The snow had barely melted off the rooftops of Lhasa when the Potala Palace awoke to the sound of laughter. Not the echo of bells or the rustle of monk robes, but the lilting, innocent laugh of a child. It belonged to Amala Yara, whose name now danced through the ancient halls like a melody long forgotten.
No longer did Tsewang accompany the Dalai Lama down the narrow streets to eat with the poor. His days were now weighed with matters of state, scrolls of strategy, and the ever-heavy crown of a king who never asked to rule.
So the old man found a new companion.
A little girl with bright eyes and messy braids.
A child who knew no titles.
To her, the robed elder was never His Holiness, nor the Ocean of Wisdom.
He was simply Grandfather.
The Dalai Lama never corrected her. He smiled each time she called him grandfather. Maybe because something in him needed to be called that.
And he— He would chuckle, eyes crinkling with warmth, and call her, "My Little Star."
She had grown so quietly, so swiftly, that even the Dalai Lama found himself surprised. One moment she was clinging to Tsewang's robes, wide-eyed and wobbly; the next, she was tugging at his own sleeve, asking, "Grandfather, is it true the wind listens to prayers?"
---
Mornings belonged to them.
Long before the palace servants stirred, Amala's tiny feet that padded softly across the stone tiles to the main temple.
She would settle beside the Dalai Lama, legs crossed like a tiny monk, mirroring his posture. Her hands would mimic his mudras, fingers fumbling but eager.
The saffron light of dawn spilled like honey through high windows, casting golden halos around them. He recited the Sutras in a voice soft as snowfall. She repeated after him, her small hands in prayer, her lips moving carefully, sometimes messing up the syllables — but never the spirit.
"When we breathe in, we greet the world. When we breathe out, we release our burdens," he whispered one morning.
Amala blinked, puzzled. "Even sadness?"
He placed his wrinkled hand over her tiny one. "Especially sadness, my granddaughter."
He taught her the Sutras, not as laws, but as lullabies.
"If the mind is a wild horse," he said once, "then compassion is the tether."
She didn't understand it all, but she listened.
When they walked from the temple to the palace, she would hop between the stone slabs, reciting bits of mantra with every leap.
---
Some days, they wandered through the gardens, his hand wrapped around hers. They watched the birds fly, the monks sweep, the beggars gather near the gates. Amala would give away her snacks, sometimes even her shoes.
"Why give them everything, Amala?" he once asked.
She scrunched her nose. "Because I still have you."
His eyes stung, but he said nothing. Just bent low and kissed the crown of her head.
---
The monastery changed with her. Where once there was only silence, now came giggles, running feet, and sometimes poorly hidden pastries. The monks, who once walked in solemn rows, now found themselves dodging petals flung from behind pillars or being asked deep, impossible questions like, "If the stars are prayers, do they fall when they are answered?"
And always, he watched her — not as the Dalai Lama, not as a spiritual leader — but as a man who once gave his heart to Tibet and never thought he'd have any of it left for a child.
---
At night, she would crawl onto his bed and ask a dozen questions.
"Grandfather, what is karma?"
"Grandfather, will we be birds when we die?"
"Grandfather, will you still love me if I grow horns?"
And he would laugh so hard the guards outside thought the palace was under siege by joy.
"Grandfather," she murmured, eyes fluttering, "promise me you'll always wake me up."
Then he would cradle her in his arms, humming softly. Until she slept.
And he— He would sit beside her through the night, watching her breathe like monks watch candles in meditation.
Every breath, a prayer. Every moment, a blessing.
He smiled through the lines of age, brushing her cheek. "Only if you promise to fall asleep beside me."
And so they did. Every night, he tucked her in. Every morning, her sleepy eyes found him in silent prayer, a cup of warm butter tea already waiting for her.
She learned more than scripture. She learned to watch how he greeted the old and the poor.
"Bow not out of duty," he told her, "but out of respect for the journeys others have walked."
She offered food not because it was expected, but because he showed her how every bowl given with joy feeds the soul twice.
They laughed with street vendors, and she once offered her barley dumpling to a weeping mother who had lost a child.
The Dalai Lama watched in silence. Then bent down and kissed Amala's head.
"You are not just my light, child," he whispered, "you are the lantern of others."
---
Seasons passed.
The monks now bowed to her out of love, not fear. The palace staff whispered, "She is the joy of the Dharma King."
She did not walk in his shadow. She walked beside him.
And every soul who passed them felt a strange peace— As if the world was right, even if just for a breath.
---
And what did the Dalai Lama wish for?
Not power. Not longevity.
But only this:
To see her smile before she slept, And to hear her voice call him "Grandfather" at dawn.
That was enough.
---
Fortunate indeed is Tsewang, and even more so his daughter Amala Yara — for they hold not only the blessing of Tibet—
have been wrapped in the personal love of a man whose heart holds a thousand prayers, and the world calls His Holiness, but she simply calls… Grandfather.
And she, his granddaughter, was the brightest one.