"I picture Murata as a little boy, wearing his regulation uniform, sitting at his schoolboy desk in conservative, economically aspiring, early 1960s Japan reading about such poet hermits in some digest-version textbook approved by the Ministry of Education intended to give children a few basic facts about their nation's cultural history. But Murata stops on one particular sentence, written by someone eight hundred years ago, 'escaping the dust of the world,' and looks up at the ceiling, dreaming. I consider the magic of words coming off a page from another century and inspiring an actual life right now. And then I think, in contrast, of times when I've found myself on a crowded train in Tokyo or Osaka on my way to interview one of the people in this book. I remember looking at the businessmen all around me, their suits and ties perfect, but exhaustion hanging over their faces, pallid and overdrawn like a bank account, and I wonder if, like Murata says, they also dream this dream.

"This ideal Murata speaks about, I mention to him now, is very similar to that of ancient India, where the texts talk about retreating into contemplation as the fourth and last stage of life.

" 'Yes,' Murata says, 'for after you finish your working life, in your fifties or sixties . . . '

" 'But you wanted to do it sooner?' I ask.

"Laughing he says, 'Yes!' And then he adds, solemn as if he's quoting something, 'Whatever you can do, it's best to do it soon.'

"And he's right: anyone of us could die tomorrow.

"And then Murata adds, 'Living in "the world" is a pain. You have to work a job. You have to do this, that and the other thing. So if you want to be free of all that, it's best to head into the mountains.'

" 'When did you finally leave India?' 'In 1988. I graduated!'

"I smile. While all of Japan is racking up credentials and certificates, Murata has graduated from drinking tea all day in India. Although one could view Murata's years in India as a complete waste of time, for him that kind of a life was a foundation for how he lives now. When he needs to spend hours out in the rice paddies in the blazing sun on a humid day, he's got that patience. When he collects firewood in the fall for the coming mountain winters, and has to cut a big log with a handsaw and walk it all the way home, he's not cursing the time it takes, or wishing he had a chainsaw to speed up the process. And he can spend up to eight hours a day practicing the flute. He's enjoying himself thoroughly. For myself, without his background, I know it would be hard. How did he entertain himself in India? By walking, by talking, by not even 'entertaining' himself at all. And whenever I visit, Murata always has time to talk. There's no rush inside of him, no conflict in his soul between talking all day and some other thing he might have to do.

"As I listen to him, espousing the gospel of taking it easy, the absolute belief in doing only what he loves, and doing it slowly, I all of a sudden notice the muscles in his forearms. No rush, no push, yet he is full of life and energy. Fifty-five years old and as strong as a twenty-year-old. Stronger, perhaps."