The Horse Master's Daughter (eBook)

The wooden door won’t budge under the push of my shoulder. Morning dew has lodged itself between the swollen timber and rusted latches. A dull creak, it gives in, and I stumble into the dark to set my sandals beside my grandmother’s. A few blades of green tickle my toes. With a quick swipe I straighten my robe and the loose strands of my ever-unruly hair. A tiny shiver runs up my spine as my courage fleets. This is it, no turning back.

The incense flares a daring red, beckoning my way into the room. Faint orange rays fall through the tall windows. Slivers of bluish gray release their herbal scent, billowing on the chilly draft up to the wooden beamed ceiling. The butter lamps spread their golden glow with a fiery devotion all over the shrine; they try hard, but they can’t cast out the bleakest morning chill.

On tiptoes, I move over and lower myself three times to the statue of our great teacher, the Buddha. Seated on his high throne, his gilded face never diminishes to shine the most radiant compassion, lifting my sorrows time and time again. My hands clasped, I pay my respects to the images that flank our great teacher, Chenrezik, the bodhisattva embodying the compassion of all buddhas, and Green Tara, the mother of liberation. The smoldering sticks find their way between the offerings.

Cups of crystal clear water, a cauldron holding fresh tea, heaps of creamy butter, molded tsampa, fried breadsticks, and a stack of shiny apples are all piled up in front of the shrine. Colorful paintings of deities in their wrathful or peaceful manifestations hide the crumbling stucco of the white-washed walls, and intricate mandalas on thin cloth cover the window cracks. Spiral patterns on vibrant yellow, red, and blue banners cascade down on the polished rafters and crimson lacquered pillars. The rustle of silken whispers comes from high up and from afar. Though not as grand as the shrine room of the monks’ monasteries, this is a shrine of intended beauty and profound devotion. This is a room curated with care and treasured by all of us nuns.

Green Tara’s generous grace descends upon me, and my racing heart slows. The deity’s hallowed words flow from my lips—Oṃ Tāre Tu Tāre Ture Soha—and I request the mother of liberation to protect me from fear and obscuration, for I need it today. To us nuns, Tara is the mother of all Buddhas, our savioress who hears the cries of all beings and swiftly helps all being in this worldly existence. With her left leg in meditative contemplation and her right leg extended, she’s ready to leap into action, relieving all suffering of the world. Tara embodies the heart of the Buddhist teachings—wisdom and compassionate action—and she’s everything I ever aspire to be.

Like all Tibetan mothers, my mother taught me the Tara mantra. “If you ever need help, put your full trust in Tara; call upon her from the bottom of your heart and she will guide you,” she said.

I could barely talk, and I’d just repeated the words, but somehow, deep down, my tender heart knew these words to be important. Turns out it was right. Now that I’ve studied under the supervision of excellent practitioners like my grandmother, I’ve experienced the powerful effect of the Buddhist teachings. Even though I’m only a beginner on the path, my dearest sisters show me the way to live a good, virtuous life in service of all sentient beings. My spirited body and restless mind, always wandering, always wondering, have calmed with prayer, meditation, and studying the texts. I’m grateful for it, every day again.

Keeping my face turned to the images of our teachers, I shuffle to the back of the room. My eyes glance over at the endless rows of books, covered in maroon linen, lined up on both sides of the shrine. All that knowledge. Still so much to learn and practice before I can ever be of real benefit to all sentient beings. Hope surges in my heart, for all I aspire is to advance my Buddhist practice here.

Seated in the furthest corner of the room, Dechen rests in mediation as she does every morning for long periods of time. In silence, I kneel before her. The low table between us holds her brass bell and dorje, representing emptiness and form in the Buddhist practice, concepts that are still far from my grasp.

A thick woolen shawl protects Dechen’s willowy frame from the morning chill. Her slender hands rest on her lap, a string of yellowed bone beads intertwines between them. The shadows soften the fine lines on her face, but can’t diminish the serenity of her being—peaceful and content. How I strive to be.

