Chapter 35 - Lengthening Shadows

At Dungkar, we had hoped to meet Tomo Géshé's little Tulku, who was about the same age as Saraha's at Tsé-Chöling. But on our first visit in 1947, he was still at Sera, where in spite of his tender age he had been sent for higher education, having successfully absorbed all the studies that his tutors at Dungkar had to offer him. All learning was merely a remembering and brushing up of his previous life's knowledge. But there had recently been disturbances at Sera in the wake of a political upheaval, due to an attempt on the life of the Regent, who headed the government of Tibet during the Dalai Lama's minority; and the people in Dungkar, as also Tomo Géshé's father in Gangtok, were worried as it was impossible to get a clear picture of the situation and it was thought to be perhaps better to call him back, unless conditions became more safe. Everything seemed to be shrouded in mystery, and the farther we proceeded into Tibet the more mysterious it became.

At Phari, we found the palace of Reting Rimpoché sealed and empty (except for a giant mastiff, who almost tore us to bits when we approached the courtyard to have a look at the place). Reting Rimpoché had been the previous Regent, who had discovered the present Dalai Lama and had resigned the regentship under political pressure a few years before. One day -- it was in April 1947 -- a bomb of Chinese make exploded when a parcel addressed to his successor was opened by a curious servant, and immediately the suspicion fell upon Reting Rimpoché, who was accused of conspiracy against the new Regent and of being in league with the pro-Chinese faction of the Tashi Lama, who had fled to China many years before in a conflict with the regime of the thirteenth Dalai Lama.

Summoned to Lhasa, the Reting Rimpoché -- against the warnings and entreaties of his monks -- had accepted the challenge, but while awaiting his trial in the Potala, he suddenly died. According to what we were told, he was found dead one morning in the apartments to which he was confined, sitting in the posture of meditation and without any sign of violent death. His teacup, however, was found embedded in one of the hardwood pillars of his room, and, what was more, the teacup had been turned insideout! Nobody could explain how this could have happened, but all were convinced that it was due to the Rimpoché's spiritual power. It was said that he had gone into a trance and consciously left his body, or, as others said, that he had willed himself to die.

What actually had happened, and whether the Rimpoché had really been guilty, never became known. The common people, as well as those members of the aristocracy with whom we came in contact, seemed to think him innocent, though foreign observers in Lhasa were inclined towards the opposite opinion. But it was characteristic of the general attitude of Tibetans that even though the government had arrested the Rimpoche and confiscated his estates his framed photographs were displayed in prominent places in almost every house that we visited, and also in many shops.

To the average Tibetan, it seemed unthinkable that a Tulku who had been the ruler of Tibet for many years, who had been instrumental in discovering the fourteenth Dalai Lama due to his spiritual vision, and who had renounced power on his own accord, because a significant dream had indicated that it was time for him to retire from the world -- that such a man should be guilty of a common crime. Reting Rimpoché, the head of one of the oldest monasteries (Rva-sgrewg, pron. 'Reting'), founded by Atīsha's famous disciple Bromston (born in 1002), had been recommended for the regentship by the thirteenth Dalai Lama himself, shortly before his death, though Reting Rimpoché was only twenty-three years old at that time and of delicate frame. He seemed to have been a mixture of mystic vision and worldly ambition, according to what people who had known him told us. Apparently, he was torn between two worlds. His tragic end remains for ever the secret of the Potala.

When the news of it reached Reting Gompa the whole monastery rose in rebellion and overpowered the government guards who had occupied it during the Rimpoché's absence. Thereupon a military force was sent from Lhasa, and in the ensuing fight the monastery was destroyed, while the surviving monks fled all over the country.

But this was not yet the end of the tragic events. Reting Rimpoché had been a graduate of Sera, one of the biggest and most powerful monasteries of the Gelugpas, only three miles from Lhasa. Enraged by the happenings at Reting, a section of the monks of Sera rose against the government, and only after a bombardment by artillery was peace restored, though the causes of unrest were still existent and it seemed as if future events had already thrown their shadows over this otherwise so peaceful land.

