# Nicholas Roerich. Altai-Himalaya

## II. Sikhim (1924)

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Evokingly and sharply the arrows whistle across the gulley, from out the bamboo grove.
The Sikhimese remember their favorite ancient pastimes. One says: “The arrow is better
than a bullet. It sings as it strikes while the bullet screeches as it flies outward.”

In the morning a red leaf was brought to us: “In the eveningSenge will
arrive.” After sunset upon the zigzag of the path, the fires began to flash out and the
trumpets to resound. And finally it came rolling on—motley, noisy, trumpeting, drumming;
with a dragon, with handmade horses, with paper yaks. With popguns and many-colored
fires the dance proceeded, the motley crowd receding into the violet enamel of the night
amid the explosions of the flaming spark. . . . These are Polovetsky dances! And the
banners upon the staffs—these are the standards of Jenghiz Khan!

If you understand, then you will be understood. Touching are some of the gifts of the
lamas. Knowledge is needed in order to understand all the finesse of intention in these
gifts. To whom an image, and just which image; to whom, a bearskin; to whom, a leopard
skin; to whom, a fur coat; to whom, a khalat; to
whom, a khatik; and if so, whether one with designs
or a white one. By the hieroglyphs of these objects one can read their entire
relationship with you. Are you recognized as a great scientist? Or are you left within
the limits of conventional politeness? Or are you left without attention? Often the
non-understood “ceremony” is simply a short subtle code of gesture and conduct.

Two worlds find expression in the Himalayas. One is the world of the soil—full of the
enchantment of these parts. Deep ravines and grotesque hills rear up to the cloud-line,
into which melts the smoke of villages and monasteries. Upon the heights gleam banners,
suburgans or stupas. The ascending mountain passes curve with sharp turns. Eagles vie in
their flight with the colorful kites flown by the villagers. In the bamboo-stalks and
amid the fern the sleek body of a tiger or a leopard adds a glimmer of rich
supplementary color. On the branches skulk the dwarfed bears; and a horde of bearded
monkeys often escorts the solitary pilgrim.

An earthly world this, full of diversities! A stately larch stands beside a blooming
rhododendron. All is entangled. And all this earthly wealth shades into the blue mist of
the rolling distances. A chain of clouds crowns the lowering mist.

Above this synthetic picture, it is strange, unexpectedly startling, to behold new
ramparts mounting the clouds. Above the nebulous waves, above the twilight, glimmer the
sparkling snows. Erect, infinitely beauteous, stand these dazzling, impassable peaks.
Two distinct worlds, intersected by a mist!

Besides Mount Everest, fifteen peaks of the Himalayan chain surpass in height Mont
Blanc. If from the great river Rangith we survey all the approaches to the snowy border
and all the white domes of the peaks, nowhere, to one’s recollection, is there such an
open barricade of elevations. From this superb prospect one obtains an especially
enthralling impression of the grandeur of the Himalayas—“Dwelling of snows.”

To the side of the ascent, the summits merge into one implacable wall—the jagged,
unending ridge of the Sacred Lizard. It is difficult to discern that just at that point
are hidden the snowy summits of Jelep-la and Nathu-la on the way to Shigatse and
Lhasa—the fog seems especially often to envelop this road.

The upper portion of the Buddhist banners bears the cross-shaped spear, disk, crescent
and lotus-petals. Are not the emblems of all teachings intertwined upon one flagstaff?
In these reminders of the symbols of the elements of Nature everyone will find an image
near to him.

Upon the ikons and ornaments of Tibet often is found, glowing with precious stones, the
image of the fish—that happy sign—the same found upon the walls of the Roman catacombs.
In one conception is united the Buddha’s “Wheel of life,” the Circle of the “Elements
forming the mystery” of the Christian church and the “Wheel of Ezekiel.” The many-eyed
seraphim and multiple eyes of the Luminous Mother of the World penetrate equally into
the recesses of the soul.

In the cults of Zoroaster there is represented the chalice with a flame. The same
flaming chalice is engraved upon the ancient Hebrew silver shekels of the time of
Solomon and of an even remoter antiquity. In the Hindu excavations of the periods from
Chandragupta Maurya, we observe the same powerfully stylized image. Sergius of Radonega,
laboring over the enlightenment of Russia, administered from the flaming chalice. Upon
Tibetan images, the Bodhisattvas are holding the chalice blossoming with tongues of
flame. One may also remember the Druid chalice of life. Aflame, too, was the Holy Grail.
Not in imagination; verily by deeds are being interwoven the great teachings of all
ages, the language of pure fire!

It has long since been said, “Faith without deeds is dead.” Buddha pronounced three
paths: the long way of knowledge, the shorter way of faith, and the shortest way—through
action. David and Solomon also glorify the strivings of labor. The Vedanta extols the
manifestation of works. Verily, in the foundation of all covenants, action is placed
foremost. This is the creative fire of the Spirit.

Are the symbols of the Hindu Trimurti alien to the Trinity? Does the
Buddhist Tree of Wishes, hung with the objects of all desires, not
respond to our conception of the Christmas Tree? What of the details of the arrangement
of the temple altars? What of the ascetics and hermits, who buried themselves in their
stone coffins? What of the image-lamps and the fires of conjurations; the wreaths and
candles of heartfelt prayer, flung upon the bosom of the Ganges? And the birch of
Trinity, the musk and incense? And the wrought gem-bedecked vestments? And the stones,
thrown at Buddha by his close relative, are they not the same as the stones hurled at
Stephen? Verily, not by accident have Buddhist legends been carved upon the frescoes of
the Campo Santo in Pisa. Profound in its significance too is the Moslem legend telling
of the visitation of the mother of Jesus to the mother of Mohammed before the birth of
the Prophet. And Ladakian castles are towering, in the very same flight, as the eagles’
nests of Faienza or Montefalcone.

In Jeddah, this gateway to Mecca, the Mohammedans especially venerate and guard the
so-called Tomb of Eve. And it is the same Archangel Gabriel—he of the Old and New
Testaments—who upon Mount Hira bade Mohammed commence his preaching—the same one!

Mogul queens bore the revered title of Miriam. Miriam, Mary, Mother of the World. From
times immemorial have the most ancient forgotten temples extolled the anticipation of
the new epochs.

In the ancient city, Kish, the Temple of the Mother of the World has recently been
discovered.

Sarnath and Gaya, the scenes of Buddha’s personal achievements, are fallen in ruins, now
only the goal of pilgrims. So too, Jerusalem. “Because Jesus himself witnessed that the
prophet is without honor in his own country.”

According to the legend, Buddha’s initiation was performed in the presence of the High
Ones. The site of initiation is called “the holiest stupa” but its location is not
disclosed. The sites of Buddha’s achievements on the Ganges are known, as well as the
scenes of the birth and death of the teacher—in Nepal. According to some indications the
initiation was performed farther north—beyond the Himalayas, because Buddha came down
from the north for the performance of his works.

But where was Jesus until his thirtieth year? Who knows those haloed retreats? Whither
lies Korya-Morya? Shall they be revealed?

