Shigatze.
[Illustration: OUTLINE OF THE MONASTERY OF TASHI LHUNPO.]
The next day, December 5th, I proceeded for about eight miles across
a plain in a south-easterly direction, when the gold-colored roof of
a palatial building, with many white-painted dormitories for priests
close by, presented itself before my view. In addition, temple-like
buildings in red paint were seen rising amidst these structures,
making in all a grand and beautiful spectacle. The town before me was
Shigatze, the second capital of Tibet, and the palatial building was
the Tashi Lhunpo Temple. The name means ‘a glorious mass’ or ‘Mount
Sumeru,’ a legendary mountain mentioned in Buḍḍhist Scriptures. The
monastery owes its name to its founder, Gendun Tub, who thought that
the mountain at the rear of the temple resembled Sumeru. There were
altogether three thousand three hundred priests in the temple, but
sometimes the number increases to over five thousand; and though it
is but the second temple in the country it maintains the same dignity
as the papal see. The secular part of the city lay beyond the temple
and consisted of some three thousand five hundred dwellings. The
number of the inhabitants was stated by the natives to be over thirty
thousand, but this calculation cannot be much trusted, as the science
of statistics is utterly unknown in Tibet. I visited the temple, where
I asked for the dormitory called Peetuk Khamtsan, which is allotted to
the Lamaist monks from the north-eastern plateau, since I had feigned
myself to be one of these. At length I found it and settled myself
in it, for I intended to stay there for some time and to pick up any
knowledge I could from those with whom I might come into contact.
The Lama Superior of this temple is regarded as the second Grand Lama
of Tibet, for, though he does not possess any political influence, yet
with regard to the rank bestowed by the Chinese Emperor he is superior
even to the Dalai Lama himself. Sometimes a kind of regency under this
‘second Grand Lama’ takes place during the interval between the Dalai
Lama’s death and the enthronement of what in Tibet is believed to be
his re-incarnated self.
This second Grand Lama is commonly called Panchen Rinpoche, but his
real title is _Kyab-kon Chen-bo_, meaning ‘Great Protector,’ while
his name is Lobsang Choe-ki Nima, the ‘noble-minded religious sun’. I
was told he was eighteen years old, having been born in the year of
“sheep,” and was believed to be an incarnation of Amida-nyorai. At
the time of my visit he was away at a distant palace, so that I could
not see him. During my stay in the town my only business was to visit
various Lamas and scholars, with whom I discussed the teachings of
Buḍḍha.
One day I called upon the tutor of the second Grand Lama, Tsan Chenba,
a venerable priest, seventy-four years of age, who was very kind to me.
As he was reputed to be the highest authority on Tibetan grammar and
rhetoric among the three thousand priests in the temple, I asked him
several grammatical questions, and in doing so I took care to select
such questions as were familiar to me, for I wanted to know in what
way my host would try to explain them. I was, however, disappointed,
as he confessed that he could give no answer and said that he could
only refer me to a learned physician living at Engon on the road to
Lhasa, who, he was inclined to believe, could give me a satisfactory
answer. I was, therefore, glad to take leave of him. _En passant_ it
may be stated that five branches of science--phonetics, medicine,
logic, engineering and religious science and philosophy--were centuries
ago introduced into Tibet from India, but now-a-days very few--I will
almost say no--Tibetans are proficient in them, or even in one of them.
Under present circumstances, those who take to the study of grammar
belong to very limited classes, the majority of them consisting of the
men in the Government service who learn just the elementary rules of
grammar, in order to be able to prepare official documents. It is not
wonderful therefore that there should be scholars who, in spite of
their zeal in the investigation and exposition of Buḍḍha’s doctrines,
are absolute strangers to history and other branches of science.
