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.

Karma Contradictions

I have noticed beggars today. More than usual. I don't know if there actually are more or whether I have my eyes more open today.

During my walk into Mcleod Ganj this morning, I stopped to watch the lady leper (who ate my flower) try to tip over a garbage can as it was too high for her to search inside. It was difficult for her because she is old and because she wobbles on her stumps of feet, and because her hands don't work so well without fingers. I hesitated about whether I should help her tip over the garbage can... In retrospect perhaps I should have 'helped' her by buying her breakfast.

Sitting on the side of the road, level with the smelly choking exhausts of the zooming taxis and decrepit buses sit her 'family': Two young women, both with bandages holding together the remains of their fingers. I don't know whether the women are old leper lady's daughters or just her companions, but they appear as a family, sharing their 'earnings' or 'rummagings' and every day they huddle together stretching their eaten hands upwards while remaining invisible to the pedestrians they wave along, in their parallel dimension.

As I turned the corner into the main market I had to side step a Poor Man. I don't know if the Poor Man was a leper or a beggar, or both or neither because I felt uncomfortable to stare. However, I know that he was poor as he was squatting pillaging through a soggy cardboard box of rotten vegetables. The Poor Man was picking out the most choice of the decaying mush.

I continued to trace the route which I have walked nearly every day for three months, and before the old mad but beautiful man has a chance to shout his usual “GOOR MORNING MADAME!!” at me I raise my hands in Namaste and sing across the street, “Good Morning, Good Morning!” He beams me the biggest smile and laughs. The old mad but beautiful man does not even lift his tin to me; as if my greeting is enough to feed his empty stomach and to save him from the cannibalistic disease which is slowly eating his flesh.

On my way down the steep steps to yoga – on my way down to worship the divine within us all, connecting each individual and the self with the self and with the universe; on my way to strengthen the energy of my healthy body and to balance my mind - a young leper man stopped to ask me how I was. I know the man. I 'know' that he speaks excellent English and that when he speaks he speaks truthfully. I know this because he told me openly that he is here (like the Nepali waiters) to “work the season”. The young leper man does not lie and instead he tells me that he is entitled to the 'free' treatment for the lepers, but I already know from my own investigation that this 'free' treatment is very difficult to access unless you live isolated from 'people' in a colony of lepers. I also know as the saying goes, nothing is for free, and at a cost of 50 rupees per injection this young leper man would rather save the money to help his 'growing' son rather than to try to save his 'disappearing' body. The young leper man's son (who is six years old) lives in Utter Pradesh with his mother, and this is why he as the father and the husband he would prefer to 'work' to earn money for them. However, as a leper he can earn no money in Utter Pradesh which is one of India's poorest states which a shortage of karma earning tourists. I like the young leper man's honesty, and usually he declines my offer of food because his persistent fever takes away his appetite. When I offered him paracetamol to reduce his fever he also declines, saying that he would rather try to save money for his family than to 'waste' it on an appetite.

This morning I looked into his young wrinkled face, buried under a brown wooly hat and perturding from a dirty worn blanket, and replied to his greeting: “Very well thank you” and before I could stop the automatic response I continued with, “How are you?” The young leper man, wrapped up in dirty bandages, his eyes blurred from fever, his body painfully being eaten a little more every day answered: “I am fine. Thank you”.

I noticed so many beggars today that after teaching the free yoga class I asked all the freebies if they would give 'something' to someone they wouldn't usually. If for some reason they found it difficult to give to beggars then I asked them to check out the fancy new non-profit cafe just outside of the yoga shala. The new cafe has an open front, with a simple bench and wicker chairs giving it a sophisticated air; it sells a selection of teas, has freshly painted walls lined with beautiful photographs depicting Tibet – in Exile. And all of its 'profits' go to supporting the Tibet Rogpa, an NGO aimed to help support the transition of newly arrived Tibetan refugees settle into their life in exile.

Just outside of the shop sits a very very very old lady who perches half way on the road and half way in the gutter. She speaks no English, but calls to me 'Memsaab' as I approach. I feel my eyes try to avoid her and my ears wishing they could close. Memsaab is a term loaded with colonial legacy, “a word replete with rigid social class differentiation, a word denoting nothing but absolute dichotomy of high versus low social status, a word used to address masters”. It basically means, 'Female Master'. My diverted eyes can't help but see her bare feet, her wrinkled shins and one small shiny red tomato perched precariously in her lap. I try to disappear before her fading vision, and then I try to make the image of her disappear as fast as I walked past her reaching hands. Her image fuels my internal questions. She is still firmly in my mind. I imagine to her, I am just another Memsaab - a rich white woman who she has to plead and beg to while she keeps her eyes open for another escaped tomato.

Further along the road squat even more lepers with no fingers and no toes. They all clumsily clutch a stainless steel pot shaking it in front of the turned up noses of passersby. While I hesitate to give to one, feeling my own conscience debate that I will them have to give a few rupees to all, I often see a monk or a nun stop and fish around inside their robes and pull out not a coin but a note. And more often than not, I am facing this dilemma while I am on my way to the 'health food shop' to stock up on 'natural probiotics' and 'spirulina' just to try to 'prefect' my health. As I walk along during my average day I also see the lepers line up at the momo stalls waiting for a plate of hot Tibetan fare. I wonder if they pay for them with their hard earned money? Or I wonder if despite the differences in nationality, culture, language and religious beliefs the smartly dressed refugees who serve them do so because of their belief in the cycle of Karma. I wonder why I asked my fellow yogi's and yogini's to “keep the karma going” when I don't believe that these poor hungry eaten people in any way 'deserve' this brutal rebirth. And I wonder all of this while I sit inside a beautiful Tibetan cafe, watching the mountains and drinking my second pot of herbal tea. And I wonder because I have the luxury to indulge in thought as I just sit and feel the warmth of the sun on my nourished and healthy body. And I wonder if I could smile and laugh and look someone living in another dimension in the eyes and say “I am fine. Thank you”?

Forgive me please - the young wrinkled man - for using your photo. But your spirit is so powerful that I wanted to try and share it; To open Eyes that otherwise cannot see yours.

Tibet Rogpa: http://www.tibetrogpa.org/AboutRogpa.php

A very interesting site on the use of language in Hindi: http://www.linguistik-online.de/21_04/pande.html