WALKS IN TASHI-LUNPO--THE DISPOSAL OF THE DEAD
Immediately below the red colonnade stands the Sokchin-rungkang-chimbo,
the kitchen, with its walled-up stove of colossal dimensions and six
huge caldrons embedded in masonry. The first supplies all the 3800 monks
with tea at one boiling. On the part of the caldron which rises above
the masonry are inscriptions and cast ornaments (Illustration 141). Each
caldron has a wooden cover which is put on when the caldron is not in
use. Tea was being prepared in two of these gigantic pots; probably
allowance was made for any chance guests. Glowing, blazing fireplaces
yawn below the caldrons, and faggots of branches and sticks are thrust
in with long iron forks. There is an opening in the roof for the smoke,
which rises up in grey rings and produces a picturesque illumination in
the holy kitchen. A continuous succession of young lamas and workmen
ascend the steps leading up from the street, carrying on their backs
water-tubs of different capacity according to the strength of the
bearer; for there are quite small boys among them, who have recently
been consigned by their relations to the care of the monks. One after
another tips his tub over the edge of the caldron, while the stoker
thrusts fresh faggots of wood into the stove. Other serving brothers
bring in a quantity of cubes of brick tea which they throw into the
boiling water, whence clouds of steam ascend and mingle with the smoke.
At the side of the caldron stand two cooks, who stir with huge staves
larger than oars, and disappear in the rising steam, becoming visible
again, like shadow figures lighted from above, when a slight draught
from the door clears the air. They sing a slow rhythmical song over
their work.
When the tea is ready, it is poured into large bright copper pots with
shining yellow brass mountings, handles, and all kinds of ornamentation.
Novices carry the vessels on their shoulders to all the various halls
and cells. A loud signal is given on a sea-shell from a temple roof that
the monks may not miss their tea, but may be on the look-out. I
frequently looked into the kitchen, the scene was so picturesque, and
the cooks were ready for a joke and were not averse to being sketched
(Illustration 148).
Two large and several small _chhortens_ are erected on an open square in
front of the mausoleums, of exactly the same design as those so
frequently seen in Ladak. There are also stone niches filled with idols
and other objects. A crowd of people was collected on the terrace when I
was sketching, and it was not easy to get a clear view. It was a
striking picture, with all the red and many-coloured garments against
the background of the white-washed walls of the memorial towers
(Illustration 151).
[Illustration: 144. PART OF SHIGATSE.]
[Illustration: 145. THE TASHI LAMA RETURNING TO THE LABRANG AFTER A
CEREMONY.]
One day when I had sat a long time talking in the cell of the
photographing lama, it was dark when I went home. We passed, as we often
had before, the entrance gate to the forecourt of the Namgyal-lhakang,
the temple in which the Tashi Lama had once provided us with
refreshments. There the evening service was in full swing, and of course
we entered to look on. The illumination was more dimly religious than
usual, but we could at any rate make out our surroundings after coming
straight out of the outer darkness. The monks sat on long red divans,
and their black profiles were thrown up by the row of forty flames
burning in bowls before the altar. The gilded lotus blossoms of the
pedestal were brightly lighted, and the yellow silken scarves in the
hands of Tsong Kapa's statue and the garlands draped over the images
stood out conspicuously. But the upper parts of the figures under the
roof were plunged in darkness, and Tsong Kapa's countenance, with plump
rosy cheeks and broad nose, was so curiously lighted up from below that
his smile was not perceptible. The four coloured pillars in the middle
of the hall appeared black against the altar lamps. The monks wore
yellow robes, sat bare-headed, and chanted their melancholy litanies,
now and then interrupted by ringing of bells and the roll of drums. At
first the leather head of the drumstick falls slowly and regularly on
the tight skin, then the beats become more and more frequent, and at
last the drum becomes silent in an instant. A monk recites "Om mani
padme hum" in rising and falling tones with the rapidity of an expert,
and the others join in, making some kind of responses. The recitation
passes into a continuous hum, in which often only the words "Om mani"
are heard aloud, and the word "Lama" uttered more slowly. The whole
ritual has a singularly soporific effect; only Tsong Kapa listens
attentively, sitting dreamily with wide staring eyes, and ears hanging
down to the shoulders. Here, too, the indispensable tea is handed round;
a monk with an oil lamp attends the server that he may be able to see
the cups. The monks were now quite accustomed to my visits and took no
particular notice of me, but they always greeted me politely and asked
what I had been sketching during the day.
