation crosses my mind.

After brushing off the sand and slipping on my clothes, I head toward the rock.

As I walk around the rock, I notice figures carved into its northern side. The rock is heavily eroded, yet it is still possible to distinguish the head of a bull emerging from a human torso. Two arms are visible, one of which clearly shows five fingers. Behind this bull’s head, in the upper left part, a zoomorphic figure is carved, whose head might also belong to the bull. The fine details of the bas-relief have largely been eroded by time, making it difficult to interpret the scene. However, if the bull’s head belongs to the animal figure, the human torso’s head seems to be missing. It’s possible that this part has already chipped off, leaving room for speculation. If that were the case, the arrangement of the figures suggests that the human figure is holding the bull’s head under its arm, almost as if strangling the animal.

In Hindu mythology, the bull represents the demon Mahishasura. The name comes from the Sanskrit word „mahisha,” meaning bull. According to legend, Mahishasura could not be killed by a human hand. After threatening the gods, he was ultimately slain by the goddess Durga, who was created specifically to eliminate him. Therefore, one of Durga’s epithets is Mahishasuramardini, meaning „slayer of the demon Mahisha.”

I manage to cross the protruding stones to the eastern side of the monument, without getting too wet from the large sea waves crashing against the shore. Chunks of chipped rock form three tall steps, leading up to a carved ledge in the stone, which serves as the entrance to a small shrine. This ledge is about three meters high, roughly halfway up the rock. It is approximately three meters wide and two meters deep. Its lower surface is slightly slanted toward the sea, allowing water from the waves crashing against the rock to flow back into the ocean rather than accumulating in the structure. In the front wall, where a niche forms an altar, several figures have been carved, but due to advanced erosion, they are barely recognizable. However, two slender human figures can still be distinguished, standing on either side of the niche. They seem to be guardians of the place, watching over it. They face two bowed figures, who appear to be offering reverence to the altar’s contents. These people are turned away, humbly bowing to the object of worship in the empty niche. The figures are bent at the knees and deeply inclined forward, to the point that their heads are lost in the stone wall. Their elbows suggest their hands are clasped in prayer.

I climb up the stone protrusions to reach the ledge. From there, I enter the niche, which extends over a meter into the rock through a rectangular cut. I sit comfortably inside. As I stroke the smooth granite wall, I admire the meticulous craftsmanship of its construction. The wall is exceptionally straight and further polished by erosion. Before me stretches a breathtaking view of the ocean. From this recess, I cannot see the beach or people bathing in the shallow waters. It feels as though I am completely alone here, surrounded only by the sound of the sea waves. There isn’t a single ship on the ocean. It is completely empty. This is exactly the same landscape that the creators of this stone sculpture must have enjoyed centuries, if not millennia, ago. Time seems to stand still from here. It only allows for a daily evaluation, confined to one day — today, to the here and now…

I take out an incense stick, deciding to forgo lunch. The magic of this newly discovered place has seized my senses to the point where I wish to remain hidden in the ancient altar for as long as possible. I am glad I have more incense sticks with me, and I am also relieved that no one has taken them while swimming in the sea. I light one and inhale the incredibly pleasant aroma of jasmine. Its scent makes my head spin, hastening my arrival at the state of lethargy, which I call samadhi.

Mahabalipuram, where I am now, is located in southern India, on the Bay of Bengal. The place owes its name to a group of temples carved into granite monoliths, associated with the ancient city of the same name. Monoliths are enormous boulders or even entire mountains formed from a single mass of rock. They serve as the medium in which figures, statues, and even entire buildings are carved. The most famous sculpture of this type is the Sphinx carved into the Giza Plateau in Egypt — lying down, with a human head and a lion’s body. The Sphinx is a giant, 73 meters long and 19 meters high. It was created by chipping away at the sandstone, on which the pyramids rest, and lies in an artificial depression in the ground. For millennia, people did not know that the human head was attached to the body of a lion, as only the head protruded above the surrounding sand. Excavations of the Sphinx began in the 19th century, but it was not fully uncovered until the interwar period of the 20th century. The temples and statues of Mahabalipuram are equally fascinating, especially since they are carved from much harder granite. Some of these monuments have been known for a long time, while others were uncovered by the tsunami that ravaged the local coastline in 2014.

In stonemasonry, the hardness of rocks and minerals plays a crucial role, specifically their susceptibility to carving. The most popular scale for measuring hardness is the one developed in the early 19th century by the German mineralogist Friedrich Mohs. His 10-point scale is based on the resistance of minerals to scratching by other materials. A stone that can scratch another stone has a higher value on the scale. The hardest known mineral, diamond, is given the maximum value. A diamond can scratch corundums such as sapphire or ruby, as well as basaltic rocks, which have a hardness rating of 9. Mohs’ scale is not a precise measurement but works reasonably well in field conditions. A test for hardness might involve using a knife or a piece of glass. If a stone can be scratched with a knife blade, its hardness is less than 4. For example, the sandstone of the Giza Plateau, from which the Sphinx was carved, has a hardness of around 4. If a piece of glass cannot scratch a stone, the stone has a hardness higher than 6. Mahabalipuram’s granite, an igneous rock, has a hardness rating of about 6 on the Mohs scale.

Granites are igneous rocks that form from cooling lava. They have a distinct granular structure, with grains of various minerals bonded by quartz. Their crystallization temperature is higher than that of quartz, meaning the quartz crystallizes first. But it is this solidifying quartz that binds the individual grains together, giving the granite its hardness. Its hardness varies between 5 and 7 on the Mohs scale, depending on the minerals that make up the rock, such as feldspar or softer silicates.

Sandstone has a similar structure to granite, with grains of various minerals bound together. However, unlike igneous rocks, which form from cooling lava, sandstones are metamorphic rocks. Metamorphic structures are secondary compositions. Igneous rocks weather and break down into small elements that form sand. Over time, this sand accumulates, and water carrying minerals like calcium and quartz dissolves through it. The solubility of minerals is higher at higher temperatures. In deeper levels of the earth, calcite and quartz precipitate from the saturated mineral water, binding the sand grains together to form a secondary rock — sandstone. Due to the presence of soft calcite (hardness 3), sandstones can be scratched with glass or often with a knife. Sandstones generally have a hardness of about 4 on the Mohs scale, making them much easier to work with than granite.

Mahabalipuram has plenty of granite and even more sand, but no sandstone.

Tourist attractions are places I try to avoid. However, due to my studies of Buddhism and spirituality in general, the Tamil Nadu region is an area of great interest. It was here that Buddhism flourished in India, only for Tamil Nadu to eventually deliver the final blow to it.

Although Gautama Buddha was a well-educated individual, he did not write down his teachings himself. As a prince, he lived in luxury and likely received the best education available. After leaving the palace, he studied and practiced various Hindu doctrines for six years. He was probably familiar with Brahmanism, Jainism, and Shaivism. However, after attaining enlightenment, he shared his philosophy in a personalized manner, tailoring it to the specific personality and spiritual engagement of each disciple. His students did not write down his teachings either. For a long time, stories about the Buddha and his doctrine circulated only orally. Some of these contained many of his words, while others contained fewer, often mythologizing the content. Aware of potential distortions, Buddha allegedly instructed that each account begin with the phrase „I have heard that…” to emphasize the possibility of misrepresenting the stories in the Buddhist suttas.

Similarly, Socrates showed a dismissive attitude towards the intellectual legacy he left behind. The stories in the works of Plato, his disciple, present an image of the master and his philosophy filtered through Plato’s own convictions. The fabrication of dialogues and events obscures the physical reality of the teacher, whose thoughts are often attributed to the student. The accounts of the historian Xenophon and the Athenian satirist Aristophanes are also two distinct chronicles. The burning of the Library of Alexandria erased any memory of potential successors to Socrates” genius.

The story of Jesus of Nazareth is no different. The son of a carpenter may not have received a proper education and could have been illiterate. His disciples were also simple fishermen and craftsmen. However, considering the accounts of the popularity of the Christian Messiah’s teachings, it is curious that the first written reports only appeared several decades after his death, and their authors were not the apostles directly chosen by Jesus. The situation was not improved by the emerging church structures, which accepted only four gospels, suggesting the destruction of the others. Today, we know that there were at least a dozen originally. The content of these gospels was so incredibly implausible and contradictory that, to maintain the dignity of the Church and Christian faith, it was necessary to erase them from the pages of history.

Jesus taught for three or four years, gathering only twelve disciples before being sentenced to a martyr’s death at around the age of 33. Prince Siddhartha Gautama Buddha also began his spiritual life at the age of 29. Leaving his wife, son, and the luxury of the palace, he adopted a life of homelessness and begging, in accordance with Brahmin customs. However, he lived to an old age in nearly perfect health, gathering thousands of followers. For over forty years, he traveled across India, teaching and preaching the truth of the end of suffering.

The first Buddhist council took place just three months after Buddha’s death. It was convened due to declining discipline among the followers. The council established the Dhamma canon, or the teachings of Buddha, and the Vinaya canon, which set forth the rules for those practicing Buddhism. These decisions were oral, and the first written record of them was not made until after the second council, during which a schism is said to have occurred in Buddhism. The point of contention at the second council was also the discipline of monks. According to the majority account left by the participants of the Buddhist synod, a group of orthodox monks wanted to add new rules to the Vinaya that were not originally included. A minority group argued that relaxing the practices would undermine the essence of Buddhism and eventually split off from the rest. Today, these monks represent the Theravada path. The point of disagreement between the majority group and the Theravadins included, among other things, the use of money by monks.

Meanwhile, the ruler of India, King Ashoka, became a great supporter of Theravada, which became the dominant tradition. At the third council, held during his reign in 253 BCE, the canon was further refined, adding the Abhidhamma and deciding that the texts would be limited to the Pali language. The venerable Mahinda then transported the Tipitaka from Patna to the island of Ceylon, where the Pali canon was completed. By 110 BCE, it already contained all the thousands of suttas known today.

Sri Lanka, located on the island of Ceylon, became the center of Theravada Buddhism. At the turn of the millennium, this tradition dominated India, competing with the much older Brahmanism. Buddhism gained a large following, particularly in southern India. For the people of Tamil Nadu, it was especially important, as neighboring Sri Lanka was considered an extension of their territory. The Tamil language is still used in Sri Lanka today, and the culture and customs are similar.

The Tamil Nadu province both nurtured Buddhism in India — since the tradition associates key Chinese and Tibetan teachers with this region — and led to its decline. In the late 8th and early 9th centuries, a great teacher of Advaita Vedanta, Adi Shankara, emerged. He reformed the Vedic tradition, giving Brahmanism a new direction. Hinduism, weakened and mired in internal strife, revived, reclaiming not only the lead but also almost completely pushing Buddhism out of India. For Theravada, Sri Lanka became a refuge, while in the northern borders of India, a more liberal form of Buddhism, Mahayana, began to develop.

After burning three incense sticks, I decide to continue my journey. Sitting in the stone niche is quite comfortable, as I can lean my back against the rear wall and place one of my knees on the side, raising it slightly. In this position, one can remain motionless for many hours without feeling the discomfort or pain caused by the pressure. However, as I rise, I realize that my legs have completely gone numb, and I have no control over them. I slide my lower limbs from the carved niche just above the altar to the rocky ledge at its base, waiting for the blood to flow back and restore their function. It takes a few minutes before the numbness fades. When I try to climb the stone protrusions that form the high steps, I quickly regret my decision to descend. My legs still feel like they’re made of cotton. They don’t give me the stability I need to stand, especially not for rock climbing. Slowly and carefully, like an elderly person walking with a walker, I make my way down, only to stand on the sandy beach after several minutes. Taking my time, I walk cautiously toward the path leading to the fishing village, which precedes the town of Mahabalipuram from this side.

I take advantage of my temporary leg weakness to practice vipassana as I walk. The softness of my numb limbs naturally forces me to be mindful with each step. I lift my left foot, move it forward, and place it on the ground. I lift my right foot, shift it forward, and place it on the ground. I note each part of the movement of my leg, focusing on its activity. Before I decide to raise my left leg, I ensure that my right foot is fully planted on the ground.

I began the walking Vipassana practice by observing a single step: left, right, left, right, mentally noting each one. This is how nearly everyone starts. The more advanced the practice, the more the movement of the legs is broken down into individual stages. I lift my left leg, place it in front of me, lift my right leg, place it in front of me. In this way, I observe two stages of walking. By noting both parts of the movement, I train myself to observe the process of walking until I master it. When it no longer presents any difficulties to note each stage, instead of speeding up my steps, I break them down even further. I then introduce the observation of moving the leg forward: I lift my right leg, move it forward, and place it on the ground. I lift my left leg, move it forward, and place it on the ground. I repeat this observation for several minutes until I learn it.

The less challenging it is to observe the act of walking, the more complicated it can be made. I shift my body weight onto my left leg, lift my right leg, move it forward, and place it on the ground. I shift my body weight to my right side, lift my left leg, move it forward, and place it on the ground. I mentally note each stage of the step before proceeding to the next. Dividing it into four parts is the most common method of walking Vipassana that I practice, but it can be divided even further.

I shift my body weight onto my left leg, mentally noting this. I bend the toes of my right foot, mentally noting this. I lift the foot using my toes, mentally noting this. I move it forward, mentally noting this. I touch the ground with my heel, mentally noting this. I place the whole foot on the ground, mentally noting this. I make sure the foot is firmly planted on the ground, mentally noting this. I repeat the entire process with the other leg.

The movement of the leg during walking can be divided into even a dozen or so stages. However, with such a dense concentration of stages, the pace of walking becomes very slow. I trained in this method by walking blindfolded on the roof of a building at the Thamkrabok monastery. The most crucial part at that time was the moment of moving the leg forward and touching the ground with the heel. I had to be prepared for the possibility that the ground might not be there, and the leg might need to be withdrawn. Therefore, it is important not to take too large steps during the walking practice. The optimal step length is around 25—30 cm. It is also easier to walk when the knees remain slightly bent.

When walking on the street, dividing the step observation into more than three stages becomes quite impractical, as the pace of movement dramatically slows down. Thus, Vipassana meditation can be practiced in isolation or during a planned walk in a secluded area. Focusing on the movement of the legs also forces one to keep the gaze fixed ahead and not look unnecessarily to the sides. According to most Vipassana teachers, the optimal point to focus the gaze on is about 3—4 meters ahead on the ground. This allows peripheral vision to help move safely, while the incoming image doesn’t distract the mind.

Placing one foot in front of the other, I slowly make my way toward the narrow passage between buildings, calmly walking down the street, until after several minutes, I reach my room. I take a quick shower to wash off the crystalline salt from my skin, and then, still observing my steps, I head to a nearby park, whose granite hill dominates the surrounding area.

The main attraction of Mahabalipuram is located about 600 meters inland. It is one of the largest rock-cut temple complexes in the world. The granite hill, from which a breathtaking view unfolds, is adorned with ancient structures. The most prominent is the lighthouse, built at the end of the 19th century and still in use today. During the day, it serves as a viewpoint. For a small fee, one can enter the tower and enjoy the panoramic view. For those with a fear of heights or a tight budget, three ancient free temples provide an almost equivalent substitute for the modern tower.

These three buildings represent three architecturally interesting concepts and even more fascinating ornamentation. The highest temple, located right next to the towering lighthouse, is a kind of Bismarck tower with a distinctive roof. Like its nearby neighbors, this building is made of blocks of grayish-white granite, arranged on a semi-circular stone monolith. In this monolith, steps were carved to make it easier to access the temple. The granite blocks used for the construction are not large, and none of them seem to exceed one ton. Interestingly, the higher the structure, the smaller the stone blocks become. The fitting of the blocks is not precise, and mortar was used to join them. Locally, this building is called the Olakkannesvara Temple, which in Tamil means „fiery eye.” It is also referred to as the „old lighthouse.”

The outer walls of the Olakkannesvara Temple are decorated with motifs of characters and events from the Vedic tradition, particularly those involving Shiva. This interpretation seems reasonable, as Shiva is the god of fire in Hinduism. The interior of the temple is not decorated. It contains stairs leading to the roof. According to written sources, rituals involving the burning of fire were performed here until the 19th century.

Archaeologists and historians attribute the construction of Olakkannesvara to the medieval Pallava dynasty, specifically King Raja Simha, who ruled in this area at the beginning of the 8th century. This building, which has been repeatedly restored and renovated, is the only one in the area, aside from the modern 19th-century lighthouse, that appears nearly complete. Its style confuses experts, who date various parts of the structure differently.

I descend from the hill, heading towards the modern lighthouse. Passing by it, I climb the next hill, where the second structure stands, offering a stunning view of the surrounding park landscape. The stone path is well-prepared for tourist traffic. Dangerous cracks have been filled with rubble, and wide steps have been carved into the rock to enhance safety.

The second temple consists of partially roofed ruins with one missing wall and parts of two adjoining walls. The building gives the impression of being makeshift. The small blocks are not tightly fitted together, and mortar has been used to join them. The roof of the structure is made of elongated granite slabs that narrow on one side. Stones protruding from the crumbling walls allow for easy access to the roof, from which there is an unobstructed view of the ocean. No information plaque is placed by the site. The haphazard construction suggests that the building may have had a utilitarian or residential purpose. Its construction may also not be as distant in time from the other structures. I see no decorative elements on the building’s components, and the stone blocks used do not lend themselves to further ornamentation. The structure is extremely flimsy and unattractive, resembling a stone shed. It stands in stark contrast to the other buildings in the park.

The third building, dominating the area and deserving closer inspection, is the unfinished structure known as Royagopuram. Of the three temples on the hill, this gopura is located the lowest. I descend from the hill and head north for a few dozen meters before almost completely turning south along the path.

A gopura is a type of gateway typically found at the entrance of Hindu temples, characterized by a tall, slender silhouette that narrows step by step towards the top. Gopuras are distinctive to southern India, with the highest concentration found in Tamil Nadu. Outside of India, gopuras, with a slightly altered style, can also be found in other Southeast Asian countries. One of the most famous examples is the Angkor temple in Cambodia, where gopuras are adorned with Buddhist motifs. I had the opportunity to visit the Angkor temple complex two years ago. At that time, however, Hindu architecture did not interest me as it does now.

