The heavy cloak of shame that fell across my shoulders was instant and familiar. I dropped my head.
And saw them.
Black Nike Air Jordans, barely worn, peeking out from under Lama Nawang’s robe.
It was him.
Pema’s words landed like hot tar on my heart.
Then he grabbed his duffel bag and ran outside.
Grabbed. His bag.
The jeans. The hooded cardigan. The blue rim of a baseball cap. They’d seemed familiar because they were mine.
Nawang followed my gaze. He shifted his feet, obscuring the shoes. When he looked up, his eyes had hardened into frozen lakes of black ice.
“I saw you,” I said, an eerie echo of the first conversation we’d ever had.
“Are you sure about that?” Nawang gripped my forearm. “Because everyone else, including me if it comes to it, saw you. It’s your word against mine. Which one of us do you think your father will believe?”
“I hate you!” I said. I pushed past him. I moved up the right aisle and slipped between Yeshe and Lobsang. I needed to send Bhim healing thoughts. I needed to cleanse my ears of his harsh cry.
I shivered. My two friends shifted closer, their warm bodies offering comfort. For the first time all day I felt safe.
I closed my eyes as the jarring music dissolved into a final chant. I let the passionate plea envelop me:
Oh, Chenrezig, Buddha of Compassion, hold me in your heart.
When we wander in Samsara, we endure unendurable suffering.
We have no protector except you.
Please hold us in your heart. Please hold us in your heart.
Bless us to achieve pure Buddhahood. Bless us to achieve pure Buddhahood.
The tears finally came. The sacred pecha remained missing, because of me. Bhim was stabbed, because of me. Everything was broken, and hopeless, especially me.
Sherlock Holmes would know how to confront Nawang and somehow force him to confess. If that didn’t work, he would tell my father a version of the truth, while somehow keeping his best friends out of trouble. But I wasn’t Sherlock, I was Tenzing Norbu, and I was too scared and confused to do anything.
So for now, I wept.
CHAPTER 12
“Tenzing!”
I groaned. I’d been out maybe 40 minutes.
Yeshe gave my arm another shake. “Tenzing. I have to tell you something!”
I pushed upright, the next groan accompanied by a shudder. My sore hip was not going to let me forget what I had seen and heard any time soon.
Yeshe and Lobsang were kneeling next to my bed. Everyone else was fast asleep—the all-day, most-of-the-night ceremony had been exhausting.
“It was me. I took the pages,” Yeshe whispered, his expression sheepish.
“You what?”
“I took the pages. From the pecha. I took them, and Lobsang hid them. I’m so sorry. It’s just . . . I couldn’t bear for you to invite that much bad karma into your life. Lobsang agreed, didn’t you, Lobsang?”
Lobsang nodded, his expression severe in the dim light. “We both had a very bad feeling about it. So when you overslept the next morning, we took it as a sign that we should remove the pecha and hide it from you.”
“Are you mad?” Yeshe said.
“Maybe,” I said. “I don’t know. Everything’s all mixed up inside.” But when I remembered Lama Nawang’s glittering eyes, relief, not anger, swept through me. Who knows what kind of spell he could have cast on Dawa, armed with the true teaching?
I yawned. After the final chant, we’d returned to our dormitory in silence. We were all dead tired, and my friends somehow knew not to ask me about where I had been or why I was crying. I couldn’t talk about it yet. We walked slowly, a bulging bag of tsog slung over each of our shoulders. Good old Lobsang had somehow wrangled an extra nylon sack as they were passed out and made sure I got my share of treats, even though, technically, I had barely earned them.
I felt the end of my mattress with my toe. The sack of tsog was still there, minus a few cookies.
“No,” I said, smiling a little. “I’m not mad.”
I felt under my mattress and pulled out the fake pecha. “I guess I’d better make this right, so I can get some sleep.”
But later, after I got back from accomplishing my mission, I lay awake for a long time.
Bong!
The second bell, already. The bright sunshine was like an assault. I dragged myself out of bed and pulled on a fresh set of robes. My hip still hurt, but not as much. Lobsang’s bed was empty—as usual, he was first to rise, first to start his day. He hated the thought of missing out on anything. Around me, the other lamas pulled on their robes and peeled off to visit the washroom and splash their faces with water.
Last night, I had felt paralyzed, as if forward motion was impossible. Like a foot, frozen in midair. But this morning, I knew what to do. I would find Lama Nawang, and persuade him to turn himself in. If he didn’t, I would.
Lobsang came charging into the dormitory, his round face blazing with excitement. He grabbed Yeshe and dragged him over to me.
“You’re not going to believe this!” he said. “Lama Nawang’s gone. Disappeared into thin air! No one’s seen him since last night. All of his things are gone, too.”
“But. But . . . ” I couldn’t even form the right words.
“That’s not all. You have to come to the courtyard.” He took off. “You’re not going to believe this!” he repeated over his shoulder.
We joined a growing herd of monks moving toward the courtyard like elephants to a watering hole. Whatever was there, it was attracting a crowd. As we drew close, I could see something colorful strung between the trees that delineated our debating area.
“Prayer flags?” I said.
