# Nicholas Roerich. Altai-Himalaya

## 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
such antiquity. Janaka, son of Asoka, had already dedicated one of the first Buddhist
temples here. Seven centuries later the temple was rebuilt and consecrated to Mahadeva.
. . . But whence comes the name of Solomon? The mountain received the name of Solomon
from a legend that Solomon, desiring a respite from the conventions of a sovereign’s
life and from the burdens of his court, transported himself upon a flying carpet to this
mountain with his favorite wife. Here, again, we come upon the mention of that “flying
apparatus” possessed by Solomon. A similar mountain is in Turkestan and in Persia.

It is not alone the mountain “Throne of Solomon” which transports the consciousness into
biblical spheres. In the valley of Sindh the prophet Elijah is reverenced in a special
manner. Most stirring are the legends; how the prophet sitting in his cave saves
fishermen and travelers. Under various aspects, at times benevolent, at times stormy,
the prophet appears to defend the works of justice and piety. Mohammedans and Hindus,
divided by many differences, equally reverence the prophet Elijah.

Purple iris will always recall Moslem cemeteries. They are covered with these flowers.
But there is also joy. The lilacs have blossomed, lilies of the valley are nodding and
the wild cherry tree glistens.

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After the “miniature design” of modern Kashmir, the eye rests before the ruins of
Martand and Avantipur. Here, also, the ninth and tenth centuries have flowered. Here the
solemn fantasy of the Asiatic cradle of the Romanesque merges with the joyous cult of
Vishnu. One feels also that here, against the background of the sapphire foothills of
the Himalayas, have stood mighty structures. They are but partly revealed. The sloping,
massed hillocks conceal entire palaces and cities. The spectacle of the might of Asia is
not yet revealed. Gleams of it only may be noted upon its fragmentary pages. Loving
hands will complete the beautiful realization.

“Hail to Thee, Hakaura, our Horus, God of Existence, Defender of the Land, bridling the
desert by the serpent of His Uraeus, dispatching the arrow without the aid of the bow,
as does the Goddess Sekhmet. The king’s word would turn the Asians to flight.” So speaks
the hymn in honor of Senusert the Third. Two phrases have a special meaning: “Shooting
the arrow without a bow”—action at a distance. “Bridler of the desert by the serpent of
His Uranus”—reminds one of the most ancient cult of Asia—the wife and serpent. The
snakelike capitals of the pillars of Asia and of the Mayans speak of the same cult of
the wise wife. The old plaque found in Kashmir tells the same tale. In the middle sits
the king of serpents with the magic flower in his hand. The king is endowed with two
pairs of hands, dark and light, because wisdom has a complete armor. Before the king is
a woman with a veiled head, and to her the king entrusts wisdom. As the background to
this entire group is a multitude of snakes which have risen and united their heads. And
around this central image is a procession of individual figures of rulers each wearing
around his neck the image of the serpent. This sign of wisdom forces the humanlike and
animal-like djins to serve and help the owners of the ancient sign. Into a long trumpet
far-off the djins transmit messages. Djins bring flowers for the adornment of life.
Djins, in the guise of animals, transport themselves through the air. They bring caskets
with gems. They are present in the guise of sentinels. So is preserved the ancient
symbol of wisdom.

“Gulidjan-Marda”—“Illo-Aladin-Shabasha”—“Illaila-Suleiman”—thus the rowers call to each
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
ancient “City of the Sun” nothing remains. The old mosque remains only as a shell. In
the ugly rivets of the “wharf” are seen traces of the reliefs of the excellent stones of
the ninth and eleventh centuries. There are separate fragments; nothing binds them with
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
roads with so many poplar hedges? Was this not done by some of the nomads from Central
Asia, where winter necessitates the marking of the paths, and where canals are needed
for irrigating the sands? Where did theseshikara—the light, gondola-like
boats—originate?

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Along the even bank one travels at the end of the tow-rope. And the yellow banks remind
one of the Volga or the Mississippi. The river Jhelum is the nerve of Kashmir.

