The taxi ride to the farm to see the high lama seemed endless. The Sakya Monastery had bought a nice house with some land at the outskirts of Delhi and that was where we were headed. We stopped along the way at a roadside market and bought a bunch of apples from the vendors at their carts as a gift for His Holiness Jigdal Dagchen Sakya Rinpoche. Karma Tashi was quite nervous. He said this was a very special lama. And he said it was a special day for me too. I should feel very honored that somehow fate had given me this unique opportunity to meet him. I was beginning to get a little nervous myself.

Finally, a big black metal gate with a guard at a guard house opened up to a

large two story white house with a circle drive in front. An empty swimming pool was in the back. It was absolutely magnificent for India, but still somewhat crude by American standards of wealth and construction inside and out.

Beyond the foyer inside the front door was a sitting room flanked by a staircase. Chairs and couches were arranged around a middle coffee table. Damashuko was there, the high lama's wife, and she greeted us when we entered and made polite conversation like a good hostess. I sat down on one couch next to a small old gray haired nun who spoke no English. David was there, a tall, lanky man from Hong Kong currently living in Vancouver studying film, who was videotaping the entire pilgrimage of the high lama and his disciples for the monastery and His Holiness. He was talking about Buddhism but I had a difficult time understanding him - partly because so many of the terms and names were unfamiliar and also a little because of his accent. There was another couple there as well. I found out later that it was a mother and her son from South Africa, and they were joining the pilgrimage for a part of the journey. I thought they all "belonged", and I felt a bit uncomfortable, like an imposter in their midst. Damashuko finally asked me if I was on a pilgrimage as I was traveling through India and I said no, that I was not a Buddhist.

And then it was our turn to go upstairs to see Rinpoche. We had to take our shoes off outside the door of his room. A bodyguard resembling monk met us there and placed the apples on a tray that Karma Tashi then covered with a white kata, the silk scarves given as offerings and blessings. Karma had given me a kata on the way as well. I watched him go first so I would know what to do. Then I approached this man who was supposed to be so holy, bowed, with white kata across my two hands and dangling. Rinpoche took the kata and draped it around my neck. I went to sit down cross-legged in front of him. But he called me back up and placed a gold silk string around my neck and tied it into a necklace. I learned later that as the kata was a blessing, this gold strand was for protection. Again I seated myself in front of him and beside Karma Tashi. They spoke in Tibetan briefly. I knew Karma was planning to ask for blessings for his work painting Thangkas (traditional Tibetan art on fabric) and teaching, and also for his family and friends. And then it seemed he was dismissed and we got up to go. But as Karma waited for me by the door, Rinpoche began to question me in good English that was still sometimes difficult to understand because of the accent. He was an interesting man, somewhat gruff but I sensed a good humor behind it. He was seated cross-legged in yellow monk robes, comfortable and not pretentiously for all the ceremony. In his seventies with graying hair and dark rimmed glasses, he seemed familiar to me. I was struck by a strong sense of deja vu. With his gruff questioning, he wanted to know where I was from and if I was studying Buddhism. When I said Chicago and no, he guffawed. "Oh, yeah. You're a scientist. You believe in reality," with emphasis strongly on the word reality.
"No," I said. "I believe there is more. Don't you think I am connected?" And he looked at me for a minute and then said "Yes, but you need more." I told him I didn't know how to get there, and he told me I needed more teaching, a good teacher, and more meditation. And with that I seemed to be dismissed again.

As we were leaving, David approached Karma and me and asked if he could have a ride back into the city to his hotel where the group was staying. He said the others had left him behind because Damashuko had wanted to speak with him. He was quite flustered and embarrassed and kept apologizing over and over again. He felt so badly, he said, but he didn't have any rupees for a taxi and he wasn't even sure where his hotel was located. He had only the key card without an address in his pocket. With some confusion and the help of our taxi drivers (there were three in our vehicle for some reason) we found the right place. But it was, again, a long journey back through Delhi.

During the ride, as David and I were in the back seat, he learned of my plans to travel by train to Varanasi by myself the next day. From there I would go to Bodhgaya in a few days. After that, I was hoping to see Calcutta and the home of the late Mother Theresa - Varanasi as a holy Hindu site, Bodhgaya for its place in Buddhist history, and Calcutta partly for the Christian link. David was overly dismayed to hear that I would be going alone. He insisted it was not a safe journey for a western woman by herself. And he insisted that I join the pilgrimage. Apparently they were all headed to Bodhgaya the next day and after a few days there would be going to Varanasi. He explained that Varanasi is also a holy Buddhist city, as the place where Buddha first began to teach the Darma. I would miss Calcutta, but what a fascinating way to visit those spiritual sites, with very high lama and his pilgrims. I hesitated. To be part of a group tour means to lose your independence. Your days are all planned by someone else. You have to be a part of a bigger entity. But David was insistent.

At the hotel, he found Diki, the small, efficient, Tibetan woman who was organizing the program for Middle Path Tours. She began calling, making arrangements, finding out prices. It seemed to be happening by itself, without a decision ever being made by me. And then there was a snag. There was no room after all. Another woman was coming later that night and so there would not be enough train tickets and hotel rooms. But if she didn't show, I could have her place on the pilgrimage. For seven nights in hotels, train, buses and breakfasts it would cost me $313. Still not sure if I should go along, I decided to leave it up to fate. And the other woman never showed up. And I became a pilgrim.