Tao Of Tibet
As I journey on with the twists and turns of the winding road, my mind keeps going back to Dharamsala, now left behind hidden in forests of pines which stand silent in dark shadows of the approaching darkness. Only a few persistent rays pierce through, rebelling against night setting in. Dharamsala like those rays, is a rebel with a cause. A cause so strong, it pulls thousands of tourists from all over the world. The spiritually starved tourists come to see if freedom has a price… if exile for the Tibetans is as lonely as each one of these tourists feels when among his own people. Memories flash across my mindscape…
The exodus…
I am poring over an issue of Contact, a community magazine run by an American in McLeod Ganj. My introduction to Dharmasala over a tall glass of hot honeyed cider with cinnamon peppering. I realize that at the foundation of Dharamsala, are a people who fled the Chinese occupation of their country, Tibet, led by their religious leader, His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama. He chose Dharamsala to establish a refugee community in India in 1959. A perfect surrounding for the pursuit of the individual Buddha within. Over the years, the Free Tibet movement developed strong roots and Dharamsala became the Little Lhasa. It is maybe for this very reason that every stranger visiting this recreation of a life and culture, feels an uncanny sense of belonging.
The evidence that Dharamshala was once an abode of the sahibs and memsahibs is reflected in the proud demeanor of St. John in the Wilderness. Derelict and forlorn with its broken stain glass windows, the church stands ever naked to the onslaught of one-day excursions carried out by the umpteen travel agencies in Delhi. While further ahead is Dharamkot, the testament to the Brahmannical era that is almost obscured by time. Dating back to 635 A.D., the Chinese monk-pilgrim, Hsuan Tsang had recorded fifty monasteries with around 2,000 monks in this fertile region.
Storm in a tea cup…
I am walking down the streets, through the alleys and lanes of McLeod Ganj… soaking in every ray of sunlight to warm those cold bones. The inns and handicraft stores with their bright colored warmth dispel the numbness, making the morning forget the gloom and bone chilling discomfort of the night.
I enter a restaurant. The usual mélange of nationalities. Israel to Italy to New Zealand. Glasses of tea and joints dangling from their fingers passionately, predictably discussing world politics with a bit of newly gained spiritual understanding and philosophy. Nonchalantly swigging rum while sizing up the Indian walking in. I walk over to a table thinking of hot noodles with vegetables and some tea. The waiter (also owner) rushes with, “Yaha Khana nahi milta”! My own fumbled Hindi as well as the sudden declaration dazes me. Did I understand wrong or did he mean that his is a restaurant that wouldn’t serve me without even asking me what I want? Stunned, I stumble back in the bright sunlight. Anger seethes and suddenly all of Mcleodganj is a traitor to me in my own land. I simmer thinking how a people who fight for freedom and respect from a tyrant can so disrespect people who have embraced them. “Its my land! How dare they?”, an evil voice swells up within and suddenly all the memories of shop-owners unwilling to show me wares and library which just disposed off books to foreigners refusing to even let me browse through, are awakened.
I walk blinded with tears and hurt pride until I walk by an old man seated by the dusty road with the usual display of knives, silver knick knacks, cymbals and a beautiful Buddha statue with deep blue eyes and a smile upon his face. The old Tibetan man mirrors the smile, the smile of the Buddha…my souls quietens.
Isn’t that what its all about …finding the Buddha in the self? I move on…
Of Monks and Punks…
I take in the moving world as I toast my self on the terrace. The decadence of dappled sunlight thaws the chill of the early morning. Serene monks walk down the market place to catch a bite. I smile thinking of my first naïve notions that every figure I saw wrapped in a robe and shaved head should have a spiritual intellect that exceeds mere mortals. A monk dealing with a truant monkey with a whack of his stick would later dispel that notion.
I laugh at the antics of the monkeys, chickens and dogs all prancing in close proximity on the cottage lawn. But not all enjoy the benevolence of the sun god…a Nepalese boy goes about doing his chores – from five in the morning to late in the night. A feature that you almost get used to as another of the complexities of the fine make-up of different people who have now formed a support system in this place. Most hired help is Nepalese in Mcleodganj.
Suddenly, I am disturbed out of this reverie by the thundering of a powerful machine. For a minute I think it’s the mountains rumbling. But a young Tibetan with long flowing hair, leather pants and the latest in fashion apparel cruises by on a beastly yet beautiful machine. Most youth here study at colleges in Delhi or Shimla, and are on a vacation. Others are unemployed except when a generous tourist needs a guide. They appear at home and like all youngsters pass their time watching tourists, especially paying more attention to the pretty ones. Watching them perched on these majestic machines makes you wonder what they think of their cause fueled by sponsorships from Switzerland and other generous countries. Again the contrasts of the eldest child of the family in monastic robes while the younger ones in leather pants strike me as a very delicate balance. Definitely I would consider McLeod Ganj a very interesting anthropological journey for some.
