The Avatari (6 page)

‘Not really,’ Ashton said, leaning forward.

‘Because,’ his friend continued, ‘they were all searching for the wrong thing. We all know that our bodies will decay, our cells will die and we will grow old. The key to immortality does not, therefore, lie in preserving the body, as we know it; it lies in the afterlife or after-death, if you will.

‘The Egyptians strongly believed in the afterlife and in the possibility of influencing Osiris, the king of the dead. It was their firm conviction that led them to build the pyramids, whose sole purpose was to guide the Pharaoh in his journey into the afterlife.’

Tim leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head.

‘The Hindus and the Buddhists believe that after death the soul goes through the process of reincarnation, manifesting itself in many physical forms with Cartesian randomness as it follows a cycle of life, death and rebirth before its final liberation. This belief, an intrinsic part of their philosophy, is integral to their way of life.’ He paused before adding, ‘Eastern fatalism, as
we
think of it, is, for Hindus and Buddhists, an acknowledgement that the present is but a negligible part of eternity, along with the past and the future, because the soul, being immortal, lives on forever.’

Tim paused and asked quickly with a half smile, ‘I’m not losing you here, am I? I can always cut to the chase, but then it won’t be so – what do you call it – grandiloquent.’

‘No, carry on. It’s quite fascinating, really,’ Ashton hastened to reassure him. ‘I have some background on all of this. Was posted in the East, you know.’

He refrained, however, from telling Tim about his time in Laos.

‘Great. That certainly helps,’ Tim said approvingly. ‘Well, getting back to the subject, there is one problem: the soul does not always remember its previous incarnation. It is almost as if it has drunk from the Lethe, the river of forgetfulness. Moreover, the soul has no control over the form it will assume in the next birth. Hindus and Buddhists believe that leading a life of moderation and rectitude in one birth will ensure that the soul manifests itself in a form that will bring it happiness and spare it suffering in its subsequent incarnation. A life of dissipation, of excesses and evil deeds, on the other hand, will lead to the soul being incarnated in its next birth in a form that brings it untold misery.’ Tim lapsed into a reflective silence as he took a sip of his wine. ‘It wasn’t an appropriate philosophy to explain to a monarch, especially if you were a mere priest entrusted with the task. Imagine a king having to face the dilemma of curbing royal excesses or running the risk of being born a yak the next time around!’

The two friends smiled at each other, contemplating the prospect.

‘In the Tibetan scheme of things,’ Tim went on, ‘the lives of the common people revolved around their priests and their rulers, whom they associated with the divine. It was the need to preserve the royal line of succession from the vagaries of random rebirth that impelled the Tibetans to write their Book of the Dead. It basically involves a guide who
talks
the soul – released at the time of death – through the maze of choices it is offered at the time of death in an endeavour to obtain for it a more fortunate rebirth.’

He stopped and looked at Ashton, but his eyes had a faraway expression, as though his mind were elsewhere.

‘That can be done? I mean, give the dead a rebirth of their choice?’ Ashton asked, gently prompting Tim.

‘Well, it’s possible,’ Tim replied, ‘the technique is not as far-fetched as it seems. Modern-day hypnotists generally
talk
their patients through metaphysical journeys while they are in a trance. The Tibetans considered death, or the release of the soul from its mortal body for a short period, to be the greatest of all trances.’

‘So when I die, you could read out from this book and direct me to the rebirth of my choice?’ Ashton asked with a smile.

Tim smiled back. ‘There’s a catch. There always is. The Book of the Dead or Bardo Thodol exists in some form and is used at funerary rites in Tibet even today. But you have to understand it.’

‘So, as they say for all such texts, the key lies in its interpretation,’ Ashton stated with a nod of understanding.

‘Exactly. Legend has it that, as in the case of the Kalchakra, the original Bardo Thodol was to be found in Shambhala. By referring to its texts, high priests who had preserved the ancient rites could, it seems, control the transmigration of the soul through its many incarnations. In other words, they had found a way for Tibetans to achieve immortality.’ Tim paused and drained his glass with a flourish. ‘This was the
third
and probably most important reason why Shambhala was so special as a sacred mountain, drawing people like Kublai Khan in its quest. He didn’t need the treasure or knowledge of the Kalchakra; he was already the ruler of earthly realms, after all.’ Tim poured more brandy into their glasses and leaned forward. ‘Kublai Khan wanted to become
immortal
,’ he said, laying emphasis on the last word.

