Blue Poppies

by Jonathan Falla

  In 1950 the district was peaceful but, quite recently, Kantu-Dzong had been the headquarters of a minor warlord. For generations this family had been a source of much irritation to the government. Several of the grandest dynasties in Lhasa had long claimed to own land in the vicinity but had rarely tried to enforce their revenues. At last, the exasperated grandees of the Cabinet had imposed a new governorship.

  The present incumbent, Dorje Gangshar, now waited by the cairn of Moro-La, seated on a sturdy white pony and watching the caravan of Jyeko villagers creep up the long valley towards him. He was a tall man of around fifty, every inch the disdainful aristocrat with narrow eyes set close together, full lips and a long heavy nose. His sleek black hair hung in two thick queues through which traced fine colored threads. On his head perched a hat of fur, eight inches thick and very wide like a huge cake or hairy poultice. On top there was a little brass finial, polished and gleaming, perhaps for lifting the poultice off the noble pate. His ears were pierced, bearing long pendants of silver set with turquoises that looped loosely and joined under his chin. His hands were long and manicured, and positively clanked with rings. His fur gowns were surmounted by wraps of old Russian brocaded silk, their deep blues decorated with white and gold clouds. All this gleamed and glowed most beautifully for the sun was out on Moro-La. Unusually for the place and the time of year, it was a lovely day.

  Dorje Gangshar was not smiling, however, for his present situation was an unhappy one. He had no liking for the vulgarly brutish Khampas and had some urgent traveling to do himself. Behind him, out of sight over the lip of the pass, some thirty or more companions were halted at the trail divide: his family, and a party of their servants and retainers. They had lit fires and made refreshments while waiting for him. But he himself was constrained to wait for this exhausted rabble to drag itself up the pass. He had a message to deliver.

  As the caravan drew near, Dorje Gangshar could make out the British technician Wilson, who was walking in the lead group and was curiously marked out by a pole with a little white flag attached. They had met in Lhasa once, though it would have greatly piqued Dorje Gangshar’s vanity to know that Jamie did not remember him. The nobleman remarked that few of the approaching party were riding their animals up the pass, and thought this peculiar. It is a maxim in Tibet that a horse that cannot carry a man uphill is no horse, while a man that rides downhill is no man. Personally, Dorje Gangshar could see little value in transport that could not carry him in all directions. He did notice that the ponies, mules and yaks were overladen. So, these people had not brought sufficient animals with them, were ill-prepared, careless, reckless: Khampas, in a word.

  Painfully slowly, they drew close. He saw that some were injured, were riding or stumbling with help from their companions. He saw upturned faces intently scanning the skyline. Some of the leaders now saw him silhouetted there. Weary as they were, they waved enthusiastically. Dorje Gangshar had a sudden, uncomfortable feeling that they had been expecting to see him. To his certain knowledge, no such appointment had been made. At last, those at the head of the column reached the top of the climb, quickened their paces for the last few yards and stood before him, puffing and grinning, their hands hanging from the leading reins.

  “Well, good day to you, sir, we’re here! We’re from Kham, from Jyeko, just arrived, come to join you, there’s a hundred and thirty of us and this is Mr. Jemmy.”

  There were three lamas, a number of coarse-featured men who looked as though they’d been sleeping in a stable, and the young Britisher. The latter was beaming with what looked terribly like hopeful expectation. Oh dear, thought Dorje Gangshar.

  “I am Dorje Gangshar,” he announced haughtily. His voice was distinctly nasal.

  “Oh, yes?” said one lama.

  “Governor of Kantu-Dzong,” the nobleman added, since they’d apparently not made that simple connection.

  “Ah,” said the lama, a tall fellow quite well-made, who seemed to command some seniority. He was now taking in the finery that sat upon Dorje Gangshar and his inane grin was changing to something less impertinent, less brazen. “We are honored to greet you, sir,” he finally got around to adding.

  Behind this group, more of the procession was about to reach the summit. The British youth, Wilson, was almost stamping with excited anticipation. He glanced from one to another of his companions, as though willing them to ask questions. At his side, a grim mastiff glowered at the Governor.

  “Sir,” inquired a second lama, a man with a strong, pugnacious face, “might I ask who else is with you here? We’ve heard of a great gathering.”

  “My family are waiting for me below,” countered the Governor, “with their people.”

  “But everyone else?” said the monk.

  “Is there an army?” some oaf blurted out.

  “There is indeed. I am charged with delivering a message to you,” said Dorje Gangshar, as loftily as he could.

  “Right, we’re expected!” the oaf interrupted.

  “From Major Duan of the People’s Liberation Army of China.”

  The new arrivals fell suddenly silent; they stared at the Governor, some with their mouths hanging open. Their fellows continued to press up behind.

  “That officer is waiting for you at my residence of Kantu-Dzong, which I regret to say is in his hands. His message to you is this: you have the choice of surrendering to him forthwith, or of taking the road to India that lies before you, or complete destruction. Should you, incidentally, take the India option, I shall require you to wait until my family are ahead and well clear of your animals.”

  There were some seconds of silence. The steadily growing knot of people in front of Dorje Gangshar turned with exaggerated slowness to regard one another, taking in this news.

  “And you, sir, are going to India?”

  “Just so.”

  “You’ll be coming back?”

  “What business is that of yours?”

  “Governor, forgive my friend, we only thought—”

  “You should be thinking about your answer to the Chinese commander, don’t you think?”

  “We have to send him an answer?” muttered a flat-headed old cuss with a filthy beard. “Why don’t we just cut his balls off?”

  “For the very sound reason,” said the Governor, “that he has some two hundred and fifty soldiers with him, some in the fort itself and the rest encamped on the plain. You’ll see them soon enough. I repeat, he is waiting for your answer, and if you have any further questions will you put them now so that I can be on my way?”

  “So”—one of the monks looked puzzled—“will you be taking our answer back to him yourself?”

  “I am not a postal runner. These will do it.”

  With that, the Governor gestured with a long bejeweled finger to the rear of the massive chorten. The Jyeko leaders edged forward a yard or two—and gaped in amazement. Seated on the lowest ledge of the structure, quietly smoking cigarettes, were three Chinese troopers. Their ponies were tied to a denuded flagpole twenty yards off. The soldiers saw that they’d been spotted and grinned at the villagers with amusement.

  Karjen made a most unfriendly noise in his throat and started to unfasten his sheepskin.

  “Before you do anything crass,” said the Governor, “I should point out that Major Duan has several hostages, your own people.”

  Khenpo Nima turned quickly: “Who?”

  “The Reverend Abbot of your monastery, as I understand. A very dignified and holy gentleman, but somewhat debilitated from his travels. Indeed, he is quite unwell. There is a small retinue of his also.”

  A ripple of excited mutters spread among the travelers, and quickly ran back through the caravan as the tail end came into view over the brow of the pass.

  “There is also a woman of good family from Lhasa who, for reasons I did not trouble with, was apparently in the east and now travels with the Major.”

  If the Governor had been observing Jamie closely at this moment, h
e’d have seen a graphic instance of blood draining from a face, then flooding back in a great blush and draining away once more. But the Governor disdained to look closely at any of these Khampas or their associates. He merely remarked, “I trust you will think carefully before putting those persons to any awkwardness. Now, if you will excuse me . . .”

  Dorje Gangshar gathered the reins of his white pony and began to tug it around. The throng of Khampas gathering before him was getting to be oppressive, their nasty dogs too inquisitive. Some of them had run fifty yards forward to a point where they could look down to the Governor’s traveling party waiting below, and were peering rudely at his relations. It was time that he made his way directly to his family and got them all on the road once more. He was about to kick his pony that way when, behind him, a woman’s voice called out, tinged with a new insolence: “Caught by surprise, were you, Governor?”

