The Singing Bowl

CHAPTER 1

With Each Step… A New World

August 16, 1959

Outside, black smoke wafted against the red horizon, sunrise and war an unholy pair. Somewhere in a world that I had never experienced was a book I had never seen. Our Order had knelt and touched the kernel, the very mustard seed of life germinating along the hard road to wisdom. We no longer search for anything as base as the black tar that turns tin into gold, we desire true value, the Philosopher Stone that once discovered would bring peace. Within the recesses of my consciousness the Tenzin responded, You will know it when you find it.

My journey began with a step, but my foot never hit the ground. An explosion flung me into the air and I crashed to the earth like a rag doll. After the deafening roar… silence. Then, a strange garbled bell pounded in my head. While my eyes tried focusing on a world that only shimmered somewhere, over there, my mind tried to comprehend a world turned upside down. Covered in gravel and splinters of wood, I rolled onto some bricks and the world righted itself. Memories of fireworks exploded in my brain.

Where our meditation hall once stood, only a pile of rock and rubble remained. The Tenzin! I stumbled toward the burning mass trying to lift stones that seconds earlier had been walls. My task impossible, not because the beams and walls were too large, but because they were too small, there was nothing left. I stood in the center of the debris, paralyzed. The Tenzin was dead.

Despite being only inches from my face, I could barely hear the screaming woman. Her face was contorted in anger beyond recognition; her one good arm shook a broken doll in my face. My eyes focused, not a doll, a baby, she ran hysterically into a shroud of black smoke that blotted out the morning sunrise.

Another communist mortar round exploded well down the street. I knew this not by sound, but from the vibration shimmering through the ground. My hands raked at the rubble. Fingers bleeding, I scraped at bits of brick, throwing chunks over my shoulder. Rage pounded in my head. Flee Tibet! Leave Tibet! How could we be so idealistic, so naïve, so stupid? My brother and sister Gatherers disbanded! My meditation hall destroyed! Even my Tenzin dead!

I had never used the term my Tenzin before; it was against everything that the Gatherers believed. The circle understood that the ego needed verification of its existence by possessing things. He was not, My Tenzin. The anger clouding my mind dissipated and thoughts of revenge retreated, finally settling into my atavistic recesses where the savage in me existed. Soon, my consciousness took control and I could almost see the Tenzin smile.

My black robes and shoulder length jet-black hair had turned gray from the dust of the explosion. After a quick search, I held my satchel of coins, but the singing bowl was missing! I frantically searched and there it sat nestled fifty feet from where the explosion had thrown me. While cradling the precious artifact, another explosion propelled my face into the earth and a shock wave vibrated over my back. I spit out dirt while a strutting Chinese bugler nearly stepped on my hand. He blared the effective communist’s battle cry and my mind screamed… Move! The communists were marching from the north; I would flee south. No time for a farewell glance, I wrapped the singing bowl in a rag and ran for my life.

The gate exiting the inner garden swung uselessly on its hinges. Throwing it aside, I sprinted into the narrow road as a truckload of soldiers barreled past. Ears still ringing from the explosion, I frantically surveyed my surroundings and realized that in panic, my legs had carried me in the wrong direction. Blind with fear, citizens scattered for non-existent safety. A communist too terrified to even scream ran past, his back wet with blood. A Tibetan brandishing a pitchfork gave chase. Another truck stopped and a soldier leaped out. Casually raising his rifle, he very calmly shot the man with the pitchfork. The lifeless Tibetan collapsed at my feet. The soldier then turned and aimed his rifle directly at me. Completely exposed, I braced for the impact of a high-powered bullet. Then a most implausible thing happened, he looked directly into my eyes, shook his head as if I wasn’t worth the effort and lowered his rifle. His expression was that of a bored bureaucrat, who upon hearing the bell indicating the end of his shift, packs his briefcase and goes home. He jumped back in the truck and drove off.

Another truck overloaded with communists drove past and then another, and another. The main highway north of my little village of Sakya was being used to transport the invaders. I sprinted to the other side of the road stumbled down a small hill and crawled into a ditch. I followed it south, running, hiding and then running again. By nightfall, I was soaked in perspiration, hungry, scared and exhausted. A grass field provided berries and shelter for the night. Far in the distance, the intermittent spit of machine gun fire and occasional explosion made me cringe. Eventually, complete exhaustion overwhelmed me.

The next morning, I immediately regretted my night’s sleep. On one side of the road, displaced refugees shuffled south to Nepal while on the other side, in single file, Tibetan soldiers trudged north to certain death. Avoiding eye contact as they passed, the soldiers laid food and personal belongings at the side of the road, knowing that they would never need them. Refugees bent down and picked up the parcels aware that these meager supplies may mean survival. In complete silence, refugees bowed to walking corpses. I had never been so perplexed yet inspired by the human species.

Traveling south and resting often to conserve energy allowed me to trek through the night. The Nepal border was three hundred kilometers away. It would take roughly ten days to reach safety.

A few kilometers later, a farm came into view and I searched for water. The owner greeted me warmly and while filling a gourd, he offered a meal and shared that travelers dressed like me had passed. For the first time since the explosions I had hope, possibly some of the Gatherers were safe and heading toward Nepal. Over dinner, the family had to shout as my ears were still affected by the explosions, the children found this amusing and tried to hide their giggling. I ate heartily and thanked them for their hospitality. My offer of some coins was refused and the father explained that he knew of our Order and that it was his family’s honor to help. The cover of night arrived and with it, my departure.

The stars above Tibet were bright and clear and the road surprisingly empty. It was a beautiful night until ruined by the retort of a rifle followed by machine gun fire. It was far enough away that I knew the farmer and his lovely family were safe for now. I hoped that their generosity would be rewarded, but in my heart, I knew that soon their land would be taken. Hopefully, they would not lose their lives.

I set a pace that could be maintained for many hours and the night eventually allowed me time to contemplate. Haunted by the sound of the bullet tearing into the body of the Tibetan, I looked at the peaceful stars and wondered how one human being could do that to another. The specter of The Tenzin’s death came flooding red into my mind, the unimaginable waste, all that the Holder of the Teachings promoted was wisdom, peace, and enlightenment, in other words compassion.

While resting beside a tree and gazing at the stars, sadness engulfed me, the Tenzin used to love looking at the stars. He had so often taught, To understand one’s ego, one must stand under something larger than one’s self. Something so vast, so incomprehensible even the ego itself must bow. I checked the part of the meditation hall entrusted to me; unraveling the protective cloth my hands rotated the singing bowl. Somehow, it had survived the explosion unscathed. I wrapped the cloth around the bowl, took a swig of water and returned on my journey.

Below the raised road, the farmland was shrouded in morning fog and gray turned a delicate pink as the sun warmed the earth. The silence that accompanies each dawn was disrupted by a distant buzzing. The drone of an engine could not have been a truck as it approached far too quickly. My eyes strained. High in the sky a glint of metal formed into a plane and the red star on its green fuselage plunged directly towards me. Its wings spit orange and I flung myself into the lowland. The dirt around me exploded. I found myself running toward the only perceived safety in this flat barren field. My legs raced towards the fog! The engine of the plane strained as it began to bank, lining up for another strafing. The fog teased as a breath of air dispersed it, fortunately fingers of gray eventually reached out. Bent over, I gasped for air as the engine droned closer, I could barely hear its pistons over my pounding heart. With only the illusion of protection, I stood defiantly. Bullets whistled past, leaving tracer lines in the fog before thumping into the earth.

On the third pass, the sound of the bullets was farther away. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of lead ripping through flesh. An agonizing death groan followed. The engine faded away as either the pilot had satiated his lust or the plane had run out of bullets.

Stumbling in the fog, I came across a horse riddled with holes, but not yet dead. Not wanting to die, its eyes searched frantically. I could only stand helpless as his front legs thrashed, his hindquarters immobile. It struggled to stand, but fell to earth with a great grunt of air and spurts of blood. Its front legs kicked in agony while I remained impotent. As if afraid, the fog retreated.

The animal made a sound and my mind rejected what it was asking of me. It was simply too awful to comprehend. The huge beast’s powerful body showed muscles from years of plowing fields and its mouth still held half chewed grass. Its nose snorted in short gasps, wide eyes pleaded and a pained rush of air gasped from its lungs, front legs again flailed uselessly. Panicked eyes pleaded, soul to soul. I walked away and returned with a large boulder over my head. There was a sickening crunch and a retching odor as its cranium cracked and ooze dripped onto the ground. My hands were covered in blood and brain. The animal was no longer suffering. Now, only I suffered.

A strange nothing came over me and I stood outside my body as if I would never be whole again. My legs returned me to the road and my body continued south. Unknown hours passed, when suddenly, I realized that my ankles were wet from standing in a pristine lake. The clouds clung to the crags of the high mountains and despite the beauty surrounding me, only one thought pounded in my brain, I had killed a living thing.

I stripped naked and bathed, but in the pure lake water, I felt impure. It was August and in only a few months, a person would freeze to death if they swam here. I wanted to remain until the water froze and imagined days passing, the lake beginning to crystallize. I would solidify, slowly becoming part of the lake. Already I could feel my heart hardening. Shivering, my eyes were drawn back to the beauty, the jagged peaks, the cotton clouds and the calm cobalt lake. Only thirty kilometers from my home in Sakya and The Tenzin’s voice reminded me, Leaving Tibet might be harder than if you stay. I dunked my head then rose and stretched to the surrounding mountains. The morning sun, now high in the sky, warmed my body. I dressed and looked for a safe place to rest until dusk. Over the crest of a hill was an abandoned shed, isolated and unlivable, perfect for my needs.

Finally, there was time for morning meditations. I unraveled the singing bowl and placed it in my lap. While sitting in the half lotus position, I took deep relaxing breaths and remembered the first lessons that the Tenzin ever gave on its proper use. I slowly dragged the round wooden stick over the outside of the bowl’s lip. A singing bowl, properly stimulated, could make many sounds simultaneously. When the stick was moving at the perfect speed and angle, the seven metals in the bowl vibrated throughout the chakra points that control our human bodies.

