The Magician of Lhasa

Chapter One

Tenzin Dorje (pronounced Ten-zin Door-jay)

Zheng-po Monastery, Tibet

March 1959

I am alone in the sacred stillness of the temple, lighting butter-lamps at the Buddha’s feet, when I first realize that something is very wrong.

“Tenzin Dorje!” Startled, I turn to glimpse the spare frame of my teacher, silhouetted briefly at the far door. “My room. Immediately!”

For a moment I am faced with a dilemma. Making offerings to the Buddha is considered a special privilege—and as a sixteen year old novice monk I take this duty seriously. Not only is there a particular order in which the candles must be lit. Each new flame should be visualized as representing a precious gift—such as incense, music and flowers—to be offered for the sake of all living beings.

I know that nothing should prevent me from completing this important rite. But is obedience to my kind and holy teacher not more important? Besides, I can’t remember the last time that Lama Tsering used the word “immediately.” Nor can I remember a time when anyone shouted an order in the temple. Especially not Zheng-po’s highest-ranking lama.

Even though I am only half way through lighting the candles, I quickly snuff out the taper. Bowing briefly to the Buddha, I hurry outside.

In the twilight, disruption is spreading through Zheng-po monastery like ripples from a stone thrown into a tranquil lake. Monks are knocking loudly on each other’s doors. People are rushing across the courtyard with unusual haste. Villagers have gathered outside the Abbot’s office and are talking in alarmed voices and gesturing down the valley.

Slipping into my sandals, I gather my robe above my knees and, abandoning the usual monastic code, break into a run.

Lama Tsering’s room is at the furthermost end, across the courtyard and past almost all the monks’ rooms, in the very last building. Even though his status would accord him a spacious and comfortable room directly overlooking the courtyard, he insists on living next to his novices in a small cell on the edge of Zheng-po.

When I get to the room, his door is thrown open and his floor, usually swept clean, is scattered with ropes and packages I’ve never seen. His lamp is turned to full flame, making him look even taller and more disproportionate than ever as his shadow leaps about the walls and ceiling with unfamiliar urgency.

I’ve no sooner got there than I turn to find Paldon Wangpo hurrying towards me. The pair of us are Lama Tsering’s two novices but we have an even stronger karmic connection: Paldon Wangpo is my brother, two years older than me.

We knock on our teacher’s door.

Lama Tsering beckons us inside, telling us to close the door behind us. Although the whole of Zheng-po is in turmoil, his face shows no sign of panic. Though there is no disguising the gravity of his expression.

“I only have time to tell you this once, so you must please listen carefully,” he looks from one to the other of us with a seriousness we only see before an important examination.

“This is the day we have feared ever since the year of the Metal Tiger. Messengers have just arrived at the village with news that the Red Army has marched on Lhasa. His Holiness, the Dalai Lama, has been forced into exile. A division of the Red Army is traveling here, to Jangtang province. At this moment they are only half a day’s travel from Zheng-po.”

Paldon Wangpo and I can’t resist exchanging glances. In just a few sentences, Lama Tsering had told us that everything about our world had been turned upside down. If His Holiness has been forced to flee from the Potala Palace, what hope is there for the rest of Tibet?

“We must assume that the Red Army is coming directly towards Zheng-po,” Lama Tsering continues quickly. From outside we hear one of the women villagers wailing. “If they travel through the night, they could arrive by tomorrow morning. Definitely, they could get here within a day.

“In other parts of our country, the army is destroying monasteries, looting their treasures, burning their sacred texts, torturing and murdering the monks. There’s little doubt they have the same intentions for Zheng-po. For this reason, the Abbot is asking us to evacuate.”

“Evacuate?” I can’t contain myself. “Why don’t we stay and resist?”

“Tenzin Dorje I have shown you the map of our neighbor China,” he explains. “For every soldier they have sent to Tibet, there are ten thousand more soldiers ready to take their place. Even if we wanted to, this is not a struggle we can win.”

