Fame and Temptation.
Since I had arrived in Tsarang early in May, 1899, nearly eight months
had sped by, and I found myself on the threshold of a New Year, whose
advent I observed with my usual ceremony of reading the Sacred Text,
and praying for the health and prosperity of my Sovereign and his
family, and the glory of Japan. The first day of the year 1900 filled
me with more than usual emotion. For was I not then thousands of miles
away from home, and was it not the second New Year’s Day which I had
spent on the heights of the Himālayas? Yet I was hale and hearty, both
in mind and body, and ready to resume my journey, the end of which the
future alone could reveal.
In order to give vent to my feelings of gratitude, not unmixed with
hope and fear, all deeply impressive, I ended the day by entertaining
the villagers of Tsarang, having previously provided for them a full
and liberal store of such viands and delicacies as were considered to
be most rare and sumptuous. I have already described how I had been
gaining fame and popularity among the villagers, my ascetic conduct
in the midst of unbridled licentiousness causing them to respect me,
and my generosity in the matter of medicines, of which I still had a
fairly large stock with me, making me much sought after by them; and
now, through my New Year’s treat, I seemed to have reached a pinnacle
of glory. For from that time onward I gradually perceived that traps
were being set for me, so that I might be tied down to Tsarang for
life. The arch-spirit in this conspiracy was my own instructor Serab,
who insisted that I should marry the youngest of my host’s daughters,
or rather who brought all his ingenuity to bear upon assisting her
to make a captive of my heart and person. Fortunately my faith proved
stronger than temptations, and enabled me to remain true to the
teachings of the Blessed One. Had I yielded then, Tsarang would have
had to-day one more dirt-covered and grease-shining priest among its
apathetic inhabitants, and that would have been all.
But, things having come to the pass which I have described, it became
urgent that I should make haste in discovering some secret passage
into Tibet. But it was as dangerous for me in Tsarang as it had been
in Kātmāndu to disclose my real intentions, and whatever discovery I
might make for my own purposes, I had to make it in some indirect and
roundabout way. After having once more racked my brains, I finally hit
upon the plan of working upon the weaknesses of the local people. The
Tibetan Government had began to levy customs duties even on personal
valuables. It was a most outrageous act; supposing one wanted to do
trade with the inhabitants of the north-west plain of Tibet, and to
take thither a stock of coral ornaments, or some useful knick-knacks
imported from Europe, how could one avoid being unjustly set upon and
robbed of the best part of one’s would-be profit, on first setting
foot upon Tibetan soil? Ah! there must be ways and bye-ways by
which to accomplish this, and to be absolutely safe from guards and
sentinels! Surely the plains might be reached, if one did not mind
three days of hard trudging over the trackless snow of the Himālayan
Range, to the north of the Dhavalagiri peak, and thence to Thorpo?
Having once got the villagers into the right humor, in some such way,
it was not necessarily a very hazardous job to keep on tapping them
for information. On the other side of that mountain yonder, they
would volunteer to tell me, there was a river which might be forded
at such and such a point, but which was dangerously treacherous at
others; or, that if not very cautious, one might die a victim to the
snow-leopard, while crossing over this or that mountain. All these
bits of information, and hosts of others, were carefully noted down,
and a synthetic study of these scraps finally convinced me that the
route I should choose was the one _viâ_ Thorpo; and so I decided. This
meant that I had to retrace my steps almost as far back as Tukje, or
more accurately to Malba, a village in the immediate neighborhood of
Tukje. Nor was this retreat without some advantages in itself, for
it would have only been to court suspicion and to run unnecessary
risks for me to strike off into pathless wilds in full view of the
Tsarang villagers, who were sure to come out in hordes to see me off
on my departure, not only out of respect for my person, but also
from curiosity to know whither I was bound after my lengthened stay
amongst them. The route decided upon, I could not however yet start
on my journey, because the season was then against me, the peaks and
defiles on my way being passable only during the months of June, July
and August. The mountains were not, of course, entirely free from snow
even during those three months, but for those thirteen weeks or so the
traverser would, as I was told, be secure as a rule from being frozen
to death. And therefore I bided my time.
To go back a little in my story, there came to Tsarang one Adam
Naring, the Chief of the village of Malba, whither I had to retrace my
footsteps. That was in October, 1899. Naring owned a yak ranch on the
north-west plains of Tibet, and he was openly privileged to have free
access thereto over the “King’s highway”. It was on his way back from
one of his periodic visits thither that he stopped at Tsarang, and, as
he put up at my host’s, I was introduced to him. He had in his chapel,
as he told me then, a set of Buḍḍhist Texts which he had brought home
from Tibet, and he was very anxious that I should go with him to his
house and read them over for the benefit of himself and his family. The
invitation was as unexpected as it was opportune, and I accepted it.
That was in October, 1899, as I have just said, and if my acceptance
of Naring’s invitation had no definite motive at the time, it stood me
in good stead afterwards. In the meantime, however, Naring had gone to
India on business, and it was not till March, 1900, that I had tidings
of his return to Malba. On the 10th of that month I bade good-bye to
Tsarang and its simple inhabitants.
My stay in Tsarang was not entirely devoid of results; for while there
I succeeded in persuading about fifteen persons to give up the use of
intoxicants, and some thirty others to abandon the habit of chewing
tobacco. These were all persons who had at one time or another received
medical treatment from me, and whom I persuaded to give pledges of
abstinence as the price they were to pay for my medicine.
Nearly a year’s stay in Tsarang had made me acquainted practically
with its entire population, and, on my departure, all these people
favored me with farewell presents of buckwheat flour, bread, maru,
butter, fried peaches--all in various quantities--while some gave
me kata and silver coins. At three in the afternoon of that 10th of
March I left my residence on horse-back, with my volumes of Buḍḍhist
Texts and other baggage loaded on two pack-ponies. The books I have
just referred to were given to me by one Nyendak, Lama-Superior of the
principal Buḍḍhist temple of Tsarang, in exchange for my white horse,
which had proved such a faithful animal on my journey from Nepāl, and
to which the priest had taken a great fancy. The books were chiefly
in manuscript, penned by a Sakya Paṇdiṭ, and altogether were worth at
least 600 rupees.
On reaching the outskirts of the village, I found about one hundred
persons waiting for me, and to each of these I gave the ‘double-handed
blessing’. The parting was not easy, and time sped on. It was now
five o’clock, and I left my well-wishers in tears behind me. Reaching
the village gate, by which I had come in some eleven months before,
I turned round to take a last look at Tsarang, and prayed in silence
for the safety of the villagers and their ever-increasing faith in
Buḍḍhism. Before the darkness set in I arrived at Kimiyi, and there
put up for the night. The next day’s journey brought me back to Tsuk,
a village on the Kālīgaṅgā, where I spent the evening in preaching
at the request of the inhabitants. At my departure the following
morning about twenty people came forward and asked me to give them the
‘hand-blessing,’ which they obtained with perfect willingness on my
part. My instructor, Serab Gyaltsan, had left Tsarang a little time
previous to my departure, but I had the good fortune to come upon him
at Tsuk, and to have an opportunity of thanking him for what I owed
him as a pupil of nearly a year’s standing before I bade him a most
heartfelt farewell.
The close of the third day after leaving Tsarang brought me to the
mountain-village of Malba and to the residence of Adam Naring, who
happened, however, to be away from his home just then. But the village
Chief’s father, Sonam Norbu by name, who probably had heard of me from
his son, was there to welcome me, and I was given the freedom of the
family chapel, which consisted of two neatly furnished apartments,
the innermost of which contained a fine set of Buḍḍha images, as
well as the Tibetan edition of the Sacred Text and other volumes of
ecclesiastical writings, while the windows of the front room commanded
a charming view of a peach orchard. I may note here that the altitude
of Malba being much lower than that of Tsarang, the soil in the former
place yields two different crops in the year, wheat coming first and
then buckwheat. Adam Naring owned a fine tract of land for these
crops. Five or six hundred yards beyond his residence was the Kālīgaṅgā
river, gliding serenely along with a fresh green wall of small
pine-trees to set off its waters. Towering behind and above the emerald
grove stood a range of snow-capped peaks, the _tout ensemble_ making a
view delightful for its primitive joys and natural beauty.
My old friend expressed his desire that I should make my stay
indefinitely long, so that he might have the benefit of my reading for
him the whole of the Sacred Texts; but I could only encourage him with
an ambiguous reply, as I had come to Malba only to wait for the time
when the snow-covered mountains should become passable. In the meantime
I spent my days in reading, and making extracts from the Sacred Texts,
and in so doing I could not help often recalling, with a deep sense of
gratitude, the six hours a day which for nearly one year I had devoted
to my study of Tibetan, under the rigid instruction of Serab Gyaltsan
at Tsarang.