The legendary mountain Meru, according to the Mahabharata, and the equally legendary
height Shambhala in Buddhist teaching, both lay in the north and served as the summit
for initiations. And not everywhere until the appointed date, can the details of these
places of high knowledge be told.

Wise intercourses—one sees clearer from above. Instead of petty quarrels of
denunciation, history recalls to us truly international ties. It is pointed out as a
historical fact that a Mongolian Bogdo-Khan was saved from illness by the “appearance of
Nicholas.” This is averred by the Mongolian Khutukhtus, whose knowledge is considered
very high. All is full of signs, only do not overlook them, Observe keenly and joyously,
and flexibly.

Upon the wrist of a Tibetan woman we observed a strange blue sign, which on closer
inspection showed the appearance of a tattooed blue cross of equal ends. When she was
asked the explanation of this sign, the woman revealed that a Tibetan physician had
applied the sign during “a very dangerous cough”—evidently pneumonia. Tibetan physicians
generally inject medicines under such signs. This sign was made by the personal
physician of the Dalai Lama during his three years’ stay in Darjeeling. Swastika is a
symbol of the conception of fire and life.

According to the prophecy of Lama Tsa-rinpoche, the present attempt to conquer Everest
will end only in losses. Let us see whether the old lama is right.

The lama seemed astonished at the desire of foreigners to ascend the summit of Everest,
at any risk. “Why expend such efforts in the physical body? Is it not simpler to be
there in spirit?” For with ease do lamas project their astral bodies, for which, of
course, no height is an obstacle.

From this very window the high priest sent prayers
to Tibet which was troubled by the Chinese. For three years, facing the wall of the
Himalaya, he kept vigil.

In the time of the old Jesuit mission, about three hundred years ago, in Lhasa, there
was a Christian chapel. Great lamas visited it. Now no one even remembers the
approximate site of it.

The lama here bewails the visiting hunters—they came and killed many stags! And now when
the lama strolls into the forest, few are the stags that come to him. And he loves the
animals to approach him! Not savagery but deep culture rings in his complaint. We are
reminded of the tale of old Avramy, who was a shepherd beyond the Ural, and when he
prayed to the East, all the sheep in silence turned also toward the sunrise.

In Buddhist monasteries it was the custom to confine in the library him who was defeated
during a scientific argument. Let him learn more! An excellent custom!

“A Chinese Amban (governor), an evil and dissolute man, was desirous of visiting a
venerated holy abbot of the local monastery in Tibet. By persistence and force he
demanded an audience, but when he entered the reception room of the abbot, he saw on the
throne, instead of the holy man, the image of a hideous pig, and in fright he rushed
from the presence. Thus the dissolute man, making his way by force, found an image
worthy of him! A fine reminder to all despots. ‘With what measure ye mete, it shall be
measured to you again.’ ”

A legend of Central Asia tells of the mysterious nation, underground dwellers—the
Agharti. Approaching the gates into this blessed kingdom, all living beings become
silent, reverently pausing in their course. Recall, now, the Russian legend about the
mysterious “Сhud” which went underground to escape the persecution of the evil forces.
To this secreted place also leads the sacred legend of the subterranean Kitege.
Everything comes from the North.

The whole world tells its tales of underground cities, treasure troves, temples merging
under water! The Russian and Norman peasant relates about this with equal surety. So,
too, does the inhabitant of the desert know of the treasures which sometimes glimmer
from under the sand waves and then—until the ordained time—recede again under the earth.
Around one beacon-fire are gathering those who remember the predestined dates. We do not
speak of superstitions but of knowledge—knowledge revealed in beautiful symbols. Why
invent, when truth is so manifold? In La Manche even now is seen the city which has been
“submerged” under water.

Many sources tell of the subterranean dwellings in the district of Lhasa and Koko-Nor. A
lama from Mongolia recalls the following legend: When the foundations of the monastery
Genden were built during the time of the Teacher Tsong-kha-pa, in the fourteenth
century, it was noticed that through the gaps of the rocks there arose the smoke of
incense. A passage was broken through and there was found a cave in which, motionless,
was seated an old man. Tsong-kha-pa aroused him from his ecstasy and the old man asked
for a cup of milk. Then he asked what teaching now existed upon earth. After which he
disappeared. It is also pointed out that the Potala, the palace of the Dalai Lama, has
hidden recesses of the greatest antiquity. By the facial expressions of the high lamas
one will not discover anything. One must seek through other paths.

If so much lies underground—how much more lies under the veil of silence. It is naïve to
insist, after the first cautious response. An authoritative astrologer assures us that
he knows nothing—has only heard rumors. Another who is versed in the ways of antiquity
just now insists he has not even heard of such things. And why should they answer
otherwise? They must not betray. Most heinous is treason—and there are many traitors. We
discern the true devotion and behind it the structure of the future.

It is said that Solomon manifested such devotion toward the Temple that even when
breathing his last, lest he interrupt or harm the work of construction, he remained
upright in prayer until an ant bored through his staff. The example of perseverance and
devotion!

Unexplained have remained the strivings of Solomon toward the One Beginning, sheltering
all forms of knowledge. Abandoned Fatehpur-Sikri (near Agra) is full of the signs of
this unity which was understood by Akbar the Great who preached the spirit of One
Temple. In the center of the palace-court is still standing the temple of united
religion. Superficial writers wonder why the walls of this mysterious structure bear the
remains of such varied signs—the traces of Buddhism mingled with Hindu and Christian
fragments. This united torch was already manifested in life!

“Wise in heart and mighty in strength; who hath resisted Him and hath had peace, Who
spreadeth out the heavens and treadeth upon the waves of the sea—Who maketh Arcturus and
Orion and the Pleiades and the inner part of the south—Who doeth things great and
incomprehensible and wonderful of which there is no number”—exclaims Job about the One.
And are not the mysterious signs of Watan and Senzar received by great lamas pointing
toward it? We asked the Lama, “Is it true that the? is approaching?” He looked closely
at us, then answered, “Such are the prophecies.”

In 1924, according to Tibetan calculations, the new era began, for here a century is not
calculated as a hundred years but as sixty.

You listen to the reading of the Bhagavad-Gita; you hear the exclamation of the Buddhist
servers of the temples. You listen to the singing of the choir. Does there not appear
before you the One Image—the One common Will toward happiness and joy, to the unity of
consciousness, embracing and conquering, to the exalting and enlightening Aum?

Should we not reflect why all Covenants tell of the same active beginning? Why is the
manifestation of phenomena always accompanied not only by the same unexplainable words,
but always by a vivid action of spirit? The writings say, “He revolted.” And without the
wondrous “uprising,” without this invisible action, nothing is decisive. He realized and
became enlightened; became filled with invincible courage!

The formulas themselves often astonish by their universality. In them are united the
summons of the mysteries with the prayers of the most unexpected cults separated by
whole epochs and whole continents. The language of the Mother of the World is the same
for all cradles.

“Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah,” or “Halelu, Halelu, Halelu” is a conjuration of
ancient rites. From the Chaldeans, Babylonians, through the Israelites it reached our
era. It is also known by several tribes of India.

In this region the simple guide will suddenly turn around on his path and proclaim: “But
men must finally realize that all is one and all are equal! But will That soon come,
Which will unite men?” So thinks and ponders the simple, poor man, among the blue hills
of Sikhim. In the hope of the guide you discern the powerful proclamation of
Vivekananda; without depreciation, only in all powerful unity and righteous
understanding, he walked. One wishes that our priests of the West valued Buddha in the
same way as the enlightened lamas speak of us. Only in such benevolent understanding
lies the guarantee of the future structure. All creators of Community must be
recognized.

Principally let us have less of ignorant denials.

With difficulty one succeeds in getting plants which nurture the musk-deer. But how to
bring this mountain pine to the laboratory? Below the altitude of six thousand feet, the
plants perish.

Most often from Bhutan the ragged, deep blue furling waves of fog crawl upward. Not only
the snowy ridges but also the steps to the mountain paths are wrapped in the dense mist.
It is difficult to believe there is a hidden glimmer. Shall we not begin denying the
very existence of the Himalayas? If they are invisible, that means they are
non-existent! Whenever something is invisible to us we presume it does not exist. Such
is the decision of ignorance.

Intricate are the mountain paths with their many turns. How many are the earth-covered
pits under the horse’s hoofs! Many are the intercrossing currents and streams, with the
torpid dampness under the green-blue foliage. Truly many are the serpents beneath the
flowers. And the language of the murmuring foliage is incomprehensible.

Early are the stars aglow here. Toward the East, undiminished, flames the
triple-constellation of Orion, this astonishing constellation which finds its way
through all teachings. In the archives of the old observatories, undoubtedly much
remarkable data could be found about it. The cults which surround some constellations
such as the Bear and Orion amaze you by their widespread popularity.

The wisdom of the Shamans designates them for worship. Nor did Job accidentally point to
them alone as the supreme act of achievement. The glimmer spreads everywhere. In the
latest number of the Journal of the London Asiatic Society is this very important item:
“The Emperor Baber near the beginning of his memoirs says: ‘On the outskirts of Barakoh
is a mosque called the Jawza Madjid. The real meaning of the word is House of Orion.
Jawza is a name of Orion.’ ” With what ancient cult was the mosque pointed out by Baber
identified? It is now most likely effaced by the sands of the great desert. Thus we see
how unceasingly does Orion attract the eye of men. Again are the astronomic bulletins
telling of the inexplicable pink rays, which have suddenly flashed from this
constellation. The constellation of Orion contains the signs of the “Three Magi.” The
significance of Orion, too, in ancient teaching was compared to the significance of
Atlas, supporting the weight of the world. Verily, the Star of the East!

Only in the East do you feel the vital sense of astrology and astro-chemistry in its
scientific import. The observatories in Jaipur and in Delhi overwhelm one with their
fantastic conviction.

The air is pure. The small Lepchas, coolies of Sikhim, bear huge stones up to the
mountain on their backs. It is for the unknown structure. Their heads are bent so low
that one cannot distinguish their faces, because of the shawl and metal rings and
chains. Will they be able to bear it safely? How is it possible to overload a body four
feet high with such an immeasurable burden of stones! Yet instead of groans you hear
laughter from under the bent back. Much laughter is heard in Sikhim. The further one
goes toward Tibet the more communicative are the people. And the more often one hears
singing accompanied by a pleasantry. The air is clearer here.

The chief of the caravan is called Sardar. In his purple kaftan, he is mounted firmly on
the white mountain pony. Many are the white horses here.

The caves of Kinchenjunga, where were guarded the treasures, are still far off. In one
of the caves is the statue of Padma Sambhava (teacher of Tibet) and behind it is seen a
stone door—never yet opened by man. And yet they say: “Nothing remains hidden!”

The human consciousness often is “like a dog’s tail. If it has curled itself—no matter
how you straighten it out, it still persists in curling back.” Thus it was told by the
ancient Chinese.

But it is also known how completely the consciousness has been transformed by a mere
touch.

“Why do you not tell us all you know, as if you were strewing pearls or setting
landmarks?” By these signposts you yourself will pass the entire way. You alone—by human
feet. According to your growth shall you yourself gather pearls. By your own hands shall
you match them. By your own hands will you develop dynamic power. “You will return” and
project your will.

Otherwise matter will again not flow out in the “song of ceaseless labor.” In this way,
superficial curiosity will be divided from true striving. They tell of one “modern sage”
who offered to found an institute where anyone coming from the street could at once be
convinced of phenomena. But this “sage” forgot to offer these strange comers from the
street at least the wherewithal to wash their hands for the tests. There are ways which
we must approach only with pure hands and with our own will.

And if through the shell of the objects of every day you will be enabled to behold the
summits of the cosmos—what a new wondrous and undiminishing outlook shall the world have
for the unsheathed eye. The medical lore of the ancients acclaimed laughter as useful
for the purification of the glands. How useful then must a smile be for the brain! Thus
shall the trembling conjuries of fear be transformed into the valiant call of joy.

**TASHIDING**

The motley figures of hell are being trampled down by the powerful feet of the White
Guards. Red and green “guardians of the entrances,” many-armed and with horrible grins,
are threatening the violators. In explosive gasps flare up the gold tongues of the
primeval flame. The misty aureoles of lights are glowing. . . .

With cold respect or else with a clerical sense of the scientific, do we examine the
Tibetan and Nepal banner-paintings in the British Museum, the Musée Guimet in Paris, or
the Field Museum in Chicago. But in a completely different attitude do we approach the
same paintings on this site, and they speak to you quite differently. Every gesture of
Buddha’s hand is of vital meaning for the local world. The good and evil entities with
their endless symbols are transformed from ornaments into a living epos. The images are
enfolded in a stirring harmony of tones. The finest of these are of ancient work
although the new paintings are also at times excellent.

Let us predict for these images a great future—just as twenty years ago the future
importance of the old Russian ikons was predicted. Merited attention has been given to
the Chinese and Japanese art. An elaborate literature has expressed this free art
concisely. But after a study of classic Egypt, after the subtlety of Japan, after the
romance of China and after the arabesque of the Persian and Mogul miniature, now appears
a new object for study and admiration. The art of Central Asia is coming to the fore. In
the fiery fantasy; in the dignity of the fine form; in the intense and complex gradation
of tones is manifested this completely unique and striking art. But in its quiescent
expression this art responds to the mystery of the cradle of humanity. In itself it
forms Asia, to which in time shall be directed inquiries and researches.

Only, it is necessary to knock upon the doors of this beauty without threats, without
weapons, without pillage. With full readiness must we gather the pearls of profound and
anonymous achievements; without superficial scientific hypocrisy and without bribed
treachery.

To study the life of a nightingale by first killing it—is it not barbaric?

One remembers keenly some objects discovered by Kozloff in Kara-khoto in Mongolia.
Especially does one recall the wondrous image of the woman’s head. If such a people
lived in the silenced cities of the deserts—how far were these places from being a
wilderness!

Wisely, wisely did the deserts succeed in guarding for posterity new treasures, and not
only material treasures. . .

One must recall not only the swords of the Tartar in measuring the life of Central Asia.
There are also the tents of all travelers and searchers. Even to the Khan’s camps were
summoned the finest of artists.

I remember how badly fared one young doctor who was sent to Urga in Mongolia for
service. Poor soul, he knew not what and how to search. If the young generation could
realize what treasures were prepared for it, and lie at the edge of the road—unlifted.
Sometimes it is only a question of lifting up the treasures.

A little shepherd boy found 120 pounds of gold in Scythian objects, because he was
attracted by the glimmer of metal which sparkled on the slope of the hill, washed off by
the rain. How many such sparks are glimmering! But often our eyes are dulled by
laziness.

The blessed Maitreya is always represented crowned by a wreath, in a great image. Three
years ago, a gigantic image of Maitreya, bearer of the new age of universal Unity, was
placed in Tashi-Lunpo, the monastery of the Tashi Lama. This idea has been invoked with
the new approaching era of Tibetan chronology.

During the service in the temples smoking Tibetan tea is passed around. Therein is the
idea of the Grail in this filling of the vessels before the Blessed Image. One must
never leave the vessel empty—this is contrary to the custom of the East. Then the
gigantic trumpets are sounded, like the voices of storm and thunder, with their summons
to the future. Backs adorned with their purple mantles are bent low, thinking of the
future. And like a fiery field, under the image of the Dream of the World, one hundred
and eight fires are glimmering.

In a special compartment are guarded the masks of the keepers. Is it possible that these
frightful visages can symbolize the way of benevolence? However, these are not symbols
of benevolence but symbols of earthly elemental forces. For there is the heaven and the
earth.

Even the physical world of Tantrik teaching, which has been so degraded in modern
understanding, must be conceived sublimely. The teacher, Padma Sambhava, would not have
proclaimed only a physical teaching.

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I look upon an ancient painting of the Monastery Daling. Here are the acts of the
teacher, Padma Sambhava. All his forces are represented in action. Here is the teacher
as a black-hatted lama with Solomon’s Star upon his headdress, striking a dragon. Here
is the teacher summoning the rain. Here he saves a drowning one; he charms small evil
spirits; weaponless, he conquers beasts and by a magic weapon he smites a tiger, first
covering his head with the sacred triangle. Here he makes the serpents harmless; here he
conjures the stormy current; and he sends rain. Now he fearlessly converses with the
gigantic mountain spirit. Here the teacher flies above all mountains. Now out of the
shelter of the cave he hastens to comfort the world. And finally in the circle of a poor
family, he prays for a benign sea voyage for the absent master of the house. No matter
how clouded is his teaching now, its foundation stills gleams through.

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Or again, another ancient painting: “The Paradise of Padma Sambhava.” The teacher sits
in the Temple surrounded by the Righteous Ones. The Temple stands upon a mountain
separated from the earthly world by a blue river. Across the river are stretched
white hatiks (scarfs) and upon them the self-denying
voyagers are crossing to the temple. A clear picture of the illuminated ascent! Of
course, his commentators have besmirched even this manifestation. How encrusted with
false dogmas are also all religions.

Of course, the teacher, Tsong-kha-pa, is still nearer. He rose beyond the confines of
magic. He forbade the monks to have recourse to magic powers. His teaching—that of the
Yellow Lamas—seems less spoiled.

On New Year’s Eve, February 4, after sunset, the fires in the monasteries upon the hill
dart up. And the ringing gongs and the far-away drums reverberate. ... In the morning
are held the dances.

Before the New Year, the evil entities are destroyed by conjurations and dances. In the
Dance of the Stags, the effigy of the evil entity is hacked and its parts strewn around.
In the midst of the circle proudly walks the Guardian of the Teaching, brandishing his
sword—while black-headed lamas whirl around, swirling the wings of their broad sleeves.
Musicians in high yellow hats are coming to the fore, like Berendeys in “Snowmaiden.”
And above the ornamented cornices of the temple the eagles wheel, while from the turrets
of the hill the assembled crowds stand out in colorful relief.

The dances themselves on the New Year’s day acquire significance, with their frightful
symbols of evil entities. How far removed is the impression made by these awe-inspiring
masks, against the sunny background of the Himalayas, from the oppressive dark corners
of Museums where these examples are so often collected, frightening the visitor by the
apparition of a conventional hell! Of course, this hell is invoked only for the
terrifying of the weakly developed souls, and much fantasy is devoted to the
intensifying of these hellish countenances.

In the monastery of the Red Caps the impression is not so luminous. In the Red
Monasteries of Padma Sambhava this symbolization is more physically conventional. The
play starts with a simple “mystery” of the judgment over the dead. The chief lord of
hell approaches with his assistants. The beastlike servitors drag forward the black soul
of a dead murderer. They weigh out his crimes. The chalice of his sins weighs down the
balance, and the murderer is thereupon thrust into a seething caldron. The same occurs
to the soul of a female sinner.

But then there is summoned forth a saint in the vestments of a lama. He is adorned in a
white scarf. Of course, the court must be just, so three messengers of joy lead the
exalted one into paradise!

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Fifteen years ago there died a remarkable lama who came from Mongolia. We saw his
image—resembling the type of Russian ascetic. A powerful visage, unconquerably bold are
the cheek bones; the eyes are piercing. “During the departure of this strong spirit, a
rainbow shone over the monastery founded by him.”

The lama possessed rare books—and it is very difficult to obtain rare books. One must
send a trusted person into remote districts. Remarkable books exist; there is the book
of one Tashi Lama, concerning his visit to sacred Shambhala. There are collections of
symbolic parables. There is a treatise on the transmigration of souls. They are not
translated.

The teachings brought from Shambhala often find their way into the works of European
scientists. For instance, in the cemetery of Darjeeling is buried an enigmatic man,
Hungarian by birth, who lived at the end of the eighteenth century. He came walking from
Hungary to Tibet, remaining many years in unknown monasteries. In the thirties of the
last century, Csoma de Koros, as he was called, died. In his works he pointed out the
teachings from Shambhala, designating the next hierarchy to succeed Buddha. It is very
characteristic that this savant came here from Hungary. His activity was entirely
enigmatic.

One more spark about Shambhala. A very well known Tashi Lama often fell into an ecstasy
during his talks with his pupils. Sometimes he seemed to disappear altogether, being
transported into the sanctuary, Shambhala. These ecstasies vividly transport one to the
discourses of the time of Saint John de la Croix with Saint Theresa when both blessed
conversationalists in exultation were raised to the ceiling of the room.

Remembering exalted occurrences, one also recalls the sparks of indignation. “A
slanderer once approached Buddha, but the Blessed One was so indignant, that a spark of
lightning struck the offender. Of course, the Blessed One arrested the counterblow and
revived the defamer, but the latter had been so shocked that he forgot his plan of
attack. The sparks of the counterblow!”

