In a grimy parking lot at Majnu ka Tilla, the “Tibetan settlement” of Delhi, an Indian man staggers toward me to reveal his Jeans cut across the right thigh & a brace stabilizing his withered twisted leg, he holds out his right palm smiling big & says “Home leet!” but I am threadbare & stomach-sick so I smile weakly & remind him I already gave him rupees back at the street vendor but he just repeats “Home leet!” & I wonder if its “One leet” he’s saying & that maybe a leet is a few rupees & I shake my head no but his teeth are flat & big & white & he smiles like a dog on its back, obsequious & desperate, & he is pointing to a little vendor, “Home leet!” & I say “Omelet! You want an omelet?” & he nods & nods, grinning joylessly.

I meet my lovely mother at the airport. She is wide-eyed, drinking in all she sees, taking slow pictures of chaotic broiling Delhi (now over 40 degrees) & Najafgargh with the great patience that has always provided balance to my father & me. On our morning train ride north, toward the hill stations, crossing Punjab’s endless fields of sun-golden wheat, the heat rises & our car overpacked with Sikh boys & Hindu grandmas wilts. My nausea has passed, but I am still weak.

In the evening we arrive at Dharamsala to meet Tiina. She studies Tibetan buddhism & has lived a year of her life here, home of the exiled Tibetans & the Dalai Lama, who attends tonight a high-profile cricket game (between the Punjab Kings & the Deccan Chargers) that has brought half of India to Lower Dharamsala this week. MacLeod Ganj, the upper village, is such a cool & calm relief after Delhi. We eat breakfast (chocolate pancakes, fruit & honey with curd, filtered coffee (ie not Nescafe!)) on a balcony at Carpe Diem, the Nepali place, with a clear view of the Kangra Valley below the Dhauladar Mountains. It’s breathtaking here, the servants’ entrance to the Himalayas. Hillside houses, nestled shyly between coniferous trees, festooned with miles of bright prayer flags, are yellow & pink & blue & white. A hawk circles very close & slow at eye level. A small brown monkey descends calmly the drainpipe of an adjoining rooftop.

Still, I’m holding on a little tight. I can’t get that fella’s smile out of my head, the one with the sad leg. On Bhagsu Road an Indian man squatting on a low roof offers my mother & me hash. “No thank you,” I say. “What did he say?” my mother asks. She is taking pictures of two Tibetan women carrying great loads up a steep winding stairwell. A monk with a devilish twinkle drifts past carrying a flat of eggs.

This is a complicated place. The mix of people laying claim is precarious. There are the Indians from this region, Himachal Pradesh; the Tibetans who were born here & speak Hindi & intermarry; the newly-arrived from Tibet Tibetans, who often marry westerners & move to Europe or Australia; the drug-addled Tibetans; the loveable Tibetan monks, in bright reds & yellows, with mobile phones & sharp sneakers, who always seem to be chuckling to themselves or kicking a ball with children; the Indian beggars squatting along the road empty-handed or sliding a bow across a dusty zither; the bougey tourists with expensive luggage, noses in their Lonely Planet guides; the hardened travelers in kurta pyjamas & dreads & dangling earrings & muddy sandals, with faroff looks, from no country any more. This masala of beings is a bit like the minor traffic jams that happen on stairwells, between dogs & monkeys & cows & goats & chickens.

Last year somebody set fire to a bunch of motorcycles, & the Indians blamed the Tibetans & attacked Tibetan shops, smashing their figurines & bells. A few years back a Tibetan nun was raped. Recently, a tourist’s head was found in the underbrush of Upper Bhagsu.

About 100 years ago there was an earthquake at MacLeod Ganj that leveled it. Some Tibetans believe that the presence of the Dalai Lama prevents another such. But this place—so peaceful & violent, such a great example of integration, with all the pain of wounded India & these exiles shored against the mountains—is a kind of mirage. One shudder wipes the slate. Because we hurt we understand. I really think I should’ve bought that fella an omelet.

This entry was posted on Monday, April 19th, 2010 at 7:27 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.