Seven Years in Tibet

  When a child is born in a noble family, the infant at once gets a special nursemaid, who must never leave it day or night. Great celebrations follow the birth of a child, but there is nothing like our baptismal ceremony, and there are no godfathers. Before giving the infant its name (or rather names, as every child has several), the parents consult a lama, who decides what the infant shall be called only after studying the astrological aspects of the case. If the child subsequently suffers a serious illness, it is usual to give him fresh names. One of my grown-up friends once changed his name after an attack of dysentery, to my perpetual confusion.

  At the celebration of the birth of the Dalai Lama’s little brother, we were entertained to a Lucullan feast, at which we sat on cushions at little tables in due order of precedence. For two consecutive hours the servants served course after course—I counted forty, but that was not the end. To eat through such a dinner required special training. I must be excused from mentioning all the delicacies that were offered to us, but I remember that they included all sorts of Indian spiced dishes and ended up with soup of noodles. For drinks we had, among other things, beer, whisky, and port. By the end of the repast, many of the guests were tipsy, but that is no disgrace in Tibet; it contributes to the general merriment.

  The party broke up soon after the banquet. Horses and servants provided by the host waited outside to take the guests home. Invitations to other parties were launched indiscriminately, and it needed a discerning ear to distinguish between those that were meant seriously and those that were just a form of politeness.

  Aufschnaiter and I were often invited to this house, and I was soon on terms of cordial friendship with Lobsang Samten. This attractive youth was just entering upon his career as a monk. As the brother of the Dalai Lama he had brilliant prospects. One day he was to play a great part as the intermediary between his brother and the government. But the burden of a great position was already beginning to weigh him down. He could not choose his acquaintances freely. Whatever he did and wherever he went, all sorts of inferences were drawn. When he called on a high functionary on some official occasion, his entry into the room caused an awestruck silence and everyone, even cabinet ministers, rose from their seats to show respect to the brother of the God-King. All this might have turned a young man’s head, but Lobsang Samten never lost his modest demeanor.

  He often talked to me about his young brother who lived a lonely life in the Potala. I had already noticed that all the guests at parties hid themselves when the figure of the Dalai Lama appeared walking on the flat roof of the palace. Lobsang gave me a rather touching explanation of this. The young God-King possessed a number of excellent telescopes and field glasses, and it amused him to watch the life and doings of his subjects in the town. For him the Potala was a golden prison. He spent many hours daily praying and studying in the dark palace rooms. He had little free time and few pleasures. When the guests at a merry party felt themselves being looked at, they vanished as soon as possible from the field of vision. They did not want to sadden the heart of the young ruler, who could never hope to enjoy such distractions.

  Lobsang Samten was his only friend and confidant, and had access to him at all times. He served as the link between him and the outer world and had to tell his brother everything that was going on. I learned from Lobsang that he was much interested in our activities and that he had often watched me through his telescope as I worked in the garden. He also told me that his brother was much looking forward to moving into his summer residence at Norbulingka. The fine weather had come, and he felt himself cramped in the Potala and longed to be able to take exercise out of doors.

  Now the season of sandstorms was over, and the peach trees were in blossom. On the neighboring peaks, the last remnants of the snow shone blindly white in the warm sunshine, giving that peculiar charm to the springtime that I remembered in our mountain scenery at home. One day the summer season was officially declared to have begun, and summer clothes might be worn. One had no right to leave off one’s furs when one wanted to. Every year, after considerations of the omens, a day was fixed on which the nobles and monks put on summer dress. The weather might have already been very warm, or snowstorms might follow. That did not matter. Summer dress must be worn from that date only. The same thing happens in autumn, when winter dress is officially resumed. I continually used to hear complaints that the changeover had come too soon or too late and that people were stifling or half-frozen.

  The change of clothing is accompanied by a ceremony that lasts for hours. Servants bring new clothes bound up in bundles on their backs. The monks have an easier passage. They merely change their fur-brimmed hats for plate-shaped papier-mâché headdress. The whole appearance of the town is changed when everyone suddenly appears in new clothes.

