War Against Suspicion.
I spent the whole of November 2nd, 1900, at the temple seeing its
treasures and images. The place was just sixty miles north of Tsarang
in the province of Lo in the Himālayas, and was frequented by merchants
from the latter. I did not know this fact, and after I had seen the
treasures I was walking round the temple, when to my astonishment I
was accosted by an old acquaintance. He was a notorious drunkard and
gambler, feared even by the natives of the Himālayas. While I was
in Lo he used to accuse me of being a British spy. When, however, a
member of his family became sick I gave him medicines, and this act of
kindness of mine softened down his bitterness against me, though it was
evident that he intended to take the first opportunity to quarrel with
me. On the present occasion it was clear that should I take no notice
of him. He would denounce me to the Tibetan Government and obstruct
the execution of my object; so I decided upon a plan of campaign.
Approaching him with a smile, I said I was delighted to see an old
acquaintance. I was myself a teetotaller, I added, but I had heard it
stated that the place had very good liquor. I would treat him to the
best to be obtained in the place if he did not object to coming to my
room. He accepted my invitation at once.
Ordering my landlord to bring a large quantity of the best liquor I
plied him with drink until four in the morning. I did not take anything
myself, but made believe to be drunk. After many glasses I got him dead
drunk, and he fell asleep. I also pretended to sleep. But as soon as
the landlord awoke at about half past five, I also rose and told him
that the man lying there was a dear friend of mine, and that I would
have him treated with the best liquor whenever he awoke, and that he
was never to let him go out of the house. If he should ask for my
whereabouts, he was to be told that I had gone towards Tsarang. With
these orders I paid my bills, tipped the landlord liberally, and set
out on my journey at six o’clock.
I did not of course go towards Tsarang, but took the highway running to
Lhasa. Yet my fears were not quite pacified, for the man I had to deal
with was noted for his shrewdness even among the Himālayans. He would
not only doubt the words of the landlord, but would suspect my reasons
for plying him with liquor, and would inform the Tibetan revenue
officials of my escape towards Lhasa. In the event of the mounted
officials giving chase to me, it would be all in vain for me to walk
as I was doing. What I wished with all my heart, even at the cost of
all my money, was to get a horse or to hire a man to carry my luggage.
But the plain being absolutely deserted, my desire was in vain. I was
hastening along the highway to the south-east, when a large body of
horsemen came galloping up from behind.
It was a caravan of eighty or ninety horses and sixteen men. I stopped
one of them, and asked him to tie my luggage on to one of the horses,
for which trouble I would pay, and to allow me to run behind them.
The man was a servant, and could not give me any definite answer. I
approached another man, who seemed to be the master and brought up the
rear, with a similar petition. He said that he was not able to comply
with my request for the present. But as the party was stopping that
night in a valley between the two hills which were visible ahead, he
advised me to push on, hard though the work might be, and wait there
till some arrangements could be made. I took his advice and summoned
up all my courage to reach those hills. At eight o’clock I reached the
mountain slope and found two big white tents. The chief and second
chief of the caravan seemed to be Lamas, the caravan itself having a
religious appearance. They offered me tea and meat, but I said I did
not eat any meat and gave my reasons for not doing so. The Lama was
apparently interested by my explanation, and asked me where I had come
from. I said I was a Chinese priest. The Lama thereupon spoke to me in
Chinese, which he seemed to understand a little. I told him that his
Chinese was the Pekin dialect, which I could not understand, and so
our conversation was held in Tibetan. He then produced some Chinese
characters and made me read and explain them, and until I had satisfied
him in this connexion he did not believe in my being a Chinaman.
I learned then that he was the Lama of a temple called Lhuntubu-chœ-ten
in the province of Luto on the north-western frontier of Tibet, near
to Ladak on the eastern border of Kashmīr. The first Lama was named
Lobsang Gendun, and the second Lobsang Yanbel. The man who advised me
to go there was the _Tsongbon_, or chief of the caravan, and acted as
the business manager for these Lamas. The rest of the party were either
monks or servants. They carried dried pears, raisins, silk, woollen
goods and other products of Kashmīr to Lhasa, whence they brought home
tea, Buḍḍhist pictures and images. They were a very good company, and
a very convenient one for me, if I could get them to carry my luggage
through this vast pastoral plain of Jangthang; but I did not wish them
to accompany me as far as Lhasa.
