Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface

Tibet maintained strict national isolation. The world’s people called it the secret land of the world. Whether it truly merited such a title remained difficult to judge, yet isolated from the world by nature’s formidable barriers and constituting its own realm—one that proudly proclaimed itself Buddha’s domain and Kannon’s pure land—it possessed a distinctive character worthy of observation. The peculiarities of its scenery and customs were by no means lacking in elements sufficient to startle the eyes and ears. Children might delight in hearing of it, and scholars could study to deepen their store of knowledge. This was indeed why the world’s adventurers did not yield to countless setbacks but pressed onward with such fervor.

My entry into this land was not motivated by any grand ambition to emulate brave adventurers, fully achieve exploratory feats, and thereby contribute broadly to world civilization. Having heard that Buddhist scriptures not transmitted elsewhere were stored in that country, and seeking these alone without any other intention, I was sorely lacking in qualifications as an explorer. I deeply regret that I was unable to provide sufficient satisfaction to the gentlemen who welcomed me as an explorer.

However, as I too possessed keen perception beyond specialized religious matters—in sociology, economics, history that offers supreme lessons to humanity, points containing truths within primitive crafts, new geographical explorations, and plant/animal distributions—my observations from these fields were by no means insignificant. Since returning to Japan, though my desire to collect these unvarnished observations and commit them to print was not momentary, incessant journeys left me no leisure at warm hearths. Moreover, what I accumulated between two winters grew chaotically vast, defying easy organization, leaving me no choice but to feel profound shame. There were many friends who daily urged me to publish my completed travelogue and thereby fulfill the aspirations of the general public. I could not refuse. Thus I resolved to gather what had once been published in the Jiji Shimpo and Osaka Mainichi Shimbun, commit it to print, respond in some small measure to my friends’ goodwill, and await another day to fulfill my self-imposed duty.

Tibet is a Buddhist country. Were Buddhism removed from Tibet, there would remain only a ruined land and unenlightened barbarians. The greatness of Buddhism's influence upon society and its development in ancient times are indeed worthy of our pious reverence. This book is sorely lacking in this regard. This is why I strove to record a complete travelogue. Yet diverging from my original intent and being unable to fully realize my aspiration, I now venture to publish these prior accounts as a single volume—a decision I cannot help but regret. Thus I relate my sentiments here in place of a formal preface.

Meiji 37 (1904), Early March, Recorded by Kawaguchi Ekai

First Chapter: The Circumstances Leading to My Resolution to Enter Tibet

The Motivation for Exploring Tibet　The reason I came to go to Tibet stemmed from my desire to provide society with Buddhist scriptures that were both accessible and easy to read. Beginning in April of Meiji 24 (1891) at Ōbaku-san in Uji, I started reading the entire Buddhist canon and continued until March of Meiji 27 (1894), dedicating myself almost exclusively to this task without engaging much in other matters. During that time, there was one thing I became aware of. It was with the idea of creating scriptures even laypeople could easily understand that I translated Chinese translations into Japanese—but whether those translations were indeed correct or not. While there is a single Sanskrit original, the Chinese translations of the scriptures have multiplied into numerous versions, with passages that ought to be identical sometimes matching and sometimes differing. In extreme cases, there are those that differ entirely in meaning; there are portions present in one translated version that do not appear in others; and there are those with reversed sequences—all of which results in a motley assortment.

However, since those who translated these Sanskrit scriptures were by no means individuals who would tell falsehoods, there had to be something here worthy of study. Each of them must have believed their own translations matched the original text. If that was the case, I wondered whether there truly existed so many divergent original texts; or perhaps those who translated them had made certain selections in accordance with local customs and sentiments, thereby altering their meanings in some places. In any case, unless one examined them based on those original texts, it was impossible to discern which of these scriptures were true and which were false. This, I concluded, was a matter that could only be resolved by obtaining the original texts.

Location of Original Texts: In those days, the original texts seemed nearly nonexistent in India. To be sure, Ceylon possessed Theravada Buddhist scriptures, but these were naturally of little necessity to us. What we most required were the Buddhist scriptures of Mahayana. Yet those very Mahayana scriptures had vanished without trace from India—the ancestral home of Buddhism—and were said to exist now in Nepal or Tibet. To obtain these original texts, I absolutely had to go to Nepal or Tibet. Moreover, according to theories advanced by Western Oriental scholars, the Tibetan-translated scriptures were said to be far more reliable than their Chinese counterparts, both grammatically and semantically. This theory had become virtually established as doctrine among Westerners. If indeed the Tibetan-translated scriptures were complete renditions, then even should today's Sanskrit texts vanish utterly from the world, one could still conduct research through these Tibetan translations. Furthermore, comparative study of Tibetan and Chinese scriptural translations promised both academic fascination and sufficient research value; thus emerged the conviction that pursuing this study necessitated going to Tibet and mastering its language. This conviction became,

This became the impetus for my resolve to enter Tibet—though it was April of Meiji 26 (1893), now over ten full years prior. Tibet was a nation implementing a strict policy of national isolation, where even influential Westerners who expended vast sums of money and great spans of time to prepare their expeditions often met with failure. How then could a mere impoverished monk such as myself, setting out under such circumstances, hope to achieve his objective? Moreover, even without undertaking such perilous endeavors, I had already advanced to a position where I could live in utmost comfort simply by becoming the head priest of an Ōbaku sect temple. In fact, I had served as head priest of Gohyaku Rakan in Honjo, Tokyo, and after that my name—Kawaguchi Ekai—began to be frequently mentioned within the sect; thus, had I but desired to maintain a temple, I would have occupied a position of great convenience. To abandon that and venture into a country where one may live or die may seem a foolish endeavor, but this is ultimately the common world’s view—for the sake of a true undertaking, sacrificing a position of convenience is a trivial matter.

At this juncture, there are those—my parents, siblings, and other friends—who derive some benefit from my existence, and there are also many believers who enjoy receiving my teachings. Leaving all that behind is truly unbearable. Moreover, they would surely try to stop me, saying it’s like going to my death—but if I yield to that, I will be unable to study Buddhism through the vital original texts. Therefore, I concluded that unless I steeled my resolve enough to overcome these personal attachments, there would be no possibility of departure. This reason served as an aid in making 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 was at times occupied with secular duties, rendering my ordination meaningless; thus arose the aspiration that if I could engage in true practice amidst the world’s highest peaks of the Himalayan Mountains, I might be able to devote myself solely to the pure and wondrous Dharma, far removed from worldly concerns—and this longing became the primary cause for my crossing the Himalayan mountain paths to enter Tibet.

The Reason for My Resolve: Even matters that ought to be done as matters of course—whether due to circumstances or logical necessity—often prove difficult to commit to decisively. Particularly when undertaking journeys abroad or facing formidable enterprises, everyone finds resolution hard to attain. Owing to the grace of believing in Buddhism, I did not struggle as ordinary people do when making decisions. Generally speaking, when people seek to undertake any enterprise, they first determine that money constitutes the necessary capital; thus even for traveling abroad, they resolve to secure funds beforehand. However, our original teacher Shakyamuni Buddha declared that those who possess the precepts I teach will never perish from cold or hunger, no matter where they may go.

For us Buddhist monks, holding the precepts was our capital, our travel funds, our passport. And thus, if one were to undertake the most humble practice taught by Shakyamuni—the ascetic practice of mendicancy—then why should one fret over having no travel funds? This became the reasoning behind my resolve to embark on this great journey without money. When I reflected on how Shakyamuni Tathagata—the One Honored Above Heaven and Earth—abandoned his supreme kingship, golden palaces and jade towers, the wealth and status of the realm, to become a mendicant monk clad in tattered robes devoting his very life to ascetic practice for the sake of all sentient beings like us, our hardships seemed trivial by comparison, and resolve came with ease. It was truly a matter for gratitude that thereafter during my travels in Tibet, various difficulties arose, but by constantly keeping Shakyamuni Buddha in mind, I endured those hardships.

First, arising from the need to understand India, there was a man named Shaku Kōzen who had studied in Ceylon—then considered part of India’s cultural sphere—and had recently returned; he resided in Kanagawa. Thinking that if I went there and studied I might understand India’s circumstances, I went to pursue my studies. At first he kindly taught me Pāli scriptures and grammatical texts. I stayed there a little over a year, during which time what I heard from this teacher was: “The Theravada teachings are none other than pure Buddhism. Though called ‘Hinayana’ in Japan, this name was in reality given by Mahayana practitioners—the teaching itself never bore such a designation. Pure Buddhism exists solely within these doctrines. Therefore true monks must wear yellow robes. For those wishing to rectify their minds must first rectify their appearance; thus monks must don the three yellow robes as their foremost duty.” Then he said to me: “You too should wear the yellow monastic robes.” At that time Venerable Kōzen had established an organization called Seifūkai to put these words into practice.

At that time, I answered that while I would study the Theravada teachings, I could not abide by their doctrines. Consequently, frequent arguments arose, and I found myself clashing with Venerable Shaku Kōzen. When I spoke of Mahayana teachings, the teacher would dismiss them as mere fantasy and persistently interrogate me; yet I found Venerable Kōzen’s staunch adherence to Theravada teachings to be regrettably narrow-minded. Thus, I studied the Pāli language under him as my teacher, but when it came to his doctrines, I was in complete opposition; never once did I comply with what Venerable Kōzen said. It appeared that Venerable Kōzen had also taken offense, for he established a regulation at one point. This regulation was presented to me as an internal rule stating: “Those who raise issues about Mahayana teachings and do not adhere to this true Buddhism shall not be permitted to remain in this temple; only monks wearing the three yellow robes shall be permitted to remain in this temple.” “Under these conditions, I cannot remain here, but from now on I will cover my own food and other expenses and continue working for the temple as before—could you not instruct me solely as a Pāli language student?” I proposed, but it was stated that this would not be permitted.

At that time, Venerable Kōzen earnestly advised me: “Rather than chasing clouds by believing in Mahayana teachings and going to Tibet, there’s one sure path here. First go to Ceylon and learn true Buddhism. Study it properly and you’ll grasp Buddhism’s essence—then you’ll stop prattling about Mahayana nonsense.” “If you go as my disciple,” he persisted, “I’ll cover your passage and study expenses. That’s the proper way. No matter how hard you struggle alone, you’ll never secure enough funds to study abroad.” “Even if offered limitless funds or favorable treatment,” I countered, “I cannot abandon Mahayana principles—which I believe essential for Japan—to submit to your Theravada beliefs.” “I’m grateful for your language instruction,” I concluded, “but from the start, you never taught me your doctrines. Therefore I must refuse categorically.” The teacher grew visibly displeased and expelled me immediately. This occurred in February of Meiji Year 30 (1897).

Part Two: Merit Before Departure

Farewell Gifts of Abstinence: No Alcohol, No Tobacco Having been expelled by Venerable Shaku Kōzen, I returned to Tokyo. Yet remaining in Japan would never grant proper understanding of Tibetan affairs, so I resolved to gradually make my way toward India instead. With this determination, I went to bid farewell to friends and devotees in Tokyo. However, many among them inquired about offering some form of parting gift. I therefore requested: "For heavy drinkers among you, let your abstention from alcohol serve as my farewell gift; for teachers who smoke and risk brain ailments through tobacco use, let your quitting be my send-off." Approximately forty individuals offered such abstentions as their farewell gifts. To this day, some have steadfastly maintained these vows while others have not—regardless, these gifts proved truly beneficial for me indeed. Later returning to Osaka, I received many similar farewell gifts there as well. Among these offerings, three particularly significant ones stand out—gifts that not only brought me profound joy but may well have become the very cause preserving my life during the long journey ahead. One from Tokyo, one from Osaka, and one from Sakai.

The Farewell Gift of Non-Killing: What occurred in Tokyo involved an asphalt manufacturing inventor named Takabe Jūshichi from Honjo—who remains alive to this day—. This man was a master net-caster within Tokyo Prefecture, so skilled that wherever he cast his nets, not a single fish was said to remain. Such was his prowess—and passion—that even minor ailments were rumored to heal when he went net-casting. As I prepared to depart, I made a special visit to this devoted follower, yet found him deeply distressed. When I inquired why, he recounted how his two- or three-year-old child—at that most adorable age—had recently died, leaving his wife nearly mad with grief and himself devoid of any pleasure in fishing—a sorrowful tale. So I posed this question: "You grieve so profoundly at losing your child—but what would you think if someone bound your beloved child, killed it, then roasted or boiled and ate it?" The man answered: "That would be a demon, not a human."

“In that case,” I continued, “you are precisely a demon toward fish. Even these fish share the same instinct to cherish life as humans do. If your grief over losing your beloved child is genuine, why do you not abandon this cruel net-casting? Were this your livelihood, one might reluctantly accept it as unavoidable—but to practice such slaughter merely for amusement is truly heartless and merciless.” I meticulously expounded the principle of karmic cause and effect, ultimately urging him to adopt the precept against killing as his farewell gift for my Tibetan journey.

At first he showed great reluctance, lamenting, “This is truly troubling—if I give this up, I’ll have no enjoyment left in life,” and appeared deeply distressed. But gradually moved by my earnest persuasion and sensing that this would indeed make a fitting farewell gift—one worthy of my risking life itself to reach Tibet—he resolutely brought over the large net hanging in a corner of his house and gave it to me, declaring: “In accordance with your teachings, I shall henceforth strictly uphold the precept against killing. “I will take this firm upholding of the precept against killing and offer it 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.” Upon hearing this, I had his daughter light a fire and placed the net into a large brazier to burn it. When I began setting it alight, everyone present was astonished. As I watched the flames consuming the net, I prayed: “May all sentient beings in the Dharma realm awaken the mind of bodhicitta that cherishes others’ lives, until every murderous implement burns to ashes.” Then, turning to Mr. Takabe, I expounded: “This fire that consumed your net is the light of wisdom incinerating the defilements and sins at your feet. “From henceforth, take this light of wisdom to heart, that all sentient beings dwelling in the Dharma realm may come to cherish life,” I preached.

Sincere passion moves people. However, beside them stood a man named Ogawa Katsutarō from the same clan. This man too, like Mr. Takabe, engaged in net-casting and rifle hunting, but upon witnessing this scene, he was profoundly moved and vowed: "I shall see you off to Tibet through my observance of the precept against killing. Should I break this vow, may Fudō Myōō strike me dead." At that moment, I felt a joy as if my very life had been saved. In Sakai, my childhood friend Mr. Itō Ichirō—who also frequently went net-casting for leisure—fortunately heeded my advice when I recounted Mr. Takabe's story, burning his own net as a farewell gift. In Osaka, there was Mr. Watanabe Shihee of Azuchi-chō—a man of considerable means who now specialized in stock brokerage and Korean trade, though he had previously been the renowned poultry merchant Izumisei in Senba. Despite being an ardent Zen practitioner fully capable of sustaining himself without such slaughter-driven commerce, Mr. Watanabe obstinately continued his poultry business. Thus I had repeatedly sent admonishments from Tokyo and counseled him anew when departing for Tibet. To this he responded: "I fully comprehend your noble intent. Yet I cannot abruptly change trades now—I shall gradually seek another livelihood and assuredly abandon this one," offering this pledge as his farewell gift. True to his word, slightly over a year after my departure, he resolutely discontinued that poultry enterprise and transitioned to his current trade.

To ordinary people, these acts might seem excessively extreme behavior, but it is precisely by administering medicine too potent for ordinary patients that grave illnesses are fully cured. One must fully understand that imparting ordinary teachings to ordinary people differs from administering potent medicine to the gravely ill. The merit arising from these causes of non-killing—that is, the burning of nets that daily took the lives of many fish or the abandonment of that trade—may well have been precisely what saved me time and again from mortal perils in the Himalayan Mountains and on the Tibetan Plateau; this I have always pondered. Needless to say, the Buddha’s protection was ever-present, but I could never fully grasp how much benefit this sincere farewell gift had brought me; I always felt profound gratitude for everyone’s deep devotion. Now, to finally depart, I needed funds. I had savings of over 100 yen, along with approximately 530 yen given as farewell gifts by various gentlemen who had gone to great lengths for me—Watanabe, Matsumoto, Kitamura, and Harukawa of Osaka; Hishita of Sakai; Itō; Yamanaka; and others. Of this sum, I used over 100 yen for travel preparations and, taking the remaining 500-odd yen with me, finally made ready to depart the country.

Part Three: The Expedition's Departure and Journey

**Parting with My Homeland** When the time finally came for my departure, people reviled me with cries of "He goes to his death! Fool! Madman! Lunatic!" Those who came to say such things to my face were undoubtedly sincere, while those who mocked me in secret may have been anticipating my failure; yet even their slander, born of our karmic connection, might conversely have become a good cause. Amidst the multitudes who ridiculed me, there were also those who genuinely sought to stop me. On the eve of my departure—June 24—as I stayed at the Osaka residence of Mr. Makino Shūzaemon, many came urging me to abandon my journey.

Among them, the one who dissuaded me with utmost fervor was a man named Sumitani Saburō, who now serves as a judge in Wakayama. “You must not make yourself a laughingstock of the world. You have already advanced far in your Buddhist training, and now you must work for the salvation of all beings. Especially now, when Japan’s religious community lacks true leaders, there’s no need for you to go off to die like this—” he pressed with growing urgency, but I countered: “Whether I go to die or return alive—that I cannot say. But having set my purpose, I intend to see it through to the end.” To this he retorted, “Then what if you die? Then your purpose won’t be achieved at all!” “If I die, that’s simply how it ends—there’s no guarantee that staying in Japan would keep me from death. Just because I go there doesn’t mean it’s certain I’ll die. I will entrust myself to fortune while exhausting every possible good method to achieve my purpose. If I were to die that way, it would be no different from a soldier perishing on the battlefield—for there is no more auspicious end than dying in pursuit of Buddhist practice.” “Since this is my true aspiration, there is nothing to regret.” We debated at length in this manner, but when the gentleman saw that I would not yield no matter how he entreated me, he left some parting gifts and departed late into the night. There were also many devotees who, though they tried earnestly to dissuade me with tears of farewell, found that I could not be stopped. The world is ever-changing; on the morning of June 25th, I departed Osaka and, the following day, was seen off by friends—Messrs. Hishita, Itō, Yamanaka, Noda, and others—before boarding the Izumi Maru from Kobe’s wharf. At that moment, there exists a song of parting from my homeland.

Beneath the eternal moon's katsura boughs I seize my moment—

May I return to the heavenly sunlit land— My dear friends and believers from my hometown joyously saw off my ship as it boldly advanced westward, each waving hats or handkerchiefs from boats amidst the waves. After that, parting from the ancient, familiar mountains of Kongō, Shigi, and Ikoma beyond Wada Misaki, I resolved to proceed with single-minded determination. From passing Moji and traversing from the Genkai-nada through the East China Sea until arriving in Hong Kong, I became friendly with the captain and crew and occasionally delivered Dharma talks. In Hong Kong, an Englishman named Tamson boarded the ship. He had lived in Japan for eighteen years and used Japanese quite fluently. He proved an ardent Christian, and a great debate arose between us that became the talk of the ship. It was altogether a most enjoyable affair. Especially since the sailors listened to my Dharma talks with such pleasure, I too rejoiced—and a song emerged:

How joyous is one who boards the ship bound for Buddha's Pure Land!

Farewell at Kobe Port

Visiting Consul Fujita On July 12th, I arrived in Singapore. Having settled at an inn called Fusōkan there, I visited the Japanese Consulate on the 15th. The consul at that time was Fujita Toshiro, who had already learned through the captain of the Izumi Maru—the ship I had boarded—that I would be passing through this region en route to Tibet. He began: “I hear you intend to go to Tibet—by what method?” “The journey to Tibet is extraordinarily difficult.” “Even Mr. Fukushima went only as far as Darjeeling before returning, declaring the Tibetan venture too arduous—surely it’s impossible for you.” “Will you lead an army there? Or become a beggar? Which will it be? How exactly do you propose to proceed?” “As a monk,” I replied, “the notion of leading an army never once crossed my mind.” “Even were it possible to command troops there, I would reject such means.” “Since monks properly go forth as mendicants, I intend to depart as one.” “Though I’ve exhaustively considered every approach from this point onward—whether this method or that—it remains uncertain whether any will suffice in time. Wherever I go, methods will arise naturally according to each circumstance. Thus I shall now set out.” At this declaration, the Consul remained with arms folded in an attitude of profound misgiving.

Averting Disaster at the Outset: On July 18th, an incident occurred at my inn. This was a truly perilous incident in which I was saved from what should have been my death; therefore, I shall recount it here. As a monastic, under the principle that all places are one’s training ground, I often delivered sermons at this inn. However, the innkeeper showed me special favor by reserving the first fresh bath each day after boiling the water. This had become customary during my stay. On this day too, when the bath was ready as usual, the maid came and said, “Please go in.” At that moment, I was reciting sutras. Though I could have gone immediately, I found myself lingering. Then the maid returned and urged, “If you don’t enter now, others will take your place—please hurry.” While murmuring “Yes, yes” in response, I remained seated where I was.

However, after a short while, a thunderous, terrible sound rang out, and the house began to tremble. "Hmm, could this be an earthquake?" Thinking, "I might have to go outside," I kept staring out when—though there was no shaking like an earthquake—the noise grew so intense that people suddenly began to panic. When I inquired about the situation, I learned that this inn’s bathhouse had collapsed. Though the bathhouse was located on the second floor, Singaporean houses had a considerable gap between the second floor and the ground below—nearly ten feet, it seemed. From such a high second floor, the bathhouse had collapsed completely. Because I had not gone in, a Japanese woman had entered first, and somehow—whether due to the bath’s collapse—she fell along with it. Pillars and stones struck her indiscriminately—whether her head or her body—until she lost consciousness. It seems she had sustained severe injuries; feeling too distressed to go look at her wounds myself, I immediately took her to the hospital. I never inquired afterward whether the woman had died, but someone was lamenting gravely, saying it seemed quite dire.

Had I entered the bath immediately upon the maid's urging at that time, I surely would have died—or even if I had survived, I would have been left disabled and utterly unable to fulfill my journey to Tibet. The fact that I was fortunately able to avoid such a calamity may also have been an omen that I would enter Tibet, avoid calamity, and return safely to my homeland. The pitiable one was that woman—it was as if she had fallen into such peril in my stead. Later, according to what I heard in Darjeeling, the inn in Singapore had faced considerable difficulties. They had camouflaged rotten sections of planks and pillars by applying soil and paint, making them undetectable at a glance. Police officials then came with spears, thrusting them thoroughly through the structure—wherever they found even slightly suspicious areas, they made them replace everything. This was, of course, only natural.

Visiting Sarat Chandra Das: On July 19th, I boarded the British steamship Lightning, passed Penang Port, and arrived at the Mahabodhi Society in Calcutta City on July 25th, where I stayed for several days. There was a person named Chandra Bose who served as the society’s secretary.

That person asked me, “What is your purpose for coming here?” “I have come to study the Tibetan language with the aim of going to Tibet.” “That has a very good aspect to it. 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 will likely be able to obtain accommodation.” “This being most opportune, would you kindly provide me with a letter of introduction?” I requested and received the letter. On August 2nd, after being seen off by Japanese residents, I boarded a train north from Calcutta, crossed the vast Ganges River by steamship, then boarded another train that advanced northward through coconut groves and green rice fields. In my country, one cannot see such large fireflies flying in abundance; the play of their shadows reflected in the water of green rice fields was most intriguing. That occurred just after the moon had sunk below the western plain. Recalling the ancient times of the Buddha,

The Buddha’s light lies veiled in darkness; Still shine on, I pray—fireflies soaring through the night!

On the morning of the third day, at a station called Shiliguri, I transferred to a small mountain train. The train gradually ascended northward into the Himalayan Mountains. Passing through the densely overgrown great forest known as Tarai Jangal, the train wound its way like a giant serpent while the roar of its steam whistle—as though thousands of lions were charging ferociously—shook the mountain valleys as it climbed. After ascending fifty miles of mountain path, I arrived in Darjeeling around five in the afternoon; it had been a journey of 380 miles from Calcutta. From the station, I boarded a mountain palanquin called Danri and proceeded directly to Mr. Sarat Chandra Das’s villa [Lhasa Villa], an exceedingly splendid residence where I took up lodging.

Chapter 4: The Study of Language

Mr. Sarat Chandra Das’s Assistance: When I arrived at Mr. Sarat’s villa, a major earthquake had struck India’s Assam region, and as Darjeeling too had been affected by the quake, the house had suffered considerable damage and warping. And it was undergoing repairs at the time. The very next day, I immediately went with Mr. Sarat to visit an elderly Mongolian monk residing at a temple in a place called Gunparu. This elderly monk was seventy-eight years old at the time and quite a scholar. His name was Serab Gyamtsho (Hui-hai), and he shared the same name as I. Delighted by this shared name, we gradually began discussing Buddhism; however, knowing not a word of Tibetan, I could only converse through Mr. Sarat’s interpretation using rudimentary English. It was then that I first learned the Tibetan alphabet from this venerable person. Afterward, I commuted daily to this temple three miles away and studied the Tibetan language. After I had been doing this 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 matter. “However, even if you were to brave these hardships and succeed, it would first present itself as a state of near hopelessness. “Therefore, you should abandon it. “Of course, you can fully conduct your Tibetan studies here. If you devote yourself to that research and return to Japan, wouldn’t you be revered as a Tibetan scholar?” he said.

“However, I am not going to Tibet to be revered as a Tibetan scholar.” “Since it is for Buddhist practice, I absolutely must go,” I said. To this Mr. Sarat replied: “Even if there were necessity, pursuing something ultimately unachievable would be futile.” “If you go,” he added, “you’ll simply get yourself killed.” “But you yourself went to Tibet and returned, did you not?” I pressed. “There’s no reason I cannot go as well!” He countered: “The times have changed.” “Now that national isolation has been fully enforced, even I could not make that journey again.” “Moreover,” he continued kindly, “though I once found a good method—obtaining a travel pass to enter that land—such permits are now utterly unobtainable.” “You should abandon such hopes and return to Japan to devote yourself solely to study—that would be wisest.” “In any case,” I persisted, “I must learn Tibetan.” “Merely studying Tibetan Buddhist scholarship alone will not suffice—I must learn the colloquial language too.” “Otherwise entering that country will prove impossible.” “Please arrange means for me to learn it,” I entreated. Perhaps resignedly, Mr. Sarat promptly agreed.

Beneath that villa stood two small, beautiful houses. That house belonged to Lama Shabzung. However, he was then living near the market and not residing there. When Mr. Sarat specially summoned him and entreated, “Would you relocate your entire household here and teach Tibetan colloquial speech to this Japan Lama?” Lama Shabzung readily agreed. Together with his family, he moved into that house, and I too came to lodge there. As I would naturally be paying the monthly tuition for learning this colloquial language, I also decided to attend Darjeeling’s government school and study formal Tibetan under Tsümi Wönden, the Tibetan language head teacher. I paid all expenses related to these studies, but Mr. Sarat personally provided all provisions. Though I had brought money intending to pay fair compensation, he absolutely refused payment. “Making offerings to a pure monk like yourself eradicates our sinful karma and greatly increases our blessings—you must accept,” he insisted. Being without funds for my studies, I resolved to accept their kindness rather than let it go to waste. When I first arrived in Darjeeling, I had only three hundred yen, but since this covered just house rent, tuition, books, and incidental expenses, it sustained me for a year and a half. Had I paid for food—requiring fifty yen monthly—I could have studied only five or six months.

Children proved to be excellent teachers of colloquial speech. It was truly fortuitous that I could study academic Tibetan at school during daytime hours and practice colloquial language at home in the evenings—moreover, I would learn the tongue even during breakfast and while preparing for school. Consequently, my progress in colloquial speech advanced with remarkable rapidity. To master colloquial language, nothing surpasses living among its native speakers. Even when hiring a tutor for two or three hours daily, true proficiency remained unattainable. Through cohabitation, I unconsciously absorbed countless linguistic elements. Among these interactions, women surpassed men as instructors of vernacular speech, while children outshone women—indeed, when acquiring any nation's language, children and women never overlook even the slightest mispronunciation. They would repeatedly correct one's errors—"You're saying it this way when it should be that"—identifying every flawed articulation. Finding this process amusing, they would enunciate phrases I struggled to produce and make me listen carefully. I would earnestly observe their mouth shapes, tongue positions, and dental alignments while attempting to replicate the sounds—yet found myself consistently thwarted. Just when I believed I had finally mastered a pronunciation, a day would pass and the elusive sound would vanish anew—resulting in daily ridicule. This very mockery unexpectedly accelerated my progress in colloquial pronunciation.

Because I was studying so diligently in this manner, I became able to speak Tibetan in general terms after just six or seven months. Conversely, I found it easier than speaking in English. In Japan I had studied English diligently for over two years, yet when I went abroad, it proved nowhere near sufficient. Yet Tibetan—which one might assume more difficult than English—became something I could manage to converse in after merely six or seven months of study; this was entirely due to the children and women teaching me with such fervor. As my understanding of Tibetan grew, hearing about Tibet's affairs became a nightly occurrence, and Lama Shabzung in particular—being an avid storyteller—would take great pleasure in recounting his own hardships. This venerable person was a direct disciple of the teacher to Tibet’s second Dharma King [Panchen Lama], the renowned Sachen Dorje Chang (Great Lion Vajra Treasure). This Sachen Dorje Chang was a figure of extraordinary virtue—in Tibet, it was said none surpassed him in scholarly attainment. When Mr. Sarat entered Tibet, he had studied Tibetan Buddhism under this venerable person for but a brief period.

However, it was discovered that after Mr. Sarat returned to India, he had come to investigate Tibet's national conditions under orders from the British-Indian Government. Consequently, officials connected to Mr. Sarat—namely those who had secretly issued travel passes, along with innkeepers and others—were thrown into prison. At that time, this virtuous Great Lama was also sentenced to death. Upon hearing of the pitiable circumstances surrounding that event, I could not help but shed tears.

Let me now recount that tale.

Chapter Five: The Venerable One's Passing

When hearing how the Great Lion Venerable One—Sachen Dorje Chang, Tibet’s foremost high priest at that time—was imprisoned, sentenced to death, and ultimately executed, one could not help but marvel: "Should one endowed with Buddhist virtues truly meet such a fate?" What I recount was not heard solely from his disciple Lama Shabzung. After entering Tibet and reaching Lhasa, I heard these accounts from reliable scholars—stories containing many profoundly moving details. Rumors began spreading throughout Tibet immediately upon Mr. Sarat's return. By that time, the Great Lion Venerable One had already become aware calamity would befall him, yet despite this awareness, he could not escape implication in those charges. When hearing the Venerable One’s testimony: “My purpose extends beyond transmitting Buddhism to Tibetans—I seek to spread it to all people of the world. I merely taught Buddhism; I possess no knowledge whatsoever of whether he came to steal the Dharma or investigate domestic affairs.” Moreover, no such behavior had been observed. “If I must be killed for upholding my duty to transmit Buddhism,” it is said he declared with composure, “then so be it.”

This Venerable One was truly a noble figure, and it is said he already held the opinion of wanting to spread Buddhism even to India. This was because, "Buddhism originally arose in the country of India and was propagated to Tibet." However, now in India, Buddhism had completely vanished, and not even a trace of it could be seen. "This is truly something we cannot bear to silently witness before Buddha and the patriarchs," he had held the thought that "I earnestly wish to spread Buddhism to India." It was not merely a thought; for that very purpose, he had specially dispatched people to India. At present, the elderly Mongolian monk Venerable Serab Gyamtso who resided at Gunpar Temple in Darjeeling was indeed one of those dispatched individuals. There were also others who had come under the same Venerable One’s orders, but it is said they did not achieve much success. The same Venerable One not only dispatched people but also had sutras, Buddha statues, Buddhist ritual implements, and other items sent to India to serve as materials for propagating Buddhism. Considering all these points, the Venerable One was a noble figure who, transcending sectarian or international affiliations, held the aspiration to spread Buddhism’s true essence throughout the world.

While there are many Japanese monks who harbor intentions of foreign missionary work, to maintain such aspirations in a place of such strict national isolation as Tibet is truly a noble thing. It was precisely because he possessed such noble spirit that when Mr. Sarat made his journey, he gladly instructed him in Buddhism. However, within the government, there were those who resented this Venerable One of profound learning and steadfast morality, and it is said many people harbored intentions to do away with him whenever opportunity arose. When such rumors emerged, they seized this pretext to dispatch investigators toward Darjeeling and gradually conducted inquiries. As it was indeed factual—and moreover, Dr. Sarat must have undertaken his activities under British Indian Government orders—the facts being confirmed exactly as reported, the Venerable One was immediately arrested and imprisoned, while all other officials connected to Mr. Sarat were likewise imprisoned. As the charges were conclusively determined, the Venerable One received his death sentence. It was a verdict declaring: “For permitting a foreign state spy to reside at your temple and leaking Tibet’s secrets, we hereby sentence you to death.”

The High Priest's Final Moments: Though the exact date in lunar June of Meiji 20 (1887) when he received that verdict and was executed remains unknown, on a certain day in June, the same Venerable One was in a country called Kombo in eastern Tibet—a land through which flows a great river also named Kombo. It is actually the Brahmaputra River, but since it flows through Kombo’s territory, the people of that land have named it the Kombo River. As I had mentioned before, whenever his foremost disciple Lama Shabzung would recount the circumstances of the execution—his account delivered with such vivid sorrow—I too could not help but shed tears as I listened. On that day, the Venerable One sat upon a massive boulder on the Kombo riverbank, still clad in white robes. As this was the designated execution ground, the Venerable One quietly recited sutras. Then the executioner said, “If you have any final wishes, please tell us. If there is anything you would like to partake in, please tell us,” he added respectfully. “I have no wishes,” came the response. “I must read a portion of the sutra.” “When I finish reading it, I shall snap my fingers three times—on the third snap, cast me into this river,” he declared while bound by ropes. For a time he continued chanting scriptures, his countenance utterly composed, showing not the slightest sign of one facing imminent death. It is said he maintained his sutra recitation with utmost tranquility.

The Water Execution of the Great Lion Vajra Lama At that time, many had come to bid farewell, lamenting how pitiable it was that this noble figure faced execution under mere pretexts born of others' resentment. All wept so profusely that none remained to gaze up at the Venerable One upon the boulder—indeed, many prostrated themselves upon the earth, wailing loudly at the top of their voices, it was said. Not only did all those people weep, but the sky too clouded over, and a drizzling rain began to fall. So sorrowful was this cruel act of casting such a paragon of steadfast morality into the waters that even heaven and earth seemed to mourn—the very sky itself took on a gloomy and pitiful aspect, it was recounted. Though by station he should have worn red monastic robes, the Venerable One now sat in serene zazen as a condemned criminal—reciting sutras while bound with coarse ropes and clad in white prison garb. When he finished his recitation and raised a finger slightly through the rope bindings to snap it once, the mourners crowding the riverbank all burst into tears at once, it was told.

The Lament of Celestial Beings: Though the Venerable One signaled by snapping his fingers three times that they should now execute him, the execution officials—unable to bring themselves to lay hands on him and cast him into the river—stood silently weeping, sinking into grief along with the mourners in a truly pitiful state of affairs. Now, as the Venerable One quietly urged them—"The time has come! Why do you delay? Cast me into the water at once!"—the officials, weeping, fastened a stone to his waist and sank him gently into the river alongside it. When they pulled him up after some time, he appeared as though having entered samadhi, his breath not yet ceased. So they submerged him once more. When they lifted him again, thinking he must have passed on by now, he still seemed immersed in samadhi and had not yet perished.

As the mourners—unable to bear looking at this form—lamented, “Is there truly no way to save him at this point?”, the executioners too greatly lamented and this time refrained from submerging him. At that moment, the Venerable One quietly opened both eyes and addressed the officials: “You need not lament my death in the least. My karmic power has here reached its end, and today’s auspicious rebirth is none other than the extinction of my evil karmic causes here and now, giving rise to good karmic causes from this day forth.” “It is by no means you who are killing me.” “I hope only that Tibetan Buddhism will flourish ever more after my death.” “Hurry and submerge me in the water!”—urged thus, the officials, weeping as they did so, submerged him once more. When they lifted him up, it was said he had already passed away. After that, it is said they dismembered the Venerable One’s corpse and washed each limb downstream in the water. I could not contain my grief upon hearing this. If entering Tibet were to result in such tragic events occurring again afterward, I could hardly bear to go. The thought that I earnestly hoped—that even if I were to enter Tibet, no such tragedy would occur afterward—was something I had fully resolved within myself from this very moment.

That this noble figure—who had made the spread of Buddhism his very purpose—could encounter such an unforeseen calamity and meet with so tragic an execution, yet neither resent others nor accuse heaven, passing serenely into rebirth: this magnanimity of the Venerable One must surely be something all Buddhists should revere in unison.

Part Six: The Route to Entering Tibet

Celebration of the Sacred Ceremony: On January 1 of Meiji 31 (1898), as was customary, we conducted the Celebration of the Sacred ceremony; to honor Their Majesties the Emperor and Empress and His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince, we performed sutra recitations and then composed a poem: When I behold the dawn sun's glow upon the Himalayas, I perceive it as the luminous banner of our nation. This entire year I had devoted day and night exclusively to mastering Tibetan. Having now nearly completed both my studies of colloquial speech and academic research—to the extent that I thought, "This should suffice for entering Tibet without impediment"—I finally resolved to make the journey in Meiji 32 (1899). However, the route—

Regarding which route to take, I had to investigate for myself. As for those routes, there existed a path leading directly northeast from Darjeeling through Nyatong, with the Momodani Bypath running alongside it. There was also a route skirting the western flank of Kangchenjunga—the world’s second-highest snow peak—to reach Tibet’s border at Walung, and another path entering directly from Sikkim into [Kampa Castle]. However, all these routes either had checkpoints or soldiers stationed where no checkpoints stood, making entry difficult. Dr. Sarat had proposed: “If you approach the Nyatong checkpoint and earnestly explain, ‘I am a Japanese Buddhist come for religious training—please let me through,’ they might permit entry.” Yet this method proved completely unworkable. Through my thorough research on Tibetans, I concluded such an approach could not succeed. Beyond these, I could discover potential routes through both Bhutan and Nepal.

Of those two countries, the route most beneficial to me was that through Nepal. In Bhutan, there were neither ancient sites of Buddha nor much worthy of research. Though there existed historic sites of eminent Tibetan Buddhist monks there, such things held little value for me. What mattered was that Nepal contained various Buddhist sites along with Sanskrit scriptures; even should I fail to enter Tibet, investigating these would prove highly beneficial. Particularly, while Europeans and Americans had ventured there before me, not a single Japanese had yet done so. Since it was a country eminently worthy of our research, taking the Nepal route became most imperative. And so I resolved—

I decided to take the route through Nepal. If one could proceed directly west from Darjeeling to Nepal, it would prove most convenient—allowing one to behold magnificent mountain vistas and pay homage to Buddhist pilgrimage sites—yet dangers also abounded. The Tibetans residing in Darjeeling had all long known of my Tibetan language studies aimed at reaching Tibet; thus many kept vigilant watch, intending that should I depart toward Tibet's borders, they might either follow to kill me or accompany me all the way to inform the Tibetan government and claim a reward. To evade such pursuit, I had no choice but to devise an alternative approach. Thereupon, while confiding my Tibetan plans solely to Dr. Sarat, I informed the other lamas who had taught me languages that urgent matters necessitated my return home—and thus departed Darjeeling. Fortunately, through the efforts of Messrs. Hie, Itō, and Watanabe from our homeland, I received six hundred and thirty rupees at this juncture. With that money in hand, I proceeded to Calcutta on January 5 of Meiji 32 (1899). As I departed, a poem arose within me.

Now I shall go—treading through the Himalayas' snow— forge the Dharma's path at Bodā's edge— Bodā is the name for the country of Tibet in Sanskrit.

Part Seven: Chance Encounter

Zazen Under the Bodhi Tree: Having arrived in Calcutta from Darjeeling and purchased various travel provisions, I obtained two letters of introduction from one Jibādor—then a secretary in the Nepalese government who had entered Tibet as an envoy—intended to facilitate my journey upon reaching Nepal. Around the twentieth of that month, I reached Bodh Gaya. At that time, Dharmapāla had come to Bodh Gaya. As we discussed various matters, he said to me, "Should you reach Tibet, I wish you to present these śarīra relics of Shakyamuni Tathāgata to the Dharma King," entrusting me with a silver reliquary containing the relics, a dedicatory letter, and a palm-leaf sutra manuscript. Dharmapāla remarked something to the effect of: "I too would wish to visit Tibet once, but without some form of invitation from their side, entry would prove impossible." That night beneath Bodh Gaya's Bodhi Tree at the Vajra meditation hall, I practiced zazen with irrepressible joy. To sit in meditation once more under the very tree where Shakyamuni Tathāgata attained enlightenment filled me with such profound bliss that I lost all self-awareness through the night's vigil. The moon lodged among the Bodhi Tree's branches cast quivering shadows across the Vajra Seat—a scene of truly sublime beauty. At that moment,

On the Bodhi Tree's treetop, the moon has come to rest. I contemplate the stars in the dawning sky. I composed this poem. After a two-day stay, I departed from Bodh Gaya headed north by train toward Nepal. After a day and a night, I arrived at the station in Segowli—a place near the Nepalese border—on the morning of January 23. If I were to travel two days onward from that station, I would reach the Nepalese border; however, beyond that point, neither English nor Tibetan would be of any use. Though knowing Indian languages would have allowed me to proceed unhindered, I neither knew them well nor understood Nepali. Without knowing Nepali, I could neither purchase anything nor ask for directions. Since traveling mute would make achieving my objectives impossible, it became necessary for me to first stay at this station and practice some Nepali.

Crash course in Nepali. Fortunately, since the Bengali serving as Segowli’s postmaster knew both English and Nepali, I began learning from him. It was rather like twisting rope after catching the thief—too late but necessary. However, until then I had focused solely on studying Tibetan with no time for other languages. I jotted down everything learned in a notebook and reviewed while walking. The day after arriving there, as I strolled reviewing Nepali per usual, among those disembarking from the train came a party of four heading my way: a gentleman around forty in Tibetan attire, an elderly monk over fifty similarly dressed, and two who appeared to be servants. “Ah—Tibetans appearing at this opportune spot!” “If only I could negotiate to travel with them,” I thought, approaching their group. “Where might you be headed?” “We go to Nepal,” they replied. “Then have you come from Tibet?” “Not exactly, but some among us did.” They turned to me: “And you—where are you from?” “I’m Chinese.” “By what route did you come? By sea or by land?”

If I were to say I had come by sea here, I would arouse their suspicion and find myself in a position where I could not enter Nepal at all. This was because at that time, all Chinese people coming from the direction of the sea had been barred from entering Tibet. Since saying "I came by land" generally implied having come from Tibet, I answered, "I came by land," and while continuing the conversation, 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 were also similar houses. Those were all places where travelers stayed, but there was no separate lodging fee to pay—they simply purchased firewood and food and paid for those. That gentleman’s party had also entered the thatched hut on the opposite side. Of course, there was neither anything as convenient as a hotel in this area nor anything resembling a proper inn. That firewood-inn served as an inn.

Outwitting the Cunning Gentleman: After a short while, that gentleman and the old monk came to visit me and said, “Now then, you claim to be Chinese—but where in China are you from?” “I’m from Fuzhou,” I replied. “You must know Chinese, then.” This is a problem, I thought, but when I answered “I do,” the gentleman—being quite proficient in Chinese—began using the language. As I wasn’t deeply familiar with it, I could only respond to simple matters. Finding myself in a predicament, I quickly devised a plan. “The Chinese you’re using is the Beijing dialect. “Mine is the Fuzhou dialect—completely different—so I can hardly understand a word,” I replied. The gentleman then asked, “Do you know Chinese characters?” “I do.” “Let us converse through writing,” I said, and began writing with a pencil. But since there were characters he understood and others he didn’t, he declared, “This way we can’t hold a conversation even through writing.”

"Then let us speak in Tibetan," I proposed, switching languages. As our exchange deepened, the gentleman pressed further: "You claim to have come by land—from which part of Tibet?" To this I responded, "In truth, I made pilgrimage to Bodh Gaya via Darjeeling from Lhasa." He immediately followed with, "Where precisely do you reside in Lhasa?" "I dwell at Sera Temple." "At Sera there serves an old monk as Je Tarsang Khenpo—do you know him?" "Why, none could dwell there unknowing of him!" I countered—this being information fortunately obtained from Lama Shabzung, I crafted my reply with practiced ease. Though safe while he probed known matters, any unfamiliar inquiry risked exposing my guise. To preempt such danger, I seized control of the conversation by invoking confidential intelligence previously gleaned from Lama Shabzung. I detailed how Shabbey Shatā had lately shown marked hostility toward Tengelin while consolidating his own influence—whereupon the gentleman's suspicions dissolved entirely, his trust becoming absolute. Thus did Lama Shabzung's teachings prove their worth beyond measure.

*Encountering the One I Sought* The gentleman shifted his line of inquiry: “You say you are going to Nepal next—but whose place are you heading to seek out?” “Have you been there before?” “No, I’ve never been there before. That is why I have brought a letter of introduction.” “From whom and where is this letter of introduction?” “In truth, I obtained two letters of introduction from a man named Jibbardar, the Grand Secretary of the Nepalese Government in Calcutta.” “Those letters of introduction are addressed to the Lama of the Mahābodhi Stupa in Nepal.” “I have forgotten the lama’s name, but it is written in the document.” As I explained in detail the process of obtaining the letters by saying, “This Jibbardar served as a consul in Tibet for about eight years and is someone extremely proficient in Tibetan,” the gentleman remarked, “That’s strange.” “This Jibbardar who wrote your letter of introduction is my friend—but who exactly is it addressed to? Let me see the document,” he said. “Certainly,” I replied, retrieving the letter from my luggage and presenting it. He stared intently at the address, then exclaimed, “How peculiar! The one introduced in this document is me.”

