Essay The yogi and the little girl By Douglas Lummis	フレームで見る  英文をプリントする  脚注をプリントする
ヨガの行者と女の子 筆者がインドで暮らしていた2、3年前、ダライ・ラマがチベットの亡命政府を立てたインド北部の街・ダルムサラを訪れたことがある。 そこでヨガの教師を自称するペテン師に付きまとわれたのだが、彼のうさん臭さを察知し、撃退してくれたのはんあと2歳の娘だった。

A couple of years ago, when I was with my family in India, we visited the northern town of Dharamsala, where the Dalai Lama has his Tibetan Government in Exile. It's a beautiful, mountainous region — from the town you can see the southernmost Himalayas.

The human makeup of Dharamsala is remarkable. Roughly, there are three types. First, there are the Tibetans, many of them monks. Then there are the tourists who come to look at the Tibetans. Finally there are the people who come to make money off the tourists.

The monks are beautiful. If you think that because they dress the same and shave their heads, their faces will also be the same, you will be very much mistaken. Perhaps precisely because they don't express their individuality in dress and hairstyle, their faces are intensely individual. When they talk and laugh, you see that someone is really there.

On the contrary, it's the tourists — especially the New Age types from the West, with their wildly extravagant costumes and hairdos — who look all about the same. Some of these folks, I suppose, are seriously seeking religious teaching, but probably not the ones we saw drinking and carousing in restaurants.

Then there are the business people. Some of these are simply shopkeepers selling Tibetan curios — harmless enough. But then there are the New Age con artists. These people — well, let me tell you about one we met.

He was drinking coffee on the terrace of a restaurant, and he called out to my wife as she walked past. She answered him because he seemed like an interesting fellow. I was walking ahead of her, and he was clearly disappointed when I turned around and came back, and even more so when he discovered that we had two children with us. (To understand this, you need to know that my wife is a very pretty lady.) But he tried not to show it, and invited us to join him.

He was a beautiful young man, with glistening black hair down to his shoulders, dressed in white robes, with lots of silver things dangling and jingling from his body. He was from southern India. He said he was a yoga teacher, and regaled us with stories of the famous movie stars and politicians he had taught. He gave us his card and explained where his shop was. We weren't tempted.

The next day we were eating in another restaurant, and there he was again. He came over to our table and said something ingratiating to our daughter, who was two then, but she would have none of it, and buried her face in her mother's lap. The yoga man said, "Ah, feeling a little stressed today? Here, I'll show you something." He rubbed his hand on his sleeve, then gently placed it, open, just behind her back. The little girl screamed and wriggled back and forth, shoving his hand aside with her elbows.

The yoga man stood up straight, said, "Well, enjoy your dinner," and disappeared. We were glad to know that our little girl could smell a phony at such an early age.

Shukan ST: Sept. 28, 2007

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