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  We arrived at Jamgön Kongtrül’s retreat house on my thirteenth birthday. My monks had expected a large and well-appointed building, but it was very simple and unpretentious. His old mother lived with him and also one Khenpo Gangshar, together with his own mother; the two women did the cooking and looked after the cows. Jamgön Kongtrül’s old tutor acted as secretary and attendant, and Khenpo Gangshar’s young nephew was there to run messages, etc. Everyone spent much of his time in meditation.

  Khenpo Gangshar had been brought up from his earliest childhood by Jamgön Kongtrül who had considered him as his spiritual son and had educated him with the greatest care, for his father had been killed and his mother on becoming a nun had asked Jamgön Kongtrül to look after the boy. Gangshar had always been extremely studious and would apply himself day and night with hardly a break. He had memorized hundreds of texts and received the degree of master of studies (khenpo) at a very early age.

  Since we arrived on the day of the full moon, my guru was fasting and all was in silence; when one of my monks went forward no one spoke to him, but a note was sent asking us to come in. My guru showed great joy on seeing me and even before I had taken off my outer robe he came out of the door to present a scarf, beckoning me to enter without words. I told him about our journey, and when I mentioned the two cows he looked pleased, for he had wanted me to make a long stay, and since my monastery had thought fit to send the animals with me, this showed that they also expected me to do the same. I asked my guru to explain to the secretary Chandzö Kargyen that a prolonged stay was advisable; I said that if this suggestion was made on the very first day it would carry more weight. The following day, when he could talk, my guru spoke to the secretary and Apho Karma; they both replied, “The incarnation of your guru is in your hands; hitherto we have done our best to educate him, but now this task is yours.” Chandzö Kargyen then returned to Surmang.

  Jamgön Kongtrül Rinpoche decided that I should spent my first month studying academic subjects as well as meditation under Khenpo Gangshar. We were to start with the Arya-ratna-traya-anusmriti Sutra (recollection of the Buddha, his teaching and his disciples’). Learning this by heart meant very hard work from morning till midnight. He himself was prepared to give the initiation (wangkur) on the Treasury of the Mine of Precious Teachings (Rinchen Terdzö), by the great Jamgön Kongtrül who made this vast collection of doctrines at a time when some of these teachings were nearly forgotten; he had searched for them throughout Tibet. The Rinchen Terdzö is of the utmost importance, for it contains all the most profound doctrines that he himself had received from the tenth Trungpa Tulku.

  Jamgön Kongtrül began his own preparations for the rite at four in the morning and we pupils had to be in the hall from five until eight in the evening. The wangkur started with morning devotions, and special offerings were made on the tenth and the twenty-fifth day of the month. During the six months of the rite there were only three breaks when our guru was unwell. Hundreds of monks and some abbots of neighboring monasteries attended the course which was restricted to those who had already done the introductory practice; they camped around in tents. This was a very moving gathering, for all were aware that they belonged to the family of the dharma. During the whole of the rites Apho Karma kept a very strict eye on me, for I was placed with several other tulkus (incarnate lamas) who, being young, were apt to be a little frivolous, and though I was actually the youngest I was expected to behave; however, a kindly Nepalese monk who had been in India and had seen modern mechanical inventions, noticing my youth, gave me my first toy, a little engine which he had made himself; a string wound round its front wheel set it in motion in the same way as a top.

  The Rinchen Terdzö finished with the enthronement wangkur at which a disciple is chosen and given special authority to carry on his guru’s teaching. Jamgön Kongtrül Rinpoche conferred on me this honor; I was enthroned, and he put his own robes on me, handing me his ritual bell and dorje (thunderbolt scepter) with many other symbolic objects, including his books. I felt very shy, as there were many lamas there of much greater learning than I who, I thought, would be far more suitable; however, my tutor and the monks were pleased to decide otherwise on that day.

  When the gathering was over my guru advised me to join the seminary under Khenpo Gangshar, saying that he himself would give me meditation instruction every fortnight.

