Under the Spell of the Himalayas, Part II

So, what could possibly top our first few magical days in Himachal Pradesh, that included sharing a contemplative, rainy hour with Jetsunma Tenzin Palmo, the Tibetan Buddhist nun who meditated in a cave at over 13,000 feet for twelve years?

How about making our way to Dharamshala at last? First, we took a side trip into the Himalayan foothills to the Norbulingka Center, the heart of Tibetan culture in exile, located in a tiny compound in Sidhpur, on the outskirts of the city. The Norbulingka Center includes an ornate temple where Sarah and I briefly sat in meditation, and several craft workshops where traditional arts are practiced with the results available for purchase, including thangka painting and appliqué, wood carving, hand-woven shawls, and mala beads.

Most thangkas are brightly colored and intended for personal meditation or instruction of monastic students. They typically show elaborate compositions including many tiny figures, and we got to watch the artists painstakingly at work and being served tea at their easels. We supported the center’s mission by taking home some prayer flags, a couple of mala bracelets, and a bu-ray (insect cloth) shawl woven of wild silk from the pierced cocoon once the worm has emerged, making it a non-violent silk in keeping with Buddhist tradition.

Then we got the news that we had indeed been approved to attend the Dalai Lama’s teaching the next morning at the main temple in McLeod Ganj! It turns out that Dharamshala is both a decent sized city—with a dramatic new cricket stadium where India had hosted South Africa for a T20I match a few weeks earlier (the match was abandoned without a single ball being bowled, giving the win to the lingering southwest monsoon)—as well as a region, and the Dalai Lama’s temple and residence are actually in McLeod Ganj, a village farther up the slopes from the city.

Not unexpectedly, there are two routes up to McLeod Ganj, a longer one that skirts the slopes and winds around and around and around; and the shorter, straighter one known simply as the “standing pole.” Hmmm, wonder why? Of course, Muneesh, our driver, impressed us by climbing right up the likely 20% plus wall of a grade of the standing “pole,” masterfully working the clutch to constantly stop and start in the traffic. Not for the faint hearted! We enjoyed wandering the lanes of the McLeod Ganj market, with so many brilliant northern colors and smiling monks and halcyon-seeking hippies, counterpointed by the teasing aromas of grilling and roasting and brewing . . . Is that a cappuccino! Ahhhhhh.

We arrived that next day in McLeod Ganj before 7am and snaked our way in a long queue to pass through security at the palace—no cameras, no phones—and made our way into the temple grounds where a few thousands were gathering for the Dalai Lama’s teaching. Along with the others, we found a spot on the ground, opened the cushions our guide had brought for us, and sat to wait quietly another hour or so as novices brought around huge kettles of chai. Finally, the crowd stirred and the gates of the palace behind us opened as the Dalai Lama, at 81, walked probably 200 meters, supported by monks at each elbow, through the crowd and up two flights of stairs to the inner temple. His smile is such magic, as it blossoms from his eyes, is reflected in his lips, and opens his heart to all. As we walked, he waved and shook hands and touched children on the head. When he noticed a blind man, he leaned over, took off his glasses, and let the man examine his face. The fellow cupped his chin, rounded his cheeks, then patted the Dalai Lama on his head.

We watched the Dalai Lama’s 90 minute teaching on big screen monitors, listening on a translation radio—there must have been twenty available languages—so we could follow along as he spoke in Tibetan. His message centered on love and compassion as the key to life and peace. In fact, he said, most religions teach love and compassion as their core, a very good teaching, of course. But far too often, one religion will turn to another and say “Ah, yes, but MY love and compassion is better than your love and compassion.” This is bad teaching and the root of zealotry and of many problems in the world. Beware of zealotry, he said, as even the simple mantra of om mani padme hum recited too zealously becomes faster and louder and slurred and may turn into mani-mani-money-money-MONEY. This is not good teaching! Remember, he noted, the Buddha said that we have brains and we can think and reason with logic, so we should not believe something just because the Buddha—or anyone else—said it! Rather, we should turn it and examine and taste it and work with it, and, if it fits, then, good, we can believe it. If not, then we should not accept it no matter who said it. This is right teaching. Indeed!

While we basked in the Dalai Lama’s teaching, our time at The Lodge at Wah yielded another taste of Himachali life. On another misty morning, Surya took us out to the tea estate where the women were plucking tea leaves and where I got to follow and engage and, at last, gain a bit of connection and win a smile as I followed their work. Sarah was charmed by—and charmed—the workers’ children as they played and teased among the paths.

The art of tea plucking involves gently raking your fingers toward you, over the tea bush, with just the right leverage to pull off the youngest, tenderest leaves; and then, once you have a good handful, tossing them over your shoulder into a sizable basket held by a strap across your forehead. The women, each in unique, vibrant colors, were all intent on their work, but eventually, most gifted me a smile. Surya told us they were looking forward to the next day since it was a local holiday when they would divide into teams and challenge each other in a field hockey match—with the winners granted a pair of goats for an evening feast! What a treat for Sarah and me to spend a few moments in the tea fields with these beautiful people.

On our travels, we had repeatedly passed through a village where three roads converged around a pergola at the town’s center, so I asked Muneesh to take me there in mid afternoon to see who I might find. It turned out that school—a local college and I think a high school—had dismissed and the town square (okay, triangle) was churning with hip youngsters divided fairly evenly between “sure, please do” and a slightly feigned “ah, come on, don’t” take my photo. I got to meet and greet many of the students and even some of the grownups approached to chat and connect under the Himalaya’s watchful gaze.

Our visit to Himachal Pradesh was perfected by Surya and Upasana and the staff of The Lodge at Wah as they invited us for a sunset tea in the middle of the estate. We hopped on their tuk-tuk and drove up to a rolling field where they had trimmed out a comfortable seating area—with chairs, of course—and they served us Wah Tea, biscuits, and freshly grilled corn on the cob. The timing was perfect as we sipped and nibbled and watched the sunset paint the Himalayas and the dancing clouds in shifting yellows and golds and bronzes.

Yes, those magical words, Himachal Pradesh, still ring and shine for Sarah and me, and with the Dalai Lama and Jetsunma and new friends at the Lodge at Wah, there is a magic in more than the words. Oh, and that elusive mountain grown, organic peanut butter I had mentioned? At a stand in McLeod Ganj, there it was, a luscious sign that drew me like . . . Well, like peanut butter! How could I resist supporting Peepal Farm’s mission! And it was magnificent peanut butter, too! Ah, yes, Sarah and I long already for our return.