Religious visa

He worked on the first floor. There are quite a few Tibetans in Taipei, but he was the only one who had been hired by Ever Rising Printed Circuit Board Corp. He had met several of his refugee brethren during the New Year celebrations, which they celebrated with great pomp – several of them pass out at midnight, drunk and exhausted. They worked in different industries and professions, ranging from textiles, computers, bicycles, handsets, washing machines, airlines, part-time models and doorman, like Mr Nawang who perpetually stood outside the plush hotel, immaculately dressed, like a statue with a resplendent smile that only a Buddhist immigrant can have..Dawa had applied for a visa to other countries, but the line had been too long for places like Canada, America and France. The only two countries willing to give him visas were Taiwan and Estonia. So, having not heard of Estonia, he opted for the former, convincing himself that "At least, we both don't like communism."."How good-looking you are," said the boss's wife to him when they first met. He was a little taken aback by her directness and he knew he was hired. She was the main operating officer of the company and the boss himself, Mr Tung, was often away in Mainland China.."What is the meaning of 'ambidextrous'?" Ms Tung asked him."I don't know," he told her, rather shocked by the question. "We don't use that kind of big word in our school. If you used them, everybody will laugh at you. They will think you are an asshole. Don't you know that I only studied up to tenth grade?".But your English pretty good," says Ms Tung, who had lately started learning English to help her in the quickly growing business..Dawa was born in Shimla. He had tried to get into a college in India but to no avail. He spent his high-school years chasing girls and reading whatever he could get his hands on, particularly Tibetan Review, The Illustrated Weekly of India, P G Wodehouse and Ruskin Bond. Ms Tung was right, for he had a streak of rebellious intelligence. He could not really remember going to classes at all. He spent most his time in the school canteens talking about inane topics such as why Kennedy sent people to the moon, why Moraji Desai needed to drink his urine and if Tibetan monks ever went to Hell. He would go on and on about such topics until realising, at the 11th hour, that there were only two weeks left for the exams. He had refused to cheat on the tests, rebelling against the conventional practice, which testified to his character. He was the first person to hand in the papers in almost all the subjects. One day, one of the teachers asked him, "Why the rush?" to which he responded, "Why waste time? Life is too short for all this nonsense.".Translating BuddhismDawa's responsibility in this incarnation was quite unique. His job was to put Made in China labels on handset cases, which were manufactured in China for the most part but assembled in Taiwan. He worked on a rather busy and noisy assembly line. The company supplied these handset cases to most of the leading cell-phone manufacturers in the world. The job was so monotonous and repetitive that it was hard not to fall asleep. But one only slept at the risk of one's life. To stop himself from dozing off, he had been sipping canned ice coffee through a straw, which he regularly purchased for ten-dollar coins at one of the factory's two vending machines. He had at least six of them a day, spending two hours' worth of wages on the wretched beverage. So when the secretary came to ask for him, he became nervous, thinking he was in trouble. He followed the lady towards Ms Tung's office near the gate, and they climbed the stairs to the second floor. He saw Ms Tung's sedan parked outside, looked after by the gatekeeper.."I need your help," she said after they arrived.."I heard that there are several Tibetan monks in the town recently," she told him. "I was introduced to one of them, some kind of lama, it seems."."Okay," he said, as she sat there talking while working through what seemed like a pile of letters of credit, checks, drafts, orders and other trading documents.."I need someone to translate for me."."Translate what?"."Some Buddhism.".Dawa had studied Buddhist philosophy and the Tibetan language up to tenth grade. But he really did not remember much. His grandfather, who had disappeared during the Cultural Revolution, had been a lama of some sort back in Tibet, but that was two generations ago. When he was young, he had been told that because of his grandfather's reputation as a mystic, his father thought that Buddhist practice ran quite deep in the family. But then, the same can be said of almost any Tibetan person worth his salt..Ms Tung seemed, however, quite adamant. The office was busy: an accountant came to her for signatures on an assorted list of documents, followed by several assistants asking for her attention. Outside in the anteroom, clients waiting to see her, including some Japanese people.."This lama seems very interesting," she said, as she signed one more document. As she spoke, she reached for her leather bag, and came out with what looked like a calculator. She looked into it, and was evidently checking the stock prices. Her mood lightened. Dawa had been reading in the English-language newspapers that the Taiwanese stock market had been on a record-breaking spree over the past few months.."Also", Ms Tung told him, "we will perhaps be having some visitors in the future, like foreign investors, and we will need your help."