“Where are your robes?” she said.
I told them I was no longer a monk. That I was returning to France.
“Hunh,” Dawa said. “Paris. Maybe I’ll go there sometime.”
I pulled the string of prayer flags from my pocket and waggled them at Dawa. “Clever,” I said. “Very clever.” Pema put her hand over her mouth, to keep from giggling.
“I’m happy you were . . .” I searched for the right word, “inspired into action by these words.”
She grinned. “They’re a step in the right direction.”
“So you agree we need more texts like this in Buddhism?”
I was fishing for praise from the wrong pond.
“What we really need,” Dawa said, “are more female Buddhas.”
“Touché,” I said. They looked confused. “That’s French for ‘you can say that again.’”
I pointed to the packing boxes.
“Are you going away, too?”
Pema’s eyes shone. “We’re going south. Dawa has found a school that says they will take both of us!”
There it was again, that bittersweet taste in my mouth and heart.
The taxi horn honked from outside. Dawa glanced between Pema and me.
“I’ll just go fetch some more books from the bedroom,” she said.
I walked over to Pema. Her eyes were still shining. Dark brown, with flecks of gold.
“Pema?”
She nodded.
I stepped close and aimed my lips at hers. We fumbled around each other’s mouths for a moment, and I pulled back.
“I’m not so good at this,” I said.
She smiled. “Even a little good is good,” she said.
Our second attempt at connection was practically perfect. At first, I was only aware of the gentle pressure of her mouth against mine. But then a rush of sweetness flooded my body. Her lips were warm and soft. She tasted so good!
We pulled away at the same time.
The taxi honked again.
“Be safe, Pema,” I said. “You and your sister, be safe.”
CHAPTER 14
. . . all wrongs individually I confess; in all merit I rejoice. All fully awakened beings, I request you: May I and others realize the ultimate and supreme primordial awareness that is unsurpassable . . .
I opened my eyes. It was no use. Too much had happened. Pema’s kiss. Lama Nawang’s betrayal. My heart wasn’t in it. And it felt too late for confessions or forgiveness.
I checked my watch. Three more hours to go. I undid my safety belt and slid past the two empty seats next to me. This overnight flight was only half-full, which explained why my father could get me on it with such short notice. I opened the overhead bin and pulled out my duffel bag. I set it on the middle seat and buckled up again.
I unzipped my bag. I fished around inside, looking for my Sherlock Holmes, when my hands found something odd-shaped and wrapped in cloth at the bottom. I pulled it out and switched on my overhead light. The cloth was white cotton, the size and shape of a handkerchief. I unrolled it. A folded piece of paper fell onto the floor as I stared at Lama Nawang’s silver vase, the bottom of his bumpa shaped like a bowl, the peacock-feathered sprinkler sticking out of the top.
I looked around. Except for the drone of the engines, the airplane was still, the other passengers asleep. I picked up the piece of paper, unfolded it, and held it to the light. The writing was small and cramped, and filled the entire page.
“Lama Tenzing,” I read. “When you read this, I will be gone. My path is no longer served by this place. Like you, I do not belong here. I had thought I was ready, that Buddhahood was close. I was wrong. I failed. But you have shown me that growth comes in many forms, and failure has its own purpose, and for that I thank you.”
Even after everything, I felt a little twinge of pride when I read this.
“I know you hate me for what I did, but consider this. I thought Bhim was a seeker, but I was wrong about that, too. Bhim was ignorant—a dispenser of pain and suffering, nothing more, nothing less. He sold drugs, often to innocents. Not just ganja, other drugs, the kind that will poison the soul. He did not want the Dharma, he wanted new customers. That’s why we were fighting. He planned to start bringing his drugs into our community. So I am not sorry I stabbed him. My action had its own merit.
“I do not know if we will ever meet again, but I felt I owed you the truth. Tenzing, you are my brother—not just in spirit, but in fact. Ask our father, if you do not believe me. Ask him about his life in Lhasa, when he was a young man, before he joined the monastery. Ask him if he remembers the beautiful village girl there. Her name was also Dawa. ‘Dawa Dolma.’ My mother. He does not know. But I do.”
