My meals with Luptin, the Tibetan monk who is a citizen of no country
How I learned about the Sherpa relationship with food
“Shei, shei, shei!” It’s the national cry of the Sherpani: “Eat, eat, eat!!”
Sapana just returned from her farewell breakfast with Luptin, the bearded monk who hosted us at saano gumba (the small monastery) during the festival. She walks into our room and empties her pockets, removing handfuls of chapati — flat, round, thick, and filling Tibetan bread.
“I just couldn’t eat it all!” she cries, “but I didn’t want to waste it.” She packs the chapati into a plastic bag for an afternoon snack and turns to show me the immense feast Luptin prepared her for breakfast: Chapati filled with veggie omelette, served quesadilla style with a yak-cheese-and-red-chili sauce, a hard boiled egg, a huge bowl of boiled carrots and bok choi and a glass mug of bottomless black apple tea. It looked genuinely delicious, and once again my heart was melted by the incredible generosity of a people who have nothing, yet give continuously of their very best.
Cheese and eggs are such a luxury here! Even vegetables demand a special occasion in order to make an appearance. During the week we slept at saano gumba, Luptin brought us a thermos of hot water every night before bed. If we seemed awake he insisted we follow him up to his small room above the monastery to sit on the floor together and share mugs of instant vita-drink that tasted like milky oatmeal and a tin of butter cookies. After a half hour spent looking through the Chinese photo book of his Tibetan homeland and the various postcards and photos of Natur Rimpoche and other Buddhist leaders and incarnations, he’d send us back to our rooms laden with fresh tea bags and a box of unopened chocolate covered wafer cookies.
Though 60-year-old Luptin speaks no more than 20 words of English, we communicate effectively through smiles and gestures. I’ve come to learn that silence is not awkward for Sherpas, especially during meal time, as they believe talking while eating is not good for digestion. I enjoy the peaceful quiet of tea times with Luptin and the awareness that it brings out in me as my tongue stops and my other senses become more acute. But I also enjoy the fun challenge of communicating with him.
We learn that he is a devoted servant to Zatur Rimpoche (brother of Natur Rimpoche, who is currently residing at saano gumba) because Luptin’s teacher — the one who raised him in the monastery — was the former Zatur Rimpoche. After Zatur’s death, it was Luptin’s responsibility to find the reincarnation of Zatur Rimpoche, and then raise the boy. (Rimpoche means “treasured one” in Tibetan and is the title for men who are believed to be the incarnations of great Buddhist teachers.) After the current Zatur Rimpoche was recognized as a reincarnation of a high lama, his two brothers were also recognized as incarnations: Datur Rimpoche and Natur Rimpoche. We’re told that this is very rare for so many siblings to be recognized as incarnations; this is perhaps the only family with three boys in such high positions.
Luptin conveys that Natur Rimpoche has been traveling in Russia, Europe, and America. He cannot accompany, however, because he doesn’t have a passport. Putting together the pieces of his life puzzle, we surmise that Luptin is a Tibetan refugee and without documents; a citizen of no land. I look to his laughing eyes, dancing as always, and I wonder what pain, what stories lie in his past. I understand how the Buddhist teachings of non-attachment and ideal of freeing oneself from desire help the Tibetan people cope with their politically and physically impoverished circumstances. Of the many peoples I’ve encountered throughout my travels, the Tibetans and Sherpa are among the poorest in material possessions yet among the richest in spirit.
I leave Luptin’s room with my belly full, my mind joyful, my heart humbled, and my spirit renewed. I snuggle into my sleeping bag and smile myself to sleep; I marvel at how sometimes the most meaningful communication takes place in spite of a language barrier. Through the sharing of his food, Luptin reaches out, ministers to us and shares much more. For Tibetan Buddhists, “to prepare food for others is equal to preparing food for a shrine. If you feed others, you honor them.”* To feed is to nurture; to satisfy another’s hunger is to show compassion; to promote compassion is to build karma; to acquire good karma is to ensure rebirth into a higher realm of samsara and brings one nearer to enlightenment.
