Chapter 52 - The Happy Valley

Poo looked like any other Tibetan village and the people too were the same as on the other side of the Shipki-La, though the political frontier, dividing Tibet and India, was drawn across the pass. This, however, had no meaning to the people on both sides, who spoke the same language, practised the same religion and who moved freely to and fro, while having practically no contact with the population on the Indian side of the main Himalayan Range, which was still five days journey away from here.

We had hoped to find a post office here, but we were informed that an Indian mailrunner came only once a month, and when we asked when we could expect the next one we were informed: 'In spring, when the passes over the Himalayas are open again.' When would this be?'we asked with some trepidation. 'Oh, in about three months' time!'

It was then that we realised that it would be four months before we could return to India, because the journey from here to the plains or the first bigger town, i.e. Simla, would take another month. We would not have minded this, if it had not been that both our money and our provisions had come to an end, and we wondered how we would pull through for so many months! However, this was no problem for the good old man who was in charge of the rest-house (which had been provided for the officials of the Public Works Department, in charge of the caravan road across the ShipkiLa) and who very kindly gave us the permission to put up there on his own responsibility, since we could not communicate with the authorities. 'And if you are short of money', he continued, I will give you as much as you need. You can return it to me when the mail comes or whenever it is convenient to you'.

'But we are complete strangers to you, and we have no means of establishing our bona fides', we countered, whereupon he simply said: 'It is my duty to help you and, moreover, I trust you'.

His name was Namgyal and though he did not distinguish himself outwardly from the other villagers, wearing the rough, undyed homespuns and little round caps, characteristic of the inhabitants of these Himalayan valleys, he was highly respected in his community as a Nyingma Lama and a man of great religious devotion and knowledge. He treated us as if we were members of his own family, because, as he put it, we all belonged to the Ärya-kula, 'the noble family of the Buddha'. He missed no opportunity of discussing religious subjects with us and Sherab, and he even brought us some of his religious books, his most valued possessions, so that we could read and study them. Among them were the Bardo Thödol, the Maṇi Kahbum, and works dealing with the early history of Buddhism in Tibet and especially with padmasambhava and the three great kings, Songtsen Gampo, Tisong Detsen, and Ralpachan. He would tell us, besides, many popular stories, of which he had a great repertoire, or he would read to us from one or the other of his books and discuss or explain points of particular interest.

The Maṇi Kahbum affected Sherab particularly, and one morning he came to us with tears in his eyes. He had read about the fate of those who had committed the sin of killing living beings, and he confessed that he had committed such a sin by setting traps for foxes. We consoled him by telling him that there is no sin that cannot be overcome and wiped out by a change of heart. He promised never to commit this sin again and was deeply moved when Namgyal spoke about the Buddha's compassion and their self-sacrificing acts on their way to Buddhahood.

One day Namgyal invited us to his house and showed us his meditation and prayerroom (on the top floor), which contained the house altar with various images and thankas and a proper Lama's seat under a multicoloured canopy. His wife, an old and shrivelled lady, but with a face that showed strength and character, sang for us religious songs with a voice so beautiful, mellow, and tender, that one forgot her age. They both were ardent devotees of Padmasambhava, who seemed to be always present in their minds. To them Padmasambhava was none other than Śākyamuni Buddha in a new form and appearing to men in different disguises, compassionate as well as fierce, according to their needs. He was the ever-present protector and guide, who would stand by his devotees in danger and inspire them in their meditation. He was the special protector and friend of all animals and might even take their shape. Once, when the landscape was covered in deep snow, we heard the song of a bird. It is Him!' Namgyal said with great earnestness. On the tenth day of every Tibetan (lunar) month, he was believed to descend among men and his devotees kept themselves ready on that day to receive him in mind and heart and in whatever form he might approach. Innumerable stories about him went from mouth to mouth, and they were all told in such a way as if they had happened quite recently. In fact, nobody thought of Padmasambhava as a figure of the remote past, but as somebody who had just passed through this valley and might return any moment. For the first time we realised the tremendous impact that Padmasambhava had on the Tibetan mind. He certainly was one of the most powerful personalities of Buddhist history. The miracle stories that grew up around him are nothing but the reflection of the unbounded admiration which his contemporaries and disciples felt for him, and if modem historians try to dismiss Padmasambhava as a 'sorcerer and a charlatan' or as a 'black magician', they only show their complete ignorance of human psychology in general and of religious symbolism in particular.

