My mother had four colors—green, yellow, red, and one more—used not for drawing, but for dyeing sheep’s wool to weave Tibetan rugs. She was a strong and competent woman, and she could draw a little herself.
Even paper was very hard to find in those days. Sometimes, when my brother went to the town nearby, he would bring me a little paper. I would then draw, secretly borrowing colors from my mother. On those scarce sheets of paper, I drew flowers, yaks, horses, and other small things.

In the early 1980s, just after the Cultural Revolution, when I was a teenager, my brother managed to find a portrait of the Tibetan deity Shel Thang Ngawa, signed by our great lama, the Panchen Lama. When I saw that portrait, I was completely mesmerized. I felt an overwhelming desire to draw it myself. I even thought, “If I cannot draw this, life has no meaning.”
So I stole some of my mother’s paints and tried to copy that portrait. I wasn’t able to draw it like a professional, but I managed surprisingly well, given how little I had.

Not long after, my parents sent me to a nearby monastery to become a monk. But because of the Cultural Revolution, the monastery itself had been destroyed. We monks spent years working hard to rebuild it.
When the physical monastery was finally restored, professional thangka painters were invited to paint the sacred deities on the monastery walls. Since I was part of the rebuilding group, I asked the senior monks, “Please allow me to help those professional painters.”
They agreed, and during the summer, I worked as their helper for three months. Only in summer could painting be done, because in winter it was far too cold.

At first, I did basic chores—preparing paints, warming the colors, and other small tasks. But after two weeks, they allowed me to try something real. They asked me to apply the ka-den—the base layer of white paint before the actual designs. That moment was one of the happiest of my life. Finally, I could paint properly with real materials.

They told me I was good at applying the base, so little by little, they gave me more chances—to draw flowers, details on the side, and other small pieces. I was very fortunate to practice for three whole months.

The following year, another group of painters came from Nangchen, and again I had the chance to help and learn from them.
For the rest of the year, however, my main duty was studying Buddhist philosophy as a monk. Opportunities to paint were rare, but my heart always longed for it.

In 1995, my life changed. I was forced to leave my hometown and my country. The reason was simple but dangerous: I had drawn the forbidden Tibetan national flag. Someone in the monastery must have informed the authorities. My cousin, who worked as a driver for the police, secretly warned me that I could be jailed. He told me it was safer to escape.

I had no clear plan. I just knew I had to head east—toward India, where His Holiness the Dalai Lama lived. Along the way, I was lucky to meet others who were also fleeing. Together, we managed to reach Nepal, and then finally the Tibetan Reception Center of the exile government in Dharamsala, India.

At the center, every new arrival had to choose: either go to school, to a monastery, or to learn thangka painting. Sadly, there were no more seats left in the thangka painting schools.

They asked if I wanted to join a monastery. I said no. After some time, they told me I must either go to a monastery or leave the center. Because I refused monastery life and had no chance for art school, I was expelled from the reception center.

I didn’t know what to do, but during that difficult period, I often went to the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives. There, I was fortunate to meet someone who helped me find a sponsor from Canada, who supported me for six months. Later, for three years, I was sponsored by someone from Germany, receiving about 250–300 rupees per month.

Through this support, I was connected to a thangka painting teacher arranged by His Holiness the Dalai Lama’s office. After two years of training, I sold my very first thangka and could finally support myself. Financially, I was stable.

I studied under my teacher for eight years. After the fourth year, I received my diploma, and in the eighth year, I was allowed to take students of my own. I accepted three students and began teaching.

This was all part of Namsa Chenmo, the official tailoring and thangka section of His Holiness the Dalai Lama’s office, where they also make the robes for His Holiness himself. While learning thangka painting, I also had the opportunity to learn tailoring. To my great honor, I was able to make robes for my one and only lama, His Holiness the Dalai Lama, three times.