."Sure," Dawa finally responded. "If I can be of any help, please do let me know," he muttered.."But you may need a new pair of shoes and also some clothes," she continued. "Do not worry. We will take care of it. Also we have some Indian customers. Not here but at another subsidiary – we are also into textiles, you know, so you could perhaps help us there as well. I suppose you know their language or whatever they speak in India.".Marwaris, Dawa thought to himself. They are everywhere.."Madam, there are too many different languages in India. I only speak Hindi and a little bit of Punjabi, and some Nepali, which I learnt in Kathmandu."."Beautiful place, Nepal," the lady responded. "I have been on a visit. Nepali men very sweet.".Dawa was surprised at how fast things were changing. He was not nervous at all. When someone has travelled on a fake passport and a fake visa this far, there is not really much left to be scared of. At the airport in New Delhi, when coming to Taiwan, he had dressed up as a monk. His visa was sponsored by a religious institute in Taipei and his duty, at least according to the visa, was to teach Buddhism..The Indian immigration officer had asked, "So what is your profession?"."I work," he answered.."Work for whom?"."I am self-employed," he had said..The immigration official made a strange face and gave up, letting him leave.."Salaa lama log bahut ghumtahai," he had overheard the official say. "Bastards, these lamas really love to travel.".However, things were different at the Taipei airport. Seeing him dressed as a monk, the immigration officer almost bowed, and asked to which sect of Tibetan Buddhism he belonged.."I am non-sectarian," he had answered.."That is good – a bigger market," the immigration officer laughed..No minced meat"I am not a monk anyway," he told Ms Tung.."You do not have to be a monk. We are not introducing you to girlfriends. We are asking you to translate your religion. We Taiwanese export printed circuit boards, and you Tibetans export philosophy – it is perfect."."Hmmm," said Dawa, not knowing what to say.."What is this hmm thing?" she said, as she lighted a cigarette. "Yes or no? Tell me? This indecision has cost the Tibetans their country you know," she said, with much confidence, making Dawa surprised at her knowledge of Tibet. "So contemplative! One should not contemplate too much in life."."Well, if it is going to create peace in the world," Dawa responded, after much consideration.."Good. Now, you are beginning to sound like a real Tibetan lama. That is very good. I will see you tomorrow. I have some important Japanese customers waiting for me.".As Dawa walked out, two Japanese men, dressed in grey suits, went in and immediately started kowtowing deeply to Ms Tung. Assistants rushed in with trays of coffee cups and cookies. Ms Tung immediately broke into Japanese..Good I accepted the job, Dawa thought later. This is far better than being made into a minced meat by a massive Taiwanese moulding machine, sacrificed at the altar of global capitalism. "I would rather be dead in a hunger strike in New Delhi, than be killed in a factory accident here," he wrote in an e-mail to a friend in India. "At least it would make the global headlines and help the Tibetan freedom struggle.".A week earlier, a Tibetan boy had died after he fell asleep at work and accidentally placed his hands under a giant machine at a nearby factory, a victim of the global supply chain. Dawa had missed the funeral, but he had heard that at least a hundred Tibetans in Taipei had attended the gathering. He had heard that the boy, who was 26, was a very punctual and hardworking sort, a model worker who had never missed a day, never drank, never smoked and was extremely religious. No papers reported the death.."I think I want to promote you to be my secretary," Ms Tung told Dawa the next day. "It would be easier that way."."Are you sure?" Dawa responded. "I don't think I am all that suited to secretarial duties?"."Do you know how to type?" she asked.."Well, a little bit. I had learned it in primary school."."Really?" she asked, flabbergasted. "In primary school, you say?"."Yes, our primary-school headmaster, Mr Rawal, taught us. He painted keyboards on all those school desks. He thought it would make us more logical.".Dawa's first assignment, however, was to accompany Ms Tung to meet with a Tibetan monk. She drove him to Taipei city that weekend. When she came to pick him up, she looked younger in her dark shades and short skirts. High heels made her look a little taller. She picked him up at the gate of the factory, and immediately asked him to sit on the passenger seat in the front. They drove through the highway, past the river and into the city. Traffic was congested as usual. The city folks were going to the suburbs in hordes. As they pulled into the main shopping district, they stopped at Sogo Department Store on Chung Hsiao East Road, and went to have lunch..After lunch, they decided to walk towards Chung Hsiao East Road. They passed by a self-consciously decorated book store, where they looked at a few books. In the section on Buddhism were nearly a dozen books on Tibetan