Would anybody, with any sense of fairness, dare to call Christ 'a sorcerer or a charlatan', because he turned water into wine, healed the incurable, roused the dead, exorcised evil spirits, defied Satan, resurrected from the grave after having been crucified and ascended to heaven in full view of his disciples? Why, therefore, should one ridicule the story of Padmasambhava's resurrection from the pyre, his victory over demons or whatever other miracles are ascribed to him? In fact, when missionaries came to Poo (many years ago) and told the people that Christ had sacrificed himself on the cross for the sake of humanity and had risen from the dead, they accepted this without hesitation and exclaimed: 'It was Him!', thoroughly convinced that Christ and Padmasambhava were actually the same person. Thus the missionaries finally had to give up, not because they were rejected, but because their teachings were readily accepted as a confirmation of those very truths which Śākyamuni and Padmasambhava and many other Buddhist saints had taught.

To us, certainly, Padmasambhava came to life, more than ever before, during our stay in Poo, where his memory was as fresh as if he had been here only a few days ago and might turn up any moment again.

Many great Lamas had passed through this valley on their pilgrimage either from Tibet to the holy places in India or from India to Mount Kailas. One of the most prominent among them was Tomo Géshé Rimpoché, whom Namgyal remembered with special veneration, because it was here that he had restored to life the girl that had been ailing for years and who on his command 'took her bed and walked away', to the openmouthed surprise of those who had carried her on a stretcher and in the presence of the whole village. It was here that he exorcised the man who was possessed by a spirit and showed mercy even to that spirit by asking the villagers to build a small shrine for him as a dwelling-place, so that he would find rest and would no more trouble anyone.

Modern people might look upon this as pure superstition; however, the effect proved the soundness of Tomo Géshé's advice: the man was cured and all his sufferings came to an end -- whatever their actual cause might have been. A psychologist would probably be able to find a reasonable explanation in modem terminology for such phenomena and he would also admit that Tomo Géshé found the right remedy.

While listening to these and many other strange happenings, we came to hear a lot about the spirits that were supposed to inhabit certain localities. There was a group of old cedar trees not far from the village— the only trees in the otherwise bare landscape—and we were wondering how they could have survived not only the rigours of the climate (at an altitude of almost 9,000 feet), but even more the depredations of man in a place where wood was scarce and people had to roam far and wide to find fuel or wood for building, Namgyal explained that these trees were sacred and nobody would dare to touch them, because they were the abode of ghost and when we asked him how people knew this, he answered that they came and spoke to them and had even sometimes been seen. He said this in a matter-of-fact way, as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world, so that we felt almost guilty of ever having doubted such a possibility. To question such simple facts would have seemed to him the height of ignorance, and so we left it at that, little suspecting that one day we ourselves would witness the presence of these gods.

Tibetans are far more sensitive to psychic influences than most Westerners. They have not yet lost the capacity to communicate with the powers of their depth-consciousness or to understand their language, as revealed through dreams or other phenomena.

One day Namgyal came and told us that he had seen in a dream a rainbow over our bungalow and that this could only mean a lucky event, like the arrival of some saintly person. And, indeed, the next day a Lama arrived and put up in a little outhouse belonging to our compound. We only saw him from a distance, while dismounting from his horse; and both the man as well as the horse seemed tired from a long journey. The Lama's robes were old and worn and the horse was limping and half blind. We were told that the Lama had returned from a long pilgrimage and would have to stay here until the passes were open.

Since the weather was cold and cloudy, we had remained in our room, but the following day the Lama himself called on us accompanied by Namgyal. How great was our joy and surprise when we recognised the Lama as our good old Abbot of Phiyang of whom we had taken tender farewells at Tsaparang, not expecting ever to meet him again. We had regretted this all the more, as we felt that here was a man from whom we could learn a great deal, especially in the field of meditational practice, and we felt almost cheated by fate that we should lose this rare opportunity the very moment it came our way.

