The Search for the Pink-Headed Duck, page 6
Sonam ends further questions by placing his watch—no, that’s my watch—on the table. We are sitting across the table from each other, and I can’t remember him touching me. He of course refuses to say how he got it. I ask if he’s a lung-gum-pa, a monk who shares the secrets of powerful magicians and psychic voyagers, ascetics who purportedly can levitate. Instead of answering, Sonam begins telling me stories about the power of lamas. He dwells on the mountain mystics, the respas, who are experts in Tumo, the art of creating heat without fire. One of their most confounding abilities is that of melting a circle of snow up to six feet in diameter, using only body heat. Sonam reveals that the teachers of Tumo enter and leave their bodies at will, as do Bodhivistas (living Buddhas).
“How else can they survive in the mountains with no clothes?” he asks rhetorically. “They are also dupchens, so they are never lonely. They send messages on the wind, always talking to the Eternal Stream of Energy.”
“Are you a dupchen… Can you read my mind?” I ask nervously, wondering if I still have a private thought.
“Your face and eyes tell me all I need to know.”
Sonam hands the watch back to me, saying, “Before thirty-six hours go by, we will be on the road to Tibet.”
“I’m ready.”
“Are you?” he returns. “Do you understand the danger?”
“I know what happens if we’re caught: I’ll get deported, and you will…”
“I know. I will start the next cycle of life.”
The morning news begins on the dining room TV. Today’s lead story is the rioting in Lhasa. A Chinese soldier has been killed, and the authorities are extracting revenge through mass arrests and indiscriminate beatings. Details are sketchy, coming from expelled tourists and anti-Chinese sources. The room is now packed with Buddhists following the developments in their mother country. The Indian newscaster announces that the border patrols have been increased on both sides.
Sonam turns to me and whispers, “You must trust me.”
I leave after breakfast to reserve a seat on the next day’s helicopter flight to the Bagdogra airport in West Bengal. With only a day left on my tourist pass, it’s important that I officially check out of Sikkim. According to our plan, Sonam will pick me up at the airport late in the afternoon, and from there we will head back into Sikkim under cover of darkness.
After writing thank-you notes, I search out M.M. and find him in a teahouse. He’s full of enthusiasm. “Everything is set,” he tells me. “You can go to Darjeeling whenever you are ready… Send a telegram to this address when you know your plans.”
4
On Lama’s Business
The helicopter flight to the plains takes a mere thirty-five minutes, almost five hours less than the bus. There are only two other passengers, a rotund couple the captain has seated on opposite sides of the British-made chopper. I ease into a plush seat directly behind the cockpit. We lift off, and I watch as the landscape flattens; the mountains recede, giving way to forested hills rolling into the vast alluvial plain.
With hours to pass until my rendezvous with Sonam, I leave the Bagdogra airport and head into downtown Siliguri to browse at the market. Before entering the bazaar, I stop at a teahouse. It’s a beautiful day, and not even the filth of Siliguri can get me down. The waiter brings my tea, placing it carefully in front of me. As I take a sip and lean back to savor the taste, the cup catches on a shirt button and the hot tea spills all over my pants. I jump up and step on the tail of a dog, which yelps and bolts from under my table. The dog gets tangled in the waiter’s legs, upsetting his trayful of tea cups. I apologize and leave a generous tip, but that doesn’t stop him from shouting at me halfway down the block.
Later, as I near the market, the din of the city is pierced by the harpy screech of worn car brakes, metal grinding metal. A dull thud is followed by a moment of grim silence. I join several others running toward the accident. Around the corner a young man is writhing in pain, pinned under a rickshaw. A black sedan is angled across the street, its shaken driver still behind the wheel. I push through the crowd to help lift the mangled rickshaw off the victim. The man is bruised and in shock; we comfort him until the police arrive.
After he’s in the ambulance, I head on for the market, stopping at a hardware stand. I’m trying to decide which of two screwdrivers to buy when someone shouts, “There he is! The white man.” I turn as two policemen confront me.
