CHAPTER ONE
STRANGE shadows rippled before my uncaring gaze,
undulating across my vision like colorful phantoms from
some remote, pleasant world. The sun-dappled water lay
tranquil inches from my face.
Gently I inserted my arm below the surface, watching
the lazy little waves which the motion caused. Squint-
eyed I peered into the depths below. Yes, that big old
stone, that is where he lived—and he was coming out
to greet me! Idly I let my fingers trail along the sides
of the now-motionless fish; motionless save for the
easy movement of the fins as he ‘kept station’ by my
fingers.
He and I were old friends, often I would come and drop
food into the water for him before caressing his body. We
had the complete understanding which comes only to those
who have no fear of each other. At that time I did not even
know that fish were edible! Buddhists do not take life or
inflict suffering on others.
I took a deep breath and pushed my face below the sur-
face, anxious to peer more closely into another world. Here
I felt like a god gazing down at a very different form of life.
Tall fronds waved faintly in some unseen current, sturdy
water-growths stood erect like the giant trees of some
forest. A sandy streak meandered along like a mindless
serpent, and was fringed with a pale-green plant looking
for all the world like a well-kept lawn.
Tiny little fish, multi-colored and with big heads,
flashed and darted among the plants in their continual
search for food and fun. A huge water-snail laboriously
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lowered itself down the side of a great gray rock so that it
could do its task of cleaning the sand.
But my lungs were bursting; the hot noonday sun was
scorching the back of my neck, and the rough stones of the
foreshore were digging into my flesh. With a last look
round, I rose to my knees and thankfully breathed deep
of the scented air. Here, in MY world, things were very
different from the placid world which I had been studying.
Here there was bustle, turmoil, and much scurrying about.
Staggering a little from a healing wound in my left leg, I
stood and rested with my back against a favorite old tree
and looked about me.
The Norbu Linga was a blaze of color, the vivid green
of the willows, the scarlet and gold of the Island Temple,
and the deep, deep blue of the sky emphasized by the pure
white of the fleecy clouds which came racing over the
mountains from India. The calm waters of the lake re-
flected and exaggerated the colors and lent an air of un-
reality when a vagrant breeze roiled the water and caused
the picture to sway and blur. All here was peaceful, quiet,
yet just beyond the wall, as I could see, conditions were
very different.
Russet-robed monks strode about carrying piles of
clothes to be washed. Others squatted by the side of the
sparkling stream and twisted and turned the clothes so that
they should be well soaked. Shaven heads gleamed in the
sunlight and, as the day progressed, gradually became
sun-reddened. Small acolytes, newly joined to the lama-
sery, leaped about in a frenzy of excitement as they
pounded their robes with big smooth stones that they
should look older, more worn, and so give the impression
that the wearer had been an acolyte longer!
Occasionally the sun would reflect bright shafts of light
from the golden robes of some august lama journeying
between the Potala and the Pargo Kaling. Most of them
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were men of staid appearance, men who had grown old in
Temple service. Others, a very few, were young men in-
deed, some of them being Recognized Incarnations, while
others had progressed and advanced on their own merit.
Striding about, looking very alert and fierce, were the
Proctors, large men from the Province of Kham, men
charged with the task of maintaining discipline. Erect and
bulky, they carried huge staves as a sign of their office. No
intellectuals, these, but men of brawn and integrity, and
chosen for that alone. One came close and glowered in-
quiringly at me. Belatedly recognizing me he strode off in
search for offenders worthy of his attention.
Behind me the towering bulk of the Potala—“the Home
of the God”— skywards, one of the more glorious
works of Man. The multi-hued rock glowed gently and
sent vari-hued reflections skittering across the placid
waters. By a trick of the shifting light, the carved and
colored figures at the base seemed imbued with life,
causing them to sway and move like a group of people in
animated discussion. Great shafts of yellow light, reflected
from the Golden Tombs on the Potala roof, sped off and
formed vivid splashes on the darker mountain recesses.
A sudden “thunk” and the creak of bending wood caused
me to turn to this new source of attraction. An ancient bird,
gray and molting, older than the oldest acolyte, had
alighted on the tree behind me. Eyeing me with remark-
ably beady eyes, it said “cruaak!” and suddenly shuffled so
that its back was towards me. It stretched to full length
and violently flapped its wings while expelling an unwanted
“gift” in my direction with astonishing force and precision.
Only by a desperate jump aside did I escape being a target.
The bird shuffled round to face me again and said “cruaak!
cruaak!” before dismissing me from its attention in favor
of the greater interest elsewhere.
On the gentle breeze came the first faint sounds of an
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approaching group of traders from India. The lowing of
yaks as they protested at their drovers' attempts to hurry
them. The asthmatic creak and wheeze of old, dry leather
harness, the plod and shuffle of many feet and the musical
tinkle of small pebbles being jostled aside by the caravan.
Soon I could see the lumbering beasts, piled high with
exotic bundles. Great horns tossing above shaggy eye-
brows, the rise and fall as the huge animals stumped along
with their slow, untiring gait. The traders, some with tur-
bans, some with old fur hats, others with battered felt
headgear.
“Alms, alms for the love of God,” cried the beggars. “Ah!”
they shouted as the traders moved on unfeelingly, “Your
mother is a cow who mated with a boar, your seed is the
seed of Sheitan, your sisters are sold in the market-place!”
Strange odors came to twitch at my nostrils, making me
draw in a deep breath—and then sneeze heartily. Scents
from the heart of India, bricks of tea from China, ancient
dust being shaken from the yak-borne bales, all were
wafted my way. Into the distance faded the sound of the
yak bells, the loud talk of the traders, and the imprecations
of the beggars. Soon the ladies of Lhasa would have
wealthy callers at their doors. Soon the shopkeepers would
be haggling over prices demanded by the traders; raised
eyebrows and higher-raised voices at the inexplicably in-
creased prices. Soon I would have to be going back to the
Potala.
My attention wandered. Idly I watched the monks at
their ablutions, two of them ready to come to blows at the
threat of thrown water from one. Rapidly the Proctors
moved in, a flurry of motion, and two chastened monks
were marched off, each in the iron grip of “Guardians of
the Peace.”
But what was that? I let my gaze search the bushes.
Two tiny glittering eyes looked anxiously at me from near-
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ground level. Two small gray ears were inclined intently
in my direction. A minute body was crouched ready to
rush should I make a false move. A little gray mouse was
pondering on the possibility of passing between me and the
lake on its way home. As I looked, he darted forward, all
the time keeping his gaze on me. His care was misplaced;
not looking where he was going, he charged headlong into
a fallen branch and-with a shrill squeak of terror-leaped
a foot in the air. He jumped badly, jumped too far to the
side. As he came down he missed his footing and fell into
the lake. The poor mite was making no headway, and was
in danger of being seized by a fish, when I stepped knee-
deep into the water and scooped him up.
Carefully drying him with the end of my robe, I waded
back to the shore and placed the shivering little bundle on
the ground. Just a faint blur—and he vanished down the
little burrow, no doubt thankful for his escape. Above me
the ancient bird uttered a “cruaak!” of derision, and creaked
laboriously into the air, flapping noisily in the direction of
Lhasa.
In the direction of Lhasa? That reminded me, I should
be going in the direction of the Potala! Over the Norbu
Linga wall monks were stooping, examining the washing
drying upon the ground. Everything had to be carefully
scrutinized before it could be picked up; Little Brother
Beetle may be strolling across the clothing, and to roll up
the garments would be to crush Little Brother—an act to
make a Buddhist priest shudder and turn pale.
Perhaps a little worm had taken shelter from the sun
beneath a high lama's laundry, then Little Worm must be
removed to safety so that his destiny may not be altered by
Man. All over the ground monks were stooping, peering,
and gasping with relief as one little creature after another
was safely delivered from certain death.
Gradually the piles of washing grew as everything was
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heaped ready to be taken into the Potala. Small acolytes
staggered along under newly-washed burdens; some could
not see over that which they were carrying. Then would
come a sudden exclamation as a little fellow tripped and
sent all the clothes flying to the dusty ground or even to
the mud of the river bank.
From high on the roof came the throb and boom of the
conches and the blare of the great trumpets. Sounds which
echoed and re-echoed from the distant mountains so that
at times, when conditions were right, vibrations pulsed
about one and beat at one's chest for minutes. Then
suddenly, all would be still, quiet, so quiet that one could
hear one's own heartbeat.
I left the shade of the friendly tree and made my halting
way through a gap in the hedge. My legs were shaky; some
time previously I had sustained a grave burn to my left leg
—it did not heal well—and then had two legs broken when
a great gust of wind had lifted me from the Potala roof and
thrown me down the mountainside. So I limped, and for a
short time was exempt from doing my share of household
duties. My joy at that was offset by having to study more
“that the debt may be set straight” as I was informed.
Today—washday—I had been free to wander and rest in
the Norbu Linga.
Not for me a return by way of the main entrance, with
all the high lamas and abbots treading on one's heels. Not
for me the hard hard steps where I used to count “ninety-
eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one hundred and one.”
I stood by the side of the road while lamas, monks, and
pilgrims passed by. Then there was a lull and I limped
across the road and ducked into the bushes. Pulling myself
along the precipitous mountainside, I made my ascending
way above the Village of Sho and joined the side path be-
tween the Courts of Justice and the Potala.
The way was rugged, but beautiful with its profusion of
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small rock plants. The air was cooling, and my battered
legs were beginning to ache intolerably. I gathered my
tattered old robe about me and sat upon a convenient rock
so that I might regain my strength and my wind. Over in
the direction of Lhasa I could see little sparkling fires—the
traders were camping in the open, as Indians often did,
rather than stay at one of the hostelries. Farther to the right
I could see the shining river as it left on its immense jour-
ney all the way to the Bay of Bengal.
“Ur-rorr, ur-rorr” said a deep bass voice, and a hard
furry head butted me in the knees. “Ur-rorr, ur-rorr!” I
answered amiably. A blur of movement and a big black
cat stood on my legs and pushed his face into mine.
“Honorable Puss Puss!” I said through thick fur. “You
are choking me with your attentions.” Gently I put my
hands on his shoulders and moved him back a little so
that I could look at him. Big blue eyes, slightly crossed,
stared back at me. His teeth were as white as the clouds
above and his widespread ears were alert to the slightest
sound.
Honorable Puss Puss was an old and valued friend.
Often we snuggled together beneath some sheltering bush
and talked to each other of our fears, our disappointments,
and all the hardships of our hard, hard life. Now he was
showing his affection by “knitting” on me, opening and
closing his big paws, while his purrs roared louder and
louder. For a time we sat together, and then, together, we
decided it was time to move.
As I toiled ever upwards, stumbling from the pain in
my damaged legs, Honorable Puss Puss raced ahead, tail
stiffly erect. He would dive into some undergrowth and
then, as I drew level, would spring out and cling playfully
to my flapping robe. “Now! Now!” I exclaimed on one such
occasion, “this is no way for the leader of the Cat Jewel
Guard to behave.” In reply, he laid his ears back and
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rushed up the front of my robe and, reaching my shoulder,
jumped sideways into a bush.
It amused me to see our cats. We used them as guards,
for a properly trained “Siamese” cat is fiercer than any dog.
They would rest, apparently asleep, by the side of the
Sacred Objects. If pilgrims attempted to touch or steal,
then these cats—always in pairs—would seize him and hold
him by menacing his throat. They were FIERCE, yet I could
do anything with them and, being telepathic, we could
converse without difficulty.
I reached the side entrance. Honorable Puss Puss was
already there, energetically tearing great splinters off a
wooden post by the side of the door. As I lifted the latch
he pushed the door open with his strong head and
vanished into the smoky gloom. I followed much more
slowly.
This was my temporary home. My leg injuries were
such that I had been sent from Chakpori to the Potala.
Now, as I entered the corridor, the familiar odors smelt
“home.” The ever-present aroma of incense, the different
perfumes according to the time and purpose for which it
was being burned. The sour, rancid, and “stinging” smell
from the yak-butter which we used in our lamps, for heat-
ing small articles such as kettles, and which we used for
sculpture during the colder days. The “memory lingered
on.” No matter how hard we scrubbed (and we did not
scrub too hard!) the scent was always there, permeating
everything. A less pleasant smell was that of yak dung
which, dried, was used for heating the rooms of the aged
and infirm. But now I stumbled on, moving down the cor-
ridor past the flickering butter lamps which made the
gloomy corridors gloomier still.
Another “perfume” was always present in all lamaseries,
a “perfume” so familiar that one did not notice it unless
hunger had sharpened one's perceptions. Tsampa! The
8 smell of roasted barley; the smell of Chinese brick tea, the
smell of hot butter. Mix them and the result is the inevit-
able, the eternal, tasampa. Some Tibetans have never tasted
any other food than tsampa; they are born to the taste of it,
and it is the last food they taste. It is food, drink, and con-
solation. It provides sustenance during the hardest manual
labor, it provides food for the brain. But, it has ever been
my belief, it starves sexual interest and so Tibet has no
difficulty in being a celibate state, a land of monks, and
with a falling birth-rate.
Hunger had sharpened MY perceptions, and so I was
able to appreciate the aroma of roasted barley, hot butter,
and Chinese brick tea! I walked wearily down the corridor
and turned left when the scent was strongest. Here, at the
great copper cauldrons, monk-cooks were ladling roasted
and ground barley into bubbling tea. One hacked off
several pounds of yak butter and tossed it in, another up-
ended a leather sack of salt which had been brought by
tribesmen from the Highland Lakes. A fourth monk, with
a ten-foot paddle, was stirring and swirling everything
together. The cauldron bubbled and foamed and bits of
twigs from the brick tea rose to the surface, to be swept
off by the monk with the paddle.
The burning yak dung beneath the cauldron gave off an
acrid stench and clouds and clouds of black soot. The
whole place was coated, and the black, sweat-streaked faces
of the monk-cooks could have been those of entities from
some deep Hell. Often the monk with the paddle would
scrape floating butter from the cauldron and toss it on the
fire. There would be a sizzle, a flare of flame, and a new
stink!
“Ah, Lobsang!” yelled a monk above the clatter and
clamor. “Come for food again, eh? Help yourself, boy,
help yourself!” I took ...
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