Melody

On the 28th of June 2010 I went to the Tibetan Institute of Performing Arts or TIPA. A group of students were performing in an orchaestra .
They sang in an alien tongue. I'll never know if it was a song of mirth or grief. All I know is that my foot started tapping in a mellow introspective muse. What did I hear in that alien song? I did not hear, I listened, I listened to voices that sang of home in an alien land in a tongue alien to me.
I tried to delve into the melody of the tune that was thrilling the grove. But all I perceived were voices trying to create melody in remembrance of a distant unknown land called home.
The melody and the muse reminded me of sixteen when i would write at the drop of a hat, at the twist and turn of every emotion; not worrying about the quality of words or "Power Fame Money". It would be wrong to conclude that what I have become is a depreciation. Its a practical measure for circumstances. But it would not be too bad to feel deeply once again for a few short whiles.
One day at an English Drama Club practice we had to go up on stage and cry. I said," Play,'Ami paarer ashay boisha achi'" and I will cry effortlessly." To listen to the music of my native land, my boatmen, reeks of home and how I'll never go back. I too have been compelled out of my land. Its not that I cannot go back to Calcutta but going back would spell the end for someone seeking development...a better living. In independent India we are the hapless people born in Bengal and living in exile. Its not that we detest going out of Bengal in search of betterment, we are Indians.
Its the fact that we do not have the option of going back if we want to that makes us homeless.

I guess I listened to the chord of homelessness in their tune.

Elegies and Sunshines

A kilometre away from Mcleodganj square is the anachronistic St.John's church in the wilderness. A cobbled stone path leads to a fire-bricked church that has silently weathered all storms since 1852. The church also has a graveyard adjacent to it. Shaded affectionately by yew and elm trees, officers of the Raj rest in peace here. You can't help but get philosophical in places of death. All the splendour and pride of life as the masters of India lies forgotten in the dust here. However, reading the epitaphs makes you forget about death. For a while you come face to face with the aroma and the heart-rending romance of colonial history.

"To the Memory of Emily Burnette, wife of Col.E.C. Burnette of the Royal artillery
Who departed this life at Dhurmsala on the 11th of June 1862."

"In the midst of life we are in death.
In loving memory of Thomas William Knowles who met his death at Dharmsala by an attack from a bear on the 25th of October 1883, aged 50"

Bears roamed free in Mcleodganj in 1883, eh? In a span of 21 years Dhurmsala turned Dharmsala as well, quite an improvement on the British guffaw I might say.

That day I read and documented 27 epitaphs out of which three broke my heart and made me sad. Its not that the others were reeking of delight, they were pretty sad too but this triplet just stands aside.



Unedited from my diary entry dated 10th of June 2010, for your consideration...
"
"Sacred to the memory of Lucy Holden,
The dearly loved child of Walter John and Lucy Lemarchand
died 22nd August 1873, aged 11 months and 20 days"

"In memory of Ethel Emily
The dearly loved child of Walter John and Lucy Lemarchand
died 10th June 1881 aged 6 months"

I had never seen graves that small. They actually made coffins that tiny?
What did you do Walter John and Lucy Lemarchand after losing two daughters in their infancy? I shudder to imagine the loss. Today Walter John and Lucy Lemarchand are dust in the wind, their grandchildren if any may not even know of their dead ancestors and heart rending two foot graves in Dhurmsala that turned Dharmsala.

"Thy will be done

Sacred in the memory of Capt. Charles Mercer 1st Goorkha (LI)
Died May 22nd 1897, Aged 37
Erected by his brother officers in affectionate remembrance of an old and valued friend and comrade"

The loneliness of this grave is unmistakable. It does not read son, husband or father. It bears the shadow of a fairly young captain who died alone in a land not his own. The small note by his brother officers speaks a lot about his affable nature and camaraderie. May be that's the best tribute one can think of-to be remembered by your fellows and strangers whom you have left a mark on.
But the loneliness of the grave is just unadulterated loneliness, isn't it?

"In Memory of Elizabeth Edith, youngest daughter of Capt.G.A. Wilson 81st Reg,
Died 28th Aug 1877, Aged 21
Our Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord."

How did you die 21 Edith? Were you pretty? Did you have a lot of hopes and dreams? Did you dream of walking down the aisle of this church that now rests you in peace? Did anyone ever visit you after the Raj? Did anyone like me ever read your epitaph to spare silent thought?

A Forgotten Tale

When little Cho Sung came running into Dorjee's room saying that one of Them was asking for him he didn't pay much attention. He dismissed it as one of mischief of the five year old.

For a while he got distracted from the very difficult lesson he was studying. For a while he spared a passing thought to the snows, empty craggy plateaus and the gyathuk that they couldn't make like that anymore. He briefly remembered Cho Sung's initial days at Tse Chok Ling. He had been sent to become a monk here at Tse Chok Ling with the promise of two square meals a day and a good education. “Five years old and already ecstatic to be a monk”-he smiled that famous half a smile of his laced with irony and a tinge of anguish.

