I remembered that “Homeless One” was a technical expression for a Buddhist monk.

It was at that moment I experienced for the first time a sensation which was to repeat itself a number of times in my association with him. It was a curious feeling that I was about to faint, then just at the moment of loss of consciousness a wave of energy flooded my mind and I recovered in what can only be described as a higher form of consciousness. I knew two things: that this was something Tietsin was doing to me deliberately, and that the exercise of such powers was strictly forbidden to genuine Buddhists.

All this time he had been watching me curiously, while the assemblage point of my mind hovered somewhere above the top of my head and sensory import became pleasantly blurred, as if the five senses didn’t matter anymore.

Now he stood up and gave a great big benevolent smile which effortlessly wiped away the heaviness of the previous moment. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, and, limping, led the way down the stairs. I had to follow slowly, so as not to lose my balance, but the sensation was at all times seductively pleasant.

“We watched you yesterday, when you came with that Hindu with the rag around his head. We were very impressed. Without seeming to think about it, you started at the most easterly point of the stupa, walked around it exactly three and a half times, carefully turning every prayer wheel, which brought you up at exactly opposite the point where you started: west. When that old lady approached you for money, you didn’t stick to the letter of the law but showed compassion over and above strict dharma and gave her rather a lot of dough. You are a terrible romantic, therefore: you broke the law for love. That makes you a high security risk on the one hand-and a dreadful sucker-but a sympathetic fellow traveler on the other. Let’s say you already passed our interview yesterday, there’s nothing more about you we need to know. So this day is your opportunity to interview me. Fire away.”

I tried to say, Interview you?, but the words would not come out. We had reached the bottom of the stairs and turned right toward the great stupa, but all the people were gone. I gasped.

There is nothing magical about telepathy; it is merely one of those faculties our ancestors developed to a certain point before discarding it in favor of something more reliable, like answering machines. I had never experienced it in anything but the most atrophied form-Chanya and I were occasionally telepathic, usually reading each other’s minds with regard to things that didn’t matter much; I had never seen anything like this.

For a start the stupa had changed color. It was black. The eyes were an intense, angry red; a great, exaggerated burst of enraged lightning was emerging from the steeple; it was night; a bloated full moon hung in the eastern sky; and, weirdest of all: nothing was happening. I mean, there was no movement. I was looking at a mental painting, an internal snapshot which Tietsin had transferred to me. Later, once the initial amazement had subsided, I would penetrate to a deeper and still more disturbing meaning: this was how Tietsin saw Buddhism, the world, life. Or, you could say this was a picture of his soul he was showing me.

The moment evaporated, the sun came back out, the stupa was a brilliant white again and surrounded by pilgrims in burgundy robes and tourists in shorts and sandals and jolly souvenir shops, and Tietsin was staring at me with that curious look on his face. “Interview over?” he asked with exaggerated courtesy. “Let’s take a stroll. We’ll be like spies in those Cold War movies who have to conduct their negotiations in open places where there are no microphones and anyone following us would be conspicuous.”

I spared him a wild-eyed glance as I followed. “Would you mind telling me how you did that? I mean, excuse me, but for a moment just then you took over my whole mind.”

He shrugged. “Blame my meditation master. I was a star student before I disrobed. There was stuff he showed me that shouldn’t really be shared with a teenager. To this day I don’t know if he passed on those advanced initiations because he thought I would be a lama, or because he knew the Chinese were coming and there was no time left for niceties, or because he was the kind of master who didn’t give a shit, which is supposed to be the best kind. Obviously, for whatever reason he felt he had no choice but to risk my sanity.” He gave me a quick glance. “Nothing is ever as simple as it seems. Come, let us make merit.”

I followed his uneven gait around the stupa, spinning the prayer wheels as we went. He had a specific technique, a professional’s handiness with the brass. I was less adept.

After the first nine wheels, Tietsin said, “Whoever is angry, harbors ill will, is evil-minded and envious, whose views are delusive, who is deceitful, he is to be known as an outcast.”

I tried to remember where I had heard that before. Surely it was nothing less than the Vasala Sutra? I said, “Whoever destroys life, whether bird or animal, insect or fish, has no compassion for life…”

“Whoever is destructive or aggressive in town and country and is a known vandal or thug…”

“Whoever steals what is considered to belong to others, whether it be situated in villages or the forest…”

“Whoever, having contracted debts, defaults and when asked to pay, retorts, ‘I am not indebted to you’…”

“Whoever is desirous of stealing even a trifle and takes such a thing, having killed a man going along the road…”

“Whoever commits perjury either for his own benefit, for that of others, or for the sake of profit…”

“Whoever has illicit affairs with the wives of his relatives or friends, either by force or through mutual consent…”

“Whoever does not support his father or mother, who are old and infirm, being himself in a prosperous position…”

“Whoever strikes or abuses by words either father, mother, brother, sister, or mother-in-law…”

“Whoever being asked for good advice teaches what is misleading or speaks in obscure terms…”

“Whoever having committed an offense wishes to conceal it from others and is a hypocrite…”

“Whoever having gone to another’s house and taken advantage of the hospitality there does not reciprocate in like manner…”

“Whoever deceives a priest, monk, or any other spiritual preceptor…”

“Whoever abuses by words and does not serve a priest or monk coming for a meal…”

“Whoever, being enmeshed in ignorance, makes untrue predictions for paltry gain…”

“Whoever exalts himself and despises others, smug in his self-conceit…”

“Whoever is a provoker of quarrels or is avaricious, has malicious desires, is envious, shameless, and has no qualms in committing evil…”

“Whoever insults the Buddha or his disciples, whether renounced ones or laymen…”

“Whoever not being an arhat pretends to be one, he is indeed the greatest rogue in the whole world, the lowest outcast of all…”

“Thus have I exposed those who are outcasts…”

“One does not become an outcast by birth, one does not become a Brahmin by birth. It is by deed that one becomes an outcast, it is by deed that one becomes a Brahmin.”

The celebrated sutra had taken us one half turn of the stupa. We had started in the west, I suppose because Tietsin wanted to finish in the east. He was silent for the whole of the second turn of the stupa, then he said, as he spun the wheels with particular vigor, “I guess we have a deal.”

“I guess. How much can you ship?”

“Our movement needs forty million dollars. Whatever will get us that sum, we’ll ship.”

“Your movement? Is it political?”

“Sure. We’re going to invade China.”

“What with?”

He stopped short, as if the question surprised him. “With the inexorable power of Tantra, of course.”