Chapter 25 - Tulku

The creation of the the 'image' of our highest ideals is the real 'magic', namely the power that acts, forms, and transforms. An ideal, therefore, can only act if it is represented by a symbol, not merely a conventional sign or a mere allegory, but a valid, living symbol that can be visualised, experienced, felt, and realised by our whole being. It is for this reason that Tibetan Buddhism lays such stress on visualisation of the symbols of Buddhahood, which are as numerous as its qualities, on the contemplation of images, Maṇḍala's, mantras, etc. All these things are not so much objects of worship but aids, instruments of visualisation, through which the sādhaka becomes one with his ideal, is transformed into it, becomes its embodiment.

This is what first and foremost a 'tulku' is meant to be. He is not a 'phantom'^[1] , nor an 'avatar' of a god or a transcendental being that takes on human form. If, for instance, the Dalai Lama is regarded to be the tulku of Avalokiteśvara, it does not mean that a divine being, or a Buddha or Bodhisattva, has descended from heaven and appears in the shape of man, but rather that a divine idea has been realised in a human being to such an extent that it has become its living embodiment. And, having thus overcome the limitations of a merely individual existence by realising its universal background, or, as we might say, its eternal source, a tulku reaches beyond the frontiers of death by establishing a conscious continuity between his consecutive lives.

This continuity enables him not only to utilise the fruits of his former knowledge and experience but to proceed consequently on his chosen path in the pursuit of enlightenment and in the service of his fellow-beings. According to the law of Karma, none of our actions and thoughts is lost. Each of them leaves its imprint on our character, and the sum total of one life creates the basis for the next. But as long as people are not conscious of this continuity, they will act only in conformity with their momentary necessities, desires, and petty aims, identifying themselves with their present personality and span of life, thus floundering from existence to existence without direction and therefore without a chance of ever breaking the chain reaction of cause and effect.

Only if we realise that it is in our hands to bridge the chasm of death and to determine and direct the course of our future life in such a way that we can pursue or accomplish in it, what we regard our highest task, then only can we give depth and perspective to our present existence and to our spiritual aspirations. The torn and tortured human being of our time, who knows neither his infinite past, nor the infinity of his future, because he has lost the connection with his timeless being, is like a man suffering from incurable amnesia, a mental disease which deprives him of the continuity of his consciousness and therefore of the capacity to act consistently and in accordance with his true nature. Such a man really dies, because he identifies himself with his momentary existence.

There is a well-known spiritual exercise in Tibet, practised by those who have been initiated into the Bardo-teachings (concerning the intermediate states of consciousness between life and death or between death and rebirth), which has the purpose of penetrating into the centre of our being, into which consciousness retreats in the moment of physical death, thus anticipating the experience of the transition from one life to another. It is not a question of calling up the past or anticipating the future, it has nothing to do with the remembrance of former lives or the divination of a future existence, it is the full recognition of that which is present already and in which the germs of future possibilities are contained. He who recognises them in their true nature obtains mastery over their hidden forces and can direct them in such a way that in the moment of death, when they are freed from their bodily bonds, they will maintain the given direction and ensure the conscious continuity of their directing impulse by projecting it into a new vessel of life.

While the ordinary, i.e. untrained, man is overtaken and overpowered by death, those who have brought both body and mind under control are capable of withdrawing from the body on their own accord, without undergoing the suffering of a physical death-struggle; in fact, without losing control of their body even in this decisive moment.

This was demonstrated in the case of Tomo Géshé's passing away by the fact that his body remained unchanged and erect in the posture of meditation even after he had left it. Nobody knows the exact day on which this happened. It may have been several days before the mirror was held before his face, because even after that the body remained in the same position for several weeks, as testified also by Mr H. E. Richardson, the British Envoy to Lhasa at that time. A few weeks after he had heard of Tomo Géshé's death, he was passing through the valley in which Dungkar Monastery is situated, and as he had known the Rimpoché during his lifetime, he interrupted his journey and rode up to the Gompa, which stands on an isolated hill in the middle of the fertile valley. He was very politely greeted by the abbot, who, before he could even express his condolences, told him that the Rimpoché was glad to receive him. Somewhat taken aback and wondering whether he had perhaps been misinformed about Tomo Géshé's passing away he followed the abbot to the Rimpoché's private apartments. How great was his surprise when entering the room to find Tomo Géshé sitting in his usual seat. Before he could give vent to his astonishment, he realised that it was only the Rimpoché's body, though the abbot seemed to have a different idea about it, since he acted exactly as if he were in the living presence of the Rimpoché. Announcing Mr. Richardson's visit, he asked the latter to be seated and said, as if repeating the words of the Rimpoché's inaudible voice: The Rimpoché welcomes you and asks: "have you had a good journey, and are you in good health?". And in this way a complete conversation ensued between the Rimpoché and Mr. Richardson, while tea was served, and everything seemed to be as usual, so that the visitor almost began to doubt his own senses. It was a most fantastic experience, and if Li and I had not heard it from Mr. Richardson's own lips, when we met at Gyantse a few years later, I would have found this difficult to believe.