Avoiding Theft by Chance: In Nepal, the term “friend” carried such weight that it held meaning nearly equivalent to siblings. Therefore, when forming friendships, they observed a peculiar ceremonial custom—somewhat resembling a wedding—where they prepared lavish feasts, gathered numerous relatives and acquaintances, and conducted the ritual. I shall spare you exhaustive details, but in essence, those who drank alcohol had to exchange cups and present proper ceremonial gratuities even to servants. Unless one performed such ceremonies, they were not permitted to use the term “friend.” The gentleman and the recipient of my letter of introduction were so-called close friends.

"By a stroke of fortune, since the gentleman revealed himself to be the Lama of the Mahābodhi Stupa, I said, 'This is truly a remarkable coincidence.' 'I humbly ask for your kind assistance,' I responded, to which he replied, 'In that case, let us depart together tomorrow—but will you be traveling by horse or carriage?' 'I have no particular preference,' I answered. 'Yet having gained such excellent company as yourself,' he continued, 'it would be rather dreary to ride horses in silence.' 'There are many captivating sights along the way—I think it would be far more agreeable if we walked leisurely while conversing. What say you?' he proposed. 'This fortune surpasses my deepest hopes—nothing could be more splendid than your proposal.' My reasoning was that such conversations might yield opportunities to discover favorable routes from Nepal into Tibet, and thus I rejoiced heartily as we finalized our plans to journey together."

Just then, two of the gentleman’s servants came running up, ashen-faced, exclaiming something to the effect of, “It’s terrible—there’s been a break-in!” and the old monk and the gentleman hurriedly returned. It is said that one bag containing clothing and 350 to 360 rupees was stolen. When I later asked the innkeeper about it, he said those thieves had apparently been lying in wait to steal my belongings. It was as if the gentleman had suffered the misfortune intended for me, and I was truly sorry for him.

The Journey to Kathmandu: That gentleman’s name was Buddha Bazzara (Kakukongo), and that old monk was a scholar from Rebun Monastery in Lhasa Prefecture named Māyaru (Stepchild)—quite a witty fellow. On January 25th, we departed at dawn and advanced northward across the plains. The next day we reached Birganj at Nepal’s first border checkpoint, where I obtained a travel permit as a Chinese resident of Tibet. The following day we set out again, lodging in a village just before what might be called the Himalayan gateway within Tarai Jangal’s great forest. Then on the 28th, passing Shimura village at the forest’s edge, we traversed straight through four ri of dense woodland before arriving at Bichagori village on a mountain riverbank where we took shelter. Around ten that night, as I kept my diary while gazing from the crude hut’s window, an icy moon bathed towering trees in radiance while river currents murmured with desolate solemnity. Suddenly came an earth-shaking roar of dreadful timbre. When I inquired of our host about this sound, he explained it was a tiger growling after devouring prey and coming to drink from the river—whereupon verses formed unbidden within me.

Beneath the pure moon’s light, a tiger growls in the thicket—

The waters of the Bichagori River lie still.

Hearing a Tiger’s Roar in the Himalayan Mountains After two days passing through mountain streams, forests, and mountains, we arrived at a station called Bimbitei. Up to this station, carriages, oxcarts, and horses could pass; however, from here onward, due to the steep slopes, one could not proceed unless on foot or by palanquin. We nevertheless proceeded on foot, ascending a steep slope from four in the morning, and after climbing just over one ri, we arrived at a checkpoint called Chispani. Here stood a customs office imposing taxes on imported and exported goods. There was also a battery with a considerable number of garrison soldiers stationed. There we underwent an inspection and ascended to the summit of a peak called Chisugari—it was from here that we first beheld the grand Himalayan mountain range, its snows radiating a glistening pure-white brilliance. This was nothing like what we had seen in Darjeeling or Tiger Hill. It was a truly magnificent sight.

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—where we beheld once more the radiant splendor of the Himalayan mountain range. Upon descending slightly, the full expanse of Nepal’s capital, Kathmandu, nestled among the mountains, came into view. My companion Buddha Bazzara worshipped before two great golden stupas radiating brilliance across the mountain wilderness and showed them to me, explaining that one was the reliquary of Kasyapa Buddha while the other housed remains of Sikhin Buddha. Overjoyed, I paid reverence accordingly. When we finished descending that steep slope, four or five people with two horses had come to greet us on Buddha Bazzara’s behalf. We mounted those horses and arrived near the village, where another twenty-four or twenty-five people came to greet us. It was approximately fifty ri from the station called Segōri to here.

Chapter 8: Forging the Bypath

The Origin of Yambu Chöten: The village of the great stupa in Kathmandu—referred to as Boda—encircled the great stupa of Kasyapa Buddha. Venerable Buddha Bazzara served as both this village’s chief and the great stupa’s custodian. In Tibetan, this great stupa of Boda was called Yambu Chöten Chenpo. Yambu denotes Kathmandu in general, while Chöten Chenpo means “great stupa” in Tibetan. In Tibet, any location housing a large stupa was immediately termed *Chöten Chenpo*, but this stupa’s true name was *Chā Lung Kashol Chöten Chenpo*—translated as “Having Been Commanded to Permit Its Construction.” A karmic tale lay behind this appellation: according to the stupa’s origin legend, after Kasyapa Buddha (the buddha preceding Shakyamuni Buddha) passed away, an old woman named Chachima and her four children enshrined his relics. Before erecting this great stupa, however, she petitioned the era’s king for permission and received his approval.

However, when later the old woman and her children exerted tremendous effort to construct the foundation of the great stupa, the ministers and elders of that time were all astonished and said: "If that impoverished old woman builds such a grand stupa, we must construct something as immense as a great mountain to maintain balance. It would be best to halt this project." After unanimously petitioning the king and explaining their reasoning, the king responded: "We have already commanded that the old woman be permitted to proceed. A king does not recant his commands; I cannot undo this." Thus, it came to be called the "Permitted-Completed-Commanded Great Stupa." However, I think that the construction of this stupa probably occurred after the time of Shakyamuni Buddha. (It is believed to have occurred after Nepal was opened by Manjushri Bodhisattva.)

Every year from mid-ninth to mid-second month of the lunar calendar came many pilgrims from Tibet, Mongolia, China, Nepal and other regions. Those who traveled through the Himalayan Mountains in summer would be afflicted with malaria; hence they set out as winter approached—among these travelers Tibetans proved most numerous. Among Tibetans themselves pilgrims of noble or gentry status were exceedingly rare. The majority consisted of pilgrim beggars who wandered seeking subsistence; these would gather at the great stupa through winter months only to depart for Tibet when summer arrived.

As for the method of discovering a bypass route into Tibet—when I considered what the most crucial task here was—it was first determining from where one should enter Tibet. Though I had come to Nepal, since there were numerous routes leading in from Nepal as well, I had to study which of those paths would be best. However, I could not possibly reveal this matter to Venerable Buddha Bazzara. This was because the innkeeper firmly believed that I was, of course, a Chinese person who would return to Lhasa Prefecture via the main road and then proceed back to China from there. Even if I were to reveal it—for he served as the Nepal government’s Tibetan-language translator and would thus incur guilt should he know such matters yet fail to inform the King—he would inevitably report to His Majesty once I spoke of it. If that were to happen, I would become unable to enter Tibet; thus, though he was my benefactor, I could not disclose this to Venerable Buddha Bazzara.

Venerable Buddha Bazzara was called by people of the world as Gyaa Lama—that is to say, a sage of China. This was because his father was a Chinese man who came to Nepal, took a wife, and became the lama of this great stupa. Since this lama belonged to the old sect, it was naturally permissible for him to take a wife. Gyaa Lama claimed that I was from the same hometown and took care of me with great kindness. Be that as it may, I had to seek some method outside and forge a path. Fortunately, most of the beggar pilgrims visiting this great stupa had come from Tibet. From the idea that it was necessary to inquire about and study the paths regarding these individuals, I made sure to spend extra money on those beggar pilgrims as much as possible. Since I yielded to their persistent demands not just once but two or three times, they became deeply impressed and came to trust me greatly, saying, “The Chinese lama is truly an extraordinary man.” So one time I asked them: “How about it? I wish to make a pilgrimage to sacred sites—will you guide me there?” “Certainly.” “We shall be happy to guide you,” they said. As we traveled along the way, I would ask, “You claim to be Tibetan—which route did you take to come to Nepal?” and there were also those who said they had come from Tenri.

Even on that Tenri route, there remained three or four layers of checkpoints, making passage utterly impossible. Moreover, it was said that even if one attempted a bypass at these guarded points along the path, one could not slip through easily. Having long known that substantial bribes were indispensable when passing through checkpoints, I confronted the pilgrim: "You lie about coming through Tenri's checkpoints as a beggar. You must have used some bypass path instead. There's no need for such falsehoods!" To this he replied, "You see through things clearly! In truth, there exists such a bypass path—one rarely traveled—through which I came." As he divulged these details, I gradually discerned there were multiple such routes. Using information gleaned from one beggar, I would question another: "Have you ever taken this bypass?" only to be told, "We avoid that path, but near Nyānam lies another such bypass." Through persistent inquiry, I discovered numerous paths indeed existed. Yet between Nepal's capital and Tibet's capital, travelers inevitably faced at least one or two main-road checkpoints. For instance, choosing the Nyānam bypass allowed avoiding Kīrun checkpoint—only to risk capture at the next guard post ahead—while taking the Sharukonbu detour meant facing inspection at Tenri checkpoint regardless. Under such constraints, successful evasion proved entirely unfeasible.

Though I investigated various routes thoroughly, every bypass path from Nepal's capital to Tibet's capital that avoided long detours proved perilous. One inevitably had to pass through one or two checkpoints. In such situations, pilgrim beggars would desperately plead and offer modest bribes to be allowed through. However, unlike Tibetan beggars, my interrogative exchanges provided ample grounds for suspicion, making these bypass routes exceedingly dangerous. Through persistent investigation, I discovered a favorable path here—though it required an extremely long detour. While the normal route heads northeast from Nepal's capital, I instead found that proceeding northwest to Lo Province at Nepal's border, emerging into Changtang—Tibet's northwestern plains—then advancing further northwest to circle Lake Manasarovar before looping toward Tibet's capital allowed entry without checkpoints. This was indeed the bypass path I should take, and I had determined this in advance.

Part 9: Travel in the Himalayan Mountains (Part 1)

Departure for Tibet — Though I had ascertained the path beforehand, deciding to take that route without pretext risked arousing Venerable Buddha Bazzara’s suspicion that “This man is dubious.” Yet here I had discovered an ideal pretext. While academic disputes persisted regarding whether Lake Manasarovar corresponded to scripture’s Anavatapta, it remained commonly accepted as such. Since Mount Kailash—a natural mandala beside Anavatapta—stood as a Buddhist sacred site, I concluded that establishing a pilgrimage pretext would prove most fitting. Thus I once addressed Gyaa Lama: “Having come this far, it would grieve me to return to China via Tibet without purpose.” “Chinese scriptures speak of Tibet’s Mapam Yumtso—Anavatapta—with Kang Rinpoche towering on its shore. A devout wish compels me to pilgrimage there despite hardships—what think you?” When I asked, “Might you arrange porters?” Gyaa Lama replied: “Ah, noble though this be, you should desist.” “The way proves arduous beyond measure—no proper roads cross the northwestern plains.” “I too long to pilgrimage there once, but provisions must be amassed beforehand—food cannot be easily procured.” “Moreover, bandits infest those wastes—without numerous companions, you’ll surely be slain.” “Thus matters stand—taking one or two porters would be marching to your death. Abandon this course,” he urged with growing insistence.

“If going to be killed would fulfill my duty, then so be it,” I declared. “All who are born must die regardless. To perish while venerating Buddhism’s sacred sites would be an auspicious blessing indeed. Death holds no terror for me—whether slain by bandits on Tibet’s plains or expiring comfortably here, when one’s time comes, it comes.” As I thus expounded my resolve, he relented: “Since you’re so determined, I suppose I must find someone.” He began inquiring after suitable porters.

However, though they were people from Kamu—the home country of thieves—he managed to secure two pilgrims who seemed quite honest. Additionally, there was an elderly pilgrim woman. That elderly woman was sixty-five or sixty-six years old, yet she was quite robust and could traverse the mountains with ease. It was decided that I would set out with those three; however, Gyaa Lama said he would send someone along to Tsukuje to verify whether these two porters would serve you kindly and thus provided an additional attendant.

The Flower Capital in the Mountains — Our party of five, master and attendants, set out with me riding the white horse I had purchased from Gyaa Lama. The horse proved remarkably capable, advancing skillfully even on rugged slopes almost as if it were a person scrambling up on all fours. Departing Kathmandu in early March, we proceeded northwest through the mountains—one day climbing slopes and the next descending—until after a journey of approximately eighty-five ri over ten days, we arrived at Pokhara, a city nestled among the peaks. Pokhara appeared as a remarkably beautiful city in the Nepalese mountains, looking as though numerous villas had been built amidst scenery rivaling Japan's most picturesque landscapes. Bamboo groves and flower-covered mountains rose above lush verdure, while waters flowing from fish-tail-shaped snow peaks wound around the city before disappearing into distant ranges. Among the Nepalese cities I passed through, this was the most beautiful, though its water bore the milky hue of rice-washing liquid. This coloration likely stemmed from mountain soil dissolved in the water. This city ranked as Nepal's most affordable locale, where rice sold extremely cheaply—about four shō for twenty-five sen, or typically two shō five gō—with all other goods proportionally inexpensive. The primary local products consisted of copper utensils. As I required a tent, I stayed about six days and had one made for twenty-five rupees (1 rupee = 67 sen)—a structure sufficiently spacious for indoor cooking.

After leaving Pokhara behind and advancing northward, we encountered many steep mountains where riding horses was impossible. Therefore, we first deliberately sent the horses around through the valley, walked for about half a day, and then proceeded by riding the horses again. One day, as my porters walked ahead guiding the horse, I rode along without paying particular heed—preoccupied with thoughts of our destinations ahead—when right before my eyes lay a tree branch. With a start, I tried to avoid the branch—but at that very moment, the horse surged forward. I ended up on my back and finally fell from the horse. Fortunately, the horse too seemed to realize this—instead of bolting forward, it halted steadfastly—and because I also kept my grip on the reins without letting go, I merely struck my back painfully against a rock rather than tumbling into the valley. But had the horse panicked and dashed off then, or had I released the reins—

I would have vanished into the specter of a thousand-fathom abyss. Thinking this was a fortunate turn of events, I tried to stand, but it seemed my back had been struck quite severely, for I found myself utterly unable to rise. And so, though I had the two servants carry me up about ten chō toward the mountain’s summit, the pain was such that I could not move at all, so we stayed in the mountains for roughly two days. Fortunately, I had some camphor tincture with me; I thoroughly massaged my lower back and applied it, among other treatments, which led to my recovery without further complications.

On the third day, we sent the horse ahead around through the valley while we walked through what might truly be called those terrifying deep mountain valleys people speak of—and several times we heard the cuckoo's call: "Cuckoo, cuckoo."

At that moment,

A winding path through Himalayan trees and rocky crevices

In the depths of solitude, a cuckoo called. I passed through those desolate mountains, for when people interact merely a day or two, all remain reserved—their true natures elusive—yet through prolonged companionship, inherent dispositions gradually surface. Of my two porters, one stood exceptionally large with decisively brusque temperament; the other, though markedly meek, possessed some literacy that bred considerable pride. This disposition chafed against the decisive man’s sensibilities, sparking intermittent clashes. The elderly pilgrim woman proved honest and appeared privy to all matters concerning both porters. I maintained uniform dealings with all. Particularly as the old woman cherished sake greatly, upon reaching inns I would purchase equal portions for her as for the porters. Moreover, when bestowed sundry items by others—especially pitying the aged—I distributed them liberally. Whether moved by such gestures or my practice of single daily meals devoid of meat, she regarded me with profound reverence, never treating me as mere pilgrim. Yet this crone seemed to harbor some secret wish to speak privately, restrained by fear of the two men’s presence.

Then, using my wits one day, I had the old woman go ahead while I set out on horseback and the two servants on foot, but as they were carrying loads, they fell considerably behind me. When I finally caught up with the old woman and we were walking together while talking, she said, “Are those two men still far behind?” “They might be about two ri behind.” “The truth is, there is something I have wanted to tell you in private for some time now—the fact is, those two porters are truly dangerous people for your person.” “One is a man who killed someone in Kam and committed robbery.” “The other, though not to that extent, killed a person in a quarrel—in any case, neither gives a second thought to killing.” “However, while the gentle one might never do such a thing, if you go to the Northwestern Plains, the other will undoubtedly kill you and take your money.” “It’s just that—thinking someone as kind and noble as you might be killed by such wicked men—I couldn’t bear it, so I felt compelled to tell you.” “What nonsense! Such a thing could never be!” When I said, “Those people are perfectly honest,” the old woman grew earnest and swore: “By the Three Jewels! If this matter proves false, may death be granted to me.”

This was the customary method of swearing oaths among Tibetans. Moreover, her words showed no trace of falsehood—indeed, judging by her demeanor, everything she said appeared entirely factual. A troublesome situation had arisen, I realized—one that demanded immediate strategizing.

Chapter 10: Travels in the Himalayan Mountains (Part 2)

The Defense of the Bypath — While keeping wary watch over the two porters, I spent six days traversing a forty-ri road before reaching Tsukuje village in the Himalayan mountains. There resided a governor named Harukaman Subba, and through an introduction from Gyaa Lama, I came to lodge at this official's residence. After staying at the house for a day or two, the attendant sent through Gyaa Lama's goodwill declared, "Well, matters being thus settled," and returned home. Yet just as I was resolving to dismiss these two servants to complete my Tibetan journey, I learned through various accounts that along the northern bypass route beyond Lo Province—where the Tibetan government had stationed five soldiers three months prior to guard the path—no foreigner or person of unusual appearance could now pass. This was no isolated case; rumors gradually confirmed as fact stated that every bypass permitting even solitary travelers now had five soldiers stationed to guard it, rendering all advancement toward the Tibetan Plateau from this route utterly impossible.

Dismissing Dangerously Perilous Servants — Here had come a Mongolian scholar named Serab Gyaltzan (Kechu), a gentleman of considerable repute who instructed monks in sutras while dabbling as a physician on the side. He would often come to my quarters to visit and converse. One night, after the two porters held a drinking bout that culminated in a quarrel, they fully revealed their villainous natures and began exchanging accusations about each other's misdeeds. Listening to their mutual denunciations—which proved them exactly the scoundrels the old woman had described—I heard one declare: "You there! Though gentle as a cat in appearance despite being a murderer and robber, you're plotting to pounce on the Chinese Lama like a rat-catcher when the time comes, intending to eliminate me as an obstacle!" To which the other retorted: "If you're spouting your own schemes back at me, fine—if I'm in your way, I'll withdraw!" After this fierce dispute reached its peak, they came before me demanding each other's dismissal. Seizing this opportunity, I resolutely discharged both men with appropriate severance pay, then sent the old woman away with pocket money and token gifts.

Now, as for the course of action I should take—advancing immediately to the Northwestern Plains was utterly impossible, yet turning back was naturally out of the question. While I was pondering how to devise some method, Dr. Kechu—who had been visiting me frequently of late and was versed not only in Buddhist studies but also in literary scholarship—and I reached an agreement after consultation: I would explain Chinese Buddhism to him, and he would instruct me in Tibetan Buddhism and literature. Thus I resolved to proceed to Lo-Tsarang, where the doctor resided. On the way there, I paid homage at Chumik Gyatsa (meaning "Hundred Springs")—that is, the sacred site known in Sanskrit as Muktinath.

A sacred site in the Himalayan mountains—Muktinath means "the place where the head is enshrined," that is to say, it is declared to be where the head of Mahadeva was preserved. Now renowned in Hinduism as a celebrated sacred site, it is revered by both Hindus and Buddhists alike as a hallowed ground. The name "Hundred Springs" was bestowed for the self-evident reason that a hundred streams flow from a hundred springs there. Moreover, within this area called Hundred Springs lie three renowned sites: Sāra Mēbaru ("earth where fire burns"), Chura Mēbaru ("water where fire burns"), and Dōra Mēbaru ("stone where fire burns"), all of considerable fame. Thinking it must be some kind of extraordinary place, I went to see—only to find it was nothing more than an absurd tale: a beautiful spring nestled between rocks measuring about two feet in height and one foot in width. There was a hole in the rocks slightly above the water's surface from which fire emerged, crawling over the water before rising upward. When common folk see this, it appears exactly as if fire is burning forth from within the water. The others were all much the same, with nothing particularly mysterious about them, but when observing the unified shape of the mountains in this area, there were also traces suggesting it may have been an ancient volcano. This was because not only did there exist a pond resembling an ancient crater on the snow-covered slope ahead, but also because the rocks here differed from ordinary mountain rocks—all being volcanic in nature. Having completed my pilgrimage there, I descended the mountain and reached the banks of the Kaliganga River, where I spent the night.

Peril of the Horse Stuck in Mud

Rescuing the Horse from the Mud: The following day, we proceeded upstream along the river. When I attempted to cross the shallow sandy-bottomed river while mounted on horseback, the horse advanced two or three steps before sinking until its belly touched the deep mud. I immediately dismounted from my horse, while Dr. Kechu—who had been startled on horseback—also got down and said: "The horse is beyond help, but isn't there some way to retrieve that luggage?" Thereupon, I immediately removed my robe, climbed partway up the mountain, and hurled a large stone toward the side where the horse was stuck. The horse, perhaps thinking it was about to be struck, flinched nervously. By doing this, I intended to create a foothold by placing many large stones into the mud to retrieve the luggage on the horse. As I attempted to hurl another large stone onto the previous one, the horse watched my movements with great fear; yet when I finally flung one down with a thud, it leaped with tremendous force and reached the opposite bank. Then, together with Dr. Kechu, we threw numerous large stones into the mud to create a path for crossing his horse. After roughly three or four hours of earthwork, we finally managed to get both ourselves and Dr. Kechu’s horse across to the opposite bank. Then we arrived at a village called Samar (Red Earth), and the next day proceeded gradually further and further north through the mountains. We proceeded northward into what is called Dhaulagiri.

In the mountains below Tsukuje Village there had been pines, cedars and similar trees, but in this area no such trees existed—only an abundance of hinoki cypress grew. As for those hinoki cypresses, there were only trees ranging from fifteen or sixteen shaku (approximately 4.5–4.8 meters) to about twenty shaku (6 meters) in height, with nothing beyond them but shrubs. After traveling some five or six ri through those snowy mountains, we came to a small village called Kirun where numerous willow trees grew. There was nothing else particularly unusual about the place. The residents of this area were all Tibetans—no Nepalese people lived here. Therefore white flags stood at every corner of the roofs, printed with mantra phrases through woodblock printing. This could be seen anywhere in Tibet—even where tents were pitched, such flags had been erected. Passing through that village and pressing ever northward into the snowy mountains, we found dusk falling. In the deep valleys grew thick hinoki cypress woods, while from between the secluded ravines came the beautiful voice of a cuckoo—perhaps rejoicing at the moon's emergence.

Having journeyed till dusk, beneath the moon I'll lodge—in the desolate skies of Snowy Mountains, a cuckoo cries.

