Thukpa for the Soul

Clearly, Wang hadn8217;t failed to notice. Clearly, too, this wasn8217;t the first time Tibet had chosen to weave a spell on mere mortals like the rest of us, across thousands of kilometres, geographical landscapes, diplomatic barriers and decades of silence. Travelling to Lhasa never mind it was via Beijing and courtesy the Chinese government allowed me8212;an Indian8212;to connect with the road once taken by the Indian Buddhist master Padmasambhava in the eighth century.

Here was the Potala palace on the hill, the home of all 14 Dalai Lamas8212;until the latest, Tenzing Gyatso, fled in 1959 to India in the wake of the Chinese invasion of Tibet.

The palace was crammed with thangkas of voluptuous Taras and other Tibetan-Indic gods and goddesses, gem-studded and gilded Buddha statues, and murals of the Tang dynasty emperor in Beijing receiving the Dalai Lama. All around, the golden glow of yak butter lamps elongating the shadows of history, confront even the casual tourist with remembrances of things past.

Then there is the Jokhang monastery, in the heart of Lhasa. If the Potala is awesome, grandiose, inspiring both reverence and fear because it was once the temporal and religious seat of the Dalai Lama, the Jokhang is the epitome of intimacy. Legend has it that the Tibetan king Songsten Gambo and his Chinese princess Wencheng were out riding when the precocious princess threw a ring which fell right at the spot where a demoness lived. To placate her, the king built the Jokhang temple, to the child Buddha.

It doesn8217;t matter to the deeply religious Tibetans that the figure of the deity has been latterly renewed and so somewhat reinvented, after Beijing, newly sensitive to its own wealth and the expectations that come with it, ordered that the legacy of defacement of the Cultural Revolution years must be fully and finally eradicated. And so, Tibetan painters are zealously at work in the side rooms of the Jokhang. The baby Buddha has a spanking new, golden face, so what if he frowns much more than his earlier, gentler incarnation?

It8217;s almost claustrophobic inside the sanctum sanctorum. Yuan notes thrust in every corner and crevice, barely audible murmurs of shlokas, priests attempting some kind of order.

All around the temple, there is a profusion of brocade wall-hangings. Old women, within sight of the deity, read from palmyra manuscripts. Khampa women, with scores of braids down to their waists and their heads studded with coral and turquoise stones, pray.

Outside in the Barkhor, the parikrama around the Jokhang, the feeling of having walked back in time persists.

Bargaining for thangkas which still smell of yak butter, nevertheless remains very much a 21st century phenomenon.

Still, Lhasa could easily host the 2004 conference of 8216;Schizophrenics Anonymous8217;, with the venue being the 200-yard stretch from the Jokhang to the enormous square at the base of the Potala. The red flag of the Chinese Communist Party is planted squarely in the middle here; on one side are enormous advertisements for Budweiser beer and a loud neon sign that announces, 8216;Jiji Dancing Hall8217;.

Inside, the waitresses wear white plastic sharkskin dresses. The strictly traditional dances are choreographed to wonderfully loud pop Tibetan music.

The long walk home is like thukpa for the soul. Male colleagues later regale us with stories of pretty, young things soliciting just beyond the arc lamps of the high street.

Ever since Discovery channel blew the lid off the prostitution dens that lurk behind Internet bars for foreigners passport numbers first, please, there8217;s almost a voyeuristic quality to the giggly jokes that many men bring back from Lhasa.

So what if most of it is true?