It was once in Tibet. As the basic Tibetan monastic studies involve, even these days, the memorization of religious hymnal scripts to the root texts of the great Buddhist thoughts and sciences as compulsory, I wonder if it had been established for training a novice’s memory capacity to further it from merely relying on jotted notes. It can be found even today a novice dragging on with the tedious task till past midnight but so early in the morning. And so the case has ebbed sadly to the tune of challenging modern glitters and distractions.
Yes, the story is about such a novice but with an ill-fated memory malfunction. He couldn’t get a stanza of hymnal root verses etched on to his memory even after reading on loudly for long hours. But the progress only in reading-coherence. He knew it desperately as his master did.
And it was one day when he was to show up before his master to pass the probation of the day’s task, a stanza recitation. When he was about to walk over the doorsill to enter his master’s quarter, he happened to stumble down tripping his foot on the doorsill. As he got up quickly to recompose, he found every trace of his day’s memorized task had blotted out, so blank. He tried vacantly but in vain. But he had to approach his master respectfully with his head bowed low but out of fear that day.
Passing his traditional parchment-scripts with wooden cover over to his master, he stood speechless but desperately assigning his memory to catch a hint. No way. But out of such impossible desperate absurdity he only found his master's nick name (must be ridiculous) mouthing unknowingly and automatically. Oh no, he was transfixed. But his master was shocked even more.
“Who told you about it, you rascal,” the master demanded furiously.
“No, master. After blanking out what I memorized for today as of the fall, I happened to say so. I’m so sorry, master,” he bowed his head lower.
“Get away from my sight now!”
He hastened towards the door bowing, still like in a state of hypnosis.
*
I would like to thank Samlo Thayee (Lobsang Yeshi) for sharing this story when broaching over a cup of strong sweet milk-tea at Kushok Nyetsang La's quarter.