“The case is also told that Sengchen Lama, before his execution in Lhasa, pointed out
that he would soon reincarnate again on earth. And truly very soon in Chinese Turkestan
a boy was born with the same rare and characteristic physical defect on his knee, which
distinguished the late Lama. Now this Mongolian prince is more than twenty years of age.
At present in our service is the son of the servant of the late Lama, and he was wont to
travel on the errands of his father to the young prince.”

Whoever is acquainted with riding horseback in Caucasia or in the Arizona and Colorado
canyons, will know how to climb the steeps of the hills of Sikhim. Only, instead of the
colorful tragedy of American wonders, here you behold an ascending garden cultivated by
the mysterious rise of exalted teaching. And in its unknown caves sit hermits, who upon
the strings of earth are composing the legend of celestial life.

He who has known the approaches to the old monasteries and ancient town sites in Russia
with their blossoming hills and fragrant pine groves, will understand the feeling on the
approach to the monasteries of Sikhim. I always repeat that if you want to see a
beautiful spot, ask the inhabitants of a town to point out the most ancient site. These
people of times immemorial knew how to select the most beautiful places.

Every mountain summit is crowned by a
beautiful mendong, with its wheels of life, its
prayers carved in relief and with its niches for seats from which you behold the image
of the far-off distances. Here lamas and travelers are meditating. Here banners are
fluttering. Here each rider will slow down his horse.

From the mountain summit you plunge again into the receding hills. The ribs of the
checkered hillocks also disappear, like the backs of panthers, tigers and wolves.

After the hills, again the fairy-tales of the forest. Green gnomes and monsters impede
the way. The verdant webs intertwine. The snakes wind themselves around the trunks. The
moss-like tigers and leopards here are lurking. An enchanted world this!

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The most fantastic hills and rocks form themselves into a seeming Sacred Chalice—a vast
valley. In the center of the valley unapproachably stands the mountain of
the White Stone, girded by two rivers. It is crowned
by the Monastery Tashiding, which means “Valley open to heaven.” An ancient place this.
Try to search the endless wrinkles and cavities of its rocks. Try to unearth the
treasures collected by the monastery—the miraculous stone, fulfillment of all wishes;
the immortal Amritha and a hundred images of Buddha; as well as all the sacred books
temporarily hidden; and all else spoken of in the ancient manuscript, “The Voyage
through Sikhim.”

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The approaches to Tashiding are very difficult. Only recently have the impossible trails
been transformed into steep footpaths. Verily, the path of the spirit must be traversed
by human feet!

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One crossing on the suspended bamboo bridge is especially hazardous. Below, the mountain
river rushes and roars, bearing down the icy current from Kinchenjunga. And above the
bridge on the steep slope, you pause many times. Shall I at last arrive? One must hold
one’s breath to conquer this age-old mountain.

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Upon the upper slope an honorary reception is arranged for us by the land owners. Ale,
sugar-cane and tangerines await us, under the canopy of rushes adorned with their yellow
garlands. Farther off resound the reverberant drums and silver gongs. The reception of
the monastery. On the last slope we are met by the pipers and trumpeters.

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Amidst the rows of a colorful crowd you reach the ancient place. Behind the gates of the
monastery, the lamas receive you in purple garments. In the front row a venerable old
man, head lama of the monastery, stands like a delicately carved image of the fifteenth
century. Thus you walk up to the spreading turquoise tents in the midst of a forest of
stupas and amidst many-colored banners, amidst the sparkling rows of fires.

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In the first full moon after New Year, which fell this year on the twentieth of
February, there was the annual festival in Tashiding. The miracle of the self-filling
chalice occurs at the time.

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Since ancient days—more than eight generations ago—this miracle has been ordained. From
a designated spot in the mountain river a small vessel of water is drawn and poured into
an ancient wooden chalice. In the presence of witnesses, representatives of the
Maharajah of Sikhim, the chalice is closed and hermetically sealed. A year later at
sunrise during the same full moon, the chalice is unsealed amidst due ceremony and the
quantity of water is measured. Sometimes the water has diminished but sometimes it has
increased considerably. In the year of the great war the water tripled in quantity,
which meant war. Now the water has diminished by half, which means famine and disorder.

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This evil omen has been intensified by another sign. On February twentieth there
occurred a complete eclipse of the moon. Never has there been so evil a sign.

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The trumpets sound, the whistles shriek, the people in costumes, as though from the
“Snowmaiden,” proceed to the great stupa. The choir, singing, winds its way around the
crowds. Many prostrate themselves. The drums of the lamas resoundingly thunder. At this
moment darkness falls athwart the clear moonlight! The golden fires of offerings gleam
out as though against black velvet. A complete eclipse occurs! The demon Rakhu has
stolen the moon! Never was it so until this day of miracle in Tashiding.

Said Asura Rakhu to the sun: “Because thou hast carried away Razayana by deceit, I shall
swallow thee, god of sun, at that time when, on the thirtieth day, you will unite the
knots of the orbit!” And further Rakhu pronounced a prophetic threat: “In penalty that
thou, moon, although recognizing me, commanded that I be cut asunder, I shall seize thee
and devour thee on the date of the fifteenth, during the time of the full moon!” And
attentively the people are watching the eclipse of the moon and sun and beat upon the
drums and threaten Rakhu.

But there was also one good omen. At sunrise the head lama beheld garlands of fire
starting to glow upon the peaks of the mountains.

When the moon was restored to the world, the dancing commenced around the main stupa, a
typical Russian round. The songs are also like the Russian; their import is spiritual.
“In a monastery dwells our Lord Buddha. We bring to him our offering”—so begins one
song; or “Mighty is the sacred book but I shall find a spot for it close to my heart”
or, “I recollect the sacred monastery.”

In a white kaftan the artist who decorated the local temple approaches. We have arranged
for him to go with us to paint the Blessed Maitreya. He will demonstrate the technique
of the local painting.

Red, yellow, white, purple kaftans; women’s sleeves of crimson, green and white. Peaked
hats, fur-edged. The people talk, sing, and for two nights walk around the stupa.

They are touching their foreheads to the stone upon which the teacher, Padma Sambhava
gave his benediction of the site. They walk around another stone bearing the imprint of
the teacher’s foot and the imprint of hoofs and paws of beasts. And again the chorus
marches around the stupa, singing of the fulfillment of all desires.

Entering the temple, you walk along your left up to the wall of the altar. Within the
temples of the Yellow Sect, in the center of the altar wall, is the statue of Buddha. Or
now, perhaps Maitreya-Buddha is at the right. Sometimes the lower temple is dedicated to
Padma Sambhava and the upper one to Buddha. These positions are closely related to the
inner meanings of the teachings. Buddha represents heaven; Padma Sambhava the earth.
Upon the side niches are images of Avalokiteshvara—a spiritual conclave of brotherhood,
many-headed and many-armed, like our Russian Hundred-Armed One. There are also statues
of the “Keepers of Lightning,” of the founders of Monasteries and of sixteen Arhats,
sitting in carved caves. Upon the altar are lamps and various offerings, seven chalices
with water, a saucer of rice, censers with incense, a shrine with relics.

