A foretaste of Tibetan barbarism.
To give one of Lama Shabdung’s favourite recitals about Tibet: my
host, while there, studied Buḍḍhism under a high Lama of great virtues
and the most profound learning, called Sengchen Dorjechan (Great-Lion
Diamond-Treasury), who had been the tutor of the Secondary or Deputy
Pope, so to say, of Tibet. No man in Tibet was held in higher esteem
and deeper reverence than this holy man. It was this holy man himself
who taught my friend and benefactor Rai Saraṭ, when he was in Tibet.
Though Rai Saraṭ’s pupilage under the high Lama lasted only for a short
time, it had the most tragical consequences. For, after his return to
India, the Tibetan Government discovered to its own mortification that
Rai Saraṭ was an emissary of the British Government, and the parties
who had become in any way connected with his visit, more particularly
the man who had secretly furnished him with a pass, another in whose
house he had lodged and boarded, and the high Lama, were all thrown
into prison, the last named having afterward had to pay with his life
for his innocent crime.
[Illustration: LAMA SENGCHEN DORJECHAN.]
Many are the reminiscences of this holy Lama, which show that he was
indeed a person very firm and enlightened in the Buḍḍhist faith, and
to that degree was the most lovable and adorable of men. But more
especially affecting, even sublimely beautiful, are the episodes
immediately preceding and surrounding his death, for the truth of which
I depend not on the narrative of Lama Shabdung alone, but largely
also upon what I was able to learn from persons of unquestionable
reliability, during my disguised stay in the capital of Tibet. To
mention a few of these: when an unpleasant rumor had just begun to be
circulated, soon after Rai Saraṭ’s departure from Tibet, about his
secret mission, the high Lama Sengchen knew at once that death was
at his door, but was not afraid. For, when it was hinted at by his
friends that he would become involved in a serious predicament, owing
to his acquaintance with Rai Saraṭ, he replied that he had always
considered it his heaven-ordained work to try to propagate and to
perpetuate Buḍḍhism, not among his own countrymen only, but among the
whole human race; that whether or not Saraṭ Chanḍra Ḍās was a man who
had entered Tibet with the object of “stealing away Buḍḍhism,” or to
play the part of a spy, was not his concern--the question had in any
case never occurred to him--and that if he were to suffer death for
having done what he had regarded it as his duty to do, he could not
help it. That this holy Lama was an advocate of active propagandism
may be gathered from the fact that, besides sending various Buḍḍhistic
images and ritualistic utensils to India, he had caused several
persons to go out there as missionaries, my teacher, the Manchurian
Lama Serab Gyamtso, in the Ghoompahl Temple of Darjeeling, being one
of these. Unfortunately, this undertaking did not prove a success,
but none the less it shows the lofty aspirations which actuated the
high Lama, who, as I was told, had deeply lamented the decadence, or
rather the almost entire disappearance, of Buḍḍhism in the land of its
origin, and was sincerely anxious to revive it there. It is nothing
uncommon in Japan to meet with Buḍḍhist priests interested in the
work or idea of foreign propagandism; but a person so minded is an
extreme rarity in that hermit-country Tibet, and that Lama Sengchen
was such a one indicates the greatness of his character, and that he
was a man above sectarian differences and international prejudices,
solely given to the noble idea of universal brotherhood under Buḍḍhism.
Being the man he was, he had many enemies among the high officials
of the hierarchical Government, who were in constant watch for an
opportunity to bring about his downfall. To these, his enemies, the
rumor about Prof. Saraṭ was a welcome one, which they lost no time in
turning to account. In all haste they despatched men to Darjeeling, and
ascertained that, in truth, Rai Saraṭ had smuggled himself into and
out of Tibet, and that, as the fact was, he had done so at the request
of the British Government of India. Then followed the incarceration,
already mentioned, of all those who had had anything to do with Rai
Saraṭ, the final upshot of which was sentence of death upon the high
Lama Sengchen Dorjechan, on the ground that the latter had harbored
in his temple, and divulged national secrets to, a foreign emissary.
