The year was 1986.

My first exposure to Vajrayana Buddhism came through Dharma camp and public Buddhist talks. Whenever Vajrayana was mentioned, someone would almost always add a word of caution.

“Be careful. Vajrayana is dangerous to practise.”

The Buddhist circles I associated with were mainly Mahayana and Theravada. We were taught to respect monastics as our teachers and spiritual leaders. Their renunciation of worldly life, discipline and simplicity made them worthy examples to emulate. Those early teachings shaped my image of what an authentic Buddhist teacher should look like.

One day, while I was at the Buddhist Society in Ngee Ann Polytechnic, I noticed a photograph that I did not recognise. Curious, I asked one of the members who the person was.

“It is His Holiness the Sakya Trizin,” he replied.

He went on to explain that this was the head of the Sakya school of Tibetan Buddhism.

I stared at the photograph, puzzled.

The man had long hair, and he was wearing earrings?

My immediate reaction was one of confusion. How could someone with long hair be the head of a Buddhist tradition?

Then I was told something that surprised me even more. Monks bowed to him.

That completely contradicted my understanding of Buddhism at the time. I had always assumed that monastics occupied the highest position within the Buddhist community. Why would ordained monks bow to someone who was not a monk?

Everything I had learnt told me to be sceptical. Yet something stopped me from dismissing him outright.

Around that same period of my life, I had met someone who had already challenged many of my assumptions.

His name was simply Mr. Sim.

He was a former monk with a small circle of followers. Mr. Sim was a classic Thai mystic—practitioners of what might be called Thai Buddhist folk esotericism. Some people today might simply describe him as a psychic, although that label never quite captures the role he played in the lives of those who sought his help.

I never personally witnessed anything supernatural. What I encountered instead was his character.

Mr. Sim refused to accept donations or gifts for himself. Whenever someone wished to thank him, he would encourage them to donate to Buddhist temples or offer support to the Sangha instead. He often shared stories from his own experiences, not to gain followers, but to inspire faith in Buddhism and generosity towards monastics. That left a deep impression on me. There was no obvious financial incentive for him to tell the stories he did.

One story was narrated by a follower named Raymond.

In those days, caning was a commonly accepted form of discipline. Raymond had become furious with his teenage son and was beating him with a cane while his wife desperately tried to pull him away.

Suddenly, the house telephone rang. His wife answered it before calling out, “Mr. Sim wants to speak to you.”

Raymond stopped immediately and picked up the receiver.

On the other end, Mr. Sim said, “Stop hitting your son now. If you don’t stop, there will be no turning back. You may lose him.”

The warning immediately broke Raymond’s anger. Whatever his son had done, it certainly did not deserve such a consequence. Raymond often wondered how Mr. Sim had known what was happening inside his home. This was 1986—long before mobile phones, instant messaging or the internet.

I cannot verify what happened that day and I only know the story as Raymond told it. But hearing it, together with witnessing Mr. Sim’s humility and complete lack of financial motivation, made me reluctant to dismiss every unusual claim simply because it did not fit my understanding of Buddhism.

So when I looked once again at the photograph of His Holiness the 41st Sakya Trizin (now known as His Holiness Sakya Gongma Trichen Rinpoche), I silently made a simple aspiration.

“If he is truly the great master people say he is, may I one day meet him and receive his teachings—when my mind is ready.” That was all. No elaborate prayer or ritual. Just a quiet wish.

Five to six years passed before it came to fruition.

During those years, I continued reading Buddhist books, listening to Dharma talks, chanting and meditating. Books on Vajrayana gradually became easier to find in Singapore, and my curiosity slowly grew.

Then, through a coincidence entirely beyond my control, my parents decided to move house. At the time, the Sakya Centre as it stands now had not even been built. Yet when it was eventually established, it happened to be only a short distance from our new home.

Looking back, I often think of that quiet aspiration made before a photograph in a student society.

It marked the beginning of a journey that would profoundly reshape my understanding of Buddhism.

To be continued…