The Broken Rules of Ten Page 9

  Lama Tashi returned to his seat, carefully placing the tray on a low table in front of him.

  I knew exactly what lay ahead—hours upon hours of this. I decided to check out the rest of the hall while I rocked back and forth slightly to make it look like I was chanting. Yeshe, Lobsang, and I were just about in the middle of the far right-hand row, our cushions lining one wall. To our left were the double doors. To our right was a huge glass-faced cabinet that stretched from end to end and from floor to ceiling. Small brass bowls filled with various offerings, plus Lama Jamyang’s five ornate butter sculptures, lined a narrow shelf across the front.

  I almost gasped. He must be ten feet tall. The golden Shakyamuni gazed back at me from the central alcove of the cabinet, draped in a zhen of orange cloth. His left hand, cupping a blue bowl, rested in his lap, and his right hand pointed downward. Interesting. They had chosen a healing posture for our new Buddha. Lama Tashi must love that. Two more carved sages sat in meditation on either side of Shakyamuni, wearing the peaked yellow hats of our tradition. On either side of them were large framed photographs: His Holiness the Dalai Lama, Yeshe Donden, and a few other still-breathing spiritual teachers.

  We had a lot of gurus to answer to.

  Mostly, I was interested in inspecting the tsog, piled in one corner behind the main altar area. I had missed more than a few meals this past week, and my stomach was not happy. The sight of donated cellophane bags and aluminum cans in the midst of the towering stacks of bananas, pears, red and green peppers, and glazed domed cakes was encouraging. Late this afternoon, the offerings would be divvied up and passed around to each of us, and my mouth watered at the thought of tasting actual store-bought cookies and cans of soda again. It had been too long.

  The chanting sputtered to a stop. My father moved to the front of the hall and unrolled a long scroll. It was time to read off the names of the many hundreds of individuals, from all over the world, whose donations had made our new hall possible. I wriggled in my seat. This was going to be torture.

  My father cleared his throat.

  My stomach, imitating one of the long horns, let out a low, embarrassing groan in response. I heard titters roll up and down my row. As if answering my desperate call, serving lamas entered the hall with buckets of sweet rice, platters of barley bread, pots of hot tea, and kettles of vegetables, as my father began the long recitation.

  This would be our only meal today. We scrambled to pull our bowls and mugs from our bags, and soon I had piled my bread with a satisfying mixture of everything else, folded it in half, and taken a big bite.

  My father droned on, announcing a seemingly interminable list of benefactors. The light was beginning to slant through the high windows, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. The food hit my stomach, and I began to feel a little drowsy. I idly noticed Lama Tashi helping Yeshe Donden down from his seat and escorting him outside. Nature must be calling.

  My father finished his recitation and the hall filled with renewed chanting. I decided to renew my practice of observation and search for clues of anything amiss, like Sherlock Holmes.

  Old Lama Tupten is snoring again.

  Lama Jamyang still looks like a turtle.

  I wonder why Lama Nawang is . . .

  Suddenly, I was wide awake. Lama Nawang, as if out of nowhere, was climbing onto Donden’s platform. He was actually taking Donden’s seat! He bowed his head, moving his lips. Reaching into his robe, he pulled up a strand of glittering beads hanging around his neck. He lifted one end to touch his forehead before hiding the necklace again. Then he jumped to the floor and hustled away. The whole thing happened so fast I almost doubted my own eyes.

  I looked around. Had anyone else even seen this? But the room was a vast, intoning ocean of closed eyes and lowered heads.

  I felt icy with shock. This was a gigantic no-no, to take your master’s seat. I was pretty sure he was also violating one of the eight precepts we . . .

  My heart started to pound in my ears.

  Violating one of the eight precepts we vowed to keep as lamas.

  I sat back, my mind racing. I had asked for a clue, and now I had one. But what did it signify?

  Lobsang touched my arm.

  “Are you okay?” he said. “You look like you just saw a demon.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. I wasn’t dragging my friends one inch further into this mess.

  Ohwwwahhhohwww. Ohwwwahhhohwww.