“But-”

Paldon Wangpo reaches out, putting his hand over my mouth.

“Fortunately, our Abbot and the senior lamas have been preparing for this possibility. Each of the monks has a choice: you can return to your village and continue to practice the Dharma in secret. Or you can join the senior lamas in exile.”

He holds up his hand, gesturing we shouldn’t yet reply. “Before you say you want to join us in exile, you must realize this is not some great adventure. Traveling to the border will be dangerous—the Red Army will shoot dead any monks trying to leave. Then we must try to cross the mountains on foot. For three weeks we will have to travel very long distances, living off only the food we can carry. We will have to endure much hardship and pain. Even if we finally arrive in India, we don’t know if the government will allow us to stay, or will send us back over the border.”

“But if we return to our villages and continue to wear our robes,” interjects Paldon Wangpo, “the Chinese will find us anyway, and punish our families for keeping us.”

Lama Tsering nods briefly.

“If we disrobe, we would be breaking our vows.” Paldon Wangpo has always been a sharp debater. “Either way, we would lose you as our teacher.”

“What you say is true,” Lama Tsering agrees. “This is a difficult decision even for a lama, and you are novice monks. But it is important that you choose, and do so quickly. Whatever decision you make,” he regards each of us in turn, “you will have my blessing.”

From outside comes the pounding of feet as people hurry past. There can be no doubting the crisis we’re facing.

“I am now an old man, seventy four years of age,” Lama Tsering tell us, kneeling down to continue packing a leather bag which is lying on the floor. “If I had only myself to think about, I might go into hiding and take my chances with the Chinese-”

“No lama!” I exclaim.

Next to me, Paldon Wangpo looks sheepish. He has always been embarrassed by my impetuosity.

“But the Abbot has asked me to play an important part in the evacuation.”

“I want to come with you.” I can hold back no longer, no matter what Paldon Wangpo thinks.

“Perhaps you like me as a teacher,” cautions Lama Tsering. “But as a fellow traveler it will be very different. You are both young and strong, but I may become a liability. What happens if I fall and hurt myself?”

“Then we will carry you across the mountains,” I declare.

Beside me Paldon Wangpo is nodding.

Lama Tsering looks up at both of us, an intensity in his dark eyes I have seen only on rare occasions.

“Very well-” he tells us finally. “You can come. But there is one very important condition I have to tell you about.”

Moments later we are leaving his room for our own, having promised to return very quickly. As I make my way through the turmoil in the corridor outside I can hardly believe the condition that Lama Tsering has just related. This is, without question, the worst day in the existence of Zheng-po, but paradoxically for me it is the day I have found my true purpose. My vocation. The reason I have been drawn to the Dharma.

Opening my door, I look around the small room that has been my world for the past ten years; the wooden meditation box, three feet square. The straw mattress on the baked earth floor. My change of robes, and toiletry bag—the two belongings we are allowed at Zheng-po.

Not only is it hard to believe that I will never again sit in this meditation box, never again sleep on this bed. It is even more incredible that I, Tenzin Dorje, a humble novice monk from village of Ling, have been accorded one of the rarest privileges of Zheng-po. More than that—one of the most important tasks of our entire lineage. Together with Paldon Wangpo, and under the guidance of my kind and holy teacher, we are to undertake the highest and most sacred mission of the evacuation. It means that our flight from Tibet will be much more important—and more dangerous. But for the first time ever I know, in my heart, that I have a special part to play.

My time has come.

Matt Lester

Imperial Science Institute

London

April 2006

I’m sitting in the cramped cubby-hole that passes for my office, late on an overcast Friday afternoon, when my whole world changes.

“Harry wants to see you in his office,” Pauline Drake, tall, angular and not-to-be-messed with, appears around the door frame two feet away. She looks pointedly at the telephone, which I’ve taken off its cradle, before meeting my eyes with a look of droll disapproval. “Right away.”

