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?
