^ ^ ^ ^

Geser went off to his secular duties. In addition to nocturnal vigils for universal Dharma, he had myriad responsibilities in this remote hamlet—doctor, teacher, judge, counselor, and civic leader. If there was a problem, Geser must provide the answer. Beyond his immediate aid, what was there except the benevolence of God? Padam was many days away, and even there was very little.

I climbed to the roof of Geser’s small gomba. This was a fortress-like structure set on a steep ridge, which afforded it a commanding view. I stared out at the land, passed through but in my delirium not seen. I was greedy. I didn’t want to miss an inch.

The valley is wide, guarded by towering walls of soft sandstone, muraled with bold patterns of color. I chuckled, recognizing how trendy were those colors back in the States. So Southwest, how en vogue! But then, when you thought about it, this was the Southwest, only of the Tibetan Plateau, only of Central Asia, only of what, for an Angrez like me, was the most fucking exotic place on the face of the Earth. Far up the valley, where the chu branched, was a giant pillar of rock. Had I been conscious on the journey down, it would have seemed just another parallel ridge. From my present vantage, it appeared as a giant monolith, knife-edged by the confluence of two streams.

I sat mesmerized. I thought on the forces that had carved such a monument. But without precise knowledge, I could only guess—where the tectonic shaping ended and the glacial began or where the glacial ended and the riverine did the finishing work. Had it been created in only one cycle? I was unsure. Having failed to unravel this geologic mystery, I relaxed my mind, letting it space out in the transformations of shifting light: hot oranges into cool purples, gargoyles into soaring birds, the light made the rock a living thing—a living mandala, drawing out my confusion.

Gradually, as the thrill of the view wore off, I returned to my central problem. How to dump all the accumulated garbage? It wasn’t just Gul, or the cameras, the still plentiful foodstuffs, or the ponies. It was all the shit in my head. That was the crippling load.

"What are you thinking No? The scene is quite beautiful; is it not? Geser returned from his round of worldly duties. "No, is it this scene on which you think or something else, something not of this valley, something beyond the mountains?" It was as if he could read my mind. Even if he couldn’t, I imagined he could. At that point I really needed to open up.

"Ji, Geserji" I heard myself say. Then I spilled out my mind.

Geser listened patiently to my self-pitying litany, part confession, part justification. Then taking advantage of a pause in my monologue, he replied, "Acchaa No, acchaa! Many pilgrims come to this place. Like you they carry great burdens. The stones they leave by the path represent those burdens. Before they enter, they cast them off. You too must add to that pile, make your contribution. The tradition, our tradition, says man must live many lives, child, student, householder, renunciate, teacher. From one life to the next you must not carry the burdens of the old."

"What you say is true, Geserji. You have spoken many wise things but, with all respect, I too know these things. I know I have to put the past aside. But Geserji, knowing and doing…knowing and doing! Big problem Geserji!"

And what a path it was! The chu cut deeply into the valley shortly after leaving Kargya. This was no longer the pleasantly wide, glaciated "U," but the precipitously sloping "V" of soft sandstone sliced through to the bowels by a mighty river. The trail was little more than a scratch in a wasteland of scree, sloping almost vertically maybe half a mile to the chu below. As we walked, we had to continually dodge showers of ragged shale from above. So sheer was the drop, so unstable the footing, it was all I could do to force one foot ahead of the other. I fought the desire to look down, afraid the very sight of that awful chasm would immobilize me. The miles went by, and I gradually adjusted to the unrelenting exposure. As one addicted to the visual, I had to look, had to photograph. Occasionally, there would be a side trail downward. Following the trail with my eye, it would zigzag back and forth maybe a mile or more down to the chu. While there was little floor to speak of, the slope dropping in most places right into the stream, amazingly at times there would be a patch of green with a few dwellings. On rare occasions, this patch would lie across the stream connected to our side by a three-wire bridge—one to walk on and two to hold. What would it be like to live in such a place, so far away, so deep?

Despite its risks, the trail was quite a highway. There was a small but steady stream of locals traveling up valley. Winter was fast approaching, and they were bringing in the supplies, wheat and rice that the government provided at reasonable prices. Long trains of ponies trudged by, bulging, homespun sacks of precious grain swaying with their struggling gait. Each train was destined for some desolate outpost. With these loads the inhabitants would be able to survive the long winter. If a load was lost so might a life or lives. I understood why the boys had been so upset about their ponies. It was more than just the loss of a friend, as we would mourn a dog or cat. That was bad enough! But here a pony was the means of life, a way of transferring energy needed to survive. If you had a strong, healthy pony, you too could be strong, healthy. The pony was an extension of its owner, a tool by which he lived or died.

The trail led to Padam. Gul, Ravi, even Pal and Yosh thought I was headed there. Gul threw a mild fit when I told him that Geser would be accompanying our party for some of the way.

"Dad, food not so much. We lose much in avalanche. Ponies tired. Only two now and young one not carry so much. Everyone tired, trail too hard." His plaint seemed endless.

"But why does that matter, Gul my son? Geser carries his own weight and brings his own share of food. No problem, eh?"

And, of course, none of it was the problem. The problem was control—of me. Gul saw his power slipping, just when he was getting close, the dangerous pass crossed, and only a few days away from some semblance of civilization. Oh, it was still Zanskar, but at least in Padam there would be other Kashmiris, plenty of them, and in charge. All Gul could think about was getting to Padam.

"From Padam it’ll be easy to maneuver this Angrez to Kargil, the quickest route to Kashmir…if the buses still run. Once in Srinagar, it’ll be first into the hands of Uncle Aziz for the plucking…then on to Inspector Singh and those invisible ones Singh serves. The final kill!

"Yes, in Padam no problem! Dadee will be tired. Just bribe the tourist officer to tell him that the foot passes are closed. Imagine the fool! He is now talking about crossing over by the NunKun. How much worse than Shingo? So bad even local people don’t go that way. No way…Insha’Allah…I’ll risk my neck going there. Not even for Inspector Singh! Not that I care about that Sikh bastard. If he didn’t have me by the balls…No, Insha’Allah, let me get this ferenghi cock sucker back to Srinagar quickly."

Gul wouldn’t have been so smug had he known of my true plan. Geser had given and I accepted an invitation to the ancient gomba of Phuktal, two days down valley and then another half day journey up a joining nala to the south east.

"I am going there for darshan with my superior, the venerable Yeshe Rinpoche," Geser explained. "He is the Shushok—what you call a…bishop, the head lama for the entire district. I would like you to come along. This Shushok is very holy; he is one born, not made, what we call Tulku. We believe that many lives ago his being attained liberation, nirvana. Ego, the result of our karma, destines lesser men, such as you and me, who have yet to grasp enlightenment, to the cycle of rebirth. The Shushok, free of ego, returns only by the power of his dharma, the desire to do good on this earth."

This seemed rather contradictory. "But if he’s free from the cycle, why come back at all…why having once penetrated the veil of Maya…why knowing that all this is an illusion?"

"Because No, he has great powers and with those powers come a great responsibility. Having reached the "far shore," he must help others also to reach it…much as did Lord Buddha, only he did this in one life. This Tulku is a much respected scholar, not only a Geshe, but a Rabjampa, what in the West you call Ph.D. In his current existence, he took his degree in Lhasa. That was many years ago, many years before the godless Chini destroyed the land. It is the Shushok’s dharma to share his powers for the good of the people. He may be able to help you with your problem. I must warn you. You may find his methods are…you know he follows tradition of Tantra…what some call the ‘way of the left hand’…you may find him to be…I think the word is…bizarre?"

Geser’s mention of Tantra caught me hard. It was another of those terms bandied about in "New Age" circles so prevalent back home. Not that I sought out those crystal worshipping freaks, but my interest in the Himalaya drew us together. If I had been taking one of those association tests, the kind I so frequently faced behind the walls, the first word that would have popped into my brain was sex. Tantra, according to my limited understanding, was about losing it all by doing it all—or something like that. I was quite fuzzy about the whole subject. Just one more bit of esoterica that someday—"when I had the time"—I would investigate. Now apparently the time had come, and it wasn’t through a book I would expand my knowledge.

"I think you will find Phuktal a very interesting place, No. Many seekers come there, from many places." Then again that mischievous grin flickered across his face. Sometimes these seekers are not only men, sometimes women too, sometimes very beautiful, very desirable…even for an ancient monk such as me."

Women? Desire? What had that to do with renunciation, with holiness, with finding my way? This sounded more like a place for Gul than for me, the new, spiritually enlightened Guy. Even the name seemed most inappropriate, for the way Geser pronounced "Phuktal," registered in my ear as "fuck it all." How quickly those old desires resurfaced. Who was I kidding? How easy to be dry in the desert or wet in the ocean, how easy to put aside lust when there was nothing but sheep and goats—but then, as many shepherd would reveal, even that wasn’t so easy.

Despite my newly acquired ascetic airs, there was too much promise of lascivious pleasures to decline Geser’s invitation. I pressed him further, hoping that he would…flesh…out his intimations. Teasingly he declined.

"Soon you will see for yourself, No. Soon you will know for yourself, not as Geser sees, not as Geser knows, but as only you can. For each one, Phuktal is a different place, a different experience." He paused a long moment, looking intently into my eyes, making sure his connection. "Just as life!"

It was getting on in the day, shadows long, the canyon’s depths already lost to the twilight. Ascending a particularly steep grade, we found ourselves at the edge of a broad plateau. Now Zanskar is a very sparsely populated land, but not because of a lack of potential inhabitants. Remember it lies sandwiched between the two most populous lands on earth, China and India. Despite its vastness, there is little arable land. Wherever there is chance for life, people gather. This plateau was a good example. Days from nowhere, well-tended fields of purple gold barley appeared, a matrix of irrigation channels delineating individual plots. These carried the waters of a distant glacier or snowfield to bring life to what would otherwise be a barren land. Beyond the fields stood clusters of houses, the fruits of the fields.

As we approached through those fields, figures of women popped up from their stoop labor. They were uniformly clad in the sack-like, homespun coss common to the entire Tibetan culture and much of the indigenous Himalayan population. While the coss itself was austere, they wore considerable jewelry: bracelets, necklaces, crowned by the intricate perag, that cobra-hooded headdress heavily laden with turquoise. They were extremely friendly, no doubt because I was with Geser whom they knew well.

"Jule! Jule!" Their greeting was followed by offerings of freshly harvested tsampa, which had a pleasing nut-like quality. One of the women with a particularly elaborate perag came forward. The headdress must have weighed several pounds, for it was covered with rows of large spider-web turquoise from distant mines on the Tibetan Plateau. She was rather disheveled, straight from a day of backbreaking labor in the fields, her face as lined as the turquoise on her perag. From her rough coss, she produced a kata, a prayer scarf of diaphanous white cotton, and placed it with much show of affection around Geser’s neck.

Everyone was in high spirits. It was harvest time, the time of festivity, the time of marriage. As we entered the village, I believe its name was Testa, a delegation of local worthies greeted us. To be precise, I shouldn’t say we, for I had little to do with their appearance. It was Geser whom they honored because he had done them many favors in the past. His sman, a mixture of ancient and modern medicine, had saved their lives, as his pujahs their souls. Even here in this ragged corner of the universe protocol was valued—perhaps even more so for its remoteness. The elders approached with beaming smiles, intoning deferential blessings. In their hands were more of the diaphanous cotton prayer scarves. One by one they piled them around Geser’s shoulders.

They ushered us to what must serve as the town square, a small bare field on the side—this was a very poor hamlet. We were seated with another group of villagers busily sorting dried tsampa. They kept pressing us to eat. Following Geser’s lead, I kept declining. They kept pressing. Finally after the proper show for politeness, Geser accepted a small handful and I—with the fervent prayer that the uncooked grain would not bring on a reoccurrence of my travail in Manali—followed suite. The offer of food, even symbolically, was a high honor in a land where the demand "Kharu!" ("GIVE ME FOOD!") is often the greeting. Even though well-formed sheaves of ripe barley filled the fields, even though before us was a great pile of golden grain, there was hardly enough to get the village, its people and animals, through the long winter. It was a winter that, despite the warmth of the sun, might come within a few weeks and last for six months or more.

A small child sat on the lap of a man. I judged him to be the child’s grandfather, but in that harsh land he could have easily been her father. She had wide, dark eyes, made even more so as they had been carefully outlined in kohl; her pink knitted suite accentuated the rose on her wind-chapped cheeks. Pinned to her miniature jibi was a medallion bearing a picture of the Dali Lama. Never have I seen a greater love for a child than that displayed by the beaming man. Holding her up for my inspection, the man whispered into the child’s ear. The child shyly reached out with one grubby hand. In it she clutched a small amount of grain, "tsampa-don, tsampa-don" said the tiny voice. The company of gruff, well-weathered men broke into chuckles. We had broken that barrier formed by language. Through the act of a small child, a common bond was formed. We could all see ourselves through the eyes of that child, reaching out to give this strange, bearded outlander, the handful of life. Reflexively, I reached for my camera. The shutter snapped, and an image of the child went into the black box. Would I ever see that image reborn? But God! Who cared at that moment? At first I thought I had spoiled everything with my typical tourist response.

Earlier that day, a farmer had cursed me when I snapped him as he milled his tsampa. He didn’t know me. I was just another tourist passerby, like a fly buzzing in and out of his life, giving nothing, not even a "Jule," just standing there with that demon box poking in his face, grabbing his soul.

Here, it was different; here I had a place, through the good offices of Geser. The thought that my black box would immortalize this beautiful child pleased the men. Too soon her beauty would wither into one of those leather faces seen in the fields. Babies and work wrung out physical beauty soon enough. How lucky, they might have thought, that in this moment of budding perfection, I had come along.

