The Dalai Lama

by Alexander Norman

  But even the best-informed observer could not have predicted what would happen next. The Venerable Lobsang Gyatso was a close associate of the Dalai Lama. It was he whom the Tibetan leader had chosen to be founder-director of the School of Buddhist Dialectics when it was inaugurated in 1973. An example of one of the Dalai Lama’s many forward-looking initiatives, the school (now Institute) was set up with the purpose of offering an advanced education grounded in Buddhism’s ancient Nalanda tradition but outside the traditional monastic setting. By this time, it had integrated modern science and English language classes into the curriculum, alongside courses designed to introduce students to the full range of the Tibetan Buddhist tradition. With a towering reputation as a scholar-practitioner, Lobsang Gyatso—invariably referred to as Gen-la (honorable teacher)—was known as a kind but strict disciplinarian whose way of life was as austere as it was exemplary. Notoriously outspoken, somewhat rough in his diction and combative in his manner, he nevertheless inspired the greatest loyalty among his students. To the fury of some, he was also a notable supporter of the Dalai Lama’s pronouncements on Shugden.

  On a bitter cold night right at the end of the Tibetan year (in 1997 it fell during February), at the very moment when it is traditional to banish ritually the evils and spiritual defilements of the past twelve months before welcoming in the next, four visitors called at Gen-la’s room. Earlier in the day he had met with the Dalai Lama, and now he was working with two students who were translating a religious text into Chinese. Situated within the precincts of the main temple, his room was within earshot of the Dalai Lama’s private compound—though no one reported hearing anything. When the visitors left a short while later, Lobsang Gyatso and his two companions lay dead or dying with multiple knife wounds. Renowned as a fighter in his youth, he must have put up a struggle. There was blood high up the walls. But his assailants had stabbed him in the eye, slashed him in the throat, and plunged a blade deep into his heart. His companions fared no better, though one survived to gasp his life away soon after arriving at the Delek Hospital, half a mile down the hill, where he was taken as soon as the alarm was raised. From there he was sent to the Chandigarh hospital, but he died en route.

  The whole of Dharamsala reeled in shock. Among foreign residents and local journalists, rumors began to circulate to the effect that Lobsang Gyatso had been murdered for the large amount of cash he had brought back with him from a recent fund-raising trip to Hong Kong. Another story was that a drunken brawl in the basement of the building (where there was a small restaurant) had somehow spun out of control. But the truth is, most Tibetans knew perfectly well what lay behind the tragedy. This was an attempt by the deity’s supporters to intimidate the Dalai Lama into dropping his policy on Shugden practice. By way of confirmation, an open letter to the Dalai Lama published in the name of the Delhi-based Shugden Supporters Society which circulated a few days later issued a stark warning: “We have already offered you three corpses, you will find others if you continue with your approach.”

  Ultimately, the controversy over Shugden’s status is a theological one. Within Buddhism, “church” and state, or rather sangha and state, have not come apart as they have in the West. As a result, theological controversy very quickly finds its way out of the monastery and into the political arena, often with immediate and far-reaching consequences. In the case of Shugden, what was at stake was not merely the question of what status should correctly be assigned to a certain deity—in particular whether he is simply a minor being or one of the protector deities, as his followers proposed. It was also the question of who should govern Tibet. According to devotees of Dorje Shugden, the present Dalai Lama had shown by his actions that he himself was unqualified to occupy the Lion Throne.

  In the immediate aftermath of the murder, confusion reigned. It was several hours before the police were called—long enough for the killers to make good their escape. The Indian criminal investigation concluded eventually that the suspects had fled abroad. For months afterwards, Dharamsala remained paralyzed. The Dalai Lama, however, maintained his position regarding the Shugden issue. On his behalf the letter-writing campaigns continued, and both monks and laymen were required to sign a statement declaring that they had no connection with Shugden.

