The Jew's Buddas

My grandfather was a devout old Jew who collected Buddas - hundreds of them, mahogany and brass and glass and silver and jade, all sitting serenely stout on his living room tables and shelves. As a kid, I'd glance at my slightly green reflection in the mirror-surfaced coffee table, wait for the dust that smelled of age to settle back into the sofa cushions, and browse through shelves of wood creaking incomprehensible mantras.

Here was the automatic Buddha, the instant Nirvana machine. Insert a coin, pull a knob, and your very own plastic Buddha thudded into a bottom tray. Put in 75 cents for the silver-painted trinket, 50 cents for the bronze model, a whole dollar for the deluxe gold version who'd put in a good word for you with the keepers of the karmic account books .

Here was the fortune-telling Buddha with a crystal-ball belly, Rub his belly and misty visions whirl through his innards; stare into the navel and spy on your future. His belly's more reliable than a fortune-cookie, and often more optimistic in its predictions. And Buddha won't taunt you and keep you coming by telling you that you'll cross a bridge in the future or splash through a rainstorm; he's too enlightened for such trickery.