by Ruskin Bond
The river expands much as it approaches the village of Pampur, which lies ten leagues from the city of Kashmir. All the saffron of Kashmir is the product of this village, and perhaps there is no other place in the world where saffron is produced so abundantly. I visited this place once with my father in the season in which the plant blossoms. In all other trees we see, they first get the branches, then the leaves, and last of all the flower. But it is quite otherwise with this plant, for it blossoms when it is only about two inches above the ground. Its flower is of a bluish color, having four leaves and four threads of orange color, like those of safflower, equal in length to one joint of the finger. The fields of saffron are sometimes half a league or a league in length and they look very beautiful at a distance. In the season when it is collected, the saffron has such a strong smell that people get headaches from it, and even though I had taken a glass of wine, yet I myself was affected by it. I asked the Kashmiris who were employed in collecting it whether it had any effect upon them, and was surprised by their reply that “they did not even know what headache was.”
…On Tuesday, the fourteenth, I marched four leagues and three-quarters to Tillah, which means “a hill” in the Gakkar language. From that place I proceeded to the village of Bhakra, which in the language of the same people is the name of a shrub with odorless white flowers. From Tillah to Bhakra I marched the whole way through the bed of the Kahan, in which water was then flowing, while the oleander bushes were in full bloom and of exquisite color, like peach blossoms. These shrubs grew in special abundance at the sides of this stream, so I ordered my personal attendants, both horse and foot, to bind bunches of the flowers in their turbans and directed that the turbans of those who would not decorate themselves in this fashion should be taken off their heads. I thus got up a beautiful garden.
On Thursday, the sixth, the campground was Hatya, so called from its founder, a Gakkar named Hati. On this march a great many dhak trees were found in blossom. This shrub has no fragrance in its flowers, which are of a fiery orange color and the size of a red rose, or even bigger. It was such a sight that it was impossible to take one’s eyes off it. As the air was very charming, and as there was a slight shower in consequence of a veil of clouds which obscured the light of the sun, I indulged myself in drinking wine. In short, I enjoyed myself amazingly on this march.
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SLIPPING INTO TIBET*3
Sarat Chandra Das
November 23.—Our way led along an extensive moraine, the huge reddish boulders of which were covered with creeping tamarisks and dwarf junipers. After about a mile we reached Manda-phug, a hollow between two gigantic boulders, the one inclined toward the other; and here we took our breakfast of rice and buttered tea. The vegetation improved as we neared Manda-la, and the sight of thick forest growth in the deep glens refreshed our eyes, so long tired with looking on barren rocks. From Tama-la, where we saw some shepherds tending their flocks and some yaks, one descends the Yamatari valley, the top of the slope being held sacred to the dreaded Mamo goddesses; on the rhododendron bushes were white and red flags offered to them by wayfarers. From this point I obtained a good view of the Kangpa-chan valley.
Finding that I was greatly exhausted, Dao Namgyal, Phurchung’s brother-in-law, took me on his back and carried me till we reached the northwest flank of the Tama-la. Soon after this we came to a flat, grass-covered valley with tall rhododendrons and ferns growing about. Phurchung held this spot to have been a singularly lucky one for him, for it was here that his parents had met [Joseph Dalton] Hooker some thirty-five years ago, while the great botanist was exploring Nepal. Phurchung’s father, suffering from snow-blindness, was led by his wife to the Doctor, who not only gave him excellent medicine, but presented her with a pretty coin to hang about the neck of her child, Phurchung, then a baby in the arms.
At about 2:00 p.m. we reached the Yamata-ri, formed by the streams which issue from Kanchanjinga. The gorge in which this river flows is singularly beautiful. Above the steep crags on either side were blue glaciers, and at their feet forests of native firs and larches, covered with pendant mosses waving like feathers in the breeze. Just before reaching Kangpa-chan (Gyunsar) village, the Yamata-ri river is crossed by a little bridge, and then the village with its wooden huts comes in view. Some of the houses were empty; a few old hags with goiter sat on their thresholds basking in the sun and spinning.
Phurchung had reached this, his native village, ahead of us, and he now came, much the worse for drink, to greet us, and led us into his mother’s house, where a fire of rhododendron boughs and aromatic firs blazed in the middle of the room. Chang was ready in wooden bottles, and his mother poured some boiling water into them as soon as we were seated on the cushions placed for us. Some dry junipers and pines were burnt as incense, and two joss sticks smoked before us. Then two brass plates full of boiled, red-skinned potatoes were offered us, followed by rice and boiled mutton, the rice being served wrapped up in the broad leaves of some kind of hill plant. When night came on we sat around the fire, each with a bottle of murwa before him; but drowsiness soon overtook me, and I fell asleep.
November 24.—The village of Kangpa-chan is built on several terraces facing the southwest, the houses enclosed in low stone walls. Several small streams empty into the Kangchan below the village, and mountains covered with snow and ice rise precipitously on either side of it, their lower slopes clad with thick forest growth of moss-covered silver firs, deodars, and larches. Juniper and rhododendron bushes surround the village. Round about it are patches of barley, from one to the other of which flew flocks of wild pigeons.
Coming back from a stroll, I found two men waiting to invite me to drink chang at their houses; and having accepted their invitation, I went first to that of a man called Jorgya. Taking my seat on a thick mattress-like seat covered with a piece of Khamba carpet, a bamboo bottle filled with murwa, with a little piece of butter placed on top of it, was set before us. Tea was first drunk, the housewife serving mine in a china cup, a form of Tibetan politeness shown only to persons of superior social standing, those of equal or inferior rank to the host using the wooden bowls each one carries about in the breast of his gown. After this, a brass plate filled with potatoes was placed before us on a little table, together with parched Indian corn, milk, and butter, all of which we ate heartily.
Our host advised me not to attempt to go by Wallung, as I would be sure to meet with much difficulty, but rather to enter Tibet by Yangma and the Kangla-chen pass, which was still possible, he said, even at this advanced season of the year.
I next went to the house of Pemazang, Phurchung’s uncle, which I found well plastered and with a tastefully painted chapel. His son and wife received me at the head of the ladder and led me into the house; Pemazang had long, thick, and tangled hair. He wore gold earrings in the shape of magnolia flowers, and his looks and talk were grave and serious. He often sits in deep meditation for the purpose of arresting hail or other storms by the potency of the charms he is able to pronounce.
Leaving Pemazang, we crossed the river and paid a visit to the Tashichos ding monastery, which we found nearly deserted, one or two old women here and there turning the prayer wheels outside the temple. Ascending two flights of ladder stairs, we entered the lama’s house. He and his ani received us most kindly, and the latter asked me for some medicines for the old gentleman, who was suffering with dyspepsia.
Returning to our lodgings, we found that the lock of the bag in which I kept my money had been tampered with, but I did not open it, as six other persons were living in the room we occupied, and I feared lest they might see the contents. Whatever the loss might be, I made up my mind to bear it silently, and keep my suspicions to myself.
November 25.—Phurchung’s brother, Dao Namgyal, brought me a quantity of presents—potatoes, murwa, millet, butter, and last, but not least, a kid, for which I gave him a return present of five rupees. The poor people of the village all
followed with various presents—not that they had any great respect for me, but solely with an eye to return presents, which they hoped would be greater than the value of theirs. Fortunately there were but few people in the village, otherwise they would have drained me of all my cash.
By noon Phurchung had sufficiently slept off his drunkenness to procure for me several pairs of kyar, or snowshoes, from the people of the village. I had learnt from a newly engaged coolie that he had lately crossed the Kangla pass on kyar, and had reached Jongri, where he had met Captain Harman, who had been much struck by the great usefulness of this rude contrivance.
In the evening the men killed two kids; the blood was poured into the intestines, which had been washed and cleaned, barley flour (tsamba) being mixed with it. These blood puddings were boiled and packed away with the tripe in a small wicker basket for my use on the journey…
November 26.—We left Kangpa-chan, our party now comprising four coolies. Phurchung marched along with my gun as a sign of his importance, but its red cloth cover, its principal beauty, had been stolen the night before; his younger brother, Sonam-dorj, carried his pack. Ugyen gyatso and I rode ponies, hired for eight annas each, to take us halfway up the Nango-la. The old women of the village waited our approach at the east end of the bridge to give us the stirrup cup (a custom invariably observed in Tibet at the parting of friends setting out on a long journey), with bowls of wine in their right hand, and plates full of parched barley flour in their left. Each of the old women poured a little wine into a china cup, to which a pinch of flour was added, and we were asked to take a sip, with the wish of “May we offer you the like on your return.” We thanked them for their kindness, and put a couple of rupees in one of their plates, to be divided amongst them.
We rode slowly on by the bounding river, into which a number of little rills empty, flowing down from behind the monastery, and over which were several prayer wheels turned by the water. Our way lay amidst thick woods up to Daba ngonpo, where the natives used to get blue clay to make images. This clay they held to be exceptionally good, as it came from the summit of a holy mountain. From this point we followed up the bed of a former glacier, passing Kamai phugpa, and reaching, at Khama kang tung, the timber line. A mile beyond the latter place we came to the end of the pasture-lands on this side of the Nango-la, not far from which we saw a flock of spotted birds, called sregpa, which Ugyen tried, without success, to shoot.
The ascent of the Nango-la now began over deep snow, in some places its surface frozen, in others so soft that we sunk knee-deep in it. I soon became so exhausted that I had to get one of the coolies to carry me on his back, and so we reached the summit of the pass.
Two miles to the west of the pass is Sayong-kong, a plateau whence there is a direct road leading to Yangma. A mile below this place is Sayong-hok, where vegetation begins again, and gradually increases as one advances along the Lungkyong-chu. We camped on the river bank under a great boulder, spreading our rugs on beds of long dry grass, which covered, but very imperfectly, the rough, stony soil.
November 27.—We followed down the Lungkyong-chu (the only way of communication between Kangpa-chan, Yangma, and Wallung), the mountains on our left nearly hidden in the morning mists. For part of the way our road led along a steep path through thick woods of firs, feathery larches, and deodars, amidst which I saw many pheasants and other kinds of birds, and the coolies told me that musk deer and wild sheep were also found there.
About two miles above the junction of the Yangma with the Lungkyong, we crossed the former stream by a wooden bridge, and finally arrived at the village of Tingugma, where we rested a while and ate a light meal.
Shortly after starting again we met a party of Yangma natives driving before them a few sheep and a dozen yaks laden with blankets, yak hides, barley, and salt. They were going to a village called Chaini, in the Tambur valley, to exchange their goods for rice and Indian corn. Phurchung asked them if the Kangla-chen pass was still open. Some said we could easily cross it; others expressed doubts about it, for they said three feet of snow had fallen on it a few days previously.
Passing by Maya-phug (a cavern sacred to the goddess Mamo), we crossed a little juniper-covered plateau called Shugpa-thang (“Juniper plain”), and after a short but steep climb reached the summit of the pass, from whence I had a most extended and beautiful view of the surrounding country—behind me great reddish granite rocks, looking like the ruins of gigantic ramparts; before me a plain some two miles long, the bed of a former glacier, encircled by snowy mountains rising the one above the other; while to the southeast was the Nango-la, and behind it the plain of Sumdongma. Crossing the Djari-thang, or “Plain of Gravel,” and the Do-la, or “Rocky pass” (round the base of which the Yangma flows), I reached by dusk the monastery of Yangma, or Manding gomba, situated on a broad, shrub-covered terrace some forty to fifty feet above the stream, where Phurchung found me lodgings in a wretched cell, where I settled myself as best I could for the night. He obtained a few eggs and some milk from the lamas; and while one of the nuns (ani) helped Dao Namgyal to cook the food, another blew the bellows. The lamas were engaged in their annual reading of the Kahgyur, which occupied them daily from in the morning to 7:30 p.m., when they retired to their respective cells. There were fifteen monks and seven ani in the lamasery.
Ugyen had been suffering most of the day with violent pains in the bowel; he now wrapped himself in all the blankets I could spare, and lay groaning and crying, “Achi-che apa-ouh!” so that I felt grave apprehensions for him, and feared that his illness might oblige us to stop over in this wretched place.
November 28.—Phurchung had been away on a drunken bout all night, and I arose full of fear lest he might have disclosed our plans to his companions, and Ugyen shared my alarm. After a while Phurchung and Phuntso appeared, and with much salaaming and lolling of the tongue asked me to wait here a day, the latter assuring me that he hoped to obtain, without much difficulty or the payment of custom duty (called chua in this part of Nepal), permission for us to proceed on our journey. Shortly after the elders arrived, the richest man among them recognizable by his tamaski hat, a long earring, and a deep red serge robe of purug. He had come from the village of Yangma riding a half-breed yak (jo), which, with the saddle still on its back, stood tied at the gate of the monastery. I anxiously awaited the result of their conference with my men, and in great anxiety prayed to the Supreme Dispenser of our destinies that nothing might happen unfavorable to ourselves and our enterprise.
The Manding gomba, or Nub Man-ding gomba, “The Western Flying-Medicine Monastery,” owes its name to the fact that lama Lha-tsun once lived for three years in a cave close by called the Zim-phug, to discover medicines of wonderful potency, and that he there obtained three wonderful pills. One came to him through the air, falling on the spot where the lamasery now stands. The second pill fell a little above the monastery, where the people of the village now burn their dead; and the third alighted on the spot where the great chorten now stands.
Manding gomba is held in great sanctity, for it is one of the first cis-Himalayan lamaseries founded by the great red-hat Lama Lha-tsun; but Wallung ranks first, and Kangpa-chan second, in point of wealth and power. Manding possesses a fine copy of the Kahgyur in 125 volumes.
The Lhakhang, or temple, has massive and neatly painted walls and doors, after the manner of the Sikkim donpa. The huts or cells of the monks in its immediate vicinity, all painted red with clay obtained from the adjacent mountains, are of irregular and ugly style, the doors, windows, and cornices being roughly made; each house has around it a low stone wall, inside of which the sheep and yak find shelter.
After a little while Phurchung and Phuntso came back to me in high spirits over the result of their conference with the village elders. They had told them that I was only a pilgrim who spoke Tibetan and dressed in Tibetan fashion. The head lama said that he knew of no order from the Nepalese government for stopping pil
grims on their way to Tibet, and that he would certainly not prevent me from doing so, as I spoke Tibetan with greater fluency and accuracy than many Nepalese. The headman asked that Phurchung should give bond, holding himself personally responsible for my character as a traveler, and a custom duty of eight annas a head was levied on our party. Phurchung also told me that the headman and head lama were coming to bid me farewell, and that I must not forget, after exchanging compliments with them, to say “sangpoi ja chog,” “May we meet again next year.”
In a little while the big men arrived. The headman, conspicuous by his earring, boots, and red serge robe, nodded to me slightly, and took off his hat. He asked me why I had chosen such a bad season for going to Tibet. I told him that I did so in obedience to the command of our holy and learned chief lama, and not by my own wish. His object in coming to see me was to find out if I spoke Tibetan and understood the Buddhist religion. My fluency in Tibetan, and the citing of one or two proverbial sayings in course of conversation, made him form a high opinion of my knowledge of the sacred texts and histories, as well as of my character and holiness. “Laso, laso” (yes, yes), he said, and then he apologized for not having brought me some presents; but I answered him that our acquaintance was only just begun, and there would be time in the future to cultivate it, and, handing him a scarf (khatag), I expressed the hope that we might meet the next year (sangpoi ja chog). Many of the bystanders made wishes for our welfare, but someone in the crowd said that I was certainly not a Tibetan. Then another swore I was an Indian; and a third said that they would soon have news of me: “That Hindu will surely die in the snows, and his servants will soon return here with the news of his death.”