|
There is one thing in common about all holidays in
India : the moment you arrive you are being sold something. At the
airport in Bagdogra it isn't seedy little hotels on offer, but cabbies
wanting to take you for a ride. Heading straight for the Sikkim
Tourism counter, the impassive face there states, "It is a bargaining
rate to Gangtok." Probing further, we are told that Rs. 500 is
reasonable.
Something about the crisp mountain air is always rejuvenating. We stop
for lunch at a wayside restaurant at Singtam, absorbing the laid-back
atmosphere. The momos or mince meat dumplings, are a great appetizer,
and we hungrily wolf down a mixture of Chinese and Sikkimese cuisine.
Gangtok, the capital of Sikkim, has changed
considerably in the 20 years since I last visited it. The evening is
spent wandering up and down the length of the marketplace soaking in
the ambience. The young women in graceful traditional dress or
fashionable Western attire are remarkably attractive with a frank and
bold expression that speaks of freedom. In contrast, the men are
almost inconspicuous. At the entrance of Tibet Hotel, a large imposing
Tibetan stands resolute. Absorbed in his wordless chanting, one hand
moves rhythmically on his prayer beads. Inside, the hotel is
colorfully decorated with gaily designed lanterns, carpets with
splendid dragons and intricately carved and painted wooden tables in
an atmosphere of warm and friendly hospitality. Along one wall are
shelves lined with every conceivable book about Tibet, from French
Lama Alexandra David-Neel's fascinating accounts of magic and mystery
to German Lama Angarika Govinda's treatise on Tibetan mysticism. At
the entrance of Tibet Hotel, a large imposing Tibetan stands resolute
absorbed in his wordless chanting.
We sample authentic, exotic delicacies served
in huge helpings. The other people in the restaurant are a group of 20
American women who are part of a package tour, and the odd scattered
European, all of whom we continue to bump into over the next few days.
We meet a Dutch national with a Scandinavian friend, visiting Sikkim
for the fifth time, an Irishman who returns every few years and has
seen and loved the length and breadth of India, and a British couple
with clipped accent, diligently consulting their guide book. After a
night's rain, Khangchendzonga, the guardian deity of Sikkim, is
clearly visible as the sun's first rays tinge the silver, glistening
peaks with a golden hue.
We walk up to the deer park, with it's imposing statue of the Buddha.
It is disconcerting to find a snow leopard boxed in a tiny cage - is
this the fleet-footed panther Peter Matthiessen sought a glimpse of in
the Himalayan wilds as he wrote The Snow Leopard?
Stories abound of tulkus, regarded as phantom forms created by the
power generated in a state of perfect concentration of the mind.
We walk up to the Enchey Monastery, built in 1909 at the spot where
Lama Druptob Karpo had built a small hermitage for meditation. The
lama was a Tantric master, known for his extraordinary powers of
flying, and is believed to have flown from Mainom in South Sikkim to
the hilltop where this monastery now stands. Enchey, meaning the place
of solitude, is a monastery of the Nyingma order.
We walk to the monastery adjoining the palace, though the sign clearly
reads, "No Visitors". The guard warns us not to wander towards the
palace, standing in isolated and lifeless splendour, and not to take
photographs of the palace. Perambulating around the monastery are some
200 Bhutias, prayer wheel or beads in hand, picking up pebbles or
replacing them, as they chant with single-minded focus.
In a huge, tented structure, dank, dingy and with a stale odour
no amount of incense can overpower, entire families sit praying and
talking. I am inexorably drawn towards the chanting lamas, and the old
men and women, their plaited hair tied around their heads, their
weather-beaten faces etched with furrows. As a child these sights,
sounds and smells were deeply distressing and frighteningly alien, but
I have since exorcised my ghosts and perceive an amazing profound
meditative absorption in these people, seemingly unaware of strangers
in their midst. As we walk around the monastery the air reverberates
with the sound of Om Mane Padme Hum, the great mantra dedicated to
Avalokiteshwara, the Bodhisatva of Compassion.
At noon we drive down to the Institute of Tibetology, a renowned
centre for the study of Buddhist philosophy and religion, with rare
tankha, statues and Buddhist icons. On display is a kapali, or pot
made from a human skull, a pair of damarus made from scalps,
thigh-bone flutes, and malas or necklaces made with wood from the
Bodhi tree, apart from various sacrificial instruments.
There are Lepcha manuscripts along with palm-leaf ones from Bengal and
Orissa, coins and stamps, relics of Ashokan monks and a treasure trove
of Tibetan books. The curator puts aside one of the 19 volumes of
Prajnaparamita, or transcendental wisdom in 8000 verses that he is
reading, to have an involved discussion with us. Tibetans in exile
share a quiet dignified determination to reclaim their land. We sample
authentic, exotic delicacies served in huge helpings.
There are Lepcha manuscripts along with palm-leaf ones from Bengal and
Orissa, coins and stamps, relics of Ashokan monks and a treasure trove
of Tibetan books. The curator puts aside one of the 19 volumes of
Prajnaparamita, or transcendental wisdom in 8000 verses that he is
reading, to have an involved discussion with us. Tibetans in exile
share a quiet dignified determination to reclaim their land.
