India Speaks - Part 3 (1933)

Then if a kind stranger picks you up, feel around until you talk it over. And from what was a place of poverty, they brought out their ill-gotten treasure. Even their rajahs are bound by the laws of theft, and must steal from one another at least once a year. Otherwise, they will lose calves, and a new rajah will be chosen. By standards, the crows love sport, and will drop everything to be in on a hunt. They recklessly risk their lives for mere love of the game, and will stop at nothing to drive a man killer out of ambush. The following morning, we gathered in the jungle at the edge of the Gir Forest. The rajah had provided royalty for all his guests in the way of hunting elephants and equipment. He had given orders that no lion was to be shot, except in case of danger to human life. Our object was merely to drive one into a place where it could be captured by the beast. As the capture of an Indian lion is a rare event, sportsmen from all over the world, many of them were skeptical about our chances, for like myself, they had never seen a lion in the Indian species. Besides the 58 elephants belonging to the rajah, many hunting elephants had been brought from neighboring provinces, by princes and potentate who wanted to do as they were accustomed. Stretching out in a long line, the trained beasts gradually formed a great circle four miles in diameter. Then, reinforced by the crow beat shouting and using all sorts of noise-making devices, they started slowly toward a common center. The purpose of the great circle was to drive animals into a dry riverbed, which had formed a natural depression where it would be possible to capture a lion alive. It was interesting to watch the sagacious animals as they picked their way where the footing was dangerous. They broke down trees and pushed away underbrush to make travel as easy as possible for their riders. We progressed slowly because of the jungle grass, which was so high that animals could sneak into cover unseen. Even if we had not been instructed not to shoot, it would have been difficult to hit an animal in such obstructed terrain. Now the great circle of men and beasts had narrowed into a comparatively small area, in the center of which was the big pit. I had the mahout drive my elephant up to a spot from whence I could see inside the depression. Luck was with us. His Majesty, the King of Beasts. Over a quarter of a ton of fierce fighting machinery. For the Indian lion's nothing that lives, he never attacks man unless driven to desperation. The striped killer. The lion's only rival for so jungle. He too had been caught in the circle. Both champions of their kind, evenly matched in size and weight in an arena which was a natural setting. The tiger's unexpected attack had taken the lion by surprise, but his Majesty's fury was roused. Only death could stop him now. The tiger seemed to realize this and tried to escape. Then they met in a death struggle in mid-air. ...would have to be made on the backs of hardy ox-like animals called yaks. A yak train was just getting ready to leave. Here, travelers must band together for mutual protection against the groups of robber monks who frequent the mountain passes. The yak is controlled by a rope through his nose, and the nose of a yak has all the stretching qualities of India rubber. While waiting for my caravan, I saw a demonstration of falconry, which is practiced extensively by these people. This so-called falcon is in reality a trained golden eagle. The usual prey of these birds are hares and hill partridges, but some of them have been trained to fly at ibex and small mountain goats. To demonstrate the ability of his bird, this Tibetan pulled off the hood and flew him at a chikor, a bird resembling our pigeon. Like a well-trained hunting dog, the falcon brings his quarry to the feet of his master, thus adding variety to the menu of the Tibetan family. Birds are, of course, highly valued by their owners. Our journey eastward began over the most desolate country in Asia. No wonder the people of Tibet are poverty-stricken, as there is so little land that can be cultivated or made to grow anything. But the Tibetans have at least one great blessing in their herds of yaks. The cows give a rich milk. Yak skin gives them leather and tents. The woolly hides make them warm clothing. Best of all, the yak takes the Tibetan where he wants to go and gets him safely back again. As the snow got deeper, there was no vegetation except bunches of coarse grass, which the horses refused to eat, though the yaks pawed it out and ate it with relish. Up we went into the clouds. My heart pounded like a trip hammer. I thought my chest would burst. My head rang with unearthly music. For I certainly was, at this height, nearer the angels than I had ever been before or since. 19,000 feet above sea level, where there is neither animal nor bird nor tree, and still we climbed. At the summit of the pass, the trail was lost under deep snow. There was nothing for us to do but let the yaks guide themselves. We prayed they would not drop us suddenly into some snow-filled canyon. I could hear the Tibetans behind me muttering their Omani padme hums. They believe all storms are caused by the god Mogam, who claims the souls of travelers who perish in the snow. But once over the highest pass, there was a distinct change in the weather. One moment we were in a bitter 70-mile blizzard, and a half hour later we were in sight of a pleasant rolling plain, offering a promise of comparative warmth and comfort. It was here we hoped to find a respite from the rigors of the past few weeks. But this happy anticipation was swiftly and rudely shattered. Just as we reached the plain, we were set upon by a group of hard-riding, wild-looking bandits. In less time than I can tell it, I was seized. My baggage was completely ransacked. I was tied up and brought to a small village of yakskin tents called yurts. That the bandits were little better than savages was evident from the beginning. For a poor mongrel dog, which had attached itself to our body, was cruelly shot for no reason at all, just before