󠀲󠀳IIIꓸ Pir-Panzal (1925) - blame None

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# Nicholas Roerich. Altai-Himalaya

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## III. Pir-Panzal (1925)

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Where have passed the hordes of the great Mongols? Where has the lost tribe of Israel

concealed itself? Where does the “Throne of Solomon” stand? Where lie the paths of

Christ the Wanderer? Where do the bonfires of the Shamans, Bon-po, of the religion of

demons, glow? Where is Shalimar, the gardens of Jehangir? Where are the roads of Pamir,

Lhasa, Khotan? Where is the mysterious cave, Amarnath? Where is the path of Alexander

the Great to forgotten Taxila? Where are the walls of Akbar? Where did Ashvagosha teach?

Where did Avantisvamin create? Where are the citadels of Chandragupta-Maurya? Where are

the stones of wisdom of King Asoka? . . . All have passed by way of Kashmir. Here lie

the ancient ways of Asia. And each caravan flashes by as a connecting link in the great

body of the East.

Here are the sandy deserts on the way to Peshawar; and the blue peaks of Sonamarg; and

the white slopes of Zoji-La. And in the flight of the eagles is the same untiring

spirit; in the fleet steed is the same unalterable motion. Nor does the world of roses

and shawls of Kashmir resemble that forgotten and hidden world of Kashmiri blades.

“Sacre du Printemps”—when we composed it together with Stravinsky, we could not conceive

that Kashmir would greet us with its very setting. In Ghari, camping out by night, when

the vivid spring sky became afire with stars and the mountains were azured, we observed

rows of fires upon the mountains. The fires started into motion, separated and strangely

circled about. Then the mountain slopes became aglow with these fiery processions. And

in the village below, dark silhouettes began to whirl about brandishing resin torches on

long staffs. The flaming circles proclaimed the end of winter frosts. And the songs

proclaimed the Sacred Spring. This is the festival of the Ninth of March.

“Bulbul,” the nightingale, sings on the apple tree. The cuckoo reckons out a long life.

White linens are spread on the meadow and a samovar is boiling. Red and yellow apples

and sweet cakes are passed around to those seated upon the spring grass. The eyes of the

violets and the white and yellow narcissus are woven into a many-hued carpet. At

evening, flocks of ducks and geese completely cover the tiny islands over the lakes.

Small bears steal out on the spring glades. But none fears them—unless the mother-bear

is with her cubs. . . .

The river banks are sloping. A line of boatsmen steer their canopied boats. . . . Upon a

broad road the oxen drag themselves and the wheels grind along. Three-hundred-year-old

plantains and tall poplars guard the ways. And the teeth of the encountered travelers

gleam often in the smile of greeting.

In the sheds lie the sleighs—veritable Moscow sleighs. In the yard, a crane screeches

above the well. The straw roof is overgrown with green moss. Along the road are gnarled

willow trees. And the greetings of the children are noisy. But where is this? Is it in

Schuya or Kolomna? It is in Srinagar, in the “City of the Sun.”

Tiny, big-bellied pillars—small ornamental designs—steep little steps of stone—the

gilded roofs of the temple—creaking, ornamented window-shutters—rusty locks—low little

doors with their “curtesy”—carved balustrades—slanting tiles on stony floors—the odor of

old lacquer—small windows with diminutive panes. Where are we then? Is this the Kremlin

of Rostov? Are these the monasteries of Suzdal? Are they the temples of Yaroslavl? And

what of the endless flocks of daws? What of the naked branches behind the windows? This

is the chief palace of the Maharajah of Kashmir. How curious is everything which remains

from antiquity. But the modern additions are hideous.

Upon the road are many Fords. In the hotel dining room one sees the faces of Americans.

In the jewelry shop, side-by-side, hang two paintings—one of the view of Delhi, the

other the view of the Moscow Kremlin. Among the crystals into which one gazes for

destiny; among the sapphires of Kashmir and the Tibetan turquoises, are shimmering green

Chinese jadaites—and like a garden, many-colored are the borders of the embroidered

kaftans. Like precious shawls the rooms of the museum are strewn with minute

Iran-designs and “Gandhara,” belabored by destiny, unifies the cleft branches of West

and East.

In the styles of the temples and mosques; in the angular carved dragons; in the

tent-like, sloping hexagonal tower, is seen an unexpected combination of the old wooden

churches of Norway and the Chinese pagodas. Out of one well is drawn the Romanesque

Chimera, the animal ornaments of Altai and the tiny animals of Chinese Turkestan and

China. The Siberian paths of the nations have carried afar the same meaning of

adornment.

