Dispatch is a series of first-person stories from the road.
I was in Bhutan, a tiny kingdom wedged in between China and Tibet, about to enter my hotel in Thimphu. Suddenly a monk, wearing the traditional maroon robe stood in front of me, his thick black hair pulled into a ponytail.
"Hello," he said and smiled while covering his mouth with the end of his robe. I wondered whether it was forbidden for monks to smile in public. Maybe he was shy. "You are American, yes?" He spoke slowly with a slight accent, emphasizing each word distinctly. I nodded.
"Are you just coming here to Bhutan?"
"No, I'm leaving tomorrow. I trekked to Jomalhari."
"Ah, yes." His eyes lit up at the mention of Bhutan's most sacred mountain. "Where do you live in America?"
"New York."
"Ah, yes! New York! Would you please mail a letter for me when you return to New York?"
I hesitated. What if there was a bomb in the letter? Or drugs? From a Himalayan monk? His request was understandable. Bhutanese stamps are considered a valuable commodity and often are stolen right off letters in the post office.
"Okay," I finally said.
"May I come this evening and bring it to you? You are staying here at Wangchuk Hotel, yes?" He pointed to my hotel.
What if he wasn't really a monk? What if this was a ploy to rob my room? I told myself I was being ridiculous, and said yes.
"My name is Tsultrim Lama," he said and smiled, again covering his mouth with his hand. "At what time shall I come?"
"Seven," I said.
He bowed and touched his fingers together. "I come then, here, to the hotel at seven o'clock, to bring you my letter."
Shortly before seven, I was heading down to the lobby for dinner, when the monk came up the steps, holding a young girl's hand.
"Hello!" he said. "This is my niece, Phuntsho. I wanted her to meet you." A girl of about eight years, with eyes like black olives, extended her small hand. "Here is the letter."
The monk handed me a sealed envelope addressed to a Robert someone in Jericho, N.Y.
"Thanks, I'll put it in my room."
I turned, but he put his hand on my arm. "I have something for you," he said. From his robe he pulled out a necklace made of silk thread that ended with a box-stitched tassel. It reminded me of the lanyards we used to make in Girl Scouts camp, except his had 12 perfectly matched red and yellow knots.
"Please take this. I have blessed it for you many times. It will bring you good luck."
I took it and put it around my neck. "Thank you so much," I said. "Is it something I should wear all the time? I mean – even in the shower?"
"No," he said. "But when you do not wear it, hang it up high and do not let it touch the ground."
At dinner everyone noticed my necklace. Keysan, one of the trekking guides, had seen the monk leave the hotel.
"He came to see you?" Keysan asked. "That is an honour. People come from all over to study with him."
I fingered my necklace. "He gave this to me."
Keysan's eyes widened. "You are very lucky. That is a blessing cord."
Feeling special, I wore the necklace to bed, then on the flight home and to work my first day back. I mailed the letter he had given me, along with a note and my phone number, hoping that Robert somebody from Jericho could tell me more about the lama. A few days went by. The novelty of wearing the blessing cord wore off. I hung it on a hook in my closet.
About a month later, I touched the blessing cord and thought about Tsultrim Lama. That same day, the phone rang. It was Robert from Jericho, calling to thank me for sending the letter. I was amazed at the coincidence.
One day, a few months later, I again touched the silky blessing cord. That day in the mail was a letter with two colourful Bhutanese stamps and a postmark from Thimphu. Airmail had been written in red crayon, underlined with a hand-drawn yellow, green and blue rainbow. I carefully opened the envelope.
"My dear Margie," it began. "Here comes your friend Tsultrim Lama which we met in Wangchuk Hotel and we together talked each other and I hope you didn't forget me. My niece says hello."
He went on to say he thought we had met at another time, in a different life. This was our "before action" or karma. He always remembered me when he did his meditation and he prayed for my health, happiness, peace and long life. He signed it, "with much love, yours truly friend, Tsultrim Lama."
With this second coincidence, I knew the blessing cord held some sort of magic, even though I didn't know exactly what.
I wrote back, and about a month later, another letter arrived: "My dear Margie, today I request you if you don't mind for my for help requesting then I would be very much grateful to you. I am doing meditation that way I am really needing some help money by my friends so please could you monthly enclose some money with my letter because it is so helpful for me what you could send me. If you can't send money then no problem. It is very important that we don't stop sending each other lovely letter. Warms regard from my niece, Phuntsho, with much love, Tsultrim."
I called the outfitter of my Bhutanese trek and read him the letter. Was it a con? The outfitter explained that there are lamas who ask for money for meditation but also some who make their living requesting handouts from Americans, especially New Yorkers.
For a long time, the letter sat on my desk. I felt as guilty as the times when I ignore homeless people on the street.
I put the blessing cord around my neck and waited for a sign that this was really a scam. As I touched the silky threads and thought about Tsultrim's shy smile, I knew what I had to do. I put 20 dollars in an envelope and mailed it. For a month, I checked my mailbox, but there was no reply. I took the blessing cord off its place of prominence in the closet and threw it into my junk drawer.
Two months later, an envelope arrived from Bhutan with the familiar Airmail handwritten in red and this time, underlined in green and purple. The neatly printed letter read, "My dear Margie, Thank you so much for your kind help money for my meditation and for my niece also. You are so kindful to us, so that I never forget your kind through my whole life."
The blessing cord went back to its place of prominence in my closet. It was a token gesture because the blessing cord had brought me more than luck – it had taught me trust.
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