Come just as you are
Paltrül was staying in
Dza-chukha. He was minding his own business and doing whatever
needed to be done, when he received a visitor. Now Paltrül had seen
enough monks to last him a while – and at that time he was
spending some quiet time with Nyoshul and a few other yogis. It just
so happened, at this particular time, that Tértön Chö’gyür
Lingpa was having some difficulty with one of his main disciples
– a monk by the name of Rinchen Thar-gyé. Now this monk was a
khenpo, a master scholar, and a punctilious ecclesiastic into the
bargain. He kept the monastic rules with precision but had a tight
mind. Chö’gyür Lingpa had tried various approaches with him,
but couldn’t seem to shift him in terms of spiritual practice
– the man was suffocating in the tension of his own moral
purity. Now Chö’gyür Lingpa knew that Paltrül didn’t
have much time for monks in general, and this type of monk in
particular. He knew that this was the sort of ecclesiastical
dignitary who would not immediately get a warm and affectionate
reception from Paltrül – so he wrote a letter:
“Paltrül old friend,” the letter began,
“I’ve got this stick-up-the-arse disciple who’s
as proud as a cockerel about being a monk, but seems hell-bent on
mediocrity. If you can do something with him, I’d be most
obliged. He’s a good fellow in many ways and works hard, but
he’s a bit given to prudent sanctimoniousness and assiduous
Puritanism. I can’t seem to flush the stuff out of
him...” The letter discussed a few details, exchanged a
little news, and signed itself off in a cordial manner. When Chö
’gyür Lingpa had finished the letter, he appended his seal and
handed it to Rinchen Thar-gyé. “Here m’boy, take this to
Dza Paltrül Rinpoche. It’s about time you high-tailed it to
Golok and got some teachings and transmissions from him – but
don’t come back before you’ve received everything you need
to receive, y’hear.”
Rinchen Thar-gyé made prostrations to his teacher, took the letter,
and made his way to brigand country. “Take care you’re
not buggered on the way!” Chö’gyür Lingpa called after
him, but this didn’t manage to alter Rinchen Thar-gyé’s
countenance – he was, as usual, frozen with solemnity. He set
our for Golok with a party of attendants and finally reached Paltrül
’s place in Dza-chukha.
When Paltrül saw him coming, he called out to Nyoshul, “Hey
Nyoshul! A demon king [‘gyalpo’] has come to see
us!” Nyoshul looked anxiously to see what sort of being this
might be, but could only see a party of monks on horse back with the
usual regalia in which such people liked to turn up at monasteries
when visiting. “Where?” asked Nyoshul in some
perplexity. “Just look Nyoshul,” Paltrül replied and
pointed to the head Lama in the party of monks. Sure enough –
there was one of the monastic big-shots whom his teacher
characteristically held in low esteem. “Show the insufferable
blaggard in, if you will, Nyoshul,” Paltrül muttered in a
derisive tone, “I’ll not be welcoming him out here, and
that’s for sure. I’ll be in my room if he wants
anything from me.” Nyoshul waited for the visiting party to
arrive and welcomed Rinchen Thar-gyé with all due respect, informing
him that Dza Paltrül Rinpoche would see him if there was anything he
wanted from him. Rinchen Thar-gyé asked him if he would kindly
present a letter to Paltrül from Tértön Chö’gyür Lingpa, and
Nyoshul took it with all due haste to his teacher. “Yah, it
’s as I thought,” grumbled Paltrül, “a demon
king!” Nyoshul knew that his teacher was not keen on monks, but
this one had come with a letter from Tértön Chö’gyür Lingpa
himself – surely this was a person worthy of respect and the
very best treatment? No. Maybe the very best treatment – but
respect was not going to be Paltrül’s way of working.
“Why do you call him a demon king?” asked his disciple.
