A future/present/past date with Buddhism

Leaving McLeod Ganj has been hard. No where as hard as it was to leave Kolkata or rather leaving all the little buddha's which it held, but hard in the sense that I felt that I was leaving unfinished business. I arrived in McLeod Ganj in mid June. I arrived with aspirations to learn more about the Tibetan community in exile, to do some social work which would provide the opportunity to really gain an insight into the democratic organisations evolving outside of China's dominating grip. I wanted to practice yoga during the day and sit with the nuns and other ex political prisoners in the evenings, participating in a space for them to share their stories and facilitate a dialogue which would not only help me to communicate their reality to you, but where they could develop their English conversations skills. I wanted to volunteer at the Rogpa Baby Care Centre for the children of newly arrived refugees, who still had to find new friends to look after their young ones while they tried to build a new life. I wanted to read every one of the books of writings and meditations by the Dalai Lama, Indian Swami's and Krishnamurti which framed the trillions of bookshop windows. I wanted to go to the Tibetan Library and attended their daily meditation classes, to attend Tushita Buddhist Centre's twice weekly movie seminars led by a truly international group of nuns. I wanted Dr Palden to teach me the 157 Tibetan Pressure Points using his wall of human maps and enjoying the constant interruptions from his four year old son. I wanted to learn Tibetan massage, become a master in Reiki, have a once in a life time Ayurvedic panchakarma. I wanted to teach yoga to the local children and to hike up to Triund the mysterious 2827m peak which hides behind Dharmasala's eternal clouds. Basically I wanted to do to much, and in comparison I did very little.

On the other hand, I know that I have achieved something which has been a very old dream. I have dedicated three months to practicing and studying very little apart from yoga. I have since taught a month and a half of free yoga classes and assisted an Indian Guru every day for two months. I can finally do asana's which I could not even do five years ago. I have had incredible releases of energy which I had no idea had existed. I have found the sense of grounded-ness and connection with the Self which (for me) is the hidden key to Yoga. In addition to this, I have met some fabulous people.

I have talked with young Tibetans who have grown up in exile and have shared 'stories' with Tibetans of all ages who have just recently escaped into exile. I have met with Travellers and seekers from all over the world, who paths I would not have crossed had we not been searching for something in some way connected. I have laughed with Buddhist Monks who I practiced yoga with, who I pushed and pulled and dropped backwards and swung forwards, who would teach me new scientific words for the human body while they practiced their English, between playing with their new mobile phones and after sliding in a snippet of ancient Buddhist wisdom. I actually even think that I might have heard a complement from Vijay while he was saying goodbye. I have definitely watched more documentaries in three months than I have ever watched since Palestine. I have had the opportunity to develop a well rounded understanding (and intense practical application) of 'alternative' medicines. The list continues..

So I am leaving, knowing that I have taken with me a gift of yogic energy while releasing the ocean of learning taking me to new areas of exploration.

My journey began with a blessing from a new yogi monk who I have been working with for six weeks. He approached me apologising for his lack of gift, and then produced a beautiful white Tibetan kata (silk scarf). He bowed his head to mine as he placed it around my neck. He took his hands to prayer and held them there while my instinct overruled my socially instilled respect of convention and I hugged him. The new yogi monk, my new friend and old colleague, told me he would pray for me.

Meanwhile, the Young Wrinkled Man was waiting for me outside of my afternoon yoga class. We walked up the street together. I gave him my last bundle of bandages. He gave me a long Namaste as he bowed his head towards me. Again, I brought my hands together and pushed my palms and fingers next to one another, wishing he could feel the power he had shared with me – not just today but through each of our daily interactions.

A crazy professional sushi chef, snowboarder and base jumper and now Vijay's newest student carried my new Om yoga bag and tattered dry bag to the bus for me. She gave me a hug so tight I can still feel it.

The bus which carried me down the road which a stuttering Royal Enfield motorbike had pulled me up three months ago, was filled with a mini Tibetan sangha. Crammed amongst this maroon crowd was as a French nun who lived on Holy Island in Scotland. The most restless of the passengers were two well dressed Indian tourists complaining about the gung ho attitude of the driver as we careered around each hairpin bend, with the wheels only casually connecting with the rocky asphalt before bouncing back into the air again. I also bounced around on the back row; fighting the will of the seat to inflict me with whip lash.

