There are countless prayer flags waiving in the mountains. They are called Loong-ta, meaning Windhorse, because it is the fastest mode of transportation to the heavens. No matter how far their owners wander, the flags always wave their wishes of peace and prosperity in all directions. Loong-ta, riding the wind.
How Sonya makes Chai
Sonya is full of laughter and smiles. She’s all warm heart and light spirit. The mosquitos by her house love to bite me, and I have a series of nasty red bumps all up the side of my leg. She catches me swatting at them, and rushes over with a wet cloth for me to put over my legs. I’m not really sure what that’s supposed to accomplish, but it’s cool and soothing and provides another barrier between me and the mosquitos.
Giggling, she scampers off to the kitchen, where she dictates her chai recipe to me.
This is how Sonya makes chai:
First, take small pinches of the following spices:
- Cardamom pods
- fennel seeds
- cloves
- black peppercorns
Grind them as finely as possible and place them into boiling water.
Add black tea leaves
And some sugar
(“Only a little. Ok a little more because you are soooo sweet!” she says, pouring a ton of sugar in the water)
She allows the tea to boil a few minutes and then turns off the heat. She adds the milk last, fresh from her family’s cow. She strains the tea, and hands it to me in a small porcelain tea cup.
When I first met Sonya, her English was choppy but fearless. She’d laugh at herself when she couldn’t find the words. Now, still punctuated with laughter, she explains entire paragraphs of thoughts to me. It is uniquely her language.
She tries to teach me Hindi. Little phrases repeating over and over again until I get the intonation correct or at least close enough. She claps excitedly when I remember things from previous lessons.
I want to be fearless like her, strong in her small stature, bold but not offensive. All the girls instantly become her sisters. She teaches us how to bollywood dance, some of the boys teach her how to dougie. Her father looks on, and for a moment I’m concerned that he doesn’t approve. But he’s got a big smile on his face as he watches her with her new Western friends, chatting away in English.
“He wants me to learn.” She explains.
Sonya follows us out to the main road, and everyone hugs her goodbye. She runs after the cars a little ways, blowing kisses in our direction.
Walking through the Storm
He tells me about his life. He speaks to me in near perfect English, but is still shy about it sometimes. He smiles at the girl from China and in Mandarin tells her to stop being afraid. She gives him a big grin and skips away. I think they’re becoming something like friends.
He tells me about Tibet. Chinese soldiers shot 2 of his family members, killing one and permanently injuring another. He says all this in a whisper. Secret history of a family he hasn’t seen in a long time.
He wants to study international business. He is already fluent in Chinese, Hindi, English and Tibetan, and would like to learn more (I am reminded of the Palestinian girl I met 4 years ago, who told me that language is better than a gun on your shoulder.)
We leave the school where he volunteers, and he walks me to the front gate. The monsoon has started– it begins around 1pm every day. It is about 1:15 now, and in full force. I cower under a rain jacket in hood. He is calmly walking through the storm in a basketball jersey and long shorts. He is getting soaked but doesn’t seem to mind.
“Why are you Americans always trying to fight with nature?”
“Come again?”
“It’s just water. It’s part of the earth, just like you.”
“I don’t want to get wet.”
“You get wet. And then you dry. It’s really very simple.”
Reflections while driving through Punjab
Driving through Punjab
So many near death experiences
Almost hitting cows and people
And trucks painted by hand.
The driver laughs at us.
The First Rain
We hate the rain when it fills up our shoes.
But how we love when it washes our cars.
So goes a song I’ve heard recently. One of the interesting experiences I’ve had of late is walking through Mcleodganj during a downpour. It’s the first of many this monsoon season, and while it most definitely filled my shoes with water and other really yucky things, the feeling was quite incredible. I left my rain jacket in Los Angeles (how ironic), but since we had a lunch set up to meet a former political prisoner, I simply wrapped my scarf around my head and ran out into the street, dodging traffic, people and cows along the way. I arrived completely soaked.
Over our meal, this man with extremely powerful and oddly joyful presence spoke about his life. He was captured by the Chinese government for participating in a protest, imprisoned, and tortured. He was finally released thanks to Amnesty International, and afterward he walked from Tibet to Dharamsala, where he started his life over as a refugee. I peered out the window to the mountains that frame this crazy little city. The idea of walking through them, away from all that is familiar, seemed unreal to me, and yet I know it is the reality for many of the people I pass everyday.
He has written 13 books on the topic of his life, struggle and the spirit of the Tibetan people. He travels, telling his story, not as a weepy narrative, but as a torch for the spirit and memory of Tibetan culture. It is a service to others. It gives him meaning.
This idea of finding meaning in service has been on my mind a lot lately. I recently had a friend tell me that he felt that the world wouldn’t miss him if he disappeared. I wondered if he had done anything to make the world feel his presence. There are many ways to do this– some involve making lots of money, or using our knowledge and social capital to gain power. But for me, I’ve chosen altruism– making my presence known by serving others as best I can.
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