“Tenzing, I’m trying to see things differently now,” my father said. “Can you allow that to be true?”
He was asking me to reexamine a core fact of my existence—that my father’s rejection was the source of all my problems. The challenge was terrifying. As I took a deep breath, my vow, the one I had outlined to Yeshe and Lobsang in that fateful returned letter, plucked at my heart. If ever there was a time to let go of an outmoded, limited model of thinking, it was now.
“I’m listening,” I said.
“Thank you, Tenzing.” My father’s voice was heavy. “I think . . . I think our struggles have their roots in resentment.”
“Whose resentment?” I said, and braced myself.
He touched his chest. “Mine.” His face twisted. A tear formed. Rolled down his cheek. More tears followed. Impossible. My father does not cry. But there they were—and something loosened inside.
I opened my mouth to speak.
“Please. There’s more,” he said. “Rather than addressing this resentment, I told myself I did you a favor. That I gave you something to rebel against, something that might propel you into a new life and make you strong enough to succeed.” His smile was wan. “Is there any truth to that? Or am I simply a failed father trying to make himself feel better?”
“Yes,” I said. “And yes.”
He nodded. “I understand. Just as I now understand why I sent Yeshe and Lobsang away. How much easier, to condemn intimacy and trust among others, rather than acknowledge one’s own utter lack of either.”
We remained silent for a few long moments.
“I am haunted by the thought that my life is almost over, and I failed in everything I did,” my father said.
“That sounds like the cancer talking,” I said. Welcome to the human race, I thought.
“Maybe. But there’s truth in the cancer nonetheless,” he said. “And the pain is teaching me things I couldn’t learn any other way.”
Fear put a choke hold around my throat. “Father, are you sure there’s nothing . . . ?”
He stopped my words with a raised palm. “I missed my chance, Tenzing. Now all I can do is regard the process of dying with equanimity. Try to stay open to learning from it.”
“Long may you learn, then,” I said.
“No,” he said. “Short may I learn.”
Our eyes met straight on. His crinkled in what looked like genuine good humor.
“I never gave you my blessing, did I?” he said. He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a soft, silken object, a white kata. “His Holiness gave me this when I was installed as head abbot. He will be pleased to hear that I have passed it on to you.” He draped it around my neck.
A seed of feeling blossomed in my chest area, a sense of warm expansion I had never associated with my father. Was it love?
He pushed upright and took hold of his cane.
“There is a Sikh in the village,” he said. “A merchant. Mr. Mohan. He will help you. Now go. I’m very tired.”
“Father . . . “
“Go.”
I went. On my way out, I glanced into the courtyard, now filled with young monks, heading for their afternoon assembly. I thought I might recognize some of them, but I didn’t.
There are fixers everywhere. Inside India, most of the really good ones are Sikhs. Their network is nationwide, they won’t cheat you, and if things get dicey, their ceremonial daggers are known to have sharpened edges.
I soon tracked down the white-turbaned Mr. Mohan in his rug shop. He was wide across the shoulders and a long, full beard, held neatly in place with a hair net, rested on his well-fed belly, a sign of distinction among the merchant classes in India. I explained who I was.
“Your father’s a great man,” he said. “How wonderful you come from America to visit him.”
I just smiled.
“What you need?”
I told him I needed to somehow get to Yeshe and Lobsang’s monastery. As I said the words, a feeling close to panic swelled in my lungs, making it harder to breathe.
Tenzing. Brother. Where are you?
Yeshe and Lobsang. Something was wrong.
“As quickly as possible,” I said.
Mr. Mohan nodded. “I arrange passage for them,” he said. “But no ‘quick as possible.’ One full day by truck, followed by ten-mile hike where truck cannot go.”
“No!”
He raised his eyebrows.
“I’m sorry, but no. I don’t have a day,” I said. “Please. It’s urgent.”
He eyed me, and somehow deduced I had enough money to grease the right palms.
“Good. You fly Lhasa, then drive 3-wheel ATV to Dip-Dorje Yidam. I arrange both. Maybe you get there today, things go your way.”
“Is that the fastest way?”
He chuckled. “No. Fastest way helicopter. Fastest way get there. Fastest way die. Chinese don’t shoot you out of sky, they burn down monastery.” He waved me off. “Come back in one half hour.”
I was starving. I crossed the street and purchased three momos, plucked from the heated metal vat of a colorful street vendor. She beamed at me as I devoured hot dumplings of shredded cabbage, carrots and potatoes, savoring the sharp bite of ginger.
I hurried back to find the amazing Mr. Mohan had fixed all my problems. Within the hour I was back at the Dharamshala airport, catching a ten-seater to Lhasa. This plane, too, bucked and lurched until I wondered if I would outlive the journey. I distracted myself from worrying about my safety, and that of my friends, by mentally rearranging fragments of insight from the time with my father. Maybe I could piece them into a new quilt of understanding.
Half the cells in my body come from my father.
There is no escaping him. He lives in me.
I give him power every time I argue with him in my mind.
I give him power every time I spot some thought of his in my mind and curse him for putting it there.
He will trouble me as long as I continue to give him permission to do so.
Accept. Allow. All will be well. My father’s voice, the newer, kinder version, seemed to float to me from somewhere outside. No, not from outside. Inside. Inside me. I had to smile. One part of my mind busily clung to regrets and resentments and heartaches from years ago. Meanwhile, another part piped up, trying to shift the direction, a wise voice like that of a good parent. Marvelous instrument, this brain, even if often an instrument of torture.
The “good father” voice spoke up again, encouraged by my brief willingness to listen. Accept him as he is, and maybe he’ll quit bothering you. While you’re at it, accept the parts of you that are just like him, and maybe you’ll quit bothering yourself.
As I wrapped this new understanding around my shoulders, trying it on for size, the aerial bumps stopped bothering me, too.
A dour Chinese official at the Lhasa airport took in my dark eyes and high cheekbones with suspicion. I met his gaze steadily, though my heart was pounding.
“Reason for your visit?”
“Tourist,” I said.
He grunted and returned to my passport. But no matter how long he studied it, it still said “American.”
He stamped me through.
I stepped outside, breathing in the crisp air. I spun round and round; at home in a place I’d never been to before. A chill wind whipped my face, and I was shocked to notice my cheeks were wet.
I was some kind of Tibetan mess, wasn’t I?
During my years in the monastery, Tibet shimmered in the background of every conversation, salted every bite of bread, sweetened every sip of tea. But it was never completely real. Now, as I stood in the wind, facing the jagged ridgeline of the Himalayas, I absorbed the deep pulsation of the Dharma and the land, and finally understood the depth of their connection to each other, and my connection to them. I felt the power and innate happiness of my tradition, felt how the wild heart of the land beats in the earth, and in the air. I understood how it was that my ancestors knew how to recon
cile the animal and spiritual nature of our species.
Two hundred and fifty years ago, the sixth Dalai Lama, too, was called Tenzing. He, too, had a wild heart. He, too, was a spiritual man blessed, or cursed, with an erotic nature. As a young lama, I fell upon his poems for reassurance. Now my favorite verse of his paid a visit:
I dwell apart in the Potala.
A god on earth am I.
But when the sun goes down,
I roam the town,
A master of boisterous revelry.
He was my kind of monk, and Tibet was my kind of country. Fierce.
Tenzing. We need you.
I had to find the local Lhasa fixer, Chubchen, and quickly. The second person I asked pointed me toward the two-acre square of rubbled ground on the edge of the airport that served as a parking lot for a motley bunch of rental vehicles. Mr. Mohan was correct. Chub was there, squat, merry, raggedy, and gap-toothed. He stood guard over an equally well worn 3-wheeler. Even with his broken English and my almost nonexistent Tibetan, it was an easy deal. I handed him six hundreds, he handed me the key. If I returned the ATV in one piece, he’d give me three hundreds back. If I, or the vehicle, didn’t survive, all bets were off.
“Gzab gzab,” Chub warned. I vaguely recognized the word: helmet. Chub pointed to my Dodger cap and frowned—his fixing hadn’t extended to a gzab gzab.
