Blue Sky Kingdom

by Bruce Kirkby

  Similar in appearance to the North American crow, with coal-black feathers and brilliant yellow eyes, the choughs were magnificent acrobats, rivalling terns and frigate birds for aerial agility. Rocketing past in small groups, they engaged in endless games of what appeared to be follow-the-leader, wheeling around temples, zooming down narrow alleyways. At other times they soared impossibly high, fading to specks in the endless blue before retracting wings and plummeting earthward like fighter jets, skimming past us with wind whistling through feathers.

  I was admiring the choughs’ antics one warm afternoon when seven-year-old Nawang appeared beside me. Missing both front baby teeth, the boy possessed a fierce ruggedness, and I’d seen him strike bigger boys fearlessly. I ran a hand across his shorn skull, and he leaned against my leg, gazing at Bodi and Taj.

  Taj winked at Nawang. Nawang winked back. Soon the pair were chasing each other through a maze of collapsing brick walls, playing a wordless variation of King of the Castle. Bodi stood beside me, weaving a hand through the air, imitating a flying chough. Was he listening to the sounds of the other boys’ laughter? He appeared unperturbed. But was he? Was I wrong to worry?

  From the outside, it often appears that people on the autism spectrum prefer to be left alone. But John Elder Robison, whose book Look Me in the Eye documents his life with undiagnosed Asperger’s, suggests isolation is usually due to limitations, not desire. Many on the spectrum, Bodi included, experience powerful emotions—just like neurotypicals. They just don’t always possess the tools to share their inner life.

  I often think of this when a stranger is unexpectedly rude or abrupt—turning their back while I talk, avoiding eye contact, barging into line. Now, instead of judging their behavior as harshly as I might have a few years ago, I find myself wondering what unseen challenges they may endure. It is one of the small but many wondrous ways Bodi has made me a better person.

  Even as I fretted, Bodi began inching his way toward Taj and Nawang. Then, with one awkward lunge, he joined them, running alongside the giggling boys, making strange sounds and exaggerated movements. For a moment he remained outside their partnership, but soon was absorbed, laughing with Nawang, smiling at Taj, even eventually suggesting a new game. For an hour, the three boys clambered together up a pile of rubble, then leapt down in unison, again and again.

  When Christine came striding down the trail, carrying a thermos of tea and fresh chapattis, she pulled up open-mouthed. Playing with a group of children represented a simple milestone for Bodi—one that parents of neurotypical children probably gloss past—but for Christine and me, it felt like a glimpse of the divine.

  * * *

  Long after the boys were asleep, Christine slipped out the hobbit door, toiletry bag tucked under one arm. Moments later, she stormed tearfully back in. Apparently a pair of lamas had materialized from the darkness as she brushed her teeth, watching her intently without saying a word.

  “For three days, I’ve been trying to scrub my pits,” she moaned. “But every single time I go out that bloody door, someone is watching.”

  Our family had been at the monastery for a week, and it seemed no matter what we did at Karsha Gompa, someone was always watching us do it.

  At any time of the day, a glance across the skyline revealed silhouetted monks, standing on rooftops, watching. The Nepali workers had begun constructing a trail on the slopes above Lama Wangyal’s house, and the moment one of us emerged from the hobbit door, they would stop what they were doing and crouch down on haunches, watching us as if we were a television set. If I visited the village store in the morning, that afternoon during class the novices would ask what I’d bought. When Christine missed puja, Wang Chuk dropped by to see if she was sick. Word just got around.

  So when Sunday arrived—our only day clear of teaching responsibilities—we borrowed the guest house keys from Lama Wangyal, crammed laundry into a backpack and set off to wash in private. It had been three weeks since our last shower in Keylong, and a proper scrub was overdue.

  We found the guest house empty and stale. After boiling metal buckets on the propane stove, Christine began scrubbing our filthy clothes (the water soon the color of espresso) while I gave our boys sponge baths in a plastic tub. Afterward, the pair ran outside wearing nothing but hiking boots, kicking a soccer ball they’d found in a closet, blissfully unselfconscious of their nudity.

  I had stripped off my own clothes and was preparing to rinse myself, when I spotted a young girl peering in the window. Skittering about the wet tiles like a moose on ice, I grabbed a dish towel and covered up. Then I waved. And she waved back. Pulling on a pair of shorts, I opened the front door and invited her in.

