End of the Road Page 21

  Out of sight of the main temple, a Tibetan monastery, or gompa, a relative newcomer in the Kathmandu valley, rests among the trees on the eastern end of the park. Here, Buddhists of a different stripe meditate peacefully under the guidance of a reincarnated spirit, or tulku, an ancient lama named Rinpoche Tashi. The day to day running of the monastery he leaves to the senior monks, as he spends his days in the company of a dwindling number of younger ones. But lately, one particular seeker who enjoyed the benefit of his attention had become the source of some consternation to some of the elders.

  “Rinpoche-la, she is a dangerous distraction for the young men,” Brother Pasang pleaded. “She dresses inappropriately. They can’t help but notice.”

  “We have no place for bikkhuni here,” Brother Norbu added, using the Sanskrit word for a female monk. “Can’t we just send her to the Newars? They are able to accommodate her, and she can meditate with them in peace.”

  “And is she even a seeker at all?” Pasang asked, almost as an after thought. “Has she even tried to purge herself of her body through yoga?”

  “Have you not noticed the boy?” Rinpoche asked softly.

  Pasang and Norbu looked puzzled, unable to fathom his meaning. What could a little orphan boy have to do with anything?

  “Sonam feels it whenever he is around her.” Rinpoche Tashi continued. “When she is away, he is ill at ease. When she is near, he is at peace.”

  “But she cannot guide him, can she?” brother Pasang asked. “Or the other young monks?”

  “Can’t we just help her find a yidam to focus her meditations?” asked Norbu. “Isn’t that what she came for? If she chooses a tutelary god, and we guide her initiation into the mandala, she will be free to meditate anywhere.”

  “There is no deva for her,” Rinpoche said, using the Sanskrit term for god or demon.

  The monks looked stunned by this pronouncement. If there is no istadeva for her…

  “Rinpoche-la, are you saying…,” Pasang began.

  “Yes, she is herself a deva.”

  It took a moment for this thought to fully sink in. Norbu and Pasang knew the holy books spoke of such things, that devas walk the earth, like bodhisattvas only much more powerful, and perhaps even dangerous. But those stories always seemed like allegories, or infinitely distant possibilities. Neither of them ever thought to encounter one in person. Can Rinpoche be serious? Can this girl really be a deva?

  “Then what can we possibly do for her, Rinpoche?” Brother Norbu finally recovered enough self-possession to ask.

