Out of the ground emerges a big fucking egg, whose all-seeing eyes stare ferociously in the four living directions. Long lines of prayer flags bow in the storm wind, the sky darkening to a purple bruise. Rain soon. Pilgrims circle clockwise, spinning the ornate metal prayer wheels, some mindfully, some distracted, many in red Tibetan robes, fingering mala beads, holding children, chatting on mobile phones, begging.
Like clock hands made of people, the rough living morass turns. Some westerners have that I-don’t-believe-in-anything-but-I-will-go-with-the-flow look, or the I-am-actually-a-deadly-serious-religious-guy look, or are just shopping at the perimeter shops (that’s me, I bought a mala). There is too the kindness of hands laid across a child’s head, the heartfelt namaste, soaked in rain, the open face of believers, thunder. To rediscover the joyful energy of children! The Tibetans twinkle, often smiling & laughing. This is on a very old path out of Tibet. They’ve passed here for centuries, founding many monasteries nearby.
I need this place today. Last night I couldn’t sleep. My muscles are heavy, recovering from sickness. Despite my pissiness & ingratitude & shame, Luck finds me sipping masala tea, beside a flickering candle. Beyond all sense, She wants to forgive me, urgently, responding Yes to all my No’s. How can I let my sadness go, I ask Her, in this rain? How can I just be wet?
The sky grey & powerful, raining steadily, sparked every few moments by branches of light, like bones of an x-ray, & atrocious thunder. In overpowering incense, a Nepali covered in dirt is drunk & wrestling an invisible bear. A motorcycle whizzes by on the red bricks, honking. Tiina is ecstatic, eyes big. We join the lovely circling parade & are soaked. The hour when light changes every minute, every second. I have been suckled & schooled on irony, so why do I like to see people worship so much? Just as the torrent begins, we reach the Double Dorjee restaurant & duck into the candlelight for momos & thukpa soup.