A holiday with His Holiness – part 1

The snow lion flag of Free Tibet and the barred flag for united Tibetan Buddhism hang together, showing how
intertwined are the country, the people and the faith.

Clip-clop, clip-clop.

Behind me on the dawn-quiet street in the middle of McLeod Ganj, two mules, no mule driver, dodge the ever-present shaggy street dogs and trot past intent on their own business.

I am intent on my pre-dawn business too:  if I can get down the steep hill to the reception of His Holiness the Dalai Lama’s office near the main temple before seven am, and deposit the small bag of malas (rosaries) and little statues from me and my Buddhist friends, there’s a chance HHDL will bless these items if he has an audience scheduled.

Tibetan grandma, mother and grandson
wear their finest to see the Dalai Lama

And later this morning, eighty-five-year-old HHDL will open the newly renovated hall at the Tibetan Institute of Performing Arts back up the hill, so if I want to go to that event, and then onto work (two kilometres further down the hill – it’s a mountain town after all), I’m going to have to get a wriggle on.

Sixty years ago, in 1959, the young Dalai Lama left behind his home and his power, and his people in Tibet, in the hope that the invading Chinese wouldn’t then continue to kill the Tibetans sworn to protect their spiritual leader. He has never been able to go back. But Tibetans continue to come to him. This hilltop town in Himachal Pradesh is the home of HHDL, the Tibetan-Government-in-Exile, and around 30,000 Tibetan refugees.

I’m in luck. There must be an audience scheduled because the huge Tsuglhakhang Temple piazza in front of HHDL’s home is thronged with Tibetans dressed to impress: rich coloured brocade chuba dresses, dashingly slung jackets, model-girl makeup, elaborate hair – and a low happy buzz of excitement as this group get ready to meet the man who has led them into exile, counselled them and encouraged them, and remains their champion.

Fox fur and brocade traditional
Tibetan hats

Folding long silk offering scarves (khatas) like freshly laundered sheets, fussing over little children who run around like miniature dolls in their fancy tiny chubas; some audience members sport the dashing Tibetan headwear of fox fur  flaps and a bright brocade high crown.

I wish I could stay in this happy intent crowd but it’s not my occasion. So I cross the piazza and knock tentatively on the door of the reception office. A polite young official holds me at the doorway as I explain my errand and show him my tiny bag of valuables – which will become much more valuable to we students of Tibetan Buddhism if they are blessed by our teacher.

“Of course, come in,” he says.

Just inside the door, I show him the contents of the bag in detail – protective security around HHDL has become stricter as political currents in the world turn more feral at every level – and the official puts a tag on the bag, places it carefully on the counter by the x-ray machine and hands me an identical numbered tag (“just like the shoe-menders”, I think irrelevantly).

“Come back at 11 today,” he advises.

As I turn away hopeful of success and re-cross the piazza, the tone of excitement is building. Soon they will meet the most loved and respected leader in their world.  And I’m heading up the hill, hoping to catch a glimpse later of the same man, who is my most respected teacher. 

It’s all up to HHDL now.

My ticket to blessed success?

To be continued…