The walls are generally covered with frescoes, especially one wall, that of the altar.
At the entrance stand the images of the guardians of the four hemispheres. In every
temple will be found an image of the seven treasures vouchsafed to humanity; among them
on a white horse is the image of the miraculous stone.

In a special compartment are kept the sacred books. The common dream of the monasteries
is to increase the number of books; but books are expensive—a sacred volume costs up to
a thousand rupees.

Especially touching is the service of the thousand lights, in the evening, here in the
low frescoed temple, with its columns and ornamented beams. In the center is a long
table on which fires are set; along the walls also stand rows of lights, and this sea of
fires caressingly undulates and sways, wrapped in a veil of smoke from the sandalwood,
wild mint and other fragrances, which are consumed in the urns. During this service the
singing, too, is of exquisite harmony.

Along all paths, the caravans of the pilgrims wind their way. High saddles are covered
with bright fabrics. Wild white ponies are bearing the bulging-bellied luggage. There
are crowds of pilgrims seeking a resting place for the night. Here and there are a few
banners raised in memory of the living and more often for the dead. A crowd up to one
thousand two hundred collects together—but a peaceful, good crowd.

At early dawn, long before sunrise, when the snows on the mountain are still soft amber,
the camp begins to stir. The drone of life creeps along and broadens; the cadence of
early prayer mingles with the stamping of horses and mules.

In the morning, a procession makes its way toward our tents. The head lama himself
proclaims the bringing of gifts. After him follow high uplifted trays with rice, with
the ribs of a ram, with sugar-cane, with ale and fruit. The lama himself makes the
offering to our traveling kitchen.

Amidst the stupas are spread the tents of the pilgrims. Here under a green canopy are
sitting lamas from Tibet. Women are turning the lengthy pages of the prayer book for
them. The lamas are intoning Tantrik songs, to the sounds of hand drums and gongs. Where
is Stravinsky, Stokovsky, Prokofieff, where Zavadsky, to portray the powerful modes of
these stirring calls? And how fine is the white-gold face of her who turns the pages
before the singers.

Not far off, a group from Nepal are clapping hands in rhythmic beat and chanting. In the
center, a woman, with features unmoved, ecstatically dances the Sherpa Dance, full of
the fine gestures of conjuration. Sometimes she moves her hands in a fluttering motion
like a bird and utters a weird birdlike call. It is indeed striking.

There the wanderers from Bhutan are praying under a red canopy. Before the distribution
of the healing waters, a sacred procession walks around the stupas. In the front are
trumpeters in high red hats; after them the lamas in tiaras, and behind are borne a long
row of sacred books.

At sunset, within the tent, the head lama quietly speaks of the sanctuaries of Sikhim.
He relates the “miracles” which he has heard, or has himself seen; of the buzzing of
swarms of invisible bees; of the singing and celestial music; of the apparitions of
sacred images. At our departure the lama pointed out two gracious omens. Upon our way,
coming to meet us, were three brimming bamboo water-pails carried by water carriers and
two woodsmen with full fagots of wood.

**PEMAYANGTSE**

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Tashiding is one of Sikhim’s prominent sites and belongs to the parish of a great
monastery, Pemayangtse, and is a day’s travel away. It is also on the peak, standing
like a bulwark. It has been newly rebuilt. Its renovation has been done with such
sensitiveness that even the most recent painting gives you joy by its fine and ingenious
decoration. And the carvings on the casements are fairylike. And the tall heavy doorways
lead you into the wooden temples of Russia. Dignified are the head lamas with their
festive purple garments and with their impressive red tiaras adorning their heads.
Nevertheless one recalls with most pleasure the eighty-year-old abbot of Tashiding, ever
zealous and careful to improve his structure, with his economical eye penetrating
everywhere.

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Behind the gates of Pemayangtse three-hundred-year-old ancient trees are standing as
guardians—like the fairy forest of Berendey. A tiny street of the lamas’ homes is like
the suburb of Berendey, painted and ornamented with its many-colored porches and
stairways.

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Here is “Heaven’s Sacred Mountain” and upon its peaks shines a small mountain lake.
There is also a small temple erected on the spot where the founder of the Red Sect in
Sikhim lived. From Dubdi, the founder passed to the Sacred Lake and thence into the
ancient Sanga Chöling.

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The four most ancient monasteries of Sikhim are Dubdi, Sanga Chöling, Daling and
Robling. And the meanings of their names are noble ones: “Palace of Meditation,” “Island
of Secret Teaching,” “Island of Lightning” and “Island of Happy Striving.”

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An excellent monastery is Sanga Chöling; nor do we forget Daling with its blue-white,
porcelain-like entrance amidst a bamboo grove. Here at the altar is preciously kept a
sealed box containing relics of the founder of the monastery. There are banners—gold on
a black background. In Sanga Chöling there are no relics, but there lies a stone made
sacred by the blessing of the founder; when the life in the monastery is undefiled the
stone is firm, but each besmirching of life makes the stone crack.

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Here are those tiny doors, beloved to me in Novgorod and Yaroslavl. Here is beautiful
fresco painting. Here are the polychrome ornaments entwining all casements of the
windows and doors. Here are the same rounded backs of pilgrims devoted to the faith, and
the fires of dedicated offerings. Our coolies are also lighting a fire—a true widow’s
mite. And above them adamantly rises “the Keeper of Lightning.”

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Although the teacher, Padma Sambhava, was never in Pemayangtse, yet in the monastery are
kept the things which belonged to this founder of the religion. The things are kept
sealed but on some occasions are shown; a garment, headdress, beads, tiny bells of a
wondrous chime, two magic daggers and a small exquisite image of Buddha.

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And the trumpets sound more thunderous in Pemayangtse and the dragon guardians seem more
terrifying and the influence of the monastery is greater. The ruins of the palace of the
Maharajah are near. According to the biblical custom the first Maharajah was chosen to
reign by the head of the religion. But there is no figure of Maitreya in the big
monastery.

A few solitary temples with a single fire before them, surrounded by peach and rose
flowers and intertwining orchids and wild peonies, more closely indicate the path of
simple attainment of the Teaching.

Out of the forest walks a peasant and his head is adorned with white flowers. Where is
this possible? Only in Sikhim.

Are the inhabitants of Sikhim poor? Where there are no riches there is no poverty. The
people are living simply. Upon the hills, amidst blossoming trees, stand the quiet
little houses. Through the colored branches shine the bright stars and glimmer the
snow-covered peaks. Here are people carrying their vegetables; here they pasture their
cattle and smile kindly. Here with fairylike music they walk along the steep paths in
wedding processions. Knowing of reincarnation they quietly cremate the bodies. And they
are singing. Mark, they are often singing.

Verily, one can sing under a canopy of various flowers and plants. Orchids, like
colorful eyes, cling to the trunks of the giant trees. Pink, purple and yellow bouquets
are strewn along the way like bright sparks. And these are not simply plants; many have
their ancient powers of healing.

