Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface Tibet was strictly isolated. The world called it Earth’s secret kingdom. Though whether this claim held true defied easy judgment—isolated from humanity by nature’s fortifications—it formed an autonomous realm that styled itself Buddha’s domain and Kannon’s Pure Land: an anomaly demanding recognition. Its landscapes and traditions possessed undeniable power to startle perception. Children might listen with delight; scholars could plumb depths of erudition. Was this not why Earth’s adventurers advanced undeterred by repeated stumbles?

My entry into this land was not driven by any grand ambition to follow in the footsteps of brave explorers, achieve full success in exploration, and thereby contribute broadly to world civilization. Having heard that sutras not yet transmitted within Buddhism were stored in that land, and seeking these alone without other motives, I was almost entirely lacking in qualifications as an explorer. I deeply regretted that I was unable to fully satisfy the gentlemen who had welcomed me as an explorer.

However, even I—with eyes and ears attuned beyond specialized religious matters—had not made insignificant observations: in sociology, economics, history’s unparalleled lessons for humanity, truths latent within rudimentary crafts, new geographical explorations, and the distribution of flora and fauna. Since returning home, I had wished for more than a day to compile these plainly recorded observations into print. Yet between journeying north and south without respite through two winters, what I accumulated grew vast and disordered beyond easy arrangement, leaving me no choice but to feel ashamed. Many friends strongly urge me to publish my completed travelogue to respond to the aspirations of many. I could find no grounds for refusal. Thus, I resolved to recompile what had once been published in *Jiji Shinpō* and *Osaka Mainichi Shimbun*, putting them to print to partially reciprocate my friends’ goodwill, while awaiting another day to fulfill the duty I hold to myself.

Tibet was a Buddhist country. Were Buddhism removed from Tibet, there would remain only ruined lands and ignorant barbarians. The greatness of Buddhism’s influence upon society and its development in ancient times were not unworthy of our reverence. This book was sorely lacking in this regard. This was why I had striven to compile a complete travelogue. However, due to discrepancies between intention and outcome, I could not easily fulfill my ambition, and thus ventured to compile and publish my earlier discussions as a single volume—though I could not help but feel regret. Therefore, I set forth my thoughts in place of a preface.

Early March 1904, written by Kawaguchi Ekai

Part One: The Circumstances of My Resolution to Enter Tibet The motive for exploring Tibet—the reason I came to go to Tibet—stemmed from my desire to provide society with Buddhist scriptures that were plain and easy to read. Starting in April 1891, I began reading the entire Buddhist canon at Ōbaku-san in Uji, and until March 1894, I devoted myself almost exclusively to that task without engaging much in other matters. During that time, I came to realize one thing. The idea was to create scriptures that even laypeople could easily understand, but when I translated the Chinese versions into Japanese, I began to question whether they were indeed accurate. There is but one Sanskrit original, yet the Chinese translations of the sutras had multiplied into several versions, and among these texts that ought to be identical, some did match while others differed. In extreme cases, there were those that completely differed in meaning; there were portions present in one translated version that were absent in others; and there were those with reversed order—all resulting in a motley assortment.

However, since those who translated these Sanskrit sutras were not the sort to deceive, there must be some matter here worthy of investigation. Each of them must have believed their translations matched the original texts. If that were so, I wondered whether there truly existed so many divergent original texts, or whether those translators had made selective adaptations in accordance with local customs—thereby altering meanings. In any case, unless one examined them against the original texts, one could not discern which sutras were true and which false. I concluded that obtaining the originals was imperative.

Location of Original Texts: Now, it seemed there were scarcely any original texts remaining in India. To be sure, Ceylon did possess Theravada Buddhist texts, but those were naturally of little necessity to us. What we truly required were the Mahayana Buddhist sutras. Yet those very Mahayana teachings had vanished from India—the birthplace of Buddhism—and were said to now exist only in Nepal or Tibet. To obtain those originals, I found myself compelled to venture to Nepal or Tibet. Furthermore, according to theories held by Western and Eastern scholars, sutras translated into Tibetan were considered far more reliable than their Chinese counterparts—both grammatically and semantically. This view had become virtually established doctrine among Western academics. Were the Tibetan translations indeed complete renditions, one could still study them even should Sanskrit texts disappear entirely from the world. Moreover, comparing Tibetan scriptures with Chinese translations promised not only academic fascination but sufficient scholarly merit to justify thorough investigation. Thus arose the conviction: to properly conduct this research, I must inevitably journey to Tibet and master its language. This notion ultimately

This idea was ultimately what led me to resolve upon entering Tibet. Though it was April of Meiji 26 (1893)—over ten full years ago now—Tibet remained a nation rigorously enforcing isolationist policies. Even Westerners of means who had expended vast sums of money, devoted years of effort, and made every manner of preparation had largely met with failure to this day. Under such circumstances, could a poor monk like myself possibly achieve his aims by setting forth? Moreover, without undertaking such perilous endeavors, I had already advanced to a position where I could have lived in utmost comfort had I simply become an Ōbaku sect temple abbot. In fact, having served as abbot of Gohyaku Rakan in Tokyo's Honjo district—after which my name, Kawaguchi Ekai, began circulating prominently within the sect—I would have occupied an extremely advantageous position had I desired to maintain temple stewardship. To abandon this and venture into a land where life or death hung in the balance might seem utterly foolish, yet this ultimately reflects common worldly thinking—for sacrificing a convenient position in service of true purpose amounts to but a trivial matter.

At this juncture, there were those among my parents, siblings, and other friends who held some measure of convenience for my sake, and there were also many believers who delighted in receiving my teachings. To abandon them and go was truly unbearable. They would surely try to stop me, saying I was going to my death—but then I would never be able to study Buddhism through the precious original texts. Therefore, I concluded that unless I made a resolution strong enough to overcome these sentimental attachments, there would be no way for me to depart. This reason served as one aid in solidifying my resolve, for in truth, since taking monastic vows at twenty-five, I had been unable to fully devote myself to Buddhist practice due to temple and sectarian duties. Even while reading the entire Buddhist canon, I would still be called upon for secular duties from time to time, rendering my ordination ultimately meaningless. This desire—that if I could engage in true practice amidst the world's highest mountains of the Himalayas, far removed from worldly concerns, I might finally devote myself solely to the Pure Dharma—became the principal reason for my crossing Himalayan passes to enter Tibet.

The Reason for My Resolution: Even matters that ought to be done—matters of logical necessity—often prove difficult to resolve oneself to undertake, particularly when facing foreign travel or some arduous enterprise, for in such cases, anyone would find resolution hard to come by. Due to the grace afforded by my Buddhist faith, I did not struggle as ordinary people do when resolving myself to such decisions. Generally speaking, when people seek to undertake some enterprise, they first decide that money constitutes the necessary capital; thus even for traveling abroad, they determine to secure funds before departing. However, our original teacher Shakyamuni Buddha commanded that those who uphold the precepts I teach shall never perish from cold or starvation, no matter where they may go.

Therefore, for us Buddhist monks, possessing the precepts was our capital, travel funds, and passport. And thus, if one were to undertake the most humble practice taught by Shakyamuni Buddha—that of ascetic begging—why should we fret over lacking travel funds? Such was the reasoning behind my resolve to embark on this grand journey without money. Particularly when I reflect on how Shakyamuni Tathagata—the One Honored Above Heaven and Earth—abandoned his supreme kingship with its golden palaces and jade towers, all worldly wealth and status, to become a mendicant monk clad in rags, casting aside his own life to undertake ascetic practice for the sake of all sentient beings like us, our hardships seemed as nothing, and resolution came easily. Truly, this was a blessing, for although thereafter during my travels in Tibet various difficulties arose, I endured those hardships by constantly keeping Shakyamuni Buddha in my mind.

First, owing to the necessity of understanding India, there was a man named Shaku Kōzen who had been sent to study in Ceylon and had recently returned, residing in Kanagawa Prefecture. Thinking that if I went there and studied, I would come to understand India’s circumstances, I went to pursue my studies. At first, he kindly taught me Pali sutras and grammatical texts. I stayed there for a little over a year, during which time what I heard from the same master was: “The Hinayana teachings are none other than pure Buddhism. In Japan we call it Hinayana, but in truth, the name ‘Hinayana’ was given by Mahayana practitioners—those of the so-called Hinayana tradition themselves never use such a term. Pure Buddhism is confined solely to this teaching. Therefore, true monks must wear yellow monastic robes. For one who seeks to correct their mind must first correct their appearance; therefore, monks must don the yellow three robes as their foremost attire. You should also wear the yellow monastic robe,” he said. At that time, Master Kōzen had established an organization called the Seifūkai to put those words into practice.

At that time, I answered that while I would study the Hinayana teachings, I could not abide by their principles or uphold their doctrines, which led to constant arguments and clashes with Master Kōzen. Whenever I spoke of Mahayana teachings, Master would dismiss them as baseless fantasies and persistently interrogate me; yet I in turn found his staunch belief in Hinayana teachings to be narrow-minded and pitiable. Thus, although I studied Pali under him as my master, I was completely opposed to his doctrines and never once followed Master Kōzen’s teachings. Master Kōzen evidently felt displeased as well, for he established a rule at one point. This regulation—an internal rule stating, “Those who discuss Mahayana teachings and do not adhere to this true Buddhism shall not be permitted to remain in this temple; none shall be permitted to remain in this temple unless they are monks wearing the yellow three robes”—was formulated and presented to me. At that time, I said, “Under these conditions, I cannot remain here. However, I will continue to cover my living expenses and perform temple duties as before. Would you not teach me solely as a Pali-language disciple?” But he stated that was unacceptable.

What Master Kōzen fervently impressed upon me at that time was: “Rather than chasing cloud-chasing notions of believing in Mahayana teachings and going to Tibet, there exists one certain matter here. That is first to go to Ceylon and learn true Buddhism. If you study it, you will understand Buddhism’s true essence—then you won’t be able to prattle on about Mahayana teachings or such things. If you go as my disciple, I will cover your travel expenses and study costs; therefore, proceeding in that manner would be best. No matter how much you youngsters strive, you’ll never fully secure funds for foreign study,” he persistently urged. “Even were I to receive limitless funds or encounter the most favorable treatment,” I countered, “I cannot abandon Mahayana Buddhism’s principles—which I believe Japan needs—to submit to the Hinayana teachings you uphold.” “I am grateful for the instruction received until today,” I replied, “but those were merely linguistic lessons. As for doctrines, I never accepted them from the outset. Therefore, I must decline entirely.” Whereupon Master Kōzen—evidently greatly displeased—promptly expelled me. That was precisely February of Meiji 30.

Part Two: Merit Before Departure

Farewell Abstinence from Alcohol and Tobacco Having been expelled by Master Kōzen, I returned to Tokyo; yet since remaining in Japan would never grant proper understanding of Tibetan affairs, I resolved to gradually make my way toward India instead. With this determination, I went to bid farewell to friends and followers in Tokyo. However, among them arose various inquiries about wishing to offer parting gifts, so I made this request: "For heavy drinkers among you, let abstaining from alcohol serve as your farewell gesture; for teachers who smoke and risk cerebral ailments, let quitting tobacco be your farewell offering." Approximately forty individuals provided such pledges as their farewell gifts. From that time until now, there have been those who strictly maintained these pledges and those who did not—regardless, these gifts truly proved most welcome to me indeed. I then returned to Osaka, where I likewise received numerous such farewell gifts. Among these, three particularly significant gifts not only filled me with joy but may well have become the very cause that preserved my life during my long journey—one from Tokyo, one from Osaka, and one from Sakai.

The Non-Killing Farewell Gift: In Tokyo occurred an incident involving Takabe Jūshichi of Honjo—an inventor of asphalt manufacturing who remains alive today—a man famed as Tokyo Prefecture's foremost fisherman, so skilled that where he cast his nets, not a single fish remained. Being so adept—and so enamored with it—even minor ailments would heal when he went fishing. Just as I prepared to depart, since he was a devoted follower, I made special visit to him, yet found the gentleman deeply distressed. When I inquired why, it emerged they had lost a child of two or three years at its most adorable age; his wife grieved as if maddened, and even his fishing excursions brought no joy—such was his tale of woe. So I posed this question: "You grieve so profoundly for your lost child—but what would you feel were someone to bind your beloved child, slay them, then roast or boil their flesh to eat?" Mr. Takabe answered: "That would be a demon, not a human."

“In that case, you are truly a demon toward fish,” I said. “Even fish, when it comes to their love for life, are no different from humans. If the grief you feel for your lost child is genuine, why do you not cease this cruel netting? If this were your profession, there might be some unavoidable necessity for livelihood, but to do it merely for pleasure is truly cruel and merciless.” I explained in detail the truth of karmic retribution and finally advised him to adopt the precept of non-killing as a farewell gift for my journey to Tibet.

“At first he showed great reluctance, saying ‘This is truly troubling—if I stop this, I’ll have no other pleasures left,’ and was deeply conflicted. But gradually moved by my earnest persuasion and recognizing the aptness of this farewell gesture—given my resolve to reach Tibet even at the cost of my life—he resolutely brought the large net hanging in his house’s corner and gave it to me, declaring: ‘In accordance with your teachings, I shall strictly uphold the precept of non-killing from this day forth.’ ‘I shall take this firm upholding of the precept of non-killing as my farewell gift for your journey to Tibet.’ ‘As proof of this, I present this net to you.’ ‘Therefore, whether you sell this net or discard it is entirely at your discretion.’” Hearing this, I had his daughter light a fire, and as I placed the net into a large brazier and began burning it, the people nearby were all astonished. I watched the flames consuming that net and prayed, “May all beings in the Dharma realm awaken a mind of enlightenment that cherishes others’ lives, until every tool of killing is utterly consumed by flames.” Then I turned to Mr. Takabe and declared, “These flames that consumed the net are the light of wisdom incinerating the defilements and sins beneath you.” “From henceforth, may all sentient beings dwelling in the Dharma realm come to cherish life, taking this light of wisdom as their guiding principle,” I preached.

Sincere devotion moves people. Now, there was a man named Ogawa Kakutarou among his clan members present there. This person, like Mr. Takabe, engaged in net fishing and rifle hunting, but upon witnessing this scene, was deeply moved and made a vow, declaring: “I shall send you off to Tibet with the precept of non-killing. If I break this vow, may Fudō Myōō grant me death.”

At that moment, I felt a joy as if my life had been saved. In Sakai, my childhood friend Mr. Itō Ichirō—who also frequently went net fishing for pleasure—fortunately accepted my request when I advised him by relating Mr. Takabe’s story, burning his net as a farewell gift. In Osaka, there was Mr. Watanabe Ichibee of Azuchi-chō—a man who had long been quite affluent and now specialized in stock brokerage and trade with Korea, though he had formerly been the renowned poultry merchant Sensui in Senba. The same gentleman, being a devoted student of Zen and someone who could live comfortably without engaging in such a slaughterous trade, nevertheless continued his poultry business; thus I frequently sent written admonishments from Tokyo and also counseled him when I departed for Tibet, to which he responded: “I fully comprehend your noble intent. However, since I cannot abruptly change my business now, I will gradually seek another trade and surely close this one down,” he said as his farewell gift. True to his word, a little over a year after my departure, he resolutely abandoned that poultry business and transitioned to his current trade.

These deeds may appear excessively extreme when viewed through ordinary people’s sensibilities; yet just as a complete cure requires administering medicine too potent for common constitutions, so too does profound healing demand measures beyond conventional understanding. It must be clearly understood that administering ordinary teachings to ordinary people differs from administering potent medicine to the gravely ill. The merit born from these causes of non-killing—namely, burning the nets that daily took the lives of many fish or abandoning that trade—was precisely what might have been the greatest cause that saved me from life-threatening hardships in the Himalayas and Tibetan Plateau; this I always pondered. While the Buddha’s protection goes without saying, I could never fully grasp how much benefit these sincere farewell gifts brought me, and I always gave thanks for the profound devotion of those gentlemen. And so, finally, I needed money to depart. My savings amounted to a little over 100 yen, and there was approximately 530 yen that the gentlemen of Osaka—Watanabe, Matsumoto, Kitamura, Harukawa—along with Hige of Sakai, Itō, Yamanaka, and others—had painstakingly provided as farewell gifts. Of this, I spent a little over 100 yen on travel preparations and carried a little over 500 yen with me as I finally departed the country.

Part Three: Embarkation of the Expedition and the Route

Parting with the Homeland When the time finally came for my departure, people reviled me, saying: "He goes to die—a fool! Reckless! Madman!" Those who came to my face and spoke such words were undoubtedly sincere, while those who mocked me in secret may have been anticipating my failure. Yet even their slander, arising precisely because of our connection, may have instead become a good cause. Amidst the many who mocked and laughed, there were also those who earnestly tried to stop me. On the eve of my departure—June 24—as I stayed at the residence of Mr. Maki Shūzaemon in Osaka, quite a few people came to dissuade me.

Among them, the one who most fervently tried to stop me was a man named Tsunotani Saburō, now serving as a judge in Wakayama. “You must not do anything that would make you a public laughingstock. You’ve already attained considerable mastery in Buddhist training, and now you must devote yourself to saving all sentient beings. Especially now, when Japan’s religious community lacks notable figures, there’s no need to go out of your way to die,” he pressed. I replied, “Whether I go to die or return alive, I cannot say—but since I have set my purpose, I intend to see it through to the end.” To this he said, “Then what if you die? Won’t your purpose be left unfulfilled?” “If I die, that’s the end of it. Even if I stayed in Japan, there’s no guarantee I wouldn’t die. Just because I go there doesn’t mean I’m certain to die. I will entrust myself to fortune while exhausting every feasible method to achieve my purpose. If I were to die there, it would be no different from a soldier perishing on the battlefield—there could be no more auspicious end than dying in pursuit of Buddhist practice.” “Since that is my true aspiration, there is nothing to regret,” I concluded. After our lengthy debate, the same gentleman—seeing I would not yield no matter how he tried to dissuade me—left some farewell gifts and departed late into the night. In addition, there were many other followers who—insisting I would not be deterred no matter how they tried to stop me—saw me off with tears of farewell.

The world being ever-changing—I departed Osaka on the morning of June 25 and was seen off by friends including Messrs. Hige, Itō, Yamanaka, and Noda on the following day as I boarded the Izumi Maru from Kobe wharf. At that time there exists a song of parting from the homeland.

Having attained the season of moonlit katsura May I return peacefully to the Land of the Heavenly Sun

The joyous voyage—my hometown friends and believers, each waving hats or handkerchiefs from boats amidst the waves, saw off my ship as it resolutely advanced westward. After parting from Wada Cape and the ancient, familiar Kongō Shuki Ikoma Mountains, I resolved to proceed guided solely by my single resolve. Until passing Moji and arriving in Hong Kong via the Genkai Sea and East China Sea, I grew acquainted with the captain and crew and occasionally delivered Buddhist sermons. In Hong Kong boarded an Englishman named Tamson. Having resided eighteen years in Japan, he employed Japanese with considerable fluency. As an ardent Christian devotee, he engaged me in vigorous debate that became the ship's chief topic of conversation—a most agreeable diversion. The crew listened to my Buddhist teachings with such evident pleasure that I too found delight, whereupon a verse came forth.

How joyful must be those who can board the ship bound for Buddha’s pure land!

Farewell at Kobe Port

Visiting Consul Fujita On July 12th, I arrived in Singapore. After staying at a lodging called Fusōkan in that area, I went to visit the Japanese Consulate on the 15th. The consul at that time was a man named Fujita Toshirō, who had already learned from the captain of the Izumi Maru—the ship I had sailed on—that I would be passing through this region en route to Tibet. “I hear you’re going to Tibet—but by what method do you intend to go? “Reaching Tibet is extraordinarily difficult. “Even Mr. Fukushima went as far as Darjeeling and returned, saying it was utterly impossible—so naturally it would be hopeless for you.” “Will you lead an army or go as a beggar? I don’t know which—but how exactly do you plan to proceed?” he inquired. “As a monk, leading an army has never even occurred to me. “Even if I could command one, I would not desire such means. “For those who renounce worldly ties, begging is the proper way—thus I intend to set out as a mendicant. “Though I’ve exhaustively considered methods from this point onward, their sufficiency remains uncertain. By adapting to each place and circumstance, solutions will naturally arise. Therefore, I shall now depart.” At this, the consul folded his arms with evident concern.

Averting Disaster at Departure — On July 18, an incident occurred at my lodging. This was truly a perilous incident, and since I was saved from what should have been my death, I shall recount it here. As a monk adhering to the principle that "everywhere is a place of practice," I frequently delivered sermons at this lodging. However, the innkeeper—being specially favored—would have me enter the freshest bath first every day when he heated the water. This had become customary during my stay. On this day as well, just as usual, the bath had been prepared, so the maid came and said, “Please go in.” At that time, I was reciting sutras. I could have gone immediately, but for some reason, I was dawdling. Then the maid came again and said, “If you don’t enter now, someone else will take the bath. Please go in quickly.” "Yes, yes," I replied, yet remained seated right where I was.

However, after a short while, a thunderous crash rang out, and the house began to tremble. "Hmm—could this be an earthquake? I wonder." Thinking, "Depending on how things go, I might have to go outside," I kept staring outwards when—though there was no sign of an earthquake's tremors—the noise grew so intense that people suddenly erupted into panic. Upon inquiring about the situation, I learned that the inn's bathhouse had collapsed. This bathhouse was located on the second floor, but Singaporean houses have a considerable gap between their second floors and the ground below—nearly ten feet, by my estimation. From such a gaping second floor, the bathhouse had plummeted—that was the upshot. Because I had not entered, a Japanese woman had gone in first, and somehow she fell along with the bathhouse. And columns and stones struck her indiscriminately—head, body, everywhere—causing her to lose consciousness. I heard she had suffered severe injuries. I felt so sorry that I could not bring myself to go see her wounds but immediately took her to the hospital. After that, I never heard whether the woman died or not, but someone lamented deeply, saying her condition was quite grave.

Had I entered the bath immediately upon the maid’s notice at that time, I would surely have died or, even if surviving, been left crippled—making my journey to Tibet utterly impossible. That I was spared such misfortune might have been an omen I would avoid calamity upon entering Tibet and return safely home. The unfortunate one was that woman, who seemed to have fallen into peril in my stead. Later in Darjeeling, I heard the Singapore inn had faced great troubles. They said police officials brought spears to thrust through boards and pillars—their rotten parts concealed under soil and paint—forcing replacements wherever they found suspicious spots. This was of course only natural.

Visiting Master Sarat — On July 19, I boarded the British steamship Lightning, passed Penang Port, and arrived at the Mahabodhi Society in Calcutta on July 25, where I stayed for several days. There was a man named Chandra Bose, a director of the society. He asked me, “For what purpose have you come here?” “I have come to study Tibetan with the purpose of going to Tibet.” “There’s a great advantage to that.” “There is a gentleman named Sarat Chandra Das—who studied in Tibet and is now compiling a great Tibetan-English dictionary—residing at a villa in Darjeeling.” “If you go there, you should be able to obtain the necessary arrangements.” “Since this is a favorable arrangement, might I trouble you for a letter of introduction?” I requested and received the letter. On August 2, after being seen off by resident Japanese, I boarded a train north from Calcutta, crossed the vast Ganges River by steamship, then rode another train advancing north through palm groves and green rice fields. The fascinating sight of numerous large fireflies—unseen in my country—flying about, their reflections shimmering in the water of green rice paddies. That occurred just after the moon had sunk into the western plain. I vividly recalled the ancient times of Buddha,

Though Buddha’s light lies veiled in darkness, Shine on, I pray—O fireflies in flight!

The next morning, on the third day, at a station called Siliguri, I transferred to a small mountain train. The train headed north and gradually ascended into the Himalayas. Passing through the dense primeval forest known as Tarai Jangal, the train wound its way like a great serpent while the roar of its steam engine—as if thousands of lions were charging forth—shook the mountains and valleys as we ascended. After climbing fifty miles of mountain roads, I arrived in Darjeeling around five in the afternoon, having traveled three hundred eighty miles from Calcutta. From the station, I took a mountain palanquin called Danri and went directly to Master Sarat’s villa—Lhasa Villa—an exceptionally splendid residence where I came to stay.

Part Four: Language Study

Mr. Sarat’s Assistance — When I arrived at Master Sarat’s villa, a major earthquake had struck India’s Assam region, and Darjeeling too had suffered its effects, leaving houses significantly damaged and warped. Repairs were currently underway.

The very next day, I immediately visited an elderly Mongolian monk residing at a temple in a place called Gunparu, together with Mr. Sarat. This elderly monk was seventy-eight years old at the time and quite a scholar. His name was Serab Gyamtso (Ekai), a person who shared the same name as I. Due to this shared name, he was greatly pleased, and our conversation gradually turned to Buddhism; however, as I did not know a single word of Tibetan, I could only speak through Mr. Sarat’s interpretation using rudimentary English. It was at that time that I first learned the Tibetan alphabet from this venerable person. After that, I commuted daily to this temple—three miles away—to study Tibetan. After I had been studying for about a month, Mr. Sarat said to me, “You say you will go to Tibet, but you should abandon that now.” “It is truly a difficult endeavor.” “However, even if one braves those difficulties and succeeds, it first takes the form of despair.” “So you should give it up.” “Of course, since Tibetan can be fully studied here, if you conduct that research and return to Japan, you will undoubtedly be revered as a Tibetan scholar.”

“However, I am not going to Tibet to be revered as a Tibetan scholar. It is for Buddhist practice, so I must go without fail,” I said, whereupon Mr. Sarat retorted: “Even if there is a necessity, isn’t it futile to pursue something that will never succeed? If you go, you’ll simply be killed.” “But you yourself have been to Tibet, haven’t you? There’s no reason I cannot go either,” I pressed further. “That’s because the times have changed,” he replied. “Today, National Isolation has become truly complete—even I could not go there again now. Moreover, while I entered that country by devising a good method and obtaining a travel permit, such permits are utterly impossible to acquire today. You should abandon that hope and return to Japan after focusing solely on your studies,” he advised kindly. “In any case, I must learn Tibetan—and merely studying Tibetan Buddhist scholarship alone will not suffice. I must also learn the vernacular,” I insisted. “Otherwise, it will be impossible to enter that country. I ask you to arrange a means for me to learn its vernacular.” When I made this request, Mr. Sarat—perhaps resigning himself to inevitability—promptly agreed.

Beneath that villa were two small, beautiful houses. That house was the residence of Lama Shabzun. However, Lama Shabzun was residing near the market at that time and was not living there. When Mr. Sarat went out of his way to summon him and requested, “Would you relocate your entire household here and teach this Japan Lama the Tibetan vernacular?” Lama Shabzun readily agreed, moved into that house with his family, and I too came to lodge there. Since I would naturally be paying the tuition for learning the vernacular myself, I furthermore decided to attend a government school in Darjeeling and learn formal Tibetan from a man named Tsümi Wönden, the head teacher of Tibetan. I covered all expenses related to those studies, but Mr. Sarat personally provided all my food. I brought money intending to pay a fair price in return, but they absolutely refused to take it. “Making offerings to a pure monk like you will eradicate our sins and greatly increase our fortune and blessings, so you must accept them.” Since I was studying without funds anyway, I decided to accept their offerings rather than let their kindness go to waste. When I arrived in Darjeeling, I had only three hundred yen, but since this covered rent, tuition, books, and incidental expenses alone, I managed to sustain myself for a year and a half with that sum. Had I needed to pay for food—which would have required about fifty yen monthly—I could only have studied for five or six months.

Children made excellent teachers of the vernacular; indeed, this arrangement proved most convenient—I studied academic Tibetan at school during the day and researched the vernacular at night upon returning home, while also learning the language during my commute to school and even at morning meals. Through such means, my progress in the vernacular advanced with remarkable speed. To learn the vernacular, there is no better way than living among the people of that country. Even if one hires teachers and studies for two or three hours a day, true proficiency ultimately cannot be achieved. When living together, there are many things one learns without even realizing it. Among these, particularly good teachers of the vernacular are not men but women, and not women but children; though this holds true when learning any country’s language with children and women, they never let pass even the slightest mispronunciation. They would point out how what you said was wrong in this way or that way, repeating it multiple times. They found this amusing, it seemed, and would pronounce for me the things I couldn’t quite articulate. I desperately observed how they opened their mouths, used their tongues, and positioned their teeth, trying to mimic the sounds, but it was no easy task. Just when I thought I had finally managed to mimic it, a day would pass and the sound would no longer come out—such was the reason I was laughed at every day. It was precisely because I was laughed at that my progress in vernacular pronunciation advanced with unexpected speed.

Through such dedicated study, I became able to converse in Tibetan to some extent within just six or seven months. It even grew easier than speaking English. Though I had studied English diligently for over two years in Japan, upon going abroad, it proved utterly inadequate. Yet Tibetan—which one might assume more difficult than English—I could speak passably after mere months of study, entirely thanks to the children and women who tirelessly instructed me. As my Tibetan improved, nightly discussions of Tibet's affairs became routine, with Master Lama Shabzun proving particularly loquacious, eagerly recounting his own tribulations. This venerable man was a disciple of Senchen Dorjechang (Daishishi Kongōhō), who had served as teacher to Tibet's second Dharma King, the Panchen Lama, and was renowned throughout the land. Daishishi Kongōhō himself was a lama of such profound virtue that none in Tibet could rival his scholarly eminence. When Mr. Sarat entered Tibet, it was said he briefly studied Tibetan Buddhism under this great master. However, after Mr. Sarat returned to India, his mission—to investigate Tibet's national conditions under orders from British India—came to light. Those connected with him—officials who had secretly issued travel permits, innkeepers and others—were cast into prison. At that time, even this virtuous Great Lama was sentenced to death. Hearing of those pitiable circumstances, I could not restrain my tears.

Let me briefly recount that story.

Fifth Chapter: The Venerable’s Passing

When I heard of how Venerable Daishishi—Daishishi Kongōhō, Tibet’s foremost high monk at the time—had been imprisoned, sentenced to death, and executed, it left people unable to restrain their admiration and reverence, pondering how one who embodied Buddhist virtues could meet such a fate. What I recount is not merely what I heard from his disciple Master Shabzun. After entering Tibet and reaching Lhasa, I heard these accounts from reliable scholars, and within them lay many profoundly moving details. No sooner had Mr. Sarat returned than rumors began spreading through Tibet. By then, Venerable Daishishi had already become aware that calamity would befall him—yet awareness alone could not free him from the charges. When asked about his stance, he declared: “My sole purpose was to transmit Buddhism not only to Tibetans but to all people worldwide. In teaching Buddhism alone, I knew nothing of his coming to steal teachings or investigate domestic affairs.” “Nor did I display any such behavior.” “If upholding my duty to spread Buddhism makes me guilty enough to be killed,” he reportedly stated with unshaken calm, “then so be it.”

This Venerable One was truly a noble figure who was said to have already held the intention of spreading Buddhism to India as well. The reasoning was this: "Buddhism originally arose in India and was propagated to Tibet." Yet now in India, Buddhism had vanished without a trace, and not even its shadow could be seen. This was truly something we could not bear to overlook in regard to Buddha and the patriarchs. He had held the thought that he earnestly wished to spread Buddhism to India. This was not merely an idea; for this purpose, people had been specially dispatched to India. The elderly Mongolian monk Master Serab Gyamtso, now residing at Gumpaar Temple in Darjeeling, was also one of those who had been dispatched. There were others too who had received orders from the same Venerable One, though it is said they achieved little success. The same Venerable One not only sent people but also supplied sutras, Buddha statues, Buddhist ritual implements, and other materials to India for propagating Buddhism. Considering all these points, the Venerable One was a noble figure who held the intention to disseminate Buddhism's true essence to the world, transcending sectarian or international affiliations.

There are many among Japanese monks who hold ideas of foreign missionary work, but to harbor such thoughts under Tibet’s strict National Isolation is truly a noble thing. It was precisely because he was a person of such noble spirit that when Mr. Sarat went there, he willingly taught Buddhism. However, within the government, there were those who envied this Venerable One of profound learning and steadfast virtue, and it is said many harbored the thought of eliminating him should any opportunity arise. When such rumors arose, seizing this opportunity, they dispatched investigators to Darjeeling based on those rumors. As it was indeed true—and since Dr. Sarat had undoubtedly gone under the British Indian Government’s commission—once the facts were confirmed, the Venerable One was immediately arrested and imprisoned, and all other officials connected to Mr. Sarat were also jailed. With the charges finally finalized, the Venerable One received the death sentence. It was a sentence declaring: “We hereby sentence you to death for having allowed a foreign national spy to reside in your temple and thereby leaking Tibet’s state secrets.”

**The High Priest’s Final Moments** The exact date when he received this sentence and was executed remains unknown, but on a certain day in June of Meiji 20 (1887) by the lunar calendar, in a land called Kombo east of Tibet—where flows the great Kombo River—the Venerable One met his end. This river was actually the Brahmaputra, but as it flowed through Kombo territory, the locals had named it the Kombo River. As I mentioned earlier, whenever his foremost disciple Master Shabzun recounted the circumstances of that execution—so vividly poignant and filled with such overwhelming sorrow—I could not help but shed tears as I listened. On that day, the Venerable One sat upon a great boulder along the Kombo Riverbank, still clad in white robes. As this was the designated execution site, he quietly recited sutras.

Then the executioner said, “If you have any last requests, please tell me. If there is anything else you would like to eat, please let me know,” he humbly offered, to which [the Venerable One] replied, “I have no desires. I must read a portion of the sutras.” “Once I finish reciting the sutra, I will snap my fingers three times—on the third snap, cast me into this river,” he instructed while bound with ropes, then continued chanting sutras for a time with unshaken composure, showing no trace of facing imminent death. It is said he continued reciting sutras with utmost tranquility.

The Water Execution of Daishishi Kongōhō, the Great Lama

At that time, it is said there were many people who came to see him off, lamenting how pitiable it was that this noble figure was being killed under the pretext of minor charges arising from others’ enmity. All of them shed tears, none able to look up at the Venerable One seated upon the boulder, with a great number prostrating themselves on the ground and wailing loudly. Not only were those people weeping, but the sky had clouded over, and a fine rain began to fall. It is said that the sky presented such a gloomy and sorrowful spectacle—as if heaven and earth themselves grieved over this merciless act of sentencing the Venerable One of steadfast virtue to death by casting him into the waters—that one might wonder whether even the cosmos mourned. Though the Venerable One was of such standing that he should ordinarily have been clad in crimson monastic robes, now condemned as a criminal he wore white prison garments instead. Bound with coarse ropes, he sat quietly in meditation reciting sutras. When he finally concluded the recitation and raised a finger slightly through the rope bindings to snap it once, those gathered along the riverbank to see him off all burst into tears at once.

**The Lament of Celestial Beings** The Venerable One signaled by snapping his fingers three times that they should now execute him, but the execution officials could not bring themselves to lay hands on him and cast him into the river. They stood weeping silently with the mourners, their grief-stricken state presenting a truly pitiful scene. Then the Venerable One calmly urged them, “Why do you delay when the time has come? Cast me into the water at once.” Prompted thus, the attending officials tearfully fastened a stone to his waist and gently lowered him into the river with it. When they raised him after a short while, he remained as though deep in meditation, still drawing breath. So they submerged him again. When they lifted him once more, thinking he must have passed on, he still appeared immersed in meditation and had not yet died.

When the onlookers, upon seeing this state, lamented, “Is there truly no way to save him at this point?” the executioners also greatly grieved and this time refused to submerge him. At that moment, the Venerable One quietly opened both eyes and addressed the officials: “You need not lament my death in the slightest. My karmic power has been exhausted here, and today’s auspicious passing into the next life signifies nothing less than the extinction of my evil karma here and the birth of good karma from this day forth.” “It is absolutely not you who are killing me.” “I only hope that after my death, Tibetan Buddhism will prosper ever more.” “Hurry and submerge me in the water,” he urged, and weeping bitterly, the officials submerged him once more. When they raised him to check, he had already passed away. Then, they untied the Venerable One’s body and discarded it limb by limb into the water, it is said. I could not contain my grief upon hearing this. If entering Tibet would result in such tragedies recurring after my arrival, I could not bear to go. The thought that I earnestly wished—that even if I were to enter Tibet, no such tragedies would occur afterward—was one I had held in full measure since that very moment. As for the magnanimity of this noble figure—whose fundamental intent was to spread the Buddhist teachings so earnestly, yet who encountered such strange calamity and met with tragic execution without resenting others or blaming heaven, passing away with composure—this is surely something all Buddhists should revere together.

Part 6: The Route into Tibet

**Rite of Imperial Consecration** On January 1 of Meiji 31 (1898), as in previous years, I conducted the Rite of Imperial Consecration, recited sutras to celebrate the long life of Their Majesties the Emperor and Empress and His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince, and then composed a poem.

When I behold the new year's sun tinged upon the Himalayas, I deem it the radiance of our nation's standard.

I truly spent this one year doing nothing but devoting myself day and night to specializing in the study of the Tibetan language.

As a result of this, having roughly completed both colloquial language studies and academic research to the extent that there would likely be no issues in traveling to Tibet, I finally resolved to depart for Tibet in Meiji 32. However, regarding the route—which path to take—I had to conduct my own investigation. Concerning that route, there existed a path leading directly northeast from Darjeeling through Nyatong, alongside which lay Momiji’s secret trail. There was also a route passing west of Kangchenjunga—the world’s second-highest snow-capped peak—to reach Walung on Tibet’s border, and another path leading directly from Sikkim into [Kampa Castle]. However, all these routes either had checkpoints or were guarded by sentries at unfortified points, making entry exceedingly difficult. Dr. Sarat had argued that “if one were to approach the Nyatong checkpoint and plead earnestly—‘I am a Japanese Buddhist who has come for religious training; please grant me entry’—they might permit it,” but I knew this approach was utterly impossible. Based on my thorough research of Tibetans, such a method could not be adopted. Additionally, I could find routes through both Bhutan and Nepal.

Of those two countries，the most beneficial route for me was Nepal. In Bhutan，there are neither Buddha’s ancient sites nor many subjects for research. To be sure，there are old sites associated with eminent Tibetan Buddhist monks，but such things held little value for me. However，what was necessary was that Nepal has various Buddhist sites as well as Sanskrit scriptures，and even if I could not enter Tibet，going to investigate these would still be highly beneficial. Particularly，while Europeans and Americans had entered Nepal up to then，there had yet to be a single Japanese person who had done so. Since it was a country worthy of our research，taking the route through Nepal was most necessary. And so，finally，

I decided to take the route through Nepal. If I could proceed directly west from Darjeeling to Nepal, I would be able to enjoy beautiful mountain and river scenery while making pilgrimages to Buddhist sites—a highly convenient prospect—though not without dangers. The Tibetans in Darjeeling had all become aware through prior knowledge that I was studying Tibetan to enter Tibet; thus many were vigilantly watching under the assumption that if I departed toward Tibet, they could either follow my trail to kill me or accompany me there to claim rewards by reporting me to the Tibetan government. Therefore, to evade this surveillance, I had no choice but to devise an alternative approach.

Therefore, I revealed my secret of going to Tibet only to Dr. Sarat, but informed the other lamas who had taught me languages that urgent business required my return to Japan, and departed Darjeeling. Fortunately, through the efforts of Messrs. Hie, Itō, and Watanabe from my homeland at that time, I received six hundred thirty rupees. Carrying this sum, I proceeded to Calcutta on January 5 of Meiji 32 (1899). As I prepared to depart, a verse came to mind.

Now I shall go, treading through Himalayan snow, Treading the path of Dharma to Bōda’s border,

Bōda is what Tibet is called in Sanskrit.

Part 7: Fortuitous Encounter

**Meditation Under the Bodhi Tree** I reached Calcutta from Darjeeling and made various travel purchases, during which time I obtained two letters of introduction addressed to a certain gentleman in Nepal from Jibbādoru—a former secretary of the Nepalese government now serving as envoy to Tibet—to facilitate my journey after entering Nepal. Around the 20th of that month, I arrived at Bodh Gaya. At that time, Dharmapāla Koji had come to Bodh Gaya, and we conversed at length. On this occasion, he stated, “Should you reach Tibet, I wish you to present these sacred relics of Shakyamuni Tathagata to the Dharma King,” entrusting me with a silver stupa containing the relics, a dedicatory letter, and a palm-leaf sutra scroll. Dharmapāla Koji then remarked, “I too would desire to visit Tibet once, but without explicit permission from their side, entry would prove utterly impossible.” That night, I practiced zazen at the Vajra Meditation Hall beneath Bodh Gaya’s Bodhi Tree, overwhelmed by profound joy. To sit in meditation once more under the very tree where Shakyamuni Tathagata attained enlightenment felt truly blessed; I lost myself in practice throughout the night. The moon lingered among the Bodhi Tree’s branches, its shadow swaying across the Vajra Seat—a scene of surpassing beauty. At that moment,

The moon lingering upon the Bodhi Tree's branches, I contemplate the stars fading in the dawning sky.

I composed this poem.

After a two-day stay in Bodh Gaya, I headed north and departed by train for Nepal. After a day and a night’s journey, I arrived at Segowlee Station near the Nepalese border on the morning of January 23. From there, a two-day trek would bring one to the Nepalese border; beyond that point, neither English nor Tibetan held any currency. While knowledge of Indian languages would have permitted unhindered progress, I possessed neither proficiency in those tongues nor any grasp of Nepali. Without Nepali, I could neither purchase provisions nor inquire about directions. Since traveling mute would render my objectives unattainable, I found it imperative to halt at this station and undertake some crash studies in the language.

Crash course in Nepali — Fortunately, since the Bengali man serving as postmaster of Segowlee knew both English and Nepali, I began studying under him. Well, it was like twisting a rope after catching the thief—too late yet necessary. However, until then I had been learning nothing but Tibetan, leaving no time for other languages. I recorded every lesson in a notebook and reviewed while walking, referring to its pages. On the day after my arrival, as I walked reviewing phrases as usual, a party of four emerged from the train: a fortyish gentleman in Tibetan robes, an elderly monk over fifty similarly dressed, and two apparent servants. “Tibetans here of all places,” I thought. Hoping to arrange shared travel, I approached them. “Where are you bound?” “We head for Nepal,” replied the gentleman. “Then have you come from Tibet?” “Not exactly—but some among us have.” Turning to me abruptly: “And where are you from?” “China.” “By what route did you come? Sea or land?”

Here, if I were to say I came by sea, I would incur their suspicion and find myself in a position where I could not possibly enter Nepal. This was because, at that time, all Chinese people arriving by sea were prohibited from entering Tibet. If I were to say I came by land, it would generally be taken to mean I had come from Tibet, so there I answered, “I came by land,” and while conversing, we went together toward the thatched hut where I was staying. The place where I was staying was an extremely crude house with bamboo pillars and a thatched roof, and on the opposite side there was another house of similar kind. Those were all places where travelers stayed, but there was no particular lodging fee to pay; one simply purchased firewood and food and paid for those expenses. The gentleman’s party entered the thatched hut across the way. Of course, in this area, there was nothing as sophisticated as a hotel, nor anything resembling a proper inn. That wooden lodging house was the inn.

**Outwitting the Cunning Gentleman** After a while, the gentleman and the old monk came to my lodging and said, “You claim to be Chinese, but where exactly is ‘China’?” “Fuzhou,” I replied. This is troublesome, I thought, but when I answered, “I do,” the gentleman—being quite proficient in Chinese—began using the language. I did not possess such deep knowledge, so I could only respond to simple matters. Greatly troubled, I suddenly devised a plan. “The Chinese you’re using is the Beijing dialect.” “Mine is the Fuzhou dialect—entirely different—so I can hardly understand you,” I replied. The gentleman asked, “Do you know Chinese characters?” “I do.” “Let’s communicate through writing,” I said, taking up my pencil. But as he struggled with some characters while recognizing others, he declared, “We can’t converse like this either.”

“Then let’s speak in Tibetan,” I proposed, switching languages. As our conversation deepened, the gentleman pressed further: “You claim to have come by land—but from where in Tibet?” “In truth,” I replied, “I journeyed from Lhasa through Darjeeling on pilgrimage to Bodh Gaya.” “Where precisely in Lhasa do you dwell?” “At Sera Monastery.” “There resides an elder monk serving as Je Tarsang’s Great Teacher (*khenpo*)—are you acquainted with him?” “How could I not know?” I answered smoothly, grateful for Lama Shabzun’s prior teachings that enabled this convincing response. Should he limit his inquiries to familiar matters, all would be well—but any deviation risked exposing my ruse. Seizing initiative, I broached confidential intelligence gleaned from Shabzun: “Recently, Shabbey Shatar has shown marked hostility toward Tengelin while consolidating power.” The gentleman’s demeanor shifted palpably—here was verification he couldn’t dismiss. My borrowed knowledge from Lama Shabzun had borne critical fruit.

**Encountering the One I Sought** The gentleman changed his tone. “You say you’re going to Nepal—but whose place are you seeking out there?” “Have you ever been there before?” “No—I have never been there.” “That’s why I brought a letter of introduction.” “From whom and where is this letter?” “In truth, while in Calcutta, I received two letters of introduction from a man named Jibbadaru, the Chief Secretary of the Nepalese government.” “Those letters of introduction are addressed to the Lama of the Mahābodhi Stupa in Nepal.” “I have forgotten the name of that Lama, but it is written in the document.” “This Jibbadaru served as a consul in Tibet for about eight years and is someone extremely proficient in Tibetan,” I explained in detail about the process of obtaining the letters of introduction. The gentleman said, “That’s strange.” “This Jibbadaru who wrote these letters of introduction is my friend—but who exactly are they addressed to? Let me see them.” “Certainly,” I replied, retrieving the letters from my luggage and showing them to him. He stared intently at the addresses. “How peculiar! The person these documents introduce is me.”

Avoiding Theft by Chance — In Nepal, the term “friend” carries such weight that it nearly signifies a bond akin to brotherhood. Therefore, even when forming friendships, there exists a peculiar kind of ceremony—almost akin to a wedding—where they prepare lavish feasts, summon many relatives and acquaintances, and hold the ritual. I will not state the tedious details, but in short, those who drink must exchange cups and give appropriate gratuities to their servants. Without first holding such a ceremony, one is not permitted to call each other friends. The gentleman and the recipient of the letter of introduction I carried were what could be called close friends.

“Since this gentleman turned out to be none other than the Lama of the Mahābodhi Stupa by sheer fortune,” I said, “what a remarkable encounter this is! I humbly entrust myself to your care.” To this he responded, “Then let us depart together tomorrow. Will you be coming by horse or carriage?” “Either would suit me,” I replied. He continued, “Yet it would be disagreeable to ride hurriedly without conversation when I’ve acquired such excellent company as yourself. Given there are many scenic spots along the way, I believe strolling while conversing would prove far more agreeable. What say you?” “That would be a felicity beyond my utmost hopes—truly splendid if feasible.” My reasoning held that through such discourse might emerge opportunities to discover viable routes from Nepal into Tibet—a prospect of great advantage. Heartened by this notion, I gladly resolved to accompany him.

Just then, two of the gentleman’s servants came running up, their faces deathly pale. “It’s terrible—thieves have broken in!” they cried. At this news, the old monk and the gentleman hurriedly returned. It seems one bag containing clothing and 350 to 360 rupees had been taken. When I later asked the innkeeper, it turned out those thieves had been lying in wait, intent on stealing my belongings. It was as though the gentleman had borne the calamity meant for me, and I truly felt sorry for him.

**The Route to Kathmandu** — The gentleman’s name was Buddha Bazzara (*Vajra of Awakening*), and the old monk was a scholar from Rebun Monastery in Lhasa Prefecture named Māyaru (*Stepchild*), quite the witty character. On January 25th, we set out early in the morning and proceeded north across the plains. The next day, we arrived at Bīrganj, the first checkpoint on the Nepal border, where I received a travel pass as a Chinese person residing in Tibet. The following day, we departed and lodged in a village just before the entrance to the Himalayas within the great forest called Tarai Jangal, and on the 28th, passing through the village of Shimra at the forest’s edge, we traversed straight across the four-*ri*-wide expanse of woodland and arrived at Bichagori, a village on the banks of a mountain stream, where we lodged. Around ten o’clock at night, as I was penning my diary and gazing out the window of the crude hut, the bright moon shone brilliantly upon the large trees, and the river’s murmuring flow carried an indescribable air of desolate loneliness. At that moment, I heard a fearsome, earth-shaking roar. When I asked the host what the sound was, he informed me that it was a tiger growling after having eaten meat and come to the river to drink water. Upon hearing this, I spontaneously composed a poem.

Beneath the pure moon, from the thicket resounds the tiger’s roar.

The waters of the Bichagori River lie still.

Hearing a Tiger’s Roar in the Himalayas

After two days of traversing mountain streams, forests, and mountainous areas, we arrived at a station called Bimbite. Up to this station, horse-drawn carriages, ox carts, and horses could pass through, but from here onward, due to the steep slopes, one could not proceed unless traveling on foot or by mountain palanquin. We too set out on foot at four in the morning and climbed the steep slope at great speed, ascending just over one ri before arriving at a checkpoint called Chispani. There was a customs house there imposing taxes on goods entering and exiting. There was also a battery, and a good number of garrison soldiers were stationed there. There, we underwent inspection and ascended to the summit of a peak called Chisugari, and from here, for the first time, the grand Himalayan mountain ranges with their glistening white snow came into view. This was not of the sort seen in Darjeeling or Tiger Hill. It was an exceedingly magnificent sight.

After crossing that peak, we lodged that night at a station called Maruku, and on the early morning of February 1st ascended Chandra Giri—that is, Moon Peak—beheld the wondrous radiance of the Himalayan mountain range, and descended slightly, whereupon the full expanse of Kathmandu, the capital of Nepal nestled among the mountains, came into view. Venerable Buddha Bazzara, my traveling companion, worshipped two great golden stupas that radiated into the sky across the mountain plain and showed them to me, explaining that one was the relic stupa of Kāśyapa Buddha and the other that of Śikhin Buddha. Overjoyed, I paid reverence as well. After descending the steep slope, we found four or five people with two horses awaiting us—Buddha Bazzara’s welcoming party. We rode those horses and, upon arriving near the village, were greeted by another twenty-four or five people. From Segōri Station to here was approximately fifty *ri*.

Chapter 8: The Excavation of Secret Routes

The Origin of Yambu Chöten — The village surrounding the great stupa of Kāśyapa Buddha in Kathmandu is what is called Boudha. Venerable Buddha Bazzara was both the chief of this village and the master of the great stupa. This great stupa of Boudha is called Yambu Chöten Chenpo in Tibetan. Yambu is the general term for Kathmandu. Chöten Chenpo means "great stupa" in Tibetan. In Tibet, any place with a large stupa is immediately called *Chöten Chenpo*, but this stupa’s true name is *Chā Lung Kashol Chöten Chenpo*. When translated, this means “One was commanded to permit its making”—a name rooted in karmic circumstances. According to this great stupa’s origin legend, after Kāśyapa Buddha (the buddha preceding Shakyamuni) had passed away, an old woman named Chachima enshrined his relics together with her four children. However, before constructing this great stupa, she petitioned the king of that era for permission to build it and received his approval.

However, later, when the old woman and her children had exerted great effort to construct the base of the great stupa, the ministers and elders of that time were all astonished and said, “If such a destitute old woman builds this great stupa, then we must construct something as grand as a mountain to maintain balance.” They unanimously agreed it would be best to halt this and petitioned the King to explain their reasoning. The King replied: “I have already commanded that she be permitted to proceed.” “A king does not go back on his word; I can do nothing.” Thus came to be the name “Great Stupa of Permitted Completion by Decree.” However, I believe this stupa was likely completed after Shakyamuni Buddha’s time. ([It is thought to have been after Nepal was opened by Manjushri Bodhisattva.])

Every year from mid-ninth to mid-second month of the lunar calendar, numerous pilgrims came from Tibet, Mongolia, China, Nepal, and other regions. Those who traveled through the Himalayan mountains during summer risked contracting malaria; hence they set out as winter approached, among whom Tibetans formed the majority. Among Tibetans, pilgrims of noble or gentry status proved exceedingly rare. The most numerous were pilgrim beggars—these wandered about to sustain their livelihoods, gathering at this great stupa during winter months before departing toward Tibet when summer arrived.

As for the method of discovering secret routes into Tibet, the most crucial task here was determining where to enter Tibet from first. Though I had come to Nepal, since there were numerous paths leading into Tibet from Nepal, I needed to investigate which route would be optimal. However, I couldn’t possibly disclose this to Venerable Buddha Bazzara. This was because the innkeeper remained convinced that I was naturally a Chinese person who would return to Lhasa Prefecture via public roads and then proceed back to China from Lhasa. Even were I to reveal it, since this man served as a Tibetan-language interpreter for the Nepalese government, knowing such information yet failing to inform the king would be considered a crime—and once I spoke, he would inevitably report it to the king. Were that to happen, I would be prevented from reaching Tibet; thus, though he was my benefactor, I found myself unable to confide in Venerable Buddha Bazzara.

Venerable Buddha Bazzara was known among people as Gyā Lama—that is to say, a holy man from China. This was because his father was Chinese; having come to Nepal and taken a Nepalese wife, he became the lama of this great stupa. Since this lama belongs to the old sect, there was of course no issue with him taking a wife. Gyā Lama, claiming I was from the same homeland, took great care of me with exceptional kindness. Be that as it may, I had to seek some alternative means and carve out a path. Fortunately, among the pilgrim beggars coming to worship at this great stupa, many were those who had come from Tibet. From the conviction that it was necessary to inquire about and study these routes, I made a point of giving extra money to those beggars whenever possible. Since I yielded not just once but twice or thrice whenever they pestered me for alms, they became deeply impressed, saying, “This Chinese lama is truly magnanimous!” and came to trust me greatly. One time I asked them: “How about it? I wish to make a pilgrimage to sacred sites—will you guide me there?” “Certainly.” “We will guide you.” As we traveled, I asked, “You claim to be Tibetans—which route did you take to come to Nepal?” and there were some who replied that they had come from Tenri.

Even on that Tenri route, there were threefold and fourfold checkpoints, making it impossible to pass through easily. And it was said that even if one took a secret route through the checkpoints along that path, passing through remained difficult. However, having long heard that one must use considerable bribes when passing through checkpoints, I confronted them: “You lie—claiming to have come through Tenri with its checkpoints while being beggars.” “You must have come through some secret route.” “There’s no need to lie like this,” I pressed, to which they replied, “You know full well, don’t you? Actually, there is such a secret route, and we came through there.” “That path is a place where people rarely pass through,” they explained, along with various other details. While listening to such accounts, I came to realize that there were several such routes. Using information obtained from one beggar, I would then question others: “Have you ever used such a secret route?” When they replied, “We haven’t used that one, but there’s a secret route like this over by Nyānam,” and I gradually investigated further, I found there were quite a number of routes. However, on the journey from Nepal’s capital to Tibet’s capital, one could not avoid passing through at least one or two checkpoints along the main route. For example, if one took the secret route through Nyānam, one could avoid the Kirun checkpoint, but there was a risk of being apprehended at the checkpoint beyond; moreover, if one proceeded via the Shalkombu secret route, one would undergo inspection at the Tenri checkpoint—under such circumstances, it proved impossible to slip through successfully.

I investigated various possibilities thoroughly, but all secret routes from Nepal’s capital to Tibet’s capital that avoided detours proved perilous without exception. One inevitably had to pass through one or two checkpoints. In such situations, pilgrim beggars would desperately plead and offer small tributes to gain passage—so I heard. However, unlike Tibetan beggars, I carried ample grounds for suspicion during interrogations; thus traversing such secret routes remained exceedingly dangerous. Through persistent probing, I managed to discover an advantageous route there. Yet this path demanded an immense detour. Normally one would take a northeastward route from Nepal’s capital, but instead by advancing northwest to Lo Province at Nepal’s border—emerging from Lo Province into Changtang, Tibet’s northwestern plains—then pushing further northwest to circle Lake Manasarovar and follow a circuitous path to Tibet’s capital, I ascertained this route would permit successful entry without encountering checkpoints. This indeed became the secret route I resolved beforehand to take.

Part 9: Travels in the Himalayas (1)

**Setting Out for Tibet**: Though I had ascertained the route beforehand, resolving to take that path without pretext risked arousing Venerable Buddha Bazzara’s suspicion—he might think, *This man is surely dubious.* Yet there I discovered an ideal pretext. While academic opinions varied regarding Lake Manasarovar’s identification with the sutras’ Anavatapta Lake, common consensus affirmed it as such. Since Mount Kailash—a natural mandala beside that lake—stood as a Buddhist holy site, I concluded that feigning pilgrimage there offered the most viable justification. Thus I once addressed Gyā Lama: “Having come this far, it would grieve me to return to China through Tibet empty-handed.” “Chinese scriptures speak of Tibet’s Mapham Yumtso—Anavatapta Lake—and Kang Rinpoche, the Tibetan name for the mountain towering at its shore. My heart now yearns to pilgrimage there, whatever hardships await. What say you?” “Might you arrange porters?” Gyā Lama responded: “A noble plan indeed—but you must reconsider.” “The journey proves arduous beyond measure. No proper roads cross the northwest plains.” “Though I too have longed to pilgrimage there, provisions grow scarce—you’d need ample stores.” “Bandits infest those lands. Without a large retinue, you’ll meet death.” “Thus matters stalled until now—but taking one or two porters would be marching to slaughter. Abandon this course,” he urged with earnest persuasion.

So I said, “If I go to be killed and die, then my duty will be fulfilled.” “Since we are born, we must all die someday.” “First of all, to be killed while making a pilgrimage to a sacred site of Buddhism—such a thing is truly auspicious, a splendid matter.” “I do not think anything of dying.” “If the time comes for me to die, even if I’m not killed by bandits in Tibet’s wilderness, I would still die even if I lived comfortably here—so it makes no difference at all.” “Please arrange porters for me,” I said, explaining my resolve in detail, to which he replied, “If your determination runs so deep, I suppose there’s no choice. Very well—I shall find someone.” He then began searching for suitable individuals. However, though they were from Kam—the very heartland of bandits—he managed to secure two pilgrims who appeared quite honest. Additionally, there was an old woman pilgrim. That old woman was sixty-five or sixty-six years old, yet remarkably robust and capable of traversing mountainous paths. It was decided that I would depart with these three people, but Gyā Lama stated, “To confirm whether these two porters will serve you faithfully,” and assigned one person to accompany us as far as Tsukuje.

**The Mountain’s Floral Capital** Our party of five—master and servants—departed with me riding the white horse I had purchased from Gyā Lama. It proved an excellent steed, navigating even steep slopes as deftly as a person scrambling on all fours. Having left Kathmandu in early March, we traveled northwest through the mountains—ascending slopes one day and descending the next—until after ten days and approximately eighty-five *ri*, we reached Pokhara, a mountain city. Pokhara stood as Nepal’s most beautiful city I had encountered, appearing as if numerous villas were nestled within Japan’s scenic landscapes of lush greenery and clear waters. Bamboo groves and flower-clad peaks rose above dense verdure, while waters flowing from fish-tailed snow peaks encircled the city before vanishing into distant ranges. Yet its waters bore the milky hue of rice-washing liquid—likely from mountain soil dissolved within. This city offered Nepal’s most affordable prices: rice cost merely 25 sen for four shō at cheapest, typically two shō five gō, with all goods proportionally inexpensive. Local specialties included copperware utensils. Needing a tent crafted, I stayed six days—25 rupees (one rupee being 67 sen) procured one spacious enough for cooking within.

After leaving Pokhara behind and heading northward, we encountered extremely rugged mountains with many places where riding a horse was impossible. Therefore, we first deliberately took the horses around through the valley, walked for about half a day, and then rode the horses again—proceeding in this manner.

One day, as my porters went ahead leading the horse, I rode along without particular heed—absorbed in thoughts of destinations ahead—when a tree branch lay directly before my eyes. Startled, I tried to evade the branch—but in that moment, the horse lunged forward. As I tipped backward, I ultimately fell from the horse. Fortunately, the horse too seemed to have noticed; instead of bolting away, it planted itself firmly in place. Since I maintained an unyielding grip on the reins without letting go, I merely struck my back painfully against a rock rather than plunging into the ravine. Yet had the horse startled into a gallop then, or had I relinquished the reins—

I would have vanished like a demon into the thousand-ren ravine.

Thinking this situation seemed manageable, I tried to stand up, but having apparently struck my back quite severely, I found myself utterly unable to rise. Though two servants carried me up some ten chō to the mountain summit, the pain remained so intense that I could not move at all, forcing me to remain in the mountains for two days; fortunately, having camphor tincture with me, I diligently massaged my lower back and applied the remedy until I recovered without further complications. On the third day, we sent the horse ahead around the valley while we ourselves walked through what might truly be called terrifying deep mountains and secluded valleys—the very archetype of such places—where several times echoed the call of a cuckoo: "Cuckoo, cuckoo."

At that moment,

Through the trees and rocks of the Himalayas winds the serpentine path.

In the desolation, a cuckoo cries.

We had passed through such desolate mountains, but when people spend just a day or two together, everyone remains reserved, so their true natures remain unclear; however, over time, a person’s character naturally reveals itself. Of the two porters, one was an exceptionally large man of decisive temperament, while the other was exceedingly mild-mannered but somewhat literate, which made him rather self-assured. This did not sit well with the decisive man, and occasional clashes arose. The old woman pilgrim was honest and appeared to know everything about the two porters. I interacted with everyone in the same manner. Especially since that old woman was very fond of alcohol, whenever we arrived at a lodging, I would buy it not only for the porters but also for her in equal measure. When there were various items given by others, particularly since the elderly seemed pitiable, I made sure to distribute them generously. Whether the old woman felt this way because of such gestures, or perhaps because I ate only once daily and abstained entirely from meat—in any case, she showed me profound respect, with no indication of viewing me as an ordinary pilgrim. Yet despite this, she seemed to want to tell me something privately but appeared hesitant due to the presence of the other two men.

Then, using my wits one day, I had the old woman go ahead while I rode a horse and the two servants walked. However, as they were carrying loads, they fell considerably behind me. When I finally caught up to the old woman and we walked together talking, she asked, “Are those two men still far behind?” “Yes, they might be about two ri behind.” “To tell you the truth, there’s something I’ve been wanting to inform you of in confidence—those two porters are dangerous men to your person.” “One of them killed someone and committed robbery in Kam.” “The other hasn’t done anything quite that bad, but he killed someone in a fight—in any case, neither thinks anything of killing people.” “Though I can’t imagine the gentle one would ever do such a thing, if you proceed to the Northwestern Plains, the other will surely kill you and take your money.” “I simply couldn’t bear the thought of someone as kind and noble as you being killed by such wicked people,” she said. “Nonsense! There’s no way such a thing could happen.” When I said, “Those people are very honest,” the old woman grew earnest and vowed, “By the Three Jewels—if this matter is false, may death be granted to me!” This is a common method of swearing among Tibetans. Moreover, her words did not seem false—from her demeanor, it appeared entirely factual. Now I was in a real bind and realized I had to devise some method to handle this.

Chapter 10: Travel Through the Himalayan Mountains (Part 2)

Guarding the Secret Route: While worrying about the two porters, I took six days to travel a forty-ri road and arrived at the village of Tsukuje in the Himalayan mountains. There was a governor named Harukaman Subba there, and through Gyā Lama’s introduction, I came to stay at his residence. After staying at the house for a day or two, the servant sent through Gyā Lama’s kindness said, “Well, with matters as they are, it should be safe,” and returned. However, just as I was worrying that I must dismiss these two servants to complete my journey to Tibet, I heard various accounts: on the secret route northward past Lo Province, the Tibetan government had stationed five soldiers three months prior to guard the path, so that no foreigners or suspicious-looking individuals could enter anymore. Not only this secret route, but indeed every secret path where even a single person might pass through now had five soldiers stationed to guard it—so the rumors went. Upon gradually investigating, this proved true, rendering it utterly impossible to advance toward the Tibetan Plateau via this route.

Dismissing Extremely Dangerous Servants: There had come a Mongolian scholar named Serab Gyaltzan (Hui-zhuang)—an accomplished academic who taught sutras to monks while dabbling in medicine. He would often visit my quarters to converse. One night, after a drinking bout escalated into a fight between the two porters, their true villainous natures surfaced as they hurled accusations of past crimes at each other. Hearing their exchange—which confirmed them as the very scoundrels the old woman had described—I listened as one declared: “Though I’ve robbed and killed men, I keep a cat’s gentle face; yet when the hour comes, I’ll pounce on that Chinese Lama like a mouse and do rough work—so don’t block my path!” The other retorted: “That’s your own scheme! Fine then—if I’m in your way, I’ll step aside!” After this violent quarrel, they came demanding each other’s dismissal: “If he stays, give me my leave!” Seizing this opportunity, I firmly discharged both with severance pay and sent the old woman off with travel money and ceremonial scarves.

As for the course I must take—advancing immediately to the Northwestern Plains was utterly impossible, yet returning was naturally out of the question. As I was pondering how to devise some method, Dr. Hui-zhuang—who had been visiting me frequently during this period and had possessed not only Buddhist scholarship but also literary learning—after our consultation, under the agreement that I would explain Chinese Buddhism to him while he would instruct me in Tibetan Buddhism and literature, I decided to proceed toward Lo and Tsarang where he resided. On the way there, I paid homage to Chumik Gyatsa (meaning "Hundred Springs")—that is, the sacred site known in Sanskrit as Muktināth.

The Sacred Site in the Himalayas: Muktināth, meaning "the place where the head was enshrined"—that is, where Mahādeva’s head was kept—is now renowned in Hinduism as a celebrated sacred site, revered by both Hindus and Buddhists alike. The name "Hundred Springs" derives self-evidently from the hundred springs from which a hundred streams flow forth. Moreover, this Hundred Springs area contains renowned sites: Sāra Mebar (Fire Burning on Earth), Chura Mebar (Fire Burning on Water), and Dora Mebar (Fire Burning on Stone), all of which are quite celebrated. Thinking it must be some remarkable place, I went to see it, only to find—absurdly—a beautiful spring nestled between rocks measuring about two shaku in length and one shaku in width. There was a hole in the rocks slightly above the water level from which fire emerged—a fire that crept across the water’s surface before rising upward. When ignorant people see this, it appears exactly as if fire is burning out from within the water. The rest were all like that—nothing particularly mysterious—but when I observed the unified shape of the mountains around here, there were also traces that made one think there might have been a volcano here in ancient times. This is because not only is there a pool resembling the remains of an old crater beyond the accumulated snow, but also because the rocks in this area are all volcanic, differing from ordinary mountain rocks. After completing my pilgrimage there, I descended the mountain and reached the banks of a river called Kariganga, where I spent the night.

The Horse’s Mud Trap Ordeal

Rescuing the horse from the mud. The following day, we continued upstream along the river. When I attempted to cross a shallow sandy-bottomed river on horseback, the horse advanced two or three steps before sinking into deep mud until its belly touched bottom. I immediately dismounted. The scholar, who had remained startled on his horse, got down and said, "The horse is done for—is there any way to retrieve that luggage?" Thereupon, I stripped off my garments, climbed partway up the mountain, and hurled a large stone toward where the horse stood. The horse—perhaps thinking it would be struck—trembled nervously. The reason I did this was to create a foothold by embedding numerous large stones in the mud to retrieve the luggage from the horse. As I prepared to throw another stone onto the previous ones, the horse watched my movements with intense fear. When I finally hurled one with a thud, the animal leapt with tremendous force and reached the opposite bank. Then together with the scholar, we threw many large stones into the mud to forge a crossing path for his horse. After roughly three or four hours of labor, we finally succeeded in getting both ourselves and the scholar's horses across to the far bank. We then reached a village called Samar (Red Earth), and the following day pressed gradually northward through the mountains. We were advancing north toward what is called Dhaulagiri.

In the mountains below Tsukuje Village there had been pines, cedars, and similar trees, but in this area none of those trees existed—only an abundance of hinoki cypress grew. These hinoki cypress reached heights between approximately one jō five-six shaku to two jō [4.5-6 meters], with nothing beyond them but shrubs. After traveling five or six ri through such snowy mountains, we came upon Kilun—a small village where numerous willow trees grew. There was nothing else particularly unusual there. In this area resided only Tibetans; no Nepalese tribes lived here. Therefore, white flags stood at every roof corner bearing mantra phrases printed through woodblock technique. This could be seen anywhere in Tibet—even where tents were pitched, such flags were erected. Passing through that village and advancing northward into the Snowy Mountains, dusk fell. In deep valleys thick with hinoki cypress, a cuckoo—perhaps rejoicing at the moon’s rise—released its beautiful cry from between secluded ravines.

Having journeyed till dusk beneath the moon I lodge—in the lonely skies of snowy mountains, a cuckoo cries.

Tsarang Village: I eventually arrived at a small village called Kimii (Fukusen) nestled amidst the snowy mountains and lodged there. The next day, after advancing northward about four ri, Tsarang Village came into view. By now, this area lay where one could reach the Northwestern Plains in less than a day. Though called snowy mountains, their appearance hardly differed from the plains—the mountains felt somehow desolate, with no trees visible. I had arrived in Tsarang in mid-May, when the barley had just been sown. Observing the village’s layout, I saw it was encircled on all sides by Snowy Mountains—a settlement on a plateau measuring four and a half ri east to west and approximately one and a half ri north to south at its widest point. From the western snow peaks to the eastern valley, the land formed a gentle slope along which flowed a river descending from those same western peaks. This was none other than the source of the great river called Kariganga.

The river flowed around the village called Tsarang and ran south toward the snow peaks. On the distant bank of that river lay a village, within part of which stood a small hill. Upon that hill stood the castle where the king of Lo Province resided. Until the Gorkha clan had unified Nepal, this Lo Province too had maintained its independence. Opposite that castle stood a rather large temple belonging to the Kargyupa sect, a branch of the Tibetan Old School. This temple was likewise a Tibetan-style rectangular stone hall painted red. The white-painted stone houses built along its main hall served as monks' quarters. Between the western flatlands of castle and temple stretched a village of about thirty houses, both large and small.

Chapter Eleven: Mountain Hermitage Ascetic Practice

**The Customs of Tsarang**: When I crossed the snowy mountains with the scholar, there stood a gate at the entrance to a wide plain. It was not built for military purposes but rather for religious ones—enshrining Buddha or deities to prevent evil spirits from entering the village. Therefore, there were no high walls flanking the gate or anything of that sort. Only a solitary gate stood there. The structure measured about four ken (7.3 meters) in height, a stone edifice of corresponding scale that closely resembled the tower gates found in our homeland. After passing through this gate and proceeding roughly two kilometers, we reached Tsarang Village. The scholar led me to a large house in the settlement—the village chief's residence. Having apparently been forewarned of our arrival, fourteen or fifteen people came out to greet and usher us inside. Both in Tibet and these parts, it remains customary for slightly affluent households to maintain separate Buddhist halls. For here, when speaking of esteemed guests, one refers first and foremost to Lamas. Considering it defiling to lodge such holy figures within their own living quarters, villagers specially construct these halls both to enshrine Buddha and serve as guesthouses for their most revered Lamas.

The construction of that hall was far more meticulous than their own homes, with its interior kept clean. Beside the Buddhist altar stood a specially established sutra repository, and there were also places where scriptures were enshrined within Buddhist statues. This existed not for any purpose of reading them, but rather for accumulating merit—that is, to make offerings with the same reverence as one would present to Buddha. The Tibetans had no notion whatsoever that even the so-called Three Vehicles and Twelve Divisions of the Rinzai school might be equivalent to waste paper if one failed to grasp their true meaning. Whether understanding it or not, revering the Buddhist Dharma simply constituted the custom of people in this region. I came to reside in that Buddhist hall. Opposite it stood a small detached house where the scholar resided. A single servant had been assigned to prepare meals for the scholar and me. The village chief’s name was Nyerba Tarbo—a truly gentle man whose wife had passed away from illness, leaving him with two daughters. At that time, the elder sister was twenty-two or twenty-three while the younger was seventeen or eighteen; these two daughters daily engaged in herding and farming through male and female workers. Their work proved truly admirable. As for what constituted the villagers’ pleasures, they amounted to singing songs and dancing at night; beyond that, there were occasional Mani gatherings—comparable to Japan’s Nenbutsu assemblies or Kannon devotion groups—where Lama Mani would appear to expound in detail on biographies of ancient high monks or Dharma-protecting kings, and attending these seemed to be their supreme delight.

Training in Filthy Habits: Like Tibetans, the people here were extremely unclean; indeed, those in this area proved even filthier than Lhasa's inhabitants. In Lhasa they occasionally washed, but during my year-long stay here I witnessed them bathing only about twice. Even then they didn't wash their entire bodies—merely their faces and necks—leaving their skin pitch black with an unpleasantly glossy darkness. Though some could have shown fair complexions if properly cleaned, they'd mock any woman who maintained a freshly washed face as unclean. There I thoroughly cultivated tolerance for Tibet's squalid realities. Had I not sufficiently accustomed myself to that filth beforehand, I might have found myself unable to eat anything at all upon reaching Tibet proper.

There too, they wiped bowls directly with hands that had blown noses and poured tea into them. If you refused to drink out of disgust, they would despise you for it, leaving no choice but to endure and drink. In reality, there were even worse things—truly unspeakable, unbearable filth they engaged in. Even when I occasionally tried growing accustomed to these habits, their utter filth made me secretly wash my own tea bowls before use. My daily work consisted solely of attending the scholar’s three-hour morning lectures. Though these morning sessions required preparation and review due to their difficulty, the three afternoon hours focused on easier subjects like rhetoric or calligraphy, during which we sometimes debated.

Strange Rhetoric: Within Tibetan rhetoric were incorporated many Buddhist elements. Had they merely applied ordinary Buddhist teachings, there would have been nothing at all suspicious about it. However, Tibet possessed a peculiarly obscene religion whose truths they applied to rhetoric. Thus when expounding sexual union between men and women, they employed the relationship between Buddha and Tara or that of vajra and lotus; extended explanations about dew's action upon lotus flowers to human relations; ultimately claiming that even through such utterly defiled connections one might attain pure enlightenment. Such rhetoric likely existed in ancient India but now remains preserved only in Tibet. I had studied rhetoric extensively but given these interpretive methods, the scholar and I often disagreed vehemently. The founder of this Dual Union Sect was a monk called Padmasambhava who ate meat, drank alcohol, and kept eight wives. They revered this monk as pure priest and savior.

I concluded that this was likely a doctrine taught by the Demon King who descended upon this world to destroy the Buddhist Law. Therefore, as my views differed from the scholar’s, he believed that Padmasambhava himself was an incarnation of Buddha. Moreover, it was truly appalling how the local people here blindly adhered to this defiled Buddhism of Padmasambhava—indeed, only the old sect was practiced in this area, with not a single follower of any new sect. It was certain that the Scholar had originally been a pure and immaculate monk educated in the New Sect, having trained for twenty years at Sera University to earn his doctoral title. However, having compromised himself over a woman—which made returning to Mongolia impossible while residing in Lhasa would have brought shame—he had fallen into decline in this mountain hermitage, associating with unclean women and such; so said the villagers. Yet he remained a man of profound erudition.

Chapter Twelve: Mountain Hermitage Ascetic Practice (Continued)

**Conflict with the Scholar**: As previously stated, debates frequently arose between the Scholar and me regarding rhetoric. On one occasion, he angrily halted his lecture and declared, “You are undoubtedly a heretic—a demon who has come to destroy Tibetan Buddhism. No matter how much money I receive, I cannot teach such a demon,” suspending his lectures for two or three days. If I left matters unattended—as characteristic of Mongolians who are quick to anger yet equally swift to recover—he would forget his anger after a while and say, “Well, what you said the other day does seem to have some merit. As I gradually thought it over, it seems my arguments were mistaken. Let us resume the lecture,” relenting and coming around. “Then I shall trouble you to proceed,” I replied, resuming attendance at his lectures.

At one time, I was attending a lecture on the treatises of Asaṅga Bodhisattva. During this, the Scholar asserted emphatically: “There exists no Buddhist Law superior to this Bodhisattva’s teachings.” “That is mistaken,” I countered. “Though venerable, this Bodhisattva does not surpass the Middle Way theory propounded by Nāgārjuna Bodhisattva.” As I methodically explained my reasoning, he finally retorted: “You have gravely insulted Tibetan Buddhism!” “For in Tibet we hold Asaṅga Bodhisattva in supreme reverence.” “Certainly Nāgārjuna Bodhisattva receives equal veneration—but by denigrating Asaṅga’s Dharma, you undeniably insult our tradition!” “Such a demon merits casting out!” He seized the rekshin sutra clasp before him. Gripping my collar with his left hand, he swung the implement toward my skull.

At that moment, I let out a loud laugh. Startled by the peculiarity of that laughter, he slightly shifted the rekshin aside yet maintained his grip on my collar. At that, I said: "Now, isn't it contradictory to cling so stubbornly while discussing Asaṅga's Dharma of non-attachment?" At this barbed remark, the Scholar released his grip and stood grinding his teeth in rage. Soon he reached such a state that he couldn't bear looking at my face, scarcely comprehending ordinary human interactions. This must be considered typical Mongolian behavior. Indeed, most people in Mongolia were of this sort. Not that all were alike, but among the Mongolians I encountered, quick-tempered individuals proved so numerous I was at my wit's end. Having realized anger to be a fool's inherent flaw, I thereafter cultivated fortitude to endure humiliation. In this manner, I studied six hours daily. Preparatory work inevitably required seven hours. Sometimes eight or nine. Thus I came to study twelve or even fifteen hours a day. Beyond this, I ate one meal, drank tea, then went walking.

Mountain Climbing Practice: Sundays were complete rest days, so I would head into the mountains for walks. At those times, I practiced vigorously scaling the slopes. This once-weekly major exercise served as groundwork preparation for my impending crossing through pathless areas of the Snowy Mountains—for I believed that without such training, I would ultimately prove incapable of ascending high peaks while bearing heavy loads in thin-air altitudes. Thus I practiced carrying stones up mountainsides despite having no practical need to do so. And I felt my lungs had grown markedly stronger. My body had indeed become robust. Now, as for the supreme pleasure of the people in this region—it lay in dallying with women, eating meat, and drinking alcohol.

Beyond that, there were no such things as sightseeing or leisurely outings. As for going out to hear something interesting, it amounted to little more than attending Lama Mani's sermons—and even those did not occur every night. In summer they were quite busy, so carnal matters did not occur excessively; however, once summer passed and they had some leisure time, the only thing they gathered to discuss was indecent talk between men and women. When I thought about it, they seemed almost like animals. What occupied their minds was nothing but eating and sleeping; they cared not how filthy the clothes they wore might be. Moreover, they only replaced them with new items once a year, so they glistened blackly with grease and grime. It was a custom where if clothes were worn for two years rather than one, people would praise them as splendid. During that time, they never washed them even once.

Though their bodies were so filthy, they went to great lengths over food and sleep. Their hearts fervently desired men seeking women and women seeking men; as this was the state of affairs from the elderly down to young boys and girls, licentious customs were truly flourishing. Because I associated with people who engaged in such unclean practices, I had no idea of their true nature at first. The villagers, who knew that Sundays were days of rest, would occasionally come to have their illnesses treated. Moreover, there were also those among them who, thinking that as a lama I must know the future, come to hear prophecies. They would ask what would become of their own fate, or how they should proceed from then on. No matter how much I refused, unless I told them something, they would come back repeatedly, wasting my time and causing genuine trouble; so I would first give them an evasive reply, which satisfied them enough to leave. Though I said things whose underlying mindset I myself couldn’t comprehend, it seemed those words sounded intelligible to them. In such a manner, while I was deeply engrossed in my studies, I—

I became the talk of the village. That lama does nothing but read books and think. Moreover, even when he goes into the mountains, he does nothing but sit in zazen and think. Various rumors arose suggesting he was no ordinary person. Among these rumors were accounts like a patient being cured through his medicine, which itself became a topic of discussion. In a village starved for conversation topics, my affairs became the primary subject of gossip, with people freely spinning imaginative tales about me and the Scholar. This stemmed from two incidents: first, when my booming laughter during an argument where the Scholar nearly threw me startled the neighbors; second, our habit of debating in raised voices that led villagers to gather outside in alarm, convinced the Scholar and Chinese Lama were fighting that day. Yet there were times when matters would conclude with laughter and no further incident.

Since such incidents occurred repeatedly and kept surprising them, the rumors grew rather amusing. "That Scholar isn't debating Buddhist doctrine. That was when the Chinese Lama gave food to paupers over yonder," they'd say. They speculated either "[The Scholar] acted so because he didn't get his share," or "When we took them a sho of barley, they went and gave it all to beggars." Thus nothing but trifles—like theories about the Scholar's anger—became the village gossip. I remained oblivious to this until the young woman at my lodgings began bringing me tea during my long stay, sometimes offering what passed for their finest delicacy—buckwheat bread. Once she arrived with such treats and explained: "People say you quarreled with Geshe because you gave coins to those beggars—that's why he got furious."

So I came to realize just how strange the ways of the world truly were. Though we can only gauge others' hearts through our own thoughts, I found myself marveling at this peculiar fascination. Yet it seemed nearly impossible for people in this world to interact through pure kindness alone. Without relationships rooted in mutual benefit or affection, harmonious interactions appeared unattainable. During my time in Tsarang Village, this truth etched itself deeply within me. I had simply intended to show kindness to all without distinction. But some twisted this kindness into meanings beyond my wildest imaginings—matters too trivial to recount here.

Chapter 13: Scenery of the Northern Snowy Mountains in Summer and Winter

Summer Scenery of Tsarang Village: Now, having lived in this Tsarang mountain village for about a year, I had come to understand well the changing scenery of the four seasons. However, this area—like Tibet’s inland regions—is most appropriately divided into two seasons: summer and winter. Since that was indeed how it was, even among the locals here, there were many who did not know names like spring or autumn. The summer scenery of this village was pure and beautiful, as if even these mountain people themselves proudly boasted of it to others. The wheat fields cast their verdant radiance between snow-capped peaks glistening white in every direction, while glossy pale-pink buckwheat flowers bloomed in full rivalry across the landscape; countless butterflies fluttered gracefully among blossoms and through open skies, and skylarks sang as if proclaiming themselves sole musicians of the Lotus Treasury World. Their joyous voices harmonizing with the beautiful songs sung by the lowly women—were they instruments? Were the skylarks’ voices songs? Indistinguishable as they were, yet further manifesting nature’s exquisite wonder was the cuckoo’s lovely call—“cuckoo, cuckoo”—the very message of the universe’s profound and mysterious secrets.

Winter Scenery: The western mountains lying several miles distant all wore crowns of white snow, yet when the setting sun began to touch their summits, the snow-capped peaks lining Tsarang Village's eastern flank glowed coral-colored through its reflected light—a sight of surpassing splendor. As the setting sun gradually sank below the mountain ridge, the coral hues faded into gold, and that golden color too soon paled to silver. Then, as if wiped clean, the azure sky spread cloudlessly pure. While I gazed entranced, from between those lofty snow peaks—so dimly profound they might have been Dusita Heaven's silver halls—Chang'e emerged silently, casting indescribable radiance like countless gathered pearls, illuminating the Himalaya's gleaming white summits in a spectacle beyond comparison to ice-light or any earthly metaphor.

The winter moonlit nights were as described above, but then snow began falling violently, accumulating not only on the surrounding snow peaks but also piling up one shaku, two shaku, then three shaku deep across the plains where we resided. Moreover, a blizzard with fearsome force scattered the snow and whirled it skyward, while avalanche waves cascading from the snow peaks surged alongside the storm and ravaged the plains. The terrifying roar of this onslaught made one think it could rival the furious bellows of thousands of great lions—those beast kings of the Vindhyan Forest—in full ferocity. If there were travelers at this time, it would be no rare occurrence for them to be instantly engulfed by the snow and buried in thousand-foot-deep ravines.

Devastation After Snowfall: In some places, fields had been reduced to wasteland with sand dug up, while on parts of the plains, snow mountains had taken shape—such was the scene left behind after waves of snow and violent storms had passed. Just looking at the aftermath was enough to make one's hair stand on end. At this moment, I resolved to venture outside and assess the situation, but amid the dreadful blizzard’s roar, my face was lashed by snow, my body grew numb with cold, my limbs stiffened, and my eyes could scarcely open—such was the state of things that I found myself unable to properly discern what lay before me. Even where the blizzard had passed—whether these were clouds still bearing snow or perhaps clouds pursuing the storm, I could not tell—beneath their sparsely flying forms, extremely fine snow swirled like smoke. Through intermittent gaps in the clouds, moonlight appeared dimly—its color manifesting a ghastly pale mouse-gray—but the sight of the Himalaya’s dreadful, heartrending spectacle was so terrifyingly magnificent that I could scarcely believe such a scene could exist, let alone endure my own astonishment at beholding it. Having lived in such a mountain dwelling for about a year, I was truly filled with a sense of delight. And no matter how much I devoted myself to daily studies, it never took the slightest physical toll on me.

Summer Scenery of a Himalayan Mountain Village

The air was thin yet remarkably pure, and on top of that, I consumed heaping portions of highly nutritious roasted barley flour once daily. Though animal-based foods consisted solely of butter, during the buckwheat season there was also a delicacy made by coating its new sprouts in sour milk—resembling a white salad—so my body remained in excellent health. Around August in the solar calendar, the buckwheat flowers bloomed in full splendor, creating an exceptionally beautiful sight. When I had secluded myself in the Buddhist hall during that season reading sutras until evening and grew somewhat weary, suddenly the scent of the blowing wind became richly fragrant. Wondering what it might be, I opened the window to find it was a wind descending from the Snowy Mountains, quietly rippling across the buckwheat flowers as it passed through. At that moment, a poem arose.

Gazing upwind where mystery scents the breeze, Flower-waves surge in the snow-clad mountain hamlet

Monks and Nuns’ Strange Customs: The population of Tsarang Village was 250 people, among whom there were 114 or 115 monks—50 of these being nuns—leaving over 60 male monks. As they all belonged to an old sect, they had no qualms about drinking alcohol or eating meat. Of course, nuns were not permitted to have men, but out of fifty nuns, only one remained without a man; likewise, among the monks, only two—the temple’s lama and his single disciple—abstained from relations with women, while all others were said to be defiled. Among them were those where nuns and monks lived together, those where ordinary girls and monks lived together, and also those where nuns and laymen lived together. If no child was born, people did not particularly say anything. However, once a child was born, it finally constituted a violation of the precepts. Though it seemed utterly absurd, when they violated the precepts, they had to perform shakpa—that is, repentance.

Their method of repentance was also quite curious. They would purchase copious amounts of alcohol, invite 114 or 115 lamas and nuns, have each line up before the Buddha in the main hall, and then go around vigorously pouring it into their bowls from the side where they sat holding them. At first, they all piously recited sutras, but as intoxication gradually took hold, their sutra-chanting voices transformed into boisterous arguments, which then shifted into discussions of obscenities. How should one describe such unsightly behavior? When I first witnessed it, I could hardly find any way to describe it. I simply could not believe this was the gathering day of Shakyamuni Buddha’s disciples. In addition, the nun involved and the man in question had to each pay a fine of five yen to the temple. However, if the party involved was a male monk, both that monk and the woman in question had to each pay a fine of ten yen. This was said to be because those who committed such acts among their fellow monks incurred higher fines.

In addition, the expenses for offerings of alcohol, meat, and butter tea amounted to no less than twenty-five or thirty yen. I heard that if done extravagantly, it could cost forty or fifty yen, but they took pride in serving alcohol as lavishly as possible and praised it as thorough repentance. The Tathagata had admonished even lay followers that alcohol was improper, yet how much more unconscionable was the conduct of Tsarang's monastics who nullified the precepts to drink alcohol before the Buddha while discussing impurities. When I witnessed this state of affairs, I secretly turned eastward and thought with genuine sorrow: how much difference could there truly be between the monks of our magnificent Japanese Buddhist society and those of this Tsarang Village?

Chapter 14: Again Investigating Secret Paths

New Year’s Celebration: Since we had to express celebratory greetings as usual on January 1 of Meiji 33, from beforehand I purchased and gathered as many delicacies as could be obtained locally—preparing an abundance of fried foods and other items that would be rare treats for the villagers. As was customary on New Year’s Day, we offered three cheers for Their Majesties the Emperor and Empress and His Highness the Crown Prince, and being able to celebrate ten thousand cheers for His Majesty Emperor Meiji here in these Himalayan mountains, separated by thousands of miles of land and sea, filled me with such delight that I found myself choking back tears of joy. After concluding the ceremony, when I served the feast to the villagers, they rejoiced saying they had never tasted such delicacies since the village’s founding. It had been eight full months since I came to this village, and the villagers had come to regard me with such familiarity and respect as if I were someone born among them. This was partly due to the effectiveness of the medicine I occasionally administered, a considerable portion of which I had received from my friend Dr. Hirooka Shūzō. Moreover, having brought ample medicine from Calcutta, I had been able to distribute it generously among the people.

For these various reasons, many came to regard me as truly indispensable and hoped I would settle permanently in this village, frequently conveying this wish to the Scholar through intermediaries. The Scholar, though erudite, possessed an uncanny grasp of worldly sentiments and a disposition that aligned all too readily with such base inclinations. Having exhausted other methods, he evidently concluded that securing my stay required arranging a marriage—persistently maneuvering to have me wed the sister of his host household’s master through every means short of explicit demand. Yet I remained steadfast in my conviction that adherence to Shakyamuni Buddha’s teachings constituted my very lifeblood, dismissing such overtures entirely. Finding no purchase through direct appeals, he resorted to subtler temptations—plying me with liquor and surreptitious meat-laced broths—from which I emerged unscathed, sheltered within Buddha’s protective radiance. Had I succumbed to union with those grime-caked mountain dwellers, I might now dwell as some soot-stained ascetic in the Himalayan depths.

Investigating Secret Paths: For these reasons having grown quite close with the villagers I gained opportunity to investigate potential routes through pathless mountains that might allow entry into Tibet. However were I to inquire specifically about that matter alone there existed risk of arousing suspicion. Given people already kept close watch on me—speculating about mysterious medicines I possessed or suspecting me of being Westerner due to fair complexion and fastidiousness—inquiring about Tibet entry routes could invite grave dangers necessitating skillfully phrased questions avoiding their suspicions. When villagers approached I would deliberately soften tone stating “It proves inadvisable taking routes where taxation occurs or bribing government officials becomes necessary when trading near Tibet. In such cases one must avoid proper routes taking alternative paths instead” implicitly inquiring. They responded “Previously no such measures existed but frequent foreign infiltration attempts now require stationing five-soldier units even on secret paths. Thus taking those routes means soldiers will complain dawdling demanding money for luggage—hence when carrying valuables like coral beads or Western sundries to Northwest Plains you must go via other areas.”

“Which path do you take?” “There is no path, but if you head toward the corner of these western mountains, cross over that snowy peak, and descend, you’ll find a river.” They explained in detail about “where to cross that river and which mountain direction to follow to traverse uninhabited areas.” I carefully wrote down every word they said and kept these notes. When others later came, I used their accounts as reference when questioning them, and through this learned of dangerous spots along the way or warnings that one might be devoured by snow leopards if not cautious.

The Difficulty of Departure: Having thus investigated secret paths in this manner, circumstances made it impossible to abruptly leave this village and venture into the pathless mountains. Having resided long in Tsarang, they grew deeply concerned about which direction I might take when departing. Were I to recklessly advance into trackless areas, this might deepen the villagers' suspicions and invite pursuit. Therefore, I first backtracked before gradually probing whether there might be routes allowing progress undetected by villagers and emerging beyond Tibetan soldiers' posts. Through these investigations emerged a path said to lead through three days' journey across Dhaulagiri Snow Peak's northern flank to Torubo and onward through uncharted mountains before reaching nomad-frequented northwest plains. I further heard that even absent nomads on those plains, traveling a day or day-and-half beyond would bring one to Geron Rimpoche's abode.

Since this was indeed the path I should take, I firmly resolved to proceed in that direction. I therefore decided to await the season, though they maintained one absolutely couldn't cross the Snowy Mountains until reaching June by the solar calendar. They said March along with June, July and August were traversable months, but once September came and snow fell even once,the route would seal shut. Of course this didn't mean snow never fell during those three summer months - but at least then even when it snowed one could advance within survivable limits without freezing to death en route - or so they claimed.

Having conducted all these investigations while awaiting the appointed time, there existed a place called Maruba near Tsukuje Village to the south of Tsarang Village. Not only did Adam Narin, chief of that village, come to Tsarang and the Northwest Plains for trade, but he also kept forty or fifty yaks grazing in the Northwest Plains, with his servants pitching tents to watch over them. It appeared they occasionally went out on patrols, and since these people traveled along open roads, they could come and go as they pleased. This time too, having come for patrols, he stayed at the residence where I was being accommodated. At that time, having explained Buddhist teachings in response to his request, he expressed great delight and told me: “I have enshrined the complete Buddhist canon obtained from Tibet in our temple hall, yet no one has ever read it. “I earnestly entreat you to visit my residence and read them for a memorial service,” he implored, so I promised: “Then I shall call upon you in the near future.”

Chapter 15: The Itinerant Merchant's Defamation

Departing Tsarang: The promise I made with Adam Narin, chief of Maruba Village, was in October of Meiji 32 (1899). However, afterward, it was said he had traveled to India for business, and thus the matter came to naught. Returning to my account, I had been troubled with disposing of the white horse I acquired from Nepal. Now, Nyendaku—chief priest of Tsarang Temple—saw my horse and coveted it intensely. As this man was deeply versed in local affairs and a heavy drinker, I deemed it imprudent to risk unnecessary discourse with such a person and ultimately relinquished the horse to him. When I requested sutras or some token of gratitude in return, he gladly presented me with four volumes of indigo-paper sutras inscribed in gold ink, a Tibetan Buddhist dictionary compiled by Sakya Pandita (a manuscript), and two or three additional texts. Estimating their monetary value, these books would amount to roughly six hundred rupees—volumes I had cherished reading throughout my stay in Tsarang.

It was decided I would depart Tsarang on March 10 of the 33rd year (1900), the 11th day of the second month in the Tibetan calendar. During my stay in Tsarang, I had persuaded fifteen people to completely give up alcohol. Moreover, though tobacco-leaf chewing and inhaling their bitter juice flourished in this village, through religious admonition I had convinced some thirty individuals to abandon the practice. These were all people I had examined for illnesses and provided medicine to, receiving pledges of temperance in lieu of payment for the treatments. Having resided there a full year, not a single soul in the village remained unacquainted with me. Intimate acquaintances offered parting gifts—buckwheat noodles, bread, round loaves, dried cheese, and dried peaches—with four or five individuals presenting kata tokens and silver coins as well. Around three that afternoon, having loaded two horses with sutras and other baggage while mounting a third myself, I was guided by a villager to the settlement's edge where over a hundred people stood lined up in worshipful rows to receive my laying on of hands. As I performed the ritual for each supplicant and exchanged words, the hour grew late—already nearing five o'clock—yet I resolved to depart regardless, determined to reach lodging in the next village. At the village gate through which I'd first passed long ago, I paused to gaze back one final time, offering this prayer: "May those who showed me kindness during my stay in Tsarang Village deepen their devotion to the Buddhist path and attain lasting happiness." With these words I took my leave.

Returning to Maruba Village: Retracing the path I had come by, that night I lodged in Kimii, and the following day took shelter in a village called Tsuku on the banks of the Kaliganga River. There were also people there who wished to hear a sermon, so I preached, and when I tried to depart the next morning, about twenty individuals came to request the laying on of hands ritual. My mentor, the Scholar, had gone elsewhere slightly before my departure, but I humbly met him in this village called Tsuku where we bid each other a heartfelt farewell, arriving at dusk that day at the residence of Adam Narin in Maruba Mountain Village. Mr. Adam Narin had not yet returned, but his father, Soenam Norubu, kindly guided me to a beautiful Buddhist hall. In this Buddhist hall were enshrined the complete Tibetan Buddhist canon along with other treatises, and there were also numerous magnificent Buddhas. There were two rooms, and when I looked out from the front room’s window, I saw a peach orchard.

The land in this area was much lower than Tsarang, allowing crops to be harvested twice yearly. First they harvested wheat, then buckwheat. About four or five hundred meters beyond those fields lay the Kaliganga River, with low pine trees growing on its far bank. Above those pine-covered mountains towered the Snowy Mountains as always. It was truly a pure realm. Though the master of the house hoped I would stay long to read the complete Buddhist canon for him, I was merely lingering there while awaiting the season to cross the snowy peaks. As I spent my days reading Tibetan sutras and making excerpts, I came to deeply appreciate how my ability to freely interpret both Tibetan scriptures and treatises had stemmed entirely from Dr. Kegidō’s instruction—six hours daily for nearly a full year.

After about half a month had passed, during my stay in Tsarang, there had been a man from Tsukuje Village who went to Calcutta, India for trade. I entrusted a letter to Mr. Sarat through that merchant. Among those letters were also ones to be sent to Japan. The man took the letters to Mr. Sarat and brought back a reply. Inside that reply was a copy of the Mahabodhi Society’s magazine. When I looked through the magazine, there was an article translated from a Japanese newspaper stating that Mr. Nōkai Hiroshi of the Ōtani Sect had reached the Tibetan border but had been turned back by checkpoint officials. It was stated that Mr. Teramoto, who had accompanied Mr. Nōkai, had reported this fact. Therefore, Mr. Sarat wrote that since this article was accurate, entering Tibet would not be easy. Of course, he added a note of caution: "While you must be considering various methods to succeed, do not risk your life through overexertion."

Rumors from the Itinerant Merchant: However, the merchant to whom I had entrusted that letter spread various rumors. "That man must be a high-ranking British official." This reasoning stemmed from Sarat Chandra Das—the recipient of my letters—being a British government official who received three hundred sixty rupees monthly. After all, few Bengalis drew such salaries. Sending letters to such a person appeared highly suspicious. Though that lama claimed to be Chinese, he was actually British—having apparently come here with substantial British funds to survey local geography and investigate Tibet's terrain. Conclusive proof lay in Mr. Sarat sending English books, which clearly demonstrated his language proficiency. Rumors circulated that keeping this lama in our village would bring harm. While mere rumors might have been tolerable, they ultimately reached my host who sheltered me.

Around that time, Mr. Adam Narin had also returned and heard of the matter. His face paling, he turned to me and said, “There are people spreading such stories about you. If what they say is true, what punishment might we receive? What should we do?” Since Adam Narin was an extremely honest person, I said, “If you swear to me that for three years you will not tell anyone what I say, I will reveal a secret to you.” “If you do not swear the oath, then there is nothing to be done but dismiss those rumors as mere rumors.” “Since word will likely come from the Nepalese government eventually, let us wait until then,” I said. “Very well, I shall swear the oath,” he replied. “In that case, please place that sutra upon my head,” he said, so I complied and had him take the oath there. Now, since this host was someone who frequently engaged in trade around India and could understand English spelling to some extent, I showed him the travel pass I had received from the Japanese Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

Chapter 16: The Precipitous Slopes of Takaseppō

“This is a travel pass I received from the government of Japan,” I said, showing the document. “Japan is a Buddhist nation, and I am one of its ordained monks.” “I came to these mountains to practice Buddhism and now journey onward to Tibet. My purpose holds no secrets that should invite suspicion.” “Therefore, report me to the authorities if you must. Bind me with ropes and deliver me to them if circumstances demand.” “But if you value the Dharma’s sanctity enough to protect its lamas,” I continued, “know this—I depart for Tibet now. Keep silent.” My host, who not only revered Buddhism but trusted me deeply—especially seeing my official pass—accepted every word. “I shall never speak of this,” he vowed. “Proceed to Tibet if you must.” “But what route will you take?” “First I’ll pilgrimage to Torubo and Sē,” I answered. “Then retrace steps to explore Dhaulagiri’s valleys—that Land of Immortals men call Peach Blossom Land—with guides.” “Whether I advance directly to Tibet remains uncertain.” “Regardless,” I concluded, “to spare you trouble, I’ll depart come June or July.” Relief washed over his face.

However, as I felt it pitiful to remain at that house any longer, I moved to the temple in this village to recite sutras. There I prepared all clothing, food, drink, and other necessities, resulting in luggage weighing exactly nine *kanmonme*. Having entrusted that luggage to the guide and shouldering only the sutras myself, I departed this Maruba Mountain Village on June 12. I now faced the difficulty of how to enter Tibet, but for the next twenty days or so, I would be traveling through the mountains with a guide. For the subsequent three days or so, one would traverse pathless areas; though proceeding straight would have allowed reaching the Northwest Plain in about ten days, I had planned for twenty-three days due to my intention to visit famous sites in those parts and observe the mountain conditions to ensure no errors along the way. And so, when I had completed all preparations and the time came to depart, I composed a poem.

The sky my roof, the earth my bedding, grass my pillow. I journey through clouds and water. However, the journey that lay ahead was not like this song. In truth, this song had suited my travels up to that point, but from then on, my journey would be one of traveling between snow and rocks—"the sky as my roof, snow as my bedding, and stone as my pillow."

I finally set out for Dhaulagiri. After departing this village and proceeding northwest along the Kaliganga River for about one ri, rain began to fall, so we took lodging at a place with a small house. The next day at seven in the morning, we departed and climbed a narrow path of towering rugged rocks; after traveling about two ri, we came to a valley with a sparse peach grove. We ate some food in that valley, then proceeded along a narrow steep slope for about two and a half ri; however, as it was an extremely precipitous incline with particularly thin air, our bodies grew exhausted and breath grew short, making further progress impossible, so we arrived at Dankaru Village at 3 PM and took lodging. However, whether from being struck by the thin air or some other cause, we had become utterly exhausted; thus, we stayed the following day and departed on the 15th.

This time we turned north and climbed a steep slope for two ri, crossed a valley of ice between rocky mountains, then ascended an even steeper northern slope for one and a half ri until reaching a slightly wider incline. As we gradually climbed further, we became thoroughly exhausted, so at 11 AM we took a brief rest—though there was no water to be found in that area. There was a place between rocks with a slight accumulation of snow where small grass grew. When starving, one does not choose their food. In the manner of "when thirsty, one does not choose water," we pulled up that grass and chewed its roots, only to find them extremely sour. Then, while chewing on those roots, we ate roasted buckwheat bread.

Climbing the Snowy Mountains’ Precipitous Slopes: After resting briefly, we ascended northward for one ri, then turned west to climb the terrifying cliff path called Muga-rasaka Slope—overlooking a thousand-ren valley on one side—but the sheer steepness of that slope defied all description. And on the left side of that slope, high snow peaks towered like a row of swords. Then, descending directly from that mountain peak, we proceeded through the nearly pathless gaps between rocks like monkeys leaping between trees. Though accustomed to mountains, the porters not only bounded nimbly ahead while carrying heavy loads but also gave me various instructions—"this way, that way"—since I could scarcely manage such leaps. Again, I would thrust my own staff between rocks to prevent myself from tumbling down, wield it as freely as a boatman handles an oar, or when suddenly about to be carried off by a snowslide into a thousand-ren chasm, skillfully plant my staff against the edge of a rock to halt my fall. The tip of that staff was fitted with spear-like iron. In areas where snow lay deep and wide, the rocks were not so severe and the terrain became relatively flat, making them easier to climb; but places without such conditions were truly perilous.

As we gradually climbed through those dangerous gaps, the sunlight reflecting off the snow struck my eyes—not only was the pain excruciating, but the air grew so thin that breathing became difficult. I couldn’t tell whether my diaphragm was being compressed or protruding outward; even now, the memory of it makes me shudder with how agonizing it was. The guide and porter said, "Since this is such a steep slope, we shouldn't rush too much. However, if we stay here too long and breathe in a lot of this bad air, we'll die." It seemed the porter was unaware of the rarefied air. The more courage I summoned to climb upward, the thinner the air grew, making my heart pound violently and my breathing constrict until my windpipe developed an odd tension, while half my brain felt as though it were on fire—a state beyond all remedy. Of course, there was not a single drop of water in that area, so I pressed onward while chewing snow to moisten my mouth, but between frequent near-fainting spells and the sudden onset of pain in my feet from chronic rheumatism, I had nearly become unable to proceed.

Chapter 17: Entering the Tibetan Border

The Hardships of the Journey: Though I repeatedly wanted to lie down on the snow from sheer unbearable agony, I was pulled forward by the guide—for there was a warning that lingering here would mean death. At that moment, I truly thought it dangerous, but this danger still paled compared to crossing Dhaulagiri's highest point. I was scarcely aware of being alive; on certain mountainsides, avalanches had swept away all accumulated snow and rocks, leaving only sand behind. When advancing along such slopes—whenever sandy slides nearly sent me plunging into valleys—I prevented falls with that staff while crossing over, having grown quite proficient in wielding it skillfully. Yet I still could not move like the guide. The guide passed through more deftly than monkeys.

After passing through such dangerous areas and emerging onto flat rock, I wanted to collapse right there, utterly unable to continue. When I stood frozen in place, the guide said going a little further down would bring us to water—but I simply couldn't move another step. Thereupon the guide fetched water and brought it to me. After drinking that water and holding a Hōtan pill in my mouth, I began feeling significantly better. Applying camphor tincture to my aching hands, I rested briefly as dusk fell, leaving only starlight and snow-glow illuminating the darkness. Having finally regained some vigor, I descended a sheer rocky slope northwest for one and a half ri by that crystalline light—a mountainside so steep it resembled a waterfall of stone. Eventually we reached Sanda village, a cluster of about ten houses.

Lodging in Yukimura: This village interacted with other villages for only three months each year, while remaining snowbound and isolated for the remaining nine. The communication route was the same path I had traveled. It seemed astonishing that people could sustain life in such perilous terrain. As for the scenery of those snowy peaks and rocky crags—so awesomely magnificent that their wonders were too numerous to describe individually—though my body was utterly exhausted, my spirit surged with such grand emotions that my delight became truly unbearable. This brought me to the point of forgetting even my physical suffering. However, being unable to proceed the next day, we stayed, and after remaining another day, departed on the 18th.

In this village, they ate peculiar things. It was called Tau—something resembling buckwheat, yet inferior to it. In this village, they could produce nothing but such fare. And even that only once a year. After advancing gradually northwest for over one ri, we emerged again at Saguruma Slope. This slope bore an eerie reputation where pilgrims had been swept to their deaths by sandslides even the previous year; passing beyond it, we encountered a snow peak resembling Bodhidharma in meditation. Proceeding past that peak and descending into a valley, we found ancient hinoki cypresses growing among the valley's rocks—their beauty truly remarkable. Climbing southwest along the great stream in that valley for about one ri, we reached a beautiful gorge called Tashitang (Glory Valley) at eleven in the morning.

Valley Beasts and Medicinal Herbs: We passed through numerous mountains and beast-inhabited slopes, advancing across many places where a single misstep would have sent us plummeting thousands of *ren* down into valley ghosts. Yet with our guide present, we had no anxiety about losing our way. After all, though one might call it a path of sorts, since we had to traverse this steep slope where one could only somehow manage by clambering up and scrambling down using both hands and feet, it proved exceedingly arduous. In the valley were trees as well as beautiful flowers in bloom. Within it were many medicinal herbs, and also many musk deer dwelled. That night we lodged among rocks between the Snowy Mountains, and on the following 19th we again proceeded northwest along a similar path and ascended a large snowy mountain slope called Tarshinra; however, it was unbearably cold.

Not only was it cold; I was so exhausted that I had to cling to the porter carrying the baggage, yet the scenery remained splendid. Though lacking courage to gaze directly, I saw undulating snow peaks—jagged and towering at every horizon—reflect each other’s majesty, manifesting the universe’s sublime beauty. There in the southeast rose Dhaulagiri, a lofty snow peak sitting serenely as if in eternal meditation. The central peak—as though Vairocana Buddha were coiled within the sky’s void—stood encircled by surrounding mountains that took bodhisattva-like forms. Entranced by this solemn grandeur despite my suffering, I felt the guide pull my arm. “If we linger here breathing this air, we’ll die—descend quickly!” he urged. That day we descended four ri down the mountain, lodging again among rocks where the cold bit deep. At that moment, even through agony, a poem arose within me.

Lodging in the snowy crags of the Himalayas—I think of the moon rising over Yamato.

Bones Along the Path: On June 20th, we departed once more and proceeded to climb the terrifying mountain as was customary. In this area there were deer called Nā with gray mottled patterns—in places where they gathered thickly, herds of two hundred to three hundred head crowded the valleys. As we advanced deeper into the mountains, mountain yaks appeared, while beasts such as snow leopards and wild dogs could be glimpsed upon distant peaks. It was said these creatures would occasionally emerge; we found places where animal bones lay scattered—whether from predation or natural death—and others where the remains of those frozen to death were strewn across the snowdrifts, though skulls and leg bones were entirely absent. This occurred because whenever someone collapsed and died here, passersby would carry off all bones for Tibetan Buddhist ritual implements, leaving only ribs behind. Each time I beheld such scenes, I felt struck by impermanence's truth. When I considered that I too might meet such an end upon some mountain's edge, a desire arose within me to mourn those who had perished before us.

After crossing that mountain (23rd), I arrived at a village called Torubo. That place is also called Tsaruka. This single village believes in Bon, Tibet’s ancient teaching.

We advanced daily through similar mountains, yet along the way there were many scenic spots—natural rocks shaped like Buddha—and we saw numerous rare plants and animals as well. (It was a mountain akin to Myōgi Mountain in our homeland, only vastly enlarged, where stone gates and rocks that seemed to race across the sky could be seen.) But I will omit this. In any case, along steep mountain paths—sometimes staying one day, sometimes about two days to recuperate our strength—we pressed on until July 1st. Thereupon I decided to send back the guide who had accompanied me. During that time, having consumed a considerable amount of provisions, my luggage had decreased by about one kan five hundred momme to approximately eight kan momme. This time I had to carry it myself. And so at last,

I must cross the lofty snow peak at the Tibetan border. I said to the porter, “I must now go to the Peach Spring Land in the mountains of Dhaulagirī. “So you must return home,” I said. But the porter, who had assumed we would be returning together, was shocked upon hearing we were heading to Dhaulagirī and exclaimed, “That won’t do! “No one can go to such a place unless they’re a Buddha or Bodhisattva! “I don’t know if you’re such a person either. “They say that since ancient times, only one or two people have ever gone there. “They say it’s a terrifying place—if you go, you will surely die. “Even if not, you’ll be devoured by the beasts guarding Peach Spring Land’s outskirts—please stop!” he urged me kindly. Yet since my purpose lay there, I tried explaining my reasons until at last he departed, tears streaming down his face.

On that new moon morning, I watched until his figure disappeared from sight, then shouldered my luggage—weighing approximately eight *kan momme*—and headed not toward Peach Spring Land, but into the northern mountains I had previously heard described. From this point onward, the hardships defied description, though the mountains themselves proved less formidable. With truly few jagged rocks to hinder me, the path was relatively easy going, yet advancing alone through endless snow remained unbearable. There were nights spent sleeping in snowdrifts, and when fortunate enough to find rock overhangs, I would lodge there; guided solely by my compass and the mountain shapes foretold to me, I pressed northward. Just as predicted, three days after parting from the porter, I crossed the snowy peaks north of Dhaulagiri and finally attained the summit of the lofty Snowy Mountains marking Tibet’s border with Nepal.

Gazing upon Tibet's Interior from the Border Snow Peak

Infinite Reflections at the Tibetan Border: Here, at Nepal's very edge, lay the summit marking Tibet's beginning. The first thing I had to do was unload my burden of luggage, though I couldn't simply drop it anywhere. With the entire area buried under snow... I found a rocky spot convenient for clearing, swept away the snow there to unload my baggage, then finally paused to breathe. Gazing southward from that perch, Dhaulagiri's lofty snow peak stood towering through cloud-wreathed heights into empty sky.

Even amidst the hardships of that long journey through snowy mountain paths, when I gazed far northward, the mountains of the Tibetan Plateau appeared like undulating waves. Between them flowed several winding rivers whose distant origins remained unknown and whose destinations could not be seen. Though veiled within clouds, when I truly beheld this vista, I felt struck by an inexplicable joy. Turning southward first, I recalled Buddhagaya—the sacred site far beyond those southern lands where Shakyamuni Tathāgata attained enlightenment—and reflected how my solemn vow made long ago at that holy ground had now brought me safely to this border. Then I remembered how upon leaving my homeland, I had estimated that three years of preparation would be necessary before I might enter Tibet’s frontier—for without such groundwork, achieving this hope would prove impossible—and indeed, precisely as foreseen, three full years had been expended.

Having departed on June 26 of Meiji 30 and arrived at this border on July 4 of Meiji 33, I could not contain my joy at how my expectations had not been betrayed. In any case, my body was extremely fatigued, so I first thought to rest thereabouts, but with nothing but snow everywhere, there was truly no suitable spot... So I took out some roasted barley flour from my bag, put it into a bowl, added snow and a bit of butter, then kneaded it into proper consistency. Then in another bowl I placed chili pepper and salt, and after thoroughly kneading the roasted barley mixture with snow and butter, I ate it coated with the chili powder and salt. The exquisite flavor was truly beyond—

It was so delicious that I thought even the hundred-flavored delicacies of the Pure Land of Ultimate Bliss might not surpass this. After eating about two bowls of this, that would suffice for the day's meal. Of course, until now I had always managed with just one meal a day. In the mornings, I would simply eat dried tree fruits—things like dried peaches or dried grapes. So at noon alone, I would eat two bowls of kneaded roasted barley flour each time, and that was all. Those bowls were quite large, so they became rather filling. I should note that the roasted barley flour from that region was remarkably potent. It seemed wheat grown in cold regions was considerably rich in nutrients. I ate it slowly, then sat down amidst snow stretching endlessly in all directions and gazed around. There was simply an inexplicable sense of pleasure in this—with no one else present, just me sitting utterly still, lost in thought, having no notion of where to head next.

Chapter 18: Snowbound Journey

The sole reliance in the snowy mountains was my compass. Though I would be descending northward regardless, I decided to first head northwest through the snow, following where the compass—my only guide in these mountains—pointed, considering which descent might bring me closer to Lake Manasarovar, my current objective. After surveying carefully from the mountain summit what seemed the most promising path in this direction, I shouldered my luggage with great effort and—relying on my breath staff—pressed onward through the snow. However, up to this point, since it was the sun-facing side of the mountain, the snow wasn’t particularly abundant. There were places where five or six inches had accumulated, and also places where none had settled. There were also quite a few places where traces of snowmelt remained and rocks lay scattered about.

However, [the current descending path] being on the shaded side meant the snow depth proved truly unbearable. Though unfathomable in measure, when I pressed down firmly, my leg would sink at least fourteen or fifteen sun (approximately 42-45 cm) deep. On rare occasions settling at seven or eight sun (21–24 cm), extracting my limbs remained arduous. Guiding myself with my staff like a tiller, I descended through plunging steps—yet beneath the snow lay uneven rocks that trapped my feet between stones, defying extraction. Thus I progressed incrementally downward. While descending eased the burden of my eight *kan momme* load compared to climbing, the snow’s tenacious grip on my legs left me confounded. After descending roughly one ri (four kilometers), no trace of snow remained. There stretched a rocky expanse. At last,

When one crosses the Snowy Mountains, there lies a rocky expanse—jagged stones strewn everywhere, leaving no clear place to plant one’s foot. I was wearing Tibetan boots, but those boots had torn apart due to the rocky expanse. Of course, by the time I had come that far, a considerable period had already passed, so it was only natural that my boots would tear. The boots tore; the blisters that had formed on my feet burst and bled, and thus my blood soaked into those jagged stones. The pain was truly unbearable. If it had been only round stones, that would have been manageable, but there were places where angular stones occasionally appeared that had to be stepped on to proceed. On top of that, since I was carrying a heavy load, I simply couldn’t move my body with any lightness. When I abruptly stepped onto one of those angular stones, the combined weight of my load would press my foot down hard, sometimes causing it to slip where least expected and injure me anew. The boots had torn even more.

After traveling about two ri (approximately eight kilometers), I came upon two ponds formed by melted snow—one approximately two ri in circumference and another about one ri (four kilometers). The ponds lay neatly aligned. One was rectangular while the other was round; reaching their edges, I found truly beautiful ducks present. Several ducks of varying sizes—their brown, red, and white plumage dotted with black spots—were frolicking along the pond's margin. The water's crystalline purity shone utterly transparent; this could indeed be called a pristine pond formed by gathered snowmelt. Coming to such a place, I thought that unloading my luggage at this scenic spot and gazing about might fully alleviate my travel fatigue—and indeed, the joy I felt as I plopped down by the pond's edge and leisurely surveyed the scene was matchless. Though my feet ached and my back had stiffened like a pole, making even bending agonizing, beholding this vista made such suffering vanish until I became utterly self-forgotten—yet thoughts arose: Had anyone since antiquity ever come here? Perhaps none at all. For this was a solitary journey. In any case, since I had reached this place, I resolved to bestow names—to the rectangular pond,

“Ekai Pond.” Then to the round pond, I bestowed the alternate name “Jinkō Pond.” Though discovering such ponds was no great feat, since this was a place showing no trace of human visitation since ancient times, I bestowed those names as a memento of having entered Tibet. However, lingering there for such purposes would prove pointless; as I still had ample time remaining, I resolved to advance further northwestward. Gradually tracing the pond’s edge, I resumed my downward descent. As I descended lower, there appeared a pond shaped precisely like a gourd. Based on its form, I named it “Gourd Pond.” I estimated its circumference at no more than half a ri (approximately two kilometers). Continuing my gradual descent, snowy mountains stretched ahead in the distance. Looking northwest from those mountains, I could discern two or three tents. How peculiar—could people actually inhabit this area? Might nomads have settled here? Such thoughts arose within me.

Be that as it may, there I found myself facing one pressing concern. If I proceeded toward where those tents stood, they might suspect me of being a suspicious figure emerging from pathless terrain—potentially jeopardizing my objective of entering Tibet. Thinking, "Best to choose an alternate route," I scanned the surroundings, but saw only layer upon layer of deep mountains with no viable path visible. Beside the tents at the snowbound mountain's edge stretched a low pass running northwestward. What appeared to be a side path came dimly into view, and I felt an urge to head in that direction. Resolving to settle this decisively, I unloaded my baggage and slowly sat down—for whenever confronted with matters insoluble through ordinary reasoning, I would enter meditative decision-making to determine my course. Thus I resolved to employ this method, sitting there immersed in vast emptiness—utterly devoid of sanctity—to clarify my path.

Now, this **Meditative Decision-Making**— Meditative Decision-Making Samadhi refers to the principle that when matters can be settled through reason，determining good and evil based on that reason was not difficult． However，when dealing with matters that could not be settled theoretically—uncertain issues regarding what might occur in the future—there arose the necessity to establish some decision． In this，I followed the method of zazen shown by the Buddha and first entered the contemplation of non-self． It was by inclining toward the point of the concept discovered within that contemplation of non-self that I determined which method to adopt． Therefore，I have provisionally given this the name “Meditative Decision-Making Samadhi．” That is，thinking to determine my destination by that method，I sat down there，assumed the zazen posture，and became self-forgotten；yet even I myself could not tell how much time I had spent in that state．

Part 19: On the Path to Entering the Country

The course was decided—according to what Meditative Decision-Making Samadhi revealed, venturing into the deep mountains was ill-advised. As the determination indicated safety lay toward the tents, I once more shouldered my luggage and began steadily making my way. From conventional reasoning, however arduous the path might be, one ought first avoid heading toward inhabited areas; yet to wander into utterly trackless regions for lack of dwellings risked new perils. Thus I advanced as before, heeding the samadhi's guidance. Upon nearing those tents at duskfall, five or six massive fearsome dogs came charging forth with raucous barks.

Since these dogs subsisted solely on meat and excrement, their features were savagely fierce with extraordinarily long fur. Their size surpassed even that of large Western breeds known today. With five or six of these beasts encircling me in a cacophony of barks, the situation grew profoundly unnerving. Yet I recalled crucial instruction from earlier teachings: when confronting dogs, never strike them—instead, calmly manipulate their muzzles with a staff's tip to prevent biting. Following this method precisely yielded the promised result—the dogs refrained from attack. When I called toward the tent, an elderly woman emerged who exclaimed upon seeing me, “Ah! This must be a pilgrim!”

The Kindness of the Mountain-Dwelling Old Woman—She showed no signs of suspicion whatsoever. Having come from the direction of Lhasa, I explained being a pilgrim bound for Kān Rinpoche and requested shelter for the night, saying sleeping outdoors would prove too bitterly cold. To my surprise, she readily agreed—“Then come inside first; that must be an immensely heavy load”—and promptly ushered me into her dwelling. “This isn’t where your kind usually comes—why venture to such a place?” “Truthfully, I meant to visit Geron Rinpoche—a monk—but lost my way unexpectedly and wound up here.” To this she gave an “Ah, I see” sort of response and quickly served already-brewed tea. The tea differed from Japanese varieties—containing both butter and salt, like a broth lacking solid ingredients. Though well-seasoned and rather delicious, for us Japanese it wasn’t something one could readily bring to their nose at first. It gave off an unpleasant odor making it undrinkable initially, but through persistent endurance in consuming it over time, one eventually came to find its flavor agreeable.

As soon as I finished drinking that tea, she would give me roasted barley flour—such was the routine. By the way, I always refrain from consuming such things in the afternoon. When I declined, explaining that I observed the precept against eating after noon and therefore could not accept it, the old woman was deeply impressed, remarking that very few people maintained such dietary discipline during travels like this. “That’s admirable of you.” “However, to reach Geron Rinpoche’s place from here, there is approximately a day’s journey.” “That venerable one is a renowned lama of Changtang—though Changtang literally means ‘northern plain,’ in Tibet it refers to the western plateau—and meeting that lama among all lamas of Changtang will allow one to obtain truly precious benefits.” “Since you have come all the way from the capital, you should meet him.” “My son should be returning soon, but since the river water is bitterly cold and quite difficult to ford on foot, it would be best if you came tomorrow riding a yak together with him.” “I shall instruct my son as well to make pilgrimage to this Geron Rinpoche—such was the gist of her explanation.”

This was an extremely favorable turn of events. However, I had an immediate difficulty to contend with. The shoes were torn, and I couldn’t take a single step further. So I asked the old woman. "Is there any way to repair these shoes?" "That’s quite a problem, but we can’t fix them here right away. You’ll have to stay about two days anyway before those shoes can be repaired." When I asked why that was, she explained that yak leather must be soaked in water until thoroughly softened before stitching—a process requiring about two days.

**Temporary Dwelling Beneath Snowy Peaks** Now, according to the old woman’s explanation: “At my place here, we will stay in these mountains tomorrow for the entire day and relocate elsewhere the day after. Therefore, it would be best if you were to visit Geron Rinpoche tomorrow and stay there for two or three days to have those shoes properly mended.” “Tomorrow, wear my son’s spare shoes. When you arrive there, return them to him—that will suffice.” Thus, everything was conveniently arranged. That evening, I ended up staying there. Just as I was about to sleep, her son returned and spoke of how Venerable Geron Rinpoche had attained psychic powers—discerning people’s thoughts, identifying their true nature, and often foreknowing disturbances before they arose to warn others. He had already told various interesting stories about such-and-such incidents from before, but since they are digressions, I will not recount them here. If, as her son said, he truly possessed psychic powers, I thought it would be greatly auspicious. However, Tibet has a great many charlatan monks. There being many charlatan monks who, while dwelling in such cave huts, devise ways to amass wealth by using the title of hermit as a means to gather property, I became so tormented by the thought that he might be one of those scoundrels that I could not sleep a wink that night.

Heading Toward the Snow-Dwelling Nomads' Cloth Tents

Riding Yaks: When dawn broke, the son promptly carried out his mother’s instructions and brought the yaks. The yak—this beast—was first and foremost considerably larger than a Japanese bull. The smaller ones were about the size of a cow. Their slightly short stature and profuse hairiness were truly extraordinary. As for their tails—they resembled those straight from a painting: thick like lions’ tails, forming tasseled shapes that hung down behind. This was that very yak described in the Lotus Sutra as being “cherished like its own tail.” In Tibet they called this creature a “yak,” but since no such beast existed in the West—and thus defied translation—it remained “yak” even in English. The female was called Lee. Though their faces resembled cows’, the sharp ferocity of their gaze was astonishing, and they would occasionally glare piercingly.

At first glance, they appeared as fearsome beasts whose sharp horns might strike at any moment with terrifying force, yet their nature proved unexpectedly docile and supremely useful—indeed, one might say they possessed even greater gentleness than Japanese cattle. I would discuss at another time how these yaks benefited Tibet, but for now, the son of the house where I stayed loaded one yak with cheese, butter, and other offerings intended for Geron Rinpoche, while preparing two more yaks for our own riding—thus bringing out three yaks in total. The old woman was a truly kind person who prepared tea and gave me roasted barley flour, cheese, butter, and such. This was said to be exceptionally favorable treatment in Changtang.

And then

With the intention of visiting the lama's rock cavern, I gradually headed northwest, ascending about half a ri before descending another half a ri, after which I began advancing toward the mountain visible to the east. However, tremendous hail began falling, making further progress impossible. Having no alternative, I unloaded the baggage from the yak's back, protected it from the hail with a covering, and rested by the roadside for about two hours, during which time I gained valuable information by inquiring about viable routes to my destination. As the hail had ceased by then, I remounted the yak and set out, whereupon there appeared a river about half a chō ahead. Fortunately being yak-mounted, I crossed without trouble. After fording two such rivers and climbing approximately two and a half ri up the mountain, a white rock cavern came into view. Therefore I named it White Rock Cavern. The old woman's son pointed at that White Rock Cavern and indicated it as Geron Rinpoche's dwelling place.

As we gradually ascended higher before that white cavern, there was another cavern. This was not white but a rock tinged slightly grayish-black, and within that cavern resided a disciple of Geron Rinpoche; the son first guided me to that cavern. Then around three in the afternoon, the son addressed the master of the cavern: “We were caught in hail along the way and couldn’t arrive by the appointed time—might it still be possible to meet Geron Rinpoche today?” “No,” came the reply. “Today is absolutely impossible. You must come tomorrow instead.” The son persisted: “Since these offerings were sent by someone named Pāsan who wished to present them, please deliver them to Geron Rinpoche.” “I’m relocating tomorrow—I can’t wait until then,” he declared, leaving his luggage behind as he departed home. Thus I took lodging inside that cavern.

Chapter 20: The Venerable One of White Rock Cavern The master of the cavern was none other than a lama who sat meditating within it. To say that sitting in meditation seems like doing nothing—yet that’s not the case. There were ample daily necessities and Buddhist ritual implements. Both a kitchen and sleeping quarters stood fully prepared there. Earlier, I had soaked the dried yak hide received from the old woman in water. When permitted to stay two or three days in this cavern and hearing various accounts, [he said,] “Journeying toward Kan Rinpoche from here will prove exceedingly difficult.” “First, travel two or three days to reach inhabited areas. Then pass through populated regions another two or three days—beyond that lies fifteen or sixteen days through uninhabited land. But do you know the way?” “No, I don’t know the way at all.” “Then you’ll never make it.” “Moreover, though your clothes suffice, carrying such heavy luggage will attract thieves.” “If thieves come, I’ll deal with them—but not knowing the way leaves me helpless.” “Is there no way to find a guide?” I inquired.

“You see, this area being sparsely populated means guides are scarce,” he said. “Though you managed to reach here through that gracious old woman’s exceptional hospitality, even if you go alone to inhabited areas now, no one will shelter you.” “With so many uninhabited regions beyond, safe passage is impossible.” “Look here.” “From this point onward—for miles upon miles—not a single pitched tent lies visible. Finding a guide for you is utterly out of the question.” When I then asked if he had ever visited Kan Rinpoche’s domain, he replied he had made pilgrimages there two or three times. “If you seek an established path ahead—no, that would lead you astray on detours. Yet accessible routes exist where no paths lie marked. If your resolve holds firm regardless, I shall explain the way—listen well.” “Descend this mountain to find a great river.” “Cross it and proceed thus,” he instructed meticulously. Now I grasped the route for two or three days’ travel.

Seated Meditation in the Rock Cavern—That evening, I practiced seated meditation inside the cavern. That monk too had ended up practicing seated meditation. Around midnight, I drifted off to sleep. When I awoke in good spirits and looked around, that monk had already risen and was outside preparing a fire to boil tea. I too promptly got up—ordinarily when one would rinse their mouth—but without rinsing mine and while rubbing my eyes, I recited sutras. Such was Tibetan custom—reciting sutras with an unwashed mouth proved truly trying, but unless I did this, they wouldn't believe I'd come from Lhasa in Tibet. I would soon be suspected. The custom of rinsing one's mouth upon waking simply didn't exist there. While reciting sutras in that state, he gave me tea. It was the usual tea mixed with butter and salt—drinking it with an unrinsed mouth. By then I'd grown accustomed enough that drinking wasn't difficult, yet it remained unpleasant—had I been unwatched, I'd have rinsed my mouth first, but this wasn't feasible. It meant drinking through considerable endurance.

Then, as usual, I ate roasted barley flour dumplings seasoned with chili pepper and salt. That was the finest feast. We kept talking until past eleven o'clock. Since it concerned specialized matters, there was naturally no need to elaborate. When the appointed meeting time approached just before noon, I went to meet him at the rock cavern along with about twenty pilgrims who had come for worship. The master of that rock cavern was an exceedingly revered lama in those parts. Wherever he went, people would recite: "Geron Lobsang Gompo La Kyabsu Chio." This meant "I take refuge in Bhikṣu Kengyōshu," and each night at bedtime, the local inhabitants would face the cavern's direction, chanting three times and bowing three times in worship. Even witnessing this made clear the extent of his exalted virtue. Thus it came about that people would specially make pilgrimages from dozens of ri away to present various offerings. Pilgrims always lodged at the mountain's base where the cavern stood, waiting to meet him between just past eleven and one o'clock on the day after their arrival. As for me, no matter who went, they wouldn't permit a meeting. A fence-like barrier surrounded the cavern entrance, sealed shut outside designated hours, making any encounter impossible. Yet when the hour came, he would emerge slightly beyond the cavern to meet all the pilgrims.

Lamas and Pilgrims: As for offerings, some brought money, but many presented goods. Each person presented what they had brought, then listened to the sermon and received mani beads. This referred to how first the lama chanted the six-syllable mantra “Om Mani Padme Hum,” and then the pilgrims joined in unison. Then, upon meeting before receiving various teachings, they immediately performed three bows. Then, as per custom, they bent their waists, stuck out their tongues to show respect, proceeded to the front where the table was placed, and pressed their heads before the lama. Then the lama extended his right hand and stroked their heads. If they were a slightly more esteemed lama, they would do it with both hands. Also, if they were someone of equal or higher status than oneself, they pressed their forehead against one’s head. This was called in Tibetan,

They called this receiving Chakwan—that is, the laying on of hands ritual. There were four types of this laying on of hands ritual. The four types were: first, the forehead-to-head ritual (pressing one’s forehead to another’s head); second, the both-hands laying on; third, the single-hand laying on; and fourth, the ritual-implement laying on. While the first three were as previously explained and generally understood, the fourth was not commonly practiced. In the capital Lhasa, the Dharma King employed this ritual. In the second capital, Shigatse, Panchen Rinpoche employed this ritual. Since such revered lamas could not lay hands on laypeople’s heads, they fashioned a ritual implement resembling a commander’s baton and used that tool to stroke their heads—this was the Ritual-Implement Blessing. At first glance, it appeared as if they were striking the head. This was the ritual of response performed by high-ranking lamas toward laypeople. Thereupon, I

The Venerable Master of the Cavern’s Demeanor—When I observed the venerable master’s demeanor, he was a monk in his seventies with white hair, his speech carrying an astounding sharpness. His imposing build and muscular frame—so sturdy that one would never take him for someone who merely sits in meditation—gave him an awe-inspiring presence at first glance. Yet upon observing his conduct, he revealed not ferocity but astonishing depth of compassion, bestowing benevolence and love upon others unreservedly. In this regard, I came to fully admire him from that initial encounter. I stood utterly dumbfounded, thinking: Could such a fearsome [revered] figure truly dwell in semi-barbaric Tibet? If this man could indeed see through my innermost thoughts as her son had claimed—a most auspicious opportunity—I found myself able to speak with redoubled joy and courage. Thus when conversing afterward, I believe this disposition must have naturally shown in my bearing.

**Dialogue with the Venerable Master**—First, I too bent my waist, stuck out my tongue, advanced, and thrust out my head; then he performed the both-hands laying on ritual. He performed a courtesy nearly equal in degree to what I had shown. Then, after staring intently at me, he inquired, “You have no need to come to a place like this—for what purpose have you come here?” “Well, in truth, I am undertaking ascetic practices by visiting various sacred sites for Buddhist training. However, having heard of your esteemed virtue, I have come wishing to inquire about matters pertaining to the Dharma.” “Hmm, what is it you wish to ask?” said Geron Rinpoche. “I humbly wish to inquire about what method you employ to deliver sentient beings and the subtle aspects of that method.” Then he said, “Such matters are already known to all of you—since all Buddhist teachings reside within you, there is no need to ask me.”

At this point, as the exchange began taking on the character of a Zen-style dialogue between Japanese monks, I promptly responded with the solemnity befitting a Zen practitioner. “While it is true that all Buddhism inherently resides within every being,” I began, “we must recall how Sudhana traversed the land in antiquity, seeking fifty-three spiritual guides.” “The trials he endured stand as exemplars for us Buddhist monks to study.” “Though unworthy,” I continued, “I have undertaken this ascetic journey in emulation of Sudhana’s path—hence my inquiries today.” Before I could finish, he interjected: “My method for delivering sentient beings is singular.” “This singular approach derives from the sutra known as the Mahāparinirvāṇa Sūtra.” Having never encountered this text, I pressed further: “Might I then be granted leave to examine this sutra?”

Mahāparinirvāṇa Sūtra — At this, the meditator of White Rock Cave immediately stood up, entered his cavern, and brought out a single volume of that sutra. Having received it, I promptly asked, "What is the essential truth of this sutra?" to which he replied, "It is a scripture that expounds how the Three Vehicles are none other than the One Vehicle." When I took the sutra back and read it, I found it bore resemblances to the Lotus Sutra in certain passages. There were even sections that seemed to have been lifted directly from the Lotus Sutra and rebranded under this new title. As I needed to repair my footwear, I ended up staying that night and the next as well. On the third day, I went to meet the Venerable Master again, where we held extensive discussions about my observations on the Mahāparinirvāṇa Sūtra. In essence, though Chinese and Japanese Buddhist traditions clashed fiercely with their Tibetan counterparts during our debates, the Venerable Master himself took great delight in our exchanges.

**Chapter 21: Hardships in the Mountains**

**Departing White Rock Cavern** — On July 7th, I met once more with the meditator and set about repairing my footwear. However, as this was work I had never done before, the difficulty proved immense—I frequently found myself nearly leaping up when needles stabbed into my hands. Thereupon, the master of the cavern, unable to bear watching any longer, demonstrated the method while explaining it, ultimately completing most of the work himself. With the footwear now prepared, on the morning of July 8th I shouldered a load weighing approximately ten kanmon and set out. In truth, at that time the Venerable Master had advised that unless I carried extra roasted barley flour, there would likely be no place to purchase provisions ahead. Even were tents available, none would give me any—thus I must bear this weight regardless. Heeding his warning that otherwise I might perish en route, he generously provided roasted barley flour, butter, and dried grapes in quantity. These additions brought my total burden to just over ten kanmon—a weight that proved utterly unbearable at first lifting. Yet there was no alternative; with great effort I hoisted it and departed. Carrying such an immense load downslope exhausted my legs terribly. When I finally reached the instructed riverbank around eleven o'clock, I ate barley flour there before removing both my footwear and underpants, rolling my hems up to the thighs. Having previously ascertained the river's depth, I plunged into what appeared a shallow section.

The Trial of Wading Through Icy Water—However, the water was astonishingly cold, striking me with a sensation as if my body were being sliced open. I immediately retreated and leapt back. This cold is unbearable! I spent some time thinking that attempting to cross this freezing river—over 150 meters wide—might kill me midstream, but the cold had already permeated my entire body, leaving me slightly trembling. This won’t do! As I wondered what to do, it suddenly occurred to me. I had long carried clove oil from Sakai no Okamura. Thinking I should apply it, I immediately took out the bottle and smeared the oil on both my body and feet. Fortunately, the sun was shining, and having rubbed in the oil, my body grew considerably warmer.

Then, muttering "I should start crossing bit by bit," I plunged in again. Even so, the cold was truly piercing. At first it hurt from the icy shock, but eventually numbness set in until I couldn't tell whether my feet still touched the riverbed. With only two staffs to rely on, I somehow supported my legs and staggered up the opposite bank as if about to collapse. The river had a swift current reaching waist-deep. When I climbed onto the far shore, I felt a joy akin to reaching enlightenment's other shore. My task then was to rub warmth into the numbed areas—I thought to dry them in sunlight first—but found I could barely move. Naturally, I unloaded my luggage there, looked around distractedly, and lingered awhile doing various things. Having somewhat recovered and with afternoon nearing two o'clock, I resolved it would be wise to advance further and determined to press onward through the instructed mountain path. Yet my legs had grown so leaden—as if they might detach—that walking became nearly impossible.

The Cold Pierces to the Bone — Having been struck by such intense cold, I could perceive that my muscles had grown sluggish, but I simply could not advance further. So after resting for a while, I gradually proceeded to climb using my staff as support. Then my legs felt unbearably sluggish. The luggage had become heavier than before, making it truly arduous. After walking two or three *chō*, I had to skillfully unload my luggage at a rocky spot and rest; otherwise, I couldn’t proceed. Despite the cold, sweat poured from my armpits—a truly miserable state. If I couldn’t walk like this, I thought it would be better to combine these two staffs, divide the luggage into two parts, and carry them using a method similar to how we carry loads with a carrying pole in Japan—so I split the luggage into two and shouldered them. After walking a hundred or two hundred meters like this—carrying the load by combining two round staffs as originally devised—the pain in my shoulders became utterly unbearable. The weight remained just as heavy as before; it didn’t seem any lighter at all. There was simply no way to manage it no matter what I tried. I tried carrying it on my back and then shouldering it with a carrying pole. After repeatedly considering which method might work better, I finally managed to climb seven or eight *chō* up the mountain, after which I began descending toward the other side. The descent proved unexpectedly easy, and even amidst difficulties, I managed to come down about half a *ri* of path and reached the riverbank. By then, it was around four o'clock, and I couldn’t take another step. There was no choice but to camp there. Moreover, having quickly resolved to camp there, I first needed to gather yak dung and what is called *kyan*—wild horse dung. This was to be used as firewood.

