Modern Day and Night

 The paradox under our noses in our waking, hectic days

A jalousied shutter through the interstices of which I thought I could have a glimpse of something, a familiar face, like of my late mother. As we all must have experienced the same phenomenon, the same buoyant lightness yet tiresomely hefty, namely being unable to go to sleep and the wallowing over on to one side to the other associated with it, when as one is on the threshold of betaking oneself to that state of submersion of one’s gross sensory consciousnesses by any wiles, one finds once again before the shattering cul-de-sac, a disturbing tumbling sound like a huge sponge sucking in all the thread of fluid relaxing sense of submersion from its thin point to the gross level, all in vain. And to start over again. 

*

A novel reading one aboard of a train, and his or her sense of being taken interest in what he or she is reading by a neighbor, a stark illiterate one, a philistine, or a reader. One doesn’t care so, the neighbor’s own taste, but one’s being recognized as so or not, as a reader, a civilized one. As I have found on several occasions, such a reader, once found taken interest of, usually raises the book to the other’s notice by revealing the glossy cover with its title and the writer’s name in bold, sometimes in gold, like taken that much care about image.  

*

And one another small event aboard can be of eye-contacting that picks one out of many across an aisle or files of heads yoked to smart phones screens. Not like hurling a peek at the cover of a book with the awareness that the reader may be delighted, such an eye contact has its own frequency of nervous impulses being exchanged and interpreted into a skein of romantic idealisms that can sometimes romp to such a fanciful extent, like taking there being only this passage of transmission, like this being the beginning of a new world, and so on. And for me, when in tryst with a vicarious venture to see and feel as the other, I find such fusses about my own vanity but all innocence of those immobile heads among which the other head and face that steals my interest as someone to be pitied over as well being aware, at the same time, that it can be one among innumerable faces that I can see once in my lifetime. No way to venture to that extent of how the interested one spends his life in the walled, roofed domain on a daily basis, that monotony. 

*

To foot up, the limited energy matters and so the need of enough sleep. No matter how you look or you have such an attention or not, reading does matter and, why not, being self-reliant in a language both its spoken and written form, the only medium that can make you, at the desperate point of your life, be able to live alone forever by delving into yourself to the ultimate nature of everything that we tend to take as there being in its own absolute, inherent way… But such notion tainted with some findings of essentialism there is itself a great hoax, taking that it stands as it presents. No, never. And such notion of ‘certain specific objects prevail’, namely in its absolute entity, by way of sounding off, taken as the boldest of all, nominalism and its rubbish is itself a colossal sign of our instinctive insecurity, we the blind devotees of ‘being so as it presents’, not of the otherwise, the great inverse way--the tandem of not being there as it presents to us but there as our own projections like a dream.  

The familiar reverie at that level of semi-subconsciousness known as when dreaming: a deja-vu

A dream is what it is like we could sometimes happen to internalize ourselves into thinking what we had done yesterday. And so I had, however, a complex dream. It’s still fresh on my mental screen, so tentative, so alluring prompting me to indite it thus: 

Two women came into the scene. They were strangers to me; I couldn’t cull up anything as to supply myself to give some hues to their bodily outlines and clothing. I just saw one handed over something to the other, like a piece of paper or something of some value. I just observed them like with an invisible spirit-body, without any idea about my own bodily existence and its attributes but with an expanse of view before me, while I kept myself bothering with the pestering question what the thing was and while seeing the women were turning blurrier and blurrier. I couldn’t come up with a settling idea. I wanted to rewind the scene, to observe it from the beginning. And so it happened. 

The woman turning her back to me was older in a faded saree, who was the receiver of the thing from the other who was in a kurta with a floral pattern. The latter, with a bright round face, was saying something with some ease and anxiety expressed by the movements of her facial muscles. It was like she was proving herself innocent of the sort. Then, in no time, I was behind the older woman, her buttock in my hands that were running over the curves and dents of it. She didn’t seem to have any feeling, but I had a tactile feeling of coarseness as of her age. And, so out of the blue, the other young woman was in my arms, her back to me. I was fondling all over her front. I could feel the flatness of her stomach and abdomen, when, while running my hand over her genital covered by panties, I found her sort of deaf and dumb. But a friend of mine now in the states, a former monk, happened to be her proxy in communicating to me. He was all for being my instructor. While my genital and hers, now revealed, were on the point of meeting, I could hear his muffled words cautioning me to think well before the penetration. And I woke up.   

CTA’s Middle Way Approach: a personal perception and inference

 

The notion of ‘global family’, humankind as the most intelligent ape despite the Darwin’s theory of presumptuously proving it as from the lowest strata of its family, the globalized economy more and more based on capitalistic or materialistic emulation or reciprocity, a pan-racial entity, the nascent yet working European Union, and, to put it idealistically yet not exaggerated, our only choice is to co-exist on this life-supporting blue planet, the landmass checkered with the lozenges of a variegated carpet, each rhombus of different size and hue and speciality and character and depth, and the inhabitants’ personalities and cultures and moral fibers based on being able to approach complex entities--our perception and inference and the reality, nuance, discrepancy of how it appears and what it’s--through reasoning or any available logical analysis, and more significantly, being able to be eclectic and free and receptive of ocean of knowledge: His Holiness the Dalai Lama’s advocacy of Middle Approach--Tibet to be within the framework of China, a China in quest for greatness, any heuristic enlightenments but through ratcheting up increment by increment, and that by being able to adopt ‘realistic’ approaches, not madness and blindness, spearheaded and guaranteed by a working, reliable, demo-oriented constitution--can be called as a great extension willing to redound to this great notion of ‘global family’, our only choice so far. 

A cursory sketch of someone's personality, idiosyncrasy

Being with him for a few hours speckled over the recent past days, I happened to come to an understanding, a sort of intimation with some of mine, namely a sort of vicarious experience of seeing through his eye, or of holding on to his being—seemingly like with some high idea about himself. And it was on one recent day.

Of stout, squarish medium build and sallow complexion, he wheezed out a disturbed breath. The bulk of his paunch bobbed up and down once. He tended to incline back supported by his stretched hands on the soft lawn, but the atrophied muscles of his arms didn’t let him remain there relaxed thus for long, with his paunch bit flattened. 

“Well, I will go there to meet my aunt in Tokyo, on my own expenses. But I won’t stay at her. I will stay in a hotel, and go to her, if she invites me to dine. I will join, if she takes me around. But I don’t want someone breathing at my heels about his or her favor incurred for me. I am not of such a type who can take such thing,” said he while casting nervous, envious glances at a lit gas balloon soaring high up in the night sky still dimly lit by the set sun, as it was summer solstice here in France, at a faubourg in a corner of Ile-de-France.

We were lounging on a sprawling inclined lawn rimmed with the silhouettes of towering trees minutely outlined against the sky with looming gold-tawny clouds. The lit gas balloon passed through a mass of cloud and lost for a few seconds before falling down as a dark burr like a black felt hat, with its fire extinguished. I was randomly thinking about what I had left reading, not about such silhouettes of trees but of steeples and spires of ancient churches; my haunting to it was related with the writer’s fear, of his not being able to versify and write fiction with poignant, unique way of seeing like Bolch, of his finding himself like before a cul-de-sac when he tried to cull up his intuition to be able to deal with an ‘abstract truth’, and so on. Though, frankly, I hadn’t such an intimation of myself, I liked learning more about such, like of a lost one in Sahara desert, and his means of survival to prove himself the opposite, a real doer. Maybe it could be of my own status as a political refugee in a foreign land, whatever. Yes, we were lounging there, with two young French women in mini-shorts lounging just across demarcated by a trampled strip. As the darkness deepened, I saw one of them lying on her back and the other sitting upright and smoking; the former’s way of lying by adjusting her feet one on the other and vice-versa drew me into another realm like the floating lit gas balloons in the expanse of the space. But there was this barrier of personal idea not that easy to be dismantled, not that easy ‘to take life easily’ with it. Yes, he was still talking beside me.

