![\"A](\"http:\/\/mugwortborn.wpengine.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/03\/83573355-291x300.jpg\")
\u00a0 Um grande criador da ilus\u00e3o das palavras<\/p><\/div>\n
Das pessoas que efetivamente conheci, algumas conheci durante toda a minha aparente exist\u00eancia, outras apenas por um breve per\u00edodo. Algumas est\u00e3o vivas, outras j\u00e1 morreram.
Algumas foram totalmente insignificantes, enquanto outras tiveram enorme significado para mim. J\u00e1 me sentei ao lado de incont\u00e1veis indianos no trem, compartilhando comida e conversa,\u00a0o nome da maioria dos quais j\u00e1 n\u00e3o existe mais na minha cabe\u00e7a. Tomei ch\u00e1 com um cara em Boston para falarmos do Darma sem saber que ele era Allen Ginsberg, tendo assim perdido a\u00a0oportunidade de discutir poesia com um grande criador da ilus\u00e3o das palavras. Conheci a mais bela rainha das dominatrizes, Whitney Ward, que me mostrou sua masmorra e que mais tarde\u00a0participou comigo de um puja de fogo. E conheci o terceiro rei do But\u00e3o, Sua Majestade Jigme\u00a0Dorji Wangchuck, que, quando eu era crian\u00e7a, costumava me erguer e carregar sobre seus\u00a0ombros. Ainda me lembro do cheiro de cigarro no seu cabelo.<\/p>\n
![\"439px-Jigme_Dorji_Wangchuck\"](\"http:\/\/mugwortborn.wpengine.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/03\/439px-Jigme_Dorji_Wangchuck-220x300.jpg\")
\u00a0Sua Majestade Jigme Dorji Wangchuck, o Terceiro Rei do But\u00e3o<\/p><\/div>\n
Dentre todas essas apari\u00e7\u00f5es, houve v\u00e1rias transi\u00e7\u00f5es, v\u00e1rias mortes e tamb\u00e9m v\u00e1rios\u00a0nascimentos. Houve um punhado de casamentos e bastantes div\u00f3rcios. Eu mesmo devo ter me transformado bastante ao longo desta e de todas as minhas vidas. Devo ter tido tantas outras\u00a0apari\u00e7\u00f5es antes: como p\u00e1ssaro, como inseto, como humano.<\/p>\n
No entanto, \u00e9 prov\u00e1vel que esta minha apari\u00e7\u00e3o atual tenha um valor extra, de uma certa\u00a0forma, por eu ter ouvido o nome de Gautama e ter adquirido esta admira\u00e7\u00e3o infantil pelo que ele tinha a dizer. Conheci tamb\u00e9m um dos maiores seres que jamais ca\u00edram dentro de um\u00a0caldeir\u00e3o de sopa de arroz, um ser que irrompeu como um norte, como a diretriz da minha vida. Quando eu tinha mais ou menos cinco anos, fui enviado para um internato. Pela primeira vez\u00a0na vida eu estava sozinho com desconhecidos, morando num dormit\u00f3rio. Foi uma grande mudan\u00e7a para mim, que fui criado numa fam\u00edlia muito grande e muito budista em Yongla, no\u00a0But\u00e3o ocidental, sempre rodeado de visitas e servi\u00e7ais, de iogues com dreadlocks que um fan\u00e1tico por Bob Marley adoraria e por ioguines t\u00e3o confiantes e desinibidas que teriam sido\u00a0candidatas perfeitas \u00e0 presid\u00eancia de qualquer organiza\u00e7\u00e3o feminista. Havia\u00a0 contentes\u00a0habitantes de cavernas que n\u00e3o entendiam o motivo de tanta preocupa\u00e7\u00e3o com se escavar a terra, erigir postes, construir telhados. Havia serenos monges que, provavelmente,\u00a0 jamais tiveram mais do que dez r\u00fapias em suas m\u00e3os. Tamb\u00e9m havia v\u00e1rios gomchen<\/em>[1]<\/sup><\/em><\/a>, tarados,\u00a0cujas provoca\u00e7\u00f5es e flertes com as mulheres me intrigavam infindavelmente e cujas atividades\u00a0podem ter contribu\u00eddo para a matura\u00e7\u00e3o dos meus horm\u00f4nios.\u00a0Todos os quartos na casa de meu av\u00f4 materno tinham um altar, ent\u00e3o, se algu\u00e9m quisesse peidar era preciso sair da casa. Havia pujas o tempo todo; eu acordava de manh\u00e3 com o aroma das oferendas queimadas e o som dos c\u00edmbalos, sinos e tambores, que lentamente se misturavam com o soar das cigarras, dos pombos e dos corvos. Deve ser por isso que adoro\u00a0tanto os filmes de Ozu, por causa dos sons que ele utiliza.