My new friend's 'Tibetan' name is Sherab – which means 'New Wisdom'. Darjeeling as I was soon to find out includes a population of whom 10-20 percent are Tibetan. Sherab however, is not Tibetan (or at least not in this life time) but is a young American living in a small monastery in Darjeeling and studying at the local Tibetan language school. Appearances are indeed deceiving.
Sherab knew as much (or rather as little) as we did about the unfolding political situation but as his school was on strike he agreed on giving us a guided tour, the first stop of which was at the house of a fellow American student: Jake is tall and skinny, wears a thick tweed waistcoat, plastic shoes and is armed with a brown woolly hat and tent sized umbrella. He welcomed us into his tiny room and boiled us some Darjeeling tea. Taking the advice of the billboards around town, he drinks his tea natural – “without the taste masked by milk or sugar”. This is useful under the present circumstances, as both milk and sugar appear to be in particularly short supply. Jake then decided to join our small excursion. Next stop – a monastery, where we collected a monk by the name of Tenzin who Sherab wisely decided would be a more appropriate guide.
Tenzin has only been learning English for a year, but with the help of our two excellent translators I was able to ask him as many questions as I could think of: He was 28 years old, had left Tibet as a child and had spent the past seventeen years of his life living in monasteries around India. He has never been back to Tibet as he fears that he will be imprisoned if he tries. Tenzin has an incredible presence around him, and rather stereotypically conveys calmness just by 'being'. He guides our party out of the main town, up the hill and through an Army check point. We pass a collection of buildings – some looking like old English houses, with white painted window frames inset in grey stone bricks, and accompanied by small patches of manicured gardens. Others are plainer and more typically 'Nepali' but still covered in greenery as shrubs and flowers bloom out of plastic cartons and buckets. In between is a scattering of different gompa's and monastery's, some of which are reminiscent of Lhasa's Potala Palace and Jokhang Monastry. Tattered prayer flags stretch across the roads, adding both blessings and colours to the hills. Jake stops to vocalise the words of one. A collection of strange weaved statues made out of hardened dough and thread stand on top of a black plastic water barrel. The crafts look like dream catchers and Jake explains that they are to trap 'evil' outside of the houses. We pass many dogs, which seem muted by both the climate and by a series of mutilations – broken and bent limbs. We pass an old man wearing a topi, a tweed jacket and leather shoes. He is walking his cat – a tiny kitten attached to him by a piece of green plastic string. We walk one by one down stone steps on the other side of the hill. Sherab steps with his hands out by his side, as if flying while walking. I stop to bend down and lay my hands on the grass. It is soaked with morning dew that has not been confined to the dawn but renewed minute by minute by the thick mountain air. Eventually we all arrive at the local Japanese Peace Pagoda.
The Pagoda is one of 70 around the world. It is incredibly scenic. Its simple white shape contrasting and camouflaged against the white of the clouded sky and the green of the misty hills. During our walk the weather has changed from cold to hot to cloudy to sunny to damp and to rain. We seek shelter from the falling water and walk into the small temple next to the pagoda, leaving our boots, flip flops, trainers and plastic shoes at the entrance. The temple smells musty and fresh, with the damp air blowing in through the massive open white framed windows. We sit at the back of the carpeted room, while a nun wrapped up in woollies lays down what looks like tennis racket drums and bent sticks. Two other monks appear and a women, with long shiny black hair begins to beat a massive drum. Na-Mu Myo-Ho-Ren-Ge-Kyo begins the chant and a monk motions to use to pick up the tennis racket drums. Symbols painted in black outline our instruments, the 'meaning' of which we beat out with the sticks. The chanting continues and the beat surrounds us and drifts out of the window. I wonder how my Catholic friend is feeling. My curiosity is dampened by my own romanticism, as I let the rhythm soothe my active mind and I begin to think about how many times and by how many hands my worn 'tennis racket' drum has been played. I know that I feel far more comfortable sitting cross legged on the floor than on any wooden pew, with the repetition of the foreign words making them become deceivingly familiar. My curiosity is reinvoked as my friend spontaneously moves towards the monk to receive a 'sugar' blessing. A few minutes later the rest of our random party follow his lead and lay down our drums and take the proffered sugar balls from the smiling monk. As the light fades and the temperature quickly drops we leave the temple and walk back to the town center. I have stopped asking Tenzin questions and instead enjoy listening to the strange sounds of the three Buddhists. I admire Sherab's and Jake's mastery of such a foreign language from such a 'forbidden' land.
People are milling around the streets, talking and walking. The atmosphere seems relaxed, but all but the pharmacies remain closed. I buy a small carton of apple juice from one. I am already missing fresh fruit and vegetables. I offer a sip to Sherab, he declines saying he is trying to avoid snacks. We pass another pharmacy and again squeeze through the door to investigate – never before have pharmacies held such an appeal. We examine the collection of wheat biscuits and chocolate bars. I buy some yellow toilet paper. Sherab buys some locally produced potatoes chips and peanuts with masala salt. We walk along a steep road lined with small empty stalls. I wonder what it must look like when it is open. Amongst the closed stalls, shops and strangely named hotels we pass an open stable filled with horses. The horses are eating discarded roasted corn leaves, and “no” it is “not possible to rent a horse.” “The horses are also on strike” is the serious explanation given to our jocular request. We thank Tenzin and he offers to take us on another local tour tomorrow. We arrange to meet him at 1pm and he replies with the only two Tibetan words which I can understand: Tashi Deleg.
Jake invites us back to his room for dinner. I am surprised: next to the toilet he has a small two ringed stove, and on his desk he has an impressive collection of local dried herbs and spices. My Italian friend's offers of help ranging from “I can cut something?” to “can I wash something” go unheeded as Jake clearly has a system and an enjoyment of provision. He leaves the rest of us to sit on his floor and narrow bed and explore his small library. I pick up a book about Tibetan Tantra and ask the cook for some more elaboration. He steps away from the stove and quickly removes it from my sight. He apologies: “this is only for those who have been initiated.” I do not understand but try to mask my embarrassment by asking his permission to look at his Nepali phrase book. I have so many questions to ask these two American Buddhists: were they Buddhist before studying Tibetan? Why Tibetan? Did they plan to use the political power of their new linguistic key?
Dinner is a plate of rice, yellow daal, potatoes, onions and garlic and some greens. It is hot and seasoned and severed humbly. We sit on the floor and my questions are answered. Sherab wants to be a translator but personally he wants to learn Tibetan so that he can read the dharma's himself. Jake plans to spend an indefinite amount of time in a Tibetan monastery. Both were Buddhists prior to their studies, but their beliefs have been strengthened by their new knowledge. Sherab lives in monasteries whenever he can – in India and in California. Jake spent two months wandering the Indian countryside with two Tibetan monks who were on a pilgrimage visiting ancient Buddhist places of interest. Neither describe themselves as political activists – both are clearly committed to 'Tibet'. Sherab returns my inquisition and asks me about Tibet. He has never visited.
There is a power cut and with the help of a Indian lighter (which hides a small light) and Jake's umbrella tent we make our way back through the mountain rain to Andy's. My Catholic friend expresses surprise at our new Buddhist friends. “I thought Buddhist Tibetan students would just smoke dope and be hippies, but they are really serious. Really focused. Really great to meet them.” Through the blackness of the dark we follow the empty corridor to our silent chilly room. My Catholic friend rolls himself a joint. I sleep, cold and happy and with the confusions of Kolkata far far away.
For another perspective by Sherab see Echoes Bouncing off Echoes
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