Many Little Stories in Mysore

A birds-eye view of Mysore

One place to visit once in a lifetime—if you're an ardent follower of Buddhism, that is—is Mysore. The "sore cleanser" of life, they say. It's one of the great centers of religious discourse and higher studies. Naturally, the place is much worshiped and known all over. The golden temple is the main attraction in the locality. Popularly established by the late Penor Rinpoche—the greatest Tibetan saint and lama, no less—the monastery houses hundreds of monks and welcomes thousands of devotees from across the world. The Nyingmapa sect is practiced mostly here, but there are many other monasteries around: Dalai Lama centers, shedras, nunneries—something for every assorted taste.

Three of us stayed there for a night. Our main mission was to see the late kudung (body) of Penor Rinpoche. Not only were we sanctified by the sacred remains, but we also visited many illustrious temples. Our Lopen—who happened to be known to a certain junior Sangay—explained the significant history of everything. And we were impressed. Everything had a story. A small stone on display was said to be so heavy that no one could lift it. There was a grief-stricken, very cross-looking Guru Rinpoche. There was a vivid depiction of hell. And it went on. The only thing people actually seemed to circumambulate was a chorten—a wish-fulfilling chorten. Of course, there was a story behind that too. Visit and find out. It's worth it.

Now, monks are not supposed to eat meat. So it killed me when our guide monk comfortably ordered chicken kebab. I felt a sharp pain in my stomach. Clearly, I was in the wrong place—because I wanted to order chicken myself in front of him. Instead, I ordered mushroom Manchurian. Sangay, the wise one, preferred onion slices over chicken kebab. We told Sangay he should buy kilos of onions from Mysore. True story. With the change of time and place, we like different things. Enlightenment is flexible, apparently.

Then there's Tshering. Tshering is no ordinary guy. He started off as the most "on the go" person, but upon reaching Mysore, he turned into a sleeping machine. Tshering got a kind of sleeping disease. He didn't talk much either—because he had a sore on his tongue. I told him not to kiss too much. Our guide Lopen, ever wise, explained that one gets either impregnated by sleep or freshens one's mind due to the power of religious sanctity. I guess Tshering had been carrying all the religious holiness and sacredness, which made him so tired and sleepy. He slept a full day and a full night. Meanwhile, I was like a rooster, constantly waking him up to go visit monasteries. 

And then there was the group of girls. They had come to see the monks in the monasteries—specifically, the trulkus, I suspect. They were having a very good time with the monks. Ah, trulkus. One monk told me, with complete seriousness, that Mysore is a factory of trulkus. Hundreds of them. Just trulkus. The late Penor Rinpoche, being very compassionate and humane, apparently accepted whoever came to him declaring themselves a tulku. Even if you had walked in and said, "I am a tulku," Rinpoche would have recognized you. That's what some monks told me. "No, I don't want to be one, thanks," I said to them. I've seen too many fake trulkus walking out with unimaginable things: money, women, rape, murder. I told them. A perfect example was what we—and the monks themselves—had just seen in the monastery's own guest house moments earlier. Trulkus were sleeping in the same room where that group of girls was sleeping. Why do women like monks? It really burns my eyes. Seriously.

And Tshering? Every time someone talked about how unfaithful some women can be, Tshering got a headache. And with his headache, he went back to sleep—peacefully, of course. It killed me. But at least someone was getting rest.