October 6th
Like black spiders with long legs are hidden the black tents of the Tibetans, stretched upon the longest ropes. The border troops take our passport and suggest that we camp for two days, until they bring the answer of General Horchichab, that is the chief ruler of the Province, Hor, and the chief commander of the northern front. What flowery titles!
We camp in the middle of a marshy plain overgrown with thin, prickly weeds. On the horizon is the lake and dead mountains. I call them dead because this is a veritable cemetery. Long ago, these were great mountains, perhaps rivals of Everest; now they are eroded and crumbled into small stones. The deep valleys became filled, forming a hill of fifteen thousand feet, open to the brutal winds. Before reaching the most significant sites, before the heavenly Himalayas, one falls into horrible marshes. The horses are slipping and stumbling among the ugly clumps. There is not a bird, not an animal.
George slumps in his saddle and almost falls off his horse. We rush to him and take him off. He has almost no heart beat. Two strong doses of digitalis are administered. We rub his hands. He recovers.
Further ahead Elena Ivanovana begins to feel badly. From the rear guard we are notified that Lama Malonof fell off his horse and lies unconscious on the road. The doctor hurries to him. Thus inhospitably does Tibet greet us.
A multi-colored banner with a bent staff. Music—drums and bagpipes. The firing of a salute. Deep in the tent is the little figure of the General in a vivid yellow khalat. On his round Chinese cap is a crosslike Ak-dorje of rubies. He makes an ingratiating speech and again requests us to stay in his camp, if only for two days. Then the General accompanies us into our camp with banners and music and the motley crowd forming his suite.
The impression from our visit to Kap-shö-pa is one of insignificance. The banner has become bent; his sword hangs like a piece of futile theatrical property; under the precious stones, dirt is accumulated. This is old Chinese stuff which the Chinese themselves have rejected. It is no longer fit for life and has lost all its former decorativeness, because the quality of the handiwork is gone, as well as the finesse of the art. One perceives only mediocrity and ugliness. Probably the General thought that the impression from his yellow khalat would be very great. But even his closest bodyguard was ragged and adorned with buttons from three armies—none of these Tibetan; and in the place where a foreign button was lacking, a safety pin was stuck. The rifles were of doubtful fitness, but there were plenty of musicians.
Again drums and salutes from the guns. The General, with all this motley crowd, accompanies us to our tent. At the same time he is curious to examine our things, proclaiming that “the hands of small people must not touch the belongings of great people.”
We are told that the General came to settle some uprising among the Horpa. At the same time he placed a ban on the hunting of the musk deer. It is quite incomprehensible why one is allowed to kill domestic sheep and yaks, when wolves and foxes and everything savage are protected. But the population holds to a different opinion and secretly hunts kulans.
Our Tibetan, Chimpa, is dying. He was useful to us during the encounter with the Panagis and when the Mongols decided to desert us after Naiji. But when Chimpa reached Tibet he asserted his real nature and at the crossing to the camp of the General he left us, took our five camels, our tent and severed relations. This was his gratitude for all our care during his sickness and for our priceless medicines!
Evidently even a Tibetan cannot withstand the local climate. This is the third death in our caravan. The Mongolian lama died from pneumonia. The lama from Kharchin died because of the altitude. Did not the bears sense the presence of a dead body when they crept closer to the camp the night of his death? And they did not have to wait long. By morning his corpse was left to them.
The General prepares to depart for Kham. Finally he accepts our gift and disappears. And the caressing two days are transformed into a cruel five months of encampment in summer tents, in a frost of sixty Celsius, under whirlwinds and gales, at a height of fifteen thousand feet. A major and some ragamuffin soldiers are stationed with us. We are forbidden to speak to the passing caravans. We are forbidden to buy food from the population. The caravan slowly perishes. Every day there are new corpses near the tents, and packs of wild dogs noisily divide their new repast. Of 104 caravan animals, ninety perish. Five men die—three Mongolian lamas and two Tibetans. MalonofFs body becomes swollen from an attack of his heart and finally he also dies. The wife of the major who was stationed with us gets sick of pneumonia and dies.
Gryphons and eagles fight with packs of dogs over the prey. My letter to the Dalai Lama is found torn on the road. The letters to Colonel Bailey, British Resident of Sikhim, and to the Consul General of the United States in Calcutta are seized. We are forbidden to return or to move on. In spite of George’s knowledge of the Tibetan language we can only study Tibetan life in its starkness; but we cannot help our condition. They tell us that the telegraph between Lhasa and India is destroyed because now Tibet does not need communication with the “Pellings.” They refuse to take into consideration the doctor’s certificate about our illness. They say that our passport was lost on the road although witnesses deny this invention.
Instead of the General’s promised permission to proceed we remain on a plain exposed to the winds. The Tibetans tell us that the General’s messenger to Lhasa disappeared on the road. Instead of helping, the Major prevents us from buying food in the neighboring villages. He forbids communication with the passing caravans and is without any feeling of compunction in the exchange of Chinese dollars. The doctor is very pessimistic and prophesies fatal illness because of the increasing frost. N. V. offers to go in disguise to India, but without knowledge of the language and with his noticeable height, this would end disastrously.
