Amid a Confluence of Cultures in McLeod Ganj, Dharamsala

It felt foreign yet familiar. In that Indian city high up in the Himalayas I found myself in the midst of a confluence of cultures, so exciting in its rarity and heartening in its spontaneity.  The temple of the Dalai Lama, just a few blocks away from McLeod Ganj’s main square, was teeming with visitors, but it was one of the most serene places I’ve been to. Its majestic prayer wheels never stopped turning, constantly set in motion by pilgrims from different corners of the world.

From where I was seated in that nondescript noodle house, I could see some women in woolen chuba or in Indian sari, Tibetan monks in maroon robes and travelers in head-to-foot Gore-Tex pass each other along the store-lined streets surrounding the square. Used to hearing the mantra om mani padme hum reverberating through the town, I felt delighted when, in the middle of tasting my first ever hot momo soup, the Black-Eyed Peas’ Bebot started playing. "Filipino, Filipino. Filipino, Filipino. Hoy pare, pakinggan n’yo. Heto na ang tunay na Pilipino."  How surreal, I thought.  In that place, at that moment, I never felt more alive.