Sunday, 5 February 2017


for Prof. Elliot Sperling (1951-2017)


Monday, 8 August 2016


When Nyinjey left town
The sun did not show up for three days,
Rain went on beating the resilient leaves
Fog intercoursed with everything on its path,
It sneaked through the cracked windowpanes,
Germinating moulds on our winter shoes.
Days are like nights long hours to drudge,
The pain in my right ear has moved up
Four fingers closer to the crown of my head,
The throbbing is like two bulls fighting
On a sandy river bank, their hooves
Splashing wet sands in ten directions.
Hordes of earwigs are gnawing me from inside.
And I thought of the Big Apple, its lights,
The sunless, smelly subway trains always showing up
On time to gobble up masses of lonely souls,
Worry-soaked and desperate to reach their destinations.
Here is a mosquito trying to land on my
Left foot which hasn’t touched water for a week.
A dog barks in the distance as if
One hundred tiny bones are stuck in its throat.
The kitchen fan whirs on spewing out
Stale air laced with germs from my hysteric coughing.
On a night such as this
What do I hope?
What does he hope?
What do we hope?
Nothing. Anything. Everything.
Ah, a passport with a majestic eagle on it!
A hassle-free travel at the airport.
A little more money.
A little more comfort.
May all of these add up to something
Like a tunnel built by a million ants,
Leading to light and freedom.
My eyeballs pop out of their sockets
Roll across this page,
Soak up the black ink and
Rush back into their holes –
Ah, visionless eyes, such bliss.

When Nyinjey left town
All the brown dogs at the LTWA
Kept fast and a vow of silence for a day,
Even the bull in our village with
Its balls hanging down like icicles in a cave
Refused a banana I gave him,
It went on regurgitating the garbage
It gobbled up in the morning.

When Nyinjey left town
The clock sighed,
As the Symphony No. 6 in B minor
Trickled through cracks of the wet walls.

(Note: This is part of a long poem.)

Sunday, 29 May 2016

‘I Will Carry the Sky’

