Compassion

Yesterday the Tibetans left the streets of Mcleod Ganj. Every Tibetan shop, hotel, restaurant, cafe, Government offices, school and street stall remained closed. The streets were eerily quiet. Finding food was difficult, as the majority of cafes are Tibetan. Even the women squatting on the street corners, selling their four rupee circles of fresh bread never appeared. The Holy Cows wandered around with more room to maneuver and to graze. The zooming booming bursting cars, driven by Happy Hindi pilgrims had even more motivation to speed. Tourists walked around with nothing to buy but space just to stop. By the afternoon groups of local Indians had gathered to watch minstrels, talk, watch and I guess just to enjoy the temporary emptiness. Yesterday Tibetans left the streets of Mcleod Ganj so that they could fast and pray and do so together. They were going to begin a 12 hour fast in memory of the many Tibetans who have been martyred in the past few months. Tibetans who have died in prison, Tibetans who had been slowly tortured to death, Tibetans who were shot during the March demonstrations, Tibetans who stabbed themselves and hung themselves because they 'could not live one more hour under the Chinese Occupation', Tibetans who have disappeared.

Their 12 hour fast lasted from seven in the morning to seven in the evening. The fast did not take place hidden from view, within houses, or behind locked doors, but in the grounds of the Dalai Lama's Temple. They were joined by many tourists and by many foreigners who live here. I didn't meet any Indians who were fasting. As I walked to yoga at eight o'clock in the morning I walked through a river of robes: monks and nuns all drifting down to the Tsuglagkhang Complex. Small square cushions in their hands, and an almost jovial atmosphere in the air. In solidarity people gathered together, and it was the grouping of people acting peacefully, sitting in memory of friends, family and country wo/men who they may have never met, and taking a very personal action to feel they are 'Standing up for Tibet'. It was the 'communality' of the fast which really made an impression on me. In Oxford I had taken part in fasts for Tibet in the past – but I had done so on my own. Indeed, the 12 hour fast was called for by the Tibetan Solidarity Committee, and took place across the world. However, by sitting together and sitting publicly a statement was being made. I thought of all the people around the world fasting in silence, continuing their daily life, working, talking and thinking with few people to share their thoughts of Tibet, and few people to give them support. Yesterday, once again, demonstrated the strength and resilience of the Tibetan people in exile. While observing fasting, the Tibetan exiles and supporters simultaneously offered prayers for the wellbeing and long life of the Dalai Lama, world peace and, for freedom from oppression for all sentient beings but especially in China and Tibet. What was even more striking was the address made by the Kalon Tripa Samdhong Ringpoche; The Chairman of the Tibetan Cabinet stated that the aims of the fast was not a protest borne out of hatred and anger but an effort to strengthen the Tibetan commitment to non-violence and to create compassion in the minds of the oppressor. It was a statement which left me feeling amazed, and which continues to reverberate through my mind. A powerful thought.

Making Magic: An Ode to Musicians

I am listening to an album entitled “Dhramasala 2008”. I copied it from a man I met only briefly and yet was so intrigued by that I wished I could have met him for longer. But this man didn't want to be met by me. He just wanted to practice his yoga and to play his music. He was a peaceful man, who believed in the energy and life-force of all nature's beings. He lived in Israel near the border of Gaza. He rocked backwards and forwards while he played his guitar and sang of 'Shanti'. He was with a woman from Turkey. A beautiful woman with a voice so mesmorising it would be impossible to talk or even to think while she shared it. She rocked forwards and backwards as she sang. They fitted perfectly together. I told them so. They agreed, but said it would be for a short time – only – incredibly.

Next to them sat a dark man with a red shawl – like a wolf under a thick bright cloak. His hair was shaggy, his face lined, his voice deep and his fingers manipulating locally crafted bamboo flutes. Flutes which he brought to life, producing a sound so smooth that they dragged you towards their sound, taking you with them, towards a place neither of you knew. He was from Australia although described himself as a man of this world, but living parallel to society. He had once tried to escape from this 'society' and managed to do so for many years, but decided there were certain aspects he needed to continue to grow and to learn. So he is picking and choosing – in a limbo between a life within himself and within the wild world, and a life shared, urbanised and globalised. In replies to the songs of 'Shanti' he would bellow of 'Passion and Romance' and words which make no sense but are full of meaning.

Then there was a man of few words but of so so many sounds. A man from Argentina. He played the tabla, he played the table, he played the plates and the glasses, the spoons and the floor. He stood on the small wall and played the stone pillar. He played everything and anything. His rhythms seeped inside your own fingers, and made them want to join. There was another man who also tapped the same personalised unified beat from a different tabla. A quiet Indian Man who expertly and loudly banged his drum. Most presumed he was from Israel. Maybe because he was always with Israeli girls or maybe because he just looked 'different'; with long shiny straight hair, never speaking, always smoking.

Then there was a German man. He played the Hang. Like an upside down steel drum, or a shiny wok. It made the most incredible sounds. It is one of my most favourite instruments, and yet strangely I have no desire to try to learn to play it. Perhaps because it is too Magical. Not from this world. Echoing within itself, reverberating all around. It is one of the most fulfilling instruments I have ever heard. Fulfilling – until it stops, and then it leaves a new space, which was not there before it was played, but which lingers for some time after. It is a space which can only be filled by its own creation. The creation of something which cannot be felt, or touched, which cannot be smelt or tasted, which cannot be bought or sold, which is invisible to everything but our ears. Around these magical musical people sat a collection of their wares. Some small rounded maracas, which could be shaken and thrown, banged and tapped. A solid brass bowl, borrowed from the Buddhist monks and producing golden rings of sounds, deep to high, softly steady.

These are a few of the musicians who met by accident in a small simple restaurant in Bhagsu. Who did not know the name of those they played along side. Who joined rhythms which they could not resist and which left their dinner growing cold, forgotten in front of them. Who made introductions after deciding scales, if at all. Who began romances knowing the day they would end. These are a few of the musicians who are of different nationalities, of different cultures, of different beliefs, of different languages, of different lives, of different occupations. They played the same music – deep and true, pure and addictive. From within. Poured out. Beautiful to hear. To be shared. To enjoy. Impossible to explain. Impossible to remove from the moment. The healing, peaceful energy giving power of the invisible audible language of what we call “Music”.

To you talented instinctive passionate performing people, who came together for only a few nights: Thank you for your gift which you created from nothing, and which you gave so freely. Thank you for 'the vibrations running through my body that they multiple, that feel so right.' Thank you for those few nights of blissful sounds, where my head could not stay still, but where my mind was freed..

Keep Travelling - Keep Playing – Keep Sharing.

If you would like to here some spoon tapping, table banging, impromptu singing and moving beats, I have a recording of 'Dhramasala 2008' – although as one of the performers reminded me – Magic cannot be recorded....