This time however, nothing happened. Worried, I quickly checked the bowl for damage, there was none and I tried again. The best the bowl could do was a shrill shriek. There were no vibrations or music. I even checked the round stick polished from years of use. Confused, I carefully wrapped the bowl and returned it to my backpack. I then curled up and failed to sleep.

Evening crickets alerted me, meaning another twenty or thirty kilometers awaited. A gentle upward grade announced the entrance to the pass between two giants. To my left were the foothills of Sagerimatha, better known to the outside world as Mount Everest. On the other side of the road were the foothills of the nearly equally gigantic Gosainthan. The pass between these behemoths was much like my little country of Tibet, sitting humbly between China and India.

• • • • •

As the road ascended, I came to a small stone shrine. An elderly woman greeted me with traditional respect and courtesy and in return I bowed deeply. Atop the stones, a prayer flag flapped, the breeze blowing its prayers in the direction of Nepal, a good omen. I gave the woman some fruit while she explained that none dressed like me had passed. Continuing south, her words weighed heavily. For the next two days, the road became very steep, forcing me to lean forward. As my nose came closer to the road, it felt as if I bowed to the will of Sagerimatha.

Except for the odd yak, there had not been another life form for days and considering that tigers prowled this area at night, I decided to risk traveling during daylight. I had hoped to make it through the pass in two days, but it was already day four and I was just now cresting the summit. All Tibetans are accustomed to the thin mountain air, but the falling snow slowed my progress. Alone with my thoughts, the seldom-used road thankfully began to descend, meaning that there were only a few days until the border of Nepal.

By observing the animals and smelling the air, I was an expert at forecasting weather, however, in this pass there were few animals and smells were dampened by fresh snow. Despite being at one of the highest elevations in the world, it was impossible to get a clear view of the horizon, meaning that unseen storms could build for days, then attack with no warning. This storm climbed over Sagerimatha and swept down on me with a vengeance.

For two days, a small grotto provided shelter. Although worried that the delay slowed my progress, I took solace that the enemies of Tibet would also be hindered. Even the elite Communist Mountain troops would never be able to handle this weather. I attempted meditation and again tried unsuccessfully to make the singing bowl sing. The Tenzin had often told me, Sometimes it will sing and other times it will remain silent. Many believe the bowl is in harmony with the vibrations of the user. Where there is no oneness, no sound will be heard. Sighing, I remembered the sense of separating from my body after killing the horse.

During the howling storm, I worried about my brother and sister Gatherers. Our only objective was to serve and during our meetings, we focused on listening, hearing rather than being heard. With any knowledge gained, we followed the examples of The Tenzin, offering compassion to the world. Each individual in the group had his expertise and passions. Many called me The Book-Hunter, as I was skilled at finding books of great knowledge. Unquestionably, this was why The Tenzin had sent me forth to find a book lost to the world. Many Tibetans believe that books, hidden by our ancestors, are discovered when we are ready to understand their message. I was young when the great book The Bardo Thodol was discovered. It was a powerful experience watching the world learn from this once lost book. I had gained some acknowledgement within the circle when I discovered that the title of the book The Bardo Thodol, which means, The Book of Liberation Through Understanding in the Between, was misinterpreted in the west as The Tibetan Book of the Dead.

Other Gatherers had different, yet equally important skills. Historical experts, scholars, mathematicians, practitioners of mystical meditations and followers of different religions made up our circle. Male or female, rich or poor, it made no difference. The only qualification was the answer to one simple question asked by The Tenzin, Are you a kind person? When my father brought me before the Holder of the Teachings, I searched my mind trying to find the most enlightened answer. I asked educated people, What is kindness, and studied books on the self, trying to find out who I was, but in frustration I eventually asked The Tenzin for help. His answer was surprising, The Order has been here for many generations.

He had clearly chosen the word generations, for my benefit and with the stress of the moment released, my answer instantly crystallized, I try. The Tenzin simply smiled and told me when the next meeting was. That was it. No ritual, or fanfare, just acceptance, I had become a member of the Geluk Order.

Many years later, a sister told me, Only one in a thousand is accepted by the Holder of the Teachings and never before could any of us remember someone being accepted on their first answer. Now however, the communists had scattered us and we would no longer have the advantages of the circle. In my little grotto, I missed The Tenzin. I looked out into the winter wonderland and Sakya seemed very far away. In the distance, there was the unmistakable growl of a snow lion, the sacred guardian of my beloved country. Large snowflakes parachuted to earth and solitude was embraced in silence. Something inside me healed, just a little.

Finally the storm ended and for two days I walked through knee-deep snow that tried to hold me back with every step. It was important to count the number of dried riverbeds crossed, if I needed to backtrack, these innocent creeks could quickly turn into impassable rivers. In a day, a strong man could cross two or three at best before exhaustion. In those two days, there was not a glimpse of the mountains guarding the pass. Two mountains, both over eight thousand meters high and yet for those two long days of struggle, they were hidden. I would like to have viewed them one last time, while still in Tibet, but they remained cloaked in clouds. Far above on an unseen cliff, a snow lion roared.

• • • • •

This was the time when an error might occur. A nervous Nepal sentry could easily mistake me for a communist. Thick fog made me a shadowy figure so I wanted to get closer before shouting a friendly greeting.