  There was accommodation for about one hundred students in the seminary which stood on the banks of the river some four miles distant from Jamgön Kongtrül’s residence; each student had his own cubicle where he slept and studied; these were in long rows connected by a covered passage and their windows looked out on a stretch of grass between the lines. Stoves were placed in the corridor beside each cubicle for us to do our own cooking, this being done for us only on festival days. The kitchen staff supplied us with tea and hot water and distributed the required fuel; if this was insufficient we would collect wood for ourselves. Breakfast was finished before five, when a gong was rung for us to begin our homework, and at eight a second bell was sounded for us to attend the khenpo’s lecture. Before giving this he would answer any questions from the students who might want to have the previous day’s work clarified. After this our names were shaken up in a bowl, and the one whose name was drawn had to reread the scriptures of the day before and to put forward his own commentary. Then the khenpo began the lesson of the day with careful explanations. This was followed by group tuition, and my tutor, one of the kyorpöns (tutors) who had been especially chosen for this office would decide if I should join the group or go to my cubicle to receive private tuition from him. I started with Maitreya’s works on transcendental wisdom (prajnaparamita) which is one of the main themes of the mahayana, the school of the greater vehicle (Dr. Conze has made some excellent English translations of these under the name Perfection of Wisdom); the basic trends of the lesser vehicle I had already studied in my own monastery.

  The teaching staff at the seminary consisted of Khenpo Gangshar Rinpoche as the principal with five kyorpöns as tutors under him: the term kyorpön is equivalent to a geshe in the Geluk and Sakya schools, something like the English doctor of divinity. There were also several junior kyorpöns. The discipline and behavior of the students were looked after by a senior lama called the gekö.

  Sechen was founded toward the end of the sixteenth century and was one of the leading monasteries of the Mindröling tradition of the Nyingma, the first monastic order to be established in Tibet. It was famed for the profoundness of the doctrines taught there and also for its very strict discipline. When I was there, there were eight incarnate lamas besides the two abbots, with some three hundred bhikshus and two hundred novices in the monastery. The buildings more or less filled the valley, with the main assembly hall in the center. The walls of the hall were festooned with open-work embroideries and had frescoes depicting historical events; numerous shrine rooms opened out from it, and one of them contained an extensive library; in another room there were very ancient images of the eight “spiritual sons” (bodhisattvas) of the Buddha. There was a more modern image of Manjushri, the patron of wisdom, which was heavily gilt and decorated with precious stones; besides these there was a figure of Rigdzin Gyurme Dorje, one of the founders of the Nyingma school, made out of consecrated herbs and clay; it was a very rare and ancient piece of work. The whole place had an atmosphere of remarkable vitality.

  My first impression was the peace and calm of the place, for the monks lived under very strict discipline though all were very happy. The drums and other musical instruments were particularly soft toned; the monks were not allowed to raise their voices and had to sit very still while meditating. Those who carried out the rites had to be accurate in every detail and all the chanting had to be done from memory, as no books were allowed. The ritual was slightly different from that practiced in other schools, but I found that it had great dignity in its perfection. There were two abbots at Sechen; Tulku Rabjam Rinpoche was a great personality both spi
ritually and because of his wide vision in regard to practical affairs; I owe much to his teaching. He had a striking appearance because of his very large mustache, not common among our people. The second abbot, Tulku Gyaltsap Rinpoche, who was the incarnation of one of the tenth Trungpa Tulku’s gurus, was an outstandingly saintly man and a gifted writer; he was small of stature and radiated friendliness to all who came near him; there was a deep understanding between us and his residence was like a second home to me.

  By now I was fourteen and completely happy and satisfied with the work; I looked forward to the summer vacation when we would have more leisure and I would have more opportunities to be with my guru. At the beginning of the vacation I was staying at one of the hermitages where I could walk in the woods and practice meditation in serene solitude. Although it is natural for boys to play and want to climb trees, under my guru’s instruction I had to control such impulses; but here everything was such as to satisfy me with the path I had chosen.

