In bed, he once again began to think about getting a wife for his son, but a sudden burst of joyous laughter cut off his train of thought. Pricking up his ears, he could make out one of the voices as his son’s, and the voice of the other seemed to be that of a woman. The sound of the laughter woke up a child, who began to cry. The woman began to sing a lullaby: “Go to sleep, Mama’s little darling, go to sleep and I’ll get a horse for you, and we’ll get a saddle for that horse, I’ll pluck the stars from the sky for you, I’ll pluck the flowers from the ground for you, go to sleep, Mama’s little darling …”
Even he was lulled to sleep by the melody. He kept on rearranging the household possessions this way and that, but he could never get them the way he wanted.… His livestock ran off to someone else’s land, and when he went to retrieve them he died by the blade of another’s knife, and his son couldn’t take revenge, couldn’t even bring his body back.… All his hopes were entrusted to his grandson, whom he had taken on a pilgrimage to the Jowo in Lhasa.…
All night long, he was gripped by an endless stream of disjointed dreams.
9
THE HANDSOME MONK
ONE
Toward the end of the tenth month of the Tibetan calendar it snowed, making it feel even colder than the middle of winter. It got colder still at dusk, when thick black clouds gathered in the sky. Watching the sky over his home as he took a piss, Gendün Gyatso shivered involuntarily. He fastened his maroon-colored satin and lambskin jacket, thrust his hands inside the sleeves, and carried himself back to the camp with ponderous steps. A couple of seven-, maybe eight-year-old kids, each chewing on some roasted barley, ran over to greet him. “Akhu is here! I’ll take your bag.” Grabbing his yellow satchel, they wrestled and shoved their way inside.
With the exception of his sister-in-law, who was busy making tsampa by herself, there was no one at home. “Where’s Mom gone?” asked Gendün Gyatso.
“She went to your sister’s. She said she won’t be back for a few days.” His sister-in-law jumped up in a sudden fright. “Akhu, you look awful. Are you ill?”
When he heard these words, Gendün Gyatso’s pounding heart settled somewhat. “No, no,” he said. As he was about to sit, he heard from outside the simultaneous sounds of a neighing horse and the thud of a descending rider. “Dad’s here!” cried the children in unison, wrestling and shoving their way out the door of the adobe house. His heart started pounding again.
“Ah tsi, you look terrible. Are you sick or something?” As soon as his brother, Gobha, saw him, he virtually yelled these words at Gendün Gyatso.
“No. I’m not … sick. I … you …”
“Me? I’m back from the front line to get provisions.”
“Oh, the front … Was there an ambush?”
“Last night those bandits hit our second unit’s camp again. By the grace of the Three Jewels, there were no casualties.” Gobha moved to sit. “You really do look terrible. If you’re not sick, then what’s wrong?”
“There’s … there’s something I need to tell you …”
“Is that Gobha? Oh! And Akhu Gendün’s here too!” An elderly neighbor entered Gobha’s house, leaning on his walking stick. Both brothers rose.
“Please sit, Akhu Gendün, both of you please sit,” urged the old man, himself taking a seat. From the way he tossed his walking stick to the floor with a clatter, you’d think he would never need it again. He seemed, however, to decide that this action was excessive, so he retrieved the stick and placed it in front of him. The walking stick made him seem very old, but he was in fact just over fifty, and his hair was still mostly black. Two years ago, during a pasture feud, he’d been shot in the calf, and because he couldn’t get the wound treated right away, he’d been forced to rely on the walking stick ever since.
“Have the bandits hit again?”
“They hit our second unit’s camp again last night. By the grace of the Three Jewels, there were no casualties. A cadre and a detachment of armed police are coming from the county today. Seems like the fighting will have to stop.”
“Those bandits …” The old man impulsively pounded a fist onto his knee. A sharp pain shot up his leg, forcing an “Ow ow!” from his mouth. “Isn’t there anything you can do to hit them back?” he asked, after a moment had passed.
“If they’re not attacking, then that’s a good thing. How can we attack them? We move about in the trenches all hunched over; if you peek your head over the top even a little bit, a thousand guns go off at once, like peas popping in a pan! You know all too well how good the bandits’ weapons are.” This last comment stirred in the old man feelings of terror, anguish, and hatred all at the same time. He bit his lip and fell silent. Gobha continued, “We’re on the high ground, but apart from the slight advantage of terrain we’ve got nothing. Winter’s coming, and the wind on the mountaintop is unbearable. Forget about fighting back—the men won’t even be able to stand on their own two feet when that cold comes. We’re in a real tight spot.”
“Ah—it’s not your fault. But those bandits have killed so many of our men. Even if we can’t take revenge, we can’t give them an inch of ground! If my leg wasn’t like this, I’d throw these old bones into battle again! But without a penny, this is what happens …”
“How much are the yaks and sheep worth now?”
“Barely anything.”
“Eh—well anyhow, if we don’t sell some, we won’t even be able to afford bullets.”
“Oh, yeah—I’ve still got a few here. Take them. Kill a few of their men and horses. Even if you can’t get revenge for your dad, you can put the fear into those bandits. I heard a Muslim came to Spearhead Gönpo’s place selling guns and ammo for cheap. Where is Alak Drong now?” The old man suddenly turned to Gendün Gyatso. “It’s your good karma that you monks don’t have to lay eyes on the battlefield. It’s no different from hell. If you hadn’t taken your vows, you’d be out there now, feeling the terror and the pain—who knows, you might not even be alive. Ah tsi, our handsome monk is looking the worse for wear, is he unwell?”
Gendün Gyatso was a man with perfectly proportioned features. He had sleek black hair and a fair complexion. Just like in the Tibetan ode to Yangchen Lhamo, if you looked for a single fault on him, you’d simply be wasting your time. People called him “the handsome monk.” His fellow monks had even said that, as he possessed the thirty-two auspicious marks and the eighty excellent signs of the Buddha, he must be the reincarnation of a great lama, and they entreated him to give them his blessing. These latter remarks might have been poking fun, but no one could deny the truth of the former. The women of Tsezhung joked about this topic in private: “If I could get Akhu Gendün to break his vows with me, spending the next life burning on the copper horse would be a small price to pay!” After everyone had had a good laugh, a penance would be added: “Ah la, only kidding, om Vajrasattva.” When Gendün Gyatso was just six or seven years old, a lama visited his family. As soon as he saw Gendün Gyatso, he exclaimed in surprise. “Ah tsi ah tsi, what a remarkable boy! You must keep this child clean and healthy.… Mmm … it would be best if you have him enter the monkhood,” he said, patting the boy’s head. His father was overjoyed and before long sent him off to take his vows, but at no point had Gendün Gyatso displayed any remarkable characteristics. In any case, his handsome appearance and gentle character made up for the fact that he wasn’t all that bright or hard-working, and he remained the object of people’s desire and esteem.
Compared with those days, Gendün Gyatso really wasn’t looking so good now. The most obvious change was in his face, which had completely lost its former luster. It had become ashen and gloomy, like that of a man in very poor health. And the conversation his brother had had with that damn neighbor had heaped fresh suffering on his suffering, and fresh terror on his terror. He tried to get his emotions under control and calm himself down, but as soon as he stopped concentrating on it he began hyperventilating. That night he couldn’t get to sleep at
all, and the next day he looked even worse. “You really do look terrible,” his brother said. “Go and see Alak Drong, or a doctor. There’s definitely something wrong.” He stuffed some money into his hand and left.
Gendün Gyatso put a hand to his face, then set out after his brother, who was already astride his horse.
“Oh, right,” said his brother, suddenly reining in his mount. “Wasn’t there something you wanted to tell me?”
Gendün Gyatso’s heart almost leaped into his throat, and he felt like he could barely breathe. “I … I mean … you … you should … be careful, be on your guard,” he said, swallowing repeatedly.
“That’s it?”
“No, I mean, yes, ah … that’s it.”
“Don’t worry yourself.”
