The Fifth Rule of Ten

by Gay Hendricks

I was labeling again. I heard Chinese and assumed foe. A toxic reaction, without investigation.

  I pressed her number.

  “Lia Pootah here. Who’s calling?” Her voice was light and musical, but edged with anger.

  “Tenzing Norbu.”

  “No way. I’m shocked.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s just say a couple of Buddhist do-gooders in my Comparative Religions class at SMCC blamed me personally for the entire Tibetan diaspora. They weren’t even Tibetan. Nice little white girls from Beverly Hills.”

  I relaxed. Anyone who used the word diaspora correctly couldn’t be that bad.

  “So, do I call you Tenzing, or Norbu, or what?”

  “Ten is fine. You?”

  “Lia Pootah, please. Lia by itself screams Jewish-American Princess, Pootah sounds exactly like the word for slut in Spanish, so . . . My mother’s an anthropologist, okay? She came across this tribe, the Lia Pootah, in Tazmania. Half-breed by-products of conquering white men raping and pillaging defenseless Aborigine women. Classic case of masculine privilege.”

  “Did she study the tribe?”

  “What? Fuck, no. She just liked the name.”

  I hadn’t misread the hostility earlier. I just hadn’t realized it was all encompassing and impersonal.

  “You’re calling about Maha Mudra, right?”

  “I am.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything you do.”

  “Okay, well, it’s not much. So, I’m an audio-visual conceptual artist, did Mike tell you?”

  “No. He just said you were, um, cray.”

  “He did?” She sounded pleased. “So, I’m currently working on a multimedia piece that will counterpoint iconic religious images and thought with the spiritual viewpoints of powerful women. Specifically, using feminist interpretations to challenge classically male-dominated belief systems.”

  “Okay . . .”

  Silence. She appeared to want more, though of what, I didn’t know.

  “So you, ah, you’re interested in challenging belief systems,” I said.

  “Male-dominated belief systems. Like Christian fundamentalism, Orthodox Judaism, extremist Islam. Even polytheistic systems such as Hinduism. I mean, once the Laws of Manu came into existence, boom! Women were regulated to the same compliant binary roles as always, seductive temptress or submissive wife. You’re either a whore or good mother material.”

  “Uh huh.” I moved to the other side of the pond. The koi were nowhere to be seen. They were probably lost in the weeds, like I was.

  “By the way, I also put Buddhism in this category, big time. I don’t care what the Dalai Lama says, they are not female friendly. Though if the next one’s a woman, believe me, I’ll be the first to eat my words.”

  Yeshe and Lobsang crossed the courtyard and hurried into the tunnel entrance carrying white paper to-go bags.

  “I’m not saying it’s popular. Good thing I don’t give a shit about what other people think.” Lia Pootah’s laugh was sharp.

  “Uh huh.” I kept my voice neutral.

  “So anyway, I heard through the grapevine about this woman guru who was talking about the same kind of things.”

  “Maha Mudra?”

  “Maha Mudra.”

  Yeshe stepped out of the arched entryway and into the sunshine and caught my eye. He mimicked eating, his expression a question mark.

  “She was a total trip.”

  I pointed to the phone and held up five fingers. Yeshe nodded and left. “You saw her?”

  “Well, sort of. I taped an interview with her, but she disguised her voice. Wouldn’t show her face either. Too dangerous, she said.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “Of course. Ask Malala Yousafzai. What’s riskier than challenging the fundamentalist masculine status quo? Maha Mudra has some strange ideas, though. I mean, she’s out there. I may not even use her.”

  “Can I see the interview?”

  “Sure. I guess. It’s rough.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “I mean, unedited. I’m still in the process of gathering raw footage before I create the actual piece, you know?”

  “When? Where? Can you meet me this afternoon?” I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles whitened.

  Grasping.

  I inhaled and exhaled. Just like that, things shifted, a slightly looser Ten replacing the wound-up version. Another quick lesson in the divisible nature of self.

  “I don’t mean to push, Lia Pootah. It’s just, there’s a young man missing. We think he’s with Maha Mudra. At the moment, you are my only link to finding him.”

  “Mike said.”

