An unexpected note was delivered from Mr. Hodges one morning, informing both Christian and Nareesh that Lama Loden would be visiting that afternoon. The invitation meant that Lama was back from a visit to Nepal and had resettled at the monastery in Dehradun. Would they want to visit with Lama?
Perhaps it was at this meeting that Christian became truly conscious of the importance of international politics, its complications and far-reaching consequences. As he listened to the conversation between Lama Loden and Mr. Hodges that afternoon, he understood India’s defiance of China in offering a home to the Dalai Lama. For the first time, he heard Geshe’s own story, the full impact of the urgency, the insistence, with which he had been persuaded to flee Tibet. His mind held the wisdom of two thousand years of teaching, philosophy, and Buddhist logic, a knowledge that could not be lost.
Lama spoke of the huge purpose of the new Tibetan government in exile—establishing a community, receiving those fleeing Tibet, and preserving Tibetan culture. With a deep voice reflecting too much worldly knowledge, he told stories of how young children were being sent by their parents across the Himalayas on horseback, over mountain passes fourteen to seventeen thousand feet high, moving only at night, to avoid Chinese patrols. He discussed the hastily constructed dormitories for the children, the formation of traditional Tibetan schools, the suffering of impoverished refugees who had left everything behind but their beliefs.
As the conversation continued, Christian and Nareesh listened, stunned at the magnitude of the news they were hearing. The great monasteries, centers of Buddhist learning for thousands of years, their libraries and art, were being dynamited by the Red Guard in China’s Cultural Revolution. Thousands of monks and nuns were being imprisoned and tortured for simple activities that had always been a part of daily life—the wearing of traditional dress, prostrating, circumambulating sacred sites, offering kata scarves, turning prayer wheels, burning juniper for incense, or throwing tsampa, barley flour, as an offering.
“Unfortunately, that is not all,” Mr. Hodges told the quiet room. “The environmental effects of the Chinese incursion are disastrous.”
Mr. Hodges described how ancient forests had been cut and soil erosion begun. Endangered animals hunted for sport, especially the snow leopard. Nuclear testing facilities were being built, and the Chinese were moving nuclear warheads to the Tibetan plateau for a clear shot at India, a traditional enemy.
At some point, Mr. Hodges looked to the window, unable to meet their eyes. “But the worst is the forced planting of wheat at that altitude, rather than traditional barley. The wheat crop failure has created starvation on a massive scale, affecting hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children. I could go on, but …”
What Mr. Hodges would not share were the atrocities against women—the rapes, the forced abortions, the sterilizations.
“There is good news,” Geshe-la exclaimed. “A library in Dharamsala is planned. Many texts, statues, and thangkas will be preserved. And we are receiving international support for the children and the schools.”
“And you, Geshe,” Mr. Hodges asked, taking Lama’s cue and concentrating on better prospects. “What plans for the future?”
“I have been invited by His Holiness to become abbot of a new monastery in Kathmandu Valley, in Nepal. But first, I will be making a trip with several of the younger monks to Bodh Gaya before the summer months to give teachings. On the way, we plan to stop in Benares and Sarnath. That is one of the reasons for my visit today.” He turned to Christian and Nareesh. “Mr. Hodges has informed me that you have a spring break. Would you like to accompany us? If so, we will ask permission of your families.”
Christian looked toward Nareesh, who nodded, anxious to accept. To visit two of Buddhism’s most cherished sites with a tulku, a high incarnate lama, was an unbelievably privileged gift. Sarnath, near the holy city of Benares and the river Ganges, was the site of the Buddha’s first teaching, the first turning of the Wheel of Dharma. In Bodh Gaya, they would sit under the daughter of the original pipal tree, where, tradition held, the Buddha achieved enlightenment.
For almost three years, Christian had known Lama Loden, had listened to his words, had asked questions, and had practiced the meditations Lama taught. Yet he had kept his relationship a secret from his father, fearful he would no longer be permitted to meet with the geshe.
Over those years, Christian had grown to love Lama Loden passionately, knew that something happened to him in Lama’s presence—a sense of centered peace. Rinpoche saw his life over a long continuum of lifetimes, and this understanding broadened Christian’s own worldview. In the teachings on reincarnation, he was already able to recognize his own infinite quality and the true nature of patience. All in the room knew Christian and Nareesh were leaving soon for university. This would be the last opportunity to be together for many years.
“Your concern is for your father, Christian, is it not?” Geshe-la asked when he saw Christian’s hesitation. “I have not told you before, but I have met your father. I know of his work and have the utmost respect for him. No, I do not say this to be polite. I say this sincerely. The Mission has given much to Tibetan refugees, often in our time of greatest need. Your father teaches out of great sincerity. I will tell you frankly that I am not interested in converts … in finding a way to make other people Buddhists … in finding a way to make you Buddhist. Rather, I am interested in how I can serve humanity. I think it possible that Buddhist meditative techniques may be practiced by Christians and others of different faiths. What is most important is that people do choose a path and that they emphasize love, respect for others, human improvement, and the sharing of suffering.
