A BUDDHIST TALE FROM THE SUBCONTINENT OR THE PARABLE OF THE PERFECT ANSWER, ACCOMPANIED BY SILLY GESTURES AND BAD ACCENTS It was the season of the monsoon; the great sky dragons fought above the land and their blood rained down unceasingly on the verdant jungle. It was the month of Kober, and the 14 th day, and so the day of petitions for wisdom. Through the hopeful throngs passed the procession of the King of Pradesh. It was proceeded by one hundred dancers, with bells on ankles and wrists, then ten ranks of the Heavenly Guard, striking their bronze shields with their war clubs every three paces. Then came the Exalted One, his advisors and courtiers, and then the seven great horns of the Royal Fanfare, sounding discordantly every fifteen paces like the disconsolate bellow of a dying elephant. “If this is the Royal Music,” a traveller from a distant land observed between bellows, “it’s nae wonna the kings are all bloody mad”. “Aye. And if this is how they travel,” his companion replied, “it’s nae wonna they never bloody gan onywhar.” At the Pavilion of Truth, the monks courteously parted the King from the procession, for it was...