“What’s it for?”
“For my practice,” he said. “The eight-sided shaft represents the eightfold path. The three blades cut through the three root poisons. Aggression. Greed.” He took it back. “Ignorance.” He laid it on his shrine. “This phurba can destroy any demonic obstructions. Annihilate them.”
“Wow.”
“Indeed.” He turned. “You’d better get back, before you are missed.” His face brightened. “Listen, why don’t you let me keep your bag for you? It’s safer here. No one ever inspects my quarters.”
A grin spread across my face.
“Okie-dokie,” I said.
“Okie-dokie,” he mimicked, and we both laughed.
“And here.” He crossed to his bureau, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a clean shemdap. “I’ll swap with you.” He handed it to me.
“Thank you,” I said.
Nawang walked with me to the door. I was halfway outside, when I stopped. As long as we were friends now . . .
“So, what about mine?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Yours?”
“My questions? You never answered them.”
For a moment, it was as if a dark veil dropped over his face. Or maybe it was just the shifting candlelight, tricking my eyes, for his reply was light.
“Ahh. You are right. I owe you answers. Let’s see. The Indian boy? His name is Bhim. He is Gaddi. Bhim comes from tribal nomads, travelers by nature, though their base is in the lower village. His people worship Lord Shiva. But Bhim . . .”
Nawang cocked his head. “As you may or may not know, Tenzing, there is much bad blood between the Indians in Dharamshala and us Tibetans.”
“There is?”
“Yes. They resent our success. They think of Tibetan refugees as parasites, fleeing foreigners invited to settle here by a shortsighted government that remains blind to the fact that we are slowly but surely taking over their culture, as well as their jobs.”
“I had no idea.”
“Yes, well, their hostility is not without some justification. But Bhim is different. A seeker. His thirst for the Dharma supersedes politics, and I have been encouraging him to take the householder vows, maybe even one day become one of us. He could be a bridge between our two cultures. I met with Bhim tonight to continue our ongoing conversation.” Nawang’s tone grew serious. “It is important to share the wisdom we have been given, Tenzing. Without new rainfall, the well may someday run dry.”
I nodded, though once again I wasn’t completely sure what he was talking about. “But why were you smoking ganja?”
“Ha! That look on your face when you saw me!” He grew serious again. “Surrender requires absolute trust. I need Bhim to trust me, so I partook of his ritual, his misguided attempt at spiritual connection through the alteration of consciousness. It did not affect me, by the way, for my intentions were pure.”
I nodded dumbly.
Nawang grasped my shoulders. His eyes bored into mine.
“And you? Do you trust me? To be your friend? To keep your secrets?”
“I guess so.” I hoped he couldn’t feel the book and penlight tucked inside my monk’s bag.
“Good. As I trust you to keep mine.” He released me. “Go.” His voice deepened, and he actually seemed to grow taller, more imposing. “Remember, the path to freedom is not easy or soft, but nothing, nothing, is more precious. I’m sure it was not coincidence that brought the two of us, and our secrets, together on this night. This is only the beginning.”
My face must have betrayed my lingering doubt.
“What is it, Lama Tenzing?”
“It’s just . . . I’m still not sure what you think we have in common.”
Nawang’s voice was dead serious.
“Power,” he said.
CHAPTER 3
I stood just outside the kitchen, my eyelids gritty. I never got to sleep last night. My mind was jumping around like a monkey on a two-banana jag, a combination of excitement over the Nawang encounter and my first dip into the dark, compelling world of Sherlock Holmes. I’d huddled with my penlight, raking the pages under my blanket until the sky was peach-colored. Eleven chapters and I was already addicted—what would the Buddha have to say about that?
I heard the clang of pots and pans inside. I took a deep breath. All novices had jobs at Dorje Yidam. This month Yeshe, known for his amazing ability to read and handwrite Tibetan Buddhist characters, was currently transcribing chants to be dispersed for the big ceremony. Lobsang had bagged the cushy job of dusting the stacks of wrapped and bound, hand-printed manuscripts, called pechas, in the library. Only lucky me had kitchen duty. Everyone hated kitchen duty, for two reasons. Number one: You had to rise even earlier than the usual dawn wake-up gong. Number two: The dreaded Lama Dorje is head cook. As a result, kitchen duty is mostly assigned as a punishment.