Holy Cows

Cows lay in the road at night. I guess because the concrete holds the warmth of the day longer than the grass. They take night drivers by surprise. They refuse to move. They are the Holy Cows. The Holy Cows walk along the road during the day, facing on coming traffic and nonchanclantly refusing to budge. Horns beeeep, Holy Cows stand motionless. If it rains they find shelter under a shop tarpoline. Staring straight ahead – still, as if a wooden antique waiting to be purchased. If a passing curious tourists stops for a stroke, a reaction is rare. Occassionally, a grunt escapes. Or a turn of a horned head, which can appear more threatening than the intentioned curiousity behind it.

When they become hungry, the Holy Cows stick out their thick rough rolling tongues. They slowly lick spilled sauce which has bubbled over pots and now sticks to the gasoline stoves which wait to be washed outside of the chai shops. The Holy Cows graze on the street garbage – on the wooden boxes discarded, on pieces of plastic impossible to digest but possible to munch and to swallow. Often, the Holy Cows can be caught pursuing an empty packet of crisps along the road – nudging them forward with each attempted lick, and never becoming bored or frustrated and yet only being fully 'satisified' when the salty greasy foil bag is inside their Holy stomachs.

If the Holy Cows are feeling in the mood for a feast then they wander up towards the Bhagsu road, where the massive rubbish containers explode with waste. They move their heads instead the rusty openings, and feed from the trough of filth. Monkeys dance around them, sitting and swinging from the rusting frame, dropping their picked fruit stones back into the pile of rotting debris.

Occassionaly the Holy Cow can be seen assuming its Holy role. A hindu shop keeper will tempt it towards their shop. Waving fresh chapati as if it were a red cloak. If successfull, the seduced Holy Cow will stand patiently as the devotee will pray in nameste and hand feed it chapatis. If the Holy Cow accidently drops its fresh chapati, the devotee, will devotedly repeat the exercise, until the Holy Cow is fed, and therefore she is blessed. Although the blessings appear to a foreigner to be receprocal, as Holy Cows can often been seen wandering the roads with a bright red bindhi in the middle of their Holy Cow head.

When the town becomes too busy during the day they move towards the quieter areas. A favourite haunt of the Holy Cow is the pilgrim road which runs around the outside of the Tsuglagkhang Complex. The Holy Cows meander around the outside of the Dalai Lama's house oblivious to his carnivious tastes. They stroll passed the mani stones, and graze upon the mossy stone walls upon which the craved prayers lean. Pilgrims try not to be miss a Om, by preempting the direction the Holy Cows will take. Despite their Hindi roots, I have yet to see a Cow walk the pilgrimage anti-clockwise.

In fact they don't seem to be naughty Cows, for they are not disobeying anybody nor anything. The Holy Cows are Holy after all, and Holy things cannot be naughty. Can they?

Full Power?

So despite yogic energy and trillions of needles, herbs and antibiotics, the second Lump continued to grow – like a red hot volcano – under my arm until it took over my consciousness. I took the hint from the thousands of Tibetans walking around telling their prayer beads, and brought myself a set. A strange type of meditation, but with an uncanny ability to pacify, and therefore to save the few brave Indian boys who were vying for my attention from the lash of my overflowing temper. Eventually, the volcano erupted, but it did so through the first incision. As pus leaked out of my arm Bruno led me to Mcleod's Community Health Care Clinic. I could almost see the same friendly Nepali nurse sigh, as she realised that she would have to – yet again – deal with the woman with her personal volcano of pus. I was instructed to lie down, while she wrestled with The Lump. And wrestle she did. I was wishing to be unconscious. Meanwhile, the friendly Nepali nurse kept apologising for the pain she was inadvertently directly causing. I tried to muster the strength to a reply 'no worries, thank you' and let her continue to pump the volcano. About a fistful of pus was extracted. In the end she held up a swab to my face and said 'ah it looks like chocolate'. I was thankful for Kolkata for giving me the strength needed not to throw up over her.

With the extraction of so much of the infection the pain subsided a little but The Lump was still hard -like a stone- and I was still worried. I went back to the hospital. Experience had taught me that after paying my ten rupees it was necessary to bypass the enormous queue and to head directly upstairs to another doctor, who for some reason never had any waiting patients. My lump was inspected by yet a new pair of eyes and I was told that I was still on the wrong antibiotics. Hmph! This might explain why this had been going on for nearly three weeks. Now I am taking tablets every six hours, even waking up in the night to religiously swallow the little blue pills (and no they are not viagra, but cephalexin – which coincidently sounds like a suitably complex match for Staphylococcus Aureus) and something seems to be working. However, the hours of queuing alongside entire Tibetan families and entire congregations of monasteries was not totally avoided, and the doctor at Delek Hospital sent me to have my blood sugar tested to see if there was a link between The Lumps and diabetes and, unlike Vijay, try to find out if there was a physiological reason why I had developed two infected lumps in succession. After three hours it was concluded that my blood sugar was 'normal'.

The other 'something' was a meeting with a man from England who lives in Denmark and who has just received his 'masters in Reiki'. This does not mean that Master Reiki has studied Reiki for years at a special university for slightly 'alternative' people, but it means that here in Mcleod Ganj he has done one of the fast food courses in alternative training. (On a side note, Mcleod Ganj has made me see 'trained' alternative therapist a little differently. I am amazed at how anyone can apparently learn an ancient healing art, based on intuition and age old symbols in just seven days.) Anyway, Master Reiki kept appearing in my days and kept offering his healing hands so I decided to give Rieki a go. After one and a half hours of 'healing' the pain had certainly reduced, even if it was only temporary, and I felt much more relaxed. Master Reiki asked me to lift my arm and asked me if I still felt pain – I assured him that of course I would feel the pain, after all I still had a big infected cut under my arm and on top of a large hard as stone Lump. Apparently I also gave Master Reiki my headache – or rather shared it with him - as this was still very much on top of my head. I have no idea to what extent the Placebo Effect had to do with my pain barrier, or indeed if there can be some more 'scientific' explanation for how the placing of hands on a body can bring relief but, ultimately I was still left with a large burning hard as stone Lump. Still feeling incredibly sorry for myself, all that had really changed is that now I had too many new old questions such as – what exactly is an aura, how can some people see them and others cannot, why does Rieki apparently work for some people – or rather how? Master Reiki told me my arm was healing.

