Читать книгу The Breath of God - Jeffrey Small - Страница 17

CHAPTER 9

PUNAKHA DZONG, BHUTAN

RECLINING ON THE THRONE at the far left end of the temple was a rotund monk about thirty years old. Unlike the crimson-robed monks Grant had seen during his stay, this monk wore orange, just like Kinley. Who is this other senior monk? Grant wondered. He immediately worried about how this development might affect Kinley’s ability to take him to the off-limits library.

In spite of his impatience, Grant stood by Kristin and watched as the villagers received a ritual blessing from the orange-clad monk. When the villagers approached the throne, they prostrated themselves three times on the wooden floor. Then they rose, covered their mouths with their left hands, and bowed their heads in front of the holy man. He reached out with a lemoncolored staff and touched their heads while mumbling a blessing with the bored expression of an assembly worker in the middle of his shift.

“Reminds me of when I was thirteen,” Kristin whispered in his ear, her hair falling on his cheek, “dressed in a frilly white confirmation dress, which made my mom happy. I knelt at the altar in the cathedral. When I bowed my head, the bishop blessed me.”

Grant turned to face her. “You know, many rituals of the Church and its monasteries were patterned after the monarchies they existed under.”

“So the bishop’s pointy hat is like the king’s crown?”

He nodded. “The bishop, as well as the most senior monk here, also carries a pastoral staff, just as the king would carry a royal staff; each wears unique royal robes; each sits on thrones elevated above their minions; subjects kneel in deference to them and bring offerings in the form of tithing to the Church and taxes to the king.”

Ten minutes later, the drumming from the young monks in the center of the temple ceased. While the blessings from the holy man on the throne continued, Kinley nodded to the students, who opened the Buddhist textbooks lying beside them. Grant knew that the books were four inches wide by twelve inches long and printed in Tibetan, and that each page contained a single verse from an ancient Buddhist text, which the young monks would repeat until they knew it by heart. He’d seen Jigme’s textbook on several occasions. As he and Kristin stood there, a few, including Jigme and Ummon, turned to smile at them, but most stole curious glances at Kristin.

With the students occupied, Kinley strode over to the temple doorway where Grant and Kristin waited. Grant tried unsuccessfully to suppress his excitement.

“You must be feeling better today.” Kinley gave Grant’s arm a fatherly squeeze.

“I can climb steps safely now.”

“Ah, but I see you’ve brought a lovely friend to visit,” Kinley said, bowing to Kristin.

He’s avoiding me, Grant thought.

“Well, if Grant won’t introduce me,” Kristin said, extending a hand. “Kristin Misaki.”

“Kinley Goenpo.” The monk bowed again, taking her hand. “Japanese?”

“My father’s family was from Okinawa, but my mother is pure New England Catholic.”

“The combination suits you well.”

Kinley smiled. Grant noticed that when Kristin shook the monk’s hand, she used both of hers in a familiar embrace. He recalled the thrill he received in the courtyard when their hands touched for a moment longer than was necessary. She’s the touchy-feely type, he thought.

Grant opened his mouth to suggest that they move outside where they could speak in private, but Kristin spoke first. “Who’s he?” She pointed to the throne.

“Lama Dorji. He arrived today. He’s the fifth reincarnation of a holy lama who lived several hundred years ago. These people have come to receive a blessing from him.”

“Will he be staying here long?” Grant asked.

“Only until the Je Khenpo arrives in two weeks.”

“Who’s Jay Kembo?” Kristin asked.

Kinley chuckled. “No, the Je Khenpo is the head abbot of the dratshang, the central monk body; he’s our country’s spiritual leader, and a friend. Soon, he and several hundred monks will move from the Thimpu Dzong in our capital, where they’re based during the summer, back to Punakha. Our lower altitude provides a more temperate climate in the winter months. Lama Dorji and I usually meet a few weeks before to go over logistics.”

Grant felt the handles of his crutches become slick with the sweat from his palms. First, some reincarnated holy man had drawn crowds of villagers into the monastery and next hundreds of monks would be returning. He might only have a brief opportunity for Kinley to sneak him into the library.

Then he sneezed. The incense that had seemed pleasant ten minutes earlier now seemed to restrict his oxygen intake. A number of the villagers turned their heads and stared at him.

“Excuse me,” Grant said. “Maybe we should step outside?”

Instead of following his request, Kristin stepped further inside the temple, stopping at the wall on their left. She brought her face right up to a section of the mural that covered the wall’s entire fifty-foot length. “Hey, this looks familiar.”

Kinley moved to her side. “A poor country’s version of stained glass.”

“Sarnath,” Kristin said. “India. A temple there has a similar mural. Down the road from Varanasi, where I was writing my last article.”