The Royagopuram was completed only about a quarter of the way. The walls rise to a height of about three meters. From these walls protrude four stone posts, intended to support the heavy roof of the stone canopy. Due to the halted construction, the structure reveals how the blocks were arranged and later shaped. Huge granite blocks were carefully fitted together, some over two meters long and weighing several tons each. Their horizontal surfaces were leveled to be parallel, while the vertical alignment of the blocks was not always perpendicular. The stones were therefore cut at an angle to fit the uneven surfaces of the neighboring blocks. In present times, constructing such a monumental building from such massive stones would be an incredible challenge, as using heavy machinery in such difficult terrain — like this rocky hill — would be almost impossible. The work on the façade, including the reliefs and columns, began only after the stones were placed, which illustrates the construction technique of that time, during the Vijayanagara Empire, as the information plaque indicates, i.e., the 15th and 16th centuries.

I visit the other temples. None of them are finished. Some work was abandoned shortly after it began, while others only require minor adjustments and finishing touches. Reading the plaque of one of the pavilions carved from a monolith, I come across dating information. On one of the pillars, there is an inscription in Grantha script, which was used in the 7th century. The content is the name of someone, but it cannot be attributed to any of the rulers of that time.

Notably, all the reliefs are convex bas-reliefs, meaning the surrounding rock was chipped away to highlight them. However, this unremarkable inscription is shallowly carved into one of the pillars and does not seem to be an architectural element. It was likely added later. On the floor of one of the temples, I discover grid patterns carved into the stone, resembling a long crossword. The closest association is with a cut-out game board. The inscription on the pillar is as professional as that grid. Today, it would probably read “I love Jolki” or “I was here! Tony Halik.”

The problem with dating stone constructions has troubled archaeologists across all continents since the dawn of scientific study. There are few methods for assessing the age of a find. One of them is the analysis of the type of pottery found, which is practically the least accurate method. Another approach is the classification of sediment layers. Each change in weather or ecological catastrophe leaves its mark in the soil, creating a layer of sediment with specific properties. In 79 AD, Mount Vesuvius erupted, spewing millions of tons of volcanic ash and completely depopulating Pompeii. The ash layer that settled on the ground then serves as a reference point for archaeologists trying to estimate the age of a find. If it was below the ash layer, it is older than 79 AD; if above, it is younger. There are many such time markers in the soil layers. Other time markers include gravel layers deposited by melting glaciers or biological remains.

Biological remains offer an additional opportunity to estimate the age of a discovery. This is done through the analysis of carbon-14 isotopes in the sample under examination. This isotope is produced in the atmosphere, bombarded by cosmic radiation. Consumed through food or absorbed through the respiratory system, it becomes part of the organism’s structure. With biological death, the carbon exchange in the organism ceases. The isotope in the body undergoes a half-life decay. By knowing the half-life period, one can calculate the time when the biological functions of the sample ceased. This dating method is currently the most accurate. Unfortunately, it is only applicable to biological materials, as rocks cannot be dated directly using this technique.

A few years ago, the largest underground complex created by human hands was discovered in China. The Longyou Caves turned out to be an archaeological mystery worthy of Sherlock Holmes. The dozens of kilometers of underground passages and enormous chambers, some several dozen meters high, had not been mentioned in any known historical sources. The complex, built with a massive effort that likely involved thousands of workers, was not recorded anywhere in history. In fact, historians face a serious challenge in attributing such a monumental construction to any known ruler. Unused for hundreds or even thousands of years, the chambers were flooded upon discovery, which prevented erosion and helped preserve the caves. Very little material was found to aid in dating the tunnels” construction. Most of the ceramic fragments discovered date from the late Middle Ages, from the Ming Dynasty. However, a sample of algae from a flooded tunnel suggested a date close to the beginnings of Christianity. To date, only a small part of the labyrinth has been explored, with just 4 out of over 30 known caves examined. The results were made public, and the press began reporting that the labyrinth dates back to the early 2nd century CE.

The biological material found in the caves does not indicate the time when they were built, but rather the period in which the organism in question died. If these remains are nearly two millennia old, then the caves are older than 2,000 years. They may be 2,100 years old, but they could also be 2 million years old.

Another example is the famous Hypogeum in Malta. At the beginning of the 20th century, during construction work, laborers digging foundations uncovered the entrance to a mysterious cave. The astonished workers discovered a rock-cut chamber, richly adorned with reliefs. When archaeologists arrived, they were astounded to find an entire multi-level labyrinth of corridors and chambers. Within this labyrinth, more than 20,000 human remains and over 8,000 complete human skeletons were found. Among these remains, unusually shaped skulls were discovered, resembling human skulls but differing in shape and cranial volume, which was twice the typical human size. These skulls also lacked the sutures found in normal human skulls. They were placed in a museum in Valletta but were later removed from public display due to the controversy they sparked. The study of the biological remains did not solve the dating problem. The youngest of the remains were 4,500 years old, meaning the underground chambers ceased to be used at that time. Other dating results suggest the site has a history of at least 6,000 years.

Malta is an astonishing island due to its abundance of megalithic temples, the oldest in the world; the mysterious grooves that stop at the cliff and continue their path among the sea depths; and the rock-hewn Hypogeum, which, despite the wealth of biological material, presents challenges in dating but correlates with the temples in Mahabalipuram.

Mahabalipuram was forgotten for a long time. The granite structures were covered in sand, with only a few buildings, including the Shore Temple, standing out. However, the site maintains a significant place in Vedic mythology as the Seven Pagodas. Ancient Hindu legend explains the origin of the pagodas in one of its mythical tales. Prince Hiranyakashipu refused to worship the god Vishnu. His son, Prahlada, loved Vishnu and criticized his father for his lack of faith. Hiranyakashipu banished Prahlada, but later relented and allowed him to return. Father and son then began to argue over the nature of Vishnu. When Prahlada declared that Vishnu was present everywhere, even in the walls of their house, his father mockingly kicked a pillar. Vishnu emerged from the column as a man with a lion’s head and killed Hiranyakashipu. After this, Prahlada became king and had a grandson named Bali. Bali, to honor the miraculous events in their place, founded Mahabalipuram.

Marco Polo is often credited with the first European visit to Mahabalipuram, marking the port on his map during his travels in 1275. Many other travelers, upon returning, spoke of the mysterious site on the Coromandel Coast with the ancient Seven Pagodas. While it is widely accepted that Mahabalipuram was founded in the early 7th century, there is an increasing discussion about extending the history of the site. In many locations, Buddhist monks who lived here left traces of their presence. Their influence is mainly visible in the ornamentation of the Shore Temple, but not only there…

The European legend of the Seven Pagodas was disputed by the local expert on antiquities, Indian historian Nallathagudi Srinivasa Ramaswami, who was akin to the Egyptian Zahi Hawass. According to him, there is only one pagoda on the coast. Ramaswami expressed this view critically in his 1993 book „Temples of South India.” He argued that the evidence of the last 2,000 years of civilization, showing 37 currently visible monuments, along with the widely spread legend of the Seven Pagodas in southern India and Europe, leads people to create incredible Mahabalipuram conspiracy theories in their minds. In his book, he states that since „there is no sunken city under the waters of Mamallapuram, as the fishing village located among the ruins of Mahabalipuram is called, the European name »Seven Pagodas« is irrational and should not be considered at all.”

To finally settle the legend, in 2002, a team of researchers conducted an inspection of the Mahabalipuram coastline at the location where local fishermen had reported encountering underwater structures. Two independent teams discovered the remains of a wall at a depth of 5—8 meters and at a distance of 500—700 meters from the shore, which might indicate a connection to several temples. However, their findings were not accepted as evidence of the existence of a submerged city.

A breakthrough in the discovery of the lost past came from nature itself. Just before the tsunami struck in 2004, the ocean waters receded, revealing over 500 meters of the seabed. Astonished fishermen and tourists witnessed the ruins of an ancient city. The impact of the returning waves also altered the coastline, exposing previously unknown monuments. Scientists, alerted by witnesses, requested the Navy to sonar-scan the seabed. The scan revealed that the structure reported by the witnesses was part of a 2-meter-high and 70-meter-long stone wall. Furthermore, 500 meters from the shore, the military discovered two other temple remains and a rock-cut cave. According to researchers, the discovery did not confirm the myth of the Seven Pagodas, but it certainly warranted a much more serious examination of the legend. Especially considering that some of the newly discovered structures are dated to be at least 2,000 years old, which challenges the previously held belief that the site was established during the reign of the medieval Pallava dynasty.

As late as 2004, historian Ramaswami mocked British researcher Graham Hancock, who advocated for the theory of the Seven Ancient Pagodas, using disparaging language. The scholar from Madras is undeniably an expert on Tamil history and culture. However, many sites are not mentioned in historical sources, and in India, the budget for archaeological research is limited. One such neglected and silenced place is Mahabalipuram, which lay forgotten under sand for many centuries. The authority of Ramaswami was severely undermined after the 2004 tsunami. It turned out that the submerged city did indeed exist.

This situation mirrors that of Cairo, where the highest self-proclaimed authority on Egyptian history, Zahi Hawass, ridiculed Western researchers, calling them deluded ignorants spinning absurd conspiracy theories. He claimed that everything there was to discover on the Giza Plateau and in the pyramids had already been studied and understood. „No surprises await us there!” he asserted in the late 1990s. Shortly thereafter, a German engineer built a self-propelled robot that discovered previously unknown chambers in one of the shafts of the Great Pyramid of Giza. Measurements of radiation above the Grand Gallery indicated an empty space, revealing an unknown chamber. Archaeologists unearthed an extensive underground tomb with a mysterious water-filled sarcophagus. It was also revealed that within the Sphinx itself, five rock-cut tunnels exist, one beneath the right front paw and another on the lower part of the back. To where these tunnels lead, the Egyptian authorities, led by Zahi Hawass, refuse to allow anyone to determine. Excavations on the plateau were halted, and no international research teams were permitted to conduct further investigations, while the Egyptian government refuses to publish its own findings. During my visit to Cairo four years ago, I bribed one of the guards, who, after closing the site to visitors, took me on a tour of places known only to the initiated. He showed me unearthed ruins with an entrance to an underground labyrinth, which had not yet been mentioned in any books on the pyramids.

The situation in Mahabalipuram also resembles Cairo in terms of the legends that are so often ridiculed by the scientific community, in fact echoing the story of the Alexandrian port, whose existence was also long denied.

The Egyptian port, called Heracleion by the Greeks, was elusive for centuries. Though Herodotus and Strabo mentioned it, there were also stories that the city had been visited by Heracles and Paris with Helen of Troy. For the academic world, Heracleion seemed more a mythical place than a real city, especially since no traces of this great port, which was supposed to be near Canopus in the western part of the Nile Delta, had been found.

Everything changed in 2000, when French warships were being searched, which had been sunk by the English fleet of Horatio Nelson in Abu Qir Bay in 1798. The search was led by renowned French underwater archaeologist Franck Goddio. It was then that researchers noticed numerous ancient artifacts lying 6.5 km from the current shoreline. The initial findings completely stunned archaeologists with the incredible richness of artifacts discovered in the sand covering the seabed. Moreover, most of these artifacts were remarkably well-preserved. Over time, researchers found evidence that these were the submerged remains of the supposedly mythical Heracleion. Franck Goddio’s team also proved that this was the same city the Egyptians called Thonis. One of the most important ports of ancient Egypt was no longer just a legend.

From historical sources, as well as Tamil mythological tales, a great and vibrant seaport appears before the imagination, with incredible temple architecture and intricate decorations that astonish passing sailors. They tell stories of a magical place, the port of the Seven Pagodas.

Today, Mahabalipuram is a fishing village, with no port remaining. The flat-bottomed small boats, after use, are hauled up to the shore by a tractor. The method of shore-based fishing without using boats is still practiced here. Nineteenth-century engravings show a fishing colony consisting of just a few houses. It is only in recent times that tourism has attracted visitors, whose presence is slowly transforming the area’s topography into a more urban one. Around 15,000 new residents, mostly not fishermen, have settled around the attractive ruins, creating a thriving gastronomic and hotel infrastructure.

A similar situation can be found in the distant Tiruvannamalai, 150 km away. When the 16-year-old Ramana Maharishi arrived at the sacred mountain Arunachala at the beginning of the 20th century, Tiruvannamalai was a small village with the ruins of an ancient temple. Half a century later, when the now-famous Ramana was dying, the village was still just a small settlement. Today, it is a bustling city with over 140,000 residents, rapidly growing due to Ramana’s fame and that of the other great thinkers who settled there, drawing an endless stream of spiritual seekers from all over the world.

After its discovery, Heracleion became a popular research site and an attractive recreational diving destination. Mahabalipuram, however, has only been superficially studied. And although the submerged city lies relatively shallow, at just 10 meters deep and not far from the shore, there is no one willing to explore the ancient temples.

I shake my head in disbelief as I read the explanation on the information plaque standing in front of the monolithic temple. It mentions the difficulty in determining the identity of Sri Vamankusa, whose name was inscribed in 7th-century Grantha script on the central pillar. It’s hard for all of us to say “I don’t know,” so we prefer to accept any hypothesis just to hide our own ignorance. Later, we fight fiercely to defend it, to avoid losing face. This is exactly how Ramaswami’s work and authority were used by the administrators of the site to assess the age of the temples.

The common view is that Mahabalipuram was founded only at the beginning of the 7th century. However, it’s not hard to notice the interplay of different styles from very different periods. Some constructions are poorly made, using small and mismatched blocks, while others are worthy of the builders of Peru’s Tiahuanaco or the Egyptian temple at Abu Simbel. During today’s visit, I also pay attention to the facial representations in the bas-reliefs and the attire of the depicted figures. There’s also a great surprise here. Some faces have a typical Indian appearance, with men sporting thick mustaches and beer bellies. A figure carved in one of the pillars, sitting in the lotus position, has distinctly slanted eyes, resembling a Chinese person. This column may originate from the Buddhist period, which preceded Hindu motifs. A man lying on a couch has a crown on his head, similar to that of the rulers of Upper Egypt. And it’s not just him. The crown adorns the heads of many figures, marking their aristocratic status. Figures in crowns are slim, dressed in finer fabrics, or depicted almost completely naked. They resemble bas-reliefs known from Egyptian tombs, like that of Ramses II, with bare torsos and delicate cloth around their hips. There are also figures of the Indian sphinx, a lion with a man’s face and thick mustache, possibly Vishnu from the aforementioned legend. The symbol of wealth used here, long ears, is the same as in Buddhism. After all, the present Theravada originated from these regions.

Guides to the monuments of Mahabalipuram provide information about the worship of Shiva, who is depicted in many bas-reliefs. In the Thai monastery of Thamkrabok, sculptures of the spiritual leader of the Loung Poh Yaai monastery were depicted wearing glasses. It is very difficult to distinguish one monk from another, especially when the artist turned out to be less skilled. They are all bald and wear the same robe. Therefore, specific attributes are used to distinguish them. Glasses were reserved for Loung Poh Yaai. The most common attribute of Shiva is the snake, a king cobra, wrapped around his neck. He is often depicted with four arms, and if color is used, he has blue skin. However, there are no attributes here indicating a specific deity. In the Kottikal Mandapa temple, where a 7th-century inscription carved into a pillar was used to date the cave, only two bas-reliefs depicting gatekeepers were carved. Similar dwarapalakas can be found in Buddhism. They are most often placed at the entrance to a vihara temple, where traditionally a large statue of Buddha also stands. However, the information plaque links this chapel with Durga. This illustrates the informational chaos and the complete lack of sources that archaeologists face when trying to logically sort out the findings.

On this vast granite plateau, covered with monuments and bas-reliefs, trees and bushes grow here and there. The soil that sustains these plants is red gravel, so finely crushed that it resembles the ferruginous African soil. There is an incredible amount of this gravel. It fills hollows and rock depressions, supporting the upright and tall fig trees. Very few of the bricks that originally created this soil remain. Here and there, one can encounter oval-shaped stones with a brick-like structure and color. As I travel through the area, I am amazed by the sheer amount of this material, suggesting that in ancient times, an entire Malbork once stood here.

At the carved pavilions in the walls, there are many openings that could have served as attachments for additional structures. In some stones, steps have been carved, now leading nowhere. On the massive granite rocks, there are carved depressions that could serve as the bases for beams and columns, but one can also see traces of mortar. In the materials related to the monuments, it is suggested that some, such as the old lantern, were once surrounded by a brick wall. This is very likely. The amount of metal that has settled on the ground, however, is enormous, indicating that above the stone hill, there once stood a whole, bustling city.

At the very top, two deep rectangular depressions were carved into the stone, with side stairs leading to their bottoms. A plaque by them mentions ritual ablution pools. Another source states that water from the pools was supposed to flow onto a bas-relief below, depicting the descent of the Ganges from heaven to earth. I don’t see such a purpose for the rainwater collection tanks.

I spent the last month at a monastery located on the slopes of the holy Hindu mountain Arunachala. This monastery was the highest inhabited place, situated high above the town of Tiruvannamalai at the foot of the mountain. This had its advantages. The place was secluded, providing peace and quiet to its inhabitants. On the other hand, the elevated location excluded the possibility of connecting to the municipal water supply. The monastery had a deep tank carved into the rock during medieval times, which collected rainwater during the monsoon season. This pool, locally called a well, has been supplying water to the monks for several centuries. The water is used for drinking, washing, and laundering their robes. Another nearby water source would be a stream, a few kilometers away and several hundred meters lower. Without this well, life in the monastery would be impossible.

When I saw the carved stone pools, I immediately thought of using water for practical purposes. Today’s historians and archaeologists, in explaining discoveries, often let their imaginations wander. Confined to comfortable academic offices with unlimited access to toilets and drinking water, they do not understand the harshness of monastic life. Water is one of the most important components of it. Outside the monsoon season, in southern India, not a drop of dihydrogen monoxide falls from the sky for months. Groundwater levels quickly drop, as the air temperature often exceeds 40 degrees Celsius during the day. Additionally, the proximity of the ocean quickly salinizes it. Catching rainwater and storing it in large stone basins is the most efficient way to prevent death by thirst. Therefore, the claim by Hindu experts that precious sweet water was poured out for visual effects for the clapping crowd is completely senseless.

The next surprise I encountered here was the traces of techniques for cutting granite blocks.

