by Thomas Shor
Acknowledgements
I’ve always felt gratitude for this story falling into my lap, and for those who gave generously of their time, knowledge and experience. Without the willingness, kindness, generosity of time—and often tea, meals, accommodation, transportation and patience—of innumerable people spread across the Himalayas this book simply would not be.
Without the help of Tulshuk Lingpa’s family, especially his son Kunsang Bhutia and grandson Wangchuk Bhutia, I would have felt like Theseus in the Minotaur’s labyrinth without the thread. Kunsang’s enthusiasm, wit, humour and friendship are all lodged as deeply in my heart as his spirit and stories are lodged in the very fabric of this book. To Wangchuk, my interpreter, travelling companion and fellow explorer of ‘Grandpa’s’ story, my most sincere thanks for your time and passion.
If a fire could feel grateful for the spark that gave it life, then thanks should go to Tinley Gyatso of Gangtok for recognizing how my imagination would be fired by this story and to his mother-in-law Dorje Wangmo who, through her spellbinding story so full of crevasses and determination, was the first to take me along on that long-ago journey to the Hidden Land.
To the lamas of the Tashiding Monastery and the others of that remarkable community I offer my most sincere thanks for their support in writing this book. Special thanks go to Géshipa, the closest I’m ever likely to get to knowing a living wizard. The purity of his vision of the Hidden Land gave me my closest glimpse. I thank Garpa for the innumerable times he offered me a tiny stool at his side behind the Tashiding Monastery where I could watch his chisel coax Tibetan letters from stone and hear what it was like to be the Messenger of the Hidden Land. The late Atang Lama of Sinon will be remembered as the one who brought to life the perspective of a teenager from Tashiding when the prophesied lama came.
To the late Rigzin Dokhampa I owe much of the accuracy in this book in terms of the Tibetan dharma and its peculiarities as found in Sikkim. With one foot in the traditional world and another in scholarship, he was an ever-patient bridge between worlds, elucidating points alluded to by others with the accuracy of a researcher and the heart of a true practitioner. While the world will produce many scholars, the very world Rigzin Dokhampa grew up in and so artfully melded into his scholarly life has all but vanished. With his passing, something irreplaceable has been lost.
I offer my thanks to all the others of Sikkim and Darjeeling who gave clues and guidance and told me their stories during my years of research between 2001 and 2008.
When I arrived in the Kullu Valley in 2006 to research Tulshuk Lingpa’s early years in India and to meet his oldest disciples, Kunsang had called ahead and I was met there by Tulshuk Lingpa’s grandson Gyurme Chand and by Wangyal Bodh, who hired a vehicle to take me to many of the people from Kullu and Lahaul connected with this story. I thank Gyurme’s mother Pema Choekyi, Tulshuk Lingpa’s daughter in Lahaul, for showing me the few precious things she had inherited from her father, and who, together with her husband Amar Chand, gave Barbara and me our base in Lahaul. Their hospitality still warms.
I am grateful to the monks at the monastery in Pangao for beating the ground before us with sticks to scare away cobras as they brought me down the treacherous slope to Tulshuk Lingpa’s cave. And to Jinda Wangchuk’s family in Pangao, thank you for giving Barbara and me a place to stay and for the old photos of Raju.
To Khandro Chimi Wangmo I offer thanks for taking her stuffed snow leopard down so she could pose with it. Chokshi of Simoling gave me his story, and the other monks and head lama of Tulshuk Lingpa’s monastery in Lahaul offered me their hospitality, for which I am grateful. Yeshe’s story of the love and the pain she has endured over the years moved me greatly, and I thank her for her openness in expressing the beauty she harbors deep in her heart.
As the head of Tulshuk Lingpa’s monastery in Lahaul for over forty years, Lama Tashi’s deep understanding of Tulshuk Lingpa’s history, which he shared with a voice at once authoritative and deeply human, shed a unique light on the story.
To Raju, Tulshuk Lingpa’s reincarnation, I offer thanks not only for the book’s last words but also for the frankness of his story. May this book not become an obstacle for you.