And then the bus broke down. It was fixed. We stopped for chai in the middle of no-where at some-where which didn't sell chai and then finally, arrived back in the country's capital three hours late and right in the middle of the festival of Dewali. We piled off the creaking bus at Majnu ka Tilla the Tibetan neighbourhood in north Delhi. I verbally fought with a rickshaw driver and then a Royal Ambassador driver over how much they would charge me for a ten minute ride. I remained morally victorious and economically defeated. And then I experienced the phenomenon of Culture Shock all over again.

Coloured powders scattered the bursting streets, flower petals mixed with street garbage, and sticky sweet greasy smells wafted into the humid air around me. Limbless men and children hobbled towards me hands outstretched, and surrounded by the fallen petals of the festive turmeric tinted garlands. I left Delhi and India that same night.

It is three years since I was last here, and six years since I first arrived: I am now back in Nepal. It took three days of travelling and many many hours of pensive perseverance. But at some point in the next month I will try to renew my Indian visa although as always I am still firmly attached to the present and surrounded by a 'new' Nepal – Republic, Communist, 'Democratic', Peaceful land waiting to be re/explored.

Human Strength

I have had more contact with people suffering from leprosy in the last three months than I have ever had before. Its a evil disease. Cannibalistic. Full of such a pain, that it not only eats the body but nibbles away at sanity. Mcleod Ganj is full of people living with leprosy. Living in a limbo. Mind trying to keep hold of the physical reality which the bacteria is destroying.

I had daily interactions with many people which would leave me feeling more than empty. I don't want to forget these interactions because it was during these times I saw real courage and human strength. It was during these times that a mirror was held up to my own beautiful life.

One morning I turned the corner to find the old mad but beautiful man sitting by the side of the road. He had removed the pile of dirty bandages from around his septic feet. He was holding a blunt grey knife which was was using to try to cut the dead part of his once living flesh from his feet. A small boy wearing a starched school uniform was standing in the middle of the road. The small boy was clearly mesmorisied by this live amputation. The old mad but beautiful man seemed not to notice either of us.

Another morning, the old mad but beautiful man was sitting outside of the Peace Cafe. I wished him a 'Namaste' as always but rather than smiling back, he complained about needing food. Today he was too hungry for jokes. I pointed to the cafe but he wouldn't come inside with me. Unable to communicate through any other way than hand signals and smiles I motioned to him to wait and that I would bring him some food outside. I asked the Tibetan man in the Peace Cafe to make some breakfast for the old mad but beautiful man. The Tibetan man appeared confused. So I asked for some eggs and toast. He nodded, but seemed reluctant and then a few seconds later took out a piece of Tibetan bread. The old mad but beautiful man refused the bread. I burned with shame.

Another Old Happy Man – a different one – asked me for food. I had just given away all my change, all my daily supply of bandages, iboprofen and iodine solution so I shook my head. He patted his stomach just in case I hadn't realised really how hungry he was. I shook my head again. I walked away. He followed. Someone had given him a lit cigarette. He showed me his find. He turned the cigarette around, he put the lit end inside his mouth and made appreciative eating sounds. I walked on.

One morning I passed the Young Wrinkled Man sitting in the quiet of Bhagsu. This was the first time I had seen him outside of Mcleod Ganj. Bhagsu is a twenty minute walk away from his usual begging area. But that morning the Young Wrinkled Man wasn't begging. He told me his just felt like a walk. He told me that it was a beautiful morning. He sat on the grass. Smiling. Begging tin hidden inside his coat. Fingerless hands hidden inside his pocket.

Another morning, I waited for the Young Wrinkled Man to find me. When he did I dug through my day pack full of expensive but unnecessary 'things' to find a Massive Magic Mandala. I offered him the Mandala. I decided the original owner of the Mandala would approve of its new home. I guessed the Young Wrinkled Man could sell it, or even wear it. The Massive Magic Mandala had been laying on the floor of my room for three months. I had been using it as a sort of carpet to shield my feet from the cold of the stone.

One day I caught myself watching the old woman who had eaten my flower. She was eating daal and rice. She was digging her wrist inside her begging pot, piling the rice onto her handless joint and then bringing it carefully to her mouth, rice falling down her dirty saire. She was squatting with her back to the street, facing the wall, surrounded by her collection of sorted rubbish.

I knew that the old woman who had eaten my flower liked sweets. I gave her a lolly pop. I forgot to remove the wrapper for her.

I had a pair of woolen gloves which I no longer needed. I wanted to give them to a beggar. I felt embarrassed. My gloves had room for eight fingers and two thumbs. The beggars have none. I still have my gloves, which I don't need even for my eight fingers and two thumbs.

For more about Leprosy see:

Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leprosy

Lepra: http://www.lepra.org.uk/home.asp