They had almost reached India — the country of the Buddha itself, the land they had walked toward for fourteen years was now close enough to feel — and the last kingdoms before the mountain were prosperous, cultured, gentle places, and the trap in this one was gentle too, and had a girl thrown away at the bottom of it.
The capital was holding a Choosing of the Groom: the princess would stand on a high tower and throw an embroidered ball into the crowd, and whichever man it struck would be her husband, chosen by fate and the ball. And , passing through the festival crowd on his way to get the passport stamped, was struck by the ball — of course he was, the beautiful monk is always struck by whatever is thrown — and was seized by the delighted court as the princess's destined groom, and marched toward a wedding he had spent fourteen years refusing in a hundred forms.
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