As I settle in, tying shut the top of my sleeping bag to keep out the bugs while leaving a small breathing hole, I think of the Sherpa relationship with food and am reminded of words once said by Jesus: “And if anyone gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones who is my disciple, truly I tell you, that person will certainly not lose their reward” (Matthew 10.42). The offering of food and drink to another — especially in a context of poverty — is a act of real, tangible sacrifice. It costs you something. To be on the giving end is an act of faith: Faith that there is more to be had; faith that more will be coming. To be on the receiving end is humbling. No matter the value the receiver would usually attribute to the articles given, he or she, as a receiver, is faced with the gift in the context of the giver. Sitting in Luptin’s kitchen — or rather the space in which he prepared food that can hardly be called a kitchen — the value of the gifts he gave was embarrassing for me. I had entered his world and was existing alongside him. I knew how much we at the monastery had, and had not. And yet, I knew that to refuse these would be more cruel than to accept them. From Luptin’s perspective, by accepting his gifts, I was allowing him to be blessed; I was allowing him to store up karma.
During Dumzi Festival, I told an old trekking guide that I was interested in the overlap of Sherpa culture and Tibetan Buddhist culture. “They are one and the same,” Dorje told me, drawing his two index fingers together as if to illustrate their synonymy. No wonder Sherpa people insist on feeding you till you can’t quite possibly handle another bite. Though filling up on the carb-centric Sherpa diet might not honor your digestive system, it does honor your soul. Following my three day fast due to food poisoning (or rather, water poisoning), Sapana and I were both lacking in appetite and asked for very small lunch portions as Pasang ladled dal into our bowls. Though we lifted our hands palms up as if to cover our bowls — the polite way to refuse food or drink — and serenaded him with a chorus of “tuche, tuche, tuche” — no thankyou! — he stopped just briefly and then poured in a little more. We gave him a look of joking disdain, as if to say, “Come on, we don’t want to waste it!” He snickered, “It’s the rule, we have to give twice.” Sherpa protocol demands two scoops of food be put on a plate (I demand two small scoops) and for alcohol or ceremonial drink, the one pouring the drink will not leave until the recipient of the cup first chugs at least half of the full cup, takes a big gulp after is it refilled, and again one more after it is filled a third time. All the while, the Sherpani with the pitcher hovers with one palm under the mug, tipping it steeply to ensure the drinker drinks. I’ve gently but steadfastly refused all alcohol except one cup of chhang (Sherpa millet wine, which I forced myself to drink for the full cultural experience) so as to avoid alcohol poisoning, or even worse, drowning at the hands of an eager and generous Sherpani with a pitcher.
In one of my most favorite memories from Pema Chholing, I brought out Hershey’s Kisses (hand carried from Oregon) as a reward for a big scavenger hunt, and Ngawang, the headmaster, immediately exclaimed, “Oooh, temple candies!” I’d never before have associated Hershey’s Kisses with the shape of temples, but the resemblance was clear. These simple chocolates proved to be a huge hit. The monks — both young and old — were enthralled with everything from the shiny tin-foil wrapper to the white “prayer flag” tucked inside. Sapana and I laughed as we watched many of the younger boys lick their chocolate and then tuck it into their pocket for later!
My perspective has been forever altered by my time at Pema Chholing. I relearned simple joy, the power of ritual as an opportunity for intentional purpose and reflection, and childlike play. The monastery was at once a place of discipline and a place of play. It was a place I was able to give of my time and language skills, and a place where I received much more in terms of communication, community, and shared experience in return. And food! Oh, so much food.
Every now and then someone will offer me a second serving around a dinner table, and the images of laughing Sherpani crying “shei, shei, shei” begin to dance in my head.
*a quote from “I Taste Fire, Earth, Rain: Elements of a Life with a Sherpa” by Caryl Sherpa
____
About this story: I spent the summer of 2012 as a volunteer English teacher at Pema Chholing Monastery in Nepal’s Sagarmatha (Everest) region. Pema Chholing is 500 years old, home to about 20 young boys aged 5–16, 6–10 more mature monks, and 1–3 volunteers at any given time. It was damaged in the 2015 earthquake, but is still inhabited and under repair.
A shorter version of this story was originally published at shirah-goes-again.blogspot.com on July 25, 2012.