  There is, however, one other occasion for a change of costume, and that is when the whole official world accompanies the Dalai Lama in a gorgeous procession to the Summer Garden. Aufschnaiter and I looked forward to watching it. We felt that we might get a close-up view of the Living Buddha.

  IT WAS a glorious summer day, and the whole town moved out through the western gate along the two-mile stretch that separates the Potala and the Norbulingka palaces. It was quite a job finding room to walk without being trodden on.

  I was sorry I had no camera to take pictures of the variegated crowds. Of course, only a color film would do it justice. This was a day of rejoicing for everyone, the opening day of summer, and I was glad for the boy who was going to exchange his gloomy prison for a lovely summer garden. He had little enough sunshine in his life.

  Splendid and imposing as the Potala Palace is externally, it is miserably dark and uncomfortable as a dwelling place. It is probable that all the God-Kings were glad to get away from it as soon as possible, for the Summer Garden residence of Norbulingka was planned as long ago as the reign of the seventh Dalai Lama, but completed only by the thirteenth.

  The latter monarch was a great reformer and at the same time a man of modern ideas. He actually imported for his own use three automobiles. These were taken to pieces at the frontier and carried by coolies and yaks over the mountains to the capital, where an Indian-trained mechanic reassembled them. This man was then appointed as chauffeur to His Majesty. He often used to talk to me sadly about his three cars, which now stood idle, but not unguarded, in a shed. They were two Austins and a Dodge. For a short while, they had been the sensation of Tibet, and now they mourned for their dead lord and rusted in honorable decay. The story of how the thirteenth Dalai Lama used his automobiles to escape from his winter prison still provokes laughter. In the autumn he used to return with pomp and circumstance to the Potala, but as soon as the crowds were out of the way, he would get into one of the cars and drive back to Norbulingka.

  We heard the blare of trumpets and trombones. The procession approached. The murmurs of the crowd were hushed, and a reverent silence reigned, for the head of the column was in sight. A host of serving monks formed the vanguard. With them they carried the God-King’s personal effects done up in bundles, each bundle wrapped in a yellow silk cloth. Yellow is the color of the Reformed Lamaistic Church, which is also known as the Yellow Church. An old legend tells why this color was chosen.

  Tsong Kapa, the great reformer of Buddhism in Tibet, was standing on the day of his entry into the monastery of Sakya at the tail of a line of novices. When it was his turn to be robed, the supply of red hats had run out. In order that he should not be hatless, someone grabbed the first hat that came to hand and put it on his head. It chanced to be a yellow one. Tsong Kapa never gave up wearing it, and so yellow came to be adopted as the color of the Reformed Church. The Dalai Lama always used to wear a yellow silk cap at receptions and ceremonies, and all the objects in regular use by him were of this color. The use of yellow was a privilege which he alone possessed.

  Soon we saw the God-King’s favorite birds being carried by in their cages. Now and then a parrot called out a welcoming word in Tibetan, which
the faithful crowd received with rapturous sighs as a personal message from their God. At an interval behind the servants came monks with banners decorated with texts. Next came a band of mounted musicians wearing brightly colored, old-fashioned garb and playing old-fashioned instruments, from which they produced curious, whimpering sounds. After them followed an army of monks from the Tsedrung, also on horseback and marshaled in order of rank. Behind them, grooms led the favorite horses of the Dalai Lama, splendidly caparisoned. Their bridles were yellow and their bits and saddles of pure gold.

  Then came a flock of high dignitaries and senior members of the God-King’s household, the latter all monks with the rank of abbot. These are the only persons, except his parents and brothers and sisters, who have the right of speech with the Dalai Lama. Alongside them marched the tall figures of the bodyguard—huge fellows chosen for their size and strength. I was told that none of them is under six feet six inches in height, and one of them measures eight feet. Their padded shoulders make them look even more formidable, and they carry long whips in their hands. The only sound to be heard came from them as in deep bass voices they called on the crowd to make way and take off their hats. This was obviously part of the ceremonial, as the people were already standing in dead silence with bowed heads and folded hands by the roadside.

  Then followed the Commander in Chief of the army. He held his sword at the salute. Compared with the silks and brocades of the other dignitaries, his khaki uniform looked strikingly modest. However, as he was free to choose the trimmings of his dress, his badge of rank and epaulettes were of pure gold. On his head he wore a sun helmet.

  And now approached the yellow, silk-lined palanquin of the Living Buddha, gleaming like gold in the sunlight. The bearers were six-and-thirty men in green silk cloaks, wearing red plate-shaped caps. A monk was holding a huge iridescent sunshade made of peacock’s feathers over the palanquin. The whole scene was a feast for the eyes—a picture revived from a long-forgotten fairy tale of the Orient.

  Around us, all heads were bowed in deep obeisance, and no one dared to raise his eyes. Aufschnaiter and I must have been noticeable with our heads only slightly bent. We absolutely had to see the Dalai Lama. And there he was—bowing to us with a smile behind the glass front of his sedan chair. His finely cut features were full of charm and dignity, but his smile was that of a boy, and we guessed that he, too, was curious to see us.

  The procession had passed its peak. Now came the secular authorities. The four cabinet ministers rode on splendid horses on either side of the sovereign. Behind them came another magnificent chair, carried by fewer bearers, in which sat the Regent, Tagtra Gyeltsab Rimpoche, styled “the Tiger Rock,” an old gentleman of seventy-three. He looked sternly before him and gave no smile of greeting. He seemed not to see the people. Strict and severe in the performance of his duties, he has as many enemies as friends. After him rode the representatives of the Three Pillars of the State, the abbots of Sera, Drebung, and Ganden. Then came the nobles in due order of rank, each group wearing the costume appropriate to its status. The junior orders wore absurd little caps that just covered their topknots and were fastened with a ribbon under their chins.

  Deep in contemplation of the spectacle, I suddenly heard the sound of familiar music. Yes—no mistake about it, the British National Anthem! The band of the bodyguard had taken up its station halfway along the route, and the royal chair must just have come up to them. So, to honor the God-King, they played “God Save the Queen.” I have generally heard it better played, but it has never caused me such bewilderment. I learned later that the bandmaster had been trained in the Indian Army. He had noticed that this air played an important part at all ceremonies, so he brought the music back with him. It has been set to Tibetan words, but I have never heard them sung. The brass band finished the anthem creditably with the exception of a few wrong notes by the trumpets due to the rarefied air, and then the pipers of the police band played a selection of Scottish airs.

  Tibetan music knows no harmonies, but its melodies are pleasing to our ears. In the same piece they pass easily from the gloomy to the gay, and changes of rhythm are frequent.

  The procession vanished behind the gates of the Summer Palace, and the crowds dispersed, mostly to spend the rest of the day in the open air. The nomads, sweating in their warm sheepskin cloaks, strike their tents and move off to their highland homes in the Changthang. No Tibetan is anxious to go on a pilgrimage to India in summer, and no nomads come willingly to Lhasa in the warm weather. The capital is only 12,000 feet above sea level, and the nomads, most of whom live at 15,000 feet, find the warmth oppressive.

  We walked home deeply impressed by all that we had seen. We could not have witnessed a better example of the distribution of authority in Tibet than in the procession that had moved by before us—with the Dalai Lama and the regent as the high peaks, and the different grades tapered downward to front and rear. It was significant of their power in the state that the monks marched in front.

