If you laid your eyes on the scene of the nomads’ dwelling here—the air peppered with the occasional sounds of five or six hundred whinnying horses, lowing cattle, and bleating sheep, living peacefully and carefree—that phrase “exquisite pastures richly endowed” would naturally come to mind.
This valley had something of an unusual name: Black Fox Valley. This wasn’t just because the foxes there were black—even the marmots were. No one in Tsezhung had ever really paid any attention to this, but when Sangyé’s family was given a pasturage contract for use of the valley, Sangyé began to consider the matter seriously. This doesn’t bode well. Foxes everywhere else are red. Why is it that only the foxes in this valley are black? he wondered, plucking his moustache. Once, when the people of Tsezhung had invited Alak Drong to visit the community, Sangyé came to kneel before him and seek his counsel. “Venerable Rinpoché, foxes everywhere else are red. Only the foxes in my family’s pasture are black, and so the valley’s called Black Fox Valley. Do you think we need to do a prayer service or something?” The reason he said “my family’s pasture” was that some county and township officials had carried out a cartographic survey and, after making some marks on the map, had given him a booklet called a “Pasture Usage Permit.” In this book was written, in both Chinese and Tibetan, the acreage of the pasture, its boundaries, and that it had been allocated to Sangyé’s family for a period of fifty years.
Alak Drong handed Sangyé a piece of paper on which was written two lines of cursive script.
Sangyé took the paper, and along with one hundred yuan, handed it to a monk he knew at Tsezhung Monastery.
TWO
Sangyé was fifty years old and thin, and had a swarthy complexion. His jaw was covered all over in scattered whiskers of unequal lengths. Some years ago he had possessed a pair of tweezers with a bat design on it, and his facial hair hadn’t been as abundant then as it was now. Unfortunately, however, either Sangyé, his wife, Ludrön, or one of their kids had accidentally trod or knelt on the tweezers, bending them out of shape and compromising their hair-plucking capacity. Even more unfortunately, one time when the family was moving camp the tweezers simply disappeared. Ever since then his facial hair had continued to grow longer and thicker. There was nothing else he could do. As soon as he found himself with idle hands he’d seize the opportunity, and with his left hand plying his prayer beads, his right would work at the moustache, plucking hairs between the nails of his thumb and index finger. This was especially the case when he was thinking or when he was worried—in the blink of an eye he’d be plucking his moustache. Sadly, his fingernails were far less effective than those tweezers.
Sangyé was normally a very quiet and gentle man, but he actually had a sharp tongue. Before he got his pasturage contract, he and the other guys from the community would get together just to brag and banter. Once, Gönpo Tashi, a big tubby guy with a dark complexion, had said to him, “Ya—skinny Sangyé the makpa,1 Akhu Jamyang’s family has got you tanned as soft as sheepskin. Won’t even let you eat your fill! How will you last through the spring? You poor thing!” Everyone burst out laughing.
Sangyé responded, “Ya—fatty Gönpo. You ate your own portion and then everyone else’s, now you’ve got a belly as big as a yak’s and you can barely stand upright. If only that yak’s belly was on the butcher’s block—one little cut of the knife and you’d see yellow fat for sure. It’s just a shame the smell would be so bad not even a dog would eat it, never mind a man.” Everyone burst out laughing again.
Gönpo Tashi was on the verge of offering a rebuttal, but Sangyé didn’t give him the chance. “Ya, fatty Gönpo, you been serenading your sister recently?” Everyone laughed even harder than before. Gönpo Tashi, realizing that he was no match for Sangyé, gave a chuckle. “All right, all right. You win for today.”
“Serenading your sister” was a reference to an embarrassing episode for Gönpo Tashi. Not long after he got married, Gönpo Tashi was coming back from the county seat when he saw a girl riding a yak up ahead of him. Following behind, he serenaded her with a string of love songs, informing her of his bachelor status and inquiring as to whether or not she had a lover, and if not, whether she we would like to form a romantic bond. The terrified woman spurred on her yak and tried to escape as fast as she could, but how could a yak possibly compete with a horse? In a flash he caught up with her, only to discover that this was none other than his little sister, who some time before had gotten married and moved to another community. With his face burning with shame and no idea what to do, he spun his horse around and galloped off.
On any given day Sangyé’s wife, Ludrön, would talk nonstop until she fell asleep: the son of the local branch secretary had gone off to become a monk, the village head had bought a little car, the money that new family got for their fifty sheep was all counterfeit, we need to make a new winter coat for Mom this year, we need to decide whether we’re going to marry our daughter to that harelip Mikyang, okay? She would go on and on like this, and today was no exception.
“Give it a bloody rest, will you? Even if your mouth’s not hurting, my ears are.”
“When you’ve got a mouth you’ve got a right to use it. If your ears hurt, then just don’t listen.”
Sangyé didn’t want to argue with her, so he plucked his moustache and fell silent. Ludrön continued, “When we got our pasturage contract, didn’t they say it was for fifty years? Now they’re saying, ‘Return the Pastures to Restore the Grasslands.’ What’s all that about? If we move to one of those compounds, then where’s the meat, butter, and cheese going to come from? Akhu Sönam’s family said they’ve decided not to move to the county seat.”
Sangyé became even more annoyed. “What’s the point in bringing all this up now, eh? We’ve already sold some of the livestock, and we’ve paid our share, the zee-chow. The government’s already built the house, and most of the families have moved to the town. And another thing—we just need to leave the pastures fallow for a few years, then the deeds will return to the nomads. If there comes a day when we really can’t get by, then we’ll come back. When your mom and dad get back from Lhasa, we’re moving to the town.”
“What? I thought we were moving after the new year.”
“Most of the families have already moved to the county seat, so there won’t be anyone here for the new year anyway. Besides, I heard the houses there are great. Wouldn’t it be nicer to spend the new year in a new house?”
“…”
Ludrön’s father, Jamyang, was seventy-two, and her mother, Yangdzom, was seventy. Though neither of them had completely lost the ability to work, all the authority in the family had long since been passed on to the son-in-law, Sangyé. For that reason, most of the people in the community didn’t call them the “Jamyang family,” but the “Sangyé family.” Sangyé’s son Lhagön Kyab had been sent off to school, and after finishing primary school he went to Labrang Monastery to become a monk, where he took the name Gendün Gyatso. A few days previously he had taken his grandparents, his older sister, Lhatso Kyi, and her daughter to Lhasa on a pilgrimage.
Sangyé no longer had a single thing he needed to take care of, but this made him feel even more unsettled than before. He plucked his moustache vigorously.
THREE
One freezing cold morning, Sangyé hired two of the small hand tractors that the nomads called a “show-foo.” In one he piled up sacks of dung, on top of which he laid a whole yak carcass, a bag of butter, and other assorted provisions. Then came the tent, bound up in a rectangular bundle; fur-lined coats and mattresses; pans, bowls, and other clothes and utensils. In the other tractor he laid down more sacks of dung, and on top he placed the altar, his family, and the dog. Amid the relentless chugging sound and the black smoke emitted by the engine, they set off on the smooth main road that led from the mountain pass of Black Fox Valley. Instinctively, the whole family turned as one to look back at the valley where their little adobe house lay. Just when they reached the mountain
pass, Sangyé pulled a pack of prayer flags from his pocket and tossed them into the air, yelling “Victory to the gods!” as loudly as he could. Just at that moment, the driver pushed the tractor to full throttle, drowning out his cry.
At around three o’clock they finally arrived at the Tsezhung county seat. Here, there was one phrase that they absolutely had to remember: Xingfu Shengtai Yimin Cun (the Chinese for Happy Ecological Resettlement Village). When they stopped to ask someone for directions, telling him that they were one of those families that had Returned the Pastures to Restore the Grasslands and come to the county seat, his response was, “You need to go to the shengtai yimin cun. But there are lots of shengtai yimin cuns. Whereabouts are you from?”
“We’re from Tsezhung.”
“Tsezhung, Tsezhung … I think most of the yimin from Tsezhung are on the north side of town. Anyway, just ask where Xingfu Shengtai Yimin Cun is and you’ll be fine.”
“What?” Sangyé plucked his moustache incessantly. “Shampoo sheng …”
“Xingfu Shengtai Yimin Cun.”
At that point the tractor drivers interjected, telling Sangyé they had to get off. If the family wanted to keep on looking for the place, they said, then an additional fee would be required.
“How much?”
“Ten yuan for each shoufu, and we’ll take you to Xingfu Shengtai Yimin Cun.”
“All right, we’ll do that.”
The moment the tractor did a U-turn, a traffic cop appeared and signaled for them to stop. The two drivers instantly turned pale. In the same moment, they hit the brakes and set their feet on the ground, ready to make themselves scarce. But the policeman, paying no attention to them, was looking transfixed at the tractor. “You selling antiques? Bronze pots, copper kettles, Buddha statues, thangka paintings, old rugs, used flints, teacups or hair ornaments from a dead relative, that sort of thing? Anyway, the older, the better.”
“We’ve got a saddle …” began Ludrön, but before she could continue Sangyé cut her off. “Where is the shampoo sheng tai … house?”
The policeman didn’t understand a word Sangyé was saying. He turned back to Ludrön: “You’re selling a saddle? Does it have a metal inlay? Is it antique?”
“It’s that one.” Ludrön pointed to Sangyé’s inlaid saddle, which was sitting on the other tractor. “We don’t have a horse anymore, what are we going to do with a saddle? If someone wants to buy it, we might as well sell it. It’s just getting in the way.”
The policeman looked closely at the saddle. “I’ll give you five thousand.”
“We’re not selling the saddle.”
Suddenly, the policeman’s eyes turned to the family guard dog. “How much for the dog?”
“We’re not selling the dog, absolutely no way!” the whole family cried, virtually in unison. “Shampoo sheng tai …” began Sangyé again. The policeman ignored him. He was ignoring the two drivers as well, so they started up the tractors and took off.
After about a mile the tractors came to a stop. “This is Xingfu Shengtai Yimun Cun. Get off, pay up.”
FOUR
Seen from a distance, the countless rows of neatly arranged houses, identical in size and color, looked just like bricks laid out to dry in a brickyard. Each house was also enclosed by walls that were, likewise, identical to one another in color and size. At the main gate of the compound, there was a large sign written in Chinese: Xingfu Shengtai Yimin Cun. If you were looking for a family who lived here, it would be no good at all to adopt that backward old bumpkin method where you just say, “Hey buddy! Where’s the Sangyé family from Tsezhung?” It was absolutely imperative to know the house number of the Sangyé family. For instance, if this Sangyé family lived at compound 21, row 17, unit 4, then you had to look for house number 211704. For an illiterate nomad, this was by no means an easy feat, but today the family was accompanied by Gendün Gyatso, their son who had left to become a monk. Even more fortunately, they bumped into someone from their community who had moved there about ten days ago. He took Sangyé to see an official who had hair as red as blood, a face as cold as winter, and hands as slow as a tortoise. Without much trouble at all they soon obtained a big bunch of keys and a slip of paper bearing their house number.
Each family got a three-room house, in front of which was a little enclosure called a “garden.” Iron sheets and tubing constituted the main door, above which was planted a red flag with five yellow stars; they were told that anytime it got dirty or worn out it could be replaced for free. The walls were made of whitewashed hollow cement bricks, upon which was painted a crimson border dotted with white decorations. The minute that Sangyé’s family saw these houses—so replete with ethnic characteristics—they felt a warm glow in their hearts. Jamyang was especially moved. “The kindness of the Party! How can we ever repay it?” he uttered hoarsely, tears welling at the corners of his eyes as he surveyed the houses. “Not even Alak Drong’s mansion is better than this! What have we done to deserve such good fortune?”
One of the rooms of the house was divided in two by a partition wall. One half appeared to be the kitchen, and the other must have been the bathroom, as a big toilet made of white porcelain had been installed in the corner. Sangyé and his wife thought at first that this was some kind of wash basin, causing Gendün Gyatso to snort with derision. “It’s for doing your number ones and twos.”
“What?” cried Grandpa Jamyang. “Pissing and crapping in a lovely basin like this? We’d use up so much merit our assholes would close up!” Yangdzom agreed. “If we don’t know what it is, let’s leave it be. Anyway, you’re having a laugh if you say that’s for number ones and twos.”
“Ah tsi! I swear on the Three Jewels, it’s for taking a crap in,” Gendün Gyatso insisted. “Toilets like this are everywhere these days. I’ve used them loads of times.” As it so happened, he was struck at that very moment by the irrepressible urge do his business. Hoisting up his robe, he planted himself on the toilet and was overcome with a great wave of relief as he dropped an enormous load. Much to his surprise, however, no matter how much he flushed, not a drop of water appeared in the bowl. When he took a closer look, he discovered that there was no pipe connected to the toilet. So it was left to his sister, Lhatso Kyi, to cover her nose and mouth with her left hand, and with her right dispose of the foul mess in the toilet.