<\/p>\n Drubwang Sonam Zangpo<\/p><\/div>\n Meu av\u00f4 era um renascentista; al\u00e9m de ser o iogue perfeito, ele era um excelente cozinheiro,\u00a0curandeiro, fazedor de incenso, escultor e arquiteto, sempre a reformar ou construir alguma estupa. Da soleira da porta em diante, l\u00e1 estavam sempre os ferreiros e art\u00edfices com seu\u00a0tinido, a trabalhar em objetos rituais enquanto o denso aroma da tinta butanesa, feita de\u00a0esterco de vaca, permeava o ar. Ainda hoje, sempre que entro num templo butan\u00eas\u00a0recentemente pintado algo me remete \u00e0 inf\u00e2ncia. L\u00e1 ainda se usa essa tinta malcheirosa,\u00a0ineficaz, gra\u00e7as ao Instituto Nacional Butan\u00eas\u00a0Zorig Chusum<\/em>[2]<\/sup><\/em><\/a>, que insiste em resguardar a\u00a0“tradi\u00e7\u00e3o” do But\u00e3o numa era em que est\u00e3o dispon\u00edveis tintas para pintura art\u00edstica modernas e\u00a0eficientes.<\/p>\n Conforme se aproximava o dia de minha partida, podia-se ouvir meu av\u00f4 resmungando sobre\u00a0como a educa\u00e7\u00e3o escolar p\u00fablica era uma perda de tempo. E talvez ele tivesse raz\u00e3o. Minha av\u00f3 resmungava junto. Ela se preocupava que, sendo uma escola crist\u00e3, eu pudesse perder\u00a0minha f\u00e9 no Buda e em seus ensinamentos e come\u00e7asse a enxergar os animais como sendo meramente comida. Seus resmungos, no entanto, n\u00e3o eram ruidosos. Eram murmurados,\u00a0hesitantes e corteses, em linguagem honor\u00edfica, como se resmungaria a respeito de algu\u00e9m por quem se tem enorme rever\u00eancia.<\/p>\n A ordem de me enviar para aquele internato ingl\u00eas partira de meu pai e sequer havia sido\u00a0proferida diretamente. Eu n\u00e3o era pr\u00f3ximo de meu pai; ele e minha m\u00e3e viviam em Kurseong, uma regi\u00e3o de veraneio nas montanhas de Darjeeling, na \u00cdndia. Ambos eram ocupados demais\u00a0para cuidar de mim eles pr\u00f3prios. Eles trabalhavam na All India Radio. Eu era muito mais pr\u00f3ximo de meus av\u00f3s; no entanto, sendo t\u00e3o jovem, qualquer crian\u00e7a pressup\u00f5e que, em\u00a0\u00faltima an\u00e1lise, ningu\u00e9m poderia am\u00e1-los nem se preocupar mais com eles do que os pr\u00f3prios pais. Lembro-me de como eu ficava animado quando havia visitas de Kurseong, \u00e1vido por\u00a0alguma mensagem ou sinal dos meus pais. No entanto, as mensagens nunca eram pra mim, eram sempre para meus av\u00f3s.<\/p>\n At\u00e9 que um dia chegou um emiss\u00e1rio a p\u00e9 de Kurseong, portando instru\u00e7\u00f5es para que me\u00a0enviassem para uma escola de l\u00edngua inglesa. Deve ter sido dif\u00edcil para meus av\u00f3s, j\u00e1 que n\u00e3o havia como discutir com meu pai, mesmo que tivessem se atrevido a faz\u00ea-lo. Mandar uma mensagem de volta at\u00e9 Kurseong levaria semanas e, de qualquer forma, meu pai n\u00e3o teria levado em considera\u00e7\u00e3o a apreens\u00e3o deles. Sendo meu pai, era dele a autoridade para fazer\u00a0comigo o que desejasse; al\u00e9m disso, ele era filho de Dudjom Rinpoche, o mestre espiritual deles; assim, n\u00e3o ousaram reclamar.<\/p>\n Padre William Mackey<\/p><\/div>\n Primeiro, fui enviado por um breve per\u00edodo para uma escola perto de Yongla, em Khidung (que\u00a0tanto pode significar “aldeia de merda” quanto \u201cespiral de concha\u201d), mas logo fui transferido\u00a0bem mais para o norte, para uma escola em Tashigang e, por fim, para a rec\u00e9m constru\u00edda\u00a0Escola Kanglung, sob a dire\u00e7\u00e3o do Padre William Joseph Mackey, jesu\u00edta canadense.<\/p>\n A Escola Kanglung viria a se tornar a faculdade Sherubtse, a primeira faculdade do But\u00e3o; na\u00a0\u00e9poca, no entanto, n\u00e3o passava de um pequeno internato. Lembro de me preocupar bastante\u00a0com o fato de que o muit\u00edssimo rigoroso supervisor do dormit\u00f3rio costumava verificar nossos\u00a0len\u00e7\u00f3is diariamente, para ver se algu\u00e9m tinha feito xixi na cama. O garoto que dormia ao meu\u00a0lado tinha esse h\u00e1bito. Eu passava as noites acordado, insone, apavorado com a possibilidade de tamb\u00e9m fazer e ser humilhado publicamente. N\u00e3o sei o que aconteceu a muitos desses colegas, mas alguns se deram bem na vida e se tornaram servidores das Na\u00e7\u00f5es Unidas ou\u00a0chefes de pol\u00edcia.