  Dorje Gangshar hesitated, then jabbed his boots into the pony’s flank.

  “Governor, what happened?” called another female.

  “We heard there’d be a Tibetan army here.”

  “Were you in charge? Where’s everyone gone?”

  “We’ve come to kick out the Chinese, Governor.”

  Dorje Gangshar did not look around but walked his pony away without expression or hurry. Suddenly, right in front of him, a burly woman with all the personal charm of a yak stood in his way.

  “Governor, can you answer us, please? What’s happened to the resistance? Why are you leaving?”

  “Tsering Norzu, for pity’s sake!”

  “Remember yourself!”

  (These hasty exhortations came from the men.)

  “They’ve got hundreds of boxes down there!” yelled a younger woman on the farther crest, who stood gazing down at the encampment below. “Taking plenty of loot, are you, Governor? Lots of silver? Plenty of finery for India, I hope?”

  Dorje Gangshar, while trying hard to avoid the faces that swarmed about him now, could not ignore the anger, the fury riding on exhaustion. The three Chinese soldiers dropped their cigarettes, unshouldered their rifles and looked nervous also, backing away from the crowd towards their own mounts. The Khampa men were clustered around the chorten, squirming with feudal embarrassment. Their appalling women, however, were beginning to get both in the Governor’s way and on his nerves. More and more of them were trotting alongside him then in front, walking backwards as they turned to face him. He began to feel alarmed, and discreetly urged the pony into as fast a walk as dignity would permit.

  “Oh, Governor, come on, don’t run away.” The squealing female voice was twisted with sarcasm.

  “We need you, lordly sir!”

  “Like we need a whack of smallpox.”

  “Or Chinese clap!” A vicious screech. “You’re not Chinese, are you, sir?”

  “Governor, are you really Chinese? Tell!”

  At last, the noble legs began not so much to kick as to flap frantically. His mount trotted with several women jogging alongside. When the pony reached the descent, Dorje Gangshar urged it on down the path. Someone started throwing snowballs after him. The first missed; the second exploded with a pleasant phut! against his brocaded back.

  “Get off!” bawled the women. “Get off and walk! You want to kill the horse as well?”

  “A man who rides downhill is no—”

  The hoary maxim stayed unfinished—but proven. There came a gasp, then a gale of delighted mockery from the women now lining the crest of the pass: Dorje Gangshar had fallen off his pony. The stocky, surefooted beast had been coping admirably with the unfamiliar business of carrying a man downhill, until its frantic rider took a snowball on the back of his neck, flapped his thighs and lurched forward all at once. The pony tripped, going down awkwardly onto its knees. Immediately it staggered to its feet, mercifully unhurt, but Dorje Gangshar tumbled among the drifts and rocks. He picked himself up, grabbed for the reins and a moment later was stumbling away downhill in a swirl of snow and blue robing, pursued by jeers and snowballs.

  “Gracious,” said Khenpo Nima. “I’d never have believed that.”

  Around him, the men of Jyeko stood speechless.

  The three Chinese troopers were so alarmed that they remained by their ponies seventy yards off, rifles loaded and ready in their jittery hands. They were smoking furiously, further betraying their nerves. Jamyang Sangay told them to wait while Jyeko’s answer was considered, and gave them to understand that it was only the inherently superior civilization of Tibet that saved their throats from a prompt slitting.

  In the center of the pass, the people of Jyeko gathered in a ring in the bright sunshine, debating passionately. Their animals had been left to mill about among the snowy boulders, looking in vain for something to nibble.

  Well apart on the western edge, Jamie stood staring fixedly in the direction of Kantu-Dzong. The uncanny clarity of distant Tibetan views was perhaps enhanced by the intensity of his attention, and certainly by his imagination. It seemed to him that he could see every pebble on the pathway leading up the slope of rocky detritus to the gate of the fort. He believed he could count the soldiers going up and down the hill, and their field guns and tents surrounding the little hamlet below. He half believed that he could see Puton in the (completely hidden) courtyard.