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The fort of Akbar stands firmly planted. But after you have climbed the steepnesses and

flights, you may perceive that the old bricks and the clay-beaten cement barely hold

together. The arches are ready to give way.

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Nishad, the garden of Akbar, occupies the site from the lake to the hill—a high place.

The structures are modest and upon the corners are the little towers so beloved by him.

They are characterized by simplicity and brightness.

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Shalimar—the garden of Jehangir—is also in character with its possessor, standing “for

itself.” There is less of outward show, but more of luxury—of that luxury which brought

the descendants of the Moguls to poverty. The last Mogul, in Delhi, secretly sold

furniture out of the palace and destroyed the valuable facings of the walls of Shah

Jehan and Aurungzeb. Thus ended the great dynasty.

The weaver of Kashmir accompanied the making of each of his designs with a special

chant. Such a searching for rhythm reminds us of the great harmony of labor.

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No song relates why the mountain “Throne of Solomon” bears this name. This is a place of

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such antiquity. Janaka, son of Asoka, had already dedicated one of the first Buddhist

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temples here. Seven centuries later the temple was rebuilt and consecrated to Mahadeva.

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. . . But whence comes the name of Solomon? The mountain received the name of Solomon

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from a legend that Solomon, desiring a respite from the conventions of a sovereign’s

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life and from the burdens of his court, transported himself upon a flying carpet to this

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mountain with his favorite wife. Here, again, we come upon the mention of that “flying

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apparatus” possessed by Solomon. A similar mountain is in Turkestan and in Persia.

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It is not alone the mountain “Throne of Solomon” which transports the consciousness into

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biblical spheres. In the valley of Sindh the prophet Elijah is reverenced in a special

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manner. Most stirring are the legends; how the prophet sitting in his cave saves

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fishermen and travelers. Under various aspects, at times benevolent, at times stormy,

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the prophet appears to defend the works of justice and piety. Mohammedans and Hindus,

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divided by many differences, equally reverence the prophet Elijah.

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Purple iris will always recall Moslem cemeteries. They are covered with these flowers.

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But there is also joy. The lilacs have blossomed, lilies of the valley are nodding and

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the wild cherry tree glistens.

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After the “miniature design” of modern Kashmir, the eye rests before the ruins of

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Martand and Avantipur. Here, also, the ninth and tenth centuries have flowered. Here the

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solemn fantasy of the Asiatic cradle of the Romanesque merges with the joyous cult of

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Vishnu. One feels also that here, against the background of the sapphire foothills of

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the Himalayas, have stood mighty structures. They are but partly revealed. The sloping,

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massed hillocks conceal entire palaces and cities. The spectacle of the might of Asia is

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not yet revealed. Gleams of it only may be noted upon its fragmentary pages. Loving

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hands will complete the beautiful realization.

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“Hail to Thee, Hakaura, our Horus, God of Existence, Defender of the Land, bridling the

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desert by the serpent of His Uraeus, dispatching the arrow without the aid of the bow,

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as does the Goddess Sekhmet. The king’s word would turn the Asians to flight.” So speaks

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the hymn in honor of Senusert the Third. Two phrases have a special meaning: “Shooting

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the arrow without a bow”—action at a distance. “Bridler of the desert by the serpent of

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His Uranus”—reminds one of the most ancient cult of Asia—the wife and serpent. The

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snakelike capitals of the pillars of Asia and of the Mayans speak of the same cult of

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the wise wife. The old plaque found in Kashmir tells the same tale. In the middle sits

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the king of serpents with the magic flower in his hand. The king is endowed with two

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pairs of hands, dark and light, because wisdom has a complete armor. Before the king is

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a woman with a veiled head, and to her the king entrusts wisdom. As the background to

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this entire group is a multitude of snakes which have risen and united their heads. And

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around this central image is a procession of individual figures of rulers each wearing

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around his neck the image of the serpent. This sign of wisdom forces the humanlike and

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animal-like djins to serve and help the owners of the ancient sign. Into a long trumpet

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far-off the djins transmit messages. Djins bring flowers for the adornment of life.

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Djins, in the guise of animals, transport themselves through the air. They bring caskets

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with gems. They are present in the guise of sentinels. So is preserved the ancient

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symbol of wisdom.

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“Gulidjan-Marda”—“Illo-Aladin-Shabasha”—“Illaila-Suleiman”—thus the rowers call to each

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other. Oars with corded blades cut the yellow waters.

