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Lunch with Baba Rinpoche in Kathmandu

A fiction by Steve Davidson

Like most people, I had always been fascinated by the ‘Celebrated Wisdom of the East’.  Especially exotic was the ‘Ultra Mysterious Wisdom of Tibet’.  So, when a university acquaintance in British Columbia mentioned that, through a personal connection, he could set up a meeting in Kathmandu with one of the most storied of all the lamas, Baba Rinpoche, I rose to the challenge. 

As was his wont, in the springtime, Baba Rinpoche would be walking across the Himalayas, from Tibet to Nepal.  I, being of a less transcendental bent, would be flying into Darjeeling, then taking a helicopter, Riddington’s Ride, into Kathmandu. 

We connected for lunch at the Lama’s Lair, a miniature version of the Potala Palace in Lhasa, sat near the fire, and dined on vindaloo curry over basmati rice, with green tea.  Baba Rinpoche is about five foot eight, lean, with a shaved head, and was wearing Ugg boots (“One must keep up with the times”), and a thick maroon robe.  He moved with ineffable grace, spoke with excellent diction, seemed to have a permanent facial expression of subtle joy, and altogether radiated the cheerful serenity of perfect self-control.  I was struck by the ultimate logic of his communication, then recalled that he had been a philosophy student at a highly regarded English university prior to the unfortunate incursion from Beijing, when he returned home to provide his people moral support.

When we met, he pressed his hands together, bowed, and said, “May peace be with you”.  I asked him if that were a standard Buddhist greeting, and he said, “No, but, although I am a good man, I am my own man!”  Pious, but a perky personality turned out to be part of his charm.

BR:  Now, I understand you would like to investigate the obscure and storied “Wisdom of the East”.  From that, I assume, you will essay to deduce lessons for good living in the West.  I am not certain I am a repository for any knowledge you do not already possess.  Nonetheless, I will be happy to respond to your questions with . . . something. 

However, as I am a Tibetan monk, you must be prepared that some of my answers will in fact be . . . nothing.  Silence. 

Validating, I suppose, your initial premise of impenetrable Oriental mystery!  But this is our Way.  Take it or leave it!

Now, what may I tell you? 

I:  I really only have one question.

BR:  And what is that? 

I:  Buddhists world-wide revere life itself.  And that includes all the animals.  But most

people feel that the only animals that really count are us.  How do you explain your reverence for all life?

BR:  Scaling.

I:  Scaling? 

BR: “Let us go then, you and I”, to quote Eliot, that American, who became a Brit, and then became a citizen of the world, a refugee of the wasteland, a wanderer in the rose garden of the mind.  Where was I?  Oh, yes.  “Let us go then, you and I”, onto the plains of the Oriental intellect.  Then let us go and make our visit to the room where the women come and go, speaking of the mystical Dao.  Let us be prophets in our own land.

I:  I think I already may have had too much green tea.

BR:   Not possible.  Now, one of the reasons Eastern thought seems obscure, not to say irrational, to Westerners is that Western thought is narrow, focused, and concrete, whereas eastern thought is broad. holistic, and abstract.  Western thought was born on the Island of Samos, a small place, with many rocks.  Eastern thought was born on the Gobi Desert, a large place, with much open sky.  That scaling of geography emerges, like Houdini from an iron box, in the scaling of thought.

I:  I am completely lost!  And here I expected to go to all this trouble and at last nail down Eastern thought.  But it’s already completely out of reach!

BR:  Not to fret.  You see, that is the first thing I told you—be at peace!  Does a lotus flower worry if the Royal Orient Train will be on schedule?  Does a perfect piece of jade brood as to whether anyone influential is admiring it? 

We all have our place, and that place is here.  We all have our time, and that time is now.  We all have our person, and that person is us.  Our most precious possession is our minds, and our minds are always present.  Thus, we are secure.  So, be of good cheer!

Logic is hard to master, yet terribly basic.  But the logic of scaling is not so complicated.  You’ll get it.

I:  I’m going to have to take your word for it! 

BR:  You see.  We’re already making progress!  Consider Genghis Khan. 

I:  I’m lost again.

BR:  Though no one in the West wants to admit it, Genghis Khan conquered the world. Nobody beat the terrible khan. 

