A Reminiscence of My Childhood Days: Paro Bhutan, My Birth Place

A perfect one for the reminiscence of my childhood, how many times did I cross that classic structure over to the little market from school and vice-versa. Thanks! (Got it from Wangdue’s facebook album. Nyimei Zampa, Paro Bhutan, by which our new home is situated now.)

A Glimpse of a Tibetan Refugee Household at Mundgod

January 30, 2011

As having nothing to do for the time, with more people gathering for His Holiness’s teachings ahead, I accompany Phuntsok to camp # 5 as he has got to pay a receipt to the monk at Thoding monastery. Walking along the dust coated road that diverges from the main but badly potholed and damaged road at the turn, we head towards the monastery, which is known for having those historic relics and antiquities that have been attracting Tibetan and Himalayan devotees from outside. It stands next by the road on the upper part of the sloping fields and at the entrance of the camp from this side.

Entering the main gate, I find the partly paved courtyard of concrete is scorching and dazzling in the afternoon. He finds the monk, who looks nearing fifty with dark complexion working as the curator of the museum cum monastic shrine of simple concrete structure, who welcomes us inside to have a glimpse of the antiquities set on an old wooden table just before the altar on the one side. I find them a clutter of grimy items. As Phuntsok knowingly says it would take almost 2 hours to get the backgrounds of those holy items, the monk backs so too. As they are and should be treated in deferential way, I do lower my head to touch the lower part of the table. It’s over now.

And the other aged monk in such grubby robes who Phuntsok knows as a distant relation. His deformed nose with those protruding dark warts accentuates his being part of the antiquity too, the oldest one here. Following Phuntsok to his room on the ground floor of the two storey building (of the three straight line monks hostel blocks around the court yard), next to the short concrete staircase with curved concrete rail on either side that leads the way off the ground on to the raised ground floor veranda with concrete banisters, I find his single small room that stuffy with those crammed clutter, so shabby for being an aged one’s quarter. I wonder what can be behind the grimy cloth-veil partition against one side of the wall from the door but protruding like sacks of grains. Even in such crammed space there is an extra bed. The upper parts of the wall around are occupied by those old framed holders of holy images. Everything inside is a mess.

Phuntsok steps inside and talks with him and I remain outside beside the doorway. After the brief conversation we head for his aunt’s home next to the monastery taking the access through the back of the building. The low mud tiles roofed cottage with a veranda and entrance at ground level; the first room, which is narrow with black stone-slab floored, serves as the sitting room with a matted bench next to the entrance but it’s dark and the parts of the walls blackened by the smokes from the wood-fuelled fireplace set against the wall next to the gas stove. The fireplace exudes the air of quaint warmness spoken by the invigorated blackened well-sawed wooden beams, rafters and ribs. It leads to the other room on the one side and the real TV room next to it. Entering the TV room as Phuntsok enters knowingly, I find it well arranged and clean. There are three carpeted beds; a sofa set is, yet, a luxury here at Tibetan settlement. There is an interior room, its door way veiled with a white cloth (Goyol) printed with Tibetan designs in colours. From the opening I can see a table and a hand-prayer-wheel of medium size laid on it: it says it’s Chokhang, the household sanctum. The TV room is accentuated as it’s by the SONY wide flat screen rested on the glossy dark-teak TV table with open closet set with the dish operating box covered with a piece of cloth and the others and the big almost 8 feet long and 5 feet high cupboard showcase with wide white glass-shutters revealing the inset crockery of various types and qualities, mostly Chinese porcelain tea cups and mugs and a few side standing Indian porcelain plates leaning against one another. It looks well arranged and clean.