“Just look, Nyoshul.” He passed the letter over. Nyoshul
was very surprised indeed. “Show the bumptious little bounder
in if you will,” Paltrül yawned. And so it was that Rinchen
Thar-gyé entered the illustrious presence of Dza Paltrül. He made his
formal prostrations and sat before the renowned Lama. “What d
’you want of me then king of pćderasty? There are no young
monks to bugger here. If you’re looking for a nice firm pair
of buttocks you’d better get back to where you once
belonged.” Undeterred by Paltrül’s vulgar remarks,
Rinchen Thar-gyé made a highly respectful request for teachings on the
Longchen Nying-thig. “Mmmm... Longchen Nying-thig,”
repeated Paltrül thoughtfully, “there’s nothing about
sodomy in that text... You’d better go someplace else. I don
’t think that I can be of any help to a demonic
pćderast...” Suddenly, before the monk could understand what
was going on, he was being ushered out of the door. A splendid room
was found for him, and he was left to his own devices. A room was
also allocated to his attendants, who all slept together next to the
kitchen. The whole party was very well treated, but although the
Lama’s room was grand, no heating was provided. The next day
Rinchen Thar-gyé presented himself to Paltrül with the same respectful
request, but Paltrül dismissed him saying “My hiney is too old
and baggy to raise your lust, you’d better try someplace
else. I hear there’s a new intake of young monks down a-ways,
maybe if you get there quick enough you’ll get to them before
the other monks have their ways with them.” And as before he
was ushered out of the door before he really knew what was
happening. His room awaited him.
Now it must be said that the room assigned to him was a rather well
appointed apartment – the perfect room to offer to a visiting
monastic Lama, and the best room in the place. Every day Rinchen
Thar-gyé returned to the room and sat on his own. His spent his time
in solitude engaged in his practises and in his studies of the texts.
Every day Rinchen Thar-gyé presented himself to Paltrül, and everyday
Paltrül dismissed him with some snide remark. One day Paltrül would
merely repeat that he was ignorant of buggery. The next day he would
say that he could be of no help to one of such great learning.
Another day he would say that his own buttocks were too hard and
pock-marked from years of sitting in caves to give the monk a decent
erection. This went on for a month, and all the while the weather
was getting more wintry. The monk was not used to living at the
altitude of Dza-chukha and was evidently suffering. Nyoshul, feeling
sorry for the monk, asked whether the poor man would ever be ready to
receive Paltrül’s teachings. “Maybe,” replied his
teacher in lackadaisical style, “but probably not today...
maybe tomorrow... maybe never...” Rinchen Thar-gyé was
walking sedately across the courtyard at the time, making his way to
present himself to Paltrül. His robes were immaculately pleated and
his arm was bare in spite of the bitter cold. “He seems so
sincere,” Nyoshul reflected, “Can you tell me what it is
that’s wrong with him? What is the obstacle that prevents him
from receiving your teaching?” Paltrül shook his head in
disbelief on hearing this, and said “Just look,
Nyoshul.” Nyoshul looked but discovered little from what he
saw. All he saw was a monk bearing up well under repeated
disappointments, even though he was possibly becoming more miserable
as the days wore on. However, he was as well turned out and elegant
as the day he had arrived. “Just look, Nyoshul,”
Paltrül repeated, “Do you see a man who could leave appearances
behind?” Nyoshul watched the monk as he walked with carefully
measured tread toward Paltrül’s door.
When Rinchen Thar-gyé entered Paltrül’s presence, he offered
his prostrations and said: “I am a well disciplined monk, and I
keep monastic vows purely. I maintain the bodhisatva vows and offer
up merit to the realisation of all sentient beings. I maintain my
Tantric oaths to Lama, yidam, khandro, and protectors. I have
studied texts with diligence, and do my best not to waste this
precious human rebirth. I have complete trust in your realisation and
in the lineage, but I have been here for a month now requesting
teachings, and am still unworthy to take refuge in even a few words of
your teaching – so now I must regretfully take my leave. I must
depart in disgrace, and return to my teacher without having fulfilled
his instruction.” Paltrül looked at him severely; but,
detecting some change in the monk, did not have him ushered out.
Rinchen Thar-gyé’s speech was practically strangulated as he
spoke – he was dejected, hopeless, and slightly frantic.
“You want to take refuge in a few words of my teaching?”
Paltrül enquired, “Wouldn’t you rather take refuge in
the tight arse of a young monk?” Rinchen Thar-gyé spluttered
in total exasperation “But Rinpoche... this sodomy
business has nothing to do with me!” Paltrül eyed him
carefully and stated in slow, even tones, “And – your
pretences – have nothing – to do with – me.”
Then, quite unexpectedly, Paltrül roared with laughter: “Come
back tomorrow – but come just as you are. If you come just as
you are, I will give you a few words of teaching!” Again he
was ushered out of the room and returned to his apartment.
