Stick Out Your Tongue Read Online Free PDF Page B

I’d been in the hills taking photographs of the sunset, and that yesterday I had camped in Duoba
village. He said that he knew what a camera was. As a young man, he’d spent a few years at Sera Monastery repairing a bronze Buddha, and had seen a few Western and Chinese tourists. He had also been able to pick up some basic Chinese while he was working there.
    I put my rucksack down and glanced around the interior of the tent. It was empty. The stones in the fire pit were burned through. It was obviously a popular site for nomads to set up camp. The old man had arrived here that morning, or perhaps the day before. I swept my eyes around the tent again, searching for something to eat, but all I could see were the old sheepskins he was sitting on, a saddle and an aluminium bowl. I asked him if there was any food. He said there was none. I put my hand over the fire. He reached behind him and pulled over some freshly cut wild grass and a pile of twigs. He continued talking to me, but I was too weak with hunger to hold a conversation, so I just grunted occasionally in response. As my mind began to blur, he got up, fastened his belt and walked out into the night. I spread my sleeping bag over one of his sheepskins, crawled inside and closed my eyes.
    As I drifted off to sleep, I heard a terrible noise outside. It sounded like a wild beast stamping its hoofs. I sat up, grabbed my knife and lifted the door
curtain. The old man was walking towards the tent dragging a yak behind him. He clutched the yak’s horn with one hand and put the other over its mouth. The yak struggled to break free. I offered to help, but the old man told me to stay away. He yanked the yak’s head down, flicked a knife from his belt and thrust the blade into its neck. Then he whipped off his hat to collect the blood that poured from the wound. The yak kicked and brayed. At last, the old man released his grip, pushed the animal away and watched it stagger back into the darkness. He walked back inside the tent and handed me the hat of blood. ‘Drink!’ he said, as he returned to his sheepskin rug. He fumbled for a cigarette, lit it, then sucked the blood that dripped from his fingers.
    I placed the hat of blood in front of me and watched the steam and froth slowly disappear. I was no longer in a mood to sleep, so I started a conversation with him while we waited for the blood to congeal. He told me that he was a nomad from the pastures near Chiu village. Six months ago, he’d travelled to Shigatse, sold his entire herd of yaks and sheep and donated the proceeds to Tashilumpo Monastery. I asked what his plans were now, and he said that he was on his way to the Gangdise Mountains to pray to the Buddha, and to wash his sins away in the sacred waters of Lake Mansarobar.
He told me that he had a daughter. I asked him where she was, but he didn’t answer me. His eyes darted from left to right. I could tell that he was dying for a drink, so to distract him I took a cigarette from my pocket and tossed it to him.
    When he finished telling me his story, I thought of a girl I had seen in Lhasa, and wondered whether I should mention her to him. In the end I decided not to. I was afraid that if I told him about her, he would pester me for more information. And I was also worried that if he’d known what state his daughter was in now, he might have lost his mind. This is what he told me:
    â€˜After I sold my herd, I went to Tashilumpo Monastery to pray to the Buddha. I asked the Buddha to protect my daughter, and to allow me to see her again in heaven after I die. I begged the Buddha to help me complete nineteen circuits of Mount Kailash, then allow me to rise to heaven. It was all my fault …
    â€˜I drank from my mother’s breast until the age of fourteen. Her milk never ran dry. My father was killed during the Tibetan Uprising in 1959. The Chiu Pastures are almost deserted now. You will see that for yourself when you travel