Inching Towards The CIRCLE OF LIGHT~

Thimley left homeland when he was just 11...

'Tibet: Roof of the world. Its people: Roofless'

Kathmandu, Nepal

April, 2012

Dear respected Mother,

I've written many letters to you, over and over again, in my mind. But, today I take my pen to write a few lines to let you know how well I am doing here. For almost seven years now I have been into the circle of sacred friendship…life moves differently in a monastery. The mountain flowers glisten in the sunlight, the deodars and pines dispel sweet scent in the air like in Lhasa, but there’s something austere, something extremely peaceful here that gives assurance to the mind. There's a sense of freedom, a zest of relief even for a young monk like me...

 The Buddhist scholars have immense knowledge which is normally handed down by tradition to their disciples…My teacher, Dr. Tejemi is an extraordinary monk. His parents gave him over to the local Buddhist temple to be raised as a monk at the age of twelve. He calls me Kushal, not because I’m already skillful, but because I need to become more skillful. My Buddhist name reminds me each day, what the goal of my practice should be…..We all have to start somewhere, and I guess, I have started my journey….

 Dr. Tejemi has lit a small flame in my heart to understand the meaning of life. Did I understand the philosophy at the first reading…oh, certainly not! I went to bed in a kind of daze, slept as if I had been drugged and awoke to a new world in the morning--a world clothed with extraordinary mysteries, and it gave me my first conception of ‘dukh’ tragedy, of the terror and complication and pity of human lives.... for a Tibetan boy such revelation should have come naturally. But, anyhow it finally dawned!

 Mother, I am carrying a spark within me--- teachers say it’s merely an awakening; what I see is sometimes clear, sometimes dark, impenetrable, yet burning…The chief Monk told me the other day that I had an option to remain in the monastery with the elders for the rest of my life, and be a teacher. No one knows, that I had chosen monastic life initially not with good grace, for it hobbled me with its many conditions. But, as a poor child from a unstable area, becoming a monk was a chance not only to learn religion, but also for a fuller education. I am glad today that I took the decision.

 The walk to the monastery every morning at 4.00 A.M through the snow-peaked misty mountains, running through those steep stairs, and then through the long shaded veranda of the monastery is exhilarating. As I run for my class, I keep sliding my hands through the large cylindrical structures. Chimes rush, echoing off the large, metal wheels bring purification to that peaceful place. I wish, I could do more…Maybe with your prayers, one day I’ll be a senior monk in this monastery. I’ll get a room for myself and settle down peacefully here.This place is enough to make one forget the problems and the hatred of the world outside here….who knows what scars are hidden in Dalai Lama’s heart.

 From time immemorial the sages, yogis have resorted to icicled caves of Himalaya to dwell and meditate. I am only imitating their example. Wish, I could also practice my meditation in our most sacred icy Mount Kailas, on the Tibetan side. What Mecca is to Muslims, Kailas is to both Hindus and Buddhists! I have met many Tibetan monks living in exile here. I guess, their tears and curses have smudged the ‘Red Mountains’ more. It seems ridiculous, that the highest plateau, which is the most mysterious, legendary ‘Roof of the World’, has turned its people 'roofless'…L The roof will always stand as a symbol of nightmare! Faith, liberty, truth, humanity are the words that hold some passionate secrets for me now. I mustn't rest till I've found out the truth. 

Red reminds me of the pouch you gave me as a gift on the day I was leaving; as I opened the drawstring, there was another bag within, and then another…. I reached in and got the small bronze statue of Buddha; but it had a bit of reddish powder on it. I was confused. I wondered if it was vermilion. But, soon realized it was handful of dust from Tibet, my motherland.

 At the time of entering, bhikkhus/ monk are not allowed to keep their possessions. Things are put aside or entrusted to someone else for the duration of their monastic experience. Thus, just before taking the robe, I sprinkled the dust in the garden on a bed of hydrangeas outside my window. In the quiet afternoons, sometimes, I sit and read, stroll and study, doze too looking at it… but, as I said earlier, a bhikku must abandon everything, so I quietly wander back to my monastic home… allowing your thoughts to simmer down in abnormal speed. And then...

My inner voice whispers: ‘Take this truth into your head, that you have to take a lamp into your hand one day to light many more hearts’!

You can write to me whenever you want. For me, there are no tomorrows....all connections need to be seized for the sake of spiritual fortune....

Wish me well and keep me in your prayers. Writing this letter was like releasing seeds of emotion into the thin air....

kushal.

This post is part of the contest Tibet: Roof of the world. Its people : Roofless.. on WriteUpCafe.com inspired by the Photo Fiction book

The Stopover

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental....