Blue Sky Kingdom

by Bruce Kirkby

  Bodi and Taj seemed frighteningly delicate by comparison. Both cried easily and often—which distressed the lamas to no end.

  “No good,” the old men would tut angrily.

  Even in the village, passing strangers implored our boys to stop sobbing, as if they’d never previously witnessed such a horror. Anthropologist Kim Gutschow, who spent years living in Zanskar, explains there are two words used to describe crying in local children: nyid shrin (“sleep crying”) and stod shrin (“hungry crying”). Notably, there is no word for “hurt crying.”

  As the novice monks continued their shoulder-top battle, a filthy bandage fell from Skarma’s hand, revealing a festering fingernail. Retrieving our first aid kit, I washed the area, applied antibiotic ointment, and then covered everything with gauze.

  And that was how word of our healing abilities got out.

  Sonam, the math whiz, appeared at the hobbit door that night, holding out a hand ravaged by warts. Christine dabbed the area with salicylic acid. The next day Tsephal quietly asked Christine to treat his own outbreak. I excavated a sliver from Purbu’s foot. Jigmet wanted “headache pills.” Tashi Topden had a sore throat.

  When Norphal developed a cyst the size of a half-lime on his forehead, we soaked the region with hot rags for days, hoping to draw the infection out. Eventually, one of the lamas who didn’t share our patience crudely lanced the boil with a nail, and for weeks afterward, Norphal wore a white rag around his head, marked with a red circle of blood—giving him the appearance of a kamikaze pilot.

  “I feel constantly overwhelmed by my mothering instinct,” Christine admitted. “I want to help every sick novice I see.”

  Most of the boys suffered from chronic sinus infections—green boogers dropping like little worms from their nostrils with every breath—and Christine soon gave away all our antibiotics. Despite her efforts, none of the boys got better, and Christine eventually realized the novices routinely tossed their antibiotics aside before the course was complete. When she asked the lamas living with the sick novices to remind them of their medicine, they just shook their heads.

  “It would have been better if I’d never given out our drugs in the first place,” she fumed. “I don’t understand it. Why don’t the lamas value health? None of these boys even know what it’s like to live without a snotty nose.”

  One morning, we found wispy Tsephal lying on the hard floor of the puja hall, head in hands. I felt his forehead, and it was burning with fever. That afternoon, he shuffled into class looking no better and collapsed.

  “Go home and rest,” I suggested, but he shook his head. No matter how sick or injured, the lamas never allowed the novices to rest in bed. So instead, I sent Bodi to retrieve a couple of Tylenol from our first aid kit.

  * * *

  “Mortub!” Lama Wangyal yelled. “Photo taking!”

  We had been playing Simon Says with our class when the old monk burst in. The novices scattered, grabbing satchels and racing for the door. We followed with our own boys in hand, led by the throbbing sound of drums toward the courtyard, which was now milling with villagers.

  The lamas sat in rows, wearing elaborate silken shawls, grasping a silver bell in left hand, brass dorje in right.II Their golden crowns were adorned with shaggy visors of black wool, meant to obscure the men’s vision and prevent them from inadvertently glancing upward and causing Buddha to abandon the ceremony. At the very center, atop a waist-high dais, was perched the Head Lama. On the ground before him sat an immense fire pan, stacked with dung.

  The dorje, a stylized thunderbolt, represents the decisive moment of enlightenment, when the world is recognized for what it truly is.

  The fields of Karsha were now ripe—among the first in Zanskar, due to the village’s valuable southern exposure—but no farmer would gather a single head of grain until the jin-sek, or fire puja, was complete. Today marked the beginning of week-long sacred rites, meant to bless the coming harvest.

  Preparations had been underway for days. Barley, wheat and peas had been washed and laid to dry in the sun. Tangled boughs of juniper had been dragged into the courtyard, hacked into short lengths and bound together in bundles. Tsampa had been moulded into an army of small statues, painted red and adorned with elaborate flowers of yak butter.

  Silence fell as Stanzin Ta’han, the young man we called the Noble Face, doused the dung with molten butter using a silver ladle, its handle as long as a shovel’s. Holding a torch of flaming grass, the Head Lama leaned forward. When torch touched dung, flames leapt up. The radiant heat was so intense I could feel it across the courtyard, like summer sun on my cheeks.

  A thick wooden shield was hurriedly propped up to protect the Head Lama, and as the lamas chanted, the Lost Boys delivered a stream of copper bowls to the Head Lama, heaped with barley, wheat, rice and peas. All were dispatched into the inferno with muttered prayers. Then came bundles of grass, peacock feathers and juniper. Pungent smoke drifted through the crowd.

  After twenty minutes, Bodi and Taj lost interest and began casting looks at a village toddler. Wearing only a blue sweater, the boy was naked from the waist down, and rushed over to investigate. The trio were horsing around when the little boy peed on the cement beside, and our boys erupted in laughter. Nearby, even the dour monastery accountant managed a smile.

  Lama Wangyal sat in the very front row. When he began motioning for me to join him, I pretended not to see, not wanting to disturb the sacred rituals. But he stood up and waved his arms overhead insistently, leaving me no choice. Self-consciously, I tiptoed to the epicenter of the ceremony and crouched beside him.

  “Mortub,” he whispered in my ear. “Photo taking!”

  Since arriving at the monastery, more than a month earlier, I’d been reluctant to photograph the monks, particularly during puja, for it felt intrusive. But now, at Lama Wangyal’s insistence, I retrieved my camera, and crouching at the back, used a telephoto lens to snap discreet images: a leathery hand, a brass dorje, barley seeds tumbling into the flames, tiny Norgay curled up in the disciplinarian’s lap.

  A back-row monk—nicknamed the Frenchman, for his flattened monk’s cap was reminiscent of a beret—hooted at me. I felt horrified. Was he warning me to stop taking photographs?

  But no, he wanted me to join him.

  Once again, I tiptoed self-consciously into the midst of the lamas. The Frenchman made space on the carpet beside him, and I sat down. He put an arm around me and pointed quizzically at the camera. I showed him a photograph on the digital display, and his eyes widened. Yanking the camera from my hands, he showed the pictures to Lama Sundup, the throat singer, who sat beside him. Sundup promptly took the camera and pointed it around like a spyglass. Soon the camera disappeared, passed down the line between chanting lamas. Everyone wanted a turn peering through the lens.

  And still, grain was heaped onto the flames.

  The Frenchman lay down and put his head on my lap, squirming until he found a comfortable position. Then he closed his eyes and drifted to sleep. The half-naked toddler wandered over and pooped beside us. His red-faced father apologized profusely, hurriedly cleaning up the mess with a tissue. Bodi and Taj appeared. The Frenchman hauled Bodi onto his lap. Taj settled on mine. Christine nestled between us.

  Purbu and Nima rushed through the crowd, serving milky tea spiced with cardamom. Tashi Tsering, the cook, followed, carrying a plastic wash basin heaped with sweet rice, hazelnuts and apricots, which he spooned into outstretched hands.

  We were greedily eating when a violent gust of wind buffeted the courtyard. Bowls bounced across concrete. Grain flew into the air. Sparks scattered. The wooden shield protecting the Head Lama toppled over and landed with a crash.

  As the wind built and the sky darkened, villagers scurried beneath the protection of a covered terrace. Peering through lattice windows, they pointed at a wall of dust racing toward us across the central plains. A great wind had clawed its way over the Himalaya and was now aimed directly at Karsha Gompa.
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br />   Standing beside me, Wang Chuk whispered, “Harvest puja always making big storm.”III

  The Head Lama bellowed instructions. The Lost Boys doubled the pace of their grain delivery. Offerings were dumped into the fire at a frantic rate. Butter was added in great splashes.

  Then the storm hit. The sun was obliterated. Flying sand stung eyes and cheeks. Robes were torn from monks’ shoulders. Burning embers swirled in the wind. The crowd scattered.

  Scooping up our two oblivious boys—still happily licking rice from fingers—I sprinted alongside Christine toward the shelter of Lama Wangyal’s home. Glancing over my shoulder, I caught one final glimpse of the Lost Boys, staggering through the flying refuse, sheltering plates of barley against their chests.

  And in the center of it all sat the the Head Lama, tossing grain into the licking flames.

  * * *

  There was something different about the tiny novice, Norgay.

  To start, he wore a brown satin coat and the dog-eared hat of the lamas, while the rest of the novices dressed in maroon robes. Rarely involved in shenanigans, he seemed to exist on the periphery of the other boys, moving with unhurried grace and dignity. Classmates were deferential to the cherubic youngster. And senior lamas displayed unusual affection toward him, taking the small boy on their lap during puja, affectionately squeezing his shoulders when passing on the trails.

  Lama Wangyal attributed the boy’s diminutive size to the fact that Norgay’s mother had died during childbirth, and as a result, he was raised without pipi, or breast milk. His father, unable to manage both farm and child rearing, had brought the boy to Karsha Gompa at the tender and unusually young age of two.

  One day during class, as the young novices tumbled rambunctiously across the floor, I noticed Norgay’s orange hat knocked askew. He pulled it quickly back into place, but not before I spotted an unusual port wine stain: a dark purple discoloration spreading across the scalp above the left ear. I’d heard rumours, and that evening, I asked Lama Wangyal.

  Norgay’s “second ear,” as Lama Wangyal called it, was what first identified the infant as a possible tulku,IV a living reincarnate of the “Ear-Whispered” lineage.V The previous Ear-Whispered incarnate, the twelfth Dagom Rinpoche, was born in Tibet but displayed a deep affinity for Zanskar throughout his life, travelling frequently to the valley and establishing a Buddhist training center. He passed away in 2006—just a year before Norgay’s birth. Suspicions grew further when Norgay wandered into the assembly hall as a three-year-old and settled on a dais, as if preparing to deliver a teaching.

  Tibetan Buddhists believe all living things, from ants to elephants to humans, are trapped in an eternal cycle of rebirth, known as samsara, which finally ends when one achieves enlightenment and enters nirvana. Most of us are reborn “involuntarily,” our future lives dictated by the sway of past karma (thoughts and deeds). But a select few, generally teachers of exceptional spiritual attainment and compassion, are believed to be able to choose the place and time of their reincarnation, and sometimes even their parents.

  Reincarnation can be a challenging concept for the Western mind, and my face must have betrayed skepticism, because Lama Wangyal led me to his altar. After using a flickering candle to light a neighboring one, he extinguished the first then asked, “Still same flame, no?”

  Establishing the veracity of a reincarnate is a complex tradition. The process is often set in motion by the appearance of predictive omens: a letter left by the predecessor, visions of an oracle or even signs in nature. But conclusive identification requires the child in question to identify possessions from his former life—such as tea bowls, books and mala beads—from an array of similar items. Lama Wangyal told me the Dalai Lama would visit Karsha Gompa the next year and use such techniques to declare definitively whether young Norgay was a tulku or not.

  His Holiness was identified in a similar manner.

  Following the death of the thirteenth Dalai Lama in 1933, senior Tibetan lamas watched in vain for any portent of a reincarnation, but it was two years before signs began to appear. A star-shaped fungus grew on a pillar in the Potala Palace, pointing to rainbows in the northeast. Shortly after, the embalmed head of the thirteenth Dalai Lama reputedly turned to gaze in that very direction. When the temporary regent of Tibet had a vision of a small house with strange gutters, built in the shadow of a gold-and-turquoise roofed monastery, teams of lamas were dispatched on horseback to search.

  Months later, a young peasant boy was discovered in Taktser village, in the far-flung province of Amdo, in precisely the described circumstances. A collection of tea bowls and mala beads was spread before Lhamo Thondup, and in every case, the child headed toward the possessions of his predecessor, declaring with certainty, “It’s mine, it’s mine.”

  After being taken to Lhasa to begin training, the incarnate Dalai Lama—already renamed Tenzin Gyatso—was wandering the colossal storerooms of the Potala Palace when he passed a wooden box. Pointing to it, he stated flatly, “My teeth are in there.”

  When the box was opened, it held the thirteenth Dalai Lama’s dentures.

  At home in North America, no amount of debate had ever been able to sway my skeptical views on reincarnation, but here, in the shadows of the ancient, I found myself reminded of a Sherpa saying: “Maybe true. Maybe not. Better you believe.”

  * * *

  Long after the boys were asleep, Lama Wangyal appeared in our doorway, holding a cheap DVD player, its red plastic cracked and sun-faded.

  Nestled between Christine and me, he pressed the power button. The screen flickered to life, casting a faint blue light across the darkened room. Soon the distorted sound of Tibetan horns began to play, so devilishly loud that Christine leapt to her feet, frantically motioning for Lama Wangyal to turn the volume down. But it was too late. Bodi stirred. Then he sat upright.

  “Oh no, oh no. I can’t control everything,” he screamed.

  Christine gently laid a hand on his shoulder and whispered reassurances. Gradually the sobs receded. We held our breath. Bodi settled. Lama Wangyal pressed play again.

  The footage was hand-held and unsteady. It followed a four-year-old boy, carried by motorcade from a remote country village to Leh’s Spituk Monastery, where he was enthroned as the twentieth reincarnation of the spiritual leader Kushok Bakula Rinpoche—an immensely popular lineage believed to have descended from one of Buddha’s original disciples.

  Lama Wangyal, who had clearly watched these events many times, was transfixed and provided running commentary.

  The tulku’s convoy wound through barren countryside, where throngs of adoring villagers lined the road, not unlike cycling fans at the Tour de France. Khata scarves were tossed in the air with such abandon it appeared to be snowing.

  Occasionally the motorcade paused, and the small boy emerged to sit on a dais and receive devotees. As gifts were piled before him, his tiny hand reached forward to brush each passing bowed head. Men, women and children all wept openly. To witness such faith was humbling, and the grainy footage felt like a glimpse into a long-lost era.

  But these events had been recorded just four years before our visit.

  * * *

  Lama Wangyal was born into a world unrecognizable by any modern measure.

  He arrived on the floor of a mud-brick homestead in the village of Neyrok— seven homes tucked behind a grove of poplar on the banks of the Stod River. Lama Wangyal didn’t know the day of his birth or even the month, for birthdays are not celebrated in Zanskar. But he did know the year: 1953.

  At the time, foreigners were forbidden from entering Zanskar. No roads penetrated the region, and there were no vehicles or even wheelbarrows in the valley. Instead, everything was carried on bent back. A cash economy did not exist, and villagers subsisted through an ancient system of co-operative barter.

  When he was two months old, his parents carried their infant son to Karsha Gompa, a full day’s walk away, where he received the blessings of the Head Lama. Du
ring the ceremony, he was bestowed with his name, Tsering Wangyal—Wangyal denoting “powerful” or “victorious,” in the Buddhist sense of overcoming one’s own ego, and Tsering meaning “long life.”

  Tsering Wangyal was one of eight children, but only five remained alive. “One sister extinguished,” he told us, matter-of-factly. “And two brothers bye-bye.” Childbirth, infection and a kick from a horse had stolen his siblings before their time.

  From an early age, Wangyal understood his future did not lie on the family farm. The Tibetan tradition of primogeniture—established in the seventh century by Songtsen Gampo, founder of the Tibetan empire—dictated that the land would eventually pass to his eldest brother. Likewise, his eldest sister would inherit all the family’s material wealth, in the form of a perak (turquoise-adorned headdress) and silver jewelery.

  Because land could neither be bought nor sold, the notion of private real estate did not exist in Zanskar. And as a result, villagers viewed themselves as guardians of the land, not owners. Another notable side effect of primogeniture was that every household possessed fields of roughly similar size, allowing social equity to remain balanced for generations.

  But primogeniture leaves a large number of young men without land, and in Zanskar, this was counterbalanced by both significant populations of celibate monks and the widespread practice of polyandry. Younger brothers were welcome to join the union of elder siblings. But any boy wishing to marry separately had to leave the family homestead and establish a new farm elsewhere.