In Exile From the Land of Snows

by John Avedon

  An hour later the majestic peaks behind Dharamsala appear in the distance, glistening with new-fallen snow. The storm gone, the day turns progressively bright, the air fresh and invigorating. Now both Lower Dharamsala and McLeod Ganj can be seen ahead, nestled on their respective ridge backs, white and pleasing. Though it is too small to make out, Kashmir Cottage, the home of the Dalai Lama’s mother, stands halfway between the two. Scores of monks surround the house, having amassed at this moment sixty-two of an eventual hundred million mantras, but she is gone.

  Pulling into Katwali Bazaar the snowstorm’s toll is immediately visible. Even in Lower Dharamsala things are a mess. The road is so engorged that safe passage upward is impossible. Word is that a bus has gotten stuck on the long gradual route past the army cantonment and the Tibetan Children’s Village. Even if it gets loose, there is no place for it to go in a foot and a half of snow. The decision is taken to attempt the back road, a thin track clinging to the mountain with a plunge down one side for hundreds of feet. This is the road most commonly used by pedestrians hiking between McLeod Ganj and Gangchen Kyishong, the Secretariat. At the end of Katwali Bazaar the column turns right and heads directly for the compound, where the Dalai Lama is driven to the Kashag building. Running inside through the cold, he is met by the Cabinet, assembled, according to protocol, to greet him. Here, though, he receives word of another delay. The back road as well is out of operation. Two jeeps have met head-on at the most dangerous curve. The descending one is stuck in the snow and starting to sideslip close to the edge. The second is unable to retreat down the hill for fear of doing the same. They remain frozen in a cockeyed embrace, blocking the last road to Theckchen Chöling. There is nothing to do now but walk up. While the Dalai Lama shares a cup of tea with his Cabinet ministers, an attendant is dispatched up the hill to the palace to fetch a pair of boots. Simultaneously, the heavy custom-built four-door salmon-colored jeep, given to the government-in-exile by the soldiers of the Special Frontier Force, is brought out from its berth. With it there is some hope of negotiating halfway up the road to the start of a rocky path through the woods. With the arrival of his boots the Dalai Lama departs, waving to a group of government workers and their families who have hurried over to see him. By a cluster of households belonging to the gaddis or hill folk, he steps from the jeep and sets off up the steep trail. Quickly, he picks his way from concealed rock to concealed rock beneath the smooth white surface. As he breaks the path for all those who follow, his red and ochre robes pass beneath a white cloak of pine boughs, his lone figure reappearing farther up, cast against the limpid sky at the summit of the hill, his pilgrimage complete.

  8

  The Wheel of Protection

  DHARAMSALA FEBRUARY 14, 1981, 6:00 A.M. The Dalai Lama sits on his throne in the Central Cathedral. Outside, the night is black and still. A cold breeze blows down from Mun Peak. Two old women, up before dawn, circumambulate the temple. They cannot see within. The building’s curtains have been tightly drawn, its front door locked, its side doors guarded by a watchful group of monks. Only a hint of the bright electric light inside appears around the border of each window.

  This morning’s proceedings are of the utmost secrecy. No outsider, Tibetan or otherwise, is permitted to view them. Except for the participants, few even know they are taking place. The principal monk has already engaged in extensive preparations. For two days the members of his monastery have recited prayers while he has labored to purify mind and body. His daily meditation practice has been conducted with special care. Fish, pork, garlic, onions and other impure foods have been eliminated from his diet. He has eaten from his own set of plates, kept separate from the others in the monastery. To complete his cleansing, blessed saffron water has been poured over the crown of his head and mantras recited.

  On rising this morning, four attendants help the monk dress. His plain habit is put aside for an elaborate costume stored in two trunks. Ordinary pants are donned, followed by red brocade trousers, whose legs are six feet wide. It takes seven folds before the pads sewn into the garment are positioned at the knees. Fastened at the ankles, the trousers bulge a foot to each side. Matched by a red silk shirt placed over an undershirt, they are followed by two heavy robes loosely fastened with a belt and covered by a thick piece of brocade with an opening for the head. The monk’s knee-high white leather boots are then tied on, toes curled up, wrathful eyes of crimson silk appliquéd on the ankles. So attired, he is helped into a jeep parked between his monastery and the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives in the Secretariat compound. In darkness, the jeep slowly winds its way over the back road, through McLeod Ganj and down the approach to the Central Cathedral. From here he is escorted up the building’s front and into a small room in the rear, where preparations continue. A triangular jerkin fashioned of gold-leafed ringlets and styled in the manner of ancient Tibetan mail is put on, its points, front and back, ending at the waist. Next, a type of backpack is securely fastened about his middle. It supports four flags interspersed with three victory banners. The flags, made of doubled-up brocade, hang from flexible metal poles and run the full length of the monk’s back; the banners, shaped like a roll of umbrellas, ascend from mid-thigh to above the head and are crowned with golden points. His sleeves are now bound with strips of red cloth; the left one, padded for archery, is stitched with three more scarlet eyes. Then a front piece of exquisite yellow, gold and red silk, its base exploding in hundreds of rainbow-hued threads, conceals all. At its center lies a golden mirror, the cardinal points dotted by clusters of turquoise around an amethyst, its polished silver core emblazoned with the Sanskrit mantra of a tantric deity. A three-foot-long silver sheath and sword are buckled on the left side, a golden quiver filled with arrows on the right; a golden thimble, used when drawing back a bowstring, is slipped over the right thumb. These are the accouterments of an epic Tibetan warrior, a hero from the days of Gesar of Ling, Tibet’s great legendary king. But, despite the martial nature of the uniform, the monk is not going into combat. Rather, in a few minutes’ time, as he sits beneath the bright lights of the cathedral, his consciousness will be cast aside in trance and replaced with that of Dorje Drakden—“the Renowned Immutable One”—chief spirit minister and bearer of counsel for the State Oracle of Tibet. More than a week ago the three days of the New Year’s celebrations were concluded, and now, as it has for centuries, comes the first official trance of the year.

  Inside the Cathedral’s main hall, the Dalai Lama remains wrapped in silence. A giant statue of the Buddha rises behind his throne; images of Tibet’s patron saints crowd the raised level at the head of the hall, where he sits. They are illuminated by large butter lamps, yet the chamber’s darkness is far more radically dispelled by one hundred electric bulbs arranged, as offerings, in the shape of tiered cones on either side of the throne. Under their exacting glare, the varnished floorboards of the lower level give an almost antiseptic definition to the cathedral. But not entirely. Seven-foot spears, painted with scarlet eyes, are roped to the hall’s front pillars. Behind them two files of young monks from Nechung Monastery bear musical instruments at the ready, while a table nearby supports dough offering or tsog and another holds a long bow and sword next to a banner-festooned helmet. The helmet, made of gold-coated iron, is almost three feet high. Five pearl-toothed ruby-eyed skulls adorn its facade beneath a crest of bear fur, surrounded by peacock feathers, and fronted by a flaming sword symbolizing penetrative insight into the ultimate nature of reality. The helmet’s rear supports nine three-foot-long flags and banners stitched with silver bells. The top of the highest is crowned by a small group of golden bells and framed by aureoles of white cotton circling the three jewels of the Buddha, Dharma and Sangha, engraved in gold. Beside it lies a second helmet, belonging to the Gadong Oracle, who will also appear in trance this morning. The Dalai Lama’s contemplative mood is matched by that of the ministers of his Cabinet, the Chairman and Vice-Chairman of the People’s Deputies and their secretaries, all
seated on low cushions to his left. A select group of abbots and lamas, their demeanor equally subdued, face them from across the way.

  The ceremony begins. Two ten-foot thungchen or long horns produce a shattering blast. They are followed by the shrill notes of the gyaling, accompanied by cymbals, drums and the monks’ recitation, invoking the oracular deity to descend into the kuden or “receiving body.” A maroon curtain at the side of the temple parts. Three assistants appear, supporting the medium. He can barely walk. Altogether the eight layers of his clothing weigh more than one hundred pounds; the helmet, though only a third the weight of that used in Tibet, another thirty pounds. But it is not only his costume that makes it difficult for the Nechung kuden to move unassisted. He is already starting to enter the first levels of trance. A slight quivering rolls up and down his body. His breathing is short and loud. Between gaps in the music and prayers, its sound fills the room. As he walks forward, the kuden’s close-cropped head looks small and fragile above the costume’s great bulk. His cheekbones jut out fiercely; his eyes are tucked in on the shelf of the skull and have a wild, startled look. The bushy left eyebrow points at an angle to the bridge of the nose, suggesting the crooked gaze of an Iroquois false-face mask. Like a false face, the cheeks also balloon above a large overbite, the lips protrude and the entire left side of the face has slipped a notch below the right, except where the mouth curls subtly up to produce a soft, quizzical smile. Soon a more severe distortion sets in. The skin draws tight on the skull, effacing the features. The whole countenance becomes clear and pure. The medium assumes a piercing, distant look. He is immersed in the visualization of himself as a tutelary deity standing at the center of a celestial mansion; without this meditation, he is unsuitable for possession.

  Guided down the steps to the cathedral’s main floor, the kuden sits on a brocade-covered camp stool placed over an imitation tiger skin in the middle of the room. An attendant bolsters him beneath either arm and the third man, holding the helmet, presses hard against his back to give further support. Legs wide apart, the Nechung kuden looks up to the Dalai Lama twenty feet away, whereupon his breathing quickens. The moment has come. The first prayer cycle concludes, the second commences, once more summoning the spirit minister Dorje Drakden to descend from the “inconceivable mansion” of the protective deity at the heart of “illimitable space” and enter the receiving body. The long horns’ thunder shakes the temple’s walls and the trance deepens profoundly. The kuden begins to be possessed. Abruptly, his head jerks back to the right and he commences to hyperventilate, at an immense rate. Each breath is ejected in a compressed hiss, like a radiator venting. The speed increases and he starts to gag violently. It is as if a long cord, running the length of his torso, is being tightly twisted, pushing breath and mind further out of the body with every bend. Suddenly both legs spring off the floor and begin to leap up and down. The medium’s figure visibly expands, swelling two inches, so that the belts of the costume, purposely left loose before, now cut into the robes. The heartbeat is such that, in a separate movement all to itself, the mirror on his chest bounces.

  Recognizing that the Choekyong or Protector of Religion has come, the attendant holding the helmet quickly places it on the medium’s head. As he does, the medium’s face turns bright red, his legs stick straight out and his head falls backwards. All three monks struggle to secure the helmet while the umze or chant leader brings the recitation to a quick stop. For a minute or two, only music is heard. When the trance concludes, the special slipknot used in tying on the helmet must be instantly released or the medium will die; it is a skill the attendants practice for days at a time, tying knots and releasing them around their own knees. But now the body itself is as though dead. Close up, the tiny golden bells atop the helmet can be heard tinkling; not from the shuddering of the head—they move even in the brief lapses when it is still—but from the presence of Dorje Drakden himself. The Protector is here, in the room, and as the attendants struggle to tie on the helmet, he shakes his borrowed legs and switches his head fiercely from side to side. Beneath the helmet’s red silk brim the eyes open and close in staccato blinks, as if taking in an alien environment bits at a time, before briefly relapsing into their own thoughts. Minutes pass before the cords of the helmet can be secured. When they are, they are pulled so tight that if it were only the medium acting, he would be instantly choked. But as the helmet is finally fastened, the Protector shows himself to be in full possession. Leaping up, he swings a long sword in his right hand and begins to dance.

  His movements are martial, wrathful, dignified. They are executed with supernormal precision. Where the kuden could not even walk for the constricting weight of the costume, Dorje Drakden can barely be contained by the body he is in. Bending straight down from the waist, he bows low, crossing both arms over his chest, then instantly springs back, the helmet’s mass counting for nothing. Waving the heavy sword in the air, he first lifts his right leg and arm, the knee and elbow bent, and then his left. This is the basic step of the cham or ritual dance, interspersed with bows offered out of respect to the Dalai Lama. Spinning from side to side, he repeats the gestures with such alacrity that the attendants, hovering two feet away, appear to be in another dimension of time, their steps sluggish, their movements coarse in comparison to the frenetic agility before them. They remain where they are only to keep him inside the open space at the center of the room.

  Three bows are completed within thirty seconds. Dorje Drakden throws the sword down and rushes up the steps to the Dalai Lama. Glancing over the seated members of the Tibetan government, he comes directly to the foot of the throne and, taking a scarf from an attendant, offers it. The Dalai Lama swiftly accepts it while the three assistants rush to place the mendel tensum, the traditional offering of the Buddha’s body, speech and mind, into his hands. The ritual cord placed over his shoulder, the Protector clasps the reliquary, scripture and image of the Buddha one at a time and offers them upwards to the Dalai Lama, who, touching them with only slightly less speed to his forehead, passes them back down to a monk on his left. In the interval, the two make direct eye contact. In that brief moment, Dorje Drakden looks up with a gentle, caring gaze, his pupils brilliantly dilated. A polished silver cup on a long silver stand, containing dark black tea, is given to him. He raises it to the Dalai Lama, who takes a small sip. In communion, he then drinks himself and steps to the right side of the throne, so that the Dalai Lama can lean over to whisper in his ear. This is the first, most secret question asked. It is quickly answered by Dorje Drakden, who then moves away to offer scarves to the main images. Rushing into the cramped space behind the throne, he hurls one twelve feet into the air, directly onto the Buddha’s begging bowl. The force and aim are astonishing, given the obvious difficulty of accurately projecting a scarf so far without its coming unraveled. The offering is repeated to the other images, and then, at the same scurrying pace, he returns to the camp stool at the center of the temple’s floor.

  While he continues to drink tea in short sips, Cabinet ministers, the Chairman and the Vice-Chairman of the People’s Deputies descend to him. The immense physical upheaval of entering the small human frame has stabilized. Now the hissing breath comes in precise, neatly calibrated spasms. As the officials file by offering scarves, Dorje Drakden takes red protection cords from an attendant and knots, blesses and places them around the neck of each man. They assemble in a group on his left, and Venerable Tara, the Dalai Lama’s chief private secretary, reads from a two-foot-long scroll. It is the official petition, composed in verse, requesting the Protector to reveal specific aspects of the Dalai Lama’s, the Tibetan people’s and the government’s future. It contains no more than three questions. On this occasion the questions and the ensuing answers are public, heard by all. At other times, however, greater secrecy is required and the questions are written on small pieces of paper, which the Protector pushes under his helmet. When he is ready to respond he throws them to the floor without reading them. Now, b
efore the answers are given, a further cham is performed.

  The officials return to their seats. Again Dorje Drakden takes a sword in hand and dances, flags and white cotton-topped banners fluttering in the air behind him. Helmeted, bracketed by the bristling array of wing-like pennants, standing jauntily in the white upturned boots, his golden gown and polished shield sparkling, he displays the proud character of a mythic hero, an ancient warrior chieftain of the Tibetan highlands. As the second cham draws to an end, he twirls to his left, sword circling over his head, and, arriving at the table holding the conical dough offerings, lops off the top of the tallest one in a swift blow. Then, flinging the weapon to the ground, he strides forth once more to offer counsel.

  Three secretaries, one holding a clipboard and red ball-point pen, are waiting to the left of the throne. The Protector is offered tea, but this time he pushes the cup away and begins to speak. His voice is startling. Each word is crisply enunciated, yet in an ethereal, halting, hollow tone suggesting immense age and distance. Because of its high, wavering pitch, it has been thought that Dorje Drakden is female, but the timbre is that of a spirit. As he speaks, his eyes appear to blaze, split open with a riveting sharpness reflected in the taut skin of the face. Though it is composed overall, the secretaries can see his entire body seething with energy, vibrating like an electrified filament, which, it is said, has merely to touch an object unawares to shatter it. Yet Dorje Drakden takes hold of the Dalai Lama’s hand with the most refined and intimate gesture. Shifting his face to look up, he speaks humbly, with endearment, out of comradeship whose origins reach far beyond the present. As the words are pronounced, the Dalai Lama assists, repeating them slowly back, followed in chorus by the secretaries. In this manner the message is received word by word, spelled out like a telegram. It is by no means easy. The Protector works hard, straining to pronounce exactly, pulling the meandering plastic mouth, prone to gaping open, into the design of each word, looking up to the Dalai Lama afterwards to ascertain that it has been correctly understood. The transmission is undertaken in an informal spirit of warmth, distinct from the rest of the ceremony. The message itself is delivered in a lilting metered verse. Each line is prefaced by a high, wailing “eh” sound which trails off into the short stops of the following words. This year the New Year’s message commences with a two-verse poem honoring the Dalai Lama as “Holder of the Lotus,” the emanation on earth of Chenrezi, the Lord who looks with compassion in a thousand directions: