Advice from a Holy Lama

Beware. There are demons and spirits in every nook and cranny of the school. They’re sitting in the ceiling on classroom crossbeams, where the rats scurry about and the crickets chirp at night. They’re on front steps, waiting to trip you up in the morning; the dogs sleeping there are wary. If you give way to lethargy and slip away to bed for a nap in the dorm room, you better check that a devil isn’t in there, pulling the covers up just under his eyes, waiting for you to lay beside him. The spirits have gotten into the students’ heads. They’re sneaking off into the woods for their first clandestine trysts. Others are getting sick, they’re failing tests, they’re crying and they don’t know why.

It’s time for a rimdro.

The demons will be exorcised. There is a team of monks in our assembly hall, headed by a holy lama. They call him, simply, “Lama.” The cymbals crash and the dungchen horn, twice the length of a man, reverberates its deep bellow; the gyaling cries at a haunting pitch, cuts the air, rattling it like a snake tail; there is a mellifluous babel of guttural, unworldly mantras echoing through the hall and into the sky. Lama leads the prayers. Om mani padme hum. Om mani padme hum. We’ve descended right into the pith of Mahayana.

The students and teachers crowd into the assembly hall and prostrate, first to Lama, then to Guru Rinpoche, enshrined on the second floor balcony.

“We bow to Lama first because he is the teacher,” K.D. tells me in a whisper, looking toward Lama but averting eye contact. “He shows us the way to Lord Buddha. We need the teacher to access the teachings of the Buddha. Lama is the first step to enlightenment.”

Lama sits on an intricately hand-painted throne. The monks are in lines moving out from his left and right flank. He recites prayers that sound as if they were born when the earth was, an ancient language spoken by crags and forests, by winding rivers and gnarled trees.

“Lama is well-known in Bhutan. He has studied everything about Buddhism and knows it in intimate detail,” I’m told.

I hold my hands together in prayer, point them high in the air like I am preparing for a dive, then bring them to my lips, and then to my chest and I kneel on the floor and press my head to the thin red carpet which is stained and soiled.

When the students approach Lama they cover their mouths—a sign of respect. They bow in veneration and he taps them lightly on the head with a silver pitcher, a blessing to cleanse them of bad karma. There are many students and teachers and townspeople that come for the blessings.  He’ll cure what ails you, is the word on the street.

After lunch, Lama leaves the assembly hall and meets with our principal and vice principal. I approach to sneak a picture and am caught red-handed. Lama looks at me and smiles. I bow slightly and principal signals me to approach. I think that I should cover my mouth and prostrate and put on my ceremonial sash. To approach without doing such things seems an insult. But there is no time now and I stand beside the principal as he speaks about me to Lama in Dzongkha. Recognizable words arise but the conversation is mostly incomprehensible to me. I catch: “America”, “teacher”, “one year”.

Lama looks at me and smiles. He speaks back to the principal, who translates, “Lama would like you to know that Buddhism is a good path. He is here to show you the path, but you must decide whether or not to take it.”

I bow in gratitude. “Yes, Lama. Thank you, Lama.”

The principal continues to translate, “Lama says that he has studied many religions and that he does not wish to say that one is better than the other. But one must choose a spiritual path and he thinks that you have not yet done that.”

I nod my head, “This is true, Lama.”

He is still smiling. His kind eyes look over me.

“Lama says that perhaps in a past life you were Bhutanese and that in the future you may be Bhutanese once again. Then you will follow the path of Buddhism. In this way you may reach nirvana.”

“Yes, Lama.”

The principal and Lama talk then for another few minutes while Lama looks at me. They are discussing something in earnest but now I do not understand any of the words. The principal himself is a holy man, they say, devout to morning and evening prayer, scholar of Tibetan astrology. What fate of mine are they analyzing? The state of my karma, perhaps? What direction this incarnation of mine will take?

They pause and the principal gathers his thoughts. He translates for me once again, “Lama says not to worry, he will find you a Bhutanese wife.”

“Come again?” I say.

“A wife. Lama says you and the Bhutanese woman can crossbreed. He says you will be like a horse and a donkey creating … what is it called?”

“A mule?”

“Yes, yes. You two will create like a mule.”

I hesitate and bow again. “Thank you, Lama.”

“He says the crossbreeds are often the most beautiful. With a Bhutanese wife, you would have beautiful children.”

“Uh, yes. Thank you, Lama.”

Lama smiles again, his kind smile. He nods toward me in farewell and walks back to the assembly hall. There, he chases away more demons, and bestows blessings.