In the little hill town of McLeodganj, all is well - almost. The Tibetans-in-exile are still shaking off Losar, the Tibetan New Year, three days of merriment, drinking, and fireworks that wrapped up earlier this week. For the government-in-exile, though, the mood is more contemplative. This year, tradition was quietly set aside: on the first day of Losar, the Dalai Lama and the 17th Karmapa gave an audience to the town - and then sat back while a rock band from Delhi, Parikrama, played live.

Days earlier, the government had sponsored a concert featuring bands from Delhi and McLeodganj alike. Most Tibetans stayed away, preferring to see in the year the old way, but the signal was hard to miss. The government had decided to gamble on less traditional methods—a not-quite-hidden bid to pull the young into the freedom struggle. And where better to start than at home?

Tenzin Jigme, the 23-year-old guitarist of a Tibetan band called JJ Exile Brothers, is blunt about it. “The Tibetan youth are not as aggressive and worried about the freedom struggle as you would think they are.” He was born and raised in McLeodganj; he has never set foot in Tibet, and knows his “homeland” only through other people’s stories. “But everyone has the feeling deep inside. It only surfaces when they get drunk or watch documentaries on Tibet. At times like these, we break down and cry.” And yet, when Sachin Tendulkar spent an afternoon hammering Shoaib Akhtar to the boundary in their World Cup match, the town erupted. Crackers went off; the betting ran hot. “Apna India jeeta hai,” screamed Lekshay, who runs a taxi service in town.

This is the knot the religious leadership is trying to untangle: a generation unsure where it belongs, and increasingly at home in cultures not its own. Even the Dalai Lama, in his New Year message, felt the need to say it plainly: be compassionate, and should you ever return to Tibet, never forget the culture of the government in exile. Others in the leadership have clearly turned the problem over already. Prof. Samdong Rinpoche, the Prime Minister of the government-in-exile, cuts to it: “Culture is just a way of life. You can’t impose it.” Even if young Tibetans do drift from their traditions, he argues, there are plenty of Westerners ready to take them up. “Yes, there is a need to impart more Tibetan studies to our youth. We are looking at better education techniques for that.”

The refugee schools, which follow the CBSE curriculum, already run extra classes in Tibetan history, culture, current affairs, and the case for the freedom struggle. In the works are dedicated schools that would teach students about Tibet across all twelve years of study. The urgency isn’t only cultural. Last year, a Tibetan delegation met the Chinese for the first time in years. “It was just to establish contact. Nevertheless, it was a historic moment for us,” says Penpa Tsering, Member of the Tibetan Parliament and director of the Tibetan Parliamentary & Policy Research Centre. “We expect to continue these talks this year again.” The government-in-exile is also quietly hoping for the release of some political prisoners. “The Chinese are unpredictable,” Rinpoche says. “They did show a good gesture last year, and let’s hope they continue with it.”

Tomorrow is Tibetan Uprising Day. The Dalai Lama will address his people and lay out his plans for the year ahead. He has no shortage of things to talk about.

Like most big cities, Berlin is cold and lonely if you are not with friends. But unlike the rest, it’s easy to find one here.

It’s 11 P.M. on a Thursday night when I walk into a bar called Kleine Nachtrevue, close to Berlin’s iconic department store, KaDeWe. Only a few hours ago this street looked like an anthill on fire. Now it’s deserted, with only the blinking neon signs lending urban comfort. I am here to meet Nada Njiente - a veteran burlesque dancer whom I’d been in touch with over email for a while, and who has promised to let me into her intriguing world.

Kleine Nachtrevue is a time warp. I am in a 1940s burlesque-era bar - dark, dingy, with a smoke cloud hovering around the beautiful glass chandelier that gleams like a graceful lady who’s seen a lot. Much like Nada, who is sitting at the bar, smoking her Marlboro Lights and drinking whisky on the rocks. I recognize her by her short cropped blonde hair and the red lipstick that matches her little red cocktail dress. She recognizes me by my pseudo-vintage T-shirt - a complete misfit in a bar with people dressed for the occasion. We exchange greetings, and I get the barman, Bodo, to pour me a mug of Berliner Pilsner.

