Military Orders

by Martin Roth

  “He is strong boy,” said Uncle Barra. Again she caught a disapproving glance from Eddie, an “I told you so, there’s nothing wrong” look.

  “There’s something not quite right with him…” She paused. Sammie was standing at her side, staring at her. This was something else that was starting to unnerve her. She hadn’t mentioned it to the nurse, but - well, it was almost as if Sammie understood what she was saying.

  Recently she had been noticing that when she spoke he would sometimes stop whatever he was doing in order to stand listening. Sometimes he would nod his head as she spoke, always at an appropriate time, when she had just said something important. It was exactly as if he understood. But he was two, for goodness sake. How could he understand? She had decided not to mention that to the nurse, who clearly did not believe anything she was telling her.

  “He sometimes makes strange noises, almost as if he’s speaking some kind of strange language. Or chanting, or something. And then he is silent for long periods. Just sitting and starting into space. It’s not normal for a two-year-old boy.” She looked at Eddie. To her relief he nodded in agreement.

  Uncle Barra looked at Vanya for a long time. It was almost as if he had trouble comprehending. She suddenly wondered if he was afflicted with dementia or something.

  But then he looked down at the boy and took his hand. He led him to the side of a house. Vanya and Eddie followed.

  “Sit,” he said to Sammie, as if addressing a dog. The boy obeyed, placing himself down on the red sand. Then Vanya and Eddie watched as the old man began to chant, a slow and melancholy dirge-like sound that seemed to rise up to the sky. Then he clapped his hands and paced up and down the side of his tiny bungalow a few times.

  Next he picked up a long branch and began tracing lines in the sand. Vanya peered at what he was doing. She knew that Aboriginal people often made pictures in the sand as part of various ritual ceremonies. An elder like Uncle Barra had his own designs that no one else was allowed to use - symbolic designs that represented stories from the Dreaming, the mythical time of creation.

  She also knew that many of these designs were preciously guarded secrets. Women were not allowed to view some of them. Young people were forbidden from looking at others. She glanced at her husband. He recognized her thoughts and gave a quick thumbs-up - she was permitted to look at these designs.

  She could see some round concentric circles that she knew represented waterholes, some horseshoe shapes that depicted people, and wavy lines that could have been water or smoke.

  But she had no idea what kind of story they represented. She continued to watch as the old man placed pebbles on the image, and then he took some fluffy white feathers from the ground and placed these too among all the lines.

  It seemed the sand painting was now complete. The old man stood looking at it for a lengthy period, muttering a low chant. He had hardly looked at Sammie during this entire episode, but now he reached down with his long, bony arms and touched the boy’s cheeks.

  Then he turned to Vanya and Eddie. “He is most spiritual child,” he said. “I meet for first time such spiritual boy. So much spiritual. He is not sick. Very healthy boy.” He paused. “He will have interesting life. Very interesting spiritual life.”

  Chapter 16

  Kangra Valley, Northern India

  Tenzin sat on the mattress in his room, inspecting his wounds. He was cut and grazed down one side of his body, where the Christian’s brother had thrown him twice. His wrist was also badly hurt from where the man had grabbed him the very first time he threw him. But he had been hurt before. His body was strong, and he would quickly recover. The biggest wound was to his pride. Once again he had been humiliated by an American.

  Yes, once again. This was not the first time.

  After he fled Tibet for India, Tenzin had spent several years in intense English study, so eager was he to get away from backward, feudal Asia. He then won a grant, from a fund set up to help Tibetan refugees study in America. And so he arrived one fine, late-summer day in Kansas, ready to embark on a new adventure - the pursuit of a diploma in social work at a local community college.

  From his years in India he had gained the impression that, thanks to the Dalai Lama, people in the West loved Tibet and would be eager to develop good relations with any Tibetans in their midst. So he had arrived in North Carolina with the vague idea that he was something of an exotic creature who would be much loved and welcomed. Certainly he was happy to find at his college several cars sporting “Free Tibet” stickers.

  The first humiliation came early. It was right at the beginning of the term, and he was invited to a reception for foreign students, in one of the student lounge rooms. He was standing at a table of food, wondering if he could find anything edible, when three young women students approached him.

  “Are you a Red Indian?” asked one. She was tall and skinny, with long brown hair and braces in her teeth.

  He smiled proudly. “I’ve been living in India…”

  “So you are. You’re a Red Indian. A Red Indian from India. Your face is so red.” The girls giggled.

  “I’m from Tibet…”

  “I thought Indians were skinny,” another of the girls interrupted. She was also tall, with broad shoulders and wavy blonde hair. “You’re quite solid. But you’re so short. How tall are you?”

  He smiled again. These girls seemed to like him. He was keen to develop international relations. “I’m about one hundred and fifty centimeters.”

  “What’s that in real money?” asked the blonde girl. She looked at her companions. The tall brunette did some quick calculations. “That’s about four feet eleven. Wow you’re almost a dwarf.” The girls all giggled again.

  “Hey, why are you wearing a green suit?” asked the third girl, who was also blonde, with freckles all over her face and arms. “This is supposed to be a casual campus party. Did you know you’re the only one wearing a suit?”

  Tenzin hadn’t really noticed. He thought that if you go to a party you wear a suit. He was starting to feel a little on the defensive. He looked around. Yes, he did seem to be the only person in the room wearing a suit. He smiled again at the women.

  “How old are you?” asked the freckled girl.

  “I’m twenty-three.”

  “Twenty-three! You look like you’re about fifteen. Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “Not right now.” He paused. He so wanted to impress these girls. “But I used to be married.”

  “Married? You? Married?” The tall brunette opened her mouth wide like a horse, and for several seconds seemed intent on displaying all her teeth. “How old were you when you got married?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Fourteen? You got married at fourteen? Is that normal in India?”

  “Tibet. I’m from Tibet.”

  “Do guys get married at fourteen in Tibet?” The three girls were now pressed in close to him, eager to hear more.

  “It was a family wedding. Myself and my three brothers. We married a lady together.”

  “You mean you married four ladies…”

  “Four sisters,” prompted the tall blonde.

  “No. My three brothers and me - we married one lady.”

  “Four men and one woman. You mean like the Muslims? Only in reverse?”

  Tenzin didn’t know anything about Muslim marriage. He smiled.

  “Is this what happens in Tibet? A group of guys marrying one girl?”

  “It’s very common. It’s always brothers. A group of brothers marry one woman.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “No, no. It’s quite normal in Tibet. Out in the country. It’s very common.”

  “And you all live together?”

  “Yes, of course.” This was not the kind of inter-cultural exchange he had anticipated.

  “And the girl, your wife - I mean, like, you all take turns at - you know, being with her.”

  He nodded.

  “So when she ha
s kids, does she know who the father is?”

  “Sometimes. But usually she doesn’t.”

  “Ugh,” said one of the girls, and then all three said “ugh” in unison.

  “That is so gross. How old was the girl.”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “And your brothers?”

  My oldest brother was twenty-nine, and the others were twenty-three and nineteen.”

  “So your wife sometimes had a twenty-nine-year-old man jumping into bed with her, and sometimes a fourteen-year-old kid. That is so gross.”

  After that exchange Tenzin decided to be more circumspect about his past. But it was too late. Word quickly spread around the tiny campus.

  Just one week later he was invited to the dorm room of one of the male students. It seemed that a small but noisy beer party was in progress. These were all large guys. Apparently they were members of the football team. Tenzin didn’t drink alcohol.

  “Hey, what’s this about getting married at fourteen?” asked one of the men, wearing jeans and a t-shirt on which he had spilled a large amount of beer. He had a big grin on his face. So did the other half-dozen guys, who stopped their drinking and talking to listen.

  Tenzin thought this might be a chance to impress some fellow students who seemed to be quite important. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “But you and your three brothers all married the same woman? That can’t be right.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Is that normal in Tibet?”

  “Yes. It’s quite common in Tibet. It’s a mountainous country and there’s not enough farming land, so it’s important to keep a group of brothers together. So the family farm doesn’t get divided up.”

  “And you all share her around?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the woman has no choice?”

  He smiled. “She’s the wife.”

  “And she’s happy to share it around, if you get my meaning.”

  Tenzin didn’t really get the meaning. He shrugged. “She acts as a good wife to all the brothers.”

  One of the other students raised a can of beer in the air, then placed it to his lips and apparently downed the lot in one giant swig. Then he shouted, “Hey man, isn’t it supposed to work the other way. One fella and four chicks?”

  “Yeah, yeah!” shouted someone.

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” said Tenzin. He smiled at them. Now it was a nervous smile.

  “The little fella keeps smiling, but he’s not drinking,” said someone. “Hey, are you on some of that Tibetan ganja?”

  “Ganja?” He smiled again. He smiled when he was trying to please, which was most of the time, and he smiled when he was nervous, like now.

  “Weed. Hash. Isn’t Tibet full of the stuff?”

  “You’re thinking Kathmandu,” said one of the others. “Man, they have stuff there that’s like, wow.”

  Now they were all shouting. “So you have one chick with four guys?”

  “Man, that is yuck.”

  “That is just so kind of unnatural.”

  “And you were just fourteen. And she was forty.”

  “Twenty-seven,” muttered Tenzin

  “That is disgusting.”

  “Hey man, no. Think about it. You’re fourteen and there’s a hot, experienced babe of twenty-seven who’s legally obliged to do it with you. I mean, come on, how many fourteen year olds wouldn’t die for a chance like that?”

  Tenzin wanted to tell them that being the youngest of four brothers, and with a wife substantially older, was, yes, disgusting. She certainly didn’t want to share the marital bed with him, even though it was her duty. That was why he had run off, and had made the hard and dangerous passage to sanctuary in India.

  The noise in the room was becoming louder, and the atmosphere more tense. Suddenly a couple of the guys tried to hold Tenzin down on a bed and force beer into him. He elbowed one in the stomach and fled.

  It was shortly after that experience that a friend from India wrote and sent information about several friends who worshipped a dharma protector called Dorje Shugden. It seemed to be providence of a kind.

  Until that time Tenzin had possessed little real interest in Buddhism, despite being born in Tibet. Buddhism might have been an essential part of life, almost like food and air and water, but it was never a topic that he gave any thought to. It was just something that was always there. He even regarded it as vaguely old-fashioned, a relic to be discarded as he celebrated his new life as a contemporary man of the world.

  But now he read every book he could find. Living at an American college, supposedly dedicated to learning about the modern ways of the West, he instead became a ferocious student of traditional Buddhism.

  He neglected his college study. He started skipping lectures. He handed in his assignments late, if at all.

  He was summoned to a meeting with one of his teachers to discuss his lack of progress. “Did you and your brothers all really marry the same woman?” was the first question the teacher asked him.

  He came to appreciate the Dorje Shugden emphasis on pure Buddhism. He was especially attracted to its teaching that the Dalai Lama had corrupted Buddhism by opening it to the West. By allowing in Americans and Europeans. By talking about cooperation with other religions.

  His friend back in India told him about a wonderful monk at a Dorje Shugden temple in the Kangra Valley, the Rinpoche, who taught authentic and unadulterated Buddhism.

  Well before the end of the college year Tenzin abandoned his studies and returned to India, to become a monk. Never again would he be humiliated by an American, he had vowed.

  Yet, as he sat on the mattress in his tiny room in the temple, he knew that it had just happened again.

  He stood slowly, one leg stiff and sore. He gazed out his window at the trees and the sky. Living at Manjushri Meditation Temple, as at most Tibetan Buddhist temples, were monks with the gift of prophecy, monks who were able through advanced astrological divination to foresee all manner of events coming to our world.

  Tenzin was not yet instilled with those gifts. But somehow he possessed a strong feeling that he would be meeting this American again. That he would have the chance for revenge.

  In the midst of his pain and humiliation it was a feeling that filled him with great joy.

  Chapter 17

  Dharamsala, Northern India

  Harel sat on the hard chair in the interrogation room trying to contain his fury. He was still feeling tense from the encounter down in the Kangra Valley. Now he was ready to erupt.

  “What is going on?” he said in a slow, hard voice.

  “Your passport, Professor Harel.” The police officer stretched out a hand.

  Harel looked at the man with hatred. This was some kind of set-up, presumably connected to the death of his brother. He put a hand into a pocket, retrieved his passport and passed it across.

  The officer placed it on the table. “What is your full name?”

  “This is ridiculous. I was here yesterday. I want to talk to the American Embassy.”

  “Your name?”

  “Jeremiah Raphael Harel. You know that.

  “We believe that you have been working with your brother to smuggle Tibetan religious antiquities out of India.”

  “That is ridiculous and you know it’s ridiculous. You have no evidence, and you know that. None at all. And nothing on my brother either. Anyway, why didn’t you tell me this when I arrived? Instead of making it up now? Tell me what has been stolen. Tell me one item. Apart from that statue that was obviously planted in my brother’s house by his killer who you very conveniently don’t seem to be able to find.”

  “We have witnesses who saw your brother visiting temples and handling objects that have now disappeared.”

  “Witnesses? Name one.”

  “I am not obliged to…”

  “Name one,” shouted Harel. “Name one. Come on. I’m waiting. And if there is one, then he’s lying.”

>   The officer ignored the outburst. “You are a professor of art. A famous professor who knows exactly which pieces will be attractive to art buyers in the West.” From a folder on the table he extracted a couple of computer print-outs. “I have been doing some research about you on the internet, Professor Harel. Look, a profile in the New Yorker magazine. It describes you as one of the world’s leading authorities on Asian religious art. And this article, from the New York Review of Books, that you wrote, specifically about Tibetan artworks in American museums.”

  “For goodness sake. I want to talk to the embassy.”

  “You recognized immediately that piece from your brother’s room. As soon as you saw it. We assume you advised him which pieces to steal.”

  “Of course I recognized it. That’s my job.” You idiot, he wanted to add. “I’m an art professor. It’s my job to recognize artworks. That’s what I do.”

  The man stood and left, clutching Harel’s passport. When he returned ten minutes later he looked at his watch. “It’s around six o’clock. You are to leave India by midnight tomorrow, which means you have about thirty hours.”

  He threw back the passport. Harel opened it and saw that his entry stamp had been amended, allowing him to stay only until the following day.

  “You are to return to your hotel room,” continued the officer. “You will not leave it tonight. We will quickly know if you do. Tomorrow morning you are to make your way to Kangra Airport - there are taxis or minibuses - and you are to fly to Delhi. We will know if you do not do it, and the consequences will be severe. From Delhi you will have a choice of many flights out of the country. Again, I warn you, that you are being monitored. If you are not gone from India by midnight tomorrow I can assure you that you will be arrested and jailed. Professor Harel, do not doubt my word.”