Free The Ninth Buddha by Daniel Easterman

different shadows, its fragrances different fragrances.   He stood on the threshold gingerly, for all the world like someone about to abandon one element for another, as a swimmer stands naked on the water’s edge or a moth turns about the flame that will in another instant devour it without trace.
    He had stumbled somehow upon a hidden and finely constructed paradise of birds’ wings and dragons’ eyes, meshed in a manner at once mysterious and simple with the earth in which it inhered.
    Like a bee drowning in honey after a season rich in blossoms, he felt himself grow heavy with sweetness.
    Painted columns rose out of a bed of multi-coloured carpets to a ceiling intricate in ornamentation.   Around the walls, thick curtains embroidered with red and yellow silk formed a sort of sofa.   Low lacquered tables of Chinese manufacture sat among richly carved and gilded cabinets festooned with angry dragons and soft-petalled peonies.   On the walls, naked gods made love, encircled by tongues of fire.   At one end stood an altar of gold, studded with precious stones, on which were grouped the images of Tibetan gods and saints.   Incense burned in little golden stands, filling the room with dark, intoxicating fumes.   In front of the altar, silver butter-lamps gave ofFa yellow, ethereal light.
    And then, as though he had just that moment materialized in the room, Christopher caught sight of Norbhu Dzasa himself- a man masquerading as a god, a human image fashioned from silk and coral and precious stones.   His dyed jet-black hair was set in tightly coiled bunches above his head, and from his left ear dangled a single long ear-ring of turquoise and gold.   His upper robe was of finely woven yellow silk, delicately patterned with dragons and held at the waist by a crimson sash.   He was standing motionless in a corner of the room near the altar, his hands crossed in front of him, concealed by the long sleeves of his robe.
    On his way, Christopher had found a stall in the bazaar that sold kfiatags, the thin white silk scarves used throughout the region as tokens of respect at formal introductions.   He held out the scarf, loosely woven from strands of the finest silk, like gossamer, and approached the tsong-chi.   Norbhu Dzasa extended his arms and took the scarf with a slight bow, placed it on a low table, and, with his hands free of the sleeves, lifted a second scarf, which he passed to Christopher.   He looked bored.   The two men exchanged stiff greetings, and the little Tibetan invited Christopher to join him on cushions near the window.
    A moment later, the servant who had shown Christopher in opened the door and bowed low.
    “Cha kqy-sho,” ordered Norbhu Dzasa.
    “Bring us tea.”
    The servant bowed, sucked in his breath, and simultaneously muttered ‘la-les’.
    Abruptly, Norbhu Dzasa turned to Christopher, speaking in English.
    “I’m sorry.   Not ask.   Take Indian tea or Tibetan tea?”
    Christopher asked for Tibetan, and the tsong-chi spoke again to his servant.
    To cha kay-sho - ‘bring some Tibetan tea.”
    “So,” Norbhu Dzasa said when the servant had gone.
    “Drink Tibetan tea.   Been in Tibet?”   He had learnt what English he knew here in Kalimpong, out of necessity.
    Christopher was unsure how to answer.   So many of his visits
    there had been made illegally.   With rare exceptions, Tibet was barred to foreigners and Christopher knew from personal experience that the ban was no mere formality.
    “I was in Lhasa in 1904,” he said.
    “With Younghusband.”
    In 1903, Lord Curzon, the Viceroy of India, had been disturbed by reports of growing Russian influence in the Tibetan capital.
    Determined to force the reclusive Tibetans to discuss the issue of commercial and diplomatic relations with Britain, he despatched a small force to Kampa Dzong under the command of Colonel Francis Younghusband.   Ignored by the Tibetans, Younghusband obtained reinforcements 1,000 soldiers, 1,450