Several Months in Tibet

Today is the birthday of one of my very close friends, Eric Dunaway. You can read his blog here: *insert something people can click on to read Eric's blog*

In honor of Eric, I would like to tell you all a little story about his meager beginnings. It all starts in the Himalayas...

Young Dawa was sweeping out the front hall of the monastery when he heard a strange noise from outside. Now, the icy Tibetan wind was always making strange noises, always finding the tiniest cracks to squeeze itself through, but this noise was certainly different, almost a mewling sound, like a kitten. Dawa pressed his ear against the door. Opening the door would mean a fierce blast of wind and dust and another hour or so of sweeping. He stood quite still, listening. There it was again, just outside the door. It certainly sounded like a kitten. And Tsewang would not be thankful for another mouth to feed, even one so small as that of a kitten.

Dawa turned to go when he remembered the words of Jinpa. "We should strive to give the most when it might cost us the most." He looked at the clean floor and at the doorway that led to his sleeping mat. Then he sighed and pulled open the door. There on the steps was a bundle, certainly larger and hungrier than any kitten.

"Bless you, Dawa," said Jinpa an hour later as the rescued infant lay sleeping contentedly wrapped in a bundle of furs. "You have done a wonderful thing."

"It doesn't smell so wonderful to me," grumbled Tsewang. In his old age, Tsewang had his own ideas concerning Buddha's teachings. It seemed to him just then that those left to die in the cold should be allowed to.

"Ah, yes. He is a healthy boy. That, at least, is cause for praise." Jinpa gathered some clean rags and began changing the baby. He was so gentle that the child never stirred. "He'll need a name."

"How about Mala?" offered Tsewang, referring, in Hindi, to the source of the unpleasant smell that now filled the room.

"Tsewang, may I suggest that you return to your sleeping mat? You will be far more amiable in the morning if you've had plenty of rest. Perhaps Dawa can bring you something soothing to drink." Jinpa cradled the baby and smiled warmly at Tswang, whom he considered, personally, to be about as useful as a pile of hot Mala.

Over the following weeks much was learned about the baby that was both shocking and perplexing. For starters, it wasn't a baby. He was thirty. And his name was Eric, which means "honorable ruler."

"Honorable ruler?" scoffed Tsewang. "What is honorable about shooting me in the head with little orange darts every time I turn around? He must come from a land of barbarians and fools!" Eric, being American, made no attempt to confirm or refute Tsewang's claim, but merely shot him in the groin with a foam dart. Tsewang's monastic robe did little to protect him and the old man fell to one knee, cursing under his breath. Jinpa quickly ushered Eric out of the room with promises of Oreos. "You froze them this time, right?" Eric was saying. "I swear to God Jinpa, you try to give me an unfrozen Oreo and you and I are going to have a Shawshank moment."

Several months passed. Jinpa assumed leadership of the monastery when Tsewang tragically choked to death on a foam dart. Life went on.

One day a notice was delivered, almost lost amidst the other deliveries of the day. It would seem that a Caucasian had been traveling by airplane when he failed to rise before flushing the airplane's toilet. He was sucked out and deposited somewhere in the region. His survival seemed unlikely, but the notice requested that any information on strange, wandering Caucasians be shared. There was contact information included at the bottom of the notice,

"Jinpa, could this be referring to Eric? Do you think he's foolish enough to flush himself down the toilet?" Dawa looked over in the corner where Eric had his finger inserted in his nose up to the second knuckle and was struggling violently to extract it.

"I just don't know, Dawa," said Jinpa with a sigh. "But I suppose we had better contact the authorities, just in case."

Oddly enough, the notice was talking about a completely different Caucasian, but they sent someone to collect Eric all the same. After all, Caucasians all look alike. Who would know?

Happy birthday, Eric. May Nerf darts and frozen Oreos rain down upon you this day, and may your crimes against the Tibetan monks be forgiven. Or not. It's not like they're gonna do anything about it.

Thank you,
      Matt Beers