A lama gave me information about a remarkable custom. Certain monks
consent of their own free will to be walled up in dark grottoes or caves
for the space of three, six, or at most twelve years. Near a small
monastery, Shalu-gompa, a day's journey from Tashi-lunpo, there is a
monk who has already spent five years in his grotto, and is to remain
there seven more. In the wall of the grotto is an opening a span in
diameter. When the twelve years are over, and the hermit may return to
the light of day, he crawls out through this opening. I insinuated that
this was a physical impossibility, but the lama replied that the miracle
does take place, and, besides, the enclosed monk has become so emaciated
in the twelve years that he can easily slip through the opening. One of
the monks of the monastery goes daily to the grotto with tea, water, and
_tsamba_, and pushes these provisions through the opening, but he may
not speak to the prisoner or the charm would be broken. Only sufficient
light penetrates through the opening to allow the anchorite to
distinguish between day and night. To read the holy scriptures, which
he has taken with him into the cave, he must use an oil lamp, and a
fresh supply of oil is placed from time to time in the opening. He says
his prayers all day long, and divides the night into three watches, of
which two are spent in sleep and one in reading. During the twelve years
he may not once leave his grotto, never look at the sun, and never
kindle a fire. His clothing is not the usual monk's dress, but a thin
cotton shirt, and a girdle round the body; he wears no trousers,
head-covering, or shoes.
Among other abstruse subjects, this penitent must study a composition on
some kind of magic, which renders him insensible to cold and almost
independent of the laws of gravity. He becomes light, and when the hour
of release arrives, travels on winged feet: whereas he used to take ten
days to journey from Tashi-lunpo to Gyangtse, he can now cover the
distance in less than a day. Immediately the twelve years of trial are
ended, he must repair to Tashi-lunpo to blow a blast of a horn on the
roof, and then he returns to Shalu-gompa. He is considered a saint as
long as he lives, and has the rank of a Kanpo-Lama. No sooner has he
left his grotto than another is ready to enter the darkness and undergo
the same test. This lama was the only one in this neighbourhood then
confined in a grotto, but there are hermits in abundance, living in open
caves or small stone huts, and maintained by the nomads living near
them. We were later on to hear of fanatical lamas who renounce the world
in a much stricter fashion.
In Tashi-lunpo the cloister rule seems to be strictly enforced: there
are especial inspectors, policemen and lictors who control the lives of
the monks in their cells and take care that no one commits a breach of
his vows. Recently a monk had broken the vow of chastity; he was ejected
for ever from the Gelugpa confraternity and banished from the territory
of Tashi-lunpo. He has, then, no prospect of finding an asylum in
another monastery, but must embrace some secular profession.
One day we visited the Dena-lhakang, a temple like a half-dark corridor,
for it is lighted only by two quite inadequate windows. In the middle
of the corridor there is a niche which has doors into the hall, for the
walls are very thick. Thus between the doors and the window is formed a
small room in which the lama on duty sits as in a hut. He belongs to the
Gelong order, is named Tung Shedar, came from Tanak, and is now seventy
years old, has short white hair, and a skin as dry as an old yellow
crumpled parchment.
On entering, one sees on the right a bookcase with deep square
pigeon-holes, in which holy books are placed. On the outer, longer wall,
banners painted with figures hang between the two windows, in the
deepest shadow, most of which are of venerable age, and are dusty and
faded--a Lamaist picture gallery. Pillars are ranged along the longer
wall, of red lacquered wood, and between them is suspended trellis-work
of short iron rods, forming geometrical figures. They are intended to
preserve the valuables from theft. In such a niche we see hundreds of
small idols set round in rows, four to eight inches high, in silken
mantles. Before them are taller statues of gods, and Chinese vases of
old valuable porcelain. Especial reverence is shown to a cabinet with an
open door, within which is preserved a tablet, draped with _kadakhs_,
and inscribed with Chinese characters, in memory of the great Emperor
Kien-Lung who was admitted by the third Tashi Lama into the
confraternity of the yellow monks. Above, covering the capitals of the
pillars, is hung strange, shabbily-fine drapery, of pieces of variously
coloured cloth and paper strips. For the rest, the hall abounds in the
usual vessels, brazen elephants with joss-sticks, large chalices and
bowls, small and large flags, and other things.
Another time I had been drawing in a sepulchral chapel and taken the
opportunity of making a sketch of some female pilgrims who were praying
there. When the work was finished, we crossed a paved court fully 20
yards broad by 90 long, which was situated just under the façade of the
Labrang. It was full of people waiting to see the Tashi Lama, who was to
pass by on his way to some ceremony. He came in a red monk's frock and
the yellow mitre; above his head was held the yellow sunshade, and he
was accompanied by a train of monks. He walked with his body slightly
bent and an air of humility. Many fell down before him full-length and
worshipped him, while others threw grains of rice over him. He did not
see me, but his smile was just as kind and mild as when we last met. So
he is evidently affable to all alike.
