Prologue
Delhi, India A. D. 1220

Senji entered Delhi, wondering if his toil over the last three years would
finally be worth it. His pack of coarsely spun cloth tied together with
several knots, dug into his lean, sunburnt shoulder. Unlike Senji's cool
and breezy home near the mountains, miles to the North in Kashmir, Delhi was
hot and dry because of its proximity to the great Thar desert. The sharp
stones on the city's streets dug into Senji¹s feet, and dust hung in the
air, for the rains of summer had not yet visited the city. Senji imagined
bathing in the Yamuna River as it flowed from the great Ganges, a holy place to bathe.

A moment later, Senji gasped. The Qutub Minar rose before him, as tall as
twenty-five homes. Surely it must touch the gods, he thought.
Senji squinted up at the minaret, tall and thin and bright white in the sun.
The tower was banded from top to bottom by rows of intricate Muslim
inscriptions in the Kufi characters, interrupted four times by protruding
balconies the size of a man or more. Sweat dripped into Senji's eyes as he
studied the tower's height. He asked a nearby Buddhist monk just how tall
it was. "Inside this fortress," the monk said, "four hundred steps lead to
the top." As Senji approached the tower, he saw that Hindu inscriptions
were mixed with Muslim, a small token permitted by the invaders who had
built the structure.

Senji walked to the minaret and climbed a few steps up its sandy red base,
to a large, weathered wood door. Today was a special day for Senji, and
timidity could not stop him from knocking on the door. He felt sure that he
would only need to pull his charm from his pack to make anyone who opposed
him stand back in awe. He prayed that the monk he had known several years
ago would still be waiting there, as Senji had been told he would be. The
large door rattled as Senji banged on it, and in a few moments, it opened.
"What do you want, boy?" a gangly old monk with sparkling eyes and a shaved
head asked as he peeked out from the other side of the door. Then he held
up an index finger. "Wait. I think I remember you, son. Tell me your name."

"Senji, Teacher," he gasped. "Is it you?" He studied the monk.
"Ah, yes." The monk smiled and nodded. "Yes, my boy. I am me."
Senji sighed. "I have walked many miles. The short monk said I'd find you
in this tower. I am surprised the Moslem invaders allowed a Buddhist monk
to meditate here."

"It protects an old man from the sun." The monk scrunched the features of
his leathery face. "Ah, I remember now. You moved your home to Kashmir. To
walk here from there is quite a journey, my boy! You've grown since I last
saw you. You must be twenty years by now."

"Nineteen years, Teacher. I have finished the charm you challenged me to
make, casting it in bronze, silver, and copper, and inscribing it as you
said. I have returned to Delhi to have you bless it."
The monk laughed affectionately. "I did not think you would take my
challenge to heart. Such dedication for a young man!"

"I have worked on it for almost three years, Teacher," said Senji excitedly.
"It has been a difficult feat to learn to melt the bronze, cast the charm,
and inlay the other metals. My uncle helped me put the inscription in
Sanskrit since he knows of these things. I have tried to preserve the truth
about the Buddha's Second Noble Truth of causation so that it will never be
forgotten no matter how many times our land is invaded." He took a breath
and looked at the monk for permission to continue his story.

The old man stood clad only in a loincloth of homespun khadi, and his thin
ribs stretched his skin taut. His head and body glowed red, baked and
blistered by the sun. His stomach caved inward and his knees wobbled. He
was tall, spindly, and hunched, and his eyes protruded from their sockets.
Wisps of white-gray hair sprung up randomly from his shiny baldness, like
weeds on the desert. He had surely lived the life of a wandering holy man.
His eyes sparkled. He rubbed his hands together. "Good, good. Let us see
it, then."

The boy took the charm from its pack and held it above his bowed head.
"Oh, Senji!" The old monk drew back. "What a magnificent thing!"
"Teacher, you honor me!" Senji presented the bronze rectangle, the size of
a large hand, and inlaid with copper and silver. On the front of it, in
relief, Prajnaparamita, the Goddess of translucent wisdom, gleamed in the
sun. She meditated in lotus position with four arms gracefully waving
through the air, a content smile on her mouth and tranquility in her eyes.
"My-oh-my," the old monk said. "For this great feat, you will suffer few
lifetimes in this world, my son. This I know."

"Look on the back, Teacher," Senji said. "That is where the inscriptions
are."

"Oh, yes, let me see. But why have you inscribed this in the Sanskrit,
Senji?"

"My uncle is a very learned man and helped me. He said, since it is the
classical language of Bharat, it will not soon disappear from our world. I
do not understand these things."

The priest nodded. "Your charm will inspire many generations." He smiled
as he read the Sanskrit words embedded in the metal. "Your uncle has
accurately restated the Buddha's Second Noble Truth."

"But what should I do with the charm now?" Senji asked.
The monk studied it. "Remember, I asked you to engrave on the charm . . .
Wait, here, it is. Discard this once you understand its message."
Perfect!"
"As you requested, Father." Senji bowed slightly.
"So, as it says, you must throw it away," the monk said peacefully.
Confidence radiated from him as if a great truth had possessed him.
"That makes me sad to think that I have worked three years on this and
walked so many miles"

"Then its message will be preserved for all time," the monk said. "Is that
not right, Senji? You want this yourself?"
"Yes, but I do not understand how the message will be preserved if I throw
the charm away."
The monk nodded knowingly. "You must follow its direction and throw it
away."

Senji scratched his temple. "But Teacher, I have worked so hard."
"Think, boy."
"But, Teacher"
"You agree its power is its message?"
"Oh, yes."
"Well," the monk explained, "each time it is discarded, another person will
find it and read it. Once they understand it, as the charm instructs, they
will throw it away. So, the chain will continue, on and on, person to
person. Your message will spread throughout Bharat and beyond its
shores on ships that sail to faraway lands."

"But this is hard to believe," Senji said. "Won't the charm disappear?"
The monk laughed. "Never, Senji, because of its beauty. It will travel to
many lands, I promise you."
"Now I see, Teacher . . . I think." He hung his head. "But how far could
it travel?"

The monk smiled as he kissed the charm, then blessed it by holding it to the
heavens and whispering. Then he spoke: "No telling, my son. It will travel
from land-to-land-to-land for all time, explaining the inevitability of
karma, causation as determined by our choices. Just like it says. Most
people will take it to heart so your charm will pass from person to
person forever. The charm will become a manifestation of the chain of
causation, the power of karma causation we each control. The Buddha's
teachings will touch many. Don't you see?"

"But what if a person refuses to believe the truth of karma?" Senji asked.
"Someone might mock or misinterpret it?"
The monk shook his head. "We can only pray for those poor souls," he said.
He paused and studied the charm. "Ah, it is so beautiful." He gazed at the
charm again, and read aloud more of the inscription: "Our choices
determine what will become of us. So simple, but it is the truth in all
human endeavor."

"What if those who find the charm are especially evil or even mock its
truth? Will they ever understand it?"
"Senji, they will learn the power of karma -a great infinite power- when it
becomes obvious that their corrupted lifestreams will never be put in
balance in this or any lifetime. Then they will experience the terrifying
beauty of the universe. In front of their own eyes, their future essence
will cease to exist . . . for all time."
"Is that possible?" Senji asked.

"Once they come face to face with their deeds, it is the worst an evil soul
can experience. Imagine a soul being ripped apart, pulverized for all time.
Becoming nothing."

Senji tried to imagine this event, but chilled when he realized how complete
such a punishment would be. "I fear for those evil souls, Teacher." He
frowned fearfully, then hung his head.