Kinley Goenpo has permitted to stay in the goemba?” He spoke in a singsong voice that was higher-pitched than Grant expected.
Grant opened his mouth to respond but closed it when Kinley rested a hand on his shoulder. His friend replied, “Grant was near death when Jigme and I carried him here, la.” Kinley said, adding the formal la as a sign of respect.
“You are better now, no?” Lama Dorji asked Grant.
“I’m mobile now. The doctor says I can leave soon.”
Lama Dorji turned to Kinley. “The preparations for the Je Khenpo and the dratshang?”
“I scheduled the juniors to clean the dormitories Friday, la.”
“What about these disruptions?”
“Disruptions, Lama Dorji?”
“This American and”—the lama flicked his hand toward Kristin—“this woman. I know the temptation that cavorting with these foreigners must hold for you. After all, you did leave the order to study in the West.”
When the lama grinned at Kinley, Grant heard Kristin inhale sharply beside him. The lama’s teeth were deeply stained and his gums oozed a bright red saliva, giving him the appearance of a vampire in the midst of a kill. The plate on the narrow altar in front of the lama revealed the source of the blood: three leaf-wrapped betel nuts. Grant had seen some of the other monks chewing these around the monastery. Kinley had explained that the betel nuts acted as a stimulant and that they were used much in the way some Westerners chewed tobacco, but in place of the dark, leafy spit produced by tobacco, the betel nut produced a crimson red juice that permanently stained one’s teeth over time. Kinley never cared for them, and, he explained, the Buddha taught that if the mind was under the control of narcotic substances, truly transcending one’s thoughts and emotions would be impossible.
Kinley returned the lama’s smile. “During Grant’s recovery, I have taught him a little of our ways. He’s beginning to understand the dharma.”
“Is your role here to teach Westerners?” The lama’s bloody grin vanished. “Their culture is too undisciplined to master our teachings.”
Grant felt his face flush. Is the lama accusing me of being lazy? Even though the content of their studies differed, Grant put as much energy into his work as these students did. Even in the month he’d been stuck here, he’d made the most efficient use of every minute. When he wasn’t sweating through the physical therapy exercises his doctor had prescribed, he was taking notes on Kinley’s teachings or brainstorming how he would rewrite his dissertation once he saw the Issa texts. Kinley’s grip on his shoulder intensified, indicating that he should keep his mouth closed and let the lama speak. “Look at the dedication of these young ones.” Dorji waved to the students, many of whom now watched the two orange-robed seniors and the Americans. “Do you believe that enlightenment can be obtained with a few mind tricks and fancy sayings?”
His voice steady, Kinley asked, “Do you remember the story of the blind men and the elephant?”
A look of irritation flashed across the lama’s face, but he did not respond. Kinley continued, “One day, the Buddha asked his students to imagine a group of blind men being led to an elephant and asked to describe it based on touch. One man might grasp the tail and say that the object was a rope; a second might disagree, feeling the leg and claiming it to be a tall column; a third might run his hands along the elephant’s side and declare it to be a wall; and the last man might examine the trunk and exclaim that, no, the object was a hose.”
Grant suppressed a smile. Kinley had explained to him several times how the Buddha taught that there was more than one path to approach his teachings. He could think of more than a few people from his father’s church who could have used this lesson.
“Although you may be the elder in this lifetime, Kinley,”—Lama Dorji shifted in his throne—“I am the fifth reincarnation of Guru Tashi and the senior assistant to the Je Khenpo.”
Grant noticed that the lama did not respond directly to the point of Kinley’s parable. The rest of the temple was silent, listening to this exchange that seemed calm on the surface and yet had clear undertones of a power struggle that Grant imagined had been brewing for some time.
“I meant no offense, Lama Dorji, la.” Kinley bowed his head. “I only wanted to illustrate the point that these young Americans have creative, curious minds. They learn differently than our students, and their independent nature may lead them to grasp a different part of the dharma elephant than we do.”
“You spent much time away from our culture in your younger years, yes?” Lama Dorji popped a betel nut into his mouth and crunched it between his teeth.
Kinley replied in the same even tone, “I learned a great deal when I was away, but I chose to return to Bhutan, and I am here at the monastery now of my own accord.”
“Do you know why we are the last independent Buddhist kingdom in the Himalayas?”
For the first time, Grant thought he detected a tension in Kinley—a slight stiffening of his posture and an edge to his voice that he’d never heard before. “A hundred years ago the only entrance into our country was on horseback or on foot over treacherous mountain terrain. Today we are but a two-hour flight from China and India, the two most populous countries in the world. Through the Internet, our children experience influences beyond our control. It is no longer possible to isolate ourselves from the world.”
“So we disregard our traditions?” Dorji reclined further in his throne.
Kinley shook his head. “Why can’t we embrace our heritage and open our minds to other Buddhist traditions at the same time? Feel the different parts of the elephant and decide for ourselves which works best.”
For the first time, Grant better understood Kinley’s teaching methods. Although Grant’s knowledge of the differences among the various schools of Buddhism was limited, he had been curious about Kinley’s use of koans, which were part of the Japanese Zen tradition, not his own.
“Different teachings?” Lama Dorji shook his head. “Why teach what is inferior? We practice Vajrayana, the highest form of Buddhism.” He pointed at Grant and Kristin with his staff. Grant was acutely aware that all eyes in the temple were upon him. The lama’s voice took on a tone that was almost sad. “Kinley, I know your intentions are pure, but I fear that your time in the West has polluted you. Those kinds of influences are the reason we choose the monastic life. We isolate ourselves from the temptations of the material world, an existence that the West”—the staff pointed at Grant and Kristin wiggled back and forth—“upholds as their ideal.”
Kinley was immobile but for the breath going in and out of his chest. Then he bowed deeply from the waist. “Yes, Lama Dorji, I understand you clearly, la.”
Grant stared at his friend. That was it? He couldn’t believe Kinley would just give up.
Lama Dorji leaned forward in his throne and snatched another betel nut from the plate. “You are fortunate the Je Khenpo favors you.”
“I am fortunate indeed.” Kinley bowed again and then took Grant’s arm to leave.
“You, Mr. Matthews,” Lama Dorji said, surprising Grant by using his name. “Now that you have healed, I expect you will leave the monastery tomorrow. You will find a suitable hotel in town.”
