In the hushed interior of the Himalayan Art Museum at Dharamsala, the air is filled with the scent of paint and centuries of artistic refinement. It is the afternoon. Master Locho sits alone, cross-legged, a bowl of emerald pigment cradled in his palm. He does not look up. Streaks of magic sunlight pierce the high window, falling across his shoulders to create a halo—soft and gentle, as if the afternoon sun recognizes him.
With his squirrel hair brush, he caresses the outline over the face of the half-finished Green Tara, tracing her cheekbone in an exquisite outline that demands deft, devoted hands. Outside, birds chirp, wild boars snort in the undergrowth, and dogs chase pheasants through the backyard forest. Inside, the only sound I can hear is his turning to softly grind the malachite against azurite, a leisurely rhythm emanating from his bowl.
“Three days to grind,” he murmurs to himself. “Then mix with water, repeat. . . and repeat. Patience is key to blend the perfect green. The colour of compassion.”
Then silence. He dips, lifts, paints. More of the deity emerges into visual manifestation. It’s all freehand, with no ruler or sketch.
For over a millennium, India—the birthplace of Buddhist art—had no living thangka lineage of its own. It’s a truly sad irony. From Ajanta’s second-century BC murals to Ellora’s ninth-century AD caves, the subcontinent birthed the earliest visual language of the Buddhist faith, in sculptures and murals that breathed devotion into stone. But by the medieval era, as Buddhism waned, the tradition fractured. Artists scattered, painting for Hindu and Jain kings and temples. The sacred art fled to the Himalayas, evolving into the intricate Vajrayana murals we know today. Many of these artistic traditions flourished in the monasteries of Tabo and Alchi, as well as other Himalayan sites.
“My lineage comes from central Tibet,” Master Locho says, without looking up from his palette. He speaks slowly, as if grounding each word carefully, like his pigments. “It’s the Miantang School, or what I would call the Lhasa School. It focuses on accurate proportions, meticulous detail, and a fine, vivid range of colors.”
Indeed, the Miantang School rose in 15th-century Lhasa and Ü-Tsang, bringing flowing linework, bright clear colors, heavy gold, and Chinese-style landscapes into the thangka canon. Its masterpieces can still be found in landmarks like the Potala Palace, Norbulingka, and the great Gelug monasteries of Ganden, Drepung, and Sera. Now, Master Locho and his disciples are stitching that broken lineage back together—hand in hand with India’s own Buddhist revival.
His Green Tara carries Ajanta’s graceful legacy, embodied in the curve of her waist. Yet, her diamond-decked jewellery honors centuries of Tibetan-style, Vajrayana art from Lhasa rather than India. Then as if to complicate things further, around her, peacocks and flower patterns bloom from native Indian soil. He is not copying a specific motif or set of thematic archetypes. He is creating—bringing an ancient thangka lineage into the twenty-first century, one unhurried brushstroke at a time.
The lost art of Buddhism in India
I have visited many sites of Indian Buddhist art, such as the monastery at Alchi, where an eighth-century Avalokitesvara still smiles in the dark. There are strong Buddhist echoes at the Ajanta Caves, where a Buddha sits inside his second-century BCE chaitya hall. He can also be found at Ellora, where a ninth-century tantric bodhisattva shares a wall with Hindu gods—the last big flowering before the Great Silence. By the thirteenth century, Buddhism had all but vanished from its birthplace. The thangka tradition survived only in Tibetan monasteries, carried on the backs of fleeing monks. For seven hundred years, India forgot it had once been the Buddhist art capital on earth.
Then came the Tibetan diaspora of the twentieth century. In the sixties, exiled masters brought their brushes to Dharamshala. Young Locho, who was just a boy, watched his very own thangka master grind pigments for an entire day without speaking. Eyes wide open, he witnessed the essence of impermanent—from rocks to powder. The master said: “The key component is the color pigment. Only the natural rocks from Tibet are the best.” That was the only lesson Locho needed. For the next four decades, he apprenticed in near-silence, learning to mix malachite, to layer gold leaf until it becomes translucent, to draw clouds freehand that mirrored each other like reflections in still water.
Pilgrimage to Bodh Gaya: The Dharma artist
Every year, Master Locho undertakes a pilgrimage to Bodh Gaya. For one month, he sits in meditation under the Bodhi Tree—the very place where the Buddha attained enlightenment. As a lay Dharma artist, perhaps Bodh Gaya reconnects him with his inner self by allowing the wisdom of the Buddha to infuse him with a deep sense of belonging. Perhaps it reminds him of the source of the artistic lineage he belongs to, and of his broader spiritual purpose of being a thangka artist. We all do this for a higher purpose, or at least we hope we do. Though AI is proliferating throughout the art world, it can never recreate the aura of a painting made by a devotee. And for a traditional painter, the brush is nothing without a heart.
The Dharamsala Green Tara: Ajanta-Tabo-India as one
In 2022, he retreated to his studio and began his “Dharamsala Green Tara,” conceptualized jointly with his wife Dr. Sarika Singh. This was to be produced in the tradition of his center, as a conceptual tribute to the artistic styles that could have been and still can be. The same year, India’s Buddhist revival was quietly accelerating—Dalit communities were embracing the Dharma, archeological digs were uncovering forgotten sites. Locho knew none of this. He only knew that his brush needed time. He painted Tara’s left hand, her lotus bed, each gold stroke overlapping like a dragon’s scales. When monsoons flooded the lowlands of Dharamshala, he remained undisturbed, moving his canvas to higher ground. He never hurried, nor did he keep any deadlines. Great art is endless devotion made visible.
In early 2020, the Tara was finished. The museum held no ceremonial unveiling. Locho simply set down his brush, washed it in a brass bowl, and walked into the garden. Tara’s green gaze followed him out of the room—soft, unyielding, blending Ajanta’s ancient grace with Himalayan devotion.
As I stood in front of the painting this April, I murmured to myself in awe: “She is not just a goddess. She is the bridge—the one we thought was broken. Her curves like the one on Ajanta.” And here—a jewel on her crown—“That is Tabo. They remember each other now.”
As his Green Tara proudly watches him from the wall, Master Locho goes into quietude. He observes a fresh canvas, unwraps a block of malachite, and begins grinding. Outside, a sparrow lands on his windowsill. The afternoon light falls across Tara’s face, and for a moment, Ajanta and Dharamshala are the same place. India’s lost Buddhist art is no longer lost. It’s breathing again—one unhurried brushstroke at a time.
Related features from BDG
A Journey of Art and Devotion to Tara with Dr. Sarika Singh and Master Locho
Through the Eyes of the Moon: Celebrating Saga Dawa at Himalayan Monasteries
When the Buddha Became Time: The Third Turning of the Wheel
