The Collected Works of Chogyam Trungpa: Volume One (20 page)

The conch shell of dharma
.

A Many-Sided Training

T
HIS WAS THE YEAR
1954, and when I returned to Surmang I found that great changes had taken place everywhere. The Chinese had opened shops in all the larger towns, selling cloth, crockery, blue Chinese overalls, and much else besides. In my monastery, some of the monks were wearing new robes of a slightly different style, no longer handwoven, but machine made. In the villages the women were buying modern perfumes and other exotic luxuries. My secretary had been appointed a member of the municipality under the Communists. There had been gifts of magazines such as the
People’s Pictorial
, and our monks had been given posters with Communist slogans and asked to put them on the walls of the monastery; this they had very properly refused to do. Early in 1953 a Chinese official came to Jyekundo, the large trading town which the Chinese had established as the district capital. Though he had seen me before, he now wanted to ask what I thought of the Communist regime. He presented me with a roll of orange brocade and a large picture of Mao Tse-tung, and through an interpreter he described Peking, how it was the largest city in the world and what exciting things were happening there all the time. He said, “The late emperor’s palace is so large it takes twenty-four hours to walk round it. I cannot explain these wonderful things, you must come and see them for yourself; the People’s Government invites you.” My senior lamas were so uneasy, they advised me not to reply. These Communists officials appeared to me as quite a different sort of human being, not only in their costumes, but in their whole behavior; their smiles had a significance different from the smiles of Tibetans. I could not understand it at all.

Even so, when I was shown a map of the world in one of the magazines, I longed to know what sort of lives other people led. Hitherto, Europeans had only traveled by the trade routes, or to Lhasa, and they were few and far between; outside the district towns no one had ever set eyes on one. When I was with my guru at Sechen, I had wanted to learn other languages and had begun with the Amdo dialect which has a different pronunciation and uses words that are elsewhere obsolete; now I wanted to learn more, and hoped one day to become familiar with the European language and lettering.

However, other studies lay ahead of me; Rölpa Dorje Rinpoche and the senior lamas thought it was now time for me to learn religious ceremonial dancing. According to monastic rules, secular dancing is not permitted, but the Buddhist dancing is a spiritual exercise in awareness. The Lord Buddha is portrayed in sculpture and painting making different gestures (
mudras
), each of which has its own special significance. And so it is with our dancing; each step and each movement of the hands, arms, and head has its own symbolic meaning and brings an increase of understanding both to dancers and spectators. This is seldom understood in the West where this deeply religious art is still at times miscalled “devil dancing.” Nothing could be more ill-founded. These dances have no connection with magic and still less with sorcery, for they originally came from Buddhist India and embody the methods of different spiritual masters.

The form that I was to learn came through Naropa, the “spiritual grandfather” of Milarepa, and expresses the ascent from the level of a beginner to final realization. It is called the great gathering (
tsokchen
) and is based on the wheel of supreme bliss (khorlo demchok) which is a mandala of the sambhogakaya or “fruition body of buddhahood.” This dance is a specialty of Surmang.

When the main assembly hall of the Varshika Vihara was not being used for other purposes, the religious dancing was rehearsed there, since this house lay farther up the slope and at some distance from other monastery buildings so that the noise of the dancing could not be heard. The venerable Lhapten, who was the
dorje-loppön
(master of rites), was our instructor; he rejoiced in being able to hand on his great knowledge, for he was extremely expert and although about sixty-five he was still a very good dancer.

It was all a great change; in the monastery my work had all been sedentary, now it was all movement; thirty-five of us had at first to practice with the hand drum. Afterward, when I was in India, I found the identical instrument in old Indian paintings in a museum, and this proved to me that its use originated there. This work with the drum was, in fact, more difficult than the actual dancing, for the arm has to be held up at full stretch for over an hour at a time, then as the drum is twisted in the hand, the two weights attached to long cords rap on the vellum. To do this properly is far from easy and most tiring to start with. The drum is held in the right hand and symbolizes compassion, while the bell in the left hand symbolizes voidness of ultimate content. We practiced in this way daily from morning till evening with only an hour’s break. In the evening we had to memorize the fundamental principles of the dancing and to learn the chants that go with it.

My tutor, Apho Karma, helped me on this course; he was very knowledgeable about these things though hardly a good dancer himself, but he gave me private instruction, for he was anxious for me to excel. He expressed the thought that I should have some spare time to rest in order to offset all this physical exertion and did his best to help by giving me massage; he also began to worry about my health, since at the start I suffered a good deal through my muscles being in such poor condition; but in a month’s time I grew stronger. By then we were practicing other movements and I could work nearly all day long without getting tired. Naturally I was not one of the better pupils, for the other monks had started in good condition; I knew that I lagged behind them, though they and our teacher always tried to be encouraging. Still I enjoyed it very much, and the difficulties reminded me of the time when I practiced prostration under Rölpa Dorje Rinpoche.

The course went on for three and a half months without interruption, for there was a great deal to learn. The dancing had 360 different themes symbolic of the number of days in the year, and of the same number of worldly thoughts that must be transformed into the 360 forms of wisdom.

At the end we had a dress rehearsal and were watched by an unofficial audience. We appeared in our best robes and I had to lead the dance which was most embarrassing, for I knew that some of the others were better than I. Alas, in their kindness the audience made no comment, but this made me even more aware that I really needed criticism, and I realized how grateful I must be to my tutor for treating me objectively and never hesitating to correct me.