The aforementioned Longyou cave complex in China bears traces of mechanical processing on its walls, adding even more mystery to an already enigmatic underground labyrinth. One of the current mining methods involves a heavy vehicle, on whose front a large, sequin-covered metal cylinder spins. This cylinder scrapes the wall, from which debris falls onto a conveyor belt and is carried to the surface of the mine. The work of the cylinder leaves characteristic longitudinal grooves in the wall, spaced very regularly. Researchers of the Chinese complex noted this. In the Longyou caves, the grooves are regular and perfectly parallel to each other, as if made by a mining machine. In Mahabalipuram, the monumental structures have irregular grooves, lying freely beside each other, unmistakably indicating manual processing.

Although the creation of the Mahabalipuram sculptures and caves can easily be explained by the work of human muscles and metal chisels, the method of cutting granite blocks would be the subject of an episode of the „X-Files” series.

Here is the translation into English:

Currently, all rocks with a hardness greater than 6 on the Mohs scale are processed with tools reinforced with diamond. Diamond has the highest hardness of all known minerals and is the only one to receive the full point value on the 10-point scale. In addition to its undeniable aesthetic value in jewelry, diamond also plays a significant role in technology. It is widely used as a material for reinforcing abrasive and cutting discs, drills, and lathe knives. It is used wherever extraordinary hardness and resistance to abrasion are required. In stonemasonry, diamond discs are absolutely essential. They allow for cutting huge stone blocks into slices just a few millimeters thick. The saws used for this task are also of enormous size.

Diamond is a precious material. Its mines can be found in many parts of the world, though it was initially mined exclusively in India. Indian diamonds are considered the purest, and until the Middle Ages, they had mainly technical applications. Polishing knife blades is the oldest documented use of diamonds. Diamond mines are some of the most guarded workplaces, and theft of mined material is often punishable by immediate execution. Currently, mining in India is very small, and the deposits are considered nearly exhausted. Interestingly, large diamond deposits were discovered at the end of the 19th century on the western coast of South Africa. This was during the diamond rush, which attracted prospectors from around the world, with Germans leading the way. South Africa quickly lost its independence, becoming a German colony. Although Namibia regained independence, many modern mines are still owned by German-descended families, and the German language was an official language there until recently.

The chemical structure of diamond is very simple. Diamond is carbon in its purest form, which crystallizes into an octahedral shape under high pressure and temperature. When set on fire, it burns without leaving ash. This presents an additional challenge for jewelers. Not only can diamonds only be polished with another diamond, as the hardest mineral cannot be altered by any other, but they can also overheat and catch fire during excessive processing. It is therefore crucial to properly cool the blades and discs when using diamonds in technology.

I stand before one of the enormous boulders, which has been cut in half. The granite giant is spherical, with a diameter of several meters. I climb onto it to closely examine the marks left by the processing. The stonemasons had an excellent understanding of granite. They could almost flawlessly estimate the place of the fracture. My attention is drawn to the drill marks.

There are several methods for separating stone slabs. They usually involve making small rectangular holes and driving in metal wedges or dry wooden pegs, which are then soaked in water. When they swell, the rock begins to crack. Here, such holes are not visible everywhere. Instead, I see a round mark, two finger-widths in diameter, from a drill that created a hole over a meter deep.

The method of extracting granite blocks suggests the use of advanced technology, possibly involving diamond drills. The drill marks clearly show grooves of progression. In modern technology, drills rotate at very high speeds, the progress of the drill is minimal, and the drilling marks are smooth, without visible grooves. Here, the grooves are noticeable even on very weathered rock. With every turn, the drill head deeply embedded into the granite. This would suggest considerable pressure on the drill and extraordinary strength and hardness, which does not correspond with techniques known from the Middle Ages.

These puzzling grooves in drilled holes are also known from ancient quarries in Egypt. They cannot be logically explained, especially since Egyptologists assume the use of copper tools by ancient stonemasons. Copper, with a Mohs hardness of 3, cannot even cut through soft sandstone, which is only one unit harder. Also in Egypt, as in Mahabalipuram, drilling was done in granite, which has an average hardness of 6.

Puzzling drill holes are also known from Poland. In historical quarries near Wawel, similar drilled holes, resembling those in India, can be found. Quarrying stopped there long before the Industrial Revolution, which changed mining techniques from manual to mechanical. It seems that the same method of separating stone blocks was used in ancient times in regions of the world completely unrelated to each other.

Diamond as a gemstone was known in Poland as early as the Middle Ages. At that time, the only source of diamonds was India. The famous black diamond from the reliquary containing the skull of Saint Stanislaus, donated by the wife of Kazimierz Jagiellończyk, came from the Tamil Nadu region. It was likely shipped to Europe from the port of Mahabalipuram, which, according to Marco Polo’s notes, still existed at the time.

The drilled holes spark the imagination, but the true astonishment comes from the size of the blocks that were split off, some of which weigh several hundred tons. Many of the walls from which material has been separated are several meters high, and the cuts are nearly perfectly straight, as if made with a gigantic knife. Along the edges of the cuts, there are grooves with a slightly triangular shape, which appear to be places prepared for the installation of metal clamps to prevent the block from falling off after being separated from the rock. The entire process seems to have been carefully thought out and perfectly prepared. It is very different from the chaotic work of today’s Hindus.

The sun is slowly dipping towards the horizon. Yesterday, I saw its huge red disk disappearing behind the hill with the monuments. I promised myself then that I would admire the next sunset from this very spot. I climb one of the highest rocks, right next to the unnamed ruins of a temple I visited today as the second one. There are hardly any people left in the park now. Only a few scattered stragglers hurriedly make their way out. I sit cross-legged, facing the setting sun, whose disk has already turned orange. The place is hidden by bushes, so the park guards shouldn’t see me here. After dark, I’ll slip over the fence unnoticed, or I might spend the night in one of the ancient temples.

The meditation known as samadhi is not very popular in Theravada Buddhism, although it was one of the core practices in the Thamkrabok monastery. My version of it is that I do not focus on anything specific. Either I close my eyes and enjoy the bliss spreading throughout my body, or I observe my surroundings without any attempt to interpret what I see. In both methods, the pleasant warmth sensation that starts around the forehead and later spreads through the entire body is similar, although with closed eyes, its intensity is much more noticeable. The practice’s goal is to maintain this sensation for as long as possible. When it fades, or I get distracted by something, I start over. Sometimes, to make it easier, I concentrate on my breath for the first few seconds, and only when I feel the bliss in my forehead do I stop focusing entirely, savoring the accompanying feeling. At that point, the mind enters an alpha state. It’s a state of deep relaxation, calm, undisturbed by any thoughts. The sense of bliss is connected to the absence of logical interpretation of reality.

The alpha state can be triggered during almost any activity. It’s a sort of trance in which actions are performed automatically, but with full awareness of that automation. Walking down the street, I am aware of every vehicle passing and every animal walking along, as though I am simultaneously controlling all the participants in traffic. All sensory signals then reach my awareness slightly muted. It feels like being in a dream or partially absent. Everything happens by itself, and the mind becomes a pure observer, with no intention of interaction.

I often have the impression that animals are in this state all the time. It’s only unfortunate humans, unaware of the state that comes with not thinking, who personify the experiences of non-sentient beings, interpreting their emotional state through the lens of their own feelings.

Once, while working in the garden at the monastery in Thailand, I witnessed a pickup truck run over a dog resting in the shade of a tree. The driver slowly rolled over the dog with the front wheel, crushing its hind part. The dog howled terribly in pain, and the car’s jolt made the driver stop. The woman driving the car was shaken by the event. She tried to help the dog. Initially, it growled at her, but soon it lay down quietly, trying to lick its torn body. When the woman tried to tend to it, I saw a sense of satisfaction and joy in the dog’s eyes. It wasn’t about the offered help, because it was already too late for that.

The grounds of a Buddhist monastery are a place where every life is sacred, and no one is allowed to take it. Some people take advantage of this fact, leaving all sorts of found animals with the monks. In the Thamkrabok monastery, there were over 200 dogs, far more than monks. There were also countless cats and tons of fish. Someone even brought a crocodile, which found a new home at the monastery. Monks practice abandonment, so they do not form emotional bonds with these animals. The dogs roam the grounds without owners, the cats frolic in the kitchens and on the rooftops, and the crocodile, once it grew and became a small dinosaur, was placed in an enclosed swamp. The animals are fed as much as the monks’ supplies allow. That’s the extent of their care.

The dog run over by the pickup truck probably never received as much attention in its life, so if it still had a spine and could wag its tail, it would be sweeping the road like a string trimmer cutting through tough bushes. It probably no longer felt pain from its crushed spine, and it likely didn’t understand the gravity of its situation. One run-over dog and two completely different sensations of its experience.

I looked at the reactions of the other monks, who were working with me planting trees. They were cheerful, joking about the whole event. The abbot working beside me approached the shaken, crying woman to comfort her. He smiled at her and tried to turn the situation into a joke. „That’s just how it should be!” he said. „Apparently, his karma and his existence as a dog is coming to an end. He will be reborn as a human and will have the opportunity to reach nirvana,” he added.

The woman knew the abbot well. She also knew the dog. It was the abbot’s dog…

One of the most important precepts in Buddhism is not to take the life of another being. One pledges to follow this by taking five, eight, or ten precepts. Not killing is the foundation of Buddhism, its core and pillar. It involves refraining from intentionally taking the life of any living being. During Buddhist ceremonies, the monk repeats the phrase panatipata veramani sikkhapadam samadiyami. This is a formula in the ancient Pali language, in which the Buddhist canon of the Theravada tradition is written. Whether the basic five precepts are taken, which make a person a lay Buddhist, or whether there are eight precepts practiced by laypeople in the monastery, or ten precepts observed by fully ordained monks and novices, the phrase is always the same. „I vow to refrain from taking life.” In the code, this means murder, that is, intentional killing. Running over a dog with a car, resulting in its death, does not constitute a violation of the first precept. The woman ran over the animal without the intent to kill or maim it. Taking the life of another human being results in the loss of ordination, but only if the killing was premeditated. Killing someone during an emotionally charged fight or through one’s own carelessness does not imply consequences for a monk. It is not a violation of the precept, although the act of taking life did occur.

During my first year at the Thamkrabok monastery, I faced a dilemma regarding this most important precept. It turned out I would undergo training in its extreme form. At one point, I began to feel movement under the skin of my right foot. Clearly, new biological life had been born in it. The filarial worms are a plague in Southeast Asia. The parasite, which can reach lengths of several dozen centimeters, is endemic to the tropical climate. According to statistics, almost 40% of people are infected. Most of them never find out about the worm, living in full symbiosis with it until the natural death of either the worm or themselves. The worms feed on lymph, which is abundant in the subcutaneous layer. Health complications and parasite detection are rare. The most severe complications occur when the worm settles in the eyeball, damaging the retina or the optic nerve. Vision damage in this case is irreversible.

The carriers of filariasis are dipterans, specifically blood-feeding female mosquitoes. The parasite’s reproductive cycle is extremely complex. The eggs laid in the blood have a very short lifespan. After feeding, the mosquito allows the larvae to develop in its digestive system, and then, by piercing human skin, it reintroduces the larvae back into the host’s body. Outside of the mosquito’s digestive system, the filaria is unable to develop on its own. Only after passing this phase can the worm develop into a mature form, multiplying its eggs in the host’s blood, thus completing its reproductive cycle.

The dilemma would not have arisen if killing the filaria had saved my life. However, the worm did not pose a direct threat to my life, so removing it would have conflicted with the adopted precepts. Living in symbiosis with it was an extreme test of willpower, as it moved intensely under my skin, irritating me and not allowing me to forget its presence for even a moment. Pharmacologically killing the filaria would have meant breaking a precept for my own comfort. It would have meant surrendering in the monastic training. I showed the subcutaneous lump in the herbal workshop and asked for advice. As expected, I was advised against seeking pharmacological help at the hospital, as that would automatically lead to killing the creature. However, I was given a set of herbs that help detoxify the body. The worm expels toxins directly under the skin, contaminating the body and lowering the comfort of life. At that time, the general immunity to infections decreases, and headaches often occur. The herbal mixture helps detoxify the body, thereby improving the quality of life. After a few months of taking the mixture, the worm moved less and less until it eventually became still. Soon, the swelling disappeared, and the parasite’s body was absorbed by my system. The worm’s life cycle came full circle, completing one of the most difficult willpower training experiences I could imagine. The worm sacrificed its life as my teacher of patience.

Staring at the old lighthouse building, I see how the rocks slowly turn red. The dull grayish-white granite blocks glow with fiery amber, only to sparkle with gold moments later. In the final phase of this spectacular natural show, still at the height of its two diameters, the sun, embarrassed by its gaze, hid behind a cloak of clouds, leaving its audience with open mouths and drooling in awe, feeling an unmistakable sense of dissatisfaction. Meanwhile, the park guards were energetically blowing their whistles, urging the sluggish latecomers to leave. I took the opportunity to reveal myself and officially exit through the gate before darkness fell.

And in Mahabalipuram, darkness falls very quickly.

I am at 120° north latitude, between the Tropic of Cancer and the Equator. In the intertropical zone, between 23° 27’ latitude, the sun moves across the sky, oscillating throughout the year between the south and the north. The closer to the equator, the more symmetrical these subjective shifts of the sun are. That’s why, in the intertropical zone, there are no seasons as known in temperate climates. Throughout the twelve months, the temperature is similar, and the sun rises and sets at nearly the same time every day. The angle of the sun’s trajectory relative to the horizon is almost always close to 90°. The sun, as it sets, dives almost vertically down, shortening the passive illumination time to a minimum. From sunset to complete darkness takes just a few minutes. The same applies to sunrise. The twilight period is very short. From the appearance of the first morning star to the first rays, not even one incense stick will burn out. I try to remember this, especially when walking in uninhabited areas. During the dark, it’s easy to step on a snake, which, confident in the deadly power of its venom, won’t be frightened by the sound of approaching steps. Living in Thailand, amid the wild jungle, monkeys, scorpions, and snakes, I learned to remember the rule of not walking at night without a flashlight. Many times, thanks to its light, I avoided stepping on a scorpion or a venomous centipede, which are not fatal but supposedly cause excruciating pain.

For formal purposes, I will add that the movement of the sun across the sky is an apparent motion, related to the Earth’s rotation around its axis. Our planet rotates in the opposite direction of this motion, from west to east. The seasons are again related to the tilt of the ecliptic, the axis of the Earth relative to the plane of the ellipse traced by the globe around the sun. This tilt causes periodic greater sunlight on the hemisphere more tilted toward the sun, which is then in summer. When the Earth reaches the other side of its orbit, the situation of the seasons reverses, and on that hemisphere, the summer period becomes winter.

I hadn’t walked the 600 meters separating me from my accommodation before complete darkness fell. The city, too, became dark, as there was another power outage. The diesel-powered generators began to sputter. Shops and restaurants with their own generators switched to backup energy sources, while the rest of the homes and service points fell into darkness. These outages are a daily occurrence here. Most shops are well-prepared for this eventuality. Larger establishments have huge fuel generators with several dozen kilowatts of power. They must have them due to the need for electricity to power refrigerators and freezers containing thermally sensitive food products. There is no power where I’m staying, so I take a flashlight and head to the beach to meditate.

Along the seashore, several couples of lovers are strolling. I sit between the boats so as not to draw attention. I light an incense stick and immerse myself in the bliss of disconnection. However, the boat on the right starts to vibrate, and I can hear murmurs and moans. I quickly realize how unfortunate my choice of spot was, and despite having already lit the incense, I can only think of slipping away unnoticed. I lift the stick wedged in the ground and, on my knees, try to move backward behind the next boat on the left, when my phone suddenly rings exceptionally loudly today. I am exposed. I take out the phone and begin the conversation. Two heads rise from behind the boat. I pretend not to notice them, absorbed in my conversation. After a brief exchange of words, I stand up and, without interrupting the call, head back toward the buildings. I get the impression that I was the only one who felt uncomfortable with the whole situation.

Day Two

My daily ritual is the sunrise meditation. I don’t approach it with a strict ritual or impose a rigid discipline to ensure I don’t skip it. The sunrise, however, is a magical moment that triggers a burst of endorphins, enough to satisfy my entire day’s needs.

At the Thamkrabok Buddhist monastery, this practice took place on the roof of the building where I lived. The morning ritual involved waking up at 3:30 AM, having coffee, and checking my emails on the laptop. At 4:15 AM, I would descend to the pavilion where the morning sutra recitation took place. The recitation lasted the length of one incense stick, about 30—40 minutes.

In Theravada, especially in the forest tradition, incense sticks — thin rods covered with resin, finely ground wood, or grass — are mainly used as time markers for the duration of a practice. The burning time depends on the type of material used, its thickness, length, and even air movement. On windy days or in places with a working fan, incense can burn twice as fast. In enclosed spaces, where there’s almost no air circulation, like deep caves with little to no airflow, incense can burn for what seems like forever.

After the sutra recitation, which ended around 5:00 AM, I had half an hour for myself, usually to wash up and tidy up my room. By 5:30, I would make my way to the roof, where I would sit until 6:45 AM, usually burning three incense sticks. On the roof, the wind would make the incense burn faster. This morning meditation was my favorite practice. I developed my own routine, which, after being compared to the definition of samadhi, turned out to be a meditation of calm mind.

My personal meditation method involved observing everything around me, without attempting to interpret the phenomena. I initially set in my mind that the roof was not part of the external world. It was an enclave of heaven, a paradise and nirvana, where neither physical nor karmic laws applied. The location supported this sense of detachment. The building had two floors with two apartments where two monks resided. The ceilings of their apartments were connected by a roof that shielded the staircase from the rain. My roof was above them, and the only way to reach it was by a shaky metal ladder, with only one hook still fastening it to the wall. Because it was so inaccessible, no one climbed up, given that a huge, comfortable terrace was just one floor below.

Another principle I imposed on myself was to leave all problems, thoughts, and concerns behind before climbing the ladder. The place had to be free of any connection with the world I was experiencing. During meditation, everything stayed below. Nothing would happen if it waited for me down there. So no problems or worries were allowed on the roof. I also required this promise from any guests who wanted to join me for the sunrise meditation. „You must understand that these 30 minutes won’t change anything, so take a break from your concerns. I would tell them, „It’s just one incense stick’s worth of time, but for many, even that turned out to be too long.”

