Just look, Nyoshul!

Paltrül was resting-up a while. He was in one of the caves in upper Do, the rugged, craggy, wind-swept region where DoKhyentsé Rinpoche pitched his gar. Whilst in residence, an old nomad ngakpa called Shérab Dorje took to visiting him, and asking for instructions. He was a simple, good-natured fellow – sincere and honest. He had no pretensions to anything beyond practice, and hoped for nothing apart from continuing with practise to the point of his death – and beyond. Shérab Dorje crossed the river in a yak-hide coracle every day to visit Paltrül while he was in residence in that retreat cave. He made the journey no matter what the weather flung at him, and made the journey home often under atrocious conditions. One day, however, the river was in severe spate, and the current was so savage that Shérab Dorje’s coracle capsized. The old ngakpa drowned.

Paltrül left his cave as soon as he perceived what had happened. He ran down to the river bank where Shérab Dorje had been hauled ashore by some nomads who had witnessed the calamity. His wife and other family members had been summoned and gradually they all arrived on the scene. There was considerable commotion. Everyone was in tears. Shérab Dorje was much loved by everyone in the locality and his wife was inconsolable. Death by drowning is considered highly inauspicious amongst the nomads, and so various relatives petitioned Paltrül to intervene on behalf of the old ngakpa to ensure a decent rebirth. They were all terribly afraid that death by drowning might precipitate the old fellow into some foul horrific backwater of existence infested by hideous vituperative sadists. Paltrül told them not to worry, because the ngakpa was bound for glory. He tried to reassure them that there was not much need to do anything. Shérab Dorje was doing just fine on his own. He was an experienced yogi. He had died whilst in pursuit of teaching – braving the torrent to meet his root teacher. The nomads were happy to hear that Paltrül thought so highly of their kith and kin; however, they wanted to see some ritual going on. As far as they were concerned, rituals are what make the difference. Fancy talk about Shérab Dorje not needing any help were all well and good, but bells ringing and drums rattling were the basis of real confidence. Paltrül told them that if it would make them feel better, he would be only too happy to oblige with rites and rituals appropriate to the occasion. Shérab Dorje’s relatives were enormously relieved that the great Dza Paltrül Rinpoche would help their lowly ngakpa, and sat waiting for the liturgical formalities to commence. They wanted to make sure that something was going to be chanted.

Paltrül sat down with Nyoshul on the high bank of the river at the foot of the rise that led to the caves. His other disciples where also there, having gathered from the various caves that pocked the mountain side in clusters below their Lama’s hermitage. They had followed Paltrül down to the river – being aware that something momentous was afoot. Paltrül instructed them as to the nature of the rituals they were to perform together, and his disciples set about making their preparations whilst Paltrül sat and stared at the sky. Once everything was organised, the yogis began to perform pho-wa and bardo recitations. All was proceeding in a traditional manner and the nomads were well pleased that Shérab Dorje was getting everything that was conventional and proper. But before they had got much further than ‘the dissolution of the elements’, Paltrül started laughing quietly to himself. After some further moments he became so amused by the whole business that he quit recitation altogether. He let his disciples continue on their own, being careful not to be observed in his mirth by Shérab Dorje’s relatives. Nyoshul, however, took it all in and was more than a little bewildered. He leaned over toward his teacher and asked “What amuses you Rinpoche?” but Paltrül just pointed at the sky. Nyoshul looked up but couldn’t see anything much. He didn’t really know what he was supposed to be looking for, and so proceeded to scan the horizon for some clue. There was obviously something out there somewhere. Paltrül observed him for a while. Nyoshul was looking for something, as if it were hidden – as if it were something very difficult to see. He nudged Nyoshul gently and indicated the sky again; but this time, with a broad sweep of his hand. Nyoshul renewed his efforts to see something, but only succeeded in becoming more tense. “I’m sorry Rinpoche, I don’t see anything.” he replied, at which Paltrül chuckled all the more – “Just look, Nyoshul!” he whispered, indicating the broad expanse of sky, but this time using both hands.

Nyoshul looked again and attempted simply to be present with his vision and the visual field. He could barely detect it, but yes – it was raining. A very fine thin drizzle – a mere mist. In Tibet precipitation of this variety is described as ‘the rain of flowers’. The reasoning behind this it that the rain kisses the cheeks in a delicate way. It caresses the skin as if flower petals were touching your face. Although there was a blizzard of blossoms, the sun was shining brightly from an ink-dark sky. There were rainbows everywhere – flickering throughout the curtain of mist in sporadic frissons. “There are rainbows everywhere!” Nyoshul exclaimed, “Why didn’t I see it before!” He was entranced by the glimmering colours that came and went – appearing in swirling pools of colour before his eyes. Gazing into the drizzle was gazing into a dazzling sphere of thig-lés. “Is that why you are laughing Rinpoche?” Paltrül put his hand on Nyoshul’s shoulder in a kindly way. “No,” he replied softly – but this was also a cause for amusement. Nyoshul looked bewildered. “See these people,” said Paltrül, “Shérab Dorje’s wife and these relatives of his.” Nyoshul looked as if he might see something unusual about them, but they looked like a fairly typical collection of nomads. “What is unusual about them?” Nyoshul asked. “They’re very sad, aren’t they Nyoshul?” “Yes” was the obvious reply and it was duly given. “They’re also very anxious about Shérab Dorje’s rebirth aren’t they?” Nyoshul agreed. “Then, dear Nyoshul, look at yourself. You don’t understand why your crazy old Lama is laughing, do you?” Nyoshul answered “No, I can’t understand.” Paltrül shook his head in disbelief. “Do you think that old Paltrül has no compassion for Shérab Dorje? Is that why old Paltrül is laughing?” Poor Nyoshul. This was a situation. He didn ’t know what to say or think or do. “Look at the bedraggled corpse of old Shérab Dorje, dear Nyoshul. This is a sad sight isn’t it?” Nyoshul had no problem with that idea – it was a sad sight. “Then look at me, dear Nyoshul. I do not see a sad sight. I know that old Shérab Dorje is a great practitioner. I know that he is not simply this battered baggage of human remains. People think that because he was a rough nomad ngakpa, that he had no spiritual power. People think that spiritual power rests with those who live in monasteries – or those with big names like Nyoshul and Paltrül. I know differently. I see that he had no difficulty with the bardos – in spite of drowning. I only had to think of him and that was enough to remind him what to do – how to keep his awareness. And now he has sent us this rain as a sign that he is happy. There is no need for us to do these rites for him – as if he were merely a layman with no knowledge or experience. This performance is just for the sake of his relatives. They do not understand that what we are doing is like tipping boiling water into a boiling kettle – just to make sure that it boils! Anyone who saw such a thing could not help but laugh!” Nyoshul smiled, “Yes...” he sighed “and none of us here can see that.” Paltrül sat silently for a moment, gazing at the spectacle of subtle rainbows. Nyoshul joined his teacher gazing into the opalescent mist. After some moments he asked, “How can I learn to see that?” Paltrül grinned, still staring into the rain of flowers. “Just look, Nyoshul.”