by Thomas Shor
Kunsang turned towards me, bursting with laughter: ‘The meat of a black dog and the stick from a crows’ nest—flowing upstream. Incredible, incredible; insane, insane.’
‘If you got the meat,’ I asked Géshipa, hesitatingly, ‘why the thirteen black dogs at the gate?’
‘Oh, them?’ he said, as if it were obvious. ‘They’re for the shit, not the meat. They’re not for becoming invisible. They have nothing to do with dip shing; they’re for making rain. There are other methods for making rain but using black dog shit is the most effective. You have to dry the black dog shit and grind it. Then you have to mix it with tsampa and make round balls out of it. You mix tsampa and water and form it into a vajra. First you touch the tip of the vajra to the shit. Then you dip it in a natural spring. That’s how you stop rain. You also have to throw shit into the fire at the same time.’
Though I couldn’t quite believe I was having this conversation, I asked him, ‘How much shit do you need? Does it have to be the combined shit of thirteen black dogs?’
‘No,’ Géshipa said in a measured way as if he were a theologian discussing a fine point of doctrine. ‘It actually has to be a black dog with a white sun and moon on its chest, over the heart.’
‘Then what are the other dogs for, to keep it company?’
‘It is like this,’ Géshipa said, ‘I told Yab Maila—the owner of the big house, my jinda who owns this cowshed—I told him that I needed a very specific black dog. So one day he saw a black dog and he offered the owner 2000 rupees. The owner liked the dog but 2000 rupees is 2000 rupees. So he sold the dog to my jinda and my jinda gave it to me. But the dog wasn’t right. He doesn’t understand about the white marks. He thinks the more dogs the better, so a few days later he came home with another dog, this one he had purchased in Gezing for 2500! But again it wasn’t right. It wasn’t until he came with the thirteenth dog that he got one with the proper markings, a little white moon and star over its chest. Then I told him to stop. But I think he’s still keeping his eyes out for more.’
Kunsang gave me a wink. He got up, and excusing himself he braved the gauntlet of black dogs to find a bush on which to pee. He was gone quite a while.
‘I just saw Yab Maila, the owner of this land, Géshipa’s sponsor,’ he said when he returned. ‘He was also a big sponsor of my father’s. We hadn’t met in over forty years! It seems Géshipa has been speaking seriously about making another attempt at Beyul. Yab Maila made me promise I’d convince Géshipa not to. He’s too old and has a heart condition. Yab Maila said Géshipa’s mind is like a child’s. The old man might be crazy but the young man is the one going around finding him black dogs, and paying for them!’
Kunsang looked at me with wide-eyed mirth.
‘Is all of this true,’ I asked Kunsang, ‘or is this crazy?’
His reply was simple and to the point, ‘It is truly crazy!’
As Kunsang, Wangchuk and I were walking back to the village in a merry mood, a black dog was lying in front of someone’s house. ‘Oh, look,’ I said, ‘I think it has a white spot!’ At that moment the dog jumped to its feet, the hair on its spine bristling. It lowered its head and growled.
‘Don’t touch my shit,’ Kunsang growled back like a ventriloquist, without moving his lips. ‘Don’t touch my shit!’
‘Smart dog,’ he said, ‘maybe the incarnation of some lama. I don’t know. Some crazy bad lama!’
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Auspicious Center
Tashiding Gompa, the Kanchenjunga range in the background.
Tashiding Gompa is a forty-five minute walk up a wooded mountain path from the village of Tashiding. On the auspicious day that Tulshuk Lingpa and his khandro and followers were first climbing that path, Géshipa was coming down from the gompa on his way to the village. He says that when he turned a corner and saw this lama wearing a white robe with long braids wrapped around his head, his khandro at his side and his attendants following, he had a sudden intuition. Remember, Géshipa had left his native Bhutan for Tashiding precisely because he had divined the time was coming for the lama who would open Beyul to arrive there.
Géshipa stopped and waited for Tulshuk Lingpa to reach him; then Géshipa pressed his palms and inclined his head.
‘Where are you from?’ was the first thing he asked Tulshuk Lingpa.
‘I am from Kham,’ came the reply.