The entire population of black Horpa, like small Niebelungen, seem full of unrest. They sleep in a seated posture. They eat raw meat. They are only covered with half-rags—black from the smoke of the fire—and skins. They whisper, “The entire district is now covered with snows such as never before. Our yaks and sheep will perish. We shall not have Tsampa (barley). Our children will die and we shall die. And all this misfortune is because our government treats great travelers in such an inhuman way.”
The lamas predict that everything will turn out well, and that the messenger with a propitious answer is already coming, that tomorrow he will arrive. But the days pass. The frost and gale increase. On the white plain no one is seen. The last horses and camels are falling. During the night the shivering animals come close to the tents, pulling the ropes as if they are knocking. And at dawn, we find them dead. And our men, huddled in sheepskins, pull them a few steps away from the camp. Otherwise the dangerous wild dogs and gryphons, the grave diggers, would give us no rest. One pack of dogs—about fifteen—has already attacked me. Every day our fire-arms are at hand. The Major wants to buy our arms, but in this country one must guard one’s arms.
Again frost and gales. Finally there is an uprising followed by the secession of our Buryat lamas. They thought that by slander against us they would improve their position. They were completely unable to obtain work.
And so each day goes by amidst the frozen plain with the dull outlines of the dead mountains. Then we make a short move from Chunargen to Sharugen in the vicinity of the Bon-po monastery. Only about two hours of marching and again the same detention. We requested permission to visit General Kap-shö-pa in his encampment at Kham. We were told: “Me, me, me,” which means, “No.” We asked to be permitted to pass through Eastern Tibet again. Again, “Me, me, me.” Everything is “Me, me, me.” At the same time the General writes us letters about the “drops of clemency which are dripping from the resplendent fingers of the Dalai Lama.” But weeks go by. And finally the governors of Nagchu themselves come.
It is quite unprecedented that both governors should at once leave their province and come personally. They come with black eye glasses, in woolly fur caps. They are noisy. They are astonished that we gave importance to the Tibetan passport and altogether conduct themselves unreasonably. One of them is a lama, rumored to have strangled the Amban of Sining. The other, a sly old Manchurian official. We endure all with great patience. Now they will transport us to Nagchu but it will be a continuation of the same detention. They will demand gifts. But somehow, somewhere, we shall move, though perhaps in the most roundabout way. Some of us hope that our detention will not exceed one hundred days, but it will be more correct to assume 150 days and several additional days for delays on the road. Thus we must count the entire detention as lasting half a year. Of course during this time the Tibetans have afforded us an unusual opportunity to become acquainted with their life, customs and ethics. Without communications with governors, generals, dzong pons, officers, elders and lamas, we would not have any assurance about the reality of Tibet.
The frost at dawn is cruel. As usual, below 70 degrees Celsius. In the morning the doctor’s cognac is frozen. One can imagine what a frost it is, when the strong wine becomes frozen. The doctor is pessimistic as before and expects danger. The health of N. V. and P. K. is bad. Death is predicted for Ochir. Ludmilla and Raya—or as Tibetans call them, Milla and Raiya—keep well.
What tiresome hills are between Chunargan and Nagchu. The mountains have long since crumbled and now the heaps of pebbles and stones are eroding. There is not a bush nor a tree; only high mounds with thorny prickly grass distasteful to the horses. We were told that on reaching Central Tibet we would be astonished by the change of nature. But others smile and say that up to the very Himalayas we shall go through a cemetery of crumbled mountains. Poor Hor-pa. Their teeth are falling out from scurvy. The muscles are lax. They have less strength than thirteen-year-old Raya. Of course lean raw meat and a pinch of dirty tsampa do not make for health. And how immeasurable is their suspicion of each other! They do not trust; they are afraid; they constantly anticipate all sort of misfortune. Mongols, in spite of the sly Dunganese officials, are veritable freemen compared with Tibetans.
Everywhere are the signs of the cross. The old Mongolian coins of Nestorian khans have a cross, and over an ancient Buddhist monastery near Peking is a cross. On the seat of the saddle is also a cross and the reins are also fitted out with a cross. Even upon the stones of Ladak and Sinkiang are crosses. Nestorians and Manicheans passed broadly through Asia. On the frescoes of the monasteries are crosses. In the design of the kaftan, on the beads, on the necklaces, on the amulets—always the very same cross: Not the swastika with the streams of fire, but of equal arms, the eternal symbol of life. On the Chinese hats of Tibetan generals glows a ruby, crosslike dorje. The steed of happiness carries its sign. All bronze fibulae, probably from the tombs, are formed of a cross in a circle.
Everywhere are the same signs of Chintamani. The little pillars of the houses and the clay-beaten walls are marked by this thrice-powerful image. The mules, the wrought silver vessels, the military banners, the prayer banners, the wood-cut on the page of a book are strengthened by the symbol of power.
Compare the present tale with its original source: Now one says: “And great hunger descended upon earth and people perished and could not longer endure. Then the Blessed Bodhisattvas sent a shower of rice. There was such excess of food that not only were all the people fully sustained but they also brought mountains of rice and erected temples and chortens of it. The temples were of such dimensions that it took several years to walk around them, and one chief chorten could only be encircled in several days. This place exists upon an island where the true teaching of the Blessed One formerly flourished.”
One must understand it thus: Great spiritual hunger descended upon earth. And people could no longer exist in such dreadful conditions. Then the Great Teacher sent a true shower of spiritual food. Humanity which was exalted by this benediction erected great monuments of spiritual achievements. The measurements of these achievements are unencompassable. The teaching of Shambhala exists in a fortified place. And its power will soon become manifest.