However, gradually the volcano simmered down into a hard plate, which is still under my arm (under its daily padding of Tibetan herbs – the smell of which I am actually becoming fond of; perhaps I'll suggest Dr Palden starts his own 'Tibetan Herbal' range of strong smelling sticky brown pastes? ) I revisited Delek Hospital today and a smart Tibetan doctor (with an American accent and wearing rangi changi multi coloured yak wool socks) told me that I need another 5 days of blue pills. This is going to make a total of 22 days on antibiotics. Dr Palden Tsering is still determined to bring up the hard lump to the surface, although he has stopped sticking needles into me. Every day he still tells me 'not to eat sweet' , 'no drink milk' and 'no eat onion' and a strange word which we eventually worked out (with the help of his vegetable tray) was 'garlic'. This advice echoes the concerns of the Western Tibetan doctor who tested my blood for high levels of sugar. On reflection I guess sugar is food for Staphylococcus Aureus. Perhaps the avoidance of milk is because of its mucous forming potential. And as for onions and garlic- I have no idea, but the link between food and illness and treatment is certainly very interesting. In fact The Lump has indirectly taught my a great deal. During my many acupuncture sessions Dr Palden has been indirectly been held hostage to a barrage of questions. I have asked him everything which popped into my head: how do you find acupuncture points, what are meridians, what are the herbal medicines made from, are they home made or bought, and if so from where, how long he has been in India, what is the difference between Chinese medicine (453 pressure points)and Tibetan medicine (157 points) and so on and so on. What has fascinated me is his holistic way of viewing the body. He told me that he once visited Italy and was amazed to learn that they have a doctor for every different part of the body: “they even have a doctor just for the eyes” he told me. In fact Dr Palden was so shocked by the 'eye doctor' that he went to visit one and told him that his patients need to have their liver tested and not their eyes. I used this opportunity to ask him if my sore knees (which I blame long distance cycling for) had any connection to my organs? He replied that my stomach was too cold and I needed to heat it up. What about sickness? “A cold stomach” came the reply. And Insomnia? “A sad heart”.

So I apologise to You and to Bruno for being so self absorbed and 'serious' and although I am still not 'full power' I am certainly 'half power' and with Master Reiki sitting next to me offering me another 'healing', Dr Palden's compress of herbs under my arm, a new prescription of blue pills and medical advice over flowing my gmail account, I guess I am in safe hands after all.

Hopefully – not to be continued.

Beating the Bacteria: The Alternatives

Wow. What a roller coaster of internal emotions and temporary physical pain. I can now write this blog because finally my head is clear enough too. This in itself is disconcerting, because it reflects that in the past two weeks I was unable to think of anything other than myself. This is a state I do not like to be absorbed within in.

So for my sister, friends and doctors who I have never met but am so thankful for here is one final spurge of self absorption before I leave behind (insh'Allah) all thoughts of Lumps, bacteria, pus and pain. For anyone else, please bare with me and I promise that soon my writing will return to discussing far more important and interesting topics...

With the appearance of a second Lump, I began to become scared. The fallacy of living in a spiritual Indian oasis, was quickly replaced by the thought of what on earth I was doing here, or more rather what on earth would I do if I became very sick very quick? The absence of reliable accessible health care does not matter in times of health, but with the volatility and fragility of our bodies such a carefree mentality can disappear very quickly. Soon I began to hear horror stories of people dying overnight for lack of adequate medical treatment. Obviously I did not think that I was about to die from a Staphylococcus Aureus infection multiplying underneath of my arm, but I was scared of the thought of the infection spreading to other organs of my body.

I decided to consult the internet as a way of gaining reassurance that my treatment was correct. My sister replied with tales of septicaemia. While a welcome email from one of Magic Man's million doctor brother's told me that not only did I need a histogram, but that "TB was much more likely". Help!

Unreassured and scared I continued to trust the doctors at Delek hospital and the other voice in my head, which was Bruno, both of whom insisted that I had a Staphylococcus Aureus infection.

The new lump continued to grow, and with it came a new pain which danced around my chest and seeped through to my back. My entire left side was swollen and tender. I was even allergic to the medical tape used to stick the dressings over the wound. It was impossible to sleep, and with such a combination it meant that my mental strength quickly dissipated. I saw a second doctor at Delek hospital and I was told that my first set of antibiotics were no use to beat this spectrum of bacteria, and so I was put on a different set. The lump was too hard to be cut out, so I would just have to wait for the hard like a stone lump to rise to the surface.

Because the only result so far from visiting the Western hospital was a new wound and a new lump, I decided to give the Alternatives a second chance. I visited a recommended Tibetan doctor, and for the last seven days Dr Palden has stuck needles around the lump and at various incidences along the invisible connecting meridian. Consequently, I have had wobbling needles sticking out of my elbow, hand and even opposite knee, for fifteen minutes each day. Apparently my body is 'weak' (which I prefer to redefine as 'sensitive'), and this is why I can not tolerate more than such a short time of being a breathing pin cushion. Although this was not a pleasant experience it was not painful, more 'uncomfortable', as I waited for Dr Palden to find the appropriate meridian by wiggling the needle a little deeper into these various parts of my body. What was even more 'uncomfortable' was the compress of herbs which he continues to strap under my arm each day. The aim of the compress is to help the hard like stone Lump to mature – to become soft. The herbs apparently do this by producing a heat which grows in intensity as the day progresses, so that by the evening the burning has grown into a ball of fire, from which there was no escape unless I removed the compress – which I guilty did on two occasions.

Dr Palden's English is not great, but his knowledge of Tibetan medicine is clearly extensive – he trains monks, and this knowledge of traditional medicine has been in his family for as long as can be remembered. I asked him if he had a son, and if so was his son learning this ancient healing? His reply was that yes he does have a son, but at the age of four perhaps he will wait a few years before trying to pass on his knowledge. In fact I am not even sure if Palden is the Doctors first name or his surname, as in Tibet the order of the names are placed in the reverse. When I asked him if his first name was Palden or Tsering he just replied 'yes'. Anyway, Dr Palden Tsering's explanation for the new Lump was that the first Lump was cut before it was mature. Therefore the blood was still unclean, and the bacteria still needed to find a place to settle.. He warned that although he was strengthening the meridian in order to prevent a third Lump, if the second Lump was cut before it was mature, a recurrence was more or less guaranteed. This made me weary of the doctors at Delek hospital who kept 'offering' to cut it out. Another interesting explanation which Dr Palden shared was that both of The Lumps were on my heart meridian, which would explain the pains in my chest. The heart meridian also controls the emotion of Anger, and therefore I would now be feeling very 'angry'. Indeed, for the past two to three weeks this 'anger' has been steadily simmering along with the volcano.

Obviously hardly been able to lift my arm meant that my yoga practice was still on hold. However, as it was my left arm that was invaded, it meant that I could still hold a pen, so although I was unable to do any physical adjustments I could still attend the theory part of the Ashtanga Teacher Training course. Vijay was concerned. Firstly I had visited a Western doctor, taken Western antibiotics and had a Western operation. In his eyes – this was clearly interfering with my natural healing capacities (which in my eyes had clearly gone on holiday). He spent the beginning of the session philosophising on how everything had a cause – even if it was not obvious to our human understanding, which lead him on to karma and karma and karma. Message received – this was my bad karma, and there was nothing I could do about it apart from ride it out. However, Vijay does not like any living being to suffer, so despite my apparent unexplainable explainable cause of my own misery, he offered some healing. He told me not to tell anyone. So all I will tell you about his fifteen minutes of magic was that the Olympic Games was playing on the television, it was wrestling, and his assistant was forced to watch it in silence – apologies Balu.

To be Continued...

Dreamings

I keep having dreams about Gita. They are disturbing dreams. I dreamt that I returned to Kolkata and went directly to Sishu Bhavan. I began to look for Gita among the running children. I couldn't see her anywhere. I asked the Sister in charge where Gita was and she pointed to a blind child – but it wasn't Gita. She insisted it was I who was mistaken. Doubting myself I approached the child and began to speak. She didn't recognise me. But something was strange about her. Like Gita she had no eyes. And yet unlike Gita she seemed to know the World. She knew about the invisible – about colours, about shades of skin, about the size of the world, about the air and about the enormous space above and around us. She knew because she had just lost her eyes. Her eyeballs had been stolen from her. I tried to tell the other volunteers, the Sisters, my friends, but no one would believe me.

Last night, once again, I dreamt that I returned to the orphanage, but this time I took Bruno with me – I wanted him to meet Gita. This time I found her easily. Although she was much younger – she was a baby. As soon as I walked into the room she sensed my presence, and once my wrist produced a jingle jangle she came tottering towards me. Immediately I sensed Bruno was thinking something. He whispered to me that Gita had down syndrome. How did I not know? I told him he was wrong and that he just had to spend more time with her. I picked her up and insisted that we sleep at the orphanage. Both Bruno and I crawled into her cot and slept. I woke in the middle of the night to find out that in our sleep we had suffocated her. I had killed Gita.

In real life, I woke up upset. I told Bruno of my dream – he replied that he had also dreamed of Gita.

Can any sense be made of these sub conscious dreamings?

Today I really miss her.

A Walk Around

Walking along Mcleod Ganj today and I realised that I don't See as much as I used to when I first came to India. I am not totally sure why. Perhaps because the daily life – the colours, sounds, noises, interactions have become too normalised to be noticed. Or perhaps because their is not so much to 'See' as in Kolkata. Yes there is poverty and destitution here, but on a much smaller scale. In the next few days I will write a blog specifically for those I am now implying are 'insignificant'. In response to these confusions, today I tried to look. To See around me. I began by watching a monk. The monk was sitting on a park bench, but without the park. The bench was perched on the side of the peaceful pedestrianised pilgrim road behind the Tsuglagkhang Complex. The monk was moving his prayer beads – one by one – rapidly, silently, noticeably. I wanted to sit beside him. To see what he was seeing. Knowing my desire was impossible, without intrusion, I continued walking up the road. I walked behind an old stooped Tibetan man. He was toothless, but with his mouth gaping. His wrinkled hands clutched his mobile prayer wheel – spinning. I strided past him, trying to leave his meditation undisturbed. To my left the hill of Mcleod Ganj sloped down to the larger town of Dharamsala, but in between stood rows of green lush pine trees, bushes and granite rock. All fresh with cold water. To my right rose the wall of the Tsuglagkhang Complex, next to which piled rows of mani stones – a representation of peace craved with strength and perfection and decorated with painted colour or by nature. As I walked further towards the bottom of the town, the noises of human life began to grow louder. I plugged music in to my ears. Today I wanted to See – not to hear. I wanted to try to be an observer, and not distracted by self consciousness. I selected my most calming tunes: What I usually play when I know I am going to have to pass a gang of men, or when my nerves are too tense to fight the traffic and stay calm. But today was different, I just wanted to See, and not to be part of what I was seeing. So just as a man who wants to choose which parts of his daily life are 'real' and therefore dresses each day for a performance, I also wanted to block out part of the reality around me in order for other parts to become more obvious. An unaccompanied cello playing Bach was to be my soundtrack.

The entrance to the Tsuglagkhang complex is lined with Tibetan stalls. Tibetan women, wearing pale silk blouses and pinned to criss-crossing plain dresses, dripping with green, red and cream stones. They gather together on their backless plastic stools. Cups of steaming chai in one hand, and broken yellow Tibetan bread in the other. Dunk – Drip –Swallow. I paused at a stall which had a pile of tiny golden cylinders – for holding blessings which are then hung around necks. The stall holder looked up, I diverted my eyes and continued. Directly outside of the complex were a new collection of banners showing recently tortured martyrs. I know they were martyrs because their torture had been so severe that the photographs showed dead bodies, only enlivened by names and ages. The burning of The Lump under my arm seemed to miraculously disappear. Next to the banner showing the young faces of the Tibetan monks who had been on the 'infinite hunger strike' where internet print outs, showing their same faces, after eight days of starvation.

A chai man/ weather man ,who disappears whenever it rains, and who offers you a seat on his sloping pack of slippy concrete was pouring glasses full of boiling flavoured milk. A Tibetan woman wearing a cowboy hat was unpacking strings of prayer beads made out of stone, wood and horn. Two monks passed in front of me. One with a colour coordinated maroon and yellow back pack. The other with his hands clasped behind his back. One wrist wrapped in solid prayer beads, the other hand holding a large screened mobile phone, enhancing the weak noon sun, and reflecting it towards my watching eyes.

My walk up the hill towards the centre of Mcleod Ganj slows as I am caught behind a crawling man. The man is walking on his flip flops, one on each hand. Around his knees he has strapped caps of plastic, tied to his dirty jeans by pieces of string. A skinny foreign woman with threaded dreadlocks comes into my eye line and motions to me to remove my headphones. I obey – out of curiosity. “Do you want a new hairstyle?” She asks. Expectantly. “I am fine with this one.” I reply. She waits for an explanation as surely my plated mess of curls is crying out to be dreaded and bound? I smile and replace Bach. As I take a step forward I quickly have to dodge the crawling man just in front of my blind feet. I offer an apology to him, but his face is staring intently on the concrete close to his face, and his internally tuned ears more closed than mine.

A old nun, shaved grey hair, curving shoulders and working fingers stood by the side of the road. She was staring intently at a colourful postcard display of Buddhist deities, including the smiling peaceful face of the Dalai Lama. I seemed to pass her many times. The same face – a different woman. Another woman walks past. An Indian lady. She is wearing a kurta, with a scarf wrapped around her head. She is balancing a gas cylinder on top of her shoulders. She walks steadily. Surely. Oldly.