Rinchen Thar-gyé sat alone in his room wandering what Paltrül had
meant. He was painfully cold – so cold that he had to give up
turning the pages of his liturgical text. He wrapped his shawl
around him but the bitterness of the temperature was more than he
could bear – he was reduced to shivering, tormented by Paltrül
’s parting remarks. The words “Come back tomorrow just
as you are” flapped uselessly around his head. What could
he do with such an injunction? Whatever he did – however he
presented himself – it would be the same as before:
accusations of anal intercourse... But “Just as I am...”
he pondered... “But what am I, that is not apparent? I
’m a monk – but he knows that... what else can I be?
How can it be that I am something that I do not even know
about?” This was impossible – totally impossible. How
could he be just as he was, when he was always – just as
he was... An hour passed. Another hour. Then suddenly something
outlandishly preposterous occurred to him: “I’m
cold,” he thought... “I – am – cold... If
that is not just who I am then there’s nothing else! I
– am – cold! I – am – very – damn
cold! I – am – going to freeze my butt off in
this damn room!”
Rinchen Thar-gyé got up immediately and left his room. He went
directly to the kitchen – the only place where he knew that some
sort of warmth would be guaranteed. There were some of his monk
attendants in the kitchen drinking tea with the cook, and he joined
them. They were all most honoured by his visit, and he joined them
in their simple good-humoured conversation. The place where his monk
attendants slept had some warmth that came from the kitchen, and there
was a hearth where dried yak dung was burning. He enquired
tentatively whether there was space to sleep there. The monks were
most surprised, but were only too happy to have him join them. He
spent the day talking with them and keeping warm. His monks offered
him some of their thicker clothing but he declined to take it from
them. Instead he borrowed a woollen monastic jacket from the cook
– a blackened greasy affair. It was patched so much that it was
practically shapeless, but it was warm. He slept the night with the
monks, and slept so well that he was almost late for his appointment
with Paltrül. He was in such a hurry that he lashed his robes about
his person in an unprecedentedly untidy fashion. He beat a hasty
path to Paltrül’s door with his shawl wrapped tightly around
him against the villainous chill factor of the wind that swept through
the courtyard. His robe was a bit besmirched with soot from the
fire, and he gave the appearance of a dishevelled monastic menial
worker. He had no time to wash, eat breakfast or present himself in
anything close to a suitable manner; and in this embarrassing state,
he threw himself to the ground in front of Paltrül. “Welcome,
welcome, dear fellow!” Paltrül greeted him, “Forget
prostrations! Sit! Be comfortable! Eat with us! You’ll
have missed your breakfast I’ll be bound! A smoky room makes
for heavy sleep.” Poor Rinchen Thar-gyé had only managed one
prostration – he had simply crumpled onto the floor in a flood
of tears. “Nyoshul!” Paltrül called, “Help our good
monk up, make our venerable friend comfortable! Today we’ll
have a few words of teaching!” It was a while before Rinchen
Thar-gyé had composed himself, but when he did they eat together as if
he had just arrived as an honoured guest. After a good breakfast, he
sat with Nyoshul and a few other yogis and listened to Paltrül
’s teaching. There was a joy and radiance emanating from him
that was palpable. The change that had come over him was astonishing
to Nyoshul. This was a different man! What had
happened to the exalted pietistic monk overnight? When the teaching
was over Paltrül announced that he would give the monk the entire
cycle of transmission, teachings, and commentaries of the Longchen
Nying-thig. Rinchen Thar-gyé was overjoyed. He was just about to
leave when Paltrül called after him “By the way, I hear
there’s no fire in your room – you must have been freezing in
there! I will see to it that you have some heating.” Rinchen
Thar-gyé responded that there he had found a perfectly comfortable
place to sleep. Nyoshul was amazed. “He’s been there in
all this cold without a fire?” Paltrül face assumed a
more serious demeanour, and he replied in reverential tone
“Extraordinary, isn’t it. Just look, Nyoshul –
this – is – one – exemplary –
monk.” |
|
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.”
|
|
What sort of king are you, anyway? |
What sort of king are you, anyway?
Paltrül was teaching in Dzam-thang.
The people there appreciated what he said to them, and they tried to
give him presents. He re-directed these gifts as was his wont and
left with only one object – that was to become an unusual
catalyst of change. Of the gifts, he gave goods to the poor people
and financial donations to those engaged in religious craft work.