He sighed back to his lesson and read a little more in awe about the life of a Bodhisattva. But he was soon distracted. This time it was the Director. He hurried to the balcony and brushed his robe hastily on the way. He sensed a hint of urgency in the Director's voice as he came down the stairs. “Dorjee, one of Them is asking for you. He says he's your brother”, said the Director.

Dorjee was unmoved; nonetheless, he left for the Centre immediately. He was partially convinced it was some cruel mistake as he had no brother. To his surprise he sensed each step getting heavier with curiosity and forced disbelief. Each step gathered a little more interest on the debt of unexpressed subdued emotions that were now gearing up for an eruption. He made his way up Jogiwara road and stopped when his eyes read “Tibetan Reception Centre”. For Dorjee logic and reason by then had become oblivious under the deluge of expectations, hope and skipped beats.

When he saw the young man at the Reception Centre, he paused for a while, rummaging through whatever was left of his memories as a four year old. He could bet the Bodhisattva that he had seen this starved unkempt twenty one year old somewhere. There was no doubt that he looked a lot like Dorjee. But what Dorjee was still wondering was where he had seen him before.

After a few formalities it was confirmed that this new arrival from Tibet was Dorjee's brother. They talked at length as strangers in the night. Dorjee asked tentatively about home. He had no idea of how to deal with a brother stranger. He felt a bit angered at having come upon someone who reminded him of home. Someone who made home come alive from disintegrated sepia memories. For the first time in many years something was causing unfamiliar upheavals inside; not something Dorjee was comfortable with. He had a good life at Tse Chok Ling but here he was confronted with a phone number labelled ‘home’ that made him scared and teary.

He looked at the number and the number looked straight back at him. And in a moment of human divinity he realised how selfish his behaviour had been. He felt ashamed at his lack of strength. He felt strange that for twenty eight years he had cocooned his emotions to the point of oblivion in the good life of a monk at Tse Chok Ling in Dharamsala, India. He dialled the number and waited for an answer. A female voice answered. The female voice, Dorjee's mother, didn't recognise her son. Dorjee frantically tried to establish the identity he had left behind twenty eight years ago. It took Dorjee's mother fifteen minutes to recall the existence of a son. I don't know what followed because I couldn't question Dorjee any further.

In the fifties, Tibet a sovereign nation of 6 million peace loving people living in an ardently Buddhist society got overrun by the PRC. The People's Republic of China martially occupied the country and since then 1.2 million Tibetans have perished as a result of this illegal occupation. His Holiness the Dalai Lama received refuge in India in 1959. The trickle of horrendous tales of torture and human rights violations have now flood gated, as have the streams of Tibetans coming into India-willingly becoming refugees in search of a better future in a free country. Amidst all this indignation and anguish have you ever heard of a Tibetan militant organisation?

For us, Tibet is a name that we occasionally encounter like cheese straw. We have it once in a while with a host of other snacks and then we don't. We get alarmed at how Chinese diplomacy is trumping Indian charades and somewhere, in between the lines, we read ‘Tibet’ like cheese straw amidst muffins, quiche and other global continental fare. Delving into international affairs and diplomacy and the history of Sino-Indian relations is not my cup of tea. I know little about the nitty-gritties of diplomatic charades. I am too trivial, I'm too tired and I'm too myopic for all that red tape. For a moment, let's forget about mighty India and China and all other history and future. Let us imagine living in a country where practising your religion is a crime. Let us imagine walking months through treacherous terrain to become a refugee because it is apparently a better life. How would it feel to convince your mother of your existence when she is unable to recognise you? What is it like to cocoon your emotions in search of solace?

Us

On the first day of June this gone by summer of 2010, thirty college students from varied backgrounds and disciplines were selected to attend the Tenth edition of the Gurukul programme. The programme is an endeavour to expose young students to the ancient philosophies of Buddhism and Tibetan culture and life. Its quite a unique and off-beat opportunity for students to spend a month in the Buddhist monasteries of Dharamshala and delve into Tibetan life and religion.
This blog is a chronicle of our programme, the Tenth Gurukul. I shall share with you our personal experiences and stories of the programme.

For,

Jyotsna's caprice and eyes

Riddhima's dedication and creativity, which was put to good effect in blowing the electrical fuses of Jyotsna's place

Vikram's unbelievable genuineness,generosity and atrocious Hindi.

Anshul's food mongering

Moyyiad's entertainment in the dorm

Sujata's life saving cabaret and relentless craziness

Dj's wonderful fellowship,camaraderie and the dog-bite

Rajiv's insightful 'koshchens'

Jalam's crushes

Dolma's grace and beauty

Hafsa's intensity, honesty and "licking the ring"

Nami's politeness and quips

Reecha for being (what was it?) "Reech the beaarr"

Ananya's silence in most our loud outings at Chauhan bhai's

Shibayan's inimitable laughter

and for my brother Lobsang.

From
Rajarshi "Sexxyy maan" Sen