It was the summer of 2015, and I was working on a documentary about the life of a Buddhist monk who died a few years earlier.
The monk had been the most respected of the Buddha’s disciples, revered in the tradition as the first dharma master.
At a time when Buddhist monks were being persecuted in India, his name was often chanted in the streets as a sign of support for them.
In 2016, he was canonized by the Buddhist government, but he had died in India in 2016.
I was searching for some of his disciples, who were in India and abroad, who might be able to tell me what they knew about his life.
But it was not the best way to do this.
For starters, I had not met him in person.
In his own words, he told me, “I was not born with the gift of the dharma, but I have been given the dhama.”
And that was why he was not one of the “tenth class” of dharma masters.
He had a special relationship with the Buddha, and he had been a part of it all his life, even if he had not been anointed one of them.
He knew that he had the ability to change the world and help other people, but that he also had to take the responsibility of being the source of compassion for himself and others.
I had hoped that he might be one of those teachers.
But, after months of looking, I was not sure.
In fact, I knew he was a monk who had died, but it was unclear if his body had been cremated.
The first thing I wanted to know was where he had lived and what he did.
So I contacted his daughter, an accomplished poet and poetess.
She said, “He was an extremely good and dedicated monk, he lived in a beautiful and elegant monastery in the Himalayas.”
It was a very beautiful monastery, but not a monastery that I could visit.
My curiosity had been piqued, and the next thing I knew, I found out that this monastery had no facilities.
I contacted the temple, and they said, Oh, my dear son, there are only three rooms in the main building.
You must leave.
There is no room for you.
You are not welcome.
I asked, Why are you not welcome?
They said, There is only one way for you to enter.
There are no rooms for you in the Main Building.
So, I left.
It was only then that I realized that he did not live in a monastery.
The only place he lived was in a village.
I went to the temple and asked for directions.
But when I tried to explain to them, the monks were very hostile.
They were shouting, “You’re not a Buddhist, you’re a Hindu.”
I said, I’m a journalist.
I said that I was studying the Buddhist scriptures and that I wanted the monks to hear that I did not belong to any religion.
I also said that this was not a question of faith.
I am a journalist, and as a journalist I have no interest in a religious question.
I do not have a problem with a person who lives on the street and sells cigarettes.
The Buddha was not interested in me, and my father was a good man.
The next day I went back to the monastery, and again the monks shouted, “Go to hell!”
They shouted, I am not a Buddha.
I tried again.
They shouted again, I don’t belong to a Buddhist order, I have come to this place to help the poor.
The third time, I told them, You are the problem.
I don`t belong to this order.
I come from a very poor family, and this place is not a proper place for me to come.
The monks, having decided that I would not return, ordered me to go back to my room, but the next day, I heard a knock at my door.
I opened the door and found a man in his mid-thirties, with short, curly hair and a beard.
He was wearing a white shirt, a white jacket, and a white scarf.
He said, You have come, and you will be with me for the rest of your life.
He told me that the monastery was full of people who could not attend classes or practice, that the monk would not be able attend the funeral service.
He did not mention the name of the monastery.
But I could tell that he was someone who would be very interested in this story.
He brought me to his room, and for several hours he talked to me, explaining that he would have me come to his place at 3 p.m. for a few hours and then take me back to his house, which was a large house with a courtyard.
I told him I did want to go.
The day after I left, he came in with a young woman. I thought,