Returning to the temple after harvest always made Yeshua gloomy. Although he loved Master and his fellow monks, he struggled with life lived under strict rules. With every new moon, he became increasingly torn between the path of a bodhisattva and a normal life among ordinary people. Master stressed the importance of honoring one’s vows, but sometimes Yeshua wondered if the Buddha’s suttras may have been falsified. To him, laughing, dancing, and singing—even making love—were other means of communicating with the Self, with God. Joyful activities fueled him and connected him to others on a higher level. How could that possibly be wrong?
When he asked Master one night, after the other monks had fallen asleep, his teacher almost choked on his fermented milk. “What? Have demons possessed you?”
Master shook his head. He stood from his cushion to pace slowly, meditatively, around the room, muttering to himself.
Yeshua’s heart beat nervously in his chest. He closed his eyes and sent his teacher waves of love.
“Issa,” Master said after what seemed an eternity. He glanced at Yeshua with his good eye. “You do understand why the Buddha provided our rules of obedience? We are role models. If we cannot maintain our dignity, how can we teach others? You, if anyone, should understand how attachment to sensual pleasure blocks the path to Nirvana.”
Yes, of course. That’s what he had been taught.
“You understand that dancing and singing distracts from the Self, do you not? And it cannot connect you to the Self at all.”
Yeshua sank to his knees before Master and touched his forehead to the floor. He shouldn’t have asked. He should have stayed quiet, trusting his intuition. Why had he imagined that Master would understand this new thought that went against all that the Buddha preached?
“How many rules have you broken since you arrived?” Master asked. “Ten? Fifty? A hundred?”
Startled, Yeshua looked up. He thought of all the times he had masturbated in the woods, embraced a crying woman, or picked and eaten a pear from a wild tree. He thought of the golden ring he had refused to give up. What a fool he had been! Hadn’t he sensed from the very first day that Master could read his mind and see right through him?
Yeshua tried to form an apology, but the words died in his mouth. He couldn’t, wouldn’t lie to Master.
Master shook his head. This way of life is not for you, he seemed to say. Not for you.
Outside, the vibrant blossoms in the garden glowed in the blue light of the full moon, but Yeshua was blind to its beauty. Master wanted him to leave. A child wailed inside him, the boy who had left everything and brought shame on his family—and all for nothing. He had failed once again.
Yeshua cleaned up his sleeping space, shook his blanket, and packed up his belongings. He took one last peek at the Holy Scriptures in the sealed basket. Then he woke Omkar. His friend followed him all the way to the end of Kapilavatthu, where a well-trodden road led farther north to the slopes of the Himalayas.
Without a word, they embraced.
The crisp winds of the changing season propelled Yeshua past blossoming rhododendrons that signaled the arrival of fall. Once the flowers had wilted, the weather would remain clear for three new moons before winter swept across the highlands. Far ahead, the snowcapped mountains beckoned, and beyond them—a world unknown. Long ago a merchant had mentioned a kingdom high up in the Himalayas: Ladakh. Some people called it the Holy Land, like Palestine. Perhaps they would welcome his message there. He only had to make it across the mountains before the snowstorms caught up with him.
Yeshua ran the discussion with Master over and over in his mind, wondering if he could have said something to change the outcome. But how could expressions of joy ever be wrong? And how could dancing in trance with others distract you from the Self? Dancing connected people on a soul level and made one forget who is who and who does what. Of course, the rules of the monastery might be useful for teaching young men restraint and control, but Yeshua was convinced something else, something important, was not being taught. Seclusion and abstinence were all well and good, but God had created humans for a reason. Why must he leave the world to become one with God? Living in the world while staying connected to God had to be the answer.
The ever-ascending and descending path weaved past scattered communities where villagers welcomed him as a traveling holy man and offered him food and shelter. The sun warmed his cheeks, and he hummed cheerful tunes as he made his way north. At the base of the Annapurna, the path became narrower, more treacherous. In the early mornings, a sheen of black ice covered the rocky trail, and he inched forward, careful not to slip and plummet down the narrow crevices. The higher he climbed, the more he struggled to breathe. His lungs ached from the thin air. He walked slowly, took frequent breaks, and huddled in caves at night after the sun had descended behind the peaks and he could no longer see where he was going. No communities had settled at this altitude, and he only came upon the odd family living in a cave or on a hillside, but they were few and far between. Two days had passed since he had last eaten. The wild yaks and horses he spotted in the distance were too far away to catch and fill his bowl with warm milk, and the only person he had met in the last couple of days had been a naked holy man even more desperate with hunger than he.
Yeshua’s head throbbed, and his knees buckled underneath him. He sat down to rest on a cliff overlooking the mountains that still lay ahead. Should he turn back? Or should he continue, hoping to cross to the other side of the mountain—and risk dying in the process?
“Lord!” Yeshua called out. His voice echoed between the jagged ridges. “What do you want me to do?”
The words bounced and faded as fast as his hope. Perhaps he should return to Kapilavatthu, beg Master for forgiveness, and start over. Yeshua gazed across the mountains before him. The icy peaks rose like giants against an indigo sky, intimidating and warning him. Omkar had assured him the journey was grueling yet not impossible, but did he really know? Yeshua staggered to his feet. Daylight would be gone soon and he had to keep moving. Surely tomorrow he would feel better and would find some food. Any food.
His head pounded. His eyes zoomed in and out and refused to focus. The mountain spun in circles. He steadied himself with a hand on the cliff wall and, in a trance, forced his legs forward step by step. He shuffled past one turn, then another, until his legs gave out and he collapsed on the path. He closed his eyes, knowing the next breath could be his last. He might never open his eyes again.
For the first time in many years, Yeshua called out the name of Yahweh, Abba’s name for God. The familiar name comforted him, and he thought of cuddling up into his mother’s warm embrace, like a child. The ground seemed to shift beneath him, and Yeshua let himself be drawn into the earth, as if a root spiraled down from his tailbone and connected with the base of the mountains. The chakra at the top of his head opened and, like a funnel, channeled the energy of the universe. He floated high above his slumped body and saw himself lie too close to the edge of a steep cliff. His skin had turned blue from the cold, and the vapor diminished with every exhaled breath. Rising higher, he saw the people of the villages he had passed on his journey. He saw Master, Omkar, and the other bhikkhus meditating in the Kapilavatthu temple garden. He soared higher and higher, drifting all the way to his home in Capernaum, where he saw his brothers, sisters, and mother weeping by a sealed cave.
A grave.
Who had died? And at once he knew: his father. With the shock, Yeshua slammed back into his body, back into the Himalayas. His throat clenched with sorrow, and his gut cramped as if someone had punched him right in the pit of his stomach. His dear father had passed away. Yeshua swallowed. He couldn’t breathe. He curled up into a ball as his eyes flooded with tears. Abba, his wonderful, kind, and patient father—gone. He would never, ever see him again. Never.
Yeshua wanted to scream, but all that came out of his mouth were whimpers. He tried to get up, but his limbs were glued to the ground. He wailed like a beast, the pa
in tearing his heart out. Never again would Abba look at him with his knowing smile. Never again would he sing the funny little songs that made the whole family laugh. Never again would he embrace Yeshua as only a father could. And never would Yeshua be able to beg Abba for forgiveness.
He screamed as hard as his weakened lungs could bear, trying to alleviate his agony. He wept and begged God to forgive him. He cried for his mother and his sisters. He whispered sweet words to the brothers he had abandoned. Oh, how he longed to be that twelve-year-old boy again, with a mother and a father, the boy who worked with his father as a carpenter—the boy who was safe.
He drifted into unconsciousness, exhausted by sorrow, unaware of the world around him, not caring whether he would ever wake up again.