<\/p>\n De toda a forma; numa certa manh\u00e3 chuvosa, ap\u00f3s alguns meses de Padre Mackey, um\u00a0caminh\u00e3o com uma ca\u00e7amba de madeira estacionou na estrada acima da escola. Autom\u00f3veis eram raros no But\u00e3o daquela \u00e9poca, ent\u00e3o, todos os alunos correram colina acima e se amontoaram ao redor, na chuva, para ver do que se tratava. Todos esperavam por not\u00edcias de casa. \u00c9 costume no But\u00e3o, ainda nos dias de hoje, que as fam\u00edlias enviem embrulhos de queijo\u00a0curado, flocos de milho butaneses ou pimentas desidratadas e em geral a chegada de um caminh\u00e3o era sinal disso.<\/p>\n Aquela n\u00e3o seria uma entrega habitual, no entanto. De sob a lona verde que cobria a traseira,\u00a0surgiu um dos assistentes de meu av\u00f4, Sonam Chophel, com sua barba e rosto rubro caracter\u00edsticos (n\u00e3o se trata do Sonam Chopel piadista que alguns de voc\u00eas conhecem).\u00a0Mesmo anos mais tarde, ap\u00f3s a barba ter ficado totalmente branca, sua pele n\u00e3o envelhecera e permanecia lisa e corada. Imediatamente percebi que havia algo a minha espera. Talvez um embrulho. Ele apontou para a lona e de l\u00e1 saiu uma outra figura, totalmente desconhecida para mim; um homem de apar\u00eancia peculiar que vestia cal\u00e7as, ao inv\u00e9s da tradicional vestimenta butanesa. Em vez de me cumprimentar, Sonam Chophel e o desconhecido foram direto para a\u00a0sala do diretor. Algumas crian\u00e7as, eu entre elas, se encarapitaram na janela para espionar a conversa deles com o Padre Mackey.<\/p>\n Ap\u00f3s uma longa conversa, Padre Mackey saiu e me chamou. Ele me disse que eu n\u00e3o era\u00a0mais aluno daquela escola. “Voc\u00ea deve partir imediatamente”. Na verdade, creio que Padre Mackey menciona esse dia em sua biografia.<\/p>\n N\u00e3o me recordo se fiquei feliz em voltar para casa ou triste de me despedir dos amigos que\u00a0tinha feito naquele curto per\u00edodo de tempo. Rumores se espalharam imediatamente e alguns colegas come\u00e7aram a fazer gra\u00e7a e a me provocar. Outros, de s\u00fabito se encabulavam ao falar\u00a0comigo, faziam rever\u00eancias e me pediam b\u00ean\u00e7\u00e3os. Eu n\u00e3o fazia ideia do que estivesse acontecendo. De toda forma, n\u00e3o tive muito tempo para pensar no assunto.<\/p>\n Amcho em Siquim, 2009<\/p><\/div>\n Imediatamente, naquele mesmo dia frio e chuvoso e naquele mesmo caminh\u00e3o, partimos de\u00a0Kanglung. Meus colegas perseguiram o caminh\u00e3o at\u00e9 que desaparec\u00eassemos em meio \u00e0\u00a0n\u00e9voa. E assim teve fim a minha educa\u00e7\u00e3o laica. Seguimos para o sul na dire\u00e7\u00e3o de Yongla \u2013 o\u00a0sujeito alto que obviamente n\u00e3o era butan\u00eas e Sonam Chophel, roncando \u00e0 vontade vestindo seu sethra[3]<\/sup><\/a> gho. Mais tarde, vim a saber que o nome do robusto khampa era Amcho.\u00a0Ele havia sido monge em Dzongsar, Tibete Oriental, Sichuan, mas tinha devolvido os votos e\u00a0se tornado um grande hoteleiro em Gangtok, Siquim.<\/p>\n Muitas vezes me pergunto o que teria acontecido comigo se aquele dia nunca tivesse chegado,\u00a0se eu nunca tivesse sido reconhecido e arrolado no fen\u00f4meno do tulku reencarnado. Eu poderia ter me tornado programador em Nova J\u00e9rsei, como meu irm\u00e3o ca\u00e7ula \u00e9 hoje, ou me\u00a0casado com uma garota judia, ou talvez ser um esfor\u00e7ado praticante do Darma em algum lugar\u00a0no norte do estado de Nova Iorque, onde meu pai passou seus \u00faltimos anos de vida. Talvez eu tivesse frequentado a escola em North Point, em Darjeeling, feito faculdade na \u00cdndia, retornado\u00a0para o But\u00e3o como um bom falante de ingl\u00eas indiano e sido nomeado secret\u00e1rio adjunto de algum departamento estatal que supervisiona projetos financiados pela \u00cdndia. No entanto,\u00a0sabendo o quanto eu era apegado aos meus av\u00f3s, muito provavelmente eu teria me tornado um gomchen que n\u00e3o usa roupa de baixo e perambula sem destino, meio b\u00eabado a maior parte do tempo, indo \u00e0 ca\u00e7a toda a noite e fazendo filhos bastardos a torto e a direito, de forma que a esta altura haveria um punhado de pessoas pelo But\u00e3o oriental que se pareceriam bastante\u00a0comigo.