Dragpa Kibe

The monastery is crumbling. A deep crack runs along the eastern wall of the prayer hall, and the wind whistles through gaps in the wooden frames of the windows. I have lived here in exile in Mustang, Nepal, for many years now, long enough to forget exactly how many, but at seventy-eight, I count less in years and more in the rhythm of my breath. I was born in Tibet, a land I have not seen in decades, though it remains alive in my heart.

Last month, an American film crew arrived to make a documentary. Their presence was like a gust of warm wind in a sealed room—unsettling but oddly refreshing. They carried heavy cameras and small glowing rectangles in their hands, which they stared at constantly. One of them, a young man with eager eyes, showed me moving images on his device—rivers of people in enormous cities, animals that have never walked this earth before, voices from across the world speaking as if they were in the same room. He smiled as he swiped through the endless pictures, expecting, I think, my amazement.

I was amazed, but not in the way he thought. The world outside has become impossibly vast, yet people seem more caged than ever. The young man looked at his device as though it were an extension of himself, as though his existence was only confirmed when reflected back by the screen. I found that deeply sad.

On the second day of filming, the electricity failed. The screens went dark, and their cameras became useless. At first, the crew members grumbled, pacing, trying to find a signal. Then, something changed. One of them sat beside me as I turned my mala in my hands, the worn yak bone beads clicking softly. Another took a slow breath and looked at the mountains. Someone laughed—not at a message on a screen, but at a joke shared in the thick Himalayan air.

For a brief moment, the distractions were stripped away, and they were simply here. Present. I did not say it aloud, but I wondered: how often do they allow themselves that?