by the flip of a coin

I have a week coming up when the students at Shree Mangal Dvip are taking exams, during which I can go on a little adventure. Last summer I went to Pokhara, where I met the most wonderful people, and finally got to see the mountains I had fantasized about ever since I was a little girl. I could not decide between Lumbini, the birthplace of the Buddha, and Ilam, land of stunning hills and tea plantations. Both had captured some part of my imagination; Ilam for the landscape, and Lumbini mostly because of a strange dream I had about six months ago. I dreamt I was walking on the banks of a river upon which stood a weathered building with large steps outside it. Rows of monks in crimson robes were lined up upon the steps, facing the river and me. I have it in my mind that this building, a monastery, is in Lumbini— though I have never been there, nor seen any pictures of the place.

So I flipped a coin.



I head out to Lumbini next week.

what my eyes struggled to understand

I have been struggling for days with how to describe what I saw and felt upon entering the great shrine room of Thrangu Tashi Yangtse Monastery in Namo Buddha. As I passed from filtered sunlight into dark, my eyes first became aware of red— a burning, cadmium red that I could feel throbbing against my retinas. After the red came the gold, then the blue, then the pink in waves, each more powerful than the previous colour. My heart was thunderous— I could not control the gasp that escaped my lips. I placed my hands on my chest, for fear this mad, thumping little organ might escape its cage.

I prostrated three times at the door as I was taught. Palms together, fingers to the sky, I raised my hands to my forehead, lowering them to my chin, to my chest, then bending down to touch the cool floor with my forehead. Pure body, pure speech, pure mind.

As I looked around me, my eyes fought hard to understand what they were seeing. I felt hot tears welling up; the beauty of it all extending to some place deep inside me, shaking me, moving me. I cried when I stood before Van Gogh's Wheatfield with Crows. I cried when I caught that first glimpse of the Himalaya, peeking from behind the clouds. I cried before the Buddha.



That night, I dreamt I was in the shrine room again, prostrating over and over, and over again.
I was crying in my sleep.

through the mud

Our little van bumped and swayed up the muddy, slippery road to Namo Buddha, through lush, green forests and past even greener rice fields. Prem, our trusty driver, truly a master of his vehicle, spun the wheel to the left, then sharply to the right, manoeuvring through the muck. At one point, half the passengers, including myself, were kindly asked to get out and start walking in order to lighten the weight of the van, which seemed content to sink deeper into the mud.



I have no idea how long the journey took— I refused to look at any time-telling device. Eventually, I found myself before the impressive, golden-roofed Thrangu Tashi Yangtse Monastery, perched atop a hill that anywhere else would be called a mountain. Clouds slithered over the dark crests of hills, lazily curling up among the rice paddies in the valley below. Somewhere, hidden beyond them, great mountains slept.

earth, and touches of blue

Dhulikhel, Dhulikhel...
Your colours and your smiles touch my soul.

dhulikhel

the road to dhulikhel

under pressure

Today is the birthday of His Holiness the Dalai Lama. Boudha has suddenly been inundated with police in blue fatigues sporting riot gear and carrying wooden sticks. Due to increased pressure from neighbouring China, people are not allowed to publicly celebrate. Red-robed monks and nuns, and Buddhists in all colours circumambulate the Stupa, eyed for any sign of protest by bored-looking riot police. I have heard rumours of celebrations being halted, and of people being blocked from entering certain places, but so far, all is quiet.

blue

the writing on the wall

the stupa and the cow

hello