Buddhism, some of them by the Dalai Lama. There was also the Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, a Chinese translation. Ms Tung picked up a book on Buddhism..From there, they went to visit a Tibetan antique place, run by a man from Nepal. Formerly a monk, he had since married a Chinese lady, and was now working at the store. Dawa had met Lobsang during a Tibetan festival organised by the Tibetan office in Taipei.."Hey, who is this?" Lobsang asked him in Tibetan.."No, she is my boss.".They looked at a couple of Tibetan necklaces made of agates and corals, as well as some statues, carpets and some of the religious and cultural artefacts that the Chinese loved to own. Indeed, lots of customers were pouring in. Some were returning material, others coming to pick up items, some asking for this incense or that statue. Ms Tung purchased some prayer flags, and after a while they left.."Anything I should offer to the monk?" she asked.."Get a Tibetan white scarf," Dawa advised.."Yes, I have seen it. What is the meaning of the scarf, by the way?" Ms Tung asked Lobsang for a pair of silk scarves with mantras embroidered on them.."It shows respect and also shows that you are sincere," Dawa said. "Sincerity has to be expressed and it is best communicated nonverbally. It cannot be translated.".Ghosts of the richTen minutes later, the monk came to see them at the shop. Ms Tung offered him the white scarf, which immediately put him at ease. Dawa also offered him one. The monk was skinny, with scrawny legs and a wiry face. He looked almost academic, carrying a maroon bag with a wheel embroidered in yellow. He certainly seemed like someone who had gone through a rather brutal academic programme. Unlike many monks Dawa had met, who were well travelled and almost prosperous, this one resembled the pilgrims he had seen on his trips to Benaras and Bodhgaya. It seemed Dawa did not need to translate, for the monk spoke perfect English.."So you are Tibetan?" Dawa asked.."Yes."."From?"."I am from Dharamsala."."You look like you need a new robe," Dawa joked. "I have a very nice one, tailored in Dharamsala. I have no use for it right now; I will give it you when I see you next."."How come you have a monk's dress?" the monk asked..Dawa told him the story and they both laughed out loud. The monk told him that he was a graduate of a Buddhist college in Benaras, and held a doctorate in Tibetan studies from a leading monastic university in South India. His particular specialisation was the philosophy of Nagarjuna, whose work makes the most advanced French philosophers look like schoolboys trying to impress girls..The monk was certainly not trained to drive away ghosts from recalcitrant Taiwanese mansions. As it happened, Ms Tung had purchased a house, a mansion actually, about ten km away, overlooking a beach, which she told the monk had been haunted of late. The monk recited some mantras as Ms Tung negotiated the traffic..After nearly forty minutes of driving, they reached the house, which stood like a mirage, perched on a ridge and overlooking the ocean. The building had a huge garden in the front surrounded by tall cedars, as well as a huge swimming pool that was dry, littered with foliage. The ocean air was cool and refreshing. The monk and Dawa followed Ms Tung into the house, which opened into a massive living room with a view of the ocean. The three previous owners of the house, according to Ms Tung, had died as soon as they sold the house. They had perhaps failed to appease the land goddess, supposed to be quite ferocious, said Ms Tung, who had built a small shrine in the back..A Taiwanese fortune-teller had been prodding Ms Tung to be careful of late, telling her that, for some strange karmic reason, only a Tibetan monk could tame the ghost. Ms Tung's own vision, which came in the form of dreams in which she saw a monk, clearly dressed in the maroon, rather than the brown or the grey, robes of Chinese Buddhists, had apparently confirmed the prediction.."It's all bullshit," the monk confided to Dawa. "She probably hallucinated."."How come?"."She is getting rich too fast," he said, "and she is smoking two packs a day. Insanity is a small price to pay for being wealthy – I would say slightly deluded. They live in their own reality." He added: "But it makes the world go around."."You monks are indeed wise," Dawa told the monk.."It is not wisdom, it is common sense," he responded. "What do you think, My PhD is in English or what?".The monk recited some prayers in front of the shrine in the backyard. He burnt some incense and recited some mantras. They also laid out some fruit, biscuits and pineapple cakes on the altar, as offerings. The sound of mantras echoed through the evening air, cutting through the silence of the secluded backyard. Somewhat surreptitiously, Dawa too found himself reciting mantras..For her part, Ms Tung felt soothed. Her eyes filled with tears of gratitude, and she looked towards Dawa, who kept on reciting the mantras, even louder than the monk, as if he was the real lama.."You will make a good monk," the monk joked.."You mean, for visa purposes?" asked Dawa, unthinkingly. "Or to drive away ghosts?".~ Tsering Namgyal is a journalist and author of the book Little Lhasa (2006), a collection of essays about Tibetans in India. He currently lives in Minneapolis, USA.