The chief disciples and an intimidating array of senior Lamas
were gathered around the Rimpoché to receive
me. Just as I was about to pass through
the doorway of the room and prostate
myself, I had to stop and search agitatedly beneath
the flap of my borrowed gown, delving into the loose
fold above my hurriedly wound sash. To
my infinite relief, my fingers
soon encountered the Kharda, the ceremonial scarf which must accompany
the gift I was about to make, though I had no clear recollection of having put it there a few moments before. Even if these eminent
recluses and professors should discover my ignorance, at
least they would have no cause to consider me
boorish.
Then, taking a deep
breath, as for a plunge, I strode forward,
fell to my knees and placed my forehead on the ground. Just as I was about to
rise for the third time, I felt the touch of gnarled
old fingers on my scalp and immediately my agitation left me. The expression in the many pairs of
eyes regarding me was friendly, and I knew then that I had no cause for embarrassment or fear.
John Blofeld, The Wheel of Life, Berkeley, Shambala, 1972
Kate Sanborn, Old Time Wall Papers, Greenwich, The Literary Collector Press, 1905.
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