I first notice the flags. Thousands of big and small pieces of red, blue, green and yellow fabrics hanging from thin ropes, fluttering in the monsoon breeze. Some are tied in between tall, thin silver-oak trunks, some to poles. Soon, more signs begin to appear: monks in deep red robes on two-wheelers; houses with slanting roofs and small iron gates; groups of young boys, also in robes, getting in and out of a large yellow building; stalls selling momos, thukpa and noodles; and a large gateway with golden pagodas.
I have known about Bylakuppe for some years now, but in all these years of knowing and wanting to come here, I had somehow failed to visualise the place: how could I imagine a Tibetan monastery in the heart of South India, when my experience said they belonged to the peaks of the Himalayas?
I get my answer soon.
Located near Mysore, Bylakuppe is not only home to the largest Tibetan population in India (some estimates say there are close to 10,000 Tibetan refugees settled here), but it also houses many Buddhist schools, universities, and the largest Tibetan monastery in the country, called Namdroling.
I reach Namdroling around noon, after a flavourful breakfast of rava idlis and tomato sambar and a pleasant drive along the ghats of Coorg. The sun is already warm, but the breeze is soothing; the air, meanwhile, is infested with the heady smell of ripe jackfruit being sold right outside the monastery gate.
The red-and-gold gate leads into a large courtyard lined with rooms and dormitories along its periphery. Another ornate gateway and a series of well-manicured lawns later, I come face-to-face with the temple. The three-storied temple at Namdroling is a classic example of Tibetan craftsmanship. Its high tiers are painted bright blue and gold, and are decorated with paintings, sculptures, prayer wheels and other Tibetan symbols. A large golden arch with intricate statues hanging from it dominates the spire, while a huge photograph of Pema Norbu Rinpoche, the creator of the temple, smiles gently from its façade.
The doors of the temple, however, are firmly shut, and the red-rimmed windows are locked. I spot a middle-aged man peeping intently from one of the windows and plan to peep inside too, but am discouraged by the number of people around: what if I am laughed at, or worse, admonished in full public view? I quietly pay my obeisance to the white Tibetan lions guarding the doorway, take some pictures of the demons painted on the walls, and disappointedly walk ahead.
It is difficult to believe that the sprawling monastery, the gompa, and the town itself began with an 80 sq ft makeshift bamboo shrine. (The land was sanctioned to the Tibetan refugees by the state government after the exile of Pema Norbu Rinpoche from Tibet in 1959). The temple came up in 1963.
A little ahead of the temple, a congregation of visitors enters a hall. I hastily deposit my shoes in a basket at the little kiosk outside the hall, and follow them through a short flight of stairs. At the far end of the hall are three mammoth statues of Buddha; they are encrusted in gold and semi-precious stones and placed on high platforms. The walls behind them are covered in elaborate Tibetan paintings, and the walls on the side are painted with classic thangkas ; the pillars in front, meanwhile, have exquisitely carved dragons wrapped around them. Right in front of the central Buddha are pictures of The Dalai Lama and two other Buddhist saints.
A part of the ceiling is covered with victory banners, tassels, and chandeliers.
The statues, a small board in English tells me, are made of copper and plated in gold. Inside every statue are scriptures, relics of great beings, and small clay-moulded stupas. Together, they signify the body, speech, and mind of the Buddha.
The central statue of Shakyamuni Buddha is 60 feet high; the ones on the sides — of Amitayus and Padmasambhava Buddha — are 58 ft each.
The mats — long and draped in colourful fabric — occupy more than two-thirds of the hall. On some mats I see prayer books, ornate bells, empty teacups and other knick-knack, while some, probably belonging to older, or the senior monks, even have low wooden desks attached to them. Towards the end of the rows of mats stands a green drum suspended from a brightly-painted stand.
The amount of adornment, colour and gold in the hall would make any other place look gaudy and ostentatious, but here it blends with the calm. I regret having missed the prayer session, which, I am told, enhances the essence of the place manifold, but am nonetheless thankful for being able to witness the golden splendour of the monastery.
Outside, the fragrance of a large frangipani tree and a swift colour-changing chameleon breathe life into the stillness of the lawn. A little far away, to my right, are rows of gilded prayer wheels, and beyond that, from what I can make out, a row of stupas. Young monks, laughing and backslapping, emerge from the school situated on the near end of the monastery, their deep red robes complementing the bright yellow school building in the background; on the far end, in what look like residential quarters, also yellow, I see some not-so-young monks going about their daily business — listening to music on bluetooth headphones, talking on their smartphones, working out in racer-back vests…
The monks, the monastery, the stupas , and the Buddhas, tell me that Tibet can, and does, exist among the coconut groves and date palms of South India, just as well as it exists among the birches and deodars of the Himalayas.
