by Thomas Shor
I got his point, which was one of perspective. Tibet has, after all, produced many highly developed mystics.
‘Up to this point,’ Kunsang continued, ‘if you were writing a book about my father, what would you have described? A few incidents, the finding of ter—but others have found ter. He led an army but there have been wars since the beginning of time and no lack of people to lead them. If that were all, if he had gone on being a village lama, you wouldn’t be writing a book about him.’
I had to nod my head in agreement, and wonder what he was getting at.
‘My father was gifted in many arts,’ Kunsang said, ‘not least of which was healing. As a visionary, he communicated between worlds. Whatever he did, there was a shine. Yet up to this point, his life’s work hadn’t even been announced. Each terton has his particular set of treasures
to uncover—be they texts, teachings or objects of great strength. Few, even among the tertons, have the destiny to discover a Heaven on Earth.
‘Until now, my father had shown a tremendous ability to communicate with the hidden world of the spirits and to intercede in hidden processes for the benefit of those who came to him. His actions were marked by a sense of compassion. He developed fully the nature of the name that Dorje Dechen Lingpa bestowed upon him. Yet what was changeable and unpredictable in his outward behavior, what appeared inconsistent, capricious and erratic, was but the outward appearance of a man whose mind was attuned to other things, and who was a visionary.
‘Despite being a visionary who was tuned to the inner world to a greater degree than most, he was not oblivious to the outer world, not even to the world of politics. For shortly after the Chinese invaded Tibet in 1951 and marched through his native Golok, in eastern Tibet, on their way to the Tibetan capital of Lhasa, stories drifted like a miasma over the mountains from the Tibetan Plateau beyond, stories of the massacres and suffering caused by the invasion. He immediately foresaw the consequences—the Chinese takeover, the carnage, the smashing of the monasteries, the imprisonment of monks and lamas and the flight of the Dalai Lama.
‘In fact, Tulshuk Lingpa predicted troubles for the fourteenth Dalai Lama twenty years before he fled. This was before my father came to India, when he was in Lhasa with lamas from the Dalai Lama’s monastery. The present incarnation of the Dalai Lama, the fourteenth, was yet to be found. Tulshuk Lingpa told these lamas that he didn’t think when they found the boy that the boy’s future would be good. “Shut up!” they said. “You mustn’t speak like that about His Holiness.” Some years later, those same lamas found themselves in exile along with the Dalai Lama. Tulshuk Lingpa ran into one of them in India and asked if he remembered his earlier prediction. Pressing his palms to his forehead and bowing, the lama silently acknowledged both Tulshuk Lingpa’s foresight and the tragedy of its coming to pass.
‘Tulshuk Lingpa saw the deteriorated condition of Tibet first hand when he returned there to rescue his parents. With a few of his closest disciples, among them Namdrol and Sookshen, he travelled across north India to the Kingdom of Sikkim and crossed the Nathula Pass to the Chumbi Valley in Tibet. They went to Dromo, where his parents had been waiting with two nieces and a nephew for five months.’
Tulshuk Lingpa’s father, Kyechok Lingpa, was a formidable character. A lingpa himself—wearing the white robes of a nagpa, his hair twisted in a huge bun on top of his head—he had been part of the Domang Gompa and had never had a monastery of his own. Now he received his own gompa in Patanam, a few days’ walk up the valley from Simoling. His wife, Kilo, was no less formidable. In Kunsang’s words, ‘She was huge, like a woman from Iraq–Iran.’
Tulshuk Lingpa’s father, Kyemchog Lingpa
It was in October or November some years later that they were in Simoling getting ready to make their yearly migration to Pangao when they got word that Kyechok Lingpa had died. Tulshuk Lingpa and his family went by horse to Patanam and Tulshuk Lingpa oversaw the cremation of his father. When the death ceremonies were through, he brought his mother back with him to live in Simoling and Pangao. Though his father’s followers made countless requests for him to come to Patanam to perform rituals there, he never returned. ‘If you need help,’ he told them, ‘you can always come to Simoling.’
