by David Michie
“There must be a misunderstanding,” Mr. Patel protested.
A lengthy silence followed before Sid said, “The only thing I don’t understand is why you’re doing this, Mr. Patel.”
“Doing what?” He tried appearing combative but only came off sounding feeble.
“I’ve had my lawyers look over our construction contract. They tell me I would have a very high likelihood of success if I were to sue you through the Courts for Deceptive Conduct. Breach of contract. Unconscionable behavior. Violation of several building codes.”
The builder lowered his face to his hands, leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees, and exhaled heavily.
“I’m guessing someone put you up to this. Paid you off . . . ?”
“Not paid.”
“Something else, then?”
“Threatened.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I can’t afford to lose their business.”
“You may not have to, if you tell me who they are.”
Mr. Patel looked up, surprised.
By this time it wasn’t only Sid who was staring at him. It was Serena, Zahra, and me, too.
“You can keep this project, too,” Sid told him, “if you commit to finishing it by the end of the month. But first I need a name.”
When the builder made his confession, he didn’t so much say it as breathe it. He held his head in his hands so the word was barely audible, but it came as confirmation nonetheless.
“Wazir,” he whispered.
If either Sid or Serena were surprised by this revelation, they didn’t show it. But Zahra was distraught. Wriggling away from under me, she rushed to her father and threw her arms around his shoulders.
“Why, Daddy?” she cried. “Why is Granny being so horrible?”
“It’s all right, my petal,” he told her, holding her close to him. “No lasting harm done.” As he said this, however, his eyes met Serena’s. The expression in them seemed to form an acknowledgment—along with a fiery determination.
Within a few minutes Mr. Patel was on his way back to his van, his apologetic gait very different from the bravado with which he’d arrived. Zahra was still clinging to her father, and Serena sat looking out across the garden with far greater equanimity than might be expected of someone whose darkest suspicions had just been confirmed. In her eyes was a meditative expression. I realized that her composure was cultivated deliberately—a technique she had learned from a visitor to the Himalaya Book Café several weeks before.
The revelation that Mrs. Wazir had been behind the complaint to the local Council about my presence at the Himalaya Book Café had left Serena stunned. She had been on shift at the café that afternoon, and the unflappable Kusali had needed to step into the breach to cover her tables after the visit from the inspector. For all her usual equanimity, Serena had been shocked to the core to discover that she, personally, had become a target of Mrs. Wazir’s malevolence.
Serena happened to be sitting at the rear banquette, nearest the kitchen, deep in contemplation—as it happened, the banquette that was also closest to the magazine rack whose top shelf I currently occupied—when Ani Drolma made one of her infrequent visits to the bookstore. Despite the Tibetan name, Ani Drolma was an Englishwoman who had visited the Himalayas in her early twenties—and decided to live here permanently. Famous for having spent more than a decade meditating alone in a cave above the snow line, in recent years Ani-la, as she was affectionately known, had established a nunnery not far from Dharamsala so that young women from all over the Himalaya region might have the same opportunities as their male counterparts. “Ani,” her adopted name, meant “nun” in Tibetan. Despite her birdlike figure in her red robes, diminutive stature, and shaven head, Ani-la was a force to be reckoned with. Vital, energetic, clear eyes seemed always to penetrate to the very heart of things. Ani-la also had the most compassionate presence.
“How is your lovely mother?” she had inquired as she approached Serena, who rose to her feet so the two could exchange a warm hug. “I heard about her being in the hospital.”
“Much better now, thanks,” Serena told her. Mrs. Trinci and Ani-la went way back. “She’s on beta-blockers for blood pressure. She’s even meditating regularly now, too.”
“Very good!” Ani-la’s eyes sparkled. “I have no doubt she will benefit.”
“She already has.”
“And you, my dear?”
“Oh, um, generally well,” she said as she glanced at the floor. “But I’ve just had some disturbing news.” Serena knew there was no point in pretending with Ani.
