It is 45 years since Tibet's god-king, the Dalai Lama, fled his homeland on horseback as Chinese shells rained down on his capital. Many Tibetans do not expect to see him again, or not in his current incarnation.
The 14th Dalai Lama, or Ocean of Wisdom, is 69, lives as the head of a government-in-exile in the Indian hill town of Dharamsala and has himself hinted that he may not choose to be reborn after his death.
His very existence is a source of anxiety for China's communist rulers, fearful that anti-Chinese feeling in the Himalayan region occupied by the Red Army in 1950 could erupt at any time into more violent demonstrations for their departure and his return. The Dalai Lama may only come back if he renounces aspirations for Tibetan independence, and any talks can be held only with his personal representative, Xiao Bai, deputy mayor of the Tibetan capital, Lhasa, told a news conference.
The tough words appeared to signal that tentative behind-the-scenes contacts between the Dalai Lama's envoys and China, revived a couple of years ago, may have broken down yet again.
The stakes are high. His death would leave China with no figurehead with whom to negotiate and could spark unrest among young Tibetans who may espouse more violent resistance than that of the exiled monk who won the Nobel Peace prize in 1989 for his non-violent campaign against Chinese rule.
Some Tibetans appear to have almost given up hope.
"Many Tibetans believe the 14th Dalai Lama is the last of the Dalai Lamas," said 21-year-old Migma Tsering, a high school graduate now working on a road crew, who says he wants to study telecommunications.
"The Dalai Lama is the main figure for Tibetans - they trust him. But many Tibetans believe the 14th is the last of the Dalai Lamas," he said, speaking in a corner shop run by his sister near Lhasa's Jokhang temple, the holiest Tibetan shrine where the Dalai Lama's throne has been kept empty since 1959 in readiness for his homecoming.
"It is the Dalai Lama that I believe in. When he dies, I may give up Buddhism," he said.
China's policy of eradicating the Dalai Lama from the hearts of Tibetans has yet to succeed, but it is not for want of trying.
Officials have banned his picture for nearly a decade.
Strictly speaking, this was not a ban, said one official, but rather because the people of Tibet themselves chose not to display his photograph.
"Not to have the Dalai Lama's photo, I think, is the voluntary choice of the vast majority of peasants and herdsmen. There is no government stipulation," the deputy chairman of the Tibet government, Wu Jilie, told reporters.
"They chose to do it themselves because the Dalai Lama has aroused the distrust and resolute opposition of the vast majority of people here," he said. "This is the voluntary choice of the Tibetan people."
Such remarks from officialdom are difficult to believe when monks and ordinary Tibetans beg tourists to tear out his photo from their guidebooks as a gift and pilgrims venerate tiny photographs placed discreetly in more remote temples.
Many Tibetans still regard the Dalai Lama as their spiritual and temporal leader and say privately they yearn for his return.
References to the Dalai Lama in the state-run media often drip with venom, calling him a "splittist" or separatist, bent on dividing Tibet from China.
The Dalai Lama has long said he wants greater autonomy, and not independence. His brother visited as an envoy to try to restart talks in 2002 but since then little progress has been made in narrowing differences.
The attitude of Chinese officials appears to have hardened.
That may be because Beijing's atheist communist rulers are increasingly confident they have only to wait for his death to provide an opportunity to find a successor of their choice, Tibet analysts say.
Traditionally, upon the death of a Dalai Lama, monks fanned out across Tibet seeking a newborn child who displayed signs of embodying the spirit of his predecessor.
Monks in Lhasa's temples had little difficulty expressing their allegiance, despite years of political indoctrination since a new wave of anti-Chinese riots in 1987, 1988 and 1989 culminated in the imposition of martial law.
At Sera monastery on the outskirts of Lhasa, a sprawling conglomeration of white-washed buildings with golden roofs, groups of monks from among the maximum 600 allowed to live there by government rule held an outdoor debate.
Standing in the centre of a circle of about six colleagues, a monk would fire back answers to questions on doctrine posed by his colleagues, maroon robes sweeping the ground as he bent towards a questioner and clapped his hands to make a point.
One 28-year-old monk said he had lived at Sera - famed in the past for its warrior monks - for 15 years.
Smiling shyly, the young man tried for diplomacy when asked whether his allegiance lay with the Dalai Lama or with Tibet's number two reincarnation, the Panchen Lama.
"In my heart, both of them are there. They are my Buddha," he said.
But then emotion appeared to defeat tact and political expediency. "To be honest, both are important, but in my heart the Dalai Lama does have a higher place, and then the Panchen Lama after that.
"I don't know why. That is just how my heart thinks."