Like an egoistic rapper, Naro Bon-Chung started by trying to freak out Milarepa by singing his own praises, boasting his prowess in a decidedly inflammatory and intentional manner, throwing in some rude verses about Milarepa along the way. As he did so, he showed off by straddling the holy lake of Manasarovar. Milarepa’s reply was to sing a sweet refrain while covering the lake with his own body, but magically without enlarging himself ont bit. Then, because he could sense the boastful Naro Bon-Chung needed to be totally dominated rather than subtly beaten, he balanced the entire lake on his fingertip, naturally without hurting any living thing.
Naro had to concede defeat, but he insisted that another contest should be staged, this time at the mountain – after all, it was the mountain they were contesting and not the lake. Naro Bon-Chung started to circumambulate the mountain anticlockwise – which Bon-po (and Jains) do to this day. And Milarepa went clockwise, which remains the current Buddhist practice. When they met at a large rock on the north-east side, they locked like a pair of wrestlers and each tried to move the other in the direction that his faith bade him. Naro struggled and skidded and used every trick he could, but Milarepa could not be budged an inch. He was like the very rock they were next to, rooted to the very centre of the earth. Then, as Naro weakened, Milarepa moved first one foot and then the other, faster and faster, shoving the Bon priest along in the clockwise direction Buddhists favour.
He kept pushing Naro until the desperate priest managed to manoeuvre himself into the path of a large rock, which momentarily stopped Milarepa’s progress. Straight away Naro suggested a ‘real trial of strength’ and lifted the rock, which was bigger than a yak, above his head. Milarepa laughed and lifted Naro and the rock he was holding high above his head. But still the stubborn Bon priest would not concede defeat. He went off to meditate in a cave on the side of the mountain and Milarepa did likewise in a cave on the opposite side. Then Milarepa could not resist extending his leg all the way into Naro’s cave to wiggle his toes and distract the Bon priest in his serious meditations. And Naro could not retaliate.
By this time all the local deities watching from the skies above were hooting with laughter at Naro’s constant losses. But though his face and large ears burned with embarrassment, Naro resolved to fight on. He began again to trudge round Mount Kailash in order to build up his power. Milarepa met him on the south side just as it began to rain. The Buddhist was conciliatory. ‘Let’s build a shelter together to get out of this rain,’ he suggested. ‘Would you prefer to lay the foundations, build the floor or the walls, or put on the roof?’ Naro thought it best to go last – that way he couldn’t be trounced by Milarepa. So he said, ‘I’ll put on the roof.’ In a trice, amid a whirlwind of activity, Milarepa began to split rocks to fashion the hut. Naro joined in. For a brief moment they worked together but it soon turned into a bitter competition to see who could split the biggest rocks. There was only one more needed at this point – for the roof – and the cunning Milarepa had planned it so that the remaining rock was so huge poor Naro had no hope of lifting it or splitting it. Laughing, Milarepa picked up the gigantic rock roof as if it were a bag of feathers. He tossed it into the air several times, imprinting his hand and footprints into the rock. Eventually, he threw it up and caught it on the top of his head, leaving a headprint which is still there. Milarepa finished the shelter just as the rain started to get even heavier. He invited Naro into the hut – which is still there and is known as Milarepa’s Miracle Cave – and offered him a conciliatory cup of tea. Naro conceded defeat – but not ultimate defeat.
The next day there were more contests and, though Naro did a little better, he was still bested. He suggested that there should be one final test to decide everything. And Milarepa simply laughed, as one would to a child who couldn’t accept losing, and agreed. Naro said it should take place on the fifteenth day of the month so that he could get into proper training. He was convinced that with the right preparation he could use his best and so far unsurpassed skills of moving fast to get to the mountain’s summit first. Milarepa spent his time relaxing and walking about and enjoying nature and talking to people, while Naro furiously fasted and meditated and chanted to improve his strength.
As dawn broke on the fifteenth day, Milarepa’s disciples, who’d been keeping an eye on Naro even if Milarepa hadn’t, reported back in great excitement that they’d seen Naro playing a drum and flying through the air in a green cloak (which is blue in some accounts – I prefer green as it links to the green man/green cloak theme common in many mystical traditions, East and West). Despite the agitation of his followers, Milarepa wouldn’t get out of bed. He joked, ‘You fear me losing because it is YOU who will look bad!’
Then, as Naro soared triumphantly to within metres of the top of the mountain, Milarepa stood up and clicked his fingers. By some strange spell, Naro was frozen in time and space, lodged with a shocked look on his face. Milarepa now flew to the summit and landed, soft as a bird, just as the first rays of the sun struck the mountaintop with glorious light. The light broke the spell holding Naro frozen in mid-air; he crashed to the slope below and tumbled all the way down the mountain, his broken drum bouncing and clattering over rocks behind him.
Some time later, his arrogance now departed, Naro Bon-Chung humbly asked if it would be all right for his disciples to keep circumambulating Mount Kailash in their old way. He added, without much hope of his wish being granted, that it would be nice, too, for the Bonpo to have a place of their own where they could catch a glimpse of the mountain each day. Milarepa said yes to both requests. He took up a fistful of snow and blew on it, sending it flying to the top of a nearby hill, which grew upwards to meet the snow and became the mountain known as Bonri. To this day, Bonri remains a sacred place for the Bonpo.