The monasteries of Bon-po of the Black faith, hostile to Buddha, have a curious interest. In the Black Faith, which as a Black Mass exactly inverts the ritual of the Buddhist faith, one sees only denial of Buddha, and denunciation of Buddha and of all Buddhists as enemies. If the Buddhists encircle the altars from left to right, the Bon-po takes the opposite direction. If the Swastika of the Buddhist turns in the direction of the sun, that of the Bon-po must be turned in the opposite direction. They have invented their own saints and special sacred books. They have invented a special protector who replaces Buddha; and if you study the biography of this legendary protector you will be astonished to find the same details and events as in the life of Buddha; he is also supposed to be of royal family. The Bon-po do not allow Buddhists to enter their temples, and acknowledge neither the Tashi Lama nor the Dalai Lama. For them the Dalai Lama is only a civil ruler collecting taxes.
They are very friendly with foreigners because they believe that foreigners have nothing to do with Buddhism. In the beginning they greeted us heartily and proposed that we study their books and visit their temples, where we saw many inverted Buddhist symbols. But when they understood that we were in sympathy with Buddhism, their attitude entirely changed. You can understand our astonishment in finding such things in a so-called Buddhist country. As I said, they are numerous and well-to-do and are very self-assertive. It is not a secret sect and Tibetans told us that now Bon-po is again increasing. Not only have these people an invented Buddha but they have mysterious deities of Swastika.
This recalls the prehistoric times, the primitive religion of fire-worship of the Druids which has here been corrupted into the incomprehensibly strange deities of Swastika. Instead of the sacred word, Aum, they use the word “A.” In the old occult teaching the same expression, “A,” is used for Materia Matrix. It would be interesting to study the origins of Bon-po, as perhaps something of the Druid and old fire-worship would be found.
One cannot believe any statement. All around us is death. For five months on the main road to China and Mongolia only three caravans passed. The Tibetan nomads whisper about the difficult times for Lhasa. Of course under such conditions the country cannot exist. Finally the governors of Nagchu become satisfied with the gifts, and after receiving the information that our money is exhausted, decide to send us out by a roundabout way through Chang-thang to Namru Dzong, Shentsu Dzong, through passes of twenty thousand six hundred feet not marked on maps, to Saga-Dzong, across the Brahmaputra, to Tingri-Dzong, Shekar-Dzong, Kampa-Dzong and through Sepo-la to Sikhim. Evidently they have decided to show us all religions of Tibet so that no doubts should be left in our mind about this country. It is not an easy way. Nobody has yet crossed from Ulan Bator Khoto to Sikhim.
It is inexplicable why the Dzong-pons, officials of Tibetan Dzongs (fortresses), show themselves from the most ugly side. The people tell dark tales.
The ruins of old Tibet are interesting: These ancient towers and walls were molded by an aspiring type of people. Their builders knew about Gessar Khan and about the Ruler of Shambhala. Here also were the Ashrams of the great Mahatmas. But now there is nothing left of this.
I recall the stones of the “Tchud”—tombs on Altai. There passed the Goths who penetrated all Europe with their influence. And here in the Trans-Himalayas we meet the very same ancient tombs. We find places of ancient shrines which carry one’s thoughts to the sun-cults of the Druids. The swords of the northern inhabitants of the Trans-Himalayas might have been taken out of the Goth graves on the South Russian steppes. The fibulae of Gothic burials—do they not remind you of the buckles of Tibetan tribes. And why was the site of Lhasa some time ago called Gotha according to missionary chronicles? And whence the name of the tribe Gotl? Whence, where and how did the forefathers of the Goths migrate, driven out by glaciers and by the severe moraines? In the crystallized daily life of the northern Tibetans are there not found the ancient traits of their departed brothers? It is astonishing; one Hor-pa resembles Moliere. Another would fit the type of d’Artagnan. The third resembles an Italian corsair. The fourth, with long strands of hair, is a distortion of a portrait of Hals or Palamedes; and that black and somber one, with an aquiline nose, is he not the executioner of Philip the Second?
And finally in the district of Doring (meaning the Long Stone) we found a real field of menhirs such as in Karnak. During the two marches which followed we found three more small groups of menhirs. For me it was a great joy to see this indubitable sign of Druidic antiquity.
“Ki-hoho” rings out the call from the camp of Goloks. “Hoihe” answers our camp. And so the whole night the enemies are mutually warned about the incessant vigilance of our camp. But of course the Goloks are already informed about our arms and have taken well into consideration the extent of our military capacity. The verdict was in our favor, and today we shall see the friendly faces of the dangerous nomads.
The Black Faith of Bon-po is so in keeping with the black tents. Upon long ropes, like deadly spiders, the tents gleam black in a formless mass. Next to them are black spots: refuse or corpses. The dryness of the air lessens the ill smell of decomposition. The piercing wind scatters the dry bones. We recall the widely announced safe-passage of the Donyer of Urga. How remarkably different is Tibet at a distance. They talk and whisper about uprisings. . . .
