MONASTERIES: FORAGING IN MONASTERIES: A DREAM
There were at least two fair-sized monasteries which during the next few
days we visited to obtain supplies. Monasteries seem to vary in
character as they vary in size. Buddhism seems, in fact, to have left
its mark upon Tibet in the manner of some great flood. Here on a lone
hilltop stands a tiny monastery stagnant, like some small pool left by
the flood, the monks few in number, their persons sordid, their minds
vacant, and what remains of their religion stale or even polluted; while
elsewhere in larger monasteries religion is clearer and more vital, and
life less stagnant. This is a pure generalisation, and doubtless men,
holy after their lights, often live in remote hovels, and in the chiefer
centres religion may often be dreamy or callous, and sordid vices be not
unknown. But perhaps, merely as a generalisation, the above may hold
good.
A foraging visit to a monastery was often marked by several phases, in
which the relations between visitor and visited underwent considerable
change. The officer in charge of the foraging party would ride up to the
monastery with his escort. They would have been seen coming, and after a
few signs of hurrying and preparation and the fluttering of several red
monastic skirts in the breeze, a small select deputation of monks would
descend from the main building to meet the intruders. This deputation
would first and foremost bring with it a white muslin rag as an emblem
of peace. Along with the rag would be carried peace-offerings, of which
the most common would be a tray of whole-wheat parched and salted, or a
small basket of eggs, which, on nearer acquaintance later in the day,
would usually be found to be neither new-laid nor fresh, but simply
'eggs.'
With the aid of an interpreter a pleasant conversation would ensue. The
officer would then probably produce his hand-camera and snapshot the
head lama, after which he would try to get to business. He would ask how
much of such and such article the monastery could sell us. The monks
would shake their heads, flutter their skirts, jerk up their thumbs, and
in a shrill falsetto repeat the word 'Menduk' (which means 'nothing').
After a little more parley they would confess to having, say, twenty
bagfuls of tsampa or whatever was required. Even the naming of a high
rate and the jingling of a bag of rupees in their faces would not make
them raise the above figure. You would then, if you were the officer,
proceed within the monastery and demand to be shown the said twenty
bagfuls. You would be led with great pomp and circumstance upstairs and
along dark passages and past rows of cells till you were ushered into a
small pantry or storeroom, where, with a gesture of pompous satisfaction
at having so completely fulfilled your requirements, the head monk would
point to a few handfuls of tsampa lying at the bottom of a small
elongated wooden trough. You would feel a little annoyance at this, and
show signs of it. The head monk, as by a happy inspiration, would
suddenly beckon you to accompany him, and, after another long meandering
through the monastery, would lead you to a large doorway into a large
darkened hall, which, when your eyes became accustomed to the dim light,
you would recognise as the main 'gompa' or temple of the monastery. Here
his hand would steal into yours, which he would caress, while with his
free hand he pointed to the chief image of Buddha, which he was
apparently wishing you to admire. Of course you admired him, but you
wanted tsampa, and this was obviously merely a ruse to detain you from
your quest. British choler would then rise, and, going out of the temple
with somewhat irreverent haste, you would begin to express yourself
forcibly in terms which you made the interpreter translate. The
interpreter had probably an axe of his own to grind, and it was doubtful
how many of your trenchant phrases, even if fit to repeat in a
monastery, got actually translated. But after a great show of meaning
business, and a few threats of stronger measures in the background, you
probably got, say, fifty maunds of tsampa from a proper storeroom which
the lamas had previously refrained from showing you. A little later a
few more threats and the threatening crack of a whip round the head of a
'chela' or two would send the monks all skipping about in trepidation,
and the door of the main storeroom would be opened to you, in which you
would find, it might be, two hundred maunds (or three days' supply for
the force) of the desired article. After this you were all friends. No
ill-will was borne on either side. The junior monks or 'chelas' would
assist in bagging the flour, and in carrying it down to the place where
the mules were waiting for it. The money would be doled out and counted
with the greatest good humour, there would be another proffer of parched
wheat and rotten eggs, and you would depart with the head lama's
blessing.
After one such visit I dreamed a dream. I knocked in a boisterous
swash-buckling manner at Tom Gate, the main gate of my old
college--Christ Church. Behind me, stretching up St. Aldate's to Carfax,
were a string of pack mules, fitted with empty bags, forage nets, and
loading ropes. The gate was opened by those of the porters whom I knew
years ago. One, an old soldier, saluted me. Then it occurred to me that
I was a Japanese officer, and that in the year 2004 the Japanese army
were invading England. I was at the head of a foraging party, and we had
come to loot the House. We had a fine time. We started of course by
ringing up the Dean. He too blessed me, and when I asked him for some of
that old Burgundy that I know was a speciality of the senior common-room
cellar, he showed me round the cathedral and pointed out the restored
shrine of St. Frideswide. This was not what I wanted, and I told him so.
I brought the mules in from outside, and set them to graze on the neat
plots of turf that encircle 'Mercury' the fountain, and told him they
must all go away laden with the good things of the Christ Church larder
and cellar, at which he protested. Some undergraduates emerged in cap
and gown from a lecture room and began to show fight. We drove them into
Peckwater at the point of the bayonet.
Then the Steward and the Junior Censor appeared, and the latter began to
reason with us in what I considered a tone unbecoming to a private
person resident in an invaded country. I raised a heavy knout which I
carried, and was going to flog the Junior Censor where he stood, when
the Steward intervened, and, giving hurried orders to all the scouts and
porters that stood around watching the scene, soon produced the finest
store of provisions that we had met with in all our campaigning. The
mules were marched out of Tom Gate, up St. Aldate's, along the Corn and
out to Port Meadow, where we were encamped, laden with sirloins of beef,
with turkeys, with geese and ducks and fowls and pheasants, with beer in
the barrel and port wine in the case, while I remember taking special
personal possession of a mould of 'aspic of larks' which I fancied for
my supper.
But then I woke, and by doing so felt done out of that aspic of larks,
which would have been a pleasant change from the fare of those days.
Quite a silly dream of course; but on recalling it with my waking
thoughts, and feeling sympathy for the Dean and students of Christ
Church, I felt some too for those poor lamas whom we had invaded the day
before.