In Exile From the Land of Snows (66 page)

Flight IC-424, a small jet which makes the daily run from New Delhi up to Srinigar and back, takes off for the capital at 3:15. On board, the Dalai Lama sits beside a Kashmiri Moslem with whom he converses until the sari-clad stewardess appears with a basket of candies and the plane lands at Palam Airport. Tenzin Gyatso bids his companion farewell, disembarks and is welcomed on the tarmac by officials from the Ministry of External Affairs, North Division. On the far side of the terminal, three hundred Tibetans wait around the school band of the Majnu-ka Tilla refugee camp. Flutes and drums play beneath the Indian and Tibetan flags, and the children sing “Channa Palmo,” Holder of the Lotus, a paean to Tibet’s patron saint, Avalokiteshvara and the favorite anthem of Tibet’s old regimental bands. The Dalai Lama then drives to the Ashoka Hotel, the Indian Tourist Ministry’s state-owned complex where, for the next two days, he conducts audiences from a suite on the fourth floor of the large sandstone annex.

At 10:30 on the morning of January 24, Tenzin Gyatso leaves the Ashoka to fulfill the purpose of his stop in New Delhi. A police car leads the way from the hotel’s grand, arched doorway, down the capital’s wide, tree-lined avenues to its Parliament building, which, half a mile in circumference, stands entirely ringed by an open colonnade. Arriving beneath the massive portico, the Dalai Lama enters the building and, turning right, is led into the office of the Prime Minister’s special assistant, adjacent to the chamber of the Lok Sabha or lower house. There he is greeted by Indira Gandhi who ushers him through an adjoining door into her wood-paneled office overlooking the rose gardens and fountains in the Parliament’s interior. Their talk is strictly confidential. It is plain, however, that matters of some significance are being discussed. Of late, India and China have begun to negotiate a resolution to their border differences. This is rejected as a possible topic by Tibetans who know of the meeting. So is the likelihood of a bid by the Dalai Lama to have Tibet’s plight addressed at the seventh summit of non-aligned nations to be held in New Delhi in little over a month. Only one thing seems plausible—a development in relations between Dharamsala and Peking critical enough to warrant informing the Indian Prime Minister. This is heady stuff, but when the Dalai Lama leaves an hour later, as expected, no explanation is given, not even a rumor slips out. Instead, the party departs the Ashoka the following morning, drives to Palam Airport and, after a two-hour delay, boards IC-489 bound east to Patna, capital of Bihar.

Late Afternoon:
In the distance, the rocket-like capstan of Bodh Gaya’s
temple comes into view. Its massive stone flanks, coated in a ruddy, pastel light, grow in size until they loom over the plain. Then, as the lead car of the Dalai Lama’s column passes before the Japanese Monastery on the right, the sound of two Tibetan long horns thunders off its roof, reverberates ahead and is picked up by relaying pairs at the Thai, Chinese and finally the Tibetan
gompa
itself. Welcome gates grace the way and abruptly the cars slow to a near halt. Khatas, incense and flowers in hand, almost thirty thousand Tibetans stretch in two long lines down either side of the road. Among them stand five hundred pilgrims from Tibet, noticeable not just for the ragged condition of their robes but, as the Dalai Lama’s car passes, an almost universal weeping. Dressed in crested yellow hats, holding rainbow-hued victory banners, and playing cymbals, horns and drums, Bodh Gaya’s monks welcome the Dalai Lama at the monastery’s threshold. He is shown to his usual quarters on the second floor and while the entourage adjourns to the dining room for a meal, the great crowd sees to its own dinner in the adjacent tent city.

At 8:30 in the morning of February 1, the Dalai Lama leaves the Tibetan monastery. Behind a phalanx of khaki-clad police he walks to the precincts of the temple, enters at the west gate, circumambulates the highest, outer ring and, descending at the shrine room, rounds the monument to the site of the Bodhi Tree. The entire crowd rises as he comes before them, palms pressed together at his chest, smiling broadly. The weather is bright and warm, the flowering gardens filled with birdsong, the Bodhi Tree itself a ship of green sails hung in pennants and prayer-flags. The Dalai Lama prostrates quickly, dons his yellow teaching robe and mounts the brocade-draped throne beneath its red and blue cotton canopy. As he places his wristwatch face upwards on the table to his right, the assembly completes its prostrations, thousands of heads bobbing up for a final time before settling into a motionless sea. The preliminary prayers, led by the
umze
or chant master, begin. At their conclusion, hundreds of white puffs, like a silent cannonade, advance on the tree and throne from the rear of the audience. Coming closer, they focus into a wave of
khatas
, bunched and hurled forward, bunched again and hurled again by each tier of listeners. When the fusillade ends five minutes later, the high lamas in the front row appear to be floating in a cloud of white cotton descended to earth. Clearing little islands around their knees, they lean forward attentively as the Dalai Lama starts to speak. As always, he prefaces his teaching with remarks on the usefulness of religious practice in daily life. Today, however, he delivers a piece of news which, more than explaining his meeting with Indira Gandhi, amounts to one of the most significant statements he has made since coming into exile twenty-four years before.

“If conditions permit,” he says informally in the middle of his talk, “I am thinking of paying a visit to Tibet sometime in 1985. I am not likely to fall into any traps,” he quickly adds to reassure the crowd. “I’ve had thirty years’ experience dealing with the Chinese.”

The Dalai Lama’s announcement, which he has chosen to deliver at the center of his faith, signals a quantum leap to the Tibetan refugees. After three years of stalemate between Dharamsala and Peking, the Tibetan diaspora once more comes alive with anticipation. Despite the torrent of speculation, Tenzin Gyatso seems almost unconcerned with the nuances of the present political maneuvering. Already, following his return from Bodh Gaya, he is thinking of the future, toward the day when Tibet once more will control its own destiny. Sitting behind his desk, piled high with government reports, he reflects on that time. “During our stay in India we have prepared some sort of solution for the future of Tibet based on our own draft constitution,” he explains. “We practice according to it as much as we can in a foreign land. In the future, from this side, we will make a presentation to our people inside. Now, you see, we will discuss it, but the ultimate decision will be made by Tibetans in Tibet itself. Those people have really suffered. It is their determination which inspires us. The younger ones in particular have gone through tremendous difficulties and have gained useful experience. I am quite sure that they will take the right path.”

And for the distant future, the Dalai Lama reveals that he has long considered retiring, though doing so in a manner which would radically alter the nature of his position and, with it, Tibet’s government. “There are many prophecies which indicate that I will be the last Dalai Lama,” he continues, matter-of-factly. “The world is changing so dramatically, that there may no longer be a need for the lineage. Even if the institution of the Dalai Lama does remain, the method of choosing the new Dalai Lama may not be the old, traditional way. I may pick the next Dalai Lama myself. Theoretically, this is possible, and for practical reasons it may be more sound. Then, once I have chosen him I can become an extra Dalai Lama. Just a simple Buddhist monk,” he adds, laughing. “In any event, the future is very open, very large. Anything can happen. In general, if we handle our situation carefully and act in accordance with our beliefs it is possible that things will turn out well in the end. Certain of the predictions concerning Tibet’s future make this point and I myself have always been convinced of it.”

On December 16, 1984, six days after the return from Peking of a second negotiating team, the Dalai Lama stated that he would not visit Tibet in 1985. The latest round of talks, which had lasted for a month, served once more only to highlight the differences between Tibet and China. During the course of the discussions, Chinese newspapers publicized five conditions for the Dalai Lamai’s return. Among them were stipulations that he live in Peking, not Tibet, and that he and his representatives should not “beat around the bush … quibbling over the deeds of 1959.” The terms were capped by a final point stating that if the Dalai Lama chose to “come back” he could give “a brief statement to the press” in which it would be “up to him to decide what he would like to say.”