Géshipa could not help himself reaching down to touch the lama’s feet. He knew the prophecy that the one to open Beyul would be from Kham, and that’s why he had asked the question. When he stood back up, Géshipa had tears rolling down his cheeks.
‘We have been waiting so long,’ Géshipa said and brought him up to the monastery.
Among the lamas of Tashiding, many of whom lived with their families in houses surrounding the monastery, word quickly spread—in a secret sort of way—that Tulshuk Lingpa had arrived.
Tashiding Gompa is a collection of temple buildings, behind which lies an area of stupas. There is a kora, a well-worn path circling the temple complex and stupas, by which the faithful circumambulate the holy site intoning the holy mantras, cycling through the 108 beads of their rosary-like malas.
Along the kora, towards the back behind the stupas, one finds the rock face by which the monastery actually derives its name. The full name of the monastery is Drakar Tashiding. Drakar means white rock. Tashiding means Auspicious Center. So the name of the monastery translates to White Rock of the Auspicious Center. The rock face does in fact have a light-colored area roughly rectangular in shape and the size of a small door, and it is this section of the rock face that lends its name to the monastery. Since the most ancient times, there has been a belief prevalent in Sikkim that this white area of the rock is actually a door to Demoshong. There was even a small cavity in the rock inside of which was a loose stone. The opening of the cavity was such that though one could fit one’s hand into the cavity and move the stone, you couldn’t get the stone out. This was the ‘key’ to the door.
One of the lamas of Tashiding told me the story of a lama from the Pemayangtse Gompa, situated on a neighboring mountain, who came to Tashiding to perform some prayers. He stayed at Tashiding for some time and used to do many koras every day, morning and evening. With each kora, he’d pass that white rock door. As he passed it he got to thinking about how his ancestors used to speak of Demoshong, what it would look like and how one would know when it was time for it to be opened. It would happen in the Great Age of the Seven Fires and One Water, kalpa medun chuchik. A kalpa is a great age. Medun chuchik means seven fires, one water. That means that whatever heat one sun generates today, whatever heat we receive, will be multiplied seven times. Everything will burn, all crops will wither and nothing will survive. After that there will be rain. That will be the time for the opening of Demoshong.
So this monk was doing his koras morning and evening. With every round as he passed by the white stone door he deepened his meditation about Demoshong. One time around, he stopped in front of the white stone door and started praying. According to the lama who told me the story, this lama from Pemayangtse started praying to the rock and suddenly found himself transported to the land behind the door. He met seven dakinis and they gave him a plant called sakusha. Sakusha is the Sikkimese name of the plant; the lama recounting this story couldn’t tell me the English name. But he assured me it grew in Demoshong and nowhere near Tashiding. The dakinis gave him the plant, made him promise not to tell anyone about the Hidden Land and to take the plant to Pemayangtse Gompa.
Then, quite suddenly, he found himself transported out of the Hidden Land and he was standing once again in front of that stone door, holding in his hand the sakusha plant. Without telling anyone what had happened, he grabbed his bag and started down the mountain towards the Rangeet River at Legship in order to cross the river and climb to Pemayangtse. When he reached the river he was hot and sweaty. He took off his clothes and left them on the river bank. He took the plant with him right to the
water’s edge and left it on a river stone there, and he bathed himself in the river. While he was washing the river rose and swept the branch away.
When they brought Tulshuk Lingpa to the Drakar stone that first day, he stood silently before the rock face and examined it closely. ‘This stone has ter in it,’ he proclaimed, ‘but I am not the one to take it out. It isn’t time.’
He took a small stone and scratched into the stone above the door the following tantric formula: HA A SHA SA MA. People asked him what it meant. ‘One day a terton will come who will understand,’ he said. ‘He will be the one to open this door.’
Géshipa and the other lamas of Tashiding, though pulsing with excitement that the lama had arrived who would fulfill their highest dream by opening the door to the secret place, kept this knowledge to themselves. To everyone else it was simply that a great lama had arrived, and the occasion was marked by a festive atmosphere. People flocked to get his blessings.
