OM MANI PADME HUM
Now begins the last very steep zigzag in the troublesome path among
sharp or round grey boulders of every form and size, a cone of blocks
with steps in it. Dung-chapje is the name of a round wall of stone, in
the midst of which is a smaller boulder, containing in a hollow
depression a round stone like the cleft hoof of a wild yak. When the
faithful pilgrim passes this spot, he takes this stone, strikes it
against the bottom of the hollow and turns it once round like a pestle.
Consequently the hollow is being constantly deepened, and one day it
will be lowered right through the block.
We mount up a ridge with brooks flowing on both sides. On every rock,
which has a top at all level, small stones are piled up, and many of
these pyramidal heaps are packed so closely that there is no room for
another stone. Thanks to these cairns the pilgrim can find his way in
snowstorm and fog, though without them he could not easily find it in
sunshine.
At length we see before us a gigantic boulder, its cubical contents
amounting perhaps to 7,000 or 10,000 cubic feet; it stands like an
enormous milestone on the saddle of Dolma-la, which attains the
tremendous height of 18,599 feet. On the top of the block smaller stones
are piled up into a pyramid supporting a pole, and from its end cords
decorated with rags and streamers are stretched to other poles fixed in
the ground. Horns and bones, chiefly shoulder-blades of sheep, are here
deposited in large quantities--gifts of homage to the pass, which is
supposed to mark the half-way point of the pilgrimage. When the pilgrim
arrives here, he smears a bit of butter on the side of the stone, plucks
out a lock of his own hair and plasters it into the butter. Thus he has
offered up some of himself and some of his belongings. Consequently the
stone resembles a huge wig-block, from which black locks of hair flutter
in the wind. In time it would be completely covered with Tibetan hair,
were it not that the locks occasionally fall off and are blown away by
the wind. Teeth are stuck in all the chinks of the Dolma block, forming
whole rosaries of human teeth. If you have a loose tooth, dedicate it to
the spirits of the pass. Tsering unfortunately was toothless, or he
would gladly have conformed to this regulation.
Heaps of rags lie all around, for the pilgrim has always a spare shred
to hang on a string or lay at the foot of the block. But he not only
gives, but also takes. Our old man took a rag from the heap and had a
large quantity of such relics round his neck, for he had taken one from
every cairn.
The view is grand, though Kailas itself is not visible. But one can see
the sharp black ridge lying quite close on the south side with a mantle
of snow and a hanging glacier, its blue margin cut off perpendicularly
at the small moraine lake on the eastern side of the pass.
While I sat at the foot of the block, making observations and drawing
the panorama, a lama came strolling up leaning on his stick. He carried
a book, a drum, a _dorche_, and a bell, and likewise a sickly-looking
child in a basket on his back. The parents, nomads in the valley below,
had given him _tsamba_ for two days to carry the child round the
mountain, whereby it would recover its health. Many pilgrims gain their
livelihood by such services, and some make the pilgrimage only for the
benefit of others. The lama with the child complained that he had only
made the circuit of the mountain three times, and did not possess money
enough to go round thirteen times. I gave him alms.
Then he sat down on the pass, turned his face in the direction where
the summit of Kang-rinpoche was hidden, placed his hands together, and
chanted an interminable succession of prayers. After this he went up to
the block and laid his forehead on the ground--how many times I do not
know, but he was still at it when we descended among boulders to the
tiny round lake Tso-kavála. We followed its northern shore, and our old
friend told me that the ice never breaks up.
But time slips away and we must hasten on. We walk, slide, and scramble
down steep slopes where it would be easy to tumble down head over heels.
The old man is sure-footed, and these slopes are old acquaintances. But
woe betide him if he turned round and went in the reverse direction. At
length we reach the main valley, called in its upper part Tselung, and
in its lower Lam-chyker. Through the large valley, which enters the main
valley on the right side, and is called Kando-sanglam, we now look
eastwards upon the highest pinnacle of the summit of Kailas, which has a
sharp edge towards the north-east, and still looks like a crystal. At
two _manis_ erected side by side we pass the border of the granite and
the conglomerate, which now appears again. The further we proceed the
more numerous are the boulders of this kind of rock, while those of
granite at length occur no more. We march south-west and bivouac on the
roof of the monastery Tsumtul-pu. All day long, at all the cairns and
all the resting-places, I have heard nothing but an endless murmur of
the words "Om mani padme hum," and now, as long as I am awake, "Om mani
padme hum" sounds in my ears from all nooks and corners.
The temple had no other curiosity but a statue of Duk Ngavang Gyamtso, 5
feet high, sitting as at a writing-desk, two not very large elephant's
tusks, and a five-branched chandelier from Lhasa. Our visit, therefore,
did not last long, and we rode down the valley in which the river
gradually increased in size. Here, too, _manis_ and _chhortens_ are
erected, and at the end of the valley, where again numbers of granite
boulders are accumulated, we see once more Langak-tso and the grand
Gurla group.
[Illustration: 273. TIBETAN TENT.]
[Illustration: 274. MONASTERY OF GAR-GUNSA.]
[Illustration: 275. IMAGES AT CHUSHUT.]
At Tarchen-labrang we reached the termination of the pilgrimage. Here
twenty-three tents were pitched, and we received the greatest attention,
were refreshed with milk and _chang_, and rested two hours. Then we left
the pilgrim road to the right, and came into sight of the fourth
monastery, perched high up on a terrace in the valley below the holy
peak. A curious local wind at the north-west corner of Langak-tso raised
up clouds of dust like the smoke of a burning town. A short while after,
we lay peacefully among our men in the camp on the Khaleb moor.
By this pilgrimage round the holy mountain, which I had been able to
accomplish by an unexpected lucky chance, I had gained an insight into
the religious life of the Tibetans. It had also been, as it were, a
revisal of all the experiences I had already collected in this
connection.
Our knowledge of Tibet is still defective, and some future traveller
will find sufficient material to show on a map of the whole Lamaistic
world all the great pilgrim routes to innumerable sanctuaries. On such a
map numerous roads would converge, like the spokes of a wheel, to Da
Kuren, the temple of Maidari in Urga. Still closer would the rays from
every inhabited spot of the immense territory of Lamaism run together to
their chief focus, Lhasa. Somewhat less thickly they would unite at
Tashi-lunpo. Innumerable winding roads and paths would start from the
farthest border countries of Tibet, all tending towards the holy Kailas.
We know that they exist, and no great imagination is required to
conceive how they would look on a map. But it is with the routes of
pilgrims just as with the flight of the wild-geese: we know nothing of
their precise course. Besides, among the principal foci are scattered a
number of smaller centres whence radii diverge to a sanctuary, a lake,
or a spring, and from the heart of all these wind-roses peals out a cry
to the faithful, similar to the exhortation of Isaiah: "Look upon Zion,
the city of our solemnities: thine eyes shall see Jerusalem" (Isa.
xxxiii. 20).
In the ears of the Tibetan another saying rings, the mystical formula
"Om mani padme hum," not only on his wanderings to the goal of his
pilgrimage, but throughout his life. Concerning this Waddell makes,
among others, the following remarks: "Om-ma-ni pad-me Hum, which
literally means '_Om!_ The Jewel in the lotus!' _Hum!_--is addressed to
the Bodhisat Padmapani, who is represented like Buddha as seated or
standing within a lotus-flower. He is the patron-god of Tibet and the
controller of metempsychosis. And no wonder this formula is so popular
and constantly repeated by both Lamas and laity, for its mere utterance
is believed to stop the cycle of re-births and to convey the reciter
directly to paradise. Thus it is stated in the Mani-kah-bum with
extravagant rhapsody that this formula 'is the essence of all happiness,
prosperity, and knowledge, and the great means of deliverance,' for the
_Om_ closes re-birth amongst the gods, _ma_ among the Titans, _ni_ as a
man, _pad_ as a beast, _me_ as a Tantalus, and _Hum_ as an inhabitant of
hell. And in keeping with this view each of these six syllables is given
the distinctive colour of these six states of re-birth, namely: _Om_,
the godly _white_; _ma_, the Titanic _blue_; _ni_, the human _yellow_;
_pad_, the animal _green_; _me_, the 'Tantalic' _red_; and _Hum_, the
hellish _black_" (_The Buddhism of Tibet_, 148-9).
Köppen and Grünwedel translate the four words: "O, Jewel in the
lotus-flower, Amen."
Wherever one turns in Tibet, he sees the six sacred characters engraved
or chiselled out, and hears them repeated everywhere. They are found in
every temple in hundreds of thousands of copies, nay, in millions, for
in the great prayer mills they are stamped in fine letters on thin
paper. On the monastery roofs, on the roofs of private houses, and on
the black tents, they are inscribed on the fluttering streamers. On all
the roads we ride daily past wall-like stone cists covered with slabs,
on which the formula "Om mani padme hum" is carved. Seldom does the most
lonely path lead up to a pass where no cairn is erected to remind the
wanderer of his dependence all his life long on the influence of good
and bad spirits. And on the top of every such _lhato_ or _lhadse_ is
fixed a pole or a stick with streamers, every one proclaiming in black
letters the eternal truth. At projecting rocks cubical _chhortens_ or
_lhatos_ stand beside the road in red and white. On the sides of granite
rocks polished smooth by wind and weather figures of Buddha are
frequently cut, and below them, as well as on fallen boulders, can be
read in gigantic characters "Om mani padme hum." On the piers between
which chain bridges are stretched over the Tsangpo or other rivers,
heaps of stones are piled up, and on all these innumerable votive cairns
lie yak skulls and crania of wild sheep and antelopes. Into the horns
and the bleached frontal bones of the yak the sacred formula is cut, and
the incised characters are filled in with red or some other holy colour.
We find them again in innumerable copies and in many forms, especially
on the high-roads which lead to temples and pilgrims' resorts, as well
as at all places where there is danger, as on mountain passes and river
fords. And even the ferry boats of hide are decorated with blessed
streamers.
In every caravan one man at least, and usually several, has a
prayer-mill in his hand. This is rotated by means of a weight round the
axle of the handle, and is stuffed full of paper strips bearing the holy
formula in many thousands of impressions. All day long, whatever the
duration of the journey, the believer turns his prayer-mill and babbles
in chanting tones "Om mani padme hum." The militia who are called out to
catch a robber band have on their ride more confidence in their
prayer-mills than in their guns and sabres, and, sad to say, there are
some even among the robbers who rattle off their Om and Hum in order to
make their escape. Among the escorts which accompanied me on various
occasions there were always one or two horsemen armed with a _mani_
machine. One always sees this convenient praying instrument in the hands
of the people one meets. The herdsman murmurs the six syllables beside
his herd, his wife when milking the sheep, the merchant as he goes to
market, the hunter as he stalks the wild yak on untrodden paths, the
nomad when he sets out to move his tent to another pasture, the artisan
as he bends over his work. With these words the Tibetan begins his day,
and with them on his tongue he lies down to rest. The Om and Hum are
not only the Alpha and Omega of the day, but of his whole life.
The mystic words rang constantly in my ears. I heard them when the sun
rose and when I blew out my light, and I did not escape them even in the
wilderness, for my own men murmured "Om mani padme hum." They belong to
Tibet, these words; they are inseparable from it: I cannot imagine the
snow-capped mountains and the blue lakes without them. They are as
closely connected with this country as buzzing with the bee-hive, as the
flutter of streamers with the pass, as the ceaseless west wind with its
howling.
The life of the Tibetan from the cradle to the grave is interwoven with
a multitude of religious precepts and customs. It is his duty to
contribute his mite to the maintenance of the monasteries and to the
Peter's pence of the temples. When he passes a votive cairn he adds a
stone to the pile as an offering; when he rides by a _mani_, he never
forgets to guide his steed to the left of it; when he sees a holy
mountain, he never omits to lay his forehead on the ground in homage; in
all important undertakings he must, for the sake of his eternal
salvation, seek the advice of monks learned in the law; when a mendicant
lama comes to his door he never refuses to give him a handful of
_tsamba_ or a lump of butter; when he makes the round of the temple
halls, he adds his contribution to the collection in the votive bowls;
and when he saddles his horse or loads a yak, he again hums the
everlasting "Om mani padme hum."
More frequently than an Ave Maria or a Paternoster in the Catholic
world, "Om mani padme hum" forms an accompaniment to the life and
wanderings of humanity over half Asia. The boundless vista opened out by
the six holy syllables is thus expressed by Edwin Arnold in the
concluding lines of his poem, _The Light of Asia_:
The dew is on the lotus. Rise, Great Sun!
And lift my leaf and mix me with the wave.
Om mani padme hum, the sunrise comes.
The dewdrop slips into the shining sea.
[Illustration: 276. THE POLICEMEN FROM SIMLA.]
[Illustration: 277. MY BOAT ON THE INDUS.]
[Illustration: 278. LADAKI WOMEN.]