**Campfire Cooking** — After placing my luggage in a suitable spot, I folded the large hem of my Tibetan robe into a pouch shape and used it to gather dung. Then I gathered three medium-sized stones and arranged them like tripod legs, building up the collected dung around them like a wall. Next, I kneaded the driest dung pieces into powder by hand and placed them amply in the center. Into this prepared space I inserted leaf-crafted tinder, then struck flint stones in the old Japanese manner to transfer fire. I steadily pumped air using a leather bellows. Regulating the airflow proved quite challenging. I...

I was greatly troubled by the process; there were times when making a fire took an exceedingly long time. Of course, if I added well-dried yak dung, the fire started quickly; but if by chance it was wet, even half a day wouldn't suffice. This caused considerable difficulties. As for yaks, since they were left to graze freely like horses in Hokkaido, there was no trouble collecting dung. Finally having gotten a fire going and once the yak dung piled in a circular wall-like shape had caught fire, I headed to fetch water with a Tibetan pot. I drew water into that pot and boiled it. At high altitudes where air pressure was low, water boiled oddly quickly. When it came to a boil, I crushed the tea leaves by hand and added them. Then, when boiling the tea, I added natural soda (found in Tibet's mountains). If not boiled for about two hours, the tea wouldn't develop a proper color. If not boiled properly—as Tibetans stated it was poisonous—I boiled it thoroughly. Once properly prepared, I added butter and salt to the tea; though one should ideally churn it with a tool, lacking such implements I simply stirred it with my fingers and drank. The tea was compressed Chinese coarse tea. I would put that into a pot filled with water and boil it. The pot held about one shō, but in exchange I ate no rice at all in the afternoon.

The Peril of Camping — Now, I took all the yak dung and wild horse dung I had managed to gather, added it in a layer over the already boiling water’s crimson flames, then covered it all with sand to smother the fire into embers. Of course, there were considerable advantages to keeping a blazing fire burning all night. This was because wild beasts and such, upon seeing the fire, did not approach. Among snow-dwelling leopards, there existed truly fearsome creatures. This was called "snow leopard" in English with the scientific name Felis uncia, so Tibetans simply referred to it as "Sikh." There were also wildcats dwelling in the snow that posed significant danger to humans. Such beasts did not come if a fire was kept burning at night. Therefore, from the perspective of true necessity, it was essential to keep a fire burning all night; however, if one kept it burning, thieves or others from perhaps the mountaintops or elsewhere might notice the fire and exclaim, “Ah, there’s a fire over there—there must be people! If we go, we can get some good work done!”—there was a risk they would come targeting the fire from some mountain ridge.

The threat of wild beasts was indeed dreadful, but human persecution proved even more terrifying. For there were times when wild beasts might hear one’s breathing as they slept soundly yet leave without attacking. To guard against thieves’ predation, I covered the fire with sand. I ensured the embers would last until morning. Thus there was no danger of freezing to death in the bitter cold or lying awake sleepless. With ice forming by dawn, temperatures fell below freezing. That night—it being the thirteenth of June by lunar reckoning—I slept...

Open-Air Lodging in the Vast Plain and the Snow Leopard The moon glistened brilliantly in the cold sky, its light reflected on the river flowing before where I camped. With no companion to converse with—only the occasional roar of wild beasts that reached my ears—it was the sound of the water flowing before me and the bright moon that brought solace to the hardships of my journey. Since this too was felt to be an exceptionally fine scene—though of course the mountain forms, being all crags and barren peaks, held no particular interest—it was only the moon’s reflection upon the water that brought me such profound delight that thoughts of my homeland arose unbidden, compelling me to compose a verse.

The moon that rises over Tibet's Takamine Plateau— O Lord of the Celestial Realm, I deem thee— Well, I tried to sleep, but even with a fire, my back grew cold and my waist area froze, so I still could not manage to drift off. So, Painful as it was, I performed seated meditation. As I sat in a daze, before I knew it, night had dawned. When I raked through the fire, embers still remained. Then I went out to fetch water. In the morning, since ice had formed along the river's edge, I broke through it to draw water, and while warming it over the lingering fire, I began preparing my luggage. First, I rectified the careless way my clothes hung. Once the water within had become lukewarm, I promptly drank it and ate the dried grapes I had received. With my stomach settled, I shouldered my luggage and gradually set out. Now, whether I had been told to ascend or descend along the river—I had abruptly forgotten. I believed I had been told to ascend, but when I approached the ascending side, the mountain stood truly high. In such lofty places, I could never climb while bearing such a heavy load. Even were there a passable path up this mountain, carrying this burden would surely kill me. Thus resolved, I decided instead to descend along the riverbank, making my way downstream step by step. Yet whether my path was mistaken or not, I never reached the described place—where a large Buddha was said to be carved into stone. No matter how far I trudged, it never materialized. It could not appear. For I had descended where ascent was required.

Chapter 22: Moonlit Seated Meditation

At a path's end where I met a pilgrim, after descending along the river for about two ri, I emerged onto a vast plain. Looking ahead, the plain stretched seven or eight ri in length and three or four ri in width. Ah, coming out to such open terrain brought relief—carrying this load through mountain paths had been utterly unbearable. When I swung my compass about, I realized heading northwest would require crossing to the opposite bank of the river I'd descended. Yet I dreaded that crossing—the piercing cold would be worst... As I stood pondering my options, a monk appeared crossing from the far shore. He too proved a pilgrim like myself, having journeyed all the way from Kam country to meet Geron Rinpoche. I therefore addressed him for directions: "I must reach Kan Rinpoche from here—what path should I take?" "You must go yonder," he replied. "Travel two days hence and you'll find inhabited areas where you may inquire further. Follow this course straight on—though unseen from here—and tents lie within that plain. Make for them and lodging shall surely be found."

So I said to that monk, “Please rest.” I explained I had a small request, then gave him a substantial quantity of dried peaches. Truth be told, since even I found them too burdensome to carry, I parted with a great many. At this, the monk started in surprise yet seemed pleased. “It pains me to receive so much from you,” he said. “Actually, there’s something I must ask of you.” “Would you carry this baggage to the far shore?” “Otherwise—given my frail health—if I attempt to cross bearing this load, these rapids may sweep me away. Please, might you ferry it across?” he implored. “Think nothing of it,” I replied. “I shall carry it over.” Even a cursory glance revealed him to be an extraordinarily sturdy monk. This stood to reason— Kam’s

As they were people from the so-called bandit country of Kam, one had to be exceptionally robust to undertake pilgrimages. There, without any trouble, he took my luggage and pulled me across to the opposite shore with ease. At that moment, it was such a relief…… Then that monk turned back along his original path, and I hoisted the luggage onto my back and gradually advanced toward where the tents stood. Yet no tents came into view.

Now at that time, my fatigue gradually intensified until it became utterly unmanageable. Whether I had developed heart disease or something else I couldn’t tell, but my breathing grew alarmingly rapid and I began feeling nauseous. Realizing this wouldn’t do, I unloaded my luggage there—only to find that carrying the load had caused abrasions on my back, the pain of which was truly unbearable. But worse than that pain was the excruciating distress of what threatened to come vomiting up; as something seemed to clog my chest, I immediately took out the treasured pill and swallowed it.

Vomiting Blood on an Uninhabited Plateau — Then, with a violent heave, I spat out a mouthful of blood. I thought this must have been caused by spending too long traversing areas with thin air. Though I had no history of heart disease, I wondered why my heart was malfunctioning this way, but surmised it too stemmed from the air's thinness. Of course, Tibetans possess remarkably robust lungs capable of enduring such sparse air. I concluded our lungs were likely only half as capable as theirs. Unable to tell whether my lungs were being compressed or protruding outward, my chest grew so painfully constricted that nothing could be done. Thus began what resembled a grave illness. If I kept advancing recklessly like this, I would die without reaching the tents. So I resolved to stay here tonight. With that decision made to set out gradually tomorrow, I determined to camp again that night. Having descended about two ri and advanced one ri more, I had walked only three ri that day. Truly, the illness had taken a dire turn. This is bad, I thought. In truth bereft of courage to gather yak dung, I simply collapsed there and fell into oblivious sleep. I supposed it likely that—deprived of sleep by last night's cold—I had forgotten everything and succumbed to exhaustion.

Awakened by hail—then, as something struck my face harshly, I suddenly opened my eyes to find an enormous hailstorm raging. Whether my face or body, everything was being pelted by hailstones hammering down relentlessly. Then, attempting to rise up, when I began to sit upright, my entire body ached as if racked by rheumatism—joints creaking with pain—so I simply settled back down quietly and sat motionless, thinking. Since my heart's pounding and lungs' oppression had considerably subsided by then, in this state I needn't fear imminent death. Yet the torn flesh on my back throbbed. My foot wound burned. Moreover, having carried such heavy baggage, every muscle seemed to ache—no part of me was spared from pain.

Under these circumstances, I couldn’t possibly make progress today, so I resolved to stay here another night tonight, but the immediate problem was that I couldn’t walk around to search for yak dung. Because my body was in unbearable pain... Even if I could manage to walk around searching for it, by now hail was falling and melting from the ground’s warmth, so that both yak dung and horse dung were thoroughly soaked—making it utterly futile to go check. Then, I covered myself from head to toe with that tsukutsuku—a large woolen night garment resembling a quilt (lined with red wool, outer layer made of thick canvas-like patchwork cloth stitched into four panels, weighing approximately three kan [~11.25 kg])—spread a sheepskin mat beneath me, and resolved to settle into seated meditation there. I tried to prepare a separate drink, but since there was no firewood, there was nothing to be done.

The Scene of Snow-Capped Mountains Under Moonlight on the Plateau — As I sat there steadfastly thinking, night gradually deepened, and since this was the fourteenth night of the sixth lunar month, the moon shone brilliantly over the boundless wilderness. Were it not for the pain in my body, this circumstance would have seemed a supremely delightful nocturnal vista of the high plains. For there, under the moonlight over that boundless wilderness, the snow-capped mountains glowing faintly in the distance appeared as though celestial beings had emerged from the snow—and had I observed this sight fully, I would have felt not agony but immense pleasure. Yet since every part of my body was in excruciating pain, even as I sat in meditation, my mind remained captive to that suffering. At first, I passed some time without particular thought, but finding my awareness fixated solely on the pain—which only amplified it—I resolved then and there to forcefully redirect my mind into meditation’s profound state, confronting this very agony. Then, having come to understand the pleasant aspects of that place and truly feeling it as interesting, I recalled the poem by National Teacher Daitō, who had practiced seated meditation upon Gojō Bridge.

That poem: When I sit in meditation upon Shijō and Gojō bridges, Transforming those who come and go into trees of the deep mountains— Though this was its form, I composed a broken-stanza poem intending to respond: When I sit in meditation on Kōyagahara's grasses, Neither travelers nor deep mountain trees remain. Had Venerable Daitō been present, he might have offered a knowing smile at this. Or perhaps—thinking I might have been rebuked with a shout and received thirty blows—as such contemplations deepened, I forgot my suffering and even my own self, until another poem suddenly emerged from that state. At that moment, it was bliss. That poem:

In the snowfield, a self that torments is nowhere to be found. The heart resolved by the light of Dharma Thus, owing to that state of mind, I remained untroubled by the cold’s torment that night, nor did I mind the unending darkness, having persisted in seated meditation until dawn—such was the manner of that night’s passage. When the next day came and I ate dried grapes before gathering my luggage, the pain in various body parts had considerably lessened. Though considerable fatigue remained, judging there was no impediment to proceeding in this state, I properly organized my luggage and gradually set off northeastward. With my body in much improved condition, I made significant progress along the road, advancing about four ri by morning. Reaching a small stream nearby, I ate roasted barley flour as usual and crossed it to find a small hill. When I crossed over that hill and looked ahead, white tents and black tents could be seen in the far distance.

How strange. Black tents should be here, yet white cloth tents shouldn’t exist—I couldn’t fathom why. These tents are entirely made from yak hair, with locals clamping strands between their teeth while stretching and twisting them by hand to spin into thread for weaving. They sew this cloth together to form house-like structures. Thus they’re typically black. Though yaks occasionally have white fur, it’s rare enough that crafting white tents simply isn’t practiced there. My suspicion was natural though inexplicable. Regardless, five or six tents lay ahead—reaching them meant shelter tonight, perhaps even days of convalescence for my illness. Summoning resolve, I trudged two ri toward the tents. Agony gripped me half a ri short, but fixed on my goal, I pressed onward—only to be greeted by five or six Tibetan northern mastiffs barking ferociously. As I parried their muzzles with my staff’s tip, a woman of striking beauty—rare in Tibet—emerged from the largest tent and studied me intently.

Chapter 23: The True Nature of the Beauty

A Rare Beauty of the Highlands and Fierce Dogs At the beauty's shout—she unfastened the tent door tied with a cord at the entrance, came toward me, and scolded the dogs with a single command—whereupon the dogs that had been barking fiercely until then, having been reprimanded by their owner, suddenly made blank, senile-looking faces and scattered in all directions. The sight was truly comical and amusing. As I laughed and requested of the woman, "Might I trouble you to let me stay tonight?", she replied that she would first consult her lama and give an answer, then entered the tent and came back out again. "You may enter," she said, so I went inside. Entering such a place felt more physically comfortable than stepping into a lotus in the Pure Land. So that night passed with some conversation, but under the pretext of physical recuperation, I ended up staying again the next day as well. The following day too, I stayed. During that time, when I inquired about various routes, I learned there was a river called Kyanchu (Wild Horse River) reachable by horse in about half a day from there. That river was a considerably large one flowing into the Brahmaputra. It was said there were specific crossing points for that river, and that carelessly attempting to ford it would result in being swept away by the current. Therefore, I needed to secure means to cross that river.

After recuperating for about two days with my body much improved, I thought to depart the next day, but since the necessary arrangements could not be secured until the day after tomorrow—that is, the thirteenth—I ended up remaining there. However, on the evening of the twelfth, four or five nomadic households staying there requested that I deliver a sermon. This came about because the host lama with whom I lodged had urged others by saying they must hear this lama's teachings, considering me truly venerable. Though called "many," they numbered only about thirty people, to whom I preached that night. Gradually weaving in edifying Buddhist parables from Tibet during my sermon, I afterward administered the Three Refuges and Five Precepts to them, whereupon each person presented offerings. Among them was a girl wearing around her neck

It was a coral ornament. She presented an ornament consisting of about seven coral beads with a gemstone set among them. I took it temporarily but, finding it unnecessary, said: "I have indeed received your thoughtful offering, but as I have no use for this, I must return it," and did so. However, they lamented having nothing else to give and became greatly troubled, then offered me just one gemstone from among them. As for that gemstone alone, I could not possibly refuse to accept it. Since the others also strongly urged me to take it, I accepted only that gemstone, and even now it remains in my possession as a memento.

The following day, the owner of the white tent came out bringing dried grapes, dried peaches, dried jujubes, and such, and traded with the host lama where I was staying. What they traded was sheep’s wool or butter. The person who came for that trade was a Rātāku merchant. He used odd Tibetan and could barely hold a conversation. The man, evidently a devout Buddhist believer, asked me various questions about Buddhism, so I gave appropriate replies and expounded Buddhism’s profound teachings. However, he was so delighted that he entreated: “Please come to my tent once—I wish to serve tea and make offerings. So please don’t take your midday meal here today; come to my place instead.” Thus I went there. There he gave me a great quantity of valuable items like dried grapes and prepared as lavish a feast as possible that day. And so it was decided that we would finally cross that river tomorrow for business reasons and go together to where the nomads were on the opposite bank.

However, the lama with whom I was staying was indeed a lama of the new sect—a pure individual who neither took a wife nor drank alcohol—and went by the name Arutu Tsurugū. That is to say, it signified "the incarnation manifested in Arutu." Whether she was considered an exceptional beauty in those regions or he himself perceived her as such—I cannot discern through what circumstances they united—but by taking that beauty as his wife, he had completely tarnished the dignity proper to a pure monk. Yet he was a man of profound compassion and magnanimity, truly virtuous, and appeared to possess considerable wealth, keeping fifty or sixty yaks among his possessions. He also had two hundred sheep. Though not among the great landowners, with such holdings he ranked among the moderately well-off, and his wife was an exceedingly clever beauty. Thus within their household they lived in harmonious joy. Moreover, from society's view—with property secured and all affairs orderly—they seemed to dwell in enviable comfort; even we could not help but deem it an admirably prosperous livelihood. However, when I returned from that Rātāku merchant's residence—

Transforming into a beauty yaksha—a violent quarrel seemed to have erupted within the household. Wondering what was happening, I entered the tent to find the wife, who had resembled a bodhisattva-like beauty, now bearing a yaksha’s visage—though without horns—her face crimson as she hurled abuse at the lama. Her spiteful words defied ordinary ears to endure. She raged about how he dallied with rotten women, lavished unnecessary gifts on female visitors, favored his own relatives over hers—calling him a beast, a dog—the sheer ferocity appearing nothing short of madness. Yet this gentle lama typically remained silent; perhaps feeling compelled by my return, he stood up with a “You beast!” and feigned striking her. Then chaos erupted. “Kill me!” she screamed, sitting at his feet with closed eyes in frenzy. “Kill me! There’s a sword right there—use it! You’re no human—you’re a yaksha!”

“Kill me and eat me! Come on, eat! You demon—pretending to be a monk when you can’t even act like one, deceiving people!” The sheer spitefulness of her manner of speaking still makes me shudder to recall it even now. At that moment I felt—ah, is it truly this agonizing for a monk to keep a wife? Though outwardly it appears quite respectable, witnessing this state of affairs struck me as profoundly pitiable—and I was truly appalled. Yet since I couldn’t simply leave things be, I first took measures to thoroughly pacify the woman and calmly coax her to sleep. After that, I arranged for Arutu Tsurugū—the incarnation lama of Arutu—to go outside and guided him toward the Rātāku merchant’s house. And so matters were settled smoothly that night. Well, this must not be limited to Tibetan monks alone. Thinking that even dignified Japanese monks who keep wives and father children must endure similar hardships, I secretly shed tears that night—for truly there is nothing more pitiable than a monk with a wife.

Chapter 24: Polyandry and Polygamy

Crossing the river naked. Then, the next day, I rode a horse borrowed from that lama and had the luggage loaded onto the Rātāku merchant’s mule to head toward the riverside. At that very moment, I was proceeding almost directly north. Passing through undulating highlands where snow lay scattered here and there with patches of sparse grass, we traveled about five and a half *ri* and came to the riverside of Kyanchu. When one gazes northwestward from there, the river flows from between large snowy mountains looming imposingly over twenty *ri* in the distance. Looking at where it flows onward, it disappears into the southeastern mountainsides, its destination unknown; the river’s width being over three *chō* in broad stretches where the water flows calmly, while in narrow places there are sections less than half a *chō*. The narrow parts of the river are where rocks press against each other. So we decided to rest by the riverside and have lunch. Since there were five or six Rātāku companions, they went to gather firewood while I sat down as a guest and read sutras. Then I boiled the rice I had received from Arutu Lama. That rice was imported from the Nepal region, costing about seventy sen per one *shō*. He had given me about five *gō* of that rice, so I cooked all of it and shared it with the others. After eating rice for the first time in a long while, I truly found it delicious.

Now, riding a horse to cross that river immediately would indeed have been easy, but since it was a river with very deep sand where the horses' legs might sink in deeply and potentially harm them, we decided to unload the heavy baggage from the horses and have people carry it across. Therefore, we too could not cross while riding the horses. We still had to cross naked. We crossed mostly at places about navel-deep, guided by having our escort pull us across. The river spanned about three and a half chō, its waters containing small ice chunks—remnants of morning ice melted upstream—that could injure one if striking the legs or waist. The water's coldness needed no explanation. Having finally emerged in that state, the intense cold made walking difficult for some time.

Fortunately, while the others were occupied with loading and unloading luggage onto the horses, I rested for a time, warming myself in the sun and rubbing my limbs—whereupon they finished loading all baggage onto the horses. So both I and the accompanying people rode our horses along that riverside and proceeded in a northwestern direction. After traveling about six ri, we arrived at a place called Narue where a group of nomads had gathered. This was exactly July 14th. This was on the northern bank of Kyanchu, where seven or eight tents stood. Among them, we reached the largest dwelling—that of an old man called Karma. Since everyone in this area was a Buddhist believer, they would treat one hospitably without issue as long as no suspicion arose. I had particularly been sent a horse by Arutu Lama, so they extended me great hospitality.

**The Custom of Fraternal Polyandry** — The household of the man called Karma was truly a peculiar one, a manner of arrangement rarely seen in Tibet. Originally in Tibet, even if there were three or five brothers, they would generally take only one wife. The eldest brother would take one wife, and the others would live with that wife and also become her husbands (I will discuss the interesting aspects of marriage later). This is what is known as polyandry. Since Tibet is a barren country, it seemed such customs—born from the necessity to avoid property division when brothers each took wives—had been established even before Buddhism was introduced. However, this household had three wives. The master was a man of about fifty; his first wife was forty-seven or eight and blind; the second was a woman of thirty-five or six; and the third was twenty-four or five. The youngest wife had one child.

Such cases are rare in Tibet. They are not entirely nonexistent. While I have since seen households where two or three daughters manage by adopting a single child—so such cases are not unheard of—I have never encountered anywhere else a situation where a man from the outset keeps three wives all to himself like this. Since they asked me to read sutras at their house, I agreed—partly because I needed to rest my body—and spent about two days reading sutras there. Since I absolutely had to buy an extra pair of sandals in advance—or else I’d be in great trouble when they tore—there I bought a pair and fixed the worn parts. On the 18th, I purchased one large Tibetan sheep, divided approximately three kan of the luggage to have it carry, and decided to shoulder about six kan of the load myself.

Since this made things considerably easier, I tied a rope made from a yak’s tail around the sheep’s neck, shouldered my own luggage, and decided to depart that house to proceed toward Kan Rinpoche. At first, it went obediently for one or two chō, but the sheep tried to escape, exerting tremendous force to drag me around. Being immensely strong, it absolutely would not move forward. When I tried desperately to pull it forward, it backed away and refused to budge. Even when struck from behind with a staff to drive it onward, it would not move. That creature was so powerful that instead of me leading it along, I ended up being dragged by it. In the end, I became utterly exhausted from battling the sheep—no matter what I did, my heart pounded violently while my breathing grew frantic. So when things took a turn for the worse—this was

“If I keep battling this sheep and ruin my health, that won’t do—today I must turn back and ask for advice,” I thought. With the determination to properly inquire how to manage this sheep, I turned back to the house of the man called Karma and ended up staying there for the day. When I asked the owner about this, he said, “This one’s still unaccustomed to people, so it won’t obey.” “If you buy another, they’ll become companions and you should manage to progress.” “I’ll give you a better-trained sheep that’s used to people—why not buy it?” “Then let me buy it,” I replied. The price of that sheep was about one yen and twenty-five sen. Smaller ones started from around seventy sen. There I secured two sheep. By dividing three kan of luggage onto each sheep, my own load became three kan—a great relief. “With this, I can advance steadily,” I calculated. Then around three o’clock that afternoon, Wandaku—chief of Horutosho (the name for that entire area)—arrived where I was staying, accompanied by his subordinates.

He spoke with my host and with me, but when he glared sharply at my face, I sensed an air of suspicion. Worried that letting their suspicions bloom unchecked might lead to trouble, I quickly steered the conversation. I brought up Geron Rinpoche. Since the chief held Geron Rinpoche in profound reverence, this prompted him to ask whether I had met him. I recounted in detail how I had met Geron Rinpoche, received precious gifts from him, and been exhorted to fully realize the practices of a Bodhisattva and Mahāsattva. At this, the chief’s doubts dissolved entirely. He expressed warm goodwill and proposed, “Come to my house tomorrow to read sutras”—thus it was settled that I would visit his residence the following day.

The ability to make life-and-death decisions in critical moments characterizes Zen monks, and as one of their number, I felt my daily mental preparations proved most timely here. The next day, I rode a horse to Chief Wandaku's residence. Having all my luggage transported for me, I traveled about three ri before reaching his dwelling. Though located deep in snow-covered mountains, a large tent stood there—clear evidence of the substantial wealth befitting his position as chief of the Horutosho tribe. The following day I remained there again, reading sutras at the chief's request while inquiring about the route order. Then the next day, they sent me onward with horses carrying only my luggage and one accompanying person, assuring me the path ahead held no difficulties—if I simply camped in the wilderness that night, I'd reach nomad territory by tomorrow. Following these instructions exactly, I spent that night by a pond's edge before advancing again at dawn.

However, with the luggage now loaded onto two sheep and my own burden being a mere three kan, walking became quite comfortable, allowing me to entertain various interesting thoughts. In times of extreme hardship, I had hardly any leisure to entertain such composed thoughts. Fortunately, I arrived at a place where four tents stood by the edge of a pond. As was customary, I was greeted by ferocious dogs. Since this was customary, I shall henceforth refrain from mentioning that such things occurred whenever I arrived at places like this.

So I lodged at a house there. Then, about a day’s journey ahead lay the river known in Tibetan as Tamchok Kambab—the source of the great Brahmaputra River—where I was to arrive. Since this river was Tibet’s sole immense great river, I needed to secure guides and also request people to carry the luggage across—otherwise it would be quite perilous. So, to secure this assistance, I began making requests there, but no matter how much money I offered, no one would go. After that, I tried offering various rare items and such, but there was not a single person willing to go.

Chapter 25: Crossing the Great River

Administering medicine and borrowing horses—however, there was an old woman in the neighborhood suffering from an illness, and the sick woman came out pleading, “Please give me medicine; my condition seems grave. I want you to examine me to see when I might die.” Upon observing her condition, it appeared to be a gravely dangerous illness resembling tuberculosis—though it was beyond my ability to manage—but since I had prior knowledge of tuberculosis symptoms, I carefully instructed her about each necessary regimen. Since she wouldn’t feel at ease unless I administered medicine, I gave her what I had available. Then, being greatly pleased and wondering what she could offer in gratitude—for receiving such kindness from a revered person was an unexpected blessing beyond anything she could have wished for—she wanted to express her thanks. She said, “Since you wish me to state what I need from you, then might I ask if you could arrange for about two people and three horses? “Since there appear to be five or six horses here, how about having them sent to the riverside tomorrow to carry this luggage all the way across? They say you can’t transport luggage through the river with sheep, so I must ask you to do it this way.” To this she replied, “Certainly,” and fully agreed, saying, “I will arrange that matter.”

Fortunately, I was able to borrow three horses and two people, loaded about four kanme of luggage onto each horse’s saddle, and though it was customary for Tibetans to have people ride on top, my luggage was divided among the three horses and loaded without any issue. Then it was arranged that the sheep would be pulled along from atop the horses, and while pulling two sheep with three horses, we arrived at the large riverside of Tamchok Kambab. We departed around five in the morning and arrived around eleven, having traveled nearly seven ri during that time. There we fetched the clear water of the Brahmaputra River, boiled tea, ate roasted barley flour, and as was our custom prepared our meal.

Crossing Tibet’s greatest river—the sandy riverbed was too deep to bring the horses into the water. The watery section spanned fifteen or sixteen *cho*, while the gravel banks extended about one *ri* on our side and half a *ri* on the opposite shore. Thus it was truly a colossal river; we first traversed this bank before reaching the water’s edge. As I had just noted, since timing favored us perfectly there, we drew clear water to eat our midday meal first—then I applied clove oil to my body as usual. But needing to conceal this application from those people, I pretended to wash my hands and hid behind a hillock to thoroughly coat myself before returning. Then emerging here, I declared “Now let’s enter!” and stepped into the river. The two men divided and shouldered the luggage between them. My guide pulled the sheep along. Thus we crossed fifteen or sixteen *cho* of flowing water—though in shallows reaching only thigh-high. Even there, with water merely five or six *sun* deep and visible sand below, our legs sank until submerged to our thighs. In deeper stretches, it generally rose above our waists.

Upon finally completing the crossing, the two men unloaded the luggage. I presented those people with Tibetan-style kata as gifts. This is a white thin silk cloth. When presenting gifts to someone, it is customary to include such silk cloth alongside the item. However, since there are times when presenting kata alone suffices as courtesy, I gave one scarf to each man. Then those men advised: “By proceeding northwest through these mountains toward Manasarovar Lake, you may reach Khen Rinpoche. But you likely won’t meet anyone for fifteen or sixteen days—take utmost care against snow leopards by reciting sutras as you travel.” With that warning about needing to return promptly lest they be delayed further—they bid farewell and departed.

Now then—

“So I have to traverse this uninhabited plateau for fifteen or sixteen days?” I immediately shouldered my luggage and trudged through the gravelly stretch spanning about half a ri. From there, ascending a slope—not quite an embankment but elevated ground—for four or five chō, I emerged onto flatland. Even amidst the flatlands, mountains rose here and there. Having reached that point, I needed to let the sheep graze; fatigued myself, I unloaded my luggage in a grassy area to rest while gazing northwestward along the Brahmaputra’s flow. There, great snow peaks lay stacked upon one another like countless snow-draped figures seated in meditation. The vision of snow sheathing the mountains down to their skirts could never be glimpsed from Darjeeling or Nepal’s domains. This, I realized, defined the singular character of viewing snow mountains from Tibet’s plateau. Then peering at the river’s distant course where it disappeared into far clouds—its endpoint unknowable—the serpentine flow twisting away and returning from heights to depths appeared as some noble banner drawn across the earth. There within me surged again that crude verse of mine.

Is this the flowing noble banner of Vairocana’s Dharma— The Brahmaputra River deemed to be— When this song came to me, poets might find it crude indeed, but through my own lens, I felt an unbearable delight. Ah, only by coming to such a place could this verse be born—had I not witnessed this vista, no such words would have sprung from my marrow. This thought filled me with solitary satisfaction. With the sheep having grazed their fill, I shouldered my load and climbed northwestward through the mountains—now manageable work. The lightness of my baggage let me press steadily onward. Between those peaks and plateaus lay countless ponds. Reaching the mountaintops revealed pools scattered here and there. Their sizes varied—some spanning ten chō, others two or three chō, some barely one. Though I knew not this region’s name, I supposed it lay within Kongyū Province. Thus I christened it Senchigahara—Thousand Pools Plain. By four that afternoon, I reached a pond’s edge, unloaded my gear, left the sheep to graze, and went to gather wild horse dung as was my custom.

No trace of nomads—evidently an area they never frequented, for there was no yak dung. What littered the ground was almost entirely wild horse droppings. There I gathered a great quantity of this wild horse dung, built a fire, and passed the night. The cold proved so severe that sleep remained impossible, leaving me to keep awake through the night—and so another crude verse took shape.

On a plateau devoid of insect hum and human voice, The moon that visits finds its sole companion in me. The next day, as I advanced another four or five ri northwest, there still being ponds along the way, I drew water from those ponds and prepared my midday meal as was customary. Gradually pressing onward northwestward, a great snowy mountain came into view directly ahead in the northwest. Since ascending that snowy mountain would prove exceedingly arduous, I also began to consider heading eastward instead. With no alternative, perhaps I should pass through between the snowy mountains and cross over to the other side. "Or perhaps I should cross over the snowless mountains to the east—I wonder," I sank into contemplation for a while, but finding no means of judgment, entered my usual decision-making samadhi and proceeded to resolve the matter. It proceeded smoothly without error. As I gradually advanced onward, this time not a single pond—or anything else—remained.

I entered a waterless plain; from then on, there was no water at all. Hoping to reach somewhere with water where I could boil tea that night, drink it, and sleep, I continued walking even past four o'clock, crossing mountain after mountain—yet not a drop of water remained. I walked until around seven o'clock, but found nothing. That day I walked approximately eleven ri. The sheep too had become exhausted and could hardly advance. Though my throat burned unbearably, I resolved to let the sheep graze on what grass remained and spend the night there. At least there would be no need to tend a fire. Of course, once night fell I couldn't risk lighting a fire that might draw attention—so I simply bedded down without one. Yet between last night's sleeplessness and today's eleven-ri trek, the cold and misery overwhelmed me—until familiarity with suffering made it seem bearable after all, and I drifted into uneasy slumber.

Chapter 26: The Trial of Thirst and the Trial of Wind and Sand Hōtan instead of water. The next day, I rose around five o’clock, and since the sheep had eaten plenty of grass, I had them carry the luggage and shouldered my own load. When I looked toward the sandy plain ahead, there appeared to be what looked like water. Since it seemed there was at least three ri to where the river lay, thinking that if I could just reach that spot today, I would obtain water, I drove the sheep onward and advanced in that direction. Since there had been no water since the day before, I was extremely thirsty—truly unbearable. I was barely managing to quench my thirst by putting Hōtan pills in my mouth, but it simply wasn’t enough. Thinking I would soon reach a place with water, I hurried there only to be sorely disappointed. When viewed from afar, it appeared to be a river with flowing water. When I arrived there and looked, to my surprise, the water had completely dried up, leaving only beautiful white pebbles behind. It had precisely appeared as water.

At that moment, I thought: There exists a tale where hungry ghosts seeking water find it transformed into flames, bringing great distress—but in my case, believing the water had turned to stones, I felt profound disappointment. There was no recourse. Wondering where to seek water from this point, I scanned my surroundings but found nothing in the area—only sparse patches of grass that had grown about five minutes' worth. Truly hopeless. Choosing a northwestern direction in hopes of finding water somewhere, I pressed onward again until seeing what appeared to be glistening water across a sandy plain. Approaching eagerly, it suddenly vanished—perhaps a heat haze—or rather, seemed to be sand reflecting sunlight to create that watery illusion. This was truly—

In the boundless plain, I was about to die of thirst. I thought I was a living hungry ghost thirsting for water. It felt as though my very innards were seeking water, but there was nothing I could do. I pressed onward step by step, yet no matter how far I went, I could not find any place with water. If I were to go another night without obtaining water, I became terribly anxious that I might die like this. Each time, I would take out Hōtan pills and drink them, but drinking them only made my throat grow even drier; still, I thought they must have provided some small measure of help. And then, as I gradually pressed onward, around eleven o'clock, what looked like a slightly low, pooled area came into view in the distance. Thinking there might be water over there, I pressed through the sand toward that spot, and indeed, there was water. The joy I felt at that moment was beyond anything I could endure. "All right—I’ll have a proper drink of this first, then boil some tea. But I can’t bear to wait another moment," I thought, quickly unloading my luggage and taking out a bowl from my robe to scoop [water] when—

The water had turned bright red— Wondering what this was, I realized it must be a type found on the Tibetan Plateau—water that had likely been decaying and pooling there for centuries. When I drew some up, tiny worms writhed within it. I couldn't possibly drink this as it was. For us, consuming worm-infested water was strictly forbidden—a true dilemma. Without drinking I'd perish, yet drinking would violate Buddhist precepts and poison my body. As I agonized over this, a solution suddenly surfaced. I remembered Shakyamuni Buddha's teaching in the Vinaya: if water contains insects, filter them through cloth before drinking. Seizing on this wisdom, I pulled out a scrap of fabric and Tibetan pot to strain the water. The worms clung to the cloth while reddish liquid trickled through. I thought it might now be pure—yet it remained crimson. But with the wriggling creatures gone from sight, I filled a bowl and drank. The taste—

Not even the nectar of the Pure Land could compare. I drank one cup with pleasure but couldn't manage a second. Thinking that boiling this into tea might help, I ran about gathering wild horse dung to fuel the fire, and as I boiled it, noon approached. Since eating after midday was forbidden, though the water hadn't yet boiled, I kneaded roasted barley flour with the tepid water and ate my fill of plain barley meal seasoned with the usual chili and salt... It tasted truly sublime. After trekking another ri through the sand, a fierce wind arose around three in the afternoon. The sand began churning in waves that buried our luggage and came blasting into my eyes, making it impossible to walk with them open. Yet keeping them shut meant losing all sense of direction, while opening them invited torrents of grit—there was simply no winning. Still, I couldn't just sit frozen in place,

Because the sand was churning in waves... Such savage and terrifying scenery—I had never even dreamed of seeing when I was in Japan. The sand came thundering in waves. So I could not bear it. The sandy ground appeared gouged out, roaring as it grew wild. Thus, due to the storm's fury, the hill that had stood before vanished entirely, only for a new sandy hill to form ahead—such was the state of things. In such conditions, I could neither sit still nor move forward, trapped between impossible choices, so I silently recited sutras in my heart. Fortunately, after about an hour, the storm abruptly ceased. Greatly relieved, I gradually pressed onward through the sandy plain until around five o'clock, when I reached a place where sparse grasses grew among thorny low trees. The trees stood scattered like Japanese tea fields, each bristling with needles. Since this was a frigid region, their leaves were not green but had turned completely black. "I've arrived at a good spot." Near this water source, I resolved to gather dead trees for a proper fire tonight. Unloading my gear by a nearby pond, I collected dried grass as usual and gathered wild horse dung. That night proved remarkably comfortable—sheltered within what seemed the pond's very basin, there was surprisingly no wind, making it warm enough for me to rest peacefully at last. However, the very next day once again—

The great wind swept up sand and gravel across the vast plain.

A great difficulty arose. Leaving the edge of that pond and driving the sheep as usual, I gradually climbed up a mountain until reaching its midslope. When I looked out into the far distance, there was a large river with ponds scattered along its course—ponds that became rivers and rivers that became ponds in turn. Though none were particularly large, there were many such bodies of water. All these rivers originated from snow peaks, and from what I could see, five or six ponds dotted the area. This was of course a tributary flowing into the Brahmaputra, whose name I later learned to be Chema Yundrung Gichu: Swastika Sand River. The configuration suggested a swastika pattern formed by ponds receiving river flow only to release it again downstream. Then came the perilous question—would I lose my life in that river? When I first glimpsed it from the mountainside, I had no inkling of what awaited, but from that vantage point I realized I must cross it nonetheless. For to traverse that frigid, frigid current felt precisely like

For it felt exactly like crossing the icy river of hell. Of course, I have no memory of going to hell and crossing a glacier, but I found it that painful. Although I had been prepared for hardships from the outset, when confronted with this immediate difficulty, I found myself thinking—No, this was quite a predicament indeed. In any case, since I had to keep gradually moving toward that river, I headed down toward it. It was just around nine in the morning, but there was still some ice along the riverbank—crossing now would be unbearably cold. First, since the ice would cause injuries, I had to wait until it melted a bit more. Thinking I might prepare some tea and have lunch in the meantime, I proceeded accordingly. Around noon, I applied that familiar clove oil to my body. When I tested the depth, it proved quite deep. When I tried to drive the sheep in first, they refused to enter no matter what—as if they knew how deep it was.

Chapter 27: Drowning in the Glacier

**Crossing the Glacier with Sheep in Tow** Since there was no alternative, I left the luggage behind and resolved to first pull two sheep across. Believing it wouldn't be too deep, I hitched my garments up to my chest, grasped my staff, and advanced toward the opposite bank. Yet instead of reaching merely chest-height, the water rose nearly to my shoulders, drenching my clothes completely. Still, being capable swimmers, the sheep progressed steadily across with only their heads above water. Naturally, had I not held the rope and pulled them along, they would have been swept away to their deaths. Though we ultimately made it across successfully, the cold proved extraordinary beyond measure. Immediately securing the sheep to a rock with rope, I vigorously rubbed my body with both hands to generate warmth. This process consumed about an hour, though the river spanned roughly one and a half chō (approximately 150 meters). Stripping off all sodden garments, I laid them beneath stones to prevent the wind from carrying them away, exposing them fully to the drying sun. Naked, I plunged back into the glacial current. After warming myself for thirty minutes on the bank, I reapplied clove oil and balanced my clothes atop my head to recross. Though retracing my original path, the luggage's weight combined treacherously with moss-slicked boulders littering the riverbed.

I suddenly slipped and fell. Then the luggage that had been on my head tilted sideways, forcing me to lift it with one hand. The staff was no longer of any use, and I was swept swiftly away. Of course, since I knew a little about swimming, I pressed down firmly on the luggage with my right hand while gripping the staff in my left, swimming and swimming like this (as shown in the following figure) as I was swept along—yet it hardly went smoothly. At that moment, I suddenly thought. In this situation, since I must not lose my life, I wondered if I should discard this luggage and try to swim up alone. However, if I were to discard this luggage, my provisions would instantly be lost. Because I had heard that I would have to walk through uninhabited areas for over ten days from here on, doing so would mean I would immediately starve to death. Wondering if my feet could somehow gain purchase, I pointed my staff downward and tried planting it—but the staff wouldn’t stand. In the midst of this, I was gradually swept away and swallowed water. Both my arms and body grew numb, their sensations dulled and unresponsive. If I were swept another hundred meters further, I would surely be carried into a large pond. Am I going to die in this river? If I’m going to die anyway once my provisions run out, I might as well...

The Near-Death Ordeal in the River's Current Forming the thought that dying in water might be easier, I uttered my final wish. To the Buddhas of the Ten Directions and Three Times, and to our Original Teacher Shakyamuni Buddha—though my original aspiration may remain unfulfilled—I made this vow: that I might be reborn once more for the sake of our most beneficent parents and fellow believer friends, so I may repay the grace of Buddha’s teachings. Having thus resolved to die as I was, I let myself be swept away. As I was swept along, suddenly something struck the tip of my staff. With a start, I planted the staff I had been gripping tightly—and it stood. When I thought, "Ah, this is it!" and mustered my strength, I rose with a grunt to find the water only reaching chest level. Thinking "This might work," I looked straight ahead and saw that through some confluence of currents, the water had carried me toward the opposite bank. I had been swept to a spot where, after going another twenty ken or so, I could make for the opposite bank and climb out.

I thought this was a blessing—though my arms barely functioned—and tried desperately to lift the luggage from the water onto my head, but its weight defied me. The luggage—leather bags and such—hadn’t fully soaked through; drenched but not unbearably heavy. Somehow dragging it forward bit by bit, I found the water growing shallower until I managed to clamber onto the opposite bank. The moment I thought “At last…”, I couldn’t heave the luggage fully from the water. Stumped yet knowing abandoning it meant starvation, I poured all strength into hoisting it with both hands. “This’ll have to do,” I thought, dropping heavily to sit and exhale in relief. How far had I been swept? Perhaps two chō from where the sheep remained. There they grazed upstream—two chō distant—utterly oblivious. I’d reached the bank but found myself paralyzed. In general,

My hands and legs were completely numb—so much so that even afterward, I couldn't fathom how I had lifted that luggage. I could no longer bend my legs nor stand up, frozen stiff. In that state—This is dire—the thought struck me that I might die right there. There was nothing to be done. Then, somehow or other, I managed to rub myself as best I could. Since my fingers wouldn't straighten, I used my fists to chafe around my diaphragm. When warmth finally seeped into my hands and my fingers began moving more freely, I started rubbing my entire body with outstretched fingers—yet no true warmth settled. After roughly an hour of persistent rubbing, warmth at last spread through me, and my fingers regained their dexterity. With this, I unpacked the luggage and took out Hōtan pills to swallow. At that moment, gratitude overwhelmed me.

This Hōtan pill always proved useful in times of hardship; it had been kindly sent to me by Mrs. Watanabe Ichibee of Osaka at the time of my departure. I was overjoyed, thinking how this Hōtan pill could prove so useful in such circumstances. After remaining there awhile, I began to shudder violently. The trembling grew increasingly severe without ceasing. However tightly I clenched my teeth, it would not stop. With no alternative, I lay down as I was, yet still trembled uncontrollably. It resembled nothing so much as an attack of ague. ...I must have shaken thus for two or three hours. By then, past five o'clock, the sun's strength had considerably waned, but somehow the trembling subsided enough that I could stand. Resolving to reach the sheep somehow, I divided the luggage into two parts, left half behind, shouldered the remainder, and set out. The weight of that half-load proved unbearable. I had heard of prisoners in olden days being punished with stone-carrying—imagining their suffering must have been like this, tears overflowed as I contemplated their hardship. Thus I transported the luggage in two trips to where the sheep were. That night brought neither fire nor any comfort. Since my wet garments had only partially dried, I turned them inside out—damp side facing outward—then draped that thickly padded night cloak over myself to pass the night there. Yet afterward, a difficulty greater still truly arose to confront me.

Chapter 28: The Great Ordeal in the Mountain Snows

Out of one trouble and into another—the next day, as luck would have it, the sun shone, so I dried my soaked clothes and sutras. The Lotus Sutra and the Threefold Sutras—those bearing water stains—remain preserved in my hands as mementos to this day. Each time I behold these keepsakes, I am overcome by a peculiar sensation bordering on disbelief—how did I survive that ordeal? Around one o'clock, having readied my luggage, I began advancing toward the northwestern mountains. Yet yesterday's exhaustion lingered fiercely, and though my baggage had mostly dried, its pervasive dampness rendered it unbearably heavy. To compound matters, circumstances now compelled me to lighten the sheep's burden somewhat—making my own load heavier still—while the pain from having gashed my toes on riverbed stones grew ever more acute.

Therefore, advancing was exceedingly difficult, but since each step forward meant drawing one step closer to my destination, I resolved to proceed bit by bit regardless. Moving at a leisurely pace for about two ri, snow began to fall and the wind grew considerably fierce. Thus, I sought a place to lodge nearby and arrived at the edge of a small pond—yet there was no time to gather firewood or anything else. Because tremendous thunder began roaring, creating a terrifying spectacle of blizzard and gale, my clothes and luggage became soaked again, completely drenching what I had painstakingly dried, so the next day I had to dry them once more. I hadn’t had any tea either, so I was quite hungry. But since there was no firewood, I couldn’t do anything about it. I ate only dried grapes, dried those clothes until noon, and then set out. This day truly

This was the day when a great peril arose—something I had not even dreamed would occur. Now, a high mountain could be seen to the northwest; however, looking elsewhere, there seemed to be no passable path. Thus, I formed the idea that if I could cross that snowy northwestern peak, I would surely reach the vicinity of my destination—Kang Rinpoche, that is, Mount Kailas. Later when I made inquiries, that snowy peak turned out to be a mountain called Kongyui Kanri standing at twenty-two thousand six hundred and fifty shaku in height. As I gradually advanced toward that mountain and climbed a steep slope of about four ri, it was already around five in the afternoon when a violent storm arose and heavy snow began falling. The thought came to me that if I kept stubbornly climbing this mountain tonight, I would likely freeze to death in these high peaks' accumulated snow. Therefore, postponing my journey toward the destination, I resolved to first descend toward the river at the mountain's base; changing direction, I headed northeastward as the snow fell ever more fiercely and dusk gradually deepened.

Moreover, the slope was an extremely steep cliff face, making the descent quite difficult. Since there were no rocks suitable for shelter nearby, I proceeded with the thought of descending until finding such a place. Wherever I looked, there was nothing but snow—no rocks visible, no shelter discernible. I was at my wits' end, yet there remained nowhere to sit down. The snow had already piled up about a foot deep. Resolved to keep moving until finding some sort of refuge, I tried driving the sheep onward—but they appeared utterly exhausted and refused to budge. Small wonder: burdened with heavy loads and having grazed only until noon that day before ascending this high mountain where no grass grew. Though we couldn't advance, neither could we remain still—so pitiful as it was, I tried various methods: pushing forcefully from behind, striking them—yet the sheep would not move, simply settling into... With great effort, I pulled the ropes around their necks and managed to advance some twelve feet before—

The sheep had settled into the snow and would not move an inch. There was nothing I could do. What should I do? If I slept in this snow, I would certainly die. My hands were already so numb with cold that I couldn't feel my fingertips, and the pain of trying to extend the hand holding the sheep's rope was unbearable; yet I couldn't just stand stranded in the deep snow. Resolving to rouse these sheep and press on no matter what, I summoned all my strength and struggled with them while advancing about half a chō—only for them to collapse again, breathing in evident distress. At this rate, would I freeze to death on this mountain tonight? Was there no way to manage? If only I knew where there was a tent, I would abandon the sheep and set out, but according to what I had heard earlier, I wouldn't encounter anyone for fourteen or fifteen days. Therefore, no matter where I went, I would certainly never reach inhabited areas. Was I truly destined to die here with the sheep? I was utterly at a loss. With no other options left, I unloaded the sheep's baggage, took out the night garment and draped it over myself, then pulled a raincoat over my head and crawled into the space where the sheep were lying down.

In the snow, I sat in meditation, prepared to freeze to death alongside the sheep. Resolved to meditate amidst the snowdrifts. The sheep too must have found this arrangement favorable, settling quietly to sleep beside me. This must have helped considerably in preserving warmth, I thought. Having grown thoroughly accustomed to me by now, the two sheep slept nestled against my sides like my own children. Endearing yet pitiful—as I gazed at them, both let out mournful cries as if weeping. The loneliness felt unbearable, yet there was nothing to be done. Even had I wished to act, no grass grew nearby. Adhering strictly to my rule of fasting after noon, I retrieved clove oil from my pocket and applied it to my body within the cramped space of my night garment. Then a considerable warmth began to rise within me.

The act of applying oil seemed to serve the dual purpose of blocking external air intrusion and preserving body heat. Particularly since this clove oil had been specially prepared to maintain bodily warmth, I felt significant heat emanating from it. Then I regulated my breathing through mouth and nose to nearly halt it, reasoning that normal respiratory exchange with the outside world would make preserving body temperature difficult. Though I managed to retain considerable warmth this way, around midnight I gradually began feeling cold again; my senses grew alarmingly dull, and my mind turned strangely vacant. A sensation came over me as though this must be how one fades away at life's final moment.

Chapter 29: The Great Peril in the Mountain Snow (Continued)

In the snow, between dream and waking—this was truly dangerous. However, there was no use agonizing over it now—I supposed there remained nothing but to die like this. To perish buried in the snow of these high peaks without having accomplished my purpose of entering this land for Buddhist training must be my karmic destiny. For the sake of Buddhist practice, there could be no avoiding collapse upon this path. Though lamentation served no purpose, I regretted being unable to repay the kindness shown by my parents, kin, and benefactors. In a dreamlike state arose the thought that I wished to requite this great debt in some future rebirth—but beyond that point, I knew nothing of what transpired. Had anyone witnessed this predicament and passed judgment, they would have remained wholly unaware. I had lost consciousness. Later I would imagine having fallen into a state indistinguishable from death itself. At that moment, I knew absolutely nothing. Then sensing movement near me, I abruptly opened my eyes to look—

The trembling of the sheep shattered my dream: the two sheep were trembling and brushing off snow. They were precisely brushing the snow that had accumulated on my body. I abruptly returned to reality yet still felt as if tracing a dream path, a sensation arising that this was strange. As the sheep finished brushing off their own snow, I tried to move to brush off mine, but my body had stiffened and refused to obey. After my usual rubbing ritual, I looked up at the sky where terrifying black clouds still flew in scattered patches from last night's snowfall, the sun intermittently piercing through - a fierce spectacle of weather. My mind having cleared somewhat, I checked my pocket watch: ten-thirty morning. Whether this was the next day's ten-thirty or the day after's, time's passage remained unclear. I thought to eat roasted barley flour but with no water available, took nearby snow mixed with butter to swallow about a bowlful. To the sheep too I gave generous portions of roasted barley flour.

At first, they would eat nothing but grass, but as they gradually grew accustomed, they began to eat roasted barley flour. At that time, they must have been ravenously hungry, for they devoured it voraciously. Then, having loaded the sheep with baggage and shouldered my own pack, I trudged step by step downward through the snow. I no longer possessed any courage to press upward. Feeling that my body would surely collapse unless I rested in the valley before proceeding, I gradually descended over two ri until a river came into view. Just before reaching that river’s edge, cotton-like snowflakes began tumbling down in thick flurries. As I wondered whether I would face another night of freezing death in the snowdrifts, suddenly through the swirling whiteness came a truly exquisite cry. Wondering what manner of voice this could be, I peered intently and

A Flock of Cranes by the Snowbound Riverbank: Seven or eight cranes walked slowly along that snow-covered riverside. This sight truly comforted me amid the journey's hardships. Later, remembering that view, I composed an unassuming poem to commemorate it. The verse read:

On the sandy shore of Brahma’s river, from amidst the peony-like white snow that had fallen and piled, The sound of “Ko, kou, ko, kou”—when I sought its source, it was cranes walking quietly. After crossing that river spanning over a hundred meters and proceeding gradually downward into the valley where the terrain leveled out, I saw what appeared to be dozens of yaks as I continued onward. As was often the case, I wondered whether stones tumbling about might be mistaken for yaks—when they began shifting here and there. Thinking “These must indeed be yaks,” I advanced in that direction and found yak herders there. When I inquired about shelter, the man replied: “We only moved here last evening. If you go yonder, there are four tents where people dwell—you’ll likely find lodging there tonight.” With a sensation akin to meeting Buddha in hell itself, I trudged toward the indicated direction until tents came into view. As customary when met by ferocious dogs, I approached one tent, explained my plight, and entreated them to let me stay the night.

However, whatever the tent owner thought, no matter how much I pleaded, he refused to let me stay. Of course, my appearance must have been terrifying then - I hadn't cut my hair for two months, leaving it fully grown out while my beard had become thick and wild. Add to that my constant hunger, emaciated frame and protruding cheekbones - I thought they likely refused me lodging out of fear. When pleading proved futile, I fought off dogs to beg at another tent. Yet this owner too refused me shelter. Then I desperately pleaded at a third tent. Explaining how I'd met no one for seven or eight days in dire straits, I clasped my hands imploringly - "Please save me!" - but the more fervently I begged, the colder their refusals grew until I stood utterly defeated. "Even a tent corner would suffice! Sleeping outside means freezing death tonight!" I entreated them to spare my life through shelter - yet not only did they refuse, they finally accused: "You mean to burgle my house?"

“Are you planning to break in?” they said. With that single remark, I could no longer plead my case. Having no choice, I went back outside—the bitterness so acute it brought tears to my eyes. Another tent stood nearby, but my resolve had shattered; I stood vacantly in the snow while the sheep wailed mournfully. Taking pity, I approached the fourth tent. Its owner, upon seeing me, immediately said, “Please come in,” and welcomed me with genuine kindness. Though I’d deemed these nomads utterly heartless, this unexpected compassion filled me with joy. I hurried us inside, unloaded the sheep’s burdens, tethered them properly, and stayed the night. My body ached with exhaustion, my shoes were nearly ruined—yet by the warm fire’s edge, I felt transported to paradise itself. The next day, I begged the owner to let me remain and recuperate. There, I resolved anew to fulfill my Buddhist aspiration: to devote myself completely for all sentient beings—

There were twenty-six vows, and I was writing them. When writing about these fervent matters of mine, I would forget both the pain in my feet and the fatigue of my body; thus, this truly became an effective means to escape suffering. In other words, I rejoiced in the expectation that the vows I had made would become a superb method to alleviate people’s suffering as well.

The next morning around five o'clock, I departed and, changing direction northward this time, made my way through about four ri of snow-covered wilderness. Where the snow had melted, patches of grass grew. Reaching the edge of a large pond, I finished my midday meal there; gazing across from the pond's edge revealed a sandy plain ahead. Sand hills dotted the landscape here and there—this expanse proved larger than the sandy plain that had lain before the Chema Yunzun River previously encountered. The thought arose that should a sandstorm strike here, I risked being buried once more in these sands; thus I resolved to advance quickly through this terrain. Such considerations sprang readily to mind through hard-won experience with adversity. Then mustering renewed courage, I urged my sheep forward and pressed onward into the vast sandy expanse.

Chapter 30: Approaching Human Habitation

Bon Religion. Now, after proceeding about two and a half ri through that sandy plain, I reached grassland again. After advancing a short distance through that grassland, I came upon a wilderness where only bizarre stones were gathered, upon which stood a solitary mountain jutting up abruptly. Later, when I inquired about the mountain's history, I learned it was believed to be a mountain where the gods of the Bon religion dwelled. This Bon religion had been practiced by Tibetans as their faith before Buddhism entered Tibet. It persists on a modest scale even today, though its teachings somewhat resemble those found in India. This decline occurred because after Buddhism's introduction, a certain Bon priest later adopted Buddhism's organizational structure wholesale into Bon and established what is called New Bon. Thus modern Bon religion, apart from practices like making sacrifices, taking spouses, and drinking alcohol, remains nearly identical to Buddhism in doctrinal terms. As this doctrine falls within specialized scholarship, I shall not elaborate here - suffice to say Tibet's ancient Bon deities have no dedicated shrines. They typically inhabit places like stone mountains, snow peaks, ponds or lakes. When I passed that mountain area and advanced further, two wild horses approached from ahead.

There, I would like to briefly explain those

I would like to briefly explain about wild horses. In Tibetan, these wild asses are called "kyang" and considered northern plain-dwellers, though in English we retain the Tibetan term. Their scientific name is Equus hemionus. They measured as large as sturdy Japanese horses, with reddish-brown backs and white bellies. Their dorsal stripes ran jet black, tails thin like a donkey's yet bearing proper manes. In all aspects they resembled horses save for their tails alone. These creatures possessed remarkable strength and speed but never appeared solitary. Typically they emerged in groups—two or five or six, sometimes dozens. Peculiar beasts they were: whirling from half a ri away, approaching within four hundred meters only to pivot sharply like foxes glancing backward before bolting in feigned alarm. Just when one thought them gone, they'd spiral back to hover nearby. Ceaselessly they circled human presences, observing endlessly. When these kyang appeared that day, I found nothing unusual in their antics and simply pressed onward.

Race with the Sheep. However, for some reason, the sheep—startled by the charging momentum of the kyang—slipped out of the reins I held and bolted away. I immediately gave chase. The more I pursued, the faster it fled. In that vast plain, I circled endlessly after the sheep's tracks yet could not gain ground. The animal proved remarkably swift. As I raced with the sheep, the kyang—caught up in the excitement—began circling us, preventing the sheep from stopping. I had become utterly exhausted and neared collapse. Yet abandoning it was unthinkable; I discarded my staff and ran with desperate resolve. Still, I could not catch it. With no alternatives, I collapsed where I stood and for a time let the sheep flee unchecked. Losing the sheep meant losing my provisions, but there was no helping it. When I lay motionless, staring fixedly ahead, the kyang too stood watching intently. At this, the sheep likewise halted and stared back. Ah—the fault was clearly mine. My reckless pursuit had driven it to flee. I rested there, recognizing myself as that proverbial madman chasing madness—a truly senseless endeavor.

The Strange Behavior of the Kyangs and the Sheep's Flight

After a while, when I quietly went to grasp the sheep's rope, this time I caught it without trouble. That was fine, but part of one sheep's load had either fallen off somewhere or gone missing. Since it contained my most crucial belongings—this was a real problem—I dragged the sheep around, circling here and there as I combed through the area. It proved thoroughly vexing; having chased blindly without knowing how far I'd run, I found myself utterly clueless.

It was like throwing something into the sea—impossible to find even a trace of it. What this contained was a watch, a compass, forty or fifty Indian silver rupees, a bowl for eating food, dried grapes, and quite a number of items meant to be given to people who trade in Western trinkets and would find them curious. There I paused to think. Ah—I must have been nearing Lake Manasarovar by now, where encounters with others would soon become frequent. Moreover, carrying such Western articles would only invite suspicion and invite strange misfortunes; perhaps the Buddha himself had willed these items to be lost. Since I had lost only one bundle containing mainly Western goods, there was no need to search further. Though losing some silver coins posed a minor difficulty, those had been set aside merely for immediate needs—hardly a true hardship—and so I resolved to abandon the search. After reorganizing the sheep's luggage once more, I pressed steadily northwestward into the mountains. Yet that area proved an immense mountain wilderness; after covering about two and a half ri, the land leveled out, and I briskly descended another half ri.

He emerged onto the bypath of Lake Manasarovar．Then，there was a single path there． Thinking “This is strange，”he recalled stories he had heard before and realized this was a detour from the Tibetan main road leading to Lake Manasarovar． This was a fortunate turn． Thinking he might now encounter people，he gradually advanced，and there at the edge of a large river stood a single black tent． I promptly proceeded there and，explaining my circumstances，requested lodging for the night；they very kindly allowed me to stay． They too were pilgrims，with five companions—two women and three men．The men were all brothers；one woman was a brother’s wife，another a daughter—and I felt relieved． I had heard that pilgrims accompanied by women were generally those who did not kill people，so I first thought it would be safe enough．

However, those people had come from the heartland of bandits. When I asked where exactly this heartland lay, I learned they were from Dam Gyasho near Kam - a revelation that stirred unease within me. For in those parts there exists a proverb: "If we don't kill, we don't eat; if we don't circle temples, sins won't retreat. Killing while circling temples, killing while circling temples - onward we go!" These were people from a land shaped by such sayings - where even women could slit a throat as easily as slaughtering sheep - making vigilance imperative. Yet having already reached this point, it was like thrusting my head into a tiger's maw; escape proved impossible however I might try. Should death come, I resolved to become nothing more than rust upon their pilgrims' blades - and so I stayed.

Thirty-First Chapter: The Mythology of Anavatapta Lake (1) Though resolved to become rust upon the pilgrims' blades, I could not simply lie down as I was. After conversing at length with the pilgrims about matters including the temple's sacredness, I ultimately slept soundly that night. The following day was August 3rd. As the five pilgrims too wished to advance toward their objective, we set out together northwestward the next morning along a great river. This river flowed from a snow peak in the southeast to empty into Lake Manasarovar. Its breadth spanned some two hundred meters, appearing quite deep indeed.

After traveling about one and a half ri and climbing up the mountain, there was a truly pristine sacred spring. The spring was called Chumik Ganga (meaning: source of the Ganges). There I drank water, and when I climbed the mountain to the north, there stood a massive white marble formation. Beneath the rock that resembled a mountain of marble lay another great sacred spring. Its name was Chumik Tongaa Ranchun (Seeing Joy Natural Spring). Just as its name suggested, it truly brought joy upon seeing it, and naturally gave rise to feelings of delight.

From within the marble gushed a jewel-like sacred spring, its sight overwhelming my heart with joy. These waters form the primary source of India's Ganges River. Tibetans and Indians alike revere this as true sacred water. Leaving that place, I gradually advanced northwest until reaching a riverbank, where I crossed at its broadest point. Having crossed, I spent another night there, though that day's journey had covered barely three and a half ri. Gazing far into the northwestern sky, I beheld a towering snow peak. This summit bears the Tibetan name Kang Rinpoche, while Indians know it as Mount Kailash. Its ancient appellation remains Kan Chise. This snow peak ranks among the world's sacred sites—a natural mandala gathering unto itself all that is finest among Himalayan peaks.

It formed a natural mandala.

Facing that sacred site, I first confessed my sins and performed 108 prostrations; then I read aloud the twenty-six vow texts I had prepared beforehand and made my solemn pledge. As I faced such a magnificent sacred site, a feeling arose—what profound fortune this was, to be able to make my vows here—and in that moment, I composed a poem.

May all trials endured May they indeed become the path to save others. When my companions from the previous night asked why I had prostrated so fervently and recited Chinese scriptures, I explained part of their meaning. They were deeply moved, exclaiming through tears of joy that a Chinese monk could possess such profound moral resolve—this bodhicitta. That evening, when they pleaded, "Please give us a sermon," I expounded the teachings in simple terms. Delighted, they declared it a blessing to accompany me and vowed to serve me during our two-month circumambulation of Kang Rinpoche. "Thus shall our karmic defilements be cleansed," they began telling one another. At last, I felt relieved. Truly, Buddhism is wondrous. That those who kill as easily as slicing radishes could awaken to Dharma's grace and seek ascetic practice together—this splendid truth made my tears mingle with theirs in joy. The next day, after trekking five ri through undulating foothills, Manri Snow Peak loomed in the distance— its summit piercing sea level—

Anavatapta Lake and Mount Kailash Snow Peak

A snow peak of 25,600 feet stood towering majestically above undulating mountains—truly a magnificent sight. When we arrived there, lightning flashed brilliantly across the sky while thunder roared deafeningly, splitting our ears. Simultaneously, coarse pellets of gritty hail began to fall, merging with thunderclaps that shook heaven and earth with such force it seemed the snow peak itself might rupture. The heartrending yet exhilarating intensity of that fearsome spectacle lay almost beyond words; forgetting myself, I rejoiced greatly at having advanced into that sublime and terrifyingly magnificent sacred site. How could I possibly describe it? The exhilaration of that moment remains unforgettable to this day. That terrible force subsided abruptly within less than an hour, after which Manri’s snow peak reappeared as if scrubbed clean, with only scattered white clouds flitting before it—and with the sun shining as brightly as before, I stood truly astonished by this wondrously shifting spectacle.

The wondrously shifting spectacle of such circumstances was truly overwhelming to behold, and I myself could not endure the intensity of my emotions. Then proceeding a little further, I arrived at what seemed like the edge of a pond or marsh and lodged there together with the group. Never had I been as happy as I was at this moment. When lodging, I was properly settled inside the tent and given the seat of honor; there was no need to go collect yak dung or trouble myself with fetching water. My work was to sit still reading sutras and practicing zazen; at night I would give sermons. With just those duties keeping my mind at ease, I felt my body had grown considerably stronger. Since the following day—August 6th—required crossing an extremely steep slope, this time I followed the people's advice of "Please ride this yak to cross the slope comfortably," and received their most generous treatment. Not only did the members of our party carry all my luggage, but they even lightened the sheep’s load for me. After proceeding about five *ri* in this manner through [the terrain], we reached what appeared to be

We arrived at Lake Manasarovar's edge. The scenery's magnificence truly manifested before our eyes—grandiose yet divinely pure—vividly alive along the lakeshore. The lake's form resembled an eight-petaled lotus in full bloom, its contours undulating like the sacred Yata Mirror; its crystalline waters mirrored the sky's azure depths while radiating a glow akin to pure lapis lazuli. From my vantage point [across the vast lake expanse], Mount Kailash's sacred peak towered majestically against the cerulean sky at the northwestern edge, encircled by layered ranks of lesser snow-capped peaks. The scene appeared as though five hundred arhats

[The scene] appeared as though encircling Shakyamuni Buddha and listening to his sermon. Indeed, that it formed a natural mandala could also be discerned through its configuration. Upon arriving there, all manner of hardships—the trials of starvation and thirst, near-drowning during river crossings, mortal cold on snow peaks, burdensome loads carried across desolate plains alone with exhausted wounded feet—were utterly cleansed away by these sacred waters until I reached a state so refreshed I seemed to forget myself. This sacred site of Lake Manasarovar (Heart Lake) stands as the world’s highest lake at over 15,500 shaku above sea level. In Tibetan it bears the name Mapam Yumtso ([Invincible Mother Lake]). It also holds renown as Anavatapta Lake in Sanskrit and Wu Re Nao [Distress-Free] Lake in Chinese. ([The very name “Jambunada gold” from Jambudvīpa originates from this lake.) Buddhism offers various explanations about this lake—indeed,the Avatamsaka Sutra presents poetic descriptions. Truly fascinating are these explanations. According to them,the name Jambudvīpa for regions spanning India and Tibet also derives from this lake. “Jambu” represents water’s “jambu” sound. This sound arises because at the lake’s center grows a great treasure tree bearing fruit.

The fruit was akin to a wish-fulfilling jewel, and devas and asuras found immense joy in obtaining it. However, when the fruit ripened and fell into the water, it produced a "jambu" sound. This acoustic phenomenon led to the Indian region being called Jambudvīpa—a name connected to that resonant splash because, as ancient accounts explained, India's four great rivers had once flowed from this lake. These rivers bore Tibetan names: Tamchok Kambab ("fallen from a horse's mouth") for the eastward flow; Mabcha Kambab ("fallen from a peacock's mouth") southward; Lanchen Kambab ("fallen from an elephant's mouth") westward; and Sengé Kambab ("fallen from a lion's mouth") northward. Four corresponding mouths lay at the lake's cardinal points, channeling these mighty currents into India. Since these waters nourished India, people naturally named the entire region after its hydrological source—Jambudvīpa, the Land of Jambu Sounds. To this day, Indians revere these rivers as sacred conduits of spiritual power. Even the poetic descriptions found in sutras—

In the eastern river flowed lapis lazuli sand. In the southern river flowed silver sand. In the western river flowed golden sand. In the northern river flowed diamond sand. And so these rivers circled seven times around this lake before flowing away in their appointed directions. Though invisible to mortal eyes now, within these waters bloomed a great lotus equal in size to those of the Pure Land of Ultimate Bliss, upon whose petals sat bodhisattvas and buddhas. Moreover, in nearby mountains grew a hundred medicinal herbs while kalavinka birds sang of the Three Jewels from Pure Land branches. As for its beauty—

Not only was it the world's sole Pure Land, but within Mount Kailash standing upon the river's northwestern bank resided living bodhisattvas and Buddhas, while five hundred living arhats dwelled there as well. Furthermore, there were explanations aplenty stating that on the sacred peak called Manri located on the southern shore dwelled five hundred living sages who indulged in supreme heavenly pleasures in this Southern Jambu and such places; indeed, when I heard these accounts, it stirred a longing within me to visit such realms. However, when I actually came to see it, there was nothing as described. Yet the majestic and pure scenery I had previously described did indeed exist here, making it a sacred site. I was overcome by an intensely profound sense that this was a mystical divine realm. That night, a bright moon shone in the azure sky, its reflection cast upon Mapam Yumtso Lake's waters, while beyond it Mount Kailash sat imposingly like a Buddha. In its profound and mysterious appearance, I could only think my very soul had been wrested away; even now, whenever it comes before my eyes in memory, I cannot bear the sensation that every speck of dust in my heart feels utterly cleansed.

Chapter 32: The Myth of Anavatapta Lake (Part 2)

Captivated by the sublime view of Lake Manasarovar, the source of the four great rivers, I composed a commemorative poem.

To behold the eastern Yata Mirror within Anavatapta Lake of the snow mountains—what joy! How pure the Himalayan Mount Chise! When its shadow dwells within Anavatapta Lake— The moon resting over Lake Manasarovar in the Himalayas—could this be Akashi Bay's reflection? Now, though these four great rivers receive such poetic explanations, in reality none flowed directly from the lake. They instead sprang from mountains encircling its perimeter—nowhere could one witness them cascading from this lake's horse's mouth or lion's mouth. Yet their true sources remained thus: The origins of Lanchen Kambab flowing west, Mabcha Kambab flowing south, and Sengé Kambab flowing north were generally known, but where Tamchok Kambab flowing east emerged remained unclear.

Then, in Indian language, they call the eastern-flowing one Brahmaputra. The southern-flowing one they call Ganges, the western-flowing one Storaj, and the northern-flowing one Sita. Now regarding the surveying of this Lake Manasarovar - I do not know whether Westerners have done it - but according to maps produced by Westerners that I had seen up to that point, it was depicted as extremely small. Lake Manasarovar is not so diminutive; its circumference measures approximately eighty ri. As for its shape as represented on maps, it appears distorted in strange ways, but just as I described earlier, it truly resembles an eight-span mirror with ridged edges forming a lotus shape. It seems many maps made by Westerners contain significant inaccuracies. That night I arrived and lodged at a temple called Tsekorou by Lake Manasarovar, but even the monk of this temple had a...

I heard an astonishingly interesting story. This lama was a man of fifty-five or fifty-six—uneducated but exceedingly gentle, the sort who would never tell a lie. As he listened to my various discourses on Buddhist teachings, he remarked, “I’ve been appalled by how poorly our country’s monks have been behaving lately.” When I asked what he meant, he explained that while misconduct among ordinary monks went unnoticed, Arutu Tsurugū—meaning ‘Incarnation of Arutu’—a renowned lama from one of Lake Manasarovar’s most famous temples, had taken a beautiful woman as his wife, sent all the temple’s assets to her family, then absconded to the countryside with every remaining item he could carry. “They say he went to Horutosho,” he added. “You wouldn’t have met him there, would you?” I was truly astonished. That this lama—who had married the very beauty who’d shown me such kindness—could shamelessly drain his temple’s coffers for his wife’s kin, then flee with whatever remained... Truly, people defy all appearances. Yet being incapable of falsehood myself, I mentioned how greatly I’d relied on his hospitality when seeking lodging. “Ah,” came the reply, “that lama may seem gentle and compassionate on the surface, but he’s a frightfully wicked man.” To call such a one an incarnation of a bodhisattva? Utterly preposterous.

The alliance of beauties is the incarnation of a demon; I consider them incarnations of demons. I thought that the demons who ever devour the Buddhist teachings are instead found among those who don such kasayas, shave their heads, and piously chant sutras and invocations—and with this realization, tears overflowed. I grew even more astonished upon hearing that. In Japanese society, no matter how corrupt monks might be, I thought there surely could be no such unethical person who would take temple funds to support his own wife and her parents.

That night I stayed at that temple, and the next day went out again to the lakeside. As I strolled about gazing at the surrounding scenery, Nepalese and Indian devotees of Hinduism—fervent in their faith—arrived on pilgrimage and were worshiping in the lake from around ten o'clock in the morning. These were not Buddhists but Hindus who revere Lake Manasarovar as a sacred site and venerate Mount Kailash visible yonder as the divine embodiment of Shiva, one of India's three great deities.

Those people, upon seeing me, said, "That person seems to be an esteemed lama of the Buddhist teachings," and gave me various strange dried tree fruits. That night I again stayed at that temple, and the next day proceeded northwest along the lake into the mountains for about ten miles until Lake Rakgal came into view. This is called Rakgal Tso in Tibetan and Lake Rakas Tal in English. The shape of the lake is somewhat gourd-like, but it is considerably smaller than Lake Manasarovar. As I gradually proceeded in that direction and climbed about seven and a half miles up the mountain, the lake's surface came clearly into view.

Between the two great lakes flanking the mountains—Lake Manasarovar and Lake Rakgal—stood a mountain range about one ri wide like a fence, demarcating both lakes. In certain parts of these mountains lay valleys where water seemed as though it might connect the two lakes. However, since no water actually flowed through, they remained entirely separate. Observing this configuration, Lake Rakgal appeared to have a significantly higher water level than Lake Manasarovar. Later, I heard that during periods of exceptionally heavy rainfall every ten or fifteen years, the waters of these lakes sometimes joined through the valleys. At such times, it was proven that water from Lake Rakgal flowed into Lake Manasarovar. Thus exists an intriguing Tibetan myth likening Lake Manasarovar to a bride and Lake Rakgal to a groom who visits once every decade or fifteen years. Moreover, the chronicle of sacred sites at Kang Chise—that is, Mount Kailash—records that these two lakes lie connected like husband and wife, though this too appears to derive from popular mythology.

Then, gradually descending about five ri through the mountains while gazing at Lake Rakgal, I reached the plain where a large river flowed. It was an extremely deep river spanning over half a cho—approximately fifty-five meters in width. This river must certainly broaden to three cho or even five cho in certain stretches—some three hundred thirty to five hundred fifty meters across. This waterway called Mabcha Kambab forms the source of the Ganges River. Flowing southward, it courses toward Pulan, that mountain town straddling Tibet's border with India. Beyond, it pierces through the Himalayan range to merge with the Ganges' mighty current flowing from Hardwar in India. Though modern Indians revere the Hardwar tributary as the Ganges' source, ancient times saw this Mabcha Kambab acknowledged as its origin. I pitched my tent by these waters and passed the night there. Four or five tents dotted the area—all traders from Pulan's mountain settlement. Come July and August, nomads and pilgrims alike congregate here in multitudes to trade, their bartering methods proving remarkably intriguing.

Chapter 33: Mountain Trading Fair

Tibetan Trade Calculation Methods: In Tibet's remote regions, all transactions followed a barter system, making purchases with currency exceedingly rare. The items provided by Tibetans from the interior consisted of butter, salt, wool, sheep, goats, yak tails, and such, while Nepalese and Tibetan locals from the snowy regions procured cloth, sugar, woolen fabrics, and similar goods from Indian territories to trade for butter, wool, yak tails, and the like—which they then sold back to Indian territories. However, when selling wool or butter, they sometimes accepted money instead, mostly Indian silver coins. Moreover, the Tibetans' method of calculation proved extremely cumbersome, as they employed neither written arithmetic nor abacus computation. When calculating with prayer beads—even for something as simple as adding 2 and 5—they would first count out two beads, then count five beads separately. After combining both sets, they would recount each bead individually to confirm the total reached seven. This process consumed considerable time yet remained their standard practice; if we outsiders demonstrated self-evident arithmetic solutions immediately, they would never acquiesce. No matter how we reasoned with them, they invariably produced their rosaries and began laborious calculations—spending over an hour on computations we could complete in seconds. Thus trading with Tibetans became exceedingly troublesome when dealing with even moderately large quantities. When calculations grew more complex,

Black and White Pebbles and Monk Shells: They possessed white pebbles, black pebbles, and thin bamboo sliver-like objects. When ten white pebbles accumulated, they would carry them over to one black pebble; when ten black pebbles accumulated, they would carry them over to a bamboo sliver-like object; when ten bamboo slivers accumulated, they would carry them over to a white monk shell-like object; and when ten of those accumulated, they would convert them into Tibetan silver coins. In this manner, they proceeded to calculate from ten to a hundred, a thousand, and so on. Well, calculations involving addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division that we could quickly read and tally in about an hour required them to work with around four people for a full three days—truly a process so roundabout it had to be called utterly inefficient. Since they conducted trade in such a manner, it naturally took considerable time. I had stayed for about three days at that trading site to observe their practices when a truly trivial incident occurred. Now, the pilgrims who had long accompanied me came to have great faith in me. But in their excessive faith and praise,

Being Enamored by Female Pilgrims: Among them, a girl not yet of age seemed to have developed profound feelings, and considerable suspicious behavior toward me became apparent. Therefore, I quickly perceived her intent. Ah—since it is generally women's nature to admire power or wealth, I thought her traveling family members must have repeatedly extolled this monk's great learning and virtue to her, causing her to lose herself and develop such feelings. Therefore, I promptly erected a barrier against that affection. This barrier was based on Buddhist doctrine; I expounded that monks must truly maintain purity and serve as fields of merit for the world—that should any monk commit impure acts and cause error, he would rightly fall into Avīci Hell—and that such occurrences stem from profoundly sinful karma. Therefore, I explained not only to that girl but to all present that if beautiful young women ever receive compliments from monks, they must exercise utmost caution to guard themselves, for indulging in momentary pleasure only to endure prolonged suffering thereafter would bring irreversible consequences. However, that girl likely did not harbor such wicked thoughts as some women who would deceive a monk into leaving the priesthood to make him sell sushi at Kokera or something.

That girl was around nineteen years old. She wasn't exceptionally beautiful but was more attractive than average. There was absolutely no ill intent on her part; rather, since people praised me so excessively, it seemed she had conceived the idea that it would be splendid if she could bring someone like me back to her hometown. After that as well, I was approached with quite a number of such trivial matters, but as I too had previously struggled considerably with such things, I managed to handle them skillfully in a satisfactory manner.

Now, this region is called Ngari in Tibetan, so the Chinese transliterate it as Ali. It forms a rather extensive area stretching west to Rātāku and Kūnub, with its most renowned location being a mountain town called Pulan situated to the south. As I briefly mentioned earlier, there exists a magnificent sacred site there where three Buddhist statues are enshrined. These are Manjushri Bodhisattva first, followed by Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva, and then Vajrapani Bodhisattva.

There was a legend that these statues had been transmitted long ago from Ceylon, but just half a year before my arrival, a great fire had occurred, and two of the three statues were said to have burned down, leaving only Manjushri Bodhisattva remaining. I wished to make pilgrimage there, but going would mean encountering checkpoint officials, and there would likely be deeply suspicious merchants in that mountain town regardless. Thinking it unnecessary to seek faults where none existed, I decided against visiting. However, my companions went on pilgrimage there while I stayed behind; during their two-day absence, I did nothing but seated meditation. After their return, we gradually proceeded westward until reaching Lake Rakgal's western edge, then advanced northeast along its shore. From that vantage point looking west across the lake, three islands appeared shaped like tripod legs. Thus I named them Gotoku Islands and have referred to them as such ever since. Several days later on August 17th, I arrived at a market called Gyaa Nima.

Gyaa Nima Market: This market operated for two months during summer, opening from July 15th to September 15th by the Gregorian calendar. Most traders here were people dwelling in the Himalayan regions of India, their counterparts being Tibetans. The market appeared exceptionally lively, with 150 to 160 white tents pitched. It seemed five or six hundred people engaged in mutual trade had formed a crowd. The most frequently exchanged goods remained those I had previously mentioned—wool, butter, yak tails—while purchases by Tibetans from the interior were still limited to the aforementioned items. I stayed at the market and made some small purchases. After remaining there one additional day, I set out back toward a market called Gyaa Karuko the following day. This place named Gyaa Nima marked the farthest point I had reached in my northwestward progress.

Hitherto, it must be said that we had taken a circuitous route when viewed from the standpoint of approaching our destination; in truth, after leaving Lhasa behind, we had gradually advanced northwestward. But henceforth, with each step drawing us closer to Tibet's true main road, we would simultaneously draw closer to Lhasa itself. Upon arriving at Gyaa Karuko, we stayed there for another three or four days. At this Gyaa Karuko as well, there were 150 to 160 tents, and trade was conducted even more vigorously than at Gyaa Nima. This was a trading market between a region in the northwestern plains of Tibet and Himalayan people from India. Up to this point, Himalayan people from India were permitted by the Tibetan government to come. At this place called Gyaa Karuko, there were numerous merchants from Himalayan tribes, and among them was a merchant from Milum who understood English. When that person secretly invited me under the pretext of offering a meal and I went there, they conclusively labeled me as a British secret agent.

Chapter 34: On the Verge of Entanglement with Women

Recognizing me as a British secret detective, the man said, “Since I am under your country’s dominion, I would never do anything disadvantageous to you.” “In return, when you return to India, I ask that you promote my business dealings—that’s what this is about.” I thought his words suspicious, but as I listened further, it became clear he had arbitrarily concluded that I was conducting this Tibetan expedition under commission from the British government. Then, when I claimed to be Chinese, he demanded, “If you’re Chinese, can you speak Chinese?” I boldly asserted my knowledge of the language... Whereupon they produced someone who supposedly understood some Chinese. This proved troublesome, but recalling my previous encounter with Gyā Lama in Nepal, I engaged them calmly—only to find their Chinese interpreter wholly incompetent. Thereupon I vigorously scrawled Chinese characters and challenged him: “You—do you comprehend this? Can you read this?” The man laughed dismissively and said, “Enough! Let us speak Tibetan.”

Thereupon, the merchant was greatly astonished and said, "So you are Chinese after all! Then that's even better—China is a great nation, and my father back home has been to China before. If you could offer any business advantages that might prove useful..." Meanwhile, I wrote out land documents in English under the pretext of my presence there. His demeanor seemed genuinely intent on revealing truth to me, and since he showed no signs of deception, I considered cooperating. Since this man was returning to India, I decided to have him send a letter from there. I couldn't write details, but I wished to inform Master Sarat Chandra Das in India that I had reached Gyaa Karuko in inner Tibet. Not only that, but I conceived the idea of having Master notify Mr. Tokujūrō Hige of Sakai and Mr. Ichirō Itō through his correspondence that I was still alive. When I mentioned the letter, he promptly agreed to handle it.

First News to the Homeland: Thereupon, I decided to enclose a letter bound for Japan within the letter addressed to Master Sarat Chandra Das in Darjeeling, India, securely sealed it, gave some money to the man, and had him dispatch it. When I later returned and inquired of Messrs. Hige and Itō, I found that the letter had indeed arrived. He appeared to have been quite a reliable person. Then, while staying there, the two sheep I had been leading for a long time ended up disappearing. The sheep had supposedly run off somewhere, but in truth, it seemed the youngest of three brothers—a rather unscrupulous man driven by greed—had stolen and sold them. However, I maintained an air of complete ignorance, thinking to myself that losing just that much was acceptable. Now, the most troublesome matter was the aforementioned Daawa (meaning 'moon'), a girl. In Tibet, those born on Monday are generally called Daawa, those born on Friday are called Pasan, and those born on Sunday are called Nima. I will discuss the details later.

That

On the Verge of Entanglement with Women The girl named Daawa skillfully approached me with various matters. It seemed single-mindedness indeed bred ingenious methods, for she gradually began extolling only her homeland's virtues. Her mother was a woman of profound compassion and kindness. Then she mentioned her homeland possessed 150–160 yaks and some four hundred sheep. They maintained truly prosperous livelihoods through chachan penma—a genuinely blissful way of life. Being an only daughter yet to find a suitable husband, she came offering these explanations. The term chachan penma denotes alternating between tea and liquor; in Tibet, people consider it the supreme pleasure to switch between butter-infused tea and weak barley wine. This practice remains inaccessible to all but the exceedingly wealthy. Not only did their customs lean toward indulging in these pleasures, but they regarded them almost as life's very purpose. To describe ordinary society's ultimate state of bliss, the single term chachan penma sufficed.

This may seem like a digression, but [explanation follows about]

The method of preparing butter tea was fascinating. Into a wooden cylinder nearly three feet long, they placed butter, tea water, and salt. Using a stick with a mushroom-shaped tip that fit the cylinder, they pumped it up and down with a whooshing sound like operating an old Japanese fire engine—a feat requiring tremendous strength that we could never replicate. As they pumped vigorously, the tea and butter churned into a thick brew. Tibetans claimed they could judge the drink’s quality by the pumping sound’s resonance. Returning to our story—not only did the girl keep extolling her family’s prosperity, but she emphasized that even lamas in her region kept wives. “For lamas to maintain households and live joyfully in this world is truly admirable,” she pressed. “I think their way of life shows great wisdom.” “Why won’t you take me as your partner?” she demanded. “You might as well call me a fool outright!” At that very moment, something occurred to me.

Recollecting Shakyamuni Buddha at Bodhgaya: At that moment when Shakyamuni Buddha sat serenely upon the Vajrasana at Bodhgaya, assuredly about to attain Buddhahood, the Great Demon King, greatly fearing this, dispatched his three daughters. They assailed him with every manner of seductive gesture and gaze, employing all thirty-two methods of temptation known in that age to entice the Tathagata with carnal desires—yet Shakyamuni Buddha remained composed and unmoved. So those three daughters sang a song. Since the song contained similar things to what Daawa had told me, I shall here attempt to translate and relate this matter from the Tibetan scriptures.

Gentle and fair their forms appear, Alluring as maidenflowers dear, From fragrant lips sweet songs arise, O joyous lord love's paradise. In homeland's pure land where we dwell, Where pleasures mortal none excel - If you refuse these gifts we bring, No greater folly worlds can sing. Such was their song; though I knew myself no Shakyamuni Tathagata - incapable of his enlightenment - I resolved to embrace my foolishness further and steadfastly reject her advances. Yet finding myself in such a novelistic predicament, I could not help but pity the girl's heart. At that time I composed a song.

To foolishness beyond foolishness I might descend, This scheming heart that lures toward worldly desire Yet the girl grew increasingly emboldened, her gestures now unmistakably suggestive of consent. At that moment, her parents and siblings having all gone to market, we remained alone in the tent. Seizing this opportunity, she pressed her suit with growing urgency. I busied myself adjusting my footwear. As I tended to my sandals, I endured her persistent entreaties. The situation had become insufferable. Though no unfeeling thing carved from root or stone—and thus not wholly impervious—the knowledge that such folly would betray my sacred vows and invite Shakyamuni Tathagata's dreadful gaze left my heart's depths utterly undisturbed. "Your home may indeed be splendid," I addressed her abruptly, "but tell me—does that mother of yours yet draw breath in your fine house, or has she joined the dead?" "Do you even know?" I fired back like a pistol shot. The girl's face froze in astonishment.

Chapter 35: Escaping Female Entanglement Admonishing the Girl with Mystical Means | The girl started in surprise. “I don’t know whether she’s alive or dead.” “It’s been about a year since I left home, wandering like this with Father.” “When I departed, Mother was ill—she wept, begging me not to let her die while I was away—but now I’ve no idea how she fares,” she said. Seizing this opening, I replied with calculated gravity: “So you don’t know? You may fancy your household splendid and grand, but I know precisely how your mother fares.” At this, the girl’s amorous ardor transformed into fearful anguish, kindling the dread that her mother might already be dead.

In Tibet particularly, the belief that lamas possess supernatural powers had become a superstition among common people; thus they projected this same blind faith onto me, abruptly altering their sentiments. Taking some reassurance from this, I continued, "Well, it's not that your mother has died, but in this world, who can tell whether your mother will depart first or you will? I myself don't know if I'll survive tomorrow either. To consider such trivial joys as the ultimate pleasure in this perilous, impermanent world—that's truly foolish talk," I lectured earnestly. Then she demanded, "Tell me truthfully whether my mother back home is dead or not!"

She began to cry. This caused me some trouble, but after managing to navigate that situation passably, the girl became entirely absorbed in thoughts of her mother and completely forgot about me. I was greatly relieved. After staying there several days, we departed together on August 26th and headed northeast. The entire area was marshland with shallow water visible everywhere. After advancing about one ri, we encountered an extremely deep marsh. When I tried measuring its depth with my staff, it refused to settle firmly. Judging this marsh utterly impassable, we turned back once more, retreated half a ri, then took an eastward path forward. This time we found what might have been an outflow from that marsh now forming a river; after crossing three channels of this waterway and traveling approximately four ri, we left the marshes behind and reached mountainous terrain. There we stayed that night. The area bustled with traders traveling between Gyaa Nima and Gyaa Karuko, their tents dotting the landscape. Since this was considered an appropriate situation for ascetic begging,

We performed the practice of ascetic begging. Though people gave meager offerings, going around five or six houses would yield about a day's worth of food. The next day too, wherever ascetic begging was possible we begged for alms, and at night I always gave sermons. Those sermons proved remarkably effective in softening my companions' hearts. Had it not been so, I would likely have been killed by those very people. Yet at present there was little fear of being slain—for while this area teemed with people, even its uninhabited stretches were deemed sacred ground where no violent soul would commit robbery or hunt once having entered. Thus we remained safe for now, but I knew that upon leaving these hallowed lands we would surely face peril. It was for this reason I strove to deliver sermons and properly instruct them beforehand. These teachings too were received with great eagerness and attentiveness.

On August 28th, when crossing an undulating mountain range spanning about eight ri, there was not a drop of water. I drank only a single cup of tea upon departure and could not even eat roasted barley flour. My throat was parched—though I had thirsted before— I did not feel hardship to the extent of having tasted the suffering of the Hungry Ghost Realm. Thus by evening that day, we arrived at the upper reaches of the Langchen Kambab. This Langchen Kambab—called “River Storage” in English—is, as I previously mentioned, the source of a river flowing far westward into India where it converges with the Shita River to form the Indus before emptying into the Arabian Sea, though local inhabitants claim it originates from Lake Manasarovar. When I countered—“Yet Lake Manasarovar lies entirely encircled by mountains without any river outlet”—they responded: “True enough, but this river’s source springs from rocks east of Chukor Gompa Temple in Mount Kailash’s northwestern foothills—water drawn directly from Lake Manasarovar itself.” In other words, their explanation maintained that it flows here from Lake Manasarovar as a hidden underground stream.

Admittedly, it was a somewhat interesting idea; however, when I considered the elevation levels, it seemed to me this river flowed from a point higher than Lake Manasarovar's surface, so I could not bring myself to be impressed by the locals' explanation. Having reached the riverbank, we pitched our tents as usual and stayed there. The next day being when we were to visit the renowned sacred site of Pretapuri in this area, we left all our luggage and tents with two caretakers and set out - myself, the girl, her relative, and another woman, four of us in total. Descending westward along the Langchen Kambab, when we passed through an area where large rocks stretched for about three chō, we found another river flowing from the north. As there were three such rivers in this area, they are called Tokpo Rapsun (meaning "Three Companion Rivers"). After crossing one branch and climbing a slope of about one chō, there lay an extremely vast plain. Upon this plain,

There was a dense thicket of thorns resembling a tea plantation. As I surveyed it, an impression arose as if I were standing in Uji's famed tea fields, vividly reminding me of my homeland. After progressing another half-ri, we encountered yet another river bearing the same name as the previous one. Crossing it proved equally challenging—the icy waters reached our waists, chilling us to the bone with their glacial flow. We attempted to climb upward but found progress impossible. Turning to my three companions, I said, "I need to rest here awhile. I must apply moxibustion before proceeding—please go ahead without me." They would complete their pilgrimage that day and return to guard our belongings, while I intended to stay overnight at the sacred site. I assured them they'd find the path if they continued eastward, and they departed. No matter how rigorously I'd trained, I simply couldn't match the Tibetans' physical endurance and swift gait. With my legs refusing to cooperate, I declined to struggle after them. Producing matches and moxa from my pack, I applied the burning herbs to the three-li point below my knees. Gradually, sensation returned to my limbs. After an hour's rest, I trekked two ri westward until the plains yielded to riverbanks. Following the current downstream, I glimpsed a temple in the distance—a magnificent structure fronted by stone mani altars arranged like linked railway carriages. These formations weren't unique to this area; countless similar configurations dotted the Himalayan mountains, where...

There were strange birds whose calls sounded exactly like steam whistles. Seeing the mani altar resembling a train, I suddenly recalled those birds—though steam whistle birds did not inhabit this area—and felt as though I had arrived in the land of a civilized nation.

Chapter 36: Natural Mandala Circumambulation (Part 1)

The majestic mountain temple—I felt as though I had arrived in the land of a truly civilized nation. When I looked ahead, there was a main hall, there were monks' quarters, and there were also many stone tower-like structures, all appearing quite splendid. In the Tibetan highlands, gathering stones to build houses was an extremely difficult task requiring great expense; however, there was Pretapuri (City of Hungry Ghosts), so named long ago when Panden Atisha came from India to transmit the true essence of Buddhism to this land and bestowed upon this place the name Pretapuri—that is, City of Hungry Ghosts.

This was indeed an extraordinarily curious name, but what manner of people were Tibetans— They were what might be called dung-devouring hungry ghosts; among all races I had seen or heard tell of, I believed none matched their filthiness. Of course, these habits remained unchanged from ancient times to the present day. Since conditions were equally squalid when Panden Atisha visited long ago, it seemed he had accordingly bestowed the name "City in the Land of Dung-Eating Hungry Ghosts." Unaware of the Indian language's meaning, Tibetans proudly proclaimed their gratitude that Panden Atisha had granted their town such an august title. After temples were erected and various venerable lamas—meaning "holy ones"—came to dwell there, Gyalwa Gottsang Pa of the Zhukpa sect later established a complete monastic training complex. It endures to this day, comprising four or five monks' quarters. I reached one such dwelling and secured lodging. My companions who had gone ahead had already completed their pilgrimage and departed. Having finished lunch at this quarters and requested guidance from the temple monks regarding sacred sites, I was first led to a main hall measuring four ken frontage by five ken depth—a stone structure of remarkable solidity. Unlike typical Tibetan temples with two or three stories, this stood as a single-level building. Yet within it rested what was most sacredly enshrined—

The most venerably enshrined objects were portraits of Shakyamuni Buddha and Lobon Rinpoche, founder of the Ancient School of Tibetan Buddhism. Regarding this Lobon Rinpoche, there were indeed so many unspeakably peculiar matters that I cannot discuss them here; however, I believe he was an exceedingly bizarre figure in Buddhism—so much so that even Japan's most corrupt monks today would surely marvel at his deeds. That these two were enshrined side by side with equal reverence filled me with indescribable revulsion. For this Lobon Rinpoche was a great criminal who had transformed himself into a demonic monk to corrupt true Buddhism. Beneath their sumeru altar hung a single curtain. They claimed that behind this curtain lay a truly sacred object, promising to show it for one tangka—equivalent to twenty-five sen in Japanese currency. I promptly paid the twenty-five sen to have it revealed. They declared it to be a natural imprint formed when Lobon Rinpoche, founder of their sect, had faced this very rock during his visit to the land.

Of course, Tibetans do not fix their gaze and stare unhesitatingly at that image. Because it resembled a living Buddha, they held the foolish notion that staring at it too intently would cause their eyes to burst. I examined it thoroughly and clearly understood that an ancient cunning monk had carved into that rock and fabricated it by applying crude pigments. Had they crafted it with sufficient artistry to appear naturally formed, even an artificial object would have been difficult for our eyes to discern; but since Tibet was truly a country where artistic techniques had not advanced, this statue too had been made in such a crude manner. Therefore, its artificial nature was quickly discovered. That such cunning methods of deceiving people and extracting money through these means were being carried out in Tibet, a land where Buddhism flourished, seemed truly bizarre. I had heard that there were quite a number of demonic monks in places like Japan who engaged in such deeds, but upon realizing that Tibetan monks and Japanese monks alike uniformly carried out these acts to deceive the ignorant masses, I truly could not help lamenting for the sake of Buddhism.

A natural sacred site—but this training hall was such a naturally excellent one that there was even a Tibetan proverb: "If you have not encountered Pretapuri, you have not truly encountered Mount Kailash; if you have not circled Korgyal Pond, you have not circled Anavatapta Lake either." Given that, it was a highly revered sacred site. The meaning of this proverb was that even if one made a pilgrimage to Mount Kailash, unless one also visited this Pretapuri, it could not be said that one had truly made a pilgrimage to Mount Kailash. The meaning was that even if one circumambulated Anavatapta Lake, unless one also circumambulated Korgyal Pond located southeast of that Anavatapta Lake, it amounted to nothing. From the perspective of its natural features as well, it was quite an impressive training hall, and below it flowed the great Ranchen Kambab River, majestically coursing westward. Across the river on the opposite bank stood layered bizarre rock walls, their hues manifesting in various shades—yellow, red, a truly refreshing blue, then green, and a slightly purplish tint. They manifested indescribably beautiful patterns, as if a rainbow or hues of mist had colored them. Especially since they were rocks, their sharply jutting forms, harmonizing with their beauty, appeared quite fascinating. Near the temple in this area, there were also natural

There were numerous strange rocks and bizarre stones, forming various shapes. The foolish monks had assigned various names to those rocks—Demon-Subduing Stone, Marital Statues of the Horse-Headed Wisdom King, Stone Effigy of Mount Kailash, Natural Likeness of Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva, Great Stupa of Kashyapa Buddha—bestowing these seemingly plausible titles to beguile the hearts of the ignorant masses. However, still agitated from having seen Lobon Rinpoche's fabricated image earlier, I found myself unimpressed by this magnificent natural scenery, with every word from the guide monk grating on my nerves—so much that I nearly felt like giving him a good thrashing—yet I forced myself to listen to each explanation. From Kami Rock Cave, descending some two hundred meters along the river, there lay three large hot springs.

There were also two or three small hot springs, some of which were so scalding hot that one couldn’t touch them. I did not know exactly how hot it was, but it was indeed a hot spring exceeding 100 degrees Celsius. None were what one would call particularly cold. They were all transparent clear waters. In addition, around that area, there were crystallized elements from the hot springs. When I observed the colors of these crystallized deposits, there were white ones, red ones, green ones, blue ones, and so forth. They all had solidified in a manner resembling hardened lime. And the pilgrims took these back, saying they were medicine from the sacred site. They could indeed serve as some kind of medicine. Having listened to these various explanations, that night I again lodged at the temple, spent the night in seated meditation, and set out on the return journey the following morning.

Losing the Path on the Plateau: Then, in the vast plain—though how exactly I had lost my way was unclear—no matter how far I walked, I could not reach the place where the river lay. This is truly strange—I should have reached the riverbank in at least three hours, yet after walking for five hours now, there’s still no sign of the river. As I looked more closely, I realized I was heading toward the northern mountains. Thinking "This is disastrous," I altered my path and advanced southeastward. Then I reached the river. While crossing that river, I ended up spending the entire day without eating until nightfall. Later, when I heard about it, the tent people had been greatly worried, saying that lama might have been carried off by the water and died, and when I returned around dusk, the daughter had come out leading sheep. When they saw me, they were overjoyed and said, “We thought you might have died—we were just about to go search for you.” The following day, I again proceeded toward the eastern mountains and arrived at the plain northeast of Rakgal Lake and northwest of Lake Manasarovar. This plain belongs to the great Chise Snow Peak’s plateau; proceeding southward from there for about 1.5 ri toward the lake brings one to Tarchen Tarsam. The plain slopes gradually downward from the Chise Snow Peak plateau—which transitions into an inclined flatland—as if the mountains were flowing continuously toward the lake, forming a gently descending terrain. We stayed there that night, and it was decided that from here we would finally make our pilgrimage to the Great Chise Snow Peak.

Chapter 37: Circumambulation of the Natural Mandala (Part 2)

Route: However, during that night's discussion, those people refused to agree to circumambulate Chise Snow Peak together. They declared they would each make the circuit separately. The reason was that during their four or five days here, they wished to circle this mountain three times. The circumambulation path measured over twenty ri in length. Since I couldn't possibly complete over twenty ri in a single day with them, I needed to find lodging somewhere and make my pilgrimage gradually. Yet those people would rise at midnight and keep circling until about eight o'clock the next evening—through this method, they aimed to complete roughly three circuits during their usual five-day stay. The girls had already made two circuits themselves. I was utterly astounded. As one circuit sufficed for me, I first shouldered four or five days' worth of provisions myself and set out along that winding path. Now, what exactly does this circuit encompass? At Chise Snow Peak's center stands a snow peak embodying Shakyamuni Buddha's physical form, encircled by peaks representing various devas and bodhisattvas, alongside others symbolizing the Five Hundred Arhats.

A path was laid out so as to circle around its outer side. The circuit path also had extremely steep slopes where one sometimes had to climb nearly to the mountain’s summit. However,between the mountains,there existed a path that allowed one to make a full circuit in such a manner. That path is called Chikor(meaning “outer circuit”). Then there were paths called Palkor,the second circuit,and Nangyikor(inner circuit). It is said that unless one is a god or Buddha，one cannot traverse it. The ordinary route to circumambulate was the Chikor(outer circuit),and those who complete twenty-one circuits of this Chikor are permitted to circumambulate the Palkor. Since this lay within the outer path,the trail was well-established but extremely rugged,making it impassable for ordinary people. However,there were said to be many places that had collapsed due to snow or where progress was impossible due to rocks. The Nangyikor abounded with myths as elusive as grasping clouds—inexplicable and bewildering. Upon arriving at that Chikor,I first paid my respects at the temple from the ordinary direction. In each of the four corners—east，west，south，and north—of the circuit path，there stood one temple. These were named

These are called the Four Great Temples of Chise Snow Peak. I first visited Nyenbo Rizōn temple in the western corner where Amitābha Tathāgata is enshrined. This temple generated the highest income among sacred sites here, and while temples enshrining Amida Buddha in Japan also tend to be prosperous, it seemed peculiar that such circumstances prevailed even in Tibet, yielding extraordinary revenues. They say this temple collects approximately ten thousand yen in offerings during just three summer months. For such frost-scorched lands, this income must indeed be called remarkable. All of it goes to the King of Bhutan. How curious. All temples of Chise Snow Peak fall under Bhutanese jurisdiction. Though one might expect them to belong under the Tibetan Dharma King's rule, historical connections with Bhutanese Zhukpa Sect monks apparently led to this mountain's governance reverting to Bhutan. When I entered the temple and beheld Amitābha Tathāgata, I found it crafted from pure lustrous white gemstone. The Tibetan artisanship displayed magnificent skill. The countenance had been fashioned with characteristically Tibetan gentleness that inspired profound reverence. Before it stood two elephant tusks. These measured about five shaku long and were remarkably thick. Circling behind them, I found one hundred volumes from the Tibetan Buddhist canon's sutra section arranged on shelves. These scriptures were placed there not for reading purposes but for making lamp offerings.

They were placed there for the purpose of making offerings. It was truly absurd—scriptures are prepared to be read, yet here they were being venerated through lamp offerings—quite preposterous. Of course, if there were people who would carelessly use scriptures as nose paper or toilet paper, they must be said to have lost all common sense—yet the practice of offering lamp lights was equally strange. However, it seemed to me that merely offering lamp lights was still kinder than Japanese temple buildings where sutras lay stored away in scripture halls without being read at all. I paid my respects to that Amitābha Buddha, read one volume of the Amitābha Sūtra, then inquired about the temple’s sacred sites and departed. From there lay the pure place within this natural mandala. Its name was Serushun—that is,

It was called Golden Valley. Of course there was no gold, but truly strange and marvelous rock walls stood imposingly as if splitting the void. Beyond those rock walls, a jewel-like snow peak revealed its face. The sight alone overwhelmed one with its awe-inspiring grandeur, yet from between sword-like rocks towering into the azure sky, several cascades plunged approximately a thousand feet downward. As for that magnificent spectacle, it was truly beyond comparison. Due to their considerable width, many were visible, but when selecting the largest among them, there were about seven. As for the strange form of those waterfalls,

The Seven Waterfalls of Kailash Snow Peak There was an air as though a flood dragon were leaping from the thousand-ren snow peak and plunging down beneath the rocks. Some cascades fell like slowly unfurling cloth, while others flowed like undulating white banners. For some time I sat motionless there, gazing at this scenic beauty until entranced by the sublime vista, entering a state of blank selflessness. Thus I tentatively named these seven waterfalls the Seven Dragons of Chise Snow Peak. It was truly delightful. Though cascades and snow peaks adorned the path's left side as well, they could not compare to the present spectacle on the right. Just beholding this scenery made me feel all my endured hardships had been worthwhile. At such moments I felt an unbearable urge to compose poetry, yet nothing came forth. Then gradually circling the mountain, I emerged at a place facing northward from what was called the mountain's center.

There stood a monastery called Ri-Ra-Puri (meaning "Place of the Yak's Horn"). This name originated from a legend where Vajravārāhī transformed herself into a yak to guide the first lama who came to circumambulate this mountain. After completing her guidance, she hid within a rock cavern—as she concealed herself, she struck the rock and lost one horn, which remained at that spot. This temple ranked second in revenue after Amitābha Temple and housed more monks than the previous one, though in total there were only about fifteen. The prior temple had no more than four monks. When I arrived at dusk seeking lodging, a man who appeared to be the temple steward showed great trust by opening his own living quarters to me, saying, "This room provides an excellent view of Chise Snow Peak and allows you to behold an exceptionally beautiful moon at night—please rest here." Delighted, I settled in, whereupon they prepared tea for me. Since I had mentioned not taking evening meals, they made the tea especially well with extra butter added.

Then, the monk explained to me about the mountain that stood far opposite us. "The great snow peak towering majestically at the center south of our gate is none other than Chise Snow Peak—the very embodiment of Shakyamuni Buddha," he said. "The small snow peak eastward before it manifests Manjushri Bodhisattva." "The central formation represents Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva," he continued, gesturing westward with his butter-stained sleeve, "and yonder crag takes form as Vajrapani Bodhisattva." "I've described various lesser peaks beyond these," he concluded with monastic pragmatism, "but their full histories lie within Chise Snow Peak's sacred chronicles—translated texts will reveal what my tongue spares." That night coursed through me like meltwater—pure joy untainted by altitude. Before that glacial massif flowed water murmuring secrets older than mantras. Moonlight fractured across ripples where liquid silver met obsidian depths. Each shard danced—a thousand lotus petals adrift on Dharma's stream. The water-song stilled my churning thoughts. As wind through Pure Land pines carries Buddha's voice, so these currents wove sutras until my mind dissolved into samadhi’s mirror-surface. True sanctity dwells within—so Shakyamuni taught me long past— yet even we dust-bound mortals find hearts quickened where earth touches heaven’s hem.

Chapter 38: Circumambulating the Natural Mandala (3)

Traversing the Slope of Deliverance from the Three Realms: The following day too, I stayed at that temple and conducted various studies about the area, but at night I once again entered meditative concentration and continued that pleasure. The joy of that time is something I will never forget throughout my life.

The next day, I had to cross an extremely steep slope called the Slope of Deliverance from the Three Realms. However, the steward was an exceedingly kind person who offered to lend me a yak. It seemed we shared a profound karmic bond—he extended every possible kindness and even provided me with provisions. Mounted on that yak and guided by one man, I climbed the fearsome slope. Then—whether called blind faith or religious devotion—the Tibetans' fervor astonished me: confessing sins to Buddha and accumulating merit through acts like circumambulating the mountain with prostrations at every step. These practices were mostly performed by young men and women—impossible for elders. Even mere climbing proved arduous enough without attempting such youthful rigor. Though riding a yak, I found the ascent grueling. The thin air left me gasping after climbing two ri up that slope; exhausted and struggling to breathe, I stopped to rest and take medicine. There I heard something remarkable. People were worshiping Chise Snow Peak across the valley—revered as Shakyamuni Tathagata. One worshiper hailed from Kam—that notorious bandit stronghold. Judging by his ferocious mien—imposing frame and terrifying eyes—he appeared an exceptionally formidable villain even among Kam's brigands. This villain was loudly confessing his sins.

Confession of Future Misdeeds—the absurdity of that confession defied description. For confession fundamentally involves recognizing the evil of one's past sinful deeds, repenting those sins, entreating forgiveness, and resolving to commit no further wrongdoings—this being its essential principle. Yet the confessions those people were making proved truly bizarre, astonishing even me to hear. Later, when I inquired with someone, I learned this was perfectly ordinary for people from Kam to do—everyone performed such confessions as a matter of course, they said. Therefore, I found myself utterly astonished. The reason lay in how they phrased their confessions:

“Oh, Kan Rinpoche!” “O Shakyamuni Buddha! O all Buddhas and Bodhisattvas of the three periods and ten directions!” “I have now sincerely confessed upon this slope all manner of grave sins I have committed thus far—killing several people, stealing countless goods, abducting men’s wives, quarreling with others and beating them.” “Therefore, I believe that with this, my sins have been completely eradicated.” “I hereby sincerely confess upon this slope all sins I will commit henceforth—killing people, stealing others’ belongings, taking men’s wives, and beating others.”

That was precisely how it went. Was I not compelled to feel astonishment? Then ascending

When I climbed what was called the Slope of Liberation Buddha Mother (解脱仏母の坂), there on the right stood Norsan Peak—meaning “the peak where Sudhana (善財童子) resides.” As I gradually ascended along that mountain and reached the summit of the Slope of Liberation Buddha Mother (解脱仏母の坂), there stood an image of Liberation Buddha Mother formed by natural rock. To its northeast towered strange rocks and bizarre stones like clouds and mist, and there stood something jutting out abruptly from nature resembling a statue. They explained that those rocks represented the forms of the twenty-one Liberation Buddha Mothers. That spot was the highest point along the Outer Path, with almost no difference in elevation compared to Chise Snow Peak. So that area was extremely cold, and with the air being so thin, even if one remained still,

My heart pounded violently; my heart pounded so fiercely that I felt truly agonized. Fortunately, because I had ridden up on a yak, I did not suffer extreme hardship; however, I felt that if I had walked up, I would never have been able to reach this place today. Of course, Tibetans possess extremely robust lungs that allow them to ascend and descend such steep mountains without difficulty; but we, having lungs not even half as strong as theirs, could never have contemplated climbing on foot. Then, when I descended about three chō down that slope, there was a large pond. The pond was completely covered with ice. There was an interesting mythological story about that pond. That was the pond where Sudhana had washed his hands long ago. At that time, during summer, ice had not formed at all; however, later, when a certain pilgrim carrying a child on their back came to this area and leaned over to wash their hands in that beautiful water, the child they were carrying fell into the pond and died. Then, because the mountain god deemed this unacceptable, he decided to keep it perpetually frozen with ice. This was the explanation that the thick ice formed here by the virtue of the deity to protect us. Having heard such a story, I descended an exceedingly precarious slope. Of course, in that area there were various naturally wondrous rocks that had been given names, but I refrained from listing them all as it would have become too lengthy. Because the slope was extremely steep, it was utterly impossible to descend while riding a yak or such.

When I gradually descended and arrived at the eastern section of Chise Snow Peak, there stood Zunturu Puku (Illusion Cave), a renowned sacred site. This temple was the training ground established by Venerable Tsang Milareba—the most revered and celebrated figure in Tibet—where many fascinating stories exist, all pertaining to specialized religious matters, so there is no need to discuss them here; yet Tsang Milareba himself had been a man who undertook extreme austerities and a great poet who propagated Buddhist truths far and wide. A great poet such as this had never before appeared in Tibet, nor has one appeared since. And so, the biography of this venerable one had naturally taken shape through truly peculiar occurrences. It was entirely composed as a poetic biography. Not only was part of that person’s biography poetic, but his very thoughts possessed an entirely poetic and profoundly mysterious quality. That is why certain Western scholars these days have been extracting parts of this venerable one’s poetry here and there—those that seem easily comprehensible—and translating them into their own languages. Then, a Russian scholar I knew also, after I returned to Darjeeling, listened to my explanation and translated it into Russian. He declared it to be truly complete and was greatly pleased. So, after staying one night at this temple, the next day I descended along the Hamhungichu (Boot-Dropping River) and arrived at the lower area where the Gyanta Temple is located in the south. At that temple, Dolje Karmo (White Vajra Mother) is enshrined. As it was located in the mountains, fifteen or sixteen chō [about 1.6-1.7 kilometers] off the main path, there was a station called Tarchen Tarsam along the usual route. There were about thirty stone-built houses there. In the near and far distance, about twelve or thirteen tents could be seen. This area's

It was a major market and also a place where taxes were collected. I lodged at a house in that market town, where I dismissed both my escorts and the yaks. That night I spent engaged in my usual meditation practice until around ten o'clock the next morning when my separated companions rejoined me. This Tarchen City lies on a diagonal plain between Lake Manasarovar's northwestern corner and Lake Rakgal's northeastern corner. Following this diagonal plain southeastward along Lake Manasarovar's western shore, I continued in the same direction the next day until reaching Ponri Snow Peak's base. This marks the sacred site of Tibet's ancient Bon religion that I previously mentioned. Yet here stood a large temple I naturally assumed to be Bonist, but which instead belonged to Tibetan Buddhism's new sect. An imposing structure had been erected among these mountains. However, I never reached that temple itself. Now then, this area teemed with various mushrooms. Specifically water mushrooms and yellow mushrooms grew in wetlands devoid of trees. Finding these mushrooms exceptionally delicious, our female companions gathered them to fry in butter with salt - truly exquisite fare indeed. This area seemed to have grown considerably distant from holy sites,

The Land and the Pilgrims’ Spirit: According to these hosts (pilgrims), they declared that we must now begin our main work. As for what that work was, they said they were going out hunting for sport. Since they were going to shoot deer living in this area—which would have been ordinary enough on its own—there was also suspicion that, depending on circumstances, those three brothers might go out and kill unsuspecting travelers to steal their belongings. I proceeded nonchalantly, but as I began to feel that my life was in considerable danger, I had to find a way to separate from these people. However, if I were to suddenly flee, it might instead arouse their suspicion and lead to my being killed; thinking this while hoping to find some good method, I arrived the next day at the edge of a mountain. However, my companions fired at and killed a beast called chanku before my very eyes. Moreover, they killed it not to eat but purely for sport.

This beast was a large dog-like creature with sparse fur. During summer, its reddish-brown coat appeared truly beautiful. When I saw it, it bore this coloration, though I was told it turns pale gray in winter. While I never witnessed this gray phase myself, every Tibetan account confirmed its veracity. Its sharply pointed ears and visage—ferocious, cruel, and pitiless—made it fearsome to behold; travelers alone might find themselves suddenly attacked and devoured, so people said. When three brothers shot five or six such beasts approaching the opposite ridge, their faces betrayed intense delight in the slaughter. Seeing their cruel countenances alight with pleasure, I thought: *These men would likely take equal joy in killing humans*—and with that realization came creeping dread.

Chapter 39: Sibling Quarrel

Farewell to the Sacred Sites: As it snowed again the following day, we ended up staying there. At that moment, the hunting dogs brought by the hosts went rabbit hunting, devoured the rabbits, and returned—an extremely brutal scene unfolded.

On the following September 15th, we gradually headed east, crossing undulating mountains until we reached nearly the summit of a peak. When the host declared we must part ways here, I asked why we should separate. Pointing to Lake Manasarovar visible far to the west and Manri Snow Peak rising southward from the lake's center, he explained: "Having departed from the most sacred sites, we must now undertake our true work. Let us worship here to bid farewell, praying we may meet again when next making pilgrimage to this place." As they began worshipping, I followed suit and found myself deeply moved there.

Having crossed thousands of miles through mountains and seas and braved extraordinary hardships, I became the first Japanese person to reach this Lake Manasarovar. Yet when I thought I must now bid farewell to this sacred lake, I was struck by some indescribable, infinite emotion. Then descending again and crossing the undulating mountains several times over, I arrived near a village with twelve or thirteen tents belonging to Ponri Temple, and first headed toward that settlement to undertake the ascetic practice of begging. That was not merely for the purpose of receiving goods.

Begging while conducting observations—there was the thought of wanting to study what kind of people lived there, how they lived their lives, or what their customs and social conditions were like, and also to learn about other aspects of their circumstances. However, since I couldn’t simply wander around aimlessly, by first going in the guise of a beggar—whether they gave me anything or not—I could thoroughly survey the area. Because I always maintained such thoughts, whenever I went out anywhere, I would set out as a beggar and look around everywhere. The next day too, the hosts remained there and went out sport hunting. I was reading the Chinese-character Lotus Sutra inside the tent. Then, the eldest brother’s wife and a girl named Daawa—the middle brother’s daughter—were talking about something outside.

At first I couldn't quite make out what they were saying, but since the repeated mentions of "lama" clearly seemed to refer to me, I found myself listening despite myself. Then Daawa asked: "That lama said my mother might be dead—do you think she truly died?" The other woman laughed. "Don't be absurd—nothing of the sort could happen!" "Because you've grown too fond of him, he spun some convenient tale to trick you." "Merely listening to such talk won't help matters." "And remember what my husband said the other day—if that lama refuses to become our niece's husband, we'll slaughter him and make meat of him." "Truth be told, my husband's furious too—you'd best explain yourself properly and agree to marry him," she said this pointedly loud for my benefit.

I was truly astonished. However, it was at that moment that I resolved: If I were to be killed for such a reason, this would truly be a blessed event. Being killed for upholding my precepts was truly a blessed event. Up until now, I had fallen into error many times, repented many times, and somehow pressed forward to this day. Yet to render futile the merit I had accumulated through my efforts thus far and fall into that demon's den out of fear of being killed here was not my true aspiration. Holding instead the conviction that my original teacher Shakyamuni Buddha would graciously accept this and allow me to meet my end gladly, I read the Lotus Sutra with utmost devotion. However, nothing happened that day.

The next day, after traveling about two ri forward and reaching the edge of another mountain, I gazed far into the distance and saw what appeared to be some kind of structure. When I asked what that place was, they said it was Tokuchen Tāsam (a relay station). As was my custom, I went there to beg and returned after finishing when only Daawa remained alone with none of the others present. When I asked where they had gone, she replied that they had all gone sport hunting and no one was there. I realized. Ah! Now at last—

Whether I'd be disposed of tonight—I didn't know. Regardless of what might happen, I became acutely aware that a crisis was imminent. Yet this girl too must have become entangled in this situation through some karmic bond; I resolved to thoroughly impart Buddhism's profound truths to her. Determined to sit and earnestly admonish her until she realized the grievous error of harboring impure thoughts toward me, I settled myself. However, that girl had been gathering water mushrooms since dawn and—declaring “You seem fond of mushrooms”—offered them with feigned kindness. After eating the roasted barley flour and mushrooms, I was about to begin reciting the Lotus Sutra when she stopped me: “I must tell you something dreadful I overheard.” “If I don’t… it would weigh too heavily on my conscience.” “Though I already knew full well what they discussed, when I pretended ignorance and listened, they repeated exactly what I’d heard before.”

“This is excellent,” I said. “Truly excellent that I should be killed by your parents and brothers for refusing to be with you. Having now made pilgrimage to Chise Snow Peak and fulfilled my life’s purpose in this world, I have no aversion whatsoever to death. Rather, it is an excellent thing. From beyond the Pure Land, I shall protect you all so that you may live in peace.” “By all means, let me be killed tonight,” I declared, chasing after them. The girl was utterly startled and began making excuses. Yet she gradually pressed closer, saying things like “Wouldn’t your death be meaningless?” But I shattered every argument with strict logic grounded in upholding the true Dharma.

When it became around four o'clock, all four of the men who had gone sport hunting returned. No sooner had they returned than the worst of the three brothers pounced on Daawa and treated her to a scolding, spewing things like "This wench clings to some man's coattails!" He must have come after listening to our conversation from outside the tent. Thereupon, the girl’s parent confronted the brother: “She’s not your daughter! There’s no reason for you to be fed even a mouthful of roasted barley flour! No matter what my daughter does, it’s none of your business!” Thus began the sibling quarrel there.

Chapter 40: Parting with the Brothers

Sibling Quarrel The sibling quarrel escalated into a frenzy—first came accusations hurled between them: “You’re the thief who murdered someone over there!” “And you’re the one who tried stealing Tibetan government funds and fled when caught!” Whether these claims held truth or not mattered little as they launched into a torrent of slanderous insults, until finally the younger brother, enraged beyond measure, savagely struck his elder brother. It culminated in throwing a large rock. I couldn’t stand by watching, so I rushed out to restrain the younger brother—but he struck my cheek with a tremendous fist. Because of that, I collapsed. The extent of that pain truly permeated throughout my entire body. Then the girl burst into tears. The wife burst into tears. A man tried to restrain them, resulting in a scene of utter chaos. There was nothing I could do. Having collapsed, I lay there as if I had just suffered a terrible ordeal.

As night gradually deepened and the quarrel eventually subsided, we spent that night as it was, but from the next day onward

The siblings scattered; each proposed to go their separate ways, and so it was decided: the eldest brother would go with his wife, the daughter with her parent, the younger brother alone, and I too would go alone. The immediate difficulty I faced was that there were no sheep to carry the luggage. Therefore, I paid six tangkas each (one yen and fifty sen) and bought two sheep. After parting with that group, I proceeded in a southeastern direction. Some of those people headed north, while others turned back. I had long heard that one should take the road not southeast but straight east. However, because I thought there might be someone among those people who would pursue and try to kill me, I proceeded into the mountains to the southeast.

If I could escape their malicious designs, then indeed, having received that single punch during their sibling quarrel would prove to have been truly good fortune, I thought. Fortunately, that night I reached the edge of a mountain and lodged on a grassy plain where sparse snow lay scattered. Though until then I had slept inside tents, this sudden lodging on a snowfield left me assailed by cold throughout the night, unable to sleep a wink.

On the following September 19th, I proceeded southeast across the snowfield and arrived at a small temple called Sha Chen Kamba in a place called Nyokche. And on the following day, I stayed at the temple to repair my footwear and mend my clothes. At that temple there were about two monks; therefore up to this temple—

With the thought that there was likely no need to worry about being pursued for murder, I proceeded leisurely. Then the sheep I had bought from them died. I truly felt pity and performed appropriate memorial rites. Since the remaining sheep refused to move forward at all, I sold it at half price to another person and gave away the dead sheep's carcass. The man who had provided me the sheep was said to be someone delivering wool tax goods to Tokuchen Station. When I gave the dead sheep's meat to four travelers lodging at that temple, they rejoiced greatly and asked, "Which direction will you go from here?" When I replied I intended toward Horutosho, they said, "Then since we're heading that way too, we'll carry your luggage for you."

They had many yaks with them, so they loaded all my luggage onto those yaks. Then, departing from that temple and proceeding southeast for about one and a half ri, we arrived at a place where there was a small circular pond with a circumference of approximately ten chō. When we proceeded southeast along the right side of that pond, another large pond soon came into view. The lake was called Lake Konkyu, stretching very long from southeast to northwest and extremely narrow from northeast to southwest, with a circumference said to be approximately fifteen to sixteen ri. The surrounding mountain ranges had snow sparsely scattered among black rocks, presenting strikingly intriguing shapes. When I climbed the mountain along the edge of that lake and observed both the lake's configuration and the appearance of a small circular pond, the sight of Lake Konkyu meandering northwest to approach that round-shaped pond was precisely

There was a natural tableau resembling a flood dragon playing with a jade disc. The snow forming mottled patterns between the black rocks along both banks appeared as if flecks of white clouds were scattered across them—a sight I found rather fascinating. Keeping that pond to our left and proceeding southeast for about seven ri, we reached the lake's edge. However, since those people carried no tents, we still had to sleep in the snow. Yet I found myself utterly unable to fall asleep. I felt profoundly exhausted—both physically and mentally. At such times, seated meditation proved the supreme method for avoiding suffering, and I felt deeply grateful for the gate of skillful means opened by the Tathagata. The next day, September 22nd, I had to climb a steep slope toward southeastern mountains—so precipitous that even seasoned travelers ascended with labored breath. Fortunately, I was permitted to ride a yak up the slope, finding some relief amidst the hardship. Descending southward about one and a half ri, we reached flat land again—all within Konkyu Province. There lay a pond-like expanse turned pure white in that plain. Though no snow could accumulate there, its whiteness came from Puto—that is...

It was said to be a natural soda pond. When we reached that area, our entire party gathered large quantities of it, placed it into bags made from yak hair, and had the yaks carry them. This is added when brewing tea. We then ascended and descended an undulating range of low mountains several times over until reaching the river mouth at Chema Yunzun where I had previously narrowly escaped death. By that time, being already late autumn, the water had significantly receded, making the crossing manageable. Since we crossed mounted on yaks, we forded the river without incident.

Around this time, we were covering nearly ten ri each day. Had I not obtained the help of yaks, I could never have walked such distances across this high plateau with its thin air. The nights remained bitterly cold, making sleep impossible. On the twenty-third, proceeding southeast again with those people for about ten ri, we reached the Brahmaputra River we had crossed before. In this area, the river is also called Marutsangichu or Kōbeichu—names derived from local place names. The Brahmaputra too had significantly receded by then, making it easy to cross. As had become customary, I rode a yak to ford the river. Finding their tent by the riverside, I decided to take shelter there. Though utterly exhausted, I stepped outside the tent at night.

There was no moon over the Brahmaputra riverside nightscape, but in the azure sky countless stars glittered brilliantly, their reflections shimmering on the water's surface as the river bore their light downstream. When I gazed into the far distance, the snow peaks of the Himalayas rose hazily. This mist-veiled nightscape possessed a solemn and inviolable majesty that struck me with an ineffable sense of boundlessness, compelling me to compose five or six poems—of which I shall now recite two.

Having lodged myriad stars, it flowed.

Brahmaputra River—could this be a celestial stream? The Himalaya where heavenly deities dwell— Brahmaputra [(Pure Heaven)] River shines above them all.

The next day, as those people were setting out in a different direction, I parted ways with them and, alone again, shouldered my heavy load to gradually proceed southeast along the river for about two ri when indeed the luggage began to feel heavier. Having been spared considerable hardship until then, the weight now felt intolerable. Advancing a short distance only to rest again in this cycle, I ultimately became unable to proceed.

Chapter 41: The Ordeal of Banditry (1)

Encountering Bandits in Broad Daylight: While resting and wondering what to do, a nomad leading a single yak fortuitously appeared. I then asked the man, "Could you take this luggage to wherever you're headed? I'll give you proper payment," to which he readily agreed. After progressing a little over one ri, three men came riding toward us on exceptionally sturdy-looking horses. Observing their appearance—each shouldering a gun across his back, gripping a spear in his right hand, and wearing a sword at his waist, all swaggering forward in Tibetan-style hunting caps—their vicious countenances and unusually muscular builds marked them as conspicuously formidable even among hardy Tibetans, leaving no doubt they were bandits.

For if they were pilgrims, they would lead pack horses or yaks carrying pilgrimage provisions, but there was nothing of the sort. If taken for traders, they were not—merchants would guide at least some horses. Those with many might lead eighty or even a hundred pack horses. Yet here stood nothing but these three men. Were they nomads? Nomads would never carry such an imposing air. It became clear these were bandits through and through. Seeing my traveling companion trembling with fear, I resolved: There was no alternative. If I surrendered everything from clothes to luggage to these bandits, matters would conclude. No need for struggle. Now was the moment.

The most precious treasure is life—but to them, human life meant nothing. I resolved it was best to surrender everything without delay. Thus while my terrified companion tried to avoid their gaze, I advanced toward the approaching bandits. The three men came before me demanding, “Where have you come from?” To which I replied, “I am one who made pilgrimage to Mount Kailash.” “When traveling here from Mount Kailash,” they pressed, “did you encounter any merchants?” “My friend’s been lurking about these parts—we’re searching for him.” “No,” I answered, “I met no such person.” “Ah—you’re a lama then.” “If you’re a lama, you’ll perform divination.” “Divine where my friend lies—quickly!” I understood their true meaning perfectly. This was no search for a friend—they sought directions to ambush wealthy merchants, slaughter them, and steal their gold. They wanted me to divine that murderous bearing. Nothing proves more terrifying than encountering such grand bandits. For they disdain petty crimes— their prey being merchants of means—

Their objective was to slaughter them in the dead of night, seize all their possessions, and flee; thus, whenever they encountered a monk traveling alone like myself, they would invariably have him perform divination to determine the direction for their significant undertaking, which is why they would show particular gratitude toward monks. Receiving thanks from bandits felt dubious, yet they themselves offered their gratitude. Having no choice, I gave a vague answer and pointed toward an uninhabited direction, earnestly explaining that going there would likely lead them to their friend. They rejoiced greatly and said, “We shall meet again someday—we cannot properly express our thanks now. Safe travels,” they said before riding off.

Even as we had this conversation, my companion kept shivering violently throughout. He turned to me and asked, "What were those bandits saying?" "I told them what they wanted to hear about their divination," I replied. "Did you give them true guidance?" "Telling them the truth would only bring harm to others," I answered as we trudged three ri along the riverbank until spotting a solitary tent. This tent served as that man's dwelling, with two or three others still standing nearby. We lodged there that night, and finding myself still utterly exhausted the next day, I rested fully until the following morning—September 26th—when I purchased a single pack goat to carry my belongings before setting out again.

A blizzard so dense I couldn't see an arm's length ahead—then the snow began falling in earnest. The storm intensified until advancing became impossible. The Tibetan robes I wore were now thoroughly soaked through, their dampness penetrating to my very skin. With such heavy snow still pouring down, I couldn't discern any direction forward—my vision swallowed whole by the whiteout. Had I possessed a compass, I might have checked our bearing, but having lost mine long ago, this reckless plowing through the storm courted true disaster. Yet in this hellish circumstance—as if meeting Buddha amidst damnation—I came upon a lone horseman.

The man looked at me and said, “If you keep going on like this in the snow, you won’t get any sleep tonight.” “Well, given the season, you probably don’t need to worry about dying here—but this bitter cold will make you suffer like you’re dying.” “I hear you’re bound for Lhasa.” Though it meant a detour, when he suggested staying at his tent, I felt reborn. Thinking it didn’t matter if we backtracked—though truthfully, in this blizzard, I couldn’t even find the path back—I begged him to guide me. Letting him load some luggage onto his horse while I led the goat, we braved the snow and reached his tent. The next day, as the tent people were moving in the same direction I was headed, the kind man went elsewhere while I traveled about six ri southeast with the others through deep snow.

Though we had traveled together, these were still people with whom I hadn't exchanged a single word. Yet I continued with them through the heavy snow, convinced someone would surely shelter me in a tent. But they swept snow from their surroundings and pitched tents in cleared areas. All the while, I stood motionless outside, gazing at the landscape while remaining in the snowfall. When they finished erecting all tents, I begged, "Please let me stay tonight," but they refused outright. Even when I persisted desperately, they wouldn't yield shelter. Then I went to another tent and pleaded again, yet still they denied me.

I approached five or six tents, exhausting my words and explaining my circumstances as I pleaded, yet none would lend me shelter. This was trouble. They appeared to be nomads with no connection to me. I came to the very last tent and stubbornly pressed my plea with desperate persistence.

"If I sleep in this piled-up snow, I'll freeze to death," I thought. "Since there's no telling whether more snow might fall tonight, please let me stay here." I pleaded desperately, offering payment and nearly prostrating myself. "But there's only an old woman and her daughter here!" she retorted. "Do you think you can barge in just because we're women? There are seven or eight other tents here!" "You should've gone begging at a tent with men—forcing your way into a place full of women is outrageous!" "Won't you leave?" "If you don't leave, I'll beat you!" she shouted, snatching the Tibetan fire iron she'd been using to tend the yak-dung fire and lunging at me.

Chapter 42: The Ordeal of Banditry (Part 2)

Chanting sutras to save all beings—but with nowhere offering shelter, there was nothing left to do. Having walked four or five ken to gaze upon the five or six tents pitched here, I thought: Truly, as Shakyamuni Tathagata taught, "Those without karmic bonds are hard to save." These people before me shared no connection with me—hence this rejection. To sleep outdoors tonight while gazing at these warm-seeming tents—what wretchedness indeed. Yet even for those without bonds, this very act of pleading might forge new karma—who could say what connections might form hereafter? Resolving to chant sutras so these people might later embrace Buddhism, I began my recitations. This stems from Buddhism's true and expansive principle of compassion—for us Buddhist monks, such acts come as naturally as breathing.

So when I earnestly chanted sutras for them, the daughter of the tent I had pleaded with earlier peeked out and watched for a while, but suddenly went back inside and said to her mother: "That lama is angry we refused him shelter—he’s reciting malevolent incantations to kill us or make us sick." She must have said that he seemed to be extremely angry. Sure enough, that mother appeared to be an intensely superstitious person; unable to bear it, she seemingly ordered her daughter, "You must go at once and invite him inside the tent so he stops such things." Immediately, the daughter came out to where I was and said, "Please do not do such things—come inside and rest at ease." Saying they would make various offerings tonight, they finally agreed to let me stay in their home. Though it seems laughable enough to make one burst out, ultimately my goodwill aided the situation; even though their understanding was misguided, that they were immediately spared hardship was thanks to Buddha’s teachings—this I thought, and I too rejoiced greatly. As usual, I spent that night in meditative practice, departed early the next morning, and advanced about one ri southeast into the mountainous area—though there should have been no one in that vicinity, two people finally emerged from beyond those rocks.

They called out to me; though they did not look like bandits, both carried swords. Thinking they were likely locals heading somewhere, I stopped without suspicion. They descended from between the rocks toward me and demanded, “What are you carrying?” When I replied, “I carry Buddhist teachings,” it proved incomprehensible to such men. “What’s on your back?” “This is food.” “What’s that bulge in your clothes?” “This is silver coins,” they said. Then both men stood before me and suddenly wrested away my walking stick. Aha—bandits! I realized at once. Steeling myself, I asked, “Do you want something of mine?” “Of course we do!” they barked with fierce energy.

“I see. In that case, there’s no need to panic.” “We’ll give you everything you want, so just calm down.” When I asked, “What do you want?” they demanded, “First hand over the money.” So I handed over the bag containing the silver coins as it was. Then they said, “There seems to be something unusual in what you’re carrying on your back—take it down and show us.” When I replied “Yes” and took it down, they then said, “What’s that thing loaded on the goat’s back? Take it down and show us.” Upon my saying “Yes” and complying, the two rummaged through everything and returned only the sutras, their unwanted nightwear, and other heavy items as they were. “We need this,” they declared, taking all the food as well. If they took everything, I would be in trouble, so I thought I had to get at least a little.

The Ordeal of Banditry and Plunder

The Rules of Tibetan Bandits: When encountering Tibetan thieves, there were established procedures to follow. I had heard about this before. "When encountering bandits," it went, "you must completely surrender everything they desire. Then, after reciting sutras and pleading 'Please at least give me some food,' they would typically provide about three days' worth." Deciding to follow this procedure, I said: "Among the items in my possession is a silver pagoda containing relics of Shakyamuni Buddha." "Since this was entrusted by the Indian layman Dharmapala for delivery to the Tibetan Dharma King, please do not take this one," I said, to which he replied, "Why don't you hand that over to me?" "No—you may take it," I responded, "but should you take this pagoda, you will face grave misfortune." "For these sacred relics cannot be properly safeguarded by ordinary laypeople—they will bring you no benefit. But if you insist, take them." I promptly produced it and said, "Go ahead—open it once," handing it over. My approach must have disarmed them, for instead of accepting it, they said: "If it's truly sacred, place it upon my head and bestow its blessings." So I placed it on the man's head and administered the Three Refuges and Five Precepts, praying for the dissolution of his evil karma. Then, as I stood to request provisions for two or three days, from the distant mountain slopes came—

Two riders appeared. The moment I noticed them, the bandits must have too, for both men stood up, snatched only what they'd taken, and fled in some direction. They ran through the mountains like fleeing rabbits—even had I given chase, it would have been pointless. I had no thought of pursuing them anyway. Resolving instead to hail those riders and beg some provisions to safely continue for a few days, I found they—for reasons unknown—didn't approach my way but climbed back into the distant mountains.

So I raised my voice and called out in the Tibetan manner by rotating my right hand inward, but whether my voice failed to reach their ears or they had other business to attend to, they did not come over to me. However, the eight Indian gold coins I had kept close to my body remained untouched. My luggage had become considerably lighter, and the goat’s load had completely disappeared, so I loaded part of my belongings onto the goat and proceeded to climb into the mountains. It was an extremely steep mountain, and after advancing about three ri, the sun had already set. As usual, I spent that night camping among the mountains. The next day, though heading northeast should have brought me to a waystation, I had no compass and thus could not discern direction.

Gnawing on snow - I had intended to head northeast but found myself advancing southeast. Later, it became clear I had veered completely southward. Judging from where I eventually arrived, I realized I had indeed been moving in precisely those directions. I had made significant progress when snow began falling again around three in the afternoon. Though I pressed onward until sunset, no trace of human settlement revealed itself. I was unbearably hungry and parched, but with nothing to eat, I resorted to chewing snow.

Eating once a day would have sufficed, but going without any food made me feel even greater hardship. The day darkened and hunger gnawed—it had reached the point where I could scarcely advance. Since snow continued falling, I deliberately entered a depression resembling a pond, swept snow into it, and slept within. For being exposed to both snowfall and blizzard winds across an open plain would surely lead to freezing death; with this precaution taken by entering the pond-like hollow, I carefully regulated my breathing as was my custom—isolating it from the external environment as much as possible—before entering meditative concentration. This proved the most effective method for sleeping amid snow.

When I awoke the next day, though the snow lay deep, it had ceased falling and the sun was shining. Surveying the mountainscape around me, the plateau from which I'd come—the contours of these peaks closely resembled those near Narue where nomads had camped before. Could this be the same region? Pressing onward, I indeed recognized the great Kyanchu River ahead at the valley's edge. This was fortunate. Reasoning that Narue—being a nomad gathering site—might still harbor someone, I deliberately detoured two ri onward. Yet nothing remained. Snow stretched endlessly across my vision. At that moment, despair nearly overcame me. For my stomach stood utterly empty. My throat grew parched. In extremity, agony consumed me. Though thieves had lightened my load—sparing me burdensome weight—the pangs of starvation proved unendurable. With no alternative, I trudged forward gnawing snow, yet found only desolation—no soul remained—leaving me profoundly disheartened.