The nun studied her intently. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” she had said. “In the meantime, guard your mind.”
As she spoke, I recollected what Yogi Tarchin had told Serena only days before, about how, in times of trouble, she should practice mind watching-mind-meditation.
The very same thought evidently occurred to Serena, because she replied, “Actually, there is some advice for which I’d be very grateful.”
Ani Drolma raised her eyebrows.
“Mind-watching-mind meditation. I haven’t practiced it for many years. Can you refresh me on how it’s done?”
“Of course.” Glancing at the banquette, she gestured. “Shall we sit?”
I already knew the instructions for this meditation, having heard them given both by the Dalai Lama and Geshe Wangpo during his weekly classes. But I had come to recognize that every teacher had a different way of presenting things—and fresh insights—so that even the most familiar practices can be presented in a different light. With Ani Drolma having spent so many years in solitary meditation, I was curious to know what she would have to say. It seemed that I had found myself on the magazine rack at just the right moment to receive the benefit of her considerable wisdom.
“Begin with breath-based meditation to settle the mind,” she told Serena once they were sitting on either side of the table and Serena had ordered them a pot of tea.
“As an object of meditation, the breath is a gross object—easy to find. Once your mind has calmed to some extent, say, after five or ten minutes, then change the object of meditation to the mind itself.”
“The problem is that as soon as I try to search for my mind, I start having all these thoughts . . .”
Me, too, I found myself agreeing.
“Of course. This is normal,” Ani Drolma said, nodding. She leaned forward in her seat, and her eyes became bright. “But unlike other meditations, when thoughts arise, they are not considered distractions.”
“No?” Serena’s brow furrowed in surprise.
“Thoughts arise from the mind just as waves arise from the ocean. They are of the same nature. If we sit on a bench above the sea and watch a wave forming, rising to a crest, and then breaking on the beach before rolling back into the sea, we know that the wave is just the sea. Identifiable as distinct from the rest of the ocean for a few moments, but part of it. So too with our thoughts. The main thing”—she paused for emphasis—“is not to engage with our thoughts, which is what we usually do. Our job is simply to observe a thought as a thought.”
Serena was following her closely.
“To do this when a thought arises, we practice to acknowledge, accept, let go.”
“What happens when more thoughts immediately pop up?”
Ani Drolma smiled. “Same again. Acknowledge. Accept. Let go. You see, usually we’re thought-huggers. As soon as a thought arises in our mind, we engage with it. We become absorbed in it, no matter what it is. No matter how badly it hurts us.”
Serena pursed her lips. “I can relate to that,” she said. “I have these thoughts that I know are just making me unhappy. But I keep returning to them.”
Ani Drolma reached over and touched her on the hand. “All the more reason to practice mind watching mind. It helps us put thoughts in their rightful place. A thought is merely a thought. A temporary conception. It is not a fact. Nor a truth. Every thought you’ve ever had
has gone. It isn’t here now, is it?”
Serena was shaking her head with a smile. “But we get so caught up in our thoughts. They can make us so miserable.”
“‘Caught up’ is a good expression,” agreed Ani Drolma. “So much unhappiness is self-perpetuated.”
I thought about how often I was a victim of exactly this, dwelling so closely on the very thoughts that were most likely to make me unhappy.
At that moment a waiter arrived with a tea trolley, poured out two cups of English Breakfast tea, and left a plate with biscotti on the table between them.
“It seems like mind watching mind is a good way to break the cycle of negativity,” observed Serena when they were alone again.
Ani Drolma considered that as she sipped her tea. “Meditation has been proven to help people with recurring depression. Neuroscientists say that the insula, which is the part of the brain where we feel unhappiness, is wired to the executive functioning of the brain, which searches for reasons. Unhappy thoughts lead to unhappy feelings. Then we ask ourselves why we’re feeling so sad and this prompts more unhappy interpretations, beliefs, attitudes—”
“A vicious spiral.”