At each encampment the same thing happens: If we camp in the usual village, there is no trouble in procuring animals. If the Elder lives in the village, then one may be sure of unpleasant discussions; and if one gets into a dzong or monastery he should be prepared for a delay. Nothing is prepared, in spite of several da-yig letters, which were sent long since. It appears that the da-yigs were not received; that by mistake they were sent in another direction. It appears that villages where there are animals are far off, and it will take several days to gather yaks and horses. Finally it appears that as usual the peasants simply do not listen to Dzong-pon and refuse to fulfill his order. Sometimes the Dzong-pon suggests that we conduct all negotiations directly with the peasants and write our own letter to the villages with our own seal. And the seal must be red. Otherwise we will have to stay near the Dzong for many days. It sometimes also happens that one Elder suggests to us to arrest another unruly one. He himself leads us to the latter’s camp and advises us to bind him and deliver him to Lhasa. Our Torguts have sometimes bound the hands of the Elder tightly behind his back; then his relations come with tongues sticking out and agree to fulfill the order of the Dalai Lama. Or it may happen that the governor suggests to us to arrest the local Major and to take him bound to Lhasa. At such a possible turn of affairs the Major lowers his tone and becomes more civil.
Before Saga-dzong are two unexpected passes. One is shown on the maps; but the other, a larger one of more than twenty thousand feet, is not indicated. This road is shown on the maps only by a faint outline. Evidently no one ever traversed it. There is the other customary southern road. But the Tibetan government sends us through this unexplored northern path.
On the way the Elders refuse to give us animals and again, instead of the passport of the governors, they ask us to send a letter with our seal everywhere. For our wax seal makes a greater impression.
From the crest of the pass a powerful white chain of snowy giants has appeared. This is already Nepal and the long-awaited Himalayas, on the other side of the Brahmaputra.
Saga-dzong is also a small impoverished village. They eat the corpses of animals and they mix tiny pebbles with the barley. The mendangs are defiled by fallen dogs and all sorts of refuse.
The camp is full of excitement. We are approaching the Brahmaputra, the very one which has its source in the sacred Manasaravar, Lake of the Great Nagi. There is where the wise Rig-vedas originated; there one is near the sacred Kailas; there, pilgrims go, realizing on what a noble highway lie these sites. Already files of pilgrims are encountered; they are gloomy and ragged, and carry spears.
Amidst rocks and sand, lilac and purple, lies the Brahmaputra. In May the water is not yet completely risen. The water line on the banks shows to what extent the river rises in June with the snow thaw and rains. There is still greater reverence for the Brahmaputra than for the Blue River. The Blue Yangtse-Kyang is the longest river in the world but the Brahmaputra, son of Brahma, is enveloped by a rich frame-work of legends. It links the sacred bed of the Ganges with the Himalayas; for Manasaravar is close to Sutlej and the source of the Great Indus. There also was born Aryavarta.
A Mongolian lama says: “There lived a remarkably versed and scientific Geshe. But he always walked in the most modest garment. Once the Geshe went to visit his teacher, the former abbot of a big Labrang. The vain courtiers of the abbot saw the humble visitor and sent him away. And again came the Geshe and again he was evicted. Then the Geshe went to a merchant in a bazaar and asked him to lend him a rich garment and the Geshe put into his girdle several stones which looked like nuggets of Chinese silver. And in this way he was at once permitted to see his teacher. The Geshe entered, took off his rich garment, took from out the girdle the stones, and put them all together in a corner. Then he bowed to the stones and the garment; and only after did he bow to his teacher.
The other asked, “Am I not your teacher? If so, why do you bow first to the stones and the garment?”
“It is true,” answered the Geshe that you are my teacher, “but without these things I could not reach you, and therefore I bow to that which brought me to my reverenced master.”
Near the Brahmaputra are five monasteries leaning against the rocks of Chatu-gompa. Two of them are of the Red Sect, and three of Bon-po of the Black Faith. The monasteries of the Black Faith look far newer and cleaner than those of the Red Sect. Out of the windows of a big Dukang or Red Monastery, straw sticks out; several lamas of hopelessly dilapidated appearance sadly stroll about. The Black Believers, on learning that we sympathize with Buddhism, ask us not even to approach their monasteries.
With astonishment we look at the sho, the only copper coin of Tibet in circulation. We saw neither silver nor gold in the dzongs nor in popular use. Although the minting of the small copper coins is poor, yet how grandiose is the inscription: “The government is victorious in all directions.” It is astonishing that the half-sho and the quarter-sho are bigger than the sho itself.
Now comes our crossing through the Brahmaputra near the monastery Schitu. There is a small boat, a ferry, with a carved horse on the prow. It is especially difficult to load the camels. The current is pretty swift.
Although Tingri-dzong is regarded as a strong fortress it has a pitiful toy-like aspect, which perhaps had importance previous to the invention of gunpowder. There is no monastery but only suburgans of the Red Sects with fearful images and stripes as signs of their allegiance to the Red Sect. We recall the same fearful images on Tantrik tankas. What can one not see upon them? Magic swords, flayed human skins, fearful images with projecting teeth, and inverted triangles. The entire synthesis of Black Magic.
Near Tingri-dzong Mount Everest looms up in all its glimmering beauty.
We meet people who knew Sven Hedin. They praise him and regret that he could not speak Tibetan. They have heard here about Filchner. Some legends are already invented to the effect that he left three boys on the Blue River, as well as a mouse, a weasel and prairie dog. How does this originate? Of course, had we not known the language our entire work would have been immensely difficult. It is fortunate that George’s knowledge of the language is considered by the Tibetans second only to Sir Charles Bell. The latter was called “the officer of peace,” because of the way he conducted his negotiations.
