AMONG THE LAMAS
No sooner had we reached the shores of the Mansarowar than the heavy
clouds, which had been hanging over our heads, poured forth such
torrents of rain that in a moment we were drenched to the skin. We were
marching fast, as our heavy loads were now on the two yaks. Night was
well advanced. The darkness was such that we could only see a few inches
in front of us. We were actually walking in an inch or two of water. A
fierce south-east wind drove the rain and hail so hard into our faces
and hands as to cause us considerable pain. We were chilled in our wet
garments, and our teeth were chattering. We walked quickly, keeping
close together. From time to time a bright flash of lightning shone on
the lake, and was followed by a terrific crash of thunder. We took
advantage of what we could see during those few seconds of light to
steer our way toward Tucker Village and Gomba.
The rivers, swollen by the rain, were extremely difficult to cross. The
water seemed to flow so rapidly on the inclined bed that it was all we
could do to keep on our feet. So wet were we that we did not even take
the trouble to remove our shoes and garments, and we splashed, clothes
and all, across the streams we encountered. Three times we went into
the freezing water above our waists, and then marched on for endless
miles on the pebbly and stony incline. We could no more see where we
were going. The storm seemed to grow worse every minute. We stumbled on
amid large stones and bowlders, and fell over one another on slippery
rocks. Farther on we sank up to our knees in mud, which stuck in lumps
to our feet and made them as heavy as lead. It was a downpour such as I
had seldom before experienced.
"Are you quite sure that this lake is the home of the gods?" I inquired
of Kachi. "Why, even on the Devil's Lake we had better weather than
this."
"Yes, sir," replied Kachi. "But you make the gods angry, and that is why
they send thunder, hail, and rain to stop your progress. You are going
on against the gods, sir."
"Never mind, Kachi. It cannot pour forever."
At midnight we had no idea where we were; still we pushed on.
"Have we passed the Gomba? Have we not yet reached it?" were the
questions we asked one another. It seemed to me that, at the rate we
were going, we should have been near the place, and yet after another
hour's tramp we had not struck it. I was under the impression that we
had gone about nine miles. I expressed the opinion that we had passed
it, but the Shokas insisted that we had not, so we again proceeded.
We had hardly gone five hundred yards when we heard the faint, distant,
and most welcome bark of a dog. It came from the north-west, and we
surmised that it must come from Tucker. We had steered too far south of
the place, which accounted for our missing it in the darkness.
Guided by the yelping, we hastily directed our steps toward the
settlement. Suddenly the first dog was joined by fifty others, all angry
and noisy; but though we knew by the sound that we were approaching the
village, it was so dark and stormy that we could not find the place.
Only when we found ourselves close to the mud huts could we be certain
that we had at last arrived.
It was then between 2 and 3 A.M. The rain still came down in torrents.
There was no sign of the inhabitants being willing to give us shelter.
It was quite out of the question to pitch our little _tente d'abri_, for
our things were already wringing wet.
We knocked on a door so hard that the door itself nearly gave way. This
was a shelter-house, a _serai_ for pilgrims, and as we claimed to be
pilgrims, we had, by the laws of the country, a right to admission.
Nattoo, who had once before reached this lake by a different route, led
us to this house.
"You are bandits," said a hoarse voice from inside, "or you would not
come at this hour."
"No, we are not," we entreated. "Please open. We are well-to-do people.
We will harm no one, and pay for all."
"_Middu, Middu!_" (Cannot be, no!) "You are brigands. I will not open."
To show that we were not what they imagined, Chanden Sing and Dola
tapped again so gently at the door that the bolt gave way. The next
moment ten strangers were squatting down round a warm fire drying their
shrivelled-up, soaked skins by the flame of dried tamarisk and dung. The
landlord--a doctor, by-the-way--was reassured when he saw that we had no
evil intentions, and found some silver coins in the palm of his hand.
Yet, he said, he rather wished we would go and sleep somewhere else.
There was a capital empty hut next door, he suggested.
On our agreeing to this, he conducted us to the place, and there we
spent the remainder of the night--or, rather, the early morning.
Our abode was a one-storied flat-roofed house built of stones and mud.
There were two rooms--the first lighted by the door, the second and
larger having a square opening in the ceiling for the triple purpose of
ventilation, lighting, and outlet for the smoke of the fire, which
burned directly underneath in the centre of the room. The beams and
rafters supporting the roof had been brought over from the Indian side
of the Himahlyas, as no timber was to be found in western Tibet.
This building was in charge of a young, half-crazy Lama, who was most
profuse in salutations, and who remained open-mouthed, gazing at us for
a considerable time. He was polite and attentive. He helped to dry our
things in the morning, and, whenever we asked for anything, he ran out
of the house in frantic fits of merriment, always bringing in what we
required.
The heavy storm during the night had flooded our room. There was only
one corner of the floor slightly drier than the rest. There we all
slept huddled together. These _serais_ have no claim to cleanliness. On
this occasion all the minor animal life that inhabited the floor had,
with a view to avoiding the water, retreated to the higher portion of
the room, which we also had selected, so that one more trial was added
to all our other miseries. We were simply devoured by a swarm of
insects. This, indeed, was a dreadful pest, and one from which we
suffered indescribable agonies, not only on this occasion, but whenever
we halted near Tibetan camps.
When we rose in the morning the room was full of Tibetan men, women, and
children, who seemed good-natured and friendly.
"_Tanga chick!_" (a silver coin equivalent to half a rupee) cried an old
woman, who stuck a dried fish under my nose, professing volubly that it
had been caught in Mansarowar, and that it would make its possessor the
happiest of mortals. Others unrolled, from inside pieces of red cloth in
which they were wrapped, jewellery in the form of brooches, rings, and
ear-rings of brass or silver, inlaid with malachite.
"_Gurmoh sum!_" (Three rupees!), "_Diu, diu, diu!_" (Yes, yes, yes!),
"_Karuga ni!_" (Two two-anna pieces!), "_Gieut-cheke!_" (A four-anna
piece!), and so on, they called out the price of each article, all
talking at the same time, in their anxiety to dispose of their goods.
The jewellery was of local manufacture. In some cases the pieces of
malachite were firmly set, but usually a kind of paste was used for
holding the stones, and, consequently, pretty as the jewels were, they
soon broke.
The ear-rings were usually better made than the brooches. The most
interesting of all, because simpler and more characteristic, were the
flat silver charms, ornamented with a primitive design.
Several Lamas came to call on me in the morning, and professed to be
pleased to see us; in fact, they asked me to go and pay them a visit in
the Lamasery and temple. They said there was much sickness in the
village, and as they believed me to be a Hindoo doctor, they wished I
could do something to relieve their sufferings. I promised to do all I
could. I was glad to have this unique chance of visiting a Lamasery.
During this friendly visit to the Lamas I carried my rifle in my hand.
The Tibetans were too friendly to be trusted.
When I came out of our stuffy, dark room, preceded and followed by a
crowd of inquisitive natives, I had a good look round the village. After
the storm of the night we fully expected that the weather would clear
and that we might see a bright blue sky, but we had no luck. Over us
hung again threatening clouds. The waters of the sacred lake, softly
moved by the wind, washed gracefully upon the beach. Chanden Sing and
Mansing, the two Hindoos, without any clothing except a loincloth, were
squatting near the edge of the lake having their heads shaved by
Bijesing, the Johari. I must confess that I was somewhat annoyed when I
saw them using my best razor for the purpose. I repressed my anger on
remembering that, according to their religion, the fact of being at
Mansarowar absolved them from all sins. My two Hindoo servants, with
heads turned toward Kelas Mount, were praying so fervently that I stood
to watch them. They washed themselves repeatedly, and at last plunged
into the water of the lake. On coming out, shivering with cold, they
each took out of their clothes a silver rupee, and flung it into the
lake as an offering to the God Mahadeva. Then, with hairless faces and
heads, they dressed and came to pay their salaams to me, professing to
be now happy and pure.
"Siva, the greatest of all gods, lives in the waters of Mansarowar!"
exclaimed Chanden Sing, in a poetic mood. "I have bathed in its waters,
and of its waters I have drunk. I have salaamed the great Kelas, the
sight of which alone can absolve all sins of humanity. I shall now go to
heaven."
"I shall be satisfied if we get as far as Lhassa," grumbled the
sceptical Mansing, out of ear-reach of the Tibetans.
Chanden Sing, who was well versed in religious matters, explained that
only Hindoo pilgrims who had lost both parents shaved their heads on
visiting Mansarowar, as a sacrifice to Siva. If they were of a high
caste, on their return to their native land after the pilgrimage it was
customary to entertain all the Brahmins of the town to a banquet.