This particular time, Apa had caught me talking to Yeshe during chanting. For the third time in as many days. You could say I’m pretty much a permanent fixture, kitchen-duty-wise. I used to loathe the work with all my heart. But feelings, like everything else, are impermanent. Nothing stays the same, and Pema had changed everything.
I stepped inside.
“Lama Tenzing!” a voice barked.
“Yes, Lama Dorje.”
“You’re late.”
“Yes, Lama Dorje.”
Lama Dorje was my father’s age. He’d been the monastery’s head cook for decades. Senior monks were allowed to call him Ma Byan, or Cook, but monks of my lowly stature did so at the risk of being boiled alive. You’d think working with food all the time might make a person fat and happy, but Lama Dorje disproved that theory. He was thin as a horsewhip and had the personality to match. Also the height—he was only a hair above five feet tall. These days even I had a few inches on him. To make up for his shortness, he preferred to stand on a wooden box in the corner of the kitchen, surveying his kingdom with a glower.
“What would you like me to do today, Lama Dorje?” I asked.
Not the tomatoes. Not the tomatoes. You know how much I hate tomatoes.
He uncrossed his arms and pointed to a bushel basket of tomatoes.
“Wash. Then chop. Go!” he said.
I was halfway through my tomato-washing meditation, which consisted of one long mental complaint, when I felt a kind of charge electrify the room. None of the other lamas lifted their heads, but I knew what it meant, especially when I glanced over at Lama Dorje. He was looking at the door behind me, grinning. He’d never used a toothbrush in his life, so his grin looked about as inviting as an abandoned graveyard, but still, the smile transformed his face.
I knew only one person in the entire world who had that effect on him, because guess what? She had the same effect on me.
I turned. Pema and Dawa stood side-by-side, in matching rough grey cloaks, each holding a small wooden crate piled high with individual cellophane bags of store-bought cookies. More tsog, food donated for the celebration—the cookies would be chanted over and then passed out to all the resident lamas as part of the ceremony.
I rushed to Pema, wiping my wet hands on my robe.
“Here,” I said. “Let me take that.” I reached for Pema’s crate. She gave what looked to my hungry eyes like a smile.
“Norbu!” Lama Dorje was at my elbow. “Get back to work.” He took the wooden container from Pema. As I moved away, I saw him lean down and whisper something in her ear. She glanced at me before cutting her eyes away. Lama Dorje passed the crate to the older lama in charge of donations. Dawa followed him to the back of the kitchen with the second crate of cookies.
Then fortune smiled.
Lama Dorje stepped outside. His snuff must have been calling to him. Lama Dorje’s periodic “snuff breaks” were our only reprieves from his fierce, unblinking glare. He’d brought along this habit from Tibet, years ago. According to Lobsang, who made it a point to know such things, snuff is a powder made up of ground tobacco, cardamom, cloves, and juniper wood
ashes. Although tobacco use is forbidden here, the other lamas turned a blind eye on Dorje—he was cranky enough as it was. I pictured him standing in the clearing, pulling out the small yak horn snuffbox, tapping a small amount of powder from one end onto his thumbnail, preparing to snort it up his nose. I had maybe five minutes. Maybe it was Lama Nawang’s influence, maybe just lack of sleep, but I did what I had dreamed of doing for weeks.
“Pema,” I said.
She turned in my direction. I had no idea what to say next. So I said the obvious.
“Hello. I’m Tenzing.”
“I know.” Her eyes were cast downward.
Warmth blossomed in my chest—she knew my name.
Now what? “Umm,” I said. “So, what did Lama Dorje say to you just now?”
“He said I should stay away from you.”
Oh.
I tried for casual. “I’m not so bad, once you get to know me.”
She bit back a smile. “Even a little bad is bad,” she said.
My tongue was cement inside my mouth. I swallowed. “Do you think sometime I could . . . I mean we could . . .”
Outside, I heard the telltale sneeze, hock, and spit, in rapid succession.
“. . . talk some more?” I waited, my heart throwing punches at my ribs.
“I’d like that,” she whispered.