Suddenly, in the gray, a second shadow moved when I moved. I froze and it froze. I was too far from the forest to dash back and yet too far from the guard to sprint for the border. The figure raised a hand signaling me to stay and I obeyed. The mysterious figure then walked up to the guard who suddenly swung his rifle off his shoulder and pointed it at the shadow. Inexplicably the guard roughly pushed the stranger to the grass and shouted in Chinese. I instantly threw myself onto the ground, praying that the fog would not burn off.

From behind there was more Chinese and the lights of a truck bounced down the very road where I lay prostrate. If I stood to run, the driver would see me. As its engine grew ever closer I gripped the earth and willed myself to remain. The truck drove directly over me. Caught in the vortex of the vehicle, the fog was sucked away leaving me completely exposed. Five communists laughed and smoked cigarettes in the back of the truck. Without raising my head, I slowly looked behind and saw a camp with perhaps a hundred soldiers!

The communists had set up a border crossing on the Tibetan side, making the border guard for Nepal another hundred meters beyond their post. In the fog, I had walked right through their encampment as oblivious of them as they were of me. Now, until the fog covered us again we were all exposed. I buried my face into the earth and whispered over and over, You can’t see me. You can’t see me. It seemed like forever until the fog slowly closed over their tents. My fingers would not unclench from the earth.

Soldiers yelling at the poor soul who had stopped me from wandering into the Chinese guard brought me back to my senses. They lifted the figure into the back of the truck and I recognized her as a fellow Gatherer! She must have been ahead of me the entire journey. She had committed the highest selfless act, giving herself up to save another, then one quick movement of her eyes towards Nepal and I understood. The communist guard was gone. He had jumped into the back of the truck, no doubt to receive praise from his superior. For a brief moment, the truck blocked the view of the soldiers near the tents and she said something that made the guard kick her viciously then spit on her. While the other soldiers laughed, she had provided me with the distraction needed, it was now or her sacrifice would be in vain. I stood and raced past the communist checkpoint.

A voice yelled, Stop, but I continued running like a wild man, directly at the shocked Nepal border guard. Startled, he raised his rifle and again shouted, Halt! Our terrified eyes locked and I thought of how I had so carefully planned to approach in a non-threatening way. The guard put the rifle nervously to his shoulder and aimed. I was fifty meters from him when he shrieked, Please… stop!

I ignored his order and behind me, the communist camp exploded with activity. Officers shouted and soldiers obeyed, guards scrambled back into position and once organized gave pursuit. The lone guard for the Nepal border had a choice; I was either leading the attack or running from it. His muscles twitched getting ready to shoot, but either my speed surprised him or he decided that I was fleeing. I found myself in Nepal and alive.

The communists had raced after me, but decided that they could not invade another country. Frustrated, they raged back and forth, but ultimately did nothing. The guard and I were relieved as they climbed angrily back into the truck and disappeared into the fog.

We both listened impotently, unable to come to my savior’s aid as screams carried into Nepal. My mind tried to block out horrible images while enraged cries shattered the silence. To distracts us from the unforgettable sounds I asked, Why, did you not shoot me?

Your clothes, you are a Gatherer are you not? I nodded. We have heard of you, it is an honor to have you in our country. Others have passed this way.

I put my arm on his shoulder as a gesture of gratitude. Unable to enjoy this knowledge, I thought of the bravest soul I had ever met and worried for the woman who sacrificed her freedom and maybe her life for me. Soldier’s shouts and insults continued her degradation. I felt shame. The Tenzin had been right when he told us, It may be harder to leave than to stay and fight.

CHAPTER 2

Katmandu

From the encampment came an oppressive silence. Breaking the stillness the guard asked, Where will you go next? I shrugged not really knowing as everything had happened so fast. He brought out a map and his finger traced a road through the Nagarjun Forest into the valley. In two days, I could walk the fifty kilometers to Katmandu. It is an easy trail, with limestone caves for shelter, and then he answered my question despite his perplexed expression, Yes, many books. I thanked him again for not shooting and he shouted after me, Watch out for wild animals, there are many leopards and such in the area.

I strolled along a dirt road lined with autumn trees. What could only be described as a frantic flock of butterflies fluttered beside me, magnificent in their variety of color and size; they somehow made my legs limber and my feet light. Flowers were in their last bloom and beautiful petals covered the ground. The taller trees were changing colors and eventually, cold winds from the mountain pass would sweep down turning this entire forested valley white, making all travel here impossible. My poor little Tibet would soon be frozen from the outside world. Now however, the entire valley had the clear tang of fall, cold was in the air even as the sun promised warmth. While the kilometers passed easily, winter seemed both far away and just over the mountains.

With the setting sun, a welcoming limestone cave offered both protection and warmth. Fire reflected on the ceiling while faint gusts of wind set the flames dancing. Being out of a war zone gave me an unbelievable sense of energy. Thus motivated, I rose before sunrise and allowed a hike to warm my stiff muscles. Sitting on a rock outcropping high over Katmandu Valley, I gazed at the peaks of the Himalayan Mountains. A small tree provided protection from the morning mist, while a soft glow at one end of the valley announced morning. I began meditating and encouraged the singing bowl. It cooperated, humming over the valley.

