The Power of Buddhism.
I had now walked about six miles to the north-west after the singular
proceedings which I described in the last chapter, and I emerged upon
a well-trodden road, which on consulting my store of information I was
able to identify as the path that, deviating from the Tibetan national
high-way, led to lake Mānasarovara. The discovery was as unexpected
as it was pleasing, for I was now within a pilgrim-frequented zone. A
few more steps, indeed, brought me in sight of a dark tent, standing
on the banks of a large river, named Gaṅgā by the Tibetans, where
my appeal for a night’s lodging was cheerfully granted. I found the
occupants of the tent to consist of three men and two women, the men
being brothers, one of the women the wife of the eldest brother, and
the other a daughter of another of the brothers. My first inclination
on being received into the tent was to feel easy in mind, for I had
been told that parties comprising women, even in Tibetan wilds, seldom
commit murder. But when I was informed that these people were from Dam
Gya-sho, I thought I was rather hasty in feeling so secure, for that
country, like the neighboring one of Kham, is noted for its production
of professional robbers and murderers. I had heard before that they
had even such a saying in that country as: “No murder, no food; no
pilgrimage, no absolution. On! onward on your pilgrimage, killing men
and visiting temples, killing men and visiting temples!” Even women of
that country, I had been told, think no more of committing homicide
than of killing a sheep. These reflexions did not bring much cheer to
my heart; but what could I do, since I was now in their hands? I could
only bide my time. Fortunately, they did not butcher me that night.
Early on August 3rd, that is to say, on the morning of the following
day, I proceeded in a north-westerly direction along the great stream,
with my newly-made companions, for such had the occupants of the tent
become, as they were heading for the same temporary destination as
myself. This river, I ascertained, had its rise in one of the snowy
peaks that I saw to the south-east, and emptied its waters into
Lake Mānasarovara. I judged it to be about two hundred and fifty
yards wide and fairly deep. Following the stream for about three and
three-quarters miles and then making an ascent, we came to a clear,
bubbling spring, which went by the name of Chumik Gaṅgā or the source
of the Gaṅgā, and we drank deep of the sacred water. Then we continued
our climb, now facing north, and arrived at another spring, which was
welling up in a most picturesque way from under an immense slab of
white marble. The natives call it Chumik thong-ga Rangchung, or the
fountain of joy, and it really made one’s heart glad to look at the
crystal-like water gushing up in all its purity. Both these springs are
regarded by the Hinḍūs, as by the Tibetans, as forming the sources of
the sacred Gaṅgā, and are both looked up to with religious reverence.
After leaving the springs, we proceeded north-west again, and came
once more to the river Gaṅgā, which we forded at the point where it
was at its broadest in that vicinity, and passed the night on its
banks. We had travelled only about nine miles that day. From the place
of our bivouac I saw to the north-west a great snow-clad mountain: it
was the Kang Rinpoche of Tibet, the Mount Kailāsa of the Hinḍū. Its
ancient name was Kang Tise. As far as my knowledge goes, it is the
most ideal of the snow-peaks of all the Himālayas. It inspired me with
the profoundest feelings of pure reverence, and I looked up to it as
a ‘natural maṇdala,’ the mansion of a Buḍḍha and Boḍhisaṭṭvas. Filled
with soul-stirring thoughts and fancies I addressed myself to this
sacred pillar of nature, confessed my sins, and performed to it the
obeisance of one hundred and eight bows. I also took out the manuscript
of my ‘twenty-six desires,’ and pledged their accomplishment to the
Buḍḍha. I then considered myself the luckiest of men, to have thus been
enabled to worship such a holy emblem of Buḍḍha’s power, and to vow
such vows in its sacred presence, and I mused:
Whate’er my sufferings here and dangers dire,
Whate’er befalls me on my onward march,
All, all, I feel, is for the common good
For others treading on Salvation’s path.
The sight of my performance of these devotional practices must have
been a matter of wonder and mystery to my companions. They had been
watching me like gaping and astonished children, and were all intensely
curious to know why I had bowed so many times, and read out such
strange Chinese sentences. I was glad to explain to them the general
meaning of my conduct and they seemed to be deeply struck with its
significance. They said that they had never known that the Chinese
Lamas were men of such Boḍhisaṭṭvic mind! The upshot was that they
asked me to preach to them that night, a request to which I was very
glad to accede. The preaching which followed, which I purposely made as
simple and as appealing to the heart as possible, seemed to affect them
profoundly, and to make the best possible impression on them; so much
so that they even shed tears of joy. The preaching over, they said in
all sincerity that they were glad of my companionship, and even offered
to regard me as their guest during the two months which they intended
to spend in pilgrimage to and round the Kang Rinpoche. They thought
that their pilgrimage over such holy ground, while serving such a holy
man as I now was to them, would absolve them completely from their
sins. Imagine the state of my mind then! These were of the people who
took other men’s lives with the same equanimity with which they cut
their vegetables; yet, touched now by the light of Buḍḍhism, their
minds had softened. I blessed the power of Buḍḍhism more than ever, and
could not hold back my tears as my companions shed theirs.