The Chinese invasion of Tibet affected Tulshuk Lingpa profoundly. Not only did he see it for himself when he went to get his parents but with the continual flood of refugees from Tibet coming through Ladakh and Lahaul on their way to Kullu and beyond, he heard of the increasingly dire conditions. The dharma itself was in danger. The Chinese were smashing monasteries and torturing lamas, throwing them into jail and killing them.
To a yogi and mystic such as Tulshuk Lingpa, the most important thing is having the time and space to do spiritual practice. Tibet, with its vast isolation and empty spaces, had been a natural place of spiritual attainment; it had produced many of the world’s most highly developed mystics who had handed down and preserved an ancient tradition of attaining spiritual understanding and bodhichitta, loving kindness. In the isolation of the cliff face in Pangao and in the monastery in Simoling, Tulshuk Lingpa found that even surrounded by family he could continue to develop his practice. Yet he saw that for so many others death and cataclysm was their lot, and increasingly they had nowhere to go.
This was not the first time in history that Tibet had been overrun. In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries the Mongols invaded from the north and, as in the 1950s, both the Tibetan people and the dharma were in grave danger. It is in texts dating from the Mongol invasions that Tibetan scholars find the first mention of beyuls in the Tibetan literature, the first stories of tertons searching for and opening hidden valleys in the Himalayas.
As conditions worsen, times ripen for the opening of a beyul. Just as when a flower is in need of pollination the bees come, so it is that when there is nowhere else to run conditions arise for a beyul’s opening. It was for those times that Padmasambhava hid secret lands and planted the seeds that would create the conditions for their opening in future centuries.
Imagine the insight needed to foresee conditions in a future age. It is like a chess master who with his first move already foresees his last. Only someone with tremendous and even miraculous understanding of the interconnected nature of all things could create the conditions in which the worsening times would naturally coincide with the incarnation of the right terton, whose insight would ripen in his consciousness just when it became necessary for the crack to form.
Tulshuk Lingpa started performing certain rituals and making offerings to the dakinis so the way to a beyul would be revealed. He wasn’t necessarily asking that he be the one to open it; to him that wasn’t important. What was important was that a place of refuge be found for the Tibetans.
One night, while in Simoling, Tulshuk Lingpa had a vision that occurred neither in his sleep nor in what we usually term waking consciousness. Khandro Yeshe Tsogyal, the consort of Padmasambhava, appeared before Tulshuk Lingpa and spoke to him sternly: ‘Listen to every word I say,’ she commanded. ‘Listen to every word, and do not miss a single detail. Tibet is being overrun and those who aren’t slaughtered have nowhere to go. The time is coming for the opening of the beyul in Sikkim. You have work to do, and you must do this work carefully. You will be the one to open it.’
She told him in great detail the way to the hidden valley, that he was to go to Sikkim, and go up this particular valley, turn left up a side valley at this particular landmark, and perform this ritual for the appeasing of the spirit owners of the land and the spirits of Beyul. She told him in exacting detail, and repeated important landmarks, imploring him not to forget a single one. ‘In the future,’ she said to him, ‘I will come to your dreams, and I will keep reminding you. We have a tremendous work.’
Tulshuk Lingpa had visions of the time that Padmasambhava hid the ter, which he later wrote about in his neyik, or guidebook to the beyul, titled The Great Secret Talk of the Dakinis Showing the Way to Demoshong.
At
the time of the hiding of the ter, Lang Palgyi Senge bowed down before Padmasambhava and offered a mandala containing various precious jewels. He requested of Padmasambhava the following in a befitting manner:
‘Hail compassionate guru. In the future, at the time when the subjects of Tibet are all suffering, if it becomes necessary for us to escape to the hidden place, please tell us the signs of the time; advise us and give us clear prophecy.’
This he persistently requested. Then the great guru said, ‘Listen all of you bright attendants; what I have to tell you is meant to protect all the sentient beings of the future.
‘At the twilight of time [literally the ‘red string of time’, a metaphor derived from the last red line of the setting sun along the vast Tibetan horizon], have no doubt that the infinite meaning of the ter will burst out.
