The Broken Rules of Ten

by Gay Hendricks

  Her eyes flashed.

  “The only one who’s ever taken the time to get to know me, to really talk to me, is that friend of yours, Lama Nawang. At least he seems to care. The rest of you treat me like a . . . a leper, when you’re not feasting your eyes on Pema. Do you have any idea what that feels like?”

  Dawa’s cheeks were flushed, and her voice cracked with feeling. She glowed with a kind of fierceness. She reminded me of a powerful Dakini, a sky-dancer. “You want to practice compassion? You want to feel respect for all living creatures? How about starting with me and my sister?”

  She dumped her groceries at my feet, then pulled Pema’s sack off her arm and dumped that as well.

  “Make yourself useful,” she said. “And while you’re at it, tell Lama Dorje we won’t be delivering tsog anymore. We’re done.” She headed back down the path, Pema scurrying after her.

  “Please! I didn’t know!” I called after them. Pema shot an apologetic look over her shoulder, but they both kept walking.

  I trudged to the kitchen, lugging heavy sacks and a heavier heart.

  But my distress was soon elbowed aside by one intriguing thought and two burning questions. My thought was: I now had an inkling of what to write about the feminine—I had just witnessed its pure power firsthand. My questions were: Why was Lama Nawang spending time with Dawa? And what else wasn’t he telling me?

  CHAPTER 9

  Tonight, I wouldn’t need my penlight at all. The moon was an eyelash away from full, and my pathway to Lama Nawang’s tiny hut was well lit. The pecha in my monk’s bag looked exactly as we’d found it in the library. Only the words inside were new, and I was praying Lama Nawang wouldn’t notice.

  Yeshe had done an amazing job, transcribing our compiled thoughts from last night’s writing session. When I looked at his lettering, I couldn’t tell the difference between old and new. I told him so, and he flushed with pride.

  We’d decided to do our composing in the empty assembly hall, late last night—if anyone found us, our story was we were getting in extra meditation time, cleansing our minds in preparation for the full moon ceremony.

  We did, in fact, chant beforehand, our three voices merging with the silent hall, calling upon our root teachers for guidance as we undertook, with our meager knowledge of the female species, to write something that might be meaningful about the “peerless power of the feminine.”

  As we set to work, Dawa’s words rang in my ears and guided my pen. Lobsang’s compassionate, open heart helped smooth the rough ideas, and Yeshe’s deep knowledge of Tibetan phraseology helped shape our work into something that might barely pass for the original version.

  We did the best we could.

  I’d handed the scribbled result, as well as the blank pages from the pecha, over to Yeshe. He promised he’d somehow find the time today to transcribe our words. Our plan was to add the new pages to the original after tonight’s final gong. Lobsang would wrap it in the gold embroidered cloth, and I would deliver it to Lama Nawang.

  I pulled my monk’s bag closer to my chest as I crossed the grounds, the precious pecha wrapped and tucked inside. So far, so good.

  Today had been a blur of activity for the entire monastery. Every path was swept, every statue dusted, every wall washed. A trail of villagers tromped up and down the steep forest track with baskets and crates of tsog. True to her word, Dawa had not come back. And no Dawa meant no Pema. Their absence throbbed, like a steady ache in my chest.

  I had spent grueling hours in the kitchen, rolling dough, mixing sugar glazes, and hacking bunches of bananas from their thick stalks. Somehow Lama Dorje had gotten his hands on a large block of yak butter, as well as a burlap sack’s worth of droma, a kind of small, sweet root, like miniature sweet potatoes, grown only in Tibet. We divided the yak butter between a giant kettle of brewing butter tea and a vat of cooked rice, to which we also added sugar, raisins, cashews, and the chopped droma. Small brass bowls, mounded with this sweet rice, would be placed before our guardians and root deities, and more would be passed around to all the lamas in the hall.

  I knew I was on a tight rein after yesterday, and I had kept my head down and my attention on my work for most of the day. I welcomed the labor; it kept me from worrying about Yeshe or pining for Pema. I did manage to slip away for about 15 minutes, to put out a little bowl of milk for Lhamo and check on Yeshe’s progress.

