Chapter III
Enter: God
Once again having put down the writing of this memoir for several months I find my self picking it up again and putting pen to paper. What led me to give it up? Perhaps some confusion, some fear and some preoccupation; preoccupation with trying to re-assimilate into the contemporary western world, confusion because my experience appears to me as such an amorphous blur that has yet to take form and crystallize into a linear story, fear of the wrath of the spiritually powerful people who I intend to portray in as true and unbiased a light as possible, fear not of lawsuit or litigation but of the spiritual reprisal of their supernatural protectors. For the characters in this book are neither normal members of society nor fictional figments of my imagination but real living tantric masters with great mystic and supernatural power. So before I continue I would like to state that any perceptions, observations and judgments I make in this account concerning H.H. Chatral Rinpoche and his entourage are no more than my interpretations. The reader must keep in mind that in life in general and especially in dealing with masters of Tantra nothing is as it appears and although things may appear to be skewed and contradictory in fact all phenomena are the completely pure display of the mandala of primal unborn wisdom.
So, that said, as I wrote earlier eventually the day came that I received news of the arrival of His Holiness Chatral Sangye Dorje Rinpoche. And as I described earlier I purchased an embarrassingly measly offering for the Holy One and set off to the monastery. To be in the presence of His Holiness was truly like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. His daughter Saraswati led me into his chamber or zimjung as it’s called on the top floor of the monastery. His presence was so powerful that it would not only alter one’s consciousness but his presence would alter my awareness even if he was on the same town. Reality became intense, vibrant, vivid, time slipped away. There was a feeling of adrenaline. I was seeing but not with my eyes, with my mind. I first heard his voice through the curtain over hanging his door. It was deep, vibrating like lightning and thunder.
I saw different expanses, skies, sometimes bright blue, sometimes grey, white or black.
His eyes,
not like human eyes, were like the eyes of a lion,
loving yet terrifying, compassionate yet cold,
eyes of wrath,
of God.
His beard, white and shining.
His arms, powerful.
Hands thick, beautiful.
Gold skin, a Loving God.
Reclining on mountains of pillows, seas of lamb skin,
celestial aromas of incense, oils and rare medicines filled the air.
Mounds of delicacies, mushrooms, avocados, flowers, statues, gold and silver from all over the world.
Oil handed maidens massaging his beautiful legs.
I bowed from the bottom of my heart to an enlightened being. Without a doubt this was God, God of the Jews, of the Christians, of the Muslims, of the Hindus, the Indians, the Tribals, the Pygmies, everyone, without a doubt, this was love, wisdom, wrath incarnate. I sat in awe of the majesty, splendor, royalty, divinity, grace and beauty of a perfect being, a teacher, liberator, a Buddha.
I added my gifts to a pile of offerings already amassed before the great one. He quickly gestured to his daughter Saraswati to fish out the victory banner with the eight auspicious symbols and hang it on the wall. I gave him the letters from Sonam Rinpoche including my letter of introduction. His Holiness asked through Saraswati as an interpreter if I could drive. I guess he needed a driver. I had never gotten my license so I answered no.
I sat in front of him for hours, experiencing his unbelievable blessing. For three days, from dawn till dusk, I sat before him, flying. Everyday Saraswati would tell me at the end of the day that Rinpoche was tired and he’d answer my questions tomorrow.
I started to become frantic inside. Why wasn’t he addressing me? I needed to prove myself to him, to display how important it was to me that I speak to him. I had come all this way to give my life to him. I had to display that. I considered offering him everything I owned including all my cloths but that seemed a little too crazy. I cut it down to offering one American one hundred dollar bill or perhaps two, so I kept two in my pants pocket when I entered the zimjung to meet Rinpoche that morning. After I made my three prostrations getting stingy at the last minute I placed one of the one hundred dollar bills down on the pile of offerings with a traditional white scarf or kata as they’re called. Suddenly His Holiness, who hadn’t acknowledged my presence at all since we had first met three days earlier, directed his attention towards me. Saraswati translated:
“Take your money back” Rinpoche told me “You’ll be needing it more than I will.” Saraswati continued translating for Rinpoche “If you have any thing to ask Rinpoche you can ask it now.”
At that moment all the other guests in the room began to stand up respectfully, meaning someone important was coming into the room. In came the famous Vajra Master of the Monastery, Lobpon Namka and the young peppy plump incarnation of Chatral Rinpoche’s former teacher Kathok Situ Rinpoche. After making prostrations and receiving a chak wang or blessing from His Holiness each sat down. Saraswati explained to them that I was Lama Sonam’s student and then told me with a breath of relief that Lobpon Namka could be a better translator than she.
So I began. I told Rinpoche that I had pursued happiness but all I had found was disappointment, frustration and suffering; that I had given up on the worldly life and only wanted to follow the advice of a lama. I told him that I had received the teachings, from Sonam Rinpoche, to attain Buddhahood in this lifetime but all I needed was a place where I could spend the rest of my life practicing like Milarepa. I told him I was ill, I couldn’t concentrate, I couldn’t hear properly, I always felt like I was falling into a pit.
The Holy One listened with concern and then gave his answer. Lobpon Namka translated “Rinpoche says, he doesn’t need any more monks in the monastery right now and he doesn’t have any connections with the Nepali Government in order to get you a long term visa. He said now we’ve had a chance to meet and make a connection that’s good but you should go back to Canada and study with Sonam Rinpoche, make some money and come visit again in about two years. As far as your health is concerned, Rinpoche says he’s not a scientist or a Western doctor. So he can’t give you any medicine. He says he didn’t cause your sickness; you did through your own negative actions in past lives. If you want to do something about it you can complete 100 000 recitations of the one hundred syllable mantra of Dorje Sempa.”
