CHAPTER VI.
I befriend Beggars.
The village that surrounds the great Kāṣyapa tower is generally known by the name of Boḍḍha. Lama Buḍḍha Vajra, I found, was the Headman of that village as well as the Superior of that mausoleum tower, which in Tibetan is called Yambu Chorten Chenpo. Yambu is the general name by which Kātmāndu is known in Tibet; and Chorten Chenpo means great tower. The real name of the tower in full is, however, Ja Rung Kashol Chorten Chenpo, which may be translated into: "Have finished giving order to proceed with." The tower has an interesting history of its own, which explains this strange name. It is said in this history that Kāṣyapa was a Buḍḍha that lived a long time before Shākyamuni Buḍḍha. After Kāṣyapa Buḍḍha's demise, a certain old woman, with her four sons, interred this great sage's remains at the spot over which the great mound now stands, the latter having been built by the woman herself. Before starting on the work of construction, she petitioned the King of the time, and obtained permission to "proceed with" building a tower. By the time that, as the result of great sacrifices on the part of the woman and her four sons, the groundwork of the structure had been finished, those who saw it were astonished at the greatness of the scale on which it was undertaken. Especially was this the case with the high officials of the government and the rich men of the country, who all said that if such a poor old dame were to be allowed to complete building such a stupendous tower, they themselves would have to dedicate a temple as great as a mountain, and so they decided to ask the King to disallow the further progress of the work. When the King was approached on the matter his Majesty replied: "I have finished giving the order to the woman to proceed with the work. Kings must not eat their words, and I cannot undo my orders now." So the tower was allowed to be finished, and hence its unique name, "Ja Rung Kashol Chorten Chenpo." I rather think, however, that the tower must have been built after the days of Shākyamuni Buḍḍha, for the above description from Tibetan books is different from the records in Samskṛṭ, which are more reliable than the Tibetan.
Every year, between the middle of September and the middle of the following February of the lunar calendar, crowds of visitors from Tibet, Mongolia, China and Nepāl come to this place to pay their respects to the great temple. The reason why they choose the most apparently unfavorable season for their travel thither is because they are liable to catch malarial fever if they come through the Himalayan passes during the summer months. By far the greatest number of the visitors are Tibetans, of whom, however, only a few are nobles and grandees, the majority being impecunious pilgrims and beggars, who eke out their existence by a sort of nomadic life, passing their winter in the neighborhood of the tower and going back to Tibet in summer.
In Nepāl I had now arrived, and the reason of my presence there was, of course, to choose a route for my purpose, for there are many highways and pathways running between that country and Tibet. My purpose was such that I could take nobody there into my confidence, not even my kind and obliging host. For, to Lama Buḍḍha Vajra I was a well-qualified Chinaman, who was to go back to Lhasa by openly taking one of the public roads, and go on thence to China. Besides, I knew that the Lama was a Tibetan interpreter to His Highness the King of Nepāl, and that were I to divulge to him my secret, he was in duty bound to tell it to his royal master, who, it was plain, would not only not lend himself to my venture, but would at once put an end to the further progress of my journey. I may note here that the Nepālese fondly call Lama Buḍḍha Vajra, Gya Lama, which means "Chinese Lama," for he was a son born to a Chinese priest who married a Nepālese lady, after having become the Superior of the tower. My host's father belonged to the old school, and enjoyed the privilege of marriage. It was thus that Lama Buḍḍha Vajra came to take a fancy, and show special favors, to me, considering me as a countryman of his. Be that as it may, there remained for me the necessity of discovering a secret path to Tibet. I was in luck again.
It occurred to me that the begging Tibetans, who go on pilgrimage in and out of their country, could not be in possession of the pass that gave them open passage through the numerous frontier gates. I remembered also that no unprivileged person—even the natives—could obtain permission to pass through these gates, either way, unless he would bribe the guards heavily, and it was plain that these homeless wanderers could not do this. Encouraged by these considerations, I took to befriending the Tibetan mendicants, of whom there was then a large number hanging about the Kāṣyapa Buḍḍha tower, and my liberality to them soon made me very popular among them. Demurring at first, they became quite communicative afterwards, when they had found out, as I presume, that there was nothing to dread in me. I learned of many secret passages, but none which I could consider safe for me. For instance, they spoke of the Nyallam bye-path. By taking this clandestine route one may avoid the Kirong gate, but one is in danger of being challenged at a gate further in the interior. The Sharkongpo path, on the other hand, brings the traveller to the Tenri gate. So on with other paths, and it appeared an impossibility to discover a route which would enable a person to reach the capital of Tibet from that of Nepāl, without having to pass through some challenge gate. The pass and bribery being beyond them, the native beggars and pilgrims have one more resource left to them, and that is imploring a passage, with prayer and supplication, when they come upon a challenge post, and they generally succeed at the interior gates, I was told. It would be different with me: there was every danger of my disguise being detected while pleading with the guards. My persistent efforts finally brought me, however, their reward. I ascertained that by taking a somewhat roundabout way I might reach Lhasa without encountering the perils of these challenge gates. Ordinarily, one should take a north-east course after leaving the Nepālese capital, in order to make a direct journey to Lhasa; but the one I have just referred to lay in the opposite direction of north-west, through Lo, a border province of Nepāl, thence across Jangtang, the north plain (but really the west plain) of Tibet, and finally around the lake Mānasarovara. This bye-route I made up my mind to take.
So far so good. But it would be courting suspicion to say that I chose this particularly circuitous and dangerous route with no obvious reason for it. Fortunately a good pretext was at hand for me. For I happened to think of the identity of the lake Mānasarovara with the Anavatapta Lake that often occurs in the Buḍḍhist Texts. However divided the scholastic views are about this identity, it is popularly accepted, and that was enough for my purpose. The identity granted, it could be argued that Mount Kailāsa, by the side of the lake, was nature's Maṇdala, sacred to the memory of the Buḍḍha, which formed an important station for Buḍḍhist pilgrims. So one day I said to my host: "Having come thus far, I should always regret a rare opportunity lost, were I to make a stork's journey from here to Lhasa, and thence to China. The Chinese Text speaks of Mount Kailāsa (Tib. Kang Rinpo Che) rising high on the shore of lake Mānasarovara (Tib. Maphamyumtsho). I want to visit that sacred mountain on my way home. So I should be very much obliged to you if you would kindly get men to carry my luggage for me." The answer I got in reply was not encouraging, though sympathetic. Gya Lama, in short, bade me give up my purpose, because, as he said, the north-west plain was pathless and full of marauding robbers; it had been his long-entertained desire to visit the sacred mountain himself, but the difficulties mentioned had, so far, prevented him from carrying it out, and he would strongly advise me against my rash decision; to venture a trip through that region, with only one or two servants, was like seeking death. My retort was that, it being one of Buḍḍha's teachings that "born into life, thou art destined to die," I was not afraid of death; in fact, death might overtake me at any time, even while living comfortably under the Lama's care; so that I should consider myself well repaid if I met death while on a pilgrimage to a holy place. Finding dissuasion useless with me, my host complimented me on the firmness of my resolution, and took it upon himself to secure for me reliable carriers. Then, after careful enquiries, he hired for me a pilgrim party, consisting of two men and an old woman, the latter of whom, in spite of her sixty years of age, was strong enough to brave the hardships of an exceptionally difficult road. These people were from Kham, a country noted for its robbers, but I was assured of the perfect honesty and good intentions of the particular three I was to engage. As a mark of his special kindness, Gya Lama promised to let a trustworthy man under him accompany me as far as a place called Tukje, to see that my two pilgrim servants served me faithfully.