Review of “Coming Home to Tibet” By Tsering Wangmo Dhompa

Published by Shambhala Publications 

‘I come from there and I have memories / I have a mother /And a house with many windows…’ wrote one of my favourite poets Mahoud Darwish.
Tsering Choden Dhompa came from a place, where the land was so white and cold in the winter you would think a humongous freezer was perpetually at work; in the Summer the same land would transform into a colossal garden as if the goddess of art was letting the entire arsenal of her palette loose on the plateau. This cycle of seasons continued. Yaks pounded flower petals into pulp when the sun was hot or left large imprints in the snow when the wind was cutting into their coats.
Choden lived there until she was forced to encroach on others space as a million bayonets poked through her blue sky and snuffed out the yak-dung fire in her hearth. Soon after being wed to the chieftain of a nomadic clan, she hastily packed her belongings. The year was 1959. It took three more years for Choden and her group to escape from Tibet – braving many encounters with Mao’s Red Army, hunger and death.
In exile she gave birth to her daughter, Tsering Wangmo Dhompa, in Dharamsala, a small town in northern India. Tsering Wangmo grew up listening to her mother’s stories in their tiny rented rooms – tales of flowers so bright one would turn pale at the sight or the land so cold that pee would turn into a thin stripe of yellowish ice before it hit the ground.
At the age of twenty-four, Tsering was left alone with a bunch of hand-written notes and her mother’s recollections enveloping her entire existence.
When the heart is over-burdened with memories, and the mind over-stuffed with tales, they often misbehave and worst still rotate out of their orbit.
For over half-a-century Tibet has been denied her independence. But more importantly, she has lost her stories – often locked away in the forgetful heads of sweater sellers burrowed in Indian cities, or cast aside by monks and lamas who are distracted by monastic rituals. Very little of Tibet’s narrative has been shaped, articulated and asserted by Tibetans themselves. Moreover, interpretations of our reality by outsiders telling fantastic tales have turned us into a mono-coloured one-size-fits-all single commodity. As a result, we can be popularly defined by a few generic sentences: ‘Tibetans are kind-hearted,’ ‘Tibetan culture is so interesting,’ or ‘You are a Buddhist so you are a vegetarian.’
Once an American friend visiting Dharamsala remarked, ‘Tibetan children are so cute with their red cheeks.’ We were sitting on a rooftop restaurant and witnessed a monkey jumping from a tin-roofed house to a tall pine tree. ‘Even the monkeys have red bottoms, so cute!’ she blurted. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.
But I am at peace now. You can sigh with relief too.
At last, Tsering Wangmo Dhompa has written a book which is at once classic and profound. Tsering has nurtured her mother’s stories in the depth of her heart until they are perfectly ripe and then seasoned them with tales from contemporary explorations. The result is Coming Home To Tibet. This is arguably the first-ever book in English – authored by a Tibetan born and raised in exile – that masterfully weaves a number of narratives into a tale to reflect the multi-layered Tibetan way of life and manifold issues facing Tibet today. Never having read a Tibetan story that is so absorbing and refined, I didn’t realise the punch had landed on my belly until the glove was off the hand.
After college in Delhi, Tsering packed her toothbrush and went off to the US to pursue further studies in creative writing. Years later she made a number of visits to her mother’s birthplace in eastern Tibet to confirm the veracity of her mother’s stories which she clung to while moving from one rented place to another. After arriving on the vast landscapes filled with tiny flowers fighting for a space to pop their heads up to the eternal blue sky, Tsering realised her mother’s words were more than matched by the profusion of colours on the ground.
But the land itself can provide only so much gratification. Tsering writes:
‘I have lived my life defined as a refugee in Nepal and India, a resident alien and immigrant in the United States. At last, I am a Tibetan in Tibet, a Khampa in Kham, albeit as a tourist in my occupied and tethered country.’
Tsering does not push herself to the forefront of the narrative. Her love for the land and its people overshadows her and she becomes secondary. She carefully reconstructs Tibetan life through conversations with her relatives – Aunt Tashi, Uncle Phuntsok and Ashang, and over thirty cousin-brothers and sisters – and anyone else who has a story to tell. Like a veteran detective, she lets nothing go unnoticed. To define her people, their civilisation and the present dilemma under occupation, Tsering has picked up the tiniest scraps of evidence such as the way a young man stands leaning against a newly-installed electric pole in Kegyu, or the obstinate persistence of nomads to stick to their land and animals, no matter how much they are bombarded with ideological indoctrination or propaganda about the benefits of life under the red flag.
Tsering has the patience of a hermit when it comes to coaxing tales from the most reticent of informants such as her uncle. After many silent evenings, her uncle tells her of his life and the experiences of over two decades in prison simply for being a lama and the relative of a Tibetan chieftain; how he witnessed as prison guards dragged ‘the dead away like a log of wood down the hallway and disposed them in ditches’; and how he failed to tease even a single drop of tears from his eyes after Mao died when prisoners were ordered to cry or face dire consequences.
Very little has changed in Tibet since the terrible campaigns of the early years of China’s occupation. If at all, the scale of repression has increased. Since the 1990s over 2.5 million Tibetan nomads are being forced to settle at permanent locations. This has caused joblessness, social disharmony and most of all the death of over nine thousand years of Tibet’s mobile civilisation. Nomads are governed by decisions made in Beijing. There is, Tsering writes, ‘no place for truth in the system, just the act of allegiance’ to the rulers.
Coming Home To Tibet records the lives of Tibetans. And yet it is certainly not a book that simply uncovers Chinese rule on the high plateau. Tsering meditates on exile, dislocation and her ‘transnational nomadic existence’. No matter how much she loves her native land that gave birth to her mother, Tsering cannot brave the harsh winter of the land of snows. Icy wind filters into the layers of her garments and cold floors sends chills through three layers of woollen socks and then sneaks into her flesh and bones, forcing her to book a permanent place near the stove. The winter has only begun. Tsering has to find her way out.
The road that brought her into Dhompa – where her grandfather was the chieftain – takes her back to San Francisco, where the electricity is as dependable as a yak. A washing machine, wireless internet, a walk in the park or an occasional cup of coffee has become a part of her life. ‘The city gives one the feeling of being home,’ writes Simone Weil, the French philosopher and mystic.
For displaced people around the world, such as Tsering, there is an urgent need to ‘take the feeling of being at home into exile’ and to ‘be rooted in the absence of a place’ temporarily stolen away from them. If anyone who is over-burdened with memories fails to create a provisional ‘home’ in the borrowed land, the pain gnaws from within and life becomes unliveable.
Coming Home To Tibet is a fitting tribute from a daughter to her mother. Tsering has narrated her personal loss and the collective loss of her homeland like no one else. In her acquired tongue, she has written a book that is dangerously subtle and evocatively beautiful.
‘And I weep to make myself known / To a returning cloud. / I learnt all the words and broke them up / To make a single word: Homeland …’
We can invoke clouds only in poetry. Reality is too harsh and clouds only return to strange lands. On New Year’s day in 1994, Tsering’s mother died in a tragic car accident on India’s Grand Trunk Road. Choden was with three friends.
Words can never fill the void left by the death of a beloved mother or the loss of a country, but they are the only enduring milestones against forgetting. Words assign a place in history for the accused, the persecuted, the occupied and the dead. To forget is not to care and not to care is to collude against memory. It denies truth a chance to triumph.

