Above a residence surrounded by oaks, spruce, and Himalayan cedars with slim, proud silhouettes, white eagles with golden beaks wheel, along with kites and other raptors. Birds soar upward in pairs, an eagle and a crow flying together, outlining quick arcs in the sky, ascending and descending at dizzying speeds.
It is February 2008, just before the Tibetan New Year, Losar, the first day of the lunar year. Early in the morning, costumed monks perform cham, the dance ritual intended to chase away the negativities of the past year and ward off evil spirits. The Dalai Lama, in retreat, has granted only a few interviews. A group of Mongolians are crowded around his doorway in ceremonial robes woven in silk brocade with silver ornaments.
Historically, this fierce people defended the Dalai Lamas against Manchu incursions; the Khans had vowed to protect the sovereign of the Roof of the World, whom they venerated as their spiritual leader. In Mongolia today Buddhism has been reborn, and temples that were destroyed throughout the decades of communism have been rebuilt. But only one-fifth of the population of Mongolia are Mongols—the majority are Chinese. This is the situation that the Dalai Lama dreads for his country. Tibet is in fact undergoing demographic aggression by Han Chinese and a forced sinicization of the culture.
The Mongolians have taken their leave, their eyes wet with tears, after offering the spiritual leader a kata, or ceremonial scarf, this one made of blue silk and embroidered with the eight auspicious symbols. The Dalai Lama’s private secretary, Tenzin Taklha, summons me as His Holiness, with a gesture of his hand, invites me to join him without any further ado in the interview room. The large bay windows invite the sky’s infinity into the long, soberly furnished room, its walls covered in thangkas, paintings on cloth representing the great compassionate figures of Enlightenment.
When the Dalai Lama talks about himself in private, it is with the same jovial, spontaneous simplicity as on the international stage. His infectious cheerfulness can very quickly give way to sadness when the world’s sufferings are mentioned: “Many Buddhas have come among us, and yet humanity continues to suffer. That is the reality of samsara. It is not the failure of the Buddhas, but of human beings, who have not put the teachings into practice.”
I Rejoice at Being the Son of Simple Farmers
My everyday life
MY DAYS BEGIN at around three or three-thirty in the morning. When I wake up, I think of the Buddha, and I recite a prayer of salutation written by the great Indian sage Nagarjuna. I say my prayer lying down, my hands joined, half-respectful, half-asleep….
As a practicing Buddhist monk, as soon as I wake up I pay homage to the Buddha, and I try to prepare my mind to be more altruistic, more compassionate, during the day to come so that I can be of benefit to beings. Then I do physical exercise—I walk on a treadmill.
Around five o’clock I have breakfast; then I have a few more meditation sessions, and I recite prayers until about eight or nine. Afterward I usually read the paper, but sometimes I also go to the interview room for meetings. If I have nothing else to do, I mainly study the Buddhist scriptures that my teachers have taught me in the past, but I also read some recent books.
Then I practice analytic meditation on altruism, which we call bodhicitta, or “enlightened mind,” in Buddhist terminology. I also meditate on emptiness. Bodhicitta and emptiness are the most important meditations in my daily practice, for they help me throughout the entire day. Whatever difficulties, sad events, or bad news may come up, these meditations allow me to stabilize my mind profoundly and support it from within.
After lunch I go back to the interview room for other meetings. At this time [Tibetan New Year], almost every week, I receive Tibetans who have recently arrived from Tibet.
Around five o’clock it’s time for my evening tea. As a Buddhist monk, I don’t eat dinner. If I’m hungry, I snack on a cookie, asking the Buddhas for forgiveness. Then I devote myself to more prayers and meditations….
Around seven or eight o’clock I go to sleep—not without examining what I did during the day first! Some nights I sleep eight or even nine hours. That’s the best time! Total relaxation … (Laughs.)
I was born on the fifth day of the fifth month …
IWAS BORN on the fifth day of the fifth month in the Wood Pig year according to the Tibetan calendar, or July 6, 1935, in the Western calendar. I was given the name Lhamo Thondup, which means, literally, “Goddess who accomplishes all wishes.” Tibetan names for people, places, and things often sound picturesque when they’re translated. Tsangpo, for instance, the name of one of the largest rivers in Tibet—which in India becomes the powerful Brahmaputra—means “the Purifier.”
The name of my village is Takster, or “Roaring Tiger.” When I was a child, it was a poor little commune, built on a hill overlooking a wide valley. The grazing land was used not by farmers but by nomads, because of the unpredictable weather in the region. When I was little, my family, along with about twenty others, earned a meager living from this land.
Takster is situated in the extreme northeastern part of the country, in the province of Amdo. The house where I was born was typical of that part of Tibet—built of stone and earth, with a flat roof.