Nature awaits here full of gifts. Come hither and be cured. Charura, Parura, Orrura are
the three important curative fruits against cough, cold and fever. Charura is like a
yellow cherry; Parura like a green chestnut and Orrura like a yellowish-green
crab-apple. All three are sharp to the taste and full of tannin. Here is the red bark of
Aku Ombo, to cure wounds. Salve against fever is Sergi Phurba, like a dry giant bean.
Chuta, the dry bitter root, will cure swelling and heal the throat. Bassack is a brown
powder for colds. The red-stemmed Tze produces magenta; bitter Purma is for incenses. A
broth from the roots of Berekuro is effective for women’s ailments. The flowers of
Dangero heal the stomach, much like the flower of the red rhododendron; while the leaf
of Dysro is a disinfectant for wounds. Memshing Pati is a sacred plant in Nepal, where
it is used for head ornaments at festivals. Endless are the useful plants awaiting the
best application and study.

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The leaves of the herb Ava Duti are said “to soften” stones, just as do
the “snow-frogs” in the Himalayas. Therefore if upon
a stone you see the print of an elk’s foot or the paw of an animal, it seems they have
eaten or touched this wondrous herb. Turning again to legends: near Phalut on the road
to Kinchenjunga grows a precious plant, the black aconite. Its flower lights up at
night, and by its glow one locates this rare plant. Here again is the trace of the
legend of the Russian fire flower, that enchanted blossom which fulfills all wishes—and
which leads us not to superstition but to that same source wherein so much still lies
concealed.

Before our gates a strange gift was found. The branches of a fir tree, rhododendron and
some other plants were there, with their leaves pointing to our house, and covered with
a flat stone. This is Sunnium (a conjuration) and the man who raises this offering
receives upon himself all which is sworn upon it, whether of good or evil, sickness or
sorrow or joy. For many days it lay there and even horses shied at it. The same
conjuration we observed in the suburb of Jaipur; there in the middle of a street, in a
flat basket, lay a lamb’s liver, flowers and three silver rupees. None touched them.
These conjurations are of very ancient origin.

Everywhere are legends of the accidental discoveries of sacred spots, the revelation of
which was followed by dumbness and even death. Thus it is told that one Shikari (a
hunter) in Assam, accidentally wandered into a sacred place and beheld its mysteries,
and when he attempted to reveal them he was stricken dumb.

On the shore of the sea a stick is moving. It moves on alone and near the top of it is
tied a lighted tinder. Thus do the conjurers of the coast of Malabar invoke their
conjurations to burn the house of an enemy. Doctor Jones of Calcutta tried to overtake
such a stick but it “walked away” beyond his own pace.

A legend from around Mongolia: “A venerated mother died and her son was desirous that a
high lama possessed of exalted powers should perform the services over her. But such a
lama could not be found. The son at the moment of death deposited the spirit of the
departing one into a sandalwood casket, strongly sealed this sanctuary and himself
invited the best lamas from Tibet. The lamas concentrated upon the casket; one of them
began to change in countenance, first becoming red, then blue from exertion. Then
suddenly the casket burst into splinters before the eyes of all. This lama was able to
free the spirit and thus could perform the service.”

The people here know everything; they have heard everything. One can remember and
disclose all things in the twilight: of “Nam-Yg” (heavenly letters)—the letters and
sacred books which are falling from heaven; of rings of silver or turquoise which change
their color as a sign of foreboding and warning; of Si, the stone
bead, sent from heaven to guard the health; of the finding of objects which disappear
afterward. All this is known.

A woman was very pious and dreamt that she might receive the image of Buddha. Working in
the morning amid her flowers she discovered an image and brought it into her shrine. But
soon she forgot it and Buddha disappeared from the shrine. Next time the woman found in
her garden a whirling sparkling stone and put it into a coffer and forgot it. Then the
stone disappeared. Neglect always results in the disappearance of the bestowed
happiness.

Do not record the things which can be read in books but those which are related to you
in person; for those thoughts are the living ones. Not by the book but by the thought
shall you judge life. Understand the sparks of the primordial bliss.

In the twilight under the flowing stars, in the purple sheen of the mist, sounds the
soft voice of the lama, telling his calm tale of the “King of the World,” of His power,
of His action and wisdom, of His legions, in which each warrior shall be possessed of
some extraordinary gift. And he tells of the dates of the new age of general well-being.

The tale is taken from an ancient Tibetan book, wherein, under symbolic names, are given
the future movements of the Dalai Lama and Tashi Lama, which have already been
fulfilled. There are described the special physical marks of rulers under whom the
country shall fall during the reign of the monkeys. But afterwards shall the rule be
regained and then will come Someone of greatness. His coming is calculated in twelve
years—which will be in 1936.

When the time came for the Blessed Buddha to depart from this earth He was asked by four
lords of Dharmapala to bequeath to mankind His image. The Blessed One consented and
designated the most worthy artist, but the artist could not take the exact measurements
because his hand trembled so when he approached the Blessed One. Then said Buddha, “I
shall stand near the water. Thou shalt take the measurements from my reflection.” And
the artist was thus enabled to do so, and executed four images, modeled from a sacred
alloy of seven metals. Two of these images are now in Lhasa and the remaining two are
still hidden until the appointed time.

One Tibetan ruler married Chinese and Nepal princesses in order that through them he
might attract to Tibet the two sacred images of Buddha.

Twelve hundred years after Buddha, the teacher Padma Sambhava brought the teachings of
the Blessed One closer to men. At the birth of Padma Sambhava all the skies were aglow
and the shepherds saw miraculous tokens. The eight-year-old Teacher was manifested to
the world in the Lotus flower. Padma Sambhava did not die but departed to teach new
countries. Had he not done so the world would be threatened with disaster.

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In the cave Kandro Sampo, not far from Tashiding, near a certain hot spring, dwelt Padma
Sambhava himself. A certain giant, thinking to penetrate across to Tibet, attempted to
build a passage into the Sacred Land. The Blessed Teacher rose up and growing great in
height struck the bold venturer. Thus was the giant destroyed. And now in the cave is
the image of Padma Sambhava and behind it is a stone door. It is known that behind this
door the Teacher hid sacred mysteries for the future. But the dates for their revelation
have not yet come.

Wherefore do the giant trumpets in the Buddhist temples have so resonant a tone? The
ruler of Tibet decided to summon from India, from the place where dwelt the Blessed One,
a learned lama, in order to purify the fundamentals of the teaching. How to meet the
guest? The High Lama of Tibet, having had a vision, gave the design of a new trumpet so
that the guest should be received with unprecedented sound; and the meeting was a
wonderful one—not by the wealth of gold but by the grandeur of sound!