Vular is the largest lake, the most beautiful and the most stormy. For two nights our
boat was dangerously driven against the clay bank. We should still have remained there,
still be working there, were it not that the “ark” might have cracked. On this lake
everything is so attractive. Toward the west is Pir-Panzal, glimmering with its snows.
To the north and east are the massive mountains. To the south stretch the distances of
Srinagar. Before sunset an astonishing Valhalla rises up over Pir-Panzal, and in the
morning the eastern mountains are crystal blue. Upon the sandbanks flocks are herding
and each horse is visible upon the far-off bank, so unusually transparent is the air.
Near the eastern bank is seen a small island on which stand the ruins of a temple, and
often the fakirs and the sadhus in meditation are seated there. The world of religion is
less apparent in Kashmir.

The details of the ruined temple on the island could be transported into any Romanesque
cathedral, for the Goths wandered far, and everywhere sowed the seeds of their style.
The adornment of the women’s caps recalls the
Gothic fibula save that instead of red enamel we see
red glass inlaid in copper.

Around the boat soar lovely little swallows. On deck, the hoopoes strut about. Above the
fields the song of the skylark resounds. In the center of the village is a cemetery—a
hillock strewn with stones, like our
northern zjalnik. Upon the hillock is a chapel with
a green, tent-like roof. Venerable, scrawny plantains are standing guard over the
quietude. Near the villages are the remains of temples and “town-sites” in ruins—sandy
mounds with their sand-strewn antiquity. Toward evening the rowers commence their
drawling songs—“like the burlaks.” And packs of dogs
pierce the air with their howls. From the far distant North to the South one finds the
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
compelling power. The village, Bandapur, has quite an individual character, and when you
reach the post office you can understand the importance of the site. Here, to the
mountains, turns the road to Gilgit. You pass up to the first ascent and watch the
windings of the rising path. Upon the peak of the very summit is the first night camp.
Then on, the path lies first along the very edge where the snow still gleams white as a
narrow strip, afterwards sinking far down into a new gateway. Gilgit and Chitral are
especially guarded. If the road toward Ladak is difficult, then Gilgit and Chitral are
positively forbidding. Violet and purple rocks; and snow peaks, beautifully blue. Each
turbaned rider attracts one’s attention; is he not perhaps from the North? Each pack of
loaded ponies draws one’s eye after them. A significant corner!

The Russian words—sunduk, karaul, samovar, tchai, chaprak, sudi-sudi, kavardak,
kolpak —and many other words, resound strangely but distinctly in the
speech of Kashmir. The braided bark-shoes remind one of other northern paths.

The boatman is preparing a Kashmiri dinner for us. Six cooks arrive. The table is strewn
with blue iris. Since morning, we have received nothing except for tea. Sobra, his
brother Ramsana, skillful Ibrahim and other unknown brothers and uncles are here—and
even perhaps the hundred-year-old grandfather himself sitting with
his hookah in the kitchen-boat. All are busying
themselves over some mystery. Finally, at seven in the evening the mysterious dinner
makes its appearance. Twenty-seven courses are served in turn and each has to be tasted.
The sum of the inventiveness of this sextet of cooks comprises: Almond soup, Namki
polaw, Mehtee, Tabak Maz, Kabab, Roogan Yosch, Dupiaz, Batha Kurma, Abgosh, Alubukhar
Kurma, Chana Kurma, Marzewangan Kurma, Subzee Kurma, Namki Kabab Akhtabi, Koofta, Koofta
Tikea, Dampokhta Kokarpootoo, Kandee Roogan Yosch, Metla polaw, Thula Shoom, Rewash,
Methazoont, Metha Thool, Deesee Alu, Plireenee, Thula Halwa—thus is termed this
apotheosis of mutton and spices. And how is it possible to tell them that just the
ingeniousness of the dinner is so foreign to us!

Kashmiri singing. Seven men in white turbans, one red-headed, with
long sitara. Three
have saazes. Further on sits the most skilled one,
before two tablas. At the corner are two singers,
and in the center a woman singer, in blue shawl and silver bracelets and strings of
beads. They sing songs of Persia and Arabia; Urdu and Kashmiri songs. And, as in the
reliefs of Assyria, the woman raises her forefinger or her left palm or crosses her
hands upon her temples. Sometimes—like a “duckling”—she jumps up and softly runs around
the circle. The Persian song “Suram” is the song of farewell and eternal remembrance.
The “Shakhnaz,” the Arabian song: “The richest one will not carry his wealth with him
beyond the grave.” Or: “When Christ ascended—all servitors extolled him.” And the song
of Urdu runs: “Two friends—it matters not how distant—will think the same thoughts. The
world is naught—and all must depart from it.” “Kochur,” the Kashmiri song, says: “Thou
walkest upon the road but art not visible to me. Thou gavest me the wine of life and
walkest away from me. Everything depends on God.” “If I see but one man or woman, I
already behold the entire world.” “Kamach,” the Kashmiri song, runs: “They say their
praises of Christ in all manner of words. Better was He than sun and moon.”

And thus, on a red carpet, eight Moslems, of their own accord, glorify Christ and
creation until the hour of midnight. Following them, all the boatmen move in time with
the white turbans and sway as they chant. And
the saazes drone like the whispers of the forest.
And our Confucian Chinese repeats over and over in
Tibetan yakpodu, meaning “good.” And then the
Victrola resounds with Rimsky-Korsakoff’s “Song of Lel,” sung by Chaliapin, and the
turbans of the Kashmiris nod understandingly. There is one consciousness! The program
finishes with the “Song of Akbar.” And the entire midnight has passed without the least
friction. And what has been mutually understood is accepted with a kindly smile.

Can one change such a communion of understanding into the vulgarity of ugliness?
Possibly one can. We were shown the shameful letters which were sent to the natives by
foreigners—shameful questions of the flesh. Can one substitute for the smile the mawling
grimace? Of course it is not difficult. One can invoke a whole horror of ugliness. One
can destroy this feeling of universal good. One can depart with the impress of searing
banality. One can always go into the darkness of ignorance and prejudice.

As in Sikhim, so in Kashmir, one is amazed by the spiritual understanding. One has
hardly enough time to crystallize one’s thoughts, when one’s companion has made his
complementary gesture. And how many fine thoughts one can sow by way of the intuition!

Once again rhythmically the rowers call to each
other—“Amposch-pamposch”—“Dazgir-Kashmir”—“Shahan-Shah-Padi-Shah.” And the meaning of
these calls is “The land of roses,” “The temple,” “King of Kings,” “Lotos,” “Man,” and
“All is well.” . . .

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We live on the foothills of Pir-Panzal. The storms, continuous, blinding, last three
days in succession. The hailstones are the size of dove’s eggs. The stars are like
candles. And each week there are earthquakes.

In Siberia, upon the steep hillocks are similar town-sites girdled by thundering
torrents. Cedar and pine groves austerely guard these dwellings and high above glimmer
the white caps of the mountains. Here are woodpeckers, turtle-doves, orioles, musk-deer
and mountain-goats. In just this same way, we live in the yellow, unpainted sturdy
house. If there is sun, all is fragrant with evergreen, but if there is storm ... For
three days it thundered and the glare of lightning blinded one cruelly during the night.
Rings of lightning! The gushing rains poured down, and hail suddenly blanched the green
hills. What a storm!

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The series “Banners of the East” unfolded: 1. Buddha the Conqueror before the spring of
life. 2. Moses the Leader upon the summit, surrounded by the glory of the heavens. 3.
Sergius the Builder, laboring with his own forces. 4. Watch on the Himalayas. 5.
Confucius the Just, the traveler in exile. 6. Yen-No-Guyo-Dja, Friend of the Travelers
(Japan). 7. Milarepa, the One Who Hearkened—at sunrise comprehending the voices of the
Devas. 8. Dorje the Daring, who stood facing Mahakala himself. 9. Sahara the Beneficent
Arrow, never slackening in its missions of benevolence. 10. Mohammed upon Mount Hira
(the message of the Archangel Gabriel). 11. Nagarjuna, Conqueror of the Serpent,
beholding upon the lake the vision of the Ruler of the Nagi. 12. Oirot the Messenger of
the White Burkhan, the legend of Altai. And those already in the Museum: 13. Mother of
the World. 14. Signs of Christ. 15. Lao-Tze. 16. Tsong-kha-pa. 17. Padma Sambhava. 18.
Chalice. 19. The Ancient Serpent.