How lucky for me to arrive at such a rare moment of harmony, at a time when the crop had been successfully nurtured, but yet to be consumed. Yes, the winter, the time of hardship, was just around the corner. Yet as it was around the corner, it was still out of sight, still out of mind. Life was so good. The sun was warm, but not too warm. There was pleasant company, there was food, and soon chai would arrive. It was moments such as this that made all the hardship of the trail worthwhile. It was a simple moment, simple people doing simple things. It was a moment to be savored.

The following morning we departed along a trail marked by a long row of chortens. These seemed newly built, the gleam of the fresh lime made even more brilliant against a backdrop of black scree slopes. I asked Geser when they had been constructed, thinking the answer might be one or two years.

"Many hundreds of years ago No," was his answer. "Too long for the people to remember just when. They mark the way toward Phuktal."

Incredulous, I asked him how this could be. I knew the dry desert air had a tendency to preserve things, but these looked too fresh, their angles too square to have weathered many Zanskari winters.

"Very true No, very true. Recently the villagers perform acts of dharma; they repaired the chortens giving new life. The cores of the chortens, remain the same, remain very old. They say within lie the hearts of bodhisattvas…those who died making yatra to Phuktal. They died here when a buchal struck. It shook the ground so hard that the mountain gave way, spilling the earth from very high down onto the way. Many years later, in another time of buchal…it happens so often in these mountains…again the mountain fell, but this time it opened the place where the saints were buried. All that was found were some bones and eleven perfectly preserved hearts. The villagers of the time constructed this shrine, placing a heart in each of the eleven chortens."

Past the chortens was a small ramshackled farmhouse, its wall and roof in obvious need of repair. At first I thought it was deserted, but passing through the courtyard, I saw an old man lying on the ground. His head was resting on a rock, facing down valley. On his head was the traditional jibi, around his neck a roughly made necklace of seashells—a reminder of the impermanence of this land. In his hand he clutched a prayer spinner, a brass cylinder inscribed in Tibetan script with the familiar OM MANE PADME HUM, revolving around a stick. When twirled by the wrist, with the help the off-center weight of an attached chain, the cylinder would spin. A prayer for the world would be broadcast with each revolution. A yellowish cur near the man growled at our approach. The man took no notice, continuing his work.

"He’s an old shaman," Geser explained. "Once he was very powerful, but before my time. Then he lost his sight, and the people lost faith in his power to heal. They reasoned if he could not heal himself, how could he heal them. Now he has very little, yet he still feels the call of Dharma. Since there is little else he can do, he sits here most of the time, spinning the prayer wheel, building karma for the world.

I couldn’t help it; I had to take his picture. "Thuuck!" I felt very guilty, almost as if I was picking his pocket. Geser sensed my embarrassment.

That night we made camp at Pune, near the confluence Kargya and the Niri chus. The latter is a large river, leading to Phuktal and a vast system of nalas beyond. To cross the Kargya, we made a long descent similar to those I had seen up-stream at other cross-river villages. After about an hour maneuvering countless switchbacks, we finally arrived at a rickety suspension bridge. This was an important crossing and therefore received more than the usual three strand "V," but only a little more. Here, three strands were stretched in parallel with boards placed across so that those on four, as well as two, legs could pass. I waited until the others crossed before I took my chances, making my standard excuse that I wanted photographs. In reality, I just didn’t believe this feeble structure could take our combined weight. Even when I crossed alone, the bridge swayed with every step. I had visions of a cable or plank breaking, my flailing body hurtling down into the broiling, mocha-frothed chu, terrifyingly evident through the gaping openings between the planks. When I gained the far bank, I caught looks of amusement on the faces of my companions, and even Geser had a twinkle in his eye. My excuse fooled no one. They knew all too well, the reaction of a tenderfoot ferenghi to, what was for them, a most modern convenience.

Several impressive chortens suggested Pune might be a village of substance, but it soon became apparent they were guidepost to Phuktal itself. As we topped a small hill, Pune lay unimpressively at our feet. Instead of the village I had expected, it was little more than one very large farmhouse with a few outlying buildings. To one side was the most recent addition, a camping ground for foreign tour groups. It was from this field that the farmer now made his greatest profit. Pune was a natural halting place for groups en route either to Padam or Darcha. Not only was it flat, a rarity in these parts, but it had the added attraction of the day’s side trip to Phuktal Gomba. When we arrived, the campground was already filled with what seemed like a battalion of tourists, their uniform, bright blue tents set up in disciplined rows. How would it be to travel like that with such order, such regimen? I couldn’t help wonder whether they were sent to bed with a bugle call.

Again I wanted to distance myself. All the difficulties of the trail made me forget I was just another tourist. I had come to believe I was, if not of this land, at least here for a purpose. What did I have in common with these well-ordered sheep, who moved nervously through the land, waiting for that glorious day when they could return home and show their chromes and tapes to envious friends and neighbors?

Geser went off to make his rounds. Out of sight, secreted in the many tributary nalas that joined the Niri, were other houses. Each contained an isolated family with some urgent need for his service. After several days of subordination, Gul now saw his chance to reassert control.

"We get early start tomorrow Dad. Insha’Allah we make Padam in two days…so many photos maybe three. Food short, kafir priest eating too much. I not trust Zanskaris. Now in their home, now they having power. If something go wrong again, maybe I not save." With this last comment he looked intently to see if I was buying his pitch.

Oh, I thought, so that is how it is supposed to be remembered. Gul saved my ass from the Zanskaris. Well, I suppose in a way he did, but it struck me that Gul was leveraging his advantage. He was posing that well-tested choice: the old, trusted friend versus the new and untried. Hadn’t he proved his loyalty on the pass? Was I going to throw that away for the promise of some new acquaintance, for Geser? It would be impossible for Gul to understand Geser’s importance to me. While in Delhi, I had rejected the need for a guide. Now finally, here was a man to whom I could unhesitatingly entrust my direction.

"Look Gul, I’m not so sure I want to take off for Padam tomorrow." For some unknown reason, even though I had already decided, I was unwilling to confess the finality of my plan. "I’ve been thinking of going to this Phuktal place. It’s only a couple of hours walk, a day there and back. Geser says that…"

But Gul didn’t know quite the whole story. It had been Nazir, not the Ladakhis, who had set up the Sirdar. Then a thought hit me. Kashmir was small, and even smaller was the caste of Water People, but those events took place over a dozen years. Gul was too young. In the all those years, why was this event so well remembered? Why, unless Gul was connected to those for whom it had personal importance? Someone who knew my history intimately must have briefed him. What was that "uncle’s" last name? Back in Delhi, there had been something vaguely familiar about Noor’s family and the houseboats he described in such glowing terms. Now that I thought on it, Nazir had a brother named Aziz, a bother who owned several houseboats on Nageen. It all came together. That same goddamned hand still clutched me. The Khonnu family of which Nazir was patriarch still had me at their tender mercy. Does he know I am coming? Is he sitting on his great, oily ass, in his overstuffed houseboat, waiting for me as the spider waits for the fly? Was this Gul just his shepherd boy guiding me, the sheep, to the slaughter?

Nazir was extremely devious. He had demonstrated his power when he orchestrated the Sirdar’s bust. He felt honor-bound to show the upstart who was boss. How dare he do business with Nazir’s customer? Oh, Nazir was too clever to nail the poor bastard in Srinagar, or over charas. That would have been hitting too close to home. Instead he chose Ladakh. Somehow, he discovered that the Sirdar was helping two of my clients, the two little queens from NYC, to score antiques.

After the trek, while I was off getting my balls busted on Nun, the couple had secretly contracted the Sirdar to go back to Ladakh. With me they had just been scouting, now it was time to conduct their real business. They knew only too well the prices the ancient statues and tangkhas would command back in their Christopher Street curio shop—I wasn’t the only one with a hidden agenda. The big problem for them was that the Government had recently gotten wise to the value of all those goodies lying unguarded in the gombas. Priceless treasures were piled knee-deep, tangkhas, statues, reliquaries—out there in the open, gathering dust. Ladakh had been recently opened to foreigners, and it was only outsiders who could see profit in what the locals saw as Dharma, the labor of artists and artisans in devotion to God. To halt the illicit exportation out of Ladakh, the Indian Government instituted a policy of stamping the most valuable objects.

Somehow Nazir got word to the police. They were waiting when the trio, the Sirdar included, went to catch a flight to Delhi from the Leh airport.

"Excuse me Sahibs, anything to declare, maybe old things?" The question came from the Sikh custom-wala with a studied air of innocence. "No? Please be forgiving, but my duty to see what Sahibs have in bag. Oh, tangkhas! Oh, only souvenirs, gifts? So many souvenirs! Sahibs must have many friends? May I look Sahibs? In such things having much interest. Since posting to Ladakh, my own collection making, but very small, very poor. It helps passing time while far away from my loving family. Hmm! My poor collection has nothing of these qualities. Pukkah, first class painting! But this not so new. Work today making for tourist not so fine."

Then with a sly smile, the officer turns the tangkha over. He already knows what he will find.

"But what is this? Sahibs, this very serious; this property of gomba. It cannot be sold. It must be stolen. You must come with me."

Of course, already primed, it wasn’t on the tourist that the blame fell. How were they to know?

In the small, ramshackled office of the Chief Customs Inspector, a higher authority put the question. "How did you come by these valuable antiques Sahibs?" You bought them from this Kashmiri?" Spittle formed in the corners of this honcho’s mouth, as if even the term "Kashmiri" was distasteful.

As preordained, the blame fell on the Sirdar. While the couple was put on the flight, chastened but otherwise intact, the Sirdar, after the requisite preliminary beating, was whisked off to jail. It was a long, cold Ladakhi winter for the Sirdar behind Leh’s prison walls. Far from family and friends, he barely survived. It took them more than six months to scrape together the cash to bail him out. What a mess! He wrote to me, asking for help, but, by that time, I was in the belly of an even more voracious beast.

At Pune, I began to get an inkling of what lay ahead. I sensed, perhaps wishfully, that Geser was sent as a guide. It is not that imagine Shiva, or some such deity, sitting up on his or her mountaintop, orchestrating my way. But through a scheme, far beyond my ability to comprehend, things were logically falling into place. Within this scheme I saw my deliverance in Geser, and my damnation in Gul.

Gul did have some strange power over me. Despite my inherent dislike, I wanted to like him, and felt guilty for not liking him. As the land I so loved was his land, I should love him as well. But it was hard for me to love a Kashmiri. That would have been an unnatural love, like a fish loving the fisherman.

"Look Gul, I know I promised we would go the distance…to Padam. But this is an opportunity I don’t want to blow."

"Opprotunaty, Dad?"

"I mean a chance to get some good photographs." I wasn’t about to explain my real agenda, doubting he would understand. I wouldn’t have at his age. "So far I’ve been just shooting landscapes, not enough people or people things. I need something that says Zanskar, something special, otherwise these pictures could be from anywhere." Why did I bother, I belatedly asked myself. Did I imagine Gul could in any way grasp what I was on about—it was hard enough for me, the author of that Mad Ave glibbery.

"Maybe we go to Phuktal, just for day, Dad. I wait outside. Lamas not like…not like Muslims, not like Kashmiris. They have bad hearts, think all others bad. Better you go quick, just take pictures and leave before big trouble."

"I don’t think so Gul. I have a better plan. You and Ravi go ahead and wait in Padam. Take Ravi’s pony with the food and kitchen gear. Geser says we can eat at the gomba, so I’ll not need. I’ll take the Zanskaris with me. They’ll have no trouble with the lamas. Insha’Allah, I’ll meet you in Padam as soon as I finish at Phuktal."

"What about shit, Dad? What should we do about stuff? You carry or me?"

Was I hearing correctly? Was Gul just going to roll over and give it up without a struggle? My only thought was he must have some plan. I was beginning to let paranoia take over, wondering whether I wasn’t just fitting into his master plan. Without giving me time to answer his own question, Gul continued. "I think I better take shit Dad. Maybe sheytan lamas look in saman, maybe when you go picture taking. They look for things of value, instead they find shit. They tell police you carry charas. They take reward."

Reward? I thought silently to myself. Then without thinking I pressed him, "What reward’s that, Gul?" For some reason, which I couldn’t figure out at the time, a quiver crossed Gul’s face.

He stammered out, "Oh, oh, I…I…not know Dad…not for sure…but…but many times…." Then, after several moments of struggle, Gul seemed to grasp the thread of what he would tell me. "Everyone knowing in Srinagar, Dad. Lamas, in Zanskar, in Ladakh, not like charas. When finding tourist with shit, it very bad. Lamas not want shit in Ladakh. Before, too much charas here! Very big business! Number one business in Leh during Angrezi time! Much come from Chini side through Leh. Some grow there also. Lamas come together to stop the business. They afraid it make people dream, forget their foolish, lying teaching about Bud Sheytan. They want thoughts of lama always in people’s mind, not people having own thoughts, free—like you and me. Eh? You know when smoke, how it is?"

This surprised me. It was the first time I had heard Gul voice concerns beyond his wallet, stomach, or balls. He spoke with such conviction that he almost carried the moment. Was I being foolish? After all, these lamas weren’t some mystical force, the guardians of some higher truth, any more than the mullah of Gul’s village or the parish priest of my own native town. The lamas were just men, and men who survived manipulating, for good or evil, the heads of those who supported them—like clerics throughout the world.

But then I rejected the cynicism that, heretofore, I would have quickly grasped. I was expecting the lamas to show me the way along a new, uncharted path. It was through them I hoped to dump those last remaining bits of accumulated saman, and try something, which in my wildest fantasies, until meeting Geser, I had not considered.

