My long walks lead me several times to the abode of Dalai Lama in search of the charm that attracts thousands of people to this small town in the Himalayas. A narrow long passage and empty hallways greeted me to a prayer hall colourfully decorated like every Tibetan Monastery is. The open spaces around the prayer hall, perhaps teeming with people on some days to listen to the lectures of His Holiness, now remained silent but for the laughter of a few tourists and murmuring chants of monks passing by.
His Holiness himself was away and travelling as he normally is for most days of the year. For a moment the open surroundings of the temple appeared to have little of interest in the absence of Dalai Lama. The prayer halls were empty and I did not feel a sense of belonging that I hoped to experience in his abode. I sauntered aimlessly from one end of the temple to other,watching the few tourists who made a quick tour of the temple and the genial monks with rosaries humming their chants. A small number of devout Tibetans prostrated repeatedly in front of the prayer hall, bowing down and coming up again and again, sometime joined by western faces coming under Richard-Gere-like influence from Buddhist preachings. Many of the prostrating Tibetans appeared calm and contented, offering unrequited devotion to their spiritual leader and to the forces of the other world. But a few faces gave away a hint of anxiety and pain, perhaps towards their kins suffering from suppression in their homeland.
A small museum, curated by men who escaped from Tibet to India, tells the story and state of Tibetan People in their homeland today. The displays at the museum show images of Tibetan warriors trying to face People’s Liberation Army, images of Chinese Soldiers in the plateau, the stories of Tibetans escaping through high passes buried in snow, destroyed monasteries and forced education that children now go through.
Hot momos anyone?
Walking past the Dalai Lama Temple, stopping briefly to buy freshly baked potato momos from Tibetan Women who sold it on the street, I dragged my feet downhill to discover a circumambulation path around the temple. A small paved path went through a cedar grove behind the temple, taken by a few monks and worldly Tibetan but rarely any tourists. The quiet, green path through the slopes was decorated with brightly couloured prayer flags and painted mani-stones. A few minutes of walking, I stumbled into two monks carefully carving the stones with the sacred mantra – ‘Om Mani Padmeham,’ working the chisel slowly on the rocks and stopping occasionally for a conversation with passing monks.
Further along the path was a small place of worship next to a home for Tibetan senior citizens. In front of this were a few stupas placed haphazardly along the slopes, surrounded by a riot of colourful prayer flags that added a cheerfulness touch to the circumambulation path.
Beyond this was a thick vegetation where I spent nearly an hour looking at several birds which I had never seen before and never known their names before arriving at the gates of the temple again.
I spent a few days in McLeodganj or Upper Dharamsala in November, walking on its narrow roads and gazing at the mountains, trees, birds and Tibetan Buddhists. Being the home of HH Dalai Lama, you see Buddhist Monks and Buddhist symbols in every corner of McLeodGanj. Before I arrived at Dharamsala, I had made plenty of plans about places to see and things to photograph. I was getting a feeling that my three days would be so packed that I will hardly manage to get the feel of the place. But there was a sudden change the moment I arrived in town. I kept my camera away and spent most of my time in Dharamsala walking in the beautiful hills, often aimlessly and randomly. I did not find the need for a schedule. I did not find the need to go see all things that must be seen. I did not wish to get busy with the camera. I simply let the days pass from moment to moment and spent most of my time walking in the hills. Only on my last day in McLeodganj did I spend a few hours taking pictures. Here are some of the images of the Buddhist world in Dharamsala captures in those few hours.
Prayers wheels on the way to Dalai Lama Temple in Dharamsala
Prayer wheels – handheld ones.
Prayer flags fluttering near Dalai Lama Temple
A stupa or chorten with prayer flags in the background
A Buddhist Monk carving mani stones. Mani stones are tablets bearing the sacred mantra – Om Mani Padmehum
A mani stone
Devout Buddhists prostrating at the Dalailama Temple
A monk on the streets of McLeodganj
Finally.. an elderly lady with rosaries in hand, walking on the circumambulation path around Dalailama Temple
Mani stones are tablets with the sacred mantra ‘Om Mani Padmehum’ carved on them. If you travel in the Himalayan regions like Ladakh and northern parts of Himachal Pradesh where Buddhism is widely practiced, you will find these stones in every corner – outside the monasteries, in the villages, along the roads and next to sacred places. For a long time I wanted to see people working on making these tablets. I happened to witness it during my recent visit to Dharamsala.
These monks were chipping on the rocks along the circumambulation path around Dalai Lama Temple. I loved the way these two monks executed their work. Even for a second, they never seemed to think of it as hard work. Along with their tools, they had a small bottle of water and a flask that perhaps contained some tea, which indicated that they were planning to spend a long time working with the rocks. The young monk’s job was to just sit and give company to the old man while he chiseled the rock. They yapped continuously as the old man slowly chipped on the rock. Occasionally, when other monks came along the circumambulation path, they would stop by to chatter but never stayed too long to disturb their work. The old man seemed to know his job and made it look effortless. He seemed to be enjoying every moment of his task.
I watched them at work for some time until they decided to end their morning session. We did not speak any common language, so the communication between us was limited. The old man, full of compassion in his eyes like only an elderly monk could have, occasionally looked at me and smiled genially. At some point, I took a few picture of him at work. He continued working while I was shooting but once I was done, he summoned me, asked me to show the pictures and laughed heartily after seeing his photographs. He was such a cheerful person, the few minutes I spent with him put me in an elevated mood for rest of the day.
