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.