All the Roadrunning

350 words, three tenses, post positions (not prepositions here),  imperatives, possessives, verbs, irregular verbs, singular plurals, pronunciation and writing of the Devanagari script - all in my first four Hindi lessons by Sunil.

Each class is only one and a half hours - with half the time spent learning something new and the other half with me eeking out barely comprehensible sentences at a pace of one word per minute.  Intense indeed.  My brain twitches and overheats often, my muscles tense and my eyes itch from extreme concentration - but, I am progressing, somewhat.   “I sometimes watch Hindi films in India” is becoming natural - “Main kabhi kabhi hindi filmen dekhta hun.”  It is the “Your older sister is not cooking food now because she is washing her expensive clothes in the room outside of the house behind the lake” where I begin to have some difficulties. 

The classroom is a tiny concrete room in a small, crumbling yellow building on the side of a hill.  From the one window I can stare down across the massive valley below all the way to Dharamsala, the scenery dotted with colorful Tibetan houses and prayer flags.  It would be an inspiring place to learn, if I could only take a second every now and then to glance out at this magnificent view.  Unfortunately, even a millisecond of not focusing on Sunil’s small whiteboard results in a serious interruption of the flow.  As time presses on and my brain starts to reach its absolute limit of information intake, my entire body relaxes in one great wave of calm when I finally hear the words, ”Bahut accha, Derek.  Kal milenge.” - “Very good Derek, see you tomorrow.” 

I am then forced to spend several hours decompressing completely, usually by roaming aimlessly around the village and its surroundings with the awareness of a cucumber. 

When my brain begins to function yet again, I stroll along the scenic and peaceful mountainside path that loops around the Dalai Lama’s temple.  It ends at the entrance to the temple where I join the daily candlelight vigils taking place each evening.  Hundreds of local Tibetans and foreigners take an hour to listen to the chants of the monks and offer their prayers of peace for the people inside of Tibet and for all living beings around the world.   Twenty-five monks, ranging in age from 12 to 70, on an indefinite hunger strike in order to draw attention to the Tibetan cause, chant quietly in the background. 

Upon its conclusion, I follow the procession along the mile-long route back into the village.  It is now time for me to go to my favorite Indian restaurant, eat some korma, dal and rice and practice my Hindi. 

As I try my best to order a cup of tea (”Ek chai dijiega”) and ask the ten-year old waiter if he plays the guitar (”Kya ap guitar bajate hain?”), Air Supply’s “Making Love Out of Nothing At All” suddenly blasts out from the restaurant’s speakers and I find myself humming to the tune instead, my overworked brain trying desperately to cling to something familiar.    

Apka din accha ha (Have a nice day!) 

I had my first Hindi class yesterday, here in the mountain village of McLeod Ganj.  Within thirty minutes my ‘teacher’ was rattling off questions in full speed, difficult questions such as “Is your house dirty?” or “Is this your sick dog?”, expecting immediate answers.  I was sweating profusely in his tiny concrete classroom, much more the result of the pressure than the heat inside.  I filled up 21 pages of a notebook in only 1 hour and 15 minutes!  My second class is today at 2pm, I signed up for a week, quite a silly thing to do, I now realize, before even sitting through the first class.  But at this rate, I should be completely fluent by Thursday afternoon.

I was feeling a little under the weather the past couple of days, a result of the root canal healing I assume.  But today I feel healthy again and am ready to resume eating large amounts of Tibetan bread, momos (Tibetan vegetable dumplings) and tasty noodle soups.  It is an intriguing time to be up here.  Apart from there being only an average amount of tourists, the beautiful weather and the snow-capped mountains towering above, the atmosphere is energized like I have never seen before in this village.  This is due to the current worldwide surge for the Tibetan cause.

This is where the Dalai Lama lives, where the Tibetan government-in-exile is located and where thousands of Tibetans have settled.  As a result, it is the focal point of the cause.  Posters with actual photographs of torn apart Tibetan bodies and other heinous crimes taking place by the Chinese in Tibet hang all over the village, petitions are circulated,  lectures are plentiful, conversations with locals are deep and troubling.  Tibetan monks are eager to find foreigners to share their stories with, many being ex-political prisoners and many having escaped through the Himalayas to reach India. 

Yet the villagers here are still smiling, albeit with hints of pain in thier faces.  Tibetans must be the saddest happiest people on the planet.  Their religion and culture cultivates pure happiness, yet the destruction of their homeland has led to inevitable sadness.  

On that note, it is time to go for a hike through the pine forests of the mountainside, dotted with Buddhist temples and stupas, home to monkeys and waterfalls, and offering a most ideal location to seek some clarity.