I worked at a Buddhist bookshop, When a dark figure, escorted by his assistant, Entered through the walkway. The aura was heavy. Passing the marble Chenrezig statue, They limped into the open air of the “Little Tibet.” The elderly Rabbi wore black robes. The first thing was the smell Of Sulphur and rot. He was lame and partially blind. I retreated from them to the office, hoping the invalid and his assistant would pass. The two of them conjoined-- The younger assisted the ancient one with a crutch. It was painful to See. There was discomfort, like when you drop an iron weight Into a pool of water. The Rabbi entered the bookshop and sat in the office. I sat behind the desk. He was saying something-- I Saw flies landing on his face. Why did he not feel them? The flies returned. He did not react. It was sickening. He was demanding that I sell to him The framed photo of His Holiness, the 14th Dalai Lama, On the wall behind me. That photo was not for sale. It was personal to the shop owner. Perhaps, he was accustomed to hand waving, Or wagering, Or pressing, like gravity. I was Aware of it. At the time, I deflected responsibility to the shop owner. “I do not think that photo is for sale.” He was insistent, then petulant. “I just work here.” I was watching the flies. My humble Rinpoche, the white-haired shop owner, Arrived when I called him. Weeks prior, he transmitted to me The “Om Mane Padme Hum.” He always carried a handgun at his hip. Because, when he was a young, they fought off Communists with AK 47s, When they helped His Holiness flee to India. Immediately, my Rinpoche told them no. He was nearly indifferent, But the force of it was his Presence, He was the same person everywhere, Like a diamond, In front of this Rabbi-- Just as he was in front of His Holiness. Bodhi-citta, he called it.