THE predicament of the modern Tibetan is a poignant one: how does one believe in rebirth when the very symbol of that credo — the 14th Dalai Lama — has himself suggested that he may not return to be the 15th Dalai Lama? It is akin to Jesus Christ disowning the dogma of resurrection.

For the past 54 years, ever since his escape from the Chinese forces which invaded his mediaeval Vatican in 1959, the present Dalai Lama has lived as an ageing exile in India. His Holy See lies on the wrong side of the Himalayas, in the foothills above Dharamsala (Kangra district).

Dharamsala has little to commend it except as a thoroughfare to McLeodganj, a higher hill resort that now doubles as the temporal capital of the Tibetan government in exile and the spiritual seat of the Dalai Lama.

There are two roads that lead from Dharamsala to McLeodganj. One is nine kilometres long and rises in a comfortable gradient. The shorter one — 2km long — ascends steeply up a precipitous mountainside. It is perhaps symbolic of the Buddhist mind that the road most travelled is the arduous one.

The Tibetan community in McLeodganj is not a microcosm of Tibet. It is a compressed facsimile of Tibet’s vast and ancient culture, shrunk to a few minor monasteries, some shrines and one or two high-tech centres dedicated to the preservation and promotion of Tibetan skills. Despite an endeavour to sustain itself, it is dependent upon the largesse of outsiders. In that sense, it is not dissimilar to Israel, an artificially created state surviving on donations.

The Thekchen Choeling or main temple is the epicentre of faith in McLeodganj. It is a modern building, constructed in 1969 from offerings made by devotees and pilgrims to earn merit. The Dalai Lama lives close by but he has become a global-trotting celebrity. His absence is symbolised by an elevated throne from which, when he returns to McLeodganj, he preaches to his adherents.

Sitting at the feet of the empty throne are rows of saffron-clad figures — old and young, male and female — each intoning from elongated printed pages of holy texts. The lay folk are allowed to observe from a distance. They tell beads on benches or sitting cross-legged, rotate prayer-wheels.

The more active prostrate themselves continuously in a gesture of reverence to the Triple Gem — ie the Buddha, his teachings, and the community. Such pilgrims stand before wooden prayer-mats, then bend, slip their hands into gloves that slide along the polished surface, while the rest of their body follows until it lays full length. On pilgrim routes, this ritual can cover often hundreds of miles. This group, however, rooted to the same spot looked as if they were using spiritual exercise bikes.

One can circumambulate the hall, rotate prayer wheels along the way, and then go behind the throne to the altar. High on it is a gilt statue of the Buddha Sakyamuni, and against a side wall, facing Tibet, are two others of the Guru Padma Sambhava and the Avalokitesvara, the bodhisattva of compassion of whom the Dalai Lama is a manifestation. Not many people would notice a wooden replica of the Lahore Museum’s Fasting Buddha.

Despite the spectacular views that it affords across the valley, the Thekchen Choeling is no substitute for the imposing Potala Palace that still dominates Lhasa city and where the Dalai Lama used to spend the winter. His summer residence — the Norbulinka — has been replicated about 6km away from Dharamsala. Landscaped with ineffable taste and unlimited yen by the Japanese, everything there — the temple, its surrounding gardens, even the dolls in the Losel museum illustrating Tibet’s lost culture and customs — is shrunk to a miniature scale.

Eating lunch at the Norbulinka café forces one to believe in reincarnation. It takes an hour to get a bottle of water, and a bowl of Thupka (a Tibetan specialty of noodles and vegetable soup, topped with a fried egg) takes a lifetime to arrive.

The main monastery of Gyato lies on the way back from Norbulinka. Funded also by the Japanese, it shares similarities with Bishop Cotton School (Shimla) — a main central building, dormitory blocks, and students from the age of six upwards, except that here the uniform is a red monk’s robe.

The head teacher Kelsang Norbu sits beneath a tree, watching the children scamper into their classrooms to wait impatiently for their tardy teachers. Senior students behave more soberly, and ask politely where one is from. “Lahore.” “Ah, Lahaul, Spiti?”

In McLeodganj, the headquarters of the Tibetan government in exile are opposite the Tibetan Medical and Astrological Institute (Men-Tsee-Khang), where one can buy Tibetan tea to alleviate stress or have one’s horoscope prepared by computer. The backlog of demand by foreigners is daunting; it takes six months to fulfil your order.

Tenzin Gyatso, the 14th Dalai Lama, has made every effort to provide his people with modern skills and to preserve Tibetan culture. Its religion remains personified in him. He has said that he may not reincarnate as the 15th Dalai Lama, and even if he does, it could be as a woman.

That would be an innovation. Britain has had queens as the head of the Church of England, but never a female Archbishop of Canterbury. The Roman Catholic Church has only recently begun electing non-Italians as a Pope, but never a woman. Will Tibetan Buddhism be the first spiritual gender-bender?

The writer is an author and art historian.

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