So now it is out in the open, I thought. This is Gul’s real bottom line. Just as long as he controls the charas, he has little concern for me. In a way I was right, but only to a point. It was only the dope that held his interest. With me out of the way, he could sell it again. This time of year, there were all sorts of desperadoes flocking to Delhi. They would pay a lot more than I had for the load. But that Gul had no intention of parting me from my wares, would soon become apparent. On the contrary, he would be its faithful guardian. Gul thought he had my number, having learned not to fight my wishes openly, but rather to let me feel I was doing things my way. All he had to do was take charge of the dope, and I would be back.

"This Angrez will follow me to Jhana, if I hold his dope. I know a real charasi when I see one."

Despite my misgivings, or perhaps because of them, I agreed to let Gul take the charas. It was, after all, a huge part of my saman, if not physically, certainly mentally. I had thought so much about lightening the load, about committing myself to this new life, or at least ending the old. With the dope gone, there was absolutely no way for me to return. I had seen what happened to freaks with nothing, ferenghis without the means to get a toehold on the struggle that is life below. I determined not to reduce myself to panhandling in some urban jungle, whether on Janpath or Union Square. That would be my just reward if I chose to cling to life. Now it was in my grasp. All I had to do was say, "Ji, i’nok, yes."

That night we had a "farewell" dinner. Geser was still away, and Gul prepared a modest feast.

"Maybe you not eat so good for much time Dad. Lamas not know how to cook, food poor, food dirty. I make proper food. Kashmiri way best."

From the farm he bought a chicken, slaughtering it himself in the halal manner. In a gentle, almost seductive killing, he stroked the victim until it calmed and then, with the victim’s fear gone, slit its throat. Before the bird could know what had happened, it was no more, lifeblood draining into a pan. I fought the temptation to see my own throat in the place of the chicken, to imagine Gul’s soothing stroke followed by nothingness. Was he just taunting me? Then I realized it must be the joint we had smoked a little earlier, the first one in several days. With it all those fears returned.

The next morning we got an early start. Gul seemed in good spirits. With my morning chai—how I now regretted the loss of my kofi—he brought a ball of charas, maybe a tola. With a conspiratorial wink, he slipped it to me. "Here Dad, for your journey. Remember what I say about lamas. Don’t smoke, eat! Then no one know."

With our reduced load, packing went quickly. Most of the things were to go with Gul. I vacillated over the tent, but in the end let him take it. What use would I have for a tent at the gomba? For at that moment I believed the gomba would be the end of my journey. The ponies were loaded. Pal, Yosh, Geser, the yearling, and I stood on the low, chorten-lined ridge. Looking down on the bridge, we watched as Gul, Ravi, and the Black made their way across and began the long climb to regain the main trail. Each one of us said good-bye in our own way. In a land of such few living beings, good-byes are always bittersweet, even if it was to one for whom you didn’t particularly care. We watched until we could no longer hear the dull thunk of the Black’s bell. As we turned eastward, Gul’s party had been reduced to tiny multi-legged insect climbing the nala’s wall.

Heading up the Niri, we entered canyon lands reminiscent of southern Utah. While before we had been high above the chu, able to take in the vast scale of the land, now we were down beside the river, walled in by cliffs of ochre, magenta, crimson. The Niri was a much larger river system that the Kargya. Following its course to the source a traveler would arrive on the northwestern side of the Baralacha–la, close by to the Leh road. If I wanted, I could just disappear up the nala, get on that road and be in Delhi in a matter of days, or at least it looked that way on the map. Then the joke would be on Gul. Of course, he had a little insurance in that thousand-dollar ball of charas.

The trail was dusty, and as the day progressed it grew quite warm. Occasionally at strategic places we came across a chorten or mani-don. At each of these reliquaries, Geser and the boys halted to perform some dharma-driven landscaping chore: replacing a missing stone, or picking up trash left by tourists less devout to either the cultural or ecological sanctity of the nala. I considered myself lucky, because on that day no large party headed off in the same direction. The farmer told me there was still one small group left at the gomba, but that they would be back, "Maybe, tomorrow." As it was late in the season, without further bookings, he believed no other groups would follow. Only a small group? I wondered. But from the size of the camp, with all those blue tents, how small was small? Anyway, they would soon be leaving; perhaps even now they were winding their way down the trail. Yes, if luck was with me, I would see them for a few painful moments as we passed on the narrow trail. "Good morning!" That would be sufficient, pleasant but curt. I wouldn’t want them to think me just another tourist. Yes, they would wonder who is this strange American, who comes to this place without other tourist companions, who travels with a lama and two local boys. Oh, they would think I was an odd bird all right. I enjoyed the idea that I would linger in their minds—an enigma. After about two hours on the deserted track, rounding a corner, I came upon the first of the group.

It is bizarre how their presence lingered in my mind. It was that Spindrift thing again, the thought of others invading my feeling of oneness. Humans were noise clouding the channel of direct communication, their presence returning me to the bounded human I was, rather than the unbounded universe I wished to be. Perhaps they too felt the same. Weren’t they strung out either singly or in pairs? Even though they had come in a group, it was the nature of the land to cause one to seek solitude. The land demanded your attention. It wasn’t to be relegated to a mere backdrop for human discourse, but for direct, uninterrupted communion, each one with nature.

There were muffled acknowledgments, and then we each went our own ways, retreating back into our separate communions. Somewhat self-consciously, we might even use the Hindi greeting, "Namaste." Yet, as ferenghis, we wouldn’t truly see that "Godhead." How strange that we all sought the Godhead, listened for that same Anhad-Naad, yet we were so jealous of one another. Unlike the Gods of this land, we couldn’t grasp our connection in that One. It was our curse to see diversity where there was only One. But then at the time, I too couldn’t see. The doorway to this understanding lay ahead—the fullest of that understanding even further beyond this now.

It seemed we descended deeper into the heart of the Earth, the arterial crimson coloring our passage only reinforced this illusion. We were climbing, however, going up what was a rather steep nala to judge by the flow of its chu. It was just that those crimson walls were also growing higher. At times they threatened to close, blocking forever that reassuring ribbon of cobalt above. As long as I could see the sky, I still grasped some reality. I fought suffocation, of being enfolded within the womb of Mother Earth. As a man-child, I had spent my entire life escaping the womb. Birth was only the initial spasm of the struggle for independence. Yet while part of me struggled to be free, another part struggled to return—that vaginal fascination? But that was also only one aspect. Ultimately, it was the mystery of what was beyond, deep within lay the inexplicable riddle of life to which that orifice was only the opening. So much of my thought, my energies, had been directed to that mysterious cleft.

I panicked. I saw my companions traveling, as if nothing was happening, as if making an everyday journey. I was going mad with these esoteric thoughts. In my desperation to move beyond, I had loaded so much meaning onto this excursion that I felt certain hesitancy, if not foreboding, to proceed.

For the novice tourist there would be no such hesitancy. With a suddenness that belies its possibility, the nala opens into a wide arena, again revealing snow-capped peaks long hidden. Oh how excited the tourists must be! Finally, they have a chance to see a real gomba, the first of any importance on the journey north. With images of Shangri-La echoing in their brains, the neophytes look expectantly upward. Will the sight equal those brazen brochure promises? They aren’t disappointed: "A towering, fantastical structure that seems to spill from the mouth of a great cave, Phuktal monastery is many centuries old." Perhaps the tract went on to tell that this mystic complex houses a large group of lamas; that they belong to the Gelug-pa order, one of the four major sects of the Vajraynana, or "Diamond Vehicle"—along with the Sakya-pa, Kargyu-pa, and the most ancient Nyingma-pa. Not wishing to bore readers with too much information, the blurb probably didn’t mention that Gelug-pa means "Followers of the Virtuous." Only the more scholarly tourist would be aware that this order has a special relationship with the Tara, considering itself to be the principal guardian and teacher of her traditions, believed to be the embodiment of the Buddha.

The tract will, however, surely mention: "In a small red building within the mouth of the cave, your climb will be rewarded by the sight of ancient frescoes, statues, and reliquary. The door is usually locked, but for a small donation a lama will willingly open it for viewing—but no flash photography please." Since my last visit to a gomba, the lamas had become sophisticated to the dangers of modern tourism. Then, I had been able to roam at will, setting up powerful strobes and flashing away. Maybe that was what had led to my troubles? I wouldn’t have been the first ferenghi who tried to unlock the secrets of the "Diamond Vehicle," only to meet with disaster. Of this the brochure will definitely not speak. After all, the physical dangers of the trip already weigh heavily upon the perspective customer without introducing any metaphysical risks. The brochure might give one admonishment, the sacred spring flowing within the cave must not be approached by women—how quaint those lamas in their naive superstitions.

The brochure wasn’t overblown. Just as I thought I was entering the very mouth of Hell, those tightly enfolding, red-walled lips opened into a lush valley. Maybe lush wasn’t the exact term, but after all the crimson rock, a patch of grass, or a few trees, seemed paradise. For a moment, the sudden enormity of the natural vista engulfed me. Then slowly a row of chortens stretching up a steep path came into focus. The sky clouded, and the chortens took on an eerie, pale ivory glow, as if the light came from within, beckoning me on.

My eye followed the direction of the chortens; they met with the gomba. There it was, just as I had imagined, only more—the great, gaping black mouth of the cave, the towering, lime-washed buildings tumbled out like teeth of some fantastic monster. It was no puzzle as to why this monastic retreat had been established here almost a thousand years ago. The cave with its spring was an ideal place to escape the cares of a secular world. Founded in a tumultuous era, the difficult approach provided security against any invader—Arab, Turk, and Mongol. Across from the cave is a tributary nala where, with diligence, the monks fashioned terraced fields from the rocky hillside. An intricate system of irrigation made the fields flourish. From the strength of the stream that fed this system, I could only imagine that some great glacier lay around the bend.

Geser explained that an itinerant lama had stumbled into this valley and sheltered for the night in the cave. There he heard Tara’s call, "Remain here and worship me for in this place I dwell." Half a millennium later, the rustic cave was organized by the emerging reformist Gelug-pa order, an order with secular as well as spiritual ambitions, into an official gomba.

It was a long climb up to the gates of the gomba, but filled with so much expectation, I felt as if I was flying. At the gate I received a mild shock. Pinned to the wall were carcasses, heads, hooves, tails, and horns of many animals, a wolf-like dog, a large feline carcass that might have been a snow leopard. I didn’t wish to examine them too closely, for despite an attempt at preservation, the corpses gave off the unmistakable stench of decay. Directly above the gate was an intricate web of string, framing a brooding ibex skull. I looked at Geser with questioning eyes.

"The animals scare away the armies of Mara. The string emblem snares any that might try to enter. You think this primitive, eh No? But after a winter here, you too will believe such spirits."

We talked of Mara as an abstraction, a symbol, but I had yet to tell him of my experience, or that a real, material Mara loomed large in my mind.

"When the cold wind howls from the mountains, it’s the signal that Mara marches. The walls of your heart need to be as thick as the walls of these towers. It’s no wonder the lamas will try anything, even the old ways. What’s the harm?"

This was puzzling because I had come to believe Mara wasn’t wholly malign. Didn’t Geser see the same duality, the same capacity for a reflective good and evil. Why would the way be barred? Why not embrace Mara? Sudden pride surged through me. Perhaps I was privy to an understanding beyond even these holy men. Tentatively, yet with the sly conceit of one sure of some great truth, I mentioned this to Geser.

"Remember No, our tradition is collective, going back many thousands of years. As such it incorporates, what some might call, ‘superstitions’ from the past. Much of what we outwardly signify is an expression of this tradition, its most deep hopes and fears. However, that’s only the outward expression, a simple, clear light for a humankind too absorbed in life’s struggle. Life is very hard in this land No. It requires a division of duties. Most must go about the business of making food, building shelter, and raising future generations. It is only for those few with the fortune…ah sometimes I think it a curse…to go deeper into the mysteries; who can learn the light is not so simple, that it’s made of many energies…many frequencies, many particles as your physicist would say. It is only for those blessed few who’ve been given the power to master this confusion that the light returns to one clear, all illuminating radiance. This is what we all seek, the Diamond Truth."

The gate was wide open. Apparently Mara and the army of goulish spirits weren’t expected that day. Again we climbed; the walls of individual towers formed a maze only those who knew the way could penetrate. This was Geser’s "home" gomba, for though he practiced with some independence in Kargya, it was to the Shushok of Phuktal he must periodically report.

Hoping to impress Geser with the little I knew about Phuktal, I ventured, "I’ve read that this gomba belongs to the Gelug-pa."

"Ji, No. This is as it should be since the Gelug-pa is the official order of Tibet." Then with unaccustomed gravity he added, "it is the order of the Dalai Lama."

"Oh then you too must be Gelug-pa Geserji?"

Geser looked rather noncommittally, then almost with a sigh, "I suppose that is true, No, but the color of the hat is of little importance. It’s the mind inside the hat that must find the way. Because I was trained Gelug-pa my hat is yellow. The color of my brain, however, is still the same as my brothers whose hats are red or, for that matter, the black of those who follow the more ancient ways." Geser had been out there, alone and independent in his remote posting. He had gone his own way.

"All these things are our feeble attempt to comprehend what’s most likely incomprehensible. What does it matter how we see, as long as we have faith that we are seeing, feeling, living the same thing. You see the color of this building. You Angrez have one name for it; you call it ‘white.’ One who speaks Hindi would call it ‘safed,’ when speaking in my language, I call it ‘kharpo.’ Three different words from three different traditions, yet we who use those words see the same thing. If I point to the wall and say ‘kharpo’ you may not understand at first. I might mean ‘wall’; I might mean ‘building’; how can you tell? Yet if I keep pointing to many things, all of which have the same kharpo color, you will eventually come to know its meaning. This is because you believe in your heart that we see the same thing. Is this not the way of religion? If we believe in our heart it’s all the same, then it’s only a matter of time…a matter of patience…until we can get past the difference in words and understand that we feel the same. This does…I must admit…take much more time than a simple color. But then No, in this place is much time to think on these things."

As we progressed, we began to pick up a string of young chouts, shaven heads under the tall Gelug-pa yellow caps, their gaunt frames covered by threadbare, crimson robes. They greeted Geser as one would a beloved elder brother. The older boys met him with an embrace, walking with him hand-in-hand for a few paces before giving up their place to another. The smaller boys would just grab on to his robe. Pal and Yosh were also getting their share of attention. Zanskar, though vast in land, is close-knit in population, and at least several of the boys were relatives or neighbors. There was a steady stream of chatter as boys asked about the outside world, of family and friends.

Most came here at the age of eight and were taught to read and write the Tibetan texts and, a select few, the intricate rites of Tantra. This teaching requires strict adherence to a guru; its powers too awesome acquire casually. No amount of reading or other second-hand techniques will suffice. The adept must bestow directly the power to a successor. Any attempt to short-cut this laborious regimen is destined to end in disaster. These were a group of boys like any in the world, some boisterous and aggressive, some shyly demure as young girls. If they hadn’t been dressed in their robes, there would have been no way of telling them apart from a gang of village rascals.

One particularly bold fellow, he couldn’t have been more than fourteen, latched on to my hand and with great pride half-asked, half-demanded: "You take picture, Babbuji. I very beautiful boy. You take picture." He wasn’t too far off the mark, for he was quite handsome, almost feminine in his beauty, the deep red of his robe bringing out the pink blush on his cheeks. Unlike the other boys, his large camel-lashed eyes were gray rather than black, his nose drawn fine while theirs were flat and broad—this was a border land with many races and mixtures. He emitted a cascade of giggles whose timbre sounded more feminine than masculine.

For a moment, like a jolt of electricity through my body, I felt stirrings of desire. Although the feeling was well known, I was confused. Where could it come from? This was the feeling I had with Tara, with Mei, and not a few other women before. Now there was only this…boy.

My mind drifted back to those laalies of Chitral…then even further back…to one or two of those beautiful underclassmen with whom I had once been so enamored. God! Was it coming back to this? After all the years of pursuing women, was I going to spend my last emotional energies on this boy? There had been the excuse of sexual awakening in those first stirrings. At least that was how I had always rationalized…excused it. But what if that was what I had wanted all the time? What if this was what I really sought, but substituted women in response to social dictates? Besides, what is the difference now? That lamp was surely empty. Hadn’t I committed? Hadn’t I played it out in my mind, to become sannyasin, to renounce the pleasure of this life? Somehow, I thought by accepting Geser’s invitation I was now on some magic carpet ride to nirvana. What was this sudden glitch in my plans? Why this stirring when I no longer wished any?

Geser broke the spell. He launched into, what was for him, an angry tirade. Tears welled in the eyes of the boy, and he fled into a nearby doorway, buffeted by the echoing chortles of his comrades. Just as he was about to disappear in the darkness, he turned and looked at me. Hurt filled those large gray eyes. It was as if all the hurt I had ever given had collected there. I thought I heard his voice cry out.

"This is your chance, your last chance to comfort me."

It was a different voice, not the Pidgin English squeak I had heard moments before, but a voice that seemed to incorporate all the voices within me—those near to my heart and those long forgotten.

"That Atisa is always trouble, so strange, so strange." For a moment a wistful look clouded Geser’s face. Then he snapped back, his eyes sparkling with amusement, and he began to tell me something of this boy.

"A year ago a tourist lady fell in love with him, like a son, that kind of love, or at least so she led us to believe. She was alone in life and had no son…very sad. She wanted to adopt Atisa, thinking she could give him so much more than he already had…Western learning and all the material comforts that people of your lands possess. She was a very rich and used to having her way. She couldn’t imagine why the Shushok would refuse the chance for this boy to get "educated." Of course that was the last thing the Shushok would want, but he is a very good man, a very fair man. He told the woman, if she really wanted the boy, she should stay here a while and learn about the boy’s culture, also really get to know him…I mean…past those rosy cheeks and clear, long-lashed eyes."

Here Geser’s voice took on a trace of huskiness, as if the youth’s beauty had bewitched him too. He collected himself and continued, his voice now back into its familiar tone.

"For an entire summer the woman remained. It caused quite a stir among the younger monks, for she was not yet old and young men are…no matter how spiritual. It was all quite upsetting. She began to teach Atisa some English.

"The Shushok ignored the unrest, thinking that with so many tourist, it might be useful for Atisa to learn the foreigners’ language. The woman, trying to gain Atisa’s favor, kept telling him how beautiful he was. It was she who taught him those very words he spoke to you. She thought it would be amusing to surprise arriving tourist. This happened almost a year ago, and it was very unpleasant. Atisa wasn’t the only one receiving the woman’s attentions. She had an affair with two brothers from Zangla…at the same time. It seems she read about our old tradition of a woman taking brothers as husbands. The idea sparked her imagination, and she could not let it go. Anyway, it’s an old tradition. Only people in the remote villages follow it today…and then only when there is need."

He laughed with this last thought.

"It sometimes takes more than one man to keep a woman happy, eh No?"

Unfortunately, I knew only too well that this was true. But I thought better of interrupting. I wanted to hear the entire tale.

"The brothers didn’t even know about the situation at first. What they were doing was strictly against their vows, being with the woman that is. So each went about it in a very secret manner. Then one brother caught the other deep within the woman. He went crazy and almost killed his brother. It was a very big problem for the Shushok. He was very unhappy because he knew it was his fault. He had placed the temptation there and for a wrong purpose. If he had not wanted Atisa to learn English, in order to extract more profit from the foreigners, then the souls of the brothers would have never been at risk. Of course the first thing he did was send the woman away, then he banished the brothers to tiny hamlets at opposite ends of Zanskar. But he too felt much guilt and went away for many months to do penance. Now all is well, the brothers have reconciled, both to one another and to their vows. Even the Shushok is back to himself. Only Atisa is left to remind us of temptation’s visit. You see No, there are evil spirits at large in this world; we picture them as armies doing the work of Mara, the Dark Lord. It is only through the intercession of Lady Tara, who carries the torch of the Diamond Truth, that we can be protected. Sometimes the guardians placed at the gate are not so watchful…sometimes Mara’s agents slip through the most elaborate defenses. I fear for Atisa because, I think, some of the evil has entered his heart. We have to be diligent with him, both for himself and others. He has the mark of Kama. It was his beauty that snared the woman, and it was the woman who almost tore the gomba apart. That beauty lies still with him. Perhaps it will vanish as he grows to be a man, but for the time being, we must watch him, watch him closely."

I had only been in the place a few minutes, and already embroiled in the battle of good versus evil. How simple it is to be alone. Then it isn’t about good or evil, it only is. But when others come, then the One dissolves, clear light fragments into a spectrum of competing desires.

As I made the climb to the cave opening, I carried a new burden. In my mind was an image of Atisa, infinitely more attractive than the reality I had met on the stairs. It insinuated itself inside of me, grasping the part of mind that is curiosity. I had this terrible need to feel the press of his cool, delicately wrought hand, to stare once again into an imagined exquisiteness of kohl-drawn, purple and gold flecked gray eyes. I told myself it wasn’t a sexual attraction…at least overtly so. Yes, it was his sheer physical beauty, a beauty making gender or age irrelevant. That is what captivated me. Just to have that beauty in my presence, just to gaze on it was enough. For such a seemingly endless time I had been in male company. I hungered for the softness and beauty found only in the female—or the very young. Now for a brief moment, I felt it in my hand, a reconnection to part of life grown remote, so much the stuff of dreams. Yet, instinctively, I knew I was in deep shit.

What in the hell was happening? Where was my head that, in such a fleeting moment, this young punk could touch me so? Atisa was just the distraction I didn’t need. Was this a desperate attempt by my mind to maintain its individuality? Somewhere in that gomba was the door to the One. In stepping through it I would find liberation from Guy. Was it Guy who now fought with such desperation? If he could find an object, a being to justify his existence, then he could live on. That was what love had been for him…for me…a justification for being. This attraction for Atisa, then this feeling he needed me, that was enough to keep Guy going. The thing I desired least of all.

The strenuous climb left me gasping, giving momentary respite from thoughts of Atisa. As we climbed higher, the sound of chanting, drum, cymbal, and shanai, grew louder. The lamas were at their pujah in the du-khang, explaining why I had seen no one but the chouts. We waited in the courtyard below until the pujah ended. Word of Geser’s arrival quickly reached the Shushok. With a fanfare of long brass and copper horns, followed by the blowing of a conch by a tiny chout, the Shushok appeared on the porch. We were summoned forward. It was only because of my connection to Geser that I was included, for meeting this luminary was an honor not every ferenghi received.

I must say my first impression was slightly disappointing. I had been expecting some awesome, spiritually radiating divine. Instead, before me was an old man, short in stature and almost as wide in girth. Like all the lamas, his head was shaven, and he wore thick spectacles. At first, I thought him to be the quintessential jolly friar. But then looking closer, there was something, just a hint in his eyes, that suggested great wisdom—together with the power such wisdom conferred. This was a man quite literally born to his position. He had learned from an early age, if not an earlier life, how to wear this heavy mantle, and he wore it effortlessly.

There was ceremony in the exchange of greetings between the Shushok and Geser; they were master and subordinate, and others were watching. Apparently Geser had been a particularly favored chout, for despite the outward show of formality, there was an undercurrent of deep affection in their greeting. Geser pulled out from his coss a diaphanous white kata and, with great show of humility, hung it about the Shushok’s neck. It was one of the scarves Geser had received in Testa. Using my own logic, I would have thought this rather humorous—the cheapskate recycling gifts. But from Geser’s perspective, his act was most natural. The kata holds a blessing to be shared. The material itself is of no value. It is the spirit that is symbolized. That spirit can’t be owned, only passed on.

After the required courtesies, the Shushok looked over at me with shy curiosity. He spoke in Ladakhi, his lips smiling, but his eyes boring into mine. Geser translated the meaning of those smiling lips, "The Venerable Shushok welcomes you to Phuktal. His Holiness is most sorry; while he speaks many languages, English is not one of them…although he understands a little. The Venerable Shushok always regretted not having the opportunity to learn more." There was a moment of embarrassed silence, as if Geser realized he might have reopened last year’s wound. Recovering, he continued. "The Venerable Shushok hopes you will enjoy the hospitality of the gomba and that you may find something useful for your journey."

While the Shushok’s words seemed pleasant enough, his eyes were less welcoming. It was as if they were trying to reach inside me.

"Who is this stranger? Why has he come to this place? Is he yet another of Mara’s legion, like that ferenghi woman last year? Yes, the guise of the chela is a good one. We open our hearts, begin to give them our knowledge, and then they strike."

We were strangers, meeting in the middle of separate journeys, trying to decide whether we should let the other enter into our hearts. The Shushok was a leader and, if you believed the party line, one for many lifetimes. The events of the previous year had undercut his confidence. He had fallen short. True, it was for the good of the gomba, but a false good only to increase material well being. The price paid was a spiritual one. He couldn’t afford another mistake.

All of this transpired in less time than one can think. It was sort of our own little confab, held on a channel privy from everyone else—a momentary flash of understanding. Then, as if there had been nothing but unadulterated warmth, he grabbed my hand and, with awkward enthusiasm, shook it up and down—unaccustomed, yet eager, to perform this curious Angrez greeting. The meeting was quickly over, and some lower ranking lamas escorted me to a room where I could eat and rest. Geser and the Shushok had much to discuss.

I had a fitful night. I was again quite high—in altitude. We had climbed the nala at quite a steep pitch, and we must have been over twelve thousand feet. That I wasn’t alone, but in the company of numerous minute bed mates, didn’t help matters either. I suspected the lodging would have fleas, but to have refused the gomba’s hospitality was the equivalent of spitting in the Shushok’s face. In the middle of the night, after many failed attempts to con myself into sleep, I rummaged around in my kit looking for a chocolate bar, a biscuit, anything sweet that might settle my nerves. Instead the first thing my fingers came upon was the charas ball. Earlier, in the rush of newfound spirituality, I had made a silent vow that I wasn’t going to indulge. I guess, if I had been really serious, I would have chucked it. But a charasi is a charasi, or as they say in Kabul, "charasi combene marsi." Not one for half measures, I took a rather large bite, perhaps too large, for soon I was off into a world that was most inappropriate for a sannyasin—either real or wannabe.

The room they assigned was the official "hotel" for the gomba, a place they stashed unexpected visitors who weren’t part of the religious order. The lamas had gone out of their way to make it bright, covering the walls with a riot of multicolored flower prints that made me think of a seraglio rather than a monk’s cell. The bed was equally sumptuous, filled with feathers of some unknown origin and age, but lending itself to the general aura of overstuffed indulgence. Perhaps, this was their subtle way of pointing out the difference between worldly visitors and their own austere selves. I stared out the window and saw what was now an almost full moon, casting its silvery glow on the ridge to the east. The gomba was fast asleep. Except for the lamas who, to the beat of the pujah drum, sent out their prayers into the night. The mantras echoed briefly then were lost to those eternal Himalayan sounds—wind and water, punctuated by the staccato snap of the prayer flags festooned beneath my window. Now and then came the unexpected…the howl of a wolf, the cry of the leopard…the snow leopard? Possibly, but when the hour is late, the mind seeks exotica. More likely it was the bark of dogs and the wail of the gomba cats, fighting over the carcass of some rodent victim. I stared at the moon for some time, time enough for the charas to enter my blood, to feel it grab hold of my nervous system, twisting sensory organs, as one would turn the wireless dial. I felt my heart growing large. My mind lost touch with what, only moments before, had seemed so real.

