The Broken Rules of Ten Page 4

  “Lama Tenzing.” Lama Nawang had stepped into my path. He had an unnerving way of manifesting out of thin air. “I hope you are prepared,” he said. “The time is near.” Then he winked, before continuing in the direction of his hut, leaving me with a thumping heart. This was going to be some debate.

  The rest of the day—after history I had Buddhist Logic, more chanting, lunch, and a class on the Six Perfections—proceeded normally, which meant Yeshe, Lobsang, and my other classmates recited set answers, memorized texts, and generally made sure they didn’t draw attention to themselves. Meanwhile, I did the opposite, peppering our teachers with questions and doubts. I can’t seem to help it. My mind is just wired wrong, I guess.

  I tried to explain to Yeshe and Lobsang once that it wasn’t just about Buddhism; it was about any “ism.” That the same thing happened in Paris last year, when Valerie caught a sudden, acute case of Catholic guilt, like a bad flu, and signed me up for a different “ism,” catechism, at the American Cathedral. Just like here, I tried, I really did. I started off in their group class dutifully memorizing answers, but before long they were sending me from priest to priest, until they just gave up and sent me home. I couldn’t seem to get past some basic concepts. Such as: If this God of theirs was eternal, all-good, all-knowing, all-present, and all-mighty, that must mean he’s everywhere, right? Everywhere, and in everything? So why was it that only people who believed in his “only” son could have access to this God—could be saved and go to heaven? I mean, where did that leave Yeshe and Lobsang, the two best people I knew?

  The minute any belief system sets up a bunch of rules and regulations, that’s the minute I start to question it. Unfortunately that never goes over well with the rule-makers.

  Bong! Bong!

  My stomach lurched. It was time for Debate. I fell into step with the first wave of lamas spilling out of the classroom building. I scanned the courtyard for Lama Nawang, but there was no sign of him yet. I sat cross-legged, leaning back against a tree, as a swelling stream of lamas swarmed the yard and paired off.

  The first time I participated in a courtyard debate session, seven years ago, I ended up in tears. I thought I’d stepped inside a madhouse. All the lamas at Dorje Yidam, age 6 to 86, debate different scripture topics for several hours, every day, seven days a week. The topics range from pretty vague, like the Essential Emptiness of Existence, to more specific, like the Five Negative Mindstates. The little kids start at the beginning, by debating a color—“When is white actually white?” for instance.

  Sounds tame, even boring, right? Not this kind of debate.

  One lama, the Defender of the Dharma, is seated on the ground. He makes a statement and claps his hands. His partner, the Challenger, is upright. He argues the statement then lunges, stomps his foot, and claps his outstretched hands as well, right in the sitting guy’s face. Back and forth, back and forth they go. One lama delivers a philosophical point. Clap! The other lama makes a different point of his own. Clap! A single debate between two lamas can go on for hours. Now multiply that one pair by fifty, all at once, and all conducted at high volume. Like I said—madness.

  “What’s the point?” I once asked my tutor, Lama Sonam.

  “The point, Tenzing, is to retrain our brains. Rewire wrong ideas about reality, so we can free ourselves from suffering.” He explained that while meditation gives us a direct taste of freedom, we must also use our intellects to beat back our greatest enemy, ignorance.

  The Buddha is big on working things out for oneself.

  In theory, debating was a valuable means for change. My problem, so far at least, was that in practice, even the most basic topics of debate turned my brain cells into mush. I could study the texts until my eyes crossed. Memorize points of doctrine until I could recite them in my sleep. But truly take them in? Actually defend, much less transcend them? Don’t make me laugh. There was always, always that moment mid-debate when my mind glued up, and everything inside and out was reduced to gibberish.

  “Tenzing, you have all the tools,” my father would cry, his voice despairing. “Use them! Lift your learning out of the box!” Well, maybe Lama Nawang would help me do better.

  The din around me swelled, as more and more young lamas began sparring.

  I rested my head against the wall. My eyelids drooped.

  Whirring through space. I’m in some sort of vehicle, trying to get away from something. I have no idea where I am going. I feel a spasm of panic in my belly. How do I steer—where are the controls?

  They’re inside my head.

  Turn right, I think. The vehicle turns right. Turn left. I do.

  I am in charge. But how can that be?

  The panic returns, rising to my chest. I can’t breathe. I start to plummet.

  A woman’s voice. “Breathe, Tenzing! Breathe! You can do this!”

  Many strong arms beat like wings, and I am caught in the updraft. My awareness opens like a lens and everything smooths out. Maybe I won’t crash, after all. For a few moments I operate the machine perfectly.

  Hey, I really do know how to fly this thing. I immediately start losing altitude again, but slower this time. I land in a clearing with a soft bump. A group of people are there, staring at me. Dawa and Pema. My father. He has a silly monkey-hat on, like the dancing monkeys in the bazaar. I see Lama Sonam, and I am filled with gratitude. There are other shadowy figures. Most I can’t quite make out, but one, standing in the back, is also familiar. Nawang.

  I feel compelled to look at Pema and Dawa again. Pema’s face glows. Dawa looks troubled. They seem to be sending me a message with their eyes. Then both open their arms, and they fan out, so many, eight, ten, more! The arms float and sway like underwater ferns. Suddenly my vehicle rushes upward, and I am effortlessly soaring through space, my heart bursting with joy.

  “Ready, Lama Tenzing?”

  I rubbed my eyes, trying to shake off the dream. Nawang stood above me, his dark eyes glinting with humor.

  “Ready,” I said.

  “Good.” He cocked his head, as if studying my mind.

  I held my breath.

  He nodded.

  “Longchampa, third volume,” he said, and I exhaled with relief. Longchampa’s trilogy, Kindly Bent to Ease Us, was a debating staple. I knew most of it well.

  “The subject is dreaming and wonderment,” Nawang added.

  The fuzz on the back of my neck stood up, as if electrified. With my dream still fresh in my mind, he’d read it perfectly. His awareness was thrilling.

  Lama Nawang took his stance across from me. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Yeshe and Lobsang staring at us from the other side of the courtyard. Yeshe’s mouth was actually hanging open.

  I straightened my spine and centered my breathing. Nawang did the same. Our outstretched arms mirrored each other’s. Clap! And we were off and running.

  Lama Nawang said, “You are not a spectator to the world.” Clap!

  I said, “How can you know you are not a spectator to the world?” Clap!

  He said, “Every act of observation is an act of participation.” Clap!

  “Ummm.” Breathe, Tenzing, breathe . . . Okay, got it. “As a participant, you cease clinging to your individual identity and become equals with all.” Clap!

  “What does it mean to become equals with all?” Clap!

  I wavered. “To be equals with all means to know, to know . . .” Brainfreeze again. This time, my mind stayed frozen.

  Lama Nawang squatted, right in front of me, breaking with the format. He leaned close and lightly touched the center of my chest with his fingertips. Then he tapped my forehead. What is he doing?

  He whispered, prompting me: “To be equals with all means to know that you are made of the same particles as everything else in the universe.” He gave the top of my head one small, sharp tap.

  Tock!

  I dissolved.

  I was everything and everyone, not just here, but everywhere. I was part of the whole, no long
er some unwanted particle struggling to stay separate, to be unique. Power surged inside me as all the parts lined up, parts that had been isolated and off-center before. Any sense of “me” and “it” melted. I wasn’t just hooked to the source—I was the source itself. I was the power.

  How dare you? A familiar wave of fear crashed over me, propelled by my father’s critical voice. I was sucked back into myself. I was alone again, and small. Sadness flooded my body.

  But I had tasted that feeling of power, and one taste was all it took. If I felt it once, I could feel it again. I would give, or do, anything to get that power back.

  I rubbed my cheeks. They were wet, the tears an odd by-product of the awe. I looked at Nawang. He nodded. He knew.

  He pulled me upright. Moving back one step, he held his arms in front of him, two parallel planks. Opened them like scissors. Then he told me exactly what he needed from me, when he needed it, and why.

  Clap!

  CHAPTER 4

  The three of us slipped silently out of our sleeping quarters, single file. The moon, a milky bowl, was low in the sky. I clutched my penlight, but kept it off for the time being. Yeshe was right behind me, Lobsang bringing up the rear.