Think about this.  One yurt, perfectly arranged, with military precision.  One cavalryman, a masterful rider.  Dead shot with bow and arrow.  Comfortable in all kinds of weather.  Tough as a piece of iron.  Dedicated to the leader, and instantly responsive to commands.

Multiply that by two hundred thousand.  Now you have a crack force that can level cities from the Yellow Sea to the Danube River.

That’s scaling.  

I:  I think I have had too much, or not enough, vindaloo curry.  Maybe I should have had a hot dog.

BR:  Enlightenment ever calls for patience.

Now, consider this.  The Great Wisdom, which created the World, wants to create Life.  The skies are in place.  The mountains are in place.  The seas are in place.  But it would be nice to have some company.  But, to build Life, a design is needed. 

I:  A blueprint?

BR:  Even so.

Of what will Life be comprised?  That is, what is the list of Qualities that go into what we think of as Life?

I:  And that is?

BRPerception that sketches out the nature of reality: wet and dry, hard and soft, sweet and bitter.  Interpretation of perceptions: opportunity or threat, safety or danger.   Identification and classification of pieces of reality: self or other, friend or foe, refuge or exposed field.  Causal relations: this does this, and that does that.  Social relations: this is my group, and we cooperate; that is their group, and we compete.  Planning: I will go here and do this to get that, and to avoid the other thing.  Emotions: I got what I wanted, so I feel good; I got injured, so I feel bad.

I:  Wow.  That’s a lot! 

BR:  Not so much, really.  What in logic we call necessary and sufficient.  A minimum set of Qualities necessary and sufficient to comprise what we think of as Life.  Some life ranks higher on the complexity scale, naturally, and some life ranks lower on the complexity scale.

I:  Ah, I think I may be getting this!  Life is essentially the same, up and down the scale of complexity.  The lowest level is essentially the same as the highest level. 

BR:  Even so.

I:  The dolphins are a lot like us, the whales and the orangutangs, the parrots and the jaguars, the bears and the beavers.  It’s the same basic system up and down!   The scale doesn’t change the system.  Is that right?

BR:  Precisely, exactly so.

I:  And that’s why Buddhists all over the world revere life itself, because it’s all essentially the same.  “They” are all “Us”.  “We” are all “Them”.  Is that it?

BR:  Spot on!

I:  You know, I think I might have a little more vindaloo curry and green tea.

As we stood outside the restaurant, Baba Rinpoche hitched his small blue canvas backpack onto his shoulders and looked south into the sapphire mountain sky at a distant, huge, drifting, snowy cloud, as if trying to decide whether it was going to be friendly or unfriendly.  “I am going to visit the Bodhi Tree, where Buddha found Enlightenment.  I haven’t been there in years”.  He mentioned that as casually as if he had said, “I’m going down to the market to pick up some tea”. 

“But it’s hundreds of miles to that place,” I protested.  “And you haven’t any money.”

He gave me one of those little serene smiles of his, and that placid look gazing a thousand years into the future, and said, “The world will provide”.  And off he strode, zigzagging through afternoon traffic with the grace and ease of an Olympic skater.

And he was right.  I paid for our lunch.

Guru Rinpoche (Tibetan “Precious teacher”) lived in the 8th-9th century. He was the founder of the Nyingmapa school of Buddhism in Tibet. Courtesy: Creative Commons

Steve Davidson is a psychologist from California, the author of the clinical textbook “An Introduction to Human Operations Psychotherapy”.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Categories
Stories

The Tree of Life

A flash fiction by Parnil Yodha

Tashi was padding barefoot with his goat. The sparkling light of the progenitor of life shone on his bald skull. His maroon kasaya robe seemed like the perfect camouflage for him amidst the flaming red grove of Royal Poinciana. He observed a bumble-bee perched on a tricoloured — white, purple and yellow– flower of a wild pansy, lapping its sweet nectar, while being as clueless as the bacteria (the sole life form that inhabited the Earth for the first two billion years) that spawned the tree of life. Rapt in the splendour of that spectacle, Tashi lost control of his grip; his brown threngwa (rosary) comprising one hundred and eight beads slipped from his fingers and plopped down in a muddy puddle. His goat also yanked its leash free from his grasp.