I’ve had the good fortune of having a number of very good readers and editors who have had an important hand in shaping this book. I want to thank Mark Canner in Cambridge, MA, for his thorough read and penetrating insight, Geoffrey Samuel in Cardiff for his precision, and Didi Contractor in Sidhbari, Dharamsala, for the sharpness of her critique. Tashi Tsering of the Amnye Machen Institute in Dharamsala provided corrections that only a Tibetan scholar of his caliber could have given, and for that I am grateful, as I am to Alex McKay for important historical fact checking. I want to thank Raymond Lowe in Vermont and Anna Hopewell in London for their feedback, which helped shape the first draft. Any mistakes that remain are entirely my own.
For the translation of Tulshuk Lingpa’s writing from the Tibetan I thank Gyurme Tsundu, Professor Samten Norbu and the late Khen Rinpoche, all of Darjeeling.
To all those anonymous photographers of yore whose old black and white photographs are reproduced in this book: thank you. If any of you want to come forward, you will be raised from the ranks of the anonymous, and be given full credit in future editions.
My ignorance of Tibetan, Nepali and Hindi would have been an insurmountable obstacle if it weren’t for those who acted as my interpreters. First among them was Wangchuk, Tulshuk Lingpa’s grandson, who not only interpreted his father’s stories over the course of innumerable afternoons but also accompanied me twice to Sikkim, during which trips he was not only a wonderful companion but also a superlative interpreter. His sister Yeshe also spent many an afternoon interpreting her father’s stories for me, and for that I am grateful. During my trip to the Kullu Valley and Lahaul, Tulshuk Lingpa’s grandson Gyurme was my guide and interpreter. Thank you.
At Oxford University I had the help of two scholars: Charles Ramble who was generous with his time, pointing out important literature on the tradition of the Hidden Lands, loaning me obscure texts and setting up my first lecture based on the book; and Saul Mullard, whose help shining light on the tight knot of Sikkim’s history was invaluable.
It was Jetsunma Tenzin Palmo of the Dongyu Gatsal Ling Nunnery whose kind words and enthusiasm concerning the manuscript at a crucial juncture helped this book see the light of day.
To all those not mentioned here but who had a hand in shaping this book, either through scholarly expertise, edits or experience, a heartfelt appreciation is hereby sent out to you.
Thanks also go to my parents, Henry and Vivian Shor, who, while not having always understood what made me tick, have always believed in me as a writer.
I save for last the one who fulfilled all the above-mentioned roles and more. She not only interpreted for me innumerable times, translated from the Tibetan, steered me to pertinent literature, read and edited various drafts of the book, offered sage advice and accompanied me to remote valleys and innumerable lecture halls in India, Europe and the USA: but also offered her encouragement when needed, and her love always. I’m speaking of course of my wonderful companion on this earth, my partner and wife, Barbara.
Photo Credits
All photographs were taken by the author, Thomas K. Shor, except for the following:
Photos in Frontmatter:
Mountain Landscape, from Himalayan Journals by Sir Joseph Dalton Hooker, Ward, Lock, Bowden and Co., London, New York, and Melbourne, 1891.
Tulshuk Lingpa, from an old photo, photographer unknown.
Photos by Chapter:
Chapter One, 3rd Photo, from an old photo, photographer unknown.
Chapter Three, 1st photo, from an old photo, photographer unknown.
Chapter Four, 1st Photo, from an old photo, photographer unknown.
Chapter Six, 4th Photo, from an old photo, photographer unknown.
Chapter Six, 6th Photo, from an old photo, photographer unknown.
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br /> Chapter Eight, 1st Photo, from an old photo, photographer unknown.
Chapter 10, 1st Photo, from an old photo, photographer unknown.
Chapter 10, 2nd Photo, from the Himalayan Journals of Sir Joseph Dalton Hooker, 1891
Chapter Twenty-One, 5th Photo, from an old photo, photographer unknown.
Maps:
Map 1, modified from The World Factbook.
Map 2, modified from The World Factbook.
Map 3, From Round Kangchenjunga by Douglas W. Freshfield, London, Edwin Arnold, 1903.
About the Author
Writer and photographer Thomas K. Shor was born in Boston, USA, and studied comparative religion and literature in Vermont. With an ear for unusual stories, the fortune to attract them and an eye for detail, he has travelled the planet’s mountainous realms—from the Mayan Highlands of southern Mexico in the midst of insurrection to the mountains of Greece and, more recently to the Indian Himalayas—to collect, illustrate and write stories, with a uniquely personal character often having the flavour of fable.
Shor has lectured widely on his writings and has had solo exhibits of his photographs in Europe and in India. He is the author of Windblown Clouds and can often be found in the most obscure locales, immersed in a compelling story touching upon fundamental human themes.
The author’s website is www.ThomasShor.com.
ALSO BY THOMAS K. SHOR
Into the Hands of the Unknown: An Indian Sojourn with a Harvard Renuncient
Buy the eBook version HERE
Read a sample below
Book Description
“I think you should come with me to India”
Thus begins this tale of the author and photographer Thomas K. Shor when he was a young man and happened to sit next to Ed Spencer, a brilliant seventy-year-old ex-Harvard professor, turned wandering holy man, who makes this offer within an hour of their meeting on a Greek ferry. Though unsure whether the old man is some kind of a bum or a realized being or both, he agrees to go with this enigmatic stranger whose credo is, “Take the Money out of your pocket and put yourself in the hands of the Unknown.”
When they arrive in Greece and Ed passes the money exchange with hardly a glance, his young companion begins to understand the gulf that separates the old man from the rest of humanity.
The ensuing journey, recounted in the pages of INTO THE HANDS OF THE UNKNOWN, takes them on an epic journey by foot into the heart of South India and then to the Himalayas where the author made his first contact with the Tibetan people.
INTO THE HANDS OF THE UNKNOWN, which is revised and has a new Postscript describing the author’s subsequent encounters with the Ed Spencer, was originally published as Part II of the book WINDBLOWN CLOUDS published by Escape Media Publishers, USA, in 2003 and by Pilgrims Publishers, India and Nepal, in 2006.
From the review by the renowned British poet Kathleen Raine:
Thomas Shor’s life is a continual unfolding of those inner and outer worlds which his sense of wonder discovers continually. His story reminds us that we are, or could be, travelers in a world of marvels, of love, and encounters with men and women themselves on pilgrimages of the imagination. Did not the Emperor Haroun al-Rashid for a thousand and one nights hear in the city of Baghdad endless stories that make up the one story of the world? Once involved in Thomas Shor’s adventure of life, one hopes only for more.
Kathleen Raine (D.Litt., Cambridge; Commander of the Ordre des Arts et des Lettres, France; Commander of the British Empire; Winner—Queen’s Gold Medal for Poetry, England, etc.)
The Monk and the Sly Chickpea: Travels on Corfu
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Read an excerpt below
Book Description
THE MONK AND THE SLY CHICKPEA tells the story of a journey the author and photographer Thomas K. Shor took in 1981 as a young man to the Greek island of Corfu. His journey starts in an idyllic coastal village in a house surrounded by lush fruit and olive trees. While many a young man’s journey to Greece would feature a coastal village and even a strip of white beach, Thomas K. Shor’s journey led him, with a certain inevitability, to the island’s highest mountain, the wind-swept and craggy Mount Pantokrator, and to the ancient stone monastery that crowns its peak. It was there that he lived with the monastery’s sole inhabitant of over forty years, the fiery-eyed Greek Orthodox monk Evthókimos Koskinás, a man of both the mountain and of God. From that stormy peak, often pounded by bolder-splitting lightning, sharing meals of chickpeas seasoned with the mountain’s wild herbs drenched in olive oil, Shor comes to some startlingly profound insights for a young man of twenty-two.
THE MONK AND THE SLY CHICKPEA, which is revised and has a new Postscript describing the author’s return to Corfu and his encounters with the monk after twenty years, was originally published as Part I of the book WINDBLOWN CLOUDS by Escape Media Publishers, USA, in 2003.
