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Having written about the devas, I shall now write about the human visitors who came to see Ãcariya Mun. Being human, I am also included in this matter; but I still wish to apologize to the reader if there is anything unappealing or inappropriate in what follows. In some ways I have an incurably roguish character, as you will no doubt notice. However, I feel it necessary to record truthfully what Ãcariya Mun told his disciples privately. I ask for your forgiveness, but I include this so that you may compare humans and devas and learn something from it.

Ãcariya Mun said there was a great difference between humans and devas in the way they communicated with him and listened to his discourses on Dhamma. Devas of every realm, from the highest to the lowest, are able to comprehend the meaning in a discussion of Dhamma much more easily than their human counterparts. And when the discussion is over, their exclamations of approval – “sãdhu, sãdhu, sãdhu” – echo throughout the spiritual universe. Devas of every realm have enormous respect for monks; not one of them shows any sign of impropriety. When coming to listen to a monk discourse on Dhamma, their comportment is always calm, orderly, and exquisitely graceful. Human beings, on the other hand, never really understand the meaning of a Dhamma discourse – even after repeated explanations. Not only do they fail to grasp the meaning, but some are even critical of the speaker, thinking: What is he talking about? I can’t understand a thing. He’s not as good as that other monk. Some who themselves have previously ordained as monks cannot keep their gross kilesas from surfacing, boasting: When I was ordained I could give a much better talk than this. I made those listening laugh a lot so they didn’t get tired and sleepy. I had a special rapport with the audience which kept them howling with laughter. Still others think: It’s rumored that this monk knows the thoughts of others. So whatever we think, he knows immediately. Why, then, doesn’t he know what I’m thinking right now? If he knows, he should give some sign – at least indirectly, by saying that this or that person shouldn’t think in such and such a way because it’s wrong. Then we would know if he deserves his reputation. Some people come ready to find fault so they can show off their own cleverness. These types are not interested in Dhamma at all. Expounding Dhamma in their presence is like pouring water on a dog’s back – they immediately shake it all off, leaving not a drop behind.

Ãcariya Mun would often laugh when talking about this type of person, probably because he was amused by his occasional encounters with such ‘clever’ people. He said that some people who came to see him were so opinionated they could barely walk, the burden of their conceit being much heavier than that which an ordinary mortal could carry. Their conceit was so enormous that he was more inclined to feel trepidation than pity for them, which made him disinclined to talk to them about Dhamma. Still, there were certain social situations where this was unavoidable, so he struggled to say something. But as he was about to speak, the Dhamma seemed to vanish and he could think of nothing to say. It was as if Dhamma could not compete with such overbearing conceit – and so, it fled. All that remained was his body, sitting like a lifeless doll, being stuck with pins, and ignored by everyone as though he had no feelings. At such times, no Dhamma arose for discourse, and he simply sat like a tree stump. In cases like that, where would the Dhamma come from?

Ãcariya Mun used to laugh as he described those situations to his disciples, but there were some in his audience who actually trembled. Since they weren’t feverish and the weather wasn’t cold, we can only assume that they were shuddering from feelings of trepidation. Ãcariya Mun said that he would not teach very conceited individuals unless absolutely necessary because his discourse could actually turn into something toxic for the heart of someone who listened without any feeling of respect. The Dhamma that Ãcariya Mun possessed was truly of the highest order and of enormous value to those who established their hearts in the principle of goodwill, not considering themselves superior to Dhamma in any way. This is a very important point to keep in mind. Every effect has its cause. When many people sit together listening to a Dhamma talk, there will be some who feel so uncomfortably hot they almost melt and there will be others who are so cool they feel as if they are floating in the air. The difference, the cause, is right there in the heart. Everything else is inconsequential. There was simply no way he could help lighten the burden of someone whose heart refused to accept Dhamma. One might think that if teaching them doesn’t actually do any good, it also would not do any harm. But that’s not really the case, for such people will always persist in doing things which have harmful repercussions – regardless of what anyone says. So it’s not easy to teach human beings. Even with a small group of people, invariably there were just enough noxious characters among them to be a nuisance. But rather than feel annoyed like most people, Ãcariya Mun would simply drop the matter and leave them to their fate. When no way could be found to help reform such people, Ãcariya Mun regarded it simply as the nature of their kamma.

