Chapter 43 - The Last Trial

After so many weeks, if not months, of trudging through narrow valleys and gorges and cloud-covered mountains, it seems almost unbelievable to the pilgrim to look over miles and miles of open water, surrounded by green plains, soft hillocks, and shining snow-peaks in the distance under a clear sunny sky. He is filled with unspeakable happiness and continues his journey after many a deep drink from the sacred waters of Manasarovar, which is like nectar to both his mind and body.

In the shelter of hills, the sun burns almost with a summerly heat, which one hardly expects at 15,000-foot altitude. Only in the shade the coolness and crispness of the air remind the pilgrim where he is, and warn him of the possibility of a sudden hail or snowstorm which might unexpectedly sweep down from the icy walls of the Himalayan range in the south.

The approach of such a storm, however, is a spectacle which in itself is of such grandeur that even the temporary inconvenience to the pilgrim cannot preclude him from admiring the majestic beauty of the unloosed elements of nature. The change of the whole landscape and its colours is sudden and surprising, as if it were all a magic play.

Due to the altitude and its pure, rarefied air, all colour contrasts are incredibly heightened, distances are eradicated, space becomes telescoped and at the same time intensified.

A mountain range, twenty miles away, suddenly turns indigo-blue, and seems to race towards you like a big dark wave, not more than five miles away. The ultramarineblue waters of Manasarovar turn into a purplish hue in the centre and bottle-green towards the shores. Cloud-shadows are flitting over the agitated waters, and soon the whole lake looks like a huge opal in which all colours fight for supremacy. Clouds piled upon snow mountains look like mountains piled upon clouds, because the contours and formations of the mountains merge into darkness, and the clouds stand clear edged and super-plastic in the sky.

But the pilgrim is irresistibly drawn towards the ultimate goal of his pilgrimage, the mysterious Kailas, the hidden Jewel of the Snows. Only in the morning and in the evening hours does its dome become entirely visible and free from clouds, and thus, morning and evening, the pilgrim reverently bows down in the direction of the sacred mountain, repeating his mantras and calling up all the forces of light inhabiting this cosmic Maṇḍala.

When crossing the isthmus between the two lakes, he looks back for the last time upon the sunny Manasarovar, and soon finds himself near the northern shore of Rakastal. A strange, uncanny atmosphere seems to hover over the placid blue waters of the long, comparatively narrow lake, an atmosphere of utter loneliness and severity, which never occurred to him on the shores of Manasarovar.

It is difficult to find an explanation for it, because the landscape surrounding Rakastal is of superb beauty -- the soft, red-brown hill at both sides and the mighty, snowcovered massif of the Gurla Mandhata (the Swastika Mountain) give an impressive and colourful frame to the deep blue lake. And yet a feeling of sadness weighs down the beauty, and the very inexplicability of it makes it all the more uncanny. Apparently others have felt the same, and this feeling must have been so strong that nobody dared to build monasteries or hermitages, as on the shores of Manasarovar. There are mysteries which man is called upon to unveil, and there are others which are meant to be felt, but not to be touched, whose secrecy must be respected. Rakastal is one of these.

Much has been told and written about Manasarovar, but hardly anything is known about Rakastal. And yet it is Rakastal which receives the waters that come directly from Mount Kailas, and there is even a communication between Manasarovar and Rakastal, so that, when the waters of the Manasarovar (the surface of which is fifty feet higher) flow over they find an outlet through a channel which leads to Rakastal.

This is regarded as a very auspicious event, portending better conditions in the world, but characteristically this has not happened for many years, and the channel has almost completely dried up, so that the pilgrim can cross it without even wetting his feet. Tibetans are rather worried about this and fear that worse times, of which the already increasing insecurity gives them a foretaste, are yet to come.

The pilgrim now has to traverse the vast plain between the northern shores of Rakastal and the foot of Mount Kailas. This wide, grassy plain, which looks as friendly and innocent as a summer meadow, is the meeting place of many caravan routes from east and west, north and south, and is therefore the favourite haunt of robbers and invading tribes of nomads from the northern steppes (Chang-Thang). Besides this, the plain is intersected by dozens of swift-flowing streams and many treacherous swamps, in which the pilgrim may get stuck if he tries to cut straight across the country in order to avoid the danger of being waylaid on the caravan routes.

But, he keeps his mind and his eyes fixed on the sparkling Jewel of the Snows, which is now straight before him, completely dominating the landscape. After fording the last shallow river, the plain rises in a gentle slope towards the foothills of Kailas, whose dome now disappears behind them, while the red buildings of a monastery and the white dots of many tents around it come into sight.

