With Derge on our mind—and almost in our sight—our convoy has an early start. Determined to reach the town before the sun’s at her highest point, the high-pitched yells of the muleteers echo over the shreds of grayish blue that cover the field. Their urging cries leave no room for lingering. Everybody’s on the road by the first light of dawn.
My stomach grumbles, and a yawn escapes from my mouth. Breakfast wasn’t on the men’s mind this morning. My fingers probe the silky lining of my pocket. No tsampa balls left. I run my tongue across my teeth. I love my food and my cup of tea—especially in the morning.
All those times my grandmother caught me and my sisters with our hands in the tsampa bag, or sneaking a fresh fried khapse in the sleeves of our robe—a smile breaks on my parched lips. “A little hunger never hurt anyone,” she would note with that stern voice of hers. Yes, she knew how to play on my guilt. Still, we never went hungry.
Another deep grumble from my stomach—it seems to disagree. I set my eyes on Karma’s horse before me and lick my lips. The tea will taste so good.
The wind carries the sweet smell of the warming earth and a pink blush sweeps the sky. Spurred by the hum of the muleteers, we move through the morning with ease. It’s not long before I spot the fluttering tops of the prayer flags in the woodland ahead, crowning Derge’s main monastery with fierce pride. As always, Dendup and Karma know their way around. Upon arrival, they lead us through the back ways to a small guesthouse nestled in the corner of town.
“Friends of ours,” Dendup says, and it sure looks that way. We—well, Dendup really—are welcomed with open arms by the matron of the inn as we enter the courtyard.
“Just friends?” I slide the saddle off and look over my horse’s back at Karma. I don’t need the answer. His grin says it all.
“They’re good people,” he says. “Honorable people.” He piles our bags as I tie our horses to the side. “We’re far from our home and families. Good friends, trustworthy friends are what we need on the road.”
I nod.
“They’re pleasant company, you’ll see.” He puts his arm around my shoulders and walks me in. “And the tea is ever so agreeable.”
I glance up. My eye catches a silver glint reflecting underneath his chuba as we step over the raised threshold of the inn. The iron fist around my heart clenches, my stomach churns. He’s wearing his long knife.
Friends, he said, friends on the road, but my mind screams: allies. It’s allies he meant. Allies in his quest to revenge my mother’s death; allies in his quest to slay my uncle. Dizziness grips me. A sour taste fills my mouth. I stumble ahead.
“I got you.” Karma’s arms catch me on my way down the hallway. I shiver. His long knife flashes before me. Focus. My fingers dig in the wool of his chuba. I steady myself, my hands against his chest.
“I’m fine,” I say and draw a deep breath. “Must be the hunger that got to me.” A faint smile peeks on my lips, but I can’t make it to break through. Karma’s grip on me tightens.
“Tea’s ready.” He sweeps me to the kitchen where we’re met with a buzz of clattering crockery and loud laughter. “Some food will do you good.”
My body sags into a cushion with instant relief. The comforting smell of hearty thukpa on the stove settles my swirling stomach. And Karma’s right—the tea is excellent, and the thukpa does me good. With every slurp of the spicy, meaty brew, I swallow my restless thoughts of friends, foes, and allies until my stomach’s full and my mind at ease.
“Sister.” A soft poke, an elbow in my side. I bounce up, my eyes wide, to meet Dendup’s chuckle. I must have dozed off.
“The pilgrims are going to the monastery this afternoon,” Dendup says. He licks the last of noodle soup from his bowl. “We’re busy ourselves, but we figured you wanted to go?” Dendup’s question is directed at me, but his eyes are on Karma opposite us.
“Yes,” I perk up. “I would love to.” My mind fuzzy, I rub the sleep from my eyes.
Karma shifts in his seat and puts his hands on his knees.
“We’ll bring you,” he says. “And collect you.” He looks up at Dendup.
I nod.
“He’s afraid you might stray on him again.” Dendup leans into me and chuckles. A mix of tea and chang stains his breath.
Karma shakes his head. “Best to keep rest for a while, Dendup-la.” His eyes flash a mean green. He swipes Dendup’s cup and empties the rest on the floor beside him.
I wince as Dendup clenches his fists and bends over the table, ready to strike.
“Don’t be a fool.” Karma’s voice is a low hiss. His arm shoots across and curbs Dendup’s wrist. Their eyes clash in the dense space between the three of us. Dendup growls and his eyes bulge a nasty brown.
The stench of sudden sweat hits my nostrils. The swollen muscles in Dendup’s neck rip through his reddened skin. Just when I think he’s about to burst over the table, he lets out a roaring laugh and falls back, his body limp in the seat.
I gasp. Cups clatter and shatter the tension that was so tangible one moment ago into thin air.
“You’re so right, my brother,” Dendup says. He pulls his cap over his eyebrows and slouches further into his seat. “As always, you’re so right.” His mumble fades and within moments a steady snore escapes from under his lopsided cap.
My mouth open, I look at Karma. He shrugs and jumps up.
“Let’s go,” he says, and gestures at the door. “I’ll take you to the monastery.”
I turn to Dendup, deep asleep.
“Don’t worry, he’s in good hands here.” The matron nods, her broad face gleaming in the heat of the stove. He’s fine. I get up, my mind still going over what just happened here. The rage on Dendup’s face, so not like the cheerful, kind Dendup I’ve gotten to know. A vague unease churns my stomach. Allies. We’re a bit busy ourselves. My thoughts chew the leftovers of his words.
“You’re good?” Karma’s hand drapes around my shoulder.
“Yeah, sorry.” I draw a deep breath. “Still drowsy from the meal and the nap.” I slide my hand over his and straighten my shoulders. “A walk will do me good.”
A steady stream of pilgrims guides the way, but the monastery can’t be missed. Seated on a rolling hill amidst a luscious grove of green, it crowns the town of Derge.
“Do me a favor,” Karma says as we halt at the enormous gate. “Stay with the others.” His hand squeezes my shoulder. “No wandering around this time, promise?”
My smile meets his cautious look as I take my bag off his shoulder.
“I promise,” I say. “I’ll wait for you here.” Giving him no chance to respond, I rush off, my sandals slipping in the dust. A little alone time for prayer and meditation, some real silence and solitude—this is what I’ve craved ever since Cho La and losing little brother.
The low hum of prayer buzzes in the courtyard, countless pairs of pious feet clobber down in rows. With a mass of monks, nuns, and pilgrims making their merit, this temple turns out to be anything but a silent place of solitude. Lined up to present my offerings, I raise myself on my toes, eager to set my eyes on the beauty I heard of inside.
The wide-open temple door behind me provides a grand entrance. A golden afternoon sun pours her rays on the enormous shrine. The gilded statue of the Buddha Shakyamuni, flanked by Padmasamhava and Buddha Jampa, towers on the shrine. It’s clothed in the finest of silk and brocade. The shimmering of crowns, the most precious of gold, silver and gemstones, adorn their majestic presence. My eyes widen at the display of this magnificence.
Once inside, I’m absorbed in the heated stream of buoyant bodies, spinning the prayers of rattling wooden wheels and circulating the massive lacquered pillars clockwise with deep devotion. A vague sense of frenzy lingers around the crowd, unravelling the edges of my nerves. The air is thick with pungent shreds of smoke, stinging my eyes as they dart from corner to corner, looking for a quiet place to sit. To no avail.
“Sister.” A determined hand grabs my elbow. It’s Lanying. “Come over here.” She turns on her heels and pulls me out of the rushed mass into the cool shade of the temple wall. “Too much ado, this place.” She flashes a bright smile. “Better come to our sisters in the hermitage behind this high-and-mighty pretense.” She hooks her arm through mine and marches me out of the gate. “They’re waiting for us.” I stop her mid-stride when I realize she’s taking me to visit a nunnery.
“I haven’t any offerings to bring,” I say, my hand on my empty bag. Everything I brought, I gave to the monks. A sneer curls on Lanying’s lips and she directs her head towards the temple.
“No need,” she says. “Not like those greedy bastards.” Pah! A curt spittle hits the gravel and I gasp.
“Lanying!” My hand over my mouth, I r and glance around for witnesses to this blatant display of contempt. Lanying just shrugs and hauls me on.
“Well, that’s my opinion of them.” Her voice cool, she strides us out of the gate onto a narrow path that winds around to the rocky facade behind the monastery. Right on ridge of the barren slopes, amongst a few swaying pines, my eyes spot a tiny hermitage. A surge of delight opens my heart, a smile lifts my face. With its whitewashed walls hidden under the crimson shades of climbing creepers and its darkened rooftop topped with a myriad of weathered prayer flags, the monastery looks just like a bright bird of paradise, nestling peacefully on a dotted crest of green. What a little beauty, this place.
“Welcome, welcome.” A toothless smile and open arms embrace us after the steep climb—the abbess has been waiting for our arrival.
“Ama-la.” Lanying bows her head, I do the same. The abbess’s fingers rest on the crown of my head, a thoughtful blessing. My cheeks flush, as I have nothing to offer her. As my eyes meet hers, I’m welcomed by the warmest of amber set in a thoughtful, frail face. Her thin, calloused fingers stroke my reddened cheeks and my vision blurs for a moment at the touch of so much grace.
“I brought my sister, Nordun, on her way to Lhasa,” Lanying says. The abbess takes our hands in hers with a remarkably firm grip.
“We’ve been expecting you,” the abbess says, a content smile on her lips. “Tea’s ready. We’ve got a lot to catch up on.” Coming up to the main building, she turns to me and directs her head to the crooked door on the left. “Our temple.” She pats my hand. “We’ll be over in the kitchen.” She hooks her arm through Lanying’s and off they go.
With a little spring in my step, I hasten to the door.
A hollow creak resounds on the thin timber paneling, a lengthened shadow spills over the worn wooden floor. I clasp my hands as I see her—her golden face lit by the orange glow of dusk. She’s here, the mother of all Buddha’s, seated in the heart of the temple. My lips tremble, a sob slips from my breath. I fall on my knees, my hands pressed to my heart. Of course, she’s here—she’s always here. Warm tears streak my cheeks as I surrender myself to the mercy of Tara and sink into the silence and solitude I was looking for. Om Tare.