These were the conditions which agitated the minds of all those who feared for the safety of the little Tulku of Tomo Géshé Rimpoché at Sera.

In the meantime, we were occupied with our studies in the great monasteries and temples of Gyantse -- the Pal-khorlo Chöde and especially the Kumbum, the 'Temple of the Hundred Thousand Buddhas' -- while awaiting our Lamyig (an official pass entitling one to transport facilities and basic provisions while travelling in Tibet) and our authorisation to work in the ancient monasteries and temples of Rinchen Zangpo in Western Tibet. We were too busy to give much attention to political affairs, and, moreover, we had given an undertaking to the political officer at Gangtok not to divulge any information about inner political events in Tibet. So we left things well alone, avoiding any expression of opinion and taking no sides -- neither for nor against Reting Rimpoché -- though one thing we could see very clearly, namely that power and religion could not go together in the long run, and that the greatest danger for Tibet lay in the accumulation of power in those monasteries in which thousands of monks were living together as in an ant-heap and where the most precious thing of a truly religious life was lost: the peace of solitude and the integrity and freedom of the individual.

Even in the great monastic city which dominated the secular town of Gyantse, we could see the deterioration of standards which is inevitable wherever human beings are crowded together, and we all the more appreciated the wisdom of Milarepa and his followers, who preferred lonely retreats and small religious communities to vast institutions of learning, where book-knowledge became more important than the formation of character and the development of wisdom and compassion.

In the past the Sakyapas, who took their name from Sa-skya ('tawny earth') Monastery south-west of Shigatse (founded A.D. 1071), had become the most powerful religious organisation and finally became the rulers of the whole of Tibet. The political power, however was the very cause of their downfall, because force creates counter-forces. They were finally overthrown by the Gelugpas, who, with the consolidation of the Dalai Lamas in Lhasa, took over both the spiritual and the temporal power in Tibet. Their monasteries grew into cities in which up to 10,000 monks were residing.

They reminded one of the ancient monastic universities of Nalanda and Vikramaśīla, which centralised the religious and cultural life of Buddhism to such an extent that they offered an easy target to the Mohammedan invaders, who by the destruction of these powerful institutions annihilated the Buddhist religion in India, while Hinduism that was neither centralised nor dependent on monastic organisations survived, because its tradition was carried on within the intimate circles of priestly families or pious householders, and by independent individuals who chose the life of wandering ascetics or formed themselves into small groups of Chelas around a Guru. Even the destruction of temples cannot destroy a religion in which every house has its own little shrine and where in every family there is at least one who is able to carry on the religious tradition.

It was only a few years later, shortly after we had left Tibet, that history repeated itself: the great monasteries of Tibet became the first target of the communist invaders, and if Buddhism is to survive at all in Tibet it will be only in hidden hermitages, far away from towns and trade-routes, and in those families in which religious life does not depend on monastic organisations and institutions, but where the flame of faith is handed down from generation to generation, as I have seen especially among Nyingmapas, Kargyütpas, and other smaller groups of Tibetan Buddhists, following strictly the personal Guru-Chela tradition in preference to the mass education in big monastic institutions.

As I said, the events of the future threw their shadows ahead. The withdrawal of the British from India, and the fear that China might try again to claim overlordship over Tibet created a feeling of uncertainty -- though at that time nobody thought that the danger would come from the communists, who were still fighting the Kuomintang -- and it probably was for this reason that the government of Tibet did not dare to judge Reting Rimpoché in an open trial or to reveal the facts and their political implications.