The divide within…
Monasteries to offer prayers and donations.. T-Shirts and bumper stickers screaming Free Tibet… Street vendors selling prayer flags, praying wheels, tangkhas and cymbals… Buddhist knifes and tantric tools… restaurants serving pastas and paronthas... Everywhere I go, McLeod Ganj is a conglomeration of spiritualism, fight for recognition and pure business-minded pursuit of wealth. This mirrors itself mostly clearly in the economy of the small township. Every store educates the traveler more of another land – Tibet. One only remembers that the place is in India because of the over familiar presence of Kashmiri and Rajasthani artifact stores found in foreigner frequented places in India.
The small restaurants use the meager space in ever innovative ways… so individualistic, they would give most urban chains a run for their money. For all their efforts and some very lucrative business ventures, life is harsh and the influx of refugees still reminds them of a land where home is. An underlying sense of sadness and disgruntled existence comes through, especially for those who fight for a land they have never seen. Still Tibet in Exile, as McLeod Ganj is more popularly known as, remains a successful rehabilitation effort guided by His Holiness The Dalai Lama, The UN High Commission and the Govt. of India.
The native alien…
Being Indian gives me a chance to be inconspicuous. A non-contributor to the cause to be more precise… Sometimes an observer and most often an indignant human being not given just attention compared to the fair strangers that flock to McLeod Ganj.
Bitter Sweet Me…
I still find in me a vestige of dissatisfaction that the willowy pines and awe-inspiring snow clad mountains could not take away. Maybe it is because I found that the people who fight so unceasingly for over 40 years for their homeland have forgotten immediate compassion for a fellow being unless he happens to be a foreigner. Is it because he can contribute to the cause better than I? I try to do my bit for the cause and prove my worth. I can volunteer as an English teacher, I decide. But the grand notion is dispelled when the notice reads “Native English speaker only”. Most often money is the only way you can contribute to the cause. McLeod Ganj today, is a place where individuals with dreadlocks and glassy eyes, throng the chai shops with their quaint benches and Thangka paintings to find minds that are, though individualistic, just after their own heart. They find their fifteen minutes of tailor-made Nirvana in the words from maroon robed monks and rolls of authentic Manali grass from pony-tailed Levi clad Tibetan youth. Each on a trip of his own. Call it Freedom, call it Nirvana.
The exodus…
I am poring over an issue of Contact, a community magazine run by an American in McLeod Ganj. My introduction to Dharmasala over a tall glass of hot honeyed cider with cinnamon peppering. I realize that at the foundation of Dharamsala, are a people who fled the Chinese occupation of their country, Tibet, led by their religious leader, His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama. He chose Dharamsala to establish a refugee community in India in 1959. A perfect surrounding for the pursuit of the individual Buddha within. Over the years, the Free Tibet movement developed strong roots and Dharamsala became the Little Lhasa. It is maybe for this very reason that every stranger visiting this recreation of a life and culture, feels an uncanny sense of belonging.
The evidence that Dharamshala was once an abode of the sahibs and memsahibs is reflected in the proud demeanor of St. John in the Wilderness. Derelict and forlorn with its broken stain glass windows, the church stands ever naked to the onslaught of one-day excursions carried out by the umpteen travel agencies in Delhi. While further ahead is Dharamkot, the testament to the Brahmannical era that is almost obscured by time. Dating back to 635 A.D., the Chinese monk-pilgrim, Hsuan Tsang had recorded fifty monasteries with around 2,000 monks in this fertile region.
Storm in a tea cup…
I am walking down the streets, through the alleys and lanes of McLeod Ganj… soaking in every ray of sunlight to warm those cold bones. The inns and handicraft stores with their bright colored warmth dispel the numbness, making the morning forget the gloom and bone chilling discomfort of the night.
I enter a restaurant. The usual mélange of nationalities. Israel to Italy to New Zealand. Glasses of tea and joints dangling from their fingers passionately, predictably discussing world politics with a bit of newly gained spiritual understanding and philosophy. Nonchalantly swigging rum while sizing up the Indian walking in. I walk over to a table thinking of hot noodles with vegetables and some tea. The waiter (also owner) rushes with, “Yaha Khana nahi milta”! My own fumbled Hindi as well as the sudden declaration dazes me. Did I understand wrong or did he mean that his is a restaurant that wouldn’t serve me without even asking me what I want? Stunned, I stumble back in the bright sunlight. Anger seethes and suddenly all of Mcleodganj is a traitor to me in my own land. I simmer thinking how a people who fight for freedom and respect from a tyrant can so disrespect people who have embraced them. “Its my land! How dare they?”, an evil voice swells up within and suddenly all the memories of shop-owners unwilling to show me wares and library which just disposed off books to foreigners refusing to even let me browse through, are awakened.