The one gift he kept was given him by an old man – a special
gift, a silver ornament made to the exact shape and size of a
horse’s hoof! “What a thing! Paltrül
exclaimed. “What – a – thing!” He realised
that this was an important moment for the old man, so Paltrül confided
quietly, “This will accomplish much more than you
imagine.” True to his word, he took the hoof with him when he
left Dzam-thang – even though its weight was not a welcome
addition to his bag. The old man was overjoyed that Paltrül had
accepted his gift, and as a result applied himself to practise with
enormous dedication. It was said later that he became an
accomplished practitioner as a result of the inspiration of Paltrül
accepting his offering.
Things being as they are, there was a thief in the audience by the
name of Gyalpo. Now Gyalpo means ‘king’, and this
impoverished monarch noticed the silver horse’s hoof. As soon
as he clapped eyes on it, his mind started buzzing with ideas. He
thought of a wealthy Golok chieftain to whom such a things might be
desirable. What he would pay for such a thing! Gyalpo was as
surprised as were some of the monks present when Paltrül hoofed it
with the silver hoof. They’d expected him to give it away
along with all the other gifts. It was then that Gyalpo decided to
relieve Paltrül of its weight in some desolate place a few days walk
out of Dzam-thang.
Once Paltrül had concluded his dealing in Dzam-thang, he took off
into the hills, and it was a few days before Gyalpo found him.
Paltrül was asleep when the would-be robber crept up on him, but he
was not unaware of Gyalpo or his intention. The thief stealthily
investigated Paltrül’s bundle in search of the ingot – but
nothing was to be found. Paltrül, recognising that the pilferer was
frustrated, said: “It’s back at the last place you watched
me light a fire. I’d have thought you would have found it
there – it was easy enough to see.” Then he sat up. He
looked carefully at Gyalpo, asking in disbelief “What sort of
king are you anyway? I guess you must be a king though –
you’re too damn timid to be a demon. [‘Gyalpo’
means king, but it also refers to a class of demon. Gyalpo demons
are often the re-births of spiritual practitioners who have perverted
the teachings to uncompassionate ends.] You’ll have to do a
bit better than this if you want to make a living out of
larceny.” Gyalpo jumped back surprised. He was perplexed by
Paltrül, but demanded “Cut the guff joker, where have you hidden
that damn horse hoof! I saw the old man give it you – I want
it, and I want it now!” Paltrül laughed “Dear me...
you poor fellow, what a miserable mess your life is.” The
robber was annoyed and slightly bewildered by Paltrül’s
attitude, but also a little curious, “Whadya mean by that, you
jerk-off!” he shouted “These hill-billies may think
you’re a big shot, but you’re not a real Lama!
You’re just a ragged old fart who can shoot his mouth
off!” Paltrül smiled “That’s as may be, my lad,
but the fact remains that the silver’s there waiting for you
back where I last camped. It’s got no value for me, so
you’re welcome to it. But come now – why run around like
a lunatic chasing dreams of wealth that won’t last? That old
Golok horse lord won’t give you the price you want, and
you’ll be short-changed from here to Amdo, as like as not. It
won’t be a month before it’s all gone, and then where will
you be? What’s the use in that? Think about it. Have you
ever made out with this kind of deal before?” Gyalpo, all the
while Paltrül was speaking, was scurrying around in a frenzy, hunting
in every crevice. Where could that crafty old con artist have hidden
that ingot? It was only when he had exhausted every option, along
with himself, that he sat down and began to weep. “I’ve
never had anything! I’ll never have anything! I’ll
never amount to anything! I’m not even a successful
criminal!” Paltrül shook his head sadly and put his hand on
the man’s shoulder. “Yah, yah, that’s the way of it
my friend, but never mind – there are other ways of occupying
your life...” Gyalpo looked wretched. “Come now,”
Paltrül added, “just take a walk back there down the valley and
you’ll find what you’re looking for.” Gyalpo looked
confused. “Come on now!”, Paltrül repeated, “If
you leave now you’ll get there by dawn. I left that useless
lump of silver in the ashes of the fire.” Gyalpo looked up at
him with a mixture of hope, despair, and vague remorse.
