THE SECOND UNINVITED GUEST was a cassock-clad lama.
He deftly tethered his donkey at the door. His purple cassock flapped like billowing flags as he climbed the stairs spryly, but there wasn’t a breath of wind anywhere. He reached the fifth floor, where every door looked exactly the same, yet he pushed open the correct door; we were all waiting for him.
A young, enthusiastic face appeared before us.
Tiny beads of sweat dotted the tip of his nose, and he was breathing hard, like a horse at the end of a long journey. I could tell that everyone in the room instantly liked the face they saw. But instead of pleasantries, he blurted out, “I’ve been looking for this place. This place of yours is it.”
The chieftain stood up. “You come from far away. I can tell by your boots.”
The guest finally bowed to the chieftain, and said, “I come from the Holy City of Lhasa.”
He was a warm, outgoing fellow. “Give me a bowl of tea,” he said, “a bowl of hot tea. I’ve drunk nothing but mountain spring water on my way here. I’ve spent more than a year looking for this place. I’ve tasted many different kinds of spring water—sweet, bitter, salty. No one has ever tasted so many kinds of water before.”
Father interrupted him. “You have yet to let us learn your honorable name.”
The guest slapped his own head, saying, “Look at me, I’m so happy to have found your place that I’ve forgotten everything.” He told us he was called Wangpo Yeshi, a name given to him by his master when he received his geshe degree.
Brother said, “You’re a geshe? We’ve never had one of those around here.” Geshe is the highest degree for a monk; someone said it was like a boshi degree, what we now call a doctorate.
Father said, “See, we now have another learned guest. You may stay here, either in my house or at the monastery. It’s up to you.”
“I wish to establish a new sect here,” Wangpo Yeshi said. “It is the Gelukpa Sect, founded by the most venerable Master Jetsongpa. It can replace evil sects, which reek of secular heresy and lack discipline.”
“What evil sects are you talking about?” Father asked.
“Those Nyingmapas under the chieftain’s protection, sects that believe in sorcery.”
Once again Father interrupted Wangpo Yeshi, and ordered the steward, “Smoke a room with the best incense for our guest from afar.”
To our surprise, the guest ordered the steward, in front of everyone, “Have someone feed my donkey. You never know when your master will need my donkey to carry precious good tidings out of his territory.”
Mother said, “I’ve never seen such an arrogant lama.”
The lama said, “Your Maichi family hasn’t become an alms giver to our omnipotent sect yet, has it?” Then he retreated from the room in a leisurely way.
By then, I already liked him more than I could say.
The chieftain, on the other hand, didn’t know what to do with Wangpo Yeshi, who had come to us from the Holy City.
Soon after Wangpo Yeshi’s arrival, Monpa Lama went to the monastery to pay Living Buddha Jeeka a visit. Father said that Wangpo Yeshi was a man to reckon with, since his appearance had turned mortal enemies into friends. So Father sent for him. When Wangpo Yeshi arrived, the chieftain placed an elegant cushion before him, and said, “Your boots are so tattered I should have given you a new pair, but I’m giving you a cushion instead.”
“I congratulate the chieftain,” Wangpo Yeshi said. “One day, when you establish connections with the Holy City, your family enterprises will truly become your eternal heritage.”
“You won’t decline a bowl of light wine, will you?”
“Yes, I will.”
“None of the lamas here would.”
Wangpo Yeshi, his forehead shining, said, “That is why the world needs this new sect of ours.”
And so, just like that, Wangpo Yeshi moved in with us. But the chieftain gave him no special authority, granting only that he could freely preach to the people. Wangpo Yeshi had hoped that the chieftain would drive out the old sects and present him with believers and territory. The zealous lama thought of nothing but his master’s teachings and his dream to proselytize in a new place.
Generally speaking, before a lama, from either an old or a new sect, traveled to a new place to spread his teaching, he would have a prophetic dream. Shortly after receiving his advanced geshe degree, Wangpo Yeshi had in fact had such a dream. In a small Lhasa cell of yellow clay, he had dreamed of a valley that opened to the southeast. Shaped like a seashell, it was fed by a river whose flowing water sounded like worshipers chanting sutras. After awakening, he sought an interpretation of the dream from his master, who, as someone passionately interested in politics, was entertaining some sort of English colonel. Upon being told of the dream, the master said he was destined to travel to farmlands near the Han border, since both the valleys and the people in such places faced southeast. He knelt down and vowed that he would build many temples and monasteries for the sect in such a valley. His master then gave him nine volumes of the classics of their sect. And when the Englishman heard that Wangpo Yeshi was going to proselytize near the Han border, he presented him with a donkey, an English donkey. Wangpo Yeshi wondered at first if donkeys came only from England, but on the trip, he would discover that it was indeed a fine animal.
The chieftain told him to seek out his own believers.
But who would become his first convert? He thought about the four people in the Maichi family: the chieftain certainly didn’t fit the bill, whereas the chieftain’s wife seemed absent-minded. There was no way to tell if the chieftain’s younger son, with his mouth hanging slack, was highly focused or an idiot. The chieftain’s older son was the only one who smiled at him. So one day, when my brother was going out for a ride, Wangpo Yeshi grabbed hold of his reins, and said to the future chieftain, “I have great hopes for you. You and I belong to the future.”