Coming Home To Tibet is a crowning achievement, a quintessential book worthy of the granddaughter of a Khampa chieftain from Dhompa in eastern Tibet. This should and must be read by all Tibetans and their friends for a thoroughly nuanced understanding of Tibetan lives then and now.

Sunday, 30 August 2015

Quiet Dissent

Quiet Dissent
For Tenzin Delek Rinpoche

You stood tall as a mountain,
You didn’t slip through their fingers like glass-noodles;
They had power over your body
But your mind like a giant eagle in flight was free.
Through your thick glasses you witnessed
Display of their fear with armoured cars,
Automatic rifles, gas masks, fire extinguishers;
Tongues of hatred from the electric batons
Dissolved powerless into your flesh –

You were in deep retreat in the prison cell,
Meditation cutting across
Layers of lies piled up in their documents,
Fabrications spewed on papers printed by minions
Who leave their minds at home and report at work
To follow dictates of the high-ups.
Into your frail frame flowed
The fluid terror they unleashed from
Sunup until wolves howled at midnight,
Impossible sensation of thin bamboo strips
Driven into your finger nails,
Ghosts of their shadows leaned on your walls,
All through this your mind rested in the ground
Silent invocations arising
From the infinite mother-like space –

I was staring into the pale Indian skies
When the news cried:
You were no more.
A hint of poison tinged your nails and lips
Jail uniform draped over your disjointed shoulders
Your glasses fallen from your shrunken head
Cracked on the floor.
At night they singed your remains
Even your ashes could not be claimed; but
Your spirit glowing in sublime wisdom
Took root in the snow land,
Manifesting in six million incarnations,
Twelve million arms and twelve million eyes
To gnaw at their insecure psyche
To raise fever of their fear.
To melt bullets defying cold orders.
Sparks from your life-light illuminate our footpaths
Dust of your mountain home settle on the
Windowsills of our rented rooms
Beams from your fractured eyeglasses
Mingle with the rage in our hearts.
You are us, living
In a smoky tent pitched on a mountainside.
You are us, living
In a transit camp at a forsaken border town.
You are us, living
In a tin-roofed shack in the hot plains.
You are us, living
In a refurbished condo in an illuminated city.

Now that your spirit has enveloped the globe,
Fear multiplies in the shady cracks of their hearts.

Written in memory of Tenzin Delek Rinpoche, spiritual master,  environmentalist, social worker,  freedom fighter and human rights advocate. 

Tenzin Delek worked to develop social, medical, educational and religious institutions for Tibetan nomads, and advocated for environmental conservation in the face of indiscriminate Chinese logging and mining projects in Tibet. On 2 December 2002, the Chinese authorities sentenced him to death on trumped up charges of bombing and explosions. The sentence was later commutated to life in prison.

