McLeod Ganj Day One

on with events.

cooking class with llhamo at 10 am.
was brilliant.
im not a cook, not that im incapable, but i have the unfortunate habit of thinking my genius is far greater than any recipe and tweaking is always in order.
that is if im even motivated to cook at all.
so here we were.
myself, a lovely german woman, and an indian couple from mumbai.
we were to be making momos.
and determined to become momo masters.
or just saying momo a lot was satisfying as well.

our instructor was a man who had been teaching these classes for over 10 years now, recommended by lonely planet (oh holy of holies) and some other guide.
he was exact, precise, and rather good at repeating things and making us repeat things so that we could actually create something edible.
he had also come to dharamsala from tibet when he was 16 years old, part of a group of 20 who had the good fortune of making it all over alive, minus a few digits lost of frostbite.
all of his were intact.
his mother is apparently a well known chef in lhasa.
everything he taught to us (and a long line of tourists), he had learned from her.
bit of task master, he was, but it was good for us.
for we were unruly children prone to giggling and in need of discipline.
theres something about playing with dough that does that.

i, perhaps inappropriately, asked questions regarding his journey across the mountains, and his life now in dharamsala. how he lives without family and having never again seen his mother.
theres that strange tension in the air, however.
when dualing energies want dominion.
one the playful, childish, lets have fun we are on vacation sense of things
and the other - the energy that radiates from the shitty things on the world corner.
not precisely sadness. and nothing at all to do with pity (though often misplaced i think when it does arise)
but a grim energy of the darker threads of living.
of striving for something like happiness.
in my mind - gaiety is not happiness.
but thats another distraction for another day.
and in this cooking class, half way through, play won out and i felt edgy and irritated, for too many reasons. with myself, with the others, with the world.
and i gave in and had fun, functioning through those contrasting layers of thought and emotion because, now, my mind had been nudged and that wrinkle refused to be ignored.
no matter how hilarious it is to use a rolling pin.

and so we kneaded, and mixed, and rolled, and pinched.
and pinched and pinched. (look up how to make a momo - traditionally - note the italics there and youll understand - they involve small discs of dough with filling and the pinch is required to close them well and with style)
llamo was quite particular even about hand position.
the pinch can turn out completely wrong if the hand is not in the proper position.
and the pinch means worlds.
your pinching can lead to mountains, friendship, and good luck.
be mindful of that pinching.
there is actual and symbolic beauty to be found in that dough.

in the end, my pinching abilities were passable.
those good luck ones were a bitch.
but as my brother would say,
'it all comes out the same way.'
i take comfort in this.

we photographed, we filmed, we shared business cards, we passed on a tip or two to llamo (plus his 200 rupees fee of course) and walked away from one another after 2 and half hours of momo giddiness.
bellies full and smile intact.

i then went wondering. on the hunt for a yoga school that all the ads plastered on the walls of mcleod ganj displayed.
one class was managable and i wanted to know their schedule.
i also wanted to just get through one day without getting lost.
but i thnk im just good at that.
evetually found my way, picked up a brochure and planned to make the yoga session the next day at 2 pm. 2 hours of yoga. for my aching body actually sounded wonderful.

i checked my time. almost 2 of the day i had in hand and i remembered a blonde woman who had begged that i come by for english conversation class - they were apparently always in need.
she had also mentioned a friday movie for tibetan documentary screening at 7 that i was already planning to attend (i cant resist documentaries, no matter what theyre about) -
and i thought. hm. sure. lets do this english thing. should be fun. i always love speaking with non-native speakers attempting to learn the insanity that is english.
(i recognize my own good fortune of my parents choosing the ever so blessed country that is the US of A to immigrate to.)
so off i went. a few minutes late.
no big deal.
blonde woman picks out 4 tibetans as my charges and we settle in another room to begin discussion. our mission for the afternoon was to go over 4 questions concerning the gov in tibet, the gov in exile, voting, democracies and communism.
sure... no problem.
i had a lay tibetan, a monk, and two nuns to lead.
i felt out of my league.

'um, i dont know who the prime minister of tibet is.'
blonde girl smiles
'thats good because thats what theyre are supposed to be able to tell you.'
'ah...so... what do i do?'
'just talk.'
right.
talking and i dont always get along.
so i sat, smiled, introduced myself and sampled a little more optimism.

and we made it through. question after question. where i wrote down answers in english and they copied and studied, murmuring over and over to themselves, practicing their pronunciation, working out the sound of the 'i' in 'prime' and 'exile' and learning words like 'dedicated' and 'educated'
and chanting vOHte not waht
there was still something tricky about that 'v' by the end
and those long vowels were something else, but they all sounded lovely.
truly.
and that endless murmuring... english rarely sounds so soothing.
they worked so hard, chattering with one another to be sure of the correct statement and prompting me every few seconds on another pronunciation.
they were at different levels, the strongest english speaker became something of a translator and when we were all finished up the discussion questions, we had a little time for q & a
where i learned their individuals stories and what they thought of being in india.
and how insanely shy they were about attempting to answer in english.
so in the end i stopped harassing them (fine line between that and encouragement) and they stopped hiding behind their little notebooks and spoke freely with my lay tibetan charge translating. they would look between the two of us the entire time. even the moments they looked me in the eye and i had no idea what they were saying... (the nuns in particular. both of them.)
its that moment when you can sense much more than the language will ever share.
even had i actually mentally understood their words.
i wont relate their stories, they arent mine to share and i could not do them justice regardless but there was something that particularly unsettled me - a question one nun asked of me just before we were called to reform into the larger group and present the discussion answers.
she asked 'what do you think will happen to tibet after the dalai lama leaves us?'
i had opened my mouth, completely at a loss, my first statement being,
'please know that i speak from limited knowledge'
and i paused - attempting to come up with something -
and thank god blonde girl called us back.
for i certainly did not know. i didnt know a damn thing.
and my blood raged in that moment.
and i was ready for flight. in something between fear and anger.
it obviously occurs to me now that i simply could have said
'i dont know'
but even that would not have sufficed.

and as the others gathered their things to move back to the main room
she looked at me
a small, grim smile on her face
and i could feel what she thought, even if the words would not come
were just out of reach - of some dangerous edge.
and something hurt so deeply - a piercing sort of ache.
that has stayed with me these 4 days.

i didnt say goodbye to her.
i moved too slowly and before i could find her, she had gone.

i intended to ask blonge (asutralian apparently) girl about her later at the movie night.
but i felt horribly ill that afternoon.
and went to sleep
at 5pm no less. and missed the documentaries entirely.