Having traveled to the moon and back to lands it so delicately painted, I now was completely disoriented. I imagined I had returned but with no clear idea to what I was returning. There was a knock on the door, or was it on my skull, or my soul, at the time it didn’t matter. I saw a figure enter. It was still in the shadow, I couldn’t make out who or what it was.

"Who is it?" I asked, my voice rising with some instinctive fear. "Is that you Geser…Pal…Yosh?"

At that hour, they were the only ones I could think would disturb me. Without a word the figure slipped down beside me on the bed. The moon cast light directly across the area the figure now occupied. I saw the face of Atisa, but it was an Atisa unseen before. While the features were familiar, where there had been reddish stubble was now covered by long curling locks. Skin that had been marred by the rough and tumble life of a young chout was now alabaster, almost translucent in the moon glow. Lips were painted in the shape of a budding rose, the darkness of the red almost black against the pure white. Camel-lashed eyes were accentuated with kohl. What had been childish pretty was now ravishing beauty. Had I never been able to do more than look into that face for eternity, I would have been a happy man. There was no need to do more, for such was the satisfaction this Atisa’s beauty gave. But what was behind that face had deeper plans. It wasn’t content to captivate my gaze; it wanted more. From Atisa’s demeanor, if it was Atisa, I could tell it wasn’t a photograph or English lesson.

"I know Babbuji, I know what is in your heart of hearts. You think you can find happiness in some place not of this Earth, in the Shambhala that these foul old monks prattle about. You think you can follow the Shushok to Shambhala, but how can that be Babbuji? If Shambhala lies within, how can you follow the Shushok to its gates? Even the Shushok, whose powers are great, cannot enter you, and you cannot enter the Shushok. Well…I suppose you could…even if that old fart can’t get it up any more."

Here this Atisa-like creature gave out a wild cackle, as if some other malevolent voice had slipped through.

"You ought to see the way he looks at me," the voice was hissing almost catlike, "If he could, he would." Recovering, Atisa continued in that soothing, childlike voice. "You can find Shambhala, Babbuji, you know you can find it in that same place you found it before. It was only for a moment, an instant perhaps," another howling cackle "but that was only because of them, not you. You were ready, but they were not. I am here now Babbuji, the road has been long, but you have finally arrived where you belong, you are before the gates of that which you have always sought. I am the gate. Enter! ENTER ME!"

My head was spinning, the room was changing, it was as if I was within a three dimensional—no four dimensional was more accurate—kaleidoscope, where a panoply of boudoirs, backseats, bordellos, cribs, cages, through every place of sexual encounter I had ever known, or imagined, confronted me. As those environs changed, so too did the form beside me. Before my eyes flashed faces long forgotten, faces that had for moments brief or long meant so much, only to be so quickly replaced by another. What was this all about? It was a stream of all that love, that lust—I had never pinned down the difference, never known quite how to separate the two—swirling into an ever-tightening vortex, a vortex which, as I gazed down, fell into that rosebud-rimmed darkness, in that…

"Dadee want breakfast now?" I fought back that external noise, I fought to see further down into the vortex, to see more fully the nature of those pursed, pouting lips. But they were gone. Instead of exquisite beauty, I awoke to Pal’s pleasant but plain face. Instead of the answer to my existence, I got only bed chai.

As so often happens in my life, dream and waking became one. Senses groped in an attempt to locate mind, but there were none of the familiar markers to make me think I had returned to some "reality." True, in the full light of the morning sun, all the room’s finery was a bit faded, a bit tattered, the voluptuousness of the bedding revealed for what it was—a jumbled pile of quilts, not that silk covered pavilion of unending delights. True, my body bore the scars of the attentions of my night’s companions, but though my seraglio was tarnished, it was nevertheless totally bizarre. In the next room I could hear the chatter of the chouts as they prepared breakfast, their words totally incomprehensible. I saw the window and, for a moment, had no idea either in space or time what lay outside. Had I awoken in the gomba of Hilton’s Shangri-La, I wouldn’t have been more surprised. At that moment anything was possible. In addition to environmental disorientation, the charas still gripped me, tweaking all those sensory channels necessary for navigation. Had I reached that point where life and dream become one? Had I reached down within myself to the point past all duality? That point where I existed independent of all—dream or reality.

Breakfast brought everything quickly back into order. No doubt, I was now awake. There is nothing like Zanskari solja—a mixture of chai, yak ghee, salt, and crumbled barely chapatis, to make me realize that this was no dream. How could I dream up such a brew? This wasn’t amrita, ambrosia of Gods and dreamers. This was the stuff of physical life and, after several deep draws from the brass cup, I was back to it.

"Geser send Dadee message. He want show gomba. All famous things and their story he tell. You get up. Geser come soon."

No sooner had Pal said those words than Geser appeared at the doorway.

"Did you have a comfortable sleep?"

He looked at me with an uncharacteristically troubled glance, as if he already knew the answer to his own question. Of course, I wasn’t about to give up the all too revealing contents of my dream. I had only just come out of it myself and, to say the least, was troubled. There was much to think about. I wasn’t even sure it was a dream. The presence of Atisa, or what appeared to be Atisa, had been so real. I thought I could still detect traces of rose attar that had wafted across those few inches of space between her…his… face and mine. God! How reluctant I was to say "his." How I wanted "his" to be "her." How much more comfortable I would have been.

"This morning you will make pictures? I spoke to the Shushok last night. He is very eager for you to make good photos so we may have a record of gomba. He hopes when you return to Amrika, you will send him copies. Maybe you can also show the pictures to others, to others who are interested in spiritual things—not like that woman. I have told the Shushok that you are such a man…let me tell you…I mean a man of the spirit. He is most interested in you and promises to give you a darshan later."

Here it goes, I thought. The crafty monks always find some use. But then survival was always a given, no less for religious than for laity.

"Chalo! Now you will see the gomba. The Shushok was most explicit how I should show you, I mean, in what order. First, I must show how a lama lives—his living quarters. Most buildings have such cells…for the lamas…then the place of work. Here all lamas work from lowest to highest at some householder chore, cooking, cleaning, farming, record keeping."

Geser face took on an unaccustomed look of pride. "In this gomba is the special craft of bookmaking. These are not books as you know them, but stacks of paper which we wrap between boards. We Gelug-pa are famous for scholarship. Now lamas work on a Ladakhi translation of the Tibetan text of the sermons of the Buddha. We already have such books transcribed from the writing of Ananda many centuries ago, but these are in Pali, the old language of the Nang’pa. It is said that when the Lord spoke these words, all living creatures heard them and understood them in their own way. But that was in a more enlightened time, when humankind was less burdened with karma. Now the sacred words must be put in local languages so people may understand. All Nang’pa hold these texts to be sacred. Often the most venerable objects receive our monlams, prayers."

For a moment a lost look seized Geser’s face, as if he had forgotten where he was going.

"The books, you were saying Geserji?" I asked trying to bring him back on track.

"Acchaa, the books! Where was I going with this? How can I guide you if I cannot keep on the way? Ji…this is why the library is such an important part of a Gelug-pa gomba. In this gomba we make many books. They are sent out to gombas all over Zanskar and Ladakh…before, even to Tibet. You have already seen much of the domestic work, so I will not belabor that. The Shushok always likes to stress that part, wants to make sure that people coming here do not think…how do you say it…the ride is free. We will first go to the place of the books. There you can see the making of the books and the quarters of the librarian. After this, we will go to the du-khang, and you may observe our yang…the ritual prayers. Finally, I will show you the center of this gomba, the lha-khang, where the holy images are stored. There you can see the material remains of many centuries of artistic meditation, how lamas of this gombas saw the Gods. Do you like the program, No? Please bring much film. There is much to photograph."

Passing through the kitchen on our way out, I smart-assed myself with the thought, so this was the first step on the path to Enlightenment. I caught a glimpse of Atisa, scrubbing a large iron pot in the corner. An uncontrollable chill went through me—from fear or pleasure I wasn’t sure. Then I looked closer. Far from the vision of my dream, Atisa’s hair was back to its proper stubble length, and the ever-so enchanting face, soot covered. He was turned to his work, and our eyes failed to meet. I wondered at my desperation. How could this ragged urchin have disturbed me so?

The library and adjacent print shop were several levels away. The sound of a booming drum and the chant of one particularly deep voice, whose overwhelming bass vibrated the air, drew us onward. On entering the shop, I saw several monks engaged in the printing; while in one corner by a large window was the source of the chanting. As he was in the direct sunlight, my eyes and camera were first attracted to him.

He was an ideal subject. Motionless, his body locked into the vajra—the cross-legged meditative posture, symbolizing the eternal nature of reality—except for a slight motion of his wrist as he banged with a great sickle-shaped stick upon the drum. To one side a butter wick lamp flickered with the vibration of the drum, struck at the end of every line. That deep bass sound seemed to come from a source much deeper than the lama himself, his mouth was slightly open, but I could see no movement of his lips or tongue. I moved in closer. Or was I drawn?

The scene held such a wealth of detail that it needed some cutaways, detail shots of all those elements: lamp, drum, leaves of the book; the gnarled hand clutching paper or drumstick, ancient brass cymbals lying expectantly in front; the Chinese silk brocade book-wrapper carefully folded to one side, a battered pewter tea pot sitting at a convenient distance on another; the grain of the rough wood floor; the texture of the mud-plastered walls underneath fading, yet still colorful, frescoes; the intricately carved beams of the ceiling; and then into the other nooks and crannies of the room; from the bookmakers and their materials to the wall hanging with a museum’s worth of paintings and reliquary. Yes, if there ever had been an instance of a picture worth a thousand, this was it. There was such little motion, I almost believed I had wandered into one of those dioramas seen in natural history museums—the wax or plaster figures carrying out the daily routines of some remote place and time.

I was using up a lot of film. By the window the light was quite bright, but in the corners I was winging it with long exposure, hoping against hope that somehow my hand would be steady. Before, I had been so frugal with my film; now I just let go. Finally, all the clicking and scuffling began to break through the praying lama’s wall of concentration. His eyes moved from the page toward me. The drum missed a beat. It was time to back off.

I turned my attention to the papermaking. When I entered, the slow movements of the lamas seemed almost frozen, now as I adjusted, I saw it was just that their work required the same meditative concentration of the drumming lama. I fingered one of the coarse sheets. Its aroma was familiar. I looked to Geser questioningly.

"We make paper from hemp fibers, not so fine, but very long lasting. Some of the books in our library are more than five hundred years old…some older, maybe. I think you Angrez use the plant too, but not to make paper, for some other purpose?"

He looked at me with a mixture of amusement and question. Could Geser tell? I hadn’t smoked in his presence, knowing it might offend him—Pal had been quick to warn me about that, and there was that lingering paranoia Gul had planted. But what I hadn’t smoked, I had eaten. My eyes were most likely bloodshot; maybe I stumbled a bit more than usual. I was sure that if Geser suspected, he could see the signs. Charas was no stranger to Zanskar. To cover my growing paranoia, I resumed photographing.

The process of the printing is as simple as it is crude. In round stone mortars the size of large cannon balls, the vermilion ink is ground and mixed with water. Then it is brushed onto the wooden blocks of text. Some of these blocks, Geser assured me, were as old as the gomba, if not older. Finally a sheet of the hemp-fiber paper is flattened out on a low table, and the wooden block pressed down. This is done repeatedly until the requisite number of pages are completed—in this case they were producing 108 editions—a propitious number. A complete volume can have over a thousand pages and the entire work over a hundred volumes. Luckily for these publishers there was no deadline, no screaming distributors, no anxious editors…no starving authors. What did it matter if they finished the work in their lifetime? There would always be another generation of lamas to take up the load. It was the process that was important, the magic of continuation of Dharma. My eyes were in conflict with my mind. The former wished to see more; there were so many objects with which they had no familiarity. My mind wished to linger, to think upon the flood of new information the eyes were collecting. In league with my camera the eyes triumphed.

The altar—every room seemed to contain an altar—was an ornate affair. A hopeless jumble of figures, pictures, and other symbolic paraphernalia vied for space on the altar. It was as if the lamas sought to please all the gods and spirits. What appeared to be the centerpiece was a miniature chorten, about three feet high and covered with gold, turquoise, coral, pearls, and lapis. Geser explained it represented all the elements of the universe—those to which the body is returned in death: the squared base, the earth; the inverted bell-shaped dome, water; the spire, fire; the crescent moon, air; and the final leaf-shaped ornament that tapered into space, ether. On its sides were numerous tiny doors behind which stood figures of the Taras—Geser wasn’t sure how many. Most of the doors were closed. The few that were open revealed exquisite statuary, accoutered in what looked like finely crafted jewels.

I guess the spirit was still not with me, for I can remember thinking how easy it would be just to slip in here after hours and make off with this priceless treasure. The biggest problem would be in knowing what to take, because this was only one of many such treasures. Perhaps the tangkhas, which in places hung a dozen deep, were even more valuable, or the ivory statues, or the three gilded Bodhisattvas even more heavily jeweled than the chorten. My camera was smoking from taking so many photographs. I mentioned to Geser the vulnerability of such valuable pieces. "I mean with all the tourist coming through." As usual he found my thinking hilarious, but then with an unexpected suddenness his joviality disappeared.

"There is much in this place that is unseen, No. Perhaps you think these things are just symbols, that they are empty shells. We believe otherwise. Inside, the spirit of God can be found; inside is a power waiting to be tapped. You have no knowledge of this, either of the power or how to release it. For this takes many years. The power is very dangerous to those who have no knowledge. You must first receive kalung, or permission, to study the power, to come to know of its existence. Then and only then, after long study, can you earn wang, the right to use that power."

