Long Life Puja

The young monks scurried silently around the open-air temple, passing out disposable cups and then filling them with butter tea. Unfortunately for all arteries involved, butter tea, a Tibetan staple, is exactly what it sounds like—hot tea seasoned with a large dollop of yak butter. The crowd, piled on the ground upon endless rows of cushions, was attentive to the tea distribution, but many also continued humming the mantras led by the Dalai Lama, who was seated with other important monks inside the regally adorned inner temple.

The three-hour ceremony, called a long life puja, is a centuries-old ritual meant to strengthen and purify the bond between a guru (teacher) and his students. The tea, followed by small plates of rice and, finally, a myriad of biscuits, bread, chips, and fruit, symbolizes an offering to the Dalai Lama, the most important guru for many Tibetan Buddhists. While the edible offerings are shared ceremoniously with the crowd, a queue of worshipers and government officials snaked out of the inner temple, waiting to present their fantastically wrapped offerings while the chants continued unabated (save the occasional microphone-enhanced cough and wheeze from an aging Dalai Lama.)

The Long Life Puja Fund explains that this ritual “purifies the relationship between teacher and disciple, and creates the merit for the teacher to remain among us. Since all realization depends on the blessing and guidance of the teacher, this ritual offering practice is extraordinarily precious.” Precious, but sweetly baffling to an American Catholic accustomed to unleavened bread—which I have to get off my cushion to receive!

At times overwhelmed by the proceedings, I noted in my journal that it felt like the only thoroughly foreign ritual I’ve experienced in all of my traveling. Somehow, the genuine students didn’t seem to mind my presence. During one prayer, a nun seated nearby showed a group of Brazilians and me how to contort our fingers together before having them filled with uncooked rice, which we tossed in the air for good luck when the mantra changed.

If I was out of place at all, others were there to deflect attention. The token psychotropic-drug-using hippie with graying, greasy locks walked in endless circles around the inner temple, his eyes nearly rolled back in his head as he clutched gaudy, psychedelic statues of gods in either hand. Truthfully, no one seemed that bothered by him, either. They were there to experience communion with their spiritual leader.

At the conclusion of the ceremony, the famously smiling Dalai Lama emerged from the inner temple, flanked by a colorful security force, dressed alternatively in ceremonial robes, three-piece suits, Indian military uniforms, or plainclothes. He managed to lean his hands out in blessing a few times as he walked down the aisle, and an interaction with some children to my right made everyone laugh. Because his likeness smiles down from every guesthouse, restaurant, and café in town, it seemed so natural to see him standing there, perma-laughter in his eyes despite his age. I confess I was moved only by the obvious spiritual tug felt by the community around me.

Footnote: In conversation class on Monday, I tried to find out what the specific chants meant, but the monks surprised me with smiles and abashed shrugs. “There are thousands of mantras in Buddhism, you can’t expect us to know exactly what they all mean!”