After a stay of several days at the temple, I was one day thinking of
leaving the town, when I was informed that the Grand Lama was expected
home presently, so I went out to witness his procession. It must be
noted that owing to the absence of roads in Tibet the procession
passed through the more beaten parts of the country, which served
as roads. On both sides of the route there stood cylindrical posts
upon which incense was burnt by the waiting crowds, both sacerdotal
and secular, most of whom prostrated themselves on the advent of the
_cortège_. The second Grand Lama was borne in a palanquin decorated
with gold brocades and gorgeous kinds of silk, and was accompanied by
about three hundred mounted attendants who, instead of being armed,
carried Buḍḍhist utensils. The procession was heralded by the native
band, using some kind of wind instruments and drums. The spectacle was
so splendid that I congratulated myself on my good fortune in having
witnessed it.
During that night, in compliance with the request of the priests
in my dormitory, I delivered a sermon on the ten Buḍḍhist virtues,
which seemed to please them greatly. They confessed to me that,
priests as they were, they found no interest in the theoretical and
dry expositions of Buḍḍha’s teachings to which they had been used to
listen, but that my delivery was so easy and pleasing that it aroused
in them a real zest for Buḍḍhism. This fact is a sad commentary on the
ignorance of the average Tibetan priests.
I learned subsequently, however, that the priests in this temple were
very rigid in their conduct, except in the habit of drinking. With
regard to this latter an amusing story is told. One day the Dalai
Lama of Lhasa met with the Grand Lama of the Tashi Lhunpo monastery.
In the course of conversation, the former said he was very sorry that
his priests were addicted to the use of tobacco. Panchen Rinpoche
sympathised, but stated that he was no less sorry that his own priests
were exceedingly partial to alcoholic drinks. They then discussed which
of the two luxuries was the more sinful, and also whether or not some
effective measures could be taken to prevent these vicious habits. But
even their great influence could do nothing, and the vicious practices
were open secrets. A curious rule was however enacted in order to
prevent the habit of drinking. Every priest returning from the street
was bound to present himself before the priestly guard at the gate of
the temple, who examined his breath, any disclosure of his drunkenness
being followed by an immediate punishment. Some impudent priests often
attempted to conceal their inebriation by eating a good deal of garlic,
the strong smell of which impregnated their breath and thus might
prevent detection.
Leaving the temple at ten on the morning of December 15th, I proceeded
about two miles across the city of Shigatze, when I reached the Tsanchu
river. The great bridge erected over it is called the Samba Shar, which
means eastern bridge. It measures about three hundred and sixty yards
in length and eight yards in breadth. It is unlike our own bridges,
for it consists of slabs of stones covered with earth, which are in
turn placed upon rows of long wooden boards spanning stone structures
erected in the water at equal distances of about ten yards. The bridge
has parapets made of stone. Passing over the bridge, I proceeded four
miles to the north, till I found myself on the bank of the Brahmapuṭra.
The road now turned to the east along that river, and a further journey
of about twelve miles brought me to a village called Pe, where I lodged
at a poor farmer’s. There I noticed with curiosity that turf instead of
the usual yak-dung was heaped besides the fire-place. I was told that
in that locality the dried roots of grasses were used as fuel; hence
the heaps of turf.
I also found a boy of about twelve years old sitting beside the
fire-place and learning to write. He had a bamboo stick for his pen,
and was writing with it upon white powder sprinkled over a small piece
of wood. Every now and then he presented his work to his father
and had its ill-done portions corrected by him, this process being
repeated over and over again. I wondered at the care with which the
child was taught to practise penmanship, in spite of the poor condition
of the family, but I soon learned the secret. Agriculture was the
sole industry in this locality, and if the tenant did not know how to
write and count, he would possibly be imposed upon by his landlord in
the payment of his rent. As to the art of counting, it was taught in
a very primitive way, stones, sticks or rosaries being used for the
purpose. With respect to writing and counting the poorer classes of
this locality were far above those in Lhasa, who were totally ignorant.
At night I preached to the members of the family, and the next day I
proceeded about five miles along the river already mentioned. The road,
which sloped eastward, now became very narrow, with the river on the
left and a very steep and rugged mountain on the right. I struggled
on for about four miles further, and then came out upon a wide space.
