Final 40 Hours

I was midway through writing post #3 when it hit me: I had less than two days left in Dharamsala. There were still a prayer chain's beads worth of opportunities I had yet to take advantage of, and time was my bitter enemy. My grip tensed and my fingers hastened as I finished my entry. It was early evening, and the sun had already begun its gradual, menacing descent. I clicked my pen, closed my notebook, slung my bag over my shoulder, and looked up from my rooftop writing spot, to the sight of four friends, five yoga mats, and a smiling, wiry Indian man motioning me towards the unused mat. "You're right on time; We were just about to start."

And so I begin now exactly where I left off in post #3: my final 40 hours in Dharamsala.

The yoga instructor's calm demeanor, soft movements, and smooth voice were a direct contrast to the painful, unnatural positions we were told to assume. I struggled through the headstand, the locust, the plow, and much more for a grueling hour. Each new position introduced my body to unique, unfriendly feelings. But truly, good things come to those who wait. At the end of it all, our guru guided us through the final position, the shavasana, ultimate relaxation, and all my bodily torments were transformed into a sense of full control. When I stood up, there was no pain. Instead, I felt invigorated by an almost supernatural energy. The type of energy I would need if I wanted to make it to the Sherabling. But it was 6:30 already, and I knew the sun was about to take a nose dive. So I grabbed a bottle of water, and without another word, I was off through the house gates and down the one long, winding road that would take me to my destination.

The Sherabling is a famed monastery set deep in the forests of Himachal Pradesh. Its isolation yet purported massive size, and most importantly its rumored unmatched beauty give the place a mystical quality. The Sherabling is a little under two hours away from Bir, at an ambling pace. A gentle, pensive stroll was out of the question, however, if I wanted to beat the 8:00 sunset. I had no watch to dictate my speed, and no map to offer me bearings. Reaching the monastery was a race, a battle, between me and the sun.

The scenery changed throughout my journey. From small shops and cafes to natural hillsides and mountain views to tall trees and steeper slopes. From Tibetan shopkeepers and monks to stray dogs and a few shepherds herding cattle to the last shift farmers packing up for the evening and near solitude. From paved road to rock path to dirt.

I glanced nervously at the sky and the sun threw an uppercut, disappearing low behind the treetops. I sped up. The dimming light transformed the bright, inviting greens of the surrounding forest into an ominous, black unknown. I had seen this walk in dreams before: alone, walking up an endless path between huge sneering trees in the crux between evening and night. I was ready to turn back, continuing would only be digging myself into a deeper hole. There was no end in sight. And then, a sudden breeze rekindled my waning hope. The wind struck something in the distance and sparked a familiar sound. I looked up and a pentachromic rainbow flashed before me: prayer flags! From the Heavens they sprawled across the sky, signaling a nearby monastery and a revival of spirits. I pressed on and soon after stumbled across four monks. "Tashi delek," I managed to sputter out, as my excitement animated me to a run. Nearly there. A monkey stood for a moment in the dirt, coolly scrutinizing me, then vanished into a thicket. There, beyond him, a mammoth structure, red, white, yellow, a curling golden roof, hundreds of windows, towering above the forest leaves, set in front of fading snowpeaks, majestic even in the dim light, and the loud tolling of a bell telling me I had made it: the Sherabling.

No spoken language could do it justice. I stood speechless, miniscule and meaningless at the base of this colossal structure. I walked around, trying to form some sort of mental map of the monastery. There was an open doorway, so I removed my shoes and entered. An expansive, empty space, bordered by five floors of living quarters and protective rail. Echoes bounced loudly through the hall as young monks raced to their rooms before curfew. I could have stood there for much longer, in that doorway of the Sherabling, in the sublime isolation of the forest and clouds. But the night's dreary hues had other plans. Darkness was enveloping the land, and I still had a mountain to descend.

It was a one hour dead sprint, and as my knees swelled with every step on uneven rocky ground, so did my doubts about where I was. The trees looked the same at every diverging road. There were no taxis for rescue, and the landmarks I had noted on my way up were invisible in the dark. It was pitch black, and as I failed to dodge potholes in the road I suddenly hit a brick wall and stumbled back, gasping for air. In time my breath returned, and I reached out to the wall. It was tense and curiously soft to the touch. Three feet to my right the wall began to move and all at once it became clear: I had run into a cow, absurdly standing in the middle of the road in the middle of the night.

I resumed my sprint, still in a state of shock, and after convincing myself I was utterly lost, I finally recognized a path. There were lights in the distance. Bir, home sweet home. I stopped at the first store in the village and bought a cold bottle of coca-cola. It was my first real indulgence of the trip, and the much needed refreshing taste disappeared in a single gulp.

Now in known territory, I continued on more casually. The sudden change of pace brought on an adrenaline drain and an overwhelming rush of exhaustion. Along the way, one of the locals stopped me to tell me they would be setting up a projector in the streets to show the U.S.-Germany match. I told him I wouldn't miss a minute and tiredly stumbled back to the guest house.

I was prepared to go straight to bed and collapse into a deep sleep, but my night was far from over. I slumped heavily into a chair, water bottle in hand, contemplating the potential of a twenty minute nap before the game. At that moment a few volunteers came down the stairs and were heading through the door. "Hey come to Nema, they're having the biggest Puja of the year," they told me. The Nema is the Monastery most clearly seen from the guesthouse roof, just a two minute walk from the gates. It has a beautiful layout and I had been itching for a visit. Not only that, but the Puja is a must-see event, and this was the most important one of the year.

