by Marco Pallis
When I returned to Yak I found that everyone thought my meeting with Khamtrül Rinpoche clearly showed that I too was planning to leave Tibet. They said, if this was so, they would like to come with me. I had to tell them that Khamtrül Rinpoche had left entirely by his own choice and though he had asked me to go with him I did not even know myself what I should do. I added, “You seem to think that I have made a definite plan to leave; this is not so, and I have no intention of trying to save myself while leaving others behind. My bursar is in a complete state of confusion and is very unhappy; I know he also thinks that at my young age I might be influenced by a restless desire for change.” We then went on with the wangkur.
Some weeks later Jigme Tulku, who was staying nearby, came to see me. During our journey together from Khampa Gar he had impressed me as being a very spiritual, as well as an extremely intelligent man with a practical turn of mind; he had been a devoted disciple of my predecessor. He thought that I should escape, but a large party could not fail to be noticed by the Communists and he also realized that if the people in the district once knew that I was leaving, they would in their devotion all want to come with me. He said I must understand that a tulku like myself who has received such deep spiritual instruction has a duty to pass it on to others, so that I might have to consider escaping, not to save my own life, but to save the spiritual teaching of which I had become the repository. I asked him to talk to my bursar and explain this to him, but he felt that it was still not the right time to do so.
While I was still waiting for replies from Gyalwa Karmapa, Khyentse, and Jamgön Kongtrül and we were all going on with the wangkur, one of my close friends, a lama from Karma Monastery, arrived at Yak. He invited me in a rather unusual manner to visit a place near Karma which lay off the beaten track and where his own very influential family could look after me. He expressed the opinion that the Communists did not intend to take over Tibet permanently, but that at present it was more dangerous to be in an area like Yak, which was directly under the control of Chamdo. Surmang and its surrounding district would be much safer. He added that Surmang was expecting my return and hinted that I must not think only of myself.
A few days later another of my friends from Karma made the same suggestions in almost identical words. I realized at once that they had been put up to this by the bursar, convinced as he was that I should come back to my monastery.
As Yak was on one of the main routes to Lhasa, refugees were passing through all the time. They told terrible stories about the Communist advance, with the destruction of the monasteries and villages on the way. Many members of their families had been killed, the people had been questioned under torture and then accused of crimes which they had never committed. Lamas, monks, and high officials had suffered particularly in this way. The Communists were attacking farther and farther westward and had already got beyond Chamdo. My monks were beginning to be concerned for the fate of Surmang. On the other hand, the Resistance forces were very active and increasingly large numbers of people were joining them every day. There was a rumor that the refugees who had already reached Lhasa and its vicinity were forming their own Resistance movement, but as yet we had no authentic news.
In spite of these anxieties, the numbers who attended the wangkur did not grow less. The desire to participate seemed to have increased especially among the older people; the younger ones were, however, less able to concentrate on the teaching day after day and it was not surprising that some of those attending the rites were overcome with sleep; it was therefore arranged that they should sit near their elders who would nudge them in case they began to doze. The monk in charge of discipline, the gekö, was on duty all the time, but his supervision was little needed, as there was good behavior throughout.
The wangkur took place in the assembly hall. The teacher’s throne was in the center with the altar facing toward it but with a clear space between, where the servers could pace along. The altar, which was about twelve feet square, was disposed in three tiers on which the various symbolic objects could be arranged to form a mandala according to the four directions of space. A vase of pure water marks the eastern quarter with a blue scarf tied round it; this is the vase of Akshobhya Buddha, the Imperturbable One, and the water symbolizes purification from the strife of wrath; the peace it brings fills the pupil with gnosis (jnana). A crown with a yellow scarf marks the south; this is the crown of Ratnasambhava Buddha, the Jewel-Born; it symbolizes equanimity and the victory over selfishness. The vajra on the west, tied with a red scarf, symbolizes Amitabha Buddha, Boundless Light, and means discrimination, bringing compassion and freedom from desire. The bell on the north tied with a green scarf is that of Amoghasiddhi Buddha, it symbolizes the achievement of spiritual action and overcomes all envy. In the center a bell and vajra are placed, tied together with a white scarf in the shape of a cross; these appertain to Vairochana Buddha, the Luminous One, and symbolize the womb of dharma, that overcomes confusion and ignorance.
Each separate mandala is connected with a specific initiation. The rites were performed in order, and before each began the participants formally requested the teacher to conduct it. Each rite went through four stages; the first three corresponded to the body, speech, and mind, and the fourth went beyond symbol. Usually at the end of the ritual the wangkur of a dorje loppön gave the pupil authority to teach. It consisted in handing over to him a drum, conch shell, throne, and the banner of the dharma. Some of the wangkurs lasted several days, others for as short a time as ten minutes.
