Chapter 38 - The Oracle of dungkar gompa

During our first visit to Dungkar, Li Gotami and myself had been admiring the beautiful oracle-temple (ckökyong-lhakhang) with its magnificent golden throne and its fierce images and frescoes. But we had not been able to get any information about its functions, nor whether the oracle-priest was in residence or on what occasions he would go into trance. We had the feeling that the young Trapa, who showed us around, was reluctant to speak about these things and that -- since we had only recently arrived from the outside world beyond the passes and were not yet known to him -- he obeyed the usual rules of secrecy which apply to the cult of the fierce and terrible powers.

But there were so many other things that occupied our attention that we did not press him. Moreover, we had been so warmly received by the abbot and the other inmates of the monastery, that we felt sure nothing would be hidden from us in the long run. The abbot was glad to find in me a brother disciple (guru-bhai) of Tomo Géshé Rimpoché and insisted that we should stay at Dungkar for a longer time on our return from Central Tibet. We gladly accepted this invitation, because we felt that the spirit of Tomo Géshé was still pervading the whole place and was alive in the minds of all who dwelled here. This showed itself in the kindliness of the monks, the sense of order and cleanliness that prevailed everywhere, the discipline without harshness that governed the monastic life, and the courtesy that was shown to us by all, from the highest to the lowest. All religious duties were meticulously observed, everybody went about his appointed task, and the little boys who received their education in the monastery seemed to be happy and well treated. Sometimes Lobonla, as the abbot was called, would wobble along holding one little tot with each hand, and whenever the little ones would feel homesick, he would console them like a good mother. Lobonla himself was not in good health, and he moved about with difficulty, partly due to arthritis or rheumatism and partly because of his heavy bulk.

We were, therefore, all the more touched when on our return, Lobonla and a group of senior monks received us with great cordiality at the main entrance of the Gompa. In spite of his difficulty in climbing steps (and staircases in Tibet are generally very steep) Lobonla insisted on showing us personally to our quarters and entertaining us there with tea and sweet Tibetan bread.

The day after our arrival was the great Prayer Festival (mon-lam), and from all neighbouring valleys people were streaming towards the monastery, while the monks were busy with preparations for the main celebration, which was to take place in the evening and during the night. In the morning, the Pratimoksha ceremony (confession), in which only Gelongs (Bhikshus) take part, was celebrated in the main temple. We therefore remained in our private chapel.

Shortly before noon we heard from the Chökyong Temple the booming of kettledrums and saw a crowd pressing forward towards its entrance. Wondering whether some important function was taking place there or that perhaps the Oracle was in action, we hurried down to the courtyard, dived into the crowd and following the maelstrom of humanity we found ourselves soon pushed up the steps of the temple into the vestibule and finally into the hall of the sanctuary. Before we knew how it happened we stood before the throne of the Great Oracle!

It was all so utterly fantastic and surprising that we could only stare at the majestic figure that occupied the golden throne and was clad in magnificent brocades and crowned by a jewel-studded golden tiara with the three eyes of the all-seeing spirit. A shining golden breast-plate, the magic mirror, engraved with the sacred syllable

'HRĪ', was suspended from his neck, like a vision of one of the legendary emperors of old, a mighty ruler of a vanished world, resplendent with all the attributes of power, the figure was of almost super-human size and appearance, and for a moment we wondered whether it was a statue or a living giant. At this moment, the full orchestra of radongs and clarinets, cymbals and kettle-drums rose to a crescendo, while the deep voices of a choir of monks chanted invocations to the powerful protectors, punctuating their recitation with bells and domains. Clouds of fragrant smoke rose from various censers, and the crowd stood in petrified attention, everybody's eyes riveted upon the majestic figure on the golden throne. His eyes were closed; his feet, in big ceremonial Tibetan boots, were firmly planted before him on the ground.