Half way through Lobpon Namka’s translation I was crestfallen and I could only let out a meek “thank you”. I excused myself and burst into tears making my way out of the monastery and collapsing beside a stupa (reliquary) on the then dark path to the road below. I scraped my left hand as I fell and the scar remains faintly to this day.
Now, I’ve explained a little bit about the town of Pharping and the monastery at Yangleshe along with my first meeting with H.H. Chatral Rinpoche. There are a few characters I’d like to briefly describe at this point for their later involvement in my journey. They would be Sajendra and Rajendra the two Nepali brothers who ran the tea house near Ralo Gompa, Jamyang, Sonam Rinpoche’s cousin, Tsamba Ani her husband and the Land of Snows mo-mo shop, Chamdo Anni and Choying Palmo and lastly Damtsig Dorje and Tashi Yangye, the stupa builder and his wife.
I was very serious about spending several years if not the rest of my life in the Himalayas so I was making a concerted effort not only to learn Tibetan but to also learn the Nepali language. I had bought a good Nepali language book in Katmandu and was slowly making my way through it as Dimitri had taught me to make my way through classical music harmony books back in Canada. My proficiency in Nepali later proved to be invaluable as I learned that it was Nepali, not Tibetan that was the lingua franca in most Himalayan Buddhist monasteries. My knowledge of Nepali also proved indispensable in my communication with non-Tibetan people in both Nepal and India. While I was staying there at Lama Ralo’s Gompa I used to light out to a small Nepali owned teashop or chya pasal near by. I must point out though that to make too much distinction between Tibetan Buddhist monks and Nepali people is a bit of a mistake because over half the monks in the monasteries of the Tibetan refugees are Nepali. There are many Nepali castes that are Buddhist and follow the vajrayana such as the Sherpa, Yolmo, Tato Pani, Dolpo, Neshang, Mustang, Tamang and Newar. Not only are children from these castes to be found in the Gompas but increasingly Hindu caste children such as Chetri, Rai and Ghurung are being enrolled. While Tibetans and Nepalis share a lot in common there are also distinct cultural differences between their groups. Simply speaking Nepalis are very friendly, talkative, fun loving people while Tibetans are suspicious, secretive and formal.
The tea shop I went to, to practice my Nepali was run by two brothers, Gajendra and Rajendra. Not only was it nearby, it was the best deal around; one rupee for a small glass of tea, two rupees for a glass of pure milk tea, one rupee for a pop (like a croissant) and three rupees for a cake (what we’d call a muffin). Gajendra was a plump young guy who must have been about twenty. Rajendra was thin and lighter in complexion and was always studying. Gajendra had a bushy mustache and loved to stalk with a big grin on his face helping me learn Nepali. His shop, like most shops in small town Nepal was merely the front room of the first floor of his house with no front wall. He’d spend most of his time squatting near the ground wrestling with his hand pumped kerosene stove on which he’d make everything from potato-chop to tea. I remember he’d always save my banana peals to feed to his water buffalo. He was a real nice guy. He wanted to get married and I think eventually he did. One time he invited me to have dinner with his family. The food they served me was some of the most delicious food I’ve had in my life. After the meal we went up the street to a rather barren concrete structure filled with Nepali town’s people gathered around a black and white TV watching dramatic reenactments of the Hindu epics.
A little bit further down the road from Rajendra and Gajendra was a Tibetan mo-mo restaurant called the Land of Snows. It was run by a funny couple. The wife was an uncannily beautiful Tibetan woman. She was reputed to be a former nun who had done a three year retreat under the tutelage of H.H. Chatral Rinpoche. Her husband was a talkative short guy form Mustang who had been to Thailand where he’s had sex with some prostitutes. I think she was pregnant when I first got there. They also had a Nepali cook who worked there named Kumar. He was dark skinned and spoke perfect Tibetan. As well as being a really nice guy he was a gifted cook. His tukpa (Tibetan soup), chowmein and mo-mos were all sensual delights.
Another unforgettable character was Jamyang, the suave young nephew of Sonam Rinpoche who was the Konyer or Nyerpa of the Yanglashe monastery at the time I arrived in Nepal. Throughout Tibetan history Nyerpas have been infamous position holders in Tibetan monasteries, often associated with corruption and embezzlement. The Konyer is like the secretary, accountant, bursar, purchaser, and manager of the monastery. To avoid the temptation of corruption H.H. Chatral Rinpoche hade made the position of the Nyerpa a revolving one, each Nyerpa serving a one year term.
When I met Jamyang he had recently finished a three year retreat in Yolmo and was back in Yanglashe. While I could probably write a small book just about what I know of the almost infamous Jamyang I’ll simply introduce him here. A nice way to do that would be to recount one of the first times I met him on the balcony of the Yanglashe monastery. He was sitting at a table with the then extremely pregnant Tashi Yangye. Now Tashi herself deserves a bit of introduction. She is the daughter of Pema Hlamo who herself is a permanent fixture in H.H. Chatral Rinpoche’s entourage. Tashi’s younger brother, Orgyen Chojung, the hunch back monk, deserves at least a chapter to himself. Tashi and Orgyen are two of the many children of the beautiful Dharma practitioner Pema Hlamo.
At the time I met Tashi she was pregnant with the child of and married to Damtsik Dorje, another almost mythical tragic hero in Chatral Rinpoche’s mind boggling mandala. She was pretty and petite with a piercing stare and a sharp intellect, well spoken in the Queen’s English. She sat with slick Jamyang behind her gently massaging her feminine shoulders.
“My baby” exclaimed Jamyang with a big playful grin pointing at Tashi’s swollen womb. She giggled playfully in return. I noticed Jamyang had a huge gauze bandage over his wrist.
