Hello Dalai: my brush with his holiness. (Of Several Minds).

In these anxious days, when world leaders astonish us with their deeply held stupidity, meeting a man like the Dalai Lama--whose very being radiates peace and tranquility--is a corrective and a restorative. I had that opportunity recently when he visited Dehradun, the small town in the foothills of the Indian Himalayas where I have lived for the past fifteen years.

Dehradun has a large Tibetan population, and the Dalai Lama had come to inaugurate a library at a monastery. At the same time he was to visit a school for Tibetan children with mental handicaps. I am the director of a similar school for children with physical and mental disabilities, and I had been invited to attend the gathering, along with one of my colleagues, my husband, and our daughter.

Usually, our daughter steals the show at such events. Moy Moy is thirteen, but her developmental level is about that of a four-month-old infant. Four months, the baby books agree, is the perfect age--all charm, no ego--and Moy Moy is a particularly good advertisement. She smiles at just about anyone. You have to work at it a little, which makes the reward seem as if it is meant for you alone. First you catch her attention, then hold eye contact long enough for her to recognize yours as a friendly face, then smile encouragingly and talk sweetly. The moment when the blankness disappears and the look of amazed delight sweeps across her face never fails to enchant.

It was for her that I started the school I now direct, and because of her that my whole life has changed. She is my ticket to most events nowadays. Meeting the Dalai Lama was all her doing. So I expected that if he noticed us at all, it would be because of her.

I reckoned without my husband. Ravi is a striking, and even unforgettable, man. Only five-foot-three, he nonetheless has a presence that commands immediate attention. He dresses in traditional Indian clothes, and that day he wore a flaming red kurta (a knee-length tunic), a white waistcoat and closely fitted white pajamas, a woolen cap with a woven border that matched the kurta, and a brightly colored shawl draped over his shoulders. The clothes alone make him stand out--most Indian men favor gray or brown as the color of choice--but Ravi also has a long, full beard which is soft and mostly white. His face is serene and saintly, his eyes sparkle. Yet it's not just a look: his whole life is devoted to working for people few care about--the poor, the forgotten, those whose villages have been destroyed by earthquakes or cyclones, those who walk miles every day for water and firewood.

When the Dalai Lama arrived, everyone in the little hall (there were around one hundred of us) stood expectantly on either side of the aisle. The atmosphere was electric: even the children with mental handicaps were beside themselves. Bent almost double in their eagerness to show proper respect, they stood waiting for him to pass, hardly daring to peek out to catch a glimpse of him. He stopped to bless a child just opposite us, turned to continue up the aisle, and then noticed Ravi. Seeing the Dalai Lama's curiosity, the translator stopped to introduce Moy Moy, my colleague Linda, and me (she didn't know Ravi), and told the Dalai Lama at length about Karuna Vihar, the school where we work. (She spoke in Tibetan, so I don't know for sure what she said.) But as he listened with great interest, it seemed to me that what he really wanted to know about was Ravi.

His talk to the full group was also in Tibetan, but he was at pains to ensure that we all understood what he was saying, interrupting himself at one point to ask that a translator be deputed to us. The gist of it was a perfect understanding of inclusion. People with disabilities, he said, are just the same as anyone else: people first; people who need love and affection, dignity and a place in the community. It was not simply a speech. The school, the first of its kind for Tibetan children with disabilities, had been established at his insistence and he makes it a point to stay closely in touch with its growth and functioning.

His visit was a pastoral one. He wanted to meet the children and to find out how the teachers felt about their work. He asked them about the progress they had noted, whether they needed anything, and whether he could do anything more to make their jobs easier. Although the audience was clearly in awe of him (no one stood straight when addressing him; they bent at the waist and would not look him in the eye), his style was casual and affectionate. He paused often to consider what he was being told, teased the young woman who was interpreting in sign language for the deaf children, and smiled extravagantly throughout. And although our interpreter kept forgetting to translate, so rapt was her attention, the forty-five-minute session, mostly incomprehensible, ended too quickly.

As the Dalai Lama left the hall, one of the organizers announced that there would be a photo opportunity--first with the Dalai Lama and the children, and then with the adults. Moy Moy was taken from us for the picture and placed at his feet. When it was our turn, I was stationed next to him. As he turned to leave, he blessed me once more and then, over my shoulder, caught sight of Ravi. Smiling mischievously, he reached over and pulled on Ravi's beard, as if he had been wanting to do it all morning. Then, giggling, he put his arms around Ravi and hugged him.