Victorious in all Directions

[Alex]

The motorcade climbed through the Kangra Valley, six black vehicles threading their way up roads that had been quietly cleared hours earlier. Sebastian sat alone in the back of the third car, jacket off, tie still precise. He'd been reading briefing documents but had set them aside minutes ago. They didn't matter now.

Outside, the mountains pressed closer. Pine forests, rhododendrons, mist clinging to the higher slopes. Even through the sealed windows, he could feel the air thinning, growing cooler and fresher as they gained altitude the more they climbed the road.

He'd been thinking about the Dalai Lama since they left New Delhi. Not of the historical and intelligence information that filled the folder beside him, but he thought of the man himself. To have ruled since he was an infant, instilled within his mind that he was the reincarnation of a great religious leader. To have been forced out of his nation by communist swine, used by the American Central Intelligence Agency and abandoned after his purpose had been fulfilled… and now to deny sovereignty of his people while their culture was actively being massacred.

Sebastian found it difficult to have respect for such a man.

China wasn’t what it had been in the seventies, nor even what it had been at the turn of the millennium. The communist regime was gone, supplanted by a government with some hopes of establishing democratic institutions…

Democracy. What a joke.

When left unchecked, it was like a disease of society, naturally producing authoritarian figures. The consequences of which last for generations. The voter, obsessed with equality over all, accepts the falsehoods they find on headlines and spoken of on television without second guesses. They believe they are in control, but in reality, self-interest drives decisions.

Political rotation occurs, but the substance remains the same. Leaders are replaced by others who are equally unfit while the general population remains poor, uneducated, impulsives, and most of all: self-centered.

People needed a figure to look to, it’s how humanity worked. Democracy… was no more than another form of anarchy.

But now, over the Himalayas, something older, perhaps something harder, had torn down that government. An empire again, though a weak one. Imperialistic still.

It changed the equation. Sebastian was betting it changed enough.

The motorcade slowed as they entered McLeod Ganj.

Narrow streets, monks in maroon robes, tourists with cameras always being in the way, Tibetan refugees at market stalls. People stopped to watch the convoy pass, though with blackened windows, there was nothing to see.

They wound higher, past the main temple complex with its golden roof, prayer wheels turning in the wind. Sebastian could hear chanting through the armoured glass.

The Dalai Lama's residence appeared around a final curve. It was a simple complex behind a low wall, trees high on all sides. There were no guards visible, no ceremony. It was exactly as he had asked it to be.

The vehicles stopped.

Rajan, his head of security, got out first and checked the perimeter before opening Sebastian's door.

The mountain air was sharp, clean, and smelled of pine and woodsmoke.

"Wait here," Sebastian told his security detail.

A young monk appeared at the gate. "Your Excellency. His Holiness is expecting you."

Sebastian followed him through.

Jay

 

[Jay]

The prayer hall lay wrapped in a stillness with rows of monks sat cross-legged upon worn cushions, their saffron and maroon robes pooling softly at their knees. Butter lamps flickered along the low stone walls, their flames breathing gently, casting shadows that trembled like living things across painted mandalas and darkened beams. The air was heavy with the scent of incense and old wood.

At the center sat the Dalai Lama, his posture upright, hands resting lightly upon his knees. His eyes were closed. The low chant of the disciples moved around him in slow, circular cadence, syllables rising and falling like a tide guided by unseen gravity.

As the prayer drew toward its close, a small interruption broke the rhythm. The Dalai Lama’s chest rose sharply, and he turned his head slightly to one side, releasing a brief, restrained cough. It cut cleanly through the chant. The monk's voices continued, steady and reverent.

When the final syllables were cast and the room fell into silence, the Dalai Lama opened his eyes. For a moment he remained seated lingering at some distance beyond the walls of the hall. Then, with deliberate care, he placed his palms against the floor and rose to his feet. The disciples bowed as one. He inclined his head in return before turning toward the narrow doorway at the far end of the hall.

Outside, the light was sharper. The sun had climbed higher while they prayed, and the courtyard lay open beneath a wide, pale sky. Prayer flags stretched between wooden poles, snapping softly in the wind, their faded colors carrying printed blessings into the air. The Dalai Lama stepped forward, letting the sunlight fall fully upon his face. He inhaled deeply, the breath slow.

He walked a short distance along the stone path, stopping near the low wall that overlooked the valley below. Terraced hills rolled outward in muted greens and browns, disappearing into a thin veil of haze. He rested his hands upon the wall, fingers curling slightly over its edge, and allowed his thoughts to settle again.

Footsteps approached behind him, careful and unhurried. A monk emerged from the doorway and crossed the courtyard, his head bowed, his hands folded within the sleeves of his robe. He halted a respectful distance away and waited, saying nothing until the Dalai Lama turned.

“Yes,” the Dalai Lama said gently.

The monk lifted his gaze. “Your Holiness,” he began, his voice low, “Your guest has arrived and is waiting below”

“They have,” the Dalai Lama replied, a faint smile touching his lips. “And they were well held.”

The monk inclined his head again, “Yes Your Holiness, he is waiting with monk Gyatso."

The Dalai Lama turned back toward the valley, “Then we should leave at once before monk Gyatso scares him off."

The monk bowed his head again as the Dalai Lama asked, “send him up to my chambers, he should not remain waiting.”

The monk bowed again, deeper this time, and withdrew without further word. The Dalai Lama turned back toward the monastery, he ascended the steps. He acknowledged the passing monks with a brief inclination of the head, before reaching his private chambers at the upper level.

Inside, the room was spare but warm, illuminated by a single window that opened toward the mountains. Low shelves held a few worn texts, their bindings softened by use. A small table stood near the window, already set with a porcelain teapot and two cups. An attendant stepped forward, lifting the pot and pouring the tea in a smooth, unbroken stream. Steam rose gently, carrying the faint.

Meanwhile, at the lower gate, Sebastian was led through the monastery grounds by a monk. Sebastian’s footsteps echoed softly against the stone.

The monk did not speak as they climbed. When they reached the upper level the monk stopped before a carved wooden door. The monk turned, inclined his head toward Sebastian, and gently pushed the door open.

Inside, the Dalai Lama stood near the table, one hand resting lightly beside the cups. He looked up as Sebastian entered, his expression open, attentive, and entirely unguarded.

“Please,” he said, gesturing toward the seat opposite him. “You have come a long way.”

When Sebastian stepped in and took his seat, the Dalai Lama lifted the teapot once more and poured. The monk withdrew, closing the door behind him, leaving the two men alone.

Alex