Toben

The mountains that shoot up on either side of the river valley are tinged with pink and gold. Below, the Indus is still immersed in shadow, it’s ever flowing waters pushing on into Pakistan. Perched on the cliffs above the river, the SECMOL campus is just beginning to stir. Just above the subterranean kitchen is a long building with plastic green houses attached to the south facing side. These green houses keep the inner rooms warm during the day and night. Inside one room are two beds, and next to mine, a small black wrist watch begins to beep repeatedly. The digital numbers read 7:30. Not without a groan, I fumble for the button that will stop the alarm. Then I sit up. “Dylan.” But my attempt to awake my roommate is drowned by the loud ringing of the breakfast bell. Ishey, the cook, has already been up for hours. After about half-an-hour, I am sitting with all of my fellow Americans, still trying to blink the sleep out of their eyes, mixed together with the bright eyed and eager Ladakhi students, all smiles.
As I look around, the scene of chatting teenagers reminds me of the pattern I have fallen into. What may have been strange at first now seems so natural. This community, holy in its youth, sacred in its willingness to learn, reminds me of the Sangha. During my time in Ladakh I have learned much about this revered society, founded by one of histories most famous princes: Siddhartha Gotama, the man who would become the Buddha. The Sangha is the community of disciples that flocked to the Buddha’s teachings. Sangha means ‘society’ in Pali, an ancient language of India, the birth place of the enlightened one. When the Buddha began to spread his teachings of the eightfold path and the four noble truths around 450 years BCE, many people were willing to strip them selves of worldly possessions, living a simple existence of scholarly worship and meditation.
Pulling my thoughts back to the present, I find that I have absentmindedly finished my meal. Now the four or five monk-like academics immediately surrounding me are preparing to “gamble away” their dishes, a tradition at every meal. I quickly throw my empty bowl and spoon onto the growing pile and put my fist behind my back. The game is rock-paper-scissors. “One, Two, Three!”, we all a shout, and then reveal our weapon, either a rock-like fist, a pair of sharp finger-scissors, or a thick crushing sheet of palm. Sometimes we play with variations, using a fist and a thumb as the “mountain”, which is climbed by the “little man” (a pinkie finger). The “little man” is chopped in half by the “sickle”, (the longest three fingers) but the “sickle” can’t cut the mountain. In any case, today my rock as crushed the scissors of my foes, so I am free to go back out into the now bright morning.
The day continues as it will, with classes, and then a work period. During this solid hour the entire community comes together to help maintain the campus with odd jobs, anything from collecting stones from the near-by desert, or mucking the composting toilets. I stop for a moment and rest on my shovel. All around me, foreigners and locals alike work side by side, and once again I allow my self to imagine the Sangha. This ancient society comprised of boys as young as eight and elders as old as seventy all work together to haul water and keep their monasteries in order. These large buildings run both as religious centers and places of learning, as well as hostels for the monks. In Ladakh, it is a common sight to see monks standing in lines, passing stones and the traditional lamp oil. Since the monasteries in the Himalayan mountains are traditionally built on high ridge lines in impressive locations, it is quite a walk to reach the top.
If Buddhism is the soul of Ladakh, then the Sangha, called the lama in these icy fortresses, is the heart, pumping the knowledge and teaching to even the highest peaks. Even in the remotest places the flashing colors (red, green, blue, yellow, white) of prayer flags can be seen fluttering in the wind.
Shaking my head and smiling, I settle back into the routine. There is homework to be done, desert hills to explore, a tasty lunch, probably rice and daal. Soon it will be dinner, and then, a nightly activity. Before the day is done, any visitors to SECMOL would be able to see a room full of teenagers, singing and frolicking. It wouldn’t take much imagination to see a room full of devoted monks, prancing about in reverie, wearing traditional dress and masks. Festival and celebration has been a part of Tibetan Buddhism since time eternal.
Finally exhausted, my roommate and I stumble back into our incensce room. All over campus, a hush has fallen. It is nighttime at SECMOL. The moon rises above glistening Himalayan peaks, just as it has done for so long. Even this sight has become part of the routine, but even though it is a comfort to me, just like every other part of the day, it’s beauty will continue to mystify me forever. I drift off, my thoughts on prayer wheels and my Ladakhi friends, my Sangha.