Tsarang Village — Before long, we arrived at a small village called Kimii (Fukusen) nestled among snowy mountains to lodge, and upon advancing north the following day for about four ri, Tsarang Village came into view. Now this area had become a place where one could reach the Northwestern Plains in less than a day, and though called Snowy Mountains, their appearance scarcely differed from those plains—the mountains stood desolate, with no trees visible. I arrived in Tsarang around mid-May, when the barley had only just been sown. Observing the village’s appearance, I saw it was encircled on all sides by snowy mountains—a settlement measuring four and a half ri east-west and about one and a half ri north-south across its broadest span, situated on a plateau. From the western snow peaks to the eastern valley, the land formed an extremely gentle slope, along which flowed a river descending from those same western peaks. This is none other than the source of the great river known as Kaliganga.

The river flowed around the village called Tsarang and ran off toward the snow peaks to the south; on the distant bank of that river lay a village, and within a part of that village stood a small hill. There was a castle where the King of Lo Province resided atop that mountain. Until the Gorkha tribe unified Nepal, this Lo Province had also remained independent. Opposite that castle stood a rather large temple, which belonged to an old school of Tibetan Buddhism known as the Karjikpa sect. And that temple too was a Tibetan-style square stone hall painted red. The white-painted stone buildings constructed along that main hall were none other than the monks’ quarters. Between the western plain of the castle and the temple, a village of about thirty houses—some large, some small—could be seen.

Chapter 11: The Mountain Ascetic's Practices

Tsarang’s Customs — As Dr. Kechu and I finally crossed over the snowy mountains, a gate stood at the entrance to a vast plain. It was not built for any military purpose, but rather for religious reasons—to enshrine Buddha or deities at the gate and prevent evil spirits from entering the village. Therefore, there were no high walls flanking it or anything of that sort. Only a gate stood erected. The structure reached about four ken high—approximately 7.3 meters—built proportionally from stone, closely resembling the two-story gate towers found in our homeland. Passing through this gate and advancing half a ri—roughly two kilometers—we arrived at Tsarang Village. Dr. Kechu guided me to a large house in the settlement. This was the village chief’s residence. It appeared they had been forewarned of our arrival, for fourteen or fifteen people came out to welcome and usher us inside. In Tibet as well as here, slightly better homes maintain separate Buddhist halls—a shared custom. This stems from local tradition where lamas rank as the most honored guests. From the notion that housing lamas in their own living quarters would be defiling, villagers specially construct these halls both to enshrine Buddha and serve as guesthouses for revered lamas.

The construction of that hall was done far more meticulously than their own homes, and the interior was kept clean. Beside the Buddhist altar stood a specially established sutra repository, and there were also places where sutras were enshrined within Buddhist statues. This was not for any purpose of their own reading, but rather for accumulating merit—that is, to make offerings with the same reverence as that paid when presenting offerings to Buddha. The notion that even the so-called Three Vehicles and Twelve Divisions of the Rinzai teachings were equivalent to waste paper if one did not grasp their true meaning was utterly absent among Tibetans. Whether they comprehended it or not, it remained the custom of people in this region to simply revere the Buddhist teachings. I came to reside in that Buddhist hall. Across from that hall stood a small detached house where Dr. Kechu resided. To prepare meals for Dr. Kechu and myself, a servant was assigned.

The village chief’s name was Nyelwa Tarbu, a truly gentle man whose wife had passed away prematurely, leaving him with two daughters. At that time, the elder sister was twenty-two or twenty-three and the younger sister seventeen or eighteen; these two daughters were daily employing men and women to manage livestock herding or agriculture. Their work was truly commendable.

Now, as for the villagers’ pleasures, they consisted mainly of singing songs and dancing at night, and occasionally attending mani gatherings—what in Japan would be called nenbutsu prayer groups or Kannon devotional assemblies—where a lama-mani would appear to recount in detail the biographies of ancient high priests and dharma-protecting kings, and attending these sessions seemed to be their supreme delight.

Training in Filth Tolerance — The people here were as filthy as Tibetans, or rather even filthier than those in Lhasa proper. In Lhasa they occasionally bathed, but during my year-long stay here, I witnessed them washing only about twice. Even then, they didn’t cleanse their entire bodies—merely their faces and necks—leaving their skin pitch-black with an unpleasantly dark sheen. There were indeed those who became quite fair-skinned if washed properly, but should someone keep a neatly cleansed face, others would mock her as being unclean. Here I thoroughly cultivated my tolerance for Tibetan filth. Had I not fully accustomed myself to such squalor here, I might have found myself unable to eat anything upon reaching Tibet.

Here too, they would wipe bowls directly with hands that had just wiped snot and pour tea into them for us. If you showed aversion and refused to drink it, they would detest you for it—so you had no choice but to endure and drink it—such was the predicament. In reality, there were things even worse than that—truly unspeakable, unbearable to behold—that they did. Even when I occasionally tried to accustom myself to those habits, their filth proved so overwhelming that I would secretly wash my own teacup or bowl before eating.

So my work consisted solely of attending three-hour lectures each morning under Dr. Kechu. However, as the morning lectures involved studying difficult material that required both preparation and review, while the three hours from noon onward mainly focused on rather easy subjects that were half for enjoyment—such as rhetoric or calligraphy and composition—we would sometimes engage in debates during those sessions.

Strange Rhetoric — Within Tibetan rhetoric were interwoven numerous Buddhist elements. Had these been applications of ordinary Buddhist doctrine, there would have been nothing remarkable about them—but Tibet harbored a religion both mystifying and obscene, whose truths had been integrated into their rhetoric. Thus did they expound carnal relations between men and women through symbolic pairings like Buddha and Tārā or vajra and lotus, further explaining how the lotus’s dew paralleled human couplings—ultimately asserting that even these utterly defiled acts could enable attainment of immaculate enlightenment. Such rhetoric likely existed in India long ago, but now seemed preserved solely in Tibet. Though I had devoted myself to studying rhetoric, Dr. Kechu and I frequently engaged in vehement arguments over such interpretive methods. The founder of this sexual union doctrine was a monk named Padmasambhava—one who ate meat, drank alcohol, and maintained eight wives. Yet they venerated this man as both a pure monk and a savior.

I concluded that this was likely a teaching propagated by the Demon King himself, descending upon this world to destroy the Buddhist Law. Thus finding no common ground with Dr. Kechu, I observed how he maintained belief that Padmasambhava was none other than a Buddha incarnate. What appalled me most was the locals' blind adherence to this defiled Buddhism of Padmasambhava—here only the old doctrines held sway, without a single follower of the new sect remaining. Though undeniably erudite—a monk of pristine virtue trained in the New Sect who had spent twenty years at Sera University earning his doctorate—Dr. Kechu had, by the villagers' account, ruined himself over some woman's affairs; unable to return to Mongolia yet too ashamed to remain in Lhasa, he now dwelled in this mountain hamlet consorting with unclean women and children.

Chapter 12: The Mountain Ascetic's Practices (Continued)

Conflict with Dr. Kechu — As previously mentioned, debates frequently arose between Dr. Kechu and myself regarding rhetoric. On one occasion, he angrily stopped 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!” he proclaimed, suspending his lectures for two or three days. When I left matters unresolved—for Mongolians are quick to anger yet equally quick to recover—he soon forgot his rage and conceded, “Well, it seems there was some merit to what you said earlier.” “Upon further reflection,” he continued, “my arguments appear to have been mistaken.” “Shall we resume lectures then?” he offered, relenting from his position. “In that case,” I replied deferentially, “I humbly request your instruction,” and resumed attending his lectures.

At times, I attended lectures on Asaṅga Bodhisattva’s treatises. During this time, Dr. Kechu declared, “There exists no Buddhism superior to what this Bodhisattva teaches,” making this assertion. “No, that is mistaken. While this Bodhisattva is indeed venerable, he cannot equal the Madhyamaka doctrine advocated by Nagarjuna Bodhisattva,” I explained the reasoning step by step, whereupon he concluded, “You have truly insulted Tibetan Buddhism.” “Because in Tibet, Asaṅga Bodhisattva is held in the highest esteem!” “Of course we revere Nagarjuna Bodhisattva equally, but to claim Asaṅga Bodhisattva’s teachings are inferior—this is undeniably an insult you have levied against Tibetan Buddhism!” “Such a demon deserves to be hurled away!” he declared, grabbing the rekshin (sutra clasp) before him with his left hand, seizing my collar as he attempted to fling it at my head.

At that moment, I burst into loud laughter. Startled by the strangeness of this laughter, he shifted the rekshin slightly sideways but kept his grip on my collar. At that point, I spoke. When I said, “How contradictory—to cling so fiercely while discussing Asaṅga’s Buddhism of non-attachment,” the doctor released his hold as if pierced by these words’ sharpness, grinding his teeth in rage. Soon he reached a state where he could barely compose himself, declaring he couldn’t bear seeing my face any longer. This seemed typical Mongolian behavior, I concluded. Truly, most people in Mongolia tend toward such dispositions. While not universally true, many Mongolians I encountered had this quick-tempered nature that left me exasperated. Moreover, having realized anger signifies a fool’s temperament, I cultivated fortitude to endure future humiliations. Thus I studied six hours daily. Preparatory work alone required seven hours minimum. Sometimes eight or nine. This meant twelve to fifteen hours of study each day. Beyond this came one meal with tea before my daily walk.

Mountain Climbing Practice: Sundays were days of complete rest when I would head into the mountains for walks. At those times, I practiced vigorously running up the slopes. This once-weekly major exercise—being preparation for my future crossing of pathless areas in the Snowy Mountains—was something I deemed indispensable, for if I did not train thus, I would be utterly unable to climb high peaks while bearing heavy loads in thin air. Therefore, I practiced carrying stones up mountains even when unnecessary. And it seemed my lungs had grown considerably stronger. In truth, my body too had become robust.

Now, as for the greatest pleasure of the people in this area—it was to dally with women, eat meat, and drink alcohol. Apart from that, there were no such things as leisurely sightseeing excursions. As for going out to hear anything interesting, it amounted to little more than attending Lama Mani’s sermons—and even those were not something that occurred every night. In summer, they were quite busy, so matters of carnal desire occurred less frequently; however, once summer passed and they had a bit of leisure, the only thing they gathered to discuss was lewd conversations between men and women. When I thought about it a little, they seemed almost like animals. Their minds were occupied solely with eating and sleeping, and they cared not how filthy the clothes they wore might be. Moreover, since they only replaced them with new ones once a year, the clothes ended up gleaming with a glossy black sheen from grease and grime. It was a custom where if one wore them for two years rather than one, they would be praised as splendid. Throughout that time, they never washed them even once.

Their bodies were so filthy, yet they exerted themselves greatly for food and sleep. As for what they ardently desired—men seeking women and women seeking men—this being the state of affairs from elders down to youths, licentiousness was truly rampant. Since I associated with people who engaged in such unclean practices, I had no way of discerning their true nature at first. Villagers who knew Sundays were days of rest would occasionally come to have their illnesses treated. Moreover, some who heard I was a lama came seeking prophecies of the future, as if believing I could know what was to come. They would ask what would become of their own fates or how they should proceed henceforth. No matter how often I refused, unless I told them something, they would return repeatedly, wasting my time and causing me great trouble; thus I would give an ambiguous reply that satisfied them enough to depart—though I spoke words whose intent even I did not grasp, it seemed they heard them as something meaningful. In such a manner, while studying intensely, I—

I became the talk of the village. "That lama does nothing but read books and spend all his time lost in thought," they would say. "And even when he goes into the mountains, he just sits zazen and broods." Various rumors spread that I was no ordinary person. Some claimed patients given my medicine had miraculously recovered, adding fuel to the gossip. In a village starved for conversation topics, I became their prime subject, with people freely inventing elaborate stories about my relationship with the doctor. This stemmed from an incident where my uproarious laughter during a heated debate with him—one that nearly turned physical—had startled the neighbors; moreover, our ordinary discussions often grew so loud that nearby villagers would gather outside in alarm, convinced "the doctor and Chinese Lama are fighting again!" Yet these confrontations always dissolved into laughter without consequence.

Since such incidents occurred frequently and left them repeatedly startled, the rumors grew rather entertaining. "That Doctor isn't arguing about Buddhist teachings at all," they speculated. "That was when the Chinese Lama gave food to paupers from such-and-such place the other day." "Perhaps he did such a thing because they didn't give it to our side," some murmured, while others conjectured, "When we went to present a sho of barley recently, he went and distributed it all to beggars instead." Thus absurd rumors like "The Doctor must have flown into a rage over that" became the village's chief gossip. I remained oblivious to this chatter, but as my stay lengthened, the women of my lodgings began bringing me tea and occasionally preparing what passed for village delicacies—buckwheat bread prized above all sweets. Once, bearing such offerings, one confided: "They say that big quarrel between you and Geshe happened because you gave money to those beggars yonder—that's why he got angry. That's what everyone's claiming."

So I thought—indeed, the world is a strange place. We can only infer what lies in others' hearts through our own thoughts—yet I felt this sensation of it being truly fascinating. Now, in this world of ours, it appears nearly impossible to interact through pure kindness alone. Without relationships rooted in benefit or affection, harmonious interaction seems difficult to sustain. During my stay in Tsarang Village, I came to feel this truth deeply. I simply intended to show kindness to every ordinary person. Yet there were those who misunderstood this kindness, saying things beyond my wildest imaginings—but as these matters are too trivial, I shall omit the details.

Chapter 13: Scenery of Two Seasons in the Northern Snowy Mountains

Summer Scenery of Tsarang Village: Now, since I lived in this Tsarang mountain village for about a year, I came to understand well the changing scenery of the four seasons. However, in this area—as with Tibet’s interior—it is most appropriate to divide the year into two seasons: summer and winter. Since this is indeed the case, even among the natives here, there are many who do not know names like spring or autumn. The beauty of this village’s summer scenery was so pure and beautiful that even the mountain dwellers here seemed to take pride in boasting of it to others. The barley fields cast a vivid green glow amidst snow-capped peaks towering white on all sides, between which lustrous pale pink buckwheat flowers bloomed in full splendor; butterflies fluttered here and there among blossoms dancing through the air, while skylarks sang as though proclaiming themselves sole musicians of the Flower Treasury World. In harmony with those joyous voices, the songs sung by humble village women in mellifluous tones—were they instruments or skylarks’ songs?—blended indistinguishably, while nature’s true marvel manifested through the lovely “Cuckoo, cuckoo” calls that echoed the universe’s own profound and mysterious message.

Winter Scenery: Then, the western mountains several ri away were all crowned with white snow, but when the setting sun began to sink into their peaks, the snow-capped peaks lining the east of Tsarang Village shone in coral hues from its reflection—a marvelous sight. As the setting sun gradually sank below the mountain ridge, the coral hues faded into golden tones, and before one could register that color too had paled to silver-white, the azure sky cleared as if wiped clean, harboring not a wisp of cloud. While gazing transfixed, from between peaks of towering snow—dimly and mysteriously sublime like silver halls of Tusita Heaven—there quietly emerged a vision akin to the moon goddess gathering myriads of pearls, casting an ineffable radiance that illuminated the Himalaya's gleaming snow-capped summits: a scene defying comparison, as if wrought from glacial light itself.

The winter moonlit night was as described above, but now snow began falling violently—not merely accumulating on the surrounding snow-capped peaks, but piling up one shaku, then two shaku, then three shaku deep across our inhabited plains. Moreover, a blizzard arose with fearsome force, scattering this snow and whirling it skyward; not content with this alone, avalanche waves came crashing down from the snow peaks. Together with the storm’s fury, these waves surged across the plains in ravaging sweeps—their dreadful roar making one think that even the thunderous cries of thousands of great lions, those beast-kings of Vindrabana’s vast forests, could scarcely match this cacophony. At this time, if there were any travelers, it would be no rare occurrence for them to be instantly swept away by that snow and buried in valleys thousands of fathoms deep.

The devastation after snowfall: In some places, fields had been excavated down to sand and turned into wasteland, while in other areas across the plains, mountains of snow had formed—such was the scene left behind after the snow waves and blizzard had passed. Even looking at these traces was enough to make my hair stand on end. At this time, I thought to go outside and observe the situation, but could only hear the dreadful blizzard's roar—my face battered by snow, body frozen, limbs numb, and eyes scarcely able to open—leaving me unable to properly ascertain what was happening. Even after the blizzard subsided, clouds—whether bearing more snow or merely chasing the storm’s fury—drifted sparsely overhead, beneath which fine snow swirled like smoke. Through those intermittent gaps, moonlight occasionally appeared dimly, its color manifesting a dreadfully pale gray—the Himalayas' fearsome and tragic spectacle presenting a scene so terrifying it left me awestruck by its very existence. Having lived in such a mountain dwelling for about a year, I felt truly filled with joy. And no matter how much I studied each day, it never took the slightest toll on my body.

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 each day. Though animal-based foods consisted solely of butter, during buckwheat season there was also the luxury of its new sprouts coated in sour milk—something akin to a white vegetable salad—keeping my body in excellent health. Around August by the solar calendar, buckwheat flowers bloomed in full splendor. I would shut myself in the Buddhist room to read sutras until dusk; just as I began feeling fatigued, a sudden fragrant breeze would arrive. Wondering at its source, I opened the window to find mountain winds from the snowy peaks rippling gently across seas of buckwheat blossoms. At such moments, verses would come to me.

Gazing windward where a mysterious fragrance drifted— Flowers rippled like waves through the snowy mountain village.

Monastic Oddities: The population of Tsarang Village numbered 250 people. Among these, there were 114 or 115 monastics—fifty being nuns and over sixty male monks. As all belonged to old sects, they drank alcohol and ate meat without compunction. Of course, nuns were not permitted to have men, but out of fifty nuns, only one did not have a man; and among the monks, only two—the temple’s lama and his single disciple—did not consort with women, while all the rest were said to be defiled. Among them were cases where nuns lived together with monks; cases where ordinary girls lived together with monks; and also cases where nuns lived together with laymen. If no child was born, people did not particularly say anything. However, once a child was born, it was finally deemed a violation of the precepts. It was a truly strange story, but when they violated the precepts, they had to perform shakpa—that is, repentance—without fail.

The manner of their repentance was also quite striking. They would buy copious amounts of alcohol, invite around 114 or 115 lamas and nuns, have them line up in rows before the Buddha in the main hall holding their bowls, then continuously pour drinks into them from the side as they went around. At first, they all piously chanted sutras, but as intoxication spread through their ranks, their sutra recitations transformed into boisterous clamor, which in turn became discussions of obscenities. The unsightliness of it all defied description. When I first witnessed this spectacle, I found myself utterly at a loss for words. I simply could not reconcile this with an assembly day for Shakyamuni Buddha’s disciples. The nun involved and her male counterpart were each required to pay an additional fine of five yen to the temple. However, if a monk was implicated, both he and the woman in question had to pay ten yen each. This higher penalty supposedly reflected the gravity of offenses committed within their own spiritual community.

In addition, the offering expenses for alcohol, meat, and butter tea amounted to no less than twenty-five or thirty yen. If done somewhat extravagantly, I heard it could cost forty or fifty yen, but they considered it an honor to serve alcohol as lavishly as possible and praised it as having properly conveyed repentance. The Tathagata taught that alcohol was harmful, having admonished even lay followers against it. Yet how could Tsarang's monastics—discarding all precepts—drink liquor before the Buddha and speak of impurities? Such conduct was utterly outrageous. When I saw this state of affairs, I secretly turned eastward and thought: How much difference truly existed between many monks in our magnificent Japanese Buddhist society and these Tsarang Village monks? I felt profoundly saddened.

Chapter 14: Further Exploration of Bypaths

New Year’s Celebration: As it was necessary to offer congratulations as usual on January 1 of Meiji 33, I had gathered beforehand as many delicacies obtainable in this land as possible—fried foods and other items rare to the villagers—and prepared them in abundance. As per custom, on New Year’s Day I offered three cheers for Their Majesties the Emperor and Empress and His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince; being able to celebrate with three cheers for Emperor Meiji in these Himalayan mountains, separated by three thousand ri of mountains and seas, filled me with such delight that I found myself choking back tears of joy. After concluding that ceremony and serving the feast to the villagers, they rejoiced, saying they had never obtained 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 both familiarity and respect, as if I were someone born here. This was partly because the medicine I occasionally administered proved effective—a good portion of which had been given to me by my friend Hirooka Shūzō, a physician. Moreover, having ample medicine received in Calcutta, I was able to distribute it sufficiently among the people.

For these various reasons, many came to regard me as indispensable and wished me to settle permanently in the village, frequently conveying this hope to Dr. Kechu. Though a man of learning, Dr. Kechu understood worldly affairs all too well and had a nature that readily accommodated such concerns. Having considered various methods, he concluded that securing my stay required no other strategy than marriage—repeatedly scheming to have me wed the younger sister of our household's master, stopping just short of explicit proposal. But I held firm to Shakyamuni Buddha's teachings, convinced my very life depended on upholding them, and thus paid no heed. Finding me nearly unassailable, Dr. Kechu resorted to offering alcohol and slipping minced meat into my soup—yet through Buddha's radiant grace, I escaped these temptations. Had I joined with those grime-covered mountain folk of the snow peaks, I might now dwell as some black-robed monk in a Himalayan valley.

Exploration of Bypaths: For these reasons, having grown quite close with the villagers, I gained the opportunity to investigate potential routes through the pathless mountains that might allow entry into Tibet. However, if I were to inquire specifically about that matter alone, there was a risk of arousing suspicion. Given that there were already people keeping an eye on me—suspecting I might be a Westerner due to my possession of mysterious medicines, fair complexion, and fastidiousness—inquiring about the route into Tibet could invite unforeseen dangers, so I had to probe in a manner that would not rouse their suspicions. When villagers approached, I would deliberately soften my tone and say, “It would be unwise to take routes where one might be taxed or compelled to bribe government officials when conducting trade near Tibet.” When I hinted, “In such cases, one would have no choice but to avoid the main route and take a detour,” they replied, “There was never such a need before, but since foreigners frequently try to infiltrate these days, they’ve stationed five soldiers each even on the bypaths.” “Therefore, if you take such routes, the soldiers will make a fuss and inevitably demand some money or such for your luggage. So when carrying valuable items like coral beads or Western sundries to the Northwest Plains, you must go by another way.”

“Which path do you take?” “There’s no proper path, but if you head toward the western edge of these mountains and cross over that snowy peak before descending, you’ll find a river.” They would give detailed instructions like: “If you ford the river at such-and-such place and advance toward such-and-such mountain direction, you can traverse uninhabited areas.” I meticulously recorded every word they spoke. When other people later came by, I used these accounts as reference points for further questioning—through this method, I learned about perilous spots along those routes: places with particular dangers or warnings that one might be mauled to death by snow leopards if careless.

The Trials of Departure: Having thus researched the bypaths, there remained the issue that I could not simply rush out from this village into the pathless mountains. Since I had lived long in Tsarang, they were deeply concerned about which direction I might depart toward. Were I to recklessly advance into pathless areas, that might deepen the villagers' suspicions and lead to me being pursued. Therefore, I first backtracked and then gradually investigated whether there might be a path to proceed unnoticed by villagers or Tibetan soldiers. Through this inquiry, I discovered that crossing north of Dhaulagiri Snow Peak to Torubo and traversing pathless mountains for three days would lead to a route emerging at the Northwest Plains where nomads dwelled. I heard accounts that even without nomads present in those plains, traveling a day or day and a half further would bring one to where Geron Rinpoche resided.

