At the 2025 Dharamshala International Film Festival, Loving Karma by Johnny Burke and Andrew Hinton offered audiences a deeply emotional meditation on childhood trauma, compassion, and redemption. The film, a follow-up to the duo’s Emmy-winning documentary Tashi and the Monk (2014), revisits the world of Jhamste Gatsal, a community nestled in the remote mountains of Arunachal Pradesh, where love and discipline attempt to heal the wounds of neglected and abandoned children.

In Tashi and the Monk, audiences were introduced to Lobsang Phuntsok, a Buddhist monk who left behind a comfortable life in the West to return to India with a mission — to build a sanctuary for “unwanted children.” Jhamste Gatsal, meaning “Garden of Love and Compassion,” became a refuge for those whose families could no longer care for them or who had been discarded by society. There, Phuntsok provided food, shelter, education, and, most importantly, love to children who had known only rejection. His work was described as a “brave social experiment,” but it was also an act of faith in the power of compassion to transform lives.

A decade later, Loving Karma continues this story by focusing on Tashi Drolma, one of the children featured in the earlier film. In Tashi and the Monk, she was a tempestuous and angry child—volatile, defiant, and emotionally scarred. Her early scenes remain unforgettable: she lashes out at classmates, bullies younger children, and even threatens her stuffed toy, saying, “I’ll cut your throat,” before gently correcting herself, “I am talking to my baby.” This duality—rage and tenderness intertwined—captures the heart of Loving Karma: how does one nurture love in a soul hardened by neglect?

The film opens by revisiting these moments of childhood turmoil, grounding viewers in Tashi’s early struggles. Then, it makes a poignant twelve-year leap forward. We meet Tashi again—now a teenager, still spirited but calmer, more grounded, and wiser. In a subtle reversal of roles, she has become a mentor to a new generation of children entering Jhamste Gatsal. Once the “wild child” herself, she now faces the challenge of guiding those who remind her of her own difficult past.

Burke and Hinton’s filmmaking remains as intimate and humanistic as ever. Their approach relies on quiet observation rather than intrusion, allowing the subjects to speak for themselves. Every frame feels earned, as if the camera were a trusted participant rather than an outsider. The directors ensure that the children’s stories unfold with dignity and authenticity, practicing the essentials of ethical documentary filmmaking: informed consent, sensitivity to trauma, and truth-telling that prioritizes humanity over spectacle.

At the core of Loving Karma lies Phuntsok himself—a man both revered and burdened. The film does not shy away from exploring his inner conflicts. It delves into his past, revealing his own scars: the resentment he harbored toward his mother due to his illegitimate birth, and the guilt he carries from having to turn away children when the community’s capacity reached its limit. One such child, heartbreakingly, later dies by suicide. The event devastates Phuntsok and becomes one of the film’s emotional centers—a reminder that compassion, while healing, is not limitless, and that even the most dedicated caretakers must live with impossible choices.

The directors treat these moments not as spectacle but as meditation. Phuntsok’s grief unfolds quietly, through moments of reflection and stillness. His sorrow is juxtaposed with scenes of laughter, play, and teaching—life continuing even in the face of pain. This careful balance prevents Loving Karma from sinking into despair. Instead, it becomes a film about resilience and the endless striving for goodness, even when confronted with failure.

Cinematically, Loving Karma is restrained but powerful. Burke and Hinton employ a naturalistic visual style that captures the ethereal beauty of Arunachal Pradesh—the mist-covered mountains, the prayer flags fluttering in the wind, the muted colors of dawn. This environment mirrors the spiritual undercurrents of the film: the mountains as both isolation and sanctuary, the fog as both concealment and revelation.

The documentary also raises important questions about storytelling itself. While the film follows the traditions of nonfiction, it sometimes blurs the boundary between documentary and fiction. The narrative unfolds with cinematic rhythm, aided by carefully composed background scores that heighten the emotional atmosphere. For some viewers, this may seem manipulative or overly dramatic, making certain scenes feel almost staged. Yet, as the filmmakers appear to argue, this departure from strict objectivity is intentional.

In an era when the lines between fact and emotion, observation and empathy, are increasingly porous, Burke and Hinton embrace subjectivity as a necessary tool for understanding truth. Reality, after all, is not just what the camera records but also what the heart perceives. By allowing emotional resonance to shape the storytelling, Loving Karma becomes more than a documentary—it becomes a meditation on empathy itself.

The film’s title, Loving Karma, carries layered meaning. In Buddhist philosophy, karma is not punishment or reward, but consequence—what we sow through our actions. Phuntsok’s “loving karma” is the consequence of his compassion, his decision to devote his life to children who mirror his own pain. Yet, the title also gestures toward the children themselves: the idea that love, once received, can reshape destiny. Through kindness and care, even those who have suffered rejection can learn to forgive and to love themselves.

Tashi’s transformation embodies this idea. Her evolution from an angry, isolated child into a caring mentor reflects not only her personal healing but also the philosophy underpinning Jhamste Gatsal. When she consoles a younger child or mediates a fight, we see the cycle of compassion renewed. What began as Phuntsok’s mission now continues through those he once rescued.

At moments, Loving Karma feels circular in its storytelling—revisiting similar emotional beats, returning to familiar landscapes, and reflecting on recurring patterns of suffering and redemption. This repetition, while slightly reducing narrative momentum, reinforces the film’s central message: healing is not linear. It is cyclical, fragile, and ongoing.

The film’s final act is deeply moving. As Phuntsok reflects on his journey, viewers sense closure—not in the sense of ending, but of acceptance. He acknowledges his limitations, his regrets, and his enduring faith in the redemptive power of love. The camera lingers on the children—laughing, playing, studying—embodying the hope that compassion, once set in motion, can outlive its originator.

Loving Karma thus stands as a fitting continuation of Tashi and the Monk, bringing its story full circle. Where the earlier film introduced us to the radical idea of love as a form of healing, the new film explores what happens when that love matures, falters, and renews itself across generations.

Through its delicate storytelling and emotional honesty, Loving Karma transcends the limits of documentary filmmaking. It is at once a portrait of a community, a study of trauma and empathy, and a philosophical inquiry into the nature of care. Burke and Hinton have created not just a sequel, but a testament to the resilience of the human spirit—a reminder that compassion, even when imperfect, remains the most powerful force for transformation.

In revisiting Tashi, Phuntsok, and the children of Jhamste Gatsal, Loving Karma invites us to reflect on our own capacities for empathy. It asks us to consider how we respond to pain—our own and that of others—and whether we, too, can turn suffering into compassion. The film’s closing moments, quiet and contemplative, leave viewers with a profound truth: love is not a cure for pain, but it is the only force that makes survival possible.