A tall Tibetan man caught my attention. He caught my attention because he didn't 'fit'. He was wearing a maroon coat. One arm through one sleeve, the other long sleeve fashioned to fit around his waist, and stuffed with yak wool. His hair was black and shining. It was long, but plated and looped around his skull. He had enormous rings of silver through his ear lobes, and a necklace of turquoise strung around his neck. He stood erect, with a posture so perfect and so 'controlled' that just by 'being' he seemed to acquire an external respect. He was curious and stopping at nearly every shop – never entering but standing near the doorway, pursuing their wares and then striding quietly to the next. I felt rude to watch, pretending to look behind him, or to the side. I felt the curiosity which the Indians who follow me must feel, only with more respect.

The road was too small for the four wheel 'tourist' or 'pilgrim' jeeps which honk their way through, mowing down all that is in their way – except of course for the Holy Cows, which had already lift their splurges of cow shit, now trodden into the road. The Holy Cows had already roamed away from the busy street, and would probably not return until the evening. In the meantime, they would probably be grazing in their favourite spot of the local rubbish dump – which isn't really designated as such, but which piles up between Bhagsu and Mcleod Ganj.

The ladies selling their re-heated momo's stood on the corner as I crossed from Temple road to the adjacent Jogibara road. Ten rupees for four, spicy pot luck potato pockets – mouth burning chilli sauce included. Woks waiting to heat, boxes filled with pre-made pastries. Opposite them sat the fruit sellers. A row of cardboard boxes and upside down plastic crates. Symmetrical from one end to the middle, showing shared space between two separate merchants. A Tibetan woman holding a steel bowl runs after a rolling apple as it bumps over the wet road only to be caught by a filthy grate. I wonder if she will buy it or return it to the pile to be bought?

Packs of Indians, Packs of Tibetans, Packs of Tourists. Intermixing through commerce and through the English language.

I walk past the box. The man is not there. I purposefully walk close to his house. The tattered yellow sheet of a door is partially opened and I look inside. It is filled with the fluffy multi-coloured shawls all tourists walk around wrapped up in, rain or shine.

To my left is the imaginatively named Main Temple. Easy to miss, only obviously visible when standing next to its walls of prayer wheels. Clockwise only – people and traffic. Indians and tourists alike squeezing anti-clockwise, anti-Buddhist, through the corridor of prayers, to the quieter parallel road.

I notice a man walking next to me. He is so close he could be holding my hand. He is not looking at me but staring. I should ignore but before I can control my instincts I look up and look directly into his eyes. I see his mouth instantly move. His words remain silent to my plugged ears and I am able to comfortably walk by. I gaze into one of the many Tibetan cafes with an Italian name, which line the road. Small tables packed closely together. Boards outside advertising every type of cuisine – from Tibetan to South Indian, from Israeli to Mexican. Just by looking at the clothes and hair styles I pick out a cafe filled with Israeli tourists. The only local people are the ones serving. I think of the cafe's in Israel. I never noticed any groups of Tibetans in any. Although I met plenty of Philippin0 domestic helps at the Internal Security Office in Tel Aviv.

A women with one finger and a bandage wrapped around her stumps of arm offers me a namaste. I reply with my own 'fingered' hands. She smiles. I smile outside and feel the seeping guilt spread within.

And this is a ten minute walk through Mcleod Ganj. A small view from behind my eyes.

Man in a Box

The poverty of Kolkata seems far from here. Until you look closer. There is a metal box on Jogibara road. It is rusty and has a small opening covered by a dirty yellow tattered plastic sheet. It stands between two Tibetan stalls selling their wares of pearls, turquoise and coral stones, prayer beads and woolly hats. Outside of the box people have stuck their posters to advertise their power of healing - Reiki and Yoga. The posters are written in English and Israeli.

Inside the metal box on Jogibara road there lives a man. When the dirty yellow tattered plastic sheet flaps open it is possible to catch a glimpse of his house. He must sleep in the fetal position as it would be impossible for him to stretch out, or to sit up without banging his head.

For some reason, in the mornings, the Tibetan Welfare truck which attempts to collect the towns rubbish, and sweeps it outside the box of the man in the box. The man in the box sits, dangling his legs out of his door, head to his chest, eyes to the floor, rubbish all around. Sometimes it is possible to see the man in the box outside of the box. Standing on the street. Wrapped in his blanket of a tattered plastic sheet. He is filthy. The brown grey black colour the destitute always are - regardless of the original colour of their clothes - or tattered plastic sheets. The man in the box has a grey dirty beard and a head full of grey white hair, for the man in the box is an old man – an old Indian 'man'. He never begs. He never interacts. He just is. A man in a box.

The strange thing is that it took two days before I noticed the man or his box. And he is not homeless – he has his box.

Freedom for Tibet and Sympathy for Bex

My renewed faith in Western medicine has jumped out of the window and gone to play with my excused faith in alternative medicines. I now have a 'new' infected Lump below the incision which removed the last one, only that this one is solid and very painful. I am no longer upset about missing the yoga course – I am just upset. It hurts and I am feeling incredibly sorry for myself.

Two hours sleep and a painful night of painting a beautiful mandala. Although the beauty of my painting was not equal with the beauty of the mandala. Partly because I couldn't decide whether to paint the outer circles gold or blue – so in my insomnia I painted them both gold and blue. An excessive mistake. I watched the dead moth spin and twirl and wondered what happened to the spider who had spun its deathly web, and how even in the hunt of nature there is waste and the unnecessary ending of life.

I walked down to Delek Hospital as soon as the time was acceptable to morning adventures. A Nepali man I had met yesterday man gave me a lift. This was after he asked my age and after I had told him I had a husband. The hospital was deserted. Not a good start. I wondered around. I read a notice advertising for full time nursing staff, offering a wage of 9000 rupees (about £110) per month. Doctors were on 24000 rupees. I found a nurse. She was a Tibetan, Hindi, English speaking Nepali and so friendly. However, today – once again – is a holiday which means that there are no doctors in Delek hospital. She looked at The new Lump and said I would probably need a new operation. I was to come back tomorrow and not to worry. No worries – no problem but my shoulder and left side feel like they are trying to start their own separatist movement. She cleaned and dressed the first incision, and tried to remove the patchwork of gluey patches which had accumulated around my shoulder.

I snuggled into my kurta and went for a chai at the “Tibet Bakery and Cafe”. A tiny wooden box next to Delek Hospital. With a counter full of freshly baked 'muffins', which were actually warm balls of doughnut dough and incredibly good. I dipped one in my chai, which was actually a cup of hot milk with a floating Teatly Tea bag swimming around inside. I thought of my brother-in -law and how he would be simultaneously exalted to find his favourite band of tea and horrified to see it in a soup of milk. It was great.

