He was never sure why they would do that. Make small of him. There he sits in the garden plot at the back of the Estate, between the spinach, the rhubarb, and the mash, his belly swelling through the green as seemingly benign as only a Buddha belly can.

When sitting under the Bodhi tree he became the bodhisattva, the one whose essence is enlightenment. He closed his eyes, felt the warm air in his hair—yes, he did have hair then—and told them all about Dharma, how they can change their world. Dharma means that you don’t give a damn. You don’t let anything take you out of your contemplation, not your landlord, not your president, nor your bank or your kids. If you don’t want anything, nothing can get you riled. Like the town mouse, you dance and sing and walk the Noble Path because you know that there are the field mice who’ve worked hard all summer and will be able to clink a coin into your begging bowl. You bless them, of course. Not everyone can be holy, thank the gods. The Buddha taught about man’s endless cycle of birth, aging and death, no end in sight; their cursed samsara.

He also talked about one being, the Maha Brahma who falsely thinks of himself as God, as the creator, even though he hasn’t yet got off the samsara hamster wheel. Adoration is the only option on offer.