I made daily visits to the monastery and so gained a thorough knowledge
of the solitary life of the monks. Gompa signifies "the abode of
solitude," or monastery; the monks in the convent certainly live
isolated from the outer world, its vanities and temptations. Once, in
the Kanjur-lhakang, I purposed to draw the images with the lamps burning
before them on the innermost, darkest wall, but just as I was about to
begin monks filled the hall. Their places on the long divans were made
ready for them, and before each seat a huge volume of the holy
scriptures, the Kanjur, lay on a long continuous desk. The large yellow
robes which are put on at service time, but may not be worn in the
open-air, were laid ready. The young, brown-skinned, short-haired monks
entered in red togas, threw the yellow vestments over their shoulders,
and sat down cross-legged before the books. An older lama, a Kanpo,
mounted the pulpit on the shorter wall and intoned the sacred text in a
harsh, solemn, bass voice. The pupils joined in a monotonous rhythm.
Some read from the pages in front of them, while others seemed to know
the words of the chant by heart--at any rate they looked all about.
Exemplary order is not observed. Some young fellows, who certainly were
much more at home in the world than in the Church, talked during the
chant, giggled, and buried their faces in their robes to stifle their
laughter. But no one took any notice of them; they caused no
disturbance. Others never raised their eyes from the book. The hall was
as dark as a crypt, being lighted only by a narrow skylight, and through
two small doors (Illustration 154).
[Illustration: 146. THE PANCHEN RINPOCHE, OR TASHI LAMA.]
After they had sung awhile there was an interval, and lama boys passed
along the gangways between the rows of benches and poured tea, with
wonderful adroitness and without spilling a drop, into the wooden cups
held out to them. But almost before the pupils have begun to drink,
the deep bass of the leader drones out in the gloom above, and the
proceedings recommence. Meanwhile pilgrims pass along the gangways to
the altar and place small heaps of _tsamba_ or meal in the bowls
standing before the images, from the bags and bundles they bring with
them.
A tall lama stands erect at the entrance door. A pilgrim says to him: "I
will pay 3 _tengas_ for a blessing." The lama sings out aloud the
contribution and the purpose for which it is given, and then a strophe
is sung especially on behalf of the pilgrim, after which all the monks
clap their hands. This is repeated whenever fresh pilgrims come up. I
myself paid 5 rupees for a blessing, and received it together with a
noisy clapping. For ten minutes the lamas stand up, run along the
passages outside the lecture-hall, or take stock of me while I am
sketching the schoolroom and the pupils. Often a handful of rice rains
down upon the youths--some pilgrim is passing by the window opening. At
these readings and at the high mass the monks who have been longest in
the monastery occupy the front seats, and the last-comers the back
seats. When the lecture is over the Kanpo-Lama counts the receipts that
have flowed in from the pockets of the pilgrims, wraps the coins in
paper, which is sealed up and conveyed to the treasury, and enters the
amount in a large account book.
The images on the altar table of the Kanjur-lhakang are small, and
composed of gilded metal, and most of the other idols in Tashi-lunpo are
of the same kind. Some are of carved wood, and a few, like the great
statue of Tsong Kapa, are composed of powdered spices cemented together
by a gum extracted from roots of plants. The statue of Tsong Kapa is
said to have been constructed seventy-two years ago, and to have cost as
much as one of gold. The Tashi Lama has 1500 small gods cast for the New
Year festival, each costing 7 rupees; they are manufactured in
Tashi-lunpo, and are given away or sold. The manufacture of these images
is regarded as a peculiarly blessed work, and the lamas engaged in it
may count with certainty on a long life. Especially is this the case
with those who make images of the Tsepagmed. The oftener they utter his
name and produce his likeness from the rough metal, the longer it will
be before their poor souls have to set out on their travels again. No
idol, however, possesses any miraculous power or the slightest shadow of
divine influence unless it is properly consecrated and blessed by an
incarnated lama.
I must by this time have tried the patience of my readers with my
personal recollections of the monastery of Tashi-lunpo. I have
unintentionally tarried too long with the fraternity of the yellow-caps,
and quite forgotten events awaiting our attention elsewhere. I might
have remembered that temples and monks' cells may not have the same
interest for others as they have for myself, but the remembrance of this
period is particularly dear to me, for I was treated with greater
friendliness and hospitality in Tashi-lunpo than in any town of Central
Asia. We came from the wastes of Tibet to the greatest festival of the
year, from solitude into the religious metropolis swarming with
thousands of pilgrims, from poverty and want to abundance of everything
we wanted, and the howling of wolves and storms gave place to hymns and
fanfares from temple roofs glittering with gold. The balls in Simla and
the desolate mountains of Tibet were strange contrasts, but still
greater the solitude of the mountain wilderness and the holy town, which
we entered in the garb of far-travelled pilgrims, and where we were
hospitably invited to look about us and take part in all that was going
on.