“Just wait,” Lobsang answered.
We entered the courtyard. Around the perimeter, the strung-together squares of cloth hung between the trees, like colorful garlands. They flapped merrily in the breeze. We stopped under one. Each flag was printed with crude but legible characters, forming some sort of message, or text.
Yeshe and Lobsang hoisted me up so I could read the writing. Some of the other monks did the same. Held aloft by my two friends, in the same position as when I first stole the pecha, I translated a set of very familiar words:
Hark! This rare and peerless legacy surpasses all others. If you must know one thing, know this. Savor this truth in your mind and carry it in your heart always. Women hold the key to your Buddhahood.
I grabbed the next square: You will learn more about your enlightenment from how you speak to a woman—whether she is a wife, a beggar, or a princess—than from any religious test the orthodoxy might require you to pass.
“Orthodoxy” had come from Lobsang. We all agreed it had an authentic ring to it.
On to the next: How you treat women is in exact relation to how you treat yourself.
Thank you, Lama Sonam.
If you treat women with kindness and respect, it says that you also treat your inner self with kindness and respect. If you treat women with contempt, it says nothing at all about women—it says that you are full of fear and loathing for yourself. Unless you love women, and both the masculine and feminine inside you, you cannot grow to your full stature as a man.
It was weird. We had composed and written these words, but reading them, it was as if someone wiser than us was actually responsible.
“Move me over,” I said, and Lobsang and Yeshe complied.
Open your eyes! Look around you! See how women everywhere are enslaved, some literally, some by the oppression of our judgments. It has been so for a long time. We cannot change what has gone before, but we can change the future by ending this slavery, beginning with ourselves.
I looked around the courtyard. A few enterprising novices had removed entire strings of the flags and were reading them avidly, then passing them along. I spotted Lama Dorje ripping up a square of yellow cloth, his face beet red.
I had reached the final flag. “You okay down there? I’m almost done reading.”
Lobsang nodded.
“Read it out loud,” Yeshe said. His eyes were shining with something suspiciously like pride.
“Male or female, we have the gift of the Great Power, the creator force that permeates the whole universe,” I read, “a power ready to be breathed into living reality by a sincere desire and a willing heart. All we have to do is ask sincerely for the assistance of this power and open our hearts to receive it. In that sense the journey is always as difficult or easy as we make it.”
I swallowed hard. I had written this. Would I ever dare practice it?
I kept going. “Women are precious and are to be treated as such. In time, you may realize you, too, are precious. In the meantime, if you want to make your journey lighter, dedicate yourself to respecting women. Listen to them. Learn from them. They have mysteries to teach that surpass any sacred texts.”
Yeshe and Lobsang lowered me. We looked at each other. Lobsang smiled. “Not bad,” he said.
A hand tucked itself under my elbow. Lama Sonam escorted me to the far end of the buzzing courtyard without breaking stride. My tutor held a duplicate set of prayer flags in his free hand. He dropped my arm and faced me.
“I found an interesting item outside my door this morning, Lama Tenzing,” he said. “A very . . . original . . . gift, you might say, wrapped in gold cloth. I haven’t decided whether or not to open it, before returning it to its rightful home.”
He peered at me. I was having trouble meeting his eyes.
“But I must say, I do enjoy having the choice.”
He held up the prayer flags.
“Have you read these?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who’s responsible?”
I deliberately misunderstood.
“For making these flags? Not really.”
He smoothed out the top square of cloth. “The workmanship is quite crude, of course. That of a beginner. And the words, the words are very . . . innocent.”
He smiled at me. Passed the flags over.
“That doesn’t mean they’re not wise.”
Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong!
We exchanged a startled glance. This was our emergency signal. Something must be wrong. Lama Sonam hurried off.
We quickly formed a line, youngest to oldest, and awaited further word.
Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong!
My father strode into the courtyard as the ringing faded into silence. He raised his voice so all could hear.
“We have just received word of a tragic event that took place in MacLeod-Ganj last night. Last night, a Tibetan boy stabbed an Indian boy. The victim is in a coma, near death.”
I tasted bile. Bhim was in a coma.
“Unfortunately, the situation has become highly incendiary,” my father continued. “It is no longer safe for us to go into the village. I repeat, no one is to leave the grounds. You will proceed to the prayer hall immediately and remain there until further notice. Lama Tashi will lead you in specially selected chants. Be mindful we are all in need of healing and protection at this time.”
The front of the line started to move. The breeze had died, and the prayer flags around the courtyard drooped forlornly.
“Lama Tenzing!” My father was at my side. His mouth was a thin, tight line. “Please meet me in my office. Now.” He wheeled around, his robes an angry swirl of maroon.
I found him in his office pacing.
“Sit. Down.”
I sat.
He towered over me. “You have been nothing but trouble since the day you were born,” he said. “And I have run out of patience.”
He pulled out his cushion and sat. “Where were you yesterday?”
“I . . . I . . .”
“Never mind, I don’t want to know. Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?”
He ticked off the reasons. “Number one: You were gone from the prayer hall for hours. Hours, with no explanation. Number two: A lama matching your description was seen fleeing the restaurant where the incident took place immediately after the stabbing. Number three: The wound was three-sided. It seems the weapon used to stab the boy was a phurba.” He glared at me. “Lama Tashi has just told me of your peculiar interest in his dagger. Thankfully, the weapon was not his, but the authorities have called already with numerous questions regarding the fleeing monk and the attack. According to them, the phurba has more than one set of fingerprints on it.”
“I was there,” I burst out, “but I swear, I had nothing to do with the stabbing. The phurba belonged to . . .”
My father roared, “I do not want to know!”
He stood again, suddenly calm. “My duty, first and foremost, is to protect this monastery. You will leave Dorje Yidam this afternoon. I have informed your mother. Say your good-byes. Forgo your vows. You won’t be coming back.”
He left the office.
So that was that, then.
I walked toward the prayer hall. Relief was quickly replaced with a deep sadness. I was leaving. But I was also leaving my friends.
I found them inside. I sat between them.
“What is it? What’s happened?” Poor Yeshe, always the worrywart. For once, he was right.
“I’m leaving. My father is sending me home to Paris this afternoon.” I had a hard time forming the words. “For good.”
Lama Tashi’s low voice began. “Oh, Chenrezig, Buddha of Compassion, hold me in your heart.” The other lamas took up the chant. “When we wander in Samsara, we endure unendurable suffering.”
I hooked arms with Yeshe on one side and Lobsang on the other. “We have no protector except you.” A thought flickered. Does growing up mean having more freedom and feeling more loss, both at the same time? “Please hold us in your heart.”
Lobsang lowered his head; I could see tears rolling down his cheeks. Stillness came over me. I had never seen him cry. Yeshe had his eyes closed and was breathing deeply. I did the same. It felt so hard but so right to be here with my brothers . . . to breathe together . . . to grieve together.
“I’ll write to you, every week,” I said.
“You’d better,” Yeshe answered.
“Please hold us in your heart.”
CHAPTER 13
My duffel was back in the storage area, my clothes and shoes folded on top, as if nothing had happened. But I knew better. I changed into my “Paris” clothes quickly. Everything fit, even the blue jeans, but I couldn’t bear the way they felt against my skin. There were a few water spots on the cardigan, and I shuddered to think of their cause. I stuffed it back in the bag. Even my precious Nikes were a little damp. The minute I got home, I was going to throw everything into the garbage can.
I strapped my watch around my wrist and carried my duffel back to the dormitory. My bunkmates were all at their jobs. I tucked my penlight and Sherlock Holmes book inside the bag and zipped it closed.
“Lama Tenzing?”
Lama Tanzen was standing by my bed, holding a broom. “Is it true? Are you leaving?”
“It’s true,” I said. I smiled. “Thank you for coming.” I had asked Lobsang to tell Tanzen I needed to see him, but I wasn’t sure he’d actually show up.
“I want to apologize,” I said.
He found my eyes. “For what?”
“For teasing you,” I said. “I was wrong.”
His head dropped. “You stung me,” he said quietly. I found myself staring at the top of his head, at the stubble. Some elder monk would soon be scraping it, exposing his scalp again.
I felt a shift down in my body. I knew h
ow he felt. I’d felt those same stings myself. A new territory opened up in me. I felt what he was feeling.
“I’m very sorry,” I said. I had heard a hundred lectures on compassion, but this was maybe my first true taste of it. Remember this.
Tanzen offered a small smile. The air was clear between us.
“I have a favor to ask you,” I said. “There is a cat who sometimes visits here. A stray. I call her Lhamo.”
“I have seen her around,” Tanzen said. “She’s very wild!”
“She has no one,” I said.
Lama Tanzen waited.
“She likes milk.”
My taxi driver, a Sikh, was very chatty. The 15-minute hike through the woods from our monastery to the village took a full half-hour by car, and he used every minute to gossip. As we wended our way along the narrow road into Macleod-Ganj, he filled me in on the riot.
“It’s terrible. The Indians are on a rampage, because of the dead kid,” he said. “Now they’re all running around, shouting ‘Death to the Dalai Lama!’”
I gasped. “He died?”
“Late last night. And this morning a mob stormed the Tibetan government compound, you know, smashing windows, destroying all the furniture. Somebody even set fire to the school. And the looting! Terrible. I wouldn’t want to be a monk, or own a Tibetan shop, not today.”
We entered Upper Macleod-Ganj. The streets were eerily deserted, the shops and restaurants closed.
I saw broken windows. An overturned car.
“They’re even saying if things don’t calm down the Dalai Lama is going to move the whole bunch to Bangalore,” my driver said.
We turned onto Bhagsu Road. I leaned forward.
“I need to make a quick stop here, please,” I said. “There, in front of the greengrocer’s.”
He pulled over. “Make it quick,” he said. “You’re the wrong nationality today. Good thing you’re not wearing a robe.”
I scurried down the alleyway and climbed the steep metal stairs. I knocked on the door.
It opened a crack.
Dawa grabbed my arm and pulled me in. “Are you crazy?” she said.
Pema was inside, putting books into a packing box. Her eyes widened at my outfit.
The Broken Rules of Ten Page 10
