The Atmosphere of Souls

On a business trip I once made my way up to the Chinese province of Tibet. The place was, in my opinion, completely beautiful – richly decorated sculptures, murals fashioned in exorbitant detail, and fanciful shrines carved out of the stone of the sturdy Himalayan mountainsides. One day, when I was visiting one of these grand religious monuments, a local beggar stopped me in my steps and asked me, incredibly in English, if I could spare him some money.

“And what reason would I have to do that?” I replied to him.

“Because, I know within my soul,” the man gave a pump to his chest with his hand, “that you are a good man. And I know, within my soul, that I am a good man. And I know, within all our souls, all people are born good, and when their soul is still good and not yet soured, they commit good deeds.”

It sounded like a scam, so I laughed and took advantage of the moment to see if I could take the conversation down an entertaining path. “So, you believe all men are good?”

“Yes.”

“And you believe I am good?”

“Yes.”

“And so you believe that I should give you money, because I am good?”

“I am not saying that, because of the purity of your soul, you are required to do me any service. Indeed, I did not beg – I questioned. I asked you, 'Do you have a dollar to spare'? I understand in your country that can be taken as a demand. But here, to me, it is the truth.”

“You still did not answer my question – what do you have that will make it worth my while to throw away my money to you? How do I know you aren't the town drunk, or a rambling madman?”

The man stopped, and looked at his chest. “Because I know that you can see the good in souls too. I know you are hesitant, but I also know that you know what I would do with the money.”

“And what would you do?”

“Give it away.”

“And what if the person you give away my money to isn't worthy?”

“Well, it isn't your money anymore, is it not? You have no reason to worry.”

I gave a chuckle. The old man was clever, but not wise.

“So, you believe everyone has a kind soul?”

“Yes.”

“And what of those with evil souls?”

“Anyone's soul can be persuaded to evil, just as any evil soul can be rehabilitated back to good.”

“But don't more souls turn evil than evil to good?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, stories of men turning evil are much more common than those of evil men turning good. If you are true, shouldn't men be able to convert back to good at the same rate that they turn evil?”

My question caused the old man to think for a moment. “Evil souls are turned evil by the atmosphere. If the atmosphere does not change, they stay evil. If the atmosphere does change, they turn back good.”

“So people do not change atmospheres often?”

“They can't change atmospheres often. Not many souls have that ability.”

I began to understand the point the man was trying to make. “So the money you want to give, isn't to the good souls...”

“...It's to the evil souls, to change their surroundings.”

“And you don't need the money, because your surroundings are clean?”

“Of course.”

I smiled. “Well, my friend, I'd say you won me over.” I pulled out a few silver coins and dropped them into the man's outreached hands. He eyed them carefully, and just as he made his revelation, I continued to speak: “They aren't currency. They are better than currency. There's a man who runs a restaurant not to far from here, by the bay. Give these to him, and he'll give you what you want.”

“And what is that?”

“A chance at changing the atmosphere of souls.”

The old man was reluctant at first, but eventually he clenched the coins within his fist and dropped them into his bag. “I know I can trust you. I can see your soul is pure. May we meet again, my friend.”

“May we meet again.”

Later that day, I went back to the restaurant at the bay. The owner, cleaning off one of the tables, turned and greeted me when he heard the entry bell ring.

I asked him, “Have you had any new customers?”

“Yes, indeed I did. One came in today.”

“And what did he look like?”

“Old, hunched back. Tattered clothes.”

I smiled again. As it turns out, the old man did come straight to the restaurant as he had said he would, and didn't give away the coins. I continued: “So, where is he now?”

The man I had partnered with continued to put his brush to the table. “On the path to Morocco. I still have a repayment to Fariq – when I saw the man it was the first thing I thought of.”

“What will he be used for? He's old, bony, frail, and has a bit of an attitude – he seems more of a liability for laboring work.”

The man stopped cleaning tables, and partially turned his head toward me. “I never told you, did I?”

“What?”

“The truth.”

“What truth?”

“Fariq doesn't use his slaves as laborers. He has his own hired force for that. Instead, the man has a bit of a special interest.”

“What interest is that?”

“The consumption of human flesh.”

The image of it gave me a chuckle – Fariq, an old, fat, stout king nibbling on the legs of a hunchback while the frail wiseman rattled off some line from Confucius, Fariq barely listening. I suppose that is the fate of those who get their philosophies wrong.

Later that day, I went to explore another temple.


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