On a different occasion, some years later, all the monks were working hard preparing for a puja. Jamyang stood gazing calmly into the distance, looking impeccable as usual in his new Sikkimese style Chuba (Tibetan robe). Sangye Gompo, a tough, dark Tamang lama commented “You should really help us a little now and then, that way when you go to hell your suffering will be a little lighter, you’re definitely going to hell but if you lend a hand maybe your suffering will be a little bit lighter when you get there.” Jamyang’s gaze intensified and a grin crept across his face.
Jamyang was quite kind to me in the early years often taking me by the hand and walking around town, always gazing off somewhere in the distance.
No description of Pharping, Yangleshe or Chatral Rinpoche’s entourage could be complete without at least a mention of the bus park samosa shop keeper, Purna who like so many of these characters had a tragic end. Purna was for many, the first friend they had in Pharping. A playful, smiling, simple, Nepali townsman, he ran a restaurant that the Scottish Anni Damcho praised as having the best samosas is the Katmandu valley. He was completely unbiased, extending a helping hand to any new visitor. On Nepali New Year he’d appear drunk before Rinpoche to receive blessings and pay homage.
After my first meeting with H.H. Chatral Rinpoche I was a little ashamed about bursting into tears so I took a bus into Katmandu and bought a bronze statue of the great yogi Milarepa whose autobiography had so influenced me and brought it back to Yangleshe. Back in Pharping I ran into Lobpon Namka, Pema Gyaltsen, Situ Rinpoche and some other Yangleshe lamas taking an evening walk. I gave the statue to Lobpon Namka and asked him to give it to His Holiness for me. Rinpoche must have liked it because it remained in his zimjung for many months on prominent display.
Back at my room at Lama Ralo’s as I practiced the meditations Sonam Rinpoche had taught me I ran over H.H. Chatral Rinpoche’s advice in my mind. I began to realize that although Rinpoche had recommended I go back home he had also recommended I complete 100 000 recitations of the one hundred syllable mantra. Having not much else to do I decided to turn my time into a Dorje Sempa retreat.
Dorje Sempa is the Buddha of the Eastern Buddha field and is associated with the purified nature of anger which is mirror-like wisdom. His practice is the practice of the purification of negative acts, karmic obscurations and broken vows and samayas. Dorje Sempa or Vajra Sattva as he is called in Sanskrit is represented as a male Buddha in sexual union with his female consort, Damtsik Drolma. They both wear beautiful ornaments of precious substances and silk garments that all symbolize different attributes of the completely enlightened mind. The practitioner visualizes this divine couple, blazing white, above his or her head and with a deep feeling of regret and determination never to repeat them again, confesses his or her moral downfalls. After the confession the practitioner recites the one hundred syllable Sanskrit mantra of Dorje Sempa and visualizes it rotating around the blue letter hung in the heart of the deity. Irresistible amrit nectar cascades from the sacred letters to the blissful point of union of the divinities’ penis and vagina from where it descends into the head of the practitioner, filling his or her body and cleansing all traces of negative karma.
I was already familiar with the practice but I knew it would be more powerful if I received the transmission of the mantra from H.H. Chatral Rinpoche himself. There are three aspects of a practice or teaching that a student of tantra must receive before authentically embarking upon executing a practice. They are the lung (transmission) wang (empowerment) and trit (commentary). The lung or transmission usually consists of the lama reading the text or mantra to the student. Although there are incredibly complex wangs or empowerments that involve extremely specific rituals and ingredients, the main point of the wang is the permission given by the teacher to the student to conduct the practice. Last is the trit or commentary which is the actual instruction on how to conduct the practice.
Luckily for me among the photocopied handouts from temples in the West that I had brought with me was copy of the one hundred syllable mantra with English transliteration. With a silk kata and some Nepali rupees in hand I went again to face the tantric lord and request the transmission.
By this time H.H.Chatral Rinpoche had moved from his zimjung above the temple in Yangleshe and was staying in the quarters built by pregnant Tashi Yangye’s husband Damtsik Dorje for the recently recognized incarnation of H.H. Dudjom Rinpoche and the plump tulku Kathok Situ Rinpoche. The property was a little up the road from the monastery towards the town. I would later be given a shack there to stay in. As I approached Chatral Rinpoche’s quarters the experience of reality morphing resumed, adrenalin flowed. His Godly voice rumbled through the curtain. White light blazed. Suddenly I was before him. I bowed. He touched my head. All thoughts ceased. He read the mantra slowly:
Om Benzra Sattva samaya manu palaya
Meaning; Om Vajra Sattva, protect my tantric commitments
Benzra Sattva tenopa tikta
Vajra Sattva, please come forth
Drido me bawa
Make me satisfied
Suto kayo me bawa
Make me steadfast
Supo kayo me bawa
Improve me
Anu rakto me bawa
Be loving towards me
Sarwa siddhi me prayatsa
Bestow upon me all attainments
Sarwa karma sutsa me
Make all my actions virtuous
Tsitan shriya kuru hung
And all circumstances auspicious
Ha ha ha ha ho Bhagawan
Ha ha ha ha ho God
Sarwa Tathagata
Embodiment of all the Buddhas
Benzra ma me muntsa
Vajra, don’t leave me
Benzri Bawa Maha Samaya Sattva
Sublime Adamantine Vajra Being
AH
Unable to stay in the presence of His Holiness for too long, for fear of loosing my mind, I excused myself.
