The watchman halts at the bottom of the steps. I hurry in, but his dragging footsteps go silent at the door.
Streams of mellow orange and morning yellow beam through the pillared alley, highlighting the devoid of vivid thangkas and fierce-colored banners cascading from the ceiling. Melodious chimes tinkle in the absence of buzzing prayer wheels. A light scent lingers where the heavy spices and herbs are supposed to sanctify the air.
Three times I lower myself on the smooth, slated floor. It’s not the rough grated timber brown I’m used to, but a veined pattern of muted black and ivory, with an array of gray and green crawling in between. Three times, and each prostration echoes, announcing my dedication to the Buddha, the dharma, and the sangha in this strange, deserted temple. Three ti