The Lama interrogated me as to the kind of Buḍḍhism I had learned and
the things I knew, and put before me many questions about Tibetan
Buḍḍhism. Happily, as I have already stated, I had been fully
instructed in Tibetan Buḍḍhism while at Tsarang by Dr. Gyaltsan, and
had studied the grammar with special care; so that not only was I able
to answer the questions quite easily, but I could explain many things
on the subject that these Lamas did not know. He was greatly surprised,
and asked me hundreds of questions in grammar, which he seemed to
have been studying, though without any insight. Without the help of
scientific analysis, which seems impossible for persons in these
countries, one cannot fully understand the grammar. As I proceeded with
the explanation of the subject, he proposed that I should accompany
the party, and said that they rode until two o’clock in the afternoon
every day, but that after that hour they always had plenty of leisure,
during which he wished to learn grammar. Moreover, he offered to pay me
suitable fees and give me food during the journey, if I would consent
to his request. This was just what I was longing for; even if he paid
me no fee, I should have been glad to comply with his wish.
When I awoke at four the next morning the party were making tea on a
fire of dry yak dung. Presently everybody was up, and seven or eight
men went out to collect the mules and horses, which had been left
during the night to find pasture for themselves. These animals often
wander over the mountains, and it will take at least one hour to bring
them back, and at times three hours. But these horses did not try to
get away from the men who went to fetch them, for they knew that they
would be well fed with beans as soon as they reached the tents and
before being loaded. The meal served to the caravan consisted chiefly
of the flesh of sheep, yaks and goats, and occasionally pork. The
grooms had thus to catch and feed the horses, strike the tents, load
them on the horses, harness the horses for their own use, and drive
up their own especial charges. My companions were sixteen in number,
fifteen of whom rode, and one walked. The latter was going to Lhasa for
the purpose of prosecuting his studies, and was in company with the
caravan simply for the reason that they came from the same province.
He and I, being pedestrians, took tea before the caravan packed its
effects, and left the place in a south-easterly direction.
My walking companion was a pedantic scholar. He had a very high
opinion of himself, but he knew nothing of the essential principles
of Buḍḍhism, nor did he recognise the existence of any sectional
differences. It seemed as if he had only a vague notion of the
doctrines. I was glad to have his company, such as it was, but he vexed
me greatly by his evident animosity towards me, which unfortunately
grew more violent as time progressed. The cause of this animosity
was, as I learned afterwards, the fact that I had explained on a
previous evening the Tibetan grammar, which, scholar though he was,
was all untrodden ground to him. He was of opinion that the knowledge
of grammar, unaccompanied by that of true Buḍḍhism, was a worthless
acquisition, which only fools would take the trouble to make. As his
manner disclosed his jealousy, I treated him with circumspection.
On that day we passed over a large hill and spent the night at a swampy
place, after having walked nearly twenty miles in all. A lecture on
grammar was again given, by request. On the 5th, I again walked in
company with the pedantic monk. After we had arrived at Lhasa he fell
into a destitute condition, and I, being then in happier circumstances,
did all I could to help him. But this occurred long afterwards. During
the journey, after some interesting conversation was held in connexion
with religious questions, the monk applied himself to the work of
systematically investigating my personality. Apparently he suspected
that I was an Englishman, or at least a European, on account of my
complexion, and his suspicion speedily grew into conviction. But as
his questions did not soar above what I had expected, I was able to
reply in a manner which dissipated his doubts. After we had traversed
the desert for five miles, we again reached the Brahmapuṭra, and a thaw
having set in at that time, we found the water was flowing on smoothly.
The clashing sound of the blocks of ice was inspiriting, and the sun
was beautifully reflected on the surface of the river. We walked
eastward along the bank for about seven miles, and then, leaving the
river, walked in a north-easterly direction by an up-hill road along
the Brahmapuṭra for another seven miles. Then we crossed the river on
horseback. A post-town called Niuk-Tazam stood a little to the north
on the river bank, but we did not visit it. We travelled two miles and
a half in an easterly direction and encamped on the slope of a hill.
That day I walked about twenty three miles. Until we had come to the
neighborhood of a town called Lharche the caravan which I accompanied
avoided stopping in towns, for the grass on which their horses fed was
not to be found abundantly in such places.
That night I felt for the first time safe from the man whom I had left
behind at Tadun, which was now sixty-five miles off. I felt that it
had been most fortunate that he had not awaked from his drunken sleep
until it was too late for him to inform the authorities of my presence,
for if he had had the least suspicion of my escape, he would not have
missed the opportunity for making money, enough to enable him to
indulge himself in a good bout of drinking.
