ARTICLE

The Stream of Conscience

By: Chapdrak Lhamo Kyab

This article by a noted Tibetan poet in exile, and an incumbent Member of Tibetan Parliament, Chapdrak Lhamo Kyap was originally written in Tibetan. The article featured in his book, Yangchen Tulpae Glag-bam, published in 2000 by the Institute of Buddhist Dialectics, Sarah. This English translation is done by Dhundup Gyalpo, one of his former students.

EVERY TIME THE BALMY WIND breezed past the capacity crowd at the Tsuglakhang, it lured a moment of their attention towards the mundane world outside the blissful mass. Tucked nicely at the feet of Dauladhar ranges, its fine architecture offering a majestic sight, the main cathedral at McLeod Gunj is specious enough to accommodate thousands of people.

As is usual for this time of a year, the annual prayer congregation for the long life of His Holiness the Dalai Lama—and for the political and religious cause of Tibet—was already underway with full gusto. The week-long congregation for chanting the mantra of the Buddha of compassion, Om mani padme hun ri, is open for all and sundry. Normally, anyone who is even remotely religious voluntarily attends this congregation—it is generally assumed that 99% of Tibetans are religious by nature.

As I overlooked the packed courtyard of the temple, I could not help noticing that an overwhelming majority of the laity present there was 50-plus people. “So, the onus for saying prayers rests squarely upon our grannies and grandpas,” I thought. “Or is it simply because they have an uncommon faith and confidence in the (Tibetan) Buddhism?”  The enchanting spell of the din of mass prayers suddenly triggered a gust of stray thoughts that was evoking the calling of a writer in me.

On my right, at one corner, I saw a septuagenarian granny, who may have been there since the break of dawn. I have been eyeing her since I joined the mass about an hour ago at about 8 a.m. She was sitting cross-legged, calm and composed, without any hint of fatigue or discomfort in her posture. I, on the contrary, was already feeling my limbs and rear going numb. I was as such shamelessly stretching my legs, and tilting my behind sideways. I was naturally astounded by the tolerance level of that granny.

At some point breakfast was served. And I was starving. As soon as tea and a hamburger bun landed on my lap, I gobbled them up in no time. Since I had never attended such a congregation before, I had no idea about the customary manners—that one must wait for the collective libation. Later, when all the people raised their cups in the traditional style of offering libation to the Three Precious Jewels, I went red with embarrassment.  
After saying the prayers, the old lady ripped a morsel of bun, dipped it in the tea, and ate. The same process went on again and again. My embarrassment grew all the more, when I found that the only people who had already gobbled the grub were a bunch of foreigners, who were then staring at me for want of some justification.

Not everybody was finished with refreshments, when the prayer session resumed. Shrugging aside the cup and the leftover bun, the old lady instantly began her chanting as if being on an automated mode. Wary of any further cause of embarrassment, I took the cue by picking up my rosary and started chanting enthusiastically.
After staying put for two three hours, as the growing numbness in my limbs and rear led to rigor mortis, the mass, fortunately, recessed for what I supposed was a bathroom break. And I seized the moment in taking a long hike outside the temple. When I returned, the old lady had not budged an inch. She was just as I left her: calm, composed and comfortable. This time I sat beside her. I could not take my eyes off the old lady, who apparently did not even need a bathroom break.  

“You look like a recent refugee from Tibet. When did you come to India?,” she gently asked me. 
“Yes mam, it’s been three years since I arrived India,” I replied respectfully. 
“Oh really! What do you do for living?” 

“I have been teaching Tibetan for three years. At present I am doing a teacher training course.” 
“Very good! You people are young and educated. You are competent enough to serve the religious and political cause of Tibet. Your service will earn you a great meritorious karma,” she said. I could sense the stark feeling of resignation that underlined the tenor of her speech. 

“We older folks have nothing left in us. The only thing alive in us is our spirit. We can do nothing except praying to His Holiness the Dalai Lama and chanting mantras,” she said, with tears welling up in her doleful eyes. At a loss for comforting words, I stood dumb as a dodo.

The old lady went on: “You must study hard. There is no greater accomplishment than fulfilling the wishes of His Holiness the Dalai Lama.” She folded her hands and supplicated the Buddha of Compassion:  

May Tibet regain her independence! May peace reign all over the world! May His Holiness the Dalai Lama live long! May the wishes of His Holiness come to fruition! 

As she closed her eyes, the tears welled up in her eyes cascaded down on her rosary, drop by drop. In a bid to offer some words of solace, I summoned the last reserves of my strength.

“Do not be so depressed. We will fulfill the wishes of His Holiness the Dalai Lama. His Holiness’ wish is our command. Sooner or later, we shall redeem our destiny,” I managed to tell her, despite watery eyes and a sour throat. 

She responded by stroking my head affectionately. Her face was lit up by a reassuring smile—a smile that conveyed many emotions—a smile that conveyed both compliments and the feeling that all hopes are now banked on the youth. I kept on chanting with my rosary, even as an unusual feeling or restlessness kept churning deep inside me, compelling me to glance at her time and again. The old lady was back into a trance of utter devotion. Eyes shut, her right hand constantly rotating a mini-prayer wheel, she was chanting the mantras in a fine and fruity voice. For a deeply religious person, she might have appeared as someone who is ardently supplicating the Buddha of Compassion to manifest in flesh. As for myself, her voice resonated more like a far cry of freedom towards the Tibetan youth.

When I raised my head, and shot a glance at the crowd, the faces of our grannies and grandpas radiated a long-cherished aspiration for peace. They also carried an uncanny aura of confidence—and the din of their collective prayers appeared as if prodding the youth to step forward. After some soul-searching on the spur of that moment, I made this promise to myself: Mam, the deep faith and confidence that resonates from every syllable of your prayers is in fact the greatest gift one could have possibly wished for. And I say this with absolute certitude; we can never thank you enough for this gift. Although you were born in Tibet, you have been forced to live most of your lifetime as a refugee in exile. [However, much as the rest of my generation,] I am committed to devote my entire lifetime in ensuring that the time when you will breathe your last, you shall be breathing the air of Tibet.  

Just as I breathed my pent-up emotions out, the sound of bells clanged by the breezing wind echoed across the courtyard, and the din of prayers cranked up—as if in a show of solidarity.