The mountains hadn’t changed in centuries. Monks wore robes that could be traced to the Buddha’s time. Poppy fields and mustard plants spread out through the village. Opium was sold as a thick paste. When I met Anila, a Tibetan Buddhist nun, she had a face like Sinéad O’Connor. In addition to the shaved head, she had high cheekbones and enormous greenish-blue eyes. She told me little of her life, save that she had been German and unhappy, before becoming Buddhist and impoverished. She’d been wandering across northern India and moved into the Buddhist Center around the time I was moving out to go further up the mountain. Afterwards, I would walk forty minutes through the forest to see her, on a path where different colored monkeys lived in trees, and panthers roamed at sunrise. Ani and I would drink spicy tea without honey at the Center and share intimate aspects of our meditations. She gave me a special mantra. The kind a teacher gives a student. The kind you write down, then memorize and never tell anyone.
One day we talked so long, so deeply that I left her when the sun had slipped below the Himalayan peaks and color in the sky was lifting like fog. I had no light, no weapon and walked through the woods as fast as possible, reciting the mantra, thinking of karma and feeling eyes on me that I hoped were the black and brown monkeys, not the large freaky ones with faces ringed with white fur or, of course, the cats. The deeper into the forest, the darker it got and the faster I walked, the more concern for falling and sliding down the mountain. I was nervous sweating, but just kept putting one foot in front of the other.
When trees started to become less dense, I breathed a sigh of relief. Just as it always did, the path opened up into the village. The moon lit the way to the yellow concrete house painted with vines and hibiscuses where all was dark. I had a room of my own in the corner. I had access to the roof and the little building with the knot-holed ceiling where we cooked and bathed. Before entering my room, I looked at the immense silver sky and wondered why we wished on falling stars, fading light. The next time I saw Anila, she said, “I knew when you arrived. I stayed with you the whole way.”
A year after she’d left to continue wandering, the Dalai Lama was giving teachings. Tibetans, Indians, and tourists descended on Dharamsala. The former would completely prostate themselves on the ground before the leader of Tibetan Buddhism. There was often a rainbow across the valley. During the break, I took a walk in hopes of seeing one—and there was Anila, in crimson robes, walking up the mountain.
“Ani,” I said and stepped up to hug her. “I’m so happy to see you.”
She put her hands together, bowed, and kept walking.
Had she recognized me? Taken a vow of silence? I walked around smarting, until it hit me. She was telling me about nonattachment, about letting go. We’d had our moment. There was nothing more to do than bow and continue on our way.
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Marcy Rae Henry is a Xicana artist from the Borderlands and author of death is a mariachi, winner of the May Sarton Poetry Prize, when to go to the Taj, the body is where it all begins, dream life of night owls, and We Are Primary Colors. She’s not on socials.
© 2025, Marcy Rae Henry
Halfway Down the Stairs 