It is now time to say farewell to Tashi-lunpo, its mystic gloom and its
far-sounding trumpet blasts. I do so with the feeling that I have given
a very imperfect and fragmentary description of it. It was not part of
my plan to thoroughly investigate the cloister town, but on the contrary
it was my desire to return as early as possible to the parts of Tibet
where I might expect to make great geographical discoveries.
Circumstances, however, which I shall hereafter refer to in a few words,
compelled us to postpone our departure from day to day. As we were
always looking forward to making a start, our visits to the monastery
were curtailed. Moreover, I wished, if possible, to avoid exciting
suspicion. Tashi-lunpo had on two occasions, more than 100 years ago
indeed, been pillaged by Gurkhas from Nepal. The English had quite
recently made a military expedition to Lhasa. Many monks disapproved of
my daily visits, and regarded it as unseemly that a European, of whose
exact intentions nothing was known, should go about freely, sketch the
gods, see all the treasures of gold and precious stones, and make an
inventory. And it was known that the dominant race in Tibet, the
Chinese, were displeased at my coming hither, and that I had really no
right to sojourn in the forbidden land. If, then, I wished to accomplish
more, I must exercise the greatest caution in all my proceedings.
A few words on funeral customs before we take leave of Tashi-lunpo.
South-west of Tashi-lunpo lies a small village, Gompa-sarpa or the New
Monastery, where, according to tradition, a temple formerly stood which
was plundered by the Dzungarians. Here is now the cemetery of Shigatse
and of the monastery, the Golgotha where the bodies of monks and laymen
are abandoned to corruption in the same fashion.
When the soul of a lama grows weary of the earthly frame in which it has
spent its human life, and the lama himself, after living perhaps fifty
years in his dark cloister cell, perceives that the lamp of life is
going out for want of oil, some brethren gather round his sick-bed,
recite prayers, or intercede with the gods set up in his cell, whose
prototypes in Nirvana or in the kingdom of the dead have something to do
with death and the transmigration of souls. As soon as life is extinct,
special prayers for the dead are recited to facilitate the severance of
the soul from the body, and console it during its first steps on the
dark road beyond the bounds of this life. The corpse of a lama lies in
his cell for three days, that of a layman as long as five days, that
there may be sufficient time for all the funeral rites and services.
Rich people retain the corpse longer in the house, which is certainly
more expensive, but allows more time for prayers which will benefit the
deceased. Monks fix the date of interment and the moment when the soul
is actually freed from its earthly fetters and soars up in search of a
new habitation.
The dead lama in a new costume of the ordinary cut and style is wrapped
in a piece of cloth and is carried away by one or two of his colleagues;
a layman is borne on a bier by the corpse-bearers. These are called
_Lagbas_, and form a despised caste of fifty persons, who live apart in
fifteen small miserable cabins in the village Gompa-sarpa. They are
allowed to marry only within the guild of corpse-bearers, and their
children may not engage in any other occupation but that of their
fathers, so that the calling is hereditary. They are obliged to live in
wretched huts without doors or windows; the ventilators and doorways are
open to all the winds of heaven and all kinds of weather. Even if they
do their work well they are not allowed to build more comfortable
houses. It is their duty also to remove dead dogs and carcasses from
Tashi-lunpo, but they may not enter within the wall round the convent.
If they have any uneasiness about their souls' welfare, they pay a lama
to pray for them. When they die, their souls pass into the bodies of
animals or wicked men. But in consequence of the afflictions they have
endured they are spared too hard a lot in the endless succession of
transmigrations.
The Lagbas have only to hack in pieces lamas, their own relations, and
the bodies of the homeless poor. Well-to-do laymen have this operation
performed for their own people without calling in professional aid.
When the monks come with a dead brother to the place of dissection they
strip him completely, divide his clothes among them, and have no
compunction in wearing them the very next day. The Lagbas receive 2 to 5
_tengas_ (11d. to 2s. 3d.) for each body and a part of the old clothing
of a lama; in the case of a layman the Lagba receives all the raiment of
the deceased, and the ear-rings and other simpler ornaments of a woman.
The monks who have brought the body hurry off again with all speed,
partly because the smell is very bad and partly that they may not
witness the cutting up of the corpse, at which only the Lagbas need be
present; even when the body is that of a layman, it is divided only in
the presence of Lagbas.
