Inhabitants

Even if it wasn't set against the backdrop of noisy, chaotic New Delhi, KIBI would still be a peaceful oasis. Three different kinds of people are sheltered here. Although it sounds strange to me to say 'kinds of people' instead of 'groups of people', that is how it feels. Maybe it's the shadow of the caste system... maybe it's my imagination.

The top stratum, then, in the sense that we get the best treatment, is the Westerners. It's difficult not to feel extraordinarily privileged in India, because even the poorest of us still have opportunities denied to most Indians. In KIBI we are guests, and really have it very easy -- we have our own rooms, three meals cooked for us every day, now we even have wireless Internet pretty much everywhere! Although to study everything thoroughly takes all the hours in the day, essentially we do more or less as we like -- nobody follows after us or tells us what to do. We can also feel special because this place was in a sense created for us -- for Westerners to study authentic Buddhist teaching.

The picture below is a typical scene of students hanging out.

At the bottom are the staff, mostly Indians. Here there are further divisions, where the cooks carry themselves proudly (and deservedly, given their excellent work), while the cleaners really lack any charwoman’s cheek, instead carrying with them a profound, silent resignation.

KIBI is also a monastery, and a number of monks live here. It was quite funny in class yesterday when Khenpo (our teacher) was, it seemed, just about to elaborate the traditional hierarchy of ordained monks being in a sense above or more worthy of respect than lay practitioners (his audience) due to their additional vows, but changed his mind.

I naturally feel like giving way a bit to the monks, so it was quite embarrassing when three of them stood back to let me go first in the lunch line. I politely indicated that they should go first. They responded by waving me ahead. I thought this was manifestly unfair and refused to queue jump. All three of them smiled and simply walked slowly backwards, creating a large gap which I reluctantly had to fill. Monks one, me nil.

Generally the monks are a bit shy to speak English, and I can't yet say anything above hello in Tibetan, but I did enjoy it when one friendly young fellow asked me for a laser. Surprised, I try to confirm this technologically implausible request. "A laser?" I ask, miming someone shooting a ray gun, Han Solo-style. “Pzap!”. Confusion. I try again. "Are you sure you want a laser?". "Yes, yes -- a laser. Do you have?" Eventually I was able to intercede as he was demanding advanced weaponry from another Westerner, and secure an eraser for him. One all.

One arena where the gloves are most definitely off between the ordained faculty and the laity is the table tennis table. This battered, rusty-nailed contraption occupies pride of place in the basement. A good brisk game of table tennis is just the thing for vivifying the humours when one has been sitting for hours. The monks play with varying levels of skill, but an evident fearlessness. They are forever smashing the ball into the net or into space while trying outrageous moves, which sometimes come off. Here you can see my arms dealer Lakwa Dorje giving it some.