  I’d spotted him at the back of the classroom where the transcribing of the ceremonial chants was taking place. He’d given me an encouraging smile and nod. I’d then paid a quick visit to Lama Nawang’s hut. I’d wanted to tell him the pecha was coming, but he didn’t answer my knock. When I peered in the window, he was rising to his feet from the floor, touching his pressed-together palms to his heart. He raised them to the crown of his head, his throat, and his heart, then smoothly dropped to the floor and stretched out full length, his arms forming a point in front of him. He bent back his hands to the top of his head again, and pushed himself upright in one liquid motion, touching his heart one final time before beginning another prostration. He was concentrated and radiant, his expression one of pure devotion.

  I’d wondered how long he had been doing these prostrations. I’d wondered if I would ever feel this level of commitment toward anything in my own life.

  Well, at least I was meeting my commitment to him tonight. I tiptoed up to his place. As I neared the door, I stopped in my tracks. Someone else is in there with him. The two voices rose and fell. I pressed my ear to the wood. I didn’t want to march in there and find myself face-to-face with a senior lama or, worse, my father.

  One of the voices grew shrill.

  “. . . promised! Not what we agreed!”

  The other voice, Nawang’s I was almost sure, remained calm. “. . . promised nothing, Bhim. I owe you nothing . . .” A faint thump. Then, “Get out.”

  I took two swift steps backward. Nawang’s door flew open, and the Indian boy, Nawang’s ganja-smoking Dharma-seeker, Bhim, burst outside. He glared at me, his eyes shot with red, his pupils like black smears under his embroidered cap. He was wearing the same loose white trousers and light blue and yellow shirt as before.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. I smelled alcohol on his breath.

  “I’m Tenzing,” I whispered. “Keep your voice down!”

  He looked ready to tackle me. I needed to defuse the situation, and fast. Notice, Ten, notice. Up close, I could see his sky-blue top was a cricket shirt. Team India.

  “You’re a fan of cricket?” I said hurriedly.

  “Why? You Inji?” he said, slightly slurring the local slang word for “English.” “We could beat you blindfolded,” he boasted. He looked around, as if realizing where he was, and his agitation started to build again. I put up my palms.

  “Listen, Bhim, I’m not your enemy, okay? Just calm down.”

  “I gotta get out of here. But don’t worry, I’ll be back,” he said. He pointed his chin at Nawang’s hut. “That guy in there? He’s a liar. He’s bad news.”

  Bhim lurched slightly as he made his way past the other cottages and disappeared into the woods. I waited until I was certain he had gone before tapping lightly on Lama Nawang’s front door.

  “Come in,” I heard.

  Inside, a stick of burning incense perfumed the air. Nawang was circling his room, using his peacock-feathered sprinkler to scatter drops of liquid from his small silver bumpa.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “I will be,” Nawang said. He gave the sprinkler a final hard shake, capped it in his bumpa, and set it on his altar with some force. He turned to me, still upset. “I was mistaken. I thought Bhim was like you and me, interested in deepening his knowledge of the Dharma. But he had other objectives in mind.”

  “Like what?”

  Lama Nawang shook off my question with his hand. He took a deep breath and finally offered a smile. “No need to spread gossip. It would merely serve to amplify his negative influence. Boys like hi
m can only multiply hindrances with their actions, as if we don’t have enough of our own to deal with. No matter. As with each of us, his destiny is fixed, his karmic end inevitable. Wrong actions beget wrong actions.”

  He noticed my monk’s bag and took a step toward me, his eyes like twin flames.

  “You have it?” he said.

  I nodded. I reached into my bag and pulled out the pecha.

  A small cry escaped his mouth. Nawang took the pecha with both hands and lifted it, touching it to his forehead. He placed it on his shrine as if it were made of the finest, most delicate glass. He executed several fluid prostrations. “I am void,” he murmured as he moved, “the world is void, all three worlds are void. I am void, the world is void, all three worlds are void.” A kind of fierce joy radiated from him, like heat.

  I shifted my weight from foot to foot, a little uncomfortable at this display of devotion.