[Illustration: 147. PORTRAIT OF THE TASHI LAMA.
(before retouching.)]
A cord fastened to a post driven into the ground is passed round the
neck of the corpse, and the legs are pulled as straight as possible--a
feat requiring great exertion in the case of a lama, who has died and
become rigid in a sitting posture. Then the body is skinned, so that all
the flesh is exposed; the Lagbas utter a call, and vultures which roost
around come sailing up in heavy flight, pounce down on the prey, and
tear and pluck at it till the ribs are laid bare. There are no dogs here
as in Lhasa, and even if there were, they would get no share in the
feast, for the vultures do their work quickly and thoroughly. We
afterwards visited convents where sacred dogs were fed with the flesh of
priests. The Lagba sits by while the vultures feed, and these are so
tame that they hop unconcernedly over the man's legs.
The head is usually cut off as soon as the body is skinned. The skeleton
is crushed to powder between stones, and is kneaded with the brains into
a paste, which is thrown to the birds in small lumps. They will not
touch the bone-dust unless it is mixed with brains. The guild of
corpse-cutters pursue their task with the greatest composure: they take
out the brains with their hands, knead it into powder, and pause in the
midst of their gruesome employment to drink tea and eat _tsamba_. I am
exceedingly doubtful if they ever wash themselves. An old Lagba, whom I
summoned to my tent to supplement the information I had received from
the monks, had on that very morning cut up the body of an old lama.
Muhamed Isa held his cap before his face all through the conversation,
and had at last to go out, for he began to feel ill. The man had an
unpleasant rough aspect, wore a small grey soft cap, and was dressed in
rags of the coarsest sacking. He had his own theories of post-mortem
examination and anatomy. He told me that when an effusion of blood was
found in the brain it was a sign that the man had been insane, and that
when the substance of the brain was yellow the man had been an habitual
snuff-taker.
In some cases, so a monk assured me, the corpse is not skinned, but the
head is cut off, the trunk is divided in two along the spine with a
sharp knife, and each half is cut into small pieces, and the vultures
are not called till this has been done. Small children and grown-up men
are cut up in the same manner. There is not the least respect shown for
the nakedness of dead women. The whole aim of this method of disposing
of the body is that the deceased may have the merit of giving his body
to the birds, which would otherwise be famished. Thus even after his
death he performs a pious deed which will promote the peace of his soul.
The vultures here act the same part as in the Towers of Silence among
the Parsees of Bombay and Persia.
As soon as the demands of religion are fulfilled, the relatives take
leave of the deceased. He is then gone away, and his body is quite
worthless; when the soul has recommenced its wanderings, the body may be
consigned to the brutal treatment of the Lagbas without the least
hesitation. No one follows the corpse to the home of the vultures when
it is carried out of the house at night to be cut up before the sun
rises. There is no legal regulation, and when the bodies are numerous,
the sun has generally risen before the work is finished. After that,
one, or at most two, of the corpses are left till evening and are taken
in hand after sunset. This is also because the vultures are satiated
with their morning's feed and must have a rest before supper. It is
seldom that more than two deaths are reported in Gompo-sarpa in one day.
About twelve years ago when an epidemic of smallpox raged in Shigatse,
forty to fifty bodies were removed daily. Then, after the vultures had
gorged themselves, the rest of the bodies were wrapped in thin shrouds
and buried.
One would suppose that the dying man would shudder at the thought that,
at the very moment when the gates of death were opened for him, his
body, with which he was so closely connected during his life, which he
had cared for so anxiously, endeavouring to shield it from danger and
sickness, nay, from the slightest pain, would be consigned to such
barbarous treatment. But probably he thinks more of his soul in his last
moments, and counts up the good deeds he has performed and the millions
of _manis_ he has recited.
There is, then, not the slightest touch of sentiment in the funeral
customs of the Tibetans and their attitude towards the dead. The
children of Islam visit the graves of their loved ones and weep out
their sorrow under the cypresses, but the Tibetans have no graves and no
green-covered mounds where they may devote an hour to the remembrance of
a lost happiness. They weep not, for they mourn not, and they mourn not,
because they have loved not. How can they love a wife whom they possess
in common with others, so that there is no room for the idea of
faithfulness in marriage? The family ties are too loose and uncertain,
and the brother does not follow his brother, the man his wife, and much
less his child, to the grave, for he does not even know if the child is
really his own. And, besides, the corpse in itself is a worthless husk,
and even a mother who has tenderly loved her child feels not a shadow of
reverence for its dead body, and has no more horror of the knife of the
corpse executioner than we have of the doctor.