Eight. The Buddha Boy

Today's meat was indeed yesterday's lame yak. Despite our efforts, the beast perished in the hot sun. Tsedup and I had fed it a huge dose of human antibiotics and dribbled milk into its mouth in desperation. The children and I had even held an umbrella over its head to ease the glare of the midday heat, but the yak knew it was dying. It grunted pathetically as the dogs sniffed around it.

When it had died I went out to look at it for the last time. Unlike these people, I was unaccustomed to seeing death. I had only seen my mother's dead bitch. We buried her solemnly beneath a cherry tree in the back garden. The yak was still warm, and as I gently stroked its head I muttered, ' Om mani padme hum.' It is better to die than to suffer, Annay said. As far as she was concerned, its soul was on its way to the next life. She prayed as she skinned it with the other women.

From the day that Tsedup had run away, Annay had stopped eating animals that had been killed, and only ate those that had died naturally. She had prayed that her son would be protected. But even now that he was back, she would not revert to her old ways. Sometimes she had to rely on the generosity of another family in the tribe whose animal had died. But these treats were only occasional, and her diet was poor. Tsedup was always remonstrating with her for not looking after her health. But she was stubborn and not even he could change her mind. Annay was a devout Buddhist. Her virtuous actions were symbolic of her religious devotion and compassion for all sentient beings. She sought empathy with the world and a deeper level of understanding for the life around her. She knew that each of her actions had an outcome. If she showed compassion, the outcome would be positive; if she committed a harmful act, the outcome would be negative. Every day she experienced the world at an emotional level and compassion was her primary motivation. With every good act that she performed, she was increasing her own good karma and achieving merit, sonnam. The ten main meritorious actions of Buddhism are not unlike the Ten Commandments: one should not kill, steal, conduct inappropriate sexual activity, lie, gossip, swear, sow discord or be covetous, malicious or opinionated. Annay was in line for a glorious rebirth.

That evening, we made mincemeat of the poor yak. Amnye, Tsedo and I fashioned momos, the tiny steamed flour parcels, which were the nomads' delicacy. They laughed at my squashed efforts as they placed their own creations, like perfect poppy buds, on the floured board. Later, I tried not to think of the ethical implications as I munched gratefully, delicious hot juice dribbling down my chin. Now and then each person breathed their prayer through greasy lips, as in the corner of the tent the black hide hung limply over the basket of meat.

As we talked in the firelight, Shermo Donker made butter. Tomorrow the tribe would be honoured by the visit of a lama. The butter was to be our family's offering to the monastery. She kneaded it in a bowl, squeezing out the excess liquid; it squelched and oozed lusciously in her fingers. Then she slapped and patted it into cylindrical shapes; perfectly smooth. She continued until long after the children had fallen asleep, the fire had died, the dogs had ceased their howling.

Despite the imminent arrival of the lama, Tsedup had resolved to go to town. The next morning, he sped off with his brother, Tsedo, on the motorbike, scattering sheep, his mother shouting after him, 'Come back tonight! Namma needs you!' Tsedup waved and disappeared in a dustcloud on the far track. I had discovered his fondness for town life, which was strange since I had always thought he would be a true nomad. But I hadn't known how much young nomads loved the town. These days, it was the place to be. And it was normal for nomad husbands to leave their wives sometimes, in favour of carousing with friends and a hotel bed. I missed him when he didn't come home at night and Annay knew it. Yet I tried to suppress my possessive urges. He had been away for nine years and I wanted him to feel alive again. I was just going to have to bite my tongue. One thing was for sure: through sheer necessity, my Tibetan language was improving and I was becoming a more competent namma.

Soon a figure appeared in the shimmering heat. Tsedup's grandmother was ambling over from Rhanjer's tent with her stick. She had walked six miles from the town to stay with his family, as she often did in the summer months. Tsedup's oldest brother had been raised by Ama-lo-lun and Azjung. They had never been able to have a child of their own – Amnye was the product of her previous marriage – and as a boy Rhanjer had been so idolised by them that his grandmother had gradually prised him away from his parents. Subtly he had become a permanent fixture in their tent. It wasn't that Tsedup's mother and father had not wanted him; this practice is quite common in nomad families and usually there are so many children that they are willingly shared between grandparents and parents.

Ama-lo-lun had come to help with preparations for the lama's visit and soon settled into deep-frying twists of golden bread in a wok, heavy with oil. She recited her prayers rhythmically as she turned the bread in the oil with a stick. Tibetans did not pray in the way I understood. Ama-lo-lun was not asking for anything, or thanking her god. She was probably just using the prayer for dedication of merit, part of every devout Buddhist's practice. 'May any merit attained through this practice be dedicated to the enlightenment of all sentient beings.'

As she repeated her refrain, she strained the doughnut morsels and placed them on an upturned metal lid. The fire was bright, the tent dark and clouded with dung smoke. Above her hypnotic chants and the bubbling oil, the milk-churn whirred, as Sirmo turned the handle. Meanwhile, Annay rolled out dough on a wooden board and cut it into small rectangles, slitting each piece in the middle and weaving it into shapes, ready for frying. We were silent, listening to the prayer, which seemed infinite.

Suddenly, through the drone of incantation we heard a jeep engine. Shermo Donker came running into the tent, a flustered look on her sun-blistered face. The lama was here. 'Hurry! Hurry!' she barked at the children. She pulled me outside, and I caught a brief glimpse of the holy man's vehicle as it pulled up next door before she spun me inside our white tent. I felt as if I was being hidden from him. Were they ashamed of me? I would surely be a most bizarre spectacle for the lama. For a moment I felt disappointed. But Shermo Donker soon began rummaging through an old rice sack and produced a fistful of kadaks, the white silken prayer scarves.

'Your tsarer needs retying.' She smiled and I realised that she was about to help me smarten up. She was the expert and I had to look my best. She handed me the prayer scarves and fussed around with my costume, until I was bound tight enough for her satisfaction. In a gentle, motherly gesture, she licked her thumb and smoothed away some mark on my face. 'Yucka!' she said, then tugged at my arm and propelled me towards the main tent. We distributed the prayer scarves and Sirmo and Shermo Donker retied their tsarers, combed their hair and put on their best jewellery. I helped the children into their best clothes. Their tsarers were only marginally less soiled than the clothes they had been wearing, but it was an improvement, and once I had tugged at their hair with a comb, we all set off.

Jerko's tent was on the other side of the stream. It had always been there and it always would be. Each summer when the tribe reassembled in the river valley, all of the tents were always in exactly the same position. Tsedup's father and Jerko seemed to be the luckiest ones. It wasn't a question of status, although they were both prominent figures in the tribe, just the way things were. Being closest to the stream, those families were in the most convenient position for collecting water and washing clothes. Their women were more fortunate than the others, who toiled across the grassland with their water vessels. Our tent was also the closest to the track, so anyone arriving at the tribe would call there first. We were always the first to know who was coming, which was an advantage when the trucks came from town, selling fruit and packet noodles.