The symbolic gesture of leaving the external world behind was through shoes. To meditate on the roof, one had to remove their shoes. Shoes symbolized thoughts and problems of the world, which were not allowed in this rooftop paradise. I would often say, „Take a break from thinking about your problems, leave them here with your shoes. When you’re done, they’ll still be waiting for you at the entrance. You’ll step into them again and start worrying all over again. Die to the world, cease to exist for it for the duration of one incense stick’s burn, and after the meditation, you’ll return, put on your shoes, and resume your previous life as if nothing ever changed.”

Removing shoes in Buddhist countries is not about keeping the floors clean, as in Poland. Bare feet show respect for the host. However, the religious symbolism runs much deeper. In Islam, before entering a mosque, one washes their feet to symbolically cleanse themselves. In Buddhism, removing shoes is not only a sign of respect but also a symbolic act of not bringing any „impure” artifacts into the temple. In Asian culture, feet are considered unclean, yet it’s difficult to move without them, hence the act of leaving shoes at the entrance.

The practice itself is simple to describe: sit and observe. Don’t think and don’t do anything. Just enjoy the view, or focus on your breath.

Although the sunrise may seem the same every day, it always looks different. Sometimes, clouds obscure the view, and the sun only appears high above the horizon. Other times, it majestically emerges from behind the mountains across the way. Over the year, it moves from left to right and back again, sometimes rising from behind the mountains, sometimes emerging directly from the sky. The most fascinating view for me is the 3-minute spectacle when the still-invisible sun illuminates the clouds from below, turning them into a beautiful crimson hue. The only constant element in this morning performance on the Thamkrabok roof was a passenger plane that always crossed the sky above me exactly at 6:25, flying from the south toward the northern regions of Thailand. When I saw it, I knew there was no time left for another incense stick.

During the sunrise, I watched the birds waking from their sleep, starting their vocal performances. Bats, returning from their nightly hunts, would fly right past my face in a swarm, their motionless bodies mistaking me for an architectural element. The still-sleepy pigeons would land next to me or, in a sudden burst of wakefulness, flap their wings frantically, just barely changing their course before they could land on my shoulder. Chickens clucked, dogs barked, and a goat bleated. From above, I watched the monks sweeping the courtyard, performing their morning cleaning ritual with the diligence of pharmacists. The men helping in the kitchen loaded large kettles onto carts, laboriously pushing them toward the nearby dining hall. Minute by minute, the monastery came to life, while I had temporarily withdrawn from that life.

For today’s morning meditation, I set off two and a half hours before sunrise. Mahabalipuram is located on the Bay of Bengal, which brushes the eastern coast of the Indian subcontinent. The sun will rise directly from the ocean, from its central part.

Outside the building, it is still Egypt-dark. I look at the sky, thick with clouds. It seems that today’s sunrise won’t be an epic one, I think. The narrow streets aren’t illuminated. Only the occasional shop window casts a faint glow on the darkened streets. I shine my flashlight on the ground, careful not to step on one of the sleeping dogs, which are everywhere in India.

Passing by the water dispenser, I see a few women waiting in line. Each has brought large plastic jugs, a common sight in South India. Some hold bottles used in dispensers. These bottles are slightly larger than the plastic jugs and hold over 30 liters of liquid.

The water purification system is the size of a container. It’s housed in a container that stands by the roadside. Tap water in India is often unsuitable for consumption, even after boiling. However, municipal water systems exist only in larger urban areas. The small town of Mahabalipuram has several groundwater sources without a centralized distribution system. Some homes have their own wells. Public water stations are only open in the early morning hours, allowing people to fill their filtered water containers for the day. This system is far superior to that in Thailand. In Thailand, bottled water is generously provided to monks, but laypeople must pay to get water from dispensers. In India, many places have large water containers on the street with taps, where anyone thirsty can drink or refill their bottles.

The most common filtration method in this region is reverse osmosis, which involves forcing water under high pressure through a membrane filter. This method is both highly efficient and effective. Reverse osmosis can be used to desalinate seawater. Its drawbacks are the expensive, consumable membranes and the excessive purity of the water, which contains no minerals. The taste of directly purified water is reminiscent of distilled water, with a slightly metallic aftertaste. Commercially, it is usually mineralized. Here, the water flows directly into the bottles after filtration, so one needs to mineralize it at home, for example, by using it to brew coffee.

Women typically come for water with two jugs. They place one filled jug on their heads and carry the other under their arm. I will come back here later, after the sunrise, when it gets light and the atmosphere relaxes.

Walking along the beach, I shine my flashlight at my feet. It is still very dark. The wind almost always blows from the sea, from the northeast direction. Today it is particularly strong, likely due to the thick cloud cover.

The term „trade wind” is mainly known from the product of the German company Volkswagen. However, this name was borrowed from the wind blowing in the intertropical zone. In the northern hemisphere, it blows from the northeast, while in the southern hemisphere, it comes from the southeast. The importance of the trade winds in navigation decreased with the transition to mechanical propulsion in maritime transport.

The strength of the trade wind makes it difficult to light the incense. I burn my fingers before finally managing to light them with a regular flame lighter. I once had a glow lighter, a storm-resistant one, but unfortunately, it was taken away from me at one of the airports. It turned out that no lighters could be taken onto the plane. The glowing tip of the incense quickly dims and is about to go out. While lighting the second one, I notice that a few people have come down to the beach. Sitting on the sand, they too are waiting for the sunrise. A light of dawn has formed in the northeast. However, I thought to myself, that’s not where the sun should appear. The thick clouds begin to slowly thin out. Watching the individual clouds, I observe how they gradually disappear, disintegrating in the atmosphere. The saturated water vapor, upon reaching a warmer front zone, vanishes into the air, which is capable of absorbing more moisture. From the land, I can see a clear patch of sky that is expanding with every minute. It is already bright when I light the third incense. The sun is not yet visible, but its rays can already be spotted. Like the radiance of a mighty god hidden behind it, the sun casts majestic light beams upon the earth, unworthy of such rays, heralding a wondrous revelation. I look around and see that despite the cloudy sky, everyone is still waiting for the sun to emerge from behind the clouds.

It appears after a while. I have my eyes closed at that moment. I focus my attention on my face. The first sunbeams landing on my skin evoke some of the most pleasant sensations I know. Their warmth creates a feeling of bliss, akin to the serenity that spreads from the forehead during a state of samadhi. In this pleasant ecstasy, I remain until the incense burns out, but I don’t light another. I should already be lining up for the water.

I return to my room, take three two-liter water bottles, and head toward the nearby dispenser. Women are still crowded around it, filling their jugs and bottles. I stand at the very end, patiently waiting my turn. The presence of a foreigner waiting for free water embarrasses the locals. One of the women insists I take water out of turn, wanting to grab her barely started bottle from under the tap. I politely decline, showing that I have plenty of time and am in no rush. The next woman in line starts to insist even more strongly that I take water before she begins filling her bottle. Suddenly, everyone encourages me to skip the line as if my presence was somehow bothersome to them. I had no choice but to fill the bottles and return to my room, thanking everyone for their exceptional kindness.

Getting water, although it poses no physical difficulties, could break one of the rules followed by Buddhist monks of the Theravada tradition. Depending on the school, the second precept is interpreted somewhat differently. Adinnadana veramani sikkhapadam samadiyami is spoken almost at every Buddhist ceremony. In Pali, it means an oath to refrain from taking anything that is not directly offered. For laypeople, this means refraining from stealing. For monks, however, all things must be intentionally and consciously given to them. According to the tradition of forest monks, even approaching the water dispenser and taking water, or drinking from it, despite the fact that water is dispensed for free, does not meet the precept’s requirements. The liquid must be offered by another person or animal. Some monks in Thailand train a monkey for this purpose. The monkey climbs a tree and brings bananas to the monk. When the bananas are placed before him, he touches the offering, signifying his formal acceptance and compliance with the rules. It is also prohibited to pick up a coin or banknote from the street or any other item whose owner is unknown. The women who let me ahead of them turn out to be a blessing for my practice. By offering me water, they allow me to maintain the purity of the precept of not taking anything that was not offered.

On my way back, I admire the kolams, which are especially carefully made in Mahabalipuram. As I walk among them, I try not to destroy any.

Kolam is an artistic design made by arranging patterns with colored powder. The material used is rice flour, though it is increasingly being replaced by chalk dust. It usually represents a circular mosaic composed of intricately drawn curves and loops of white lines, with segments filled with colorful powder made from ground minerals or dried vegetables. The entire design is typically symmetrical along many axes, creating a unique rosette. Sometimes, this rosette is additionally inscribed within a square or takes the form of a square. All lines of a kolam should be closed to prevent demons from entering the center, which symbolizes the home.

Kolams are created every morning before the entrances of Tamil homes or shops, forming a unique street art. They are usually made by women. In this way, housewives invite good deities into their homes. According to Hindu tradition, a kolam made from rice flour is a way of sharing food with smaller organisms, such as ants, wild birds, or small rodents.

Before a kolam is made, the area is thoroughly cleaned with a wicker broom. The designated area is then watered, and only on the wet surface is the white design laid. Sometimes, cow dung is smeared on the ground before the kolam is laid, as it is believed to have antiseptic properties and to repel insects. At the same time, the layer of dark dung enhances the visual effect by contrasting with the white powder. Drawing involves taking a handful of white flour and sifting it between the fingers, precisely outlining the rosette. Often, small dots are marked beforehand to outline the characteristic network of points for the shape. The interior segments of the kolam are then colored using the same technique, sifting powder between the fingers.

Kolams made on sidewalks and streets do not last long. Their quality, complexity, and colorfulness are extremely important for the household. The more elaborate and original the kolam, the greater the pride it brings to the family. Every morning, the Tamil streets begin a festival of making kolams, a ritual that is strictly obligatory for the vast majority of Hindus.

Kolams are characteristic of southern India, particularly popular in the Tamil Nadu province and Sri Lanka. Their origin can be traced back to the Vedic mandala, a term derived from Sanskrit, meaning a circle. Sanskrit is an ancient language in which the sacred texts of Hinduism were written, and which over time became the liturgical language in India. The practice of making sand mandalas was one of the meditative practices of Brahmanism. According to legends, the precursors of Tibetan and Chinese Buddhism were teachers from the Tamil Nadu region, who introduced the art of making mandalas to new territories along with the Dhamma.

I decided to begin today by exploring the Sthala Sayana Perumal Temple at the foot of the park, where I ended my sightseeing yesterday. The temple is in continuous use. It is inhabited by Hindu monks. Followers of Shiva can be identified by the tripundra, three horizontal lines made with white powder on the forehead, sometimes with a dark dot between the eyebrows. In contrast, followers of Vishnu mark their foreheads with vertical lines.

The monastery gives the impression of being neglected. The outer gopura, an ornamental gate, is unfinished. Work had started to expand the monastery but was soon halted. It was built only to a height of about three meters, similar to the Royagopuram, the gate from yesterday’s hill. Its facade is also only partially completed.

In Tamil architecture, temples were traditionally built in the form of rectangular courtyards, surrounded by high walls with a temple or several temples in the center. Smaller monasteries had one entrance gate, while larger ones had four, with one gopura (decorative gateway) on each side. When a building became too small, it was expanded by adding parallel walls, symmetrically increasing the temple area. The old temple would become the central part of the new structure. There was also a rule that external gates had to be larger and more impressive than the inner ones, which, once obscured by new gopuras and walls, became less visible.

I enter through the main gate, which is the only gate of the temple. Before me is a deep courtyard. The central part of the courtyard is covered, and in the center stands the main temple. I notice several pairs of doors in the surrounding walls. To the left, I assume there is the residential section, and to the right, the administrative section. I peek into the administrative area. In one room, I find a well. The well is narrow, about one meter in diameter, with the water surface more than 10 meters below the ground level. In the room on the left, there is a granary with sacks of flour. On the right, there seems to be a makeshift kitchen. It seems that way because someone noticed me and came running with complaints about my wandering through areas not meant for visitors. I politely exit to the courtyard.

The courtyard is surrounded by a roof made of stone slabs supported by granite pillars. This granite veranda is missing on the wall with the gopura. However, the front part on the left side, where I ventured into the administrative rooms, is incomplete and heavily weathered by time.

The ornamentation on the granite columns is similar to what I saw yesterday in the park. There are also bas-reliefs depicting figures meditating in the lotus position. Most of the decorations, however, clearly reference Hinduism. Interestingly, the pillars are not identical, and I can distinguish three types, varying in craftsmanship, height, and ornamentation. This clearly indicates different periods in which the temple was expanded. The columns on the right side are the shortest, so the roof is about several centimeters lower. They are also not uniform, consisting of two parts: a longer lower section and a shorter upper one. They are well-maintained, and their decorations are clearly visible, making them appear the newest. The central and rear parts of the temple are similar. The columns are slightly taller, but also composed of two elements. The decorations are more eroded, and in the rear section of the temple, they are almost invisible, covered by a thick layer of paint that obscures the details. The paint is so thick that the bas-reliefs look like rough bumps on the surface of the pillars, with no shape other than uniform oval protrusions.

The most interesting part is the colonnade in the left front section of the courtyard. The columns are the tallest and monolithic. They lack bas-reliefs or feature abstract, kolam-like patterns. The guidebook mentions that the temple is between 1000 and 2000 years old. Historians either find it difficult to determine the construction date or suggest that the construction was stretched over a millennium. The pillars supporting the stone roof seem to confirm the latter option.

I walk around the inner walls. The back part of the wall has a few small openings in its upper section, roughly the size of arrow slits in European towers. Looking through them, I find bricks inside. The nearly one-meter-thick wall structure is thus composite, with red bricks inside and granite cladding. This construction is unexpected and suggests that the outer wall was built in the medieval period, perhaps toward its end.

The outer walls are about 5 meters high. Inside, at a height of over 3 meters, there is a roof that could serve as a platform for guards. The temple is a military fortress designed according to the knowledge of warfare. Some parts of the structure are much older than the rest. Either it was built over many centuries, or materials from a much older building were used in its construction.

In front of the unfinished gopura stand two stone mandapas. A mandapa is a stone structure with intricate decorations, supported by four granite pillars. At least that’s the name, Solotsava Mandapa, listed on the informational plaque next to one of them. The heavy granite structure stands on four slender stone pillars embedded in the sand. The mandapas are aligned with both gopuras: the unfinished one and the temple gate.

An interesting architectural detail is that the unfinished gopura is exactly 50 meters from the temple, measured from wall to wall. Next is the first mandapa, located 25 meters from the lower, unfinished gopura, or 15 meters from wall to wall, as the gopura’s thickness is nearly 10 meters. The second, smaller mandapa is 7.5 meters from the closest edge of the structure. Moreover, this line, when extended on a map, leads directly to the Shore Temple. On the other side, this same line passes precisely through the gate of the unfinished gopura on the hill, which I visited yesterday. Standing on this hill in the Royagopuram gate, one can see almost exactly both mandapas, the unfinished gopura, and both temples aligned in a straight line. The distance between the ends of the unfinished gopuras is 144 meters. Halfway along this distance is the entrance to the central temple. The distance between this entrance and the central part of the Shore Temple is 700 meters.

Before the construction of the Sthala Sayana Perumal temple began, the Shore Temple already existed, as indicated by the orientation of the former towards the latter. However, the axis of the Shore Temple is no longer directed precisely towards the Sthala Sayana Perumal temple, but is slightly shifted to the north. It is difficult to determine exactly where it points, as on one side there is the sea, while on the other side, it intersects a hill dotted with temples carved into granite monoliths, which my map does not indicate. This axis roughly passes through another famous tourist attraction, the enormous bas-relief called Arjuna’s Penance. The axis of the Sthala Sayana Perumal temple is easier to determine due to the unfinished gopurams. They stand 144 meters apart, and their passage is 3 meters wide. This allows for a fairly precise line to be drawn between them, and standing in the gate of the gopura on the hill, with the temple dome at its base, the lower gopura, and two mandapas in view, one can look directly at the Shore Temple as if through a sniper’s sight, achieving an accuracy of no more than a few meters of deviation per kilometer of distance. The axis of symmetry of the Shore Temple is defined by the small building itself, so its accuracy is less precise. Walking along this reference line, I pass over the monument called Arjuna’s Penance. On the other side, in the monolith, the Varaha Temple has been carved, which is the most completed of all the monolithic temples on this hill.

Arjuna’s Penance is one of the largest bas-reliefs in the world. It was created on two enormous rocks of a single monolith, which are separated by a crack. A section of a vertical wall, reaching up to 15 meters in height and 30 meters in length, was used to create the monument. The rock features an impressive 146 bas-reliefs depicting humans, animals, human-animal hybrids, and gods, the artistry and precision of which have contributed to Arjuna’s Penance gaining international fame. The sculpture is named after its connection to the Hindu epic Mahabharata, where Arjuna is the central character. In the epic, Arjuna fought a war with Krishna, who is identified as a figure standing nearby inside the temple carved near Arjuna.

However, Arjuna’s Penance does not necessarily depict Arjuna. According to some interpreters, the bas-relief portrays King Bhagiratha, who brought the holy river Ganges down to earth from the heavens. The Ganges is depicted in the central part of the image, in the crack separating the rocks, which has been sealed and filled with representations of half-human, half-serpent beings. It is suggested that in ancient times, water was poured through this crack, which flowed from a reservoir built at the top. This added to the spectacle during religious ceremonies held in the area. In this interpretation, the figures depicted on Arjuna’s Penance also acquire new names and are associated with different events. And this is not the last possible explanation for the bas-relief.

Arjuna’s Penance follows the tradition of artists not completing their works. Most of the figures on the right side of the crack are finished, though a few spots remain where small figures could be added. The background here has not yet been leveled. Meanwhile, the left side is decorated almost exclusively in its upper segment. Some of the figures are carved as raised bas-reliefs, while others protrude almost completely from the wall, being statues separated from the façade and placed on a rocky shelf. Notably, there is a family of elephants carved nearly to their original size. The male is placed at the center, larger than the female standing behind him. Asian elephants are also characterized by the fact that females have only short, symbolic tusks, while males possess large, impressive tusks, each weighing up to 45 kg. At the feet of the elephant pair, eight calves can be spotted. Four are beneath the male, at his feet, two beneath the female, and two others stand behind her. In total, there are eight calves. These are not representations of adult elephants seen from a distance, as all still have small milk tusks. The depiction of the elephant family is particularly interesting because the gestation period for elephants is extremely long. It lasts nearly two years, or about 680 days after fertilization, before the offspring is born. Twin pregnancies occur less frequently than in one in twenty births. Therefore, the presence of eight calves is not physically possible from just one adult pair.