Here is the old monastery Chung-tu, which belongs to the royal monastery Saskya. Evidently much has transpired within its ancient walls. Here is an umbrella above a large suburgan—the sign of former royal distinction. And here are crumbled Chinese walls, memories of conquered Tibet. Here is a long file of ancient Suburgans—remembrances of the time of a peaceful age. Here are amassed old and new by-ways and structures.
Another ancient place: Shekar-dzong. When the Tibetans were bold eagles, they were not afraid of soaring up to the steep rocks to mount their stronghold-sanctuaries upon the sharp promontories. There is a wealth of decoration on towers, passages and temples. But now Tibetans have descended to the valley. The chieftains are afraid to live in the castles and huddle below. Only from afar are the old dzongs of Tibet attractive. The prices for products are high to the point of absurdity. A sack of twenty-nine pounds of poor grain, of which five pounds are stones, costs eleven norsangs which is about nine rupees in the dzongs. A little piece of barley sugar is about four or five rupees. A horse, for two days’ travel, eight rupees; and a pack-yak, four rupees.
Our marches are not of even length. Either they are very short, not exceeding four hours on horseback. Or, suddenly, they last for nine hours almost at a trot. We hasten toward Kampa-dzong, the last dzong before the border of Sikhim. But where is the castle? For a long time we fail to recognize the bulky mass on the distant rock as a castle. Really this structure is placed so high that it merges into the rock. Dzong pen, the chief of the castle, is a trifle more friendly than the others.
Far higher than the dzong on the opposite rocks is a monastery, in which now only eight lamas remain. But in this very monastery is the courtyard mentioned in the “Letters of the Mahatmas.” There was the school mentioned by the Mahatmas, but now this school does not exist. But the old people still remember that here was a “religious school.” And they remember the “tall Azaras” from India.
The last crossing—Sepo-la. This pass is easier than the others. We pass the turquoise lake, where the river Lachen has its source. The torrents begin as modest streams which, after two days of travel, seethe and become impassable without a bridge. Here is the first aroma of the healing Balu, and the first low cedars. Before us are whole forests of rhododendrons in bloom.
Zoji La, Khardong La, Karaul Devan, Sasser Pass, Dabsang Pass, Karakorum Pass, Suget Pass, Sanju Pass, Urtu Kashkariin Daban, Ulan Daban, Chahariin Daban, Khentu Pass, Naiji La, Kukushili Pass, Dungbudra Pass, Tang La, Kamrong La, Tasang La, Lamsi Pass, Naptra La, Tamaker Pass, Shentsa Pass, Laptse nagri Pass, Tsag La, Lam ling Pass, Pong chen La, Dong La, Sang mo La, Kyegong La, Tsug chung La, Gya La, Urang La, Sharu La, Galung La, Sepo La; these are the thirty-five passes, each from fourteen thousand to twenty-one thousand feet high, which are crossed.
Of all our camels, two crossed the Himalayas. One is from Bulugun (northern Mongolia), the other from Tsaidam. They will be the first to reach Gangtok, the capital of Sikhim. We will present them to the Maharajah of Sikhim. Along the entire way from Nagchu to Gangtok the camels attract crowds of curious onlookers because these “animals” have never been seen here. From Lhasa to Calcutta, camels are not known. In Thangu, a house already awaited us: a dak-bungalow and even forgotten magazines of 1927. For more than a year we existed entirely without news of the outer world.
The fairy tale of the waterfalls! A whole symphony is in the patterned streams. For several days we descend. Nearby we pass all species of the vegetable world. Finally, palms appear and near the river pass two leopards, vividly yellow with thick warm black spots. They appear, greet us cordially and go away. All already is seen: the black-and-white bears of Chang-thang, antelopes and argali, the stone-like rams with curved horns; finally the well-decked leopards.
A modest Finnish mission is in La-chen. Kind Miss Kronquist, self-exiled in solitude among the rocks, relates tales about the avalanches which threaten all Sikhim. Is it possible that on the southern side of the Himalayas continues the same deadening process which has crumbled the peaks of Chang-thang? Inspired by the noise of the current of Lachen which sprang up and became stronger under our very eyes, we recall Imatra and Finland and the sympathetic Relander and Aksel Gallen-Kallela. Here are the same blue distances as in Finland.
We make our final calculations regarding the caravan. The American equipment withstood all trials. The Belber trunks crossed from America for four years through entire Asia, through all fordings and passes without any damage. The tents from Abercrombie and Fitch also withstood all gales.
The remaining part of the way to Gangtok was easy. The hospitable house of the British Resident, Colonel Bailey, greets us. We tell about our trip. The letters to America are sent off. We are given a trustworthy sardar to Darjeeling. We shall make the entire way from Gangtok in one day. But we will have to change automobiles three times, because on the Tista the bridge was recently washed away and it is necessary to change. It means three automobiles and ten miles on horseback in one day—a steep ascent from Tista through Peshok.
It is necessary to collect and compile all the expedition material. This may take a long time. George, the Doctor, N. V., and P. K. are also preparing their notes. Our fellow-travelers will quickly scatter—one to China, one to Italy, one to Australia. Everywhere they will recall the inexpressible beauty of the Himalayas. Our way led from the Himalayas, and back to them. Majestic is Karakorum and the icy kingdom of Sasser. Beautiful is Kunlun. Fantastic is T’ian Shan—celestial mountains. Broad in sweep is Altai. Decorative is Nan shang. Austere is Angar Dakchin. But all these are only the preface to the unutterable grandeur of the Himalayas.
In the Himalayas the great Vedanta was crystallized. In the Himalayas Buddha became exalted in spirit. The very air of the Himalayas is penetrated with spiritual tension—the true Maitreya Sanga.
Our friend in Sikhim, the lama, tells us that during the winter he had heard that large detachments of cavalry were standing before Nagchu; such information caused a great deal of anxiety. This proved to be only one of the rumors current about ourselves. During these years rumor made me a “French and American King,” “Commander of a Russian Corps,” and “King of all Buddhists.” I succeeded in dying twice. I succeeded in being simultaneously in Siberia, America and Tibet. According to the words of Mongols of Tsaidam I carried on a war with the Amban of Sining. And according to the words of the Taotai of Khotan I brought a small cannon which would, in ten minutes, destroy entire Khotan and its one hundred thousand inhabitants. We became accustomed to all this and now are no longer astonished by “authentic” rumors. The Mongols firmly remember the “Ameri Khan”: Thus the American has been visualized as a kind of warrior. Fairy tales about ourselves from Lhasa were related to us, in which we could only identify ourselves with difficulty.
It is wondrous and strange to pass through the same places where the Mahatmas passed. Here was the school founded by Them. Two days’ travel from Saga-dzong there was one of the Ashrams—not far from the Brahmaputra. Here the Mahatma stopped, hastening on an undeferrable mission. And here stood the modest blue tent. Now when Europe argues about the existence of the Mahatmas, when the Hindus are significantly silent about Them, many people in the expanses of Asia not only know the Mahatmas, not only have seen Them, but know many actual evidences of Their deeds and appearances. Always awaited, the Mahatmas unexpectedly created in the spaces of Asia a great special existence. When it was necessary, They manifested themselves. And when necessary, They passed unnoticeably as ordinary travelers. They do not write Their Names upon the stones, but the hearts of those who know, guard These Names, stronger than the rocks. Why suspect a fairy tale, imagination, invention, when in living forms the knowledge of the Mahatmas is impressed?
In haste, moved by idle curiosity, you will not understand even a simple chemical experiment. Will those, who in futile conversation discuss the question of Mahatmas, achieve anything? Will their empty curiosity be satisfied? How many people there are who would love to receive a letter from the Mahatmas! But would it change their lives? It would provide a moment of astonishment and confusion and then again everything would return to the old routine, leaving no trace.
Often we are astonished why people who know the Mahatmas are so widely different in their social positions. But why was Boehme a shoemaker? Are the dimensions of consciousness measured only by outward distinctions? The works of the Mahatmas and their instructions to the pupils, are related in a literature which is not nearly as limited as it seems to those who do not know it.
The average scientist talks about Mahatmas as pure illusion. These are the scientists who have never seen Mahatmas. But Sir William Crooks or Sir Oliver Lodge would not speak so. Vivekananda, who was always upholding the rationalism of observation, knew Mahatmas. Many Hindus know Them. But they safeguard Their Names to such an extent that they are even ready to deny Their existence in order not to betray, not to reveal.
Not to betray! What a charm is in this understanding of the Guru in the steps of ascent.
But many are knocking at the doors of the great science. Often they do not acknowledge it, even are angered if someone asks them about it. How many of the younger generation want sincerely to start correspondence with a Guru! They try to find a real teacher. Everybody knocks in his own way. And how many of them find disillusionment because they knock at the wrong door, or they lacked sufficient energy and necessary determination to receive a true answer.
“What laboratory could analyze those who approach the technical methods of knowledge?” Yes, verily, it must be a laboratory where labor and perseverance and fearlessness are the keys to the gates. In a sound rationalism, in a true and fearless materialism grow the wings of spirit, the wings of consciousness. We are not to be isolated from life—not destructive, but creative—such is the teaching of the Mahatmas. They speak about the scientific foundations of existence. They direct one toward the conquest of energy. They speak of those victories of labor which shall transform life into a constant festival. Everything suggested by them is not ephemeral and illusory, but real, and pertains to the most all-embracing study of possibilities, which are suggested to us by life, without superstition, without prejudice. The true followers of the Mahatmas are not sectarians or hypocrites. On the contrary they are most vital people; they conquer in life. Not for long do they go into the mountains to purify themselves by the emanations of prana. In the darkest places of Tibet they know something about the Mahatmas, they have some recollections and legends. But for the moment their attention is directed to the prophecies about the return of the Tashi Lama in his full glory.
Despite all, the straight road—Mongolia, Tsaidam, Tibet and the Himalayas—is crossed: first on the trail of Ja lama; then in Tsaidam in a new direction, then through the dzongs of Tibet to the mountain passes of the “abodes of snows.”
There is something of predestination in the dying of old Tibet. The wheel of the law is turned. The mystery is gone. Tibet has none to guard; and none guards Tibet. The exclusiveness of its position as guardian of Buddhism no longer belongs to Tibet. Because Buddhism, according to the Commands of the Blessed One, becomes a universal possession. There is no need of superstition for the deep teaching. Prejudices are inimical to the search for truth.