we entered the yurt. But they gave me nothing to eat or drink. My cigarettes they evidently considered the most highly prized loot they had taken from me. They enjoyed them hugely. A group of the curious would appear at the door of the yurt and peer in, as though anxious to be looking on when I finally begged for mercy. I heard hoofbeats and voices outside. My predicament inside the yurt was interrupted by the entrance of an old friend. It was the old Buddhist lama whom I had met in Darjeeling five years before. He spoke rapidly in English, which the others could not understand. All my belongings were immediately returned to me, and we were soon trekking eastward again. A few hours later, we passed under a mountain and through a long tunnel, grooved out of solid rock by the action of some prehistoric river. The lama said we were now in the Forbidden Valley. Soon I should see the glory of Asia, the sari of Ramgalan. He told me there was but one other way out of the valley, northward, over the Prinang Glacier into the Gobi Desert, an almost impossible journey. This secret entrance to the valley had been prepared by nature. The lama told me to look back. I saw a curious rock formation above the tunnel entrance. See, said the lama, if those three keystones were released, it would close this entrance forever. I shuddered as I realized what would happen. It would free millions of tons of granite. The whole side of the great mountain above us would be tossed into the very spot where we were now standing. And now, as we came around the base of the mountain, I saw a sight I shall never forget. The lama sari of Ramgalan, called by the Tibetans the Bride of Buddha. It was the symbol of a strange faith whose disciples worship a living god of their own creation. Some terrible cataclysm of nature had thrown up the volcanic rock from which Ramgalan reared its mighty head, straight up, a thousand feet above the floor of the valley which surrounded it. As protection against Mogam stood these three chortens, holding the crushed bones of the last three lamas who had ruled Ramgalan. It all seemed like the fulfillment of some fantastic dream. This was a weird creation of an unknown people in a terrible wilderness. It was a story of struggle and blood in every massive stone which had been carried up those heights by the puny hands of men. We toiled wearily up the road which led to its summit. Omani Padme Hum, the jewel in the heart of the lotus. Could that curious phrase have anything to do with the creation of a living god? Could it mean the sacred virgin whom I had come so far to see? I was burning with curiosity to see her. What would she be like? Would she be ignorant, dirty, uncouth, like the Tibetans among whom she had been raised? Now, in the outer courtyard at the summit, our animals were being unloaded. Many other pilgrims were plodding up the pass below us. I found out why. The lama told me that the festival of conception, Man Lam, as it was called, was to take place at once. But first, the ceremony of driving out of devils would take place. That would give us a little time. A number of monks were watching me with narrowed, pig-like eyes. Then I saw her standing on a balcony. She was bronze, boy-like, her figure concealed in monk-like robes. Just a momentary glimpse, for the priests were watching me with cold suspicion. But even in those ugly garments I could tell that she belonged to my race. The lama was talking with a group of monks. He was evidently giving them some kind of explanation of my presence. As I approached, they greeted me with forced civility. I turned for one more look at the girl. The lama, evidently not wanting us to meet under the watchful eyes of the monks, took her inside. I wondered what he would tell her. When I was shown to my quarters, despite my fatigue, I could not sleep. I kept thinking of the girl and the terrible fate in store for her. These great horns have been calling for days. In the courtyard, fantastic costumes and gigantic masks are being brought up. They have been a year in the making by fanatic monks, inspired by a lifetime of devil driving. Here is the effigy of the dead god of Ramgalan. Parts of his body are mummified human remains. He is supposed to be the actual father of the living god created by the festival of conception. Monks prepare for this so-called miracle by rigorous training called langam. It is a secret which enables them to dance for incredible lengths of time without stopping for food or rest. It is possible that some drug is used in this training. For as days go by, their bodily energy increases and they show no signs of fatigue. Their ideas of demons portrayed by the masks show much imagination and real artistry. Every mask represents a demon who symbolizes some sin. The masks are also used to conceal the real identity of the father of the unborn god. Seventeen miles over the valley and are then relayed a hundred miles across the Himalayas, telling that the festival of conception will soon begin. Pilgrims are arriving from all directions in many kinds of conveyances to take part in the celebration. They are laden with presents with which they hope to secure the favors of the living god to be created. The superstition is so strong that the pilgrims will give everything they possess if the lamas demand it. Even the poor shepherds give us, driving them across mountains and fording icy streams to be present at manam. For days they have been arriving thus. But when they leave, most of them will be empty-handed and the priests will be rich. The plains, the hidden canyons, the very mountaintops, all contribute to this endless stream of humanity which pours into Ramgalong to witness this weird shamanistic ritual. The actual ceremony is begun by a sub-lama. As with all primitive peoples, rhythm plays an important part in arousing the religious emotion. With gong and cymbal, he begins a soft, insistent beat, at the same time reading from the holy manuscripts, which are so ancient they have fallen apart from usage. In accompaniment to this, the prayer wheels are turned. Thousands of Omani padme hums rise to Buddha. Countless