Carrying my arm back up the hill, I found a monk appearing from the bushes. In his broken English he managed to reply to my queries by pointing into the bush, and saying 'up' and 'shorter'. A short cut to Dharamasala. It was only a few days ago I had been reading an email from a missed friend. He was talking about 'silence' and how he was surrounded by it. I replied that in India, silence was difficult to find, unless of course you found yourself on the back of a Royal Enflield bike, lost in Kashmir, in thick fog, coming down an impromptu mountain and with no brakes. However, this morning, following the monk of few words short cut, I found silence:

A stone path, slippy with moss and moisture. Lined with wet green grass and bushes pushing out tiny wild flowers which were all the shades between orange and red - or do I mean pink and yellow? Nature's mandalas, constantly changing colours. Water was flowing down into an skinny stream, pulled by gravity and undeterred by the walking rubber dams of the soles of my boots. I tried to listen to the silence. To stop the multitude of different and simultaneous thoughts inside my head. My arm was throbbing and it wasn't long before I realised that in Kolkata my arm would hurt far less. Here in the beauty and silence of nature, the burning of the small hole under my arm seemed greater than I know it would if surrounded by death, destitute and survivors of diseases so massive they would hurt just to see. Here, in the hills of northern India, like in all the other places where it is easier to look inside rather than out, the tiny temporary superficial pain is dominating my day, because relative to the luxury and beauty and self indulgence which I am surrounded by it feels far worse than when compared to gaping holes and deathly disease.

Eventually the silence turned into noise, and the nature surrounding my body began to soothe my mind. The same calls of a bird which I remember listening to in the hills in Scotland, the trickle of the water as it a washed the stones slippy and fell down the hill, the rustles of invisible creatures as they jumped through the leaves. The air above was filled with the silent soaring of birds with large extended wings. I tried to remember Bruno's birds of prey identification lesson. I couldn't, so I just watched as they 'floated' rather than 'flew' and circled and then rose with seemingly no effort apart from just 'being'. The views at each corner were stunning, and the valley mist provided an inaccurate 'escape', hiding the shapes of the town of Dharamasala in the distance and replacing them with the depths of my imagination. The damp air felt fresh and cold, and despite the wild life around me, for the first time in a long time I really felt alone. With each step I listened, let the thoughts rise and drift and once again felt the power of life around me and my thanks to be part of it. As I walked further towards the top of the hill the noise of nature was mixed with a regular 'ding' of a prayer wheel from an invisible monastery, identifiable only by the waving colours of the prayer flags hanging camouflaged in distant trees. I climbed up the rocky path, gradually leaving the flowers, grass and tress behind me and joined the pilgrim circuit which leads to Mcleod Ganj. An old couple marched determinedly past me, whispering Om Mani Padme Hum – Love and Compassion for all.

Forgive me for such a self indulgent blog. Free Tibet! And Happy Birthday.

Spiritual Wealth - Practical Health

I woke up early. It was too early to be light. There was a throbbing pain under my arm. Every day the pain had become a little stronger, to the extent that it was partially normalised. My eyes would not close. There was no point in trying. So I began to use then instead. Waiting for them to slowly adjust to the pre-dawn shadows. I eventually picked out a butterfly sitting high on the window ledge. Or perhaps it was a moth? Either way, it was beautiful. It began to turn. Showing me its delicate wings. Backwards and forwards it slowly rotated. The perfection of nature. The ability to fly. Suspended in the air. I felt privileged; as if by waking early I was an uninvited spectator of an unique solo performance.

My mind began to explore parallel thoughts. The thought about how I had wanted to do a Tibetan Massage course. There are enough advertised around here. Alongside Ayurvedic Massage, Crystal Healing and Reiki. And yet at that precise moment I did not want any alternative therapies. I wanted a doctor trained in Western medicine. I thought about the ironies of how amazing the choice of alternative therapies seems – until you actually need one. Four days ago I had began my exploration of local health care. I asked the baker where the doctor was. "Ayurvedic or Tibetan?" was her reply. She was Tibetan so I replied: "Tibetan". Within five minutes I was standing inside Mcleod Ganj's Tibetan Medical Clinic. I was impressed. It seemed clean and efficient. In the waiting 'corridor', there was one elderly lady pinching her prayer beads, mumbling Om Mani Pad he Hum again and again and again, but with different degrees of volume. She was sitting next to a nun. The nun looked very similar to her; but younger, and with no prayer beads, and no long plated hair. The elderly women pointed to a row of wooden numbers hanging from a peg, her working pinching pushing fingers did not pause. I nodded in thanks, took a number and waited my turn.

Quickly I was seated in from of a Tibetan woman doctor. I awkwardly took off my kurta and lifted my arm. She touched the lump and offered her prognosis. "You need to see a Western Doctor. Our Tibetan medicine is too slow for that infection. You need Western medicine." Dishearten I pulled my kurta back on. I was upset because I had magicalised my location. Hearing of other foreign tourists who had visited the clinic and returned 'healed'. And yet the doctor herself had admitted the failings of her professed traditional healing. I was also upset because I had been delaying seeking medical help, trusting in the advice of Vijay who insisted that eventually The Lump would heal itself. Clearly this was not the case. I walked to the local community health care, and spent my lunch break in a queue. The queue never became any shorter so I returned to yoga practice and waited another day...

Another day and the line outside of the Delek Community Health Care Centre was enormous. So enormous that I bypassed it and decided to return later in the day. Later in the day there was torrential rain. I was sodden. I queued. I watched an Israeli mother chastise a Tibetan mother for trying to comfort her screaming baby. I nudged Tibetan fathers out of the way, fighting for a space in front of the nurse. My request to see a doctor was answered with a confused look. "There is no doctor in Mcleod Ganj. We are doing immunisations. You need to go to Delek Hospital." My heart sunk as I had flash backs to Kolkata's horrendous disease filled hospitals. Besides, it was too late to go to Delek Hospital, which was somewhere down the hill towards Dharamasala. I consulted a Tibetan friend. She recommended a local Tibetan doctor and even went so far as to take me to his house. The local Tibetan doctor looked at my arm and recommended a 7 day course of acupuncture costing 250 rupees per day. I asked him if he thought it needed antibiotics and he replied that he had no knowledge of Western medicine. Sceptical and in pain I went home.

Another day and more rain. I had spent a horrendous night filled with fever and delirium, whereby my control over my reactions to pain disintegrated. I was ashamed and decided to Be Stronger. No one seemed to know where the hospital was. The rickshaw driver tried to take me to Dharamasala. The bus driver tried to take me to the bus stop. The taxi was going on "a different road". With the help of an ageing hippy (who also offered her own advice which was to stick half a boiled onion under my arm) I finally arrived. Outside of the hospital was a painted advertising its 'specialities' which didn't seem to include 'Lumps' but did include 'torture victims'. I paid my 10 rupees doctors fee and queued.

