Despite five years’ rigorous training in a monastery, cultivating a heartfelt determination to avoid the ten black karmas, I had stolen a man’s scooter – maybe even his livelihood – without even thinking. Stealing came second only to killing in the list of karmic causes with the worst future consequences—loss, poverty, and ruin. But when faced with my own survival, the act of theft couldn’t have come easier.

I was approaching an intersection with traffic lights. I squeezed aggressively between lanes of cars and pulled ahead of the car at the front. For the first time, as I stopped, I allowed myself to look in the side mirror.

Dalberg’s blue Fiat was powering up the road behind me. Dipesh at the steering wheel. In the passenger and back seats—the two Khampas.

Horrified, I made a left turn and pulled away. I wasn’t waiting for the lights to change. I needed to put clear distance behind me. But the lights turned green just moments later. Glancing in the mirror, I saw Dalberg’s car weaving crazily through traffic. Headlights flashing, horn blasting, I glimpsed the huge, black-clad Khampa in the front passenger seat. His head was thrown back and he was punching his first from the window.

Traffic on this street was even more congested. Two lanes were reduced to walking speed. Dalberg’s car was also jammed—but only twenty yards behind. Nosing up the edge of the traffic, I kept a clear fix on my pursuers. The front passenger door was opening and closing as the Khampa prepared to give chase on foot. I’d have to get onto a quieter street to break free. Coming up on the left was a narrow lane. A way out, perhaps?

I headed into the fastest moving, right-hand lane and saw the Fiat maneuver in the same direction. Luring them as far right as possible, at the last minute I turned sharply in the opposite direction.

It was just another backstreet so far as I could see, lined with warehouses and derelict buildings. I throttled hard. No sign of my pursuers. They had overshot the turn-off as I planned. I made rapid progress through the thin traffic, gunning down a lengthy, curving road.

I wondered if I should turn down a side street. Stop to work out where I was. I’d crossed a main intersection and the neighborhood was very different—crowds of tourists jamming the street, along with vendors, food kiosks, and taxis.

But from a side lane, Dalberg’s Fiat suddenly pulled out behind me. It was less than ten yards away. And by now there was hardly anywhere to move and nowhere to run because of the crowds.

Up ahead a tourist bus was reversing. Automatically, I ducked and weaved through the swarms of tourists, tearing towards the narrowing gap between the reversing bus and a brick wall.

I had no choice but to drive directly for the gap. Hurtle forward like crazy. While I focused all my concentration on willing myself through, it was as though another part of me was observing what was happening calmly, dispassionately. I was on double time. Death-defying, split-second judgement. A panoramic sweep of lucid spaciousness.