The Collected Works of Chogyam Trungpa: Volume One (32 page)

The next day a messenger came to tell Jigme Rinpoche that his sister was dying; he and his brother left at once, saying that if his sister recovered he would return. A few days later he sent to tell us that his sister had died; her body had been cremated, but he would very much like me to perform the funeral rites. He said that on his return to his family’s house he had realized how very cold we were in the Valley of Mystery and, since his house was a large one, he could hide me there without difficulty. He would let others know that he himself was engaged in special devotions and must remain in retreat, so no one would know that I was there. I was of course to travel by night; he also asked Akong to come with me. My attendant monk was delighted at this invitation, though he admitted he had made much progress in meditation in the solitude of the valley. I myself felt no inclination to go; we had grown fond of the place. I had been able to work a good deal, but had not finished a book I was writing on meditation, showing its gradual development up to the final fruition.

Jigme Rinpoche had been so exceedingly kind to us that I thought we must accept his invitation for a short time; we knew that his sister had been a nun and a very saintly woman. We asked the young monk who had come with us to the valley to look after our things; the landowner had sent an old nun to attend to the yaks, so he would not be left entirely alone. As we started on our journey, I had a presentiment that we would not return to the valley that had sheltered us so well.

The snow on the pass was very deep and I had to walk behind my horse, holding on to its tail to pull me up the slope. On reaching the summit, we ran into a blizzard; the prayer flag on the cairn was all but torn away by the wind and only just showed above the deep snow. It was even more difficult going down the other side of the pass. I had to walk in front of my horse, holding on to the reins; the horse, being steadier than myself, was able to act as a brake in case I slipped. We traveled all through the day and reached the landowner’s house toward evening; there we waited till it was quite dark. He himself wanted me to return at once to the shelter of the valley, for he thought there could be no safer hiding place from the Chinese. The night became colder and colder; it was pitch dark, but our guide knew the way and, hurrying along, we reached Jigme Rinpoche’s house before the dawn broke.

The warmed rooms were welcome, though our frozen hands and feet tingled painfully; the contrast between our primitive life in the valley and the comfort of Jigme’s house could hardly have been greater. It was a very quiet place; since the funeral rites were in progress no visitors called; but from the windows we could see the constant stream of Communist troops and lorries going along the road on the other side of the river.

This sudden change in our surroundings did not seem to suit my health, and after we had performed our devotions for a week, Akong Tulku’s bursar arrived; he consulted with Jigme Rinpoche and they decided that, since I was not well, it would be unwise for me to undertake the strenuous return journey to the Valley of Mystery. They thought that there were equally good hiding places within easier reach. In fact, there was a cave I had long wanted to visit, so I asked them if they thought it would be suitable as a hiding place; to this proposal they agreed and said they would make the necessary arrangements.

Akong Rinpoche went home to his monastery and I left with my attendant for the cave, starting off at midnight; our guide was an elderly nun from one of the Drölma Lhakhang nunneries. As we could not reach the place before daybreak we rested on the way in another large cave on the south side of Mount Kulha Ngang Ya. The road ran beside the mountain, but the cave was so high up that we had to climb beyond a moraine to get to it. It had two divisions, an upper and a lower, we put our horses in the lower one. We were not able to light fires for fear that they would give away our position, but we had plenty of dried meat and cheese with us, and our saddle rugs were useful for bedding. As soon as it became dark we resumed our journey; there were villages on the way and we passed by one of the local nunneries. Akong Tulku had arranged for some of his monks to get our cave ready, and when we reached it we found a fire already lit and food and bedding laid out.

The cave of my choice had been discovered by Lama Möntruk; his story is remarkable. He was born in the late nineteenth century in an area on the borders of Assam where the people believe in nature spirits, which they propitiate by animal sacrifices. This had distressed Möntruk from his early childhood and while still young he decided to leave his home. He pretended to be going on a hunting expedition and walked toward the Tibetan border; on his way there he came to the retreats of several Tibetan hermits. They told him about Thöga, a lama of Drölma Lhakhang, who had founded the four nunneries in that district. All he heard from the hermits encouraged him to seek out Thöga Rinpoche who became his guru.