The story may tell of a battle, and it works as a story, but the esoteric explanation goes deeper. Both sides may be in opposition – but look for a level in which they are working together. (Governments today lack such sophistication, not understanding that many apparent conflicts actually mask people working together – for good or bad ends. Up to a point, the current terrorism that had its origin in the Himalayas – the invasion of Afghanistan by the former Soviet Union – works with the countries it preys upon. Governments of democracies increase their legitimacy by defending their countries while aiding terror groups in the relentless publicising of their acts.)
Milarepa is the ‘victor’ in that he employs shamanic, mystical techniques that are a dramatic symbolisation of the flexible use of the mind as opposed to the mechanical working of tradition and ritual. But habitual activity has its place, hence the final accommodation with Naro Bon, allowing the traditional circumnavigation to remain.
After the battle, Buddhism under Milarepa becomes dominant in Tibet – but Buddhism did not seek to extinguish the Bon religion. Even today 10 per cent of Tibetans are Bon worshippers, though both Bonism and Buddhism have come to resemble each other since that first historic battle on Mount Kailash.
* Wild yak
† It is also known as Mount Tise.
7
The Ancient Rulers of Tibet
Even the highest mountain cannot block the sun.
Tibetan proverb
It is said that the ancient rulers of Tibet, before the Bon and the Buddhists, were divided into three groups: the storytellers, the magicians and the singers of songs. These three worked wisely together to rule the people justly; this was before the time of kings and other worldly things gradually dragged the Tibetans down to the present age.
Each in their own way, the magicians and village storytellers and musicians and singers all worked with enchantment. The enchantment of a story, our interest in hearing what will happen; the enchantment of a song, the magical effect of words working with musical effect, the sublime rising of emotion, the hairs prickling on the back of one’s neck – a sure sign that emotion is flowing; it is said to be the first sign of arousal in the hunt and in fleeing from enemies. That
fear and interest should be so closely wired helps to explain why magic can so easily serve black as well as white, darkness and evil as well as enlightened and benign. The magician knows the art of hypnosis and the use of magical objects and signs whose sole purpose is to raise to a certain and defined pitch the emotion of the magician, who can then, like a spark shooting from a Tesla machine, enchant the participants. Flags also affect the emotions – that is why you will see hundreds fluttering on the steps up to a monastery in the Himalayas; flags were one of the tools of the old magicians for creating a carrier wave of emotion for their teachings and insights.
All forms of enchantment capture and raise our interest. The story enchants by seizing our interest and making us listen to what happens next. The story is one of the most subtle and ubiquitous forms of magic available. Songs are more powerful. Magic (by which I mean simply the symbols and incantations used to set up a kind of emotional oscillation and amplification between the audience and the witch doctor) is more powerful again – among those who have come prepared in the right way. Just as a stage magician requires some suspension of disbelief (we must sit in front of him, not grab at his cloak or wander the stage randomly, etc.) so too the black or white magician requires of us a certain initial fear, or at least acquiescence in the atmosphere he wishes to create.
Well, the old magician rulers of Tibet knew the power at their disposal and they used it wisely. Only when faced by the vast invading hordes from the steppes did they relinquish their control to the lower formations of kings and mere men. Once a building is painted you may decorate it beautifully with exquisite works of art. But when the building is burned down you need men with the crude strength to cut rock and wood and make caves and shelters.
The storyteller, singer of songs and magician know the danger of their art is that the openness they create latches on to them; like a newborn duckling, the ‘opened soul’ helplessly falls for the object of his attention. By subtle means – the content of the stories themselves, the directing of attention at self-improvement rather than adulation, the focus on creativity rather than destruction – the dangers of the lower love shown for magician or storyteller is transmuted into something useful and unharmful, until the higher love for God, of which it is a reflection, becomes clearer and clearer.
It is said that in Tibet the rulers became the ruled: the magicians became folk-remedy pedlars in the villages; the singers performed at weddings and festivals; and the storytellers earned a place by the fire and a bowl of soup in return for a good yarn. But one day, they say, when the world leaves its current upside-down state (what the Hindus name the age of Kali), then the storytellers, magicians and singers of songs shall rule again.
8
History Starts to Arrive
If a yak doesn’t want to drink water, what is the use of pressing its neck?
Tibetan proverb
I was back in Delhi for Diwali, leaving the Garwhal Himalaya under snow and sleet. I exchanged a place where people still ploughed with a wooden plough and an ox for a city with Wi-Fi, cars and ten-lane highways. It seemed that history was spreading out in space rather than time. As more and more material is made available on the Web there is a sense that history is standing still. I watch the same programmes I watched as a child, comfort viewing, on YouTube. It is less the end of history, than history riding the long tail of a flat curve. Once it was steep, lots of change that changed everything. Now there is just accumulation, mirroring the accumulation of stuff on the internet, its infinite storage capacity.