I didn’t quite see his point. "All of that’s just great, but what will keep some Euro-trash from ripping off the place. Back in the States, I would be set for life with what these things would bring." Of course, there was always the chance of ending up like those two little queens from New York, but they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time and all they lost was…

"No, I still do not think you quite understand. These things have power inside. It is a power both for doing good and doing bad. Those who pay respect are rewarded. Those who seek evil earn the fruit of such deeds. This we believe, not only from faith, but also from what we have seen. It is said that many years ago, in the time when the Angrezi ruled the lands below, one Angrez came pretending to find the Path. He pursued his studies well, received wangkur, and began the journey into the deepest mysteries of Tantra. During the time of training, his brother lamas noticed that this Angrez was constantly writing down things in his own language. They did not remark on it as they thought that in this way he might be furthering his study. Oh, he was furthering it all right, but not for what they thought. One day he disappeared. Several years later word came that a book had appeared in the Delhi bazaar, written by one who used the name the lamas had given, Tanana, under an Angrez name. The book told of his adventure among the ‘Lamas of Little Tibet.’ It purported to reveal the secrets of the Tantra.

"This was very upsetting to the entire order, for to have power, without the knowledge to use it, is most dangerous—something like that saying of yours, ‘A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.’ This Angrez had learned some of the outer rituals, but nothing of what was within. Several more years passed, the book sunk back into obscurity. Then a traveler, another Angrez came to the gomba. Since he was Angrez, the lamas asked him about this Tanana, if he knew about the book and the fate of its author. As it happened, the traveler knew both of the book and Tanana. After an initial publication, the book was bitterly attacked as a fiction, the author had gone into seclusion and died of some horrible ‘wasting’ disease."

Geser looked at me knowingly, satisfied he had made his point.

"But Geser," I reminded him, "we were talking about these precious things, these antiques of gold, silver, and gems, not just ideas."

He looked at me with pity. Was I really such a bad chela?

"It’s all the same No. There are no lines to be drawn. The spirit we seek is everywhere, in everything. The power is in the mandala, in the mantra, in the hand of those that grasp the sacred object, in the mind of those who grasp the sacred word. Yet it all comes back to how power is used. Through many lifetimes of sacrifice, the Tulkus have earned their power. Through the compassion of The Great Lord, they have been returned to this earth to liberate the less fortunate. This is the proper use of power, there’s no other. There are great forces at work here. The power is here to help us in our own struggle for liberation, but only to help. If that power is abused then…then there is always your Mara."

This was no simple tour, but the beginning of a long process of indoctrination. Geser, though he tried to appear otherwise, was most transparent. I was warned. I wondered if this Angrez lama had ever been or was just a horror story to dissuade any like-minded ferenghi

And hadn’t I done much the same? Oh, not about tantric secrets or Gelug-pa rituals, for of those I had little knowledge, but about the Himalaya itself—my Godhead. While I hadn’t written, I had photographed the most intimate moments of my communion and, worse, attempted to sell them through my tours.

Paul came to mind; perhaps it was the mention of the "wasting" disease. Had that been his punishment for opening the mysteries of these mountains? I was equally guilty. Wasn’t I also locked into a "wasting" disease—if not of the body then of spirit, of heart? Perhaps, our sin was that once coming here, we still couldn’t let go of the past. We had to keep shuttling back and forth, refusing to buy into the illusion, but at the same time without sufficient courage to let go. We clung to the known and thus were its slaves. Paul had come to the end of an existence. No, it wasn’t as punishment. Perhaps, it was that he was spinning his wheels, going neither forward nor backward. It was time to recycle into a fresh entity, with energy to make the wheels grip the path again, with the energy to move on. I felt that my energy too had ebbed. Yet there must still something left, something I must expend before I too can be reborn.

We were now in a rather dark interior chamber. There were no windows; the only source of natural light was a deep-shafted skylight. As my pupils adjusted, a gaunt form emerged from the shadows. Geser said something to the apparition. A greeting came back, "Jule, Sahib, jule!"

"This venerable lama is the librarian. It’s his duty to care for the holy texts."

To underscore what texts he was talking about, his hand pointed to the walls. He needed to point; if I hadn’t seen similar manuscripts in other gombas, I would have had little chance of identifying the silk wrapped bundles. These sat in neat rows within red painted cases lining the walls. The entire effect was more reminiscent of a catacomb for infants than a library. The librarian began muttering a long monologue which, by its tone, I knew must be a scholarly lecture. Finally, he came to the end and looked toward me expectantly

"He says many of these books are older than can be remembered. Some have been printed. Many more have been copied from even older texts by hand. They are very powerful. In them one can find the way to great powers. With these powers one can do great good, go very far to bring Dharma to the people. But like all power, its blade is double-edged. With it, one can control others for whatever purpose one desires. That is why it’s most important the student of the way learns purpose first. Power without the wisdom to use it is like the wild elephant raging, his supreme strength able to destroy, but not to build."

"Ah i’nok, Sahib, i’nok." The old monk shook his head vigorously. Then from the text laid out before him he began to read.

"This lama says that the whole point of the magic is not to have power over this world, but to have power to…."

There was a moment of intense discussion between the lamas as if the were collectively seeking just the right words.

"Yes, I think my brother says it best…‘To be delivered from the self which binds one to this world.’ We come to this world full with the knowledge of the truth. Over time, we fall into the web of Maya. If we accept that illusion as truth, if the web becomes our world, then we are lost. But within everyone, there is some memory of that truth before birth. The more one remembers, the less is the harmony between what was known and what is known, then the more chance there is to escape the web. Yet this individuality is not the end, but only a tool to regain that original truth. Otherwise, we go from life to life, from web to web, the prisoner of whatever Maya rules. There would be no way out, no way back to that ocean of diamond bliss from whence all life comes. Do you understand this No?"

Both lamas looked at me with questioning eyes, at once hopeful for some miraculous breakthrough, yet at the same time patient, knowing all too well that such miracles rarely occur.

"This lama says not to worry if this teaching seems, like the fish, too slippery to grasp. Fishing in the ocean of truth requires even more patience than fishing in the stream—even more than in our poor Zanskari streams where in these days there are almost no fish at all."

Geser must have added the line about fish, because he translated back to the librarian, and they both had a hearty laugh. Again the librarian face grew serious.

"This lama says most truthfully," Geser continued to translate. "One cannot come here, read texts, and find truth. There is more to it than words; words can have many meanings. Before reading, a master must read the texts. Then the student must recite with the help of the master the words many times over. Only then can the words be read from the texts. In this way the word has come directly from the Great Lord. If one was just to read the words, how could he be certain of the right meaning, for to the words each brings his own understanding. Yes, it is very important the student knows what was intended. Only the master can tell…only through the unbroken chain of all the masters that went before. You see No, here it is not as in the West, where each new student makes a contribution, adds a new layer of meaning, a new interpretation. Here we try to strip away time’s residue, to reach back to the words of the Great Lord as best we can. To reach the truth as was first given more than two thousand years ago is most difficult. The truth is the truth No, it is absolute, unchanging. It does not fluctuate according to change in this world. That change is Maya. Just as the human carries the truth into this world, only to lose sight of it in the grip of Maya’s web, so is a civilization closer to the truth in its beginning, than in its middle or end. Humans were truly blessed to be given this precious gift, this Diamond Truth. It is an insight easily lost. It is our dharma to keep the flame of this truth alive. With the Tara’s help, we’ll continue in this duty until Dharma has been made know to all."

As we left the library, I snapped off a couple of frames, hoping to take away a small bit of its power. In the viewfinder, my eye suddenly met the stern gaze of an exquisitely modeled Tara. Her gilt covering must have been recently reapplied, for she shone with brilliance in the dim light of the butter wick lamps. The old lama muttered again. Then he was lost to the darkness.

Back in the blinding, midday light, I asked Geser what the lama had said.

"He said that when you glow as does this Tara, then you will know it is time to receive the power." I must have looked puzzled for he continued, "It’s true No, the Tara is quite famous for this shining. They say that, even in darkness, the light comes from within. There are so many things that do not fit into Western logic. I told you that I studied your system, the way you believe the universe is ordered. It’s a very good story, very complete. Many have devoted entire lives to build its edifice. But remember No, it’s no more than a story, no more than one way of explaining the unexplainable. Perhaps our story is the same, just another way of putting words together. I have seen many things your story cannot explain, not by Galileo, not by Newton, not even by Einstein…You look surprised No, but we in Zanskar have heard of this great man. In many ways, he has brought your way of thinking so much closer to ours. But, I think, you still have some way to go…just as we."

I must confess that, as he was saying all this, I was trying to think just how the light could come from a decidedly opaque object. I believed, even then, that there were no questions for which some "rational" explanation could be found. After all I had been through, even though I half-believed in the existence of Mara, there was a part of me that refused to accept an alternative physic. I could not imagine a glowing Tara, any more than I could accept a weeping Madonna.

Just as we were about to go on, I heard someone cry out Geser’s name. A chout approached and, after a brief discussion, Geser turned to me.

"No, I must go to the Shushok at once. He has urgent need of me. I want you to go on and see the rest of the gomba. All other lamas know of your purpose here, and you may wander freely. Places where you should not go will be locked, so you should not worry. As soon as the Shushok is done with me, I will return. I am sorry No. I wanted very much to show you the gomba, but the Shushok is my guru. What can I do? I must go to him when he calls."

"Which way should I go Geserji?"

"Just follow the sound No, follow the sound, and you will find all that you need."

I was about to ask what sound, for at that moment those ubiquitous wind-river noises dominated. But before the question could escape my lips, a new sound came to my ears, very faint at first, yet rapidly growing. It was the low growling throat-song of the lamas at prayer.

One minute, I had been puzzling over the glowing Tara—yes, there was some sort of light leak, or, perhaps, there was an intentional fraud, something to dazzle the peasants. The next, I found myself invaded by what, at first, was nothing more than a super-bass buzz. It was as if the ensembled voices were reaching out, drawing me into their consciousness, the same as when first meeting Geser. My rational self, the one puzzled over the Tara, momentarily resisted this magnetic call, but the power of the tone was too strong. I fell into, what I can only describe as, a hypnotic trance, although I have no certainty that was what it was. Consciousness took flight, traveling alone into a time and space, a journey to which my memory is not privy.

Oh! I have some fleeting recollections. I remember entering the du-khang and seeing opposing rows of crimson-robed monks bent over low tables. The air was thick with incense. The flickering of the butter wick lamps syncopated with the beat of the drum, only heightening my loss of control. I kept telling myself it was the charas, but I knew it was more. Then I resorted—much in the way I had learned to control myself on acid—to tell myself, it is all just a mind-fuck; just let it wash over you. Soon it will be over. Along one wall were a series of niches, much as in the library. However these, instead of housing texts, held figures of hundreds of bodhisattvas. As I looked closer, it was as if these saints were also chanting. How else could I explain the immense volume of sound welling inside. I thought I would drown in that sound:

OOOMYAAAMAAANTAAATAAAKAAAHUUUMPHAAAT
OOOMYAAAMAAANTAAATAAAKAAAHUUUMPHAAAT
OOOMYAAAMAAANTAAATAAAKAAAHUUUMPHAAAT.

Over and over and over! Unlike before, when the unintelligible flow had cleared into separate words, drawing me from my unconscious state, the process now reversed. Soon any human intelligence that might have been conveyed in the syllables was lost in a sensory jumble. Swirling in a mighty vortex, my previous explorations into psychedelics seemed like a trip to Disneyland. In an effort to hold on, my mind grasped at any straw.

What had been that childhood mantra? Ohhwata-gooo-siam! Ohhwata-gooo-siam? You said the syllable over and over, faster and faster, then…. Maybe that was what this was all about. Yes, it would turn out to be just some sort of childish initiation ritual. Finally, I would get the message. The joke would be on me, but nevertheless it would be a joke, something rational, just a good-natured trick the lamas played on visitors, a little fun to get them through the long days with no telly.

I felt pressure, like a firm hand grasping my shoulder. The force was pushing me out the intricately carved doorway of the du-khang. The din was now almost too great to bear. I wanted to scream. Maybe I did, so great was the press.

A voice so familiar in tone, yet so strange in demeanor, spoke, "Now I will take you to the innermost lha-khang. Here you will meet our Master face to face. These foolish lamas hide this place, they think it is only for them, for those trained in their mumbo-jumbo. But I will show you anyhow…if you have the balls. Do you No?"

I looked toward the source of that voice, but it came from impenetrable shadows at the end of the corridor. Maybe it is Geser? Yes, that must be it! It is just that, after the long climb, he is out of breath that is why he sounds so strange. How at that moment I needed to see his pleasant face, those twinkling eyes. That would put things right, bringing it all back to what I knew. But there was no smiling face, no twinkling eyes. I saw movement in the shadows. God! What is it? If it was Geser, it was a Geser, aged a thousand years, his skin drawn tight on fleshless cheekbones. As I looked towards him, he spat at me with a furious hissing noise and hurled me through another door, breaking through the ornate brass chain that barred entry. As I flew through the air, my entire temporal frame seemed to expand. Was this just denial? That was how the Western mind would explain it. Whatever it was, my flight seemed endless, providing the luxury to minutely examine the intricate carvings on the doorway through which I flew…no, floated. At least at first I thought they were carvings. Then as I drifted by, I could see movement among the fantastic shapes…they were alive. Yes, it was those most ancient guardians of this land, the ones who watched in the absence of the Gods—dragons. The dragons were uncoiling. Down they came from their doorway perch, slithering through the air to join my flight. I could feel the heat of their breaths, smell the stench of some sulfurous brew. One got hold of my leg, coiling round it. This slowed my progress even further, letting another, then another, grab hold.

No! This wasn’t happening to me. It is just the charas, just some mind-fuck initiation these monks cooked up. I had been through worse than this. Besides, all they could do was kill me. Then this motherfucker would be over. It would happen eventually anyway. I wouldn’t surrender to fear. It was a good day to….

Then the most sickening thought struck me. Maybe I am already dead.

Almost in confirmation, I landed in a limp heap on the hard planked floor. I must have been before an altar, for above the ubiquitous butter wick lamps were the forms of large, grotesquely shaped figures, each with more than their share of arms. I would have liked to think they were statues, but the evidence presented by my eyes belied this. Like the dragons, these figures were also animated. Not that they were jumping up and down; there was a quiet, living motion about them. Perhaps "living" isn’t the precise term for there was the certain smell of death about the place. It was a smell I had known long ago, that smell of the field morgue, the place where they gussied you up before they boxed you for the ride home. The altar itself looked more suitable for an abattoir than temple, a functional chopping block affair. Above the block were two horrific masks, one white, one black, both crowned with skulls. When I looked closer, I could see that the theme of skulls continued upward. While the part of the room in front of the altar was relatively low, behind it the ceiling gave way to a loft-like extension. There, towering over the skull-festooned altar was a central figure, covered by faded crimson silk. Whatever lay beneath must have been truly horrible, because, on either side, were two revealed figures, so lifelike, they caused my already incredulous mind to tremble with fear. From the sides of the hidden figure sprung horns of a great bull. What could lie behind that blood-hued shroud? I could only think of Mara. This must be a statue of Mara, perhaps as Yama the God of Death, who sits in judgment on every soul, assigning it to its proper place in the myriad hells.

I was starting to calm down. I just must have grown dizzy. I hadn’t been eating enough, the altitude, and my old scapegoat, the charas. Just as I thought I was coming back around, my eyes began to perceive, just as with the dragons, movement in the figures. "Stop it!" I commanded myself out loud. "It’s just the light, and you’re still dizzy."

I heard footsteps. Yes, I thought, now I will come back to reality, back to life, I will turn and there will be Geser. A smile will be on his face and he will launch into a small lecture on the nature of these particular deities—how old they are, what they symbolize, all those things of touristic interest.

It wasn’t Geser, but Atisa. He came not as the scullion of the morning, but as the vamp of the previous night. Atisa was dancing across the floor, feet barely touching, if touching at all. The sight was of such incredible beauty, made even more so in contrast to the hideous pall filling the room. So beautiful was Atisa that it was a stretch to believe its form could belong to one of my gender. Yet there were no female markers, protruding breast or elaborated hips, yet the limbs were so delicate, so well crafted….

As if Atisa read my mind, I suddenly felt the press of a cool-fleshed hand. The same energy that had coursed through my body at first touch now surged through me again. I looked closer; there was the long gold-flecked hair, the huge, depthless, gray eyes set within cheeks so smooth, my teeth ached to bite into them—"like a peach," that bawdy Chitrali refrain echoed in my mind. I felt my lips brush against Atisa’s. I felt the warm moisture of the breath, the flick of tongue against teeth. I heard a gentle, yet compelling laugh.

"Come Angrez, come into my arms. What does it matter Angrez?" Then more sternly, "You know what I mean Angrez Sahib, you know. You wonder whether I am man or woman. You wonder too much! You think too much! Why does it matter Angrez? Why does it matter whether we are alive or dead, up or down, in or out?"

Atisa’s gentle tone became tinged with urgency, as if there was job to do and little time.

"Feel my lips!"

For a moment I was lost in them, lost in the moist, languorous pleasure. Then there was an agony of loss as the lips pulled away.

"Will there be any difference in my touch if you now find out my gender? How can a moment that was, be changed by what will be—by what could be? Oh Angrez, it will be changed, but only in your mind. It will be changed, not by you, but by Maya. Come closer Angrez, feel the smoothness of my cheeks. Are they not perfection? Have you ever beheld a fruit as ripe as this? There is no stream between us now Angrez."

With a hard laugh, this creature grasped my hand and directed it, not to the face’s rosy alabaster, but below, to what lay beneath the silken robe. "You must release the desire which clings inside. You must free it so that you too can be free."

Yes, I thought, readily giving in to the suggestion; this is what I must do. It wasn’t a novel thought, for I had often sought to exorcise those inner devils by giving them free reign. I firmly believed restraint led to frustration. It was this frustration that distracted me from where I wished to go, from doing what I wished to do. My hands found deliciously fleshed buttocks, even smoother to the touch than the cheeks above. My fingers pinched the compliant softness, at first tentatively then, receiving no rebuke, more and more firmly, as if testing the threshold between pleasure and pain. Encouraged by Atisa’s submissive moans, I worked downwards, kneading the inner flesh between opened thighs, cupping fleshy hillocks, my fingers delighting in the exquisitely contoured hollows. Then underneath, I found to my pleasant surprise a cleft, moist with lips open and ready, just like the mouth.

"Ji Sahib, I am yours. Do with me as you will. All that is pleasure for you is ecstasy for Atisa. Take me! Take me!" Atisa moaned."

By then I was mad with desire. It seemed like it had been years since I had any real release—apart from those self-induced ones that were only half acts. I pressed Atisa’s small body close to me, so small, so compliant. Then like a cat springing out of the shadows, there was the image of Tara—not that mysterious, glowing representation of the Savioress in the library, but my Tara. All that pent up sex, more rage than love came spewing out. It was just like on acid. Once headed in a direction, I went for it the whole way.

For so long my rage had been a smoldering fire. Suddenly it was freed from constraint. A blaze of hatred consumed me; the fires made all the more violent by their long containment, so long blockaded within by that "better" self, that more noble self. I would show this bitch what was what, who was boss. Female or male, I would make it scream before me; scream for me to stop; scream for me to continue; scream just as a steam engine screams or it explodes. For a moment Atisa was Tara. For a moment my cock was reborn and in charge of my being. I spun Atisa around, bending the supple body over. I would take this bitch from behind, just as I had first taken Tara. There would be no pleasure for this creature, only submission to my will. Now the venom in my heart poured forth. Myriad devil armies danced in the air—perhaps those very ones that the lamas hoped to expel. It was as if I had been thrust into the fiery hell of the bhavachakra, the "Wheel of Becoming." Was this not fitting? I was, after all, in the presence of Yama the judge of all mortals. My cock was a glowing lance before me—the great thunderbolt with which I would explode all illusion. Atisa bent over on the floor. Slowly the robe was rising, like a curtain revealing all I desired, hated, all that held me to this earth…. The figure, the flesh, the desire, writhed wildly to my touch. The robe was now fully raised. Atisa’s white flesh lay a ready sacrifice to my pleasure. All my senses focused on that rose-rimmed pool, a place of nothingness into which I would pour the poison, all the corruption within.

Gone was any thought of propriety, right or wrong, moral judgment, eternal damnation. I was already in fucking hell and determined to make the most of it. When I had seen this bliss before, I had thought of lips, vagina, now I thought of something else. I knew it was a place I had to go, I knew that my cock would lead me. I was entering. I could feel the down-tufted dampness encircle my cock, grabbing at it, sucking it in and me along with it. I heard Atisa moan, but not as I wanted, not with pain, but with pleasure. I wanted it to be pain, for only in this other’s pain could I be free. I hate! I hate hate! I want to be free of this hate. I want to give that hate to this flesh beneath me. I struck out, invoking only further pleasured cries. "Ah ji Sahib, punish Atisa, Atisa bad, very naughty, do many wrong things, punish, punish if you need Sahib!" I knew I was being goaded, but by then I couldn’t help myself. All those devils locked inside strained to open the gates. There would be no respite until they were all free. I groped underneath the robe, seeking a breast to squeeze, a tit to pinch. Oh, how I would make this bitch howl. Instead my hand found something quite different.

How long had it been since I had fantasized such a moment. It had started young, in those early moments when the thing between my legs first grew hard. I learned quickly that this wasn’t the way society wanted me to use it. And while the fantasy lingered, I soon learned to block it with what was approved—women. Now after all those years, I found myself fulfilling that pubescent fantasy. In my hand wasn’t a soft breast, nor a firm tit. Oh, it was firm; it quivered to my touch, but it was what I too had, it was Atisa’s cock. What horror, yet a delicious horror, for part of me was lost in the most indescribable pleasure. After breaking every other taboo, I was finally throwing off the remaining shackle. "A hole is a hole, eh old man. This is better than your hand, and the bitch digs it." But that was only one part, only one head. Another writhed in confused pain. "My God, I am just a faggot, probably a molester too. Atisa couldn’t be more than fourteen." Revulsion struggled with pleasure. All that bullshit of conditioning tried to keep me from going on. I threw myself to one side, but only partially, for my body continued its measured strokes; deeper, deeper they penetrated Atisa, until I thought I might fall completely within.

Enough! My mind screamed. For the time, all that conditioning this world had given me again triumph over my own desires. I withdrew, falling in a heap to the floor. Atisa’s cries of pleasure became a hissing snarl. Straddling my prostrate body, this thing spewed venom.

"You and I are not through! We will join as one! I will have you!"

Then the raging voice sank into lower and lower modulations until it was no longer human, but more like the moan of a wounded animal. Dizziness! There was a dull pressure on my chest. Oh my God! Is this how it is going to end? Am I going to have a fucking heart attack here at the foot of this Devil God? Are they going to find me with my pants down, a shit-dipped cock dribbling with come? What will the monks make of that?

I felt the cool silk of the shroud. I must have died. The fucking heart got me. That bitch Atisa got me. But this death dream was interrupted by Pal’s voice,

"Dadee Sahib, get up! Lamas no find you here. This most private place, no for Chi’pa, no for outsiders, only for Nang’pa with wang. What happen here Dadee?"

It was Pal with Yosh standing timidly behind. He seemed greatly agitated. Gone was the normally obsequious tone. I had committed a grievous offense and he, as well as I, would be held accountable. After all, I was an ignorant Chi’pa, while he, even though not of the clergy, was Nang’pa, within the fold. He stood in the doorway, calling and calling. Finally in desperation he entered the chamber. Yosh, less bold, was content to lend his moral support from the doorway. Pal yanked the red silk off me just as I was pulling up my pants. I hoped against hope he didn’t notice. As I looked up, the terrible form of the great Devil-God suddenly confronted me. What I had supposed as my shroud was the cloth that had shielded the figure.

"Dadee, not look at Lord Vajra-Bhairava, very bad, very terrible luck this bring. Even worse for Pal. He Nang’pa! He know better!"

But I couldn’t help looking, for there in all his hideousness was the great Lord of Death, his wild bull face, fully revealed. He was no longer alive, very much a statute. Yet on those cruel lips was a smile, not of evil but joy. As I looked closer, I found the reason for his joy. Locked in his embrace was a beautiful woman, her submissive body totally open to receive Death’s seed. Somehow, I already knew whose face I would find, but I had to look. I got up and, despite the frantic pull of Pal, went over to where I could almost touch the statue. At first my mind wandered from its mission; there was so many strange things to see. Then I remembered my purpose. My gaze fell upon the face of the consort. As expected, it was the face of Atisa, wrapped in utter ecstasy. A dizzying rush swept over me. Again I slumped to the floor, tangled in the enshrouding veil.

A scuffling noise came from the hall, sounds of shouting and running feet.

"Dadee, Lamas come. We must go! They not find us here. Very bad! They very angry!"

It was too late. The pujahs were at an end, and the few lamas who were fully initiated had come to perform further rituals. The first thing they had noticed was Yosh lurking in the open doorway, then the smashed lock and broken chain on the outer door. Roughly shoving Yosh out of the way, they entered the chamber. A lama bent over, picking up something from the floor. It was one of the carved dragons, now looking as if someone had pried it from its roost. The lama muttered unintelligibly to the others. Collectively their eyes fell on Pal and me. Still tangled in the veil, I tried to get up. Whether magic, a spell, another greater reality, it was now lost. The Vajra-Bhairava, the "Diamond Terrifier," Yamantaka, "Slayer of Death," Mara, or whichever one of the myriad personas this shape-changing enigma might assume, was now naked; the terror cast by its mystery stripped away. Instead, it was a just another touristic curiosity, all sixteen feet, thirty-four arms, and nine heads, including that most fearsome one of the bull. What had seemed, only moments before, to be so real, so part of my being, was now reduced to a rather naive work of art. The whole chapel had the feel of a tawdry carnival concession house of horrors. Perhaps that was why the lamas were so angry. I had fronted off their God, exposed this supposed terror for what it really was, just the work of some imaginative wood carver which needed dusting.

The senior of the lamas approached and barked at Pal harshly. At the same time, he gathered up the red cloth, dispatching the others to rehang it.

Pal looked ashen. "Sahib, you must go to room. Lama say you stay there until Shushok decide what to do. This is much bad thing Sahib. Lama says your life in great danger. My life, unless God decides better, kherab. Only those with wang go into special house of Lord Vajra-Bhairava. I know this. You do not. No matter, I see Dark Lord. We believe, if Nang’pa look at statue of Lord Vajra-Bhairava, soon we meet for real. You must go room now. I must go, make much pujah, ask Lord Vajra-Bhairava’s to forgive."

To make sure I wouldn’t argue, two very strong looking lamas flanked me. Together we made the short journey to my room. Once inside, the door was closed, and I heard the distinct click of a bolt being drawn.

It was late in the afternoon, the nala below already deep in shadow. The door opened and Geser entered. He looked extremely upset.

"What were you thinking?" he asked. "Why did you go into a room that was locked? Was it to try to take those dragons, pry them off the wall? Do not deny this No. The lamas found them on the floor. I warned you all things in this gomba have power. This is why we have no guards, no worry about the sacred things being stolen."

I tried, with some desperation, to convince him I had no intention of stealing anything. On the contrary, it was I who worried that others might steal. At the same time I wondered. The mind could play such tricks; denial was strong. There was nothing I could remember to suggest I had any guilt. But what was more absurd: to think that somehow I had tried to steal the dragons, or that the dragons could come to life?

"Are you so sure that was why you mentioned it? Are you sure you did not want to find out how the holy treasures were guarded?"

I could see doubt was writ large in his mind.

"The Shushok is much disturbed. First it was that Angrez woman, now you. He says it is impossible to trust Angrezi. It is all too much for him. He thinks this is punishment for wanting to make profit from foreign visitors. Now he thinks better to close the gomba to all outsiders."

"Please Geser," I now found myself pleading. I had such high hopes when I came here. Yes, after my arduous travels, all my difficulties were with purpose. Here was my destiny; here was the order, in a chaotic universe, giving purpose to life. Finally I had arrived at Shambhala’s gates, and I was certain I would find the way in. But how premature all that optimistic woolgathering had been. In less than twenty-four hours, I was already in the deepest shit. It was as if my past was hurtling me forward, a karmic whirlwind that wouldn’t let me rest. Such was its force it blew me by Shambhala’s gates, turning promise into mirage. All I had now was a posse of angry lamas nipping at my heels, and this horrible feeling I had done what I couldn’t recall—what was too terrible to recall. But I wasn’t about to cop to this with Geser.

"Geserji, I didn’t try to steal anything. I swear to you this is the truth. I don’t have the slightest idea how I got into that room. One minute, I was with the lamas in the du-khang, listening to their pujah, the next, I was in the temple, and things were alive."

Geser’s eyes narrowed. "What things, No?"

"The figures…oh, you won’t believe me. I don’t believe myself. It must’ve been a dream…but then what about the dragons, what about the veil?"

At this point my brain was racing overtime, trying to put it all together. While I was talking to Geser, I was thinking to myself, what in the fuck really happened? Maybe I had some adverse reaction to the shit? You know, sort of freaked out or something. That was one answer. Or maybe I did want to steal the dragons. Had some other unknown self taken over? Couldn’t I face that on top of all my other crimes? A thief as well! Maybe they had caught me; the whole thing was just a smoke screen my mind had thrown up. There was another possibility…no that was too bizarre. But was it any more bizarre than the others? For thousands of years humans toiled to create an understanding, a cosmic scheme of how things were and why. This wasn’t just a hollow myth, but endowed with energy of its own—the energy each believer contributed. That energy was power, and power ruled the mind. Why wouldn’t I fall before such a force?

Geser had been thinking, and thinking hard. He looked searchingly into my eyes. "I think I believe you No. I think you did not try to steal. I think the power in the pujah led you to the chapel of Lord Vajra-Bhairava, I think you had some business there, some purpose. It is very, very dangerous this business. Men must not deal directly with this Lord until they receive the Lam-rim, what in our order we call the way of the "graded path." This is what being a Gelug-pa is all about. We study all our lives to learn ta-wa, this insight. As the librarian said, this teaching has come down the long centuries from mouth to mouth, from master to pupil. The powers involved are so great that to control them requires precise knowledge."

Feeling Geser had turned from inquisitor to friend, I went on to describe exactly what I remembered of the happenings in the room, things I have now told you; although, I wonder how much has changed in the telling?

Geser became serious again. He asked me to repeat the part about Atisa. "The foreign woman, who showed great interest in Atisa, she had ideas of this nature involving him too. That was why she turned to the brothers. Lust gnawed at her. Lust consumed her. Yet because Atisa was even younger than now, and because she need to receive rather than give…if you get my meaning…he was not a suitable mate. It was Atisa, however, that planted the desire. She confessed this to the Shushok before he sent her away. I’m not sure if I can help you No. The Shushok might know a way, but he is too troubled to think clearly. Atisa has made so much difficulty. Yet is it of his own making, or just that he is the object of another’s evil? Some of the lamas wanted to send him away. The Shushok disagreed. Maybe because he is strangely fond of him. The Shushok said Atisa is too young and that the crimes were not of his doing. He is such a beautiful child. It’s almost as if he has some power over the Shushok…maybe, over all of us. Of course, I could not suggest this; to question one who is Tulku, one reborn, is impossible. You know, Vajra-Bhairava, the one you have called Mara, despite his terrible image, is not evil. He is not like the Devil to you Nazrani…eh, Christians. He is terrible only to the enemies of the Dharma. He is not Death but the destroyer of clinging existence, the same as is the Hindu god Shiva. Some say that he and this Shiva are the same God. The consort, the one that you say had the face of the boy Atisa, even though so beautiful, is not free of evil."

"Can you tell me the meaning of all this, Geserji"

"I cannot No, for to tell you more would be against my own sacred vows. When I brought you here, it was with the hope I could introduce you to our order, that you would leave the saman of your life outside the gomba gates, remain here, and learn from the Shushok the Lim-rim, just as I. It seems No, this is not your path. You have brought that saman of yours to this very room. Even now as we talk, its weight is crushing you. I will never be able to help you until you yourself can get free.

"Tomorrow you must go and go quickly. The Shushok has ordered me to visit the Changpa, shepherd people who live up the Niri and beyond to the Rudok Plateau. I will first travel to Tantak Gomba, a day’s journey. It is a miserable little place…in a even more miserable village. The Shushok says this is my punishment for bringing the evil to Phuktal. By the evil he means you No. He has ordered me to take you with me, to make sure you leave. From Tantak, I am to see you on your way. If you want to keep on going to Padam, you must cross the Thonde-la. It is a hard way, but a way that may be of help in your struggle. Please don’t argue! I can do no more for you. The Shushok has decided that we must leave at first light. I have already given orders to your servants.

"Tonight you must try to stay awake. You must fight against the demon who comes in the form of Atisa. If I had more time, I could help you turn this demon to your advantage; you could learn to use it to draw out the poison that lies within. But that time is not here. Beware my friend, for the demon will come to you again. It has tasted the poison within you and found it like amrita."

There was silence. Then with a nervous plaint, "What about this other way, Geserji. I know you say it’s dangerous, but what if I’m willing?"

"It is much too dangerous No. You are not prepared. The demon wants to drink of your poison. If you let it drink freely, it may not stop with the poison. If you cannot control it…if you cannot get power over it…this demon will drink until you are no more, until what was you becomes the very demon. It is your choice No. But I cannot accept responsibility. My advice, remember, is to stay awake. Keep the demon at bay. If you choose the other path, the responsibility must be yours. Either way No, we will leave at first light. This is the Shushok’s command. It is a command that all in this gomba must obey. Jule!"

He was gone. Pal came with chapati and thuk’pa. That I was no longer an honored guest was evident in the quality of my food—more fitting for a prisoner. "Pal with Dadee stay tonight?" Obviously, he was most concerned. Perhaps Geser had asked him to watch over me, thinking that, if I had to release my baser desires, better with a mere mortal than a demon.

Pal held no attraction for me, at least in that way. He was real, flesh and blood, with pimples and cuts, dirt, and hair. It was fantasy that was my turn on. Besides, it was more than that. I knew that eventually I would have to face this anyway. Why not now? Also, despite the confusion and that my brush with this demon should have chastened me, there was still that old inquisitiveness, that urge to push the limits, to walk on the edge. What I really wanted was to face the demon one more time—to see if it really existed, to see if it was part of me. I wanted to get it on.

"I don’t think so Pal. You sleep with Yosh and the other boys…get some rest. We’ll need it tomorrow."

"Ji Dadee!" Pal looked somewhat relieved, but the tension quickly returned. His pride had bottled up all the accumulated fear. Suddenly the pressure was too great, and it spilled out with a rush. His words tumbled like boulders in an early summer chu.

I looked at my U502 map that, though of dubious accuracy, did give some indication of the terrain. From the contours, I saw the way to Tantak offered little difficulty. Geser seemed right. This was often not the case when estimating time based on the reports of locals. A day of hard walking would see us there—even at my pace. It would be only after Tantak, on entering the Shingri Nala, that things would become tense. Seven small, cirque glaciers feed the chu, giving it the great force to carve this deep nala. These glaciers cling to the sides of a steep, ridge-like massif, stretching southeast all the way back to Phuktal. A series of peaks, some almost 20,000 feet, cap the ridge. The pass itself is well over 17,000. There are some particularly nasty-looking sections immediately after Tantak. There, I could well imagine, sheer canyon walls squeeze the track up against a tumultuous chu. In that place the river is in control. If the waters are low, one can pass, if not the way is barred. The signs of trouble were there, including that little word "fords" which promised a host of potential horrors.

Psychologically I wasn’t prepared. Crossing a high pass takes some pumping. I had done a lot for the Shingo. Now without warning I was deep in it again. I had to face unknown terrain where even my guides were of little use. The Thonde-la was purely a track for locals, and even they avoid it, believing it to be the home of demons. At best, it was a last ditch shortcut for the natives of the Niri to get to the main Zanskar valley. Like all such short cuts, it promised to be frightful. As elsewhere, here is no free lunch in the Himalaya.

I had been lost in the map for sometime. Only the failing light signaled the lateness of the hour. My meeting with Atisa was approaching. I had put it off, thinking about the next stage in the journey. After that night there might be no traveler to take the journey.

There was a gentle stirring. How silently it came, slipping up with so little fanfare. Or that drumming I heard in the distance, was that the fanfare? That wasn’t for me, just the lamas beginning their evening vigil. All night they sent out their prayers. While the lay world slept, they would intercede with the One Lord or his many manifestations, beseeching for mercy and compassion.

"OOOMYAAAMAAANTAAATAAAKAAAHUUUMPHAAAT
OOOMYAAAMAAANTAAATAAAKAAAHUUUMPHAAAT 
OOOMYAAAMAAANTAAATAAAKAAAHUUUMPHAAAT."

Then on to more complex and involving mantras, words, syllables which held no specific meaning, yet in this very absence of specificity held all meaning. The entire nala reverberated with their throat song. Lower and lower went the modulations, the air pulsed with deep bass frequencies, the windowpanes rattled, the walls hummed. I was lost in an aural sea, where all else was emptiness, nothingness, only the deep, deep, deep embrace of sound without meaning.

There was a knock on the door. I didn’t wish to be disturbed, but before I could send the intruder away, the door rudely opened. There in the light of a butter wick lamp was Atisa.

"I bring lamp, Sahib. It dark, I think you need light. Can I get other, Sahib? Sahib need else?"

There was such a pantheon of Gods from which to draw. Why did it have to be this image hovering before me? Why not Ganesh, a jolly fat elephant god to bring me luck or wealth? Why not one of the myriad bodhisattvas, or Taras, why…? Instead there was Vajra-Bhairava in all his hideous splendor. Not taken in this time by the wealth of detail, my eyes made a beeline for that one fearful spot, that one spot depicting the face of Vajra–Bhairava’s consort. It was just about this time I noticed a strangely familiar scent filling the room. The scent of dried sweet grass mixed with a more primordial odor seemed to emanate from the butter wick lamp—it was that smell of unfinished business, the smell of tatami mixed with desire. It seemed as if centuries had passed since that moment in Kobe.

I looked with anticipation to see if it would be Elizabeth’s face that graced the calendar, but as my eyes tried to focus in the dim light, all they could see was a rosy rimmed darkness where a face, any face, should have been. Closer I came, but instead of eyes, nose, and mouth, arising in definition, a ring of fire leapt forth, reaching out with flickering tongues, teasing me, drawing me inward. My eyes were transfixed to the black depthless hole within the ring. Suddenly, it was as if this void was turned in upon itself, becoming all; the all outside transformed into the void.

"OOOMYAAAMAAANTAAATAAAKAAAHUUUMPHAAAT
OOOMYAAAMAAANTAAATAAAKAAAHUUUMPHAAAT
OOOMYAAAMAAANTAAATAAAKAAAHUUUMPHAAAT."

The mantra was all, driving thought from my being, opening me to the rage of my senses. Too long had they been suborned, too long had they been slaves to the rational master. Within this darkness, now shinning brightly as any mirror, came a sequence of faces. Some lingered only a fraction of a second; some seemed to remain much longer; some were clouded in forgotten obscurity, while some I recognized all to well; some remained two-dimensional as in a photograph, others jumped out at me as living beings. They were all faces that in some way had touched my passion—love or hate, joy or anger. With each face came a wave of associated emotion. My body responded, tears following hysterical laughter, heat, following cold.

Just when I thought I could no longer stand it, that I must at all costs escape this emotional roller coaster, I heard a rustle behind me. I turned and saw Atisa. It wasn’t the Atisa who had brought me the lamp. Rather it was the Atisa of long hair, the Atisa of the night and the temple chamber.

"I told you I would come back, Sahib. You told that chout you had no need for his service. But I think you lied Sahib, I think you have a need, a burning need." Atisa moved, blocking my view of the calendar. "I am not a chout, Sahib. I do not take orders. I serve, but only those truthful needs, the needs that lie within the heart, not just on the lips. I think now we finish that business we started earlier. I think you will now see where it will go. Am I not beautiful Sahib?"

As Atisa said these last words, the robe opened, the figure inside exquisitely delicate, sensually beautiful. My eyes probed to discover the sex, but before they could be sure, Atisa turned, letting the robe fall, exposing flanks of flesh that glowed with the same gold-translucent radiance as the Tara. This must be a demon, this thing so malevolent as to entrap me so, to bend my desires, to take me where I had no wish to go. This was pure evil.

I felt my cock rising. How could that be? I didn’t want it so. Why wouldn’t it do my bidding? Atisa fell onto my bed, peach-smooth bottom offered, blushing cheeks spread coyly apart, not too far, but just enough to express welcome. Perhaps it is a woman, I told myself, again wanting desperately to believe. Yes, it is a twin, a sister. That explains it! That was all I needed, my license. Armed with this hope, I launched myself into the void between those beckoning cheeks.

In the time that followed, a time without frame, everything within flowed into this darkness. It was as if there was something inside Atisa, inside the depthless orifice that sucked out all within me. I was emptied, but then with an equal force refilled. I had found a point of equilibrium. For the rest of that night I slept in peace.