FROM THE REVIEW BY THE RENOWNED BRITISH POET KATHLEEN RAINE:
In Thomas Shor’s narrative the absorbing writing is the least of his gifts: he creates the imaginative adventure of his life as he lives it. He plunges into the story almost by accident, leaving a steamer bound for Athens by mistake at Corfu. But in Thomas Shor’s life there are no mistakes, only opportunities, and before long we find him sharing the life of the last surviving monk at a monastery high on Mount Pantokrator, his meals of chick peas, garlic and olive oil, his toils, and the dense fogs and storms of the highest mountain on Corfu. The old monk wants him to become his successor, but life runs on, leading perhaps inevitably to the Indian sub-continent.
Kathleen Raine (D.Litt., Cambridge; Commander of the Ordre des Arts et des Lettres, France; Commander of the British Empire; Winner—Queen’s Gold Medal for Poetry, England, etc.)
Sample ~ Into the Hands of the Unknown
Take the money out of your pocket
and put yourself in the hands
of the unknown.
Edmond J. Spencer
Chapter 1
I had no idea where I was going. Everyone else getting off the ferry, which had just completed a crossing of the Adriatic from Greece to the southern Italian port of Brindisi, had a destination. They clutched train and bus tickets in their hands. Their minds were full of timetables.
It was autumn, 1981. I was twenty-two years old, and I had just left the Greek island of Corfu where I had been living some months in an ancient stone monastery at the peak of the island’s highest mountain with the monastery’s sole inhabitant, a fiery old monk who had lived alone amid all that stone for decades, I was both finely tuned and in a peculiar state of mind. Sounds, smells, colors—everything was extremely sharp. Within me I carried the silence of the mountain. Still, I felt a bit like a fool, wandering off without purpose. I was a clean slate. To consciously direct my steps would have been contrary to my state of mind.
Making the crossing to Italy had hardly entailed a decision at all: my Greek visa was running out and I had to leave the country. As I walked from the boat and entered the city, I had no destination. I was in a state of flux, a state of pure possibility. To decide upon one destination would have been to block out all others. All points on the compass were equal to me. Strange as it may sound, I was awaiting a sign, a glimmer of recognition—anything that would direct me. I knew it was preposterous, but it was just such a glimmer that had led me to the mountain. Leaving the mountain was like jumping over the edge of the known world. Hopefully the universe would uphold me.
Food on the boat had been prohibitively expensive, so the first urge that directed my steps was hunger. I wanted spaghetti. I was, after all, in Italy. So I stopped at a place not far from the port and ordered a bowl of spaghetti. When it came it was greasy in a way that just wasn’t right. I couldn’t get it down, thinking the whole time of Lord Byron, who caught the cholera that cost him his life in Brindisi. I left the restaurant feeling angry that I had to pay for something I couldn’t eat. Nothing about Italy seemed right. I walked back to the port and bough
t a ticket for the boat’s return trip to Greece.
Thinking I was the first one on the boat, I went straight to the large passenger cabin to claim the same seat I had occupied on the crossing to Italy. Entering the cabin, I noticed it was empty except for an old man sitting in my seat. Many people were still boarding the boat or exploring the various decks before finally finding places to settle for the journey. There were probably a hundred seats in this cabin, and though some people came in behind me and were now stowing their luggage, the only person sitting was this old man, and the seat he occupied was the one I wanted.
His head was turned away from me and he was looking out the window, probing his teeth with a toothpick. Standing in the aisle, I looked around for another seat, wondering at the same time whether the old man spoke English.
He sensed my presence and turned. “Please,” he said, motioning to the seat beside him, “sit down.”
I wanted to sit alone and meant to refuse; instead I found myself accepting his offer. With a sigh I heaved my pack from my back and propped it on the back of the next row of seats. And as I sat I noticed his pack, a small canvas daypack on the floor by his feet. It was bright orange and slightly frayed around the edges.
The man turned to face me fully. “My name is Ed Spencer,” he said, holding his hand out for me to shake. His hand was large and strong. I introduced myself.