Dharamsala has been the capital of the Tibetan government in exile since the Dalai Lama escaped Chinese forces in 1959. Three kilometers up a steep incline is the hill station of McLeod Ganj, a place that the Dalai Lama calls home, and by no coincidence is the Tibetan cultural center of exiled Tibetans. The trip from Delhi encompassed 16 hours, through the pitch black desolation of rural India where many were keeping warm by small fires of garbage by the side of the road. The drivers stopped frequently to carry out their own business, tying sacks of potatoes and crates of strawberries to the roof of the sleeper bus. After about 12 hours, the snowy peaks of the Himalayas reared up from the horizon, as if guarding the famed hill station which holds safe the spiritual and temporal leader of the Tibetan people.
Upon arrival I was met with the cold damp air which is characteristic of the region. It seems that there always a slight drizzle on, something which feels like a metaphor for the tears in the hearts of the exiled community here, from the old women who will never see their home again to the orphans at the Tibetan Children's Village who's parents were slaughtered by Chinese insurrection. The town itself is very small, with only five roads radiating from the town's center, which makes it much more manageable than the Delhi; however the narrow roads do not allow for much mobility and the honking is on par with the nations capital.
I secured lodging in a dorm at the Ladies Venture Hotel, at the bottom of the hill on Jogiwara Road which leads to Dharamsala. The dark wood furniture and shrine to the Dalai Lama on the wall next to my bed bring up images of ancient times and cold nights on the Plateau of Tibet. The cold nights in the heat less room have forced me to buy a shawl to wrap around my body while I sleep under the blankets, fully clothed.
The pouring rain that woke me from my sleep yesterday morning was bitterly cold. I walked up the street and met the Tibetan refugee who I'm sharing my dorm with, to have a lunch of hot Tibetan soup and Tibetan dumplings called MoMos, which I may eat my body weight in by the time I depart. My roommate Dowl, is a painter who speaks very little and sleeps most of the day, I inferred that this may be out of some depression from being displaced. Although he doesn't talk much, he is always asking to go to meals with me, which I believe is out of sheer loneliness. He also likes American music, which he gets in the off chance that a westerner leaves something behind at an Internet cafe. In the early afternoon while on a walk to a town called Bhagsu, the weather broke. The clouds lifted from the mountains and the sun appeared illuminating the smokey peaks. This gave me the energy required to continue on to the town where I was looking for the only Hindu temple in India devoted to the god Shiva.
The old temple is centered around a sacred spring where people bathe in a cleansing ritual, although I only saw people washing their mouths and face with the water. The source of the spring was another Hike up a steep incline to a waterfall which spews from a cleave in the hills. The waterfall originates from the river Ganga, a sacred river in the Hindu faith. The group of Indians I met on the climb were friendly and devout, but were also a bunch of jokesters, trying to set me up with western women they saw on the way down. "You want special friend, yes yes." The bought me tea back in town to make up for it.
Every night at dusk the town square slowly begins to fill with people. Maroon robed monks, school children in uniform, old men and women, and western tourists. One by one each palm illuminates with the fire of a candle. The Tibetans begin to chant verses of a prayer over and over, and the crowd becomes a procession down Jogiwara Road. Led by the monks the march winds across to a road that leads past a cage like structure of monks on hunger strike to the Dalai Lama's residence and the main temple in McLeod. The crowd gathers in an outdoor area within the compound and monks light small candles in brass containers for each Tibetan murdered in the recent struggle with China. All the while the chanting has continued, until a head monk stops the crowd to begin a slow and sad melody that conjures up images of ancient times and the suffering of a people. Although I don't understand the lyrics the song makes the hair stand on the back of my neck and goosebumps appear on my body.
oh, ancient hymn
from far beyond the hills and mountains
soothe every sore throat
with a sip from that which cannot be destroyed
I woke early this morning to bright rays of sunshine which burned the smoke from the distant mountains and allowed the peaks of the Himalayas to appear behind the hills. The weather only improved as I made my way to the temple. The high security gave away that the Dalai Lama would appear from behind the guards and gates of his residence. I sat waiting with a man named Gerry whom I met on the bus ride up, watching the sun glisten on the mountains through the Himalayan Cedar trees that cover the landscape. I was very grateful that my Karma had brought me here. Gerry nudged my back and pointed upward, there were birds circling overhead, I like to believe that they were drawn by the good energy. After much waiting the Dalai Lama emerged from his quarters and passed by the group into the temple. We watched him give a public prayer in Tibetan from television monitors. When it was over I ended up, through some chaotic reorganization, in front of the crowd. As the Dalai Lama passed right in front of me, I got on my knees, placed my hands in Anjali and bowed my head.
