Fragmented Visions

A Blink of Buddha's Eye

Minister Nambashtadiri had been waiting patiently at the entrance to the monastery for almost half an hour. Her dark formal suit was hideously uncomfortable in the morning heat. She wanted to return to the air-conditioned interior of her official limousine, but her stubborn nature had kept her waiting in the square. Her bodyguards had remained with her, keeping the beggars and street hawkers a respectable distance from their mistress.

"Minister?" A shaven-headed monk dressed in a saffron-coloured winding sheet bowed deeply to her. Nambashtadiri returned the greeting. "I have been sent to bring you in."

"Thank you." The minister made to follow the monk, her bodyguards accompanying her, but the monk stopped them.

"My apologies, minister. But you must know that the Dharma Treaty forbids entry to non-accredited individuals."

Nambashtadiri nodded towards her escorts. "I am sure that I will be as safe here as I would be with you. You may wait in the car for my return."

The bodyguards stared at the minister for moment or two, their expressions unreadable behind their mirrored sunglasses. Then they turned around and made their way to the limousine.

"Thank you for understanding," the monk said.

Together, Nmabshtadiri and her guide entered the precincts of the monastery. Once past the main gate, it was a confusing maze of passageways and courtyards. Everywhere they went, there was the cloying smell of incense and burning wax. Occasionally, as they passed between buildings, Nambashtadiri would catch a glimpse of the great stupa that lay at the heart of the monastery. It was a beehive-shaped structure, with tiers of alcoves arranged around it. Inside each alcove sat a Buddhist monk, their orange robes bright against the yellow sandstone. a strangely discordant chorus rose from their collective throats.

Nambashtadiri paused to listen. She could make out several strands of chant within the overall chorus. They seemed to move in and out of synchronisation with each other, creating a strange arrhythmic effect. However, there seemed to be no overall pattern to the voices. She stopped the monk. "What are they doing?"

"Them?" The monk shrugged. "It is a prayer to the Buddha. This way - please."

Sensing that she would not get anything further from her escort, Nambashtadiri fell in behind the monk.

Their journey finished outside the door to a monastic cell - one of many identical doors in a long, cool passageway. "This is Shi Miao-Yin's quarters," the monk said.

"But I am here to see Doctor - ," the minister began.

The monk interrupted her. "This is Shi Miao-Yin's quarters," he repeated, then stood to one side.

Nambashtadiri took hold of the patinaed door knob and pushed. The wooden door opened, and she ducked her head to avoid the stone lintel.

Nambashtadiri had imagined the cell to be an austere space, barely big enough for a palette bed. But she was surprised to see a omely, comfortable room that was almost as big as her maidservant's bedroom. Shelves filled with textbooks and bound journals lined the walls of the room. Any free space was filled with colourful tapestries of mandalas that softened the impact of the stone walls. A small fan by the door stirred the air, keeping it from growing stale.

The occupant of the room - an elderly monk wearing designer-framed glasses - was sitting at an antique camphor-wood desk, his head bowed over a high-specification laptop. Or, at least, he had been until the minister entered the room. Nambashtadiri recognised him from the picture in his file.

"Doctor Xiang?"

The monk turned to face the minister and bowed in welcome. "That is my secular name. What can I do for you?"