“Christian, you are no longer a boy, but a man. You and your father need to know each other as men—to know what ideas shape each of your lives. You cannot be torn in two. You must find a way to integrate both the East and the West in yourself.”
That same evening, Christian phoned his father from the school. Trembling, he knew the time was coming when they would have to face each other. For years, Christian had heard his father’s voice from the pulpit, teaching the Word of God, reciting the penalties for failure to adhere to His laws. Having that voice turned on him was something he prayed he would never have to face. Would the Reverend Brooks allow him to make his own decisions in the matter of his religious choice? Christian knew the answer as he picked up the receiver.
“Dad!” he exclaimed. “How are you? How’s Mom?”
“We’re good. We’re planning a small trip up to Amritsar to visit with Reverend Birchwald. Do you think you and Nareesh would like to join us?”
“Well, actually that’s one of the reasons I’m calling. There’s to be a trip from school to Benares and Bodh Gaya. Nareesh and I were thinking of traveling with the group over spring break. Do you think that would be alright?”
On the line, there was momentary silence.
“I think it would be good for you to understand religions not our own, Christian. Knowing how others worship is a large part of missionary work. Would you be traveling with Mr. Hodges?”
“No,” and Christian could not force himself to mention Loden Rinpoche. “A colleague of his.”
“Alright then. Why don’t you and Nareesh join us in Amritsar at the end of the trip? Mom wants to talk with you about plans for graduation. And I think she wants to spend as much time with you as she can before you leave for the States. We’ll miss you once you’ve gone.”
The sky was still dark when Christian and Nareesh left school and boarded the bus taking them to the train station. The early morning air was already full of ash from the chulas, and on the streets, men in turbans and scarves huddled around bonfires for warmth.
At the station, they met with the group traveling to Benares and joined the great press of people jostling to be first on board. Once on the train, Christian found a seat for Lama and his attendant and, toward the back of the car, a single seat for himself next to an old man.
&
nbsp; Dark-skinned, the man’s hair and beard were white, eyes red and watery, a tilak on his forehead. He shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden seat, leaning against the bars of the window. Nearby, a woman in a yellow sari watched over him while trying to settle two small children. Christian recognized his illness immediately and knew the family had made great sacrifices to send the old one to die in peace by the waters of the Ganges. Offering his blanket to the man for a pillow, he was rewarded with the woman’s shy, surprised smile.
Christian then closed his own eyes, and the train began to move toward New Delhi. Once there, it would stop for a few hours before continuing overnight to Varanasi and Benares. Just before being rocked to sleep by the train’s motion, he asked himself where this trip would really take him.
Many different people were on board, not only Hindus and Buddhists on their way to the Ganges and Sarnath, but also those traveling to tiny villages along the Indian countryside. The land passed slowly by, green with agricultural fields. When the train stopped at a small town, passengers would exit, while others climbed aboard to travel the short distance to another village. In the great spectrum of humanity visible in the train car, laughter and conversation was mixed with the moans of the sick and prayers of the dying. At each stop, local vendors climbed the train’s stairs carrying baskets of pakoras and sweet cakes and cups of hot tea on trays balanced on their heads. Occasionally, the police boarded to arrest riders without tickets. Then the train would begin to move again, the views of the countryside and other small towns once again slipping by the windows.
Christian watched Lama, seated on a pillow, his eyes closed in meditation for most of the journey. Several times, the cook who traveled with them brought out prepared food and refilled Lama’s thermos with warm water offered by vendors.
With passengers leaving the slow-moving coach with its multiple stops, Christian was finally able to find a seat next to Nareesh. Linking their arms, they began to talk, to recognize that this trip was a time of reflection, a last moment before entering their adult worlds.
They spoke of their beginnings, the morning of meeting, each chasing a wayward ball and grabbing for it at the same time. The laughing freedom of their early years as they roamed village streets filled with life and sound and smell. The goats they chased. The cows they revered. Ram Seva’s insistence that they learn Hindi, Punjabi, and English while young children.
Their first days at boarding school, wracked with homesickness in the structured and unfamiliar environment. The hours of shared study and those good teachers who most influenced them—Mr. Hodges, in particular.
They recounted athletic games—a particularly grueling game of cricket and Nareesh’s unexpected prowess as a bowler, and retold an animated story of Christian’s header from a corner kick for the win in a heated football match.
The chess club.
The debate team and the school’s win over an egotistical team from New Delhi.
Puberty and the recognition of girls. The disastrous hangover from a liter of alcohol someone had secreted into the school. Intimate secrets, countless mistakes, and the struggles toward manhood.
As they sat on that train, remembering, embarrassed and penitent, laughing and grateful and proud, they were wise enough to appreciate the qualities of their privileged life and wonder how they would best use their gifts. Nareesh was interested in medicine, Christian in politics.
Underlying all, they began to discuss the issues of their spiritual choices and what those choices would mean to the people who most loved them.
Many hours later, as the train pulled into the Varanasi station, Nareesh nudged Christian’s arm and nodded toward the view through the window’s bars. “We’re here.”
