The old monk sent a younger one in to get Pepsi and a pack of cigarettes. Undeterred, I approached him. He asked me a polite question(I gave him a hig..., respectful wai) and we started talking. Casually but expertly, he started massaging my arms. His eyes were mostly cataracted. I offered money but the younger monks told me it was only accepted at temple(many monks break this rule, but not this old man.) Having now much more world experience, I can say that he was a great man of sorts, maybe a. It looked like a sign painter had lived up here. Or at least slept up here—there were no bathroom or cooking facilities, unless you counted the heating plate and coffee pot sitting on the chest."I wonder whose this was?" I don't know," my lady said. "It must have been someone Dad knew. But I've never heard him talk about knowing any sign painters."As we explored the tiny room, I found some bundles of newspapers under the bed. And a box of old magazines sitting in the corner.I looked at the. More

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