As Dr. Lobsang Rampa lay, desperately ill, in a Canadian
hospital, he looked up with pleasure to see his old friend and
mentor, the Lama Mingyar Dondup, standing by his bedside.
But it was with some dismay that he listened to the message
that the Golden Figure had brought.
Lobsang Rampa’s work on this plane was not, as he thought,
completed; he had to write another book, his eleventh, for there
was still more of the mystic truth to be revealed to the world.
Here then is that eleventh book. Feeding the Flame is mainly
concerned with answering some of the any questions which
Dr. Rampa’s readers have put to him over the years. It covers
such subjects as Life after Death, Suicide, Meditation and Quija
Boards, and includes many invaluable observations on the modern
world. Dr. Rampa’s many admirers will be delighted that, despite
the pain and suffering of his illness, he has been spared to write
this fascinating and inspiring book.
FEEDING THE FLAME
It saves a lot of letters if I tell you why
I have a certain title; it is said, ‘It is
better to light a candle than to curse
the darkness.’
In my first ten books I have tried to
light a candle, or possibly two. In this,
the eleventh book, I am trying to Feed
the Flame.
RACE OF TAN
Copper is this man,
A man of daytime white,
Yellow is that man,
And one of dark night. . .
The four main colours,
All known as Man,
Tomorrow's unity will come
Forming the Race of Tan.
Poem by W. A. de Munnik of
Edmonton, Alberta.
CHAPTER ONE
The more you know the more
you have to learn.
The letter was short, sharp, and very much to the point.
‘Sir,’ it said, ‘why do you waste so much paper in your books ;
who likes to read these pretty-pretty descriptions of Tibet?
Tell us instead how to win the Irish Sweepstake’. The second
one followed the theme very well. ‘Dear Dr. Rampa’ wrote
this brash young person, ‘Why do you waste so much time
writing about the NEXT life? Why not tell us how to make
money in this one? I want to know how to make money now.
I want to know how to make girls do what I want now.
Never mind the next life, I'm still trying to live this one.’
The Old Man put down the letter and sat back shaking
his head sadly. ‘I can write only in my own way,’ he said, ‘I
am writing TRUTH, not fiction, so . . .’
Fog lay heavy on the river. Trailing tendrils swirled and
billowed, redolent of sewage and garlic it swept yellow
feelers like a living creature seeking entry to any habitation.
From the invisible water came the urgent hoot of a tug,
followed by furious yells in the French-Canadian patois.
Overhead a dark red sun struggled to pierce the odorous
gloom. The Old Man sitting in his wheelchair peered dis-
gustedly around at the clammy building. Water dripped
mournfully from some moldering concrete wall. A vagrant
breeze added a new dimension to the world of smells con-
jured up by the fog - decaying fish-heads. ‘Pah!’ muttered
the Old Man, ‘What a crummy dump!’ With that profound
thought, he propelled his chair back into the apartment and
hastily closed the door.
9
The letter thumped through the letter-box. The Old Man
opened it and snorted. ‘No water tonight,’ he said, ‘no heat
either.’ Then, as an after-thought, ‘and it says that for some
hours there will be no electricity because some pipe or some-
thing has burst.’
‘Write another book’ said the People on the Other Side of
Life. So the Old Man and Family Old Man went off in
search of quiet. Quiet? Blaring radios, rumbling hi-fi's, and
yowling children shrieking through the place. Quiet?
Gaping sight-seers peering in through windows, banging on
doors, demanding answers to stupid questions.
A dump where quiet is not, a pad where nothing is done
without immense effort. A pipe leaks, one reports it. Much
later a plumber arrives to see it himself. He reports it to his
superior, the Building Superintendent. HE comes to see it
before reporting it to ‘the Office’. ‘The Office’ reports it to his
Superior. He gets on the telephone, a conference is held.
Much later a decision is reached. Back it comes from ‘Mon-
treal Office’ to the Superior who tells the Building Super-
intendent who tells the plumber who tells the tenant that
‘Next week, if we have time, we will do it’
‘A crummy dump’ is how one person described it. The
Old Man had no such delicate way of describing the place.
Actions speak louder than words; long before his tenancy
expired the Old Man and Family left, before they died in
such squalid surroundings. With joy they returned to the
City of Saint John and there, because of the strains and
stresses in Montreal, the Old Man's condition rapidly wor-
sened until, very late at night, there was an urgent call for an
ambulance, hospital . . .
The gentle snow came sliding down like thoughts falling
from the heavens. A light dusting of white gave the illusion
of frosting on a Christmas cake. Outside, the stained glass
window of the cathedral gleamed through the darkness and
shed vivid greens and reds and yellows on the falling snow.
