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. 

Instinctive Amnesia: A Joke

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.

Palpable We're

We bear,

We feel,

Amid distorting oddities.

We are,

What taken,

The commanding exotic whacks.

We hone,

We dig,

To the challenges smiles and scowls.

We see,

Should bear on,

The narrowness of ‘narcissism’ applied for us?

We struggle,

Inch on,

Against the ‘daylight’ bullies veiled bare.

We sense,

Etched fixed,

The status ‘R’, the source of our inspiration ahead!

Take it,

Wield it,

Dart ahead to the frontline, our optimism flaring on.

See!

Once again precluded a seething rancour,

The act of sufferance taken, brooded for…

The odd world’s regalement—watch, rewind.

Pre-organized our loss; charge to the petty wind.

Closer!

The venomous ‘influence’ pervades along,

The failing states yield to narcissistic fear,

Destined we are to face it; beware not to err!

‘Our ballots, rights’, see, cost how we brave along.

Our unity,

Their futility!  

Ladhak: The Next Door Warmness (In trace of a long dream homeward)

I

The serpent road leads me up along by the turns blind here and there till the height, the point from where I cast down the weary looks toward the directions infinitely stretched afar blurred, the suspending nebula-canopies ride high up there giving yet another coloration to the permeating sun-rays through the cotton-white cloud-blankets hovering in the unpolluted biting air. The frowning bald dunes seem to overlap like in the bowing gesture to the appearing halo glow of the sun; their coats of frowning dark moistures tarnished in an instant to the dazzling pale grey. And I am drawn from here.

II

Following the dust coated narrow road with thinning asphalt, my cast stops there at the turn blind. But the blaring dusting heavy lorry lets my heart leap alert, alarming for its rescue, to navigate inverse. I can almost save it, the blind hooter; the moonscape ravine is filled with its blaring reverberating. Then the thin veil of nebula leads me on…

III

Like from the stern to the prow of a jolting light boat in a gusting current I have to cross over there on the other side to carry on my journey ahead. The sight of the means sends a lightning shudder along my spine, letting me hold back once before setting the first step on it. Yes, to clamber lying, the instant idea that helps me on the other side but like in a wildly swinging cradle-adventure. The surface of the glistening transparent water below ruffled with the ramming untouched. The grimy knotted ropes squeak with the screeches, the overburden taken from the stranger here. “Now you are done!” A fluffy refreshing breeze lets me feel my sweat drenched body still flexing. I am drawn from here again.

IV

The enigmatic natural formations against the backdrop of bleached grit-coated rising dunes grip me with the whim to identify them. I fall back. The latent but surfacing memory hits me hard to take them as the heavenly artworks our great ancestors had pursued. I can manage to make a conjuring animation out of this another world, back turned to us. A shooting spark of comet ray reckons me back again to carry on…

V

The normal but rickety foot-bridge leads across above the smoothly flowing clear-blue water. The frowning boulders smirk at the paces taken by this lonely wanderer. I am to find my way home any way. A splashing white froth bids me farewell. 

VI

There my home, secluded for the purpose not to be ignorantly vibrant. It’s said as my home in my struggle for claiming as not bearing the right façade of the one where I was born and brought up till 12. Despite the menacing baldness of the ridges around the reserved dais, on which it is situated, corresponds to my memo image. And I take it so. No sign of single trail of smokes rising up from any household. I think everyone has left for work out in the fields. With my sense of belongingness I am drawn again along…

VII

Passing by this single household quietly deserted, not a single movement of life found. But the distant sun lit snow-clad ridges aglow, prompting me to cast a long look from them to here, seemingly my home. Are those dried stuffs on the flat mud-roof stored for me, for the ongoing or upcoming winter fuel? I feel a blind love. Hark, I have to leave instantly…

VIII

The familiar sign but taken aback pondering where I’m to enter through, the alpine Himalayas, the lair of Yak—the entwining sign of closeness. This traffic sign of peeling Yak horns leads me up following the source of the clear cool brook gurgling like chuckling endlessly to the bastion. I hurry along my way up…

IX

There thou art rising abreast the snowy castles, thy domain. Thy dignified composure and casual cast mould up a vibe nonchalantly free, relaxed and open like the speckles azure sky—the interplay of natural bond found. I find it here to relate to what I have learned back there in the text: The secret of seclusion. “Aye, you don’t seem to stand it,” the single strike of the hoof on the rocky ground chases me away…

X

The steady stare of yours, though not welcoming, signals me for the marvels ahead. “Well, the furry angel lamb……..I’m leaving!”

I hasten to pass by…

XI

The beautifully engraved six-syllable-mantra, known as the essence of Buddha Dharma, with the dedicated designs on the reddish block of standing stone exudes the lavishness of time rendered by a lonely passerby for spiritual aspiration—for the self and others. With this shaky ground of devotion I pass by but with a sensing appreciation…

Phugthar monastery, Ladhak Zanskar, in the distance

XII

The same point here, from where I’m destined to have a glance of the real hermit-monastery on the waist of the soft-rock hill: the main shrine enclosed within the cave whose entrance opening can be viewed following the hermitages (mud quarters) sprawling up to it like devoted practitioners lining up through probation steps to obtain the entry ticket for the main determined courses for eternal salvation. The dangerously perching ramshackle hermitages on the crisp rock ledges are only for a wanderer’s fear being unaware of the past centuries long existence thus fossilized. I have the same feeling too, “How one can guarantee one’s safety in such one….” Better turn away, the precipice head-reeling, the bottom stream glistening blind. “Only to be here is my luck,” I seek the condolence desperately. And to move on forward…

Thigsay monastery, Ladhak Leh

XIII

The familiar picture in many past sub-conscious reflections, the one bearing the same disclosure of Potala Palace, Lhasa. It isn’t Potala of Lhasa; it’s Potala of next door warmness, the neighboring Thibet. I’m to learn later Thigsay monastery in Lahdak Leh bears the same physical patterns. With a heightened spirit I stare at it till dusk, when a buzzing wasp interrupts my musing stare, signaling me the approaching darkness but now the sun set glory tingeing the entire historic edifice with sepia grandeur. “Oh, is it real? Can it be what’s called Golden Realm in the heavenly state?” But that can’t be more magnificent than it. Riding on a horse of golden nebula, I am casted aback…

XIV

As to find my way back I can’t stop thinking about passing through the spirit lifting alpine marvels ahead once again as heralded by this chilling snow-clad towering monolith. Dancing to the melodies of the crackling glaciers, I don’t feel my numbed feet at all. Behold, this is where I belong! I continue dancing along…

XV

The only so rigidly etched image of the dark monolith, the hard-rock one, must be it, the one bearing the profound significance of Gonpo Rangjon (the natural impression of Maha Kala) on a certain part of it, of heavenly touch. To pass by it on foot is like passing in or out of heavenly gate. Its towering solidity melts the hardened ego soft here. “Oh, thy greatness!” I’m found praying once again along…

XVI

The reverberating distant ripple of horse-bells melodies proves my luck of catching up a caravan again. There they are in their routinely relaxed march; there they are in their threading dependence, giving me a niche to fill up from behind. I follow them till Manali, their last destination, from where to catch a bus to Delhi to catch my train Nizam-Goa Exp to South. “Aha, I am gifted again this time,” I pride for being able to take the same journey again.

A disturbing cawing by that lingering old crow on the mango tree next to my window jolts me out of this pleasant dream. So I waste no time in searching for those above responsive pictures that relate so closely to my dreamscapes.

*

I would like to thank Achu Gelek, my Ladhaki friend, for gifting me those pictures, mostly of Ladhak Zanskar, his native home. And also for his Western friends who have gifted him the load of pictures, from which I select the above speaking ones.