  Dusk was setting in. The two long horns had been moved to the front of the prayer hall. They now rested on two wooden boxes. A painted pair of grinning skeletons danced on the front panels, mocking me.

  The rhythmic thump of cloth mallets against drums started up, and a second set of dungchens joined the first. These were shorter and pitched higher, their tone a little shrill. Around the room, monks raised their hands and shook their bells; others clapped their hands. The harsh concert of ringing, thumping, howling, and wailing filled the hall.

  I couldn’t find Lama Nawang anywhere.

  I tapped Yeshe on the knee. “Have you seen Lama Nawang?”

  Yeshe opened one eye. “No. I’m chanting, Tenzing. My eyes are closed. Yours should be, too. Why?”

  Something was wrong.

  I closed my eyes, but instead of chanting, I again did what Sherlock would do. I tried to mentally assemble what I actually knew.

  It wasn’t much.

  First, Lama Nawang thought he was really, really close to achieving Buddhahood. Second, for some reason, he needed the super-secret pecha to help him accomplish this. Third, if it was going to happen, today was the day.

  I was forgetting something. What was I forgetting?

  I opened my eyes. Lama Tashi was leading Yeshe Donden back to his raised seat, weaving through the raucous sounds of celebration.

  The precepts.

  Right. I mentally reviewed the eight precepts, the ones we retake on special Buddha-days like today. I started with the most relevant one:

  1. Avoid sitting on a high bed or seat with pride.

  As I thought about it, I relaxed a little. Nawang must have just been pulling some kind of prank. I wasn’t even sure Donden’s seat counted as “high,” and anyway, Lama Nawang’s expression had been one of devotion, not pride.

  Then I remembered the bed in his room—the high wooden platform, the explosion of luxurious cushions.

  Think. What other precepts has he broken?

  Like a bad memory, the acrid scent of ganja filled my nostrils.

  2. Avoid intoxicants, especially alcohol and drugs.

  Think.

  3. Avoid lying and deceiving others.

  4. Avoid stealing, taking things without permission.

  Had Nawang lied to me? Probably. Stolen? Thanks to me, absolutely yes. He had given me the order, and I had committed the crime, but we were both guilty. What else? Meals. I had no idea if he would eat more than the one meal today, but I would bet money he was going to. My breath caught as I realized Nawang had definitely been wearing jewelry—he’d practically flaunted that strand of beads. And no wonder his eyes looked so different, so like Valerie’s when she got dressed up—he was wearing makeup!

  5. Avoid eating more than one meal.

  6. Avoid wearing jewelry, scents, and makeup.

  I was stalling, and I knew it. I didn’t want to face the implications of the two remaining precepts.

  I stood up, frantically scanning the room, but there was still no sign of Nawang. It may have been growing dark, but the shadows clouding my sight came from within. The thick multicolored stripes on the yellow walls started to ripple, the walls themselves starting to close in on me.

  “Tenzing?” Yeshe’s voice was faint. Yellow spots danced before my eyes.

  “I need air,” I croaked.

  As I staggered through the hall, the high-pitched call of the two shorter dungchens sounded more and more like women wailing, and in pain. The law of inversion.

  Ohwwwahhhohwww.

  7. Avoid sexual
contact.

  Ohwwwahhhohwww.

  8. Avoid killing.

  I gulped at the air outside. I couldn’t get enough into my lungs. I staggered down the curved steps and ran behind the building to the abandoned pile of dirt and wood scraps, where all of this began. Gasping, I bent over, hands on my knees.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out.

  A scrawny black body brushed against my legs.

  “Lhamo?”

  For once she allowed me to stroke her back. My breath slowly returned to normal.

  I sat cross-legged, stroking her, grateful for the simple gifts of air and companionship.

  “Hey, girl,” I said. “Hey, little cat.” She arched her spine, her job done, and stalked away, slipping into the abandoned pile of boards. My eyes followed her.

  And saw the empty bottle, stuck between two pieces of wood.

  I was there in two steps. I grabbed it, lifted the long neck to my nose and sniffed, but I already knew what I would smell. Wine was my mother’s chosen nectar—she called it her liquid courage. On the ground next to the bottle was the small stub of a hand-rolled cigarette. That, I didn’t even have to smell.