  “That may become clear in time, as well as what she may be able to do for Sonam.”

  ~~~~~~~

  The tall trees cast long shadows across the monastery courtyard by the time Emily arrived in the cool of the late afternoon. Rinpoche waited for her by himself, sitting in the grass under a banyan tree.

  “Welcome, Michi-chhori. Sit with me.”

  “Thank you, Rinpoche Tashi.”

  He spoke just enough English that, with the smattering of Nepali she had learned from Mrs. Kansakar, they could communicate.

  “Sonam told me about this morning. That was a kindness you did for him.”

  “I’m afraid it’s my fault, his fighting.”

  Weeks earlier, in her very first conversations with Rinpoche, Emily had recounted her meditative visions to him. She described the forest and the meadow she walks through, the stream she follows back to the waterfall, and how the cave she finds there carries her down to the bottom of the world. She also told him about the voice of the goddess of the sun and the god of sea and storm, and the sword of fire they once sent to her. He reflected on those conversations now.

  “You are a fierce warrior, Michi-chhori,” he said. “You have seen men die.”

  She nodded.

  “And you have taken the lives of men, too?”

  “Yes, Rinpoche.”

  “You suspect Sonam is influenced by the spirit within you.”

  She couldn’t hold back a tear trembling in her eye. It rolled down her cheek and she wiped it away.

  “Yes. When he asks, I tell him that fighting never solves anything. Today, he asked me if I ever fought a bully, and I didn’t know how to answer. My father taught me it is right to fight only to protect someone else. Now I no longer care when fighting is right, but only when it is good. It is never good.”

  “You are wise, Michi-san,” he replied, looking for a familiar Japanese phrase to express his respect for her.

  “If he feels the spirit in me and is guided by that, then I should leave.”

  “He is not the only one. Many of the young monks worship you inadvertently, thinking they follow an istadeva.”

  “Is that what they’re doing? I have noticed something peculiar, a feeling, I suppose, when I’m around them.”

  “I imagine it feels very familiar,” Rinpoche said.

  “My sensei taught me a saying of a Japanese monk, Takuan Soho, that the true master cannot know friendship. I’m afraid it might be true for me.”

  Rinpoche saw how she trembled as she mentioned her fear, and smiled to comfort her.

  “I know this saying. It is from a little book called Taia-ki. What do you think Takuan meant?” he asked.

  “I used to think he meant it would be too dangerous for anyone to be my friend. Now I worry that the people who think they are my friends are like the monks here. They are influenced by my chi without realizing it,” she said, using the Chinese term out of habit. “That is not real friendship.”

  “Again, you are wise, Michi-san. Takuan was writing for warriors, and explaining how the mastery they sought was dangerous. But a second meaning, referring to a second kind of mastery is implicit, just as you thought.”

  “Then is there no hope of friendship for me, Rinpoche?”

  “There is a third meaning hidden in Takuan’s saying, and a third form of mastery.”

  Emily sat quietly for a few moments pondering Rinpoche’s suggestion. He watched her carefully and felt the warm glow of her spirit. “How strange,” he thought, “for an old ascetic to find her so intoxicating. Norbu and Pasang are not wrong to be worried.”

  “Friendship is a form of suffering and bondage to the cycle of cares about life and death. That’s it, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Friendship is only an affectation of the individual self,” he said. “The truest master leaves that self and its bonds of friendship behind.”

  “I don’t think I have the strength to do that. I long for companionship, and when I open myself to others I find its consolation wherever I go.”

  “You are strong enough, Michi-chhori. But you have other tasks to complete before you take that path. Sonam still needs you.”

  “How can he find peace as long as I’m here? And what about the other monks?”

  “They are old enough to overcome a distraction on their own. But the boy will never know peace if you leave now. There is one last lesson he must learn from you.”

  “Can you tell me what it is?” she asked. He shook his head slowly. “Isn’t there any lesson you have for me, Rinpoche?”

  “I cannot be your guru, Michi-sama. You do not need my help finding a tutelary divinity.”

  This time Emily shook her head.

  “I don’t understand, Rinpoche.”

  “The voice who speaks in your dreams is not just any nature demon. It is your voice. You are the god of your dreams.”

  “That’s just what Sensei tells me,” she said with a laugh. “But I don’t think you mean it the way he does.”

  “The Hindus might mistake you for Surya, or Agni, or perhaps Indra, if they could see inside your dreams. Maybe even Kali. Of course, Krishna would fit best of all. But those devas are still trapped in the cycle of birth and death. They, too, must be left behind eventually.”

  “I came here to find a way past the violence of my life, but…”

  “I know, Michi-chhori. When the time is right, you will find that path, and you will be your
own istadeva. But it is easy to see that the way of the warrior still beckons to you. You may need to follow it, at least for a little longer.”

  3: Asan Chowk

  Breakfast eaten, the kitchen cleared and made ready for the next meal, the other guests ushered out of the house for a day of touring, Emily and Mrs. Kansakar finally had the morning to themselves.

  The fading measures of a light rain tapped out a lazy tandava of Shiva Nataraja, the lord of the dance, against the ornate façade of the second floor balcony. Emily leaned across the railing to take the temperature of the sky and decided to put a denim jacket over a peach colored blouse. Mrs. Kansakar called up to her from the sidewalk.

  “Hurry yourself, child, while we have a break in the clouds.”

  “Coming,” Emily sang out.

  She peeked once more over the railing and smiled down at Mrs. Kansakar’s outfit, a traditional green sari with gold embroidery draped over a pale blue choli and orange skirt. The choli was short enough to allow the slightest glimpse of a plump belly button.

  “You didn’t tell me this was a fancy dress occasion,” she said in a teasing voice as she stepped through the front door.