There were those who came to him with the virtuous intention of searching for Dhamma, trusting in the good consequences of their actions – and these he greatly sympathized with – though they were far and few between. However, those who were not looking for anything useful and had no restraint were legion, so Ãcariya Mun preferred to live in the forests and mountains where the environment was pleasant and his heart was at ease. In those places he could practice to the limit without being concerned with external disturbances. Wherever he cast his glance, whatever he thought about, Dhamma was involved, bringing a clear sense of relief. Watching the forest animals, such as monkeys, languars, and gibbons, swinging and playing through the trees and listening to them call to one another across the forest gave rise to a pleasant inner peacefulness. He need not be concerned with their attitude toward him as they ran about in search of food. In this deep solitude, he felt refreshed and cheerful in every aspect of his life. Had he died then, he would have been perfectly comfortable and contented. This is dying the truly natural way: having come alone, he would depart alone. Invariably all the Arahants pass into Nibbãna in this way, as their hearts do not retain any confusion or agitation. They have only the one body, the one citta, and a single focus of attention. They don’t rush out looking for dukkha and they don’t accumulate emotional attachments to weigh them down. They live as Noble Ones and they depart as Noble Ones. They never get entangled with things that cause anxiety and sorrow in the present. Being spotlessly pure, they maintain a detachment from all emotional objects. Which stands in sharp contrast to the way people act in the world: the heavier their heart’s burden, the more they add and increase their load. As for Noble Ones, the lighter their load, the more they relinquish, until there’s nothing left to unload. They then dwell in that emptiness, even though the heart that knows that emptiness remains – there is simply no more loading and unloading to be done. This is known as attaining the status of someone who is ‘out of work’, meaning that the heart has no more work left to do in the sãsana. Being ‘out of work’ in this way is actually the highest form of happiness. This is quite different from worldly affairs, where unemployment for someone with no means of making a living signifies increased misery.

Ãcariya Mun related many differences between devas and humans, but I’ve recorded here only those which I remember and those which I think would benefit the discerning reader. Perhaps these asides, such as the deva episodes, should all be presented together in one section according to the subject matter. But Ãcariya Mun’s encounters with such phenomena stretched over a long period of time and I feel it necessary to follow his life story as sequentially as possible. There will be more accounts about devas later; but I dare not combine the different episodes because the object is to have the parallel threads of the story converge at the same point. I ask forgiveness if the reader suffers any inconvenience.

What Ãcariya Mun said about devas and humans refers to these groups as they existed many years before, since Ãcariya Mun, whose reflections are recorded here, died over 20 years ago. The devas and humans of that age have most probably changed following the universal law of impermanence. There remains only the ‘modern’ generation who have probably received some mental training and improved their conduct accordingly. As for the contentious people whom Ãcariya Mun encountered in his life, probably such people no longer exist to clutter up the nation and the religion. Since then, there has been so much improvement in the education system; and well-educated people aren’t likely to harbor such vulgar ambitions. This affords people today some relief.

AFTER LIVING AND TEACHING the monks and the local population in the Udon Thani and Nong Khai areas for a considerable time, Ãcariya Mun moved eastward to the province of Sakon Nakhon. He traveled through the small villages in the forests and mountains of the Warichabhum, Phang Khon, Sawang Dan Din, Wanon Niwat, and Akat Amnuay districts. He then wandered to Nakhon Phanom through the district of Sri Songkhram, passing through the villages of Ban Sam Phong, Ban Non Daeng, Ban Dong Noi, and Ban Kham Nokkok. All these places were deep in the wilderness and infested with malaria, which, when caught, was very difficult to cure: a person could be infected the better part of a year and still not fully recover. Assuming one did not die, living through it was still a torment. As I’ve already mentioned, malaria was called ‘the fever the in-laws despise’, because those who suffered chronically from this illness were still able to walk around and eat, but unable to do any work. Some became permanent invalids. The villagers in that area, as well as the monks and novices who lived in the same forests, were frequently victims of malaria. Some even died from it. For three years Ãcariya Mun spent successive rains retreats in the area around Ban Sam Phong village. During that time quite a few monks died of the illness. Generally, those monks were from cultivated areas where there was little malaria – such as the provinces of Ubon, Roy Et, and Sarakham – so they were not used to the forests and mountains. They could not live easily in those forests with Ãcariya Mun because they couldn’t tolerate the malaria. They had to leave during the rainy season, spending their retreat near villages that were surrounded by fields.

Ãcariya Mun recounted that when he gave evening Dhamma talks to the monks and novices near the village of Sam Phong, a nãga from the Songkhran River came to listen almost every time. If he failed to arrive at the hour when the discourse took place, he would come later when Ãcariya Mun sat in samãdhi. The devas from the upper and lower realms came only periodically, and not as often as they did when he stayed in the provinces of Udon Thani or Nong Khai. They were always particular about coming on the three holiest observance days of the rains retreat– the first, the middle and the last day. No matter where Ãcariya Mun lived, whether in towns or cities, the devas always came from one realm or another to hear his Dhamma. This was true in the city of Chiang Mai while he was staying at Wat Chedi Luang monastery.