The only beaten up mountain road is miles away. Who could actually be living here? Intrigued I carry on past the ramshackle gate, hoping for a glass of water and some conversation.
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Where the Journey to Enlightenment can begin before Pre-School.
These children are not dressed in their burgundy Tibetan monastic tunic because they are out doing work. Those robes are only meant when within the monastery studying or out traveling to keep distance from lay folk. Though many might find it appalling to see little children working a construction site, such help is not unheard of back home; lack of organised help and money means children are routinely put to work by parents to do all kinds of chores across the Himalayan hinterland.
I am walking around a decaying Tibetan Buddhist temple site, a Gompa crumbling under the weight of centuries past. As I turn a corner I am caught off guard by two kids who seem to be making off with our motorcycle helmets. My initial surprise quickly makes way for collective laughter as they struggle under the weight of the helmets, like little bobblehead figures one finds in cars. An old man, probably the resident lama hears the commotion and makes his way to us.
How old is this Gompa? I ask him. “Oh, its quite old, much older than me”, he smiles brightly in response. “As you can see, we are in the midst of rebuilding the temple”.
By now the children had scampered off and were busy hauling sacks of construction material twice their size. The lama quickly senses my discomfort; woke or not, nobody likes watching children working a construction site.
“They are students in our lamasery. These are their free hours and we need some help around here. You know, in our monasteries everyone young or old works for the monastery when not studying or chanting” he tells me almost nonchalantly while busying himself with a load. He lifts a big sack of cement probably weighing over thirty kilos and deftly turns around to let rest on his back. Impressive for a man in his late seventies (I try and fail miserably much to his amusement).
I finish prostrating to the Buddha in the main temple, thrice as is ritual and stand up to face the deity. But all I see in my mind’s eye are the kids I have left behind, snot and all, living this tough life probably hundreds if not thousands of miles away from home and family.
Panting, I hike up the mountain pushing branches out of my way and keeping a close watch on what seems like a very faint cattle trail threatening to disappear if I so much as look away. I make it to a clearing and take a break. Looking up to survey the surroundings, I am tongue tied. Straight up from me is the most quaint monastery, ethereal pastels of maroon, burgundy, and cream standing out in contrast from the many shades of wild forest green all around.
The only beaten up mountain road is miles away. Who could actually be living here? Intrigued I carry on past the ramshackle gate, hoping for a glass of water and some conversation. The first one to greet me is the monastery dog as always and followed by his master; a very grumpy matron cat who looked utterly displeased for having been woken up from her morning siesta. Within minutes a gaggle of children dressed in their monastic togas have miraculously materialised out of thin air and I am bombarded with questions.
Where are you from?!
Why are you here??
Do you have iPhone!!!
The crowd predictably melts away when it is found that I do not possess the iPhone. Instead I prod the little ones to take me on an impromptu tour. The main temple is our first stop and we are blessed with a magnificent view from the top. Two of the braver ones have decided to play chaperone. One is from Nepal, he tells me. And you? I ask the other. A village further east of Sikkim is what I gather from the answers pieced together. I have no way of knowing how far that is, but atleast I know Nepal is an actual different country. When were you back home last, I quiz. Both nod hesitatingly which meant neither had been back home in months or years even. I shy from pushing this sensitive topic; it must be hard already to live away from your parents and siblings at such a tender age.
Next I am taken to their class room, a single large billet with posters and blackboards. Students sit on the floor as is traditionally done and I am told everything is taught here — from english lessons to chanting the sutras. I find a nervous straggler behind us and make him recite the different parts of the body from a poster on the wall. He begins in confidence, then stutters, makes one mistake and everyone jeers him in laughter. He joins in too. It isn’t so bad, I tell myself. These children seem to lean on each other, and they are all visibly happy.
Teachers and students form a very close bond in the Tibetan monastic institution. A teacher is considered far more important than one’s own parents, as it is the teacher who is expected to help one cross the ocean of samsara or suffering to enlightenment. Teachers such as this lama pictured here also know that they play a very important role in shaping the character and personality of children this young, a responsibility they seem to carry off with ease and candour.
As we make our way back down, I ask to be shown their living quarters. Beds and mattresses stacked next to each other and clothes piled upto the ceiling in no particular order. Just like any boys dorm, I smile.
A young one bursts in, evidently breathless announcing that the head lama would like to see me now. I sense this is quite momentous as all the children turn silent and I am quickly escorted to his room, lest I run away or something.
Pleasantries done with, and the lama is quite happy that I have travelled well and know enough about Tibetan buddhism to have a meaningful conversation. He is a young man, probably a trifle older to me but quite serious about his role here. “I am the father, mother, teacher, everything to all these children here. Some of them are less than five years old, and the early days of their stay here is quite difficult for them and me!” he laughs. How often do they go back home, I ask. “Not often. The first few years we do not allow them back home at all because the family attachments, especially with their mothers are still too strong. We have had cases where children simply do not return after having gone. Once I know that a particular child is a bit more resolute about returning to us here is when I allow him to go back home for a few weeks” he trails off.
It is evening now, and I am invited for tea at the common kitchen, a dark room with a low roof to trap heat in and only lit by oil lamps, where everyone sits at one big table to eat a cookie or two with chai. I see much camaraderie, jousting, and laughter as even the lama joins in. I sip from my mug, knowing fully well that this monastery might not see another visitor for the better part of a year. I reach into my pocket for the last pieces of candy I am carrying and place it on the table for everyone to share.
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