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][et_pb_divider _builder_version=”4.4.8″][\/et_pb_divider][et_pb_post_nav _builder_version=”4.4.8″][\/et_pb_post_nav][et_pb_comments _builder_version=”4.4.8″][\/et_pb_comments][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][\/et_pb_section]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Minha vida \u00e9 uma apari\u00e7\u00e3o, uma alucina\u00e7\u00e3o, uma proje\u00e7\u00e3o cujo momento de desvanecer ainda est\u00e1 por vir. Esta apari\u00e7\u00e3o tem uma certa dura\u00e7\u00e3o, uma certa l\u00f3gica e, assim como o sol, h\u00e1 de se p\u00f4r. Dependendo do meu humor inconstante, esta vida me parece \u00e0s vezes longa, \u00e0s vezes curta. No seu decorrer, houve planos […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":1915,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"on","_et_pb_old_content":"My life is an apparition, a hallucination, a projection that has yet to dim. This apparition has a timeframe, a logic, and just like the sun, it will set. Depending on the swinging of my mood, this life sometimes appears long and sometimes appears short. Within its span, plans have been carried out, and plans have fallen apart. Of course it's not just me, all the people I have ever known\u2014whether I have met them in person or not\u2014have their own apparitions of their so-called lives. In the hallucination of my life, I am aware of John Lennon, who I have not met and who has had an effect on me. If I had been a butterfly, I would never have known of him. In the hallucination of my life, I am aware of Stalin, who I have not met and who has no effect on me, I couldn't care less about Stalin.\n\n[caption id=\"attachment_105\" align=\"alignleft\" width=\"291\"]![\"Drubwang_Sonam_Zangpo\"](\"http:\/\/mugwortborn.wpengine.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/03\/Drubwang_Sonam_Zangpo-197x300.jpg\")
![\"William_Mackey_of_the_Jesuits\"](\"http:\/\/mugwortborn.wpengine.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/03\/William_Mackey_of_the_Jesuits.jpg\")
![\"amcho\"](\"http:\/\/mugwortborn.wpengine.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/03\/amcho-178x300.jpg\")
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![\"A](\"https:\/\/mugwortborn.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/03\/83573355-291x300.jpg\")
A great creator of the illusion of words[\/caption]\n\nOf the people I have actually met, some I have known my whole apparent life and some only a short time. Some are alive, some are now dead. Some were totally insignificant and some meant so much to me. I have sat with countless Indians on trains, sharing food and conversation, whose names no longer exist in my head. I had tea with a man in Boston to discuss Dharma not knowing he was Allen Ginsberg and therefore missed the chance to discuss poetry with a great creator of the illusion of words. I met the most beautiful queen of dominatrixes, Whitney Ward, who showed me her dungeon, and who later joined a fire puja with me. And I met the third king of Bhutan, His Majesty King Jigme Dorji Wangchuck, who lifted me up when I was a child and carried me around on his shoulders. I still remember the smell of cigarette smoke in his hair.\n\n[caption id=\"attachment_104\" align=\"alignright\" width=\"220\"]![\"439px-Jigme_Dorji_Wangchuck\"](\"https:\/\/mugwortborn.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/03\/439px-Jigme_Dorji_Wangchuck-220x300.jpg\")
His Majesty Jigme Dorji Wangchuck, the Third King of Bhutan[\/caption]\n\nAmong all these apparitions, there have been so many transitions, so much death, also so much birth. There have been a handful of marriages and quite a lot of divorces. Even I must have transformed, in this life and in all my lives. I must have had so many other apparitions before: as a bird, as a bug, as a human.\n\nBut this present apparition of mine is probably worth a little something extra, having heard the name of Gautama and having acquired a childlike admiration for what he had to say. I have also met one of the greatest beings ever to fall into a cauldron of rice soup, a being who emerged as a compass, the one who became the beacon of my life.