A Himalayan Romance.
I was still in the company of the party of pilgrims I have already
referred to. It appeared that some of the party had come to form a
rather high opinion of me as a person of reverend qualities. Among
them was a young damsel who, it was not difficult to perceive, had
conceived a passion for me. The moment the thought dawned on me, I said
to myself: “It may be; it is nothing uncommon, rather is it quite usual
for women to cherish vain thoughts. She must have heard her elders
talking well of me, and have taken a fancy to me.” I at once set about
raising a barrier between us, which was none other than the teaching
of our common Buḍḍhism. When occasion allowed, I explained to her all
about the vows with which all true priests bind themselves and why they
do so. I depicted to her the horrors of hell that sinners create for
themselves even in this world, and which follow them into eternity as
the price they pay for momentary pleasures. These things I taught, not
only to the girl but to the whole party. For all that, I could not help
pitying the little innocent thing. A maiden of nineteen, with few or no
restraints on her romantic fancies, she must have thought it a grand
thing to be able to go back to her folk with a bride-groom of whom all
spoke so well. She was not beautiful, and yet not ugly: a comely little
thing was she. But I, though not old, had had my own experiences in
these matters in my younger days, and I was able to conquer temptations.
[Illustration: RELIGION _v._ LOVE.]
Here I may stop to observe that the country through which we were
travelling is called Ngari in Tibetan and Āri in Chinese. The region is
an extensive one, and includes Ladak and Khunu.
Purang, of which mention has been made more than once, is its central
mart and enjoys great prosperity, though located rather to the
south. Purang also forms a mid-Himālayan post of great religious
importance as a sacred spot for Buḍḍhist pilgrims. The town boasts, or
rather boasted, of its possession of three Buḍḍhist images of great
renown--those of the Boḍhisaṭṭva Mahāsaṭṭvas Manjushrī, Avalokiteshvara
and Vajrapāni. According to tradition these were brought thither from
Ceylon in olden times. Unfortunately about six months prior to my
arrival in Ngari a big fire broke out and destroyed two of these idols,
the image of Manjushrī alone being saved. Much as I wished to visit
Purang, I was apprehensive of many dangers to my impersonation if I
went thither, as the Tibetan Government maintains there a challenge
gate. My companions went there, however, leaving me behind, and I
spent the days of their absence in religious meditation. Joining them
again on their return, I continued my travels westwards, coming out in
due time to the north of Lake Lakgal. We next took our way along the
lake towards the north-west. Facing west and looking over the lake,
I saw islands spread out on its surface like the legs of a _gotoku_,
or tripod. So I gave them the name of Gotoku jimu, or Tripod islands.
Several days afterwards we arrived at a barter port called Gya-nima; it
was the 17th of August, 1900.
At Gya-nima barter is carried on only for two months in the year, that
is to say from the 15th of July to the 15th of September. The traders
chiefly come from the Indian part of the Himālaya mountains and meet
their Tibetan customers there. I was just in good time to see brisk
transactions going on. I saw no less than one hundred and fifty white
tents covering the otherwise barren wilderness, and some five or six
hundred people rushing about to sell and buy in their own fashion.
The Tibetan articles offered for sale here were wool, butter, yaks’
tails, and the like, while the purchases consisted of about the same
category of goods as I gave when speaking of the Mabcha Khanbab mart.
I stayed over night and spent the whole of the next day at the fair,
making a few small purchases. On the day following we went back to
Gya-karko, another barter port. Gya-nima was the most north-western
point I reached in my Tibetan journey. So far as reaching my
destination was concerned, I had hitherto been proceeding in an exactly
opposite direction to it, steadily going north-west instead of towards
Lhasa, the capital of Tibet. But from that point--Gya-nima--onwards,
each step I walked brought me nearer to the main road into Tibet, as
also to its capital. In Gya-karko I stayed for three or four days.
Here there were about one hundred and fifty tents, trade being carried
on even more vigorously than at Gya-nima. Gya-karko is a trading port
for people coming from the north-west plains of Tibet on the one hand
and the Hinḍūs inhabiting the Indian Himālayas on the other, who are
allowed by the Tibetan Government to come as far as this place.
Here I saw many merchants from the towns and villages of the Himālayas.