Chapter Twenty-THREE
Himalaya Mountains, AD 23
Darkness. Was he dead? Yeshua tried to move his arms, only to discover that something heavy covered him, held him in place. He moved his head from side to side. Soft fur tickled his nose. Someone must have brought him here, wrapped him up.
Where was he? His headache and vertigo were gone, and he was warm and dry, comfortable. He looked around, but his eyes encountered nothing but a thick veil of blackness. Yeshua shuddered. If this person hadn’t taken mercy upon him, he would have died out there on the slopes. God had saved him. His eyes filled with tears of gratitude. He hadn’t been mistaken after all: Yahweh wanted him to continue.
A shadowy movement caught his attention. He squinted to see better. Something—someone—had moved in the dark.
Yeshua sat up. “Hello?” he called out. “Sahib?”
The creature moved closer. Then, a wide row of white teeth: a smile. Strong hands anchored his armpits and pulled him up to sit. A warm bowl was placed in his hands. Yeshua moved the bowl to his face and sniffed: fresh yak milk, herbs. He took a sip. The liquid was sweet and frothy, and the herbs tingled his throat and stomach. He finished it in gulps.
Giggles. The sound cascaded like a waterfall.
“Thank you,” Yeshua whispered. “You saved my life.”
What a fool he had been, traveling into the unknown mountains alone and without packing any food. Monastic life had made him dependent on others. He had forgotten how to think for himself.
Yeshua could hear breathing near him. “Sahib, do you understand me?”
Maybe his host didn’t speak Pali. Local language often changed from one village to the next. Or perhaps the being was mute. The silhouette retreated into the darkness and disappeared. Moments later, he reappeared and placed long, leafy stalks of something fragrant into Yeshua’s lap.
“Eat!” The voice was soft, childlike. “Chew!”
The man did speak Pali, after all. Yeshua bit into a leaf. It tasted bitter but with a pleasant tang. Its juice numbed his lips and tongue. His eyelids felt heavy and his head swirled. His host was nudging him back to sleep. He lay back down, pulled the hides up to his face, and closed his eyes. The next moment, he was sound asleep.
As from another dimension, a falcon’s shriek pierced his dreams. Yeshua rubbed his sleepy eyes and looked around, but the bird was nowhere to be seen. The sun’s rays played over painted cave walls: yaks, deer, snow leopards, birds, women harvesting plants and cooking, men hunting, couples making love. Yeshua pushed himself up on his elbows to see better. These were pictures of real life: men and women—families—together.
Staring at a painting of a man working a piece of wood, he remembered that Abba was gone. Oh, how he yearned to return to an ordinary life in Palestine. He must leave. Now. But would he still have a home there? He had been a mere boy when he left. Would his brothers and sisters still know him? Could they forgive him? Yeshua thought of his brother Yakov and how, when tickled, his laughter made his whole body shake. His brother loved life. He used to skip Sabbath to play with stones in the lake because—he said—listening to stories about imaginary people was a waste of time. Once, Yeshua had smacked him because Yakov had claimed that any truth in the scriptures had been lost in a weave of lies. Yeshua remembered how angry he had been, how offended at the suggestion. But Yakov had known then what it had taken Yeshua a lifetime to learn—making people happy was nobler than preaching the Torah, because happiness equaled godliness.
He couldn’t wait to meet his grown-up brother. He had to return home. There was work to do there. Real work.
When his host returned to the cave, Yeshua observed his every move. The petite man lowered the sack full of plants to the cave floor. He removed the fur skins tied to his back and the layers of woolen scarves wrapped around his head. Yeshua couldn’t take his eyes off him. What an interesting face: perfectly oval with a flat nose and a delicate, graceful mouth. If it hadn’t been for the short, choppy hair, Yeshua could have sworn he was looking at a girl. But only men would wear such heavy furs and those wide-crotched pants, and of course this young man didn’t have breasts.
Or did he? As the man removed another layer of thigh-length robes, Yeshua saw that his hips were wide under a slim waist, his buttocks plump, and his small breasts perky. Oh, goodness. Her breasts.