Ashton puffed up his cheeks and blew out air through his pursed lips. ‘But you did say Marco Polo never found the Burqan Qaldun, didn’t you?’ he asked after a while.

‘He didn’t; he admitted that himself. But he did
write
about this fantastic monastery and how Kublai Khan, when his death was imminent, planned to journey there, so that he could die and be reborn in a life of his own choosing. It makes good reading, for the Khan carried a fabulous treasure with him as an offering to the monastery. There is, however, a catch: you have only part one of the story, which tells how the Khan was allowed passage and describes the details of his preparations to get there. It’s nicely sexed up, with women and subplots and all. At the end, the reader is promised a part two. This segment, which would apparently offer an account of the journey and a description of the sacred mountain, was never written.’ Tim paused before adding wryly, ‘I suspect Marco regretted writing part one.’

‘Why would that be?’ Ashton enquired.

‘Marco Polo returned home from China in 1295. Three years later, the Genoans defeated Venice. Marco, who was then an honorary naval commander, was taken prisoner and incarcerated for a year. His cellmate was a young writer of romantic novels called Roschelli. Marco shared the story of his travels with the young man who, seeing its possibilities, wrote it down in the form of a book entitled
The Description of the World
. In this, Marco’s first book, known to us in its English translation as
The Travels of Marco Polo
, there is only one reference to the sacred mountain. The traveller mentions that Kublai Khan had sent him to search for it, but his quest was in vain.

‘Some years later, after Marco Polo had been released from prison and became a successful merchant in Venice, the story of the sacred mountain – the subject of his second book – came out. It caught the popular imagination and became a rage, with Marco being much sought-after in society. But the Church declared its contents, especially the sections dealing with reincarnation and the afterlife, blasphemous and threatened to excommunicate him. Also, since it had come out some years after his first book, many felt it was little more than a fantasy, like the “roc” alluded to in his first book – a bird large enough to carry an elephant – which Marco claimed he had actually seen.’

‘Was it fantasy?’

Tim shrugged. ‘Can’t say. Marco is alleged to have said that he had received a message from China, but was sworn to secrecy about its source. Under pressure from the Church, Marco retracted his statements. Said the story wasn’t his. The book was subsequently banned and taken out of print.’

‘You managed to read it, nonetheless?’

‘Oh, some copies did survive,’ Tim replied. ‘The minute the Church banned it, you can imagine the number of rich and famous people who would have wanted a copy. However, when the sequel did not come out, the public lost interest. I found it quite by chance – loosely bound, with poorly printed sheets – while still at college and bought it for fifty pence at Piccadilly.’ Tim smiled. ‘It was shoddily written, but fascinating. I followed it up by reading everything I could on Shambhala. He paused, then continued, ‘When I was back at Cambridge for my Master’s, I learnt that an undergrad had researched this subject and submitted a dissertation. Of course, they threw it out.’

Ashton’s voice sounded detached as he asked, ‘Where did Marco Polo search for this sacred mountain?’

‘Can’t say. In the story, he remains delightfully vague. You can make out that some of the places are pure fantasy.’ Tim yawned. ‘It is believed that Genghis Khan came to know of this place as he was moving south. Hoping to find it, he sent scouts who never returned. And eventually, he gave up his quest. His grandson, Kublai, came to know of the monastery through Buddhists and sent Marco to confirm its existence, probably to the very same places where it is rumoured to exist – somewhere between India, China and Russia…’

He stopped in mid-sentence and lifted the decanter to fill Ashton’s glass, but his friend placed his hand over its rim.

‘That is, if it ever existed,’ Tim concluded.

Ashton chose his next words carefully, his fingers running over the rim of his glass. ‘And how would you find such a place? Would there be a map or records of some sort?’