The sound of rustling leaves penetrated first my brain, then my mind, then into my being, bringing consciousness nearer. Thoughts came and went. Images appeared then disappeared. My mind wandered to the past, where at the back of a second hand store I had found an old and tattered book that revealed the genius called Plotinus. His words floated before me, We must therefore, meditate upon the mind in its divinest aspect in order to discover the nature of intellect. This is how we may proceed: from man, that is from thyself, strip off the body; then lay aside that subtle power which fashioneth the body; then separate thyself from sensuousness, hankering, and anger and each of the lower passions, that incline thee towards, worldly things. What remaineth afterwards in the consciousness is what we call, ‘the images of intelligence,’ which emanated from the mind, as from the mighty orb of the sun emanateth the surrounding sphere of luminosity. Above intellect, we shall meet that which is called the, ‘nature of the Good.’ The Good, which is transcendent over the Beautiful. Man must amalgamate himself with the Principle that he possesseth innately. Then from the manyness that he was, he will have become one.

Sweeping stars from the sky, morning light radiated majestic pink across the horizon. Solitude dominated my entire being, not loneliness, but expanded consciousness; of being one with the sunlight streaming down the valley, with the song birds greeting the light and even one with the depths of the forest where the snow lion yawned contently. Eventually, the rays of the sun became purple and then heavy clouds formed. Adding to nature’s song was the smell of a shower wafting throughout the valley and plump raindrops danced as they struck the ground. Encouraged by the wind, black clouds bullied their way down the valley. Below me lightening flashed and thunder roared while more willful winds shoved the storm deeper into the gorge. Electric clouds glowed orange and yellow and the warming earth forced them to rise and wrapped me in gray.

The singing bowl’s song joined nature’s mounting symphony, resonating across to the far hills and returning as an even deeper echo. The melody played in the middle of the valley, while vibrations pulsated through my hand, into my arm, down my spine and then directly into the earth, attaching me to the spinning of the planet. The air crackled while life itself shimmered and pealed. The bowl sang louder and I was one with all these sights and melodies, all the smells and all the vibrations and so much more, Plotinus would have been proud.

A poem danced before my eyes, sadly so old, that the author had long been forgotten.

The mind of man searches outwardly all day.

The further it reaches,

The more it opposes itself.

Only those who look inward

Can censor their passions

and cease their thoughts.

Being able to cease their thoughts,

Their minds become tranquil.

To tranquilize one’s mind is to nourish ones spirit.

To nourish one’s spirit is to return to nature.

As suddenly as it had begun, the singing bowl stopped and the storm quieted. I rose and started down the trail, the valley looked washed and clean, trees and bushes were dripping with freshness and small brown birds happily washed. I had finally healed from the harrowing experience of having killed a living thing; I was once again, whole.

The narrow dirt road became wide and I greeted my first farmer in days. Nepal farmers had the same needs as Tibetan farmers, whenever a stranger passed, they asked for information about the world; that is anything between their farm and the nearest large city. Beyond that, they had no need and therefore no interest. As my gourd was replenished, I shared that snow in the pass between Sagerimatha and Gosainthan would soon bring winter. Upon my departure, he kindly slipped a small package of biscuits into my pouch. While bowing gratefully, a horse drawn cart bounced along the road and I contemplated running after it but chose not to. Little did I know that before my arrival in Katmandu, I would regret this decision.

Evening arrived and the road remained empty. Fog seeped between the mountains like silent rivers. Ebb tides swirled and rip tides churned. From the many alpine passes the great gray crept, its fingers reaching out and slowly engulfing the road, muffling all sound. My feet picked up the pace and I wished that I could hear something. Until of course, I heard something.

A loud snap of dry wood indicated that the branch was thick and whatever broke it was both large and close. I froze as my brain accepted what it already knew; the sound was the one that I prayed not to hear. Breathing, not human, the lungs of an animal exhaled only meters away. My legs moved, not too fast, not too slow and the fog to my left moved. A shudder caressed my body and I suppressed panic. Beside me was an enormous snow lion! The black tip of his tail was the only color on his entire body; he was an albino snow lion.

Panic meant death. My legs ceased movement and the snow lion stopped. It breathed… I tried not to hyperventilate… deep breaths… another step. We continued one step at a time, for what seemed like an eternity.

To control my panic, I began making small talk to my eighty-kilogram companion. We discussed the Gatherers and Buddhist philosophy, particularly the perception that all is illusion and he purred with interest. When I discussed being a book-hunter a rather intimidating growl emanated. I chose to assume that sound was to keep his mind off an empty stomach. I praised his thinking.

Suddenly with the flick of his tail, he vanished into the swirling fog. It was only then that I noticed Katmandu. Behind me a snow lion roared.

• • • • •

For a better view, I climbed to the summit of Chandra Gil and looked northeast over the sprawling city. Gosainthan’s south face and many of the mountains surrounding Sagerimatha were sparkling. In the valley below, hundreds of thousands of people lived, but it was the air hanging over the city that caught my attention. It was brown and smelled like diesel. A paved road encircled the entire city and the Vishnumati River sliced through the center like a jade necklace. I made a mental note of a tall smokestack and headed for my destination.

