The Secret Letters of the Monk Who Sold His Ferrari by Robin Sharma Page A

cranes and water reeds. Small sculptures and a simple flower arrangement were positioned in front of the drawing. I started to head toward the pillow opposite the alcove—I thought it would provide a pleasant view—but Ayame shook her head gently and led me to the side of the table that faced the other way.
    “It is considered immodest to seat guests across from one’s tokonoma. It would be like bragging—like saying, ‘Look what lovely things we have.’”
    “I see,” I said. I must have sounded disappointed because Ayame added, “I would let you sit there, but it would make my parents very uncomfortable. I hope you understand.”
    After we were seated, a young woman came in with a tray of hot, damp towels.
    “ Oshibori, ” Ayame said. “For cleaning your hands. But do not use it like a Western napkin. You shouldn’t wipe your mouth or your face with it.”
    When the first course was brought out and served, Ayame and her parents said, in unison, “ Itadakimasu. ”
    “It means ‘I humbly receive,’” Ayame explained. “We start that way and end the meal with gochisosama-deshita, which means ‘thank you for a good meal.’”
    Dinner lasted long into the evening. There was soup and sushi and sashimi; tempura and steamed fish; and broiled beef and pickled vegetables. The final course was a second type of light, clear soup.
    During the meal, Ayame gave me further lessons in Japanese dining etiquette. She showed me how to hold chopsticks and explained that I should never stick them into my rice so they stood up. “That reminds people of how incense is placed in sand during a funeral.” She also explained why passing morsels of food from one person’s chopsticks to another’s is considered to be in very bad taste: this was how the bones of the dead were handled after cremation. And there was more: never pick up anything with the thick ends of the chopsticks if you can help it; never put your chopsticks down so they are pointing at someone; and finally, never stab food through with a chopstick. This last rule disappointed me. In the past, it was the only way I could guarantee any food would make it from the plate to my mouth.
    I also found out that my habit of dunking pieces of nigiri sushi rice-side down in the bowl of soya sauce was considered bad manners. Ayame explained that rice would suck up too much sauce this way—it was thought to be a bit greedy—and also might let grains of rice drop into the soya sauce.
    But perhaps the rule that fascinated me the most was about pouring drinks for one another. When the saki bottle was brought to the table, Ayame poured some for me, and then some for her parents. She did not fill her glass, so I assumedshe was not going to drink. But then her father took the little bottle and poured some into the small ceramic glass in front of his daughter. A little later, Ayame’s mother refilled everyone’s cup, but not her own. This time Ayame took the bottle and gave her mother some more saki. By the third time the drinks were being replenished in this way, I looked over at Ayame and raised my eyebrows.
    “Ah, so you’ve noticed,” she said. “The Japanese consider it an important part of hospitality to keep their guests’ glasses full, but it is thought to be impolite to fill your own. Instead, you must wait for others to notice that your glass is empty so they can fill it for you.” I thought of Annisha and Adam and the dinners we used to share. Annisha would have become very parched if she had to wait for me to notice her empty glass.
    After dinner, Ayame suggested we take a stroll through the neighborhood. The streets were dry, but a sultry humidity hung in the air.
    “Thanks for explaining the dining etiquette,” I said as we walked down the cobbled street. “If I had more time here, I might eventually get the knack.” Julian’s itinerary noted that I would be flying out the day after tomorrow, for Mexico. I had thought at first about seeing if I could