“Exactly. Meditation can help break the cycle. Yes, we may be overwhelmed with thoughts initially. But as we practice not engaging with them, the curious thing is that they occur less and less. Gradually they cease.”
“And what do we have left?”
Ani Drolma glowed. “Mind itself!”
Serena responded to her enthusiasm with a rueful expression. “On the very rare occasions when my mind has been quiet, all I’ve noticed is, like, nothing.”
“Stay with it!” Ani Drolma reached over, squeezing her hand again. “Stay with that ‘nothing’ and see what happens.”
“You mean it changes?”
“The experience of it changes. Most definitely. You don’t think all those years I spent alone in a cave were for some kind of endurance feat, do you? An exercise in masochism?” She chuckled.
For a long time I had wondered just why Ani Drolma and others like her felt inclined to solitary retreats. The yogis who passed through His Holiness’s office didn’t seem like hardened types. While there was often a strength about them, there was always an amazing openness, too. I was intrigued to learn directly from Ani Drolma how this came to be.
“Initially, your own mind may seem like nothing more than an inert void, merely the background to your thoughts. But the longer you are able to abide with mind, the more you begin to experience its qualities. How it has the nature of clarity, and light. How, more and more, we feel a sense of tranquility, of well-being. Perhaps we start off thinking that meditation is a cognitive exercise, but we discover it is as much about a feeling, a state of being. Our primordial consciousness has no boundaries, its natural state is one of radiance and abiding bliss. When we experience it, we no longer think of ourselves as being just this.” She pointed to her own body. “We realize that our true nature is altogether different.”
Serena contemplated Ani Drolma’s words for a long time. “Thank you so much,” she said eventually. “It’s a real privilege having the chance to speak to someone with your meditation experience.”
“That’s very sweet. Thank you, Serena,” Ani Drolma replied. “I hope you will persist with the practice yourself.” Then, as Serena nodded, she added, “Our only job is to let go of all the agitation obscuring our own mind. To abide in its pristine nature. This is very useful—not only in formal meditation but when we’re dealing with difficult situations.”
Now, from the veranda, we heard Mr. Patel start up his van. A few seconds later it made its way slowly up the driveway and toward the gates. I watched Serena looking down at the discarded ice-cream wrappers. Her breathing was regular, her demeanor relaxed. I felt sure she must be following Ani Drolma’s instructions, letting go of the many thoughts arising from the builder’s revelations.
After a while she said, “Zahra wanted to see the fountain at the bottom of the lawn. Perhaps you should show it to her before it gets too late.”
Sid stood, holding his daughter’s hand in his own, and flashed a look of gratitude toward Serena. I knew her suggestion was a way of giving he and Zahra time to be together, an opportunity to talk about what had happened.
Being a cat, I wanted to join them.
Zahra leaned against her father as the two of them walked down the lawn and away from the house. A short distance behind them, I watched as Sid hugged her to him reassuringly.
“What is it, my darling?” he asked when, after a while, she had said nothing.
“Granny.”
It was a while before he spoke. “What’s going on between Granny and me goes back a long way, my petal, you know that. It has nothing to do with you.”
They continued walking. Finally she said, “I heard about her making trouble for Serena. And little Rinpoche.”
“How did you know about that?”
“One of the waiters at the café was talking about it. He didn’t know I was listening. Why does Granny hate Serena so much?”
“She hasn’t ever met Serena. She doesn’t know her, so she can’t hate her. Not personally.”
“Granny’s always so nice to me. I just don’t know why she’s being so mean to you and Serena. And Rinpoche.”
Sid squeezed her shoulders. “Oh, I think we can look after ourselves. And your relationship with your granny is quite separate.”
“But that’s just it,” Zahra said as she tugged away from him. “I don’t think it is.”
“Why?” Sid glanced down at her. She looked miserable.
“She forced the builder to make these delays so you can’t move into the house. I think it was so that you would agree to let me spend part of next holiday with her.”
They had been heading toward the fountain, but instead Sid turned toward a copse of fir trees at the side of the property. “Did she say that to you?”
“No,” Zahra shook her head. “But I think it has to do with the secret.”
“So . . .” Sid halted. “That’s why you were asking me about keeping secrets?”
As Zahra brought her hands to her face, tears began to trickle through her fingers.
Once again, Sid put his arms around her and held her closely to him.
“You are my little petal, and I am your father. You’re too young to have to keep secrets from me. Not big secrets. Little secrets, like what we’re buying for birthday presents—that’s different. But if it’s something important and it involves you, I am still responsible for you.”
Against his chest, Zahra’s small body racked with sobs. Sid caressed her back, trying to calm her.
Eventually she managed, “Granny said I wasn’t allowed to eat cakes and ice cream because I need to lose weight.”
“I’ve no idea why she thinks that.”
“When she took me for a fitting, they said I could lose a few pounds.”
“Fitting?”
“She wants me to look my best when we go to meet Gurinder Panesar.”
For just a moment, Sid froze. Then he began stroking her hair back from her face.
“Do you know him?” she asked.
“Is he one of the Panesars from Darjeeling?”
She nodded.
“In that case, I know of the family. They are one of the most powerful and influential warrior-caste families in all India. I suppose Granny has told you that Gurinder is the most wonderful boy and would make you the very best husband in the world?”
“That was the secret! How did you guess?”
“Because Granny tried to force your dear mother into an arranged marriage, too, to increase the family’s status. Instead, Mummy chose to marry me for love.”
“But Granny wouldn’t force me to marry someone, would she?” Zahra asked, looking up at him. For the first time, she was beginning to comprehend her grandmother’s scheming for what it was.
Sid took both her hands in his own and met her expression with
a look of unyielding protection. “Not now, she won’t,” he said.
That evening I was sitting on my sill overlooking Namgyal courtyard as the sun went down. While His Holiness worked on correspondence at his desk, I contemplated my eventful visit to 21 Tara Crescent. I’d enjoyed exploring the delightful, rambling house with the tower, which, I had a strong inkling, could soon become an important part of my life. And meeting Zahra; that powerful, mutual connection we had both instantly felt! Most of all, I thought about my dear friend Serena and the succession of revelations that had not only exposed Mrs. Wazir’s stratagem—but that had also ensured she would never succeed.
I reflected on how, after Sid and Zahra returned from the garden, Zahra had happily accepted her ice cream from Serena and wandered through the house while she enjoyed it. Sid and Serena, meanwhile, spoke in low voices. I had never seen such cold fury in Sid’s eyes as he told Serena of Mrs. Wazir’s betrayal. This, declared Sid singlemindedly, was the end of it. He was not going to allow his daughter to be manipulated, nor would he be used as a doormat.
Serena had stepped over to hug him. There was relief in her face as he held her tightly. Not that it was a moment of melodrama—more a gentle letting go of what she could feel, hear, and see, right then. Ani Drolma’s advice had seemed to deepen that understanding, with the recognition that a thought is merely a thought, not a truth, nor something to be entrapped by.
There was a gentle knock on the Dalai Lama’s door. His Holiness glanced up from his desk, as did I from the sill, to see Oliver at the door. “You wanted to see this book, Your Holiness?” He brought in a recently published book on quantum physics.
“Very good, thank you,” said His Holiness as he smiled and accepted the book from him. He studied the cover.
“You have read it?”
“Parts of it.”
“Useful?”
“Some interesting insights.” Oliver hesitated for a moment before continuing. “I was particularly struck by the quotation from Erwin Schrödinger along the lines that ‘Every man’s world picture is and always remains a construct of his mind and cannot be proved to have any other existence.’ The way he seems to be saying that if we change our attitude toward things, we change the things themselves.”