Published in 2019, Adrift by Third Street Writers

My first audience with the Dalai Lama materialized on a dry windy afternoon the summer of 1995. July 6th, to be exact. Under the loose title of Project Coordinator, I was an advance guy for Monkey Business Films, based in North Hollywood, working on Seven Years in Tibet, starring Brad Pitt. My job description required me to field as much information as possible in preparation to shoot; from the make of what are now his trademark glasses (Bartoli, Italy circa 1960) to his hobbies (taking watches apart and putting them back together again).

Surprisingly, it was easy to get in to see His Holiness. Although the Lama uses no computers, his monks do, regularly scheduling appointments.

“His Holiness will meet with you,” Tenzin Geyche Tethong, his secretary, emailed me. I would have forty-five minutes and there was no special protocol to preform. I just had to be patient.

Three months later I stood on a hot, claustrophobic platform in Dehli, a rail ticket to Pathankot in one hand, my cell phone in another. I strained to hear my girlfriend over the din of the throng.

“You sounded kinda sad yesterday on the phone,” she tiptoed around the elephant in the room.

“Well, yeah. I miss you, and hoped we’d’ve had time together before I left.” My heart a cage of doves yearning for flight.

“You know how busy I am,” the tap, tap, tap of her words tiny nails into what felt like the coffin of our relationship, “The hospital, my kids…not a lot of time. I’m still figuring things out.” I’d heard the list before, but for fear of losing more ground I retreated as a red-striped train pushed its way into the station.

The worn wheels of the cab stubbed to a halt outside the monastery. Dust rose like smoke while colorful prayer flags fluttered overhead, sending whispers of devotions and supplications out over jam-packed streets and into the hills beyond. After the fifty-four mile ride to Dharmashala I handed the driver a wad of rupees and stretched my legs, lighting a Camel. Dang things had a hook in me, but offered a moment of calm.

Geyche welcomed me warmly. “His Holiness receives many;” leading me down a cool hallway fragrant with incense, his saffron chögö flowing, “however, no matter one’s rank, if a visitor lacks sincerity, he will dismiss them saying, Thank you, see you next time.” He glanced at me, an impish grin on his face.

“Today is my birthday!” His Holiness exclaimed and chuckled, offering me a seat in his private sitting room.

“Shenpa,” he warned gently, his gaze spanning the space from the box of cigarettes in my breast-pocket to my eyes. I cleared my throat.

A light rap on the door, Geyche slipped in, “Please forgive the interruption, Holiness. Ambassador Zhaohui sends regrets. He has no time to see you today as originally planned.”

The Lama put his fingertips together contemplating this, then looked at me kindly, “If someone says they do not have time, it really means they do not want to.”