  “May I quickly gain supreme Buddhahood,” he concluded. “May this world, disturbed by many sorrows, be freed from the ocean of ignorance.” Nawang rested on his heels. “You have earned great merit, Lama Tenzing,” he said, his gaze remaining on the pecha. “Immeasurable.”

  Yeshe and Lobsang would like hearing that.

  “Tomorrow, the world will thank us,” he said.

  I felt I had earned the right to know.

  “For what?” I said. “What exactly are you going to do tomorrow?”

  Lama Nawang finally shifted his eyes. They seemed to dissect me, to look beyond my skin and bones, straight into my soul.

  “Do you know the difference between pure and impure, Lama Tenzing?” he asked. “Between evil and virtue?”

  I shook my head.

  “The difference is everything,” he said. “And nothing. It all depends on our intentions.”

  “I’m not exactly sure what you’re saying.”

  “I’m saying, the path to Buddhahood can be maddeningly slow, given our nature. Sometimes poison is the fastest cure for poison. Sometimes we can only rise by experiencing that through which we fall. It’s the accelerated path. The law of inversion.”

  “I still don’t understand,” I said. He was starting to scare me again.

  “Sure you do,” he said. His smile was impish, as if to ease my concern. “I’m saying, some rules are meant to be broken.”

  That concept, I understood.

  Lama Nawang stood up and stretched.

  “In a few hours, dawa will be ripe,” he said, using the Tibetan word for moon. “Dawa Dolma, heavenly maiden of the moon.” His voice grew amused. “Did you know the name Dawa is mostly given to boys?”

  I opened my mouth to pursue the Dawa trail, but he had crossed the room to his window and moved the curtain aside. “It’s getting light,” he said. “You should get back. Those long horns are going to be inviting us to the prayer hall before we know it, and I still have much to do.”

  I glanced over at the pecha. I was having second thoughts about leaving it there.

  “Don’t worry,” Lama Nawang said. My mind was transparent with him. “All will be well, Tenzing. Today is auspicious indeed! A brilliant day to commit to our illustrious path, to revisit the eight noble precepts.” He stepped close and embraced me. I could feel his heart banging against my chest, strong and sure.

  He opened the door and ushered me outside. The sky was turning the color of pale apricot. A few birds chirped from the nearby woods. But as I hurried back to my dormitory, his departing words cast a slight shadow on the beauty of the dawn.

  Was Lama Nawang urging me to take the precepts tomorrow? Or to break them?

  CHAPTER 10

  I was wedged between Yeshe and Lobsang at the edge of the walkway, three teeth in a long zipper of lamas awaiting the procession of our most revered teachers and elders. Above us, the new prayer hall exuded the faint smell of fresh paint—yesterday, a few of our more artistic novices had daubed final details of yellow and blue onto the carved columns flanking the massive front doors.

  Ohwwwahhhohwww. There they were, the long horns, sounding the invitation from the top of the curved steps leading into the hall.

  Ohwwwahhhohwww. The call of the two dungchens filled the morning with a haunting sound, like elephant wails, only deeper. The horns were impossibly long and took four lamas to play. Two monks stood back in the shadows, their cheeks puffed as they blew into the lips of the horns; in front, two more balanced the long, heavy shafts of brass on their shoulders.

  Ohwwwahhhohwww. Ohwwwahhhohwww.

  My father led the long procession. His pace was deliberate. He had replaced his maroon dhonka with the more formal one of yellow silk. His freshly shaved scalp was crowned with the bright orange and yellow hat of our tradition. The hat was tall and curved over his forehead, topped with a kind of bushy hedge. He looked like a Roman centurion pretending to be a parrot. As he walked, the long line of lamas bowed, heads tipping downward one by one, like dominoes.

  He passed by without appearing to notice me, his eyes straight ahead. His raised right hand grasped a carved wooden spear, its brass point gleaming upward, as if to disperse any speck of ignorance or rebellion that dared approach.

  If only he knew what Yeshe, Lobsang, and I had been up to over the past several days.

  Next, a rare sighting: Yeshe Donden, the spiritual head of our tradition, appointed by the Dalai Lama himself. He was supported on either side by two of our three abbots.