His aunt, almost above 65, in a grubby Tibetan Chuba and apron is actively warm, serving Tibetan butter salted tea, sweet milk tea and Cola from the new 2 litres plastic bottle one after another and asking repeatedly to have more. Even in her household fervour she is warm and giving. And here, yet again, the reminiscence of my late mom from her appearances and warmness, especially, when later we’re leaving, finding her busy with roasting corn in heated sand in the sort of dark thin pan put on a crude fireplace outside next to the house for grinding roasted flour, Tsampa, the staple diet of early Tibet. How many times I had seen my beloved late mom carrying out the same thing but of wheat or barley; I can remember tasting a handful of freshly roasted stuff Yoe given by her as I had been waiting by the site for the same.

I am going to learn later from Phuntsok she had served her aged bedridden mother for a year till her death at almost 86. Had her only son Tobden, the ex-army guy almost in his early forties, been of any help for her during the ordeal? He, as Phuntsok told me about, wears that look of being straightforwardly isolated. He was once married but without a trace of a wife and any child at home: Phuntsok says he has never asked about it even to his aunt. Yes, he seems to wear this look of dignity-based isolation in his rather vacant expression in a dark purple polo shirt that accentuates his crooked shoulders. But there must be his hand in those modest but well arrangements inside the low roofed sitting room from the way he stalks with the seeming air of independence.

An aged guy, the husband of his aunt, is lounging on a bed in the veranda. Phutsok talks to him and asks about his health before we go to his aunt by the fireplace to tell her we are leaving. “Do come again”, she says raising her head as she is busy by the site bending over the pan. Phunstok later tells me her husband hasn’t been well.

As Phuntsok’s prime aim of visiting his aunt’s home is to watch TV programmes, especially the hottest news now, about the 17^th Karmapa’s case that Indian media has taken rather naïvely. But, as being a few days old now, we can only have some passing catches in some tried programmes. But the press conference held at Gyuto monastery is telecasted briefly with the HH Karmapa’s spokesperson relating about the background of the incidence and the purpose of HH Karmapa’s coming to India, the five reasons. From the spokesperson’s English accent I have the impression that he isn’t a Tibetan but a Sikkimish and so I’m going to find out later that he is what my impression guesses.

*

June 20, 2013

A Complement

Now, sorry for being rather belated in adding this complement, I remember almost a year ago Phuntsok telling me about the demise of the curator monk rather like a mystery as he was only in his fifties. He shared it with me like a confidant or the one who was concerned for going with him and meeting the monk then. Blinking his busy eyes as usual and rubbing the tip of his pointy nose with his right hand fingers tips, he said with an air of both gravity and ironic easy touch (the part of his personality that’s hard to get penetrated into), ‘So he is no longer in this world like a vanished dream.’

He could conceal the inner jumble brewing within for himself alone. I got such somehow. I felt so sorry too for the late curator.

And so surprisingly and sadly he had got to share with me, only a few days gap before or later, that his aunt’s only son, who wore the air of dignified independence or isolation, passed away as well after developing an ailment. It’s like a double shock to me as well; then why not for the aged kind aunt of him, a reflection of my late beloved mom could be made out of her appearance. Oh, The Triple Gems, Konchok Sum Kheno! And Phuntsok looked far graver when he shared it as of such accidental mishap to his aged aunt with a bed-ridden husband. And for her son being in his early forties only. Could such be related to his isolation after a failed marriage—the isolation, the brunt of self-torture as ensued by his own failure in the broken marriage or by the other side? A mystery, a sad real life drama. I could only pray for them and all. And I could guess how the air in the low mud-tiles roofed refugee household presented as the most heart-wrenching, the heaviest burden only for Phunstok’s aged aunt, a simple Tibetan woman in her seventies. I was so sorry. And I do feel so. And this complement has to be added as a token of what I did and share as well. I wonder how she can be now and her immobile husband… And to breathe on. 