The first image of the Blessed One was received by Tibet from Nepal and China—received only in the seventh century, more than one thousand years after the Blessed One lived and taught; received after the time when in India the brilliant literature of the followers of Buddhism had been already collected. The first image was received only after the beautiful Viharas, before which the Dukang of Tibet stand as poor younger brothers, were rising in all parts of Asia. Now, when there begins to be concern about the revival of true Buddhism, this wave passes by Tibet.
Let us consider the Black Magic of Tibet. Let us recall the revived corpses, the celebrated Rolang-resurrection—which is nothing but a crude form of vampirism. Let us recall the wandering spirits who kill and do all manner of evil; and they are often the spirits of lamas. Let us recall all sorts of obsessions, how, under evil influences, people are completely changed and temporarily fall into actual insanity. Let us recall evil conjurations and invocations with which the lamas arm themselves to frighten the ignorant people. Let us recall the suicidal magic daggers, dark fortune-telling, spells, were-wolves, entities which have assumed the appearance of animals; and all kinds of inventions of an evil will. First of all, such dark practices of lamas do not give very good evidence of their uprightness. Second, the sorcerers of the Coast of Malabar perform the entire black necromancy much more powerfully. They are known, feared, but no one worships them and they are not regarded as sacred personages. Malabar “miracles” antedate Tibetan magic.
Many authors who have written about Tibet have called it the miracle of miracles. But this title could refer only to old Tibet or is due to the misconception of those writers, who have been hypnotized by tradition. Truly, one could rightly call a school founded by Mahatmas a miracle. But for many years such a school has not existed. Now individual Tibetan lamas possess the power to produce low forms of materialization, levitation, manifestations of will, clairvoyance and clairaudience. It is the greatest test of the lamas if when they doubt about you, you demand of them, “Ask your oracle what I am thinking at present and what intention I have.” Then at once they become confused.
In the mountains some astonishing manifestations actually occur, but they have nothing to do with the lamas. We recollect the incident of the remarkable fire in our tent, which was repeated in Chang-thang. We recall the wave of heat amidst the cruel frosts. We recall many manifestations of the higher energies. Truly it is remarkable just to pass through those places where until recently there were Ashrams.
It would be absurd to condemn the entire population of Tibet. The lamas again may become educated. Again an enlightened government may appear. And people again may become regenerate. Much of that which appears to us as fallen “has not as yet risen.”
In the teaching of the Blessed One there are practical indications about the whole routine of life. It is very easy to know and apply them. But now those who have desecrated the high teaching, must understand that their criminal actions are condemned and cannot continue.
Tibet bids us farewell with sad news. Our three Torguts, Ochir, Dorje and Manji, forty miles from Gyantse, were attacked by Tibetans. Two Torguts were killed and the third wounded. They were robbed of their money and possessions. Hearing this, a well-born Tibetan says, “Formerly the bandits were in the north of Tibet, but they infest the entire country now.” Thus speak the good Tibetans with hopeless gestures. And how many decent Tibetans and learned lamas must suffer because of the present conditions.
There was another story that our Mongols reached Lhasa, but there they were seized and thrown into the Tibetan jail. Anyhow, our poor Torguts experienced trouble.
Another rumor: Poor Tzering, our Mongol, has suffered greatly. On the way from Nagchu to Lhasa he was robbed and now is begging in the Lhasa bazaar. Our Buriat lamas already dream of leaving Tibet. Jangin, Lama, Lama Tashi and Konchok safely reached home in Sharagolchi, because they returned back from Nagchu at once.
The Tibetans who have come to Sikhim say: “Now comes the year of the dragon. The past year was the year of the tiger and after that will be the year of the sheep. Will it not be easier then?”—“According to the prophecy, the Tashi Lama will not return to Tibet before three years.”—Much is being rumored. We are overtaken by our lama from Kharching. He thought of remaining in Lhasa ten years but stayed only three months. With him three other learned lamas from Tashi lhunpo are traveling.
News from Sikhim. The monastery in Ghum is growing. Some new structures are being added. The walls are covered with frescoes. The monasteries in Kalimpong and Kurseong are also improving. Geshe Rinpoche is helping everywhere. He erects images of Maitreya. In Ghum is the same abbot. Our artist, Geshe Lhariba, from Kham, is working as before. All is friendly and good.
I have been asked, “How shall you speak of Tibet after your experiences?” Truly I shall praise what is full of light and shall condemn what is obscured in darkness. I shall not forget that the Tashi Lama has aroused general reverence for himself—he who is the spiritual ruler of Tibet and of whom only good is heard. Everywhere the Tibetans themselves say of their country, “The customs of Panchen Rinpoche (Tashi Lama) were far different.” And they await with eagerness the fulfillment of the prophecy about his return when he will be the sole head of the Tibet and the true Teaching will again flourish. Truly, one has the feeling that if the Tashi Lama were now in Tibet again, things would be different!
Thus we distinguish two Tibets: One is the Tibet of officialdom—of those officials of whom the Tibetans themselves assert that their hearts are blacker than coal and harder than stone. These are the ones who reflect so much prejudice and violence and falsehood, who desecrate art and petrify learning with degeneracy.
But we also discern another Tibet, even though it is smaller in numbers. This is the Tibet of the few educated lamas and of an even smaller number of enlightened laymen. This is the Tibet which guards the essence of the Teaching and aspires towards enlightenment. It is the Tibet of its spiritual leaders.