We ourselves had almost forgotten these events and it seemed that Sera had settled down to its normal peaceful life, since no further news had been received from there. Moreover, during the festive season in autumn, everybody, from the Regent down to the smallest official, from the Dalai Lama down to the simplest Trapa, and from the most prominent citizens down to the humblest servant, enjoyed a variety of public entertainments: mystery-plays in the monasteries, theatrical performances of religious legends (like stories concerning the former lives of the Buddha) by professional actors in the courtyards of big family mansions (but open to all and sundry without entrance fee), picnic-parties in richly decorated tents at beauty spots around the town or near monastic mountain retreats, and last but not least, popular horse-racing, arrow-shooting, folk-dances and similar amusements, enjoyed by rich and poor. The Tibetan has as great a zest for life and pleasure as for religion, and he knows how to combine the two and thus to 'make the best of both worlds'.^[1]

But soon the intense cold of the approaching winter put a stop to most outdoor entertainments, and everybody went about in fur caps and winter clothing, though the sun was as radiant as ever and the skies like deep blue velvet. But the ground and the ponds were frozen, and even the swift-flowing river was bordered with ice.

It was then that we heard a rumour that the little Tulku of Tomo Géshé had left Sera and was on his way home to Dungkar. He was expected to break his journey at Gyantse and to rest there for a few days before proceeding to his monastery. But so often had we heard such rumours that we did not give them much credence, especially since peace seemed to have been restored at Sera.

One day we were returning from the 'Temple of the Hundred Thousand Buddhas' (Kumbum), where I was copying inscriptions and fresco details of iconographic interest, while Li Gotami took photographs of some of the most beautiful statues (of which some were reproduced in my foundations of Tibetan Mysticism). It was a particularly cold and windy day, and we were muffled up in our heavy Tibetan clothes like everybody else. While hurrying through the main bazaar, which we had to cross daily on our way to and from the walled monastic city, we saw two or three monks coming from the opposite direction apparently on their way to the Pal-khorlo Chöde. One of the Trapas carried a little boy on his shoulder, who like him was clad in the usual dark red monastic robes. We would probably have passed the group without taking any notice of them had it not been for the unusual behaviour of the little boy, who suddenly straightened himself, raised his head, and looked at us intensely, as if stirred by a sudden impulse or surprise -- while neither the monk who carried him, nor those who accompanied him, took the slightest notice of us. In fact, we were indistinguishable from other Tibetans in the street, and our eyes, which might have given us away as foreigners, were hidden behind dark glasses. The latter were very popular among Tibetans as a protection against the glaring sun as much as against the penetrating particles of sand and dust during windy days and sandstorms. When passing us the boy seemed to get more agitated, turning round in the arms of the monk who carried him and looking at us with undisguised attention -- as if trying to remember somebody whom he knew, but whom he could not identify. Now it was our turn to be puzzled -- and suddenly it came to us like a flash that the little boy might be the Tulku of Tomo Géshé Rimpoché.

But in the meantime we had left the group already a good distance behind us, and though Li urged me to turn back and to run after them, I somehow felt that this was not only against Tibetan etiquette, but more so that this was not the place nor the time for such a momentous meeting. To stop them in the middle of the bazaar in the icy wind, with a crowd of curious onlookers -- No, this was not how I would like to meet my old Guru -- even though he was in the disguise of a mere child. I wanted this to take place in quiet surroundings and in silence, so that I would be able to listen to my own heart and to the spontaneous reaction of the little Tulku. No, I would not have liked to desecrate this precious moment by vulgar curiosity and empty polite talk!

We therefore decided first to make sure that we had not been mistaken in our surmise and to find out the place where the little Tulku was staying, so that we could pay him a visit early next morning. I was deeply stirred at the thought of our meeting, and we both wondered whether the boy would be able to recall the past clearly enough in order to re-establish the old contact. After all, he was already nine years old, and the impressions and experiences of his new life would certainly have replaced most of his pre-natal remembrances.

We hurried back to our quarters, and soon we found out that it was indeed Tomo Géshé's Tulku whom we had met on his way to the temple. But when next morning we went out to meet him, we were informed that he and his party had left before sunrise!

We were deeply disappointed, but we consoled ourselves with the thought that we would meet him certainly at Dungkar on our return journey, and that there we would not only have the opportunity of a quiet talk but of living for some time in his own surroundings and in daily contact with him.

Footnotes and references:

[1]:

That the Tibetan lives in constant fear of demons is one of those silly remarks which have been repeated ad nauseam by those who know nothing of Tibetan mentality or those who need an excuse for trying to convert Tibetans to their own brand of superstitions.