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Tibet: Encounters with Living BuddhasBy Lucy Moss
An elderly monk hawks bowls of sweet black tea from a dark storeroom, heavy with the pungent smell of yak butter and incense. He looks us up and down and giggles, then summons his friends to inspect us, fascinated by our pale skins, our tallness and the size of our feet! We inquire about the possibility of an audience with the Karmapa and are told to return tomorrow at one o’clock when we may join the Tibetan pilgrims to receive a blessing.
The queue moves forward as one by one the pilgrims reverently receive their blessing, with expressions of joy on their faces. Still I feel defiance and resentment and a sudden urge to turn back and escape this stuffy chamber. But it is my turn and I am pushed forward into the presence of the child Buddha. He stares at me, unblinking, seeing right through me, and for a moment I am paralyzed. ‘Step forward’, a monk hisses, and I do, automatically adding my khata offering to the bulging pile. Leaning forward, the Karmapa presses a ritual implement to my forehead in blessing, an attendant monk hands me an auspicious red thread and I am quickly ushered back out into the harsh sunlight of the courtyard. The audience is over.
Stopping for lunch we entertain a group of curious local children with songs and games, then follow them on a steep climb to another, smaller monastery. We are greeted graciously by the monks and invited to receive a blessing from the Pawo Rinpoche. We step into the audience hall and are presented to a gorgeous, chubby little boy of about three years of age, ensconced among plump silken cushions. He dispenses his duties with great solemnity and concentration, then reaches out to an aged monk who gathers him up in his arms with enormous affection. We are each handed an auspicious red thread. I tie mine around my wrist and wear it until it falls apart. EPILOGUEOn the 5th January 2000, the Karmapa arrived in India after a daring escape from Tsurphu. His motive is believed to have been his great distress at the lack of religious freedom permitted to Tibetans under Chinese rule. He is now residing with the Dalai Lama at the site of the Tibetan Government in Exile, Dharamsala, India. The Pawo Rimpoche remains at Nenang Monastery in Tibet, facing an uncertain future. For more information on the Karmapa and his monastic seat in the USA, see: Text © Lucy Moss © Lucy Moss/Bodo Hornberge |
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On the roof of the
world, amid the unforgiving landscape of the Tibetan highlands, lies an
ancient temple of great holiness. Hidden in a rugged valley, 4500 meters
above sea level, Tsurphu Monastery has been the destination of countless
pilgrims for over 800 years. For here are enshrined not golden idols, but
a deity of flesh and blood: the Karmapa, one of the fabled Living Buddhas
of Tibetan Buddhism. The 17th reincarnation of the monastery’s twelfth
century founder, he was born in 1985 and is thus still a child: a teenage
god.
Since his ordination
at the tender age of eight, the Karmapa has attracted a great deal of
notice, from the awed reverence of devout Tibetan pilgrims to the
attentions of the highest Chinese politicians, not to mention the
curiosity of a trickle of foreign travelers, some practicing Buddhists,
others like myself drawn by the mystery and holiness of this tradition
that stretches back through the mists of time.
The monastery’s
buildings, backed up against the valley’s craggy cliffs, form a
composition in shades of brown. Massive sienna-painted walls slope up to
pinnacled golden roofs which flash and sparkle in the bright sunlight. The
complex is entered via a large courtyard. Pilgrims lounge in shady alcoves
and preoccupied monks hurry about their tasks. To one side long white
ceremonial scarves called khatas are on sale, billowing gently in the
breeze. Suddenly there is a flurry of activity: a stream of little boys,
clad in the maroon robes of monks, spills out into the courtyard. Released
from their studies for a while, they play tag in the sunlight, teasing a
pet goat, while others lug giant kettles over to the well. Spotting the
foreign visitors, they offer infectious smiles and shout, ‘Hello! Hello!’.
We smile and gesticulate and snap of these lively little monks, but
soon they lose interest and run off. They’ve seen foreigners before.
At dusk we return to
the courtyard, now deserted and swaddled in shadows and silence. The
temple doors are firmly shut and we imagine the little monks safely tucked
up in their dormitory beds. Do they cry for their mothers? Are they
playfellows of the child Buddha? Suddenly an otherworldly chant echoes out
from within the temple walls, rising and falling, but otherwise
unchanging: an eerie liturgy. Then as abruptly as it started, the sound
dies away, and nothing more is heard. The heavy appliqué hangings across
the temple entrance snap back and forth in the breeze. A lone dog
scrabbles in the shadows. Standing in the empty courtyard we feel like
aliens; interlopers from another reality, permitted to observe but
understanding nothing.
I awake the next
morning in a foul mood. The altitude sickness, against which I have been
struggling since leaving Lhasa almost 1500 meters below, has got the upper
hand during a restless night, leaving me with a formidable headache and a
general feeling of malaise. Quite irrationally I begin to feel hostile
towards Tibet, Tsurphu, and in particular the holy child whom we are soon
to meet. Nevertheless I arrive at the temple just before one o’clock and
grudgingly purchase the ceremonial khata scarf that each petitioner must
present to the Karmapa as an offering and sign of respect. My feelings of
negativity really kick in as I join the long queue of pilgrims which
snakes across the courtyard. Many have traveled on foot for weeks or even
months, enduring great hardships for this opportunity.
A blast on a conch
shell pierces the air and we are ushered into the audience hall by a
stocky, unsmiling monk. It is a spacious chamber of painted beams, heavy
brocade fringes and streamers, every surface decorated with wall hangings
and murals of writing deities. Holy statues are swathed in ceremonial
scarves. Spirals of incense coil up through the heavy air. Butter lamps
burn in neat rows, illuminating dark corners, and shafts of sunlight
filtering down from high windows pick out the slow dance of particles of
ancient dust. On an ornate dais at the far side of this fabulous room sits
the Karmapa, clad in robes of magenta and saffron. I am startled by the
intensity of his stare. He is a boy with the eyes of a hawk, missing
nothing, and possessed of more solemn dignity than seems possible for his
thirteen years. It is suddenly not difficult to believe that we are indeed
in the presence of an enlightened being.
A knot of foreigners
quickly forms in the courtyard, eager to exchange impressions. They talk
of having glimpsed great compassion, serenity and love and are surprised
at my non-committal attitude. Imitating the Tibetan pilgrims, they knot
the red threads around their necks and wrists, where they should remain
until they eventually disintegrate. I however trudge a little way up the
valley to a prayer wall, a tumble of stones inscribed with the eternal
mantra ‘Om Mani Padme Hum’. I secure the thread under one of these prayer
stones, hoping that this will not offend.
The following day we
head back down the valley and, as the altitude decreases, I rapidly feel
better. I reflect on my brief audience with the Karmapa and it occurs to
me that perhaps he sensed the hostility in my soul, magnifying it and
reflecting it back to me like a mirror. Thus it maybe that those who
approach in a spirit of humility and love encounter great love and
compassion in return, while those wrapped up in their troubles receive a
stark reminder that the path to enlightenment lies in the renunciation of
the self and the conquering of the ego.