Almost all the figures are directed towards the central crack, interpreted as the river Ganges. Some stand, some kneel, some sit or lie down, while others appear to float in the air, possessing supernatural abilities. In addition to musicians and jugglers, the bas-relief also features fakirs, yogis, ascetics, wise men teaching disciples, and meditating monks, possibly Buddhist. The mix of figures from different cultures and religions, human hybrids, and unknown symbolism creates an interpretative chaos, especially since the artist, as evidenced by the elephants, does not strictly adhere to the factual aspects of the scene, allowing artistry to take precedence. None of the depictions refer to any known historical figures or events, which would have helped researchers determine the precise time of the monument’s creation. The epic Mahabharata, associated with Arjuna’s Penance, only reached its final form in the medieval period. Therefore, even if the events depicted in the bas-relief relate to those described in the Mahabharata, interpreting them correctly today may be impossible. Myths could have evolved so much over hundreds of years that accurately recognizing them on the carved scene may no longer be feasible.

I check another object on the map. The Pancha Rathas, also known as the Five Rathas, is a group of buildings carved into a granite monolith arranged in a straight line. The complex is located exactly 1000 meters from the Sthala Sayana Perumal temple, and 1330 meters from the Shore Temple. However, both complexes do not lie on the same axis, which runs through uninhabited land covered with vegetation and sand, and then enters the sea at the height of the fishing village’s waterfront.

Ratha is an exceptionally intriguing architectural structure where geometric proportions play a crucial role. One could say that its design gave way to mathematical indulgence. Every detail and angle is meticulously calculated according to the principles of geometric symmetry. The name is derived from Sanskrit, where it means „chariot.” One of the most famous rathas is the Sun Temple at Konark, which depicted a chariot drawn by a horse team. Originally, the structure was 70 meters tall, but today, part of it lies in ruins.

Returning from the Sthala Sayana Perumal Temple, I head towards the Coastal Temple, walking around it from the seaside. A barrier of granite boulders has been created here to protect the shore from erosion. The stones are of poorer quality, with visible quartz veins. Some contain metamorphic rock layers, while others crumble due to high mica content. I stand at the center of the rubble, right on its edge. In the sea before me, I see a lighter shade of water turning slightly yellow, as if indicating a sandy shoal. It is about 100 meters away. I look more closely, and I have the impression that it forms a strip parallel to the shore, stretching tens of meters in both directions. The width of this strip is less than 50 meters but seems wider than 30. I rub my eyes in disbelief, yet I still see it. Either the shoal is really there, or autosuggestion is stimulating my imagination, producing visual hallucinations…

After returning to my room, I check online for archaeological data about the local excavations. Using satellite maps, I measure the distances between the temples. I watch YouTube videos showing the 2004 tsunami and the shoreline exposed by the receding water moments before. I review the findings of historians and delve into the analysis methods used by experts studying Mahabalipuram.

The waters of Mahabalipuram turn out to be exceptionally unknown. Only one video documents a descent to the seabed, showing ancient ruins. The footage is breathtaking. Busts, statues, buildings — all remarkably well-preserved. Within two years, the diving video was viewed by just 20,000 people. It is the only underwater descent video from around Mahabalipuram.

I conduct a reconnaissance and find a website for a diving club that is supposedly in Mahabalipuram. Unfortunately, no such club exists at the given location. There is no mention of diving on the building or in the vicinity, and the space appears to have been sublet, as the ground-floor room is now occupied by a restaurant, serving as a kitchen. The nearest diving center is in the state capital, Chennai. A bit further in Puducherry, there is supposedly another one. Both are small clubs. The one in Chennai is run by two instructors. I decide to contact them and inquire about the seabed of Mahabalipuram. They don’t respond immediately. My message is forwarded to another address. When I finally manage to speak with the divers, they deny organizing any underwater descents in Mahabalipuram at the moment. I ask about submerged objects and request a report or copies of the films. I am asked in detail why I need this information, after which the contact is abruptly cut off.

While studying satellite maps and sketching geometric shapes on them, I spot the shoal I had seen earlier from the shore. I measure the distance of the shoal from the shore. The ruler shows 100 meters, so I estimate the distance correctly. The deeper part is located 150—200 meters away. The promontory where the Coastal Temple stands juts about 300 meters into the sea. The shoal stretches about 500 meters into the sea. The lighter strip extends northward, abruptly ending after about a kilometer, forming something resembling an underwater wave-break. The entrance to this area is from the north, and the forming bay has a width of about 100 meters and a length of 500 meters. This port is roughly where the current fishing village is located.

I notice that in the shallower areas with more distinct shoals, a clear zone of wave formation is visible. A similar area with white-capped waves is also located deeper, 500—800 meters southeast of the Coastal Temple. However, Google images stop showing this area in high resolution at 1.5 km from the shore.

Recent events involving devastating tsunamis in the Indian and Pacific Oceans have influenced the focus of historians and archaeologists. Those unraveling the mysteries of the past have decided to blame any destruction or ground shifting on the giant waves. However, it should be noted that even if they are experts in excavation and historical analysis, they know relatively little about the physical processes occurring on our planet. Often, less than the average person.

An example of the Egyptian port of Heracleion is one of many. Water levels periodically rise and fall, entire continents shift, with tectonic plates either collapsing or rising, earthquakes shake, volcanoes erupt, the sun shines, and the birds chirp.

The tectonic plate shift and the resulting local water rise are likely not the cause of the extinction of dinosaurs, nor of the lowering of coastal lands. In the forming gap, there isn’t enough water to lower their global level by even a millimeter. Nor to raise it. A tsunami is dangerous for people and their economies because it is incredibly hard to predict. However, we experience small, predictable tsunamis every day. Twice a day.

The Moon, orbiting the Earth, exerts a gravitational pull on it. Both celestial bodies revolve around each other, like in a courtship dance. The Moon is six times smaller than the Earth, so it orbits the hefty Earth. The Earth’s trajectory is shifted, but in this joyful whirl, loose things also dance with the Moon. The loose matter is surface waters, particularly the vast water bodies. They continuously follow the Moon, irresistibly drawn to its enchanting face.

Meanwhile, the Bald One (the Moon) dances the tango possessed. It’s impossible to keep up with it. As soon as the water begins to chase, it swoops in from the other side. The waters return, and the Moon slides over the crest to tickle its ambitions.

Tides, because that’s what we’re talking about here, are a phenomenon of the oceans. They can raise water levels in certain places by as much as 18 meters. Twice a day, the water rises and falls. However, they cause no major devastation, as people accustomed to this process know how to protect themselves. The rocks and sands of the shorelines are not significantly affected by this drama.

The Mediterranean Sea is relatively calm. Tides are minimal, and the tectonic activity is fairly stable. Despite this, Heracleion sank underwater. Not just it, though.

Another example is the previously mentioned Malta. While its northern shores are rich in sandy and flat beaches, its southern shores are lined with high cliffs. Malta is a small rock emerging in the middle of the sea, far south of the Italian boot. Although the history of this place has turned out to be exceptionally colorful and so rich that it could be divided into many other islands without much loss, Malta still shrouds much of its ancient past in mystery.

One of the unsolved mysteries, which keeps researchers at a distance, are the mysterious traces on its surface that appear to be prehistoric tracks. The problem is that during the period these traces originated, humanity supposedly did not yet know iron or even the wheel…

The grooves in question are the imprints of two parallel indentations, spaced 1.4 meters apart, sometimes less. They resemble tracks left by a vehicle in mud. Known as „cart ruts” in English, these grooves can be found in various locations around the Mediterranean Basin. However, nowhere else are they as concentrated as they are in Malta.

Although these ancient ruts can be found throughout the island, the densest concentration is near the present-day airport terminal, in an area locally called Misraħ Għar il-Kbir. One observer, upon seeing the network of intersecting and radiating ruts, likened the site to Clapham Junction, an incredibly busy railway station in London. The comparison to a maze of railway tracks leading everywhere and nowhere became so amusing that the name stuck unofficially.

In general, archaeologists and historians date these tracks to around 4,000 years ago. However, there is significant divergence in opinion, as there is no definitive evidence pointing to the precise time of their creation. One expert attributes the ruts to the Phoenicians, who inhabited the island from the 7th century BCE, while another connects them to the builders of the megalithic temples, supporting the first theory. These ruts are grooves etched into the stone bedrock, fully exposed to the elements, so no biological material can be examined.

Malta is a small island, merely a larger rock rising from the sea. Its northeastward extension gives it a length of 26 km and a width of 12 km. This rock is a monolithic granite slab, topped with a thick layer of metamorphic rocks, followed by sandstone, and capped with limestone. These layers are sometimes held together by beautiful crystals of translucent calcite, which also deposits in the cracks of the granite and sandstone, healing the stone wounds. The granite is deep and hardly exposed above the surface of the sea. Together, these layers form a single monolithic rock with a layered structure, especially striking when viewed in the vertical cliffs that reveal the island’s geological cross-section.

The mysterious ruts are imprinted in the outermost limestone layer. What’s most important, however, is that many of these ruts end abruptly at the cliff edge, as if the vehicle was driven into the sea. During a conversation with a guard at the Hypogeum, he revealed that he was a researcher of these ruts. After stopping at the cliff, they continue their path along the sea bed, stretching as far as 3.5 km into Neptune’s realm.

The origin of the ruts poses a significant challenge for historians and archaeologists. It requires accepting the hypothesis that the wheel was known long before its conventional definition in modern science. As a result, the ruts remain a difficult subject for research. Particularly since the trace ends at the edge of the cliff and continues its journey beneath the sea, this raises questions. Leaving aside the idea of ancient underwater amphibious vehicles, how can we explain this descent from a 100-meter-high cliff, especially when neither the wheel nor iron were known at that time?

This is where knowledge of geology and physics can help. The plate on which Malta sits cracked along its southwestern edge, rising while the northeastern side sank. It also moved over the southern part, lowering its level. The island is now smaller, with part of it submerged. To the north, it has beautiful, almost flat beaches, while to the south, it suddenly drops off into a vertical cliff.

This explanation makes sense in explaining the presence of ruts on the sea bed, but it remains unacceptable for archaeologists and historians. It would mean that Malta’s civilization, which is believed to be no older than 6,000 years, dates back to the last Ice Age, which caused tensions that led to the island’s split. The Ice Age ended over 12,000 years ago! Instead of sitting in trees with other primates, the Maltese settlers already had the wheel, advanced mathematics, and modern stone-working tools. After all, they were able to build structures with massive blocks of stone weighing hundreds of tons, something that still presents enormous challenges even in the 21st century.

I mention Malta not by chance, as the Indian subcontinent bears a striking resemblance to it. The Deccan Plateau, also called the Indian Subcontinent, is currently moving southeastward. To the north, it collides with the Eurasian tectonic plate, pushing it even further. The Deccan Plateau is part of the original supercontinent Gondwana, which split apart due to the force of gravity balancing the Earth’s center of mass, resulting in the present continents (except Eurasia) and their „drifting” on the liquid mantle beneath. The Earth’s crust, made up of tectonic plates, is a relatively thin layer, much like an eggshell floating on the planet’s molten interior.

By understanding the direction of the Indian subcontinent’s movement and examining the present terrain, one might consider the possibility of the slow sinking of Mahabalipuram and the submerging of parts of the ancient settlement. One challenge in this scenario might be underestimating the age of the temples.

In contrast to the Indian subcontinent, Malta is a small fragment of rock. It lies almost exactly between two tectonic plates — the African and Eurasian plates — making it particularly sensitive to their movement. By contrast, Mahabalipuram is almost at the center of the Indian subcontinental plate, and its rapid tilting is physically impossible. The submergence of the eastern coastline, if it happens, would be an incredibly slow process.

For historians, this also presents a tough puzzle. If the temples of Mahabalipuram now lie several meters below the water’s surface, and their submergence is a slow but steady process, an uncomfortable question arises: when, on Earth, were they built? One of the submerged temples, if we believe the divers, is carved directly into the rock. The stretched hypothesis of a tsunami eroding the sand proves to be completely inadequate. Will researchers attempt to open Pandora’s box with excavations, or, like in Malta, will this uncomfortable subject remain in academic quarantine until a working hypothesis can be proposed?

Day Three

Today, as I walk to the beach, I notice that the line of women waiting for the drinking water dispenser is even longer than usual. Maybe it’s because I left the house a bit later than usual… It’s already quite gray.

It’s not yet six when I sit down on the sand. However, there isn’t much time left until sunrise, and its glow is already clearly visible. I struggle a bit to light the incense, as the morning breeze is stronger than usual. There are already several people on the beach, just like me, eager for the sight of the rising sun. Not far from me, an attractive twenty-something girl of European beauty sits down in Turkish style. Her freckled face looks youthful and lovely. Large green eyes flutter with long lashes. Red hair falls in locks onto her exposed shoulders. A loose, strappy dress covers her ample and shapely bust, with nipples not concealed by a bra clearly visible through the thin fabric. The folds of her dress ripple in the wind. Its strong gusts seem intent on tearing off this already extremely modest piece of clothing. Although the morning is quite cool, the short dress reveals the owner’s shapely bare legs. Her figure is neither too slim nor too plump. The perfect body shape with an angelically pretty face. Definitely a sexually appealing, attractive young woman to men.

I close my eyes and try not to think about anything. However, the awareness of this beautiful being’s presence next to me is distracting. I feel somewhat embarrassed nonetheless. More embarrassed by my reaction than by the situation itself. For such occasions, monks have a special type of meditation, undressing meditation. So, in my thoughts, I undress the neighbor sitting next to me.

Undressing meditation, however, is not about undressing a woman in your mind, imagining her naked. This meditation goes much deeper. It was developed for young monks who still need to wrestle with their own sexuality. What is being „undressed” is the body, not its covering. I imagine a part of a living organism detached from the person. If I feel the urge to kiss, I imagine saliva, preferably spat out on the sidewalk. Kissing is the exchange of mucus from the mouth between two people. Technically, it involves licking another person’s saliva. The saliva is still in the mouth, but it’s better to imagine it outside the mouth. Let it lie on a plate, on a table, or even spat out on the street. Then kissing no longer seems so appealing. The fluid from the mouth is neither tasty nor hygienic to taste, nor sexually attractive to be aroused by. Imagining saliva detached from a woman’s mouth eliminates sexual attraction.

Another method is to imagine the vagina. In my mind, I cut out the vagina along with the vaginal canal and move it away from the rest of the woman’s body. I imagine a piece of slimy intestine dripping with white mucus. I examine it in my mind, analyzing where my attraction to this part of the female body comes from. In itself, it looks completely unattractive. A transparent piece of flesh. Similarly, a woman giving birth looks far from sexually appealing. She positions herself similarly, but instead of pleasure, her face is twisted in a grimace of excruciating pain. The vagina and uterus are tools for procreation. They serve reproduction, and the momentary pleasure accompanying the act of fertilization turns into immense suffering during childbirth.

Female breasts, from the outside, are merely skin folds. Inside, they contain mammary glands. They look like a cluster of bloody figs connected by ducts to the nipple. These figs produce milk to nourish a newborn. A child cannot consume any food other than milk. This entire organ is designed to produce white nourishment. There is nothing erotic about it when you look inside. Pure procreation, the imperative of reproduction.

Undressing meditation, which breaks down the human body into its basic components, has more applications depending on the meditator’s needs. However, it is not a type of meditation aimed at enlightenment. Unlike Vipassana, it requires the meditator to engage their imagination. A new reality is created in which a fragment of the environment is analyzed. The purpose of this analysis is to cleanse the mind of emotions, addictions, attraction to something, or even simple lust. It clears the path for practice. After applying undressing meditation, I rid myself of erotic associations. The young woman sitting next to me becomes sexually neutral; she ceases to be perceived as an object of desire, and I begin to see her as a family member, a sister, or a daughter.

The purpose of undressing meditation is to maintain the purity of the monk’s vow of sexual restraint. Abrahmacariya veramani sikkhapadam samadiyami is the third of the ten precepts, which in Pali are pledged by a monk, novice, or layperson practicing in a temple. A less restrictive form of this vow is taken by every Buddhist. Kamesu micchacara veramani sikkhapadam samadiyami is repeated by devotees during almost every Buddhist ceremony. It is one of the five basic precepts, the observance of which makes a person a follower of Buddhism. In this way, a Buddhist promises to abstain from immoral sensual conduct. In this context, sexual life should be limited to a formal partner, and its prerogative should be procreation.

The incense stick has burned out, and the sun should have risen by now, but it is still covered by a layer of clouds hovering over the ocean. A small band of clouds on the horizon will likely delay the sight of the sun. I glance involuntarily to my left, which is now empty. The beautiful woman has left the sand, beginning her tourist day. I struggle to light the next incense stick because the wind is blowing even stronger than yesterday. The wind effectively cools the body, though it is not cold at all. When, during the third incense stick, the sun’s rays finally land on my face, they burn with a strong stream of energy, like the arc of an electric welder. The stronger-than-usual trade wind has chilled my body. My stiff limbs absorb every ray of sunlight, like a chicken taken out of the freezer absorbing warmth from the atmosphere. As the fourth incense stick was dying down, I decided to lie down on the sand for a while to continue enjoying the cosmic warmth. In a horizontal position, the cooling effect of the wind became less bothersome. It became blissful. Very blissful…

When I woke up, the sun was already high. There was no one left near the non-functioning drinking water dispenser. Upon returning to my room, I glanced at the clock on my laptop. I had spent almost four hours sitting and lying on the beach. This start to the day gave me the motivation to do nothing today. Days designated for doing nothing are very necessary in a schedule. They allow for distancing, resting, and switching off. One can then answer the question of what they did all day without any guilt. „Nothing” is an answer that means strictly adhering to the schedule.

Doing nothing is, in fact, an extremely difficult practice. The mind constantly comes up with new exciting activities. Meanwhile, one must resist them by doing absolutely nothing. All activity should not have the semblance of doing anything useful. I limit my actions to the absolute minimum of satisfying physiological needs. This is not the time for meditation, as that would be doing something. The practice of doing nothing is somewhat of a test, showing whether I am comfortable with myself without assigned tasks, or if I will get bored with my own presence. Doing nothing was supported by the energy company, which today unusually often and for unusually long periods limited the supply of electricity. I lay down on the mattress, slipping into a slight lethargy. I lay like this almost until evening, then got up and took a shower.

