Namma

by Kate Karko

  'We're going to have a drink in our room next door,' said Tsedup. 'I'll say goodnight now.'

  'Tsedup, don'tworry aboutyour father. We'll find out what has happened to him tomorrow,' my father said.

  I said goodnight and left them to sleep.

  Next door the men were cracking open the beers. The reason for their appearance was not that they were members of some underground operation but that they were townsfolk. The leather trench coats signalled their position in the community. Sortsay, a small, rotund, merry-faced fellow with cropped black hair and acne on his cheeks, was mayor of Tsedup's tribe. Tsorsungchab, taller, thinner and permanently wearing shades, due to a driving accident that had left his eye damaged, worked for the education department. Anyway, it was cool to wear big shades. They had come to Labrang because both of their wives were sick and were attending the outpatients' service at the hospital. Machu did not have adequate medical care at its small hospital. They were pleased to be reunited with Tsedup and took the opportunity to laugh and drink heartily with him. As the evening progressed they teased me, 'Shermo, drink your beer!' It was a bit of a novelty, a woman who drank beer.

  Just then there was a knock at the door. Sortsay, who was nearest, opened it. The Chinese girl from Reception stared sourly into the room. She frowned as she said something to Tsedup, then stood obstinately by the door, waiting for his response. He turned to me with a look of disbelief on his face.

  'She just asked me what I am doing here,' he said, perplexed.

  I rounded on her. 'He is my husband!' I exclaimed, exasperated. It was a futile attempt to defend him since she couldn't speak English.

  'I am a paying guest,' he added in Chinese, then translated my outcry. She didn't appear to have grasped the concept of interracial marriage, and the furrows in her brow deepened. She clearly presumed that he was a local, planning a free night in their luxury hotel with his friends. Tsedup told her to go away and check with the manager if she didn't believe him.

  Perhaps I was wrong to expect anything else, but the frustration of seeing Tsedup submitted to this humiliation was almost unbearable. We were shocked that he had to suffer the indignities of racism in the place that he knew as home. I guessed he had forgotten: he had been away a long time. I was beginning to realise why he had left.

  Right on cue there was another rap at the door. This time it was the manager. He was Tibetan and his bloodshot eyes and ruddy cheeks betrayed a fondness for the beer that he glimpsed out of the corner of his eye on our table. Once again, Tsedup was asked what he was doing there.

  'I have paid for this room for me and my wife to stay in,' Tsedup replied, struggling to control his temper. Then the manager pointed to Sortsay and Tsorsungchab and asked why they were in the room. They leapt to their own defence and explained that they hadn't seen Tsedup for nine years. They were having a drink as guests and would be off to their own hotels soon. Disgruntled, the man walked away from the incomprehensible situation and returned to his bottle, as Tsedup called after him, 'Go and check your records.'

  After our friends had left, Tsedup and I lay in the dark of the concrete tent and pondered the experience. I knew his pride was hurt and there was little I could do to console him. But mostly he was worried about his father's whereabouts.

  The next morning when we arrived at the monastery, Aka Damchu was sitting in the sun on the wooden seat outside his room. He was spinning a prayer wheel, a small barrel of intricately moulded metal that rotated on a wooden stick. A marble-sized ball was attached by a thin chain to the barrel and swung round keeping the momentum, as he flicked his wrist in a constant rhythm. He was introduced to Dad by Tsedup and greeted him heartily. My mother had stayed behind to sketch and rest; she would join us for a tour of the monastery later, and although I understood that she had her limits, I was forced to disguise my disappointment and embarrassment. How often would she be offered the chance to have a private audience with a child lama? He was the sixth reincarnation of Ja Metoch Kamto, the tutor of Jamyang Jhapa, the founder of Labrang Monastery. The social order of the lamasery followed a strict hierarchy. Jamyang Jhapa, whose full name was Jetsun Losang Jigme Tubten Chogyi Nyima Palzang Po, was the head lama and beneath him were four sub-lamas who occupied 'golden thrones'; beneath these were seven more and so on. The boy, Jarsung, whom we were about to meet, was one of the four who occupied a golden throne; he was therefore of considerable rank.

  We walked solemnly behind Aka Damchu through the wooden archway into the next courtyard holding our prayer scarves in both hands. As we passed through the gate, my father and I watched Tsedup for tips on decorum. Then we glimpsed the boy sitting waiting to receive us on his throne. He couldn't have been more than thirteen years old, but his eyes held the seriousness of a much older man. He wore wine-red robes and a length of fuchsia fabric across one shoulder. In his left hand he methodically counted the beads of his tranger between thumb and forefinger as he surveyed his foreign guests with curiosity. Following Tsedup's lead, we kept our heads lower than his out of respect. We approached him in our small procession, holding out our kadaks. He leant forward, took them from our outstretched hands and placed each one around our necks. This was all performed in total silence. He seemed so isolated, surrounded by monks much older than himself, and I wanted to ask him so many things. Had he forgotten how to be a boy? What was it like to be discovered as a reincarnate, to live your life in the image of someone else? Had he been a monk before they found him or was he living with his family? Did he realise his destiny before that time? Was he happy? But I never had the chance to display my ignorance.

  We followed Aka Damchu to the other side of the courtyard, still bent in supplication, taking care not to turn our backs on the lama. Our friend led us into a shrine dedicated to Jarsung. As far as the eye could see there were books, all written by the six Jarsungs of the past, lining the walls. Butter lamps glowed fragrantly in front of an altar containing a row of pictures of the Jarsungs. Tsedup prostrated himself in front of them as I inspected their faces. The first four pictures were drawn in ink and showed old men, one in the amazing cockatoo-shaped yellow hat of the Gelugpa sect of Buddhism. The last two pictures were photographs, and one was of a tiny boy. He looked out of place next to these grand old faces. Tsedup pointed at the child. 'He has written all of these books,' he said. It seemed unlikely to me that a thirteen-year-old boy had achieved such a feat. But then I stopped. Tsedup's comment had revealed to me the true nature of the Tibetans' belief in reincarnation. As far as Tsedup was concerned, Jarsung had been the same Jarsung for hundreds of years; it was only his physical appearance that had changed throughout his various lives. He went on to explain that Jarsung had always been gifted throughout his reincarnations and, true to character, the boy we had met today was famed for being a conscientious and exceptional student.

  I was moved by this strange encounter. It was a reminder of the atmosphere of mystery that surrounds Tibet: the unknown, magical and isolated Tibet. Such beliefs have a fascination for us in our logical and largely non-spiritual techno-culture, and the practice of determining the rightful successor to a lama upon his death was mystifying to me. Buddhism teaches that the energy derived from the physical and mental activities of a life will embrace a new life when dissolved by death, and has been fundamental to the Tibetan belief system for centuries. A lama's disciple will often search for years to find his reincarnated spirit, and his journey may take him many thousands of miles. When a likely candidate is located he is set a series of tests. These usually consist of the disciple placing objects that belonged to the late lama in front of the candidate, hidden among ordinary things that did not belong to him. The reincarnate will always select the lama's possessions with uncanny immediacy and a peculiar sense of familiarity. He is then recognised and ordained. It is a great honour for his family.

  We took tea with Aka Damchu, who presented us with a framed picture of Lama Jarsung sitting on his golden throne. Then Tsedup, who was increasingly anxious about his fa
ther, signalled that we should leave. Dad thanked Aka Damchu for his kindness and we left for the town, but not before we had been offered a personal guided tour of Labrang Monastery that afternoon.

  My father and I waited in a cafe while Tsedup played detective. It was a dry, hot day and the sun beat down on the dusty tarmac. He returned some time later with no news, but with a leg of mutton poking out from inside his jacket. Despite his worries for his father, he had had time to visit his uncle. That explained the mutton.

  We walked into the main enclave of Labrang Monastery, past the tourists and buses and up an earthy alleyway beside one of the main temple buildings. Tsedup led us up some stone steps to a doorway. At the top, inside the cool shade of a room penetrated by shafts of sunlight, we could see a row of monks prostrating. They began in a standing position then lay full length on the wooden floor, polished smooth by hundreds of years of supplication. Tsedup pointed out his seventy-year-old uncle who, he told us, prostrated here five hundred times a day. He certainly looked fit. Tsedup gestured to him from the door and caught his eye. The old monk squinted at us then shuffled over. When he got to the door and saw Tsedup, he cried out in recognition, showing a row of broken teeth. We followed him to his small wooden house, which smelt musty inside from the soot on the ceiling. We drank tea, and Tsedup and his uncle exchanged news. My father asked if he could take a picture of him and he agreed. He seemed fascinated by the camera, which my father gave him to study, along with his mobile phone. He held them gently, feeling the smoothness of the casings. Through Tsedup, he told us he had never seen a telephone before. My father began to tell him about satellites, at which point he handed it back quickly, saying, 'Be careful with that.'

  As we left, Tsedup placed the leg of mutton by his uncle's stove – he had kept it hidden in the monastery for fear of causing offence. It was disrespectful to parade part of a freshly killed animal before the eyes of the compassionate monks to whom we were all sentient beings, even the sheep. Then he stepped outside and told his uncle what he had done. A look of surprise came over the old man's face. 'Meat!' he exclaimed. 'I can't eat that.'

  'Oh, yes, you can. It will do you good,' said Tsedup. 'You know you haven't really given it up, so why protest?'

  The old man's eyes twinkled and he smiled. 'Thank you,' he said quietly.

  That afternoon we met my mother, who told us she had chastised the manager for his treatment of Tsedup the night before. 'Do you understand? He is my son-in-law,' she had protested, pronouncing the words with emphasis and volume. As a child I remembered cringing many a time in the supermarket queue on one of our annual trips to France as she spoke louder and slower in English to a stunned shop assistant, who sat waiting impassively for her to go away. Yet this time she had been really angry: she was mighty when defending her brood. But her outburst had been met with silence. An apology was out of the question.

  Still, a tour around the monastery would cheer her up. As the other tourists trailed around in groups we were given the undivided attention of Aka Tenzin and Aka Damchu, and were able to view the rooms quietly. Labrang Monastery was beautiful. The main temple building was vast, dark and cool inside. From the lofty ceiling hundreds of thankas hung like the dense foliage of a forest canopy, into which red and gold columns soared like tree-trunks. Yellow cushions were arranged in rows between the columns for the monks to sit on during prayer. Along the back wall of the room was a series of altars, with displays of unbelievable riches: a golden statue of the Buddha adorned with coral, turquoise, amber and silken kadaks; golden butter lamps, silk flowers, and hundreds of Tibetan books stacked on shelves from floor to ceiling, wrapped in yellow cloth with a small blue, red and gold silk marker hanging from each. Order and precision prevailed, suggesting the care and attention lavished on the monastery. The whole place was a manifestation of the nomads' enduring faith and a clear indication of their wealth, for it had been funded entirely by the donations of nomads from the four corners of Amdo. It felt ancient and precious. Dust turned in the rays of sunlight that pierced the gloom. The familiar, musty scent of Uncle's room was also prevalent here, mixed with the thick, rancid smell of butter burning in the lamps. In the next room monks were chanting their prayers, and the rhythmic resonance of their deep voices boomed through to us in the dank air.

  Outside, in the blinding sunlight, we passed pilgrims prostrating at one of the temple doors in a courtyard. An offering site, made of clay and painted white, scented the air with fragrant juniper, which burned and crackled at its heart. The Tibetans love that smell and juniper is often bought and burned as an offering. According to pre-Buddhist belief, juniper is the symbol of life, a representation of the goddess of fertility.

  At another temple we were shown intricate murals of the deities, painted in the style of the thankas. I was not used to such unabashed use of colour: I thought of our churches, which often verge on the clinical in some modern dioceses, and wondered what had happened to real craftsmanship in our society. It seemed that only the absolute devotion of a population could produce such works of beauty. Here, the monks worked for the love of the place, and practised their art as they had for centuries.

  Finally we visited the museum in the grounds, which housed examples of Tibetan scripts, and other fascinating paraphernalia including a fossilised dinosaur egg. The Tibetans believed it to be the egg of a bird often depicted in religious paintings, holding a snake in its beak. In the centre of the room was a mandala, Wheel of Life, an elaborate, symmetrical picture made from coloured sand. The grains were painstakingly laid on the surface using a metal instrument in the shape of a thin cone with a tiny hole in the end. A monk, who had received special training in the art, would rub a stick along the serrated side of the instrument causing it to vibrate and the grains to fall from the hole. He could control the exact number of grains that would go to make up the picture with incredible precision. The 'painting' was not flat; often there were grooves dividing the patterns, delicate peaks and troughs or tiny paths of triangle-shaped relief. The mandala we saw had been preserved in a glass case for viewing, but usually they are made at the start of a religious festival then thrown to the elements on the last day, as a symbol of the impermanence of life. I thought of the work of street painters in the West, whose masterpieces are washed away by the rain. Generally, apart from the most modern conceptual art, the material value of a painting in our consumer society is paramount. The older it is, the more value it acquires; it is unthinkable to destroy it. Seeing the mandala reminded me of how we sometimes attach the wrong kind of significance to objects in the West. Sometimes we just can't admit life's impermanence.

  After our splendid tour we bade farewell to Aka Damchu, and Aka Tenzin accompanied us into town. He proved a useful accomplice. Tsedup told us to buy nothing and just look around, while he made more enquiries about his father. The monk and he made off down the road while my parents and I sauntered around the shops and stalls of the hot street. Scrawny Muslim boys called to us from their trinket havens, beckoning and thrusting pipes, knives and necklaces under our noses. My mother picked out a pair of embroidered silk tapestries of birds that had caught her eye. Then, further down the parade, she chose a thanka, but we did not buy, just as Tsedup had instructed. Instead we waited for him in a cafe under the shade of a canopy, while the flies buzzed around us and a woman with a twisted body begged for change. She wore the old blue Mao uniform and a black scarf tied around her head. I paid her and watched her limp away on her crutches, muttering plaintively. Then Tsedup appeared, and I gathered from his expression that he had still not found Amnye. What if there had been a crash? Tsedup had only just got home after nine years. What a dreadful tragedy it would be if he had lost his father the week after they had been reunited. Itjust didn't bear thinking about. He had phoned a friend in Machu town, but apparently Amnye had not returned. He must be in Gannan, but Tsedup didn't have the number of the meeting-place. He said that Sortsay and Tsorsungchab might know it. They were also helping to sort out my pa
rents' car to Lhanzou so Tsedup would find them later.

  He asked my mother what she had found to buy. We described the items, where they were, and told him what prices we had been offered. He laughed drily. 'Wait here. We'll go and buy them for you,' he said.

  The best person to shop with in Labrang is a monk. Monks know the prices and they never get ripped off. In fact, it is better that you are not there at all: send a monk.

  When they returned they had bought everything my mother had asked for, at about a fifth of the tourist price. We thanked Aka Tenzin for his help, and he grinned, happy to have seen justice done. Then we drank some tea together and I accompanied my parents back to the hotel. Tsedup stayed to look for the men in leather coats.

  Later that evening the three friends arrived at the hotel, all smiling. Tsedup had spoken to his father. Apparently the bus had broken down in the middle of nowhere and the passengers had waited all day for help. This had made him late for his meeting. He would not be able to come to Labrang. He had seemed unfazed by the experience, as if things like this happened all the time. What had his son been worried about? Tsedup had reprimanded him for not contacting him when he had got to Gannan, but had had to conclude that he was behaving like an Englishman. It would be a slow process to get the West out of his system. Time means little to a nomad. As long as Amnye had his pouch of tsampa and cheese with him, he could wait patiently for days for any delay to resolve itself.

  We all went to the bar. It was dark and sober inside, with leather seating and a row of fancy drinks in optics with tantalisingly exotic names. We opted for beer. Sortsay and Tsorsungchab had come to inform my parents that they had arranged the car and driver, which would leave the next day; it had been 'loaned' by the town mayor. My parents seemed very pleased, so we 'forgot' to give them the exact details. One thing was for sure: the mayor's chauffeur would be hotfooting it back to Labrang tomorrow afternoon before the boss found out or there would be a high price to pay for a little overtime on the side. The two plotters toasted my mother and father with great gusto and downed many drinks in their honour, as we sat laughing at each other across the lacquered table.