  Tsomo was eleven years old, with brown eyes and an impossibly wide smile. Her long black hair was held in pigtails, fastened by sparkly baubles. She had been filling her family’s water jugs at an outdoor spigot when she’d noticed the guest house gate ajar.

  We introduced ourselves as Mortub, Angmo, Norbu and Tashi, and she repeated the names in a husky voice. The boys began sketching in their journals while Tsomo watched over their shoulders. I offered her my journal, and she drew a stick figure with pigtails, standing in front of snow-capped mountains, beneath a rainbow.

  Then she disappeared.

  Soon she was back, holding a bowl of cher-pay, dried cheese curd. The tooth-breaking snack tasted exactly as you’d expect dried, unsweetened, unpasteurized milk to taste—like a barnyard.

  Taj and Bodi took a nibble, then spat out the tart curd. Christine turned up her nose. So I ate the entire bowl myself, for it reminded me of arrulth—a similar Mongolian delicacy, containing copious amounts of sheep hair, that once sustained Christine and me on a sixty-day horse journey across the steppe.

  Tsomo disappeared once again.

  Next she returned with an infant in her arms, holding her six-month-old brother, Tuksten Chimba, toward me. I happily accepted the chubby-cheeked boy. How wonderful it felt to hold a baby again! It had been three years since Taj was so delicate, and already I’d forgotten that incomparable scent of a baby’s skin, the heavy head that bobbed unpredictably.

  When Chimba began to fuss, Tsomo jammed a piece of cher-pay in his mouth. Milky drool spilled down the infant’s chin, and I worried he might choke, but when I looked for Tsomo, she was gone. I was standing all alone, holding a stranger’s baby.

  I found Christine outside, hanging laundry. Immediately she yanked the cher-pay from Chimba’s mouth. “You can’t let him eat this, Bruce! He’ll choke.”

  I took Chimba back inside, clutching the sleepy child to my shoulder and bouncing him gently.

  An hour later, Tsomo returned for a final time, having finished filling her family’s water jugs. Now she was off to collect yak dung, with a wicker basket strapped across her shoulders. Gathering Chimba from my arms, she flashed a broad smile and then skipped away down the path.

  Before disappearing, she turning and waved, “Bye-bye, Ama. Bye-bye, Aba,” calling us Mother and Father.

  * * *

  The boys were sleeping when Lama Wangyal tiptoed into our darkened room. Flopping down beside me, he rested his head atop my raised knee.

  Lama Wangyal often took my hand as we strolled the pathways, or draped an arm around my shoulder as we ate. Non-sexual physicality is common between men in Asia (particularly hand holding), and refreshing because of its near-complete absence in North America. I enjoyed Lama Wangyal’s physical companionship, but I knew it could be wildly misconstrued back home—which seemed sad.

  Reaching up, Lama Wangyal yanked off the headlamp I was wearing and began inspecting it, turning it off and on, sweeping the beam around the room like a lightsaber, catching dust in the air. Zanskaris tend to scrutinize every new object they encounter and assess it for utility, a habit surely born of need and seclusion.

  Popping the headlamp open, he smiled. “Canadian battery very good! Indian battery no power.”

  We had four headlamps with us, one for each family membe
r, which felt embarrassingly abundant, so I offered him mine to keep. The old monk refused, of course, but after much encouragement, acquiesced and appeared sincerely pleased.

  Next, he turned his attention to Christine’s toiletry kit, holding up the dental floss questioningly. Christine demonstrated how to use it, tearing off a strand and cleaning between her teeth. Then she held the roll toward Lama Wangyal. The old monk looked skeptical. Raised in a land where every commodity was precious, he tore off a tiny piece, no longer than a hand span. Struggling to wrap it around his fingers—it kept slipping free—he eventually scoffed and gave up. But instead of tossing the floss aside, Lama Wangyal folded it and slipped it inside his robes for some future use.

  Christine, who was busy studying basic Zanskari words, asked Lama Wangyal for help with pronunciation.I On past journeys, we’d made concerted efforts to pick up at least a rudimentary understanding of the local languages. But so far in Zanskar, we’d made disappointingly little progress.