My main protection against mosquitoes is a blanket that I cover myself with entirely. The blanket is not very thick, but it is thick enough to make me sweat. The blanket is extremely important to me when I sleep under the open sky. Mosquitoes easily penetrate the layer of sanghati cloth, which is supposed to serve as my nighttime cover, but they cannot reach my blood through the thickness of the blanket.

During the day, however, when the air temperature exceeds 30°C, lying under the blanket is like being in a sauna. I then wrestle with my thoughts, trying to decide which option is less cruel: exposing my body to bloodthirsty mosquitoes or cooking it in my own sweat.

Theravada Buddhism can be compared to military training. It is not a religious system in the Western sense. It resembles a lifestyle more than the adherence to a particular philosophy. Unlike Abrahamic religions — Judaism, Christianity, or Islam — Buddhism has no god to whom worship is directed. It is a series of practices aimed at awakening from the dream called reality. The religiosity of Buddhism is therefore superficial; its perception arises from ignorance of the teachings and is an illusion based on misunderstanding. Often, lay Buddhists treat the Buddha’s teachings as a religion. Some traditions even elevate the Buddha to the status of a god, bowing to him and praying to him. In Theravada, however, the Buddha is a teacher, a person who was the first to walk the path of awakening and decided to share his experiences and the path itself with others.

Theravada Buddhism can be divided into two parts. The first is the theory of suffering. Its core is the Four Noble Truths, defined by the Buddha immediately after his enlightenment. They contain information about what suffering is, how it arises, and how to escape it. This part is called the Dharma, a Sanskrit word meaning “teaching”. The Fourth Noble Truth shows the path to liberation from suffering. This is the Noble Eightfold Path, a practice one must undertake to free oneself from suffering. This practice has many levels and is described as Vinaya, or the rules of conduct that must be practiced.

There are hundreds, if not thousands, of Vinaya rules. In the Theravada tradition, when taking the Triple Refuge, one pledges to train in a specific number of them. Laypeople commit to observing the Five Precepts. Those practicing in monasteries temporarily take on eight precepts. Novices learn to observe ten precepts, while monks are required to expand these ten into a detailed set of rules that govern nearly every aspect of life. These are the 227 Patimokkha rules for monks and 311 for nuns.

The precepts are not equivalent to the commandments known from the Christian Bible. The wording itself emphasizes this. The fifth commandment of the Decalogue states, „Thou shalt not kill,” while the Buddhist precept is defined as, „I undertake the training to abstain from taking life.” In Christianity, killing leads to the fires of hell, while in Buddhism, the same act does not lead to liberation and is therefore incompatible with the practice. That’s it! No one is threatened with consequences or judged for wrongful deeds during a Final Judgment. Did you kill someone? Tough! It didn’t bring you closer to liberation. Improve yourself and keep practicing.

The practices undertaken in the Theravada tradition are primarily focused on working with the mind. They train strong willpower. They define nearly every aspect of life, becoming a permanent part of the practitioner’s life. One must remember how and when to eat, whom they are allowed to meet and when, and even how to relieve themselves. This may sound abstract, but it teaches mindfulness and concentration on what one is doing.

In Buddhism, it is possible to create structures to oversee individual practitioners and hold them accountable for their progress. However, there is no specific system of rewards and punishments for adhering to or violating the precepts. The consequence is a suggestion for a monk to confess to another monk if they have strayed from the path of practice. That’s it! The precepts are practiced for oneself, and the only beneficiary is the practitioner themselves. Monks are not held accountable for their progress or lack thereof. If they do not practice diligently enough, they bear the consequences themselves, wasting their time, often their entire lives, on fruitless searches for liberation from suffering.

Buddhist training is therefore primarily training in strong willpower. The objects of training are clearly defined. These are the 227 precepts that must be observed day and night. At the same time, the only supervisor of their fulfillment is the practitioner themselves. They must monitor themselves. The more diligently they treat their practice, the stronger their willpower will become. Without this strong will, the chances of awakening significantly decrease.

Understanding the true meaning of practice, it is not worth reproaching oneself for failing at something. A phone call to a friend, and the matter is settled. Next time will be better, and I will manage! Then one moves on from the failure without dwelling on it further.

The day designated for doing nothing overwhelmed me. So, I take my e-reader and head to the beach, where the remnants of sunlight still provide good lighting.

Modern technology has revolutionized access to information. Within moments, I can confirm almost any interesting fact I come across, enriching my knowledge about it almost endlessly. On such a small, pocket-sized e-reader, the entire collection of the Library of Alexandria can fit. Access to any of these books is almost instantaneous.

In my childhood, I was a bookworm. I spent hours in the library because encyclopedic volumes could not be taken home. Looking them up and cross-referencing what I read was very important to me and remains so to this day. The very act of searching for a book was an incredibly exciting activity back then. Libraries had cabinets where volumes were cataloged by author and, in adjacent cabinets, by title. Finding a book when you didn’t remember the exact author’s name and misremembered the title was almost a miracle. However, the librarian, who spent her days reading and thus became a walking prototype of Wikipedia, was indispensable.

The book that is next on my list was written in 1894 by Thomas Wilson and is titled The Swastika. Thomas was a researcher associated with the National Museum of the United States at the time. A friend came to him and asked if the swastika symbol had also appeared in America. Thomas confirmed and pointed to several publications that mentioned the swastika. They were not dedicated to it, nor were they always available in English. So, he decided to gather the available information and compile it into a work specifically dedicated to the swastika.

More than a century has passed since the book’s publication, yet Wilson’s work remains the most comprehensive and extensive study on the swastika published to date. Thomas collected all the data for his work manually, combing through catalogs dedicated to archaeology and ancient history, as the swastika symbol was usually only mentioned in passing. The World War soon tarnished the swastika to such an extent that it became taboo, and no subsequent historians took up its study. Despite now having technology that allows us to search museum collections instantly from home, Wilson’s anthology remains the only professional compilation.

Right from the start, Wilson addresses several important issues. One of them is nomenclature. The swastika appeared in almost every culture and on every continent, so the symbol took on various names. In Germany, the swastika was called Hackenkreuz (hooked cross), while in Poland, the term swarga was used. Due to its prevalence in India, the Sanskrit-derived name swastika was also in use. Not everyone liked this, as it suggested Hindu origins. Meanwhile, the swastika appeared on all continents since time immemorial, being the first intentionally used symbol by humanity. Another issue was agreeing on the shape of the swastika, as it appeared in three or more-armed versions. One researcher suggested distinguishing the name based on whether the swastika’s arms pointed to the right or left, which was thought to relate to the gender of a deity. Wilson and other researchers disagreed, questioning the sources of such a view.

The swastika owes its popularity to Hindu and Buddhist cultures. In the caves of the first Buddhist monks discovered in southern India, it was a fundamental symbol. It was particularly popular in southwestern India, where it served as a symbol replacing the later Buddha. But not only there. Research reveals that before early Christians agreed on the appearance of the current cross, gathering in Roman catacombs, it was the swastika that was drawn to symbolize Jesus.

In the early period of Buddhism, the direction of the swastika’s arms had no significance. It was drawn with arms pointing in both directions. This continued until the 7th century when Buddhism gained popularity in China. Chinese monks decided to point the arms to the left to distinguish the swastika from the Hindu version, which was more often directed to the right. Tibetan monks and parts of East Asia, such as Korea and Japan, adopted this tradition from them.

In a sense, both in Hinduism and Buddhism, the swastika symbolizes enlightenment. In Brahmanism, it represents the mind of Brahma, the absolute, while in Buddhism, it signifies the nature of the Buddha, also the absolute. The Sanskrit word swastika loosely translates to „bringing good fortune”. In this sense, it appears across the globe as a symbol of happiness and prosperity. Even in the interwar period, Polish pilots painted swastikas on their planes. Luck was especially precious back then, as parachutes were not yet standard equipment, and a crash that prevented landing meant the end of both the plane and the pilot…

This incredibly positive symbol lost its popularity due to its appropriation by the Nazis.

During the rise of Nazism in Germany, its leaders were devoted to an ideology drawn from the philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche. In one of his works, Nietzsche described, in a vivid and allegorical manner, the birth of the superhuman, a human being who becomes a god. The superhuman emerged mentally, through isolation in a solitary cave and seeking wisdom within one’s own mind. Nietzsche’s brilliant and religiously symbolic work, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, became a philosophical foundation for the fascists, who did not fully understand it. The process of creating the superhuman described in the book had much in common with Buddhist enlightenment, which the leaders of the Third Reich were no less fascinated by than Nietzsche’s philosophy. This fascination reached such a level that the Buddhist symbol of awakening found its way onto the German flag and national emblem.

The way the war was conducted, the systematic extermination of civilians in occupied territories, and the mass murder of the disabled, sexual minorities, and Jewish populations brought infamy to both fascism and the swastika used by the Germans. After the defeat of the Third Reich, the Hackenkreuz (hooked cross) was added to the list of banned symbols, with severe penalties, including long prison sentences, for its use.

For me, the swastika has become a special symbol. On one hand, it is vilified by the masses; on the other, it is meant to bring happiness and prosperity. Two extreme interpretations. A mere ten years of negative imagery created by Hitler overshadowed 20,000 years of positive tradition. But did it really? Is the meaning of a symbol truly determined externally?

The swastika is not accidentally a symbol of awakening. It is the quintessence of the creation of values in the mind and the making of independent choices. The conceptual world is an illusion. Belief in the negative connotations of the swastika is imposed within it. Meanwhile, for tens of thousands of years, the swastika has symbolized goodness, happiness, and prosperity. Standing before it and reflecting on this fact reveals the freedom of choice. It is I who determine what the swastika symbolizes, not the illusory reality shaped by media propaganda. The swastika represents a mental choice between remaining in illusion or awakening, passively and mindlessly absorbing content or consciously and freely assigning meaning, holding mistaken views about things or seeing them as they truly are.

The sun slowly dips below the horizon. I stand up, brushing off the sand. The sea is at low tide, revealing a wide stretch of beach. A sandbar several hundred meters from the shore is now much more visible, clearly showing its path. I glance to the right. The slowly falling dusk has activated the lights on a pier several kilometers away. This pier is not accessible to the public. It carries pipes that draw water from the ocean to cool a nuclear reactor. Such proximity to a power plant, yet the electricity is more often off than on — I think to myself as I return to my room.

As I walk, I am overcome by nostalgia. During the war, the Germans committed many atrocities. The policies of the Reich led to the extermination of civilians. The country’s economy was geared toward military production. Yet, despite their strong position, the Germans suffered shortages. They also feared reprisals from the despotic representatives of power. This fear and the culture of submission to state structures, which, incidentally, persists to this day, fueled the machinery of wartime destruction. Millions of people died during the war.

When this nightmare ended and Germany signed its surrender, an equally macabre spectacle began: the satiation of a bloodthirsty appetite for revenge. A series of trials, known as the Nuremberg Trials, commenced. Only a few individuals were acquitted or given prison sentences. Almost all were shot or hanged. These executed individuals posed no threat to society. Many were officials, high-ranking officers, or doctors conducting medical experiments. The list of those executed also included prisoners of concentration camps who, to save their own lives, took on shameful roles. What is now silenced is that the Allies proved to be no less monstrous than the Germans themselves. There was no need to kill these people. But history is written by the victors…

What, then, does it mean to be human? If the use of cruel methods of terror can be justified in any way under conditions of self-defense, why do so many sentences bear the marks of vendetta, being disproportionate to the crimes themselves?

There are countless examples of such (in)justice in the Penal Code. Article 310 sets the penalty for unauthorized printing of banknotes. Counterfeiters face a prison sentence of no less than five years or up to 25 years. The same penalty applies to those who spy for another country. Even harsher treatment is reserved for those inciting rebellion, changing the government, or territorial separation under Article 127, with sentences ranging from 10 years to life imprisonment. In comparison, rape carries a sentence of two to a maximum of 12 years.

The source of the Penal Code has nothing to do with justice or the social functions it is meant to serve. It is a bloodthirsty instinct for killing, humiliating, destroying, and punishing… An instinct that drove paladins on bloody crusades, pushed conquistadors to convert by the sword, burned women at the stake under the pretext of witchcraft, and guillotined royal families in France and Russia, sparing not even children. Violence has never had justification. Justification is sought by those who cultivate violence.

Today, a person walking through Europe proudly wearing a swastika would face a lynching. Peace-loving individuals with liberal views and extraordinary tolerance would wield machetes, knuckle dusters, and clubs to fight for that tolerance, peace, and freedom. When they win, they will write the history of a heroic struggle for noble ideals against the demonic embodiment of pure evil.

Thus, the swastika reminds me of the difference between how things are seen and how they truly are, while forcing me to choose in which of these two worlds I want to live.

As I return, I hear the generators running. There is still no electricity. It is getting dark. Lying on the mattress in my small room, I surrender to the bliss of breathing.

One of the first states achieved through meditation is the sensation of extraordinary pleasure derived from the act of breathing. These subjective feelings are difficult to describe in words. Therefore, more or less accurate terms are used. In some texts, this phase is referred to as the „beautiful breath.” However, beauty is a completely subjective impression, so the term „beauty” does not adequately describe the sensation that the breath evokes.

In the teachings left by the Buddha, there is mention of four meditative states that follow one another. These are the jhanas. According to some Buddhist commentators, jhana refers to meditation itself. During the Buddha’s time, the term meditation did not yet exist, and jhana served as its replacement. The jhanas are thus its successive stages. Some, however, lean toward accepting a metaphysical aspect of these jhanas, linking them to paranormal abilities of the mind. Others claim that the jhanas are the wisdom gained through meditative insight.

My meditation practice, while exhibiting some characteristics of all these views, is nonetheless very pragmatic. I also compare the first jhana to the breath, as it quite clearly exposes the sensation. Instead of „beautiful,” I will call this breath „velvety.”

The sensation of the velvety breath is, of course, most associated with Vipassana meditation, where the breath is the object, or one of the objects, of focus. It also occurs in Samadhi meditation, but since Samadhi has no object of meditation, the breath itself becomes insignificant, and the entire perception becomes „velvety.”

The term „velvety breath” is not my own. During one of the sessions on the roof at Thamkrabok, where I was introducing a disciple to the mysteries of meditation, we tried to describe the sensations accompanying it. At that time, I used the epithets „soft,” „plush,” „pleasant.” However, a friend compared the breath to velvet. I then stated that his analogy to velvet was extremely accurate and conveyed the sensation much more precisely than the very subjective and meaningless „beauty.”

The sensations related to perceiving reality are very individual. In something that one person finds ugly, another sees incredible beauty. I enjoy Thai dishes with such a level of spiciness that the average European couldn’t even bring them to their lips. One person finds something beautifully fragrant, while another perceives it as a foul smell. While we feast on sauerkraut, Asians consider it spoiled and inedible. Meanwhile, in Thailand, a delicacy is a sauce made from fermented fish. You throw them into a barrel and wait until they rot, just as Poles do with cabbage. Given such subjectivity in perceptions, it’s hard to use a universal description of them.

In a dark room, I lie on a mattress. My attention is focused on the breath. It is calm, steady. The air enters my lungs automatically, without effort, without any involvement from my side. There is no scent, yet it smells pleasant. It smells soft. It is plush, very velvety. The breath sliding through the airways is incredibly pleasant, tickling and caressing them as it passes. At the same time, there is a sensation of the air’s crystalline purity and healthy, childlike lungs that can luxuriate in this breath.

A thought breaks through, fluttering for a moment like a fish pulled from water, then dissolving on its own. This thought often appears during this phase of meditation. However, it does not distract me. Instead, it makes the pleasure of the velvety breath even greater. This thought is gratitude. Gratitude for myself, for my self-discipline and consistency in action.

I used to smoke. I was a compulsive smoker. I made up my mind and decided to quit smoking tobacco.

In life, I have no luck with money or love. I’m not especially talented or particularly sharp. So, nothing ever came easy. Rather, everything was paid for with hard work, a series of sacrifices, and dedication. Quitting smoking took several years. Specifically, for four years, I struggled with myself, periodically smoking and then not smoking. I won the battle. I stopped smoking, although everyone around me still smoked. I never returned to the addiction. I didn’t even allow myself a quarter of a cigarette, seeing it as a danger of renewing the addiction.

The first surprise after a long period of smoking is regaining the sense of smell. The world, apart from color, now also has a scent. A beautiful scent. The palate, until now limited to five muted tastes, connects with the sense of smell, offering an unlimited configuration of them. Now, I can see what I gave up to satisfy the nonexistent nicotine hunger, which gave the illusion of pleasure. True pleasure lies in inhaling the world’s aromas deeply.

As the lungs fill with air, that fluttering thought appears. Can smokers also experience a beautiful breath? Would I still feel the same if I hadn’t quit smoking? The wonderful velvety breath spreads through the body in bliss. It smells soft, and it is incredibly pleasant.

Many nicotine addicts don’t realize how much they lose by smoking. They say they enjoy smoking. But it’s just an illusion. Smoking costs money and health. One has to go to work to earn the money. Then, take it to the store to spend it on cigarettes. Then open the pack, take out a cigarette, put it in your mouth, and light it. What a hassle! Meaningless time spent working, which is then burned away in smoke. On top of that, a lack of physical fitness, the destruction of beauty, and deteriorating health. But the greatest cost is actually losing the pleasure of smelling the world. The loss of that daily beautiful and velvety breath.

Recent statistical studies show that one in four people smokes in Poland. It’s both a lot and a little. Just a few decades ago, one in two smoked. In Thailand, in comparison, more than 60% of men smoked 40 years ago, but now it’s 20% less. The percentage of smokers in Thailand is lower than in Poland, standing at about 20%. Sri Lanka boasts an even lower percentage of smokers, at 15%. This is due to women, who generally don’t smoke (less than one in a hundred do).

The monk’s practice is based on renouncing the material world, abstaining from physical pleasures, and focusing on spiritual development, with particular attention to self-discipline. Yet in the Thamkrabok monastery, over 80% of monks smoke cigarettes. Smoking is completely contrary to the Vinaya practice, yet smoking monks in Thailand is accepted.

