India Chronicles: Bright Eyes in Dharamsala

 

I.

 

I'd hankered to visit Dharamsala for a long long time. The plight of the Dalai Lama trekking west across the snowy Himalayas in 1959 to flee the Chinese touched me, like many others, very deeply. Presumably India savored screwing a thumb in its neighbor's eye by offering the Tibetans a place to settle during a particularly contentious period of border skirmishes with China.

 

As a Jew, the Buddhist exodus reminded me of our similar flight from Egypt millennia before. One of my family's most memorable Yom Kippur observances happened maybe twenty years ago when we took our young kids to His Holiness' teachings at San Jose State. HH struck us as the best we humans have to offer, a real mensch, despite -- or perhaps because of -- the adversity his people had encountered. He made a point encouraged disenchanted Westerners looking to shed their Judeo-Christian heritage to keep it, emphasizing that Buddhist tools could be incorporated into the wisdom traditions they were born into. It is no accident that the following HH quote is displayed prominently in his Namgyal Monastery bookstore's English language section:

 

Never give up, no matter what is going on never give up.

Develop the heart. Too much energy in your country is spent developing the mind instead of the heart. Develop the heart.

Be compassionate, not just to your friends but to everyone.

Be compassionate. Work for peace in your heart and in the world. Work for peace. And I say again: Never give up.

No matter what is happening, no matter what is going on around you. Never give up.

 

In the handful of times I've subsequently been in his presence, I've consistently been inspired, always leaving feeling better about the world and myself. My last encounter a few years ago had a surreal LA quality straight out of Evelyn Waugh's The Loved Ones. A “small” Forest Lawn Mortuary audience of about 500, including lots of oxymoronic Hollywood Buddhists, was treated to MC Sharon Stone almost falling out of her dress as she attempted to get close to him. Despite the awkward situation, Tenzin Gyatso, The XIV Dalai Lama, the next incarnation of the bodhisattva of compassion who describes himself as a "simple Buddhist monk," handled himself with his usual equanimous self-deprecatory humor. When an obviously distraught mother asked for his help in dealing with her teenager; HH listened carefully, paused, smiled, and responded, “Madam, I am the least likely person to offer advice on how to handle his own children!”

 

About a decade ago, my oldest daughter further whetted my Dharamsala appetite when she returned from Asian backpacking raving about the Dalai Lama's weeks-long teachings.

 

Nine years ago, around my fiftieth birthday, I consciously began to steer my life from the fast lane into a slower lane. Although considering myself a happy Type A, pretty much hardwired full of endorphins since birth, I wanted to try another way of living for the last third or so of my life. Don't get me wrong: I would have kept the pedal to the metal if magically I had been guaranteed to live to 150. In any case, I reasoned that if the experiment failed, I could always return to the go-go lane.

 

As it turned out, particularly at first, being quiet and doing less proved difficult, required much more discipline than just blithely speeding along. Previously not a very metaphysical guy, I began a daily meditation practice, supported once or twice weekly by sitting with a likeminded community and annually by ten-day silent retreats. My puny self built some muscle to let go, empty out, free up a bit. Our sangha was accommodating, inclusive, and comfortable; as we retrofitted a Southeast Asian Vipassana monastic insight meditation practice to meet the non-ritualistic trappingless needs of Western lay people. In a real sense, we were more post-hippy than post-modern: we celebrated the opening of our center with a dharma teacher on guitar strumming John Lennon's “Imagine” as we all sang along:

 

Imagine there's no heaven,

It's easy if you try,

No hell below us,

Above us only sky,

Imagine all the people

living for today...

 

Imagine there's no countries,

It isnt hard to do,

Nothing to kill or die for,

No religion too,

Imagine all the people

living life in peace...

 

Imagine no possessions,

I wonder if you can,

No need for greed or hunger,

A brotherhood of man,

Imagine all the people

Sharing all the world...

 

You may say I'm a dreamer,

but I'm not the only one,

I hope some day you'll join us,

And the world will live as one.

 

As my fifty-ninth birthday present to myself, I finally made the trip, returning from India just last night. Originally I planned to follow the path of the Buddha when he lived in India twenty-five hundred years ago. As it turned out, I only visited namesake Sarnath near Varanasi, where the Buddha gave his first sermon after being enlightened.

 

In many ways Buddhism took hold in India as a reaction to Hinduism's excesses and caste system, much like Protestantism evolved from Catholicism. However, over time Hinduism co-opted Buddhism: for example, Johnny come lately Buddha was added alongside old-timers including Rama and Krishna as Vishnu's incarnations.   Buddhism had all but vanished from India until HH was invited to Dharamsala.

 

II.

 

Monday morning the twelve-seat puddle jumper from Delhi made it over the snowcapped Himalaya foothills and landed near Dharamsala. I shared a taxi with two hearty world travelers, Judy and Mary Ann, who spent as little time as possible at home in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Sudesh, our cabby, broke the sad news that HH was not currently in residence: HH averaged about a two week stay in Dharamsala out of every two months' traveling; and as a matter of policy, and probably security, his future itinerary's specifics were not made available to the general public. About a half hour into the ride, after I'd given Sudesh's brother Rumesh medical advice to buy OTC Zantac from the local medic shop to treat what sounded like peptic esophagitis, he confided that a friend inside HH's Namgyal Monastery informed him that HH would be back in town within a few days. Unfortunately for me, by then I likely would be gone.

 

Although disappointed I would miss HH's teachings, Dharamsala (McLeod Ganj, to be more accurate) was the charming village I had anticipated.

 

Himachal Pradesh province Hindu natives, mild Tibetan lay and monastic Buddhist exiles, tourists and neighboring more aggressive Punjabi province business people attracted by them, and Indian Moslems from Kashmir province's contentious flashpoint of potential nuclear war with Pakistan-all seemed to live and work peaceably side by side.

 

Here I was in a bubble, a respite that contrasted starkly with the grinding poverty and squalor everywhere else I'd been in northern India. Cafes and bakeries overflowed with cappuccino machines, chocolate croissants, and other delicacies the likes of which I hadn't seem since Berkeley's gourmet ghetto-or at least, since Delhi's Sunset Striplike chic Olive Bar and Kitchen, a hangout catering to the trendy rich and famous.

 

Interestingly,Dharamsala was heavily populated by Israeli kids sowing their wild oats after doing their time in the Israel Defense Force and before returning to get serious about school and career. Most Internet cafes had overlaid cardboard keyboards in Hebrew; The German Bakery featured “Israeli breakfasts” on its menu!

 

Buddhist life appeared to me as vibrant in Dharamsala as anywhere I'd traveled in previous trips to Thailand, Viet Nam, Cambodia, and Myanmar, a favorite destination for Western meditation retreats despite its harsh totalitarian military dictators. Only Luang Prabang in Laos appeared more vital: it was the home of the most Buddhist temples per capita in the world: all life-- school, social services, healthcare, meals, society-- revolved around the temple. Every morning a thousand monks lined up on the main street from most to least senior, wizened old men to tiny toddlers, for predawn alms rounds; the laity convene to provide their only meal of the day.

 

However, Dharamsala's Buddhism wasn't as traditional and wasn't confined to the temples. Maroon and golden robed monks and nuns were everywhere, often living outside the monastery, often visiting with each other. Some frequented coffee houses, chatting easily with male and female tourists alike. Monks sunned themselves on the big rocks below the waterfall outside town. Others chewed gum, bought CDs. Several monks grew facial hair, and a few openly looked my friend's daughter up and down like teenage boys might. Many smoked and dined with Westerners, even ate meat. An Australian friend says he observed one young monk order a “special lassi,” which added hashish bhang to the yogurt drink.

 

Inside the Tsuglagkhang Complex which housed HH's residence and temples and monastery, I asked at the Namgyal bookstore and coffee house why the monastics seemed so integrated into the town's lay life. I was told that although some old restrictions-such as not riding bicycles-remained, HH was intent that his monks not become a “museum,” not lose touch with the world. (The bookstore assured that HH himself wouldn't be thought of as remote: his main picture postcard was of a very accessible, attractive, sensitive, curly-haired sixteen year-old boy.) Therefore, he prescribed relatively few rules beyond the Five Precepts (in short, no killing, stealing, lying, sexual or drug abuse). At the same time, HH metaphorically gave the monks enough rope to hang themselves: those that strayed too far were unlikely to complete their vows and be ordained.

 

Only by accident, I discovered that in fact most of the monks remained traditionally monastic. Late in the day after listening to the monks dramatically debate all afternoon, when it was getting dark, I took a wrong turn in the Complex and stumbled into the monastery's living quarters. Modest monks, some in line for an evening meal, some partially clothed, eyes lowered, scrambled to shrink out of sight of this apparent fox in the hen house. I, too, shrank away, eyes lowered, embarrassed at violating their privacy. It occurred to me that if I had made the same error in Jerusalem's ultra-Orthodox Mea Shearim, I would probably have been spat on or stoned by my fellow Jews.

