The Broken Rules of Ten Read online

  He clasped his hands. “Do you know the three biggest reasons we injure ourselves or brew sickness in our bodies?”

  I didn’t.

  “Punishment, protection, and prevention.”

  I thought about that. “You’re saying I hurt my hip to punish myself for something?”

  “I’m saying it’s possible,” he said. “Only you can discover the truth. It’s also possible you injured yourself for protection or prevention.”

  “But what about Lama Tanzen? He’s the one who pushed me.”

  “Let’s stay with you for the moment, shall we?”

  Why can’t anybody ever just tell me what I need to know and leave it at that?

  I sighed, and nodded.

  “Your unconscious mind has a lot of emotional power, Tenzing, but isn’t very smart. Your conscious mind is smart but doesn’t have the raw power of your unconscious. Only when the two work together can you taste genuine power.”

  There it was again. That word. Power.

  “If they’re in conflict, your unconscious mind may take the reins, cause you to do something that it believes will protect you from greater pain, or prevent you from doing something you really don’t want, or are scared to do.”

  My mind was having a wrestling match with itself, and nobody was winning.

  Lama Tashi said, “What has happened to the pain in your hip?”

  Huh. The pain was gone.

  He saw the look on my face and said, “Remarkable, yes?”

  “But why did it go away?”

  “Think of it as a temporary reward for sincerely inquiring into yourself.” He shrugged. “Genuine inquiry seems to speed up the healing process. Sadly, many people avoid it at all costs, and so are rewarded, for lack of wonderment, with even greater pain.”

  “Sounds good. I feel much better. Can I go now?’

  Lama Tashi smiled. “Not quite yet.”

  His eyes measured me.

  “You’ve grown quite tall, Tenzing. Your body is going through a lot of changes and shifts.”

  My pulse started to speed up.

  “People your age have strong desires, often at war with each other. Have you found that to be true?”

  I did not want to be having this conversation. I stalled.

  “Not really.”

  “Well, you will.” He thought for a moment. I held my breath.

  “Boys your age are often desperate to be free and on their own. At the same time they are deeply afraid that they cannot make their own way. It is extremely frustrating. Many express this frustration in ways that bring pain upon themselves.”

  Right. He was a monk. He was talking about freedom. Not girls. Freedom.

  Well, he wasn’t wrong about that subject, either.

  “How do you know that about me?”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Believe it or not, I was once twelve. Even now, at the ancient age of twenty-nine, I still have some dim memories of those years.”

  “Actually, I’m almost thirteen,” I said. Then I frowned, as I realized where he might be heading. Was he saying I somehow arranged this injury, maybe to get out of executing our plan? That it wasn’t all Lama Tanzen’s fault? And why was this lesson so familiar? A little knot of anger formed in my belly. Not to mention, my hip was hurting again.

  Lama Tashi said, “Let me tell you a story. This happened when I was very young, still living at home with my parents. One night, in a remote gully near our village, the air was filled with bloodcurdling shrieks. We dared not go look—was it a demon? A lunatic of some kind? Finally, the screaming stopped. A group of the men, including my father, went with lanterns to see what was there. When they returned, their faces were white. They had found a giant poacher’s trap. It was empty, but the bloody front foreleg of a snow leopard told a grim tale. The wound should have been mortal, but a trail of blood and scat led up and out of the gully. For years afterward, people claimed to see a three-legged leopard roaming the mountainous Tibetan Plateau.”

  Lama Tashi looked at me. “What does this tale tell you about the leopard?”

  I knew right away. “He was desperate to get out of that trap.”

  “Yes, but what else?”

  I pictured the snow leopard making a bloody, three-legged dash for freedom and felt a chill inside.

  I said, “The leopard was willing to sacrifice its own leg to be free.”

  “Ah, so, and do you know anyone else who feels that passionately about his freedom?” He had that playful smile on his lips again.

  I felt heat in my face. It sounded very much like someone I knew. Me.

  Then Nawang’s words echoed in my head: Remember, the path to freedom is not easy or soft, but nothing, nothing, is more precious. Different kind of freedom maybe, but same passion.

  I nodded.

  “I’m not saying such zeal is wrong,” Lama Tashi added. “I am saying you need to be careful, lest you sacrifice parts of yourself in the course of achieving liberation.”

  I decided to change the subject. This was getting too close to some truths I didn’t want to face.

  “How did you know it was my left hip? I mean really,” I said.

  “Ahh. The meaning behind the mystery. You don’t miss much, do you?”

  I didn’t know about that. I felt like I missed a lot.

  “If you want to experience real mystery,” he said, “start by noticing the ordinary ones that most people overlook.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like noticing footsteps approaching. Even though I couldn’t see you, I knew from the sounds that you were walking off-center. Specifically, that an injured left leg was causing that particular rhythm.”

  “Like a detective,” I said. I was thinking about Sherlock again.

  “Exactly. Detecting is the perfect practice for solving mysteries. Now, please, lie down, settle your mind, and let me give my attention to your hip.”

  As he ran his hand over my hip joint, and then up and down my spine, he chanted: “Protectress who performs all pacifying deeds, who pacifies illnesses, hindrances, and ghosts, the time has come to show your compassion. The time has come to show your unique nature. The time has come to free us from enemies and hindrances and restore weakened samaya. Release your great blessings, your healing nectars, and ripen the fruit of our karma.”

  The tightness in my muscles started to dissolve. An unusual streaming sensation, like moving honey, rippled up and down from my chest to my legs.

  Floating. Arms, waving.

  A camel? Yes, a camel. No, a horse.

  Arms, holding me, rocking me.

  Something caved, deep inside, a block of hardness breaking into pieces, like chunks of ice cracking apart.

  Lama Tashi’s voice was soft. “You may return your awareness to the room around you now.”

  I opened my eyes. The world looked fresh and bright, as if washed with light.

  “I saw a horse,” I said. “At least, I think it was a horse. It may have been a camel.” A bubble of laughter rose, and I giggled.

  “Ah, so,” Tashi said. “The old texts say that when a person is injured, it is either a camel-kick injury or a horse-kick injury. Horses have hard hooves; camels’ hooves are soft. Horse-kick injuries hurt a lot at first but heal quickly. Camel-kick injuries don’t hurt as much at first but take a long time to heal. My hands told me this was a horse-kick injury. Then I knew how to treat it.”

  “That’s great,” I said, “but your horse and camel got into my head. How did you do that?”

  “I didn’t do it. You did. You entered the mystery and let the mystery speak to you.”

  Again, Lama Nawang’s face flashed in front of me. His hand, tapping my head, Tock! That sweet taste of pure release. I longed to experience it again. “Can you teach me how to enter other people’s mysteries as well?”

  Lama Tashi stood up, straightening his robe. “What I know about these things is pitiably small compared to the vast amount of my ignorance. But I do know this: With
real mystery comes real responsibility. Real mystery is a sacred thing, best brought to life when you learn with another person in a good-hearted way, with purity of intent. It can corrupt instantly if used improperly. Do you understand?”

  “I think so,” I said. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Lama Sonam and Lama Tashi had been comparing notes. Another mystery.

  “How is your hip feeling?” he asked.

  I moved my left leg around. “My hip feels fine.” I probed the area with my fingers. “If I push on it, it hurts, but if I don’t push on it, it’s okay.”

  “And what do you think my advice might be in such a situation, young Tenzing?”

  “Don’t push on it?”

  “Exactly,” he said, and gave my shoulder a pat.

  On my way out, I passed his meditation shrine. Lying to one side, next to the usual ceremonial dorje, symbolizing the indestructible nature of Buddhahood and a hand bell, representing wisdom, was a three-sided dagger.

  He had a phurba, just like Lama Nawang.

  I couldn’t resist boasting my new knowledge. “Planning on annihilating a demonic obstruction with your phurba?”

  Lama Tashi’s response was a little sharp. “How do you know that? Where did you learn that, Lama Tenzing?”

  I backed off. “Oh, you know, somewhere or other. One of the other boys, probably.”

  “Well, please don’t repeat it,” he said. He escorted me to the door, his wide hand firm against my back. “And if anybody asks, you didn’t hear it from me.”

