Age and a frail heart keep me confined to my home, yet an alert mind keeps me voraciously curious.
Two private TV channels-both epitomising the vulgarity of free-market capitalism-keep me updated on the Sangha mischief in our public square. Pensive in my armchair, far removed from the calibrated, boorish ‘Bana’ at the Satyagraha sit-in at Viharamahadevi Park, my mind drifted into a desperate daydream.
I closed my eyes and wondered: What if? What if the time warp separating antiquity from today’s chaos were ripped open, and Arahat Mahinda Thero himself stepped out of the third century BC and onto the soil of twenty-first-century Sri Lanka?
What if the legendary missionary son of Dharmasoka walked among us today, only to find that his pristine, liberating message of the Buddha had been weaponised, commodified, and reduced to pageantry and ritual, making the cry of ‹Sadhu’ an agitational refrains of hired hooligans?
It was a mind-boggling possibility: the architect of Sinhala Buddhism surveying how a capricious, power-hungry priestly class had traded the profound logic of the Mihintale mango tree for luxury SUVs, political contracts, and televised circuses.
In this mental theater, the ancient sage Arahat Mahinda had come to interrogate, wielding the sharp intellect that once founded a nation to utterly dismantle the pious fraud of its modern guardians.
Arahat Mahinda Thero stood at the Satyagraha protest site. Under a canvas canopy, a group of saffron-clad figures sat in a single row, striking poses of deep, meditative exhaustion for a cluster of television cameras.
This was the grand satyagraha, orchestrated at the behest of a defunct political dynasty whose members are currently adrift, desperate to reclaim their lost turf.
Shrouded in simple, earth-toned robes, my imaginary Arahat Mahinda stepped straight out of the third century BC and into the chaotic theater of this modern political circus.
He had no entourage, no media coordinator to assist him; he walked directly to the enclosure where the main architects of this spectacle sat.
The test
There sat Ulapane Sumangala, adjusting his microphone with practiced ease; Balangoda Kassapa, frantically checking his smartphone under the fold of his robe to see if his latest TikTok live-stream was trending; and Walanhanduwe Dharmaratna, the High Priest of Mihintale, looking noticeably uncomfortable so far from his mountain rock sanctuary and so close to actual public scrutiny.
The trio blinked, squinting through the camera glare. There was something terrifyingly authentic, something fiercely primordial about the visitor that rendered their haughty air of entitlement suddenly very fragile.
Hoping to capture a viral moment of monastic solidarity, Ulapane Sumangala cleared his throat, assumed a pose of pious pain, and bellowed into the microphone: ‘Welcome, Most Venerable Arahath Therun-wahanse, to our sacred struggle!’
The transient political circuses built by greed are nothing more than passing shadows on the ever-changing landscape of time. They do not define our beautiful island, nor can they ever truly compromise the pristine core of the Dhamma. For twenty-three centuries, the true light brought by Arahat Mahinda has endured-not through golden fences, luxurious pageants, or the patronage of powerful politicians, but because the pristine Dhamma resides quietly and immovably within the hearts of ordinary, virtuous people
Sumangala proclaimed, his voice booming through the speakers: ‘We sit here in noble sacrifice to save our nation, our heritage, and our Sasana from the treacherous hands of those who demand accountability and transparency!’
The imaginary Arahat Mahinda looked at the elaborate sound system, the stock of bottled mineral water tucked behind the cushions on which the ‹Satyagrahis› sat, and the fleet of SUVs parked on the roadside behind the marquee.
A faint, razor-sharp smile touched his lips. He did not recite a stanza, nor did he offer a conventional blessing. Instead, he pointed a calm, steady finger toward a large, leafy tree standing nearby.’
‘Monks,’ Arahat Mahinda said, his voice carrying a thunderous, resonant clarity that dwarfed the loudspeakers. ‘What tree is that?’ he intoned.
Monk Walanhanduwe Dharmaratna, recognising the opening lines of the famous logic test that his own monastic perch had on our free-market economy, perked up.
He saw an immediate opportunity to demonstrate his scriptural authority. ‘That, Most Venerable One, is a mango tree.’
‘Are there other mango trees besides this one?’ Arahat Mahinda inquired, his demeanor glistening with sharp, deductive intensity.
Age and a frail heart keep me confined to my home, yet an alert mind keeps me voraciously curious.
‘Yes, Most Venerable Arahath Therun-wahanse,’ Balangoda Kassapa chimed in, eager to display his intellect to his digital followers. ‘There are many other mango trees in this park, and indeed, across the entire island.’
‘And are there trees here that are not mango trees?’ asked Arahat, his voice tightening like a bowstring.
‘Of course, of course!’ Ulapane Sumangala joined the fray, sensing a rhetorical victory. ‘There are Mara trees, Na trees, and many majestic banyans. There are countless trees that are not mango trees.’
Arahat Mahinda paused. A sudden, dramatic silence overwhelmed the entire park. The wind ceased to blow. The birds stopped chirping. Then he leaned forward, his gaze flashing like lightning: ‘Apart from those other mango trees, and the trees that are not mango trees, does this specific mango tree itself remain?›’
‘Naturally, Venerable Sir!’ Monk Walanhanduwe Dharmaratna answered confidently. ‘If you set aside all other mango trees and all non-mango trees, this solitary tree still stands right where it is. It is elementary!’ responded the Mihintale custodian.
