Om Mani Padme Hum

"The dew is on the lotus - Rise, Great Sun!
And lift my leaf and mix me with the wave.
Om mani padme hum, the sunrise comes;
The dewdrop slips into a shining sea."
Edwin Arnold, The Light of Asia

Looking backward, Tempu Gergan could see the soldiers climb the valley slopes until they crested the hill and galloped up to the recently vacated campsite.

Fortunately, at this time Tempu's party caught up with a large caravan carrying salt from the Tabia-tsaka lakes some thirty days' travel to the northwest. Nearly two hundred yaks made up the caravan, and they raised an enormous cloud of dust. Tempu's party mingled with them and continued along the trail. They were greatly relieved when their lookout reported that after the soldiers had approached the salt caravan, they had apparently decided not to pursue any further and returned toward the city. Tempu Gergan sent scouts to gather his scattered caravan and pushed on steadily to the west.

Day followed day as the caravan plodded on across the desolate Tibetan steppes. They met few nomads, as they had left the main migratory routes. Fording innumerable rivers, crossing steep passes, they battled with the elements and occasionally met with robber bands. The robbers, seeing the party well organised and armed, moved on to easier prey.

To the south the snow-clad Himalayas stretched along the horizon like a string of pearls, caressing the heads of the lower mountains. With great excitement the fugitives approached the most sacred spot in all Asia, Kailas, Kang-Rimpoche, the "ice jewel" of the gods. Like a gigantic chorten of the gods, its hoary peak points up to paradise where Tibetans believe myriad gods sit enthroned in unfathomable space. From the highlands of Kham in the remote east of Tibet, from Naktsang and Amdo, from Bongos, from the black tents which stand like the spots of a leopard among the dreary valleys of Tibet, from the Ladakh valleys in Kashmir, and from the Himalayan lands in the south, thousands of pilgrims come annually to pace slowly, in deep meditation, the twenty-eight miles of the sacred ring road around this navel of the earth, the mount of salvation.

What tremendous merit could be obtained by walking that sacred road! Tempu planned to spend a week here following the pilgrim path and doing obeisance at the many gompas or monasteries, set like precious stones in a bangle around the base of Kang-Rimpoche. Was not man bound to the wheel of life, passing through lives innumerable in the quest for salvation? Each life added another drop to the ocean of eternity, but could it ever be enough? Fate decreed that birth and death, suffering and pleasure, each would come in its appointed time. Karma was everything. Man could not change the course of his life, but he could seek for merit.

"Ah, it was an evil day when this soul found this body." Tempu stood gazing at the sacred massif while his men bowed in worship. "Can there be no release from this miserable life of suffering? Come, Droma, let us begin our pilgrimage. Who knows but that the gods may yet hear us?"

With prayer wheels and prayer beads in their hands they set out on the sacred road of salvation. Some pilgrims painfully crawled the distance on their hands and knees. Others measured the distance with their own bodies, prostrating themselves along the path. Now began the steep zigzag in the troublesome path among the steep boulders. On every rock they found pebbles heaped in offering to the gods to gain merit for the one who lifts yet another stone out of the path of the following pilgrims. They saw horns and bones deposited in large quantities - gifts to the gods who guard the pass.

At the halfway mark, Droma plucked a black strand of hair from her head and pressed the hair into a smear of butter she carried with her. Placing this on a huge rock where pilgrims without number had performed the same ritual, she bowed her head in worship. Droma swung her prayer wheel vigorously, joining with Tempu in the everlasting dirge of Tibet: 0m mani padme hum. Om mani padme hum."

The wind blew gustily from the breath of the gods on the glacier of Kailas. Droma shivered, but not from the cold.

"Om mani padme hum. Om mani padme hum."

Key between the visible and invisible, between the real and unreal. Mindful of the things which can never be secured in this life. What is life anyway? The sparrows chirping on yonder temple wall are not sparrows at all. They are guardian spirits. And the flames that flicker before the sacred image in the sanctuary - are they really flames? Does anyone know what a flame is?

"Om mani padme hum. Om mani padme hum."

The alpha and omega of life. As closely connected to the land of the snows as buzzing bees to the hive, as the flutter of prayer banners on the pass, as the ceaseless west wind with its howling.

Om mani padme hum. Om mani padme hum."

Chiseled in the granite wall of innumerable mountains, stamped upon the soul of every Tibetan child. Shouting from the fluttering prayer flags, encased in the whirling prayer wheel, murmured by millions of voices wrung dry of sorrow and hearts that long for peace.

From the cradle to the grave the life of the Tibetan is interwoven with a multitude of religious precepts and customs. When he passes a votive cairn, he adds a stone to the pile as an offering. When he approaches a mani wall, he never forgets to pass to the left of it. When he sees a holy mountain, he never omits to lay his forehead to the ground in homage. When a mendicant lama comes to his door, he never refuses to give him a handful of tsampa or a lump of butter. When he makes the round of the temple halls, he adds his contribution to the collection in the votive bowls. And when he saddles his horse or loads his yak, he hums the everlasting "Om mani padme hum".

The rains spent themselves and the monsoon clouds ceased to drive across the mighty Himalayas. For half a year and more Tempu Gergan and his caravan had plodded across the mountains of Tibet. The way had been marked with suffering and fear - fear of man and gods. Across the great rift in the Indus they had struggled and into the high hills beyond the river. And still more hills lay ahead, more valleys to cross.

