Ford went off with a large caravan to Chamdo, and one could soon talk with him on the wireless telephone. It appears that radio amateurs all over the world competed for the privilege of talking to the lonely European in his remote outpost, and Ford and Fox received numerous letters and presents. Unfortunately, the notes that Ford made of these harmless conversations later proved his undoing. On his flight before the Chinese invaders, he was cut off and captured. The wildest charges were brought against him. He was accused among other things of poisoning a lama, and the entries in his notebooks were interpreted as espionage. As of 1953, this sympathetic and wholly innocent young man was still a prisoner in the hands of the Reds in spite of the efforts of the British ambassador in Peking to get him released.
I met one other white man in the course of my stay in Tibet—the American Bessac. Later on I shall relate what happened to him.
12
An Attempted Coup d’Etat
When my second Tibetan New Year in Lhasa came around, I attended all the ceremonies of the festival from the beginning. Tens of thousands of people flocked into the town, and Lhasa looked like a great encampment. This year they celebrated the beginning of the “Fire-Pig-Year.” The splendor of the ceremonies was no less than in the previous year, and I was, of course, particularly interested in the events I had missed the year before owing to my illness. The spectacle of which I have the liveliest recollection was the procession of a thousand soldiers in historic costumes. This custom commemorates an historical episode. Long ago a Muslim army marching on Lhasa was overtaken by heavy snowstorms at the foot of the Nyenchenthangla Mountains and completely snowed up. The bönpos of the region brought the arms and armor of the frozen soldiers in triumph to Lhasa. Now they are brought out every year and displayed by a thousand men. The old standards are carried by; one hears the clink of chain mail on men and horses; helmets bearing inscriptions in Urdu reflect the sunshine; the reports of the old muzzle loaders are heard in the narrow streets: altogether a rare pageant of medieval pomp in this old-fashioned city. The parade was staged so beautifully that it gave an impression of absolute reality rather than of an accurate historical revival. The troops led by two generals marched across the Parkhor to an open space on the edge of the city. Tens of thousands of people awaited them there in the warmth of an enormous fire where flames were fanned by countless offerings of butter and grain. The crowd looked on entranced, while monks threw death’s-heads and the symbolic effigies of evil spirits into the fire. Cannons buried in the ground fired salutes toward the different mountain peaks. The culminating moment was when the monk of the oracle staggered toward the fire and after a short, wild dance collapsed on the ground. That was the moment for the people to burst out of their frozen immobility into ecstatic cries and gestures.
In 1939, the members of the only German expedition that ever came to Tibet were present at this festival. They barely escaped with their lives, for they had the temerity to try to film the oracle and were at once stoned by the mob. They had to fly from the scene, climbing over garden walls and roofs. There was nothing political in the attitude of the mob nor any trace of hatred of foreigners. It was inspired by the fanatical religious loyalty of the people, which is always capable of producing such outbreaks. Later on, when I was shooting films for the Dalai Lama, I had to be very careful. There was almost always excited scenes, and I was very glad when I succeeded in taking a few shots on my own account.
At this New Year Festival the High Chamberlain informed us that we were on His Holiness’s reception list. Although we had seen the young God-King several times and had been honored by his smiling recognition during the processions, we were greatly excited by the prospect of appearing before him at the Potala Palace. I felt that this invitation must have great significance for us and, in fact, it turned out to be the starting point on the road that led me into intimacy with the young God-King.
On the appointed day we put on our fur coats, bought the most expensive scarves we could find in the town, and, in the midst of a gaily clad crowd of monks, nomads, and women in their festal garb, climbed up the long stepway to the Potala. As we climbed, the view over the city became more and more impressive. From here we looked down on to the gardens and the villalike houses. Our road led us past countless prayer wheels, which the passersby kept in movement. Then we passed through the great main gate into the interior of the palace.
Dark corridors, their walls decorated with paintings of strange protecting deities, led through the ground-floor buildings to a courtyard. From there steep ladders, several stories high, took one up to the flat roof. The visitors climbed them carefully and silently. Up above, a dense crowd was already assembled, as everyone has the right to receive the Great One’s blessing at the New Year.
On the roof there were a number of small buildings with gilded roofs. There were the apartments of the Dalai Lama. With monks leading the way, a long sinuous line of believers moved slowly toward a door. We two came directly after the monks in the line. When we came into the hall of audience, we craned our necks to get a sight of the Living Buddha over a forest of heads. And he, too, momentarily forgetful of his dignity, looked up eagerly to get a glimpse of the two strangers of whom he had heard so much.
In the posture of the Buddha, leaning slightly forward, the Dalai Lama was sitting on a throne covered with costly brocade. For hours he had to sit and watch the faithful filing by and bless them as they passed. At the foot of the throne lay a mountain of money bags and rolls of silk and hundreds of white scarves. We know that we must not hand over our scarves directly to the Dalai Lama; an abbot would take them from us. When we found ourselves standing with bowed heads before the Presence, I could not resist the temptation to look up. An eager, boyish smile lit up the charming face of the Dalai Lama, and his hand raised in blessing was laid for an instant on my head. Everything happened very quickly; in a moment or two we were standing before a somewhat lower throne on which sat the regent. He, too, laid his hand on us in blessing, and then an abbot placed red amulet scarves on our necks and we were asked to sit down on cushions. Rice and tea were served and, obedient to the custom, we threw a few grains onto the ground as an offering to the gods.
From our quiet corner we had a wonderful view of all that went on. An endless host of people filed by the young God-King to receive his blessing. With their heads bowed in humble obeisance and their tongues hanging out, they presented a strange picture. None dared look up. A light touch with a sort of silken mop replaced the laying on of hands with which we and the monks had been honored. None of the visitors came empty-handed. Some brought only threadbare scarves, but there were pilgrims with a retinue of bearers laden with gifts. Every offering is immediately registered by the treasurer and, if usable, added to the household stores of the Potala. The numerous silk scarves are afterward sold or given to prizewinners in athletic contests. The money offerings remain as the personal property of the Dalai Lama. They flow into the gold and silver rooms of the Potala, in which immense treasures have been accumulated for centuries and inherited by one Incarnation after another.
More impressive than the gifts is the expression of intense devotion on the faces of all these people. For many it is the greatest moment of their lives. They have often come many hundreds of miles on their pilgrimage, throwing themselves in the dust and sometimes walking on their knees. Some have spent months and years, and suffered greatly from cold and hunger on their journey to receive the God-King’s blessing. It seemed to me that a touch from the silken mop was a meager reward for such devotion, but one could not but recognize the expression of supreme happiness that lit up their faces when a monk laid a light scarf on the neck of each pilgrim. They carry these scarves to the end of their lives in lockets or sewn into wallets and deem them to be a protection against all evil. The quality of the scarf corresponds with the status of the recipient, but each of them has the mystical triple knot. These knotted scarves are prepared by the monks, but for ministers and the most highly place
d abbots the Dalai Lama ties the knots himself. The atmosphere of this crowded room, filled with the scent of incense and the smell of the butter lamps, became very oppressive as time went on, and we were glad enough when the ceremony came to an end.
As soon as the last of the pilgrims had left the room, the Dalai Lama rose and, supported by his servants, proceeded to his private apartments while we stood motionless with bowed heads. As we were leaving, a monk came up and handed to each of us a crisp new hundred-sang note saying, “Gyalpo Rimpoche ki söre re” (“This is a gift from the noble king”).
We were greatly surprised by this gesture, more especially when we learned that no one had hitherto received a gift in this form. It was typical of Lhasa that everyone in the town knew of the honor that had been done to us before we had mentioned it to a soul. We kept these notes as talismans for many years and when we finally left Tibet we had to admit that they had not disappointed us.
After the audience we took the opportunity to visit the numerous holy places of the Potala in company with the pilgrims. The Potala, one of the most imposing buildings in the world, was constructed in its present form some three hundred years ago by the fifth Dalai Lama. Previously there had been on this site a fortress belonging to the kings of Tibet, which had been destroyed by the Mongols during one of their invasions. From a faraway quarry, gangs of forced laborers carried stone after stone on their backs to the building site; unassisted by any technical devices, skilled stonemasons created the present palace. When the fifth Dalai Lama suddenly died there was a danger that the work would never be completed, but the regent, who could not count on the people’s loyalty to himself to finish this formidable work, withheld the news of His Holiness’s death. It was first announced that he was seriously ill and then that he had withdrawn from the world for meditation. This deception was continued for ten years until the palace was finished. Today when one looks at this unique building, one can understand and excuse the fraud that made its completion possible.
We found on the roof of the Potala the grave of the ruler to whom the building owes it origin. The remains of the fifth Dalai Lama rest in a shrine near those of the other God-Kings. There are seven of those tombs before which monks sit and pray to the muffled sound of drum taps. If one wants to reach the stupas (Buddhist shrines) one has to climb up steep ladders—a dangerous venture. There is little light to see by, and the rungs are slippery with the dirt of centuries. The greatest stupa is that of the thirteenth Dalai Lama, which is built several stories deep into the palace. Over a ton of gold was used to supply the gold plate with which the walls of this tower are faced.
After visiting a number of temples we came to the western part of the Potala, where 250 monks are lodged. Namgyetratsang, as this section is called, is narrow and full of corners and not inviting to the European eye, but the view from its little windows makes up for the gloomy and inconvenient interior. I could not help thinking how attractive Lhasa, with its cubical houses and flat roofs, looked from this eminence. We were too high up to see the dirt in the narrow streets.
IN THE FOLLOWING YEARS, I had several opportunities of staying in the Potala as the guest of friends who lived there. Life in this religious fortress resembles, one supposes, that of a medieval castle. Hardly an object belongs to the present day. In the evening all the gates are closed under the supervision of the treasurer, after which watchmen go through the whole Palace to see that everything is in order. Their shouts, ringing along the corridors, are the only sounds in the oppressive stillness. The nights are long and peaceful. Everyone goes to bed early. In contrast to the brisk social life in the city there are no parties or entertainments. From the shrines of the holy dead emanates an atmosphere of mortality, dim and solemn, which makes the whole palace feel like an enormous tomb. I could very well understand that the young ruler was happy when he could move to his Summer Garden. A lonely child without parents or playmates must lead a dreary life in the Potala. He found distraction only in the rare visits of his brother Lobsang Samten, who brought him greetings from his parents and told him all the news of the town.
The Dalai Lama possesses an elephant, the only one in the country, which was presented to him by the Maharajah of Nepal, in whose country there are many religious adherents of the God-King. Many Nepalese enter the monasteries of Tibet and devote their lives to religion. They form separate communities in the cloisters and are reputed to be very apt pupils. The Maharajah originally gave two elephants to the Dalai Lama as a token of his respect, but one of them did not survive the journey over the Himalayas, though the seven-hundred-mile road to Lhasa was carefully cleared of stones. Special stables were prepared at all the halting places for these beasts, one of which, at least, reached the capital in good shape, to the great satisfaction of everyone. No one had ever seen so gigantic an animal. They called him “Langchen Rimpoche.” He had a house to himself on the north side of the Potala and, festooned with precious brocade, often took part in processions. Riders, whose horses were not accustomed to such monsters, gave him a wide berth.
During the New Year celebrations, the father of the Dalai Lama died. Everything conceivable had been done to keep him alive. Monks and medicine men had tried every kind of remedy. They had even prepared a doll into which they charmed the patient’s sickness and then burned it with great solemnity on the riverbank. It was all to no purpose. To my way of thinking, they would have done better to call in the English doctor, but of course the family of the Dalai Lama must always be a model of orthodoxy and must not swerve from traditional practice in times of crisis.
The body was taken, as usual, to a consecrated plot outside the town where it was dismembered and given to the birds to dispose of. The Tibetans do not mourn for the dead in our sense of the word. Sorrow for the parting is relieved by the prospect of rebirth, and death has no terrors for the Buddhist. Butter lamps are kept burning for forty-nine days, after which there is a service of prayer in the house of the deceased. And that is the end of the story. Widows or widowers can marry after a short time, and life resumes its wonted course.
IN 1947, Lhasa had a minor civil war. The former regent, Reting Rimpoche, who had voluntarily resigned his office, seemed once more ambitious for power. Reting had many adherents among the people and the officials, who stirred up ill feeling against his successor. They wanted to see Reting back at the helm. They decided on action. The coup d’état was to be effected by the modern expedient of a bomb. This was delivered as a present from an unknown admirer in the house of a high monastic official, but before the parcel reached the regent, the infernal machine exploded. Luckily, no one was killed. It was through this unsuccessful outrage that the conspiracy was disclosed. The energetic Tagtra Rimpoche acted with speed and decision. A small army led by one of the ministers marched to Reting’s monastery and arrested the former regent. The monks of the Cloister of Sera revolted against this action, and panic broke out in the town. The dealers barricaded their shops and took away their goods for safety. The Nepalese took refuge in their legation, carrying with them all their valuables. The nobles shut the gates of their homes and armed their servants. The whole town was in a state of alert.
Aufschnaiter had seen the columns marching toward Reting and came at top speed from his country home into the town, where he and I organized the defense of Tsarong’s mansion. People were less preoccupied with the political crisis than with the fear that the monks of Sera, who numbered many thousands, would break into Lhasa and pillage the town. And there were others who had no confidence in the army, which was to some extent equipped with modern weapons. Military revolutions were not unknown in the history of Lhasa.
The arrival of Reting as a prisoner was awaited with excitement, but in the meantime he had been conveyed secretly to the Potala. The monks, who had planned to set him free, were deceived by this action, but, in fact, from the moment that their leader was arrested their cause was lost. Strong in their fanaticism, they refused to surrender and wild shooting soon began. It was not
until the government bombarded the town and monastery of Sera with howitzers and knocked down a few houses that the resistance ceased. The troops succeeded in overpowering the monks, and peace returned to the capital. For weeks the authorities were occupied in bringing the culprits to justice, and many severe floggings were inflicted.
While the bullets were still pinging through the town, the news of the death of the rebellious ex-regent spread like wildfire among the people. Whispered rumors went around about the manner of his death. Many thought he was the victim of a political murder, but more believed that by dint of concentration and his inflexible will he had projected himself into the next world without the formality of dying. The town was suddenly full of the most unbelievable stories of the miracles attributed to him and of the superhuman powers he possessed. On one occasion, when a pilgrim’s earthenware cooking pot was boiling over, he is said to have closed it in with his hands by drawing the sides over the top just as if the clay had been still soft and plastic.
Seven Years in Tibet Page 23