Among them was one from Milum, who spoke English. This man invited me
to dinner on the quiet, so to say. I accepted his invitation, but the
moment I had entered his tent I at once saw that he took me for an
English emissary. When left to ourselves he immediately addressed me
thus: “As I live under the government of your country, I shall never
make myself inconvenient to you. In return I wish you would do what
you can to help my business when you go back to India.” I thought that
these were very strange words to speak to me. On interrogating him,
I found out that he had conjectured that I was engaged in exploring
Tibet at the behest of the British Government. When I told him that I
was a Chinaman, he said: “If you are Chinese, you can no doubt speak
Chinese?” I answered him boldly in the affirmative. Then he brought in
a man who claimed to understand Chinese. I was not a little embarrassed
at this turn of affairs, but as I had had a similar experience with
Gya Lama in Nepāl it took me no time to recover sufficient equanimity
to answer him, and I felt much re-assured when I found that he could
not speak Chinese so well as I had anticipated. Then I wrote a number
of Chinese characters and wanted him to say if he knew them. The
man looked at me and seemed to say: “There you have me.” Finally he
broke into laughter and said: “I give up; let us talk in Tibetan.”
Then my host was greatly astonished and said: “Then you are indeed a
Chinaman! What can be better? China is a vast country. My father, who
is now living in my native country, was once in China. If there is
any business to be done with China I wish you would kindly put me on
the track;” and he gave me his address written in English. His manner
showed that he was in earnest, and that he was a man to be trusted. So
seeing that this man was going back to India, I thought it would be a
good idea to ask him to take with him my letters and deliver them for
me in India. It would have been imprudent for me to write things in
detail, but I scribbled just a few lines to my friend and teacher, Rai
Saraṭ Chanḍra Dās, informing him that I had penetrated the interior of
Tibet as far as Gya-karko, besides asking him to post some letters for
Japan which I enclosed, addressed to Mr. Hige Tokujuso and Ito Ichiso
of Sakai. A few coins put into the hand of the Milum man secured a
ready response to my request. The man proved the honest fellow I took
him for; for after my return to Japan I found that my letters had been
duly received by both Mr. Hige and Mr. Ito.
To return to my romance. We were still staying at Gya-karko, and I
was much embarrassed to find that little Dawa--for that was my little
maiden’s name--had by no means given up her affection for me. Dawa, I
may perhaps mention here, though I shall have occasion to refer to the
matter at greater length in another chapter, is a Tibetan name meaning
moon, given to persons born on a Monday; those born on a Friday being
named Pasang, and those on a Sunday, Nyima.
Well, my little Dawa proved herself to be an adept in the art of
love-making. It is wonderful how a little spark of passion, when once
kindled, burns up and fashions daring schemes and alluring pictures.
The maiden was always at my side, and spoke only of the good things she
would make mine, if I would only accompany her to her native country.
She said her mother was a lady of an exceedingly kind heart; that
her father owned about one hundred and sixty yaks and four hundred
sheep; that therefore her family was very rich and their life one
perpetual _chachang pemma_ or round of pleasures. She added that she
was their only daughter, and that she had not yet come across a man to
her heart, save one. I may perhaps explain that chachang pemma means
drinking tea and intoxicants alternately, and that in Tibet one is
considered to have attained the highest pinnacle of happiness when
he is able to indulge in a perpetual symposium--drinking, in turns,
tea with butter in it and then a spirit brewed from wheat. Only rich
persons can enjoy the luxury: but the mass of Tibetans consider this to
be the main object of life. Consequently chachang pemma is generally
used in the sense of earthly beatitude. By the way, the method of
manufacturing the butter-tea is very curious: butter, boiled juice of
tea and salt are first thrown together into a nearly cylindrical tub of
three feet in height; then a piston, if I may so call it, with a disc
large enough to fit the cask exactly, is worked up and down, to obtain
a thorough mixing of the ingredients. This pump-like action of the
piston is carried on by sheer force of hands and arms, and, as may be
imagined, requires a large amount of strength. The motion of the piston
transforms the mixture into a new beverage which the Tibetans call
_solcha_. It is said that these people can tell whether the solcha, or
butter-tea, will prove good or bad by listening to the sound produced
by the piston as it works up and down.