Chapter 43: The Ordeal of Eye Disease

Hunger and thirst in the snow—but if I turned back now and crossed the Kyanchu River to the opposite side, I would surely reach the direction where Arutu Lama had been. That man did not wander about various places like other nomads did. Having heard he only shifted position slightly within that area, I thought he was likely there. Judging this direction to be my most urgent course, I crossed the Kyanchu River to the other side. The crossing point lay about three and a half ri upstream from where I had previously crossed. At that time, the water had receded to barely one-fifth of its normal flow and was beginning to freeze over. As it was around noon, I managed to cross by skillfully striking and breaking the ice with my staff. Thick ice would have been ideal, but since it was thin and melting, the crossing proved extremely perilous. The razor-sharp edges of the ice could easily slice through one's feet, making it truly hazardous.

I barely managed to cross that river and gradually pressed onward, further and further south. Then, the goat I was pulling along—and the meager belongings that had been loaded onto it: a sheepskin mat, footwear, medicine-like items—had all fallen off somewhere. I searched that area thoroughly, but since I had dropped them in a pathless area in the snow, there was nowhere to go searching. It was just like losing something at sea—there was nothing to be done, so I pressed onward as I was. How I wanted to reach an area with tents tonight! Sleeping night after night in nothing but snow left no path but death. Driven by this resolve to advance fully even if delayed, I forced down the hunger gnawing at me and managed to cover over eight ri by past eight in the evening—only to be afflicted by what they call snow-induced eye disease from the light reflecting off the snow. The pain was beyond description. At any moment,

In a state where it seemed my eyes might burst, I truly could not remain still as I was. Outside, snow had piled up heavily, and on top of that, as night fell, snow began to fall again. Due to the extreme cold and pain, my entire body was as if drenched in cold sweat; it was so unbearably agonizing that I simply could not enter a meditative state. Even when I tried lying on my side, the snow would cling to my head, and the pain only intensified. Even when I took some snow from around me and tried applying it to my eyes, the pain simply would not subside. As I continued like this, my body gradually grew numb and stiff, so while keeping my eyes shut, I blindly applied clove oil all over my body. Although I had closed my eyes, I could not sleep and remained focusing on Buddhist teachings as I was. In the meantime, a song suddenly emerged. It was strange how a song came to me at such a time, but once it did, I felt as though my suffering had eased considerably. The song was:

Snowfield of snow, bedding of snow, pillow of snow. Consuming snow, troubled by snow. Through the song's peculiar charm, I comforted both myself and my heart and found solace. Through this experience, I had confirmed the preciousness of our Japanese language and its native style—how they bring comfort during such hardships.

The following day was October 1st. Since sitting motionless there served no purpose, I resolved to depart around six in the morning—by then the snow had ceased and sunlight bathed the landscape. The light blazing across the snowfields reflected dazzlingly into my eyes, intensifying their pain.

Blindly advancing across the open plain—I tried moving forward with closed eyes but found progress truly difficult. When I slightly opened them to press onward, the eye pain only intensified to a bursting severity. My body kept tumbling over heedlessly into snow or grass. Worse still, having eaten nothing for three or four days, my body suffered terribly. I staggered like a drunkard collapsing from excess, falling at every pebble in the snow. Yet no injuries came—the cushioning snow and my emaciated frame prevented harm. Empty stomach throbbing, eyes aflame, legs faltering—in this trapped state I sank into the snow, certain death seemed inevitable. But my spirit held firm; no part of me accepted perishing there. Though sound of mind enough to know relief from bodily agony would let me advance, no solution came. Then once more, strangely, in the far distance—

A rider came into view. Forcing my painful eyes wide open—could I be mistaken?—I looked again and there was indeed a single man approaching on horseback. I immediately stood up and beckoned him with hand gestures. I tried to call out, but no voice emerged—as though my throat had been bound tight, its passage narrowed beyond use. With desperate effort I managed two choked sounds while waving frantically until he noticed and spurred his horse toward me. In that moment, joy flooded through me.

He immediately came to my side and asked what had happened to me in this snow, so I replied, “In truth, I encountered thieves and lost absolutely everything.” “Moreover, even the little luggage I had left was lost along the way,” I explained, “and having eaten nothing for three or four days, I finally managed to ask if he might spare some food.” The young man—a commendable soul—tilted his head pensively for a moment before replying, “Though I carry no roasted barley flour or such at present, I do have this.” From his robe he produced a confection made by boiling milk, letting it cool until a thin layer of cream rose to the surface, then gathering that cream and mixing it with brown sugar. In the Tibetan Changtang, this was considered the supreme confection, something given as a gift or offered to rare guests, but he gave me one piece of that sweet.

Then I promptly devoured that sweet without caring whether it tasted good or not, and asked the young man if there might be somewhere nearby for me to stay, adding that I needed food as well. However, he replied, “I too am a pilgrim, but over by that mountain ridge there are many people—my father, mother, and their companions—so please come there.” “We’ll manage somehow.” “I must hurry back ahead,” he said, spurring his horse and galloping off toward that mountain. Though the distance from where I was to that place measured barely one ri, advancing there involved falling down multiple times, attempting to rest due to eye pain, and eating snow from hunger and thirst—all sorts of struggles—so that after spending about three hours, I finally arrived just past eleven in the morning. Then, the young man promptly came to greet me and guided me inside the tent.

Having narrowly escaped death, out of what seemed like pity they gave me Tibet's finest delicacy—rice prepared beforehand topped with boiled butter, then layered with sugar and dried grapes. At that moment I felt truly grateful. Well now, I ate about two portions of it. Thinking that eating too much at once might harm my body again, I stopped at that amount and drank a little milk I received. That night I couldn't sleep due to the eye pain. But there being no medicine, there was nothing else to be done. Though wrapping snow in torn cloth and applying it to my eyes brought some relief, the pain remained so intense that despite having obtained a good bed that night, still I couldn't sleep.

However, the next day—since they were pilgrims bound to depart—I too had no choice but to set out with them. Their departure preparations took considerable time. For they needed to dismantle the pitched tents, load their luggage onto yaks, then gradually begin their journey—no easy task indeed. After drinking tea and stepping outside, I found them busily dismantling tents. Then when I approached what appeared to be the fourth or fifth tent from the outermost edge of their packing area, those same seven or eight ferocious dogs began barking and encircled me.

Attacked by Fierce Dogs I was surrounded by fierce dogs, but because my eyes hurt, I couldn't handle them as usual. With my eyes open, while managing the dogs pressing from front and back using two sticks, things were manageable; but when the intense pain made me suddenly shut my eyes, one of the dogs somehow seized the rear stick from me. Then another dog came from behind and bit my leg. I collapsed immediately where I stood, but having managed to cry out for help, the people who had been packing up the tents rushed over in alarm, hurled stones at the dogs to drive them off, making all the dogs retreat. When I looked at my leg, it was bleeding profusely, fresh blood gushing out. Then, as I pressed down on the dog-bitten wound on my right leg with my left hand and held still, an old woman applied medicine for me, declaring it the best remedy for dog bites. But when I tried to stand after bandaging the wound with the medicine, I couldn't stand at all.

Chapter 44: Visiting the White Rock Cave Again The pain from the dog bite made it impossible for me to stand at all. Yet I couldn't simply remain sitting there, so I asked the group if they might find a solution—mentioning that Arutu Lama should be nearby and inquiring if he might be present. When they asked, "Do you know Arutu Lama?" and I answered that I knew him well, one among them said, "Then since my dog bit you, I'll take you to where Arutu Lama stays on my horse. That honorable lama being a doctor, he'll properly treat your wound and cure your eye ailment." Declaring that going there first would be wisest, he kindly lent me his horse.

Then, clinging desperately to my cane, I managed to stand up—though one staff had snapped and become useless. Mounting the horse, I made my way to where two tents stood pitched. When I forced my eyes open to look ahead, they appeared far smaller than Arutu Lama's tent. Finding this strange, I dismounted and went to inquire, only to learn this was not Arutu Lama's tent but his wife's parental home. When I insisted on being taken to Arutu Lama's house, his wife—who happened to be visiting her parents—heard my voice and came out, declaring, "That is the revered lama who recently made pilgrimage to Snow Peak Chise."

Then I met her and asked, “Where is your lama?” “He is staying on the plain about one ri east from here.” “I wish to go there—could I have someone guide me today?” “Since I no longer go to such places myself, I cannot provide a guide. But if Your Reverence wishes to proceed,” she said, “I shall instruct the man who brought this horse—it would be best for you to go with this horseman.” “Why do you not return to your own home?” “There’s no one worse than him—I mean to take my leave,” she declared. “That won’t do,” I countered. After discussing various matters over an invitation to midday meal, we arrived at the lama’s house about one ri away.

Meeting Arutu Lama Again When I arrived, only servants were present, but that night Arutu Lama returned. I explained how I had encountered thieves and later been bitten by a dog at such-and-such place, asking if he had any good medicine. He kindly provided effective treatment, though in this condition I would need to stay several days before being able to walk. "Some dogs carry potent venom," he cautioned. "We must first administer an antidote to prevent the poison from spreading through your body." Agreeing to this treatment, I remained there until gradually—whether from the medicine's efficacy or other causes—the pain in my eyes began to subside. Thus far I had endured hardship layered upon hardship—

I had seen nothing but misfortunes like bees stinging tear-streaked faces, yet I couldn't fathom what greater hardships still lay ahead. Nevertheless, moved by the thought that simply advancing as far as possible brought true joy, I composed this poem: *All conceivable sufferings* *Lick them clean—may suffering's root perish!* The next day when I confronted the lama about why his wife remained at her parents' home, he detailed her various domestic shortcomings. Having heard both sides—each perfectly reasonable—I admitted I couldn't judge right or wrong, then pressed on: "Regardless, a man must cultivate magnanimity of heart. Comforting a woman through such trials is the proper path—you ought to send for her." When I gradually framed this through Buddhist teachings, he conceded, "That is so," and dispatched two envoys.

Mediation of the couple’s reconciliation—therefore, the wife finally returned home at dusk that day. The next day, when I mentioned that the Five Evils section explained in the Immeasurable Life Sutra—one of the three primary sutras of the Jōdo Sect—does not exist in Tibetan scriptures, the lama earnestly requested, "That is truly commendable. Could you please lecture on this Five Evils section from those Sino-Buddhist scriptures?" Thus, I ended up delivering those lectures daily. The Five Evils section aptly and admirably explains, by condensing into five categories, the various evils committed through all means by the wicked people of this defiled world. Therefore, upon hearing this explanation, the couple shed tears daily as they confessed their sins, and there was even a time when, overwhelmed by remorse, they both wept and pleaded for the lectures to be paused for a while.

To have their hearts tormented by the sins they had committed was truly painful, yet it proved an exceedingly good thing—for when their hearts were tormented in such fashion, they began performing good deeds. Thus their repentance became truly commendable. I stayed there for about ten days, during which time my eyes took delight even in splendid nightscapes of snow and ice, while in the azure sky a bright moon shone with crystalline clarity—what we call

The cold moon within the crystalline clarity of ice-light Gazing upon the cold moon within the crystalline clarity of ice-light, I found myself longing unbidden for my homeland; or perhaps, contemplating its stark and pristine state, I composed several poems—of which I shall recite one or two: Upon the pristine plateau, not a speck of dust, the moon shines clear I ponder the vision of the Pure Land. Upon fields where grasses wither—no pampas nor bush clover— The moon dwelling here—how utterly desolate. In such manner I spent my days pleasantly, and fortunately my wound healed completely, my eye ailment was cured entirely, and my body grew robust again. Then, following Arutu Lama's suggestion, we resolved to visit Geron Rinpoche dwelling in that White Rock Cave once more. My luggage and offerings for the Rinpoche were loaded onto horses, while we three mounted steeds ourselves. Thus with three servants, seven horses, and six travelers in total, we set out southward. Our progress was most vigorous.

Urged by an inexplicable impulse, we covered the five-and-a-half-ri distance in a short while. It was still before eleven o'clock—they said we could not meet him until a bit more time had passed. When eleven o'clock struck, over thirty pilgrims came to worship there; they performed prostrations, asked necessary questions, made their offerings, and departed. Though my companions were meant to return with me, the Rinpoche declared, “I have matters to discuss with you today—wait here.” “Then we shall take our leave here,” said Arutu Lama and his wife. “You should now take the road to the capital Lhasa,” they added, exchanging formal courtesies before parting.

The Great Dialogue with the Venerable of the White Rock Cave — Wondering what matter he wished to discuss, I sat at the edge of the Venerable’s seat, and he seemed deeply lost in thought. I had not failed to grasp the reason. This was because I had heard certain things during my stay at Arutu Lama’s house. To explain what this meant: "That person who claimed to be a Chinese lama and made a pilgrimage to Snow Peak Chise is not Chinese. He is undoubtedly British." I had heard from that lama that such rumors—"He has come to investigate Tibet’s internal affairs"—had become quite widespread. Of course, he trusted me, thinking, "These ignorant locals have no idea what they’re talking about," and continued recounting trivial matters about this region’s people. It was truly vexing that such folk would spread these malicious rumors about someone like me who sincerely practiced Buddhism—indeed, there was no helping the foolish—and I thought this matter must have reached the Venerable’s ears too, causing him to sink into contemplation while perhaps seeking an opening to broach the subject through questioning.

The Venerable indeed raised a practical question: “For what purpose have you taken on various hardships to go all the way to Lhasa?” To this, I responded by evading his practical inquiry and instead giving a metaphysical Buddhist explanation: “I have come to practice the Buddhist path and seek to save all sentient beings.” Then the Venerable promptly asked, “By what cause do you save sentient beings?” “There is no cause within me.” “It is because sentient beings suffer all manner of hardships.” “Then do you claim to see these so-called sentient beings in the world?” he posed this supremely idealistic question, so I too performed an idealistic parrot-response. “If there is no self in me, how could I see these sentient beings?” I answered thus, whereupon the Venerable smiled faintly and shifted his questioning: “Have you ever been tormented by carnal desires?”

Chapter 45: Toward the Public Road The Venerable’s Irony | I responded to the Venerable’s question about carnal desires: “Though I once suffered greatly from them, now I seem to have been spared from it. ...and I earnestly hope to be completely free from them,” I replied. No sooner had I spoken than he immediately shifted his questioning to my state of mind when encountering those bandits. The Venerable asked: “When you encountered the robber, did you feel hatred toward him? After parting from that thief, did you resent him and perform curses or spells to take revenge?” To this I immediately replied: “Since I had causes within myself deserving to be robbed—and thus was robbed by that bandit—there is no need to resent him. “It is precisely the cause within myself for encountering such misfortunes that should be hated. “I am rejoicing that this debt has been settled. “Therefore, there is no need for me to perform any curse rituals against them. “I have prayed that through the karmic connection of that man robbing me—if not in this world, then at least in the next—he may enter the true path and become either a noble human or a bodhisattva,” I explained. To this he responded: “That is indeed admirable, but since you may encounter such bandits repeatedly hereafter, you should cease your journey toward Lhasa. “For if you were to encounter bandits and be killed—your own

“You will not achieve the purpose of saving all sentient beings. Therefore you should now return to Nepal. To return to Nepal, there is a good road entering through a place called Lo—you should make haste to go there. If you continue onward like this,” he said with pointed implication before solemnly declaring, “I see no path for you but death. To achieve one’s purpose, any means must be employed. You should not take merely reaching Lhasa as your sole aim. If your purpose of saving all beings is sincere, you must return to Nepal.”

I was truly astonished. "I cannot engage in such ambiguous matters. I cannot agree with your assertion that one must employ any means necessary to achieve their purpose. The Mahāvairocana Sūtra states that skillful means are none other than supreme enlightenment; thus, to practice sincere methods is precisely to achieve that ultimate purpose. Neither is reaching the Pure Land humanity's attained purpose, nor is arriving at Lhasa its fulfillment. It is precisely by practicing sincere methods as the purpose itself—by performing all matters solely with sincerity—that one directly attains that purpose." "Then which path will you take and where will you proceed?" "I will of course take the mountain path to Tibet's capital." Then the Venerable became agitated: "This defies reason! You should return to Nepal by the safe route rather than choosing a perilous path fraught with mortal danger. You utter words recklessly. I have discerned your path's end—if you persist thus, you will inevitably..."

"I know you will die—" he threatened. "Is that so? "I do not know death. "Nor do I know rebirth. "I only know to practice sincere methods." When I answered thus, the Venerable One lowered his head briefly in contemplation before abruptly shifting the discourse to Mani—the secret teachings of Tibetan Buddhism. As these exchanges concerned specialized doctrinal matters, I shall omit their subsequent details. The Buddhist discussion intensified until dusk finally descended. Having thoroughly dispelled his doubts, the Venerable declared: "No—the vulgar minds here have concocted baseless theories. "You are truly one who seeks Buddhism with sincere faith." With evident satisfaction, he then provided twenty tangkas of Tibetan silver coinage, a brick of tea, a large sack of roasted barley flour, a copper cooking pot, and other essential travel provisions—items worth fifty to sixty tangkas total (approximately fifteen yen).

Since their value was fifty to sixty tangkas—equivalent to about fifteen yen in Japanese currency—he had given them to me all at once. "I said, 'It will be difficult to carry so much—please give me less,' to which he replied, 'No—wherever you go from here, you'll find only my disciples. Show them this bag, and since they all know I gave it to you, they'll surely carry this baggage for you.'" "There's no need to worry." After receiving those items, I returned. He had already promised then—saying that tomorrow he would secretly bestow upon me the secret power of Mani—and recognizing this as a gracious opportunity, the following day

With the intention of receiving Mani’s secret power, I rested that night. As I pondered deeply that night, though I had told the Venerable One I would take the mountain path to enter Lhasa in Tibet, this route was dangerous for being frequented by many of his disciples. Even if the Venerable One had come to trust me, there might still be some among his disciples who harbored doubts. Therefore, I resolved to take the public road even if it required a detour. The following morning, I received Mani’s secret power as promised the previous day and departed around noon. Carrying the luggage on my back, I descended about two ri—though the burden proved exceedingly heavy. Then, rather than taking the mountain path instructed by the Venerable One, I instead pressed northward toward the public road he had not mentioned. After traveling another two ri, I came upon two tents. From one emerged a man bearing the appearance of an esteemed local nomad, who received me with solemn courtesy.

It was strange. In this area where no one knew anyone else, no matter whose face I looked at, I didn't recognize that person. Being welcomed by strangers felt somewhat peculiar, but I entered inside as invited. There sat Arutu Lama. Arutu Lama had stayed overnight here and relayed to the tent dwellers the various Buddhist teachings I'd gratefully expounded the previous night. Thus knowing of my approach to this area, they welcomed me and requested the Three Refuges and Five Precepts, which I accordingly bestowed. Then shortly after departing that place, escorted by two packhorses and one attendant, I proceeded eastward along a river called Ngarl Tsang-gichu.

This river was the downstream section of the one we had crossed when departing from the Venerable of the White Cliff Cave and advancing toward Snow Peak Chise. I descended about three ri along its bank and lodged by riverside tents around six in the evening. The man who escorted me promptly unloaded my baggage and turned back. That night when inquiring about reaching the public road, I learned I must recross the Brahmaputra River. As this required porters and a guide again, I arranged their services and proceeded east across marshlands for four ri the next day. After traversing a steep slope with over one ri of combined ascent and descent, we reached the Brahmaputra proper. Following my guides to the far shore, we found a wretched tent.

Yak-recovery guards—that tent served as a holding area for stray yaks, meaning they kept watch there. An old woman and her daughter lived there, and I lodged at that place. The next day, I spent mending my underclothes and such, then on October 16th proceeded east across the marshland once more. This marshland comprised waterlogged areas where mud formed with grass growing within—some marshes were quite deep while others shallow, though none took the distinct shape of proper ponds. It was an utterly sodden plain. After traveling about four ri across that plain, I reached another river called Nau Tsangpo, a great waterway flowing north from this region into the highlands before joining the Brahmaputra. Though the crossing point—which I had heard about earlier—proved treacherous with deep sandy mud that swallowed my feet, I fortunately managed to cross safely to the far bank.

The river stretched about two cho wide, chest-deep with a swift current; burdened by my heavy pack, I nearly fell several times. After crossing and proceeding a short distance, I found a sizable tent. Through earnest entreaty, I was fortunate to secure lodging. That night, upon inquiring about local routes, I learned of a public road lying two ri northeast. At this road stood a station called Tokusun-Tasam. In these highlands, stations typically punctuate the routes at four- or five-day intervals. Four days before Tokusun-Tasam toward Snow Peak Chise lay another station named Samtsang-Tasam. Now committed to taking the public road, these stations would naturally clarify themselves as I progressed. The next day I pressed eastward—though heading northeast would have reached Tokusun-Tasam directly, I chose the eastern path to avoid unnecessary detours. On October 19th, continuing in that direction, another formidable trial befell me.

Chapter 46: Finally Not Emerging onto the public road

I sink into the marsh mud of the high plateau. I sank into the mud—since I was traversing a marshland, I had no choice but to cross through shallow waters and wade into muddy areas. When I came upon a muddy mire, I tentatively thrust my staff into it and found it to be quite deep. If I were to drown here, it would be unbearable—so I chose a spot where the distance was as narrow as possible and began to cross. Of course, since it was shallow water and especially because the mud was covered with sand, it didn’t appear to be particularly deep mud. When I thrust my staff into it, it sank down a little, but overall didn’t seem to pose any hindrance to crossing. Moreover, since the width was less than two ken (about twelve feet), I thought it would be safe and jumped into the mud—only for it to turn disastrous. On the second step, I sank deep into the mire with a gurgle and collapsed diagonally forward. Fortunately, because there was a staff, I managed to brace myself with it, but now I couldn’t proceed. When I tried to turn back, I found myself having slipped too far forward and could not return.

Then, using the staff as a shield, I exerted all my strength, focusing on lifting my body upward while straining my breath. Since this allowed me to rise slightly, I now carefully lowered my baggage into the mud, reaching behind my back to toss items one by one toward the far bank, then repeating with the remaining pieces. In this manner, I had thrown all my baggage to the far shore. Then, though the garments I wore were soaked through, I undid the sash and removed those clothes to hurl them across; I did likewise with my underclothes, standing now utterly naked—but the cold defied description. Yet one never knows what may prove useful; though I had witnessed foot acrobatics in my youth, I suddenly remembered them now.

Use of foot acrobatics—Now, in such a situation, rushing would surely lead to a misstep; thus, thinking 'I should proceed carefully,' I slowly focused my strength into the staff and began lifting my body upward. However, since my body—which had been diagonal as intended—straightened up, I laid one short staff horizontally on the far shore ahead of me, gauging the distance to place my rear foot upon it. Then, thrusting the long staff firmly into the ground with my right hand, I lightly leaped to plant my rear foot solidly on the short staff. Simultaneously lifting my trailing leg, I nimbly sprang between the staffs before my leading foot sank too deep into the mud. Taking advantage of my now-lightened body, I effortlessly leapt onto the far shore.

When I leaped up, I was cold and trembling, yet felt extremely exhilarated. Strange though it was, I felt profoundly gratified that the acrobatics I'd witnessed as a child had proven useful at this critical juncture. Since my robes were soaked through, I first wrung them out to dry. Unable to wait for them to dry fully, I finally donned the damp garments and set out toward the tents visible near the public road. Fortunately, pilgrims were staying there too, allowing me to lodge for the night. Thus, the following day,

I had finally emerged onto the public road. While the term "public road" may sound quite grand, it was not a path constructed through public works; it was merely a place where horses and people had passed frequently because it was easy to traverse. To put it precisely, merchants, government officials, soldiers, or nomads passed through most frequently, leaving little grass growing and few gravel stones—this was what they called a public road. When I entered the desert, even what was called a public road would have all traces—footprints and everything—vanish with a single gust of wind. In Tibet, proper roads existed only near Lhasa; beyond that, there were no roads worthy of the name. They were all merely traces left by the trampling of people and horses that had naturally become paths. While one might imagine a public road as something vehicles could traverse, in Tibet there was not a single road that accommodated rickshaws or horse-drawn carriages. Regarding that, there was a funny story. The King of Nepal had purchased a splendid European-style four-horse-drawn carriage from Calcutta and presented it to the present Dalai Lama of Tibet. However, in Tibet, even when we received such a thing, there was nowhere for us to use it, so we ended up asking them to please take it back. But since they had gone to the trouble of bringing it all the way from afar, they thought it might be better to have it kept here as a decorative piece—and so, even now, inside the palace of the Dalai Lama of Tibet, that

The carriage had remained as a decorative piece. That was a story from just about four years ago. Therefore, the fact that the roads were poor was not limited to this area. In Tibet, even in Lhasa and Shigatse—the most developed regions—there were hardly any proper roads. In any case, having finally reached the public road, I could now feel somewhat at ease; emerging onto this smooth thoroughfare where one could proceed confidently without encountering checkpoints until reaching Lhasa filled me with considerable interest. And so, when I crossed through a desert that day and emerged on the other side, there stood a tent. This served as the liquor store for that area. Though I found it peculiar for such an establishment to exist here, I learned this had come from a mountain village called Mondan in Lo Province to conduct sales until around month's end.

In this area, transactions involving salt, wool, yaks, horses, and such were actively conducted, so they sold liquor targeting those merchants. To be sure, it was liquor made from barley... Well, whatever—since I had arrived at such a tent at dusk, I went there thinking to ask for lodging, but the person there turned out to be someone I knew. It was an old woman I had become acquainted with when staying in Lo and Tsāran who was selling liquor there. “I was so delighted yet worried about where you had gone,” she said, “but how wonderful that you managed to come all the way here without venturing outside much.” “Are you planning to return to Lo and Tsāran now?” I replied, “Well, I don’t know what I’ll do,” but that night I stayed there. It was as though I had gained a great convenience, but such great conveniences always bring great troubles in their wake, so one must give some thought to the matter—yet since the old woman was a most guileless person, everything passed without incident.

The Residence of the Second Chief Through the old woman's introduction—which stated this lama was venerable and should lodge at your place—the arrangements had been made. This Gyaru Pun ranked as the second-wealthiest man across Bomba Province, possessing two thousand yaks, five thousand sheep, and substantial other assets. His tent measured thirty ken on each side. Adjacent stood a stone-constructed Buddhist altar room. An ordinary-sized tent and a smaller one resembling a guesthouse stood aligned nearby. Upon entering the largest tent, numerous items weighted down the tent curtain's hem, each draped with Tibetan-made blankets.

What lay beneath was unclear, but for the most part was occupied by things such as butter, barley, wheat, or wool.

I stayed there, and the host named Gyaru Pun was a man of seventy-five or six, while his wife was around eighty years old and blind. Now, they had no children. Even considering the possibility of an adopted child, there was none. In such cases in Tibet regarding inheritance practices, they would invariably appoint as successor either Gyaru Pun's closest blood relative or the child of his brother deemed most closely connected by kinship ties; adopting someone from outside the family was strictly forbidden under Tibetan custom. Therefore, if left as it was, naturally the person closest to them would come forward to inherit, so although there was no such law officially promulgated, custom had naturally become the law, and no one raised any objections to it.

Chapter 47: Advancing on the Public Road Posthumous Memorial Services — When those two pitiable elderly people asked me various questions about Buddhist teachings, I explained earnestly to them; they were greatly delighted, saying, "How splendid! Please recite sutras for our posthumous merit transfer. We have no desires left except matters after death." As I was considerably fatigued and rushing the journey would ruin my health, I took advantage of their request and decided to spend several days reciting sutras. However, the chief expressed his desire that if I could stay there, he wanted me to remain for half a year or even a full year to provide extended explanations of Buddhism, though complying with this was naturally impossible. Were I to stay long, not only was there danger of unexpected rumors spreading from Lo Province in the Himalayan Mountains endangering my life, but I also imagined that no amount of layered clothing could withstand this land's severe winter cold.

Already at that time, it had become quite unbearable; even though I had borrowed and was wearing two of the fur garments the chief wore, the cold at night still pierced through to my skin so thoroughly that I wondered how I could possibly keep living in such a tent once true winter set in. No matter how earnestly they pleaded, I could not remain there—the chief’s desire for me to stay was so fervent that refusing him felt truly pitiable.

I spat out blood clots. However, during my stay there, a drastic change akin to illness began to manifest in my body. One day while out walking, I felt a lump lodged in my throat; when I carelessly spat it out, a clotted mass of blood came forth. The blood I had violently expelled all at once now gushed uncontrollably from both nose and mouth. Could this be consumption?—I who had always prided myself on strong lungs—why should such an ailment strike me? This thought arose even as the bleeding refused to cease. Yet in such moments, that ability to sit perfectly still and silent—something I had learned long ago from an esteemed master of the Zen sect—

It was through the merit of having my head struck [by my teacher] that I grew so excessively still it became truly agonizing. With a mindset that seemed to obstruct both inward and outward breath passage, I sat motionless in the grassland until the blood flow substantially decreased. The bleeding finally stopped, but the surrounding area had turned crimson where copious blood had pooled. Astonished at why I'd expelled such vast quantities of blood and now pale-faced, I returned to find Chief Gyaru Pun observing, "Your face looks deathly pale—what happened?" When I explained my condition, he responded, "Ah yes—we've heard Chinese visitors here often vomit blood from this region's bad 'breath-energy'," referring to their unfamiliarity with thin air. "For that," he added while handing me medicine, "we have good remedies."

Thereupon, having been instructed by the experienced elder, I finally felt relieved with the realization that this was not tuberculosis after all—that I had indeed suffered such harm from prolonged travel through high-altitude regions. However, after about three days had passed, I vomited blood again. This time, it was considerably less. The old man had said that if it happened two more times, I likely wouldn't need to worry about such heavy bleeding, and indeed, as he predicted, after that—even when staying in Lhasa—I never vomited blood again. That made sense. This area stands at an elevation of fifteen thousand shaku above sea level, while Lhasa is at twelve thousand shaku; thus, there was naturally no reason for hemorrhaging in Lhasa from the start. And I received a large amount of milk and other provisions from the chief, staying there for seven days to recuperate.

When it was decided that I would depart on the eighth day, the chief said to me, "Nothing I give you would be of use, but I will give you the pelt of an I-beast." The creature resembled a snow-dwelling cat—though with a slightly longer torso—and its fur was exceptionally soft and warm. It was the most expensive pelt traded in Tibet. He gave me a hat fashioned from its fur that reached down to my shoulders. I later learned from others that such a hat would fetch about twenty-five yen when new, and even when sold secondhand would command over ten yen. He presented me with this hat along with some butter and ten tangkas in silver, then arranged for a horse and servant to accompany me. After traveling four ri, I reached the home of Ajopu, a local tribal chief, where I spent the night. All in all, my week-long stay at Gyaru Pun's house proved most fortuitous.

If such severe bleeding had occurred during the journey, I might have died from blood loss. For without obtaining nourishment while losing blood, there would be no means of replenishment... On October 29th, I departed that house and proceeded alone southeast through the desert with my load on my back. After traveling about four ri, I reached the banks of the Brahmaputra River. By then, thick ice had already formed, its surface glittering dazzlingly under the reflected sunlight. In truth, this was not my intended direction of travel. This path served as a byroad—to follow the public highway properly required advancing eastward. The reason I had come southeast instead stemmed from what Ajopu, with whom I had lodged the previous night, told me: that proceeding eastward would lead to Tazun-Tasam, a completely uninhabited region devoid of nomads. Following his advice that this route would have nomads, I came accordingly—and indeed found nomads dwelling by the riverside.

I borrowed lodging at that tent from an exceedingly kind host named Gyarupo. He said, “Since we’re heading your way tomorrow, let’s depart together—we’ll load all your luggage onto yaks.” The next day, after having our belongings loaded onto yaks as promised, we gradually descended southeast along the river. That area too was a gravelly desert transformed into marshland. After trekking about one and a half ri, we reached a white sandy plain. When my feet sank deep into the sand and I struggled to pull them free, Gyarupo took pity and suggested: “This must be hard for you. Why not ride that bareback horse? A saddle would be ideal—but lacking one, can you manage?” I replied, “That would work,” and...

I mounted the bareback horse and advanced through the desert. After riding for a while, my tailbone was injured by the horse's backbone. The pain defied description. I therefore positioned my legs over the horse's spine in the manner of Western women riders, but even so, after barely traveling ten chō, my legs began to ache. With no alternative, I dismounted again and proceeded along that arduous path. Though challenging in parts, being unburdened by luggage made it manageable; after traversing some two ri across that sandy expanse, we reached the Brahmaputra River flowing between abruptly towering cliffs. The river's width had narrowed into an extremely rapid current. We passed through rocks flanking a thunderous waterfall and emerged to find three fist-like mountains with three streams between them, into which the Brahmaputra poured southeast through mountain valleys.

We did not follow the river's course but instead made our way into a northeastern valley. Having thus parted from the Brahmaputra River and gradually pressing northeastward, we crossed over a great mountain to find an immense plain stretching before us upon reaching the far side. At the mountain's base stood a solitary tent where I took shelter for the night. Having walked some seven ri that day, those called Gyarupo who had accompanied me declared they would journey further afield and parted ways with me at dusk. That evening when I inquired whether rivers lay along the route to Tazun-Tasam, they affirmed there was one. Since they warned this river posed dangers requiring guidance, I engaged a guide at dawn's light. After traveling southeast across broad plains for three ri, we came upon a river spanning over a hundred meters in width. The hour being still around ten o'clock, the ice remained largely unthawed. "If we cross now," cautioned the guide,

“Your legs might get cut by the ice.” Since they said the ice would melt if we boiled tea and ate lunch there first, we did so; after drinking tea around noon, we broke through the ice at the riverbank and plunged in. The melting ice struck our waists and legs—try as we might to avoid it—leaving us with minor injuries. When we finally reached the far bank, the cold had penetrated to our very marrow, leaving our skin utterly numb. We then pressed on about three ri before spending the night in a small tent. Departing after nine o’clock the next morning—November 1st—we traveled two ri before crossing a minor glacier past noon, then continued another two-plus ri to reach Tazun (meaning “Seven Hairs”), Tibet’s most celebrated site in its northern plains. (so named for seven Buddha hairs enshrined within its grounds) where we arrived at last. The temple stood atop a small hill, with a government tax office at its periphery. As one of the Northern Plains’ so-called Tasam (waystations), it resembled a modest town bustling with merchants. Indeed an immense temple housing countless rare treasures within.

Chapter 48: Hardships Along the Way

Encountering a Ruffian on the Road — The next day, I stayed there and paid respects to the treasures and statues within the temple halls. This place lay exactly twenty-five ri due north of Tsarang in Lo State of the Himalayan Mountains, where I had previously lived for about a year. And here, many people from the Tsarang region and its neighboring areas had come for trade. However, I was not well aware of such things. After paying respects to the treasures and strolling around the temple, just as I thought to return to the house where I was staying, I unexpectedly encountered someone I knew on the road. That man was an extreme drinker—a thoroughly disreputable gambler even among the Himalayan tribespeople—who had persistently spread covert rumors about me, claiming I was a British official or a spy. Yet I maintained ordinary dealings with such a man; when his family members fell ill, I would administer medicine and the like. Though he did not utter excessively harsh slander, he remained a troublesome fellow who would instantly pick quarrels over any slight pretext to make it an occasion for drinking.

Because I had encountered such a man, I devised a plan. Thinking he would undoubtedly inform the authorities and obstruct my grand purpose if left unchecked, I deliberately softened my tone and addressed him: "Since we meet after so long, I wish to offer you sake. Though I don't drink myself, they say this station has fine liquor. Let me give you the best available to renew our lapsed acquaintance. Won't you come to my quarters?" The moment he heard "sake"—this man being incapable of delay when alcohol beckoned—he came hastening. Then, having instructed the host to purchase a large quantity of the finest sake, I kept him company—though of course I did not drink a single drop—pretending to drink and feign intoxication, keeping him drinking until around four o'clock in the morning. As he had drunk copiously, he collapsed into thorough intoxication and fell into a deep sleep.

I too pretended to sleep there briefly. When the host awoke around five-thirty, I also rose and told him: "The man sleeping here is someone very important to me." "I'll leave this money with you—use your skills to keep him drinking all day today." "In return," I said, pressing more coins into his palm, "you mustn't let him step outside under any circumstances." "If he wakes and asks where I went," I instructed while packing my belongings, "tell him I headed for Tsarang." By six o'clock, I had departed. This claim of traveling toward Tsarang was pure deception—in truth, I took the public road southeast toward Lhasa.

What continued to weigh on my mind was this: being among the shrewdest men in the Himalayas, should he awaken and inquire about my whereabouts only to be told I had gone to Tsarang, might he not realize, "Ah! That fellow went to Lhasa instead! He tricked me into drinking!" and report this to Tazun's tax officials? If that were indeed the case, the officials would immediately give chase on horseback—no matter how desperately I tried to flee, it would prove futile. If only I could use all the money I currently possessed to hire someone to carry this luggage or secure a horse—such were my thoughts—but of course, in this desolate wilderness, there was no possibility of obtaining either, leaving me no choice but to press on. As I doggedly advanced southeast along that public road, a large group came into view from behind, stirring up dust from men and horses. Wondering what this could mean, I observed that something seemed amiss—

It appeared to be a large merchant caravan. As I drew nearer and observed more carefully, there were eighty to ninety horses and sixteen people. I stopped one of them and said, “Carrying this luggage is extremely difficult—I’ll pay money, so could you load it onto a horse? I’ll follow behind on foot.” When I made this request, the man—who appeared to be a servant among them—refused, saying he couldn’t possibly oblige. Afterward, I made the same appeal to someone who seemed a leading figure among them, but he too declined to agree immediately. “In any case,” he said, “we’re staying in those mountains ahead today. Why don’t you come there?” “It may prove arduous,” came the reply, “but if you hasten to reach that place by nightfall, we might yet find means to discuss this among ourselves.” Deeming this splendid fortune, I resolved that however grueling the effort, I would reach those mountains that very day. Summoning courage, I pressed onward until eight that evening brought me to a mountain’s edge where two large white tents stood pitched. Among their company sat one lama who appeared their commander-in-chief. Beside him another lama seemed second in command. Hmm...

It appeared to be a monks’ merchant caravan. They promptly served me the tea that had been prepared there, but when I refused to eat the meat cooking nearby, [the lama] asked, “Why don’t you eat meat?” so I explained my reasons in detail. The lama looked thoroughly impressed and demanded, “Where are you from?” When I replied, “I am a Shina monk,” he—apparently knowing some Shina—began addressing me in that language. To avoid this, I stated, “Your Shina is the Beijing dialect,” and declining as I always did, continued speaking in Tibetan.

However, when the lama produced Shina characters and requested me to read them aloud, I read them and explained their meanings. At last, he seemed to believe I was indeed from Shina—though traces of doubt still lingered in his demeanor. Now, as for who these people were—there was a country called Ruto located in the northwestern corner of Tibet, bordering Ladakh on Kashmir’s eastern frontier. They were lamas of the temple called Huntub Chöten in that country. The chief lama was called Lobsang Gendun, and the next person was called Lobsang Yangbel. And there was a man called Tsongbon who handled their business dealings. Tsongbon means "merchant captain." It was actually Tsongbon who had guided me here by saying "Come," so the rest were all monks and lay servants.

This caravan was undertaking a journey to transport Kashmiri products—dried peaches, dried grapes, silks, and woolens—to Lhasa, then bring back tea, Buddha statues, and religious paintings from the capital. For me, this presented an excellent opportunity. I resolved to negotiate with these people—though having them carry my luggage all the way to Lhasa would prove inconvenient—in hopes of at least accompanying them through the Changtang region, that vast grazing plain between pastures. Now as for what the chief lama said—he began questioning me about what Buddhist teachings I had studied and what knowledge I possessed, gradually posing inquiries in the Tibetan Buddhist style. Fortunately, as I had previously mentioned, I had thoroughly researched Tibetan Buddhism under Dr. Gyaltso in Rong and Tsarang, and had paid particular attention to studying its grammar. Thus not only could I readily answer the lama’s questions, but I also explained many aspects of Tibetan Buddhism that even these people did not know.

However, he was greatly surprised and raised numerous questions about Tibetan scriptures. He had studied Tibetan scriptures considerably, but not comprehensively. Especially since those people were utterly incapable of conducting investigations through scientific classification, they naturally could not comprehend such matters. As I gradually provided grammatical interpretations, he said: “Please accompany us from now on. Though we travel by horse daily until around two o’clock in the afternoon, we always make camp by that time and have complete leisure. It would be truly splendid to have someone of your expertise lecture on the scriptures. I shall offer proper compensation and provide all provisions during this journey—would you not agree to this arrangement?” “This was no time to hesitate about accepting!” Declaring that I myself desired this, I promptly accepted.

Chapter 49: The Companions’ Perplexing Question

The Caravan’s Camp When I awoke around four o'clock the next morning, the tent's occupants were already burning dried yak dung to prepare meat and tea. Before long, everyone else awoke too, and seven or eight of them went to search for the mules and horses they had released the previous night. They had let the animals graze on the surrounding grass all night—some might have wandered beyond nearby mountains, while others could have crossed over multiple peaks to distant areas. They went to retrieve them. The search would take at least an hour, sometimes even three. Of course, once these searchers went looking, there was no chance the horses wouldn't come running back. Upon seeing human faces, the animals knew feeding time had arrived. The promise of delicious bean mash awaiting them ensured their effortless return. The handlers gathered the scattered herd from across the terrain, tethered them to stakes, and fed each horse a large lump of crushed beans—softened beforehand with hot water—mixed with roasted barley flour. As the horses ate, they loaded the luggage, assigning one handler per five or six animals.

These people would take turns finishing their meals before loading the luggage—their meals consisting mostly of mutton, yak, and goat meat. When reaching urban areas, they would occasionally eat pork. Once they loaded the luggage onto the horses and finished eating, they dismantled the tents pitched at dusk, loaded those too onto the horses, saddled their own mounts, then rode off driving the five or six horses assigned to each handler. There were sixteen in my party—fifteen rode horses while one monk bound for Lhasa to study rode nothing. They had simply traveled together as people from the same region. Since that monk and I were proceeding on foot, we resolved to depart early; drinking tea before their luggage was fully packed, we left the tent area and gradually advanced southeastward.

There’s a saying: “Know a person by walking with them; know a horse by riding it.” But he was quite the self-proclaimed scholar, regarding himself as an extraordinary one. He was indeed quite a scholar, but he knew nothing at all of Buddhism’s essential principles. Moreover, he refused to acknowledge the existence of those subtle distinctions. He appeared to possess only a broad, vague understanding. In any case, since I had gained a good companion during the journey, I felt glad at heart as we proceeded while conversing about various matters together. Yet despite my joy, that person seemed to harbor some displeasure toward me—a displeasure that appeared to deepen gradually thereafter. The cause lay solely in my having explained the outline of Tibetan scriptures the previous night. Though priding himself as a scholar, he knew nothing of Tibetan grammar. Thereupon he declared that knowing mere grammatical details amounted to nothing without understanding Buddhism’s true meaning. From both his demeanor and phrasing—implying I was some know-it-all fool—it seemed he nursed growing jealousy toward me, so I treated him with measured restraint.

That day—after crossing one great mountain and walking some seven ri before stopping at a marshland—I delivered another grammar lecture that night. On the following fifth day too, I journeyed across sandy plains with that monk. This monk faced severe hardships even after reaching Lhasa—at one point having no food at all—while I conversely possessed ample provisions. Thus I extended what aid I could. Though that assistance came later, during our travels various engaging Buddhist discussions arose until he began probing my true identity. He must be British. If not British, surely European stock. For suspicions had grown from such traits as my fair complexion. Yet knowing full well the scope of his inquiries, I deftly explained matters to dissolve his doubts. After trekking two ri across those sandy plains, we reached the Brahmaputra's banks once more. By then the ice had melted, flowing quietly downstream while—

The sound of ice blocks colliding—when those ice blocks struck each other with a terrifying roar—felt truly exhilarating! Moreover, how beautifully the sunlight reflected off the ice! We descended eastward along that riverbank for approximately three ri before leaving the river, then ascended northeastward for over three ri along the banks where the Brahmaputra flowed in, after which we mounted horses and crossed that river again. A little north of that riverbank lay a station called Nyuk Tarsam. However, without reaching Tarsam, we turned left at the station, proceeded east for about one ri, and camped on a mountainside. That day we had traveled approximately nine ri—this caravan never stayed at stations or villages until reaching Haruje Station's vicinity, for camping near stations meant poor grazing grass for horses.

Therefore, they would find a place somewhat removed from the stations where there was plentiful good grass and make camp there, which is why in this northwestern plateau, they did not stay at stations or such places. On this very night, I reflected: Since I had already come about twenty-six ri from Tazun, there was no longer any worry of being caught by that ruffian—though that earlier encounter had been truly perilous. Had that man suddenly regained his senses and realized [my identity], he would have surely pursued me to claim the substantial reward for reporting me. But imagining he had fortunately been so consumed by alcohol as to lose all track of time for a day or two, I felt somewhat relieved. As usual, when my lectures on scriptures and Buddhist teachings concluded, the monk who harbored deep suspicions toward me—the one who styled himself a scholar—persisted in his scrutiny.

Glaring at me with eyes full of suspicion, he suddenly turned and said, “You claim to have been to India—but there’s a man there called Sarat Chandra Das who once tried to explore Tibet.” “You must have met him,” he pressed. “Since he’s my Tibetan language teacher, it’s not just a matter of knowing him—but where would such a person be? India has three hundred million people. Unlike Tibet, you can’t simply ask around to find someone’s whereabouts, no matter how famous they are.” Pretending ignorance, I asked, “What kind of man is this?” He continued: “This Sarat Chandra Das deceived Tibetan officials over twenty-two years ago to obtain travel permits, slipped into Tibet, stole our Buddhist teachings, and fled back to India.” When this came to light, even Senchen Dorjechang—Tibet’s foremost scholar and moralist—was executed. Countless monks and laypeople were killed as well.” He elaborated on how many had their property confiscated before declaring, “Sarat Chandra Das remains renowned even in India—there’s no way you wouldn’t know him.” “You’re feigning ignorance while knowing full well,” he accused.

“His manner of speaking was detestable,” I retorted, “but even England’s famed Queen—I’ve never laid eyes on her myself.” With a deflecting laugh I added, “Vast lands do complicate matters so.” The tale of Mr. Sarat Chandra Das arose wherever one traveled in Tibet—even children knew it well through fireside retellings. Yet among Tibetans themselves, those who recognized his actual name proved vanishingly few. They called him E-School Babu instead—the Headmaster—and wove fantastical fables around his exploits. For you see—and here tradition took root through generations—any Tibetan guiding foreigners risked execution; those concealing such knowledge faced confiscation of all worldly goods. Parents recounted these warnings as cautionary tales until every soul across the plateau knew them by heart. Since Mr. Das’s exposure,

The Tibetan people had come to harbor suspicions almost like police officers or detectives, scrutinizing foreigners with extreme caution—such was the state of affairs. I was well aware of this, so I took sufficient care with every single word and phrase—even those utterly innocent remarks made while laughing. However, he was quite skilled in his questioning techniques, and once he disguised his intent with laughter, that monk began posing questions from various angles. Thus, given that Tibetans are inherently suspicious by nature—all of them being driven by that suspicion—I came to resemble one defending a lone castle alone amidst numerous enemies.

Chapter 50: The Terrifying Path Shifting the Cunning Topic Feeling the danger, I abruptly redirected the conversation: “Do you revere Shakyamuni Buddha more, or Robon Rinpoche—founder of this land’s old sect?” “In Tibet we have a saying: ‘Pema Chönné, more revered than Shakyamuni Buddha,’ meaning the old sect’s founder Pema Chönné is held dearer than the Buddha himself.” Now, fierce doctrinal debates being commonplace here, my question ignited further arguments until the volley of queries turned back toward me—a perilous development. Having come this far, I couldn’t risk exposure. I resolved to exercise utmost caution.

The Mongolians had a term called Semnak Poepa to describe Tibetan people. Its meaning—that black-hearted individuals were Tibetans—reflected their habit of prying into others' private affairs. Moreover, even when angered, they would grin and later exact severe retaliation—a characteristic trait ingrained in their nature. Not all were like this, but many leaned toward such tendencies. Now that I've mentioned Poepa meaning 'Tibetan' in this proverb, let me explain its origin: Poë was what Tibetans called their own country. The name 'Tibet' itself remained unknown to most Tibetans. As for Poë's linguistic roots—meaning 'to call' in Tibetan—this originated from the nation's founding era when...

As for what became the ancestors of this country, they were a man named Te'u Tonmar (meaning "red-faced monkey") and a woman named Tak Shinmo (meaning "rock ogress"). Te'u Tonmar was said to be an incarnation of Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva, while Tak Shinmo was said to be an incarnation of a yogini. This yogini entreated Te’u Tonmar to become her husband, then summoned one child each from the six realms—hell, hungry ghosts, animals, asuras, humans, and devas—thus creating six children. From this act of "summoning," they gave their country the name Poë. This was likely a myth fabricated by some later lama to align with Buddhism—or so it was thought—though such a theory existed. By the way, Indians did not call it Tibet but referred to it as Boda. Boda carried meanings akin to "path" and another related to perception (覚). It remained unclear which etymology gave rise to [the term], but according to Indian scholars, Poë was said to be a contraction of the sound "Boda."

Moreover, Indians also referred to this country of Tibet as the Land of Hungry Ghosts. As I had mentioned earlier, this was also evident from Panden Atisha having given it the name Pretapuri (City of Hungry Ghosts). Regarding the name of this country of Tibet, there were still two different appellations, and while delving into them could have yielded interesting insights, this matter became rather specialized, so I set it aside here. The character 'pa' in Poepa meant 'person,' thus Poepa referred to Tibetans…… On November 6th, taking a southeastern course, we traversed undulating mountain ranges multiple times over eight ri before finally camping at the foot of a great snow-capped mountain. The following day, the 7th, heading east and ascending and descending along the edge of the snow-capped mountains for over two ri, we arrived at a river called Chakusamu Tsanbo (Iron Bridge River). I imagined that in ancient times, an iron bridge must have spanned this river. Even so, it was not an impressive iron bridge. merely a single

An iron rope bridge had been anchored from the rocks of this bank's mountain to those of the opposite bank—people would swing across it like on a playground swing to reach the other side, nothing more elaborate than that, I imagined. I had heard that near Lhasa two such iron ropes were once stretched across a gorge; by passing between them in careful balance, one could cross safely—or so travelers claimed. Though no longer used in my time, these bridges had served their purpose in earlier eras. Whether Chakusamu River's iron bridge derived from one such system remained unclear—yet its name surely carried echoes of that engineering tradition. The river surged violently below us, ice floes churning through its rapids—yet I crossed easily atop my mule before advancing into mountain plains where not a single tree broke the barren expanse.

That being said, it wasn’t as if the grass grew thickly there either. Where water existed, grass sprouted; elsewhere lay utterly bare rocky mountains—one might say so. Yet in areas that formed plains, water pooled and some vegetation grew. The landscape was truly desolate and dreary, offering no solace to ease the hardships of travel. After trekking about one and a half ri through such mountains, we came upon another small stream. Then advancing another one and a half ri southeast through similar terrain, we lodged at the edge of a marsh west of a fortress called Sakka Zong. Sakka Castle was a stronghold built atop a mountain. While its construction did not markedly differ from that of temples, its slightly altered appearance likely stemmed from preparations for warfare. However, no soldiers had been stationed there by the government.

Indigenous militia—whenever something occurred, all two hundred-some people living there would become soldiers. This incident harkened back to just two years prior, when tribesmen from Kitahara had launched an attack, resulting in a great battle that claimed twenty to thirty lives and saw around two thousand yaks seized—a matter now under litigation with the Tibetan government. That is to say, this castle appeared to be one prepared against so-called nomadic tribe raids. There was also a tax collection office there. That day I walked exactly six ri, and that night similarly gave a lecture on the scriptures (and so forth). The next day, after advancing about three ri southeast through similar mountain plains, there appeared to the left a great snow-capped mountain called Chomo Lahari. We passed through the base of that snow-capped mountain, headed southeast for about two ri, and stopped for the night—though there was nothing particular worth mentioning that day. On the ninth day following, advancing southeast through similarly desolate and barren mountains for six and a half ri, we crossed a mountain and arrived at a valley.

Bald Mountain’s Beast: However, in the distance, an enormous animal came into view. It resembled a yak in form, but it was clear this creature was no ordinary yak. When I promptly inquired about it, they said this beast was called "Donyak" in Tibetan—a mountain yak of truly fearsome nature. Its size measured two and a half to three times that of ordinary yaks, standing approximately seven shaku tall at the shoulder, though not reaching the stature of an elephant. The eyes that glared piercingly in our direction were truly terrifying. The circumference around the base of its horns measured two shaku five or six sun, their length about five shaku, and their thickness also two shaku five or six sun. This was something I came to understand later when seeing mountain yak horns in Lhasa; I did not actually measure them at that time. Upon hearing this explanation of the yak, while it does indeed eat grass, when provoked it would charge and gore humans or other beasts with its horns. Moreover, its tongue was lined like small swords—once licked by it, anything would be torn to shreds.

Encountering the Desolate Valley Beast I later saw that dried tongue; they had used it as a brush for grooming horsehair. They claimed this tongue belonged to a young mountain yak, yet it remained remarkably large. Thereupon, an honest man among our party, greatly frightened, turned to me and pleaded, “Please divine whether we’ll pass tonight safely.” “Is he afraid mountain yaks might appear?” I wondered—but that wasn’t the case. “Just last year, a bit down this mountain…” he said, pointing to a spot one or two chō away, “six merchants were killed there by robbers.” “I’m so terrified we’ll have to stay awake again tonight—could you please perform a divination?” Though I explained this fear was groundless—merely an expedient to calm his mind—the sight of mountain yaks plodding in the distance made it a dreadfully unsettling place. Yet the night passed without incident. The next day, heading southeast through mountainous terrain for six ri, we lodged in a marshy plain. When choosing campsites, we preferred plains with marshes whenever possible—for marshlands grew more grass...

On the following eleventh day, we similarly advanced six ri through mountain plains. On the twelfth day, after crossing Kuru-Ra—a steep slope of about three ri in ascent and descent—we traveled eastward approximately seven ri and again lodged in a marsh plain. This occurred during that period. As for that monk traveling with me—since other honest and devout Buddhists had begun showing such fervent sympathy toward me that my allies had greatly multiplied—even that proud monk came to display a tendency toward particular intimacy with me, fearing disparagement from those supporters. Of course, whatever their motives might be, it would be improper to spurn their kindness; moreover, antagonizing them would have been most unwise. Thus I reciprocated with even greater kindness than they had shown. Thereafter our relations grew thoroughly harmonious, and I could at last feel assured that with matters settled thus, no misfortune of exposure was likely to occur.

Chapter 51: Seeing a Wheat Field for the First Time

Residents with Urban Accents — On the following 13th [of November], after crossing two immense slopes, we lodged at the foot of mountains whose jagged and precipitous rocks towered above us. The next day, proceeding three ri southeast along a stream flowing through those jagged rock formations and crossing a gentle slope of about five ri, we stayed by the riverside. On November 15th, traveling two ri southeast along that river brought us to a plain; traversing three ri eastward across that open wilderness brought us to a station called Gyātō Tāsam. This station contained far more stone-constructed houses than previous stations. There were considerably more people as well—about four hundred in total, it was said.

There were about sixty houses, and in terms of customs, it appeared quite different from the so-called nomadic areas like Chantan we had passed through until now, showing signs of having taken on a somewhat urban character. Nomads were exceedingly coarse in their manner, speaking of people and things with unvarnished bluntness and a truly rough manner, but the residents of this region now differed completely from nomads, their speech having acquired a somewhat urban quality. Though they had not escaped local dialects...

There, after doing some shopping and such, we advanced about two ri southeast into the mountains and lodged by the riverbank—as it was already mid-November by the solar calendar, the cold proved quite severe. Yet fortune smiled upon us truly when those numerous people arrived: they immediately gathered abundant yak dung and kept fires burning through the night within the tent. Moreover, since I lectured on scriptures for them, both the master and lamas of rank treated me with exceptional hospitality by lending bedding and nightclothes—thus I felt no chill whatsoever. The following day saw us cross two major steep slopes twice (a distance under six ri total), emerge onto a plain, and advance about one and a half ri when

Temple on the Rocks — At the center of that plain, two massive rock pillars rose sharply into the sky as if embracing each other, upon which stood a temple. The height of those rocks was said to measure approximately three chō. To have a temple built atop them made the Ryounkaku in Asakusa seem hardly worth remarking upon. It was truly lofty. This temple, called Sēsumu Gompa, belonged to the old sect. Passing beneath it, we lodged in a marsh plain to the east. The following day, traveling eight ri southeast through mountains brought us to San-San Tāsam, though we camped on the plain east of the station rather than staying there. Despite keeping our fire blazing through the night, the cold here grew particularly biting after dark. When I awoke at dawn, no snow had fallen, yet frost lay thick upon the withered grass as though a blizzard had swept through. At this sight, an idle verse came to me.

Withered grasses—frost blossoms bloom on the lofty plain. As was customary, we advanced about one and a half ri through the southeastern mountain plains and arrived at a three-house settlement at the foot of a mountain. However, when I looked at the eaves of those three houses, it was dreadful. The skinned bodies of many slaughtered sheep hung in dozens upon dozens. And there, they were slaughtering yaks as well. In Tibet, originally, when late autumn arrives, they slaughter all their livestock to store meat, which is then made into dried meat. Since Tibet is a cold country, even when left dried like that, the meat does not particularly rot. As Tibetans say, there is nothing as delicious as this dried meat. I later often saw cases where some people would become greatly worried when summer came, complaining that their dried meat had run out. Therefore,

It seemed to be quite a delicious thing. To prepare such delicious meat, they slaughtered them in large numbers at autumn's end, so autumn was said to be an ideal season for butchering livestock. This was because during summer, the livestock had eaten abundant good grass and their meat became fully fattened—slaughtering them at that time to make dried meat reportedly yielded exceptionally flavorful results. However, since slaughtering near their own villages or tents was considered improper, they deliberately brought the animals all the way to this three-house settlement where nearby residents conducted the slaughter. They did not butcher them per household but gathered the entire village's share to slaughter there.

When I inquired about the number slaughtered that day, there were two hundred fifty to sixty sheep and goats, along with thirty-five yaks—of which twenty had already been killed, leaving about fifteen remaining. They were going to slaughter those remaining now. They said, “Seeing yaks bellow is quite a rare sight—why don’t you watch?” “How could I possibly bear to watch such a thing?” However, as I also wanted to know what was happening, I kept watching intently. The yaks were being led along sluggishly, and from behind them, two people came pushing forward. When they finally reached the slaughtering area, their four legs were immediately bound. The yaks were now being led into the stench where their companions had been slaughtered and copious blood had flowed, and they appeared to know that they too would soon be killed.

Their eyes welled with tears. It was truly unbearable to watch. If I had ample money, I thought desperately of saving them all—so pitiful did they seem—but there was nothing to be done. Then a monk emerged holding a sutra, murmuring incantations as he placed the scripture and prayer beads upon the yak's head, performing last rites. Through this act, they claimed, the yaks could be reborn in their proper realm after death—thus while the sin of slaughter remained, one need not fear incurring bovine resentment. To be sure, the killing was cruel beyond measure, yet reciting sutras was believed to grant some measure of karmic merit.

But seeing them perform those chants only deepened my sorrow, and with tears already streaming down my face, I could no longer bear to watch them sever its head, so I fled into the house. Overwhelmed by pity, I sat overflowing with tears until a dull thud echoed—the sound of a yak's head being cleaved off. They used those characteristically sharp Tibetan swords to sever the head in one stroke, causing blood to gush forth which they caught in bucket-like vessels to minimize spillage. This blood would be thoroughly boiled and solidified into a gelatinous substance resembling bean jelly—apparently considered exceptionally delicious. Even without killing the animals, they would sometimes make neck incisions to draw blood for boiling and processing into—

They made blood jelly and ate it, but apparently the kind prepared during slaughter was especially delicious. I thought slaughtering such vast numbers was truly cruel, but after arriving at the capital Lhasa and observing life there, this scale proved trivial—for in that capital during October, November, and December alone, sheep, goats, yaks, and such creatures slaughtered there exceeded fifty thousand. Thus such matters here were nothing at all. Departing from there, struck by feelings of sorrow, we climbed an extremely steep slope for about three and a half ri and descended another three ri to lodge by the riverbank. The following day, the nineteenth, we passed through the base of a mountain where stood Tasan Gompa—a large temple of the old sect—and stayed beside a mountain stream (the day’s journey being eight ri).

The following day, after traveling about two ri through the mountains, we arrived at a village called Rarun on the western shore of a lake named Manyui Tso. This lake measured approximately five ri in circumference and appeared quite deep. Until reaching Rarun Village, there had been no fields at all, but from this village onward, there were wheat fields being cultivated, and village houses could be seen scattered here and there.

Chapter 52: Passing the Third City

Adhering to Tradition — Since it was already winter, I could not see how crops like wheat were growing, but from what I heard, wheat cultivation in this area typically yields about four *to* per one *to* of seed sown, and if they harvested even six *to*, they rejoiced as if it were an exceptionally bountiful year. Also, in areas near the capital Lhasa, in good years one *to* of seed might yield eight *to* or even one *koku*, but they seemed content with around six *to*. This alone revealed how undeveloped their farming methods were. When I saw those fields, I could not help being further astonished. The fields were so strewn with stones that they resembled deliberately planted rock gardens. This was by no means disparagement. Wherever I went, it held true.

So when I once advised Tibetans to remove these rocks, they replied that such a thing had never been their custom, so they wouldn’t do it. Tibetans regarded their age-old customs as innate commandments that governed all circumstances. While city dwellers possessed somewhat progressive inclinations and imported Western goods, the general populace revered age-old customs so deeply that they refused to remove even the numerous stones currently damaging their own fields, citing lack of custom. It was indeed a curious method, but I heard something even more peculiar from the village elders in that area. At the time, I had thought it mere irresponsible talk—how could such a nonsensical affair exist?—but when I later inquired about it in Lhasa, everyone without exception said the same thing.

It was truly a strange land measurement method, and the procedure went roughly like this. If there were fields, the government had to impose a land tax on them. Yet when imposing this tax, they couldn't determine the actual size of the fields. As I had explained earlier, Tibetans were truly lacking in mathematical concepts—or rather, nearly devoid of them—making proper field measurement utterly impossible. Therefore, they would have two yaks pull a plow and attempt to till the field. If it took half a day to plow with two yaks, that determined the tax assessment for a half-day field; if it took a full day, it became a full-day field, with the government using this as the standard for tax collection. It was an exceedingly peculiar method. After hearing various other stories about Tibetan customs and monks' conduct, I then traveled about five ri along the lake's edge and emerged where mountain streams converged, staying there that night.

November 21st. After proceeding along an extremely narrow mountain valley path for about two ri, we arrived at another large pond. That pond was also an extremely clean one with a circumference of about five ri, and its name was Nam Tso Goga. We proceeded southeast along the northern shore of the lake and passed through a valley called Sengé Lung (Lion Valley). Now, because the rocks on both sides of this valley had strange shapes, the Tibetans likened those rock formations to lions— Lion Valley is believed to have been named as such.

After advancing about three ri through that valley, we arrived at another village called Sengé Lung. We did not stay in that village but proceeded to a village called Nakusē to lodge; that day, we walked over ten ri. Now you may wonder why we walked in such an irregular manner on this particular day—it was because from this point onward, it became necessary to alter our method of travel. Up until now, as we had been passing through areas of Changtang (pasturelands) abundant in grass, we needed to stop early to let the horses graze and thus properly nourish them. However, as we came into areas with houses where fields were numerous and pasturelands scarce, we now had to purchase fodder. Upon arriving at an inn, we had to purchase fodder—wheat straw, barley straw, bean stalks—from that inn and feed it to the horses. However, this fodder was quite expensive in Tibet.

Feeding a single horse fully for one night cost 15 sen even in cheap areas, while in expensive areas it certainly amounted to around 30 sen. On top of that, they sometimes fed beans or even melted butter into grease and poured it into the horses’ mouths. Thus, engaging in trade in Tibet was quite a difficult endeavor, and they said the expenses were also considerable.

On November 22nd, after crossing a considerably high mountain pass and advancing about five ri through a plateau region, we once again reached the northern bank of the Brahmaputra River. The Brahmaputra River in this area bore no resemblance to what I had previously crossed. Though its width measured about two chō, the depth appeared bluish and unfathomable. Not even horses could ford it. They say that come summer, the river grows vastly wider and deeper still. Now, while there existed a ferry upon this river, this ferry—

It was an Indian-style square boat. The bottom formed a flat rectangle, with a carved serpent's head emerging slickly from its neck fixed at the bow's center. This vessel could carry about twenty horses and thirty to forty people; crossing to the opposite shore brought us to Haruje—Tibet's third-largest city. Reaching this point meant we had fully entered Tibet's interior—from here, Shigatse, Tibet's second administrative center, lay merely five days' journey ahead. Upon crossing the river stood a south-facing lodge built by Chinese. To call it an inn would be misleading—when Chinese travelers arrived, they simply occupied it temporarily, for there existed no proper innkeeper at all.

An ownerless inn. It had been built for the convenience of Chinese conducting business in Tibet and for soldiers during their marches. It was quite large. Our party too arrived there and lodged. Yet the group members were overjoyed—having safely traversed that terrifying northwestern wilderness without encountering bandits or beast attacks—and deeming this arrival auspicious enough to celebrate, they drank alcohol heartily, hired women, and caroused through the night. Such scenes appeared no different from what one might witness in Japan. The next day I remained there again—now facing imminent parting from these people—to spend one final day expressing gratitude for their past kindnesses.

I read the Lotus Sutra in Classical Chinese. That day, our companions were indulging in bestial pleasures to the utmost, but I shall refrain from describing the scene, as it was truly unbearable to recount.

On the 24th of the following month, I finally departed with two or three others, taking the path to the Sakya sect’s main temple, while that merchant caravan took the main road via Puntsolin to Shigatse Prefecture. At our parting—as thanks for my lectures on the scriptures up to that point—the chief priest gave me ten tangkas, and the others presented me with some money as a gesture of respect, remarking that I was an admirable pilgrim lama. Thus, as it was decided that only the chief lama, his deputy lama, and a single servant would accompany me to Sakya’s main temple, they said, “We will carry your luggage to that temple, and you should ride horses with us,” and so we came to make pilgrimage peacefully toward the great temple of Sakya. That day, we traveled south through wheat fields for two ri—the area was quite fertile—though as I had previously stated, Tibetans lack knowledge of farming methods and thus cannot obtain sufficient harvests—but regardless, the land itself was exceedingly fertile.

Barley Heartland—after all, in Tibet this place called Haruje was where barley, wheat, beans, butter and such were cheapest. This was likely because they were produced in great abundance throughout this area. Passing through those fields, we crossed a steep slope of about two ri before heading southeast through cultivated land for approximately four and a half ri, lodging in a small village called Renta. The following day, after traveling seven and a half ri along the river, Sakya's great temple came into view. It was truly magnificent—from our vantage point stood a grand structure behind high walls measuring over two chō and four ken. As we drew closer, we saw it was entirely stone-built: the main hall rose about ten ken high, thirty-four ken east to west and forty ken north to south. The stones were uniformly whitewashed while the walls curved upward in an arc shape, topped by a black-lacquered fortress-like structure whose tiers resembled stacked roof shingles. At the very pinnacle of the roof stood Supreme Victory Banners and terrace platforms that towered around its perimeter, radiating golden light. Regardless of its interior contents, when viewed externally it had been constructed with such solemn dignity that it naturally inspired reverent awe in all who beheld it.

Chapter 53: Sakya Great Temple

The temple’s grandeur—I arrived near that temple, sought lodging, and under guidance from that inn paid respects at the main hall and other buildings. First passing through a stone-walled gate approximately two jō in height and six shaku in thickness, I entered within the gate, proceeded through various halls, and arrived at the main hall. When viewed from the outside, the main hall appeared square and completely enclosed; yet inside there was an open space designed to draw light from a central courtyard. Thus upon entering the gate—approximately thirteen ken in frontage and six ken in depth—I found two blue and red Vajra Warriors standing on either side, each over two jō and five shaku tall. The posture of these warriors differed from Japanese Nio guardians—their right legs slightly bent, left legs thrust diagonally inward, right hands raised skyward, and left hands extended with concentrated power. I could see they were quite artistically crafted, with the rendering of their muscular exertion rather well expressed. Of course if examined in detail they would likely be found lacking—even we amateurs could well understand this—but by any measure they must be considered quite splendid as Tibetan art. Next on the right side following that stood four large statues of the Four Heavenly Kings—each about three jō in height—lined up, while looking to the left revealed large paintings of various devas and bodhisattvas depicted across the walls. The mural had been splendidly executed by first applying earth over the stone wall, then coating it with a Tibetan natural lime-like substance and employing various techniques; despite being a large composition measuring approximately three and a half ken in height and four ken in width, there was not a single crack in the wall, rendering it truly immaculate.

Although the buildings were quite old, they were well-preserved. Passing through that hall, I found at its center a courtyard measuring approximately five ken east-west and six ken north-south. This courtyard too was entirely paved with flagstones, serving as the place where lower-ranking monks gathered to chant sutras, drink tea, and eat roasted barley flour. Proper monks took their meals inside the main hall, but all lower-ranking monks remained in that courtyard. Passing through that spacious courtyard and entering through what might be called its true main gate—the western one—I came into what they termed as *the* Main Hall within this complex of main halls. This entire area consisted of main halls, but since the principal object of worship was enshrined here, we tentatively referred to it as "the main hall among main halls." The main hall had two entrances: the southern entrance was used by the temple’s monks, while the northern entrance served us pilgrims. When we entered through that northern entrance and looked inside, we were truly struck by an indescribable resplendence of gold and jade.

The scene inside the main hall—so complex that one could not tell where to begin describing it or how to put it into words—was nevertheless quite splendid. Alas, the haphazard arrangement of the Buddhist statues failed to instill in worshippers the profound reverence one might expect. It gave the impression of attending an exhibition of carelessly arranged Buddhist statues, images, and sutras. Yet when looking upward, the ceiling was covered with five-colored gold brocade and damask silks. Below stood over three hundred statues of various Buddhas, bodhisattvas, Wisdom Kings, Vajra beings, and Sattvas, all emitting a golden radiance. The gold appeared meticulously chosen, the pillars swathed in gold brocade, while at the center stood enshrined a golden statue of Shakyamuni Buddha measuring three jō and five shaku. Though said to be fashioned from mud, it had been splendidly gilded. Before the Buddha were arrayed seven water bowls, lamp stands, and offering tables—most of pure gold, with even those in inferior positions crafted from silver. The way the statues, ritual implements, and gold-embroidered adornments reflected each other's brilliance created a dazzling radiance—their magnificence truly enough to overwhelm the senses. Yet I remained unimpressed. Rather than inspiring awe, the excessive ornamentation and chaotic disarray left me with a sense of distaste.

The Sutra Hall's Appearance: When I entered the hall behind where those Buddhist statues were enshrined, I found something remarkably splendid this time. It was not radiating brilliance like before, but rather a truly magnificent sutra hall. The hall stood over ten ken in height and forty ken in width, completely filled with sutras. These consisted of palm-leaf manuscripts written in Sanskrit with gold ink on indigo paper. Since Sakya Pandita—who had founded this temple in ancient times—imported numerous scriptures from India, and since they later specially dispatched monks to acquire more texts from there, I imagined this collection must contain many works valuable for our research. Though there were no printed Tibetan editions here, it was said only handwritten manuscripts filled this space in great quantity. After leaving that area and surveying different parts of the main hall, I at first paid little heed but gradually noticed a deeply unpleasant odor permeating the air.

A foul odor assailed the nose—this was due to such smells being present in every Tibetan temple, so much so that any Japanese person entering for the first time would likely find it an unbearable stench. In Tibet, all ritual lamps are lit with butter. When monks come to drink tea here, they spill butter and tea about. However, the courtyard—paved with flagstones coated in something similar to plaster—remained damp and humid, allowing the rancid smell of decomposing butter to permeate the hall. While Tibetans perceive this odor as pleasant, we found it extremely disagreeable. Upon exiting the main hall, I found subsidiary halls on both sides adorned with various Buddhist statues.

Among these, what stood out most prominently was the statue of Pemma Chünne, founder of the old sect. The statue—from its pedestal to the figure itself—had been crafted entirely of gemstones. The surrounding walls and garden too were laid with gemstones. Though not fully paved with them—merely arranged in patterns—the sight truly proved magnificent enough to astonish all who beheld it. When I exited the main hall, I found many monks' quarters where some five hundred monks reportedly resided. The great teacher guiding these five hundred monks—one Chamba Pasan Chinre—dwelt in a large multi-storied building to the south.

Chapter 54: Arrival at Tibet's Second Capital

The Head Monk of Sakya Temple—There, our party went to meet the great teacher in a rather impressive room, where he sat upon a platform spanning two tatami mats. At first glance, he had a truly venerable appearance. I intended to ask the lama about the points where the so-called Sakya sect differs from other schools and tried to engage him in conversation, but he told me to come back tomorrow as he was busy today. Having settled on visiting the next day, I took my leave that afternoon. Descending from the second floor and stepping beyond the high stone wall, I beheld what appeared to be numerous palace-like structures amidst a withered willow grove far to the south. The members of our party said we must go there to meet Sakya Koma Rinpoche—the head monk of this great temple—as that was his residence. And so I too went.

The term "Koma Rinpoche" means "Supreme Jewel," and Tibetans also refer to the Emperor of China as Koma Rinpoche. In the east stands China's Koma Rinpoche; in the west, Sakya Koma Rinpoche—the people speak of these two being revered like the sun and moon. Being such a venerated figure, all who meet him prostrate themselves and receive blessed offerings, though he remains fundamentally a layperson. This lineage has continued unbroken from Sakya Pandita to the present day—of course being laypeople, they eat meat, take wives, drink alcohol—yet Tibet being a peculiar land, even pure monks still pay homage to them. However, since this differed entirely from Shakyamuni Tathagata's teachings, though I showed reverence when visiting, I refrained from performing the three prostrations. The reason being there exists no rule requiring monks to prostrate thrice before laypeople—thus I did not do so. Yet when I met him, he appeared a noble of such dignity and venerable bearing.

Not performing worship — On the return path after meeting him, the lamas accompanying me rebuked me, asking, “Why did you not bow to that Koma Rinpoche?” but I had not acted out of contempt. I simply did not perform worship to uphold the teachings of Shakyamuni Tathagata. When I answered that he was a layperson and I was a monk, so I could not bring myself to bow, they exclaimed in astonishment, “This Chinese monk is truly stubborn!” The next day, when I went to meet them at the appointed time at Sakya’s great temple, there was a charming twelve- or thirteen-year-old novice monk beside that venerable teacher. That child was fooling around with the teacher. The familiarity of their interaction made me truly wonder if this might be the teacher’s own child, but as he was a pure monk, he could not possibly have a wife. However, their manner of interaction was by no means ordinary. I found it truly peculiar, but that doubt was completely resolved after I later arrived in Lhasa.

Truthfully, I had considered staying at this great temple for about two weeks to at least learn the tenets of the Sakya sect’s Buddhism; however, as I disliked studying under such corrupt monks, I departed the next day. Shouldering my pack alone as before, I climbed roughly one ri southeast along a mountain stream, then crossed a steep two-ri slope eastward. This time, I proceeded southeast through the mountains and traveled over four ri along a river before lodging in a two-house hamlet. While carrying my luggage, I was able to walk about seven ri after all, which made me think my body had grown considerably robust. The following day, I climbed another steep slope of one ri and descended two ri. As the snowfall had soaked my luggage, making it heavier still, I lodged at a house in the area. Then on November 30th, fortunately encountering seven or eight transporters leading forty or fifty donkeys, I paid the fee and entrusted my luggage to them. Descending north along the Tār River for two ri until it changed direction southeast, I followed the riverbank down six ri and lodged at the edge of a village. Now, these donkey transporters likewise did not lodge within the village. They headed into the field, completely unloaded the donkeys' cargo there, stacked it on three sides to build an enclosure, entered inside it, then—as was customary—gathered three stones to hang a pot and lit a fire using yak dung collected from the area—such was their arrangement. They were markedly inferior to the caravans I had traveled with until now.

On December 1st, I descended and ascended four ri along the river; then leaving the river behind, climbed four ri into the eastern mountains and arrived beneath an extremely steep red rock. Known as the Red Cliff Rock—this being called Ranra in Tibet—I camped there again. The next day after crossing a steep two-ri slope between stone walls, I traveled two ri across the mountain plateau where stood Kanchan Temple. I lodged in that temple's southern field though all surrounding areas were farmland. Yet these transporters marched freely through any field they chose. When I asked "Won't doing this bring harsh rebukes from the fields' owners?" they answered "None would ever utter reproach."

“Because they’re fallow fields,” they said. When I asked what “fallow fields” meant, they explained that they would grow barley for one year then let the land lie fallow for another year without planting anything. This was not the practice in Lhasa, but in this area they had one harvest every two years. Moreover, even were that not the case, during winter no one would say anything no matter where one walked through the fields as a path; thus it was permissible to treat any part of the fields as a path. We camped in that wilderness; that night I delivered a sermon for the transporters. The next day, after proceeding eastward about three ri, a splendid temple newly built by the Tibetan government came into view at the mountain’s edge. When I asked why the government was building a temple for itself, they said there was a spring beneath where the temple stood. A certain kamioroshi—a mountain ascetic resembling our Shugendō practitioners—had declared this spring to be a dragon’s maw, warning that should it burst open, all Tibet would be submerged beneath the sea. Therefore they said a temple must be built to block and seal it. Not only that, but at the very time this prophecy was made, from China—

A strange prophecy document arrived. That was likely created by some monk who had purposes of his own to serve, I thought. I read through that prophecy document, which stated a great many things—how this world would completely perish by drowning in water due to the recent proliferation of immoral deeds, or how before that there would occur either a great famine or a great war. As for that prophecy document, it was said to have descended from heaven, and it was also recorded that if anyone were to declare it a lie, that person would immediately vomit blood and die. However, when I read it, I declared it a lie—but fortunately did not vomit blood. Even if they did not create it with malicious intent, as it contained far too many absurd claims, anyone with even a modicum of discernment could see that it was false.

However, many Tibetans believed in it, and that prophecy document had been translated into Tibetan and lay scattered throughout the land. At the very time I was reading that text, the kamioroshi had spread such absurd claims; thus I could not help being astonished at the sheer folly of the imposing government heeding this mountain ascetic’s words and squandering vast sums to erect a temple. Yet this was no isolated case—since the people consulted these oracles for nearly every matter beyond their own judgment, I thought even Japan’s venerable Tennin’ō would find ample work there, so rampant were the superstitions. Passing beneath that newly built temple and advancing a little further,

At the mountain's edge, I saw five or six birds called Cha Gopo (vultures) that received temple stipends. When I inquired about this, they explained that since few believers in this area brought corpses for offering, these vultures were largely starving; thus, stipends from Tashi Lhunpo Monastery's kitchen were provided for these eight vultures. The stipend consisted of meat, they said. Though the notion of birds receiving temple stipends seemed peculiar, these vultures consumed human corpses brought during funerals. As for how they ate, how they were fed, and what funeral practices entailed, I would later describe what I witnessed after arriving in Lhasa.

Fasting Hall — Having passed through that area, I arrived and lodged at Nyung Né Khakang (Fasting Hall) near Narutan Temple, while the rest of the party handed my luggage to me and went off toward Shigatse. As I needed to conduct research here, I parted ways with them intending to stay another day and specifically lodged at this place; what is called the Fasting Hall is a hall established for local monks and laypeople to observe the Eight Precepts while additionally performing ascetic practices such as abstaining completely from meat for a full day or refraining from all speech. Though not all Tibetan monks are forbidden from eating meat, they strictly adhere to these precepts while maintaining their vows. The following day I visited Narutan Temple and viewed the woodblocks that were the temple’s greatest treasure. These woodblocks comprised the Tibetan Buddhist Canon, which in Tibet is divided into the Buddha Section and Patriarch Section. There were also numerous woodblocks containing recorded sayings prepared by Tibetan lamas. The hall storing these woodblocks was remarkably large—thirty ken in frontage and about ten ken deep—completely filled with woodblocks; moreover, there were several other halls of similar size and smaller ones.

As this temple served as the printing origin of the Tibetan Buddhist Canon—where its woodblocks were produced—the three hundred monks residing there were effectively its printing craftsmen. I met that temple’s great teacher, a high priest specially dispatched from Tashi Lhunpo Temple who proved remarkably skilled in doctrinal debate. Not only did I gain great benefit from discussing Buddhism throughout the day, but he also treated me with exceptional kindness. On December 5th that followed, after traveling five ri southeast across the plain, there appeared beneath a rocky mountain a palace-style roof glittering with golden radiance, flanked by many white-plastered monk quarters. Moreover, interspersed among them were vermilion-lacquered halls, presenting a truly magnificent and splendid sight. This was

In Tibet's second capital, Shigatse, there stood a great temple called Tashi Lhunpo. Tashi means "glory," and Lhunpo means "mass"—the name had been bestowed by the founder Gendun Tsug because the temple took the form of Mount Sumeru. The temple housed three thousand three hundred monks. However, it was not the largest temple in Tibet. Though considered second-rate, its status ranked equally with temples of the Dharma King. Beyond the temple, I could see the city of Shigatse. The city appeared to have some three thousand four or five hundred households, with residents and monks reportedly totaling over thirty thousand. This estimate could not be relied upon. As Tibetans knew nothing of compiling statistics, they spoke in approximations. I entered that grand temple and, claiming to have come from Seihoku-gen, inquired about the Pītsuku Kamutsuan quarters where Seihoku-gen believers and lamas lodged. My purpose was to stay at this great temple awhile—to meet doctors, scholars, and virtuous individuals while receiving Buddhist teachings. The current master of this temple was

It could be called Tibet’s second Dharma King. He held no political authority whatsoever, but in terms of the rank conferred by the Chinese emperor, he stood above the Dharma King. Until the Dharma King passed away, was reborn, returned to assume the position of Dharma King, and took up political power, there were times when this second Dharma King might temporarily hold political authority. However, he did not involve himself in ordinary governance. The grand lama of this temple was commonly known as Panchen Rinpoche, and the current Panchen Rinpoche’s name was Khyapkön Chenpo Chökyi Nyima (Great Lord Protector of the Dharma Sun). At the time of my arrival, he was just eighteen years old, born in the Year of the Sheep, and was said to be an incarnation of Amitābha Buddha. I had intended to meet this revered person, but as he had gone to the detached palace, I was unable to do so. Now, it had become my daily task to visit many lamas, scholars, and learned men to ask various questions about Buddhism.

Chapter 55: The Grand Lama and the Grammarian

The Grand Lama’s attendant teacher — One day, I called upon an old monk named Tsang Chenpa, who served as this Grand Lama’s attendant teacher. That venerable elder, at the advanced age of seventy-four, explained Buddhist matters to me with exceptional kindness. I then heard that in grammar and rhetoric, he was the foremost scholar within this great temple. "I too had devoted no small effort to studying grammar," I explained as I posed various questions on the subject. He responded, "I know nothing of such difficult matters. There is a place called EnGon on the road to Lhasa from here. “There is a man there who works as a doctor and is a great scholar.” “If you inquire about him, you should be able to understand most things.”

Tashi Lhunpo Monastery

It was not that I had asked about matters I did not understand. I asked to get a sense of how they would explain them. But given those circumstances, I simply took my leave. However, Tibet had indeed received from ancient India what are called the Five Sciences (pañcavidyā)—the five fields of knowledge. These comprise phonetics and linguistics (śabda-vidyā), medicine (cikitsā-vidyā), logic (hetu-vidyā), engineering (śilpa-vidyā), and religious science with philosophy (adhyātma-vidyā)—yet those who have thoroughly investigated and mastered them are exceedingly few. This scarcity approaches near nonexistence; thus those who devote themselves to grammar and similar studies remain rare indeed. Those in government offices study such matters only minimally—learning mere elementary grammar primers—out of necessity for document writing. Thus despite their ability to expound Buddhist philosophy and their extensive study of it, there exist eminent scholars who know nothing at all when questioned about history or science. After staying several days, on the very day I thought to depart having little reason to remain longer, word came that the Grand Lama would return from his detached palace—so I went to observe what manner of person he was and how his procession would arrive.

The Grand Lama’s Procession — While there was no proper road to speak of, the path had formed where countless footprints pressed the earth flat. On both sides stood speckled round objects resembling post boxes—these proved to be incense burners. Even before the Grand Lama appeared, monks and laypeople had already lit incense and stood waiting. Most of these observers ended up prostrating themselves on the ground in worship rather than watching the procession intently. As I gazed steadily ahead, some three hundred horses came into view, with the Grand Lama riding in a palanquin adorned in gold brocade and rare silks. It was truly magnificent. The procession began with Tibetan-style music—instruments resembling Japanese reed pipes and drums—to set its rhythm forward. Unsurprisingly, none in this retinue carried firearms, spears or swords. What I did notice were numerous bearers holding ritual implements.

It was an exceptionally grand affair; staying an extra day to witness it was thoroughly worthwhile. That night, at the lodging where I was staying, I delivered a sermon on the Ten Virtuous Precepts in accordance with the monks' request. Then they said, "There are very few who explain Buddhism in such an easy-to-understand manner." "When we are subjected to nothing but logical, dry and difficult matters, we end up being told things so tedious they make us doze off—which is why we monks of Buddhism have grown weary of it all." "But today, having heard your teachings, we have come to understand the profound value of Buddhism," they said delightedly. From this, one can see how little mid-ranking and lower Tibetan monks know about Buddhism. However, the conduct of the monks at this temple is said to be quite strict—or so I later heard... But drinking alcohol had become a habit of theirs, and they drank quite frequently.

Alcohol and Tobacco — Regarding these, there was a rather amusing episode involving a meeting between the Dharma King of Lhasa and this temple's Grand Lama. At that time, it is said the Dharma King of Lhasa remarked: "The monks at my temple consume so much tobacco it has become troublesome." However, the Grand Lama countered that the monks at his temple drank so much alcohol it posed difficulties. A discussion reportedly ensued about whether alcohol or tobacco constituted the graver sin, but since these vices had already become open secrets known even to the Dharma Kings themselves, nothing could be done. To prevent alcohol consumption, monks returning from town visits were made to open their mouths before gatekeeping monks who would sniff their breath. Those detected with alcohol's scent were apprehended. Yet the monks proved cunning. Even when thoroughly inebriated—legs wobbling and eyes glazed—they took care to let no trace of alcohol scent escape their mouths. They achieved this by eating copious amounts of garlic, using its pungent odor to mask the alcohol. Having heard both these misdeeds and venerable lama's teachings, I left behind this mixed-bag monastic complex and departed the temple at 10 AM on December 15th. Crossing through Shigatse town and traveling roughly one ri, I reached a large bridge called Samba Shar (Eastern Bridge).

Samba Shar measured approximately three chō in length and four ken in width. This three-chō bridge wasn’t built like Japanese bridges with piers spanning from end to end. In the riverbed stood large embankments erected at four-to-five-ken intervals. These embankments consisted entirely of piled stones. Workers had laid correspondingly long wooden beams across them, then covered these with stone slabs and packed earth. The handrails too were wooden—thus they’d constructed a crossing over this three-chō-wide river called the Tsangchu. After fording this river and traveling northward about one and a half ri, I reached the Brahmaputra’s banks again; following its eastern course for five ri brought me to a destitute farmhouse in Pe village. What caught my attention inside was the firewood stacked by the trivet—not yak dung but turf grass roots. They cut these roots still clinging to soil, dried them thoroughly, and prepared them for burning. This served as common fuel throughout the area.

Writing Practice on Wooden Boards — By the edge of the burning fire, children of eleven or twelve years old were practicing their writing. They were sprinkling white powder on black wooden boards and writing on them with bamboo. When they finished writing completely, they would show it to their parent, have the mistakes corrected, wipe the characters clean, sprinkle white powder again, and continue practicing—this was how they learned penmanship. I was deeply moved and asked why such a poor household would have their children practice writing. They explained that all around here were farming families, and that landlords would cheat those who couldn’t read when it came time to pay rent. Therefore, they made sure to thoroughly study characters and learn to calculate numbers, they said. As for calculating numbers—as I had previously explained—there was no method other than using stones, sticks, or counting beads.

The practice of poor people learning characters existed only among the farming households of this region; if one went to Lhasa, the poor there did not know even incomplete methods of calculation. In that respect, this area was far superior. That night I preached to those people, and the next day descended along the great river for about two ri; then, following an extremely steep rocky mountain with the river to my left, I went east down a narrow path for about one and a half ri before arriving at a slightly open area. And when I looked to the right, two large temples could be seen on the mountain.

Enkō Temple: This was Enkō Temple, where resided the grammarian who had long been instructed by an elder monk from Tashi Lhunpo Monastery. Therefore, without taking the main road, I deliberately ascended to that temple called Enkō. After climbing the slope for about one ri, I arrived at the temple. The temple higher up on the peak was for monks, while the one slightly below was for nuns. And at these temples, there were 230 male monks and 72 female nuns. It was quite a historic temple, but as there was no need to elaborate on the details here, I will omit them; I took lodging at the monks’ quarters located there. When I said I wanted to meet the scholar immediately, they told me it would have to be tomorrow, so I stayed an additional day and met with the scholar. However, that person gave some explanation about Buddhism, but since he did not know much about grammar or rhetoric, he said it would be better to ask a doctor named Amdo Khasan. That Amdo Khasan was said to be the great scholar of grammar and rhetoric whom I had previously been informed about by an elder monk.

**Tibetan Grammar Inquiry** Having gone to his quarters and presented suitable gifts, I stated my purpose. He asked, "Have you studied grammar or rhetoric?" "I have studied them for about three years," I answered. This response stemmed from my careful attention to Tibetan grammatical texts since first beginning language study. The scholar remarked, "Yet even three years' study may yield no understanding depending on method," posing two or three questions. These proved elementary queries that I answered promptly. When I then requested, "Would you test me on some challenging point of rhetoric?" he declared he knew nothing of rhetoric. I pressed further: "Then which school's doctrine do you follow in explicating Tibetan scriptures?" "In Tibetan scriptural study," he replied, "we employ the incomplete grammar of one called Ngurchu." Suspecting deception, I inquired whether he adhered to the precise grammatical system of Shitu Lama. He responded that while he knew Shitu's name, he had never examined his works.

Then I inquired about the vowels of the Tibetan script—a subject of heated debate among Tibetan grammarians. First I asked how many vowels existed in Tibetan. This might seem an insignificant matter, but truly interpreting Tibetan grammar's essence required resolving this very issue first. However, he grew slightly flustered and began listing sixteen vowels—those of Sanskrit. Finding his claim peculiar, I asked whether he endorsed the theory that Tibetan had five vowels. "Ah yes," he corrected himself with great embarrassment, "These are indeed Sanskrit vowels. Tibetan vowels are certainly five," offering this apology. Yet even this five-vowel theory was gravely mistaken; Western scholars had transmitted and translated this five-character doctrine as-is, preening themselves over it—

As for Tibetan vowels, there are four characters; in the original text by Thumi Sambhota—the creator of the Tibetan script—it states that beyond these four characters, no vowels are to be placed. That was entirely true. There was also an erroneous theory insisting there must be five characters, and because of this, debates had become divided among Tibetan grammarians in various ways. It was truly baffling how monks who did not even properly understand such elementary matters were acclaimed as great scholars of grammar and rhetoric. Wondering if he might have lied, I asked him about various simple matters from other texts, but he knew absolutely nothing. He understood only readily comprehensible, utterly mundane matters.

Thinking that such a person being called a great scholar of grammar and grand doctor of rhetoric within Tibet was truly like a bat in a village without birds, I was astonished at how low the level of knowledge in grammar and rhetoric truly was. When I returned to the monks’ quarters where I was staying, the chief monk of those quarters asked me what I had discussed at that physician’s place. When I replied that we had talked about grammar, the chief monk spoke with an air of importance: “That physician is Tsang Province’s sole scholar of grammar and rhetoric, and one cannot comprehend his teachings through merely meeting and conversing with him once or twice. If you truly wish to understand grammar, you should remain at this temple for two or three years and study under him daily; only then will you grasp it.” “Even someone like me, who’s always by his side listening, can’t understand a thing.” Upon hearing such absurdity, I burst out laughing involuntarily, but the chief monk looked puzzled at my uproarious laughter.

On the following eighteenth day, heading southeast, I ascended and descended slight slopes for over two ri until reaching the Brahmaputra River. Proceeding gradually eastward across the great plain along the river’s bank, I saw Pombō Rīuche—a temple of the old sect—appearing atop a mountain in the distance. When I was nearly one ri away from it, someone suddenly called out to stop me from within the plain.

Chapter 56: New Year's Dawn in a Foreign Land Wondering if this might be another encounter with robbers, I looked up to see two burly men approaching. Both laid Tibetan-style swords horizontally before them as they advanced. When I asked if they needed something as they drew near, one young man snapped, “What’s with the questions?” and suddenly hefted a large stone from the ground as if to strike me. As I stood watching silently, he threatened, “Try running—I’ll bash your skull in if you do.” “Ah,” I realized, “these must be those infamous bandits.” I settled onto a roadside stone.

Then both men stomped over to me and forcibly snatched away the staff I was holding. One of them barked, “Spit out what you’ve got! Where the hell did you come from?” “I am a pilgrim who circled Mount Chise,” I replied, whereupon he demanded, “You’ve got money, don’t you?” “I have some,” I said, “but most was taken by robbers on the northwest plain. There’s nothing extra here now.” “What’s that on your back?” “Sutras and provisions.” “Untie it! Might be stuffed with coin!” “The money’s in my robe.” “None in the pack?” “I’m a monk—I don’t lie.” “Want coin? Take it. Want the pack? Take that too.” As I reached for the money, three horsemen came galloping from ahead.

Then those two men discarded the staff and fled in disarray. Thus I had unexpectedly escaped the bandits’ threat, whereupon the three men on horseback turned to me and asked, “What were those people just now?” When I replied, “They came out demanding money and goods,” they said, “Hateful fellows,” and stood there awhile before continuing, “If you go as far as below that temple, there’s a village. You should make haste there.” “I’ll keep watch here until you arrive,” came their kind offer. Thereupon, as I proceeded toward the village, the horsemen also headed westward and were gone after some time had passed.

That night, without staying in that village, I proceeded eastward about three ri from there and arrived at a small village called Nyamo Hotter where I lodged; the next day, I ate lunch in a village called Teshoku, and that night stayed in a village called Taktuka. On December 20th, as considerable snow had fallen since the previous night, I proceeded southeast along the river at dawn while trampling through the snow, reaching the Brahmaputra's riverine sandbars—where remnants of the night's snow lingered here and there across the sandy plain. In the meantime, a few cranes walked leisurely while uttering truly high, clear cries. In that scene, forgetting the cold, I composed several poems. Let me present two of them.

Wondrous! The mystic jewel of gravel-strewn riverbanks, Here and there amidst snow, a flock of cranes calls out— Slowly treading through the snow, the mystic crane Unravels a path unchanged through a thousand ages.

Through such beautiful scenery, I descended along the river’s southern bank for approximately three and a half ri until reaching a village called Kurumu Namusē. After eating lunch there and proceeding eastward along the river for another two ri, the river flowed away northeastward, while the main path began leading upward into the southeastern mountains. Climbing that slope for approximately one and a half ri, I arrived and lodged at a village called Shabu-Tontsubu; the next day, ascending eastward along a clear, small stream for another one and a half ri, upon reaching the bank of that river flow, there stood a large rocky mountain, at whose foothills lay a temple named Cham Chen Gonpa (Great Maitreya Temple), which indeed lived up to its name by housing a statue of Maitreya Buddha measuring over three jo and five shaku (~35 feet/10.6 meters). Though Maitreya is fundamentally a Bodhisattva, since he is said to be the next Buddha to be reborn, in Tibet they do not refer to him as a Bodhisattva but as a Buddha. I paid homage to that Maitreya Bodhisattva, then visited the great hall of the Water Buffalo-Faced Wrathful Sublime King located beside it and the great hall of Shakyamuni Buddha, before lodging at a monks’ quarters there. This temple has two hundred monks’ quarters with a monastic population of roughly three hundred, making it the largest temple between Shigatse, the second administrative city, and the capital Lhasa.

The Chief Monk Tormented by Ominous Dreams | The chief monk I was staying with had been having a series of ominous dreams recently and was greatly frightened by them. What he feared was this: though he possessed abundant property, the succession of death-related dreams he had been experiencing terrified him beyond endurance. "Would you read sutras to help me avoid this calamity?" he asked. "I know no specific sutras for averting disasters," I replied, "but since the complete Tripitaka is here, I thought reading some scriptures from it might ease your mind and bring merit. Very well—I shall read them." Starting the next day, I began reciting the Tibetan Lotus Sutra and other scriptures.

It was precisely December 28th, and since a monk from this temple was going to Kathmandu in Nepal, I thought it extremely opportune and made arrangements to send a letter to my homeland. Since it was addressed to my close friend Hikashita Tokujūrō back home, I earnestly requested, "Please take this letter to Nepal and send it via registered mail at the post office," and I gave a considerable amount of money to that monk to have him carry it. He seemed quite an honest man, but whatever became of him, the letter I entrusted to him has not arrived here to this day. Since I knew he wasn’t the sort to tell lies, it can be surmised that he likely died along the way. On the afternoon of the thirty-first of that month, they sent a horse to fetch me, saying, "Please come to the home of that monk’s parents."

Loading the luggage onto that horse, I also mounted another horse and traveled eastward about one and a half ri until arriving at a village called Tamira, where it was decided I would perform sutra recitations there. As I rode toward the village on horseback, I thought, "The thirty-third year of Meiji ends today—yet this year, after enduring various hardships, I have finally reached the heart of Tibet." "This is wholly due to my original teacher Shakyamuni Buddha's divine protection," I expressed gratitude for this grace and resolved that henceforth, no matter what hardships might arise, I would press forward resolutely to overcome them and fulfill my aspiration to serve the Buddhist Law even in the smallest measure. Of course, since Tibet does not use the solar calendar, the following January first was of no significance there. Nevertheless, on that day I arose especially early around three o'clock in the morning, faced eastward, and as was customary each year—

I began the New Year's sutra recitation. This practice stems from our Buddhist doctrine, which dictates that while offering prayers for "Long live His Majesty the Emperor of Great Japan for ten thousand years upon ten thousand years," we simultaneously pray for "Long live Her Majesty the Empress and His Highness the Crown Prince for ten thousand years upon ten thousand years," deeply wishing that the Imperial Nation's august glory may increasingly shine upon all nations—this being our Buddhism's guiding principle regarding secular matters. To faithfully uphold this principle, no matter how deep in the mountains one resided, when January 1st arrived, one would invariably face eastward to recite sutras, worship, and offer these prayers. Having completed those invocations, I composed a poem.

The first sun's light shines upon Tibet's lofty fields, I deem it the Eastern Lord's majestic might.

In that village, I read sutras until January 5th, then departed the next day and proceeded about three ri to a village called Omi where I lodged. In that village's temple resided a Bodhisattva called Sun Chun Dolma ("Speaking Liberation Mother"). Her form stood about three shaku tall—exquisitely beautiful, carved with such lifelike vigor that she seemed to have once spoken—nay, appeared as though she might speak even now. According to Tibetan accounts, it was said to have truly spoken in the past. When requested by that temple's monks, I read sutras for two days again, whereupon they gave me quite substantial offerings. Though I had encountered robbers and lost my money, afterward various people bestowed funds upon me—and even when receiving alms through sutra readings, there remained scarcely any need to spend that money. As provisions came provided by others, I managed to accumulate considerable funds.

Part 57: Two-Month Sutra Recitation

Hot Spring in the River | On January 12th, departing at 5:00 a.m., I had the porters carry the luggage and ascended along a mountain stream in the southeast. The entire area was covered in snow that had turned to ice, so slippery that one could easily slip and fall unless extremely careful. After proceeding about five and a half ri, I arrived at a village called Choe-Ten. The village had hot springs, with approximately three places where one could currently bathe. I did not know the exact details of their efficacy, but they seemed quite effective for rheumatism. In the river, hot springs gushed forth in several places, releasing steam as they flowed mingled with the river’s current. There, after finishing lunch, I ascended eastward along the same stream for approximately three and a half ri and arrived at a beautiful small temple nestled among a riverside willow grove.

The temple is called Mani-Hakan. "Mani" means "to become like the heart," referring to the practice of gathering numerous papers inscribed with mantras embodying this heart-like essence. These papers are rolled into a long cylindrical form, neatly encased in copper plates externally adorned with gold and silver decorations, with an iron axle at its core enabling clockwise rotation. Because they enshrine this large device, it is called Mani-Hakan—a structure particularly famed throughout Tibet. That is to say:

The founder of Tibet's New School, one Je Tsongkha-pa, was said to have fashioned this mani, and thus it was profoundly revered. I stayed at this hall, where the monk guarding it appeared thoroughly avaricious; upon seeing me, he declared: "Your Reverence is no ordinary person." "I can read physiognomy—let me examine yours," he insisted. Though I had never practiced physiognomy, thinking it might curb Tibetan superstitions, I told him: "Yours is an ill-fated disposition—even when wealth flows in, others cheat you or accidents destroy your savings, leaving you perpetually debt-ridden." To my astonishment, my words struck true. He gasped, "This defies belief!" then rushed to Dorje Gyelpo ("Vajra King"), the neighborhood's foremost household, recounting everything. That evening, an elegant woman—likely the mistress—emerged with a child, urging me to read their fortunes.

Physiognomy Reading | Truthfully, I was troubled, but upon examining the child—who not only appeared utterly devoid of vitality and near death but also considering Tibetans' strong proclivity for killing—I resolved to admonish them against taking life. I spoke of various karmic connections, stating, "This child truly has no lifespan—it is profoundly pitiful." When they inquired if any remedy existed, I privately considered how fortunate it would be to read from the complete Buddhist canon at this prominent household, for even upon reaching Lhasa I would likely be too occupied to read thoroughly—and that leisurely reading sutras at this mountain temple would provide additional research materials after arriving in Lhasa. Addressing the mistress, I suggested that copious sutra recitations might bring improvement. Though they returned home that night, by morning the child had fallen gravely ill, sending the family into panic-stricken awe at my prediction's accuracy. They came imploring me to conduct sutra readings regardless of duration.

I had said I would move to their household to recite sutras, but the complete Buddhist canon was not present there. A short ascent from there brought me to a station called Ron-Ramba. Since the complete Buddhist canon was at that station, I ended up going there to borrow the books. During that time, while I practiced zazen meditation, a woman’s loud crying came from the direction of the kitchen. This seemed quite strange; I thought perhaps a quarrel had broken out and listened intently, but it did not sound like an argument. It appeared something deeply sorrowful had occurred. Yet being in a house I had only just begun visiting, I could not bring myself to inquire directly. As I listened quietly, the bride of the household came running to me, crying, “The young master has died—just as you said he would! “Please help me!” she pleaded. Though I had mentioned his faint vitality merely as an observation, my words had uncannily struck true. When I hurried over to check, I found the child had completely lost consciousness and turned cold.

The medical technique proved accurate—when I checked the pulse, it was only faintly beating, and upon inserting my hand into the abdomen, I detected slight warmth. Examining the neck revealed it had stiffened considerably. Though I had studied medical texts to some extent, I concluded this must be cerebral congestion. I had them bring cold water to soak cloth strips, then cooled the head while applying strong pressure to the neck and brain area. After about twenty minutes—though there had seemingly been a momentary cessation of breath—the young master began opening his eyes. At this, the grandmother's joy knew no bounds; she loudly exclaimed that her beloved grandson who had just died had returned to life. Telling her to keep quiet for a while, I thoroughly massaged the stiffened muscles of his brain and spinal cord until he fully revived. They were utterly astonished, realizing I was no ordinary person, and entreated me to stay long-term and continue sutra recitations.

During the cold season, staying at such a mountain dwelling where yak dung was plentiful seemed quite advantageous, and with the idea that I could fully devote myself to reading texts, I decided to take up residence there. That stay lasted just over two full months, and though various things occurred during that time, as going into too much detail would be tedious, I shall relate only those matters that seem of interest. As time passed, while I read sutras there and took walks through the mountains or along the riverbank, the child I had saved and his older brother began to regard me as if I were their parent and would accompany me on these strolls. They were truly adorable, and I—though quite fond of children—found that there were indeed many instances where it seemed less that I was doting on them and more that I was being loved by the children. My daily routine involved reading sutras and then taking the children out to play; truly, during my time living in Tibet, these moments held my most innocent joys. However, there were also many unpleasant things—indeed, none other than what Tibetans truly

There existed unclean habits. I shall relate two or three examples: in the house where I stayed, there were about twenty servants. These servants brought Tibetan tea every day. The teacups remained as they had been emptied the previous night. They would say, “This vessel is perfectly clean. You drank from this last night,” presenting the teacup with butter residue still clinging to its rim exactly as it was. “What we mean by ‘unclean’ is this—if teacups are used by other lower races, those vessels must be washed. But since what we ourselves drink from, and what our own equal races drink from, remains clean, in Tibet we never wash them.” However, the teacups having a great deal of butter residue stuck to them were truly unpleasant to behold. When I asked them to at least give them a quick wipe, they would promptly take up the cups and wipe them with the ends of their long cylindrical sleeves—the same sleeves they had used to wipe their own nasal mucus. “Now they’re perfectly clean,” they would declare, setting them down to pour the tea. Truly, I could not bring myself to drink that tea, but making too great a fuss would have aroused those very suspicions again, so I forced myself to endure and drink it.

Part 58: Unclean Peculiar Customs Utterly despicable—they remained completely unfazed by wiping dishes with their own clothes. Though utterly despicable, they never wiped themselves after defecating. Nor did they take water to wash themselves with their left hand as Indians do. They left it completely unattended, like a cow that had defecated. However, this was not at all strange, for from the highest Dalai Lama down to the lowliest shepherd, all did likewise; thus, when someone like myself took paper to a hidden spot, they would not only laugh uproariously but also view me with suspicion. When children discovered this, they would burst into loud laughter and flee to the other side. This proved truly troublesome, but since I couldn't simply visit the latrine and emerge unchanged, I ended up hiding the paper as best I could, taking it with me to discreetly dispose of it before exiting the toilet. I found this utterly exasperating. In places with houses, toilets existed; however, in tent areas, there was nothing resembling such facilities.

The toilet was the dogs' mouths. When I relieved myself at the edge of the tent on that northwest plain, four or five fearsome dogs would surround me and watch from nearby. What proved most unsettling was how difficult it proved at first to pass stool naturally. Yet even this grew familiar with time.

When I finished my business and returned, the dogs would scramble to be the first to eat the human feces. Therefore, within the northwest plains, there were no toilets, but neither was there any human feces lying about. But that wasn’t all. They had never washed their bodies since birth, so there were many who remained exactly as they had emerged from their mother’s womb. Urban dwellers were perhaps not quite like that, but the more rural they were, the more they took pride in not washing. If someone were to wash their face or hands, they would laugh heartily and mock such undisciplined behavior. For this reason, if one were to speak of white parts on their bodies, it would be their palms and eyeballs. Everything else was pitch black.

Even among rural folk in that region, those considered local gentlemen or monks did wash their faces, mouths, and hands to some extent, making them not quite as filthy. Still, from their necks down to their backs and stomachs, they remained pitch black. Some were even darker than Africans. As for why their palms stayed white—when kneading barley flour there, they used their hands to work the flour inside bowls. Thus the grime on their palms became mixed into the barley flour itself. This left their palms free of grime. What a delicacy it was—kneading together grime and roasted barley flour before eating it! Such delicacies they devoured by opening foul mouths blackened with caked-on tartar. The mere sight of this turned my stomach. When asked why they never washed from birth onward, they claimed it would diminish their good fortune. A peculiar notion indeed—while Central Tibetans didn't go that far, those in the remote northern Himalayas took this practice to extremes.

The Amount of Grime as a Marriage Condition – First, when taking a bride, as for what sort of face the daughter in question had, it was entirely buried in grime and turned pitch-black, with only the eyes remaining white. Even their fingertips and everywhere else were coated with grime, shining with a glossy black sheen. Then as for their garments—well, they were made of grime and butter, shining black like lacquer, and describing them thus revealed the daughter’s fortunate countenance. If they heard that this daughter had a pale face or washed her hands and face, such a daughter had had her fortune washed away—this was their reasoning for refusing. This applied not only to men but also when women chose grooms; they similarly judged the quantity of fortune by the quantity of grime, thus determining whom to marry or take as a son-in-law. Indeed, these matters lay beyond the imagination of those who had not witnessed them firsthand in that land; even we ourselves initially disbelieved them when merely hearing accounts. However, after passing through various regions, we finally confirmed that the stories we had heard earlier were factual accounts.

Those of middle rank and below had absolutely no change of clothes, so when their garments became old, they would fray and fall apart in tatters from the accumulated grime. Then, even in front of others or anywhere else, they would roll up the hems of their garments, blow their noses, and skillfully smear that mucus onto them. When there was too much mucus, they would rub it onto their cylindrical sleeves as well. When the hems hardened like walls of mucus and they could no longer blow their noses there, they would then blow them around the knee area instead, so their garments became a threefold wall of mucus, butter, and grime. These were most common among people of middle and lower society. However, those of higher status were not quite so extreme. Even if covered in copious grime, there were somewhat cleaner areas. As for monks in particular, since they were frequently admonished by monastic officials to wash their faces and hands and keep their garments clean, they were somewhat cleaner—but even so, there were various types. I shall speak sufficiently about the actual conditions after entering Lhasa, but in any case, being invited by such people to partake of tea and meals meant there were indeed many disagreeable things.

Sutra Chanting Amidst White Clouds and a Flock of Cranes

Of course, even during his time in Tsāran in the snowy mountains, he had resolved to grow thoroughly accustomed to such matters through diligent effort, but unpleasant things remained unpleasant no matter how much time passed, and he found it exceedingly trying. But in place of unpleasant things, the natural scenery provided exceptional solace. It was just before the Tibetan New Year, and while the household members were busily preparing for its arrival, he had placed his sutra desk by the window and was reciting scriptures while gazing outside at the falling snow. A short distance away, a willow tree with accumulated snow revealed an exquisitely beautiful, gracefully supple form. Not only that, but cranes—quintessential to Tibet—that added even more beauty were strolling here and there through the snow, looking quite delighted. When beholding such a scene, he could not help but compose even a mundane poem.

Snow falls, and withered trees blossom into flowers The voices of cranes delighting in the vision

At the window of my hermitage where I chant sutras, cranes alight. The path, when spoken of, is mysteriously referred to. In such a manner, amidst the unpleasantness there were also many enjoyable things, and particularly on Tibetan New Year’s Day, there were most interesting ceremonies.

Origins of the Tibetan Calendar — The Tibetan calendar was neither the Indian calendar nor the Chinese lunar calendar. Having adopted the Turkestan calendar, it closely resembled the Chinese lunar calendar yet remained distinct. Even regarding leap months—counted as part of the current year in the Chinese system—the Tibetan calendar assigned them to the previous year. Though both systems added a leap month every four years, this was not merely a matter of shifting dates forward or backward by a year. The Tibetan Calendar employed an extraordinarily peculiar method of advancing days within a month—one might encounter two seventh days or see the tenth day vanish entirely, skipping straight from the ninth to eleventh. We initially found this utterly incomprehensible, but upon later meeting a calendar scholar and inquiring, learned it stemmed from temporal calculations requiring occasional addition or omission of entire days. This system of reckoning had been established under such necessities.

Moreover, among days there were good days and bad days. During bad days, they cut out those days, and during extremely good days, they doubled them—a truly convenient calendar that was indeed widely used throughout Tibet, though there were instances where the method of advancing days or the date of New Year’s Day did not align across regions. This was hardly surprising, of course. The Tibetan government appointed four calendar officials. These four officials calculated and produced an annual calendar using white stones, black stones, stick fragments, and shells, but it was said all four usually differed slightly from one another. They took two of the better ones from among them, consulted the customary oracle to ask which was preferable, and then adopted one. The actions of semi-civilized people devoid of mathematical concepts were truly pitiable—carried out in a laughably foolish manner. Now, while New Year’s Day ceremonies were generally conducted according to the government’s calendar, even so, no one could truly discern what constituted the actual New Year’s Day. It was extremely rare for the Chinese lunar New Year and the Tibetan New Year to fall on the same day. They might differ by one or two days, or at times by about three days—truly a bizarre calendar indeed.

Chapter 59: New Year’s Auspicious Customs

On New Year’s Day, the ceremonial ritual began with piling roasted barley into a mound immediately upon waking, upon which they inserted five-colored silks—resembling gathered handkerchiefs arranged like flags—while into the roasted barley flour they mixed butter and dried cheese, scattering atop it small black dried persimmons akin to those from Shinshu along with dried grapes and peaches. First, the master would take some of the fruits with his right hand, recite an incantation while scattering them into the air three times in quick succession, then take a portion into his palm to eat. Still, they would take and eat it with hands covered in black grime. After proceeding from their own wife and guests down to the servants in order, they distributed to each person Tibetan tea along with fried foods—some kneaded from wheat flour into shapes resembling twisted sticks and others made into tile-like crackers—placing one full portion of each on trays. The trays resembled not Japanese ones but copper plates with white plating inside. They drank tea while eating these sweets, though nothing resembled the Japanese custom of exchanging New Year greetings. Eating itself remained their foremost pleasure; afterward came consuming great quantities of meat. This meat came in three varieties—dried, raw, and boiled—with roasted meat excluded from ceremonial use.

New Year’s Feast — In Tibet, there were also river fish. However, since killing fish was said to incur grave sin, ordinary people did not eat much of them. Their diet consisted mainly of yaks, sheep, and goats. As for pork, while the Chinese living in Tibet ate it, Tibetans only consumed it if they associated with Chinese—most others rarely did. When the morning ceremony ended around ten o'clock, they drank tea and ate sweets or fruit-like items. Then around two in the afternoon came the true midday meal, during which better households prepared udon noodles containing eggs. They ate this with relish, the broth made from mutton and such. In the evening around nine or ten o'clock, they cooked meat porridge typically containing roasted barley flour, wheat dumplings, meat, daikon radish, and dried cheese. This they ate at night.

However, this order was not strictly observed every day. At times, the porridge meant for evening consumption would be eaten in the morning. While never fixed, such practices generally constituted the delicacies of Tibet's upper and middle classes. For those of lower status, even when making porridge, adding cheese or meat proved difficult, so they used fat instead. Even daikon radishes were hard to come by. Adding wheat dumplings was considered quite luxurious, something reserved for New Year's or guests; ordinarily, they simply mixed roasted barley flour into a thick paste with wildflowers. In winter, of course, no fresh plants were available. They dried them in summer, though regions abundant in daikon used that instead. The staple food across all Tibetan social strata was dough made from roasted barley flour—indeed preferred over rice. Tibetans residing near Darjeeling claimed that eating only rice long-term caused illness, so they specially imported roasted barley flour from Tibet.

They said eating roasted barley flour during illness greatly helped restore one’s vitality. Admittedly, India was not without roasted barley flour. However, since Tibetans claimed theirs was far superior—even specially ordering it from their homeland—this remained their most suitable food. And so the New Year passed in this manner; while reciting sutras, I gazed at the beautiful scenery, and through living with the family, had gained particularly rich material for studying Tibetan customs’ true nature. Then came a bird beneath that window—smaller than a crow yet fully crow-shaped, its plumage mixed black and white. The Tibetans called this bird kyāka. These clever creatures could distinguish between people and seemed governed by strict rules of conduct. Once, as I stared intently through the window, what appeared to be their leader—enraged by some squabble among its flock—savagely killed one of their own. Horrified by this brutality, I reported the incident to the innkeeper. He—

The laws of birds are more just than those of humans—as you may know, there is this proverb. チャ　チム　ター　ンガ　ツァム　シクナ　ミー　チム　ニャ　シン　ツァム　シク　ゴ “And its meaning is this—‘If the laws of birds are broken by even the length of a horse’s tail, then human laws would be shattered by the girth of a great tree.’ So strict are the laws of birds, he said, and I listened as he cited various such exemplary tales.”

I had spent a long time reading scriptures when the weather grew considerably warmer. When my departure from the house was set for March 14th, the entire household entreated me from morning onward to confer upon them the Three Refuges and Five Precepts, which I solemnly administered. After taking lunch at the house, I received gold and a monastic robe as alms. The robe was a splendid crimson garment woven from wool, reportedly costing about thirty-five yen if purchased.

They wanted to send me off by horse, but since all the horses were out for trade, a servant carried the luggage and saw me off. We then proceeded eastward along the Yakuchu River for about four ri, arrived at a station called Chesun where we lodged that night, departed at six the next morning, and traveled east along the river for approximately three ri—all through extremely narrow, towering mountains where snow lay deep in the valleys and the river was completely frozen over. After traveling three ri further, we arrived at a slightly wider area. When I looked up at the mountain on the left side, a single white hall could be seen at the very summit. How strange. It was neither a main hall nor a temple where monks resided. Wondering what it could be, I asked my companion, and Hōbō—

"It is the Hail Prevention Hall," he replied. The meaning of that Hail Prevention Hall had eluded me until then, but upon first hearing about it from that person at this time, I wondered whether such peculiar practices could truly exist. To be honest, when I first heard of it, it seemed so utterly bizarre that I could not believe it. However, after arriving in Lhasa and inquiring in detail with various people, I found that what I had heard then was entirely true. Thus, owing to my encounter with this hall, I shall now recount that strange tale. Originally, in Tibet's agricultural regions, hail was feared above all else. For when hail fell during summer, it would completely devastate their single annual or biennial harvest of barley or wheat crops, making Tibetan farmers dread these hailstorms as intensely as they would a great enemy nation invading their lands. Therefore, they had no choice but to devise a method to prevent such hail. The method was so utterly bizarre that one could not help bursting into laughter.

Chapter 60: The Strange Art of Hail Prevention Subjugation of Evil Deities from the Eight Classes: Given how profoundly religious Tibetans inherently were, a certain monk had put forth an extraordinary doctrine. The fundamental reason enormous hailstones fell year after year lay in how the Eight Classes of Malevolent Deities—namely Deva, Nāga, Yakṣa, Gandharva, Asura, Garuḍa, Kiṃnara, and Mahoraga—took immense delight in harming the people by unleashing hailstorms that utterly annihilated their harvests. Thus from their insistence that one must wage war against these Eight Classes of Malevolent Deities, slaughter those evil beings, and thereby prevent the hail's onslaught, there emerged monks devoted to this defense. These were predominantly practitioners of ancient ascetic traditions.

Now, as for the method by which these ascetic practitioners waged battle against and overcame these malevolent deities, they first had to determine when the Eight Classes of Malevolent Deities produced the hail. It was said that during winter, when snow fell most abundantly, these Eight Classes of Malevolent Deities gathered at a certain location, compacted snow to produce a great amount of hail sufficient to devastate crops and kill people; they then stored this hail in one part of the heavens to rest. When summer arrived—just as the grains were nearly ripe—they hurled down these stored hailstones from the sky. Thus, the people could not endure it. As weapons to defend against those hailstones, they had to create sufficiently formidable armaments. As for those weapons, first, when they were producing the hailstones, they too had to secretly enter a mountain valley and,

They had to manufacture hail-preventing pellets. As for what these hail-preventing pellets were made of, they were fashioned by compacting mud into numerous pellets about the size of sparrow’s eggs. Moreover, it was not a single ascetic practitioner who made them. They would bring along one or two attendants, enter that secluded mountain dojo, and manufacture a great number of hail-preventing pellets through esoteric methods, chanting a type of incantation and imbuing each pellet with spells. These pellets were the ritual implements that prevented the hail when the time came for summer hail to fall. In Tibet, ascetic practitioners were called Ngakpa (meaning “mantra practitioner”). Unless one came from a bloodline of ascetic practitioners dating back generations, they were not permitted to engage in that profession.

Therefore, unlike new sect lamas where anyone could become a monk, since these positions were hereditarily passed from parent to child, these ascetic practitioners typically numbered one per village. During winter, they performed prayers, cast curses, or offered blessings for people’s welfare; thus Tibetans believed they sometimes conducted malevolent curses through such prayers to harm or even kill others. Consequently, tales of people dying from malevolent curses after crossing an ascetic practitioner from a certain place could be heard everywhere. In winter they engaged in such work, and when summer arrived, they devoted themselves to battling hail. Incidentally, I should note that,

Tibet had two seasons—summer and winter; Tibet did not have the four seasons of spring, summer, autumn, and winter. It was divided only into summer and winter. Though Tibetan texts preserved the names of all four seasons—spring, summer, autumn, and winter—in practice there existed only two. Thus Tibetans accordingly used just two terms throughout the year based on actual climatic conditions: Yarkha (summer) and Gunkha (winter). Therefore, from around March 15th to September 15th on the solar calendar was considered summer, with all other times being winter. Thus, around March and April of the solar calendar, they began cultivating the fields and gradually started sowing barley. Then those ascetic practitioners set out for the Hail Prevention Halls built on the highest mountains in Tibet. As for why these Hail Prevention Halls were built in high places, it was because they were constructed on the highest mountains in each region for the convenience of detecting from which direction hail clouds approached.

When barley sprouts emerged, ascetic practitioners would often reside there; however, since they appeared to have little work initially, it was said they occasionally returned to their own homes from there. By around June, as the barley gradually grew larger, the need to prevent hail became pressing; thus they remained stationed in those halls day and night, making offerings to guardian deities—namely Hayagrīva, Vajrapāṇi, or Padmasambhava—and conducting prayers. This involved performing rituals three times each day and night, reciting numerous mantras every single day. Moreover, it was curiously when the barley had ripened considerably that the largest hailstones most frequently fell. When that time came, those ascetic practitioners devoted themselves wholeheartedly to preventing the hail.

The ascetic practitioners hurled hail-preventing pellets into the sky. First came their battle against the mountain clouds. When those clouds ominously arose, the situation turned dire. The ascetic practitioners adjusted their dignified bearing and stood imposingly upon the cliff edge with solemn resolve. Chanting mantras while swinging their prayer beads like a commander’s baton, they assumed a stance to repel the advancing mountain clouds and waged fierce combat against them. Yet when the cloud armies surged forth—thunder rumbling through the peaks, lightning flashing with dreadful brilliance, hailstones raining down like volleys of arrows—the practitioners grew desperate. Their defensive fervor now mirrored General Guan brandishing his great saber before vast legions. Chanting divine incantations with fervor, they slashed the air endlessly with upright index fingers as though wielding swords. Still the hail battered the plains. Enraged, the practitioners themselves began frantically seizing prepared anti-hail pellets and hurling them skyward in maddened defiance against the storm.

Even then, if this proved ineffective, they proceeded to tear the very garments from their bodies and hurl the shredded cloth skyward, engaging in these frenzied acts to fend off the hail. If fortune favored them and the hail was redirected elsewhere without falling heavily there, the ascetic practitioners took great pride in their victorious battle, and the people too celebrated heartily. Yet should misfortune strike with hail falling abundantly to damage the harvest, the practitioners had to receive punishments predetermined by law according to the extent of damage. In return, whether these ascetic practitioners succeeded or failed in their efforts during years when no hail fell or approaching hail was successfully halted, they enjoyed sufficient income—thus collecting a fixed annual tax. In Tibet, this was called the hail prevention tax. Truly, such unfathomable tax items existed.

Chapter 61: Punishment Methods for Ascetic Practitioners The hail prevention tax—this unfathomable levy—required Tibetan farmers to pay approximately two sho of barley per tan of land to ascetic practitioners. It was said that in years of abundant harvests, those who normally paid two sho had to submit two sho and five gō instead. This imposed a truly great burden on Tibetan farmers. For not only did they have to pay this hail prevention tax to the ascetic practitioners, but they also remained obligated to pay standard taxes to the government—thereby shouldering these redundant and inexplicable levies. What rendered this custom even more peculiar was that since the success or failure of summer harvests wholly depended on the ascetic practitioners' power, all judicial authority in the region became vested in them. In other words,

The judicial officers during summer were ascetic practitioners, and besides receiving the hail prevention tax, their income as judicial officers was also considerable. Therefore, these people should generally have been wealthy; yet curiously, in Tibet, when one spoke of Ngakpa, many were poor. It seemed that ill-gotten money acquired by deceiving people and exploiting their blind faith did not stay with one, as the saying goes. However, their authority was immensely powerful, and this was referred to as Lama Rinpoche. The term meant 'Treasure of the Lamas,' so even if they happened to meet on the road, a distinguished gentleman would stick out his tongue, bow his head, and perform a deep bow to an ascetic practitioner who resembled a destitute begging monk. But despite earning such substantial income, if hail fell, it became a grave predicament for these Ngakpa. At that time, they were fined by the local governor in proportion to the extent of damage inflicted upon the cultivated fields. Furthermore, they might be subjected to punishment and have their buttocks struck.

Tibet was quite remarkable in this regard—even aristocrats were not excused with dismissals like, "Well, they’re nobles, so there’s nothing to be done about their misdeeds; just let it be." Such aspects were rather interesting. This concluded the matter of the hail prevention tax.

Proceeding eastward about three ri from below that Hail Prevention Hall, we arrived at a village called Yāse, where flows the Yakchu River emerging from mountains slightly to the east of this village—a river running northwest to join the Brahmaputra River. However, some Western maps depict this Yakchu River as flowing from Yamdok Lake. This is incorrect. From that village, advancing further east about one ri brought us to behold what could only be called the world’s singular marvel—a lake. In Tibetan this lake bears the name Yamdok Tso. Western maps label it Lake Palté—yet Palté names not the waters themselves, but rather a station upon its western shore. It seems some error affixed this station’s name to the whole lake.

Though its exact circumference remained uncertain, it measured approximately seventy-odd ri across, with a mountain range stretching continuously through its center as though floating upon the waters. That such a massive mountain existed within a lake was said to have no parallel in all the world. While many lakes contain small islands, none could compare to Yamdok Tso—a distinction that held considerable renown in geographical studies. At its southern extremity lay two points where the outer shores connected to this central mountain via land bridges. The sight of this range suspended above the lake surface resembled nothing so much as a great dragon coiling through azure skies—a spectacle of breathtaking grandeur. Nor was this all: from southeast to southwest across the waters rose the Himalayan snow peaks, their majestic forms radiating sublime light as they towered into the heavens. Even this view alone would have sufficed as wonderment, yet when black clouds raced forth with gale winds, the lake would heave up mighty waves whose crashing produced strangely exhilarating tones. Transfixed by this fearsome yet exhilarating vista, I stood upon fractured cliffs along the shore gazing at those distant Himalayan summits flickering among clouds—white-robed deities trembling in celestial spaces—until this magnificent vision stirred boundless emotions within me.

Proceeding eastward along the lakeshore for about one and a half ri, we found the path turning northeast. To our left stretched continuous mountains, while across the lake to our right rose the mountain range floating upon its surface. Traveling northeast along the broad lakeside road for roughly two and a half ri, we reached Palté station. There stood a small hill facing the lake, crowned with a castle. The evening scene held indescribable charm as the castle's inverted reflection shimmered in the water. We lodged at a house beneath that castle. Though we had walked over ten ri that day, the splendid scenery left us scarcely feeling fatigued. At four o'clock on the morning of March 16th, we pressed northeast along the lakeshore through snow and ice—mountains remaining to our left, the lake to our right. The path wound northward through undulating mountain folds rather than running straight, forcing us to climb and descend serpentine slopes where we often slipped on ice or sank into deep snowdrifts. Though perilous in the extreme, these dangers proved mere child's play compared to our Himalayan crossings, allowing steady progress.

**The Crescent Moon Over the Lake and the Snow Peaks at Dawn** Having climbed partway up the mountain through dawn mist, I gazed at the lake surface where such beauty unfolded—the twenty-sixth day crescent moon beginning its ascent between hazy mountain ranges floating on azure waters... Its faint light reflected on the lake with an eerie quality, but as night gradually brightened and moonlight dimmed, morning stars blazed gloriously atop southern snow peaks, their radiance mirrored in the lake's surface. Forgetting all journey hardships while transfixed by these delicate visions, I noticed red, yellow, and white waterfowl moving leisurely across sandy shores at my feet, their calls echoing about as mandarin ducks floated serenely on the water. Flocks of cranes too walked with regal slowness, releasing magnificent cries. This pristine scenery—washed clean compared to yesterday's fierce vistas—stirred heightened fascination within me. To travel through such places in predawn hours remains journeying's purest joy. After following the lakeshore five ri, we reached a mountain stream around five o'clock morning's first light. There we boiled tea and ate roasted barley with stream water—though the lake itself brimmed abundantly—

That water is what's known as poison water. There is an interesting story behind this as well. The reason the water became poisonous traces back to when the renowned British Mr. Sarat Chandra Das—though actually Indian—came to this lake from India long ago (Tibetans consider events merely twenty years past as "ancient times") and cast some curse into its waters. Then the lake’s water turned crimson, appearing exactly like blood. However, a certain lama came and removed the redness, but they say the poison remained, making it undrinkable now. This is a baseless tale fabricated by Tibetans, hardly worth considering—though it’s true the water did turn crimson, this was in no way caused by Mr. Sarat Chandra Das. It must have been that some change within the lake caused the water to turn red once. Because this incident occurred shortly after Mr. Sarat’s return, rumors arose suggesting he had done such a thing.

However, as is well known, Mr. Sarat Chandra Das is Indian (he remains in Darjeeling). However, in Tibet, only those well-versed in worldly affairs know that Mr. Sarat Chandra Das is Indian; ordinary people all say he is British. In any case, the waters of Yamdok Tso Lake have certainly been poisonous since ancient times. This is because they not only do not flow out anywhere but remain accumulated there, and the surrounding area contains various elements. Indeed, there are places among these mountains where what appears to be coal exists, and I also observed various strange mineral-like substances within the soil; it is thought that these dissolve and render the water poisonous.

I saw that some Western maps depicted the waters of this Yamdok Tso Lake as flowing directly north into the Brahmaputra River, but those were entirely incorrect. Not only did we have our lunch there, but there were also many others who had their meals using the water from these mountains and rivers. After all, here lay Tibet's second capital and a public road leading to the capital Lhasa, so there were quite a lot of people coming and going.

There, the one I encountered was a Nepalese soldier—a rather carefree and amusing man. After that, we became travel companions and continued on together.

Chapter 62: Gazing Distantly at Lhasa The Reluctant Soldier: This soldier had been dispatched to guard the Nepalese envoy in Lhasa. Yet overcome by homesickness, he first retreated as far as Shigatse intending to return to Nepal. But upon suddenly remembering the woman in Lhasa who lived as his common-law wife, he abandoned his mother and turned back along his own footsteps—a truly feckless man. As our conversation continued, we inquired how many troops the Nepalese government currently stationed in Lhasa. It emerged they had begun deploying soldiers there only five or six years prior. Before that time, no garrison had been maintained at all. When I pressed for the reason behind this change, it was said to trace back to a grave incident in Lhasa some twelve or thirteen years earlier.

To summarize these various accounts, there were approximately three hundred merchants of Nepal’s Parpo tribe residing in Lhasa. They were the most commercially astute among all Nepalese people and practiced Buddhism. They believed in Buddhism through Sanskrit sutras rather than Tibetan Buddhist scriptures. As commerce in Lhasa thrived remarkably, they mainly dealt in goods such as woolen cloth, cotton fabrics, silks, coral beads, gemstones, Western sundries, rice, beans, and corn.

**Body Inspection of a Maiden** Now, about thirteen years prior, when a woman from Lhasa went shopping at a large Parpo merchant's store and was accused of stealing a coral bead, the shop owner became furious and investigated. Unable to find where she had hidden it, he dragged her into his home against her protests and tears, stripped her completely naked and searched her—yet found nothing. When the woman emerged, those who had witnessed the commotion outside asked what had transpired, whereupon she reportedly recounted every detail of being stripped naked. Upon hearing of this matter, the warrior monks of Sera Monastery immediately confronted the Parpo merchants, declaring, "This is outrageous—forcibly stripping a woman who clearly refused and shaming her is utterly inexcusable!" When they pressed them—"Did you truly commit this act?"—the merchants reportedly admitted, "Yes," having indeed done exactly that. Then, stating "Very well," the warrior monks departed—

The Warrior Monks’ Assault — After returning to Sera and reporting this matter to their boss, they assembled a force of roughly a thousand warrior monks. These warrior monks were governed by a single leader, with orders to mobilize immediately upon his command. Though their numbers were limited at the time, they nevertheless managed to gather about a thousand men. As they prepared that night to storm Lhasa and slaughter every Parpo merchant—for Lhasa lay merely one and a half ri from Sera—word of their plan reached the capital. In panic, the Parpo merchants abandoned all possessions and fled. While a few reportedly stayed behind, most had vanished into the night.

Before long, Sera's warrior monks invaded Lhasa, each carrying swords or large keys. Finding all Parpo merchants' houses tightly shuttered, they broke down the doors to force entry indoors, seized all the Parpo merchants' property, and made off with everything. However, it was not only the warrior monks who committed violence at that time; many ruffians—such as rogue warrior monks loitering around Lhasa—had also joined in. Together with Sera’s warrior monks, they broke into the Parpo merchants’ shops and ransacked them through the night until dawn, withdrawing at daybreak with their spoils. When the Parpo merchants returned home the next day, they found they had nothing left to eat. Of course, they owned no fields or farmland. Thus, though their goods constituted their entire wealth, all merchandise and sales proceeds had been taken—total damages reportedly amounted to approximately ¥230,000.

Compensation by the Tibetan Government — This matter became an international issue that took approximately five years to resolve, but ultimately it was decided that the Tibetan government would compensate for the damages. After these negotiations concluded, it was arranged that twenty-four or twenty-five Nepalese soldiers would be specially stationed in Lhasa. The person who became chief negotiator in these diplomatic talks was named Jibbadol—the very same individual from whom I had received a letter of introduction through a Nepalese lama in Calcutta. He was none other than Nepal’s Chief Secretary and currently served as envoy to Tibet. While listening to these accounts, we pressed onward and, after climbing the steep Genpara slope (*ra* meaning “slope”) for about one ri, reached the mountain summit. Gazing far to the northeast, I saw the Brahmaputra River flowing southeastward. A great tributary streamed into it from the northeast. This mighty river was called the Kichu River (Happiness River). Looking along its course toward the distant sky, I beheld a mountain rising imposingly from plains nestled among ranges. What cast golden radiance from its peak shimmered brilliantly in the sunlight. That was none other than Lhasa’s

the Palace of the Dalai Lama, called Potala. Beyond that Potala, slightly further ahead, something resembling a town and the golden roofs of halls were likewise radiating light into the sky. That was the city of Lhasa. From here, it appeared distinctly small. We rested there awhile before gradually descending the steep slope. After traveling three ri, we arrived and lodged at a station called Pāche, but somehow my feet had been chafed by my footwear, causing considerable pain. Having trudged recklessly through snow and ice that day...and having traversed ten and a half ri along this arduous path, I was thoroughly exhausted. On the following March 17th at 4:00 AM, after descending about one ri, I emerged at the bank of the Brahmaputra River. Then proceeding along its southern bank for two and a half ri, I reached a ferry crossing called Chaksam. As this crossed to the Brahmaputra's northern bank, there had once been an iron bridge over this river. Nowadays, slightly downstream from the ferry crossing, iron chains remain at the site of that iron bridge. Yet this ferry crossing is now called Chaksam ("Iron Bridge"). Though they currently ferry people using Indian-style rectangular boats, this is only possible during winter—come summer, even these large vessels cannot reach the opposite shore. Therefore,

There were boats made from yak skin. They were quite ingenious—Tibetans collected hides from three yaks, stitched them together, applied a waterproof substance to the seams, and floated them on water. Thus, even in winter when there weren’t many travelers, people crossed using these hide boats. Therefore in Tibet, the term for "ship" was sometimes expressed using the character for "skin." That is to say, they use the term "Kowa" to mean both "skin" and "ship." Of course, being made of hide, when exposed to excessive humidity, it would soften and become heavy. Therefore, if left soaked in water for about half a day and then promptly lifted out to dry in the sun, one could carry the boat alone. Thus they would carry this boat far upstream, load it with luggage or people, descend downstream for a day or two, then unload and dry it as described—an extremely convenient system. As we had many companions, we boarded a rather large boat and crossed to the opposite shore.

Chapter 63: Arrival Beneath the Palace of the Dharma King

**Rare Willow Leaves** After traveling about one and a half ri through the sandy riverbed within the river, we arrived at a place where there were rocks that could be called picturesque in their scenic beauty, along with willows and peach trees. All those trees stood facing the riverbank, their shadows cast upon the water. This place was extremely warm, with a climate far superior to that of Lhasa. The area around Yamdrok Lake that I mentioned yesterday had considerably high ground—I estimated it must be about thirteen thousand five hundred feet above sea level. However, here it was about eleven thousand five hundred feet above sea level, and the lay of the land differed. Moreover, since it lay by the water’s edge and received ample sunlight, the willows in this area had already sprouted green buds. To eyes that had long seen nothing but bald mountains or withered trees, the green willow leaves felt rare and particularly beautiful.

Of course, since the porter was carrying my luggage, I wasn’t suffering under the burden as I had while crossing the Northwest Plains. However, an old wound on my foot had flared up, and the pain had become so severe that I could barely walk. Just then, a horse handler arrived, so I paid him some money to let me ride his horse. After proceeding about one ri further, we arrived at a station called Chusuru. This station was situated between the deltas of the Kichu River flowing from the northeast and the Brahmaputra River flowing from the northwest—a thriving station.

Thieves’ Town — However, among all the people encountered on the road to Lhasa, none were as wicked as those at this station. They were truly heartless and extremely skilled at stealing travelers’ belongings. They stole anything—luggage, shipments, whatever they could get their hands on—but their methods were so skillful that victims hardly realized they’d been robbed. There was not a single place in all of Tibet that did not know Chusuru’s reputation as a den of thieves unrivaled in notoriety, and I myself had often been warned long before arriving: “Be cautious when you go to Chusuru.” They carried out thefts so skillfully that I thought there must be many wealthy individuals here, given how people gathered and money flowed freely at this station. Yet when I inquired, I was told there were far more poor people here than in other villages. It was truly a paradoxical situation. After remaining fully cautious and finishing our lunch at that station, we proceeded on foot into the northeastern plains along the Kichu River since no horses were available. As we went upstream, our feet hurt increasingly until we could no longer move. We had no choice but to sit down in the plains, but fortunately a donkey driver came from behind. We rode his donkey and traveled about four ri to reach a station called Jan. At that station, an incident occurred that forced us to dismiss the porter who had accompanied us until then.