“You. Are. Awake. Good. I Have. Food.” The words came out in chunks. She grinned, revealing a row of crooked white teeth. When Yeshua smiled back, she scurried away into an adjacent space in the back of the cave to prepare the food. He watched her stoke the fire, chop the plants with a coarse blade, and put a ceramic pot on the fire to boil milk. Yeshua couldn’t take his eyes off her. It had been years since he’d been able to observe a woman without feeling shame.
She squatted at his side and handed him a steaming bowl of porridge. “Now eat.” Her eyes followed his every move as he tasted the food and devoured it with a healthy appetite. The porridge was foul-looking and bland, but it made him warm, and the taste reminded him of a vegetable soup Ama made.
“I’m Issa,” Yeshua said, after licking the bowl clean. “What’s your name?”
“Pema.” The girl pointed to herself, and then reached for the empty bowl. Yeshua held it back, hoping she would stay and talk.
“You live here—alone?” She reached for the bowl again.
Yeshua hid it behind his back. “Please… Pema.”
She looked at him, confused. When Yeshua put his hand on hers, she pulled it away.
“Talk to me.”
Once she realized he wouldn’t come after her, she relaxed but stayed at a safe distance.
“Tell me about the pictures.” Yeshua pointed to the drawings on the walls.
Pema scanned the room, as if searching for the best place to start. With basic words and gestures at the cave wall, she told her story. Her family had always lived in the Himalayas. They hunted for meat, gathered plants, and kept yaks. One day, in the midst of winter, a group of starving Zhang Zhung soldiers passed by and saw the family’s stores of dried meat and milk. The soldiers chased her family out of the cave and gorged themselves on their food. Like beasts. Pema and her family stayed outside the cave for days, waiting for the soldiers to leave, but they never did. Pema’s parents begged them to let the small children in for warmth, but the soldiers refused. Before long, two of her youngest siblings had frozen to death. To save his family, her father guided them down the slopes to seek refuge in the villages in the valley. On the way, her father was attacked and killed by a snow leopard. Her other siblings died for lack of food. When Pema and her mother reached the nearest village, her mother caught a fever, and in only a few days she wilted away.
Pema paused and stared at the ceiling, her face blank. After her mother died, a man invited her into his hut and offered her a place to sleep. Pema thought her luck had changed—until he raped her. She escaped the next day and eventually ended up living with another family who fed her and offered her a bed of straw among the animals, but they made her serve them from dawn until long after dusk. One night, the father came to her and she let him have his way. Pema’s voice trembled—she had feared the man would strangle her if she refused. Early the following morning, she re
turned to the safety of the mountains. By then, spring had arrived, and the soldiers had left. Her yaks came when she called them, and within days she had made a comfortable home for herself in the cave. She made a pact with herself that she would stay in this cave until she died.
“Alone?” Yeshua asked.
Pema brushed the dust off her pants and went to poke the fire. She handed him another bowl of porridge. “I have animals. And birds. Mountains. Ancestor spirits. Not alone.”
“And the Buddha? Do you know Lord Buddha?”
Pema frowned.
“It doesn’t matter. You said spirits?”
She shrugged and laughed. Yeshua laughed with her, happy to be in her company.
“You know spirits?” she asked.
When Yeshua shook his head, she scrunched her nose, eyes wide. “You not hear? They talk and talk. All time.”
“God speaks to me. He’s like a father to me.”
“Yes, my father speak to me,” she said.
Yeshua felt sadness burn his throat. His father was also gone. He swallowed his pain and looked at the woman again.
“Your father and your mother?”
“Yes, my mother. But father and grandfather, they speak.”
“What do they say?”
“They tell truth. When I see you, I not know if you alive. I not know if bad man. They say me take you inside.”
Yeshua’s eyes stung with fresh tears. He had asked to be saved, and Yahweh had saved him.
“They say this meeting”—she paused—“is sacred. When I see you, I know I save you. Not only life. Save.”
The Transmigrant Page 17