The usual lessons in the Tibetan grammar and Buḍḍhism over, the
suspicious monk, who posed for a learned scholar, suddenly addressed
me, saying that having been in India, I must have seen Saraṭ Chanḍra
Ḍās, who explored Tibet. I replied that I did not know him, even by
name. There were three hundred millions of people in India, and however
famous a man might be, he must always be unknown to some. There was
a great difference between India and Tibet, and I asked to hear
something about the man the monk referred to. The monk then narrated
how Saraṭ Chanḍra Ḍās, twenty-three years ago, had cheated the Tibetan
authorities with a passport; how he had robbed Tibet of her Buḍḍhism,
with which he had returned to India; how on the discovery of the
affair, the greatest scholar and sage in Tibet, Sengchen Dorjechan, had
been executed, not to mention many other priests and laymen who were
put to death and many others whose property was confiscated.
After this the monk added that as Saraṭ Chanḍra Ḍās was a renowned
personage in India, it was impossible for me not to be acquainted with
him. Probably I pretended not to know him. These words were spoken in a
most unpleasant manner, but I put him off with a smile, saying that I
had never seen the face of the Queen of England, who was so renowned,
and that such a big country as India made such investigations hopeless.
The stories about Saraṭ Chanḍra Ḍās are quite well known in Tibet,
even children being familiar with them; but there are few who know him
by his real name, for he goes by the appellation of the ‘school bābū’
(school-master). The story of the Tibetans who smuggled a foreigner
into Tibet and were killed, and of those who concealed the fact from
the Government and forfeited their property, are tales that Tibetan
parents everywhere tell to their children.
Owing to the discovery of the adventures of Saraṭ Chanḍra Ḍās, all the
Tibetans have become as suspicious as detectives, and exercise the
greatest vigilance towards foreigners. I was fully acquainted with
these facts, so that I too exercised great caution even in dropping a
single word, however innocent and empty that word might be. But the
Tibetans were very cunning questioners; and the monk was one of the
most cunning. When I tried to laugh away his questions, he put other
queries on every imaginable point. Other Tibetans who were equally
suspicious joined him in harassing me. I felt for the moment just
as though I were besieged by an overwhelming force of the enemy. I
thought myself in danger, and with the view of changing the subject
of the conversation I turned the tables on them by asking them which
they revered more, the Buḍḍha or Lobon Rinpoche, the founder of the
old religion of Tibet. There is a saying in Tibet: “Padma Chungne is
superior to Buḍḍha,” Padma Chungne meaning “born from the Lotus,”
the founder of Lamaism. This question is an old one, and one about
which Tibetans are never tired of disputing, so when this subject was
introduced a most violent debate was started, and no one questioned me
any more about my personality.
But the incident was sufficient to put me on my guard. The Mongols have
a saying “Semnak Poepa,” meaning “black-hearted Tibetans.” Tibetans are
extremely inquisitive, and one of their characteristics is to conceal
their anger behind a smile, and to bide their time for vengeance. The
word, ‘Poepa’ means Tibetans, and they call their own country ‘Poe’.
They do not know that their country is called Tibet. ‘Poe’ means in
Tibetan ‘to summon’. The founders of that country, according to the
tradition, were a man of the name of Te-u Tonmar (red-faced monkey)
and a woman named Tak Shimmo (stone she-devil). The former was the
incarnate God of Mercy, and the latter the incarnate Yogini, who
induced Te-u Tonmar to be her husband. To them were born six sons,
whom they summoned into being, respectively, from the six quarters
of the universe: namely: Hell, Hunger, Animalism, Asura (fighting
demon), Humanity and Heaven. Thus the Tibetans called their country
‘the summoned’ or ‘Poe’. This tradition was perhaps fabricated by some
inventive Lama, for the purpose of connecting Tibetan religion with
Buḍḍhism. But it is a tradition which is believed by the natives.
The Hinḍūs do not call this country by the name of Tibet. They call
it Boḍha, one of the meanings of which is ‘knowing’ or ‘idea’. It is
not known how they came to call Tibet Boḍha, but according to their
scholars Poe is a contraction of Boḍha. The Hinḍūs have another name
for Tibet, namely, the country of ‘Hungry Devils’. This is clear even
from the fact that Paldan Aṭīsha invented, as I have already mentioned,
the name of Preṭapurī (town of hungry devils). Tibet has many other
names which deserve study, but which are too peculiar to be expounded.
At all events the ‘pa’ of Poepa means men, so that Poepa means the
Tibetans.