Her words exploded like a firecracker in my brain—I’d like that I’d like that I’d like that—I hustled back to the tomatoes as Lama Dorje strode inside. His suspicious glare, swinging between Pema and me, was interrupted by Dawa, returning from the back of the kitchen. She paused beside her beautiful sister, her own features flatly forgettable. I felt a little sorry for her. As if she felt my pity, she lifted her plain face and found my eyes. Hers were a surprise—black, glossy, and brimming with intelligence. They flashed, and for a moment Dawa, too, was compelling.
She took Pema’s hand, and they were gone.
But I was overjoyed. Even after another hour of tomatoes, I floated through the main monastery doors and down the dank hallway to the old assembly room for morning chants and meditation. The walls echoed with the low throaty drone of more than a hundred monks chanting in unison. Sang-gye cho-dang tsog-kyi cho-nam-la—I take refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha. Jang-chub bar-du dag-ni kyab-su-chi—until I attain enlightenment. Robed bodies formed a horseshoe pattern, novices on the right and older monks on the left. Usually a couple of senior lamas, plus my father occasionally, and once in a great while even our ancient abbot, presided at the front, in the mouth of the horseshoe. Today, I was happy to see my tutor, Lama Sonam, sitting up front. The Great Thangka hung on the wall behind him, the vibrant images framing his kind, wise face.
I plopped down between Yeshe and Lobsang. Both rocked slightly as they chanted: By the merit I have accumulated from practicing generosity and the other perfections . . . I closed my eyes and threaded my voice into the tapestry of sound . . . may I attain enlightenment, for the benefit of all beings . . .
Two hours of chanting and meditating later, with a healthy dose of Pema-dreaming, and it was finally time for our breakfast. Sixty other monks and I retrieved our bowls and mugs from our monk’s bags as the lamas on serving-duty entered the hall with platters of flat barley flour bread and buckets of butter tea. Lobsang nudged my arm, trying to get me to look at him, but I kept my gaze firmly downward. I wasn’t sure he’d approve of last night’s antics, and anyway, some part of me wanted to keep both Sherlock and Nawang to myself for now. Not to mention Pema.
A very young novice dropped a round of bread into my bowl and I shot him a smile, which he shyly returned. Lama Tanzen followed with a ladle and steaming bucket of tea. He slopped some into my mug, spilling a few drops on my crossed leg.
“Hey!” I whispered, rubbing my knee, but he’d already moved on to Lobsang. I briefly wondered if he was mad at me for some reason. I inspected my breakfast. No surprise there. Our choice was bread or bread, every morning of every day, accompanied by one solitary cup of butter tea. Senior monks got two. Salted tea with a lump of grease in it sounds revolting, but it grows on you, especially when it’s the only hot beverage available. Still, for at least the first month following my annual return to the monastery, my mouth watered for a croissant and cup of hot chocolate.
For a moment I just sat, inundated by the symphony of slurps and grunts. “Don’t slurp!” Valerie inevitably snapped at me, whenever I came back from Dharamshala. But here, if you didn’t make noise, you were considered a weirdo. This peculiar ritual started in Tibet, where the butter comes from yaks. All butter tea had to be consumed in big, noisy swigs, followed by deep rumbles and belches of satisfaction. Otherwise, you insulted the yak, I guess.
Out of nowhere, Nawang’s comment from last night snaked through the din and entered my mind, as astonishing as ever: I’ve always liked you, Tenzing Norbu. He actually said those words to me.
Lobsang nudged me again. Meals were supposed to be consumed in silence, but the noisy environment made it easy to cheat. I finally looked at him. His eyes were narrow with suspicion.
“Where were you last night?” he whispered. “And why are you smiling like you just won a trip to America?”
“Nowhere. And I’m not.”
Lobsang’s eyes drilled into mine, but I focused on consuming my bread. Our midday meal consisted of rice, dahl, and some kind of vegetable, and dinner was a small bowl of noodles. We basically spent most of our waking hours in a mild state of starvation, so eating every scrap of bread was a priority.
Now Yeshe, the worrier, sent me an anxious look that said: I know you. You’re up to something again. I shrugged it off. After a moment, he gave up. I knew better than to think I was getting off that easy, though. Promises or not, I was incapable of keeping anything meaningful from my two best friends for long. Our connection went beyond promises.