But my brother said, “Stop it. I don’t believe a word you say. I don’t trust you or any other lama.”
The lama was shocked. Never in his life had he heard anyone openly declare that he did not believe in the teachings of the most venerable, the most powerful Buddha.
First Young Master spurred his horse and rode off.
At that moment Wangpo Yeshi realized that even the air here was not quite right. He detected the aroma of opium, which made him feel good and yet dizzy at the same time. The smell was more powerful than a demonic temptation. He began to see just what sort of place his dream had sent him to. But he couldn’t return to the Holy City without accomplishing anything.
He sighed, the long, deep sigh of someone skilled in yoga.
If Wangpo Yeshi had known that Monpa Lama was right behind him, he wouldn’t have let out such a heavy sigh. Monpa Lama laughed; without turning to look, Wangpo Yeshi knew that the laughter had come from a monk. Wangpo Yeshi could tell that his rival wanted to display his inner power, but his second breath revealed his weakness.
“I heard that a member of a new sect had come,” Monpa Lama said. “I was planning to go see you, but chance would have us meet here.”
Wangpo Yeshi cited an allusion.
Monpa Lama did the same.
The first allusion indicated that the act of going to see someone was actually a contest.
The second implied that they would coexist in peace if both sides were willing to compromise.
But since they could not reach agreement, they turned their backs on each other and walked off.
The following day, Wangpo Yeshi went into the countryside to spread the word after tying the guest room key to his waist.
Meanwhile, Charles was telling the chieftain’s wife a story about someone who had been born in a manger. I stopped by from time to time to listen to him and learned of someone who had no father. When I said he was just like Sonam Tserang, Mother spat at me.
Then one day, Sangye Dolma emerged in tears. When I asked who had made her cry, she sobbed, “He’s dead. The Romans crucified him.”
So I walked into the room, where my mother was drying her eyes with a silk handkerchief. Charles looked triumphant. He had placed a nearly naked human figure on the windowsill, so skinny that his ribs showed. I figured he must be the person who had made the two women cry. He was strung up like a criminal, his bloody hands nailed to a piece of wood. Blood dripped from his wounds. The thought that he was about to bleed to death made me laugh. Why else would his head be slumped onto his chest, as if his neck were broken?
Charles said, “My Lord, the ignorant must not be considered irreverent. Please forgive this ignorant young man. I’ll convert him into one of your lambs.”
I asked, “Who’s the guy bleeding there?”
“Lord Jesus.”
“What can he do?”
“He suffers for you and gives you salvation.”
“But he looks so pitiful. How can he help anyone?”
Charles merely shrugged his shoulders.
With the chieftain’s permission, Charles roamed the mountains and fields to search for rocks. One day he returned with news of Wangpo Yeshi, who was living in a cave and preaching a Gospel of benevolent ideas and strict self-control. Charles said, “I must say, he seems to be a good monk. But you are incapable of accepting good things, so I’m not surprised that he has been slighted by you and ridiculed by your people. That is why I am content to be permitted to collect mineral rocks.”
His pile of rocks was getting higher and higher.
Monpa Lama said to the chieftain, “This man will one day take away our greatest treasures.”
“If you know where those treasures are,” the chieftain said, “go guard them. If not, then don’t worry me by talking about them.”
Monpa Lama had no response.
The chieftain then asked Living Buddha Jeeka about the treasures. “Those are the words of a sorcerer. He has no knowledge of such things.”
“You know,” the chieftain said, “when the time comes, I will rely upon a new sect like yours, neither too old nor too strange.”
Not quite ready to accept the chieftain’s compliment, Living Buddha Jeeka replied coolly, “I hope you are as good as your word.”
Charles was getting ready to leave when the first snow fell. By then, he and Wangpo Yeshi had become friends, so he swapped his mule for his friend’s strong donkey. He’d sifted through the rocks he’d collected several times and now put the finest into a leather sack, which he then placed on the donkey’s back. The snow was as dry as powder, as dry as sand. Charles looked toward the distant mountain, where Wangpo Yeshi’s cave was located, and said, “My friend couldn’t feed his own big animal, but I hope he’ll be able to feed himself and that docile mule he now owns.”
I said, “You swapped with him because your mule couldn’t carry your rocks.”
Charles laughed. “Young Master is a fascinating person. I like you.”
As he hugged me, I detected a strong animal odor on his body. He then whispered in my ear, “If you become chieftain one day, we could become very good friends.” His blue eyes were smiling. I was thinking, He doesn’t know I’m an idiot. No one’s told him yet.
Charles’s parting words to the chieftain were: “I don’t think you should make someone so devout suffer like that. Fate will reward you.” He then put on his gloves, slapped the donkey on the rump, and disappeared into the silent, falling snow. The sounds of his donkey’s hooves did not die out until long after his tall figure had disappeared from sight. Everyone let out a long sigh, as if shedding a heavy load.
They said, “The special emissary should be here soon. He’ll show up before the mountains are sealed off by snow.”
But I was thinking about Wangpo Yeshi. How intriguing to be a monk who spreads a Gospel that no one accepts. Except for his mule, grazing nearby, he was all alone as snow fell in front of his cave, like a beautiful curtain. At that moment, I too experienced the elation of being abandoned by the world.