Though not of an ordained background, he was still single despite being forty-plus. I, however single, was not like him, namely not having had that much intimation with the earthly run of life-making. But I could feel some of his remaining single in me. No, no, not a perfectionist he was, I was unreasonably sure. Then what, if not of this same personal idea about oneself, such a phenomenon that could be found remaining absolutely independent of one’s conscience in general or at a particular time, or of one’s compunction and humane intuition. Trying to see through his eyes, despite being indigent if compared to him, I found something like being a doer in home-making sense but not making a home of himself. And so strangely to me, he, though, wanted a family of his own. I was pretty sure he had some knowledge of what I presumably thought of having traced in him, which could be a sort of epiphenomenon to his idea about himself that mattered the most to him. And could that giant one be limited somehow? Like voluntarily or involuntarily laying himself at the disposal of someone else’s caprice could be possible, but I didn’t wonder so at the time. I found instead, as the priority imposed on himself, like persuading myself to stick on to adding up a lump of designated value on another as the safe buttress of my own idea about myself to lean against, with taking the tender thing or union as sure to come up along my way ahead like the next morning. And I was almost sure he wasn’t the one who could do without such a safe buttress; he was more terrestrially charged. Then how possible about renouncing everything to pursue his own idea about himself, and that without a sound philosophical ground. 

And the clock ticks on, when I involuntarily go back to him asking myself why he lags behind despite being a doer. I find myself being meddlesome to the point of taking myself as inexistent. Why not, as seeing does matter, bumping into whom does matter in teaching you such thing of drawing you into his or her own way of seeing, for everyone isn’t gifted with such a personality that draws you in… Then why not a huge unrecognized gift, if you’re in search of such an encounter to feed your doing of such tedium and labor and value.

Sushant Singh Rajput’s Suicide Case: internet trolls sensitivity among Tibetan professional netizens

The viral pandemic COVID-19, originated in Wuhan, also known as ‘Chinese Virus’ as coined by the US president Donald Trump, through the confinement period in every respective country, has spared such leisure in the hectic life of the 21^st century, for a family, for a couple, for every individual, for a loner. Though it’s our own life, our own time, it has been rather long since we’ve taken it as something of separate entity to chase after but always sort of tumbled short of something as a gist despite running that much after. Though it has come as a miracle to connect to ourselves and spend time with our beloved ones, we find ourselves not being able to go on without a means of distracting ourselves. We find sort of stranded; said as the possibility of ‘domestic violence’, if the confinement has to be enforced further on.

Amid the rise and ebb of hope of concocting and bringing out a vaccine by this and that leading nation, amid a series of floundering gestures on YouTube as inspirational clips to brave through the limbo and fight back the torpor, in our Tibetan communities diaspora like everywhere else, amid the metallic forte of the Tibet’s right groups’ rapping about not letting go of the ‘golden’ opportunity to make China responsible for her irresponsibility and suffer, the beloved boon called internet is there to save everyone to find a niche to fill, to find a stage to showcase one’s talent, to express as one wishes with this given carte blanche. It’s really sad sometimes to find an elderly one toying with his or her smart phone on a train or metro; he or she is busy with something like bubbly Candy Crush. But it’s already a major part of our inveterate needs. And, amid our own small circles, the ongoing period has witnessed more than ever webinars like Talk Show, Live Show, Daily Vlog, and some featuring ones as well, but the latter ones are drowned in the former ones in such towering ratio.

But here and there a certain leading figure by the name of King, Queen, Minister has begun to present as at his or her wit’s end, no more space of toleration for ‘haters’, ‘trolls’, ‘negative comments’, bursting out of the cozy fame forged during the period and putting himself or herself out of his or her countenance by wearing such coloration of a visage. Some say it’s serious; we have to think before we type out a word. But the enterprise is itself vulnerable in the first place, given our trait of willing to reveal more about ourselves, to draw on more audience despite the quality of the content rather naïf as not backed by a sound means of expression. But who can be reasoned so nowadays? Everyone thinks he or she is smart; the variability of his or her own mother-tongue isn’t seen but palliated by speaking some of a foreign language rather levied on for this livelihood in an alien land where one can see cherry blossom and its ephemerality.

The recent suicide case of Sushant Singh Rajput, said as the young actor of some blockbuster, a victim of ‘nepotism’ in the Indian film industry Bollywood, said also as of haters’ trolls, is brought out by King, Queen, Minister in vindicating the seriousness of demoralizing, negative writings that can inveigle one into perdition like abetting to commit suicide. And, at the same time, sobriquets like ‘psycho’, ‘broken Tibetan’, ‘defamer of Tibetan ideals’ are seemingly taken so seriously.   

Our Arduous Odyssey: Our Fate

The most sublime culture of 'letting go' of one's own interests for the benefits of others and at last for some peaceful co-existence on this life-supporting little blue planet—and thereby the most humane means of ahimsa, peaceful dialogue, non-violent protest, grant of huge sacrificial concession, caving in to instilling in oneself with this mindful sang-froid and stint and self-content (seen as self-denial by those having some passing glimpses through the prism of market-oriented glitter and glamour and lifestyle taken as life itself)—has ever been the signatory personality, the most civilized, of the land of Aryas, Baharat, the one and only nation-state who is proud of itself stark otherwise, having never ever encroached on the sovereign right of a neighboring country. Though human being can’t live without some self-created little problems to be solved on a daily basis, as the major parts of the habituated treadmill or cognitive inertia, all those ‘big’ problems the world is facing now have more or less stemmed from the lack of the same ‘letting go’ quality, historical blunders of encroaching on others’ basic rights, the last palliative means of globalized economy as the existential threat to our fragile ecosystem, the nerves of its mechanism rooted in some huge irresponsible gluttony strained. How different our world can be, if we have lived by those aforementioned qualities? But no, we are some insane, crude-nerved dastards who can overlook millions starving for being that ambitious with reifying what is called ‘artificial intelligence’, by belittling those feeling ones, but for inventive craze, or any supra-natural insanity, arching against the same musty floor of market economy.

So Tibet, the land of snows, being ‘the faithful chela’ of the great civilization, with our own individualistic ways of approaching the most convoluted issues of mind and life, has inherited the same personality in our beings for dealing with even mundane issues regarding national interests and sovereignty, so evident from our having been on the receiving ends in our long history like Baharat herself had been so. And for now, pioneered by His Holiness the 14^th Dalai Lama, our prime approach to solving Tibet Issue, known as Middle Way Approach, is thickly wrapped in the same habiliments, rather unthinkable to many young Tibetan minds educated in the West. Being so sincere on our side, we even now ignore to study the other’s motive, given our tendency so ready to take for granted that human being is compassionate by nature and thereby changeable, why not entitled for ‘a second chance’.

But for the time being, the other, the system of governance so tangentially erratic and her vassals more or less silenced and mechanized into a vending machine, with just one idea about life, make money and enjoy, no place for thinking and racking one’s head, can’t be reasoned at all into giving some mind to our great personality, our placing everything at her disposal without having devised some machination of quid-pro-quo: ‘autonomy’ for independence voluntarily professed rather than as a precautious deal, ‘one China policy’ brooked without a word about India’s policy of any (how possible about India’s policy on Tibet, despite being the only guru-chela related, faithful neighbor), Nehru India’s great concessions including taking ‘Tibet as an unalienable part of China’ even after having been taken by a great shock and disillusionment, for his inimitable moral fiber and devotion to socialist revolution, a series of border scuffles and encroachments retaliated just by the same means of peaceful dialogue, even now.

The Two Minds: How A Monstrous Hate Could Be Brewed

Tibetans at bazaar day on Monday at Mundgod

It was now at the end of the first year for Ngodup at the monastic administrative office. Whatever the people had talked about the recent comet with its luminous tail like a whizzing star caught still as the sign presaging something inauspicious Ngodup hadn’t taken it so. And now there were a few including Phuntsok who said the recent case of anti-Tibetan sentiments stirred by a friendly looking Indian residing on the outskirts of the monastery with a plot of land he had purchased from a local Indian as the proof. His name was Jimmy and one of those who had migrated from Kerala. It was rumored that he had procured the land on the roadside through sort of applying his smiling manipulative devices like promising big but giving little. As per his rather outgoing taste with a fixed broad smile on his fleshy face plus sweet words facilitated by his effeminate softness over the short build he had been known to many who he said as his friends ‘Mari Dhose’. He had later built a simple bungalow with a telephone booth plus travel agency. The monks had been going to him. He had had also soft drinks like Coca and Pepsi delivery deal with the monastic canteens. Like he had appeared suddenly with the same broad simile and sweet words he had taken all by surprise by going this far like he could do so as his ultimate heinous wish to drive away all the Tibetans from the settlement.