After giving one of these longer ones I had to give eleven or twelve of the lesser wangkurs. Each entailed a complicated arrangement of the objects on the altar; this was the responsibility of the chöpön or “server of the rites,” with his assistant. Yet another elderly monk was needed to read through the forthcoming wangkur on the day before the rite was celebrated, so that he could instruct the chöpön when and how the symbolic objects were to be arranged, since each mandala required the objects to be placed in different positions on the two higher tiers while the offerings were laid out on the bottom tier. When the wangkur was given, the chöpön had to bring the objects from the shrine to the teacher and afterward to return them to their places. He had to distribute water symbolizing spiritual purification, and grains of barley as a symbol of offering; it was also his duty to swing censers, so he was on his feet all day long. Our chöpön at Yag was an old man and he became extremely exhausted, but there was no one to replace him. This wangkur on the Treasury of the Mine of Precious Teachings had been long and complicated. Many of those who had attended wanted me to explain in more simple terms the significance of the spiritual teaching that they had just received. The coming of the Communists had greatly demoralized everyone; all had lost their sense of security, yet their deep faith in the religious way of life remained unshaken. The people needed a personal contact; they wished me to explain why they were so disturbed. They longed to receive more teaching provided it could be brought within their understanding. Since women were not allowed inside the monastery, I arranged for a special hall where the peasant families could come to talk to me. I tried my utmost to give help by impressing on all the necessity for regular meditation. I said they must carry out their duties and daily activities in the spirit of meditation, and if there should be no external guru, they must develop the teaching within themselves. I regretted deeply not being able to devote more time to them as my presence was now urgently needed at Surmang.
1. Also known as The Jewel Ornament of Liberation.—Ed.
TWELVE
Into Hiding
THE DAY THAT THE wangkur of Rinchen Terdzö ended was a momentous one and a special service was held. But it was also the day when the messengers returned with the replies to my letters asking for advice. Gyalwa Karmapa gave me no indication of what should be done. He said it was important for me to carry out what spiritual work I could under present conditions. He was glad to learn that I had been doing well in teaching others and that the wangkur
I had just given had been so beneficial. Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche replied with a poem; in it he said more or less the same thing as Gyalwa Karmapa, but added, “The darkness of the barbarians sinks deeper and deeper into the heart of the country. He who would light a torch must do so from within himself. There is no need for disturbance of mind; the worthwhile minds will win.”
The most distressing verbal news was that Jamgön Kongtrül of Sechen had been captured by the Communists. Gyalwa Karmapa and Khyentse Rinpoche were trying to get him released, but I felt pessimistic myself. All three had been together at Gyalwa Karmapa’s monastery of Tsurphu. Jamgön Kongtrül Rinpoche never took any thought for his own safety and, knowing this, the two others had been taking special care of him, even to the neglect of their own work. The situation was becoming increasingly dangerous, and refugees in their hundreds were pouring in from East Tibet, many of them disciples of Jamgön Kongtrül. A particular group of some three hundred people had suffered many casualties on the way, and since they were his ardent devotees they had begged him to come to perform the funeral rites for the dead and to stay for a fortnight and give them spiritual instruction. Gyalwa Karmapa and Khyentse Rinpoche tried to dissuade him, but he himself felt he had to go. He said, “This stage in their lives is a time when they most need spiritual help and it is my duty to give it to them.”
When he had been at this refugee camp for about a week, it was attacked by the Communists. Jamgön Kongtrül told the other refugees not to bother about him. He sent the majority off round one side of a hill, while he and his attendants went the other way. He told them, “What will be, will be; one cannot escape one’s karma.”
For the first night he was able to find shelter in a small monastery, but the following day the Communists discovered him and took him prisoner. One of his disciples, who held a senior post in Tibet, did all he could to get the lama set free, explaining that he had nothing to do with politics. When Jamgön Kongtrül was interrogated by a Chinese officer he was completely outspoken. It was natural for him to express his own spiritual attitude in his replies. The Communists may well have found his attitude difficult to understand, since it did not conform in the least to their creed, and though his sincerity may have impressed them it failed to obtain his release. During the wangkur at Yag I myself had a certain presentiment of these events for I suddenly got a strong impression of his physical presence; it was almost overwhelming. Also that night I had a vivid dream in which I saw him riding bareback on a white horse carrying volumes of the scriptures and his own reliquary. He spoke to me and rode on by a steep rocky path up the mist-shrouded mountain. In the distance, he seemed to drop his books which rolled down the path and fell on me.
Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche had opened my letter to Jamgön Kongtrül and sent me a reply saying, “You must not depend too much on others. If all acts are performed according to the dharma they cannot fail. Gyalwa Karmapa, Jamgön Kongtrül, and I have been looking for somewhere on the borders of Tibet and India to establish a community, but so far we have been unsuccessful. Indeed, until there is freedom from the bondage of egotism, there can be no permanent refuge and no abiding place in the world.”
The messengers told me that the relationship between the Dalai Lama’s government and the Chinese still appeared to be more or less cordial, but that on their route they had seen a number of military camps, some belonging to the Communists, others to the Resistance volunteers; it had been almost impossible to travel. The Resistance army had been organized by a Khampa, Gönpo Tashi, a wealthy merchant from Lhasa. When the Communists ravaged most of East Tibet including his own property, he closed his business in Lhasa and himself organized a force of guerillas, giving everything he still possessed for their expense and his example was followed by other wealthy men.
The main headquarters of the Resistance was at Tsöna. There was no secrecy about the fact, but the Communists appeared to ignore it. Our messengers who had seen these East Tibetan volunteers in their Khampa uniforms said that they showed great dignity and that they all seemed very young and enthusiastic. They added that in Lhasa itself the inhabitants always showed a marked dislike toward the Chinese.
When the letters were brought to Yak the whole monastery was anxious to know their contents, though some of the monks feared that the news would only be divulged to a chosen few. I felt there was nothing in these letters which need be kept secret. I had been given neither instruction nor advice, so I asked the more senior monks what they now considered would be the best plan for me to follow. They suggested that since my gurus had given no indication whether or not I should leave Tibet, they must have thought there was no immediate danger and that all was going to turn out well in the end. It was beyond them even to imagine that the Chinese could take complete control of Tibet and that they would destroy all the monasteries and change the whole Tibetan way of life. The bursar was foremost in this opinion. A few lamas however, including the abbot Yak Tulku, thought that my gurus meant me to choose my own path. They were very concerned at the news about Jamgön Kongtrül and considered that I needed to be very careful myself. This was all extremely difficult for me; any decision I might make would affect not only myself, but all the monasteries in the district, particularly those connected with Surmang, as well as the lay population. Everyone looked to me as their authority and were prepared to follow my lead.
Though we had now finished the wangkur of Rinchen Terdzö the preparation and celebration of the vajra-amrita (elixir for spiritual health) rite was still to follow. However, we delayed these devotional exercises for three days in order to have time to discuss our immediate plans. I had more or less come to the conclusion that I should do as Surmang wished and return there, though a few of my monks agreed with Yak Tulku that I should effect an immediate escape, which would be easier to do from Yak; other monks from Surmang could follow in their own time. I arranged a meeting with our own monks at Yak and asked Yak Tulku and Jigme Rinpoche to attend it. On the first day everyone was noncommittal. That evening Jigme Rinpoche came to see me saying that he thought I should not go back to Surmang, though of course the decision rested with me. He said he intended to take a strong line about it on the following day. This he did speaking with great emphasis. My bursar was convinced that he was trying to influence me to escape and that what he was saying ostensibly on my behalf was merely his own opinion. I said little myself at the time except that I believed great changes were inevitable and that the Communists would take over the whole of Tibet. The same afternoon Tsethar the bursar came to see me and let fly. He accused me of taking advice from people who did not belong to our monastery and who had no right to interfere with our affairs. He added that it was his duty to look after me. I must understand, he said, that I represented the entire Surmang group of monasteries and its devotees; all looked upon me as their head and only they had the right to serve me; with that he left. I realized that it was useless to reply.
The next morning I asked him to come and see me again. I told him that I was quite prepared to offer up my life for Surmang. I had wanted to talk to him about this for some time, but thought he failed to understand that I was not thinking about my own preservation; I added, “It is disquieting that you never consulted me personally: You should have done so before putting the matter to the others. However, I see your point and am very grateful that consideration for our monastery should come first with you. There is a proverb in Tibet which says, ‘Two beggars need not dispute about how to run a king’s affairs.’ The decision rests with me, but I am ready for anything. If you wish you can take the responsibility.”
In order to calm him down I tried to explain all this as serenely as possible, but I also said that we could not afford to delay a decision. I told Yak Tulku and Jigme Rinpoche of this conversation and asked them not to make any opposition, however anxious they were for my personal safety. On the third morning of the meeting the bursar was a little hesitant since I had laid the responsibility on to him. He merely said that he thought the righ
t thing for us would be to return to Surmang; however, he did not wish to take the final decision which must be mine alone. I then spoke, saying that I knew my first duty must be whatever would be best for our monastery and since all my monks were waiting for me there to direct affairs, there was no alternative but for me to come. Silence then fell upon the meeting, until my bursar exclaimed, “Is that all?”
We now began nine days of devotional meditation for the preparation of the vajra amrita.
In the meantime arrangements had to be made for our departure from Yak. The bursar seemed pleased that I had agreed to return to Surmang, but still showed that he did not wish to carry the whole responsibility. It will be remembered that when I was at Drölma Lhakhang I received many gifts and that he had bartered these for flocks and herds without my permission. He now wished to take these animals with us, which meant that we would require at least twenty men to load and unload the animals besides the herdsmen, and we would have to camp on the way. The monks, after having so looked forward to this return, now began to be a little anxious for our safety, for we had just heard that Andrup Gönpo Tashi’s army during their passage from Lhasa had been successful in attacking many Communist camps, and that they had reached Pashö, where they had broken into the town’s arsenal. They had raised fresh forces and appeared to be going in the direction of Chamdo. This meant that there was already fighting on the route to Surmang. The bursar now suggested that we should leave the animals behind, and ourselves split into small groups wearing lay dress. I agreed, saying, “We must not force the issue, if there is no alternative, this is our karma.”
