the ani-haru are superhuman

In the kitchen: An ani slices off a huge hunk of butter and dumps it in the churn. Adds coarse salt and boiling water, and a little black tea. Works the handle with strong smooth motions.

In the gompa: a plate of pink and scarlet flowers making the rounds. Not sure what its original purpose was, but now one of the older ani-haru is tucking flowers behind her ears. She grins and gives me a thumbs-up.

13-year old Lhamu Cheten pulls a pink flower apart petal by petal and sticks the petals to her face in a column from forehead to chin. She turns to the rest of the ani-haru: “Hallo! Rooster! Coo-cooracoo!” The gompa erupts with laughter.

Just before lunch, Chenzom arrives in the courtyard leading a furry dog on a chain. Three other ani-haru gather round, caress the dog and place a garland of flowers round its neck. Someone has daubed his forehead with red. They call it Chimi—Lama’s wife’s name. Chimi looks lovable, but apparently has been conditioned by ninjas to rip the throat out of anyone not wearing maroon robes. “Stay!” the ani-haru warn me. They tie Chimi’s chain to an old loop of kata (Tibetan white scarf) attached to the kitchen roof, and one of the Eghara escorts me past him as he barks and growls. He stares at me all through lunch, with silent hatred. When I go down the steps again, an ani full-body blocks him from attacking me. I worry a bit, as Tibetan kata are not known for their endurance, but I figure the whole group of ani-haru is a match for Chimi the dog.

After lunch an Austrian gentleman comes to visit. He and Uppal converse in broken English. I get the impression he’s trying to raise money for something. “In Europe, money is not falling from the heavens,” he explains. “I cannot prymus anything.” He and Uppal discuss the merits of certain gompas around town. They keep using a word which sounds like “cooker” but doesn’t make sense to me in context.

Mists rolling over the hills. Afternoon light filters through clouds like gauze.

Evening:
A leisurely walk in the direction of Thorung La. Coming back, Muktinath translucent in reflected afternoon light. Framed by dark mountains. A stone enclosure with Tibetan prayer flags and kata streaming out—the faded colors and threads hanging loose—sun hanging like a diamond in the clouds.

When I get back—sit on steps outside kitchen watching sun set— the Eghara bring out firepot—argue with each other over fetching me tea—bellowing and elbowing for room. The rest of ani-haru finish puja and join us around the firepot.

The ani-haru are superhuman. That’s the only explanation for the ease of their survival. They run around in thin socks—or none—only one layer under their robes—bare shaved heads. They run up and down the stairs as if they have goat hooves. I thought maybe the snow would give them pause, but as I was inching my way down the icy steps yesterday night, clinging to the wall, I saw their tiny footprints, and they were right on the edge, barely an imprint—as if they’d been racing in the dark. They stir in several pounds of coarsely chopped red chili to every meal, and take only a couple of mouthfuls of water a day, if that (most of the time they drink nothing with meals and only hot tea inbetween). No matter how early I get up, they’re already in the gompa. They chant for 12 hours a day and then romp and sing until bedtime.

I remember at a talk in Boulder, the Sakyong saying something like, “Tibetans are very practical people. If it doesn’t work, we don’t do it. ‘Go sit in a cave and meditate for 10 years. Doesn’t work.’ ‘Come back to the breath. Doesn’t work.’ No! It works.”