Monks in maroon robes were sitting cross-legged in rows on maroon cloth covered cushions in the new puja hall that resembled an ornate ballroom. It was large with high ceilings and eight rows of five pillars that were painted bright red with pastel colored designs reminding me of Easter eggs as the tops disappearing behind a curtain also painted intricately with pastels and tassles hanging in staggered rows along the bottom edge.

The huge double doors at the top of the cement steps covered with neatly arranged pairs of shoes were open, allowing light and a breeze that ruffled the curtain slightly. Bethany and I went in and sat cross-legged on the cold, dark, granite floor. The monks all turned to look at us, a sea of one thousand brown faces in maroon. We felt a little guilty, wondering if were disturbing something that felt sacred. But we had been assured that we were welcome by the monk outside, and we settled against the wall trying to be inconspicuous.

The faces returned to their oranges and crackers that had been passed to each one. A handful of monks with silver tea kettles scampered down the lines along each side of the pillars pouring hot chai into out stretched cups. They ran like mad from the end of one row back up to the beginning of the next, and, when empty, they ran out the door, passing the discipline master on their way to refill. The master wore the yellow vest of the geishi beneath his robes to symbolize his doctorate that took him twenty years to attain. Reincarnations of high lamas are recognized and given the yellow without the work, but most begin at six to ten years of age and work steadily at the university of the monastery. Not all of them pass the rigorous oral testing that takes place on a stage in the midst of all the residents.

Drums were resonating from the middle rows. Two large white gong-like ones took the lead in unison. There were four smaller green ones held up on long wooden handles played with long drumsticks capped by white padding. A deep, low, vibrating voice began to chant. It sounded almost obscene at first, unintelligible and strange. But we closed our eyes and leaned our heads back against the wall and just listened to the sounds and their echoes. They vibrated at the center, touched us deeply, felt relaxing and peaceful.

We opened our eyes and watched as a black cloth was passed down along the floor in front of each row of monks. They all took turns wiping the crumbs from the space in front of them, passing them down to the end, even the little ones.

The place was new and spotless, with shiny bright paints and ornamentation. Three rows of white Christmas lights draped the railing and stairs to the balcony at the far end. The alter was there with large statues of Buddhas. The lights seemed a little out of place, a modern touch to the view that we saw that we imagined hadn’t changed much in monasteries across Asia for centuries. It was beautiful. Daniel told us that when the Dalai Lama visited a month or so ago, he said the place was too nice, too fancy for humble monks like him.

Four older monks arrived, the eldest at the lead. He removed a cloth from his robes just inside the door and bowed down towards the Buddhas across the room, rose and repeated two or three times in prostrations. They took the white silk scarves, or katas, to the alter and draped them around the statues. The other three monks then mimiced the prostrations of the elder, and began to quickly go along the rows, handing out a new, crisp one hundred rupee note to each monk.

The nunnery we visit with Daniel and his family and the others later on in the day is much different. The puja room in the temple is small and dark, much older and less ornamental. Their housing, apartment buildings along the sides, are run down, lacking the fresh paint and upkeep of their counterparts’. We ask Daniel, and he says women are clearly second-class citizens in this culture, unimportant and undeserving without a chance to rise in the ranks through education and hard work like the men. He says the nuns here in Bylakuppe are lucky. They get more education and better treatment than most.

To see the nuns on the street, it is hard to tell they are different from the monks. The women and little girls are wrapped in the same maroon that drapes their figures, hiding curves. Their heads are shaved. They wear no jewelry. Only by looking closely at the softness of their features and the way they carry themselves can you pick out the few among the robes that clothe females.

Many of the nuns had shy smiles. Two played the clarinet-like horn just for us, our own tiny concert in the poor courtyard. We took our pictures with them and they giggled at seeing their images on the digital screen. One of sixteen years tells me in broken English that she has lived there for six and comes from Andhra Pradesh. I liked her, the connection made with little language but with warmth and what I could read in her soft brown eyes.