The Shop Keeper

On a mild winding sloped street at the foot of the mountains in Lhasa, Tibet, the shop keeper sits slouched on a stool with feeble legs and stares sadly at the passer-bys that pass his tiny shop. He sells a wide variety of souvenir trinkets, knick-knacks and laminated pictures of the Dalai Lama on a street where trekkers must pass on their way to the mountains.

This shopkeeper is an old man, with heavy lined wrinkles on his face. Business has been progressively worse ever since shops had sprung up all along the street selling similar items at lower prices. Furthermore, these young Tibetan shopkeepers had much more in common with these mostly young tourists; they carried with them an air of confidence and could also speak enough English, German, French, Chinese and Japanese to develop a rapport with them tourists.

The old shopkeeper had longed given up on trying to keep up with warm genuine smiles and patient hospitality. He couldn’t speak nor understand their language. He couldn’t lower his prices anymore. He stayed open as late as there were trekkers. But still he had barely made enough from what he sold for the last three months. He was at the end of his tethers.

But today, a young tourist sitting outside a teahouse across the street from the old shopkeeper was watching the old man sitting slouched in the corner of his shop, staring sadly at the passer-bys who passed by his shop onto the others, as if his shop was invisible, as if he was invisible.

Then an idea came over the tourist, who happened to be a calligraphy artist. He immediately took out his drawing pad and calligraphy pens from his bag and started writing.

After an hour, he walked over to the old shopkeeper, joined his fingers and centered them at his chest and said, “Namaste”.

The old shop keeper looked up; and smiled a wide toothless smile. “Namaste”, the old shopkeeper stood up and returned the Tibetan greeting with another and a bow. Then, as if they were both conductors of their own symphonies, they started pointing and gestured with their hands as they bargained over prices for the items, smiling and making playful faces of disapproval of the selling prices at each other. Finally, the tourist bought a couple of meditation beads and the Dalai Lama’s pictures. After he paid, he took out his drawing pad and placed it among the shopkeeper’s items. He gestured a thumbs up and pointed to the pad several times, bid farewell to the shopkeeper and left.

The shopkeeper looked at the pad, he had no idea what was written on it, but kept it in the same place in case the man returned and wanted it back. Something strange happened after that day, the shopkeeper’s business picked up sevenfold. He couldn’t understand why. The universe seemed to have set itself right for him. It hadn’t occurred to him that the content of the drawing pad had been the reason. On it was scripted - 

These Spiritual Window Shoppers

These spiritual window-shoppers, 

who idly ask, 'How much is that?' Oh, I'm just looking. 

They handle a hundred items and put them down, 

shadows with no capital. 

What is spent is love and two eyes wet with weeping. 

But these walk into a shop, 

and their whole lives pass suddenly in that moment, 

in that shop. 

Where did you go? "Nowhere." 

What did you have to eat? "Nothing much." 

Even if you don't know what you want, 

buy something, to be part of the exchanging flow. 

Start a huge, foolish project, 

like Noah. 

It makes absolutely no difference 

what people think of you. 

-- Rumi, 'We Are Three', Mathnawi VI, 831-845

Date

I went on a date the other night. I had chatted this fine looking chick up at an art gallery opening of a business acquaintance. She was looking at an O’Keeffe painting; I figured I knew enough about O’Keeffe to strike up a conversation. And it worked. It turned out she was working in another art gallery.

I put on my Armani Exchange ensemble, one I usually wear on first dates, buttoned up sports blazer, pressed white shirt and pants. Polished Hugo boss shoes, three whiffs of the bloody cologne. All set.

I wasn’t too inventive on this one; I had suggested watching an art film, ‘Music of Bueno Aires’ to continue along the line of the art gallery encounter. I picked up the tickets, and waited outside the theatre. Leaning against the stone façade, one foot backed against the wall James Dean style, catching up with the news from my Blackberry. Looking to the sides of the street only occasionally; I wanted to appear nonchalant when she showed up.

Whoops. There’s my date. She bobbles when she walks; up and down like one of those glass bottles you see bobbling on the surface of the ocean. I wondered to myself if it was because of her choice of shoes, or was it an idiosyncrasy?

“Hey Charlotte.” I smiled.

“Hey, you.” Charlotte smiled back somewhat nervously as she pecked me on my cheeks.

I studied her quickly one more time before we went into the dark theatre. Five seven, perky boobs, small round buttocks and long legs. She reminded me a little of Heather Graham. Not bad, I thought to myself.

The film was fantastic. It told the story of the evolution of tango music as a popular and important cultural and artistic symbol of Argentina and South America.

After the film ended, we headed to a nearby Italian restaurant for dinner and on the way exchanging our reviews of the film. I noticed another idiosyncrasy about Charlotte; she was flailing her arms excitedly as she spoke, even at the most uninspired statements, which pretty much made up most of our conversation anyways. Was it to get my undivided attention or was she drowning in her own river of awkwardness?

We sat down at the nicely lit restaurant, made our orders and while waiting for our appetizers, she asked,

“So, have you been to Argentina?”

“No, but I have been to other parts of South America.”

“Oh, like?”

“Brazil, Chile, Peru, and Venezuela.” I wondered if she would notice that I had named them in alphabetical order.

“Oh, that is cool.”

Cool. She said cool to that. I waited to see if she had something else to say. Silence. Nothing. Awkwardness.

“How about you?”

“I have never travelled out of the country before.”

“What? Why? You are thirty-five and you have never gone on a plane out of America?” The words came out of my mouth faster than my brain could order my oratory muscles to shut up.

Her face went white. The next thing I knew, she placed the napkin on the table, got up, took her bag and bobbled out of the restaurant.

I felt like a moron. I had wasted her time and mine. 

A Monk's Dilemma

The grey, cold sky hung heavily over the Nepalese landscape. The monk finishes sweeping the courtyard of the monastery after evening prayers. He looks at the worn out bristles of the broom, at his worn out robe, and sighs. The days have been unusually endless and colourless like the faded sky. 

He leaned against the wall of the exit of the monastery, staring out at the mountains. There was trouble in his heart, one torn between desire and emptiness. He closed his eyes tight shut, again the image of that beautiful woman who had been visiting the temple over the past weeks surfaced. She had been praying incessantly for her mother who had taken ill. She had poured her heart out to the heavens. Her long silky hair, her slender body, that long dress with a slit that revealed those smooth, fair legs. The tears that flowed down her porcelain face. He was moved by her beauty and her vulnerability. He wondered if they would ever meet again in another life?

Then, in his own moment of clarity and truth, he opened his eyes. Reciting from the Dhamapada, he turned back toward the monastery grounds.

Empty this boat, O bhikkhu!

When emptied, it will swiftly move

Cutting off lust and hatred

To Nibbana will you thereby go.

Be not attached to the beloved

And never with the unbeloved.

Not to meet the beloved is painful

As also to meet with the unbeloved.

Therefore hold nothing dear,

For separation from the beloved is painful.

There are no bonds for those

To whom nothing is dear or not dear.

Dhamapada (Sayings of the Buddha)