“Drop it! Drop it,” they order, staring at the tool in my hand. My questions, I’m told, will be answered at the police station. A small crowd has gathered, and I hear people cluck, “He’s the one … Him…”
Inside the dilapidated station house, the accused driver slumps with his head in his hands. He has been crying. I face the roomful of police and raise my voice.
“I demand to know the charges. I demand…”
“Ah, you speak some Hindi. That is good for you,” says a man in a suit. He informs me that there are no charges, I’ve been brought in as a witness.
“I didn’t see the crash, I only heard it,” I tell him.
“Please, just fill out this form,” he says.
He points to the driver and asks if I’ve ever seen the man before. I say no. He hands me a pencil and advises me to make myself comfortable, there may be other questions later. I sense that this could take all afternoon.
An hour later three witnesses are brought in from the street. At first, none of them will cooperate, refusing to give their names or addresses. The police respond with threats of jail. Suddenly memories clear and tongues wag—each of them saw the accident. With that, I’m released, and I race to get a cab.
“Airport, as fast as you can go.”
Sonam arrives precisely on schedule, driving a 1954 Land Rover. The car looks great and sounds awful. The engine wheezes and coughs black smoke.
“How did it go?” he asks, mistaking third gear for first and stalling out.
“Fine,” I answer.
The engine refuses to catch, and Sonam nearly burns out the starter motor. I detect the problem and push in the choke. On the third try, the engine purrs.
“I am not a very good driver,” he reveals, forgetting to clutch and stalling again.
“How will we get to Gyangze?”
“I will get better, I promise,” he says. “Anyway, we are not going to Gyangze, but to Guru, which is not as far away.”
“Guru? Wait a minute, you told me Gyangze is where the Chinese are dumping the nuclear waste.”
“They might be, but I know that they are putting it in Guru.”
“What?”
“I had to tell you Gyangze,” he says, admitting his lack of trust in me. “Relax, my friend, it will be two or three days before we start for the border.”
“Why? It’s only ten hours to Natu-La Pass.” For centuries Natu-La has been the most common entry point for travel into Tibet.
“You are right, but we are not going there. With the situation as it is along the border, we will go by another route… The more distance we travel, the more I can tell you.”
Sonam has been less than frank with me. My trust in him wanes as he slowly details the latest agenda. We’re not leaving for Guru, we’re going to his master’s retreat for a blessing. We will not be crossing the frontier in the Rover, we will be walking across an unidentified high-altitude pass. My pal Sonam, the sincere lama concealed in the robes of a dirt farmer, is cagey and manipulative. I remember Mahout’s advice: “Leave the instant you feel a setup. Always follow your instincts. People get caught because they don’t listen to themselves.”
“Sonam,” I ask, “did you read my mind or did you really have that dream about me in the boat?”
“My master and I shared a dream,” he says, meeting my stare and slowing the car.
“And it was because of that dream that you came to me?”
“The truth is the dream. Your presence made me think, but the dream made me act.”
I ask whether there are any other surprises. He shakes his head no.
As I have already discovered coming back from Ganju Lama’s house, night driving in the mountains is perilous. With Sonam at the wheel, we constantly skirt disaster. At least he drives slowly and follows my advice on gear shifting. As we near the border of Sikkim, Sonam pulls off the road. We rearrange a space in the back for me to hide among the bags of rice and tins of mustard oil. This is where I will ride for the rest of the trip. He adds to my camouflage by pulling two bags of rice on top of me.
“Can you breathe?”
“Barely.”
“That is all you need.”
We near the border checkpost, and Sonam warns me not to make a sound. He tells the guards that he’s delivering food to a monastery in the mountains. We’re allowed to pass without inspection, and for the next six hours I drift in and out of sleep. When the engine sputters and we roll to a stop, my heart races.
“What’s happening?” I whisper, thinking the police are closing in.
“Petrol. We are out of gas.”
I crawl out of the back and stand in the crisp night air, stretching toward Andromeda, which for an instant seems close enough to touch. Lowering my gaze, I see Sonam holding one hand on the gas cap and the other on his prayer beads. Over and over, he chants “Om mani padme houm.” I wonder if he thinks his mantra will fill the empty tank. I then check out our surroundings with a flashlight. We are on a dirt road; there are no other lights; the moon has set. The pines and black poplars suggest that we are above 9,000 feet.
“Om mani padme hoummm,” moans Sonam.
“Hey, Sonam … are we near an army base? Is this road used much?”
He stops praying long enough to say, “The road has many paths and devils are everywhere.”
I pester him again, and he finally pockets his beads to address our predicament. Sonam estimates that we’re four or five miles from the house of his master. The nearest army base is far from here, but this byway services it, and we must be cautious. If a vehicle comes along or anyone approaches on foot, I will hide in the brambles while Sonam deals with them. We walk on opposite sides of the road, talking in low voices. His performance back at the car has raised a very important question. If we encounter a Chinese patrol in Tibet, will he reach for his beads or run with me?
“I will be ahead of you,” he announces in an imperious voice. Apparently devils like those who tinkered with the gas tank will not be confused with the gun-toting Chinese soldiers.
Dawn is a royal procession moving slowly across the land. At daybreak the mountain peaks, first to receive the light, sparkle like clusters of gems. The valley below changes color, with cold blues lifting out of the dark browns. Then from the pit of the valley a fog mushrooms, obscuring the lower region until the sun bakes the air. The absolute beauty inspires me, and I let fly my pink-headed duck call.
“What was that?” asks a bewildered Sonam. “Is it part of your daily devotions?”
I explain. He wants to give the call a try, and when I tell him that the sound should embody a dream quality, he nods. He trills something quite exotic in its own way, but far different from my call. As I correct him, the forest erupts with chirping sounds; whistling thrushes and collared bushchats respond and wing their way toward us.
I take out a camera to shoot a picture of Sonam with a thrush in the background.
“No photographs!” he scolds me. “If something happens, the police will be able to locate everything and everybody. No cameras until Tibet.”
I remind him of our agreement allowing unrestricted use of cameras, tape recorders, and notebooks.
“Things change,” he tells me. “You can write all you want, but no cameras.”
The camera goes back into the bag. It’s not worth arguing about; we’ll let Sonam’s teacher decide the issue. I keep quiet as we walk on.
“I thought you said it was four or five miles to the house,” I pant between breaths. We’ve already covered seven or eight miles, and at this altitude each step is a woeful reminder that I should quit smoking.
“Not far now,” Sonam replies.
We continue, my bag growing heavier by the step. At last we reach a gravel path flanked by stately pines.
“This is it,” Sonam chimes as he starts trotting up the incline, leaving me far behind.
I follow at a steady pace, my lungs heaving like a bellows. The trail leads to a large wooden building with golden ornaments on the roof. They are chortens—relic holders and statues of worship. From a distance a chorten appears conical, but up close I see the customary four forms stacked one atop the other. The rectangular base represents earth; the circle above it signifies water, which cleanses; the triangle on that evokes fire and its ability to purify; and the ellipse on top denotes ether, capping the three elements as it does the heavens. The roof line arcs with the mountainscape, sweeping upward at the ends to touch the distant summits. The walls, soft gray surfaces, seem to absorb my image as I stare at them.
The front door opens, and Sonam, full of energy, bounds out. He embraces me and leads me inside. Clouds of perfumed smoke hang in the front room. The plastered walls are richly decorated with religious paintings and sculpture. The incense has an intoxicating effect; I find it hard to stop grinning and must concentrate to subdue the feeling of giddiness.
Two young boys enter the room carrying bowls of fruit. Their heads are shaved and they wear the maroon and saffron robes of the priesthood. They stare at me wide-eyed; perhaps I’m the first westerner they’ve seen. Sonam introduces them:
“These are students who will be great lamas someday. Right?”
