Dza Paltrül was biding his time. He
was in mountain retreat with his disciples, doing and saying little
apart from what seemed to be needed in the moment. He wasn’t
one for shooting the breeze, but then – one day – the wind
changed. A breeze laden with the fragrances of highland herbs stirred
in the hermitage – but Nyoshul didn’t really
notice. Nyoshul looked a little flat and enervated. Dza Paltrül took
a sideways glance at him, and perceiving Nyoshul’s dull state
of mind, he called out: “Hey! Nyoshul! Get lively!”
Nyoshul jumped a little on hearing his Lama’s voice directed at
him in such a crisp manner. He apologised for his flatness of affect;
but Paltrül waved his hand to indicate that an apology was not
necessary. Paltrül grinned, and suggested: “Why don’t
you’n me both, take a long walk over yonder?” Nyoshul was
still taking in these words when he realised that Paltrül had leapt to
his feet and was headed off at a brisk pace in the direction of the
high pastures. “Sheep country!” Paltrül quipped over his
shoulder, but Nyoshul didn’t have an inkling of what might be
amusing in such a statement. He scrambled after his Lama with as much
decorum as he could muster.
After about three hours walk without a word exchanged, they heard a
crack that echoed ominously amongst the mountains. “Yo!”
Paltrül shouted to his disciple’s alarm. “D’you
hear that!
Do—you—hear—that!” Nyoshul had heard
the sound, and proffered the speculation that it might have been
distant thunder. “Thunder all right my lad!”
Paltrül yelled, and then in a whisper: “But not the sort
that brings rain...” Nyoshul looked perplexed, so Paltrül
confided in an immense bellow: “That... is the sound of
liberation!” Again Nyoshul had no idea what his teacher was
talking about; but as Paltrül strode ahead, appearing uninterested in
elucidating, Nyoshul enquired no further.
Soon they saw a great herd of sheep in the distance. Nyoshul had
some slight sense of foreboding that made him feel he should say
something: “There are sheep in the distance,” he observed,
at which Paltrül smiled broadly. “Damn right Nyoshul!” he
murmured with a conspiratorial air that was almost ludicrous. There
was definitely some private joke afoot, but it was not to become
apparent. ‘This’ thought Nyoshul ‘must have
got something to do with sheep...’ but he could not get any
further with his line of reasoning. They continued to walk.
Soon they were up in the high pastures amongst the sheep. They
seemed unusually lacking in nervousness for sheep, and Nyoshul
remarked on it. But again his teacher’s rejoinder was oblique
and impenetrable: “Foregone conclusion, Nyoshul! Just as
we should have expected! They! are DoKhyentsé’s flock;
make—no—mistake!” Paltrül was obviously
elated, and striding vigorously in spite of his advancing years.
Having climbed the ridge that lay before them, they halted
momentarily to catch breath. Paltrül shaded his eyes to get a clearer
view of the distance. “Yo! Nyoshul!” Paltrül shouted at
mighty volume – even though he was right next to his disciple.
“There! Look! There is—the—gar—of
DoKhyentsé Rinpoche!” Nyoshul almost leapt out of his skin at
the shout, but composed himself quickly enough – and, yes, there
it was. In the distance he could just make out small white flecks
that could quite possibly have been tents. They were a long way off,
but it was evident that this was their destination.
Now Nyoshul had heard a lot about DoKhyentsé, and what he had heard
was all utterly astonishing. The Lama was an enlightened maniac by
all accounts, and held in the very highest esteem by many Nyingma
Lamas. It was said by some that he was one of the greatest living
masters of his age. He was the incarnation of Jig’mèd Lingpa.
Fragments of a picture began to shape themselves – but Nyoshul
could not manage to tie them together in a way that made any sense.
Paltrül was certainly acting in a singularly strange manner –
but why? What was this shouting all about? Something unusual was
evidently in the air, but what it could be, Nyoshul could not
guess.
DoKhyentsé had known about his visitors since early that morning,
and now he espied the pair from a distance. He knew through his
innate clarity that his disciple Dza Paltrül Rinpoche was coming. He
knew also that with him, Paltrül had a disciple of his own – a
man who needed to break through some obstacles. They would have
travelled all day by foot, and they would doubtless be tired and
hungry – so preparations were made for their comfort. A tent
had been arranged for their privacy. Bedding had been appropriated
and arranged in a commodious manner. Food had been organised, and was
in the process of being cooked. Chang had been allocated, and stood
awaiting in wooden pitchers, ready to quaff.
When the two Lamas arrived, disciples of DoKhyentsé came to meet
them and escorted them into the maniacal drüpchen’s tent.
DoKhyentsé welcomed them in grand style and bade them sit down on the
thick pile of sumptuous carpets and sheep skins arranged for them. He
was dressed in a fine chuba made of lamb skins and sat on the
scattered skins of leopards and tigers. They found DoKhyentsé in the
final stages of cleaning, oiling, and re-assembling his rifle. The
sight of the rifle was a bit much for Nyoshul – he had certain
ideas about that kind of thing. Nonetheless, he sat down along with
Paltrül, and the three Lamas talked. They talked about the way things
had been, the way things were going, and the way things might turn
out. A somewhat matter-of-fact conversation, with no particularly
spiritual inclination as far as Nyoshul could ascertain – but
every time DoKhyentsé addressed him, it was with some extraordinary
appellation such as ‘dangerous ruffian’, ‘savage
barbarian’, ‘audacious scallywag’,
‘incongruous reprobate’, ‘degenerate
miscreant’, or ‘impetuous rapscallion’.
“Nice rifle, Rinpoche,” commented Paltrül.
“Certainly! British – not an Indian rifle or an old
smoothbore – this – is an Enfield – a
‘Pattern 1853’ with a rifled barrel! Came from India
last month... I’ve been waiting on this for a good
while now – damnedest thing I ever saw,” DoKhyentsé
chuckled, passing the gun to Paltrül. “Shoots well?”
Paltrül enquired, whilst examining the various functional components
of the weapon. “Damn right!” laughed DoKhyentsé. Each
phrase that DoKhyentsé turned was delivered with shocking volume. It
was eerily similar to the style Paltrül had employed during their trek
up to the gar. The pieces of picture in Nyoshul’s mind looked as if
they were going to assemble themselves coherently for an instant
– but they didn’t. Nyoshul’s bewilderment simply
escalated.
DoKhyentsé was continuing with some discussion of powder, shot, and
muzzle velocity, when he caught sight of attendants in his peripheral
vision. “Ah!” he yelled, “But I see a feast is
ready! And...” he interjected, “dispatched!
With—this—very—gun; in honour
of—your visit!” Paltrül had passed the rifle to
Nyoshul, only moments before, and he was engaged in a personal
struggle to find something interesting about this ‘horrible
implement of death’, when DoKhyentsé made his announcement
about its recent use. “Butchered!
Jus—for, you. What d’you think about that,
eh Nyoshul m’boy?” Nyoshul was mortified; and, finding
himself minutely observed by both Lamas, squirmed grievously. He gave
a sickly smile as he passed the weapon back to its ferocious owner,
“Thank you Rinpoche,” being all he could manage to say.
He was now feeling monstrously uncomfortable, and wondering why
Paltrül had brought him into the presence of this Lama who was doing
his best to manifest as the most frightfully depraved hedonist one
could imagine. He had heard that DoKhyentsé was a wrathful, mercurial
teacher; but this had gone long past anything he could have imagined.
The whole affair was beyond his understanding to say the least.
Now Nyoshul knew Paltrül to be vegetarian, and so things started
looking even worse when his master started slamming into the lamb with
unconcealed gusto. Nyoshul knew that not only was Dza Paltrül
vegetarian, but that his teacher would always go out of his way to
save life where ever he could. Nyoshul had often seen Dza Paltrül
refuse to visit nomad camps if he knew there was any chance of an
animal being killed for the specific purposes of feeding his party.