My feet were hurting increasingly, and there was nothing I could do about it. That day, thanks to the donkey’s assistance, I had managed to travel about ten and a half ri, but there was no hope of progressing tomorrow. However, at this station there were people staying who were delivering tax meat to the Lhasa government, so we asked for their help and decided to depart the next day. Though they were making a government delivery, this didn’t mean they brought horses from their own villages—they requisitioned station horses at each post, so they could only manage three ri per day at best, sometimes four. With no alternative, I entrusted my luggage to them and proceeded on horseback as well, staying overnight in a small village called Nam to rest my exhausted, aching feet. The following day, after traveling another two ri along the Kichu River until we reached its sandy banks, we pressed on two more ri across the riverbed and arrived at a station called Netan.

Hall of the New Sect Founder - At Netan Station stood what was considered Tibet's most revered Hall of Tara [Buddha-Mother]. This hall was renowned as the site where Panden Achisha, the Indian venerable master who inspired Tibet's new sect, had come to establish his temple. I too visited that temple and paid respects to the Twenty-One Taras enshrined within. Their revered forms appeared truly magnificent even when viewed through an artistic lens. On the following 20th, after proceeding about two ri northeast along the riverbank through fields, we came upon a large bridge. Having crossed that bridge and continued about one and a half ri northeast, we reached a station called Shin-Zonkā. We arrived at that station and lodged there again.

March 21st. At last, today it was decided that we would make our way into the capital city of Lhasa.

I hired one horse at that station and entrusted my luggage to those delivering tax meat as before. Making my way through the path between mountains and rivers of strange and wondrous scenery, after traveling less than one ri, a magnificent temple came into view on the left mountainside. No, at first glance, one would not think it a temple. It was nearly to the extent that one might think it was a large village. It was indeed a temple named Rebun, the largest near Lhasa. Within Tibet under the Dharma King’s jurisdiction however, this temple stood as the largest, housing seven thousand seven hundred monks. This was its official count—at times swelling to eight thousand five hundred or even nine thousand. Though during summer when monks left for rural work, their numbers might dwindle to around six thousand; regardless, it remained thriving and even contained a university. In Central Tibet there were three institutions offering university-level courses: one being this temple, another where I had resided,

Sera University; another is called Ganden. Sera University had an official capacity of 5,500 monks and Ganden 3,300, though these were merely nominal figures that periodically fluctuated like Rebun Temple's numbers. Beneath that temple—along the very roadside we were traversing—stood a slaughtering ground for yaks, sheep, and goats. The meat consumed by His Holiness the Dharma King was supplied from this site, requiring seven sheep to be slaughtered daily solely for his meals. Tibetans considered this an auspicious privilege for the sheep, so greatly did they revere these animals that people would collect their fur as sacred relics. Yet the Dharma King did not restrict himself to mutton alone. He consumed various other meats as well, all slaughtered and supplied from this same location.

One might think it would be far more convenient to procure [the meat] from within Lhasa city rather than having it delivered from such a distant place, but Lhasa was too close. If the animals were slaughtered under the justification of being for the Dharma King’s sake, it would be unacceptable. Therefore, following a policy that it was better to purchase from slightly distant places—in other words, to obtain what was called Buddhist pure meat without having directly ordered the slaughter themselves—they carried out such practices. Though this policy had originated from noble intentions—since it had been decided that the meat consumed by His Holiness the Dharma King would be supplied from there—it essentially amounted to having covertly sanctioned the slaughter. From our perspective, I believe it made little difference whether they procured it in Lhasa itself. Passing beneath Rebun University and traveling about two and a half ri, we arrived at the base of the Dharma King’s palace that had been visible earlier from Genpara. (〔The Dharma King’s palace was named Tse Potala.) Tse means summit, and Potala means "harbor" in the sense of a place with ships. Potala refers to Kannon’s Pure Land located on Ceylon Island in the southern seas of India, and the name had been appropriated from China’s Putuo Luo. This place was called Potala because it was where the Dalai Lama, the incarnation of Kannon, resided, and because it was situated on a mountain, it was called Tse Potala. ])

Chapter 64: Declaring Oneself Tibetan

The Dharma King’s palace was truly magnificent—so much so that its grandeur could be appreciated even from architectural plans, rendering detailed description here unnecessary—but there is one amusing tale worth recounting. It is said that a certain countryman once loaded a great quantity of butter onto donkeys and came to Lhasa to sell it. However, when this countryman saw the magnificent Dharma King’s palace, he was struck with such awe that he stood dumbfounded, wondering if this might be a divine palace from the realm of gods. After gazing in fascination for some time, he suddenly came to his senses and looked around—"Wait, where have my donkeys gone?"—only to find them scattered here and there. After gathering those donkeys—there had been ten altogether—he realized they were nowhere to be found. When he counted them, there were only nine donkeys.

In his great alarm, he began frantically searching for where the remaining donkey might have gone, carrying on like a madman, when a man from Lhasa approached and asked, "What are you making such a fuss about?" To which he replied, "Well, I had ten donkeys, but one has gone missing, so I'm searching for it." "I can't help but think someone stole it—I'm beside myself with worry." "It seems someone took it while I was mesmerized by the Dharma King's palace and being careless," he said, utterly dejected. Then, when that person counted them all properly, there were indeed ten donkeys. "What nonsense are you spouting? There are exactly ten donkeys right here!" "But there are only nine donkeys." "Exactly—there are nine over there, so with the one you're riding, that makes ten, doesn't it?" he said, and only then did the man realize. This truly is a story that speaks to how magnificent the Dharma King's palace is—so much so that it captivates the hearts of all who behold it.

Tibetan Dharma King’s Palace Passing southeast before the mountain of the Dharma King’s Palace and proceeding seven chō along a wide road, we came upon a bridge approximately twenty ken in length and three ken in width, crowned with a Chinese-style roof. Passing beneath it and advancing a little over one chō further, we reached the western entrance gate of Lhasa. This gate had been constructed in a modest Chinese architectural style. Continuing inward and following the broad leftward road for slightly more than two chō, we arrived at an expansive open square. Until this point, our journey had been on horseback—and now before us stood the great hall enshrining Shakyamuni Buddha, revered as Tibet’s most sacred object of worship.

When inquiring into the origin of the Shakyamuni Buddha enshrined here, I learned that during the time when King Songtsen Gampo—who first introduced Buddhism to Tibet though not yet a believer himself—was to marry Princess Wencheng, an imperial daughter of China's Tang Emperor Taizong, the princess petitioned her father: "Having heard Tibet is a land where men kill and eat one another, I wish them to pledge the spread of Buddhist teachings there. Moreover, I desire to bring with me the statue of Shakyamuni Buddha that had been transferred from India to our realm." This pact was concluded, and thus Princess Wencheng reverently escorted this Shakyamuni Buddha to Tibet, where it has been enshrined in Lhasa ever since.

**Origins of Tibetan Buddhism and Script**　In truth, after Princess Wencheng arrived in this country, she recognized the necessity of Buddhism and a writing system. For the purpose of Buddhist practice and to create the Tibetan script, she selected sixteen people of exceptional talent and sent them to India. As a result, Tibetan script was created in Tibet, Buddhist scriptures came to be translated using that script, and thereafter Buddhism gradually emerged. That occurred approximately 1,300 years ago, an event that was profoundly auspicious both from a historical perspective and in terms of Shakyamuni Buddha’s legacy. This Shakyamuni Buddha statue was not crafted in China; having been transmitted from India to China and then from China to Tibet, this statue was originally created by Bishakumā (Buddhist sculptor) of India.

Having visited that Shakyamuni Hall and first greatly rejoiced at my auspicious arrival in Tibet, I reflected: though I had paid homage to Shakyamuni Buddha at the Mahabodhi Temple in Bodh Gaya of India, to now encounter Shakyamuni Buddha again at this temple was truly a blessing beyond measure in this world. Overcome by boundless emotion, tears came forth from the sheer joy of it all. Needless to say, I have always been a devout believer in Shakyamuni Buddha. While other Buddhas are undoubtedly venerable, I believe only Shakyamuni Buddha should be revered as my true master. Therefore, I dedicate myself wholeheartedly to his teachings alone and offer sincere reverence to Buddha statues. Be that as it may, I will now

The problem was where to settle. In truth, even within Lhasa there were many suspicious firewood lodgings and taverns that I had heard would deceive people to take their money, so I wanted to reach a place I knew if at all possible. The place I knew was the young master of the Par family (the Regent), with whom I had become acquainted in Darjeeling some time ago. When this person had come to Darjeeling, we interacted closely, and there was also his promise to fully assist me should I reach Lhasa. He seemed quite amiable, and moreover, I myself had done things that would sufficiently benefit him. Of course, I did not go there to flaunt the favor I had done and demand its repayment, but as I truly had no other option, I went to seek out that household. The house was called Bandeisha, with an estate measuring approximately one chō on each side—a rather impressive structure. When I went and inquired,

As if to say “even the sheltering tree lets rain through”—the young master I inquired about was said to be absent. When I asked where he had gone, they replied that since he was mad, they didn’t know his whereabouts. I was astonished and asked, “When did he go mad?” They answered, “It has already been two years since he went mad.” “Is he truly mad?” I pressed. They explained, “There are times when he isn’t mad and times when he becomes mad. It makes no sense at all.” When I asked, “But where is he now?” they responded, “He has gone to Namtsailing (his brother’s separate residence).” Compelled to inquire at Namtsailing, I found him absent there as well, with the household members giving the same answer.

However, since they said he would likely come if I waited a little longer, I waited about two hours. But upon reconsidering, I realized meeting someone in a state of mental disturbance wouldn't be particularly helpful. Thinking it most prudent to directly visit Sera Monastery to obtain provisional admission first, then take exams for full enrollment when opportune, I immediately hired porters and set out northward toward the great temple of Sera.

Just like Rebun Temple, this temple too was built on terraced slopes at the mountain’s base, ascending higher and higher, so that from here, it appeared exactly like a single village. Guided by the porters to that temple, I arrived around 4 p.m. and went to visit the monks’ quarters called Pitsuk Kamtsen. Since according to my previous arrangements I had been claiming to be Chinese, I ought to have gone to what is called Pate Kamtsen; however, going to that quarters carried the risk of my Chinese disguise being exposed, so taking advantage of having come from the direction of the Northwest Plains, I stated that I belonged to a certain division from those plains and arrived at Pitsuk Kamtsen. By that time, I had not shaved my beard nor cut my hair for a long while, nor had I bathed or done anything of the sort, so my face and body must have become quite filthy, just like a Tibetan’s. And so I resolved to take up residence at the temple as a Tibetan. In truth, the entrance examination as a Tibetan would be quite challenging for me, but my use of colloquial speech was nearly indistinguishable from that of Tibetans...

There were many instances where I was treated as a Tibetan wherever I went—given this state of affairs, I reasoned there would be no issue in claiming to be Tibetan, and thus entered in such a manner to secure my temporary residence. In that Kamtsen there existed a single chief who served on annual rotation. The chief during my time there was a man named Ratepa—an exceedingly kind and guileless old man. Having stayed at his residence, I asked what procedures I should follow to gain provisional admission to this temple, and he instructed me on various matters.

First, regarding the organization of Sera University—there were matters that would remain unclear unless I provided a brief explanation here, so I outlined its general structure at this point. Sera University was broadly divided into three colleges: one called Je Tasan, another called Mae Tasan, and the third called Ngakpa Tasan. Je Tasan housed 3,800 monks, Mae Tasan contained 2,500 monks, and Ngakpa Tasan accommodated 500 monks. Furthermore, within the other two colleges excluding Ngakpa Tasan, there existed eighteen kamtsen (meaning monks' quarters) each.

Among them were both large and small kamtsen—while the large kamtsen housed as many as a thousand monks, some smaller ones had only about fifty monks residing there—showing great variation in their divisions. In the kamtsen where I stayed, there were two hundred people. Each kamtsen had its own property, but when these were all brought together and united into one entity, it was called Sera. This was already a very general division; while there were various detailed distinctions within it, I refrained from discussing them as they fell into specialized domains.

Chapter 65: Warrior Monks

Scholar-Monks and Warrior Monks — There was one more thing I wished to discuss: the types of monks. They were broadly divided into two categories. One category consisted of scholar-monks, and the other of warrior monks. As their name implied, scholar-monks came here to pursue studies, which required a certain amount of tuition funds. While not exorbitant, it cost about three yen monthly when economizing; if managed properly, it could amount to eight yen. These scholar-monks used their tuition funds to study Buddhist debates that formed Sera University's curriculum, enabling them to graduate after twenty years. Since they typically completed foundational studies at their home temples beforehand, most graduated from the university around thirty or thirty-five to thirty-six years old. For particularly bright individuals, there were rare cases of completing studies around twenty-eight years old and receiving a doctoral degree.

Now, as for Warrior Monks, they naturally lacked the tuition funds required to pursue academic studies. However, since they had become monks and entered the temple, what did they do? They engaged in tasks such as carrying yak dung collected from the fields or transporting firewood brought from places like Samyae or Kombo in the south, hauling it from the Lhasa riverside all the way to Sera. They also became menial servants to the scholar-monks. These might be considered the better tasks, but even playing large flutes and sheng-pipa-lu pipes, beating drums, or preparing ritual offerings still fell within the purview of the Warrior Monks’ duties.

The duties of Warrior Monks—while these tasks were not shameful to perform as lower-ranking monks, there were those among them who had such bizarre duties befitting their title as Warrior Monks. Their daily duty involved going into a certain mountain and hurling large stones. By measuring how far those large stones were thrown to test their muscle development and setting targets for where to hit with those stones, they encouraged hurling them with great force. They also practiced high jumps. They performed feats such as running up to leap onto mountaintops or jumping down from boulders. In between, they sang folk songs at the top of their lungs. The Warrior Monks took pride in their voices being exceptionally loud, far-carrying, and beautiful, boasting with remarks like, "With voices of this caliber, we could tear through the paper windows stretched across yonder!" On top of that, they also began hurling sticks at each other.

These constituted the daily duties of the Warrior Monks—whenever there were no fixed tasks at the temple, these men would invariably form small groups and proceed to chosen locations to diligently practice their drills without fail. One might wonder what use such monks could serve, but these monks proved essential in Tibet. When lamas traveled to places like the Northern Plains or other uninhabited regions, Warrior Monks would serve as their guard soldiers—a role they were said to perform with formidable strength. Having neither wives nor children, they cared little about dying and fought with reckless abandon—so much so that Tibetans considered these unruly monks impossible to control. Warrior Monks also frequently engaged in fights. Yet it remained rare for them to start conflicts upon first encounter; unless provoked by some incident, they avoided reckless violence.

As for those incidents, they rarely involved financial matters. Strange problems always arose with handsome young acolytes at their root. In cases where such base desires—similar to those that once existed at Mount Koya—were fulfilled or not, that is, when they had stolen another’s young acolyte or had their own stolen, they would openly challenge each other to duels. When challenged, none would ever retreat. If someone were to retreat, they would immediately be expelled by their fellow warrior monks and could no longer remain at the temple. Even among these Warrior Monks, there were proper masters, and rules among their comrades were duly established, with someone overseeing those regulations. It was an open secret within the temple; that is to say, when incidents occurred, even the temple’s high-ranking monk officials would order the Warrior Monk leaders to carry out various tasks, and thus the inappropriate conduct of these Warrior Monk leaders and their comrades—behavior unbefitting monks—was tacitly permitted as an open secret.

**Warrior Monks’ Duels** When both parties consented and the duel was finally set to take place, they would determine the location and typically set out at night. Then each would engage in a decisive sword fight with blades. Witnesses would be present to judge whether either side’s methods were fair or foul. If someone employed too cowardly a tactic, they said the one who used it would be left beaten until killed. However, when both duelists fought so evenly that each sustained comparable wounds, the witnesses halted the fight. Telling them to settle matters as they stood, they would drag them off to Lhasa to drink alcohol—so it was said. Of course, alcohol was strictly prohibited within Sera Monastery and could never be consumed there, but in Lhasa there were reportedly many warrior monks who drank heavily and acted recklessly.

After unexpectedly gaining a reputation as a doctor, I came to be deeply respected by the warrior monks. The reason was that whenever they dislocated limbs or sustained injuries during their high jumps, they would immediately come to me. When they did, I would provide proper treatment, and strangely enough, they would heal remarkably well. Those injuries and ailments of semi-civilized folk appeared to heal with particular ease. Especially with dislocated arms healing almost immediately, they expressed great astonishment and praised me highly as an especially necessary doctor for us warrior comrades. However, I never accepted gifts from such people. I generally provided them with medicine too. I administered treatment as well. If they insisted on bringing gratitude offerings from their side, I might accept them, but usually declined.

This also greatly pleased the teachers, so those who had lost arms in duels or had their faces cut—who, if treated by other Tibetan doctors, would inevitably become disabled and have to live out their lives in hardship—when they came to me, I would apply wound ointment, clean their injuries, set their bones, and provide all manner of care. That left them not disabled at all, and as they healed in some convenient manner, they were truly delighted. Therefore I was greatly

I earned the warrior monks’ cheers; wherever I went, warrior monks would stick out their tongues in salute, and those warrior monks provided me with numerous advantages by protecting me both openly and in secret. The warrior monks were steadfast in their principles; compared to noble monks who might speak kindly on the surface yet harbor ulterior motives to entrap others while pursuing only their own interests and pleasures, their actions might be quite rough, but being free from malice made them rather endearing. I often felt there were many other truly admirable qualities about them as well.

On the contrary, among those lamas wrapped in soft materials or fine woolen cloths, there were many base and cunning individuals, making interactions quite troublesome at times. I believe you now clearly understand that there are two distinct types of monks. Now, since I was of course to become a monk of the academic division, I had to follow that path. By the way, both my hair and beard had grown quite long. Because I hadn’t shaved them for nearly ten months, they had grown extremely long. Because their length was extremely warm and convenient for traveling in cold places, they had been left untouched.

The next day when it came time to shave my head, I asked him to shave my beard as well. But the monk who had shaved my head was greatly astonished and said, "Don't joke around—it's troublesome!" The reason being this: shaving one's beard is an utterly foolish act. How could you shave off such a splendid beard you've grown? If you shave it, everyone here will call you a madman—are you serious or joking?" he insisted, absolutely refusing to do it. And so this rather unremarkable beard remained from that time and persists to this day—this beard being none other than my Tibetan souvenir.

Provisional Admission Procedures: Pure Tibetans do not grow beards. People from Kham or remote areas do grow beards, though... Therefore, Tibetans would marvel at any beard and eagerly desire to have one themselves. Even after I became a doctor, many people requested beard-growing medicine from me, which became quite a hassle. People would press me with remarks like, “You must have used some medicine to grow such an impressive beard,” but that day I purchased the temple’s formal cap, boots, prayer beads, and other such items. As for the Buddhist robe, since I had already received one beforehand that sufficed, I didn’t need to buy one. Then I went to meet the Great Teacher of Je Tarsang in my academic division.

This Great Teacher was the one who inspected each person individually to grant provisional admission. At this time, there were no examinations whatsoever. When I brought a brick of Tibet's finest prepared gift tea to meet him, he bluntly demanded from the outset, "Where are you from? You seem Mongolian—are you not?" "No—in truth, that is not the case." When I stated, "I have come from the northwestern plains," he—being deeply versed in Tibetan geography—proceeded to interrogate me with various questions. However, as these concerned regions I myself had traversed through great hardship, I could provide excellent responses to every inquiry. Thereupon,

**Provisional Admission Permission** Since I was granted provisional admission, when I stuck out my tongue in respectful salute to the lama, he likewise placed his right hand to his head and hung around my neck a torn piece of red cloth—about two shaku long—that had been cut from such material. Receiving that cloth became the definitive proof that provisional admission had been granted. However, in Tibet when visiting a revered lama, placing such a red cloth strip around one's neck was customary. Having received it, I now needed to meet the law-enforcing monk official overseeing monastic regulations and obtain permission once more. With the Great Teacher’s approval already secured, this proved no difficulty at all and was swiftly settled.

Now that I had managed to gain provisional admission, I needed to prepare for the entrance examination to join the university's debate division. Since this required selecting teachers, the next day I requested them and thoroughly studied what I had learned from my teacher, but as one teacher alone couldn't cover everything, I asked two to examine me. Day after day, I was occupied solely with these preparations when a strange coincidence occurred there. In the large monastic quarters opposite where I resided, there was an extremely corpulent lama who appeared to be a scholar. One day, that person summoned me, saying to come for a talk. When I went to his quarters, he said, "You are the one who came from the northwestern plains to Sakya Monastery with the Ruto merchant group the other day, aren't you?" "Ah, yes, that's correct." "But now I see." "My disciple is one of that merchant group." "Who is that?" I asked, only to learn it was Tobten—an exceedingly kind man who had shown me great kindness—the very person who had initially offered me meat, to which I had replied, "No, I do not eat it." That person was apparently this scholar's disciple. Therefore, the fact that I had entered by claiming to be from the Northwestern Plains

The facade of my disguise began to unravel. “Then you aren’t actually from the Northwestern Plains, are you?” he pressed. At that point came his cross-examination: “My disciple says you’re Chinese—that you speak Chinese fluently and know Chinese characters well. What do you say to that?” “No, that’s exactly right,” I responded. He retorted, “If you keep lying like this, serious trouble will arise here.” “If you’re Chinese, you must go to Pate Kamtsen.” “But if I accept you here, Pate Kamtsen will sue us and cause me great difficulties.” A troublesome situation had developed. “Why did you do such a thing?” he demanded. I explained, “It’s true I’m Chinese, but entering Pate Kamtsen as one would cost too much.” “I encountered thieves in the Northwestern Plains who took all my money, making it impossible to go to my proper Kamtsen.” When I added, “You’ve likely heard about this robbery from your disciple,” he acknowledged, “I have indeed heard and know of it.” “Truly pitiable circumstances,” he murmured.

"Moreover, if one goes to Pate Kamtsen, Chinese must assume the duties of that Kamtsen within a year." "I explained that performing those duties would also require a great deal of money." “Therefore, since I truly could not go to my proper Kamtsen, I will confess this secret now—please allow me to remain here,” I pleaded. “If that is your circumstance,” the scholar lama replied, “we shall set it aside until matters are clarified.” “If you explain that you cannot go because you lack money, we can find a way,” he concluded, neatly settling the matter. From the perspective of my true identity as Japanese, this claim of being Chinese became an additional secret—thus I remained publicly as a Northwestern Plains person while maintaining this dual concealment. As I devoted myself to studying day and night, my shoulders grew stiff until I developed a rheumatic condition that became unbearable. I ultimately drew my own blood, then went to a Chinese pharmacy in Lhasa to buy medicine—which brought prompt recovery upon taking it.

Chapter 66: Tibet and the Boxer Rebellion

Grand Prayer Ceremony for the Great Qing Emperor — On April 7th, there was said to be a grand war-related prayer ceremony for the Great Qing Emperor that promised elaborate rituals, so I went to observe it. This ceremony was not conducted solely at Sera Monastery but had been performed at all major temples across Tibet; at my own residence temple too, they had already completed seven days of secret rites conducted by specialized esoteric practitioners. When I inquired why this war had erupted in China from a senior temple figure—as they claimed the next step involved performing victory-ensuring secret rituals—he responded, “It’s naught but this: Many nations together assailed Peking. Since China appears defeated—though our prayers likely arrive too late—we simply entreat that His Majesty remains unharmed and secure.” That was their rationale.

He was someone who knew the circumstances well, and though I tried to inquire about various matters, he said it was a secret and wouldn’t tell me. And—as I later came to understand—it concerned the war against the Boxers. When I observed the prayer ceremony, the sight of what resembled warlike preparations emerging from Tsochen, Sera’s main hall, presented a truly gallant spectacle. At the forefront marched reed pipes, drums, and large flutes keeping rhythm, followed by golden incense burners borne solely by the handsomest Tibetan children—selected from those aged twelve or thirteen to fifteen—dressed in splendid ceremonial robes adorned with five-colored Chinese crepe silk, each child made to hold those burners and tend the incense. There were about ten such children, followed by spears arranged in formation on both sides—their upper sections resembling Chinese-style swords with fluttering blade tips. Below these blade-like tips sat guard-like fixtures from which hung approximately one jō six shaku (4.8 meters) of gold brocade or Chinese five-colored premium crepe silk. The entire length measured roughly two jō five shaku (about 7.6 meters). Even robust warrior monks could barely carry them; so heavy were they that two men could only just manage to walk with one slung between their shoulders. Naturally, their shafts were decorated with silver or gold plating—truly splendid implements.

Spears adorned with such decorations—fifty on each side—were brought forth, followed by boards shaped into long triangles approximately six shaku high (about 1.8 meters), upon which various patterns had been applied with butter. Next came triangular roasted barley flour mounds about four shaku (1.2 meters) high and red molded objects made by kneading together butter, honey, and other ingredients. All these were carried by seven or eight people each holding them by hand, followed by monks clad in Tibet’s most splendid ceremonial robes with silk kasayas draped over them—all items so costly they were enough to astonish Tibetan eyes. About two hundred such monks had gathered, half carrying drums and half holding cymbals. Behind them walked the high lama—chief officiant of this secret ritual—resplendent in his finest vestments, wearing a ceremonial hat befitting his monastic rank as he advanced with solemn dignity. A great many disciples followed in his wake, making this procession a truly extraordinary spectacle in Tibet.

Therefore, a great many citizens of Lhasa came to watch as well. When the procession moved out from the main hall and descended about two chō between the monks' quarters beyond the stone wall, they came upon a spacious courtyard. This courtyard offered an unobstructed view stretching all the way to Lhasa. After proceeding another two chō across this open space, they encountered a structure resembling a thatched hut built from bamboo, wood, and wheat stalks. Upon reaching it, the chief lama chanted incantations before triangular butter-marked offerings shaped like swords, spear-shaped implements, and triangular mounds of roasted barley flour. Around them, some two hundred monks beat drums and clashed cymbals. As sutra chanting commenced, a single monk holding cymbals danced through the crowd, his movements creating a captivating spectacle perfectly synchronized with the rhythm of drums and cymbals. This resembled exactly the role of a chant leader. Yet the vigorous way he danced while striking cymbals, with his fascinating gestures, differed markedly from what might be called dances or musical performances in other lands.

While engaged in these activities, as they timed the moment, when the chief officiant raised his prayer beads and pretended to strike them down, the spear-bearing monks thrust their spears into the thatched hut. Then, at the same time they fastened the long triangular roasted barley flour to the thatched hut, they set fire to the house. When smoke and flames rose blazing into the sky, the monks—and of course the spectators—clapped their hands vigorously and chanted "Rahakyaro! Rahakyaro!" several times in loud voices. Rahakyaro means that the true god will prevail. Thus concluded the ritual, which as a manifestation of Buddhist doctrine presented an exceedingly severe yet valiant spectacle. This might well have been a characteristic of secret Buddhism. The following day, all monks from this temple relocated to Lhasa for the Chöen Jöe Buddhist ceremony (Dharma Practice Ceremony). This Buddhist ceremony was a grand prayer conducted so the Dalai Lama might pass the year in peace, continuing for about one month. In Tibet, this grand prayer ceremony was said to be the second Buddhist ceremony. Because of this, I too went to Lhasa and rented a room on the second floor of a Parpo merchant’s establishment.

The talk of the Boxer Rebellion—thus, even in the capital itself, rumors regarding the war in China ran quite high. These were thought to be rumors brought by merchants returning from China or those who had come from Nepal. Of course, merchants trading between Tibet and India had also brought back some accounts. Those rumors proved rather intriguing—insubstantial as grasping at clouds. Some claimed the Chinese Emperor had abdicated to the Crown Prince and fled somewhere; others countered that no, he had lost the war and escaped to Xin'an Prefecture. As for why they were defeated—well, there was this wicked minister who took a British woman as the Emperor's bride. Then disturbances broke out until they were finally routed and forced to flee. Or so went one tale; another held that there existed a country called Japan that proved formidably strong and ultimately seized Peking. Yet others said China had been struck by famine until no food remained, driving people to kill and eat one another—until the land had practically transformed into a realm of Rokushaki demons. Such rambling rumors abounded without end.

After that, in Lhasa, they had come to know a little about Japan.

Until then, they hadn't even known the name Japan. Particularly among merchants and others—though they didn't know whether these events were true—Japan was said to be a country remarkably rich in moral courage, one that had won the war and taken Peking yet brought vast quantities of rice, wheat, and clothing by ship from its own land during Peking's famine, thereby saving millions of people. There was also favorable talk of it being such an admirable nation. On another front, some dismissed these deeds as mere deception, asserting that Japan was actually a country that waged wars alongside Britain, ultimately aiming—like Britain—to seize foreign nations. There had been no such moral courage to begin with. In short, there were all manner of rumors—that they were simply skilled at their methods—and while it was impossible to discern truth from falsehood, it had at least been confirmed that a war between China and the Allied nations had indeed occurred.

As it happened, the Parpo merchant with whom I was staying was planning to return to Nepal around that time, so thinking it fortunate, I wrote letters addressed to Dr. Sarat in India and Mr. Hige in my hometown and entrusted them to him. Fortunately, those letters reached here safely. Entrusting such letters is truly difficult. For unless one knows their character well—that they will never divulge information to others—or has complete trust in them, one cannot recklessly make such requests. Because he was a thoroughly trustworthy person, that is why I entrusted them to him and sent them out.

Now, this

The Chöen Jöe grand ceremony was a Buddhist ritual unlike any we had ever witnessed, featuring a main Shakya Hall measuring one chō per side enclosed within a larger two-chō Shakya Hall complex, as shown in the accompanying diagram. Between them stretched a broad stone-paved circumambulation path. Ordinary monks congregated along this surrounding walkway, though gathering spaces for them also existed on the second and third floors. None could enter the Shakya Hall's inner sanctum except the Dalai Lama or equivalent dignitaries like the senior tutor. As these eminent figures sometimes attended and sometimes abstained, approximately twenty thousand monks typically gathered for this ceremony. Being Tibet's second grandest ritual, this number sufficed, though the primary Monlam ceremony—the great prayer assembly for the Chinese Emperor—drew crowds of twenty-five thousand monks without fail. At around five each morning, monks lodging throughout Lhasa would depart for the site upon hearing the summoning flute's call. Through sutra recitations conducted in this manner, participants received three portions of the customary butter tea.

The time between receiving one serving and the next was about thirty minutes each, so during those intervals they had to continue chanting sutras. Now, even with twenty thousand monks gathered, those who could be called truly devout monks were exceedingly few—many were warrior monks or those who came seeking an easy life or just to receive butter tea. Therefore, they weren't reading sutras. Some were humming tunes while others were energetically arm wrestling right in the midst of it all. It was rather amusing. If one went where the most solemn ceremonies were being performed, everyone read sutras with earnest faces, appearing genuinely devout—but if one went where ordinary warrior monks congregated, the main topics would be filthy tales of male prostitution, war stories, and robberies, even escalating to actual brawls over mundane quarrels. The commotion was truly unbearable.

Chapter 67: Becoming a Sera University Student

Guardian Monks for Warrior Monks - Given this state of affairs among the warrior monks, the presence of guardian monks to manage them meant there was no distinction between right and wrong; they beat down both parties equally under the principle of "both sides at fault in a quarrel." If anyone started grumbling, they would immediately beat them down. Therefore, when spotting the guardian monks, they grew wary of each other, pulling at sleeves and signaling with their eyes as if saying, "Hey, they're coming!" Even so, sometimes when least expected, the guardian monks would suddenly appear and mercilessly beat them—heads, bodies, everything—with such ferocity that some ended up with split skulls vomiting blood, while others were occasionally killed outright. Their deaths were treated as nothing out of the ordinary. Moreover, those who killed faced neither legal consequences nor any punishment whatsoever. And the corpses were left to be devoured by birds. Returning to the main narrative—in this manner, the warrior monks spent about two hours there each morning.

During that time, they of course ate roasted barley flour and filled their stomachs with tea. Then, finally, one bowl of porridge was served to each person, but the competition when taking that porridge was truly unbearable. As for that porridge, most of it was cooked with rice. The porridge was provided by donors and contained a considerable amount of meat. The bowls used to receive that porridge or tea were brought in small ones that held three gō and large ones that held about five gō. Using those bowls, when they scooped one bowlful of porridge and three cupfuls of tea, that was sufficient. Then, as they headed back to their quarters on their way home, they received ge (ge meaning the giving of virtue). A certain believer would offer twenty-five sen or fifty sen each to those twenty thousand monks, so on such occasions, Tibet’s great merchants, large landowners, officials, and others with abundant wealth contributed alms money resolutely. In times of abundance, there were people who made donations of eight or nine thousand yen. It was not just one household but many. There were those who brought a great deal of such alms money from Mongolia in particular. those from what was already Russian territory—Mongolians

The monk who was a Russian secret detective, a great scholar, and an official of Tsannii Kenbo (Definition Teacher) ([named Dorjiev]) performed such ge almsgiving on multiple occasions. Therefore, his fame rose brilliantly in Tibet like the morning sun, and even now that reputation remains prominent (this discourse will be elaborated in a later section). Though he alone made such abundant donations, he received no special treatment for it; he simply rejoiced, declaring that by offering those funds he had accumulated virtue. Of course, even those lacking Buddhist faith considered it an honor to make these offerings, and there appeared to be commercialists who had turned the practice of donating large sums into a business enterprise.

After all, they received such things in abundance, so for the monks, that was the time when money circulated most vigorously. However, whenever there was an excess of money and food, many complaints would arise and quarrels would break out all the more frequently. Therefore, this was when duels occurred most frequently, but since they could not immediately hold duels in Lhasa’s city streets, they would end up directing them to go elsewhere. They would sometimes agree to hold duels there and then carry them out after returning to their temple. This was because the enforcers at that time were not the enforcer monk officials of their own temples but rather those from Rebung Temple who governed all matters, so their methods were extremely cruel. The imposition of fines was also truly harsh. Therefore, fearing this aspect, they tried as much as possible to refrain from doing so at that time, and there were many instances where duels originating from this temple were carried out after returning to their own temple.

Float Procession - On the final day of that Buddhist ceremony, there was a grand float procession. It was something that could not be captured in a single phrase. First came those clad in the attire of the Four Heavenly Kings, then the Great Kings of the Eight Legions—all wearing masks corresponding to their kind, each leading processions of five hundred or three hundred members. The members of each procession also wore similar masks and proceeded in various bizarre styles. The fascinating nature of that spectacle was not easily describable. They did not proceed with the strict mechanisms of Japanese festival floats; instead, each went about frolicking as they pleased, with some among them even playfully circling around the spectators. And during this time, they carried various instruments such as drums, reed pipes, Indian lutes or Tibetan lutes, flutes, along with treasures.

Among these, what particularly caught the eye were the types of dragons; since it is said that the Dragon Palace contains various treasures in abundance, there were various treasures manifesting their forms. In essence, a procession stretching about four kilometers unfolded, depicting every manner of Tibetan implement, treasure, and garment—their patterns and customs transmitted from antiquity—alongside the diverse customs of India's various ethnic groups. Since I only saw that procession once, and have now recalled and spoken this much from memory, I find it quite impossible to recount all the minute details.

Origin of the Procession - It was said this procession originated from an unusual conception. This began when Ngawang Gyatso, Tibet's Fifth Dalai Lama of the new sect and an incarnate lama, beheld a float procession of the Pure Land in a dream; following that dream's sequence, he first initiated these processions. Indeed, these float processions appeared as though emerging like mirages—truly an unparalleled spectacle. Since I wished to observe secret matters and hear various accounts, unlike other monks I did not attend sutra readings or tea gatherings. Though I occasionally went solely to witness their appearance, otherwise I remained secluded, engrossed in study. This was because before these events concluded, a university entrance examination would be held—and I desired to pass it. Yet as was my custom, I again fell gravely ill from excessive study. Therefore, just as before, I purchased medicine and ingested it—whereupon I swiftly recovered.

The people close to me had observed such matters closely and knew them well. At times they would ask me various things. "Do you know the way of a doctor?" "No, truthfully I know nothing of doctoring." "There can't be things you don't know." "You go buy medicine yourself and cure your own illness to that extent—you must know something." "Well, I suppose I know a little about such matters, but nothing profound." Such exchanges occurred. These circumstances later became the reason I had to take up practicing as a physician.

Passing the Entrance Examination - However, as there was said to be an exam during the middle of that Buddhist ceremony, I returned to the temple. It was exactly April 18th when I came to take that exam. There were approximately forty examinees. For various questions, there were two parts: answering in writing and answering orally. In addition, there was a memorized sutra section, so these three subjects were structured precisely to accommodate those who had completed secondary-level studies in Tibet. Surprisingly, the questions turned out to be rather easy, so I passed promptly. However, it must have been quite difficult despite this, as seven out of the forty examinees failed. I was fortunately permitted to enter that university. And being permitted to enter was not limited solely to scholar monks. It was also available to warrior monks.

Among the warrior monks, the ambitious ones studied desperately hard, even going into debt until they could gain admission. They entered not for academic pursuits but because upon entering the university there existed what was called an academic stipend for university monks provided by the government, through which they could receive one yen or fifty sen per month—sometimes even two yen. (At wheat harvest time one to of wheat was distributed per person.) This was highly irregular but in any case provided an income of about ten yen per year. There were many warrior monks who took that examination solely to receive that money. I finally entered the first grade as a university student. There monks ranging from fourteen- or fifteen-year-old children to those in their forties and fifties practiced dialectic debates conducted in a manner entirely different from my country's Zen traditions. This was exceedingly fascinating. It was also exceedingly vigorous. At its most extreme when viewed by others he appeared almost as if fighting—so intensely did he apply himself.

Chapter 68: Dialectic Debate Training

The fascinating nature of how these dialectic debates were conducted—the intensity of effort put into them, the vocal projection, rhythm, and overall demeanor involved—were truly captivating. To explain how it was structured, the respondent was seated as shown in the diagram. Then, the questioner stood up, took the rosary in their left hand, steadily proceeded, and stood before the respondent. Then, spreading their hands upward and downward facing each other, they chanted loudly, "Chī, chī, tawa, chö, chang!" and clapped their hands once with a "pon!" The "Chī, chī, tawa, chö, chang" (the first "Chī" being) was the seed-syllable mantra of Manjushri Bodhisattva’s essence. This signified praying for the awakening of wisdom that formed Manjushri's essence; first uttering such words, then "Chī, tawa, chö, chang" meant "within this Dharma"—that is to say, debating through the True Dharma of Thusness pervading the cosmos—whereupon they commenced their dialectic exchanges.

The dialectic debates followed the methodology of Buddhist logic; according to the principles of Buddhist logic, when someone first posed the question, “The Buddha must be a person,” the respondent answered either “That is so” or “That is not so.” If they said it was so, the questioner took a step forward and retorted, “Then the Buddha cannot have escaped birth and death!” When the respondent countered, “The Buddha has escaped birth and death,” the questioner pressed further: “The Buddha has not escaped birth and death—because he is human; because humans cannot escape birth and death; because you have spoken thus!” A skilled respondent would then argue, “The Buddha is human yet has escaped birth and death. His birth and death are provisionally manifested,” thereby explaining the three forms of Buddha: Dharmakāya, Sambhogakāya, and Nirmāṇakāya. If one answered that it was not so, they pressed relentlessly: “But Shakyamuni Buddha of India was indeed human—how do you explain this?” Whichever way one answered, they advanced the debate step by step through such challenges, and the vigor of their questioning and answering was such that it could rouse even a coward.

Scholar Monks' Dialectic Debates To provide one example: as the questioner uttered their words, they simultaneously raised their left leg high, spread both hands upward and downward facing each other, and as they clapped their hands, forcefully stomped their foot onto the ground. This momentum had to be executed with such force that it could shatter the very gates of hell. Moreover, the dialectic debate master constantly instructed his disciples that the resounding clap must demonstrate such forcefulness as could startle and shatter—through this single utterance of Manjushri's wisdom—the gallbladders of demons throughout the three thousand great thousand worlds. Thus, the underlying intent of these dialectic debates was to break through one’s own mind of worldly desires and annihilate the hell within one’s own heart by manifesting a form brimming with courageous dignity, extending that form to the very depths of the heart as a means to liberation. When a certain countryman came to observe these dialectic debates taking place, they happened to be discussing kansa. The term "kansa" refers to something like human characteristics, but in Tibetan colloquial speech, when one says "kansa," it comes to mean a tobacco pipe.

At the time when the monks were vigorously debating about human characteristics, this countryman—though not understanding anything—thought to himself that dialectic debates must be strange affairs indeed. It seemed a quarrel had erupted over a tobacco pipe of all things! To think they'd make such a fierce commotion over a single pipe—hurling blows at heads, flinging sand, others jeering and cackling in uproar. "What in heaven's name is happening here?" he wondered in bewilderment before returning home.

About three years later, when that countryman made pilgrimage to Sera Temple again and saw them conducting their dialectic debates, they were still vigorously arguing about kansa—which had now escalated into a great commotion with them starting to scuffle with each other. Thinking, "These monks are hopeless! How absurd to quarrel over a single tobacco pipe for three years," he declared, "I must mediate this dispute myself," and took the tobacco pipe from his waist to bring straight to the monks.

When the monks saw that countryman and scolded him, saying, "This is no place for your kind," he reportedly retorted: "Well now! I couldn't bear watching you monks argue over a single tobacco pipe for three whole years. Here—take this pipe of mine, so please stop this quarrel!" That incident remains a humorous anecdote to this day. Well, they engaged in these dialectic debates with such spirited energy that it was clearly no mere ceremonial formality. However, to engage in this practice required thorough Buddhist knowledge from the outset. Indeed, there were numerous textbooks and reference materials for dialectic debates. Each year they underwent corresponding examinations, passing them one after another, and only after accumulating twenty years of training did they finally attain the rank of doctor.

When speaking of the primary educational method for Tibetan monks, it was first and foremost this dialectic debate method. This method being exceedingly engaging and richly endowed with elements that guide people, many students from distant Mongolia deliberately traversed arduous paths to come here, so that at Sera University alone there were actually over three hundred Mongolians in attendance. Moreover, at large temples such as Rebun Temple, Ganden, Tashi, and Lhünphu, a great number of students came from Mongolia. The reason the New Sect has been able to maintain its prosperity to this day without losing dignity like the Old Sects is precisely that this dialectic debate method forms its foundation.

Undoubtedly, these dialectic debates spurred the indolent Tibetans and enlightened the ignorant Tibetans, advancing them somewhat toward Buddhist truth; thus arose the fact that they, though semi-civilized people, were unexpectedly rich in logical thought. While there were many among scholars who were most abundant in logical thought, ordinary people, as they did not receive such education, were truly ignorant.

Moreover, the place where these dialectic debates were conducted was also truly excellent. Tibet was originally a treeless land, yet fine trees had been planted there. There were elm, willow, walnut, peach, cypress, and other species of large trees not found in Japan. Beneath them, beautiful silver-white sand was thickly spread. And when one dialectic debate concluded there, the debates of Hōrin Dōjō—this time, they all gathered at the training hall called Hōrin Dōjō, a place where splendid trees flourished and flowers bloomed. There as well, silver sand was spread. The surrounding area was enclosed by a stone wall five or six feet high, and the entrance gate was an elegant Chinese-style structure. They all gathered inside and read sutras. When they finished reading the sutras, the dialectic debates began again, and at that time, both upper-grade monks and lower-grade monks mingled together to engage in debates. They conducted various debates on topics not found in textbooks and matters of the secular world, each in their own way. Those dialectic debates also possessed considerable power in contributing to the development of human intellect. When debates were being conducted outdoors, whether a class had fifty members or a hundred, there was first one questioner and one respondent, with all others merely observing. Of course, at times the questioner might change and the respondent might change as well, but it remained a single pair.

However, when entering this Hōrin Dōjō, every single one of them engaged in it individually. Thus, without distinction between senior and junior ranks, it became a scene where senior monks debated with novices. Therefore, the sound of their clapping hands resonated as vigorously as hail scattering in a storm, resembling the rat-a-tat crackle of matchlock guns echoing across a battlefield. As I was engaged in dialectic debates beneath the peach blossoms, snow began fluttering down. The scene was so fascinating that I stopped debating and became engrossed in observing my surroundings for a while when, suddenly, a countryman appeared.

At the Dharma assembly's floral mat, flowers bloomed. How strangely it glows, this heart! Peach blossoms bloomed in Yayoi as snow fell On Kōyagahara, flowers blooming upon flowers. Studying in such a manner proved thoroughly engaging. I studied day and night. However, with only one teacher available, there remained too much idle time to conduct investigations as I desired, so I requested two people to make daily inquiries. At times circumstances allowed them to come teach me from their side, making my progress feel remarkably swift. There existed an unusual custom where those admitted to the university had to collect firewood in Lhasa as proof of enrollment. This was none other than

This was the firewood-collecting ascetic practice. I had to do that for about two days. That is to say, it was established as an obligation for those who entered the university.

One day, a novice monk from my neighborhood got into a fight with another novice monk and was struck by a stone. However, his upper arm became dislocated. Now, as the master particularly cherished this novice, he grew deeply concerned and declared this injury would surely leave him crippled for life. This was because in Tibet they did not know bone-setting methods. When Tibetan doctors encountered such cases, all they did was apply moxibustion, administer plasters, or give medicine—none of which helped at all. When an arm becomes dislocated, simply putting the bone back in place would heal it, but through performing unnecessary treatments they caused disability—so the master was deeply grieved.

As I heard the child wailing loudly during my walk, I went to investigate and found his arm was dislocated. When I proposed calling a doctor might be wise, they retorted that summoning physicians would only result in exorbitant fees without any remedy. "Whether we have moxibustion applied or leave it untreated, he'll end up crippled either way," the master lamented dejectedly. "If the outcome's the same, better spare him the scalding agony and torment."

Chapter 69: Summoned by the Dalai Lama

The Efficacy of Amateur Treatment When I asked, "Don't Tibetan doctors know how to reset dislocated bones?" they retorted, "Who could perform such skilled work?" "Then I suppose I'll have to fix it myself," I said, to which they questioned, "Will it really heal?" "Nonsense - it'll mend right away," I declared. Moving to the child's side, I had others steady his head and left hand while I gripped his right arm, easily guiding the bone back into place. As the muscle showed slight swelling there, I applied acupuncture needles - and sure enough, it healed instantly. This success spread my reputation far and wide, until patients came swarming in relentless streams.

This was trouble. If this many patients kept coming, I couldn't focus on my main work. When I tried refusing by saying I had no medicine, the more I refused, the more Tibetans came in greater numbers. The more I hid myself, the more they wanted to see me—they came pleading with hands barely pressed together until there was simply nothing I could do. When I went to Lhasa's Tianhetang Pharmacy run by Chinese to buy medicine and administered appropriate remedies, whether through the patients' strong faith or because the medicine suited their ailments—and since I had some rudimentary knowledge of Chinese medicine—I managed to prepare treatments within my understanding, and strangely the patients recovered. Particularly in Tibet existed a disease considered the most severe intractable illness—one invariably fatal once contracted. This disease was edema, resembling beriberi but differing slightly in its symptoms. I had previously learned of its cure through strange circumstances from a Tibetan hermit.

Since no one around Lhasa seemed aware of using that medicine, I prepared it and administered it to edema patients. Yet six or seven out of ten recovered miraculously. Those already beyond saving naturally remained uncured, but word spread rapidly—first through my own temple, then gradually across Lhasa City, onward to rural areas until finally reaching Shigatse, Tibet's second capital, or so I heard.

With my reputation as a "Living Medicine Buddha" growing to such heights that even I was astonished, commotion broke out where people would come all the way from places as far as three days' journey, bringing two horses specifically to fetch me. In particular, I provided medicine to the poor without accepting any gifts. This too likely became a major factor in further elevating my reputation. For when the poor received medicine and recovered without paying fees, people reportedly said, "This must mean the true Medicine Buddha has appeared among us." Moreover, lung disease was exceedingly common in Tibet. For early-stage patients, since even Chinese medicine permitted effective treatment, I administered remedies; however, I refused medication to those who had become chronic cases beyond cure. I simply advised zazen meditation or encouraged them to chant Buddhist invocations, instructing them solely to attain peace in their future existence and resolve not to become lost at death's moment.

Consequently, it seems there were even those among the sick who feared coming to me. Patients who received medicine from that doctor recovered, but if he didn't give them medicine, they would surely die. For instance, when someone was examined but only exhorted to find peace in the afterlife without being given any medicine, that person indeed ended up dying. It seems there were cases where women, claiming that knowing their own death made them feel unwell, would hardly come even when they fell ill. In Tibet, there was a strange custom when falling ill: first they wouldn't go to request a doctor but instead rely on a spirit medium. Then the spirit medium would say various things—which doctor was good, what medicine was effective, or that medicine shouldn't be used at all.

Thus, it seems there were even unscrupulous physicians who attempted to influence spirit mediums through bribes, hoping to have them speak favorably of their services. I had not known such practices initially, but as my reputation grew excessively high, the spirit mediums—since declaring that illnesses cured by doctors they recommended would greatly enhance their own prestige—began actively directing patients to me, insisting that “This illness won’t be cured unless you consult that doctor.” I had never lobbied spirit mediums nor knew any personally. That they sent people to me without even knowing my face, relying solely on my reputation, must have ultimately stemmed from their own desire to safeguard their honor.

Given how matters had progressed, whenever high-ranking government officials or senior monastic authorities fell ill, they would first consult spirit mediums or diviners. Yet since these practitioners began recommending me as part of a passing trend, they inevitably came to summon me by horse. Those dispatched to fetch me would have a servant ride one horse while leading another for my use, always bearing something resembling letters of introduction from certain parties—or when such letters were lacking, written entreaties from their masters pleading earnestly for my services. With no alternative, I would mount the provided horse and depart. Upon reaching my destination, the reception proved remarkably gracious; wherever I went in my capacity as a physician entrusted with lives, they treated me with exceptional courtesy.

My medical reputation reached the palace. Truly, it was surprising how trends in the customs of a semi-open country could spread, and this matter having reached noble quarters led to my being invited one day. His Holiness the Dalai Lama was, of course, not suffering from any particularly grave illness. However, since my reputation had grown so considerable, it appeared His Holiness wished to see what manner of man I was. In Tibet, having an audience with the Dalai Lama was an exceedingly difficult matter. While anyone could pay their respects as His Holiness passed by, actually having an audience and conversing with him was something even ordinary monks—let alone high-ranking monastic officials—found exceedingly difficult.

Therefore, as having an audience with His Holiness the Dalai Lama was the greatest honor imaginable for someone of my standing, I immediately obeyed the summons and rode the horse sent from the palace. At that time, His Holiness was not residing at Potala, the true palace, but rather at Norbu Lingka, a detached palace. This palace stood slightly southwest of Potala, a grand edifice built within a forest along the banks of the Kyichu River. It was a newly constructed detached palace where His Holiness always resided during summer. However, the current Dalai Lama so greatly favored this retreat that he seldom dwelled in the main palace.

*The Detached Palace’s Layout* I proceeded straight along a broad path through the forest for about three chō when a stone wall approximately two jō in height and three chō in perimeter on all four sides stood before me. In the center of that stone wall was a main gate. When I entered westward through this main gate, white round objects resembling postboxes stood erected on both sides of the path at intervals of about three ken each. These were used for burning incense during His Holiness the Dalai Lama's comings and goings. Large trees grew thick and verdant in the expansive gardens flanking both sides. Yet some areas within contained no trees at all—wide grassy fields spread out like felt carpets. Proceeding about one chō further, there stood an inner wall measuring approximately one and a half chō on all four sides. Outside this wall stood numerous stone-built official residences. These housed the monk officials. The monk officials' dwellings were quite splendid, each possessing its own garden. In these gardens, every flower, tree, and plant obtainable in Tibet had been gathered and beautifully arranged.

What struck me as even more peculiar was that in every corner and at intervals along these stone walls measuring approximately one and a half chō on all four sides, fearsome large Tibetan mastiffs were growling in deep, resonant barks from the roofs. They were all chained with iron chains, and there were forty or fifty of them in total. This Dalai Lama had an unusual habit of being extremely fond of dogs. Since His Holiness bestows generous rewards upon those who present him with fearsomely large and powerful dogs, people go to great lengths—traveling from distant regions specifically to select and offer such dogs to the Dalai Lama. However, there was no precedent for previous Dalai Lamas to love dogs. The entrance gate to His Holiness’s palace is built facing south at the eastern and western corners. Opposite that gate, at a distance of fifteen or sixteen ken, there stands a large house. They led the horses around to the back of the house. Thereupon, I was first taken by the welcoming party to the residence of Chief Court Physician Tekan of His Holiness the Dalai Lama.

Chapter 70: Audience with the Dalai Lama As it was the residence of the Chief Court Physician of the Detached Palace, though not particularly large, it contained four reasonably spacious rooms: a guest room, study, servants' quarters, and kitchen. First, passing through a garden filled with flowers, I arrived at the residence where a beautiful white cloth curtain hung at the entrance. Lifting the curtain to enter revealed another garden, its side entrance leading to a guest room with Chinese-style shoji screens covered in white cut cloth, each panel inset with glass at its center. Within the room stood an ornate cabinet platform painted with dragons, peacocks, and floral patterns against a gold-leaf background, upon which were enshrined the venerable founder of the New Sect, Je Zongkawa, alongside Shakyamuni Buddha. This is the principal image found on standard Buddhist altars of the New Sect.

In front of it stood a Tibetan silver lamp stand upon which burned approximately three butter lamps even during daylight hours. Chief Court Physician Tekan sat on a thick Tibetan-style rug—a woolen tapestry with floral patterns—spread before it, two tall elegant desks standing before him. That marked the front side facing the garden where a thick leather mat also lay. As guests would sit upon that mat, when I was invited to take my seat there, the servant monk immediately brought the finest tea—first pouring into his master’s bowl placed on the desk before turning to mine. Chief Court Physician Tekan was reputed to be an exceedingly kind and compassionate man. Strangely enough, his facial features so resembled mine that people later speculated we might be brothers. Since they claimed this likeness extended even to our laughter styles, I too felt an uncanny sensation.

Chief Court Physician’s Greeting: “His Holiness the Dalai Lama suffers from no particular ailment,” stated Chief Court Physician Tekan. “However, having heard of Your Reverence’s remarkable success in healing many people, His Holiness expressed great pleasure and desired to grant you an audience—hence this summons.” “Yet today His Holiness’s schedule remains exceptionally full,” he continued, “so extended conversation may prove difficult.” “I shall attentively hear Your Reverence’s accounts and relay any matters requiring consultation,” concluded the physician with formal courtesy. After this exchange, I followed Chief Court Physician Tekan’s guidance to the Dalai Lama’s palace. Approaching northward through the south-facing gate, I observed a single guard monk stationed beside it.

Ordinary monks were not permitted to wear tube-sleeved robes, but guard monks donned tube-sleeved monastic garments and carried long staffs. Upon passing through the gate, there was a stone-paved courtyard approximately ten ken square, surrounded by what resembled a corridor. There were also what resembled benches stretching along it, and facing directly from that gate stood another small entrance gate measuring about one and a half ken in width. At this inner gate stood four guard monks on both sides, though these particular ones did not carry long staffs. They were holding only short objects. When I entered through the small gate into a courtyard extending about five ken deep and stood quietly observing, murals adorned both side walls depicting vigorous Mongolians pulling tigers by their reins. The walls formed a roofed structure like a corridor, enclosing an empty courtyard within. Without proceeding straight through that vacant space, I advanced along the corridor to the left and waited for a while at the western wall's edge—

Audience with the Tibetan Dalai Lama

*The Dalai Lama’s Procession* His Holiness the Dalai Lama emerged from the inner hall. As the vanguard, Zunyer Chenmo (Chief Chamberlain) proceeded ahead. Following behind him came Choe Bon Khenpo (Religious Affairs Minister), next the Dalai Lama, and after him followed Yongzin Rinpoche (His Holiness’s Senior Tutor). When His Holiness took his seat at the right-hand position facing front, the other two took their positions at its edge, while Yongzin Rinpoche seated himself on a slightly lower chair. Before him were seven or eight high-ranking monk officials in attendance.

Thereupon, Chief Court Physician Tekan led me to a position slightly askance facing the Dalai Lama and had me perform prostrations in worship. I respectfully prostrated three times, then partially removed my kasaya and hastened forward until reaching the Dalai Lama's presence, whereupon His Holiness laid his hand upon my head. Chief Court Physician Tekan too performed the same ceremonial etiquette. Then withdrawing about two ken away, the Chief Court Physician and I stood aligned side by side.

The Dalai Lama’s Words: Then His Holiness spoke: “I hear you have been residing at Sera and skillfully aiding impoverished monk patients—a most commendable deed.” “Remain at Sera for a long time and continue healing the illnesses of both monks and laypeople,” came His Holiness’s gracious command, to which I respectfully replied, “I shall do exactly as you instruct.” Now, I had long heard that His Holiness the Dalai Lama was proficient in Chinese, so if he were to address me in Chinese, my disguise would instantly be exposed.

"If he were to address me in Chinese then, I resolved to reveal my Japanese identity and demonstrate Japanese courage once and for all," I thought. Whatever might follow, I determined to stake everything before the honorable Dalai Lama—to gamble my fate in that moment. Fortunately, no Chinese conversation materialized. When His Holiness gradually questioned me in Tibetan about Chinese Buddhist monks and received my answers, he appeared thoroughly satisfied. "That is truly commendable," he declared. "In due course, I intend to appoint you to a suitable official position. You shall keep yourself prepared accordingly." When this exchange concluded, I gratefully accepted tea offered in His Holiness's presence. Yet before the tea was finished, the Dalai Lama withdrew to his inner chambers.

And I,

Upon observing His Holiness's attire, I noted that it differed from ordinary monastic robes. Of course, he wore a twenty-five-strip silk kasaya, but beneath this lay Tibet's finest woolen putuk, while from the waist down he was clad in what is called tema—a high-quality Chinese-made woolen fabric. Moreover, upon his head rested a magnificent ceremonial crown. There are times when he does not don the crown, leaving his shaven head fully exposed, but for some reason he wore it on this occasion. In his left hand he held prayer beads. His age was twenty-six at that time and is now twenty-eight. His stature measures approximately five shaku seven sun—in Tibet, he would not be considered particularly tall, though,

His Holiness’s countenance, to put it plainly, bore a remarkably resolute appearance; his eyes—to speak without restraint—were upturned like a fox’s, with eyebrows arched in the same sharp manner, giving his face an undeniably piercing quality. A Chinese physiognomist later told me that while the present Dalai Lama of Tibet had a bold countenance, his eye features were ill-omened and would surely bring great calamity upon this land through instigating war or similar strife—though whether this prediction held truth belongs to a later chapter. In any case, it was a face that would draw critical comments from any physiognomist who saw it. His voice carried extraordinary clarity yet depth—a voice radiating authority. Thus one naturally felt compelled to offer reverential bows. Afterward, I made thorough inquiries about His Holiness, was granted an audience, and received secret teachings from him. When I comprehensively reflected on the words he had spoken during various occasions,

The Dalai Lama’s Political Strategems: The Dalai Lama was richer in political strategems than in religious thought. Of course, having been raised solely in religious training, his faith in Buddhism was profound, and he appeared fully intent on expanding Buddhism throughout his country while purging clerical corruption. Yet his political calculations were far more numerous. What he feared most was Britain—how to repel them, how to deflect their designs to seize Tibet—matters he seemed to contemplate incessantly. This became clear to me through subsequent research, revealing His Holiness’s abundant focus on self-preservation. Had he lacked such vigilance, this Dalai Lama would surely have been poisoned by retainers long ago. But owing to his keen alertness and meticulous self-protection, even when retainers attempted poisonings, their crimes were typically exposed, with perpetrators frequently meeting disgrace. From such evidence, one clearly perceives a Dalai Lama richly endowed with wisdom.

Five Successive Dalai Lamas Poisoned: In Tibet, from the Eighth through the Twelfth—five successive Dalai Lamas—not a single one lived past twenty-five years of age. The current Dalai Lama is the Thirteenth, but among those from the Eighth to Twelfth reigns, there were only ones such as those poisoned at eighteen or twenty-two years old. This had become such an open secret in Tibet that virtually none remained unaware of it. To explain why this occurred: when a wise Dalai Lama assumed the throne, his close retainers found themselves unable to profit illicitly. Since they could not fully secure their own interests, all Dalai Lamas who had held office up to that point appeared to have been remarkably capable individuals. Among those personages, some were said to have received special education until reaching twenty-two or twenty-three years of age. This becomes evident from how they left behind writings to guide the people. That too stands fully substantiated by historical records.

71st Chapter: Recommendation of the Court Physician

Court sycophants - When I later heard about matters concerning previous Dalai Lamas from the Former Finance Minister with whom I had been lodging, there were things that brought tears to one's eyes. There seemed to be far too many disloyal wrongdoers among the close retainers. While it was said that on rare occasions there might indeed be two or three loyal retainers, these disloyal ones - though lacking in influence - were so cunning that they skillfully formed factions and maneuvered in ways that made them impossible to easily overthrow, thus permeating the court until there was simply no way to handle them. The Finance Minister under whose care I had been was also said to be one of those who had been removed. However, if disloyal people were to openly display their disloyalty to the populace, they could hardly maintain their positions. Therefore, on the surface they displayed such profound reverence toward the Dalai Lama that even true loyalists could scarcely imagine, all while feigning utmost devotion.

It was quite skillful indeed, and even now there remain many such villains. Whenever some trifling matter occurred or an event arose affecting their interests, these disloyal felons—who had long formed factions since acting alone brought no advantage—would covertly and overtly collude, voicing unspeakable things that even such traitors could scarcely utter, thereby wounding loyal retainers on one side. They would loudly proclaim that certain individuals had committed disrespect toward His Holiness the Dalai Lama—denouncing them as outrageous scoundrels—while harming innocent scholars and common folk through such talk, with courtiers of utmost cunning said to abound in great numbers. Thus did true loyalists and the people find it unbearable. With these terrible demons masquerading as devoted retainers encircling His Holiness, even when partaking of a meal he must exercise caution down to the minutest detail lest poison be present. I thought it truly pitiable indeed. Wondering whether any other land could harbor an imperial court filled with such demons disguised as loyal subjects, I secretly shed tears.

Inner Hall of the Dalai Lama's Detached Palace Yet because the current Dalai Lama was an exceptionally decisive figure, even such demons were said to greatly fear him. They had attempted to administer poison multiple times, but as these efforts failed and many were executed, even these demons were left trembling in fear. Nevertheless, it remained perilous for His Holiness to dwell among such demons. Setting that aside, the current Dalai Lama was truly an admirable individual. Despite his youth, he demonstrated extraordinary discernment in understanding even the most trivial circumstances of the common people. When local officials oppressed or mistreated the populace, he vigilantly expressed sympathy for the people, punishing those officials by confiscating their property or imprisoning them. Consequently, many among the officialdom detested His Holiness as one would loathe a caterpillar. Yet the local people praised the current Dalai Lama as a truly splendid figure, believing in him as if he were a bodhisattva or Buddha.

As I had come to reside at the Former Finance Minister’s residence around that time, I was granted permission to visit the inner hall of His Holiness’s detached palace and went to pay my respects. It was truly magnificent, its appearance seeming to have been constructed through a blending of three styles—Tibetan, Chinese, and Indian. The gardens were mostly modeled after Chinese styles with artificial hills; that said, there was also an expansive lawn garden outside, with a touch of flowers at its center giving it an Indian flair. That area was constructed to be extremely easy to move about in. The interior of the palace was naturally Tibetan in style, though some roofs incorporated Chinese-style elements, while others featured completely Indian-style flat roofs.

The garden contained various stones and trees; willows, cypresses, peach trees, elms, and other peculiar Tibetan varieties grew scattered throughout. While summer-blooming flowers thrived abundantly in Tibet, winter left scarcely any blossoms visible. Chrysanthemums, poppies, mokshamother flowers, small magnolias, tulips, and numerous others stood potted along the palace veranda. Within the inner hall's tamped-earth courtyard lay precious stones arranged in floral motifs; adjacent walls displayed sublime paintings by Tibet's finest artists; directly opposite rose a Tibetan-style two-tatami platform (His Holiness's seat), flanked by thick native carpets. These were all covered with Chinese-made woolen rugs bearing floral designs, before which stood beautiful high desks crafted from sturdy exotic hardwoods.

There was of course no tokonoma alcove, but a tea cabinet stood there, with a gold-powder painting of Jé Rinpoche hanging on the front wall. There were many such rooms, and numerous others whose interiors we were not permitted to see. What might lie within them? As His Holiness currently resided there, we could not enter, but even viewed from outside alone, they appeared truly splendid indeed.

After that, I frequently received summons from Chief Court Physician Tekan and visited his residence from time to time, where I had the honor of hearing medical topics unknown to me. However, as I had been compelled by necessity to study Chinese medical texts extensively during that period, I was somehow able to converse with the physician. Thereupon, the Chief Court Physician treated me with exceptional hospitality and earnestly desired: “I wish to recommend you as a court physician,” he said. “For this purpose, I will exert sufficient influence myself, but you should also make some efforts toward other ministers and officials.” To this I replied, “I cannot remain in this country much longer. In truth, I am one who seeks to practice Buddhism and wishes to go to India to study Sanskrit; it is utterly impossible for me to stay here.” The Chief Court Physician then said, “That won’t do. If someone like you leaves for another country, we’ll have no good physicians left in this capital. You absolutely must stay here—it would be disastrous otherwise.” When I said, “However, I am not one to spend my life as a physician. Moreover, medicine is not my true profession—as Buddhist practice is my fundamental calling, I cannot remain in this capital indefinitely through medical work,” the Chief Court Physician argued with plausible-sounding logic: “Is not the ultimate purpose of Buddhist practice the salvation of all sentient beings? If by being a physician you save lives and guide people toward Buddhism, this too constitutes salvation. Does it not amount to the same act of salvation wherever you reside? Therefore, would it not be permissible for you to remain in this capital?”

“Therefore I say: To save people as a doctor is but to relieve suffering confined to this world alone.” “Even that cannot be fully saved.” “When fixed karma ripens and death arrives now, neither Jivaka nor Bian Que could save them.” “How much less quacks like us—ignorant of medicine’s path—who may harm more than heal.” “Though doctors save lives sufficiently, they cannot save beings from fixed karma’s suffering.” “In Buddhism, a monk’s true duty lies in saving beings from heaviest illnesses, deepest pains, and ceaseless afflictions.” “That is—”

“Training to cure the disease of ignorance is a more urgent task than practicing medicine,” I said. “Therefore, I cannot remain in this capital as a physician.” “Truly, the Tathagata is the Great King of Physicians.” “Since his medicine saves sentient beings from their eighty-four thousand afflictions through eighty-four thousand Dharma medicines, we as his disciples must train in that medical Dharma.” When I stated that I must decline becoming a court physician, he pressed, “Then you insist on going to India?” “Essentially, yes.” “That’s impossible.” “There’s absolutely no way you can go to India.” “Should you stubbornly attempt to journey to India or any distant land, His Holiness the Dalai Lama will immediately issue orders to have you captured and detained here. You’d best abandon such notions.” “‘If you work with us,’ he concluded smoothly, ‘you’ll attain great happiness.’ I suddenly realized I’d carelessly exposed my secret plans.” Recognizing that excessive insistence on India would complicate my eventual departure, I diplomatically concluded the discussion.

There were still many stories to tell regarding medical matters, but let us set that aside for now, as a strange thing occurred here.

Chapter 72: The State of the Monks

The Special Treatment at Sera Monastic College — Now, regarding what constituted this strange matter: it had become a subject of debate among the elderly monks of Pīṭik Kamtsen at Sera where I resided that one could not possibly keep such an eminent physician—one deemed worthy of being summoned by the Dalai Lama or received by nobles and ministers—in the shabby monastic quarters where I then stayed. Gradually this argument gained traction throughout the Kamtsen until finally—though unprecedented—they resolved to grant me superior quarters, reasoning that a physician who had received a summons from the Dalai Lama warranted special treatment. Thus it was settled that I should reside there. At any rate, since occupying a superior room seemed preferable to remaining in the foul-smelling dark chamber beside the latrine, I accordingly relocated to those quarters.

My first audience with His Holiness the Dalai Lama took place on July 20th, and my room relocation occurred precisely toward the end of that same month. Speaking of standard procedures, those who first come to this monastic college cannot receive a separate room. They must live with someone else initially, but individuals with some money can obtain a dirty room upon matriculation. However, even this is not guaranteed. As I had modest financial means, I received such a dirty room immediately upon entering the college. Generally after about ten years, one may move up to a fourth-class room. After three more years, relocation to a third-class room becomes possible. But this too requires money.

Then, when they became Doctors, they could move to second-class rooms. This too ultimately depended on money. As for first-class rooms, those who came to study under incarnate lamas resided there. I was granted a second-class room—a remarkably fine one comprising a living space, kitchen, and storage area. It was truly a neat two-story structure; though three-story sections existed elsewhere, my quarters had only two floors. In two-story buildings, the second floor was considered superior, while in three-story ones, the topmost room held that distinction. Residing in such rooms naturally required proper furnishings and an attendant monk. It resembled a student establishing a new household—various items needed purchasing—but having ample funds, I acquired all necessities of quality befitting the room.

Here,

Let me briefly explain about the lifestyle of monks. The lives of monks are divided into various classes, but they can broadly be categorized into three. They are divided into three categories: upper-class monks, ordinary monks, and lower-class monks. As for ordinary monks, their monthly expenses for food and clothing amounted to about seven yen per person, and since lodging was naturally provided by their affiliated temple, no money was needed for that. However, some kamtsen had debts and thus collected small room fees from the monks. When too many monks came to one kamtsen, they naturally could not all enter inside.

At such times, those monks who could not enter had to go themselves to another Kamtsen to make arrangements and borrow a room there to reside. For this, there were rooms that still cost one yen per month, while better ones cost around three yen. The very worst ones cost about twenty-five sen. Their clothing consisted of kasaya robes made from ordinary woolen cloth, a shantab—a lower garment worn by passing through—along with a formal monk’s hat and mid-grade footwear. Even so, assembling a full set cost around twenty yen. For food, in the morning they had butter tea with roasted barley flour—though if they went to the main hall, they could receive three large bowls of tea each morning—but most ordinary monks with means prepared and drank tea in their own rooms every morning. A little past noon, they again ate roasted barley flour with butter tea, though at that time they also ate meat. The meat was mostly dried, though they occasionally used raw meat as well.

In the evening, it was usually wheat flour porridge; they skillfully prepared it by adding a little cheese, radishes, fatty meat, and such into it, then slurped down this porridge. Butter tea was usually poured into the teacups on the desk without leaving any space. It seemed Tibetans consumed a large amount of meat but had few vegetables, so they were constantly drinking tea. The teacups were always covered with silver lids; when the tea had cooled to the proper state, they would drink it, and after drinking, they would pour more and let it cool under the lid for about twenty minutes. However, in winter they could not leave it for so long; thus within five or six minutes, while drinking the tea, some engaged in conversation, recited sutras, or did side work. Such things were the ordinary monks' food and drink.

As for the property of monks, they generally possessed farmland. Among them, there were some in certain regions who engaged in herding yaks, horses, sheep, goats, and the like; however, these cases were not very numerous. As for livestock, they had about fifty yaks and ten horses. Regarding farmland, as I mentioned before, even with two yaks plowing all day long, the most they could manage was ten fields. Since their food expenses and pocket money came from those properties, they could not maintain a moderate lifestyle solely through the stipends provided by the temple or the general offerings called “ge” received from believers. Thus, on top of what they received from temples or believers, they sustained their livelihood through their own property and side jobs.

Monks' Occupations: Among monks, those who did not engage in trade were exceedingly rare. If they were not engaged in commerce, then agriculture; if not that, then animal husbandry. Then there were craftsmen: those who crafted Buddhist ritual implements, those who painted Buddhist images, tailors, carpenters, plasterers, shoemakers, stonemasons—in short, every occupation found among the Tibetan people (with the exception of butchers and hunters) could be found among the monks. Not only were there jobs that laypeople could not perform, but there were also many occupations that monks themselves undertook. These existed not only among middle-class monks but also lower-class ones.

The food, clothing, and shelter of upper-class monks were quite splendid; to begin with their property, there were those who owned between five hundred and four thousand yaks. Horses numbered from one hundred to five or six hundred head; farmland measured by the area two yaks could plow in a day ranged from one hundred to five or six hundred fields; and among those engaged in commerce, there were some who conducted business with capital ranging from ten thousand to five hundred thousand yen. However, it was said that even in Tibet, there were only three or four merchant monks who possessed capital of around five hundred thousand yen. The standard of living for these monks was splendid; though not opulent, they wore the finest woolen monastic robes produced within Tibet, and their daily sustenance consisted of butter tea thickened like porridge. This tea was prepared most excellently in Tibet.

Method of Preparing Superior Butter Tea: First, they boiled the tea leaves for half a day and thoroughly removed the dregs. Into this pitch-black liquid tinged slightly red went extremely fresh yak butter. Salt was added as customary before churning the mixture about twice in a cylindrical vessel—this produced the most superior tea. Preparing one jar of this tea cost around thirty-eight sen. The term "one jar" denoted a single earthenware tea vessel shaped precisely like a Japanese chamber pot. They would pour the mixture from this jar's spout into teacups—an initially off-putting sight. The viscous oily liquid appeared to stream from a chamber pot's mouth, deterring any immediate urge to taste it. Only members of the upper class could bring themselves to consume this beverage.

Namely, upper-class monks each morning would knead their roasted barley flour with this tea and add something called tsu to it. This tsu was made by solidifying cheese, butter, and white sugar into a form resembling Japanese imitation tofu. They would add that in and knead it well, then firmly grasp the mass with their right hand to eat it. Of course, since they ate meat from morning onward, this meat consisted of three varieties: dried meat, raw meat, and boiled meat. For their midday meal, they boiled expensive rice costing over fifty sen per sho—imported from Nepal—but never ate the rice plain. They would put sugar and dried raisins into butter, mix it thoroughly, and consume a full bowl of this mixture. Afterward, they sometimes ate egg noodles or roasted barley flour.

In the evening, they prepared wheat dumplings like stew and ate them. In Tibet this was called porridge, containing meat pieces along with radishes, cheese, and of course butter. However, they did not necessarily eat roasted barley flour every morning. When guests were present, these arrangements might vary in different ways, but such meals fundamentally constituted the regular diet of upper-class society. Upper-class monks could not go a single day without eating meat. Were they ever to maintain vegetarian discipline and abstain from meat-eating, great commotion would ensue—they would clamor noisily about wasting away or nearing death. It was truly pitiful.

Seventy-third Chapter: Lower-Class Student Monks

Pitiful Livelihood Now then, upper-class monks not only received first or second-class residences from their affiliated temples but also built villas for themselves or even owned private temples. Therefore, upper-class monks led truly splendid lives. As for where the funds for such a lifestyle came from, they were supplied from the property mentioned earlier. Consequently, upper-class monks' households typically had between five and seventy or eighty servants. From among them, they selected individuals such as stewards, chief accountants, merchant captains, or lama's attendants—each with distinct scopes of duties. While upper-class monks lived comfortably, sheltered from harsh winds as they were attended by numerous servant monks, lower-class monks found themselves in circumstances so pitiable that merely describing them brought tears to the eyes—a reality entirely opposite to that of their superiors.

Their pitiful state was nearly beyond description, but I shall begin by explaining it. Even among those considered lower-class, warrior monks could earn money by working as farmhands for others, taking on side jobs, or becoming guards, thereby meeting their own needs—so they did not engage in livelihoods where they had nothing to eat that day. Here, the most pitiable and deserving of sympathy were the lives of lower-class student monks. They had no study funds sent from their homes. They had no money earned through their own work. They were too busy studying their subjects to go anywhere. As for what they relied on for their study expenses, there was the “ge”—monthly offerings from believers amounting to one to two yen—and then a stipend of about one yen. With two or three yen, they could not possibly make a living.

In the morning, they went to the main hall where tea was freely available, but the essential roasted barley flour required payment. Without at least one yen and thirty to forty sen per month, no one could fill their stomachs. During their dialectic debate training periods, they would go to Tarsan daily to receive three cups of tea each—their sole means of managing a midday meal. These training cycles alternated monthly: one month of debates required a month of rest for review and preparation; half a month of debates demanded half a month's respite. Consequently, these monks had to attend their teachers' quarters for debate instruction. Unless they paid at least fifty sen monthly in tuition fees, no instructors would teach them—only those of exceptional compassion offered lessons without full payment. Thus their two yen largely vanished into barley flour and tuition costs. Yet even so, they could not simply forgo burning fuel in their rooms at night.

At night, they still had to prepare some tea and eat roasted barley flour. However, they had no means to obtain the money needed to buy that tea. Of course, they could never afford such extravagances as adding butter. Therefore, lower-class student monks would obtain the tea dregs from upper-class monks' tea, rebrew the dregs, and drink it—but the fuel for boiling, yak dung, did not come free either. A single bale (holding approximately 5 to in volume) cost as much as thirty-five sen. If burned even slightly more liberally, one person might go through three or four bales in a month, but those poor student monks had to endure with just one bale for nearly a year.

When entering the room of such a student monk, their possessions consisted of a sheepskin, a single wooden bowl, prayer beads, and one shabby mat. As this mat also served as their bed at night, in the corner stood a hearth belonging to the room, upon which sat an earthen pot alongside a clay jar for holding water. In the corner of the wall hung a single fastened bag containing roasted barley flour that sustained their lives. Even that was rarely full. However, if asked what their most crucial possession was among these, it would be their textbooks for dialectic debates. Even the most lowly monk typically possessed around five or six volumes of these. However, once their coursework was completed, they immediately sold those books and purchased new ones needed next time, so they were never kept as permanent possessions.

At night, the kasaya robes and undergarments they wore served as their bedding, and while having an old blanket on top would have made things considerably better, many did not even have that. Even so, those who had a room to themselves were still relatively fortunate, so generally about three people lived together in a single room measuring nine feet square. And so it came to be that three people shared a single earthen pot. Wondering how they endured Tibet's severe winter nights in such bitter cold within these rooms, when I went to examine those people's illnesses, tears spilled forth unbidden—I could not even think of charging for medicine. A sensation arose where I wanted to give them money. This was the state of life for lower-class monks.

Therefore, these monks could hardly obtain any food when there was no ge, and at times would go three or four days without eating. Yet when they managed to receive twenty or thirty sen in ge, they would promptly set off for Lhasa—a distance of one and a half ri—clutching their starving stomachs to buy roasted barley flour. Had they bought it and returned straightaway, that would have been ideal. But sometimes their hunger grew so unbearable that they would dash into noodle shops and spend all their ge on udon or such things, leaving them famished again with nothing to eat for two or three days. Then I would witness the pitiful sight of them finally having to go begging somewhere. In such cases, I would give what money I could or do whatever possible. As a result, the student monks came to show me great respect, until eventually when encountering me on the road, scarcely any would even look at my face as they passed.

The Origins of My Acquaintance with the Owner of Tenwado | To backtrack a bit in the story, as I began practicing medicine and my work gradually flourished, I found myself needing to purchase large quantities of medicine. Thus for procuring medicines, I came to visit periodically the residence of a merchant from China's Yunnan Province—a man whose shop was called Tenwado and whose personal name was Li Zhiji. In Tibet, all medicines were prepared as powdered substances for use. They did not cut and store herbs to decoct them like the Chinese did. All plant roots and barks were ground into powder to make medicine. Types of horns and various mineral ores were also utilized.

In order to have those medicines ground into powder, I often stayed at that house for a day or two. As I bought medicine in great quantities, I became an excellent customer, and they began treating me quite favorably. From that person I borrowed a medical text called Jingyue Quanshu, and since I had previously heard about such matters while also knowing a little already, through studying this text I became able to handle most patients. Quite

Though I considered myself a dubious doctor at best—a mere bat in a village without birds—there was no alternative. Still, I proved far more capable than Lhasa's physicians, never once losing a debate on physiological matters. In this respect, people undoubtedly placed greater trust in me than in the local doctors. Thus I began visiting that house—Tenwado—with some frequency. The residence contained numerous rooms. Though three Chinese pharmacies operated in Lhasa, this was by far the largest. Its proprietor, a man still around thirty years of age, treated me with exceptional kindness despite my circumstances. His wife managed household affairs with remarkable competence—together they raised a daughter and son, cared for her elderly mother, and employed three servants under one roof. They gradually came to treat me as kin. This stemmed from my peculiar circumstance: people constantly gifted me foodstuffs far beyond what I could possibly consume alone. With leftovers perpetually accumulating, I distributed them freely without particular thought—sweets here, dried grapes there—to whoever might benefit.

When I received particularly good sweets, yogurt, white sugar, or dried grapes among other things, I would always take them to that house. The children would be overjoyed, having learned they would surely receive something whenever I visited, and would wait properly in expectation. If I didn’t visit for two or three days, they would grow anxious wondering why the Sera doctor wasn’t coming, until I ended up blending in seamlessly as one of their family members. Becoming intimate with children happened swiftly—it felt as though we had spent ten or fifteen years cultivating such closeness. When seen by outsiders who happened by, people would occasionally ask whether we were closer than relatives who had recently arrived from China or perhaps actual kin. This intimate bond proved immensely helpful when I later departed Tibet, though I shall recount that matter in its proper sequence.

Chapter Seventy-Four: Tenwado and the Old Nun

The Secretary to the Chinese Amban | There was a Chinese pharmacy called Tenwado (Gyami Menkan) in Wanshu Shinkan—a district of Lhasa—and among those who visited this residence was a man named Ma Quan, Secretary to the Chinese Amban (Resident Commissioner). This man stood out as a scholar of considerable standing among the Chinese, an experienced individual of good character. He had been born in Tibet to a Tibetan mother. Though his Tibetan carried no Chinese accent, he remained proficient in Chinese and well-read in Chinese texts. Indeed, he proved more versed in Chinese literature than Tibetan works, having visited Beijing twice and traveled twice more on trade ventures to Calcutta and Bombay in India—experiences that gave him substantial knowledge of foreign affairs. He would go to work at the yamen, though his official duties occupied but a brief portion of his time, leaving him free to spend the remainder at leisure. Being on intimate terms with the pharmacy owner, he made frequent visits to this establishment for conversation.

Then as I became acquainted and gradually conversed with him, I found it quite engaging. Through him, I learned of various secretive and unsavory Tibetan customs and practices. Listening carefully and observing closely, I realized these accounts matched reality perfectly. Without such information, one would remain oblivious to many things. Moreover, being Secretary to the Chinese Amban, he possessed extensive knowledge of confidential matters between the Chinese and Tibetan governments, which he freely discussed. By nature an inveterate talker, he would generously hold forth without waiting for my questions. Thus having gained this invaluable friend, visiting him for conversation became my greatest pleasure whenever I grew weary from studying texts at Sera—even when lacking medical purchases to justify the outing.

Prince of the Pāla Regent Family | One time when I was standing at Tenwado's entrance, a nobleman approached my direction accompanied by a servant. This pharmacy stood at the triangular junction where the Panansho road met the Kachehakan road. From beyond Anisakan, that gentleman came walking toward Panansho. He passed slightly after noticing me standing there, but when he turned back to look again, his attendant servant exclaimed, "It's him! It's him!" The gentleman then approached me and said, "Ah, it's you." When I examined his face—though terribly emaciated—I recognized him as the Prince of the Pāla Regent Family whom I'd met previously in Darjeeling. From his demeanor, he didn’t appear to be the madman I’d heard rumors about.

"It has truly been a long time since then—and you've managed to come here," he remarked in that manner. When I suggested, "This isn't the place for conversation—shall we go inside?" he responded, "Though pressed for time, I'll step in briefly," and entered. The Tenwado mistress, evidently acquainted with him beforehand, immediately gestured toward a chair and entreated, "Please have a seat." Anticipating he might broach matters concerning me, I signaled with my eyes before abruptly commencing: "It's been precisely half a year since we last met in this secondary capital." Naturally understanding that disclosing my Darjeeling presence would endanger himself too, he deftly synchronized his narrative with mine.

Observing this behavior, he didn't seem like a madman at all. Our conversation covered various topics, yet his words differed not from those of a sensible person. During this exchange, he remarked: "I shouldn't have become this emaciated, but three months ago my servant turned thief. "When I reprimanded him, he flew into a rage and plunged a dagger into my flank here. "This caused my intestines to protrude slightly, bringing great distress. "Had I known of your presence here sooner, I'd have been spared such hardship." "That sounds most regrettable," I responded, and after further discussion of these matters, the party took their leave.

Then came an odd revelation from the Tenwado mistress. "That Pāla young lord certainly spins clever tales," she said with a laugh. "Though he brought that stomach wound upon himself through misdeeds, he tries to deceive you with shame-faced lies—but I know the whole truth." When I asked how she could possibly know such things, she revealed, "I was once wed to his elder brother. His parents forbade him from staying with me long—my family stood too low in station. After he divorced me to be adopted into the Namsailin house, I learned every secret of that family." "The truth is," she continued, "that young wastrel racked up debts chasing women and drink until some tavern brawl left him gut-stabbed—nothing like the noble story he fed you." When I asked if this made him mad, she warned, "He only plays the lunatic when creditors come calling or trouble brews—a perfectly sane nuisance otherwise. Don't let that 'madness' fool you. He's artful at borrowing money—cross him carelessly, and you'll regret it deeply." With that, the matter closed.

Though my relationship with the pharmacy would come up frequently hereafter, I determined to leave it at this for now.

I shall now relate an event from early August concerning an invitation extended by someone with whom I would later develop a profound connection. Since going into detail about which prominent person invited me or whether such-and-such illness was cured or not would be tedious, I shall set such matters aside and here must speak of someone who became profoundly connected to me.

The Elderly Nun’s Invitation | This concerned an elderly nun residing in the home of Tibet’s Finance Minister. She had taken up residence at a wheat field villa due to illness. In Tibet, when people spoke of flower viewing excursions, they generally meant peach blossoms—fleeting blooms that quickly faded away and offered little lasting interest. Thus when summer arrived, they customarily held Linka Feasts (in groves or gardens), erecting tents among wheat fields or laying mats in wooded areas to enjoy diversions of their choosing—feasting on delicacies, drinking liquor, singing songs, and dancing—as their principal recreation. Tibetans considered this their supreme seasonal pleasure and could scarcely contain their anticipation for summer’s arrival and these Linka gatherings.

Thus, when I was invited and went to that wheat field villa, there resided a nun in her sixties. Accompanying that nun were also seven or eight individuals such as attending nuns and maidservants. The villa was quite splendidly constructed. Not using a tent but skillfully built with planks, its exterior was covered with cut cloth. The interior was also lined with various splendid patterned fabrics. Though a temporary residence, it had been kept quite clean. I was invited there. According to the elderly nun’s words: “I have been ill for fifteen or sixteen years now—an ailment of old age with no hope of cure. Still, if you would deign to check my pulse, renowned one, and even should I not recover, any slight relief from this pain would suffice.” Thus she humbly requested an examination. Upon inquiring about her condition and conducting various examinations, I determined it was rheumatism. I promptly prepared a Kampo tincture for her.

Since she also seemed to have a slight stomach ailment, I administered that medicine as well. The medicine itself wasn't particularly effective, but due to her immense faith—a force truly formidable—the rather unremarkable remedy worked remarkably well. The pain that had kept her awake every night for fifteen or sixteen years finally subsided, allowing her to walk with some degree of freedom. However, overjoyed, she promptly reported this matter to the Finance Minister at her residence. This nun was in fact the secret wife of the former Finance Minister.

You may find it strange that the nun was a wife, but the Finance Minister was also a monk. He was, moreover, a monk of the reformist sect. Though it pains me to speak of this matter, I must state the truth plainly, for otherwise the situation would remain unclear; I intended to present the facts as they were—acknowledging what was good as good and what was bad as bad. The cohabitation of this Finance Minister and the nun was a practice unique to them, one scarcely tolerated in their society; yet when it came to noble monks in general, they did have wives. They could not openly keep wives, but either hid common-law wives somewhere or kept them discreetly within—and for that purpose, what proved most convenient was having a monk’s wife be a nun, so to speak, which suited their needs perfectly. Thus, this Finance Minister also had a nun wife. However, she was already a very elderly person—white-haired and bent at the waist—yet had a large frame and was by nature robust.

Seventy-fifth Chapter: The Former Finance Minister and the Supreme Monk

The elderly eminent figure standing seven shaku four or five sun tall—the Finance Minister’s household naturally had many retainers and numerous servants. When those people fell ill, they all came to me for treatment, insisting they would only consult a Sera doctor. It was through their own faith that their illnesses were cured. That I was revered in this manner stemmed not from my own power. Truly, I thought it must be Buddha orchestrating matters thus to inspire people’s faith—a notion I found utterly bewildering. Gradually, I became acquainted with the Former Finance Minister through these interactions. As we conversed on various matters, I came to recognize him as not merely an exceptional scholar brimming with erudition, but also a man who resolved crises without misstep and handled diplomatic affairs with consummate skill.

At that time he was sixty-two years old, but in Tibet I had never seen anyone as tall as him. He certainly stood seven shaku four or five sun—about 224 centimeters. When I stood beside him, I only reached up to his chest. Walking together along a road, we appeared exactly like a parent and child side by side. Making clothes for him always required fabric enough for two garments. Despite possessing keen discernment of people and abounding in worldly wisdom, he remained exceedingly kind and principled, never resorting to deception. The sole flaw one might note was his youthful entanglement with this nun—a single misstep that ultimately brought about his downfall.

A room in the Finance Minister’s detached residence. During those times when he spoke intimately with me, I would occasionally hear him and the nun confess their remorse through shared tears—"If such a thing hadn’t happened back then, these foolish matters wouldn’t have occurred." Judging from such points, he was not a bad person at heart. Their failure to uphold proper monastic conduct stemmed from youthful indiscretion. Yet considering how such tendencies already permeated society, I believe they had simply been swayed by prevailing norms. Being such a man, he discerned my true circumstances and remarked, “You must endure such hardship! Merely tending to Sera’s patients while residing there proves arduous enough." He continued, “With additional patients streaming in from Lhasa and distant regions besides, you can scarcely find time for reading at all.”

“Indeed, I am nearly at my wit’s end over being unable to read those books.” “That is truly a pitiful situation.” “Moreover, if you continue like this hereafter, your safety will be in danger first.” “What exactly is dangerous?” When I asked, he replied, “Since your arrival, the other doctors have been unable to make a living. Those physicians might very well have someone administer poison to you.” “Well, you’ll most likely be killed off, in my estimation,” he said. “That’s troubling.” “I wonder if there isn’t some method we could try,” I said, to which he replied, “As long as you can manage to eat and clothe yourself, that should suffice.” “Oh, no—if I can manage that, it would be more than sufficient.” “I’ll take care of that.” “The residence isn’t all that grand, but I can provide a room somewhat more comfortable than staying at the temple. How does that sound?” “If you were to take up residence at my house and study here,” “In fact, you’d be able to study quite well.” “Unless they’re truly desperate patients, they won’t come here often.” “Though I feel for the patients, how about studying there with the thought that you’ll be helping Lhasa’s doctors?” When he said this, I was truly overjoyed. Though I had come all the way to Lhasa specifically to study Tibetan Buddhism, I had been thinking it was truly regrettable that while I could only observe worldly matters and gain convenience for investigating those affairs, I remained unable to investigate Buddhism itself—so when I heard that proposal just then, my joy at that moment surpassed even the happiness of reuniting with one’s own parents.

I took up residence at the Finance Minister’s estate. Everything proceeded smoothly—funds became available, and the Finance Minister fully provided for my food, clothing, and shelter. I had all provisions and daily necessities transported from Sera, leaving only the young acolyte to guard my former quarters. I instructed him never to reveal my stay at the Finance Minister’s residence and to direct even urgent patients to other physicians, adding that I must now devote myself to study. After supplying him with food and establishing a proper study routine, I fully settled into the Finance Minister’s detached residence. However, when debates commenced at Sera, I would occasionally attend their practice sessions.

However, the residence I received was not particularly spacious. It measured three ken in length and about two ken in depth, partitioned into two rooms. Yet being originally constructed in aristocratic mansion style, the wall patterns were truly splendid. The surfaces glimmered with complete green paint, adorned by a thick carpet bearing Tibetan floral motifs in gold, an exotic hardwood desk, and a modest Buddhist altar. Every detail had been meticulously attended to in this immaculate mansion, beside which stood another grand structure. That building housed the Current Finance Minister in its three-story form, while Former Finance Minister Champa Choesang (Maitreya Dharma Virtue) resided in a two-story mansion. The tranquil setting combined with the estate's official status meant even my monk friends from Sera days grew too intimidated to visit. While ideal for study, this arrangement made visiting my teachers difficult—proof indeed that one cannot have two perfect advantages at once.

Took Tibet’s highest monk as his teacher. However, the best instructor here turned out to be none other than Chi Rinpoche, the elder brother of the Former Finance Minister. This Chi Rinpoche was said to be his half-brother from a different father and of Chinese descent. This same Chi Rinpoche had also hailed from Sera Monastery, having entered monastic life around age seven; now sixty-seven years old, he had ascended the previous year to become Ganden Chi Rinpoche—Tibet’s most exalted monastic position. The title "Chi Rinpoche" meant "Seat-Treasure," derived from the ceremonial throne at Ganden Monastery where Je Tsongkhapa—founder of the new sect—had once sat. In all Tibet, only two individuals could occupy that sacred seat. These were the Dalai Lama and this Chi Rinpoche. Yet the Dalai Lama did not permanently occupy this seat. When residing at Ganden—particularly during ceremonial occasions—Chi Rinpoche would always take his place upon it.

The Dalai Lama occupies his position by birthright, but this Chi Rinpoche, after studying Buddhist philosophy and becoming a Geshe, had to undergo nearly thirty years of secret tantric training. Rather than academic study, it was ascetic practice. Having accumulated the merit of those ascetic practices and achieved perfect fulfillment in both scholarly knowledge and virtuous conduct, only upon becoming an eminent monk whom Tibet recognizes as having no equal worthy of occupying this seat does one receive the Dalai Lama’s invitation to assume this position. However, the children of butchers, blacksmiths, hunters, and guards cannot attain that position. If one is but a child of ordinary people, anyone who accumulates fifty to sixty years of practice and becomes a virtuous monk of both learning and virtue can attain this position.

Therefore, when considered from practical learning and virtue, this Rinpoche stood higher than even the Dalai Lama himself, and I counted myself fortunate to have obtained the happiness of serving such an exalted master. This was no ordinary achievement in Tibet. Given Tibet's rigid class system, he remained a figure whom even securing an audience with proved difficult. Even should one manage through connections to meet him, hearing words from his lips became a near-impossible feat. That I came to receive teachings from him as my master owed entirely to the Former Finance Minister's benevolence—through which I gained this rare fortune. Thus did I learn fully from him both the exoteric and esoteric aspects of Tibetan Buddhism. Yet this Chi Rinpoche proved most extraordinary, treating me from our first meeting as though he had pierced through my concealed identity. Still, he privately intimated: "As no harm seems imminent for now, you would do well to remain here."

I became truly frightened, but sensing he had discerned my innermost thoughts, he proceeded to instruct me in Buddhism’s true essence. That profound gratitude remains unforgettable to this day. Though I received teachings from many Geshes, scholars, religious figures, and hermits during my time in Tibet, none influenced me as deeply as this venerable master. I concluded that it was precisely due to his presence that his younger brother—the former minister—though having once strayed into error, ultimately devoted himself to sincere repentance seeking lasting peace of mind. As for the elderly nun who was the former minister’s wife, her spirited disposition matched his own; while retaining feminine gentleness, she maintained a mindset one might call masculine in its vigor.

Chapter 76: Japanese Products in Lhasa

The Current Finance Minister—this nun had made a pilgrimage to Kathmandu in Nepal some twenty years prior to repent her karmic transgressions. As her tales of those hardships often coincided with my own experiences during my time in Nepal, I would regularly listen to her accounts. Yet what truly struck me was how profoundly both the minister’s deep sense of righteousness and hers mirrored one another—indeed exemplifying that adage about spouses growing alike. Thus rather than condemning these two venerable figures—a monk and nun—for defiling Buddhism’s sanctity through their marital union, I instead came to perceive the pathos underlying their sentiments. There were moments when I recognized how easily even I might succumb to such human frailties, resolving to let their precedent—like an overturned cart ahead—serve as caution for my own spiritual journey.

As we grew increasingly intimate—from matters concerning the household and retainers’ dispositions down to the most trivial details—I gradually came to understand everything thoroughly. Though the Current Finance Minister resided right next door to me, his heavy workload made meaningful conversation difficult. His name was Tenzin Choegyal (Dharma King Upholding Teachings). He was remarkably gentle yet possessed unshakable resolve. During our talks, he always smiled warmly and treated me like a friend, making me forget he was a minister—and he too spoke without invoking his official authority. I believe this stemmed from how the former minister and nun had cared for me like their own child; their affection likely influenced his kindness toward me.

When we spoke candidly—given he was the Current Finance Minister—affairs of state would occasionally surface. Whenever a thorny problem arose in government, this man would refrain from voicing opinions on the spot, returning home instead to consult the Former Finance Minister as one would a father. When he posed, “There was such a matter today—how should it be handled?” the Former Minister would prescribe appropriate measures by consulting precedents or adapting to circumstances. Fundamentally speaking, the Former Finance Minister was considered someone who ought now occupy either a Prime Minister’s position or that of Minister of the Imperial Household among high-ranking monk officials. That this never came to pass stemmed from his taking the nun as wife—a decision that became fodder for criticism even in Tibet, compelling his natural retirement into seclusion, so it was said.

Had he come to govern in Tibet, I believe the present astute Dalai Lama and this seasoned minister working in concert might have accomplished remarkable things. Through these nightly discussions between the Former Finance Minister and the Current Finance Minister, I came to attend their meetings myself, growing close enough that I would listen to various matters and at times even attempt to offer opinions. Because of this, I abandoned thoughts of research; even had I wished to pursue it, I had resigned myself to its utter impossibility.

I had also gained full access to understand Tibet's diplomatic affairs. While temple residence proved ideal for studying Buddhist doctrine, government secrets remained entirely unknown within academic circles—only simpleton monks revering the Dalai Lama's administration occupied themselves with scholarly pursuits. What fools! They remained ignorant precisely because none informed them. In any case, having secured this advantageous position, I resolved to later disclose the diplomatic secrets I had learned regarding China, Britain, Russia, Nepal and others when circumstances permitted.

Then, as strange occurrences piled one upon another, there came to be quite a number of what might be called coincidences: I had previously experienced a chance encounter with the Prince of the Pāla Regent Family before Tianhetang Pharmacy, and this time I met a Darjeeling merchant named Tsar Rumba—a man bearing a toponymic appellation derived from his homeland. Since this individual would later prove instrumental in my eventual departure from Tibet, I must record this meeting here lest subsequent events lose their context. One day, while walking along what might be termed Lhasa’s main thoroughfare—

I made my way around the street called Barkhor—a thoroughfare one could liken to Tokyo’s Ginza Street. Since all merchants in that street set up shops, the manner in which these shops were arranged was not particularly different from how it was done in other countries. Moreover, street stalls were also abundant in the wider sections of the road, their goods consisting mostly of daily necessities. Items required for clothing or food along with daily utensils—among these Tibetan goods naturally constituted the majority—but next in abundance came articles imported from regions such as India, Calcutta, and Bombay. What struck me most among these were Japanese matches. Matches produced by a man named Doi (Kamekuro) from Osaka had made their way into Lhasa, Tibet. Other items were present too, but since their names weren’t recorded, I couldn’t tell. There were wax matchboxes depicting two elephant faces or one elephant face—some showing an elephant being led out from a house—all bearing the words "Made in Japan." The designs stood out white against a red background. Though matches made in Sweden were also present in some quantity—

Overwhelmed by Japanese matches, they now remained only in small quantities. Furthermore, Japanese bamboo blinds with pictures of women and such drawn on them were also present. Moreover, even among ceramics, Kutani ware—though it was not put out for sale in shops—could be found in noble households. Moreover, Japanese paintings and such were occasionally hung as framed pieces in noble households. Looking at those Japanese goods, I found it amusing—though the thought was my own—that inanimate objects could be considered greater than sentient humans. Particularly upon seeing the abundance of Japanese matches, I conceived a foolish notion—that perhaps this was an auspicious omen of Japan’s flame of wisdom becoming the instrument to illuminate this country’s benighted darkness—and thus arrived at a shopfront while strolling absentmindedly. By the way, I came across some excellent soap. Such items had never been seen in Lhasa before, so thinking this an excellent find, I decided to buy them and inquired about the price—whereupon the shopkeeper fixed me with a sharp stare.

When I glanced casually, it seemed to be Tsar Rumba—a merchant I had known in Darjeeling. Why would he open a shop here? Or perhaps someone who closely resembled him? I wondered if they might be brothers, but no matter how I looked, it was unmistakably Tsar Rumba himself. Yet with my face and attire completely altered, he showed no sign of recognition whatsoever. Still, he stared at me with intense suspicion. Back in Darjeeling days, I had mostly worn Japanese clothes and rarely ventured out even when dressed Tibetan-style. Since arriving in Tibet, my pure Tibetan garb had transformed my appearance entirely. Having been clean-shaven then but now sporting a long beard made his failure to recognize me perfectly understandable.

The shopkeeper said, “That soap is rather pricey—you’d do better to pass on it. There’s a cheaper one over here that’s just as good.” When I replied that the cheaper option didn’t sit right with me and insisted on the finer, more expensive variety, he chuckled and quoted me the price. After purchasing two bars and returning home, I absentmindedly showed them to the Current Finance Minister, who remarked, “This has an exquisite fragrance and fine quality indeed. Might you spare some for me?” “By all means—I’ll give them to you right away,” I said, presenting both bars.

Chapter Seventy-Seven: Crisis of the Secret's Exposure

Another Chance Encounter: Two or three days later, I went out to Barkhor again, thinking that if I didn't buy two or three of those soaps to have on hand, they might sell out and become unavailable in Lhasa. But when I went to the shop, the proprietor, instead of selling the soap, was staring fixedly at my face. As I began to take out money, saying I would buy the soap at the previous price, a voice unmistakably belonging to Tsar Rumba said, "Now wait—don't you recognize me?" To which I replied with a laugh, "I do." Then, with a greatly surprised expression, he said, "Please do come inside," and since it was already dusk, he instructed the shop assistant to close up the store and entered the house. When I followed him inside, he said, "Please do come up—it's been so long, though I must apologize for the untidiness." I followed the proprietor through the house—a rather tidy and impressive merchant's residence—passed through two or so rooms, climbed a steep ladder-like staircase, and arrived at his main chamber.

In that room was his wife Peton (Renxian), who had also come from Darjeeling together with him. I had immediately recognized her, but she showed no sign of recognition whatsoever. The husband asked his wife with a laugh, "Do you know this person?" but when she looked at me, she answered, "I do not." "How could you not know? You should recognize him very well—he's the one who helped you!" he said. She peered intently this time but still seemed utterly perplexed. "I don't recall this gentleman at all. If he were someone who had helped me, I should remember," she replied, to which he retorted, "This is exactly why you're hopeless." "Didn't you receive precious medicine from him and get cured during that incident in Darjeeling?" "Ah yes," she said. "You needn't elaborate further." She turned to me with an apology: "Forgive my rudeness." "I never imagined we'd meet again in such a place after all this time." "What a delightful occasion," she concluded with a gracious bow.

**Seizing the Initiative in Another Chance Encounter** “My, where in the world have you come from?” they exclaimed in unison. “We Tibetans ourselves endure such hardship coming and going that we’d wish to slip through any hidden path if one existed—yet here you are! Where did you come from? Did you fly through the skies?” “I know nothing of flying—I came from the Northwest Plains,” I replied. “What Northwest Plains? For three or four years now, they’ve stationed soldiers on every hidden path there. You couldn’t possibly have slipped through anywhere.” “Since there’s nowhere left to come through but guarded paths—and you clearly didn’t—we can only think you must have flown here.” “Nonsense—I came through trackless regions with great difficulty,” I countered, though my words failed to convince him.

If I made a single misstep in this critical moment, my identity as a Japanese would be exposed, potentially bringing great calamity upon my benefactors—the Finance Minister and Sera University. Since merchants were particularly prone to pursue profit, they might devise some scheme to report me to the government for monetary gain. As the saying goes, "He who seizes the initiative gains victory"—at this juncture, the thought arose that I must devise a strategy.

Chapter Seventy-Eight: The Oath of the Tibetan People

Seizing the initiative, I deliberately adopted a solemn bearing and declared: “You two live quite splendidly—but reporting me to the government could earn you substantial profit.” “That would actually prove most convenient for me as well.” Whenever I stated my intentions openly, the truth somehow ended up being doubted as if it were falsehood—a tiresome outcome indeed.

“So the Japan Lama you two saw in Darjeeling has been hiding in this country. It would be best for you to report that I was the one who discovered him. Then you can make money, and it’s convenient for me too. I’ve already prepared to be arrested,” I said sharply. At this, the wife trembled slightly, and her husband exclaimed with great astonishment, “How could we possibly do such a thing? Even if we made a fortune through such wickedness, what use would that money be? We are not so vile as that! Even if we were to starve, we would never engage in such acts. Even if this matter were to come to light and disaster were to befall us, we would have no choice but to resign ourselves to it as karma from a past life. Though we are merchants through and through, we harbor no thoughts of seizing such filthy money. Please don’t say such things—it puts us in a difficult position,” came his admirable response.

“That may be so, but since you could profit while it suits my purposes, I thought I’d mention it.” “Or do you truly have no intention at all of reporting me to the government?” “Far from it—by Chöö Rinpoche (our oath)—I would sooner die than commit such an act!” This constituted the Tibetans’ most solemn vow in Lhasa.

Chöö Rinpoche means "Jewel of the Savior" and refers to Shakyamuni Buddha enshrined in Lhasa. This entails making an oath as solemn as declaring to Shakyamuni Buddha: "If I speak of this matter, let me die—strike me down." Invoking "Chöö Rinpoche," they spread their left hands toward Lhasa where Shakyamuni Buddha resides, making their vow with such fervent prayer and fearful awe that it seemed they trembled. Their demeanor at that moment showed not the slightest hint of deception. It could only be perceived as arising from the very depths of their hearts.

Then his wife likewise invoked Chöö Rinpoche, declaring, “I will absolutely never do such a thing. Even were you to entreat me endlessly to report it, by Chöö Rinpoche, I could never consent to such a request.” To obtain this oath in Tibet held greater certainty than acquiring a notarized document. “In that case, there’s no need to insist,” I said, bringing the matter to a close for the present. At this point, let me briefly

I will now discuss the types of Tibetan oaths. In Tibet, there exist several types of oath formulas—the most common being "Namu Sanbō," while another involves swearing that "should my words prove false, may I be parted from my beloved mother by death." Furthermore, in various regions, people swear by invoking their local earth deities or renowned Buddhas and bodhisattvas particular to those areas. In Lhasa Prefecture, "Chöö Rinpoche" serves as the primary oath, and when a price becomes formally settled in business transactions, merchants invoke this phrase to swear. Since this was often spoken as mere lip service without strictly pointing toward the Jokhang Temple during invocation, even when someone inserted “Chöö Rinpoche” like an interjection during casual business talks or trivial conversations, there remained many cases where it could not be reliably trusted. However, when people finally pointed toward the Jokhang Temple or placed sutras upon their heads while swearing this oath to settle matters definitively, breaking it was regarded as a graver sin than killing one’s parents.

In ordinary circumstances, oath formulas were inserted like interjections between phrases to confirm one’s statements; thus women and children employed a great many oath phrases in their speech. In Tibet, the number of oath formulas I knew amounted to forty-five types alone, but as they were tedious, I omitted them. Next, when the host inquired about my current residence and I replied I was staying at Sera, he pondered a moment before saying: “Then you must be that Serai Amchi—the one who’s been frequenting the palace of the highly renowned Dalai Lama these days? (‘Serai Amchi’ meaning ‘Sera’s physician,’ a title by which I was known, though my true name was Sérap Gyamtso—that is, Gekai.)” “Yes,” I replied, whereupon he exclaimed in astonishment: “Lately, people have been likening you to..."

“People have been likening you to Yakushi-sama or Jivaka,” they said. “We too, being of delicate health, were just about to request an audience to determine whether any serious illness might afflict us—when such talk began circulating, after which we became exceedingly close with that person.” As I was staying again at that Finance Minister’s residence, there was often an excessive amount of food with no way to consume it all. This was due to noble patients I had to examine through ministerial introductions. When I visited them, they would present me with various rare delicacies atop numerous gifts.

Since I couldn't possibly eat all those things by myself, I would take them to the pharmacy and distribute them there. I would also share them with the disciple monks keeping watch over my room. Even if I didn't have much food for myself, there was such an abundance of feasts at the Finance Minister's residence that... Thus, as our familiarity gradually deepened, it became the true reason that saved me from calamity. Therefore, since I was still a student at that monastic college, I could not neglect my studies. From time to time, I had to return to Sera and attend the dialectic debates. Of course, being a physician, the instructors showed some leniency—they wouldn't scold me even if I didn't attend daily—but since I enjoyed it myself, I went periodically. Here, I shall now discuss monks' general tendencies, scholars' aspirational ideals, and matters such as ethnic distinctions among monks.

Chapter Seventy-Nine: The Purpose of Monks

Characteristics of the Three Ethnic Groups: In the three great monasteries, Tibetans were not the sole inhabitants everywhere. They were referred to as Mongolians and Tibetans, but there were also people from Kham who belonged to a slightly distinct ethnicity. These groups differed somewhat in disposition according to their respective homelands. Tibetans appeared gentle and docile outwardly, prone to overthinking every matter, but they were fundamentally averse to study and exceedingly lazy by nature; their unclean way of living also seemed to stem partly from this indolence. For Tibetan monks leading ordinary lives, winter meant going to the main hall to read sutras or drink tea. During those intervals, they would strip naked before their quarters in sunny spots, drying their backs like tortoise shells. Using scraps of woolen cloth to wipe their noses, they would place these snot-stained rags on their heads to dry while drowsily warming themselves in a pleasant stupor—a sight truly without equal.

If they were elderly, it might still be understandable, but even when seeing quite young people doing such things, one could understand the laziness of Tibetans. When it came to that, there were no Mongolians who engaged in such behavior. Since they had come all the way from distant lands for the purpose of study, not only did they study extremely hard, but their approach to debates was remarkably vigorous. Generally, if there were five hundred people, up to four hundred would become ordinary good individuals, with only about a hundred turning out to be dregs. However, if there were five hundred Tibetans, up to four hundred fifty were indeed dregs, and even those so-called warrior monks were predominantly Tibetan. Among both the Kham people and the Mongolians, warrior monks were rare.

Thus, Mongolians both studied diligently and possessed a remarkably enterprising spirit, yet they were truly quick-tempered people who became angry at even the slightest provocation. This stemmed from their ethnic pride—Mongolians considered themselves remarkably admirable, with many studying hard to earn doctorates and return home, fostering an extremely strong arrogance that they were entirely different from Tibetans or Kham people. Toward others, they would bluster angrily over trivial matters devoid of logic. When observing such aspects, one truly could not help but pity their narrow-mindedness. And the majority of Mongolians were like this; even those who carried themselves with considerable maturity would become angry over trivial matters. Such a race would find it difficult to accomplish great undertakings through perseverance. Even if there emerged those who achieved temporary success through military campaigns like Genghis Khan, it seemed they lacked sufficient power to shape their country’s civilization over the long term and ensure its society progressed ever further.

The Kham people were far superior compared to the others. To be sure, as Kham was known as the homeland of bandits, they were exceedingly short-tempered—yet unlike Mongolians who flared up over trifles, they demonstrated considerable patience in such matters. In physical robustness, they stood foremost among the three ethnic groups. Their sense of chivalry too was remarkable. Even among those who practiced banditry, I heard there existed men who worked with ardent zeal to rescue others. Among the monks dwelling at Sera, I observed that those free from unpleasantness and imbued with what might be called a chivalrous spirit rich in righteous gallantry were predominantly Kham natives. They harbored an intense distaste for indiscriminate flattery.

Mongolians would at times come out with forced flattery. In that regard, Tibetans were the most extreme. As for the Kham people, while those thoroughly steeped in Tibetan ways and corruption might be exceptions, unless that was the case, such individuals would first find themselves ostracized from the Kham tribe. The women of Kham seemed rather lacking in charm, with not a single endearing quality about them. Tibetan people—even the men appearing docile on the surface—had women who likewise seemed quite gentle outwardly. However, it remained a fact that they harbored a fearsome sword within their hearts. This represented the general categorization of temperaments, though within Kham itself there existed Mankam (a place name), Baa, and Tsarung. There were many others with somewhat differing characteristics, but the details would be omitted here.

The Ideals of Monks and Scholars: When considering what monks and scholars hoped to become as their ideal, generally speaking, their aims in that secluded country were to elevate their fame high and wide and to amass great wealth—they did not practice Buddhism for the salvation of all beings. That stance of desiring so that they themselves would not suffer, so that they could obtain much money, so that they might live comfortably in this world and proceed comfortably into the future was still a considerably better one; as for those who cared nothing for the future but used their academic knowledge to elevate their name in society, obtain abundant wealth, and live comfortably—this inclination existed in 999 out of 1,000 people.

The reason matters had come to this state lay in how that country judged the value of monks and scholars—not through their scholarly knowledge, virtuous conduct, or degree of benefit to others, but rather by determining a person’s worth according to the abundance or scarcity of their wealth. Therefore, a scholar possessing a thousand ryo in assets had only the value of a thousand ryo. Even if someone possessed knowledge more precious than that of an unscholarly person holding 100,000 ryo, that unscholarly person with 100,000 ryo would instead receive greater praise from society. Therefore, without money, one had no worth at all. They fixed their eyes solely on the notion that money could handle all matters, and devoted themselves with great exertion to amassing wealth.

That is why monks engage in various activities such as commerce, agriculture, craftsmanship, or animal husbandry, and furthermore, as part of their fundamental duties, going to lay households to recite sutras and accumulate alms money is also widely practiced. Pitiable are the student monks who study without any academic funds; even their purpose remains assimilated into those general customs, striving to gain future comfort through present hardships. As for those who might engage in such efforts with the aspiration to benefit society through their suffering or use it as capital to relieve sentient beings' anguish—though I cannot say whether such people exist—I unfortunately never encountered such admirable individuals.

Meat Congee Offering: When such monks persisted in their studies for twenty full years while advancing through the ranks, they could eventually attain the Geshe degree. When becoming a Geshe, at least around five hundred yen was required. The reason this cost arose was that they had to offer meat congee to all members of their department. It was one bowl per person, but each bowl inevitably cost about twenty-five sen each. In addition to these, there were various necessary items, so inevitably five to six hundred yen would be required. For these impoverished student monks, not even a single coin existed, but when advancing to that position, there were monks who would lend them money. Those affluent monks would lend money and collect interest, thereby placing the borrower under obligation while also securing interest for themselves. This was because once someone became a Geshe, even an incompetent scholar lacking real ability could earn substantial sums simply by going to recite sutras under that title. After somehow completing twenty years of training and being bestowed with the title of Geshe, what did these individuals end up doing?

They had to spend their entire lives in servitude repaying debts to those who had lent them money... If matters went favorably, they said one might clear the debts in five or eight years, but otherwise found oneself standing in wretched circumstances requiring lifelong service. After all their arduous study, they continued struggling afterward merely to obtain that hollow title; though this might be called a social sanction, the folly of Tibetan monks being governed by such sanctions was truly pitiable. Let us leave discussion of monks at that.

Now, as I was staying at the Finance Minister’s residence, I was occasionally able to visit the homes of other ministers as well. Among them was one called Sho Kanwa (family name). In Tibet’s governmental structure, there were originally four individuals holding the title of Prime Minister and three Finance Ministers. However, only one true Finance Minister existed—the longest-serving individual who shouldered all responsibilities, while the others functioned essentially as vice-ministers. The Prime Minister’s office followed the same principle, with actual power residing in the most senior statesman, while the remainder held vice-ministerial positions where their opinions were scarcely ever implemented.

This Sho Kanwa was the second-ranked prime minister, and I had frequent meetings and conversations with him. His daughter was to be married to an aristocratic scion named Yuto. I witnessed the wedding ceremony firsthand. As it was considered an especially properly conducted wedding even within Lhasa, I should like to recount the details.

Chapter 80: Marriage (Part One)

The Strange Phenomenon of Polyandry | Before discussing marriage customs, I believed it would be logical to first explain the differences between regional practices and those of Lhasa proper, as well as touch upon marital relations and power dynamics within couples in that country. When it came to wedding ceremonies, as they varied greatly by region, one could not make blanket statements. Up until that time, Westerners had not come as far as Lhasa proper, only reaching the Tibetan checkpoints under the Dalai Lama's jurisdiction—what was called China-administered Tibet—and there were numerous books published under the name of Tibet based on such experiences. While these books contained various accounts of marriage—some based on firsthand observations and others on hearsay, all being factual—I had yet to encounter any that provided detailed descriptions of marriages conducted within Lhasa proper. Therefore, I found it necessary to speak specifically about Lhasa.

The various points of difference would have required individual explanations for each region to exhaustively detail every particularity, but such an undertaking remained far beyond reach. Nor had I personally observed marriage ceremonies across all regions one by one. Having witnessed only two or three ceremonies in Lhasa proper, I found it most practical to discuss those. Tibet remains polyandrous in practice, as is widely recognized. There existed several variations—brothers sharing a wife; unrelated men jointly taking a spouse; and numerous cases where initially monogamous marriages turned polyandrous when wives leveraged their authority to introduce new husbands with their original spouse's consent. Though instances of ethical disorder reached levels nearly unbearable to recount, Tibetans persisted without shame.

In cases where a mother died in a family of a father and two children, they might take a wife for the father or take a wife for the son, and there was no legal impediment whatsoever to one woman becoming the wife to both father and son. Given how disordered things were, one might assume there were no limits whatsoever, but that was not actually the case. For cousins to become husband and wife was considered bestial—since it was the same as siblings becoming spouses—and not only did society greatly condemn it as unacceptable, but they also had to be executed as legal criminals.

Wives' Authority | In Tibet, wives' authority was generally extremely strong. For example, money that husbands earned would typically end up being handed over to their wives. If there were three husbands, the wife would take all the money the three had earned, and if their earnings proved meager or some such, she would deliver a reprimand. When husbands needed something for themselves from their wives' hands, they had to say, "For this reason, I need such-and-such an amount of money—give it to me." If a husband was discovered to have secret savings, the wife would become furious and start a fight with him; in extreme cases, there were even instances where she punched him across the cheek.

This was certainly an extreme example—such cases were rare—but wives generally held strong authority. For instance, when a husband went out and a discussion was nearly settled, he would say, “I have agreed to this.” Even if he declared, “I must return home once to consult my wife—if she consents to that, I shall give you my reply,” no one laughed. He too had to consult his wife in the same manner. Therefore, wives’ authority was exceedingly strong, and in most cases, men went out for business dealings upon their wives’ orders. When three brothers shared one wife, they all strove to win her favor; though lacking beards whose dust they might brush off as a gesture of attentiveness, they nevertheless exerted considerable effort to gauge her moods—a truly pitiable sight.

However，Tibet also had monogamy． In such cases，the husband’s authority was relatively strong． There also existed a marital arrangement where they became temporary husband and wife—that is to say，becoming spouses only for as long as they desired，parting ways once they grew weary of each other． Such women had many men and were the sort who greedily extracted money from every one of them，making for an unmanageable situation． Such cases were rare in rural areas，but there were many in places like Lhasa and Shikache． In Tibet，those referred to as prostitutes or courtesans were generally of this sort． If we go on discussing these minute details in various ways，it becomes quite endless；so first，let us discuss Lhasa’s

Let me speak about formal marriage. In Tibet, the marriageable age for both men and women was generally the same, with marriages typically occurring between twenty and twenty-five years of age. In rare cases, some married early at fifteen or sixteen. There were also those who married late, some doing so after thirty. However, these were exceptions; ordinarily, as previously mentioned, ages matched, with women generally being the same age as their husbands. Still, there were instances where brides were younger. Among late marriages, significant age differences sometimes existed. When a wife bore a child, even with five brothers sharing her, only the eldest was called 'Papa' while others were never permitted this title. They were addressed as uncles.

However, a certain European's book stated that in Tibet, the eldest brother was called the Great Father and the next one the Little Father. This error likely occurred because Tibetans told lies which that Westerner earnestly accepted and recorded. Calling someone "Little Father" or similar terms was absolutely never permitted. Perhaps such terms were used in the Kam region of the northeast where I never traveled, but in the regions I passed through, such a thing simply did not exist. When a Westerner wrote about Tibet based on lies told by Tibetans without firsthand verification, such errors inevitably arose—one couldn't help but pity such authors.

Marriage was at the parents' discretion; therefore, marriages almost never resulted from the daughter's free choice. All marriages arose from the parents' discretion alone; the children could not participate in such discussions. Nor did they have the right to interfere in the matter. Moreover, daughters were never consulted by their parents with suggestions like, "There is a son like this; why don’t you go meet him?" It was truly through the absolute tyranny of the parents that they were compelled to marry. Therefore, in this country, the misfortune of divorce was truly common. However, it was precisely because they carried out such tyrannical acts that the misfortune of divorce came about; there was absolutely no notion here that one must take care to avoid such things. Even then, this coercive custom still persisted.

However, even in remote regions or Lhasa itself, a considerable number of illicit unions were practiced. There were also those who, after such unions, informed their parents beforehand and held marriage ceremonies upon obtaining approval. However, these were more exceptions; generally speaking, it remained customary for the children's parents to arrange marriages. When parents of a marriageable son found a household of corresponding wealth, lineage, and social standing that had a marriageable daughter, they would dispatch a mediator to the daughter's parents' home to request, "Please give us your daughter." If the daughter's parents resolutely refused the mediator's initial proposal, the mediator would declare the matter impossible to settle, inform the son's parents, and thus prevent the marriage from taking place.

If the daughter’s parents responded to the mediator by saying, “Let us discuss this thoroughly among ourselves to find a way forward,” the mediator would then visit the daughter’s house five or six times, employing what is termed the mediator’s persuasive tactics. Even if the daughter’s parents nearly consented by saying, “Very well, we will send our daughter,” they first had to inquire about auspiciousness—whether by seeking judgment from diviners or high-ranking monks or consulting spirit mediums. In Tibet, one could hardly find any examples of parents sending off their daughter simply because they themselves deemed it favorable. If diviners or spirit mediums declared the match auspicious, the marriage arrangement was immediately settled.

Marriage arrangements were secret; however, the parents kept these discussions entirely hidden from their son and daughter. In this truly oppressive system, during these consultations, they never engaged in practices such as those seen in Japanese or Western customs—presenting bridal gifts, specifying property amounts to be brought over, or giving ceremonial items. Nor did they ever determine marriages by stipulating exact figures for the husband’s and wife’s properties. While there was no fixed quantity for the items to be taken, they understood that unless their daughter brought objects worthy of their household’s status—things that could be proudly displayed to society—the parents would face disgrace. On the receiving side too, they paid milk money to the bride’s mother.

This milk money constituted compensation for nourishment received during the daughter's upbringing, with the amount presented being proportionate to their household's standing to prevent disgrace. This differed fundamentally from Japanese engagement gifts (yuinou). No predetermined sums or formal agreements existed whatsoever. Following custom, both families' parents would consult diviners or spirit mediums to choose an auspicious date before commencing preparations for the wedding ceremony. The bride's parents had already calculated precisely when mediators from the groom's household would likely arrive. Shortly before the appointed hour, they would tell their daughter, "The fine weather makes this ideal for temple visitation," or "We must attend a Linka Feast at such-and-such place - ensure you wash your hair becomingly." While some girls adorned themselves unsuspectingly for what they believed to be festive occasions, sharper-minded daughters would discern their impending fate - those who had been most cheerful moments before often broke into desolate weeping upon realization.

The girl cried upon suddenly hearing about the marriage from the parents.

Chapter 81: Marriage (Part Two)

Sudden Grooming: Then the parents said to their daughter, "Well today you must thoroughly wipe your face and body." At this time, she still wiped her face and washed her body. Even Tibetans did not consider washing absolutely bad; however, the general custom tended to ridicule washing. Yet aristocrats washed themselves to some extent each morning upon rising. The method of washing was curious. Incidentally, first a manservant or maidservant would draw water in a ladle and bring it; they would cup both palms to receive that water, once held it in their mouth, and while spitting it from mouth into their palms, washed their face with it. When the hot water in their mouth ran out, they spat with a "pfft" and washed—this method was truly peculiar. To be sure, there were also those who drew water in a golden basin and washed thoroughly, but a considerable number of respected gentlemen washed by spitting water.

Be that as it may, first, the daughter—completely unaware and overjoyed at the prospect of going out to play today—washed her hair and combed it thoroughly with an old comb when, timing it perfectly, the mediator arrived. Alternatively, arriving beforehand, they surreptitiously handed over the hair tools sent by the groom’s father and mother to the daughter’s parents, whereupon the daughter’s parents brought those items to her and said, “Your comb has grown quite old—discard it and use this new, fine one to comb your hair.” “Here is good oil as well, so use this to do your makeup properly.” And when the makeup was completed, her parents finally informed their daughter for the first time, explaining that due to these circumstances, as the marriage arrangement had been settled, she must now go to be married into such-and-such person’s household. This was a practice generally carried out in Lhasa, Shigatse, and other urban areas.

As I mentioned earlier, there were rare cases where clever daughters who realized their hair was being washed for marriage would cry and refuse to wash it. "I don't want to go! Dad and Mom are lying and sending me off to some awful place!" she would wail through sobs. In such instances, the daughter's friends—having arrived beforehand—would skillfully console her and force her to wash her hair.

Send-Off Banquet: When the bridal preparations were finally complete, the daughter’s parents had to hold a send-off banquet. The duration of these banquets varied according to the household’s wealth—some lasted one or two days, others five or ten days, while some even spanned half a month. During these banquets, all relatives and acquaintances of the bride’s parents, along with her friends, presented gifts. The nature of these gifts differed based on the giver’s means and closeness to the family—some offered money, others clothing or food and drink. To those who brought congratulatory gifts, they first served Tibetan-style tea and cold barley wine. In Tibet, people never warmed alcohol before drinking it. As I had mentioned earlier, tea and alcohol were consumed ceaselessly day and night. This practice—called Cha-chang Penma (meaning "alternately drinking alcohol and tea")—represented what Tibetans considered their most blissful state of existence, as I had previously explained. They used no accompaniments for the alcohol.

At mealtime after midday, they first served roasted barley flour and meat. The meat mostly consisted of yak, goat, and mutton, while in rare cases some in Lhasa also used pork. Beef and such were hardly ever used. It was particularly not used during weddings. The methods of preparing meat were three types: raw, dried, and boiled; grilled meat was not permitted to be used during formal ceremonies. Generally, meat was boiled with oil and salt, though sometimes it was boiled with water and salt instead. Along with these three types of meat, they served a tofu-like substance prepared with three ingredients: dried cheese, butter, and sugar. When they finished eating that, they served a mixture of rice with butter, sugar, dried grapes, and small persimmons; some also treated their guests to egg noodles or Chinese cuisine during the evening meal or at the final banquet.

In this manner, they served three or four sumptuous feasts daily, during which tea and alcohol were continuously consumed, and amidst the eating and drinking, people engaged in entertaining conversations. Tibetan dances involved singing folk songs while performing. The dancers aligned their feet in time with the song, stamping the courtyard rhythmically before leaping upward. The discipline was so exacting that it appeared precisely like watching military drills. However, since men and women mingled freely in these dances, a certain affectionate energy permeated the atmosphere, making them appear thoroughly engaging. They played instruments called damnyen—Tibetan lutes—coordinating their melodies with both vocals and stomping feet. Dozens of men and women whirled about joyously like prayer beads spinning in a circle, leading one to imagine that our country's ancient utagaki song gatherings must have been much the same. As I had previously mentioned, while such banquets varied in duration according to each household's social standing and wealth, those cases where a mediator came to fetch the bride and she departed the very next day occurred only among the poorest families with no social connections.

Now, after several days had passed and it became the day before she was finally to go to the groom’s house, the groom’s father and mother dispatched over ten people—the mediator, their proxies, and escorts (the number varying somewhat based on wealth)—to fetch her from the bride’s home. The mediator and proxy first gave the bride’s parents some money as Nuurin—that is, milk money. The larger amounts were in Japanese currency—one thousand yen or five hundred yen—while smaller ones might be as little as two or three yen. However, the daughter’s parents did not immediately accept this. First they refused and pushed it back. The mediator forcefully persuaded them, making them accept it.

There were parents who absolutely refused [the payment], in which case their words were: “Since we are entrusting our beloved daughter to your household, we could never wish to receive something like milk money.” “As long as you cherish this daughter we have sent and ensure she finds lasting happiness in your home, that alone will suffice.” “We earnestly hope for that.” However, it had become nearly customary for them to initially refuse but ultimately be compelled to accept it. At the same time, they received all clothes to be used at the bride’s wedding venue and

They received the Marriage Jade Ornament. This Marriage Jade Ornament was an ornament for women in Lhasa that was worn at the center of the forehead. It was said to be proof of becoming someone’s wife, but in Lhasa, this was not clearly understood. Even unmarried people still used it as a decoration. However, in Shigatse and its surrounding regions, they affixed the Marriage Jade Ornament to the crown at the back of the head, so one could immediately discern at a glance that someone was a wife. When a divorce unfortunately occurred, the man would become enraged and tear off the woman’s Marriage Jade Ornament from her headdress. Once it was torn off, the divorce was officially concluded. Instead of issuing a three-and-a-half-line divorce notice, they took away this Marriage Jade Ornament.

In addition to these, there were numerous extremely costly decorative items such as necklaces, pectorals, garlands, ear ornaments, earring pagodas, bracelets, and rings; however, since all of these were given to the daughter by her parents, only the clothes to be worn at the ceremony—robes, sashes, undergarments, and footwear—were sent over from the groom’s father and mother. Now, whether these sent items were good or bad, during the ceremony one was not permitted to wear anything other than them. Then, the mediator and their proxy who came to fetch the bride stayed overnight at her home, held a banquet, and thus savored the festivities to the fullest. This banquet was quite entertaining.

Banquet theft—it became a battle-like commotion of trying to make others drink while resisting being made to drink themselves. The mediator and proxy from the groom’s side remained thoroughly vigilant that night, never consuming large quantities of alcohol. Their extreme caution stemmed from a peculiar local custom: should anyone drink heavily that night, fall into deep slumber, and sleep unaware of their surroundings, friends or relatives from the bride’s household would seize the chance to steal any item from what they had brought. It mattered not whether the object was valuable or worthless. The thief would then declare, “I successfully stole this last night,” presenting it to all the next day. At this, matters turned grave—the victim had to pay twenty tangka in Tibetan silver (equivalent to five Japanese yen) to the thief as a penalty for negligence.

As a penalty for negligence and carelessness, they had to pay twenty tangka in Tibetan silver—equivalent to five yen in Japanese currency—to the thief. Because such a peculiar custom existed, the mediators took full care to drink as little alcohol as possible. However, the bride’s friends and relatives would skillfully attempt to persuade them to drink. Thus, the dispute over whether to drink or not became almost like a war; however, all words and actions used to offer the alcohol had to be skillfully conducted according to the ancient customs of this land. If there was any deviation from ancient customs during this time, the groom’s mediators or agents would rebuke them, saying, “You do not know the customs of old. You lack knowledge of ceremonial decorum. No—you’re completely ignorant!” they vehemently berated. This brought great shame upon the bride’s household, making it no trivial matter.

Moreover, the groom’s representatives also had appropriate phrases for declining alcohol. If they did not refuse by reciting various metaphors or admonitions—such as “Alcohol is the chief of all poisons,” “No, alcohol is a tool that incites quarrels,” or “Drinking alcohol makes one lose wisdom”—the mediators might roundly berate them. There were also cases where they engaged in endless debates over whether the alcohol served by the bride’s side tasted bad, whether the meat was good or poor quality, or whether other dishes were well-prepared or poorly cooked. Thus, both sides boasting about victories and defeats became common practice at wedding ceremonies—matters spread through society as so-called newspaper material by the bride’s friends, relatives, or neighbors.

Chapter 82: The Strange Custom of Sending Off the Bride

The Ceremonial Rites and Offerings for Sending Off the Bride — When the day finally arrived, the bride’s father and mother first held a farewell banquet early in the morning, then had monks of the Old School sect—the so-called Red Hat Sect—perform rituals honoring the village deities and household deities. The purpose of this ceremonial rite directed toward the deities was as follows: "This time, a daughter of a certain family is to be married into another household." Therefore, to the village deities and household deities: We beseech you to grant this daughter your leave, and that you not become angered by her being sent elsewhere to inflict harm. “In exchange, we humbly offer sutra recitations and offerings to receive your leave today.” As this rite was generally performed at the monks’ resident temple, they simultaneously invited monks of Tibet’s ancient religion—the so-called Bon Religion—to the household. There, they venerated the household Lü (Dragon King)—in Tibet, Lü referred to the deity presiding over a family’s treasures. Particularly, as the Dragon King safeguarded the household’s fortune, it was believed that should this deity become angered toward the family, their property would vanish. Thus, if the Dragon King grew deeply attached to the daughter and departed with her to the groom’s household, her original family would swiftly plunge into poverty; they had to therefore devise means to prevent it from accompanying her.

The wording of the sutras used in these rituals was fascinating. This was a Bon Religion sutra. The phrases were generally uniform everywhere: "The household this daughter enters through marriage could never be as fortunate as our home. Moreover, should you accompany the young lady, such conduct would hardly befit a Dragon King. If you deign to remain guarding this household's fortunes, the eternal happiness due to you as Dragon King shall never cease"—they recited this sutra passage while making lavish offerings to the Dragon King. These practices ultimately transcended mere ancient ceremonial formalities. As previously explained, they performed these rites driven by an unshakable belief that should the Dragon King depart with the daughter, the family would assuredly fall into poverty. When these offerings concluded, next—

Admonishment to the Bride. There existed what was called an admonisher for the daughter. First, this admonisher would stand before the bride and deliver warnings constructed from maxims. For this role, they would hire someone who had memorized these admonitory phrases and possessed at least some understanding of reason, then have that person deliver the admonishment. The wording of these admonishments was largely fixed. Moreover, they were made thoroughly accessible so that anyone could comprehend them. The words went: "When you go to their household, apply yourself diligently to all matters with kindness. Serving one's elders being a woman's sacred duty, after marrying into another home you must of course obey your father-in-law and mother-in-law attentively, show utmost devotion to your husband, serve his elder siblings well, cherish his younger siblings as your own kin, and above all employ servants with the compassionate care you would show your own children."

They admonished her by weaving in parables and such, rendering it profoundly compelling. When this concluded, the father and mother then properly seated themselves in that very spot and conveyed the same matters. They were nearly crying as they conveyed this. Relatives and friends also knelt before the bride with tears, took her hand, and spoke earnestly as if admonishing and encouraging her in the same manner. With these ceremonies concluded, the bride finally departed from her home. The property that brides took to the groom’s household varied depending on wealth and social standing; the affluent sent their own manor fields, while those of modest means brought clothing and other items according to their circumstances.

The bride’s tearful farewell—when leaving her home, she would typically weep so bitterly that she refused to mount the horse. Prostrating herself on the ground, she became nearly incapable of standing. This state revealed the sincere grief of one parting from her parents’ household. These were not mere ceremonial tears but genuine anguish at leaving the parents who had raised her—in such cases, friends would intervene to help her mount by force. The horse’s saddle differed from Western styles, bearing close resemblance to those of ancient Japan. Tibetan women rode with particular skill. They never rode with lengthened stirrup straps, keeping them extremely short while bending their legs as if sitting on a low veranda. Both men and women rode identically. We too found it tremendously difficult at first. Riding for extended periods made the bones of one’s legs tingle with pain.

Now, the bride was forcibly made to mount the horse and finally set out on the path to her new home. Her adornments consisted of garments sent from the groom's household worn on her body and decorative items ranging from headpieces to bracelets bestowed by her own parents, while her head and face were covered with Rinchen Nanga ("Five Treasures Cloth")—a woolen fabric woven in stripes of blue, yellow, red, white, and black. Therefore, one could not see what her face looked like. A Dātar (auspicious banner) stood erected behind the bride’s neck. This so-called auspicious banner was made of five-colored thin silk and resembled a smaller version of the tasseled temple banners found in our country’s temples. It measured about 1 shaku and 2 sun in length—a symbol of auspiciousness meant to invite happiness—and was planted firmly behind the bride’s neck.

Welcoming and send-off banquets along the journey—the numerous people receiving the bride and those seeing her off all rode horses as they led the bride toward the groom's household. Along this route, the bride's relatives or acquaintances held a total of three farewell banquets at various locations; depending on the journey's length, these occurred once every three *ri* or five *ri*, with shorter intervals of two or three *chō* in some places. There, the groom's household and their relatives also held three welcoming banquets at various points along the route. After passing through six farewell and welcoming banquets each, they finally reached the groom's household; however, at these journey banquets, they did not drink alcohol to excess. This was because they bore the obligation to safely escort the bride to the groom's household; thus even when pressed to drink, they took only a sip, and at most compelled brief greetings from the other party.

In Tibetan hospitality customs, it was common practice for one party to show extreme restraint while the other pressed insistently; they said anyone who ate immediately would be considered foolish, like a Chinese person. The banquets held along the route might take place in village homes or borrowed houses of acquaintances, but it was customary to erect separate tents in convenient clearings for most feasts. Now, though the bride had reached the groom's gate, this did not mean she would immediately enter the hall. Though they had come from the groom's side to welcome her and should properly have admitted her, here emerged Tibet's bizarre custom—even when attempting to enter, the groom's household kept its gates firmly shut, making access impossible. I was truly astonished by this strange tradition.

Chapter 83: Polyandry Exorcism's Secret Sword: At the groom's gate stood many people, among whom were those performing peculiar rituals. This followed established custom - demons and pestilences were believed to have accompanied the bride. They held concealed in their right hands torma (ritual daggers) said to rend such evil spirits eightfold. These were fashioned from roasted-barley flour kneaded with butter and water, their surfaces stained crimson with plant dyes. Shaped like triangular prisms resembling swords, these implements were believed to contain secret rites sealed within by monastic practitioners.

The identity of whoever held this sword remained unknown, but since they were among those present, when this person saw the bride arrive at the gate, they seized that moment to hurl the ritual sword at her face. Simultaneously, someone opened the gate doors, allowing them to dart inside like a bird in flight. As soon as that person entered, the gate doors were closed once more, just as before. It was truly peculiar—the butter and roasted barley flour drenched in red plant-derived juice crumbled into fine pieces, scattering across the bride’s beautiful robes. However, as I mentioned earlier, the bride’s face was covered with the Five Treasures Cloth, so it did not directly strike her face, though it appeared as though many splatters of the ritual mixture had been cast upon her. The reason they engaged in such a bizarre practice was that there lay a rationale behind it.

The reason for this was that the bride had lost the protection of both her hometown gods and household deities. This occurred because she had formally taken leave of them. By the time she reached the groom’s household, these gods no longer accompanied her—leaving her without divine guardians—which allowed countless demons and pestilences to attach themselves during the journey. These entities would follow her into the groom’s home to harm both bride and groom. To expel and subjugate them, they hurled this ritual sword. As for why the thrower immediately fled inside and shut the gate—if they lingered after casting the sword, they risked capture by the bride’s escorts. Capture meant grave consequences, for there existed a custom requiring payment of twenty tangka (yuan) in Tibetan silver as a fine to whoever apprehended them. This was why they retreated without delay.

The secret sword was hurled at the bride.

Praise at the Gate — Then someone who had been waiting inside declared: “Offer shepa to this gate.” “Then we’ll allow entry,” they replied. This shepa involved extolling auspicious origins through ornate phrases and abundant honorable terms. When the bride’s eulogist protested, “We’d deliver the praise, but without a *kata*—that ceremonial silk scarf for rites—we’re at a loss,” those inside instantly displayed a fragment of *kata* through the gate crack, shouting “Here’s your scarf!” In that fleeting moment, they yanked the party inward. The haste stemmed from an odd custom: should anyone from the bride’s side grasp the scarf’s edge, twenty tangka in silver must be paid to the grabber.

Upon merely glimpsing that *kata*, the eulogist solemnly assumed his stance and declared: “This gate marks the entrance to a treasury—with pillars of gold and doors of silver. Within lie halls of seven treasures formed by nature and jade palaces; those who dwell therein embody the truth, virtue, and beauty of gods or bodhisattvas.” They would speak many such words as: “Entering such a beautiful gate truly marks the beginning of supreme fortune and the very foundation of joy.” When they finished reciting the eulogy, the gate creaked open. There is something I must briefly mention at this point. At times, when the bride passed through a village along the way to the groom’s household, she might be seized by villagers. As their pretext for seizing her, they would declare: “That woman has left without her hometown’s guardian gods, so many demons and pestilences have accompanied her.” “And since she has entered our village, this will bring damage to our community and surely cause great harm to this year’s harvest.” “Therefore, this bride—”

“We must take her as a guarantee of compensation for damages,” they declared, seizing her. They stubbornly refused to hand her over. Thereupon, the bride’s escorts would hand over a certain amount of the requested compensation, first entreating for safe passage—only then would they finally be permitted to pass through. Of course, this was not practiced in urban areas. In other words, since such customs were rare in remote regions, most people generally avoided engaging in them. If one incurred others’ displeasure, such things might be done to them. At the very moment the groom’s gate opened, his mother brought sour milk and chema. Chema refers to a mixture of roasted barley flour, butter, sugar, and small potatoes. These potatoes—a naturally grown Tibetan variety—were about the size of a little fingertip, sharing regular potatoes’ taste but with an exceptionally firm texture and delightful flavor. The blend of these four ingredients was called chema. In Tibet, sour milk and chema served to express profound celebratory sentiments.

Thereupon, when the groom’s mother distributed these two items little by little to the bride and the escort party, they each received them in their palms and licked them. After that ceremony concluded, they entered the hall guided by the mother. There, another banquet was held. Meanwhile, the Old School sect monk turned to the village gods and household gods and declared: “This bride has been received from so-and-so and from this day forth becomes a member of our household.” “Therefore, we humbly request that the village gods and household gods become this bride’s protectors from this day forth,” he declared. When the banquet commenced, the groom’s father and mother presented the customary single strip of kata each to the groom, the matchmaker, and the escorts. This ceremony signified that the marital vows between the groom and bride had been formally established.

The groom and bride were taken to an outer room before the banquet reached its peak. At this initial banquet, there was no ceremonial exchange of nuptial cups like Japan’s *sansankudo* ritual. These escorts and relatives remained at the groom’s household, holding daily banquets. During this period, the groom’s relatives, acquaintances, and friends would all be invited to these banquets with suitable gifts. The banquets—the shorter ones lasted two or three days, while the longer ones could extend up to a month. Tibetans were extremely patient when it came to such banquets or leisure outings. Moreover, Tibetan feasts consisted solely of heavy dishes; they ate nothing but meats greasier than what even Chinese consumed. One could never dream of being served something as simple as tea-soaked rice with pickles. They held long banquets with such rich feasts. After the banquet concluded and escorts had departed, it remained customary for the bride’s friends and maidservants to stay at the groom’s household several more days.

Typically, the most fortunate would bring along a maidservant from the bride’s household—one meant to serve for a lifetime—as was generally customary. This did not mean the marriage had been completely concluded. After one month, six months, or one year had passed, the groom and bride would go together to visit the bride’s household again. In such cases—though large crowds did not accompany them—they brought two or three people along with them; typically staying at the bride’s home for several days before returning to his own residence. As for remaining at her parental home afterward—whether one month or three—the duration varied according to the bride’s wishes. However, since specific dates for this stay were agreed upon with him beforehand when those days arrived he came to retrieve her and took her home.

Marriage to the Younger Brother-in-Law — When the groom had younger brothers, they would generally hold a modest household ceremony to marry them six months or a year after the initial marriage. In many cases, while the eldest brother was away traveling or enjoying leisure during the ceremony period, they conducted a ritual to marry her to the younger brother in his absence. In such instances, the mother served as matchmaker. Even when there were three or five younger brothers, all were properly married through this same method. Some might freely marry the bride and younger brothers without any ceremonial observance. Thus were the marriage rites concluded. In Tibet, this polyandry was called Sa-sum. When a child was born under Sa-sum—though its true father remained unknown—the eldest brother was addressed as father regardless of biological parentage, while the others were called uncles, as previously explained.

In such strange households, it was rare for all brothers to live together simultaneously. When one of them remained at home, the others would find various ways to go out—whether departing on business ventures or, if they held official positions, leaving on government duties. This polyandrous custom remained truly flourishing in Tibet even then, and its people firmly believed it to be a most virtuous practice. Though some merchants who had ventured abroad occasionally voiced criticisms of this custom's impropriety, all such arguments had since ancient times been refuted through the single phrase "Lük-sö Minzü"—meaning "ancient customs exist."

This phrase wielded particularly formidable power, trampling even noble truths beneath its singular authority. These strange wedding ceremonies and marital relations were customs originating from Tibet’s ancient Bon religion—practices that continued flourishing under the phrase “Lük-sö Minzü” long after True Buddhism’s arrival. Indeed, they persisted vigorously through the ages. Buddhists of that era paid scant attention to social issues; nearly all monks adhered to reclusive doctrines focused solely on Yama Buddhism, neglecting to promote Buddhism’s active application in society or dismantle harmful customs—conduct wholly unbefitting Buddhism’s true essence. These were shortcomings of bygone Buddhist clergy, never flaws in Buddhism itself.

Chapter 84: Public Shaming and Torture

Regarding the cursing of the Dalai Lama—in early October, I set out from my residence in Lhasa toward Barkhor (Circular Path). This was Lhasa Prefecture's most prominent thoroughfare, where criminals would be publicly displayed along the roadside whenever apprehended. The methods of public shaming varied. Some were merely shackled with handcuffs and leg irons, but this time I witnessed an extreme form of exposure. About twenty individuals were being exhibited—one at each distant intersection or nearby pillar. All wore splendid garments. Around their necks were clamped boards measuring three shaku square (approximately 90 cm), crafted from dense wood one sun two to three bu thick (3.6–3.9 cm), with neck holes precisely carved. Each board split into two halves joined by crossbars and secured with a lock, bearing Tibetan script detailing charges on attached paper. This indicated that according to specified offenses, individuals endured such exposure for set durations before facing either exile or flogging—the latter ranging from three hundred to seven hundred strikes.

As there was too much written to read every detail, they couldn't examine each one thoroughly, but upon skimming a few entries, it became clear these were people from Tengyeling Temple—a prominent institution in Lhasa—who qualified as candidates to become Dalai Lama during interregnums. Among the temple's residents were both laypeople and monks, though its formal leader was called Temo Rinpoche and his steward Norbu Cheling. This steward reportedly initiated elaborate secret rituals aiming to curse and kill the current Dalai Lama. These rites weren't Buddhist practices but Bon rituals meant to destroy the Dalai Lama, with completed curse papers allegedly stuffed into shoe soles before presenting him with fine footwear.

When the Dalai Lama wore those shoes and reportedly fell ill, after prolonged investigation they were inspected and Bon curse texts were found inside. Then the affair came to light, resulting in all involved parties being arrested—including Temo Rinpoche, who was implicated in the matter. Some claimed that Norbu Cheling had attempted to assassinate the Dalai Lama under Temo Rinpoche's orders, reasoning that if His Holiness perished, Temo Rinpoche could ascend to the position—thus making him a truly detestable lama in their eyes. Regardless of the truth, Temo Rinpoche had indeed been the Dalai Lama until the current one assumed the throne.

The Tragic Public Shaming of a Beautiful Woman

During that era, there was a man named Norbu Cheling who seized power as Prime Minister and exercised extreme tyranny; it is said that he also killed many innocent people, and this is entirely factual. Once the current Dalai Lama ascended to the throne, there was someone who reported the circumstances of that time in detail; thus, it is said that even His Holiness privately harbored no favorable feelings toward Temo Rinpoche and Norbu Cheling. It was due to the presentation of these shoes that everyone came to be imprisoned; while Temo Rinpoche had already passed away in prison, Norbu Cheling was still at that time confined within a stone cell. The stone cell had a window near the top. Since they were heavy criminals, their food was delivered through this window; therefore, during interrogation and torture, they were made to enter and exit through it. Therefore, unable to escape easily, they suffered within that stone cell; whenever they managed to catch a glimpse of daylight, they would inevitably be beaten or subjected to horrific torture. As for the methods of that torture—though I cannot know their exact nature since I was unable to witness their actual implementation at the time—they were of such horrifying severity that merely hearing about them made one shudder.

Ironically Cruel Torture — The method of this torture was as follows: first, they inserted split bamboo between the flesh and nails to tear them off; then inserted split bamboo between the flesh and skin. Though they did this to all ten fingers in succession, forcing him to weep tears of blood, Norbu Cheling stubbornly insisted this was his own doing and by no means carried out under orders from Temo Rinpoche—his master. Though they pressed him severely—insisting it must have been his master's order—he refused to comply.

It was said that since Temo Rinpoche had been alive and fully aware of the suffering being endured, he declared it had been entirely his own command—that Norbu had merely carried out his orders and therefore bore no guilt. Thereupon Temo Rinpoche urged his steward: “I’ve already confessed everything this way, so you must confess likewise.” To this Norbu Cheling responded, “You are a revered lama. “Even if you try to save me with a momentary lie, it will never work,” he said, refusing to yield as he writhed in agony. Despite enduring such torment, he still did not confess. By the time I reached Lhasa Prefecture, they said he had already undergone two years of this ordeal while suffering under torture.

Nevertheless, seeing that he did not utter a single word against his master to say it was thus, one might think that Temo Rinpoche had no involvement in the matter—or perhaps it was said that for Norbu Cheling, Temo Rinpoche was a true brother. Considering this—that he protected his brother from implication in the crime, perhaps taking the blame upon himself—yet despite enduring such extreme suffering through both his fortitude in bearing torture and maintaining what he must uphold, though society showered him with vehement slander and condemnation, I secretly felt profound pity and expressed sympathy for him.

The people being publicly displayed there were all subordinates of Norbu Cheling. Sixteen Bonpo lamas involved in the matter had already been executed, and while the exact number of those exiled remained unclear, it appeared to be quite substantial. Of those being publicly displayed here now, half were sentenced to exile, while the other half—after being exposed for three or seven days—were to be beaten three hundred or five hundred times with thick willow rods. I felt as if hell had manifested itself in the present world; sensing the anguish of those people and pitying their plight, I made my way around to the southwest corner of the Jokhang Temple—a sunlit spot where Barkhor’s path widened most—and there upon a stone...

There was a beautiful noblewoman being publicly shamed. The noblewoman was clamped with a thick three-shaku-square neckboard—ninety centimeters across—just as I had seen on others before. The weight of the board pressed down on her delicate shoulders, making her appear truly agonized. She wore a small red head covering made of Bhutanese mountain-tussah silk, her gaze slightly lowered and eyes closed. Three police-like guards stood watch at the periphery. A container of roasted barley flour lay nearby—likely meant to be fed to her—alongside what seemed to be provisions of slightly better quality. To eat any of it, she would need someone to feed her piece by piece, for her hands remained shackled. Who was this fragile yet noble figure? She was none other than a daughter of House Doling—Tibet’s most ancient lineage, revered as foremost among aristocratic families for their wisdom and prestige.

Chapter 85: Types of Punishments

The noblewoman's charges—this noblewoman was the one who had become Norbu Cheling's wife. Before her husband Norbu Cheling was confined in the stone cell, he had been held in a slightly more lenient prison. That prison allowed visits if one gave the jailer a small amount of money. When it was discovered that this wife had brought delicacies to visit her husband while weeping and conversing with him, she too was imprisoned. That morning at the prison exit, they struck her tender buttocks three hundred times with thick fresh willow rods, leaving her unable to walk. Amidst this agony, they clamped the neckboard on her and displayed her publicly upon a roadside stone.

She showed no signs of consciousness, presenting a truly pitiful sight that brought tears to one’s eyes. What further heightened the pathos was that it wasn’t merely onlookers gathered at the scene—nobles too were joining in, loudly reciting the charges affixed to the wife’s neckboard. This woman, having committed such crimes, was beaten several hundred times with rods and subjected to seven days of public shaming there; thereafter, she would be exiled to such a place and, on that island, bound in prison with handcuffs and leg irons—such was the cruel verdict. It would be one thing if they simply read them without making a sound, but they did nothing but recite them at the top of their voices. They were jeering spitefully. “Look at you now! This is what you get for going around tormenting people!” the mob cursed in such tones, while the nobles sneered coldly.

They wore expressions as though deriving pleasure from witnessing her profound misfortune. The sheer heartlessness of it all—their detestable behavior—made me seethe with anger: Could Tibetans truly be such unfeeling people? These people now hurling abuse—these sneering individuals—were undoubtedly the very ones who would bow and scrape to dust Norbu Cheling and his wife's beards when they held power as Prime Minister. Witnessing those people laughing without a care at this pitiable sight, I could not help but feel the superficiality of human compassion.

Even if there were crimes to condemn, one should never hate the person themselves. Much less did this woman bear any guilt whatsoever. Through political alliances between houses, they had become enemies or allies in their dealings. For those aware of the truth—that even an innocent wife had suffered such cruel oppression from political foes—the tragedy proved unbearable to witness. As I walked contemplating this, a poem emerged:

To flowers beginning to bloom, to flowers scattering - ah,

Ah, this body holding dew—soaked through with sorrow, Having returned and met with the Former Finance Minister, I asked, “Having seen such a person today and returned feeling great pity—what in the world was that about?” to which he replied, “Ah, I must say it is truly a pitiful matter. “Truly, when their power was at its zenith—so formidable it could strike down birds mid-flight—none dared raise a finger against them. But to see things come to this today… it is truly pitiable.” “Especially regarding Venerable Temo Rinpoche, people are speaking all manner of ill.” “No—some say he fabricated women or committed such misdeeds, but as I myself am a sinner capable of fabricating women, I am truly keen in discerning others’ sins.” “I understand well.” “However, there was not a single fault that could be found with Venerable Temo Rinpoche.” “Truly, his ascetic practices were pure, and in his compassion and salvation of people, he was truly admirable to the utmost.” “It was solely due to the wickedness of the accompanying retainers that such a thing occurred, and I understand full well that it absolutely did not originate from that person’s own intentions.” “I cannot speak of such matters to the public, but that is indeed the truth,” he explained in detail.

Now,

The methods of torture in Tibet were extremely cruel. Moreover, executions were conducted in an utterly barbaric manner. The prison cells themselves were places so unimaginably harsh they seemed not of this world. To mention one or two torture methods: there was the previously described technique of peeling fingernails with split bamboo, or alternatively, placing stone-made hats upon heads. First they would place a hat weighing about one kanme (3.75 kg) on [the victim's] head, then gradually stack five or six more hats of the same kind on top. At first this caused streaming hot tears, but ultimately it reportedly made the eyeballs protrude outward. Such methods existed. Then when beating [the victim], they used thick fresh willow rods until finally the buttocks tore open and blood gushed forth.

Even so, they had to beat them the full determined number of times—whether three hundred or five hundred. However, when beating three hundred or five hundred times, they reportedly took a short break halfway through to allow them to drink water before resuming the beating. Those who were beaten inevitably fell ill. Their urine would come out bright red like blood. I have administered medicine to such people. I also closely examined the wounds on their buttocks, but they were truly horrific. Even the more comfortable prisons were nothing more than earthen walls and plank flooring, with nothing else beyond that. In that cold country where no sunlight reached from any direction, confined within a darkness so profound it might as well have been midnight even at noon, there was no hygiene nor loofahs to be found.

As for food, they were given nothing but two handfuls of roasted barley flour once per day. With just that, they could not possibly stay alive. Therefore, it had become customary for acquaintances to send supplies when someone was imprisoned. Even those supplies—more than half were taken by the jailers, leaving them with only a meager amount to eat for themselves, it was said. The lightest punishments were fines, flogging, followed by—

The punishment of gouging out eyeballs and taking them; the punishment of cutting off wrists. They did not immediately sever them either. They would tie both wrists with a cord while children gathered to pull them up and down for half a day until their hands grew completely numb—reportedly making them unable to distinguish their own limbs from others'. Only then would they sever the hands before spectators' eyes. This penalty fell chiefly upon thieves. Those imprisoned five or six times inevitably faced wrist amputation. In Lhasa there existed multitudes of beggars who had suffered this mutilation.

The most numerous were beggars with gouged-out eyeballs, followed by ear-cutting and nose-cutting punishments; these were inflicted upon adulterous men and women, so that when a husband discovered and reported it, that man and woman would face such punishments. Tibet had another peculiarity. Even if a husband cut off that man's and woman's noses in anger without filing a complaint—since he acted as the government's proxy—he himself would not face punishment. There were two types of exile. One involved confinement within a designated region without imprisonment, while the other meant keeping them jailed.

Next, The death penalty was administered through water execution. There were two types of this method. One involved throwing the condemned alive into water while encased in leather bags; another required taking them by boat to midstream, tying them up, submerging them with stone weights attached, and sinking them. After keeping them submerged for about ten minutes, they would lift them up again if still alive. They repeated this process—submerging for another ten minutes before checking—until death was confirmed. Once satisfied, they severed the head and limbs, dismembering the body into its five parts to cast into the current while retaining only the head. Some heads were publicly displayed for three or seven days; others went unexhibited, placed instead in jars and thrown into a hall exclusively storing such heads. This hall—called the Hall of the Unatoned—embodied Tibetan belief that entombed heads could never reincarnate, justifying such cruelty through spiritual prohibition.

Chapter 86: Astonishing Funeral Rites

Innocent snowball fights—these punishments were truly cruel methods unbefitting a country where Buddhism was practiced. If they simply killed someone, that should have erased their sins—so in that sense, they believed they must punish—but to restrict even the concept of their future rebirths—this truly seemed to violate the principles of penal law. These were truly barbaric methods. There were still quite a lot of such cruel things, but I left it at that.

I had remained in Lhasa until around mid-October when it was decided I should return to Sera for study. As I rode back leisurely on the horse provided by the minister, that day saw light snow that had been falling since the previous night still lying thick upon the road. That marked the first snow.

Having left Lhasa and passed through Shönké Lamkha (Monk's Road), there was a single river about half a mile before reaching Sera. Since the river held no water in winter, snow had accumulated within its bed. Then five or six young novices from Sera Monastery gathered and were engaged in an earnest snowball fight. Everywhere it was the same - the novices seemed to find it utterly delightful, their innocent absorption in battle vividly manifesting that lively aspect of selflessness, which somehow made me feel wistfully nostalgic. Children are truly innocent beings; when not being scolded by their master, playing in this manner - so absorbed and carefree - must be quite delightful. I composed a verse aloud upon seeing this scene.

Children throw snow as they meet in play, Snow wondrously white piles up where they play,

Encountering an old acquaintance—as I stood watching, a large man came approaching from behind. The man was peering up from beneath where I sat mounted and staring intently. Wondering what he might be looking at, I turned to face him and saw without doubt—this was the youngest of three brothers with whom I had once made pilgrimage around Lake Manasarovar on the northwestern plains, the very man who had struck my cheek and knocked me down. Seeing that I no longer resembled the pitiful pilgrim of old but rather cut the dignified figure of a nobleman astride a horse, he appeared greatly frightened and averted his gaze as if to move onward.

There I called out to stop him: “Have you forgotten me?” “Not at all—I haven’t forgotten.” “Then come along with me.” “Where are you going?” “I’m going to Sera.” “Since you’re going to my temple, come along,” I said, and brought him to my quarters. I ordered a novice to prepare the most lavish feast possible for the man to eat, then arranged provisions for his journey and sent him off with words of gratitude—“I’m thankful for all your help in previous years”—but as he left, he prostrated himself in worship, showing what seemed like remorse for his sins as he departed in tears. At that time, according to the man’s account, though the three brothers had been separated, they later reunited and safely returned to their hometown, where they were all living without incident.

Putting that aside, this time there were debates at Sera for about two weeks, so with the thought that I would finally engage fully in them this time, I stayed at my quarters when an acquaintance of mine died, and I had to attend the funeral. So I attended that funeral, but

A Mysterious Funeral—Here I witnessed an extraordinary funeral, one that might have almost no parallel in the world. The corpse was neither placed in a coffin nor put into an urn. Two sticks were placed horizontally side by side and stood upright; two smaller sticks were laid across them and bound together like a net. A mat was spread over this structure, the corpse was laid upon it, and covered with a white cloth fragment—then people carried it away. Even when commencing a funeral procession, one could not simply hold it tomorrow just because someone had died today. In some cases they could conduct it immediately, but more often than not three or four days would pass.

Because even when conducting a funeral, there are auspicious and inauspicious days; after carefully determining such a day, one must consult a lama about what method of funeral to adopt and how to dispose of the corpse. Then the lama would consult scriptures and examine texts in detail, specifying which sutras to use, on which day and at what time the corpse should be sent off for water burial—or whether it should be cremation, earth burial, or sky burial—every single instruction having to be awaited. In Tibet, what is called "bird burial" is referred to as "wind burial" in Buddhist doctrine; Tibetans regard feeding corpses to Cha-goe (vultures) as the most auspicious burial method. Next comes cremation and water burial, with earth burial being considered the least favorable.

Earth burials are not performed for those who die of ordinary illnesses. Tibetans greatly detest earth burials; they perform them only when someone has died of smallpox. This is because if given to birds, there would be risk of contagion among them, and if cast into a river, risk of spreading infection to others—hence it is not permitted. Cremation is considered a relatively good method, but since there are particularly few places with firewood and one could hardly burn corpses using yak dung, cremation is not performed unless the person is of sufficiently high status. Water burials are generally performed along large rivers. Even then, they do not simply throw the corpse as-is into the river. They cut off the corpse's head, hands, and legs, sever them all, and cast them into the current. In doing so, they do not get caught on that sandbar or cling to this cliff, and it is said this makes it easier for the fish to eat them as well.

Sky burial—meaning interment in the sky by feeding corpses to birds—is something I shall now describe based on my own direct observations. When people consulted lamas about how best to handle these four burial methods, the lamas would provide instructions appropriate to each individual. The reason for these four burial practices lies in Indian philosophy's explanation that the human body consists of four elements: earth, fire, water, and wind. Therefore, paths exist for returning to these elements—earth burial returns one to earth, water burial to water, cremation to fire, and feeding to birds (sky burial) being how one returns to wind. For the most part, monks were all fed to the birds. However, entities like the Dalai Lama, the Second Dalai Lama, and revered incarnate lamas constituted separate categories, while ordinary monks were given to the birds.

The funeral I attended this time was also a sky burial. First, exiting from Sera Monastery and heading east brought one to the river's edge. Following the riverbank northward along the mountain's edge for two or three chō—a few hundred meters—there stood an equally riverside natural rock formation between the mountains, its flat surface towering about six or seven ken (10-12 meters) high. The plateau measured fifteen to sixteen tsubo—roughly fifty square meters. This was precisely the burial ground. On surrounding mountain ridges and jagged rock peaks perched numerous large vultures with terrifying eyes, awaiting human corpses. First they removed the cloth fragment from the corpse and placed it upon the rock. As monks on this side began beating drums, clanging gongs, and intoning sutras, a man appeared bearing a great sword.

Preparing the corpse—first, they cut open the abdomen of the deceased. Then they removed the intestines. Next they severed the head, both hands, and both legs in succession. When all parts were separated, the many people handling the corpse—among whom were monks—began processing it. After separating meat from bones, the vultures perched on mountain peaks and rocky crags gradually descended to gather near the burial ground. When they first put out choice cuts like thigh meat, swarms of vultures came swooping down.

However, a small amount of meat was also left behind. As for how they gave the bones to the Cha-goe, they brought a large stone and smashed them with heavy thudding force. The crushing location remained strictly designated. On the rock were about ten holes where crowds pounded bones, skulls, and brains into fragments before mixing in roasted barley flour to form haphazard dumplings for the birds, which devoured everything voraciously until only hair remained.

They dissected the corpse. Descendants of Cannibalistic Tribes — Now, the scraps of cloth and other items used to cover the corpse were taken by the officiant. The officiant was a layperson, with monks assisting in the work. Crushing the bones was quite time-consuming, so during that interval, they still had to eat roasted barley flour. Moreover, since Tibetans are a people who drink tea constantly, they brought a large amount of tea. Yet though the men's hands were thick with corpse flesh, bone fragments, and brains, they remained utterly unfazed. When the time came to say, "Now drink your tea, eat your roasted barley," the officiant and assisting monks would consume it without washing their hands—merely clapping them briskly to shake off debris before partaking. With those filthy hands still coated in brain matter and scraps of meat, they would immediately grab handfuls of roasted barley flour, drop it into their own bowls, and knead the mixture with those very hands.

So even though the flesh and brain matter from corpses on their hands mixed with roasted barley flour, they ate it unconcerned. I truly could not help being astonished. Since their methods struck me as both excessively cruel and unsanitary, when I said, "Instead of doing such filthy things, why not wash your hands at least once?" they shot back, "How could anyone perform a monk's duties with such faintheartedness?" "Truth be told, this tastes good," one added. "If you'd stop fussing about dirtiness and just eat like this, even Buddha would rejoice mightily," they declared, utterly unperturbed. Tibet was indeed said to have been the dwelling place of Rakshasa demons—a race that devoured human flesh—and its present people were their descendants. Seeing how these humans showed not a shred of shame in being Rakshasas' progeny, I found myself truly dumbfounded.

Chapter 87: The Mysterious Wonder Drug

Funerals of the Dalai Lama and High-Ranking Lamas - When the funeral concluded and they returned home, the household continued reciting sutras throughout the mourning period. They prepared meat porridge or egg udon noodles to serve as an elaborate feast. For monks, this meant simply omitting alcohol, while laypeople invariably accompanied such dishes with drink. Now I shall describe how they conducted funerals for the Dalai Lama, the Second Dalai Lama, and high-ranking incarnate lamas when these figures passed away. When a revered lama died, they would prepare a large box, fill it with Tibet's natural marsh salt, and lay the corpse atop this bed of salt. Then they packed salt tightly around every side of the body until completely encased. Even during this packing process, they played flutes resembling sheng and hichiriki reed pipes, beat drums, and chanted exceptionally pious sutras—all performed with an air of profound reverence.

The box containing the corpse was placed in the hall, typically left there for about three months while they performed rituals akin to making offerings to the living, and the disciples—without missing a single interval—took turns reciting sutras day and night in groups of three or four each. Before the coffin stood Tibetan-style butter lamps on pure gold stands, flowers when in season, seven silver water vessels holding clear water known as aga, along with numerous other offerings. Every visitor presented a ritual offering and added a sum of money. After three months or a hundred days had passed, all moisture from the corpse was absorbed by the salt, leaving it completely desiccated. This salt differed from Japanese salt in containing much more soda and similar substances.

As for what other components it contained—since I had not conducted chemical analysis, I could not say for certain—but there was definitely soda present. When they removed the corpse from within, it had become completely rigid, like something carved from wood, its abdomen fully sunken and eyes hollowed out, devoid of any moisture. Then, having extracted the corpse, they would knead together good-quality mud and powdered sandalwood to coat the emaciated body; to this mixture they also added certain medicinal substances from beyond Tibet. They would first completely reshape the face to its original appearance, then form the body until it resembled a splendid wooden statue before applying gold leaf. Once properly completed, this became an effigy. Then within that hall, they would erect a separate tower adorned with the seven treasures, construct a shrine-shaped structure at the tower's central front, and place inside this shrine-shaped structure the current

They enshrined the corpse effigy. Halls constructed in this manner numbered five at Tashi Lhunpo Monastery in Shigatse, their roofs all emitting golden light. These so-called gold-plated roofs resembled China's double-layered palace roofs. Of course, the decorations—the halls' sizes and towers' ornaments (gold or silver)—differed according to each lama's rank. This effigy would be permanently enshrined; when commoners came to worship there, monks too would come to pay their respects. That's why a Chinese man once remarked with a laugh: "Tibetans detest burial in the ground—they mourn as if hellbound when someone's interred. Yet don't their highest figures—the Dalai Lama or Second Dalai Lama—still get buried in earth?" "They neither feed corpses to birds nor consign them to water." "They properly salt-preserve them, then coat the dried bodies with mud—so it's still burial in the ground after all." "That makes for quite an amusing contradiction." "And the salt that had been placed inside those coffins—"

The salt was considered supremely sacred, such that ordinary people could not easily obtain even a portion of it. Even when offering substantial sums of money, they found it scarcely circulated. Access depended entirely on connections—this salt was distributed chiefly among nobles and high-ranking monastic officials. Only the most prominent patrons or merchants with special ties could acquire some. They revered this salt because it had absorbed the precious bodily fluids of lamas. It was said to possess medicinal properties—drinking it dissolved in hot water purportedly cured colds and other ailments instantly—truly an extraordinary remedy. Speaking of such medicines, I recalled that Tibet contained

There existed strange and wondrous remedies. I think no one except Tibetans could stomach drinking it had they known its actual ingredients. The excrement of supreme lamas like the Dalai Lama or Second Dalai Lama was never discarded. Nor was their urine ever disposed of. Both bodily excretions counted as essential substances of the realm. The feces would be dried, blended with assorted medicinal powders, then kneaded using urine from these high lamas to form pills. These were gilded with gold leaf or dyed crimson for medical application, this concoction bearing the bizarre designation Tsachen Norbu (Precious Jewel).

It was never put up for sale. Obtaining even a portion proved exceedingly difficult. Only those with proper connections who offered substantial sums could eventually acquire it, and even then Tibetans would consume but a single pill of this medicine when gravely ill or facing death. Should they recover, they praised its efficacy; should they perish from it, the Tibetans expressed satisfaction, declaring, "This is truly a blessed occurrence." "In any case, having consumed the Precious Jewel before dying, that person will surely reach the Pure Land," they would say, considering it an honor. These truly bizarre customs made plain how thoroughly defilement permeated Tibetan society.

However, the fact that such materials constituted the Precious Jewel was hardly known to the general populace. They knew only that this medicine was an exceedingly blessed thing crafted by the Dalai Lama through secret methods. As for the true nature of this remedy, it was understood solely by those who frequented the Dalai Lama’s palace—officials, monastic officials, and others privy to such matters—or those who had heard it from them; in short, only individuals so-called well-versed in Tibetan affairs.

In early November, when I came again to Lhasa and was staying at the former Finance Minister's detached residence, the current Finance Minister also had some leisure during that period. This gentleman was the nephew of this household's nun and—as I mentioned before—an extremely mild-mannered person who spoke little. Yet whenever he returned home amidst his busyness—whether from official duties or court audiences—conversations would invariably begin among us four: myself; the former Finance Minister; the nun; and himself. From time to time, I would also visit the Current Finance Minister's chambers myself to converse. Among these discussions was an occasion when the topic of a British female missionary arose, so I shall now relate that story.

Chapter 88: Tibetan Explorers

Regarding the female missionary: On one occasion, the Current Finance Minister remarked, “The British are truly peculiar. Why do they so insistently desire to see inside my country?” “It’s utterly incomprehensible.” “It was about eight or nine years ago now,” he began, “that a British woman came to Nakchukha—the border between Chinese territory and His Holiness’s domain—accompanied by two servants with the aim of entering my country.” This woman was a British missionary called Miss Taylor who had come from Chinese territory via northern regions intending to cross Lhasa to reach Darjeeling. Though the Minister did not know Miss Taylor’s name, I had heard about this intrepid woman since my time in Darjeeling and had even become acquainted by chance there with the man who guided her journey.

Therefore, though I knew every detail of the matter from start to finish, I could not let it show on my face and instead listened as though hearing an unfamiliar account. The Minister continued his narrative: “When that woman reached Nakchukha, she was detained by the local tribesmen. “Fortunately, their chief being a man of profound compassion, she wasn’t slain by them—yet they petitioned our government from that district regarding proper disposition.” “At that juncture, the government resolved to dispatch myself and two retainers to the region. “Though some thirty attendants—porters and grooms—accompanied us in total, three principal figures comprised the core delegation, with myself assuming command. “Upon arrival, we found her account utterly incoherent at first hearing. “The woman spoke Tibetan, yet not in Lhasa’s dialect—rendering her testimony most difficult to parse. “But when I stilled my thoughts and attended with full concentration, comprehension gradually dawned.”

“According to what she said,” he continued, “she had come to this country seeking to learn Buddhism’s precious teachings, wishing to visit Lhasa’s sacred sites before proceeding to Darjeeling—thus she pleaded for permission.” “Not only that—she produced credentials from His Majesty the Chinese Emperor and demanded entry to the interior. Though I sympathized with your plight and wished to grant it, I had received orders from the Dalai Lama’s government and could absolutely not permit it.” “Should you enter, you would face hardships severe enough to ensure your death.” “We would naturally offer no protection here.” “If you accept those terms, you may proceed—but rather than invite unnecessary international complications through such actions, our orders were to thoroughly persuade you to turn back. Thus entry remained impossible.” “‘I regret this,’ I told her gently, ‘but you must return from here.’ Yet she refused to yield and pressed closer.” “This persisted not merely a day or two—she pressed me for four or five days.”

“Since there’s no other way,” I said, “do you intend to enter the interior to meet your death? It’s utterly impossible to enter with your life intact.” “Knowing that, isn’t it foolish to stubbornly insist on entering?” “I shall instead provide you adequate protection for your return along the path you came—that would be wisest. If you insist on entering regardless, that remains your prerogative,” he declared, whereupon the woman retorted, “Is your country not subordinate to the Chinese Emperor?” “Then those bearing credentials from the Chinese Emperor must necessarily be permitted passage there—is that not your country’s obligation?” she argued with relentless logic. “Of course our country is under the Chinese Emperor, but we do not receive commands from him for all matters.” “Especially when it comes to this—”

“As for our isolation policy,” she declared, “even should the Chinese Emperor dispatch troops to force us to admit foreigners, we shall never permit entry—this being our nation’s fundamental principle. Moreover, since those servants are Tibetans, we must take them into custody and administer due punishment.” “However,” she continued, “by gradually persuading them that turning back now would spare them punishment—after half a day had passed—they finally agreed to return. But since they had encountered thieves along the way and lost their belongings, leaving them in dire straits, we decided to furnish them with suitable provisions before sending them back.” Having related every detail, she then pressed, “Why is it that foreigners are so desperate to come here?” When I asked, “Well, I truly don’t understand that myself, but haven’t foreigners been visiting this country since ancient times?” the Current Finance Minister—who was remarkably well-informed on such matters—began his response: “From about six hundred years ago—”

“As for foreign explorers of Tibet—if we imagine this from our perspective—in 1328, a monk from Pordenone named Odoric became the first to enter this country, though his aim of spreading Catholicism was not achieved.” “In other words, in Tibet there were many monks performing various peculiar miracles akin to those of Jesus Christ written in the Bible.” “Therefore, he wrote down all these matters and brought them back, but since making such things public would implicate Christianity, he burned the report—so none of those accounts were ever transmitted.” “However, among worldly scholars, there are those who assert:”

Odoric of Pordenone did enter the Forbidden Land, but some scholars argue he burned his manuscript because he loathed transmitting errors in his recorded observations of that secret realm to posterity. The general public largely believes only this theory, remaining unaware that his report was burned because Tibet at that time exhibited even more miracles than those found in Christianity. Thus, though the Roman Catholic Papacy subsequently proselytized vigorously in China, they reportedly decided Tibet lay beyond the reach of Catholic influence and refrained from missionary efforts there. Then in 1661, Grueber and Dorville—Frenchmen if I recall correctly—though failing to reach Lhasa, seem to have penetrated some distance into Tibet.

Among Europeans there was only one person who entered from India through Tibet’s Lhasa and exited into China. That man was named Van de Putte. Then during Warren Hastings’ tenure as Governor-General of India—when he sought to establish trade between India and Tibet—he dispatched George Bogle as an envoy there in 1774. This envoy-like figure had his wife accompany him. Bogle could not reach Lhasa itself but proceeded only as far as Shigatse—the secondary capital—where he stayed. Diaries documenting their arrival at Shigatse survive preserved even today.

After that person returned, in 1781 Warren Hastings again dispatched a man called Captain Turner as an envoy. That man stayed for two years before returning to India, but from that time onward trade between India and Tibet began to flourish. However, after Warren Hastings resigned as Governor-General of India and returned to Great Britain, this trade gradually fizzled out until there came to be almost no traffic whatsoever.

Now, around that time, though Christian missionaries did not reach Lhasa proper in Tibet, they had entered its neighboring regions and endeavored to spread Christianity while undermining Buddhism, which made the Tibetan government grow considerably vigilant. Then in 1871, a Russian colonel named Przhevalsky entered from the eastern Kham region and advanced to within five hundred miles of Lhasa before being expelled back. This presumably occurred because he had only traveled through Chinese-administered Tibet and was halted upon reaching the borders of the Dalai Lama’s domain. Yet this man proved remarkably persistent and apparently attempted entry again from the north. On that occasion, he reportedly reached a point just 170 miles from Lhasa before being detained once more. This northern approach too had brought him precisely to the frontier between Chinese territory and the Dalai Lama’s realm, leaving him still unable to penetrate the latter’s lands.

In 1879, a British man named Captain Kil entered Tibet from the Tatzanlu direction but was similarly driven back upon reaching Bāritan—the border between Chinese territory and the Dalai Lama’s domain. Venerable Nōkai Hiroshi of our nation also reached that point and appears to have been turned back. Regarding this matter, my close friend the current Finance Minister related how two monks from a country called Japan had come as far as Bāritan, but since their true status as monks remained unclear, they were expelled from there. Therefore, in 1881 and 1882, an Indian—that is to say, my teacher—

Sarat Chandra Das obtained a travel permit from the Tibetan government through clever methods to enter Tibet. In 1881, he entered as far as Shigatse, the second capital, endured there for about two months, and returned. When this matter was reported to the British Government, it was decided he would go again in 1882. At that time as well, he obtained a travel permit once more, reached the vicinity of Shigatse, and from there proceeded to Lhasa. He was an exceedingly cautious man who reportedly seldom ventured outside during daylight hours. Even when he did go out, he took great care not to be seen by others nor to see anyone himself; it is said he would only emerge when absolutely necessary, while ordinarily remaining secluded in a temple chamber devoted solely to his studies.

I have heard that this person remained in Lhasa for approximately twenty days. It is said he conducted investigations here and there and managed to complete all his inquiries within that period after departing Darjeeling and returning in less than a year.

As I briefly mentioned earlier, after a major judicial scandal erupted in Tibet—where checkpoints and villages through which Sarat Chandra Das had passed, along with households that had lodged him, all had their properties confiscated, while those judged most culpable were sentenced to execution—the nation of Tibet thereafter became entirely closed off through an isolation policy.

Chapter 89: The Cause of the Isolation Policy

Explorers' Failures: Then in 1888, a man named Rockhill, secretary of the United States legation in Peking, also attempted to enter but failed. After that, among Christian missionaries, a great many attempts were made, but all of them ended in failure. "In any case, during that period, the number of people who attempted exploration amounts to twenty-five or twenty-six individuals that I know of." "If we include those of uncertain status, I estimate there would be forty to fifty individuals, but the confirmed number remains as I just stated. However, among what has been published in Japanese magazines and newspapers thus far, there are some that have written extremely peculiar and mistaken things." "Because they know nothing about Tibet and thus interpret and write books based on haphazard imaginings, various errors arise."

To provide one example: Chōmā—the first person to compile a Tibetan-English comparative dictionary—resided for over ten years in Rātāku, a British territory situated on Tibet’s northwestern border. There, he studied Tibetan under a lama from Rātāku and, by listening to his explanations, managed to compile a dictionary—albeit incomplete—for the first time. However, he found it unbearable—this frustration of trying to scratch an itch through one’s boot without having actually entered Tibet’s inland—and thus conceived the idea of venturing inward. But as entry into Tibet’s inland from Rātāku was strictly prohibited, he simply could not go. Thinking that perhaps he could gain entry if he approached from Darjeeling, he came to Darjeeling at that time. Alas, he was struck down by the miasma present in the forests near Darjeeling and ultimately died. This occurred around 1840, and indeed, this person’s grave remains in the vicinity of Darjeeling.

However, some newspaper or magazine reporters were claiming that this person had entered Lhasa in Tibet, studied Tibetan, and compiled a dictionary. "Furthermore, after that, a man named Yesky also did not go to Tibet and similarly created another complete dictionary using Chōmā’s as a foundation." "Though this person likewise never actually went to Tibet, there are numerous writings by some who claim he certainly did visit Tibet or even stayed long-term in Lhasa." “One cannot solely blame Japanese newspapers and magazine reporters.” "It appears that many such falsehoods have also spread in the West, and one can observe that in the works of scholars who are not always reliable, such erroneous matters have been recorded in great number."

In this manner, many had attempted to enter Tibet, and furthermore, numerous agents from both Britain and Russia kept snooping around the borders. This made the Tibetans deeply resentful. Even without such provocations—being mountain-dwelling folk of inherently suspicious nature—their distrust grew even deeper. "Originally, we Tibetans treated foreigners with genuine hospitality," he explained. "But the Chinese government drilled into us—'If you let outsiders into your land, Buddhism will be eradicated and Christianity imposed! You must guard yourselves fiercely. Seal the borders without exception!'" The earnest Tibetans took these warnings to heart and vigorously enforced isolationist policies. Yet until twenty-two years prior—before Venerable Sarat Chandra Das infiltrated and returned to India—this so-called 'isolation' remained porous. Only after the teacher's expedition came to light did

Because the entire citizenry had become like police officers or detectives, Europeans truly had to nearly abandon all hope of entering Tibet. Moreover, Europeans generally differed not only in complexion, eye shape, and hair color, but also tended to bring large entourages and numerous camels, which caused them to be promptly driven back. In fact, even a man named Hedin attempted to cross Tibet's northern border several times during my stay in Lhasa, but he was always detained and ultimately forced to return.

“Given how many foreign eyes watch Tibet,” he said, “we naturally wonder—why would outsiders wish to know this country? Could they not covet it?” Government officials share these suspicions. The common folk claim Britain desires our land solely for its gold mines—that being their sole motive. But I believe Britain’s designs run deeper. When Russia descends from the north to make Tibet her base against India, maintaining Indian stability becomes impossible. I imagine Britain keeps vigilant watch over Tibet precisely to forestall this.”

The current Finance Minister's discourse proved particularly engaging. To have one's nation seized constitutes true national shame, but for our religion to be destroyed would represent an unbearable humiliation for our country—a disgrace too agonizing to put into words—thus we must defend against this at all costs. Should foreigners learn of this internal discord where government members harbor mutual animosity and conflict, they might swiftly launch an invasion. "Therefore," he asserted, "we must artfully prevent those outsiders from entering to keep such matters concealed." In former times, Tibet's Dalai Lama government had indeed promoted isolation for religious preservation. Yet now it has become what might be termed

Since it had now become a political isolation policy and isolation was being encouraged for political reasons as well, no foreigner had entered Tibet’s interior since the exposure of Venerable Sarat Chandra Das’s incident.

“Now then,” began the Current Finance Minister, speaking at length about my teacher Venerable Sarat Chandra Das’s arrival, “after that incident, our country was truly awakened from its slumber. Our vigilance toward foreigners was greatly heightened,” he remarked. Though there were various other matters discussed in my conversation with the Minister at that time, as what remains in my memory now is only that much, I shall set aside that discussion here.

At that time, I walked around Lhasa's Linkor (circuit path) with the Former Finance Minister. Linkor was, as marked on maps of Lhasa, the outermost road encircling the city. This circumambulation route measured approximately three ri—about twelve kilometers. Completing one full circuit meant having circled all Buddhas and Dharma treasures within Lhasa—the scripture repositories—thereby amassing immense merit. The manner of walking varied: some proceeded with uninterrupted strides; others bowed once per step; while yet others took three paces between each prostration.

The Former Finance Minister, an attendant, and I set out strolling along the circuit path as a party of three. As we walked while conversing half in leisure—though the Minister maintained a truly measured pace—I found myself compelled to walk quite briskly just to keep stride. That stood to reason. Given the Minister's exceptional stature, I had to take one and a half steps for every single stride of his. While the Minister spoke in an unhurried manner as we walked, my need to maintain this accelerated pace made the endeavor rather taxing.

Ninetieth Chapter: City of Filth

Yak Horn Wall: Along that path's edge, precisely on Lhasa's eastern side, stood a peculiar high wall. This wall had been constructed by stacking yak horns - their number truly vast, possibly millions. Sections varied in length: some stretched about one chō (109 meters), others over half a chō (55 meters). There were even portions extending nearly two chō (218 meters). Thus the horns numbered tens of millions - beyond reckoning. Within this horn-walled enclosure lay a slaughtering ground where yaks were butchered, their very horns forming the barrier. I stood astonished before this structure. Though I'd seen it previously, that day's leisure and mental clarity made me observe details anew.

When I remarked to the Minister, “The scale of yak slaughter here is truly staggering,” he replied, “It is indeed pitiful,” as we walked on. After a short while, we reached the gate of that high wall. Peering inside, we saw about thirty yaks tethered for slaughter, with one at the far end bound and ready for killing. Yet in Lhasa, they never place sutras upon the heads of these creatures nor let them hear sacred words before slaughter. For those who butcher yaks and sheep in Lhasa are no Buddhists. They are Chinese Hui Muslims. All of them slaughterers. Thus these Hui Muslims dispense with last rites and simply sever the yaks’ heads. A large companion yak watched the killing with eyes full of terror.

As I stood gazing awhile at this pitiful scene, the Minister remarked, "One truly cannot eat meat after seeing such a sight." "Though consuming flesh indeed seems a grave sin," he continued, "we ordinary mortals are such foolish creatures that nothing will pass our throats unless meat lies upon our dining tables when we return home." "And since we forget this wretched reality as we eat," he added remorsefully, "we must surely be descendants of rakshasa demons."

The number of yaks, sheep, and goats slaughtered in Lhasa was, as I had previously mentioned, exceedingly large. Along that circuit path, road construction had been established by the government. Given that there were even people who went out of their way to prostrate themselves in worship upon the earth as they proceeded, the road was fairly well constructed. There was no need to walk with particular care to avoid stumbling. Yet conversely, the deplorable state of Lhasa city's streets defied description. In areas with uneven terrain, deep ditches had been dug through the town's center.

The ditches served as cesspools for excrement and urine, into which all the women of Lhasa and every traveler would discharge their waste, with human feces lining their edges in rows. The stench was unbearable. While the odor was not so severe in winter, come summer it became truly terrible. When rain fell, human feces would dissolve and flow over the muddy roads, so that the overwhelming stench and filth of the sludge presented a sight so revolting it induced nausea. The name "Lhasa" itself means "Land of Gods," derived from being considered an extremely pure land where Buddhas, Bodhisattvas—that is to say, protective deities—were said to reside. Yet when one beheld its filth, it indeed seemed nothing but a city of dung-eating pretas, just as Panden Atisha had described. It was truly filthy.

I had often heard about the filth in China, but I think there is likely no place as filthy as one where people walk through excrement—through fields of excrement—as if they were the grand roads of a capital city. Of course, there are plenty of scavenging dogs in Lhasa, but even those dogs alone cannot possibly consume it all. Dogs do eagerly eat fresh excrement, but they refuse the old. Therefore, a great quantity of aged waste ends up accumulating. Beside paths teeming with excrement and urine stands a well from which people draw and drink water—one might think nothing could be worse for public health—yet it does not actually cause as much harm as one would expect.

This was certainly harmful, but Lhasa’s climate was truly excellent. The winters were quite cold but more bearable than those in Hokkaido. At night temperatures dropped below freezing, but during the day they stayed between forty and fifty degrees Fahrenheit. In summer they never exceeded eighty degrees. Thus when considering its fine climate—among all places I had traveled or heard of—it stood as a first-rate land. Hence I supposed that even amidst this filthy city’s squalor—its people steeped in grime year-round—they did not fall ill so readily. These were thoughts that arose while circumambulating the path or strolling through Lhasa with the Minister.

There, I would briefly

Statue of Je Tsongkhapa, founder of the sect

I wish to offer an explanation of Tibetan Buddhism. To explain the organizational structure of the government—since that country's government was founded upon Buddhism—I could not properly discuss governance without first elucidating Buddhism. As diplomatic matters could not be explained without addressing governmental affairs, and since I was not yet prepared to discuss those at this juncture, I decided to first provide an overview of Tibetan Buddhism in due order. Of course, detailed matters could not be fully covered unless discussed in a specialized manner.

Tibetan Buddhism is broadly divided into two types. They are the Old School and the New School. The Old School is commonly called the Red Hat Sect, while the New School is termed the Yellow Hat Sect. Within the Old School itself exist numerous subdivisions bearing different names. Sakya, Karma Kagyu, Drukpa, Zhungchenpa—though many others remain unmentioned—all maintain largely consistent doctrines. As their methods for achieving Buddhahood show fundamental similarities, these groups are collectively designated as the Old School.

The founder of the Old School, Padmasambhava: The first person to establish this was an Indian named Robon Pema Chunné. This man was said to have emerged from a lotus in the pond Danakōsha within the royal court of what was once called the kingdom of Urken in Baluchistan, hence bearing the name Pema Chunné ("Lotus-Born"). Yet regarding his personal history, there exist only dubious conjectures with scarcely any verifiable facts. There were far more suspicious matters than ancient myths, and the chronology of his history and biographies remained utterly jumbled. Therefore, the truth cannot be known. However, this man—while being a monk—vigorously engaged in meat-eating, marriage, alcohol consumption, and other such practices. He did not merely enforce these customs. He skillfully interpreted Buddhist doctrines by linking them to his own carnal hedonism, teaching that for monks, the supreme secret method of attaining Buddhahood indispensably required keeping women, eating meat, drinking alcohol, dancing, and singing. He taught that this very method constituted the profound and subtle means to achieve Buddhahood and liberation on the spot, even within this evil age of five defilements.

Chapter 91: Old School and New School As for their explanation that carnal desire constitutes enlightenment nature and must be fulfilled—they taught that great desire was great enlightenment nature, declaring that among human desires, the greatest lay in pursuing sensual pleasures. Through indulging in these pleasures, one could reach the essence of non-self and attain great enlightenment. Furthermore, they asserted that people naturally desired to eat meat. By consuming flesh, they claimed one could influence the animal's spirit toward enlightenment through one's own spiritual state, thereby enabling the devoured creature to attain enlightenment—this too was deemed the path of compassion. Alcohol served as a means to obtain pleasure. By sharing these pleasures and achieving mutual harmony, they taught that peaceful coexistence in this world manifested true wisdom. In essence, they preached that through drinking alcohol, eating meat, indulging in sensual pleasures while practicing Zen meditation, one could instantaneously attain Buddhahood in their present body.

Regarding these detailed matters, there was both a risk of harming public morals and many elements too obscene to disclose to ordinary people. In any case, they meticulously aligned Buddhism's revered doctrines with objects of worldly desire, concocting various forced interpretations. In Japan too during former times, a school called Tachikawa-ryu emerged within the Shingon sect—blending Onmyodo with esoteric practices to propagate similar teachings that greatly poisoned society. This appears to have been rather actively practiced in some Japanese regions too, though with so few of its sutras and commentaries surviving today, their precise nature remains unclear—yet I doubt they attained the scale found in Tibet.

In Tibet, Buddhism transmitted from India was very widely practiced, and even then many of those sutras still existed. Already, a considerable number of Sanskrit sutras and translated texts prepared in India also existed in Tibet. Then, regarding those teachings, the theories that the lamas subsequently created according to their own whims—teachings that instead corrupted Buddhism—were abundantly presented to the world under the name of Buddhism. It would hardly have been an exaggeration to say that at the time, half of Tibetan Buddhism was filled with those very sutras.

Among the scriptures I had already brought back, there existed many texts from the esoteric section considered most authentic and revered within this sect. These were matters I examined privately, being too obscene for public disclosure—nearly impossible to share openly with society. Such doctrinal teachings had been practiced in ancient Tibet and remained quite widespread until over five hundred years prior. Yet those very teachings had grown so thoroughly corrupt that even in Tibet—a land habituated to moral chaos—they reached a state of such profound degradation as to be truly beyond remedy. Thus emerged the New School.

The genesis of the New School was rooted in Panden Achisha who came from India; later emerged a man named Je Tsongkhapa—born in Amdo in northern Tibet, then under Chinese administration. He was born in a house amidst "Zongka"—meaning onion fields—and rose from there to purge Tibetan Buddhism of its corruption, earning him the reverential title "Je Tsongkhapa," with *Je* signifying "Lord" or "Saint." He thoroughly comprehended the Old School's depravities and maintained that monks must be wholly grounded in precepts. Without precepts, one could not bear the name of monk. Among these precepts, he deemed the prohibition against sexual misconduct paramount.

If a monk kept a woman, he was indeed a layperson—nay, a demon who destroyed the Buddhist Law—and this was conclusively determined and personally implemented by [the reformers]. Through exoteric sutras and commentaries, they made all monks receive pure precepts regarding most esoteric teachings. Yet when these precepts became mandatory, Tibet still lacked qualified teachers to confer them. How then did this movement emerge? It arose through those possessing strong sincere faith—or rather, through many sincere individuals gathering together—thus gradually forming the germinating seed of what would become the New School. The banner-raising occurred at Ganden Temple, situated fourteen or fifteen ri from Lhasa. Still, no school of Tibetan Buddhism had ever been established solely through exoteric sutras and commentaries. The New School also adopted esoteric teachings.

the statue of Robon Pema Chunné, founder of the Old School

However, these esoteric teachings had been adopted from what was called the orthodox sect's secret teachings, but those of the Old School belonged to the heretical sect's esoteric doctrines—teachings that completely destroyed true Buddhism. In the orthodox sect's secret teachings, there were almost no buddhas or deities depicted in male-female union. Yet in Tibet, whenever one spoke of esoteric Buddhism, there invariably existed buddha forms in sexual union. Among the secret paintings I had brought back were many such images—so numerous they could scarcely be shown to others.

However, it seems that initially, they completely destroyed all the revered statues of the Old School’s esoteric Buddhism that had spread throughout society in this manner, yet this alone did not suffice to establish the recognition that these were not true Buddhism. Thus, Je Tsongkhapa, the founder of the New School, skillfully interpreted this and rendered it all in abstract terms. Male represents expedient means, female represents wisdom: generally, 'male' signifies expedient means and 'female' signifies wisdom. It is through the union of expedient means and wisdom that a Buddha is formed. He interpreted this as meaning that it was absolutely not the case that engaging in carnal desires would lead to attaining Buddhahood. Furthermore, meat merely symbolized compassion; this did not mean one should eat it. It was taught that one should practice compassion. Nor does it mean that one should drink alcohol, which disrupts this tangible spirit. Alcohol was explained as symbolizing inherent wisdom—merely an encouragement to diligently apply one’s innate wisdom daily—and in this manner, all were interpreted in accordance with true Buddhist principles. Thus, the images of the heretical sect were appropriated wholesale into orthodox Buddhist interpretations.

Therefore, when considered from its true essence, it undoubtedly represented orthodox Buddhism; however, since they still employed heretical-sect imagery when viewed superficially, it appeared rather peculiar. However, this might have been an unavoidable necessity for that era. While this did not constitute a complete explanation of the two sects' outlines, given that Buddhism contained many matters difficult to comprehend without specialized study, I would conclude here for now and proceed to discuss Tibet's most distinctive religious phenomenon—the Incarnation system. Now,

The term "incarnation" means that its essence is a Buddha or Bodhisattva; since their true form is intangible, they remain invisible to sentient beings. Therefore, they manifest a physical form endowed with those virtues and are temporarily born into this world to save sentient beings. That is to say, it is called an incarnation from the meaning of a body that has temporarily transformed and come into this world. Now, in Tibet, it is not only Buddhas and Bodhisattvas who are believed to incarnate; there exists a faith that even minor lamas, upon dying, will be reborn again to work for the world. Consequently, regarding these incarnations, those of former times differ considerably from present-day ones. Those of old remain only in historical records, and as I have not personally observed them, I cannot guarantee whether they are indeed reliable or not; however, setting aside matters deemed reliably historical in Tibet from more ancient times, I shall discuss the incarnations that occurred during the medieval period.

The Ninety-Second Dalai Lama Selection The Dalai Lama government’s Divine Oracle: About four hundred years ago, there was a man named Gendun Tub. This Gendun Tub was a disciple of Je Tsongkhapa, the founder of the New School. When Gendun Tub approached his death, he reportedly declared, “I shall be reborn in such-and-such place this time.” However, a child was born precisely where he had designated this location. Shortly after birth, the child began insisting he wanted to return to his temple.

When they asked which temple it was, he reportedly answered Tashi Lhunpo Monastery. Concluding this must be Gendun Tub's reincarnation—since both testament and child's words aligned—they brought him to be raised. As he matured, this boy became enthroned as the Second Dalai Lama. Through his passing and into the Third and Fourth successions, an era of remarkable certainty prevailed. Yet when examining the Fifth and Sixth Dalai Lamas' histories, conspicuously dubious events emerge. These irregularities ultimately crystallized into the modern incarnation recognition system. The Fifth Dalai Lama, Ngawang Gyatso—styled Yanlihai—though belonging to the New School, deeply studied Old School doctrines, integrating their interpretations into his sect. His reign saw divine oracles surge in prominence, with four official State Oracles of the Dalai Lama's government being established during this period. Though all four were temples housing deities, they employed Buddhist monks rather than shrine priests. These institutions bore the names Nechung first, Samye second, Ramoche third, and Ganden fourth. The institutionalization of Divine Oracles during this era stemmed directly from this Fifth Dalai Lama's initiatives, marking the definitive

This unification came about because religious and political authority had become integrated. Up until this Dalai Lama, they were what might be termed purely religious figures who did not engage in governance whatsoever. This was because they possessed no territorial domain through which to exercise political power. However, from Mongolia arose a king called Siri Gomi Tenjung Choe Gyal, who conquered all the tribal rulers then divided across Tibet. Contemporary records indicate thirteen tribes each comprising ten thousand households, totaling 130,000 households. Yet even today, as if no population growth had occurred since that era, Tibet's household count remains proverbially fixed at 130,000—though this likely pertains only to territories under the Dalai Lama's jurisdiction as surveyed during that period.

Now, although the Mongolian King had subjugated all regions of Tibet, he did not become king himself but instead relinquished all authority and bestowed it upon the Dalai Lama. The Fifth Dalai Lama received this authority and, from that time onward, finally implemented the unity of religious and political rule. Therefore, the establishment of this unity of religious and political rule in Tibet remains a matter of less than three hundred years. Now, when an incarnation does not personally declare matters as in former times—such as stating "I was born from this place" or "When I die, I shall be reborn in such-and-such location"—the method Tibetans use to determine [the rebirth] is as follows: Their belief holds that once forty-nine days have passed after a venerated lama's death, that soul becomes destined to be reborn somewhere. After some time has passed, they go to inquire, saying they want to see where [the soul] has been reborn. The place they go to inquire is what is called the Divine Oracle temple. When inquired, the Divine Oracle invokes the deity and informs [them].

The method of invoking deities differed considerably from that of Inari shrines in Japan. It was a truly bizarre method—so much so that one might think a sudden fit of madness had occurred. First, regardless of the matter at hand, when people went to consult the Divine Oracle, about four monks would beat drums while another four struck gongs and cymbals, chanting sutras—and during this time, the deity would descend. The monk wore an enormous hat on his head. From the back of this hat hung a long piece of cut cloth reaching to his feet—a magnificent five-colored silk. This utilized brocade or figured satin among other materials. His robe resembled the Buddhist vestments of Japanese monks—a vivid yellow or red damask silk adorned with floral patterns. The dangling ends of his sash's knot hung down long, presenting a truly peculiar yet magnificent sight.

The Divine Oracle, thus prepared, sat half-crouched with eyes closed motionlessly. Beside him, monks fervently recited sutras. Gradually he began to tremble, and as the trembling intensified violently, he would suddenly collapse backward or sometimes rise up again. This varied according to the deity's disposition, it was said. While collapsing backward and trembling convulsively, he would declare matters like: that a lama had been reborn in such-and-such place; that a house in that region faced such-and-such direction with only a married couple residing there; or that in a household of however many people, the child born on such-and-such month and day was the reincarnation of the lama who had died on a certain date. Yet when they stealthily went to investigate, strangely enough, a child exactly matching this description would have been born there, people said.

However, they left the child at home with the mother until weaning, then took them to the temple to provide special education and strengthen their self-belief. That is: “I was such-and-such an eminent lama in my previous life. Since you are the reincarnation of such an eminent person, you must never allow others to look down upon you!” they would declare, cultivating this conviction through rigorous instruction. To this foundation of robust self-confidence, attendants proceeded to provide thorough education while maintaining reverence. Even when recognized as the Dalai Lama’s incarnation, those who neglected their studies during training periods might have their buttocks struck. Some monks defended this practice by insisting such discipline never occurred, but this was false—in truth, students endured severe treatment throughout their education.

In any case, starting from the Fifth Dalai Lama, such Divine Oracles began, and it became established practice to consult these oracles on all matters. Whether dealing with international disputes or unusual domestic events where internal judgment proved difficult—or even when logically certain yet torn between options—they would consult the Divine Oracle. This applied even to seemingly clear matters requiring no deliberation. After hearing the oracle's words—delivered once the deity descended and the medium entered a frenzied state, foaming at the mouth as he spoke—they would execute its directives without question. Now, as previously mentioned, there were four deities safeguarding the Dalai Lama's government. These were Nechung, Ramoche, Samye, and Ganden. Among these, Nechung held the greatest influence.

Now, to explain how they discerned where the Dalai Lama was reborn after his passing: within a year of the Dalai Lama's death, his government issued orders to those four temples, instructing them to come and properly determine where he had been reincarnated. Upon this command, all the Divine Oracle monks from the four temples emerged. Now, these four Divine Oracles would first invoke their customary deities through prayer and divination, then each declare where the Dalai Lama had been reborn this time. However, since the deities they consulted were distinct, the four often gave conflicting accounts. At times, two might align while the other two diverged. Generally, about three candidates emerged. In such cases, how did they determine the next Dalai Lama?

Chapter 93: The Selection of Children

*Investigating Names in the Urn*: When conducting extremely secret investigations into candidates born as incarnations of the Dalai Lama, they would obtain three or four children, but until those children reached around five years of age, the government did not provide them with much protection. They also took care to ensure they were not treated roughly. When a child reached about five years old, they finally brought them to the government in Lhasa. The procedure for this was conducted in the presence of the Chinese Imperial Resident Commissioner in Tibet and the acting Dalai Lama who administered politics after the Dalai Lama’s passing, with all attendees including the Prime Minister; ministers of Finance, Military, Palace, and Religious Affairs; and their deputies such as vice-ministers.

Even among the clergy, the most senior high-ranking monks all attended there, first writing down and placing into a golden urn the names of however many children there were—three names if there were three children, four if there were four. They properly sealed it and then held grand prayers and sutra readings for seven days. In other words, declaring that they would obtain the true incarnation from within this urn, they conducted such a grand prayer assembly. When the prayers concluded, the aforementioned assembly of high-ranking officials presided over the inspection of the sealed urn. After carefully examining it, they cut the seal and opened the lid. Then, the Imperial Resident Commissioner, holding an ivory chopstick, covered his eyes and thrust it into the urn, drawing out just one name. The child whose name matched the one drawn became the Dalai Lama.

Since they proceeded in this manner, there seemed to be few problems arising from this process; however, according to what I had heard from Secretary Ma Quan of the Imperial Resident Commissioner’s office, there had apparently been significant instances of corruption. It was said there were those who actively worked through heavy bribery, motivated by the belief that if their child became the Dalai Lama, they themselves would not only receive a dukedom from the Chinese government as royalty of the Dalai Lama’s lineage but also acquire abundant wealth—thereby attaining perfect worldly happiness. They would first lavish money on the Imperial Resident Commissioner, then distribute bribes generously to Tibetan high-ranking monk officials. Thus it appeared methods had been established to ensure only the children of bribe-takers would be selected. This could not necessarily be substantiated with evidence. However, I had repeatedly heard stories that such things did indeed occur.

Determining the Dalai Lama’s incarnation was, as described above, quite difficult. However, when it came to lower-ranking high lamas, there were somewhat troublesome matters as well. These Divine Oracle fellows were truly wicked men—their voracious taking of bribes proved extraordinary. Therefore, Divine Oracle monks possessed extraordinary wealth. For instance: The Nechung Oracle of the Dalai Lama’s government likely held wealth that would have been called the greatest in all Tibet. Thus most incarnations of high lamas emerged from noble children, wealthy families’ offspring, or scions of major merchant houses—was this not rather odd? Given that incarnations almost never dwelled in paupers’ children—with nearly nine out of ten arising from affluent households—there had to be manipulation at play behind this stage. This became evident through mere surface observation; yet in truth, utterly peculiar practices were being conducted—I myself frequently heard many disturbing accounts.

First, even before their child was born, they would go to the Divine Oracle and send bribes in advance. Then they would have someone arrange for the child to be introduced to a reputable temple by claiming he was the incarnation of a certain lama. Since prosperous temples possessed considerable assets, through such arrangements their child became able to obtain the temple's property from birth itself. From a purely mercantile perspective, this must have been considered worthwhile—even substantial bribes didn't amount to much loss. That was precisely why there were those who lavished money freely. These were matters I had frequently witnessed and heard about firsthand; they constituted no mere speculative assumptions based on surface observations. Therefore, it had become abundantly clear that these so-called incarnations were utterly unworthy of belief. As for past incarnations—those I'll set aside—but the present ones were no true incarnations at all;

I said they were incarnations of bribery. Yet since they thoroughly instill confidence and educate those children, among ten lamas called incarnations, at least eight generally turn out well. About two become worthless scum. The educational method requires both teachers and attendants to use ceremonious honorifics toward the child recognized as an incarnation. For instance, even when the incarnated child does something trivial, they refrain from harsh scolding. Instead, they prompt reflection by saying, "You are an incarnation—how could one such as yourself stoop to such acts?" This led me to ponder. I came to believe that educational methods which mindlessly berate children as "fools" or "blockheads," or arbitrarily disparage their perceived shortcomings in memory and judgment—thereby stripping them of self-confidence—are indeed approaches that hinder a child's development.

During my time in Tibet, I formed the conviction that children must be educated to develop self-confidence and the belief that they could fully achieve their potential through it. Tibetans naturally remained ignorant of such principles. Moreover, bribery occurred exclusively among the wealthy nobility, with ordinary people wholly unaware of these dealings. The foolishness ran deep—even when government policies reversed course overnight, commoners scarcely noticed. Among the populace circulated tales like these: when aristocrats bore children who allegedly declared at birth, "I am the reincarnation of Lama So-and-So from Such-and-Such Monastery"; or how attendants would bring two objects—one genuine relic of the previous lama and one counterfeit—asking, "Which is yours?" whereupon the child would unfailingly identify the true relic, cementing lay society's belief in these undisputed incarnations.

While such superstitions were practiced throughout Tibet as a whole, if one were to delve into the secrets of Lhasa and Shigatse, one could indeed assert without hesitation that these incarnations were incarnations of bribery. Even if they were not incarnations of bribery, given the relationship between the Divine Oracle and certain nobles, there were instances where the Divine Oracle, while under those nobles' protection, engaged in such acts through what might be called flattery without necessarily receiving special bribes. There still remained a few more things I wished to say regarding this Divine Oracle matter.

Ministerial Blunders and Divine Oracles: When a minister within the government committed an erroneous act, an astute minister would realize this and promptly take tens of thousands of yen—or sometimes a lesser sum depending on the severity of the offense, though generally no less than a thousand yen—to entreat Nechung, the government’s protective deity. Before long, the veneer of that minister’s mistake peeled away, and when the matter finally became an issue within government circles—whether to reprimand him or impose severe punishment—they promptly summoned Nechung, invoked the deity, and sought guidance on whether it would be proper to punish this individual.

The Divine Oracle, cornered by a major crisis, feigns possession and collapses.

Then, if they had received a large sum of money at that time, Nechung would declare: "Do not punish them at all. Excessive punishment would imperil the nation's destiny—a mild reprimand suffices." "He remains fundamentally virtuous," they would continue, "having erred unwittingly on this occasion. Leniency proves most judicious." Yet even those who performed good deeds faced peril should they displease Nechung. Its priests would abruptly summon the deity before the Dalai Lama, perverting noble acts into crimes to justify censure or penalties. Thus within Tibetan government circles, dread of this Nechung Oracle eclipsed even their fear of the Dalai Lama himself. To claim that Nechung held sway over Tibet's governance verged not on hyperbole but plain truth. The current Dalai Lama—a man of uncommon resolve—might occasionally resist Nechung's dictates. Yet more often than not, he acquiesced to their counsel under the mantle of honoring ancestral traditions.

Chapter 94: Education and Ethnicity The Nechung Oracle could clearly determine right and wrong in such trivial matters, but when grave national crises arose—diplomatic impasses defying resolution—this Nechung Oracle proved truly comical. First, the priest would don garments and a hat gleaming with divine radiance, standing before the Dalai Lama, ministers, and high-ranking monk officials to pray until the deity descended. At the precise moment of descent, when they inquired, “Given these circumstances leading to war with the British government, what should we do?” the deity—without uttering a word—would tremble violently, leap upward, and send the Oracle priest crashing down in feigned unconsciousness. Those nearby would then cry out, “This is disastrous! The deity grew furious at our irreverent questioning and has abandoned us!” Thus whenever intractable problems emerged, Nechung resolved matters by claiming “the deity has fled,” requiring no further explanation. It was truly unbearably absurd.

Thus, even among conscientious scholars and monks, those who discerned right from wrong secretly detested the abhorrent nature of his conduct and the harm his deeds inflicted upon society and the nation—they grew enraged, declaring: "He is a demon! He is no guardian of Buddhist Law, but rather its destroyer!" However, when it came to the Dalai Lama himself, there had been numerous instances where they emerged not from wealthy families but rather from impoverished backgrounds; therefore, there were cases where one could not uniformly extend the Divine Oracle's influence to determine this matter even for the Dalai Lama or the Second Dalai Lama. Indeed, even the current Dalai Lama had actually been born into a poor family.

The Second Dalai Lama likewise came from humble origins; his mother was a mute woman, and his father's identity remains entirely obscure. Theories abound—that a hermit coupled with the mute woman, or perhaps a monk—among other conjectures. According to one credible scholar's account, there existed at Sera Monastery—where I resided—a scholar called Metokesan ("Chrysanthemum Flower"). This man immersed himself in the Buddhist doctrines of the ancient sect until becoming erotically deranged, eventually wandering into rural exile. During this period, he sired a child with the mute woman's daughter. It is said that the Second Dalai Lama's visage bears striking resemblance to Metokesan's. However, this theory lacks broader scholarly acceptance—being merely propounded by an academic colleague of mine at Sera University—and its veracity remains unverifiable. Let us now set aside discussion of the Divine Oracle.

At this point,

A brief explanation will now be provided regarding schools and education. In Tibet, education was not very widespread. In areas such as Shigatse, the second capital, relatively basic education like calligraphy, counting, and reading materials was conducted; however, outside of monasteries, children of ordinary people were hardly ever educated. Therefore, there were naturally not many schools. The only institutions resembling schools were one at the Dalai Lama’s palace in Lhasa and Tashilhunpo Monastery in Shigatse. The rest all resembled private tutor-style schools, and the most widely conducted education occurred in monastic schools.

Children of commoners could not receive education beyond elementary level unless they became monks. Government schools were inaccessible to common people. Beneath those common people existed what was called the outcastes. The so-called outcastes consisted of four groups: fishermen, ferrymen, blacksmiths, and butchers. The reason blacksmiths were included among the outcastes was because—as in India—they forged the knives and cleavers that butchers used to slaughter animals; thus they too were deemed guilty and placed among this caste.

The two castes of commoners and outcastes could not enter government schools. Members of the outcastes were not even permitted to become monks. However, there were some who went to distant regions, concealed their outcaste status, and became monks, but in their hometowns—where everyone knew of their origins—they were never permitted to take monastic vows. In this regard, commoners held a much higher position since they could become monks. So, to explain what castes could enter government schools:

The categories of nobility were as follows: First came what was called Gerwa—the primary aristocracy. Second stood Ngakpa (Mantra Clan), third Pönpo (Ancient Teaching Clan), and fourth Shégo (Ancient Noble Clan). The Gerwa nobility comprised descendants of ancient ministers and generals, including those of Yabshi—the Dalai Lama's bloodline. These Dharma King lineages were few in number, referring exclusively to relatives attached to Tibet's thirteen historical monarchs—all being ducal houses. Among ducal houses existed two types: Dharma King clans and royal clans. While we have discussed Dharma King clans above, royal clans traced their descent from Nyatri Tsenpo—Tibet's first king—through Songtsen Gampo who introduced Buddhism, continuing via hereditary succession to modern times.

Their legitimate successors were called Rahakya-ri, and even now that house remained splendidly preserved. However, they held no political power. Their rank nevertheless permitted them to sit in the same seat as the Dalai Lama. As for the Yabshi of the Dharma King clans—these consisted solely of ducal houses descended from relatives of past Dalai Lamas. When capable individuals emerged from such houses, they typically became eligible to serve as Prime Minister or ministers overseeing departments like the Army and Finance. Even when this did not occur, they essentially always held imperially appointed official positions. However, when we speak of Yabshi, this referred only to those associated with the Dalai Lama of Lhasa. While those called Yabshi connected to the Second Dalai Lama at Tashilhunpo Monastery indeed existed, they did not hold as much influence as the Yabshi of Lhasa's Dalai Lama.

It would have been appropriate to call these two groups the royal family; however, since there were many similar groups outside the nobility if not classified as such, they were included among the nobility. Among those similar noble houses existed one called Debon Cheka (Great General Clan). This was the lineage of those who had achieved remarkable military feats during great wars since ancient times and saved the nation from crises. They were exceptionally well-treated. They received far better treatment than those of the nobility positioned one tier below them. Thus, even the children of such households came to be addressed with honorifics like "Crown Prince-sama" by others.

The last category comprised ordinary Nobility—families with long-standing prestige from ancient times, or descendants of ministers who had rendered distinguished service to the state. Among these Nobility, when individuals possessing talent superior to the ordinary emerged and worked sufficiently for the nation, such people would invariably become Prime Ministers. In that climate, those who were endowed not with talent for governing the nation but rather with skill in adeptly wielding bribes were by no means precluded from attaining even the position of Prime Minister. Almost all of Tibet’s

Government positions were such that they could be bought with bribes, and the presence or absence of talent was hardly questioned. For even if talent existed, it would only prove obstructive. When a single capable person existed among a multitude of fools, they inevitably became an obstruction; thus, whenever such a capable person emerged, others would inevitably grow envious and cast them out. In other words, those who were victorious at that time—the people who had bought government positions with bribes—were occupying many key posts in the government. These three were collectively referred to as Nobility.

The second category, the Ngakpa (Mantra Clan), consisted of those whose ancestral lamas had been remarkably skilled adepts performing various mysterious deeds. Those lamas took wives and fathered children. However, in transmitting these arcane practices, they disclosed them to none beyond their own offspring, thereby perpetuating each family's distinctive traditions; consequently, their descendants still occupied essential positions within the state. As noted earlier, they wielded authority to collect hail taxes and serve as summer magistrates, receiving reverence from both rural and urban dwellers as secret practitioners.

This was because Tibetans generally believed that if one were to offend them, they would perform extremely malevolent secret curse rituals that would cause harm—hence they were greatly revered. As previously mentioned, this being the nature of the Mantra Clan, substantial wealth flowed to them. They received many offerings from people and collected considerable sums like hail taxes, so by ordinary standards they should have been exceedingly rich—yet many among them remained impoverished. While Tibetans considered Ngakpa to be synonymous with poverty, they also universally believed that Ngakpa must be shown utmost respect regardless of wealth. Even nobles would dismount from their horses to greet a Ngakpa dressed like a beggar.

Chapter 95: The Ancient Noble Clan and the Outcastes Pönpo Clan: Third was the Pönpo. This was an ancient teaching that had been transmitted since before Buddhism entered Tibet, and its monks still maintained married lives. Their descendants were thus called the Ancient Teaching Clan; these descendants conducted rituals to appease local deities and performed rites to prevent them from punishing the people through anger. However, whenever marriages occurred between men and women, villagers relied on this Pönpo Clan to perform ceremonies for their village deity. Additionally, while the Pönpo Clan made their living by conducting prayers and curses upon request, in extremely remote areas such as the Himalayan village of Torubo, all thirty households of an entire village belonged to the Pönpo Clan. Such places were exceptions, but in villages or regions where only one Pönpo member resided, that member was respected as the chief administrative and judicial officer of the area. Even those who held no official positions, performed no prayers, and engaged in other occupations were still highly revered as individuals of pure lineage.

Therefore, while Pönpo had once been a religion in antiquity, by this period it consisted solely of clan members representing its teachings; they neither instructed outsiders in these doctrines nor explained their tenets. The transmission of teachings remained strictly limited to descendants passing them down through generations. Those among the Pönpo engaged in secular occupations were not lamas. The lamas shaved their heads like Buddhist monks, donned monastic robes, and held the most esteemed position within their clan. In short, those called Pönpo commanded respect not only through lineage—those who became lamas through scholarly merit also received societal reverence commensurate with their monastic station. The fourth category was Shégo. Namely,

Regarding the Ancient Noble Clan—this clan, as its name suggested, consisted of descendants of ancient wealthy farmers or merchants who still possessed considerable property and land, exercising power in their regions. The people of such mountainous countries were profoundly conservative, maintaining their ancestral properties unchanged since antiquity. They devoted themselves entirely to preserving wealth through polyandrous customs, ensuring ancient affluent families remained prosperous through generations. Yet even those who had lately lost estates and retained only hollow claims to wealth still received equal social reverence as Shégo clansmen—the Ancient Noble lineage enduring beyond material circumstance.

In Tibet, no matter how much wealth lower castes—namely commoners or outcastes—acquired or how much social influence they attained, they could never act superior toward impoverished members of this Ancient Noble Clan. It was much like how, in the past, even the wealthiest merchants and artisans of Kyoto could not act superior toward the court nobles. Commoners were called Tomuba. Within Tomuba there were two categories: Tomuba and Tomuzu.

Tomuba referred to lineages that had historically owned ordinary property and land without becoming slaves to others, while Tomuzu—that is, lesser folk—denoted descendants of those who, under commoners, performed nearly slave-like labor. However, they were not entirely slaves. They were akin to extremely poor tenant farmers. In ancient times, there had existed a clear landlord-tenant relationship. Yet this could no longer be said to hold true universally today. There were either those of Tomuba lineage who had fallen into greater poverty than the lesser folk, or those of lesser folk lineage who possessed extensive land and wealth far surpassing the commoners. However, these were not ordinary cases but rather what might be called exceptions. Generally, commoners were larger and lesser folk smaller.

Class and Treatment: No matter how much property or land members of lesser folk lineages came to possess, or how deeply commoners fell into poverty, their lineage and class were never disrupted. Therefore, society’s treatment of these two groups remained distinctly different, and commoners and lesser folk would never eat food together. Furthermore, marriage was also absolutely not permitted. As previously mentioned, the lowest caste consisted of four groups: ferrymen, fishermen, blacksmiths, and butchers. Among these, ferrymen and fishermen held a slightly higher status. They were nothing like blacksmiths or butchers.

Blacksmiths and butchers could not under any circumstances eat or drink in the same room as other commoners. Ferrymen and fishermen could not share their eating utensils but could sit together in the same room to eat and drink. They merely ate their own food from their own bowls and nothing more. These four Outcastes could never marry members of other castes. If children from castes above commoners engaged in illicit relations with members of these Outcastes, those children of superior caste had to be stripped of their status and reduced to Outcastes. Moreover, they were forbidden from even returning to their parents’ home. If their children regretted their mistake and divorced members of the Outcastes, they still could not return to their former upper caste. The most absurd thing was the children born between Outcastes and commoners becoming spouses. Such children were called Tek-Ta-Ril in society. Tek-Ta-Ril referred to

In the sense of a "mixed black-and-white rope clan," they were given this name and existed as those considered even worse than the Outcastes. Thus, even when blacksmiths and butchers among these Outcastes amassed money, abandoned their trades, and took up agriculture or commerce, they remained forever Outcastes and could never gain acceptance in ordinary society. However, when members of other superior castes demonstrated exceptional skill in blacksmithing techniques and voluntarily engaged in the trade, they were not deemed tainted in lineage but acknowledged for their technical mastery; such individuals were called Rik-sö (Artisans). Within this hierarchy of hereditary classes, by law or custom, the superior castes held special privileges over the lower castes. For instance, when children of the nobility and commoners quarreled or fought—if a commoner child in anger failed to use respectful language and instead employed equal or derogatory terms toward a noble child—regardless of the dispute's merits, under the law the commoner children would invariably be found at fault.

Moreover, any commoner child—no matter how wealthy—had to always pay respects to those of the Ngakpa or Pönpo clans who stood one class above them. In situations where they were seated together, even a destitute Ngakpa still had to be yielded the proper seat on account of their caste. When speaking, they had to always use honorific language. Of course, as marriages and such matters were all kept separate according to their differing classes, their character, appearance, disposition, and manners naturally differed as well. Therefore, in this country’s proverb,

As exemplified by the saying, "The distinction between high and low birth is discerned through their manners; metropolitan and provincial folk are known by their speech," the Nobility possessed particularly dignified appearances and refined features, their every mannerism elegant and composed. As for their hearts as well, there were many who deeply disciplined themselves with the thought, "We are of the Nobility, so we must not engage in shameful conduct." The Mantra Clan (Ngakpa), Ancient Religion Clan (Pönpo), and Ancient Noble Clan (Shégo), though not as splendid as the Nobility, still maintained a certain nobility compared to commoners—even we could generally discern at a glance that their nature was not base. That these people belonged not to commoners but to a higher caste could be discerned even from their manner of wearing clothes.

Though commoners were base in appearance and character, their nature was somewhat honest and not prone to thievery. Commoners, no matter how impoverished they became and even when reduced to beggary, were still trusted by society at large for this single fact: they generally did not steal. Among the Outcastes, there were the most criminals committing serious crimes such as robbery and murder. It could be said to have been a den of serious crimes. Moreover, many beggars also belonged to this caste. Moreover, within this caste there were also separate beggar clans. For those who continued begging through generations were called beggar clans; thus even if good people existed among these Outcastes, society did not trust them. Their very appearance made it immediately clear they belonged to the Outcastes. Cruelty, harshness, baseness, and filthiness—their very nature matched their appearance.

They considered hitting children to be a good educational method. The purpose of education: As mentioned previously, the upper castes were permitted by the government to enter schools. The subjects taught in those schools were three: memorization, calligraphy, and arithmetic. The first was memorization and the second was calligraphy; in terms of time, the most was spent on calligraphy. Arithmetic was taught using methods of calculation with pebbles, wood chips, or seashells as previously explained. As for what they memorized, it included portions of sutras, extremely simple—and quite incomplete—grammar books, and then they studied rhetoric. In Tibet, rhetoric was considered even more essential than grammar.

This was because they delighted in excessively embellishing speech with grandiloquence—much like how the Chinese lavished descriptions—so whether Tibetans had become heavily influenced by the Chinese in this regard or whether it stemmed from their inherent nature remained unclear, but even in documents addressed to the Dalai Lama or those slightly superior, they employed copious amounts of needlessly ornate flattery. Therefore rhetoric became necessary. They particularly enjoyed inserting extremely convoluted, hard-to-understand characters into their letters.

When it came to petitions particularly, they excelled at compiling characters so obscure they couldn't even be found in sutras, taking great delight in crafting writings that defied comprehension at first glance. This very approach permeated their school education as well. Within rhetoric textbooks existed passages so convoluted that composing a single page consumed an entire day—texts so abstruse one had to laboriously consult original rhetorical treatises to grasp them. Some were practically encoded like ciphers. Since they regarded mastery of characters unknown to ordinary people as education's ultimate aim, one had to declare it a truly bizarre educational objective.

Chapter 96: Methods of Encouraging Education

Severe Methods of Encouragement: Since they taught such arduous rhetoric, the children could scarcely endure it. Memorization formed the core of instruction, with the characters to be memorized themselves being formidable. Thus they found retention nearly impossible. The sole method devised to compel memorization through encouragement was beating—this they employed as their supreme pedagogical technique. The relationship between teacher and pupil resembled that of jailer and convict; pupils would approach their masters trembling violently, perpetually fearful of impending blows—a truly pitiable spectacle.

The former Finance Minister with whom I was staying was a man quite conscientious in matters of education; however, his primary method of teaching the children in his household remained beating. Thus when the children came before the Minister, they would tremble violently and hesitate perpetually, fearing they might be struck at any moment. The strikes were all delivered with flat bamboo sticks, whipping the palm of their left hands about thirty times with a whistling crack. If they pulled back their hand, thirty strikes became sixty; thus however excruciating the pain—however much they shrank and curled up—they had to wait trembling like this (as shown in the previous illustration), spilling hot tears while enduring silently until the beating concluded. The pathos of it proved unbearable to witness.

Since this was not education but harming of children, I once thoroughly explained to the Minister that true educational methods should follow such principles, and that beating was not beneficial. However, though there was considerable argument at first, being a man who understood reason, he apparently ceased beating the children thereafter, limiting himself to mild scoldings when they failed to remember adequately. Afterward, I continued urging that they teach through mental cultivation as much as possible; yet the Minister remarked that since abandoning corporal punishment, the children had in fact improved their retention. However, this practice of beating was not unique to the Minister alone. Others proved harsher than he. They employed methods like withholding meals or binding children overnight, inflicting torments verging on unbearable. If one were to claim Tibetans educate children devoid of compassion through mere strict punishment, such would not be entirely accurate either, for...

When it came to the relationship between monks and their disciples, matters grew truly extreme—if instruction proved ineffective, they would abandon them as hopeless cases. Yet simultaneously, they constantly kissed these disciples with excessive affection. Their dynamic resembled that of a woman utterly captivated by a man’s charms. Thus consumed by infatuation, they became wholly incapable of proper instruction. One approach erred through excessive severity; the other through affection so overwhelming it precluded education. While education required this middle path—maintaining strictness while bestowing compassion—Tibetan methods consisted solely of approaches either excessive or deficient.

Those who attained this middle path were almost nonexistent in my observations. Thus, since the education provided by monks was already conducted in such a manner, the emergence of good individuals became exceedingly rare. Conscientious monks found it improper to kiss their own disciples. In other words, reasoning that kissing one’s own disciples would harm them, there were those who kissed others’ disciples yet educated their own novices without kissing them. Such novices gradually developed.

The memorization of sutras developed, but the difficulty lay precisely in this memorization, making it no easy task for learners. Generally, children who had turned fifteen or sixteen within a year had to memorize three hundred or five hundred pages of sutras and take the scripture examinations. Moreover, they never learned through books but merely recited meaninglessly what was transmitted orally from the lama. These meaninglessly memorized sutras—they had to undergo examinations covering three hundred to five hundred pages of these scriptures annually. Even at the lowest level, fifty pages had to be memorized. This was special treatment for those with exceptionally poor memory, where they were made to memorize fifty pages every six months—totaling one hundred pages per year—and then take the examination.

In the period from eighteen or nineteen years old up to twenty-five or twenty-six, and even thirty, there were those who memorized five hundred pages, eight hundred pages, or in extreme cases, even a thousand pages. How they could memorize so much was almost beyond our comprehension. For us, even memorizing fifty pages over half a year was something we could barely manage. As mentioned above, Tibetan teachers employed beating as the best educational method, but in addition to that, Verbal abuse also served as a method of encouragement; they would hurl violent insults—such as "beast," "pig," "beggar," "hungry ghost," "donkey," or "parent-devouring dog"—to educate their children. Since they were educated through such coarse language, when these educated children grew up and interacted with others, they simply repeated what had been done to them—a truly wretched state of affairs. Next, I wished to discuss matters pertaining to commerce; regarding this, on November 18, 1901, I decided to entrust written documents to a merchant named Tsa Rumba—whom I had previously mentioned meeting in Darjeeling—to be sent to Darjeeling and my homeland.

This Tsa Rumba was going to India’s Calcutta under government orders to purchase iron. As for what they did with this iron—they manufactured firearms. As for the manufacturing of these firearms, there was a place called Checholin across the Kichu River to the south of Lhasa, and in its east lay the firearms manufactory at Jibu. This

The firearms manufacturing industry had begun about eight years prior to that time; until then, Tibet had not known how to manufacture firearms. However, there was a man named Hacheling from Tibet who had lived in Darjeeling for a long time. He was a rather peculiar individual who, under orders from the Tibetan government, brought about ten Muslim gunsmiths from India and Kashmir—men engaged in firearms manufacturing—to Tibet and had them teach Tibetans how to produce firearms. Of those ten, some had died while others returned to their homeland, so only two remained by the time I was there; nevertheless, the Tibetan blacksmiths had completely mastered firearms manufacturing and became capable of performing all that those men had taught them.

Indeed, in Tibet, importing firearms from other countries was difficult. Above all, importing quality goods from Indian regions was impossible. Until now they had relied solely on matchlock guns, but with the recent successful production of so-called new-style firearms—which showed considerably good results—it was decided that Tsa Rumba would go to purchase large quantities of iron under government orders, carrying a substantial sum of money, to greatly expand their manufacturing efforts. He secretly informed me of this matter. Since he was a reliable person from the start, I promptly wrote letters and entrusted them to him. The letter was addressed to Mr. Sarat Chandra Das of Darjeeling, and within it, I had enclosed letters to be sent to my hometown.

The foreign countries Tibetans most frequently traveled to for trade during this period were British India, followed by China. Next came relations with Russia; however, trade with Russia had not developed much. There was almost no need to mention this. While political relations had increasingly come to the fore up to that time, commercial relations might well be said to have practically ceased to exist. I would first like to discuss trade with British India and its neighboring country Nepal.

Chapter 97: Products of Tibet

**Main Exports** The principal exports to British India were wool, followed by musk, yak tails, furs, and hides, with smaller quantities of miscellaneous goods also being traded. When it came to items like sutras or Buddha statues—though earnestly sought for export from India—such objects were rarely exported since they would be confiscated if discovered en route. Other daily necessities were exported to some extent as well; however, even Chinese tea, which had previously reached Indian regions via Tibet, had by this time completely ceased to be exported—one could well infer the state of other goods from this fact. The notion of sending tea from China through Tibet to India might seem peculiar, but this tea was not meant for Indian consumption—it was drunk by Tibetans residing near Darjeeling. Though the quantity was small, even this trade had now been discontinued.

The wool bound for Kalimpong, a mountain town located east of Darjeeling, amounted to between five thousand and six thousand loads annually by pack mule. Then, the amount bound for Bhutan was over 1,500 loads. However, this might have been even more than that, but as there were no proper statistics to speak of—it being merely a matter of having inquired of those merchants about how much they exported—the true figure remained unknown. The amount bound for Nepal was around two thousand five hundred loads, while that bound for Ladakh was similarly thought to be approximately three thousand loads. As for those bound for China and those heading west of Lake Manasarovar, these were regions I had neither traveled through nor sufficiently inquired about, so they remained unclear.

Musk deer—musk was indeed abundant in Tibet. There are said to be creatures called "musk cats" with feline-shaped scent glands, but Tibet's variety was not such—it belonged to a species of deer. They subsisted solely on grass. Their size measured approximately two and a half to three times that of a cat. Their form resembled that of a deer though not as tall. They looked like adorable Japanese Chin puppies, with dark gray fur that was crisp and remarkably light. The loveliness of their faces made one immediately grasp their endearing nature. Particularly striking were the two curved tusks emerging from each jaw—both upper and lower. There exists a theory that musk resides at the navel, but this proves incorrect; the gland swells behind the genitals—specifically the testicles—where it attaches. Thus females naturally lack it.

When killing them, if done on the fifteenth day of the month, it was said that the musk would be most abundant. Of course, the quantity varied somewhat depending on the size of the musk deer, but in any case, the fifteenth day of the lunar calendar marked the peak when the musk became fullest. At that time, if one smelled the urine passed by musk deer, it emitted an intensely strong musk odor. It was said that from the sixteenth and seventeenth onward, as the end of the lunar month approached, the musk gradually decreased. When the month changed, it gradually increased from the beginning until becoming fully replenished by the fifteenth day, showing a clear correlation with the lunar dates. Therefore, they tried to harvest it between the thirteenth and fifteenth days whenever possible. They killed them using firearms to harvest the musk, but Tibet had many areas where killing was prohibited—places where particularly large numbers of musk deer resided.

In the mountains behind Sera University where I resided, there were quite a number of them. However, since that area prohibited killing—and discharging firearms there would have endangered one's life—no one engaged in slaughter; yet they employed rather clever methods to capture them. They set traps made with cords fashioned from yak tails in the mountain valleys where the grass grew thick. When a musk deer came to eat grass and got caught in a trap, struggled greatly, and cried out in distress, they would go there as specialists and kill it. They captured them in large quantities using that method. These musk deer inhabited not only Tibet itself but also existed in great numbers throughout the Himalayan Mountains between Tibet and Nepal. However, they were most numerous in Tibet. Within Tibet, the primary regions for musk deer were Kongpo, Tsari, and Lhoba—since these areas had an abundance of them, purchasing there proved extremely inexpensive.

Well, it was nearly one-tenth the price paid in Japan. The Lhoba residents were an extremely barbaric people who covered only their genital areas. They could not be definitively identified as Tibetan or Indian, but judging by their language, they appeared closer to Tibetan. The musk brought by such people contained absolutely no impurities—they brought many particularly large, high-quality specimens—yet the price remained extremely low. What they took to trade were small mirrors, crystal beads, pots, kettles, kitchen knives, roasted barley, Tibetan sweets, and extremely cheap Western toys; they bartered through deception to make these exchanges.

Trading Methods — As for how the exchange worked, when they presented a light piece of musk—as was commonly practiced among barbarians everywhere—we first offered them something like a trinket in return. When they protested, "That won't do—give us more," if we then added three or four crystal beads, they happily made the exchange. Thus when buying from such places, it was as if one were getting it for free—but getting there was quite dangerous. Even if they managed to successfully purchase that musk by passing through areas teeming with bandits, whether they could actually bring it back to Lhasa remained uncertain, as many merchants were killed by bandits during that time. There were situations where one went to buy cheap goods only to have to abandon their most valuable life, so people who set out there were exceedingly rare.

Export Destinations of Musk — When inquiring where this musk was most exported to in those days, greater quantities were being sent to India rather than China. In earlier times, Yunnan merchants had purchased large amounts of musk from Tibet, but as more export channels opened toward India—causing prices to rise significantly—it was said that even when taken to Yunnan then, one could no longer profit as before. However, even then some portion was still being exported, though not as extensively as in former times. This appeared to have been imported into our country and similar places from Yunnan under the brand name "Yunnan Musk". Among items exported to China, the most splendid was the Shā-i-Takurā—that is,

It was the blood antlers of the treasure deer. These blood antlers were said in China to strengthen the body, prolong life, and improve facial complexion; thus they were exported in great quantities from Tibet to prepare what was called Chinese elixirs. The prices were quite high, and for the very finest blood antlers, their value became extraordinarily expensive. In Tibet, the price that Chinese buyers paid for a single antler could amount to around five hundred yen when converted into Japanese gold currency. However, those of utterly poor quality could cost merely two or three yen. The reason was that the poorest quality ones were not suitable for medicine. They were nothing more than decoration. Distinguishing between the inferior ones and the superior ones proved quite difficult.

Most Tibetans would clamorously claim anything labeled a blood antler to be as precious as gold, insisting it must cost five hundred or even a thousand yen. Yet among connoisseurs, such valuations held no weight. Specimens too large for medicinal use sold dirt-cheap regardless of size. The deer called treasure deer proved most abundant in Tibet's southeastern regions, though considerable numbers also roamed the northwestern plains. Their stature matched that of exceptionally large horses. While their form resembled ordinary deer, they carried significantly more bulk. Their fur bore a faint grayish-white cast, though specimens of other hues were said to exist.

Sprouting Antlers — What was remarkable was that these blood antlers sprouted new buds every year starting from the first month of the lunar calendar. The exteriors of these new sprouts were entirely covered with hairy skin, while their interiors consisted purely of blood containing neither bone nor any other matter (a specimen of which remains among the author’s belongings). As the sprout grew month by month, around March and April, approximately one branch sprouted. When the branch developed, the lower part became slightly hardened, taking on a bone-like state, but the upper part remained entirely blood. The sprout gradually grew larger, producing branch after branch, and when those branches developed and reached around September, they attained full maturity. The largest treasure deer antlers measured about twelve feet in length. I actually saw someone bring those antlers to sell at a pharmacy called Tenhetang, and when I measured them from base to tip, they were exactly as I had just described. And this was said to be the largest antler.

The trunk's circumference measured about 1 shaku 7 to 8 sun (approximately 51-54 cm), meaning the blood formed a bone-like antler, though the entire structure remained completely enveloped in hairy skin from base to tip. The antlers gradually took on a withered appearance from October to November before snapping cleanly at the base around mid-December. Each year these peculiar antlers followed this cycle—growing only to wither and fall, then sprouting new buds once more. The optimal season for harvesting these blood antlers as medicinal ingredients was April or May. At that time, natives would skillfully shoot the deer dead after carefully timing their approach. The bullet had to strike the neck for an instant kill; otherwise, the animal would destroy its precious antlers before expiring.

**Death by Shattered Blood Antlers** — For if the bullet struck elsewhere, the animal—while still breathing—would either smash its blood antlers against surrounding rocks, scattering the precious blood, or rub them against the ground; in any case, it inevitably died having lost those blood antlers. Therefore, unless killed with great precision, those blood antlers could not be obtained. Moreover, although treasure deer did not venture far during April and May to protect the blood antlers on their heads, the natives skillfully shot down these blood-antlered treasure deer. Though these animals were of a very gentle nature, they often met the misfortune of being shot dead because they possessed precious blood antlers. I too had come seeking the finest blood antlers, but since those antlers were not particularly large, the price was somewhat low. However, as medicine they were said to be highly effective, and since I had them appraised by a major merchant dealing in Tibetan blood antlers before purchasing them, they were indeed genuine.

Chapter 98: Imports, Exports, and Commerce Exports — The goods exported to Nepal included such varieties as wool, yak tails, salt, saltpeter, and woolen cloth. Exports to the northwestern regions of China and Mongolia were largely varieties of woolen cloth. The varieties included Nampu (low-grade thick woolen fabric), Pūtsuku (high-quality woolen fabric resembling satin), Chinma (medium-grade thick woolen fabric), Chinchī (medium-grade thin woolen fabric), Dēma (vertically woven lightweight woolen fabric), Konbocherī (swirled woolen cloth), and Tsukutsuku (wool-imitation damask). Moreover, scriptures accounted for the largest portion among exports to Mongolia.

Next, Buddhist statues, paintings, and ritual implements were also being exported. However, in those days, those produced in Tibet were truly unremarkable from an artistic standpoint. Those from former times had been considerably superior, but they appeared to have gradually declined; what passed for Buddhist paintings were little more than mere templates in name only. When I visited splendid temples in Tibet and saw new Buddhist paintings or statues, there were indeed many that became truly repulsive. Even the most obscene Buddhas or deities said to protect the Buddhist teachings—such as Wisdom Kings and Vajra deities—were also depicted in sexual union with their consorts, making them truly unsightly.

When I resided in Tibet, I considered there to be four principal shortcomings of the Tibetan people. First, uncleanliness; second, superstition; third, habits of unethical conduct (such as polyandry); fourth, unnatural art—this is how I perceived them, and though I earnestly sought to find some redeeming qualities to counterbalance these, I could not discover anything particularly commendable. If pressed to identify redeeming qualities, they would likely be: the truly agreeable climate of Lhasa or Shigatse; the resonant clarity of sutra chanting that is truly pleasing to the ear; the vigorous method of dialectical debate; and the somewhat natural quality of ancient art—these would be the foremost examples. There are other export items as well, but I will omit them.

Imports: those coming from India were the most numerous. Among these, plain broadcloth was the most abundant. Specifically, the seven colors—blue, yellow, red, white, black, purple, and green—were not sold in large quantities and were mostly used for decorating main temple halls and similar purposes. The most popular and consequently most imported item was black shrimp-colored broadcloth. However, higher-quality goods were not preferred. Only cheap goods were imported. Then there were silk handkerchiefs, Burmese crepe, Benares gold brocade, thin silk fabrics, and cotton goods. Among these cotton goods existed sail-like thick fabrics as well as thin ones.

The colors were mostly plain white or pale yellow. Among these，those that sold particularly well were wide-width bleached cotton fabrics in plain shrimp-black with floral patterns；there were also quite a few with striped patterns. Additionally，a considerable amount of bleached cotton fabric from India depicting figures，trees，temples，and such was imported. When purchasing these goods upon arriving in India，they naturally bought them according to the British government’s measurement standards．However，when selling them in Lhasa，they folded the cut cloth into squares，which was called a ‘ka’ in Tibetan． And they sold them at a price per single ‘ka’． However，when selling Tibetan woolen cloth and such，they sometimes employed peculiar methods to make the sale．

A Peculiar Method of Trade — It was a way of selling where one spread their hand to its fullest span and set the price based on that measurement. Since the price remained fixed regardless of customer size，when large people purchased goods，the buyer gained while merchants incurred losses. There was also another method where pricing followed measurements from elbow joint to fingertip. This similarly disadvantaged larger individuals，and when we went to buy，we too suffered losses. When acquiring such goods，hiring large persons to take measurements at sellers' locations proved highly advantageous.

However, there were practically no sellers who employed such methods when dealing with those coming from India. Moreover, Tibetans stated quite inflated prices. In Lhasa, there wasn’t a single shop that sold at fixed prices from the start. They were certain to state inflated prices. At reputable shops, the markup ranged around 10% to 20%, but at less reputable establishments, they might quote double or triple—or even five to six times the market price for items with unclear valuations. And the monlam (prayer-wishes) made during the buying and selling of these goods were quite intriguing.

Monlam (prayer-wish): "By purchasing this item, may you pass your days free from illness and troubles, may your household prosper evermore, may you purchase many such items abundantly, and may you come to erect numerous storerooms," they would say as they handed over the goods. That was a common practice, but the monlam when selling sutras proved even more intriguing. Since sutras were mostly sold to monks, when merchants reverently lifted the scripture with both hands to their head and fervently entreated, "May you who purchase this sutra not only fully comprehend its true meaning but practice it according to its righteous principles, increasingly advance in wisdom and virtue to ultimately become the great refuge for all sentient beings, and through this scripture evermore benefit all living creatures," then handed over the item—the customer licked the grime-covered silver coin, wiped it on their collar, thoroughly inspected the currency, and finally relinquished it with apparent reluctance.

As for what meaning there was in doing such a thing—it meant that they did not wish to bestow upon the merchant even the good fortune attached to that coin. Thus, they sucked out and wiped away only that good fortune, then handed over the hollowed-out coin stripped of its fortune. Of course, large-scale tea merchants engaged in major trade did not bother with such troublesome practices, but ordinary people all did this, so the custom became even more pronounced the further one went into rural areas.

Imports from China — Among the goods imported in large quantities from China, silk fabrics were the most numerous. Among these, gold brocade, habutae silk, crepe silk, satin damask, shu chin figured silk, twill brocade, rinzu silk, satin, momi weave, Chinese crepe silk, white-ground thin silk, silk thread, silk braided cord—along with many others such as silver ingots and medicinal ingredients—were also imported in large quantities. The item that occupied the majority among China's imports and on which Tibet spent the most money for imported goods was tea. However, I was unable to calculate exactly how much of this tea entered Tibet as a whole. The amount coming into Lhasa alone was estimated to be approximately 250,000 yen. Of course, I cannot know the exact details.

The amount of tea distributed in eastern Tibet—that is, half of Tibet—was thought to be even greater than that imported into Lhasa. This was because I believed there must have been considerably more tea in the eastern region, as it had the largest population. Originally, Tibetans were in such a state that even the poorest could not go a day without tea, so they generally had to buy it; however, those who could not afford to purchase tea received the dregs from wealthy people and brewed those dregs to drink. A rectangular tea brick—made by compressing two kin of tea leaves and measuring one shaku in length, six sun and five bu in width, and three sun in thickness—cost us two yen and seventy-five sen when purchased in Lhasa. This was the lowest grade of bancha. Tea consisting solely of leaves without stems cost five yen, sometimes reaching around five yen and fifty sen. Tea priced at two yen and seventy-five sen in Lhasa generally became about three yen and seventy-five sen when transported to the northwest plains.

Next,

Imports from Bhutan and Other Regions — From Bhutan or the Sikkim region came cloth made from wild silk moth cocoons, wide-width woolen cloth, and wide-width cotton cloth varieties imported in considerable quantities. Additionally from India, Kashmir, and Nepal arrived grains, dried grapes, dried peaches, dried jujubes, medicinal ingredients, and gemstones including diamonds, lapis lazuli, yuhu stones, agates, amber, and yu varieties—though coral beads and yu gems used to adorn hair buns constituted the majority. High-quality specimens were valued more highly than diamonds. When one obtained good stones however, even those the size of a little finger’s tip could cost as much as 1,200 yen. The finest diamonds scarcely reached Tibet at all. Even noble households merely used the upper grade of common ones.

Coral beads were imported in large quantities, though those without flaws like Japan's were scarce, with most appearing worm-eaten. Even so, Tibetans were fond of wearing them. The colors were red—most disliked by Japanese women—and pale pink, the latter being used by imperially appointed officials to adorn their hair buns. They were quite splendid pieces, with larger ones costing as much as 120 to 130 yen each. However, such fine specimens did not come from India but arrived from China. The coral beads imported from India consisted entirely of worm-eaten items, along with numerous rosaries made by cutting extremely cheap branch coral into elongated beads with rounded ends and stringing them together. The annual quantity of coral beads entering Tibet was extraordinary—far exceeding any official budget—with most coming from Nepal and Calcutta.

Since coral beads were expensive for the lower classes, they purchased many glass beads instead. These glass beads were made into rosaries, resulting in stalls throughout Lhasa displaying strands of various hues; however, it was rural folk who came forth to purchase them in quantity and carry them home. In addition, imitation coral beads manufactured in Japan were also imported in large quantities. At first, people had been quite deceived by these beads and spent a great deal of money on them, but now that so many had arrived and they could be distinguished from genuine coral beads, people were no longer fooled, and the market price fell. Nevertheless, they still sold at considerable prices, as merchants continued to purchase them from Calcutta in succession.

Furthermore, large quantities of silver ingots, copper, iron, brass, and similar metals were imported from India, with many Western sundries and Japanese matches also entering alongside these. Economically speaking, since imports were extremely numerous while exports remained few, one would expect Tibet to inevitably face difficulties from depleted money reserves—yet in reality, this was decidedly not the case.

Monks' merchant groups loaded cargo onto yaks.

Tibet's financial resources had come largely from Mongolia. That gold came more from Mongolians making offerings to lamas than from commercial purchases. This substantial wealth ultimately became part of Tibet's national treasury, compensating for economic deficits until then. Though Tibet strictly maintained political isolation, commercial closure remained impossible. Were trade suddenly restricted now, Tibet would inevitably face either catastrophic famine or civil war. For while Mongolian gold had long sustained Tibet's finances and economy, its flow had recently dwindled. This decrease had begun after the First Sino-Japanese War and culminated when Allied forces occupied Peking, after which gold inflows to Tibet virtually ceased.

Even Mongolian monks already studying in Tibet were in great distress because the tuition funds that should have been sent from their families were not arriving, and there were many who had reached the point where they had to temporarily suspend their studies. Therefore, while Mongolians had formerly devoted themselves solely to scholarship and never engaged in secular occupations, by that time they had fallen into such pitiable circumstances that they had to work in secular enterprises like Tibetan monks merely to obtain food. Thus Mongolian gold that should have flowed into Tibet naturally did not.

Moreover, as living standards gradually advanced—where even nobles twenty years prior had not indulged in extravagance—they increasingly emulated foreign ways through trade with other nations, maintaining appearances and seeking conveniences, which naturally required greater expenditure of funds. However, if they did not engage in business, they could not obtain money. Such business, if conducted only domestically, was utterly insufficient. Given that substantial profits could not be obtained without venturing abroad, even moderately influential wealthy individuals and monks increasingly embarked on trading expeditions to China, India, and Nepal.

The advantages and disadvantages of commercial isolation — Therefore, were they to suddenly impose commercial isolation there, since nowadays most goods they relied on came more from India than China, those commodities would cease entirely, and daily necessities would first and foremost become scarce. Even if they endured that, they would lose all means to sell their surplus wool within their own country. Be that as it may, their biggest customer remained British India. They traded with Kashmir too, but that too fell under British territory. Commercially severing ties with India proved ultimately impossible.

If they were to use all that surplus wool solely within their own country, prices would likely decline again as they had previously. If prices fell, the nomads could not obtain money. Even without this, given that food prices had been rising across the board lately, if the most numerous group—the nomads—could not obtain money, the outcome was predictable: famine would undoubtedly occur. Therefore, they ultimately could not sever commercial ties with British India. If gold were to come abundantly from Mongolia as before, even if they were to significantly block trade, it might still have been manageable—however, as stated then, the prospect of this gold coming had almost entirely vanished. Therefore, to reiterate, Tibet itself ultimately could not implement commercial isolation. Tibet merely confined itself to maintaining political isolation.

Thus, as the necessity of commerce gradually arose in Tibet, it came to pass that nearly all Tibetans—save those with disabilities like muteness, deafness, or blindness, or mere children—might well be called merchants. Should one inquire whether even farmers engaged in trade, indeed they did. During summer months they tilled fields, but in winter when no particular tasks demanded their labor, they journeyed to northern salt marshes to procure salt—salt they would then transport southward to sell in regions like Nepal, Bhutan, or Sikkim. As I had previously noted, monks too pursued commerce. Not only did individual monks trade goods, but entire monasteries conducted business under their institutional authority. When such monastic trading occurred, they assembled substantial caravans—comprising one hundred to two hundred horses attended by twenty or thirty men—loading these beasts with all they could bear before departing on mercantile expeditions.

Since the government itself also engaged in trade, its trading caravans frequently departed for Peking or Calcutta. However, the people belonging to these caravans never stated that they themselves were government merchants. In other words, while claiming to operate as individual traders, these government-backed merchants held tremendous influence within Tibet—requisitioning horses across regions and compelling local provisions while embarking on commercial expeditions. Thus government-run trade naturally yielded greater profits than that of ordinary merchants.

Nobility also engaged in business. There were those who sent trading caravans to other countries, while others sustained themselves entirely through yields from their own domains without engaging in trade at all. Yet even among these people, if one claimed they abstained from commerce completely, they still participated. All of Tibet maintained a most peculiar custom—when we visited noble households and spotted some curious object we desired, we would bluntly ask, “How much is this?” “Ah, this item costs such-and-such,” they would reply. “Then might you sell it to me?” we would press. “Well,” they responded, “if we agree on a price, selling isn’t impossible.” “Then how much would you lower it?” “No, that won’t do,” they protested—yet once haggling settled the price, they calmly sold the very objects displayed in their homes.

The questioner harbored no particular notion of having embarrassed the other party or anything of the sort. “Well, this is something we need in my household, so I can’t sell it.” They responded in a tone like “Oh, is that so?” completely unfazed. Since this was the prevailing custom no matter which household one visited, even apprentices engaged in buying and selling. If they went to Lhasa and managed to find and buy some peculiar Western trinket, they brought it back to the temple and deceived other apprentices into buying it or exchanged it for other goods.

In this manner, everyone engaged in business. The only ones who did not engage in business were the so-called disabled persons. That business was not conducted honestly; as mentioned before, it often involved overpricing or deceiving people. It seemed the general populace of Tibet had been cultivated into an extremely crafty disposition. While it might have been that in undeveloped regions where true Buddhism was not actively practiced such conditions had arisen, nevertheless this disposition—that one could not pass one’s days in comfort without engaging in commerce—had permeated the general populace of Tibet.

Chapter 99: Currency and Printing Blocks

The currency consisted solely of silver coins: transactions were conducted through either barter or payment in silver. In Tibet, there was only one type of silver coin worth twenty-four sen, so one could not make small purchases. Therefore, they cut them to use. A half-cut coin became twelve sen; when divided into two-thirds and one-third portions, one part was eight sen and the other sixteen sen—those were the only divisions possible. Yet their method of division was remarkably ingenious. Even when cut in half, it was remarkably rare for them to actually be precise halves. Most coins had their centers hollowed out and their outer edges somewhat shaved into crescent shapes, yet they still circulated as halves.

Now regarding what constituted the smallest purchasable amount—one could make a four-sen purchase. To make such a purchase required bringing a two-thirds sixteen-sen silver coin to receive half a silver coin—twelve sen—as change from the seller. Yet there were instances when sellers lacked that half coin. In such cases one would bring two coins from their own side: a half silver coin and a two-thirds silver coin (sixteen sen). Then taking a one-tangka round silver coin—twenty-four sen—from the counterparty enabled completing the four-sen transaction. For an eight-sen purchase one would hand over one tangka and receive a sixteen-sen piece in return. In Tibet generally they conducted accounts using these terms—four sen as *Kakan*, eight as *Karma*, twelve as *Cheka*, sixteen as *Shokan*, twenty as *Kache*, twenty-four as *Tangka-chik*—but within the Dalai Lama’s domain no alternative methods existed.

However, while making Kakan (four-sen) purchases was possible in Lhasa and Shigatse, it became entirely impossible if one went elsewhere. In other regions, even half-value purchases could not be made. In other words, purchases below one tangka (twenty-four sen) could not be made at all. There were neither gold coins nor copper coins besides this currency. There existed neither larger denominations nor smaller ones than these. As for the silver coins circulating locally—in regions of northwestern Tibet bordering British India that fell under both the Dalai Lama’s jurisdiction and Indian territory—where local kings held sway, they too issued half-value silver coins. These coins circulated only within their regions of origin and found no acceptance in Tibet proper under the Dalai Lama’s rule. They maintained a flat circular shape. With such currency systems in place, conducting transactions required extraordinary time and proved profoundly inconvenient.

Having discussed business matters to this extent, now in late November, the prince of the Pāla regent family whom I had previously mentioned meeting in Darjeeling—evidently finding himself in dire financial straits—sent someone to me to borrow money. Since he had requested an exorbitant sum, and I concluded he would never repay it regardless, I sent back half the amount with a letter via his servant—whereupon he reportedly became furious. "I had not sent my servant as a beggar," he declared, "nor had I done so to receive money—yet for you to offer payment was utterly impertinent! I have no need for such things!" With that, he sent it back. Thinking there was no reason to do anything if he didn’t want it, I left it discarded, but this time he sent another letter saying he urgently needed the full amount I had mentioned before and that I must lend it to him. In other words, though he spoke arrogantly, he still wanted to receive more. There was no other way—I lent it to him.

Not long after that, since that servant knew I was Japanese, he pestered me for fifty yen, but as I also knew about his master’s misconduct in Darjeeling, he couldn’t very well slander me or cause harm. Then around December, I became wholly occupied with purchasing Buddhist scriptures. Of course I had been acquiring scriptural texts even before that period, but once December arrived and I found myself with considerable funds at hand, there being no need to purchase other items, I resolved to buy scriptures in quantity and consequently purchased nothing else. However, while ordinary sutras could be found in bookshops, any volumes one might wish to use as reference works or particularly intricate doctrinal texts were never available through such vendors. Now you might inquire—how then did I procure them?

The printing blocks secretly stored by each temple—these blocks were kept separately at various temples. Temples that had produced scholars of grammar preserved printing blocks for grammatical texts, while those associated with rhetoric scholars retained blocks of their written works—historical records and doctrinal treatises were all preserved in this manner. With the blocks scattered across different temples in this way, one had to dispatch printers to each location to make copies. First came procuring paper—not made from paper mulberry trees but from grass roots. This grass was poisonous, its roots equally toxic. The white roots contained abundant fibers. Paper was produced using these fibers—quite durable in quality but never pure white, somewhat darkened and resembling Japanese dust paper. After amassing quantities of this paper, they would provide printers with kata (thin ceremonial silk for offerings) along with block rental fees.

While rental fees for printing blocks varied between temples—some expensive and others inexpensive—typically printing one hundred sheets cost one tangka (twenty-four sen) or forty-eight sen, with the highest fees reaching around one yen and twenty sen. In this manner, they dispatched either three or six people to print from the blocks, though the actual printing was typically done by two workers—one to print and the other to collate the finished sheets. The printing work didn’t proceed as briskly as it would have with Japanese workers. Moreover, since they worked while drinking tea, they were extremely laid-back, and the work made no progress. Therefore, the expenses ended up being proportionally higher. Thus, for each printer’s labor cost, they had to pay fifty sen each under the local stipend system.

Therefore, books ended up being quite expensive, though properly printed editions were extremely cheap. However, the paper was inferior, with numerous defects in the printing blocks throughout. It would be one thing if such books were sold, but what bookstores mostly carried were prayer sutras and textbooks used in monastic schools for doctrinal debates. Beyond these, there existed only somewhat interesting biographies or works akin to casual tea-time chatter—not a single volume existed that might satisfy proper scholarly inquiry. This was likely because in Tibet at that time, while students entered monastic schools and studied textbooks to become scholars, few among them undertook the laborious task of consulting diverse reference materials for their research.

Master Ekai Prays for the Eternal Reign of the Imperial Court on New Year's Day

All bookstores were street stalls; none of these so-called booksellers operated shops from their own homes. In front of Chōkan—that is, the Great Shakya Hall—there was a square. On the stones of that square, about ten booksellers spread out large wrapping cloths and lined up books on them to set up their stalls. Nor did they spread them out to display as in Japan. They were all stacked and lined up.

In Lhasa, there were no other places that sold books. In Shigatse, only two or three such street stalls were set up in the market, and I did not know whether any others existed elsewhere. In any case, in the cities I visited, I saw only these two. Even when entrusting someone with the printing, in cases where they were not permitted to use those blocks, one had to obtain letters of introduction from others and go out of their way to have them print the texts - only then would the books finally come together, making it quite a troublesome process.

Well, in that manner, a considerable number of books had been collected. As all those books were kept at Sera Temple, the monks living near my quarters were utterly astonished, saying, "What could he possibly do with so many books he doesn't even read?" "After all, he's come from a distant country—there's no way he could take back such a vast number of books." "Even scholars don't possess a third of the books he has"—they regarded him with such great suspicion.

Having heard such talk, I subsequently took all the books I had purchased to the minister's residence and gathered them in my own room.

Now, as December drew to its end, it became what is called New Year's Eve. That night, after making special preparations, he first sent his own acolyte to offer butter lamps at the Shakya Hall in Lhasa. This involved preparing butter oil and pouring that butter oil into the golden butter lamp stands arrayed before Shakyamuni Tathagata in Lhasa. Though there was no particular reason to believe offerings became especially meritorious simply because they were placed in golden butter lamp stands, the fact remained that to directly offer lamps to Shakyamuni Tathagata, one had to place them in golden stands—it could not be done otherwise.

When offering votive lamps to Shakyamuni Tathagata, one had to pay two tangka as fee for borrowing the lamp stands. In my quarters, I first hung a hanging scroll of Shakyamuni Tathagata, placed before it a stupa containing the Buddha’s relics, arranged three large silver lamp stands to offer butter lamps, presented numerous other offerings, chanted the Buddha’s names in worship, and once I judged it to be past midnight, began reciting the Lotus Sutra. By four o'clock in the morning,

I performed the Celebration of the Sacred Ceremony. The Celebration of the Sacred Ceremony refers to an auspicious prayer text wherein one first prays, "Long live His Sacred Majesty Emperor Meiji for ten thousand years upon ten thousand years; long live Her Majesty the Empress for ten thousand years upon ten thousand years; and long live His Highness the Crown Prince for ten thousand years upon ten thousand years," followed by a prayer that the power of the Japanese nation might radiate like the morning sun to enlighten all nations. Having solemnly performed the ceremony and recited the prayer text, what I alone felt afterward was this: though nearly three thousand years had passed since the founding of the Great Japanese Empire, I thought this might be the first time prayers for ten thousand years upon ten thousand years of His Majesty the Emperor, Her Majesty the Empress, and His Highness the Crown Prince of our divine nation had ever been offered in Lhasa, Tibet. Overwhelmed by an ineffable sense of gratitude, tears overflowed unbidden.

Tears shed upon this high plain— the Rising Sun's

How like the dew on grass As I read the remaining Lotus Sutra and looked out the window, the first sun began to rise between the eastern snow peaks. To the beauty of this dawn light reflected on snow was added the sight of several cranes pacing slowly across the vast courtyard of Sera Temple beyond my window, uttering their countless cries. The grandeur of this scene made me wish I could show it to my countrymen who love fine landscapes. Particularly auspicious it seemed—hearing crane cries at dawn while chanting the Lotus Sutra—

Through singing voices dawns the high plateau Celebrating a thousand generations of the Eastern Lord! Persisting! In the garden of miraculous harvest's flowers, With miraculous voices, we celebrate the bountiful harvest! Having composed these verses, I thus auspiciously spent January 1st.

The Hundredth Assembly: Prayer Text Ceremony

Tens of Thousands of Butter Lamps: From January 4th—corresponding to the twenty-fifth day of the eleventh month in the Tibetan calendar—the Sangjö began. This day marked the anniversary of Je Tsongkhapa’s passing, founder of the New Kadampa sect, and brought great commotion. Tibetans offered hundreds upon hundreds, thousands upon thousands of butter lamps atop their homes, so across Lhasa’s streets, the great monasteries of Sera and Ganden, and the rooftops of villages between them, tens of thousands of lamps blazed with a beauty beyond compare. On this day, they prepared lavish feasts, and throughout the daylight hours everyone reveled—dancing dances, singing songs—truly a day of utmost merriment.

However，there was one rather troublesome matter. To perform this Sangjö，the people of Lhasa generally began asking superiors who visited their homes for money starting after November 10th on their calendar，and since they claimed that begging for Sangjö was only natural，even quite respectable households started demanding funds. Since we had acquaintances here and there，we were made to pay a considerable sum. It went like one tangka here and two tangka there，totaling about five yen. Someone had remarked that once next year came around，it might cost double or even triple that amount—and indeed that seemed likely. Because with each new acquaintance gained came greater demands upon our purse.

Sangjö begins at twelve o'clock midnight on the twenty-fifth day of the eleventh month in the Tibetan calendar, signifying Samantabhadra Bodhisattva's Prayer Assembly. The ceremony continues for fourteen nights from that evening onward, with sutras being recited each night from midnight until dawn. Attendance was mandatory for all. I too attended this truly splendid observance; compared to ordinary days, fewer monks and visitors came to the main hall at night, yet its solemnity proved remarkable. The sutra chanting maintained a gentle quality—so to speak—while its tones carried an austere precision that naturally calmed the heart. Witnessing this scene, one might have imagined bodhisattvas from the Pure Land gathered there to chant scriptures.

The Hall’s Decorations: For unlike ordinary times, the main hall’s interior was decorated with brocades and silks. There were pillars wrapped in five-colored Chinese crepe, and other large pillars were covered with woolen cloth featuring arabesque patterns in blue and white on a red ground. And on walls and pillars that normally bore nothing, numerous thangka scrolls—the highest-ranking Buddhist paintings in Tibet—were hung. Not only were there various other decorations, but three thousand to five thousand butter lamps were also lit within the main hall. The light from butter lamps was much whiter than that of rapeseed oil lamps, somewhat resembling gaslight and considerably brighter.

While reciting sutras in such an environment, I found myself somehow struck by a profound sense of gratitude. Most people are shaped by their circumstances—indeed, when one goes there and experiences it, one naturally comes to feel grateful. When I considered the meaning of the sutra passages being read, I could not prevent tears from welling up unbidden. Even in such a sacred Prayer Text Ceremony of Samantabhadra Bodhisattva, were there truly those wicked ones who could not be transformed? There existed a great many strange things. When dawn broke and the monks came outside, believers would present "ge" as alms offerings. Some would give one tangka each, while others gave half a tangka each.

The monks would receive their alms when departing, but unscrupulous individuals existed who—after getting their share once—would circle around from the back to collect again, and if circumstances allowed, yet another time, boasting of having taken three or even four portions. To curb such behavior as much as possible, guard monks had been stationed. Yet these very guard monks proved suspect. While ostensibly keeping watch, they actively enabled the taking. They’d let them collect only to pocket the money themselves. The novices, under orders from those guards, would deftly slip through the crowd, circle back around to collect another portion, and hand it over while declaring, "I’ve brought this much." At which point it became a question of whether they couldn’t manage yet another round.

If novices refused to comply when ordered, they would be beaten with a thick stick under some pretext. For novices, stealing proved easier than enduring beatings, so they obeyed those commands and stole. Even when their deeds were discovered and they were caught and beaten, they remained unfazed. After all, it amounted to nothing more than a beating—there was absolutely no risk of expulsion from the temple over such matters. The temple showed remarkable leniency toward these thieves during this period. While these could hardly be called true thieves, it struck me as peculiar that whereas monks would normally face immediate expulsion for stealing even a single item from someone's home, in these specific circumstances alone, repeated thefts resulted in nothing more than beatings. Yet at my temple, they maintained extreme strictness regarding alcohol—any monk discovered drinking would be expelled without exception.

The Bizarre Hairstyles of Sōshi Monks: Those who engaged in such misdeeds were most often sōshi monks. Among them were some who shaved their heads completely, while others grew the hair at their temples four or five inches long in the manner of common laborers. They let this hair hang down to imitate sideburns. However, when discovered by strict monk officials, they had this temple-grown hair plucked out. The officials pulled out so much hair at once that blood flowed freely. A truly gruesome spectacle unfolded before one's eyes, yet those subjected to it remained utterly unperturbed. No—it was said they adopted this manner precisely to project an air of dauntless courage.

However, to avoid detection by monk officials, some would coil that hair around their ears when coming to the main hall, while others smeared their entire faces with soot and butter to conceal any trace of hair. At first glance they appeared ghostly, but daily exposure made such sights ordinary. The reason for growing out those meager strands lay in sōshi monk circles considering it dashing and enviably stylish. More detestably, during these solemn ceremonies they received substantial sums regardless—true to impoverished sōshi monk custom, some gorged on extra portions of fine meat while others took a liking to novices.

There were even occasions when they would grab novices heading to the main hall around midnight and drag them off somewhere while muffling their cries. Even when discovered, this was not considered a crime. They were generally left as they were. Since everyone engaged in such conduct, making too much noise about it would backfire on the monk officials who raised complaints—thus matters remained unaddressed. Among the many novices, some went there half out of amusement. There were also novices who went willingly for gain, lured by promises of tasty treats, toys, or money.

In more extreme cases, when novices saw a monk who had even a little money or lived in luxury, there were some among them who would groom themselves as neatly and smartly as possible to entice those wealthy monks. And then they would have them prepare kasayas and such. It was a truly filthy story, but since it was something that actually occurred... Because such things were frequently carried out, quarrels and duels often arose, making it truly a disgraceful affair.

The Duplicity of Precept-Breaking Monks: There were such people who committed these grave sins without a shred of shame yet greatly feared to kill insects or lice. Then they also vociferously enforced what were supposed to be insignificant temple regulations. They obsessed over trivial matters—insisting robes must be worn in such a manner, or that phrases must be uttered in such a way—and believed adhering to these constituted the accumulation of moral virtue. When visiting halls or pagodas, if someone circumambulated them to the left instead of the right, they denounced this as gravely sinful. Thus even men wicked enough to kill invariably circled to the right when approaching such structures, never passing from the left.

If there was even a small fragment resembling a stone tile from a Buddha statue, they would invariably point to the right and circle around it. That was by no means a bad thing. There is a karmic reason behind this. Yet despite paying such meticulous attention to those trivial matters, I could not comprehend their true intent in nonchalantly engaging in precept-breaking acts after carrying off novices in the dead of night. Should this be called benightedness or outright stupidity? This is what is meant by "deluded beings"—those who act in completely opposite ways, I thought.

The Tibetan Ikkyū: There was an interesting story concerning this matter. In Tibet there existed someone exactly like the Japanese monk Ikkyū, whose name was Zuk Nyon. This meant "a madman born in the land of Zukpa," though in truth he was no madman. He was a highly revered lama who had traveled about performing various amusing acts in Ikkyū's manner, seeking to awaken those lost in worldly delusions. Thus reading this man's biography proved exactly like reading the chronicles of monk Ikkyū. While Tibet and Japan naturally differed in human sentiments—resulting in some variations—they stood completely aligned in guiding people through laughter-inducing methods.

There was a time when this Zuk Nyong became traveling companions with a lama of a new sect. At that time, Zuk Nyong noticed a small stone on the path and deliberately avoided it by taking a long detour around before proceeding onward. However, they next encountered a considerably large rock. This was a stone that absolutely had to be circled around; yet without doing so, he leaped over it and went on. Then the New Sect Lama, finding this strange, said, “Why would you do such a foolish thing? You have to go around big rocks—isn’t that dangerous? You can just lightly leap over small stones without a care, shouldn’t you?” When [the New Sect Lama] pressed him with logical arguments, saying “You really do foolish things,” Zuk Nyong laughed and replied, “But aren’t the lamas of your sect doing exactly what I’m doing? If this is foolish, then you’re all fools too.”

“And why’s that?” “You should think carefully about it.” “You go to such lengths to avoid minor sins like killing lice—taking roundabout paths—yet indulge in pederasty and work as herders slaughtering living creatures, do you not?” “You commit these grave sins without a second thought—leaping over them as if they were nothing—do you not?” “That’s precisely why I acted as your sect’s lamas do,” he declared, at which his companion lama was deeply shamed. Now, this Sangjö—Samantabhadra’s Prayer Assembly—appears most auspicious on the surface, and even its hidden aspects prove truly gratifying to those with sincere hearts. Yet even these sacred matters become opportunities for wicked men to perform evil deeds—transforming hallowed grounds into venues for misdeeds.

Chapter 101: The Dalai Lama's Government

**Government Organization** The Dalai Lama's Government was extremely complex, making it difficult to fully describe. Especially since I did not specialize in investigating such matters. Even if I were to specialize in such matters—should I state that I was conducting specialized investigations—even my close acquaintance the Finance Minister would undoubtedly grow suspicious. Therefore, I took care not to raise such matters through direct questioning from my side, instead seizing opportunities during conversations with the Finance Minister to make gradual inquiries and conduct research within bounds that wouldn't arouse suspicion—though ultimately this approach could never yield fully sufficient results. Thus I inquired extensively wherever possible, but regarding minute details there remained many unclear points. I stated this matter clearly from the outset.

Now, the organization of the Dalai Lama's Government was formed by laypeople and monks. As their numbers were nearly equal, first there were one hundred sixty-five imperially appointed monk officials. There were also one hundred sixty-five lay officials. The monk officials were called Che-zung, and the lay officials were called Zung-kor. The imperially appointed officials were generally overseen on the monastic side by four chief secretaries known as Tsung-ik Chenmo. Among these four, actual authority was held by whichever official had served the longest. Those who oversaw the lay imperially appointed officials were the Shappe (Prime Minister), of whom there were also four. Among these four, sovereignty resided with whoever had assumed office earliest; the other three merely participated in deliberations, while decisions rested solely with the senior Prime Minister.

The Cabinet was formed by four Prime Ministers, three Finance Ministers, two Army Ministers, one Minister of the Imperial Household, one Minister of Religious Affairs, one Minister of Justice, and the monk Chief Secretaries. The lineages from which these imperially appointed monk officials emerged were generally fixed and absolutely could not come from commoners. First, most came from the Nobility, though at times they could emerge from the Shingon Sect, Bon Sect, or Vajrayana Sect. That system was difficult to definitively name as either a prefectural system or a feudal system. I will now explain the reason for this.

The relationship between the nobility and the people appeared at first glance to be a feudal system. The ancestors of the Nobility were all people who rendered meritorious service to the state and were granted regions as their domains. In other words, they were essentially enfeoffed there, and within those domains resided the commoners belonging to those lands. Thus, the relationship between these Nobility households, their families, and the commoners almost resembled that between a king and his subjects, and of course, the right to hold power of life and death over those commoners resided with the Nobility. Furthermore, this Nobility collected poll taxes from the commoners. This poll tax required even the poorest commoners to pay approximately one tangka. When it came to those of higher status, there were those who paid as much as ten tangka or even a hundred tangka. For example, those who achieved high status or possessed abundant property had to pay such large sums.

They did not merely pay the poll tax. Since they had borrowed land from that Nobility, they had to pay land taxes as well. Thus, although this poll tax was an exceedingly burdensome levy, they had to pay it by year's end no matter how excruciatingly difficult it proved—for failure meant being beaten and having their property confiscated. There were many who became monks, unable to endure the hardship of paying this tax. This was because becoming a monk exempted one from paying the poll tax. Given that they turned to monastic life merely to avoid taxes, they naturally harbored no intention of pursuing scholarship—nor could there be any expectation that they would study Buddhism and work for others' benefit.

There was a time when my teacher Chi Rinpoche lamented: “In our country today, they boast of Buddhism’s prosperity because monks abound—but what value lies in this? Would not two or three diamonds outweigh a heap of worthless roof tiles? This glut truly vexes me.” “This comes precisely because exemption from the poll tax has become monks’ chief purpose…”

However, when considered from one perspective, Tibet truly maintained a cruel system that forced the impoverished to sink ever deeper into poverty and suffering. The state of suffering among the poor proved even more painful than that of impoverished monk students. To explain the actual state of affairs: impoverished monk students might eat or go without food, but they were at least guaranteed to receive a monthly stipend without fail, with occasional alms besides. Since it concerned only themselves alone, they could somehow manage to get through each day, but lay paupers had wives. If a child were born into such circumstances, that became truly difficult. No matter how they raised that child, some amount of money became necessary.

As for where they borrowed that money, they had no choice but to borrow from landlords. Even when they borrowed it, they could rarely repay it. You might wonder why landlords (Nobility) would lend money with no prospect of repayment. The reason was that when the child grew up, they would make them slaves of their household. They lent them money in anticipation of this. Yet even so, they never lent large sums. Naturally, they doled out small amounts until it totaled around ten yen, and when the child reached about ten years old, they would have to work as servants for fifteen or even twenty years over that mere ten yen. Therefore, the children of the poor were

Born slaves from birth, they were truly pitiable creatures. Given that the relationship between the Nobility and the commoners under their jurisdiction was first of this nature, from this perspective it seemed that under the feudal system, these Nobility households occupied what might be called the position of feudal lords. However, when viewed from other aspects, there were also instances where it appeared to be a prefectural system. This was because most of the Nobility resided in Lhasa and did not visit their own territories. Even if they maintained houses in those territories, they left only caretakers stationed there while remaining in Lhasa. On the other hand, there were those who received orders from the government and went to govern certain districts. In addition to the commoners governed by the Nobility, there were also many people directly subordinate to the government.

Moreover, while belonging to the Nobility, they were also levied some taxes by the government. Therefore, the people had to pay double taxes. When even the poll tax was added, they had to pay a considerable amount of taxes. The imperially appointed monk officials, having received the Dalai Lama’s command, went to the provinces to collect taxes, wielding judicial-administrative authority as a group of two or three. The taxes collected from the provinces were, of course, submitted to the central government. The taxes consisted of goods as well as silver currency. In particular, among the taxes paid from gold mines and similar sources, there was also gold. Furthermore, taxes imposed on imported goods were also paid to the central government.

Use of Taxes: As for what the central government used the collected goods and taxes for, the majority was used to support monks. Namely, they were protecting the 24,500 monks residing in Lhasa and those scattered throughout various regions. However, this did not mean that the government took on all responsibility for the monks of those temples or anything else. At times when incidents occurred, the government covered half the cost or such—in other words, they provided subsidies corresponding to what was termed the temple’s property.

Next came constructing Buddhist halls or making offerings to Buddha. For this purpose, a considerable amount of money was required. These funds were largely allocated to such purposes. Then they also provided annual stipends to imperially appointed senior officials, imperially appointed officials, and those below them. The amounts were meager; even the Prime Minister himself received only about six hundred koku of barley annually, and the Finance Minister three hundred sixty koku—it remained rather peculiar whether they received even these amounts precisely as stipulated. There were also those who did not receive their stipends and instead abandoned them.

