It's a beautiful evening in McLeodganj today, clear and warm. As I write, I can see lots of strollers (Indian, Western, Tibetan) passing along Baghsu Road.

Yesterday, I took advantage of the clear, warm weather to take another crack at hiking up to Triund (a 9,000-foot viewpoint on a high ridge above town). I had turned back 2 weeks ago when the weather began to deteriorate, but yesterday, I was lucky. I reached the ridgetop sooner than I'd expected, soon enough to allocate 2 hours to sit lazily on top of the grassy ridge, drinking masala tea (of course, there are tea stalls at Triund) and enjoying the unobstructed view of the huge, snowy Dhauladhar range. The hike up had taken about 3.5 hours. I'd hiked solo, but as I'd expected, I encountered a very international collection of other hikers on the way up, including lots of Indians who'd come from New Delhi, the Punjab and elsewhere for a cool weekend in the mountains, a few local Tibetans, and Westerners from England, Europe, and the US. Lounging at Triund, I met and chatted with a Dutch nurse I'd befriended earlier, and also agreed to hike down with two women from Finland and England.

The three of us walked back down to McLeodganj without incident, enjoying conversation, the beautiful views, the evening light, and chats with other hiking parties. Reaching the top of town, our Finnish companion hurried off to a massage appointment she was now somewhat late for.

Walking on with my English friend, I noticed ahead of us one of the two older women beggars whom I often encounter here, and whom I'm pretty sure are lepers (both have gnarled stumps where their hands should be). I often give each of them a few rupees, so I dug into my purse.

As I bent down to greet her with a "Namaste, Madame," and to put my money into her tin can, life suddenly flipped--in a way likely recognizable to any Western traveler in India--from under-control and pleasant to confusing and quite frightening. She is usually cheerful (though perhaps a bit addled), but now she seemed tired and agitated, and badly wanted our help with something. But initially we couldn't make out what it was that she needed.

As she waved her arms about and spoke Hindi much too rapidly for me to guess at what she needed, we eventually realized that she wanted us to support her so that she could take a few steps to a more comfortable location. I wasn't comfortable touching her, but I also knew that leprosy is treatable and not very communicable (I also knew that it's not unlikely that she's been treated and is not infectious). We each put a supporting hand under one of her elbows and helped her to her new spot. Next, it became clear that she needed something else. My alert English friend soon realized that she needed a drink of water, and a helpful tea stall attendant filled her tin cup with fresh tap water. She took a long drink, holding her cup neatly with the stumps of her hands, and I realized that she was very thirsty--how long might it have been since she'd had a drink of water on this warm day? Had she had a drink all day?

Next, she needed help transferring her collected donations into a plastic bag so that her water wouldn't spill onto it. As we helped her collect her coins and small bills, she continued to wave her arms agitatedly, often touching my hands, arms, and clothing (an outcome I'd hoped to avoid). With her money transferred, my English friend was ready to leave--"I think it's time for me to extract myself from the situation"--and I followed suit.

Heading down Jogibara Road through town, I realized that I was feeling shaken--partly because of a concern about infection (probably not that warranted, but still), and partly because I'd come face to face with someone's truly profound suffering. On reaching my guesthouse room, I hurried into the bathroom to wash my hands and flip on the geyser (a wall-mounted water heater common in India). I waited impatiently for the half hour it took for the water to heat, then soaped myself over and over in the comforting warm shower. I'd piled my clothes in a corner of my room, being unsure what to do with them, I usually have my clothes washed by a local dhobi wallah (washer), but didn't want to spread any possible disease agents. Those clothes are still in the pile this evening, and I suppose the best bet is for me to wash them with hot water and soap.

Once thoroughly washed and in clean clothes, I felt somewhat calmed during the rest of the evening. But I spent a restless night, partly wrestling with out-sized "what if?" fears for myself, and partly feeling in a very immediate way the horror of the beggar woman's situation. My healthy hands and fingers seemed an immense gift from the universe. Without them, how would one take care of oneself, change clothes, wash, use the toilet? Could one ever brush one's teeth? Worst of all, I thought, would be if your very presence frightened everyone, so that no one would ever want to touch you. I thought about how I take hugs and simple touches for granted, and vowed never to do so again. During that restless night, Mother Teresa seemed the most remarkable and inspiring person in the universe. I imagined how many people she and her colleagues must have helped to feel comfortable and loved--people who might not have felt that way for many years, if ever. I saw the gulf between what Mother Theresa had done in her life, and what I've so far accomplished in mine.

Another blue-sky day, a morning meditation session at Tushita Retreat Center, and a cup of hot tea on Tushita's deck has put me back in balance, and I went on to enjoy teaching this afternoon. But I'll be reflecting on yesterday evening's events for a long time to come. I don't think I have a right to forget them.