“Really?” he enquired – “Really!”
replied Paltrül, “... if that is what you want. But
is that – what – you – want?” The
thief nodded. “This isn’t a trick?” But Paltrül
laughed: “What’s there to trick?” The thief took
the situation in for a moment, and said that he would ascertain the
veracity of Paltrül’s story, and that if the silver wasn’t
here, he would come looking for him. “Well, my friend, you may do
that anyway – you know how it is ... although, before you go
there’s something I’d like to tell you.” Gyalpo
looked at his unusual prospective benefactor cautiously: “Tell
away then.” Paltrül fixed his eyes and stated in slow even
tones, “Well... king or demon or whatever you are – this
hoof may well be exactly what you think you want – but I’m
damn sure it’s not what you need. One day you’ll realise
that you need the teachings more than you want this silver horse’s
hoof... But in the mean time,” Paltrül yawned, “... go
get what you – think – you – want... ”
Gyalpo left and went to find Paltrül’s last campfire. He
walked through the night, and in the morning he found the place
Paltrül described. There was the campfire, and in the ashes he found
the ingot. Gyalpo leapt in the air for joy: “Yes! Yes!
Yes!” he shouted when he laid his hands on it. He sat down and
gazed at it lovingly. He rubbed off the ash and shone up the silver
on his ragged sleeve. He watched the metal begin to glitter as he
rubbed away the ash. It really was a large piece of silver –
he was in no doubt about that. He began to think about the deal with
the Golok chief, and the rich reward he’d get. But then the
words of Paltrül came back to him:
“That old Golok horse
lord won’t give you the price you want, and you’ll be
short-changed from here to Amdo as like as not. It won’t be a
month before it’s all gone, and then where will you
be?”
This was an unpleasant thought. He had been down
that road before. How could he be sure that old Golok horseman
wouldn’t swindle him? How could he be sure that those Goloks
wouldn’t just waylay him on the road and take their lord’s
money back? This was not going to be as easy as he thought... then
he started thinking about Paltrül – that old Lama really did
jettison the silver... Then he thought of the abusive language
he’d thrown at Paltrül: “These hill-billies may think
you’re a big-shot, but you’re not a real Lama!
You’re just a ragged old fart who can shoot his mouth
off!” Paltrül was evidently the real thing. Gyalpo began
to feel very sad and confused. The pattern of his life started
moving through his mind, and there wasn’t much to it that looked
like anything. Then in the next moment he broke down and wept.
“Worse and worse!” he cried, “This Dza Paltrül
really is a great being, and I’m just a mouldering turd! What
use is this damn horse’s hoof anyway!” The knowledge that
the hoof could make him rich for a while, but that he’d only
become poor again, seemed somehow too poignant. His life seemed
futile and worthless. “Better for me that I try to be like Dza
Paltrül. He doesn’t seem to need anything to be
happy!”
Gyalpo left. He grabbed the ingot and walked without stopping
until he had caught up with Paltrül. By the time Gyalpo found him,
his feet were raw and blistered. The ingot of silver had started to
feel like a massive weight, but something in him had determined that
he was going to take it back.
Paltrül had some sense of Gyalpo’s approach, and sat down to
await his arrival. When he arrived, Paltrül exclaimed, “Hey!
How the hell are you, king demon! What pushes you on at such a lick
– you must have walked your feet off to catch up with me
again.” Then is a soft voice he added “Y’know...
you’ll drive yourself insane with this senseless galloping!
Didn’t you find that hoof?” Gyalpo was gasping with the
effort of this sleepless trek but managed to blurt out “Yeah I
found it, and I’ve brought it back to you. It’s a bloody
nuisance! I just needed to tell you that I don’t want it any
more.” Paltrül smiled at him “What do you want, then
king demon?” With those words Gyalpo threw the ingot into the
river and said: “I want you to teach me what I have to do to be
like you!” The two men laughed heartily together, as the hoof
bounced down the hill toward the torrent below. “Now
you’re free man for the first time in your life, king
demon!” Paltrül was happy to give Gyalpo the teachings he
requested, and sent him off to practice them.
Gyalpo, after being beaten up a couple of times by victims of
previous thefts, went on to be a great practitioner. When Paltrül
heard that Gyalpo was being beaten up by people who caught up with
him, he promptly issued a severe warning to all who respected him:
“If you harm my disciple you harm me! He was once a thief but
now he’s a yogi – leave him be!”
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Paltrül receives an offer of marriage |
Paltrül receives an offer of marriage
Dza Paltrül Rinpoche was once making
his way through the wild and dangerous region north of Dza-chukha
– a mountainous region of ferocious exhilarating beauty.
Equally beautiful and ferocious, however, were the animals which
stalked its wooded hills and isolated valleys – animals not
particularly known for their tender nurturing relationship with
people. But this was not the only risk of journeying through such
parts; there were bandits.
Dza-chukha was in Golok – the wild reaches of Tibet north of
Kham, far away from the central provinces where some sort of order
prevailed. Golok was considered barbaric by those who lived in areas
where people loved freedom less. Kham was notorious for its
brigandage, but Golok exceeded it to the extent that Arizona and
Kansas exceeded Philadelphia in the 1870s. It was no place to travel
unless you were a yogi, or packed muskets – or, perhaps better,
a yogi who packed muskets, such as Do-Khyentsé Rinpoche, the root
teacher of Dza Paltrül Rinpoche.
Golok was the Wild North-East, and the people there were known for
two things: the bravado with which they vaunted their traditional
independence, and their trigger-happy disregard for legislation of any
kind, no matter whence it came. The following words from the head of
one of the fierce Golok clans may typify their general attitude:
“To the advice of strangers we will not hearken.
Nor will we obey aught but the heart with which each Golokpa enters
the world. This is why we have remained as free in the past as we
are now. We are slaves of none – neither Khan nor Dala’i
Lama. Our tribe is the mightiest in the land of snows, and it is our
birth-right to disdain Chinese and Tibetans. We regard them both
with contempt.”
Tulku Rinpoche, a young Lama whom I met whilst staying with Tharchin
Rinpoche, fell to talking with me about Golok. It was the land of
his birth. He told me that it was notorious both for brigandry and
drüpthobs (siddhas). He said that there used to be a saying in Lhasa,
which ran:
“Even if you’re on your deathbed, if you hear
there’s a Golokpa approaching – you’d better jump
up immediately and run away!”
Golokpas, the indigenous tribes of Golok, were not folk who
appreciated change over-much – least of all if it came in the
form of impingements from the outside. They classed themselves as
tax-exempt with regard to the edicts of the Tibetan government, and
imposed their own free-lance taxation on those fool-hardy enough to
venture into their land. As an example of this Tulku Rinpoche told
me another story. Apparently a well-to-do middle-aged Golokpa bought
a large new Chinese tent to replace his old yak-hair model. Soon
afterward he died very suddenly and unexpectedly. The local people
had little sympathy for him, all agreed that he had it coming:
“The old fool! What d’you expect if you buy a new-fangled
Chinese tent?”
So it was in these distinctly wild and woolly parts that Paltrül
came across an attractive young woman. She and her two young
children were weeping bitterly. They were in a state of dreadful
anguish, huddled under the shelter of a large rock by the side of the
mountain track. Paltrül asked what had happened, and learnt that the
woman’s husband had been mauled to death by one of the huge
bears in whose cave the family had inadvertently trespassed. They
had been in search of shelter from a rising gale after having
previously been robbed of all their goods by bandits. Paltrül
immediately offered his protection as a companion traveller. He asked
what direction they had been intending to take when the awful events
occurred. “We were on pilgrimage to Dza-chukha” said the
woman, although it was difficult for her to speak, “but we were
robbed by a band of robbers. All our horses and money were
stolen.” The poor woman wept even more at this point:
“And then... my poor husband was killed by a red bear. And now
we have nothing... nothing at all! We are destitute with no means
of returning to our home.” It was a terrible sight to witness,
but Paltrül said: “It seems you’d better go to Dza-chukha,
because that’s where I’m going – I’ll look
after you on the way. Don’t worry.” The woman calmed
down momentarily on hearing these words, but burst into tears again,
saying there was no purpose in going on further to Dza-chukha, because
she knew no one there: “Who would help me there anyway? I
should go home, but my home’s such a long way away –
how can I go there through such dangers? I cannot go on without
money or provisions, neither can I return.” The poor woman was
in floods of tears, and seemed inconsolable. Paltrül once more tried
to comfort her, saying: “You know... I really think you
should come to Dza-chukha with me. I have the feeling that
you’ll really do well there. I know how to beg for alms even
if you don’t, so you can follow my example as we travel
together. There’s to be a great gathering of religious types
in Dza-chukha, going to see Dza Paltrül... so something is bound to
work out for you.” The woman’s eyes widened when she
heard the name Dza Paltrül. “Really?” she said
“Dza Paltrül Rinpoche will really be there in Dza-chukha! That
is the most wonderful news! That’s why my husband and I left
the caravan! That’s why we took the risk of leaving on our own
– we’d heard that Dza Paltrül Rinpoche might be in these
parts and we wanted to see him.” The lady seemed suddenly
elated: “I believe I will take your advice after all! You are
right, I do not know how to beg, but if I can learn what to do from
you then at least my children will be able to receive Dza Paltrül
Rinpoche’s blessings! His blessing would be worth more than
everything they have lost, even were their mother also to
die.” Paltrül observed the young lady carefully. Her whole
demeanour had changed radically since hearing his name, and so he
said: “It seems that you have some connection with this Lama,
so I’d be happy to help you find him.” The lady looked
radiant, and even her children stopped crying and gazed in wonder at
the kindly stranger in the ragged sheepskin chuba. The woman looked
down at her children and said “We have travelled for a month, on
pilgrimage, hoping that we would be able to meet Dza Paltrül Rinpoche
just once, and now we have the opportunity! Now it doesn’t
matter what happens after Dza-chukha, everything will be
fine!”
So they set out together. They made detours through villages
whenever they ran out of food, and begged for provisions to take them
further. They camped out as they travelled wherever they could find
relatively sheltered places. When they slept Paltrül kept one child
in his sheep-skin chuba, and she kept the other huddled in hers. As
the days wore on, the lady noticed that when there was nothing else to
be done, Paltrül would sit motionless with his eyes wide –
staring into the sky. He was not one for conversation unless she or
the children spoke to him, but when he answered he was always
good-humoured and kind.
She felt unusually peaceful and reassured in his company, and her
children seemed contented. Paltrül would often carry either one of
the children on his shoulder as they walked, and they seemed to take
to him rapidly as a substitute father. The grim tragedy of her
husband’s death weighed less on the lady than she expected, and
she pondered the peculiar naturalness which had settled on them like an
invisible mist of benevolence. She pondered on her unusual lack of
anxiety in view of the terrible events that had occurred. But even
her pondering didn’t seem to hold her mind for long, she seemed
content to enjoy the shifting forms of the landscape.
Paltrül talked to her a little about impermanence and death as they
walked. He told her that he had some small knowledge of the passage
of the bardo, and would perform the required meditation for her
husband. She was much relieved by this, even though there was not a
Lama there to perform the rites in the full ritual manner.
Paltrül’s bardo meditations were all silent, but it seemed that
whatever it was he was doing made her and her children confident that
all was proceeding as it should – even though his silent
motionless posture didn’t resemble anything she knew or
understood.
She and her departed husband had both received some religious
instructions from time to time during their lives. Although they were
not ngak’phang practitioners, they were devoted to the practises
they had been given and had persevered in them to the best of their
abilities. Increasingly often, at the end of a long day’s walk
she and Paltrül sang Padmasambhava’s mantra or Seven Line Song
together. Sometimes they simply sat together in silence as the
darkness fell. At those times he would tell her a few things about
how to let go of thought, and she gradually came to discover that
Paltrül had a deeper degree of knowledge in spiritual matters than she
had thought. He gave her some simple advice on dream yoga that she
could practice each night as she fell asleep, and provided her with
pieces of knowledge that proved interesting and valuable to her. She
began to ask him questions after a while, in order to clarify previous
teaching she had received, and as they walked he explained every
subject on which she enquired in ordinary language, in the simplest
most direct manner. He occasionally apologised that what he could
say was very simple, but that the simple approach was all he really
knew. He gave her suggestions on practice in a manner which
suggested that he was merely passing on the teachings he had heard,
but nonetheless he seemed completely clear and confident about
everything he described – as if his memory served him more
than adequately.
He cared for her children as if they were his own, and entertained
them sometimes when they rested or took meals. By the time they got
to Dza-chukha, her feelings for Paltrül had developed in depth and
complexity. The lady was aware that she was astonishing herself with
regard to how she felt about him. He was actually quite a handsome
man under his shaggy coils of matted hair, and she had grown to be
very fond of him. She was concerned not only for herself but for the
future of her children, and it seemed to her that Paltrül might make a
good husband. He was her senior in years, and not of the same social
position as her late husband – but he was both knowledgeable
and devoted to the teachings. He was also the epitome of kindness
and humour. She realised that she had never met such a wonderful
person in her life. She was suddenly aware that she had fallen in
love with him.