By contrast, in India, where the percentage of smokers is much higher than in Thailand, I have yet to encounter a smoking monk. Neither Buddhist nor Hindu monks smoke. Despite my relatively short stay in India, I have already met more clergy here than in two years in Thailand. However, in Buddhist Sri Lanka, a smoking monk would likely be stoned by the faithful. Sri Lankan Buddhists take substances like tobacco, drugs, or alcohol very seriously. Until recently, women were completely prohibited from purchasing alcohol. Only men were allowed to buy it. Moreover, alcoholic and tobacco products were available only in a few highly restricted shops. Women’s emancipation and the equalization of their rights with those of men made tobacco and alcohol available to women, though they do not abuse their privileges, and the consumption of substances among women in Sri Lanka, Thailand, and India is minimal. Meanwhile, in the United Kingdom, women statistically smoke and drink on par with men. The rate of female smokers in the UK is one of the highest in the world, about 25%.

The state of velvety breath does not have to be limited to the time of meditation itself, when I am sitting with an incense lit. It can be induced while walking, sitting on a bus, swimming in a pool, or even doing manual labor. During such activities, focusing on the breath is more difficult. The objects around me and their influence on the senses become the focus of concentration. Phenomena are then perceived as soft, velvety, and pleasant.

The state of the first jhāna is not, therefore, a meditative state as such. It is a way of perceiving reality. At that moment, consciousness is slightly withdrawn into the position of the observer. It feels like being in a light trance, simultaneously participating in everything and not participating. Phenomena and events flow around me, and I observe them and experience them with my senses. Information flows in one direction, toward consciousness. No feedback signals flow from consciousness to the mind. However, I do not call this state jhāna, as a more appropriate analogy would be to a calm mind, the state of samadhi. The state of samadhi is achieved by quieting the mind from thoughts, withdrawing consciousness to the position of the observer.

Achieving the state of samadhi is a practical skill. There are people who claim to have entered this state spontaneously, such as the Hindu ascetic Sri Ramana Maharishi, and have remained in it permanently. However, for me, it took a lot of work on myself and still requires significant effort to maintain.

The state of samadhi, which can be compared to the first jhāna, is a state of the mind in which consciousness is a passive observer of phenomena. At the same time, consciousness is convinced that none of the laws of reality are universal. Laws apply only to the present moment and do not extend to any time frame. In this state, the conceptuality of phenomena is rejected, or rather, the conceptual definition of reality has no place. Memory does not contain content; it is created in the moment of recall. Visualizing, an experience recalled from the past is created during its invocation. Thus, it does not have an objective nature; it is part of the illusion being created. Consciousness no longer has any support in axioms. It hangs like the Earth, suspended in cosmic vacuum, in nothingness. The fact is realized that any concept that could form the basis of understanding is merely an artificial construct of the mind, an illusion created to support some thesis. Relying on this concept therefore only gives the illusion of stability. Still, understanding remains suspended in total non-conceptual emptiness.

This state, on one hand, eliminates intentional action, but on the other, the questioning of laws gives the possibility of freely redefining them. In a word, nothing is impossible. Every concept becomes erroneous. Death neither exists nor does not exist. Physicality becomes one aspect of the mind’s illusion. Since physicality is illusory, its laws cannot be universal. Therefore, whether the laws will operate or not depends entirely on the will of consciousness.

Understanding this opens a gateway to perceiving reality as undefined. One just has to say that I don’t need to eat, drink, or sleep for these concepts to not apply. By continuously focusing on this, there is no sensation of the need for sleep, hunger, or thirst. While in the state of samadhi and learning to maintain it, there is no need to fall asleep. A day, when fully available, becomes incredibly long.

I worked for many months on the practice of replacing sleep with meditation. I had heard about monks in Korea who could go months without sleep without suffering any health consequences. In the Thamkrabok monastery, I made many attempts to go without sleep and replace it with meditation. All with unfortunate results. It was only after arriving in India and focusing the practice on maintaining the state of samadhi that I achieved satisfactory results. Fatigue and the feeling of sleepiness can be controlled. This also does not have a direct relationship with meditation. The control happens in the mind. By eliminating the distraction of concentration, I get rid of fatigue and the sensation of sleepiness. I can now maintain this state for many days, even weeks.

I lie, gazing at the space above me. I take a breath. The air rolls into my lungs, filling them with a velvety bliss. A second later, warm air softly leaks out of my body through my nose. It is dark, there is no electricity. Nights like this are an extreme test of concentration. But it is practice that makes a master, when there is no talent.

Maintaining the state of samadhi is the ability to keep attention on the consciousness of existence. Lying down, I am always aware of where I am and what is happening around me. When images appear, I am aware of their origin. It is imagination, a dream. The differences between ordinary sleep and samadhi sleep are two. The most important two. The first is the full awareness that one is dreaming. The images, situations, or people appearing are then perceived impartially. I observe the fiction more than I engage with it. I enjoy this dream like a visit to a super-modern cinema, where an extraordinarily detailed and colorful image is projected especially for me. The action of the three-dimensional film takes my character into account; just like in a video game, I become its center. All the while, I am aware that I am the director of this production, so I can change the fate of the characters at will.

In such a controlled dream, anything I imagine becomes real. I can direct the action and enjoy the superpowers, I can let them run wild, delighting in their surprising twists, and only occasionally gently steer them back onto track if the plot wants to end the action completely.

The second characteristic of samadhi sleep is the fact that it is remembered later. Dreams are not usually remembered. Sometimes one remembers a dream during which they were awakened. However, this memory is usually very short-lived, and the dream fades after a few days. On the other hand, a samadhi dream is remembered as part of ordinary events, with all the details and continuity of action. Like a film watched in a cinema.

When practicing the state of samadhi, however, it sometimes happens to drift away. Forgetting that one is dreaming and falling asleep, losing complete awareness. Usually, such absence is not long and lasts about two hours. What is interesting, however, is the awakening, the return to the world of the living. It reminds me of starting up a computer. I open my eyes and gain awareness of my own existence. This first stage lasts about two seconds. Then, subconsciously, I demand that my memory provide me with data on who I am and what this place is. Within the next two seconds, I feel a wave of information pouring into me. The sensation is similar to filling an empty bottle with liquid, or loading an operating system onto a computer. After four or five seconds, I am fully ready for action again.

In the state of samadhi, there is only pure consciousness. There is no feeling of individuality, and the entire reality seems to be one with the body. There is no division between me and others, between a person, a stone, or a tree. Reality then resembles a virtual world. There is not even an awareness of the existence of the entity from whose position this world is experienced. Even the concept of experiencing reality seems inadequate. The state of samadhi is somewhere between experiencing and not experiencing. On the other hand, the loading of data about place, character, and its past can be compared to loading individual traits, ego. The ego is precisely this set of programs and individual parameters of the avatar occupied by consciousness.

My way of thinking is very analytical. In childhood, I played chess, achieving quite good results. Besides chess, I was also sent to math Olympiads. I was also interested in electronics, and that is the direction my further education took.

Electronics is a very interesting branch of technology. Combined with computing and mechanics, it allows for practically anything. I have used my analytical mind for most of my life to repair electronic devices and computers. In addition to reading electrical diagrams, I learned programming languages and computer systems. This combination of skills from various fields made me a technical expert.

Electronic devices are not susceptible to magic. Either you understand how they work and can locate the malfunction, or you cannot repair them. The repair of devices is in binary form, zero-one. It works — it doesn’t work. You can’t cheat or manipulate them.

Throughout my career, I encountered people who thought they were experts and knew electronics, capable of fixing malfunctions. My verification was very simple. Here is a broken television. There is the repair station. Show me what you can do.

In an electronic service workshop, money is earned by fixing the malfunction. When hiring a worker, I had to be sure that they would earn their salary. One engineer will repair a television in 30 minutes, while another will stay with it for two days and then give up. I can’t afford that because, despite the lack of results, they would be the loudest in demanding their salary. It doesn’t matter what expert you think you are, only how much money your knowledge will generate.

Repairing equipment requires years of dedication from an engineer. One invests in their education much like a doctor, earning almost nothing at first, only to surpass everyone else in salary after gaining knowledge and experience. One of my friends, an electronics technician, once said that repairs are a business more profitable than drug dealing. And it’s entirely legal. However, to reach that level, one must first invest a lot in themselves.

My approach to Buddhist practices is similar to my approach to electronics repairs. I analyze how the device — my body, my psyche — functions, and based on that, I make changes. The purpose of these changes is further observation and analysis of how the system works. I’m far from mysticism or an emotional approach to reality. I believe that I can fix something only when I understand how it works and where it is failing.

Waking up from sleep reminds me of the process of a computer system booting up. The entire experienced reality is better understood as a virtual programming environment. A deeper analysis, as well as the experimental process itself, contradicts the physicality of the material world.

Around three in the morning, the electricity supply resumed. The lights came on, and the fan started buzzing. The rest of the night I can spend with my laptop, reading about the swastika and searching for mentions of it in the suttas.

At five o’clock, my hosts wake up. That’s when the daily ritual begins. Buckets are filled with water, which is then poured on the sidewalk in front of the entrance. The woman creates a kolam, while her husband washes himself. The washing is peculiar. In India, great care is taken with oral hygiene. The teeth are brushed with exceptional thoroughness. Additionally, the throat — or rather, the deep part of the tongue — is rinsed, causing a sound similar to vomiting.

After this daily ceremony, another one follows. The man, dressed only in a traditional lungi — a rectangular white cloth about 2 meters long and 1 meter wide worn around the waist — draws three horizontal lines on his torso, arms, and forehead with white powder. Holding a clay incense holder with burning incense, he smokes out the entire house, paying special attention to the religious images and statues of the Hindu god Shiva. During this ritual, he hums one of the religious songs I’ve already heard, which is part of the puja ceremony. At the end, he places a scented oil lamp at the entrance to my room. During this time, I usually go to the beach to engage in my own liturgy, a ritual sunrise meditation.

Day Four

Today’s sky is almost cloudless. However, on the horizon, the steaming ocean has formed a low strip of clouds, like mist suspended above the water. This mist forms almost every day. The warm sea vapor meets the cooler morning air. The saturated water vapor condenses, creating low-hanging clouds. A similar effect occurs behind a jet aircraft, which leaves behind a condensation trail. These clouds slightly delay the visibility of the rising sun. Today, however, the sun appeared still in its red phase, suspended about two diameters above the horizon.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a group of over 20 Western tourists who, like me, were on the beach enjoying the solar spectacle. Some of them are sitting cross-legged on the sand, meditating, while a few others are standing. A man is solemnly bowing repeatedly toward the emerging star. One of the women is rotating around her own axis, bowing her body toward the Sun with each turn and touching the sand before her. Another person is kneeling with their hands clasped in prayer. Someone is dancing, someone else is mumbling a Hindu mantra — it’s one big circus. I pull my robe over my head, though I realize I look just as odd as my neighbors.

The sunrise meditation has always been, and still is for me, a magical time, a periodic shutdown of vital functions, non-existence. Non-existence brings bliss, a feeling of peace and comfort. It gives an energetic boost that allows me to function throughout the day in a good mood and contentment. This boost is followed by another surge of energy. Right after the meditation, I go for a meal.

At the Thamkrabok monastery, after the sunrise meditation, I would go for breakfast. The communal meal was served in the main hall, called Magsaysay. It started with a gong struck just before 7:00 AM. Everyone had their assigned seat. I would sit on a mat, in front of which was a large bowl of rice. Around this bowl were small bowls and plates with sauces, soups, vegetables, desserts… Sometimes there would be up to several dozen different dishes. Tradition dictates that you take a little from each of these plates and add it to the rice bowl, then mix everything together and eat. I tried to follow this tradition, though not always mixing everything. I would take just a symbolic amount of soup, making sure the food remained as thick as possible. Alongside roasted fish, on which there would sometimes be spaghetti in sauce and a handful of nuts, the thick contents of fruit soup and an ice cream sundae would land in the bowl. I had to make sure I ate enough, as in Thamkrabok we only had one meal a day — the breakfast.

The tradition of eating one meal a day originates from the Buddha himself. He remained on this diet throughout his life, encouraging others to follow it as well. Forest monks try to copy the Buddha’s lifestyle as faithfully as possible, which is why many monasteries serve only one meal a day. Additionally, the quality of the food should not be a monk’s choice. All the offered dishes must be put into one bowl — meat with fruits, rice, noodles, soups, vegetables, and dessert. It is also considered proper to mix everything together before starting the meal. Those for whom this practice is too difficult should refrain from eating in the afternoon. This applies to the entire Theravada tradition.

The rules for acquiring food and eating it are extremely strict in Theravada. The Vinaya outlines how to eat, how to sit, how to put food into the mouth, and what to pay attention to during consumption. It also authoritatively dictates how the food can be obtained. While organizing food according to the procedure in a structured monastery doesn’t present such problems, during a pilgrimage in a country unfamiliar with Buddhism, it becomes quite a challenge. Theravada monks cannot simply go to a restaurant and order specific dishes; they are required to receive the food from donors. Organizing food during travel is therefore an extremely difficult challenge. Often, it is virtually impossible.

In India, fortunately, the tradition of feeding the poor is deeply rooted. Although Hindus themselves may not have much food, they are eager to share every bite with others. In many ashrams, free meals are served every day. They are not fancy dishes, but they effectively satisfy hunger.

I was, in a sense, invited to Mahabalipuram, so someone is taking care of the provisioning. Unfortunately, I can’t maintain the tradition of eating one meal a day, as breakfasts here are light and small. Usually, they consist of a few rice cakes made from fermented rice, steamed. There’s a vegetable sauce to go with it. The main meal, however, is often available in the afternoon, so it doesn’t matter much to me. However, I have managed to find a way to get the main dish a little earlier, around 11 AM. It’s a plate of pasta with vegetables. While the food is quite tasty, over time this menu becomes very monotonous. After all, it’s the same every day. But, well! This is the monastic practice.

One of the fundamental practices of Theravada is the renunciation of food choice. You eat whatever is offered. One should extinguish any personal dietary ambitions or beliefs about the health benefits of particular foods. Some people associate Buddhism with vegetarianism, which is a great misunderstanding. The Pali Canon mentions the story of the Buddha’s disciple and his brother-in-law, Devadatta. He urged for a stricter monastic rule, including a ban on eating meat. The Buddha disagreed. Devadatta then caused a split, leaving the Buddha with 500 followers. The Buddha ate meat until the end of his life, emphasizing the practice of not choosing one’s food. Those who followed a vegetarian diet were not discriminated against in the sangha. They could still abstain from eating meat, but any attempts to impose their views on others were not welcome.

Not choosing one’s food is one of the key monastic practices. Regardless of one’s culinary preferences, one should sample all the offered food. You place it in your alms bowl and then mix everything together. Spaghetti is mixed thoroughly with meat sauce, rice, salads, nuts, chips, a piece of cake, fruit, fried fish, whipped cream, baked potatoes with skins, vanilla ice cream, and grilled rat. At least, these are the recommendations of the monastic practice. This method works with one’s food preferences, eliminating them. It is also a practice that eliminates the ego, one’s desires and aversions, beliefs, and views. The rule is very simple — don’t influence the offered meals and be satisfied with what you’ve received.

In Thailand, meat dishes make up a large part of the country’s culinary culture. In the Thamkrabok monastery, anyone who wanted to remain vegetarian faced the specter of starving to death. The only food available were boiled rice and fruits, if any were available. Sometimes, there were boiled vegetables. With one meal a day, this diet was insufficient for survival.

In a Shaivite monastery in India, where I spent nearly a month, three meals a day are practiced. The first is around 8:30 AM, the second at 1 PM, and the third shortly after 7 PM when night falls. On the one hand, I was happy that Hindus didn’t eat meat. On the other hand, I had to limit my diet to breakfast. Fortunately, I was given as much food as I could possibly eat. Unfortunately, the meatless diet and only one meal caused my body to weaken, and I lost weight. Seeing my health problems, the abbot insisted that I accept two meals. After some time, instead of having lunch with others in the ashram after a light breakfast, I would go to another ashram where the meal was served around 11 AM. This allowed me to keep the tradition of not eating in the afternoon. At the same time, eating two lighter meals had a very positive effect on my well-being. So, while in India with a vegetarian diet, I decided to give up eating just one meal for a while, splitting it into two lighter ones.

After breakfast, I return to the beach, sit on the sand, and light an incense stick. I watch the tide. The waves wash the shore more and more thoroughly, teasing the small crabs hidden in the sand. They hide in burrows they’ve dug themselves. They throw out the sand carried by the waves, paying no attention to me. One of the small crabs even tries to climb onto me. I move involuntarily, which scares it away.

One of the meditation techniques practiced in the Thamkrabok monastery is remaining still in one position while sitting. No matter what happens, I sit motionless until the incense burns out. This technique is particularly effective in training willpower. But it’s not just that…

Legends circulated about the meditative heroes in Thamkrabok. It is said that during one meditation, a worm entered the vagina of a certain nun. Despite the extremely unpleasant sensation, the nun endured until the end without moving.

I once had a similar experience. I sat on the ground under a tree with three other monks. It was during one of our tudong pilgrimages through Thailand. The incense was lit. After a moment, I felt a sharp sting in my leg. I opened my eyes and saw that I was sitting on an underground ant colony. My legs were covered in ants.

There are three characteristic types of ants in Thailand. The first are very small, coffee-colored ants. They don’t bite, though they can be quite persistent, crawling over the body in hundreds, tickling the skin. I had thousands of them in my room, so I got used to them.

The second type is much larger, brown, and venomous. Their bites are moderately painful, but the discomfort lasts longer. The itching from a bite, often with redness and swelling, can last for several hours. However, these ants only attack when provoked. When I remain still, they walk over my skin without causing harm.

The third type of ant is unique. They are large and dark, almost black, and can grow up to a centimeter long. While not venomous, they do bite. They bite without provocation, as if trying to eat the body. Their bites are exceptionally painful, like a wasp sting. However, it is enough to shake the ant off the skin for the pain to immediately subside. These bites leave no scars or marks, and the only discomfort is the pain of the bite itself.

During this meditation, I recognized the third type of ant under my legs. Remembering the monastery’s myths, I decided to endure the bites without reacting. After a while, dozens of ants joined the first one, each sinking its jaws into my poor skin. The pain became unbearable, but I did not move. The incense would eventually burn out, and then I would stand up and shake the ants off. I was already familiar with their bites and knew they were painful but non-venomous. Meanwhile, I focused all my attention on my breath, trying to forget the pain in my legs. Closing my eyes, I relaxed my body with my thoughts. The pain became increasingly irrelevant.