I might scrounge up safer covering for my cranium in the center of town, but there was no time. I had to get to my friends as fast as possible.
I fired up the 3-wheeler and took a few laps around the parking lot to get a feel for the vehicle before I started the long trek. I concluded the experience was somewhere between steering a burro and straddling a trike. Over an hour later I trundled around a curve and saw the Potala for the first time, a magnificent multileveled palace perched on a hill overlooking the Lhasa valley. I smiled. The location actually reminded me a little of the Getty. I pulled over to the side of the road to take a quick look, since I wouldn’t set foot on its holy ground, not this trip, anyway.
For a brief moment, I soaked in the silent grandeur of the immense, sprawling structure, a monument to the Buddha that took thousands of workers many years to complete. Some said the hillside itself still harbored a sacred cave, used as a meditation retreat in the seventh century. Centuries of contemplation, centuries of compassion. It was humbling. I take refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, the supreme Sangha. I bowed to the home of my spiritual ancestors. I take refuge in my teachers.
I restraddled my ungainly mount and hit the throttle.
I steered around the outskirts of Lhasa and up into the hills. The gravel road petered out, replaced by narrow yak trails skirting high above a river gorge. A gust of wind sent my Dodger cap soaring to the bottom of the thousand-foot ravine. My trusty ATV and I dodged boulders, branches, and piles of yak dung. On the positive side, since I’d left the main road, the only bipeds I’d seen were Tibetan hill people—no Chinese officials in evidence.
I was hungry, thirsty, and battered from the bumps in the road. I was beyond jet-lagged as well—Monday or Friday, morning or evening, I hadn’t a clue. But I pressed on. I had to find Dip-Dorje before I lost the light. The final few miles of twisted, rocky trail required my final few ounces of focus. Close to the top, the wind changed direction, blowing hard down the slope and straight into my face. I paused to put on my wraparound sunglasses, tightening them in the back with their little leash. I’m sure I looked ridiculous, but at least I could see where I was going.
Finally the trail widened, and I saw the whipping prayer flags and colorful turrets of a little monastery up the slope to my right, just past a few stone huts. A gaggle of children, streaked with grime, giggled and shrieked as they played some sort of jumping game in the courtyard. I chugged up the path and braked to a halt. They fell silent, staring at me in astonishment.
In an instant I was surrounded. I tried out a greeting in my rusty Tibetan, and they hooted and crowed at my pronunciation. Then they asked me where I was going—at least I’m pretty sure they did. In any case, I pointed to Dip-Dorje. They led the way, filling the trail with happy chatter as my machine and I crept behind them. I was still wearing my sunglasses, and I was sure no movie star ever had a better entourage.
I dismounted and bowed my thanks. They scampered down the hill to their homes.
I stretched my creaky bones and tight muscles.
“Tenzing! Is it possible?” a familiar voice cried behind me. I straightened up and spun around, grinning at the sight of my soul brother Lobsang. I threw open my arms. “Tah-shi de-leh, Lobsang. I am happy to see you, my friend.” My smile faded. Lobsang’s round face was pinched with worry.
“No time,” he said. “No time! It’s Yeshe!”
He grabbed my arm and hurried me to a small door in the back of the monastery. He lit a candle and pulled me inside. The flickering light illuminated our way up the narrow wooden stairs to the second floor. He opened a door in the hallway and whispered “Yeshe. Our brother, Tenzing, is here.” He pushed me inside.
Yeshe lay still, on a rough mattress on the floor. His face was slick with sweat.
“Yeshe!” I ran to his side and knelt. I took his hands in mine. The palms were hot, and papery dry. Yeshe moaned.
“How long has he been like this, Lobsang?”
“Three days,” Lobsang said. “He scratched his ankle, gathering wood. It seemed like nothing.”
I pulled the covers down. The scratch was badly infected. His right ankle was swollen to twice its normal size, and the hot, red skin was speckled with white spots.
I thought of Heather’s autopsy—how quickly untreated sepsis can kill.