But to return to my story: Dawa never tired of telling me that her
family was prosperous; that even Lamas were allowed to marry in her
country; that it was really an excellent thing for every Lama to live
happily with a wife in this world; that it would be wise for me to do
so, and so on. Seeing that all her words were only wasted on me, she
seemed to imply that I was an incorrigible fool. Wiles of temptation
now came thick and fast upon me: but in such moments I happily
remembered the triumph of our Lord Shākyamuni at Buḍḍhagayā. The wise
One was about to attain to the state of Absolute Perfection. The king
of all that is evil was very much afraid of this, and sent his three
daughters to tempt him. The women tried all manner of allurements to
secure the fall of the Enlightened One, but in vain. When all had
failed the daughters of the King of Devils sang thus:
How like a tender graceful flower am I,
With all the lovely fragrance of my mouth,
And its melodious music soft and sweet!
Am I not mistress of all mirth and joys?
Even Heav’nly bliss is naught to him who lives
In amorous dalliance, dearly loved, with me.
If thou rejectest me, there’s none so dull
And stupid in the world compared with thee.
So sang the Sirens, but even they were powerless to conquer the Lord.
My Dawa could not of course approach the charms of the arch-devil’s
daughters, but her plaintive pleadings were there. And I--a common
mortal struggling on, but far from the gate of emancipation--I could
not but pity the poor little creature, though I strengthened myself by
saying: “Let it be so--a fool let me be.” I composed an _uta_ then:
You call me stupid; that am I, I grant;
But yet in love-affairs being wiser grown,
’Tis safe for me to be more stupid still.
It is true that women never let their mouths be the doors to their
mind; but they know a language unspoken, which is far more telling,
appealing and enticing, than that which mere sound and articulation
can convey. And my Dawa had never yet said in so many words what she
yearned to say. It happened, however, that Dawa’s father and brothers
were out shopping one day, and that the girl and I remained alone
in the tent. She thought probably that she could not get a better
opportunity for her purposes and she tried to make the most of it.
Just then I was mending my boots, and she almost frightened me with
her boldness. I am neither a block of wood, nor a piece of stone,
and I should have been supernatural if I had not felt the power of
temptation. But to yield to such a folly would be against my own
profession. Moreover I remembered with awe the omnipresence of our
Lord Buḍḍha, and was thus enabled to keep my heart under control. I
said to the maiden: “I have no doubt that all is excellent at your
home; but do you know whether your mother is still living or dead?”
The question was unexpected and almost stunned her, put as it was at
a moment when she had allowed her mind to wander so far away from
her dear mother. She was just able to say: “I do not know whether my
mother is living or dead. I have been on a pilgrimage with my father
for one year and perhaps more. My mother is a weak woman, and I parted
with her in tears, asking her to take the best care of herself, so
that she might be preserved. I do not know how she is faring now.”
Here was my chance--a chance of diverting the girl’s attention from
me. “H’m! you don’t know that?” said I; “only now you were telling me
of the bliss of your home, and yet you don’t know how your mother is
faring now?” Poor little maiden, her mind became disturbed. I almost
scolded her, pleaded with her, warned her. She, who claimed to be a
good daughter, to be so intent in the pursuit after ephemeral pleasures
as to let her thoughts wander away from her dear, good mother; could
it be possible? This somewhat highly colored statement of mine seemed
to cool down her passion and change it into fear and apprehension. Nor
was it extraordinary that she should have become so affected. For in
Tibet nothing is supposed to be too great for the Lama; he possesses
superhuman powers and can work miracles. Instead of an object of love,
I had now become an awe-inspiring Lama to my little Dawa. As such, I
counselled her with a good deal of earnestness, and finally succeeded
in subduing her passion and conquering the temptation.
We prolonged our stay at Gya-karko for several days more, and on the
26th of August I started again with the pilgrims. As we travelled on in
a north-easterly direction we came to a marshy plain interspersed with
pools of water. Farther on the marsh became deeper. I tried to probe
its depth with my stick, but the solid bottom was beyond my reach.