Looking to the right, I saw two large buildings standing on the summit
of a mountain. These buildings constitute the Engon temple where, as
the old priest of the Tashi Lhunpo temple had kindly informed me,
lives the celebrated grammarian. I climbed the mountain, and reached
the temple after an arduous ascent of more than two miles. There I
learned that the larger of the two edifices accommodates two hundred
and thirty male priests, while the other, situated a little lower, is
a nunnery where live seventy-two nuns. The history of this temple is
very interesting, but I need not dwell on it here in detail. I stayed
at the temple for the night, and the next day I had an interview with
its principal priest. The latter, however, talked only something of
Buḍḍhism, being ignorant of grammar and rhetoric, but was kind enough
to refer me to the physician, Amdo Ka-sang, of whom the old priest of
the Tashi Lhunpo had such a high opinion.
I then called upon this physician and grammarian, to whom I gave some
presents in token of my respect. After the usual greetings had been
exchanged, the host questioned me how long I had been studying the
Tibetan language. “Three years,” I replied. My host declared that the
study of grammar and rhetoric greatly depended upon the method used
and that, if the method were a poor one, the period of three years
would prove too short to accomplish anything. He then asked me a few
questions on grammar, which, as they were very simple, I answered
quickly. I asked him to put to me some more difficult questions on
rhetoric, but, to my great disappointment, he confessed that he had
no knowledge of rhetoric. I next asked him which of the Tibetan
grammarians he thought the best, to which question he answered that he
preferred Ngul-chu Lama’s grammar (Ngul-chu being the name of a temple)
which, in reality, is very imperfect. I almost doubted his sincerity,
so that I again asked him why he did not follow the views taken by Situ
Lama, who is well-known as the highest authority on Tibetan grammar.
To my great surprise, my host had never read Situ’s works, though he
had heard something of the grammarian. I then turned my questions to
the number of vowels in the Tibetan alphabet, about which there are
two different opinions among grammarians. This question, simple as it
may appear, has been the subject of much discussion, so that the study
of the Tibetan language must be started with this theme. My question
on this subject seemed to embarrass my host who, after some pondering,
said that there were sixteen vowels in the Tibetan alphabet, and began
to enumerate them. Curiously enough, all the vowels mentioned by him
were those of the Samskṛṭ alphabet, so I asked him what he thought of
the opinion that the number of the Tibetan vowels was five.
The doctor seemed abashed. He apologised for his mistake in having
mentioned the Samskṛṭ vowels, and admitted that the Tibetan vowels
numbered only five. (This five-vowel opinion is erroneous, though
several western scholars maintain it in their works. It must be noted
that the Tibetan characters were invented by Thumi Sambhota, who tells
us in his work that there were only four vowels in his language.) In
short, the interview proved a disappointment. The doctor possessed
very limited knowledge, being a great grammarian and rhetorician only
in the eyes of ignorant native priests. I returned to my room, where I
was asked by a priest on what subject I had talked with the ‘learned’
doctor. When I answered him that I had discussed some grammatical
questions with the doctor, the priest said with an air of importance
that the doctor was the highest authority on grammar and rhetoric
throughout the province of Tsan, that one or two interviews with him
would be insufficient to secure any benefit, and that I should stay
with him for at least two or three years if I really wished to study
grammar. In addition, the priest confessed that, long as he had had
the fortune to listen to the doctor’s lectures, he was still a total
stranger to grammar. I was so much tickled by these remarks that I
burst out laughing, which seemed somewhat to embarrass the priest.
The next day, December 18th, I proceeded about five miles over an
undulating country, going in a south-easterly direction, when I again
reached the Brahmapuṭra river. Crossing a vast plain which stretched
along the river, I made my way eastward, and was within some two miles
and a half of the Pombo Ri-o-che, a temple belonging to an older sect
of Lamaism, and situated upon a towering peak, when I was unexpectedly
called and stopped by someone.