  On the last day, while I was walking, meditating, and enjoying the beauty of nature, a thunderstorm burst overhead. This sudden transition from peace to conflict symbolized what lay ahead of me, for running back to the hermitage I found that a monk had arrived from my own monastery to ask if it would be possible for me to return to Surmang as one of the senior lamas, the third next to the regent abbot, had died. Apho Karma made the most of this fact, as the responsibility of being left in sole charge of me was getting too much for him and this made him very nervous; he considered that I was overworking and thought that I might have a breakdown, so he wanted an excuse to take me away. He could not have explained all this in a letter, and he now decided without consulting Jamgön Kongtrül Rinpoche that I should return to Surmang. When the matter was put before my guru he was rather upset, but since my tutor was so insistent he found it impossible to argue with him and finally agreed that I should return to my monastery. To me he said “You have received many teachings; you can now teach and practice them yourself, but later on you must come back and complete your training.” A farewell party was arranged, attended by the two abbots of Sechen and some of the senior lamas.

  The following day when I went to say good-bye to my guru he told me that, though I must now leave, he had had a dream the night before and had seen a half-moon rising in the sky; everyone was saying, “This is a full moon”: “This means,” he said, “that you are the moon, but not yet really full, for your studies are not complete.” He gave me further advice on meditation and said sadly that he must not leave his room to say goodbye because his place was still within. I made a promise to myself that I would come back, and broken-hearted left that wonderful place.

  The flower of compassion.

  SEVEN

  Death, Duties, and a Vision

  AS WE RODE DOWN the valley I looked back at my guru’s white retreat in the midst of firs on the hillside and at the seminary I loved. I watched the river flowing between it and the monastery with its golden roof shining in the sunshine and I could not turn my eyes away until all were out of sight. Apho Karma was in great spirits, talking about our own monastery and the prospect of meeting his friends again, but my two monks and I were very sad, for we longed to be still at Sechen.

  On the journey we had a lot of trouble with the horses and mules and most of our little party were also unwell. When we crossed the river Dri-chu, which here is some four hundred feet wide, it was in spate, and our boat made of yak’s hide nearly capsized, while one of our horses was drowned.

  The monks at Surmang were very surprised to see us, for though they had sent me the message, they had thought it unlikely that I would return before completion of my studies. When I arrived, they concluded that I must really have finished and expressed their delight. My tutor kept quiet, and I had to tell them that I had not completed my work. This worried them considerably and the regent abbots and secretaries felt that Apho Karma had made a mistake, particularly since the senior lama was already dead and the cremation had taken place with full rites, so that there was now no need for me to be there.

  I had not long been back when a message was received asking me to partake in the funeral rites for Traleg Kyabgon Rinpoche, the abbot of the neighboring monastery of Thrangu, who had just died. He had written in his will that he wished for this, since he had been a great friend of my predecessor. Thrangu lay some five miles south of Jyekundo. On our way we passed through the Pelthang airport which was being built by a number of Tibetans under Chinese engineers. It was a beautiful day with the sun shining over the broad valley, but its calm was disturbed by the roar of planes overhead; these were bringing all kinds of supplies, but since the runway was not completed the planes could not land and the packages were parachuted down.

  Jamgön Kongtrül of Palpung, who was to officiate at the rites, and I arrived simultaneously at Thrangu. We performed the ceremonies together for about two weeks. Everyone noticed that a change had come over Jamgön Kongtrül; he did not seem to be in good health.

  I was obliged to return to Surmang, and before I left he said to me, “One is already dead, and one is going to die, this is the law of impermanence”; he was sure this would be our last meeting. He gave me his blessing by touching foreheads; this is the traditional way of imparting blessings between lamas of equal standing; then he said that this was to be regarded as a different kind of blessing, being the wangkur of the chakra (spiritual center) of the head which represents the union of “the hundred buddha families” (tampa rig gya). He laid stress on this being our last meeting; I asked him to promise that we should meet again; he said, “Yes, in one way or another.”

