Boudhanath stupa in the morning is beautiful—everyone doing kora and feeding the pigeons, which take to the air in huge swathes. All around the stupa there are pockets of sudden sound as the wings beat the air. Around ten thirty I walk over to the Khenpo’s gompa.
A monk greets me. “Hello, Khenpo is busy now, you wait little bit.” We chat for a few minutes. He is young and furry, tells me he is going to Seattle soon for a few months, to study and practice at a center there. Today there are some Chinese visitors at the gompa, that’s why it’s a little busy for everyone. After a few minutes the visitors and other monks pour out of the gompa.
I chat with another monk, who shows me a string of mala. “I don’t know, maybe worth something maybe not,” he says. “Chinese visitors give to all monks.” I tell him I think they’re worth a lot of money and he should sell them. He glances up at me to make sure I am joking, then laughs. Khenpo comes up with an identical string of beads. He shoves them at me. “You take, I don’t need. I already have. Later I teach you how to use.”
Khenpo leads me up some side stairs to the roof of the gompa. “You meet monk, he is from America, same country like you.” I think he means Allan, the American monk I heard about who teaches here. “No, not Allan, this is Tibetan monk but he born in America, very good English.”
We enter some spacious rooms, brightly decorated, painted walls, not a speck of dirt anywhere. A small boy emerges. He is wearing a white robe under a yellow amarak, and thick red socks. He wears glasses and has longish dark hair. Serious expression on his young face. He sits on a cushioned bench, with a natural dignity, although his feet dangle. This is the young Rinpoche.
Khenpo and I sit on the floor and look at photo albums. Hundreds of photos of Rinpoche’s family—mostly taken in America. Rinpoche as a baby, a toddler, in American clothes and monastic robes, with his grandfather and four uncles, with his mother. Rinpoche watches me look at the photos. “That’s me as a baby,” he says softly. Whenever there is a photo of his sister, he points it out with special enthusiasm. “That’s my little sister,” he says. “It’s Halloween so she is a ladybug.”
“What do you do all day?” I ask him. “I study with my teachers,” he says. “I play sometimes.” His voice is so quiet I can barely hear him. “I get a little bored sometimes,” he admits, “because there are only four rooms here. I only stay here.” I ask him if he ever goes outside. “If I have a doctors appointment, or something like that, I go,” he says. “But mostly I stay inside.”
His family is in America. He was brought here to be educated and trained. He seems older than seven, which he tells me is his age in English (the Tibetan way of counting years is different).
Khenpo explains, “Not feeling well today.” Perhaps the little Rinpoche is not always so quiet and serious. We leave. I feel privileged to have met this tiny, solemn ‘precious one’; at the same time I want to take his hand and pull him out of his suite, let him run and play and shout like the child he is, explore all of Kathmandu.
A monk greets me. “Hello, Khenpo is busy now, you wait little bit.” We chat for a few minutes. He is young and furry, tells me he is going to Seattle soon for a few months, to study and practice at a center there. Today there are some Chinese visitors at the gompa, that’s why it’s a little busy for everyone. After a few minutes the visitors and other monks pour out of the gompa.
I chat with another monk, who shows me a string of mala. “I don’t know, maybe worth something maybe not,” he says. “Chinese visitors give to all monks.” I tell him I think they’re worth a lot of money and he should sell them. He glances up at me to make sure I am joking, then laughs. Khenpo comes up with an identical string of beads. He shoves them at me. “You take, I don’t need. I already have. Later I teach you how to use.”
Khenpo leads me up some side stairs to the roof of the gompa. “You meet monk, he is from America, same country like you.” I think he means Allan, the American monk I heard about who teaches here. “No, not Allan, this is Tibetan monk but he born in America, very good English.”
We enter some spacious rooms, brightly decorated, painted walls, not a speck of dirt anywhere. A small boy emerges. He is wearing a white robe under a yellow amarak, and thick red socks. He wears glasses and has longish dark hair. Serious expression on his young face. He sits on a cushioned bench, with a natural dignity, although his feet dangle. This is the young Rinpoche.
Khenpo and I sit on the floor and look at photo albums. Hundreds of photos of Rinpoche’s family—mostly taken in America. Rinpoche as a baby, a toddler, in American clothes and monastic robes, with his grandfather and four uncles, with his mother. Rinpoche watches me look at the photos. “That’s me as a baby,” he says softly. Whenever there is a photo of his sister, he points it out with special enthusiasm. “That’s my little sister,” he says. “It’s Halloween so she is a ladybug.”
“What do you do all day?” I ask him. “I study with my teachers,” he says. “I play sometimes.” His voice is so quiet I can barely hear him. “I get a little bored sometimes,” he admits, “because there are only four rooms here. I only stay here.” I ask him if he ever goes outside. “If I have a doctors appointment, or something like that, I go,” he says. “But mostly I stay inside.”
His family is in America. He was brought here to be educated and trained. He seems older than seven, which he tells me is his age in English (the Tibetan way of counting years is different).
Khenpo explains, “Not feeling well today.” Perhaps the little Rinpoche is not always so quiet and serious. We leave. I feel privileged to have met this tiny, solemn ‘precious one’; at the same time I want to take his hand and pull him out of his suite, let him run and play and shout like the child he is, explore all of Kathmandu.
posted by antonia @ 12:23:00 PM
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