少年派的奇幻漂流 Chapter 17

Chapter 17

First wonder goes deepest; wonder after that fits in the impression made by the first. I owe to Hinduism the original landscape of my religious imagination, those towns and rivers, battlefields and forests, holy mountains and deep seas where gods, saints, villains and ordinary people rub shoulders, and, in doing so, define who and why we are. I first heard of the tremendous, cosmic might of loving kindness in this Hindu land. It was Lord Krishna speaking. I heard him, and I followed him. And in his wisdom and perfect love, Lord Krishna led me to meet one man.

I was fourteen years old - and a well-content Hindu on a holiday - when I met Jesus Christ.

It was not often that Father took time off from the zoo, but one of the times he did we went to Munnar, just over in Kerala. Munnar is a small hill station surrounded by some of the highest tea estates in the world. It was early May and the monsoon hadn't come yet. The plains of Tamil Nadu were beastly hot. We made it to Munnar after a winding, five-hour car ride from Madurai. The coolness was as pleasing as having mint in your mouth. We did the tourist thing. We visited a Tata tea factory. We enjoyed a boat ride on a lake. We toured a cattle-breeding centre. We fed salt to some Nilgiri tahrs - a species of wild goat - in a national park. ("We have some in our zoo. You should come to Pondicherry," said Father to some Swiss tourists.) Ravi and I went for walks in the tea estates near town. It was all an excuse to keep our lethargy a little busy. By late afternoon Father and Mother were as settled in the tea room of our comfortable hotel as two cats sunning themselves at a window. Mother read while Father chatted with fellow guests.

There are three hills within Munnar. They don't bear comparison with the tall hills - mountains, you might call them - that surround the town, but I noticed the first morning, as we were having breakfast, that they did stand out in one way: on each stood a Godhouse. The hill on the right, across the river from the hotel, had a Hindu temple high on its side; the hill in the middle, further away, held up a mosque; while the hill on the left was crowned with a Christian church.

On our fourth day in Munnar, as the afternoon was coming to an end, I stood on the hill on the left. Despite attending a nominally Christian school, I had not yet been inside a church - and I wasn't about to dare the deed now. I knew very little about the religion. It had a reputation for few gods and great violence. But good schools. I walked around the church. It was a building unremittingly unrevealing of what it held inside, with thick, featureless walls pale blue in colour and high, narrow windows impossible to look in through. A fortress.

I came upon the rectory. The door was open. I hid around a corner to look upon the scene. To the left of the door was a small board with the words Parish Priest and Assistant Priest on it. Next to each was a small sliding block. Both the priest and his assistant were IN, the board informed me in gold letters, which I could plainly see. One priest was working in his office, his back turned to the bay windows, while the other was seated on a bench at a round table in the large vestibule that evidently functioned as a room for receiving visitors. He sat facing the door and the windows, a book in his hands, a Bible I presumed. He read a little, looked up, read a little more, looked up again. It was done in a way that was leisurely, yet alert and composed. After some minutes, he closed the book and put it aside. He folded his hands together on the table and sat there, his expression serene, showing neither expectation nor resignation.

The vestibule had clean, white walls; the table and benches were of dark wood; and the priest was dressed in a white cassock - it was all neat, plain, simple. I was filled with a sense of peace. But more than the setting, what arrested me was my intuitive understanding that he was there - open, patient - in case someone, anyone, should want to talk to him; a problem of the soul, a heaviness of the heart, a darkness of the conscience, he would listen with love. He was a man whose profession it was to love, and he would offer comfort and guidance to the best of his ability.

I was moved. What I had before my eyes stole into my heart and thrilled me.

He got up. I thought he might slide his block over, but he didn't. He retreated further into the rectory, that's all, leaving the door between the vestibule and the next room as open as the outside door. I noted this, how both doors were wide open. Clearly, he and his colleague were still available.

I walked away and I dared. I entered the church. My stomach was in knots. I was terrified I would meet a Christian who would shout at me, "What are you doing here? How dare you enter this sacred place, you defiler? Get out, right now!"

There was no one. And little to be understood. I advanced and observed the inner sanctum. There was a painting. Was this the murti? Something about a human sacrifice. An angry god who had to be appeased with blood. Dazed women staring up in the air and fat babies with tiny wings flying about. A charismatic bird. Which one was the god? To the side of the sanctum was a painted wooden sculpture. The victim again, bruised and bleeding in bold colours. I stared at his knees. They were badly scraped. The pink skin was peeled back and looked like the petals of a flower, revealing kneecaps that were fire-engine red. It was hard to connect this torture scene with the priest in the rectory.

The next day, at around the same time, I let myself IN.

Catholics have a reputation for severity, for judgment that comes down heavily. My experience with Father Martin was not at all like that. He was very kind. He served me tea and biscuits in a tea set that tinkled and rattled at every touch; he treated me like a grown-up; and he told me a story. Or rather, since Christians are so fond of capital letters, a Story.

And what a story. The first thing that drew me in was disbelief. What? Humanity sins but it's God's Son who pays the price? I tried to imagine Father saying to me, "Piscine, a lion slipped into the llama pen today and killed two llamas. Yesterday another one killed a black buck. Last week two of them ate the camel. The week before it was painted storks and grey herons. And who's to say for sure who snacked on our golden agouti? The situation has become intolerable. Something must be done. I have decided that the only way the lions can atone for their sins is if I feed you to them."

"Yes, Father, that would be the right and logical thing to do. Give me a moment to wash up."

"Hallelujah, my son."

"Hallelujah, Father."

What a downright weird story. What peculiar psychology.

I asked for another story, one that I might find more satisfying. Surely this religion had more than one story in its bag - religions abound with stories. But Father Martin made me understand that the stories that came before it - and there were many - were simply prologue to the Christians. Their religion had one Story, and to it they came back again and again, over and over. It was story enough for them.

I was quiet that evening at the hotel.

That a god should put up with adversity, I could understand. The gods of Hinduism face their fair share of thieves, bullies, kidnappers and usurpers. What is the Ramayana but the account of one long, bad day for Rama? Adversity, yes. Reversals of fortune, yes. Treachery, yes. But humiliation? Death? I couldn't imagine Lord Krishna consenting to be stripped naked, whipped, mocked, dragged through the streets and, to top it off, crucified - and at the hands of mere humans, to boot. I'd never heard of a Hindu god dying. Brahman Revealed did not go for death. Devils and monsters did, as did mortals, by the thousands and millions - that's what they were there for. Matter, too, fell away. But divinity should not be blighted by death. It's wrong. The world soul cannot die, even in one contained part of it. It was wrong of this Christian God to let His avatar die. That is tantamount to letting a part of Himself die. For if the Son is to die, it cannot be fake. If God on the Cross is God shamming a human tragedy, it turns the Passion of Christ into the Farce of Christ. The death of the Son must be real. Father Martin assured me that it was. But once a dead God, always a dead God, even resurrected. The Son must have the taste of death forever in His mouth. The Trinity must be tainted by it; there must be a certain stench at the right hand of God the Father. The horror must be real. Why would God wish that upon Himself? Why not leave death to the mortals? Why make dirty what is beautiful, spoil what is perfect?

Love. That was Father Martin's answer.

And what about this Son's deportment? There is the story of baby Krishna, wrongly accused by his friends of eating a bit of dirt. His foster mother, Yashoda, comes up to him with a wagging finger. "You shouldn't eat dirt, you naughty boy," she scolds him. "But I haven't," says the unchallenged lord of all and everything, in sport disguised as a frightened human child. "Tut! Tut! Open your mouth," orders Yashoda. Krishna does as he is told. He opens his mouth. Yashoda gasps. She sees in Krishna's mouth the whole complete entire timeless universe, all the stars and planets of space and the distance between them, all the lands and seas of the earth and the life in them; she sees all the days of yesterday and all the days of tomorrow; she sees all ideas and all emotions, all pity and all hope, and the three strands of matter; not a pebble, candle, creature, village or galaxy is missing, including herself and every bit of dirt in its truthful place. "My Lord, you can close your mouth," she says reverently.

There is the story of Vishnu incarnated as Vamana the dwarf. He asks of demon king Bali only as much land as he can cover in three strides. Bali laughs at this runt of a suitor and his puny request. He consents. Immediately Vishnu takes on his full cosmic size. With one stride he covers the earth, with the second the heavens, and with the third he boots Bali into the netherworld.

Even Rama, that most human of avatars, who had to be reminded of his divinity when he grew long-faced over the struggle to get Sita, his wife, back from Ravana, evil king of Lanka, was no slouch. No spindly cross would have kept him down. When push came to shove, he transcended his limited human frame with strength no man could have and weapons no man could handle.

That is God as God should be. With shine and power and might. Such as can rescue and save and put down evil.

This Son, on the other hand, who goes hungry, who suffers from thirst, who gets tired, who is sad, who is anxious, who is heckled and harassed, who has to put up with followers who don't get it and opponents who don't respect Him - what kind of a god is that? It's a god on too human a scale, that's what. There are miracles, yes, mostly of a medical nature, a few to satisfy hungry stomachs; at best a storm is tempered, water is briefly walked upon. If that is magic, it is minor magic, on the order of card tricks. Any Hindu god can do a hundred times better. This Son is a god who spent most of His time telling stories, talking. This Son is a god who walked, a pedestrian god - and in a hot place, at that - with a stride like any human stride, the sandal reaching just above the rocks along the way; and when He splurged on transportation, it was a regular donkey. This Son is a god who died in three hours, with moans, gasps and laments. What kind of a god is that? What is there to inspire in this Son?

Love, said Father Martin.

And this Son appears only once, long ago, far away? Among an obscure tribe in a backwater of West Asia on the confines of a long-vanished empire? Is done away with before He has a single grey hair on His head? Leaves not a single descendant, only scattered, partial testimony, His complete works doodles in the dirt? Wait a minute. This is more than Brahman with a serious case of stage fright. This is Brahman selfish. This is Brahman ungenerous and unfair. This is Brahman practically unmanifest. If Brahman is to have only one son, He must be as abundant as Krishna with the milkmaids, no? What could justify such divine stinginess?

Love, repeated Father Martin.

I'll stick to my Krishna, thank you very much. I find his divinity utterly compelling. You can keep your sweaty, chatty Son to yourself.

That was how I met that troublesome rabbi of long ago: with disbelief and annoyance.

I had tea with Father Martin three days in a row. Each time, as teacup rattled against saucer, as spoon tinkled against edge of cup, I asked questions.

The answer was always the same.

He bothered me, this Son. Every day I burned with greater indignation against Him, found more flaws to Him.

He's petulant! It's morning in Bethany and God is hungry, God wants His breakfast. He comes to a fig tree. It's not the season for figs, so the tree has no figs. God is peeved. The Son mutters, "May you never bear fruit again," and instantly the fig tree withers. So says Matthew, backed up by Mark.

I ask you, is it the fig tree's fault that it's not the season for figs? What kind of a thing is that to do to an innocent fig tree, wither it instantly?

I couldn't get Him out of my head. Still can't. I spent three solid days thinking about Him. The more He bothered me, the less I could forget Him. And the more I learned about Him, the less I wanted to leave Him.

On our last day, a few hours before we were to leave Munnar, I hurried up the hill on the left. It strikes me now as a typically Christian scene. Christianity is a religion in a rush. Look at the world created in seven days. Even on a symbolic level, that's creation in a frenzy. To one born in a religion where the battle for a single soul can be a relay race run over many centuries, with innumerable generations passing along the baton, the quick resolution of Christianity has a dizzying effect. If Hinduism flows placidly like the Ganges, then Christianity bustles like Toronto at rush hour. It is a religion as swift as a swallow, as urgent as an ambulance. It turns on a dime, expresses itself in the instant. In a moment you are lost or saved. Christianity stretches back through the ages, but in essence it exists only at one time: right now.

I booted up that hill. Though Father Martin was not IN - alas, his block was slid over - thank God he was in.

Short of breath I said, "Father, I would like to be a Christian, please."

