Here in the airiness of the temple there was an easiness, a lightness that seemed to dissolve away the intensity of all those feelings. Like all the great Buddhist masters, Geshe-la was able to communicate in a way that went beyond words.
“So to cultivate compassion for others, first we begin with ourselves. And our practice must be meaningful, because superficial practice will only give superficial results. We must go beyond mere ideas and deepen our understanding. Can anyone here give me a definition of the word ‘realization’?” he asked.
Several hands immediately shot up from among the large group of monks at the front of the temple. When called upon, one of them replied: “When our understanding of an idea develops to the point that it changes our behavior.”
Geshe-la nodded. “Very good. And this development, this deepening of understanding is greatly helped by meditation. In a conventional state, the mind is usually quite agitated. What happens when you throw a rock into a choppy ocean? How much impact does it have? But take that same rock and cast it into a tranquil lake—then see the result.
“Same with the mind. When our minds are calm, quiet, and we consider, for example, self-compassion, our understanding deepens. There is a chance that, instead of just considering it a nice idea, we realize the truth of it. And, little by little, our behavior starts to change.”
The following day, His Holiness departed for a two-day visit to New Delhi. Left to my own devices, I allowed my afternoon visit to the Himalaya Book Café to include a doze. Before I knew it, Serena and Sam were about to take their end-of-evening hot chocolate—something of a ritual when both were on duty. The restaurant was down to its last few diners, and Serena had made her way up the low steps to the bookstore section. Two sofas were arranged on either side of a low table, and the spot provided a perfect vantage point for keeping an eye on the whole premises. Sam joined her and, a short while later, Kusali arrived bearing a tray of hot chocolates for the two of them. As on the other rare occasions that I had been around that late, he brought milk for me, too.
“That was a wonderful teaching Geshe-la gave last night,” said Serena, raising her mug of hot chocolate to her mouth.
&
nbsp; “And the meditation that followed,” Sam agreed from the sofa opposite.
“As always, the teaching seemed just exactly what I needed to hear.”
Sam nodded and glanced over to where a man sat at Franc’s piano, playing hotel-lobby standards with an assured ease. He wore chinos and a white shirt and had flowing, gray locks of hair and an air of mystery about him. I hadn’t been able to place him when he walked into the café earlier that day, but when Serena introduced him to Franc I remembered where I’d seen him before. He was Ewing, one of the longtime students at the Downward Dog School of Yoga. He paid only rare visits to the Himalaya Book Café.
“It’s interesting how things worked out for Franc,” Sam said.
Serena smiled.
When Franc first stepped into the café that morning with the dogs at his feet, he had been a man unburdened. Neither blazing with energy nor beset by gloom, his expression was relaxed. Under his arm, he had held some sheet music.
After waiting for the breakfast crowd to dissipate, Franc once again sat at the piano and lifted the lid. He placed the music in front of him. A Bach sonata. He played the self-contained piece of music with quiet deliberation—and a few fumbled notes, to which he made no obvious reaction. This time he didn’t have an audience. The staff in the café made an elaborate show of going about their business, apparently paying him no attention. After the Bach, there came Mozart.
When Serena arrived to take over before lunch, he’d told her, “I had a very good time on the piano today. But we need more than me for a soiree. Ideally someone who can read music and improvise. Even better, someone who can sing.”
He’d been in the manager’s office sorting out some accounts when Ewing arrived for a lunch date with a friend. As soon as Ewing stepped through the door, he had noticed the new addition to the café and made a beeline toward it.
Just as Franc had on the day it had arrived, Ewing inspected the piano with the keenest curiosity, unable to stop himself from pulling out the stool, sitting down, and raising the lid.
“Do you play?” Serena had asked.
“Oh yes. I used to be a prompter in New York and Europe,” he said in his soft American accent. “And for years I was the resident pianist in the lobby of New Delhi’s Grand Hotel.”
“Of course!” Serena nodded. “I remember, now. Will you play something?”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“I’d be delighted!”
Some minutes later, Franc emerged from the manager’s office, a sheaf of invoices in one hand and a calculator in the other. He stared at the source of a charming rendition of “On the Street Where You Live.” Ewing not only played the tune straight, he segued through different styles, throwing in a Chopin-like version before riffing off on a jazz interpretation.
Serena approached Franc and quietly explained Ewing’s background.
“Bravo!” Franc congratulated him after he’d ended. “Can you sight-read?”
“Pretty well.”
“Are you free this Friday night to perform in a concert?”
A slow smile crept across Ewing’s face. “In recent years I’ve been more at home in the background . . .”
“New venue, new gig,” Franc delivered with a mischievous smile. “Time to get into the foreground!”