Chapter 5 - Religious Practice And Ritual Symbolism

Under kachenla's kindly guidance I soon learned to become conscious of many of the small things to which formerly I would not have given any importance or attention, and which yet proved to be very useful as means of keeping the mind tuned to a higher level and in consonance with one's aspirations, by making one's movements and behaviour part of one's Sādhanā (religious practice) and meditation.

I learned how to unwrap and handle a sacred book---treating it with the respect due to the embodiment of wisdom---how to turn the pages of the loose sheets of which the books consisted, without upsetting their order and how to look upon each letter of the alphabet as a mantric symbol, so that even a discarded or damaged piece of writing was not to thrown away carelessly, lest it might be trampled underfoot. To dispose of such things there was a special little structure outside the temple which looked like a wayside shrine but was meant for depositing wanted pieces of writing or any ritual objects that had served their Purpose.

I learned how to move about within the precincts of the monastery---always in the direction in which the planets move around the sun---signifying that one should always feel oneself in the presence of the Buddha, the Enlightened One, who used to be honoured by circumambulation in this direction, as being the spiritual sun, the illuminator of mankind.

Thus, even if I merely wanted to cross over the courtyard to the buildings on my left side (when leaving the temple), I had to turn to the right and circumambulate the whole temple in order to reach my destination. And while doing this I had to pass rows of copper cylinders on which the Great Mantra of Six Syllables, OṀ MAṆI PADME HŪṀ, was embossed and which contained thousands of repetitions of the same mantra, written on long rolls of thin but extremely durable Tibetan paper.

As in the preparation of clay images and seal (tśha-tśha), these rolls had been prepared with special rites and as an act of devotion, with the intention to bestow blessings to all those whose minds are susceptible to good thoughts and the effects of spiritual influences.

While passing, I would give each of these `prayer-wheels' a quick jerk and at the same time repeat the mantra in my heart, as Kachenla had taught me, because no Tibetan who has any deeper knowledge of his religion is so crude as to believe that a mere mechanical action can benefit him, or that with every turn of the drum as many thousands of prayers as are written on the paper roll rise up to heaven. This silly nonsense is mainly the invention of Westerners, who feel themselves superior by ridiculing the religious customs of other peoples, without understanding their psychological approach or the origin of those customs.

The Tibetan is not out to `cheat the gods' by placating them with sham prayers, or to escape the trouble of exerting himself and escaping the responsibility for his own deeds and conduct (karma). Prayers in the Buddhist sense are not requests to a power outside ourselves and for personal advantages but the calling up of the forces that dwell within ourselves and that can only be effective if we are free from selfish desires. In other words, Buddhists do not put their faith in the power of gods, residing in some heavens beyond, but they believe in the power of motive and the purity of faith (or purity of intention).

If a simple peasant installs a maṇi-chö-khor (which is a more appropriate name than prayer-wheel) in the brook or channel that brings water to his village and his fields, with the motive of blessing the water and all those who partake of it---whether man or animals, down to the smallest creatures and plants---then this act of sincere faith is as good and valid as that of the Christian priest who by his blessings converts ordinary water into `holy water'. And, apart from this, the sound of the little bell, which the prayer-wheel emits with each revolution, is a reminder for all who hear it to repeat the sacred mantra in their own mind.

But what is the origin of the revolving wheel? The `turning of the Wheel of the Dharma' (chö-ki khor-lo khor-ba) is a metaphor known to every Buddhist, meaning `the setting in motion of the forces of the Universal and Moral Law', and in turning the prayer-wheel he becomes conscious of the supreme law which the Buddha proclaimed when he set the Wheel of the Dharma rolling 2,500 years ago. For the Buddhist, it is not sufficient that this act has been performed once by the Enlightened One---every single human being that strives for Enlightenment must repeat this creative act by realising it in his own mind.

The profundity and the cosmic parallelism of this symbol will easily be understood if we realise that the life of the whole universe is dependent on rotation: be it the rotation of stars and planets around their own axis or the rotation of planets around a central sun, or the similar movements of atoms. If the mere rotation of a dynamo can produce the power of electricity (an altogether inexplicable phenomenon), and if the turning of the human mind around a particular subject of his consciousness can produce a state of concentration that can lead to world-shaking discoveries or to the realization of higher dimensions or Perfect Enlightenment, is it under such circumstances to be wondered if there there is a belief among the Tibetans that the beneficent forces which were concentrated in the ritual act of preparing the contents of the prayer-wheel are somehow retained even in its material form and are transmitted or activated when they are set in motion? If matter can be impregnated with psychic energies---as has been demonstrated by experiments in Psychometry, which has been defined as the `faculty of divining from physical contact or proximity the qualities of an object or of persons, etc (i.e. forces, events, or conditions), that have been in contact with it'---then we must admit that the Tibetan belief is not quite so absurd as it might have appeared in the first instance. But even though a thing might be psycho metrically effective, and even beneficent in a certain way, I am convinced that without our conscious co-operation no spiritual profit can be gained through any mechanical or material device. But whatever helps us to concentrate our mind or to achieve that `inner turning about' in the deepest seat of our consciousness, of which the Laṅkāvatāra Sūtra speaks--in fact, whatever puts us into a creative or intuitively receptive frame of mind---is worthy of our attention, whether it be a `prayer-wheel', a rosary, or any other device. Those who think that prayers can be delivered by anything else but the human heart do not know what prayers are---and still less the meaning of a mantra, in which no powers outside ourselves are implored or placated. So there is no question of gaining favours or `cheating the gods'. On the contrary, the maṅi-khor-eo is an expression of supreme faith in the infinite power of goodwill and love that may act through an infinite number of means: through the thoughts of the wise, the single-hearted devotion of simple minds, nay, even through a child's toy.

All these thoughts came flooding through me during my frequent circumambulations around the temple and in the grounds of the monastery which---though hardly a mile from the little Tibetan settlement of Ghoom---seemed to belong to an altogether different world, separated as it was from the village by a steep terraced hill, crowned by whitewashed Chortens (stūpa-like religious monuments), and surrounded by a grove of tall white prayer-flags. Each of the flagpoles was about twenty-five feet in height and surmounted by the symbols of sun, moon and fire, or a flaming sword or trident. The white flag-cloth, upon which prayers and auspicious symbols were printed, was about two feet wide and ran along the length of the pole, starting from about four or five feet above the ground. Each of these prayer-flags was an offering of a devotee (or a family) as a blessing and a reminder of the Dharma to all who approached it or lived within its sight.

During the greater part of the day the whole hill was generally hidden by a huge cloud, so that lamps had to be lit at noon inside the buildings, while the outside was wrapped in thick white fog. One felt as if the whole place was floating on a cloud and driven by the ghost like white sails of innumerable prayer-flags standing guard over the monastery and the many small sanctuaries scattered over the hillside. But, far from being depressing, the fog rather heightened the mysterious atmosphere of the place and gave one a feeling of protection, seclusion, and security, a feeling of being far away from the vicissitudes and hustle of ordinary human life.

When wandering about on this magic hill it appeared to me that the buildings materialised out of nowhere, having no more substance than my own mind, while I myself moved about invisible to others like a discarnate spirit. Everything took on an air of supernatural animation, and the general silence seemed to heighten the effect of the strange sounds that pervaded the air in swelling and ebbing cadences. I had never heard such sounds before; they were produced by the peculiar vibrating movement of the long, narrow prayer-flags in the constant breeze that came up from the Indian plains, some seven and a half thousand feet below (and incidentally produced the eternal cloud by condensing the warm moist air when it suddenly came in contact with the cold prevailing in higher altitudes). Mingled with these strange sounds was the silvery tinkle of the great prayer-wheel, which was housed in a small building next to the temple and was kept in motion by a blind old man, who accompanied the rhythm of the bell with the hum of his incessant recitation of the sacred mantra.

A little farther up the hillside the deep sound of a ritual drum emerged during certain hours of the day from a small temple. I was drawn to this little building by this sound and its rhythm, which was sometimes interrupted by the crash of cymbals. When coming nearer, I heard the sonorous voice of a monk, reciting lo the rhythm of the drum, and I did not dare to disturb him, it took me some days until I found an opportunity of approaching him and asking his permission to enter the sanctuary that was otherwise not open to the public.

I soon began to understand the reason. It was dedicated to the terrible and awe-inspiring deities, the forces of dissolution and transformation, which appear destructive and frightening to those who cling to the things of this world and to their own limited existence, but which prove to be the forces of liberation to those who accept them and make use of them in the right spirit, by realising their true nature. They are the removers of obstacles, the liberators from bondage, the symbols of the ultimate mystery of self-transcendence in the ecstasy of breaking through the darkness of ignorance.

They are the embodiment of the highest knowledge, which like a blinding flash would destroy those who are not yet prepared for it, like the youth who lifted the veil in the Temple of Sais. It is for this reason that many of the images of this temple are veiled and only initiates are allowed to enter it alone. To them these forces or aspects of reality are as much symbols of Enlightenment as the compassionate embodiments of Buddhas and Bodhisattvas. Indeed, they are one in their ultimate nature. The universal law is beneficent to those who accept it, terrible to those who try to oppose it. Therefore the forces of light (the forces that urge us towards Enlightenment) appear in fearful forms to the enemies of light and truth, for which reason those forms are called Protectors of the Law (chó-kyong gon-po) and are invoked as tutelary deities by those who have received initiation and realised their meaning.

But there was one more mystery to be solved for me in this monastery, which seemed to be connected with a third sanctuary, bigger than the Gonkhang, but small compared with the other buildingsIt was perfectly square, with a yellow-coloured, curved Chinese temple-roof and a closed glass veranda in front. Due to the sloping ground the veranda rested on stilts, so that one could not look into the interior of the building, and the only door, that led to the veranda from the back, was permanently closed.

What intrigued me especially was that this building was connected with the main temple below by a garland of silvery-white seed-pods. When asking Kachenla about it, he told me with awed voice that the `Great Lama', who was one with the Buddhas, was engaged there in meditation. He spoke in whispers, as if in the presence of the great Lama, and though I could not make out the details of his explanation, who this Lama was, I began to wonder whether the powerful atmosphere of this place, and the spiritual transformation which I began to experience, had something to do with him. The fact that Kachenla, whose goodness and sincerity had made a deep impression upon me, spoke with such veneration of this Lama, aroused in me the desire to become his pupil, and when I mentioned this to Kachenla he approved of it immediately and promised to talk to the abbot, who might be able to convey my wish in due time.