The Current Finance Minister with whom I was staying had apparently reached about the tenth year since becoming Finance Minister, yet it was said he had not received a single koku. "What on earth is the reason for this?" When I asked, "Are you doing this out of obligation, or do you have some other income?" he replied, "There are things that come up from the territories attached to my household, so that is more than sufficient." "There is no particular need to trouble His Holiness the Dalai Lama to receive such a large amount," he said.

“However, when asked whether everyone conducts themselves this way,” he replied, “there are those who properly claim and receive [their stipends], but most from better-off households generally choose not to take them.” “Of course, among them are those who keep up such proper appearances while actually taking plenty of bribes.” “However, the Finance Minister I was staying with never demanded any particular amount of bribery to handle affairs; he merely accepted what was brought to him voluntarily out of goodwill, and unlike other Prime Ministers, did not appear to take large sums.”

Duties of Monk and Lay Officials: As for what these 165 imperially appointed monk officials ordinarily did, they were dispatched as something akin to local governors. However, on such occasions, they went out in pairs—one lay official and one monk official each. Moreover, when particularly difficult trial cases arose, they were sometimes dispatched to the provinces in pairs or groups of four—combining monk and lay officials. They set out with the actual authority to conduct investigations and settle judgments there. According to past precedents, even when they claimed to adjudicate matters there, decisions had ultimately been made based on the size of bribes. However, the current Dalai Lama was quite formidable—when it became known that someone had engaged in such practices, he promptly confiscated their property and stripped them of their position, which made people greatly fearful. Consequently, it was said that judgments had come to be rendered much more properly.

However, in cases where it was absolutely necessary for it to be the Dalai Lama himself—such as major incidents or when imposing severe punishments on heinous criminals—the matter was invariably brought before him. The Dalai Lama would then judge the matter and issue a command, but when considered from this perspective, his qualifications were rather intriguing. To issue commands imposing punishments on people—whether executing them or sentencing them to exile—was, from a political or layperson’s perspective, an entirely natural matter and not at all strange.

However, the Dalai Lama was a bhikkhu who had received the full monastic precepts. From the standpoint of these precepts, regardless of whether an act was good or evil, he should not have been able to issue orders to kill people. Even if it were someone who could permissibly be killed. Those who had received the 250 precepts of Hinayana Buddhism could never issue orders to kill people. The Dalai Lama was of course one who had received these full monastic precepts. Therefore according to those precepts, it was naturally impossible to issue orders to kill people. Yet the Dalai Lama was doing precisely that.

Then, is the Dalai Lama a layperson? He was absolutely not a layperson. It was precisely because he maintained no wife nor drank alcohol, and strictly observed what a Hinayana bhikkhu must uphold, that all monks from great monasteries like Sera, Rebun or Ganden received their full monastic precepts from this Dalai Lama. I too had been strongly urged by the Dalai Lama to receive the full precepts, but holding to my conviction that one cannot accept such precepts from someone whose conduct errs, I ultimately refused. Even were one a king, violating Buddhist law renders one ineligible to receive full precepts by virtue of kingship alone.

However, I did receive the secret teachings from this Dalai Lama. The reason was that the secret teachings bore no relation to the full monastic precepts. Since the Dalai Lama himself already stood as such a questionable figure, those beneath him included multitudes whose status as monks or laypeople remained ambiguous. There were laypeople imitating monks, and scarcely any monks who refrained from aping laypeople. As I had previously mentioned, since they engaged in everything from farming and commerce to herding livestock, they might well be called laypeople outright. The sole distinction lay in their shaven heads and monastic robes.

Thus among these monks there naturally emerged warrior-monks who made military activities their daily occupation while still retaining their monastic status. This being so, everything fell into extreme disorder—the present condition of Tibetan Buddhism had become utterly opposed to the original principles laid down by Je Tsongkhapa when establishing his new sect, presenting a truly unbearable spectacle.

Chapter 102: The Customs of Women

The Splendid Attire of Lhasa Noblewomen: I would discuss the customs, appearance, character, habits, nature, desires, and other aspects of the women of Lhasa—the most refined among Tibetan women.

This was an exceedingly important matter, for women shaped future citizens; thus, one could not lightly overlook the affairs of a country's women. Under wise mothers of strong independent spirit, one could understand by seeing how George Washington—who secured the United States' independence—had emerged. Therefore, before discussing Tibet's foreign policy strategies, it became necessary to examine the state of its people's independent spirit; and to understand this, one first needed to explain matters concerning the country's women.

First, I discussed customs. However, were I to explain in detail, it would prove impossible to cover everything in a single account, so I outlined the general points. The manner of wearing garments differed little from that of men. They simply styled them somewhat more delicately, though the garments followed identical construction methods. The belt measured approximately 1.5 sun (4.5 cm) in width and 8 shaku (2.4 meters) in length—essentially resembling a narrow sash. It was never tied; the woven threads at the belt's end formed tassel-like fringes that were tightly coiled and tucked into the waistband with a cloth scrap inserted within.

Next, regarding hairstyles—unlike the women of Shikache or other tribes, those of Lhasa and its vicinity used Chinese-made wigs parted down the center from left to right. In truth, Tibetan women’s hair tended to be short, so using an abundance of hair was considered desirable. They parted it thickly to the left and right like bundled yak tails, then brought the divided hair back to plait into a four-strand braid. The ends were bound with tassel-tipped red or green silk cords, and for connecting these cords, a coil-like base made by stringing about seven pearl strands was used to fasten both ends.

Then, in the center of these pearl strands was inserted a large pearl or yu (green gemstone) arranged as decoration. At the crown of the head were arrayed expensive yu stones, coral beads, pearls and other such ornaments. They wrapped a partsuk (head ornament ring) around their heads, wearing at its center a muchik gi shamo (pearl cap). On their ears hung Egoru—golden ear ornament towers (flat golden structures with green gemstone decorations inside)—while across their chests lay Dosharu (jeweled necklaces). These jeweled necklaces were said to cost three thousand five hundred to six hundred yen at their most expensive. There were times when even paying that sum proved insufficient to acquire them.

Then there was the keta (necklace), also composed of collected gemstones, with a seruki kāu (golden reliquary) attached at the center of the necklace where it rested upon the upper chest. Even one of those reliquaries was said to cost between over two hundred and about three hundred yen. On their right wrists they wore bracelets made from small conch shells, and on their left wrists they wore silver bracelets with carvings. Then, they all wore aprons. Even among aprons, there were fine ones that cost around thirty-six yen each. That made sense—it was woven from Tibet’s finest wool in a striped pattern... They were truly splendid. However, rings were mostly silver except for those of noblewomen.

They wore beautiful shoes stitched from red and green woolen fabric. Despite such splendid attire, they occasionally applied a soot-black substance to their faces, creating a truly unappealing appearance when seen. However, in the eyes of those accustomed to their country, that reddish tint beneath the soot-black was considered remarkably stylish and spirited. This might well be called the customs concerning women's personal attire. Their appearances—there were many that proved quite beautiful. Though their complexions were somewhat dark, their facial features were virtually identical to those of Japanese women.

However, they were stronger and considerably larger in build compared to Japanese women. They were so much larger in build that one could hardly find any in Tibet resembling Japan’s petite women. Thus, as they wore loose, large garments over their large frames, their appearance seemed truly magnanimous. As for noblewomen, whether in their fair complexion or beauty, they were nearly on par with Japanese beauties.

Beauties of Kham and Lhasa: Particularly in the Kham region, many women were fair-complexioned and there were numerous quite beautiful women. However, they had very little charm, and one could not find any faces that were even slightly endearing. They truly presented a sight of being coldly pitiable. Their way of speaking also had a shrill tone and an utterly unfeminine manner. However, while they seemed to have few ill intentions, they simply did not possess an appearance that inspired affection. In that regard, the women of Lhasa were truly charming individuals. Or rather than being merely charming individuals, they might better be described as endearing—though somewhat lacking in qualities commanding respect—yet their appearance was sufficiently captivating to torment the hearts of Lhasa's lecherous men, or rather, ordinary men.

However, their character was generally vulgar. Seeing them walk down the street while munching on food came across as utterly vulgar. As for middle- and lower-class women, they all possessed a petty merchant mentality, with minds that squabbled over trivial matters manifesting in their very character, giving them a somewhat fussy appearance. Even among the wives of the nobility, it remained equally true that one rarely encountered those possessing the refined character befitting spouses of the aristocracy—the so-called noble class. It could not be said there were none at all, but generally speaking, most were akin to former geisha turned wives.

To be sure, even among former geisha, some might gradually become accustomed to married society's customs and improve in character over time; however, in Tibet, since only women of such poor character populated aristocratic circles, there remained no indication of reform regardless of how much time passed. They might be easily liked by people, but their lack of dignity that commanded respect was certainly a shortcoming. I considered this was likely because a single woman served many husbands, leading to such customs developing.

Among women’s customs, what I considered worst were their drinking of alcohol and uncleanliness. As for their daily work ethic—compared to Japanese women they appeared utterly indolent and not fit to hold a candle to them—yet compared to women of other countries, I thought one might say they worked considerably harder. Particularly among the women of Lhasa’s lower and middle classes, engaging in commerce had become so habitual that they conducted everything through business negotiations. Even in choosing their own husbands, they still did so in such a manner. As mentioned before, Tibetans—even their women—were extremely unclean.

The women of Lhasa did at least know to wash their faces and hands, but their skin appeared jet-black. In other words, they only washed the parts visible to others slightly more thoroughly—that was about the extent of it. The upper classes were not entirely like that. This was because women of the upper class had no work whatsoever. Their only tasks were washing their hair and looking into mirrors to adorn themselves. As for other tasks—whether they were helping or hindering their husbands' work, who could say—making a noisy fuss was their real job. Even among high society, wives who remained silent were exceedingly rare; they interfered in everything. However, husbands did not merely obediently nod at their wives' interference; rather, it was often the case that the husbands themselves actively sought their wives' opinions.

Now, while upper-class women might be considered somewhat beautiful, whatever charm they possessed vanished instantly when one recalled the most disillusioning matter—the secret of them relieving themselves and returning unchanged. Tibetan women never did any sewing whatsoever. Even for simple mending tasks, they had to request tailors to do it for them. These tailors were exclusively men—there were no female tailors. Of course, Tibet did have women who wove cloth. There were also those who spun thread.

Even when spinning thread, there was no spinning wheel to speak of. Attached to the tip of a thin bamboo stick was a round, top-like object. They wound sheep’s wool that had been kneaded onto the bamboo stick, then gradually released it using their mouths, and once it had reached a suitable length, they added twist—this was how they made the yarn—so only thick thread could be produced. Even someone who had trained extensively and become skilled could only produce a somewhat even, thin thread at best, and even that thin thread was nothing like the machine-spun yarn one might dream of. There were absolutely no other methods of making thread in Tibet.

Chapter 103: Women and Childbirth

Women’s work: Local women engaged in farming when they went out to the fields and also undertook animal husbandry. First, women boiled milk to produce butter and other such products. The method involved cooling the boiled milk until it reached the proper stage, whereupon cream formed on top. After removing that cream, they added sour milk into it, covered it with a lid, and let it rest (meaning keeping it warm) for a full day, turning the sho (sour milk) into something like solidified tofu. That sour milk was placed into a long tub; a small amount of lukewarm water was added on top; then by moving up and down a round-lidded tool attached to a stick to thoroughly churn it, the butter and tara (the remaining milk with solids after butter extraction) gradually separated. According to the degree of separation, when lukewarm water was added again and churned for about two more hours, the butter and tara became completely separated, allowing the butter to be collected separately here.

When the remaining tara was thoroughly boiled, it separated into sour water and solids. The solids resembled strained tofu; called Chura in Tibetan, they were softer than tofu lees (okara) and akin to crumbled tofu, being exceptionally tasty. However, the water from the tara did not go to waste. Drinking it proved extremely effective for quenching thirst. Though slightly sour, it had a rather good flavor.

Chura can be eaten raw, but as it is produced in large quantities, they dry and harden it for storage. That is dried milk. Women mostly engage in such work. Then they go out to herd sheep and yaks. Therefore, the work of rural women is by no means inferior to that of men. In terms of their labor contribution alone，rural areas maintain gender equality between men and women；and when considering familial relationships— The sovereign of the family is women. Even when hired elsewhere, men and women receive the same wages. There is no discount in wages simply because they are women. In return, they work just as hard. This is ultimately because Tibetan women are physically robust and truly capable of enduring labor. Moreover, their nature appears extremely gentle and quite charming at first glance. Such women appear so gentle and charming that one might think they would never harm others or fly into violent rages, but when angered, they become fearsome and are not easily appeased. I have often witnessed cases where even when their husbands prostrated themselves in apology, [the wives] would not relent.

When it came to such matters, they became truly the epitome of selfishness, presenting a fearsome appearance that could only be likened to witches or yakshas. Therefore, Tibetan women could perhaps be likened to cats. Normally gentle, when the time came, they displayed tiger-like ferocity akin to a cat catching a mouse, overwhelming their husbands. Moreover, being extremely selfish and trampling down their husbands, they thought nothing of taking other men. Indeed, their indulgence in carnal desires was extreme.

Women from households with poor livelihoods would deliberately visit other men's dwellings, and even when discovered, remained utterly unfazed; when one imagined what they might say to their husbands, they would utter words like: "Since you don't properly provide for me, I went to earn money." It was truly a wretched state of affairs. Moreover, their minds proved exceedingly keen in scrabbling after trivial gains. They never once dreamed of what consequences might arise in the future from such conduct, nor of how such relationships might affect an entire village or nation. While placing such demands upon women might be somewhat unreasonable, matters would improve considerably if they would at least consider how their actions impacted others.

However, they cared nothing about others. In extreme cases, there were instances where they considered it acceptable for their husbands to lose benefits so long as they themselves gained profit. Indeed, they were sharp in that regard. That very sharpness was doing them considerable harm. For by harming their husbands to gain their own profit, they were ultimately harming themselves as well. Yet they paid no heed to such matters, desperately striving to secure petty immediate gains. Therefore,

Tibetan women's secret savings were so renowned that from wives down to household managers, there was hardly anyone without such funds. Even the most ordinary women generally had secret savings. They had made proper preparations so that even if they were divorced at any time, they could leave saying, "Heh, goodbye." However, if one were to claim these were solely negative traits, that was certainly not the case. Moreover, when it came to those they favored, they were meticulously attentive—so much so that even women from civilized societies could not match their keen eye for detail and thorough care in all matters.

Moreover, they were remarkably quick to discern others' thoughts. Before anyone around them could speak, they would use their quick wits to satisfy people's desires. Despite appearing quite admirable when observed in such aspects, they possessed precisely those opposing traits previously described. In short, Tibetan women were considered strange and paradoxical beings who embodied self-contradictory traits within themselves. Desire—as mentioned earlier—was so intently focused on pursuing petty gains that there remained no time to consider others. However, when it came to whether they would act independently to secure such profit, this was absolutely not the case. They perpetually maintained the notion that they absolutely must rely on others. While this might perhaps be a shortcoming of Tibetan women, despite possessing the capability to independently sustain their food, clothing, and shelter through trade, they persistently focused solely on seeking additional profit through others. Even when a woman married into a household and was unfortunate enough to lose her husband—even if fortunate enough to obtain the property—a woman who would peacefully raise her children while maintaining her widowhood was something one could scarcely ever witness in Tibet.

Those who remained widows were rare unless they were extremely elderly women or exceptionally unattractive. If a woman had even slightly more prospects, she would surely take a husband. In Tibet, women married into households up to forty or even fifty years of age. This was ultimately due to their lack of independent spirit—relying solely on others to fulfill their happiness and desiring to attain a better state than their current one—which, while being a natural human desire that should exist and an attitude they must maintain…

Even so, when they neither maintained their chastity nor considered their social standing—reaching the point of securing replacements before forty-nine days had passed since their husbands' deaths—one could not help but be utterly appalled. Even among highly educated women, those who passed through life with the noble resolve to uphold widowhood were nearly nonexistent in Tibet. By now you have likely grasped a general understanding of Tibetan women's character. Since their marriage ceremonies were previously explained, I now wish to describe how these women were treated during childbirth.

Naming Ceremony for Newborns In Tibet, when a boy was born they held a birth ceremony, but when a girl was born such ceremonies were rarely performed. These ceremonies also varied slightly by region, but generally when a boy was born they conducted the naming ritual three days later. The most remarkable aspect was that despite the child having been born, they neither washed nor wiped it. The infant remained exactly as emerged from the mother's womb, merely having birth matter removed. Moreover there existed no such occupation as midwives. Naturally after birth they applied extra butter twice daily to all body parts especially the head. This could well have been considered bathing through butter.

Childbirth Naming and Purification Ceremony When the third day arrived for the naming ceremony, they first conducted the consecration ritual. This involved a monk pouring purified yellow water—made by placing turmeric flowers into sanctified water that had been consecrated through secret rituals—over the child's head while chanting Buddhist names in worship, during which ceremony the chief monk bestowed a name upon the child. However, the method of bestowing names was truly peculiar. Generally, names were bestowed based on the day's circumstances. For example, if born on Sunday, both boys and girls were given the name *Nima* (meaning Sunday); Monday became *Dawa*, Saturday *Pemba*, Friday *Pasan*—names being assigned according to the seven days of the week.

However, even with just these names alone, there were so many identical ones that mistakes would occur; therefore, they added another name above or below to distinguish them. For instance, Nima Cheling became "Sunday Longevity," and Daawa Puntsok became "Monday Fulfillment." That was how the names were differentiated. In some cases, a lama present at the time and place would bestow the name; in others, a spirit medium gave it; or sometimes the parents themselves immediately assigned a name they wished to confer. In some instances, completely abstract names unrelated to the seven days of the week were given, while others simply used animal names as they were. They varied considerably, but generally speaking, there were many abstract names similar to those of Japanese monks.

If the child later grew up and entered a temple to become a monk, they would be bestowed with the dharma name Chö Ming. On the day of the naming ceremony, relatives and friends would bring gifts of wine, meat, clothing, silver coins, and other offerings. In return, the hosts would serve tea, alcohol, rice, meat, and various other foods to those who came for the celebration. However, such celebratory feasts were only held in cities and their surrounding areas; in remote regions, none but the wealthy conducted them.

When this naming ceremony concluded, the monks who had attended the ritual performed sutra readings and offerings to both the village gods and household gods, praying that as a child bearing this name had now been born into this household, it might henceforth be nurtured under the noble gods' protection. This sutra reading and offering involved New School monks, Old School monks, and even Bon priests, with no fixed composition. When a child was born into a spirit medium’s household, they did not rely on monks but held the naming ceremony themselves through the spirit medium. I shall now briefly discuss the ceremonies for when this child grew up and began schooling, and when girls were adorned with ornamental headdresses.

Chapter 104: Children and the Sick

Celebration for Children: When boys reached eight or nine years of age, they were sent to their teacher's residence to begin their studies. As pupils typically lived at their teacher's home, those from very nearby areas might commute instead. On the first day of schooling, the family notified friends and relatives. These visitors would then present the child with the customary khata scarf, which the child draped around their neck with both ends hanging down the chest. This ritual symbolized prayers for the child's academic success. The household hosted a feast that day with lavish provisions; when the child eventually completed their education, another celebration marked this auspicious conclusion. Should the graduate later assume an official position, families selected a fortunate date to hold an even grander banquet.

At this time came an exceptionally large number of gifts from friends and relations. Moreover, on their part, they prepared a lavish feast and entertained people. When girls reached eight or nine years old, an auspicious day was first selected for the headdress ceremony where they adorned their hair with ornaments; on this day, relatives and friends presented khata scarves and other gifts to express congratulations, while the girl’s family similarly hosted a feast to entertain guests. As for the headdress, it was not done in the elaborate manner worn by adults, but rather in a very simple style like that of Kham women—all the hair was gathered back into a single bundle and then divided into four strands to hang down. Then, upon their braided hair, they adorably arranged decorations made by mixing beautiful coral beads and green jade.

Children’s Play: As for how these children played in the fields of Lhasa, they were as innocent as children anywhere. First, in winter, snowball fights were their greatest delight, while in summer they engaged in wrestling and stone-throwing—competing to see who could throw stones farther or hurl larger rocks to specific points—and also played games where they set up targets in the distance and hurled large stones to knock them down.

Some mischievous children even imitated the gambling they saw adults doing and engaged in it themselves. It involved making clay disks similar to Japanese *menko* - a type where they threw the disks far away and hit them from their position - then drawing lines and placing silver coins within them. They also did things like knocking out those silver coins. This was the same as Japanese games. Then there was also a game where they took a single rope, looped it from above their heads to below their feet, spinning it around and leaping over it repeatedly. This game was also sometimes played by about ten people. For example, two children held the ends of a long rope and spun it round and round, while ten children skillfully leaped over it in perfect unison with their footwork. This was also the same as Japanese children—if someone got caught on the rope and stumbled while jumping over it, they then became the one to hold and swing the rope. This game was not only for boys. Girls also participated quite actively.

In addition, there was also a game called *Aze-Haamo* where boys and girls mingled together and played by imitating performances of riverside beggars. Playing with balls was also occasionally done, though there were not many instances of this. Since Tibetans had a strong fondness for horseback riding, noble children were always playing at horse racing, but poor children, unable to do so, went out to the fields, clung to rocks shaped like horses, and desperately pretended to gallop atop them, growing frantic in their attempts. Since what had now come to my memory was roughly this much, I concluded the discussion of boys' games here.

As for girls' games—like in other countries, they were gentler compared to boys'. They played games resembling Japan's Doll Festival, sang Aze-Haamo songs, or used pictures called Lama Mani that depicted the Buddha's deeds, histories of ancient high priests, or the achievements of great kings. Their manner of explaining these pictures—using pitiful voices, amusing voices, lively voices—sounded like singing. When one girl stood by the wall mimicking explanations in a melodic tone, the others listened attentively while harmonizing with the leader's voice, chanting Tibetan-style prayers. The scene looked utterly adorable.

While there were quite a number of these Lama Mani performers in Tibet, not many remained in Lhasa during winter. This was because they all went to rural areas for migrant work during the cold season. Around May, when agricultural and herding activities became busy in the countryside, the Lama Mani performers could no longer earn money there and consequently gathered in Lhasa. This period coincided with the season when small red dragonflies began flitting through Lhasa's fields, their crimson forms darting among blue-green grasses - leading people to call these insects "Lama Mani" when the performers emerged.

For the children, catching these Lama Mani (red dragonflies) became another game. Out in the fields they would run here and there; sometimes plunging into water and becoming drenched like rats, they took off their clothes to dry them and were occasionally seen running about naked. Such things were the most enjoyable play for children.

Having covered children's games to this extent, I will now turn to

Regarding the treatment of patients, Tibetan women had truly admirable aspects that I wished to discuss. In Tibet's customary practice, no patient was permitted to lie down and sleep during daytime hours. They would fashion some sort of backrest to lean against. Beside them would always sit one woman providing constant nursing care who never left their side. These nursing women naturally alternated between day and night shifts. Among noble households, replacements occurred numerous times. There might be two or three attendants present, but they never spoke loudly or discussed matters that might unsettle the patient's mind.

If patients felt any pressing need or unspoken desire, [the caregivers] would almost immediately discern it through their appearance and demeanor, ensuring they never had to speak—if signs of needing to relieve themselves appeared, [they] promptly provided a bedpan; if water was wanted, [they] offered water. Under normal circumstances, people never wipe after defecating, but when ill, various filthy substances adhere. Despite the foul smell, they wipe it away or perform other tasks without the slightest aversion.

However, generally speaking, upon entering a Tibetan sickroom—unlike its Japanese counterpart—one encountered an uncanny odor: a foul stench so unbearable it seemed musk would be required to endure it. Within such an atmosphere, one might assume constant vigilance unnecessary—yet Tibetans clung fiercely to their conviction that daytime sleep doomed patients to fevers and incurable relapses even of treatable ailments. Thus these nursing women became

Therefore, they were keeping watch to prevent [the patients] from sleeping, and in some cases, besides the nursing women, additional watchers were specifically assigned to ensure they did not sleep. The watcher remained thoroughly vigilant; when sensing that the patient might be about to drift into sleep, though not uttering a word, they first placed a bowl before themselves containing intensely cold water and something resembling a toothpick, then used this toothpick-like implement to flick the icy water in quick dashes across the patient's face. When this happened, because their face was cold, they suddenly became alert. Since the patients themselves believed they must not sleep, they did not particularly resent it even when this was done to them. "They were taking good care of me; in fact, I was rather pleased that they were nursing me."

Even then, if the patient still began to fall asleep, the watcher would stand up and move behind them, pressing with a slight rubbing motion to make them feel pressure that roused them awake. At times, they also woke them by raising their voices. To our eyes, this treatment might have seemed utterly cruel, but Tibetans did not act with any intention to torment the patient; rather, they were truly striving for the patient’s swiftest possible recovery. Thus did this custom hold immense authority.

The doctor went to examine them and asked whether they slept during the day. When he said, "At the very least, you must not even begin to doze off," the patient replied, "But I simply can't help sleeping—there's nothing to be done about it." He cautioned, "You absolutely must not sleep," then declared to the patient: "If you wish to die, go ahead and sleep—but if you don't want to die, you must never sleep during daylight," presenting this prohibition against daytime slumber as the foremost precept for patients. When people came to visit a sick person, they first presented gifts or silver coins, then told the patient: "You must not sleep during the day. "If you sleep," they warned, "it will lead to something dreadful where you and I can never meet and speak again—I earnestly beg you to take particular care with this."

Then, turning to the caregivers, [the visitor] said: “I’m sure you’re already being most attentive, but given how the prolonged nature of this illness must be wearing on you, do take particular care in that regard.” "The patient cannot help it, so you must take care not to let them sleep," they earnestly stated. "I will also go and advise the other family members in the same manner." If the patient were to die unexpectedly soon, people would say, "That household over there is no good. "It happened because neither the brothers nor the parents made any effort to prevent [the patient] from sleeping during the day," thus absurdly placing blame where it didn’t belong.

The fact that such an ironclad custom had taken root suggested there must be some underlying principle behind it in this land. Not believing they maintained this practice out of mere foolishness, I resolved to investigate it thoroughly. My work as a quack doctor proved most advantageous for such inquiries. Through examining numerous patients and accumulating research, I gradually discerned the cause.

In Tibet, certain patients would gradually develop worsening fevers and fall into critical condition after sleeping during the day. These illnesses typically included colds and conditions like Tibetan edema - cases where patients developed fatal fevers while napping. Yet when we caught colds ourselves, we couldn't reasonably avoid daytime rest. We slept warmly regardless, and contrary to their beliefs, often recovered well. The Tibetans, unaware of such distinctions, seemed to have established a universal rule for all patients based on isolated examples, elevating daytime wakefulness to the primary tenet of care.

Chapter 105: Superstition and Garden Banquets

The root of illness lay in evil influences; in Tibet, medicine did not constitute the principal element in achieving a patient’s complete recovery. The most crucial part—that deemed most effective for patients—was prayer. According to their beliefs, illnesses arose mostly from the harmful effects of demons, evil spirits, vengeful ghosts, and the like; thus unless these malign influences were first dispelled through esoteric prayer rituals, even medicines as potent as those of Jivaka or Bian Que would prove utterly ineffective. Since ordinary people could not discern what particular evil influences afflicted the patient, they had to consult a lama to ascertain this—either by sending a written inquiry to the lama’s residence, dispatching a messenger, or going personally to ask.

The lama would examine various texts related to the matter and determine the cause—whether it be affliction by a Rokusha demon, harm from a Kumbhanda or Yaksha demon, or torment by vengeful spirits, demons, or local evil deities—and prescribed as a countermeasure that a certain lama should be asked to recite specific sutras. In some cases, the lama's name was written down; in others, it was not. When the method could be performed by anyone, the name was not written. When the method became slightly more complex, they specified a particular individual by name.

Therefore, when doctors were involved, there were cases where one first performed this secret method for three or four days before summoning a particular physician, and other cases where the doctor was summoned simultaneously with performing this method. Alternatively, there were instances where it was explained that this patient needed no medicine—they should cease their current medication and be cured through prayer alone. This varied widely, but those who went to inquire and received oral responses were not high-ranking lamas. Such tasks were performed by middle and lower-ranking lamas.

When it came to middle or higher-ranking lamas, they would have their attendants draft the method document, affix their personal seal to it themselves, and then hand that document to the inquirer. Even when summoning a doctor that very day could have saved a patient, if the method document instructed them to call someone for treatment five days later, Tibetans firmly believed that no illness could be cured without first exorcising demons—even with a doctor’s medicine—so they prioritized prayers first. Consequently, even if the patient died that same day without receiving medicine, their families never blamed the lama or oracle as incompetent, harboring no resentment or ill will. On the contrary, they would remark admiringly, “Truly, he was an extraordinary lama—he must have known death would come today, so he deliberately wrote ‘five days later’ when no doctor was needed. How remarkable!”

If someone who understood reason had instead said, "That lama is spouting such nonsense—that patient would have been saved had they been given medicine at that critical time, but because he wrote such a foolish method document, they ultimately died," then society would have vehemently condemned that person, declaring: "He is a heretic! A heinous criminal! To speak ill of lamas is outrageous!" They would become furious indeed. That there existed many people who—though fully understanding—endured in silence out of fear of such reprimand was something I had indeed confirmed.

Even among those called doctors, they hardly knew any methods to cure illnesses. Only the medicine from the ancient Indian Five Sciences had been transmitted, and even that medicine was highly incomplete. However, even if they had mastered this incomplete medicine, they might have been able to provide some assistance to patients—yet many of them practiced without understanding what this medicine truly entailed, relying solely on hearsay.

Poisonous Herbs in Medicine: Among the medicines used by Tibetan doctors, few lacked tsa-tsuk ("grass poison"). This tsa-tsuk was a toxic plant root that caused death when consumed in large quantities. While functioning similarly to a stimulant, slightly excessive doses induced numbness throughout the body. Even small amounts could trigger severe diarrhea depending on the illness. Regardless of therapeutic efficacy, these medicines invariably produced some physiological reaction in patients. When such reactions manifested - creating an illusion of effectiveness - doctors added tsa-tsuk to every prescription to demonstrate their remedies' potency.

It was probably akin to how Chinese physicians of old would typically include licorice in medicines as a guiding agent. Though there might be one or two exceptions, since the majority followed this practice, patients suffered unbearably. They could never obtain medicine suited to their own ailments. Given how these quack doctors—who practiced medicine without even studying its incomplete theories—ran rampant, I concluded that in Tibet's present circumstances, it would be far more prudent for patients to have prayer practitioners perform devotions to ease their minds, then rely on natural recuperation or faith-based healing rather than receive such medicines.

In Tibet:

Chansa—that is to say, the ways of holding drinking banquets—were varied, but among them there existed one that was most favored by Tibetans and which, even in our view, presented the finest appearance. This was called Rinka, where they would hold garden parties and host banquets in those gardens. This stood as the most refined method among Tibetan drinking practices. At other times when they drank alcohol or gathered together, quarrels and arguments would frequently arise in most cases. However, during these Rinka garden banquets, one seldom witnessed even ruffians engaging in quarrels. Though I could not declare it entirely nonexistent, from what I had seen and heard, such occurrences were wholly absent. Even rowdy monks engaged in rather boisterous play when partaking in a Rinka, yet they rarely quarreled.

As for where these garden banquets were held: departing Lhasa city center and traveling three or four chō—excluding the southern direction with its river—one found abundant groves in all other directions: west, north, and east. Some groves served as villas for prominent families—with some completely enclosed by fences to prevent entry—while others, despite having owners, remained freely accessible for anyone to visit. Among these, the particularly fine ones were the groves along the banks of the Kichu River. While there were areas where trees grew densely, there were also places where the ground was entirely covered with lush green grass, appearing as though spread with a carpet, presenting an extremely beautiful sight.

Of course during winter it withered away and appeared almost devoid of anything, but from late April through May buds emerged abundantly to become exceedingly beautiful. Especially along the riverbanks grew what might be called weeping willows in Japan, with peach trees also being quite abundant among them. When peach blossoms bloomed it was particularly beautiful. In Tibet during winter one had to look only upon withered rocky mountains, bald peaks and so-called gray plains devoid of any hint of green. The finest winter view was seeing numerous cranes leisurely strolling amidst falling snow; however in Lhasa Prefecture even when snow fell it usually melted within two or three days. That snow also rarely accumulated to more than one shaku (approx. 30 cm). Therefore one could not of course enjoy that beautiful snowscape for long. If one went to rural areas there were places where snow remained piled up indefinitely, but in Lhasa Prefecture such a thing never occurred.

Thus during winter, when people constantly saw nothing but withered landscapes, not only did their eyes and the grass wither away completely, but even their hearts seemed utterly devoid of vitality, leaving all enjoyment lost.

At this time, the fields were suddenly filled with green grass, and amidst them green leaves grew thick and lush; thus people's hearts grew somehow tranquil and could not help but venture out for walks outdoors. Each person, following their own inclinations—some forming small groups of twos and threes—set out carrying leather bags or bottles filled with wine.

The alcohol used for garden banquets—the provisions consisted of roasted wheat bread, fried wheat dough cakes, dried milk, dried grapes, dried peaches, dried meat, and similar items. The household’s servants carried these foods along with floor mats and implements for boiling tea in the fields. They would depart around nine in the morning and drink and revel there until around four or even six in the afternoon, using Ne-chang (barley beer) and Be-chang (rice wine) for the alcohol—rice wine being exceedingly rare. There were even those who did not use it at all, with many drinking Ne-chang. The production method of this barley beer was not akin to that of beers such as modern brews but was rather prepared through an extremely simple process.

First, they boiled the barley. The barley—unwashed and still in its blackened state—was immediately added to water and thoroughly boiled before being spread out to cool. During cooling, they added malt and mixed it thoroughly, then placed it into jars as if fermenting koji. After about three days, it completely transformed into koji. They drew water into this koji and stirred it well before letting it settle. Some gradually drew off the clear liquid from the top layer, while others squeezed out the sediment and sold only the juice. From one shō of barley they obtained about five shō of alcohol—a testament to its truly extreme thinness. When preparing the highest quality alcohol, I heard they obtained only about two shō. However, such superior brews were never found in regular shops.

Using the preparation method just described, the alcohol was ready after three days. Properly separating and setting it aside for six or seven days—this was already regarded by the nobility as an extremely precious liquor for their consumption. They did not leave it aging for very long. Even alcohol aged for a month was already revered as exceptionally old liquor. They gulped down that alcohol, but no matter how much they drank, they did not get particularly drunk. They would not get drunk unless they consumed a considerable amount. Due to the cold climate, they seemed to sober up quickly. However, there were times when they drank continuously from morning till night and again from night till morning—in such cases, they often became thoroughly intoxicated and lost all sense of their surroundings.

Chapter 106: Dance

**Green Grove Garden Banquet**: First, at the garden banquet, they spread flower-patterned carpets over the lush green grass beneath the grove's trees—grass so even it resembled a laid-out felt carpet—arranged various delicacies atop them, and while eating these, drank alcohol, sang, or danced. When performing dances, they sang in harmony with the movements, so Tibetan women and men seemed to think there was nothing as entertaining as those dances. There were almost no people in Tibet who disliked this dance. In the most remote regions, dance was quite difficult [to perform], so there were places that did not perform it simply because they could not learn it; however, even if they could not perform it themselves, they greatly enjoyed watching it.

From our perspective, it didn’t seem to possess such refined taste, but we could certainly agree it was entertaining. Well, singing amusingly absurd songs, dancing about, drinking alcohol, and partaking in always hard-to-obtain delicacies already constituted the supreme pleasure; adding yet another layer of enjoyment were the surrounding scenery and the truly clear stream drawn from the Kichu River into the fields, where children were frolicking and playing. The sight of even grown-ups, just like those children, wandering about and playing was truly innocent, and from appearance alone, seemed most enjoyable.

In the far distance, upon peaks where green seemed to drip, the so-called snow peaks crowned with eternal snow presented their indescribably majestic and imposing figures with serene grandeur. It was precisely at such times that the epithet "Lhasa—the Land of Gods" seemed most fitting.

This garden banquet was a pastime for those of the middle class and above; however, if one were to ask whether those of the lower classes did not attend garden banquets, they still went in the same manner.

Outcasts' Garden Banquet: However, what the lower classes did was gamble while drinking alcohol. They might have called it wrestling, but it wasn't performed like Japanese sumo; instead, they stood apart and engaged in something resembling an arm-pushing contest—never throwing opponents down. There were also stone-throwing contests conducted by rowdy monks and occasional footraces. The lower-class people would never do such things. They still performed the dance Tibetans loved most; though common to both classes, the upper class's version appeared refined while the lower class's seemed utterly vulgar, evoking distaste when seen.

However, since lower-class Tibetan women and children—along with highly quarrelsome lower-class men—had gathered to hold this garden banquet, one would have expected a fight or some disturbance to arise; yet none occurred. This aligned entirely with what had been described thus far: unconsciously influenced by their circumstances, they likely refrained from even the quarrels their daily conduct would have suggested they ought to start, instead living out those moments in contentment.

Tibetans' Supreme Entertainment: The Garden Banquet Now, there were many other changsa (banquets) besides this, but this garden banquet was the finest; though numerous banquets also occurred during weddings—as previously described—or upon occasions like the death of one’s parent, these often involved property disputes and could hardly achieve the pure form of enjoyment seen in garden banquets. We shall conclude our discussion of banquets here for now.

Tibetan Diplomacy

Before discussing matters of diplomatic strategy, it was necessary to first explain the state of the general populace’s sense of independence.

Among Tibetan citizens, there were exceedingly few who considered the nation’s interests while prioritizing their own personal gains. They knew how to attend to their own interests but did not know how to consider those of the nation. It would be fair to say that the very concept of a nation scarcely existed in the minds of Tibetans. As for those styled as government officials—while they did possess some notion of a state—when it came to whether pursuing national interests or personal advantage mattered more, they naturally prioritized their own gains first, casting aside the nation’s welfare altogether.

Not only that, but it had become the norm for many of today’s Tibetan politicians to pursue their own interests even at the expense of sacrificing the nation’s benefit. There were indeed some who—even while genuinely considering the nation and seeking to preserve its existing Buddhism—held convictions to sacrifice personal gain and devote themselves completely, though in my observation these were exceedingly rare. Many who gave lip service to such ideals were in truth more occupied with enriching their own households than with Buddhism itself.

Since those above were already thus, those below were all the more extreme. However, those below placed such grave importance on Buddhism—since their country possessed it, and since this revered Buddhism constituted their nation's defining feature that must be maintained—that anyone opposing it would face execution. Therefore, whenever the government undertook any action, they immediately denounced it as harmful to Buddhism and used Buddhism as grounds to attack others.

In reality, whether what the government claimed truly benefited Tibetan Buddhism was beside the point; most of its actions did more harm than good to Buddhism. Yet since that government could not make the people submit without invoking Buddhism, though its deeds harmed Buddhism, officials remained oblivious to this fact and still declared their acts served Buddhist interests—there were many instances where they oppressed citizens in Buddhism's name. When subjected to such treatment, the people could only endure in silent resignation. Perhaps some even came to think it would be better if Buddhism did not exist at all. But in truth, few could dare give voice to such thoughts aloud.

As I mentioned earlier when discussing Tibetan women and children—how they prioritized pursuing their own interests above all else without considering other concerns—the general populace, having been raised by these very women, would find it exceedingly difficult to develop considerations beyond such self-interest. Thus, when I previously discussed women and children, it already made clear the general populace’s temperament; however, thinking that men, being men, might develop somewhat nobler thoughts—or so I thought—I observed them. Yet men too were not much different from women and children. They might speak of valuing friends somewhat or similar notions, knowing to love those connected by interest, but when it came to something as vast as the nation, they seemed to place it entirely beyond consideration, not truly understanding how it related to their own interests.

Therefore, foreign countries seeking to implement diplomatic strategies against such a nation found that by exploiting this weakness and skillfully co-opting its ministers, diplomatic affairs could generally be settled in this manner. For these ministers, even if they sacrificed their nation, it sufficed as long as their household prospered. Since their mindset was that as long as they received large sums of money from foreign countries and they alone could line their own pockets, they remained utterly indifferent to causing hardships for the citizens. Therefore, Tibet’s diplomatic strategies were almost less a matter of strategy than—

It was all a matter of emotion—every decision hinged on calculations of self-interest. Thus, even when foreign nations bribed and secured those ministers through such means, success could hardly be assured. For emotions lack the quality of remaining steadfastly aligned with principles. Consequently, being fickle and ever-shifting, they proved unreliable in any case. Therefore, to achieve diplomatic success with such a country, another approach beyond this had to exist.

Russia's Diplomatic Strategy: Now, Russia's efforts to gain control over Tibet were by no means recent developments; they had been gradually conducting this for over thirty years. It might have begun even earlier, but clear traces became evident from over thirty years prior—and the ones who methodically advanced this progress were found in a Siberian region north of Tibet inhabited by Mongolians. Specifically, slightly northeast of Qinghai Lake lay what was once Chinese territory—a Mongolian tribe called Buryad. Russia conquered this tribe, and it has now become Russian territory.

Now, although the Russian Government had Greek Orthodoxy as its state religion and enforced a rigid doctrine that scarcely permitted religious freedom within its own country, it adopted an extremely lenient policy toward these Buddhists—not only allowing them to fully practice their faith but also implementing measures to protect their temples and actively promote Buddhism. It was not that the Russian Government necessarily believed in Buddhism, but rather that it feigned promoting Buddhism to skillfully win over the monks, or so it was thought.

From this tribe came many lamas who traveled to Tibet’s monastic universities for training; they were also present at Ganden, Rebun, Sera, and Tashi Lhunpo Monastery in Tsang Province. The exact number at that time was uncertain, but there may have been approximately between 150 and 200 individuals. Amidst so many monks from Russian Mongolia arriving in such numbers, a remarkable operator had recently emerged.

Russia’s secret agent—this remarkable figure was a man named Dorje, who in Tibet received the rank of Tsannii Kenbo and became the current Dalai Lama’s debate teacher. Tsannii means "to debate definitions," and Kenbo means "teacher." This Tsannii Kenbo became extremely close to the current Dalai Lama, and in fact, it was eighteen or nineteen years ago that he assumed the position of Tsannii Kenbo. That is, he taught the Dalai Lama debate techniques from childhood, thoroughly guided him to suit the Dalai Lama’s preferences, and thus fully devised methods to make himself trusted. Since he was quite a talented individual and a man of considerable magnanimity, he must have appeared as an exceptionally splendid teacher in the eyes of the current Dalai Lama—keenly perceptive and rich in common sense. This was because, although there were three other debate teachers, he remained the most trusted one.

However, as the Dalai Lama grew older, such training became unnecessary. Thereupon, this Tsannii Kenbo—finding it difficult to return to his homeland (Buryad in Mongolia), though likely having received a commission from the Russian Government—appears to have first demonstrated his success through various pieces of evidence; whereupon the Russian Government furnished substantial confidential funds for this achievement, which Tsannii Kenbo then brought to Tibet without personal use, instead applying them entirely to beneficial methods. He not only expended great sums of confidential funds but also brought numerous Western novelties from the Russian capital—among them watches, pistols, and other rare items—which he did not limit to presenting solely to the Dalai Lama. He also remarkably succeeded in courting favor with Shata, then the most influential young prime minister.

Though how much money was spent remains secret, judging from the substantial sums given to other ministers alone, he must have bestowed a considerable amount upon Shata. This was because Shata and Tsannii Kenbo's relationship had grown more intimate than that of brothers. Not only that—the Dalai Lama became so enamored with Tsannii Kenbo that he would consent to anything the man proposed. Thus did Tsannii Kenbo first succeed in fully consolidating the upper echelons' influence unto himself.

Means of Co-opting Monks || Moreover, in Tibet—where monastic society held supreme influence—these monks had to be secured. Yet even having secured them meant he couldn’t trumpet his virtues at every turn; there remained no viable approach. Thus he distributed alms called “ge” to every major monastery’s clergy. This wasn’t done once or twice, but repeatedly. Monks—utterly devoid of political awareness—simply praised him: “Tsannii Kenbo must be enormously wealthy to make such offerings to Tibetan monks!” “How commendable! Beyond our capabilities,” they’d exclaim, yet none probed the origins of his funds.

When a monk who had vaguely noticed such matters cautiously asked a government official about it, the official would explain: "In Tsannii Kenbo’s homeland, people revere him like a king of their own country and offer him vast sums of gold—that is how he came to possess such enormous wealth. “There’s nothing strange about it at all,” they would hear such explanations, so naturally even the monks didn’t find it suspicious. Thus, no one felt particularly guilty about receiving [the money], and since Tibetans are particularly quick to discern their own interests, they greatly rejoiced in these frequent monetary offerings and came to blindly follow whatever that person proposed, regardless of its merits or morality. Thus, Tsannii Kenbo himself had achieved great success in Tibet.

As for the means of co-opting the general populace—of course, they too needed to be made allies. The method they employed was also quite skillful. I was greatly impressed by how they steadily implemented diplomatic strategies in accordance with the country’s customs and sentiments, tailored precisely to suit the people’s desires and nature—a truly admirable approach. The method first went as follows. As for methods to win over the hearts of the general populace, this had been initiated a little before I arrived there. It didn’t require any special expenditure of money but was quite clever. To explain what this meant: in Tibet, there existed prophecies—oracular predictions of the future—within books created by ancient lamas of a new sect. These prophecies were not merely uttered by that single lama; furthermore, an extraordinary number of others had come forward to echo them, so they seeped into the very marrow of the general populace’s consciousness—known not through written texts but as folktales.

Chapter 107: Tibet and Russia The Future Great King: When tracing the implications of these prophecies through deductive analysis, it became clear that Buddhism had flourished tremendously in the Kashmir region from two thousand years hence until approximately 1,200 to 1,300 years thereafter. This land was originally magnificent in every aspect—from its natural bounty to its landscapes—with climatic conditions said to include areas where cuckoos sang through most of the year, making it an exceptionally refined country. To the north of this Kashmir lay another developed realm where arhats and bodhisattvas were believed to have dwelled.

In other words, they used that as their seed. That elegant country had been destroyed by Islam in a single day, and Buddhism had perished entirely; however, it was certain to rise again another day. This was because they had devised a contrived theory by overapplying the so-called principle of correct cause and correct effect—that since Buddhism had once flourished in the past, it would inevitably be revived again in the future through that very causality. As stated earlier, the northern Bodhisattva kingdom of Kashmir was now trampled under Islam, but without doubt, in the future, a great king who would unify the world would surely arise from that Bodhisattva kingdom. As for that great king, it would be none other than Je Tsongkhapa, the founder of Tibet's new sect. The prophetic records stated that those who would become ministers were disciples such as Jamyang Chöje, Chamba Chöje, or Gendun Tub, and that these individuals would restore the country and greatly radiate Buddhism’s light across the world.

Now, that country was called Chang Shambhala. Chang meant "north," and Shambhala referred to what I believed was the name of a city or land north of Kashmir. However, lamas of a new sect declared, "Before the Great King of Buddhism mentioned in the prophecies is born, we must go see this splendid country," and many indeed set out. The journey too had been described by those same proclaimers who fabricated these imaginative theories.

It was said to lie 1,200 miles northwest from Bodh Gaya in India, thus corresponding directionally to Kashmir. Though various routes were described in detail, being ultimately a utopian imaginative theory, there naturally existed no need to substantiate each point regarding its precise nature. In any case, during that period when Tibetan Buddhism had grown disordered to the point of becoming nearly unbearable, texts had prophesied that such a splendid and mighty Great King of the Buddhist Dharma would emerge to unify this world—and Tibetans believed this exactly as written.

The Russian Emperor was none other than an incarnation. Thereupon, Tsannii Kenbo fabricated a text by exploiting this devotional fervor. That Chang Shambhala was none other than Russia itself. The Russian Emperor was wholly the incarnation of Je Tsongkhapa. The Russian Emperor's virtuous acts consisted in perpetually nurturing his people with liberty and treating foreign nations with utmost benevolence. Even a golden wheel-turning monarch of antiquity would have been surpassed by this august figure's immeasurable virtue. When examining both his inherent virtue and proclaimed declarations, every directional alignment and geographical correspondence matched flawlessly. Therefore, those harboring doubts about this matter were ipso facto adversaries of Buddhism. They stood opposed to the grand purpose of the founder who had established Tibet's new sect.

What a profound blessing it was that through these prophetic oracles，they came to know both the land where Je Tsongkhapa—founder of Tibet’s new sect—now dwelled reborn，and that august personage himself. In summary，the Russian Emperor was what was called Chang Chub Semba Semba Chenbo (meaning Bodhisattva and Mahasattva)，and thus one could not oppose him. He had written it in such a manner—as though this must be revered—precisely tailored to match the Tibetan people’s capacity for faith，making it thoroughly believable. It had been composed not only in Tibetan but also in Mongolian.

I was unable to see the text directly. However, I heard a detailed explanation from someone who had seen it. While earnestly wanting to examine that text, I came to have to leave Tibet; but upon hearing there was an unintelligible word written in the book, I wondered if it might be Russian. It seemed the text had indeed been created by cross-referencing three languages, and I heard copies of this book had been distributed extensively throughout Tibet.

However, since the Tibetans kept it hidden as if they had obtained a uniquely sacred scripture to be kept secret, and since attempting to forcibly investigate it would only plant seeds of suspicion, I refrained from viewing it myself; though there could be no doubt it was written with such implications. Thus did the hopes of Tibet's common people come to rest in faith that Russia—a term which, when rendered in our tongue, meant Chang Shambhala of the north—would soon see its great king govern the world and become the standard-bearer of global Buddhism. Under present circumstances, from government ministers down to the lowliest subjects, nearly all had come to lean toward Russia.

Causes of Pro-Russian Favoritism || Moreover, while pro-Russian favoritism had grown considerably prominent, there were yet other causes behind this. The Western sundries imported from Russia were all of superior quality. Even those high-quality items were not sold but were all given away to people. The goods imported from British India were all cheap and trivial items. That was only natural, for when Tibetan caravans or individual merchants went to India and purchased expensive goods, they could hardly sell them. Since even if they sold them, they could not expect any profit, they procured goods as cheaply as possible. If they did not purchase cheap goods, the transportation costs became prohibitively high, leaving them no choice.

However, since what Russia brought was not intended to be sold but rather given away from the start, they could bring whatever fine items they wished; thus in Tibet, while British goods quickly broke, Russian goods proved remarkably sturdy. Although they were the same Western goods, Russia's were far superior. From this as well, there were people who argued that Russia’s trustworthiness was sufficient to be believed.

The Russian Emperor's Gift: I believe this occurred about four years prior to my time there. The exact timing remained an impenetrable secret... Some time earlier, through Tsannii Kenbo's mediation, vestments of a bishop had been presented from the Russian Emperor to the Dalai Lama of Tibet. Yet the Dalai Lama had gladly accepted those resplendent golden robes. This was not mere acceptance of garments—by receiving them, he had effectively received the rank of bishop (archbishop). The situation was profoundly peculiar. That the emperor of a nation upholding Greek Orthodoxy as its state religion would confer the station of Bishop—the highest clerical position in that faith—upon Tibet's Buddhist pontiff struck me as utterly bizarre. The Dalai Lama accepted this rank under the misapprehension that Russia practiced Buddhism and that its foremost clergy received such vestments; his ignorance of global affairs made him vulnerable to this deception. Had he recognized these as Greek Orthodox episcopal robes, he would have deemed them unworthy even to behold, let alone don. Yet through such ignorance did he stumble into error. This too constituted masterful deception through Tsannii Kenbo's silver tongue. The prime mover behind this affair was none other than Prime Minister Shata.

Shata's Background: There were matters regarding this Shata that needed recounting. He occupied a position of considerable prominence within the prime minister's aristocratic lineage, his house having long maintained mutual hostility with the great temple Tengerin mentioned earlier. Until the current Dalai Lama ascended the throne, it had been Tengerin's Temo Rinpoche who held that sacred office. At that time, he found himself unable to remain in Tibet and fled toward Darjeeling. It was said he wandered extensively, perhaps detouring through Sikkim and other regions. During this period of exile, having witnessed British governance and learned of their history subjugating India's native peoples, he developed profound apprehension toward the British government.

However, he was quite well-informed about British affairs, and in all of Tibet today, there was no one besides him who was knowledgeable about matters concerning British India. Now, if engaging in war with the British government would ultimately prove unwinnable, then the conviction that our nation must rely either on China or another powerful country to ensure its survival must surely have arisen in the mind of this young prime minister. I heard through hearsay that such talk occasionally came from his mouth, so there is no mistake. When Temo Rinpoche of Tengerin abdicated his position to the current Dalai Lama, this person returned, and almost simultaneously with the Dalai Lama’s ascension to the throne, he was elevated to the position of prime minister. Therefore, he must have plotted to destroy Tengerin, toward which he had long harbored hostility.

He was a statesman whose countenance appeared exceedingly gentle yet was steeped in intrigue. Thus, by exploiting the misdeeds of Tengerin’s vassals, he implicated their very master, Temo Rinpoche, ultimately leading him to die an unnatural death in prison. When Shata had been appointed prime minister, Temo Rinpoche—the former Dalai Lama—was said to have declared, “Ah, this old man’s days are now numbered,” having foreseen his impending murder at Shata’s hands; tragically, his prophecy proved all too accurate. In any case, this man exercised significant diplomatic power within Tibet.

While this pertained to domestic affairs, he possessed sufficient skill to destroy his enemies—a man who achieved their annihilation through methods cruel whether deemed righteous or wicked—thus it was certain he wielded considerable prowess in diplomatic matters too. Not only was this person extremely close to Russia's Tsannii Kenbo, but seeing how ardently he admired the Russian government, there could be no doubt Tsannii Kenbo had skillfully co-opted him. As for receiving those bishop's vestments—in truth, other ministers likely remained unaware, and despite not understanding whether Russia was truly respectable—some harbored suspicions that careless actions might invite catastrophe, trembling with apprehension all the while.

However, in the Tibetan cabinet, decision-making authority rested almost solely with the prime minister, and it was absolutely never the case that all cabinet members acted in unison to accomplish matters. Moreover, as individuals, they would never dare voice their own opinions. Since the usual state of affairs was simply to blindly obey what their senior minister said with a "That is most reasonable," there were indeed those who harbored sufficient doubts about Russia. What I heard privately from a certain minister was that Shata’s close association with Tsannii Kenbo had been viewed with suspicion. However, this minister lacked both the courage to refuse when the Dalai Lama received the bishop’s vestments and any belief that refusal would have been heeded—hence his silence.

China's powerlessness—another factor that further deepened Tibet's inclination to rely on Russia—was also due to China's waning influence since the First Sino-Japanese War, which had rendered it utterly incapable of exerting any power over Tibet. In the past, whenever the Dalai Lama of Tibet undertook even minor changes, the Chinese government would immediately raise objections, or there was the risk that he would be punished under orders from the Chinese Emperor. It had truly reached the extent of a ruler-subject relationship. However, these days, even if Tibet did something considerably drastic, China could not take action against it. Even if they caused such major upheavals as destroying Tengerin and eliminating Temo Rinpoche, China could not hold them accountable for it.

When they inquired but found it ultimately futile, and were told, "If you find this disagreeable, we will not submit to you," by that time, the Chinese soldiers in Tibet would be killed by Tibetans, and of course the Chinese residents in Tibet would likewise be slaughtered by Tibetans—such being the situation—so in today's circumstances, the Chinese government could not possibly march into Tibet's interior and conquer it. The Tibetans were already well aware of this. Therefore, even in the Dalai Lama’s own considerations, he could not rely on the Chinese government; moreover, having heard that Britain’s policy was one of skillfully winning people over to seize their country, he naturally could not ally himself with them. Thus, I surmise that he concluded that forming close relations with Russia—the nation most opposed to Britain—was indeed the supreme diplomatic strategy.

Since the Dalai Lama, being a man of deep consideration, was not one to accept those splendid bishop’s vestments without reason, I firmly believe he must have conceived such a plan. As reciprocal gratitude for receiving those vestments, he appointed Zunyer Chenmo (Chief Chamberlain) and three attendants as envoys. In December of Meiji 33 (1900), they departed Lhasa northward, passed through Tsannii Kenbo’s territory, boarded a railway, and after several months reached Russia’s capital. There they presented rare Tibetan items to the Russian Emperor, thereby fully expressing reciprocal respect. At that time in Russia, agreements were concluded.

As for what sort of treaty this "secret treaty" was, I do not know, but Zunyer Chenmo returned to Tibet around December of Meiji 34 (1901) or January of the following year—the exact timing being uncertain. Two months later, I left Lhasa and rode out on horseback toward a place some twenty ri northeast under the pretext of exercise. This exercise was in name only; in truth, I had come to observe local civilian conditions. At that time, approximately two hundred camels came descending from the northeast. The camels' loads were all crated and covered with leather, making it impossible to discern their contents. Yet for large camel loads, their bulk was remarkably slight, while appearing exceedingly heavy.

From what I could gather, I came to think that the Mongolians had likely brought silver ingots or something of the sort. When I asked what was inside those camel loads that looked extremely heavy, they replied, “We don’t know what it is.” “Probably silver ingots or something of the sort.” “Where did it come from?” “We were entrusted with this midway, so we don’t know the details, but it seems to have come from Mongolia in the north.” “It’s definitely not from China,” they stated. Whether there were people who had come from Russia among them or not—that was unclear. When I returned to the Finance Minister’s residence after wandering around that area, the current Finance Minister had also returned and was telling his predecessor, “A great deal of cargo arrived from Russia today.”

“What might that be?” I inquired. “There are matters best left unspoken,” he replied. Sensing my presence was unwelcome in this discussion, I withdrew from the scene. At that moment, the nature of the cargo remained a mystery. However, among government officials there existed one high-ranking individual notoriously incapable of keeping secrets. During casual conversation, I offhandedly mentioned, “I observed about two hundred camels arriving.” To this he responded, “Those two hundred came recently—prior to that, some three hundred had arrived. Though this is meant to be confidential...” “What exactly is this cargo?” I pressed. “Silver ingots?” “Would silver arrive in such quantities? Those were granted after Zunyer Chenmo’s successful diplomatic mission to Russia as His Holiness’s envoy.” “And what do these items comprise?” “Rifle cartridges and numerous other Western curiosities. With these, should Britain dare attack our nation, we need fear nothing. Let them declare war—we shall answer promptly. These supremely sharp rifles render us fully capable of meeting any challenge,” he proclaimed triumphantly.

After that, I saw one of those rifles at a certain place. Though it was indeed a new model, it did not have a very long range. They by no means seemed likely to prove suitable for use in battle. However, the Tibetans were treating them as truly splendid things. Yet since Tibetans had no knowledge of Roman letters whatsoever, they could not tell where the rifles had been manufactured. They still believed them to have been made in the Russian capital, but upon examining the rifles' inscriptions, I found they were American-made. It was unclear how many thousands of rifles had arrived, but more than half of the five hundred camel-loads appeared to be firearms. Even in this state of affairs, the Chinese government was leaving the Tibetan government to do as it pleased.

However, they were quite worried and anxious, devising various methods. Indeed, when Tsannii Kenbo arrived, the Chinese Amban made strenuous efforts to capture him and attempted to devise some means [to do so], but because the Tibetan government provided protection, they ultimately could not apprehend him. Just as considerable commotion was about to erupt, Tsannii Kenbo suddenly fled toward Darjeeling. On another occasion, he had fled toward Nepal. This man was being closely watched by the British government, and the Nepalese government was also paying full attention, monitoring his every move. In this way,

As relations between Russia and Tibet gradually deepened, the Russian government’s diplomacy had indeed succeeded there, and a foundation had certainly been laid—using Tibet as a stepping stone to look down upon British India from the Himalayan heights and seize complete control over India—yet today, there is no such prospect. Upon closer observation, within the Tibetan government itself, those who truly harbored genuine affinity toward Russia were limited to about two individuals: the Dalai Lama and Prime Minister Shata. The rest were primarily in a state of blind obedience; without understanding the reason, they were all people who would go whichever way they were directed.

If Russia were to gain even greater influence hereafter, Tibet would of course align itself with Russia. However, it seemed the Russian government still required considerable time to achieve its grand ambition—using Tibet as a foothold to gaze down upon British India from atop the Himalayas, that natural Great Wall. For even within the government, many already harbored suspicions and maintained opposing inclinations. Indeed, there were those voicing such concerns: "I cannot say whether Russia is truly a realm of bodhisattva-kings, but in this age where all compete solely for profit, their act of lavishing gold and rifles upon Tibet without cause—this must surely be malicious bait to trap our country." Others added: "Should we swallow this bait and let this sacred land be destroyed for Russia's sake, it would spell grave calamity."

It was a truly admirable line of thinking, and though Tibet had few who held such views, I had occasionally heard them expressed. These individuals occupied positions of considerable influence and, being people of sound judgment, saw their arguments widely circulated within government circles as persuasive theories. Though such reports never reached the ears of either His Holiness or Prime Minister Shata, they spread with surprising speed among others; thus I thought that should one focus solely on surface trends—or fixate only on where Tsannii Kenbo's meticulously laid plans had succeeded—while neglecting internal realities, the Russian Government might pour vast sums into this endeavor only to reap an utterly disastrous folly.

Chapter 108: Tibet and British India

The Cause of Isolationism — Tibetans had a strong tendency to hospitably receive foreigners. Though they harbored intense resentment toward the British at present, Tibetans in truth possessed a nature of warmly welcoming people from all nations. Had the British Government adopted a policy of bestowing even slight favors, they could have succeeded fully without today's concern of Russia using Tibet as a stepping stone to approach British India. This being a matter of the past, bringing it up now would prove ultimately futile, but I do not hesitate to assert that the British Indian Government had fallen into such errors precisely through failing to properly understand Tibetan popular sentiment and governmental intentions.

Not only had Tibetans generally harbored intense animosity toward Britain since the war, but following the execution of Sarat Chandra Das—the renowned scholar-monk Sengchen Dorjechang (Great Lion Vajra Treasure)—in connection with his entry into Tibet, their resentment toward British India deepened further, leading them to adopt complete isolationism. Not only toward British India alone, but as a result, they rigorously enforced isolationist policies against all—Russians to the north and Persians to the west alike—until even Hindus could no longer enter Tibet. Thus in Britain today, they have nearly reached the point where war alone remains as recourse against Tibet. In this regard, Russia indeed occupies a more advantageous position than Britain.

**British Appeasement Measures** — However, to claim that the British Indian Government had implemented no measures toward Tibet would have been inaccurate. In reality, their careful attention to restoring Tibetan goodwill and efforts to foster favorable sentiments became evident through conditions observed in regions like Darjeeling and Sikkim. The British Indian Government provided greater protections to Tibetans who had migrated to Darjeeling or Sikkim than those afforded to other local inhabitants.

To give one example, Tibetan children did not need to pay tuition fees at any school they entered, provided it was a school established by the government. Not only that—they selected the intelligent children among them, made them government-funded students, and provided them with a thorough education. Now that their studies were complete, a considerable number were engaged in land surveying, postal services, or education under the British Indian Government. Many of them became land surveyors. These were by no means approaches of the British Indian Government that could be lightly overlooked; moreover, they strove to secure as many benefits as possible for the Tibetan people in general. For example, all dandy-wallahs (mountain palanquin bearers) in Darjeeling were Tibetans. This was quite a lucrative job, and other ethnic groups also harbored hopes of wanting that work. However, it had already become the exclusive domain of Tibetans, and they adopted a policy of preventing others from engaging in it as much as possible. Even police officials showed clear signs of being considerably lenient toward Tibetans.

National Sentiments — Therefore, not only were all Tibetans in Darjeeling satisfied with the British Indian Government's measures and refrained from voicing complaints, but there were also many who actually came to hold the desire to work wholeheartedly for the British Government. Of course, those staying for half a year or around a year did not hold such thoughts, but as they lived for three to five years, they came to regard the British methods as splendid—fair and just, with a compassionate approach. It proved exceedingly desirable to live under such a government. In Tibet, even minor theft would subject one to cruel punishments like hand amputation or eye gouging, while in British India, no matter how serious the crime committed, capital punishment remained virtually unheard of—such was their truly lenient penal code.

The roads were splendidly constructed, as if they were paths in the land of the gods. Moreover, even if one fell ill, there were charitable hospitals that provided excellent medicine free of charge. And if one was driven into poverty and ran out of food, appropriate assistance would be provided. There was no such splendid government anywhere else. In Tibet, if food ran out, there was no one to provide it; thus every Tibetan who had once set foot in Darjeeling found it unbearable to leave.

Of course, among those in Tibet with considerable wealth, many who came to Darjeeling had no intention of settling permanently and returned home; yet even these individuals were greatly impressed by the complete facilities of British India—its roads, hospitals, schools, and so on—as they departed. Moreover, what truly astonished Tibetan eyes were the rapid operations of railways, telegraphs, telephones, and various other instruments; many returned home greatly amazed upon witnessing these marvels, convinced they could not have been achieved without divine knowledge.

Though they could not speak of such matters to government officials upon returning home, Tibetans privately praised British India with great enthusiasm and chattered away about it. As a result, Tibetans now vied with one another to journey to India, where they gained considerable profits before returning home to spread tales of their success. Thus today, certain segments of the populace—namely those from villages who came for transport businesses and other commercial purposes—no longer harbored ill feelings toward the Indian Government.

However, on the surface, they appeared to harbor entirely hostile feelings. For if someone were to say that the British Government was good or anything of the sort, informants would immediately report this to the Tibetan Government, and that person would face terrible punishment. Thus, while privately harboring affinity for Britain, outwardly they showed no sympathy whatsoever—acting as though they greatly despised it. Moreover, there remained the fact that the Tibetan people continued to harbor deep affinity. If our country were to come under British India, we the people would be spared the cruel rule of the Dalai Lama's government and could enjoy the same conveniences that Indians currently received; moreover, since the Indian Government had abundant funds, we too would naturally obtain money and live without hardship—so thought many. Those thoughts were quite prevalent even among the people of the middle and upper classes. As for the lowest classes, they did not hold such thoughts themselves; however, there were some who, upon occasionally hearing others speak of such matters, privately whispered about them. Therefore, although the current policy adopted by the British Government had sufficient effectiveness to win over the hearts and minds of the Tibetan people, it remained entirely ineffective against the government.

Sentiment Within the Government — Even among those within the government, there were some who, much like the citizens thinking such things, considered that if they were to engage with the British Government, they would be able to obtain great benefits.

In fact, at this very moment, there seemed to be wicked individuals harboring cunning schemes to extract large sums of money from the British Government and profit handsomely—no, there most certainly were. For whether they took bribes from the Russian Government or from the British Government made absolutely no difference to them. It didn’t matter who it was from—they would side with whoever gave more. They were not necessarily friendly out of any genuine belief that Russia was particularly commendable. Since they listened to the other side’s demands simply because more money had been given, it went without saying that when the British Government offered funds, there were very few among Tibet’s high-ranking officials who would hesitate to accept them.

Monastic Society’s Calculations — Moreover, scholars and learned men who knew of my travels through India’s Bodh Gaya and Nepal regions would frequently question me about British India. “If I provided too detailed an explanation,” they would inevitably grow suspicious of me, so when I gave vague replies like “Well, it’s rather peculiar,” the scholars would declare: “The British must be either demonic monsters or divine monsters.” “Perhaps a mix of both—building railways and hospitals to benefit people aligns perfectly with Buddhist principles, yet they remain obsessed with seizing nations to line their pockets.” “Therefore, British India must teem with both demonic and divine monsters.” “Otherwise, there’s no way they could accomplish such strange and marvelous things”—this became their constant refrain.

Moreover, there was an amusing belief widely held among the Tibetan people. Her Majesty Queen Victoria of Britain was originally the guardian goddess of Lhasa’s Shakya Hall. That is to say, she was an incarnation of Panden Rahamo (Holy Goddess) and possessed the power to conquer every part of the world. Therefore, Her Majesty the Queen of Britain held particularly favorable feelings toward Tibet and was deeply devoted to loving its people. However, just as demons lurked beside Buddha, numerous demonic ministers remained by Her Majesty’s side. Those demonic ministers were exerting themselves to conquer Tibet and impose the demonic teachings—that is, the teachings of Jesus—there. Therefore, the Queen should be revered, but the demonic ministers should be hated. The absurd notion that "we must repel these [demonic ministers]" was not merely espoused by a few individuals; this theory had spread everywhere.

Thus, when news of the Queen’s demise subsequently reached Tibet, the Tibetan people greatly expressed their mourning while simultaneously rejoicing that Panden Rahamo had returned to Tibet.

Regarding the actual state of affairs of the Tibetan government and people toward the British Indian Government, I will leave my observations at this point.

Chapter 109: Public Opinion

The Hardy Natives — Even if one assumed that the Russian Government utilized railways through northern Siberia to deploy troops into Tibet’s interior, traveling from those railheads to Lhasa would have required no less than five to six months. During this period there would be snowfall, and moreover—given that fiercely independent groups from regions like Amdo and Kam formed separate tribal communities obeying neither government nor any other authority—these people might well have employed tactics like sniper attacks or ambush traps along supply routes to annihilate Russian forces. Furthermore, Tibet’s vast interior—combined with uncertainty about whether Russian authorities had produced adequate maps—made obtaining precise topographical knowledge extraordinarily difficult.

The natives who knew the terrain well indeed possessed effectiveness against Russia’s strong soldiers and complete weaponry. Therefore, even if Russian soldiers were strong and their weaponry advanced, conquering these barbaric natives and immediately advancing into Tibet’s capital of Lhasa would be difficult. Tsannii Kenbo, who was well aware of these circumstances, skillfully seized upon those dubious prophetic declarations about the future as previously mentioned, twisted them to claim that this "future great king" was none other than the Russian Emperor, and maneuvered to curry favor with the people. However, recently, numerous unfavorable rumors had begun circulating.

Originally, the Tibetan people had long held deep reverence for the Chinese Government. This reverence did not emerge recently. It could well be said to have dated back to the nation's founding. This stemmed from King Songtsen Gampo—who first introduced Buddhism to Tibet—having welcomed Princess Wencheng from China; thus Tibetans spoke of their Buddhist mother having come from China, nostalgically cherishing her homeland and perpetually harboring a mentality of reliance upon it. Though China had indeed grown powerless by this time, the general populace did not diminish their sentiments toward her in the slightest. Moreover,

China was considered the land of Manjushri Bodhisattva. They believed Manjushri Bodhisattva dwelled in China's Wutai Mountain and that the Chinese emperor manifested as his incarnation in this world. Given the strength of this faith, even theories artfully aligned with prophetic texts struggled to gain credence among Tibet's generally conservative populace. Simultaneously, commoners heard whispers that certain sound-minded individuals within the Tibetan government harbored misgivings about Russia's dealings with Tibet. Though Tibet naturally lacked newspapers, such matters permeated every corner with remarkable speed.

Even among monks, there were a great many who aligned themselves with those holding such steadfast ideas, harboring intense ill will toward someone like Shata who engaged in populist maneuvers. In particular, monastic scholars and militant monk activists harbored intense hatred. They also had reason to hate. The fact that Temo Rinpoche of Tengel came to be killed also stemmed from connections originating with Shata. As for whatever Shata did, the monks had a tendency to oppose it first, regardless of whether it was good or evil.

Furthermore, Prime Minister Shata persisted in recommending to His Holiness that Nechung—the so-called spirit medium and mad monk—be favored, while Nechung himself continued saying only what pleased those in authority. Yet monks with some learning denounced this Nechung, declaring him a lunatic, an inveterate drunkard, and a catalyst of corruption harming the nation. Though spoken in private, these words—far from mere slander—were uttered with such resentment that they sprang from genuine outrage and profound indignation. While there may have been some who spoke out of jealousy due to Nechung himself amassing considerable benefits, what they said nevertheless hit the mark. From that matter, they came to harbor even greater ill feelings toward Shata.

For these reasons, Tsannii Kenbo believed that the government, monks, and people all submitted to him—yet this was but a temporary tendency. Today, reacting against this momentum, motives to covertly exclude Tsannii Kenbo had widely emerged both within the government and among the populace. Therefore, in my view, Russia’s diplomatic strategies toward Tibet could not yet be considered successful. As for what actions Russia would take from there on out—though we could not predict the future exploits that lay ahead—its diplomatic strategies toward Tibet up to that point had been as described.

British Government's Diplomacy

Regarding British India and Tibet, I will now briefly discuss the relationship between the British Indian Government and Tibet. The British Indian Government had maintained a reasonably favorable relationship with Tibet from two hundred years ago until fifty years prior. While they never significantly won over Tibetan hearts, they at least avoided incurring ill will. This is evident from Warren Hastings dispatching George Bogle in the eighteenth century to establish trade and station him in Shigatse, Tibet's second capital. Subsequently, Captain Turner resided in Shigatse as envoy for approximately two years. Though no further envoys were dispatched thereafter, British Indian natives could still enter Tibet until about twenty-two or twenty-three years ago.

As for what kind of people entered in large numbers during that period—in short, Hindu ascetics or monks would set out to tour sacred sites in Tibet. That was not merely one or two people. That is to say, even now among the Tibetan populace, it is still recounted that before Master Sarat Chandra Das entered Tibet, numerous naked monks—their faces smeared with ash, carrying a gourd water container in one hand and holding an iron fire tong in the other—had infiltrated [the region]. Therefore, until about twenty-two or twenty-three years ago, regardless of the relationship between their governments, the people of both nations had maintained a relationship of simply coming and going to each other’s lands.

Had the British Indian Government at that time skillfully implemented strategies to fully win over the Tibetans, Tibet might perhaps have avoided the fate of adopting an isolationist policy. However, Master Sarat Chandra Das—like the Hindu practitioners who had entered before him—obtained travel credentials to venture into Tibet’s interior, where he conducted thorough investigations befitting his scholarly role before returning. When the findings of that investigation were made public, the British Indian Government declared its intention to demarcate the border between Tibet and its protectorate Sikkim. At that time, the Tibetan Government heeded the words of Nechung—that spirit medium and mad monk—constructing a fortress where none had previously existed along the Sikkim border.

Though the castle was destroyed by British soldiers, its ruins—a flat area with scattered stone walls—still remain on a mountain approximately twenty miles before Nyatong, at the border between British India and Tibet. When Nechung the spirit medium had declared that building a castle would establish a natural border, even the Tibetan Government hesitated momentarily—but at that critical juncture, the medium proclaimed: “Should there be fears of British invasion, take my very body and position it at the castle site. “Then they shall never draw near!”—such was the overwhelming force of this brazen boast that the Tibetan Government heeded his words and erected a castle within Sikkim’s territory, land that was never theirs to claim.

That land was now well understood to lie within Sikkim’s territory. While Tibetans certainly held no rightful claim to occupy Sikkim, given that it had historically been a vassal state of Tibet, they might have conceived the notion that if the British Indian Government took half, they too would seize half. Having outrageously constructed a fortress within Sikkim’s domain, the British Government could not remain passive. The dispute escalated until finally culminating sixteen or seventeen years prior when

A battle broke out between Tibet and Britain, in which many Tibetans were injured and a considerable number of British soldiers also appear to have been killed or wounded. According to accounts of the actual conditions of this battle, the Tibetans, greatly fearing the British soldiers, did not easily approach; instead, they took positions to avoid the enemy’s line of sight as much as possible while firing. Although the Tibetans fully occupied the advantageous terrain, being fundamentally intimidated, they could not perform effectively. Moreover, those who were generals or staff officers neither conducted war councils nor anything of the sort. They remained utterly unperturbed, solely engrossed in gambling.

It remained unclear whether they had been feigning composure or were truly unconcerned, but there appeared to be a tendency among Tibetans to adopt an air of haughtily composed self-possession when confronting significant matters. Observing such traits revealed them as quintessential continental people—not given to rash action—yet they had lost that battle. Consequently, the British Government advanced the border to present-day Nyatong and reached a settlement. Though the territory extending to Chumbi-Samba beyond clearly belonged to Sikkim, it seemed the British Government had relinquished even that very portion.

However, it is now well proven that despite his achievement in establishing this border, the Governor-General of British India’s diplomatic policies toward Tibet ended in complete failure. To better win over such semi-civilized people or make them comply through diplomatic dealings, incurring their resentment would be most disadvantageous; adopting a policy of intimidation while avoiding such resentment would likely prove the wiser strategy. Nevertheless, the British Indian Government engaged in the very battle that was most likely to incur the Tibetans' resentment.

The British Government would not have particularly damaged their prestige by losing twenty or thirty miles of land and allowing a castle to be built there. Therefore, when the Tibetan Government built that castle there, had they limited themselves to diplomatic negotiations and—like Russia was doing—used even a small amount of confidential funds to instead bestow favors upon the Tibetans and co-opt the aristocracy to make their government submit to Britain, Tibet would likely be open to the world today, and British villas would undoubtedly have been built in Lhasa's most beautiful locales with their pure air and splendid climate.

Prime Minister Shata (Portrait from his prime)

Part 110: Qing China and Tibet

Imperial Edict of the Qing Emperor: To explain in detail Tibet’s relationship with China would become exceedingly lengthy, and as this must be discussed historically with specialized knowledge, I shall confine myself to describing the present circumstances. Tibet must pay taxes to China. That is because Tibet receives protection as a dependent state of China. However, while they used to pay those taxes in the past, they no longer pay them at all these days. The reason is that Tibet annually conducts the Monlam (Grand Prayer Festival) for the Chinese emperor. It required a considerable amount of money, but up until now, the funds needed for this Monlam had been sent from the Chinese Government. Therefore, since both paying taxes from Tibet and the Chinese Government sending funds for Monlam would only result in mutual financial loss—a pointless affair—it was decided henceforth to execute Monlam using the tax revenue, and this has been implemented accordingly.

In the past, the Chinese people had held significant influence in Tibet, and even when they made unreasonable demands, the Tibetan people would blindly obey—such was the state of affairs—so the rampant behavior of the Chinese had been extraordinary. However, following the First Sino-Japanese War, Chinese influence drastically declined; today Tibetans not only no longer showed respect toward the Chinese but had even begun to display signs of contempt. Consequently, the Chinese residing in Tibet were deeply troubled by this situation and had conceived a desire to do something about it; however, as the Tibetans utterly despised them, believing that the Chinese government was incapable of aiding their country, they had resigned themselves to their fate, and their influence continued to wane—such was the present state of affairs.

China’s influence would only continue to decline further; they would never be able to recover their waning power over Tibet. No matter what orders came from China, the Tibetan Government complied if they were advantageous to itself but would never consent to anything disadvantageous. When the Chinese Government had faced the Allied forces of various nations and subsequently concluded a peace treaty, the Chinese Emperor issued an edict written on yellow paper to the Eighteen Provinces of China, as well as to regions including Tibet and Mongolia.

The first of these in Tibet had been posted on the stone wall of a townhouse beside the Jokhang Temple in Lhasa. The gist of the edict read: "Our people have repeatedly erred by endangering foreigners through ignorance of their true nature. Those foreigners coming to engage in industry or spread teachings among us all seek mutual benefit. Yet harming them constitutes grave impropriety; henceforth you must refrain from injuring foreigners. Should anyone cause harm, severe punishment will follow. Since our realm stands fully open, you must permit foreigners unimpeded passage wherever they journey."

Initially, one such edict written on yellow paper arrived and was posted in Lhasa. After that, several more arrived and were posted in great numbers exactly three times. Among them were some with slightly different meanings, but with minor variations they all conveyed that our country had already entered into harmony with all foreign nations and thus the people should embody this intent. I read those edicts many times in Lhasa. At that time I finally understood clearly that these edicts had been issued as a result of peace being concluded after the Allied forces of various nations had captured Beijing and the emperor had taken refuge elsewhere to avoid calamity.

The Efficacy of Imperial Edicts: Even when such weighty edicts arrived, the Tibetans remained utterly unfazed. I asked a certain high-ranking official: “Now that such an edict has been issued, what will you do if the British use this as a pretext to enter here?” “Let them in? Never!” “What do you mean?” “What do I mean? We’ve no obligation to accept whatever edicts the Qing Emperor arbitrarily issues. When you consider it properly, that proclamation likely didn’t even originate from His Majesty.” “After all, countless scoundrels surround the Emperor—men who’ve doubtless taken foreign gold and been bribed into compliance. They drafted those words to deceive our people.” “The truth is, the Emperor himself must remain unaware of this.” “Why would the Qing Emperor—an incarnation of Manjushri Bodhisattva—ever pen such idiocy about admitting foreigners into Tibet?” “That document reeks of falsehood—the truth will out!” This sentiment wasn’t voiced by just one man. Many shared this view. Though I firmly believed it to be a genuine imperial edict, others refused to credit it at all. In Tibet, the Qing Emperor’s proclamations carry less weight than a courtesan’s love letter. The situation defies all reason.

Tibet and Nepal

Encouragement of Polygamy: Next, how did the Nepalese government act toward Tibet?

I would like to briefly discuss Tibetan sentiments toward Nepal and related matters. Nepal's population was gradually increasing at that time. This stemmed from their adherence to polygamous practices and diligent efforts to produce numerous offspring. The rationale held that national expansion required mass population growth—to create human surpluses for foreign settlement—leading to vigorous promotion of polygamy. Consequently, even subsistence-level families typically maintained two wives in Nepal, while more affluent households kept three or four. This resulted in prolific childbirth rates.

For some reason, even within the same Himalayan mountains, people from other countries did not produce as many children as the Nepalese, but the Nepalese in particular bore a great number of offspring. No matter when or where one traveled through any region, one encountered many women with swollen bellies. Nowhere else could one see as many pregnant women as in Nepal. As there were no statistics, the exact details of their population increase remained unknown, but it was presumed to be considerable. In Nepal, just as in the mountain villages of Japan where land had been cultivated, fields had been developed wherever one went. The Himalayan mountains were well-maintained, with forests tended to and a proper forestry system established. Of course, the great forests of Terai housed far too many wild beasts to allow proper management, yet they still felled abundant timber from these woodlands, exporting large quantities to India every year.

Wherever one went, a remarkably large number of people resided. This was because the country had a large population relative to its small size. Tibet likely possessed twelve times or more the land area of Nepal, yet its population was conversely smaller than Nepal’s. Therefore, as it had become difficult for the Nepalese people to sustain themselves in their own country, they increasingly ventured abroad. There were those who went to India to become soldiers or merchants, and others who came from Darjeeling toward Sikkim to cultivate new fields, become owners, and make a living—this state of affairs truly demonstrated remarkable progress. The Nepalese Government itself was aware of its increasingly growing population, so the question of where to successfully transplant this proliferating populace was gradually becoming a covertly difficult problem within Nepal. Of course, adequate measures for managing this had to be fully devised.

Now, waging war against the British Indian Government to seize their land and settle immigrants there was exceedingly difficult. For it was difficult for a small country to wage war against a great power. While they could defend themselves, there was almost no prospect of actively conquering and seizing that land; therefore, it appeared that the Nepalese Government had a tendency to look toward Tibet, desiring to advance when an opportunity arose. Not only was the Nepalese Government maintaining far more troops than necessary to intimidate their own populace, but it was also devoting nearly all its efforts to soldier training.

Chapter 111: Nepalese Diplomacy

The Necessity of Military Preparedness: In Nepal, they had not made much progress in education or other civilized endeavors—such as establishing charity hospitals, setting up courts, or perfecting laws. However, their soldiers were indeed trained to a level second only to British troops. When fighting in the mountains, I believed British forces could never match them. For these were mountain-dwelling people who ascended and descended peaks day and night. Not merely climbing empty-handed, but a people strong enough to hurry up and down while bearing heavy loads. Particularly since their climate lacked India's extreme heat, their populace maintained exceptional diligence.

While Indians were notorious idlers, the Nepalese stood nearly at the opposite extreme; if anything, they bore close resemblance to the Japanese people. In their facial features and compact stature—in their complexion, temperament, and death-defying chivalrous spirit—they so closely mirrored the Japanese that one might indeed have mistaken them for kindred stock. From such robust citizenry did they select and train multitudes of soldiers, forging a formidable military force. But where were these troops to be deployed? Within their own borders lay scant occasion for their use. The sole necessity lay in requiring those soldiers to carve out territories for resettling their burgeoning populace. As for where such lands might be sought—from the Nepalese Government's standpoint of that era—there existed no alternative course but to turn northward.

Diplomatic Strategy: With circumstances having already reached this state, a major impetus had now emerged that compelled Nepal to consider instigating war. The fact that the Russian Government had concluded a treaty with the Tibetan Government—through which not only had the Dalai Lama received an ecclesiastical title from the Russian Tsar but also acquired numerous weapons—undoubtedly put the Nepalese Government on high alert and sharply focused its attention. Yet simply remaining vigilant while leaving matters unresolved was untenable; should Russia invade Tibet under these conditions—a scenario where "the loss of lips leaves teeth exposed to cold"—the first to suffer would inevitably be Nepal itself. This realization made it imperative to enact measures rooted in longstanding national policy.

Therefore, very recently, it seems that the Nepalese Government had submitted a proposal to the Tibetan Government. Of course, this was not done publicly. If they had made a public proposal, depending on Tibet’s response, they would inevitably have had to wage war; therefore, without making an open declaration, they merely conveyed: "Our country’s position is thus—if it is true that your nation has concluded certain agreements with the Russian Government and intends to grow even closer hereafter, we cannot let this matter lie." "I observed that they appeared to have conveyed their intent: 'Our country must promptly wage war against the Tibetan Government to protect our security' (this is an absolute fact)."

To begin with, was this act of Nepal opening hostilities against Tibet truly what Nepal itself desired? There existed another party that desired this most strongly. That was none other than the British Indian Government. I observed that Britain would fully desire this war not to occur. For it would be disadvantageous for Britain to wage war directly against Tibet; thus, even if the British Indian Government provided Nepal some assistance, they would undoubtedly devise a scheme to ensure this war came to pass.

If such a war were to break out in that manner, the Nepalese—having staked countless soldiers' lives to fight—would gain but a small advantage, while the greater profits would ultimately fall to the British. As for whether the Nepalese Government fully understood these competing interests and risks—I cannot say. Even should the Nepalese Government harbor resentment toward the Tibetan Government today, Nepal's wisest national policy would be to avoid open conflict whenever possible, instead dispatching commercial agents en masse to seize control of Tibet's mercantile sector. Thus could the Nepalese people achieve their aims without resorting to war.

And then—after Russia had entered and actually established an industrial foothold within Tibet’s interior—if they were to initiate hostilities against them from the position of safeguarding those interests, there would still be ample prospects for victory. To hastily initiate hostilities now would be greatly inadvisable for the Nepalese Government, meaning they would effectively become a tool wielded by the British Indian Government. Given that the current Nepalese King was a man of profound prudence, I surmised he would not rashly initiate a conflict devoid of tangible benefits. Not only had I directly met with the Nepalese King on multiple occasions and greatly admired his moral character and profound wisdom, but particularly those commander-in-chiefs assisting him were well-versed in global affairs and not ones to be easily swayed by others’ sweet talk. I believed it was unlikely that war would break out between Tibet and Nepal through British Indian instigation.

However, while it might not have been possible to forever avoid waging war, engaging in battle at that time was extremely disadvantageous. Even if the Nepalese Government had proposed to the Tibetan Government the final resolution—that is, to wage war—as worldly observers noted, this would have been a temporary diplomatic stratagem, and refraining from actual engagement was of great importance that the Nepalese Government should have maintained. Tibetans did not harbor such ill feelings toward the Nepalese people. Nor were they particularly afraid. The sole point Tibetans somewhat feared lay in this: not only were the soldiers growing ever more numerous, but those soldiers were men of exceptional bravery—a combination that left them deeply anxious, wondering what they would do should such a nation advance upon their own land.

Friendly Relations Between the Two Countries: The Tibetan Government itself strove to curry favor with the Nepalese Government. This stemmed from the Nepalese King's desire to obtain Tibet's complete Buddhist canon, leading him years prior to secretly dispatch Subba Harkaman—a district governor of that country—to procure these scriptures. Subba Harkaman proved an obstinate man. Issuing orders to Narthang's block-printing workshop—"Prepare them properly, for I act under His Majesty the Nepalese King's command"—he compelled compliance. Yet whether to honor this royal directive became a matter requiring deliberation with Lhasa's authorities.

Originally, in the northern part of Nepal, there were many Tibetans, and it had been customary for these Tibetans in the Himalayan mountains of the north to purchase the complete Buddhist canon from Tibet. Therefore, if it was a temple or a sufficiently wealthy household, they would generally possess the complete Buddhist canon. In Tibet as well, they had been selling them without any issues up until that time. Since Mr. Harkaman himself was also one of the people from the northern snow mountains, he had previously gone to Tibet to purchase the complete Buddhist canon and possessed the Foundational Canon of the Patriarchs in his own home. I once stayed for about a month in that scripture repository housing the complete Buddhist canon.

Therefore, when they inquired with the Dalai Lama’s government, there was no need to sell it for money. Since they had a superior version here that they could promptly present to the Nepalese King from their side—this being the reasoning—they specially offered it to him without charge. That canon is now housed in the current king's library. Given this foundation, they maintained an extremely close relationship in all matters. The Nepalese Government also appeared to be devising methods to win the favor of the Tibetan people. Though adhering to Hinduism rather than Buddhism himself, the Nepalese King not only diligently protected Tibetan Buddhist believers residing within his borders—guided partly by principles of religious freedom—but also extended ample protection to their temples and sacred sites, providing funds or supplying construction timber, thereby granting them every convenience.

This was being done for the Tibetans residing within Nepal; however, even the people of central Tibet—who shared the same ethnicity and language—were somewhat pleased to see this. They were particularly and greatly pleased by the active protection of the Buddhist Dharma. If the Nepalese Government advanced its methods even more proactively and expended substantial secret funds to win over the hearts of the Tibetan people and secure the allegiance of Tibetan Government officials, it undoubtedly occupied a position from which it would surely succeed.

However, since the Nepalese Government itself suffered from frequent internal strife, the king's authoritative prime minister was often embroiled in disturbances such as being assassinated or forced to resign. Therefore, not only did they lack the time to extend their reach toward the Tibetan Government, but they also could not invest that much money. Although the Nepalese Government had sufficiently built up its military strength, it appeared greatly lacking in implementing diplomatic strategies.

Part 112: The Future of Tibetan Diplomacy

Tibet and the Three Great Powers: Next, I will make a brief comment on the future of Tibetan diplomacy. As mentioned above, Tibet was being pressured by three great powers. As for which of these great powers would come to dominate this country in the future, it was a matter of great attention to the world. Of course, it was impossible for these three great powers to unite and seize Tibet outright. Alternatively, Britain and Nepal might have been able to form an alliance.

Russia was indeed plotting to invade Tibet by advancing southward from the north.

It was evident that controlling Tibet's arid lands was not the purpose of this invasion. By intervening in Tibet—a nation positioned before the Himalayan Mountains that formed what might be called a natural impregnable fortress, a nation that had fully secured the strategic advantages of its terrain akin to a natural Great Wall—the true objective undeniably stemmed from the desire to conquer India, that global wellspring of wealth lying at the southern foothills of these very Himalayas. Therefore, it went without saying that Britain and Russia could not join forces to seize Tibet. To state it plainly, since Russia itself coveted British territory, any cooperation between them was inherently impossible.

Firstly, Tibet had become a two-sided contest over whether it would fall to Britain or Russia. For Nepal—positioned between Britain and Russia yet conceding to neither—to fully secure the capacity to achieve its objectives, it was most necessary at that time to gain industrial footholds within Tibet rather than employ military force; accomplishing this alone ensured that the Nepalese Government would never find itself in a failing position. Even if Tibet were taken by Russia or Britain, Nepal could still fully secure the benefits it was due. Therefore, the only scenario requiring military confrontation was conflict between Russia and Britain themselves.

As I had mentioned before, the Tibetan Government was thoroughly corrupt and could be swayed in any direction through bribery; while dealing with such a government proved impossible, Russia at that time undeniably possessed the power to manipulate its key figures and thereby exert destabilizing influence over Tibet. However, Britain held the power to win over even the most steadfast among the common people. What Russia was doing lacked any substantive foundation. While Britain acted with genuine substance in its approach, diplomatic affairs could not be easily reduced to whether victory would be secured through substance alone or through crafty stratagems. Of course, history would ultimately favor those who acted with integrity—but under those diplomatic circumstances of the time, no one could foresee how matters would unfold. No definitive judgment could be rendered.

However, should the British Indian Government prove negligent at this juncture, Russia would likely advance as far as Lhasa before long.

A people quick to resign themselves—if invasion proved possible, there would be no resisting them. Fundamentally being gentle-hearted Buddhists who would sigh "This must be our karmic burden," Tibetans readily accepted their fate. A nation believing solely in passive causality—one lacking any proactive spirit to achieve independence or elevate national honor—they would inevitably surrender all resolve once Russian boots trod Lhasa's streets. Should Russia ever plant its flag there, one might well declare British India's doom had found its portent.

A war on the seas where naval supremacy had been seized was indeed fearsome, but warfare that took as its shield what might be called the world's impregnable fortress—the Himalayan Mountains—descending from above was considered equally terrifying. In that event, it went without saying Russia would realize Peter the Great's renowned testament across the world. Some might dismiss this as fantasy, but such skepticism stemmed from ignorance of Tibet’s strategic terrain—for were one to grasp this land’s inviolable nature and confirm Russia’s penetration of it, British India would already stand deemed conquered.

**The Future Destiny of Tibet**: The question arises—can Tibet no longer maintain its independence at all? That, of course, cannot be definitively asserted. However, this dependent disposition of Tibetans today has continued for over a thousand years—it did not emerge overnight. At times they leaned toward the great power of India, developing a reliance mentality to ensure their nation’s survival through Indian support; at other times they conceived ideas of depending on the Chinese government to achieve the same. They possess the mentality of frail women and children, completely lacking any independent spirit. This absence of independent spirit has already been made clear when describing the nature of Tibetan women and children, the disposition of the general populace, and the government’s intentions.

During my time in Tibet, I once heard a truly pitiful story. From what I observed, the current Dalai Lama was an extremely astute and decisive individual, possessing great magnanimity and fully capable in his duties. The only shortcoming was his lack of a civilized education; in all other respects, he was nearly perfect as a human being. He demonstrated particular insight into the sentiments of the lower classes, earnestly accommodating public opinion and consolidating popular support while implementing decisive legal reforms that made conducting affairs through bribery nearly impossible. I therefore believed this Dalai Lama possessed the resolve necessary to secure Tibet's independence.

**The Dalai Lama’s Resolve**: Previously, whenever the British Government raised disputes with the Tibetan Government—using language that could easily provoke war—the Dalai Lama grew greatly fearful, becoming extremely cautious and anxious, so much so that he could not even eat his meals properly and was tormented day and night. Recently, however, he completely changed and became strong. The British Government took a slightly larger area than before in a certain region of Tibet to clearly establish its territory. They had their reasons for taking it; it seems they seized the land to probe the Tibetan Government’s intentions after observing the Russian Government employing various stratagems against Tibet.

However, the Dalai Lama showed no signs of timidity whatsoever; with a resolve as if prepared to wage war against Britain at any moment, he truly embodied the essence of a heroic figure through his composed and spirited demeanor—a display that deeply impressed certain observers. At this time, having previously heard how the Dalai Lama had agonized with excessive caution during past incidents, I found myself both astonished—wondering if this truly constituted heroic conduct—and sorrowful for Tibet's plight. Yet this dramatic shift in his resolve—beginning with maidenly restraint and culminating in hare-like swiftness—stemmed from two factors: the concluded treaty with Russia pledging unified opposition against Britain, and the substantial cache of weaponry received therefrom. Thus fortified, he deemed Britain no longer worthy of dread, for he appeared convinced that Russia alone held power sufficient to check British influence in the contemporary world.

Given these circumstances, among those I encountered in Tibet, there were scarcely any who entertained notions of securing the nation's independence. As it was populated entirely by those convinced their country could not endure without leaning on some unknown great power, its independence naturally remained tenuous. However formidable a physique one might boast, it amounted to naught but a straw effigy—a champion devoid of self-reliance could only end another's bondsman. Yet should an unforeseen visionary hereafter arise—applying Buddhism's active principles of causation with vigor to forge paths for Tibet's ascendancy (however dreamlike such hopes may appear)—the land would assuredly attain sovereignty. This concluded our examination of Tibet's diplomatic prospects.

Part 113: The Monlam Festival (1)

Debauchery During Rest Days: Next, I will describe Tibet's most renowned festival, Monlam. This begins on the third day of the first Tibetan month, though occasionally starting on the fourth. The festival continues until the twenty-fourth day, concluding with a closing ceremony on the twenty-fifth. This is Tibet's grandest festival and also its Grand Prayer Assembly. Monlam literally means "making wishes," rather than conducting formal prayers. However, its actual practice involves methods for praying for the Chinese Emperor's longevity and eternal reign—thus its true meaning translates to Grand Prayer Assembly. Yet if rendered literally character-by-character, it would simply be called "wish-making."

From the first day of the first month in the Tibetan calendar until the commencement of Monlam is what is known as the New Year's celebration. Though their methods of celebration differ slightly, when it comes to observing New Year's Day itself, they remain fundamentally identical. As monks must attend this Grand Prayer Festival from the third day onward and engage in busy tasks like sutra recitation, it has become customary to grant them rest days starting from December 20th through the New Year. When visiting temples during these rest periods, one would witness a truly astonishing spectacle. Though I had thought even Tibet would be free of such things, there they were—openly rolling dice and gambling within temple precincts.

No matter how raucously they carried on through the night, not a soul raised any objection. Since all the children gorged on sweets and played without restraint, even the young monks lodged with us—ordinarily so docile—utterly refused to heed our words during this time. Come nightfall, they would vanish completely to who-knows-where. These occurrences grew so frequent that I became sorely vexed, unable to manage even basic tasks. The other novices we'd hired likewise slipped away, leaving both attendants perpetually absent. They appeared to be off indulging in their usual sordid pursuits.

During such times, those who rigidly guarded themselves and remained silent appeared nearly foolish, while even scholars—who normally maintained stern expressions—found their minds becoming disordered as if they had drunk themselves into collapse through continuous imbibing. Some rolled dice while others toyed with flowers; even those deemed quite respectable engaged in food gambling. It all seemed an exceedingly delightful affair. Particularly among the warrior monks, their singing and wrestling transformed everything within the temple grounds into what could only be described as a realm of utter chaos. The situation appeared to have grown increasingly severe in recent times. By this point, even the strict everyday laws and monastic regulations had all been cast aside freely, creating a scene where each individual acted entirely as they pleased—like fish breaking free from nets to swim out once more into the vast ocean.

However, in these circumstances, there was absolutely no instance of bringing women into the temples to engage in suspicious activities. It was said that those handsome young monks were at their busiest and most lucrative time. For conscientious lama scholars had deeply lamented this situation—there were even books written to admonish the monks of those temples—which showed that not everyone considered this state of affairs acceptable. A certain degree of relaxation was naturally permissible, but when it escalated to gambling or openly engaging in indecent behavior—when the uproar within temples that should remain sacred surpassed even that of marketplaces—it became utterly inexcusable, a clear sign of Buddhism’s impending demise. No matter how many admonitory books were written, they proved utterly useless, for the teachers treated them like wind blowing past a horse’s ears—neither seeing nor hearing them any differently than they would rare treasures from foreign lands—rendering all such counsel futile.

The Scene Before the Rituals: After about twelve days of such debauchery, when the third day—the official commencement—finally approached, monks from each temple set out toward Lhasa. Of course, since it was merely one and a half ri from Sera Monastery—a great temple—departing early on the morning of the third day allowed them to arrive in time. From Rebun, a distance of about three ri, they could also make it on the same day. Since it was over sixteen ri from Ganden, they generally departed two days in advance to arrive either on the evening of the second day or the morning of the third day under such circumstances. In addition to these, monks from smaller temples also came, and at this time, the number of monks gathering in Lhasa amounted to twenty-five to twenty-six thousand. While this figure varied slightly from year to year, it generally remained around that number.

As for where those monks lodged, it was generally in townspeople's houses. In townhouses, vacating one or two rooms to lend to monks had become an obligation for Lhasa citizens. Good monks—those who brought five or ten disciple monks with them—could rent about two rooms and live separately; however, insignificant monks typically had around twenty people living in a two-bay, four-sided room. Moreover, with five or six more young monks added to this arrangement, even when packed like sushi rolls there was no room to sleep—so some ended up bedding down outside. Of course, provided it did not snow, they did not feel the cold so severely; sleeping outside did not bother them in the slightest. The residents of Lhasa usually numbered around fifty thousand, but suddenly twenty-five to twenty-six thousand monks would enter. On top of that, a great number of pilgrims came from various regions, making for an extraordinarily large crowd.

However, this phenomenon of people coming from outlying regions only began after the current Dalai Lama assumed his position; before that, far from people flocking in from the provinces, Lhasa residents themselves would evacuate en masse to rural areas. One might protest: "How absurd! With Monlam—this Grand Prayer Festival—drawing such crowds, wouldn't staying in the city to trade bring profit?" Yet such doubts only reveal ignorance of Lhasa's Monlam realities prior to this Dalai Lama's reign.

The Oppression of Law-Enforcing Monk Officials: In former times during Monlam, the law-enforcing monk officials imposed severe oppression. These monk officials came from Rebun Monastery—the largest among the Three Great Monasteries—with two being dispatched annually on a rotating basis. They were called Shago, meaning monk officials who administered Rebun Monastery's laws. To obtain such monk official positions, one first had to pay bribes ranging from 3,000 to 5,000 yen to government officials of that era. Depending on the competition among applicants, some secured positions for 3,000 yen while others required up to 5,000 yen. Thus while administering Rebun Monastery's laws for one year, these officials also served as Lhasa City's law enforcers during both the Monlam festival and the Grand Prayer for the Dalai Lama known as Choene Joe, as previously explained.

Therefore, during the Monlam Festival, Lhasa in its entirety became a monastic domain where all people had to submit to those law enforcers. Now these law-enforcing monk officials needed to amass great wealth in Lhasa. This stemmed from their initial expenditure of bribes ranging between three thousand and five thousand yen; driven by both recovering these costs and securing lifelong comfort through accumulated riches, they inflicted tyrannical rule upon citizens. Their methods proved truly cruel. They imposed fines of one hundred or two hundred yen for offenses like poorly swept entryways or a single speck of dust found on premises. Should any altercation occur during this period, they levied exorbitant penalties accordingly. They did not stop at imposing fines. The people would also be thoroughly beaten.

Furthermore, in cases where borrowers absolutely refused to repay lent money, if petitions were submitted during this period, while lenders could only recover approximately half the amount, they could indeed collect it with certainty. In return, not only were borrowers stripped of all their property, but repercussions could also extend to their relatives. Truly, their methods were so violent that these law-enforcing monk officials of the time could be seen as nothing but robbers wielding limitless power, perpetrating such wicked laws.

Thus unable to endure this situation, when the time came that "Monlam begins tomorrow," citizens—starting from the previous day or as early as four or five days prior—would gather all tools into one room, remove the locks, flee to the countryside themselves, and leave behind a single caretaker to lend all rooms to the monks. Consequently when Monlam arrived, scarcely one-tenth of citizens remained, creating a situation where virtually only monks inhabited the city.

Chapter 114: The Monlam Festival (Part 2) A High Monk's Satire: Though one might assume those law-enforcing monk officials couldn't collect money with few people present, they contrived endless pretexts to extract substantial sums from both remaining monks and citizens. Anticipating such profits, numerous individuals invested heavily to secure these one-year positions at Rebun Monastery. These monk officials didn't limit their extortion to tormenting Lhasa's citizens and monks during Monlam and Choene Joe. Upon returning to their home temples, they spent their tenures greedily amassing bribes, suppressing fellow monks, and fattening their households' coffers. It appeared as though arch-demons and grand bandits ran unchecked through Buddhism's sacred halls.

There was an amusing story concerning this matter. A certain lama—one who had indeed attained supernatural powers and was trusted by society as someone capable of journeying to hell, the Pure Land, or heaven—found himself visited by a merchant from Lhasa. "I hear you have visited hell," began the merchant. "What manner of person suffered the most severe torment there? You must have witnessed it, Your Reverence?" "I did indeed see it," replied the lama. "What did you behold?" "I was astonished by the sheer number of monks in hell! Their shaven heads were being pounded by fearsome demons wielding iron mortars and pestles. Yet even so, ordinary monks found occasional respite from their suffering." The lama leaned forward. "But when I saw who endured the worst agony—that truly shocked me." The merchant pressed urgently: "Who was it?" "It was Rebun’s Shago. That man writhed in Avīci Hell’s deepest torment." "Shago!" breathed the merchant. "In our land they inspired such terror that birds would fall from the sky at their approach—yet in hell they become wretched nothings." Thus did the lama recount this tale. Truly, no fate but hell itself could await such Shagos.

Lhasa During the Festival - Now when Monlam finally began, all the human waste that had lined Lhasa's streets was completely carried away somewhere, leaving them spotless. Moreover, the ditches in the very center of the city, which had been filled with urine and feces, were all filled in to form flat roads. Indeed, Lhasa—true to its name as the Land of the Gods—was beautifully and thoroughly cleaned. For the monks, this was the most pleasant time to be in Lhasa—wherever they went, everything appeared pristine. Under normal circumstances, even monks or women would squat discreetly to relieve themselves in public, but during this time, such practices were strictly forbidden. They had no choice but to use the toilets.

Monlam Festival’s Law-Enforcing Monk Officials: Shago This may seem an indelicate matter to discuss, but in Lhasa there were typically one or two toilets per household. In cases where a single longhouse contained one [toilet], it would be constructed rather large. The dimensions measured approximately two ken by four ken, with everyone entering inside. The entrance was quite small; upon entering, within the two ken by four ken earthen floor hardened with stucco, there was a hole dug about one jō deep, six shaku long, and six sun wide, flanked by square pillars on both sides. Within this two-ken by four-ken space, two or three such ditch-like elongated holes would be excavated—each allowing two or three people to line up side by side—thus enabling roughly nine to ten individuals to relieve themselves simultaneously.

In Tibet, standing to relieve oneself was rarely done except by laymen. Monks, women, and even conscientious laymen all squatted to urinate. Within households too, toilets functioned as communal spaces without partitions. This meant mixed-gender use occurred without any apparent embarrassment. More remarkably, venturing beyond the city center during this period would reveal a small river. There, while monks urinated by the riverside, women on the opposite bank would deliberately relieve themselves in their direction. This truly extreme behavior prompted some monks to laughingly call it "a Monlam feast."

Monks During the Festival - Now, as for where the grand Monlam prayer assembly was conducted, it took place in the Shakyamuni Hall. As recorded in Lhasa City's architectural plans, this Shakyamuni Hall was a three-story grand temple complex that became so crowded it verged on unbearable. The cramped conditions at that time were intolerable. This must be what they mean when speaking of people being packed like sardines in a box. Children found themselves wedged between bodies, unable to move. At times, people caught in the congestion at exit points were trampled to death.

It was customary to gather the monks three times daily: first beginning at 5 o'clock in the morning and ending at 7; the second starting at 10 o'clock and concluding before 1 o'clock; then the third commencing at 3 o'clock and finishing the ceremony around 4:30—with the distribution of money occurring during the second session. There were alms from devotees, and there was also money provided by the government. There were instances where they would give one tanga—equivalent to 24 sen, 48 sen, or even 72 sen—all at once, with no fixed amount. Generally, a single monk’s income over the twenty-one days did not vary much each year, ranging from five yen to around ten yen. In cases such as when the Dalai Lama ascended the throne, His birth, or His passing, these were exceptions, and even ordinary monks would have an income of around twenty yen. When one became a high-ranking lama, during this time their income might amount to one thousand yen or two thousand yen—in some cases reaching as much as five thousand yen.

However, monks had to pay their lodging fees themselves. Even so, the amount was not exorbitant. For an ordinary monk, the standard rate per person was generally around twenty-five sen each, while even a very good room cost about fifty sen. If it was an exceptionally good room, those who rented such rooms were inevitably aristocratic monk-lamas; thus, they naturally could not be rented for a low price. Three yen or around five yen had to be paid. No matter how much they paid, monks could not lodge at houses that sold alcohol or housed many women—for such establishments did indeed sell liquor. Moreover, they could not stay at shops in the city either. However, even at merchant houses, if there was a separate room entirely unrelated to the shop, they could rent it. Additionally, during the festival, there was an instructor called Kamtsanggi Giken who supervised the monks' conduct. Given such crowding, one would expect numerous fights to break out, yet curiously, none occurred in this case. Outwardly, they maintained perfect decorum.

Since it was customary to attend the Monlam prayer assembly three times daily, they had to reside within Lhasa City without exception. Returning to one's own temple was prohibited except for those gravely ill. Though not strictly required to attend when remaining in Lhasa City, few in practice chose to abstain. Particularly during the midday prayers—when they could reliably receive some ge (alms) daily—this being exceptional, and with occasional distributions at dawn and dusk too, they generally attended all three sessions unfailingly.

When the fifteenth day of the first month in the Tibetan calendar arrived, the Chunga Chöpa (Fifteenth-Day Offering)—a magnificent offering ceremony—was conducted with great fervor. This was a nighttime offering ceremony, and there was none at all during the day. Although this nighttime offering concluded around two o'clock, the monks were not permitted to go out afterward. All had to remain secluded in their own rooms. Now, these offerings were placed around the Shakyamuni Hall spanning approximately eight *chō*, and when explaining what constituted the principal offering, first there was the grandest one: a decorative object featuring two ascending dragons rising along the sides of a long triangular board measuring twenty *ken* in height and about fifteen *ken* in base width.

In the center of that board stood a magnificent flower-adorned palace; within this palace were depictions simulating the Buddha's salvation of sentient beings, as well as replicas of princes and ministers. Beneath that as well lay various figurines. These were all crafted from butter. The figurines included heavenly deities and celestial maidens of the Pure Land, along with birds said to dwell there such as kalavinkas and jivamjivakas. For creations by Tibetans—who were generally considered lacking in artistic sense—they were remarkably well-crafted and beautiful. This was likely because they had continuously learned and transmitted these methods since ancient times.

Not only were they crafted from butter alone, but they were also adorned with gold leaf or multicolored pigments, giving them the appearance of being dressed in beautiful silk garments. Butter itself possessed a luster of its own, so when colored in this manner, it emitted a brilliant light. In front of these offerings, numerous butter lamps were placed, and in the center of the road, a large bonfire—lit in a location where its heat would not reach the butter decorations as much as possible—was arranged so that everyone could see it clearly. This offering ceremony continued until around four in the morning and was completely cleared away before sunrise. This was because if the sun were to rise, the butter sculptures would melt away. The luster of the butter, along with the gold leaf, silver leaf, and multicolored pigments reflecting off the countless lamps in mutual illumination—their beauty presented a spectacle of grandeur and splendor that seemed almost otherworldly.

This was not just one such offering; when combined with the smaller ones, over 120 to 130 were displayed around the temple complex, creating quite a splendid sight—in Tibet, there existed no greater offering than this. This was conducted once each year, but did the 15th day of the first month correspond precisely to February 23rd in the solar calendar? The spectacle of that night truly seemed as though a heavenly palace had been transported to this world in a single evening. This was not merely my personal observation—even the unrefined Tibetans themselves said proverbially that the Fifteenth-Day Offering manifested within Lhasa City the very scene of offerings made to Maitreya in the inner sanctum of Tushita Heaven.

We monks were not permitted to see this magnificent offering. Of course, only those monks involved in the offering could view it as part of their duties, but among the twenty-five to twenty-six thousand monks, those able to see it numbered a mere two to three hundred. All other monks had to remain secluded in their own rooms.

Chapter 115: Monlam Festival (Part 3)

Resplendent Attire of the Resident Commissioner: As for why they did not show such a splendid offering to the monks, it was because at this time, great numbers of Lhasa City residents came out to view it, resulting in extreme congestion. Even when incidents occurred where brawling monks started violent fights and persecuted Lhasa citizens amidst such crowding, there was simply no way to restore order. Thus it was said that for thirty years since then, they had ceased permitting viewing of these offerings. The offering ceremony would begin around eight in the evening and conclude around four in the morning; though there were times when the Dalai Lama would grace the occasion with inspections, there were also times when he did not attend. However, the Chinese Resident Commissioner would generally make inspections.

As I was still a member of the clergy, I should not have been able to view this offering; however, through the kindness of the former Finance Minister, I was taken along with him. Since I was with the minister, the monastic law enforcement officials could not reprimand me—had I gone alone, I would have been beaten and immediately tied up. Yet on this occasion, instead, the officials stuck out their tongues in a gesture of respect and promptly withdrew to other areas. Through the former Finance Minister’s favor, I watched from the second floor of a large Palpo merchant’s house, together with the minister, first observing inspecting officials surveying the offerings.

We were not permitted to view it until after the officials' inspection had concluded. In previous years, I heard the Dalai Lama would attend at the commencement, but on this occasion His Holiness did not appear—instead came the Chinese Resident Commissioner. His ceremonial attire constituted an extravagance of adornment. Twenty-four snow lanterns sheathed in sheer silk—each illuminated by Western wax candles—hung suspended. Within the palanquin sat the commissioner motionless, robed in resplendent Chinese court vestments and crowned with a hat emblematic of his bureaucratic rank. Flanking this procession rode scores of Chinese officials astride horses—their own official robes sumptuously arrayed for this exceptional occasion—advancing as an honor guard.

As it was night, the tens of thousands of butter lamps shining throughout the city cast a bright white light like thousands of gas lamps. As he rode there in a magnificently-adorned palanquin with snow lanterns, it was truly splendid. Though truly splendid, I felt a sense of revulsion. For its excessive adornment instead revealed a vulgar air. While Tibetans marveled at what they deemed magnificent, from our eyes it was truly contemptible frippery, and we could not help but laugh in pity.

Following the Resident Commissioner came Tibetan high-ranking monk officials and lay high-ranking officials, with the Prime Minister of that time making his appearance last of all.

Scenes and Debates within the Monlam Festival Grounds There were four prime ministers. Their names were: first, Kusho Shata; second, Kusho Shokan; third, Lama Tekan; and fourth, Kusho Horkan. Though all four were meant to attend, on that day only Kusho Shata and Lama Tekan appeared. The others seemed to have encountered impediments. As for Shokan—this being during his wife's recent bereavement—he could not attend; while Horkan had only just been appointed prime minister around that time and likely had not yet begun official duties. The prime ministers came to assess the offerings' quality and rank. These tributes originated from Lhasa's renowned aristocratic families and major temples—along with select smaller temples boasting both historical prestige and substantial assets—who were obliged to present them annually.

This had rather become something presented not as religious offerings but as obligatory taxes they themselves must bear. Typically costing over 320 yen at minimum and up to 2,000 yen for superior examples, with 120 to 130 such items erected, it formed a truly magnificent spectacle. As for creating such grand butter offerings in a single night, I believe there exists nothing comparable elsewhere in the world. Of course, many festivals likely required greater expenditures than this. Yet the very act of conducting these vast butter offerings at such expense—

I considered it the world's sole grand spectacle. During this Monlam Festival too, I remained at the Finance Minister's residence. Having seen that offering alone, I did not attend the Buddhist assembly. As for why I didn't go—the place was simply too crowded, with scarcely any room to sit. Even if one managed to secure seating, it would be so cramped as to prevent movement—making me think such discomfort wasn't worth enduring—yet feeling compelled to see it at least once, I went to observe and found it rather fascinating. However, what proved most intriguing was where the rowdy monks congregated.

As the rowdy monks were making a commotion, a guard monk serving as an underling of Shata came patrolling, carrying a willow rod about twelve feet long and five to six inches thick. As soon as the tip of that rod became visible in some distant corner, those who had been humming tunes, fighting, or arm-wrestling fell silent and piously began reciting sutras. That sight was truly fascinating. However, when that person left, the sutra chants would transform back into humming in an instant, so it seemed the rowdy monks had not the slightest thought of prayer in their hearts.

However, when it came to scholar monks, their approach naturally differed. All were zealously engaged in debate. This was the grand debate serving as their once-in-a-lifetime examination to attain the Geshe degree, so they threw themselves into the debates with utmost determination, none willing to be outshone. At this time, it was not conducted solely by Sera University; rather, monks from the three great monastic universities—specifically the most erudite among them—would confront through debate the individual who was finally to become a Geshe that day. The respondent—having accumulated and honed through twenty years of snowy night vigils in debate—now presented their so-called debate-oriented scholarship, resounding their fame across the three great monastic universities. With determination to become not merely a Geshe but a first-class Geshe, their vigor in responding to the questioners was akin to a lion and tiger locked in combat—a truly exhilarating spectacle.

One side posed questions, attempting to ensnare their opponent in a trap. The other side delivered answers that flipped them back from the very depths of those pitfalls. The sheer intensity of their methods defied imagination. Moreover, the eminent doctors and scholars of the three great monastic universities did not merely surround them to offer individual critiques. When either side faltered, these dignitaries would erupt in roaring cheers and uproarious laughter. Their laughter swelled in three distinct waves—first low chuckles, then sharp bursts, finally booming guffaws that crescendoed through the hall. Once two or three voices began laughing in unison, thousands of monks would roar as one, their combined voices nearly splitting the temple rafters—making the Lama's task of sustaining these debates no easy feat.

The doctoral hierarchy: Each year during this Monlam, sixteen individuals were selected from each of the three great monastic universities to become *Lharamba Geshe* (special doctoral degree). This signified a Geshe obtained during Lhasa’s Monlam Festival—the most prestigious Geshe title among all academic ranks. Those undertaking this debate examination were selected as the most outstanding scholar-monks from the three universities; ordinary monks naturally could not participate. Later during the Choen-Joe period, another sixteen individuals were chosen. These represented second-tier scholar-monks, called *Tso-ramba*. Additionally, individual temples granted permission for other Geshes.

There were two types of these as well: one called Dö-ramba, and the other Rin-she. Among these Dö-ramba were quite capable scholars—at times even more distinguished than Lharamba. To abruptly attempt becoming a highly prestigious Lharamba required a great deal of money. However, once one became a Dö-ramba and proceeded to take the Lharamba grand debate examination, it no longer demanded large sums. Thus even truly distinguished scholars found themselves enduring this intermediate stage due to financial constraints preventing them from accepting Lharamba candidacy when selected, creating an indiscriminate mix of genuine talent and mediocrity—while Rin-she were almost entirely devoid of academic ability by definition.

In particular, these lowest-ranking Geshes at the two great monasteries of Rebun and Ganden typically bought their doctoral degrees after five or six years of study and returned to their hometowns. Moreover, when they returned home as "Geshes," people trusted them regardless of their actual learning. The same practice exists in Japan, but in Tibet it reaches its most extreme form. In any case, the sixteen Geshes selected during the Monlam Festival were truly distinguished. Among them, holding the first-class position constituted a genuine honor. This honor could not be claimed merely through mastery of the textbooks required to obtain a doctoral degree.

Indeed, unless one had thoroughly investigated all Buddhist scriptures across every canon, one could not be selected for this honor in those days. From this perspective, I believed Tibetan Buddhist scholars were superior to their Japanese counterparts. While Japan too had many distinguished scholars thoroughly versed in Tendai doctrine, Yogacara philosophy, or Shingon teachings—their ability to provide precise Buddhist responses from any angle through comprehensive mastery of Buddhism as a whole remained doubtful; in this regard, they likely fell short of Tibetan doctors.

The 116th Secret Sword-Throwing Assembly

The soldiers' attire—though observing scenes during the Monlam Festival proved quite enjoyable, and I went out to view them occasionally—during that period my work consisted solely of attending daily lectures under Sera's great doctor Lha-khampa and a senior teacher called Mae-kenbo. While others busied themselves making money, I found myself extremely occupied with attending lectures each day. Indeed, perhaps because the time when I would have to depart this country was drawing near, I was able to study with particular delight.

Of course, before that period I had spent more time reading books and attending lectures at the Finance Minister's residence than practicing medicine, so I was able to study quite thoroughly; but from this time until my departure from Tibet around May 15th or 16th, I could study without headaches or stiff shoulders. Now on March 4th by the solar calendar—that is, the 24th day of the first month in the Tibetan calendar—the Tōkya (Secret Sword-Throwing Assembly) was held, so I went to observe it. Though all monks had been driven outside making observation difficult, fortunately I had connections at a nobleman's residence (the large house facing Shakyamuni Hall), allowing me to view the Secret Sword-Throwing Assembly from its window.

Monlam Secret Sword-Throwing Assembly

At this time, not only the soldiers stationed near Lhasa and all soldiers of the Lhasa government, but even those engaged in ordinary daily occupations would come forth as soldiers for the occasion, resulting in nearly 2,400 to 2,500 mounted participants. Their costumes were truly fascinating. There were about five hundred soldiers wearing armor reminiscent of old Japanese samurai garb, with red cloth striped in white attached to their helmets, hanging down like red court caps. Then there were others with green and white stripes, or purple hues—so many colors that it went far beyond just five. Their units were divided into seven, even eight distinct color formations. Some soldiers carried bows and arrows, while others bore nothing but guns. On their armor and helmets, each soldier had inserted one small flag of varying colors, their attire being extremely splendid. Rather than confronting battlefields to wage war,

We observed it much like one would view a procession of May festival dolls. Their drills too were extremely ceremonial and fascinating. Rather than people seeing war's dangers and understanding its perils, they instead came to feel that war might be such a carefree affair—so amusing that they felt like trying it themselves. On this day, as soldiers advanced with the first signal cannon shot, the main attraction to watch was in the western section of Shakyamuni Hall, where the Dalai Lama’s seat was positioned above the hall.

As for how the ceremony proceeded: First emerged a battalion of five hundred soldiers adorned like May festival dolls, who performed initial rites before passing through. They reappeared from behind afterward, and once those same rites concluded, about three hundred monks in splendid robes proceeded from the main hall carrying long-handled flat drums—their surfaces painted with dragon faces—and bow-shaped drumsticks in one hand, forming a circular array before Shakyamuni Hall. Next came monks holding cymbals, numbering approximately three hundred, their robes all being extravagantly costly garments, with some wearing tö-kar (undergarments) of brocade beneath their robes. In their truly resplendent attire, for this occasion alone did even the most habitually unkempt Tibetans boil water and scrub their bodies from the night before.

Now, the drum team and cymbal team formed a double circular array. Then, as soon as a monk resembling a captain—holding cymbals—began dancing while striking them, both teams struck up in unison. No sooner had they done so than they groaned out in terrible voices—"Uuuu! Uuuu!"—like the roars of fierce tigers. The sound was so thunderous it seemed to resound through the heavens. When that ceremony concluded, The Grand Procession of Nechung: From within Shakyamuni Hall emerged Nechung—the Spirit Medium—now in his usual maddened state, clad in Tibet’s finest ceremonial brocade and embroidered robes, his head adorned with a matching crown. Tilted backward with eyes closed, he clung to two attendants’ shoulders, gasping laboriously like a fish expelling and inhaling water, staggering forth with faltering steps as though bereft of his senses. At this, the ignorant masses fervently prostrated themselves before him; beside them stood monks making faces as if to spit in disgust while sneering. It was truly fascinating.

There were also many monks accompanying that madman. The splendor of those decorations was such that words could scarcely do them justice. As I explained during the prayer assembly at Sera Temple some time ago, first emerged individuals lining both sides—carrying treasure swords over two ken long (twenty-four or twenty-five in total), lavishly adorned with five-colored silk. Next emerged those carrying golden incense burners and various treasure boxes, with Nechung following behind them. As for their destination—they proceeded to a flat area about two hundred meters from Shakyamuni Hall, advancing as protective deities who would ensure the Secret Sword-Throwing Ceremony concluded without obstruction.

At this time, Ganden Chi Rinpoche—my teacher—wearing the ceremonial robes of a Chi Rinpoche, walked solemnly alongside the Dalai Lama beneath a large silk canopy with an attached ceremonial parasol. When he appeared, even the monks who had been sneering at Nechung's spirit possession fell silent in genuine reverence. Even someone like me felt profoundly grateful, as if being regarded as a benevolent Tathagata. This person thus became the chief officiant who would release the secret sword, thereby dispelling His Majesty the Chinese Emperor's ill fortune.

Citizens' Stone Offering: With this, the Secret Sword-Throwing Assembly concluded, though its final ceremony would be held the following morning. Yet there existed a curious custom here. Monks or citizens of Lhasa would purchase stones—carrying one or two pieces each on their backs—and take them to the southeastern bank of the Kyichu River. They engaged in this practice due to the belief that by leaving stones there on this day, their sins would be expiated. These stones were quarried and brought by people from the mountains, sold at rates of ten or twenty sen each.

This was an exceedingly good practice, for when the Kyichu River overflowed due to summer floods, the Lhasa government would thereby suffer great damage. If they piled a large quantity of stones on this bank of the Kyichu River, it could serve to prevent the water’s flooding. Although it might be called a coincidental good deed stemming from passive faith, it was truly a commendable practice. The stones being transported were quite large, and I boasted greatly about having carried them two or even three times. Even people from quite good households would deliberately carry them themselves. There were also those who hired five or six people, paid them transportation fees, and had them carry the stones.

Part 117: Tibet’s Finances

Incidentally, I proceeded to explain matters concerning finances. Not only was the Tibetan government's financial system extremely complex and difficult to comprehend, but even those on the sidelines could not grasp how much revenue the government's accounting officials collected each year or how much they expended. This had been explained by the Finance Minister as being subject to significant fluctuations depending on the period. Although taxes were mostly collected in goods, converting these into monetary terms should theoretically have clarified how much revenue was received and expenditures were made; however, there were indeed cases where such clarity proved difficult to achieve.

For some items, prices sometimes fluctuated wildly, and there were also those whose prices remained unstable, making it quite difficult to compile statistics. Therefore, since even the Tibetan government could not produce statistics, I too was unable to provide any [numerical] explanation regarding this matter. However, as it was clear how revenues and expenditures were managed, from which directions taxes were collected, where they were expended, and as the tax collection methods were understood, I would now briefly describe these points.

The Ministry of Finance of the Dalai Lama’s government was called Labrang Chenmo in Tibetan. When literally translated, this meant "the Lama's great kitchen," through which tax goods were collected from regions under the Dalai Lama's direct jurisdiction and their respective manorial lords—though in practice these were indirectly exacted from the people. As these tax goods were specially transported from those regions, there existed absolutely no expedient method such as remitting money through currency exchange. All goods had to be transported as they were—whether two hundred or five hundred ri—from those distant regions to the Dalai Lama’s government, imposing extreme hardship on taxpayers; however, post horses were requisitioned along these routes, which local people were compelled to provide as mandatory corvée labor. The goods primarily included various items such as barley, peas, wheat, buckwheat, maru (butter), dried milk, and similar provisions. From regions with customs offices came coral beads, gemstones, fabrics, woolen cloth, silk, dried grapes, dried peaches, dried jujubes; there were also districts that submitted hides or blood antlers from precious deer depending on locality. There existed almost no product native to Tibet or imported item from foreign lands that was not submitted to the Ministry of Finance.

A Rare Tax Collection Method – There was one peculiar thing there. At the Ministry of Finance, there were approximately twenty different types of measures for weighing maru (butter). Then, there were also thirty-two types of measuring boxes for barley, wheat, beans, and other grains. Since they all varied in size, first there was the Bōchiku – nearly equivalent to our country’s 1-to measure – which served as the standard. However, depending on circumstances, taxes might be collected using a larger *1-to 5-shō* measure or a smaller *7-shō 5-gō* measure than that standard, resulting in great disparities in fortune among taxpayers. Now, given that there were thirty-two different types of measures of various sizes in between, one might argue there was no need to prepare such measures – yet the Tibetan government deemed it highly necessary.

As for what kind of people were taxed using the smallest measure first—these would be individuals from regions where the Dalai Lama originated or those connected to high-ranking government officials. Even if the nominal tax per field was set at *two to*, they needed only pay half the amount levied on those required to contribute excessively. In contrast, those required to contribute excessively had to pay *three to* under the nominal amount of *two to*. However, the people from the Dalai Lama’s birthplace needed only pay *one to five shō* under the nominal amount of *two to*.

Despite receiving such special treatment, if the people of that region rebelled against the government or if a villain emerged from their village—someone who greatly harmed the nation—the government would use a double measure to collect taxes from those villagers. Nominally, both those paying half and those paying double were treated the same, so on the ledger, the average appeared balanced; however, in reality, there was a significant disparity. The reason there were over thirty different types of measures was that crimes and responsibilities naturally varied in severity. This was because, according to their severity, certain villages used the third measure while others used the tenth measure, with the measuring boxes differing by location.

When collecting butter taxes, they used about twenty types of measures in the same manner. When collecting revenue, they did so in such a manner; however, when selling those goods, they never used large measures. They used one slightly smaller than the average measure. However, if they used ones that were too small, the merchants complained loudly, so they sold using ones that were slightly smaller. Then, when distributing stipends to monks, regular government officials, workers engaged in government tasks, or merchants, they measured them out using the standard measure.

Now, the primary expenditure, as I briefly mentioned earlier, was for the main hall of Shakyamuni Buddha. This consisted of repair costs for temple buildings and pagodas; expenses for purchasing lamp stands and other furnishings; cleaning costs; and stipends for sutra-chanting monks—but among these, what incurred the greatest expense was the aforementioned maru (butter). Maru (butter) would be rendered into oil to supply tens of thousands of lamps used day and night. The number of lamps burning in Lhasa's Jokhang Temple alone, I believe, did not fall below twenty-five thousand. Furthermore, during special occasions, they would light ten thousand or even a hundred thousand lamps. As all these were offered using expensive butter, Tibetans almost never used rapeseed oil for their lamps.

Using rapeseed oil for ritual lamps was viewed as sinful—or if not quite sinful, they held the belief that it defiled the Buddha. Therefore, there were many who left wills stating, "When making offerings at my deathbed, never use rapeseed oil," and died accordingly. Before Shakyamuni Buddha in Lhasa stood twenty-four or twenty-five large pure gold lamp stands. Among tens of thousands of others were some holding about 18 liters each, their oil mostly supplied by the Ministry of Finance. Of course, some came from devotees' contributions too...

Duties Beyond Taxation: The Tibetan Ministry of Finance did not merely handle taxation. It also managed donations and alms in cash and kind. Whether devotees brought offerings to Jokhang Temple or presented ge alms to monks during Grand Ceremonies, all items had to be first submitted to the Ministry of Finance before being distributed according to the Finance Minister's orders. Next came the Dalai Lama's palace expenses. These required unlimited expenditure according to need. That said, funds were not wantonly used for personal purposes—general regulations reportedly existed. However, since this Dalai Lama's accession, while revenues had greatly increased, expenditures were said to have proportionally grown as well. Moreover, from what was collected by the Ministry of Finance, stipends—including annual and monthly salaries—had to be provided to officials and monk-officials belonging to the Dalai Lama's government. Though these stipends were extremely small compared with other nations' standards, these officials and monk-officials not only possessed manorial estates but also...

There was a type of official privilege. This consisted of the convenience allowing each individual to borrow 3,000 yen from the government at a mere five percent annual interest rate. However, ordinary Tibet was said to have annual interest rates around fifteen to sixteen percent, with high rates reaching thirty percent. Since these government officials and monk-officials borrowed money at five percent annual interest, they could lend it to regular merchants and collect ten percent interest. Even when officials delayed repayment to the government, they neither added the previous year's interest to the principal nor compounded unpaid interest over years—practices Tibetan law strictly prohibited. The government provided these benefits to both monastic and lay officials, while also granting each monk in the Three Great Monasteries an average stipend of six yen annually—not to mention allocations of tea and butter. Though this digressed from the main topic, the Dalai Lama maintained separate revenue streams. These included offerings from devotees, manorial estates directly attached to his office, and grazing pastures.

In addition, there were merchant caravans directly controlled by the Dalai Lama that set out for trade to China and India. The Ministry of Finance also maintained merchant caravans, but those were entirely separate from the Dalai Lama's caravans.

The Dalai Lama’s kitchen was called Tse Labrang (meaning "Kitchen of the Lama of the Peak"). This derived from his palace being situated atop a peak - an architectural complex serving simultaneously as palace, temple, and fortress. As a defensive structure, it ranked first-class in Tibet; as a religious edifice, extraordinarily magnificent; as a royal residence, entirely adequate. Yet here...

There was one major flaw. That was that within this Dalai Lama's palace, there existed not a single well or spring. There was absolutely no water. Though securely enclosed by massive high walls that made it perfectly suited for withstanding sieges should enemies attack, the complete lack of any water source within was truly peculiar. As for where they obtained water—descending two or three chō from the palace grounds, then crossing about two chō of flat land—they had to carry it from a well on the distant riverbank where the stream flowed.

The distance between them was about five *chō*, but three *chō* of that required ascending an extremely steep stone slope. Moreover, climbing all the way up demanded another five *chō*. Since water had to be carried daily from such remote locations, many people made water transportation their trade. Thus, with the residents of the Dalai Lama’s palace purchasing this water, the cost amounted to approximately 25 sen per person monthly.

Furthermore, there were 165 aristocratic monks residing in this Dalai Lama’s palace, and this group was called Namgyal Tarsang. These aristocratic monks were handpicked for their handsome features down to their facial characteristics, their lifestyle representing the highest echelon among Tibetan monks. Moreover, considerable amounts of gold and silver had been sent from Mongolia to the Dalai Lama’s kitchen up until now. However, this income had now nearly vanished, consequently making the Tibetan people’s burden appear significantly heavier. Yet since they could not simply raise the fixed tax rates already established, they had resorted to collecting taxes using larger measuring boxes.

Tax Collection: Furthermore, in the regions there were two places where taxes that had to be paid to the government were collected. One was the temple and one was the local officials. People under temple jurisdiction paid to the temple while people under local official jurisdiction paid to the local officials. In the regions there existed structures called dzong. This dzong referred to castles built for purposes of war but under ordinary circumstances were used as government offices. That is to say judicial affairs policing matters and tax collection were all conducted in these castles.

The dzongs were built almost invariably atop small hills requiring an ascent of two or three *chō*, and within each dzong resided a Zongpon (meaning "fortress chief," though always a layperson). In Japan, this would have been equivalent to a governor. In areas where barley could be grown, they collected barley; in areas with wheat, wheat; and in pastoral regions, butter—in this manner, the tax goods differed from region to region. The goods or silver currency collected at the dzong were sent to the central government. However, the local government Zongpons did not receive annual or monthly salaries from the central government. They took their monthly salaries from the taxes collected in that region. The central government almost never sent goods or silver currency to local governments. When some special incident occurred in a region and its people fell into great difficulty, the government would only then send relief funds.

In addition, people under direct central government control occasionally paid a poll tax to the central government. As for those belonging to aristocratic families and temples of high-ranking monks—while naturally being taxed by their respective aristocrats or temples—some regions collected taxes for the central government's share while others did not. This practice showed no regularity whatsoever. This outlined Tibet's central and local financial administration. Disposal of the Dalai Lama’s Estate: When a Dalai Lama passed away without heirs, half his estate—nominally half but actually more than half—was customarily claimed by blood relatives from his birthplace. The remaining funds were distributed as "ge" to monks of major monasteries and those from new sects.

Incidentally, regarding the estates of ordinary monks—for example, when one with assets of 5,000 yen died—typically up to 4,000 yen was dedicated to monastic “ge” and lamp offerings, while the remaining 1,000 yen was used to conduct the funeral or settle affairs. What the disciples received amounted to a mere 300 or 500 yen at best. There existed a commendable custom where disciples would even borrow money to offer “ge” and lamp funds for their teacher’s merit. In lay society, this was never seen, but in monastic society, it was commonplace and considered a truly admirable custom.

Part 118: The Tibetan Military System

Standing Army of Five Thousand: Next I discussed Tibet’s military system. The then-current standing army numbered just under five thousand. The official count stood at five thousand men,but based on my observations,I believed it fell slightly short. For a Tibetan population of six million,five thousand soldiers was indeed a paltry number. It appeared they could not properly quell even domestic rebellions—let alone handle foreign affairs—to maintain national stability.

However, Tibet was not governed by its military. The country was not governed through coercion. It was solely through the power of Buddhist faith that the country was governed. The multitude of ignorant commoners, driven solely by their faith in Buddhism—in other words, by their belief that the Dalai Lama himself was a living Avalokiteshvara—could never raise their swords against him. The notion that they could never fight as enemies became widely ingrained. Therefore, even with so few soldiers, internal conflicts did not arise, and the country remained governed. Generally, in Tibet,

Civil wars in Tibet occurred in circumstances such as when the Dalai Lama passed away or remained too young to personally administer governance—times when a minister might abuse authority or an interim Dalai Lama might monopolize power and oppress the people, provoking public outrage. However, once the Dalai Lama matured and truly assumed governance of the nation, even when difficulties arose, the people submitted devotedly through their belief that they were serving and making offerings to a living Avalokiteshvara. Thus, there was no need for a large number of soldiers.

However, Tibet came to feel an urgent need to station soldiers after fighting two wars with Nepal and subsequently another with British India, leading them to conclude soldiers were absolutely indispensable; thus they first established a standing army of five thousand mercenaries, meaning there were no conscripts whatsoever. These mercenary soldiers were deployed at key strategic points: merely one thousand in Lhasa, two thousand in Shigatse, and while said to number five hundred in Tenri—the most crucial defensive position against Nepal—their actual count may not have exceeded three hundred. In that fortress were also stationed about two to three hundred Chinese soldiers. Then with five hundred in Gyantse, five hundred in Dam, and five hundred in the Mankam region, this brought the total to five thousand.

And then there were approximately two thousand Chinese soldiers. That is, while it was said there were five hundred in Lhasa, five hundred in Shigatse, and five hundred in Tenri as well, in reality there were only about two hundred. In Tomo (Jingxi), five hundred, totaling two thousand. For these Tibetan soldiers, there was one general per five hundred. It was called Debon. Then there was one officer for every 250 soldiers; below this rank, leaders were established and managed in a hierarchy of one per 25 soldiers and one per five soldiers.

Side Jobs of Standing Soldiers: Tibetan mercenaries received a monthly salary of a little over two bushels of barley, and as no separate barracks were built for them, they were scattered throughout the city. Some were engaged in commerce at merchant households where they resided, while others performed various side jobs. Of course, the construction costs for houses where soldiers resided were borne by the citizens, and I heard them occasionally grumbling about the strain, but Chinese soldiers also lived in ordinary houses built by the citizens. Within these houses were barber shops as well as food shops; there were wives and there were children. It was nearly impossible to sustain their wives and children with two bushels of barley alone; in other words, they maintained their livelihoods through money earned from businesses and side work.

Their obligation for receiving two bushels of barley consisted solely of attending five or six drills per month. They conducted one large-scale military exercise annually.

A little less than one *ri* along the path leading north from Lhasa city to Sera University lay a small village called Tabuchi. There stood an enshrinement of Guan Yu from China. In Tibet, Guan Yu was called Gesargyi Gyalpo—meaning "King of Flower Buds"—and was greatly revered as a deity who exorcised demons. As most worshippers were Chinese residents, the shrine kept a large number of chickens. Beside it rose the great Tabuchi Temple where monks venerating this Gesargyi Gyalpo resided.

Inside this temple of Guan Yu was an interesting sight. Numerous figures of Blue Demons and Red Demons from hell had been prepared and arranged as Guan Yu’s subordinates. Their glossy craftsmanship gave them an amusing appearance. After passing these temples and a hamlet of seven or eight houses, then heading slightly northward, one reached a raised area measuring about two chō square on the plain—there stood an arsenal built upon this high ground. Beyond this stretched a vast plain extending two ri northward, half a ri westward, and roughly two ri eastward. It was here that they held their grand military exercises. The first two days were reserved for Chinese soldiers and the next two for Tibetan troops, typically conducted at summer’s end—around late August to early September by the solar calendar—when timing proved most convenient since all barley would have been harvested by then, ensuring their maneuvers caused no damage to crops.

At that time, the Chinese Resident Commissioner in Tibet and all the Tibetan generals would attend, where soldiers with exemplary performance might receive between one and ten yen in gold, while others were awarded silver medals. In Tibet even now, they continue to teach soldiers the act of drawing a bow as an essential skill. Though firearms have recently undergone some Western-style drills, there is nothing worth seeing in them. This is taught by Chinese soldiers and also by Tibetan soldiers who studied in India.

Martial spirit—from what I observed—was absent in both Chinese and Tibetan soldiers. In fact, one might have thought soldiers were no better than ordinary people. Among the Chinese soldiers were many men with thin, pale faces. Such cases were few among Tibetan soldiers, but they too lacked martial spirit. This was likely due to their meager income and minds troubled by livelihood concerns. Compared to these dispirited soldiers, the warrior monks appeared far more admirable. Having neither wives nor children to hold them back, they possessed truly courageous momentum that feared no one. In that regard, the warrior monks proved more reliable. I feared these soldiers would be of little use when war came.

As for what role they actually played—when war broke out, they first committed acts of violence and plunder, seizing the property of inlanders, and thus were of no use to the country. This ultimately stemmed from being married, for there was nothing more discouraging to a soldier’s courage than having a family. Tibetans were most abundant in emotional strength, and their affection for their wives and children ran profound. Soldiers with wives and children could scarcely be said to be of any use in battle. In this regard, they might have lacked emotional depth, but throughout Tibet, the people of Kham were

They could well be called natural soldiers. All its people could well be called soldiers. To call their women warrior-like female soldiers rather than mere women would be no exaggeration. Their occupations included commerce, farming, and herding, but if one asked what work most exercised their courage and brought them great joy, it was banditry. The most interesting job praised by their countrymen was banditry. Or they considered it a great honor to bring down other tribes and kill several people. In Kham there were bandit songs. Those folk songs were quite intriguing. Their singing style was truly vigorous and lively, filled with an indomitable spirit that persisted even unto death, making it sound remarkably brave. Thus children sang those bandit songs with great delight. Indeed what stirred the hearts of children were these bandit songs.

In Tibet, there were no marching songs. They substituted these Kham bandit songs for military marches instead. As these folk songs were quite interesting, I decided to translate a few of them. On the grasses of endless plains, at the edge of steep cliffs with jagged rocks, with iron-hoofed steeds reared high—my heart charged forth to strike. Through bullets scattering like hail, through winds whipping up snowy waves—my iron boots never faltered, my heart advanced as it willed.

My reliance is not on wife and children, nor my dependence on father and mother; enduring whatever hardships, my heart advances toward success.

To sing the aforementioned songs, one had to always begin by using the opening phrase "A, ra, rā, ra, ra, mo," and conclude by vigorously singing with the ending phrase "Ra, ra, mora, ra, ra, mo." Usage of Folk Songs: As there were numerous such heroic songs, the vigorous tone in which they were sung proved sufficient to unconsciously instill in people the courage to throw themselves into advancing through any vast plains or desolate wildernesses - even snow-covered high mountains - to defeat enemies. When examining what lay at this song's core, it revealed itself as truly admirable. Without such courage, they could not possibly have vanquished formidable foes or rescued their nation from crisis. Yet even these noble-hearted songs transformed into lethal weapons when employed for banditry - forcing their wielder down the path of villainy. Had one instead used them in righteous warfare during those times, that person would have become a great loyal subject who benefited what we call the nation - that collective entity.

Though the spirit of courageous advance was singular, its application as a method and the nature of its purpose caused it to branch into good and evil; therefore, one could not simply charge forward recklessly in all matters. Nor could it be said that any method would do. There existed truly fearsome poisonous words in those days that deceived shallow scholars, monks with superficial knowledge of living beings, or seemingly talented individuals. Those words were truly detestable. To put it plainly, this referred to the delirious assertion that any means should be employed to achieve one's ends. If this meaning was interpreted to the extreme, it followed that to achieve one's own felicitous ends—as long as one did not violate laws and regulations—even persecuting others or committing bandit-like acts openly in broad daylight would be permissible.

Success achieved through such methods was what might be called diabolical success and deserved pity. Therefore I declare: To attain one's ends, there exists only one path—to employ sincere means. "If your aim lies solely in seeking personal gain, you would do well to desist." "If one establishes the purpose of benefiting others and carries this out through honest methods, they will naturally reap benefits themselves, the people will unite harmoniously, and the nation will be peacefully governed." In summation, since even these Kham bandit songs possess virtuous essence at their core, I shall here state that repurposing them as military chants would present no objection.

Next:

119th Session: The Future of Tibetan Religion (Part 1)

The Ideal Amidst Superstitions: On the Future of Tibetan Religion As could be roughly understood from previous explanations, the Tibetan people truly lived through their belief in Buddhism. Other scholars might perhaps have called this superstition. Of course, there were many superstitions - so many unimpressive elements that one might have thought them nearly all superstition - yet they contained some truth within. To dismiss everything as entirely mistaken would have had to be called a rash judgment. It was like finding a small gem among many stones; discarding both jewel and stones simply because the gem escaped notice was no act of a discerning person. One had to recognize that even amidst Tibetan superstitions, there existed a faith of genuine worth.

Now, as for what constituted the true faith of the Tibetan people, there were two aspects. The first was that there existed an entity beyond humanity, one that assuredly protected them. And they firmly believed communion with this entity could indeed be achieved through their faith. In their belief of this existent entity—though there were various erroneous rituals and ceremonies—these were like rocks surrounding a small jewel; at their core, they maintained firm faith that there truly existed Buddhas or Bodhisattvas who would save them from difficulties and grant them happiness.

Moreover, while they acknowledged the existence of gods, any deity might become enraged and inflict harm and vengeance upon the people. For example, even the God of Christianity—who in ancient times had become greatly enraged because people fell into sin and proved difficult to save, then caused a great flood to kill all sinners while saving only the righteous man Noah—engaged in such favoritism. The gods of Tibet were all the same. They were beings who enacted human emotions of joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure exactly as experienced. Yet Buddha did not become angered no matter what occurred. They firmly believed there existed no being in the world as blessed as Buddha, who possessed such profound compassion and perfect wisdom. Even the most ignorant people clearly understood the distinction between gods and Buddha—that gods were fearsome beings while Buddha was one to revere.

Despite being burdened with countless trivial superstitions, the Tibetan people nevertheless maintained such noble faith. The second aspect was the principle of cause and effect—that all matters stemmed from one's own deeds; the evil acts one committed had to be painfully atoned through personal suffering, while the fruits of good deeds—namely joy and happiness—were likewise things one inevitably reaped. And this law of causation endured through all eternity. Just as seeds became fruits and fruits in turn became seeds, this cycle continued without end.

In the same way, our minds would never perish simply because they died. The firm belief that [our minds] would be reborn into this world again was what was called a jewel among rubble. However, from their belief in the causal principle of rebirth itself stemmed this commotion—where people clamored about how "this lama from such-and-such place had now been reborn here" or "transmigrated there"—which amounted to what we called true faith having overstepped into superstition. The precious faith that one’s own mind-body, based on the principles of cause and effect and self-inflicted consequences, would never perish throughout eternity was the foremost belief that Buddhist adherents ought to possess; Tibetans had already had such matters instilled into them since infancy through their mothers’ lips as moral tales. Therefore, Tibetan households were like sermon halls; whether it be ancient myths or anything else, there was not a single story unrelated to Buddhism． Yet despite such deep superstitions, true faith itself remained widespread among the populace．

Households were like sermon halls—whether ancient myths or any other tales, there was not a single story unrelated to Buddhism. Yet despite such deep superstitions, true faith itself still remained widespread among the populace. Therefore even the ancient Bon religion had eventually been assimilated into Buddhism, and since teachings with entirely different original intents had to be expounded in accordance with Buddhist explanations, this led to the emergence of what came to be called New Bon; consequently, it had now become nearly impossible to discern what the original form of old Bon had been like.

The doctrine of New Bon resembled Buddhism while retaining a Shinto-like essence. It was comparable to what was called Ryōbu Shintō in Japan, though it had advanced beyond that teaching. Proponents explained that "Bon" signified suchness, with Bon itself being the essence of suchness - the Dharmakāya - then systematically expounded their doctrines through entirely Buddhist interpretations. This exemplified how lesser elements were transformed by greater ones.

The most astonishing thing there was the presence of Mahometism in Tibet, whose adherents were Chinese and descendants of those who had migrated from Kashmir in ancient times. In Lhasa and Shigatse combined, there were approximately three hundred people. These Mahometans still adhered to their religious doctrines at that time; indeed, there were two mosques on the outskirts of Lhasa, and two cemeteries also existed in the distant mountains. One mosque was where Kashmiri Mahometans gathered, and the other was a mosque where Chinese Mahometans gathered. And in this flourishing Buddhist nation, that Mahometism—though its influence was minuscule—maintained its dignity had to be called truly remarkable.

The future of Mahometism and what its adherents said proved truly fascinating. According to their followers' claims, while Mahometism shared with Buddhism the existence of past and future lives, they maintained that present-day humans would always be reborn as humans in future existences, and animals as animals—unlike Buddhism's teaching that humans might be reborn into lower animal forms. When pressed about final destinations, some Mahometans asserted it came down to two possibilities: being born in God's realm or descending into hell.

“In the Mahometism you believe in,” I said, “there exists no such doctrine. Were these teachings not established through Christianity? While the Quran acknowledges a previous existence, it offers scarcely any explanation of rebirth thereafter.” “I wouldn’t say none at all.” “I won’t claim absolute absence, for similar implications appear in Jesus’ Bible—yet your church has never formally professed such things.” When I pressed, “This seems rather dubious,” they countered vehemently: “No—it certainly exists! It truly does!” Many adherents insisted thus earnestly—a phenomenon I deemed Buddhist-influenced.

In recent times, while it was truly admirable that Western missionaries zealously engaged in proselytizing with indomitable spirit to spread Christianity to Tibetans, as the country was closed off, they were unable to impart their teachings even slightly to its inland people. They earnestly attempted to spread Christianity to people who had come to Darjeeling or Tibetans living in the Sikkim region. For this proselytization, they had already spent hundreds of thousands of gold pieces, and the Bible had been translated into Tibetan. In addition, numerous minor texts had been translated into Tibetan, and they explained in Tibetan that Buddhism dealt with trivial matters—particularly emphasizing how Buddhism was almost entirely filled with superstitions—while over several decades, ever since Darjeeling began opening up slightly, missionaries had been making their way into the area, diligently endeavoring to impart their teachings with particular kindness to Tibetans.

Chapter 120: The Future of Tibetan Religion (Part 2) The Current State of Various Religions: As previously mentioned, though Christians had zealously endeavored, they remained entirely unsuccessful up to that day. The few converts they gained amounted to what one might call fraudulent believers—not a single genuine adherent had they obtained. Those who somewhat resembled believers—those presenting themselves as such—were not pure Tibetans. Though bearing the name Tibetans, they were in reality Sikkimese. Among these Sikkimese called Tibetans existed some who genuinely believed, but it could well be said that to this day, there had not emerged from Tibet's interior even one true believer.

The Procession of Tibet's Second Dalai Lama

They entered Christianity merely to make ends meet, not because they believed in it at all. There were even those said to be quite reliable believers. If you visited their homes, you would find Buddha enshrined in a secret room with lamps kept lit day and night, yet when they went outside, they proclaimed themselves Christians and headed to church on Sundays carrying Bibles. These Tibetans used Christianity's sacred Bible as a tool solely to deceive Westerners and pursue their own convenience and profit—a truly astonishing practice. Given these circumstances, even Tibetans who worked under missionaries and appeared as veritable Christian dictionaries would—once they gained enough confidence and saved some money—promptly turn around, declare themselves Buddhists from the start, and flee the Christian church without a backward glance; there were many such individuals.

That was how it should be. Those who truly believed in Buddhism could never enter Christianity. This was because what Buddhism called liberation meant attaining absolute freedom—the ultimate spiritual autonomy within oneself—whereas Christianity maintained an omnipotent deity called God, rendering such absolute freedom unattainable. Moreover, Christianity failed to clearly establish the principle of causality. While it acknowledged that good trees bear good fruit and bad trees bad fruit—thus not entirely lacking this concept—its application remained severely limited. If they were to expand this principle to encompass past and future existences, I believed a path to reaching Tibetans would surely emerge.

Moreover, it could not be said that Christianity lacked the concept of self-inflicted consequences. The words of Christ—"Thy faith hath made thee whole"—signified self-inflicted consequences; yet now this principle had been greatly narrowed in scope by ecclesiastical Christianity, its true meaning remaining unclear. This would likely be deemed unsuitable for Tibetans, who held such firm belief in the principle of self-inflicted consequences. If Christianity were to achieve success in its missionary objectives toward Tibetans, it would have to expound the true meaning proclaimed by its founder and savior. Yet when one considered that dozens of distinguished male and female missionaries had spent tens of millions in funds over several decades proselytizing to influence Tibetans—only to struggle in gaining even one or two believers—one could not help but be astonished at this failure.

Judgment: Now then, what will become of Tibetan religion? The most influential religion remains Buddhism without question, opposed by Bon, Mahometism, and Christianity's teachings. Yet unless these three faiths transform themselves fundamentally, they can never displace Buddhism from its position. Though Tibetan Buddhism may be corrupt—as previously noted—Tibetans inherit Buddhist ways almost innately from birth; favorable elements still persist within it. Should a true great bodhisattva emerge to cleanse this corruption and manifest Buddhism's authentic principle of dynamic freedom rooted in earnest practice, its resurgence would assuredly follow.

However, given present conditions, it must be said that Tibetan Buddhism is waning in influence. As for its future prospects, if Christianity itself remains this sectarian faith of corrupt churches as seen today, one may well declare there exists little hope for successful missionary work among Tibetans. Moreover, I maintain that unless Tibetan Buddhism produces a great bodhisattva who would enact the grand reformation I described earlier, it will persist merely through habitual rituals and formal observances. With this, I shall lay aside the question of Tibet's religious future.

**Correspondence with Former Teachers and Homeland** Last year, a man named Tsa Rumba, who had gone to India for trade, returned on April 30, Meiji 35 (1902). As I mentioned earlier, this refers to the Tibetan merchant who took my letters to Darjeeling in India, delivered them to Master Sarat Chandra Das and a lama named Shabzun, and also handled the procedure of sending letters to my homeland. A notification came that he had returned safely to Sera Monastery's quarters, but at that time I was not at Sera and was instead at the Finance Minister's residence. Because the young monk had specially come to deliver that notification, I went starting from the morning of May 1st the next day to receive the reply.

Fortunately, the master was present, and after exchanging greetings following our long separation, Tsa Rumba said: “When I went to Darjeeling, Master Sarat Chandra Das had returned to his country (India) and was not present, so I could not deliver the letters at the time of departure. Since there was no other way, I tried to hand them to Shabzun Lama, but he too had gone on a temple pilgrimage to Kathmandu, Nepal, and was not present. Since there was no other way, I once went to Calcutta, and upon returning this time, both Master Sarat and Shabzun Lama had come back, so I delivered the letters. Master Sarat said he would write a reply and told me to come pick it up the day after tomorrow, but I couldn’t go back to Master Sarat’s place again. The reason is that I had purchased a large amount of iron under government orders. If that matter became known to the British Indian Government, I would be captured and subjected to harsh treatment. Therefore, I couldn’t stay in Darjeeling for long, so I decided to depart and return the next day. However, I did receive and bring back a letter from Mr. Shabzun. Mr. Shabzun’s letter should contain all the details,” he said and gave me the letter.

When I opened and read it, it said: “The letter to Master Sarat has been delivered, and the enclosed letter to your homeland was sent via registered mail.” The reply stated: “Thank you for kindly sending me a letter and gifts from your homeland.” In Tibet, when sending a letter, one always includes a gift. If one does not have a proper gift, it is customary to include what I previously mentioned as kata—a piece of thin silk—so I too presented an appropriate gift. In their letter of thanks in return, along with the reply, they sent Western white sugar and two or three other rare items. And so, at that time, I heard from Tsa Rumba various souvenir stories from Darjeeling—including tales of the Anglo-Boer War—and then we parted ways.

Full Ordination: May 13 corresponded to the fourth day of the fourth month in the Tibetan calendar. At that time, Panchen Rinpoche—the Great Lama of Tashi Lhunpo Monastery in Shigatse Prefecture of Tsang Province, also known as the Second Dharma King—was scheduled to arrive in Lhasa Prefecture. This Panchen Rinpoche was then twenty years old, born in the Year of the Sheep. Having reached twenty years of age and thus become eligible for full ordination, he came to receive these precepts from Tsepel Gyatso—the current Dalai Lama and Great Lama.

This was quite a grand ceremony, equivalent to when the Dalai Lama ascends the throne or receives full ordination, and people of all ranks went out to welcome Panchen Rinpoche to the outskirts of Lhasa—specifically, an area west of the Dalai Lama’s palace called Pameri. I too went out to welcome him and see the sights, bringing along the children from the house together with Mr. Li Zhiji from that pharmacy. It was quite a splendid procession. As the outline of this procession was identical to what I had previously explained during my time in Shigatse Prefecture, I shall omit its description here.

After viewing the procession that day and while on my way back, as Tsa Rumba had offered to serve me tea, I stopped by his residence for a short while. As I was sitting on the cushion of the upper seat, a gentleman entered. That man was serving as the Dalai Lama’s merchant captain, a person named Takbo Tsumbei Chen Jö. Tsa Rumba too went to purchase iron and perform other tasks for the government, so due to that connection, they sometimes interacted with each other. Upon entering the room where I sat, he fixed me with a sharp gaze and stared intently at my face for some time. I observed the man’s demeanor and concluded he seemed a rather malicious individual. However, he also appeared to be a highly talented one.

Chapter 121: The Inception of the Secret's Exposure

A Crisis Brewing: Now, the merchant captain came right up and sat down before me, but seated there were both Tsa Rumba and his wife. Now, a truly dangerous matter began to brew here. I must now explain the cause. When Tsa Rumba had gone to India for trade, he had placed great hope in seeing my influence increasingly advance. That was because Tsa Rumba had held the idea that if I were to become the Dalai Lama’s personal physician, he would thereby gain considerable advantage. Upon returning to Lhasa Prefecture from India, my reputation grew even more.

Moreover, certain groups began to exaggerate beyond my true honor and the actual facts—if three patients were saved, they would claim fifty had been saved—going so far as to declare that there was no longer any doctor in Tibet as skilled as I. Not only had he known from before that where I resided was also the Finance Minister’s residence and that I had connections with all high-ranking officials and eminent monks—thus finding me greatly reliable—but having gone to India and heard in Calcutta about how the Japanese were full of righteous spirit and, though said to have fought a war with China, in reality also had strategic considerations for China’s benefit, he came to regard the Japanese as even more dependable. Upon returning to Tibet, he had even told me of these matters.

Moreover, this Takbo Tsumbei Chen Jö had served as chief steward to a great merchant named Takbo Tsuma and had frequently traveled to Beijing as part of the Dalai Lama’s merchant convoy. It is said that during the Boxer Rebellion, while in Beijing, he suffered when Japanese soldiers confiscated all his goods. He repeatedly pleaded with them, insisting these were not Beijing government property, but they refused to listen. However, when the time came to transport the seized items, he immediately went to plead with the general at the military camp.

"I am a Tibetan; I have neither brought these goods for the Beijing government nor will I take them back for them," I said. "Therefore, I humbly request the return of my seized possessions." Upon hearing this, the general showed deep sympathy and immediately drafted a note in Chinese characters and an unusual script (possibly mixing Chinese and kana), stamped it with his personal seal, and ordered it given to the soldiers. When I took this note back and presented it to them, all confiscated items were returned exactly as before. He later reportedly spoke effusively to Tsa Rumba about how the Japanese were truly imbued with righteous spirit.

The Merchant Captain's Suspicion: At this point, it was said that in Tsa Rumba's mind—since Takbo Tsumbei Chen Jö served as the Dalai Lama’s merchant captain and knew well of the Japanese people’s righteous spirit, while also being aware of Japan’s military prominence in the world—he had supposedly harbored the thought that revealing Japan Lama’s true identity to this man now might prove greatly advantageous. However, I had no inkling of such matters.

Takbo Tsumbei Chen Jö fixed me with a sharp gaze and abruptly declared, without any greeting, “There’s something quite peculiar about you.” When I remained silent, he continued: “At first I thought you were Mongolian, but you don’t seem to be a pure Mongolian after all.” “If I were to say you’re Chinese, you aren’t entirely Chinese either. Of course, I know well you’re not a Westerner.” “Where exactly are you from?” he asked me suspiciously, pressing for an answer. Just as I was about to respond, Tsa Rumba seized the moment and declared, “You are Japanese,” blurting it out in one breath.

This was disastrous. In Lhasa Prefecture, this marked the first revelation of my Japanese identity. I thought Tsa Rumba had broached a terribly inconvenient matter, but being unable to deny it on the spot and wondering what might follow, I remained utterly silent. Then Takbo Tsumbei Chen Jö nodded with impressed comprehension and declared, "Now I see! I did suspect you might be Japanese, but since I believed it impossible for any Japanese to enter our country so easily, I hadn't voiced it. Yet being told you're Japanese leaves no doubt." "'For I've seen several Japanese in Beijing myself,' he concluded definitively."

Before I could utter a single word, the two of them had concluded I was Japanese. Though my nationality had been certain even without confirmation, what I had concealed until now lay completely exposed. As I remained silent observing the situation, Takbo Tsumbei Chen Jö addressed me: "Ah, this is truly excellent. For some time now, I had held the idea that making a trip to Japan to purchase rare goods and selling them here in Lhasa Prefecture would yield great profits." "However," he continued, "while I've heard trading posts have some Chinese speakers, inland there are hardly any who know Chinese. Though I'm proficient in Chinese myself, it would be useless if others don't understand it. Moreover, going there as a foreigner makes one easily deceived by bad people - that's why I hesitated." "Having gained someone like you is truly splendid," he pressed on. "When they speak of Serai Amchi - meaning 'Doctor of Sera' - these days your name rings far and wide. I had heard you work diligently for others. Meeting you at this house has thoroughly satisfied me." Leaning forward, he concluded: "Since it's you, I can trust fully. Couldn't you take me to Japan?" This was an unexpectedly favorable proposal.

“Ah, that’s splendid,” I replied. “Since I do intend to return to Japan eventually, let us go together when that time comes.” After this greeting, we discussed various matters about Japan. The merchant captain expounded at length about his own hardships in Beijing, how he had recovered seized goods through a Japanese general’s intervention, and how Japanese soldiers’ courage surpassed that of Western troops—all while expressing profound sympathy toward Japan. This was no flattery. He spoke from the depths of his heart.

So I said to Takbo Tsumbei Chen Jö. “However, at present in Lhasa Prefecture, those who know I am Japanese are none other than yourself and Mr. Tsa Rumba.” “If you were to speak of this matter, might disaster not befall you instead?” I gave this warning: “You must exercise utmost caution regarding that.” “That would be most excellent,” he replied. “When circumstances align with your personal benefit, you should reveal your true nature to secure advantage—thus making Japan’s glory shine upon our land would be supremely fitting.” Such was the tenor of this disquietingly cheerful exchange.

That day concluded with those matters settled, and that evening I came to stay at the pharmacy.

Again came suspicion. The next day after that stay, the secretary visited me as usual and engaged in conversation. Something in his remarks particularly seized my attention. “Though you’re said to be from Fuzhou in China—and of course I believe that—there are aspects where your nature differs from Chinese people’s general disposition.” “Most peculiar.” “Might your ancestors have hailed from some foreign land?”—such was the essence of his inquiry.

“Well, I’m not sure. I have no idea where my ancestors came from,” I retorted, “but why do you say my nature differs from that of Chinese people in general?” “The Japanese character,” he replied, “is marked by alertness and an indomitable perseverance to press forward through any hardship. Yet most Chinese cannot combine reckless advancement with such nimbleness – people like you are rare among us.” He leaned closer. “Moreover, while we Chinese generally maintain a leisurely disposition, you conspicuously lack such composure. What you call magnanimity seems absent; instead, one observes an excessively meticulous manner of operation.” The secretary paused, searching for words. “How to articulate this... In short, you possess traits fundamentally unlike those of Chinese people – what lineage do you truly hail from?”

The reason he asked such things was hardly innocent. It appeared he had been scrutinizing my expressions with the intent to thoroughly investigate. The Secretary had long studied various aspects of my speech during our conversations, having nearly concluded I wasn't Chinese but Japanese - hence these remarks. Yet after exchanging superficial pleasantries and parting casually that day, troubles began accumulating like stacked stones.

Drafting a Petition — After the secretary’s conversation came the pharmacy mistress’s peculiar story. “Really, Kusho-la (you), there’s no helping madmen, is there?” she began. When I asked, “What is it?” she replied, “That mad prince of Pala has started saying something strange.” “Of course, a madman’s words aren’t worth heeding—but the prince claims this is a great secret: that soon, a major event will occur in our country.” “When I pressed him about what he meant, it turned out a monk had come from Japan of all places.” “They call him a monk, but he’s surely a high-ranking government official—here to spy on our country.” “And if you ask who that is? None other than Serai Amchi.” “He’s someone I met and spoke with extensively in Darjeeling—he kept insisting he was quite remarkable—but isn’t this the oddest tale?” “No one knows if that man truly went to Darjeeling—but could he have actually been there?” she pressed. I countered, “He’s mad—likely spouting dreams.” When I added, “A madman’s words hold no weight,” the mistress responded, “Yet the household seems to believe this might be true.” “In any case, having heard such talk, I thought to warn you privately.” “I’d hate to trouble your thoughts”—this exchange occurred on May 14. That evening I returned to the Finance Minister’s residence. The next day I retreated to Sera Monastery’s quarters and, late at night when all slept, drafted a petition to the Dalai Lama. This was preparation for when my secret would inevitably surface.

Chapter 122: The Merchant Captain’s Secret Leak

As for why I wrote the petition to the Dalai Lama at that time—since this matter could change unpredictably and signs had already become quite apparent; if measures were not taken at this juncture, it would lead to great calamity—I first had to prepare evidence that, no matter how circumstances might shift, I had come to this country for Buddhist practice. It was from the belief that preparing this petition was necessary that I drafted it. The written form of that petition remains in my hands even now.

Even I myself found that document to be truly well-crafted. I had created many Tibetan texts and composed many songs, but never had I produced a document as delightful as this one. Through this document I had demonstrated my zeal, and I myself believed that the momentum sufficient to move people was indeed evident in this text. This document took three nights to complete. The essence of this document was as follows: First, it began by enumerating words expressing reverence for His Holiness the Dalai Lama in Tibetan fashion, then addressed this beautiful sovereign cleansed by snow - stating that I had come to this land hoping to propagate authentic Buddhism in order to relieve the spiritual anguish of humanity's multitudes. There are many countries in the world where Buddhism is practiced today, but most adhere to Hinayana Buddhism.

The Mahayana Buddhism practiced in China, Korea, and Nepal is utterly unworthy of consideration. Only Japanese Buddhism and Tibetan Buddhism alone maintain the true essence of Mahayana Buddhism, existing today as Buddhism's purest form in this world. The time has indeed come when we must sow the seeds of this precious truth of pure Buddhism throughout all nations. The peoples of every land have grown weary of carnal pleasures and now fervently seek to attain supreme spiritual freedom. At this critical juncture, unless we fill this void with true Buddhism, we who belong to Mahayana Buddhist nations cannot fulfill our duty. We cannot uphold our honor. Therefore, to ascertain whether Tibetan Buddhism truly aligns with the Buddhism of my nation of Japan, I have come to this country.

Fortunately, the new sect of Tibetan Buddhism indeed aligns perfectly with our country’s orthodox Shingon sect. The founder (Nagarjuna Bodhisattva) also aligns perfectly. Buddhists of both countries who possess such excellent teachings must unite and work together to spread true Buddhism throughout the world.

This is precisely why I endured countless hardships, crossing snow upon snow and fording river after river to reach this land. This true spirit compelled even the Buddha's response, enabling me to penetrate this strictly isolated nation that bars all entry, where I have practiced Buddhism until this very day. The guardian deities of Tibetan Buddhism too have accepted my sincere aspirations, permitting me to remain here and pursue the Buddhist path. Since I—already protected by both Buddha and these guardian deities—now receive Your Holiness's august protection as well, does this not constitute the supreme duty of Buddhists: our joint endeavor to make Buddhism's radiance illuminate the world? Having fervently expressed this hope, I concluded by incorporating these words: "At the Vajra Bodhi Mandala in India's Bodh Gaya, beneath the sacred bodhi tree, Mr. Dharmapala of Ceylon entreated me to present Your Holiness with relics of Shakyamuni Buddha and a silver reliquary stupa—these I now humbly offer."

Having completed the document, driven by my urgent desire to find fine paper and swiftly transcribe it for submission, I gave no thought whatsoever to potential consequences—not even the risk of having my identity exposed and facing execution for presenting it. On May 20th, I returned to Lhasa and lodged at the Finance Minister's residence. That day, I accompanied the former Finance Minister on a garden excursion to a forest called Tsewoe Linka—this would prove my final pleasurable outing in Tibet. There we frankly opened our hearts to one another, passing a delightful day discussing biographies of Tibet's ancient eminent monks and various other matters.

Now, around this time, as the Second Dalai Lama had come to Lhasa (for ordination purposes) and was staying there, government officials were extremely busy. The people were also quite busy. This was because a great number of local dignitaries had also gathered in Lhasa, and there was considerable commerce as well. The story now shifts to Takbo Tsumbei Chen Jö, for it was on May 20—the very day I went to the Linka (garden excursion)—that he acted. At that time, Chen Jö went to visit Yabshi Sarpa (meaning "the new Dalai Lama’s in-laws"). The current Dalai Lama's parents had already passed away, leaving him only with an older brother; this brother received the title of duke from the Chinese emperor in their parents' stead, and having had a new residence built on the southern side of Lhasa, now resided there. At the same time that the Dalai Lama’s authority shone resplendently, his brother’s influence was also greatly manifested among the populace. It appears that when Chen Jö met with his brother and during their various discussions—the conversation flowing quite favorably—he began to speak about me.

When I heard from Tsa Rumba about how the secret was leaked during that conversation, it went as follows. When he kept enthusiastically praising, saying “A most admirable person has come to our country,” the Dalai Lama’s brother asked, “What sort of person is this?” “Well, it’s nothing extraordinary, but a rather peculiar person has come to our country from Japan.” “That person is Japan’s true lama.” “That lama resembles a Chinese monk but is even more impressive than that.” “He appears to be a true monk, eating two meals daily—and beyond midday he does not eat at all.” “He also does not eat meat.” “He also does not drink alcohol.” “He’s truly remarkable,” he went on chattering enthusiastically.

“Where exactly is this person?” asked the Dalai Lama’s brother. “You must already know that,” he replied. “It is Serai Amchi.” Before even hearing the words “That renowned Serai Amchi,” the Dalai Lama’s brother pondered for a moment, then said: “This Serai Amchi has recently gained such extraordinary renown that even His Holiness the Dalai Lama is considering inviting him. "A renowned physician whom even nobles and high priests vie to invite." “When you consider that he performs such strange and mysterious medical techniques to gain this level of reputation in merely one or two years—he’s clearly not Chinese.” “I had thought he might perhaps be a Westerner, but hearing your words today has finally made things clear.” "Indeed, the Japanese people do things no less impressive than Westerners." "However, a rather troublesome matter has occurred," he said, tilting his head.

Chen Jö asked, “What is this troublesome matter you speak of?” to which [the brother] replied, “Well, nothing extraordinary—but I hear Japan is rather close with Britain.” “If they’re friendly with Britain, that’s rather suspicious.” “Moreover, this country [Japan] is so powerful that it can even bully the great nation of Shina.” “As our country is but a small nation—and a Buddhist one at that—they must have thought to bring us under their control by first dispatching state spies to investigate our internal affairs.” “There can be no doubt about it.” “Well now, this is quite a predicament.” “Will the nobles associated with Serai Amchi not face tremendous difficulties, just as when Mr. Sarat Chandra Das entered [the country]?” “Sera University also

Wouldn't such misfortunes as house confinement occur? This was truly troubling. "Whatever the case, we cannot simply dismiss this—but what in heaven's name should we do?" he began saying.

In Chen Jö’s estimation, he had broached the matter thinking the Dalai Lama’s brother would surely be delighted, but contrary to his expectations, it instead transformed into a state of great anxiety. Chen Jö, who fundamentally lacked any fixed principles or discernment, was immediately seized with terror and, in his eagerness to defend me, declared: “No, there’s absolutely no way he can be considered a government spy. For this reason—though he resides in Lhasa, where one can hardly stay even a day without eating meat, and particularly at Sera Monastery where meat porridge and other flesh foods are abundantly offered as alms—he accepts none of it, subsisting solely on roasted barley. This undeniably proves he is Japan’s venerable lama!” he explained with great emphasis.

However, the Dalai Lama’s brother said, “That’s because you all lack wisdom.” “In this world, there are demons who closely resemble the Tathagata.” “Demons are precisely those who most closely resemble the Tathagata.” “The Venerable Upagupta, fifth in line after Shakyamuni Buddha, was born after the Buddha’s parinirvana and thus was never able to meet him.” “Now, there was a time when he wished to behold the true Buddha—that golden, perfect form endowed with the thirty-two major marks and eighty minor characteristics—but wondered how such a vision might be attained.” “Having heard that the Demon King of the Sixth Heaven had often beheld the true visage of the World-Honored Buddha during His lifetime, he conceived the thought: ‘If I entreat him and ask him to show me that form even once through his supernatural powers, I shall surely see it.’ When he made this request to the Demon King of the Sixth Heaven, the demon king promptly manifested the appearance of the World-Honored Buddha seated solemnly within the Vajra Meditation Hall.” “It is said that Venerable Upagupta, upon seeing that form, could not help but prostrate three times himself.” “It appeared so sacred.” “It is indeed an easy thing for the Demon King to disguise himself as the true Buddha in such a manner.” “It is quite possible that Serai Amchi, while in truth being a state spy, has been disguising himself as a genuine monk and greatly deceiving our people.” “I can never trust him. Moreover, given that our country remains strictly closed off as you see, yet he entered without any discernible origin—this proves he is no ordinary individual.” “Perhaps he flew here from somewhere, or maybe he’s someone who wields supernatural powers.” “Therefore, we cannot treat this matter lightly, but a most troublesome situation has arisen.” Upon hearing this, Chen Jö turned deathly pale, and the alcohol he had been drinking seemed to sober him up all at once.

Chapter 123: Deciding to Withdraw from Tibet

The Merchant Captain’s Panic Since it was just evening, Tsa Rumba urged him to drink his fill, saying, “Please have some liquor.” However, the Merchant Captain kept drinking in a manner akin to anxious gulping. Given their close friendship, when Tsa Rumba said, “You seem troubled—drinking in this anxious, gulping manner. What’s wrong?” he initially replied, “No, it’s nothing,” and refused to speak at all.

As the intoxication gradually took hold, the man who had resolved not to speak finally opened his mouth and recounted every detail of his conversation with the Dalai Lama’s brother. By the time the story concluded, it was midnight, and the master departed immediately.

Early the next morning, they had apparently sent a messenger with a horse to bring me to Sera, but at that time I was not at the Sera monk quarters. Though Tsa Rumba had mostly surmised I would be at the Finance Minister’s residence, he apparently hesitated to dispatch a messenger directly from his own premises and ultimately refrained from doing so.

The Astonishment of Tsa Rumba and His Wife

That night after the Merchant Captain left, Tsa Rumba and his wife paced restlessly, so consumed with worry about what to do that they could hardly sleep. Pitifully, the next day they maneuvered through the Finance Minister’s connections and dispatched a messenger in an attempt to summon me secretly. However, as that day was the 21st, I was out and not at the Finance Minister’s residence. When it became clear I was not at the Finance Minister’s residence either, they began fretting terribly, thinking, "What on earth should we do now?" That was precisely the case. The letter Tsa Rumba had brought from Darjeeling was in my possession. They feared that if I were arrested, that letter would be used as evidence, resulting in Tsa Rumba himself being imprisoned, and they were also greatly concerned about my safety.

After all, this was a calamity that had befallen them personally, and they believed a great crisis had arisen for my sake as well; thus, the couple searched frantically through Lhasa’s streets but could not find me. When they were nearly exhausted from worrying—wondering what to do and whether I might have already been arrested—I unexpectedly visited them that evening, whereupon the two sprang forward with tears streaming down their faces, crying, “You’ve finally come!” “This must be the Buddha guiding you here!” they said through sobs. Though I had no idea what had transpired, I replied, “Even if you tell me in such a fluster, none of it makes sense.” “Calm yourselves,” I said as I took my seat and listened—whereupon they explained the matter regarding that merchant captain.

Tsa Rumba’s Anguish: After taking turns explaining everything, the two asked, “Now, what course of action will you take? In any case, please burn that document I brought back. How do you intend to decide your approach?” Thereupon I answered: “No—my decision is already made. I’ve had the petition properly prepared since earlier and made thorough preparations on my part so no concerns remain when trouble arises.” At this they gasped in astonishment: “Then you already knew?!”

“I know that.” “I know that much.” “That’s precisely why you’re terrifying." "The Dalai Lama’s brother believes you’ve acquired some otherworldly supernatural power.” “No, I possess no such powers—only reasoned anticipation,” I replied. But Tsa Rumba, slow to grasp deduction, insisted: “You must have mystical abilities! You knew about the Merchant Captain’s talk with His Holiness’s brother.” “That’s why you came now—you sensed it.” “Then you should’ve come sooner! We didn’t sleep a wink last night,” they lamented bitterly.

“And then—are you going to present that petition to the Dalai Lama?” “If you do such a thing, we cannot endure it.” “You are undoubtedly a noble lama, but the Dalai Lama’s brother is such a black-hearted person that we do not know what he might say.” “If the Dalai Lama heeds his brother’s words, we have no inkling what may transpire hereafter.” “Should that come to pass, we shall face dire straits—what say you?” “In any case, unless I enter meditative judgment tonight and determine which course of action proves most fitting, I cannot settle upon a final decision—but let me first expound the method by which I shall reach this determination.” “First, the...”

The methods to be taken are four: "The first is that I am the first Japanese to have entered Lhasa." Now that matters have reached this point, it would be truly regrettable to leave without letting the people of this country know my identity and intentions; therefore, even if I were to suffer harm myself, provided no harm comes to you all, the Finance Minister, or Sera Monastery, I shall remain here and submit my petition to the Dalai Lama. The second [method] is that even if submitting a petition would allow me to preserve myself, should there be any risk of harm coming to others, I will absolutely not submit it.

Third: Even if I depart for India without submitting the petition, provided no harm befalls the people of this country afterward, I shall return to India without submitting it. Fourth: Regardless of whether I submit the petition, if harm should befall all those I know after I return to India, I will not go back. I will remain in this country as I am and submit the petition. For if harm would arise whether I return or not, then it is my duty to endure this hardship together with my acquaintances and die in this country. However, I will absolutely not flee alone. If through meditative judgment it is confirmed that no great harm—or indeed any harm at all—would befall this country even were I to return to India, then I shall return.

Thus, having divided this into four approaches, I resolved to enter meditative judgment that night to determine the path I should take. However, since I would be making this determination myself, I felt dissatisfied with deciding my own affairs alone; therefore, I decided to further consult my teacher Ganden Chi Rinpoche about this matter. Of course I am Japanese, but I did not frame this as returning merely because these circumstances had arisen. Though I needed to depart on pilgrimage, regarding how my departure might affect the welfare of numerous patients, I would seek judgment: if our views aligned, I would adopt that course; should they differ, I would then request Tsemonling Lama to render another judgment. "If it accords with my teacher's judgment, I shall follow that decision; if it accords with my own judgment, I shall follow that path," I replied.

Then Tsa Rumba and his wife said, “There’s no need to consult outsiders about anything to such an extent. If you decide, that should suffice, shouldn’t it? Please settle this on your own.” But I replied, “That won’t do. In such crucial circumstances, I must seek others’ counsel—this is the course I must take.” To this they responded, “Then we earnestly beg you to proceed with this swiftly,” and so that night we parted ways. Thereupon I returned to the Finance Minister’s detached hall and entered solitary meditative judgment, striving with all my might to discern the optimal path.

It took a considerable amount of time before I could enter a state of selflessness, after which I was able to make my judgment. If I were to remain in this country, harm would arise whether I submitted the petition or not. It was determined that even if I were to depart for another country, no great harm would befall the people of this land. First and foremost, my judgment was settled.

The very next morning, I promptly went to Ganden Chi Rinpoche’s place. When I visited him under the pretext of embarking on a pilgrimage, my teacher said with a laugh, "Somehow when you go on pilgrimage, those patients who've been suffering end up recovering instead. But these 'patients' of yours aren't truly ill, are they? Well, if you stay here in Lhasa, our local physicians can't make ends meet—so this pilgrimage business might at least help them along." However, it became clear my teacher had indeed discerned my intention to leave this country—he was truly an awe-inspiring man. Though I'd heard there were many other venerable lamas, the one from whom I'd personally received teachings and whom I particularly revered was him. This marked my final farewell with my teacher Ganden Chi Rinpoche.

Chapter 124: The Righteous Valor of the Benefactor

My mind now resolved, I returned to the Finance Minister's residence that day intending to disclose all my secrets to him. However, it happened to be May 22nd—the thirteenth day of the fourth month in the Tibetan calendar—when the Dalai Lama was scheduled to come from his summer palace at Norbu Lingka to Lhasa, and thus the former Finance Minister had gone to attend the welcoming ceremony. I had no choice but to go observe the Dalai Lama’s procession amidst my busy schedule. The Dalai Lama’s procession on this day was a grand affair, with the four prime ministers and ministers of various departments all dressed in new attire and splendidly adorned as they set out. However, even before reaching Lhasa city proper, it began raining heavily.

Disclosing Secrets to a Benefactor and Deliberating Future Matters

The rain was absolutely torrential. The rain was so intense it could induce headaches—not merely rain but also mixed with sleet—so all the spectators and greeters were drenched to the bone. However, even in such circumstances, they were not permitted to wear rain gear. The servants and grooms were all wearing raincoats, which was convenient, but the ministers clad in brocade robes, their faces and hands battered by the rain and sleet, arrived on horseback utterly drenched—a truly pitiful sight.

However, once the Dalai Lama’s procession had circled around Lhasa and entered the Jokhang Temple, the rain ceased completely. This was truly delightful—indeed, those who exclaimed their delight were the Chinese observers, who jeered, "Serves you right! You Dalai Lama’s wretches—getting caught in that deluge was just what you deserved!" Yet there remained something uncanny about how abruptly the downpour had started and stopped—a meteorological mystery that defied easy explanation.

That evening.

That evening, I informed the Former Finance Minister and the elderly nun that I had a confidential matter I wished to discuss and met with them.

The elderly nun had treated me with motherly care, so though our acquaintance had lasted barely a year, the bond between us ran deeper than a decade or more of interaction might have forged. I had reached the moment when I must disclose my secret to those two. I had now firmly resolved to leave Lhasa. Yet I could not endure the thought of deceiving and departing without revealing my true nature to the former Finance Minister and the elderly nun, who had shown me such kindness.

Revealing the Secret　Therefore, I informed the former Finance Minister. “The secret concerns nothing external—I am not Chinese at all. “I am Japanese. “Though you may not believe me for stating this so abruptly, here is the evidence,” I said, presenting the foreign travel permit issued by the Japanese Foreign Ministry. As the former Finance Minister possessed some knowledge of Chinese characters, he proceeded to read the inscription positioned between two ascending dragons that served as the seal of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Empire of Japan, thereby verifying my identity as Japanese.

Then the former Finance Minister said: “Ah, now I understand. I never thought you were Chinese. At first I considered it possible, but until now I’ve never met a single Chinese person who studies Buddhism as earnestly as you do. Though China teems with monks, scarcely any possess genuine Buddhist knowledge. I’ve often discovered that even those Chinese Buddhist monks reputed to be quite scholarly—enough to astonish people—are truly insignificant. But you’re different.” He continued: “Since you were truly researching Buddhism, I’d long suspected you weren’t Chinese—though I secretly wondered if there might be a region like Fuzhou in China unknown to me where Buddhism flourished—but today I’ve finally clarified this.” Then he inquired: “There’s a theory that Japanese are equivalent to Westerners—is this incorrect?”

“As for that, the races are entirely different,” I answered. “The Japanese are of the same race as your country’s people. We belong to what is called the Mongolian race—not European by any means. Our religions also differ.” Since this was something he had already largely surmised, he immediately accepted my words and asked, “So this secret amounts only to you being Japanese? There’s nothing else unusual?” At this, I said, “Today I find myself compelled to inform the Dalai Lama’s government of my being Japanese,” to which he responded, “What necessitates this?” “There’s no particular need to tell them, surely?” “No—the truth of it is this,” I replied, and laid bare all the preceding circumstances.

However, I did not mention that my entering meditative judgment and having Ganden Chi Rinpoche render his verdict aligned perfectly with my own conclusion. Somehow, if I were to mention that, it would seem as though I truly and deeply desired to return to India, so I could not properly bring myself to say it. The former minister pondered for a moment, then said, “Then what do you intend to do now?” I answered resolutely: “Since I have come all the way to this country, I wish to humbly inform His Holiness the Dalai Lama that I am Japanese.” While saying “This petition,” I took out the document I had previously written from my pocket and handed it to the minister. Then I addressed him again: “While presenting this petition to His Holiness to inform him of my being Japanese would indeed be simple, doing so may cause great trouble for you all. Therefore, since you have learned I am a foreigner and would hand me over to the government—”

“Arrest me and hand me over to the Dalai Lama’s government. By doing so, there will be no concern of calamity affecting you.” “I will also explain my own true conviction—that I came to this country to practice the Buddhist teachings—to His Holiness’s government,” I declared resolutely. At this, the minister frowned and said: “That is unthinkable! Should you do such a thing, you would surely be thrown into prison and ultimately perish from hunger and cold.” “Even if fortune spared you that fate, you would undoubtedly be killed. Of course, they cannot publicly execute a foreigner like yourself—they would surely dispatch you with poison instead.” “There is no need to court such a death through these theatrics! If you die, what becomes of your mission?” he pressed me severely.

At this I declared, "Even should my mission succeed, it would mean nothing if it brings harm to others. Should I die myself, it would suffice if no calamity befalls others through me." My voice grew firmer as I continued, "I cannot possibly save myself alone while abandoning you both - you who have shown me parental kindness all these days - to such misfortune." The compassionate elderly nun, who had been trembling slightly with tears pooling in her eyes and an expression of profound worry mingled with sorrow, suddenly threw herself prostrate upon the ground, her suppressed sobs escaping through clenched teeth.

At this, the Minister solemnly straightened his posture and declared, “What purpose would it serve to kill one of such noble aspirations, only for us elderly ones to evade calamity? I too, unworthy as I am, am one who truly believes in Buddhism. I cannot arrest and kill someone merely to escape my own calamity. Especially, I have ascertained through various observations that you are neither a spy for state affairs nor a heretic who has come to steal our country’s Buddhism. Even if I were to be killed, I could never torment one who has truly come for Buddhist practice and thereby escape my own troubles.

“Even if I were killed, I could never torment one who truly came for Buddhist practice to escape my own troubles,” declared Champa Choesang. “Given our nation’s current state, this is no time for Your Reverence to reveal your origins. You must return home temporarily and await a better opportunity—there is no alternative.” The former minister straightened his robes. “Though unworthy, I am both blood brother and disciple to Ganden Chi Rinpoche. Having received his great compassion teachings, I cannot kill you to save myself.” He turned to the elderly nun. “If hardship befalls us after your departure, we must accept it as karmic destiny from past lives—is this not so, Nyingje Yeshe?” The nun lifted her tear-streaked face. “How wisely spoken! The danger is grave—you must leave immediately. Do not trouble yourself about us.” Her fingers tightened around prayer beads. “This very moment offers perfect concealment—with Panchen Rinpoche visiting and Lhasa in chaos throughout this month, none will mark your absence.” A shudder passed through her frail frame. “Had this timing failed, even unsuspected, India would remain beyond reach. Chief Physician Ramenba already urges keeping you here—the matter has reached His Holiness’ ears.” She pressed trembling hands together. “Now is the hour—make ready swiftly!”

Chapter 125: Departure Preparations

The Compassion of the Elderly Nun — At that moment, I was deeply moved by these two individuals' sincere compassion and truly rejoiced from the depths of my heart. I was so overjoyed that tears streamed down unbidden. Though their proposal suited me perfectly, I could not readily acquiesce. Exhausting every argument, I pleaded, "To prevent future calamity befalling you both, please hand me over to the government"—yet they refused to listen. Finally, the elderly nun addressed me: "This arguing solves nothing. Let us first seek Chi Rinpoche's judgment." "If this harms neither party," she continued, "you may present your petition to His Holiness the Dalai Lama as desired." "No matter how we debate," she concluded, "we must comprehend what lies ahead." At this, the minister promptly gave his assent.

Thereupon, I finally had to speak of the matter I had inquired about with Chi Rinpoche, which I had kept silent about until now. When I explained the circumstances and also mentioned that I had entered meditative judgment, the two of them laughed and said, “If that’s the case, there’s no need for all this worry. It is simply a matter of you returning now. There’s no need for anything like arresting you and handing you over to the government. You’re saying such things out of obligation to us, but that’s futile. If Chi Rinpoche says so, then it is certain. The fact that your judgment aligns with his—truly, this shows Buddha’s divine will at work. To defy it would instead lay the foundation for calamity to befall you. It would be best for you to return quickly. Furthermore, while we cannot provide protection for your journey back, should this matter come to light and they pursue you, we will pray that you may safely depart this country by finding some expedient means,” they earnestly advised. The fact that they truly forgot their own misfortunes and concerned themselves solely with my well-being was something I felt so profoundly grateful for that I could never forget it as long as I lived.

Thereupon I gathered all the sutras and texts that had been left at the minister’s residence, promptly took them to Tenwaydo pharmacy, and left them in their custody. Facing Master Li Zhiji, owner of Tenwaydo, I told him that I had some matters to consider and various purchases to make, so I wished to go to Calcutta once. After arriving in Calcutta, if I was fortunate enough to secure funds from my country and purchase the books, I would return here immediately; but if securing funds from my country proved difficult, I intended to temporarily return home to arrange finances and come back here either next year or the year after. Of course, I could not determine with certainty how things would turn out from this point. In any case, I had to depart urgently. Now, the foremost [problem]—

The problem lay with this luggage—since I had to take these books back and demonstrate to my countrymen that I had acquired such materials, I would carry all these texts. Therefore, I needed to pack these books for transport and arrange their shipment. I consulted him about whether buying horses or some other advantageous method might be feasible. However, this Mr. Li Zhiji was someone who trusted me so profoundly that he would have willingly risked his life for my cause.

It was precisely because of this person that things went smoothly; had he not trusted me, he surely would have done nothing to assist at this juncture—indeed, might have even betrayed me—and I could have faced great calamity. Yet this person truly trusted me and devoted himself completely. It seemed he had already known the truth—that I was Japanese—to a considerable degree. The reason was that when he came to my residence, he happened to see a book written in Japanese and found it strange; after that, he paid close attention and gradually became certain of my Japanese identity.

Therefore, now that I was finally about to return at this juncture—a time when rumors had begun circulating in society—an ordinary person might have considered it quite a dangerous undertaking and refrained from getting involved at all. However, this was far from the case. He readily agreed and said, “There’s an excellent opportunity in that. A merchant from Yunnan Province who hails from my hometown is just about to depart for Calcutta in four days’ time. How about going along with them? If you entrust the luggage to them, the transportation costs will also be cheaper.” “If such an arrangement is indeed available, I’d like to take you up on that.” “Very well. He’s my friend, so he’ll never refuse. Since they'll be loading plenty of cargo on their return trip anyway, there should be ample empty horses available for the outbound journey.” With talk like this making the arrangement seem feasible, I had been making various requests when that friend—the merchant from Yunnan Province—appeared there.

Then the owner turned to him and said, “We were just speaking about you.” “This timing couldn’t be better—the fact is, could I trouble you to transport about two horse-loads of luggage to Calcutta?” Now this merchant had existing trade relations with me. Since I had previously bought musk from him and blood antlers from treasure deer to prepare medicines—and he knew me as an honest trader—he readily agreed, though adding: “I’ve no spare horses myself.” “But here’s an opportunity: “Though this gentleman here”—he gestured at me—“plans to depart in four or five days, others will reach Calcutta sooner. “They’re transporting soldiers’ pay from the Resident Commissioner’s office to Tomo Castle—plenty of horses will be available on that convoy. “Though you’d need to grease some palms extra for them to agree.” “Splendid,” replied Li Zhiji. “If it ensures swift delivery, spending a bit more silver matters not.” With this understanding reached, their discussions continued till dusk. I then returned first to the temple—for I needed to pack the scriptures stored there temporarily and convey them to Lhasa.

Handling the Scriptures and the Young Monk: So that night, I stayed up all night doing the provisional packing of the books, and on the morning of May 24th the next day, I hired people and had all those scriptures sent to Tenwaydo in Lhasa.

However, fortunately, the temple grounds were extremely deserted that day. Normally there were six or seven thousand monks residing there, making it perpetually bustling; whenever someone organized luggage or such, people noticed and all sorts of noisy questions like "What's happening?" inevitably arose. Yet on that day, each Kamtsan (monks' quarters) held only two or three people. So wherever one went, it was as if there were no people at all. Therefore, whether one packed through the night or hired people to send things off the next day, neither action aroused any suspicion.

Then there was a young monk named Chambaisē (Jichi) whom I had employed until now. Since he had served me for a long time, I had to settle affairs concerning that young monk. Up until then, even when absent, I had placed him under a teacher for daily scripture study; whenever I returned, he would still come back to perform tasks such as fetching water and boiling tea. I could not simply depart from this temple in silence now. I still needed to formally take my leave. Otherwise, they would immediately grow suspicious about why I was taking books and such with me.

So I also instructed those young monks: “From now on, I must depart on a pilgrimage as an auspicious opportunity has arisen. This concerns a person who is the brother of the Finance Minister residing in Tsari. Tsari is regarded as the second sacred site. Originally, Tibet has three sacred sites: One is Kang Rinpoche in the northwestern plateau—that is, Mount Kailas. Another is called Tsari, located southeastward—a peak in the Himalayan mountains bordering India’s Assam region. The third is Chomo Lhari, the world’s highest snow peak also known as Gaurisankar or Everest. These constitute Tibet’s Three Sacred Snow Peaks. I plan to make pilgrimage to Tsari among these three, which will likely take four months.” Having said this, I entrusted provisions and study funds sufficient for over four months to the teacher. “If left with the children directly, they would squander everything at once.”

Then there was also a person who had acted as my guarantor when I entered Sera University. To that person I gave a complete set of my Buddhist robes and a small amount of money; to the others who had shown me kindness and the teachers who had lectured me, I sent all suitable items or money as mementos. Having settled these matters, just past four in the afternoon, I visited the main hall of Je Tarsang, to which I belonged, lit ritual lamps, presented offerings, and stood before Shakyamuni Buddha—

I read aloud the farewell prayer. The prayer read: "In the main hall of Je Tarsang at Sera Monastery in Tibet, Kaihai Jinkō, prostrating a hundred times, humbly makes this vow to his great benefactor and teacher Shakyamuni Tathagata. Though the Dharma is inherently unobstructed and omnipresent, it remains most regrettable that among Buddhists—owing to sentient beings' differing karmic forces—this omnipresence appears partial. Though Kaihai Jinkō, through inadequacy of past karma, could not achieve Japanese-Tibetan Buddhist unity in this present time and must now depart this land fruitlessly, he earnestly prays that through today's virtuous bonds, Japanese-Tibetan Buddhists may hereafter attain perfect harmony and make Buddhism's radiant truth shine throughout the world." After reciting this, he then descended from the main hall, performing ten invocations of Shakyamuni Tathagata's sacred name with ten prostrations.

Chapter 126: Departure Preparations Complete With boundless emotions, I descended the stone steps of the main hall, passed through the flagstone plaza to the left, and came upon a long, steep staircase. That was the stone staircase spanning alongside the Dharma Grove training ground (the debate site). Descending those stone steps brought me before the beautiful gate of the Dharma Grove training ground. The gate stood slightly higher than the flat ground. After climbing stone steps of about one and a half ken, I found a Chinese-style gate within—the very structure known as the Dharma Grove training ground. It was surrounded entirely by a low stone wall painted white. I arrived before the gate to find even its front area served as a spacious practice ground where lower-ranking monks drilled their debate skills. There too grew lush elms and willows, among which Tibetan magnolia flowers released their exquisite fragrance.

This place, likely created by Tibetans without a sense of elegance, was truly one of refined taste. Having seen all Three Great Monasteries, I could attest there was nowhere as rich in scenic beauty as this Dharma Grove training ground. When I gazed far up beyond the Dharma Grove training ground, a craggy mountain towered abruptly, and between those rocks flowed water glistening in sunlight—a sight of true beauty. Since such natural scenery had been enhanced with human-crafted elegance, it inherently possessed a distinctive charm.

Upon coming to this Dharma Grove training ground, I was overcome by an intense emotion. Though I had declared my farewell to Shakyamuni Tathagata and prepared to return, the thought of slinking back home without ever revealing my Japanese identity after coming all this way struck me as utterly spineless. Could there not be some wise means to prevent harm from befalling others? Death remains unavoidable wherever one may go. Whether sooner or later, my fate was sealed. Might I stake my life at this critical moment to inform the Dalai Lama's government of my true nationality? As I emerged still reeling from this turmoil—regretting that my carefully crafted petition might perish unread—a strange booming cry of "Gyokpo Peb!" suddenly resounded from the training ground's edge.

This phrase in Tibetan translates to "Come quickly." Wondering who could have spoken these words now and to whom, I looked around suspiciously but found no one. There was only the setting sun casting its green light through the Dharma Grove's branches... But if it wasn't a nightingale's song, what could that sound be? Wondering if this might be the voice of my own inner turmoil, I took two or three steps when again I heard that mysterious yet beautiful booming voice - "Gyokpo Peb." Thinking someone must be calling to me, I muttered "Who's there?" while scanning near and far, even peering behind the Dharma Grove training ground - but no one was present... Still pondering this mystery, when I reached the path leading back to my quarters, the strange voice called out several times more.

The author hears a mysterious voice at the Dharma Grove training ground. Now that my heart could no longer remain in Tibet—having resolved to return—the voices that had been calling out until then ceased. At that moment, I was climbing the stone steps beside the Liberation Mother’s small hall. Then, passing before Sera Monastery’s main hall, I reached my quarters. After lowering the remaining luggage slightly, that evening I went to Lhasa and stayed at Tenwaydo. On the following day, the 25th, having left Tenwaydo, I began organizing the books commissioned thus far. Since these were specially ordered and rare volumes, I resolved to collect at least those already paid for—a considerable amount had been gathered by evening, with even more amassed the next day. In the afternoon I assisted as well, while Mr. Li Zhiji, the proprietor, prepared boxes and packed the luggage for me.

The following day—since yaks were slaughtered in large numbers daily starting around two in the afternoon—they purchased about three fresh yak hides. That was not something we went to purchase. The people who worked with hides went to the slaughterhouse to purchase them, but the hides were truly supple. They wrapped the boxes with those bloodstained hides—though since the sutra texts were rolled in multiple layers and packed inside the boxes, they wouldn’t get soiled—turning the inner side of the hide outward and the hairy side inward, then skillfully sewed them up. Once dried and hardened, they would become as taut as boards, making it possible to create an extremely sturdy packing. The packing was completely finished on May 27th. The following day, May 28th, was when those merchants were finally set to depart. Borrowing a horse from them, I too resolved to depart together with the merchants that very day, and that night I went to bid farewell at the residence of the Finance Minister.

All of my Buddhist robes, kasaya, and usual monastic garments had been packed into the luggage, making them quite inconvenient to retrieve, so I borrowed a complete set of monastic robes from the former Finance Minister and additionally received one hundred rupees from him as a parting gift. He said this was essentially an expression of gratitude for all the help I had received up to that point. In truth, it was I who ought to have been expressing gratitude to such an extent, but given how critically useful these one hundred rupees would prove in my circumstances, I accepted the money with profound thanks, bid him an earnest farewell, and returned that evening to Tenwaydo.

A Last-Minute Incident Before Departure. It was the night of his return.

Regarding the Chinese people bound for Calcutta whom I had been relying on until now, a completely unexpected incident had occurred. As for how this incident came about, Secretary Ma Quan of the Chinese Amban in Tibet, with whom I had long been acquainted, was on exceedingly intimate terms with the Chinese people set to depart for Calcutta this time. Thereupon, that secretary, out of concern for his friend, privately discussed my affairs. “He is definitely not a Chinese person,” he said. “He certainly looks Japanese.” “Though it’s certain he’s not a Westerner, I can’t make heads or tails of what schemes he’s come here with.” “Though he is quite adept in Buddhist teachings, it would be exceedingly strange for someone to come to this country solely for the sake of Buddhism in these times.” “It’s possible he came here as a detective commissioned by the British government.” “If you travel with such a man,” he warned, “your head won’t remain on your shoulders afterward.” This left those Chinese people greatly alarmed. The secretary was someone respected among Lhasa’s Chinese as the most knowledgeable and experienced individual, and because such things were said by him, they immediately trusted it. Thus, it was through the proprietor of Tenwaydo’s confidential account that everything we had relied upon until now had been completely dashed.

Given that things had come to this, no matter how much one might plead with them, they would neither accompany us nor transport our luggage. Mr. Li Zhiji said, “However, regarding the luggage, I believe I can manage to take care of it. “It will cost a bit more, but if we specially request the Chinese Amban’s servants through this pharmacy, they will secretly transport it for us. “It’s unclear how much they’ll agree to,” he continued, “but if we just tell them it’s my medicine, they probably won’t demand exorbitant prices.” “In that case,” I replied, “please arrange to have just one piece of luggage brought out. “Also, I must depart urgently, but without preparing night clothes and food for the journey, I’ll face difficulties along the way. So I’d like you to hire one servant to carry the luggage.” After finally reaching an agreement, Mr. Li Zhiji promptly went to negotiate, but he returned dejected, saying the person in charge was not present.

Entrusting the Luggage || On the following day, May 28th, the proprietor—who usually slept late—rose early and first went to negotiate the luggage transport. Whether he had successfully persuaded them or not, he secured an arrangement: twenty rupees as a special fee for the supervisor of the luggage and forty rupees for transporting two horse-loads to Suixi (that is, Tomo). When instructed to immediately hand over the money upfront, he did so, and thus that night, the luggage was secretly transported.

By nature unscrupulous, when transporting salaries under orders from the Chinese Amban, they would requisition fifteen or sixteen horses even when ten sufficed, then secretly load cargo entrusted by others onto those extra horses to pocket the fees—regarding such acts as their official duty—this being standard practice among the Chinese. Thus my luggage too, at the request of Tenwaydo's proprietor, came to be transported under the pretense of belonging to the pharmacy. The luggage arrangements were settled, but I still lacked a servant to accompany me. Both the proprietor of Tenwaydo and his wife worried greatly over this matter, with the latter exerting herself tirelessly until she found a suitable candidate. This was Tenba—a defrocked monk. He had originally been a senior monk at Tenggerin Monastery. However, following Tenggerin's Temo Rinpoche passing away in prison, many monks from that temple became wanderers.

He too was one of them and ended up falling into decline and taking a wife. He was said to be an extremely honest man. Not only that, but he had been to Darjeeling three times since his youth and was said to be highly knowledgeable about its geography. As for how he was hired, first he would set out toward Darjeeling, visit the sacred snow mountain sites in Bhutan and Sikkim, return again to Darjeeling, proceed to Calcutta to make pilgrimages to Bodh Gaya, Varanasi, and other places, then tour the holy sites of Nepal before entering Tibet and returning to Lhasa.

The planned journey was to last four months initially. Under an agreement where his provisions and clothing would be covered by his employer at a monthly wage of seven yen and fifty sen—with half paid in advance—they hired him and gave him fifteen yen. It was said the man handed over all that money to his wife, as it would serve as her provisions for four months. On the following day, May 29th (the 20th day of the fourth month in the Tibetan calendar), having delivered all luggage requiring transfer, he finally made ready to depart from Lhasa.

Chapter 127: Finally Departing Lhasa

The Sorrowful Parting at Tenwaydo || At this time, Lhasa was extremely crowded, the commotion from all quarters truly enough to make one’s head spin. Kochakpa (Inspectors), thirty in number, and Ragyabpa (Police Officers), thirty in number—these constituted all the police officials of Lhasa. Though their primary duties normally involved apprehending thieves or investigating suspicious persons, they were now entirely occupied with guarding only His Holiness the Dalai Lama and the Second Dalai Lama, attending to nothing else. Moreover, since all high-ranking officials and senior monk officials were completely consumed by their official responsibilities, they remained practically unaware of how other matters were progressing. It was truly a most opportune time for my departure.

However, since Lhasa was crowded with many people—including monks from Sera Monastery where I had stayed—changing into travel attire when departing Lhasa would arouse suspicion. Thus, two days prior, I had borrowed monastic robes from the Minister’s residence. Wearing those robes, I maintained the appearance of being an ordinary Sera monk temporarily staying in Lhasa. Finally, on the morning of departure around 11:00 AM, the Tenwaydo couple, declaring that today was indeed the day I would depart, prepared a vegetarian feast and held a farewell banquet.

The pitiable ones were the eleven-year-old girl and five-year-old boy of that household. The two were crying, saying they did not want me to leave. The older sister in particular remained prostrate, not showing her face as she sobbed pitifully. When the time finally came for me to depart, and the mother tried to bid her farewells, they began wailing so loudly that there was no way to calm them. I wondered if even children behaved this way when one grew close to them, but indeed, being human, I too felt some of the pain of parting.

Thus, it was decided that four people—the household’s younger brother, the wife’s younger brother, the wife’s niece, and Tenba’s wife (the man I was taking along)—would see me off. However, since proceeding together in a group would arouse suspicion, we agreed to meet in the woods before Rebun Temple after leaving Lhasa, and they all set out separately. Leading the porter and wearing monastic robes, I gradually made my way out of Lhasa’s town and came to a spot just before Shakyamuni Hall.

An unfathomable police officer—there was a police officer who boldly strode up to me. Given the circumstances of the time—wondering if perhaps something strange had been discovered and he had come to arrest me—I found my attention thoroughly aroused. He stared intently at me and said, “Congratulations.” I had absolutely no idea why he would say such a thing. Since I couldn’t think of any proper response to such an incomprehensible statement, I remained silent, whereupon he said, “Congratulations indeed.” “Well, congratulations on having everything perfectly arranged,” he continued, though I couldn’t comprehend a word of what he meant. I simply uttered “Hmm” and kept watching as the man performed three ceremonial bows.

"This doesn’t seem to be about arresting me," I thought. "But how strange that he would bow ceremonially—" The realization struck me suddenly. These Buddhist robes I wore had come from the Minister’s residence—garments so prestigious they could only be worn by high-ranking officials, primarily court physicians. Given the rampant rumors about my potential appointment as court physician at that very moment, my splendid attire must have convinced the officer I’d received the position. That explained his congratulatory words about everything being "perfectly arranged."

As I was thinking, "If that's the case, I suppose I must give some money," the man completed three ceremonial bows before sticking out his tongue and thrusting his head forward. So when I placed a hand on my head and handed over one tangka, he departed in great delight with his tongue still protruding. It was near Shakyamuni Hall as we were now leaving Lhasa. Hearing these words might have served as an auspicious omen that he would reach his destination without hindrance along the way.

Police Officers Were Unpaid: There was something I wished to mention briefly regarding these officers. There existed a truly troublesome matter stemming from a terrible custom among Tibetan police officers. First, these police officers had no fixed monthly salary. As for where their monthly salary came from, they went around the city to collect it. Even when going to collect, they did not desperately plead while groveling like beggars. Typically, they would stand at the gates of townhouses in groups of three and shout loudly. Those words were quite amusing.

The ones who should receive alms from those possessing hundreds of thousands in gold and silver are we. You are the lords who, answering the pleas of destitute souls, unstintingly bestow ten thousandfold gold. Bestow thirty great coins upon thirty thatched-roof elders! Bestow thirty great coins upon thirty thatched-roof crones! You are the saviors of this world. You are the saviors who discern all conditions and relieve our sufferings. Tonight we shall bear your gifts to our homes to gladden starving grandmothers. Fill our cracked bowls to overflowing with fragrant wine; let us lie drunk beyond reckoning, and grant until none remains to drink—Rahākyarō!

The term "Rahākyarō" signified that the victory of virtuous deities had been secured. When the officers diligently recited such verses multiple times, someone from each household would place roasted barley in a gold basin—inserting about three silver coins at the center for affluent homes, or one coin or half for poorer ones—and add a small piece of kata (thin silk) beside the offering. If a household gave less than what matched its status, the police would start arguing: "There's been no such custom before—didn't your household reliably give two silver coins monthly without fail?" Since people disliked being lectured over such matters, they simply complied with the expected amounts from the outset everywhere.

These police officers also entered temples, but while temples generally did not allow beggars to enter, there were times when they permitted it. If they did not take care of things properly in advance, there were instances where they ended up being pestered later on and suffered great loss of face; thus, even during ordinary times, everyone gave appropriately. The money they collected would be handed over to the leader of the police officers (Kochakpa—not equivalent to an inspector but rather something like a sergeant major overseeing thirty officers), who would then distribute a set amount to each member monthly; thus, not a single coin could be stolen. Because any theft would be immediately detected...

Moreover, these police officers did not merely obtain money through such means. When pilgrims came to Lhasa from the countryside, they demanded money. When country folk thought giving one tangka would suffice and handed it over, the officers would pick fights by saying, "You wear such fine clothes yet offer this pittance?" If the pilgrims acted carelessly, they would be beaten into apologizing and end up paying far more—a practice already notorious in rural areas. Thus, the country folk tried to avoid confrontation by proactively requesting to let the officers take money upfront.

When he first arrived in Lhasa, since he was wearing travel clothes instead of proper monastic robes, he was immediately pestered by a police officer demanding money, so he promptly gave one tangka, and that settled the matter. When departing this time as well, in the same manner, wearing splendid robes turned out to be a mistake, and he was told to give money; however, there was a rule that fundamentally prohibited demanding money from monks. However, when there was some auspicious occasion like a promotion in rank or such, they did demand money. So in this case, thinking his rank had been elevated, they must have told him to give it.

Even when going to catch thieves and such, these police officers never took travel funds with them. At their destinations, they ate meals, drank alcohol, and carried on freely. If they had to go to an uninhabited region for even three or four days, they would make nearby residents prepare enough food to last well beyond their needs before setting out. When it came to Kochakpa, being quite respectable individuals, they did not engage in such things. Instead, they received some allowance from the government and were considerably more dignified.

A Tearful Farewell in the Grove — When he finally parted ways with that police officer and left Lhasa, he first paid respects at Shakyamuni Hall to bid farewell, then passed beneath the Dalai Lama's palace while gradually making his way outward. After crossing a bridge and emerging onto a broad plain, he arrived at a small grove just before Rebung Monastery. In that grove waited the manager of the pharmacy and three others. Since I neither drank alcohol nor had finished my meals anyway, there was nothing I needed to do—except change clothes. I took off the Buddhist robes I was wearing and changed into travel clothes before asking those people to return them to the residence of the Finance Minister.

The Master and his companions all brought plenty of alcohol and drank while lamenting how painful this parting was. Though it was merely a journey of about four months, they pleaded, “Please take care not to die, especially going to such hot regions near India.” Despite having received great kindness from him, they wept, saying they didn’t know if he would ever come back again after he returned this time. I wasn’t particularly moved by this, but since they saw me off with such intense weeping, both my luggage carrier and I ended up parting in tears.

Before long，passing beneath Rebung Monastery，they arrived at Shin Zonkā Station just at dusk and decided to lodge there for the night.

Chapter 128: The Summit of Genpara

Tibetan Tendencies: On May 30th I hired post horses and departed Shin Zonkā, but along the way there arose a matter where I had to admonish Tenba the luggage carrier somewhat. It is a habit of Tibetans to always tell lies or make grandiose statements, and thinking that if someone were to say something ostentatious like "This gentleman is the Dalai Lama’s personal physician" along the way, it would rather become an obstacle, I had admonished him never to say such things; nevertheless, at the place where we stayed last night, when asked "Who might that gentleman be?" I heard him answer, "That’s an incarnation of a lama." Then at that house, they went so far as to change rooms and separate everything from the bedding onward. Although it may have provided temporary convenience, if you keep deceiving people with such claims, it will lead to serious trouble.

“Since I am not actually a lama’s incarnation,” I admonished him sternly, “claiming such would be like poisoning people with falsehoods. You must never say this again.” Tenba retorted, “We didn’t start it—they asked if you were an incarnation, so we just agreed! If we don’t keep up this act going forward, we’ll lose out.” “Calling yourself a lama’s incarnation won’t fly around here,” he pressed on, “but head to the countryside and they’ll revere you while lining your pockets.” “With your rigid principles,” he concluded pointedly, “you’ll never turn a profit.”

Then I grew slightly angry and said: “I’m not setting out on this journey to make money. “It’s utterly outrageous to speak of deceiving people for profit. What good comes from committing sins by claiming lama incarnations when you’re nothing of the sort?” I rebuked him. Though I had made my point with visible frustration—and though he claimed understanding—Teneba kept muttering: “But we do need money...”

The Transformation of Nam Station: That day, we had lunch at a place called Netan and traveled about two and a half ri further to reach a village named Nam. Since I had mentioned staying at a solitary house in this village before reaching Lhasa, some have pointed out discrepancies with Master Sarat's writings. However, having received requests to keep my travelogue concise and adopting a policy of omitting whatever could be omitted, I must confess I had not particularly considered matters like changes in Nam village worth elaborating upon. For thoroughness' sake, let me explain.

Twenty-two years ago when my teacher Master Sarat Chandra Das had visited, there had been about thirty households in the village called Nam; thus, if one were to say he stayed at a solitary house there, it would indeed sound suspicious. However, this misunderstanding arose from ignorance of subsequent changes—six years after Master Sarat had left Tibet, that is, sixteen years ago from now, the great flood of the Kyichu River had washed away that settlement entirely. Following this, Nam's residents relocated seven or eight chō west from their former land to a highland in the valley.

Gazing upon Lhasa from the summit of Genpara However, since this would eliminate the relay stations between Netan and Jammai altogether, the people of Nam built a single house at the former site to serve as a relay station where they sold alcohol and other goods, which is why I stayed at that house during my previous journey.

Distant View of Lhasa

Having digressed, we passed through Nam once again and arrived at a village called Jantoe. In this village stood the household of a monk from Sera Monastery who had long known me well and maintained substantial means of livelihood. When we reached the house, they welcomed us with great delight and inquired where we were headed. When I stated, “In truth, I now intend to embark on pilgrimage,” they responded, “That is indeed commendable,” and furnished us with ample provisions. The following day likewise proceeded most favorably through arrangements having been made to dispatch us by horse.

In the predawn hours of the 31st, I rode a horse provided by that monk and hurried out to a place called Chaksam. It was the place with the wooden boats and leather boats that I had described earlier. From there, I returned the horse, boarded a wooden boat to cross to the opposite shore, and arrived at a station called Pache. This was a station located at the foot of a steep mountain called Genpara, and I arrived there at dusk. That night, after making preparations to hire horses, I departed Pache Station at 4:00 a.m. on June 1st and ascended Genpara by horse. However, when I had climbed just past the midpoint, the Chinese people who had set out a day ahead of me were feeding grass to their horses on that slope’s middle section while preparing tea and eating their morning meal. I greeted those people and asked about the luggage. They said it had already been arranged to be sent, so I shouldn't worry.

Gazing upon the Dalai Lama’s palace once more, I bid farewell to those people and rode up to the summit of Genpara. When I looked back from that summit, not only did Lhasa flash dimly in the distant northeast, but the Dalai Lama's palace also appeared vaguely through the haze. As fortune would have it, both my departure and return journeys had clear weather, allowing me to worship the distant palace from this lofty peak. Genpara stands at an elevation of 14,900 shaku above sea level, Lhasa at just under 12,000 shaku—making Genpara a towering mountain nearly 3,000 shaku higher than Lhasa. The journey spans forty-eight ri, with a direct distance of approximately thirty-five ri, which converts to about fourteen to fifteen ri in Japanese measurement.

It is something every Tibetan says—that if you climb this mountain, you can see the Dalai Lama’s palace in Lhasa—and while there is also a theory claiming that Lhasa cannot be seen from this summit, that is contrary to the facts. Once you descend just one step from that summit, Lhasa is no longer visible. Just as I was about to bid farewell to Lhasa, where I had long resided, I suddenly recalled an amusing old tale and decided to relate it briefly.

That was a Tibetan living in Nepal who served as a servant in an extremely wealthy household. His name was Pemba Puntso—an extremely jovial and harmless man. That man had come on a pilgrimage together with those around him who were Tibetans in Nepal and his employer. In his country, where there had been plenty of food at low prices, they ate rice every day. There was also plenty of wheat. However, when they went to Lhasa, food became extremely expensive. Because it was expensive, those who went on pilgrimages did not eat much more than necessary. When those who were always going about with their stomachs growling from hunger went to visit a venerable lama, they would find that the lamas—being mostly affluent individuals—had rather splendid midday meals laid out before them, complete with heaps of dried meat. In addition to this, they could partake of delicacies such as egg noodles at their meals, so there was absolutely nothing to complain about.

However, they would put just a little roasted barley flour—mixed with stone fragments and gravel—into their bowls, stir it with tea, and eat that much. Even if they could eat until their stomachs were full, it wouldn't reach eight-tenths full. They always had to make do with about half portions, unable to properly drink tea and instead resorting to water. Thus, their ruddy faces turned pale, and they gradually wasted away. The Pilgrim’s Scathing Critique: In this manner, the masters completed their pilgrimage to renowned sacred sites and lamas and returned to Genpara—the very place where I now stand. At that, everyone turned to gaze at Lhasa. "How splendid that we were able to make a pilgrimage to such a sacred place." "...May we be reborn in such a splendid Buddha-land in our future lives!" they prayed to the Buddha with tears of gratitude streaming down their faces—when Pemba Puntso, despite his fellow pilgrims fervently bowing in devotion, turned his backside toward Lhasa and behaved most improperly. Everyone gasped in shock—"Has he gone mad? Hey, you! What do you think you're doing?"—but the man remained utterly unperturbed. "Ah, what joy!" “There’s no place as utterly disgusting and infuriating as this Lhasa.” “Lhasa is nothing but a realm where hungry ghosts dwell.” “A place where demons live.” “And I vowed never to come back to this damned place again!”

“Even so, you don’t have to act so rudely.” “You must have gone mad!” “No—you’re the mad ones! When we’re at home, we can eat rice and delicious meat, and even roasted barley flour—not full of sand like in Lhasa—until we’re full and live comfortably.” “Lhasa—they go on about lamas this and loofahs that, but they hoard meat like yasha and rakshasa demons, never giving us a scrap while stuffing themselves.” “In this place, there’s no Pure Land or loofahs to speak of!” “This is a realm of hungry ghosts!” He roared, “A land of demons!” At this, the group grew furious: “We can’t travel with someone like you.” “Punishment will strike you,” they warned. “I don’t care if it does!” he shot back. “Better never to be born in a cursed place like Lhasa!” “What a relief!” They say he added, “If Lhasa’s demons can punish me, more power to them!”—but he was a harmless soul, and his words held some truth.

There’s a saying that even a thief has three parts of a valid argument, but this man’s case had about eight parts. For the poor, life in Lhasa was truly difficult. The criticism that it was a realm of hungry ghosts struck quite true. This extremely harsh state of affairs was not limited to Pemba Puntso alone—given how many other paupers and beggars existed in similar conditions, he had likely made such remarks for this reason.

Usurious Beggars: Of course, even among Lhasa’s beggars, there were those who engaged in moneylending. Even beggars engaged in moneylending did not eat anything particularly good. They did not even eat their fill of unpalatable food, always keeping their stomachs hungry while saving money to engage in usury. When they died, here’s what happened: they dug up the silver coins they had buried in the ground and offered that money as donations to the monks of Sera Monastery or the two great monasteries of Ganden and Rebun. There existed such peculiar usurious beggars. As one would expect from beggars dwelling in this realm of hungry ghosts, their methods of hoarding money were quite extraordinary. Having closely observed such conditions, it was not entirely unreasonable that he denounced Lhasa as a realm of hungry ghosts and all lamas as yasha demons, rakshasa fiends, and meat-eating devils.

Chapter 129: Traversing Mountain Paths to Reach the Third City

Farewell at Genpara Summit: I recalled such old tales and found them amusing. This was a very recent story—not even twenty years had passed. That man named Pemba Puntso still resided near Nyānam on the border between Nepal and Tibet. I did not feel the same way as that man. In any case, the general account of my observations from various points in Lhasa was as I had already related, and it stood to reason that in a Pure Land where the ordinary and holy coexisted, there would naturally be all manner of things. In any case, though Lhasa was a place teeming with demons, it was also a blessed land where not only demons but bodhisattvas dwelled. I earnestly prayed that I might come to this land again to exert every effort toward the collaborative harmony of Japanese and Tibetan Buddhism; if by good fortune this should form the foundation of a world Buddhism, it would indeed have been a most joyous thing.

At the time of parting, with the sole intention of praying for this matter, I recited the Heart Sutra three times. Since everyone was descending the mountain, I went down with them, but this time we took a different path toward the village called Tāmarun. Though there was no particular need to head in that direction, we had to take lunch in that village and change horses to reach Parute Station. There at Tāmarun, we changed horses and took lunch before proceeding to Parute Station. This was an especially beautiful spot along Yamdrok Lake's shore as previously described, though I found it less striking than during my earlier passage.

Midnight Journey Through the Deep Mountains

Proceeding southward along the winding and undulating path, I arrived at Parute Station just as evening fell. However, it seemed Tenba, my luggage carrier, had told someone I was a doctor from Sera, for upon hearing that a physician from Sera was renowned these days, the village chief emerged and insisted I examine a patient immediately. I initially refused, but he persisted relentlessly. When I declined again, they pressed even harder until I relented and examined the patient. By then, my status as a Sera doctor had gained such renown in those parts that they practically worshipped me like Yakushi Nyorai incarnate, making requests with such fervor that I was truly astounded. The following day on the sixth at 2 AM, I departed Parute Station. Mounting the horse hired the previous night, I reached the eastern vicinity of Yase Station around 8 AM. Though the scenery along this stretch was magnificent indeed, having described it previously I shall omit further details.

About one ri east of Yase Station lay a river flowing into a lake shaped like an inlet. We crossed south over the small stone bridge spanning this river. Up to this point, our path had matched that of our outward journey, but beyond the bridge, the route transformed entirely. After crossing and traveling one and a half ri along the southeastern lakeshore, the path curved southward once more. Following the lake southward for about five ri before veering slightly inland, we took our midday meal at a place called Nankatse.

The servant appeared thoroughly exhausted and had meant to stay there, but as I was urgently pressing forward, we departed Nankatse and advanced westward again until encountering an immense plain. Beyond lay numerous snow-capped mountains near the Bhutanese border. In a place of extraordinary scenic beauty, we gradually moved from the plains deeper into the mountains, climbing through an increasingly narrow valley until reaching a solitary house by the riverside. Since there would be no dwellings for another five ri beyond that point, we settled there to stay. Though the distance to that lone house measured merely three and a half ri, dusk had fallen and the luggage bearers were completely spent, so the journey ultimately took us nearly half a day.

**Midnight Journey Through Snowy Mountains** When I rose at midnight the following night and declared we must depart immediately, Tenba voiced loud complaints. But given that if we didn’t hurry now, there was no telling whether pursuers might not come after us again, we hurriedly decided to depart from that solitary house. However, Tenba kept grumbling that it still seemed like the middle of the night—no matter where he looked, dawn showed no sign of breaking suddenly. That was only natural. After all, we had departed around midnight...

As we ascended deeper into the increasingly desolate mountains and the snow grew steadily deeper, the Master, overcome with terror, pleaded, “Please send me ahead!” However, Tenba responded that if he were to send the Master ahead—since there seemed to be something over there—he should take a look and confirm first. He was a timid fellow—though he couldn’t pinpoint what exactly he feared—who kept insisting that evil gods infested these parts and might play tricks on them any moment. “It’s all right—those gods may harm you if you go alone,” reassured the Master, “but they rarely play tricks when I’m with you. Proceed without worry.” Yet despite his words, Tenba still trembled violently from head to toe.

“You’re older than me at forty-two, yet you’re trembling like a child.” While soothing him that there was no need for such fear, we ascended about five ri up the mountain, arriving at dawn at a village called Zāraa where we ate breakfast and hired horses. Hiring these horses proved no easy task. Unless pack horses or travel horses happened to arrive at an opportune time, obtaining mounts became exceedingly difficult. There were station horses available, but since they were commandeered daily for government use, they never came into our possession. Securing horses there proved immensely convenient, for we now had to ascend Nechung Khasang—Tibet’s highest snow peak.

After climbing over three *ri* of steep slope and descending another three *ri*, we emerged onto a slightly slanting plain—but the mountain paths in this area were exceedingly harsh. Even horses could not climb them easily—though of course there was no need to ride them on descents—for the path was not properly constructed. Advancing along the snowy trail between rocks required utmost caution even for horses accustomed to such terrain, lest they be cast into the valley. Climbing through areas where the air was thin proved exceedingly difficult. However, when pressed for time, one could not proceed without riding a horse.

Now, traversing that diagonally sloping plain where grass grew sparsely—proceeding about three ri while gazing at the many beautiful snow peaks towering in the distance as though piercing the sky—they reached Larung that evening. As was their custom, they rested early and departed again at midnight the following night. Riding horses and descending along a mountain stream in the valley, after ten and a half ri, they arrived at a village called Tsanan. Since they had to follow along the valleys of low mountains throughout these ten ri, they could not catch even a glimpse of snow peaks. In Tibet, if one does not see snow peaks along the way, there is almost no scenic beauty to speak of, making it truly desolate. After staying overnight in Tsanan, on the fifth [day], they rode horses and arrived at a station called Gyantse. This station was

Tibet’s third largest city. There stood the great temple called Palkhor Chöde, housing approximately 1,500 monks. There was a chief accountant of the temple—a commissioned official dispatched by the Dalai Lama's government. This man was the husband of an old nun’s niece and had resided with me at the minister’s residence; thus when I went to visit him there, he was greatly pleased. The house where he lived was a large residence located beside the temple grounds, bearing the household name Serchok.

The host had casually suggested I stay and relax for ten or even twenty days, but as I was to depart on a pilgrimage the next day, I informed him of my plans. However, he insisted that departing from there without purchasing necessary supplies would lead to great hardship on the road. Moreover, I myself wished to visit Palkhor Chöde Temple—the Holy Circumambulation Stupa—at least once, so I ended up staying there for one day. Within Palkhor Chöde Temple stood Tibet's foremost great stupa, making it an impressive monastery; despite housing relatively few monks, its monastic quarters occupied nearly half the area of Sera Monastery. This temple accommodated not only monks of the new sect but also allowed those from the old sect, Sakya sect, and Karma Kagyu sect to study within its walls. After viewing the temple's treasures, I returned to my lodging. The Gyantse region truly thrived commercially; every morning saw a large market form before the great temple's gates, with people streaming in from nearby villages both to buy and sell—creating an exceptionally lively scene.

Stalls lined the market with displays of greens, meats, roasted barley, milk, butter, fabrics, and woolen cloth—all trade in the city transpired here. Moreover, all wool and yak tails bound for India from the northwestern and northern plains were brought to this market. Some goods were simply forwarded to Pari using the city as a transit point, while others were bought by merchants from Shigatse and surrounding areas for export. Yet while wool products weren't exclusively brokered in Gyantse before being sent to Pari, most indeed flowed out through this city.

Part 130: Finally Approaching the Checkpoint

**The Host's Suspicions** Having stayed one day at the temple, I departed at 5:00 AM on June 7th. Through the host's kindness, horses were arranged to be provided for five days. Riding them, I passed through Gyantse town, crossed the Tsangpo River, and gradually advanced southward until reaching a nunnery called Neenin. It is said this nunnery houses a living Liberation Buddha-Mother. At that time, the Liberation Buddha-Mother was just seven years old. I had never met her and knew nothing of her nature, but regardless, this temple contained a living female Buddha.

Chomo Lhari Snow Peak and the Night View of Lham Tso Lake

After having lunch in front of the temple, we proceeded vigorously into the southern mountains and, upon traveling about ten ri, arrived at the hometown of Tenba, the luggage carrier. We lodged at a small temple. Since his own brothers were there, Tenba was greatly pleased and drank a considerable amount of sake that night. "When you look at that person’s complexion, it’s extremely pale," his brother remarked. "It’s a bit different from the fair complexion of Mongolians. He might be a Westerner, don’t you think?" At this, Tenba launched into fervent explanations.

“That’s Sera’s physician—a most venerable person of such standing,” he thoroughly explained. “I know that,” came the reply, “but this ‘Sera physician’ business is suspicious.” “He does nothing but strange things—they say he can even resurrect the dead.” “Only Westerners do such things.” “You’re not going to blunder into some terrible fate, are you?” he continued obliviously, forgetting I lay listening in the adjacent room. As I grew anxious—What troublesome notions he’s putting forth! After this honest man has followed me so dutifully, it’ll be disastrous if he’s swayed by such clever insinuations—Tenba fervently insisted, “No such thing!” “He’s a close associate of Tenwaydo’s owner and Chinese through and through,” he persisted, recounting details heard from the pharmacy proprietor.

The following early morning, pretending not to have heard any of that, as I was preparing to depart at 5:00 AM, the elder brother was whispering something to his younger brother. Proceeding gradually into the southern mountains for about seven ri, we arrived at a station called Kamma and took a short rest. There, amidst twelve or thirteen pack horses, my luggage was loaded entirely onto two horses and briskly moved onward. The Chinese carriers seemed unaware that the luggage they were transporting was entirely mine. I looked at the luggage and, seeing this, felt greatly relieved, certain that it would indeed reach Calcutta.

Tenba’s Temptation: Yet as Tenba observed the luggage, his suspicions seemed to grow increasingly intense. It struck him that when that luggage was being packed at Tenwaydo, it had seemed destined for storage at the pharmacy—but seeing it transported today struck him as suspicious. From then on, Tenba followed along in silent contemplation until finally speaking up as they walked. “From here, it’s only about five or six days’ journey to the Pari checkpoint,” he said, “but I think it wiser for you to take another route rather than proceeding straight there.” “Because once you reach Pari,” he continued, “the checkpoint inspection will prove extremely strict.” “Moreover,” he added, “they’ll never issue travel permits without a guarantor.” “Why must there be a guarantor? Because even if one goes to India,” he explained, “they must never take permanent residence there—someone must vouch they’ll surely return here.”

“The guarantor can’t be from outside areas—they have to be from that very village.” “If you try to get a guarantor in Pari, not only will they extort a hefty sum from you, but you’ll also need to grease palms just to obtain a travel permit.” “The costs pile up, and on top of that, major troubles could crop up—there’s even a chance you’d get stuck unable to pass through the checkpoint at all.”

“Now here’s an excellent opportunity. You needn’t spend so much money—just give me half that amount as drinking money, and I’ll guide you along a better path. It’s no outer route—if we slip through Kamburon’s Sanwairamu backroad, we’ll surely emerge on the other side without trouble. The journey might prove somewhat arduous, and I can’t swear wild beasts won’t come to harm us, though such things seldom happen. I’ve taken that path twice before. If you deem it too perilous, we could head toward Bhutan instead. True, Bhutan teems with bandits, but hide your luggage and don shabby clothes, and you needn’t fear encountering them. So which of these two options will you choose?” he inquired.

I promptly replied. “Are you saying you’re scared that if we go to Pari they’ll extort large sums from us?” “It’s not that I’m particularly scared—it just seems wasteful to spend so much on unnecessary things.” “I don’t know how much it might cost either—but there’s nothing more foolish than throwing your life away over something trivial.” “If we take those backroads through Kamburon or Bhutan like you suggest—nine times out of ten we’ll die.” “Wouldn’t it be better to spend generously and take the safe route rather than march to our deaths?” “You’re spouting absolute nonsense.” “If you lacked funds you’d have no choice but dangerous paths—but that’s not our situation.” “There’s no need to traverse such perilous shortcuts.” “Especially Bhutan—teeming with bandits—you’d get yourself killed without fail.” “Do you crave drinking money so desperately?” “A monthly wage of seven yen fifty sen—in Tibet you couldn’t earn that even working a full year.” “Yet I’m paying this bonus precisely because the work demands it.” “Now you want drinking money on top of everything?” “I didn’t say I won’t give drinking money.” “Persevere till journey’s end and I’ll pay it—but falter and you won’t get a single coin.” When I finished lecturing him—“Never speak of this again”—the Master’s wariness appeared somewhat eased.

The reasoning was this: had I said, "I'll give you money, so guide me through the backroad," he would have taken this as confirmation that I was someone to be suspected—having proposed it to test my resolve—but since I truly had no intention of taking the backroad, he would undoubtedly wait for my breathing to steady that night and attempt to abscond with the luggage. I understood this perfectly well. In such matters, Tibetans could never be trusted. While they maintained honesty among close acquaintances where social appearances were mutually upheld, once removed from societal sanctions—in places detached from what we call the public eye—they became remarkably cunning, willing to carry out even the most shameful acts without hesitation, making it unwise to let one’s guard down.

After traveling about five ri through similar mountainous terrain while having such conversations, we arrived at a village called Sarlung and took lodging. We departed at 1:00 AM on June 8th and set out southward, but it seemed our guide remained apprehensive about mountain travel and appeared reluctant to proceed. When we gradually proceeded southwest for about three ri, we came upon a plateau requiring a steep ascent. After climbing four and a half ri up its slopes, we reached an area containing a large pond flanked by a small stream.

Following along the south of that river and climbing for one and a half ri, we emerged at a place with a large lake. This is called Raham Tso Lake. The small stream I had followed now serves as the link between this lake and the previous pond. Going around this lake to the right—the so-called western side—also leads toward Pari. It is also possible to exit from the eastern side. We proceeded from the left side.

Snow Peaks in the Wilderness — Here too, the snow peaks of the Himalayan range sat imposingly amidst the plains as if anchoring themselves to the earth, leading one to think this area might well be called the Land of Snowy Peaks and Expanses. Many such snow peaks stood in a row, but what was unusual was that they were not very high. Almost all were mountains about a thousand shaku high entirely crowned with snow—such a beautiful sight that I thought could never be seen in any other country. Since it was already summer, there was some grass growing at the bases of the mountains, and especially around the lake, there was an abundance of grass, making this area an excellent summer pastureland.

Proceeding south along that lake for about eight ri, we arrived at dusk at the village called Raham-Mae, where the moon of May 2nd shone like a Japanese crescent. We stayed at a stone house used for herding livestock, south of which stood an immense mountain known in Tibetan as Chomo Lahari (Holy Mother Mountain)—though Tibet contains many such Chomo Lahari peaks. All great snow-crowned summits are revered as sacred sites bearing spiritual legacy and share this designation. Some claim there are twenty-one; others insist thirty-two. While the true count remains uncertain, every major mountain encircling Tibet appears to bear this name.

This Chomo Lahari soared at the edge of the wilderness as if Vairocana Buddha sat solemnly in meditation, while the snow-capped peaks arrayed around this lake—like natural incarnations of White-Robed Guanyin or Manjushri Bodhisattva—seemed to offer silent musical devotions to the Great Vairocana Buddha, manifesting a truly magnificent natural mandala. This area could not grow barley or wheat—it was a land exactly like the northwestern wilderness where only pastoralism was possible. Even pastoralism became nearly impossible in winter, so much so that some people relocated elsewhere. However, this lake called Raham Tso teemed with fish measuring from seven sun (about 21 cm) up to one shaku two sun (about 36 cm) in length. There were fishermen who caught these fish; during summer they would come to this lake to fish, selling their catch or drying it for winter provisions, but in winter these fishermen set out to beg in central Tibet. In summer they were fishermen, in winter beggars—such people were said to be quite numerous around here.

Chapter 131: The Five-Tiered Checkpoints

Assessing the theft situation—on June 9th—we once again set out southward along the lakeside on horseback. However, Tenba began entertaining delusions again. Since we were due to reach Pari—the first checkpoint—the very next day, he must have been gripped by the fear that if their scheme were exposed, he himself would be captured and subjected to the miseries of imprisonment. He turned to me and said, “The other day you dismissed taking the backroad, but isn’t that rather pointless?” “Even the backroad isn’t such a difficult path.” “I’ve passed through twice—I know it well. Even alone, wild beasts won’t harm you.” “The noises over there might unsettle you, but keep a fire burning and you’ll be fine—take the backroad.” “As I said before, Pari’s officials are ruthless in extorting money.” “I estimated fourteen or fifteen yen might suffice, but they could demand thirty—even fifty.” “Beyond that—if quick, four days’ delay; if slow, seven or eight.” “Though you’re pressed for time—better two days spared than wasting both days and coin,” he pressed insistently.

“Then I said, ‘Are you bringing that up again?’” “It’s amusing how the officials greedily take so much money.” “I do hope they take plenty.” As I persistently persuaded him by saying, “It’s for an offering to the Dalai Lama,” he became greatly astonished, and most of his suspicions melted away. That day brought yet another curious incident. After traveling about two ri, four rather rough-looking people came before my horse and stopped, then all bowed in unison and said they had a request to make.

When asked what it was about, they said: “We came from the north to sell salt in Pari, but while we were letting our yaks graze two nights ago, our guard fell asleep—whether Bhutanese or Tibetans took them we don’t know—but forty-five or forty-six head were stolen.” “We’ve come searching for those thieves—could you please divine which direction they fled?” “If they went toward Bhutan we must turn back south from here.” “If taken toward Tibet we must press northward.” “There’s no one else who can see such things—please help us.” Feeling pity at claiming ignorance of such matters,I pretended divination and told them:“If you hurry north you’ll recover them by day’s end.” Yet they departed overjoyed.

That night, we stayed at Rahamtoe, a poor village at the foot of Chomo Lahari Mountain. This village had almost no food, and it seemed everyone there was suffering, unable to pay taxes to the government.

Tribute from an Independent Nation: However, there were those who had come to this village to present tribute to the Tibetan government from Bhutan. Though Bhutan was an independent nation, it paid a certain amount of annual tribute to the Tibetan government due to unspecified relations. While Bhutan did have a king, the country appeared internally fragmented. Consequently, tribute to the Tibetan government seemed to be offered only by individual villages rather than through a unified central administration. When these tribute-bearers came to make their offerings, they would receive various goods in return before departing home. This tribute exchange resembled how the Nepalese government would present items like ivory and tiger skins to the Chinese government every five years, returning laden with silks and brocades.

Indeed, when the Nepalese government took goods worth about ten thousand yen [as tribute], they would receive items valued around fifty thousand yen to bring back to their own country—essentially like taking merchandise for commercial profit-making. Now that I had finally approached the checkpoint—though I had declared to Tenba we would take the main road—at the very moment I needed to enter judicial meditation to determine our course, the four Northern Plainsmen whose yaks had been stolen returned to my lodgings. Having recovered every single stolen head through my earlier divination assistance, they bowed to me as if I were a Buddha and presented two tangkas along with one kata.

Upon witnessing this, the servant was utterly astonished and exclaimed in terror, “This person is truly no ordinary master!” His demeanor showed there was no longer any room for doubt. That night, after reciting sutras until people had fallen asleep and entering judicial meditation, I ultimately decided to proceed via the main road. If one were to consider this from ordinary logical reasoning, taking the main road first would mean At the five-tiered checkpoints, one must undergo inspection. First and foremost, one must undergo the most severe and rigorous inspection at Pari-Zon. To pass through this checkpoint requires securing a primary guarantor. First, one must provide substantial gifts merely to request this guarantor’s service, then expend considerable bribes to officials over four or five days before finally obtaining a travel permit. Carrying this permit to the second checkpoint at Chumbi-Samba, one submits the permit acquired from the first checkpoint, undergoes inspection, and secures official approval to pass through the gate. Thereafter, at the third checkpoint within Pinbitan’s walls where Chinese soldiers are stationed, one must again undergo examination to obtain passage authorization.

Having safely passed through there, they next had to undergo inspection at the fourth checkpoint of Tomo Rinchengan and receive documentation. This document served as the provisional pass permit for Nyatong Castle's main gate. Carrying that document to Nyatong at the fifth checkpoint, they had to again expend considerable bribes, undergo direct interrogation before the commanding official to receive another document, then retrace their path back to Tomo Rinchen bearing this new paperwork. Then, after submitting that document and undergoing another inspection, they received two documents from Shago.

With those two documents in hand, they had to once again backtrack and return to the third checkpoint at Pinbitan. They handed one of the two documents to a Chinese officer at Pinbitan, and the Chinese general provided them with a document written in Chinese characters. With those documents—the one obtained from Shago at the fourth checkpoint—bringing the total to two, they came to the final checkpoint at Nyatong Castle, and upon presenting these documents for the first time, they could pass through the main gate.

Then, upon passing through that main gate, going past Nyatong’s small village, and crossing a small bridge, Chinese soldiers were stationed there. They would hand over the pass received from the Chinese general at the third checkpoint to those soldiers, keeping only the pass obtained from Shago at the fourth checkpoint—Tomo Rinchen—to carry onward. This constituted the procedure whereby one was permitted to return to Tibet solely by presenting that document when coming back after completing business in India. Though these procedures were exceedingly cumbersome if followed precisely, there remained nothing to fear.

As for the dangers within the checkpoints and pursuit—between Pari-Zon and Nyatong, there were people who had become friends with me during my time in Darjeeling, along with many who knew my face. Particularly, the Christian missionary Miss Taylor resided in a small village beyond Nyatong Castle, where there were also officials who inspected luggage. That official was Tibetan and knew me well. Not only was he a man of malicious character whom one could not let down their guard against, but the servant accompanying Miss Taylor was also someone acquainted with me. Therefore, even if one were to successfully enter within the checkpoints, there was no telling what outcome might result. When passing through during this extended period, it was utterly impossible to hope not to encounter even a single person one knew.

Moreover, since I would be detained for at least four or five days at Pari-Zon (the first checkpoint), there remained the added difficulty of being pursued from behind. Of course, there was no risk of discovery for at least ten days after my departure from Lhasa. I reasoned that from the 20th to the 30th day of the fourth month in the Tibetan calendar, the officials in Lhasa would be too preoccupied to notice my absence. Only after completing the Second Dalai Lama's full monastic ordination and finding themselves with free time would the officials discover my secret departure, at which point they would likely begin investigating which direction I'd fled and dispatch pursuers toward this route.

Therefore, today being still the third day of the fifth month in the Tibetan calendar, even if there was no chance of pursuers catching up today or tomorrow, were I detained at Pari-Zon for four or five days, they would arrive during that time. Unlike my journey with servants and luggage, they—bearing official orders—would pursue day and night on swift horses in pairs or trios, making it inevitable that I would be overtaken within six days. To elaborate, were I to spend five days at Pari-Zon, it would extend until the eighth day of the fifth month in the Tibetan calendar. If we assumed that pursuers departed Lhasa on the third day, then I would be caught precisely while dawdling within the checkpoints.

Therefore, from a commonsense perspective, it seemed nearly impossible to safely pass through these five-tiered checkpoints. No—I had to consider it utterly impossible. Yet the guidance from samadhi showed a direction unthinkable by common sense. If I took the bypath, there would be bandits and wild beasts; if I took the main road, the disgrace of shackles loomed—which path could I take to reach my destination safely?

Chapter 132: The First Checkpoint

I resolved to take the main road. In my judgment, this must follow common-sense reasoning—yet whichever path I took, the degree of danger remained equal. To put it plainly: whether I took the main road and faced capture and torment, or chose the mountain path to be devoured by wild beasts or slain by bandits—since unavoidable hardship awaited either way—I might as well take the main road. Especially since following samadhi's guidance had brought steady success thus far, I determined to obey its direction once more. That night I dozed briefly before departing at dawn by horse. Skirting Chomo Lahari's massive snow peak, I gradually advanced south until finally leaving Lake Lham Tso behind. As I climbed onto the southern plateau, those familiar great snow peaks rose in the distant east and west like towering snow-dharma wheels.

The terrain across this vast plateau remained bitterly cold despite summer's arrival, allowing only sparse vegetation to take root. What little grass grew clung tightly to the ground, leaving the land mostly a stony wasteland. Though I pushed my horse to its limits in my urgency to reach Pari Castle that day, my servant traveling on foot inevitably fell behind. We only arrived at Chukya Village as the last sunlight vanished from the sky.

This area was an extremely high plateau and bitterly cold. Not only was the altitude great, but with massive snow-capped mountains lining both sides, the cold grew intensely severe. At night, unless one gathered abundant dried yak dung to burn for warmth, the chill became utterly unbearable. I felt a cold harsher than Japan's most severe winters. For the time being, this area must have been the coldest stretch between Lhasa and Darjeeling. The next day on June 11th, I rose at four in the morning, boiled some tea to drink, then departed. Following a river southward across open plains for over two ri until sunrise,

We arrived at Pari Castle. As was customary, a large castle stood built upon the mountain's summit. Its shape was exactly like that of Lhasa's Potala Palace, though not as splendid as the Potala Palace; at the castle's base were houses. The houses all appeared black. This place called Pari was a plateau situated between snow-capped mountains, and since all imported goods from Darjeeling, Calcutta, Bombay, and surrounding areas passed through here, there was a customs office here that imposed taxes on each of those items. Moreover, exports from Tibet were mostly shipped out from there as well. The tariffs on these exports included cases where one-tenth was taken, cases where two-tenths were taken, and depending on the goods, there were even cases where four-tenths were levied.

The taxes were not particularly high, but they were mostly collected in goods. For items that could not be collected in kind, they were converted into an appropriate amount of silver currency. As one passed through the castle town, there was a small pond about three chō around beside it. On the road along the mountain side of the castle by the pond, there was a person keeping watch. That person would ask anyone passing by which inn they were heading to. When we said that since we didn't know of any specific inns, could they arrange a good one for us, they replied, "Very well," and since we were dressed in respectable attire, the guard, apparently mistaking us for noble monks, arranged a good inn for us.

Even if you called them inns, they were merely firewood lodgings—there wasn’t a single proper inn in all of Tibet. Since one only paid for the yak dung received, they could well be called dung-fee inns. I stayed at that dung-fee inn, but such was the situation that I first had to lodge there. The innkeeper said, “Where are you headed?” “I’m going toward Calcutta and plan to make a pilgrimage to Bodh Gaya as well. However, due to urgent business, depending on circumstances, I may not be able to make the pilgrimage.” “I may have to return quickly.” “What business brings you here?” “No—it’s nothing worth mentioning.” “Nor is there any need to speak of it further.” “Where are you from, Your Reverence?” “I’m from Lhasa.” “Where in Lhasa?” When I replied, “Sera,” he pressed further: “Ah! Then Your Reverence must be an incarnate lama?”

“No,” I said, but my servant interjected from beside me: “No—it’s not like that. He’s a much more eminent personage.” When asked, “Who is this?” and as the servant began, “This gentleman is the Dalai Lama’s—”, I snapped, “Silence! Don’t you dare utter such foolishness!” The innkeeper seemed perplexed. “Then what are you, Your Reverence? Are you one of the Dalai Lama’s monastic officials?” “No—that is not so. I merely reside at Sera Temple,” I replied, at which they grew intensely curious. As their curiosity rendered further explanation unnecessary, I rebuffed them with, “There’s no need to speak of such matters.”

The innkeeper’s persistence and the servant’s confession—but the servant cut in, “No, that won’t do. This is an extremely strict place where they thoroughly interrogate where you reside and your exact status—if anything seems suspicious, you must provide proof. Furthermore, Your Reverence must provide a guarantor who will ensure your return from India. Establishing such a guarantor is no simple matter. To arrange this, we must fully investigate Your Reverence’s circumstances beforehand.”

“Very well, I’ll tell you. I am an ordinary monk at Sera who has entered the monastic college and is training in dialectics.” “You don’t look like such a person at all, Your Reverence,” he replied. “Judging from your demeanor and attire, you appear to be either a high-ranking monastic official or an incarnate lama.” “That’s your prerogative to see it that way,” I said. “From my side, there’s no such thing. You could verify this by inquiring at my monk quarters.” When he answered “Is that so?” and left, that servant fellow exited after him. Because the house was small, conversations in the other room could be clearly heard here.

“Your master says all that, but I want to ask what his status truly is. If you don’t tell the truth, Your Reverence cannot leave here even if ten days pass—or twenty,” said the innkeeper. The servant replied, “But if I do tell, I’ll be severely scolded—there’s nothing to be done about it.” “In that case, can we just leave things as they are? Even if it takes a month?” “No—he’s in a great hurry.” “He seems to have extremely urgent business—so much so that he traveled through the night.” “That’s suspicious, isn’t it? Coming all through the night—I don’t know what business he’s rushing to, but he’s no ordinary monk. Someone...” they whispered secretively.

Then the servant said, “Well then, I’ll tell you—but don’t say you heard it from me. The truth is, he’s Serai Amchi.” “Hmph,” said the innkeeper, “so he’s that doctor who raises the dead?” “Yes,” replied the servant. “He was summoned to the Dalai Lama’s court—whether as a court physician or scholar, we don’t know for certain—but people say he became an imperial doctor. To be clear, I’m not some lifelong servant of his. I only joined him right before departure through a pharmacy connection. But in Lhasa, they say even birds mid-flight would alight for his treatments—that’s how famed he is.” “I see,” said the innkeeper. “Then we must expedite the paperwork and secure his travel permit within four or five days.” “We’ll be ruined if you don’t,” the servant pressed.

“Now that you mention the doctor—I’ve just remembered there’s a gravely ill patient here.” “He’s my relative—couldn’t you have him examine that patient?” The servant replied, “He doesn’t practice medicine.” “He’s truly a stubborn and suspicious man—no matter how you try to persuade him, he won’t listen to others.” “If he’d worked as a doctor along the way, he could’ve made good money—but he just passed up every opportunity! It pained me to see such waste.” “Won’t you at least try asking him?” he pressed insistently.

Regarding the medical examination request and witness arrangement—the servant, having accidentally revealed only that he was a doctor, came over and said, "Well, you see... Since the master kept asking all sorts of questions about Your Reverence, I ended up letting slip that you're a physician. But there's apparently a gravely ill patient here—could you examine them during our four or five-day stay?" "If I went around examining every patient people mentioned, there'd be no end to it," I replied. "Especially since I have urgent business—I can't afford to waste time playing doctor." "But for the salvation of all beings," the servant implored, "you must do this." With no alternative, I put up strong resistance—"I have pressing matters to attend to"—before reluctantly agreeing.

The innkeeper happily rushed out. After some time had passed, the innkeeper returned with a person from outside and took me to a certain house. The houses in that area all appeared black. The method of construction was as follows: They would cut sod still attached to its soil into brick-like pieces measuring about 1 shaku 2 sun (approx. 36 cm) in length, 7 sun (approx. 21 cm) in width, and 3 sun (approx. 9 cm) in thickness, dry and harden them, then stack these to build houses. They are quite sturdy, but if stacked by themselves, they would collapse during windy seasons, so pillars are erected at intervals. The houses are made entirely of sod, yet there are quite large ones. However, only the castle is built with stone. In this area, since the mountains lie far away and transporting stone would require considerable expense, they appear to build houses using sod grass and such materials.

However, unlike in Lhasa and such places, two-story houses were almost nonexistent there. I saw one or two such houses, but only their ground floors were built with stone, while the upper parts were constructed with sod. That was probably because if one were to construct it solely with sod grass, there would be a risk of the second floor collapsing. I was guided to such a two-story house.

Now, just by my taking her pulse, she seemed to feel much better. In other words, it was through my own spiritual power that I brought relief. The patient was their daughter suffering from a nervous disorder—her condition resembled the early stages of lung disease and was marked by severe melancholy—and because of this illness, she never ventured outside.

Then I gave her a small amount of medicine and said, “Please drink this—it will make you feel very refreshed. Then make pilgrimages to Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva morning and evening,” I said and returned. After some time had passed, the innkeeper, greatly pleased that she was feeling much better, came to my room to express his gratitude and said, “Obtaining a witness here is extremely difficult—what does Your Reverence intend to do?” “That does pose a problem, but I absolutely must find a witness.” “I intend to give a proper reward,” I said. He replied, “In that case, I will accompany you to the witness’s place and speak on your behalf. In this country, it’s not possible for just anyone to become a witness. If we could handle it ourselves, it would be simple, but the government does not permit it. Since ordinary people would have trouble getting them to agree even if they went and asked, I will make the request for you. In that case, there’s no need to worry about being charged a large sum of money.”

They went to the witness's house after requesting him to handle the matter. That witness, surprisingly, wasn’t a bad person either. However, even if one wears fine garments, it is typical of Tibetans to covet money. However, despite my having cautioned them not to mention my status or such matters, the innkeeper blurted out, "This gentleman is Sera Amchi—a most distinguished personage, the Dalai Lama’s court physician." Whether it was like a crane's commanding cry or not, that person promptly agreed to serve as a witness.

Chapter 133: Passing the First Gate

“You needn’t worry about formal thanks. Just pay one and a half rupees for the procedural fees. Though even if we go now today, you likely won’t receive the travel permit. The council may convene tomorrow or the day after—I’ll put in a request to expedite it. That way you should be able to depart within four or five days. But if we don’t submit the application today, there’ll be further delays—I’ll take you there now.” With that, he briskly guided us to the checkpoint.

The checkpoint was built among civilian houses below the castle walls, containing nothing resembling a conference room inside. A sizable group of officials seemed to have assembled there. Though I couldn't tell if many higher-ranking officers were present beyond them, fourteen or fifteen men occupied the space. Being Tibetan bureaucrats, they kept all officials gathered yet refused to convene a meeting that day—all to extort more bribes. They claimed they wouldn't hold session today either, letting three or four days pass—or in more extreme cases, leaving matters unattended for up to ten days. During this interval, they would squeeze out as much in bribes as possible, ultimately deciding whether to issue travel permits quickly or withhold them based purely on bribe amounts—or so I surmised.

When we submitted the application under the witness’s guidance, the most authoritative-looking official among them declared, “There will naturally be no meeting today. The procedures require convening a session around the day after tomorrow—only after holding it can we provide a proper response.” “You need not come yourself. If you send the innkeeper to inquire the day after tomorrow, you’ll know,” came the pronouncement. This meant that sending the innkeeper for inquiries today would yield no travel permit, but paying this amount of money would likely secure one during tomorrow’s assembly—though in any case, the process reportedly required about five days.

When I suggested that given my urgent circumstances requiring an exceptionally large bribe to expedite matters, perhaps I could exceptionally receive it today, he retorted, “I don’t know what business you have, but there’s no precedent here for obtaining a travel permit on the very day of arrival.” “Moreover, we cannot issue it here either.” As the chief advised, “You should return today,” the parents of the girl I had treated and the innkeeper—who had accompanied us—apparently drew the official aside and revealed that I was the Dalai Lama’s court physician. Then that official emerged and demanded of me, “What business compels your journey?” “My affairs are most urgent—could you convene a meeting even by tomorrow?” I pressed. “Utterly impossible,” the chief answered. No indication suggested we might obtain it even if we waited until the day after. Therefore, I devised a plan.

“There may be no precedent, but I am not traveling for ordinary personal matters,” I said. “I am on a secret mission.” “I cannot disclose the details at this time.” “If you wish to know, you must follow proper procedures to Lhasa and inquire with the Dalai Lama’s foreign affairs officer.” “Though my identity remains concealed for now, let them take whatever time they require.” “You must provide written proof that this delay occurred precisely under these circumstances.”

When the official asked, “Regarding the general nature of this matter,” I replied, “The truth is there is a gravely ill patient in Lhasa for whom I must urgently procure medicine.” “My stated journey to Buddhagaya is merely a pretext—in reality, I must reach Calcutta swiftly and return immediately.” “This is an extremely urgent matter—I cannot spend even a single night in Calcutta.” “Once I obtain that specific medicine, I must turn back at once to return to Lhasa.” “However, should I be detained here for two or three days, such delay would render me unable to fulfill my responsibilities—thus I absolutely require your certification of this circumstance.” “Naturally, for my own sake, I would prefer to rest here two or three days.” “Having rushed here day and night with utmost urgency since departing, my body is utterly exhausted—though it would be most welcome to recuperate briefly, doing so would prevent me from accomplishing my secret mission.” “Were I able to obtain the permit today, I would depart this very instant—yet I do not demand this of you.” “I ask only for that certification,” I concluded, whereupon he demanded, “What manner of person are you, Venerable Monk?” “That I shall not disclose.” “If I state that medicines are required, you should comprehend my purpose.” “But my journey serves more than that alone—I bear another matter of grave importance. In truth, I cannot linger here even a day longer. Therefore, I request at minimum a written note confirming I submitted my application here today.” “A certificate attesting to a three-day delay may be issued afterward if necessary,” I declared solemnly.

Attending to the Travel Permit The chief turned pale with surprise and said, “I had no inkling of such circumstances! Kindly wait in another room for a moment.” “Now that we recognize you as such a physician, we actually have a gravely ill patient here whom we’d like you to examine.” “However, since you say you cannot linger long, we shall not detain you excessively. Still, I cannot settle this matter on my own authority alone—we must hold a council meeting to decide whether to grant the travel permit immediately, after which we’ll deliver our prompt reply.” “While you wait in the other room, we request that you examine this patient,” came the formal appeal.

After going to another house and examining that patient among other tasks, around three o'clock that day they summoned me back. When I went there again, [Chikyabu] said, “Today we have specially convened a council. This matter is truly unprecedented, but upon understanding your circumstances, we do recognize there appear to be valid points. As a result of the council, we have decided to promptly issue the travel permit, so please wait until around four o’clock.” After waiting a while, quite conveniently around four o'clock that day, the travel permit came into my hands. Even Tibetan government official merchants who already possessed travel permits apparently had no choice but to stay for two or three days due to various discussions and luggage inspections. However, I obtained it that very day. Although we departed that night, since there was no place to stay along the way, we stayed there for just one night.

Leaving Pari Castle—I departed early the next day and gradually made my way into the southwestern mountains. This area now consisted entirely of towering snow-capped mountains, with small plains scattered between them. After climbing about three ri and reaching the summit of the plain, Pari Castle was already out of sight. From here, it was all downhill. Last night, sleet fell, leaving the ground thoroughly soaked. The surrounding snow-capped mountains were dressed in fresh garments from the newly fallen sleet. The cold was exceptional, and particularly because the sunlight's reflection was so harsh, it painfully struck the eyes. In areas where water flowed, there were only patches of short grass growing, with nothing resembling trees. It was an utterly desolate landscape.

The water formed a boundary at the summit of this plain, flowing down one side to the Tibetan Plateau and the other toward India. Crossing that slope and passing through a gently descending area of the snow-capped mountains, we encountered a rather wide stream whose water was so clear that the white and black stones at its bottom gleamed like gems. My throat parched, I tried scooping up a handful to drink, but the water was so cold it caused my hand to recoil, and I couldn't bring myself to try again. Having already returned the horse at Pari Castle, riding across that water was out of the question.

As I was thinking how troublesome it would be to take off my shoes and cross this cold river, my servant first carried the luggage across, then came back to help me over, so I managed to avoid entering the frigid water. The coldness of this water was no different from what I had experienced when wading through streams in the northwestern plains, yet having grown accustomed to a comfortable lifestyle in Lhasa, Tibet, it now felt exceptionally cold. I profoundly realized that when enduring hardships, one could bear even extreme difficulties with relative ease, but once accustomed to comfort, even minor trials became painfully trying.

Chapter 134: Spectacular Views Along the Way and the Garrison Town

The Spectacular Foothills — After descending about two ri down the mountain, amidst the sparse small trees growing at the base of the snow-capped mountains, there bloomed nameless beautiful flowers of yellow, red, purple, pale pink, and other hues, spread out like a woolen carpet. Since I do not study botany, I know nothing about such plants, but they are exceedingly beautiful. As I became entranced by the surrounding scenery, the ever-shifting spectacle of white clouds dancing across the peaks of the distant snow-capped mountains appeared as though a snow mountain hermit, riding upon the clouds in meditative play, wandered here and there.

The Splendid Scenery Amidst Tibet's Snow Peaks

As we gradually descended, a light rain began to fall, and the scenery of the snow-capped mountains that had been beautifully illuminated by sunlight until now vanished before we knew it; yet the snow peaks in the rain presented an entirely different sight. Here and there along the path, fragrant yellow azaleas (paru), red azaleas (suru), and various other wildflowers with droplets pooled on them appeared like strings of jade discs lining the mountain slopes. As we gradually descended along the mountain stream, the spray from the torrent striking against the rocks and flowing onward created a truly delightful sight as it struck at our feet. Such amusing sights were nothing but topics for muttering among the unrefined Tibetans...

“To get caught in the rain in a place like this is just unbearable,” said my servant, seething with anger. “If there’s a Lord of Heaven, he should’ve given us fair weather—this is infuriating! The luggage got soaked and became heavier—there’s no managing it! There’s nowhere to stay tonight—this is a real problem,” he muttered with understandable frustration. Undoubtedly it was arduous, but had they possessed a heart that cherished scenery, I believe they would have forgotten that hardship. Yet they held not a shred of appreciation for scenery. Strangely enough, Tibetans possessed no taste for scenic beauty—born as many were among rocky deserts and barren mountains, they seemed incapable of understanding landscape aesthetics. Not a single painting existed that depicted scenery unique to Tibet; any such works would have been mere imitations of Chinese ones.

Therefore, even when my servant came to such scenic places or arrived at a field lined with rows of yak dung pellets, he remained completely unfazed. He was so enthralled that he completely forgot about the rain falling and his own clothes getting soaked. If I could paint and bring back this scenery, people would surely be delighted. It was a view so achingly beautiful that I thought—if only there were a camera to capture this scenery and bring it back, how people would rejoice! As every moment brought changing vistas while we gradually advanced, the vivid hues of what are known as Rhododendrons—a renowned feature of the Himalayan mountains—defied all attempts at description. Beautiful flowers (from small trees) bloomed in full glory, competing amidst thousand-year-old trees and towering rocks.

The sight of rare flowers and exotic plants patterning the banks of the roaring stream left one marveling endlessly at its wonders; might I linger here and become immortalized with this landscape? Ah, how my father and mother—nay, how my fellow countrymen—would exult were they to behold this view! Thus I sat upon a rock, losing all sense of self in prolonged contemplation of the scene. Even now, recalling that joy brings a feeling that cleanses my heart of worldly dust.

However, the torrential rain left us without any place to eat, leaving us truly troubled. Upon hearing there was a large cavern a bit further ahead, we hurried toward it. At this riverside cave, we managed to light damp deadwood and prepare tea with clear stream water while the flames took hold. As the rain kept falling, we eventually emerged at a place called Dakarpo (White Rock Village).

The day’s journey was eight ri (about 31 km). There was not quite what one would call a village there, but there stood a military barracks housing sixteen soldiers. Besides that stood something resembling a small detached house where a good number of soldiers' wives lived. Beside the barracks rose a massive white rock over thirty ken (approximately 180 feet) in height. The type of stone could not be clearly discerned. Amidst its stark whiteness grew patches of grass. I stayed at the military barracks that night, though the soldiers here neither inspected travel permits nor performed such formalities.

The relay station soldiers—this was a place between Pari Castle and Chöten Karpo (White Pagoda) Castle for relaying letters. When letters were brought there from one side, they would take those letters to the other castle. In Tibet, there was no place where letters could be exchanged as perfectly as there. In other areas, for instance, one would travel about twenty or thirty ri to hand over letters at a relay station and have them transported onward—such was the standard procedure there. Moreover, this was done only when the government transmitted orders to local offices, so ordinary letters exchanged in daily life were not relayed. Therefore, if private citizens wished to exchange letters, they had to either send someone from their household or hire a person.

That night at the military barracks, they had me sleep on a splendid Western-style bed. Since leaving India, this was the first time I had slept on such a bed. It was precisely the rainy season—particularly in the Himalayan region north of Darjeeling, an area of torrential rains. Though it poured again the next day, there being no need to stay longer, we braved the downpour around five in the morning despite my servant's tearful complaints, and entered an immense forest.

However, there were many large trees so big that three or four people could embrace them. These were all territories of the Tibetan government, but even if they cut down trees from this area, they could not take them to inland Tibet. The water was unsuitable, transport tools were lacking, and since the rivers flowed south away from their own country, there remained no means of convenient transportation. They appeared to have been left abandoned as they were. It was a forest spanning nearly four ri, within which there were flatlands and a river flowing from Pari Peak in Tibet. The stream, though initially very narrow, gradually gathered mountain brooks and small rivers as it flowed downward, growing ever wider in its course. After traveling about six ri from Dakarpo, we arrived at Chöten Karpo Castle. This

Chöten Karpo Castle—whether it had been recorded in European writings or not—I found no mention whatsoever in the books I had seen. This castle being newly built, perhaps Westerners remained unaware of it. Or perhaps they knew but kept it secret. However, it appeared that even the presence of two to three hundred Chinese soldiers at this new fortress remained completely unknown, for when I later reached Darjeeling, the local governor there earnestly questioned me—having heard rumors of a castle existing in that area—demanding to know how many troops were stationed there based on its condition.

When I remarked, "You should know that without needing to ask," he responded, "Our secret agents can't get in there, so we don't know." Whether this was truly the case remained unclear. Even Tibetans long settled in Darjeeling appeared unaware of the castle's existence. Moreover, while Tibetans showed sharp business acumen, they proved utterly indifferent to such matters—they might mention something resembling a castle gate over yonder, yet remain wholly unconcerned about how many soldiers garrisoned it, their duties, or their purpose. Though the castle's lower section served as a thoroughfare, I made special entry into its interior. None raised any particular objection.

Within the castle walls stood a Chinese soldiers' quarter where approximately three hundred troops were garrisoned. Though situated in mountainous terrain, this proved a surprisingly vibrant settlement where some soldiers cut hair while others sold freshly made udon noodles or tofu, with still others peddling sundries—all maintaining thriving sidelines while some kept wives and raised children. What was nominally barracks had effectively transformed into a full-fledged town. These soldiers rotated every six months—some contingents arriving from Shikache while others came from Gyangche. They drew salaries not only from the Chinese government but also received supplementary allowances from Tibetan authorities. Their evidently ample income supported conspicuously comfortable livelihoods.

Chapter 135: Safely Passing Through Four Checkpoints Partaking of Japanese Chazuke - When I arrived at a barracks in the soldiers' quarter and ordered lunch, they specially cooked rice upon learning they had some available, serving various Chinese-style dishes. As pork and yak meats predominated, my servant devoured them eagerly, but when I declined saying I wouldn't eat these, they provided exceptionally tasty pickled vegetables. At that moment, I tasted something resembling Japanese pickled vegetables for the first time. There they neither challenged nor questioned anything. This castle stood remarkably sturdy, with an immense stone wall erected along the flanking mountains to the south and two gates positioned at its center. Upon these gates hung a notice stating they opened daily at six o'clock and closed at six in the evening.

When I asked the people nearby whether it was indeed operated as stated, they said it was extremely reliable—though on occasion, if soldiers had some special urgent business, they could submit a notification and have it opened—but otherwise, they did not permit much passage at night due to the danger of encountering wild beasts. Crossing a small bridge and proceeding through an ascending plain for about half a ri, then descending along the original river through the forest for another half a ri, we emerged onto a plain where beautiful grasses grew and many horses grazed.

Passing through the second checkpoint, we left the plain, crossed a bridge, and after proceeding four or five hundred meters, arrived at Chunbi Bridge. It was a rather large bridge, about forty-three to forty-five meters long and roughly 3.6 meters wide, but it had no railings or anything of the sort. On the eastern side of the bridge stood a gate, before which was a small house where soldiers guarded the entrance. The travel permit was handed over to those soldiers—it was said that if someone were deemed suspicious there, they would be sent back. That might not have been true, but I had long heard rumors that if one didn’t give the soldiers what they required, they would be sent back.

When we arrived there, they took one look at me and persistently asked, “Where are you going?” But when my servant handed the travel permit to the officer, he declared, “There’s no need for questions. Let him through immediately.” This was because the permit contained the instruction: “Under no circumstances are you to make any suspicious remarks or take any unusual actions toward this person. Should any such thing occur, you will suffer dire consequences later—so let them through immediately without interrogation.” Thus they allowed us to pass through that gate without any hindrance. Well, with this we had managed to pass through two checkpoints. We still had three more checkpoints to cross. This was another new test. However, since I had passed the first trial, my faith grew that the samadhi’s guidance had proven accurate, and I felt truly delighted. Following along the river and gradually descending southward for about two and a half ri, we then

We arrived at the Pinbithan military barracks. As heavy rain had been falling all day, both my servant and I were thoroughly exhausted, so upon finally arriving at the Pinbithan military barracks, we secured lodging in one of the barracks. There was talk that we wouldn’t have to undergo inspection at this barracks the next day. Directly from here, we would go to Tomo Rinchegan to receive a written document from the checkpoint officer there, use that document as proof to pass through the Nyatong castle gate guarded by Chinese soldiers, then undergo inspection by the chief guard of Nyatong’s main castle—the so-called fifth checkpoint—and receive another document, after which we would have to return once more to Pinbithan. However, I heard that in Pinbithan, they would not hand over the documents unless it was between 11:00 and 11:30 in the morning.

Therefore, first thing tomorrow morning, we needed to set out for Tomo—but it hardly seemed possible to complete everything within the day. I had estimated this would take about four or five days. If we dawdled even during this time, not only was there the risk of pursuers catching up, but should a notice ordering my capture reach Pari, a message could be sent overnight all the way to Nyatong, making it utterly impossible for me to achieve my objective. I realized I had to devise some method without delay.

However, that night—whether someone had fortunately brought her or she had emerged through some connection remained unclear—the wife of the commander (a Chinese officer) guarding Pinbithan Castle came for a medical examination. This woman was a Tibetan lady who had reportedly been suffering from a prolonged condition. Though afflicted by what appeared to be hysteria, she possessed striking beauty and wielded immense influence over the Chinese officer. While the officer naturally held authority to command his soldiers, there existed a soldier's account that within his household, his wife acted as captain while he became a private obeying her orders.

I examined the checkpoint commander’s wife—though this might have been soldiers’ slander—but since she had come all this way, I examined her as requested, explained her condition, provided advice, and gave her some medicine. When my explanation appeared to match her long-standing symptoms perfectly—evidently convincing her that the Sera Amchi truly was remarkable—she became greatly delighted and said, “I wish to show my gratitude. Is there anything you desire?” When I replied there was nothing I wanted, she returned home and immediately brought a wrapped package.

“I don’t know what was inside,” I said while pushing back the package, “but I must go to Nyatong tomorrow on urgent business—I need to obtain a document at Nyatong checkpoint and return here to get my travel permit.” “I do wish to come back myself, but I might just send a messenger instead.” “Though the officer may be occupied then,” I requested, “could you arrange for him to hand it over immediately?” “That’s no trouble at all,” she replied. “My husband is strict—even his own soldiers can’t get travel permits except between eleven and half past—but I’ll personally guarantee it.”

"That is all I request; I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again upon my return." "I have absolutely no need for this package," I declared, firmly pushing it away. The woman departed in high spirits. "If matters proceed smoothly there tomorrow, I expect our procedures here will be settled. Yet still uneasy, I inquired with the soldier's wife at my lodgings, who assured me: 'That will certainly go without a hitch." "'She wields boundless authority over her husband.'" It resembled what we in Japan would call a household ruled by Hikidaimyōjin.

On the following June 14th, at three o'clock in the morning, we braved the rain and traveled over two ri to arrive at Tomo Rinchegan. Since dawn had not yet broken and every door remained shut tight, there was no house where we could rest even briefly. Fortunately, as the rain had let up slightly, we stood waiting under the eaves of a house when soon the door opened. When we asked where the checkpoint was located, they said it lay at the edge of the village. Though called a checkpoint, there was no actual gate. There was merely a house keeping watch. When we arrived there, they had just gotten up.

Having safely passed through the fourth checkpoint, I explained the circumstances and requested a travel permit, but as usual they began making excuses about there being no such precedent—when my servant blurted out, “This here’s the Sera Amchi!” Then they asked me, “Then could you be the one who’s recently become the renowned attending physician to His Holiness?” To which I responded in vague Tibetan gentlemanly fashion, “Though I haven’t formally become His Holiness’s physician, I’m nevertheless burdened with urgent business and must depart swiftly.” Instantly convinced, they wrote out the document with greater ease than anticipated.

After leaving the village and climbing about one ri, we parted from the main river and gradually ascended along a wide river in the mountains slightly to the southwest. There were no longer any large trees in this area. Only a few small trees remained, with fields where they reportedly grew wheat. After traveling about one ri further, there stood a castle. It was both the largest castle and the last one. There were three forts in total: this castle housed two hundred soldiers, Pinbithan had one hundred, and the preceding Chöten Karpo Fort held another two hundred—totaling five hundred soldiers altogether. It was said that sometimes about fifty soldiers from this fort would go to Pinbithan.

The soldiers' town here extended over two chō in length and consisted of row houses. Between them were soldiers engaged in various businesses, just as in the soldiers' town of Chöten Karpo. This had also been present in Pinbithan. After exiting the soldiers' town, we encountered a large gate with two sentry soldiers stationed beside it. When we presented our documents to them, they promptly stamped them and granted us passage. Then we had to proceed about half a chō further to Nyatong Station—a place that was extremely perilous for me.

Chapter 136: Finally, the Fifth Checkpoint

I arrived at the fifth checkpoint. As for why Nyatong's gate was dangerous—it was because there were many people who knew me. Of course, there were no outright enemies, but Tibetans by nature had a strong inclination toward money-making, so there might have been someone who, upon seeing my face, would inform Tibetan officials that I was such-and-such a person for profit. There were two British people there. One was a female missionary named Miss Taylor. As I had mentioned before about this person, she had attempted to enter Tibet's interior from China and advanced as far as a place called Nakchukha.

From there to Lhasa in Tibet, it would take fifteen days by horse and twenty to twenty-four or twenty-five days on foot to arrive. Having come this far, she was finally refused entry. Of course, reaching that point was supposed to be easily achievable—because it was Chinese-controlled Tibet. Furthermore, since this area belonged to Tibet under the Dalai Lama's domain, they were not permitted to advance further. Because of this, she had retreated and now resided at this Nyatong Station with the aim of proselytizing Tibetans. This was a place bordering British India and Tibet where both Tibetan government officials and British government officials were stationed. There were also British personnel employed by the Chinese government to inspect import and export goods residing at the station, along with Tibetan secretaries attached to those British officials.

Moreover, there were four or five Tibetans who had come from Darjeeling residing there as well, most of whom knew my face. Were we to be spotted by those people, it would mean utter ruin. Though we had to advance with utmost caution, resolved that discovery would seal our fate after all this time, we pressed onward undaunted. There stood about ten houses there. Among them, the largest dwellings were those housing the officials and the missionaries' residence. Then there was another house that appeared to accommodate Chinese officials.

The chief of the fifth checkpoint was a former labor broker who had risen through the ranks. His official title was Chikyabu (Chief Administrator), located beyond the missionary’s residence, and his actual name was Sata Daruke. Sata means "labor broker," and Daruke is his actual name. In Darjeeling, there are *dandiwala*—mountain palanquin bearers—but this man had once been a labor broker who made deception, threats, and extortion his regular trade. Even now, those who had suffered terribly under him could often be heard cursing through tears, declaring that no one in Darjeeling was crueler than Sata Daruke. By all accounts, he was a thoroughly wicked man. They had to meet that man.

He was such a self-made man risen from labor brokerage, but as Chikyabu, he held what might be called an imperially appointed position in Tibet, wielding tremendous authority that permitted him to adorn his hat with coral beads. As typical of parvenus, his manner of speech carried even greater pomposity than that of the Prime Minister in Lhasa. Had we gone to that gate demanding an audience, we would certainly have been turned away. The house directly opposite was indeed characteristic of European residences, complete with bedroom, study, and reception hall—a rather splendid dwelling where numerous servants bustled about busily in every direction.

There were likely those among them who knew my face, but since I tried my best not to look their way, I couldn’t tell who was there. So we went to inquire at Chikyabu’s place, but they wouldn’t allow us upstairs. From among them, a man came out, saw my face, and asked my servant in a hushed tone, “Who’s that?” As the servant began saying, “This here’s the Sera Amchi—” he was interrupted by “Ah! The renowned Amchi? Someone did mention the Sera Amchi would come this way.” The servant pressed on, “We’re on urgent business and can’t waste a single day.” “Since even Pari issued us a travel permit the very day we applied, please have the document ready quickly.” Thinking things were proceeding smoothly, someone declared, “In any case, come up here.” This Chikyabu kept two wives—one from his days as a labor broker, and another beauty taken after becoming Chikyabu.

When my servant disclosed circumstances that would pressure the checkpoint chief and requested a passage permit, Chikyabu asked, “What kind of business is this?” “To put it plainly,” the servant replied, “I’m entrusted with secret matters from the Dalai Lama’s inner palace and must proceed quickly toward Calcutta.” “If possible, I wish to return within twenty days—such is the urgency,” he continued. “But given matters requiring this duration, the delay can’t be helped.” “If we obtain proper documentation,” he declared in his usual forceful manner, “it will suffice for our report in Lhasa.” To this, Chikyabu responded, “This secret matter you mention falls under my official duties to investigate.”

“Is that so? Do you possess the authority to inquire into the Prime Minister’s secrets? Much less do you have any right to hear matters known only to His Holiness? If you demand I speak of them, then I shall refuse. However—if you provide a certificate bearing your official seal accepting full responsibility beyond what I disclose, I will dismiss these others and reveal His Holiness’s secret to you.” He drew himself up with solemn dignity as he spoke these words. “No—under such circumstances, I naturally shall not press further,” came the reply. “Since you bear such vital business from His Holiness, we cannot detain you even a day. Let us immediately arrange your travel permit.” “Then I shall draft the document myself. Have your servant carry it to Tomo Rinchengang. There they will issue two papers—take those to Pinbithan, and the Chinese officer will provide another document. With those in hand, all may pass through this checkpoint.” He promptly prepared the document addressed to Tomo Rinchengang. As I briefly explained earlier, let me now clarify about these two documents obtained at the fourth checkpoint—Tomo Rinchengang. Of these, the Chinese-language document serves as certification for proceeding to the third checkpoint at Pinbithan, where it must be surrendered to the officer there. The other document, written in Tibetan script—

Return Certificate: This served as evidentiary documentation for the procedure where, when completing my business in India and returning to Tibet, I would present this return certificate to Chikyabu at the fifth checkpoint—which would become the first checkpoint upon returning—to obtain a new travel permit. However, since I never returned after leaving, this return certificate remained in my hands as a memento. Returning to our story, obtaining documents from Chikyabu proved no easy matter. This man held the highest reputation for greedily taking bribes.

(Nyatong Checkpoint Chief issues certificate permitting Sera's Ekai and his servant—two individuals—to travel to Kalimpong. May 8, 1902 [Jinshi Year]. Clerk's seal.) His demeanor was so repugnant to behold that when I declared I bore secret orders from the Dalai Lama, he immediately began bowing with such excessive prostration it became grotesque to witness—yet through my tone, I conveyed without words: "Behold my mastery." I stood dumbfounded at the extremity of his transformation. In that moment, I reaffirmed my long-held conviction: in every nation, those who tyrannize their inferiors inevitably grovel before their superiors, while those who fawn obsessively over their betters inevitably oppress those beneath them—truly despicable sycophants. This encounter etched that truth deeper into my understanding.

Chapter 137: Finally Passing Through the Five-Tiered Checkpoints

The servant's return journey | Handing the document received from the fifth checkpoint's chief to the servant, I instructed: “At Tomo Rinchengang, presenting this should get you documents, but at Pinbithan they'll likely make excuses. If that happens, go to the officer’s wife and ask. She will undoubtedly arrange for them to hand it over,” I added privately. But the servant was astonished: “How did they give it to us so quickly? It’s like something out of a dream. However, if you don’t come along yourself, even the Tomo checkpoint won’t grant approval.”

“No—I had already anticipated that concern and inquired with Chikyabu. Since all particulars are written in this document, the Tomo checkpoint chief will undoubtedly write the paperwork to send to Pinbithan. There’s no need for you to trouble yourself coming all this way—just have the servant go while you wait here.”

The servant handed the document bearing Chikyabu’s seal to the soldiers guarding Nyatong’s main gate—which they had just passed through—and then headed to Tomo Rinchengang carrying only the single document obtained from Chikyabu. When he presented the paperwork to that checkpoint chief—a procedure that would normally take two or three days even with bribery—they promptly prepared two documents, thanks to both Chikyabu’s special orders and Master’s trust in me.

Nyatong Fortress

With those two documents in hand, he retraced over two ri of the path back to Pinbithan. Upon arriving at the Pinbithan office, he handed over one of the two documents and received in return a document written in Chinese characters. However, since he had arrived around 1:30 in the afternoon, they refused to hand it over as expected. Then, just as I had instructed, the servant went to the officer’s residence and pleaded with his wife: “Please obtain the document for us.” Whereupon she immediately hurried over to the checkpoint. When she demanded that her husband—the officer—issue the document, he replied: “I cannot issue it today.” When he said, “I’ll issue it tomorrow,” his wife grew furious—“Are you refusing what I’ve personally guaranteed?”—her tone embodying the typical Tibetan woman’s temperament as she assumed a combative stance.

The servant recounted how the officer—perhaps realizing resistance was futile—had suddenly yielded at his wife’s decisive command and prepared the document. He returned with the papers just past four o’clock. Of the two documents obtained, one bore Chinese characters while the other used Tibetan script—the return certificate previously mentioned. Though the rain persisted and nightfall approached, I considered pressing onward rather than lodging here—half a day’s travel would bring us into British India. As I weighed this, Chikyabu interjected: “The downpour complicates matters grievously, but Naktan station lies a considerable distance ahead.” “There are no lodgings along that route.” “However, ascending four ri up the mountain brings you to an isolated house.” “Reaching that dwelling tonight would prove most advantageous.” “Should you attain it tomorrow’s journey to Naktan becomes trivial—otherwise, even departing at three tomorrow morn would scarcely suffice.” “Given your urgent mission’s gravity, arduous though it may be—would you consider departing today?”

“I’m rather exhausted and would prefer to stay here tonight, but is it truly impossible to reach Naktan by tomorrow?” To this he replied, “No—that would be utterly impossible.” Thereupon I turned to my servant and asked, “Can we manage?” To which he replied, “This is most troubling.” However, Chikyabu barked, “Insolent wretch—your master bears crucial matters!” “How dare you refuse to go?!” he thundered. The servant meekly shriveled up in dismay, like a leech doused in salt. I too felt a flicker of apprehension that lingering another day might sow seeds of unforeseen trouble. “Well then,” I declared, “let us prepare to depart,” and took my leave of Chikyabu.

Exiting*1*the fifth checkpoint—they departed.

Nayatong Fortress stood as an imposing structure, precisely matching its blueprint depictions. Upon exiting Nayatong Station and making a brief descent, they encountered a river. After crossing a small bridge measuring slightly over two ken and advancing four to five ken further, they found a solitary house garrisoned by Chinese soldiers. To these soldiers they presented their Chinese-character travel permit obtained at Pinbithan—the document bore explicit authorization for these two individuals' passage. As they steadily climbed the mountain slopes beneath pounding rain, the steep path revealed itself surprisingly well-maintained despite the harsh conditions. This marked Tibet's territorial boundary—no part of British domain. The British residents currently inhabiting Nayatong effectively occupied Tibetan soil through leasehold arrangements.

When they braved the rain and climbed the steep, densely wooded slope for about two ri, it grew dark. As was his habit, the servant began to mutter. “There’s no need to stay at Chikyabu’s house—there are plenty of places to lodge outside.” “Coming out here in this downpour—where do you think we’ll find lodging?!” “The luggage is too heavy—I can’t move at all,” he grumbled. “Then I’ll help you with half of it,” he said—yet plopped down in the middle of the path and refused to budge. After finally coaxing him along, they walked until around eight o'clock, but he still wouldn’t budge—insisting that solitary house remained two ri away. However, in that area, someone had pitched a small tent with a fire burning inside, and near the tent, many mules were grazing on grass.

These were people from Tomo transporting a load of wool to Kalimpong by mule. When we earnestly requested lodging at that tent, it turned out five people already occupied the enclosure, leaving no room. But with the servant refusing to move forward despite all persuasion, I pressed our request—offering to stay seated if necessary—until they finally allowed us inside. Though settled amidst boundless emotions, being unable to sleep and sitting upright, I found myself assailed by myriad reflections. That I had traversed those formidable five-tiered checkpoints in mere three days seemed truly wondrous. Even seasoned Tibetan merchants frequenting these routes reportedly required seven to fifteen days for passage. Yet here I stood unscathed after three days of torrential rains—a marvel indeed. My initial resolve to brave these checkpoints had stemmed from accepting karmic inevitability—whether taking Bhutan's backroads or Tomo's hidden paths mattered little against predestined fate—thus fortune guided me here without mishap. But strangest of all were those unanticipated stratagems that materialized precisely when needed, as if orchestrated from beyond.

That every checkpoint chief acted like foxes possessed by spirits—even Chikyabu with his piercing eyes, even Daruke the labor broker who had endured hardships while navigating Indian territories for twenty years—harboring not a shred of suspicion toward my intentions or demeanor, but instead bowing their heads to expedite my passage that very day—this was entirely due to the protective virtue of my revered teacher Shakyamuni Buddha. Overwhelmed by awe at this terrifying depth of divine favor, tears of gratitude welled within me. That night, I devotedly chanted sutras inside the tent, passing the hours without sleep until dawn. Yet after I had wholly left Tibet, when a great purge arose in Lhasa, what karmic bond made it wound my heart more grievously than even passing through those five-tiered checkpoints? I shall recount the tale of that purge in its proper time.

Episode 138: Farewell to Tibet

Travel Route: At this juncture, I shall briefly recount my traveled path—from Darjeeling to Lhasa Prefecture I had walked approximately two thousand four hundred and ninety ri. First, departing Darjeeling on [January 5, Meiji 32 (1899)], I took a train via Calcutta to Segowlee, and from there walked again to arrive in Kathmandu on [February 5]. From Segowlee to Kathmandu was approximately one hundred and fifteen ri. On [March 7], I departed from there and arrived in Pokhara [on the 11th of that month]. On [the 14th], I departed Pokhara and reached Lo-Tsarang—situated merely eighteen ri from the Tibetan border—[on April 16], with the distance walked from Kathmandu to this point amounting to approximately two hundred and sixty ri.

After staying in Lo-Tsarang for about one year—[departing there on April 6, Meiji 33 (1900)]—he advanced once more toward areas facilitating entry into Tibet, arriving at Maruba village in Dhaulagiri Mountain's eastern valley; [leaving this village on June 12], he traversed Dhaulagiri's northern midslope at nearly twenty thousand shaku and pressed onward across northwestern plains until [July 4], when he attained Holtso Province's mountain gorge in northwestern Tibet. From Tsāran to Maruba spans approximately seventy ri, while from Maruba to Holtso Province measures roughly one hundred fifty-five ri.

During this stretch, as we wound through thickets and gorges, we ended up walking much farther than intended. Then [on December 5], I arrived at Tashi Lhunpo Monastery in Shigatse Prefecture, stayed for three days, and departed from there; [on March 21, Meiji 34], exactly about two years and three months after leaving Darjeeling, I reached Sera Monastery in Lhasa Prefecture—though from Holtso Province to Lhasa Prefecture I walked as much as 1,279 ri due to taking various detours. The events of this period are as I had previously recounted in detail.

The Tibet-British India Border The next morning when they arose, they found firewood they had gathered the previous night still there. Using this firewood to boil water and prepare tea, they took advantage of this to eat roasted barley before setting out that day. Since they couldn't eat anything besides roasted barley anyway that day, they ate their fill and began ascending the mountain. The rain had stopped under excellent conditions; as they gradually climbed just under two ri upslope, they left behind mountains thick with trees and emerged into an area of smaller trees. After walking about half a ri further along this path stood a solitary house.

As for why that solitary house was built there—whenever suspicious individuals came from the direction of Darjeeling, be they non-Europeans or even Indians, whenever strangers appeared there, they were to be stopped and reported to Nyatong Castle. Moreover, if there were individuals who came sneaking through from time to time, they would be apprehended and immediately reported to Nyatong. That was why there was a solitary house there. In that house were an old woman and one other person. The son was away on business in Kalimpong, so we were fortunately able to drink tea there; but since we absolutely could not proceed further from there, we once again climbed back up that terrible slope, and having grown somewhat hungry, we did so once more before ascending into the mountains.

After ascending about one ri through an area dotted with extremely small trees, we found ourselves before an entirely snow-covered mountain—but just before entering that snowy realm, there lay a pond. Ice had formed over that pond, and about one ri further up lay heavy snow. Since many people had passed through, this snow had been trampled into hardness, and upon this compacted layer from last night's fresh snowfall had accumulated. Though still firm underfoot, it now held enough give to allow us to press onward with some purchase. This pass is called Zela.

As they climbed through that snow, looking far below revealed clouds rising from an astonishingly wide valley between wild plains, flying through great forests—a sight of truly breathtaking beauty. Above, the Par and Sur flowers blooming profusely could clearly be seen.

They passed through about one ri of snow and reached the summit. This summit marked the true border between British India and Tibet. Taking one step down beyond here, one would become a person no longer governed by Tibetan law. To the northeast lay Tibet. To the southwest lay British India. Having finally arrived there, I gazed northeastward and observed snow-capped mountains far beyond that vast, boundless valley—their peaks appearing and disappearing amidst the clouds.

The summit of Ze La Pass

Beyond those snow mountains lay yet more snow mountains, and beyond those snow mountains lay Lhasa Prefecture. Having come all the way from Lhasa Prefecture to this place today, here at last I had to bid Tibet a complete farewell. Nearly three years had passed since I first arrived at Tsāran in the Himalayas—Tibet's borderlands—yet here I now stood, having safely reached a land where free communication was possible. This experience deepened my conviction that it was wholly due to the protective power of Shakyamuni Tathagata. At that moment, I paid homage once more to Bhagavan Shakyamuni Buddha, then composed two or three verses arising from these reflections. I shall now relate them here.

If not for the Buddha’s protective power over me, On the snowy plateau I would have perished— Crossing the deep-snowed mountains of the celestial plain, I encountered the wondrous Dharma’s assembly. The eternal snow-covered mountain path of ten thousand generations, To tread and part from it—this too by Dharma’s virtue. Thus having bid farewell to all of Tibet, I prepared to descend auspiciously toward British India. The notorious hailstones—though I had grown bitterly cold from my prolonged stay on the mountain, even this I utterly forgot. So overwhelmed was I with joy at having safely cleared those layered checkpoints, so profound my gratitude for Buddha’s virtue, that I forgot entirely how fiercely cold it had been. When the time came to retrace my steps, the cold proved savage; yet fortunate sunlight allowed gradual warmth to seep into my bones. Descending another ri through snowdrifts, I found a stone-paved path three shaku wide— A road whose very existence would be unimaginable in Tibet’s wildest dreams.

In the year I emerged, particularly large hail fell. That hail could be called a local specialty of the snow mountains, and I had once encountered it in Nepal. It was truly astonishingly large hail. I dug through the snow and found that there were a great many hailstones about the size of pigeon eggs. As for how large they were when they fell, it was said they were about the size of large chicken eggs. Merely hearing stories of such hailstones relentlessly pelting down made it utterly unbelievable, but seeing some remaining ones—their size comparable to pigeon eggs—convinced me this was indeed true.

In this area, there were already many people coming to Darjeeling for trade, moving about here and there. It was not that many came from Darjeeling; rather, they set out from what was called Tomo to engage in activities such as purchasing goods or selling them. When I asked these people, the hailstones they encountered were indeed as large as I had just described. After such hail fell, passage was halted for about a month, and it was only around this time that the road finally opened. Since the hail had melted considerably and the accumulation had lessened, it was said passage had become possible starting about half a month prior.

Breaking free from that snow, we gradually descended for one ri, then ascended a slope for two ri. After descending another two ri, we arrived at a station called Nakutan. There were about twenty houses there. Furthermore, these had once been used as military barracks. There was now a place used for storing sheep wool cargo. It was raining heavily, and the roads within the town were in terrible condition. I stayed at one of the houses there and slept well that night.

Observing Rice Planting in the Rain　On June 16 at 5:00 AM,I departed braving the heavily falling rain，descended thirteen ri along a verdant forested slope，arrived at Rintam，and lodged there．In fair weather I could have made good progress，but with the rain and having already left Tibetan territory—where there was no longer any need to rush—I ambled along．So I ended up having to stay at this station．The next day，I descended another four ri，and upon reaching that area，the heat became unbearably intense．First，I took off my clothes，had the man carry them，and proceeded lightly dressed，but even though I wasn’t climbing any slopes，sweat poured out，drenching my entire body．

From there, we climbed southwest again, proceeded to a place called Tsomtakuba, and lodged there, but the rain was still falling steadily. On the 18th, we again descended three ri in the rain, then crossed a bridge and ascended another three ri. That area was well-developed with fields, and many Nepalese people had migrated there, opening numerous new fields. This was British territory where all taxes were collected by the British Indian Government. But most of those people were Nepalese. And among them were also Sikkimese people.

As for the Sikkimese people, I decided to save that somewhat interesting story for later; what struck me along this route was seeing rice planting being done in the pouring rain. The rice grown here in abundance was exceptionally delicious, just like Japanese rice. While Indian rice is generally known for being poor in quality, what grew in this part of the Himalayan mountains had a glossy sheen, with grains identical to those of Japanese rice. It carried a nutty aroma and possessed an excellent flavor. To cultivate such rice, they were transplanting seedlings despite the rain. The downpour soaked everything relentlessly. This scene so reminded me of Japan that I instinctively found myself bending into that familiar half-crouched posture from home.

In the monsoon rains of Himalayan rice planting Yamato's cherished form comes wistfully to mind

A proper bed at last. Then we reached a station called Boeton. This area had European residents too, many of whom appeared to be engaged in agriculture. Boeton Station boasted a post office, a Catholic chapel, and even a paupers' school attached to the chapel. It was remarkably bustling. When we approached the lower part of the post office—an imposing structure—a Tibetan gentleman stood on its veranda watching passersby below.

When he saw my face and made a slightly surprised expression, suddenly calling out “Please come up,” I responded, “I don’t need to go up. I’m seeking lodging—will you provide it?” To this he insisted, “It doesn’t matter—come up first.” “But if I go up in this rain and you don’t provide lodging, I’ll be stuck.” “Very well, do come up,” he said with a laugh. Thinking This is strange—being treated like a friend out of nowhere, I continued climbing when I heard someone say in English, “Have you forgotten me?” It turned out to be a Tibetan language teacher who had been at the school during my time in Darjeeling. Not my own teacher, but the second one. He wasn’t deeply scholarly, but an ordinary teacher who understood things well. That man was serving as the postmaster.

When the man saw my face—one I had forgotten—and addressed me in English, I caught on and said, "Ah, my apologies." We then exchanged greetings after our long separation, during which he mentioned having heard rumors of me being in Tibet and expressed worry over whether I'd been killed. The one who suddenly took notice was my servant. He wore a blank expression upon seeing us converse in English. This wouldn't do—though Tibetan by birth, the postmaster had been raised in Darjeeling and didn't understand the Lhasa dialect. Even when attempting Tibetan, he kept lapsing back into English. In the end, we settled on speaking English.

I was not originally good at English. At times, Tibetan would slip out. So I ended up speaking in both English and Tibetan. Then my servant, apparently having grown suspicious, went to ask the stationmaster's wife. “Where on earth is he from?” “That’s the Japan Lama.” “What kind of place is Japan? He’s using England’s language—isn’t he English?” “That’s right—it’s a strong country like England, one that’s grown so powerful it startles even the English themselves! These days its name shines across the world like the rising sun. My husband reads about such things in newspapers,” she explained, whereupon my servant turned pale and cried, “This is disastrous! They’ll kill me!” trembling uncontrollably with terror.

That was a story the stationmaster’s wife came out and told afterward. My servant was already trembling in fear. He appeared deeply worried about what might happen next, but I had no time to explain such things to him. That night, I slept on a magnificent Western-style bed and, for the first time since leaving Lhasa, was able to sleep in a manner befitting a human being.

Chapter 139: Delayed Luggage, Detention en Route

Arrival at Kalimpong: The next day, braving the rain, I arrived at Kalimpong. The distance between them being fifteen ri, this city lies east of Darjeeling, separated by a large gorge. The land was much lower than Darjeeling. And business was thriving quite well. In fact, the trade volume here exceeded even that of Darjeeling. Therefore, while high-quality goods did not sell, cheap items sold in abundance. Moreover, people from Tibet, Sikkim, and Bhutan generally conducted their trade there. In this land as well, just as in Darjeeling, Europeans, Tibetans, Indians, Sikkimese, Bhutanese, Nepalese, and others resided. There were large Protestant churches, schools, hospitals, and Buddhist temples, as well as quite a number of small ritual sites for other religions.

Among the Tibetans living here was one named Puchun. He had left the priesthood in Shigatse and come here, where he engaged in business and made a decent living. The luggage I had entrusted through Tenwaydo's introduction to a Chinese official was transported by that official along with military salaries to Tomo Rinchegan, with arrangements made for Chinese personnel to bring it here from Tomo. Thinking it must have already arrived, I went to Puchun's place only to find the luggage had not yet come. I had to stay at that house and wait for the luggage. When I first visited him, Puchun had treated me as a complete Tibetan.

After a while, my servant asked Puchun about it, but he said he didn’t know. “They say he’s the Japan Lama—but what sort of person is this Japan Lama?” “When you speak of the Japan Lama,” Puchun replied, “I’ve heard there was one who stayed in Darjeeling before. They say that person worked as a doctor in Lhasa—could that be you?” “Yeah—that’s him.” “This is serious!” he exclaimed, whereupon Puchun came to me and asked, “Now then—from what I’ve heard through your servant—were you the one who stayed in Darjeeling before? There’s no need for concealment here—please tell me the truth.” “No need to hide anything. It’s been known since last night. The truth is—it came out at Boeton post office—so there’s nothing left to conceal. But the real trouble,” I added, “is that servant.” At this he grew terribly anxious—his face turned pale—and he ended up not eating a thing since morning.

The matter of sending the servant back to Lhasa—Puchun’s proposal that we must find some way to arrange it for him. "Well, I must find a way to handle this, but I'll leave it to his own wishes." "We won't dictate what should be done." "We're only providing funds according to his wishes, so we must hear what he wants." "To begin with, he has a wife back home—and she's pregnant." "Since he also has children there, if he wants to return to his country, we must find a way for him to do so." "If he says he's too frightened to return, then he could stay around here or in Darjeeling and make a living through trade."

"We'll handle that much on our part. 'In that case, he can send a letter and have his wife come.' 'Whether he stays or returns is irrelevant—just ask him yourself and tell him not to worry,' I said, but then the servant came back to his master and me, pleading, 'Please consult the I Ching for me—should I return to Lhasa and risk punishment, or is it better to stay here?' This was unacceptable. Had he been unrelated to me or not my servant, I might have obliged. But precisely because he was connected to me, if the divination suggested staying here, people might think I deceived him into remaining for my own convenience."

“Even if the divination says returning would be better, if you start doubting when that result comes and people take it that I gave you a pittance to send you away because you’re a nuisance here, that would be truly problematic. On my part, there’s no particular obligation to intervene—you should find a competent lama in this area, have them perform the reading, and let that decide the matter.” When I said I wouldn’t do it regarding this matter, he insisted, “No—you must do it! I’ve often heard of your readings and have seen them myself before—please, I beg of you.” “That won’t do. While I was in Tibet, I had no choice but to perform such acts, but now there’s no need for me to engage in these foolish practices—it’s unacceptable. I absolutely refuse. Even if others request it, from now on I will not comply with such demands.” I flatly refused, saying he should first have someone else perform the reading.

So he went out, had someone consult the I Ching, and it was decided that returning would be better. So I told him, “Then go back,” and he ended up taking thirty-five rupees, some old clothes, and provisions to last until he passed through the checkpoint gates, returning via a back road along what is called Peach Valley Road. Later inquiries suggested that the detectives had not fully tracked the fact that this man had accompanied me. Even after entering Nepal, they inquired into the matter, but it seems no harm had come of it. It appears they managed to escape unscathed.

Delay of the Advance Luggage: I waited four or five days after that, but the Chinese person to whom I had entrusted my luggage did not appear. I wondered what was wrong—the other party had started out a bit later, but there was no reason for them to be this late. The checkpoint where they were detained had now reached the time when they should have arrived. I had thought that since there was no concern of the luggage being detained at the checkpoint, it should have already arrived ahead at Tomo, but there was absolutely no word. Seven days passed with no word.

After eight days had passed, a merchant came from the Tomo Rinchegan area, and when I inquired with him, it turned out that two Chinese men had set out with a great many servants and about twenty horses and mules. Having taken that dangerous path during heavy rain, three horses slipped and plunged into the river. As a result, the horses died, and while the exact contents of their cargo were unclear, according to what was said, it supposedly contained a large amount of musk and silver coins. Because of this, those Chinese merchants did not come this way from Tomo but instead turned back. It was probably because they had run out of funds for their business venture. When I inquired which of the Chinese men had lost their cargo, he stated it was the taller one.

Upon checking, this matched the person I had entrusted, meaning a real problem had developed—my luggage wouldn't arrive. Even after ten days passed, I heard nothing but such stories with no sign of the luggage appearing. After worrying morning and evening, on the twelfth day a message came in the morning, and that evening both Chinese men arrived with all my luggage loaded. Thus I managed to safely retrieve my belongings. The transport cost for two horse-loads from Tomo came to thirteen rupees. Having paid this, I received the luggage on July 1st and departed Kalimpong the next day, descending ten miles downslope until reaching the great Tista River.

The Lapche tribe by the Tista River. There spanned a splendid European-style iron bridge. It was a magnificent suspension bridge less than one chō in length, and since the river below ran quite swiftly, it seemed they could not erect vertical pillars. However, before reaching this point, there had been both a shortcut and a long path; the long path wound around the mountains, dimly lit but continuing upward all the way to Kalimpong. Siliguri Station was what they called a plains-region station in India. From this station, goods could be transported by cart to Kalimpong. Moreover, cart traffic extended a bit further beyond that to Boeton.

This Tista River holds particular historical significance, for here among Himalayan dwellers exists a tribe preserving a way of life from primitive times. Legend claims this tribe's ancestors originated near this river's banks, warranting some explanation about them. The tribe is called Lapche. It comprises two branches—one possessing moderate intelligence. The other constituted a truly inept people. The capable branch's ancestors supposedly included a father named Chikum Seron, said to have emerged from Himalayan soil. His mother was called Domi. This Tista River bears the ceremonial title Domi's Ranny Unlam Hoklam. This woman had materialized from the river's waters. Thus among the Lapche persists a myth asserting humanity's creation from these two beings. The Tista flows through a vast ravine northeast of Darjeeling before merging with India's Ganges River.

The Incompetent Lapche Tribe: The members of this incompetent tribe were descendants of those born from a large stone in Daramtang village, located in the northwestern plains of Darjeeling. Even today, the ancestral stone existed in that village, and its inhabitants claimed descent from this stone. Moreover, their descendants did not reside solely in that village. That tribe was scattered around Sikkim. This tribe, truly as if born from stone, possessed a nature as unyielding as this very rock.

The women of this tribe had three vertical lines drawn on their lower jaws. Some bore these as black tattoos, while those who could not afford tattooing drew them with a plant-based black substance. Though there were now a few Lapche tribespeople living in Darjeeling, they all wore Tibetan- or Nepalese-style clothing; however, every Lapche tribesperson dwelling in the mountains still maintained their people's traditional customs. Their garment was woven from fibers of a grass called Sache and made without any sewing. They wrapped the cloth crosswise around their bodies as it was, then similarly wound it around the groin area with the ends neatly tucked in. They called this Domi’s Kusudom. They wore nothing besides this single garment.

Their diet consisted mostly of wild nuts, grasses, and mushrooms from mountain forests. Their discernment in knowing whether plants were poisonous or not was remarkably acute—they knew which herbs cured specific illnesses when consumed, which plants could only be eaten during certain seasons, and the optimal timing for consumption, all with the expertise of skilled physicians who understood vegetation's toxicological properties. In this regard, Indians could not hope to match them. Indians were generally quite ignorant people, with none among them knowing even the names of plants. Those who knew flower names were exceedingly rare, and many would simply call anything a flower without knowing anything else about it.

However, regarding this point, this tribe knew each and every name in their vernacular. They were truly admirable. They did consume animal-based foods as well, but mostly ate plant-based foods. And for this tribe, bamboo was the most essential resource. First, they used bamboo tubes as pots by putting various things inside them to steam—such as plant roots and fruits—and sometimes even grains. They put in salt, honey, and such, completely sealed the bamboo tube, and burned it with bamboo firewood. They burned it well until the exterior was almost blackened and it reached the proper degree of burning. They took it out, opened its lid, took this out, and ate it. To eat it, they used something like a bowl made from bamboo.

Whether fetching water or storing provisions like food and drink, they used bamboo tubes. For whatever they stored, they generally put it inside bamboo tubes. Moreover, milk and other liquids were also stored in bamboo tubes. Among those of them living in the mountains, there were some who did not possess earthen stoves or pots at all. They boiled everything in bamboo pots just once; each time they ate, they discarded the burnt bamboo tube and used a new one every single time. Then they made bows from bamboo, applied plant poison to bamboo arrows, and used these to hunt animals. That was quite a skillful method.

Chapter 140: Reuniting with My Former Teacher in Darjeeling

A Study of the Lapche Tribe: While rare cases of polygyny existed within this tribe, most practiced monogamy and did not permit polyandry as seen in Tibet. Their nature proved extremely timid and utterly devoid of vitality, resembling that of a stateless people. Yet despite this, the tribe showed no tendency toward gradual extinction. Their descendants' reproductive capacity matched that of Tibetans. This strength likely stemmed from monogamy's contribution. Whether the tribe truly originated indigenously in the Himalayas per their ancient myths remained unclear; linguistically, their language differed from both Tibetan and Indian. Interpreting them as entirely indigenous peoples who emerged locally appeared reasonably plausible.

Their appearance was rather beautiful. Their complexion was fair, and their demeanor was not vulgar. Among Himalayan mountain peoples, this tribe was likely the most beautiful. The tribes of Nepal or Bhutan were not as clean. Moreover, their facial features and pallor closely resembled those of Japanese lung disease patients. Among both women and men—though there were a few active individuals among the many such people—they generally possessed not a shred of something like courage. However, they did not possess any detestable traits. They engaged in theft quite actively, but that did not make them barbarians who committed cruel acts like killing people. They were utterly docile barbarians.

Those who come to Darjeeling today belong to the superior category among the two classes of this tribe. Members of the inferior class remain extremely timid even when occasionally venturing out; many being the sort who would carefully retreat back to their mountain homes at the slightest disturbance. As they are comparatively the most beautiful among Himalayan mountain peoples, many of their women have become what are called streetwalkers for soldiers in Darjeeling. In Darjeeling, their presence is so numerous that this circumstance applies almost exclusively to this tribe.

In addition to these, there were also many tribes in Sikkim that had migrated from Tibet and Bhutan; while their language was not pure Tibetan, they primarily used a Tibetan-accented speech. These were clearly Tibetans, yet they differed considerably from the Lapche themselves in physique, facial features, general appearance, and even down to their customs and practices. The Lapche tribe did adhere to Tibetan Buddhism, but maintained their belief at a most rudimentary level. Therefore, were these inhabitants thoroughly researched, there remained many aspects suggesting one might discover fascinating anthropological findings. If this tribe had indeed been indigenous, one might have obtained material for research into how they could have branched out externally from this group.

Furthermore, since their vernacular language clearly differs etymologically from both Tibetan and Indian languages, if one thoroughly researches how this language relates to others—whether it still has connections to Sanskrit—one might gain insight into the fundamental nature of this tribe. Alternatively, this tribe might have migrated there from another country in ancient times and developed these characteristics in that place. In any case, there exists an academic necessity to conduct a study concerning this tribe.

Having crossed the current Chisitar Bridge, I steadily climbed up a good road—this stretch being nothing but ascent for approximately seventeen miles to Jorbangalo. Though I wished to reach Jorbangalo that very day, the rainfall and weak packhorses made such progress impossible. I was riding a horse, but the two packhorses could not make much progress. After traveling about seven miles, I stayed in a small village, and early the next day arrived at Jorbangalo,

I arrived at Mr. Sarat’s villa, then traveled a little over three miles along the main road (which also served as a railway) and reached Lhasa Villa in Darjeeling on July 3rd. This was where Mr. Sarat Chandra Das’s villa—the place I had first learned Tibetan—stood. When I arrived there and proceeded to the entrance, Mr. Sarat Chandra Das, his wife, and their children were present in the house. When I called out, the child came out. I remembered well, but the child seemed to have forgotten and asked, “Who are you?” Before long, his wife emerged and inquired, “What brings you here?”

I said with a laugh, “Have you forgotten?” but she still didn’t understand. Then Mr. Sarat came out and exclaimed, “Oh my!” in surprise, expressing great joy at how I had managed to return. He immediately ordered the luggage unloaded and commanded the servant to tidy up. Thereupon, he paid the wages to the three horses and their handlers and sent them back.

Mr. Sarat’s joy was immense. It was perhaps this very spring when he had received a letter from Lhasa; he had also received letters from Lhasa last year, and through those letters he had known that I had safely entered Lhasa. He had also heard through others’ rumors that the doctor was quite popular and had become the Dalai Lama’s attending physician, so he had been reassured; however, seeing how things had turned out, he had been worried about how I would manage to come out here. He had been extremely worried, thinking that while entering had been difficult, getting out would be even more so. But now that I had come this far—to here—he could rest assured; there was no longer any need for me to remain in Tibet.

The truth was, just when I was about to entrust my reply to Tsa Rumba and send it out, he fled without stopping by my residence. That’s why I couldn’t send a reply after all. “When I read the letter you sent here,” he said, “I saw there was no longer any need for you to learn Tibetan.” “There is also no need for you to learn Tibetan Buddhism.” “That’s why I was going to tell you to hurry back and send you off—but well, you’ve managed to return safely.” “Anyway, Dr. Nanjō Bun'yū was extremely worried—every time he sent me a letter, he would inquire whether I’d heard anything about you.” “First, I’ll promptly write and send a letter to Dr. Nanjō informing him you’ve arrived safely,” he said, and immediately dispatched the letter.

I was struck by a violent fever—with that matter settled for the night—and from the next morning onward, it raged uncontrollably. The fever erupted with such violence that when it briefly subsided after some time, numbness set in this time, gradually robbing me of sensation from my toes to fingertips as I became aware of the paralysis creeping toward my heart. I became unable to move my hands or feet. This wasn't rheumatism—I felt some transformed fever had begun its assault. If this continued until my heart became paralyzed too, I wondered if I'd die in what they call a beriberi heart attack.

Dr. Sarat was deeply concerned and remained constantly by my side without leaving, and soon a doctor came and said that while he couldn’t be certain, this was undoubtedly Chisitar fever. It was undoubtedly Chisitar malaria. He apparently remarked that contracting that fever would be quite troublesome. I guess this is it—I’m going to die. If I die here now, at least it’ll be clear that I’m dead, so I suppose that’s convenient enough. However, I became utterly consumed by the thought that I must leave a will bequeathing the books I had brought this far—whether donating them to Japanese universities or to a library accessible to people from my hometown—though that much I had indeed considered.

“Please write down this will,” I managed to utter haltingly in English, though the agony made coherent speech impossible. Dr. Sarat responded, “There’s no need for that.” “I grasp your meaning well enough—it’s better for your recovery not to voice it.” “The physicians advise against mental exertion. You must strive to calm your thoughts.” That night brought no fresh torments, yet my limbs remained as before—hands and legs numb, devoid of sensation. I immersed myself in contemplation, directing my consciousness to withdraw from the illness’s roots. To any observer, this trance-like state would have resembled a complete departure from reason.

My illness had finally begun to subside after three days of intense suffering—whether through the doctor’s tireless efforts or not—when I gradually became aware that sensation had returned to my limbs after about three days had passed. I steadily improved until, by the eighth day, I could move my hands slightly. Then I desperately wanted to notify my hometown by telegram, but sending just three characters from Darjeeling to Japan cost thirty-seven rupees. I no longer possessed such a sum. After settling various payments, only two rupees remained. Though I considered borrowing from Dr. Sarat, certain complications arose, and ultimately I couldn’t send the telegram.

Wanting to inform him that I had returned this far within the limits of what my pen could convey, I sent a letter addressed to Mr. Hiketa Tokujuro in my hometown. What exactly I wrote in that letter now escapes me. I seem to recall simply notifying them of my arrival. After that, I gradually recovered, though for about a month I truly could do nothing at all. That fever had left me severely emaciated. During my time in Tibet, I had grown quite plump and robust in physique. The Tibetans used to say I had become utterly unrecognizable compared to when I first arrived in Lhasa ten months earlier—a change I myself had keenly felt—yet now I had grown as gaunt as I had been before.

By the grace of Buddha, my life was spared, and after over a month had passed, I became able to prepare documents and look at books again. After that, truly many people came to visit. Their sincere tales, comical anecdotes, and foolish stories. Though there are many things I ought to mention on various matters, these are not particularly related to my Tibetan travels. While there exist numerous amusing stories with indirect connections, since they lack direct relevance, I need not deliberately recount them here.

Chapter 141: The Corruption Scandal

The malarial fever in the Himalayan mountains—the reason I had to remain in Darjeeling for some time was none other than this: were I to descend directly into India now, the Indian plains would be unbearably hot. I could not endure that heat in my post-illness state. Having long resided in Tibet's frigid climate, there was concern that my recently cured illness might relapse if I abruptly moved to India; with both this apprehension and the doctor's recommendation, I decided it would be best to stay in Darjeeling for three months.

Finally, around October, merchants began coming out from Lhasa. Until then, traffic between Pari and Darjeeling had been almost completely severed. When I passed through earlier, they had already been sending out the final shipments to Kalimpong, after which no one traveled through anymore. However, those around Tomo-Rinchengan were accustomed to the climate and seldom suffered from fever. Tibetans who came during my departure season were certain to contract fever, so none traveled then. I had been well aware of this.

Of course, traveling through the Himalayan mountains during summer was impossible. If it were only the snowy northern regions, that would have been manageable, but in the southern valleys there was always malarial fever. Even if one avoided contracting malaria itself, the intense heat still carried the risk of inducing other fevers regardless. I had set out knowing this—compelled by unavoidable circumstances that had arisen in Lhasa—and my falling ill in Darjeeling stemmed precisely from having braved such dangers. From Tibet around October came the first merchant caravan to finally reach Darjeeling. When I heard accounts from those merchants, they had discovered that Sera Amchi was Japanese and fled Lhasa—and within less than a month after that escape, in Lhasa...

A major corruption scandal had occurred. The incident saw the arrest and imprisonment of the former Finance Minister who had resided at Sera Amchi's former residence, an old nun at the minister's official residence, and one servant who had been closest to the minister. The new Finance Minister remained untouched as he was deemed minimally involved. Furthermore, Sera University was closed, Tsa Rumba and his wife along with Takbo Tsumbei Chen Jö were imprisoned, and rumors spread of their daily hardships being truly pitiable.

Moreover, the households that had been closely associated with Sera Amchi were under investigation, and there was no telling when they might be summoned. Because of this, it was said that all people in Lhasa who had even the slightest connection to Sera Amchi were filled with fear, devoting great effort to concealment and that bribes were been actively exchanged—but I pondered. Since Tibetans would often manufacture lies to bring to Darjeeling and startle people's minds, I could not bring myself to believe this story—hearing that Sera Amchi had returned to Darjeeling, they had likely concocted it by adding imaginative elements to that claim. When I emerged, I declared, "How could such an absurdity exist?"—yet I did harbor some doubts.

This matter soon reached the ears of Darjeeling's Governor, who summoned me and asked: “How many monks reside at Sera Monastery, and what is its administrative structure? During such major incidents, does any law exist that orders universities to close? And do you consider these rumors factual?” “I do not believe them to be true,” I answered. “Though I cannot categorically deny them either—they’re likely fabrications by Tibetans. Even Chinese spread such falsehoods, claiming Russians have arrived when none exist. Though Mongolians under Russian control may come, they spread rumors in Darjeeling as if actual Russians stroll through Lhasa’s streets—each lie inevitably reaching the Governor’s ears.”

The British Indian Government’s Vigilance — The Governor was extremely eager to learn about Tibet’s internal affairs and had every story told by people coming from Tibet recorded, no matter how false they were. In fact, at Jorbangalo, they had stationed officials who questioned Tibetans about various matters. Those officials would first ask every Tibetan who came through, "Where did you come from? What business brought you here?" and if there was any interesting story, they would take them to the governor and have them explain it before him.

The governor could not fully use Tibetan colloquial language, but he could manage Tibetan at about a child's level. However, since that alone wasn't sufficient, when Tibetans came out, a Tibetan interpreter would translate their statements into English and convey them. This governor could take an examination if he demonstrated some ability in interpreting Tibetan colloquial speech and written texts. If one passed that examination, they could receive a reward of one thousand rupees from the British Indian Government.

A Tibetan porter girl residing in Darjeeling Therefore, there was hardly anyone who became Governor of Darjeeling without studying Tibetan. The same applied to the Governor of Kalimpong. These facts sufficed to demonstrate how diligently the British Indian Government maintained vigilance toward Tibet. When it came to specifically allocating high salaries for those sentry posts, one could not help but marvel at their meticulous attention. Though Tibetans naturally remained unaware of such internal mechanisms, their propensity for falsehoods being so extreme meant that if one dismissed their claims indiscriminately, within about two weeks another Tibetan would emerge. They too brought similar tales. Later, when a merchant I knew from Lhasa arrived, I visited him at his lodgings. Upon my asking, “These rumors persist—what truly transpires?” he replied, “While matters haven’t reached such extremes, events did indeed unfold.” “The former Finance Minister was summoned once but apparently released without imprisonment.” “Yet rumors insist his eventual arrest is inevitable.” “Though public gossip already treats him as incarcerated, when I departed he still seemed to occupy his mansion.” “But after my departure, imprisonment may well have followed.” “Those confirmed imprisoned include Sera’s instructor and guarantor, along with Tsa Rumba and his wife and Takbo Tsumbei Chen Jö. As for their daily torment—need I elaborate?—they endure three hundred lashes daily with green willow rods, administered every other day.” “We wished to deliver provisions but refrained for fear of attracting notice.” At this I pressed, “Had they known I was Japanese, surely such measures would prove unnecessary?” To which he responded, “True, the Tibetan government acknowledges Japan as a formidable nation capable of subduing China, and sympathizes somewhat as a Buddhist land sharing our doctrines—yet officially they deem you...”

“They consider you a British secret agent,” he replied. “However, did someone specifically claim I was British?” “That’s because Chikyabu—the checkpoint chief at Nyatong—filed a report to Lhasa.” “It goes like this.” “There was a lama who entered Lhasa claiming to be Japanese, though he wasn’t from Japan.” “He was brother to a certain British high official and had entered Lhasa under the guise of being a Japanese Buddhist citizen to fulfill that official’s objectives.” “Even while staying in Lhasa, he regularly corresponded with Darjeeling through letters.”

As for who had acted as intermediary for those letters, there was a theory that it had been either Tsa Rumba or Takbo. Moreover, other merchants too had been claiming he was that Japanese individual. It was said the American national detective had spent vast sums to send documents to Darjeeling and had also procured documents from his side. However, this affair had apparently come to light through someone's denunciation, forcing him to flee Lhasa. Yet he was no ordinary man—one versed in mysterious arts. Among Europeans, such individuals occasionally existed.

Of course he never came through my checkpoint, but since even the mountain bypaths were strictly blocked, there was been no way he could have passed. Therefore, perhaps he came to the mountain's edge and then flew through the air to escape. Seeing that he had already fled Lhasa and reached Darjeeling without passing through Nyatong, [Chikyabu] declared this confirmed the matter beyond doubt and submitted a report to the Dalai Lama. “After that, everyone faced even harsher interrogations—so tell me truthfully, did you come through Nyatong or fly here through the air?” he pressed.

Chapter 142: The Strategy for Rescue "Did you come flying through the air?"—such was the bizarre question posed to me. "I'm no bird—such a thing is impossible," I retorted. To this he pressed, "Yet rumors claim you possess that very ability." "When I inquired further," he continued, "they said even at Sera Monastery there had been numerous strange occurrences." "They say you even revived the dead." "Flying through the air would be child's play for you." "In Tibet, everyone accepts Chikyabu's report to the Dalai Lama as truth," he concluded his account. "Then if you wish to ascertain whether I flew here," I challenged, "come inspect the evidence at my quarters." "What evidence?" "The return travel permits I obtained under Chikyabu's orders." "I secured passes for myself and my servant—two in total. Examine them and you'll understand." "Such documents exist?" "That's a lie." "There's no purpose in such falsehoods." "Enough jests—come see for yourself," I insisted.

By that time, even in Darjeeling, people were saying, “He makes such claims, but he certainly didn’t come through the proper route.” “How could anyone possibly take out that much luggage?” “We had such tremendous difficulty even taking out a small amount.” “Yet he effortlessly brought out that much luggage and himself with ease—he must have used magic,” such rumors had spread. The reason Tibetans were saying such things was because Chikyabu had submitted an absurd report to absolve himself of his own crimes.

After that man came, I showed him the return travel permit for Lhasa. Though he believed the document genuine, he still harbored doubts, likely thinking I had deceived Chikyabu to obtain it. Truly, the ignorant masses do not accept legitimate matters as legitimate—instead believing them as mysteries. Such tendencies are characteristic of Tibetans. Were one to speak and accept truth as truth, it would neither harm others nor bring loss to oneself, allowing matters to be resolved harmoniously even in days to come; yet Tibetans perversely twist truth in both speech and belief—truly a vexing people. It appears the ignorant masses' habit is to deliberately distort true facts into mysteries they wish to revere. Pitiable creatures indeed.

When I heard such things, I could not remain idle. Somehow—

I had to devise a method to rescue the suspects. First, regarding the former Finance Minister—it seemed he might have been thrown into prison, yet it also appeared he hadn't; the truth remained unclear. Once such suspicions had been detected, the fact that they had connections with me might have been discovered, possibly incurring unforeseen calamities. That stood to reason, for the former Finance Minister was of a rather ruthless disposition and had many enemies; those foes were surely working to exact their vengeance. Therefore, it was truly perilous.

Above all, hearing that Tsa Rumba—who had spared no effort for my sake—along with the teachers at Sera University and the guarantors were enduring the torment of imprisonment, I suffered such anguish that I could not lay my head peacefully upon the pillow. Yet being neither deity nor Buddha, I could not soar through the skies to their rescue; thus I found myself driven to ponder night and day—to the exclusion of all else—how this might be remedied. In consequence, I deliberated at length: whether advantage lay in journeying to Beijing to petition the Qing government and initiate procedures for commanding the Tibetan authorities, or whether greater benefit resided in appealing to Nepal.

Now, even if we assume that by going to Qing China and making a request—supposing Qing China accepted my appeal, and further that the Japanese Foreign Ministry properly discerned the circumstances and communicated such arrangements to Qing China, with the Qing government then successfully accomplishing it—though undertaking such measures would be difficult for us mere monks—when considering Tibet's actual circumstances, it remained utterly unworkable. Because Tibet no longer trusted Qing China itself. Not only did rumors spread throughout Tibet that the Qing Emperor’s taking of a British noblewoman as his imperial consort led to excessive intimacy with Britain, thereby throwing Qing into disorder, but there were even those within the government who believed such foolish things.

Not only did they place no trust whatsoever in the Qing government, but there was also the view that since Qing had already lost its power, they felt no repercussions even if they refused to comply with its demands; particularly when it came to matters involving foreign relations, Tibet held the inclination to oppose almost any proposal from Qing regardless of its merits. This was because the policy that Qing China was pursuing—namely, an intention to grow close with foreign powers—had become manifestly evident, and this was something the Tibetan government greatly detested. Therefore, for me to now make a request through Qing China would be extremely disadvantageous and would not lead to aiding the Tibetan people. I considered that it would only serve to increase the harm.

I resolved to petition the King of Nepal. Tibetans at that time harbored considerable fear toward Nepal. This was because not only were the Nepalese people exceptionally courageous and strong, but their soldiers too were all drilled in British-style methods, leading Tibetans to imagine they would prove formidable in actual combat—thus compelling them to curry Nepal's favor whenever possible. At this juncture, going to Nepal to make the request was highly advantageous. Moreover, since the Nepalese government had shown considerable goodwill toward Japan—even to the extent of sending exchange students—appealing to the Nepalese government under these circumstances was most expedient. First, I had to go to Nepal and make the request.

The matter required funds, but I didn't have a single penny to my name, and by that time I already had a mountain of debt. However, fortunately, gentlemen from my hometown—Mr. Hiketa, Mr. Ito, Mr. Watanabe, and others—exerted great effort and sent me three hundred yen through five or six people. With that money, I resolved that first I must go to Nepal and devise a method of rescue. However, the work I had begun in Darjeeling remained unfinished. The work in question was the compilation of a Tibetan grammar requested by Dr. Das.

Though I had initially refused, Dr. Das had already compiled a grand dictionary of English and Tibetan, and while a complete Tibetan grammar was needed to accompany it, this became an insistent request declaring that no suitable person other than myself could be found to compile such a grammar at that time. I had written some twenty pages, but a grammar cannot be hastily thrown together like newspaper or magazine articles.

I had to consult reference materials and examine others' explanations to compile a complete grammar, but despite spending over three months on it, progress remained elusive. I came to realize this would require three—perhaps even five—years to perfect. Moreover, with the pressing Lhasa corruption scandal demanding my full attention and my need to return home, I set the grammar project aside after explaining the circumstances to Dr. Das, then departed for Calcutta in late November.

Chapter 143: The Earnest Remonstrance of the Three Masters - Ōtani, Inoue, and Fujii

Visiting a Classmate and Meeting an Old Teacher　I arrived at Calcutta's Mahabodhi Society and stayed there for two or three days, but there were no Japanese people nor anyone to converse with—only Burmese monks and Ceylonese monks, none of whom I found particularly impressive. Among my former classmates was a man named Mr. Omiya Takajun who had been studying in that area for a long time to research Sanskrit, so I went to visit him. Since I only had that Tibetan outfit, I put it on and went straight to Mr. Omiya's place. Mr. Omiya Takajun had rented a tidy second floor of a certain merchant's house. He was truly a neat person, and the room one entered was pleasantly comfortable.

I went straight into the reception room downstairs, but having not used Japanese for so long, it didn’t come out smoothly. No matter how careful I was, Tibetan would slip out. Although my English was more rudimentary than my Japanese, since I had used it more often, it came out more readily. Given how utterly clumsy I had become at initiating conversation, I simply stood there gazing at Mr. Omiya—whereupon he too stared fixedly at me and said, “Tom kaha admiyaha?” (“Where are you from?”). I found it so amusing I couldn’t help myself and said, “Are you Mr. Omiya?”

Then he said, “Are you Japanese?” offered me a chair, and said, “Please have a seat,” before sitting down himself and staring intently at my face. I too was staring back with a strange expression. As I was thinking, “This must be Mr. Omiya,” he said, “Who might you be?” “I am Kawaguchi.” “Oh, this was terribly rude of me.” It was both comical and truly amusing. He expressed great surprise, saying I had completely changed from before and now looked like a Chinese or Tibetan person. It seems I had changed so much. Mr. Omiya was a rather stylish person from the Tendai sect.

Encounter with Mr. Fujii Norimasa at the Station On the evening of December 14th, when I had stepped outside briefly, Dr. Inoue Enryo arrived at Mr. Omiya's residence. Since I happened to be present there—and particularly because Professor Inoue had studied under me at the Philosophy Academy, establishing our teacher-disciple relationship—he expressed great delight. First, I guided the professor to Darjeeling, and the following morning around three o'clock, I roused him and escorted him to Toragaoka to behold the world's loftiest peak. Though this marked the prime season for Himalayan viewing, clouds customarily gathered by nine or ten o'clock to shroud the mountains completely. Therefore, by rousing the professor early for this excursion, I compelled him to utter "Behold the Peerless Mountain Standing Alone in Majesty" while sighing thrice in awe before Everest. Though numerous poetic works emerged from this occasion—my verses, Professor Inoue's compositions, and opening stanzas—I shall omit them here as irrelevant to this Tibetan expedition narrative. On the 23rd, I returned to Calcutta with Professor Inoue, and that very night we immediately departed together on pilgrimage to Bodh Gaya.

A Chance Encounter in Bankipur | My purpose was not solely to make a pilgrimage to Bodh Gaya. One was to go to Delhi and request Lieutenant General Oku—who was then attending the Indian Emperor’s coronation—to arrange for my introduction to the King of Nepal, through which I hoped to have His Majesty submit a petition from me to the Tibetan Dalai Lama. However, having no prior acquaintance with Lieutenant General Oku, through an introduction from Mr. Omiya Takajun, I obtained a letter of recommendation from Mr. Majima Yoki—manager of Mitsui & Co. in Bombay—and with this document in hand, resolved to visit General Oku’s residence.

For that purpose, first we went to Bodh Gaya, then visited the Buddhist pilgrimage sites in Benares, and after parting ways with Professor Inoue there, it was arranged that I would proceed to Delhi while the professor would head to Bombay. That night we boarded the train and arrived at Bankipur Station the following afternoon. At that station we were to transfer trains for Gaya, but it was said they wouldn't depart for about five hours. Professor Inoue went to send a telegram while I was guarding the luggage in the waiting area, when an Indian man who understood English approached and asked, “Are you Tibetan?”

“No, I’m not.” “Then are you Nepalese?” “Not exactly.” “Then you’re from Tibet after all?” “I am indeed from Tibet.” “Oh? You came from Tibet, yet you’re not Tibetan?” “Coming from Tibet doesn’t make one Tibetan,” I replied when someone came rushing out from the restroom. The man strode straight to my side and exclaimed, “Ah! I’ve been listening—it’s exactly as I thought!” He seized my hand in delight—none other than Bachelor Fujii Norimasa, who had recently passed away in Marseille, France.

“What a strange place to meet!” “Thank goodness you returned without dying!” “But really—why on earth are you waiting in a place like this?” “Actually, I intend to depart for Bodh Gaya now.” “Are you alone?” “No—Dr. Inoue Enryo is here too.” “What a coincidence! I begged you when departing to return alive without dying, and indeed you’ve come back without dying. It all worked out perfectly!” he exclaimed with great joy. Amidst this exchange, Dr. Inoue Enryo returned from completing his errand. They shared their delight at this chance encounter and deliberated about their next course of action.

When Dr. Inoue said there were no hotels in Gaya and that while there was a dharmashala, it would likely be unusable due to many people staying there, Mr. Fujii replied: “What’s the problem? Mr. Otani Kozui is at the Gaya dharmashala. Let’s send a telegram ahead now and go even if it means traveling through the night.” Deeming this “truly most convenient,” we promptly sent a telegram to Gaya, then boarded the train and set out for Gaya—the three of us. When we arrived in Gaya, two people sent by Mr. Otani to meet us were waiting, and they guided us by carriage to the dharmashala located in Gaya’s city area.

The Three Masters' Earnest Admonitions | It was shortly before eleven o'clock at night when we were able to sit in a circle with Reverend Otani Kozui and other members of his entourage to converse. After various discussions, Reverend Otani Kozui inquired, “Where are you going from here?” Then Dr. Inoue said, “This is truly problematic. He says he’s planning to head for Nepal now.” When he added, “This is extremely unwise,” Mr. Fujii became vehement and retorted, “It’s utterly out of the question for you to go to Nepal now! That shows you’re not thinking of your own safety at all. When Mr. Fujii said, “I don’t know what circumstances there are, but you should stop that,” trying to dissuade me, Dr. Inoue answered on my behalf and presented his reasoning.

“There are two matters that necessitate his going to Nepal.” “First, he must retrieve the books he previously purchased and left stored there. The most crucial task is to rescue those implicated in the corruption scandal that has arisen in Lhasa.” “Not only has Reverend Kawaguchi himself heard of this matter directly, but I too have heard rumors in Darjeeling and find it truly pitiable. However, even were he to go to Nepal for their rescue, it cannot be definitively concluded they would be saved.” “Even supposing they could be saved, rather than engaging in such efforts, I would far sooner have him return to Japan and inform the world about Tibet’s shadowed affairs.” “I consider this latter course most vital—how do Your Reverences judge it?” he inquired, addressing both Reverend Otani and Master Fujii.

However, Mr. Fujii said, “Of course I agree with your argument. Are you truly determined to go?” “Of course I will go.” “Well, I’m astonished! Why didn’t you stop him, Dr. Inoue?” However, Dr. Inoue said, “Even if I tried to stop him, he wouldn’t readily agree.” “Just because he won’t agree doesn’t mean you can abandon him like this! Your reasoning makes some sense, but you should consider the broader picture. This Kawaguchi Ekai differs from before! Do you not realize you are now Kawaguchi of the world? You’re still thinking like the Kawaguchi of your student days, which is why you’re saying you’ll go to Nepal again. What if you contract malaria fever along the way, or encounter wild beasts or bandits and get killed? Rather than forgetting your own safety to engage in such utterly foolish acts over some minor incident, you’d do better to promptly complete the procedures to return to Japan!” —that was truly a forceful way of speaking.

At this juncture, Dr. Inoue inquired, “What are your esteemed thoughts on this matter, Reverend Shinmon-sama?” The Reverend responded: “While Mr. Kawaguchi’s arguments do hold elements of reasonableness, under present circumstances I deem it most fitting for him to prioritize his well-being and promptly return to Japan.” “I also agree with both of your arguments.” “To stubbornly persist in that course would be unwise.” “It is true that without such resolve, one could not have completed this Tibetan exploration and returned. But given your present standing, would it not be best to heed their counsel and return?” came his earnest entreaty.

Thereupon I said: "What you all say is reasonable, but in that case, the Japanese sense of duty would be completely lost. Especially since I have studied Buddhism, I hold an obligation that compels me to save people from their hardships even without any karmic connection. Not only do we share such bonds, but I have received immeasurable kindness from those people—indeed, one might say they practically arranged for me to come this far when I otherwise could not. Knowing now that these very benefactors suffer calamity, I cannot possibly abandon them under the pretext of preserving my own standing and return to Japan. Though I now live in comfort here, what agonies must my benefactors and friends be enduring in Lhasa at this very moment? By day they face cruel tortures; by night they shiver in Tibet's frigid prisons—dark stone cells without sunlight—given but a single meager ration of roasted barley daily. Whenever I imagine their plight, tears flow even as I lie abed, feeling as though my very entrails are being severed. Knowing full well these dire circumstances, I cannot abandon them and return," I declared resolutely.

Chapter 144: Visiting General Oku at Military Headquarters

The heated debate continued into the late hours. Since I refused to heed their advice, Mr. Fujii declared, “You fundamentally fail to grasp reason— “That’s precisely what womanly compassion is.” “That’s the talk of someone who understands petty compassion but remains ignorant of greater compassion.” “Since you still don’t grasp that reasoning, I’ll make it clear for you.” “Fundamentally, we don’t know how many people will face execution in the Tibetan incident, but even if we assume there are ten or twenty people there who will be executed or have their property confiscated, you should carefully consider how much harm that would actually cause to the world.” “It would merely serve as one motive to enforce national isolation and wouldn’t cause such significant harm.” “But what will you do if you enter Nepal now and unfortunately die?” “What good would it do if you were to take this great achievement—something you should present to the world after managing to escape Tibet with such difficulty—to the grave?” “If you were to quickly return to Japan and introduce this to the world, one cannot fathom how much benefit it might indirectly provide scholars worldwide.” “Therefore, in this situation, you must prioritize your duty to the world and forsake this minor obligation to Tibet.” “Yet you fail to make such distinctions and remain entangled in petty human sentiments like a child or a woman—this is utterly incomprehensible.” With this explanation, both Reverend Otani and Dr. Inoue concurred.

“I fully comprehend your esteemed arguments, but I cannot comply with your advice. That may have done good for the world, but I feel no such compunction within myself. My Buddhist training remains incomplete, and though I’ve barely preserved this life of mine, you cannot obscure matters by speaking of duties to the world or other such scholarly platitudes—I find myself unable in good conscience to follow your counsel. Even were I to return to Japan without undertaking that unbearable obligation, I could not remain at ease. Even should I fulfill my duty to the world, it would all come to naught if I fail to fulfill my duty to myself. What I bear before my very eyes—”

"Even were I to return to Japan in this manner without fulfilling my obligations to my benefactors, and even were I to achieve acclaim in scholarly circles by revealing Tibet's shadowy affairs to the world, though I know not what present and future generations of Japan might say, people of the world would surely remark: 'This Japanese person knowingly abandoned their benefactors—who remain shackled in prison cells enduring terrible suffering—and cast them aside to return home.' That is truly heartless. It would be regrettable that some might speak as if the Japanese disposition were one of rushing solely to achieve personal merit, unconcerned with whatever harm might befall others. In this situation, rather than pursuing honor before the world, I would fulfill my duty to rescue my benefactors—even if I die in disgrace, I shall find satisfaction in that—so I must ask you to cease these coercive tactics." When I said this, Mr. Fujii and the others reiterated their arguments like thread unwinding from a spool, urging me repeatedly with similar reasoning.

I was so sleepy I could hardly bear it. It must have been around three o'clock. I had grown extremely drowsy. When I said, "I haven't slept properly since last night and am unbearably drowsy—please let us stop this matter and allow me to sleep tonight," Mr. Fujii retorted, "I won't let you sleep unless you give a definitive answer that you won't go." "That constitutes a restriction on personal freedom." "I cannot give such a definitive answer." "Then force yourself to give a definitive answer!" "Allow me to deliberate until tomorrow morning." "That won't do." "Even if you're sleepy, give your definitive answer!" "I pleaded, 'Please bear with me tonight,' but as he wouldn't relent, I continued: 'In that case, let's do this—" "I shall now go to request General Oku's assistance. If Madam Oku can arrange for the King of Nepal to forward a petition to the Dalai Lama of Tibet, though I have business requiring me to retrieve books from Nepal, I will abandon that task and follow your counsel to return home."

Even so, Mr. Fujii remained unyielding, but with Reverend Otani and Dr. Inoue arguing that Japanese military men were kind and duty-bound enough to handle such matters even privately, we finally managed to get some sleep. The next day, rising after seven o'clock, it was decided that everyone would set out on the pilgrimage to Budagaya, and thus we were to eat breakfast. At that time, combining breakfast and lunch into one meal, when we all sat down to eat, I received yet another earnest admonition. However, having already resolved myself and with the carriage now arrived, we set out together for Budagaya to complete our pilgrimage, spent the day visiting notable sites, and that night, Dr. Inoue and I parted from Reverend Otani's group to depart for Benares.

In Benares, there was a Russian scholar by the name of Dr. Matthisen. This was someone with whom I had discussed various Buddhist matters in Darjeeling and who knew some Tibetan. Since I had become quite close with him, I went and stayed at his place. Dr. Matthisen was there researching Sanskrit, and according to public rumors, this doctor—

I had heard in Darjeeling that he was a Russian political spy, but regardless, as an individual passionately devoted to Buddhist studies—which I found commendable—I provided thorough explanations on Buddhist matters, and the doctor was greatly pleased and extended us generous hospitality. The next day, together with Dr. Inoue, we visited Sarnath—the Deer Park in Benares where the Buddha first preached the Dharma—and on our return journey attended lectures by Mr. Olcott and Miss Besant, Britain's foremost female orator in social circles. There, together with Dr. Inoue, I met Miss Besant and engaged in various discussions.

Dr. Inoue departed for Bombay that very night. The following day, due to train schedules, I proceeded from Benares toward Delhi. I arrived in Delhi around two o'clock at night. In Delhi, so many people had gathered that there were hardly any inns where we could stay even briefly. Even if there were any inns, they said the cheapest nightly rate was sixty rupees, while the more expensive ones went as high as a hundred and fifty. Since we didn't have a single penny for such expenses, we naturally couldn't stay at an inn.

Well, even if it was the middle of the night, I didn’t care—I wanted to get to where General Oku was staying. When I tried to hire a carriage, they demanded twenty rupees for the fare. Since the price was exorbitant, when I tried to negotiate a lower rate, they wouldn’t engage. When I then asked a police officer for help, he said, “A carriage is utterly out of the question. “It’s practically unheard of,” he said, arranging for a single porter. However, he demanded five rupees. Because the police officer insisted vehemently, it was decided that the luggage would be carried for three rupees.

Visiting Lieutenant General Oku - Though his residence was only about two miles away, because I was wearing Tibetan clothing, the porter misunderstood and—despite having been directed to where the Japanese General was staying—led me instead toward where the King of Sikkim resided. This was because all people in British Sikkim wore Tibetan clothing. The distance from the station amounted to nearly five miles, so I arrived around seven in the morning at daybreak. Yet contrary to all expectations, there stood pitched before us the King of Sikkim’s tent.

"This isn't right," I thought, but since I couldn't speak Hindustani, I asked someone who knew English to explain to the porter: "I need to go where the Japanese are stationed, so please make this clear to him." Though they conveyed this properly, the porter said he couldn't go on because he was exhausted. In the end, I managed to persuade him by offering a bit more money, and we set out. It was only three or four miles, but the porter was so exhausted he could hardly move. I hadn't eaten any food nor drunk any tea, so I was terribly hungry and in dire straits, but I finally reached the tent where the lieutenant general was staying around eleven o'clock. It had been turned into a military camp, with soldiers of the British Indian Government guarding its entrance, making it difficult to meet Lieutenant General Oku. When I finally followed the guide inside, I was first met by Captain Ito, who said, "Are you Mr. Kawaguchi?" "That's truly regrettable." "Actually, as there was a letter from Mr. Majima, we promptly sent a reply from our side, but it appears that letter didn't reach you in time." "It was truly unfortunate that you went out of your way to come here." "I don't know whether you've come regarding this matter, but since we've already reached a resolution here, I must explain the reasons in full. However, please wait a moment," he said before stepping outside.

Chapter 145: Reception at the Japanese Military Camp

Major Yui’s Greeting　Presently Major Yui emerged and began by reiterating what Mr. Ito had explained, then continued: “Unfortunately, this is not a matter I can mediate on your behalf. We cannot introduce you to the King of Nepal to fulfill your request. To begin with, we have come solely as guests celebrating His Majesty the Emperor of India’s coronation—not as diplomats. Therefore, we naturally possess no authority to intervene in diplomatic affairs. Moreover, our current position does not permit such actions. Even were His Excellency the Lieutenant General to act purely from chivalrous sympathy for your plight, this would escalate into an international issue with truly troublesome complications. Knowing full well this would become an international matter yet proceeding regardless constitutes our second reason for refusal.”

“Furthermore, all matters have their relative importance. As you are well aware, Japan and Britain are now allied nations. At this time when we maintain friendly relations through this alliance, interfering in Tibetan affairs via Nepal’s king would gravely offend British India’s sensibilities. We cannot countenance such offense – this constitutes our third reason for refusal. Even were we willing to risk displeasing them, such actions hold insufficient merit to justify the cost. Preserving our alliance with Britain remains our nation’s paramount concern today. Rescuing suspects from Tibet’s corruption scandal holds no such significance for Japan.”

“When considering matters from our nation’s perspective, prioritizing major affairs over minor ones is an absolute policy we must follow. Therefore, based on these reasons, we have definitively decided against mediation.” “Accordingly, we sent a written statement of this decision to Mr. Majima and arranged for that document to reach you.” “For these reasons, we cannot comply.” “Moreover, your appearance here as a Japanese wearing Tibetan clothing makes you resemble nothing less than a state intelligence agent.” “Even during this conversation, I believe we risk drawing the British Government’s attention.” “That is why we prefer to avoid prolonged discussion.”

"Moreover, even were we to accept your proposal and pursue this with the Nepalese government, we cannot intervene directly ourselves. In any case, we must establish procedures that require entrusting the matter to the Governor-General of British India for completion. However, while Britain's official policy does not openly declare such aims, they prefer to maintain nations like Nepal—though nominally independent—as territories under their sphere of influence, particularly those near India or serving as protectorates. Furthermore, should Japanese government officials unconnected to these affairs raise such matters, it would inevitably invite suspicion from the British authorities. From every conceivable angle," he concluded, "we cannot accommodate your request."

"I did not come with that intention," I began. "I ask this of you as a private individual - never as a representative of the state." When I tried to explain this distinction, Major Yui cut me off with a dismissive wave. "That must be unbearable for you," he said in a tone that brooked no argument. "Your feelings are natural enough, and I daresay you have sound reasoning." His voice hardened. "But His Excellency has already ruled this matter impossible regardless of entreaties. We've ratified that resolution and stand firmly by it." He gestured toward the tent flap where shadows of soldiers passed. "If you linger too long, their suspicions will grow about our conversation. Regrettable as it is, I must ask you to take your leave at once." With that finality-

There being no foothold to grasp - no matter how much I might entreat them regarding this already finalized decision, they would never consent; moreover, since accepting would mean they absolutely cannot fulfill this request for the nation's sake, asking them to stake national interests is naturally beyond my standing as an individual. Thus I resorted to begging: "Then I suppose there's nothing to be done but leave. Now, though it's my custom not to eat after noon, it seems already eleven-thirty today. Having skipped lunch yesterday too, and particularly after traversing such a long detour since last night, I find myself reduced to being unable to move from hunger. Might you spare me something to eat?"

“Given our current circumstances, we have little to offer, but perhaps some tea and bread would suffice,” they said, giving me two slices of bread and a cup of tea. Yet my hunger remained unappeased. If anything, having eaten only sharpened my craving for food—my stomach growled relentlessly without respite. Unable to beg for more, I pleaded: “Walking from here will be too arduous. Please arrange a carriage for me. I’ll pay the fare.” The two gentlemen exchanged troubled looks. “That’s a complicated matter,” they said, but after conferring added, “We can hardly suspect ill intent over such trifles,” finally procuring a carriage. Whether they provided the fare out of pity for my plight or not, no payment was demanded.

I arrived at the station around 1:00 PM, but the train wouldn’t depart until after 10:00 PM. During that time, I had no choice but to wait blankly at the station. I was hungry, my purpose remained unfulfilled, and in truth, complaints of a sort that made me wonder if this was the trivial thinking of an ordinary mortal rose within my heart. In this state, I could not proceed to Nepal. First, since I had to return to Calcutta and complete the procedures for going to Nepal, I shamefully made my way back to Calcutta again. I ran around everywhere, and though it required spending a considerable amount of money to open the way, I finally managed to complete the procedures to enter Nepal.

Chapter 146: Audience with the King of Nepal

The letter of introduction for Nepal—this referred to an elderly Bengali man named Kedarnath Chattarji, who had served as head of a school in Kathmandu while residing in Calcutta. Having learned that he enjoyed the trust of the King of Nepal, I entreated him: "I am determined to visit Nepal's sacred sites—might you arrange an introduction for me to obtain a travel pass from His Majesty?" To this he graciously assented, composing a letter of introduction to the king.

While Tibetans, Bhutanese, Sikkimese and such could manage by obtaining travel passes from the Commander-in-Chief stationed at Birganj without requiring special permission from His Majesty the King, other foreigners found this impossible. As it necessitated receiving authorization directly from His Majesty, I sought connections and entreated this elderly gentleman for assistance. Bearing that letter of introduction, I departed Calcutta on January 10th and made for Nepal. Thus I arrived at Laxar Station near Nepal's border at dusk on the 11th.

At six in the evening, I hired a porter and departed; soon leaving India’s border behind, I crossed the Shiman River that marks Nepal’s frontier. Upon ascending the bank, there stood a police outpost where the officer refused to grant passage onward. The reason they would not permit passage was: “Due to His Majesty the King’s recent return from Delhi, security has been tightened to an extreme degree, making it impossible to proceed beyond this point with ease.” “After conducting a thorough investigation, we will permit entry, so wait here for a while.” When natives are reprimanded like that, they become very humble and end up passing through, perhaps by secretly offering bribes or something. When I thought that perhaps I too should offer a bribe, they said that being a foreigner, no matter what I did, they could not permit my passage.

Since there was no other way, I showed the letter of introduction addressed to the King that I had obtained from Calcutta and said, "As written here, let me pass." Though they hadn't allowed me to meet the chief guarding that police outpost until then, they immediately took me to him. When I asked what should be done, they promptly sent that document to the Birganj checkpoint to request appropriate measures. I then provided a detailed account of everything from my physical appearance and personal details to my nationality, full name, and purpose, sending it along with the letter of introduction to the Birganj checkpoint. In Birganj resided the Commander-in-Chief, who was acting as proxy during the king's absence. Though the order should have arrived immediately, no matter how long I waited, it never came. Finally around eleven o'clock at night, as I boiled tea to drink against the unbearable cold, a royal police officer arrived and ordered, "Come to Birganj at once." Though harsh, I accompanied him. And during that time, a kyōka poem came to mind.

To the dregs of wine, drunk on journey's woes.

Birganj's Winter Dusk

The Royal Return - Since the distance between that police outpost and Birganj was just over one mile, he arrived in Birganj around eleven-thirty. As they had lent him a small house located beyond the hospital, he stayed there. The following day, to receive his travel permit, he went to the residence of the Commander-in-Chief and waited from morning until finally, around five in the afternoon, he was able to meet with the king’s proxy. When he explained the general situation, the proxy informed him that His Majesty the King would be returning there on the coming 14th. Regarding this king, there was something he needed to explain.

In Nepal there were two kings both styled as Great Kings. The one who actually held authority as Great King was the Prime Minister, while the true Great King himself possessed almost no rights or power whatsoever. This authentic sovereign merely received an annual stipend from the powerful Prime Minister and subsisted on that allowance—all authority resided entirely with this ministerial ruler. Among Nepalese subjects, only government officials recognized this dual sovereignty; ordinary citizens retained merely a vague awareness of their nominal monarch. Since this de facto Prime Minister King would soon return here, I needed to meet him personally to obtain my travel permit. Having settled this arrangement with His Majesty’s proxy, I took my leave resolved to facilitate these introductions myself.

On the evening of the 14th, the Prime Minister returned in an extraordinarily grand ceremonial procession. The reception proved truly magnificent - twelve or thirteen cannon shots were fired while various beautiful flowers were scattered in welcome. Most impressive of all was the abundance of elephants bearing numerous Nepalese princesses and princes. As polygamy was naturally practiced in this country, the king maintained many princes and princesses. They spent that day accordingly, deciding he should depart around ten o'clock next morning so arrangements might be made for him to encounter the Prime Minister during his five o'clock stroll in the inner court.

It seemed impossible for a first-time visitor to gain immediate audience at the palace through ordinary means. Fortunately having secured a meeting in the inner court through exceptional circumstances, I presented Japanese artworks I had prepared as gifts. The Prime Minister King responded, "As these are precious items, you must state their value," explaining he wished to appraise them properly. "Since these are offerings to Your Highness, no compensation is necessary," I replied. At His Excellency's summons—"Then come this way"—the Prime Minister King guided me to the palace hall with unexpected familiarity, as if we had been acquainted for a decade. He seated himself in regal fashion while another figure took place beside him. I initially mistook this companion for a subordinate minister, but later learned he was in fact the true King of Nepal. Though nominally serving as prime minister to this monarch, His Excellency bore every aspect of sovereignty in appearance and bearing, while the actual king resembled nothing more than an ordinary minister in attendance.

“I hear you went to Tibet,” said the Prime Minister King. “What purpose led you to enter that secret country?” “For Buddhist training in that land,” I answered. He continued: “I hear you associated with many noble monks and aristocrats there. Who currently holds the greatest power within that government?” When I replied, “As I devoted myself solely to Buddhist teachings as a monk, I cannot claim certain knowledge of governmental matters,” the Prime Minister immediately countered: “You need not conceal it. “Our nation and Tibet maintain close relations; stating this plainly poses no issue. “I ask solely for reference. “Moreover, I have long known of your thorough familiarity with Tibet’s internal affairs. “I also knew you had departed Tibet,” he concluded.

“While I am indeed aware that Your Excellency’s country and Tibet maintain diplomatic relations,” I replied, “it is not my intention to convey inaccuracies by speaking of matters I am not entirely certain about, so I must decline.” “That is acceptable,” he said. “At any rate, please tell me.” “Whether that contains errors or not is not my concern.” I responded: “At present, the supreme authority in Tibet is the Dalai Lama, and among his subordinates, the most powerful is Shata.” The Prime Minister pressed further: “What influence do the Chinese officials currently in Tibet hold over the Tibetan government?” “Their influence has waned to such an extent that they can no longer accomplish anything.” “For what reason has their power declined?” “This stems both from the Peking government’s growing incompetence and from the current Dalai Lama’s political acumen—his sharp decisiveness and strategic prowess.” “Do you know Tsannii Kenbo of Russia?” “I do not.” “He was not present during my time in Lhasa.”

“Then have you heard anything about him?” “I have heard something of him.” “With whom in the Tibetan government is he most closely associated?” “Is he truly so intimate with His Holiness that every word he utters reaches the Dalai Lama’s ears?” “Is he also trusted by all ministers and high officials?” When I stated, “Only Shata shares His Holiness’s trust in him—all others detest him,” what appeared to be a lower-ranking minister seated beside the Prime Minister inquired in Nepali: “Does this Japanese monk’s account differ from your secret intelligence reports?” At this, the Prime Minister King began replying that his testimony indeed—

he answered that it was as if matching tally marks perfectly. Then, turning toward me, he said, “If Tibet concludes a secret treaty with the Russian government, will they be able to fulfill it?” “If they merely exchange the written text of the treaty, it may well be accomplished,” I replied. “But should they publicly announce it and attempt to implement actual diplomatic relations, either the Dalai Lama would be assassinated or the people would rise in rebellion—neither outcome could be avoided.” “Why would that happen?” “Because it represents only the hopes of two or three individuals, not those of the government or the general populace.” With these words, the crucial discussion came to an end.

What the Prime Minister most wished to ask was: “Which route did you use to enter?” I considered answering, but feared that revealing this might inflict great harm or cause significant trouble upon Nepal’s people. Judging it best to withhold this information for now and explain later when a suitable opportunity arose, I said: “As these facts are exceedingly complex and difficult to convey in English—and since Your Highness must have retainers proficient in Tibetan—I wish to provide full details through an interpreter after your return to the capital.” To this he replied, “That will suffice,” then inquired: “What reason accounts for Japan’s rise to power like the ascending sun?” “It is because we thoroughly educated our people to be robust and nurtured their innate patriotic spirit.” “However, having long been away from my country, I know nothing of recent affairs,” I concluded, bringing the discussion to a close.

However, as it had grown late today and they were unable to issue the travel permit, they told me to come around two o'clock tomorrow, and so I took my leave that day.

Chapter 147: The Physical Strength of the Guard Soldiers

Visiting Rambon’s hunting palace—when I went the next day, the gate guard soldiers acted arrogantly and would not readily let me in. If I tried to force my way in, they looked ready to fling me down with violent force. Finally, around five o'clock, they allowed me inside the gate. When I met with the Prime Minister King, he said, “I am very busy today. Come to Rambon’s hunting palace tomorrow. I will give you the travel permit.” When I had no choice but to return to where I was staying, the servant said, “This is really suspicious. You will absolutely not be able to obtain the travel permit. The Prime Minister does not intend to permit you to enter Nepal’s interior. You won’t even make it to Rambon tomorrow. You’ll undoubtedly be stopped by soldiers along the way.”

“That’s a problem,” I said, and once again made the effort to visit the chamberlain’s residence—a full ri away—late at night. Then he said, “That will absolutely not happen,” and gradually explained things to me, so I returned once more. On the seventeenth of the following month, I hired a one-person carriage called an ekka and traveled with the porter for about four days to the foot of a mountain called Binbitē. The hunting palace called Rambon is located at the entrance of the great forest in the Himalayan foothills known as Tarai Jangal; though called a hunting palace, there is no permanent building there at all times.

It was temporarily erected for seasonal hunting, but this time became exceptionally grand as it also served to celebrate His Majesty the Emperor of India’s coronation—so many tents were pitched there that one might have thought every tent from Nepal’s capital had been gathered. There must have been approximately five or six thousand tents. Among them, the residence where the King and Queen stayed was quite splendid, and corresponding to that, there were also many splendid tents for the ministers. Red, yellow, white, blue, and other variously colored tents could be seen deep within the forest, making for a truly splendid sight.

There were about two thousand soldiers as well. Upon observing their drills—entirely British in style—their uniforms all followed British regulations, and indeed only men of truly splendid, large stature had been selected to serve as the king's royal guard. I intended to go inside to obtain the travel permit, but the soldiers wouldn't let me in. After waiting outside for about four hours, I finally encountered His Excellency the Prime Minister (referred to as "His Highness" due to his de facto royal authority) departing on an elephant for a hunting expedition.

There, I said, “Please give me the travel permit quickly,” to which he replied, “Ah, I must apologize for the discourtesy.” While he was saying, “I will definitely give it to you tomorrow,” the elephant stood up. Before I could even ask what time tomorrow he had mentioned, the elephant had already charged into the forest. There being nothing to be done, I arrived at a small village along the public road leading toward Shimura in Nepal, located one ri away from there, and lodged there that night. Then my porter said, “They definitely won’t give it. If they aren’t giving it today, we must’ve been truly fooled,” he muttered. “Would your king deceive people? The king does not lie. Do not presume to gauge the king’s heart by your own measure. He will surely give it tomorrow without fail!” I scolded.

The author was seized and dragged out by the sentries.

The next morning at six o'clock, having finished my meal, I immediately set out for the hunting palace. First entering the enclosure through an unmanned section where no sentries were present, I found myself amidst such a multitude of tents that no matter how I searched, I couldn't locate His Excellency the Prime Minister's audience chamber at all. Having wandered about too restlessly, an officer reprimanded me: "Why are you wandering around looking everywhere?" When I responded, "I am seeking His Excellency the Prime Minister's audience chamber," he ordered, "This is not the time for an audience. Leave the enclosure," and had a soldier escort me outside the fence.

Thinking that if I went outside I would never be granted an audience, I remained in a certain spot without heeding the soldier. Then the soldier refused to comply. “Why won’t you leave?” he said, and tried to push me out. As I remained silent and pretended not to understand, a man who appeared to be a sentry came out and issued a strict command: “Get outside the fence!” “I came today by order of His Excellency the Prime Minister for an audience, so I will not leave,” I declared without moving an inch. Then they gradually closed in until finally, someone grabbed me by the collar from behind where I sat and yanked me upward. Then I sprang to my feet. At that moment, the sentry hoisted me up with one hand and struck my back with a thud.

As I staggered and nearly fell, they grabbed me by the collar with their bare hands and dragged me outside the fence like a child seized by a demon in a game of tag. Then all the soldiers outside and onlookers burst into laughter, some among them jeering. At this moment alone, even for one as detached as a monk, I felt profound unpleasantness. Yet recognizing this displeasure stemmed from my own deficiency in forbearance - truly my spiritual training remained inadequate - I admonished myself and sat motionless upon the grass.

The more I reflected, rather than growing angry at the soldiers' discourtesy, I lamented my own deficiency in forbearance. That merely enduring such disrespect could provoke such unbearable anguish made tears spill forth unbidden as I wondered how my benefactor—now suffering abuse in a Tibetan prison—might be faring.

At that moment

Thinking of my friend in the highland prison, My suffering has been endured.

At last, as I had been pondering until around eleven o'clock, His Excellency the Prime Minister’s chamberlain appeared. Thinking, "Ah, here comes a decent person," I immediately went over and said, "The truth is I'm in this predicament—could you arrange an audience with His Excellency the Prime Minister?" To this he replied, "That was most discourteous of us," promptly called a soldier, and ordered, "Escort this gentleman to His Excellency's audience chamber," so they guided me. After waiting there for about two hours, His Excellency the Prime Minister King appeared in the audience chamber at 1:00 PM.

Benevolence of His Excellency the Prime Minister || Obeying orders and entering the audience chamber, the Great King (the Prime Minister) inquired: “What do you now require most?” I promptly answered, “A travel permit.” “The travel permit will of course be granted,” His Highness replied. “That is not what I meant by my inquiry. Do you have sufficient funds for your journey?” “Yes, the funds for current expenses are sufficient.” Then His Highness asked, “How much do you have?” “I have about three hundred rupees.” “That is insufficient. I will give you two hundred rupees. With five hundred rupees, you can manage sufficiently.” “No, what I already have is more than sufficient. I must decline Your Highness’s gracious monetary gift.” When I said this, His Highness repeatedly urged me to accept it and ordered his attendants to bring out the money.

There, I answered: “I did not come to this country to obtain money. I have come for one necessary matter.” “What is this necessary matter?” The reason I had not mentioned the written petition at this time was my fear that carelessly speaking of it might bring harm upon even those in Nepal with the slightest connection to me. “What I desire first is the complete Buddhist canon in Sanskrit that exists in your country. If Your Highness can grant me such splendid items, I shall present the complete Buddhist canon of Japan that exists in my country to Your Highness,” I replied.

Then His Excellency said, “Write out a catalog of those scriptures. As I shall return to the capital twenty-five days from now, until then you must submit the catalog to the Commander-in-Chief acting as the King’s proxy in Kathmandu.” “I will have the Commander-in-Chief procure it,” he said, then ordered his attendants to prepare a travel permit. I received the travel permit and was escorted by a single policeman back to the small village called Shimura. Then the porter made an extremely worried face and said, “It seems the cart driver has run away and isn’t here.” “What happened?” “The cart driver ran away because he found another passenger outside—that insolent wretch took our money and fled!”

I couldn't quite tell whether the porter had acted on some sudden impulse or not, but he didn't seem like the sort to do such a bad thing. I concluded that the cart driver must have run away. The policeman became extremely angry and tried to fling the porter, so I scolded him, saying, "Stop that!" Just as we were finally about to head north from there, someone said, “It’s already three o’clock in the afternoon. From here onward lies four ri of forest with no lodging. Though told, "There are tigers about, so you should wait until tomorrow," I proceeded that day, thinking that since I wanted to reach Nepal's capital as soon as possible and was already familiar with the route, I needn't worry about being attacked by tigers or such.

Chapter 148: Toward the Capital Kathmandu

Ponds of Merit and the Right to Execute by Firing Squad || Within that four-ri stretch of forest stood large reservoirs at every ri interval, iron pipes running through them to supply water to travelers. The water was truly pure. These reservoirs had been constructed in accordance with the final wishes of the Queen Consort of Nepal, who upon her passing decreed that such reservoirs be built every ri through this four-ri expanse of waterless forest—an act of merit-making to provide for wayfarers. A vast sum must have been spent on them, for their construction was remarkably splendid. The particulars were engraved stone by stone—in some places inscribed in Tibetan, followed by Nepali, then Indian, English, and Persian, divided into five languages. That evening we reached the small village of Bichagori, where I had stayed before—a place where during my previous visit I had heard tigers roaring,

Under the clear moon, the sound of a tiger roaring in the mire The waters of the Bichagori River lie stagnant. I recalled having composed this verse, and when I rose early the next morning, though no tiger was present, the moon shone with crystalline clarity. Gazing at that moon, I composed another poem in response. The moon of Bichagori remains as it was of old, The roaring tiger—where is it now? Departing early in the morning, when we crossed the river and proceeded onward, there was a guard post where they inspected the travel permit. At the guard post were five or six soldiers, and five or six rifles were kept at the ready. The guards were granted precisely the authority to immediately execute by firing squad any individuals exhibiting suspicious behavior. During this period, I composed various poems and engaged in other literary pursuits, but as these matters are not directly relevant, I will omit them here. On this day, I truly passed through numerous roads, made my way through a place called Sparta, and lodged at a location named Bahise. The following day, after advancing about three ri, I arrived at a station called Binbite.

Up to this station, ox carts and horse carriages could pass through, but beyond this point lay an extremely steep slope where neither horses nor vehicles could proceed. Four years prior, when I had climbed this steep slope without carrying anything, it had been extremely arduous. This time I climbed while carrying belongings with perfect composure; proceeding steadily up the severe slope for about one and a half ri, I found soldiers stationed there. That place was called Chisupanī or alternatively Chisugarī. There, one surrendered the travel pass that had been obtained initially. Of course, there had been three checkpoints along the way where they inspected travel permits.

There was also a customs office there that imposed taxes on imported and exported goods, but as it appeared that a notice from the King had arrived in advance regarding my case, while others typically had to stay about a day for luggage inspections and tax levies, I alone was allowed to pass through without any inspection in merely thirty minutes. The policeman who had accompanied me up to this point turned back here, and instead assigned a single guard to escort me. When I gazed northward from Chisugarī's summit, the Himalayan snow peaks stood even more grand and magnificent than those seen in Darjeeling, towering majestically. Though I had not been separated from snowy mountains throughout these six years, still upon coming here, a new feeling arose. I shall now present a poem composed at that time.

How might I voice such praise? A Himalayan sky too overwhelming for the eyes Recalling that Shakyamuni Buddha had undertaken his six years of ascetic practice in these very snow mountains, I thought with utmost shame that though I too had spent six years never leaving the Himalayas by count of years alone—setting aside attaining Buddhahood—I could not even become a bodhisattva, and thus composed another verse of defeat: This body that spent six years in the snow mountains—how could it... Having passed without meeting the dawn star

The phrase "having passed without meeting the dawn star" alludes to the ancient story of Shakyamuni Buddha attaining enlightenment upon seeing the morning star beneath the Bodhi tree, which is why I composed it thus. I descended over one ri down a steep slope, passed through Kurikane Village, crossed an iron bridge, proceeded over two ri, and lodged at a village called Maruku.

On the twenty-first at 3 AM, I prepared and set out to climb into the mountains. Since I calculated we could reach the capital Kathmandu that day if we hurried, I had risen exceptionally early; when we emerged onto the mountain plateau, a heavy frost lay across the expansive grassy plain.

When I looked up at the sky, the sight of a silver hare appearing and disappearing among clouds had the charm of scattering resplendent white blossoms across the world below. With crunching footsteps and cold so sharp it pierced the skin, as the porters and soldiers climbed trembling up the mountain, between those peaks Himalayan rhododendrons stood poised to bloom amidst tilting crags and bizarre rocks, while small birds sang among them—truly a delightful spectacle. After ascending over one ri and descending about another ri, there lay a vast plain in the far distance, beyond which rose snow-capped mountains once more.

The peak I was currently traversing was called Chandragiri (Moon Peak). Descending that mountain brought one out onto a plain. This was a mountainous plateau rising six thousand shaku above sea level, and after emerging onto that plateau and traveling over three ri further, we arrived at Kathmandu, the capital of Nepal. Passing through the city's bustling streets, we reached the residence of the Commander-in-Chief (Shirei Chōkan), who was then serving as acting Prime Minister. The soldiers who had accompanied me handed me over to the Commander-in-Chief's officials. However, they now provided two new soldiers to escort me. They informed me that the Commander-in-Chief was exceedingly busy today and that we would meet tomorrow.

Visiting an old acquaintance from four years prior—there, I ended up going to my friend Venerable Buddha Vajra's residence. When I stepped outside the gate, the horse sent by Venerable Buddha Vajra, along with his son and servant, had come to greet me. I rode that horse toward Kasyapa Buddha Stupa and arrived there safely that evening. The master of this tower was Venerable Buddha Vajra, who had come out to greet us at the gatefront. At his invitation, I climbed to the third floor; after exchanging greetings from our separation four years prior, I was served customary Tibetan tea. Though Venerable Buddha Vajra belonged to the Old School sect, following Nepalese custom he still kept two wives. In Nepal after all, there are those who maintain three or even five wives. Tibet stands nearly opposite in this regard.

Here there were thirteen children. That night, as I stayed at such a sacred site, I prepared butter lamps to hold memorial services for my father who had died during my absence and for those deceased who had shown me particular kindness, and furthermore recited sutras and performed dedications of merit to pray for the enlightenment of all sentient beings—whether connected to me or not. Truly, holding memorial services for the deceased—particularly benefactors and friends—at such a sacred site filled me with such profound gratitude that I could not restrain tears overflowing with both joy and sorrow.

The next morning, when I awoke early and looked outside from the window, the sight of the rising sun's light from between the snow-capped mountains reflecting on the great stupa's golden rings was truly beautiful.

Another poem: Born in Azuma, land where birds sing, My body does praise the light of the snow mountains

Visiting the Commander-in-Chief: On that day at 1:00 PM, I rode on horseback with Venerable Buddha Vajra to the residence of Commander-in-Chief Bhim Samser. After waiting for a while, the Commander-in-Chief returned from the tent office within the estate to the main building. We met in the upstairs reception room; his appearance was kind and sincere, yet within that lay a dignified and imposing virtue that commanded respect, and he was also quite proficient in English. The upstairs interior was remarkably spacious, with fourteen or fifteen European-style chairs, and at the head position lay a thick Nepalese-style rectangular floor covering draped in white cloth. Additionally, European-style frames hung on all four walls of the room. All decorations were a blend of European and Nepalese styles. This might have seemed trivial, but one could somewhat discern the national policy direction of this country from this room's decorations. I would now relate the particulars of that conversation.

Chapter 149: Meeting the King's Proxy

“What impressions have you received since coming to our country?” asked the Commander-in-Chief once our seats were arranged. “I find myself quite overwhelmed with joy,” I replied. “What causes this feeling?” “Because I’ve gained the distinct impression of having returned to my homeland. Not only do your nation’s mountains, rivers, and flora closely resemble those of my country, but your people bear such striking similarity to my compatriots that I forgot all hardships of the mountain roads in my delight.” The Commander-in-Chief smiled faintly. “While our racial kinship explains the human resemblance, that even the landscapes mirror each other strikes me as curious indeed.” “Is this truly so?”

“Not only do your mountains and rivers closely resemble those of my homeland,” I continued, “but pines, cedars, cypresses, oaks, daimyo oaks, willows, zelkovas, cherries, peaches, pears, citrus trees, elms, azaleas, and mandarin oranges—all belong to identical varieties found in Japan. The same holds true for rice, wheat, beans, millet, barnyard millet, foxtail millet, buckwheat, and corn.” “Moreover,” I added, “with so many similar plants, birds, and flowers beyond these, I nearly felt transported back to my own country. What’s more, I observed that your people possess not only courage but show exceptional kindness to foreigners.” The Commander-in-Chief appeared deeply gratified by this before deliberately steering the conversation: “It’s said the Tibetan government has signed a treaty with Russia—is there concrete evidence of this?”

“While I have not personally seen conclusive evidence of this treaty, judging from Tsannii Kenbo’s activities and the Dalai Lama’s acceptance of a bishop’s vestments, one might reasonably suspect its existence. Moreover, since envoys sent from Tibet to Russia returned here, the Tibetan government’s resolve has hardened to the point of readiness to confront any adversary.” “Considering these circumstances too, one might reasonably conclude that a secret treaty was indeed concluded.” “There’s no doubt they concluded one—but why would Tibet make such a pact with Russia?” “Though as a monk unversed in political matters I cannot speak definitively, from the Tibetan government’s perspective, the current Chinese administration cannot be relied upon,

“...and while they were agonizing over how to defend against their formidable rival, the British Indian Government, they were effectively lured by Tsannii Kenbo—a Mongol acting as Russia’s secret agent—into relying on Russia.” “Why does the Tibetan government consider Britain an enemy?” “I believe the Tibetan government fears that close association with Britain—a nation of different faith and race—would lead to Tibetan Buddhism’s destruction. Hence they presumably avoid relying on them.” The Commander-in-Chief laughed heartily: “Then Russia too differs in religion and race—is this not identical to Britain?” “That is correct.” “Then why treat one as foe and the other as kin?”

When I explained that due to the Tibetan government's ignorance of world affairs, they had been deceived by Tsannii Kenbo into believing Russia was truly a Buddhist nation whose emperor was a Bodhisattva and Chenrezig, the Commander-in-Chief asked, “Do you think this secret treaty benefits Tibet’s future?” I replied, “While it may currently appear somewhat advantageous, it will undoubtedly prove dangerous for Tibet itself in time.” He then inquired, “Why does the Tibetan government not rely on your powerful nation, which shares both race and faith?” “In the Tibetan government, there have traditionally been very few who even know the name of our Japan.” When I stated, “Therefore, it is only natural that such an idea has not occurred to them,” the Commander-in-Chief sighed deeply and remarked, “One cannot help but be astonished that the Tibetan government remains ignorant of current world affairs.”

“First, I shall confide my true thoughts to Your Excellency.” With that, I redirected our conversation’s starting point: “My present visit to your country serves two purposes. “The first concerns a major corruption scandal currently unfolding in Tibet related to my affairs—I have come to implore Your Excellencies’ intervention in resolving this. “The circumstances are thus: Less than a month after my departure from Lhasa, when my Japanese identity had nearly been exposed, the Nyatong customs chief who permitted my passage reported to the Tibetan government that I was a British intelligence agent, seeking thereby to absolve himself of responsibility. “Consequently, the Tibetan government’s suspicions have intensified alarmingly—they have imprisoned innocent acquaintances and subjected them to severe interrogation and torture.”

“While being fully aware of such matters, I simply cannot turn a blind eye to them as if they were someone else’s concern and return to my country. I did consider entrusting this matter to the Chinese government, but given the great distance and concern over timeliness—and recognizing your country’s particularly close relations with the Tibetan government—I have come specifically to request this: if through your government’s influence I might submit a written petition conveying my sincerity to that country’s Dalai Lama, those innocent prisoners will likely be absolved of their charges and regain freedom.”

“I beg you to hear this one thing. The other purpose concerns an order from His Highness the Prime Minister at Rambon in Bindraban—known as the Tarai Forest in Nepali—instructing me to request Sanskrit Buddhist scriptures from Your Excellency. Therefore, I would ask for your assistance in this matter as well.” However, the Commander-in-Chief responded measuredly: “I have long been aware of the corruption scandal in Tibet through reports from our envoy in Lhasa.” “What foolish absurdity—tormenting their own citizens despite sharing race and religion! I have resented the Tibetan government’s conduct and deeply pitied those prisoners.” “Your noble intentions are commendable. While I agree to forward your petition to that country’s Dalai Lama, ultimate authority rests with His Highness the Prime Minister. You should present your request directly to him.” He concluded with profound sympathy: “I shall fully inform His Highness of these matters.”

Furthermore, Regarding the Sanskrit scriptures: “As there has already been a report from His Highness the Prime Minister, I will make every effort.” “However, the difficulty lies in there being only one manuscript, so it must be copied.” “Even if we copy it, it will take considerable time—roughly how long do you plan to stay?” “I anticipate staying for one month.” “In that case, completion seems unlikely within that period, but we should manage to gather some portion through copying.” “Furthermore, since works existing in duplicate at the library may spare one copy, we will strive to obtain a sufficient quantity. Yet it would prove problematic if we cannot acquire them all,” he said.

“There is no need for such consideration. Within two full years, I shall return to Nepal once more. At that time, I intend to present His Highness the Prime Minister with Japan’s complete Buddhist canon, so receiving them then would suffice entirely.” When I replied, “I would be satisfied with whatever can be gathered now,” the Commander-in-Chief summoned a senior official from the Ministry of Education and issued detailed instructions, which were to be relayed from that official to the library director. With this matter settled for the time being, I prepared to take my leave of the Commander-in-Chief. He graciously escorted me to the end of the corridor. Though I entreated him, saying, “This is too great an honor—please do not trouble yourself further,” he deliberately descended to the lower level and declared, “It brings me great joy to have met you, an honorable Japanese,” before withdrawing into the palace interior. That very evening, I returned to my lodgings together with Venerable Buddha Vajra.

I conceived the idea of compiling something like a chronicle of Nepal during my stay at those lodgings to send back to Japan as a souvenir, and even began making some preliminary inquiries. However, upon considering the circumstances, it did not seem advisable. Though I had entered ostensibly as a religious practitioner, in truth I was an official of the Japanese government—what is called a state intelligence agent—and I had heard rumors that this was why I was traveling around Nepal and Tibet. Amid such rumors, were my efforts to investigate and introduce this country to Japan in excessive detail to instead invite unforeseen calamity, it would prove utterly futile. There was also the consideration that this could be done later, and since the British had already introduced this country to the world in considerable detail, I abandoned the idea and devoted myself solely to composing poetry.

Chapter 150: Cherishing Friends in Prison

Regarding Tibetan pilgrims, there was a story I heard here. Each year two to three thousand come from Tibet on pilgrimage, but this year saw especially numerous visitors. The reason lay in major renovations underway at the great stupa—including gilding works—which drew both observers of the construction and donors making offerings. When I questioned these visitors about internal Tibetan affairs, some accounts insisted the Finance Minister had finally been imprisoned, while others countered, "No, that's not true—he remained in office when I departed." There were even claims he had merely been questioned once, making any coherent understanding impossible.

However, it was an undeniable fact that several individuals had indeed been imprisoned. While there were those who presented various pieces of evidence regarding the Finance Minister, since their true nature could not be ascertained, they could not be wholly trusted. Here was an eminent monk named Kusho Rokera. This man had formerly served as the accounting chief for Temo Rinpoche of Tenggerin in Lhasa Prefecture. Thus, although Temo Rinpoche had wielded immense power while controlling Tibet’s national authority, Kusho Rokera was by nature such a peaceful and amiable person that even during that period, he did not engage in acts of arrogance or bribery.

Therefore, even when Temo Rinpoche met with the misfortune of being imprisoned and dying in jail, this man alone was able to avoid that calamity and continue residing in his own temple. This person had requested permission from the government to make pilgrimages to various sacred sites to pray for the repose of Temo Rinpoche’s soul, and having visited holy places not only in Tibet but also in Nepal, India, and other regions, he would return to Lhasa each summer before setting out again—this time traveling directly from Lhasa Prefecture to Kathmandu in what he said took only a month and a half.

A Tearful Tale with the Tibetan Eminent Monk

News of My Benefactor in Lhasa Prefecture. Having met this person, I inquired about Tibet's internal affairs. However, he said: "Until my departure from Lhasa, there were widespread rumors about the former Finance Minister, but nothing substantial occurred." "Though some claim he was arrested after I left, you can't trust such stories - Lhasa teems with liars." This somewhat eased my worries, but what pained me most was hearing that when Kusho Rokera visited Lhasa's court on business, Tsa Rumba had been summoned there.

“Though there were other prisoners being interrogated one by one, Tsa Rumba had been waiting in the shade of the courthouse,” Kusho Rokera recounted. “Unaware of this, I asked what had happened, whereupon Tsa Rumba said through tears: ‘I’ve neither stolen nor quarreled with anyone.’ “‘Simply because I consulted a doctor without knowing his origin—and he turned out Japanese—they interrogate me daily about acting as that man’s agent or conspiring against our country. But I know nothing of such matters.’ “‘I merely thought him a skilled physician and treated him accordingly.’ “‘Yet they press me about deeds beyond my wildest imaginings—insisting *you* must have done this or that—but how can I answer what I truly don’t know?’ “‘This must be retribution for sins in a past life,’ he concluded.” Kusho Rokera lowered his voice. “It was pitiful beyond words—‘I’ve resigned myself to this,’ he kept repeating.”

“As for how the other imprisoned people are faring,” said Kusho Rokera, “I haven’t met them myself personally—so I can’t say for certain—but judging by Tsa Rumba’s emaciated condition, they must be suffering terribly.” He added bitterly: “No wonder—they’re being thrashed every other day.” Hearing this account left me increasingly anguished. Since Kusho Rokera was not one to lie outright, confirming these facts truly pained my heart. That night unbidden came a poem titled “Lament for Friends in Tibetan Prisons.”

To hear these accounts brings pain—how much more to record them with brush! Though this be grievous work indeed, as testament for those who must endure in days to come, from this anguished heart I leave these traces—ephemeral as water plants' marks upon the shore.

When I reflect—six years have passed since first abandoning my homeland to master the wondrous Dharma; lodging in snowbound mountains, I entered Bodh's realm—now I return to these snowy peaks,

My friends in Bodh's realm - ensnared by false charges unforeseen, now bound within stone-walled prison cells, suffering through my fault alone - this sorrowful truth I hear rends heart and soul. In the deepening cold's severity, within the snowy capital's towering walls, in sunless stone cells, on plank floors without bedding - shivering in torment - thoughts of friends bring only tears. Who would give them sustenance? In Bodh's prisons, even one daily meal - more than a handful of roasted barley flour - if they cannot obtain even that, they will perish from hunger and freezing cold.

Moreover, the merciless jailers denied them even that sustenance while beating them - this worldly realm of starving spirits' hell. How they must have wished never to have entered such torment! Yet thinking of friends in prison cells, how acutely I wished they need not endure it. Ah, pitiable indeed, O my friend! When I dwelt in Lhasa Prefecture, not knowing guilt would reach your person - you who had exhausted yourself for my sake - how could I abandon you and pass my days in ease? When measured by common human feeling, I reflected - you must resent this self of mine as hateful indeed; though I too had thought thus until hearing others' words when we met in Dharma's court.

When you told them: "I committed neither theft nor quarrel," yet retribution from past lives came; unaware he was of foreign birth, I had associated with a Yamato man. For breaching ordained laws, the agony of being accused; believing sins of bygone existences would be extinguished, one endures—but how can I, having heard this, endure or be endured?

The hardships I felt ran even deeper than what had been expressed in these songs. I wanted urgently to meet His Majesty and submit a petition to that country's Dalai Lama. Driven solely by the thought that achieving this might open some path forward, I kept waiting—until His Majesty returned to the capital around February 7th. By that time, my reputation had already become widely discussed throughout Nepal's capital. Rumors circulated that this lama had previously visited the country to make maps, gone to Tibet for further cartography, then returned here again.

At His Majesty's palace—having been granted an audience with His Majesty the King at 2:00 PM on February 9th—I went with Venerable Buddha Vajra to the residence of the king who held actual authority, commonly known by the official title of Prime Minister, named Chandra Samshar. This residence was from when he had served as Commander-in-Chief and was not particularly large. The newly constructed residence they were building at the time was truly magnificent, but as it remained under construction and His Excellency had not yet moved in, we proceeded to his former residence.

Even so, it remained quite large, measuring over three chō and four ken (approximately 327 meters by 7.2 meters). Soldiers stood guard beside the main gate of the residence. From that gate, we proceeded along a wide terraced path resembling a grindstone for over two chō—on the left side stood barracks and a small drill ground, while on the right lay a racecourse. At the path's summit stood the inner palace's reception room. The two of us were ushered into this reception room. At the room's forefront were three chairs and a thick rectangular mat of white Nepalese fabric. A European-style ebony tea shelf displayed a white Nepalese figurine of a goddess astride a lion, while an adjacent wall pillar bore a majestic lion mask crafted in the same country.

There were two entrances, and within the wall between these two entrances hung a large wall clock, flanked on both sides by deer masks whose faces were so fierce they scarcely seemed like deer. From where we sat, gazing south through the glass-paned shoji screens, the peaks of Mount Tsukino, Mount Ryūju, and other mountains towered so loftily that the scene—as if they would answer if called—was a splendid view indeed. The details of my audience with His Majesty the King will be described in the next installment.

Chapter 151: His Majesty the King's Interrogation

The Senior Foreign Secretary’s preliminary probing: The palace’s reception room was filled with numerous officers. Among them was the Senior Foreign Secretary, but His Majesty the King was not present. The Senior Foreign Secretary faced me and said, “About twenty days have passed since you arrived here. What have you been doing during that time?” “I engaged in zazen meditation and composed waka poetry.” The secretary shifted topics: “What peerage or government position do you hold in Japan?” “I hold none.” “There’s no need to conceal matters so obstinately.” “We can reasonably surmise you’re a high-ranking official with some order of merit.” “However much you hide it, this pretense is futile. Speak plainly.” “I am a Buddhist monk without peerage, government posts, honors, or such distinctions.”

“Then for what reason did you spend so much money to enter Tibet and come to this country of Nepal?” “I neither went to Tibet on official business nor came to this country for such purposes. I ventured through hardships to go to that country and have come to this country solely to study Tibetan Buddhism.” “From which route did you enter Tibet?” When I began to say, “From the shores of Lake Manasarovar—”, the Senior Foreign Secretary pressed me sharply in an odd voice: “Which route did you take to reach Lake Manasarovar?”—interrogating me like a cat pursuing a mouse.

I calmly replied, “I cannot disclose that route until I have first reported it to His Majesty the King.” “Why?” “I cannot disclose this matter immediately, as I fear harm may come to others,” I replied. As I surmised—just as I had long heard in rumors—the Nepalese government knew full well I had previously visited this country. After this exchange concluded, the Senior Foreign Secretary left the room. It later became clear this departure served to submit a report to His Majesty. The remaining officers asked various questions about Tibetan and Japanese soldiers’ customs, morale, and military discipline—details I shall omit here. After these inquiries, they returned while whispering privately in Nepali: “Though he claims to be a monk, he must surely be a high-ranking Japanese official.”

After some time had passed, His Majesty the King emerged from the inner palace flanked by over a hundred personal guards escorting him front and rear, proceeding to a separate hall beside the main gate. I too left the reception room and, compelled to follow His Majesty's path, descended to the main gate's waiting area for subjects where numerous local governors stood bowing reverently. Among them was someone who looked astonished to see me. I was equally taken aback when I suddenly recognized him - this was Harukaman Subba, governor of the Tsukuje region at the base of Dhaulagiri's snow-capped peak.

I had once stayed at that man's residence. At that time I was but a mere mendicant monk, so his astonishment at seeing me emerge from the Nepalese king's inner palace today was only natural. His Majesty first completed his inspection of the tribute horses' quality before settling upon an ornate settee. I had already positioned myself nearby beforehand. Then His Majesty said, "Do you have any requests for me?" "My foremost petition to Your Majesty," I replied, "is that you might personally deliver my memorial to His Holiness the Dalai Lama. Additionally, I humbly request to receive those Sanskrit Buddhist scriptures I previously entreated for." When I concluded with, "These constitute my sole petitions," His Majesty countered, "Let us set that aside momentarily—I hear you came to our realm four years past. Is this truth?" "I did indeed come four years ago."

His Majesty the King adopted a more formal demeanor and sternly demanded, “If this fact is true, why did you not inform me of it when we met in Birganj? Wasn’t informing me at that time the proper course of action?” “Though I earnestly wished to inform Your Majesty of this matter at that time,” I replied, “I refrained from doing so because I harbored both anxiety and fear regarding its disclosure.”

“Why were you anxious? Why were you afraid?” “There is a single reason why this matter cannot be spoken of rashly.” “Though it is true that I passed through this country four years ago, if I were to suddenly bring this up now, I feared that the checkpoint officials of Your Majesty’s nation—or any citizens even remotely involved—might incur Your Majesty’s displeasure and face legal punishment. For this reason, I refrained from informing Your Majesty of this matter.” “If I were to rashly disclose this and Your Majesty’s officials or citizens were to end up in unfortunate circumstances like my acquaintances in Tibet, I cannot fathom how sorrowful I would feel.” “At this moment, my sincere hope is that Your Majesty’s subjects will not be punished on account of my having traveled through this country.” “If Your Majesty cannot grant this hope of mine, though it is true that I passed through this country, I must humbly request to retract what I have just stated,” I earnestly entreated. His Majesty, seemingly moved by this sincerity, responded: “Very well—I shall absolutely not punish my subjects regarding your coming here.” “You may rest assured completely,” he said.

His Majesty's word was immutable; indeed, having obtained this assurance, I believe joy from my heart's depths spontaneously overflowed, the delight brimming across my entire face. Overcome by profound joy, I involuntarily exclaimed, "Your Majesty's present decree brings delight beyond measure! "I humbly offer gratitude for Your Majesty's magnanimous command," I said in thanks, whereupon the King appeared pleased.

The joy born of complete sincerity was such that I believe there is likely no greater joy to be found anywhere else in all the world.

His Majesty the King also doubted. So His Majesty changed his tone and demanded, “Who sent you to our country and Tibet? Is it your country’s Foreign Minister or perhaps the Commander-in-Chief? Reveal that secret truthfully.” This inquiry stemmed precisely from suspicion that I was a Japanese state spy. Indeed, upon hearing those words, I realized it was not merely rumor—that even His Majesty would harbor such suspicions and publicly interrogate me thus. If this were Tibet, it would be one thing, but Nepal was a country that had studied world civilization... To think it would come to this! And despite the world having advanced greatly in civilization, what remained troublesome in every country was international suspicion.

The spectacle of all nations mutually harboring suspicions—Russia doing this, Britain doing that—was truly a strange phenomenon and absurd state of affairs. Moreover, for someone like myself, a mere monk without even a copper coin's connection to such matters, to be perceived as involved in international affairs was utterly disheartening. So overwhelmed was I by this absurdity that I remained speechless for some time. However, His Majesty the King inquired, “Do you find it unbearable to speak of that secret?”

“I have no secrets whatsoever. “I shall speak the truth within my heart. “The one who sent me was my own will,” I answered. His Majesty laughed and said, “This lengthy journey requiring vast sums—particularly since you presented lavish gifts even to myself and the Commander-in-Chief— “Where does this great wealth originate? “A six-year odyssey cannot be sustained through easily acquired funds. “These substantial resources could never be procured by a mere impoverished monk. “Moreover, considering your erudition and grasp of global affairs, I cannot possibly acknowledge you as some ascetic removed from worldly matters. “There remains no necessity to guard secrets before me today. “If secrecy must yet be maintained, tomorrow I shall clear the inner palace of others and hear this privately—thus speaking openly would serve your interests. “Should you persist in concealment tomorrow, I shall categorically refuse all your petitions. “Nor shall I extend protection,” he concluded.

Therefore, I said, “As I have always abided by the Buddha’s commands, I shall never speak falsehoods. If Your Majesty does not believe in my sincerity, I can only find satisfaction in having maintained my integrity, for at present I possess no means to prove it to Your Majesty. The substance of what I have said until now will become known to Your Majesty in due course.” To this he responded, “If you speak the truth within your heart, who could possibly doubt it? Therefore, I wish to hear that truth at leisure when we meet the day after tomorrow at 10:30 AM—you should think it over well tonight.” With that, we took our leave.

And I exited the gate with Venerable Buddha Vajra and returned by horseback while thinking. If I were to lie and claim to be a high-ranking Japanese official, I would likely receive generous treatment; however, if I did not lie and told the truth, all my hopes would remain unfulfilled. I could endure not obtaining the books, but what I could not endure was the plight of my friend imprisoned in Tibet's prison. Driven by thoughts of whether there was any way to save this friend, I ultimately experienced a collapse in resolve.

Amidst the unmelting snow of the mountain path,

How agonizing these unmelting thoughts remain! Enclosed beyond the clouds of snowy mountains,

What has become of my friend’s fate?

When I think of my friend's sufferings, What means have I to meet this hour?

Chapter 152: Again Attending at the Palace

**Firming Resolve** On the return path to my lodgings, as I gazed at the distant sky from horseback, I was profoundly moved to behold the world's foremost Gaurisankar—its lofty snow peak towering at the cloud line, revealing an eternal, uneroded form that had stood for millennia. Now, though clouds of worldly desires in the human realm sought to obscure my heart's sincerity, in the joy of having resolved that no misfortune of failure would alter my commitment to truth, another poem arose within me: Though knowing expedient means are but deception,

How agonizing this inability to speak! In this heart yearning for truth at the farthest reach, Take seed, take expedient means—but take truthfulness above all.

Having made this resolution, he returned to his lodgings that evening. Around this time, I busied myself with purchasing Sanskrit books and managed to acquire about three volumes along with a considerable number of other reference materials. Then, since the Japanese residents in Calcutta contributed one hundred rupees—saying they wanted me to prepare silver Buddha statues—I spent one hundred and fifteen rupees to fashion three silver Buddha statues and a cabinet to enshrine them. Later, when I inquired about it, I learned that the money had actually been intended for my travel expenses.

The author returned to his lodgings with Venerable Buddha Vajra under the glistening snow. Moreover, Kang Youwei-sensei from China, along with British nationals, Indians, and Japanese residents from Africa who had come to Calcutta at that time, provided me with substantial funds. With this money during my stay in Calcutta, I purchased numerous reference books and expended considerable sums on gifts for the King of Nepal, yet three hundred rupees remained. I used these funds as travel expenses for my journey to Nepal, though I never once requested anyone to give me even a single coin. It was entirely everyone's benevolent alms.

It was entirely everyone's kind alms. However, that money was mostly used up in Nepal. As for what I used it for - I spent all of it on purchasing books and reference materials. As you know, I was someone who spent no money at all on food or clothing; such things required only the barest minimum. I required not a single penny for alcohol or tobacco; nor did I need to buy fine meat to eat. Moreover, wherever I stayed, people would provide me with food alone, so in that regard, it was truly effortless.

Gradually using it all up, only about ten rupees remained in my pocket. "This is a problem. Even without receiving books from the king, my luggage had already become quite voluminous, so with only this much money, I couldn’t return to Calcutta." So I asked my alumnus Mr. Omiya Takajun, who was in Calcutta, to send me just one hundred rupees. It seems Mr. Omiya Takajun also did not have surplus funds at that time, so he borrowed from elsewhere and specially sent it. In any case, with that money I managed to settle matters and somehow return to Calcutta.

I had digressed, but it was the following tenth day. During my conversation with Venerable Buddha Vajra, he advised me: “While I certainly believe you are a genuine Japanese monk, under these circumstances there is simply no alternative—if you do not claim to be a high-ranking Japanese official, it will bring you grave disadvantage. “You say books don’t matter—the most crucial matter is rescuing your friend imprisoned in Tibet’s prison. But if you cannot save him, what purpose remains?” “It matters not—you should offer some temporary pretext for now.”

“No, regarding that matter, I too have deeply troubled my heart and considered various approaches, but at this juncture, I simply cannot tell a lie. “If I speak the truth and my wish remains unfulfilled, I shall have no choice but to go to China and devise another method,” I replied. “But while you go through such procedures,” he said, “the Tibetan prisoners may face execution.” “That would take considerable time, and while you stubbornly insist you cannot tell lies now, when I hear about your past experiences, haven’t you told plenty of lies?” "When you went to Tibet in the first place, didn’t you pretend to be Chinese?" "When necessary, you must tell lies." "This too is an expedient means to save people—why not tell a lie to the King tomorrow?" came what seemed a reasonable argument.

"I simply cannot abandon a resolution once made. While schemes and stratagems may be necessary in turbulent times to protect both others and oneself from calamity, today is no such chaotic age—especially since Nepal is a civilized nation that understands reason. Therefore, I cannot possibly resort to lies to temporarily mend matters. When entering a country like Tibet—which cannot be accessed through ordinary means—one cannot gain entry without such stratagems. Were I to declare myself Japanese and attempt entry, none would permit it. In such circumstances, it becomes unavoidable, but today there remains no such necessity. Should the King of Nepal not believe me, I will have no choice but to seek other sincere methods. I simply cannot apply the conduct of turbulent times to an era of peace." When I said this, the fundamentally good-natured man replied, "That is indeed so," though he remained deeply concerned.

Third Audience with His Majesty the King On the following 11th day at 10:30 AM, when I proceeded to the reception chamber of His Majesty the King's inner palace as arranged, there were four or five officers and one secretary present. Then, the secretary inquired in English about my full name, my parents’ names, and my address, among other details, and recorded them. The secretary asked me various questions, but these were ultimately aimed at determining whether I was a Japanese state spy. At that moment, a high-ranking official proficient in English suddenly came before me and said, “You must have made maps of Tibet and our country, haven’t you? “First, I would like you to show them to me.” “Did you bring them with you now?” “Where are they?” came the preposterous inquiry.

“I am a Buddhist monk who follows the Buddhist path,” I replied. “I have no time for making maps or such things.” But the official insisted, “No, no—that is absolutely not the case. I distinctly acknowledge that you have made maps.” “Your acknowledgment remains at your esteemed discretion,” I said. “Those with clouded eyes see flowers in empty air; those harboring fear mistake ropes for snakes; inspectors habitually view many as thieves—thus I shall leave it to your perception.” “There seems some logic when you phrase it thus,” he conceded. “Yet it is not I alone who acknowledge this. It is the public who acknowledges it.” “If the public perceives it so, I shall leave it to their perception,” I countered. During this exchange, word arrived that the true king had come, prompting all to go welcome him. The king then withdrew into the inner chambers at the rear.

The secretary had also disappeared, having likely gone to report the details of our exchange to His Majesty the King. After some time passed, a messenger conveyed the royal command and guided Venerable Buddha Vajra and me toward the king's inner chambers. When we ascended to the fourth floor of the palace tower and reached its summit, His Majesty the King had positioned himself beside a noble figure awaiting attendance at the center of an exquisite chamber, while two or three officers sat farther out and several attendants stood along the periphery. His Majesty the King and Prime Minister ordered me to sit near him. I settled cross-legged before His Majesty in the Tibetan style, and upon observing the figure at the center, realized with astonishment that the very person I had mistaken for a junior minister during my time in Birganj was in fact the true sovereign.

**Chapter 153: Finally Achieving the Objective**

**His Majesty the King’s doubts finally dispelled** || Once seating arrangements were settled, His Excellency the Prime Minister inquired, “Regarding the matter we discussed two days ago—what critical issue do you secretly wish to convey to me?” To this I responded, “I hold no secrets.” “However, the two matters I most earnestly wish to request are that through Your Highness’s gracious mediation, my petition be conveyed to the Dalai Lama and that Sanskrit Buddhist scriptures be granted.”

His Majesty appeared as though his assumptions had completely missed the mark. However, since Your Majesty was remarkably quick to respond to opportunities, you immediately said, “Why are you submitting a petition to the Dalai Lama? Briefly explain its purpose.” Thereupon I recounted how my benefactors in Lhasa had been imprisoned, then continued: “As for this petition’s intent—I am a Japanese monk from a Buddhist nation whose sole purpose in Tibet was Buddhist training. “Yet I hear the Tibetan government has imprisoned those with whom I merely socialized normally, opening preliminary courts to punish them for nonexistent crimes. “Those people never interacted with me knowing I was Japanese from the start. “They know absolutely nothing about me.”

“There is no reason whatsoever to punish such innocent people. If it becomes necessary to inquire into these crimes, the ultimate responsibility lies not with them but entirely with me. For if I had not entered your country, your subjects would never have been subject to such judicial inquiries. I earnestly request that you carry out the procedures to subject me to appropriate punishment without ever punishing your country's subjects. If His Holiness the Dalai Lama should summon me for that reason, I will return to your country. If I am not permitted to enter Tibet, then before Your Highness’s government punishes the imprisoned subjects, I request that under Your Highness’s command, you send several most learned scholars to Japan to conduct a detailed investigation into: the state of my country; whether I am truly a government operative or a pure Buddhist monk; and the nature of my usual conduct.”

“If they complete a rigorous and precise investigation and return,” I continued, “it will undoubtedly become clear whether His Holiness should hold those subjects legally accountable or not.” “Therefore,” I pressed my palms together slightly, “should it become truly necessary to summon me, I ask that Your Majesty issue orders directing me to present myself here in Nepal.” “Alternatively,” I bowed deeper now that we’d reached my crucial request’s fulcrum, “if Your Majesty deems it proper to dispatch scholars for verification—I shall bear their travel expenses and ensure every convenience for their successful report to His Holiness.” My voice steadied with monastic resolve despite my thundering pulse beneath saffron robes. “These constitute my petition’s essence.” I concluded with hands folded over my begging bowl’s rim—the same vessel that had carried alms through Himalayan blizzards now cradled this diplomatic gambit’s fate. The King listened without moving from his brocade cushion throne—a slight tilt of his jeweled crown suggesting diminished suspicions about my being some imperial spy—though not yet fully dissolved.

“Very well, have the petition written in both Tibetan and Nepali,” commanded His Majesty the King and Prime Minister. When I heard his gracious words—“We will send the Tibetan version to the Dalai Lama and keep the Nepali one here”—tears of happiness welled up within me as I thanked him for this kindness. He then shifted topics, asking, “During your time in Tibet, did you tell anyone you were Japanese?”

“Well, as I was about to leave, I did tell one person.” “As you may well be aware,” I explained, recounting the circumstances, “I disclosed my identity to the former Minister of Finance who had shown me great kindness during my stay in Tibet.” At this, His Majesty the King and Prime Minister’s suspicion that I was a Japanese state spy seemed to have largely melted away. However, as it appeared he had not fully ascertained what I had been doing during the approximately twenty days I had resided there, some measure of doubt still lingered. That was only natural, for everyone had imaginatively concluded that I was a Japanese state spy. Because their imaginings had already transformed into perceived facts, the suspicion could not easily be dispelled. I was questioned about this matter, but my explanation at this critical juncture did indeed appear to have dissolved His Highness’s suspicions.

His Majesty said, “You have been in our country for over twenty days now—what have you been doing during this extended period?” I replied, “The majestic scenery of the Himalayan Mountains has so profoundly moved me that I have been composing poetry and prose from the impressions that arose each time,” then produced from my pocket both the book and a catalog of Sanskrit scriptures I deemed necessary, adding, “At this juncture, I wish to purchase those items in this catalog obtainable from the public.” “However, the portions requiring fair copies will become available around November or December next year,” I continued as I handed it to His Majesty, “so it would be most convenient if you could provide them at that time.” His Majesty carefully perused it and passed it to a messenger officer, issuing the command: “Exert every effort to promptly gather those items available among the public within fifteen days based on this catalog.” Then addressing me in English, he added: “Within fifteen days, we will search for and provide some Sanskrit Buddhist scriptures from the public. “However,” he cautioned, “there may be some slight delay, so I ask that you keep this in mind.” His Majesty was skilled in using English, but I could not manage it; therefore, while he spoke in Nepali and I in Tibetan—freely conversing through Venerable Buddha Vajra’s interpretation—His Majesty suddenly changed his tone and declared, “From now on...

“As we are about to engage in a top-secret discussion, we shall both use English,” he declared. “However, since this discussion is entirely confidential, I must have your promise that you will neither record it in your diary nor disclose it to others.” “Very well,” I replied. At that time, not a single person among those present in the hall—beginning with the true king himself—understood English. This arrangement had clearly been part of His Majesty the King and Prime Minister’s design from the very beginning. The conversation between His Majesty and myself lasted over two hours; however, bound by my promise, I have neither recorded it in my diary nor can I speak of it here.

I returned on horseback with Venerable Buddha Vajra past three o'clock in the afternoon. Though the path was the same as our return route two days prior, having now achieved the very purpose for which I had come to this land today, I could not contain an inexplicable sense of joy. Even the towering supreme snow peak of Gaurishankar seemed to radiate a wondrous light across the heavens, appearing boundless and suffused with harmonious bliss. I deeply thanked in my heart that my wish had been so satisfactorily fulfilled precisely because I had been received within the wondrous light of Buddha Bhagavān, and composed a poem for commemoration.

Until yesterday, how would my fate unfold? The snowy peaks where troubled dreams dissolved True sincerity is the skillful means among methods Though matters may not succeed, through sincerity's cause Is there any place where the Buddha does not dwell? Snow mountains gleaming in the sky I gaze upon

As I advanced quietly on horseback while murmuring [the poem], Venerable Buddha Vajra called out from his saddle, “Truly, matters have proceeded most advantageously today.” “I had been worried that today’s affairs might take a dangerous turn, but everything has truly gone well.” “As I gradually hear about all that you have done until now, I cannot help but think that it is entirely due to the Buddha having prepared the path and guided you.” “While it is certainly because your faith remains steadfast and you have not strayed from the path that you have attained such merit, nevertheless we must be grateful that the Buddha has granted protection to this extent.” To these words, I found myself recalling how my dear friend Shimamura Kiyoyoshi had presented me with a poem when I departed my homeland—a verse that now seemed to perfectly align with Venerable Buddha Vajra’s observation—and so I responded in kind with poetry. Mr. Shimamura’s waka:

Since this journey is guided by the Buddha's grace, Through falling snows, the path reveals itself. My reply poem: Since this journey is guided by the Buddha's grace, From layered sorrows emerge the snow-clad peaks. Bearing such joy within, I returned once more to my lodgings beneath the great stupa of Kasyapa Buddha.

Chapter 154: The Rock Cave Where Nagarjuna Bodhisattva Practiced Zen Meditation

His Majesty the King and Prime Minister’s Compassion: While my Tibetan petition had already been approved, I now needed to have that petition translated into Nepali. For this purpose, since my friend Venerable Buddha Vajra was most suitable, I requested him to translate it. Before long, the translation was completed, so this time Venerable Buddha Vajra alone went to His Majesty the King and Prime Minister’s residence on February 15th. And that night, when he returned and spoke of the events, he said, “Today was truly delightful.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. He replied, “Today when I presented your petition, [His Majesty] inquired, ‘Who composed this document written in Tibetan?’” “Naturally, since you had composed it, I stated so exactly,” [Buddha Vajra] explained. “But when questioned how someone could produce such an excellently written lengthy text, I responded that while my translation cannot match the original’s brilliance, even through it one might discern the writing’s quality. His Majesty then read it through to the conclusion...”

His Holiness the Dalai Lama of Tibet is an incarnation of Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva and the Omniscient One. That this humble Japanese monk Ekai was granted the honor of meeting directly with Your Highness the Omniscient One, personally receiving Your words and ultimately being permitted to receive Your teachings, was made possible not only through Buddha Bhagavān’s sanction but also by the consent of those Dharma-protecting deities guarding the four directions of Your Highness’s inner chambers. Moreover, though over twenty years have passed since your country entered complete national isolation, that I alone could enter where none had until this day occurred through the permission of deities safeguarding this nation’s borders. Particularly, Your Highness—being the Omniscient One—magnanimously overlooked Ekai’s entry into this land and furthermore bestowed those secret teachings; this must surely have arisen from profound karmic causes.

In today's world, it could well be said that the Mahayana Buddhist nations are limited to our Japanese Empire and Tibet alone. Of course, there are other Mahayana Buddhist countries beyond these, but they have become listless and nearly lost their true essence.

The time has truly come today for the two Mahayana Buddhist nations in the world to know one another, interact with one another, and manifest Buddhism's true splendor throughout the world. I believe it was precisely because this moment arrived that [the Buddha] compelled me—despite all obstacles—to enter Tibet, that impenetrable land; to meet the Dalai Lama, that ordinarily inaccessible figure; and to receive His Holiness's secret teachings, those rarest of transmissions. Therefore, I earnestly entreat His Holiness the Dalai Lama to give profound consideration to this matter and deign to grant my sincere petition.

Thus concludes this petition. When His Majesty the King and Prime Minister of Nepal read this, he set down the document, clapped his hands, and exclaimed three times, “Delightful! Truly delightful!” Then he added, “This argument pierces like a bullet through the heart of Tibet’s Dalai Lama. “With this, even His Holiness cannot punish his subjects. “Though he is the Omniscient One, having personally received a Japanese monk, he cannot chastise an acquaintance merely for later discovering his nationality. “Truly, it strikes deftly at the vital point. “He is a most admirable monk.” His Majesty expressed profound satisfaction. “As this matter must be conveyed specifically to him,” came the royal command, “I now relay it to you.”

I never could have imagined gaining Nepal's most influential ally. Recognizing this too as Buddha's miraculous aid, I offered my gratitude. Until around March 10th of that following month, with the nation's head librarian procuring the texts, I found myself without particular duties. Yet knowing excessive wandering might plant seeds of suspicion, I formally petitioned the Commander-in-Chief.

Ryūju-ga-dake’s Zen Meditation Cave I received permission to ascend Ryūju-ga-dake. There proved no need to describe Ryūju-ga-dake’s scenery in detail.

This place served as Nagarjuna Bodhisattva's ascetic training ground and where Shakyamuni Tathagata preached during his causal stage. Atop the mountain where these teachings were delivered stands a small stupa, and descending about three ri from there lies the cave where Nagarjuna Bodhisattva practiced zazen meditation—within this cavern he contemplated the profound principles of Mahayana Buddhism. Moreover, the hole from which, according to ancient legend, Nagarjuna Bodhisattva descended to the Dragon Palace and returned with the wondrous texts of the Great Prajnaparamita is likewise sealed with a stone. That hole is located slightly east of the rock cave in the mountainous area—that is to say, inside a house beside Shikhi Buddha’s pagoda—but this hole can only be opened once every twelve years.

Fundamentally, Nagarjuna Bodhisattva practiced zazen in this cave to expound upon the profound principles of the Great Prajnaparamita Sutra through the small original texts taught by the Tathagata. Whether this description of his zazen practice as "entering the Dragon Palace" refers to this act, or whether there exists some religiously unknowable truth beyond this through which he obtained Buddhist scriptures from other realms during meditation—this remains an unresolved question. However, that Mahayana Buddhism was taught by Shakyamuni Tathagata can be understood through Nagarjuna Bodhisattva's biography transmitted in Tibetan.

After returning from Ryūju-ga-dake, that night I composed a fu poem about ascending Ryūju-ga-dake, then spent my time until around March 10th creating works such as songs contemplating True, Sublime, Pure Love and mourning my deceased father in the snowy mountains while yearning for my living mother. If I didn't do such things, there was simply nothing else I could do. If I were to investigate geography or other matters, I would immediately come under suspicion. Since there was no need for me to investigate the country's affairs to the point of arousing suspicion, I simply engaged in work I enjoyed.

Grand Finale: Return to the Homeland

Bade farewell to His Majesty the King and Prime Minister On March 12th, I received a summons from His Majesty the King and Prime Minister, who bestowed upon me Sanskrit Buddhist scriptures. When I presented the red and white crepe sent from Japan as an auspicious ceremonial gift, His Majesty repeatedly declined with utmost politeness, saying he could not accept such frequent offerings. However, explaining this was a Japanese auspicious protocol, I firmly insisted on presenting it. Thereupon, His Majesty spoke with particular formality through an English interpreter in Nepali: "These books are not plentiful. I was only able to gather forty-one volumes. I present this as reciprocal compensation for your gift; receive it with that understanding." I expressed profound gratitude, took my leave, and embarked on my return journey.

It was quite a considerable number of books, and the two porters finally managed to carry them to Venerable Buddha Vajra’s residence. After that, I handled tasks like organizing the luggage and had planned to depart on the 14th, but was slightly delayed. Under normal circumstances, one must take the luggage to a place called Chispani, have it inspected there, and pay the required taxes. Since this would involve considerable trouble and items often went missing during such processes, I made a special request to have them inspected locally. Perhaps because the officials themselves recognized the necessity, the inspection took place the very next day—March 15th. On March 16th, I departed by riding the horse Venerable Buddha Vajra had provided, accompanied by three porters.

The horse was returned after traveling about half a day’s distance, and from then on we walked from early morning until late each day until arriving at Luxor Station on the night of the 21st of that month. After loading our luggage onto the train, we reached Mr. Omiya Takajun’s residence in Calcutta on the following night. By that time, the money had almost run out. Mr. Omiya was greatly worried and said, “It’s quite a problem if you go on spending every last bit of money you have like this.” “However, since I considered them necessary items, I ended up buying them and ran out of money”—and thus was greatly admonished.

In any case, I had to show the silver Buddha statues I had fashioned in Nepal to the Japanese residents in Calcutta. This was because I had crafted them using funds received from those very people, and one day, following custom, I delivered a sermon to perform the eye-opening ceremony for these three statues. Since I regarded preaching to Japanese expatriates as my duty—whether in Calcutta or Bombay or wherever I went—I conducted sermons at every location.

On the day I performed the Buddhist memorial service for the statues, those people said: “We never intended for such splendid objects to be created. This is truly wonderful,” and gave considerable offerings. That money amounted to between 140 and 150 rupees. There were also people who made special monetary donations. At that time, there was a Japanese gentleman residing in Calcutta who wanted to give me money under some pretext, but since I would not accept money without proper justification, he was said to be greatly troubled. One day, when he encountered me, he said: “To be honest, I wish to present you with money as a celebration of your return from Tibet, but if I simply state it like this, you likely will not accept it. I too would find it distressing if I were to impose some obligation on you, so would you kindly forget that you received this from me?”

“Is that so? Very well—then you too must forget that you gave this to me,” I replied, whereupon the gentleman laughed heartily and said, “Well, I’ve been checkmated here! I must say, Zen monks are beyond me.” “As this is what you might call a donation of mutual oblivion—where both giver and receiver forget—I shall not mention the sum.” I used that money to purchase reference books once more. However, Mr. Omiya scolded me, saying I was a man who liked to spend every penny I acquired. So I thought of going to Bombay, but I had no money whatsoever. However, determined at all costs to buy Tibetan-English dictionaries, I borrowed another fifty rupees, sent my luggage to Mr. Majima in Bombay with the freight charges prepaid, and arrived in Bombay myself in early April.

The Kindness of Japanese Residents // However, Mr. Majima of Mitsui & Co., wishing both to show appreciation for my efforts and hear about Tibet, invited me to the residence of Mr. Matsukura Yoshio, manager of the Yokohama Specie Bank branch, where I gave an evening talk on Tibet for Japanese resident gentlemen and merchants, then accepted an invitation from the Asiatic Society to deliver a lecture through an English interpreter. There, Mr. Majima took particular initiative to collect donations for me. The amount came to about four hundred and fifty-three rupees. With these funds, I repaid the 150 rupees borrowed from Mr. Omiya in Calcutta and used the remainder for my return voyage fare. Thanks to the kind consideration from the Japan Mail Steamship Company's branch manager to the captain regarding preferential treatment, I obtained considerable convenience aboard ship.

Having completed various purchases in Bombay, it was finally decided that I would board the Bombay Maru departing on April 24th and return to Japan. At departure time—being born in Izumi Province—I had boarded the Izumi Maru. This time, it was determined I would return by boarding the Bombay Maru from Bombay. During the voyage, I preached as usual while reading during intervals became my pleasure, and thus we made steady progress.

There had long been a saying that when a monk boarded a ship alone, the sea would grow rough, and indeed some people had been quite concerned about this, but the sea remained perfectly calm.

The State of Mind Upon Returning Home: As Japan drew gradually nearer, I found myself overwhelmed by profound emotions, growing increasingly ashamed to be returning to my homeland. The true purpose I had set when first departing was this resolve: to complete my Buddhist training fully in Tibet and return to Japan as at least a Great Bodhisattva. Yet here I was returning unchanged as the same unenlightened mortal I had been before—not only feeling shame before my hometown's people but uncertain how to face the mountain temple where I had taken my solemn vows. From leaving Hong Kong until nearing Japan's shores, my heart remained deeply wounded—until the composition of a single waka poem brought me great consolation.

Even if I returned to Japan, I could simply return with the intention of practicing as if I were in the Himalayan Mountains. In Japanese society, there might exist demons more terrifying than the evil deities residing in those mountains. Moreover, though its pitfalls might prove more treacherous than the valleys between snow-capped peaks, I resolved that I should consider this journey as Buddhist training within such a realm of asuras.

That poem: "The radiant sun over the Land of the Rising Sun— the very light that bathes the Himalayan peaks."

Since the radiant light of the Buddha-sun permeates every corner of the cosmos without exception, I resolved that there existed no realm one might travel to where spiritual practice was impossible—and perceiving Japan too as my training ground, I saw no particular need for anguish. Passing through Moji Port on May 19th, I arrived in Kobe on the 20th of the same month. When I looked down from the steamship to the pier, the close friends and believers who had seen me off with tears at my departure were now silently brimming with genuine emotion through tears of joy and warmly welcomed me. Overwhelmed with joy, for a time we could not speak to each other.