BEYOND THE HIMALAYAS
CHAPTER SEVEN
When I got up next morning I was still intrigued with what Geshi Rimpoche had told me and was eager to hear more. I went to the window and could see Rimpoche standing on the balcony. He was looking towards the east where the sun would soon rise.
It was dark, and a dark cloud like a dark blanket covered the valley, looking sinister. I had not seen Tibet like this before and I was wondering what was going to happen, when I heard a clap of thunder, which echoed backwards and forwards, up and down the valley. Closed in as it was by the mountains, it sounded like a volley of big guns in quick succession. As yet it had not started to rain, so I went out on the balcony where Geshi Rimpoche was. He was deep in contemplation.
He said: "I was just thinking of the many moods Nature takes on. Last night the stars were shining brightly, without a cloud in the blue sky, and now the whole valley and hills are filled with dark menacing clouds, ready to burst at any minute, swelling the rivers into roaring torrents."
"Yes," I replied, "It is truly wild this morning," and then another louder clap of thunder burst around us. The lightning struck the face of the great rock about one hundred yards away, we heard the report as if a thousand million volts had struck it, and the flash burst around us. I said, "It is a good thing that it did not strike the monastery."
"Yes," he concurred, "but in no time in memorable history has a monastery been hit by lightning."
Just then the clouds burst. I never saw anything like it. It was not rain, it was as if sheets of water were poured down from giant vessels. The river below began to roar with the torrents, nearly as loud as the thunder.
"I hope this does not last long," I said.
He agreed, and added: "Nature is in a nasty mood but she will change soon."
No sooner had he said this than I could see a break in the clouds where the sun was just peeping from behind the great Himalayas that surrounded us, and it was not long before the storm ceased, and immediately there was a calm.
"You see," he said, "that is the nature of this land of mountains and rivers."
The sun was coming up with an array of colours, entirely different from the usual sight, and the sky held a wild dark sinister beauty. It seemed as if I was transported from one world to another in a few minutes for, as the sun rose, the dark menacing clouds melted away and a beautiful blue sky appeared.
"Well," I remarked, "I have never seen such a quick change before," and he observed: "This is a country of contrasts."
Afterwards we had breakfast. I had two boiled eggs and toast and tea, and Rimpoche just had some tsampa, a sort of baked bread, and tea, and then we went out again upon the balcony and sat down.
"I would like to hear more about the people and their ways," I told him.
He recalled that he had been telling me about the marriage customs and social features of the people here.
"What about the fashions? Do these change at all?" I inquired.
"Oh no," he replied, "there is no change of fashion here. Men and women wear the same type of clothes now as of hundreds of years ago; there is no change."
Very dull, I thought. "It would not do for the changeable moods of the West," I remarked.
"No," he said, just as if in answer to my thought, "but the fact is that the style of the Tibetan dress has not changed for centuries," and he continued: "A great contrast exists between the dress of the lower classes and that of the upper classes in appearance, style and quality. This is according to the laws of the country, and these laws regulate the quality and colour of the garments of each class."
I could not help asking: "Do the people not object to be told what to wear?"
"Oh no," he answered, "all this has been the custom for centuries. The costume for women of rank is most attrative; even when they are engaged in domestic things the ladies never neglect their personal appearance. Every woman delights in loading herself with jewellery and ornaments. Around their necks you have no doubt seen charm boxes hanging?"
"Yes," I said, "nearly everyone has them, young or old, rich or poor."
"And," he continued, "in their charm boxes there is a prayer - they believe that this protects them from evil. For the upper classes these charm boxes are made of gold and studded with precious jewels; and if the agate beads on which the boxes hang around the neck have certain markings these are considered lucky; they are of great value. And on their clothes they hang pieces of their best jade. Some wear, down their back, a special piece of brocade into which are set precious stones, some of them worth thousands of pounds."
"On their fingers," he went on, "they wear gold rings set with jewels or with their favourite or lucky stone. Earrings of jade are always worn. Yet nowhere in the world will you see such indifference to, such disregard for, filth. I have seen ladies dressed in the most gorgeous costumes walking along the road with their garments trailing in dirt which I would hesitate to put my horse through. You will see for yourself this morning how some of these ladies are dressed."