Knowing then that the marsh could not be forded, we retraced our steps
for about three miles and proceeded thence due east. Further on we
found that the waters flowing out of the marsh formed themselves into
three streams. We waded across them, and about ten miles further on
the marsh came to an end and we found ourselves among mountains, and
encamped for the night. Here there were many merchants on their way
to Gya-nima and Gya-karko, and many were the tents they had pitched
all round. While there I went on a begging tour amongst the tent
occupants--a practice which I put into execution whenever possible, in
pursuance of the Buḍḍha’s teaching. A day’s round, besides, generally
earned me enough to carry me through the next day. I may add that the
evening, whether after a day of journeying or of begging, I used to
spend in preaching among my travelling companions. I had my own reasons
for being painstaking in these preachings. I knew that religious
talks always softened the hearts of my companions, and this was very
necessary, as I might otherwise have been killed by them. I do not mean
to say that my life was in any immediate danger then, for there were
numbers of people always about, and besides, the region we were going
through was a country sacred to Buḍḍhism, and, once within the holy
zone, even the most wicked would not dare to commit either robbery or
murder. But it was necessary for me to take precautions in anticipation
of dangers that might befall me as soon as I should be out of this
sacred region. Such were the reasons why I did so much preaching, and
fortunately my sermons were well received by my companions.
On the 28th of August we travelled about twenty miles over an
undulating country. Throughout that distance we could not get a
drop of water, and I had nothing to drink except a cup of tea which
I took in the morning just before starting. We were of course all
terribly thirsty; yet to me the suffering was not half so great as
that I had felt during the former distressing experiences already
narrated. Towards the evening we came upon the upper course of the
Langchen Khanbab. This is the river called Sutlej in English. It is
the head-water of a river which flows westward into India, and, after
meeting with the Sitā, forms the great Indus that empties itself into
the Arabian Sea. My companions volunteered to tell me that this river
started from Lake Mānasarovara. When I pointed out to them that the
Lake Mānasarovara was surrounded by mountains on all sides and had no
outlet, they replied: “True, but the river has its source in a spring
to be found under a great rock, east of the monastery named Chugo
Gonpa (the monastery of the source of the river), in a gorge on the
north-western side of Mount Kailāsa. That spring is fed by the waters
of Lake Mānasarovara that travel thither underground. Hence it may
be said with equal truth that the river flows out of the lake.” This
was indeed an ingenious way of accounting for the popular belief. But
judging from the position of the river, it seemed to me that it must
take its origin on a higher level than that of Lake Mānasarovara and
I was not (nor am I now) ready to admit the correctness of the native
contention. On arriving at the bank of the river we pitched our tents
as usual and passed the night. On the following day, we visited a
sacred place of great fame in that neighborhood, called Reta-puri in
Tibetan pronunciation, but originally in Samskṛṭ Preṭapurī. Having
left our baggage, tents and other things with two men to take care of
them, I went on the journey thither with Dawa, her father and another
woman, four of us in all. As we proceeded westwards along the Langchen
Khanbab, we saw large boulders of rock making a walled avenue for a
distance of about 400 yards. Out of the rock region, we came upon a
river flowing down from the north to the Langchen Khanbab. There were
two others running parallel and at a short distance from one another.
They are called Tokpo Rabsum, which in Tibetan means three friendly
streams. We forded one of them and went up a hill for about a hundred
and twenty yards, when an extensive plain lay spread before our view.
I noticed that the plain was thickly covered with low bush-growths of
some thorny family, and the sight reminded me of our tea-plantations of
Uji. About a mile and a quarter further on we came to another stream,
the name of which is identical with that of the one we had already
crossed. Both these rivers were loin-deep and exceedingly cold, with
small ice-blocks floating in them. In fording the river I was much
benumbed, and on reaching the opposite banks I found that I had almost
lost my power of locomotion. So I told my companions to go on while I
rested a few minutes, and applied burning moxa to my benumbed limbs
in order to recover their use. Off they went, after telling me that
nothing could go wrong with me if I would only take the road in the
direction they pointed out to me. Tibetans are strong and healthy,
and extremely swift-footed into the bargain. I was no match for them
in this respect, especially with half-frozen feet and that was why I
told them not to wait for me. The smouldering moxa had its effect on
my legs. I felt then more alive, and after an hour’s rest I proceeded
westwards for five miles to a place where the plain came to an end.
Thence I walked down stream along a river until the temple for which
I was heading rose into view. The sight was a grand one, with its
maṇi-steps of stone which looked, at a distance, like a long train of
railway cars. Nor was this the only place where the maṇi steps could be
found. Many of them are to be seen in the Himālayas. I should add that
in that mighty range of sky-reaching mountains there lives a species
of strange birds, whose note is exactly like the whistle of a railway
engine. The maṇi-steps looking like a train before me made me think of
the whistle of those birds, and I felt as if I had arrived once more in
a civilised country!