For His Holiness the Dalai Lama's Teachings at Tibetan Settlement, Mundgod

དུས་ཀྱི་འཕྲིན་ལས།

༼༢༠༡༡།༡།༣༡༌༌༌༌༌༌༌༢།༧ བར་༸གོང་ས་༸སྐྱབས་མགོན་ཆེན་པོ་མཆོག་ལྷོ་ཕྱོགས་མོན་གྷོ་བོད་མིའི་གཞིས་གར་དུ་ཆིབས་ཞབས་བཀྲིས་རི་མོ་མངོན་པར་བཀོད་པར།༽

འདི་ན་སྨྲེ་ངག་ཁྲོད་ལུས་པའི་སྙིང་སྨུག

ངལ་རྩོལ་མེད་པའི་ངལ་དུབ་ལྗིད་ཏིག་ཏིག


འཆར་ནུབ་རྫོགས་མེད་ཀྱི་རེ་བའི་སྣེ་མོ།
རང་བསླུས་འཛད་མེད་བསམ་གཞིག་ལྟེབ་མོ།


དེ་ལྟར་སྣང་བ་བྲལ་བའི་མུན་པའི་མཐོངས།
ཧབ་རྙོབ་རྗེས་སུ་འགྲོ་བའི་དུཿཁའི་བྱིངས།


སྨྱོས་པའི་གར་སྟབས་འཕུང་དབྱངས་སུ་འཁྱུུད།
ཅི་བྱ་རང་ཚུགས་བྲི་བའི་འཕྱན་པའི་མཚམས་སྐེད།


གང་ཉིད་འཆར་ཀའི་ཉི་གཞོན་ཀློང་རྡོལ་མགོན།
དེའི་སྨག་རུམ་སྒྲོན་གསལ་ངལ་གསོའི་དབུགས་འབྱིན།


སླར་གསོན་ཤུགས་ཤིག་བསླངས་པའི་སོ་མའི་རྩེ་དགར།
འཇུག་འགོའི་དགེ་ཞེན་འདི་ནས་བཙུགས་ལ་དེ་གར།


དབུགས་འཁྱོངས་འདུན་པའི་ཕོ་ཉས་ཨ་གསར་ཚུལ་དུ།
ཁྱོད་ཀྱིས་ནུས་ཤིང་། འོ་ད་ཧ་ལམ་ཕྱི་དྲགས་པ་ལས་སྔ་མེད།

The Life of Milarepa: A personal impression

January 20, 2011.

One of the good things that I could do in this month, for which I can be proud of, is reading The Life of Milarepa translated by Lobsang P. Lhalungpa borrowed from Phuntsok Lambu. Really found inspiring and tear shedding but the gained righteous affect, I wish, can be carried on through sustaining goodness despite lacking a sued nicety of determination whatsoever for shaping this hardening entity. At such time of wading through oddities of personal life I did find going through it was timely in spite of getting stuck in its lengthy introduction for days as of my so limited learning in Tibetan Esoteric Buddhism.

Yes, it puts this integrity to test. I happened to learn hypocrisy and indolence suck it too badly tarnishing the root potential that is bragged as possessed by each being. Yes, it challenges us as follows: (The factual insight of the passage in the introduction heralds the same episode to be proven later at the end of the book. For me, it remains germane for my being bit familiar with the same cases of how such arrogance presumes tastelessly, how such filthy vibe bypasses the true magnanimous precedence shown by the great sage, the shaman of Tibet.)

"Milarepa's critical remarks on mere scholarship and book-learning stem not so much from prejudice against the study of ideas as from insight into the way the sacred pursuit of study may be profaned to satisfy egoistic desires and fulfil selfish aims."

In essence, it teaches us the true stages for liberation is simply sustained stamina-based right commitment towards practical advancements rather than unpractical distorting complexity of any forms. So it’s up to how one spares and takes up righteousness in one’s best aptitude. If so, learning makes real difference in hand. I got it so after all.

