At Boudha, about to go into Café New Orleans to do some work on my laptop, when a sudden flash comes to me: you’d better do kora first, because you're about to meet someone who will change your life. I walk around the stupa several times, not particularly trusting my intuition, which has not proved reliable in the past, but feeling my mind calmed and appeased by the circumambulation.

Inside Café New Orleans, a chubby monk eating his breakfast and reading the paper is churlishly interrupted by a blond Scandinavian woman in her 40s, rather tiredskinned with a large nose and teeth. She starts by asking him abruptly what he does all day. His English is quite good. “I eat breakfast, lunch and dinner, and I sleep,” he tells her.

She sits down, asks him a lot of questions and answers them herself. “This illusion you're talking about, what is that? I saw an Indian walking down the street, and nobody else saw him—is that what you mean by illusion?”

The monk picks up a plate. “Is this permanent or impermanent?”

She snatches it out of his hand, lifts it above his head, says screechingly, “And what if I smash it over your head?”

“Only two possible answers,” he tells her gently but firmly. “Permanent or impermanent?” The waiter is looking rather concerned and shocked. The monk has a lovely deep laugh and turns to look at me often. I shut my laptop and manage to get a few questions in before the blond woman starts up again. He is a Khenpo, which means he holds an advanced degree in Buddhist studies (like a PhD). He calls himself a vagabond, says he travels between Nepal and India and Malaysia throughout the year. I ask if he gives public teachings, he says not for Westerners, only for other monks—then the Scandinavian woman is off again, ranting, saying things like, “You say many lives, that’s your opinion. What’s your proof?”

The Khenpo tries to talk to her about the third eye. “Brains, that’s all that means,” she insists. “Have some sense, think with your brain: that’s the third eye.” She has a habit of coquettishly tilting her chin to a shoulder, which was probably attractive twenty years ago.

“I’ll give you a third eye to see with,” he offers, “you’re talking bullshit.”

I am about to leave when suddenly the Khenpo turns to me and says, “What do you want to know about religion?” I am struck dumb for a moment—I know that I must be honest and bold, I cannot dodge this question or give a safe answer. Finally I ask the one thing to which I have never found a satisfying answer.

“This is simple, no problem,” he says. “But not today.” He is staying in a nearby gompa. He gives me his cell phone number. “My English is not so good,” he says, “but my lama has very good English. If I cannot explain this to you, he will explain.”