While the Tibetan diaspora reacted with outrage to the Chinese points, the Dalai Lama’s own statement was mild. It noted that once again China had either failed to grasp or deliberately distorted the critical issue of Tibet’s fate by addressing only that of his own status. “The question of my return does not arise at all,” it said, “as long as the Tibetan people are not fully satisfied.” The Dalai Lama concluded, in the latest step in the developing relationship, by stating that, although a 1985 visit was no longer possible, in the future he still hoped “to make a short visit to Tibet.”

—John F. Avedon
1985

The Dalai Lama.
Photograph © 1979 by Richard Avedon.

I
N THIS PRESENT GENERATION
, in a way, we have reached a high level of development. At the same time, we human beings are facing many problems. Certain problems are the result of external or natural events. These we cannot avoid. Others derive from our own mental defects—something we lack inside. Because of them we have extra suffering. Now unless we have the right attitude in our minds toward society and mankind, material development alone is not sufficient. This is quite clear. If we adopt a right attitude, however, then these man-made problems might not occur.

The basic point is compassion: love for others, concern for their suffering, less selfishness. I feel compassionate thought is most precious. Only we human beings can develop it in our hearts. If we have this—a good heart, a warm heart—we ourselves will be happy and satisfied. Our friends also will be. And if we extend it from nation to nation, country to country, continent to continent, perhaps we can come to enjoy a friendly atmosphere and real peace.

The question is: how to develop compassion? Basically, this has to do with the feeling of “I.” On a conventional level, there is an “I.” “I want, I do not want”—one’s own experience. Because of that sense of “I,” we naturally want happiness and do not want suffering. In addition, we have the right to try to obtain happiness and to avoid suffering. Now, as I myself have this feeling and right, others also have the same feeling and right. The difference is that when you say “I,” you are referring to just
one single person, whereas others are limitless. You can visualize this. On one side imagine your own “I,” which so far has concentrated only on selfish motives. Put it close before you. Beyond it imagine others: limitless beings. Your present self becomes a third person looking on. You can see then that the feeling of wanting happiness and not wanting suffering is equal between yourself and others: absolutely the same. The right to obtain happiness is also identical. No matter how renowned or wealthy the selfishly motivated person is, he or she is only one person. No matter how poor the others are, they are infinite. Naturally, the many are more important than the one. So you see, if I use other infinite beings for selfish ends, then it is absolutely wrong—even if I can, I may not be happy. However, if I contribute or serve as much as I can, then that will be a source of great joy.

Through this attitude you can develop real love for others. This type of compassionate development can even extend to your enemy. Our ordinary sense of love is very much related to attachment. To a large extent, we love our family members because they are attached to us—“my” mother, “my” father, “my” children, and so on. But this love is centered on a selfish, possessive motive.

We develop true compassion only when we clearly recognize the importance of others. If you cultivate compassion from this viewpoint, then it will extend even to your enemy. In order to generate such an attitude, we must have tolerance and patience. Without tolerance, it is difficult to develop this. Now who can help you cultivate tolerance? Your enemy. Your enemy can teach you tolerance. Your own teacher, your own parent, cannot. So the enemy is actually very helpful to you. The enemy is really your best friend, your best teacher. If you can think that way, if you can cultivate this kind of attitude, then you will experience infinite compassion for all beings.

According to my own experience, the greatest achievements come from the most difficult periods in life. If you always choose an easy path, then one day when you face certain problems, you’ll feel depressed. It is mainly by encountering difficulties that you learn. From them you gain inner strength, courage, determination. Now again, who gives you the opportunity to develop these qualities? Your enemy does. It does not mean that you obey or bow down to him. Sometimes, depending on the enemies’ attitude, you may have to take strong action. However, though a forceful response may be necessary, it can be undertaken without losing your deep inner sense of calm and compassion. It is possible. Some people may feel or think, “Now the Dalai Lama is talking nonsense,” but this is not the case. If you practice, if you test this through
your own experience, then you will find it is possible. Okay?