  “Zanskari, no!” Lama Wangyal declared. “English teaching me, yes!”

  Jumping up, he retrieved a faded English textbook buried amid Buddhist tomes. Produced in India, the content was dated—and often unintentionally hilarious.

  Samar’s football became soft after passing wind.

  Vikram and I were on rocks when he popped off the question.

  With all politeness I request you shutter your windows.

  Such vocabulary felt painfully dated, so I tossed the text aside and instead scribbled out a list of basic vocabulary on a piece of scrap paper: pen, pencil, book, pants, shoes, shirt. Lama Wangyal carefully read each word aloud, while I clarified meaning and pronunciation.

  “Shirt,” I said, pointing to my T-shirt.

  “Sure,” he said, struggling with the new sound.

  On and on we went, filling page after page. Lama Wangyal’s energy appeared boundless. Christine’s eyes fluttered. Soon she drifted off.

  Every time I thought we were about to wrap up, Lama Wangyal flipped to a blank page and ordered me to continue. I wrote out lists of farm animals, office supplies, family members, geographical landmarks, common foods and, finally, kitchen implements: cup, plate, knife, fork…

  “Fork,” I read aloud.

  “Fuck,” he tried to copy.

  “Fork,” I said again, gently trying to steer him away from the profane.

  “Fuck!” the tall monk said decisively, finally closing his notebook. He repeated the word as he shuffled toward the altar room and began lighting yak-butter candles.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  I. Zanskari is a dialect of Ladakhi, which itself is a language of Tibetic origins. More details can be found in the Notes section at the back of book.

  8 SAME AS IT EVER WAS

  The eerie cry of the kang-ling (Tibetan brass trumpet) echoed across the mountainside every morning at dawn, calling the monks to puja.

  And day after day, I was drawn back to that dim assembly hall. The quiet ritual began to feel so consequential that often, as I drifted to sleep at night, I found myself anticipating next morning’s prayers. Such devotion was wildly out of character. In my youth, I’d complained bitterly whenever my parents dragged me to Anglican Sunday school, and I’d rebelled against all forms of organized spirituality since. But this felt different.

  My behavior certainly astonished Christine. “I’m not saying I thought you were shallow, but it’s not what I expected.”

  Perhaps it was only the overachiever in me, trying to tame the unfamiliar practice of meditation, but whatever the case, it marked a reversal of roles, because with increasing frequency, Christine moaned and pulled her sleeping bag around her ears at the sound of the horns, choosing warmth over the cool temple floor.

  “I’m feeling a lot of resistance,” she admitted. “I find the nonchalance of the lamas a bit off-putting. They are always talking, joking, coming and going. Anything but focusing on the ceremony. I know I shouldn’t judge, but I expected the atmosphere in the temple to be, hmm, more austere or reverent maybe.”

  Conversely, it was the unpretentious nature of Buddhist worship that drew me.

  And our boys seemed to enjoy it too. While we never forced them to attend puja, the pair frequently tagged along with me, amazingly content to sit through an hour or more of chanting, cross-legged and shoulder to shoulder. Occasionally one or both closed their eyes and meditated. At other times the pair waged silent wars with Lego mini-figures, while novices seated nearby craned their necks to watch.

  Each day, a new pair of barefoot students was responsible for serving the tea. And after traversing the rows of lamas, they raced together toward the back of the assembly hall, eyes flashing in recognition as they filled our bowls, quietly whispering, “Jullay, Tashi! Jullay, Norbu! Jullay, Mr. Bruce!”

  The same boys later returned carrying dented copper urns of tsampa, flour of roasted barley. When this fine-grained flour is mixed with tea, it forms a stiff dough that is the staple of the Tibetan diet.

  As the young servers floated down the aisles, each lama in turn extended a bare arm into the urn, retrieving a handful of tsampa, which he dumped into a wooden bowl, over the dregs of tea. After stirring with a single finger, the dough was kneaded until silky. Finally, the lama broke off lumps roughly the size of a walnut, which he deftly popped into his waiting mouth with a flick of his thumb.

  Our family was not offered tsampa during our first week at the monastery, but as time passed, the servers began glancing our way, as if silently asking: “Want some?” We always demurred, not wanting to overstep our welcome.

  But one chilly morning, as I sat in puja alone, I thought, why not?