One of the most powerful families in the area was known as the Yabla family of Yoksum. They were—and are—the big landholders of Yoksum. In fact it was the Yabla family that was to give Géshipa his place above the cows a few years before I met him there. There were six brothers in the Yoksum Yabla family. They were important people then, and they are important people now. They own hotels and the biggest beer brewery in Sikkim. Five of them were destined to become close disciples of Tulshuk Lingpa. The only one who didn’t believe in Tulshuk Lingpa and Beyul was the youngest brother, known as the kansa. The course of his life was to bring him to another magical land, controversial in its own right for its irreality. Famous now throughout India for having made it to that promised land, he is a major Bollywood star, well known for playing the dark villain under the stage name of Danny Denzongpa.
The first of the brothers to have contact with Tulshuk Lingpa was the eldest, Yab Maila, the tax collector for the king. He came bearing gifts of fruit, cloth and bottles of liquor. He was greatly impressed by Tulshuk Lingpa, and that night, back in Yoksum, he had a very auspicious dream concerning Tulshuk Lingpa and the Hidden Land. Yab Maila’s father had been there when Dorje Dechen Lingpa had come to Sikkim to open the way, so he knew the stories. He guessed correctly that Tulshuk Lingpa was there because of Beyul. So he returned to Tashiding, a walk of many hours—there were no motorable roads at that time—and Tulshuk Lingpa admitted to him privately that he was there because of Beyul. Yab Maila became Tulshuk Lingpa’s jinda, or sponsor. ‘When you go to Beyul,’ he pleaded with Tulshuk Lingpa, ‘be sure to take me with you. But you should leave Tashiding now,’ he warned. ‘There are too many people here. You must keep your reason for being here secret. Why don’t you come with me to Yoksum? You can stay at my house.’
Tulshuk Lingpa, together with his khandro and disciples from Simoling, walked up the valley to Yoksum, the last village before the wooded slopes rise to the snows and the glaciers of Mount Kanchenjunga. Before he left, Tulshuk Lingpa called Géshipa aside. Géshipa was not his name until that time. He was known as Gomchela, which means Great Meditator. Tulshuk Lingpa said, ‘I name you Géshipa.’ Géshipa means Four Hundred in Tibetan. ‘I name you Géshipa because you will come with me to Beyul, and you will take out 400 books of ter there. Four is the number of gates to Beyul. You will know them well.’
In Sikkim, there are four major caves sacred to Padmasambhava, caves where Padmasambhava hid ter for future generations. Before Tulshuk Lingpa took his leave of Géshipa he told him to meet him on a particular day at one of the sacred caves, the one named Lho Khandro Sangphug. It is the southern cave, on the banks of the Rangeet River not far from the border with India.
As Tulshuk Lingpa and Yab Maila were walking up to Yoksum, Tenzing Norgay was coming down leading a group of climbers. Following his successful ascent of Mount Everest, Tenzing Norgay was much in demand as a leader of climbing groups. As they drew close, Yab Maila warned Tulshuk Lingpa not to tell Tenzing Norgay anything about the Hidden Land. ‘This must be kept secret,’ he warned. ‘Tenzing Norgay is too famous. If he knows, the word will be out and even the king will come to know of it. Above all else, we must keep this from the king; therefore—’ and he put his finger to his lips. To the end Tenzing Norgay, though he remained Tulshuk Lingpa’s jinda, never knew the real reason for his coming to Sikkim.
After spending some time in Yoksum, Tulshuk Lingpa returned briefly to Tashiding. Then he announced that he would be leaving for Simoling. Both those who knew his real reason for coming to Sikkim and those who didn’t were afraid if he left, he’d never come back. They begged him to stay. ‘We’ll give you a place to live,’ they told him. ‘We’ll provide you with food, clothing—whatever you need. You won’t have to worry about a thing. Just stay.’
Tulshuk Lingpa met Géshipa at the Lho Khandro Sangphug cave on the appointed day. The name Lho Khandro Sangphug means Southern Cave of the Dakini’s Secret Vagina. We do not know what secret things they had to do there. After that, Tulshuk Lingpa’s investigations were complete, and he returned to Simoling.
The caretaker of the Tashiding Monastery, the man with the keys. When we first met, he explained to me through pantomime that he lost his eye by falling into a cooking fire while a young child.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Return
One day—it was close to a year after Tulshuk Lingpa returned to Simoling from Sikkim—he said, ‘Those who are interested in going to Paradise, to the Hidden Valley of Immortality—now’s the time. We go. We go tomorrow!’ It took him close to a month to actually leave but Simoling and Pangao and the surrounding areas were abuzz with the news. There were debates among villagers and within families, between those who believed in Tulshuk Lingpa and those who thought he was a drunken, crazy lama. Those who were going needed time to rid themselves of their possessions, selling off enough to finance the journey and giving away the rest. Kunsang told me that in the beginning there were about seventy families that wanted to go but in the end only half that number went.
Tulshuk Lingpa made it clear that only those with true and unflinching faith should even think of coming with him. Opening the way to a hidden land is a tremendous act—calling as it does upon tremendous physical, spiritual and imaginative powers. He knew that the fate of the entire enterprise would hinge upon the fate of each individual who came with him. One’s faith had to be total, and the test of this was given even before leaving. Only those who would gladly give up everything—every attachment to both people and material goods and even the notion of return—were fit for such a journey. If you wanted to plant your crops as an insurance policy against a failed attempt, if you wanted to only loan your house out and not sell it or give it away in order to have something to return to, your faith was thereby shown not to be great enough. Your lack of faith would present an obstacle sufficient to block everyone’s way.
For those who left for Sikkim, over 150 people, such faith was not a problem. I’ve spoken with many of them, and they gladly rose to the opportunity by selling off those possessions that were easily sold to raise funds for the journey and giving away the rest, including their houses. What good would the price of a house do them when all they needed was the money to travel to Sikkim and for the food necessary to reach the gate, high in the snow mountains of Sikkim? As Tinley’s mother-in-law had told me, all tickets to the Hidden Land were one-way.
When asked what they should bring, Tulshuk Lingpa told his followers that they’d need food and bedding only until they reached Beyul: once they arrived, they wouldn’t need such things. He told them to take some seeds, though. That way they could grow their own crops there.
Tulshuk Lingpa left with his khandro and some of his closest disciples. The rest came in a couple of batches some months later. After Tulshuk Lingpa had left, and the others were readying themselves to go, the police came to Simoling making inquiries. They said to the lamas who remained at the monastery, ‘We have heard that this village will be emptying out and you’ll all be following your lama to the Hidden L
and. Is this true?’ ‘No,’ they lied, ‘this is not true. We are going to meet our head lama in Sikkim but it is only for a pilgrimage. We know nothing of the Hidden Land.’ The police left, only to return some days later. They started asking people in the village too. This time the lamas heard of it and confronted the police, ‘Why are you coming around here again, asking foolish questions. We told you before: we aren’t going to the Hidden Land.’ The police left and never returned to ask questions in Simoling.
At the time, Kunsang was with his mother in the cave in Pangao. One police inspector and three constables risked slipping into the Beas River at the bottom of the cliff to come to the cave in order to make their inquiries. ‘Is it true that your husband has gone to Sikkim and many more from here plan on leaving soon in order to go to Shangri-La?’
Kunsang’s mother lied. ‘No. This is not true. We are only going for pilgrimage.’ They didn’t believe her. So she tried to win them over by making some food for them. Officers of the law always like such things. While she was cooking for them, Kunsang ran up to the village and got one of the big landholders, a big man, with influence. He came to the cave and gave the police hell for giving trouble to the wife of their lama. The policemen left and didn’t bother them again.
Shortly before Kunsang, his mother and sister Kamala left for Sikkim, Kunsang remembered that his father had said that a stone within the cave had ter in it, which he would one day take out. Since his father had gone to Sikkim and would never return, and since they’d all be soon following, he thought that being the son and grandson of tertons meant maybe he could take it out. So one day when their mother was away Kunsang and Kamala dug out the stone his father had mentioned, which was in a little alcove in the cave that served as the family altar. Under that stone, there were two other stones. Kunsang knocked his knuckle on one of them, and it resounded with a hollow sound. He lifted the stone, and a large black snake raised its head and flicked its tongue at him. He recoiled and ran away. ‘It definitely wasn’t the right time,’ Kunsang told me. ‘And I wasn’t the right person.’