India: An Audience With His Holiness (cont.)
After five minutes that feel like an eternity, hearty laughter rings out from beyond the screen door. And like a drop of water falling into a calm pool and sending tiny ripples outward, the warm laughter of the Dalai Lama releases a bit of the tension. Standing, we can’t help but grin as he comes into the room, eyes twinkling with fun. “Sit down!” he commands, roughly yet playfully. During his time as Dalai Lama, he’s cut out a lot of the traditional decorum and is known for being rather casual, insisting he’s just a simple monk. Settling himself into his chair, adjusting his plain robes, he looks alertly around the room. Nervously, silently, the Westerners look back, while the Tibetans in the room keep their eyes down in respect.
Though we have an established structure of questions and answers for this hour-long audience, the time moves at his pace. He addresses the Tibetans in the room – our language teachers who hover in the back, tiny women bent over at the waist to show their respect. They murmur and giggle in response to his comments. These women we know as host mothers, as teachers, suddenly turn into shy little girls in his presence. In a traditional gesture to show that one is not a monster-like descendent of Lang-Darma, a 9th century Tibetan king who repressed Buddhism, our teachers scratch their heads to reveal the absence of horns and stick out their tongues to show they are a natural red hue – and not the blue of a monster.
In Tibetan, the Dalai Lama's voice is rough and loud and clearly playful; and even though we don’t get the jokes being made, we laugh along with the Tibetans. Then, turning serious, his voice softening, the Dalai Lama addresses the group in English. Soon it is time for questions. Somehow I manage to muster a voice, and I read aloud from the scrap of paper I hold in my shaking hands. Glad to have the words out, I look up – and I’m startled to realize he’s looking at me attentively, from just a few feet away. He’s silent for some time before he answers my question.
The topics of the questions range from politics to the Dharma to romantic love The Dalai Lama's answers are unpredictable; they are far from the usual packaged response of American politicians. He listens to each question thoughtfully as it’s asked in English, then turns to his translators to clarify minor details. While the Dalai Lama is extremely thoughtful and serious in responding to our questions, he’s also prone to breaking off into rolling laughter in the midst of any subject. His whole body shakes when he laughs; and his delight is contagious, sending the whole room into uproar. Each of his responses is well-reasoned, unique and insightful. He leaves us with a lot to think about.
After all our questions have been answered, we move outdoors for a photograph. We stand timidly around him; and he laughs, drawing us into a tight cluster, grinning for the camera as though this is his first time being photographed. We file past him, bending forward at the waist, offering our long katahs and bowing as he ceremoniously refuses them and drapes them instead around our own necks. I stoop low and offer my red cords for blessing; he holds them to his forehead and mouths a prayer. These cords will bring protection to friends around the world – including many I’ll meet in my coming month of travel through rural Tibet, offering one connection to their faraway leader. And with that, the Dalai Lama bids us farewell, cheerfully wishing us safe travels in Tibet, the homeland he hasn’t seen since 1959, and walks briskly away. Halfway up the hill to his house, he turns back to wave and smile – and then he’s gone.
I leave the grounds dumbfounded and euphoric, a gleam in my eyes and a grin on my face that lasts all day. Over the course of the next days I struggle to identify exactly why this experience has affected me so personally. I’ve heard many prominent politicians and leaders speak before – including some whom I respect and believe to be heartfelt and intelligent. But after none of them has there been this unexpected feeling of elation, this newfound sense of hope that the audience with the Dalai Lama instilled in me. And thus I become aware that somewhere in my Western subconscious I’d been skeptical of what this experience could mean to me.
In some way, I’d expected to be disappointed. I’d expected meeting the Dalai Lama to be exciting, memorable, maybe even thrilling – but not transformative, visionary, or personal. I’d anticipated run-of-the-mill, scripted answers; I’d expected to perceive an ulterior political agenda. Above all, I had not counted on the authenticity, honesty and thoughtfulness that I perceived – because these are not qualities I’ve come to expect of my own country’s leadership. In many ways, the Dalai Lama stood in sharp contrast to most U.S. leaders: his genuine compassion and kindness; his forgiveness and love for his foreign enemy, China; his playful sense of humor; his optimism in the face of violence and murder; his humility and simplicity. To my surprise, here was a leader who considered himself a citizen of the world, who spoke truthfully and compassionately, who was humble, and forgiving, and kind.
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