Though the house had a toilet, it had no stove, so Sangyé had to go into town to buy one. He picked up a plastic bottle of milk while he was there, then hired one of the three-wheeled pedicabs they called a “three-legs” to get back home. By the time Ludrön went out to make an offering to the deities it was already almost dusk. The dog barked forlornly from the post in the corner of the yard where he was tied up, and only then did she realize he hadn’t eaten anything all day. Overcome by pity for the poor thing, she rushed back inside and grabbed a half pound of boiled blood sausage, which she brought straight back out and gave to the dog. Apart from the fact that he couldn’t speak and lived outside, the dog was just like one of the family, and he’d stuck to them like a shadow for six or seven years. How unexpected, then, that this was to be his last meal at home with them. The next day, they awoke to discover that the dog, along with his leash, had vanished as if he’d been swallowed up by the ground. The whole family was devastated, their only consolation being that at least he hadn’t left on an empty stomach.
FIVE
Nomads call dogs that steal food “thieving dogs,” and, in the same way, shameless thieves are also called “thieving dogs.” But it’s the thieves who steal dogs who are really and truly the shameless “thieving dogs.” Sangyé, plucking at his moustache, was preoccupied with the question of who these thieving dogs could be, as well as the matter of all the household appliances that needed to be bought: a television, a fridge, a bed, a thermos, curtains, and other things besides.
The Western new year had passed, and the Tibetan new year was approaching. Officials from the county and township authorities arrived, bringing t
he financial subsidies for the Return the Pastures to Restore the Grasslands program as well as a bounty of flour, rice, oil, tea, multicolored calendars, and other odds and ends to mark the “Two New Years” or “Two Festivals.” They also asked people if they had any problems or needs—just let them know, they said, and it would be sorted out right away. Sangyé’s family was deeply moved, Jamyang and Yangdzom especially so. “The great kindness of the Party! The great kindness of the nation!” Jamyang declared, unable to hold back the tears. “We didn’t lift a finger and they give us all this money and all these things! Is this a dream? Praise be! Such kindness! Such kindness! We have no problems or needs, none at all.” He was virtually prostrating himself. After the officials had left, Jamyang eagerly drummed into the whole family—Sangyé and his son especially—the lesson to never forget the benevolence of the Communist Party, to always keep it in mind, whether in tent or temple. “When you go into town,” he added, “buy a portrait of the leader.” By “the leader” Jamyang meant Mao Zedong, but when Sangyé went to the Xinhua bookstore, he not only bought portraits of Mao Zedong, Deng Xiaoping, Jiang Zemin, and Hu Jintao, he also got a portrait of Stalin, faded from its many years of lying there without a buyer. He stuck them above the altar, a space already filled with all manner of different-sized pictures of Alak Drong and other lamas and trülkus, and it seemed that a new splendor and radiance had been added to their home. When Jamyang turned his prayer wheel or Sangyé idly plucked his moustache, each would turn involuntarily toward the portraits of the leaders and gaze upon them with awe and reverence.
Getting food on the table and clothes on their backs without having to do a bit of work for it—this was something they couldn’t have even dreamed of before. And so it seemed that Happy Ecological Resettlement Village was indeed a happy place. But, a short while later, Jamyang got it into his head that he should take a trip into town and ask around about their missing dog while he was there. Many years ago, he had been a grassroots-level cadre and had often gone to town to take part in “Three-Grade Conferences” and the like. In those days, he knew this little town like the back of his hand, but now, with development surging at the pace of a galloping horse, the place had changed beyond recognition. He wasn’t at all confident he’d be able to find his way back to Happy Ecological Resettlement Village, and even if he could, there was no way he’d be able to remember that house number—which might as well have been written in hieroglyphics—so he lost his nerve. Now, deprived of the ability to go out, he began to feel like a prisoner in his own home. He spent every day sitting despondently in the doorway, his view curtailed by the rows and rows of houses blocking the horizon. Once, as he was staring at the corner of the yard where the dog used to be, the image of Black Fox Valley appeared before his eyes and the sound of barking rang distantly in his ears. From then on, Jamyang spoke less and less with each passing day.
The Handsome Monk and Other Stories Page 17