The goat scurried off to a tree that had low hanging boughs full of green chewy leaves. Tashi lay on his back, his head reclining on his arms, in the shade of a tree whose leaves were dappled sunlight — a gas burner facilitating cooking, photo-synthetically speaking – while the goat kept pouncing at its green food. As he lay abstractedly, a rueful yearning for his homeland Tibet arrested his mind.

Tashi used to be yet another shepherd boy with a small herd of Changthangi (Pashmina) goats residing in a village of Tibet, when he came to know about His Holiness Dalai Lama leading the cause of Tibetan people in India. His parents would talk about His Holiness in whispers, wary of the Chinese officials and spies. Tashi had made up his mind to flee. But his ailing grandmother was too attached to him.

Chetu, I love you more than my life,’ his grandmother would say.

So, it was only after his grandmother had passed away that he fled to Lhasa. He joined the caravan of the refugees who were going to India via Nepal. A hundred people including children were led by two guides to Nepal from Lhasa on foot. They walked at night and hid behind the rock-mountains during the day. It was chilly; all they had was a gray sky overhead and the snow-capped mountains around. The harsh wind would bite them without mercy.  One night was so chilly that Tashi thought he would die!

Nevertheless, they would doze off during respite-breaks at night, due to exhaustion. The travellers would lie alone shivering at times, whereas snuggle up to each other to share body heat at other times. The travellers would sometimes quarrel over petty issues with one another, like who would occupy the best spot to rest first. The guides would desperately try to mediate. After about one month of endless walking, the caravan reached the Tibetan Reception Centre in Nepal, from where it was led to Dharamshala, India after the grant of the necessary clearance.

Shortly, Tashi’s eyelids got top heavy and dropped shut like, the magnetic door of a refrigerator. He saw a majestic, semi-arid expanse with steep-sided mountain ranges and two-horned, densely furred Tibetan yaks. A bright yet balmy white light dazzled his eyes. He shrouded his eyes partly with the back of his right hand, and began to peep through the gap between his fingers, looking for the source of the light. He raised his foot to walk towards the light, but as he raised his foot, he felt something tugging at it: a sleek, jet black snake had coiled itself around his leg, like a metallic foot cuff. While he grappled to free his leg, he saw his grandmother’s face – a childlike smile on a sallow face. He yanked his leg free. Soon, everything went black.

When the darkness dissipated, Tashi saw himself sailing in the air, stiff as a log. When he edged closer, he saw a pocket-clock dangling around his neck with its hands moving anticlockwise. With a jolt, his stiff self started up like a car engine, and was soon trundling in reverse gear. As this mid-air journey proceeded, his body began transforming itself into an antelope, then a golden retriever, then a Banyan tree, then a fern and in the end, he became as minuscule as an atom. He ground to a halt. He looked around; it was an eerie landscape, rather a moonscape, with whitish-grey pumice plains and dark greyish-black basalt rocks. There was no sign of life yet. Far ahead, he saw a towering volcano, throwing up sizzling lava and darkening the sky above it, too ready to cool its lava down into crystals by dropping the slimy mass into the lake below formed from a melted glacier.

A rumbling thunder roused Tashi from his marvelled slumber. Tashi scrambled to his feet, got hold of his goat’s leash and ambled backed to the monastery. Tashi was seventy now, and would die soon, he thought, without even setting a foot again on the land of his forefathers. And why, only because some of us cannot fathom the truth of our existence: that the long, long voyage that all our genes travelled to reach where we are today was, a joint enterprise and not a separate one. Then again, he knew that a monk was supposed to be devoid of all desires; so he immediately wiped off the wistful moist from his eyes.

At the monastery, Tashi tethered the goat to a bamboo pole and held the teats of the goat between his thumb and forefinger and massaged the udders downwards. He squirted the milk out into a steel bucket and took a gulp. The energy from the sun – the source of all life — that had flowed to the tree, then, in turn, to the goat had reached the man like a message, the message of interdependence and compassion. He sat bolt upright in dhyana, closed his eyes and accepted all the things that were beyond his control. He breathed in, breathed out, breathed in, and then never breathed out again.

Parnil Yodha is a law graduate and aspiring writer and poet based in New Delhi (India). Her works have been published in literary magazines like Indian periodical and Indus Women Writing.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL