A Picture of His Holiness
by Brian Cabrera
The markets of Lhasa are anchored around the Johkang Temple, considered to be the holiest site in all of Tibet. The devout come here on pilgrimage from the far corners. See them circling the temple, always going clockwise. They make full length prostrations with each step. The people of Lhasa rotate along with these pilgrims as they buy and sell their wares. Prayer flags overflow and farm tools are stacked high. Colorful produce is piled in tight geometric patterns. You can buy statues of Chairman Mao in the markets of Lhasa. They are right there next to the trumpets made of human bone. The giggling merchant girls see your face and greet you with an adventurous, "Hellohellohello!" before losing themselves in laughter. Ask to take their picture, smile kindly when you are refused. There are no cars in the markets of Lhasa. Hear the gentle murmur of voices, the shuffle of feet. See the apple-cheeked women with turquoise beads braided into their hair.
Narrow alleys shoot off from the marketplace and twist into the interiors. In these alleys wild dogs roam and rule. A snarl and a set of exposed teeth freeze you in front of a doorway adorned with three yak skulls. Escape through this door and feel your heart pound, feel your chest heave. In the dimness inside, men sit at wooden benches pulled up to long tables. They eat from chipped white bowls and drink from mismatched cups. They wear wide-brimmed hats, even inside, their faces deeply creased. Two small boys lean against each other, sleepily listening to their elders talk. You are immediately offered butter tea and cigarettes. Accept the tea, decline the cigarettes, sit down and open your book. Feel a hard, callused hand gently hold yours as you are about to turn another page.
Attached to this hand is an elderly man with an alarming stoop. The thick, smudged lenses of his glasses greatly magnify his watery eyes. Long hair with faded red yarn woven into it peeks out from beneath his hat. The old man holding your hand nods to your book, leans in close, and whispers, "Dalai Lama?" Give him the slightest of nods and hand him the book which immediately goes under the long table. He licks his fingers before turning each page, halts suddenly when he finds it.
Dusty shoulders huddle around him, waves of silence spread. The whispered shuffle as the book is slowly passed around the room, never making it from underneath the tables. The sound of a cup being placed down seems very loud. The men make sure to show the book to the two children. They put their arms around small shoulders and whisper into their ears. The room's attention is shifted as the book is returned to you with bows. Several old men stick their tongues out in gratitude. Give a small bow in return for lack of knowing what else to do.
Outside you blink at the sunlight and barely register that the dog has moved on. Wipe your tears away with the back of your hand. Look up and see the wall of mountains that wrap their arms around the holy city.