Tenzin Maro, the Monk of Belligerent Meditation

Let it be known across the high plateaus and low valleys, that among the monks of gentle breath and silent mind sits Tenzin Maro — a Buddhist of uncommon discipline and violently explosive inner dialogue.

He is the Monk of Belligerent Meditation.
To the outside world, he is serenity incarnate — still, peaceful, cloaked in the patient stillness of a thousand sunrises.
But inside?

He is screaming.

Today, he sits beside Soma Retzu — that well-meaning, soft-spoken monk with the nasal whistle from hell.
For over an hour now, that booger — lodged like a demonic flute inside Soma’s left nostril — has chirped with every breath.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.

“Good God in heaven,” Tenzin screams in his Buddhist mind, “someone get that man a tissue!”

Still he breathes..

“If I weren’t a monk I’d sneak up behind you and beat you senseless with a ceremonial broomstick until that booger dislodged itself and falls into karmic rebirth!”

On the outside, Tenzin Maro’s eyes are closed in holy tranquility. A faint smile rests on his face. He appears as if meditating on the essence of pure being.

Inside?

“HOLY HELL, SOMA — JUST STOP BREATHING! STOP BREATHING RIGHT NOW!”

And then… salvation.
Not divine. Not spiritual.
Gaseous.

Without moving, without altering a single calm facial muscle, Tenzin Maro releases a long, slow, exquisitely peaceful flatulence — a four-second hum of liberation — whispered directly into the meditation circle.

In Tenzin’s head:

“OH YEAH. THAT FELT GOOD. TAKE THAT, SOMA RETZU — YOU BOOGER-WHISTLING PILLOW FREAK!”

It was not the sound that broke Soma’s focus.
No, Soma Retzu had transcended sound.
But the smell.

It rolled over them like a sentient fog.
A foul and ancient mist.
A direct karmic response from Tenzin’s bowels to the offense in Soma’s nose.

Soma’s eyes fluttered.
He sniffed.
He recoiled.

It was as if he had inhaled a ghost made entirely of fermented tofu and shame.

Shaking his head like a man coming out of anesthesia, Soma stood.
He bowed, in confusion.
And he left.

And there sat Tenzin Maro, still, unmoved, a tranquil vessel of absolute inner warfare.

He had achieved… momentary peace.

Happy Birthday to M. Walter, this one is dedicated to you and our old adventures meditating together.

Ashokan O’Fabley -The Mandolinian