Faintly came the sounds of the organ and the sonorous chant
of human voices. Louder, from right beneath the window,
10 came the music of a tomcat ardently singing of his Love.
The hiss of braking tires on the snow-clad road, the
metallic clang of car doors slamming and the shuffle of over-
shoe-clad feet. A fresh congregation filing in to the evening
service. Muttered greetings as old friends met, and passed.
The solitary tolling of a tenor bell exhorting the tardy to
hurry. Silence save for the muted buzz of distant traffic in
the city. Silence save for the amorous tomcat singing his
song, pausing for a reply, and commencing all over again.
Through a broken pane of the cathedral window, smashed
by a teen-age vandal, came a glimpse of the robed priest in
solemn procession, followed by swaying, jostling choir boys
singing and giggling at the same time. The sound of the
organ swelled and diminished. Soon came the drone of a
solitary voice intoning ancient prayers, the rumble of the
organ and again a glimpse of robed figures returning to the
vestry.
Soon there came the sound of many footsteps and the
slamming of car doors. The sharp bark as engines coughed
into life, the grating of gears and the whirring of wheels as
the cathedral traffic moved off for another night. In the
great building lights flicked off one by one until at last there
was only the pale moonlight shining down from a cloudless
sky. The snow had ceased, the congregation had gone, and
even the anxious tomcat had wandered off on the eternal
quest.
In the Hospital facing on to the cathedral, the night staff
were just coming on duty. At the Nurses' Station, just facing
the elevators, a lone Intern was giving last-minute instruc-
tions about the treatment of a very sick patient. Nurses were
checking their trays of drugs and pills. Sisters were writing
up their Reports, and a flustered Male Orderly was explain-
ing that he was late on duty through being stopped for
speeding by a policeman.
Gradually the Hospital settled down for the night. ‘No
Breakfast’ signs were fixed on the beds of patients due for
operations the next day. Main lights were extinguished and
11
white-clad attendants moved to a screened bed. Silently a
wheeled stretcher was moved behind the screens. Almost in-
audible grunts and muttered instructions, and a still figure
entirely covered by a sheet was pushed into sight. On whis-
pering wheels the burden was carefully moved into the cor-
ridor. Silent attendants stood while the summoned elevator
slid to a stop, then, as if controlled by a single thought, the
two men moved in unison to propel the laden wheeled stret-
cher into the elevator and so down to the basement mor-
tuary and the great refrigerator standing like an immense
filing cabinet, the repository of so many bodies.
The hours dragged by as each reluctant minute seemed
loathe to give up its brief tenure of life. Here a patient
breathed in stertorous gasps, there another tossed and
moaned in pain. From a side cubicle came the cracked voice
of an aged man calling incessantly for his wife. The faint
squeak of rubber soles on stone flooring, the rustle of
starched cloth, the clink of metal against glass, and the
moaning voice ceased and soon was replaced by snores rising
and falling on the night air.
Outside the urgent siren of a fire engine caused many a
sleepless patient to wonder briefly ‘where it was’ before laps-
ing again into introspection and fear for the future. Through
the slightly open window came the raucous sound of a late
reveller being heartily sick on the flagstones. A muttered
curse as someone shouted at him, and a string of Hail Mary's
as the alcohol fumes made him retch again.
The Angel of Death went about His merciful mission,
bringing ease to a tortured sufferer, ending at last the useless
struggle of one ravaged beyond hope by cancer. The ster-
torous gasps ceased, there was the quick, painless reflex
twitch as a soul left a body, and the attendants with their
whisper-wheeled stretcher moved forward again, and, later,
yet again. He, the last one was a man noted in politics. On
the morrow the yellow press would dig in their files and
come up with the usual inaccuracies and downright lies—as
ever.
12 In a room looking out over the cathedral close, and from
whence a sparkling glimpse could be obtained of the sea in
Courtenay Bay, the old Buddhist lay inert, awake, in pain.
Thinking, thinking of many things. A faint smile flickered
on his lips and was as quickly gone at the thought of an
incident early in the day. A nun had entered his room, a nun
more holy-looking than usual. She looked sadly at the old
Buddhist and a tear glistened in the corner of each eye.
Sadly she looked and turned away. ‘What is the matter,
Sister?’ queried the old Buddhist, ‘You look very sad.’
She shrugged her shoulders and exclaimed, ‘Oh! It is sad,
you will go straight to Hell!’ The old Buddhist felt his
mouth drop open in amazement. ‘Go straight to Hell?’ he
said, wonderingly: ‘Why’
‘Because you are a Buddhist, only Catholics go to Heaven.
Other Christians go to Purgatory, Buddhists and other
heathens go straight to Hell. Oh! Such a nice old man as you
going straight to Hell, it is so sad!’ Hastily she fled the room,
leaving an amazed old Buddhist behind to puzzle it out.
The Angel of Death moved on, moved into the room and
stood looking down at the old Buddhist. The Old Man
stared back. ‘Release at last, eh?’ he asked. ‘About time too. I
thought you would never come.’
Gently the Angel of Death raised His right hand and was
about to lay it on the head of the Old Man. Suddenly the
very air of the room crackled and a Golden Figure appeared
in the blue gloom of the midnight shadows. The Angel
stayed his hand at a gesture from the Visitor. ‘No, no, the
time is not yet!’ exclaimed a well-loved voice. ‘There is more
to be done before you come Home.’
The Old Man sighed. Even the sight of the Lama Min-
gyar Dondup could not console him for a further pro-
longation of his stay upon Earth, an Earth which had
treated him so badly through hatred fostered and en-
couraged by the perverted press. The Lama Mingyar
Dondup turned to the Old Man and explained, ‘There is yet
another book to be written, more knowledge to be passed on.
13
And a little task connected with auras and photography:
Just a little longer’
The Old Man groaned aloud. So much always to do, so
few to do it, such a chronic shortage of money—and how
could one purchase equipment without money?
The Lama Mingyar Dondup stood beside the hospital
bed. He and the Angel of Death looked at each other and
much telepathic information was passed. The Angel nodded
his head and slowly withdrew and passed on to continue
elsewhere the work of mercy, terminating suffering, setting
free immortal souls imprisoned in the clay of the flesh body.
For a moment in that small hospital room there was no
sound. Outside there were the usual night noises, a stray dog
prowling about the garbage bins, an ambulance drawing in
to the Emergency Entrance of the hospital.
‘Lobsang,’ the Lama Mingyar Dondup looked down at
the Old Man lying there in pain upon the hospital bed.
‘Lobsang,’ he said again, ‘in your next book we want you to
make it very clear that when you leave this Earth you will
not be communicating with back street Mediums, nor guid-
ing those who advertise in the cult magazines.’
‘Whatever do you mean, Honorable Guide?’ said the
Old Man. ‘I am not cooperating with any Mediums or cult
magazines. I never read the things myself.’
‘No, Lobsang, we know you do not, that is why I am
telling you this. If you had been reading those magazines we
should not have had to tell you, but there are certain un-
scrupulous people who advertise consultative services, etc.,
and pretend that they are in touch with those who have
passed over. They are pretending that they are getting
advice and healing and all that from beyond this Earth
which, of course, is utterly ridiculous. We want to make it
very clear that you are not in any way encouraging that
trickery or quackery.’
The Old Man sighed with some considerable ex-
aspiration and replied, ‘No, I never read any of those
14
magazines, neither English nor American. I consider they do
more harm than good. They accept misleading advertising,
and much of it is dangerous, and they have such personal
bias and such personal dislike of anyone not in their own
little clique that they actually harm what they pretend they
are helping. So I will do as you say, I will make clear that
when I leave this Earth I shall not return.’
Reader, Oh, you most discerning of people, may I have
your attention for a moment? In fulfillment of my promise I
want to say this: I, Tuesday Lobsang Rampa, do hereby
solemnly and irrevocably state that I shall not return to this
Earth and act as a consultant for anyone who claims that I
am so acting, nor shall I appear at any mediumistic group. I
have other work to do, I shall not have time to play about
with these things which I personally dislike. So, Reader, if
you see any advertisement at any time which purports to
imply that such-and-such a person is in spiritual contact
with Lobsang Rampa, call the Police, call the Post Office
authorities and have the person arrested for fraud, for trying
to use the mails, etc., for fraudulent purposes. I, when I have
finished with this Earth in this life, am moving on a long,
long way. So there it is, I have delivered that special mes-
sage.
Back in the green-tinted hospital room with a window
looking out over the cathedral and with its glimpse of the
waters in Courtenay Bay, the Lama Mingyar Dondup was
stating what was required.
‘This, your eleventh book,’ said the Lama, ‘should give
answers to many of the questions you have received, ques-
tions which are just and reasonable. You have lit the flame
of knowledge, and now in this book you need to feed the
flame that it may get a hold on peoples' minds and spread.’
He looked grave and quite a bit sorrowful as he went on, ‘I
know you suffer greatly. I know that you will be discharged
15
from this hospital as incurable, as inoperable, and with little
time to live, but you still have time to do one or two tasks
which have been neglected by others’
The Old Man listened carefully, thinking how unfair it
was that some people should have all the health and all the
money, they could do anything and get on with their own
tasks in the easiest conditions possible, ...
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