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’s main square, was teeming with visitors, but it was one of the most serene places I’ve been to. Its majestic prayer wheels--the ma ni lag ‘khor--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.