Our story this time began in the middle of time.
Not the beginning. Not the end. Somewhere in the sacred space between history and memory.
But when you travel to the Roof of the World and ask my grandfather, His Highness Tsewang—Tibetan King of the Snowy Peaks—he will tell you that his story started on the day he began to dream of his people.
Or perhaps it began earlier.
On the day the old Dalai Lama spotted him in a crowded street, pointed a finger through a sea of pilgrims, and said softly to his attendant monks,
"He has a heart fit for a Tibetan King."
But if you ask the Middle Kingdom, their story began even before the first dynasty scratched ink across parchment.
And if you ask me,
Our story…
…our real story…
…began in Tibet—the Land of the Gods.
---
Tibet, or "Bod" (བོད་), is no ordinary land.
It is a prayer whispered into the winds.
A poem written in mountain peaks and glacier-fed lakes.
Here, on the back of the Himalayas, where the world leans closer to the sky, every stone has a soul and every breath is a blessing.
Prayer flags dance in the wind, their threads frayed from years of flapping wishes into the air.
The Potala Palace, that red-and-white sentinel perched above Lhasa, watches like an eternal monk, golden roofs glinting with sun and prophecy.
Here, monks chant in deep harmony, and even the yaks seem to bow their shaggy heads in reverence.
Tibetans believe the mountains are our ancestors.
The lakes—Namtso, Yamdrok—hold the soul of the land.
The wind knows your secrets.
And the earth, however cold, remembers your footsteps.
---
It was on one such cold morning, wrapped in mist and sacred stillness, that the old Dalai Lama stood at his palace window, overlooking Lhasa.
The chanting of monks rolled through the air like distant thunder. The perfume of burning juniper lingered. The old man, with his sun-wrinkled face and eyes deep as wisdom itself, watched the people below.
His lips curled into a smile—gentle, amused, strangely prophetic.
He whispered, "There is no sign of the next Dalai Lama."
The monks nearby fell silent.
The incense flickered.
"But from the East shall come a good king," he added, "a man of the people."
His eyes twinkled. "And his bloodline shall be blessed. For from him will rise the Snow lion—the protector of Tibet."
He turned, voice growing firmer.
"But be warned... the East shall also bring Tibet's greatest enemy."
The monks bowed, chanting "Amitabha…"
---
Three days later, from the East came a man on the run.
A scruffy figure with windburnt cheeks and guilty eyes.
He had a tale that embarrassed even the yaks—
He had, according to the gossiping pilgrims, impregnated a girl from a village whose uncles could chase a rabbit uphill.
But he did not come to hide.
He came to confess.
To shave his head, wear a robe, and seek forgiveness from the holiest man in the land.
That man—was Tsewang.
My grandfather.
And this… is the story of how he became king.
---
The Dalai Lama waited for him.
Tsewang entered the chamber like a mountain shadow. Dirty boots, trembling hands, heart full of regret.
He knelt.
"I—"
"Don't start," the Dalai Lama waved a hand. "I already know."
Tsewang blinked. "You do?"
"You don't get to—" the Dalai Lama pointed his finger, smiling, "—impregnate a woman not yours, run halfway across the plateau, and then try to become a monk."
The monks gasped.
Tsewang turned beet red.
The Dalai Lama just chuckled.
"You think this palace is a confessional cave for Casanovas?" He chuckled, tapping his prayer wheel. "Boy, if guilt turned men into monks, half of Tibet would be in saffron robes."
Tsewang lowered his head. "I only wanted to ask forgiveness, then devote my life to the Dharma."
The old man looked at him—truly looked.
"You came to serve," the Dalai Lama said, "but Tibet doesn't need another monk. Tibet needs a man with your heart—a heart that feels shame… a heart that knows right, even if late… a heart that dreams of others."
He stood slowly, his old bones creaking.
"Tsewang," he said softly, "Tibet needs a king."
The chamber fell still.
Tsewang stared at him. "A king?"
"You are not perfect," the Dalai Lama smiled, "but neither was Songtsen Gampo. Neither was any man who truly loved his people. They were flawed. They were human. But they bled for their land. They led when the land was silent."
"...But I'm not from a royal house."
The Dalai Lama leaned forward. "And who decided royalty is in the blood, not the soul?"
Tsewang's eyes welled up. "Why me?"
"Because," the Dalai Lama whispered, "you dream of your people before you dream of yourself". Because you bowed, not for praise, but for forgiveness. And because when Tibet whispers, you listen."
---
Later that evening, as snow kissed the temple roofs, Tsewang sat with the Dalai Lama, drinking warm butter tea.
"I never wanted power," he said quietly.
"And that," the Dalai Lama said, smiling, "is why it belongs to you."
He placed a beaded bracelet in Tsewang's palm.
"It belonged to my teacher. And now… it belongs to you."
Tsewang wept—not loudly, but like the sky before it rains.
The monks chanted outside.
Lhasa shimmered in moonlight.
That night, the people whispered of dreams and signs.
That night, a king was born—not from conquest, but from compassion.
---
And that was the beginning…
Of a king who walked with the people.
Who led, not from a throne, but from the heart.
And when he spoke, it was as if the mountains themselves had found a voice.
The Dalai Lama had smiled.
The monks had bowed.
And the skies over Lhasa had grown very still.
Because they, too, knew what was coming.
A protector.
A patriot.
A king.