I looked up. My heart was beating so hard I could feel it throbbing in my throat and behind my eyes. I forced myself to read the final few lines.
“I give you this bumpa as a gesture of respect. I have poured my energies into it, and through ritual and meditation, it is now a ten. A ten is a receptacle of transformation, an instrument for change. Just like you.” He signed it, “Your brother, Nawang.”
I crumpled the paper into a wad and stuffed it into the pocket in front of me. Then I fished it back out and put it in my duffel. I didn’t want anyone else reading it, even a stranger. I shoved the bumpa in my bag as well. I would decide what to do with it later.
I reached my hands to my face, pressing and prodding. I felt so different inside—surely my bones and skin reflected that. This past week had changed me. Utterly. The same innocence that I watched drain from Pema’s being had drained from mine.
Lama Nawang was wrong. I knew it with all my heart. Whatever else Bhim may have been, he was a sentient being with a living soul. Like the little dead boy in the mustard seed story, Kita Gotami’s son, someone had to speak up for him. Someone had to be a voice for the victims, no matter how much merit might be gained by their deaths.
I pulled out my book and opened it to a new story. I dove into the world of another man who spoke for the dead, from another time. From this point on, he would be my teacher.
Charles de Gaulle Airport
April 28, 1994
I scan the eager faces, waiting with signs and balloons in the arrival area outside of the customs office. All around me, people are hugging, laughing, crying for joy. Fathers sweep mothers and babies into their arms. Lovers cling to each other, kissing again and again.
Where is she?
A stocky, familiar shape bustles up to me. Madame DuBois, our nosy neighbor. Not my mother.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. The traffic!”
“Where’s Valerie?”
She fans her face. “Your maman is indisposed today. She asked me to come get you.”
Indisposed. Drunk, in other words.
“And her husband?”
Her voice oozes sympathy. “Gone, I’m afraid. Things didn’t work out. Alors, I warned her, didn’t I?”
Madame DuBois steps closer. “Your mother is not doing well, not doing well at all,” she confides. “We are all quite worried. It is very good you are back.” She reaches for my bag. “Shall I help you with that, Tenzing?”
“I’ve got it,” I say. I pick up my bag. I don’t want her help. “And it’s Ten.”
“I’m sorry?”
“From now on, my name is Ten.”
Acknowledgments
GRATITUDE FROM GAY HENDRICKS
First, a deep bow to my co-author, Tinker, for her magnificent storytelling instincts, her integrity, and her all-around good vibes. Tinker, long may we tell stories that change people’s lives!
To Patty Gift, Reid Tracy, and all the great folks at Hay House, thank you for making the whole journey of launching a major new detective series such a pleasant process. Your dedication to our Tenzing Norbu series has been a source of deep joy to the authors.
I’m grateful to my mate of 33 years, Katie, for creating such a magical sanctuary for our creativity to flourish in. I also appreciate Katie for
being my “first listener”—I read each page of the Tenzing stories to her first. Her intuitive feedback is immensely helpful in bringing the books to life.
Thanks to Felipe Correa, the Executive Director of The Hendricks Institute, for helping keep us sane, centered, and well organized. Felipe, your big heart and keen mind are deeply appreciated.
To Ileen Maisel and Lawrence Elman of Amber Entertainment, I express my thanks for giving me a new feeling of involvement in the movie-making process and setting a new standard for integrity in that world.
To the Muse herself (or himself or themselves!) I send a big wave of heartfelt appreciation. Long ago I dedicated myself to following my creative impulses as passionately as I could. So far, the path has led me on an exhilarating journey through writing textbooks, relationship books, movie scripts, and now, mystery novels! Where it will lead next I know not; for me one of the best parts of the dance is not knowing which kind of music is coming next.
