Tashi’s case had been an exception on two counts: he had opted for and been admitted to the lamasery. After spending ten years there, he had been sent back to the village, ostensibly to run the school. The village had welcomed him back with the same consideration and politeness they had shown him earlier. He had been offered a wife and questioned politely about the reasons for his return. With equal courtesy, he had declined the kind offer and deflected the questions. He knew the villagers gossiped about him, but that did not seem to bother him.
Tashi had not adjusted very well to the life of a monk and though he had a quick and intuitive mind, he had found the rigours of monastic life suffocating. He found that his tutors were not as patient with him as the village people had been and often made no effort to conceal their irritation. It was in his third year at the lamasery that he had been summoned by the head lama. This was a departure from the norm. Young monks had no contact with the head lama till their tenth year, when they were initiated into the order and permitted to wear the red robes that would bestow on them the status of an ordained lama. Tashi’s immediate superior was quite convinced that the boy had been summoned for a dressing-down and was fearful that he himself would be chided for his pupil’s lack of discipline and reluctance to conform.
Tashi had entered the head lama’s chambers with considerable trepidation, but was soon put at ease by the old man who greeted him with twinkling eyes and asked him to sit beside him on the yak skin, while he served him a bowl of
tsampa
.
‘Tell me, Tashi, are you happy here at the lamasery?’ the head lama asked him.
‘Yes, Venerable Father,’ Tashi replied, for want of anything else to say.
‘You are not being entirely truthful, my son,’ said the old man.
The eyes fixed on Tashi were still kind, but demanded an answer.
‘Happiness is a relative term, as we have been taught in our studies,’ Tashi replied, taking courage. ‘To know happiness, one must have been unhappy, which is something I have not yet experienced.’
‘Well answered,’ the head lama said kindly. ‘It may be, then, that you are content?’
‘I cannot truthfully say that I am, Venerable Father,’ Tashi admitted.
The old man remained silent, gazing at him with his serene eyes. He spoke up after a while.
‘Tashi, here in the valley, we have an order and a balance which the world outside strives hard to find. Our whole community has a purpose. We are, as you would have been taught, the repository of ancient wisdom; many of us find contentment in fulfilling the purpose for which we were born – to preserve that wisdom.’
The old man paused to take a spoonful of
tsampa
from his own bowl.
‘But I can understand your state; your mind is as restless as the land in which we live, where the magnetic needle cannot point to one direction with any stability.’ The old man passed his palm over his tonsured head and continued, ‘Tashi, as of now, your formal studies as a lama are over. But henceforth, I want you to undertake two tasks at the lamasery.’
Tashi bowed, waiting for the old man to speak further.
‘You will help in looking after the library and the room of artefacts. Also, I would like you to assist the others in looking after the needs of the pilgrims.’
This was a departure from the kind of tasks assigned to a monk who had spent as much time at the lamasery as Tashi had. Normally, such monks worked for many years in the caves, preserving the ancient wisdom hewn by countless predecessors on the basalt walls or carving out fresh ones, as directed by their superiors. Tashi was being moved away from the
sangha
. It was much later that he would realize that in these tasks, the head lama had granted him a degree of satisfaction, bordering on happiness, that he had never felt before.
The pilgrims belonged to one of the two groups of people from the outside world who came to the valley, the other being young families from related tribes who found their way into the valley through the Northern Gate every twelve years. The young families provided the fresh genetic pool required for the sustenance of the community.
The pilgrims came from all parts of the world, from every race, religion and walk of life. Many of them were old and infirm and needed to be looked after and made comfortable, till the time came for them to leave their present life. Others, fit and younger, would live on for many years, finding useful jobs at the lamasery. Not all the pilgrims fully comprehended the reasons and the guidance they had received for making their difficult final journey to the valley. In many cases, what had prompted them to embark on the journey was a dream or a cryptic message given to them by a mystic they had chanced upon. Once they had entered the gates, they were picked up by the Jhagun who would bring them to the lamasery.
The library and the room of artefacts contained many wonderful things which Tashi delighted in studying; there were books, maps and scrolls in many strange languages which he would try to read, asking some of the pilgrims to explain what they could to him. There were also the sacred scripts which recounted the history of the Sacred Mountain. Many of the pilgrims would make offerings, which were politely accepted, of items made of yellow and white metal and coloured stones which Tashi came to understand were valuable possessions in the world outside. Such gifts would then be taken away and consigned to a huge cave where they accumulated in heaps on the floor.
In Tashi’s tenth year, when many of his peers were preparing to receive their red robes, the head lama had sent for him again.
‘Tashi, it is the Year of the Tiger, when young families will come to the village. I also understand that the present teacher for the children is now too old to perform his duties. I would, therefore, like you to go back to the village and run the school.’
Tashi had bowed and obediently carried out the head lama’s command. He had gone back to the village.
Below, on the path leading up to where he sat, Tashi now noticed movement and a cloud of dust. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the haze; riders were approaching in single file. The lead rider carried a red flag. He was surprised to discover that it was the head lama. He hastily got up to receive him.
The Gurkhan, war leader of the Jhagun, helped the old man dismount. The head lama gestured at the man, indicating he should wait for him there and walked up to the cave with jerky steps. Tashi bowed low, hands clasped before him.
‘Greetings and obeisance, Most Venerable Father.’
‘May the gods be victorious. Come, Tashi, my son, let us sit down and watch the sun go down together.’
Tashi made space on the mat and sat down after the old man had made himself comfortable.
‘How are the children?’
‘They are well, Venerable Father, and attending to their studies diligently,’ Tashi replied haltingly.
He wondered if this visit was a gentle rebuke for his absence from the school.
‘Undoubtedly, a day of play in the sun will do them a world of good,’ the old man said with a twinkle in his eye.
Tashi remained silent.
‘I have a duty for you to perform, Tashi,’ the head lama said, coming quickly to the point.
‘Command me, Venerable One.’
‘In the times to come, there will be a group of pilgrims who will make their way to the Sacred Mountain from the Western Gate. They will bring with them great danger, something which may be so calamitous as to threaten our very existence. They are more dangerous than the Torghuts and it is possible that our Jhagun will be no match for them.’
Tashi let the head lama’s words sink in. The Torghuts were a tribe of robbers who for centuries had searched in vain for the Sacred Mountain. He knew that the Jhagun patrolled the four gates – North, South, East and West – which lay on the ring of mountains demarcating the outer perimeter. Sometimes, the Torghuts would unknowingly make their entry through the gates, whereupon they would be trailed, ambushed and slaughtered to the last man by the Jhagun.
‘How may I be of assistance, Venerable Father?’ he now asked.
‘I would like you to accompany the Jhagun so that you can assist this group of pilgrims. It is the only way in which the danger that portends can be averted.’
‘But I can barely ride and I don’t know how to shoot arrows, Venerable One,’ Tashi said in mild protest.
‘I know you cannot, but it is only you, with your studies in the library and your interactions with the pilgrims, who can converse with the newcomers and guide them along the right path.’
‘Is this danger you speak of, Venerable Father, to come in the form of evil people who seek to plunder?’ Tashi asked.
‘Perhaps, but more frightening still is their wish to know the secrets we hold so that they can be revealed to the outside world.’
‘And who are these pilgrims?’
The head lama did not speak for some time. Then he said softly, ‘There is one who is destined to guide us in the future.’
‘And the others?’
‘They will play their part. But eventually they will want to go back to their world.’
‘And how will that be possible, Venerable One?’
‘You have read about that in the scripts, Tashi. You may help them in their journey, if you so wish.’ The head lama smiled at him.
Tashi looked at the old man in wonderment.
The head lama had known his mind all along!
‘It will be as you have desired, O Venerable Father,’ Tashi murmured formally, but couldn’t help asking an impetuous question. ‘Will this danger be averted?’
‘I do not know, Tashi,’ the old man said, staring into the sunset. ‘The wheel of destiny is turned by human deeds.’
The head lama thought of his community which had lived tucked away in the high mountains, custodians of an ancient wisdom, from the time of the Age of Magic, when the shamans ruled and it was called Tagzig Olmo Lung Ring, through the time it was a kingdom ruled by fourteen kings, till today, when the kingdoms had become extinct and all that remained was the lamasery. Never had it faced greater danger.