  Avoid intoxicants.

  The sun had set below the hill. I stood up and gazed at the curved rim of earth.

  My skin tingled. The giant disc of light rising over the lip of earth was impossibly big, bigger than any I’d ever seen before.

  “Dawa Dolma,” I murmured. “Heavenly maiden of the moon.”

  Avoid sexual contact.

  I started to run.

  CHAPTER 11

  The upper village of Macleod-Ganj is about a 15-minute stroll from our monastery, downhill all the way. I made it in five.

  I knew how to get to Bhagsu Road—a favorite tea shop of ours, during our rare outings into town, was located there. I ran along the narrow street until I found what I was looking for—a small print shop, and right next to it, a greengrocer’s. Both were closed, but faint light spilled from underneath a shuttered window on the second floor of the grocery store. I found an even narrower alleyway and made my way to the back of the greengrocer’s. A steep metal staircase, like a fire escape, led to a landing on the second floor.

  I took the stairs two at a time, tapped on the door, and put my mouth to the wood.

  “Dawa?” I called out. “Pema? Dawa?”

  I tapped again. I didn’t want to scare them.

  “Pema?”

  “Who’s there?” I heard from within.

  “It’s me, Tenzing. I have to talk to you!”

  She opened the door, putting her finger to her lips. Her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying.

  “Is Lama Nawang here?” I whispered.

  She shook her head. “No, but he was.” Her eyes welled. “And now Dawa is locked in the bedroom, and everything’s all wrong!”

  Without thinking, I circled my arms around her and hugged hard. “I’m so sorry,” I said. I pulled away. “Can I come in?” She nodded again.

  I stepped inside. The room was cramped but neat. Two plastic chairs and a low wooden table took up most of the space. A hot plate and miniature fridge were in one corner. I could just see into a tiny privy. The only other door was closed.

  The pecha, clumsily wrapped, lay askew to one side of the front door, as if dropped there.

  I sat on one of the chairs. Pema took the other.

  “Tell me what happened,” I said, keeping my voice low.

  “For the past month or so, Lama Nawang has taken an interest in my sister,” Pema said. “It’s the first time,” her eyes filled again, “the first time a boy, you know, ever noticed her.”

  She dashed her tears away.

  “They’ve been meeting, here and there. Sometimes in the woods. Sometimes the village. He wanted to come here tonight.” Pema shook her head in disgust. “She thought he was just going to kiss her!”

  A red mist passed across my eyes. What did he do?

  What have I done?

  “Tell me,” I said again.

  “He brought this special thing to read with her—he said it would make things even more special. They went into the bedroom, and I could hear him reading out loud. The next thing I know, he comes running out.”

  She looked at me, her eyes wide.

  “He was furious! I think Dawa may have slapped him!”

  A small bubble of hope rose up in me.

  “She slapped him?”

  “I’m sorry,” Pema said, “I know it’s a terrible thing to slap a monk! But you know how Dawa gets!”

  I did indeed. And now Lama Nawang did, too.

  “He was shouting crazy things, Tenzing! Calling her a . . . a fiend, a demon in disguise.” Pema shuddered. “His eyes . . . I think maybe he’d been drinking or something. Then he grabbed his duffel bag and ran out the door. After a few minutes, Dawa stomped out. She’d been crying, I could tell, but mostly she just looked furious. I asked her what had happened, but she left without saying one word. She’s only just got back. She dropped that . . . that thing on the floor, and told me we’d talk about everything in the morning.”

  “Pema! Is somebody there?” Dawa’s voice called out.

  Pema jumped up. “Go!” she whispered. She grabbed the pecha and shoved it in my arms. “And take this with you. I never want to see it again!”

  We stood in the doorway for a moment. Her face was close to mine. She looked so beautiful in the moonlight. But now was not the time.

  I clattered down the stairs before I changed my mind.

  I stood in a pool of moonlight, in the middle of Bhagsu Road. I was angry with Lama Nawang but angrier with myself. I had set in motion a series of events that even now were hurtling to some unknown finish.