The holy man’s execution was carried out on a certain day of June,
1887, and took the form of sinking him till he became drowned in the
river Konbo, which is a local name given to the great Brahmapuṭra.
As I recall the scene of that occasion, as I heard it described, I
see before my eyes the tear-drenched face of my friend Lama Shabdung,
who, struggling with emotion, would often tell me what he witnessed on
that day. Surrounded by an immense crowd of sympathising and sobbing
people, the noble Lama was found seated, and reading the sacred Text,
on a large piece of rock overhanging a side of the river, as the hour
of his execution approached. He was clothed in a coarse white fabric,
and looked serenely calm and perfectly composed, as he gave an order
to his executioners in these words: “When, in a little while, I have
finished reading the holy Text, I will shake this my finger three times
thus, and that will be the signal for you to sink me in the river.”
The instruction was in response to a question, if the high Lama wanted
to say or have done anything ere his execution, asked by one of the
executioners, who was already tying around the holy man’s body one end
of a thick rope, with which he was to be lowered under the water. In
the meantime, the suspense grew intense and the great multitude that
had gathered around had become blind to everything but the mighty,
cruel waters of the Brahmapuṭra, the executioners, and the holy priest,
and deaf to all but their own sobbings and wailings. They saw before
them a man of their hearts, of national esteem, profound in learning
and saintly in behavior, who, as a priest of the highest order, should
wear three layers of red and yellow silk, but who was wrapped in an
unclean prison-suit of white, and was now to die a victim to his
enemies’ malice. They knew all was not right, but they knew not how to
undo the wrong, and they appealed to their own tears. As it happened,
the day had been cloudy, and rain had even begun to come down in drops
as the high Lama raised one of his hands, the purpose of which act
was all too evident, and lamentation became loud and universal. Once,
twice, and three times the noble prisoner had shaken his finger, but
none of the executioners dared to come forward--they were in tears
themselves. Then the high Lama said: “My time is come: what are ye
doing? Speed me under water.” Thereupon, with heavy hands and heavier
hearts the executioners, after having weighted the high Lama’s loins
with a large stone, slowly lowered the whole burden into the rushing
waters of the Brahmapuṭra. After a while they pulled up what they
expected to have become the remains of the saintly man, but finding
that life had not yet departed, they again went through the drowning
process. When for a second time they raised the body, they found life
still lingering in it. The multitude, which saw how things went, became
clamorous in their demand that the holy man be now saved; while the
executioners themselves seemed unnerved and unable to go to their cruel
duty a third time. As the moments of indecision sped by, the high Lama,
most wonderful to tell, recovered sufficient strength to speak, and
say: “Lament ye not my death. For my phase of activity having come to
an end, I now depart with gratification, and that means that my evil
past ceases, so that my good future may begin--it is not ye that kill
me. All that I wish for, after my death, is a greater and ever-growing
prosperity for Buḍḍhism in Tibet. Now make ye haste, and sink me under
the water.” Thus urged, the executioners, sorrow-ridden, obeyed the
order, and they saw that life, in sooth, had departed at the third
raising of the body. Then, as the custom is in Tibet, they severed all
the limbs from the high Lama’s remains, and threw the different parts
separately into the stream, thus ending the grim business of execution.
It will be admitted by all, especially by all Buḍḍhists, that there
was something loftily admirable in the personality of a man who had
done and given his all for his faith and religion, and yet uttered not
a word of complaint against Providence or man, but, in serene, noble
meekness, met his most unmerited and most agonising death. As for me,
besides finding it most affecting, I felt a peculiarly direct interest
in the story of this high Lama’s execution, from the moment when I
was told of it for the first time. For, was I not on my way to Tibet?
Should I succeed in my purpose? Who could tell but that there might be
a repetition of that sad and cruel scene?
[Illustration: THE LAMA’S EXECUTION.]