‘At the end of the bad times, the whole world will be the subjects of the black devils of lust, hatred, and delusion. The good customs will perish and everyone will practice evil deeds. Tibetans, by the power of their own bad karma, will be scattered throughout all districts and countries and go into the hands of the butchers.
‘Most will die of famine and by weapons. The remaining followers of Buddhism will soon be forsaken. Evil people will especially hate the practitioners of the dharma. Those who follow the wrong path will be appreciated by everybody. At that time the elements will become unbalanced and diseases will increase. Crops and cattle will degenerate; internal fights and quarrelling will increase. Poisonous and chemical weapons will shake the earth.
‘The evil ghost of China will influence everybody into hating dharma practitioners. They will be the enemies of the great souls and criticize them. There will be no happiness and only suffering, whether the people be high or low. As in a pit of fire, there will be nowhere to run. Suffering will increase day by day, month by month, and year by year.
‘How pitiful the suffering of beings. ‘When those bad times arise, the precious hidden place will be in Sikkim. It will be the place to protect and save all Tibetans.
‘Abandon having two minds about going to the abode of such a great secret tantric master, Padmasambhava, which is the place to protect Tibetans.’
This was the ancient prophecy concerning the hidden land of Beyul Demoshong, which Tulshuk Lingpa had revealed to him one night in Simoling. From that time onwards, Tulshuk Lingpa started speaking of the beyul: describing it, telling his disciples that one day they would go to the valley hidden in Sikkim and they would never return.
Some immediately thought him mad; others asked him persistently, ‘Master, when are we going?’ But it isn’t as easy as just going to the right place. A beyul is different from anywhere else you might try to go in that you can’t just place yourself before the gate and walk through. It is a land that exists on no map. No coordinates of latitude and longitude bound it. It must be ‘opened’. To open it, certain conditions must be fulfilled.
The first thing needed is the right lama, the one whose fate it is to open the way, the one who has had planted in the unchanging levels of his consciousness the key to its opening. The other thing is timing. The lama must make the attempt at the proper time. Even if the right lama doesn’t divine the right time, he will meet with only obstructions. It is the greatest of human feats to open a hidden land. Conditions must be perfect. One hair’s breadth away, failure—and even death—is the result.
Kunsang remembers when his father first started speaking of Beyul. ‘It was a long time from when my father had his first vision of Khandro Yeshe Tsogyal to the time we went to Sikkim,’ Kunsang told me. ‘I was just a kid. My father used to describe Beyul, how there would be no war of any kind, how you’d have enough clothing and food, and you’d have nothing to worry about. He spoke of Beyul’s natural beauty—the waterfalls and pools of nectar. When he spoke like this people used to say, “When you go, take us with you.” Everybody wanted to go to Shangri-La.
‘He was such a persuasive speaker that all he had to do was speak of Beyul, and whoever was listening would see it in their mind’s eye and long to go there—immediately! But always he’d say the time wasn’t right. Some thought he was crazy. Others understood the importance of timing. Yet even they grew impatient. My father used to drink. He would get drunk and say, “I have to go to Sikkim. I have to open the gates to Shangri-La!” Some would just say, “Tulshuk Lingpa is drunk again! He always says he has to go to Sikkim but he never goes.” Others would say, “Come on. Let’s go!” Always my father would say, “One day, we go. We definitely go.” Even those who thought he was crazy, when they heard him speak of Beyul, when he read from the prophecy, they couldn’t help themselves from wanting to go. They’d say, “We want to go too. Hurry, hurry. How do we get there?” My father would say, “I know the way but I’m not telling!” Sometimes, when people came from far away to hear him speak of Beyul, he’d tell them, “When you come here the next time, I won’t be here. I’ll be gone to the Hidden Valley!”’
But certain things had to fulfill themselves first.
To open the way to a beyul, tertons also need help from the spirit world. They must communicate with and appease through ritual the sadag, the spirit owners of the land, and the shipdak, the local deities. They also need a good connection with the dakinis. Dakini is a Sanskrit term meaning Sky Walker. The Tibetan is khandro. Much is communicated to tertons by way of khandros, who appear in their dreams and visions. Khandros can also take human form and become the terton’s spiritual as well as physical consort, a sort of spiritual bride. In fact, for the terton to perform certain tasks, he must have a khandro with him. She provides the link with the deepest strata of the spiritual realms, acting as an intermediary and guide. To open a beyul, the khandro must be with him.
‘Therefore,’ Kunsang said with a smile, ‘it should have been no surprise that once my father had his vision of Beyul, young ladies would be seen entering his room surrounded by an air of mystery. You can be sure it caused a sensation. The only thing was that I and my sister and my mother—we didn’t know about the necessity of a khandro. It wasn’t so easy on us.
Phunsok Choeden, Tulshuk Lingpa’s first wife, Kunsang’s mother, Kathmandu, 2003
‘You see, we began to see one or sometimes two of them—beautiful, well-dressed young ladies—going into my father’s room when he was alone but their faces used to be covered. They never used to show their faces. They would go into my father’s room, and they would never come out.’
‘What do you mean they would never come out?’ I asked.
‘Yes, that’s how we knew they were khandros,’ Kunsang said.
‘Let me get this straight,’ I said. ‘You used to see beautiful young women entering your father’s room, and they would disappear?’
‘Crazy!’ Kunsang exclaimed. ‘But that’s how it was. They weren’t really women, you see; they were khandros. Before they came, my father would always do a certain ritual to call the khandros, called a lungten. He would go into a prophetic trance. When he came to again, he would just know the khandros would be coming and he’d tell everybody to leave. We’d leave but we’d watch his door. Then we’d see them come: sometimes one, sometimes two, in fine dresses but always with their faces covered. No matter how many people watched, we’d never see them leave.’
‘Doesn’t it seem more likely,’ I blurted out indelicately, ‘that they just stayed there till morning? Couldn’t it have been his way of having women?’
‘If this was the case,’ Kunsang said sharply, ‘then somebody would have seen them leave. Everybody saw them enter, and we were all on the watch but we never once saw them leave.’
‘What was the purpose of their visits?’ I asked, looking down at my pad of paper and trying to keep a straight face.
‘They gave him prophecies, teachings and instructions. One time when he came out of trance, instead of sending everyone away, he had us get his two closest disciples, Namdrol and Mipham. He explained to them that he’d received instructions that there was a kh
andro in human form who would stay with him and travel with him to Sikkim when he opened Beyul. She would be known by having a mole on the side of her breast and two on her back. So he sent them on a mission to find this lady with the signs of the khandro, and some days later they came back with two contenders for the post. Tulshuk Lingpa rejected the first one for not having the requisite markings but the second had the marks, exactly as he said. Her name was Chimi Wangmo, and she officially became my father’s khandro and second wife.’
Terton opening a beyul with a khandro
(notice ritual implements behind opening).
Temple wall painting, Tashiding Monastery, Sikkim
‘Had they met before?’ I asked.
‘Certainly,’ Kunsang replied. ‘She and her entire family had been disciples of Tulshuk Lingpa for a long time. They had known each other of course but he didn’t know she was the khandro.’
‘How did your mother feel when your father took another wife?’
‘Angry,’ Kunsang said, ‘When a second wife comes, won’t there be a problem? Sure—of course!’
‘How did you feel when your father took another wife?’
‘I was not happy,’ he replied. ‘But then my father’s disciples came to me and to my mother too. They told us that it was written in the scriptures that to open Beyul he needed a khandro. This was supposed to happen. It had to be. They told us not to get upset.’
Another time, Kunsang told me, ‘I don’t know whether my father had many girlfriends but a lot of women fell for him. He was good-looking.’
I met Tulshuk Lingpa’s second wife, Khandro Chimi Wangmo, who lives in a house across a dangerous ravine from Simoling Gompa. I went there with her and Tulshuk Lingpa’s grandson, Gyurme, who was accompanying me on my trip to Lahaul and acting as my interpreter. As we negotiated the treacherous slope to his grandmother’s house, Gyurme told me that it would be impolite to ask her anything personal whatsoever. When we arrived at the house, she came in from the fields where she was busy planting potatoes to speak with me. She was reticent and anxious to return to her potato fields. It was clear she didn’t want to speak of earlier times.