Never Never Land

The first thing you do on getting there is to decide which of the four main roads in the place to take. I always head for the one leading to the main temple. This time, too, I do that, followed by a shopaholic friend, a curious cousin, and a 12-year-old chocoholic.

Five minutes on, and they are doing their own thing. Another five and they stop to gloat over the good news. His Holiness the Dalai Lama is giving his annual teachings.

We would finally get to both see and hear him! Last time, my cousin had just about managed a fleeting dekko, the other two had only seen Him in pictures.

I of course have two shining encounters to claim serious bragging rights but I abstain. Again, the Mcleodganj effect.

Breathlessness is another. Sitting in the laps of the snow-clad Dhauladhars, the undulating streets pack quite a punch when it comes to exercising those creaky joints. Try doing the kora—a clockwise parikrama of the Tsuglagkhang Complex (the main temple). It’s guaranteed to leave you aching in nameless places. Say, what’s that bit between the calf and ankle. OK, forget it. Mcleodganj also ensures that you carry on, regardless.

Finally, we catch our breath at His Holiness’ residence—one of my must-visit places with its fat vermillion geraniums and a husky German Shepherd who manages to look oh-so-benevolent.

The poker-faced man at the office is polite but firm, declining both our request for a private audience with Him, and a front seat at His teachings (try, try, try again is my motto). With the ’’come early’’ advice ringing in our ears, we go hurtling down, past the Namgyal cafe, before skidding to a halt in front of a heap of turquoise and jade on the pavement.

Street jewellery acquires a whole new connotation when it comes to this little Tibet in exile. Here it’s exotic: all the blues look like turquoise, all the greens are jade and the round red stones do look like coral all right. There is even a tiny wooden shack alight with pearls. But unimpressed, I prefer to muscle my way into a raucous crowd, convinced I was about to discover a treasure, only to find a heap of socks, kiddie socks, Rs 10 a pair.

By the time I elbow my way out, the others have vanished. But worry not. You can’t lose anyone in Mcleodganj, only your inhibited self. Finally, it’s a shamelessly rumbling stomach that unites us all. Hunger pangs are another Mcleodganj speciality. And why not.

Its visitors from across the globe have left it with an enviable choice of cuisine, ranging from Tibetan, Chinese and Italian to Lebanese and Israeli, all high on taste and low on cost.

We hotfoot it to Nick’s Italian kitchen, Kunga to the locals, ostensibly for a little bite. ’’Anything to sustain us till dinner,’’ we grin, drooling over the no-frills menu with a yummy line-up. The sun, hovering over the white Dhauladhars when we arrived, finally takes a bow with a little wink in our direction, but we carry on grazing on cheese ravioli, vegetable pie, spinach quiche, and carrot cake.

It’s here the next day that we sight Drums-of-Fire man Anandan Sivamani. ’’The lady with him was the second lead of Legally Blonde,’’ a Tibetan friend whispers to us.

But there is no commotion. A town used to Richard Gere and Pierce Brosnan sauntering past is certainly not star-struck.

Here it’s His Holiness who commands star status. It’s evident from the long queue at the tiny security office which gives you the magic pass for the teachings.

Photos done, passes made, we loop down to the temple complex, hearts racing in anticipation. But alas, we’ve forgotten the FM radio—a must-have for an English translation of the discourse in Tibetan—and it’s impossible to get a seat near Him. Dear Jane Perkins, a friend in need, comes to the rescue with her radio. And brownies.

All around us, the devout are in a trance, eyes closed, ears plugged. His Holiness is expounding on the types of Hell, and the little chocoholic is beside himself with excitement. Wow, he lets out periodically. Eventually, the spell breaks, and it’s time to leave. Jane, a former Time magazine editor who homed in on this town 17 years ago, gently signals us to the rear of the temple, paving the ground for the final surprise.

A crowd is beginning to collect here, but this time we have the very best seats, right next to the railing. And then he comes, the dashing young Karmapa, just an arm away. The monks around us bow, eyes closed, hands folded, but we stand mesmerised, struck with smiles. He cocks his head, just a little, and smiles right back. We return in a daze, promising to come again.