six years ago, today, at about this time, i stood on top of probably the holiest temple in Tibet: Jokhang and made this picture. drokpas did their koras below me and the huge incense burners spewed their juniper smoke into the cold Lhasa air. i stood there transfixed, i remember, overawed that i was on Tibetan soil. finally.
i came back and wrote "Waiting for Sunrise" which was published in India Today Travel Plus (unedited text below). It was almost cathartic, but much of Lhasa and Tibet remained in me and, i suspect, i left some of my soul back there.
now i want to go back, the pull is irresistible.
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| Barkhor Square as seen from atop Jokhang, March 2005 |
WAITING FOR SUNRISE
Arati Rao
March, 2005
33,000 feet above Sichuan province in Western China I looked out at white and blue peaks that reached up to me like meringue and tried to imagine what Lhasa might be like. For twelve years now I have dreamt of going there. Finally, I was on my way. A propaganda movie blared its jaded message into the cabin. Awkward English flippantly spoke of Tibetan dances and ‘Chinese culture on show’ in Tibet. An in-flight magazine in stiff, formal, equally awkward language referred to the ‘peaceful liberation of Tibet’ more than once. Statistics told a different story, I thought to myself closing my eyes - 1.2 million Tibetans killed, only 65 monasteries remaining while several thousand were destroyed … We dipped suddenly below the clouds and a glimpse of Tibet shook me from my musings. An intense blue-green band of a river – the Yarlung Tsampo (Brahmaputra) – snaked between layers of impossibly high mountains, neat rectangles of moss green fields and bare aspens. An occasional lonely road embossed itself on the landscape with determination. Little hamlets dotted the plains… and we touched down. I stepped out of the airport and took in a lungful of Tibet.
Mountains embraced Gongkar airport in a gauze-like hue. Everything seemed perfect when I felt something in my back. I turned around to see two green military uniforms piercing me with their searching gaze. From then on was to begin the duality of my visit to Lhasa. Golden and green, blissful and wary, serene and suspicious, innocent and cynical, hopeful yet resigned. Climbing into a minibus with a Tibetan guide (who spoke Hindi and Kannada!), I bumped my way towards Lhasa.
Melting snow capped stark brown furrows, rows of tall aspens and droopy weeping willows dissected fields where lone farmers worked their yaks. Occasional ruddy shelducks dived headfirst into the river to come up with fish, and Buddhas carved into rocks swathed in prayer flags pretended to look away. Groups of Tibetan mothers with their children strapped on their backs, made the long trek in to Lhasa, which lay beyond a bridge patrolled by more green uniforms. Almost two hours later tall steel and glass buildings screamed China Telecom at us and hoardings yelled back in Chinese brand language. Was this Lhasa? We were on the Friendship Highway that stretched from Nepal into Tibet, and yes, we had just entered “Beijing Dong Lu” or Beijing East Road, Lhasa. Wasn’t this stretch of the Friendship Highway called Dekyi Shar Lam? Not even the guide recognized the traditional Tibetan name for the street anymore. Just as I was trying to reconcile the ‘new’ Lhasa, I suddenly saw it.
Above – high above the glitz of the hoardings, something stole my breath away. White, maroon, ochre, gold, serene and riveting stood the Potala Palace – emptied of its haloed inhabitants and witness to many atrocities and yet, or perhaps hence, unimaginably magnetic. I felt breathless and suddenly realized why. I had forgotten to breathe ever since we entered Lhasa.
Just a few hundred yards past the Potala, our minibus lurched to a stop. “Not the Yak, it is under renovation. This one is also very good.” Hotel Lhasa Kyi-Chu was right on Dekyi Shar Lam (I insisted on using the old name for the road) and a stone’s throw from Barkhor Square – and was owned by Tibetans, I happily noted for myself. For 320 Yuan a night, I was comfortably put up in a double room that overlooked a little courtyard in the back. The hotel lobby seemed the place to be – to acclimatize, drink jasmine tea, meet locals and the other residents of this little, homey hotel. The owner’s daughters seemed to be everywhere – checking us in, refilling hot water over our jasmine tea leaves (that smelled divine and tasted even better), manning the curio shop, answering phones and scurrying around with our heavy 20 kg luggage pieces.
As I gazed out of the huge window in the lobby, I was introduced to a snatch of everyday Tibetan life. Nomads (or drokpas, as they are called in Tibet), monks and Han Chinese, all went about in the high afternoon sun -- shopping, waiting for the bus, peering into windows, bargaining, chanting, speaking on their cell phones (yes, monks too) and swinging prayer wheels. Cycle rickshaws, green taxis and buses plied their regular routes by the hotel. Inside, visitors checked in and hung out – all sipping tea and acclimatizing to 3750m above sea level. Hydration and rest for the first couple of days was paramount to keeping altitude sickness at bay.
