Ah climbed intae ma sleepin bag, took a few swallys oot the bottle. The whisky went doon warm and rough ower ma throat. Ma body stertit tae heat up inside the sleepin bag and the tiredness hit me. Whit wis ah here fur? Fuck knows.
Ah wis nae clearer the next mornin when ah got woken up at quarter tae six wi a bell ringin in ma ear. At furst ah thought it wis a fire drill or sumpn then ah remembered the meditation. No way. Ah turnt ower and went back tae sleep. Next thing ah knew Jed wis shakin me and the sun wis streamin through the windae.
‘Christ, whit time is it?’
‘Quarter to nine. The teaching starts in fifteen minutes. Thought maybe you’d like to be there.’
‘Thanks, pal.’
Ah scrambled up and intae ma claes, splashed ma face wi cauld watter and got doon the stair in time tae grab a plate a cornflakes and a cuppa tea afore the session. They’re aw sittin in this big dinin room, some on chairs set oot in a hauf-circle, ithers sittin on the flair, cross-legged. Vishana’s in the lotus position at the front and beside him is a big vase a lilies.
Ah grab a seat at the back. Ma mooth feels like the insidey a budgie’s cage: no that ah’d drank much whisky last night, it’s just ah need aboot three mugs a tea afore ah come to in the mornin and ah’d only hud time fur wan. Ah’d nae time tae brush ma teeth either and the cornflakes were stickin tae them. Ah kept tryin tae dislodge them wi ma tongue. Ma arse wis numb wi sittin on this plastic seat and ma mind sterted tae wander ootside where the trees were swayin aboot in the wind. They’re pure beautiful, so they are, leaves turnin gold an red and bronze; ah love they autumn colours. Ah wanted tae paint a room in the hoose in them, thought it’d be nice in the bedroom, but Liz didnae fancy it. That’s the thing aboot bein a painter; ye spend yer time paintin folk’s hooses but you never get the chance tae pick the colours. Maisty the time ah don’t gie a toss; it’s ma job, and there’s a kind a satisfaction in watchin a wall turn fae sumpn dingy and streaky tae clean and fresh. Just watchin the paintbrush travellin doon the wall, know, takin the colour wi it, that’s enough. Ah’ve been daein it fur twenty year and ah still think it’s the goods.
Suddenly ah realised that Vishana’d stoapped talkin and everybuddy wis lookin at me.
‘Jimmy?’
‘Sorry, Rinpoche, ah was in a dwam. Whit were you sayin?’
‘I was asking how you found the meditation. How’s it been since you arrived?’
‘Well, tae tell the truth, it’s a bit heavy gaun.’
‘In what way?’
‘Ma mind keeps fleein. Ah cannae concentrate. And ah thought ah wis gettin a bit better at it.’
‘Sometimes it’s like that. You just have to sit it out. I noticed you looked a little uncomfortable last night. You know you don’t have to sit on the floor. You could use a chair if it’s easier.’
‘Ah thought it wis the right way – at the Centre they tellt us tae sit on the flair so’s we were grounded.’
Vishana smiled. There wis sumpn smarmy aboot him ah didnae like. Mibbe it wis his English accent or the way he wis dressed in they robes when he wisnae a real Tibetan or that, but he just got right up ma nose.
‘Ideally, yes, but you have to remember that in the East people are used to sitting cross-legged from childhood. They don’t use chairs.’
‘Ah know that.’
‘We can’t expect to learn to sit in a short space of time. Sometimes it’s better to forget about sitting in the lotus position. Just be comfortable and you can focus on the actual meditation.’
‘OK. Ah’ll try it.’
‘I think I might try it that way too.’
It was the wumman who’d spoke up last night when we were havin wer soup. She’d been sittin in the lotus position when we were meditatin.
‘I find I get a sore back if I sit too long. Maybe I’ve been getting hung up on getting the position right.’
‘It’s your choice,’ says Vishana.
At the coffee break the wumman came ower and sat beside me. She wis tall wi her hair cut dead short and she’d these big dangly earrings jinglin fae her lugs. It wis hard tae work oot whit age she wis; could of been anythin fae therty-five tae forty-five. She wis dressed in black wi a flowery-patterned shawl thing flung ower her shooders.
‘I’m Barbara,’ she says.
‘Jimmy McKenna.’
‘You’re from Glasgow?’
‘And me wi ma posh voice on.’
‘I lived in Glasgow for three years; I really liked it. Beautiful buildings.’
‘Where d’you stay noo?’
‘Edinburgh. My home town.’
‘Edinburgh’s nice too. Anne Marie likes the castle and we used tae go tae thon Museum a Childhood when she was wee. Gettin big fur it noo.’
‘Anne Marie’s your daughter?’
‘Aye.’
‘How old?’
‘She’s twelve. First year at secondary. Looks aulder though. Big fur her age. Huv you any weans?’
‘No.’ She lifts her coffee cup. ‘Better put this back. I think we’re starting again. See you later.’
‘Aye, right.’
The next session Vishana talked aboot reincarnation. This wis sumpn ah couldnae get ma heid roond. As far as ah’m concerned, wanst yer deid, yer deid. Aw the stuff ah wis brought up wi, heaven and hell and limbo and the next life – that wis daft enough but compared tae reincarnation it sounded dead sensible. Ah mean, at least you’re the same person livin yer life here on earth, then gaun somewhere else. Simple. But if yer reincarnatin aw the time, how come you don’t remember who you were in the previous life? Or are you somebuddy different each time?
Somehow it hud never mattered afore, in the Centre wi the lamas. Ah knew they believed in aw that stuff but ah’d never really bothered tae find oot aboot it. It wis enough just tae go there, dae a meditation, have a cuppa tea and go hame. Ah liked bein wi them; they were that funny and the way they looked at you made you feel good. But this Vishana guy – ah knew it wisnae really his fault but it’s no the same. So ah just sat, lookin oot the windaes at the trees, ma belly rumblin, waiting fur the dinner break.
Mair soup fur lunch, left ower fae last night, but this time it hudnae been heated up enough. Ah hate soup that’s lukewarm, but naebuddy else seemed that bothered; they were either eatin away in silence or discussin reincarnation.
‘Who do you think you were in a past life, Alice?’ says a big wifie wi dyed jet-black hair hingin roond her heid like a witch.
‘Cleopatra,’ says her pal, shovin her hair back so it didnae dangle intae the soup. It’s funny,