He then told me that he was to officiate at an important wedding of leading lights of the district that day, "and I want you to come with me. I have arranged with the bridegroom's parents that you will be given the seat of honour, from which you will see everything."
So we journeyed down to the village, and from where I stood I could see the bride astride a gaily decorated pony coming towards the bridegroom's house.
Around her head was a gaily-coloured scarf and I asked: "What is the scarf for?"
"Oh," replied Geshi Rimpoche, "that is to hide her blushes."
Refreshments were set at three selected places, quite near each other and close to the house; cakes were made at each of the three places and the bride and her party sampled them. When she reached the gate of the bridegroom's house, someone threw into her face a "torma," which is a dagger made by the lamas from barley dough and butter cooked hard and painted red.
I said: "That does not seem a very nice thing to do," and Geshi Rimpoche explained: "It is supposed to drive away any evil spirit that has come with her."
"It's a nice way to meet a bride!" I laughed.
The bride was met at the gate by the bridegroom and his mother. The mother put upon the bride's head an arrow with the streamers of the five sacred colours. I asked why, and he replied: "It means acceptance by the mother and it is as much thought of as her marriage licence. In fact it is the only marriage licence that some ever get."
They all now entered the house, and the bride sat at the right hand of the bridegroom. Friends and relatives laid their gifts at their feet.
Then Geshi Rimpoche put round both their necks a scarf of silk and pronounced them man and wife, and then the mother came and placed another scarf round the bride's and bridegroom's neck. This ended the marriage ceremony, and all adjourned to the marriage feast which would go on till late in the evening.
I partook of some of the food, and there were about sixteen courses consisting of all kinds of sweetmeats and plenty of barley beer, which is turned on ad lib. Before long I could see that many could hardly sit on their chairs, let alone stand.
We then left, because Geshi Rimpoche had another mission. This was to a girl who married the elder brother thinking that by so doing she would get the younger one with whom she was in love. But to her great sorrow the younger brother refused to have anything to do with the marriage.
"I heartily agree with him," I said, "and what are you going to do about it?"
"You will see," he told me.
We reached the house, and there, sittinig on the porch, was a girl looking into space as if she were in a dream. She started when she saw us, and came down and kissed the hem of Geshi Rimpoche's garment. He placed his hand upon her head, blessing her, and he said, in Tibetan, "Arise, my daughter, and be at peace."
I was struck by her beauty; she was truly a comely Tibetan girl. Her eyes were well set apart, her nose was straight and her mouth firm, her lips were beautifully formed. When she laughed she showed a beautiful set of faultless teeth. Her name was Norbu, which means beautiful jewel. The name suited her.
The names of Tibetans, Rimpoche told me, were those of places or things, such as beautiful mountain, beautiful valley, flowers, jewels, and the like. All these names were chosen for their meaning.
There had been no children by the marriage, and this was a severe blow to Norbu. If there is anything in the world Tibetan women want it is children; to them a childless marriage is no marriage at all and it can be annulled by themselves.
This particular girl became agitated when she asked Rimpoche about Tang La (which means a level pass). Tang La was the younger brother. There was a tremor in her voice as she spoke of him. She said: "I do not understand why he will not come home," and tears welled up in her big blue eyes.
Geshi Rimpoche replied: "He is in love with you, Norbu, but he is unwilling to share you with his brother."
"I will go to him," she said.
"All right, my daughter, go to him. He is over in Darjeeling. The Himalayas separate you; do you think you can make such a journey, my daughter?"
"Oh yes," and she went inside. Later I heard that she had crossed the Himalayas and got to Darjeeling, where they were married again by the local Buddhist priest. A few months later I asked Geshi Rimpoche about her. She had made an impression on me, for it was a rare Tibetan love story. Geshi told me that they were happy and Norbu was going to have a child and she was extremely beautiful and radiant.
He added: "I knew that the bond of love between them would work out satisfactorily; a true bond always does."
"What about the elder brother?" I inquired.
