He didn’t speak a word for the next three days. The situation was initially tiresome, but the rhythm of writing notes soon appealed to me. I enjoyed the prevailing silence around my brother and, as always, the arcane tone of his prose. It was like having a live-in pen pal.
I had decided, years ago, that I would always back up my brother during his daredevil pranks. Such petty ruses now came naturally to me. My dorm mates quickly adapted to my brother’s deafness; in fact, it gave me a bit of panache. When they asked why I hadn’t mentioned his condition earlier, I shrugged; I hadn’t wanted them to harbor any preconceptions.
Jordan, meanwhile, nurtured his role with unwavering fortitude. He spent his first afternoon in the university library, poring through Amslan manuals. During his second day in Santa Cruz, I was astonished to run into him after my fencing class. He was sitting behind a spinach salad at a campus coffee shop, engaged in lively conversation with the half-dozen members of the campus deaf-mute society. Not one of them, he later assured me, suspected his infirmity was a sham.
Before returning to Deep Springs, my brother did some soul searching. He wondered, reasonably, if it made sense for him to go back to school at all. I understood his dilemma; in two days, he had cleared $513.44 in charitable donations.
Jordan was capable of that kind of thing. Coal had a narrower range, and he wasn’t fond of taking risks—not on that level. But the dry wit, the sarcasm, the deadpan delivery: There were similarities.
I WALKED TO the hotel room window, telephone still in hand, anchoring myself in time and space. The riot police still stood in the intersection below, as carefully spaced as synchronized swimmers.
“Listen,” I said. “I called for a reason . . .”
“Do you remember what it was? I certainly don’t.”
“Can I come by and fax my story?”
“Of course. Come by. Bring the lovely Miss Modena. We’ve rented a video. You can crash on the couch if you like. Better still, I’ll ask Clarice if she’s keen for a foursome. Not for your benefit, mind you.”
“Of course not. I’m sure Clarice will thank you for it.”
He barked, “You’re quick for a Yank. I was about to suggest that Grace may enjoy a change.”
This was a surprise; I hadn’t told Coal that Grace and I were lovers. She must have spoken to him herself.
“Not yet. I hope. Anyhow, Grace is staying here at the hotel, and I need to get back too. It’ll be a short visit.”
“Ah, well. I suppose we’ll just have to nurse the Bushmills by ourselves.”
“Save me a shot. I’ll need it.”
I hung up the phone and grabbed a motorcycle helmet from the dresser top. “See you later.”
Grace put her hands on either side of my face. “Wow. So smooth.” She rubbed her lips against my cheeks, then kissed me on the lips. “Try to come back in one piece.”
A tight spiral of steps descended to the lobby. I’d mothballed my Hero bicycle and rented a sporty Honda CG125 in its place. It was parked half a block away. I walked with my helmet under my arm, nodding to the riot troops. They regarded me in silence. There was a veldtlike feel to the scene: The hapless herbivore moves across the plain, observed by a pack of hyenas. A single shouted command, possible at any moment, could ruin my whole day.
The bike started instantly. I began to put my helmet on, but on second thought strapped it to the frame. Kathmandu had a helmet law—but on this occasion I opted for recognition over safety. These troops had grown up around foreigners. In these conditions, I gambled, they’d grant me an extra margin of respect.
It was a lonely, exhilarating ride. The sun was setting behind Nagarjun, and the air had a gunmetal sheen. Fruit bats filled the sky. There was no traffic at all. Flatbed trucks were parked at all the major intersections, filled with card-playing soldiers. The troops scrambled to their feet as I approached, then waved me on with greetings and catcalls.
“Pheri auncchu!” I called out. “I’m coming back!” They laughed and shouted back: “Pheri bertola!” See you later!
Fools. Mahesh Dixit, the journalist they’d tossed in prison, was far less a threat to the venal regime that they served. But the color of my skin gave me right of passage. For the first time in my travels, I was glad to be an outsider.
13
In Person
I’VE LONG BEEN intrigued by the concept of parallel universes: the theory that at this very moment, in other dimensions, alternate realities are unfolding. I stand at the kitchen counter, drinking a glass of orange juice. Meanwhile, in a few of those infinite parallel dimensions, other versions of me are ironing a shirt, walking my six-year-old daughter to school, or preparing an optics experiment on the space shuttle.
In Nepal, parallel universes are not theory. They exist in plain sight, for all to see. As riot troops patrolled the streets and thousands of citizens languished in prison, the spiritual life of the Kathmandu Valley continued unimpeded, as it had done through centuries of upheaval, assassinations, and overturned regimes.
The sense of multiple realities felt especially sharp that February. Thanks to the vagaries of the lunar calendar, two major festivals—one Hindu, one Buddhist—followed on each other’s heels. The madness of Shivaratri had barely ended; now Lhosar, the three-day Tibetan New Year festival, was about to begin.
Grace had decided to stay another day and night at the New Diamond. She was in her element among the other reporters (some of whom could use her images with their stories). For me, the cultural aspect of Kathmandu was as compelling as the political. It was, after all, what had bonded me to Nepal in the first place. I also felt a budding inner tension between my role as a journalist and my opportunity to get closer to Buddhism. The goal was to do both, if possible, in something more than a half-assed fashion.
THOUGH LHOSAR’S CLIMACTIC celebration was still two days away, the Boudha kora was already jammed with devotees. I walked clockwise over the cobblestones, navigating among dogs, goats, and scattered fecal hazards. Scores of mendicants had already claimed their spots on the circular path that surrounds the enormous stupa. Kindly souls filled their begging bowls with boiled potatoes, cooked rice, and coins. I stopped at a shop and changed a few bills into paisa. These I distributed liberally, following the kora until I reached the path leading toward the Ka-Nying Shedrup Ling Monastery.
A significant number of shoes lay outside the entrance to Chokyi Nyima’s assembly room. I removed my sneakers, feeling a familiar mix of thrill and dread. This time, I was prepared; there was a kata scarf in my hand, and a small gift for the lama. Parting the heavy cloth curtain, I stepped into the room.
The Rinpoche sat cross-legged on a carpet-covered couch. A dozen students occupied the floor around him. They stirred to view me as I approached.
A tall, pale, and very thin woman knelt by the lama’s side. She was slitting envelopes open and handing him the day’s mail. When he spied me the Rinpoche placed his hands together and extended his lips in a comical pout.
“Oooooh! Mr. Giraffe! Isn’t it? Come on, come on; hurry!” He signaled me forward with a rapid hand-flutter. I approached, knelt, and placed the silk kata across his outstretched hands.
“Very good! Learn fast!” The Rinpoche leaned forward and draped the scarf around my neck. He then reached into a cloth bag and extracted a few tiny, turdlike pellets, which he sprinkled into the palm of my right hand. “Eat,” he commanded. I popped them unquestioningly into my mouth. They tasted bitter, almost acrid. “Men-drub,” he explained with satisfaction.
I chewed, wincing. “Rinpoche . . . what is this?”
He nodded. “Means two things. Men is herbs. Natural herbs. Drub means, we do a ten-day puja. And we mix these herbs with many holy things: ground bone and relics of past buddhas.”
“Bones . . . okay . . . what else?”
“Not necessary to know!” Chokyi Nyima declared. “If a doctor gives you a pill and says it will cure headache, you accept; it’s more easy than asking what’s inside!”<
br />
“Well, then, can you at least tell me the purpose of the medicine?”
“The purpose is to make the mind clean and clear. We call this nyong drol: ‘eating liberation.’” I raised my eyebrows. “I’m not joking! Liberation through eating. Meaning, it makes a karmic connection. So even if we cannot be liberated in this lifetime, eating such holy things will sooner or later connect us with a holy teacher or teachings.”
Years of travel through Asia, and the osmosis that occurs when one blunders into enough Buddhist temples, had made me familiar with the concept of karma: the Buddhist view of cause and effect, in which every deed that we perform ripens, over a period of lifetimes, into a positive or negative result. On a global scale, this chain of deeds and consequences is what keeps the wheel of samsara—life on Earth—turning. And it’s not just our deeds that carry weight; the intentions behind them are even more important. Only a deed that is free of impure thoughts, a deed not rooted up in greed, anger, or self-interest, is without karmic impact.
