A Fleeting Introspection

Taken by me from where I am but during the past summer

Like the brush-like stripped sycamore partly clothed by the verdure of muffling ivy

A lonely figure with raw nerves stares at the same tree that sighs, ‘Free me!’

Oh, yes, it is mere farce to find thee thus in the muffling care.

The ghost like figure hastens to respond back, ‘Thou hath opened my eyes!’

Can it be the shadow cast by the unseen, the unseen in its two words?

So from the scintillating selfie after selfie in such disguise of joviality.

Yes, I can now see the hues, nuances—more than mere shadows.

And a frozen like sculpture thy piercing selfie’s steady frigid stare speaks,

‘Can’t thou see how pathetic thou art?’ The ghostly figure guffawed and wailed,

‘Thou poke right there to jolt me into a mad cemetery dance. Here I go.

But can’t thou see it’s, too, the shadow cast by the unseen?

For how long my complexity could be dictated by the makeshift system now?’

As the shredded golden-dark clouds at the far horizon turn into Chinese art pattern,

As the lonely bright star adorns the vast turquoise void amid collapsing twilight,

As the spiky top of the brush-like sycamore points me into the great void,

I, with the help of the great book I have read, see for the first time thy greatness.

I mean thou, the great turquoise void, our canopy taken for granted.

I mean thou as thou art not mere shadow. Thou art thyself.

And thus I see the lonely full moon as the one like myself so dull today.

The Fate of Socialism

Where the loving mother reigns now is truly in her far progressed phase, but can't be said at her apotheosis yet, typically through more interdependently including interactive means. It proves loyalty to her unique way of progress rather than initial infatuated frenzies plus tryst giving way to impatience and extortion to such gaffe of falling in love with what is pointed out as 'decadent' 'profligate'. But it's up to the reign of the Party in the end that matters all the way along the course of its brutal history. Adopting the version once fervently derided through 'struggle session' to 're-education session' is, as you see, by no means as eloquent as its Open Door Policy's mantra of freer air but the mere means of silencing the mass. It's to let them enjoy what they earn and what they desire as far as such doesn't affect the Party's power. Why 'not' Falun Gong? Why 'yes' faiths? Why 'not' mass gathering of spiritual significance as in Tibet? 

'I don't love my government. But I trust my government,' an English speaking young Chinese artist could be found saying so. What does it mean? 

'Progress is to keep up with the time, not to be stuck in the past.' This sounds more reasonable than the former, if it doesn't mean to efface it. 

'What would you choose between Mercedes car and Environment? Why not choose Mercedes car. Wealth is the first issue; environment the second,' a seemingly high-ranking Chinese official could be found saying so, which is both sincere and pathetic.

Nerd’s Gibberish

Taken by me, this evening scene

Creating, Oof, creating thus afar,

A teetering word after another,

A venture both racking and wrenching

With a will now faltering and now nudging—

Who are you? Yes, who am I?

An inspiration, a touch of feeling,

A tender spontaneous smile,

Improvised movements by my side—

Should I need them? The distance I have

And so the space… The will to roll on,

To be enlivened.

Oh, lassitude, the creeping devil!

Oh, beguiling conceit known as

As thou art ‘the devil’,

The dark veil stifling the light,

The innocent feelings,

The free flow of creativity.

Deflated pride like a limp balloon,

Inflated will like spring verdure

I would venture on ever…

Nay, I need a nerd’s gibberish—

Rhetoric to highfalutin bereft of truthfulness

But as they are, pale yet resplendent to a small mind.

I can roll it on and on…

I can trust it,

The intuition as speckles as the azure sky

Or the diamonds-studded turquoise canopy.

That matters only.

Nay, I need your gibberish.

Nay, arts for fame, wealth and to be doffed at,

Nay casuistry can take thee afar

But there, self-hypnotized—

Ha, ha, the worst form of lunacy.

But I need an inspiration second by second

I need thy warmth,

The crystal clear intuition
Or the basic disposition. 

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. 

Thanks Facebook!

I have rated as my share for my 'facebook experience' as for the pop up that appeared suddenly on my mobile device with only five grey stars to be tap-filled. I could give 6 but there were only five. It's partly pleasing to dwell in this ultra-fake virtual world known as social networking. I remember one of my fb pals wrote once: 'I see all of you are fake here.' It was before he went hibernated here not long after. I happened to take his remarks rather scornfully as rather subjective. But I have happened to see his points clearer now. But I have found a thrill, a learning aspect there as well. I have found it is like one of staple diets for a few to move on through ranting at, rapping out, lamenting squarely or with minimum artistic touch and, when circumstances permit, crooning gaily with rather infantile touch at once simple but at once complex as the nature of the entity. But it's a social cushion after all for millions or billions. I wanted to comment so if there was a space for comment but there wasn't. Thanks facebook!