It’s hard to put into words what they mean to me, Yeshe and Lobsang. It’s strange. We are all three incredibly different from each other. Maybe that’s why our friendship works so well. Lobsang was raised in a strict but loving family, and so he is strict but loving himself. He has known stability all his life, the way I have known chaos. He embraces the rules and regulations of our tradition and has no problem working within them. Sometimes I think Lobsang was born middle-aged, that his body will only catch up to his personality when he hits 30 or so. But even when he disagrees with me, which is often, Lobsang would do anything for me. He may be a kid, but he’s like a good father.
Yeshe, on the other hand, reminds me of this puppy Valerie brought home for a few weeks the winter I was eight, until she couldn’t handle the pooping and yelping and gave him to our neighbor, Madame DuBois. Madame DuBois only lasted a month taking care of him, and then he was gone completely. But I loved that little dog. I named him Bruce. Bruce was a total goofball and curious about everything. He loved people, and romping around, but he also had this uncanny ability to know, almost before I did, when something was wrong, when, for example, Valerie was about to have “one of those days.” He would lie down, place his head on his paws, and emit these pitiful little squeaky whines from his throat, his big brown eyes flooding with worry. At the same time, his tail would be thumping the floor, letting me know he loved me, and everything was going to be okay.
Yeshe had just shot me the exact same look, minus the whines and thumping tail. I knew both my friends would be peppering me with questions soon, and I was glad.
I swallowed a yawn. It was barely 8:00. I’d been up since 4:30 a.m.—4:30 yesterday morning, give or take a couple of hours of sleep. I had no idea how I’d survive the classes that loomed before me.
Something had changed. The room was suddenly silent, empty of slurping sounds. I looked up from my bowl.
Apa.
Lama Tsewing Norbu, Disciplinarian to all, father to one, stood at the front. As usual, my heart shriveled to the size of a lentil at the sight of him.
He let the silence build, and with it, our anticipat
ion. He surveyed the room.
“Our moon is waxing,” he said. “In two more days it will reach fullness, as the Buddha did under just such a moon.”
I nodded to myself, remembering the round shape in the sky last night.
“As you know, Buddha-days are always favorable,” my father continued, “but this full moon is especially so. It falls on a day celebrating both Visvamata, the variegated mother, and our sacred Dakinis.”
Visvamata! Nawang’s thangka goddess! I scanned the room for him. Found him across the hall, sitting with his eyes closed, as if in meditation. I refocused on my father’s words.
“. . . a powerful time for the female embodiment of enlightened energy. The Dakinis, our sky-dancers, will move in harmony with our Dharma protectors, bringing together both Mother and Father tantras.”
My father paused. Not even the smallest of our boys dared make a peep.
“Such an eventful confluence of power and purity will not come again for years,” he went on, “and we choose to celebrate and consecrate our prayer hall on this day, to insure that the Dharma will thrive for lifetimes to come. But be warned,” I was not imagining this—my father chose this moment to pin me with his gaze. “On such a propitious day, not only our positive, but also our negative actions are multiplied a thousandfold. Be vigilant with your precepts. Be pure with your intentions.”
He nodded, as if satisfied. “Beginning tomorrow, all classes will be suspended until after the ceremony.”
An excited buzz swept the room. He silenced it with one quick motion of his arm.
“For the rest of today, you will attend your sutra studies as usual. You will also participate in debate. Tomorrow, after morning chants, everyone is to report to their tutors to receive their special duties in preparation for our ceremony.”
My father left as abruptly as he’d arrived.
I tucked my dishes back in my yellow bag—I’d wash them later—and headed for Old Lama Tupten’s quarters for Tibetan History. Auspicious time or not, my step was light. Any break in the routine was a welcome treat, as far as I was concerned. Disruption meant more opportunities to escape notice. My mind ping-ponged between two delicious possible encounters—one with Sherlock, the other with Pema-from-Lhasa. Who knows, maybe I’d get lucky. Maybe Old Lama Tupten would experience one of his post-meal bouts of sleepiness and nod off, mid-lesson.
The Broken Rules of Ten Page 3