I glance over the paperwork strewn across my desk. It’s the last Friday of the month, which means that all timesheets have to be in with Accounts by five. As Research Manager for Nanobot, it’s my job to collate team activities, and I take pride in the fact that I’ve never missed a deadline.

But it’s unusual for Harry to dispatch his formidable P.A. down from the third floor—and with such an absolute demand. I can’t remember the phrase “right away” being used before.

Something must be up.

A short while later I’m getting out from behind my desk. It’s not a straightforward maneuver. You have to rise from the chair at forty five degrees to avoid hitting the shelves directly above, before squeezing, one leg at a time, through the narrow gap between desk and filing cabinet. Then there’s the walk along a rabbit’s warren of corridors and up four flights of a narrow, wooden staircase with its unyielding aroma of industrial disinfectant and wet dog hair.

As I make my way across the open plan section of the third floor, I’m aware of being stared at and people whispering. When I make eye contact with a couple of the HR people they glance away, embarrassed.

Something’s definitely up.

To get to the corner office, I first have to pass through the anteroom where Pauline has returned to work noiselessly at her computer. She nods towards Harry’s door. Unusually it is open. Even more unusually, an unfamiliar hush has descended on his office, instead of the usual orchestral blast.

When I arrive, it’s to find Harry standing, staring out the window at his less-than-impressive view over the tangled gray sprawl of railway lines converging on Kings Cross Station. Arms folded and strangely withdrawn, I get the impression he’s been waiting specially for me.

As I appear he gestures, silently, to a chair across his desk.

Harry Saddler is the very model of the Mad Professor, with a few non-standard eccentricities thrown in for good measure. Mid-fifties, bespectacled, with a shock of spiky, gray hair, in his time he’s been an award-winning researcher. More recent circumstances have also forced him to become an expert in the area of public-private partnerships. It was he who saved the centuries-old Institute—and all our jobs—by doing a deal with Acellerate, an LA based biotech incubator, just over a year ago.

“A short while ago I had a call from L.A. with the news I’ve been half-expecting for the past twelve months,” he tells me, his expression unusually serious. “Acellerate have finished their review of our research projects. They like Nanobot,” he brushes fallen cigarette ash off his lapel. “They really like Nanobot. So much that they want to move the whole kit and caboodle to California. And as the program originator and Research Manager, they want you there too.”

The news takes me completely by surprise. Sure, there’ve been visitors from the States during the past year, and earnest talk of information exchange. But I never expected the deal with Acellerate to have such direct, personal impact. Or to be so sudden.

“They’re moving very quickly on this,” continues Harry. “They want you there in six weeks ideally. Definitely eight. Blakely is taking a personal interest in the program.”

“Eight weeks?” I’m finding this overwhelming. “Why do I have to move to California at all? Can’t they invest in what we’re doing over here?”

Harry shakes his head in weary resignation. “You’ve seen the new shareholder structure,” he says. “As much as Acellerate talk about respecting our independence, the reality is that they hold a controlling interest. They call the shots. They can strip what they like out of the institute and there’s really not a lot we can do to stop them.”

I’m not thinking about Acellerate. I’m wondering about my girlfriend, Isabella. She’s more important to me than anything else in the world and after three years of working long and hard for Bertollini, the drinks manufacturer, she’s just been promoted to Group Product Manager. The idea of her leaving her new job is a non-starter and there’s no way I’m leaving her behind in London, no matter how great the interest of the legendary Bill Blakely.

Harry mistakes the cause of my concern. “If you look at what’s happened to the other research programs Acellerate have taken to LA,” he reassures me, “they’ve gone stratospheric.” Pausing, he regards me more closely for a long while before querying in a low voice, “Isabella?”

“Exactly.”

“Take her with you!”

“It’s not that simple. She’s just been promoted. And she’s close to her family.”