In Benares, they first regarded the Ganges from a distance, a gray-brown river weaving its way beside large, ancient buildings. As the group walked toward the river, Christian immediately saw that the water was the center of the city’s life. Everywhere, there were people—walking to or from the water, purifying themselves in the shallows along the banks, praying. Women washed clothes, squatting close to the water, using large flat rocks to pound the fabric. An old man sat alone on the steps of a ghat, traveled here to die like the old man on the train. Families dried their clothing in the sun, white robes and turbans and colorful saris set among the destitute, dirty, half-clad, and sick.
Reaching a ghat, Christian and Nareesh stopped. They stood side-by-side, shoulders touching, watching as the torch was held to the wood beneath the bier, final leis of marigold flowers placed upon the wrapped body.
As he watched in silence, Christian was reminded of Lama’s words. Life will end in the death of this coarse body. Only consciousness is truly important.
“Where shall we go from the fires?” he whispered.
“Into God’s presence,” Nareesh told him, his quiet voice sure.
“But death brings so much sorrow,” Christian answered, recognizing devastation in the faces of the family members watching the flames. “There should be a way to defeat death.”
Lama overheard and turned to them. “Death to the body is final, permanent. That you must accept. One of the four sufferings—birth, aging, sickness, and death. But there is a way to accept death with calm understanding. You can choose your own death by being prepared for it. You do not have to run from it or let the fear of it push you through life. There is a way to guide the spirit from the body, to choose your next destination, to even renounce the cycle of death and rebirth. But this demands study and discipline.”
“Would one have to study in the monastery?” Christian asked. “With reason and debate?”
Now Lama’s eyes filled with the light of mirth. “Ah, learning to die is a much more valuable lesson than walking through walls, isn’t it?”
Reminded of their first meeting years ago, Christian managed, “I’m still certain that can be done.”
Lama held his middle finger against his thumb and flicked it on Christian’s face so that it stung like a stinging insect bite, his voice suddenly sharp, his words serious. “You always look up and never down. You always want the meaning of the whole book rather than the wisdom of a single sentence.” He shook his head. “What is your motivation? Do you want a meritorious life of deep meaning and useful purpose based on compassion? Or are you seeking wisdom to take something for yourself? You must learn the difference between the two.
“Taking robes is a serious act. Becoming a monk is an act of renunciation. But it does not mean that you renounce the world. It only means that you give up your attachment to it and reenter it with the purpose of bringing others peace, kindness, and enlightenment. To find that which you seek, would you be able to do this? Give up your attachments?
“You are attracted to women. Are you ready to be celibate? You have always been served, at home, at school. Are you ready to serve? You know you have a good mind. But the knowledge you possess will try to defeat you. Are you ready to learn that most of what you see and believe is false?
“I have taught you the value of an enemy, for an enemy helps to define the Self. Now if you want an enemy, you must fight with yourself. Fight your own ignorance, anger, attachment, pride, and fight them with the weapons of wisdom and concentration.”
With that, Lama Loden walked away up the steps of the ghat.
Nareesh turned to a shaken Christian. “He only says this because he loves you.” And, laying a hand on Christian’s shoulder, said softly, “I couldn’t let you make this journey of decision alone. I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering which path is truly best for you. I also know how hard making the decision is. Just before we left … I told my father about my acceptance to the theological college.”
“Was Ram Seva disappointed?”
Nareesh shook his head. “Instead, he and Daya Nanda had news. Rather large, actually. They’re making the final move to Delhi. The remodeling of the ashram is complete.” Then, with more seriousness, he added, “I know you’re thinking of becoming Geshe-la
’s pupil. Taking refuge in him.”
Christian turned away to stare across the river.
“That’s the reason Lama suggested this trip,” Nareesh continued. “The reason for his words. He’s testing you. He wants you to understand the choice you have to make. The life you will lead as a monk. He wants to make sure that you know it’s not a romantic notion.”
“How can you be so sure of what is right?”
“I’ve pledged my life to India, and I think I’ve chosen what’s best for my people. I will always love you, Christian, but even if it means taking different paths, even if you choose to take robes, I’ll go to the college. From there, hopefully to medical school.”
Nareesh gestured to the neat lines of beggars. “Come on. We need to give alms.”
As he placed a coin into each begging bowl, he intoned, “Thank you for allowing me this act of generosity.”
Christian took a deep breath and followed. “Thank you for letting me be of service,” he said, bowing to each supplicant as he passed.
From Benares and the visit to Deer Park at Sarnath, they rode the morning train to Gaya, and from the train station, took the bus to Bodh Gaya. The focal point of the pilgrimage site was the Bodhi Tree, a massive pipal tree, its broad limbs spread wide. Legend held that the Buddha had achieved enlightenment in this place and that the present tree was the daughter of the original, grown from a seed of the mother. Christian and Nareesh circumambulated the tree with others, stopping at the Mahabodhi Temple, finally to sit under its enormous branches and stare at the face of the huge Buddha beneath.
Distracted by the constant prayers of pilgrims, the burning incense, the thousands of candles, Christian turned to Nareesh to ask, “What is the real substance of religion? Surely, it is not images, incense, or church bells.”
A Nation of Mystics_Book II_The Tribe Page 30
