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Nikolai Grozni - Turtle feet : the making and unmaking of a Buddhist monk

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Nikolai Grozni was a music prodigy, a jazz pianist training at the prestigious Berklee College of Music in Boston, when suddenly he decided to transform his life. He moved to India to become a Buddhist monk: shaving his head, learning Tibetan, and donning long traditional robes. In the Himalayas, living in a hut a stones throw from the Dalai Lamas compound, Grozni became entrenched in a sometimes comical, sometimes reverent, always intriguing community comprised of feisty nuns, bossy monks, violent chess players, demanding teachers, and a spectacular friend called Tsar, a fallen monk from Bosnia.Grozni went to India in search of knowledge, but learns that the people who can teach him the most are not wearing uniforms and following special diets, but rather those who, like him, struggle with doubts and cannot accept an established system of faith. Instead, he journeys with his colorful cast of friends to a new understanding of himself and his place in the world.Like Anne Lamott or Elizabeth Gilbert, Nikolai Grozni offers the insights of a religious pilgrim from the inside, in his case, from a male, Buddhist perspective. Thoughtful, funny, and elegantly written, Turtle Feet details the reality of a world much mythologized in the West and tells a wonderfully bittersweet story of a spiritual journey.

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Table of Contents
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RIVERHEAD BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin
Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada
(a division of Pearson Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL,
England Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephens Green, Dublin 2, Ireland
(a division of Penguin Books Ltd) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road,
Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,
New Delhi-110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore
0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) Penguin Books (South Africa)
(Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Copyright 2008 by Nikolay Grozdinski

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed
in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in
or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors rights.
Purchase only authorized editions.
Published simultaneously in Canada

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Grozni, Nikolai.
Turtle feet : the making and unmaking of a Buddhist monk / Nikolai Grozni.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-594-48984-6

1. Grozni, Nikolai. 2. BuddhistsBiography.
3. Spiritual biographyIndiaDharamsala. I. Title.
BQ960.R645A
294.3657092dc22
[B]

Some things pertaining to time and space have been changed. Some names and identifying details have been changed. It is important to bear in mind, however, that most Buddhists regard time, space, names, and identifying details as nonexistent.
While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

http://us.penguingroup.com

For Tsar
He has chakra wheels engraved on the palms of his hands and on the soles of his feet; he has perfectly aligned nails and turtle feet...
From the eighth chapter of Maitreyas Abhisamaya Alankara, describing the body of the Buddha, translated from the Tibetan by the author
Prologue
We tiptoed to the edge of the giant, kidney-shaped volcanic rock and looked down the vertiginous abyss. From up here the Himalayas appeared subdued, almost shy: their razor-sharp pinnacles were below us; their arms and vertebrae stretched to the horizon, exposed. Shimmering in the reddened six oclock sun, the cluster of mud houses on the bottom of the valley looked like a reflection on a still lake.
I have to jump now, Tsar announced, unbuckling the paraglider backpack. As soon as the sun disappears behind the mountains, the temperature will drop, and Ill never get past the border.
I knelt on the ground and helped Tsar unpack the red-and-white-striped paraglider. Studying his face for what I imagined could be the last time, it occurred to me that if he were to die today, he would at least look romantic and adventurouswith a gray three-day beard, long sideburns, and an incongruous patch of white hair twisted over his forehead.
Here, Tsar said, pulling the very top of the paraglider. Hold this end and wait until the chute fills up with air. Then let go.
I stood up and stretched out my hands.
If you dont hear from me in a month, send the letter that I gave you to the Netherlands, Tsar instructed me as he came closer. We held tight. He smelled of nicotine and cheap deodorant.
Looking quickly away to hide his glossy eyes, Tsar pulled a packet of India Kings out of his front pocket and stuck a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.
My last one, he said, smiling cynically. Before I step in front of the... what do you call it?
Firing squad, I offered.
Right.
Tsar took a few rushed drags, flicked the cigarette into the abyss, and, with his hands in his pockets, sauntered to the edge of the rock.
I dont know why people are so afraid of dying, he said, dangling one foot over the void. It only takes a moment.
A moment for you, and a lifetime of nightmares for me, I countered, feeling like I was going to throw up.
I understood how Tsar felt, though. At this height the world seemed fixed and unreal, without the complications of before and after. Even the string of eagles and few daring crows tracing the slow-moving air currents high up in the mercurial blue seemed strangely stuck in time, their long ellipses suggesting a state of being in which things always were, again and again, from past into present, and from present back into past.
Muzaffarabad must be somewhere in that direction, Tsar observed, studying his compass. Ill have to veer to the right and glide between those hills over there.
Do you think you could do that?
Tsar dismissed my question and put the backpack over his shoulders, pulling down the straps. Im ready when you are, he said, looking straight ahead with fierce determination.
I stepped over the deflated chute and put my hand on his shoulder. Tsar, please think this over one more time. I know how badly you want to escape from India, but this is almost equivalent to suicide. The Indian-Pakistani border is the most heavily guarded in the world. On top of that, we are in Kashmir. There are thousands of soldiers on both sides waiting for an opportunity to fire their guns.
Come on, Nikola, Tsar said. Dont ruin my mood. Let me at least enjoy the flight.
I picked up the center of the chute with both hands and walked backwards, allowing the chilly breeze to ruffle inside it. And then Tsar snapped away. It was so unexpected that I almost screamed Where are you going? For a second he seemed to fall straight down and I thought that the strings mustve gotten tangled up, but the paraglider quickly filled with air and bounced up, veering west, in the direction of the setting sun.
I watched as Tsar entered the canyon that opened up onto what, according to our map, was the Pakistani-controlled part of Kashmir, then walked back to the mountain trail and started running down the hill. It was getting dark and I didnt want to stand there, above the world, when the crackling of the first gunshots echoed throughout the valley.
One
It was eight oclock in the morning and I was wearing a long cotton skirt, or shanthab, a buttonless vest with two bizarre rags hanging under the shoulders like a pair of elephant earscourtesy of the sixteenth-century Tibetan saint and fashion enthusiast Tsongkhapaand a fifteen-foot-long prayer shawl, or zen, that wrapped around the upper body like a sari. Ani Dawa, a tiny Tibetan nun in her forties, walked ahead of me, leading the way.
Are you sure you want to do this? she asked when we reached the ramparts of the Main Temple, where Jogibara Road opened out into a large square, covered with plastic bags and cow dung. This is your last chance to go back.
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