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Modern Srinagar is not more than one hundred and fifty to two hundred years old. Of the

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ancient “City of the Sun” nothing remains. The old mosque remains only as a shell. In

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the ugly rivets of the “wharf” are seen traces of the reliefs of the excellent stones of

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the ninth and eleventh centuries. There are separate fragments; nothing binds them with

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the dirty small houses of the present day.

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The old bridges must soon crumble. Who originated the canals of Kashmir? Who lined the

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roads with so many poplar hedges? Was this not done by some of the nomads from Central

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Asia, where winter necessitates the marking of the paths, and where canals are needed

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for irrigating the sands? Where did theseshikara—the light, gondola-like

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boats—originate?

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Along the even bank one travels at the end of the tow-rope. And the yellow banks remind

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one of the Volga or the Mississippi. The river Jhelum is the nerve of Kashmir.

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Vular is the largest lake, the most beautiful and the most stormy. For two nights our

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boat was dangerously driven against the clay bank. We should still have remained there,

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still be working there, were it not that the “ark” might have cracked. On this lake

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everything is so attractive. Toward the west is Pir-Panzal, glimmering with its snows.

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To the north and east are the massive mountains. To the south stretch the distances of

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Srinagar. Before sunset an astonishing Valhalla rises up over Pir-Panzal, and in the

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morning the eastern mountains are crystal blue. Upon the sandbanks flocks are herding

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and each horse is visible upon the far-off bank, so unusually transparent is the air.

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Near the eastern bank is seen a small island on which stand the ruins of a temple, and

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often the fakirs and the sadhus in meditation are seated there. The world of religion is

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less apparent in Kashmir.

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The details of the ruined temple on the island could be transported into any Romanesque

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cathedral, for the Goths wandered far, and everywhere sowed the seeds of their style.

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The adornment of the women’s caps recalls the

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Gothic fibula save that instead of red enamel we see

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red glass inlaid in copper.

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Around the boat soar lovely little swallows. On deck, the hoopoes strut about. Above the

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fields the song of the skylark resounds. In the center of the village is a cemetery—a

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hillock strewn with stones, like our

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northern zjalnik. Upon the hillock is a chapel with

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a green, tent-like roof. Venerable, scrawny plantains are standing guard over the

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quietude. Near the villages are the remains of temples and “town-sites” in ruins—sandy

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mounds with their sand-strewn antiquity. Toward evening the rowers commence their

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drawling songs—“like the burlaks.” And packs of dogs

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pierce the air with their howls. From the far distant North to the South one finds the

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same structure of life. It is amazing!

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On the northeast of Lake Vular the mountains converge. In this pass there is a kind of

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compelling power. The village, Bandapur, has quite an individual character, and when you

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reach the post office you can understand the importance of the site. Here, to the

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mountains, turns the road to Gilgit. You pass up to the first ascent and watch the

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windings of the rising path. Upon the peak of the very summit is the first night camp.

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Then on, the path lies first along the very edge where the snow still gleams white as a

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narrow strip, afterwards sinking far down into a new gateway. Gilgit and Chitral are

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especially guarded. If the road toward Ladak is difficult, then Gilgit and Chitral are

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positively forbidding. Violet and purple rocks; and snow peaks, beautifully blue. Each

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turbaned rider attracts one’s attention; is he not perhaps from the North? Each pack of

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loaded ponies draws one’s eye after them. A significant corner!

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The Russian words—sunduk, karaul, samovar, tchai, chaprak, sudi-sudi, kavardak,

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kolpak —and many other words, resound strangely but distinctly in the

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speech of Kashmir. The braided bark-shoes remind one of other northern paths.

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The boatman is preparing a Kashmiri dinner for us. Six cooks arrive. The table is strewn

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with blue iris. Since morning, we have received nothing except for tea. Sobra, his

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brother Ramsana, skillful Ibrahim and other unknown brothers and uncles are here—and

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even perhaps the hundred-year-old grandfather himself sitting with

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his hookah in the kitchen-boat. All are busying

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themselves over some mystery. Finally, at seven in the evening the mysterious dinner

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makes its appearance. Twenty-seven courses are served in turn and each has to be tasted.

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The sum of the inventiveness of this sextet of cooks comprises: Almond soup, Namki

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polaw, Mehtee, Tabak Maz, Kabab, Roogan Yosch, Dupiaz, Batha Kurma, Abgosh, Alubukhar

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Kurma, Chana Kurma, Marzewangan Kurma, Subzee Kurma, Namki Kabab Akhtabi, Koofta, Koofta

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Tikea, Dampokhta Kokarpootoo, Kandee Roogan Yosch, Metla polaw, Thula Shoom, Rewash,

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Methazoont, Metha Thool, Deesee Alu, Plireenee, Thula Halwa—thus is termed this

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apotheosis of mutton and spices. And how is it possible to tell them that just the

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ingeniousness of the dinner is so foreign to us!

