It was getting late when one of the Dalai Lama’s security guards arrived with a visitor—Geshe Lhundup.
“You asked me to bring this to you, however late,” Geshe Lhundup said somewhat apologetically as he laid a cloth-wrapped text on the table in front of His Holiness.
“Thank you very much.” The Dalai Lama’s smile filled the room. Leaning over, he q
uickly unraveled the cloth wrapping to reveal the pages inside them.
“I made two copies. One for you, and one for me to study. The original is with security. First thing tomorrow morning, it will be taken to New Delhi for carbon dating.”
His Holiness was looking at the copy of the text. The long, narrow pages were covered in writing. “Have you had a chance to look at any of this?”
“Only briefly, Your Holiness.”
“I know you don’t like to say anything until you’re sure,” the Dalai Lama said as he waved his hand playfully toward Geshe Lhundup. “But do you have ideas about who might have written it?”
There was a pause while Geshe Lhundup tried to find the right words. “We can rule out any of the standard texts’ commentators. From some of the references I noticed, the document would have to have been written after the year 1500.”
His Holiness looked up, an intensity in his expression.
“My instinct still tells me that this text is from the time of the Great Fifth.”
“As you said earlier.”
“What I did not say”—here Geshe Lhundup lowered his voice—“is that I think at least part of this text may have been written by the Great Fifth himself.”
His Holiness’s eyes widened momentarily.
“Several different hands wrote this. One of them, in the central portion, has several distinctive qualities similar to the handwriting of the Fifth Dalai Lama. But, of course, I have to check most closely.”
The Dalai Lama nodded as he looked back at the text.
“I will leave you to study it,” Geshe Lhundup said as he stepped back.
“Yes. Thank you, Geshe-la.” His Holiness glanced up at the lama again with a smile.
Almost as an afterthought, Geshe Lhundup told him, “I’m sending the metal tube and leather carrier for carbon testing, too—though, of course, they may be younger than the text.”
The Dalai Lama pondered this for a moment before he said, “You may want to tell them to ignore any stray whiskers they may discover in the leather carrier.”
“Ah yes, I heard about that.” Geshe Lhundup glanced down at me. “HHC fell asleep in it earlier.”
I pressed my ears back at this remark.
“Perhaps she was trying to meditate,” suggested His Holiness beside me in a kindly tone. “You know how it is when we finally free our mind of agitation . . .”
“Indeed,” agreed Geshe Lhundup. “We seem conditioned to be in only one of two states: agitation or sleep.”
“Yes, yes. Remaining in a state of clear spaciousness, free from thought, isn’t easy. Especially when we are learning to meditate.” I felt his hand stroke my neck reassuringly.
His Holiness sat up late into the night reading the copy of the text. I could tell he was completely absorbed by it. Only well after midnight did he turn out the light. I felt him reach over to the end of the bed, as he always did when the room fell into darkness, to reassure me.
“You know, little Snow Lion, there are two kinds of treasures, or termas. One kind are physical termas, like the text. But more important, more valuable, are treasures of the mind. These revelations can be very precious. Mental termas can help us realize our true nature.”
In moments, I had drifted to sleep.
I’m in a harness strapped across the front of the novice monk. We are moving quickly along the side of the mountain. More than anything, I am aware of fear. Anxiety rises from the body of the novice, permeating the very cloth in which I am held.
“Om mani padme hum. Om mani padme hum.”