The Tail of a White Mongol Sheep

Happily, the guriltai shul is made with mutton and not beef, which I actually prefer. I have had little to eat, only a sliver of hardened aaruul I carry with me from Yatuu Gol. Vegetables can at times be a luxury in a nomadic culture, the people never in one spot long enough to harvest a crop, but this soup is thick with turnips. Because most of Mongolia’s traditional dishes involve meat, I and the monks in this region eat it regularly. Still, it is not something we do lightly. Before I take a single bite, I intone the mantra of clairvoyance as a blessing:

Um badma üshnikha vimali khum pad

With these powerful words, I purify the environment and wish the one born of an animal womb a higher rebirth in their next incarnation. Even His Holiness in exile down in Dharamshala is known to partake of the flesh of animals. Many years ago He feels sluggish and western doctors cannot fix Him. Then the Oracle says He must replenish His body with the energy of the spirit, and when He eats the tail of a white Mongol sheep cooked in a traditional broth, He is whole again, the tail of the sheep of Mongolia renowned for its fattiness.

My opponent sits tearing at his bowl of food, his eyes locked on the snowy television. The girl does not eat with us but kneels by the stove poking at the flames. Next to a pile of dried dung there is a plastic bowl full of cold ashes. I do not know how to make sense of what happens next, though I try and hide my astonishment. Is it an act of mortification, an attempt to erase the self? The girl puts down her stick and takes a deep breath. She holds it in, her chest fully expanded. Without warning she shoves both her hands in the ash and rubs the grime over her face. There is nothing playful in her movements. A sooty cloud clouds the air. When she’s done, she exhales. My opponent throws her a rag. The girl looks at him and smiles, wiping her hands, her teeth like little moons in the dark.