Tibetan Foothold

by Dervla Murphy

  An hour later the interpreter came to tell us that Rinchin was dead.

  11 SEPTEMBER

  I haven’t been feeling very energetic today. Last night, after diary-writing, Rinchin’s death prompted me to continue my study of Dr Evans-Wentz’s edition of the Bardo Thödol – which in the circumstances made such absorbing reading that it was 2.30 a.m. before I put out the light.

  This must be one of the world’s most remarkable books. Tradition says that it was compiled during the early centuries of Lamaism – if not actually during the lifetime of Padma Sambhava himself – and to the average reader it certainly gives the impression of having been strongly influenced by the old animist Bön-Po religion. However, Lama Anagorika Govinda points out that it cannot be regarded as propagating Bön ideas, since it firmly declares its adherence to Padma Sambhava, the man responsible for replacing Bönism by Buddhism. Therefore the Bön influence should be interpreted not as a dilution of the original Buddhist doctrine, but as the consequence of Padma Sambhava’s compromise with the local Tibetan deities, whom he appointed as guardians of the new faith. Bönism did have a crude doctrine of rebirth, yet, from what little else is known of it, there were few other points of contact with Buddhism, so this ‘appointment’ of its gods must have been an expedient manoeuvre to reconcile the more fanatical followers of the old faith to the new. Such a manoeuvre was permissible within the framework of orthodox Buddhism, which has always tolerated the reverencing of the gods of earth and space, as guardians of the ‘Dharma’. Yet it is probably true to say that Lamaism, as practised by uneducated lay-people, retains a stronger animist element than any other Buddhist School – particularly, it seems, among the Gelug-pa sect, which might be described as the State Church of Tibet. This is an odd circumstance, because the Gelug-pas (also known as the ‘Yellow-Hats’ and ‘The Virtuous’) are in fact the Reformed Church, established by Tsong-Kapa in the late fourteenth century, and one would have assumed them to be least influenced by the ancient religion. However, there was no reason to fear the rivalry of Bönism by that date, when the surviving Bön-pos had completed the process of so closely remodelling their religion on Buddhist lines that outsiders found it difficult to distinguish between the two iconographies and literatures. Therefore the Gelug-pas could in turn borrow from the Bön-pos without loss of dignity and they chose to reintroduce one of the most powerful Bönist institutions – the State Oracles. Oracle-Temples are now to be found in most Yellow Sect Monasteries and the deities invoked therein are exclusively Bönist.

  The Bön-pos, like most other primitive people, had their rituals for the benefit and guidance of the dead, but the Bardo Thödol, though incorporating some of these, presents far more complex theories about Life, Death and Rebirth than could have been evolved by a people without any literature of their own. It belongs to the same eschatological tradition as Plato’s Tenth Book of the Republic, the Egyptian Book of the Dead and the medieval Ars Moricado. Sir John Woodroffe has described it as a ‘Traveller’s Guide to Other Worlds’, since it recounts, with a considerable knowledge of depth psychology, the experiences of the deceased between death and rebirth. But it can also provide the means of comforting and strengthening those who are on their deathbed and, most important of all, its essential teaching is intended to be assimilated and acted on throughout life, so that the Buddhist ideal of meeting death serenely, lucidly and bravely may be realised when the time comes. In our age the Tibetans are unique as the only people to study the Art of Dying as something equalling in important the Art of Living. This is a corollary to their belief that ‘… the last thought at the moment of death determines the character of the next incarnation’ – a theory recalling the Hebrew teaching, ‘As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.’

  However, yesterday’s recitation of the Bardo Thödol was merely an example of the popular use to which the book is now put by the majority who, misunderstanding its purpose, use it thus in the belief that such a recitation will effect the ‘liberation’ of the dying person from the cycle of birth and rebirth. One can hardly blame the ordinary monks and lay-people for their superstitious misinterpretations and debasements of the Buddhist doctrine, considering how few people have been admitted throughout the centuries to the circle of initiates. In this respect Southern Buddhist criticisms of Northern Buddhism, as a type of gnosticism and a deviation from the Pali Canon, seem justified.

  In his introduction to The Tibetan Book of the Dead, as the English translation of the Bardo Thödol is entitled, Dr Evans-Wentz makes a very interesting comparison between the Bible, the Koran and the Bardo Thödol. He observes that whereas the former two books present, as real events, those spiritual experiences which take the form of visions or hallucinations, the Bardo Thödol presents them as purely illusionary and symbolic, thereby revealing a much deeper understanding of the human mind than was common in earlier centuries. Yet here again we see the disparity between the esoteric and exoteric interpretations; many now regard these symbolic descriptions of after-death experiences just as credulously as we regarded the Bible two hundred years ago.

  Dr Evans-Wentz also remarks on the link between the Tibetan doctrine of rebirth and ‘the purgatorial lore now Christianised and associated with St Patrick’s Purgatory in Ireland, and the whole cycle of Otherworld and Rebirth legends of the Celtic peoples connected with their Fairy-Faith’. In his book* Dr Evans-Wentz has suggested that this purgatorial lore, which was centred about a cavern for mystic pagan initiations on an island in Lough Derg, may have inspired the doctrine of Purgatory in the Catholic Church. He mentions that the original cavern was demolished by order of the British Government, in an attempt to destroy pagan superstition. According to Tibetan eschatology rebirth in this world is the equivalent of the Catholic Purgatory and is the normal person’s lot. Only the exceptionally evil man is condemned to Hell and only the exceptionally good man attains Nirvana.

  When Juliet went back to the hut last night, after being told of Rinchin’s death, she found it already deserted by everyone except a Lama and she had to return here to find the unhappy Dubkay, who was so crazed with grief that it required two men to hold him down and prevent him from injuring himself. Juliet gave him a sedative which soon sent him to sleep, but everyone else seemed to remain awake, and all night we could hear women wailing and men beating drums to frighten off the Evil Spirit.

  The Tibetan custom is to throw a white cloth over the corpse’s face as soon as death takes place and nobody is allowed to touch the deceased while the complete separation of soul from body is believed to be in progress. This takes from three and a half to four days, unless hastened by a priest known as the hpho-bo or ‘extractor of the consciousness principle’. But even with the hpho-bo’s assistance it is held that the deceased is not aware of separation from the body until this period has passed. In Rinchin’s case a hpho-bo came immediately and he was the Lama seen sitting at the head of the corpse by Juliet.

  The hpho-bo usually dismisses everyone from the death chamber and has all the doors and windows sealed to ensure the silence necessary for the performance of his ritual. Next he intones a mystic chant and, after ordering the spirit to detach itself from living relatives and material goods and to leave the body, he scrutinises the crown of the head at the sagittal suture, known as the ‘Aperture of Brahma’, and if the scalp is not bald removes a few hairs from immediately over the aperture.

  While this ceremony is being conducted a tsi-pa or astrologer-Lama, is elsewhere casting a horoscope to discover who may approach and handle the corpse, how and when it should be disposed of and what rites should be performed to assist the deceased – this depending on the precise nature of the death-demon concerned. Next the corpse is arranged in a sitting position, known as the ‘embryonic posture’, and is placed in one corner of the room. When I went up to the hut this morning Rinchin was arranged thus and two Lamas were reciting the Bardo Thödol. A bowl of food stood before the corpse, for it is customary to offer the deceased a share of each mea
l eaten by the family and by visiting mourners between the times of death and burial. Similarly, during the forty-nine-day period which is believed to elapse between death and rebirth, an effigy of the corpse is kept in the corner of the room formerly occupied by the deceased and is regularly offered food. This effigy is made by dressing some suitable object such as a stool in the dead person’s clothes and inserting a printed paper where the face should be. On this the inscription reads: ‘I, the world’s departing one, (name), adore and take refuge in my Lama-confessor, and all the deities, both mild and wrathful; and may “the Great Pitier” forgive my accumulated sins and impurities of former lives and show me the way to another good world.’

  Dr Evans-Wentz finds the use of this effigy ‘So definitely akin to the effigy of the deceased called “the Statue of the Osiris”, as used in the funeral rites of Ancient Egypt, as to suggest a common origin.’ And Dr L. A. Waddell writes: ‘This is essentially a Bön rite, and is referred to as such in the histories of Guru Padma Sambhava, as having been practised by the Bön, and as having incurred the displeasure of the founder of Lamaism.’ It is rather characteristic of the Tibetans that while doctrines come and go they quietly but firmly adhere to the rites that please them.

  We were told this evening that the astrologer had declared 4 a.m. tomorrow to be an auspicious time for the funeral. Then, every week until the forty-nine days are over, Lamas will come to the hut to read the Bardo Thödol. At the end of this period the effigy’s face-paper is ‘ceremoniously burned in the flame of a butter-lamp and the spirit of the deceased given a final farewell’, its fate being deduced from the colour of the burning paper and the way in which the flame behaves. Next the effigy is taken apart and the clothes given to the Lamas, who sell them as part of their fee. A year later a feast is held in honour of the deceased and after this the widow or widower is at liberty to marry again.

  Having no standard of comparison I wouldn’t know whether the death ceremonies performed here today were simple or elaborate. They looked elaborate, but in view of Dubkay’s financial standing were probably simple – only two Lamas are reciting the Bardo Thödol in the hut, whereas a rich man would have up to a hundred Lamas chanting in his home or in the temple where the deceased usually worshipped.

  This morning, when I went on my ‘ear-rounds’, I saw that one of the girls’ rooms had been taken over by the Lamas and converted to a little temple, where ceremonies continued all day. Another small altar-table was set up on the veranda of our bungalow, and here three of the saintliest-looking old Lamas I’ve ever seen sat cross-legged for hours, performing strange rites with the butter-lamps, little bowls of foodstuffs and ‘tormas’ (sacrificial cakes) arranged on the altar before them. I longed to stop and examine everything closely but, not wishing to display an outsider’s vulgar curiosity during such solemn rites, I had to be content with casual glimpses obtained while passing. These were enough to reveal the very great beauty of the silver ceremonial vessels, and later this evening I learned that most of these are four or five hundred years old.

  Juliet’s first job today was to look for a wet-nurse for Dubkay’s baby – provisionally named Sonam Nobo, which means ‘Lucky Precious Thing’. But in this respect he was not lucky. Many of the ayahs are feeding babies and normally they vie with one another to take on any waif or stray; yet, though expressing endless sympathy for both father and son, they all had an excuse why Sonam Nobo could not be nursed. Rinchin’s death-demon is still very much among those present and Kesang admitted to me that the ayahs believed it might now have entered into the baby – despite Rinchin’s certainty that her child would be safe. So, as it is out of the question to entrust Tibetans with bottlefeeding, Sonam Nobo remains in our bungalow, sleeping between us in a Tibetan table turned upside down (Tibetan tables are virtually boxes, some 2´ 6˝ high) and doing nicely, thank you. He requires sustenance half-hourly, as far as I can see – or hear – but since I’m terrified of such microscopic humans Juliet has absolved me from my share of the responsibility and she and Kesang will cope between them.

  This evening, just after Juliet had left the camp to escort a bad asthma case to Kangra Hospital, Dubkay called to see his son. Never have I witnessed such a pathetic scene. He burst into tears the moment I lifted the tiny object out of its box – but somehow in this environment there’s nothing odd or embarrassing about a man in tears – and then he sat on the floor for over an hour, cuddling and kissing the infant so incessantly that I thought he’d suffocate it. The only thing that stopped his quiet sobbing was the sight of Sonam Nobo yawning – an operation which made Dubkay beam all over his face. Occasionally he’d look up and proudly draw my attention to the fact that the prodigy’s fingernails were growing or that its hair was thinning – he hasn’t yet got adjusted to the whole mysterious business of being father to a real live son!

  When Dubkay had left Kesang came in, at the conclusion of the ayahs’ night-prayers, and I remarked to her how sad it was to see Dubkay’s grief, but how fortunate that he had Sonam Nobo to console him. Kesang agreed and added revealingly – ‘Dubkay and Rinchin were very good friends. He says he can easily get another wife and in one year will surely be married again. But he says he knows he will never have another friend like Rinchin.’

