My stable, kitchen, and servants’ quarters were situated in a garden next door to my house—enclosed by a high wall. The garden was of a good size, and I was able to lay out many beds for flowers and vegetables. There was room, too, for badminton and croquet on the lawn, and I put up a Ping-Pong table as well. I grew some vegetables in a small greenhouse and managed to obtain valuable contributions to my meals early in the year. All my visitors had to admire my beds, of which I was very proud. Mr. Richardson gave me the benefit of his experience, and I devoted my mornings and evenings to gardening, and my industry was soon rewarded. In my first year I managed to grow tomatoes, cauliflowers, lettuces, and cabbages. It was extraordinary how big everything grew without losing quality. But the explanation was really simple. It was essential to see that the roots got enough moisture. The dry air and the warm sunshine then created a hothouse atmosphere in which everything flourished luxuriantly. The problem of watering is not so easy, as there are no pressure pipes here and one cannot use hoses to sprinkle the garden. One has to lay out the beds in such a way that a runnel of water can be carried through them. I had two regular women helpers in the garden. They did all the weeding, and that says a good deal, as weeds grow apace in this soil. So do flowers and fruits, and the rewards of industry are great. From a bed measuring seventy square yards I took over four hundred pounds of tomatoes, some of which weighed half a pound. Other vegetables throve equally well. I do not believe that there are any kinds of European vegetable that would not succeed here, although the summer is short.
ABOUT THIS TIME we began to feel the repercussions of world politics even in the peaceful town of Lhasa. The civil war in China assumed a more and more disquieting aspect, and it was feared that trouble might rise among the Chinese residents in Lhasa. In order to show that Tibet considered itself independent of Chinese politics, the government decided one day to give the Chinese Minister his notice to leave. About a hundred persons were affected by this decision, against which there was no appeal.
The Tibetan authorities acted with typical craft. They chose a moment when the Chinese radio operator was playing tennis to go to his home and take possession of his transmitting set. When he heard about the order to leave that his chief had received, he could no longer communicate with the Chinese government. The post and telegraph offices in the city were closed for a fortnight, and the world thought that Tibet was having another civil war.
The expelled Chinese diplomats were treated with exquisite courtesy and invited to farewell parties. They were allowed to change their Tibetan money for rupees at a favorable rate and were given free transport to the Indian frontier. They did not understand exactly what had happened to them but all were sorry to go. Most of them returned to China or Formosa [Taiwan]. Some traveled direct to Peiping [Peking], where Mao Tse-tung had already established his seat of government.
Thus the century-old quarrel between China and Tibet broke out again. Communist China interpreted the expulsion of the minister and his staff as an affront, not as a gesture of neutrality, which the Tibetans meant it to be. In Lhasa it was fully realized that a Red China would constitute a grave threat to the independence of Tibet and to the Tibetan religion. People quoted utterances of the oracle and pointed to various natural phenomena that seemed to confirm their fears. The great comet of 1948 was regarded as a portent of danger, and freak births among domestic animals were held to be ominous. I, too, felt anxious, but my anxiety was based on a sober estimate of the situation. Asia’s future looked black.
About this time, the government decided to send four high officials on a world tour. The members of this mission had been carefully selected for their culture and progressive ideas, as it was desired to show the world that Tibet was a civilized country.
The leader of the mission was Finance Secretary Shekabpa, and the other members were a monk named Changkhyimpa; Pangdatsang, a rich merchant; and General Surkhang, a son of the foreign minister. The two last named spoke a little English and had some idea of Western habits and customs. The government saw that they were outfitted with European suits and overcoats of the best quality and cut; in addition, they took with them splendid silk robes to be worn at official receptions, for they were to travel as a national delegation. They went first to India and from there flew to China. After staying in that country for some time, they traveled by air to San Francisco, via the Philippines and Hawaii. In America they stopped in many places and visited numerous factories, especially those that handled Tibetan raw materials.
Their program in Europe was similar. Their whole journey lasted nearly two years and every letter received from them caused excitement in Lhasa. By the time they returned, they had found new buyers for Tibetan wool, and brought with them a mass of prospectuses for agricultural machinery, looms, carpet-making machines, and so on. Their baggage also contained a dismantled jeep, which the chauffeur of the thirteenth Dalai Lama reassembled. It was driven once, and then withdrawn from the public eye. Many of the nobles must have wished to buy an automobile just then, but it seems the time was not yet ripe. In America the mission bought gold ingots, which were brought to Lhasa under heavy guard.
While the four delegates were enjoying their world tour, the political situation in Asia had greatly altered. India had been granted independence, the Communists had conquered the whole of China, but all these events had made little impression in Lhasa, where the Dalai Lama’s traditional visit to the monasteries was considered more important than world politics.
EVERY YOUNG DALAI LAMA MUST, before officially attaining his majority, visit the monasteries of Drebung and Sera, where he gives proof of maturity by partaking in a religious discussion. The preparations for this journey had been the main topic of conversation for months. His Holiness was, naturally, to be accompanied by the nobles, and the monks of Drebung had constructed a special palace to house him and his retinue.
One day the procession set out in customary splendor on the five-mile road to the monastery, where the four archabbots of Drebung with a glittering retinue received the divine visitor and led him into his palace. On the same day I, too, rode to Drebung, for some of the monks with whom I had made friends had invited me to stay there during the festivities. I had always wanted to get to know the life of a monastery from the inside. Up to now, like any other pilgrim, I had enjoyed only fleeting glances at the temples and gardens. My friends took me to one of the numerous standard-pattern stone houses, where I was given Spartan lodgings. Pema, a monk who was soon to take his final examinations and already had pupils of his own, acted as my guide to the monastic city and explained to me the layout and organization. No comparison can be drawn between this and any of our religious institutions. Behind these cloister walls the hands of time’s clock seem to have been put back a thousand years; there is nothing to show that one is living in the twentieth century. The thick gray walls of the buildings have an age-old appearance, and the overpowering smell of rancid butter and unwashed monks has sunk deep into the stonework.
Every house has from fifty to sixty inhabitants and is divided into tiny cells. There is a kitchen on every floor and plenty of food to eat. The average monk has no other mundane satisfaction, but the more intelligent ones buoy themselves up with the prospect of reaching high positions to reward their zealous studies. They have no private property except for their butter lamps and an icon, or maybe an amulet box. A simple bed is the only concession to comfort. Absolute obedience is the rule. The students enter the monastery as children and immediately don the red cowl, which they are to wear for the rest of their lives. During the first five years they have to perform the most menial services for their teachers. The intelligent ones learn how to read and write, and are admitted to examinations. Only a few succeed in passing out from one grade into another, and most of them remain all their lives in the servant class. The elect are those who after studying the teaching of Buddha for thirty or forty years are able to pass the final tests. They are then qualified for appointment to the highest o
ffices in the Church. The monasteries are the high schools for religious education, and the staff of all purely religious institutions is chosen from their graduates. The monastic officials of the government receive their education in the Tsedrung School.
The final examinations of the monastic schools are held once a year in public in the cathedral. From the whole of Tibet, only twenty-two candidates are admitted to the examination. After a severe oral test held under the auspices of the Dalai Lama’s own teachers, the five best candidates are promoted to the highest monastic grade. The student who passes first may become a hermit and devote himself to religious exercises, or he may enter public life with the possibility of one day becoming regent. This happens rarely, because that high post is usually reserved for Incarnations, but cases have occurred in which a man of the people—neither a noble nor a Living Buddha—has been appointed to this great office. The last time this happened was in 1910, when the thirteenth Dalai Lama fled to India before the invading Chinese, and a delegate had to be appointed to represent him.
The ten thousand monks of Drebung are divided into groups, each of which has its own temple and garden. Here they spend the morning hours in communal religious exercises, after which they get their butter tea and soup, only returning to their houses for study in the afternoon. However, they have enough free time to take walks and play simple games. They are also allowed to cook any supplementary food they may receive from their own communities. The groups are organized as far as possible according to their places of origin. In some houses you will find only Mongolians or Nepalese, or students from a particular town such as Shigatse.
Within the monastery, of course, no living creature may be killed, but the cold climate makes it necessary to eat some meat, so the communities send supplies of dried yak meat, and it must be said, fresh meat is often to be had in one of the neighboring villages.
In addition to free food and lodging, the monks receive a little pocket money derived from government grants and the gifts of pilgrims. However, when a monk possesses outstanding gifts, he generally finds a patron among the nobles or the wealthy trades-people. The Church in Tibet is very rich, owning, as it does, most of the land, and the revenues of enormous estates are enjoyed by the monasteries. Every monastery has its own dealer, who procures provisions and other necessities. One would hardly believe what enormous sums are spent on the upkeep of the monasteries and their inmates. I once helped a monk with his accounts and noted that during the first month of the year, which all the monks spend in Lhasa, the government supplied them with three tons of tea and fifty tons of butter, in addition to pocket money to the value of something over forty thousand pounds.
The red-cowled forms are not all gentle and learned brothers. Most of them are rough, tough fellows for whom the whip is not discipline enough. The worst of them belong to the unauthorized but tolerated organization of the Dob-Dobs, or monkish soldiery. They wear a red armband and blacken their faces with soot. In their belts they stick a huge key, which they can use as a cosh or a missile, and they often have a sharp cobbler’s knife in their pockets. Many of them are well-known bullies. Their gait is provocative, and they are quick to strike. Sensible people give them a wide berth. In the war against the Chinese Communists, they formed a battalion that gained a reputation for courage. In peacetime, too, they have opportunities for getting rid of their superfluous energy, as the Dob-Dobs of the different monasteries are always at war with one another. It is fair to add that their differences are not always settled by violence, and that some of their pugnacity is expended in athletic contests between rival monasteries. Drebung is usually the victor, having a larger choice of athletes than its competitors. As a former sports instructor, I often used to go to Drebung, and the monks were always glad to have me taking part in their training. This was the only place in Tibet where I found men with athletic figures and trained muscles.
The great cloisters of Drebung, Sera, and Ganden—the three pillars of the state—play a decisive role in the political life of Tibet. Their abbots, together with eight government officials, preside over the National Assembly. No decision is taken without the assent of these clerics, who naturally are interested, first and foremost, in the supremacy of the monasteries. Their intervention has prevented the realization of many progressive ideas. At one time they looked on Aufschnaiter and me as thorns in their flesh, but when they saw we had no political ambitions and that we fitted ourselves into the customs of the land and carried out undertakings from which they, too, profited, they withdrew their opposition to us.
The cloisters are, as I have said, the high schools of the Church. For that reason every lama—and there are more than a thousand of them in Tibet—must be educated in a monastery. These Incarnations are a constant attraction for pilgrims, who come in thousands to visit them and receive their blessing.
Even during the Dalai Lama’s visit to Drebung these Incarnations attended all the ceremonies and sat in the front seats—a regular concourse of the gods! Meanwhile, a religious discussion was held every day in the shady cloister gardens between the ruler and one of the abbots. This is one of the most intimate acts in the religious life of Lamaism, and I never had the slightest hope of being allowed to witness it.
However, one day as I was breakfasting with Lobsang, he asked me if I would like to come with him. I owe it to this unexpected gesture on his part that I was privileged to witness a drama that certainly no other person of another faith has ever witnessed. As I was in the company of the Dalai Lama’s brother, no one thought of preventing me from entering the sequestered garden. A strange scene unfolded itself. In front of a dark grove of trees, a great multitude of red-cowled monks, perhaps two thousand of them, squatted on the gravel, while from a high place, the Dalai Lama preached from Holy Writ. For the first time I heard his clear boyish voice. He spoke without any embarrassment and with the assurance of a grown man. This was his first public appearance. The fourteen-year-old boy had been studying for many years, and now his knowledge was being tested before a critical audience. This first appearance might have fateful consequences. It is true that he would never be allowed to renounce his prescribed career, but his performance that day would show whether he was destined to be the instrument of the monks or their ruler. Not all of his predecessors had been as able as the fifth and the thirteenth Dalai Lamas. Many of them remained throughout their lives puppets in the hands of the men who had trained them, and the destiny of the country was controlled by the regents. People spoke of the intelligence of this boy as miraculous. It was said that he had only to read a book to know it by heart, and it was known that he had long taken an interest in all that happened in his country and used to criticize or commend the decisions of the National Assembly.
Now that it came to debating, I saw that his powers had not been exaggerated. The Dalai Lama sat down on the gravel, so as not to emphasize the superiority of his birth, while the abbot in whose monastery the discussion was taking place stood before him and punctuated his questions with the conventional gestures. The Dalai Lama answered all the questions that were put to him, even the “teasers,” with readiness and good humor, and was never for a moment disconcerted.
After a while the antagonists changed places, and it was the Dalai Lama who put questions to the seated abbot. One could see that this was not an act prepared to show off the intelligence of the young Buddha; it was a genuine contest of wits in which the abbot was hard put to it to hold his own.
When the debate was over, the young God-King mounted once more onto his golden throne, and his mother, the only woman present, handed him tea in a golden cup. He stole a friendly glance at me as if to assure himself of my approval of his performance. For my part I was deeply impressed by what I had seen and heard, and felt genuine admiration for the presence of mind of this God-Boy from a humble family. He almost persuaded me to believe in reincarnation.
At the end of the religious debate, everyone prayed in chorus. It sounded like a litany and lasted a long tim
e. After that the Dalai Lama, supported by his abbots, returned to the palace. I had always wondered at the senile gait of the Dalai Lama, and now learned that it is part of the ritual and that all these different movements are prescribed. It is supposed to be an imitation of the gait of the Buddha, and at the same time is designed to enhance the dignity of the Dalai Lama.
I would have liked very much to take a few pictures of this unique ceremony, but as it turned out, I was lucky not to have my camera with me. On the next day there was a great fuss when my friend Wangdüla (without my knowing anything about it) tried to photograph the Dalai Lama as he was going around one of the monasteries. He had already taken one successful photo when a zealous monk denounced him. Wangdüla was brought before the regent’s secretary and closely interrogated. As a punishment for his offense, he was degraded and told that he was lucky not to be expelled from the monastic order. In addition his camera was confiscated—all this in spite of the fact that he was a nobleman of the fifth grade and the nephew of the former regent. For a while the monks talked of nothing except this incident, but Wangdüla himself took it very calmly. He knew all about the ups and downs of official life.
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