Tibetan Foothold (7 page)

The importance to the Tibetans of their dances and songs is stressed by the fact that very soon after the 1959 exodus to India the Dalai Lama asked his Cabinet to make an attempt to keep this part of the Tibetan culture alive. At first glance such a preoccupation might seem frivolous, considering the conditions under which the average refugee was then living; but, in fact, His Holiness showed commendable realism in acting so promptly. He knew that refugees need more than food and clothing and that a living art could soon die if the steady transmission of skill from generation to generation were not maintained.

In September 1959 some of the more expert refugee dancers met in Kalimpong to tackle the enormous problem of starting a drama group without instruments, costumes, masks – or money. Indian craftsmen couldn’t make instruments which they had never seen, but eventually, through India’s Representative in Tibet, a few instruments were brought out over the border and some others were smuggled into Sikkim and Nepal,
en route
for Kalimpong. Meanwhile the seven founder-members of the Drama Party were collecting songs from natives of all the Tibetan provinces and sending around the camps to find children suitable for training. Soon about twenty boys and girls had joined the group and for the next six months they worked hard eight hours a day, not able to afford even a cup of tea during their long practice sessions.

The Drama Party’s first public performance was given in 1960 at Kalimpong, and its success provided enough money for new costumes. Next they were invited to perform before the Afro-Asian Conference in Delhi, where their skill was much appreciated, and when His Holiness moved to Dharamsala he suggested that they also should make this their headquarters. By now the group’s fame had spread throughout the refugee world and many parents sent specially talented children to Dharamsala, where they received some conventional schooling as well as their specialised training.

At the moment, apart from performing the traditional Tibetan
dances, the group also stages two dramas; one depicting the coming of Buddhism to Tibet and the other the coming of Communism. The first of these was recently written by a learned Lama who adapted ancient songs and dances to fit his presentation of the historical events of the eighth century. After many rehearsals this play had its first performance before His Holiness, members of the ‘Kashag’ (the Tibetan Cabinet) and many guests. A little later the Drama Party successfully toured Delhi, Calcutta and Darjeeling, raising quite a lot of money for distribution among the worst-off refugees. It is now their ambition to produce several more plays illustrating incidents from Tibetan history and to tour extensively in India, and possibly abroad.

On Wednesday evening most of the camp ayahs took time off to attend the drama, and as Oliver and I walked to Macleod Ganj (Juliet was still in Kangra doing her half-day duties) groups of singing young women preceded and followed us along the road, their clear voices filling the forest with melody. From Macleod Ganj to the theatre a rough sloping track – blocked at one point by a new landslide – curves around the mountain, overlooking a deep, wooded valley on the right. Now we were walking among a stream of Tibetans, many carrying sleeping babies on their backs or accompanied by toddlers trotting sturdily behind them, all in high spirits at the prospect of the evening’s entertainment.

I find it very difficult to define the essence of Tibetan charm. Anyway charm is too soft and smooth a word – let’s just say likeability. Generalisations are rash, but not always avoidable, and I don’t think anyone who knows the Tibetans will deny that they have a most
distinctive
and attractive racial personality. It seems to be compounded of resilient happiness, a peculiarly innocent fearlessness that shows in their direct, steady gaze, a quick sense of humour and an infectious zest for simple pleasures that makes one feel more alive in their company.

To all this their picturesque everyday attire adds an essentially irrelevant but delightful ‘finishing touch’. The men’s high fur caps or broad-brimmed hats show off their strong and often very handsome features and the nigger-brown chuba, usually drawn up around the waist to kilt-length, gives a sort of dignified swagger to their gait as they
move easily up the steep mountain paths to which their gaily coloured, knee-length cloth boots are ideally suited. Normally a knife, spoon and leather silver-embossed pouch containing flint and steel in lieu of matches are attached to their belts, and sometimes a short sword in a marvellously ornate sheath is also thrust into the belt. A silver reliquary is usually hung round their necks and those who enjoy a certain standing in Tibet wear shoulder-length turquoise earrings in the left ear.

The women look no less splendid with their long gowns and richly striped aprons and waist-long hair, the braids interwoven with coloured threads. They wear masses of heavy silver and turquoise and coral jewellery, carrying all the invested wealth of the family on their persons. But now some are entirely without ornament because misfortune has forced them to avert starvation by selling their only remaining
possessions
. Yet however hard their lot they all retain their wooden
prayerbeads
, worn around the wrist, and those silver prayer-wheels which they carry everywhere.

I particularly love seeing the children in exact miniature replicas of their parents’ clothes – they look so much more pleasing than the Western-style garments donated from abroad for our Tiblets at the camp.

On arriving at the theatre Oliver and I were given cushions of honour in the front row; it was impossible to decline them, yet I would have much preferred to sit among the body of the audience. Immediately behind us, sharing the shelter of what might be described as the proscenium of the covered stage, sat the Palace officials and a number of lamas; but everyone else was squatting cross-legged under the sky, quietly waiting for the curtain to rise. On our right, as we faced the stage, was a large mural illustrating with crude realism the various atrocities inflicted by the Chinese on the Tibetans, and on the left was the usual shrine consisting of a large photograph of the Dalai Lama – the frame draped in white scarves – with a row of little
butter-lamps
flickering on the shelf beneath it.

When the curtain rose we saw as backdrop a painting of the Potala, with many details characteristic of Tibetan daily life in the foreground. The picture was reminiscent of a European Primitive and showed none
of the delicate craftsmanship associated with Oriental pictorial art: but this is explained by the fact that in Tibet no tradition of painting could develop among the ordinary people, since all such art was religiously inspired and its practice regarded as an esoteric ritual.

As the curtain went up the electricity supply failed, but was rapidly restored, and then we heard the chanted invocation to Chenrezig – Lord of Boundless Love – which precedes every performance. Next three men, representing the chief Tibetan provinces, stood silently in the centre of the stage holding the national flag with its fabulously colourful and intricate design. The spiritual symbolism of this design is too involved for me to understand, much less explain, but it struck me as very appropriate that whereas most countries are satisfied with a pattern of geometrically arranged colours Tibet must have an exuberant wealth of pictorial emblems. As the flag was being presented we heard from behind the scenes that most moving air, ‘Katatampa’ – a very ancient tune adopted as the national anthem in the reign of the thirteenth Dalai Lama, when its patriotic words were composed. Then, after the standard-bearers had marched off, the play began.

I had been asked by SCI to report on this company’s possible appeal to Western audiences and I had no hesitation in encouraging them to take it abroad. The classical drama provides gay, vigorous, graceful dancing, interwoven with quiet scenes revealing the formal beauty of oriental etiquette, and its pleasing music is immediately intelligible to Westerners. The magnificent costumes alone are an aesthetic treat, with their striking originality of design and ornament and their boldly contrasting textures and colours.

We soon realised that we were seeing folk-art of a quality now extinct in Europe. This dancing was not something rescued out of the wreckage of individual national cultures and artificially preserved but was an
artform
still fulfilling its original purpose – to give expression to the creativity of unlettered peasants, while instructing a new generation in the history and legends of their race. These performances are a palpable extension of the spiritual and emotional life of the audience and they provide the Westerner with an entirely novel experience. Inevitably such an experience could not be fully shared by members of an all-Western
audience, but careful handling of the players throughout the tour should ensure that the essential vitality survives.

The production is not amateurish in the sense of a rural dramatic society playing Goldsmith, yet by our standards it is perceptibly rough around the edges; a Western group with half the talent could give a more technically polished performance. However, attempts to achieve a greater degree of smoothness would destroy that disarming
unselfconsciousness
which is one of the main attractions of the performance. The players are obviously unaware of being ‘specialists’, in a category apart from the audience, and the feeling is of a big party at which a few of the guests have suddenly decided to ‘do something’ to divert their fellows. This was delightfully illustrated when King Tht-Srong-Detsen, during a scene in which he was preoccupied by profound philosophical considerations, casually wiped his nose on the gorgeously embroidered sleeve of his robe. One knows that this is exactly what the original King Tht-Srong-Detsen would have done if the need arose.

