The Lion Man Cometh

 

As he wandered around the peaceful Himalayan coffee shop in Dharamsala, India, muttering to himself and to what must have been his invisible companions, laughing at seemingly random intervals, speaking barely decipherable French, and offering cigarettes to toddlers, I couldn't help but believe that this lone, filthy, mentally unstable drifter would be the craziest and most terrifying person I would encounter that day. It seemed obvious to even the least observant among us that this man suffered from some form of schizophrenia, the type that made you believe he should not be anywhere other than in a locked and padded room. He proceeded to occupy two separate tables, ordering nothing, occasionally feigning to momentarily read a newspaper that was neither local nor recent at one table and continuing his solitary conversation at the other. Seasoned travelers that we are, no more than a wary look and agreeable nods were needed as my cousin Nate and I armed ourselves with the mismatched cutlery, ceramic plates, and writing utensils that were at our immediate disposal while we waited for the point during our simple breakfast when one of us would accidentally look, eat, talk, or do something disagreeable to our unstable French associate that would set off his inevitable murder spree for the day. At that point we would have no choice other than to fend him off with butter knives and a space pen (the latter, sadly, being our most effective tool at the moment). To our great fortune, everyone at the coffee shop escaped unharmed that morning. Eventually, he wandered off, after neither eating nor drinking anything (but he did chain smoke the better part of a pack of cigarettes), and we counted ourselves fortunate that we had escaped his momentary reign of terror. Little did we know that our freedom would be short-lived, and soon enough, the omen of molestation that we glimpsed that morning would return that same evening, and in force.

During our many meanderings up and down the streets and hills of Dharamsala, Nate and I became familiar with many locals in this peaceful, compact village of not quite 20,000. We had tea regularly with a shop-owner from Amritsar.  We never passed on an opportunity to shoot the breeze with the many Kashmiri pashmina salesmen just starting on their Ramadan fasts, offering them a friendly "salaam alaikum" or "Ramadan kareem." Even the man who begged because he was cursed with malformed feet and the man with a similar affliction of the hands came to know us and stopped harassing us for food or money, which is a particularly satisfying feeling as we were then able to observe them pleading their cases with the new tourists in town while we, more often than not, escaped unscathed. There was also one local Tibetan man who wandered around each of the two winding streets in Dharamsala, but also could be regularly found at one of the busier intersections advertising a traditional Tibetan cultural demonstration at the primary school just down the hill. Always wearing his Tibetan flag t-shirt and a warm, welcoming demeanor, he politely invited every passerby to come and enjoy the show starring a local Tibetan celebrity (which, I do realize, is a rather niche category). 

After missing the first show, we counted ourselves fortunate that there was to be an encore performance that very evening of the day that we narrowly escaped the aforementioned "murder in self-defense" episode. We reasoned that If we again neglected our chance to enjoy a traditional cultural performance we would regret it. At the time, we did not realize how innocently juxtaposed that intention was. As it would turn out, there was very little culture to be missed, and we certainly regretted something, but a simple explanation does not do justice, please, allow me to elaborate.

We showed up five minutes early to the primary school and were led into what appeared to be the assembly/meeting area. There were four planks to sit on that were maybe three inches off of the floor and draped in empty rice sacks. Not wishing to appear over-eager for anything, we took seats in the second row. As more tourists filed in, we grew anxious to see this "Tibetan celebrity." Other than the tourists, the person in the room was the gentleman we had seen advertising the show on the corner earlier that day. It soon became apparent that he was the celebrity we had all been waiting for. The sandwich board man was the celebrity.

The performance began with a heart-warming story about how at the age of 15, the Lion Man (as he had been nicknamed by a spectator of his "show" long ago) fled Lhasa to escape the oppressive situation in the Tibetan Autonomous Region (as it is now known, most importantly, to China). He showed us the one and only photo he owned of him in Lhasa. It showed him as a young boy seated on a small horse, and seated on another was his brother. They were posed in front of the Potala (for those of you unfamiliar with it, this was the building that served as the residence of the Dalai Lama, the seat of the Tibetan government, and the spiritual hub). Using broken English and speaking ever so hesitantly, innocently, and endearingly, the Lion Man detailed his harrowing journey from oppression in Tibet to eventual freedom in India. Even though it was a story I have heard many different times and from many different people, it was still a touching and humbling experience. He then went on to explain that while maybe he wasn't the best, most polished dancer, he had a dream to learn more and to share his knowledge of Tibetan cultural dances with young Tibetans in exile, a truly admirable aspiration.