About a fortnight after my arrival in Malba I received a letter from
Rai Saraṭ Chanḍra Ḍās, through a trader of Tukje, with whom I had
become acquainted while in Tsarang, and to whom I had entrusted a
letter to my friend at Darjeeling, as well as others to my folks at
home, on the occasion of his going down to Calcutta on business. Along
with his letter Saraṭ Chanḍra Ḍās sent me a number of the Mahāboḍhi
Society’s journal, which contained an account of an unsuccessful
attempt by a Buḍḍhist of my nationality to enter Tibet, and a
well-meant note of his in pencil to the effect that I must not lose my
life by exposing myself to too much danger. So far so good; but next
something which was not so good happened. The Tukje man, my whilom
messenger, had apparently formed an opinion of his own about my
personality, and set the quiet village of Malba astir with rumors about
myself. Chanḍra Ḍās was an official of the English Government, with a
salary of 600 rupees a month, and, as such, a very rare personage among
Bengālīs; and it was with this person that I corresponded; _ergo_, the
Chinese Lama (myself) must be a British agent in disguise, with some
secret mission to execute. So went the rumor, and the public opinion
of Malba had almost come to the conclusion that it was undesirable to
permit such a suspicious stranger in the village, when Adam Naring,
who by that time had come home, sought to speak to me in secret, with
indescribable fear written on his face. Poor honest soul! What he said
to me, when by ourselves, was of course to the effect that if there
were any truth in the rumor, he and his folks would be visited with
what punishment heaven only knew. I had expected this for some time
past, and had made up my mind how to act as soon as Naring approached
me on the subject. I turned round and, looking him squarely in the
face, said: “If you promise me, under oath, that you will not divulge
for three full years to come what I may tell you, I will let you
into my secret; but if you do not care to do so, we can only let the
rumor take care of itself, and wait for the Nepāl Government to take
any steps it may deem fit to take.” I knew Adam Naring was a man of
conscience, who could be trusted with a secret: he signified his
willingness to take an oath, and I placed before him a copy of the
sacred Scripture and obtained from him the needed promise.
Producing next my passport, given me by the Foreign Office in Japan,
which had on it an English as well as other translations of the
Japanese text, I showed it to my host, who understood just enough
English to follow out the spelling of some words in that language, and
explained to him the real object of my journey into Tibet. I did more.
I said to him that now that he possessed my secret, he was welcome to
make of it what use he liked; but that I believed him to be a true
and devoted Buḍḍhist, and that it behoved him well to assist me in my
enterprise by keeping silence, for by so acting he would be promoting
the cause of his own religion. In all this, I told my host nothing
but truth, and truth triumphed; for he believed every word I said
and approved of my adventure. Then we talked over the route I was to
take, and it was arranged at the same time that I should restart on my
journey in June or July.
This taking of my host into my confidence seemed to have greatly
appeased his mind; withal, I did not think it right for me to tax his
hospitality by prolonging my stay at his residence, and immediately
after the above incident I moved into the temple of the village, where,
nevertheless, I remained the object of his unswerving friendship, in
that he provided for me, while there, all travelling requisites, from
wearing apparel to provisions, which altogether made luggage weighing
about seventy-five pounds. At my request he also secured for me a guide
and carrier, who was to convey my packages as far as Khambuthang, or
the ‘land of Genii,’ in the valley of Dhavalagiri, while my part of
the load was to consist only of my collection of religious works. Thus
equipped, I left Malba on June 12th, 1900. By taking the direct route,
the North-west Steppe of Tibet may be reached from Malba in ten days,
but as I was to take in my way places sacred to Buḍḍhist pilgrims,
besides making other observations, I set aside twenty-three days for
the journey, which I began by traversing trackless wilds for three
days. At my departure I made an _uta_:
My roof will be the sky; my bed, the earth;
The grass my downy pillow soft at night;
Thus like the hovering clouds and wandering streams,
These lonely wilds alone I must traverse.
Once on the road, I found, however, that the sentiment of this effusion
applied more to what I had come through than to what followed, for
there was for days nothing but snow for my bed and rock for my pillow.