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Kashmiri singing. Seven men in white turbans, one red-headed, with

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long sitara. Three

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have saazes. Further on sits the most skilled one,

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before two tablas. At the corner are two singers,

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and in the center a woman singer, in blue shawl and silver bracelets and strings of

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beads. They sing songs of Persia and Arabia; Urdu and Kashmiri songs. And, as in the

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reliefs of Assyria, the woman raises her forefinger or her left palm or crosses her

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hands upon her temples. Sometimes—like a “duckling”—she jumps up and softly runs around

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the circle. The Persian song “Suram” is the song of farewell and eternal remembrance.

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The “Shakhnaz,” the Arabian song: “The richest one will not carry his wealth with him

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beyond the grave.” Or: “When Christ ascended—all servitors extolled him.” And the song

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of Urdu runs: “Two friends—it matters not how distant—will think the same thoughts. The

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world is naught—and all must depart from it.” “Kochur,” the Kashmiri song, says: “Thou

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walkest upon the road but art not visible to me. Thou gavest me the wine of life and

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walkest away from me. Everything depends on God.” “If I see but one man or woman, I

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already behold the entire world.” “Kamach,” the Kashmiri song, runs: “They say their

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praises of Christ in all manner of words. Better was He than sun and moon.”

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And thus, on a red carpet, eight Moslems, of their own accord, glorify Christ and

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creation until the hour of midnight. Following them, all the boatmen move in time with

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the white turbans and sway as they chant. And

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the saazes drone like the whispers of the forest.

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And our Confucian Chinese repeats over and over in

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Tibetan yakpodu, meaning “good.” And then the

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Victrola resounds with Rimsky-Korsakoff’s “Song of Lel,” sung by Chaliapin, and the

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turbans of the Kashmiris nod understandingly. There is one consciousness! The program

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finishes with the “Song of Akbar.” And the entire midnight has passed without the least

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friction. And what has been mutually understood is accepted with a kindly smile.

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Can one change such a communion of understanding into the vulgarity of ugliness?

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Possibly one can. We were shown the shameful letters which were sent to the natives by

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foreigners—shameful questions of the flesh. Can one substitute for the smile the mawling

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grimace? Of course it is not difficult. One can invoke a whole horror of ugliness. One

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can destroy this feeling of universal good. One can depart with the impress of searing

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banality. One can always go into the darkness of ignorance and prejudice.

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As in Sikhim, so in Kashmir, one is amazed by the spiritual understanding. One has

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hardly enough time to crystallize one’s thoughts, when one’s companion has made his

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complementary gesture. And how many fine thoughts one can sow by way of the intuition!

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Once again rhythmically the rowers call to each

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other—“Amposch-pamposch”—“Dazgir-Kashmir”—“Shahan-Shah-Padi-Shah.” And the meaning of

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these calls is “The land of roses,” “The temple,” “King of Kings,” “Lotos,” “Man,” and

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“All is well.” . . .

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We live on the foothills of Pir-Panzal. The storms, continuous, blinding, last three

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days in succession. The hailstones are the size of dove’s eggs. The stars are like

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candles. And each week there are earthquakes.

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In Siberia, upon the steep hillocks are similar town-sites girdled by thundering

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torrents. Cedar and pine groves austerely guard these dwellings and high above glimmer

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the white caps of the mountains. Here are woodpeckers, turtle-doves, orioles, musk-deer

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and mountain-goats. In just this same way, we live in the yellow, unpainted sturdy

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house. If there is sun, all is fragrant with evergreen, but if there is storm ... For

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three days it thundered and the glare of lightning blinded one cruelly during the night.

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Rings of lightning! The gushing rains poured down, and hail suddenly blanched the green

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hills. What a storm!

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The series “Banners of the East” unfolded: 1. Buddha the Conqueror before the spring of

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life. 2. Moses the Leader upon the summit, surrounded by the glory of the heavens. 3.

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Sergius the Builder, laboring with his own forces. 4. Watch on the Himalayas. 5.