Camp-fires of pilgrims, traders, beggars, and nomads welcome the pilgrim into this haven of safety. It is strange to be again in human society, agreeable to be able to replenish the scanty provisions -- but his heart is still with the silent solitudes of the lost paradise, the hallowed shores of Manasarovar, while his mind is eagerly looking forward to initiation into the mysteries of Kailas.

He experiences again that joyful tension of the night before crossing the threshold of the Land of the Gods at the Gurla Pass, but at the same time he feels that the days which lie ahead of him will tax his strength and endurance, both mentally and physically.

Nobody can approach the Throne of the Gods, or penetrate the Maṇḍala of Shiva or Demchog, or whatever name he likes to give to the mystery of ultimate reality, without risking his life -- and perhaps even the sanity of his mind. He who performs the parikrama, the ritual circumambulation of the holy mountain, with a perfectly devoted and concentrated mind goes through a full cycle of life and death.

He approaches the mountain from the golden plains of the south, from the noon of life, in the vigour and full experience of life. He enters the red valley of Amitābha in the mild light of the sinking sun, goes through the portals of death between the dark northern and the multicoloured eastern valleys when ascending the formidable Dölma-La, the Pass of Tārā, the Saviouress -- and he descends, as a new-born being, into the green valley of Akṣohbhya on the east of Kailas, where the poet-saint Milarepa composed his hymns, and from where the pilgrim again emerges into the open, sunny plains of the south, assigned to the Dhyāni-Buddha Ratnasambhava, whose colour is that of gold.

The pilgrim who actually walked over the 'golden sands' in the south feels that here he is moving through a gigantic Maṇḍala, miraculously created by nature, in which colours and shapes speak to him in the symbolic language in which the experiences of meditation have been handed down from the dawn of humanity.

Entering the narrow valley on the western flank of Kailas, the place assigned to Amitābha, whose colour is red, he finds himself in a canyon of red rocks, the structure of which

is so architectural in appearance that the pilgrim feels as if he is walking between rows of gigantic temples. They are adorned with elaborate rock-cornices, pillars, and ledges, and high above them there appears suddenly the dazzling ice-dome of Kailas.

Its shape is remarkably regular, as if it had been sculptured out of one immense block of ice, and towards the west two deep hollows, like the eyeholes of a perfectly shaped white skull, look mysteriously down upon the pilgrim, who is thus reminded of the terrible aspects of Shiva and Demchog (Mahāsukha) who are both adorned with skulls, symbolising the wisdom of śūnyatā, the realisation of the emptiness and transitoriness of all phenomena.

Buddhist monks and hermits, who wanted to contemplate this aspect of the sacred mountain, built a small cave-monastery in the opposite rock-face, on which it appears to the pilgrim like a swallows nest. Before the valley turns to the north-east is a rock rising thousands of feet sheer from the bottom of the valley, shaped like the sacred Nandi bull, with its head raised towards the summit of Kailas, as if looking lovingly at its master.

Reaching the northern side of the mountain, the colour of the rocks and the structure of the foothills abruptly change. They seem to be composed of a predominantly dark conglomeration of stones, which deprives them of the clear-cut architectural quality of the rocks and mountains lining the red valley of Amitābha.

But there is one outstanding feature which makes up for these shortcomings: the foothills suddenly step aside and give the pilgrim the full view of Kailas in all its grandeur. The view is absolutely overwhelming, and, according to the scriptures, it is on this spot that those who are initiated into the rituals and meditations of the respective tantras should perform their devotional practices on the great Maṇḍala of Supreme Bliss.

Those who do so are favoured not only with the darshan of the holy mountain in the indescribable beauty of a gigantic domed temple of perfect symmetry and breathtaking splendour, but also with a splendid vision darshan of their ishṭa dēvatā the deity or ideal of their heart, be it in the divine forms of Shiva and pārvati, or of Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, or any other significant symbol connected with this place and its compelling atmosphere.

Sometimes thunder-clouds and blizzards envelop the holy mountain, and the pilgrim has to wait For days until the fury of the elements has abated and the veil of whirling clouds has been drawn aside. Then the mountain will suddenly appear in all its pristine purity, with its dazzling white dome, its blue-green ice-falls, violet-blue shadows and dark purplish rock-faces, a spectacle so overpowering as to defy words.

