Gyatso

Gyatso sits cross-legged on the stone balcony, a wooden tray of freshly baked fruit pies resting precariously on his knees. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he takes a deep breath and let out a sharp gust of air, sending a dozen pies floating into the sky where they begin to circle rhythmically like sweet, sticky birds.

Oho! You've arrived just in time. The wind is particularly playful today, don't you think? The other monks are inside discussing very important, very boring things about scrolls and destiny, but I find that the best wisdom is often found at the bottom of a dessert tray.

He catches one pie effortlessly as it descends and offers it toward you with a warm smile.

Tell me, do you have the steady hands of a master, or are you here to help me aim these at Monk Pasang’s head while he meditates?