“I have something for you, too.” I handed the Rinpoche a small parcel, wrapped in rice paper.
“Oh! A present! Very nice!” He removed the paper and looked at the gift with a baffled expression. “What’s this?”
“Jazz,” I explained. “Music. I think you’ll like it.” I’d found the Miles Davis tape a few days earlier, at the Annapurna Cassette Emporium: In Person, Friday Night at the Blackhawk. It was one of my favorites, and the Rinpoche already had enough tangerines.
“Very good, very good.” He placed it on the couch beside him. “We listen later. Okay? Now, business. You are working here?”
“Yes, Rinpoche.” I wondered what aspect of my life could possibly be of interest to a liberated lama. “I’m a journalist. I write for an American newspaper. I’m reporting on Nepal’s democracy movement, and waiting to see if there’s going to be a revolution.” It sounded so lame, pronounced out loud.
“Yes, I know. Dr. Dan told me this. So, what do you think? Revolution coming or not?”
I shrugged, uncomfortable on my knees. “It’s hard to say. Many people feel angry towards the king and the government. Personally, though, I don’t think the revolution will come very soon. There’s too much fear. A few people have already been shot, and thousands of people are in prison. There are reports of torture and other human rights abuses. Have you heard about any of this?”
“Little hear. Sometime on radio we hear. Mostly not hearing. Newspaper never say anything.” He turned to his assistant. “Rebecca? You hear?” She shook her head rapidly, as though an admission of political awareness would cast doubt upon her single-minded devotion to the dharma. “No one hear,” Chokyi Nyima concluded. “No one see. Difficult to see. For big view, far view, what need? Hmm? What need?” I said nothing. “Long neck! So! Must be giraffe!” He returned his attention to his mail.
I stepped back, finding a place among the other students. Despite his offhanded dismissal of the kingdom’s political turmoil, I understood the Rinpoche’s concern. Tibet, Nepal’s northern neighbor, had been occupied by the Chinese since the 1950s. Thousands of Tibetan refugees were living in Nepal, with more arriving each month. They were permitted to live, work, and practice their religion in Nepal. But what if Nepal’s government changed? A new regime might seek closer ties with China. Such a relationship might bode ill for the Tibetan community, from carpet merchants to incarnate lamas.
The Rinpoche had received about a dozen letters, mainly from Europe. A few were picture postcards: Earthrise over the moon, a sea otter, a Georgia O’Keeffe flower. Others were friendly letters, containing gifts of money. Some were requests for blessings. But many were litanies of woe, from students in distress.
“Dear Rinpoche . . . Meditation practice is not going well . . . I feel much fear . . . I cannot stop blaming myself for my faults . . .” Chokyi Nyima nodded gravely as each of these letters was read aloud, promising to answer the most dire cases as soon as his Lhosar obligations had ended.
Listening to the plaintive letters, I thought of Jordan. Despite my earlier misgivings, I suddenly wished he were here. My own travels in Asia had taught me, first and foremost, how vast and complex the world was. I’d seen true suffering and learned to put my own trials in perspective. Most important, my travels gave me a visceral sense of belonging to the Earth; of sharing a spiritual bond, and maybe even a spiritual destiny, with every creature on the planet. The idea of a wrathful, Judeo-Christian God had been replaced with a more objective truth: that we are all interdependent, yet individually responsible for our own liberation.
The core of Jordan’s problem, I realized, was that he had no community . He had no anchorage. There was nothing in the universe larger than himself. Intellectual and romantic adventures sustained his existence; to fail them was to fail at life. With those supports cracking, his world was falling apart.
I wasn’t naïve enough to think that simply visiting Asia, or sitting with Chokyi Nyima, would be a cure-all. My brother might well end up like one of the Rinpoche’s fretful pen pals, wrestling with the demons of inadequacy and discontent. But at least he would have a foundation. He would be on an effective path, a proven escape route from the labyrinth of self-involvement. And if he stuck with it, took his spiritual growth half as seriously as he took his translations of Cicero, who knew what he might attain?
Chokyi Nyima put away his letters and whispered to Rebecca. She rose silently and left the room. The Rinpoche turned toward us.