As he watched his brother ride away, Gendün Gyatso thought, It’s best to just get it over with, like pulling a tooth—do it in one go. Worse comes to worst, I’d get a crack of his whip. And maybe I’d be feeling a bit better right now if I’d done it. He sighed, regretting that he hadn’t dared tell his brother what was really on his mind.
TWO
At dusk, Gendün Gyatso returned to the county seat. Wrapping his robe around his head, he wandered the streets aimlessly. That morning he’d eaten a simple breakfast, and though he hadn’t had a bite to eat for lunch or dinner, he didn’t feel hungry at all. When darkness fell, he found himself wandering unconsciously back into the Red Lantern Bar. Alcohol can relieve your troubles, they say, so maybe a drink would help.
A young woman came over and sat beside him. “You’re still wearing your monk’s robes,” she whispered.
“Go away. Bring me a beer.”
The woman stood up, shocked. A moment later she sat again. “If you want to drink, you can come to my place.”
Gendün Gyatso had no desire whatsoever to return to the woman’s place, so he rose and walked out the door. When he came back to the bar some two or three hours later, he was more or less drunk. Not only had the alcohol failed to ease his pain, it had aroused in him a strong desire to be with the woman again. In fact, even in the midst of the intense anguish and fear of the last few days, he hadn’t been able to put her out of his mind. Sometimes he hated the woman, sometimes he loved her. In the end, he himself couldn’t say for sure; all he knew was that he had an irrepressible desire to be with her. The woman really seemed to like him too. At the start she’d told him, quite candidly, “As a woman doing a job like this, I go with whoever pays me, but I’ve never met a man as handsome as you before. To tell you the truth, I really like you. But I’ve never made a monk break his vows, and there’s no way I’m starting now. It looks to me like you’re no ordinary monk. I think it’d be best if you just forgot all about this kind of thing.”
At that moment Gendün Gyatso had been overcome by a wave of desire, his sole wish being to bed the woman on the spot. Even if he’d had to die and go to hell as soon as he’d had her, it would have been worth it. “I already gave up my vows,” he’d lied.
“Then what are you doing still wearing monk’s robes?”
“I only gave them up yesterday. I don’t have any other clothes right now. I’m planning to go home and get my lay clothes tomorrow.”
“Why don’t you get some Chinese clothes? Aren’t a lot of former monks wearing Chinese clothes these days?”
“I’ve never worn Chinese clothes in my life, and I don’t intend to wear them now. Stop delaying.”
The woman had point-blank refused the money he’d offered, and Gendün Gyatso had felt moved. “A pretty, nice girl like you shouldn’t be working in a place like this. I hope you find yourself a husband and get on the right track,” he’d said then, and meant it.
“A girl who’s done this job can never find a husband, especially a good one,” she’d said with a sigh.
“A monk and a prostitute. Aren’t we the perfect match?” He’d then told her a true story about a monk from his monastery who went back to lay life. After giving up his vows, he married a prostitute, and they even had children.
“You’re making fun of me.”
Even he hadn’t known if he was kidding or being serious. Either way, he would have to return home the next day and get back into his fur jacket—there was no avoiding that. But he had gradually begun to feel a profound sense of regret, mostly because he hadn’t considered that shedding his monk’s robes meant he would have to go to the front line, where the most he had to look forward to was seeking revenge for his father. Ever since he was a child he’d been used to the warmth of the monks’ quarters. Even when he returned to the family tent he lay in bed miserably, unable to stand the cold. If there was one thing more unbearable to him than fighting, it was sitting on a mountaintop thirteen thousand feet above sea level, getting blasted by freezing winds. What’s more, even when the fighting was over, he’d still have to be out in the wind and the rain tending the cattle. He’d have to stalk about like a wolf just for the sake of keeping his belly full—this, like the breaking of his vows, was already a fact. When you think of it like that, how you can say all those clever people who leave their homes and renounce worldly affairs to pursue a life of solitude are doing it just for the welfare of sentient beings? And those soldiers who flee the battlefield and face disdain and ridicule, and then the next damn life …
“Ah kha, what an idiot I am!” Gendün Gyatso had been tormented with regret. “Demon, you wicked demon, look what you’ve done to me …” He’d wept bitterly, striking himself in the chest over and over.