It is of course not enigmatic which Tibet is closer to our consciousness—the enlightened ones we value, and may the obscured and corrupt ones disappear in their own darkness!
In letters from America, friends have expressed their regret that the actions of Tibet have urged the necessity of such strong criticisms. But Truth is not blindness; on the contrary it must be far-sighted. Moreover, a small and valuable minority may yet produce greater results than the dying, decomposed majority.
The Himalayas and Sikhim enclose Tibet. Nowhere is there such glimmer, such spiritual satiety as amidst these precious snows. Nowhere are there such qualifying expressions as in the speech of Sikhim—to everything is added the word “heroism.” Man-heroes; women-heroes; rock-heroes; trees-heroes; waterfall-heroes; eagle-heroes. Here to Sikhim came great hermits because where could one, in two days’ travel, ascend from tropical vegetation up to eternal snow. All grades of consciousness are here revealed. Friendly is Sikhim. Friendly is the Maharajah of Sikhim. Friendly is the Resident. Friendly is Laden La. And again we traverse the sacred valley of Tashi ding, as a trove of mystery and treasures. This is considered a remarkable place by all Sikhim and Bhutan. And the fine old abbot of Tashi ding is still alive but has aged and does not descend from his sacred mountain. And again the proximity of great India.
Again the Hindu sings: “How may I speak of the creator himself, if I know the incomparable, inexpressible beauty of Himalayas?”
It is told in the prophecies how the new era shall manifest itself: “First will begin an unprecedented war of all nations. Afterward brother shall rise against brother. Oceans of blood shall flow. And the people shall cease to understand one another. They shall forget the meaning of the word, Teacher. But just then shall the Teachers appear and in all corners of the world shall be heard the true teaching. To this word of truth shall the people be drawn, but those who are filled with darkness and ignorance shall set obstacles. As a diamond glows the light on the tower of the Lord of Shambhala. One stone on his ring is worth more than all the world’s treasure. Even those who by accident help the Teachings of Shambhala will receive in return a hundredfold. Already many warriors of the teaching of truth are reincarnated. Only a few years shall elapse before every one shall hear the mighty steps of the Lord of the New era. And one can already perceive unusual manifestations and encounter unusual people. Already they open the gates of knowledge and ripened fruits are falling from the trees.”
Lama Rinpoche knows that on the north side of Kinchenjunga, there lies a cave. Very narrow is the entrance to it, but it broadens and brings one into a whole city. The high priest knows many things, and asks not to speak of them until the appointed time. The consciousness of Geshe is profound. He possesses some clairvoyance. As if emerging from a trance he talks of the most unexpected actions and persons who are at a great distance. When we were freezing at Chang-thang and E.I. was ill, he unexpectedly said to those near him: “How difficult it is for her! How she is suffering!” So we were later told. Using the old custom of the high lamas, Geshe does not lie down to sleep but rests in a seated posture. Geshe knows about Shambhala and its complete significance. He takes care to revive the teachings.
One more image of Shambhala, the Mandala of Shambhala will reveal to those who know some hints of reality. On the top is Yi-dam as the sign of elemental power, and a figure of that Tashi Lama who wrote the very secret book the Path of Shambhala. In the center of the image the snow mountains form a circle. You can recognize three white borders. In the center is a seeming valley with many edifices. One can distinguish two plans, as though they were the plans of towers. On the tower is He Himself, Whose Light glows in the predestined time. Below is the powerful legion leading victorious battle. The victory of the spirit on the great field of life.
The new era of enlightenment is awaited. Each reaches in his own way. One nearer, one further; one beautifully, one distortedly; but all are concerned with the same predestined. It is especially striking to see such consciousness at a time when not the printed page, but sound itself—the human word—directs the lofty expectation. It is so precious to hear and to repeat. The Motherland of Gessar Khan, Ladak, knows that the time of the regeneration has come. Khotan remembers the Signs of Maitreya over the ancient Stupa. The Kalmucks in Karashar are awaiting the coming manifestation of the Chalice of Buddha. On Altai the Oirots renounce Shamanism and are singing new chants to the Awaited White Burkhan. The Messenger of the White Burkhan, Oirot, already rides throughout the world. The Mongols await the appearance of the Ruler of the World and prepare the Dukang of Shambhala. On Chang-thang they extol Gessar Khan and whisper about the hallowed borders of Shambhala. On the Brahmaputra they know about the Ashrams of Mahatmas and remember the wonderful Azaras. The Jews await the Messiah at the Bridge. The Moslems await Muntazar. In Isfahan the White Horse is already saddled. The Christians of Saint Thomas await the great Advent and wear hidden signs. The Hindus know the Kalki Avatar. And the Chinese at New Year light the fires before the image of Gessar Khan, ruler of the World. Rigden Japo, the Ruler, is fleeting over the desert, achieving his predestined path. A blind one may ask, “Is it so? Is there no exaggeration in it? Perhaps some fragments of survivals are taken as beliefs of the future.”
It means that he who questions has never been in the East. If you once were upon these sites; if you traversed many thousands of miles; if you yourself have spoken to many people, then you know the reality of what is related. You shall understand why, of these sacred matters, one speaks only in the stillness of the evening, in quiet penetrating tones. Why, if someone enters, do all become silent? But if you say to them that they may continue the conversation in the presence of the guest your words will be met with a reverent bow. And it is not you who receives the silent significant bow but the Great Maitreya Himself.