  From time to time, his gaze would pan across the grandeur of the landscape. The farthest mountains hung like pale drapes in various tones of misty blue. To the south, separated by a hundred peaks and ridges, a hundred valley troughs dark with forest drained into the Brahmaputra and thence to India. Nearer, between Moro-La and the Tibetan upper reaches of the river, were bare hills of color: caramel, russet and damson topped with sugary snow. Among these led the trail down which the discomfited ex-Governor, his women, progeny and serfs were now making their way.

  Always, though, Jamie’s look returned to Kantu-Dzong, and the haughty nasal voice of Dorje Gangshar came and came again like red ants in his brain: A woman of good family from Lhasa, who was in the east and now travels with the Major...

  “What are you thinking of, Jemmy?” said Khenpo Nima at his shoulder. Jamie waved in helpless silence towards the fort. The monk sighed. “My little blue poppies grow in the heights above that castle.”

  “I’m not thinking about flowers.”

  “Oh, no. But, Jemmy, you can go home now,” said Nima, indicating the group receding along the trail. “You can accompany the Governor, you know, you can go straight after him.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  They watched the fleeing aristocrat together for a moment.

  “Rings on his fingers and bells on his toes. Dragging his servants with him. Do you suppose he asked them whether they wanted exile in India?” Inexorably, Jamie’s eyes were drawn back to the distant fort.

  Gently, Nima began again: “Perhaps, Jemmy, there is now come a time when you cannot see her again. . . .”

  There came a sudden roar from the debating villagers.

  “What are they saying?” asked Jamie.

  “Some are for India, some for surrender, still one or two say we should return to Jyeko. Some have a crazy thought of attacking the fort.”

  Jamie looked at him in faint interest.

  “How could they do that?”

  “You know what they are like, Jemmy, those like Karjen and, I’m afraid, Wangdu. They say they cannot lie down quietly now, that they must rescue our abbot from this Duan.”

  “Rescue?”

  Again, the flurry of impassioned words. Jamie could see Wangdu struggling to manage the dispute, and the pack of charged faces around him, insisting, entreating.

  “Don’t you agree, Nima?” said Jamie. “I do.”

  “What is that, Jemmy?”

  “You cannot go home. Duan’s not going to be very civil if you surrender to him. You might as well try to kill him first, don’t you think?”

  With that, Jamie turned on his heel, heading for the circle. Khenpo Nima followed.

  The
arguments had gone around at least twice. Among those advocating a new life in India, Jamyang Sangay had been most forceful. For this he had been taken sternly to task.

  “You have the means for it, Sangay. You’ve the money to make a new home and a business. Fine. What about Drolma, or Tenzin Drema, or Tesla, or Pemba Norbu? What are the poor people to do in India? Break rocks?”

  More shouts, more vehemence: the three Chinese troopers were starting to edge towards their ponies.

  Wangdu said: “For me, there is no life that is not Tibet. For me, Tibet is where I ride as I please, where I play or pray or pay homage as I must. If I have to flee through the storms, or hide in the little valleys or creep past campfires in the dark—or abandon my abbot to the Chinese!—then this is not Tibet.”

  “I shall go to the Abbot,” Khenpo Nima spoke out. “I see no reason why this Duan should have harmed him. But you must save yourselves! Your lives are sacred, and if you stay here to fight you will throw them away most sacrilegiously. There is no shame in making your lives anew wherever fate takes you.”

  “No shame,” called Jamie, “but no future, no hope.”

  “Jemmy!”

  “Dear Nima, forgive me, but you know nothing of India. Your people will be exiles and refugees. I tell you, the world is crawling with exiles and refugees. No one will give a damn! No one is going to fight China for you. You’ll sit in a muddy camp full of mosquitoes, eating sticky milk sweets, forgetting what Jyeko looked like and waiting and waiting, sweating your lives away, getting sick, having babies who will never—ever!—breathe the air of these mountains.”