He stretched, then turned to Tashi.
‘Will you not light your pipe?’
Tashi turned ashen; he had hoped this was one secret the old man did not know about, but seeing the smile on his face, he quickly reached into his robes and took out the wooden pipe and the small bag of powdered poppy seeds, from which he filled his pipe and struck flints to light it. He handed over the pipe to the old man who took a long, contented puff.
‘In the many years that I have lived, Tashi, I have yet to meet someone who so assiduously seeks to leave perfection in pursuit of imperfection.’ The head lama smiled again. ‘I pray to the gods that your wish is granted.’
Past the Western Gate
S
EPTEMBER 1986
They had just crested the mountain when the wind struck with renewed force, peppering them with fine sand and making it impossible for them to stand in place. They hurried behind a huge boulder, with Peter leading the two mules, the only pack animals they were now left with. Ashton sat down heavily on the ground. Susan came up and sat beside him. Then she put her arms around him. After a moment, Ashton got up and walked to the lip of the fissure from which they had just clambered out. Then he knelt on the ground, his head bowed in prayer, his hands clasped before him.
‘Goodbye, friend,’ he muttered, finally opening his eyes, his voice breaking.
The howling wind seized the words and tossed them far away.
On the other side of the crest line, Peter stood looking down at the valley floor some 2,000 feet below, the slope so steep it was almost a sheer drop. After going down ten feet or so, it was all sand – fine as flour – lying in thick drifts all the way down. It was this sand which now swirled in the wind, stinging their faces and making it difficult for them to keep their eyes open. On one side of the valley, a river flowed, its muddy red banks devoid of any vegetation, winding its way, snake-like, and disappearing into another range of mountains in the far distance.
He turned and saw Ashton still kneeling on the lip of the fissure. Susan was crouching next to him. Peter now approached them.
‘We need to be getting down, Colonel,’ he said gently ‘and fast. We are much too high up.’
‘It isn’t worth it. What I’m doing just isn’t worth it,’ Ashton muttered, almost to himself.
Slowly, he pulled himself together and stood up. They all walked up to the edge of the crest.
‘I can’t seem to find a path leading down,’ Peter observed. ‘Sure we’re going in the right direction?’
‘I think so,’ Ashton replied, narrowing his eyes against the blowing gusts of sand to see ahead and below. ‘We don’t have much choice, do we?’
‘Because once we go down, we can’t ever get back out the way we came,’ Peter explained, gesturing towards the sand.
Ashton nodded. The slope was just too steep; they might be able to slide down its flank, but climbing up again was impossible. Nor could they retrace their steps and return along the route they had taken through the fissure.
They scouted around for a bit, looking for the safest spot, before stepping gingerly off the crest, pushing the two mules ahead of them to circumvent the danger of having the animals land on top of them when they themselves began to slide down. Terrified of the sheer drop, the mules instinctively shied back from the edge and it required the combined strength of both men to push each one down. They watched the animals scrabbling around for a hold in the sand as they descended, desperately trying to maintain their balance as they slid haphazardly down the incline, their loads tumbling off, until they reached the bottom. One of the mules got back up on all fours almost immediately after landing; the other lay still on its side. They were beginning to fear it might be hurt or dead, but to their relief, the beast soon righted itself and walked, albeit shakily, to the spot where the first one stood waiting.
‘Have you skied before?’ Peter asked his companions.
‘Yes,’ Ashton said.
‘Not very well,’ Susan replied, looking apprehensive.
‘It doesn’t really matter,’ Peter reassured her. ‘It’s the same principle, only easier. There are no points for looking good or maintaining your balance. The only thing you have to do is keep going down in free fall, as it were, and try not getting buried in a drift.’ He allowed the information to sink in, before continuing, ‘If you do find you’re beginning to get buried, try working through it like you would through snow, making swimming motions with your hands and legs. In any case, try making a space between your head and your body to trap some air.’ Peter pointed to the slope. ‘We’ll try following the path the animals took. At least, we now know…’ he stopped in mid-sentence.