"We still need to sort the donation bags," the Busy Monk says, sealing a container of dried chilies. "The ones from yesterday are sitting in the storeroom. And someone left the brooms out in the rain again."
"Wasn't me," the Lazy Monk says.
"It's never you."
"That's because I don't use brooms."
The Old Resident sweeps past them both without looking up.
"Did you hear the Venerable's talk last night?" the Busy Monk asks, reaching for the next container. "The sutta about the burden."
"I was there," the Lazy Monk says.
"Were you awake?"
"Mostly."
The Busy Monk lines up the containers by size. "He said the five aggregates are the burden. The body, what you sense, what you perceive, your thoughts, the whole field of sensation. That's what we carry around."
"Heavy," the Lazy Monk says, without conviction.
"And then — who carries it? The person. You, me, this one right here." He taps his own chest. "And what makes you pick it up? Desire. Wanting pleasure, wanting to become something, wanting to not exist. Those are the three."
"And when desire ends, the burden goes down."
"When it ends completely. Yes." The Busy Monk picks up a bag of dried mushrooms and checks the label. "Anyway, these mushrooms need to go on the top shelf before they get damp."
Silence. The Old Resident's broom moves across the concrete in slow strokes.
"So which one are you?" the Old Resident says, not looking up.
The Busy Monk pauses. "What do you mean?"
"The sutta says the burden is the five aggregates. And desire is what makes you pick it up." The Old Resident stops sweeping and leans on the broom handle. "So which kind of desire have you got?"
The Busy Monk reaches for the mushroom bag again. "I don't know about desire. I just know these bags won't sort themselves."
"That's an answer," the Old Resident says.
The Lazy Monk shifts his weight against the doorframe. "He wants to become something. The man who keeps the whole place running. That's his desire."
The Busy Monk looks at him sharply. Then back at the bag.
"And you?" The Old Resident turns to the Lazy Monk.
"Me? I'm not wanting anything. I'm perfectly content."
"The sutta mentions three kinds. Wanting pleasure. Wanting to become. Wanting to disappear." The Old Resident looks at the cloth in the Lazy Monk's hand — the cloth that has not touched a surface since the meal ended. "You don't want to become anything. You don't especially want pleasure. But you want to be left alone. You want the world to stop asking you for things."
The Lazy Monk's ease shifts slightly. "That's not desire. That's just being tired."
"Is it different?"
A bird calls from the trees behind the kitchen. The Busy Monk has stopped sorting. He is watching the Old Resident.
"And what about you, uncle?" the Busy Monk says. "You've been here thirty years. What are you carrying?"
The Old Resident picks up the broom again. "Same as both of you." He starts sweeping. "The sutta says there's a verse at the end. The burden-carrier puts the heavy load down, doesn't pick up a new one, pulls out desire by the root, and is satisfied." He stops. "Satisfied. Not enlightened, not holy. Satisfied. Like a man who's been carrying sacks all day and finally sits down."
Nobody speaks for a moment.
The Busy Monk picks up the next donation bag and carries it to the storeroom. The Lazy Monk stands there, cloth in hand. After a moment he folds it — carefully, the right way — and hangs it on the hook by the door. The clean-cloth hook, not the dirty one.
Nobody notices. But he put it in the right place.