When cities have their centres laid out it is like restarting the clock; the new design of the streets is a new year zero. The sense of history sharpens, by which I mean the sense of meaningful change is suddenly increased. But after a while, we tend to build suburbs rather than redesign the centre. Delhi spreads ever south, magnetically drawn to the environs of Sector 23 and the Indira Gandhi International Airport. We lose control of our creation, the city doesn’t so much grow, it sprawls. The old centre remains firmly in the present, albeit as a reminder of times past, alongside all the new additions. History flattens out, taking up more and more space as the population goes through the roof. No one wants to read about the past because they sense it is already all around them.
Paradoxically, nomads are like this too. They have too much space and nothing much to remind them of times past, but no writing, not much religion and their preferred form of warfare is raiding, skirmishing and running away to fight another day. Material for myth, but nothing substantial to document and no cities. History comes into being with the creation of the city, not with written language, though they may coincide. You can’t get away from the evidence of stones; it dampens enthusiasm for making things up. You start to document, record, develop a fetish for facts.
The Tibetans were almost exclusively nomadic until King Songtsen Gampo came on the throne in the seventh century AD. Though Buddhism had been creeping slowly over the Himalayas for centuries, it made little impact until the king, after winning a great victory in Burma, China and Nepal, decided to marry two queens from Buddhist countries – one from the palace of the Emperor of China and the other from Nepal. From this, one can date the conversion of Tibet from the Bon religion to Buddhism, a process that is still going on. It says a lot for Tibetans that both the Bonpa and the Buddhists live and let live. That they have influenced each other is clear, yet neither side has tried to exterminate the other – which seems the common occidental way of settling a religious difference of opinion.
Mani wall with Buddhist prayer stones: walls of prayer stones can be several kilometres long.
We will see later the way Buddhism changed from its early beginnings as a personal code for a penitent mystic to a state religion covering half of Asia. In Tibet, influenced by ancient monasteries, a new theocratic state took hold. Buddhist missionaries arrived from China and Nepal and brought with them the great intellectual inheritance of those countries. King Songtsen Gampo built himself a great palace overlooking what is now Lhasa, on the site where the Potala stands today.
The early kings of Tibet were unusual in that they seem to have had a deep belief in equality and fairness. One went so far as to decree that every Tibetan should have an equal share of the country’s wealth. Being a sparsely populated country possessed of some wealth, this was possible. But the poor, it is reported, finding themselves suddenly rich, behaved like lottery winners and became irresponsible and indolent; before long they had lost all they had and more (it is a fact that, five years after a big win, the majority of lottery winners are financially less well off than before). The king was a little disappointed, but his idealism remained undented. Again he deputed that the wealth of the nation should be fairly distributed, an equal share to all. And again the people let him down. For a third time – and by now the nation’s coffers were running rather low – a great redistribution of wealth occurred. This time the poor, having had a few sudden handouts in the past, were more feckless than before. They believed such bail-outs would continue for ever. But the lamas had other ideas; they announced the scheme had failed because of the previous lives each of the populace had lived. It stood to reason that if everyone was at a different stage on their path to religious enlightenment, however many lives that would take, it was foolish to expect that those who were on their first span of existence would have the same financial acuity and work ethic as those who were further along the path of enlightenment. A much more compelling argument was supplied by the king’s mother; fed up with seeing her own wealth dwindle alarmingly, the queen dowager had her son poisoned. And so, after some years, inequalities returned: the feckless and idle sold their land and possessions to the crafty and hardworking, and life carried on as it does to this day.
By the eighth and ninth centuries, Tibet was at the zenith of her power. Buddhism had become stronger and more widespread, which led to a steady flow of Tibetans travelling to India and Nepal to study the religion further; they brought back new developments and sophi
stications. The seventh to the ninth centuries was the time of the ‘three religious kings’ – who were reckoned to be Gampo, Ti-Song De-tsen and Ralpa-chan – and their invasions led to the subjugation of Western China, Mongolia, Turkestan and Nepal. Only a dislike of the heat and disease of India kept them from flooding over the passes and conquering that country too.
2013 in the Garwhal Himalaya
There followed a period of kingly fratricide and then three hundred years of decentralised power, with petty chieftains ruling their fiefdoms from forts they built above the villages they dominated, the ruins of which are still visible today – though some of the more famous, such as that at Gyantse, were demolished by the modern Chinese.
The age of kings eventually gave way to a new force: the age of lamas. The old, purer forms of Buddhism, which lived on in manuscripts, were supplanted by a hybrid version. As we have seen, this was as much influenced by Bon as by the more esoteric borrowings from India and Nepal. Bon and Tibetan Buddhism influenced each other – Bon became more systematic, while Tibetan Buddhism acquired a shamanistic, magical side, supported and encouraged perhaps by the tantric elements imported from India. The lamas built monasteries which became the nucleus of cities. History had begun.
At this point I laid down my pen. I had been scribbling hard – for some reason I had given up using a laptop in India and had reverted to my old ways, using a fountain pen and a notebook. Now it was time to get on the move again, be a bit nomadic, go higher.
White Mountain Page 5