The dog was like many of the dogs you see in the highlands these days: a mongrel that was neither a mastiff nor a Pekingese. It was the kind that wouldn’t dare to bite a young man, but would happily ambush old folks, kids, and women. I hated that kind of dog. But Ralo called this dog “Mom,” and he cherished it even more than Little Ralo, so I was forced to pretend that I liked it.
It was the first time the dog had been on a truck, and like most of the pilgrims on board, it threw up more than it ate. By the time we got to Lhasa all it could do was lie in the basket and let Ralo carry it around.
A friend from Lhasa got in touch and insisted that we go for dinner, so one night he took Ralo and me to a restaurant. At the entrance, we were greeted by a young woman who, like it says in that Tibetan love song, “from the side was like a slim bamboo, from the front was like the moon on the fifteenth.” The whole time she stood by our table, refilling our tea and liquor with a smile. Ralo didn’t touch the booze but he still got drunk, and with a magnanimous air produced a one hundred-yuan note. I shot him a glance to make him put it away.
If Ralo were the introspective type, he’d no doubt have remembered the wretched circumstances he faced when we were in jail. One time Mani Ass snatched away the fried dough cakes I’d given to Ralo just as he was about to eat them. “Not content with eating your own share, snotnose prick? Have to eat your friend’s too? You’re no different from a pig.” The older prisoners said that Mani Ass stole it to feed his pigs; others said that he just ate it himself. Either way, he didn’t let Ralo eat it. Ralo’s eyes began to well with tears, and I felt genuinely sorry for him. The next day, I told the guard who Ralo said “treated him okay” about this incident. He apologized to us on behalf of the jail, and even said that he’d report it to the chief of the police station. Little did I expect that whenever Mani Ass was on duty after that, he’d keep Ralo and me locked up in the cell. This in turn made Ralo’s lice grow especially bold, and they bit the two of us almost to death.
When it came time to pay the check, Ralo once again took out his hundred-yuan bill, but as soon as he heard the words “That’ll be five hundred in total” his mouth fell open, his snot hung down, and he discreetly put it back in his pocket. Later, Ralo would often lord it over others with this: “I, Ralo, once ate a meal worth five hundred yuan!”
Though the pilgrims, who came from all sorts of backgrounds, had thousands of yuan in their pockets, spending five hundred on a single meal was, to these people, something from another world. “Ah la la!” exclaimed Ralo as soon as we returned to our group, “Döndrup’s friend treated us to a five hundred-yuan meal! Now when I see plain old meat and butter it makes me want to throw up.” Behind his back the pilgrims said, “His old affliction’s back again.”
Though Ralo couldn’t say what he’d actually eaten at the restaurant, he maintained that “when I see plain old meat and butter it makes me want to throw up,” and he didn’t eat anything for five days. In the end, his face turned yellow and he fainted.
Eighteen
From the day after we arrived in Lhasa, the pilgrims spent the mornings going to the temples and the afternoons shopping. Ralo found a string of the sandalwood prayer beads he’d been wanting to buy, and when he asked how much they were, he was told ten yuan.
“Will you take eight?”
“Sure, sure.”
Ralo informed his fellow pilgrims about this as though he’d discovered a new continent: “When you buy stuff you can haggle—the guy said these prayer beads cost ten yuan, but in the end I got them for only eight!” Another pilgrim produced a string of prayer beads identical to Ralo’s: “This one only cost me three.” Ralo’s bottom lip trembled and he couldn’t utter a word. A few days later, though, with an expression of eminent triumph etched on his face, he was telling that pilgrim, “I, Ralo, once ate a meal worth five hundred yuan. What’s five yuan compared to that?”
On the way back from visiting Tashi Lhünpo Monastery we stopped at Samyé Monastery. At the bank of the Yarlung Tsangpo River we got on a wooden boat equipped with a tractor engine, which took half an hour to get us to the other side.
“Ah tsi ah tsi, this technology stuff is amazing!” Looking at the expressions of wonder on the pilgrims’ faces, you could be sure they’d be telling their relatives about the marvels of this technology for years to come.
When we got to the other side of the river we came across a couple of foreign tourists. Ralo was the first to talk to them, and when I later got to know them, I found out that they were researchers from Norway studying folk customs. The husband was called Vilhelm and the wife Birna, and she could speak a bit of Chinese. Actually, rather than saying that Ralo was the first to talk to them, it would be more accurate to say that they were curious about Ralo carrying an old dog in a basket and came over to ask us about it. As soon as Birna saw Ralo she became like something possessed: “Hey, dear, come look, quick!” she yelped in English as she shot off two photos with a click. “Hello—” she said as she approached, her thumb sticking straight up. She shook Ralo’s hand and asked him why he was carrying the dog.
The pronunciation of “hello” sounds a little bit like the Tibetan aro. Perhaps, in the near future, this word will be used as a kind of greeting, like aro. For now, at least, it didn’t seem to have any derogatory or disdainful intent.1 Birna came over to me with a “hello” and asked if I could help translate. I happily accepted and told the two of them the story of Ralo’s mother/dog.
“How incredible! Absolutely wonderful. In the West it’s rare to see someone take their actual mother to the hospital these days, and he’s carrying his mother’s reincarnation around. Wow! It’s really true what they say about Tibet being the last untouched holy land on earth. How incredible! Absolutely wonderful.” Vilhelm was deeply moved. He didn’t quite know what to do and kept on sticking his thumb up in the air. He took some colorful, expensive-looking candies from his backpack and offered them to us.
But some of the older pilgrims were displeased. “You mustn’t eat the food of the heathens,” they said. Another pilgrim, a cadre with Party membership, issued a solemn warning: “Be careful. They’re using sugar-coated bullets to promote Peaceful Evolution.”
The pilgrims didn’t know what “Peaceful Evolution” meant, but they suspected it might be one of the heathens’ terrifying magical powers. The elderly among them prayed to the Jowo, while the young men gripped the handles of their knives. But Little Ralo didn’t understand words like “heathen,” “sugar-coated bullet,” or “Peaceful Evolution,” so, quite unconcerned, he clutched the foreigners’ hands and ate their candy.
Vilhelm and his wife had originally planned to go back to Lhasa after seeing Samyé Monastery, but they had become helplessly captivated by the Ralo family and decided to turn around and accompany us back to Samyé. They stuck their thumbs up at Ralo as they peppered him with questions and took countless photos. On the boat on the way back, Birna handed me her camera when we reached the middle of the Yarlung Tsangpo and asked me to take a picture of them with Ralo’s family. I pressed the shutter, and she said “Okay” as she gave Little Ralo a kiss. After Little Ralo died, the elderly pilgrims said that it was because he’d “been contaminated by the heathens.” That was the hardest time in Ralo’s whole life. For days on end he sat, mouth agape, his snot running, staring into space. It was more agonizing than the death of his mother and his unjust imprisonment, even more agonizing than the time his brother-in-law ripped out his braid. And given what happened, that was completely understandable. When we were nearing home on the way back from our pilgrimage to Lhasa, Ralo was in high spirits. He kept on picking up Little Ralo and holding him out of the truck bed, saying, “Look, there’s our home!” Little Ralo too was happy as a clam, his little mouse-tail braid bouncing back and forth. Right at that moment, before anyone had the chance to even register it, an oncoming truck came rushing past us like an animal leaping out of a trap and severed Little Ralo’s braided head clean off, just as a chil
d would pluck a flower from its stalk. Little Ralo’s headless body continued to twitch, and the red protection cord given to him by Alak Drong before we left for Lhasa was soon dyed black by his blood.
The image of Little Ralo’s tiny, innocent face still smiles in my mind, and his little mouse-tail braid still waves back and forth before my eyes.
I had become very attached to that kid while we were on the road. He charmed anyone like that, no matter who it was. In just the three or four hours we were at Samyé, Vilhelm and Birna became completely besotted with him. Just before he was beheaded, Little Ralo was asking, “Where have our yellow-haired friends gone?”