We quickly realized that "not the best" and "unpolished" were descriptions that were applied generously in this case.  He wasn't great, or even good, but he danced with energy and heart, and those of us that stayed appreciated at least that much. Although, after about twenty minutes of watching him spin in circles, breaking the monotony only to change directions...once, we all began to question the sanity of our decisions to stay.

Once his first two dances were completed, the schoolchildren fled into the night and he introduced the second act in his theater of horrors. He mentioned something about helping people question their established ideas of space and helping them to stretch their thoughts and feelings. Nothing comfortable ever happens after an introduction like that. What happened once the music started wasn't so much of a "dance performance" as it was "one man doing his best to molest every member of his audience without anyone running out screaming and/or in tears." One by one, he went up and down the rows and invaded--no not invaded, that sounds too polite. One by one, he trounced upon, violated, and destroyed everyone's personal space. He began by slowly walking over to the first audience member and moving his face closer and closer until they basically touched noses. He then simply maintained that unsettling position for about 30 seconds. As he moved on to subsequent hesitant participants, he had to keep upping his game, so to speak. He moved closer and closer each time. If someone backed away, he only leaned forward more, this occasionally lead to a terrified tourist laying on his back on the ground while the Lion Man draped his limp body upon him or her (there was no gender bias in this social experiment) like a rag doll. Not willing to suffer the same fate as those unfortunate souls, I resolved to hold my ground. I put on my best intimidating game face and waited for my turn to feel dirty and used. For what seemed like 10 minutes, but was probably only 15 seconds, I stared into the eyes of the Lion Man as he continued to drip sweat and struggled to catch his breath from his 20 minute spinning session. He had the intensity and single-mindedness of a man capable of either expressing great emotions, thought, and art, or murdering someone and wearing their entrails.

Each audience member was granted more time than they were remotely comfortable with to do their best to gaze into the terrifying soul of the Lion Man. Once he finished, we all glanced around the room and breathed a momentary sigh of relief. We walked into that school as strangers, but through our shared experience we would leave friends, but we wouldn't leave quite yet. The Lion Man still had two performances for us...

The next number was designed to showcase the great strength of the Lion Man (at least, that's what I gathered since nothing else really happened). At first one-by-one, but progressing to pairs and to eventually groups of three, four, and five, we were all brought to the front of the room to be arranged into awkward poses and hoisted into the air by the Lion Man. Now to give him some credit, the Lion Man is not a big man, so this was sometimes impressive even while it was always uncomfortable. It was quite the feat when he lifted both Nate and I (who, combined, are sadly pushing close to 400 lbs), and spun us around like we were performing the most horrific version of Swan Lake you can imagine. All I managed to utter was, "We're two fat men! You shouldn't be doing this!". Through carefully planned arrangements of people that included too many heads in too many crotches, he managed to pick everyone up, except for the group of five, but I think that was more of a balance issue.

For his final performance, the Lion Man returned to a solo routine. That's not to say it was any less disconcerting, just less violating. Starting from the fetal position on a dirty concrete floor, the Lion Man's conclusion had energy, passion, anger, sadness, and elation among other many emotions, but what it didn't have was a semblance of sanity. He included something reminiscent of a strip tease, but with none of the sexiness. This led to him haphazardly tying his trademark Tibetan flag t-shirt around his head with a length of fabric. He also violently tried to put on a pair of sunglasses (don't worry if you can't picture that one, it is an...uncommon sight to say the least). This all culminated in the Lion Man dashing himself upon each of the four walls of the room. Once it was over, he quickly composed himself and returned to the soft-spoken, warm man that had originally enticed everyone to see his show in the first place. We then went outside for some groups photos (which would presumably receive the caption, "Never Forget!" from the survivors), and then we all scattered into the night in the vain pursuit of making any sense of what we had just experienced. 

 

I am more than tempted to take this opportunity to wander into some sort of social commentary about the degradation and evolution of culture and the effects on a small, rather homogenous population, but that would be a disservice to the Lion Man and the community he resides in. It would either over-simplify the Lion Man's "performance," or drastically over-complicate it. They say there is a thin line between madness and genius. I'm pretty sure we saw that line crossed back and forth dozens of times that evening. He was certainly aiming to use some corrupted form of modernist techniques to get some sort of idea across or to elicit a reaction (I think and hope). I can't say that I understood it, but I do know that much modern art aims to leave each viewer with a unique and lingering impression. I'd like to say the Lion Man is anything but an artist, that he was nothing more than a raving lunatic, however here I am, months later, writing about lingering feelings of...well...I'm not to sure. Regret, amazement, confusion, fascination, and fear barely begin to scratch the surface. To that, I can say nothing other than, "Good show Lion Man. Good show."