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Confucius the Just, the traveler in exile. 6. Yen-No-Guyo-Dja, Friend of the Travelers

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(Japan). 7. Milarepa, the One Who Hearkened—at sunrise comprehending the voices of the

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Devas. 8. Dorje the Daring, who stood facing Mahakala himself. 9. Sahara the Beneficent

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Arrow, never slackening in its missions of benevolence. 10. Mohammed upon Mount Hira

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(the message of the Archangel Gabriel). 11. Nagarjuna, Conqueror of the Serpent,

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beholding upon the lake the vision of the Ruler of the Nagi. 12. Oirot the Messenger of

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the White Burkhan, the legend of Altai. And those already in the Museum: 13. Mother of

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the World. 14. Signs of Christ. 15. Lao-Tze. 16. Tsong-kha-pa. 17. Padma Sambhava. 18.

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Chalice. 19. The Ancient Serpent.

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In Mongolia there is a custom of great antiquity. In moments of national disaster or

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danger, the lamas would ascend the high mountain and with conjurations would scatter

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white paper horses—the horse as a symbol of Buddha, of strength and happiness. And these

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steeds of Valkyrie, the resplendent horses, would float out, whirling, and carrying help

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to the unknown stricken ones. Procopius was wont to sit on the Dvina blessing the

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unknown seafarers: and these lamas upon the mountain ridges of Asia have sent horses to

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the far-off stricken ones. In this sending to the Unknown is seen the same concern for

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the general happiness. Such customs of lamas are precious. This is not “sitting beneath

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a tree,” nor requests flung into space; not the ornamental gestures of a ritual; but a

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“command” for help to the far-off stricken ones—a heavenly voice demanding that human

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ills be alleviated.

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Two other touching images must not be forgotten: Mani, the founder of so-called

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Manicheism, in the third century was crucified upon the gates of the city in Persia for

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his belief in the synthesis of teaching and for his idea of the Commune. The other one,

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Guru Kambala, gave his head as a symbol of devotion and service—and Kambala and horses,

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in their essence, both enter into the “Banners of the East.”

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Manicheism lived long. In Italy itself, Manicheans, persecuted, existed until the

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fourteenth century. Perhaps it is from them that Benozzo Gozzoli adopted the themes of

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the Pisan frescoes, of the four encounters of the Prince Siddhartha-Buddha, which

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enlightened his consciousness. Instead of the Hindu Ruler, there is a cavalcade of

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Italian signori. And in certain Eastern conceptions, as if somewhere

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from the depths of understanding, one perceives the characteristic fantasy of Gozzoli

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with his sumptuous ornate rocks and his pine trees; with his gilded horse-blankets and

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staffs bearing vivid banners. Tamed “Pardus” of the East sit behind the saddles, and the

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turban gracefully surrounds the helmet, as upon the coat-of-arms (insignia) of

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crusaders. What is it? The echoes of crusades, about which even Herri met de Bles

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dreamt? Or has the more ancient organization of synthesis, of Mani believers, penetrated

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and linked the consciousness of East and West. How many unexplained manifestations! How

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many names slandered! How many truly enlightened researches are buried into one heap

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with the cast-off refuse. Future studies and researches must be undertaken in an

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unprejudiced spirit with an eye only to truth and justice.

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Another detail linking East and West. Do you remember the Turfan Mother of the World,

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with the child? Perhaps Nestorians or Manicheans left this image in the center of Asia.

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Or more correctly, this image has remained, transmitted from times still more remote.

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Kali, or Kwan Yin—who knows how many ages old they are? Behind them is concealed the

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wife and the serpent. The antiquity of the symbol is already incalculable. Not toward

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the page of the Bible, not toward the symbols of the Kabala, does this image point.

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Continents no longer existing have molded the beauty of the Mother of the World—this

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light-bearing essence. Only ignorance insists on the lack of knowledge of antiquity.

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You may wonder how we fare without theaters. But we have drama here each day—only

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without a stage, in actual life. Perhaps a Chinese theater—with legends about unheard-of

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peoples; perhaps the threatening monologue of the policeman; perhaps the ill-omened

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ballet of the Kashmiri merchants—Schaitans; perhaps the drama of a

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boat beaten by the waves; perhaps the procession of horses or the peaceful evening

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songs, or a furioso of hail and earthquake. Nor does

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one have to hang frayed curtains, nor must one make up one’s face, when the whole world

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participates in the mystery of evolution; when renewed understanding triumphantly enters

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into life, in new creations of universal beauty.

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In Mongolia the march was proclaimed by the sending of an arrow to the Prince-noyon. And

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the arrow which came flying to Feodor-Tyron also came from the East.

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George rides upon a horse from Yarkand; and the Chinese and I on horses from Khotan. My

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horse has a star; the Yarkand horse bears a Chinese brand, the cross within a square—a

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sign of the coat of arms of Tian.