  Religion is the heart of the fabric of the State. Pilgrims from the remotest parts of the Changthang undergo countless hardships in order to come once a year and witness this brilliant manifestation of their religious faith, and they feed on the memory during their hard and lonely lives. The daily life of Tibetans is ordered by religious belief. Pious texts are constantly on their lips; prayer wheels turn without ceasing; prayer flags wave on the roofs of houses and the summits of the mountain passes; the rain, the wind, all the phenomena of nature, the lonely peaks of the snow-clad mountains, bear witness to the universal presence of the gods whose anger is manifested by the hailstorm, and whose benevolence is displayed by the fruitfulness and fertility of the land. The life of the people is regulated by the divine will, whose interpreters the lamas are. Before anything is undertaken, we must test the omens. The gods must be unceasingly entreated, placated, or thanked. Prayer lamps burned everywhere, in the house of the noble and in the tent of the nomad—the same faith has kindled them. Earthly existence is of little worth in Tibet, and death has no terrors. Men know that they will be born again and hope for a higher form of existence in the next life, earned by pious conduct in this one. The Church is the highest court of appeal, and the simplest monk is respected by the people and addressed by the title of Kusho, as if he were a member of the nobility. In every family at least one of the sons is dedicated to the cloister in token of reverence for the Church and to give the child a good start in life.

  In all these years I have never met anyone who expressed the slightest doubt about the truth of Buddha’s teaching. There are, it is true, many sects, but they differ only in externals. One cannot close one’s heart to the religious fervor that radiates from everyone. After a short time in the country, it was no longer possible for one thoughtlessly to kill a fly, and I have never in the presence of a Tibetan squashed an insect that bothered me. The attitude of the people in these matters is really touching. If at a picnic an ant crawls up one’s clothes, it is gently picked up and set down. It is a catastrophe when a fly falls into a cup of tea. It must at all costs be saved from drowning as it may be the reincarnation of one’s dead grandmother. In winter they break the ice in the pools to save the fishes before they freeze to death, and in summer they rescue them before the pools dry up. These creatures are kept in pails or tins until they can be restored to their home waters. Meanwhile, their rescuers have done something for the good of their own souls. The more life one can save the happier one is.

  I shall never forget an experience I had with my friend Wangdüla. We went one day to the only Chinese restaurant and there saw a goose running around the courtyard, apparently on its way to the cooking pot. Wangdüla quickly took a bank note of considerable value from his pocket and bought the goose from the restaurant keeper. He then had his servant carry the goose home, and for years afterward I used to see the lucky creature waddling about his place.

  Typical of this attitude toward all living creatures was a rescript issued in all parts
of the country to persons engaged in building operations—this was during the three years that the young Dalai Lama spent in meditation. It was pointed out that worms and insects might easily be killed during the work of building, and the utmost care to avoid this was enjoined on all. Later on, when I was in charge of earthworks, I saw with my own eyes how the coolies used to go through each spadeful of earth and take out anything living.

  It follows from this principle that there is no capital punishment in Tibet. Murder is regarded as the most heinous of crimes, but the murderer is only flogged and has iron fetters forged onto his ankles. It is true that the floggings are in fact less humane than the death penalty as it is carried out in Western lands. The victim often dies an agonizing death after the penalty has been inflicted, but the religious principle has not been infringed. Criminals condemned to a life in chains are either shut up in the state prison at Shö or sent to a district governor who is responsible for their custody. Their fate is certainly preferable to that of the convicts in the prisons who are permitted to leave their gaol only on the birth- and death-day of the Buddha, when they may beg for alms in the Lingkhor, chained to fellow prisoners.

  Theft and various minor offenses are punished with public whipping. A board on which his offense is written is slung around the neck of the offender, and he has to stand for a few days in a sort of pillory. Here again, charitable people come and give him food and drink. When highwaymen or robbers are caught, they are usually condemned to have a hand or a foot cut off. I was horrified to see in what manner wounds so inflicted were sterilized. The limb is plunged into boiling butter and held there. Even that does not deter evildoers. A governor told me of criminals who held out their hands for punishment with an impudent gesture and after a few weeks resumed their life of crime. In Lhasa such savage forms of punishment have now been discontinued.