  12 SEPTEMBER

  Walking down to the Dispensary at 5.30 this morning we saw eerie evidence of the funeral, and in the grey early light I found myself shivering slightly – one doesn’t have to be very suggestible to react to the intensity of the camp’s present atmosphere.

  En route from the hut to the burning-ghat by the river every single road, path, track and doorway was ‘sealed off’ against the Evil Spirit by a six-inch-wide line of white flour, which at one point extended for twenty yards across the compound. The road to Dall Lake, on one’s right leaving the compound, had its line, as had the tracks to the Upper Nursery, to the Dispensary, to Forsythe Bazaar and to the Military Cantonment down the mountainside. Only the road to the river was ‘open’.

  I didn’t hear the funeral moving off, but Juliet was up at 4 a.m., feeding Sonam Nobo, and heard the chanting of the Lamas, the beating of hand-drums, the clashing of brass cymbals and the blowing of human thigh-bone trumpets and sacred conch-shells. The cremation itself must have been quite a brief ceremony for on our return to breakfast we found a tearful Dubkay squatting in the corner fondling Sonam Nobo.

  The Lamas again had an active time today as they continued their exorcising campaign by swinging censers of delightful incense in every corner of every room in the camp. Three of them also prayed for an hour in our room, giving Sonam Nobo innumerable blessings. But they won’t hold the ‘Naming Blessing Ceremony’ for another month.

  * Fairy Faith in Celtic Countries (Oxford, 1911)

  4

  Difficulties and Diversions

  17 SEPTEMBER

  Today twenty-eight Tiblets were transferred from the Lower to the Upper Nursery – a gratuitously unfeeling action on the part of the camp authorities. Not that it’s entirely their fault: the woolly bureaucracy of Tibland in general is also evident here.

  There’s a transit camp at Lower Dharamsala where forty-seven children in the eight-to-fourteen age-group are now living in the most appalling squalor – without ayahs, medical care, blankets, mugs, spoons, drinkable water or anything else. This establishment is supervised by one of the corrupt Tibetans – and a corrupt Tibetan is as astonishingly bad as an incorrupt Tibetan is astonishingly good. If one of the relief agencies sends supplies and equipment – as they occasionally do, following an inspection by some shocked foreigner – these are normally flogged in the local bazaars within a week of their arrival. The present group of children have now been at Lower Dharamsala for five months (it all depends on what you mean by ‘transit’!) and it’s anybody’s guess when they will be moved elsewhere. So my argument is that when children are sent from the Upper Nursery to the Mussoorie Schools these unfortunates from Lower Dharamsala should replace them. This would both ease the
situation at the transit camp and avoid separating our lot from the ayahs they’ve grown to love and depend on in loco parentis. But no – the transit camp is technically a ‘school’ (the fact that it has no teacher is apparently irrelevant), whereas the Upper Nursery is not a ‘school’ (though Doris and two Tibetan teachers are available) so the Indian authorities would not approve of such a transfer. Sometimes one finds one’s patience wearing a little thin in Tibland.

  Actually my patience evaporated completely this afternoon when Mr Phalla – Mrs Tsiring Dolma’s second-in-command – came to choose the twenty-eight. We are never given any warning of such events and as I was de-worming 108 Tiblets, having just expended an enormous amount of nervous energy on sorting them out from among the other hundreds, Mr Phalla came rushing into the room waving the long sleeves of his robe and looking like a demented ostrich. He shouted a few Tibetan phrases and before I could intervene my precious 108 tapeworm cases had vanished. Swearing, I shot out after them, to see every child in the camp lined up on the compound with half a dozen clerks from the office scuttling up and down the lines, picking out one here and one there. Ten minutes later it was all over and the lines had broken up and there were little groups of ayahs and children clinging to each other and weeping their eyes out. There was also me, still swearing as I darted round clutching my list of tape-worm numbers and peering at the (usually wrong) numbers around hundreds of necks. As if life wasn’t difficult enough already for all concerned.