He was not one of those Lamas who believed in the concept of
‘the heart not grieving over anything the eye had not
seen’. Paltrül did not believe in innocence through contrived
ignorance, and yet here he was acting completely out of character. It
was like a bad dream or some kind of wildly incongruous nyam.
Looking at Nyoshul’s dazed expression, DoKhyentsé hacked off
an enormous steak of lamb and hefted it deftly into Nyoshul’s
bowl, yelling “Hey, Nyoshul! You murderous little devil, get
your mincers round this!” Nyoshul gasped – but his
devotion to Paltrül was such that he thanked his utterly shocking host
and proceeded to nibble at the slaughtered flesh as if it had been
roasted for his personal anguish. It was so evident that he was not
enjoying his food, that Paltrül noticed his timid lack-lustre style,
and nudged him in the ribs: “Eat! eat!” Paltrül
encouraged. Poor Nyoshul. This was an abhorrent ordeal for him. He
was practically bug-eyed with confusion as DoKhyentsé and Paltrül
devoured abundant servings of meat.
Having concluded their repast, and cut the grease with some rather
excellent chang, Paltrül requested some brief essential teaching.
DoKhyentsé acceded with alacrity, and spontaneously decided to reveal
something that he had long kept hidden. “For many years I have
wanted to give you this teaching Paltrül, and tonight is the night! I
am extremely happy to give it to you now – you have waited long
enough.” Then he took a long careful look at Nyoshul, who was by
now practically deranged. “And...” he added, “this
drooling debauchee here – this insatiable inebriate... He can
also receive this teaching. He’s a funny little fellow but he
has a good heart.” Nyoshul was somewhat aghast at being
described as a debauchee, but felt himself unusually privileged
nonetheless. To receive a transmission from such master was a rare
thing, no matter how bewildering the circumstances. And so it was.
It was the most searingly direct of pointing-out instructions
– the most brilliantly eloquent yet refreshingly simple
teaching. Nyoshul was utterly rapt. His attention was totally
absorbed with the words of DoKhyentsé, and once the teaching was
concluded Nyoshul was left in complete shock. Bewildered
incomprehension: DoKhyentsé was a realised Lama who toted a gun –
an enlightened master who slaughtered sheep. This was the most
terrible ambivalence, but some how he had gone so far into
experiential overload that he was quite relaxed – there was
nothing left with which to struggle.
When Paltrül and Nyoshul took their leave at the conclusion of the
teaching, DoKhyentsé touched foreheads with them both. He looked
lovingly at Nyoshul for the first time since he arrived and wished him
a comfortable night in the friendliest, most gracious manner. It was
quite uncharacteristic for DoKhyentsé to behave in a style befitting a
venerable ecclesiastic, but on this occasion he manifested the benign
serenity one might expect of the archetypal saint.
Nyoshul, almost paralytic with pure pleasure, was reeling as he
made his way to the tent set aside for them. Before entering and
bedding down for the night, he and Paltrül stood for a while looking
at the stars. “What a day,
what—a—day!” Paltrül exclaimed taking in the
endless view, “I’ve been your teacher for a long stretch,
haven’t I dear Nyoshul... but I’ve never given you
anything as marvellous as you’ve just received.”
Nyoshul was speechless, but it didn’t matter – there was
nothing to say. “Y’know, my friend, with all my
experience, I couldn’t guarantee to send you off to the
copper-coloured mountain if you were to die tonight,” Paltrül
sighed. “What a pity the two of us couldn’t be sheep in
this marvellous herd! Every sheep here will find itself liberated
into that dimension in the instant of its death!”
Nyoshul’s eyes filled with tears: “Then DoKhyentsé Yeshé
Dorje is, in reality, none other than Padmasambhava.” Paltrül
smiled warmly at Nyoshul, and replied quietly, and very gently:
“Damn right Nyoshul.”
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