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  Drölma Lhakhang lies about six days’ journey from Chamdo, in the Pashö district. It is on the high plateau of Tsawa Gang and is surrounded by rocky hills with many lakes, a chilly region. One of the principal industries among these highlanders (drokpas) is that of weaving very fine cloth, for which purpose the people keep great flocks of sheep as well as the usual yaks; being compelled to move frequently to fresh pasturage, the herdsmen usually live in tents.

  As we approached Drölma Lhakhang, the monastery prepared to make us welcome. First we were given curds and milk by a family of farmers who had been devotees of my predecessor; after which a lama from Drölma Lhakhang, who was waiting with them, offered me a ceremonial scarf as he made prostration. We then rode on until we met the young abbot Akong Tulku at the head of a procession to escort us to the monastery. They dismounted and also presented white scarves; one of my senior monks followed the traditional ceremonial of returning the scarves and hanging them round the necks of the givers. As we rode to the monastery, we were overtaken by a sudden thunderstorm with vivid lightning and hail. The Drölma Lhakhang monks and those from neighboring monasteries with their abbots lined the approach to the monastery, where an orchestra on the roof played us in. Akong Tulku led me into the hall, holding an incense stick in his hand; then, after he had made obeisance before me three times we exchanged scarves. This was followed by my exchanging scarves in the same way with the abbots of the other monasteries. Every monk then came to offer me a scarf and to receive my blessing; to the senior lamas I gave it touching their foreheads with mine; to the other monks, I placed my hand on their heads. A monk stood beside me to hand each one a sacred “protection cord” as they came for my blessing. When all had returned to their places tea and rice were served to the whole Surmang party. My tea was poured into a jade cup on a gold and silver stand; the rice was served me in a beautiful bowl, also of jade, and white china cups and dishes were provided for my monks. It was all very formal; Akong Tulku was quiet and reserved, merely smiling all the time. We found that we were both of the selfsame age.

  Drölma Lhakhang started as a hermitage about two hundred years ago and gradually grew into a monastery. There had been a succession of Kagyü mystics there, and it had always been a center of hospitality to spiritual teachers, while many hermits lived in its vicinity. The whole monastery had an atmosphere of serenity and spirituality, wherein it differed from some others I have seen which seemed to be more institutional.

  At the time of my visit it held about 150 monks. The building stood on a strip of land beneath a range of hills, at the junction of the river Kulha Shung-chu and the Tsawa Au-chu. Behind, on the farther side of the hill, lay a whitewashed hermitage; its front wall supported on red pillars seemed to grow out of the rock. It had been built over one of the caves where the great guru Padmasambhava meditated after he had established Buddhism in Tibet. It appears that this hill had been known to very early men, for near the hermitage we found some primitive and curious rock paintings. They portrayed men on small horses done in red ochre and were protected by a surface that looked like talc. There was also an indication that very early Buddhists had lived near the site of the monastery, for at the end of the strip of land where it was built there was a single upstanding rock, and in one of its crevices sheltered from the wind and weather there was a sculpture in relief of the dakini (female divinity) Vajrayogini.

  Across the river in front of the monastery rose the very high mountain called Kulha Ngang Ya which the people of the ancient Bön religion regarded as a powerful god and as one of the guardians of Tibet: His consort lived in the turquoise-colored lake below. Mount Kulha also figures in the story of Gesar of Ling, a famous hero who lived in the thirteenth century, the King Arthur of Tibet who also defended the faith against the unbelievers. The top of the mountain is always under snow and is known as “the crystal tent of Kulha.” Just before reaching the top one comes to a large cave, the floor of which is a sheet of solid ice; Akong Tulku, who had climbed up to it, told me that under the ice he had seen huge bones, some of which appeared to be human, but were so large that they could not have belonged to any recent man.