It is hardly necessary to mention that it was not the abbot's intention to pretend to be in mediumistic contact with Tomo Géshé's spirit. He was simply acting in accordance with his conviction of the Guru's presence. As long as the sacred vessel of the Guru's mind, in the form of his body, which apparently was still controlled and kept upright by the power of his will, was present, the abbot had to treat it with the same respect which had been due to it during his lifetime.

It may be difficult for the Westerner to put himself into the feelings of a pious Tibetan, and still more to understand the attitude of those to whom life and death are not contradictory opposites, but only two sides of the same reality. It is due to this that Tibetans show far less fear of death than most other people. The necromantic aspects of prehistoric religions and their survival in certain traditions and rituals of Tibetan Buddhism, in which the symbols of death, like skulls, skeletons, corpses, and all aspects of decay and dissolution, are impressed upon the human mind, are not means to create disgust for life but means to gain control over the dark forces which represent the reverse side of life. We have to make ourselves familiar with them, because they have power over us only as long as we fear them. To propitiate the dark forces does not mean to pacify them or to bribe them, but to give them a place in our own mind, to fit them into the order of the universe of our experience, to accept them as a necessary part of reality; which teaches us not to get attached to any particular form of appearance and thus liberates us from bodily bondage.

I do not know how long the body of the Guru remained in his seat. I only remember that the Abbot of Dungkar and all who had been present stressed the fact that the body had shown no signs of decay and that many weeks (if not months) had passed before the entombment took place.

When a person has attained a high degree of realisation or, as we may say, saintliness, it is assumed that the material components of the body have been transformed to a certain degree by being saturated with psychic forces, which continue to exert a beneficial influence on their surroundings, and especially on those who open themselves to those influences on account of their devotional attitude and sincere faith. The same forces are believed to retard the natural decay of the body, a fact that has been observed also among the saints of other religions (even under the most unfavourable circumstances in tropical climates, as in the case of St Francis Xavier of Goa). The world-wide belief in the value of relics is based on such facts as well as on the abovementioned belief in the psychometric qualities of matter under the impact of great spiritual forces.

It is for this reason that the bodies of saints and great Lamas (like the Dalai and Panchen Lamas) are not cremated or otherwise disposed of, but preserved in reliquaries of gold and silver in the form of chortens. Such a chorten was built for Tomo Géshé too, and its magnificence is as much a monument to Tomo Géshé's spiritual attainments as to the love and veneration in which the people of Tibet held him. As soon as his passing away became known, thousands of people from near and far streamed to Dungkar Gompa to pay their last respects and to bring gifts of gold and silver and precious stones as a contribution to the memory of the great Guru. Even the poorest insisted on adding their share: some of them would give their turquoise ear-ornaments, or their rings and silver bangles, others their coral beads and necklaces; some would even give their silver charm-boxes studded with precious stones, nothing was too good or too great a sacrifice for such a great cause: to create a worthy shrine, which would remind future generations of the great Guru and would make them partake of his spirit's lingering presence. The people's enthusiasm seemed to know no bounds. The amount of gifts in the form of valuables, money, and ornaments was so great that a two-storey high chorten of silver was built, embossed with golden scroll work, studded with coral, turquoise, onyx, agate, lapis-lazuli, garnet, topaz, and amethyst and the like. The best gold and silversmiths were employed to create a work of great beauty and perfection.

The lower part of the chorten was big enough to form a room, in which the mummified body of Tomo Géshé could be enthroned in full regalia and with all his ritual implements on a little table (chogtse) before him, as in life. The chorten was housed in a specially built high-ceilinged hall, the walls of which were covered with beautiful frescoes of Buddhas, Bodhisattvas, and saints, among them the famous Eighty-four Accomplished Ones (Siddhas).

Before the body was prepared^[2] for the final installation in the chorten, a stylised yet life-like gilt statue was modelled after the actual body and features of the Guru by one of the traditional image-makers, and a replica was placed in the Lhakhang of each of Tomo Géshé's main monasteries, below and at the side of the central Maitréya statue, which he himself had erected during his lifetime. He is represented in the Dharma-desana-mudrā, the gesture of 'showing the Dharma': the right hand is raised with the palm outwards, like in Amoghasiddhi's gesture of fearlessness and blessing, but thumb and forefinger are joined to form a circle, it is the gesture that indicates the highest form of blessing, the gift of truth, from which fearlessness is born.

Footnotes and references:

[1]:

A translation based on a blindly philological interpretation of the Tibetan term 'sprul' which means the power of transformation, the creative power of the mind, which can result in the formation of ephemeral phantom-forms as well as in material reality. Even this reality is 'real' only in the context of time, i.e. only in a relative sense.

[2]:

The Tibetan method of mummification consists in draining all liquids from the body by keeping it for some time in a container closely packed with salt. In order to clean the inner organs, quicksilver is poured through the mouth. After the body is dried (in the posture of meditation) it is covered with bandages to ensure its steadiness and to give a grounding for a coating of clay or lacquer and gold, which converts it into a statue and makes it impervious to climatic influences.