Alak Drong got back into his car and slowly followed the Lord of Death. When they reached the king’s quarters, Alak Drong lowered his monk’s shawl out of respect and held out the aromatic tea packages with the unsullied khata, while singing this verse to the melody of chanted mani:
Respected king, Lord of Death,
in the fine glass house with no wooden beams,
in keeping with the customs of the Land of Snows,
please grant me consideration in accepting this khata,
an unsullied silk offering scarf.
I will tell you in detail my purpose for coming.
They call me Alak Drong.
I’m a lama from Tsezhung Monastery.
There are many fine things that I could offer.
Since we are already acquaintances, however,
I have come bringing only this splendid khata and tea.
We meet again through the fortune of good circumstances!
Though I am practically empty-handed with this simple tea,
recall that tea is known by all to sustain life.
But I will set aside the usual chatter and
slowly tell you all in a manner as clear as the full moon:
I am here about Lozang Gyatso, an official
who was a gentleman in name only,
a scoundrel who very much liked to smoke.
Until recently, he was alive and in good health,
and only just passed away.
Though it was time for him to die,
given that he had lived to a ripe age,
Please recall that in these last couple of years
he became a fervent believer in Buddhism
and fostered it with concern, as a father might a son.
He restored countless monasteries,
and converted many in his land to Buddhism.
He served the people as might a cow.
He invited lamas with motherlike compassion and
the characteristic sign of their hair growing in the reverse direction.
He fulfilled the wishes of sentient beings.
He collected merit by visiting Mount Tsari in Ü-Tsang
and established many religious reliquaries for tsakali images.
He established fine and splendid stupas, and
thought not about his nieces and nephews, but of the Dharma.
Though he burned valuable teachings during the Cultural Revolution,
if one thinks carefully about it now during this period of regret-lined
happiness, many beings behaved like cunning foxes then,
wearing their green military hats and red armbands.
Suppression of the Yellow Hat doctrine was the fault of the times.
Nowadays everyone is ambitious;
those who know their proper share are rare.
Compared to the truly evil officials, brother Lozang isn’t bad.
In these heartless times, if one doesn’t rely down there
on the officials who hold power,
the teachings of the Buddha that have gone numb
are hard to protect.
It’s like keeping a wolf out of the pasture.
Please, out of your great compassion,
give Lozang Gyatso back his life, his flesh and blood
for the benefit of all sentient beings everywhere,
so that they may quickly realize the teachings of the Buddha.
Send him back to Earth so that he might work a bit for beings there.
It is very difficult to ask you this.
Please don’t laugh, Compassionate One,
Please don’t say “No” to this poor old lama.
Respected king, please give this your consideration.1
Saying this, he prostrated, touching his forehead to the ground. At which the Lord of Death said, “Don’t do that. Please get up now, sit on a chair, and listen to my song”:
My dear lama—
Your words were spoken most eloquently.
Now I have something to say of my own.
Except for one Gesar Norbu Dradül,
you’re the finest man to approach my throne.
I never knew much about life on Earth,
but if the situation is really as you claim,
on the one hand it has some good points,
but it mostly sounds a shame.
In any case, I won’t send your man to Hell,
though Lozang Gyatso’s life was long.
He accumulated a lot of demerits,
but I am moved by your faith and song.
As a king who turns the Wheel of Dharma,
I’m not in the habit of sending them back.
We don’t let lice and nits live long.
Such is the world. But you know that.
My words here are not necessary,
because you are a lama.
But, for this reason, please return
and protect the Buddha Dharma.
Upon hearing these words Alak Drong was deeply ashamed, but he recalled the saying, “It’s important not to hold on to the tail of a tiger, but if you do, then don’t let go.” Figuring there was nothing else he could do, he began prostrating. Concerned that it would hurt the merit of one in monastic robes to prostrate so much, the great king urged him, “Don’t do that. Get up! Get up!”
However, Alak Drong persisted. “No. I am just taking orders. I am simply a messenger arrow released by the man’s family to look after his welfare, not to mention my accepting that horse. I can’t go back without fulfilling my task. So please, great king, if you can’t give Lozang Gyatso eternity, at least give him a little more time. If you can grant this, I swear on the Three Jewels that I will stop prostrating before you here today.” He bore on as stubbornly as a yak.
The Lord of Death grew even more perturbed. “Ah tsi!” he said, starting to pace back and forth. “This one is really something else.”
When it really looked as if the lama was not about to rise, the great king tried a last resort: “Okay. First, get up, and then the two of us can talk.”
Like a peacock excited by the sound of thunder, Alak Drong immediately replied: “Yes, sir. Thank you, great king.”
The Lord of Death relaxed upon hearing these words. He wondered at this person who—like a true bodhisattva—could offer such unselfish assistance to a man who had previously made the lama drink his piss. He was especially happy to accommodate this lama who, unlike others, still showed interest in the consciousness of the deceased, even after he’d received the horse offering. It wouldn’t be so bad, he thought, if I were to temporarily place Lozang Gyatso in this fellow’s stead so that he could clear himself of the karma he has collected from his wrongdoings. Is it not recorded in the legal code of the Lord of Death? “The verdicts made here are so that a good man might later come.”
“Ya, old monk. There is a Chinese saying: ‘Though you might not notice a monk on his own account, because of his lama you do.’ And there is a Tibetan saying: ‘Though you wouldn’t buy the horse for its looks, if the saddle is good you should.’ Like these, given that it is you who have come here, I really have no option. I permit you to temporarily take Lozang Gyatso back with you so that he might redeem himself. However …”
Before the Lord of Death had finished speaking, Alak Drong got up, thinking he had better head back: “If the night is long, one has many dreams.”
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir,” he said, making moves to leave. But the Lord of Death stopped him: “However, you must take back these gifts.”
When the king handed back the items that he’d been offered, Alak Drong protested, “No. No. You mustn’t. If you do that, I will end up in the otherworld. You mustn’t think like that.” Again, he got up and tenaciously prostrated before the great king, who ordered: “If you don’t take these back, I will not release Lozang Gyatso to you!” At which point, the lama relented and took the gifts back.
As soon as Alak Drong got back to Earth, he went straight to Lozang Gyatso’s
house and with great conceit announced: “You needn’t suffer anymore! Take a look at this!” He then breathed on the corpse of Lozang Gyatso, who regained consciousness. Though Alak Drong tried to restrain him, Lozang Gyatso grabbed at anything and gulped it down as if within him had grown an insatiable hunger and thirst. The memory of all that had happened in the Lord of Death’s realm evaporated like a rainbow. However, sometime after the initial lapse of memory, he began to realize what had happened. And when his family told him about how Alak Drong had breathed on him, how Lozang Gyatso had revived, and so forth, he prostrated again and again to Alak Drong, beseeching: “Root Lama to whom I am so grateful, the one who has given me life again! Just tell me! Whatever you need in this world—the sun, the moon, the stars—anything at all, be frank. If I can’t get it for you, then I, Lozang Gyatso, am a dog!”
Alak Drong thought, Since this is a man who easily forgets those to whom he is indebted, it would be best to have him attend to some matters now. Being a clever man, however, Alak Drong merely replied, “County Governor Lozang Gyatso, sir, if you were to support the Buddha Dharma with all your heart forevermore, then my giving you life again would all be worth it. You don’t need to do anything for me.”
After a considerable length of time spent discussing various and sundry things, it seemed that Alak Drong suddenly remembered something. “Oh! That’s right. Though there isn’t any question that my nephew is the reincarnation of Alak Yak, in these degenerate times, so many people are wont to dispute a lama’s succession. You should be careful about this business,” he warned.
“Don’t you worry!” Lozang reassured him. “If your nephew doesn’t get approved, then I’m an old dog!” And the recognition of Alak Drong’s nephew as the reincarnation of Alak Yak was thereupon secured.
Some days later, it occurred to the Lord of Death to muse, “I wonder if there’s any information regarding Lozang Gyatso’s acts of atonement.” He looked down toward Earth. Ah kha! As if bitten by a rabid dog and gone mad, Lozang Gyatso had fired those who refused to help when he was dead, caused innocent others to be imprisoned, pulled into the workplace his own sons and even his grandsons who had not yet finished primary school, promoted or given positions to all of his relatives, and finally appointed his illiterate wife, who couldn’t spell her own name, as director of the Cultural Bureau. These acts, at which the official’s superiors had chuckled and his subordinates had wept, enraged the great king, who thereupon reached down and, grabbing Lozang Gyatso by the scruff of his neck, threw him into the cauldron of Hell, at which the masses applauded ecstatically.
Translated by Lauran Hartley
* * *
1. Alak Drong’s long verse was originally written using a version of “alphabet poetry” (ka rtsom), in which the first two lines each start with A, the next two lines with B, and so forth. The translator has omitted this convention in order to retain the meaning of the verse.
5
ONE MANI
ONE
Just as the bedridden Gendün Dargyé was calmly reciting his ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-ninth mani he was struck by a sudden, intense pain, and without even having a moment to realize it, he was taken into the next life. At around the same time, Gendün Dargyé’s sole sworn brother, Tsering Samdrup, had the sensation that he wasn’t long for this world, and, folding his hands over his heart, murmured, “May the six classes of sentient beings that have been our mothers attain liberation and reach the level of omniscience. I pray that humanity may have equality, freedom, and peace. Om mani padme hum,” immediately after which he drifted off as if into a peaceful sleep and set out on the narrow path to the netherworld.
Among the teeming throng of tens of thousands of transiting souls, Gendün Dargyé and Tsering Samdrup were reunited.
“Haha! It’s really true what they say—even in the afterlife sworn brothers will be brought together.” Tsering Samdrup, grinning broadly and looking completely carefree, approached Gendün Dargyé and grasped his hand, just like he used to when they were still in the land of the living. But Gendün Dargyé simply stood there expressionless, his face drained of all color, shaking his head.
“What’s the matter, my brother?” asked Tsering Samdrup as he put his arm around Gendün Dargyé and helped him to the side of the road.
Gendün Dargyé continued to shake his head sorrowfully. “A shame … what a shame, I … I must be cursed,” he said finally, now on the verge of tears.
“Ah ho, my brother, what on earth has happened to you?”
“Don’t they say that if you recite one hundred million manis you’re sure to go to the Blissful Realm?”
“Yeah, I think that’s what they say. Why?”
“Eh,” he said, sighing, “do you know how many manis I did?”
“You’re always reciting your manis, aren’t you? You’ve done a lot by now, I’d guess, maybe even a hundred million. You should be happy!”
“Eh,” he said, sighing again, “let me tell you: I recited ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine manis—I was short of a hundred million by just one. You tell me, do I have bad karma or what?”
“Hahahaha! So that’s what you’re worried about?”
“Yes! It’s no laughing matter.”
“In that case, you can set your mind at ease.”
“?”
“Well, as you know, I pretty much wasted my life away goofing around. I was never able to save up any money, and I never did any chanting or spiritual practices either. But, just before I died, I recited one mani. I’ll give you that mani.”
“Wh … what? Did I hear that right? Say that one more time.”
“I’m giving you my only mani.”
“You … you … you’ve always been a kidder, haven’t you? It’s not right for you to make fun of me over such an important thing.”
“Ah ya, you’re so … It’s just one mani. We’re sworn brothers—what’s one mani?”
“Brother, my wonderful brother!” Gendün Dargyé, deeply moved, tears welling in his eyes, embraced Tsering Samdrup. “You know that when I was still in the human world you were my only sworn brother—no others—and it was absolutely the right choice. This must be my good karma.”
“That it must. Ah … who knows if we two brothers will get another chance to meet after this. Why don’t we recount some of our stories, remember the happy times together?”
“Yes, that’d be nice, but … I’m still not feeling completely comfortable about this. What’ll we do if the Lord of Death says your mani can’t be transferred to my account? So … so wouldn’t it be best if we went to see the Lord of Death now and explained the situation to him?”
“Oh, yes—let’s do that. The bardo path isn’t a very nice place to be, either.”
Truly, it was a murky, ashen-colored place, a place that was neither dark nor light. Apart from the countless masses of mistlike dead, there wasn’t a sentient being or living thing to be seen. It was a realm that evoked feelings of terror and loathing at the same time.
The two of them rejoined the ranks of the tens of thousands of departed souls. Like a mother guiding her naughty child, Gendün Dargyé led Tsering Samdrup through the wavelike crowds, never letting go of his hand even for a second.
TWO
The Lord of Death’s offices were located in a newly built Western-style high-rise next to the former law courts. The building was divided into five large departments. Each employee had a computer in front of them, and each computer formed part of an online network with access to a database that exhaustively recorded and calculated all the virtues and vices and good and evil thoughts of all the departed souls from the five continents of the earth. It is said that on average each employee could process the virtues and vices and good and evil thoughts of one departed soul and send them to the appropriate destination—be that the Blissful Western Realm or the worlds of the Six Beings—within thirty seconds. Despite this,
there were still tens of thousands of departed souls arranged into numerous lines, all waiting to register in a huge hall bigger than a football field.
On the walls of the great hall were a number of large color screens. Some were showing video footage of the achievements of political and religious leaders who had made contributions to the freedom of humankind; of the accomplishments of scientists, thinkers, artists, charity workers, environmental activists, animal rights activists, and others who had worked toward the spiritual and material well-being of humankind; and of how, after death, they were encircled by beautiful deities and escorted to Shambhala, or back to a developed democratic country where they could continue to achieve great things. The other screens were showing video footage of the crimes of dictators, deployers of nuclear weapons, destroyers of the environment, corrupt officials, drug dealers, and others who had incited wars or trampled on the rights of races, nations, and individual human beings, and of how, after death, they were taken to the hell realms, where they suffered unspeakable torments.
Gendün Dargyé finally managed to guide Tsering Samdrup to the registration desk, where he gave a detailed account of his situation. The case was perhaps a bit too complicated for the employee on duty—at least, he said that it was beyond his authority to decide and he would have to pass it up to his superiors, and he informed them that he had transferred the file containing their vices and virtues and good and evil thoughts to the Lord of Death’s computer. Much to their surprise, Bullhead and Boarhead, the Lord of Death’s messengers, arrived on the spot to bring Gendün Dargyé and Tsering Samdrup directly before the Great Lord himself.
“Is this true?” asked the Lord of Death, deeply moved and completely dumbfounded, as he partly arose off the throne from which he had never arisen before, then sat himself down again.
Gendün Dargyé and Tsering Samdrup, rather unsure of what was going on, looked at each other for a moment, then turned back to face the Lord of Death.
The Lord of Death took a look at his computer screen. “So, Tsering Samdrup wishes to donate the only mani that he recited in his entire life to Gendün Dargyé, is that right?”
Tsering Samdrup answered him without giving it a second thought: “Yes, that’s correct.”
The Handsome Monk and Other Stories Page 11