Whether Phiyang Lama had foreseen that we were destined to meet again or not, one thing is sure: he had read our thoughts at that time, because now, before we could even mention our secret wish, he offered to instruct us in the most advanced methods of Tāntric Sādhana and Yoga practices.

As our room was not only bigger but warmer than Phiyang Lamas, since we kept a big fire going the whole day thanks to Sherab's untiring concern for our well-being, Phiyang Lama came daily with Namgyal (who thus became our Guru-bhai) to instruct us and discuss our problems. It was a most fruitful time, because never was a teacher more eager to give from the wealth of his own experience than this new Guru of ours, who thus continued the good work of Tomo Géshé and Ajo Rimpoché, for which we shall ever remember him with deep gratitude. And in this gratitude we must include also our Guru-bhai Namgyal, who helped us in so many ways, and our faithful Sherab, who looked after us like a son, so that we could dedicate ourselves completely to our religious studies and practices.

When the news of Phiyang Lama's arrival and continued stay spread among the Poopas, many came to receive his blessings and finally the villagers requested him to perform a Tséwang for the whole community. The ceremony was to take place in the spacious courtyard between Phiyang Lama's quarters and our bungalow. A few days before the great ceremony he retired into his room -- much to our regret, as we missed our daily meetings -- though we understood that he required some time of solitude and intense concentration in order to prepare himself and to call up those forces which he wanted to communicate to others. But then it seemed to us that another Lama had joined him, probably to assist him during the forthcoming ritual, because we heard another voice much deeper than his own from time to time coming from his room. The long and sonorous recitations of the new voice were sometimes interrupted by Phiyang Lama's voice, but neither he nor the other Lama were ever seen outside. We were greatly intrigued as to who the new Lama could be, but nobody could give us any information. So, one or two days later, while passing Phiyang Lama's door, we heard again the voice of the other Lama, and since the door was wide open, we glanced inside. To our surprise we saw no other person in the room but only Phiyang Lama. He seemed to be oblivious of our presence, and the strange voice came out of him so deep and sonorous, as if another person was speaking through him. We quickly withdrew from the door.

When the great day came, a high throne was erected in the courtyard between our bungalow and the outhouse. The throne stood against a high revetment wall, covered with a decorative cloth curtain, while the courtyard was festively decorated with multicoloured bunting and streamers. Phiyang Lama in the full regalia of an abbot was seated on the throne, his head covered with the tali red cap worn by the Nyingma and Kargyütpa Orders, to which he originally belonged, though being now the head of a Sakya-Gompa. Nobody could have recognised in him the poor old pilgrim who might have been taken as a mendicant friar on the day of his arrival. The man on the throne had the bearing of a king and the voice of a lion. His face was that of an inspired prophet, and every gesture expressed dignity and power. Whoever was present could feel that here was a man who not merely implored or invoked some unseen power, but one who had become that power, by having generated or focalised it within himself in a state of complete and sustained absorption and oneness with a particular aspect of transcendental reality. He had become the very embodiment of Tsépamé (Tsé-dpag-med), the Buddha of Infinite Life. His vision had become visible and communicable to all who attended the ritual, which held everybody spellbound and in a state of spiritual elation. The rhythm of mantric incantations and mystic gestures was like the weaving of a magic net, in which the audience was drawn together towards an invisible centre. The sense of participation was heightened when everybody received Tsépamé's blessings with a few drops of consecrated water and a small tsé-ril, a red consecrated pill of sweetened tsampa, representing the Wine and Bread of Life.

It was the most beautiful eucharistic rite we had ever witnessed, because it was performed by a man who had truly given his own blood and flesh, sacrificed his own personality, in order to make it a vessel of divine forces.

Never had I realised more thoroughly the importance of ritual in religion (and especially in community worship) and the folly of replacing it by preaching and sermonising. Ritual -- if performed by those who are qualified by spiritual training and sincerity of purpose -- appeals both to the heart and to the mind, and brings people in direct contact with a deeper and richer life than that of the intellect, in which individual opinions and dogmas get the upper hand.