"Oh," he replied, "that has been settled quite satisfactorily, and he is married again."
I thought to myself: "Well, this is a peculiar country indeed."
We visited another home, where a man was dying, and Geshi Rimpoche had been sent for by the relatives. The man died not long after we arrived. The presence of Geshi Rimpoche had a soothing effect upon the whole scene. I never saw anything like it. It was as if a new life had come into being, and everyone went about his or her work knowing all was well.
I asked: "And what happens now?"
"Oh," he replied, "tomorrow or the next day he will be taken to the burial ground."
"So," I inquired, "they bury them here too?"
"Oh no, not the way you bury people in the West. Do you see the vultures up there on the hillside?"
"Yes."
"Well, those vultures are waiting to eat the flesh off the man's body. The people you see up on the hill are called the Ragypa. They are outcasts, and they cut up the flesh of the dead and throw it to the vultures. The bones are thrown to the dogs, until all is devoured. There is nothing left. That is what happens to ordinary people."
I said that I would like to see it.
"Do you think you would? It is a gruesome sight."
"Well," I said, "I can only imagine what it is like if I don't see it."
"All right then, let us go - there is always someone's body being devoured."
So we went up the side of the hill to the place which they called "Skulls," and I watched the awesome procedure. First, they stretched a body out on a platform and in no time with their sharp knives they had cut off all the flesh clean to the bone, and as they cut they threw the pieces to the vultures.
The pieces were quickly devoured by the shrieking flesh-eaters who flew down almost pecking the pieces out of the Ragypas' hands.
It was a sickening sight. (The peculiar thing about these gruesome scenes is that the vultures will not eat till the king vulture takes the first piece.)
Then the bones were broken up and given to the dogs. Several heads that had been separated from the bodies were strewn around. The Ragypas break up the skulls, and pick out the eyes and the brain and throw these to the vultures; the skull they reduce into powder and the relatives can have it if they wish - if not, the dogs eat it.
"It was a sickening sight," I said to Geshi Rimpoche, "but I was glad I saw it."
"You must see things as they are, my son, without repulsion, otherwise you are not free."
I said: "That is true; I have still a lot to free myself from yet."
"Now," he informed me, "the general rule is for a lama to go to the house of the dead man and perform what is known as the cleansing ceremony."
"Oh," I said, "that is interesting."
"Would you like to see that too?"
"Yes," I replied, "I may as well see the whole thing. I have seen the marriage, the death and the burial and now the cleansing ceremony - the only thing that will complete the human cycle is to see a birth, and then I will have the whole picture of the ways of the Tibetans - birth, life, death."
He said: "I expect there will be a lama there now." So we went back to the house and surely enough the lama was there. He had not yet begun the cleansing ceremony and he at once made way for Geshi Rimpoche to do it, but Geshi Rimpoche waved to him to continue.
There was quite a lot to it. The lama drew on a piece of paper an effigy of the deceased nd burnt it, all the time watching it intently. If it burnt bright the soul would have reached the highest Heaven; if red and spread out, the soul had departed from the house. If it burnt smoky the soul was still around the house. Then the lama besought the soul to depart from the house and not trouble the household any more, telling him that he would find his resting place where he would await the time when he could reincarnate.
I said to Geshi Rimpoche: "One thing I like about it is that the people understand there is no death, but this paper-burning business is, according to the paper used, just superstition."
"You are right, my son, but it gives comfort to those who are left; they believe it; they are not yet sufficiently advanced to understand the Truth as we understand it."
I said: "I can see quite clearly that there are people who need a religion until they have progressed enough to understand what is false; then they will realise what is true."
"Now, my son, you have seen the death, the burial and the cleansing of the house of the ordinary man. But with the high lamas the procedure is quite different. Their bodies are preserved in vaults over which is built a tomb plated in solid gold and studded with precious gems, and in the inner sanctum there are golden images and rich brocades beyond price. The contrast is so great that one can hardly imagine it possible. You have seen some of these tombs in the monasteries, but really to see something you must visit the Dalai Lama's tomb."