prayer beads are clicked, checking off the sins of transgressors against the laws of Buddha. The wind and water wheels are kept in unceasing motion. All this to the increasing cadence of the clanging of cymbal and the beating of bronze. On the filthy floors of atonement chambers, monks and pilgrims confess their sins, competing with one another in recitals of wickedness. Slowly, the rhythm increases in sound and tempo. The skeleton dancers, disciples of Longong, have been keeping this up for five days without apparent sustenance of any kind, a constant reminder to the Tibetan of the sureness of death. The lamas begin to assume a fixed stare, as though under the influence of self-hypnosis. The dancers, too, are beginning to increase the speed of their grotesque gyrations. It was evident in every sight and sound that all this was driving definitely towards some sort of emotional climax. As I watched the spectacle, my curiosity became more strained, for I was the only white man to have ever witnessed this entire ceremony. The entire courtyard was now in a turmoil. The skeleton dancers seemed to be in an excited state of mind. The idea behind all this had a terrific, impelling power. The creation of a living god happens only once in a generation. It is the greatest event that ever happens in Tibet. Excited myself, I climbed to a spot where I could see to better advantage. I had seen little of the old lama since I had been here, but now I caught sight of him. He seemed to be in a violent argument with some monks. Were they talking about me, or about the white girl? Whatever it was, they seemed to dominate the lama, and he finally gave in and left them. Now it was easy for me to understand how these dancing monks held such control over the people. They worked themselves into a mad frenzy as they performed their unbelievable antics and contortions. The masks they wore seemed to be real faces. I could see what a tremendous impression they were making on the watchers, and I felt the uncanny influence myself. I was watching for a glimpse of the white girl, but in such a crowd it seemed hopeless. Now I was interrupted by the lama. He told me that against his will he was being forced to proceed with the ceremony, but if the worst happened, he had a plan to prevent it. He told me to go at once to the other side of the valley where horses were waiting, on which the girl and I would escape over the great Prinang Glacier into the Gobi Desert. From the chanting halt came a sudden burst of music, a change in tempo. I saw now that the lama was virtually a prisoner, as some monks came for him and led him away toward the chanting hall. There was nothing I could do. I started for myself. Malignant human eyes seemed to glare up at me from behind the mask of the demon monk as he danced devilishly below. I had told my bearer to take my things to the other side of the valley where the ponies were waiting. The chanting hall was filled with monks, now all singing their omani padme hums in a crazy crescendo. The old lama, now merely an effigy of power, stood on the raised altar. The image of Mogam glared down as though in triumph. I made up my mind. I was going to see what happened. Omani padme hums. Hundreds of voices raised in that prayer, but it was no longer a prayer. It was a horrible incantation. I could see something being moved through the crowd. It was an enormous palanquin worn on the shoulders of several sub-lamas. I could not see what was inside, but whatever it was, I must know. I looked for a spot where I could watch unseen. Voices were raised in religious exultation. The meaning of this tremendous rhythm of spectacle and sound became suddenly clear, for I could see inside the palanquin. It was she, the white girl. To the sound of a great chorus of omani padme hums, she was carried down the aisle and toward the altar, where stood the old lama, his face amassed, his body a frozen statue. He was helpless, so was I. Could nothing be done to avert the power of the priests, the terrible procedure of the shamanistic sacrifice? This was the ceremony of purification, and if the gods and the person of the lama gave the right sign, she would be given to these loathsome lamas who would possess the jewel in the heart of the lotus. She would be the bride of Buddha. With a feeling of terrible helplessness, I stood riveted to the spot and watched her. The palanquin was one of eerie suggestiveness as she approached the altar. The lama raised his hands. His gesture was one of anger and denial. The monks glared at him. Was he refusing to give the right signs? I heard the voices of the monks, their omanis changing to a volume of fury. Then something happened. With a great roar, the mountain began to move. The lama sari began to slide. A million tons of rock crashed down into the valley where I was supposed to be, and rammed along was a ruin. The girl and the lama must have been killed. How I reached the horses in the great Prinang glacier will always be a mystery to me. Somehow I found myself riding with the lama over the mountains of jagged ice. But our troubles were not over yet. The foothold for man and beast was treacherous and dangerous. Horses and mules had to be dragged over awful crevasses by main strength. One of my pack ponies had become foot sore. His hock worn and cut by frozen splinters. He slipped. I made every effort to save him. He made a gallant effort to save himself. Then his lead rope broke. I was discouraged and despondent. I almost wished it had been me instead of the brave beast. But finally we reached comparatively easy going, and the lama told me about the girl. She was safe, and he had tried to persuade her to escape with us. But she refused. The Tibetans were her people, she said, and the only friends she had ever known. Their religion was her religion. And if it was the will of Buddha that she become the mother of a living god, then she considered it her duty to bow to that command. She would stay at Ramgalan. And after showing me the way out over the Gobi desert, the lama intended to return to help her while I went off toward the nearest seaport and home.