Nineteen
Tseten Zhao was eventually given a five-year sentence and taken off to prison, and our “home” suddenly felt cold and deserted. In the month or so that Ralo and I were in jail together, he did nine divinations by burning the shoulder blade of a lamb, and this was the only time he got it right. When the families of the other prisoners brought them a shoulder of lamb, Ralo saved the bones and hid them at the base of the wall. He said that when the heating stove was installed in a few days’ time he could burn the shoulder blades and from the resulting markings determine whether or not we would be sentenced, and if so for how long. By the time the stove was installed Ralo had collected nine shoulder blades. Naturally, he first burned one to discover his own fate. When the dung in the furnace was burning red hot, Ralo picked up a clean shoulder blade. “I offer my prayer, I offer my tribute, I offer my veneration! Deity of Wisdom, enshroud the eyes of demons and thieves. Ptui.” He hocked up a ball of spit and added as an aside, “Normally I’d use a branch of cypress for benevolent spirits, but where would I get one of those? A bit of grass’ll have to do.” He put some grass on the shoulder blade, inserted it into the flames, and muttered some unintelligible incantations. The shoulder blade was gradually turned black by the fire, and cracks began to appear on it. Ralo sucked in his snot, retrieved the shoulder blade with his bare hands, and placed it on the ground. By this point other prisoners had gathered around the doorway of our cell, squeezing shoulder to shoulder and craning their necks to get a look. Some of the braver ones even slipped in when the watchman wasn’t looking. (Whenever someone received an indictment from the prosecutor’s office they would bring it to my cell straight away and gather around just like this, asking me to translate and explain it, and asking me what they should say to the court.)
Ralo spent a long while analyzing the shoulder blade, retaliating against his restless lice as he did so. “It is certain that I will not be sentenced!” he finally announced with an air of triumph.
“That’s great,” “That’s fantastic,” replied the crowd before they began inundating Ralo with requests: “Please, tell me if I’m going to get sentenced.” Since this was the first time in his life he’d been so in demand, Ralo was extremely pleased, and he began to draw out his speech in a slow drawl. “Ya—first let me see what’s going to happen with my old classmate Döndrup, then I’ll check on Akhu Tsepak, ohh—then I’ll get to the rest of you. Pass me—pass me a cigarette.” In an instant, Ralo received a bounty of seven or so cigarettes, and he became even more full of himself. “Ya—Döndrup, Döndrup,” he said, preparing to put a shoulder blade in the fire for me. “Do the others first,” I said to him. “Ohh—that’s fine,” he said. “There’s an old saying—‘Help others achieve their goals, and your own success will follow.’ Ya—so who’s first?”
“Me!”
“Me!”
…
“Ya—” Ralo took a drag of his cigarette. “First we’ll do one for Kelzang and see if we get the same result as Alak Drong,” he said, inserting a bone into the flames.
This Kelzang was an incorrigible thief who’d already been arrested multiple times, and this time he’d stolen twenty-six head of cattle. I was sure he’d get at least eight years. His family, however, had sent word that “Alak Drong has performed a divination and he says there’s no way you’ll get sentenced, so you set your mind at ease”—and he did indeed set his mind at ease. It was unclear, therefore, if he was asking for a divination now in order to test Ralo’s powers or if he was in earnest. Happily, Ralo didn’t need to analyze the bone for long before he came to a conclusion. “Ohh—there’s an old saying—you don’t need to read a three-pointed bone. Not only will you not be sentenced, you’ll be released soon,” he declared.
“Well,” said Kelzang, “this snotnose prick can’t keep his snot under control, but he sure can burn a bone.”
Ralo shot Kelzang an angry glare, then put some more bones in the fire. “Ah ho! That’s no good,” he exclaimed after a short interval. “Tseten Zhao will be sentenced to five years.”
Thanks to these few words, in the days after Tseten Zhao was actually sentenced to five years Ralo’s status rose and rose. The number of people giving him cigarettes increased, and the number of people calling him “snotnose prick” declined. Unfortunately, this bit of good fortune was very short-lived, as Kelzang ended up getting thirteen years, and shortly thereafter Ralo himself was sentenced to two. I’m sure you know very well just how devastating a situation this was for him, and just how long his snot drooped down because of it. I heard later that 60 percent of what Ralo said in court consisted of old sayings, 20 percent consisted of “In the entire family history of Ralo the proletarian no one has ever stolen anything!,” and the remaining 20 percent was “I swear on the Three Jewels,” “I swear on Alak Drong,” and other such oaths.