They came to a pass leading to a secluded valley hemmed in by hills. Luxuriant grass, almost smothered with primulas and violets, carpeted the valley floor. A grove of apricot trees had turned yellow in the crisp autumn air. Beyond the trees the hills fell away to a distant plain which glowed with deep blues and greens. Behind them the mountains leaned icy seracs against an azure sky.

"It's beautiful." Droma gasped in delight at the lovely valley they had stumbled into. "Tempu, must we wander forever? Why can't we settle here?"

Tempu had hoped to follow the Indus up to Leh, in Kashmir, before settling down. Leh, a trading town, would give him opportunity to trade and expand his wealth. But perhaps his wife was right. They could settle in this valley for now, as they were free of the jurisdiction of the Tibetan government. Yet around them rose the hills they loved.

Thus Tempu Gergan's journey into exile came to a close. Soon he had purchased the entire Luba Valley and established his home. Workmen erected a Tibetan nobleman's home. They built of heavy stones with a central courtyard and a guarded gateway. In a side valley a family priest cared for a little Tibetan temple, making daily offerings of rice and barley cakes to the gilded image of Sakya Muni above the ornate altar. When the winter snows melted on the passes across the mountains, wandering lamas strayed down to the valley and joined the service in the temple. Blowing on their human thigh-bone trumpets, they summoned the gods to their worship. The wind ceaselessly turned the great mani wheel on the roof of the temple so that its prayers spread out like a benediction over the valley. Still, brooding over it all, remained the eternal fear of the gods and dark demons of the underworld who bided their time to inflict more suffering on the family if they should fall to fill the bowls of holy water before the idol in their home. Thus passed over twenty years.

Tempu peered anxiously at his wife as she lay in a darkened room. A wizened midwife from the village far below moved noisily around the room. With obvious displeasure she ordered Tempu to leave them alone. Better that he should burn incense before the family god than to sit there fretting.

"Be careful of my son," Tempu whispered as he retreated into the sunlight. "We have waited many years for an heir."

The cry, lusty, piercing, and long, aroused Tempu from his pacing in the courtyard. "Surely it is a son; no girl would ever cry like that!"

"You are right, air, it is a boy." The midwife peered out of the room where Droma lay admiring her new son. "You must note the time so that the lama can consult his charts."

That night the whole valley rejoiced that a son and heir had been born to the master. They found good omens in every happening in the valley that day. A robin had twittered twice before the open window where the mother was lying. The yaks had given extra milk. These and other portents augured a happy future for the little boy.

Lamas sat before the home driving away evil spirits who might harm the boy. With the sacred thunderbolt dhorje they called the mighty gods to drive all demons from the valley. Then, with swinging drum and votive bell, they called kindred spirits to guard carefully the new life. At the temple they made liberal offerings to the gods for blessings on the home.

Yet, in the midst of all the festivities, Tempu was not happy. Always he pondered great questions that defied answers. If the gods were so good, why had he suffered so? What lay ahead for this son of his? Must he, too, face the suffering of mankind? Was there no escape from the weight of sin in this life? In his heart he cried out, "Oh, God, if there is a God, hear our prayers and mantras and give us peace.

On an auspicious day the lamas selected, the boy was to be named. They had studied his every move to see if they could find some clue to his former life, for they believed life flowed from body to body in an endless cycle. Sometimes the gods took human flesh and dwelt among men for a time. Some eighteen thousand living Buddhas were to be found throughout the land of Tibet. But this boy, they decided, was not a living Buddha.

When the long temple service began, the mother held the child. Heavy incense filled the air. The lamas' chanting lulled the child to sleep. The lamas offered prayers for the baby's prosperity and health. Finally, with a great clash of drums they anointed the boy with holy water and named him Sonam - Bearer of Good Tidings.

Wandering lamas from the land of the snows reported that the Presence had again returned to his people. For three years the throne had been deserted until the lamas declared the time auspicious for the return of Chenresi into the body of another Dalai Lama. The Oracle had gazed into a lake near the temple of Chapokri in Lhasa, where he had seen a vision of a strange home. It had peculiar upturned eaves and blue tiles. As he watched in vision he saw a child run out of the home. A voice cried, "There is Tendu, the Presence."

The vision faded, but immediately men set out to find the strange home with the tiles. For a month they searched the land until one day in the eastern part of the country they saw the home just as the old Oracle had described it. As they watched, they saw a little boy run out of the home. "There he is!" they cried.

The Tibetans took care to carry out the prescribed tests to prove that the child was indeed the incarnation of Chenresi. On each shoulder blade they found the small mole where the extra arms of Chenresi had been shed as he entered the human shell. On the left arm they found a birthmark in the shape of a tiger, final proof of Chenresi. Now he was enthroned in the sacred city. No one then predicted that one day he, too, would die in his youth as had the ninth, tenth, and eleventh Dalai Lamas.

Tempu rejoiced at the news, but it opened up again the wound of his exile. What happy days he had enjoyed caring for the last Dalai Lama. But here he was cut off from most of the things that gave meaning to life. Was there to be no release from the wheel of life, with endless birth and death? From tens of thousands of voices in myriad monasteries across the land the people prayed for light and peace. Would it ever come?

That night The date of the son's birth poses a chronological problem. Tempu fled from Lhasa in 1855, and apparently his son was born in 1885. This would make Droma, Tempu's, wife, older than seems likely at the birth of her firstborn. Two possible explanations suggest themselves: either the son was actually born earlier than 1885, or the mother was not Droma, but another, younger woman.