“Yes, that one is also lovely.” The monk waved a hand across the fresco. “The life story of the Buddha.”

A coughing behind them drew their attention. Grant felt the stares. Turning his head, he saw that the lama had paused his blessings and was now glaring across the hall toward them. Kinley exchanged a look with him that Grant couldn’t interpret, but he felt distinctly uncomfortable.

“Maybe we should move,” Grant said.

The lama gestured to the three of them with his staff.

“We’re being summoned,” Kinley said.

Kristin started off with Kinley in the direction of the throne. “I’ve never met a reincarnated lama before,” she said over her shoulder to Grant, as if that was why she had traveled to Bhutan.

Unsure of the proper protocol when he reached the altar in front of the lama, Grant bowed as best he could without falling over his cast. Kristin did the same beside him. Lama Dorji was indeed about Grant’s age but much shorter and at least forty pounds heavier. His round face with its smooth head sat on top of his orange robes like a small pumpkin resting on a larger one.

The lama dipped his head in Grant’s direction but ignored Kristin. “So you are the American Kinley Goenpo has permitted to stay in the goemba?” He spoke in a singsong voice that was higher-pitched than Grant expected.

Grant opened his mouth to respond but closed it when Kinley rested a hand on his shoulder. His friend replied, “Grant was near death when Jigme and I carried him here, la.” Kinley said, adding the formal la as a sign of respect.

“You are better now, no?” Lama Dorji asked Grant.

“I’m mobile now. The doctor says I can leave soon.”

Lama Dorji turned to Kinley. “The preparations for the Je Khenpo and the dratshang?”

“I scheduled the juniors to clean the dormitories Friday, la.”

“What about these disruptions?”

“Disruptions, Lama Dorji?”

“This American and”—the lama flicked his hand toward Kristin—“this woman. I know the temptation that cavorting with these foreigners must hold for you. After all, you did leave the order to study in the West.”

When the lama grinned at Kinley, Grant heard Kristin inhale sharply beside him. The lama’s teeth were deeply stained and his gums oozed a bright red saliva, giving him the appearance of a vampire in the midst of a kill. The plate on the narrow altar in front of the lama revealed the source of the blood: three leaf-wrapped betel nuts. Grant had seen some of the other monks chewing these around the monastery. Kinley had explained that the betel nuts acted as a stimulant and that they were used much in the way some Westerners chewed tobacco, but in place of the dark, leafy spit produced by tobacco, the betel nut produced a crimson red juice that permanently stained one’s teeth over time. Kinley never cared for them, and, he explained, the Buddha taught that if the mind was under the control of narcotic substances, truly transcending one’s thoughts and emotions would be impossible.

Kinley returned the lama’s smile. “During Grant’s recovery, I have taught him a little of our ways. He’s beginning to understand the dharma.”

“Is your role here to teach Westerners?” The lama’s bloody grin vanished. “Their culture is too undisciplined to master our teachings.”

Grant felt his face flush. Is the lama accusing me of being lazy? Even though the content of their studies differed, Grant put as much energy into his work as these students did. Even in the month he’d been stuck here, he’d made the most efficient use of every minute. When he wasn’t sweating through the physical therapy exercises his doctor had prescribed, he was taking notes on Kinley’s teachings or brainstorming how he would rewrite his dissertation once he saw the Issa texts. Kinley’s grip on his shoulder intensified, indicating that he should keep his mouth closed and let the lama speak. “Look at the dedication of these young ones.” Dorji waved to the students, many of whom now watched the two orange-robed seniors and the Americans. “Do you believe that enlightenment can be obtained with a few mind tricks and fancy sayings?”

His voice steady, Kinley asked, “Do you remember the story of the blind men and the elephant?”

A look of irritation flashed across the lama’s face, but he did not respond. Kinley continued, “One day, the Buddha asked his students to imagine a group of blind men being led to an elephant and asked to describe it based on touch. One man might grasp the tail and say that the object was a rope; a second might disagree, feeling the leg and claiming it to be a tall column; a third might run his hands along the elephant’s side and declare it to be a wall; and the last man might examine the trunk and exclaim that, no, the object was a hose.”

Grant suppressed a smile. Kinley had explained to him several times how the Buddha taught that there was more than one path to approach his teachings. He could think of more than a few people from his father’s church who could have used this lesson.

“Although you may be the elder in this lifetime, Kinley,”—Lama Dorji shifted in his throne—“I am the fifth reincarnation of Guru Tashi and the senior assistant to the Je Khenpo.”

Grant noticed that the lama did not respond directly to the point of Kinley’s parable. The rest of the temple was silent, listening to this exchange that seemed calm on the surface and yet had clear undertones of a power struggle that Grant imagined had been brewing for some time.