"Yes," I answered, "before I leave I must see the Dalai Lama's tomb," and then I asked him: "Why is it that the few high officials who are allowed to enter Tibet do not inquire into the real things of Life instead of scraping on the surface about the things that do not matter?"
"My son," he replied, "you know the answer yourself; you do not need me to tell you that."
I did not say anything, but I thought to myself that his reply was very true; it was stupid to ask the question. I know well enough why - it is because they do not know anything about the Real, being steeped in the false. People who live on the surface can see only what is on the surface. How they could have missed the Real in Life is a human tragedy.
We were silent for a time - I had my thoughts and he had his. I think these were much on the same plane, for Geshi Rimpoche said: "My son, you must be on your way the day after tomorrow. Tomorrow you can prepare and rest for the strenuous journey. I feel that your friend is calling you."
I replied: "I know that, but how can I pull myself away from here?"
"These are things we must learn to do, my son. There are times when you would like to remain where you are happy, but remember, you are needed elsewhere. When you took on this work you were content to go where you were needed."
"Yes, I know that," I said. "I have found that in many places I would have liked to stay but the power of the Spirit is stronger than the flesh, so I moved on."
* * * * * * * * *
I often wonder why I did not write this book before. I wrote The Higher Power You Can Use first, then I am the Life, then Heal Yourself, then Spiritual and Mental Healing, then What is Mine is Thine (two parts), then How to Relax and Revitalise Yourself, then Divine Healing of Mind and Body (the Master speaks again), then Your Life renewed every Day - and now this book Beyond the Himalayas.
When I look back I can see a sequence running through all these books. They seemed to come without any planning on my part, and yet they dovetailed into each other.
As I have said, I will, D.V., write another book similar to this as the space left here would not be sufficient for what I have yet to tell. I could imagine Geshi Rimpoche saying: "Yes, my son, you will go on writing as long as you live on the physical plane."
The morning came for my departure. I said a temporary goodbye to Geshi Rimpoche, and I could see by his face the affection he had for me, and I am sure he felt mine also.
I turned from him and walked away down the steps of the monastery into the valley below. I looked back several times and there he was, standing on the spot where I left him.
Audibly to myself I said: "No wonder everyone loves you, Geshi Rimpoche; you have everything that a friend needs in a friend - Love, compassion, wisdom, understanding, kindness and forgiveness."
Once when I said to him that I was sure I had often been a worry to him, he replied: "Oh no, my son, I know that the flesh is weak but the Spirit is strong and must in the end succeed and find its freedom. It is because you know these weaknesses yourself that you are tolerant to others - you could not be a healer otherwise. You must neither condemn nor judge, for who are we that we may condemn or judge? What we see in others is deeply rooted in ourselves."
I have never forgotten his words. By them I knew the greatness of the man.
When we reached the valley, the monastery was nearly out of sight. A feeling of loneliness took hold of me, and then I thought of my dear friend waiting for me in Ok Valley. He would have much of interest to say to me, I was sure.
We left Lingmatang behind and followed the track on to a place called Gautsa, where there was a hut, about twelve miles from Lingmatang, and here we stayed the night. The going was very rough, the river was in spate because of the melting of the snows in the mountains and it was rushing like mad through the gorges. We had to make our way down the mountain track to the river-side. It was hard going because of the steep sides of the mountains; some of which were sheer precipices all the way down. Eventually we reached the stony track along the side of the swollen river which in places was dangerously near the track. Overhanging the river in parts were thick bushes of wild roses and other flowers that made a grand picture.
I had taken a good number of snaps by this time and was almost tired of taking them, because it was so difficult to choose from among the many wonderful sights. When I saw a beautiful scene I would say to myself that perhaps there would be an even better one farther on. This is what happens when there is so very much to take in.
On the side of the mountain I could see several lama hermitages and I remembered what Geshi Rimpoche had told me: "You cannot find the Truth by isolation and such-like." So I went on my way; sometimes I was tempted to stop and have a look, but I kept going, as time was limited.
We left the river-bed again and climbed the mountain track once more, but the going up and down made it tiresome travelling. Then we came on a clearing from which we could see the plain through the trees. The plain was green with thick grass and yaks were there in their hundreds grazing. Wild flowers were prolific, contributing to another scene of beauty, and I wondered whether I could get such beauty on a film. I thought, no! Yet I took the picture later and can see it in my mind now as fresh as the day I took it.
Then we entered the wildest scenery: the contrast was almost too much to realise. The track now was not more than two to three feet wide going round the mountainside and skirting the gorges through which the river roared. At times we came upon an opening where we could see again this beautiful valley in the distance coloured with wild flowers, with a large number of yaks grazing. I could see the hut in which we were to put up for the night on the other side of the river, and I realised that from it I should be able to see more of this lovely valley carpeted as it was with such colourful wild flowers. We came to a bridge suspended over the river, and we crossed very gingerly. I was tired by the end of the day, though it was not a long journey (I had done nearly twice as far before), but in this particular stretch there was so much climbing to do - we would climb down to the river side, then up again, and so on.
After supper, which was an enjoyable one (I always enjoyed my food after the day's journey), my bearer played some tunes on his accordion. When I went to bed I could not help thinking of what had happened to me in the short time I had been there, and I had almost to pinch myself to see if it was not a dream. Had all this really happened?
What I had seen and heard during the last few weeks would fill a book by itself, but that would be of little use to you who want to study my books; if you want more than a mere description of what I saw, you want to know more about Life and what it means.
All through my travels in Tibet I came across many prayer-flags. At every dangerous place there would be a prayer-flag - a prayer for the traveller that his feet would be kept safe on the dangerous paths or that the mountain would not roll down upon him. Yes, I thought, these people were thoughtful. Many would laugh at these prayer-flags, but I did not, for I knew that with every flag there was a thought for the safety of the one who passed that way.
Next day we travelled as far as Phari Dzong. As we left the gorges we entered into the great expanse of pastures of which we had caught glimpses the day before. It was a beautiful fertile valley, and hundreds of yaks were grazing among the wild flowers. Here was another yak train carrying more wool over the mountains to India.
When I thought of India it seemed to be a thousand miles away, another world, an outside world. In the distance we could now see Phari, reputed to be the highest town in the world (and the filthiest). Phari is 15,000 feet above sea level.
Eventually we came to the hut just outside Phari on the edge of the valley, and here we put up for the night.
We had the usual evening meal and my bearer played his accordion. Next morning we had the usual breakfast and were soon off again.
We now enter Phari. How could I explain it to you? Around it is the most beautiful green pasture, coloured with wild flowers, even more beautiful in some respects than the Chumbi Valley. All kinds of animals were grazing there, yak, Tibetan sheep and goats; birds of all kinds flew around, whistling as if to welcome us; and there were little animals which I had never seen before, I learned that these were mostly mouse hares and that they live under the ground in burrows.
In all this grandeur Phari itself was a blot of filth. No rubbish could have been removed for centuries; the people just threw their offal and rubbish outside the door, and with the frost and the snow the accumulations had mounted up so high that you could barely see the tops of the houses. Of sanitary arrangements there was none, so everyone squatted in the street; men, women and children left behind their droppings I could barely believe it possible.
They never wash themselves; the only wash they ever got was with rancid yak butter, and you could see it deeply caked on their clothes.
As you can understand, I was glad to move out of Phari. I was now on my way to Ok Valley. My spirits soared again, for I would see my friend once more, my friend who had met me first in Kalimpong and who new more about me than I knew myself.
I realised that I had some wonderful friends, natural friends, not supernatural, for there is no such thing as a supernatural person, as Geshi Rimpoche told me. The idea of a supernatural person has come from the belief that there are two kinds of people, natural and supernatural, but it is not so; what seems to be supernatural is perfectly natural when understood. This I had already learned. No wonder that I did not want to leave, but it was not to be. I must go back into the world where I would be more useful, I was told, for I could do what they could not do in the circumstances, they said.
Their deep knowing was almost beyond human understanding The words of Jesus came into my mind, "Believe in me and in Him who sent me."
We proceeded now at a faster pace down to Ok Valley, across one of the stormiest passes in Tibet where the wind blew the stones up into your face.
The wind was blowing fiercely; it seemed to rise out of the calm to become a hurricane, and out of the storm comes the calm again. What a contrast, I thought.
The icy blasts were now coming from the frozen atmosphere of Chomolhari, and I felt my face freezing, and my fingers were becoming numb.
"And this is the middle of summer!" I said to my bearer.
He answered: "It gets warmer as the sun rises, Sahib."
"It would need to," I remarked, "otherwise I would have to practise Tumo."
This day the beautiful Chomolhari was seen at its best. Nearly ten miles away, as the crow flies, it looked as if it was falling on top of us.
We took the track to the right, just a few miles over the top of the pass which led to Ok Valley. The track passed a small lake that reflected the snow-capped Chomolhari and beyond was a river which we would have to cross; beyond that there was a small range of mountains that hid the lower part of Chomolhari. Its magnificent peak was covered with the eternal snows. Chomolhari was showing itself in all its glory that day.
The sun was up but had not lost some of its orange colour which reflected from the snow. This created an illusion that Chomolhari might fall on us any minute. I stood, I don't know how long, drinking in this rare and beautiful sight hidden away from the outside world.
The path was easy going, though over 15,000 feet above sea level. We had not gone more than a few miles when we saw in the distance another familiar but lovely scene. There, tucked away on the steep side of the mountain, was perched the great monastery of Ok Valley.
"How in all the earth are we to reach that place?" I asked, "and what a view of Chomolhari they must have, morning, noon and night. All the moods of Nature can be seen from there."
No sooner had I said this to my bearer than I saw my friend only a hundred yards away. The greeting I received from him was one of tender feeling, the love of a friend that is more than a friend.
He said: "I have followed you all the way to Yangtang, to Gonsaka and Takohu. You have made a deep impression on Dar Tsang, Malapa and especially on Tang La."
"How do you know all this?" I asked.
"I was there, my son."
I had forgotten for the moment that moving about in the Astral was as easy to him as breathing was to me.
He said: "This is a beautiful spot, and we can do much here. The view you will have of the mountain at sunset and sunrise will compensate for the cold. But I forgot, you have learned something of Tumo now, so it will not be so bad for you," he said with a smile.
I laughed and said: "I hope that is true, and this will be a good test."
"What I want to do here," he went on, "is to make you more proficient in your inspiration, especially from the highest Spiritual Forces, and here is the most suitable place as it is so high and secluded."
I replied: "I know I am better at thought transference now."
"Yes," he said, "but this is much more difficult. It is over-shadowing. It is a much more perfect and reliable way of getting a message over, because there is a more direct contact. Also your mind must be empty and free from fixed ideas, otherwise you will be colouring what is said with what is in your own mind."
"You see," he continued, "it is impossible to take complete control of your brain; we would have to take you out of your body to use your brain, and this is not suitable because of the tremendous Spiritual power that would be used. It would not be right for us to do that to you; your mechanism is too valuable to us to harm it."
I smiled and said: "I am flattered when you say that."
"Not so," he told me, "you are a medium of a certain kind that is rare; you were born that way, for this work you were born."
"I have heard that before," I commented.
"Yes, and you will hear it again." He was serious and added: "We want to see how much spiritual power you can stand and if we are successful you will be used by the Master himself."
"Good God," I exclaimed, "I am not worthy."
"Perhaps not," he replied, "but you have been chosen."
"If that is so, then I shall submit to any test you may put upon me."
By this time we had reached the monastery.
"What if all this was written? It would make queer reading. No one would believe it," I said.
He answered: "The ignorant would not believe it, the bigoted would not believe it, but it is not for them; it is for those who are just beyond the physical, and for those who on earth are chosen to hear it and to see it. What is said will be taken down and not a word will be lost."
It is now, I realise the importance of his words, for otherwise the book Divine Healing of Mind and Body (The Master Speaks Again) would never have been written.
I had noticed, that we had climbed the steep grade to the monastery itself, and when I looked back and saw how far we had come I said, with a surprised look: "Good gracious, I had no idea that we had reached this height!"
With that he smiled, knowing more than I did.
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