The Nomad and the Rangers

She sings for the mountains alone, so they say. Clad in a chuba, in grey and silver, she springs to her feet and begins to sing the nomadic tunes in her dialect. Mesmerized, even the silence of the night wakes up to her music as the logs are being added to the fire.

The man in the red bandana, popular to this land for his activism, erupts to the calm. He is a poet, a writer, and a refugee born with a ‘capital R’. He lives on his poetry and like a salesman sells it along the road. The words in that book are the tales of separation from his land, the land that lives in his heart, where he belongs, and where he cannot be.

Tenzin recites to us ‘When it rains in Dharamshala’ a poem he wrote about the monsoons in this town that he says are a waterfall of its own will that pours like ‘cats, dogs and donkeys!’ The very next morning, it rains on us.

“It is true. In Tibet, sometimes we whistle to make the wind blow." nods Thinley (name changed) at breakfast, an undergraduate like me.

I look him in the eye. I trust him.

“You see, there are so many mysteries about Tibet but it’s true.” He looks down and sighs, “Everything is disappearing slowly.”

These students inspire me, most of them very young. They are non-violent activists educating their own society as well as speaking out to the world for the various silenced voices at their homeland. They say they lost their identity while I have been carrying around mine unconsciously, and I can’t hide it any further down my pocket.  

As the sun goes down, we add a layer of clothing. I wonder how I ended up being here and long enough to share their dream, to see a free Tibet! And perhaps one day I’ll have my chance too to know what it’s like to walk underneath that infinite sky where the sun rises first. At a little height up the hill, a few wooden planks encircle the bon fire. I take turns with my feet and then my back to heat it up. The chatter slides away slowly as some students begin to sing. After a week, this is almost the end of the camp but it is still ignited in spirit. Each of us here has a story to tell. Each of us has a story that we made here together. For wherever you go and whatever you do, it is not worth the while if there is not a little drama. This, the man about to sing, told me a few months later at another party.

Lobsang joins us with his guitar.

All in attention!

His eyes open wide as he strums, to tell us-

“Here comes the story of the Hurricane!”