After three years training under this master he undertook a long retreat and, being accustomed to climbing, he searched the nearby mountains for a suitable cave. Mount Kulha Ngang Ya seemed a good situation so, using a pickax, he started to hollow out a cave in the rock. After a day’s work he had got through about a yard when he came to an opening into a natural cave with a hole in the roof that could serve as a chimney. A tunnel let to a second cavern, with a natural window looking out on a steep and inaccessible part of the mountain. Lama Möntruk remained there to meditate for the rest of his life.

We found the cave wonderfully warm; for fuel, we burnt a plant called
gongmo potho
, which grows in strange woolly clusters between the rocks; the nuns gathered it for us. A mountain stream ran nearby. This was an ideal place for working on my book, as there were no interruptions and no great hardship from the cold; the only drawback was that I had nowhere to walk so that I lacked exercise. The nun remained with my attendant, to cook and look after me; the two lived and slept in the front cave which was also our kitchen. After a week, however, I found the constant ministrations of the good nun somewhat distracting; I wanted to be left alone to meditate. When she told me about another cave some three hours’ ride farther on, on Mount Kyo Rinchen Pungpa, which with its surrounding villages was owned by her family, I sent word to Akong Tulku to have my horses brought to me and we moved on again.

When we reached this other mountain, we found the cave blocked. However, the owner very kindly provided a black tent, which was put up near the cave on a flat ledge high up the mountainside. This ledge was sufficiently large for me to walk about, so I could now again take exercise. There was a waterfall on one side, which at that time was frozen, and behind its icicles ran a clear passage through which I would walk out and up the rocks, with no danger of being seen from below. In the rarified air I could hear herdsmen in the distance calling to their animals. At night the cold was intense; several blankets and a well-made sheepskin coat imported from the west of Tibet did not suffice to keep me warm. My attendant found his native sheepskin and felt rugs better suited to this climate.

I remained there quietly for a few weeks and was able to finish my book, which filled about one thousand sheets of Tibetan paper. The landowner’s herdsmen got to suspect, however, that there was a lama in retreat somewhere on the mountain. The rumor spread quickly to the neighboring village. All the inhabitants were very excited and thought it might possibly be me. The headman climbed up to our ledge to find out and when he saw me he used the Tibetan saying “A golden rock has fallen on our doorstep,” adding that it was fortunate for him and his fellow villagers that I had come to their neighborhood. He was quite sure that the news of my whereabouts would go no further and that my retreat was as safe as any other hiding place; he assured me that all the villagers would look after me. He came again next day with his son and daughter-in-law bringing barrels of curd and other food supplies. He said that his wife would like to visit me on the following day; she had not been able to come with them as she had stayed at home to look after the house. The news that he brought about the present situation in the country was that the Resistance party was fighting in the area round Kongpo, where the Brahmaputra enters India. At Chamdo, the Chinese were becoming more and more oppressive; however, he thought that his part of Tibet was safe, and if I wanted to move from my present retreat, there were several equally good and remote places where I could lie concealed.

On April 11, at dawn, we heard neighing and the monk in charge of my horses appeared. He told me that my bursar, who was still attending to the business of selling our cattle at Drölma Lhakhang, was growing increasingly worried about the situation. The Communist troops had now suddenly appeared in the vicinity, so he had sent this monk with my horses to ask what I thought should be done. The messenger had left the evening before and on his way had seen Communist troops marching toward Pashö. They were telling the people that the Chinese had already gained possession of Lhasa and that they were now about to take control of Pashö district. The troops were coming from different directions, some from Chamdo and others from Enda, north of Drölma Lhakhang. He did not know what had happened at the monastery or to Akong Tulku after he himself had left.

This news could mean one of two things; either the troops would go direct to Pashö or else they would attack each of the monasteries on the way. My takpa (divination) indicated that the danger was certainly increasing but that there was no need for immediate alarm. I realized that I could neither go to Drölma Lhakhang nor to Yak, so I sent the monk back to make preparations to move our luggage. He wanted to know the exact date on which he should be ready. I told him, at the full moon, on April 23. This was the Earth Hog year, 1959, and I was now twenty.