As my eyes cast to the ground, deep admiration and boundless love rise within me. Admiration for my grandmother’s devotion to all sentient beings, and an infinite love for the heartbreak we share—the heartbreak of being denied by our own blood.

She’s a dedicated Buddhist practitioner now, my grandmother, spending her days in study and meditation, and it seems she was always destined to be. It must have been over thirty years ago, when she took her full vows as a nun in this monastery, only six weeks after her arrival. This is unusual—anyone entering the monastery, young girl or adult woman, lives at least one full year as a novice. Even I haven’t taken my full vows after being here for over ten years. But then again, there’s nothing usual about my grandmother’s life.

Born into a royal family, Dechen lived a sheltered, privileged life as a girl. Her father, and especially her three older brothers, were fiercely protective of her, never letting her out of their sight. She was precious to them, as a younger woman is a great asset to forge alliances to the other prominent families. Yes, Dechen would have been a great pawn in the game of political marriages had it not been for that fatal summer she fell in love with Rapten, the heir to a nomadic tribe in the high mountain range.

I’ve heard the story, as my sisters told me, for they know all. How true love had brought shame to the family, how Dechen, daughter of a royal clan, had eloped to live with a lowly nomad.

Her father and brothers had acted as soon as they discovered Dechen gone. They schemed and called on their allies, with patience being their greatest strength. They waited until the moon had gone to renew herself, and in the darkest of the night, they charged to the nomad camp high in the mountains. Rapten and his clan never stood a chance. Swift. Bloody. A single swipe of a blade. My heart hides whenever I think about it. My grandfather, murdered with the most malicious intent.

Dechen was taken home and the spring after that dreadful summer, she gave birth to a girl, Lhamo—my mother, so I have heard. The family had been delighted. A new daughter, a new precious asset. Now they could rid themselves of their shame. So only three days after giving birth, Dechen was brought to the monastery, forced, abandoned by her own blood. She never saw her daughter again.

Given no choice, Dechen immersed herself in the ascetic monastic life and thrived. She’s become a respected Buddhist practitioner, known for her skillful means and practical wisdom. Many women—and even men—come to seek her guidance in matters. It is no wonder the nuns chose her as their abbess a few years ago.

Dechen never told me about her life before the monastery. I would sure like to know her side of the story, but I respect her too much to pry. The one thing she told me about her past ordeal is that putting her full trust in the Buddha and his teachings has been her salvation. With my grandmother’s serenity enveloping me, I realize again what a remarkable woman she is and how lucky I am to be here. Never again will I let her down, for she’s everything I aim to be.

Dechen’s eyes open, and with a nod she acknowledges me. Her gaze rests on my heated face as I lean in, my prayer beads a muted rattle around my wrist.

“Ani-la.” I lower my eyes down to the floor. “You know why I’m here.” My fingernails press into the soft flesh of my palms and force the words from my unwilling mouth. “May I humbly request your permission to visit my father?”

I swallow the dry lump in the back of my throat. No reaction, as I could have guessed. My eyes go up, and there she sits, her lips pressed together. I hold my breath in the bleak silence between us, for I know that unmoving look on her face.

“My child, as I told you before, it is unnecessary for you to go out.” Dechen’s voice is gentle as ever, yet an edge of impatience rings through. “Your father already gave permission for you to take your full vows when he brought you to me all those years ago.” She shifts on her cushion and a faint clicking fills the air as her beads slide between her moving fingers.

A done deal. I clear my throat, but it’s no use. My mind searches in all corners for something to say, but there’s nothing, nothing to say. Tears well under my eyelids and the heat in my cheeks spreads down my neck. How I hate being here, asking my grandmother this. I don’t want to go either, for I don’t want to risk losing her. I don’t want to, but I have to. I need to hear it, those words from Father’s mouth—that he wants me to be a nun too.

“Nordun, my child.” Dechen’s voice pierces my mind. “There is no need to go out and put yourself in a...