车窗前举着一瓶洗手液。绿色的泵头，白色瓶身，一只手从下面托住它。窗外有天光，瓶子在近处轻轻晃。

二〇二〇年三月，仁波切把人类会做的事情数了一遍：登月、造核弹、造智能手机。还有政府、学校、选举、报纸。一长串本领，听来很像那么回事。

数到末尾，忽然只剩下三个字：洗手吧。Wash your hands! 世界兜了那么大的圈子，回到自己的两只手。

他把这转折写得像一个笑话。可那瓶洗手液举在那里，笑话也有了实在的分量。

笑话以外，他也有说不出办法的时候。那年二月，他为从不同地方、不同生活中走出来帮助别人的人欢喜，接着却承认：I feel helpless and powerless to do anything.

无能为力。这话放在仁波切口中，并不被别的话遮住。他说眼下只能随喜、祈祷，盼这一切早一些过去。

四月，他又说自己止不住眼泪。他看见人人都想离开痛苦，先觉得这样讲或许有点傻，还是讲了。

有些话并不替人解开难处，只把说话的人也放到难处跟前。眼泪、祈愿，无能为力的承认，都在这里。

人的距离，也有了看得见的形状。地上画着白圈，穿深红衣服的僧人一人站一个。双手放在背后，影子斜斜地拖出圈外。旁边一条狗，倒没有把脚收进白线里。

仁波切留给这番光景的话很平常：Things that happens in our life。生活里会发生的事情。白圈之间空着一段地，人和人各自站开了。

五月，面对印度路上的困境，他的口气急了。他请求暂且放下政治分歧，少一些官僚手续；说到孩子和孕妇，写下了I beg you。

“我求你们。”这几个字没有转弯。此前还能从登月说到洗手，这一次，他的请求直截了当。

列车里却有一种孩子气的蓝。卡通图案铺在车厢中，通道朝前延伸，乘客散在座位旁。近处是一个戴口罩、裹着头巾的人，是仁波切。

口罩遮住半张脸，眼睛仍露在外面。头巾上有细碎花样，车厢里也有；颜色照旧热闹，人脸却换了一种见法。

这是二〇二〇年十月。他只用了Changed world两个词。改变了的世界，没有远到看不见，就在这张脸上，在旁边乘客的脸上。

A bottle of hand wash is held up before a car window. A green pump, a white bottle, a hand supporting it from below. Beyond the window is daylight; close by, the bottle sways a little.

In March 2020 Rinpoche counts some of the things people can do: go to the moon, build nuclear bombs, make smartphones. There are governments, schools, elections, newspapers. A long list of accomplishments; it sounds impressive.

At the end of his reckoning come three words: Wash your hands! The world has travelled a considerable distance, and come back to its own two hands.

He gives the turn the shape of a joke. With that bottle held up before the window, the joke has a tangible weight.

Beyond the joke, there are times when he has no answer to offer. That February he rejoices in people emerging from different places and walks of life to help others. Then he admits: I feel helpless and powerless to do anything.

Helpless and powerless. In Rinpoche’s words the admission is left in plain sight. For now, he says, he can only rejoice and pray that this will soon be over.

In April he says he cannot stop his tears. Everyone wants to be free of agony. He begins by wondering whether it sounds silly to say so, then says it anyway.

Some words do not resolve a difficulty; they place the speaker before it as well. Here are tears, a prayer, and the admission that he feels powerless.

The distance between people has acquired a visible shape. White circles are drawn on the ground, each occupied by a monk in deep red. Hands rest behind backs; shadows stretch beyond the circles. A dog nearby has not kept its paws inside a white line.

Rinpoche’s words for the scene are ordinary: Things that happens in our life. Between the white circles lie empty stretches of ground; the people stand apart.

In May, faced with hardship on India’s roads, his tone grows urgent. He asks for political differences to be set aside and bureaucratic obstacles to be lifted. Speaking of children and pregnant women, he writes I beg you.

I beg you. The words take no detour. Earlier he could make the turn from the moon to washing hands. This time his plea is direct.

Inside a train there is a childlike blue. Cartoon pictures cover the carriage; an aisle extends ahead, with passengers near the seats. Visible close by is a masked figure with a head covering: Rinpoche.

The mask covers half his face; his eyes remain visible. There are little patterns on the head covering and pictures in the carriage. The colours are as lively as ever, but faces are met differently now.

It is October 2020. He uses only two words: Changed world. The change is not somewhere out of sight. It is on this face, and on the faces of the other passengers.