 

HH's abiding interest in modern science also attests to his commitment to keep Buddhism relevant. I met a Swiss husband and wife team of science teachers who were asked to come to teach the monks. Before my trip I read “Destructive Emotions: How Can We Overcome Them? A Scientific Dialogue with the Dalai Lama.” Daniel Goleman presents dialogues between the Dalai Lama and a small group of eminent psychologists, neuroscientists, and philosophers that probe the challenging questions: can the worlds of science and philosophy work together to recognize destructive emotions such as hatred, craving, and delusion? If so, can they transform those feelings for the ultimate improvement of humanity? As the Dalai Lama explained, "With the ever-growing impact of science on our lives, religion and spirituality have a greater role to play in reminding us of our humanity." I have heard HH say that if science, PET scans, etc. disprove the effectiveness of meditation; his monks will give it up.

 

III.

 

Happy with my short stay, yet let down at missing the Dalai Lama, I headed back to the ramshackle old airstrip early Wednesday, giving myself plenty of leeway, since if I missed my flight, the next one lands Friday and likely all twelve seats are already sold out. The airport's still closed when Sudesh and Rumesh -- his acid reflux much improved since my informal medical advice on arriving -- dropped me off.

 

I tap a solitary soldier (nodding off hunched over his rifle)

on the shoulder, who says “The doors will open in an hour,

maybe.”  So I sit outside on my dusty backpack, reading and watching a surprisingly large number of turbaned bearded warrior-class Sikh officers gather. Most carry the general issue bamboo sticks that police used to beat back the riff raff, but a few are equipped with pistols and bigger semi-automatic weapons.

 

Meanwhile thirty or so newly congregated saffron-robed monks silently pace.

 

About a dozen men in Western suits work their cell phones, conferring about papers taken from Fed Ex envelopes, and sitting in three white Toyota SUVs. I think to myself, Korean businessmen, waiting for the same plane back to Delhi.  For a second, it flashes through my mind the older boss and his lieutenant somehow seem familiar…  

 

When the building's single door opens, I alone enter the decrepit single room with a grimy sign Departure Lounge hanging overhead. After a while, a serious young woman orders me to come over to be processed through security. Having already endured six or seven lackadaisical searches for nearby Kashmir terrorists, I am taken aback by the obsessively detailed thirty-minute shakedown and full body search -- minus cavities.  Everything I carry is rummaged.  I can't believe it:  paper clips confiscated; batteries removed from my camera and replaced in my pack which I'm required to check --

the same gear I've carried on board for seven previous flights.  Nevertheless, given that so much of India is arbitrary, I try to just let go, dismiss this episode as one more quirky inexplicable idiosyncrasy.

 

Ten minutes later, an Indian I recognized from the trip up, joins me in the Departure Lounge: B.S., the Hindu general manager of NABARD, National Bank for Agriculture and Rural Development, offers micro-credit self-help programs to twelve million poor families.  After being searched equally tenaciously but with more calm, he exits the steamy room to talk with the number two lieutenant outside.  Soon he returns to continue our

conversation about American homelessness and my fondness for Buddhism from the flight into Dharamsala.

 

Every couple of minutes he looks through window slats onto the airfield, presumably trying to spot the arrival of our delayed plane.

 

A half hour later, all of a sudden, somewhat tensely, B.S. orders, “Come with me.”

 

I follow him to the entry of a tiny empty transit room connecting the airstrip to the baggage claim area for arriving passengers.  Number Two stands in the far doorway.  When he nods, B.S. leads me through into the nearest corner.

 

Looking onto the tarmac, I see uniformed armed soldiers, airport staff, and the Korean businessmen's heads all bow down to what I presumed was our plane.   A senior monk waves a transparent white silk scarf.

 

The lieutenant and B. S. bow, smile, and leave me behind quite alone; following their lead, I too bow -- not sure to what.

 

In two seconds, a jaunty maroon and golden robed older monk enters from the tarmac, eyes sparkling under thick glasses, grinning infectiously. Instead of walking through the transit room, he comes over, bows before me takes both my hands in his and looks brightly into my eyes as if he had all the time in the world.  Chuckling and beaming, he chats me up, “Did you enjoy Dharamsala? I am sorry I wasn't here, if you came for the teachings!”

 

Absolutely shocked, I simply reply, “Thank you, Your Holiness.” With that, he's gone.  I now recognize the boss man and number two lieutenant as retinue execs whom I'd seen accompany the Dalai Lama in the United States.

 

I am left with a feeling of amazing grace, a glow of peace and contentment. Inexplicably, Bob Dylan's tune about a dysphoric experience with Lenny Bruce pops into my head, “I rode with him in a taxi once, only for a mile and a half/ Seemed like it took a couple of months.”

 

Four days later, landing at LAX, I'm still manic, high, giddy. A simple twist of fate, once in a lifetime gift, a dream.