“Didn’t you say you already gave up your vows?”
“I was lying to you. I was lying to myself.”
“Ah ho, you’ve ruined me! What will I do in the next life!?”
“Prostitutes don’t have anything to look forward to in the next life anyway. You’ll be spending the next life knee-deep in shit, piss, pus, and blood.”
The woman didn’t get mad, she’d simply cried and leaned her head against Gendün Gyatso. “I have no regrets. I have no regrets.”
“Me neither.” Gendün Gyatso had put his arm around her neck. These weren’t just words, either. It was too late now anyway, he’d thought, there was no use in having regrets. He was by no means the only one to forsake his vows, and what’s more, this woman was a real beauty—the most beautiful thing in the world is a woman, after all. Haven’t plenty of people given up their lives for the sake of a woman? Despite this, it wasn’t long before he felt regret again, and it came most notably whenever he sobered up—What have I done? he would chastise himself. Soon after that, the unstoppable regret and fear came back, so he kept drinking, trying his best to forget it all.
THREE
There’s a new saying: “Most men are called Tashi, and most Tashis are businessmen; most women are called Lhamo, and most Lhamos are prostitutes.” But the name of the woman Gendün Gyatso was in love with wasn’t Lhamo, it was Lhatso. Lhatso rented a small room behind the Red Lantern Bar. Half of the room was taken up by a large bed, at the head of which was a cupboard. In addition to some makeup, the cupboard contained a yellow book called The Lineage of Nyizer Monastery. The book was distinctly out of place in that room, and it piqued Gendün Gyatso’s curiosity. He asked Lhatso where it came from.
“A client left it here by accident a few days ago. Said he was a tourist. I was going to throw it out, but it’s full of pictures of lamas and the monastery, so I kept it.”
Though the room looked very clean, it had a foul odor. Gendün Gyatso suspected that it might be the smell of semen. He lit incense again and again, but the smell proved hard to get rid of. For that reason, he spent less and less time in the little room and began to roam between other bars, clubs, and especially video stores. Though those places too had their share of pretty “Lhamos,” in his eyes none of them was as pretty or as kindhearted as Lhatso. Every evening, when he finished his drifting, he ended up back at Lhatso’s, and he was usually drunk. At first he cursed her, calling her a “black-hearted woman” and an “evil woman,�
�� then he cried and struck himself in the chest with his fist. I can’t go on like this … what’s the point of living … he thought sometimes, and even considered suicide.
“If you want to die, do it somewhere else,” said Lhatso, at the end of her tether. Then she held him. “Please, don’t torture yourself like this. You’re not the only one to break his vows. Even lamas break their vows, never mind ordinary monks. They don’t have any regrets, so why should you? Get rid of your robes and give up the drink. We can open up a little store or a guesthouse together.” She tried to console him with these and other heartfelt words.
“No, no, you know nothing! If I give up my robes I’ll be forced to get a gun and go to the front line, and the man who killed my father is there, so I’ll have to be out in front, and those bandits have the better weapons … oh—you know nothing …”
“So … it’s like that.”
“It’s like that. I’m not just a fallen monk, I’m a coward too. Now you know.”
“Then … why don’t we go to my hometown?”
“Didn’t you say you’re from Chukar County?”
“Yes.”
“Haha—that’s exactly where the man who killed my father is. They’re still fighting with our camp now.”
“Oh … I see. Then why don’t we go somewhere else?”
Gendün Gyatso shook his head, not wanting to talk anymore, and went to sleep.
Every morning, Gendün Gyatso read The Lineage of Nyizer Monastery in bed, both to forget his troubles and to pass the day. The book documented a lineage of abbots from a Nyingma monastery in Kham. The photos of Nyizer Tsang, the great lama in charge of the monastery, looked just like him. Nyizer Tsang had died at the age of twenty-five, which, counting back from now, was twenty-five years ago—the year before Gendün Gyatso was born. The book said that the huge boulder into which he drove a ritual dagger was now the monastery’s most precious religious artifact.
The Handsome Monk and Other Stories Page 13