“I meant no offense, Lama Dorji, la.” Kinley bowed his head. “I only wanted to illustrate the point that these young Americans have creative, curious minds. They learn differently than our students, and their independent nature may lead them to grasp a different part of the dharma elephant than we do.”

“You spent much time away from our culture in your younger years, yes?” Lama Dorji popped a betel nut into his mouth and crunched it between his teeth.

Kinley replied in the same even tone, “I learned a great deal when I was away, but I chose to return to Bhutan, and I am here at the monastery now of my own accord.”

“Do you know why we are the last independent Buddhist kingdom in the Himalayas?”

For the first time, Grant thought he detected a tension in Kinley—a slight stiffening of his posture and an edge to his voice that he’d never heard before. “A hundred years ago the only entrance into our country was on horseback or on foot over treacherous mountain terrain. Today we are but a two-hour flight from China and India, the two most populous countries in the world. Through the Internet, our children experience influences beyond our control. It is no longer possible to isolate ourselves from the world.”

“So we disregard our traditions?” Dorji reclined further in his throne.

Kinley shook his head. “Why can’t we embrace our heritage and open our minds to other Buddhist traditions at the same time? Feel the different parts of the elephant and decide for ourselves which works best.”

For the first time, Grant better understood Kinley’s teaching methods. Although Grant’s knowledge of the differences among the various schools of Buddhism was limited, he had been curious about Kinley’s use of koans, which were part of the Japanese Zen tradition, not his own.

“Different teachings?” Lama Dorji shook his head. “Why teach what is inferior? We practice Vajrayana, the highest form of Buddhism.” He pointed at Grant and Kristin with his staff. Grant was acutely aware that all eyes in the temple were upon him. The lama’s voice took on a tone that was almost sad. “Kinley, I know your intentions are pure, but I fear that your time in the West has polluted you. Those kinds of influences are the reason we choose the monastic life. We isolate ourselves from the temptations of the material world, an existence that the West”—the staff pointed at Grant and Kristin wiggled back and forth—“upholds as their ideal.”

Kinley was immobile but for the breath going in and out of his chest. Then he bowed deeply from the waist. “Yes, Lama Dorji, I understand you clearly, la.”

Grant stared at his friend. That was it? He couldn’t believe Kinley would just give up.

Lama Dorji leaned forward in his throne and snatched another betel nut from the plate. “You are fortunate the Je Khenpo favors you.”

“I am fortunate indeed.” Kinley bowed again and then took Grant’s arm to leave.

“You, Mr. Matthews,” Lama Dorji said, surprising Grant by using his name. “Now that you have healed, I expect you will leave the monastery tomorrow. You will find a suitable hotel in town.”

Grant felt a pressure on his chest that made it difficult to take in as much oxygen as he needed at that moment. Afraid of what might come out of his mouth if he spoke, he merely nodded and let Kinley lead them toward the sunlight pouring through the open temple door.

“And Kinley,” the lama called across the temple when they reached the door. Every monk young and old watched. “If I were you, I would be careful about who you spend time with.” He pointed his staff at Kristin. “You wouldn’t want your brothers to get the wrong idea. Talk can spread quickly in the goemba.”

Once they were outside in the warm afternoon sun, Grant said, “How could you let—”

“To continue the discussion would have served no purpose other than to cause more conflict and to feed my own pride.”

“His insinuations don’t affect you?” Kristin asked.

Kinley shrugged. “I felt frustration, but I didn’t fight it. Instead I let it take its course, flowing through my body. I watched it as I might watch a log float down a river until it disappeared around a bend.”

Grant shook his head. Kinley had explained this technique of watching one’s emotions and destructive thoughts like one might watch a movie playing inside one’s body, but he’d dismissed it as quaint. Such a practice might bring temporary relief, but then he would be resigning himself to a life of always surrendering to other people.

Kinley continued, “Lama Dorji means well. He wants the best for our young monks, just as I do, but he and I have had different life experiences: his life has been shaped by the insular monastic environment, while mine has been influenced by my travels and education. I realized that I was not going to change his opinion today. Further debating my position would only inflate my own ego and bring suffering to us both.”

Kinley stopped walking when they reached the tree in the center of the courtyard. He glanced at its bare branches. A smile passed across his lips and his eyes crinkled in the corners. “Anyway, I had already made my decision. This conversation merely solidified it. We can no longer give in to the isolationism that religion often fosters. It is time that the story of Issa becomes public. Tomorrow morning we shall go to the library.”

“You’re serious?” Grant asked.

“And, Ms. Misaki, please join us, if you can. Your camera will be useful. We won’t have much time.”