  “I can come to you.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Pasadena.”

  She thought for a moment.

  “Meet me in Mike’s loft in a couple of hours.”

  “I’ll be there. And thanks. I mean it. Thank you.” But she had already ended the call.

  CHAPTER 41

  Lobsang’s scowl was epic. Nobody else said a word.

  “Really? Nothing to add? Not one of you?”

  We’d finished up our Peruvian takeout from Cholo Mama. Lomo saltado burritos for them—burrito-wrapped, stir-fried tenderloin with rice, Peruvian beans, shredded cheese, and creole salsa. Tofu soltado for me, which consisted of French fries, tofu, and an extra scoop of rice on the side, in case I didn’t have enough white things on my plate.

  “It have mama in name,” Yeshe had announced, handing out the food. “Mama always mean good!”

  “Maybe for you,” I’d replied.

  All was well, until I brought up the subject of Nawang.

  “Guys, come on,” I continued. “I have his bumpa. I remember watching Nawang use it. I know he was at Dorje Yidam when we were, and I know he left the monastery the summer I was sent home early to Paris. I know my father worshipped him and hated me. But I don’t know why.”

  Yeshe and Lobsang exchanged a long look.

  “Will someone please fill me in here?”

  Sonam spoke first. “You must understand, Tenzing. We all held your father in the highest esteem.”

  “Really?”

  I had to laugh at their blank expressions.

  “I’m joking. Of course you did. I know that. And I respect your respect, I really do.” I thought Sonam would move on, but I was wrong.

  “When your father left this plane and entered the bardo realm, he also left behind certain . . . causes and conditions. Beyond the five aggregates.”

  “But not karma. Karma still follow.” Yeshe’s voice was solemn.

  Lobsang was getting more irritated by the minute. “Not our job to put attention on unskilled actions, now that he is gone, hanh?”

  “What unskilled actions?” I countered.

  “How does breathing air into a lifeless body help anything?” Sonam begged. “Your father’s karmic destiny is set. His intentions were always pure. Let him be.”

  “What. Unskilled. Actions?”

  Sonam reached for his dorje and ran his fingers across the closed prongs on either side, studying the motion. He glanced up at me. “I saw him again, you know. After he left.”

  “Saw who? Apa?” I envisioned Sonam squinting into the distance as my father’s shadowy apparition floated past.

  “No. Lama Nawang.”

  The shock of confirmation caused my spine to straighten.

  “When?”

  “Maybe ten or eleven years ago. His Holiness was conducting Kalachakra initiations in Bodh Gaya.”

  There it was again—Kalachakra.

  Yeshe interjected. “Where Shakyamuni reach enlightenment.” His nod was firm. “Some day I go.”

  “At first I did not know Lama Nawang,” Sonam continued. “He had abandoned the zhen for a loincloth. He looked . . .” Sonam fussed with his own robe, tugging an end off his shoulder, flipping it back into place. “He looked more like a beast than a man.”
<
br />   “What do you mean?”

  “Like a sadhu, you know? A Hindu ascetic. His hair hung in twisted knots. His dhoti was torn and stained. And he was thin. Very thin. I could count every rib. As if, like Shakyamuni, he ate nothing, only a grain of rice a day.” Sonam shrugged. “But the eyes. The eyes were the same.”

  Yes. His eyes.

  Black pools, ringed with gold. Like luminous mirrors: in themselves, nothing, but reflecting everything.

  “Then what happened?” I said.

  “Nawang pushed to the front of the crowd as His Holiness walked up to the Mahabodhi Stupa. I noticed him because he did not bow or prostrate. He just stood there. Staring.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “I tried. But he shook his head, pointing to his closed mouth. I think maybe he took a vow of silence.”

  I tried to absorb this information.

  “Lama Nawang at Bodh Gaya?” Lobsang broke in. “He do Kalachakra initiations? Even higher ones?” Lobsang sounded offended.

  “I don’t know,” Sonam replied. “There were over two hundred thousand people in Bodh Gaya receiving wisdom from His Holiness.”

  “I’m sure he wanted to,” I told Lobsang, and another memory materialized out of the smoky past: the painted silk hanging of the male deity Kalachakra and his consort that decorated an entire wall in Nawang’s private quarters. It was the first thing Nawang had showed me, right after we met.

  I said, “He was completely obsessed with Kalachakra and Vishvamata, even back then.”

  Especially Vishvamata—bare breasted, with multiple arms wrapped around her partner; the blue-limbed god. Yab yum, Nawang had called their coupling. Outer and inner. The sword and the vessel.

  “He tell you this?” Yeshe asked.

  “Yes, he told me. Anyway, it was obvious. A Kalachakra thangka depicting their sacred union hung over his altar.” I shrugged. “Nawang wanted to obtain Buddhahood through the supreme integration of emptiness and bliss. More than anything. His commitment was absolute.”

  Sonam nodded. “I remember now. He revered the Kalachakra path.”

  “Nawang didn’t just want to follow Kalachakra,” I said. “A part of him wanted to be Kalachakra.”

  A strange feeling came over me. “Geshe Sonam, can you talk to me about the role of mudras during these secret practices?”

  “Mudras? Why do you ask?” His voice was sharp.

  “I wouldn’t, if it weren’t important.”

  “You are like a boa constrictor, Tenzing. Once you latch onto an idea, you squeeze and squeeze.”

  I let my silence do the squeezing.

  Sonam sighed. “What aspect of mudras?”

  “What aspect? I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Mudra can mean a ritual gesture. But also, mudra can mean a woman.” He shook his head slightly. “No, not a woman exactly. Female essence, in the form of a woman.”

  My pulse quickened. “Tell me,” I said.

  Sonam’s eyes narrowed. He looked into mine as if plumbing their depths for any sign of weakness. I kept my gaze steady.

  “More than one,” he replied quietly. “Three. Three mudras. Three female principles. Real, imaginary, and inner. Karma, inana, and maha.”

  I was closing in on something, I just didn’t know what yet.

  Beyond the curtain, voices murmured, followed by a belly laugh I recognized and loved.

  Yeshe stood up abruptly. “Lobsang, we go now. Continue with mandala.” Lobsang rose as well, but reluctantly.

  “Tell Julie I’m with Geshe Sonam, but I’ll see her soon,” I told Lobsang. His nod was followed by a pointed look as if to say don’t forget a word. He trailed Yeshe into the auditorium.

  “Please, go on, Geshe Sonam,” I said. “Three mudras.”

  Sonam leaned back and closed his eyes. “Mudra comes from Sanskrit, yes? It’s the same in both languages. It means seal, or stamp. Spiritual masters need mudras to seal energies, to stamp together, or merge, the male and female essence to achieve the highest realm of Buddhahood.”

  “But are they actual women? Are they real?”

  Sonam opened his eyes. “There you go again, Tenzing. How you love your labels. The essence of energy is neither real, nor not real. Neither male, nor female. Karma Mudra represents the feminine essence as it exists in the material plane of existence.” His mouth thinned. “Do some unskilled monks take that to mean—how did you put it?—a real woman? Yes. Are they right to think so? No. But delusion cloaks itself in many forms, including the human body.” He spread his hands. “The Buddha himself was tempted. As he sat under the Bodhi tree on the brink of enlightenment, Maya attacked wearing the disguise of an army of beautiful, naked women.”

  Every novice was told this tale over and over, but this time I heard it differently. Lia Pootah had a point. Whatever the belief system, it was always women tempting men, wasn’t it? And why were they always naked and beautiful?

  “But Tenzing, karma mudra is symbolic, yes? No more manifest than inana mudra, or even maha mudra.”

  “What did you just say?”

  “No more . . .”

  “No,” I interrupted. “After that. You said maha mudra.”

  “Yes. Inana mudra is the imagined feminine essence, summoned in meditation, but still existing in the realm of forms. But maha mudra is formless, called upon to embody reality and illusion both. Maha mudra is the most powerful of mudras, the most essential to the success of the practice.”

  “The most essential,” I repeated, my heart pounding.

  “Both are necessary, yes? Without the feminine principle, the masculine cannot survive.” Sonam clasped his eight-pronged scepter in his right hand and the handbell in his left. “Like so,” he illustrated. “Dorje and drilbu. Method and wisdom. Lotus and thunderbolt.”