The mountain is so near that it seems to the pilgrim as if he could just walk over and touch it -- and at the same time it is intangible in its ethereal beauty, as if it were beyond the realm of matter, a celestial temple with a dome of crystal or diamond. And, indeed, to the devotee it is a celestial temple, the throne of the gods, the seat and centre of cosmic powers, the axis or hub which connects the earth with the universe, the super-antenna for the influx and outflow of the spiritual energies of our planet.

What the pilgrim sees with his naked eyes is only the sub-structure and emanation of something much more grand and far-reaching. To the Tibetan, the mountain is inhabited and surrounded by thousands of meditating Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, radiating peace and bliss, and sowing the seeds of light into the hearts of those who want to liberate themselves from the darkness of greed, hatred, and ignorance.

The two hills between which Khang Rimpoché (Kailas) appears are called the hills of Vajrapāṇi and Man̄juśrī, i.e. they are regarded as the seats of the wielder of the Diamond Sceptre (commonly translated as 'thunderbolt'), who fights against the powers of darkness and decay -- the diamond being the symbol of the indestructible -- and of the Bodhisattva of learning and active wisdom, who, with the flaming sword of knowledge, cuts through the knots of ignorance and prejudice.

At his side is the hill of Avalokiteśvara, the Boddhisattva of compassion, the Patron of Tibet, while next to the hill of Vajrapāṇi, on the north-eastern side of Kailas, rises the hill of Dölma (Tārā), who is said to have been born out of a tear of Avalokiteśvara when he grieved over the suffering of this world. These hills stand like sentinels (like four pyramids) at both sides of Kailas, seen from this main place of worship.

While experiencing all these wonders, the pilgrim leaves the sacred spot like one whose whole being is in a stare of ecstasy and transformation. But this transformation cannot be successfully completed so long as he carries about his old ego. He has to go through the gates of death before entering the valley of Akṣohbhya on the east where he will be reborn to start a new life. This is his last trial.

While climbing up to the high pass of Dölma, which separates the northern from the eastern valley, he comes to the place where he beholds the Mirror of the King of Death (yama), in which all his past deeds are reflected. On this spot he lies down between huge boulders in the position of a dying man. He closes his eyes and faces the judgement of Yama, the judgement of his own conscience in the remembrance of his former deeds. And with them he remembers all those who were dear to him and who died before him, all those whose love he was unable to repay; and he prays for their happiness in whatever form they may have been reborn. And as a token of this he leaves little relics of their earthly days on this hallowed spot—a small piece of cloth, a strand of hair, a pinch of ashes from the funeral pyre, or whatever he could preserve for this last service to his beloved dead.

After he has thus made peace with the past and has gone through the gates of death he crosses the threshold of his new life on the snow-covered pass of the all-merciful mother Dölma. And lo, at his feet there is a lake of the purest emerald colour (which is the colour of Dölma or Tārā) in the midst of rocks and snows. In Tibetan, it is called the Lake of Mercy while Hindus call it gaurikunḍ. In it the pilgrim receives his first baptism as a new-born being.

Now he has passed his last trial, and all anxieties and hardships are over. Many a pilgrim has died from exertion on the ascent to the terrific altitude of nearly 19,000 feet, where a blizzard can freeze a man within a few minutes and where every gasp of breath has to be husbanded as if it were the elixir of life. But death is not feared by the devotee who dies in the presence of the gods on the most sacred soil; because he will die in the most exalted moment of his life, thus realising his highest aspiration.

The friendly valley of the eastern Dhyani-Buddha, Akṣohbhya, welcomes the pilgrim with lovely green camping-grounds and silvery streams of crystal-clear water As a last remembrance of past trials he sees a strange upright rock, in the shape of an axe, on his way down to the valley. It is the emblem of the King of Death, and it is called the axe of Karma. To the pious pilgrim it has lost its power through the mercy of Tārā, the Saviouress, because mercy is stronger than Karma; it washes away our past deeds in the tears of compassion for all suffering beings. Sharing the suffering of all leaves no place for one s own suffering, and finally results in one's growing beyond ones own little ego.

This has been taught by the Buddha as well as by many of his followers and especially by Tibet's great poet-saint, Milarepa, of whom many remembrances still live in the Eastern Valley, especially in the cave of Dzundulphug. In this cave he sang and meditated, and the pilgrim is shown the imprint of his hand on the ceiling of the cave, which now forms the sanctuary of a little monastic hermitage.

The story goes that Milarepa found the cave too low and pushed the rock ceiling up with his bare hand. But his force was such that the ceiling went up too high, so that the cave became too cold and draughty in winter. So he went on top of the rock and pressed it down with one foot until it was in the proper position. Up to the present day an imprint of his foot is visible on the top of the rock.

Another little story is told about him in connection with a Bön priest, a black magician of the pre-Buddhist faith of Tibet. He challenged Milarepa that through his magic power he would be able to reach the summit of Mount Kailas. Milarepa replied that he could do the same. 'Let us see', said the magician, 'who will reach it first' and he started to climb up.

It was very early in the morning, the sun had not yet risen, and Milarepa said that he would rest a little. Those who had been present when the magician had challenged him grew worried and implored him to hurry after his adversary. Milarepa, however was unruffled and did not move from the spot.

The magician had almost reached the top of Kailas, and was jeering at Milarepa, when the first ray of the sun touched the summit of the holy mountain. This was the moment for which Milarepa had been waiting. Through the mighty power of his concentration he immediately became one with that ray, and before the magician realised what had happened the figure of Milarepa appeared on top of Kailas. 'Hallo!' he called out to the magician, who was panting and puffing below him, 'don't exert yourself!' and the magician, who saw himself defeated, got such a shock that he dropped his magic drum (ḍamaru).

It leaped down in big bounds, and each time it bounced against the ice-dome of Kailas it emitted a loud tone and left a deep cut on the surface of the dome. Tang—tang—tang, it went, to the great hilarity of all onlookers. And up to the present day a perpendicular line of stair-like impressions are to be seen, forming the vertical axis of the big swastika on the southern face of the dome of Kailas.

Many such stories, full of humour and religious significance, have grown up around the figure of Milarepa. But he himself was an historical personality of great charm and achievements, who left the greatest poetical legacy of Tibet in his Hundred Thousand Songs. His life was perhaps the most remarkable that any saint has ever lived. He went through all the depths and heights of human existence, and after the most dramatic struggles he finally attained realisation. He was not only a follower of the Buddha, but he himself attained to Buddhahood. This is all the more significant and encouraging as his life is well authenticated, in spite of numerous legendary stories which grew up around his personality later on.

He was lucky enough to have a learned and capable disciple, who wrote down the songs and became at the same time his biographer His name was Rechung. Thus Milarepa's message has been kept alive by his spiritual descendants, the patriarchs and followers of the Kargyütpa Sect. Both the monasteries at the northern and eastern ideas of Kailas belong to this sect and are hallowed by the remembrance of Milarepa.

Strange as it sounds, Hindu pilgrims generally identify Milarepa with Shava, probably because both are depicted as ascetics with long hair and lean bodies of white colour. In the case of Milarepa, this white is sometimes greenish, because it is said that due to his living mainly on nettles during the years of his hermit life in the wilderness of the snow-mountains his body took on a greenish tinge. He used to boil these nettles in an earthen pot which was his only earthly possession. One day even this pot broke, but Milarepa. instead of grieving over this loss, composed a hymn in which he said: 'Even this earthen pot has become a Guru to me, it has taught me the law of the impermanence of all worldly things and freed me from my last attachment to them.'

It is interesting to note that nettles are still eaten by the poor, and they abound and thrive especially in the surroundings of Kailas.

So, on his way round the holy mountain, the pilgrim is constantly reminded of Milarepa when passing by luxuriantly growing patches of nettles. And many a pilgrim will sing one of Milarepa's songs, popular all over Tibet, in praise of the solitudes and the life of renunciation, or in praise of the Buddha and his Guru, Marpa, The Translator.

And thus the pilgrim passes through the last part of the Eastern Valley which is like a fairyland of colours. Some of the rocks are flaming red, others dark blue and green, and next to them vivid orange and light yellow ones. It is as if, before leaving Kailas, the pilgrim were presented with samples of all the varieties of coloured rocks which he admired during the Parikrama.

Finally, he emerges from the valley into the open plains until he reaches again the starting-point of the Parikrama, at the little monastery of Tarchen. While passing numerous maṇi-walls, composed of thousands of stones upon which pious devotees have carved the mantra Om mani padme Hum, in praise of the Buddha AvalokiteSvara, who is the Jewel (maṇi) which should reside in the Lotus (padma) of the devotee's heart, the pilgrim adds his own stones in gratitude for what this pilgrimage has given to him, and as a blessing to the pilgrims who will come after him: Sukhe Bhavantu! (May they be happy!)