  “Perhaps we need to find you some better clothes while we’re out.”

  The walk to Asan Chowk wound through the side streets of Bangemudha, where brick and wood houses crowded the lanes, expanding with each story until in some cases they practically touched overhead. Old men sat in doorways, placidly observing the foot traffic, apparently waiting for the moment when a witticism formulated years earlier might become relevant to the scene unfolding before their eyes.

  A wild-eyed man in once brightly colored rags leapt into the street to accost Emily, chattering out words she could not understand. He was so caked in mud and dust as to render him unrecognizable even to his closest relatives. Mrs. Kansakar stepped in front, holding both hands together under her nose and bowing her head politely. She pressed a small brass coin into his hands and said what sounded to Emily like a prayer. Apparently satisfied, or at least distracted, the mud-covered man bared what few teeth he had left and scurried off laughing. Emily turned to Mrs. Kansakar with a quizzical look on her face.

  “A holy man?” she asked.

  “Yes, just like the lamas you run off to see everyday,” Mrs. Kansakar replied.

  “You disapprove of them?”

  “There is so much else to see in the world, child, so much to do. What a pity to waste such beauty on men like that.”

  Located at the intersection of two ancient trade routes connecting India and Tibet, legend says the chowk sprang up on the spot where a fish fell from the sky. Today the market spreads out along the six roads that meet in one little square, crowded with shops and street vendors, and almost as many shrines as storefronts including, of course, a shrine to the fish.

  Mrs. Kansakar steered Emily into a little shop on Botahity Road. A sign over the door gleamed with ornate gold lettering almost none of which Emily could read, just a name in English letters: Ranjeet’s. Brightly colored fabrics hung from high shelves and draped casually in front of all the windows. Clothing hung from circular racks around the main room, folded shirts and tunics filled lower shelves along all the walls. The bell jingled as the door closed behind them and the owner, Mrs. Ranjeet, invisible at first, called out from behind a stack of fabrics on a counter in the back.

  “Welcome, welcome. I’ll be with you straight away.”

  A moment later she squeezed out from behind the counter, long white hair pulled back into a bun and somewhat smaller than Mrs. Kansakar, but in roughly similar dimensions. She wore a deep blue tunic with gold embroidery that stretched almost to her knees, and black pants hung down to her ankles.

  “Ah, Sunita-didi,” she exclaimed, hands clasped before her face. “It’s been so long.”

  Mrs. Kansakar nodded and grunted.

  “Manisha-bahini, let me introduce my house guest, Michiko.”

  Mrs. Ranjeet smiled and bowed her head, but looking her up and down the whole time, as if she were measuring her for a dress. Emily smiled uncomfortably. The two older women chatted, apparently amiably, in Nepali, or perhaps Hindi, or maybe some other tongue altogether. They spoke too quickly for Emily even to identify the language, much less what they might be saying. Judging from the frequency with which they glanced in her direction, she could guess the topic of discussion. Emily cleared her throat loudly.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Ranjeet offered politely.

  “I’m sure you want to know what we were talking about,” Mrs. Kansakar said.

  “Oh, don’t worry about me,” Emily said.”

  “Mrs. Ranjeet thinks you are too skinny, and so do I.”

  “I’ve heard that before. But it’s not like I don’t eat.”

  “That’s true,” Mrs. Kansakar said with a conciliatory nod. “But all that running and exercise. It’s not healthy.”

  She turned to Mrs. Ranjeet, muttered a few clipped, incomprehensible phrases, and smiled.

  “Come here, child,” Mrs. Ranjeet said, taking her hand and leading her into a tiny backroom. “I have just the thing for you.”

  Before she quite knew what was happening, the two old ladies had her in a pair of lime green pants and a long peach colored kurtha, or tunic. They bickered over the color of the shawl to drape over her shoulders while Emily tapped a foot. Another quick change had her in a purple choli and pale blue pants wrapped up in a saffron sari. Both women giggled and clucked over her. Perhaps they’d just discovered that being skinny wasn’t so bad after all. At least it was easy to get her in and out of clothes.

  “Excuse me, guys,” Emily said, trying to get their attention. “This is wound a little too tight.”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Kansakar snorted. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “She’s so tall,” Mrs. Ranjeet whispered. “Everything looks good on her.”

  “Shhh,” hushed Mrs. Kansakar. “She’ll get a swelled head. She’s hard enough to manage as it is.”

  Finally, they threw her into a broadly pleated skirt with an ornate paisley pattern and a short half-tunic on top. She did a half twirl and watched as the skirt belled out.

  “I like this,” she said. “Lots of room to move.”

  Emily put her foot down about the sari. She couldn’t imagine going through a day in an outfit that confining. How would she defend herself? It was an old habit of thinking. So much for choosing a different path, or for leaving behind her warrior self. What would Rinpoche think if he saw her now?

  After everything had been tried on, refolded and put in one stack or another, all three women were exhausted. No saris, Emily had held firm. But everything else was an explosion of color: jewel tones, ruby red, lapis blue, emerald, and bright pastels, robin’s egg blue, coral pink, lime green. “I won’t be sneaking up on anyone in these,” she mused.

  A few feet away, the old women were holding hands and smiling at each other.

  “Thank you, Manisha-bahini,” Mrs. Kansakar said.

  “Maybe she’s not too skinny,” her old friend said with a laugh. “Now I understand.”

  The women slipped again into another tongue she couldn’t understand, obviously exceedingly pleased with themselves. Emily cleared her throat.

  “How much is all this?” she asked, reaching into her pocket.

  Mrs. Kansakar laughed out loud. Mrs. Ranjeet bowed her head to Emily with both hands pressed together. Then she reached up to place a hand on her cheek.

  “It was so pleasant to meet you, chhori.”