  I had been gone from the prayer hall far too long, but I had to keep looking for Lama Nawang. I had to make sure. There was still one precept left, and whatever had happened in that bedroom, for sure Lama Nawang’s intentions alone had broken the precept.

  I hurried down the moon-washed street, veering left where Bhagsu hooked into Jogibara. I had a vague notion of continuing toward Lower Macleod-Ganj, maybe setting the prayer wheels in front of Tsuglagkhang Namgyal Temple spinning. I needed all the help I could get.

  The storefronts were closed, their contents safe behind drawn metal grills. Students and tourists clustered in cafés and tearooms, chattering and eating. No one seemed to notice the one lone lama jogging along the sidewalk.

  A roar of voices stopped me. “Howzzat!” I heard.

  I checked across the street.

  There was only one place open, a restaurant by the looks of it. A wooden easel by the door displayed a menu of local Tibetan and Indian food, for tempting passersby. I could hear the blare of a television from within, punctuated by a second loud cheer. I looked up at the blue sign painted over the doorway, the yellow letters arching over two white beasts on hind legs, their claws raised at each other. My own skin raised into little bumps of excitement. The restaurant was called “The Snow Leopard.”

  “Nooo!” I heard.

  I crossed the street and stepped inside.

  The room was crammed with bodies—a mix of Tibetans, tourists, and local Indians. Not a maroon zhen in sight—everyone in robes was still up at the prayer hall ceremony. A group of Gaddi formed a jostling herd in the back, directly under the mounted television set. Right smack in the middle was a scowling face I recognized, Bhim, surrounded by friends and waving a bottle of beer. His embroidered cap tipped over one eyebrow, and he was working his mouth nonstop.

  The restaurant was long and narrow, and so packed I couldn’t have gotten back there to say hello even if I’d wanted to. I glanced up at the television set. Cricket, of course. Blue and yellow versus green and yellow—India versus Pakistan. The columns of numbers representing the score made no sense to me, but from Bhim’s glower, Pakistan must have been winning.

  Bhim spotted me in the doorway. “Hey! Inji monk!” he called out, and made a lewd gesture. His friends hooted.<
br />
  This was a waste of time.

  I was about to turn and leave, when a tallish boy pushed through the crowd toward Bhim, shouting. He wore jeans and a dark hooded sweater, and the brim of his cap, pulled low over his face, poked from under the hood like a blue beak.

  Something twanged in my memory.

  The boy moved close to Bhim. Bhim’s eyes flared. The boy’s elbow flashed in and out, and as I watched, helpless, from across the room, Bhim let out a harsh cry, slumped, and tumbled to the ground.

  Someone screamed. The walls erupted with shouts and cries. Everyone started shoving and yelling, stepping over each other in their panic to get outside.

  “Call the police!” I heard. “Get a doctor!”

  I took off. Even though I had nothing to do with it, terror snapped at my heels, forcing my feet to go faster. Gasping for breath, I swerved onto Bhagsu Road, my sandals and robe flapping, running, running, finally reaching the steep footpath leading to our monastery, and running up that, as well.

  I stumbled on a root and fell, hitting my left hip hard. Pain shot down my leg. I pushed upright, finally slowed to a hobble. My hip was on fire again. But the ache was nowhere near as painful as the memory of that flash of elbow, in and out. Of Bhim’s piteous cry as he fell to the floor.

  I stopped by the dormitory, shoved the pecha one last time under my mattress, and headed for the prayer hall. The call and clang of sacred celebration spilled across the empty grounds. The silvered disc was lower now but still uncannily bright. As I limped closer, I saw a figure standing by the front doors: Lama Nawang, his face bathed in lunar light. He nodded in greeting.

  “Hello, Lama Tenzing. Been out enjoying the moon?”

  I was too confused and angry to respond. I used the railing to haul myself up the steps, one by one. I crossed the landing, my face one big glare.

  “What is it, Tenzing? You seem upset.”

  “I talked to Pema,” I said. “I know why you needed the pecha. You tricked me!”

  Nawang’s eyes flashed. “Well, I guess that makes two of us.” He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. Just like Apa. “I was wrong to include you,” he said. “You’re still a child. I never should have relied on you for help.”