Nada tells me I just missed her show but there’s a lot more to come. Instantly, the bar plunges into darkness, and Bodo, who doubles as the lights engineer, beams the spotlight onto the stage. The curtains go up, revealing a beautiful, tall, pale girl - stark naked. For the next five minutes, she mimics a fashion shoot to a voiceover from a real one playing in the background. She plays out the scene - flirting with an imaginary photographer, fluttering her eyelashes, moving her shapely posterior seductively... before ending the show with a classic supermodel pose. The curtains go down, the people in the bar applaud, the lights come on, and Nada tells me her story.

Originally from a small town near Cologne, she moved to the countryside on the outskirts of Berlin back in the seventies to live in a commune. “It was the most liberating feeling. We lived together, smoked, experimented with things, tried to learn about life... but you can’t do that kind of thing forever.”

And so, a few years later, she moved to Berlin to get a “proper job” in a “proper office.” “Berlin was a city where I learned a lot about myself. I fell in and out of love. Broke my heart over several men, got back up again... a cycle.” And then she met “a gorgeous Bangladeshi man” who completely swept her off her feet. “He was a beautiful young boy and I was madly in love with him. I got pregnant and then things went downhill. Romance died, reality checked in. Little things began to trouble me like his messy habits, his bunch of unruly friends who would always be at home... it scared me when I thought of the possibility of doing this for the rest of my life, and so when he proposed marriage, I refused. He couldn’t take it because in his culture, a woman refusing a man’s proposal is perhaps unheard of.”

Nada gave birth to a girl, walked out of the relationship, and over the next few years took up cabaret dancing as an art form. Around this time, she checked out a live BDSM show where the Domina onstage invited people to join her. Nada was the first one to rush for the offer.

“It was a born-again moment for me. I figured that the reason I was constantly getting hurt in relationships was that I subconsciously loved that feeling. I thought I might as well start enjoying the pain - both emotionally and physically.” The Domina happened to be the owner of the Kit Kat Club - one of Berlin’s most outré underground joints - where entry is restricted to those with an attitude to match. Nada went on to become their star performer, doing acts that involved copulating with her partner while suspended midair. In some ways, the Kit Kat Club’s meteoric rise as Berlin’s most notorious nightclub, drawing people from around the world, owes a lot to Nada’s over-the-top erotic performances. Over the years, her career in eroticism reached new heights, with a slew of fetish-porn flicks and performances in more underground clubs.

The lights go out again, and this time a stunningly pretty girl with slightly Asian features performs a burlesque dance - slowly getting rid of the few clothes she has on. By the end of the show, she bares it all. Nada joins in the applause excitedly, turns to me, and says, “That’s my daughter!”

My Indian middle-class sensibilities are rattled, but I manage to admit that she’s breathtaking. I steer the conversation back to Kit Kat. “I don’t perform there anymore. I have some logistical issues with them. Artists need to be treated a certain way, and I think I’ve worked hard to be where I am and could do with some respect.” Nada nods to her daughter, who is by now behind the bar counter, all demure and dressed up. She pours her a Jim Beam. “Her name is Emiko - meaning a kid graced with beauty.” I couldn’t agree more. Does she like what she’s doing? “I don’t think this is what she wants to do for the rest of her life. For now, she’s doing it for the money. But what she really wants is to study international relations at a good university.” Emiko agrees with a million-euro smile as she gets me another chilled Berliner Pilsner. The lights go down again, and this time Bodo does a rendition of Germany’s Frank Sinatra - the actor, comedian, and entertainer Harald Juhnke. The poem is about eating the rich, and Bodo ends his act with a song called Mein Hund ist schwul which literally translates to “My dog is gay.”

The song, originally composed by German acappella band - Die Prinzen, is a hit, and even Emiko, who was only smiling so far, is singing along.
A couple next to me starts getting a bit more than cozy. The edges dissolve. Skin, music, smoke, desire, drink - none of it announces itself anymore. The world outside suddenly seems unbearably normal and uninspiring. And for a moment I try hard to reconcile myself to that fact.
Emiko, who will soon leave this city to pursue a career in international relations in the outside world, pours me another drink. The lights go out again. And Berlin embraces me with its welcoming darkness.