  Four nunneries had been established at the four corners of the mountain, being associated with the monastery of Drölma Lhakhang, whose monks could only enter them on particular ceremonial occasions. The nuns led more austere lives than the monks; they spent much time in meditation and did a great deal for the lay population when sick or in trouble. I was very impressed by the spirituality of these women. The nunnery at the west corner of Mount Kulha looked out over the turquoise lake. Near the nunnery at the north corner there was a hermitage which was exclusively used for seven-week periods of meditation on bardo, the state experienced at the moment of death and just afterward.

  After I had been at Drölma Lhakhang for a few days, I was asked to give the rite of empowerment (wangkur) on the Treasury of the Mine of Precious Teaching (Rinchen Terdzö), which I had received from Jamgön Kongtrül of Sechen; an immense task, as it lasts for six months. I needed a few days before accepting the invitation, for though I had received permission from my guru to impart this teaching, I was still only fourteen, and my tutor and Karma Norsang, who was my chief adviser, said that I must be quite sure whether or not I could really give the complete wangkur, as any failure would be serious. More and more people were arriving at Drölma Lhakhang, hoping to attend the wangkur, so I had to make a decision. I spent several days in devotional meditation in order to know what I should do; finally I asked Karma Norsang to inform the monastery that I was prepared to undertake the task.

  Arrangements were immediately put in hand to prepare for the wangkur. It took a fortnight or so to make all the tormas, that is to say conical cakes decorated with disks of sculptured butter that call for great artistry; each shape and pattern has its own symbolism. I appointed a monk to make a list of all those who wished to attend, asking them if they were prepared really to put into practice the teaching they would receive.

  To begin with Karma Norsang gave a ritual recitation of the kalung (which means “authorization”) on the sixty volumes of the Rinchen Terdzö and I followed to give the wangkur (empowerment rite).

  The following timetable shows how the days were arranged.

  2:30 A.M. Karma Norsang gave the kalung.

  4:30 A.M. I prepared my teaching of the wangkur.

  6:45 A.M. Breakfast for all.

  8:00 A.M. I gave the wangkur.

  10:00 A.M. Karma Norsang gave the kalung, and during this time I prepared my teaching.

  11:00 A.M. I gave the wangkur.

  12:00 noon Midday meal for all.

  1:10 P.M. Karma Norsang gave the kalung, while I prepared my teaching.

  3:00 P.M. I gave the wangkur.

  5:00 P.M. Karma Norsang gave the kalung, while I prepared my teaching.

  6:00 P.M. I gave the wangkur.

  8:00 P.M. Finish.

  8:30 P.M. Evening devotions.

  It was hard work for everyone; however, all went well. My tutor and monks said they were proud of the achievement of one so young. They told me that I must now start seriously on my work as a guru, but I myself felt that I was not yet sufficiently qualified: I had many misgivings and needed my own guru to elucidate a number of points; moreover, I knew that one must not have too great a conceit of oneself—here was another danger. I explained my position clearly to Akong Tulku and the senior lamas, saying that even if I had been able to give the wangkur and to perform the traditional rites, I was not sufficiently mature to give lectures or personal teaching on meditation; however, I promised that I would do all I could to qualify myself in the future.

  After that, we traveled farther afield visiting other monasteries. The abbot of Yak asked me if at a later date I would give the wangkur of the Treasury of the Mine of Precious Teaching again. Turning homeward, we again stopped at Drölma Lhakhang; the secretary and senior lamas there wanted me to undertake to be Akong Tulku’s guru, but I told them that he must go
and study at Sechen, for I was certain that my knowledge was still too incomplete and that he should be taught by Jamgön Kongtrül Rinpoche; after all, Akong and I were boys of the same age.

  Winter was now coming on and on the day of our departure snow fell in enormous flakes; as there were no trees the whole place was under a sheet of white and it was bitterly cold. There is even a proverb about that part of Tibet—“the coldness of this land will stop tea from pouring”—but in spite of the weather all the monks accompanied us part of the way as a token of good-bye. They were all so friendly that this was one of the most memorable farewells I had ever experienced. Akong Tulku and I had become great friends and he was sad at our parting, but I told him we would meet again very soon at my guru’s monastery. I said, “It is inconsistent that I who have not finished my own studies and am not fully qualified to teach should be asked to be your guru; you must go to Jamgön Kongtrül.” Akong Rinpoche and his monks escorted us for three miles as far as the lake and then we separated.

  The people around had heard about me while I was at Drölma Lhakhang and I received many invitations to visit their local monasteries on my return journey; unfortunately I was not able to accept them. The only place I really wanted to make sure of visiting was the monastery of Karma, the third in importance in the Karma Kagyü school, and we made our way toward it.

  The whole area around the monastery, known as Karma Geru, is famous for its art. Since early in the fifteenth century its artists have worked all over Tibet and are known as the Gardri school. All the villagers earn their living by painting. I visited the village of Pating, whose headman was considered to be the leading artist of the area; at his home I found him painting scrolls (thangkas) and at the same time he was teaching other young artists, while his studio was crowded with pictures of all sizes, in different stages of completion. His pupils were also taught to work in clay, how to make their own brushes, to prepare their own canvasses, and mix their colors. His own work was so lovely that it used to be said, “the thangkas that Gönpo Dorje paints do not need to be blessed.”

  All the houses belonging to the villagers contained wonderful paintings and carvings, and their shrine rooms were in the same style as those of the monasteries. The headman’s house was particularly beautiful as it held the works of many generations of his family, the early ones being the most perfect. The walls were painted with historical or mythical designs, the scrolls were all of religious subjects, and the pillars and ceilings showed decorative designs of birds and flowers which are characteristic of the Gardri school.

  On the opposite side of the river the people specialized in goldsmith and silversmith work, particularly in smelting and casting these precious metals. All this was most interesting and, since the villagers were so skilled, I expected the monastery to be even more fascinating artistically.

  The track leading to it runs beside the river which cascades through a narrow gorge bordered by high blueish rocks. At its farther end an almost perpendicular rock towers above the others. High up is an outcrop of yellow stone in the form of a seated buddha, beside which many sacred texts have been carved even though the rock is so steep that it would seem impossible for any man to have climbed up to carve them. A waterfall splashes down beside the image causing a perpetual rainbow to arch over it. Suddenly beyond this, the gorge opens out into a wide valley where the monastery of Karma was founded by Rangjung Dorje (1284–1339). It looks out over wide fields with the river flowing through them. It was of the greatest interest to me to see it, both from the historical point of view and by reason of its superb architecture, decorations, and furnishings. Special masons had been brought from Central Tibet to construct its outside walls which were built out of very small stones. Its abbot had recently died and his incarnation had not yet been found, so when we arrived we were welcomed and received by the regent abbot, who personally conducted us over the monastery.

  Through the entrance porch, with its staircases at each side leading up to the gallery, we entered the great hall which is said to be the second largest in Tibet. This was used for all important services, for chanting the choral office, and when addressing large gatherings. The high roof over the central part of the hall rested on one hundred pillars made from solid tree trunks some sixteen to twenty feet in circumference. These were lacquered vermillion with designs in yellow, blue, and gold, and their spreading capitals were of the type peculiar to Tibetan architecture. The hall was dimly lit from windows above the gallery which rested on four hundred shorter pillars, some of them made of sandalwood brought from India. There were various rooms opening out of the gallery, some of which formed the abbot’s apartment. Twelve shrine sanctuaries off the central hall were used for devotions and in one of them there were life-sized sculptures of all the incarnations of Gyalwa Karmapa, the supreme lama of the order; up to the eighth incarnation of the line the workmanship was perfect, but with the remaining seven it showed some deterioration. This point struck me and I felt that it might be possible for me to do something to revive Tibetan art, but Communist oppression was soon to put an end to any such dreams. One shrine room held the great library, the third largest in Tibet, containing a vast collection of manuscripts and also Sanskrit texts believed to date from the eighth century. The whole suggested that at one time the Karma Kagyü school had been exceedingly flourishing and that the best of Buddhist art had been preserved here.

  Inside the great hall the walls were painted with wonderful scenes from the life of the Lord Buddha, and with scenes from the history of the Karma Kagyü school. Between the entrances to the shrine sanctuaries there were shelves along the walls on which gold and silver lamps burned perpetually. The lion throne placed in the center of the hall was made of sandalwood brought from a holy place in India; its back was of dark sandalwood painted with a gold design and with a piece of gold brocade in the center hung round with a white scarf. The throne was carved with lion designs and the brocade on its cushions had been given by the emperor Tohan Timur when the third Karmapa was invited to China. At the end of the hall, behind the throne, three entrances led into a tremendously lofty chamber, divided in three to hold the images of the past, present, and future buddhas; these were so gigantic that the measurement across the eyes was five feet. The central image was of Shakyamuni, the present Buddha, made of molded brass heavily guilded; all the limbs and various parts of the body had been cast separately and put together, but the head was cast in one piece with a large diamond in the center of the forehead which, according to local stories, came from the mouth of the celestial hawk garuda. The image had been designed by the eighth Gyalwa Karmapa (1507–1554) and he himself had carved the sandalwood throne. The images of the past and future buddhas were made of clay mixed with consecrated herbs; they were decorated with precious stones and each had a ruby on its forehead. A table for offerings was placed before each image.

  Seen from the outside, the monastery was a grand sight with the fastflowing river below and the screen of mountains behind. It was built in three tiers; the uppermost roof over the high chamber of the three buddha images was gilt surmounted by a golden serto, a crest ornament denoting dignity, largely used in Tibet over monasteries, houses, and even placed on horses’ heads for riders of rank; golden chains hung with small bells ran from the serto to the top of the roof which also bore larger bells at each corner. The roof of the large hall spread out below, again with bells at its corners, and below it a third roof covered the gallery rooms and the cloisters outside the shrines; this also carried bells and carved wooden lions jutted out from the stone walls below them. The two lower roofs were not gilded, but above the gallery rooms there was a row of carved gilt medallions. The cloisters contained eight buddha images and four stupas ten feet high, made of precious metals and placed under gilt canopies. All these had been brought from India in former times; three of the stupas came from Nalanda, one of the most famous Buddhist monastic universities in that country.

  The serto (emblem of dignity) on a monastery ro
of.

  The monastery of Karma was a wonderful example of the artistry of the incarnation of Gyalwa Karmapa and especially of the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth of the line; these lamas were experts in carving, sculpture, painting, and embroidery and in smelting and casting precious metals. Karma was a unique example of the beauty of the traditional art of Tibet. It was also at the time when these lamas lived that there was a renaissance of spiritual teaching all over Tibet to which they made a valuable contribution; their writings contained important teaching to the effect that the metaphysical and the contemplative ways must be brought together.

  On the hill opposite the monastery a little retreat had been built, approached by a winding path, with beside it a cluster of tamarisk bushes disposed in the form of the letter ka for “Karma.”

  When I left Karma Monastery many invitations came which I could not accept because of the special devotions always held at Surmang during the last twelve days of each year. This was considered to be an occasion of great importance, but I had not been able to take part in it since I was eleven, having always been away at that particular time. It was the celebration of the buddha-mandala known as the wheel of supreme bliss (khorlo demchok; Skt. chakrasamvara), and it was combined with a rite of the guardian divinity Gönpo Chakshipa (Four-Armed Protector). These rites included meditation and chanting accompanied by drums and cymbals; wind instruments joined in at the start and end of the chants. The monks had to arrange that there should be no lapse of attendance during the day or night and none of them could expect more than four hours’ sleep. This religious ceremony at the end of each year was intended to dispel evil and to build up new spiritual strength for the year about to begin. I had only been able to attend it three times before, and the monks rejoiced that I could be with them once more. I was so young the first time that I was only allowed to be a spectator, and then only during the day; on the other two occasions, when I had taken part in the whole rite, I had found it very long and tiring, but this year, although I was not yet fifteen, I could both understand and enjoy it.