15 AUGUST
Today is Indian Independence Day but you would never suspect it here. It’s quite a curious sensation to be living in but not with a country: yet I can’t deny that it suits me to live among my Tibetans, high up on a wild mountain with the real India thousands of feet below in the valley.
Yesterday was our third successive fine day so Juliet decided that we should begin the anti-scabies bathing campaign. I wish I could send back a tape-recording of the audible results and a movie-film of the visual ones; we found our choir of angels suddenly transformed into a pack of demons. Tiblets can take unpleasant medicines and lanced abscesses and septic ears and bleeding gums but they will not submit to the horrible indignity of personal contact with water.
The camp ‘bathroom’ consists of a shed some twelve feet by eight, with two cold water taps and a stone floor. There were over 400 children to be washed and six of us to do the job. This would have been difficult enough had the Tiblets been as co-operative as usual, but with each victim screaming its head off and resisting every inch of the way it soon became a nightmare. I don’t believe our ear-drums will ever be the same again, and as for our backs – none of us has been able to straighten up since!
Juliet has devised a technique guaranteed to frighten the boldest scabies mite to Kingdom Come. As a start the victim is thoroughly soaped with carbolic and well rinsed under the tap. Next he is steeped for five minutes in a huge tin tub of hot water (from the kitchen) containing generous quantities of permanganate of potash. From this he emerges dyed puce and he is then dried by an ayah before being rubbed all over his sore patches with a foul-smelling, sickly yellow concoction of mustard-oil and sulphur – this final torture being Oliver’s contribution to the sadistic orgy. As can be seen, we have an excellently planned strategy – but first you must catch your infant. And I’m sure that never were so many infants so elusive so often as yesterday afternoon. They escaped, panic-stricken, at every stage of the performance – before being undressed, while being soaped (obviously the ideal moment), when placed in the tin tub, while leaving the ‘bathroom’ to be dried outside and when about to be anointed. In every corner of the camp – and even at points up the hillside – lurked the trembling sacrifices to our zeal; but Juliet and I were inexorable. We had proved that painting with mercurochrome or gentian violet made no impression on the scabies and in future a bath for each child was to be part of the daily regime. So we reckoned that only by rounding up the lot on the first day of the experiment could we hope to break the famous Tibetan stubbornness which we were now seeing in action. The fact that the ayahs were clearly in sympathy with their charges, and regarded us as meddling eccentrics, didn’t help – and here too we felt that an initial show of force was very necessary.
Indians usually obey a European’s orders if under supervision and they will pretend to agree – even when they don’t – with Western ideas; but the independent-minded Tibetans only obey orders from non-Tibetan authorities if they can understand, and approve of, the reasoning behind an order. In this particular case the one way to make them see the logic behind washing the children is to prove that the results are good. So we must resign ourselves to their opposition till time justifies our present ‘tough line’. However, though the native independence of Tibetans has disadvantages, it also creates a much more congenial atmosphere than the servility of Indians. One can respect the Tibetans – even at their most exasperating – and personal relationships with them start from a basis of mutually acknowledged equality.
On today’s evidence we have won the first round of the Bathing Battle. This afternoon the majority of the children accepted their fate – not without protest, but in a manner which tacitly admitted defeat – and the number of attempted escapes was much reduced. The whole operation is certainly a classic example of ‘being cruel to be kind’ and one can hardly blame the ayahs for resenting the amount of additional pain inflicted on their charges. Yet already the Tibetan genius for making the best of a situation is showing itself. Today some of the victims, while sitting four at a time in the potassium tub, discovered that it was fun to pour mugs of purple water over each other’s heads. But I’m afraid that we workers do not enjoy the performance as we bend for hours over a tub, getting soaked to the skin and slipping on the soapy stone floor, amidst shrieking, writhing, naked little bodies whose number never seems to grow less – until at last the blessed moment comes when the final contingent is in and we realise that there is no longer an immediate replacement for every child we have washed.
18 AUGUST
Sunday again, so I’ve time to luxuriate in a long entry without losing sleep! I waited till today to describe our visit to the theatre on the 14th – an improbable recreation hereabouts, but the group known somewhat formidably as ‘The Tibetan Refugees’ Cultural Association’s Drama Party’ has its headquarters near Macleod Ganj and occasionally musical plays are staged to entertain the locally settled Tibetans. During the monsoon such performances are infrequent, as the audience sits on strips of matting in the open air, but on Wednesday we had word sent us that a classical and a modern play would be staged that evening and after supper we set off to walk round the mountain to the theatre.
Dancing and singing were the main recreations in Tibet, as anyone can deduce from the spontaneous skill of the average refugee in these arts. So strong is the national impulse to dance that many centuries ago it became interwoven with the national adaptation of Buddhism and most people have heard of the lengthy ritual dances – often inaccurately called ‘Devil Dances’ – of the Lamas. The legendary origin of these dances was a ‘thunderbolt dance in the skies’ of the Guru Padma Sambhava when he had exorcised all evil influences from the site chosen for the first Tibetan monastery at Samye. Since that date it seems that the study of the esoteric Tantric texts has been accompanied by a dramatising of their teaching through sounds, postures and rhythmic movements of great variety. These ceremonial dances are as numerous as the texts, and each sect of Tibetan Buddhism uses its own forms, emblems, masks and figures. Obviously such dances could never be understood without a considerable knowledge of the exceedingly complex philosophy which they were evolved to express. Many of them were originally severe mental and physical disciplines through which men attempted to reach a state of supreme mystical exaltation and – as in ancient Greece and Egypt – only the initiated could witness or participate in these rituals. But now they are publicly performed on special occasions and in the majority of cases their symbolism is not fully understood even by the Lama dancers themselves.
In a sense, therefore, the peasant folk-dances and songs are at present a more vital and genuine part of Tibetan culture than the stylised, semi-meaningless monastery dances. Up to the time of the Chinese invasion these folk-arts were richly alive and always developing throughout the country. Just as Ireland or England have their village hurling or cricket teams, who play in regional championships, so Tibet had her village dancers and singers, who gathered about once a month in a chosen village to stage a competition. Characteristically, there were no prizes, nor was there any cult of individual ‘star’ performers – the winner was simply the village whose team received the most enthusiastic applause. During the festival of the Tibetan New Year – which falls on the day of the February full moon and is the great national holiday – the villages of an area sent their best team to the nearest town for the big annual competition.
These singers and dancers were always amateurs and it was considered very bad form to turn professional; but naturally the required talents were often inherited and certain families were renowned for their ability. In such cases the father usually taught not only his own children but those other local youngsters who showed signs of talent.
The Tibetans had songs to accompany each everyday task and in some cases to accompany the separate parts of one task – e.g. masons had special songs for laying foundations, building walls and putting on roofs. In the fourteenth or fifteenth century of our era dances were com
posed to go with these songs and both the dances and the costumes of the men and women differ conspicuously in the three chief provinces of Döme, Döte and Utsang: there are also many minor regional differences. Most of the songs refer to the vast beauty of the Tibetan landscape but love-songs are only sung at marriage festivals, which indicates what we would call a lack of emotional involvement in sexual relationships; it certainly does not signify any prudish traditional policy of shielding the young from temptation. A similar lack has been noted among the Buddhist Sherpas by Professor Fürer von Haimendorf, who deduced it from the absence of domestic friction which he observed in polyandric households. It certainly helps to explain that happy-go-lucky Tibetan attitude to sex – as a cross between a good meal and an exhilarating game – which results in a proliferation of warmly welcomed bastards in many refugee camps. Babies are things that will happen and no one fusses.
