The Buddha's Diamonds by Carolyn Marsden

In the gloom of the dusty temple, Tinh bowed to the Buddha. Three times he knelt, touching his forehead to the grass mat. Then he stood with his palms joined in front of his heart, regarding the statue: reddish copper beneath the layer of grime.
    The Buddha’s right hand rested in his lap, close to the earth, while the other was raised in the mudra for peace. The Buddha, with his full cheeks and almond eyes, looked something like Ba, Tinh’s father.
    Tinh’s cousins — Trang Ton, Dong, and Anh — also bowed, not so quickly that the adults would make them prostrate again, but with no time wasted. They longed to get outside before the monk began his long talk.
    Several side altars were laden with vases of sweet jasmine and offerings of globular green guavas and waxy star fruit.
    One altar, half-hidden by the donation box, displayed photographs of the village ancestors, including Tinh’s grandparents — Ong Noi and Banoi. Tinh’s gaze lingered on the small faces in the black-and-white photos. Both grandparents had died not long ago, and Tinh missed them.
    Tinh looked out at the temple courtyard shining with morning sunlight. His cousins would soon head for the open field beyond. Trang Ton had just gotten a new soccer ball from his rich uncle in America.
    Yet when Tinh’s cousins finished bowing, he didn’t follow them, but settled himself onto the floor beside Ba and Ma.
    The monks and nuns, with their shaved heads and loose brown robes, waited cross-legged at the front of the temple. A very old monk sat in the middle.
    From outside, Tinh heard the shouts of the little kids fighting their mock battles, using long stems cut from elephant-ear plants and soft old coconut husks that they tossed from behind the temple walls.
    Lifting a wooden baton, a nun invited the temple bell, a large ceramic bowl. The bell vibrated in low, penetrating tones.
    Each week Tinh waited for this moment when the world and his heart settled.
    Even the little soldiers outside silenced their shouts. After the nun invited the bell twice more, women raised their palm-leaf fans, waving them gently.
    The monks and nuns started their chant:
“In the precious presence of the Buddha, fragrant with sandalwood incense, we recognize our errors and begin anew. . . .”
    The words entered Tinh like soft rain.
    â€œThe raft of the Buddha carries us over the ocean of sorrows. . . .”
    Tinh sighed, the knots inside him relaxing.
    When the chanting stilled, the old monk began his talk: “Today I offer you a handful of diamonds. Not one diamond, but a handful.”
    Expecting to see real jewels, Tinh looked up. But the monk opened his hand to reveal nothing.
    â€œYou may think we have little in our village,” the monk continued. “You may think that we should be sad to be so poor. But we have the sun.” He pointed overhead. “And the moon, the source of all poetry.” He pointed upward again.
    As the monk talked, Tinh studied pictures depicting the life of the Buddha. The scenes were painted on the eastern wall: the Buddha as a baby taking his seven famous steps, a lotus blooming in each footprint. The Buddha as a young prince. The Buddha reaching enlightenment under the bodhi tree with its green-heart leaves.
    â€œYou have the diamond of your mother. Even if your mother has passed away, you have her within you. You have the diamond of your father. . . .”
    The monk’s voice was like the ocean at low tide. Tinh shut his eyes and let the words paint pictures in his head.
    â€œThe sea full of fish, the fresh winds, the breath flowing in and out of your body — all these things are beautiful diamonds in your life, shining day and night. The Buddha offers you these diamonds of true happiness. . . .”
    â€œGo look after your sister,” Ma whispered. She leaned over Tinh, her long bangs grazing his forehead.
    â€œNow?”
    â€œI’m afraid she’ll be bullied. Or