Completely intimidated, I took refuge on the sidewalk, watching how people avoided the cars that belched black toxic smoke. Suddenly, a stranger rushed over and stared intently at my clothes, then asked, rather abruptly if I needed help. His face, inches from mine, glared into my eyes, his breath reeked of onion as he explained that this was the Ring Road.

Children played and old folks shuffled, small groups of people congregated and larger groups swarmed, farmers sold their produce and people hawked family trinkets, all the while mules pulled carts and bicycles avoided trucks. I was not even in the busy section of the city and already I had seen more people than in my entire life. I watched half shocked and half in awe, as people jumped out of the way of honking cars and children ran in front of screeching brakes.

I must have looked bewildered as a second person quickly approached asking if I was lost. No, I answered. But I don’t exactly know where I am. This woman stood a comfortable distance from me and had the kindest smile. Her face however was very serious. I could not help myself and I stared rudely, it was her eyes, they were green. I had never seen green eyes before. My attention wandered, her teeth were brilliant white and her smile made her face sparkle with friendship. An undeniable energy emanated from those eyes and I was immediately attracted to her. I then turned to thank the other stranger for his offer of assistance, but he had melted into the crowd, leaving behind a peculiar odor.

Bemused and slightly out of breath, she leaned close and whispered, You are a Gatherer? I nodded and noticed that she did not make me feel uncomfortable, as the other stranger had, Are you fleeing the war in Tibet? My head dropped, too embarrassed to say yes. Others have common sense too. My heart leapt; some from our circle had made it into the city.

Have you seen them? She nodded. Do you know where they are? Unbelievably, she again nodded. Can you take me to them?

She coldly responded No. My heart sank. My eyes pleaded and she added, The Holder of the Teachings told me not to allow you to close your circle. That may only happen once the mysteries have been solved.

I said slightly too loud, The Tenzin spoke to you?

She answered casually while her hand on my elbow guided me across the road, He came this way a year ago and told me that the Gatherers would soon be disbanded. A year ago! I froze and a motorcycle swerved nearly hitting me. Her fingers squeezed my elbow and we continued. On the other side of the road she ever so gently caressed my cheek. I am very sorry for your loss, but we need to leave here. I know a safe place where you can stay. Of course you will want to know where all the bookstores are.

Like a lost child, she took my hand and quickly guided me through the maze called Katmandu. She stopped in the middle of a bustling sidewalk and looked at me with a very worried expression, You still have it don’t you? I looked at her quizzically until she added, the singing bowl, you still have it? My hand searched under my robe. Good. Remember that the Tribhuvan Airport is at the end of this road. You may need to use it someday.

We darted into a narrow alley. As if reading my mind, she pulled me close, The Tenzin told me last year that you would receive the singing bowl and that the mystery you were to solve was finding some book lost to the world. My mind reeled. Hurry, she scolded, it’s not safe out here and watch for pickpockets, they would love to get their hands on that singing bowl. While she grabbed my sleeve and pulled me along, my instincts told me that she was not just warning about simple pickpockets.

While hurrying through impossibly crowded streets, people passed in a blur and life spilled out of every window. Just as she pointed out the Hanuman Dhoka, the old Royal Palace with its many courtyards, we turned a corner and a huge block of the city opened to us. This is Durbar Square we’re nearly there. I spotted the smokestack that I had made a marker when my shoulder was jerked, Here, quickly, in here.

The earth under my feet seemed to twirl and dizziness engulfed me. The huddle of temples, shrines and old buildings swirled and I tripped. I had a hard time breathing and again, it was as if she read my mind, You are not used to the pollution and the low altitude. She held my arm giving me strength and we stumbled across the square. Not much farther. It’s the building with the name above the door. My eyes tried to focus, but I had difficulty reading, Kasthamandap. I struggled trying to remember why I knew that name when she suddenly threw the door open and nodded to a huge, overweight man. He smiled oddly and waved a loaf of bread in our direction. With her arm under my shoulder to support me, I was helped into a back room. I tried to speak, but could not. I felt under my robe and my last thought before losing consciousness was that the singing bowl was gone!

• • • • •

Despite waking both alert and desperate, I was most surprised by the fact that I had slept for eighteen hours. My clothes were replaced with the typical dress of the Nepalese and so having no choice I slipped on the colorful robe. While absent-mindedly rubbing my sore head I wondered if, that apparently kind woman, had drugged me and stolen the singing bowl. No answers were to be found in this room, so I shuffled wearily to the door.

It was a cold, clear day and the population was carrying on with their daily chores. Across the street an ancient, square edifice proudly rested on a pedestal of large and oddly inviting steps. Half hoping to spot the singing bowl, I sat watching the activity of Durbar Square and despite having more people around me than at any other time in my life, I felt completely alone. While contemplating the name of the building I had slept in, Kasthamandap, it came to me, a Gatherer had told me about this very place, in one of those conversations you only half listen to but somehow remember for years. He had been sharing historical facts about Nepal and casually mentioned that Gatherers had used this building for hundreds of years.