So you see, I really had no choice.

I was soon making my way across the Nema courtyard and up the stairs, bright white lights and roaring horns guiding each step. It was around 9:15 p.m., and the dark had settled in quite comfortably outside. But inside the monastery, a cascade of colors lit up the world. About a hundred monks, decked in their finest robes of saffron and gold, were seated in rows, one side facing the other. I tiptoed along the wall, towards some recognized faces, and found a place to sit among the other observers. As younger monks brought us butter tea and snacks, I looked forward at the fascinating scene: all eyes were on two monks, who stood facing each other, seemingly in the middle of a heated argument. This Debate, I soon learned, is a trademark of Tibetan Buddhism, where students who have for years been studying all aspects of Buddhist Theology and Philosophy, try to stand their ground and respond to difficult questions and prompts. As they debated, the monks swayed back and forth, often in graceful unison, and each turn was marked by a loud clap from the speaker and varying tones of voice. The Puja had been taking place all day, but even the small piece I had the privilege of witnessing was unbelievable.

When I found my way back to the streets, I could hear voices. A small crowd had gathered, and the projector was nearly set up. Six members of the Mafia sat together to one side of the street, enjoying themselves with a quickly diminishing stash of beverages. A rather peculiar course of events had landed a flask of whisky in my hands a couple days earlier, and I gifted it to my Mafia brethren, generating loud cheers and friendly hugs. In that exchange, the U.S. team suddenly gained six new staunch supporters.

We all returned home and sat around talking and eating in the living room. The conversation turned to the plight of the Tibetan refugees. Given asylum in northern India after having their homeland stripped away from them, the Tibetans maintain peaceful silence amid harassment and sometimes threats from the natives. Though they have found a happy way of life in Himachal, the refugees long for a day when their sacred land will once again be free. The firsthand accounts shot streaks of injustice into a vision that had till then been of an ideal place and lifestyle. It was hard for me to accept that Bir could have imperfections. The dialogue soon moved to other topics, but I was deeply affected by lingering thoughts, and I hardly noticed when Yeshi entered the room.

Beloved head of the house, Yeshi had come to see who would be joining her for early morning stupas. By stupas I mean walking ad infinitum around a set of eight large monuments, or Stupas, which reflect key moments in the Buddha's life. And by early morning I mean 3:30 a.m. I had heard stories about and was intrigued by this stupa phenomenon, and had been waiting to experience it for myself. Yeshi's eyes enlarged, and in her wonderful accent she explained that this was the most important stupa of the Buddhist calendar and participants would be "very lucky lucky."

So you see, I really had no choice.

It was already past midnight, so I decided to stay awake for the 1 a.m. futbol match. Promptly two and a half hours later, nine sleepy volunteers followed our fearless leader Yeshi through the front door into the black night, single file. Yeshi needed no torch light, she knew the twisting route to the Chokling Monastery so well, and we followed her, blind, like newborn ducklings following their mother. We reached the Stupas, and she began the march, keeping a steady, brisk pace as she chanted prayers. Each stupa round took around 2 and a half minutes to complete. 51 times we circled the Stupas, passing elderly Tibetans in our quick, barefoot stride. Why 51? Every Tibetan Buddhist has a lucky number they use in prayers and spiritual acts like stupa. Unfortunately for us, Yeshi's lucky number wasn't 7. Sleepless, my body fried with exhaustion, the repetitive cycles around the Stupas became hypnotic. We began in complete darkness, but two hours later it was 5:30 a.m. and the sun had risen when we notted #51. But Yeshi was not done. She led us up to the monastery, where we circled anything with the remotest religious significance, sometimes ten times, sometimes 7, etc. Finally, Yeshi said we had finished.

Two hours of dead sleep later, it was time to teach my last ever class at the Bhumang Monastery, say good bye to my incredible students, and eat one last bowl of unforgettable dahl.

As soon as we returned to the guest house, it was time to leave for Mcleodganj, Dharamsala. Yeshi gave me a parting bracelet and Buddhist shawl, I packed my bags, crammed into a small bus with 12 other volunteers and a hitch-hiking hippie, and we were off down the road, leaving Bir in a dust that never settled.

The city was incredible, a perfect blend of active streets and shops with natural, beautiful scenery. And our group made the most of it. From the Snow Leopard Cafe to midnight walks to 3 a.m. terrace talks, it was the most amazing final night I could have had.

And just like that it was morning in Dharamsala, and it was time to leave for the airport. The most memorable fortnight of my life was coming to a close, with a full beard, a 'Save Tibet' bracelet, long hair, traditional clothing, new friends, five blogposts, and countless treasured memories to show for it.

When I was saying my final farewells at the Bhumang Monastery, one of my students, Konchok Thinley, asked me, "Sir, when will you be back?" I looked at Thinley, and then saw beyond him as a brooding glaze possessed me. Beyond the window behind him. Beyond the hills and mountains, the greens, blues, whites, yellows, reds. Beyond Bir, Himachal, India, beyond it all I saw myself, looking back at me in the classroom, at the part of me that had found its place in this little Buddhist colony and would always remain. "Soon, Thinley," as a half smile replaced the wandering thought. "I'll be back very soon."

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--Thank you all for reading this blog and for the kind comments. I have enjoyed sharing my experiences with you, and I hope to continue blogging about some later adventures in my beautiful home state of Kerala.

I will be posting pictures from the trip on my Instagram account: ameetkall

...and eventually on Facebook as well.--

As always,

Namaste.