But suddenly a tremor seemed to pass through them, as if emanating from the ground, and slowly increasing in intensity, until his legs were trembling violently and his body was seized by convulsive movements, apparently gripped by a current of tremendous power rising up within him and filling his mortal frame. It was as if the dark powers from the depth of the earth, the chthonic powers that governed humanity before the dawn of history, had seized his body and threatened to burst it. It was a frightful sight, this struggle between the human body and the unknown power that was taking possession of it, until the mortal man was transformed into a being of another world. Even his facial features had changed completely and seemed to have become that of another person, nay, of a terrifying deity.

Now one of the senior monks, the Master of the Protocol, steps upon the raised platform and approaches the throne in order to present the questions which the deity is expected to answer. The questions were previously written on bits of paper and tightly folded. The Master of the Protocol is waving each of them before the spiriteyes of the Oracles tiara, while a number of sturdy monk-attendants hold and support the swaying body of the oracle-priest. But hardly has the Master of the Protocol stepped back from the dais when -- like a giant roused to action -- the oracle-priest jumps up, hurling his attendants aside with superhuman strength, and launching forward from his throne, he grasps a sword from a collection of ritual weapons at the foot of the platform, and, as if fighting an invisible enemy, the blade flashes in all directions with incredible speed and force. It is a terrifying spectacle, which holds everybody spellbound in spite of the fear that the sword may descend upon the crowd before the throne and that human heads may fly in the blind fury of battle, in an unbridled dance of destruction let loose by powers beyond human control.

Those nearest to the throne shrink back in horror; but before anything can happen, five or six of the monk-attendants -- selected for their strength -- try to take hold of the frenzied figure of the oracle-priest, in order to draw him back upon the throne. But the latter does not seem to notice them, and for some time they are tossed about like mere children, until by the sheer weight of their bodies they succeed in moving the struggling giant back upon his throne, where finally he collapses, utterly exhausted, breathing heavily, with sweat running down his unnaturally bloated face and foaming at the mouth, uttering strange sounds, as if trying to speak.

Now the Master of the Protocol steps forward again, with a writing-board in his hand. Bending down near to the mouth of the oracle-priest, he takes down the words that finally form themselves on his lips. While the message of the Oracle is being written down, a hushed silence prevails, except for the subdued voices of psalmodising monks in the background. Though the fierceness of the deity seems to have abated, its power still pervades the entire hall of the temple, submerging all individual thoughts and feelings in the awareness of its presence. Only utter surrender can appease the unseen power that dominates all minds and can break the hypnotic ban that has gripped each and everybody in the congregation, and now the people surge forward and throw themselves at the feet of the Oracle to pay homage to the Sacred Protector of the Law and to receive his blessings. We ourselves could feel how we were lifted out of our own consciousness and seized by an upsurge of uncontrollable emotion, so that we threw ourselves like the others at the feet of the Oracle, oblivious of anything else around us, except the reality of a power beyond our understanding.

The oracle-priest slowly recovers. Monks support him on both sides. A chalice with tea is put to his lips, and he sips a little to revive himself. From the background sounds the hum of reciting monks. The rhythm of drums and cymbals is slow and quiet, and the excitement of the crowd has ebbed away.

However, soon the rhythm is accelerated, the music grows in volume, the voices in urgency, and after some time the oracle-priest falls into trance again and is seized by another of the six Spirit-Kings, as revealed by the weapon which he chooses when the trance has reached its climax. I do not remember how many of the trances we witnessed or how many had gone before we entered the temple. I only know that all the six Chökyongs took possession of the oracle-priest or Chösjé (chos-rjé) one after another, and that at the end of each trance he was stretched out as if dead and finally had to be carried away in an unconscious state. How any human body could endure for hours on end the terrible strain of such violent trance-states was more than we could understand. Surely nobody could endure this unless he was genuinely seized in a state of deep trance; and nobody would expose himself to the danger of relinquishing his body to an unknown power, unless he was convinced of the necessity or the value of his sacrifice; because this it was: the crucifixion of a human being, sacrificed on the altar of primeval powers in the service of a higher ideal to which even those powers had to submit for the welfare and guidance of men, who still were struggling in the meshes of samsāric life.