GRATITUDE FROM TINKER LINDSAY
“Working” with Gay Hendricks is more like protracted play, and I am ever grateful that he invited me into his creative world. His artistic enthusiasm, originality, and sheer volume of ideas inspire me every day, and his generosity of spirit invites me to do my best work. Plus, he’s funny as hell.
Can’t mention Gay without mentioning Katie: she proffers the best hugs, and meals, in town, and is a powerful creative force in her own right. Lucky us.
Thanks to all at Hay House, especially our editor Patty Gift, for her love and support of us and our character, Ten; Reid Tracy, for keeping his visionary eye on the big picture, always; Quressa Robinson for gracefully managing the details; and Charles McStravick for designing amazing cover art.
Gratitude always to my intrepid tribe of astute readers and delicious writers: Bev Baz, Monique De Varennes, Kathryn Hagen, Emilie Small, Pat Styles, and Barbara Sweeney, as well as Tessa Chasteen: I rely on all of you immensely and thank you enormously.
Special thanks to Pan Nalin, for providing great Dharamshala background and color, and for connecting me with Jyamyang Jingpa. And a huge bucket of gratitude to Jamyang, who spent hours with me in New York sharing his personal experiences as a young Tibetan lama living in a Buddhist monastery in India. I literally could not have written this without him. Thanks, too, to authors and scholars Glenn H. Mullen and Robert Beer—you don’t know me, but your work deeply influenced mine.
As always, I must thank my amazing children and grandchildren—including our latest addition, little Jack. My world would be stark without all of you. And to Cameron, my mate, my partner, my love: The more we are, the better I become.
Finally, I’d like to humbly acknowledge whatever intuitive genie Gay and I seem to be accessing in our collaboration process, for deigning to send us these weird and thrilling Tenzing Norbu connections that make my heart beat faster and the hair on the nape of my neck do a little dance.
About the Authors
ABOUT GAY HENDRICKS
Gay Hendricks, Ph.D., has served for more than 35 years as one of the major contributors to the fields of relationship transformation and body-mind therapies. Along with his wife, Dr. Kathlyn Hendricks, Gay is the co-author of many bestsellers, including Conscious Loving and Five Wishes. He is the author of 33 books, including The Corporate Mystic, Conscious Living, and The Big Leap. Dr. Hendricks received his Ph.D. in counseling psychology from Stanford in 1974. After a 21-year career as a professor of Counseling Psychology at the University of Colorado, he and Kathlyn founded The Hendricks Institute, which is based in Ojai, California, and offers seminars worldwide.
In recent years he has also been active in creating new forms of conscious entertainment. In 2003, along with movie producer Stephen Simon, Dr. Hendricks founded the Spiritual Cinema Circle, which distributes inspirational movies to subscribers in 70-plus countries around the world (www.spiritualcinemacircle.com). He has appeared on more than 500 radio and television shows, including The Oprah Winfrey Show and 48 Hours, and on networks including CNN and CNBC.
ABOUT TINKER LINDSAY
Tinker Lindsay is an accomplished screenwriter, author, and conceptual editor. A member of the Writers Guild of America (WGA), Independent Writers of Southern California (IWOSC), and Women in Film (WIF), she’s worked in the Hollywood entertainment industry for over three decades. Lindsay has written screenplays for major studios, such as Disney and Warner Bros., collaborating with award-winning film director Peter Chelsom. Their current screenplay, Hector and the Search for Happiness, is in preproduction with Egoli Tossell Film. She also co-wrote the spiritual epic Buddha: The Inner Warrior, with acclaimed Indian director Pan Nalin, as well as the sci-fi remake of The Crawling Eye with Cameron Keys.
Lindsay has authored two books—The Last Great Place and My Hollywood Ending—and worked with several noted transformational authors, including Peter Russell, Arjuna Ardagh, and Dara Marks.
Lindsay graduated with high honors from Harvard University in English and American Language and Literature, where she was an editor for The Harvard Crimson. She studied and taught meditation for several years before moving to Los Angeles to live and work. She can usually be found writing in her home office situated directly under the Hollywood sign.
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The Broken Rules of Ten Page 11
