A Step Away from Paradise: A Tibetan Lama's Extraordinary Journey to a Land of Immortality

by Thomas Shor

  ‘Actually according to the story Phuntsok was of Tibetan royal stock, having descended from the eighth century Tibetan king Trisong Deutsen. Apparently there were prophecies concerning this as well, though we can assume they were concocted later after the fact. One prophecy said that if a descendent of Trisong Deutsen be made king of Sikkim, the land would prosper. What you must understand is that usurpers of Tibetan thrones and founders of peripheral Tibetan kingdoms often claimed descent from Trisong Deutsen. It was practically a prerequisite.

  ‘Anyway, these three Tibetan lamas conducted all the necessary rites and installed Phuntsok Namgyal as the first in the line of “righteous” kings—or chogyals—of Sikkim, which was handed down not without its hiccups within the family until the kingdom fell to India in 1975.

  ‘Before the founding of the kingdom Sikkim was a collection of little kingdoms and spheres of influence which, though none dominated the rest, must have all had their tussles and mini wars. Phuntsok, with the backing of the Tibetans, was able to consolidate a huge area under his control even larger than present-day Sikkim. Yet he knew his hold on power was tenuous. Therefore, he installed his son Tensung as chogyal before his own death to insure the smooth transfer of power.

  ‘Chogyal Tensung had three wives: one Bhutanese, one Tibetan and one Limbu. He died fairly young. Upon his death his fourteen-year-old son Chakdor—the son of the second, Tibetan wife—took the throne. But he was challenged by his half sister Pendi Wangmo—the daughter of the first, Bhutanese wife. Since Pendi was older than Chakdor, she thought the succession should go to her.

  ‘Pendi Wangmo got the backing of the Bhutanese who were only too happy to attack this newly established kingdom, and this sibling rivalry led to the Sikkim–Bhutan War. When the Bhutanese sent assassins to kill Chogyal Chakdor, he fled to Lhasa. While the Bhutanese occupied the Sikkimese palace for eight years, the chogyal lived in Lhasa. He was young and was schooled there—steeped in Tibetan tradition. One story, I don’t know how accurate, has it that he became the Dalai Lama’s state astrologer. At any rate his association with the Dalai Lama was close, and the Dalai Lama gave him many estates. Finally, with the help of the Tibetans, he drove the Bhutanese out of most of the kingdom and he reoccupied the palace.

  ‘Religion and politics are never very far apart in the Tibetan world. You see, the three Tibetan lamas who opened the beyul in order to found the kingdom were from three different lineages. As everybody who goes to Sikkim knows, Lhatsun Chenpo is practically considered the patron saint of Sikkim. But it hasn’t always been so. In the beginning Nadak Sempa Chenpo and the Nadak tradition were the most important, founding the most important monasteries. Lhatsun Chenpo was of secondary importance. Kathog Kuntu Zangpo was always more obscure and, though he founded a Kathog monastery in Yoksum, that lineage never spread in a significant way. Nadak Sempa Chenpo’s son wrote his biography and Tashiding, for instance, was allied to his lineage.

  ‘All this changed with the Bhutanese War. Not only were religion and politics mixed together but sex as well. Nadak’s grandson had an affair with Pendi Wangmo. She tried not only to run her brother off the throne but also to supplant the entire Mindroling lineage to which he was allied, through the line that came through Lhatsun Chenpo. When Pendi Wangmo’s Bhutanese Nadak side was defeated, there was a transfer of politico-religious power from the Nadaks to the Lhatsun Chenpo school. It was then that the figure of Lhatsun Chenpo became important. This is what assured him the position of Sikkim’s patron saint. Before that he was too busy flying about the place and meditating in caves with his khandro. He was a great practitioner. He gave wonderful visionary sadhanas and practices.