“A girl like her,” Harry has met her at institute functions over the years, “she’ll get a job like that in Los Angeles,” he snaps his fingers. “And you’ll be giving her family a good excuse to visit Disneyland.”

As always, Harry is trying to keep focused on the positive. I understand, and I’m all the more appreciative because I know how hard this must be for him. Nanobot has always been one of his favorites. It was Harry who brought me into the institute when he discovered the subject of my Masters thesis. Harry who nurtured the program through its early stages. He and I enjoy a close relationship—more than my boss, he’s also my mentor and confidante. Now, just as the program’s starting to get interesting, he’s having it taken off him. What’s more, who’s to say it will end with Nanobot? It seems that Acellerate can cherry pick whatever they like from the institute and leave Harry with all the leftovers. Small wonder he’s in no mood for the Three Tenors.

“You really must see this as the opportunity that it is,” he tells me. “With Acellerate behind you, you can accelerate the program way beyond what we can afford here. You could get to prototype stage in two, three years instead of seven or eight. With positive early tests the sky really is the limit. You’ll be working at the heart of nanotech development for one of the best-funded scientific institutes on earth. Plus you’ll even be able to catch a sun tan. Think of this as a great adventure!”

His phone rings, and we hear Pauline answering it outside. Evidently Harry has told her we aren’t to be disturbed—something he’s never done before.

There’s another pause before I finally say, “I guess whatever way you package it, I don’t have much choice do I? I mean, Acellerate aren’t going to leave the program in London just because my girlfriend has changed jobs. And if I walk away from it, that’s the last seven years of my life down the tubes.”

He doesn’t answer me directly, which I take as confirmation. Instead he says, “Look at me, Matt. Fifty four years of age. A little battle-wearied, a little scarred. But I’ve had my fifteen minutes in the spotlight. If it was just about me, I wouldn’t have bothered trying to find a new partnership for the institute last year. I’d have just taken my chances with Government funding and hoped for the best.”

I swallow. Harry has never spoken so directly to me before and I find his modesty humbling.

“But the Institute’s not just about my ego or anyone else’s. It’s about the work we do. The science. All our research programs have the potential to transform peoples’ lives. And of all the programs we’re running,” he regards me significantly, “yours is the most likely to make the most revolutionary impact.”

I regard him closely.

“You’re the first cab off the rank, Matt. It’s flattering that Acellerate are so keen to take you off us. You’re thirty four years old and this kind of opportunity doesn’t come along often.”

“It’s a bit sudden, that’s all,” I’m nodding. “I mean, ten minutes ago, my main concern was getting the time sheets in.”

Harry regards me with a look of benevolent expectation.

“I’m sure I’ll get used to the idea.”

“Good.”

“I’ll have to speak to Isabella.”

“Of course.” Harry reaches into a desk drawer, taking out a large white envelope which he hands me across the desk.

“Before you make up your mind, you might like to study the terms and conditions,” he says.

A short while later I’m heading back to my office in a daze. Not only is Harry’s announcement life-changing, the conditions of my appointment are way beyond anything I could have imagined. Almost too much to believe.

As I return through HR, I’m so preoccupied I don’t notice anyone. Even the reek of the stairs passes me by. I’m trying to get my head around the paradox that this is terrible news for the Imperial Science Institute, but an amazing opportunity for me. That Isabella is almost certain to be upset by the same thing that is a personal endorsement beyond my wildest dreams. I hardly know what to make of it.

I return to the poky office which has been my home for the past seven years. The bulging shelves and worn metal filing cabinets. The tiny desk swamped with paperwork. It’s hard to believe I might be about to leave this all behind. That I have, in my hands, an extraordinary offer that could change my life.

Our lives.

I have to speak to Isabella.

Chapter One of The Magician of Lhasa by David Michie, Copyright ©2017 Mosaic Reputation Management (Pty) Ltd, Australia.

Excerpt used with permission.