The importance to the Tibetans of their dances and songs is stressed by the fact that very soon after the 1959 exodus to India the Dalai Lama asked his Cabinet to make an attempt to keep this part of the Tibetan culture alive. At first glance such a preoccupation might seem frivolous, considering the conditions under which the average refugee was then living; but, in fact, His Holiness showed commendable realism in acting so promptly. He knew that refugees need more than food and clothing and that a living art could soon die if the steady transmission of skill from generation to generation were not maintained.
In September 1959 some of the more expert refugee dancers met in Kalimpong to tackle the enormous problem of starting a drama group without instruments, costumes, masks – or money. Indian craftsmen couldn’t make instruments which they had never seen, but eventually, through India’s Representative in Tibet, a few instruments were brought out over the border and some others were smuggled into Sikkim and Nepal, en route for Kalimpong. Meanwhile the seven founder-members of the Drama Party were collecting songs from natives of all the Tibetan provinces and sending around the camps to find children suitable for training. Soon about twenty boys and girls had joined the group and for the next six months they worked hard eight hours a day, not able to afford even a cup of tea during their long practice sessions.
The Drama Party’s first public performance was given in 1960 at Kalimpong, and its success provided enough money for new costumes. Next they were invited to perform before the Afro-Asian Conference in Delhi, where their skill was much appreciated, and when His Holiness moved to Dharamsala he suggested that they also should make this their headquarters. By now the group’s fame had spread throughout the refugee world and many parents sent specially talented children to Dharamsala, where they received some conventional schooling as well as their specialised training.
At the moment, apart from performing the traditional Tibetan dances, the group also stages two dramas; one depicting the coming of Buddhism to Tibet and the other the coming of Communism. The first of these was recently written by a learned Lama who adapted ancient songs and dances to fit his presentation of the historical events of the eighth century. After many rehearsals this play had its first performance before His Holiness, members of the ‘Kashag’ (the Tibetan Cabinet) and many guests. A little later the Drama Party successfully toured Delhi, Calcutta and Darjeeling, raising quite a lot of money for distribution among the worst-off refugees. It is now their ambition to produce several more plays illustrating incidents from Tibetan history and to tour extensively in India, and possibly abroad.
On Wednesday evening most of the camp ayahs took time off to attend the drama, and as Oliver and I walked to Macleod Ganj (Juliet was still in Kangra doing her half-day duties) groups of singing young women preceded and followed us along the road, their clear voices filling the forest with melody. From Macleod Ganj to the theatre a rough sloping track – blocked at one point by a new landslide – curves around the mountain, overlooking a deep, wooded valley on the right. Now we were walking among a stream of Tibetans, many carrying sleeping babies on their backs or accompanied by toddlers trotting sturdily behind them, all in high spirits at the prospect of the evening’s entertainment.
I find it very difficult to define the essence of Tibetan charm. Anyway charm is too soft and smooth a word – let’s just say likeability. Generalisations are rash, but not always avoidable, and I don’t think anyone who knows the Tibetans will deny that they have a most distinctive and attractive racial personality. It seems to be compounded of resilient happiness, a peculiarly innocent fearlessness that shows in their direct, steady gaze, a quick sense of humour and an infectious zest for simple pleasures that makes one feel more alive in their company.
To all this their picturesque everyday attire adds an essentially irrelevant but delightful ‘finishing touch’. The men’s high fur caps or broad-brimmed hats show off their strong and often very handsome features and the nigger-brown chuba, usually drawn up around the waist to kilt-length, gives a sort of dignified swagger to their gait as they move easily up the steep mountain paths to which their gaily coloured, knee-length cloth boots are ideally suited. Normally a knife, spoon and leather silver-embossed pouch containing flint and steel in lieu of matches are attached to their belts, and sometimes a short sword in a marvellously ornate sheath is also thrust into the belt. A silver reliquary is usually hung round their necks and those who enjoy a certain standing in Tibet wear shoulder-length turquoise earrings in the left ear.
The women look no less splendid with their long gowns and richly striped aprons and waist-long hair, the braids interwoven with coloured threads. They wear masses of heavy silver and turquoise and coral jewellery, carrying all the invested wealth of the family on their persons. But now some are entirely without ornament because misfortune has forced them to avert starvation by selling their only remaining possessions. Yet however hard their lot they all retain their wooden prayerbeads, worn around the wrist, and those silver prayer-wheels which they carry everywhere.
I particularly love seeing the children in exact miniature replicas of their parents’ clothes – they look so much more pleasing than the Western-style garments donated from abroad for our Tiblets at the camp.
On arriving at the theatre Oliver and I were given cushions of honour in the front row; it was impossible to decline them, yet I would have much preferred to sit among the body of the audience. Immediately behind us, sharing the shelter of what might be described as the proscenium of the covered stage, sat the Palace officials and a number of lamas; but everyone else was squatting cross-legged under the sky, quietly waiting for the curtain to rise. On our right, as we faced the stage, was a large mural illustrating with crude realism the various atrocities inflicted by the Chinese on the Tibetans, and on the left was the usual shrine consisting of a large photograph of the Dalai Lama – the frame draped in white scarves – with a row of little butter-lamps flickering on the shelf beneath it.
When the curtain rose we saw as backdrop a painting of the Potala, with many details characteristic of Tibetan daily life in the foreground. The picture was reminiscent of a European Primitive and showed none of the delicate craftsmanship associated with Oriental pictorial art: but this is explained by the fact that in Tibet no tradition of painting could develop among the ordinary people, since all such art was religiously inspired and its practice regarded as an esoteric ritual.
As the curtain went up the electricity supply failed, but was rapidly restored, and then we heard the chanted invocation to Chenrezig – Lord of Boundless Love – which precedes every performance. Next three men, representing the chief Tibetan provinces, stood silently in the centre of the stage holding the national flag with its fabulously colourful and intricate design. The spiritual symbolism of this design is too involved for me to understand, much less explain, but it struck me as very appropriate that whereas most countries are satisfied with a pattern of geometrically arranged colours Tibet must have an exuberant wealth of pictorial emblems. As the flag was being presented we heard from behind the scenes that most moving air, ‘Katatampa’
– a very ancient tune adopted as the national anthem in the reign of the thirteenth Dalai Lama, when its patriotic words were composed. Then, after the standard-bearers had marched off, the play began.
I had been asked by SCI to report on this company’s possible appeal to Western audiences and I had no hesitation in encouraging them to take it abroad. The classical drama provides gay, vigorous, graceful dancing, interwoven with quiet scenes revealing the formal beauty of oriental etiquette, and its pleasing music is immediately intelligible to Westerners. The magnificent costumes alone are an aesthetic treat, with their striking originality of design and ornament and their boldly contrasting textures and colours.
We soon realised that we were seeing folk-art of a quality now extinct in Europe. This dancing was not something rescued out of the wreckage of individual national cultures and artificially preserved but was an artform still fulfilling its original purpose – to give expression to the creativity of unlettered peasants, while instructing a new generation in the history and legends of their race. These performances are a palpable extension of the spiritual and emotional life of the audience and they provide the Westerner with an entirely novel experience. Inevitably such an experience could not be fully shared by members of an all-Western audience, but careful handling of the players throughout the tour should ensure that the essential vitality survives.
The production is not amateurish in the sense of a rural dramatic society playing Goldsmith, yet by our standards it is perceptibly rough around the edges; a Western group with half the talent could give a more technically polished performance. However, attempts to achieve a greater degree of smoothness would destroy that disarming unselfconsciousness which is one of the main attractions of the performance. The players are obviously unaware of being ‘specialists’, in a category apart from the audience, and the feeling is of a big party at which a few of the guests have suddenly decided to ‘do something’ to divert their fellows. This was delightfully illustrated when King Tht-Srong-Detsen, during a scene in which he was preoccupied by profound philosophical considerations, casually wiped his nose on the gorgeously embroidered sleeve of his robe. One knows that this is exactly what the original King Tht-Srong-Detsen would have done if the need arose.
Tibetan Foothold Page 6