Since this was indeed the path I ought to take, I resolved to advance in that direction. And so I decided to wait for that season, though it was said one could not cross the snowy mountains until June by the solar calendar. It was said the path remained passable during March and from June through August, but once September arrived and snow fell even once, it became blocked. Of course, this did not mean snow never fell during those three months—but during summer, even when it snowed, one could advance within survivable limits without freezing to death along the way.

When I had conducted all these researches and was waiting for the time to come, there was a place called Maruba near Tsukuje Village, located south of Tsarang Village. The village chief named Adam Narin not only came to Tsarang and the Northwest Plains for trade, but since he had forty or fifty yaks grazing in the Northwest Plains, his servants were said to have pitched tents and were keeping watch over them. It was said that they would occasionally go out on patrols, and since these people traveled via public roads, they could go whenever they wished. This time as well, he had come out on patrol and stayed at the house where I was being looked after. At that time, since I had complied with his request and given an explanation of Buddhism, he was greatly pleased and said to me: “I have the complete Buddhist canon that I obtained from Tibet enshrined in the Buddha hall, but not once has anyone read it for me." “I earnestly request that you come to my house and read them for devotional purposes.” Since this was an insistent plea, I made a promise: “Then I shall visit you sometime soon.”

Chapter 15: The Trader's Slander

Departure from Tsarang: It was in October of Meiji Year 32 that I made a promise with Adam Narin, the village chief of Maruba. However, afterward, as he had reportedly traveled to India for business, the matter ended there without further development. Returning to the story, I was troubled with disposing of the white horse I had bought from Nepal. However, the chief priest of Tsarang Temple named Nyendak saw my horse and greatly desired it. Since he was well-informed about various matters and a heavy drinker, I thought it unwise to engage in unnecessary talk with such a person and proceeded to give him the horse. When I said that if he had any sutras or something to give as a token of gratitude, I would like to receive them, he gladly gave me four volumes of sutras (on indigo paper with gold ink), a Tibetan Buddhist dictionary compiled by Sakyā Paṇḍita (handwritten), and two or three other books. If I were to estimate the monetary value of these books, they would likely amount to around six hundred rupees. These were the books I constantly read and cherished during my stay in Tsarang.

It was decided that I would depart Tsarang on March 10 of Meiji Year 33, which was the eleventh day of the second month in the Tibetan calendar. During my stay in Tsarang, I had persuaded fifteen people to completely abstain from alcohol. Additionally, in this village where chewing tobacco leaves and inhaling their bitter juice was prevalent, I had convinced around thirty individuals to abandon the practice through religious persuasion. These were all people I had examined for illnesses and given medicine, receiving their pledges to abstain from alcohol and tobacco in exchange for treatment. Having stayed a full year, there remained no one in this village unacquainted with me. Intimate acquaintances gave farewell gifts - buckwheat, bread, maru, dried cheese, and dried peaches - with four or five contributors adding ceremonial scarves and silver coins. Around three that afternoon, after loading sutras and luggage onto two horses and mounting a third myself, a villager guided me to the village outskirts where over a hundred people stood worshipfully lined up to receive my laying on of hands. As I performed the ritual and spoke with each supplicant, evening approached - yet despite the lateness nearing five o'clock, I resolved to depart for lodging at the next village. Standing at the entrance gate through which I had first come, I turned for a final look behind and offered this parting prayer: "May those who showed me kindness during my Tsarang stay deepen their Buddhist faith and receive everlasting happiness."

Returning to Maruba Village: Retracing the path I had come, I spent that night in Kimii and lodged the following day in the village of Tuku on the banks of the Kali Gandaki. There too, as there were those who wished to hear a sermon, I preached, and when I tried to depart the following morning, about twenty people came to request the laying on of hands. My teacher Dr. Kechu had gone elsewhere slightly before my departure, but I met him in this village called Tuku where we bid a heartfelt farewell, and that evening I arrived at the residence of Adam Narin in Maruba Mountain Village. Mr. Adam Narin had not yet returned, but his father Soenam Norbu guided me to a beautiful Buddhist hall. In this hall were enshrined the complete Tibetan Buddhist canon along with other treatises, and there were also many splendid Buddha statues. There were two rooms, and when looking out from the front room’s window, there was a peach orchard.

The land in this area was much lower than Tsarang, allowing crops to be harvested twice a year. First they would harvest wheat, then buckwheat. About four or five hundred meters beyond those fields flowed the Kali Gandaki River, with low pine trees growing on its far bank. Above those pine-covered hills stood snow-capped mountains as always. It was truly a realm of purity. Though the master of the house hoped I might stay long to read the complete Buddhist canon, I was merely lodging there while awaiting the season for crossing the snow peaks. Each day I read Tibetan scriptures or made excerpts from them, yet my ability to freely interpret both sutras and philosophical treatises stemmed entirely from Dr. Kechu having taught me six hours daily for nearly a full year—a debt for which I felt profound gratitude.

After about half a month had passed, during the time I was in Tsarang, there were people from Tsukuje Village who went to trade in India, Calcutta. I sent a letter to Mr. Sarat through those traders. 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 the reply was a copy of the Maha Bodhi Society’s magazine. When I looked inside the magazine, there was an article translated from a Japanese newspaper stating that Mr. Yutaka Nomura of the Otani sect had reached the Tibetan border but was turned back by the checkpoint officials. It had been reported that Mr. Teramoto, who accompanied Mr. Nomura, had communicated that fact. Therefore, since Mr. Sarat had confirmed this article’s accuracy, entry into Tibet would not come easily. Of course, you must be considering various methods to succeed, but there was a note advising against risking your life through unreasonable actions.

The Trader’s Slander: However, the trader I had entrusted with the letter spread various rumors. "That person must be a high-ranking British official," they said—for Sarat Chandra Das, to whom I had sent letters through him, was indeed a British government official who received three hundred sixty rupees monthly. "There are not many Bengalis who receive such a salary," they argued. "Sending letters to such a man seems highly suspicious." "That lama claims to be Chinese," they whispered, "but he’s truly British—taking ample funds from their government to survey this region’s geography before infiltrating Tibet to probe its terrain." "As proof: seeing Mr. Sarat sent English books means he must understand English." Thus they spread word that keeping such a lama in our village would bring harm. Had it remained mere gossip, it might have passed—but ultimately they even informed my host who had sheltered me.

By that time, Mr. Adam Narin had also returned and heard about the matter, so he turned pale and said to me, “There are people saying such-and-such bad things about you. If what they say is true, what punishment might we receive? What should we do?” Since Mr. Adam Narin was an extremely honest man, I said, “If you will make a vow to me not to disclose anything I say to anyone for three years, I shall reveal my secret to you.” “If you do not make the vow, there will be no choice but to dismiss those rumors as mere rumors.” “Eventually, the Nepalese government will likely say something about this, so let us wait until then,” I said. “Very well, I shall make the vow.” “In that case, please place that sutra upon my head,” he said, so I did as requested and had him take the vow there. Now, since this master frequently engaged in trade around India and could understand English spelling to some extent, I showed him the travel permit I had obtained from Japan’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

Chapter 16: The Steep Slopes of the High Snow Peaks

**Departure for the Snowy Mountains** I showed the travel permit and said, "This is a travel permit I received from the government of Japan." "Japan is a Buddhist country, and I am one of its Buddhist monks." "I came to this mountainous country to practice Buddhism and am now proceeding from here to Tibet; I bear no secret purpose that would invite people's suspicions." "Therefore, if you intend to report this matter to the government, then go ahead and do so." "Depending on the circumstances, you may even bind me with rope and hand me over." "However, if your thinking is that lamas must be fully protected because the Buddha’s teachings are sacred"—here I explained—"then I shall now depart for Tibet, so you need not speak of this to anyone." As he was not only deeply devoted to Buddhism but also placed profound trust in me—especially since I possessed a travel permit—he placed complete trust in my words and said, "I shall never speak of this to others. If that is the case, then proceed to Tibet as you wish."

“But what route do you intend to take?” “I shall now make pilgrimages to Torubo and Sei, then backtrack slightly to see what kind of place lies in Dhaulagiri’s valley—the so-called Land of Immortals, or Peach Spring Land—by taking a guide that far. “After that, whether I will go directly to Tibet or not is still uncertain. “In any case, I will promptly depart from here around June or July so as not to cause you all any trouble.” At this, the master appeared greatly relieved.

However, as I felt it would be pitiful to remain in that house any longer, I decided to move to the village temple and devote myself to sutra recitation. There, I prepared all the clothing, food, drink, and other necessities, resulting in luggage weighing exactly nine kanmon. Having had the guide carry that luggage, I shouldered only the sutras and 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 was to travel through the mountains with a guide. For the next three days or so, we would traverse pathless terrain; if one were to proceed straight ahead, one could reach the northwest plain in about ten days. However, as I intended to visit notable sites in the area and observe the mountain conditions to ensure there were no errors along the way, I had planned for twenty-three days. And so, when at last my preparations were complete and the time came to depart, a poem took form.

Roof of sky, earth for bedding, grass pillow A journey through clouds and water. Yet the journey ahead would not resemble this poem. In truth, while this verse had suited my travels thus far, what followed became a passage through snow and rock—"a roof of sky, snow for bedding, stone pillow."

**Finally Heading for Dhaulagiri** Departing this village，we headed northwest and climbed about one ri along the Kaliganga River when rain began to fall，so we took lodging at a place with a small house． The following day at seven in the morning，we departed and climbed a narrow path through towering crags for approximately two ri before emerging into a valley with a sparse peach grove． In that valley，we ate a little food，then proceeded along a narrow，steep slope for about two and a half ri．However，as the slope was exceedingly precipitous and the air particularly thin，our bodies grew exhausted and our breath grew short，making further progress impossible．Thus，we arrived at Dankaru Village at 3 p.m．and took lodging there． However，whether it was due to the thin air or some other cause，we were utterly exhausted；thus we stayed an additional day and departed on the 15th．

This time, we turned north and climbed a steep slope for two ri, crossed an icy valley 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, exhaustion overtook us, so we rested briefly at 11 a.m., though there was no water to be found in that area. There was a place where small grasses grew between rocks lightly dusted with snow. When starving, one does not pick and choose their food. In the sense that "when thirsty, one does not choose water," I pulled out the grass and chewed its roots, only to find them extremely sour. Then, while chewing on those roots, I ate the roasted buckwheat bread.

Climbing the Steep Slopes of the Snowy Mountains: After resting briefly, we ascended northward for one ri before turning west. There we climbed Muga-rasaka Slope—a terrifying cliffside path overlooking a thousand-ren chasm—but the sheer precipitousness of that mountain trail defied all description. And there, to the left of that slope, high snow peaks stood arrayed like swords. Then, descending directly from that mountain’s summit, we made our way through the nearly pathless gaps between rocks in a manner akin to monkeys traversing trees—but while the porters, accustomed to the mountains, not only moved nimbly forward while bearing heavy loads but also gave me various instructions—“this way,” “that way”—since I could scarcely leap about as they did. Moreover, I planted my staff between rocks to prevent myself from tumbling down, wielded it freely like a boatman plying an oar, or deftly thrust it against a rock’s edge to halt a sudden slide toward the thousand-ren chasm below. The tip of the staff was fitted with spear-like iron. In areas where a great amount of snow lay spread out, the crags were not so severe and the terrain became relatively level, making them easier to climb; however, places lacking such conditions were truly perilous.

As I gradually climbed through those dangerous gaps, my eyes were struck by sunlight reflecting off the snow—not only was the pain intense, but the air grew so thin that breathing became difficult. Whether my chest was being compressed or bulging outward, I couldn’t tell; even now, remembering it makes me shudder with how excruciating it was. The guide and porter said, “Since this is such a steep slope, we shouldn’t proceed too hastily—but if we linger here too long and inhale much of this foul air, we’ll die.” The porters likely did not realize the thinness of the air. The more I steeled myself to climb upward, the thinner the air became—my heart pounded violently, my breath grew labored until my windpipe seized in strange spasms, and atop it all, half my brain felt as though it were aflame, leaving me utterly helpless. Of course, there was not a drop of water in that area, so I moistened my mouth by chewing on snow as I pressed forward—but between spells of near-fainting and the sudden flare-up of my chronic rheumatism in my feet, I nearly became unable to proceed.

Chapter 17: Entering the Tibetan Border

**The Harshness of the Journey** The urge to collapse onto the snow came over me repeatedly—so unbearable was the agony—but knowing that lingering here would mean death, I let myself be pulled forward by the guide. At that moment, I thought this peril truly grave, yet it still paled compared to crossing Dhaulagiri's highest peak. Scarcely aware of being alive, I saw mountain slopes where avalanches had stripped away all snow and rock, leaving only sand behind. When advancing along such paths—moments from plunging into ravines due to sandy slides—I would block my fall with that staff while crossing over, having grown reasonably skilled through practice. Still, I could not match the guide's movements. The guide traversed these paths more deftly than any monkey.

After passing through such perilous areas and emerging onto flat rock, I wanted to collapse right there and simply couldn't go on. I stood stock-still, and though the guide told me there was water a little further down, I couldn't move another step. Thereupon, he drew water and brought it to me. After drinking that water and taking some Hōtan into my mouth, my spirits began to improve considerably. I applied camphor tincture to the painful parts of my hands and rested a little, but the sun had already set, leaving only starlight and snowglow to illuminate the darkness. Since my condition had finally improved, I descended a precipitous rocky slope northwestward for one and a half ri by that faint light—a mountainside so steep it seemed primed for landslides. Eventually we arrived at a mountain village called Sanda with about ten houses.

Lodging in a Snow Village—This village interacted with other villages for only three months out of the year; for the remaining nine months, it became completely isolated due to snow. The route used for communication was the same route I had come through. It seemed remarkable that people could have lived in such an astonishingly dangerous place. As for the scenery of those snowy mountains and rocky peaks—so overwhelming that their wonders defied enumeration—my body, despite being so fatigued, felt a surge of grand emotions welling up within my spirit, making it truly impossible to contain my delight. Because of this, I forgot my own physical suffering to such an extent. However, as we could not proceed at all the next day, we stayed over; and after staying over again the following day, we departed on the 18th.

In this village, they ate strange things. It was called Tau and resembled buckwheat, though inferior to it. In this village, only such things could be produced. And even that only once a year. Then we gradually proceeded northwest for over one ri before reaching the sandy slide slope again. This slope bore an eerie tale of a pilgrim who had been swept to their death by its sands the previous year. When we passed beyond it, there stood a snow peak resembling Daruma seated in zazen. As we moved past this peak and descended into the valley through its rocks grew ancient cypresses—those cypresses were truly beautiful. Following the valley's great stream southwestward for about one ri, we arrived at eleven o'clock in the morning at a beautiful brook called Tashitang (Glory Valley).

Valley's Wild Beasts and Medicinal Herbs: We then proceeded through numerous mountains and along edges inhabited by wild beasts, advancing across many places where a single misstep would plunge one thousands of ren below to become a ghost in the valley—yet with our guide present, there was no anxiety of losing our way. To call it a path at all was generous—though it faintly resembled one, we proceeded through this steep slope where scrambling up and down on hands and feet was barely possible, making the journey exceedingly arduous. In the valley, there were still trees, and beautiful blossoms were blooming. Within it grew many medicinal herbs, and many musk deer also made their dwelling there. That night, we lodged among rocks amidst the snowy mountains, and on the following 19th [day], we proceeded northwest along similar paths, ascending the slope of a great snowy mountain called Tarshinra—but the cold was utterly unbearable.

It wasn’t merely cold—the harshness was so unbearable that I had to cling to the porters shouldering our loads, yet the scenery remained splendid. I lacked the courage to look closely, but the undulating, jagged snow peaks towering at all four horizons reflected one another to manifest the universe’s true beauty, while in the southeast rose a lofty snow peak sitting with unshakable majesty—this was Dhaulagiri. The snow peak, as if Vairocana Buddha himself were coiling in the void, stood surrounded on all sides by clustered mountains that appeared in forms akin to bodhisattvas. Though suffering, I found myself gazing in awe at the solemnly majestic panorama before me when he said, “If we linger here long, we’ll die—let’s descend quickly,” and pulled me by the hand. That day we descended about four ri down the mountain and again lodged among rocks, though the cold remained unbearable. At that moment, even amidst the suffering, a poem arose within me.

Lodging in the rocky crags of the Himalayas' snows, I think of the moon rising over Yamato.

Skeletons Along the Path: On June 20th, we departed once more and climbed that fearsome mountain as usual. In this area dwell deer called Na with gray mottled coats—in places where they gather thickly, two or three hundred head crowd the valleys. As we pressed deeper into the mountains, mountain yaks appeared, while on distant peaks we could glimpse fierce beasts like snow leopards and wild dogs. These creatures emerge periodically, I was told; some slopes lay strewn with animal bones—whether devoured or perished—and others with skeletal remains frozen in snowdrifts, though skulls and leg bones were nowhere to be found. This occurs because whenever someone collapses along these trails, passersby carry off all bones for Tibetan ritual implements—only ribcages remain behind. Each time I beheld such sights, I felt struck by impermanence's truth. And as I wondered upon which cliff-edge I too might meet such an end, there arose within me a longing to remember those gone before and mourn their passing.

After crossing that mountain (on the 23rd), we arrived at a village called Torubo. That place is also called Tsaruka. This entire village adheres to Tibet's ancient Bon Religion. Day after day we advanced through similar mountains—during which we encountered many scenic vistas, natural rocks shaped like Buddhas, and numerous rare plants and animals. (The range resembled an expanded version of Myōgi Mountain in our homeland, complete with stone gates and rocks that appeared to race across the heavens.) However, I will omit further description. In any case, traversing steep mountain paths—sometimes resting a day or two to recover our strength—we pressed onward until July 1st.

Thereupon, I decided to send back the guide who had been accompanying me. During that time, we had consumed a considerable amount of provisions, so the luggage had decreased by about one kan five hundred momme, becoming approximately eight kan momme. This time, I had to carry it myself. And so—at last—

I must cross the high snow peak of the Tibetan border. I said to the porter, “I must now go to the Peach Blossom Spring in the mountains of Dhaulagiri. Therefore you must return.” When he heard this—having assumed we would retreat together—he turned pale with shock and cried, “That won’t do! Only Buddhas or Bodhisattvas could go to such a place. I don’t know if you’re one of them. They say since ancient times, only one or two people ever reached there. It’s a dreadful place—if you go, you’ll surely die. Even if not by the mountain itself, you’ll be devoured by beasts guarding Peach Blossom Spring’s outskirts! Please stop!” Though he urged me kindly, my purpose lay there. When I persisted in persuasion, he departed with tears streaming down his face.

On that first morning of the month, I watched until his figure vanished from sight, then shouldered my luggage of approximately eight kan-momme and proceeded not toward Peach Blossom Spring but into the northern mountains I had long heard described. From this point onward, though the hardships reached a level truly beyond words, the mountains themselves were not so formidable. There being indeed few jagged rocks, the going proved relatively manageable; yet trudging onward alone through nothing but snow was unbearable. Some nights I slept buried in snow; when fortunate enough to find rock shelters, I would lodge there. Relying solely on my compass while verifying the mountain shapes against prior descriptions, I pressed northward—and exactly three days after parting from the porter, just as foretold, I traversed Dhaulagiri's northern snow peaks and at last attained the summit of the lofty snowy mountain marking Tibet and Nepal's border.

Viewing Tibet’s Inland from the Border Snow Peak

Impressions of Tibet’s Boundless Border: Here, at this summit, lay Nepal’s outermost edge and the very threshold of Tibet’s domain. The first task at hand was to unload the luggage from my back, though I couldn’t simply set it down anywhere. With the entire area buried under deep snow... I found a spot near some conveniently placed rocks, cleared away the snow there, and finally unburdened myself of the load. Letting out a weary sigh, I caught my breath and gazed southward—there, piercing the heavens at the cloud line, rose Dhaulagiri’s majestic snow peak. Even amid the hardships of that long journey across frozen mountain paths, when I turned my eyes northward, the Tibetan Plateau’s mountains stretched before me like undulating waves. Between them wound several rivers whose distant sources remained unknown and whose destinations lay beyond sight. Though veiled by clouds, beholding this vista filled me with an inexplicable joy. Turning southward once more, I recalled Bodh Gaya—that sacred ground far to the south where Shakyamuni Tathagata attained enlightenment—and marveled that I’d reached this border unharmed after making that vow at the hallowed ground years prior. Then came the memory: when leaving my homeland, I’d resolved that three years’ preparation would be needed to breach Tibet’s frontier, for without thorough groundwork, success would prove impossible. And so it was—exactly three full years had been spent as planned.

Having departed on June 26 of Meiji Year 30 (1897) and arrived at this border on July 4 of Meiji Year 33 (1900), I could not contain my joy that events had unfolded exactly as I had anticipated. In any case, my body was utterly exhausted, so I thought to rest there first, but with nothing but snow around, there was no suitable spot.……So I took some roasted barley flour from my bag, placed it into a bowl, added snow and a bit of butter, and kneaded it into a palatable mixture. Then, in another bowl I placed chili pepper and salt, and after thoroughly kneading the roasted barley flour with snow and butter in the first bowl, I ate it coated with that chili powder and salt. As for its degree of deliciousness—it was truly beyond description.

The hundred flavors of food and drink in the Pure Land could not surpass this, I thought—such was its exquisite taste. After eating about two bowls of this mixture, my daily meal would conclude. Until then, I had never consumed more than one meal per day. Each morning, I simply ate dried tree fruits—dried peaches or raisins. For lunch alone would I eat two bowls of kneaded roasted barley flour. These were substantial bowls indeed, leaving me thoroughly satiated. Let me note in passing that this barley flour from those lands possessed remarkable fortifying properties. It seemed wheat cultivated in cold climes contained particularly rich nutrients. Having eaten slowly, I sat surrounded by snow in every direction, gazing about with an inexplicable serenity; yet with none present but myself, I remained motionless in perfect stillness, lost in contemplation and wholly uncertain which path to take next.

Chapter 18: Snowbound Journey

My sole reliance in the snowy mountains was the compass. Though I would be descending northward regardless, the thought arose: which path of descent would bring me closer to Lake Manasarovar, my current objective? From this consideration, I resolved first to follow where the compass—my single lifeline in these mountains—pointed, and thus decided to descend through the snow toward the northwest. Having first surveyed thoroughly from the mountain summit the path in this direction that seemed most promising, I then shouldered my luggage with great effort and proceeded through the snow, relying on my walking stick. However, up until now, since this was the sunny side of the mountain, there wasn’t an especially large amount of snow. There were spots with five or six inches of accumulated snow and others with none at all. In some places, there were traces of melted snow and areas where stones lay scattered about in abundance.

