FEBRUARY 2017GQ.COM.AU 137Thiswasthebeginningofhappiness.
Maybe,ifwewerelucky,arevolution,too.If
so,oneofitsleaderswouldlookalotlikethis
Matthieu Ricard, the French Buddhist monk,
theOGofhappinessfromtheHimalayas.
Andthen,likethat,thespellwasbroken,
andwespunbackdownthroughthatsame
grey-purplemurk,alongthebumpyroad
totheShechenmonasteryinKathmandu.
Among myriad demands on his time,
RicardhadtoleaveforFrance,toseehis
dearmother,93yearsoldandaBuddhist
herself. He had one day before his departure,
andwithallthethingsonhisto-dolist,he
took time to show me around. But you could
alreadyfeelitbeginningtohappen,hisloss
ofprivacy.Hesaid,iflucky,hewouldn’tmake
it back to the mountain for three months.
Here,itseemedeveryone–everyone–
wantedaword,orameeting,nottomention
thestarstruckgagglerscomingthrough,
sunburnt trekkers, hardcore Western
Buddhists, hoping for an autograph.
Ricard’s demeanour never wavered,
though.Eventheabsolutepestsweregreeted
withsmilesandbighellos.Inhisofficehegot
interrupted five times while trying to write
an important email, and just as he started for
the sixth time, two travellers from Colombia
showedup,wantinghimtosignsomeof
hisbooksforthem.WhenRicardassented,
awholestackappearedfromoneoftheir
backpacks – his eyebrows shot up and he
looked at me and grinned.
Itseemedsofamiliar–thecollisionof
new resolutions and old, demanding reality.
Theidealofthemountaintopandthe
impingements of responsibility that eroded
theideal.Andyet,Ricardmaintainedhis
equilibriumbyallowingtheintrusions,
notasahindrancebutasanotherslalom
turninthislandscapeofhappiness.
Nowweclimbedthestairsinthecentral
templethathadbeendamagedinthe
earthquake.Hewantedtoshowmethe
master Khyentse’s prayer room and then
hischambersinback.Onthethirdfloor,
weentered.Offtotheside,inshadows
–holyshit!–ahuge,life-sizewaxfigureof
Khyentsesattherelookingdownatus,all
seven feet of him. Ricard was proud of that,
the replica.
Themaster–who’dlivedincavesuntil
he was 55, when he emerged and began
teaching–wasindeedagiant.Athis
cremationinBhutan,70,000attended,even
theking,whogotcaughtinatrafficjam.
Ricardpointedtoaspotonthefloor,just
outside the master’s bedroom. He said that
for11yearsafterKhyentsedied,hehad
sleptonthatspot,nobed,noplacetocall
hisown.Intheyearsbefore,ifthemaster
wantedabookfromthelibrary,Ricardwas
the one to run and get it. If he needed a cup
oftea,itwasRicard.Allthosedemandsand
intrusions.Butitwasnoproblem,he said.
Andwhatdevotionlookedlike.
We had one last stop to make before
Ricard’s departure, to visit Dilgo Khyentse
YangsiRinpoche,orthereincarnatedDilgo
KhyentseRinpoche,nowa23-year-old.
ThestoryofhowYangsihadbeenfound
was astonishing in itself, of the kind that
skeptics often disparage. After Khyentse
hadpassedaway,amonkinthewestofthe
countrysentwordthathe’dhadadream,
that the reincarnated Khyentse could be
found in a neighbourhood near the Shechen
monastery. The dream provided just enough
distinguishing traits that the monks,
scouringthearea,wereabletofindtheboy.
Ricard reserved judgment, until taking
atripwiththeboyinBhutan.Ithadbeen
a habit of the original master, Khyentse,
when relating something important to
Ricard,tograsphiseargently,withaffection,
as if to say, “Listen.” The moment when
Ricardrealisedtheboywashisreincarnated
master came while they were bouncing along
bumpyroadsinBhutan.Inthefrontseat,the
boyturnedtoRicardintheback,smiled, and
tenderlygrabbedholdofhisear.
Ya ng si now possessed h is ow n su ite
insidethemonasterywalls,wherehewas
inresidencewithhismotherandfamily,
receiving visitors all day. The constant inflow
of masala tea and cookies had left him a little
doughyandsoporific.Hiswidefacewas
toppedwithabrushcutofthick,darkhair,
and his head seemed oversized compared
totherestofhisbody,asifhewerestill
growingintobeingthefullKhyentse.
Approaching the chair in which Yangsi
sat, Ricard bowed and kissed his hand. They
spoke for a while in Tibetan and it seemed
strangetowatchRicard,soprolificand
intellectually powerful, bow before anyone.
Except,inthiscosmology,hewasbowing
againbeforeKhyentse,hismaster,too.
Afterawhile,Ricardinvitedmetoask
a question, any question, please. I understood
that Ricard himself would translate. So
Iaskedabluntquestion–itmustfeel
impossibletoliveuptobeingthisguy–this
legend – you didn’t know but supposedly are?
Yangsisparkedtolife.“Tellmeaboutit,
man!”herejoinedinperfectEnglish,and
Inearlychokedonmycookie.“Ilookat
him,andhe’smyidol,”saidYangsi.“ButI’m
supposedtobehim.Ihearallthesestories.
Like,30yearsinacave.I’mstill getting
ready for my first retreat.”
It was meant to be three years, three
monthsandthreedays,buthewasworried
hewouldn’tmakeit.Hewasalreadyfairly
content. He talked about having these
handwritten letters from his previous
life, from Khyentse, artefacts of insightandgreatness.Itwaslikeanepisodeof
TheTwilightZone.Hespokeaboutgenerosity,
dharma,happiness,butitwasanapprentice’s
rehearsal. “We young lamas,” he said, “we get
lost in our screens.”
That,hesaid,wasthegreatestdanger–
his smartphone and every distraction in it.
All the while, Ricard sat smiling, with
admirationandforbearance.Yangsiwould
growintoit,thismasterbusiness,ifhe
didatall.Hewasfreetodeterminehis
own fate. Like all of us, he held his future
enlightenmentinhisownhands.There
wouldbemoretimeforconversation,for
sittingineachother’spresences. Right now,
Ricardhadaplanetocatch.
I was thinking about the mountain again,
aboutourlastlunchwithDagpo,whenatiny
mouse(notMaoist)camearound.Thisgot
everyone’s full attention. They all seemed to
know this mouse and five monks were soon
gathered.Theyusedaplasticbowltoscoop
upthetinything.Thentheyloadedthebowl
with bananas and grapes to feed him. There
wasjollity,intenseinterest,realpleasure.In
some new world, could we begin to treat one
anotherastheytreatedthismouse?
Forhispart,themousekeptjumpingto
escape,slidingbackdownthesidesofthe
bowl, regathering, trying again. Eventually,
hebegantonibbleatthefood.Butnotbefore
allthemonkshadtheirsmartphonesout,
filming,narrating.Ifthiswasareincarnated
being, they didn’t want the same cat-kebab
endforthisguy.Butfornow,beforehe
transformedagain,herehewas,hisheart
beating between his ribs, brimming with
optimistic industry, trying to get free.
Mr Little Mouse.
TheBuddhahimself.
WepartedonthethresholdofRicard’s
office, he in his roundnesses, me a half-
filledswimmingpool.Atleasttherewas
promise. Matthieu quoted something
fromtheBuddhathatseemedmostgermane
now: “When the crow flies around the
gold mountain, it can’t help but catch some
flecksonitswings.”
CouldIevencallmyselfacrow?And
what of the golden mountain? All I’d seen
wasthatscrimofgrey-greenmisthiding
theHimalayas.ButhowI’dwantedtobring
apictureofthosepeakshomeformyson.
Ikeptwishingit.Whatapitynotto.
Andyetitmadeperfectsense.The
mountainswerethere,andnotthere,
intheirtonnageofgoldenrock,inthe
gossamer of their disguise. They’d show
themselveseventually–tosomeonestanding
on this porch, above the grumpiness and
malevolence of our world.
Sothen,whichoneofuswoulditbe?Who
wouldhavethecouragetoliftthe fog before
our eyes and be the one?