The Collected Works of Chogyam Trungpa: Volume One (27 page)

In fact from the start of his tour Rölpa Dorje had not felt well, and he eventually contracted severe influenza. He accepted that this was to be his last illness and chose to be taken to a village near the Sakya monastery of Thalung. When its abbot Deshung Rinpoche heard where he was, he brought him to Thalung itself, where he died a week later. Deshung Rinpoche, who is still alive in America, is a very kind as well as a learned man; he was a disciple of Ga Ngawang Lekpa, the mystical teacher of the Sakya school, and also of the tenth Trungpa Tulku. When Rölpa Dorje was dying he stayed at his bedside to the end asking him how his wishes could be fulfilled and if there was anything which could be done to lengthen his life. Rölpa Dorje replied that his work was finished and his duty done. For a few days he seemed to be recovering; one morning he was thought to be so much better that he could even walk. He asked the abbot to take down his will, saying that he wished to be reborn in Tsa, the birthplace of Milarepa. The abbot asked him who his future parents would be. He said he would rather leave that for Gyalwa Karmapa to discover. Deshung Rinpoche found it difficult to tell his monks this news, for they all expected his recovery; however, the senior monk of the party had to be told. Very early next morning Rölpa Dorje threw off his coverings and sat up in the vajra position. He asked his monks to read his daily manual of devotions. As they finished, he had difficulty in breathing and when they held him up he said, “You don’t need to help me; I can look after myself.” At that moment his earthly wishes ceased.

When our party reached Thalung the day after his death we immediately performed a short rite. I gave a talk about all he had done for us, his great kindness, and the many things he had given us, and we finished with meditation. We arranged to have his body cremated at Thalung on the fifth day after his death, for it had been his express wish that this should be done wherever he died. There was a rule that the monk who put the torch to the funeral pyre must be one who had never received teaching from the deceased. We had difficulty in finding such a person but eventually a novice who served in the kitchen was chosen. We took the ashes back with us to Surmang, being stopped on the way by many weeping devotees who wished to pay their last respects to his memory.

Our return led through Jyekundo where we were given further news of the Communists. For the last month all the Chinese officials, including the governor, had gone round the streets for two hours every morning to shovel up rubbish, dirt, and even human excrement; it was considered to be good physical exercise, as well as an example to the Tibetans. I myself met the governor on the road with his shovel, cleaning up the riverbank which people had used as a latrine. After we had greeted one another, our party stopped in front of the municipal building where there was a guard, and as the officials moved off, one of the guards near whom I was standing turned to me saying, “Please give me your blessing and a sacred protective cord.” I asked him if he really meant this. “Yes,” he said, “I have been with the Chinese ever since they entered Tibet, but more and more I feel faith in Buddhism.” I was moved; the young man could not have been out of his teens.

On our return to Surmang we held the requiem services for Rölpa Dorje and during this time I had many unforgettable talks with Garwang Rinpoche and my monks while planning various improvements for both monasteries. I little knew that this would be the last time that we would all be together at Dütsi Tel.

The monks at Kyere, a small monastery under the control of the king of Lhathok, now sent me a request to officiate at the enthronement of my young brother Tamchö Tenphel, the incarnation of their abbot. As I left Dütsi Tel, a storm was raging and fewer people than usual came to bid me goodbye, however, my mother was among those who came. I was feeling heavyhearted at leaving my monastery; almost as if I had a premonition that I would never return. The ceremony at Kyere was a beautiful one; afterward I was asked by the neighboring laity to give lectures and perform rites. I then traveled farther, visiting many other monasteries and villages and giving talks, mainly on the method which Khenpo Gangshar had taught. We passed several holy mountains and I was able to meditate in their caves. As we traveled, I was asked to organize retreats for many of the people in the district. These lasted sixteen or more days, during which we fasted, chanted, and performed religious devotions. The fasting was severe; on the first day, no nourishment was permitted after noon, and we were only allowed to speak during a short recreation period. The following day neither food nor drink could be taken and, except for chanting, absolute silence was kept. This two-day sequence continued for the length of the retreat. Those attending were laypeople who adhered strictly to the eight precepts for the period.

The eight precepts are: not to destroy life, not to take that which is not given, not to tell lies, to abstain from illicit sexual intercourse and from intoxicating liquors, then not to eat food after noon, not to wear garlands or use perfume, and not to sleep on a raised bed. Evidently not to take life, nor to steal or utter falsehoods, to abstain from unlawful sexual intercourse and from intoxicating liquors should be the rule of life for all Buddhists. However, if people are unable to keep to the discipline of all these, there is a simpler form that they may take, which is to make a vow to adhere strictly to one or other chosen precept for a given time, and to make an effort to adhere to the others as far as possible.

Being in the neighborhood, I took the opportunity to visit the king of Lhathok. I found that his ministers were anxious for the king’s young son to be enthroned in place of his father and they wished me to conduct the ceremony. At times, the reigning king’s state of mind rendered him incapable of carrying out the responsibilities of government, hence his wish to abdicate in favor of his son. His early life had been difficult; being the youngest of four brothers, he was brought up in a monastery as he was the incarnation of a lama. However, his three brothers all died young and in order to ensure the succession he had been taken from the monastery and married to his brother’s widow. This sudden change from the austerity of monastic training to the pleasures of the palace had upset his attitude toward life. This is an example of what often occurs in Tibet among incarnate lamas who have for any reason abandoned their vocation; some have died suddenly, while others seem to lose their purpose in life and become mentally deranged, or else their whole personality changes.

The ceremony of the young king’s enthronement was largely secular, and as a spectacle it was very impressive. The participants wore strange traditional costumes which dated from the pre-Buddhist period.

The young king’s grandfather had been a devoted disciple of the tenth Trungpa Tulku and was a very scholarly and spiritual man. He built several centers for meditation and teaching, but what made him especially famous in his day was the fact that he had collected the great library and installed a printing press. His three elder sons before their deaths had begun to build a nearby monastery for the Karma Kagyü school, which was still under construction when I was there.

As I was about to leave Lhathok, I received an invitation from Khamtrül Rinpoche, the supreme abbot of Khampa Gar Monastery, near Lhathok. He was the head of the Drukpa Kagyü school, which had over two hundred monasteries in East Tibet. At the same time I was asked to visit Drölma Lhakhang and Yak monasteries, both in the southwest of Chamdo province. Messengers from these two places had been sent to Surmang, so there had been a delay in their reaching me. They arrived on a day when we were all in silent retreat, and this gave me a little time to consider what I should do. A system of divination called
takpa
is used in Tibet on such occasions. A rosary is held in the hand, and after meditation and the recitation of a mantra, the beads are divided at random. Under the power of a particular meditation and mantra, and according to the number and conjunction of the separated portions of the beads, a result is indicated. I followed this method, and it appeared that I should visit Drölma Lhakhang; I knew that in these difficult times they were in great need of religious instruction and I was anxious to see my old friends who so earnestly begged me to go to them. I sent a messenger to Surmang to tell them of my plans.

I had intended to go back to Dütsi Tel to make preparations for my journey but the following day a messenger came to tell me that several Chinese officials had arrived at Surmang and wanted to count the entire number of the monks, for they disbelieved what we had told them. They were saying that I had purposely been hidden, and this was causing suspicion. The officials insisted that I should be brought to them. My secretary and all the monks felt that I must certainly return, as they did not want Surmang to be the cause of trouble in the area.

It was evident that the Communists were about to impose further restrictions and to make increasing demands upon Surmang; the monks even suspected that they might intend to arrest me. I talked the matter over with my fellow monks who were in a state of panic and, though ready to offer suggestions, they would not commit themselves to any plan: The decision rested solely with me.