Embarrassed, they look down at their feet. Sonam repeats himself.
“Yes, Holy One,” they reply, standing tall.
I reach out to shake their hands, but this custom is new to them. Sonam comes to the rescue, saying something in Tibetan, and the boys grab my hand awkwardly.
We walk down a corridor lit by oil lamps. Bronze incense braziers in the shape of bird’s nests exude different fragrances, some sweet and others pungent. We near a doorway leading into the kitchen, where three women are preparing food. Seeing me, they fall silent. Sonam talks quickly to them and pulls me away from the kitchen. We stop in front of a massive teak door inscribed with the Wheel of Life. Sonam knocks and lifts the latch without waiting for a response. I brush my shoes on the backs of my pant legs.
No natural light comes into the room because the windows and walls are covered with heavy maroon brocade. Candles are massed at one end, flickering in long tiered rows. Overhead a pattern of golden lotus blossoms floats on a ceiling covered in blood-red silk. Three bronze statues of Buddha sit on an altar spanning the front of the room. The candlelight animates their faces, and Buddha’s eyes seem to follow me.
Three lamas are sitting in the lotus position with their backs to us. Their long hair is braided and curled atop their heads, the braids held in place by strands of crimson yarn. The priest in the center stops chanting and rises to his feet. The other two men, both dressed in maroon, follow his example. He glides toward me, his arms outstretched, his hands invisible under the voluminous sleeves of white silk.
“Welcome,” he says in heavily accented English. “Welcome to our home.”
Like his hair, his eyes are quite dark. I guess his age at forty. “You must be tired after your long trip,” he says, embracing me. “Has Sonam been a good host?”
“Never a dull moment, Holy One.”
“Please, there is no need to be formal. You may call me friend.” (This is a courteous gesture, but I address him as His Holiness or Master, like everyone else.)
He waves at the boys, who bow, leave the room, and return carrying a golden urn and a silver tray with two pieces of bread on it. I follow Sonam’s example and swallow a pellet of dough. His Holiness sprinkles our heads with sacred water before pouring some of it into our palms. Again like Sonam, I drink a little before snorting several drops. Later I’m told that this ensures that the blessing will reach both the heart and the mind.
The master finishes the ritual and leads us into a bright, sunlit room with a flower-laden table in the center. As in Ganju Lama’s house, simple wooden chairs line the walls.
“You must be hungry,” His Holiness says, pointing to a seat on his right. Sonam sits to his left, and the boys take their places next to him. The women bring out bowls of hot food and sit next to me. The delicious aroma reminds me that my last meal was more than a day ago. However, no one eats. I hold back too, assuming that the others are praying, not realizing that they’re staring at me and not into their hearts.
His Holiness touches my wrist and gently informs me that the guest must start the meal. My first bite sends the others digging into their bowls. The porridge is sweet and heavily spiced with cinnamon. I eat slowly, pausing between mouthfuls to contemplate something odd. For several seconds after His Holiness touched me, my wrist felt hot. Is he such a master of Tumo that he can instantly conjure heat? Or are his fingertips coated with something caustic? I have many things to ask him when the time is right.
There’s no conversation at the table, and the boys wolf down their servings of porridge, bowls of rice, steamed vegetables, bread, yak butter, and yak milk. When we’ve finished, the master and the two other priests excuse themselves, returning to their prayers, and Sonam escorts me to my room. Normally talkative, he now barely speaks. We will be leaving in two days, but the exact timetable won’t be set until tomorrow.
“Will you tell me the name of that village?” I ask, pointing out the window at some distant buildings.
“You must ask the master these questions,” he replies curtly.
It is not a time to argue—both of us are tired—and we agree to get some sleep. The soporific effect of the food is stayed momentarily by the splendid view of Mount Kanchenjunga. Today the god is dressed in all its glory: the peak rising above ermine clouds, a shaft of golden light piercing the left side of the Lord of Earth and Snow.