Judging from the way things had been going recently, Tsepak was about done for as well. The endless supply of good food and cigarettes sent by his friends dried up all of a sudden, but more significantly, Mani Ass had changed his attitude toward him. One day he jabbed his finger at Tsepak and said, “Crooked prick! You you you … go get some water!”
Tsepak’s mouth hung open, and it was some time before he responded. “Huh?” he said, seemingly not believing his own ears.
“Go get some water!” yelled Mani Ass.
After Tsepak came back with the thermos of water he threw himself down on the bed and closed his eyes. Ralo and I exchanged a quick glance and went over to him. “Is Mani Ass possessed today or what?” I said. Tsepak opened his eyes and sat up. “It looks like I’m really done for this time,” he said.
Ralo and I stood there, not sure what to say. “Don’t worry about it, boys,” said Tsepak. “It’s been coming. If I don’t go down, then some innocent guys like you two will end up in jail. Looks like the authorities really mean to do what they say this time. Don’t worry, don’t worry. It’s about time I reap what I sow.” He suddenly seemed unburdened, like a saint awaiting the Lord of Death—a man who’d long since come to understand the principles governing the universe. From that point on, however, Mani Ass found fault with absolutely everything Tsepak did, making life unbearable for him. Out of desperation, Tsepak got a message to his family and told them to send a whole lamb to Mani Ass. For a few days after that Mani Ass’s treatment of Tsepak improved considerably, but gradually he reverted to calling him “crooked prick” and finding fault where none was to be found. “I guess Mani Ass finished off the last of the lamb,” said Ralo, very likely the first and only genuine truism he had uttered in his life.
Twenty
A new prisoner arrived to take Tseten Zhao’s bunk. Or rather, I moved to the space next to Tsepak to avoid the incursions of Ralo’s lice, and the new prisoner took my bunk. Ralo had already been sentenced, but he had a few days to appeal so he still hadn’t been taken to prison. Since Tseten Zhao had left there was no one to tell Ralo any weird and wonderful stories, and since he’d been sentenced he’d also lost his appetite. But, unlike me, whether Ralo met with fortune or tragedy, he’d never ask “Why?” as he had a clear answer: “Karma.” Ralo didn’t know who his father was, but he must have had some ancestors at any rate, and this irrefutable logic was what they had bequeathed to him.
The new prisoner was called Damchö. He was a strongly built half-far
mer half-nomad, about forty years old. Though he didn’t talk about “the Special Forces” and “modernized weapons” like Tseten Zhao did, he had numerous tales of cattle and horse rustling, stretching right back to when he first learned to ride. It looked like it would be easy for Ralo to pass his last few days in jail after all. Yet it was on an evening only a few days later that Ralo, unleashing a sudden cry of “Ah—ho—,” jumped up naked from bed, pounced on Damchö, and began to strangle him. Tsepak and I had been reading, we had no idea what the two of them had been talking about or what the problem was, and for a moment we simply looked on in bewilderment. No matter how much Damchö struggled he couldn’t shake him off, and I wondered in amazement at where Ralo had got this strength. “Ah—ho—,” Ralo cried again, “this is for Alak Drong’s horse! If I don’t die right now, then I’m not a braided Tibetan! Ah—ho—.” Ralo pinned Damchö with his butt and gripped his throat tighter, making his eyeballs bulge so much they looked like they were going to pop out of his head. Tsepak and I leaped up and pulled at Ralo as hard as we could, but he was as immovable as a giant boulder. Damchö continued to struggle beneath him, and Tsepak and I pulled him from above. Damchö thrust out his right hand and managed to grab hold of Ralo’s braid, and with one tug sent him tumbling off the bed like a sack of straw. He hopped down from the bed and delivered two sharp kicks to Ralo’s chest, sending a thick string of snot drooping onto the floor. Tsepak and I moved to intervene again, but, unlike in the past, Ralo was fearless this time, pouncing toward Damchö once more with a cry of “Ah—ho—this is for Alak Drong’s horse …” I managed to restrain him, and I asked him what was the matter. “The guy who stole Alak Drong’s horse—it’s him,” he said.
“How do you know?”
The Handsome Monk and Other Stories Page 7