  ‘The end was not pretty for either Chogyal Chakdor or his half-sister Pendi Wangmo. Some time after the chogyal’s return, he went to the hot springs at Ralong. Pendi Wangmo, still thinking of usurping her brother’s throne, saw her chance to assassinate her brother. She sent a doctor to Ralong to attend to her brother, who was feeling a bit under the weather. The doctor took the chogyal’s pulse and determined the best course of action was a little bloodletting. As per Pendi Wangmo’s instructions, he severed a major artery and the chogyal bled to death. The chogyal’s attendants brought his body back to the palace under the cover of night, and for a long time they kept it a secret that he was dead. Meals were brought to him as usual, and the word was spread that he was in strict devotional seclusion. Finally they burnt his body at the Pemayangtse Monastery, after which his attendants decided to avenge the murder. They went to Namchi, where Pendi Wangmo was staying and scaled the walls to her room in the middle of the night. You know what khatas are, right? They are the ceremonial silk scarves that are presented to high lamas as a sign of respect. They took one and stuffed it down Pendi Wangmo’s throat and killed her.’

  Saul looked at his watch.

  ‘Sorry to end on such a macabre note,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid I have a lecture to attend.’

  Maybe he saw from my face that his dizzying survey of Sikkimese history had left my mind spinning—and my central question unanswered. Just how did all of this relate to the royal opposition to Tulshuk Lingpa? I felt the key was there but I couldn’t quite grasp it.

  ‘I just want to stress that religious ideas are often used for political ends,’ Saul said. ‘This is one of the main lessons of the history of the region, if not the world.’

  Saul stood, found a pen and a notebook, put them into his bag and readied himself to leave.

  I stood, too.

  When we were about to leave, Saul looked me in the eye.

  ‘The earliest reference to Sikkim in Tibetan literature,’ he said, ‘is as a beyul. Much of the terma literature—the prophecies included—have been translated and transposed in such a way as to justify the foundation of the Namgyal Dynasty. It is at the center of the royal family’s claim to power.’

  The rain had stopped, though with the setting sun the fog had thickened. As I unlocked my bicycle, Saul got his out of a little shed. We rode together until the first crossroads, where we parted ways.

  ‘I hope I’ve been helpful,’ he called over his shoulder. Hugging the sidewalk to let a car pass, Saul Mullard disappeared into the fog.

  I spent quite some time in Oxford, availing myself of the wonderful libraries. Most days one could find me in the Duke Humphrey’s Library, Oxford’s oldest reading room dating to the 1480s. In a gap between shelves of leather-bound Latin tomes was a narrow wooden staircase leading to an upper gallery. There at a tiny oak desk where I could look down at the scholars but not be seen and look up at the ceiling’s centuries-old alchemical paintings just above my head, I completed the first draft of this book.

  During the days after my meeting with Saul I found myself at my desk watching the light of the sun filter through the stained-glass windows, wondering about the ancient prophecies concerning Beyul Demoshong. Could the very notion of the beyul and the prophecies surrounding it have been created by politicians for worldly ends? Had Tulshuk Lingpa twisted these notions to spiritual ends? Or had the politicians and founders of dynasties been the ones to twist spiritual truths to political ends? How did the resolution of this question impact upon the question I had hoped to answer by meeting Saul, of why the royal family was against Tulshuk Lingpa?

  Watching the sunlight dancing through the ancient stained glass and letting my mind wander, it suddenly struck me that it didn’t matter whether the king thought Tulshuk Lingpa held the key or was a madman, whether there was an issue with his being Tibetan or whether the queen was out to get him because he was a Nyingma lama—all of these might have been factors, or not.

  By simply saying the beyul was yet to be opened, Tulshuk Lingpa was striking a blow at the center of the founding myth of the kingdom. In a tacit way, he was questioning the legitimacy of the Namgyal dynasty itself, which would surely be enough to have him thrown in jail.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Royal Inquiries

  One day, perhaps two months after they r
eturned from Mount Kanchenjunga, word reached Tulshuk Lingpa that some representatives of the palace were going around asking questions about him and that he would be interviewed. The investigative team of four was headed by two men: the first was known as Gonde Drungyig, an official within the Ecclesiastical Department, and the second was a learned lama known as the Chagzoe, the treasurer. He was the private secretary of Dzongsar Khyentse Rinpoche, a high lama who was living at the palace monastery. The Chagzoe was also the stepfather of Sogyal Rinpoche, the now-famous lama who wrote the book The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying among other works.