Even if it had been talked about with minimum wonder or shock, no one had thought he would go that far in procuring some leading figures behind him like the local president of Indo-Tibetan Friendship Society, the principal of the central school for Tibetans and a local businessman who was said as heavily indebted in loans. The reason of such rancor by the two first figures against the Tibetans was unknown but the local businessman had its doings with the monastic disciplinarians restricting grip that had stopped naughty novices visiting his home at nights to watch movies by paying per disk till morning. He had been able to make pretty income from such as there were times when almost thirty monks were present. And such going had been happening for more than two years. And for Jimmy it was the similar story of monks being restricted from stepping into his temporary home for making a call as per the precaution against possible case that Jimmy would run other things that were against the monastic discipline. So such hatred had been seeded into the two hearts.

It was towards a windy evening when an unexpected rain was inevitable from the darkening sky with those mountainous dark clouds lurching and closing in. The scraps of dry mango leaves were blown everywhere in a rampaging movement and with a hissing sound. Ngodup was at home after a day of hard work. Solidarity Committee was now carrying out a series of major people protest programs in Bombay. As Ngodup was going to learn later, the hundreds of ordained ones were staying at a major university campus. The people of India there, especially the students, were very empathetically with Tibetans through joining the protest programs and expressing solidarities despite the somber case looming here at Tibetan settlement, Mundgod. ‘We are with you’ was their motto. So, the heinous case here perpetrated by the two possessed minds was evidently not to be taken that seriously as many did this windy evening. Whispers could be heard everywhere in the monastery that a protest by the Indian people of the nearby villages was coming the next day. Phuntsok had just come back from a protest program in Pondicherry. He was sort of both thrilled and dreaded. And with the same expressions on his skinny long face he came to Ngodup.

‘What you haven’t heard about it? How you can just stay like nothing is going to happen? What and how we are to react? What those villagers would do? You know we won’t respond back in the similar way. You know about the two such cases happened in Dharamsala years back when Tibetans did nothing but fled. How the mob, mostly those poor used by the ones behind, attacked our government offices, stole whatever they got hold of and beat Tibetans. What justice was there? And the recent case there of beating two young Tibetan girls who just attempted to intervene when those taxi drivers harassed and beat a drunken Tibetan. I hate those guys called Jimmy and Japati. But I have gone not more than twice at Japati at nights to watch movies. Oof, see, now they, who know more about us, have gone that far to organizing such mass hate against us just to meet their selfish ends. I can’t bear it,’ said Phuntsok before telling about how the protest program from which he had just come back had gone.

Ngodup listened and let him fume. He wasn’t that affected as Phuntsok. He just thought, if such a protest was to come, that could be no more than a handful of people. The Tibetans hadn’t had any strife with the neighboring villages but relationship in terms of those coming to work at the monasteries from construction, dairy farms to handicraft centers. And those doing business in supplying groceries to the monastic canteens and kitchens had always been friendly. So why not those of upper levels coming to the monastic offices. And in terms of the whole settlement with nine camps and four major monastic universities the case had been bright and mutually beneficial with the respective neighbors. Even if a few cases of such conflicts had happened at the biggest Tibetan settlement, Bylakuppe and other parts in India, they were of such possible in a human society fed by attachment and hatred at personal level. So Ngodup couldn’t believe Jimmy and Japati could coax all those hardworking villagers in plunging themselves into a sort of hypnotized movement without any grounds for justice. But Phuntsok couldn’t be reasoned.

‘You know they have visited village after village with such false statements against Tibetans and monks like throwing plastic bottles filled with dirty things from a taxi when passing through villages between the monasteries and Hubli, the village lads picking them up and getting sick after drinking unknowingly. And so on. How possible such case can be? They have cheated the villagers like making them believe a village lad hasn’t eyes or is as hungry as a crazed. After giving such hate speeches they could have been able to make some come forward and sign, their weapon against Tibetans by forging false accusations and collecting signs. It is said they have been able to collect some. You know the villagers can be cheated as per their simplicity and docility like by a selfish one, who has seen more, with blind malice and sadism. That’s the case all over India in terms of human trafficking to child labor that the constitution defends against. I am worried that they would pour into in hundreds wielding sticks and stones.

And how they have made the head of our settlement, as per his foolishness and cowardice, rush here and there at different locations for negotiation. What negotiation? What are they? And he out of fear or concern for Tibetans has obeyed like a hypnotized one too. Then how they, those sadists, have laughed at him when he found no one at the said venues? What are they? Why he obeyed so? Now people are angry with him. If he is that coward, why he has chosen to be our head? Hasn’t he learned about the first bold and well read representative of our Mundgod Tibetan settlement? I think a representative these days is just a scrap. How people deride at him and a few past ones. But leave it. I am concerned about the looming case now,’ said Phuntsok almost ceaselessly.

‘It won’t be so. Don’t worry. You know the two of them. I can’t believe such nonsense.’

Phuntsok’s nervous long fingers ran over his stubble infested pointy chin to over the whole face. His eyelids were bobbing speedily as he cast glowering glances at Ngodup.

‘I think you are worried about your home, your sweet cozy home that cost Rs.90, 000.’

‘It isn’t a joke Ngodup. I don’t care about my home. I can’t stop visualizing their smiling cunning faces before me. How they dare to do so just for personal hate against us? Oh, it isn’t safe.’

‘It isn’t safe everywhere. Even if such mob comes tomorrow, the constitution of India won’t spare them. You know it. We aren’t here illegally. Now stop frowning that way to me.’

Phuntsok kept on brooding over with his twig like fingers running over his face, head and chest. Nyima was walking along his usual ramp as his voice could be heard inculcating a line from a text in his hand. Ngodup got up to prepare cups of tea for them. When he got back with two mugs, Phuntsok was still in the same pose with his head aslant revealing his narrow long profile with moving cheekbone.

An announcement from the representative office had been made all over the settlement not to resort to violence if such case was to be true. The next morning was nothing of the sort as Phuntsok had dreaded. After the early morning clanging for tea and bread to morning debate class till evening debate class not a single villager came. Yes, there was such sign like releasing a long pressed breath. Now people talked about a certain senior Himalayan monk named Sherpa had averted it. Yes, he had visited nearby villages to refute the false cases against Tibetans engineered by Jimmy and Japati. Yes, he had done great. But, even if he hadn’t done so, how people could be that gullible? But the news of the major figures behind the two flunkeys wasn’t known yet but only later when the justice was to name them and oust from their posts.

A lesson was said as learned. But how many more lessons had been learned and ignored. Such a spark was ignited by a personal hatred in the first place. So when dealing with them communication skill plus local knowledge were the foremost. But they were still at such infantile levels at large. 

A Scene During Kalachakra At Sarnath, Varanasi: 1990

Even if it was at cleaner Varanasi as Ngodup had found then after the last Kalachakra empowerment at Bodhgaya, now it seemed to be badly challenged as of the thronging streams of crowds. But thanks for the archipelago of huge old mango groves that saved it, not like at Bodhgaya where it was like arid sloping mounds around the Maha Bodhi stupa. Here the camps were not cramped but scattered afar. As Ngodup and Dorjee were walking back after taking a walk around the Dhamek stupa, along the paths by the low hedged lawns with greyish stubble-tufts, around the greyish temple with the relics of Lord Buddha and up to the end of the proper asphalt road past Chinese temple, they took the straight road from the intersection with the high iron lamp post rising up from the round concrete base in steps in the middle. They had had time to browse at those tin-shed-stores by the road on one side of the intersection selling Banarasi Pan and cheap sweets. They were bit fed up now. They were going back to their camp. Even if they had walked by the Chinese temple with the same concrete gate with the sloping slated roof, Ngodup wasn’t sure, or couldn’t identify, if it was the place behind which they had camped during their sojourn five years back. It looked changed, maybe as of the better road now or he hadn’t been able to hold in well then. He found the Chinese temple didn’t seem to have such a mango grove behind.

They had been here for a week now. The three days long rudimentary teaching that His Holiness the Dalai Lama cared more was over. The proper Kalachakra empowerment was to be commenced the next day. As they were about to reach the confluence point of the two asphalt roads as the other looped around the vast open part, they found a group of Tibetan hawkers on one side hawking their wares, clothes stacked on khaki canvas mats on the ground. People were huddling up at different points. There were young Indian youths teeming around one.

‘Look Ngodup! See how they passed jeans from behind one to another. How they steal,’ said Dorjee by gaping at them.

Ngodup saw it and was bewildered. He had heard about it like young Indians stealing so, especially from those who hawked jeans and imported wears brought from Nepal. They didn’t have minds to shout at them but looked on like seeing a rare spectacle. How many times they had watched at those jeans from paces away with desirous minds. They hadn’t been able to touch them. Now they saw those foppish looking but poor youths were stealing. As Ngodup winked at Dorjee in a taunting way like asking him to do the same, he widened his eyes.

‘Don’t even think about it. Let’s go now or we will be blamed for remaining silent. Move, move!’ He hurried ahead.

As they were almost fifty yards away and nearing the turn from where they had to walk off the asphalt road to their camp in the field, Dorjee slowed down and turned back.

‘You are going to watch movie tonight? I will show something special too,’ said Dorjee with a luring smile.

‘Okay. But it’s freezing at night. I have to get up stealthily as not to stir my master from his sleep. You know the dried hay beneath make damning rustling sounds. I want to go. Do come to wake me up,’ said Ngodup out of eagerness to learn about the special thing that he knew couldn’t be that worth-wondering.

‘You know around 12pm. Lie down ready. You know.’

Dorjee had happened to find such a nook on the outskirts of Sarnath a few days back and led Ngodup there. Ngodup had found Dorjee had found it through some seniors. It was far behind Institute for Higher Tibetan Studies and the teaching ground, a spacious square ground as part of the institute hemmed in by high compound walls next by the road. It was a poor usual village with a huge tree in the middle marking the main square. There were low sheds selling deep oil roasted yellowish fritters and dark sweet tea. What could be Dorjee’s special thing? Ngodup was, however, eager to find out.

They walked down the mango grove dotted with huge tents rimmed with freshly excavated shallow trenches around. They broke off from the path of greyish battered soil. They meant to walk past the monastic kitchen. They walked past the kitchen tent with an open furnace next by loaded with a huge smoke-darkened aluminium cauldron. The flat lid was closed but a trail of steam was rising from one side of the lid. A westerner guy like in his early fifties was lounging just next by the entrance of the kitchen tent. He was reclining his back against his grimy rucksack and holding an oblong aluminium bowl in his hand filled with rice gruel, the day’s dinner for the monks. He was taking it with a spoon. Everything about him exuded a dejected air. His one leg was tucked under the other that was crooked with knee turned out supporting his one hand. Ngodup had a fleeting view of his fatigue-worn face and sturdy lanky physique with sort of wasted limbs. His shaggy grizzled hair was spiky as the defying nihilistic air that he seemed to maintain with the balanced twisted expression. His whole bearing was of mountaineering one marked by the rucksack, dark-blue nylon trousers, heavy trekking boots but in a dark purple shirt with its sleeves tucked up to his elbows. As Ngodup remained standing next by and looked on him from a few paces away, Dorjee nudged at him asking him to move off. Ngodup was sort of struck with a thought like tracing a past memory that he couldn’t get hold on to. He looked once back and found him still in the same nihilistic twisted expression that pretended not to care of Ngodup’s being bewildered. He seemed to have been prepared for such.

Ngodup stealthily entered the tent. Everyone was seated at the end of his bedding and having dinner in silence but the slurping breathing sounds of sucking in rice porridge that was plain and salted. Dadul frowned at Ngodup who inched up to his bedding, took out his steel bowl, fetched his share from the utensil placed in the middle by the wooden pole and sat at the end of his bedding. As he was about to put a spoonful into his mouth after turning the stuff several times like in search of a piece of meat or nut as the catalyst to arouse his appetite, Dadul cleared his throat.

‘Where have you been all the day after the morning congregation? I haven’t taken back the money offered during the congregations for the last days thinking that you need it. But you have begun to loiter more and longer. You know we aren’t here for picnic but to attend Kalachakra empowerment. His Holiness, the omniscient one, is here but you can behave like you haven’t got a whit of sense. Now beware of what you do. Now limit yourself,’ said Dadul with his frowning face set aslant and fixed even after saying it.

Ngodup remained quiet but his heart was readying for the flight at night. He felt soothed just by thinking so. He was really sort of pampered after loitering for days now, especially late at nights for the last two days. He wondered how Dorjee could be managing at the same time under the more ferocious glare of his home-master. And Dorjee, too, was going to relate later how he timidly entered the tent and how his home-master scowled at him all the while during dinner. But he wasn’t thrashed that he took as ‘luck’.

After dinner Ngodup got out of the tent and remained around the temporary camp with other novices playing across the open area. The slanting rays of the sinking sun made the golden nebula visible like golden dust as aroused by the novices playing across the hardened strips of field in steps. A village almost three hundred yards away, too, looked aesthetically stood like in a paintbrush work of a rural splendor: the overlapping mud-tiles ridge-roofs of low cottages fronted by playing children, stationed or abandoned bullock carts, those lounging on straw-cord woven beds placed in the narrow front yards of trampled yellowish pale grounds, the trees with spiky branches in the background, two or three kites flying high up. The village lying at plain level from the tent-camp now looked so as played by the mirage of golden tint of the setting sun and screened by the golden nebula. Ngodup stood and looked long. He had never had such view of any nearby Indian villages back at the monastery at Mundgod, Karnataka state. He wished to see Dorjee. Tashi had been with his parents in a hired house somewhere. He didn’t stay at the camp. Dorjee stayed in the next long tent of cheap cloth. Ngodup walked casually through the entrance to find Dorjee there. He was there with Gelek who smiled at Ngodup. Their home-master wasn’t there. Ngodup walked up to them.

‘Your master not here? You two doing what here?’ Ngodup looked around and found the tent was virtually empty.

‘Sit down, Ngodup. We are reciting some memorized scripts. Our master has just gone out. He will be back right away. But it’s okay. Sit!’ Gelek was receptive and smiled all the time.

‘No, it won’t be good to find you here, Ngodup. Just go away. We will meet later at the fixed time. You know?’ Dorjee was decisive in his low tone against Gelek’s wonder.

‘But it’s okay.’ Gelek persisted.

Dorjee just scowled like irked by Gelek being importunately stupid. As soon as Ngodup had hesitated for a moment and thought to leave then their master entered. He was wrapped up in a thick maroon shawl. He went to his bedding and stayed at the head of them. He then eyed at Ngodup and gave off a faint ambiguous smile. Ngodup got the sign and retreated off. As he was just outside the tent, he heard their reciting voices rang like reminding him of his being too free. So he went back to his own bedding, sat down and tried to recite something alone despite Dadul’s absence. An aged one at paces distance was sort of taken aback to find Ngodup doing so.

‘Hmmm, good day it seems. What made you come back and do so? These days novices are like stray dogs,’ said he with a broad smile on his round face. He was sitting cross-legged at the far corner like he had been lurking there to take someone by surprise but Ngodup had seen him. He was turning the dark beads of a rosary in his right hand. ‘Dadul isn’t here. He will be pleased to find you sitting here and reciting something like you have become yourself somehow,’ he added and chuckled ironically, ‘Really good day!’

Ngodup didn’t turn towards him. He laughed within. He wanted to guffaw at him but controlled himself. At such sudden mischievous urge Ngodup at once remembered his sister Yangzom: if she had been here with him, she would have taken the time to taunt him through her pranks. But she was at home again after the handicraft in Thimphu had come to halt. She must be subjected to fiercer ordeal under the sisters after Dolma's passing away. Yes, even the letter writing had ceased. But Ngodup didn’t know anything about such. The aged monk looked fixedly at him while turning on his rosary punctuated by dry coughs. Ngodup could hear Dorjee and Gelek’s reciting voices rising and falling at the end of each set of prayer-text. He, too, recited one short prayer after another. He wished Dadul would appear in any instant to find him so. Tsering and Kaldor stayed in another tent some fifty yards away. Nyima, his aged bent master, Kalsang and his bespectacled school master were staying in a small hired tent around. Ngodup had seen Kaldor and Tsering were walking together with a few novices following them alongside the road in their sprees. Kaldor had waved at him but distanced himself as to lead the following novices or as to prove his being more venturing despite being crippled.

So around 11.30pm when Ngodup had stayed up all awake, when Dadul was snoring, he stealthily got up as he had just heard Dorjee’s low cough, their pre-planned way of signaling to each other. It was chilling outside. They hurriedly strode over the taut cords held by the poles around the tents. There was a faint light of the bow-shaped moon somewhere above that helped them to walk off the ditches through the mango grove up to the asphalt road. It was calm and the road was deserted but the distant wailing noises of stray dogs. Dorjee walked swiftly ahead like a shadow with his upper part bit bowed up to the huge mango tree on the roadside. He then slowed down. Dorjee talked about his home-master tightening the noose with scowls and rebukes while they were reciting the prayers. He sounded sort of being fed up like trying to hear himself like grown up now. It was new to Ngodup. He found it interesting too like gloating over his own privilege of Dadul’s being less strict and not having to pay all he had earned during congregations.

After walking up to the end of the narrow asphalt road that joined with the broader road, they crossed the broad road to take a narrow path that winded through a copse off the high compound wall of the institute. They walked swifter through it till coming out on the narrow asphalt road that led to the sleepy village down divided on either side of the road with low mud-tiles roofs. As they were next by the old tree with waist high square stone-built base Dorjee turned to Norsang.

‘Ngodup, I told you to show you something special. It’s there. You see the eatery there,’ said Dorjee by pointing his finger towards the low open shack lighted up by a single fluorescent bulb dangling down from a length of cord.

Ngodup could see long crude wooden benches and tables looking sort of yellowish under the light bulb. A few senior novices were huddled at one table next by the greyish mud-splattered furnace, the workstation of a feeble middle aged Indian guy of lanky figure in grimy white Dhoti and village singlet busying himself with plucking a piece from a mass of darkish dough, balling it in his hand before flattening it between his palms, flattening it into a round thin Chapati with a wooden roller and sticking it within the furnace with a swift thrust before pulling out his hand. He seemed sort of doing all mechanically before them who were dining at such hour. The two others, an aged one at the grimy counter with a wood-framed glass case arranged with yellowish oily stuffs inside set before and a young boy in grubby clothes serving them like a group of hungry caravan at a roadside stopover that ran day and night. As Ngodup looked at them with wonder, Dorjee stood next by and seemed to be sated.

‘See, you don’t know yet. The secret is if you pay three rupees, you can eat as much as you can. So they are hogging on thus. See, how Ngawang takes one Chapati after another. He has gained a sort of name by taking 25 pieces of Chapati last night. See how he hogs on, see how the guy works that hard to prepare more for him,’ said Dorjee in one breath.

Ngawang was a senior novice like in his late teens. He was dark and heavily corpulent, of medium build. He had taken off his upper wear and was in a yellow singlet. The rest were following him too. There were six of them.

‘We can sit next by and have some if you wish. Just to taste it,’ Dorjee said timidly.

‘Okay, lead me then. Are you hungry? I am not hungry.’ Ngodup didn’t have mind to try his surprise.

But as they were served with each a big round steel plate filled with rice, three types of watery vegetable and two pieces of Chapati over it, as they were having it, Ngodup found it not bad but tasty. Ngawang and the rest had just finished. He smiled over them with his stupid name as such. As he saw Ngodup and Dorjee next by, he smiled more.

‘Well, have more. Just have as much as you can. You can’t find such anywhere in whole India. Ha, ha….’ He guffawed and led the rest out to the plastic covered temporary video-hall.

Dorjee paid for it saying ‘you can pay the next time’. Then they followed them there.

The young Indian guy, the one who ran the business of screening Hollywood and Chinese martial arts movies, looked smartly dressed in dark jeans and a white polo-shirt with black stripes. He was smiling and receptive. It was at the end of the village just next by a bigger mud-plastered house with its wall serving one part of the temporary gallery. It was oblong and spacious so far inside with a color TV and VCR set on a table at the head and those flimsy iron chairs in rows. It wasn’t packed like last night. But there were almost 15 of them, more elder novices. After Dorjee’s gained interest in martial arts, especially his favorite JC Van Damme, Ngodup had happened to favor thus as well. Dorjee was going to make himself known later as Van Damme through his growing interest. When the show had started, everyone fell silent, gripped with admiration within a few minutes but the mild blaring from the TV speakers that pierced through the deep silence of night. Again Van Damme followed by others till past 3.am.

Nobel Peace Prize to His Holiness the Dalai Lama: New Year Post

Rather out of the blue for Ngodup’s knowledge Dorjee came to him after the writing class at noon. Ngodup had stopped attending master Jangchup’s class despite Dadul’s frustration and rebukes. Dorjee didn’t attend such class either. Lighting up his scabs and scars infested dark face with a smile followed by a friendly frown he at once began why he came to him. But Ngodup had thrown out his bedding in the sun and put his rocking bed on its side against the crudely distempered green-grey wall. Ngodup pre-empted Dorjee’s urge to break first.

‘See, those bugs, blood-sucking ones. During the past years I hadn’t felt that much disturbance at night. Now I can’t bear it. I haven’t been able to sleep well at night. I put that much kerosene on every part of the bed. See those bloated ones, those dark patches marked with white dots, their eggs.’

‘I have had problem too. You know as I stay at hostel where the case is worse like those in the next doors migrating into mine. There is no use of keeping them away so. As I have learned, it’s better to keep clean, especially under one’s bed. Not to keep anything under bed, but let it be free of any clutters and clean by sweeping every day. I am thinking to do so. Well, I come to tell you something. I think you haven’t heard about it, the upcoming big day,’ said Dorjee with a grin that suggested more than usual weekend holiday.

‘No, I don’t have any idea. What you have got to tell. I think you’re excited so far. I think you are thinking or want to celebrate your birthday that you don’t have any grounded proof to claim so like myself. Don’t think to mimic so. But it’s okay if you wish so. I want to join.’

‘No, Ngodup. Not my birthday. But His Holiness the Dalai Lama has been shortlisted to award Nobel Peace Prize soon, right after three days. I have learned it’s an internationally acclaimed coveted prize. So the big day. I went to the camp this morning. The representative office has set out for putting up the green strip of cloth banners with praise-stanzas in whites across the roads and an old Commander jeep combing through the camps and monasteries announcing about the day and the prize. But you haven’t heard anything. That’s strange,’ said Dorjee now with a smile suggesting his being ahead.

‘Oh, that’s great. No, I haven’t learned anything but have been preoccupied with fighting with these troublesome bugs. Then how many days? You know?’ Ngodup was elated more with the knowledge of such accidental luck for having holidays.

‘I think three days break like Losar or Gag-ye. I am thinking to cycle.’

Ngodup was sure about it now. The strong kerosene smell muffled air inside was unbearable.  Dadul had been busy so far with his Gelug Board examinations to pass Geshe degree. He had been preparing rather vigorously for the last examinations next year with his study-group somewhere. As per his mother’s wish he was planning to go to Tibet after the title being conferred by the monastic abbot and the graduation ceremony marked by offerings made to the monks during the congregations on the day. That cost much for a simple monk. But he had been able to manage mostly from home in Lhasa and some from Ngodup’s home. Ngodup found him mostly reading those fat books and one of his study-group, a lanky one younger than Dadul but with rather easy-going air as his angled eyes spoke and his being bright pampered himself, often came to Dadul. Dadul regarded him as someone far learned one. When he came, they would discuss for hours sometimes while Ngodup, if he happened to be at home, listened blindly but could make out vaguely that Dadul was slow in learning.

‘Well, I have got things to do now. I should arrange my bed and bedding. Yeah, for the day. Do come to me. We will go to the camp together and attend the function in the morning. There must be such lazy function to mark the day. We should attend as the day is special for us. The air isn’t good inside too,’ said Ngodup.

‘It’s okay. Then I will help you to arrange it.’

‘No, I don’t need your help. It’s just easy. But you can leave and do come to me on the day.’

Dorjee left. Ngodup arranged his bed marked with dark patches and candle drops. His sun-burnt bedding smelt of strong rancid odor of bed-bugs discharges. He didn’t like his bedding with the quilt mattress that got infested with bugs. But today he was more animated in setting them back. He hadn’t intended to put them back that soon but he needed more time for thinking about the day. And towards the evening he learned more about it, especially from Dadul’s small black radio. Ngodup thought Dadul had learned about it much earlier but he hadn’t told him. Dadul had been aloof in terms of personal relation. They had never had an intimate conversation but complete taciturnity like he had been training Ngodup to be on his own. But now he was more preoccupied with his upcoming examinations that he took like the last barrier to pass through.

But when the day came marked by the morning function outside the representative office with the usual chore of raising the national flag up the iron post while singing national anthem followed by boring speeches and a few performances, the significance lay not in the usual chores or programs of such but in those faces celebrating the historic event just by sitting on the unpaved open yard in front of the simple clay tiles roofed representative office. In those brightened faces despite the beating sun darkening them secondly, especially those aged men and women who had waited and lived with the cadence of both lingering chronic hope and nascent ones marked by His Holiness the Dalai Lama’s gaining popularity across the world. But the lingering hope was virtually like waiting for a miracle as per their lassitude of being aged.

Ngodup and Dorjee took the place at one end of the yard next by a small mango tree. An aged man like in his late sixties with grey hair was seated a pace off them with many other aged ones from Old People Home. But he was the most active one, mostly talking alone. He was lanky and frail. His wizened face with bleary yet actively speaking eyes and the moving grey whiskers growing from a dark protruding mole on one end of his chin marked the height of his elation within. His bright half-sleeved shirt looked glaring over dark cotton trousers. His swiveling head above the rest around him and the broad straight shoulders confirmed his height. He was busy. Ngodup looked raptly at him while Dorjee listened to the speech being delivered by an Indian dignitary said as the president of Indo Tibetan Friendship Society.

‘Gyalwa Kheno, only you see! Good luck, good luck. That’s what I have been waiting for. I know I can go back to Tibet before I turn 95. I am 69 now, 26 years ahead. I have calculated beforehand. I know I am going to have at least 10 years to live in Tibet and die in my own land, my native place, Kham Jupa. I was 26, so young, when I first came into exile through Nathula. I am so happy today. You see! Do express yourselves like how I do. I can’t hide it inside. Tibet will gain freedom soon!’ He then became more animated like preparing to stand up and speak so loudly.

The aged woman, who looked older than him, seemed to be his wife. She was hunched back and small but actively mouthing something all the time punctuated by saying something vaguely. When she saw him preparing to do something embarrassing, she stopped him with a short shrilly note. He was subdued forthwith but his open hands moved up and down like silencing her. A few behind them smiled. But he was yet agitated like he wanted to say something aloud towards the dignitaries on the verandah. By looking at him Ngodup felt a pang of eye-opening jolt inside, such spontaneous hope he hadn’t seen in his own parents. But he remembered once his mother had pointed at the silhouettes of a far off range from their estate and said their home lay beyond them. Ngodup hadn’t had any idea then what she was talking about. So the day could be the turning point for him to get the basic idea of what he was, his generic status in the larger picture.

The remaining days and the celebrations were marked by screening Tibet related documentaries in the front yard of Loseling library building by the smiling monk like in his forties. The smiling monk, who Ngodup had seen actively walking around with camera and VCR recording camera, manned the color TV set on a low small table on the frontal concrete step and the connected black VCR device. He began each short documentary with an introductory speech. The spacious unpaved front yard was full. There were some men, women and small children present from the nearby camp. The West-made documentaries with the familiar footages depicting Chinese brutal atrocities like pale-green clad and cudgels wielded police attacking on the fleeing monks at Jokhang temple in Lhasa. The repeating harsh views of how those robotic cops slid down from ropes from the temple terrace on to the top floor verandah, how they chased those fleeing in thick maroon robes, how they hit them down with showy martial art skills and bound their hands with white ropes with such wild vigor, how they dragged them like logs… It was unbearable to see those cowering ones even with their hands bound behind, to see how their dark-red faces contorted in pains when those mindless cops hit their joints with black cudgels.

But it was a great day. Screening such footages was both like reminding to many and revealing to many as well. It was both to open eyes and enjoy the latter show, the one clip dedicated for the day by TIPA, a group of bright complexioned Tibetan women in dark Chuba and colorful Pangdhen before standing mikes signing the famous song Gawa La Dang Gawa La, Kyipa La Dang Kyipa La (Delighted and Happy). But the proper footage of brightly smiling His Holiness the Dalai Lama accepting the prize and delivering his milestone-speech with the serene expression was yet to come. So the day ended.

As Ngodup and Dorjee were walking back after the show at night on the last day, Ngodup was curious to learn about something.

‘Did you cycle?’

‘No, I couldn’t this time. I would do later like during next Losar.’ 

Real Game: Khyabtha

After the recitation test that had taken three days with more than 500 monks now (there were only not more than 300 monks when Ngodup first joined the monastery) the debate test was on its fourth day. The senior classes had done their tests (debate test was still carried out inside the prayer-hall but as per the influx of new comers it was to be arranged in two parts to save time and more parts later on). Now Takrig class had just begun. Ngodup, Tashi and Dorjee were seated on the same row just at the end of the front row, as the pending ones had to be gathered forward. They were all nervous. Dadul had prepared something for Ngodup but he found it too simple. He hadn't been able to prepare better one. Tashi was more nervous, as his shiny sweated protruding forehead suggested the struggle within. Dorjee seemed normal. Gelek was seated on the back row. It was him who was more animated. Those beside him egged on him to be more frenzied.

‘Gelek, just think you are a boxer readying for the ring. It’s your turn next. Well, I will massage your back,’ said one beside and began doing so.

Gelek was more animated. He raised his hands up like a fighter readying for the ring when the other pretended to massage his back. His mimicking so was through watching Rocky during a past Gag-ye, recess days after Summer Retreat. Ngodup watched him and found him like out of his mind. But when his named was read out after the ring, Gelek stood up shakily. His bare feet looked tacky as they touched the dark slab floor. The wide mid aisle with rows of faces on either side and the abbot and ex-abbots at the head, he was bewitched dumb but he could begin something. He went straight by plunging his head towards the sitting one at mike rather than saying in the standing mike that now and then gave off shrill sharp sounds. The disciplinarian interrupted by asking him to stand up and say in the mike. He did so when his voices shook. The later 15 minutes duration was like he had gone all stiff and his voice frozen. But after sitting down and getting hold on to a familiar phrase in five minutes he came to real fighter life. His voice raised, animated almost like he had been before he stood up. He began to repeat the same phrase again and again like he had found the secret of debating. It happened just after the one standing, an older one from Tibet with heavy accent of Amdo dialect, repeated the same phrase twice.

‘Dhoe, Dhoe every possibility is reason. You know how clear it’s,’ said Gelek by pressing his mouth near the mike. He was taking the full advantage by not letting the phrase slip away from his mouth as to prove that he had got something to say, that he had learned. He was like in a trance amid rising roar of laughter. But he didn't care; he was lost so. He just kept repeating the same phrase to the complete wonder of the one standing, who was like lost himself, as he wasn’t given time to carry on but to stand and smile. So Gelek could carry on till the bell rang when he got up proudly and walked back in a measured slow gait.

‘Oh, such shame. But he couldn’t feel it. Look at him,’ said Dorjee who was embarrassed instead. 

Then Tashi’s name was called. The one sitting was still lost like he couldn't believe it yet. He was still smiling like being hypnotized. So it saved Tashi who could carry on his memorized piece of debate in low voice. Then it was Ngodup’s turn. He was pleased. He had talked with Tashi to answer slowly if he happened to stand to debate with him. After the initial nervousness marked by not feeling what he was doing that lasted for less than a minute Ngodup debated economically to pass the time. Tashi did as per Ngodup’s wish, but Ngodup found him not knowing certain points. It was like bonus gift for him to recite himself in deliberate slowness. So when the bell rang, what he had been waiting for, it was like completing the test, as what he feared was to stand. They would say answering was easy as one could choose between Dhoe, Chechir and Takmadup, but no such options for questioning when one has to manage everything as per the trend of answering and that by standing among that many.

