"Kim Stanley Robinson - Forty Signs of Rain" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robinson Kim Stanley)

“Small to begin with, although very helpful nevertheless,” Drepung added, “shrank even further. It was
requested that the Tibetan community in Dharamsala make itself as small and inconspicuous as possible.
The Dalai Lama and his government did their best, and many Tibetans were relocated to other places in
India, mostly in the far south. But elsewhere as well. Then some more years passed, and there were
some, how shall I say, arguments or splits within the Tibetan exile community, too complicated to go into,
I assure you. I can hardly understand them myself. But in the end a group called the Yellow Hat School
took the offer of this island of ours, and moved there. This was just before the India-Pakistan war of
1970, unfortunately, so the timing was bad, and everything was on the hush-hush for a time. But the
island was ours from that point, as a kind of protectorate of India, like Sikkim, only not so formally
arranged.”

“Is Khembalung the island’s original name?”

“No. I do not think it had a name before. Most of our sect lived at one time or another in the valley of
Khembalung. So that name was kept, and we have shifted away from the Dalai Lama’s government in
Dharamsala, to a certain extent.”

At the sound of the words “Dalai Lama” the old monk made a face and said something in Tibetan.

“The Dalai Lama is still number one with us,” Drepung clarified. “It is a matter of some religious
controversies with his associates. A matter of how best to support him.”

Anna said, “I thought the mouth of the Ganges was in Bangladesh?”

“Much of it is. But you must know that it is a very big delta, and the west side of it is in India. Part of
Bengal. Many islands. The Sundarbans? You have not heard?”

Their pizza arrived, and Drepung began talking between big bites. “Lightly populated islands, the
Sundarbans. Some of them anyway. Ours was uninhabited.”

“Did you say uninhabitable?”

“No no. Inhabitable, obviously.”

Another noise from Rudra Cakrin.

“People with lots of choices might say they were uninhabitable,” Drepung went on. “And they may yet
become so. They are best for tigers. But we have done well there. We have become like tigers. Over the
years we have built a nice town. A little seaside potala for Gyatso Rudra and the other lamas. Schools,
houses—hospital. All that. And sea walls. The whole island has been ringed by dikes. Lots of work.
Hard labor.” He nodded as if personally acquainted with this work. “Dutch advisors helped us. Very
nice. Our home, you know? Khembalung has moved from age to age. But now…” He waggled a hand
again, took another slice of pizza, bit into it.

“Global warming?” Anna ventured.

He nodded, swallowed. “Our Dutch friends suggested that we establish an embassy here, to join their
campaign to influence American policy in these matters.”

Anna quickly bit into her pizza so that she would not reveal the thought that had struck her, that the