Arahat Mahinda’s face hardened, shifting from calm inquisitor to Cosmic Arbiter. ‘An excellent grasp of basic botany. Now, let us apply this same rigorous line of reasoning to the political forest you have planted here today. Tell me, Sumangala, who are the people currently funding, supplying, and cheering for this noble satyagraha of yours?’
Sumangala puffed out his chest, adopting a fiercely theatrical posture. ‘These are the righteous guardians of the old order, Sir! The visionary leaders who built great expressways, the generous patrons who gave us unchecked power, and the elite statesmen currently unjustly sidelined by the ungrateful masses!’
‘I see,’ Arahat Mahinda, the Ashokan envoy, replied smoothly, his tone dripping with sarcasm. ‘And are there other corrupt, discredited politicians in this country besides the ones who paid for your tents, your cheer squads, and your ears today?’
Kassapa shifted uneasily, his phone buzzing violently in his palm as the live comments started flying in. ‘Well… yes. History is full of them. There are many political opportunists across the land who have plundered the public purse.’
‘And are there people in this country who are not corrupt, discredited politicians?’ Arahat pressed further, his voice rising to a crescendo.
Portly Monk Walanhanduwe Dharmaratna coughed into his hand, looking nervously at the cameras that were now capturing his sudden panic. ‘Yes, technically. The vast majority of the citizenry are ordinary, hardworking people who simply wish to live in peace, feed their children, and see justice prevail.’
The imaginary Arahat Mahinda of my daydream stepped onto the stage, his presence making the Satyagraha space feel suffocatingly small.
‘Then tell me, wise monks,’ Arahat Mahinda roared, his authoritative voice shaking the very poles of the makeshift tent. ‘If we set aside all those other corrupt politicians roaming elsewhere, and if we set aside the entire population of honest, hardworking citizens who want nothing to do with your theater… who is left sitting under this tent?!”
‘An absolute, terrifying silence stilled the air. Television cameras zoomed in on the sweat breaking out on Sumangala’s brow. Arahat Mahinda’s deductive trap had snapped shut with the force of a steel jaw. By their own logic, the only entities remaining in the equation were the handful of compromised oligarchs pulling their strings, and the monks who consented to act as their spiritual human shields.
‘You see,’ Arahat Mahinda continued, his voice dropping to a devastatingly sharp whisper that cut deeper than a blade, ‘Twenty-three centuries ago, I used this very riddle to ensure that a king possessed the logical capacity to govern for the welfare of all living beings. I taught him that the land belongs to the people, and that the ruler is merely its temporary guardian. But you three have completely inverted Dhamma! You have become the vanguard of brazen rogues, using the sacred robes of the Enlightened One to protect the hordes of the greedy!›’
‘Venerable Sir!’ Walanhanduwe protested, his face turning an angry shade of crimson as he clutched his relic casket for comfort.
‘We are protecting our traditional privileges! If the elite fall, who will sponsor our grand pageants? Who will build our golden fences? Who will pay for our luxury hybrid SUVs?!’
‘The Dhamma does not require a golden fence built with stolen public funds!’ the resonant voice of the Arahat replied, firm as the Mihintale rock. ‘A true sanctuary is built on virtue, not on the patronage of a discredited court. Look at yourselves! You call this a satyagraha firm adherence to truth. Yet your truth is bought by the plateful, your fasting is a comedic illusion staged between television commercial breaks, and your devotion is a transactional lease signed with politicians currently adrift in the turbulent currents of their own bad karma!’
Balangoda Kassapa quietly slipped his phone into his bag, suddenly very aware of how utterly ridiculous his live-stream looked to a nation laughing hysterically in the comments section. Ulapane Sumangala tried to rally his thoughts to launch a fierce counteroffensive about external conspiracies and threats to their heritage, but the words withered in his throat, completely vaporised under the cool, blinding light of the Arahat’s gaze.
‘The mango tree in Mihintale still bears fruit because its roots were planted in honest soil,’ Arahat Mahinda said, turning his back on the stage with a dramatic sweep of his robes. ‘But this plastic garden of corruption you have built in the park will wither before the sun sets. Go back to your temples! Wash the political soot from your robes! And remember that the people of this island are no longer the naive subjects of a bygone era, they have passed the intelligence test, even if their supposed teachers have failed it miserably!’
With that final, earth-shattering declaration, the imaginary Arahat stepped away from the soiled site of the fraudulent protest.
Light that endures
Vivid figures of my daydream faded back. I returned to the dull stillness of my quiet room. The heavy sorrow that had weighed so deeply on my eighty-four-year-old heart began to lift, replaced by a gentle, enduring conviction.
The transient political circuses built by greed are nothing more than passing shadows on the ever-changing landscape of time. They do not define our beautiful island, nor can they ever truly compromise the pristine core of the Dhamma.
For twenty-three centuries, the true light brought by Arahat Mahinda has endured-not through golden fences, luxurious pageants, or the patronage of powerful politicians, but because the pristine Dhamma resides quietly and immovably within the hearts of ordinary, virtuous people.
As long as there are those who remember the simple, compassionate logic of that ancient mango tree-who seek truth, practice kindness, and guard their minds against hatred-the light of the Buddha remains undiminished. Governments rise and fall.
Interim illusions invariably crumble into dust. The timeless path of virtue stands unshakeable, offering its eternal sanctuary of peace and ultimate hope to a waiting nation. As the Blessed One declared in the Dhammapada:
‘Selo yatha ekaghano vatena na samirati,
Eva? pa??ita nindapasa?sasu na samiñjanti.’
‘Just as a solid rock is not shaken by the storm, even so, the wise remain unmoved by praise or blame.’