When Ngodup returned back to his place, he found Gelek was still excited as backed by those beside him. Dorjee had stood up and begun debating. Dorjee had such guts to be able to speak up and stand up among many. He wasn't of the rest type but his poorness was of being more open and thereby being sort of over-confident that overlooked learning in depth but only with something to say with a scintillating touch. But in the risky game of debating one’s weak spots could be revealed so soon and, especially, a grandiloquent narration has to be honed to the ground. Even if he was confident and could debate loudly like he didn't need mike, he had to bear every embarrassment when he missed or said something funny. So Dorjee was the type who had extra shield, that he wasn't the type weakened by embarrassment. He could fight it back rather brazenly and with humor as well. All he cared was to debate loudly and ‘with his head raised.’ Dorjee did so to the wonder of the rest gaping at him. He did so despite some laughter.

When Dorjee returned back, Gelek was calm like he had been subdued. Ngodup was baffled.

‘Oh, Dorjee, you did so well. Only you can do so. I can’t gather such courage,’ said Ngodup.

‘Ngodup, you can do it. It’s up to you. I don’t have any such feeling of embarrassment. If others can do it, why I can’t? I think so. You know one has to work for it to gain advantage,’ said Dorjee while he was still getting settled after the heat of his feat.

Gelek was casting low glances at Dorjee. Dorjee was sated as he fanned himself with the end of his Zhen, the maroon strip of cloth. They were all so pleased as they had made through the most troubling obstacle of the year. 

Creative Debating: Khyabtha

It was after memorizing a few pages of the text of ‘One’s holds’ (Rangluk), namely the writer’s holds of his unique way of holding his grounds as per Gomang Textual Interpretations. The whole text falls into the three categories: Countering the Others’ Grounds, Presenting One’s Holds and Proving them through Debates. It was after memorizing a few pages of One’s Holds on The Collected Basic Works on Pranama by Thukse Ngawang Tashi that the master named Jangchup had begun to teach, the basic means of answering and questioning in his creative way. Ngodup had learned no other teachers taught so. Jangchup, as per his sharpness and creativity, had thought to teach the basic means of answering and questioning by bringing common terms like Mug, Flask, Bowl, etc. rather than using the textual terms (Pillar, Urn, the four basic colors (Blue, Yellow, White and Red), Rabbit Horn as an example of impossibility, etc. are textual terms.). So he began by using the three basic subjects of questioning (The Topic (Choechen), Its Attribute (Selwa) and The Reason (Tak)) by asking as ‘Is Mug Flask?’ There is means of answering positively and negatively. The next is like ‘It’s Flask because it’s Pillar.’ So through such both the basic means of questioning and answering are introduced. There are five means of answering: Yes (Dhoe), No (Chicher) for answering if the topic is attribute or not; Reason Rejected (Takmadup) as the topic doesn’t conform to the reason; Reason non-containing (Makhyab) as the reason doesn’t wholly contain Attribute like A sentient being is adept because he or she is human (every human can’t be adept as there are humans who aren’t adept); Reason invalid (Galkhyab) as the reason stands in stark opposite to the attribute like A sentient being is enlightened because he or she is human (a human isn't enlightened at all).  So master Jangchup used basic common terms with an expression of jest and solemnity to engage the students in funny yet learning way of debating. It was really easy too. Ngodup found it funny so far.

It was after learning such basic means of answering and questioning, when master Jangchup would ask himself first and then let the students, not more than 10 in his small room with a bed and bookcase, engage themselves by asking one to carry on so with the other beside. He would listen and smile. He would be more animated when he found the process funny and progressing. The Australian monk came later after such class. Ngodup always found he had already arrived when they arrived. It was that master Jangchup had been learning English from him in the form of conversing with him in English.

There was a Ladhaki novice named Gelek who was two years older than Ngodup. He was his classmate at master Jangchup. He was sort of active practical, who worked hard but poor in studies as of his lagging intuition. He had poor memory and learning sense in funny way. It was his protruding upper lip that marked his speaking first and asking funny questions. It was his active movements and gait that marked his arriving first and going back ahead as well.

One day someone, a senior Ladhaki monk, happened to know that Gelek had been attending class at master Jangchup. The senior was sort of thrilled, as he must have thought that Gelek wasn’t the type for such learning for his tendency towards being more extrovert, namely distracted, through his haste and boisterousness.

‘Gelek I was pleased to learn so. Then how is the class. What you have been learning so far?’

‘Oh, it’s okay. We haven’t gone that far. We are still at the stage of Mug and Flask,’ said Gelek innocently or sincerely.

The senior monk was sort of both taken aback and regaled by such joke. Gelek was transfixed to find such comic touch in his remarks. The senior one later told a few others who passed it on to many others. It became a local joke at which Gelek could laugh after years. 

Dhamek Stupa: The Sojourn

Courtesy: web source

For the next three days Ngodup had found a few novices to play with. He had been lost so. None of his parents had come to him. Especially Dolma must have deliberately avoided seeing him as she had feared of inciting sort of change in him. Ngodup hadn't had tiny doubt of his mother studying him from distance. He had just thought of his mother but not of going to her. Now they had left. There was still a week ahead to stay as the monks were preparing to go on pilgrimages. Dadul took Ngodup to different sites, from which he had visited a few. He just went with him all mute. There were those who made fun of him after learning that he was from Bhutan. ‘Aku Dukpa’ was his name for the time. He didn't talk much. He couldn't answer when someone asked his name.

One evening before a couple of days left for leaving for Varanasi he just rambled around alone. The place was virtually deserted and littered. The swelling waves of throngs had disappeared like sand dunes. So those handicapped beggars in rags had gone out of sight as well. ‘Meri Sati Bai Poone Karo’, the high pitched intonation haunted the deserted avenue and the intersection. He happened to walk along further till the point from where he had sudden mind to go to see the place where they had pitched their tent. He had a sudden dreamy thought of his mother being there yet. It made him long for his mother for a moment. He walked on. It was rather unbearable to see the place in litters and deserted. Everything had been dismantled and gone. The tents on the other side of the road were being taken down. He just looked at the place and hurried back.

He was going to learn from Yangzom much later (after 18 years during his second time home) that when they arrived Phuentsholing Dhargyal didn't show up in the evening. Dolma sent her to him as she knew he was at the Tibetan restaurant on the Indian side where Tongba was served. Teznin was with them but, as per someone’s recommendation, in a maroon Goe he had been able to procure. They were at the same place, the storeroom with a table and chair next by the interior door. They had been resting there since past midday. Their truck had arrived at Phuentsholing around 11.30am. It was to leave around 7pm against odd remarks made by those like driving at night was dangerous, especially at those precarious points. It was past 6pm. Teznin was sitting on the floor. Dolma was bit nervous.

‘Oh, don’t panic. Yangzom can find him and take him back. Then we can leave. It’s okay. But his intemperance, strange after Kalachakra empowerment. Not having bit restraint not to take Chang. Here have some snuff instead,’ said Tenzin and handed over the snuff tin to Dolma. The broad flat part between his nose and upper lip was tautly unmoving when he talked. It was partly smeared with dark-golden snuff despite he wiped again and again with a handkerchief that he dodged not to be spotted when taking out and putting back somewhere in his belt.

As Yangzom knew the place just on the other side of the deep wide gutter, the demarcation line between Bhutanese and Indian side, connected with planks to walk over, she went there with rising anxiety fearing she would find him tight drunk. There was just unpaved walkway on either side of the gutter. The Bhutanese side was less crowded and cleaner but the other side was crowded with odd buildings and shacks. There were two Tibetan families running bars and hotels with cheap rooms in the odd concrete buildings. The mishmashes of wires crisscrossed over narrow winding alleys leading to the main street. Even one side of the narrow walkway just at the edge of the gutter was partly occupied by hawkers selling cheap things ranging from kitchenware to toys.