  We dropped our chins. Yeshe’s elbow nudge to my side was accompanied by an awed whisper. “Can you believe it? Our Ganden Tripa! Here!”

  The Dalai Lama was rumored to be in California, raising awareness for the cause of our homeland, or he would have inaugurated today’s rituals himself, but Yeshe Donden’s appearance, uncommon as it was these days, was almost more exciting.

  Our monastery’s third, and ailing, abbot followed, supported by Lama Tashi and holding a stemmed silver basin filled with white petals in his shaking hands. He rarely came out of his private quarters anymore, and Lobsang was convinced my father would soon replace him as abbot.

  “Hello, Lama Tenzing,” I heard. Here was another surprise. Even Serje Rinpoche had showed up for this occasion. Rinpoche was my father’s best friend—they had started out in the same monastery in Lhasa. Now he mostly traveled around America, opening centers. “You’re growing up fast,” he smiled. I smiled back. I’d always liked Rinpoche.

  More visiting spiritual dignitaries—I had no idea who they were but I bowed anyway—passed by in a steady procession, followed by my tutor Lama Sonam and all our other teaching lamas. They climbed the steps and pooled by the front doors. Lama Nawang was the lone novice to be given a spot among them. He was carrying a folding chair. More yellow hats suddenly were placed on more gleaming skulls, where they perched like brilliant plumage. It was almost noon by now. The ceremony was finally about to begin.

  I craned my head to see better, watched as my father nodded to Lama Nawang. Nawang unfolded the chair and placed it at the center of the entrance, just in front of the beribboned double doors. He stepped to one side with a bow. My father gave him a warm look of approval, and my heart twisted.

  Yeshe Donden lowered himself onto the seat.

  My attention was pulled back to Lama Nawang. His eyes appeared huge, the upper and lower lids oddly outlined in black, as if to make them stand out from his face. They reminded me of Valerie’s made-up eyes, on the rare nights she would actually go out. As I watched, his glittered dangerously, ignited from some fire within. A crackle of dread ran up and down my spine, and my body actually gave a little jolt.

  What had I gotten myself into?

  Ohwwwahhhohwww. Ohwwwahhhohwww.

  I sent a little request to any super-auspicious forces that might be listening: Please, I could really use a clue.

  Lama Tashi passed around the basin of white rose petals. Donden offered a quavering chant as the monks tossed handfuls of petals, until the floor was dotted with them. My father undid the knotted strips of colorful clot
h draped across the doors, and Lama Sonam slid a long brass rod from a gleaming lock.

  He turned the two iron handles, and the doors slowly opened inward. From our vantage point below, we could see only darkness, but even that was thrilling. Our teachers and leaders filed inside, and we novices followed, oldest to youngest, flowing up the steps and across the entryway, our sandals scattering the delicate petals.

  Inside, confusion reigned. Instead of forming the familiar horseshoe shape of our old hall, the long colorful sitting cushions now made up three sides of a rectangle, with two more rows running vertically alongside four sets of columns. No one knew where to go. There would be lots of grumbling about this later. Most monks hated change, whether it was inevitable or not.

  Lama Dorje took charge, scowling and pointing, and pretty soon we were sorted out and seated, though a couple of the younger boys got their ear lobes pinched for trying to sneak closer to the front.

  Yeshe’s beautiful handiwork was passed around, and we laid the freshly inscribed chants at our feet. Soon our new prayer hall was resounding with invocations, as we took refuge, offered thanks, renewed our precepts, and petitioned for boons from our ancestors, repeating the chants over and over again as more and more lamas, these from neighboring monasteries, arrived, until the prayer hall was full to bursting.

  A long line of monks formed, Lama Tashi at the front. Some held their white silk scarves, khatas; others carried small trays of their personal ritual objects, to be blessed by Yeshe Donden or Rinpoche. Both men were now enthroned on raised seats to either side of the main shrine.

  Lama Tashi offered the contents of his tray to Rinpoche, who touched each implement to his forehead before handing it back. Tashi’s final offering was his three-bladed phurba, and I saw Rinpoche’s eyes widen with interest before he blessed and returned it.