  We floated like ghosts across the grounds until the main monastery building loomed before us in the watery light. It was 3:30 a.m., a full two hours before the waking gong. Except for a few monkeys chattering quietly in the trees—their presence was constant at Dorje Yidam, day or night—the world was silent.

  “We’re in luck,” Lobsang whispered, pointing. “Look who’s on watch tonight.”

  Old Lama Tupten, my history teacher, sat cross-legged by the front door. His spine was somewhat upright; his head slumped onto his chest. Monks on night watch are supposed to sit in meditation throughout the night, but if Old Lama Tupten was meditating, he was using his special snore-mantra. We could hear the loud sawing from ten yards away.

  “You two stay here,” I said. If I failed to get inside, I wanted to take the blame all by myself. Lobsang and Yeshe nodded, their eyes serious.

  “Please be careful,” Yeshe whispered.

  I was barely breathing as I crept close. I slipped my hand in his cloth bag and eased out a ring of heavy keys. Lobsang had described the two I needed—one was rusted and thick, with an ornate filigreed design on one end, the other slim brass, topped by a dancing image of a female Dakini. I found both immediately. I slid them off the ring, my eyes glued on Lama Tupten. He snorted, and I froze. His snoring resumed. I edged away, a sour-sweet mixture of fear, guilt, and satisfaction roiling around in my belly.

  I had already disclosed everything to Yeshe and Lobsang, as I knew I would. They’d cornered me after dinner. The fact that I had debated Lama Nawang was the last straw—Lobsang informed me it was the talk of the monastery, and by the way what in the world was going on? Soon I was spilling details—well, most of them—culminating in Lama Nawang’s dangerous request. Why I had been outside in the first place remained secret. As far as Yeshe and Lobsang knew, my occasional nightly excursions had to do with the need for alone time, and nothing else.

  I expected protest, and I was not wrong. What I didn’t expect was their eventual insistence on helping me, once they realized I could not be talked out of this mission.

  “Think about it,” Lobsang had said. “I work in the library. I’m the only one that knows where they keep the special texts.”

  “And I’m the only one who can make sure you’ve got the right pecha,” Yeshe added.

  “Forget it,” I said. “It’s too risky.”

  “When do we go?” was Lobsang’s reply.

  It helped that the crime was a holy one. Lama Nawang had explained that this particular pecha, normally reserved for only the highest of the high, was an essential step on his path to personal Buddhahood.

  “I’m getting so close,” he’d said, his voice urgent. “The key to relieving suffering is within reach. You can help me attain it, so we can make it available to others. Think of the merit!”

  “You’re talking about stealing,” I’d said.

  “No. Borrowing,” he smiled. “Very different. And it’s for a noble cause, so there’s no harm in it. It has to be now.” His voice had grown urgent. “Don’t you see? You and me, running into each other last night? It was meant to be!”

  If anything, Lobsang and Yeshe respected Lama Nawang even more than I did, and we all agreed his involvement must mean it was okay. It didn’t hurt that Nawang also promised to share any newly discovered insights. I could still taste the intoxicating sip of power he’d given me, and now Lobsang and Yeshe were eager for the same experience.

  The truth is, we’d heard about the existence of the secret text for years. According to the rumor mill, this particular pecha—the great sage Tsongkhapa’s tantric discourse on the power of the feminine—was so controversial it had been removed from the official teachings. None of us had laid eyes on it, but earlier tonight Lobsang admitted he “might” have seen something in the library once, locked inside a glass cabinet perched high on a narrow shelf, while dusting.

  I hustled back to Yeshe and Lobsang. I flashed the two keys.

  “Got them,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  Yeshe stared at the keys. His clenched right fist rose to his mouth, and he gnawed at the knuckles.

  “What?” I asked.

  He lowered his fist. “We’re really doing this, aren’t we,” he said.

  We ran around the building and slipped inside the back entrance into the assembly hall. It was always open. No one was meditating there tonight, another stroke of luck. We snuck through the dark hall and out the front, and edged along the long corridor leading to the locked library door.

  I slid the heavy key into the lock. It clicked, and turned.

  “Slowly,” Lobsang whispered. “It creaks.”