A voice behind me bellowed, Coincidences upon coincidences, imagine finding you on the stairs of the Maju Deval temple. I turned and peered at a vaguely recognizable face, it was the rotund owner of the hotel. It felt good to see even this half-familiar figure with his large round face carrying so many folds of fat his eyes were hard to see. He sat down with a grunt making his jowls quiver and hesitantly handed me a pastry. The way he looked at the food before handing it to me revealed that he seldom shared. I asked if he had seen the woman who had brought me to his establishment. Oh yes, she checked on you early this morning and again just before you woke. Tibetans often come down to the valley and become ill. The only Tibetan that never seemed affected was the Tenzin.

You have also met The Tenzin? I had thought that he had never left our little village of Sakya.

Many times. The stranger’s puffy eyes had tears as he mumbled to himself, A most remarkable teacher. I have not seen him in a long time and now I never… his voice trailed off. Then unexpectedly, in a gesture of pure friendship, this stranger put his arm around me, Come let’s go inside and find you some more food; it may not be safe for you out here. He groaned and his legs strained to raise his bulk off the steps. After two attempts and my assistance, his massive thighs powered him into the standing position.

By leaning forward his bulk built up momentum and I worried that he might topple, but just as I braced for his fall, a leg would whip out and propel him forward. He walked amazingly fast for a man his size and we quickly arrived at a small restaurant where he chose a discreet corner table with an unobstructed view. No one would easily sneak up on this man. He squeezed his girth into the small seat and a waiter greeted him warmly. It was obvious from their banter that he had visited often and soon, although neither of us had requested it, dosa, a delicious, spicy pancake arrived.

As we left the restaurant he called out, Dorje and waddled after a figure. He gasped for air and shouted back, Stay there and as soon as he left my side, panic engulfed me. Strangers passed, some bumping into me, my hand felt for the pouch of coins while I tried to recall the route back to my room. I placed my back against a brick wall so that no one would be able to come up from behind. I was learning.

After what seemed an eternity, I saw people part as his wide body approached. He smiled warmly and my own face broke into a grin. He had a half-eaten pastry from some other store and beside him was the woman who had helped me yesterday. Before he introduced us, he mumbled between bites and stared at his now empty hands, I bought you one as well, but sheepishly added, I must have eaten it. With a shrug he concluded, You remember Dorje?

Something was different about her. She had the attractive quality of being plain and beautiful at the same time. The type of beauty that men notice, but only if they are wise enough to look twice. She gazed directly into my eyes and smiled knowing that I had seen. I blushed and looked away. She did not.

The three of us walked through the square on the way back to my room. My acquaintance lurched ahead parting the crowd. As if in the wake of a large ship Dorje and I followed side by side. In a most appreciated gesture she slipped her hand in mine.

Durbar Square was much prettier than I had originally noticed as the colorful prayer flags flapped in the wind making a most agreeable sound. Everyone was dressed in bright orange, red or yellow robes, adding to the festive air. A sidelong glance at Dorje confirmed that she was remarkably beautiful. She turned and looked fully at me and smiled. Her teeth were white pearls, her eyes large and deep the most azure blue I had ever seen. How could I have thought that her eyes were green? If I stared too long, I would lose myself in them forever and so I averted my eyes and somehow knew that I would never be able to deceive her.

The room at the Kasthamandap gave me a sense of safety. As we relaxed I asked, Do you have the singing bowl?

Dorje answered with a disarming shrug, Yes, it is safe, you are not. Communists have sent agents into the surrounding countries. They watch for Gatherers who escape. My jaw dropped in shock, as this thought had never occurred to me. She added, Gatherers pose a threat to them.

I began to shake my head, but the hotel owner interrupted, Just by your existence they perceive you as a risk.

Utterly absurd, I argued, We Gatherers are no threat to anyone.

Your knowledge of what an individual can achieve frightens them. You have the advantage though, the communists don’t know your destination. Had The Tenzin given each Gatherer a mystery to solve, so that even we did not know our destinations? They know you wear similar robes, that is why we took your clothes. That man who met you on the outskirts of the city and told you about the Ring Road was an agent for the communists. Dorje risked her life for you. Surprised, I glanced her way and saw her looking at me with the same bemused smile as when we first met. Her eyes were now a serene shade of gray. Despite this shocking news, all I could think was… how do her eyes do that, change color with each new environment. It was a most attractive quality.

I clasped my hands in the traditional thank you and bowed deeply, You have the heart of a Gatherer. She blushed and looked even more radiant, if that was possible.

The hotel owner continued, My building has been secretly used by the circle for many years, so The Tenzin asked us to help escaping Gatherers find sanctuary. You are most likely safe from the communists, for now, as they watch only the perimeter of the city. Once a member of the circle crosses the Ring Road, entering the interior, they are protected. Ironic don’t you think?

Dorje added, You have much to think about, so we will leave you to sort things out. I should patrol the road in case other Gatherers arrive. She glanced at the hotel owner and then back to me, In your Nepalese clothes it’s safe for you to wander Katmandu, but be careful. Oh, by the way, you were disorientated from the elevation change and dropped the singing bowl in the street. I put it with your new clothes. She turned over a Nepalese hat and there it was.