A young mentally disabled women waved at me. I waved back with my good arm. She smiled and I immediately wanted to go and sit next to her, but her carer apologetically smiled at me and then distracted her. I felt that my attention was unwelcome. One chai later and a doctors note and I was waiting for another doctor. The Lump needed to be removed. The cause was unknown, but it was an infection which would only continue to grow if not treated. So much for Vijay's enlightened advice. I stood outside of the small surgery as a monk had his foot inspected by a smart Tibetan woman. Finally it was my turn and I felt relief just at the thought of eventually having some escape to the growing pain under my arm. I lay down and watched as she injected a needle directly inside The burning Lump. I asked what she was doing – the pressure seemed immense. "Local anesthetic" came the reply. Slightly annoyed at not being consulted I lay and waited. Within seconds it became numb enough to dilute the pain but not destroy it. She took a blade and sliced my arm. She began to dig the infection out. Dig Dig Dig. I winced. Water filled my eyes, and I had images of the many wounds I had cleaned in Kolkata – bleeding scabies infested scalps, infected bones sitting open around dead flesh, worm ridden feet. I felt pathetic. The smart young woman Doctor began to thread a strip of gauze under my skin. Was this common practice? I was beyond caring, or rather knew that any recommendations from myself would be met with recompense.

The entire procedure, including antibiotic topical cream, cost 168 rupees, proving yet again that my inability to buy health insurance was more practical than I had realised. In Kolkata I had an army of professional medical volunteers, and in Mcleod Ganj finally I had found the fully subsidised local health care system, with any private treatment a days travel away and reserved primarily for the rich, famous and fortunate.

I now need to go back to the Community Health Care Centre every day, pay 10 rupees, and have the nurse pull out the green infected gauze and stuff the wound with a new white one. The yoga teacher training course is on hold...for one week or two, although Vijay is still offering daily advice about how the "Mind needs to be stronger to overcome pain" etc etc. Like the array of alternative therapies – they all seem very beautiful until you actually need one, and likewise, I can also offer advice on positive thinking until I have ball of fire under my arm. Apologies for the sarcasm but I guess I am partially enjoying wallowing in self pity for the duration of this blog. But if I am honest I am disappointed at having to prospone the yoga as it takes intensive practice to achieve the results, and with such a massive delay, my progress of the past two weeks (around 72 hours of yoga practise) will quickly be lost. Meanwhile I am finding it difficult to motivate myself to become involved in new activities partly because I am hoping my arm will miraculously heal, and partly because it hurts too much to think clearly about much at all. So meanwhile I have began to paint mandalas – a highly recommended form of artistic meditation. But despite hours of night time painting, I am still waking up incredibly early watching dead moths suspended from spiders webs; twisting and turning in the slight breeze entering from the closed window. Twisting and turning inside a shell of a body, which hangs waiting to be eaten. Dead moths which are being watched and admired by a woman who always sees the reality through a coloured visor of her imagination.

Chanting Tibet

Walking back from yoga yesterday and I walked straight into a procession. I heard it before I saw it. A low rumble. Murmurs of a prayer, sang in unison, which was delayed by intervals of distance as the walking, singing, praying procession stretched out through Mcleod Ganj. First came a large framed photograph of the Dalai Lama leading the chanting with his large peaceful smile. Underneath the large peaceful smile stood a young man – robed in the uniform maroon, with his alliegence to the large peaceful smile visible by a tinge of a yellow shirt. Behind the large peaceful smile marched a maroon line. Maroon robes, maroon bags, maroon socks only to be broken by a multi coloured selection of pink, blue or even orange plastic crocs. The monks, like the rest of the procession, held white wax candles, dripping down onto squares of brown corrugated cardboard. In between the men marched younger boys. Heads also shaved, robes also donned, and words well memorised. The young monks looked to be enjoying their welcomed participation, but they also acted as a reminder of the new generation of exiles: Young boys and girls who are still escaping from Tibet, or who have been born in exile and yet are still showing the ultimate commitment to country, religion and culture by joining a monastery or nunnery at a young age and staying – like all monks and nuns – for the rest of their lives. There was also something powerful about seeing a walking uniform of deep rich maroon. Almost as if I was subconsciously romanticising Buddhism, turning it into a spectacular rather than a philosophy.

Behind the men came the women. Distinguished primarily by their higher voice, as from their physical appearance their were few differences, with the same maroon robes donned, and the same hairstyles - a shaved skull – also shared. The nuns also varied with age, from the young and smooth faced, to those with more worn expressions and a wise white covering of bristle on the tops of their heads. The candles flickered past, as the words chanted around and through me. Next came another natural social grouping, which although broke the sea of deep maroon created a feeling so powerful within me that my eyes began to glisten. Behind the nuns walked men. Not monks, not boys, but old Tibetan men. They broke the uniform single file, and stood side by side, old friends from many years – the first exiles some of whom would have arrived in Mcleod Ganj with a young Dalia Lama nearly fifty years ago. They walked with uneven steps, revealing limps or aching joints. Wooden strings of prayer beads wrapped around wrists. They held the same white dripping candles and held waving flags, symbolising the rising yellow sun over the white snow of Mount Kalish. Many had adapted their umbrellas (an essential commodity in the foothills of the Himalayas), taping flags to them and resting them on their shoulders. In fact, references to their imagined/real country were reflected in their wrinkles, eyes and voices. They chanted the same prayer, the walked with rugged determination and they wore their own chosen uniform of allegiance. Each old man had one or more articles of Tibetan ware. A 'Free Tibet' bag or a 'I Love Tibet' T-shirt. A knitted woollen hat, stiched in blue, red, yellow and white. Articles which I had mistakenly presumed were reserved for tourists. They wore their shirts and carried their bags with a stubborn pride, which really drummed home the reality of their exile: their continued longing for a country they were forced to leave so many years ago and yet in their new freedom, refuse to let go of.

Behind the old men followed the women. Long black hair, tidied back or wrapped in plaits. Stipped aprons hanging down past the knees, and ontop of smart Tibetan dresses. Red coral, green turquoise and cream pearl necklaces. Those who didn't wear traditional dress wore the new activist attire – 'Bring Tibet to the 2008 Olympic Games' or 'Justice has been raped in Tibet' T-shirts, with Tibetan flags stiched into the bag of denim jeans, or the side of handbags. Finally brining up the rear were the young Tibetan men, long shaggy hair and silver rings looping ear lobes, replacing the more traditional long earrings worn by the nomadic Tibetan men. They appeared more relaxed in their step and more distracted by the tourists, of whom they walked next too. Tourists young and old; an elderly couple I had seen at the vigil, with matching red rain jackets, and hot wax dripping onto their stubborn fingers; a group of young Israeli's, speaking Hebrew and wearing 'Free Palestine' -sorry I mean 'Free Tibet' T-shirts; Spanish, British and some unidentified dreadlocks. The tourists walked with their small flames, small candles and small cameras. Interrupting their march by holding their camera in front or above them, participating but some how isolated. Unable to join the prayer, unable to speak Tibetan, able to return home.

I waited until the stragglers had passed and walked away, listening to the prayer as it faded while growing louder, as a large smiling peaceful face reappeared around the corner, and the monks, the young boys, the nuns, the old men, the women, the young men and the tourists continued to circumnavigate the town. Round and round in an infinite circle, until the candles had transformed into piles of wax, and the wet air turned to drizzle and finally into rain.

A Morning with His Holiness

The Dalai Lama is in town. First there was a rumour. Then A4 print outs in English and Tibetan began to appear on billboards – the Dalai Lama was going to be Teaching for three days – morning and afternoon and registration was required. A few days later there was a big movement of four wheel jeeps, driven by purple robed monks and with Tibetan flags flying from the corner of the bonnet. I took my passport, ridiculous photos taken after a bad day in Siliguri, and ten rupees to the Tibetan Security and Welfare Office. Minutes later I was handed my identity card which was stamped and signed and all I then needed was a hand held radio in order to listen to the English translation of the teachings. This was easy to find, and for 50 rupees I could rent one for the duration of the Teachings. I began to become excited. During my past explorations of Buddhism and time in Tibet I had read many books by the Dalai Lama. I also admire his ability to unite the Tibetan people and his clever public relations skills. And although I also have doubts of whether his politically pacifist stance will benefit his people, surely if all politicians followed his philosophy of showing humanity to all living beings, our world would be a much more peaceful and just place? The life of the Dalai Lama is also fascinating especially considering his background as a young boy chosen to replace his predecessor (as his predecessor), growing up in relative isolation from the world and then resigned to a life of exile outside of the country he was trained to lead.

The first morning of the Teachings arrived. I brought my yoga practice forward three hours – beginning at six rather than nine o'clock, and then I followed the stream of people to the Tsuglagkhang Complex. The security was surprisingly thorough – although friendly staff seemed to be checking more for cameras than for guns. I was frisked by a lovely Tibetan woman.

Spaces on the concrete were found at the back of the courtyard in front of the monastery. I sat close to the path leading to the Dalia Lama's house, after advice from Jake who has listened to his Teachings many times before. Apparently the path side 'seats' provided the closest view of the Dalai Lama as he walked back to his house from the monastery after the morning session. The Dalia Lama himself was already seated inside the monastery which was reserved for monks and nuns. Foreign tourists and lay people remained outside. Rather than having a view of the Dalai Lama, we foreigners had a view of a large television set, and once plugged into our rented radios began to hear the Dalai's words through another's mouth. I sat crossed legged on a yoga mat I had 'borrowed' from the centre, and stared far in front of me. The translation was delayed, and when relayed it seemed to be full of repetitions. However, I diligently listened to the words, following the explanations which I found disappointedly simple although I feared that my interpretations were drastically off the point, and if so then surely the teachings were also too complex for the lay people who surrounded me? After voicing my concerns I was told that the Dalai Lama had been sponsored to teach by a Korean group who had asked for an explanation of a specific Buddhist text. So I sat and persevered with my attention only distracted by a large pot of Tibetan tea, which I should have known better than to accept, but the offer from the monk who was pouring it was too charming to resist. So with my pink nalgene water bottle half full with bitter butter warm chai, I focused my attention on the reality, was that somehow I had ended up in northern India, sitting in front of the Dalai Lama's house, listening to him discuss the nature of the Self – its beginning and end and whether either even exist?

The Dalai Lama began by comparing different religious beliefs referring often to ancient Hindu texts as well as the monolithic religions and their reliance on a Creator God from whom the Self is given and to whom the Self (according to belief) will return. In contrast, the Dalai Lama explained that there are two beliefs in Buddhism: one which believes that there is a coming to an end of this Mind, and another which argues that there is no point of seeking Nirvana if the Self will disappear when it is found. He described the Mind as having reached a knowing nature if it has no opposing thoughts, which made me wonder how any thoughts are possible without knowing the opposite? As if knowledge is the absolution of balance? He explained that the true nature of the Mind is not polluted with evil thoughts but is an innate clear light – hence the term 'Enlightenment' - which would therefore mean that there is no end to this Self. Inanimate objects cannot be a counter force to carry the Mind on – only living beings. Therefore after death, the 'Self' continues as the Mind does not disappear into dust but continues the cycle until Enlightenment is achieved. So what about the innate nature of the Self? The Dalai Lama explained that like all living beings, the Self desires happiness rather than suffering. The Self – like all living beings – desire feelings of joy and avert feelings of pain. Ultimately this should mean that all beings have a Right to reach happiness and avert suffering. However, immediately there seems to be the Utilitarian paradox that the happiness of some may mean the pain of others? The Dalai Lama continued to explain that non-believers would be more concerned about immediate Happiness and Suffering rather than looking at ways to ultimately achieve Enlightenment, which suggests that the path to Enlightenment contains many sufferings as well as following only happiness. Likewise, other religions are also more concerned with the bigger questions of the beginning and the end of the Self than non-believers are. This is also the reason for the successes of Religion as it relieves the faithful from the reality of pain and suffering by promising redemption in the after life – or as in Buddhism, in another life (rebirth). This also eases one of the hardest challenges for the non-believer, which is to accept the absolute loss of the Self in death. In contrast Religions make the transition of death more comprehensible to our ego.

In Buddhism, the Dalai Lama explained that the Self must be committed to ending suffering, the root cause of which is ignorance, including our uncontrolled emotions and contaminated Karma. However, our lack of proper knowledge of the causes of suffering mean that we never escape, which is why Buddhism emphasises cultivating the wisdom of Right and Wrong: if we live 'Righteous' lives avoiding causing suffering for others then we increase our karmic wealth and for Buddhists this is the essence of dependent origination, which is that all results have causes and all causes have results. The two are mutually dependent on the other and there can be no result of suffering without a cause.

As I sat and listened and thought about the virtues of having a national leader committed to such a philosophy and then of the ironies that the national leader was unable to lead his nation. The Tsuglagkhang Complex was full of monks and nuns sitting immediately in front of their Teacher – who we foreigners could only watch on a television screen. Meanwhile, Tibetan men and women sat on the grass or concrete, listening, watching and then jumping into action as soon as the teachings finished, and it became clear that for some the purpose of the Teachings was for them to catch a glimpse of their exiled leader/ leader in exile. After two hours the Teachings ended and quickly a surge of monks appeared from down the stairs, while people moved to the side of the path. I also sat up, watching, waiting, until I saw a four wheel drive pull up outside of the monastery, pack inside the Dalai Lama and some monks and then drive the 50 meters to his house. I saw him smile and wave, and felt disappointed for the many Tibetans posed in prostration.

I didn't attend the next two days of Teachings...