  CHAPTER 8

  I stepped outside the bungalow and blinked. How beautiful the sky is. I felt amazing.

  I’ve never gotten high—Valerie’s habits quashed any pull I might have in that direction—but I wondered if this was what “high” felt like. Everything outside was sparkling and I wanted to giggle for no reason. All thought of rushing to search under Tanzen’s bed dissolved in the warm, sparkling air. I decided to take a detour through the woods. I strolled along the path that would eventually become the steep trail leading to Macleod-Ganj, just below.

  “Macleod-Ganj.” I said the name out loud. I loved the way the words sounded. According to Lobsang, Macleod-Ganj was originally little more than a tiny hill settlement. In the 1800s, with the influx of the British, it grew into a village, and like so many other Indian settlements, was named after some British politician or other—in this case, its Lieutenant Governor Sir Donald Macleod. Eventually, they all left, but the names stuck.

  I inhaled the scents and paused to touch a leafy fern, soft as skin. I was overdue at the kitchen, but in the meantime I would use these precious minutes to relish the ease in my hip and the rare feeling of lightness in my heart.

  As if the universe had decided to keep piling on the goodies, I saw a slight, but oh-so-familiar figure, climbing up the path toward me with graceful steps.

  Unfortunately, Dawa was clumping along right behind her. Both carried bulging sacks over their shoulders. I waited until they reached me before smiling.

  Dawa took Pema’s arm and guided her around me.

  I racked my brains for a way in, and was rewarded, for once. “Wait!” I said. “I need to tell you something. I had a dream. You were both in it.”

  Tibetans do not take dreams lightly. My words stopped them in their tracks.

  “What is this dream?” Dawa asked, crossing her arms. Pema’s eyes met mine, which made my knees want to buckle.

  I hurriedly described my flying vehicle. How I started to soar away, then lost confidence, and landed in the clearing. How my father and Lama Sonam were there. And my friend, Lama Nawang.

  Dawa’s eyebrows flew up at Nawang’s name, and I filed that interesting tidbit away for future inspection.

  “But the only ones who helped me were both of you,” I said. “Somehow, looking at you gave me the energy to fly again.”

  Dawa grunted, but Pema’s eyes were shining.

  “Is that it?” Dawa said, and made as if to leave.

  I made a split-second decision to keep going. Whether it was my unconscious mind doing the driving or my conscious one, I wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass.

  “Hang on. There’s more.”

  So I told them what Lama Sonam had told me, that the Buddha taught that everyone in my dream represented a part of me. Including Pema and Dawa. And then I told them how.

  It turned out “loneliness” was the kicker. When I got to the part about Dawa and me, and feeling lonely, Pema gave me a kind smile. But Dawa, astonishingly, started to weep.

  Oh great. Part of me wanted to run. But what would Pema think of me if I just took off? What to do?

  Nothing, as it turned out.

  It was Pema who knew to touch Dawa’s face, pat her cheek like a child. “Sister, I tell you everything! Why didn’t you talk to me of this loneliness you feel?”

  Dawa gulped back a sob. “Since mother died, I’ve had to be strong. Otherwise, who would look after you?”

  I didn’t move a muscle. It was as if I wasn’t even there.

  Pema clung to her sister. “You’re my life, Dawa. You know how grateful I am.”

  Dawa stroked her younger sister’s head. “I know, Pema. It’s not about that.”

  “Then what is it? Why do you feel lonely?”

  Dawa pulled away. Her face tightened. “Do you really want to know?”

  “Yes. Really.”

  “Look at the two of us.” Dawa pointed to Pema, then to herself. “You’re the one who looks good. I’m the one who works good. Which one would you rather be?”

  Pema’s puzzled look shifted into pained comprehension, and it was as if the innocence drained from her face. My heart ached. It was so unfair, for both of them.

  Dawa went on, “In a few years, you will leave, and I will stay behind. It’s just how it is.”

  “No!” Pema said. “You’re smart! You’re learning how to print, how to make flags . . . and . . . and use a computer—you won’t be here forever.”

  “Whether it’s delivering fruit or running a machine, I’m stuck. Oh, unless some beer-guzzling yak-herder, just like father, shows up and hauls me off to the yurt of my dreams.” She shuddered at the thought.

  Pema threw her arms around Dawa. “I’ll never leave you!”

  “You will, Pema,” Dawa said. “You will. You’re smart, too. But your face is your ticket.”

  I was afraid Dawa was right. I’d seen the effect Pema’s beauty had on others. Let’s face it, on me. Dawa, on the other hand, was strong but forgettable. She may have had the gift of seeing the world as it was, but for her it was also a curse. After all, what kind of future might a poor, plain-faced Tibetan girl be looking at? I had never thought about such a thing, and now the notion landed on my chest like lead. I mean, I was perpetually desperate to break away, but underneath my desperation was the sure knowledge that eventually I would. Dawa had no such luxury.

  My joy was snuffed out, replaced by a dark sadness that mirrored Dawa’s. Nice work, Tenzing. Way to brighten up everyone’s day.

  I decided to do what Dawa said. Maybe try to get to know her better. It wasn’t so different from Lama Sonam’s advice, come to think of it.

  I pointed to her sack of donated groceries.

  “Is this your job? Delivering tsog?”

  She was startled, as if surprised I was still there. Her nod was grudging. “One of them. After my mother died, my sister and I moved into a room over the greengrocer’s, on Bhagsu Road. This is how we cover our rent.”

  Pema chimed in, “We live right next to the print shop. Dawa has a job there, a real one!”

  I can’t explain what happened next. I must have caught a slight movement from the corner of my eye. Adrenaline catapulted my body, ahead of my mind’s recognition, and I was charging toward Lama Tanzen before I had fully absorbed that he was spying on us from behind a tree.

  He took off, but it was too late. I tackled him from behind. We went down in a thrashing heap. I was vaguely aware of Pema and Dawa y
elling at us to stop. I rolled on top of Tanzen and raised my fist.

  He curled into a tight ball. “Please!” he moaned. “Please don’t hit me!”

  My arm froze in midair. Something about the way he was begging pierced through my blind rage.

  “I give up,” he said. “You win.”

  I lowered my fist. I was still panting. I waited for my gasps to subside. Then his words registered. “What do you mean? Win what?”

  “Everything.” He jerked his head at Pema. “Her.”

  What was he talking about?

  “I know you’ve been sneaking out to see her every night. I’ve seen you. You get away with murder all the time, and nobody even cares.”

  I felt a wave of aversion at him, and myself as well. Something about the way he was talking about Pema. I stood and dusted off my robe. Before I could say anything else, Tanzen had scrambled to his feet and sprinted away.

  “Lama Dorje sent me to find you,” he yelled over his shoulder. “He says he needs you in the kitchen. You’d better hurry up!”

  This day was never going to end.

  “Why did you want to hit him?” Pema’s eyes weren’t shining at me now.

  “He pushed me over in the courtyard today,” I muttered. “I fell and hurt my hip. It’s okay now, but I guess I’m still pretty mad about it.”

  “Why did he push you?” Dawa demanded.

  Realization dawned on me. Lama Tanzen hadn’t stolen the pecha after all. He wasn’t my enemy. He was just . . .

  “He was confused.” I looked at Pema. “I think maybe he likes you. He’s mad at me because he thinks you and I were . . . are . . .”

  Dawa broke in. “You know what really makes me mad? Here you are, Mr. Holy Buddhist I-Have-Powerful-Dreams Monk, talking to us about innocence and . . . and loneliness, and two seconds later you’re knocking some boy to the ground! What is wrong with you?”

  I opened my mouth, but she wasn’t finished.

  “And while we’re on the subject, do you know how often you so-called pure-minded lamas make eyes at my sister? Or how often you treat her, and me, like we don’t matter, like we’re your slaves or something?”

  Pema broke in, “Dawa!”

  But Dawa still wasn’t done. “You sit up here, all of you, with your shaved heads and your robes, chanting scriptures about loving-kindness and compassion, but do you think any monk in this monastery really cares about what happens to some peasant girl?”