  Butter-cheeked Sonam, the fourteen-year-old math whiz, sprinted toward me with a grin. I reached deep into the dark urn, the flour at the bottom cool to the touch. As my fist emerged, a dusting spilt across my lap, and I heard a chortle. Glancing up, I realized everyone in the hall was watching intently.

  I gently dumped the handful into my bowl, where it formed a volcanic shape. Tiny avalanches sloughed over the edge, leading to more laughter. When I tried stirring as I’d seen the lamas do, my index finger became coated with sticky dough—puffy and white like the Michelin Man. I tried licking it clean, but smeared dough across my cheeks, and a dour lama sitting nearby burst into giggles.

  In time I would learn that few things amused the monks more than watching a Westerner struggle to eat tsampa.

  A second round offered a chance at redemption.

  Surmising that the first sticky mess had been the result of leaving too much tea in my bowl, I overcompensated and left too little the second time. The result was a dry, unpalatable dough. As I struggled to choke the mess down, spilling crumbs everywhere, tears streamed down the cheeks of senior lamas. As chanting resumed, a middle-aged monk appeared before me and began vigorously sweeping both the floor and my lap with a whisk of sharp twigs, never once making eye contact.

  * * *

  Differentiating between the sea of monks at Karsha Gompa was a challenge, for there were sixty or more men, all with shorn heads, maroon robes and unfamiliar Tibetan names. So for clarity in our own private conversations, Christine and I began assigning nicknames. It was a habit born of affection and our own linguistic shortcomings.

  The Head Lama was obvious, sitting on a raised dais at the far end of the puja hall, beneath the great gilded Buddha. With unblemished skin, dark eyebrows and a gravelly voice, Meme Khampo Purbu appeared ageless. (His actual age was sixty, according to Lama Wangyal.) The genial man always nodded to our family on monastery trails, but never once said a word to us.

  The next three monks in line—sitting directly beside the Head Lama in the central aisle—were lopon, senior lamas being groomed to one day assume leadership. In Tibetan culture, seating order is of profound importance and a direct reflection of prestige.

  The first lopon, Lama Tsering Norbu, was a seventy-seven-year-old with ragged stubble and red eyes, who perpetually appeared to be re
covering from a night of hard boozing. He wasn’t, of course, but his unkempt, manic air reminded me of Heath Ledger’s character in The Dark Knight, and we named him the Joker. A playful man, he enjoyed teasing our boys, often chasing the pair down monastery trails with an exaggerated grimace, pelting them with handfuls of rice. But I noticed the novice monks shrank as he passed, making it hard to tell where fun ended and fury began.

  Tsering Wang Chuk, the school administrator—who had reminded me of Brezhnev on our first meeting—was the second lopon.

  The third was Lama Tham Chouy, a hawkish man with tanned skin, fine features and a short shock of grey hair, who we called the CEO.

  Next came Lama Yarsal Thakpa, the ohm-zet, or chant master, a plump-faced man with a groomed moustache who we dubbed NYC Cop. It was his clear voice that rang out at the start of each chant, for just a beat, before the others joined in.

  Finally, at the end of the central aisle, sat Lama Lobsang Mortub, the yar-vak, or monastery accountant. With loose skin, pouty lips and a dour countenance, he was reminiscent of the Mr. Burns character in The Simpsons, and became known to us as Moneybags. Every day, as puja drew to a close, Lama Mortub stood and held aloft any donations received in the previous twenty-four hours—from either passing tourists or local villagers—for all to see.

  Sitting opposite the leadership group, on the other side of the central aisle, was a group of wizened elders. These lazur, or retired Head Lamas, came and went from the assembly hall as they pleased, often arriving late and departing early, their formal obligations to the monastery complete.

  Lama Wangyal was the youngest lazur, at sixty-one. And eighty-two-year-old Lama Ishay Sundup was the eldest.

  A gruff and solitary man with sun-faded robes that dragged on the ground behind him, Lama Ishay wore a pair of cracked red sunglasses, affixed to his bald head by a loop of fraying yarn. His traditional yak-felt boots had cartoonishly upturned toes. The elderly man circumambulated the monastery seven times each day, despite fading sight and balance, with a small prayer wheel clutched in one hand and mala beads hanging from the other.