  Travelling from village to village, asking what the people knew of Tulshuk Lingpa’s background and his proposed trip to Beyul Demoshong, they were charged with determining whether Tulshuk Lingpa was a fraud. They were also trying to get a grasp on numbers, to ascertain how many families were planning to go with him to Beyul. Apparently, the palace wanted to know how many of their subjects they would be losing. Yab Maila warned Tulshuk Lingpa that he’d have to tell them something about Beyul, enough to keep them satisfied, if not everything.

  When Gonde Drungyig and the Chagzoe entered Tulshuk Lingpa’s room, they offered him khatas and gifts. Though they had grave doubts as to his authenticity, allegiance and perhaps even his sanity, they followed courtly protocol and showed him the respect due to a high lama; he showed them the respect due to official representatives of a king.

  Tea was brought, and when the pleasantries were complete they got right to the point. ‘We’ve been hearing rumors and they have gone as far as the palace, that you are going to the Hidden Land and planning on taking people from Ravangla, Tashiding, Gezing—from all over Sikkim—with you. It looks lik e the kingdom might be emptying right out.’

  Tulshuk Lingpa was characteristically vague and contradictory when answering their questions. He neither confirmed nor denied anything they said. If this frustrated the investigators, they did not show it. In higher circles of Sikkimese—and mostly any—society, courtly decorum often prevails at the expense of truth. Where open disagreement is a breach of the social fabric there are sure to be intrigues. That is the price paid for maintaining social norms. Tulshuk Lingpa understood this well, maybe even better than his interrogators. He both admitted and concealed everything. He gave them everything and nothing with the deftness of a seasoned diplomat. He even unwrapped the ter he had taken out above Dzongri and read them portions of it. Tulshuk Lingpa presented his khandro to them and had her sit at his right.

  By the end of the interview while the investigators felt more secure, they were in fact more confused. They had had a better understanding of Tulshuk Lingpa, his motives and his intentions before they ever laid eyes on him. Tulshuk Lingpa had that ability. Fact and fiction, truth and its opposite were not to be held in the hands and weighed as much as juggled.

  As the interview was wrapping up, Gonde Drungyig pulled a surprise. He said the king had instructed him to inform Tulshuk Lingpa that he would have to travel to Gangtok and prove his powers to the king by performing a miracle.

  This was the only thing in the entire interview for which Tulshuk Lingpa gave a definitive answer.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I’d be glad to go to Gangtok and perform a miracle for the king.’

  At this Gonde Drungyig smiled but it caused a minor ruckus among the disciples who had been sitting in on the interview. One of them filled Gonde Drungyig’s teacup, purposefully spilling some in the process as a diversion, while another managed to whisper in Tulshuk Lingpa’s ear, ‘It is a trap. If you go to Gangtok, they will throw you in jail!’

  When Gonde Drungyig’s attention was back upon Tulshuk Lingpa, Tulshuk Lingpa said, ‘Please inform the king that though I’ll be glad to fulfill his wish and be tested, the capital is no place to perform a miracle. I will do it here. I will have to perform divinations to determine the propitious date but it will have to be performed here. I will send a delegation to inform the king of the time and date. I invite him, all his ministers and anyone else who wants to witness the miraculous!’

  It was with the greatest courtesy that Gonde Drungyig and the Chagzoe took their leave of Tulshuk Lingpa. While they had been with Tulshuk Lingpa their two assistants had been questioning the lamas of Tashiding and people in the neighborhood, trying to get a feel for how many were planning to go with Tulshuk Lingpa to the Hidden Land. They saved the senior monks for Gonde Drungyig and the Chagzoe to interview. So instead of leaving then for Gangtok, they started questioning the senior lamas of Tashiding.

  The first question they asked them was blunt and to the point, ‘Are you all planning on going with Tulshuk Lingpa to Beyul?’