\nWhen I was about five years old, I was sent away to boarding school. It was my first time alone with strangers, living in a dormitory. This was a big change for me because I was raised in a large, hard-line Buddhist family in Yongla, East Bhutan, always surrounded by visitors and attendants, yogis with dreadlocks that a Bob Marley fanatic would die for, and uninhibited yoginis so confident they would make perfect candidates for president of a women's liberation organization. There were contented cave-dwellers who couldn't understand why people were so concerned about digging earth, raising posts, and putting up ceilings. There were serene monks who probably had never touched more than ten rupees. There were also a lot of horny gomchen<\/em>[1]<\/sup><\/em><\/a>, whose teasing and flirtations with the ladies intrigued me endlessly and whose activities may have helped mature my hormones.\n\nEvery room in my maternal grandfather's house had a shrine, so if you wanted to fart you had to go outside. There were constant pujas; I would wake up in the mornings to the smell of smoke offerings and the sound of cymbals, bells, and drums, which slowly blended with the songs of the cicadas and pigeons and crows. That must be why I love Ozu films<\/a> so much, because of the sounds he uses.\n\n[caption id=\"attachment_108\" align=\"alignleft\" width=\"197\"]![\"Drubwang_Sonam_Zangpo\"](\"https:\/\/mugwortborn.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/03\/Drubwang_Sonam_Zangpo-197x300.jpg\")
Drubwang Sonam Zangpo[\/caption]\n\nMy grandfather was a renaissance man; in addition to being the perfect specimen of a yogi, he was a wonderful cook, a medicine man, an incense maker, a sculptor, and an architect, always renovating or building new stupas. From the moment I stepped out of the door, there were metalsmiths clanging away making ritual objects and the air was filled with the thick smell of Bhutanese paint, which was made from cowhide. Even today, every time I enter a freshly painted Bhutanese temple, it takes me back to my childhood. They still use that ineffective smelly paint thanks to the zealous Bhutanese National Institute of Zorig Chusum<\/em>[2]<\/sup><\/em><\/a>, which insists on guarding Bhutanese \"tradition\" in an era when state of the art paints are available.\n\nAs the day of my departure neared, my grandfather could be heard grumbling about how public school education was such a waste of time. And he may have been right. My grandmother joined him in the grumbling. She was worried that since it was a Christian school, I might lose my trust in the Buddha and his teachings and that I would start looking at animals merely as food. But their grumblings were not loud. Their grumblings were hushed, hesitant, and polite, using honorific language, the way you would grumble about someone who you really respect.\n\nThe command to send me to this English boarding school was my father's and it was not even delivered face to face. I wasn't close to my father; he and my mother were living in Kurseong, a hill station in Darjeeling, India. Both of my parents were too busy to care for me personally. They were working at All India Radio. I was much closer with my grandparents, but at this young age, children assume that, ultimately, their parents are the ones who love and care for them most. I remember how excited I would get if there was a visitor from Kurseong, how eager I was for some message or sign from my parents. But the messages were never for me, always for my grandparents.\n\nSo one day a footman came from Kurseong with the instructions to send me to an English speaking school. It must have been difficult for my grandparents because there was no way to reason with him, even if they dared. To get a message back to Kurseong would have taken weeks, and anyway my father would not have listened to their concerns. As my father, he had the authority to do whatever he wanted with me and on top of that he was the son of Dudjom Rinpoche, their spiritual master, so they dared not complain to him.\n\n[caption id=\"attachment_109\" align=\"alignleft\" width=\"220\"]![\"William_Mackey_of_the_Jesuits\"](\"https:\/\/mugwortborn.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/03\/William_Mackey_of_the_Jesuits.jpg\")