Rinpoche’s daughter caught me in the hall and drew me into her room gesturing for me to sit on the ground among an assortment of gifts and fashion magazines. She sat on the wooden bed before me. She was beautiful and very appealing. She had long black hair and pale white skin with a certain wrathful air about her. She wore a long purple chuba with no apron signifying that she was unmarried. She engaged me in conversation and eventually explained to me that she wanted me to teach her English every morning. On the one hand I really wanted to focus on my newly received practice on the other it seemed like a great opportunity to get to know more about her father and learn some Tibetan. I accepted her offer and thus began a seven year friendship. To this day I have a large photo of Semo Saraswati in my Massachusetts apartment and view her as one of my best friends and teachers.
Not long after I started “teaching” Saraswati English, Chatral Rinpoche started officiating over a Drupchen in the very building I was staying in Lama Ralo’s monastery. The tantric teachings of Guru Rinpoche differ a lot from the sutric teachings practiced in most of the Buddhist world. Through the cause, circumstance and interconnectedness to the enlightened ones of the past, the tantric path contains countless skillful means by which beings may attain liberation. The famous and widely translated “Tibetan Book of the Dead” is called To Drol, literally, Liberation by Hearing. Most Tibetans wear colorful talismans and emulates which contain mantras and diagrams and are ritually wound in multicolored threads. These are called Tak Drol, or Liberation by Touching. Back in Canada Rinpoche had given out tiny spoonfuls of a consecrated brown medicine called mendrup. I had noticed that it was H.H. Chatral Rinpoche’s custom to give a small spoonful of this substance along with a red protection cord to be worn around the neck to visiting pilgrims. Upon ingesting this substance one experiences the most miraculous sense of spiritual well being. This is refered to as Liberation by Tasting. The medicine or mendrup is prepared in a weeklong ritual called a drupchen in which the medicine is prayed over by lamas twenty four hours a day for several days.
So, literally outside my window in the courtyard of Lama Ralo’s retreat center, as I recited my Vajra Sattva mantras, H.H. Chatral Rinpoche and the lamas of Yanglashe and Ralo’s monastery began this tantric extravaganza. Now for those who have never been to one, exactly what a Tibetan Buddhist Tantric Puja entails needs to be elucidated. First of all the location has to have representations of the body, speech and mind of the Buddha set up. For the body, in a situation as I’m describing they will usually have several large statues made of precious substances, themselves consecrated with holy relics and blessed by accomplished lamas. In addition to this there will be tankas or Tibetan paintings mounted on brocade and hung as wall hangings depicting unbearably ferocious, soothingly peaceful and embarrassingly arousing divinities shining or blazing upon lotuses, suns and moons stirring up the most subliminal esoteric aspects of consciousness.
For the representations of the Buddha’s speech will be stacks of sutras, tantras, explanatory treatises and the like all wrapped up in beautiful red, yellow and orange cloth with brocade.
For representations of the Buddha’s mind will be shimmering stupas which are reliquaries, symbolic architecture depicting enlightened mind containing remains of great lamas.
On the alter of offering will be the inner, outer, and secret offerings including bowls of water, rice, flowers, incense, butter lamps, human skulls filled with whisky, symbolic offerings of the five meats and five nectars and rows upon rows of tormas. Tormas are ritual cakes towering in strange shapes made of tsampa (barley flour) and butter, adorned with multicolored decorations. There will also literally be truckloads of food, bananas, biscuits, chocolate bars, apples, popcorn, kapsi (deep fried bread), tangerines, wafers and tsok (tsampa balls resembling young girl’s firm breasts) as feast offerings. There will be mandalas resembling the universe, representations of eyeballs, ears, tongues, noses and skulls representing the five senses. In front of the offering alter and shrine will stand an even more mind boggling mystical apparatus; the mandala of the puja ornamented with canopies, umbrellas, victory banners displaying the five colors, representations of nude maidens offering the 16 pleasure of the senses, more tormas, more water bowls, more butter lamps, more flowers, and in the center (in this case) a huge vase containing the medicine.
On either side of this masterfully assembled Vajrayana jubilation are the rows of thrones for the lamas with long tables with space for their accoutrements; purbas (ritual daggers), bumpas (gold vases with peacock feathers and kusha grass containing saffron water), trilbus (tantric bells), vajras (phallic scepters), cups of rice to cast into the air at specific times, sea shells, damaru drums made of human skulls and rows of scriptures containing the substance of the esoteric rituals.
Each lama is also a musician in a mystical orchestra; some playing thunderous cymbals held horizontally, others clashing cymbals help vertically. Some pound the huge thumping nga or drum others play the two gheling or tantric oboe. Some drone the deep long dung chen while others wail on the bugle-like kang ling, yet others drone the resonating call of the conch shell. All chant the universe folding syllables, jingle their bells and swoop and gesture there hands and scepters in the enchanting tantric mudras or hand gestures. At various times in the ritual they all get up and circumambulate the mandala or wear various ritual hats or wave multicolored banners. Sometimes when an exorcism needs to be done a high lama will dawn an outrageous outfit replete with a skull adorned black fedora, long black wig and terrifying three eyed, sharp tooth gnashing apron. As the monks slam the drum full force and chant together in symphonic, orchestral precision and synchronization the exorcist in the outfit executes the demon, symbolized often by a doe triangle, with a magical dagger. Two younger monks will blow with all their might on the fifteen foot long dung chen while others will howl on the shorter horns, the kang ling, jerking them to make the sounds of supernatural foes being vanquished. At other points in the ritual various substances are burned to create various aromas. The whole environment is one of a party with monks bearing humungous kettles, constantly entering and re-entering to fill the brimming teacups of the euphoric lamas all in a state of indescribable ecstasy.