Forgone

སྟོང་འདས།
ཡུད་ཙན་ཡིན་པ་ནི་འདིའི་ཆོས་ཉིད་ལས་མ་འགོངས།
གནས་ལུགས་དེའི་བསེར་བུའི་མཐུས་སེམས་མི་འགོངས།


འཁྱག་སིབ་སིབ་ནི་ད་ནངས་ཀྱི་བུ་ཡུག་གི་ཤུལ་རྗེས།
གཅེར་བུར་ལུས་པ་དེས་ཚོར་ཡང་མདུན་གྱི་བཀོད་པས་བསླུས།


གོམ་སྟབས་ཤིག་བསྒྲིགས་ཀྱང་འཁྱར་འཁྱོར་ཞུམ་ཞུམ།
མགོ་འཕང་ཡར་བཀྱེད་ཀྱང་སྣང་བ་རྗེན་མེར་མེར་རམ།


སྐྱ་ལྷང་ལྷང་ལས་ད་དུང་ཚུལ་འཆོས་ཀྱི་ཚེམས་དཀར་རྒོད།
དེ་ལས་དགོད་བྲོ་བ་ཞིག་གང་༌༌༌༌༌༌༌༌༌༌༌༌༌༌༌༌༌༌༌ཁོང་དགོད།


རང་འཚོལ་བའི་ལས་སྣེའི་བཞུད་ལམ་ནི་ཅི་ཙམ་རྒྱང་ཐག
འོན་ཀྱང་། ད་དུང་འཁྲེན་སེམས་མགོ་མཁྲེགས་དེ་ལྟར་ལྷག


ཚང་ཚིང་སྟུག་པོའོ་ཁྲོད་འཐོམ་སིང་སིང་གི་ཟུག་ཟེར་རྣོན་པོ།
ངས་སྡུག་སྒོམ་ཅི་ཙམ་བགྱིས་ཀྱང་ཁྲེལ་མེད་ལྟར་༌༌༌༌༌༌༌ཨུ་ཧོ།

Jang Gyunchoe Tsenphu Dhamcha: The overnight grand debate session at Drepung Loseling monastery

December 22, 2010

It is out of Phuntsok’s kind motivation from the last couple of days that I can go to the night debate on Pranama that begins from 8:00pm and lasts till 12:00am. Being one of the core educational activities of the communal debate forum of the three seats for advanced Tibetan Buddhism and the related monasteries, it’s treated with respect and spiritual pomp and here, today, more at display for the chilly night. As the past legacy of convening winter debate on Pranama at Jang in Tibet being sustained here in exile it can be said, as my personal impression here tonight, being still at its zest best if not at zenith. All I can feel being among the thronging tide of monks and sparse lay guys from different corners, who are devotedly appreciating the decorative lightings of the grand prayer-hall and the frontal portico hung with the bright colored brocade bordered scroll paintings of Lord Buddha in the mid flanked by the eight Indian Pandits (Gen Druk Chok Nyi) and the bigger ones of Jhe Tsongkhapa with the two son like disciples and Panchen Sodak (the author of Loseling literature series) set hung on either side from the concrete cap above the stair steps dais, is the same appreciation for the extravagant well managed settings. On the top dais His Holiness the Dalai Lama’s throne is set with the trimmed figure of the size of him as like to give the lively impression of his graceful presence at the grand debate session, which is flanked by the lower thrones for those high ranking lama dignitaries. A beige patterned yellowish carpet is laid from the descending steps from His Holiness throne and set with plastic flower-pots with nylon flowers on either side, the two with big sunflowers draw more attention. And the lower dais is set with foam-mattresses for Tulku on either side of the low tabled seats for the three answerers, the promise holders of their own grounded philosophical rejoinders (Dhamchawa). It’s by the laid shortlist that the three are the toppers of the year’s Gelug final board examination for graduate title of Geshe Lharampa from the three great learning seats (Gomang, Serjhe, and Jangtse). So they are found attacking later calling ‘Lharampa’ as scoffing at their any short weird turns in their holdings. Yes, I missed the last same session at Drepung Gomang seated by the toppers from Loseling, Shartse and Sermey—it’s by turn here at Drepung this year’s a month long winter debate session with two such grand events organized by the host monastic universities.