According to Chanden Sing, a man who had bathed in Mansarowar was held
in great respect by everybody, and commanded the admiration and envy of
the entire world.
The Mansarowar Lake is about forty-six miles round. Pilgrims who wish to
attain a great state of sanctity make a _kora_, or circuit, on foot
along the water-line. The journey occupies from four to seven days,
according to circumstances. One trip round will absolve the pilgrim from
ordinary sins; twice the circuit clears the conscience of any murder;
and three times will make honest and good a person who has killed his or
her father, mother, brother, or sister. There are fanatics who make the
tour on their knees; others accomplish the distance lying flat upon the
ground after each step.
According to legend, Mansarowar was created by Brahma. He who shall
bathe in its waters will share the paradise of Mahadeva! No matter what
crimes he may have previously committed, a dip in the holy lake is
sufficient to purge the soul as well as the body of any criminal!
When they had finished purifying themselves by washing, I ordered
Chanden Sing to take his rifle and follow me into the Gomba. Having
committed no crime, I thought I had better do without the holy bath,
although the temptation was great to go and have a swim. The Lamas were
so polite that I feared treachery on their part. To please my men and
perhaps bring myself some luck, I hurled a couple of coins into the
lake.
The large square building, with its walls painted red and its flattish
dome of gilt copper rose by the waterside, and was both picturesque and
handsome in its severe simplicity.
There came sounds from inside of deep, hoarse voices muttering prayers,
of tinkling of bells and clanging of cymbals. From time to time a drum
was beaten, giving a hollow sound, and an occasional and sudden touch
upon a gong caused the air to vibrate until the notes faded away as
they were carried over the holy lake.
After Chanden Sing and I had entered the Lamasery, the large door, which
had been pushed wide open, was immediately closed. We were in a spacious
court-yard, three sides of which had two tiers of galleries supported by
columns.
This was the _Lhaprang_, or Lama's house. Directly in front of me was
the _Lha Kang_, or temple, the floor of which was raised some five feet
above the level of the ground. A large door led into it. At this
entrance were, one on either side, recesses in which, by the side of a
big drum, squatted two Lamas with books of prayers before them, a
praying-wheel and a rosary in their hands, the beads of which they
shifted after every prayer. At our appearance the monks ceased their
prayers and beat the drums in an excited manner. There seemed to be some
disturbance in the Gomba. Lamas old and young rushed to and fro out of
their rooms, while a number of _Chibbis_, or novices (boys between the
ages of twelve and twenty), lined the railings of the upper veranda with
expressions of evident suspense and curiosity upon their faces. No doubt
the Lamas had prepared a trap for us. I warned Chanden Sing to be on the
alert, and set him on guard at the entrance of the temple. I deposited a
few silver coins on the drum of the Lama to my right, took off my shoes
in sign of respect, and--much to the amazement of the monks--quietly
entered the house of worship. Partly astonished at the sight of the
silver, and more so at my want of caution, the Lamas, of whom there
were a good number in the court-yard, remained motionless and dumb. The
High Lama, or Father Superior of the monastery, at last came forward
stooping low. He placed one thumb above the other and put his tongue out
to show his approval of my visit to the many images representing deities
or sanctified Buddhist heroes which were grouped along the walls of the
temple. The largest of these figures were about five feet high, the
others about three feet. Some were carved out of wood, their drapery and
ornaments being fairly artistic in arrangement and execution, while
others were fashioned in gilt metal. There were images in a sitting
posture and some standing erect. They rested either on ornamented or
plain pedestals painted blue, red, white, and yellow. Many wore the
ancient Chinese double-winged cap, and were placed in recesses in the
wall decorated with stuffs, wood-carvings, and rough paintings of
images.
At the foot of these images was a long shelf, on which, in bright brass
vessels of all sizes, were oblations of _tsamba_, dried fruit, _chura_,
wheat, and rice, offered, through the Lamas, by devotees to the
different saints. Some of the ears of barley were ornamented with
imitation leaves modelled in butter, and colored red, blue, and yellow.
The ceiling of the temple was draped in red woollen cloth similar to
that of the clothes worn by the Lamas. From it hung hundreds of strips
of silk, wool, and cotton of all colors. The roof was supported by
columns of wood forming a quadrangle in the centre of the temple. These
were joined by a balustrade, compelling the worshippers to make a
circuit from left to right, in order to pass before the several images.
In a shrine in the central part of the wall facing the entrance was
_Urghin_, or _Kunjuk-chick_ (God alone). In front of it on a kind of
altar covered with a carpet were to be seen donations far more abundant
than those offered to other images.
The Lama, pointing at it, told me that it was a good God. I saluted it
and deposited a small offering in the collection-box. This seemed to
please the Lama greatly, for he at once fetched a holy-water amphora,
hung with long "veils of friendship and love,"[6] and poured some
scented liquid on the palms of my hands. Then, producing a strip of
veil, he wetted it with the scent and presented it to me. The majority
of pilgrims generally go round the inside of the temple on their knees,
but, notwithstanding that, to avoid offending prejudices, I generally
follow the principle of doing in Rome as the Romans do, I could not here
afford the chance of placing myself at such a disadvantage in case of a
surprise. The High Lama explained the different images to me, and threw
handfuls of rice over them as he called them by their respective names,
all of which I tried hard to remember, but, alas! before I could get
back to the _serai_ and scribble them down on paper, they had all
escaped my memory. A separate entrance led from the monastery into the
temple.
Lights, burning in brass bowls, their wicks being fed with melted
butter, were scattered on the floor in the central quadrangle. Near them
lay oblong books of prayers printed on the smooth yellow Tibetan paper
made from a fibrous bark. Near these books were small drums and cymbals.
One double drum, I noticed, was made from reversed sections of human
skulls. My attention was also attracted by some peculiar head-gear worn
by the Lamas during their services and ceremonies, when they not only
accompany their chanting and prayers with the beating of drums and
clashing of cymbals, but they also make a noise on cane flutes, tinkle
hand-bells, and sound a large gong. The noise of these instruments is at
times so great that the prayers themselves cannot be heard.
Awe-inspiring masks are used by Lamas in their eccentric and mystic
dances. The Lamas spend the entire day in the temple and consume much
tea with butter and salt in it, which is brought to them in cups by
Lamas of an inferior order acting as servants. They pass hour after hour
in their temples, apparently absorbed in praying to the God above all
gods, the incarnation of all the saints together united in a trinity,
the _Kunjuk-Sum_.
_Kunjuk-Sum_, translated literally, means "the three deities." Some take
it to refer to the elements--air, water, and fire--which in the Tibetan
mind are symbols of speech, charity, and strength or life. One great
point in Buddhism is the love and respect for one's father and mother,
and the prohibition to injure one's neighbors in any way. The latter is
preached, but seldom practised. According to the commandments contained
in some eight hundred volumes called "the Kajars," the Tibetans believe
in a heaven (the _Deva Tsembo_) free from all anxieties of human
existence, full of love and joy. Their heaven is ruled over by a god of
infinite goodness, helped by countless disciples called the _Chanchubs_,
who spend their existence in performing charitable deeds among living
creatures. With a number of intermediate places of happiness and
punishment, they even believe in a hell where the souls of sinners are
tormented by fire and ice.
"God sees and knows everything, and He is everywhere," exclaimed the
Lama, "but we cannot see Him! Only the _Chanchubs_ can see and speak to
Him."
"What are the evil qualities to be mostly avoided?" I inquired of the
High Lama, who spoke a little Hindustani.
"Luxury, pride, and envy," he replied.
"Do you ever expect to become a saint?" I asked him.
"Yes, I hope so; but it takes five hundred transmigrations of an
uncontaminated soul before one can be a saint."
Then, as if waking to a sudden thought, he seized my hand impulsively
and spread my fingers apart. Having done this, he muttered two or three
words of surprise. His face became serious, even solemn, and he treated
me with strange obsequiousness. Rushing out of the temple, he went to
inform the other Lamas of his discovery, whatever it was. They crowded
round him, and from their words and gestures it was easy to see they
were bewildered.
When I left the company of the strange idols and came into the
court-yard, every Lama wished to examine and touch my hand. The sudden
change in their behavior was to me a source of great curiosity, until I
learned the real cause of it some weeks later.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 6: _Kata_ (veil of friendship and love)--a long piece of gauze
presented on all occasions in Tibet in order to show friendly
feelings.]