After long consideration she plucked up the courage and proposed
marriage to Paltrül. But he shook his head rather sadly:
“That’s not really possible my dear,” he replied,
“but thank you all the same. You’re a good woman.
There could be nothing more happy for a vagabond like to me to do but
become a husband to you, and a father to your children. But I am not
cut out for such a life. And anyway... I must care for a great
number of people in my own way...” The lady was disappointed,
but somehow understood that there was something much more unusual
about this strange man than she had supposed. She did not pursue her
proposal, but asked: “What is your purpose here in Dza-chukha
– will you also go to the gompa?” Paltrül smiled:
“Yes, certainly I will be there, have no doubt. I will be
going to the gompa tomorrow, and I promise to meet you. Take the
remains of what we have been offered as alms and find a place for you
and your children to sleep tonight.” Paltrül looked at her
intently and said emphatically: “You and your children will be
fine. Your devotion and practice will take care of
everything.” She looked a little bewildered, asking:
“But what about you – what will you do for
accommodation?” Paltrül laughed: “Oh me? I’ll
do what I usually do when I come here. Don’t you worry about
me. If I can’t find a good place to put my head down,
something will be very amiss!”
On that note they parted. Paltrül made his way to the gompa where
he was received with all due ceremony, and the lady and her children
went on their way to find somewhere to stay for the night. In their
respective accommodations, they engaged in their own duties and
practises before attending the teachings of the great Dza Paltrül
Rinpoche.
The next day arrived, and the preparations for the teachings and
public blessing were underway. People were arriving from the outlying
districts. Others had arrived some days or weeks previously. Some
had travelled tremendous distances to hear Paltrül’s teachings,
and there was a sizeable encampment all around the gompa eager to
receive his blessing. Many Khamba and Golok Lamas were there in
their respective encampments, and even people from as far away as
Lhasa. Everyone had brought presents in the time-honoured style, and
in similar traditional manner they were gathered together by the
monks. It was well-known that Paltrül never accepted presents, and
that he always gave away whatever he was given – either to
those who were in need or to help local craftspeople in religious
works. But this time he requested that all the gifts should be
gathered together to be at his personal disposal at a future point.
The monks were slightly disconcerted by this change in Paltrül. Why
had he had deviated from his usual exemplary disinterest in offerings?
– but then, he was a very great Lama, and there would probably
be some good reason behind this uncharacteristic action. Their
curiosity was further aroused by the almost unseemly degree of interest he
took in the value and quality of the offerings. He appeared to be
uncommonly pleased by the way that the gifts were accumulating, and
one could have been led to believe that Paltrül descended to common
acquisitiveness.
When the lady arrived at the gompa and took her place amongst the
crowd gathered there, she could not really see Paltrül’s face
very clearly. She listened to the teaching in rapt attention, in
which she marvelled at the eerie sensation of Paltrül’s voice:
it was extraordinarily familiar – almost like the old togden
with whom she had travelled to Dza-chukha. The teachings seemed
unusually easy to understand. She remembered the difficulty she had
experienced in the past when she had attempted to follow such profound
teachings. Now it was as if she had heard them all recently, and was
simply being reminded of what she already knew. Then she came up to
receive a blessing. She had some degree of anticipation of the
glorious benediction that the touch of Paltrül’s hand would confer when
it touched the top of her head, but when she looked up to see the face
of Paltrül, her mind was so startled that she lost all ability to
conceptualise. She found herself in a state of rapt shock.
At that moment she understood all the instructions that Paltrül had
given her as they walked together. She realised that Paltrül had
given her all the teachings in quintessential form on the journey, and
that he had just given them all again in full. “I’m
sorry I turned down your offer of marriage,” Paltrül told the
lady in a concerned tone, “but now you have received my
transmission and you know the nature of real practice. Although I
cannot marry you, we will never be parted. Marriage always ends in
death, but the marriage of transmission is indestructible.”
Paltrül snapped his fingers and the woman’s eyes focused
again. After a moment of what looked like consideration, he said:
“Although you have told me that the teachings of old Paltrül are
worth more than everything you have lost, you will also need to take
care of yourself and your children.” With that he requested
the monks to turn over all the collected offerings to the woman,
and she was able to return to her home. She became a profound
practitioner of Dzogchen and passed on her teaching not only to her
children but to many other ordinary people who came to hear her.
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