I longed to walk to Barkhor Square but was wary of doing too much too soon. You traverse the Barkhor kora (pilgrims’ circuit or parikrama) clockwise around the holiest temple in Tibet – the Jokhang. Lined with little stalls and shops selling all kinds of trinkets, prayer wheels, flags and scarves, it was a microcosm of Lhasa. Nomads from far reaches of eastern and western Tibet came to the Jokhang at least once in their lifetime to pray. Some make the journey prostrating the whole way, others prostrated a thousand times in front of the temple to cleanse themselves of their sins. Dressed in traditional Tibetan nomadic garb, several kids in tow, mothers with turquoise beads and heavy silver, fur-lined cloaks and matted hair, these drokpas came caked with dirt and weathered by the elements but with hearts full of hope and prayer.
Through the entrance of the Jokhang, between two large incense burners and two tall prayer flag-swathed poles, pilgrims carried their traditional tall jugs filled with yak butter to fan the prayer lamps. Everyone went in and out chanting ‘om mani padmi hum’ under their breath. As if to make up for the bright sun outside everything inside the monasteries was dark but, once your eyes accustom to the dark, colorful beyond compare. I stepped into Jokhang with the reverence of a first-time visitor to this holy land and imagined it would be this way no matter how often I came. There was the smell of centuries inside Jokhang. Incense and yak butter mixed to form an unforgettable aroma that caked the colorful murals. Traditional white awnings on doorways, red and blue carvings on moldings, yellow and maroon walls with bright blue beams holding up the ceilings and monks in red and gold all spoke of the festive spirit that was Tibet. Pilgrims filed slowly past the murals and on to the golden Buddha statues in the center of the temple completely consumed by their chants. The Jokhang also has the throne where the Dalai Lama used to hold audiences and give discourses. And all of this made for a very solemn visit but one that made me feel strangely at home. As I lingered in the corridors watching the monks go about their daily business, I felt like I had been here before.
The Chinese have posted many a spy inside the monasteries to keep an eye on rebellious monks or foreigners sympathetic with the Tibetan cause for freedom and I found myself often wondering who was a spy and who a monk. From the roof of the Jokhang, overlooking the Barkhor square, you see the Potala Palace in the distance. As you look closer and focus in on the scene at Barkhor square, you see unending line of stalls owned by Han Chinese but sometimes fronted by Tibetans, the ubiquitous green uniformed Chinese army personnel, drokpas with their large families strolling by, unemployed Tibetan youth playing pool, ugly plastic palm trees in psychedelic yellow and green on what is jokingly called “Las Vegas street,” and you cannot help wondering what this square must have been like at the height of Tibet’s prosperity. If you want a flavor of what is left of traditional Lhasa, stick to eastern Lhasa where the Tibetan quarter (around Barkhor) is, and avoid the westernized (Chinese) parts of western Lhasa. That said, you cannot escape the large consumerist hoardings or the ubiquitous “China Mobile” advertisements over (almost) every shop.
During one of my tea-sipping sessions in the lobby, I met a spirited local Tibetan woman, Tashi. “Have you seen the Potala at sunrise from the roof?” she asked. Sunrise. That night I woke every 2 hours until it was 5:30am and sat up waiting for the sunrise. Lhasa lies above Arunachal Pradesh in India and only slightly east of Thimpu and Dhaka. But all of China is on Beijing time. So, of course, 5:30 am “Beijing time” was going to see no sunrise in Lhasa. I figured this out slowly through soporific logic, when I saw the darkest night and brightest stars outside. Snuggling back into my double-layered comforter (ask for those if you go during spring time – the nights are still very cold) I decided to wake only at 7:30am. Sure enough, dawn was just breaking as I panted my way up four floors to the roof and pushed open the door to the terraced balcony. I was not prepared for the sight that accosted me. The Potala stands over a 1000 ft above Lhasa and once could be seen from everywhere. What was the winter palace of the Dalai Lamas, it used to be abuzz with monks and Tibetan officials. Replacing them now, ironically, are hordes of Chinese tourists who come there to take pictures in front of this architectural marvel that Mao so desperately wanted to destroy. It still inspires and enthralls locals, pilgrims and visitors alike. The thousand roomed palace is today a largely empty museum bearing mute testimony to history.
But this morning, in the nascent rays of the day, through fluttering prayer flags, the Potala gleamed. The rising sun then shone on a bright red flag waving in front of the Potala and shook me from my reverie. Traditional and colorful Tibetan prayer flags blowing their spiritual messages over the wind were, unfortunately, no match for the march of the red flag with its large red star. As I climbed down to my hotel room I thought of the outlawed Tibetan flag with its brilliant sun and mythical snow lions, and wondered if it will ever fly again. Later that morning, I climbed up to the Potala and walked slowly through the rooms, my hand on my camera but clicking nothing. No photography is allowed inside. Not only did I notice video cameras in every room, but also that I had a shadow. A uniformed Chinese guard stayed at my elbow and peered at me closely (could he read my mind?) from the time I bought my ticket till I left. In front of what remains of the current Dalai Lama’s study room – walls full of thangkas – he especially nudged me to get a move on. I don’t think I could quite describe the turmoil inside me at that point. But a few months later when a monk in exile in Mysore (India) who had never been to his motherland told me that he was at peace with what had happened and with the fact that he will probably live out his life in exile, I began to understand the faith of the Tibetans that afforded them peace of mind wherever they were.