He said, "Since I am a Tibetan, I have always been sincere and devoted to the interests and well-being of Tibetan people. That is the real reason why the Chinese do not like me and framed me. That is why they are going to take my precious life even though I am innocent."

On 12 July 2015, Tenzin Delek died  most likely murdered  in a Chinese prison after 13 years of incarceration.

Wednesday, 15 July 2015

The Last Words of Sonam Topgyal

To the leaders of the Chinese Government and particularly to the local heads of the minorities;

I am the twenty-seven-year-old son of Tashitsang of Nangchen, Yulshul in Tso.ngon region. Currently, I am a monk studying at Dzongsar Institute.

As people within the country and outside are aware, the Chinese government does not look at the true and actual situation of the minorities but practices only harsh and repressive policies on them. At a time when the government is carrying out policies to stamp out our religion, tradition and culture, and destroy our natural environment, there is absolutely no freedom of expression for the people, and there is no channel to talk about our situation and file our complaints.

Furthermore, every time the people try to report truth about their situation and file any complaint, instead of providing solutions, the authorities retaliate with more crackdowns and arrests. Through various deceptive regulations, the government also prevents monks and nuns from joining religious institutions. In a nutshell, they are carrying policies to completely wipe out the minorities.

Our chief goal is for His Holiness the Dalai Lama to be able to return to the Potala Palace. I sacrifice my life to prove to the world and especially the people of China and the Chinese authorities that we have absolutely no power or channels to talk about injustices being done to us.

My Tibetans brothers and sisters of the same blood, please do not remain aloof as if you have seen or heard nothing. Be united, be strong and work hard for our just struggle so we win in the end.

Written on 1 July 2015 just as the sun was rising: Sonam Topgyal

27-year-old monk, Sonam Topgyal, set himself on fire on Thursday 9 July at Gesar Square in Kyegudo in Yulshul, Kham, Eastern Tibet

Monday, 21 July 2014

Under the Crimson Sky

My review (written in 2010) of Nagtsang Nulo's book appeared in Yak Horns, after Dharamsala-based Khawa Karpo Tibetan Culture Centre published the Indian edition of Nulo's book in Tibetan. Following is the first three paras and the full review can be read in my book:

The day before the People’s Liberation Army (PLA) marched into his village in Northeastern Tibet, Nagtsang Nuden Lobsang – popularly known as Nulo – had a terrifying dream. Thousands of heavily-armed men on horseback galloped amidst dark clouds and dust, shooting everyone in their way. People were felled like willow trees cut by chainsaws. The eight-year-old Nulo had nowhere to hide and tried running after his father whose face was covered with blood. At this moment he cried out, ‘Father!’ Then Nulo’s cousin, sleeping alongside him, punched him in the belly to wake him up.
In January 1956, Beijing dispatched an additional 150,00 troops into Eastern Tibet. Over the next two years, the PLA imposed a campaign of repression and terror. Monasteries were destroyed and monks were tortured, sometimes burned alive and often forced to have intercourse with nuns right in front of the troops. Arrested Tibetan guerrilla fighters were crucified, dismembered, decapitated or sent to hard labour camps. Entire rebelling villages were decimated. News of these Chinese atrocities had already been trickling into the village where Nulo lived with his nomad family.

For a few days the villagers had been watching PLA troops gathering at a makeshift camp on the other side the river. Then, on the morning of Nulo’s dream premonition, monks at the local Tashi Choeling Monastery decided to stage a grand reception for the Chinese military in the hope that their monastery would be saved from impending destruction. The monks lined up on the sides of the approach road in their finest robes playing religious music usually reserved for high spiritual leaders, and holding white scarves in greeting. The Chinese troops marched in the middle of the road in their shabby uniforms, beating their drums and holding red flags aloft. They took up residence in the monastery and installed their radio and wireless radar equipment on the rooftops where prayer flags fluttered....
READ the full review from YAK HORNS available here: