Faithful to Buddha, Faithful to You

Chapter 2 Monks & Nuns

When I woke up I found myself in a group of people with men and women with strange facial features: high nose and deep eyes, thin lips, short round neck, fine skin and brown eyeballs. Men are strong, women are full and tall. Both men and women have short shoulders, curly hair, and brown red hair. And the outfit is even more peculiar: men wear short robes with narrow lapel sleeves, boots with high knees, swords behind them, women's outfits are much simpler, knee-high robes, bare right shoulders, narrow sleeves on left shoulders, a cotton shawl around them, and tall boots.

I can't help admiring myself. In this hungry and thirsty situation, I can make a very professional assessment of the appearance of the garments based on a few observations. But none of this matters now, because I already smell food.

It's a couple of pies and a bowl of noodle soup, warm and stimulating. I looked like a woman in her 40s had a rush to pick it up, vaguely thanking her, and the wolf swallowed the tiger. I swept the cakes away and drank the noodle soup. I finally felt something in my stomach. I actually wanted to eat, and I was embarrassed to ask if I could have some more, and then I realized that the language didn't make sense.

Language is normal, people know at first glance that it is not Han people, I don't even know if it has landed in ancient times. Maybe I just took a free flight to the deserts of the Middle East or Africa and ran into a more backward nomadic tribe, and it turned out to be the 21st century. I tried again in English, and I still couldn't communicate.

Two people appeared in the tent, and the others immediately stopped arguing and glorified as they were getting more frustrated in their incomprehensible voices. I can feel that the person is definitely different, but when the two men stood still in front of the blanket I lay on, I was shocked to open my mouth and couldn't fit in for half a day.

It's a 30-year-old Young nun and a 15-six-year-old Young monk. This identity is already quite strange, and even more surprising, is their natural and noble character. Just standing still and flowing with extraordinary luxury.

The nun's face is about the same as some of the women surrounding me, but her skin is whiter. Big eyes, wide eyebrows, a little invisible stress when a pair of brown eyeballs stared at me. Her stature is full, and her simple brown redness does not keep her in good shape. I just always thought her forehead looked different from normal people, like it was pressed over and tilted back flat, because bald head, it looked weirder. I remember the ancient Egyptians and the ancient Persians having this tradition of suppressing foreheads from a young age, but only members of the royal family. I don't know if she was innate or deliberately pressed the day after tomorrow. But this flat forehead can't hide her beauty, and the whole person has a mature rhyme.

Take a closer look at that 15-six-year-old monk. He can't help but admire himself. He's so elegant and handsome! It's the same tall nose with no one else's roughness. The whole face is like a Greek sculpture with a bright silhouette and 3D feel. Wu Guan matches perfectly, thick long eyebrows, strong nose beams, crystalline shallow grey eyes embedded in large and deep orbits, pure as the endless heavens on Gobi Beach. Though young, it is already luminous, and when you look at me, take a few gentle points of inquiry.

His lips were thin and brightly shaped, his lips lifted and his lips curved with a clear curve. Long face, sharpened chin, swan-like neck, beautifully lined. Unlike other white-skinned people on the books, he has honeyed skin. The broad monk's robe wrapped around his whole body and nearly a metre and seven of his head lined up in a figure, but still appeared slightly thin. He's still in a long phase, and over time, he should be over a meter and eighty.

I stared at these two strange people, and my brain flickered electrically. When I heard them talking to me, it was Chinese, it was just very weird.

Hard to tell where they were asking me to come from and why I was left alone. And I looked up in pain, and I said, "Can you tell me where I am? What country am I in? ”

The beautiful nun obviously didn't understand, but the juvenile monk seemed to understand. He suddenly squatted down and his pure, handsome face quickly magnified in front of me. I stared at his elegant five officials and a strong tone came out of my heart, which surprised me myself.

“Vincent, we're almost there. Is the mud Chinese? ”

He was upset by his heart, which had no origin, and heard him turn his head upside down. The pronunciation of the ocean tone made me laugh.

He was a little embarrassed and blushed: “Chinese, me, speaking, not good. ”

He turned his head and talked to the beautiful nun. I just stopped laughing and wondered what he was talking about, Vincent. Based on his pronunciation, he searched his brain, as if it were not a Hanzi name.

He turned his head and said to me, "Mud, there, go? ”

And I said, "Chang 'an, you know what? ”

Look at him nod his head, I shush. Luckily, Changan already has a place in this time and space.

“But...” he hesitated to look at me, "hate far, alone, mud? ”

I couldn't help but nod my head. I couldn't think of anywhere else to go at this moment except Chang 'an. I don't care what language I can speak there.

“We, go to the tunes, mud, passage, okay. ”

He squeezed a hard word out of it, and I just wanted to laugh and hold it tight again. Saving my life and being able to communicate with me is hard enough. Mind you, what is this “song"? It's been seven or eight hours since I've landed, and I'm still confused about geography and history. Alas, a graduate student of the History Department of the Hall of Fame University, embarrassed to be home.

“Mud, purple? ”

“Hmm?” I lost consciousness. He asked again, and I understood the name.

“Oh, my name is Irene. ”

My name is always made fun of. Ever since I was a kid, I've been nicknamed LOVE. Boys always yell at me like, "Oh, MYLOVE! My parents and I protested against the change of name, and they rejected it. After a long shout, you get used to it. It's not bad to call love, but after all these years, my love bird, it hasn't arrived yet.

“My name is...”

He made a long string of noises, and I couldn't remember, pulling the corner of his mouth and looking at him. He said it three times with great understanding. Based on his pronunciation, I found the corresponding Chinese characters: Chu Mo Jo Gi Bo, so sad. I fought so hard: Chumorogippo, Chumorogippo, Chumorogippo...

His mouth rose and rose and he finally laughed. The laughter is clear and bright, like the mountainous fountains. I remembered that I had just laughed at his inaccurate Chinese. Now he can laugh back, his face is a little hot.

He only laughed for a moment and saw my embarrassing face, hurrying to put it away, pointing straight at the beautiful nun behind him: "Me, Kitchen, Gibbs. ”

I can now adapt to his accent and automatically convert it to: Kitchen = Mother.

This beauty is his mother! The Buddhist family. I couldn't help but wonder if he or a teenager was brought into the Buddha Gate by his mother? It's a pity that there's a flash in my heart, and I'm hurrying away from the idea that I shouldn't have. I don't know if it's her name or her honor. I tried to call her Gibbs, and she nodded politely.

“Mud, Ho Ho Xiu Shui, we, Mingtian, Shanlu.” (Translator: Rest well, we'll go tomorrow.

I lived in a tent with those four women after Aunt Jeannie left. I don't understand what they're saying, but they're friendly. I didn't feel comfortable eating anymore, just lying warm on the carpet they laid for me.

This is a sudden break-in into a strange environment with poor communication and no idea where you are. The desert-specific wind outside the tent whimpers through, weeping in the silent silence of the night. I'm not that strong, I close my eyes and I'm overwhelmed with homesickness. To avoid tears from thinking of my parents, I use my most common hypnosis.

The peripheral objects measured before bedtime appeared in my brain, and I named them professionally: I slept in a velvet diamond-shaped textile carpet, pillows in a beaded deer pattern, covered with a triangular blanket, water containers in a single-eared mesh pot, and just served a cake in a muddy grey pot.

I think I'm still in ancient times, because these ceramics are still very primitive. Based on the ceramics level in the Nakahara region, such a rough process should have more than 2,000 years, I don't know how it is here.

I finally fell asleep in the wind of the out-of-the-board whistle and the slight snoring in the account, unable to stop the fatigue of the day and wrapped my blanket tightly around me.