by Bruce Kirkby
A dark tunnel led to the monastery’s upper courtyard. A wooden pole rose in the center, festooned with prayer flags and topped with a yak tail. Beneath, two teenage monks were zealously blowing into brass horns. Beyond rose an ancient fortress.
This was the lhakhang (“hall of the gods”), also commonly referred to as the assembly hall. Constructed from mud, stone and rough-hewn timbers, it was four hundred years old and now gently slumped, walls and roof askew. Like autumn leaves, a scattering of plastic sandals lay before the entry. We added our hiking boots to the pile, then pulled aside a heavy yak-hair blanket and slipped in.
We found ourselves inside a darkened room about the size of a school gymnasium, where a scattering of twisted wooden pillars supported the low roof. Frescoes lined the walls. A sea of flickering yak-butter candles on the altar warmed a giant golden statue of Buddha.
Row after row of monks sat silent and cross-legged. A young man wandered the aisles, swinging a censer that billowed with the blue smoke of burning juniper. A single sword of sunlight cut down from above.
Unsure of what to do, we lingered beside the door. Eventually an older monk spotted us and scurried to a dark corner where he unfurled a carpet and then motioned for us to sit. Awkwardly, I lowered myself cross-legged. Bodi did the same, driving a sharp elbow into the flesh of my leg as he leaned against me.
“What happens next?” he whispered. I shrugged.
We sat in silence as monks and novice boys continued to stream in, each prostrating three times in the central aisle before finding their place.I Eventually a single, sonorous voice filled the room. The others quickly joined in, their rhythmic chants gently rising and falling like ocean swells.
Distracted by aching knees, I adjusted my position, but only made matters worse by grinding an ankle against the hard floor. Soon one foot had fallen asleep. I straightened my leg and then glanced at my watch. We’d only been sitting for seven minutes?
Apart from crouching on haunches, sitting cross-legged may be the most ageless form of repose. As a young boy, I could spend hours on the floor, but decades of chair-bound living had tightened me in ways I had never realized. None of the lamas showed any discomfort as they swayed, and I made a commitment that if I achieved nothing else during my time at Karsha Gompa, at the very least I would teach my body—or more accurately re-teach it—how to sit cross-legged.
Bodi was experiencing no such problems. He sat serenely with eyes closed, upturned hands resting on his knees, thumb and forefinger touching, mirroring the Buddha statue at the front. Whether this was a continuation of what he’d learned in the Tibetan cave, or simply another expression of his comfort with all things spiritual, he had drifted into a realm I knew nothing of.
I have long viewed meditation with skepticism. Sitting around and thinking of nothing did not seem like a productive use of my precious time. So decades earlier, when my mother gently suggested that meditation might help calm my busy mind, I ignored her. Christine had meditated daily when we started dating, and I’d often discover her sitting in lotus position with eyes closed and a distant expression on her face. Usually I’d sneak up and gently tug on an ear, which infuriated her. She too had implored me to give meditation a shot, which I did, for a short time. But I found it impossible to concentrate on my breath and gave up.
So it came as a surprise, just weeks before our departure, when I happened upon a review of contemporary research that showed meditation was having unexpected and far-reaching effects: decreasing blood pressure, decreasing stress hormones, even decreasing dangerous cholesterol in the blood, while simultaneously increasing immune response and positively influencing such seemingly unrelated conditions as binge eating, irritable bowel syndrome, psoriasis, ADHD, depression and addiction.
But the most astounding results of these studies were the brain scans, which revealed even short bouts of meditation were literally rewiring the brain, adding measurable grey matter while altering attributes previously thought to be set from birth: happiness, resilience, kindness.
Whether these studies had softened my resistance, or whether it was just the thin Himalayan air, I can’t say, but I decided to give meditation another shot. Gently shutting my eyes, I took a deep breath and tried to clear my mind, focusing only on my breath.
What does that mean, “focus on your breath”?
What exactly should I be thinking about?
The tickle of air at my nostrils?
My chest moving up and down?
Wasn’t I supposed to breathe with my belly?
A pair of stockinged feet tiptoed past. A cymbal clanged. Then a scratching sound, and I opened my eyes to find a young monk sweeping the aisles. Another boy was lighting candles.
Damn it, what happened to my breathing? Clearing my mind, I again closed my eyes and focused on the air moving in and out of my nostrils.
How long would my camera batteries last? Would I be able to recharge them in Zanskar? What about the upcoming TV show? Would it be a success? Would it change our lives? Would there be a second season? My thoughts drifted to home. Had I collected enough firewood to see us through the coming winter? Had I waxed my skis before putting them away for the summer?
For something that appeared so simple, meditating was damn hard work.
Sunlight flooded the room, and my eyes popped open again. The heavy drapes covering the door had been flung aside, and two barefoot boys rushed in, carrying fire-blackened kettles so heavy they were forced to balance the urns against a hip and walk askew. Starting with the Head Lama (who sat on a raised dais near the altar) the pair poured steaming tea into outstretched bowls as they scampered up and down the aisles.II
A lama with severe eyebrows—he could have passed for Soviet politician Leonid Brezhnev—shuffled from the room. Moments later the man returned, carrying two china tea cups, which he handed to Bodi and me. The novices raced over, one filling Bodi’s cup, the other mine. Unfortunately, my server was so distracted that he poured right over the rim, spilling scalding liquid across my pants. A loud tut from Brezhnev sent the pair scurrying toward the door.
I expected to taste po cha, or butter tea, a gamey concoction common across Tibet. But instead I found myself drinking sweet, milky chai, spiced with cardamom. In a few gulps I had drained my cup. After fastidiously blowing on his own tea, Bodi took a sip and gave a thumbs-up.
More chanting followed. With knees and back aching, maintaining focus on my breath felt impossible. I fidgeted endlessly. Eventually Bodi whispered, “I’m done praying. I want to leave.” I asked if he could find his own way home, and he nodded. He stood and tiptoed out, with every eye in the room following him.
Soon the tea urns appeared again, and this time a layer of molten butter floated atop the tea in my cup.
Made by churning yak butter with boiling water, salt and tea leaves, po cha is celebrated across the Tibetan Plateau for its capacity to hydrate, replace salts, provide energy and even prevent chapped lips from cracking. Common estimates suggest villagers drink anywhere between forty and sixty cups daily. I wasn’t so keen on the stuff, and on previous journeys had gagged on the briny flavor and congealed fat.
“The trick is not to think of it as tea,” a French traveller told me years earlier, in a Sikkim guest house. “Imagine you are drinking bouillon. Or chicken noodle soup.”
His advice proved useless, and for years I had surreptitiously tossed the fetid liquid beneath tables and out tent doors—never a successful strategy, for Tibetans relentlessly refill every guest’s cup.
But when I tried this batch, I found it creamy and surprisingly palatable. I finished my cup and held it out again when a second round was served.
Chanting resumed, and I had closed my eyes, pondering why the butter tea of Karsha Gompa seemed so agreeable—Non-rancid butter? Less salt?—when the lamas leapt up in unison and began streaming out. Struggling to my feet, one leg asleep, I was carried by the tide of crimson robes toward blinding sunlight beyond.
* * *
Bodi skipped gaily down the trail, and I followed with Taj on my shoulders. Soon three white goats came bounding toward us, intent on licking Bodi’s face. He shooed them away furiously while Taj giggled. Later, a pair of women overtook us, scarves drawn across faces and wicker baskets piled high with dung slung across shoulders.
At the village entrance, the women paused to give the prayer wheel a mighty spin. We followed suit, Bodi and Taj taking turns getting the enormous brass drum revolving at a frantic rate.
Karsha’s “store” was actually the ground floor of a mud-brick homestead. Two garage-style doors had been thrown up, and a silent man in a maroon sweater and cream fedora sat behind a wooden counter. The shelves were laden with biscuit packages, soda crackers, noodle soup, powdered milk, black tea, spicy Indian snacks, cellophane tape, flashlights, sticks of incense, prayer flags, and khata scarves. On the dirt floor, plastic crates held eggs, butter, a few wrinkled potatoes and one head of cauliflower.
To my delight, there was no soda pop or bottled water—making Karsha one of the rare places on the planet where you can’t buy a Coke. I wasn’t so happy to discover a corresponding lack of coffee and beer, which meant we’d be drinking nothing but creek water or tea during the months ahead. It was probably for the best. A full detox.
A collection of clear plastic jars held bulk candy: sours, lollipops, mints, chocolates and a mango-flavored chewing gum called Center Fruit. Digging into his pocket, Bodi extracted a wad of Indian cash, earned for good behavior, and purchased ten Center Fruit at one rupee (two cents) apiece. Taj started to cry, for he had no money, and having come without my own wallet, I begged ten rupees from my little banker.
Afterward we lingered by the village stream, balancing pebbles and later trying to corral black beetles that skittered across the glittering pools. Riverside cottonwoods were releasing seeds, and the fuzz drifted ceaselessly across the blue sky above, as if carried on a conveyor belt. It was August. Back in Canada, the same seeds would have flown in May, but Zanskar’s stunted growing season demanded reproduction remain in full swing, even as autumn approached.
Clambering back up to the monastery, we found the hobbit door padlocked. We didn’t have a key, so all we could do was wait in the shade of nearby rose bushes. I mused this was a chance to practise the Buddhist virtue of acceptance and focused on my breathing. The boys discussed which superhero could open the hobbit door.
“Hulk would smash it down,” Bodi declared.
“Not Spidey,” Taj said, lip starting to quiver as if he might cry. “His webs are too weak.”
Taj brightened when Bodi declared Superman capable of burning the lock off with his X-ray vision. And Thor could smash it with his hammer. There was no consensus whether Captain America’s shield could shatter the wood.
“I miss home,” Bodi said unexpectedly. “How long until we go back?”
“Not long!” Taj beamed. “Just three months.”
Bodi rolled his eyes. “Taj, that is a very long time.”
We sat in silence again, then Bodi said, “I wish Nain was here.”
Nain is the Welsh word for grandmother, and referred to my seventy-five-year-old mother.
“Nain can’t come to Zanskar,” I explained. “It would be too difficult for her here. There are too many stairs. And Lama Wangyal’s passageway is too low.”
Bodi thought about this for a moment, then suggested, “Why not wait until she shrinks some more. Then she won’t have to bend over.”
I laughed, but he wasn’t joking.
“Dad! You shrink as you get older. You know that.”
I admitted he was correct.
“And it will be easier for you to go into Lama Wangyal’s house this afternoon.”
I looked at him quizzically.
“When you sleep, your body stretches out. Even an old geezer like you. But all day you shrink again. You’ll be shorter this afternoon. We can measure.”
“Will you and Mom die before me?” Taj interjected.
“I certainly hope so,” I replied, taken by surprise.
“Why do you hope so?” asked Bodi.
I launched into a clumsy explanation of how no parent wants to outlive their child, but Taj interrupted with more pressing concerns.
“When will you die anyway? When I am ten?”
And so it went, back and forth, for forty-five minutes, until a novice monk came rambling down the path, with shaven head and sleeveless robes.
He stopped before us and stared at my two boys, open-mouthed with disbelief. Then he pulled a key from his robes, opened the hobbit door and disappeared up the wooden ladder at the end of the dark passageway.
* * *
That afternoon I was stretched across my pallet, enjoying the warm sunlight while watching a little wren collect nesting material from the sill, when Lama Wangyal burst in.
“Teaching,” he shouted, pointing to his wristwatch.
I knew Lama Wangyal was eager for us to teach English to Karsha’s novice monks, but I hadn’t realized the role would commence so soon.
Christine and I had planned that she would teach at the monastery while I spent the afternoons with Bodi and Taj—a change of routine for both of us. But with Christine and the boys down in the village, buying eggs for supper, today would fall to me. Cramming supplies into a backpack, I raced to catch Lama Wangyal, who was already climbing up the steep trails.
The classroom sat near the top of the monastery. Screams and laughter echoed from an open door. Inside, a horde of boys were tossing cups of water over shrieking compatriots. Others whipped their classmates with damp robes.
“Big Teacher coming soon,” Lama Wangyal assured me before striding off.
Tattered cushions rested against the classroom’s mud-brick walls. Two sheets of plywood—painted black and perched on easels—acted as rudimentary blackboards. A hot plate and teapot sat in the back corner, while a bank of windows at the front provided gorgeous views of the wide valley.
The monk boys remained oblivious to my presence, and after waiting ten minutes for backup, I decided to break up the pandemonium myself.
“Hello!” I shouted.
A few of the novices glanced my way, but no one stopped running.
“HELLO!” I hollered, this time at the top of my lungs.
Everyone froze.
Hurriedly the boys gathered satchels and arranged themselves in what appeared to be order of youngest to oldest. There were twenty-one in total. All wore maroon robes, except for one little cherubic youngster, who sported a brown satin coat and orange monk’s hat with upturned earflaps. Placing their hands together, the class bowed toward me.
“Good afternoon!” I said, enunciating the words slowly.
“Good afternoon,” the class replied in unison.
“My name is… Mr. Bruce.”
Until that moment, I hadn’t thought about what the monk boys should call me. But instinct told me Mr. Bruce was better than Mortub, for half the battle of learning a foreign language is growing accustomed to its unusual sounds.
“My name is Mr. Bruce!” the class repeated, beaming.
Well, that didn’t work. I tried pointing to the oldest boy, asking, “Your name is…?”
“Your name is…?” he repeated.
Not wanting to be excluded, the entire class joyously joined in, “Your name is…?”
“Mr. Bruce!” I replied, and I moved along the row of boys, banging on my chest then pointing quizzically to each in turn. “My name is Mr. Bruce. And your name is…?”
Eventually, someone understood.
“Stenzin,” he said proudly, pointing to himself.
Finally we were getting somewhere. Except the b
oy beside him was named Stenzin also. And the boy next to him as well. In fact, every boy in the classroom told me his name was Stenzin.
That was the starting point: twenty-one identical boys, all wearing maroon robes, all with shaved heads, all called Stenzin.
Unsure what to do next, I retrieved a world map from my backpack. As I unfurled the chart, the boys crowded close, some sitting on my lap, others standing behind and poking through my hair the way a gorilla might search for fleas. I pointed to Canada. So did all twenty-one boys. Then we all pointed to India together. Then to the valley of Zanksar.
A knock at the door interrupted us. Seven French tourists were being shown around the monastery by a young Indian man wearing a leather motorcycle jacket and Ray-Ban sunglasses. After bowing deeply to the novice boys, he asked if his group could watch my lesson. I invited them in.
“How long have you been teaching?” one woman asked.
“Five minutes,” I replied, leaving her unsure if I meant today or in my entire life. The answer was the same either way.
I continued, asking each boy his age and home village, while the tourists wandered amongst us, distributing ballpoint pens, unsharpened pencils and pink erasers. Apparently, the boys received plenty of such discards, for their satchels brimmed with broken and leaking tokens of such generosity. After snapping several photos, the group departed without a word.
Left in peace, I discovered the novices came from villages across Zanskar, the majority drawn from a cluster of neighboring hamlets. As we chatted I overheard the name Purbu, so I stopped and asked, “Who is Purbu?”
An impish looking boy raised his hand.
“Not Stenzin?” I asked.
“Stenzin Purbu!”
The boys had all been renamed upon entering the monastery, I would later learn, and every single one received the name Stenzin in honor of the current, and widely popular, Dalai Lama, Tenzin Gyatso. But they also received secondary names, by which they addressed each other, and those names now came in an avalanche.