In Mongolia there is a custom of great antiquity. In moments of national disaster or
danger, the lamas would ascend the high mountain and with conjurations would scatter
white paper horses—the horse as a symbol of Buddha, of strength and happiness. And these
steeds of Valkyrie, the resplendent horses, would float out, whirling, and carrying help
to the unknown stricken ones. Procopius was wont to sit on the Dvina blessing the
unknown seafarers: and these lamas upon the mountain ridges of Asia have sent horses to
the far-off stricken ones. In this sending to the Unknown is seen the same concern for
the general happiness. Such customs of lamas are precious. This is not “sitting beneath
a tree,” nor requests flung into space; not the ornamental gestures of a ritual; but a
“command” for help to the far-off stricken ones—a heavenly voice demanding that human
ills be alleviated.

Two other touching images must not be forgotten: Mani, the founder of so-called
Manicheism, in the third century was crucified upon the gates of the city in Persia for
his belief in the synthesis of teaching and for his idea of the Commune. The other one,
Guru Kambala, gave his head as a symbol of devotion and service—and Kambala and horses,
in their essence, both enter into the “Banners of the East.”

Manicheism lived long. In Italy itself, Manicheans, persecuted, existed until the
fourteenth century. Perhaps it is from them that Benozzo Gozzoli adopted the themes of
the Pisan frescoes, of the four encounters of the Prince Siddhartha-Buddha, which
enlightened his consciousness. Instead of the Hindu Ruler, there is a cavalcade of
Italian signori. And in certain Eastern conceptions, as if somewhere
from the depths of understanding, one perceives the characteristic fantasy of Gozzoli
with his sumptuous ornate rocks and his pine trees; with his gilded horse-blankets and
staffs bearing vivid banners. Tamed “Pardus” of the East sit behind the saddles, and the
turban gracefully surrounds the helmet, as upon the coat-of-arms (insignia) of
crusaders. What is it? The echoes of crusades, about which even Herri met de Bles
dreamt? Or has the more ancient organization of synthesis, of Mani believers, penetrated
and linked the consciousness of East and West. How many unexplained manifestations! How
many names slandered! How many truly enlightened researches are buried into one heap
with the cast-off refuse. Future studies and researches must be undertaken in an
unprejudiced spirit with an eye only to truth and justice.

Another detail linking East and West. Do you remember the Turfan Mother of the World,
with the child? Perhaps Nestorians or Manicheans left this image in the center of Asia.
Or more correctly, this image has remained, transmitted from times still more remote.
Kali, or Kwan Yin—who knows how many ages old they are? Behind them is concealed the
wife and the serpent. The antiquity of the symbol is already incalculable. Not toward
the page of the Bible, not toward the symbols of the Kabala, does this image point.
Continents no longer existing have molded the beauty of the Mother of the World—this
light-bearing essence. Only ignorance insists on the lack of knowledge of antiquity.

You may wonder how we fare without theaters. But we have drama here each day—only
without a stage, in actual life. Perhaps a Chinese theater—with legends about unheard-of
peoples; perhaps the threatening monologue of the policeman; perhaps the ill-omened
ballet of the Kashmiri merchants—Schaitans; perhaps the drama of a
boat beaten by the waves; perhaps the procession of horses or the peaceful evening
songs, or a furioso of hail and earthquake. Nor does
one have to hang frayed curtains, nor must one make up one’s face, when the whole world
participates in the mystery of evolution; when renewed understanding triumphantly enters
into life, in new creations of universal beauty.

In Mongolia the march was proclaimed by the sending of an arrow to the Prince-noyon. And
the arrow which came flying to Feodor-Tyron also came from the East.

George rides upon a horse from Yarkand; and the Chinese and I on horses from Khotan. My
horse has a star; the Yarkand horse bears a Chinese brand, the cross within a square—a
sign of the coat of arms of Tian.