Several years ago, I had a pyrotechnic accident. I bought nitrate for the children, showed them how to mix it with sugar and make glowing, smoking rockets. One afternoon, while I was watching a program on TV, the children asked me for permission to detonate a bomb they had made. I disagreed but offered to light it myself. I did so, but contrary to my expectations, the can exploded in a burst of flame, severely injuring my hand. The clever kids had ignored my instructions and instead searched the Internet for ways to increase the explosive power of the nitrate mixtures. I must admit, they executed their task excellently, and instead of a slow-burning, smoking powder, they obtained a plasma flash that exploded with unimaginable force.

I immediately went to the emergency room, where, after a long wait, they gave me morphine.

The effect of the morphine surprised me. I felt the same pain as before in the waiting room. It didn’t lessen. Yet, it became completely indifferent. Despite the lack of skin on one of my hands and the first-degree burn, I felt no discomfort. I wasn’t suffering from the pain at all. I was aware of it and of the serious injury, but it no longer bothered me.

When I didn’t react to the ants biting my body, the same numbing effect on the pain appeared, just like with the pyrotechnic accident. I still felt the pain, but it became increasingly irrelevant. My willpower clearly took control of my mind, producing a similar effect to the morphine.

Suddenly, something happened that I hadn’t anticipated. At one point, the pain completely stopped, as if it had been wiped away with a hand. I looked down at my legs, surprised. The ants were still there, clinging to my skin. Dozens of ants. By the end of the session, I no longer felt any pain. Later, I shared my experience with one of the more advanced monks in meditation. He explained that the pain signal is meant to trigger a reaction. The feeling of pain is produced by the mind to protect the body from harm. However, when the signal to change is repeatedly ignored by the mind, it concludes that producing pain is unnecessary and stops generating it. This way, I learned the power of awareness that allows controlling the pain produced by the mind.

It was my first experience with the method of eliminating pain through meditation. Since then, I have experimented with pain in various ways. Based on my findings, pain disappears about 10 minutes after its initial symptoms appear when no reaction is made by the mind, and unconditioned reflexes are suppressed.

However, in order to control the body’s reflexes, one must be aware of their occurrence. If I know the water in a bowl is hot, I can put my hand in it and, despite the sensation of burning, I will not withdraw it. If I dip my hand into water, thinking it’s cold, I will immediately pull it out reflexively if I encounter boiling water. So, if I hadn’t been meditating and felt an ant bite my leg, I would automatically shake it off. Meditation, however, not only shapes willpower but also reveals how the mind works. This knowledge can later be applied in daily life, almost completely eliminating discomfort associated with pain.

The discovery that the mind can create an effect similar to morphine’s action doesn’t bring much to life on its own. To be able to use such abilities when needed, one must first learn them by practicing as much as possible. This ability is similar to any other skill. The fact that I can read and write didn’t just come about on its own. I first learned the alphabet, then how to construct words from it. Then I learned to form sentences in accordance with grammatical and punctuation rules. Even now, when I feel like I can read and write, that training is still ongoing. There is no absolute level of mastery of a skill. One can always do something better and faster, improving their craft with every new sentence written. Similarly, meditation’s potential can never be exhausted. In the first phase, the mind is discovered, and its workings understood. In the next phase, it is used to create new properties.

Waves roll in and out, producing a rhythmic hum. This hum drowns out everything around, acting like a calming mantra recited in a deep bass by Tibetan monks, cleansing the mind of thoughts, just as waves cleanse the beach of impurities.

Along the beach, couples stroll. Hand in hand, they wade through the seawater, which washes over their feet. In their eyes, there is a glint of enchantment, a passion boiling like storm waves crashing against the breakwaters, the lovers” desire to remain in eternal symbiosis with each other.

The Thamkrabok monastery is located in the rainforests. The valley is surrounded by majestic karst rocks, which, along with the impenetrable, dense jungle, give a sense of complete detachment from reality. The monks here continue the hermitic tradition, a highly Spartan tradition known in the suttas as tudong.

The wilderness surrounding the monastery provides ample opportunities for solitude. The karst mountains contain countless caves and grottoes, and the difficult-to-reach peaks tempt with the prospect of creating meditation nests. The abundance of nature pleases the eyes and ears at all times of the day and night, leaving no room for boredom. In this environment, I became fond of observing wild monkeys, which, thanks to the food I provided, soon accepted me and became frequent visitors to my kuti (the monk’s dwelling).

The macaques quickly became accustomed to me, losing their natural instinct to keep a distance. I fed them small portions of vegetables and fruits by hand, so I could spend as much time with them as possible. This way, I was able to closely observe their habits and behavior.

In general, the entire hierarchy among the monkeys is based on access to food and reproduction. The strongest male gathers a group of females around him, while guarding them from other males. The male eats first and does not allow anyone else to touch the food. Only after satisfying his own hunger does he allow the females to approach, still keeping a close watch over the food supply. The females eat second, each according to her rank in the social hierarchy. Only after the females have eaten can the young ones sit down to the feast. The order of eating reflects the ability to survive. The male spends the most energy, actively participating in daily struggles with other males for access to food and the protection of the females. The females eat when the male provides them with food. The fate of the young depends on their mothers. If the female becomes unfit, the young will not survive either.

The females don’t derive much pleasure from sex. It’s just a few seconds of mating. They submit to the male in exchange for food and protection. They must also stay close to their macho, as if one of them slacks off, another Casanova will be quick to take her. Since the active alpha male has several females in his group, maintaining genetic purity is practically impossible. Time and again, the females are mounted by other males, with each brief act of fertilization leading to irreversible consequences.

Observing the behavior of the monkeys makes one aware of the way humans operate. The mechanisms work similarly in the human world, but they are more camouflaged. Reproduction determines our male-female behaviors. In order to experience a thought, one must distance oneself from it, for example, by meditating. One must step outside of it, become an observer of it, not the thought itself. Similarly, with sexuality. To understand it, one must rise above it, ceasing to be it. One must see it from the outside, as a silent witness, not as an active participant. This is the purpose of celibacy practice.

Buddhist practices encompass a wide range of behaviors aimed at liberation, which means seeing things as they truly are — without illusions, beliefs, or cultural distortions. There are eight fundamental practices. Meditation is one of them. Another one is proper sexual conduct, which, in the context of practicing the ten precepts, means complete celibacy.

Celibacy is not limited to abstaining from sexual intercourse. It is a total shift in thinking toward asexuality. For a man, a woman becomes a sister, a mother, a daughter. She no longer holds sexual appeal. Women’s breasts, so exalted in culture, cease to be perceived as sexually attractive. They become a physical necessity for procreation, providing nourishment to an infant unable to receive it otherwise. When I see a woman’s breast, my mind pictures an infant suckling. The same applies to a woman’s hips. Wide hips signify an easier, less painful childbirth. Looking at the abdomen, I see an embryo, hidden, ready for fertilization. The vagina serves solely as the passage for sperm injection and the emergence of offspring.

It was through observing monkeys and practicing celibacy that I realized that all sexuality is merely a program. A program designed to divert attention from reality. The behavior of a man or woman seeing an attractive partner is very similar to the patterns of a nicotine, alcohol, or drug addiction. A smoker believes the smoke from a cigarette smells pleasant, and smoking brings him pleasure. However, this is a complete illusion. Smoking cigarettes is not at all attractive to someone who does not smoke. Monkeys mating with each other do not arouse any sexual excitement in me. I do not feel any desire to mate with one of them. Their breasts are completely unattractive, and their beauty is far from my type. Thanks to this, I can observe their sexual life for what it truly is — instinctive, mechanical, thoughtless. The instinct to preserve the species. A computer program that enslaves our perception of reality. So, do I want to join this game, just because I don’t wish to mate with female monkeys?

I redirect my perception to another primate species — humans. I see a dressed-up girl. She stands at the bus stop, waiting for the bus. Her hair is carefully styled and tied into an ornate braid. The ribbons made from petroleum-derived plastic owe their red pigment to ordinary rust, which is oxidized iron. A layer of powdered chalk, a mineral from metamorphic rocks formed by dying shellfish, has been applied to her face. A layer of blue azurite, also ground stone, rests on her eyelids. On her eyelashes and eyebrows is a mixture of soot and oil. Soot is carbon that has not oxidized during combustion. Its most well-known physical property is its ability to absorb almost the entire visible light spectrum, so that it no longer reflects off soot-covered objects. Completing her makeup is red lipstick. The carmine used in it comes from dead beetles, more specifically, from true bugs. They are boiled in hot water and then ground into powder. Mixed with oil, often used oil, it is formed into a red lipstick.

The girl radiates a scent created by blending extracts of various flowers and herbs, along with horse urine, one of the most popular scent enhancers. In her ears, one can notice galvanized steel, with melted sand in protrusions, resembling gemstones. The same applies to the necklace on her chest. The machine-assembled chain is a microscopic copy of the ligaments once used to bind livestock.

The girl’s clothing was not designed with the intention of protecting her from the cold and wind. In fact, this is a marginal function. The designer tries to expose her legs, breasts, and waist as much as possible. The colorful dress barely covers the protruding bra, which most often consists of two fabric bags filled with foam, fastened together at the back.

The solitary girl stands still, staring boredly in the opposite direction of the street. This changes entirely when a young man waiting for the bus stands next to her. The girl begins to run her fingers through her hair, which does not need combing since it’s braided. Her eyes become restless and increasingly glance toward the man standing next to her. Her legs begin to twitch restlessly, preparing for the mating dance…

I sit on the sand, observing the couple in love. There are many of them on the beach today. Even here, on the distant edge of Southeast Asia, the American tradition is taking over the minds of the younger generation. Today is the 14th of February, Valentine’s Day. The patron saint of lovers is Saint Valentine, who, incidentally, is also the patron saint of the mentally ill. Is this a coincidence?

During meditation, when I manage to extinguish all thoughts, my existence becomes pure consciousness. This consciousness has no gender. It is neither male nor female. It does not desire love, respect, or devotion from anyone, being a completely self-sufficient being. Only after coming out of the state of samadhi does the individualism program get activated. Gender, sexual preferences, likes, and definitions of beauty — all of these are doctrines loaded after meditation. They are not part of consciousness, but rather a kind of graphical overlay, a filter through which the surrounding world is perceived.

The practice of celibacy allows one to better grasp the distinction between what is truly „me” and what is merely my belief. The sexual attraction to women is my belief, a system of preferences imposed on me. There is no rational basis for this view. Inside this woman, if she truly exists, resides the same core of consciousness that is asexual, without any inherent nature. This core is the same core I discover during deep samadhi; it is precisely me, my consciousness. Understanding this mechanism, I become an observer, like an alpha male monkey, watching humans participate in their mating dance.

The mating dance program involves pairing two individuals of the opposite sex and procreating. The initiation of family life is therefore an imposed instinct, a mechanical activity rooted in the subconscious. When offspring no longer require care, the program weakens, and non-procreational goals, such as personal or spiritual development or the realization of long-postponed dreams, take precedence. An unconscious departure from the instinct of reproduction occurs, or, if this instinct is still active, attention is redirected to a different sexual partner for the obvious purpose.

Young people walking along the beach are so utterly submissive to the program of reproduction that life without a partner seems to them the greatest nightmare imaginable. They do not realize that the image of affection is a heavily distorted imperative of procreation and that all the happiness they feel in this moment is the result of no one else but themselves. It is they, guided by the illusion of the mind, who generate all this love, joy, and devotion. No one else.

What does the correct recognition of the procreation program functioning among monkeys and its application to the human species provide? The most important benefit is the ability to separate consciousness from the ego, which consists of all the programs loaded and executed outside the state of samadhi. The division into gender is part of the ego. The instinct of procreation, which implies the pairing of humans, is part of the ego. Recognizing the ego dismantles these programs. Once they become visible, they can be controlled, allowing for the deliberate direction of one’s perception. If I am the emitter of the happiness and joy derived from the illusion of having a partner, then why not learn to induce this state independently?

The entire philosophy of Buddhism can be reduced to the Four Noble Truths formulated by Prince Siddhartha. The first is the axiom that suffering exists. The second is the identification of the causes of suffering — desires. The third truth states that if there are no desires, there will be no suffering. The fourth is the practical method of escaping suffering: the Noble Eightfold Path.

Meditation is the eighth aspect of Buddhist practice. It is important, but it will be meaningless if it does not occur simultaneously with the other seven. The seventh aspect is mindfulness.

Mindfulness is something that should never be lost. There is a mistaken belief that meditation is a state achieved only through prolonged sitting in concentration. Meditation should be practiced continuously, just like mindfulness. A driver must always be aware of their role as a driver. They should not allow themselves to forget that they are operating a vehicle. The practice of mindfulness is based on a similar assumption. One must continuously focus on their actions.

Even in childhood, I discovered that when I became aware of dreaming, I could take complete control of it. It happens like this: suddenly, during a dream, I realize that it is just a dream and that the entire reality does not exist — it is only a figment of my imagination. The impulse for awakening usually comes from noticing a discrepancy between the scenario and the nature of the characters. Most often, awakening would occur when a dream involved a story where I had killed someone. The character suddenly slows down, and the whole action comes to a halt. Am I really capable of killing someone? I ask myself. The answer awakens me. I recognize the dream while still remaining within it. From that moment, the entire scenario unfolds according to my directives. If I want to fly, I fly. If I want to shoot beams from my eyes and be immortal, so it is. This state can be maintained until either falling back into unconsciousness or fully waking up. Falling back asleep occurs when attention is lost, and one forgets that it is just a dream. Full awakening happens when the scenario becomes too predictable and easy, making it uninteresting. That is why maintaining attention is so crucial in Buddhist practice. Even complete enlightenment can be only temporary if it is not followed by mindfulness.

The practice of celibacy separates sexuality from consciousness, placing it in the realm of the ego. However, this division exists only as long as mindfulness is maintained. The procreation program should be observed and analyzed, not necessarily executed. After all, it too is an illusion and therefore impermanent. It fades like all other aspects of the ego. Only consciousness is eternal, and it is on this that practice should be focused.

I look at a couple passing by me. A tall, handsome young man in the early phase of adulthood and an equally young woman, petite, nestled into him, fitting under his arm. But do they truly need each other? Could lust be leading them straight into a life tragedy?

A spontaneous memory brings to mind a woman who, after the breakup of a long-term relationship, struggled to rebuild her life. She would repeatedly engage in new romantic affairs, always hoping for „the one.” I could still hear her lament — why can’t I be happy? At the same time, she blamed each new partner for her misfortunes in love.

Poor thing! — the thought flashed through my mind. Seeking happiness externally, you will never find it. This illusion of momentary joy is part of the procreation program. It rewards adherence and punishes deviation from the path of reproduction. If you condition your happiness on a man, you will never be truly happy. Happiness is something carried within. If it does not appear, it must be generated internally. I sympathize with you if you cannot understand this.

The world we experience is a mirror reflection of our inner self. It is beautiful when the inner self is beautiful; it is miserable when the inner self is in disarray. There is no one to blame. There are no energy vampires, toxic people, or psychopaths. These are just justifications and excuses. Likewise, there are no Romeos and Juliets, no Cinderellas, no princes on white horses who will appear out of nowhere and take you to their palace. The only source of happiness is our inner self, and if the joy of existence is missing from your life, do not look around — look within.

That is why seeking happiness in a relationship is naive. The inner imperative to be with someone should be resisted, and the fear of loneliness eradicated. Monks retreat into caves for weeks, even months or years. Being with themselves, they have the best company possible. They possess the ideal and perfect lover — themselves. The ability to accept and love oneself is crucial. Without self-love, any relationship is doomed to fail. And once you truly love yourself, any other relationship becomes unnecessary. It may serve as an addition, a complement, but never the foundation.

I sit on the beach, watching this mating ritual of the patron of the insane, nodding my head in sympathy. Am I even capable of falling in love anymore? Of being infatuated with someone, agreeing to compromise, and living together? Sitting here alone on the beach, I am completely free. I can return to my room and lie down, I can stay on the sand until dawn. I can get up and go anywhere, never returning to the same place, without having to explain myself to anyone. Life in a relationship is a series of compromises. We agree to give up part of our freedom, respecting the will and needs of another person. But what do we get in return? A few minutes of sex, which over time becomes more of a duty than a pleasure? Sex that leads to washing diapers and staying up all night by a crib. We worry when the child coughs, tremble with anxiety when they fall, fail to come home on time, choose an unsuitable partner, struggle in their marriage… In short, a lifetime of suffering by choice. The rare moments of joy are generated by our own minds, not the child’s. So perhaps it is better to distance ourselves from this program? After all, Prince Gautama left his family home, abandoning his wife and newborn son to regain full freedom of choice. The pursuit of freedom became his ultimate motto.

Does this couple, nestled in each other’s arms, realize the force pushing them together? Is it fair that the most important decisions in life are made when one is at their most foolish?

Last year, I had an opportunity to leave the monastery. The head of the order failed to prepare my visa documents on time, so I had to leave Thailand and apply for a new visa at the Thai embassy. A phone call to my family, and within moments, a plane ticket to London was booked. I head to the airport.

Leaving the monastery, I take only my alms bowl, an extra robe, and my documents. I leave everything else behind, intending to return in a few days with my visa. Seated in the jumbo jet, I gaze at the clouds beneath me. Thamkrabok is somewhere down there. It is like a pond full of fish, each one engaged in something important, fulfilling a crucial role, fighting for their ideals. Yet from ten kilometers up, how small and insignificant it all seems. The world is vast, beautiful, and unexplored. Flying above the clouds, I finally feel free.

Closed communities like the Thamkrabok monastery develop a range of rather unhealthy behaviors. The community is, in a way, hermetic. External influences are not accepted. One must conform above all else. That is what Thai culture and tradition dictate.

Meanwhile, Thamkrabok is made up of rather unique individuals. The vast majority began their journey with the monastery through detox treatment. On its grounds lies a well-known Thai rehabilitation center for drug and alcohol addiction. With few exceptions, all monks are recruited from this rehabilitation center. They are former addicts for whom staying in the monastery is a matter of escaping addiction and beginning a relatively normal life. Years of drug use often stripped them of their humanity. Before arriving at Thamkrabok, their lives revolved around theft, robbery, fraud, and deceit. Physical violence was a primary means of argument.

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Bezpłatny fragment - In Pursuide of Awareness

Mahabalipuram

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