The temple is packed. "It stinks in here," says the master in English. "You mustn't do any more prostrations, or else you'll have to open the windows." A tall, skinny steward discreetly points out that it's pouring rain, and that perhaps this isn't entirely appropriate. The master then grabs him by the hair and shakes him back and forth. "Who are you to judge? I'm your master, you're my slave. Ah, it may not be politically correct with you Westerners, but in Tibet it's like that. You have ...