Father William Mackey[\/caption]\n\nI was first sent for a brief time to a school near Yongla, in Khidung, (which could mean either \"shit village\" or spiral of a conch) but then transferred much farther north to a school in Tashigang, and finally to the newly-built Kanglung School run by Father William Joseph Mackey, a Canadian Jesuit priest.\n\nKanglung School eventually became Sherubtse College, the first college in Bhutan, but back then it was just a small boarding school. I remember being so worried because the dorm master was very strict and he would check our sheets every day to see if anyone wet the bed. The boy next to me had a habit of peeing. I would lay awake at night sleepless with fear of being shamed if I would also end up peeing. I don't know what happened to many of these classmates but a few of them have gone on to do big things, like serving the United Nations or becoming chief of police.\n\nAnyway, one cold rainy morning after a few months at Father Mackey\u2019s, a truck with a wood paneled bed came up to the road above the school. Automobiles were rare in Bhutan at that time, so all the students ran up the hill and gathered around in the rain to look. They were hoping for messages from home. It's customary in Bhutan, even today, for families to send packages of dried cheese, Bhutanese corn flakes, or dried chilies and that\u2019s what a truck usually signaled.\n\nBut this was not the usual delivery. From a green tarp covering the back, came one of my grandfather\u2019s attendants, Sonam Chophel, with his distinctive beard and red face (this is not the joker Sonam Chophel some of you know). Even years later when this man's beard had became white, his skin never aged and his complexion remained tight and rosy. I immediately knew there was something in store for me. Maybe a parcel. He indicated toward the tarp and out came another figure I'd never seen before in my life, a peculiar looking man wearing pants, not the traditional Bhutanese dress. Instead of greeting me, Sonam Chophel and the stranger went straight to the headmaster\u2019s office. A bunch of us kids crept up to the window to spy on them speaking to Father Mackey.\n\nAfter they spoke for a long time, Father Mackey came and summoned me. He said that I was no longer a student in his school. \u201cYou must go now.\u201d I believe Father Mackey actually wrote something in his biography about that day.\n\nI don\u2019t remember if I was happy to be going home or if I was sad to say goodbye to the friends I had made in that short time. Rumors immediately started to spread and some of my classmates began joking and teasing. Some were suddenly embarrassed to talk with me, bowing down asking for a blessing. I didn\u2019t know what was going on. But there wasn\u2019t much time for thinking about it.\n\n[caption id=\"attachment_111\" align=\"alignleft\" width=\"178\"]![\"amcho\"](\"https:\/\/mugwortborn.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/03\/amcho-178x300.jpg\")
Amcho in Sikkim, 2009[\/caption]\n\nImmediately, that very same cold and rainy day, in that same truck, we left Kanglung. My classmates ran after the truck until we disappeared in the fog. And that was the end of my secular education. We headed south toward Yongla\u2014this big man, who was clearly not Bhutanese, and Sonam Chophel snoring away in his faded sethra[3]<\/sup><\/a> gho. Later I learned the strapping Khampa was named Amcho. He had been a monk at Dzongsar East Tibet, Sichuan but disrobed when he left and became a big hotelier in Gangtok, Sikkim.\n\nI often wonder what would have happened to me if that day had never come, if I had never been recognized and drafted into the phenomenon of reincarnate tulku. I may have become a computer programmer in New Jersey, as my youngest brother is now, or married a Jewish girl, or I may have become a struggling Dharma practitioner somewhere in upstate New York, where my father spent the last portion of his life. I may have gone to school in North Point, Darjeeling and college in India, then returned to Bhutan speaking good Indian English to be appointed as joint secretary of some government department that oversees projects funded by India. But knowing how attached I was to my grandparents, most likely I would have become a gomchen who doesn't wear underwear, and walks around half drunk most of the time, night hunting and producing bastards left and right so that now there would be a few people roaming around eastern Bhutan bearing a close resemblance to me.\n\n \t