This is something I would come to love, an environment I’d grow to be at home in but now, just outside my window, twenty four hours a day it was a little to much to take. With the permission of Lama Ralo and his wife I was temporarily shifted to a room in the central monastic building to the room of little Sonam Tobgyal, the youngest monk in the monastery and Sonam Tsering the puffy cheeked monk, playfully nicknamed Trimu meaning dumpling by the other monks. I guess, being a Westerner I was somewhat of a celebrity at that monastery and those two kids were elated to have me as their guest.
It just so happened that on my first evening with them, Sonam Tsering and Lama Ralo’s son, Tulku La had erected a huge ladder used by the laborers and climbed from the ground floor of the monastery to the third. This was indeed truly dangerous and it made Lama Ralo, as it would any loving father, furious.
By the time I realized something was up Lama Ralo was verbally rebuking his son Tulku La who was sitting on a cushion in front of a Tibetan desk or chokse in a courtyard beside the monastery building. Lama Ralo’s tirade escalated from yells to blows culminating in him picking up the child’s wooden scripture case and slamming it full force on his son’s head. Then the lama’s wrath turned on wide eyed terrified Dumpling who received two smacks to the face and was then thrown on the concrete stairs leading to the kitchen.
There’s a saying in Tibetan; the teacher who beats you the most is the kindest.
Later that evening in the dim blue gloom of Trimu and Sonam Tobgyal’s bedroom I consoled the teary eyed “Dumpling” and gave him a nice big apple which he seemed to value. Like any other kid would, he just missed his parents.
He seemed to be the butt of most of the jokes in the monastery and as I mentioned before was once being abused in the kitchen by a bully of a kid named Sangye Tenzin who was mimicking a homosexual rape with him to the laughs and jeers of the on looking monks. What do you expect? Kids will be kids and I did the right thing as someone of my age and broke it up. Like I said, six and a half years later I ran into Sonam Tsering and Lama Ralo’s former driver Pema Tashi at a bus station in Siliguri. Having given up their monks robes they were heading to Kolkatta. God only knows what became of them.
While staying with Trimu and Sonam Tobgyal I continued to teach the monks English when I could and also teach English to His Holiness’s daughter, Saraswati. I recommended that she read English fiction like Catcher in the Rye or Tom Sawyer but she was uninterested. “Have you ever had any girl friends?” she asked with a mischievous smile. We were in her room again at the residence of Situ Rinpoche.
I recounted a synopsis of my rather pitiful romantic history. “How about you?” I returned.
“My last boyfriend went crazy and slit his wrists” she said. I didn’t immediately match this comment up with the conspicuous bandage on Jamyang’s wrist as I should have.
There were a few eccentric nuns around Chatral Rinpoche’s entourage at that time, one being the crazy Anni Yumtso (anni means nun). She was a very butchy young nun straight down from Tibet who was famous for having bitten her sponsor’s hand. Another was Choying Palmo who I must confess I love with some part of my heart to this day as wrong as that may be. In those early days she was still a nun, fresh down from Tibet as well. I can still picture her young frame in Semo Saraswati’s doorway, her hands on either side of the doorway and her shapely hips glamorously cocked to the side, her head wrapped in a black tasseled silk scarf that made her look like a 1920’s burlesque dancer from Moulin Rouge. Her roommate was another beautiful young lady from Chamdo Kham, the area of Eastern Tibet that was the site of a famous massacre that precluded the Chinese invasion. In those days she was regularly doing Rinpoche’s massage.
H.H. Chatral Sangye Dorje Rinpoche likes to have a long massage every night. Giving the massage was an honor that the young female disciples would fight over like cats. By my last days in India I was often the only one around who Rinpoche would permit to administer the massage.
While I was in the middle of all of this my Bulgarian ex-roommate from bask in Boston had made it to Dharamsala where he was pursuing his goal to be a Ghelong, a fully ordained Ghelugpa monk.
The week of the Drupchen passed and before we knew it, it was time for the Ngodrup. The Ngodrup is the final morning of the Drupchen. The week of twenty four hour worship is concluded with a four o’clock in the morning empowerment from H.H. Chatral Rinpoche himself. For such an occasion pilgrims come from far and wide to sit in the holy area and receive the blessing of the ritual, including the medicine and consecrated food of the alter. The ritual concluded with about ten of the lamas being locked in the retreat center for three years, three months and three days of meditation. I was privileged enough to be there three years after the three years and to participate in the puja to bless the ending of the retreat and to see the long haired familiar lamas exit from their three year spiritual odyssey.
When the Ngodrup was finished I moved back into my former abode in a section of the retreat center that was not cordoned off to non-three year retreatants. There were two other temporary retreatants in our section, one was a very funny old yogi with a long beard and the other was a hansom Tibetan man who had a pretty wife who often came to see him with their children. I remember clearly how H.H. Chatral Rinpoche stopped to see him, sitting on his bed beside him giving him instructions on his practice.
We all shared a bathroom at the end of a hall that miraculously had hot water, thanks to the solar panels on the roof of the retreat center. One night, wearing nothing but a towel, I navigated my way through the darkness to the bathroom. I was surprised to find the light on with steam pouring out of a crack in the door. I pushed the door open a little further and was even more surprised to see the silhouette of a naked young woman. I stared incredulously for a moment simply perplexed as to who it might be. Suddenly I realized it was Lama Ralo’s beautiful thirteen year old daughter, Kunzang. Oh my God! I quickly turned and ran through the darkness back to my room praying she hadn’t recognized me.
The next day around noon I stepped out of my bedroom door only see Kunzang heading out of the shower again, a light blue towel wrapped femininely around her head. I looked ashamedly at the ground, only looking up after she had passed. She was casting a gaze back at me over her shoulder, giving me the most lovely, seductive playful smile I’d ever seen. What on earth? I had never been flirted with in my life. This was new. This was a miracle.
Another night as I sat in my room working on my Vajra Sattva mantras I heard some pounding on my door and several young voices chanting “Hilly milly, hilly milly, do su de!”. I opened the door to see a bunch of grinning village children in rags chanting with their hands outstretched. A little confused I gave them some rupees and slammed the door shut. They persisted chanting though and started throwing rocks at the door. Quite terrified and at a loss for what to do I climbed out the window and sat on the awning above the verandas of the three year retreatants below. Little did I know that the children were celebrating Nepali New Year or Divali in a way that after some years would become as familiar to me as trick or treating. The children sing dirty songs until the inhabitants of the homes pay them enough that they might continue on to the next house. The Gorkalese or Nepali’s of India had a much more civilized version of the practice in which on one night all the young girls of the town would go out together in their most fashionable clothes to dance in the houses of the village while on the next night all the young boys in leather jackets, hair gel and cologne, would go out with bongos, acoustic guitars and tambourines and perform the Hilly Milly song in three part harmony. I waited through my first crude experiment with the Hilly Milly song, shivering in the darkness on a corrugated steal awning praying I didn’t fall through. Eventually the raggedy kids gave up on this stingy foreigner and went on to their next victim.
The Drupchen completed and the retreatants locked away there was still one chore left to be completed. The hundred of sacred ingredients of the Liberation Upon Tasting Mendrup had to be rolled by hand into poppy seed size pellets. To accomplish this the now consecrated ingredients were sewn into long cotton sleeves and suspended between two wooden handles. The handles were then in turn to be held by two lamas and the contents were to be rolled back and forth methodically in the sun until they assumed the form of the wonderfully scented dark brow pellets. All of this went on on the roof of the retreat center and as usual was characterized by the hyperactive playful spirit of the young monks.
One of the characters who was there helping out with the mendrup was a young Tibetan named Lobsang who had spent some time in the USA. He had a room in the monastery and was by far the most loved and adored by all the monks. He had a motorcycle, a leather jacket, a drinking problem and absolutely no reverence for anything. His most fond memory of America seemed to be what he called “blue movies”. He’d stand on the roof of the monastery as the monks methodically swashed the medicine back and forth yelling out to a group of Western tourists making their way down the mountain in a stupid mocking voice “Halo! How are you? Welcome to Nepal!” He’d then laugh hysterically. The tourists would sort of wave confusedly. Lobsang would then push away a monk, grabbing his end of the medicine roller and act as if he was actually going to help out. He’d start to jerk it violently and gyrate his hips and fall on the ground pretending to have some kind of sexual seizure. Instead of reprimanding him the monks seemed to find this quite funny.
Another interesting character who turned up to help make the medicine was a bold faced young lady with an excellent form who wore a tight purple chuba. I’d later know her well as Chetri Anni the Brahmin nun with two husbands but for now she was a mysterious sexy woman, quietly holding the other end of the medicine bag as we both rolled out the pills gently in the sun.
During their breaks all the monks would form a huge line, each monk massaging the tired arms of the monk in front of them. The Tibetan monks in particular and Himalayan guys in general have absolutely no hang-ups what so ever about platonic male intimacy. I admire that a lot.
One day Jeff the sexy black German dancer form the retreat in Canandaigua NY showed up to meet Chatral Rinpoche. It was nice to see him again. He really fell in love with Semo Saraswati and bought her a jacket in Katmandu. He was picking the marijuana that was growing all over the place there and smoking it. He, this other crazy Westerner and I went into the city together to meet Khenpo Sonam Tobgyal Rinpoche’s other renowned teacher Nyoshel Khen Rinpoche. Later Nyoshel Khen Rinpoche came to Yangleshe and Jeff and I had the good fortune to have an audience with Chatral Rinpoche and Nyoshel Khen Rinpoche at the same time. I remember Jeff told me something like he just wanted to take Saraswati on a weekend escape and fuck her brains out. At one of our meetings, I guess, Semo Saraswati asked me what I thought of Jeff. I told her told her he smoked drugs, which was true. Never the less, maybe a good pounding by Jeff’s big black cock was exactly what the Semo needed, but I was young and naïve and I told her to stay away from him. She took my advice.
Jeff ended up literally crying on my shoulder. “I’ve never been turned down before, girls are always saying ‘you’re so perfect Jeff, you’re so beautiful Jeff, I love you Jeff…’ but she taught me, she turned me down.” He was crying, his arm around me. It was night and we were sitting in a dusty old Hindu temple on a dirt road in Pharping.
Jeff slept on the floor in my room that night. He was a good guy, I saw him one more time after that. I always felt bad about coming between him and the Semo. That’s life though; sometimes our jealousy sneaks up behind us.
The Semo used to flirt with me to. I was falling in love with her as well. It was easy in those days. She was amazing. She used to say to me “Some day you and I should go to a hotel.”
“I’d like that.” I’d say.
“Me to.” She’d smile.
And then one day she was gone. They were all gone, Rinpoche, the Semo, everyone.
All that was left in their house was an old lama named Puri who had grown up with Khenpo Sonam Tobgyal in Riwoche Tibet. “Jakar dro song.” He’d say with a funny smile, it meant “They’ve gone to India”.
And suddenly it all settled down to normal a little. I mean, it was still Yanglashe but God had flown, the blessing was gone. To be perfectly honest it was a little of a relief. I went back to Dorje Sempa retreat, eating with Ralo’s monks, sometimes seeing the Scottish Nun, Anni Damcho, when she came to Pharping, practicing Nepali with Gajendra and Rajendra, laughing with Purna and treating myself to Kumar’s chowmein at The Land of Snows every now and then.
As I sat there reciting those mantras I could observe my mind healing. All my trauma and confusion seemed to shine and liberate itself. The first thing to become apparent was how deeply I had saturated myself with music theory. The mantras didn’t arise simply as a single voice but instead in a big band arrangement with a full symphonic orchestra, contiguous two fives and walking bass lines, overtures of strings and rhythmic stabs of the horn section, waves of African drums and salsa piano interludes. It was like my mind was a balloon pumped full of abstract harmonic information releasing itself as I sat alone in my room on the complete other side of the globe from where I had labored so intensely to internalize all that obscure musical information.
After about a month of retreat I could notice my jowls beginning to swell, my mouth ached. I began to wonder if I should discontinue my retreat. Knowing no other lamas in Yanglashe now that H.H. Chatral Rinpoche had gone to India I decided to head back to Boudha and seek the advice of Chokling Rinpoche who I had met on the plane from Singapore.
I always took the bus from Pharping to Katmandu as it was the cheapest mode of transportation. The bus ride itself was an experience to relate. First of all you’d be hard put here in the United States to even find a bus as dilapidated as the ones used on the road from Katmandu to Dakshinkali, on which Pharping was a stop. The old buses seemed to be literally falling apart. Due to the smaller size of most Nepali people the bus seats were considerably smaller than what most westerners would be able to fit into comfortably. Hindi movie music would constantly be blaring through already damaged speakers. Usually the buses would be filled way beyond capacity which means that not only would all the seats be filled but also the narrow isles. Groups of tight jeaned, slick haired, teenage boys would dangle precariously out of the front and back doors clinging to loosely fastened bars and ledges, climbing fearlessly around the exterior of the bus as it would wind through the sharp coiling precipitous mountain passes. Chickens, goats, and even baby water buffalo would often inhabit the bus along with Nepali villagers of all ages shapes and sizes. Tibetan monks and nuns, pilgrims and rosary holding Tibetan lay people along with the odd western tourist or bird watcher were all to be found on the Pharping bus.
After shaking through the mountains the rickety packed bus would wind through the unbearable urban Katmandu smog to the Ratna Park bus park. The bus park was a rancid conflagration of ear piercing honks, sinus ripping odors and ghastly heart wrenching sights. Bumper to bumper junker buses would rumble and growl like a ready to stampede herd of dinosaurs, spewing hideous clouds of putrid black smoke that would sting the eyes and coat the skin. Open latrines and mounds of festering sludge would waft clouds of malodorous vapors while maimed beggars would dodge and hop from bus to bus begging for their measly sustenance.
To get to Boudha I’d have to navigate my way out of the bus park and board an equally uncomfortable vehicle called a tempo, comparable to an oversized cigar box on wheels. After winding through the dizzying streets of Katmandu in the bumpy little tempo I’d arrive at my destination, Boudha Gate.
Having arrived in Boudha I made my way to Kanying Shedrup Ling, the monastery to which I had gone on my first day in Nepal.
I was almost immediately able to meet the unusual couple I had first met on the plane. Chokling Rinpoche (who Mad Monk called “The Fat Slob”) and his consort were sitting on their thrones as if waiting for me. They were very nice and offered me kapsi (Tibetan fried bread) and tea. We had a very nice conversation in which Chokling Rinpoche’s wife asked me if I intended to be a monk. I told them “I’m not sure, I’d really love to be a monk but at the same time I really love children”. They both looked at me like I was an idiot. After talking for some time further about Sonam Rinpoche and his temple back in Canada the royal wife told me that she would like me to be the official English tutor of her son Pamchok Rinpoche, the recognized reincarnation of Khenpo Sonam Rinpoche’s childhood teacher. I explained to them that I was doing a Dorje Sempa retreat as instructed by H.H. Chatral Sangye Dorje Rinpoche. Pamchok Rinpoche’s mother explained that her son and all the monks of the monastery were going down to Lumbini for a prayer festival in a couple of weeks and that I could continue my retreat until that time, then I could go to Lumbini with all the monks and come back and live in the monastery and teach English to Pamchok Rinpoche. Lumbini is the area of southern Nepal where the Buddha was born. The rotund and friendly Chokling Rinpoche reassured me that the aching jaw was nothing to worry about and that I should go back to my retreat until the prayer festival.
So, I headed back to Lama Ralo’s monastery where I ate with the monks and spent my days reciting mantras. Looking back I can’t help but recognize how incredibly generous both Lama Ralo and Chokling Rinpoche were with me, letting me live and eat among their monks, free of charge.
Well the weeks passed and eventually it was time too say goodbye to the monks of Ralo’s monastery, all of whom had become like younger brothers to me. I went back to Boudha and dropped off a guitar I had bought and a little of my extra luggage at the home of Sonam Tsering, the Tibetan guy who had taught me my first mantra back in Canada.
Chapter II
Long Strange Trip
Soaring, soaring, sailing, sailing, high above the clouds, the glory, the excitement, the joy of hurtling one’s self into the unknown. Gone was my past, my home, my sorrow and on the shining horizon was the triumphant expanse of magnificent infinity. I’ll never forget Singapore. The airport seemed even more streamlined and state of the art than anything I had seen before. The air was thick with that tropical humidity. As I made my way through customs I caught sight of a beautiful young woman with bright pink lipstick and a mini skirt holding a sign with my name on it. She guided me to a shuttle bus. It was the dead of night. Somehow on the long flight over the Pacific Ocean, flying with the sun, I had lost all concept of day and night. I had been in a huge mirror mar of a jumbo jet with a full menu of cuisine and back to back feature films. Now I, one of two passengers on this night shuttle, sped at top speed through the enchanting tropical Singapore night, past the neon yellow street lights and over a faultless black highway, we rolled past a shimmering Hindu temple and up to crystal palace-like hotel, courtesy of the airline. I dragged my luggage into the sheik futuristic lobby and was soon torpedoing into the sky in a shimmering glass elevator. What a way to begin my renunciation of the world; in five star luxury.