He smiled. "You already are, Piscine - in your heart. Whoever meets Christ in good faith is a Christian. Here in Munnar you met Christ."

He patted me on the head. It was more of a thump, actually. His hand went Boom Boom Boom on my head.

I thought I would explode with joy.

"When you come back, we'll have tea again, my son."

"Yes, Father."

It was a good smile he gave me. The smile of Christ.

I entered the church, without fear this time, for it was now my house too. I offered prayers to Christ, who is alive. Then I raced down the hill on the left and raced up the hill on the right - to offer thanks to Lord Krishna for having put Jesus of Nazareth, whose humanity I found so compelling, in my way.

    第十七章

    第一次惊奇给人留下的印象最深；那之后的惊奇都被纳入第一次惊奇所留下的印象的模武之中。我要感激印度教，给我提供了最初的宗教想像的全景，那些城镇和河 流，战场和森林，神圣的高山和深深的海洋，神、圣人、恶棍和普通人在这些地方相互交往，并且通过这样做来解释我们是谁，为什么存在。我是在这片信奉印度教 的土地上第一次听说充满了爱的善所拥有的广博而无穷的能力的。那是克利须那在说话。我听见他了，我跟随他了。在他的智慧和完美的爱里，克利须那带我去见了 一个人。

    那时我14岁——是一个心满意足的正在度假的印度教徒——这时我遇见了耶稣。

    父亲很少从动物园的工作中抽出时间来，但是有一次他抽出时间，我们去了穆纳尔，就在喀拉拉邦。穆纳尔是二处很小的山间驻地，四周是世界上海拔最高的几座茶 园。刚到五月，季风还没有来临。泰米尔纳德的平原异常炎热。我们从马杜赖沿着蜿蜒的道路开了五个小时的车到了穆纳尔。那里凉爽的天气十分怡人，就像在口里 含了薄荷一样舒服。我们做了游客会做的事情。我们参观了一座塔塔茶厂。我们在湖上泛舟。我们游览了一个牛群养殖中心。我们在一座国家公园里给几只尼尔吉里 塔尔羊——一种野羊——喂盐。（“我们动物园里也有。你们应该到本地治里来。"父亲对几位瑞士游客说。）拉维和我到城镇附近的茶园里去散步。这些都是让我 们不要那么懒散的借口。到了傍晚前，父亲和母亲已经在我们舒适的旅馆的茶室里稳稳地坐了下来，像两只在窗前晒太阳的猫。母亲在读书，父亲在和其他客人聊 天。

    穆纳尔有三座小山。它们无法与那些环绕着城镇的高山——你可以称之为大山——相比，但是第一天早晨．我们吃早饭的时候，我注意到它们的确有一点与众不同之 处：每座山上都有一座神的居所。旅馆外面，小河对面的右面那座山的山腰上有一座印度教庙宇；更远一些的中间那座山上有一座清真寺；而左面那座山的山顶上有 一座基督教教堂。

    我们在穆纳尔的第四天。就在下午即将过去的时候，我站在左边那座小山上。虽然我上的是名义上的基督教学校，但是从来没有到教堂里去过——而且当时也不敢这 么做。我对这种宗教所知甚少。它有一个神祗很少而暴力却很多的名声。但是学校不错。我绕教堂走着。这座建筑有着厚厚的毫无特点的淡蓝色的墙和根本无法往里 看的高高的细长的窗户，外观丝毫也显示不出它里面有些什么。一座堡垒。

    我碰到了教区长。门是开着的。我躲在一个角落里看那个地方。门左边是一块木板，上面写着“牧区神父”和“助理神父”。两个词旁边各有一根活动木闩。木板上 的金字告诉我神父和他的助理都当值，这我可以很清楚地看到。一位神父正在办公室里工作，背对着凸窗，另一位正坐在宽敞的前厅里‘张圆桌前的长凳上，前厅显 然是接待客人的房间。他面对着门窗坐着，手里捧着一本书，我猜是一本<圣经>吧。他读了几行，抬起头来，又读几行，又抬起头来。这一系列动作 轻松自在，却又机警而镇静。几分钟后，他把书合上，放到一边。他双手交叉放在桌上，坐在那儿，表情平静，既不充满期待，也不听之任之。

    前厅的白色墙壁十分干净；桌子和长凳是深色的木头做的；神父穿着一件白色法衣——一切都那么整洁、朴素、简单。我心里充满了平静。但是除了这里的环境，更 加吸引我的足我能凭直觉感到他就在那儿——敞开心扉，充满耐心——时刻准备着会有人，任何人，想要和他谈一谈；一个心灵的问题，一件沉重地压在心里的事 情，良心中的一个黑暗面，他会带着爱去倾听。他的职业就是去爱，他会尽自己最大的能力提供安慰和指引。

    我受到了感动。眼前的一切悄悄地溜进了我心里，令我感到震颤。

    他站起来了。我以为他会把他那块木闩推过去，但是他没有。他退到了前厅更里面的地方，仅此而已，前厅和旁边房间之间的门还开着，像外面的门一样。我注意到了，两扇门都是大开着的。显然，他和同事仍然可以见来访的人。

    我从角落走开，大起了胆子。我走进了教堂。我紧张极了。我害怕会遇见一个基督教徒，他会对我大吼：“你在这儿干什么？你怎么敢走进这个神圣的地方，你这个 渎神的家伙？出去，马上出去！”  里面一个人也没有。也没有一件我能看明白的东西。我继续向里走，仔细打量着里面的圣所。有一幅画。这就是神像吗？是关于人类牺牲的事。一位愤怒的神，需要 用血去平息他的怒气。惶惑的妇女抬头注视着空中，长着小翅膀的胖乎乎的婴儿飞来飞去。一只有超凡能力的鸟。哪一个是神？圣所一边有一座上了漆的木头雕像。

    又是那个受难者，满身伤痕，鲜血直流，血的颜色十分醒目。我目不转睛地看着他的双膝。膝盖被擦破得厉害。粉红色的皮肤向后翻，看上去就像花瓣，露出像消防车的颜色一样红的膝盖骨。我很难将这幅受折磨的情景和前厅里的神父联系起来。

    第二天，大约在同一个时间，我又走了进去。

    天主教徒有着严肃的名声，人们都知道他们的惩罚十分严厉。和马丁神父的交往让我觉得事情根本不是那样的。他很友善。他用一套茶具招待我喝茶、吃饼干，那套茶具每次被碰一下都丁丁当当地响；他对我就侮对待一个大人；他还给我说了一个故事。

    那是一个什么样的故事啊。首先吸引我的是，这个故事令我难以置信。什么？人类犯了原罪，付出代价的却是上帝的儿子？我试图想像神父在对我说：“派西尼，今 天一头狮子咬死了一头黑羚羊。上星期两头狮子把骆驼吃了。上上个星期它们吃了彩色鹳鸟和灰鹭。谁能肯定是谁把我们的金色刺豚鼠当点心吃了呢？情况已经变得 让人无法忍受。一定得采取措施了。我已经决定了，为狮子赎罪的惟一方法就是把你喂给它们。"

    “是的，神父，这样做很正确，也符合逻辑。给我一点儿时间梳洗一下吧。"

    “哈利路亚，我的孩子。"

    “哈利路亚，神父。"

    真是个十足的怪异故事。真是奇怪的心理。

    我要求再听一个故事，一个也许能让我更加满意的故事。这个宗教肯定有不止一个故事——所有宗教都有很多故事。但是马丁神父让我明白，在这个故事之前发生的 故事——这样的故事有很多——对基督教徒来说都只是引子而已。他们的宗教只有一个故事，他们不断地，一次又一次地回到这个故事。对他们来说’，有这个故事 就够了。

    那天晚上在旅馆里，我很安静。

    神可以忍受厄运，这我能明白。印度教里的神也面对很多窃贼、恶霸、绑匪和篡位者。<罗摩衍那>不就是对罗摩所度过的漫长的糟糕的一天的叙述 吗？厄运，有的。好运的逆转，有的。背叛，有的。但是屈辱？死亡？我无法想像克利须那乐意自己被剥光了衣服，被鞭打，被嘲笑，被拖着从大街上走过，最后被 钉死在十字架上——而且纯粹是拜人类所赐。我从没有听说过一个印度神死去。启示梵天没有死。恶魔会死，凡人也舍死，成千上万地死去——他们活着就是为了死 去。物质也会消亡。但是神不应该受死亡的折磨。这是不对的。世界灵魂不能死，甚至它的一个组成部分也不能。这个基督教上帝让他的化身死去，这是不对的。那 就相当于让自己的一部分死去。因为如果圣子要死去，那不可能是假的。如果十字架上的上帝是假装人类悲剧的上帝，那么耶稣受难就会变成耶稣的闹剧。圣子的死 一定是真的。马丁神父向我保证说那是真的。但是上帝一旦死去，那就永远死了，即使是在复活以后。圣子必须永远品尝死亡的滋味。

    三位一体一定因此而受到玷污；圣父上帝的右手一定散发着某种恶臭。这恐怖一定是真的。上帝为什么希望这件事发生在自己身上？为什么不把死亡留给凡人？为什么要让美丽变得丑陋，要将完美损毁？

    爱。这就是马丁神父的回答。

    这位圣子的行为怎么样呢？有一个关于耍孩克利须那被朋友冤枉说他吃了一点儿泥土的故事。他的养母雅首达摇着手指向他走来。

    “你不应该吃泥土，你这个淘气的孩子。”她责骂他说。“但是我没有吃啊。“无可置疑的主宰一切的主说，开玩笑地假装成害怕的人类孩子的样子。“喷！ 喷！张开嘴。”雅首达命令说。克利须那照她说的做了。他张开了嘴。雅首达倒吸了一口气。她在克利须那嘴里看见了整个完整的永恒的宇宙，天空中所有的恒星和 行星和它们之间的距离，地球上所有的陆地、海洋和那里的生命；她看见了过去所有的日子和未来所有的日子；她看见了所有的思想和所有的情感，所有的遗憾和所 有的希望，以及三部分物质；一颗卵石、一棍蜡烛、一个生物、一座村庄或星系都不缺少，包括她自己和在自己的真实位置上的每一粒尘埃。“我的主啊，你可以闭 上嘴了。"她虔诚地说。

    有一个毗湿奴化身为矮人筏摩那（筏摩那，意为侏儒，毗湿奴10种化身中的第五种。）的故事。他只向恶魔之王末梨要求他三步之内所能走过的土地。末梨大声嘲 笑这个小矮子请求者和他微不足道的要求。他同意了。毗湿奴立刻变巨大的身材。他一步便跨过了整座地球，第二步跨过了整个宇宙，第三步一脚把末梨踢迸了地 狱。

    罗摩是最具有人性的化身，他为了从楞伽（楞伽，即今天的斯里兰卡。）的邪恶国王罗波那那里夺回自己的妻子悉多而变得面容阴郁，必须有人提醒他他所具有的神 性，但即使是他也不是个无能之辈。没有一个单薄的十字架能压倒他。当攻势太猛的时候，他会用任何人都不可能有的力气和任何人都不会使用的武器超越自己有限 的人类的身躯。

    上帝就应该是那样。拥有光辉、才智和力量。能用这些来挽救和拯救善良，击败邪恶。

    另一方面，这位忍受饥饿、忍受干渴、疲惫、悲伤、焦虑、被诘问和骚扰、不得不忍受无知的信徒和不尊重他的对手的圣子——他是个什么样的神啊？是个太像人类 的神，就是那样。基督教有奇迹，是的，大多数都与医药有关，有几个满足了饥饿的肚皮；最多使暴风雨不那么猛烈，在水上走了一会儿。如果那是魔法，那也是小 魔法，和扑克牌把戏差不多。任何一位印度教里的神都能做得比这个好一一百倍。这位圣子是一个把大部分时间都用来说故事，说话的神。这位圣子是一位走路的 神，一位行人神——而且在一个炎热的地方——他的步伐和任何一个人类的步伐一样，凉鞋只抬到路上的大石头上；当他舍得在交通上花钱的时候，那交通工具只是 一头普通的毛驴。这位圣子是一个呻吟、喘息、悲叹了三小时后死去的神。那是个什么样的神啊？这位圣子能赋予我们什么灵感呢？

    爱，马丁神父说。

    而且这位圣子只在很久以前在很远的地方出现过一次，在一个早已消失的帝国疆域内、西亚一个落后地区的一个默默无名的部落里。在头上还没有一根白发的时候就 被杀死了。没有留下一个后代，只留下分散在各处的不完整的箴言，他的完整作品就是用手指在尘土上写的字？等一下。这不仅是严重怯场的梵天。这是自私的梵 天。这是不慷慨不公平的梵天。这实际上是没有显露神性的梵天。如果梵天只有一个儿子，他一定像挤奶女工怀里的克利须那一样有无数的化身，不是吗？什么能为 神的吝啬辩护？

    爱，马丁神父重复说。

    我还是忠于我的克利须那，非常感谢。我觉得他的神性非常令人信服。你可以把爱出汗、爱唠叨的圣子留给自己。

    这就是我很久以前遇到那位令人讨厌的拉比的情形：心存怀疑和恼怒。

    一连i天，我都和马丁神父一起喝茶。每一次，当茶杯碰在碟子上格格作响，勺子碰在茶杯边上丁当作响的时候，我就开始提问。

    答案永远是一样的。

    他使我不安，这位圣子。每天我心中对他的愤怒都更加强烈，每天我都能找到他的更多缺点。

    他任性！那是在贝瑟尼的早晨，上帝饿了；上帝想吃早饭。他来到一棵无花果树前。当时不是结无花果的季节，因此树上没有无花果。上帝恼怒了。圣子小声抱怨说：“愿你永远都不要再结果子了。’’于是无花果树立即枯萎了。马太是这么说的，马可也证明了。

    我问你，当时不是结无花果的季节．难道这是无花果吗？像这样对待一棵无辜的无花果树，让它立即枯萎，这事啊？

    我无法把他从我心里赶走。现在仍然不能。我花了整整三天时间想他。他越令我不安，我越无法忘记他。我对他了解得越多，就越不想离开他。

    最后一天，在我们离开穆纳尔之前几个小时，我匆匆爬上了左边那座山。现在我感到这是典型的基督教的情景。基督教是一个匆忙的宗教。看看这个7天之内创造的 世界。即使是在象征的层面上，这也是疯狂的创造。在我出生的宗教里，为了一个灵魂的战争可以像接力赛一样持续很多个世纪，接力棒在无数代人的手中传过，对 我来说，基督教迅速解决问题的方式令人困惑。如果说印度教就像恒河一样平静地流淌，那么基督教就像高峰时间的多伦多一样匆匆地奔忙。这是一个像燕子一样迅 速，像救护车一样急迫的宗教。一切都发生得那么迅速，转瞬之间便做出了决定。转瞬之间你就迷失了，或得救了。基督教可以追溯到许多个世纪以前，但是在本质 上它只存在于一个时间里：现在。

    我飞快地爬上山去。尽管马丁神父不当值，唉，他的那根木闩已经推过去了，感谢上帝他在里面。

    我上气不接下气地说：“神父，我想成为一名基督教徒。"

    他笑了。“你已经是了，派西尼——在你心里。任何一个真诚地来见耶稣的人都是基督教徒。在穆纳尔你遇见丁基督。”

    他拍了拍我的头。实际上更像是重重地打了几下。他的手拍在我头上发出砰砰砰的声音。

    我想我要高兴得发狂了。

    “等你回来的时候，我们再一起喝茶，我的孩子。”

    “好的，神父。”

    他给了我一个善意的微笑。基督的微笑。

    我走进教堂，这次没有恐惧，因为现在这里也是我的家了。我向基督祷告，他是活着的。然后我冲下左边的山，又冲上右边的山——去谢谢克利须那王把我引到撤勒的耶稣——我发现他的人性非常令人信服——面前。