Only later did I learn his name was Duobao.
Later still, he would be called the Tathāgata.
But in those early days, he was merely a presence who never hurried in speech and never wasted motion. He did not command, nor did he persuade. He arranged.
He taught me many things, but rarely explained why.
He taught me how to listen, but not how to judge.He taught me how to remember, but not how to choose.
If I asked too much, I was made to sit in silence.If I thought too much, I was made to listen to scripture.
"You need only listen," he said. "Listen long enough, and understanding will arise on its own."
But I listened for a long time, and still did not understand.
I listened so longthat some sounds began to blur.
The place of training lay hidden among the mountains. Its valley entrance was narrow, perpetually shrouded in mist. The halls were not grand, but meticulously structured—each beam and pillar positioned as if repeatedly calibrated.
Three bell strikes at dawn.One bell at night.Never altered.
The others there did not have multiple ears like mine, but as they sat longer, their expressions gradually converged. It was a trained quiet—not concentration, but the absence of expectation.
I first realized this one morning.
After the bell fell silent, the hall was utterly still. Not empty, but flattened—many layers of sound compressed into one. I suddenly understood that I had not heard a questioning voice in a very long time.
Not because none existed.
But because they could no longer be received.
For the first time, I felt fear.