  The monks were cautious and lied. ‘You do not understand,’ they said, ‘Tulshuk Lingpa talks about going to Beyul but he doesn’t really mean it. When we ask him when we will go, he says, “Not now, not now.” When we press him, he says, “After some months.” After some months, he says, “When the weather clears.” When the weather clears, again he says, “After some months.” Now we know he is not here because of Beyul. He is a great lama. He is giving dharma teachings and initiations. He has many students of thangka painting. People come to him and he heals them. Why would the king have any problem with that?’

  The Chagzoe said, ‘But we just spoke with Tulshuk Lingpa and he told us everything. We met the khandro, his second wife. He brought her here to Sikkim for the purpose of opening the gate to Beyul. Tulshuk Lingpa told us everything. He even showed us the ter and read from it.’

  The monks continued their lie. They couldn’t imagine that Tulshuk Lingpa would have been so frank with the king’s representatives. They thought they were being tricked into revealing secrets.

  They told the representatives again, ‘This Beyul story, it should be of no concern to the king. We are only practicing dharma.’

  After reporting all this to the king, the king sent the Chagzoe to Kalimpong in order to interview Dudjom Rinpoche. The Chagzoe told the high lama, who was Tulshuk Lingpa’s root guru, ‘I’ve just come from Tashiding where I interviewed Tulshuk Lingpa, and he told me everything. Some say he’s not serious about actually going to Beyul but he brought his khandro, a sure indication that he has every intention of opening the gate. He told me everything but he wouldn’t tell me when he would depart. He is your disciple, so you must know when. So please tell me.’

  Dudjom Rinpoche said, diplomatically but to the point, ‘Tulshuk Lingpa is a terton, and Beyul does exist. He is the right man to open Beyul. I have no idea about the timing. Only he can know this.’

  When the Chagzoe reported this back to the palace a storm began to brew, which turned into a cyclone with Tulshuk Lingpa at its center. The eye of a cyclone, though the winds circle around it, is always calm and so was Tulshuk Lingpa who skillfully took himself out of the tumult by announcing he was going on a six-month retreat at the Sinon Gompa. A three-hour walk almost directly uphill from the village of Tashiding, set on a slight leveling of a steep mountain slope, Sinon Gompa was—despite its historical importance as described by Saul—a small monastery with only a few wooden houses surrounding it. Set amid forests and sheer rock faces overlooking the village of Tashiding and the monastery on the top of the hill beyond, it was a perfect place for the retreat he suddenly announced. He brought with him his family, including the khandro, and his closest lama disciples. For Tulshuk Lingpa it was a time of great concentration upon the opening of Beyul. With all but his closest disciples back in Tashiding fending for themselves and running out of money he was able to concentrate on his mission, which was to find and open a crack in the world.

  But first he had to perform a miracle for the king. So a few weeks after the investigators visited him, Tulshuk Lingpa announced the date of his miracle. He said he would perform the miracle on such-and-such date at eight in the morning on the rock slopes below the Sinon Gompa, and he invited everyone—from the king and his ministers to every villager across the kingdom and beyond—to witness it.

  To
announce the date to the king and to ask him to be present Tulshuk Lingpa put together a delegation consisting of the head lama of Tashiding Gompa, the head lama of Sinon, as well as Yab Maila, and another disciple by the name of Kunsang Mandal who was the tax collector from Shoshing. To officially stand in his stead, Tulshuk Lingpa sent his son Kunsang. Kunsang recalled that they walked from Tashiding to the closest road, which was a few hours away at the Rangeet River and from there they got a ride to Gangtok.

  ‘When we arrived at the palace,’ Kunsang told me, ‘we gained easy entrance since the delegation included two of the king’s tax collectors, one of whom had a brother who was the head of security.

  ‘It wasn’t the king holding court that day but the crown prince, who was sitting on a throne under a huge tent on the palace grounds wearing a robe of beautiful Sikkimese brocade. When we were brought before him the lamas made their offerings to the crown prince, and the crown prince blessed them. Then they presented me to him. I stepped forward, ready to bow to the crown prince, but he stopped me. “That isn’t necessary,” he said. It was a sign of respect for my father but secretly, in my heart, I was thinking of the Hidden Land and how my father would be king there—how he and I were equals since I, too, was a crown prince.