Visiting a Tibetan Monastery

After kilometres of rice fields, dirty faces and children playing, I get to Jangchub Choeling Monastery. The electric colours of the entrance welcome a traveller who will try to understand more than 50 years of exile just in half an hour.

I barely go past the prayer wheel, worn down because of the hand brushing. The engraved metal slots shine while they spin. I leave behind the four visitors who dared to come here despite the monsoon. I move away from the enclosure to amble around alleys which look all alike to my foreign eyes. No street signs, no house numbers. Low walls zigzag in all directions just as the prayer flags flutter in the wind. All of a sudden, a flock of sheep show up between my clumsy feet, but I manage to dodge them without causing a great stir.

A woman follows me in the distance. Every time our eyes meet, she lowers her gaze while a smile comes out of the corner of her mouth. The warren carries on; so does the woman. A minute, two or twenty go by. The time for a meditation, for chasing some tourist or for taking the bus to work.

The implacable woman does not give up. This time she comes straight to me. She leads my companion and me to a small half-opened door. She turns around, smiles and encourages us to get in.

When I realise, I am at a Tibetan refugee who has insisted on inviting two stranger's home. Years of fights, persecutions or loathing haven't soothed that woman's vitality.

The house has a single room, though there's not an empty corner. Everything I see is probably everything she has, everything that's left of a life committed to forgotten battles. Without country, without borders and with hope as an only flag, thousands of Tibetans chose Nepal as an alternative to the Chinese occupation.

Posters of Buddha hang all over the walls; tiny dusty teacups rest on the shelves. But there is just one thing my host is obsessed about: a picture frame. She grasps it as if she had nothing else to cling to.

"This is my son", I'd bet she says. A face full of pride confirms it. Despite her Tibetan and my English haven't been an obstacle yet, I cannot find out further details. How old is he? Is he still in China? Is he alive?

On the table a Pringles box used as a vase catches me. The woman realizes I fix on it and guffaws. She might think she has nothing left to show us as she then turns around and stares at us with satisfaction. Sheep keep on bleating outside: they will lead me back to the rice fields.