  During the fall of that same year (1997), the Dalai Lama gave a long and careful explanation, subsequently published, justifying his position. Its main thrust was to argue that it was not Shugden the practitioner should worry about offending, but the Buddha. To the outsider, the speech gives a moderately worded and clear exposition of the Dalai Lama’s thinking behind his injunction. To Shugden’s devotees, it was a tissue of falsehoods and outright lies. For them, the crux of the matter was as much the purity of the Gelugpa teachings that, in their view, the Dalai Lama’s advocacy of Padmasambhava, the Lotus-Born, and the Nyingma tradition generally, threatened, as it was the insult to the deity himself that upset them. For devotees of Shugden, a powerful minority of the Gelug school, the teachings of their founder, Tsongkhapa, were to be practiced and preserved without taint. For the Dalai Lama, Shugden threatened the ecumenical approach he wanted to take toward the other Tibetan schools.

  Yet far more was at issue here than the “lama politics” of which the Dalai Lama sometimes speaks. For the tradition, and hence for him, the gods and protectors are not mere fictions. They are both real and powerful. While the gods have limited abilities, the dharma protectors are vastly more capable and can influence events not only in the world but within other realms too. The protectors are considered to be manifestations of different bodhisattvas, just as the Dalai Lama himself is a manifestation of Chenresig, and their main function is to keep the dharma itself from harm. And while the Dalai Lama characterizes Shugden as nothing but the lowest form of godling, to Shugden devotees he is the wrathful manifestation of Manjushri, Bodhisattva of Wisdom.

  We can understand the Dalai Lama’s insistence that worship of Shugden cease only when we see that for him, Shugden, like Nechung (the great rival of Shugden), is not merely a projection or imaginative construct but as real as the flesh and blood in which human beings manifest. It is precisely this construal of the deities and the protectors as real that lies behind the Dalai Lama’s relationship with Nechung. As he recounts in his autobiography: “When I was small, it was touching. Nechung liked me a lot and always took great care of me. For example, if he noticed I had dressed carelessly or improperly, he would come over and rearrange my shirt, adjust my robe and so on.” As to his character, “he is very reserved and austere, just as you would imagine a grand old man of ancient times to be.” To be clear, the Dalai Lama is referring not to the medium through whom Dorje Drakden manifests but to Dorje Drakden himself.

  As a rule, the Dalai Lama consults with Nechung formally only once or twice a year, always during the Great Prayer Festival and sometimes on other important occasions. But he also consults with him privately on a more frequent basis. When he does so informally, the medium does not wear the full regalia of his office, which is reserved for the great occasions of state. Although there exist a number of YouTube videos of Nechung and other oracles in a trance, to appreciate fully their importance to the tradition, it is necessary to witness the phenomenon at first hand, a privilege granted to few outsiders.

  The Dalai Lama, sumptuously clad in yellow silk over his habitual maroon robe, sits on an elaborately decorated throne while he presides over the entirety of the Namgyal monastic community. It will be recalled that Namgyal is the monastery that exists to serve the Dalai Lama and to conduct rituals on behalf of the Tibetan government. This community is divided into the choir, made up of a majority of the monks—perhaps forty of them—and the orchestra, which comprises perhaps a dozen. Many are, like the Dalai Lama, swaddled in the yellow outer robe of the Gelug school, while the more senior wear the tall, forward-curving headdress that is adopted only for the most important liturgies.

  Before the ceremony begins, the medium looks small and vulnerable, clear
ly conscious that what he is about to undertake will test him to the utmost limits of his strength. His ordeal begins with the impossible bass of the umze, the cantor, who leads the monastic choir and whose voice is joined shortly by the steady beat of a pair of drums. These drums are of shallow construction and are held vertical on a short pole and struck with a curved stick. In response, there is an immediate contraction around the medium’s jaw, and it is clear the possession is already beginning. The look of vulnerability is gone, and now, after another minute and to a sudden trembling of cymbals and oboes thrilling, two attendants come forward and proceed to fasten in place a breastplate of burnished silver about the size of a small salver. As they do so, the kuten, or medium, tries to help, but he fumbles ineffectually, no longer in full control of his limbs.

  The Dalai Lama, meanwhile, has withdrawn his attention inward and his demeanor has become more serious. Rocking gently back and forth, he joins in the chant, as the orchestra beseeches the presence of the deity with mounting insistence. But again, after a clamoring crescendo, the monks fall silent before the chant begins anew to the tap of the drums and a slow rumble of voices following the cantor’s lead.

  All at once there is a palpable sense—of what?—that something momentous is under way. But more than that—of a mysterium et tremendum fascinans, a mystery before which the onlooker stands in awe, both fearful and fascinated.

  The chant starts to swell once more. The medium, now fully dressed, remains seated as the Dalai Lama looks on. One senses a definite rapport between him and Nechung—the deity, though, not the medium. This is evidently a meeting of familiars. Indeed, there is nothing to suggest that, for the Precious Protector, anything untoward or remarkable is about to take place. The same may be said of the congregation as a whole: many people are quietly chatting to one another, even as they tell their rosaries. The medium sits quite peacefully now, his eyes closed and his hands upon his knees. But again there is a sudden increase in the tempo of the drums and an outburst of oboe—and trumpet, the famed gang ling, crafted from human femur, which accompanies first a quivering, then a clashing of the cymbals in climax. The Precious Protector, eyes cast down, rocks forward and back faster and with shorter, more abrupt movements.

  Without any sign from the medium himself, two attendants bring the oracle’s headdress. This consists of a huge helmet, its wide brim supporting a superstructure of intricate religious symbols, each of these studded with precious stones, while sprays of what look like horsehair burst from the crown, falling at least the length of a man’s arm behind. It is hard to believe anyone could wear such a thing unsupported. To an observer it looks as if it must weigh thirty pounds or more—though it is said that, in former times, it was more than twice as heavy. Once it is tied in place, an improbably thin strap passing under his chin, the kuten stops grimacing, and his expression assumes a look of deep serenity as the next cycle of invocations begins. It is indeed so hypnotic, this sound, its strong, steady, rhythmic flow so overwhelming, that it seems surprising that more people do not succumb. And in fact, they sometimes do. What is more, the tempo of chant and music has a profound impact on the experience of the medium himself, who must visualize, while it progresses, first the mandala—the symbolic representation of his dwelling place—corresponding to the deity and then the arrival of the deity as he steps out of his mandala. On this occasion, evidently attuned to the least sign that all is not as it must be, one of the attendants—there are four altogether—comes forward and reties the headdress.

  After the five minutes or so that the chant cycle takes, yet another begins. Now the medium begins to jerk spasmodically, his whole body quaking. The Dalai Lama, who has been following this part of the proceedings silently, joins in the chant briefly. The kuten is leaning back, his mouth forced wide, his breathing stentorian, as oboe, horn, and cymbal combine once more in clashing crescendo. An attendant now brings what looks as if it must be a sword, covered with a red cloth, together with a bow but no arrows. In times past, when the ceremony took place outside, the oracle would generally loose off several. He did so when indicating the direction in which the search parties looking for the present incarnation of the Dalai Lama should conduct their search. And it is said that, once, long ago, one struck and killed a child.

  The timbre and tempo of the chant change. One of the trumpeters keeps time by tapping his finger on his instrument, while the oracle, still seated and partially screened by a ministering attendant, continues to tremble and twitch. The Dalai Lama, hitherto bareheaded, dons a tall, forward-curving yellow headpiece with long silken earflaps reaching to his shoulders, and at that moment there is a faint sound of tinkling bells. Could this be the deity announcing himself?

  The kuten remains seated, clutching his weapons, one leg trembling with increasing violence. All of a sudden he begins to emit short, sobbing grunts—“ah-ah-ah”—as the orchestra rises once more in a crescendo. And now, taking his accoutrements firmly in hand, Nechung rises from his throne, its tiger-skin covering visible for the first time. As he does so, the whole congregation—though not the choir and not the Dalai Lama—stands too.

  The Precious Protector, eyes cast down, sways gently in silent prayer.

  With Dorje Drakden clearly in full possession of the medium, the first part of the ceremony is over. It is now for individual members of the government to greet him, each rising in turn to go forward and present a kathag, a white silk scarf representing an offering of one subordinate to his or her superior.

  It is only when the last kathag has been presented that Nechung turns to the Dalai Lama. There is something matter-of-fact about the manner in which he responds to the oracle. The choir continues its chant, and after this brief acknowledgment, it is the turn of three successive monastic officials to speak with Dorje Drakden. Bending low toward the kuten, they put their questions to him, and he replies in a voice unexpectedly high-pitched and sobbing almost as if he were on the verge of tears, like a coerced child. It is impossible not to feel enormous concern for the human being thus used. The observer has the impression that he can barely contain the enormous force to which he has granted temporary residence. Small wonder these men do not often survive beyond middle age.

  After the last question, the kuten resumes his throne but continues to quake and to emit a curious hissing sound while the officials confer with one another. Occasionally it looks as if the oracle wishes to stand but is unable to, the vast headdress turning from side to side as he twists his neck, his lower lip pulled down in rictus gape. And every so often he speaks, apparently repeating himself as if frustrated that he has not been properly understood. The officials, having spoken among themselves, now return, evidently seeking further clarification.

  At last the interviews are complete. Dorje Drakden has imparted his augury of the year ahead, and the oracle gesticulates with his hand, stabbing the air with an index finger. He stands once more as oboe, trumpet, and cymbal rise again. Turning to the Dalai Lama, he takes a pace or two forward, with his sword in one hand and, in the other, a peacock feather—a symbol of purity—which he proceeds to offer to the Precious Protector. The exchange is perfunctory and yet unaccountably moving.

  Only now does the Dalai Lama himself rise. He places a kathag around the oracle’s neck before they consult together privately for perhaps a minute, after which the Precious Protector reassumes his throne. Almost at once the deity abandons its earthly confinement, and the medium falls back into the arms of his waiting attendants. Deftly they untie the enormous headdress before carrying out the medium’s inert and rigid body.

  In any consideration of the Shugden controversy, it is thus essential to keep in mind the intimate relationships that the protectors have with earthbound mortals, relationships that we see most vividly as they are played out in these consultations with the oracles. For not only do Nechung and Shugden speak through mediums, but also there are many other deities that speak through oracles besides these two. Even today, there are many mediums who channel d
eities, both within Tibet and in exile, though only a handful are conduits for the supra-mundane protectors. The remainder give voices to more minor beings. But they are by no means rare.

  Aside from the question of the reality of the protectors and their communications with human beings, with respect to the issue of Shugden himself, we also need to understand something of the role that Tsongkhapa—whose teachings it is allegedly Shugden’s special responsibility to protect—plays within the Gelug tradition, at the pinnacle of which the Dalai Lama stands.

  The fourteenth-century founder of the Dalai Lama’s own Gelug tradition, Tsongkhapa (literally, and somewhat deflatingly, the Man from the Land of Onions) is unquestionably the most important figure to have emerged in Tibet in the past six hundred years. He was, most educated Tibetans would agree, Aristotle, Shakespeare, Saint Francis, and Einstein all rolled into one. Showing early signs of brilliance, Tsongkhapa began his monastic career in a small monastery close to the present Dalai Lama’s birthplace in Amdo. As a child, he was said to be capable of memorizing seventeen folios of scripture a day—approximately fifteen hundred words—and to have perfect recall ever after. Once ordained, he adopted the life of a wandering hermit, taking teachings from many different masters—though none of them Nyingma. One of his early devotions was to recite the mantra of his principal meditational deity a hundred million times. Gifted with a laser-sharp intelligence, he was able at once to grasp the most abstruse arguments in metaphysics and to reconcile apparently contradictory theses. He was a poetic genius, too, with an extraordinary facility with words. Much of his most important and difficult philosophy is framed in perfectly metered verse, while his spiritual songs and praises are said to be without compare for their ability to move the heart of the one who recites them. If, though, he had one virtue that crowned all others, it was his proficiency in the meditative practices of a yogin. He was a visionary whose personal relationship with Manjushri, Bodhisattva of Wisdom, would mark him as the outstanding practitioner of the Buddhadharma of his—and, many would argue, of any—age since that of the Buddha Shakyamuni himself.