One afternoon, walking in the Muslim quarter with Tashi, I was curious to find out what the lay person thought. Praying that I would not be overheard, I asked her about the changes. I knew that she had seen much, including the revolution of 1988. She tactfully spoke of the architecture and how the government had preserved the Tibetan styles in making over the ruined buildings. I said “Ok, that is on the surface, but what about inside? What about the people?” She shook her head and gave a half-smile. The look in her eyes said it all.
The next day I reached Sera monastery in Lhasa just as the monks were engaging in their ritualistic debate. Claps pierced the calm afternoon air as monks asked and answered. This was the traditional examination that the Dalai Lama also went through as a boy monk. Rigorous examinations in the form of debates with high abbots from Sera, Drepung and Ganden monasteries are part of the religious indoctrination and this process is supposed to be as much a learning process on both sides, as a test.
Ganden (the first Gelugpa monastery) is 40 km north east of Lhasa and takes about two to three hours to reach. Pilgrims raced our vehicle up the mountain (and won) that rises almost 1500 ft to the monastery that sits at 4500m – way above the Kyi-chu valley. I noticed big black yaks perched at impossible angles at dizzying heights as I tried to get my mind off our vehicle negotiating hair-pin bends with no banked roads or restraints. As we neared the top, Ganden came into view. Built by Tsongkhapa in 1409, it was almost completely ruined by the Red Guards in the 1960s. It has been rebuilt since, though one can still see some ruins. But the spirit and fervor here was so strong that one at once feels the special pull of Ganden. As I went in, the now familiar smell of incense and yak butter flooded my nostrils as my eyes got used to the dark insides of the assembly hall. Monks were just finishing up their prayer session and robes were strewn all over. Irrelevantly, I noted the Cola wars were rife even in this removed, holy place -- there were Coke and Pepsi cans – one on each of the monks’ desks. Amused at this incongruity, I walked into the main sanctum to find the throne of the Tsongkhapa and the Dalai Lama’s yellow hat while monks filed out. Inside the tomb of the Tsongkhapa, monks washed a sand mandala away to symbolize impermanence. The chorten there now only holds remnants (parts of the skull) of the Tsongkhapa’s body that was destroyed by the Red Guards.
Everywhere festivity and color pervaded, but sinister history still hung about like a silent ghost. Stepping outside to clear my head, I suddenly heard loud tuneful singing. I tried to follow the voices down into the valley but they seemed to be out of reach. And then on a tiny terrace of a traditional house way below me, I saw a group of women in traditional Tibetan garb sitting in a circle and singing. Just outside that house was a water truck from which monks, children and women were filling pails. And here, far away from Lhasa in this little visited monastery (by foreigners) I felt I had experienced what everyday Tibet before the Chinese invasion must have been like.
Back in the hotel more everyday life but on a more somber level awaited me. I met the group One HEART which works in Tibet to improve the maternal health of Tibetans in remote and rural areas. Statistics of maternal and infant mortality in Tibet are among the worst in the world. 1 out of 33 mothers die at childbirth and 1 out of 10 infants die in the first month. In remote areas of the Tibetan plateau awareness is low and barriers to access of healthcare and nutrition are many. These people were out there training traditional midwives and increasing the knowledge of prefecture doctors, along with educating mothers. I walked out with one of them and Tashi into the backstreets of Lhasa and saw for myself anecdotal evidence of malnourished children (one child looked only a year old but was actually closer to four), a mother who had 12 children but had lost 4 of them and heard from One Heart numerous other stories that plainly illustrated the gravity of the issue in Tibet. The Kyi-chu hotel is home to many non-governmental organizations like Medecins sans frontiere, One HEART, educational NGOs and other itininerant ones. This made the hotel a great place to meet people who had been working in Tibet, thus giving me perspectives that only made my experience richer and resolve to come back stronger.
As I drove to Gongkar airport on the last morning of my short stay in Lhasa, my driver pointed out a tunnel, “this will shorten the drive.” It will go through the mountains we now skirted and the two hour drive will be shortened to under an hour. We would not need to cross the Yarlung Tsampo via the picturesque prayer flags-draped bridge. Somehow this did not fill me with joy. There was something about the long drive into Lhasa that increases the drama of the place and serves as a fitting introduction to Tibet. Yarlung Tsampo gurgles beside you telling you stories from long years ago that no 21st century tunnel ever could. But, the modernization of this ancient land seemed inevitable. I remembered reports of the impending railroad from Golmud to Lhasa. The mineral rich Tibetan plateau and holy lakes like Yamdrok Tso were now “resources”. China was bringing modern amenities to Tibet, “improving their lives.” At whose behest though? Maybe the Tibetans would like something else. Someone, who had great plans for his people of Tibet and was just starting out on his reforms when he was uprooted and exiled. Something every Tibetan coming to Jokhang – that holiest of Tibetan Temples – prays for everyday: the right to live in and rule their land, their way.
And yet, the words of the monk from Mysore came back to me. “I have never seen Tibet. I probably never will. But I am happy. I am at peace in India. That is what my Buddha teaches me.” And so it is with this holy land which lost its sovereignty, probably because of this very philosophy, but is still beautiful – from within and without.