After three months at the Varshika Vihara, I had to decide whether to go back to Sechen or to stay on for further dancing lessons. I chose to go to my guru without delay for, as I told my secretary, it was already the beginning of summer, and if I did not leave at once, the river Drichu might again be in spate and difficult to cross.

As we were preparing to start we learned that His Holiness the Dalai Lama and other senior lamas had been invited to visit China. Some of my monks were very upset, fearing that the Chinese would not allow His Holiness to return to Tibet; others, however, felt that his visit might help, for he would surely make a good impression on the Communists.

Apho Karma did not want to come with me, saying that he felt old and exhausted and that at Sechen he could no longer help me for I would be under my own guru. I was very sad to leave him behind for he had done so much for me with his ready advice and deep understanding. Now he reminded me that I could not hide behind a tutor all my life, adding, “On this journey you can make the experiment of relying on your own judgment, but once at Sechen, you will be under Jamgön Kongtrül; everything will be in his hands and you will not have to worry about anything.”

Many monks and friends came to bid us farewell and my table was piled with scarves offered in token of good wishes. I said goodbye to Rölpa Dorje Rinpoche, and we set off escorted by our many friends for the first stage of our journey. This time we took a different route, through the most beautiful country I had ever seen. For three days among the high mountains we did not see a single human being, though there were all sorts of animals such as foxes, muskrats, and deer, while at night we had to put a guard on our pack animals to protect them from brown bears. The whole countryside was ablaze with flowers.

On our arrival at Sechen, I found that Jamgön Kongtrül was no longer at his own residence, but was living in the seminary. We learned that the latter had been enlarged and that there were many more monks and tulkus present. He was not expecting me, but expressed delight at my arrival. Many old friends were still there and all told me that this time I must really complete my studies. My guru was giving a course of lectures on
The Seven Treasuries
, the works of Longchen Rabjampa, a great teacher of the Nyingma school. He said that it was a most auspicious moment for me to join them and that the teaching would be his spiritual gift of welcome: He would give me personal instruction on the previous parts that I had missed.

Visitors were continually coming for the teaching, who camped in tents all round the seminary. The atmosphere was quite different to Surmang; I found it so happy and peaceful in spite of the crowds and the noise, everyone was intent on gaining further spiritual knowledge; we all felt how the monks at Sechen had a particular charm, from those who did the menial tasks, upward, it was like a big happy family.

Academically I had less work to do here and this gave me more time for meditation.

A fortnight later, the course was finished and the summer vacation began. As Jamgön Kongtrül was going back to his residence he advised me to travel with my monks to visit the famous Khyentse Rinpoche at Dzongsar Monastery, four days’ journey away in the valley of the Drichu. Four of the professors (khenpos) accompanied us and we set off southward. On the third day we stopped at Manikengo as we had been told the story of a very saintly man who had died there the previous year. We went to the house where he had lived, and met his son and his wife who recounted the miracle that had occurred at the old man’s death.

In his lifetime he had erected a group of “mani stones” on which he had carved a great number of mantras and sutras and he had also set up a
chöten
(stupa) among them.

In his youth he had been a servant with a wealthy family, but in middle age he left his employment to receive meditational instruction in a monastery. Though he had to work for his living by day, he spent most of his nights in contemplation, only allowing himself two to three hours’ sleep. His compassion was so great that he always helped everyone in need, and opened his house at all times to pilgrims and the very poor. While carrying out his daily work he used to practice meditation in his own way, though his son who was a monk told him that he should carry out more formal spiritual exercises, but this he could not accept. Though he had hitherto always been in good health, three years before his death he fell ill and his family began to be very worried, yet he himself appeared to become increasingly happy. He composed and sang his own songs of praise instead of traditional Buddhist chants. As his illness became more and more serious, lamas and doctors were called in, with his son telling him that he must now remember all the teaching that he had received, at which he smiled, saying, “I have forgotten it all, and anyway there is nothing to remember; everything is illusion, yet I am confident that all is well.” Just before his death the old man said, “When I die you must not move my body for a week; this is all that I desire.”

They wrapped his dead body in old clothes and called in lamas and monks to recite and chant. The body was carried into a small room, little bigger than a cupboard and it was noted that though the old man had been tall the body appeared to have become smaller; at the same time a rainbow was seen over the house. On the sixth day on looking into the room the family saw it had grown still smaller. A funeral service was arranged for the morning of the eighth day and men came to take the body to the cemetery; when they undid the coverings there was nothing inside except nails and hair. The villagers were astounded, for it would have been impossible for anyone to have come into the room, the door was always kept locked, and the window of the little resting place was much too small.

The family reported the event to the authorities and also went to ask Khyentse Rinpoche about the meaning of it. He told them that such a happening had been reported several times in the past and that the body of the saintly man had been absorbed into the Light. They showed me the nails and the hair and the small room where they had kept the body. We had heard of such things happening, but never at firsthand, so we went round the village to ask for further information. Everyone had seen the rainbow and knew that the body had disappeared. This village was on the main route from China to Lhasa and the people told me that the previous year when the Chinese heard about it they were furious and said the story must not be talked about.