There was a paying counter almost shoulder-high next by the entrance of the bar. It was old varnished but grimy. It was an oblong piece of box with front drawers. The rims of the top were bordered with miniature balustrade of whitish metal with the tops of the balusters pointed with sloping sides. It had been given such fancy, attachment for being the counter with the drawers to draw money. A chubby guy of dark complexion, who was almost in his mid fifties, was at the counter on a high metal chair matted with cushion and folded woolen blanket. His puffy face, stoutness and sitting like rooted there proved his further degradation into sedentary slothfulness.

The first room was the proper bar with those grimy wooden tables and chairs. It was rather dark and packed with tables and chairs. A door at the far back led into kitchen on the ground floor. There was a concrete staircase with a landing and iron handrail on one side at one corner leading to the upper floors. Even the place under the landing was set with a table and chairs. Yangzom found Dhargyal at one table at the far back with a few others. He was tipsy. She had trouble approaching him first as she was afraid. But she had to. The rest tables were occupied by a few like Dhargyal but there were free tables. Dhargyal was on the side facing the entrance and counter. His two mates, Bhutanese guys who were back from Kalachkara empowerment and in the same truck, were facing him with their backs to the entrance. Yangzom timidly approached and called her father’s name twice.

‘Apa, Apa, mother sent me here to call you back. The truck was leaving at 7pm,’ said Yangzom with ‘her heart about to disgorge out of her mouth’. It was her words.

Dhargyal looked at her followed by his two mates. She was both embarrassed and frightened. Dhargyal at once began to chat with his mates who were tipsy as well. The younger one like in his late thirties was more impressed by Dhargyal’s drunk jabbering. He looked from Dhargyal to Yangzom who was standing a few paces away between the tables.

‘See, she is my daughter who knows nothing. Mercy for her. She knows nothing. Okay, okay, Apa will come now,’ said Dhargyal while the younger one laughed foolishly.

Dhargyal stood up and followed Yangzom.

Ngodup had found out Dadul had a novice disciple named Jampa who was two years younger than him. He was with him. He was from a South Indian Tibetan settlement near Drepung Gomang monastery. Ngodup found him frisky, fussy and with a sort of disorder for his laughing heartily and long for nothing until his whole face turned dark red. He was of natural short stature. There was another novice named Tsering from Nepal with bright complexion. ‘Inji’ those novices called him for his fairness and blondish hair. He was taller and of Ngodup’s age. He was half Tibetan and half Nepalese of Tibetan origin. He was also known as Dhadha, sort of ringleader, as he had a few novices back there at the monastery who took his orders. Jampa was under him. There was another named Kaldor who was crippled but active. The elders would called him Kangkyok as he was crippled and lame from he was so small. He was of Jampa’s age but more independent. Even if he was under Tsering, he didn’t take so. He acted like he had guts to fight back to redeem his image any time. So Tsering couldn't act his superiority showily before him. They were in the same tent with their elders or guardian-masters who were all aged. They were Ngodup’s temporary friends. Ngodup had times to loiter around the stupa and go on pilgrimages with them.

‘Pugu Sarpa’ (new boy) was the name given to Ngodup for his muteness by Tsering whose Tibetan was rather variable with heavy Nepalese accent. And Ngodup took it. He lost with them. He didn't think about home at all.

When it was time to move for Varanasi and stay there for a week to do pilgrimages around, he remembered going in an old bus painted white and blue with barred windows. It was like 6 hours drive till they were disgorged on a roadside. It was said Chinese temple with a gate with sloping double slate-roofs. It was to walk in but not into the temple but around into its backyard, the spacious yard with big mango trees that exuded an air of oldness. It was dark and cool in the grove like an oasis after scorching heat on the way. It was like walking into a wonder garden after lurid glare of the white painted walls, burning asphalt roads and sultry heat.

Everyone began to unroll their baggage and occupy their places under those fat trunked shady mango trees with lush dark-green leaves. It was their camp as well. There they were free to use kerosene stoves to prepare food and tea. Dadul prepared a plain tea without milk and sugar to have some Tsampa. Ngodup was given his share. Jampa sat beside him. He displayed his seniority at every given moment. ‘Sartomba’, namely ‘blockheaded new’, he would call Ngodup when he found him acting out of his way.

Within a couple of days more monks had arrived. The most mango trees had been occupied. There was an elderly monk like in his late thirties just a few paces off them. He was alone. Ngodup found him interesting for his being rather odd among others. He just sat there with his belongings scattered around him. In such heat he had a furry sort of upper wear. At one time he was finding something in the white fur by taking it off. He was picking up lice among it or passing his time so. He was a huge man of immense built with strong limbs. But he looked overpowered by heat and lethargy associated with it. The skins of his chest and back were infested with reddish heat-pimples. He scratched them again and again rather violently. His face was that of early man type unwashed and coarse with grime. He sat with his legs stretched. He was just taking in the coolness the place offered. Ngodup was going to learn later that he was a new comer from Tibet, who had come to Kalachakra empowerment by braving through hazardous terrains of snows and Chinese border guards’ secondly surveillance so ready to shoot out even a dark moving speck on the infinite whiteness. He was going to learn he was one of them who had sacrificed their lives to enter India to have a blessing audience with His Holiness the Dalai Lama. The shocking parts he was going to learn were those losing lives, being caught and incarcerated, losing limbs as of snow-bites, and more interestingly, those venturing further into exile after release from 2 to 6 months incarceration under tortures and harassing interrogations.

But for now Ngodup found him like an alien one. He didn't interact with others. He was all alone, topless and taking in the coolness like he had come to India to get it.

Ngodup found time to go out with Kaldor. He learned from him he was from a Tibetan camp near Drepung Gomang. He emphasized camp number 5 of Mundgod. His emphasis meant for the best camp, the richest. His being crippled had affected both his growth and gait like trampling more on one side when his whole figure moved. But he could run pretty fast. He was in an old yellow singlet and faded red garment like a small skirt. The thinness of the cloth of his garment accentuated the deformity of one side of his buttock that protruded more. He knew about here as of his coming here after the earlier Kalachakra empowerment at Bodh Gaya. He led Ngodup to the park off the vast spacious compound of the towering ancient Dhamek stupa of bare-brick circular mound known for its being enshrined with the relics of Lord Buddha and his disciples. The reserved park was vast with dried tuft stubble and ruins. The unpaved walkway along one side was just alongside woods. There was a zoo nearby but he led him to the children playground with swinging post, see-saw, slide, a turning one with round plank-floor and hand bars holding almost more than 5 children. Ngodup was fascinated by the spacious playground of oblong plot with ragged low hedge partly impaired. They played there for long till towards the afternoon. Tsering and Jampa came as well. But Ngodup went more with Kaldor.

They visited it again the following days. It was on the last day before leaving that Dadul led Ngodup to the temple of dark-grayish stone-walls within the Dhemak stupa compound but almost 200 yards off it. The plots of lawns around the temple as demarcated by well-maintained low hedges dotted with Ashoka trees were being watered and manicured by white muslin Dhoti clad Indians. The walkway around and broad front part of the temple were slab-paved and clean. It was around 8.30am. The paved front yard was packed with devotees. They stood in the queue of single file. It was the day to reveal the prime relic, a relic of Lord Buddha, of the temple to the devoted public. Ngodup was going to learn about it only when he was inside and next to the one before. A young Tibetan lay guy flanked by two saffron clad Indian monks was standing next to the quadrangle glass case with sloping four sided golden roof set on a clothed table. The young Tibetan guy must have been called from Institute for Higher Tibetan Studies to translate the significance of the relic to the devoted visitors. Ngodup only had an angle view of his face like a flash as was his time to stand and look through the glass case.

‘Look carefully! Those tiny dark dots like tiny pills were Lord Buddha’s…,’ said the young Tibetan guy. Ngodup didn't get the latter when his time was over. 

He didn'thave the interest to ask Dadul about it. Dadul didn’t ask him either as he was going to ask later like what the disciplinarian had said during a congregation recess as to test or see if he had attended the congregation or not.

Ngodup’s time at Varanasi was even more fun-filled with Kaldor. He was both adapted and experiencing more. It was almost like the validity of his blind attachment to his family and mother was almost over ever. The time here at cleaner Varanasi was over too.