  ~~~~~~~

  Out on the street, Mrs. Kansakar showed her the best spice shop. On another side street, fruit and vegetable stands crowded along the sidewalks under large umbrellas, produce bulging out of enormous, burlap-lined baskets. Potatoes, carrots, onions, garlic, several types of khursani peppers, spinach, kale and mustard greens soon filled a large market bag.

  “This way, child. We still need some bananas, a mango and beaten rice. It’ll make a nice tr
eat for Sonam after school.”

  “Who is that for?” Emily asked, pointing at a large pagoda-like structure with several stacked roofs, topped by a crescent moon. The entire upper structure was wrapped in what looked like an immense fish net.

  “The temple of the goddess of food,” Mrs. Kansakar said with a snort.

  “And those two?”

  She tipped her head toward two more structures on the north side of the square.

  “The tall one honors Ganesh. The little one is for Narayan, or Vishnu.”

  “Ooh, let’s go see,” Emily cried out, tugging on her benefactor’s arm.

  After some resistance, a frown and some loud grumbling, Mrs. Kansakar allowed herself to be led to the entrance of the Ganesh shrine. A golden doorway overhung with three large bells faced them, topped by a large, semi-circular medallion depicting the elephant-headed god surrounded by demons and assorted serpents. The temple was too small for visitors to enter. One could only admire the statues inside from the street.

  “Why does he only have one tusk?” Emily asked.

  “Oh, who knows why people imagine him in any particular way?”

  Emily looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

  “Oh, why must you be so persistent, Michi-chhori?… Fine, he is the god of obstacles. Perhaps his tusk was an obstacle.”

  “Is that the best you can do?” Emily replied, with her arms folded.

  “Okay, if you must know, my father liked to say he broke it off himself when he needed a pen.”

  “A pen?”

  Emily was hardly satisfied by this account. Mrs. Kansakar shrugged.

  “That’s the story. He was writing down a poem and his pen broke. He didn’t want to miss a single verse, so he broke off the tusk and dipped it in the inkwell.”

  “Must have been quite a poem.”