As they began to leave I stood and blurted, Thank you both so very much, I don’t know what would have happened if not for you. Will I see either of you again? I made a point of staring directly at Dorje.

The hotel owner made me feel a little foolish as he chuckled, Well, this is my establishment.

Dorje answered, Maybe. Her eyes glinted light blue. Once the door closed behind them my mind swirled, so many things had occurred. Collapsing on the bed my thoughts exploded, The Tenzin must have been putting his plan in place for years. Having always thought of the Holder of the Teachings as wise, my admiration now bordered on the mystical.

There was only one place to ponder these thoughts, that being the friendly steps of the Maju Deval Temple. In the warmth of the late afternoon sun, there was something magical about these steps. Like all steps purposely built too big to easily scale, they were designed to be sat upon and thus served a higher purpose, providing an opportunity to contemplate. Gradually, the sun flickered below the horizon and the temperature plummeted. People hurriedly finished their chores and various shops closed. I stayed until the last vendor left and the square was empty. With only the sound of prayer flags flapping, it was time to return to my room and pull a blanket over my head. Sleep came quickly and my last conscious thoughts were of those remarkable kaleidoscope eyes.

After waking, I was determined to search out what Katmandu had to offer. My day of discovery began with the return to the perfect sitting steps where I saw my first Nepalese snowflake drift to the ground. It rested a moment, beside my worn sandals then melted as if never there. The sky and clouds were gray, but did not appear serious enough for a first winter snowfall. While observing that Nepalese snowflakes and Tibetan snowflakes fell exactly the same way, my head tilted seeing something odd. There was a difference between Tibet and the rest of the world. In Tibet, the sky was dark and the colors on the ground were light. The rest of the world was the reverse, lighter in the sky and darker on the ground. This had to do with Tibet’s elevation where the entire photosynthesis process was affected. It subtly gave the illusion of the world being upside down. While individual flakes continued to find their way into the dust of Durbar Square, turning wherever they landed into little goblets of clay, I longed for my tiny village of Sakya.

Deciding to meander through the city streets, I headed north and after many blocks came to the Hanuman Dhoka where the old Royal Palace’s courtyards or chowks, were open to the public. The manicured gardens would be spectacular in the summer. The largest of these courtyards, the Nasal Chowk was closed while an army of gardeners prepared the foliage for the coming winter. They worked with a sense of urgency as snowflakes willed their way to terra firma.

I left the palace and again entered the bustling streets. For no particular reason, I turned south and followed a lane as it bent eastward. There were so many shops, stores, and people that it took all my concentration to remember my way back to the hotel. Every street was the same, crowded and yet enthralling. The only city I could compare with Katmandu was Lhasa. This however was a sprawling metropolis compared to the mountain entrenched capital of Tibet.

I slipped into a promising bookstore. It was one just like this where I discovered, The Way of the White Cloud. This was early in my book-hunting career and The Tenzin had said that by finding this gem, I showed true promise.

This bookstore had the same musty odor, a smell that was always encouraging to a book-hunter. Books were scattered in apparent random patterns. I however, trusted that the owner could find any book she wanted as a sign above her counter read, If I have IT and can’t find IT in five minutes, IT is yours free. I scoured through the bookshelves and wondered what The Tenzin wanted me to find. The store had a good collection of early Nepalese history and many western magazines, all at least ten years old. I flicked through dust-covered books and felt frustrated with my mystery. Even if I found a lost book, how would I know that it was the one? I stepped over a pile of yellowing newspapers and turned at the end of an aisle coming face to face with Dorje!

I stared at her until she broke into a grin and I heard myself ask, What are you doing here?

Waiting for you. Before I could ask how she possibly could know that I would be in this particular building, she explained, I trusted that you would eventually find this store. The owner interrupted asking if we needed help. Dorje and I looked into each other’s eyes and without breaking contact she answered for the two of us, We are just fine, thank you. The owner returned to her desk, softly caressing books along the way. Dorje’s tone of voice seemed to imply that we had established a bond. I continued to stare; her eyes were the deepest shade of hazel. Finally she broke my trance, Is the book you are looking for here? I sighed and shrugged. Let’s go to Ratna Park. It is beautiful there. As we left, Dorje slipped her hand in mine.

From the store to the park neither one of us spoke. In the company of women, I was usually nervous and talked too much; it was wonderful to walk, holding Dorji’s hand, in absolute silence. We strolled through the park while snow fell with a growing enthusiasm and a thin blanket covered the ground and trees. At a lookout, I pointed out odd tracks in the snow, two paw prints with a distinct line drawn between them. Dorje asked if I knew what they were and I shook my head, The protector of your Tibetan land has passed this way recently. I looked into her eyes to see if she was teasing. No, it is true. They are the footprints of the snow lion, the protector of your land; it is rare for it to come so close to the city. The line between the two hind paw prints is its tail. This one appears unusually large. I told her my story of walking to Katmandu with a snow lion as my guide. I was surprised that she accepted my account so readily as she responded, He was protecting you. This is most fortuitous.

The snow was now falling in earnest. Finally, Dorje sighed and whispered so quietly that I almost did not hear her, You know what this snow means don’t you?

"In Tibet it means that winter has