A Year in Tibet. Sun Shuyun

went to the top of the highest mountain outside Gyantse and hung up prayer flags, so the wind could carry our prayers for the Buddha's blessing.’

      I had seen something similar one day at the Palkhor Monastery. There I'd watched a smartly dressed, middle-aged woman take half a dozen pens out of a posh handbag and hand them to a monk on duty. I'd thought at first that she was making an extremely unusual offering, but then I watched as the monk climbed the stairs to a thirteen-foot statue of the Sakyamuni Buddha and rubbed each pen against the hand of the Enlightened Being. After that, he touched the pens against the massive volumes of Ganjur (the Tibetan Buddhist canon) stacked along the walls. The woman explained, ‘If the Buddha can give my son a little blessing, he will put down the right answers with these pens.’ Her faith reminded me of my grandmother, who had prayed fervently to her favourite Bodhisattva, the Goddess of Compassion, in the days leading up to my exams. At the time, I was ungracious and scornful: ‘I don't need your goddess's blessing,’ I told her. It didn't occur to me that I might have benefitted from the kind of reassurance that Tseten gave to Jigme.

      Despite Tseten's divinations, the three weeks spent waiting for the exam results had been acutely anxious. The tension was palpable. Jigme spent most of his time helping Dondan and Yangdron with work around the house, feeding the cows, making cowpats for fuel, or carrying bricks for neighbours who were building houses. He worked until dark and went straight to bed. Very occasionally, when Jigme and I crossed paths, he would ask a question or two: ‘What's Xian like? Do you think I will be able to fit in with the Chinese students if I go there?’ But he never seemed to expect an answer; before I could respond, he was off.

      Meanwhile, Gyatso slept a lot. Only Loga could not understand why the family was leaving Gyatso alone — why he was allowed not to work while everyone else slaved away. Loga tried every morning to wake him, pulling at his blanket, gently whispering his name, then shouting at him. Invariably, Gyatso howled back, ‘Get lost, you stupid idiot!’ Often when Gyatso saw us, he shot us looks like daggers of hate, muttering curses loud enough for us to hear: ‘What a shameless lot! Why do they keep bothering us? Don't they see they aren't welcome?’ And perhaps it was more than just a teenage grudge. Perhaps by following his family, we were drawing unwanted attention to them, even bringing maledictions. Or perhaps Gyatso simply felt exposed — it might be embarrassing for him to have friends and classmates watch our series on television.

      Yangdron was very worried. She tried to be positive, but she told me this was the most anxious time of her life.

      ‘More anxious than your wedding day?’ I asked.

      ‘Yes, at least then I knew my family would find me a good match. And I knew the Rikzin family would treat me well. But with Jigme and Gyatso, if they can go to university they will have jobs and salaries. And that will be for life. If not, they will be stuck here with us.’

      ‘If they stay here, will they marry like their father and uncles, and share a wife?’

      ‘I think so. Everyone does that here.’

      ‘What if they do go to university?’

      ‘People with official jobs take only one spouse. They aren't allowed to share. So that's what Jigme and Gyatso would do.’