“So. Last time we talk about basic conditions: suffering, impermanence, emptiness, egolessness. Everybody check? Everybody test? Hmmm?”
It was a joke, and there was laughter, as if a week of superficial introspection could relieve us—the generation of Reagan and Thatcher, Disney and Madonna—of the burdens of dualistic existence.
“It takes time,” the Rinpoche acknowledged. “But have no doubt. If you study carefully, meditate well, all true.” He glanced at his watch. “Today, though, we have only small time. So. Some questions?”
A stocky Japanese man, whose tight jeans prevented him from crossing his legs, spoke up. “You often talk about meditation,” he said. “But you never tell us how to do it.”
“Meditation, in Tibetan, means gom,” the Rinpoche replied. “Direct translation is ‘mental work.’ Meditation is really a set of techniques: ‘gross’ techniques and ‘subtle’ techniques.”
The man frowned. “How can there be a ‘gross’ technique in meditation?”
“Sounds, funny, yes?” Chokyi Nyima surveyed the room. “Gross. Like, big. Or maybe ugly. But true! It’s because, for beginners, all ways of perceiving the world are dualistic. They come from the habit of holding objects in our mind. Therefore, one kind of meditation is to keep an object in our mind. A simple object, like a pebble or flower. Or our breath. Because when we focus our mind on one thing, it isn’t occupied by anything else. We are not planning future, worrying about past, feeling angry, wanting love, getting jealous. So by meditating on just one thing, very simple, very small, it is possible for a feeling of peace and relaxation to take place.
“This is what’s meant by ‘gross’ techniques. This is one form of meditation. But it is not the ultimate meditation. That’s because as long as we focus on some other object—even breath!—we have two ideas: the one who focuses, and the object of focus. The real meditation is without any object. This is the ‘subtle’ technique of meditation. But to reach that stage, we first need to use ‘gross’ concepts.”
“It sounds like a lot of effort,” the student remarked, “for a state of peace.”
The Rinpoche stared at him mischievously. “Maybe. The very best method, of course, is effortlessness. But effortlessness cannot be taught! So, at first, we have no choice but to use our bad habits to help us. We have to use effort, in order to arrive at effortlessness.”
The student shook his head. “This technique you’re describing . . . it’s so intellectual.”
Chokyi Nyima nodded. “Right no
w, this is difficult to understand. But as we get more teachings, our minds become more subtle. Here’s one example . . .”
“Stop!” The Japanese man slapped his hand sharply on the floor. “I don’t want words! I want to know how to meditate! I want to know this now.”
There was a startled silence in the room. “Of course,” Chokyi Nyima replied calmly. “Nobody likes to cook. But everyone wants the best food. Immediately. None of us want to study; we want to be liberated. But what we need to experience for liberation is very subtle. And for anything so subtle, we need to study. We need to listen. Sometimes it takes time. It all depends on the person. For you? You want to meditate, but you have no time to study. You want liberation, but you have no time to listen. That way will not work. What you want to experience, you first need to study.”
“Just tell me what to do.”
“Eat and shit!” declared the Rinpoche, slapping his own hand down.
A beat followed, and then the student’s timid reply: “While thinking of food and shit as illusions?”
Chokyi Nyima laughed. There was a collective exhalation, and the tension drained from the room. “Seriously, though. There is one thing to do: relax. Even Buddha did not say more than this: ‘Rest calmly.’ But, one problem. We don’t know how to relax.
“Right now, even if we think we are relaxing, we’re not. We’re thinking .” Chokyi Nyima closed his eyes and assumed a strict lotus posture, wagging his head in mock rapture. “I want to relax. Now I am relaxing. Oohhh. So relaxed.” He opened his eyes.
“This is the ego, the ‘I’ speaking. From very beginning this is a dualistic idea. Second problem: I am relaxing. Can this be true?” He looked around the room. “No! It is impossible. Because complete relaxation is not dualistic. There is no object, no subject, no ‘I.’ When there is no ego, only then are we 100 percent relaxed.”
A moment passed as this deceptively complex teaching was absorbed.
“Okay? So when you practice, please remember: Meditation is the opposite of the ordinary state of mind. It is the opposite of the state of mind that thinks, I am here, and the world is out there.”
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