As soon as the first hours of light I was out to explore this fascinating new world, through the market, where I drank a strange beverage somewhere between tea and hot chocolate, and down to the coast among fishing boats with nets of multicolored fish that seemed to belong in a tropical aquarium, downtown where people in spotless suits sped horizontally on electric walkways; an entire city like the inside of the nicest shopping malls of Toronto. At night young girls danced to Hindu bajans at the temple, just a taste of the deep, intense, Hindustani euphoria that I’d loose myself in for years. This was life! This was freedom! This was ecstasy! Long live the path! Leave your home land behind and travel to an unknown land!
The next day I was off again, torpedoing into eastern skies from the border of Malaysia to the strange water logged mystery of Bangladesh and then climbing into the heavens, the endless palace of the Gods, the paradise of the Himalayas.
Many of the people in the East are poor, sure, financially but in India and Nepal there is some wealth, some deep vibration, sacredness that resonates through everything in those lands; something beyond words, beyond measurement or distinction, beyond mind but so intense that it is also beyond denial: The power of the great black mother Kali from whom the very universe emanates. She streams her frenzied wrathful compassion in rivers of blood and white lightening bolts, through smears of crimson red powder on holy rocks and heads of the faithful, rivers of blood from the necks of sacrificed animals and through vases of woman in crystalline clear water on phallic stones of the mighty king of the universe, Shiva; through the great waters of the Ganga and Jamona raging determined from their origins in the mountains to their ends in the sea. The bliss, the compassion, the ecstasy, of the Great Black Mother, vibrating through the leaves of green, the red veins in eyes of brown skinned men sitting cross legged in their wooden ramshackle shops selling pan, through the haunting calls of the women that ring through the night as they call her Kali, Great Killer! Great Mother of All, slaughter the great demon! She’s there in the rainbow plaids of the laborers dhotis light blue like the sky, in the gold woven into shimmering silks that create the mind boggling multicolored walls of the delightful labyrinths of markets.
This is wealth, the wealth of the holy land….but I had barely had a taste of it then, sitting innocently on the cushy seat of a Singapore Airlines 747 above the clouds.
I had noticed a group of Tibetans in the airport back in Singapore, clad in maroon robes, both children and adults alike. They had gotten on the same plain as I and they started to look familiar to me. I was sitting a couple of rows behind them. There were five of them and I kept going over in my mind ‘from where did I recognize them?’ The fat squat lama with the thick black mustache, the glamorous jewel bedecked woman, the skinny old attendant monk and the two children in monk’s robes; God, I knew them from somewhere. Then I started remembering back to the piles of photos I had arranged in the apartment of Sheila, the corporate nun in Toronto. Those people were in those pictures. I went up and introduced myself to the couple who seemed to be in charge. They both smiled kindly and told me that yes; they knew my teacher Sonam Rinpoche very well.
The woman said “Look you haven’t even reached Nepal yet and you’ve already made your connection.” She gestured by bringing her two hands together. “This is my son Pamchok Rinpoche” she gestured to the elder of the two children who was the reincarnation of Sonam Rinpoche’s teacher from back in Tibet. It was truly amazing. They invited me to sit close to them in an empty seat. Their younger child who must have been about three years old had the most enchanting eyes and played with me in the most delightful way while sitting on my lap. About eight months later that same child was enthroned as the reincarnation of the abbot of the largest monastery in Nepal, H.H. Dilgo Kyentse Rinpoche of Shechen Gompa. It was he who had originally sent Sonam Rinpoche to Canada (in his previous incarnation). As for the fat father lama, he was Chokling Rinpoche, one of the four notorious sons of the famous abbot of the most highly elevated monastery in the Katmandu valley, Orgyen Tulku Rinpoche of Nagi Gompa. Sonam Rinpoche, my teacher, had been a Khenpo or professor for some years at Chokling Rinpoche’s large white monastery near the awe inspiring Boudha stupa in Katmandu. How glorious and how auspicious these events were and how fortunate was I. To me these events are undeniable signs of the interdependentness of all things and the uncanny mystic power of the Buddha Dharma.
I consider myself very lucky that I’ve had such an unusual life and met so many different kinds of people. Now I’m living with a delightful young Nepali woman who I met over there in the East. I have a beautiful apartment on the South Shore in Massachusetts. I just have to hold out my hands and thank God for all my good fortune. I’m not saying that to be conceited or anything it’s just that I’ve had a lot of suffering and broken dreams and everything too but in the over all picture I’ve been very fortunate and I thank Guru Rinpoche and Chatral Rinpoche and the three Jewels and Lama, Yidam, Kandro for everything.
Anyway, back to the airplane. I sat behind Chokling Rinpoche and his Khandro (consort) and spoke with another young westerner about Nepal and Buddhism. I’ll never forget flying into Katmandu. From the sky it seemed so strange; a bunch of red brick houses strewn here and there on a plush green landscape like bricks on a soccer field. As we pulled in for landing Chokling Rinpoche and the Kandro promised to help me get settled in Boudha but in classic Tibetan style asked me to carry some appliances they had bought in Singapore through Nepali customs.
In those days the Nepali airport was really mayhem, a far cry from the streamlined high-tech 22nd century international starship port of today. As soon as I was out of customs and into the daylight a panorama of disorder, I would later learn to be at home in, opened before me. Crowds of people waiting to meet arrives outnumbered by hordes of young Nepal