After he had left, a second monk came with a message from my bursar; Drölma Lhakhang had not been disturbed, for the Chinese had gone direct to Pashö. I went down to the nearby village, where I met a businessman who had come straight from Chamdo. He told me that the military had been in complete control there since the first week of April. They had put loudspeakers everywhere telling the people that the Dalai Lama had been forcibly abducted by the guerillas. They said that the Chinese had always intended to liberate the Tibetans and that they were there to bring great benefits to the people by peaceful means. They had, however, been forced to fire some guns in Lhasa when the guerillas attacked them and Norbulingkha, the Summer Palace, had been slightly damaged, but now everything was all right. They added that the Chinese had been obliged to take over the civil government because the Tibetans had broken the Seventeen Point Agreement of 1949; they also declared that Tibetans must not have any contact with the foreign “Imperialists.”

My informant told me that Tibetan officials who up till now had worked with the Chinese were being arrested and all telephones in their homes had been disconnected. Every bridge on the two Chamdo rivers was being guarded. The townspeople looked frightened and miserable and all gaiety was at an end. Everyone entering Chamdo was questioned as to his reasons for traveling. Part of the monastery was being used as a jail, though a few monks were allowed to remain in the rest of it; however, anyone visiting them was sighted through field glasses and accused of being a spy. The Communists had dug trenches on the hills round the town and it was estimated that some forty thousand troops were encamped in the vicinity. The Chinese had tried to encourage the Tibetans to return to their homes, telling them that there was nothing to fear and that everything that had taken place was to their advantage.

By April 14 the Chinese had gained complete control of Pashö. They had interned the lamas in the assembly hall of their monastery. The place was desecrated and everything of value removed. All the officials in the town had been captured and the food from the monastery and the government stores, as well as from the local shops, had been taken and sent away to Chamdo. A temporary concentration camp had been set up. The fact that Resistance forces under Andrup had previously visited Pashö now made things worse for the inhabitants. On their way to the town the Chinese had captured any travelers on the road and had forced them to accompany the army, so no one had been able to give any warning of their approach. Previously the Communists had not actually done any damage to the surrounding villages, but the people there were living in terror of spies who might give them away later.

Must We Escape?

W
AITING FOR THE
twenty-third, I went down to the village where I stayed with several families in succession. Yak Tulku came to see me, which was a great pleasure as he had always been so helpful with his mature advice and had shown such understanding about my difficulties at the time when the bursar was so insistent that I should go back to Surmang. This time, however, his mind was taken up with the Chinese situation; he seemed to be more nervous than I was myself and could give me no clear guidance. I told him that I had fixed the date for my departure; it was to be on April 23. He wanted to come with me, but said that he would have to bring some of the senior monks with him and also a good deal of baggage. We discussed the route and I pointed out to him that we might have great difficulty in crossing the Gyemo Ngül-chu River, for there was only one bridge, and at other places it was crossed by ferry. Since the Communists were in control at Pashö, they would probably have put guards all along the river. We had no knowledge of the conditions at the bridge. I tried to explain to Yak Tulku that this would not be an easy journey like the tours we used to make, this time it was going to be a life-or-death escape. We would have to reduce our baggage to a minimum and make ourselves as inconspicuous as possible. He still wanted to come with me, but felt he must first consult his secretary. He thought that the baggage question could be solved if he came with us on horseback with a few monks only bringing whatever was required for the journey; a small additional number of mules would suffice to carry the most valuable possessions, leaving a second party to follow consisting of the other monks with yaks to transport the remainder of the baggage. However, he doubted whether he could make all these arrangements by the twenty-third. I emphasized that the party must be kept as small as possible, or there would be no chance for any of us. If many people wanted to try and escape, they must split up into smaller groups and travel separately. Whereupon Yak Tulku went back to his monastery to collect his party.