I walk blinded with tears and hurt pride until I walk by an old man seated by the dusty road with the usual display of knives, silver knick knacks, cymbals and a beautiful Buddha statue with deep blue eyes and a smile upon his face. The old Tibetan man mirrors the smile, the smile of the Buddha…my souls quietens.
Isn’t that what its all about …finding the Buddha in the self? I move on…
Of Monks and Punks…
I take in the moving world as I toast my self on the terrace. The decadence of dappled sunlight thaws the chill of the early morning. Serene monks walk down the market place to catch a bite. I smile thinking of my first naïve notions that every figure I saw wrapped in a robe and shaved head should have a spiritual intellect that exceeds mere mortals. A monk dealing with a truant monkey with a whack of his stick would later dispel that notion.
I laugh at the antics of the monkeys, chickens and dogs all prancing in close proximity on the cottage lawn. But not all enjoy the benevolence of the sun god…a Nepalese boy goes about doing his chores – from five in the morning to late in the night. A feature that you almost get used to as another of the complexities of the fine make-up of different people who have now formed a support system in this place. Most hired help is Nepalese in Mcleodganj.
Suddenly, I am disturbed out of this reverie by the thundering of a powerful machine. For a minute I think it’s the mountains rumbling. But a young Tibetan with long flowing hair, leather pants and the latest in fashion apparel cruises by on a beastly yet beautiful machine. Most youth here study at colleges in Delhi or Shimla, and are on a vacation. Others are unemployed except when a generous tourist needs a guide. They appear at home and like all youngsters pass their time watching tourists, especially paying more attention to the pretty ones. Watching them perched on these majestic machines makes you wonder what they think of their cause fueled by sponsorships from Switzerland and other generous countries. Again the contrasts of the eldest child of the family in monastic robes while the younger ones in leather pants strike me as a very delicate balance. Definitely I would consider McLeod Ganj a very interesting anthropological journey for some.
The divide within…
Monasteries to offer prayers and donations.. T-Shirts and bumper stickers screaming Free Tibet… Street vendors selling prayer flags, praying wheels, tangkhas and cymbals… Buddhist knifes and tantric tools… restaurants serving pastas and paronthas... Everywhere I go, McLeod Ganj is a conglomeration of spiritualism, fight for recognition and pure business-minded pursuit of wealth. This mirrors itself mostly clearly in the economy of the small township. Every store educates the traveler more of another land – Tibet. One only remembers that the place is in India because of the over familiar presence of Kashmiri and Rajasthani artifact stores found in foreigner frequented places in India.
The small restaurants use the meager space in ever innovative ways… so individualistic, they would give most urban chains a run for their money. For all their efforts and some very lucrative business ventures, life is harsh and the influx of refugees still reminds them of a land where home is. An underlying sense of sadness and disgruntled existence comes through, especially for those who fight for a land they have never seen. Still Tibet in Exile, as McLeod Ganj is more popularly known as, remains a successful rehabilitation effort guided by His Holiness The Dalai Lama, The UN High Commission and the Govt. of India.
The native alien…
Being Indian gives me a chance to be inconspicuous. A non-contributor to the cause to be more precise… Sometimes an observer and most often an indignant human being not given just attention compared to the fair strangers that flock to McLeod Ganj.
Bitter Sweet Me…
I still find in me a vestige of dissatisfaction that the willowy pines and awe-inspiring snow clad mountains could not take away. Maybe it is because I found that the people who fight so unceasingly for over 40 years for their homeland have forgotten immediate compassion for a fellow being unless he happens to be a foreigner. Is it because he can contribute to the cause better than I? I try to do my bit for the cause and prove my worth. I can volunteer as an English teacher, I decide. But the grand notion is dispelled when the notice reads “Native English speaker only”. Most often money is the only way you can contribute to the cause. McLeod Ganj today, is a place where individuals with dreadlocks and glassy eyes, throng the chai shops with their quaint benches and Thangka paintings to find minds that are, though individualistic, just after their own heart. They find their fifteen minutes of tailor-made Nirvana in the words from maroon robed monks and rolls of authentic Manali grass from pony-tailed Levi clad Tibetan youth. Each on a trip of his own. Call it Freedom, call it Nirvana.
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