I’m less confident about the second drama’s popularity abroad. Personally I enjoyed it as much as the first production, but it is difficult to be objective when one has seen it while sitting among people to whom it is the re-enactment of a personal tragedy. It could be regarded as propaganda, if judged exclusively on the political level. Yet seen immediately after the drama on the coming of Buddhism to Tibet it seemed to me that here we were merely witnessing folk-art in the making. One feels that if both these productions are taken abroad the performances should be given on the same evening with only a short interval, so that their basic affinity could be appreciated. Optimists can then reflect that if by some happy chance Tibetan culture is preserved this drama will be part of it three hundred years hence. And pessimists can sadly savour it as the worthy culmination of a great artistic tradition, doomed by the events it depicts.

The acting in this production was superb – so good that during the earlier scenes one simply lived with the family concerned through all their terror and suspense. At first it seemed that these impeccable performances must be due to the exiled actors’ sympathetic
identification
of themselves with the characters – yet the Chinese soldiers were
equally brilliantly portrayed. And the term ‘brilliant’ is justified, for this play, which could well degenerate into melodrama of the ‘Titus Andronicus’ variety, provides a severe test of ability. Too crude a gesture, too violent a reaction or too shrill a voice could ruin
everything
, but though the necessary intensity was maintained throughout each harrowing incident emotions were never exaggerated. As the two daughters of the hero and heroine stood rigidly in a corner, their faces hidden, while the Chinese soldiers argued about what should be done with them, all the girls’ tension was transmitted to the audience by a clenching and unclenching of the hands and a few furtive, affectionately protective gestures towards each other – a stroke of genius in the same class as King Lear’s oft-repeated ‘Never!’

During these scenes I occasionally glanced at the audience and was moved to see the men and women of the older generation quietly weeping – though even here that curiously misplaced laughter, common to theatre audiences all the world over, was heard amongst the younger generation.

Unfortunately the climax is blatant propaganda and dramatically inept; if the play ended with the scene where the guerrillas swear to regain Tibetan independence there would be a sense of dignity and hope. Yet I feel that we should not apply our standards to such a drama. The final scene, portraying the defeat of numerous Chinese soldiers by a handful of Tibetan guerrillas, gives a disingenuous twist to history – but the audience take immense pleasure from the mowing down of the Chinese. Everyone claps wildly, shouts encouragement to the guerrillas and laughs uproariously at the Chinese ‘corpses’ lying strewn about the stage – while the boys stand up and pretend to fire imaginary guns in support. Clearly this catharsis is necessary to the refugees and we are hardly justified in criticising anything that relieves or consoles them.

On the way down to Macleod Ganj Oliver and I again enjoyed many of the songs from the plays, as the audience enthusiastically provided encores. In the Bazaar we caught up with a party of ayahs and urged them to accompany us via the Top Road to the Nursery, which is shorter than the Low Road through Forsythe Bazaar. But no – they
insisted that the Top Road was haunted by countless evil spirits and were definite that they would prefer to go the long way round. So we set out to brave the demons on our own – though the only ones that worried us were the savage Himalayan bears, which are by far the most dangerous animals in India and are unnervingly numerous around here.

On our way we saw a spectacular display of blue sheet lightning playing along the southern horizon, throwing its wavering uncanny brilliance into the depths of the Kangra valley.

It’s been very wet again these last few days but we’re keeping up the bathing routine. The annoying thing is that the children’s clothes can’t be washed yet, because of the weather, and as the scabies-mite secretes itself in the seams of garments there’s no hope of conquering the disease until it’s possible to boil the clothes regularly. On the whole we find it best not to stop and think about the overwhelming numbers we’re coping with – it’s so disheartening to know that even though we are all working all out all day most of the children are being neglected in some respect. One gets fonder and fonder of them on closer acquaintance.

Yesterday afternoon, when I was writing here in our room, a
five-year
-old-boy-friend came to visit me. (Juliet was out: otherwise he wouldn’t have been admitted.) Having exchanged the normal civilities and made the required sympathetic comments on his scabies-infested behind (the poor little devil can hardly sit down) I gave him a banana and resumed writing while he explored the room. Then he approached me again and picking up my box of matches opened it upside down so that all the matches fell out. I feigned not to notice but immediately he picked up every match, looking carefully around to make sure that none were lost and, having replaced them in the box, put it back beside me. In my experience you never have to tell a Tiblet the correct thing to do – they know it already. Which almost makes one believe in reincarnation!

This particular Tiblet – a skinny little chap, loaded with disease – is the one to whom my heart has been lost, against all the rules. Granted it is wrong to have favourites: from both the workers’ and children’s points of view it could easily lead to real unhappiness. Yet when one
Tiblet attaches himself to you quietly but firmly such counsels of perfection are soon forgotten. The best I can do now is to refrain from giving Cama Yishy preferential treatment when dispensing food or treats – which will be easy, as I myself don’t wish to discriminate, nor does Cama Yishy seek favours of this kind. Already it’s recognised in the camp that we are special buddies but no resentment or jealousy is ever shown on that account. It’s almost as though the rest of the children know intuitively that I don’t love them any the less for being attached to him in a rather different way. He accompanies me on my ‘ear-rounds’ from room to room, and if for some reason I happen to appear at an unexpected time, when he is not on the scene, the other eight or nine Tiblets, who habitually form my ‘Personal Bodyguard’, will shout for him and leave a space vacant on the bench beside me, fully accepting his right to sit closest to ‘Amela’.

In comparison with other Tiblets Cama Yishy is reserved and undemonstrative though his occasional outbursts of affection have an intensity rare among these children. At times it’s very difficult to believe that he’s only four or five years old. (One never knows a Tibetan’s exact age: this was a matter of little importance in Tibet and ages, if reckoned at all, were counted as from the beginning of the New Year after birth – so a child born at the end of January would be described as a year old when only a fortnight old.) His intelligence is remarkably acute, his thoughtfulness astonishing, his manners have a casual sort of
graciousness
, his self-possessed gravity – as he sits apparently contemplating The Wheel of Life – is quite startling and, though he’s anything but precocious in an unpleasant way, he often gives me the curious feeling of being in the company of an adult.

Almost from the moment of my arrival – long before I had got to know any individual child – Cama Yishy purposefully singled me out and skilfully appropriated a ridiculous amount of my affection before I had realised what was happening. In this sense I did not ‘make a favourite’ of him – he made himself a favourite of mine. Yet that is really a silly distinction; clearly our mutual affection developed because we each had something the other lacked – as happens in most human relationships that matter. Cama Yishy’s need to belong securely to one
person was for some reason greater than that of the other Tiblets, who usually appear to be satisfied by affectionate cuddles from all and sundry. This need of his can also be deduced from the fact that, unlike most Tiblets, he has a special friend who came with him to the camp about a year ago – since when neither of them has seen their parents.

Now Cama Yishy delights in helping me by fetching things I need, counting pills – which he does very seriously and efficiently – and generally acting as my lieutenant in organising the impossibly long queues of ear-cases and in tracking down children who should be in their room-queues but aren’t. Frankly, I can’t feel too guilty about our friendship. Whatever the heartache on both sides when we part, I know that we will have given each other something valuable, and I can’t believe that it would have been kinder to ‘slap him down’ at the outset – even if I were temperamentally capable of doing so. Life would be just a neutral wasteland if one always ran away from the joys of love merely because one knew that pain and grief might be involved too.

I must admit that I tend to smile at the notion of not killing a louse because it might be your grandmother. Yet my conversations with English-speaking Tibetans have revealed that their imaginations can deal more effectively with the concept of reincarnation than ours can with the theory of an immortal soul – though they do get rather bogged down when they come to consider Nirvana, since the sort of freedom which it promises is not among the natural desires of human nature. It’s interesting to observe how much closer the Buddhist vision of an afterlife is to the Christian view than either is to the Muslim – despite the similarities of Islam and Christianity. And one can’t deny that were an objective choice possible the Muslim paradise is the one most people would choose as their final destination.

Many Westerners, including myself, can’t resist the temptation to be unkindly witty at the expense of the theory of reincarnation, yet in our more fair-minded moments we must admit that it merits as much serious consideration as any other attempt to explain Man’s destiny. And in fact, when it is presented coherently by someone like the
Venerable Dr Walpola Rahula, non-committed people who believe in some form of spiritual force may well agree that there ‘could be
something
in it’.

Dr Rahula writes:

As the latter part of this exposition implies, Buddhism holds a man entirely responsible for his own spiritual development, in direct opposition to the Christian teaching that he is dependent on Divine Grace for the right use of his Free Will. It is this recognition of what Carl Jung calls the ‘self-liberating power of the introverted mind’ that impresses a Westerner as the most valuable – to him – ingredient of Buddhism, and though it would be psychologically impossible for most people bred in our traditions genuinely to embrace Buddhism there is no reason why the limitations of Western extroversion should not be corrected by an acquaintance with Eastern introversion.

For those who cannot bring themselves to regard seriously the transmigration of human souls to animal bodies there is an alternative interpretation of the doctrine of rebirth held by leading Buddhist philosophers in opposition to the popular belief. This interpretation, as given by Dr Evans-Wentz, maintains that

And this view, so obvious to us but so contrary to the majority beliefs of Buddhists everywhere, was strongly upheld by one of Tibet’s most distinguished scholars, the late Lama Kazi Dawa-Sandup, who wrote: ‘Intellects able to grasp Truth do not fall into the lower conditions of existence.’

However, it is doubtful if this interpretation of the doctrine will ever supersede popular beliefs, with their ban on the taking of life. One result of this ban particularly impresses me here. I’ve often seen boys catching a moth or beetle or worm, closely but gently examining it and then releasing it completely unharmed; this makes quite a contrast to the attitude of Western boys who, as Shakespeare noted some time ago, delight in torturing such creatures.

The most harrowing aspect of life here is the children’s emotional suffering. Sometimes one feels that the orphan minority are the best off: they can at least become adjusted to having no family. Parents visit the camp regularly and when they have left one sees anguished little
boys and girls looking bewildered and obviously feeling betrayed by their parents’ departure without them.

This morning two mothers came, found their little sons (which is not always easy in such a crowd) and then sat under the big tree in the middle of the compound with the boys standing beside them. As I passed on my way to the Dispensary not a word was being spoken or a movement made, but tears were silently streaming down those four faces. Both boys are very bad scabies cases and on seeing me one of the mothers beckoned and pointed to her son’s leprous-looking body, gazing up at me with a mixture of reproach and appeal. Then I really wished that I could speak fluent Tibetan, to reassure those women that we were doing all in our power for their children. After tea I saw the mothers going away, looking quite cheerful again. That’s the
extraordinary
thing about Tibetans – despite their soft, affectionate natures they seem able to get on top of a situation that would reduce others to shreds. Yet this doesn’t lessen the tragedy of it all; when I say that they looked ‘quite cheerful’ I mean that they were laughing and talking with the ayahs – but you could still see the unhappiness in their eyes. It isn’t difficult to imagine what it must take to stay on top of this sort of situation. And I prefer
not
to imagine the effect of these upheavals on the children.

We had a crisis here today. I sensed it at once when I entered the Dispensary this morning and as the hours passed it became increasingly apparent, with teachers, carpenters and cooks frequently going into huddles to discuss something and ayahs sobbing in every second corner. At last Tenzing – one of the teachers from the Upper Nursery, who speaks a little English – came down to explain the mystery to us. Apparently Mrs Tsiring Dolma has just had a row with Mr Kundeling, the Education Minister, and as a result she has flounced off to Delhi, saying she’s ‘never coming back no more!’ All the Nursery staff were called to a special meeting at the Upper Nursery last night to have the news broken to them, and the ayahs, who are deeply devoted to Mrs Tsiring Dolma (whether on religious or personal grounds is a moot point), immediately declared that if
she
wasn’t staying here
they
weren’t – after which the meeting broke up in disorder. Tenzing thinks
that if she doesn’t return this camp may be closed within six months. But my personal opinion is that she’s bluffing and will return in due course, having made this strategic move to show how essential she is here.