I jumped to my feet and ran downstairs and back outside to the ATV. I grabbed the first aid kit. Please. Please have what I need.
My fingers trembling, I unzipped the kit and rummaged through its contents.
“Hah!” I pounced on the small tube of Neosporin and Z-pack of six miraculous pills.
I ran back upstairs. “Antibiotics. These will stop the infection,” I said. Lobsang hurried over with a cup of water, and together we lifted Yeshe upright. I placed a pill far back on his tongue and Lobsang tipped the cup to Yeshe’s lips. He swallowed the pill, his throat working.
“Can you bring me a clean, wet cloth and some hot water?”
I washed the infected area, trying not to press on the painful swelling. Then I applied the cream to his wound. The simple act touched my heart deeply, and I had to blink back tears. As I wrapped his ankle with a second clean cloth, Yeshe’s breathing slowed. In moments, he was asleep.
“He has to take all six of the pills, Lobsang.” My words came out in a rush. “Do you understand? All six. He could have died. One more day and . . . “
“Tenzing.”
I looked up. Lobsang met my eyes, his full of compassion. He opened his arms. I stood up and walked straight into his rough embrace.
I took a step back. We studied each other. His squat powerful body had thickened over the years.
“At least one of you looks healthy,” I said. A grin plastered his face.
“Come eat with me,” he said. “Then we will talk.”
I followed Lobsang downstairs, through the kitchen and into a dining room, where monks were slurping and ahhing over yak-butter tea. They were all in their 50s and 60s, their skin leathered from the harsh Tibetan climate.
Lobsang ladled out lentil soup and a generous mound of rice. We sat cross-legged on the floor, guzzling straight from our bowls, using fingers to convey little wads of rice into our mouths. After my afternoon trek, a boiled shoe would have tasted pretty good, but this simple soup of yellow lentils, flavored with cumin and some other spices I didn’t recognize, was delicious—deep and rich, and tasting of comfort.
Lobsang poured two mugs of homemade beer, or chang. Chang tastes more like fermented orange juice than ale, and I’d gotten a gloomy headache from it more than once in my past, but under the circumstances, it would do just fi
ne. Anyway, I owed it to Lobsang to keep him company—he had always loved the tart brew.
I stopped after half a mug—the fermentation was speeding directly to my brain. Lobsang drained his mug and eyed mine. I handed it over, and it was gone in one gulp. I waited, smiling.
“Brrraapppp!” There it was, the traditional postchang belch of appreciation. Between the three of us, Lobsang had always been the champion burper. It was our signal to talk.
He leaned back and folded his hands over his stomach. He cocked his head, as if measuring my features.
“What?”
“You won’t like hearing this, but you look very much as your father did, when I first met him.”
“You’re right. I don’t want to hear it.”
“Still the same Tenzing. Still denying your inheritance.” Lobsang smiled. “So you saw him?”
I’d forgotten how few words we actually needed to communicate.
“Yes,” I said. “But I’d rather wait for Yeshe to talk about it.”
Lobsang nodded.
“So how are you?” I said. “How is . . . “ I waved my arm around the room. “ . . . all this?”
Lobsang’s domed forehead furrowed slightly. “I must confess something. There are times I think of you with envy in my heart, my friend. Your life is . . . Well, the things you used to write to us about, the people you’ve met, your work. Since we’ve moved,” he gestured. “Nothing ever happens here. Nothing.”
I understood completely. That’s why I’d left Dharamshala in the first place. I hadn’t wanted to spend my existence with my eyes closed, life happening elsewhere. But leaving was not without its own consequences.
“Sometimes I think of your world with envy in my heart,” I said.
He nodded slowly. “Just so. The things you see must sicken you. I can imagine you might long at times for a place where nothing happens.”
“I’m sorry you were sent here,” I said. “I know my father gave the order, but I am responsible.”
“You must not worry yourself. Nobody is in control of anybody else’s existence. Our karma brought us here; yours brought you to where you are. Your father’s karma . . . well, let’s just say it will take him wherever it takes him.”
The Second Rule of Ten Page 25