"When the wind places a child in your arms, it means the mountains have chosen you again."
---
The mountains had healed.
Under Tsewang's gentle reign, the land once broken by hunger and despair began to breathe again. Villages rose from rubble. Broken prayer wheels spun once more. The smell of barley and yak butter filled the air, and the cries of children—once mournful—turned to laughter that echoed between the snowy peaks.
Tsewang did not rule from a throne. He walked in dust, sat on straw mats, and slept beside pilgrims during journeys. He listened to every complaint, carried bags for elders, and never allowed his walking stick to touch the earth until the Dalai Lama had taken his seat above him.
People called him Gyewa Gyalpo—the Humble King.
The monks of the high monasteries began referring to him in hushed reverence as Chögyal, the Dharma King—a sovereign who ruled by compassion, not command.
His name was whispered in villages like a blessing:
"May your sons have the patience of Tsewang."
"May your daughters be guarded by a king like him."
But the sky, as it often does in Tibet, changed again.
---
It was the second morning of the flowering season. Snow still kissed the hills, but lavender buds had begun to brave the air. Monks chanted sutras in the courtyard of the Potala Palace, where incense twirled like silk in the wind.
Tsewang had just finished washing the feet of an old farmer who had walked barefoot from Tsang for days just to thank Dalai Lama for choosing Tsewang as king.
Suddenly, a sharp cry echoed from the palace gates.
A baby.
Wrapped in a red shawl, a newborn lay on the cold stones, a scrap of parchment pinned crudely to her chest:
"Here. Since you run from your duties as a man, maybe you'll do better as a monk father. She cries just like you used to, your majesty."
The palace guards froze. Monks turned in shock. Tsewang stood frozen as if struck by lightning.
But the Dalai Lama—old, amused, and chewing roasted barley as if watching a festival—let out a deep, warm laugh that shook his whole body.
"Your dramas never end, Tsewang-la!" he chuckled, wiping his eyes. "Even the heavens think you're too peaceful lately."
Tsewang, on the other hand, panicked. "What do I do with a baby?" he blurted, pacing like a scared goat. "I've rebuilt villages, negotiated border peace with the Sui envoy, and even learned to herd dris—but this?!"
The old man bent, lifted the baby into his arms, and in that moment, the child stopped crying. Her tiny fingers wrapped around the Dalai Lama's robe string. He pressed his forehead to hers, smiling deeply.
"She is a gift," he whispered, "from your past—but more so for our future."
He named her Amala Yara — meaning "Beloved Mother of the Future."
"Because one day," he said, "she shall mother a generation, not with power, but with wisdom."
---
From that day forward, Amala Yara became the palace's laughter. Tsewang—once terrified—now tied her to his back while Dalai Lama sang her lullabies monks hadn't heard since their youth.
The Dalai Lama, though aging and frail, often joked:
"She's the only one who listens to me now. Even the monks fear her giggle more than my sermons!"
Their bond deepened.
One day, as they walked toward a distant monastery to aid in rebuilding after a storm, Tsewang supported the old man with his left hand and carried Amala Yara in a sling on his back.
The Dalai Lama stopped by a prayer wheel and whispered:
"You are my son not by blood, but by spirit. One day, she will do for you what you now do for me."
"I bless you, Tsewang... for you are a precious jewel hidden in yak wool."
They stood silently, the mountains watching.
---
And from the land that gave him hardship, came the child that would give him legacy.
Tibet, once broken, now had a new rhythm—held in the laughter of a child and the kindness of a king who once ran, and now stood still.