Then another messenger arrived from Surmang to say that the Communists were no longer so insistent on my immediate return and that apparently they did not intend to organize their system of collective labor for another year. Nevertheless it was beginning to look as if the time might come for us to evacuate Surmang and take refuge in Central Tibet. Needing time to meditate before arriving at a decision, I went for a fortnight to a cave near Kyere with Genchung Lama, a disciple of the tenth Trungpa Tulku who came to Dütsi Tel to give teaching when I was seven years old. At night we slept in the cave, which was about ten yards deep and during the daytime we sat at the entrance where there was a small platform. At its edge, a precipice dropped sheer down to the valley. Between spells of meditating we talked together, looking out over the landscape, and in spite of many anxious forebodings this was for us both a time of strange happiness. We spoke about the thoughts that had come to us in our meditations and shared reminiscences of some of the events in our lives and of meeting our respective gurus. I had two rather disturbing dreams. In the first I was standing on a hill above Dütsi Tel which was hidden in a cloud of dark gray smoke except for the gilded serto on the roof. In the other I saw Communists in their military uniform performing a Buddhist rite in our main assembly hall. Nevertheless I decided that there would still be time for me to visit Drölma Lhakhang and return to my own monastery before it was too late. So I sent for the necessary transport and provisions for the proposed journey. Our acting bursar Yönten brought these a fortnight later, and he told me that the Communists had left Surmang, but that in the neighboring province of West Derge they had looted and destroyed many monasteries; he added that great numbers of refugees were passing our way.

The secretary of Kyere wanted to come with us to Drölma Lhakhang, but I thought he should stay in charge of my young brother’s monastery, in case an escape should be necessary. We started out on an auspicious day. According to custom, the monks of Kyere escorted us for the first few miles, and among those who saw us off were many lay devotees; we all felt deeply moved. My little brother was particularly unhappy, though he tried to keep back his tears. The correct farewell ceremony is that the escort stand in a group, while their leader waves a white scarf in a circular movement and gives a long whistle running down the scale. He is followed by all the group doing the same. This means “Come back again.” The party that is leaving ride round in a circle in single file and repeat this three times.

The reader will remember that before leaving Lhathok I had received an invitation from Khampa Gar Monastery as well as the one from Drölma Lhakhang. The former now lay on our route, and we were able to pay a short visit there. I was delighted to be with Khamtrül Rinpoche again, for we had met four years before at Khyentse Rinpoche’s monastery. I was given a warm welcome with musicians playing on the roof. The monastery had been founded in the thirteenth century and was a leading one with some three hundred monks. All the supreme abbots had been known as great scholars and teachers. One in particular had been a renowned poet and his commentaries on the art of poetry, known as
khamdrel
were studied in all Tibetan schools. The present incarnation (the eighth) is a scholar and an artist of the new Menri school. I found that he was building a large seminary, all the paintings, images, and decoration of which had been designed by himself. He was doing on a larger scale what I had done at Dütsi Tel and we had many interests in common. Both he and his father were known for the eccentric way in which they treated their subordinates. For instance when a hall was being built they gave no indication of what the next stage was going to be, so the builders never worked to any plan, but from moment to moment as directed. When starting on a journey they did not tell their party where they were going or how long it would take. Life was never dull in their company.

Wishing to have some guidance on his future, Khamtrül Rinpoche wanted me to join in an advanced form of divination called
prasena
, which requires several days’ preparation, so we left his monastery together for a nearby retreat center where we pitched our tent in a circle of juniper and willow bushes. Khamtrül Rinpoche did not tell his monks why he was going into retreat, and they found this very strange. After devotional meditation, the prasena indicated that he should leave his monastery, but that his final destination should be India, not Central Tibet. It gave clear-cut directions about the length of time that he should stay in Tibet, the difficulties he would encounter, and the ultimate date of his arrival in India. He wanted me to accompany him, but I felt it was essential for me to go to Drölma Lhakhang, where we were already expected.

On resuming our journey we stopped at Jigme Rinpoche’s monastery, and he joined our party. He made arrangements for me and himself, with two attendants, to travel by mail lorry. The rest of the monks were to follow with the baggage. In the rear compartment of the lorry there were three Communist soldiers fully armed with rifles and a tommy gun; the driver also had a rifle. There had been spasmodic fighting with the Resistance on this road, so it was considered to be a danger zone. As we switchbacked on the very bad surface by hairpin bends over several mountain ranges both our luggage and ourselves were badly bumped about and my two attendants felt very sick. Each time we reached a crest the soldiers became very apprehensive about guerillas. On one mountain we passed a mail lorry which had broken down; its occupants had had to sleep in it and they told us of their terror when they had heard a gun in the night. Passing our fellow Tibetans on their horses we could not but think how much happier and more comfortable they were than ourselves.