The Dharma Journal

Chapter Forty-Four: Our First Audience His Holiness the Fourteenth Dalai Lama in Dharamsala One afternoon Rena and I joined a group of Hindu and Tibetan women at the river bank to do laundry. Following their lead, we slapped our soapy clothes against flat rocks, rinsed them in the flowing water, and laid them across bushes to dry. Unlike the women, we got ourselves thoroughly drenched and muddy in the process. That was the state we were in when Ugyan Dolma and Dawa Tsering came running to find us and breathlessly exclaimed, “Quick! Get ready! His Holiness is ready to see the English couple who were brought by the eagles!” For the first time in our lives, Rena and I were speechless; the whole world seemed to stand still. Dawa Tsering broke the spell and roared, “NOW!” The Tibetans had always been so gentle and usually spoke to us in whispers, so to hear him roar made us jump up and snap to attention. I boldly questioned, “Now? May we at least wash up and change our clothes?” “We don’t keep His Holiness waiting!” was his reply. A crowd of Tibetans started to form around us; the press of their bodies rushed us towards the compound which was the seat of His Holiness’s government in exile. I begged, “Please let us go to our room and freshen up!” “The Presence must not be kept waiting,” they said. “Just give me five minutes!” I bargained. They answered, “Five minutes, but not rubber band time!” Rena and I ran into our room, and tore off our dirty clothes. Disregarding our privacy, our friends followed us and started to rub us down with absorbent clay. “Hey, what are you doing?” we yelled. “We’re trying to get cleaned up and you’re rubbing dirt on us!” “We are not concerned with the cleanliness of your bodies,” our friends responded. “This will absorb your spiritual uncleanliness.” So we allowed them to rub clay all over us. When they were done, we wanted to wash it off, and they stopped us, “No! Don’t use any harmful soap!” We threw a handful of water on ourselves, dressed in something more presentable, and tried to run combs through our hair which was caked with a combination of clay and mud. We were hurried along the path that led to the Dalai Lama’s temple compound. It started to rain, and we were glad to have a shower. When we reached the reception building, we were surprised that our friends were not permitted to come inside with us. After all, they had escaped from Chinese occupied Tibet and gone into exile with their sovereign, and suffered many hardships. Their greatest wish in life was to meet the Dalai Lama. We had that honor, but they didn’t. “That’s alright,” they said, when they realized we felt guilty for our privileges. “We are happy to share in your karma. The rain is a good omen. We will pray while we wait in the rain.” Ugyan Dolma added, “I am so busy with my three daughters that I don’t have time for devotion. I am very happy to wait for you and pray.” She took out her mala beads and began reverently chanting Om mani padme hum. We were greeted by two of His Holiness’s brothers who escorted us past interesting rooms. One was the gift room, which was filled with exotic offerings from various important visitors. There was a gold Land Cruiser which was a gift from Japanese dignitaries, a huge telescope from a German visitor, and a wooden box containing millions of Italian lira, a gift from a wealthy Italian doctor who had been cured of cancer by the Dalai Lama’s physician. There were other fascinating things which we had no opportunity to examine. The Dalai Lama’s residence in Dharamsala Then we passed a room which was filled with numerous Buddhas of the world. There were images of all sizes and in all postures, from Japan, Burma, ancient China, Mongolia, Vietnam, and Cambodia. I looked carefully into this room, and I saw no holy statues from Thailand. I wished I had brought one of my Thai Buddha images, but as it was, I’d had no warning and no gifts. The brother left us in a waiting area from which we could hear the voice of The Presence in the next room. He had recently emerged from a one hundred-and eight-day meditation retreat, and there was a great deal of business demanding his attention. Refugees were pouring in from occupied Tibet, hostilities between Sikhs and Hindus were escalating, and yet he was interested in the English teachers and the school they were building. There were two Tibetan women with us in the waiting room. They had the features and dress of nomadic Tibetans and were sitting cross legged in lotus position on their chairs. Like upcountry Thais and Burmese, they were unfamiliar with Western style seats. When they saw how we sat, they shyly uncrossed their legs and humbly sat on the very edge of their chairs, so as not to take up too much room. The Dalai Lama’s brother returned, but before we could accompany him into the next room, he paused, turned to me, and asked, “What do you know about Tibetan protocol?” “Not very much,” I answered, “but I am proficient in Siamese, Hindu and Chinese Kung Fu protocol.” “No! Not that! Definitely not Chinese combat style! That would not honor the God of Compassion!” his brother reacted. “Why don’t I just do the Indian style namaste, like everyone does in India?” “Well,” he said, “we see that a lot around here. It would be more novel for His Holiness if you performed the Siamese style wai.” “OK!” Rena and I answered in harmony. We passed through the open doorway to the room where His Holiness awaited us. We were pulled by his magnetism as if he were a planet that carried its own gravity around a sun that blinded us with a red-golden light. We began our ancient Siamese wais in the direction of the light. The Inmost One chuckled in a deep, yet musical voice. He rose from his seat and returned our wais, draping a white silk kata around each of our shoulders. And then he began…