  “Kalachakra and Vishvamata,” I said. “Deity and consort.” I jumped to my feet. Finally, a connection between Nawang and Maha Mudra that made sense. She was his lotus, the embodiment of the feminine. He needed her to complete his mission.

  Sonam cocked his head. “I have helped you?”

  “You have.” I started for the edge of the stage. “Thank you,” I called over my shoulder. Sonam picked up his sheet of mantras. Good thing, because otherwise I would have forgotten my other question.

  “I’m sorry. One more thing.” I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my photos until I found the clearest image. I enlarged the stacked characters so they filled the screen.

  “Can you tell me what this is?”

  Sonam held the screen close to his eyes. Recognition washed over his face. Then something else.

  Alarm.

  “Where did you find this?”

  “It’s part of the missing-person’s case I’m working on. Why?”

  He handed the phone back. I glanced at the design, though I didn’t need to. I could picture it in my sleep. “I know it’s not a mantra, Sonam, but it’s some kind of Tibetan symbol, right?”

  “Namchuwangdan,” Sonam said, his voice low. “In Sanskrit, the dasakaro vasi. From the Kalachakra tantra practice.” He swallowed. “Sometimes the bird, Garuda, flies overhead as well, swallowing a snake.”

  “But what is it? A mantra?”

  “Not exactly.” He pointed with a shaky forefinger. “See the interwoven letters? The five elements? The lotus? And here, the sun and moon? See the flame on top, the demon Rahu?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “This is an anatomical map. The microcosmic body of the most powerful of all the Buddhas. So no, Lama Tenzing. Not just any mantra.” I had never heard Sonam so serious. “This symbol is the global mantra, controlling all the energies that constitute creation.”

  “Namchu . . .?”

  “Namchuwangdan. The symbol of the Adi Buddha.” Sonam lowered his voice. “The Buddha of all Buddhas.”

  I remembered hearing about the Adi Buddha a lifetime ago. The highest one. He who knows not the circle of time.

  Sonam stared at the image, mesmeri
zed.

  “Some of the older boys at the monastery whispered that His Holiness was the Adi Buddha,” I said.

  This broke the spell. “Ha! His Holiness would laugh to hear such silly talk. No, Tenzing, our spiritual leader’s power lies in his humanity. And his humility. Do you know how he started last year’s address in Bodh Gaya, on the steps of the Mahabodhi Temple?”

  I shook my head.

  “He said, ‘There are seven billion human beings on this earth. And I am only one of them.’” Sonam’s eyes shone. “Can you imagine? The whole world, awaiting his wisdom. And before anything else, he invites his own insignificance to stand by his side.” Sonam seemed struck by the moment all over again. “The moment he mentioned seven billion lives, he reminded us of the seven billion deaths to come. Including his own. Adi Buddha?” Sonam brushed the thought away. “He would be the last person to claim the title of Adi Buddha.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you? I hope so. Claims of personal power have no business in our hearts, or minds. We commit to the well-being of others, not personal advancement.”

  “Always good to be reminded of that.”

  Sonam’s eyes grew troubled. “This symbol has a second meaning, as well.” He paused, as if reluctant to continue.

  I touched his arm. “I think you’d better tell me.”

  “It means . . .” Sonam firmed his voice. “It means, the Power of Ten.” He met my eyes.

  “You must take care, Ten. Someone is luring you into playing a dangerous game.”

  CHAPTER 42

  “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” Julie was sitting on a bench by the fishpond, Homer in a heap at her feet.

  “In a way, I guess I have.” I rested my hand on Homer’s solid back. His flat stump of a tail wagged.

  “So? Any news? On the brother front, I mean?”

  “He exists. He’s alive, Julie, at least as of ten years ago.”

  “Ten, that’s great!” She saw my face. “Isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. Honestly, I have a pretty bad feeling about all of this.” My crossed arms formed a tight shield across my chest. I lowered them, but the exposed feeling lingered.

  I sat, searching for the right words. “Nawang was . . . different, even back then.”