  I returned to Surmang by way of the valley of Bi where in the seventh century King Songtsan Gampo sent his ministers to receive and welcome the Chinese princess he was to marry. Here we saw the Buddhist sutras which the ministers had carved on the rocks while waiting for her arrival; some of these are in archaic Tibetan and others in Sanskrit, which goes to prove that King Songtsan Gampo was a Buddhist before he met the princess, in fact he had already sent his minister Sambhota of Thön to India to collect texts; it was the latter who first designed the Tibetan alphabet for the purpose of translating the Indian scriptures into our language.

  While the princess was resting in the valley she saw these texts and added a huge image of Vairochana Buddha of over twenty feet in height which was carved in relief on the rock, with “the eight spiritual sons of Buddha” (bodhisattvas) beside it together with some ancient Sanskrit inscriptions. We held a short service before the image of Vairochana Buddha and went on to Surmang.

  I had been back some three weeks when a messenger came from Thrangu to tell us that Jamgön Kongtrül had died; he brought an invitation to Rölpa Dorje, Garwang Rinpoche, and myself to officiate at the funeral rites. The messenger knew nothing of what had actually happened and simply said that Jamgön Kongtrül had died very suddenly. After the first shock I remembered how he had said good-bye to me. His death was a very great loss to the whole Kagyü school; my predecessor had been his guru and he had been the teacher of Gyalwa Karmapa. No one seemed more needed, by the whole order, in the present perplexing times. All Surmang was distressed by the news of his death and a great number of monks expressed the wish to attend the funeral.

  We left hurriedly the following day and traveled day and night to Thrangu Monastery where we found everyone deeply saddened by the fact that their own abbot had died a few weeks before, and now by this second death. Jamgön Kongtrül’s closest companions among the monks seemed more serene and told us what had happened. He had suddenly been taken ill and suffered great pain; it was thought that he had eaten some sort of unwholesome food. After he had been moved to the abbot’s house of retreat the pain lessened, but his general condition became weaker. After three days he sent for his oldest attendant to write down his will which would be important for his followers, but he did not want anyone to know about it in case they showed too much emotion. He said that his rebirth would be near Lhasa among his relatio
ns, which would give comfort to his mother, and he gave an indication of the names of the parents and the time when he would come back. He wanted his body to be cremated and that Trungpa Tulku should take part in officiating, adding that everyone must realize that death is one of the aspects of impermanence; he only continued to take medicine to please the monks. One day he asked his attendant to look up the calendar and find an auspicious date. When the day came he awoke in the morning saying that he was feeling much stronger. He had his coverlet removed and sat up in the adamantine (vajra) posture; his breathing stopped, though his body remained as if meditating for some twenty-four hours after.

  After the funeral ceremonies his possessions were distributed among those who had attended him; I was given his robe, some books, and his amulet case, also his little terrier; the dog remained with me for some three years and I became very attached to it. It used to follow me when I was riding, but one day it went off hunting on its own and got trapped in a marmot’s burrow.

  Shortly after my return to Namgyal Tse, I was invited to visit Drölma Lhakhang. Accompanied by my bursar we started on the journey; this was our first sight of the new highway recently built by the Communists between China and Lhasa; it gave us a strange shock, this straight dark line cutting through our mountains, built by a foreign power. It was so broad and it ran right through fields and across the spreading landscape like a deep trench. As we halted beside it, a Chinese lorry came along like a great monster with guns sticking out at the top, and a long trail of dust following it. As the lorry drew nearer, the noise that it made echoed through the peaceful valley and we were aware of acrid petrol fumes. The Tibetans living nearby had grown accustomed to such sights, but our horses were terror stricken, as we were ourselves. The Chinese always drove straight ahead and stopped for no one; other travelers on the road were pushed aside, often with accidents to their horses and themselves. Looking back at night we watched the continual flow of the lighted lorries; we could not understand the headlamps, and when we saw the red ones in the rear we thought the vehicles were on fire.