Nestled in the foothills of the Himalayas, Dharamsala is home to the Tibetan government in exile and it’s where His Holiness the Dalai Lama lives. When he’s in town, he sometimes gives public talks at the Tsuglagkhang Complex, the main Buddhist temple there.

Luck had it that while I was visiting, he was scheduled to give a talk as part of the training for monks-to-be. Last time I checked, I wasn’t a monk-to-be, but I was keen to see the main man himself and soak up a bit of that enlightened energy.

I found out that I needed a passport photo and copies of my passport and had to register at the temple office the day before his scheduled talk and fill out a form. You couldn’t just turn up on the day expecting to see Mr Lama; there were certain formalities. It was a similar process to getting a SIM card in India, only this was way quicker and more exciting and didn’t require details of my ancestry.

The friendly lady doing the sign-ups told me that it was a good idea to go to the temple straight away and leave a cushion or a folded-up blanket in the designated sitting area for guests and tourists. That way I could bagsy my own patch of floor before the big moment the following day.

I didn’t have a cushion or a blanket, so I went back down into town and bought a nice Tibetan shawl to fold up. But since the lady had only said it was a good idea, I took that to mean optional. I didn’t really have to trek back up to the temple. Surely it would be ok to just rock up, blanket tucked under arm. Whistling, perhaps.  What could possibly go wrong? I wouldn’t be the only one without a claimed piece of floor. There would be enough floor space for all of us and if there wasn’t, then surely Buddha would intervene divinely.

When I arrived, some had already gone in to take their seats, but many were lingering outside. I wasn’t sure what to do. Perhaps now would be a good idea to nab my spot, I thought. I spoke to some others who said they were going to stay outside to see His Holiness arrive. Now that did sound like a good idea.

When he emerged from the car, all aglow, there was a bit of a kerfuffle and a few gasps and a bubbling of hushed oohs and aaahs (a bit like watching fireworks). He seemed to glide along that path, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a broad, radiant grin in all my life. He was ushered along by other monk-like folk, beaming, full of light and peace and playfulness.

The crowd of hanger-outsiders and I flocked in after him, and I got swept up in the melee of people scrambling to find their cushions. I looked down at the floor of the huge hall and every patch of floor seemed to be spoken for by cushions, and those prepared-type people were getting comfortable.

I carried on walking, jostled a bit by the crowd, looking frantically for a spot but unsure as to where I was allowed to sit as I think I’d gone past the designated area. I was swept along by a swarm of monks, and then everyone started doing this bowing thing. I froze on the spot, watching the bowing thing all around me, and then we were told to sit.

Everyone sat, and I was left standing like a startled cartoon cat. I had to just sit down on the spot, wherever I was. I flung myself to the ground, kind of like that kids’ party game Musical Bumps where the music stops and you can’t be the last one standing.

I was somewhat relieved that I was seated, even though my crossed legs were getting cosy with someone else’s knees on either side.

I looked to my right.

Holy fuck. A monk!

I looked to my left.

Holier fuck. Another monk!

I looked at the row in front of me and behind me, I was in a whole fucking school of monks and monks-to-be. A fair-haired Englishwoman wedged into a huge army of monks. Talk about the odd one out. The sore thumb.

Sorry, I mouthed awkwardly to the monks on my right and left, aware that rubbing knees and talking to a woman probably wasn’t a prescribed practice. Row upon row of maroon robes, shaved heads, and ME in my long turquoise flowery skirt, white T-shirt and turquoise scarf. The monk on my left gave me a sliver of a smile and then went back into meditative monk mode.

I spent the next couple of hours wedged in between the monks, listening to an English translation through earphones, but I could barely concentrate on what the Dalai Lama was saying because of the monk sandwich I found myself in.

I stifled a snigger. I could NOT get the giggles now, I could not. Also, I couldn’t see the main man, only monk upon monk and a big pillar. A mass of maroon. I didn’t want to just get up and scarper as I’d draw more attention to myself and I’d bother the monks and maybe even Mr Lama himself, although I think he’d be ok with it all.

There was a lot of mantra chanting, and he discussed Vinaya, or Monastic Discipline. An ordained monk must take 253 vows. There are very specific things they must avoid, like making a rug of black wool only, tickling or swinging the arms. Heaven forbid.

Thankfully, I didn’t hear anything about the sinfulness of sitting next to a woman while learning about said vows. That would have been too much to cope with. Good job I didn’t follow through with my urge to tickle a monk though.

At breaktime, I decided to make a run for it. We all rose, and I walked out amid a sea of monks, my new Brothers, towards the fresh mountain air. I laughed all the way down the hill back into town, trying mindfully not to swing my arms.