  I eased the door open. The three of us stepped into musty darkness, the air a mixture of dust and old paper, mingled with the slightly rancid smell of butter candles. I clicked on my penlight. This place always filled me with a sense of awe.

  The room was crammed with towers of learning. Rows upon rows of narrow rectangular shapes, wrapped in yellow silk, each housing its own Buddhist text, translation, chant, or invocation, identifiable by a small label that dangled from one end. There were hundreds of them, stacked from floor to ceiling. Inside each one, every Tibetan character had once been painstakingly hand-carved into a wooden block, in reverse, using lettering transcribed onto thin, inked paper and applied to the wet wood. The block was smeared in ink and pressed onto a rectangle of homemade paper, more like cardboard than the thin sheets used for my books back home.

  Every pecha in here contained its own stack of pulpy pages, lined with careful text and pressed between two slabs of wood. Monks would remove these stacked pages and chant, turning each front to back to read from, like a horizontal deck of cards.

  Lobsang led us to the far corner, where a small glass cabinet rested on a high shelf. He and Yeshe made a cradle out of their hands and boosted me up. I aimed the narrow beam of light inside and located a single pecha, pushed against the back. It was wrapped in embroidered gold silk. A bronze statue of Shakyamuni sat in meditation on the shelf below, one hand raised, the other pointing downward. The statue was small, but it exuded authority. I tried to avoid looking at him. What are you doing in here? the Buddha’s steady gaze seemed to ask.

  I gripped the penlight with my teeth and used the smaller key to unlock the glass-paned door.

  Reaching inside, I grasped the wrapped pecha and slid it out of the cabinet. It was lighter than I expected. I handed it down to Yeshe carefully.

  “Grab me another one, a replacement,” I said. “Just in case.”

  Lobsang steadied me with both hands, as Yeshe grabbed a second pecha, this one wrapped in the more traditional yellow cloth, and passed it up to me. It would have to do. I slid it onto the back of the shelf and relocked the cabinet, my legs wobbling. Lobsang lowered me to the floor wit
h a soft grunt. Yeshe was holding the pecha away from his body with both hands, as if it might explode. I illuminated the small, multicolored cloth tags sticking out of one side. His hand trembling, Lobsang lifted the three colored flaps, to reveal tiny Tibetan characters inscribed on the bottom white cloth tab. Yeshe lowered his head to read: He was the most fluent in the ancient Tibetan used by our ancestors.

  “On the Peerless Power and Wisdom of the Feminine,” Yeshe translated, “by Tsongkhapa.” He looked up in awe. “Wasn’t his disciple . . .”

  “. . . the First Dalai Lama,” Lobsang completed Yeshe’s thought. He looked up, his voice hushed. “Tsongkhapa is the founder of our tradition, our root guru.”

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  I managed to return the keys without incident. I had my mother to thank—how many times had I eased the house key in and out of her purse, as she lay passed out on the sofa?

  We made it back undetected. I wanted to dance with relief. I probably got called on the 500-year-old carpet of our monastery at least once a week for some infraction or other, but this? This was different. For one thing, Lobsang and Yeshe were involved. Not that they were saints. They loved the occasional prank, like secretly sewing up a zhen so it only reached a young lama’s waist, or mimicking Old Lama Tupten’s belches and snores. Our elders never seemed to understand the fundamental cost/benefit deal that all kids know in their bones: Compared to the pleasure of getting a laugh out of other novice monks, threats and even the occasional punishments were nothing.

  But this time, this crime, holy or not, would get us all expelled.

  We huddled on the floor, between my bed and the back wall. The room was as silent as death. I set the pecha down on my pallet and rotated it so it was facing forward, with the dangling label to my right. Lobsang hunkered to one side. Yeshe, now in charge of the penlight, knelt, like me, on the floor. I slowly unwrapped the gold embroidered covering, lifting the first few triangles of cloth to remove the long cloth bookmark with the dangling tag, and then continuing until the pecha was revealed. Its upper cover was richly carved with sacred emblems. The wood was the color of blood, the red paint faded and cracked. I untied a thin leather strap and lifted the top piece of wood. The title page beneath was slightly yellowed, but the Tibetan characters were legible. I flipped it over to reveal the first page of text.