The Rumtek Monastery, 24 kms away is the seat of the Kagyu
order, and is a close replica of the original in Tibet. At the
institute for Higher Buddhist Studies is a temple with a grand golden
statue of the Buddha flanked by Manjushree and Karmapa.
We chat with the little boy monks at the monastery, as they play
football and carrom, their round beaming faces, sparkling. In a corner
room, some young monks are making wheat-flour prayer symbols, dipped
in a red dye. At the press, two printers are laboriously hand-printing
manuscripts.
Tibetans in exile share a quiet dignified determination to reclaim
their land.
In our enthusiastic sight-seeing, a jacket is left behind in the main
courtyard, and we return an hour later to find it missing. It is too
far-fetched to expect anything else, but we are clearly disappointed
at this perceived flaw in the rarefied atmosphere. We are joined in
our search by four monks aged around 10, who retrieve it from the
kitchen, where it was kept in safe custody for the owner to claim.
Encircled by 108 prayer wheels, Do-Drul Chorten, built by Trulsi
Rinpoche, head of the Nyingma order, is one of the most important
stupas in Sikkim. As the sun sets, monks in full ceremonial dress with
elaborate head gear, perform rituals and ceremonies which are
fascinating to watch. In a nearby prayer hall, another order of young
monks recite liturgies in sing-song monotony, interspersed with the
beating of drums and the blowing of horns. The master walks around
bending to hear individual prayers recited like multiplication tables.
An adolescent monk explains, "We belong to the red cap sect and are
permitted to marry. We spend nine years as novices."
At Gangtok , there is an orchid festival in
which many of the state's 600 species of unbelievably beautiful, rare
and exotic orchids are on display.
That evening dinner is at a cheerful little restaurant where
we have been attracted by the strains of 70's music. The owner chats
happily, "My parents came away from Tibet in 1959 and met in Sikkim. I
correspond with several aunts and uncles who are still there, but they
are strangers really." Letters take two to three moths to reach and
are frequently censored. He informs us that 75% of the population of
Tibet is now Chinese. Like many Tibetans he fears the loss of their
rich and ancient cultural traditions and the growing influence of the
Chinese on young Tibetans. Like other Tibetans, he believes that the
Dalai Lama has succeeded in preserving the cultural identity of their
people in exile.
Having studied in Chandigarh, and St. Stephen's College, Delhi, he
laments, "I used to feel left out there. With our kind of faces, it is
difficult to be accepted and integrate. We were called Chinks." It is
an irony indeed that Tibetans in exile should be called Chinks, and
that the xenophobia most of us suffer from in one form or another
should preclude our humanity.
Overnight, posters are splattered on walls and cars. They read, "Stop
Chinese population transfer to Tibet," "Chinese, Quit Tibet," and
"Save Tibet, Free Tibet."
We walk up to the Enchey Monastery, built in 1909 at the spot where
Lama Druptob Karpo had built a small hermitage for meditation. The
lama was a Tantric master, known for his extraordinary powers of
flying, and is believed to have flown from Mainom in South Sikkim to
the hilltop where this monastery now stands. Enchey, meaning the place
of solitude, is a monastery of the Nyingma order.
These are the Himalayan regions where anchorites and mystics have
always lived. Here, Naljorpas practice the art of tumo which enables
them to keep warm in winter at heights of 10,000 feet in near naked
condition. On other occasions I have met yogis clad in a single cotton
garment in the snow-bound Himalayan regions.
Stories abound of tulkus, regarded as phantom forms created by the
power generated in a state of perfect concentration of the mind. When
a lama tulku dies, his disciple monks search for his reincarnate, and
there are fairly elaborate practices and procedures to determine the
reincarnation of a high-ranking tulku. The practice and celebration of
chod, a strange and esoteric sacrificial rite, is replete with austere
symbolism. Lung-gompas have been known to accomplish long-distance
tramps at incredible speeds in trance-like states.
Walking up a steep, secluded, wooded pathway we reach
Ganesh Top, from where Gangtok can be seen
sprawling below. The walk to Tashi View Point affords a spectacular
view of Khangchendzonga and Siniolchu peaks. Ubiquitous prayer flags
flutter in the wind.
A visit in a four-wheel drive to the frozen Chango lake at 12,400 feet
above sea level is the closest we are permitted to go to the border.
In this white world, little snowflakes drifting down herald the
snowfall to follow. A delightful experience. Tramping in the frozen
ice, we are mesmerised by the splendour and the silence. Blanketed in
white, there is nothing visible but a couple of shacks where piping
hot tea is brewing. On the drive back, the haiku nature of the
mountain side leaves an indelible impression.
What we leave for our next visit is a trip to northern Sikkim, and a
visit to Pemayangtse monastery, impossible to access at this time of
year. And perhaps, some day, we will be able to follow the old route
into Tibet. |