Why do the gongs in the temple ring out with such great volume? And as silver, resound
the gongs and bells at dawn and evening, when the atmosphere is tense. Their sound
reminds one of the legend of the great Lama and the Chinese emperor. In order to test
the knowledge and clairvoyance of the Lama, the emperor made for him a seat from sacred
books and covering them with fabrics, invited the guest to sit down. The Lama made
certain prayers and then sat down. The emperor demanded of him, “If your knowledge is so
universal, how could you sit down on the sacred books?” “There are no sacred volumes,”
answered the Lama. And the astonished emperor, instead of his sacred volumes, found only
blank papers. The emperor thereupon gave to the Lama many gifts and bells of liquid
chime. But the Lama ordered them to be thrown into the river, saying, “I will not be
able to carry these. If they are necessary to me, the river will bring these gifts to my
monastery.” And indeed the waters carried to him the bells, with their crystal chimes,
clear as the waters of the river.

“Talismans. A mother many times asked her son to bring to her a sacred relic of Buddha.
But the youth forgot her request. She said to him, ‘I shall die here before your eyes if
you will not bring it to me now.’ The son went to Lhasa and again forgot the mother’s
request. A half day’s journey from his home, he recalled the promise. But where can one
find sacred objects in the desert? There is nought. But the traveler espies the skull of
a dog. He decides to take out a tooth and folding it in yellow silk he brings it to the
house. The old woman asks of him, ‘Have you forgotten again my last request, my son?’ He
then gives her the dog’s tooth wrapped in silk, saying, ‘This is the tooth of Buddha.’
And the mother puts the tooth into her shrine, and performs before it the most sacred
rites, directing all her worship to her holy of holies. And the miracle is accomplished.
The tooth begins to glow with pure rays and many miracles and sacred manifestations
result from it.”

A man searched for twelve years for Maitreya-Buddha. Nowhere did he find him, and
becoming angry, he rejected his faith. As he walked along his way he beheld one who with
a horsehair was sawing an iron rod, repeating to himself, “If the whole of life is not
enough yet will I saw this through.” Confusion fell upon him—“What do my twelve years
mean,” he said, “in the face of such persistence? I will return to my search.” Thereupon
Maitreya-Buddha himself appeared before the man and said, “Long already have I been with
you but you did not see me, and you repulsed me and spat upon me. I will make a test. Go
to the bazaar. I will be upon your shoulder.” The man went, aware that he carried
Maitreya. But the men around him shrank from him, closing their noses and eyes.
“Wherefore do you shrink from, me, people?” he asked. “What a fright you have on your
shoulder—an ill-smelling dog full of boils!” they replied. Again the people did not see
Maitreya-Buddha, for each beheld only what he was worthy of seeing.

The lama says, “There are three kinds of teaching—one for the stranger, one for our own,
and the third for the initiated who can retain. Now through ignorance they slaughter
animals, they drink wine, they have property and eat meat and live squalidly. Does
religion permit all this? Where is beauty, there is teaching; where is teaching, there
is beauty.

The people here are sensitive. Your emotions and desires are transmitted so easily.
Therefore know clearly what you desire. Otherwise instead of Buddha you shall behold the
dog.

That which is hidden in the past is not of importance—that which in age-old books,
copied and unfinished, lies covered with dust. For the new construction, that which now
resolves itself into life is important. Not through library shelves but through the
living word is measured the possibility of future structures.

Under Kinchenjunga are secreted the caves in which the treasures are resting. In stone
coffins the cave dwellers are praying, torturing themselves in the name of the future.
But the sun already has defined the future; not in secret caves but in full sunlight one
perceives the worship and expectation of Maitreya-Buddha. It is now three years since
the Tashi Lama solemnly and openly dedicated the great New Image in his Tashi-lhunpo.
The intense, invisible work progresses.

The Tashi Lama is now on his way to Mongolia by way of China. Unprecedented is this
event through the ages. Mystery! Incidentally, it may be that only the abducting
detachment passed through Sikhim and the Lama himself moved on to Mongolia.

On a sacred morning upon the mountain started to glow rows of fire—another mystery!

Just now the wave of attention is turned toward Tibet—behind the mountain rampart events
are stirring, but Tibetan secrecy is great. Information is contradictory. Whither
disappeared the Tashi Lama? What military manoeuvers proceed on the Chinese border? What
transpires on the Mongolian line? A year of events!

Sikhim is called the land of lightning. Of course, lightning also occurs here but is it
not simpler to call it “the land of future steps”? For it would be difficult to imagine
a better threshold to the mysteries of the future than this unexplored, rarely
penetrated country of rocks and flowers.

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As behind a tiny silver apple on a saucer, do the hills and steps of the Himalayas
reveal themselves. Hundreds, perhaps more, are the monasteries in Sikhim, each crowning
the top of a summit. A small temple in Chakong; a big suburgan and monastery in
Rinchenpong. Upon the next mountain appears gleaming white Pemayangtse, still higher,
Sanga Chöling. Tashiding is almost unseen. On the other side of the valley is Daling and
opposite Robling and still nearer Namtse. One may behold the monasteries for a distance
of forty miles for we must not forget that here one can see extremely far.

And again before us is the wall to Tibet. And not the backbone of the lizard but the
snow-white girdle is outlined upon the peaks of this wall—the girdle of the earth. Let
us point the arrow northward—there must be the base of Mount Meru.

The Talmud relates that the dove brought the first olive branch to Noah from Mount
Moriah. And Mount Moriah and the mountain Meru both lie in Asia. Here is the beginning
of all things. Here is the source for all travelers and all searchers. Here is raised
the first image of the Blessed Maitreya—Messiah—Muntazar Thrice
powerful M! Here above all disputes, the teachings have raised up the olive branch of
the new world. Here is ordained the universal commune.

Someone voluntarily approached and touched our tent! Who is this man, with his long
black braid and a turquoise earring in his ear, and garbed in a white kaftan? It is the
Lama, Pema Don-dub, the local ikon painter. We ask, “Can you paint for us the Blessed
Maitreya, exactly like the one in Tashi-lhunpo?” He consents and now he sits on a tiny
rug in the corner of the white gallery, and with various pigments, paints the Image full
of symbols. He prepares the fabric for the painting and covers it
with levkas (a mixture of chalk on glue), and irons
it with a shell. He works exactly like Russian ikon painters. In the same way does he
grind his colors, heat them on a coal pan; and thus does he keep an additional brush in
his thick black hair. His Tibetan wife helps him to prepare his colors.

And so, in the corner of the white gallery the ingenious, many-colored image is being
conceived. And each symbol upon it more clearly defines the Blessed One. Here is the
frightful birdlike Garuda and wise Magi and Ganeshi, elephant of happiness, and
Chintamani, the Steed, bearing on its back the miraculous stone, Treasure of the World.
A sacred cycle of chosen symbols. And upon the image and the hands is laid pure gold.

Like our ikon painters, the artist lama chants hymns as he labors. The chants become
more fervent; this means he is beginning upon the Image itself.

And another wonder occurs, only possible in this land. In the deep twilight when the
waxing moon possesses all things, one hears through the house the silvery tones of a
handmade flute. In the darkness the artist lama is sitting upon his rug, playing with
rapture before the image of Maitreya-Messiah-Muntazar.

The Strings of the Earth!

Talai-Pho-Brang.