Tim laughed. Then his expression grew grave as he looked at Ashton. ‘By god, you
are
serious,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Tibetan legend has it that it can never be found. Only the gifted, whose work cannot be completed in a single lifetime, are supposed to be the chosen few whom divine inspiration will apparently guide to the place. These privileged individuals who make the pilgrimage are sent off on their journeys by their families and fellow villagers with much celebration and fanfare and are never heard of again. These are the
avataris
, destined to continue their work from one lifetime to the next; they are taught from birth to meditate and remember their past life, so they can begin where they left off.’

Henry Ashton felt his breath quicken, but managed to keep his face blank.
Where have I heard that before
?
In Malaya
?
Or was it in Vietnam
? He took a deep breath, his mind still far away, and lifted the empty glass to his lips. Tim noticed, leaned forward and filled it. This time, Ashton did not stop him. He took a sip and brought the conversation back to where they had left off.

‘But then, how would Kublai Khan have made the journey?’ he persisted. ‘Surely he was no – how did you put it –
avatari
?’

‘No, he definitely wasn’t, but he could still have made the journey,’ Tim replied. ‘According to Hindu and Buddhist beliefs, the individual can attain salvation on his own – an extremely difficult quest – or by taking the easier route: placing his faith in a guru or teacher, who will guide him along the path. All religions are suckers for what the Great Khan possessed – power and wealth. According to Marco’s account, the Great Khan received guidance to the sacred mountain in return for two things: the greatest treasure Buddhism had ever known and the protection that his benediction provided. His was, after all, the greatest empire ever ruled by a single monarch. His entry to the sacred mountain was “by invitation”.’ Tim filled his glass liberally. ‘Remember, we will never know if he actually made it there.’

Ashton leaned forward. ‘All right. Is there any other evidence gleaned from some expedition which could prove that this Burqan Qaldun actually exists?’

‘Wow!’ Tim replied with a half smile, ‘you’re asking for hard proof. Well, we’ve already gone over the only available details of an Oriental quest for the mythical kingdom. Western interest in Shambhala roughly coincided with the “Great Game” played by Britain, Russia, Germany and Japan which attempted to carve out spheres of influence in Afghanistan and China at the beginning of the twentieth century. During that time, a large number of explorers and adventurers traipsed around the mountains of western China, looking, in equal measure, for imperial conquest and lost archaeological treasures. Some of them came to know about the myth of Shambhala and tried to locate it.’

‘They didn’t succeed, I gather?’ Ashton asked quietly.

It was more of a statement than a question.

‘That’s right. None of the expeditions managed to find the mythical kingdom. In fact, the only artefacts ever dug up by an explorer which could be remotely related to Shambhala were those discovered by the Swede Sven Hedin. He came upon scrolls relating to the Kalchakra in a buried city in the Lop Nor desert. He sent these back to Germany to be translated, but nothing was ever heard of them after the war.’

‘And yet people continue to believe it exists,’ Ashton remarked dryly.

‘Remember, the myth says it cannot be found by the ordinary seeker,’ Tim said, shaking his head, ‘so successful or not, these expeditions only whetted the appetite of the West.’ He paused for effect and continued with a broad smile, ‘Which was why
Lost Horizon
became such a success and proved to be the very reason for the term “Shangri-La” entering the lexicon.’ Tim leaned back in his chair with a smile. ‘You know, of course, that Hilton was from Christ College and was inspired to write his book after reading the accounts of the explorer Joseph Rock in the
National Geographic
?’

‘Yes,’ Henry Ashton said, breaking into a smile himself. ‘Evidently, our alma mater produces extremely fertile minds.’ He leaned forward, looking directly at his friend across the table. ‘Okay, Tim, just a straight yes or no. Do
you
think it exists?’

‘Sure,’ his friend replied, after a moment’s pause, taken aback by the directness of the question, ‘but then I am in the business of believing in these things.’

They were silent for a while.

‘What are your plans?’ Tim asked him finally, draining his glass.

Ashton realized that his friend was gently telling him the evening was over. ‘I plan to head back early.’

‘Stay awhile. I would recommend one of our holistic massages.’

Ashton smiled, his mind conjuring up an image of a young woman gently pressing his temples, with soft music playing in a haze of incense.