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The Kalachakra Initiation was being held inside a high-tech, air-conditioned tent with seating for five thousand. The first three days of the ceremony were dedicated to prayers and chanting. The Dalai Lama was on stage, sitting on a high ornate throne surrounded by about a hundred Tibetan monks.
The chanting came in uninterrupted waves, the rhythmic, soothing recitations of mantras. From time to time, the chant master, sitting to the left of the Dalai Lama, would raise the energy level slightly, his voice an octave higher and noticeably louder. Soon, the Dalai Lama made his presence felt with a long solo riff as the other monks provided bass and rhythm. I felt the rich timbre of his baritone energizing the assembly. His eyes were closed, his chanting intense yet seamless. Raw power poured from his throat, drawn deep from his solar plexus.
It was August 1999. I had been given permission by the Office of Tibet to
attend the ritual in Bloomington, Indiana. A paean to world peace, it is one of the most colourful and venerated of ceremonies in Tibetan Buddhism.
As the Dalai Lama continued with the chanting, a middle-aged man dressed in
a gray Tibetan robe approached me. He told me his name was Tenzin Geyche
Tethong and that he was the Private Secretary of the Dalai Lama.
"I understand from our New York office that you are seeking an audience with
His Holiness," he said as he sat down next to me. "I'm sure you're aware
that His Holiness' schedule in Bloomington is extremely full. We've had many
requests for audiences. But I'll see what I can do." He stood up, shook my hand solemnly, and left.
Toward the end of the eleven-day ceremony, I was told that the Dalai Lama
would see me and my family. That posed a slight problem for me. I had
brought my trusty old tweed jacket, but, not really believing I'd be granted an audience, I hadn't packed a proper shirt or a tie. At the last minute, I managed to borrow a crisply pressed white shirt and a maroon tie from a sympathetic security guard. The tie’s unrelenting horizontal stripes were a bit too assertive for my taste. But it would have to suffice.
The Dalai Lama stood near the door as we were ushered into the audience room. I knew what I had to do. At my first audience with him in 1972, I had been a stuck-up young man. I stood ramrod straight with my hands in my pockets while my travelling companion prostrated according to protocol. I'd never bowed or kneeled to anyone in my life, and I was not about to start then. But my unseemly behaviour had haunted me for some time afterwards. In Bloomington, no one could have dissuaded me from prostrating before the Dalai Lama. As I self-consciously went through the unfamiliar ritual, my wife, Susanne, did the same.
When I stood up, I noticed that the Dalai Lama was chuckling to himself.
Through the corner of my eye I saw my three-year-old daughter Kira stretched full-length on the floor. Then she pulled herself upright, put her palms together, and brought them in sequence to her forehead, throat, and heart. And she was down full-length on the floor again, finishing her third and last prostration. She had never done this before, but she completed her
prostrations as precisely, as gracefully, as any experienced monk.
Once we were seated, the Dalai Lama looked at me expectantly.
"Your Holiness, I don't know if you remember me. I met you in Dharamsala in
1972," I began.
"No, I don't remember," he replied.
"Then I met you briefly in London in 1994. I had just written a book on
Tibetan pilgrimages, and I gave you a copy as you walked into your hotel."
"No, I don't remember."
I adjusted my tie. I had the impression that the Dalai Lama was captivated
by all those horizontal stripes. I was at a loss for something to say.
"My staff tells me that you've been working hard to explain the Tibet
situation to the Chinese," the Dalai Lama finally prompted.
"Yes, for the last few years I've worked to encourage friendly get-togethers
between Chinese and Tibetans. I've gone around to different universities and
given talks about the need for mutual understanding and dialogue."
"Very good, very good," the Dalai Lama said. "I've been trying to make
friends with the Chinese for a long time and I have little to show for it.
But recently, I feel more encouraged. The Chinese intellectuals are becoming
more receptive."
There it was, the opening I had been looking for. I had come all this way to the American mid-west from Vancouver, hoping to see the Dalai Lama in person. And perhaps, just perhaps, to make a special request. I wasn't sure I could actually go through with it. But when I'd seen Kira's unprompted prostrations, everything had felt right. I plunged ahead.
"Your Holiness, I'd like to write a book with you. I'd like to present to the world a clearer picture of you, of your wisdom. Maybe even the Chinese will read it." The words came out in a hoarse whisper.
"Good idea. Very useful project," the Dalai Lama said immediately.
I was amazed. There was no deliberation, no hesitation. The Dalai Lama's
rapid-fire response seemed more like something that would come from a
high-powered CEO than from a Buddhist monk. And his answer set the course of my life for the next five years. I got to know his home nearly as well as my own as I spent hours interviewing him in Dharamsala. And I travelled the globe with him, trying to discern for myself the source of the Dalai Lama’s wisdom and his larger-than-life charisma.
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