15
Yin/Yang
Mr. Kadam had managed to secure a meeting with the Dalai Lama’s Tibetan office since a personal meeting was not possible. Mr. Kadam attempted to keep the reason for the visit vague so as not to reveal more details than were necessary with the staff. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do. Our appointment was set for Monday, which gave us three days to cool our heels.
To pass the time, Mr. Kadam took us on a whirlwind tour of Tibet. We saw the Rongphu Monastery, the Potala Palace, the Jokhang Temple, the Sera and Drepung monasteries, and also shopped at the Barkhor market.
I enjoyed seeing the tourist attractions and being with Kishan and Mr. Kadam, but underneath, I still felt an undercurrent of sorrow. The dull ache of loneliness swept over me in the evenings. I still dreamed of Ren every night. Although I trusted Durga to keep her promise and watch over him for me, I really wanted to be with him myself.
Mr. Kadam took us out of the city limits on Saturday to practice using our new weapons. He started with Kishan and the discus. The discus was heavy for Mr. Kadam, just like the gada had been, but seemed light to both me and Kishan.
When Mr. Kadam turned his attention to me, I was ready. He taught me how to string the bow first.
“The force you use to pull back the string is what determines the power of the bow. It’s called the draw weight.”
He tried to string my bow and found he couldn’t. Kishan was able to string it easily. Mr. Kadam stared at the bow for a minute and had Kishan take over teaching me.
I asked him, “Why are the arrows so small?”
Kishan replied, “Arrow length is determined by the size of the archer. It’s called a draw length, and yours is pretty small, so these arrows should fit you perfectly. The length of the bow is also determined by your height. An archer doesn’t want a bow that’s unwieldy.”
I nodded.
Kishan continued his explanation of the various workings of the bow and arrow, including the string notch, the arrow shelf where the arrow rests and is pulled back, and the bowstring. Then it was time to try it out.
“Take your shooting stance by placing your non-dominant foot about five to ten inches ahead,” Kishan said. “Keep your legs shoulder width apart.”
I followed his instructions. Though it was more difficult for me than for Kishan, I managed to get the job done.
“Good. Nock your arrow and rest it on your thumb with the single fletching pointing out. Hold the bowstring with your first three fingers and tuck the arrow between your first and middle finger.
“Now lock your bow arm and look at your target. Draw back until your thumb touches your ear and your fingertip touches the corner of your mouth. Then release your arrow.”
He demonstrated the entire process for me a few times and sunk two arrows into a distant tree. I copied his moves. When I got to the drawing part, my hand shook a little. He stood behind me and guided my hand as I drew back.
When I was in the right position, he said, “Okay, you’re ready. Now aim and shoot.”
I let go and felt a snap as the bow shot my arrow off with a twang. The arrow sunk into the soft dirt at the foot of the tree.
Mr. Kadam exclaimed, “That was very good! A wonderful first attempt, Miss Kelsey!”
Kishan made me practice again and again. I quickly built up enough skill to hit the tree trunk like Kishan, although not in the exact center. Mr. Kadam was amazed at my progress. He thought it was probably thanks to all my training with the lightning power. We quickly noticed that the arrows never ran out and that they also eventually disappeared from the target.
That will surely come in handy.
Kishan was working on his discus again when I took a break. I sipped some bottled water while watching Kishan practice.
Nodding toward Kishan, I asked Mr. Kadam, “So how’s he doing with the discus thing?”
Mr. Kadam laughed. “Technically, Miss Kelsey, it’s not a discus. A discus is used in the Olympics. What Kishan is holding is called a chakram. It’s shaped like a discus, but if you look carefully, the outer edge is razor sharp. It’s a throwing weapon. In fact, it’s the weapon of choice for the Indian god Vishnu. It’s a very valuable weapon when wielded by someone with skill, and Kishan, fortunately, has been trained in its use, though he hasn’t practiced in a long time.”
Kishan’s weapon was made of gold with diamonds embedded in the metal, similar to the gada. It had a curved leather handgrip like a yin-yang symbol. The metal edge was about two inches wide and razor sharp. I watched as he practiced, and he never caught it on the razor edge. He either caught it on the handgrip or on the inside of the circle.
“Do they normally return like that? Like a boomerang?”
“No. They don’t, Miss Kelsey.” Mr. Kadam stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Watch. Do you see? Even if he targets a tree it makes a good jagged slash in the trunk and then spins back to him. I have never seen that before. Normally it can be wielded like a blade in close combat or it can be thrown over a distance to disable an enemy, but it will remain embedded in the target until it’s retrieved.”
“It looks like it slows down when it approaches him too.”
We watched him throw a few more times. “Yes, I believe you are correct. It slows on approach to make it easier for him to catch it. Quite a weapon.”
Later that evening, when we returned to our hotel, Kishan placed a board game on the table after dinner. I laughed.
“You got Parcheesi?”
Kishan smiled. “Not exactly. This is called Pachisi, but you play it the same.”
We took out the pieces and set up the board. When Mr. Kadam saw the game, he clapped his hands together as his eyes twinkled with a competitive gleam.
“Ah, Kishan, my favorite game. Do you remember when we played with your parents?”
“How could I forget? You beat Father, which he handled fine, but when you beat Mother at the last roll of the dice, I thought she’d have you beheaded.”
Mr. Kadam stroked his beard. “Yes. Indeed. She was rather put out.”
“Do you mean you guys played this game way back when?”
Kishan chuckled. “Not like this exactly. We played the live version. Instead of pawns we used people. We constructed a giant game board and set up a home base that everyone had to get to. It was fun. The players would wear our color. Father preferred blue and Mother, green. I think you were red that day, Kadam, and I was yellow.”
“Where was Ren?”
Kishan picked up a piece and twirled it thoughtfully. “He was off on a diplomatic trip at that time, so Kadam subbed for him.”
Mr. Kadam cleared his throat, “A-hem, yes. If the two of you don’t mind, I would prefer to be red again, as the color brought me luck last time I played.”
Kishan spun the board so the red color was in front of Mr. Kadam. I picked yellow; Kishan, blue. We played for an hour. I’d never seen Kishan so animated. He almost seemed like a young boy again, with all the cares of the world lifted off his shoulders. I could easily envision this proud, handsome, taciturn man as a happy, carefree boy who grew up to stand in the shadow of his older brother, loving and admiring him, but at the same time feeling that he was somehow less important. Somehow less deserving. By the end of the game, Kishan and I had left Mr. Kadam in the dust. There was only one pawn left for each of us, and mine was closer to home.
On the last roll, Kishan could have knocked me out to win the game. He stared at the board for a moment studying it carefully.
Mr. Kadam’s steepled fingers were tapping his upper lip, which was turned up in a small smile. Kishan’s golden eyes met mine briefly before he picked up his pawn and skipped over mine, moving into a safety zone.
“Kishan, what are you doing? You could have gotten me out and won the game! Didn’t you see that?”
He sat back in his chair and shrugged. “Huh, I must’ve missed that. Your turn, Kelsey.”
I muttered, “It’s totally impossible that you missed that. Okay. Then too bad for you.” I rolled a twelve and made it all the way home. “Ha! I beat the two infamous live-version players!”
Mr. Kadam laughed. “Indeed you did, Miss Kelsey. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Kadam.”
Kishan helped me clean up the game.
I said, “Okay, so ’fess up. Why’d you throw the game? You’re not a good bluffer, you know. I could read your expression. You saw the move and deliberately skipped over me. What happened to doing whatever it takes to win?”
“I still do whatever it takes to win. Perhaps by losing the game, I won something better.”
I laughed. “Won something better? What do you think you won?”
He pushed the game to the side of the table and stretched his hand across to hold mine. “What I won was seeing you happy, happy like you were. I want to see your smile come back. You smile and laugh, but it never reaches your eyes. I haven’t seen you really happy these last few months.”
I squeezed his hand. “It’s hard. But, if Kishan, the ultimate competitor, is willing to throw a game, then, for you, I’ll try.”
“Good.” He let go of my hand reluctantly and stood up to stretch.
I set the game on the shelf and said, “Kishan, I keep having nightmares about Ren. I think Lokesh is torturing him.”
“I’ve been dreaming of Ren as well. I’ve dreamed that he begs me to keep you safe.” He grinned. “He also threatens me to keep my hands to myself.”
“He’d definitely be saying that. Do you think it’s a dream or a true vision?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
I pressed my hands on top of the game. “Every time I try to save him or help him escape, he pushes me away as if I’m the one in danger. It feels real, but how do we know?”
Kishan wrapped his arms around me from behind and hugged me. “I’m not sure, but I do feel he’s still alive.”
“I feel the same.” He turned to leave. “Kishan?”
“Yes?”
I grinned. “Thanks for letting me win. And for keeping your hands to yourself. Mostly.”
“Ah, but you forget, this is just one battle. The war is far from over, and you will find that I make a formidable opponent. In any arena.”
“Fine,” I offered. “Then it’s a rematch. Tomorrow.”
He bowed slightly. “I look forward to the challenge, bilauta. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Kishan.”
The next day at breakfast, I picked Mr. Kadam’s brain about the Dalai Lama, Buddhism, karma, and reincarnation. Kishan quietly listened while curled up at my feet as the black tiger.
“You see, Miss Kelsey, karma is the belief that everything you do, everything you say, every choice that you make, affects your present or your future. Those who believe in reincarnation live with the hope that if they make good choices and sacrifices in life now, they will have a brighter future or a better position in the next life.
“Dharma is about maintaining order in the universe and following the rules that govern all mankind in civil and religious customs.”
“So if you follow your dharma, you’ll have good karma?”
Mr. Kadam laughed. “I suppose that is an accurate statement. Moksha is the state of nirvana. When you have passed the tests the mortal world offers and you rise above it to a state of higher consciousness, you reach enlightenment or moksha. For this person, there is no rebirth. You become a spiritual being, and the temporal worldly things are no longer of import. The passions of the flesh become meaningless. You become one with the eternal.”
“You’re kind of an eternal being now. Have you experienced moksha? Do you think it’s possible to attain it while you’re alive?”
“That’s an interesting question.” He sat back in his chair and thought for a moment. “I would have to say that, despite my many years on this planet, no. I have not experienced total spiritual enlightenment; however, I have not truly sought after it either. My relationship with the divine is perhaps still a quest I have yet to take. That is not one I wish to tackle at this very moment though. Instead, how about a walk to the marketplace?”
I nodded, eager to see something new and focus on the more immediate quest at hand. The market was full of interesting products. We passed stands selling statues of Buddha, incense, jewelry, clothing, books, postcards, and malas—similar in purpose to Catholic prayer beads. Other interesting items we saw for sale were singing bowls and bells—which were used to produce sounds that helped focus energies and were also used in certain religious ceremonies and during meditation. I saw prayer flags and woven or painted thangkas. Mr. Kadam said the banners taught myths, showed important historical events, or depicted the life of Buddha.
At the appointed time, Kishan, Mr. Kadam, and I were ushered into the business office of the Dalai Lama. It was a testament to Mr. Kadam’s resources that we’d even gotten this far since usually only dignitaries made it into this office. We were met by an austere man dressed in a typical business suit who indicated that he would do an initial screening and that if our case proved urgent enough, he would refer us to an upper office.
He invited us to sit, and I was content to let Mr. Kadam wade through the interview. The man asked several questions about our purpose. Mr. Kadam again answered vaguely, hinting that the answers to his questions were not meant for just anyone’s ears. The man was intrigued and pressed harder for answers. Mr. Kadam’s reply was that the information we needed to share must be heard only by the Ocean Teacher.
At those words, I noticed a slight shift in the man’s eyes. The interview ended, and we were led into another room where we were met by a woman who continued the same line of questioning. Mr. Kadam kept to the same answers as before. He responded politely without giving away too much information.
“We are pilgrims seeking an audience on a matter of great import to the people of India.”
She waved her hand. “Please explain. What exactly is of great import?”
He smiled and leaned forward. “We are on a quest that has led us to the great country of Tibet. Only within its borders can we find what we are seeking.”
“Are you seeking riches? For you won’t find any here. We are a humble people and have nothing of worth.”
“Money? Treasure? These are not our purpose. We have come to seek the knowledge that only the Ocean Teacher possesses.”
Again, when Mr. Kadam mentioned the Ocean Teacher our interviewer abruptly paused. She stood and asked us to wait. Half an hour later, we were guided into an inner sanctum. The accommodations were more humble than the last two rooms. We sat upon old, wobbly wooden chairs. A reticent monk dressed in red robes entered. He looked down on us from his beaked nose for a long moment and then took a seat.
“I understand you wish to speak with the Ocean Teacher.”
Mr. Kadam bowed his head in silent acknowledgement.
“You have not shared your reasons with the others. Would you share them with me?”
Mr. Kadam spoke, “The words I would give you would be the same words I gave to the others.”
The monk nodded brusquely. “I see. Then I am sorry, but the Ocean Teacher has no time to meet with you, especially as you have been unforthcoming as to your purpose. If the matter you wish to discuss is deemed important enough, your message will be conveyed.”
I spoke up, “But it’s very important that we speak with him. We would share our reasons, but it’s a matter of trusting the right people.”
The monk looked thoughtfully at each of us. “Perhaps you would answer one last question.”
Mr. Kadam nodded.
The monk pulled a medallion from around his neck, handed it to Mr. Kadam, and said, “Tell me, what do you see?”
Mr. Kadam replied, “I see a design similar in nature to the yin-yang symbol. The yin or dark side represents the female and the yang, which is the light side, represents the male. These two sides are in perfect balance and harmony with one another.”
The monk nodded as if he expected that answer and stretched out a hand. His expression was closed. I knew he was going to dismiss us.
I hurried to interject, “May we look at the medallion?”
His hand arrested in midair before handing the medallion to Kishan.
Kishan turned the medallion back and forth for a moment and whispered, “I see two tigers, one black and one white, each chasing the other’s tail.”
The monk pressed his hands on the desk as I took the medallion and nodded with interest. I quickly glanced at Mr. Kadam, and then at the monk, who was now leaning forward waiting for me to speak.
The medallion was similar to a yin-yang symbol, but a line divided the medallion in half. The outline of white and black could be identified as cats, so I could easily see why Kishan had said they were tigers, each with a strategically placed dot for an eye. The tails curled around the center and twisted together around the bisecting line.
I looked up at the monk. “I see part of a thangka. A long, central thread, which is female, serves as the warp and the white and black tigers are both male and wrap around her. They are the weft which complete the fabric.”
The monk inched closer. “And how is this thangka woven?”
“With a divine shuttle.”
“What does this thangka represent?”
“The thangka is the whole world. The fabric is the story of the world.”
He sat back in his chair and ran a hand over his bald head. I handed him back the medallion. He took it, looked at it thoughtfully for a moment, and then placed it around his neck. He rose.
“Will you excuse me for a moment?”
Mr. Kadam nodded. “Of course.”
We didn’t wait long. The young woman who had interviewed us earlier instructed us to follow her. We did and were given accommodations in a comfortable suite of rooms. Our bags were packed at the hotel and brought to us.
We took an early dinner together after which Mr. Kadam and Kishan retired to their rooms. Having nothing better to do, I went to mine also. The monks brought me some orange blossom tea. It was an effective soporific, and I soon drifted off to sleep, but I dreamed fitfully of Ren again. In my dream, he was becoming desperate.
This time Ren was even more fiercely protective of me and demanded that I leave him immediately. He kept saying that Lokesh was getting closer, and he needed me to be as far away from him as possible. The dreams felt real, and I woke up crying. There was nothing I could do. I tried to comfort myself with Durga’s promise to watch over him.
Kishan joined me at the breakfast buffet the next morning. I was already at the end of the line spooning some yogurt into a bowl when Mr. Kadam entered, stepped behind me, and asked me how I slept.
I fibbed and said I slept well, but he studied the dark circles under my eyes and patted my hand knowingly. Guiltily, I turned away from Mr. Kadam’s perusal and waited for the monk in front of me as he finished putting fruit onto his plate.
The monk’s hand shook as he lifted a small piece of slippery mango from the bowl. He dropped it onto his plate with a splat and began the slow process of digging for another piece. Without looking at us, the old monk spoke, “I understand you wish to visit with me.”
Mr. Kadam immediately clasped his hands together, bowed, and said, “Namaste, wise one.”
My hand froze in midair—yogurt spoon and all—and I slowly turned to look into the smiling face of the Ocean Teacher.