When the gathering in neat knee-by-knee sitting rows within the skimmed white demarcated lines on either side of the wide open aisle left in the mid, the standing questioners domain set with mikes on stands, is settling on the paved ground of the spacious front yard from the bottom of the wide stair steps, I with my mates occupy our positions on the top of the far side column next to the farthest one at our backs. For a while it goes on like waiting for a movement to appear on the decorated dais followed by the head figures, the seat holders, imparting the gathering with their attendance helped by their personal attendants.

The whole yard with maintained lawns and plants within the high walled compound is brightly lit mainly by those a few high voltage electrical lamps on tall posts and supported by the dotted solar lamps. Yes, the decorative lightings of small threaded bulbs on the grand building and hung on either side of the capacious paved front yard emitting a faint yellowish light play a fancy role below the speckles sky dotted with only sparse twinkling stars like hidden away or retreated for the brightness below. But the full moon with rather tarnished complexion tonight remains suspended there, seeming much closer, like trying to emit the same faint rays to match the decoration. The brightly lit porch displays the part of its rich murals and the carved concrete designs of the upper parts of the fat pillars. The towering monument of Ashoka pillar with four lion heads, of a grey marble, overlooks the vicinity with a chilling bearing that seems to be bathing in the chilly air.

As the initial program of chanting the root text of Pranama begins, I find the tilting heads before me are in recital synchronization with the chant master’s voice blaring from the speakers. It’s followed by the three answerers climbing up the steps with the yellow ceremonial hairy plush hats in their hands to offer ceremonial scarf on to His Holiness throne and to the highest dignitary, Sharpa Choeje. As I watch their progress from walking along the wide aisle in full ceremonial attires I have this feeling of appreciating their being the gifted ones, say really lucky ones to have such rare opportunity to be among such huge gathering of ordained mass and put ones’ learning to test so.

Yes, I don’t want to go into details what are discussed and in what manners. But, despite the repetitions claimed by the answerers for the groups of standing questioners’ (a batch for each answerer) clashing voices and the mishearing caused by the heavy accents of regional dialects, the whole process draws a sense of deep respect, if one knows the medium. So the humorous mocking on each other’s accents and thereby playing a joke is theatrically entertaining arousing a low wave of laughter. I do enjoy the time so much, even if the stiffening cool air troubles my stomach, numbs my knees and bites my ears. As the night deepens, the cracking joint voices of the standing boisterous questioners, navigated by the masters on the ground, blaring from the speakers reverberate like the gloomy void above mimicking the spiritual diligence below.

At 12:00am it’s over preceded by the ending prayers. And now to be among the tide of streaming monks. As I near the far west additional gate, the stampede is rather rough here as of the size of exit. It’s like fighting for one’s way out, the yonder dream land. Can it be of the time now? The gathering population is astounding. I can fight my way out but carried over there by the moving tide up the short steps. As I walk along the road, I can see the flowing stream ahead of me like evenly cut thicket of bushes moving in dust thrown up by the walking feet. 

The Lonely Sun

(for my gleaming beacon)

Bypassed with mere poetic rhetoric,

Emasculated by kowtowing hypocritic,

An offer of flowery bounty untouched,

Yet, thou, the only one, reign outstretched—

From ‘uni-responsibility’ to ‘better life’,

The shuddering wide scopes timidity riled,

Yes, an insular shoddiness, biased foul,

But the great one casts yonder, unfurled.

For now the rooted piousness emits nerve,

For it thy self-renouncement medium severe,

(Not to misunderstand with resignation made)

What thy Kalachakra-2006 frustration blared—

How we art now, unbiased art we now, heart?

Can’t hear the heraldic toll, doleful dirge now?

Why thy ‘resignation’, ‘rebirth’ rubric impalpable

To these souls after petty scrimmages, flurries?

Yes, time to draw the line, even skidding-grip,

To grip ‘together’ our bruised souls ahead leap.

This fussy sense restless, be troublesome, prowls,

‘Wake up! Let’s be prepared,’ moaning the growl.