However, since the path I was now descending was on the shaded side, the depth of the snow proved truly unbearable. Though I couldn’t discern its full extent, when I firmly stepped in, my foot sank forty-five to fifty centimeters deep. Occasionally the snow measured only twenty-one to twenty-four centimeters, but even then extracting my foot remained arduous. Using my staff to carefully navigate, I descended by plunging deeply through the snow with each step—yet beneath the accumulation lay uneven rocks, and at times my foot became lodged between stones, making withdrawal agonizing. In this manner, I painstakingly made my way downward. While an eight kan-momme load felt manageable during descent compared to ascent, the snow’s resistance against my feet left me utterly confounded. After descending roughly one ri, the snow finally vanished. What remained was a stony wasteland. At last—

Upon crossing the snowy mountain, there lay a rocky scree—littered with jumbled rocks so thoroughly that I could not tell where to plant my feet. Although I wore Tibetan footwear, those shoes were torn to shreds by the rocky scree. Of course, given how much time had passed by then, it was only natural for the footwear to tear; as it tore, the blisters on my feet burst and bled, smearing blood across those jagged rocks—truly, the pain was unbearable. If it had been merely round stones, that would have been manageable, but here and there lay jagged rocks that one had to tread upon to pass through. Moreover, burdened with heavy luggage, I found it impossible to move nimbly. When I suddenly stepped onto those jagged rocks, the combined weight of my luggage pressed down on my feet, causing me to slip where I shouldn't have and sustain fresh injuries. My footwear tore, then tore even more.

After traveling about two ri, I found ponds formed by accumulated snowmelt—one approximately two ri in circumference and another about one ri. The ponds lay neatly aligned. One was rectangular while another was circular; reaching the edge of these ponds, I discovered truly beautiful ducks. Several ducks of varying sizes—their brown, red, and white plumage speckled with black spots—frolicked by the water's edge. The water's clarity proved utterly transparent; this pristine pool formed of melted snow might well be called crystalline. Coming upon such a place, I reasoned that unloading my pack at this scenic spot to properly survey the view might fully restore my travel-weary body—so I plopped down at the pond's edge and gazed leisurely about, experiencing a joy beyond compare. Though my feet throbbed and my back had stiffened like a rod—bending even slightly brought true torment—the vista before me made me forget all pain, losing myself completely... until thoughts arose: Had any soul since ancient times ever visited this place? Likely none. A solitary journey indeed. Having reached this untouched realm regardless, I resolved to bestow names—upon the rectangular pond...

“Ekai Pond.” Then to the round pond I gave the alternate name “Jinkō Pond.” Though discovering such ponds was no great accomplishment, since this place showed no signs of human visitation since ancient times, I bestowed these names to commemorate my entry into Tibet. Yet there was no purpose in lingering over such matters; still having ample time, I resolved to advance further northwestward. Following the pond’s edge gradually, I continued descending downward. As I descended further, 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. Continuing my descent, a snowy mountain loomed in the distance. Looking northwestward across that mountain, I spotted two or three tents. How peculiar—could people dwell in this vicinity? Or had nomads settled here? Such thoughts arose within me.

Be that as it may, I found myself confronted by a new worry there. If I proceeded toward the direction where those tents were, perhaps they would suspect that I was a suspicious fellow who had emerged from a pathless area; were such suspicion to arise, I might fail to achieve my objective of entering Tibet. Thinking, “I should take a different route,” I looked in other directions, but truly, amidst these layered deep mountains, there was no discernible path to take elsewhere. Beside the tents at the snowy mountain’s edge lay a very low mountain valley, and that mountain range ran northwestward. A place that might be a bypass path came slightly into view; I found myself feeling inclined to head in that direction. At any rate, declaring “I must somehow reach a conclusion,” I unloaded my luggage and then settled down there at a leisurely pace—for whenever there were matters that could not be resolved through theoretical reasoning alone, I always entered danjikan-zanmai (a meditative state for decisive insight) to determine the course of action. Resolving to employ that usual method, I settled into Kakunen Musō (a state of transcendent clarity beyond holy and mundane distinctions) there—this being my reasoning. Now, this danjikan-zanmai (a meditative state for decisive insight) refers to—

Danjikan-zanmai—this meditative state for decisive insight—meant that when matters could be definitively resolved through reason, determining judgments of good and evil based on that principle was not difficult. However, regarding matters that could not be theoretically resolved—uncertain issues about what might occur in the future—there were things requiring prior settlement. In such cases, I first entered the contemplation of non-self according to the principles of seated meditation taught by the Buddha. By inclining toward the point of insight discovered within this contemplation of non-self, I determined which course of action to take. Thus I provisionally named this method danjikan-zanmai. Resolving to decide my path through this practice, I sat down there, assumed the zazen posture, and lost all sense of self—though even I myself never knew how much time I spent in that state.

Part 19: On the Path to Entry into the Country

The course was decided: according to the insight revealed through danjikan-zanmai, venturing into the deep mountains would be ill-advised. Since it had been decided that heading toward the tents was the safer course, I shouldered my luggage and set off gradually. From a conventional perspective, one should avoid heading toward inhabited areas no matter how arduous the path may seem; however, to venture into completely pathless terrain for lack of settlements would only lead one into further difficulties. Thus, as before, I proceeded in accordance with the guidance revealed through danjikan-zanmai. When I arrived near those tents at dusk, five or six enormous, fearsome dogs came rushing over, barking ferociously.

Because these dogs subsisted on nothing but meat and excrement, their visages were exceedingly fierce, with extraordinarily long fur. Their size surpassed even that of large Western breeds of the time. With five or six of these beasts encircling me while barking wildly, the situation felt profoundly unnerving. Yet I recalled a lesson imparted to me earlier. I had been instructed that when encountering dogs, one must never strike them—that calmly guiding their muzzles with a staff's tip would prevent bites—and so I followed this teaching precisely. True to form, they refrained from attacking. When I called toward the tents, an elderly woman emerged alone and, upon seeing me, cried out in her rustic manner: "Why, 'tis a pilgrim here!"

The mountain-dwelling old woman showed no signs of suspicion whatsoever. I said, “I have come from Lhasa and am on my way to make a pilgrimage to Geron Rinpoche. As sleeping outdoors in this cold would be exceedingly difficult, I humbly request lodging for the night.” To my surprise, she readily agreed, saying, “In that case, please come inside first. That must be a terribly heavy load you’re carrying,” and promptly ushered me into her home. “This area isn’t where people like you usually come—why have you come to such a place?” she asked. “No, actually,” I replied, “I had intended to visit Geron Rinpoche but unexpectedly lost my way and ended up here.” With her murmuring something like “Oh, is that so?” she served me some already-boiled tea. The tea was not Japanese-style—it contained both butter and salt, resembling a broth without solid ingredients. Though well-seasoned and quite delicious, it wasn’t something we Japanese would want brought near our noses at first. It had an unpleasant smell and couldn’t be drunk readily, but if one endured using it for a long time, it eventually became quite tasty.

Once I finished drinking the tea, she gave me roasted barley flour as part of the customary hospitality. However, I never partake of such things in the afternoon. When I declined—explaining I upheld the non-time food precept—the old woman expressed deep admiration through narrowed eyes. “Those who maintain such discipline during arduous travels,” she murmured gravely, “are vanishingly rare.” “That’s most commendable,” she said aloud. “But reaching Geron Rinpoche’s place from here requires a full day’s journey.” “That venerable one”—she straightened with reverence—“is Changtang’s renowned Lama—though ‘Changtang’ means ‘northern plain’ etymologically, we Tibetans use it for our western plateau—and meeting this supreme Lama of Changtang brings immeasurable blessings.” “Since you’ve come all this way from Lhasa,” she urged earnestly. “My son should return with their group tonight—but fording these icy rivers afoot proves treacherous.” Her calloused hands gestured northwestward. “Tomorrow you’ll ride yaks—those shaggy highland cattle—with him.” “I’ll instruct my son to pilgrimage there too,” she concluded.

This was a most favorable turn of events. However, I now faced an immediate difficulty. My footwear had torn completely, rendering me unable to take another step. So I inquired of the old woman, "Is there any way to repair these shoes?" "That's troublesome indeed," she said, "but they can't be mended here straightaway. You'll need to stay about two days if you want those shoes repaired." When I asked why this was necessary, she explained that yak leather required soaking in water until thoroughly softened before stitching—a process taking roughly two days.

**Temporary Dwelling at the Foot of the Snowy Mountains** The old woman explained: “At our camp here, we will stay on this mountain tomorrow and move elsewhere the day after. You should go to Geron Rinpoche’s place tomorrow and stay there two or three days to have your shoes properly repaired.” “Tomorrow you can wear my son’s spare shoes—once you arrive there, return them to him, and all will be settled,” she concluded, everything arranged most conveniently. That night, I stayed there. Just as I was about to sleep, her son returned and spoke of how Geron Rinpoche had attained supernatural powers—how he discerned people’s hidden thoughts and true natures, and had often forewarned others of impending turmoil. He shared several amusing anecdotes about recent events, but as these were digressions, I shall omit them. If Geron Rinpoche truly possessed such powers as the son claimed, I thought it would be most auspicious. Yet Tibet teemed with charlatan monks—fraudulent priests who dwelled in mountain hermitages while scheming to amass wealth, using the pretense of asceticism to gather riches. Tormented by suspicions that this lama might be one such impostor, I lay awake the entire night, unable to sleep a wink.

Heading Toward the Snow-Dwelling Nomads' Cloth Tents

Riding Yaks When dawn broke, the son eagerly heeded his mother’s instructions and brought yaks. The yak—that beast—was first and foremost considerably larger than Japanese bulls. There were also smaller ones about the size of cows. Their somewhat short stature and profuse hairiness were truly remarkable. As for its tail, it hung down behind like one depicted in a painting—thick as a lion’s tail and shaped like a tassel. This was the yak referenced in the Lotus Sutra as “like a yak that loves its tail.” In Tibet they call this creature a yak, but since no such beast exists in the West and no translation seems possible, it remains yak in English as well. The female is called ri. Though its face resembles a cow’s, its gaze was astonishingly sharp and fearsome—at times glaring piercingly.

At first glance, it appeared to be a fearsome beast whose formidable horns made one fear being struck at any moment; yet its nature proved unexpectedly docile and exceedingly useful to humans—so much so that one could say they were gentler even than Japanese cows. As for how these yaks benefit Tibet—a matter I shall recount later when the occasion arises—the son of the household where I stayed loaded one yak with cheese, butter, and other offerings intended for Geron Rinpoche, then brought out three yaks in total, with two meant to carry himself and his companions. The old woman was truly kind-hearted, preparing tea for me and providing me with roasted barley flour, cheese, butter, and such. In Changtang, this was said to be exceptionally favorable hospitality.

And then,

Intending to seek out the Lama’s rock cavern, I gradually headed northwest, ascending about half a ri before descending another half a ri, then began advancing toward the mountain visible to the east. However, a terrible hailstorm began to fall, making progress utterly impossible. With no alternative, I unloaded the baggage from the yak’s back, covered it against the hail’s onslaught, and rested by the roadside for some two hours—during which time I gained valuable intelligence about routes leading to my destination by inquiring of passersby. When the hail finally abated, I remounted the yak and set out again, soon encountering a river spanning half a chō in width. Thanks to being astride the yak, I crossed without difficulty. After fording two such rivers and climbing precisely two and a half ri up the mountainside, a white rock cave came into view—a formation I duly named Hakugankutsu (White Rock Cave). The old woman’s son then pointed toward this Hakugankutsu, indicating it as Geron Rinpoche’s dwelling place.

Then, as I gradually ascended further, there was another cave before that white cave. This was not white but a rock tinged slightly with grayish black, and within that cave resided a disciple of Geron Rinpoche; he first guided me to that cave. Then, around three in the afternoon, her son addressed the cave’s master, explaining that they had been caught in hail along the way and thus couldn’t arrive in time, and inquired whether they might still be granted an audience with Geron Rinpoche. Then came the reply: “No, today is absolutely impossible—it must be tomorrow.” The son then said, “In that case, since a man named Pāsan sent these items saying he wished to offer them, please present them to Geron Rinpoche.” Saying that he couldn’t wait until tomorrow since he was relocating the next day, that man left his luggage behind and went back. Therefore, I lodged inside that cave.

Chapter 20: The Venerable One of Hakugankutsu (White Rock Cave)

The master of the rock cavern was indeed a lama sitting in zazen within that cavern. To say sitting in zazen appears as though one does nothing might seem accurate, but such was not the case. A considerable number of daily necessities and Buddhist implements were also present. There, both a kitchen area and sleeping quarters had been properly arranged. Earlier, I had soaked the dried yak hide received from the old woman in water. After being permitted to stay two or three days in this cave and hearing various accounts, [the cave’s master] said: “Proceeding toward Kan Rinpoche from here will prove exceedingly difficult. “First, travel two or three days to reach inhabited areas, then pass through settlements another two or three days. Beyond that lies fifteen or sixteen days’ journey through uninhabited land—do you know the way?” “No, I know nothing of the route.” “Then you’ll never reach it. “Moreover, though your robes suffice, that considerable luggage makes you ripe for thieves!” “Thieves I could manage—it’s this ignorance of the path that truly confounds me. “Is there no means to find someone who might guide us?” I asked.

“Since this area is sparsely populated,” he replied, “there are hardly any guides available.” “You managed to come this far through that blessed old woman’s exceptional kindness—but even if you reach inhabited areas alone from here onward, no one will shelter you.” “With so many uninhabited regions ahead, safe passage is impossible.” “See for yourself.” “For several ri beyond here, not a single tent stands visible—I cannot possibly find you a guide.” When I asked whether he had ever visited Kan Rinpoche’s domain, he replied that he had made pilgrimages there two or three times. “If you seek established paths,” he continued, “you’ll only detour endlessly. But through trackless lands lies a passable route—if you insist on going, listen well as I explain.” “Descend this mountain to find a great river.” He meticulously described how to cross that river and proceed onward. With this guidance, I now grasped the route for the coming two or three days.

Zazen in the Rock Cavern: That night, I practiced zazen inside the cavern. That monk too had engaged in zazen. I dozed off around midnight. When I awoke refreshed and opened my eyes, the monk had already risen and was outside kindling a fire to boil tea. I promptly got up myself—ordinarily this would be when I rinse my mouth—but instead began reciting sutras while rubbing my eyes without washing. Such was Tibetan custom—reciting scriptures with a foul morning breath proved truly trying, yet failing to do so would undermine my claim of having come from Lhasa. Suspicion would swiftly follow. For there exists no practice there of rinsing one's mouth upon waking. As I chanted sutras in this state, he gave me tea. That familiar brew mingling butter and salt—I drank it through unrinsed lips. By then I'd grown accustomed enough to swallow without difficulty, though it remained deeply unpleasant; had I been unwatched I'd have cleansed my mouth first, but such luxury proved impossible. Thus I drank through gritted resolve.

Then, as was customary, I ate roasted barley cakes seasoned with chili and salt. This simple fare was my greatest delicacy. We conversed until past eleven o'clock. Being doctrinal matters, there was naturally no need to recount them. When noon approached, I joined some twenty pilgrims who had come to worship and set out for the rock cavern at the appointed hour. The master of this cavern stood as a deeply revered lama throughout those regions, addressed universally as Geron Lobsang Gompo La Kyabsu Chio. This appellation meant 'I take refuge in Bhikṣu Kenkaishu,' and each night at bedtime, local inhabitants would face the cavern's direction to chant thrice and bow thrice. Even this ritual alone revealed his profound virtue. Thus did devotees journey scores of ri bearing diverse offerings. Pilgrims invariably lodged at the mountain's base where the cavern lay, awaiting their audience between eleven and one o'clock on the morrow. For my part, none could gain me entry regardless of entreaty. A fence-like barrier encircling the cavern remained sealed beyond appointed hours, barring all access. Yet when the hour struck, this venerable one would emerge just beyond his stony abode to receive all supplicants.

Lamas and Pilgrims: Among the offerings, some brought money, but many presented goods. Each would present the items they had brought, then listen to a sermon and receive the mani. This referred to how first the lama chanted the six-syllable mantra "Om Mani Padme Hum," and then the pilgrims joined in harmony with it. Then, even before receiving various teachings, they would immediately perform three prostrations upon meeting. Then, as was customary, they bent their waists and, protruding their tongues in a display of reverence, advanced to the front where the table was placed and pressed their heads before the Lama. Then, the lama would extend his right hand and stroke their heads. If he was a slightly more esteemed person, he would do it with both hands. If someone was his equal or of higher standing, he would press his forehead against their head. This was called in Tibetan

They called this “receiving Chakwan,” that is to say, the laying on of hands. There were four types of this laying on of hands. The first was the forehead-to-head ritual, where one pressed their forehead to another’s head; the second was the two-handed laying on of hands; then came the single-handed laying on of hands and the ritual implement laying on of hands—four types in total. While the first three had already been explained and were generally understood, the fourth was not commonly practiced. In the capital Lhasa, the Dharma King used this ritual. In the second capital of Shigatse, Panchen Rinpoche used this ritual. This was because such venerated lamas could not lay hands on a layperson’s head, so they instead fashioned a ritual implement resembling a commander’s baton and used that implement to stroke the head—this constituted the Ritual Implement Laying on of Hands. At first glance, it looked as if they were striking the head. This was the ritual of response performed by high-ranking lamas toward laypeople.

Thereupon, I

The Venerable Cave-Dwelling Lama’s Appearance: Observing his bearing, he appeared an elderly monk of about seventy with white hair, his words so keen they inspired genuine awe. His imposing frame and muscular build—so robust one would never mistake him for a mere meditator—gave him an intimidating presence at first sight. Yet witnessing his conduct revealed no trace of ferocity; instead, he displayed astonishing compassion, bestowing kindness upon others with profound love for humanity. At this realization, I felt thoroughly impressed from that initial encounter—and rightly so. I stood dumbfounded, scarcely believing such an awe-inspiring [venerable] figure could dwell in semi-barbaric Tibet. If this man truly possessed the insight to perceive my innermost thoughts as the old woman’s son had claimed, I considered this most auspicious—a conviction that let me speak thereafter with redoubled joy and resolve. Thus when conversing later, I believe this disposition naturally revealed itself through my demeanor.

Dialogue with the Venerable One: First, I too bent at the waist, protruded my tongue, advanced, and thrust my head forward, whereupon he performed the two-handed blessing on me. He returned a bow of roughly equal measure to what he had observed from me. Then, after staring intently at me, he inquired, “You have no need to come to such a place—for what purpose have you come here?” “In truth,” I replied, “I have been undertaking ascetic practices by journeying to various sacred sites for Buddhist training. Having heard of your esteemed virtue, I came hoping to humbly inquire about matters pertaining to the Buddhist teachings.” At this, the Venerable Cave-Dwelling Lama said, “Hmm... What is it you wish to ask?” “I wish to humbly inquire about the method you employ to deliver sentient beings—specifically regarding the subtler aspects of that method.” To this he responded, “Such matters are already known to you all. Since all Buddhist teachings reside within you, there is no need to ask me.”

At this point, as the exchange began to resemble the Zen-style dialogues of Japanese monks, I immediately responded with the earnest solemnity of a Zen practitioner. "It goes without saying that all Buddhist teachings undoubtedly exist within every being. Yet in ancient times, the youth Sudhana traveled throughout the land seeking fifty-three spiritual mentors." "The hardships of his journey are truly something we Buddhist monks must study as our model." "Though unworthy, I have set out on this ascetic practice following Sudhana's example," I said. He responded: "My means for delivering sentient beings is singular." "That sole method derives from the sutra called the Great Liberation Sutra." As I had never read this Great Liberation Sutra, I asked, "Might I then be permitted to examine that sutra?"

**Great Liberation Sutra.** Thereupon, the meditator of the White Rock Cave immediately stood up, entered his cavern, and brought out a volume of that sutra for me. Having received it, I promptly asked, "What is the essence of this sutra?" He replied, "It is a scripture explaining how the Three Vehicles are none other than the One Vehicle." After taking the sutra back and reading it, I found certain passages resembled the Lotus Sutra. At times I suspected they might have extracted portions from the Lotus Sutra and assigned this sutra its name. Since I needed to repair my footwear, I ended up staying that day and the next as well. On the following day, I visited the Venerable One again, where we held extensive discussions about my observations from reading the Great Liberation Sutra. In essence, Chinese and Japanese Buddhist traditions clashed significantly with Tibetan Buddhism during these exchanges—yet paradoxically, this very conflict greatly pleased the Venerable One.

Chapter 21: Hardships in the Mountains

Departing the White Rock Cave: On July 7th, I met with the meditator once more and then set about repairing my footwear. However, having never done such work before, the difficulty proved immense—I kept pricking my hand with the needle, leaping up in sharp pain. Thereupon, the cave owner, unable to bear watching any longer, demonstrated the proper technique while largely doing the repairs himself. With my footwear now prepared, on the morning of July 8th I shouldered luggage weighing approximately ten kanmon (about 37.5 kg) and prepared to depart. In truth, the Venerable One had advised that unless I carried extra roasted barley flour, there would be nowhere to procure provisions ahead. "Even if you find tents," he warned, "no one will give you any—you must bear this weight regardless." Heeding this caution that death might otherwise claim me en route, he provided generous quantities of roasted barley flour, butter, and dried grapes. These additions brought my total load to just over ten kanmon. The burden felt utterly unbearable. Yet there was no alternative. With great effort, I hoisted the pack and set out. Carrying such weight downslope exhausted my legs. When I finally reached the instructed riverside around eleven o'clock, I ate barley flour there before removing my footwear and underpants, rolling my hems high. Having previously ascertained the river's depth, I plunged into what appeared a shallow section.

**The Peril of Wading Through Frigid Water.** Yet the water proved startlingly cold—so cold it struck me as if my very flesh were being cut through—and I immediately retreated, leaping back out. This cold was unbearable. I had been thinking that attempting to cross this freezing river—a hundred and fifty meters wide—might mean death in its currents, but by then the cold had already permeated my entire body, leaving me trembling slightly. This won't do! What should I do? I wondered—when suddenly it came to me. I had been carrying clove oil from Okamura in Sakai for some time. Resolving to apply it, I promptly took out the bottle and smeared the oil over both my body and legs. Fortunately, the sun shone brightly, and through applying and rubbing in the oil, my body grew considerably warmer.

Then, resolving to cross steadily, I plunged in again. Even so, the water was piercingly cold. At first, it was cold and painful, but eventually I lost all sensation, unable to tell whether my feet were touching the riverbed or not. With only two staffs available, I somehow managed to support my feet using those two sticks and scrambled up to the opposite bank, nearly tumbling over in the process. The river had a fairly rapid current and was about waist-deep. When I climbed onto the opposite bank, I experienced a profound joy akin to reaching the far shore—as if attaining Nirvana. Since my task now was to rub the areas that had grown cold, I thought to dry them in the sun and rub them, but found myself scarcely able to move. Of course, I unloaded my luggage there and spent some time rolling about the area, doing various things. Since I had improved considerably and it was nearly two o'clock in the afternoon, I resolved that it would be good to proceed a little further, and so I set out with the intention of gradually advancing through the mountains as instructed. However, my legs grew so heavy and lethargic—to the point where they felt as if they might give out—that I could hardly walk.

**The Cold Pierced to the Bone** The cold had struck me so severely that while I could infer my muscles' responsiveness had dulled, advancing further proved utterly impossible. After resting briefly, I began climbing steadily upward using my staff for support. My legs soon felt unbearably leaden. The luggage had grown heavier than before, making the ordeal truly excruciating. Every two or three chō of progress forced me to skillfully unload my burden onto rocky patches and rest—without these respites, continuing would have been unthinkable. Despite the frigid air, sweat streamed from my armpits in a most wretched state. Realizing this method of travel was unsustainable, I resolved to lash together my two staffs and divide the luggage into balanced loads akin to how carrying poles are used in Japan. Yet after progressing barely one or two chō with this arrangement, the pain in my shoulders—bearing weight across two rounded sticks—became indescribable. The burden felt no lighter than before. There was simply nothing left to try. Alternating between shouldering the load and attempting pole-carrying methods, repeatedly weighing one approach against another, I somehow managed to climb seven or eight chō uphill before beginning my descent toward the opposite slope. The downward trek proved unexpectedly manageable, and despite all hardships, I covered nearly half a ri before reaching the riverbank. By then, four o'clock had arrived—my legs refused another step. Camping here became unavoidable. Resigning myself to this wilderness bivouac, I urgently needed to gather yak dung and what locals called kyang—wild horse droppings—to use as fuel.

Cooking While Camping: I placed my luggage in a spot, folded the large hem of my Tibetan robe upward into a pouch shape, and gathered dung into that makeshift pouch. I gathered three medium-sized stones and arranged them like the legs of a tripod, then stacked the dung I had collected around them in a wall-like formation. Then, I kneaded the driest pieces of dung by hand into powder and placed them in a thick clump at the center. Into that thick clump, I inserted something fashioned from leaves resembling a fire starter, then struck flint stones in the old Japanese manner to transfer the flame. And then, I steadily blew air using the leather bellows. Regulating the airflow proved remarkably tricky. I

I had considerable difficulty with the practice—there were times when building a fire took an exceedingly long time. Of course, if one uses well-dried yak dung, the fire starts quickly, but if it happens to be damp, even half a day’s effort won’t suffice. This led to situations of extreme difficulty. As for yaks, since they are left to graze freely like horses in Hokkaido, there is no difficulty in collecting their dung. Finally managing to build a fire after the yak dung stacked in a circular wall shape caught flame, I set out to fetch water, taking a Tibetan pot with me to the river. I drew water into that pot and then boiled it. The water boiled surprisingly quickly due to the low air pressure at high altitudes. 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 (soda found in the Tibetan mountains). The tea simply wouldn’t develop a proper color unless boiled for about two hours. If not boiled well—for the Tibetans say it is poisonous—I boiled it thoroughly. Into this well-prepared tea broth, I would add butter and salt—ideally, one should churn it, but since I had no such tool, I simply stirred it with my fingers and drank it. 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 did not eat any rice in the afternoon.

The Perils of Bivouacking: Now, I would take all the yak dung and wild horse dung I could gather, add it in one layer over the fiercely burning fire that had boiled water, then cover it completely with sand to convert it into a buried fire. Of course, keeping a roaring fire burning all night had its considerable advantages. This was because predators, upon seeing the fire, would not approach. Among the leopards in the snow, there existed a truly fearsome one. This creature is called "Snow Leopard" in English, with the scientific name Felis uncia, while Tibetans simply refer to it as Sik. There also exist cats dwelling in the snow that inflict great harm upon people. Such beasts would not come if a fire burned through the night. Thus, while maintaining an all-night fire was truly necessary from our actual hopes' perspective, doing so risked bandits or others—whether from mountaintops or elsewhere—spotting the flames and declaring, "Ah! There's a fire yonder—people must surely be present! This will make for good work if we go," then coming to investigate from some distant ridge, using the fire as their beacon—a peril one faced.

Though the ravages of wild beasts were truly dreadful, persecution by humans proved even more terrifying. For while wild beasts might hear one's breathing as they slept soundly here and yet leave without devouring them, bandits showed no such restraint. To guard against this human threat, I covered the fire with sand. I took care to preserve the embers until morning—this way, there was no danger of freezing to death in the bitter cold or lying awake unable to sleep. By dawn, ice had formed along the riverbank, confirming temperatures had dropped below freezing. Thus I passed that night, which happened to be the thirteenth of the sixth month by the lunar calendar,

Bivouac in the Vast Plain and the Snow Leopard

The moon shone brilliantly in the winter sky, its light reflected in the river flowing before my campsite. With no companions to share words, only the occasional cries of wild beasts reached my ears—yet the sound of water flowing ahead and the bright moon's radiance served to console the hardships of my journey. Though this landscape appeared as an exceptionally fine vista at first glance, the mountain forms themselves—mere rocky crags and barren peaks—held no particular interest; it was solely the moon's reflection upon the water that brought such keen pleasure, stirring unbidden thoughts of home until I found myself composing a fragment of verse.

The moon that rises over Tibet’s high plateau peaks—

How I think of you, sovereign of the Heavenly Realm— I tried to sleep, but despite the fire's blaze, my back grew cold and my waist began to freeze—still I could not drift off. So, Though it pained me, I performed zazen. As I lingered in gloom, night unknowingly gave way to dawn. Raking through the ashes, I found embers still smoldering. Then I went to fetch water. At morning's edge, ice had formed along the riverbank—breaking it with blows, I drew water and warmed it over lingering coals while preparing my luggage. First I straightened my carelessly worn robe. When the water turned lukewarm, I drank it straight down and ate the dried grapes given me. With stomach settled, I shouldered my load and set out gradually. Now—had they told me to ascend or descend along this river? The instruction slipped my mind. I believed they'd said ascend, but approaching that path revealed mountains dauntingly high. With this heavy burden on my back, climbing such heights proved impossible. Even were there a passable route up those peaks, bearing this load would mean death. Thus resolved to descend along the river instead, I made my way downward. Yet wrong path taken? Despite following directions, no stone carved with Buddha's image appeared. However far I walked, it never came. No wonder it never came— I had descended where ascent was required.

Chapter 22: Zazen Under the Moonlight

At Road’s End, a Pilgrim Met: After descending along the river for about two ri, I emerged onto a considerably wide plain. When I looked ahead, the plain stretched seven or eight ri in length and three or four ri in width. “Well,” I thought, “if I’ve reached a place like this, I can rest easy.” Carrying this luggage through the mountains had been unbearable. When I swung my compass about, I saw that heading northwest would require crossing to the opposite bank of the river I’d descended. Yet I dreaded crossing that river. The cold would be worst of all... As I stood pondering what to do, a monk came wading across from the far side. He too was a pilgrim like myself—one who had come all the way from the land of Kham specifically to meet Gelong Rinpoche, or so he said. I therefore addressed him to ask directions: “From here I must go to Kan Rinpoche—how should I proceed to reach him?” “You must go yonder,” he replied. “Continue for two days and you’ll come upon inhabited areas—best inquire there.” “Follow this path straight on—though you can’t see it from here, there’s a tent somewhere in that plain.” “Head directly there and you’ll surely find lodging,” he concluded...

Therefore，I asked the priest to rest awhile．“There’s something I’d like to request，”I said，then gave him a large quantity of dried peaches．Truth be told，even I found them unbearably heavy，so I handed over a considerable amount．At this，the priest looked astonished yet pleased．“You shouldn’t give me so much—this pains me，”he protested．“No，in fact，there’s something I must ask of you，”I insisted．“Would you carry this luggage across to the far bank？If not—given how ill and feeble I am—attempting to cross with this load might see me swept away by these rapids．Please，would you bear it over？”When I pleaded thus，he readily answered，“That’s nothing at all．I’ll carry it for you．”He appeared every bit as robust as one glance suggested．And rightly so—being from Kham，

Since they were people from the so-called land of banditry, one needed exceptional strength to undertake pilgrimages. So he effortlessly took my luggage and calmly pulled me across to the opposite bank. At that moment, it was truly a blessing... Then the priest turned back along his original path, while I shouldered my luggage and gradually pressed onward toward where the tent was said to be. The tent remained nowhere in sight. By then, my fatigue grew increasingly severe until it became unbearable. Whether I had developed heart disease or something else—I couldn't tell—but my breath grew terribly rapid and nausea began rising. Realizing this wouldn't do, I unloaded my luggage there, but from carrying the load on my back, a raw sore had formed whose pain defied description. Even beyond that agony, what now threatened to burst forth became so excruciating—as if something had clogged my chest—that I promptly took out the Hōtan and swallowed it.

Vomiting Blood on the Uninhabited Plateau — Then with a violent heave, I vomited a mouthful of blood. This must have happened because I had spent too long passing through areas with thin air, I thought. Though I originally had no heart condition, I wondered why my heart had begun faltering like this—but concluded it too must stem from the thin air. Yet Tibetans possess exceptionally robust lungs capable of enduring such thin air. Our lungs compared to theirs were likely no more than half as capable. Whether my lungs were being compressed or protruding outward, I couldn’t tell—only that the discomfort in my chest grew unbearable until nothing could be done. Thus began what might be called the symptoms of a grave illness. If I kept plodding along carelessly like this, I’d die before reaching the tent. So I supposed I’d be staying here tonight. With thoughts of setting out gradually tomorrow, I resolved once more to camp out that night. Having descended two ri and come another one ri along that distance, I had walked only three ri that day. The state of my illness had worsened in every aspect. "This is bad," I thought. I’d truly lost even the courage to gather yak dung, collapsing right there into a dead sleep. It was likely because last night’s cold had kept me awake that I fell into such oblivion, I supposed.

Awakened by hail pelting me—as something struck my face violently, I opened my eyes to find huge hailstones falling. They pelted every part of me indiscriminately in a relentless barrage. When I tried to sit up, my body creaked and groaned as if racked by rheumatism, forcing me to stay put and sit thinking quietly. My pounding heart and compressed lungs had subsided considerably—as things were, I need not fear imminent death. But my back wound hurt. My foot wound hurt. And having carried such heavy baggage, every muscle seemed to ache—every part of me throbbed with pain.

Under these circumstances, I absolutely could not proceed today, so I resolved to spend another night here—but the immediate problem was that I could not walk around searching for yak dung as usual. Because my body was in unbearable pain... Even if I could have walked to search for it, by now hail was falling and melting from the ground’s warmth—a situation where both yak dung and horse dung had become thoroughly soaked—so going to check would have been utterly futile. Then I covered my head with that usual Tsukutsuku—a large woolen night garment resembling four quilted cloths stitched together (with red wool lining inside and thick canvas-like cut fabric outside, weighing approximately three kanmon)—spread a sheepskin mat beneath me, and thus resolved to enter zazen there. I thought to prepare a drink separately, but with no firewood, there was nothing I could do.

The Moonlit Plateau Snowscape — As I sat fixed in contemplation, night gradually deepened. Since this was the fourteenth night of the sixth lunar month, the moon cast its crystalline light across the boundless wilderness. Had my body not been wracked with agony, this circumstance would have seemed a supremely delightful nightscape upon the plateau. For beyond that vast plain under moonlit haze, snow-capped mountains glimmered faintly—as though celestial beings had materialized amidst the drifts. To properly contemplate such a vision would surely have brought not torment but profound joy, yet every part of me throbbed so fiercely that even during zazen, my mind remained chained to suffering. At first I simply endured this state, but dwelling solely on pain would only amplify it. Thus I resolved to thrust myself into zazen's wondrous realm despite my anguish, redirecting my mind entirely to this purpose. Then, as I perceived the locale's inherent serenity and truly savored its essence, I recalled the poem composed by Daitō Kokushi during his zazen practice upon Gojō Bridge. The poem

When practicing zazen on Gojō Bridge Taking those who come and go as trees of the deep mountains As for this, I composed an improvised poem in response to that verse: When I practice zazen on Kōyagahara’s grassy plain Neither travelers coming and going nor deep mountain trees exist here. In this manner, had the Venerable Daitō Kokushi been present, he might perhaps have offered a faint smile of approval. Or perhaps he might have scolded me with a thunderous voice and struck thirty blows—such thoughts occupied my mind until, as this contemplation deepened, I forgot my suffering entirely and reached a state beyond self-awareness, whereupon another poem emerged unexpectedly. At that moment, it was pleasant. That poem

This body with no self to torment—the snowy plain The heart dissolved in Dharma’s light— Thus through this mental state, I remained unshaken by the cold’s torment that night, indifferent to the lingering darkness, persisting in zazen just as I was until dawn. When morning came, I ate dried grapes and began gathering my luggage, finding the pain throughout my body had greatly subsided. Though considerable fatigue remained, judging this condition no impediment to progress, I carefully organized my belongings and gradually set out northeastward. With my body now much improved, I made substantial progress along the road, covering some four ri by mid-morning. Coming upon a small stream nearby, I ate roasted barley flour as usual and crossed it to find a low hill. When I crossed over this hill and looked ahead, white tents and black tents stood visible in the far distance.

How strange. Black tents should exist here, but white cloth tents shouldn’t be here—I wonder what’s happened. These tents were crafted entirely from yak hair, with local people holding strands in their mouths while stretching and twisting them by hand to make thread, which they then wove. They would sew that cloth together to craft a house-like structure. Therefore, tents were generally black. Though yaks with white hair did exist, they were rare; thus, gathering enough white hair to make tents simply wasn’t done in that region. My suspicion was not unfounded—though I couldn’t grasp the reason—but in any case, since five or six tents stood visible in that direction, I thought if I headed there I might lodge for the night, or perhaps rest quietly for two or three days to recover from this illness. Then, mustering my courage, I proceeded about two ri toward where the tents stood. About half a ri from my destination, exhaustion overwhelmed me; yet with my goal firmly fixed ahead, I somehow managed to arrive. My first welcome came from five or six fearsome Tibetan Northern Plains mastiffs barking wildly in greeting. As I fended off the dogs’ noses with my staff’s tip, a beauty rarely seen in Tibet peered out from the largest tent and observed my predicament for some time.

Chapter 23: The True Nature of the Beauty

A Beauty Rare Even on the Plateau 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. The dogs that had been fiercely barking until now, having been reprimanded by their master, suddenly adopted blank, stupefied expressions and scattered in all directions. The sight was truly comical and amusing. Laughing, I requested of the woman, "Might I trouble you to let me stay tonight?" When she replied, "I shall consult my lama and give you an answer," she entered the house and then reemerged, saying, "It is quite acceptable—please come in." And so I entered inside. Entering such a place felt more physically comfortable than stepping into a lotus in the Pure Land. That night passed with some conversation; however, under the pretext of recuperation, I stayed there again the next day as well. The following day too I remained. During that time, when I inquired about various route details, I learned that after traveling by horse for about half a day from here lay a river called Kyachu (Wild Horse River). This river was quite large, flowing into the Brahmaputra. They said there were specific crossing points for this river—careless attempts to ford it would result in being swept away by the current. Therefore, I had to secure a means to cross that river.

Now, having recuperated for about two days and with my body having improved considerably, I thought to depart the following day—but as it was said that the necessary arrangements could not be obtained 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 residing there entreated me to deliver a sermon. This occurred because the lama of my host, considering me a truly venerable lama, had urged others that it was necessary to hear this lama’s teachings. Though "many" amounted to only about thirty people, I delivered a sermon to them that night. Thereupon, gradually citing edifying parables from Tibetan Buddhism during my sermon, I conferred the Three Refuges and Five Precepts afterward—whereupon each person presented offerings. Among them was a girl who had hung around her own neck

It was a coral ornament—an adornment of about seven coral beads with a single gemstone set among them that they offered. Though I initially accepted it, finding it unnecessary, I returned it saying, "I have truly received your thoughtful intention, but as this is not required, I shall give it back." At this, they became greatly troubled, exclaiming they had nothing else to give, and presented me with just one gemstone from the piece. This gem alone I could not refuse. As the others also urged me to accept it, I took only that gemstone, which remains in my possession to this day as a memento. The following day, the owner of the white tent emerged bearing dried grapes, peaches, and jujubes to trade with the lama hosting me. Their commerce involved exchanging sheep's wool or butter for these goods. The trader who came for this exchange was a Ladakh merchant. He employed an odd Tibetan dialect through which he could barely make himself understood.

The man appeared to be a devout Buddhist, as he asked me various questions about Buddhism, so I gave appropriate responses and expounded on its profound value. However, he was greatly pleased and said, "Please do come to my tent once—I wish to offer you tea and make devotions. For today’s midday meal, rather than taking it here, please come to my place." Thus I went there. Then he gave me a great quantity of rather expensive items such as dried grapes and furthermore prepared as lavish a feast as possible that day. And so it was decided that the merchant would cross that river tomorrow for business purposes and go together with me to the nomads on the opposite bank.

However, the lama with whom I was staying was indeed a Lama of the New Sect—one of those pure ones who neither took wives nor drank alcohol—and was called Archu Tsurugu. This meant "the incarnation that manifested in Archu." Whether he had been considered an exceptional beauty in those parts, or whether I myself thought so—regardless of what circumstances brought them together—he had taken that beauty as his wife, thereby completely defiling the dignified purity befitting a monk. Yet he was an exceedingly compassionate and generous man of good character, appearing to possess considerable wealth with fifty or sixty yaks kept. He also had two hundred sheep. Though not a major magnate, with that much he ranked among the moderately well-off, and his wife was quite a clever beauty. Thus within the household they lived harmoniously and were truly enjoying a contented life. Moreover, from society's perspective too—with property and all matters settled—it would naturally be seen that they must be living in great comfort, and we too couldn't help thinking what an excellent arrangement they had.

However, when I returned from the Ladakhi merchant’s residence,

The beauty had transformed into a yaksha, and sounds of a violent domestic quarrel erupted within the household. When I entered the tent to investigate, his wife—who had been as beautiful as a bodhisattva—now bore a face like a yaksha. Though no horns had sprouted, her crimson visage was turned toward the Lama as she hurled abuse. The venomous nature of her words defied ordinary comprehension. Her vitriolic tirade—accusing him of consorting with rotten women from elsewhere, of needlessly giving things to any female visitor, of misconduct with some woman over there; then berating how he lavished their household’s goods on his own relatives while giving nothing to hers, screaming “You’re nothing but a beast! A dog!”—all appeared nothing short of madness. Yet the Lama, being an exceedingly gentle man, would normally have remained silent—but it seemed my return compelled him to save face, for he stood up shouting “You beast!” and made as if to strike that beauty. Then chaos erupted. “Go on, kill me!” she shrieked, dropping at the Lama’s feet and squeezing her eyes shut in frenzy. “Go on—there’s a knife right there! Use it and kill me!” “You’re no human—you’re a yaksha—”

“Kill me and devour me! Go on, devour me! You demon who affects monkishness while failing in a monk’s duties—deceiver of people!” The abhorrent nature of her speech still makes me shudder when recalling it now. At that moment I thought—Ah, can taking a wife truly be this torment for one in holy orders? Though they appear harmonious to outsiders, witnessing this spectacle filled me with profound pity. Though utterly aghast, I couldn’t abandon them to their strife. First I thoroughly pacified the woman and persuaded her to sleep quietly. Then I had the Archu Tsurugu Lama step outside and escorted him to the Ladakhi merchant’s residence. Thus matters were settled without further incident that night. But surely this plight isn’t unique to Tibetan monks. Reflecting that even eminent Japanese monks who keep wives and sire children must endure similar agonies, I wept in secret that night—truly, nothing is more pitiable than a monk bound by matrimony.

Chapter 24: Polyandry and Polygyny

*Crossing Naked* Then on the following day,I rode a horse borrowed from that lama and had my luggage loaded onto mules belonging to a Ladakhi merchant as we made our way toward Kyachu River.At that time,I proceeded almost due north.Passing through undulating highlands where snow lay scattered among sparse patches of grass,I had traveled about five-and-a-half ri when I emerged at Kyachu River's banks.When gazing northwest from there,the river flowed from between massive snow-capped mountains looming twenty ri distant.Observing its course,the river disappeared into southeastern mountain flanks,destination unknown—its width spanning three chō where calm,yet narrowing below half-chō elsewhere.Narrow stretches squeezed between pressing boulders.So I resolved to rest riverside for midday meal.With five-six Ladakhi companions gathering firewood,I sat reading sutras as guest.I then cooked rice received from Archu Lama.This Nepalese rice cost seventy sen per shō.He'd given me five gō; I boiled all and shared.After long deprivation,I savored its exquisite taste.

Thus, while riding a horse to cross that river immediately would have been quite easy, since it was an exceedingly sand-choked river where the horses’ legs might sink deeply and potentially harm them, we decided to unload the heavy luggage from the horses and have people carry it across to the other side. Therefore, we too could not cross by riding the horses. We still had to strip naked to cross. We crossed mostly places about navel-deep, but we did so by having the guide pull us through. The water's width measured about three and a half chō, and within that water were small ice chunks—formed in the morning from melted upstream ice—that struck one’s legs or waist with enough force to cause injury. The coldness of the water went without saying. Having finally emerged from the river in this manner, the lingering chill made walking difficult for some time.

Fortunately, while the others were occupied with unloading and loading the luggage onto the horses, I rested for a while, warming myself in the sun and rubbing my body—and then they finished loading all the luggage onto the horses. And so both I and my companions mounted horses and proceeded northwest along that riverbank. After traveling about six ri, we arrived at a place called Narue where a group of nomads gathered. That was precisely July 14th. This was still on the northern bank of the Kyachu River, where there were seven or eight tents. Among them, we arrived at the largest house, that of an old man named Karma. Since everyone in this area was Buddhist, as long as they didn’t become suspicious, they would treat one hospitably without any trouble. Since I had even been lent a horse by Archu Lama, they treated me with great hospitality.

**The Custom of Fraternal Polyandry**: The household of this man called Karma was truly peculiar—a manner of arrangement nearly unheard of in Tibet. In Tibet, even if there are three or five brothers, they generally take only one wife. The eldest brother takes one wife, and the others live with her and also become her husbands (I will later share an interesting story about marriage customs). This is known as polyandry. Since Tibet is a barren land, it seems this custom had been formed even before Buddhism’s introduction, stemming from the necessity that if brothers were to each take wives individually, they would have to divide their property. However, this household has three wives. The master was around fifty years old, the first wife being a forty-seven- or forty-eight-year-old blind woman, the next a thirty-five- or thirty-six-year-old woman, and the last a twenty-four- or twenty-five-year-old. The youngest wife had one child.

This kind is rare in Tibet. It is not entirely nonexistent. I have since seen households where two or three daughters sustain themselves by adopting one child, so such cases are not unheard of—but this manner of a man keeping three wives entirely by himself was something I never witnessed anywhere thereafter. Since they asked me to read sutras at their house, I agreed and, needing to rest my body as well, spent about two days reciting sutras. And since I absolutely needed to buy an extra pair of shoes to have on hand for when they tore, I purchased a pair there and repaired the damaged parts. On the 18th, I purchased a large Tibetan sheep, divided approximately three kan of luggage for it to carry, and decided to shoulder about six kan of baggage myself.

Having lightened my burden considerably, I tied the sheep's neck with a rope made from yak tail, shouldered my own luggage, and resolved to depart that house to advance toward Kang Rinpoche. There, I managed to proceed obediently for one or two chō before the sheep attempted to flee, exerting tremendous force to drag me about. The creature possessed such strength that moving forward became utterly impossible. When I strained desperately to pull it onward, it only dug in its hooves and refused to budge. Even when I struck it from behind with my staff and tried to drive it forward, it absolutely would not move. Such was its power that I found myself being dragged along instead. In the end, having fought with the sheep until utterly spent, my heart began pounding violently and my breathing grew increasingly labored. And as the situation took a dire turn—this was bad—

If I kept fighting with the sheep and ruined my health, that would be disastrous—today I had no choice but to turn back and seek advice. With the thought that I must properly inquire how to manage this sheep, I turned back and came again to the house of that man called Karma, ending up staying there for the day. So when I asked the master about the situation, he said, “This one isn’t yet accustomed to people, so it refuses to obey.” “If you buy another one, they’ll make friends and you should be able to manage to move forward somehow.” “I can give you a somewhat better sheep that’s accustomed to people—why don’t you buy it?” “No—in that case, divide it between them for me.” The price of that sheep was about 1 yen and 25 sen. As for small ones, they started from around seventy sen. Thus, I first obtained two sheep. When I divided the luggage into three kan each for those sheep, the portion I had to carry myself became three kan, making things much easier. With this, I thought, I could now advance steadily.

Then, around three o'clock that afternoon, Wandak—the chieftain of Hortsho (the name of the surrounding area)—came to where I was, bringing along his men.

He spoke with both my host and me, but when he scrutinized my face, I detected a hint of suspicion in his demeanor. Fearing that allowing these suspicions to escalate might lead to complications, I immediately steered the conversation. I brought up Gelong Rinpoche. Since Gelong Rinpoche was someone the chieftain deeply revered, he inquired whether I had met him. I recounted in detail how I had met him, discussed various matters, received ceremonial gifts, and been exhorted to perfect the practices of a bodhisattva and mahasattva. At this, the chieftain’s doubts vanished entirely. He expressed warm goodwill and proposed, “Then come to my house tomorrow to recite sutras,” thus settling my visit to his residence the following day.

The ability to act decisively between life and death in critical moments is a hallmark of Zen monks, and as I too am one among their ranks, I felt that the daily practices I had conscientiously maintained proved most timely in such circumstances. And so, the next day, I set out on horseback for Wandak’s residence. The luggage was all carried for me, and after traveling about three ri, we arrived at his residence. It was a place deep in the mountains with considerable snow, but he possessed substantial wealth—indeed befitting his title as chieftain of the Hortsho tribe—including a large tent. The following day as well, I stayed on, read sutras at the chieftain’s request, and there inquired about the route’s sequence. The following day, they loaded only the luggage onto a horse and sent me off with one person accompanying me for about two and a half ri. From there onward, it wouldn’t be difficult; if I spent just this one night camping in the field, I should reach where nomads resided by the next day, they said. Then, just as they had said, I spent that night by a certain pond and advanced onward the following day.

However, with my luggage now carried by two sheep and myself bearing only three kan of baggage, walking became quite comfortable—a state that allowed me to entertain various interesting thoughts. During times of extreme hardship, there had been no leisure for indulging in such idle musings. Fortunately, I reached a place with four tents by a pond's edge. As customary, fierce dogs came to greet me. Since this had become routine occurrence, I resolved henceforth to omit recounting such incidents upon arriving at similar places. There I lodged at a house. A day's journey ahead lay my scheduled destination: the Tamchok Kambab River—called so in Tibetan—source stream of the great Brahmaputra. Being Tibet's sole formidable river, securing both guide and porters became essential lest the crossing prove perilous. To obtain these necessities, I made earnest entreaties there, yet none consented despite monetary offers. When that failed, I attempted bargaining with rare curiosities, but still found not a single willing soul.

Chapter 25: Crossing the Great River

Administering medicine to borrow horses—however, there was an old woman suffering from illness in the neighborhood, and this patient came out pleading, "Please give me medicine—my condition seems terribly grave. I want you to examine me and tell when I might die." Upon observing her condition, it appeared to be a rather dangerous illness—likely consumption—and while it was truly beyond our ability to treat, having prior knowledge of such conditions, I instructed her in detail on lifestyle regimens. Then, since she would not be at ease unless I administered medicine, I gave her the available medicine. She was overjoyed, wondering what she could possibly offer in return—for receiving such gracious treatment from so esteemed a person was an unhoped-for blessing—and wished to express her gratitude somehow. When she insisted I should state my wish, I replied, "Then might I trouble you to arrange for about two people and three horses?" “Since there appear to be five or six horses here,” she continued, “could we have them sent tomorrow as far as the riverbank to transport this luggage? They say you can’t ferry loads across rivers with sheep—we simply must proceed this way.” When I conveyed her proposal, Karma responded: “By all means. I shall handle those arrangements myself,” declaring his full acceptance.

Through this fortunate arrangement, I borrowed three horses and two men, loading about four kanmon of luggage onto each horse’s saddle—as per Tibetan custom where people would typically ride atop them—though my belongings were divided among the three horses and loaded without issue. I then arranged for the sheep to be pulled along by those men from horseback, and while guiding two sheep with three horses, we reached the great riverbank of Tamchok Kambab. We had departed around five in the morning and arrived by eleven, having advanced nearly seven ri during that time. There at the riverbank, we took clear water from the Brahmaputra River, boiled tea, ate roasted barley flour, and prepared our meal as usual.

Crossing Tibet's foremost river. The riverbed's sand ran deep, making it impossible to take the horses into the water. The flowing channel measured fifteen or sixteen chō across, while the gravel banks stretched about one ri on our side and half a ri on the opposite shore. Truly an immense river—we first traversed this bank of stones before reaching the water's edge. As I mentioned earlier, the timing proved ideal; there I drew clear water to prepare my midday meal, then applied clove oil to my body as was my custom. But to avoid being noticed by the others, I pretended to wash my hands and concealed myself behind a knoll to thoroughly coat my skin with the oil. Emerging from hiding, I announced, "Now then, let us begin," and stepped into the river. The two men divided the luggage into two loads and carried them across. My guide tugged the sheep along behind him. We forded through fifteen or sixteen chō of flowing water—in shallows reaching only to our thighs, though even there, where the five or six sun (15–18 cm) deep current revealed the sandy bottom, our feet sank until the water rose thigh-high. In deeper sections, it generally reached above our waists.

Having apparently finished crossing, at that spot, the two men unloaded the luggage. I gave those people Tibetan-style khatas as gifts. This was white thin silk. When presenting gifts to others, it is customary to include that thin silk with the item as a matter of courtesy. Of course, there are also times when one might present only khatas to express courtesy, so I gave one to each of the men. The men explained that if we were to proceed through the mountains to the northwest, passing between peak and peak, we would emerge toward Lake Manasarovar and reach Khen Rinpoche. “However,” they warned, “you likely won’t encounter anyone for fifteen or sixteen days from here onward, so take full care. It would be wise to recite sutras as you travel lest snow leopards devour you in these snowy wastes.” They bid farewell and departed, saying they must return now or risk being delayed further.

Now then, onward.

Realizing I would have to traverse an uninhabited plateau for fifteen or sixteen days, I immediately shouldered my luggage and marched resolutely across the gravelly stretch—about half a ri—then climbed a rising slope (though not quite an embankment) for four or five chō until emerging onto flatland. Even amidst the flatland, mountains rose here and there. When I reached that point, I had to let the sheep graze, and since I was quite exhausted, I allowed them to feed in a grassy area while I too unloaded my luggage and rested. Gazing all the while northwestward along the Brahmaputra River’s flow, the great snow-clad peaks lay piled one upon another, appearing just like countless snow-draped figures seated in zazen. The sight of snow completely blanketing the mountains all the way to their bases could never be seen from Darjeeling or Nepal. I felt this was precisely the distinctive feature of viewing the snowy mountains from the Tibetan plateau. Gazing out at the river’s distant course, I saw it vanish into far-off clouds, its endpoint rendered indistinguishable. Yet the sight of its winding, meandering flow—rushing away and returning from high to low across the land—appeared like a grand banner unfurled over the earth. At that moment, that familiar clumsy verse burst forth from my heart.

Is this the streaming banner of Vairocana’s Dharma? Thus perceived, Brahmaputra’s river To be sure, when this verse came to me, poets would doubtless find it trite, but from my own perspective, it was truly exceedingly delightful. Ah, it was precisely by coming to such a place that this poem was born—had I not beheld this vista, such verses would never have sprung forth from my own mind, I felt. Immensely pleased, I sat alone in satisfaction. Since the sheep had already finished grazing on the grass, I shouldered my luggage and gradually made my way northwestward, climbing through the mountains—now an easy task. With the luggage being light, I could proceed steadily. In that area between mountains and across plateaus lay numerous ponds. When I ascended the mountain heights, ponds became visible everywhere. Their sizes varied—the largest spanning ten chō, others two or three chō, some approximately one chō. I knew not what this region was called but believed it lay within Kongyu Province. There I bestowed upon that area the name "Senikegahara." Then around four in the afternoon, having reached a pond’s edge, I unloaded my luggage, left the sheep in grassy terrain, and went to gather wild horse dung as was my custom.

There were no traces of nomads—this area appeared to be one the nomads did not visit, for there was no yak dung. Mostly wild horse dung. There, I gathered plenty of wild horse dung, prepared a fire, and spent the night there. That night was so bitterly cold that once again I could not sleep, passing the hours until dawn—and thus another crude verse came to be.

On a plateau with neither insect hum nor human voice, The visiting moon's sole companion was me. The next day, as I advanced another four or five ri northwest—ponds still dotting the way—I drew water from one to prepare my midday meal as usual. Pressing gradually northwestward, I beheld a massive snowy mountain dominating that direction. Since scaling that snowy peak would prove immensely difficult, the notion arose that I must turn eastward instead. With no alternative, perhaps I should pass between snow-clad ridges to cross over. Or maybe traverse the snowless eastern peaks? Sinking into contemplation yet finding no resolution, I entered my habitual danjikan-zanmai—that meditative concentration for decisive judgment—to determine my path. It unfolded without misstep. As I progressed further, even the ponds vanished entirely.

I emerged onto a waterless wasteland; after that, there was no water at all. Thinking how I desperately wanted to reach some place with water where I could boil tea that night, drink it, and sleep, I continued walking even as four o'clock approached—crossing mountain after mountain—but not a drop of water could be found. I walked until around seven o'clock, but there was nothing. That day, I walked approximately eleven ri (about 43 kilometers). The sheep were also exhausted and could hardly move forward. Though my throat was unbearably dry, I resolved to let the sheep graze on the grass and camp there for the night, as there was fortunately grass available. In return, there was no need to tend a fire. Of course, once night fell, I couldn't light a fire either, as doing so might cause trouble, so I simply lay down there. However, between being unable to sleep the previous night and having walked about eleven ri (some 43 kilometers), I suffered terribly from the cold. Yet once I grew accustomed to the hardship, it seemed not so unbearable after all, and I drifted into a fitful sleep.

Chapter 26: The Ordeal of Thirst and the Ordeal 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 resolved to shoulder a load myself. Looking across the sandy plain ahead, it seemed there might be water there. Since it appeared to be at least three ri (approximately 11.78 kilometers) to where the river lay, I urged the sheep onward in that direction under the reasoning that if I could just reach there today, I would obtain water. Since the day before, there had been no water, causing great distress, so my throat was terribly parched—truly unbearable. I was barely managing to quench my thirst by putting Hōtan pills in my mouth, but it just wasn’t enough. Thinking, "If only I could reach a place with water soon," I hurried there only to be truly disappointed. When I looked into the distance, it appeared to be a river with flowing water. When I arrived there and looked, contrary to all expectation, the water had completely dried up, leaving only beautiful white stones behind. It had precisely appeared as water.

At that moment I thought: There exists a tale of hungry ghosts who suffer greatly when water turns to fire as they seek to drink it—but in my case, believing the water had turned to stone instead, I was sorely disappointed. There was nothing to be done. Not knowing where I should seek water from here onward, I looked all around but found nothing in that vicinity. There was nothing but scattered patches of grass growing about five sun long. Truly nothing could be done. So taking a northwest course while hoping for water somewhere ahead, I pressed onward until seeing what glistened like water across a sandy plain. Approaching eagerly only for it to vanish suddenly—perhaps a heat haze—or rather sand reflecting sunlight to create this illusion of water shimmering there. This was truly—

In the boundless wasteland, I stood on the verge of perishing from thirst. I had become a living hungry ghost craving water. My very entrails seemed to cry out for moisture, yet there was no remedy. I pressed onward endlessly, but however far I trudged, no trace of water revealed itself. The terror of facing another night without drink gripped me—would this be how I died? Each time despair struck, I swallowed Hōtan pills that parched my throat further, though perhaps they granted some meager relief. As I staggered forward around eleven o'clock, my eyes caught a depression ahead that might hold water. Certain this promised salvation, I plowed through sand toward it—and there it lay. At that instant, joy surged through me beyond containment. "First drink deeply," I resolved, "then boil tea"—unable to wait another heartbeat, I shed my pack and reached into my robe for a bowl when—

The water had turned crimson—deep red. Wondering what this was, I realized it must be a type of water found on the Tibetan Plateau—water that had likely been stagnating there for centuries, decaying in such a manner that one might think it had festered through the ages. As soon as I drew it up, tiny worms writhed within. In this state, I couldn’t possibly drink it immediately. For us, consuming water teeming with worms was strictly forbidden—this posed a true dilemma—yet without drinking it, I couldn’t press onward, while doing so would breach Buddhist precepts and harm my body. As I deliberated over what course to take, an idea soon surfaced. I recalled Shakyamuni Tathagata’s precept: if water contains worms, one must filter them through cloth before drinking. Recognizing this as the perfect solution, I swiftly retrieved a scrap of cloth and my Tibetan pot, then strained the water through the fabric. When I did so, the worms clung to the cloth’s surface while liquid trickled through below. Just when I thought it had become clear water, it remained stubbornly red. Yet with the squirming creatures no longer visible, I poured it into a bowl and drank a cup—the taste at that moment was

Not even the nectar of the Pure Land could compare. I drank one cup with pleasure but could not drink a second. Thinking that perhaps I should boil this water to make tea and drink it, I ran about the area collecting wild horse dung to use as fuel. By the time I had it boiling, nearly twelve hours had passed. Since eating meals became impossible after twelve o'clock—though the water still hadn't boiled—I kneaded roasted barley flour with that lukewarm water and ate my fill of just the barley powder, seasoned with the usual chili pepper and salt... It was truly delicious. After proceeding about one ri through the sand, around three o'clock in the afternoon, an extremely fierce wind began to blow. The sand surged in waves, burying the luggage, while fierce gusts blew into my eyes, making it impossible to walk with them open. Yet trying to keep them closed meant losing all sense of direction, while opening them only let sand rush in—leaving me utterly helpless. Still, I couldn't just sit motionless either—

The sand was surging in waves, so... That rough, fearsome scenery was something I had never even dreamed of when living in Japan. The sand came thundering in waves. So it was unbearable.

The sandy ground was gouged out as if by some force, roaring into violent turbulence. Therefore, due to the violent storm, the hill that had been there before vanished, and a new sand hill formed ahead—such was the state of things. In such conditions, I could neither sit still nor move forward, trapped in a dilemma, so I recited sutras silently in my heart. Fortunately, after about an hour, the violent storm abruptly ceased. Greatly relieved, I gradually proceeded through the sandy plain and arrived around five o’clock at a place where small grasses grew and thorny low trees were sprouting. The trees grew sparsely like Japanese tea fields, and all had needles. Because it was a cold place, the leaves were not green but had turned completely black. "Well, I’ve arrived at a good spot," I thought. At this watery spot, I gathered dead trees for tonight’s fire—thinking it would burn well—unloaded my luggage near a pond there, then collected dried grass and wild horse dung as usual. That night passed quite comfortably; since I had entered a place that was practically within the pond itself, unexpectedly no wind reached me, making it warm enough to rest with peace of mind for once that evening.

However, the very next day again—

A great wind across the plain swept in sand and gravel.

A great difficulty arose. Leaving the pond's edge, I drove my sheep as usual up the mountain slope until reaching midway. Gazing into the distance, I saw a great river. Along its course lay intermittent ponds (where ponds become rivers and rivers become ponds). Though none were particularly large, many such pools dotted the landscape. All rivers there flowed from snow peaks, but in that area I counted five or six ponds. This was of course a tributary of the Brahmaputra—later I learned its name: Chemayunzung Gyuchu (Swastika Sand River). The river formed ponds that in turn fed new streams—through this interplay, its channels might have arranged themselves in a swastika pattern. At this river arose a crisis that would decide whether I lived or died. When first viewing it from the mountainside, I never imagined such peril—but looking again from that height, I knew I must cross. For traversing that frigid current felt exactly like

For crossing that cold river felt exactly like traversing a river of ice from hell. Of course, I had never actually crossed a glacial river in hell, but the pain felt every bit as searing. Though I had steeled myself for hardships from the outset, facing this immediate trial made me think, "This truly is a dire predicament." With no alternative but to inch toward that river, I began descending toward it. It was just past nine in the morning, but lingering ice still crusted the riverbanks—crossing now would bring unbearable cold. First came the risk of injury from jagged ice; I needed to wait until it thawed slightly. Thinking I might brew tea and eat lunch meanwhile, I did precisely that. When noon arrived, I rubbed my body with the customary clove oil. Testing the depth revealed alarming profundity. Attempting to drive the sheep in first proved futile—they refused entry as if sensing the danger.

Chapter 27: Drowning in the Glacier

Crossing the Glacier with Sheep in Tow — Having no other choice, I decided to leave my luggage there and first try pulling two sheep across, as I hadn’t thought the water so deep. Hiking my robes up to my chest and gripping my trusty staff, I set out toward the opposite bank. When I did so, the water reached not just to my chest but nearly to my shoulders, thoroughly soaking my robes. Yet since the sheep could swim, they crossed steadily with only their heads above water. Of course, had I not held the rope and pulled, the sheep would have been swept away to their deaths. Though I managed to reach the far bank without mishap, the cold proved utterly extraordinary. I promptly tethered the sheep to a rock and rubbed my body vigorously with my hands to regain warmth. I spent nearly an hour at this task before noting the river spanned exactly one and a half chō. There I stripped completely naked, weighed down my sodden robes with stones against the wind so they might dry properly in the sun, then plunged back into the river bare. After warming myself there for thirty minutes, I applied more oil and crossed again with the clothes piled atop my head. I followed the previous river course once more, but between the luggage’s weight and large moss-slicked stones littering the riverbed—

Suddenly I slipped and fell, causing the luggage on my head to tilt sideways and forcing me to hold it up with one hand. My staff became useless against the current, and I was swept rapidly downstream. Though I knew some swimming, gripping the luggage tightly with my right hand while clutching the staff in my left—swimming desperately like this (as shown in the following figure)—proved utterly ineffective against the torrent. At that moment, a thought struck me: I mustn't lose my life here—perhaps I should abandon this luggage and swim up alone? But discarding it now would mean instantly losing all my provisions. Having heard I must traverse uninhabited lands for over ten days ahead, doing so would condemn me to starvation. Testing whether my feet might find purchase, I thrust my staff downward—but it found no footing. Swept relentlessly onward, I gulped river water as my arms and body grew numb beyond use. Just one chō further downstream would surely carry me into a vast pond. Am I to die in this river? If starvation awaits me regardless, perhaps drowning would be easier—

Drifting in the River: A Near-Death Ordeal The thought occurred to me that drowning might prove easier, and I prepared my final prayer. "To all Buddhas of the ten directions and three times, and to my original teacher Shakyamuni Buddha—though my fundamental aspiration remains unfulfilled—I vow this: may I be reborn once more to repay the Buddhist teachings' grace for our most beneficent parents and devoted friends." Having thus resolved to die as I was, I surrendered to the current. As I drifted, my staff's tip suddenly struck something. Startled, I thrust downward with the staff I'd been clutching—and it held firm. Realizing this, strength surged through me. With a grunt, I stood and found the water reached only chest-high. Seeing this might work, I looked ahead and found—through some trick of the current—I'd been carried toward the opposite bank. The flow had brought me within twenty ken of a spot where I might climb ashore.

Thinking this was a godsend—though my arms and limbs barely functioned—I desperately tried to lift the luggage submerged in the water up onto my head, but its increased weight made it impossible to raise. Since the luggage consisted of leather bags and such, with water not having fully penetrated inside, it was thoroughly drenched but not excessively heavy. Somehow managing to drag it along as I gradually advanced forward, the water grew progressively shallower until I could climb onto the opposite bank. At last—or so I thought—but now I found myself unable to lift the luggage from the water. I was at my wit's end, yet abandoning the luggage would leave me without life-sustaining provisions; mustering every ounce of strength, I hauled the luggage upward with both hands. Thinking "This should suffice," I plopped down and heaved a sigh of relief. I had been swept some distance—by any measure, I now found myself two chō downstream from where the sheep remained. Meanwhile, the sheep grazed obliviously about two chō upstream. Having climbed onto that shore, I could not move a muscle. In general—

My hands and legs were completely numb—so much so that even when I later tried to understand how I had managed to lift that luggage, I couldn't grasp the logic of it. I could no longer bend my legs, nor could I stand up, frozen stiff as I was. In that state—This is bad—I began to wonder if I might die like this. There was nothing I could do. And then, somehow or other, I managed to rub myself as vigorously as I could. Since my fingers wouldn't straighten, I used my fists to rub around my chest area, and once I felt some warmth returning to my hands and that my fingers were moving considerably better, I extended my fingers and began rubbing my entire body, but the warmth stubbornly refused to spread. After roughly an hour of continued rubbing, considerable warmth had returned and my fingers regained mobility, so I proceeded to untie my luggage, retrieve the Hōtan from within, and swallowed it. At that moment, I felt profoundly grateful.

Whenever I found myself in dire straits, this Hōtan proved invaluable—it had been kindly sent to me at the time of my departure by the wife of Watanabe Ichibee of Osaka. To think it would prove so useful at a time like this—I rejoiced greatly. After remaining there for a while, I began to shudder violently. The trembling grew increasingly severe and showed no sign of abating. No matter how hard I clenched my teeth, it would not stop. Having no other choice, I collapsed where I was, yet still my body convulsed. It was precisely as though a malarial fit had seized me...I must have continued trembling like this for two or three hours. By then, it had passed five o'clock, and the sunlight's strength had considerably waned. However, as my trembling had finally subsided enough for me to stand, I decided to split my luggage into two portions—leaving half there and shouldering the rest—and set out determined to somehow reach where the sheep were. The weight of even half that luggage was unbearable. I had heard of prisoners in ancient jails being subjected to the punishment of bearing heavy stones, and as I involuntarily imagined their suffering being akin to this, tears welled in my eyes. Thus did I carry that luggage in two trips to where the sheep were.

That night, there was no fire nor anything else. My damp clothes had only partially dried, so I turned them inside out—wearing the still-wet side outward and the drier side against my skin—and pulled that swishing night garment over myself to endure the evening there. But then afterward, a hardship truly greater still befell me.

Chapter 28: The Great Ordeal in the Mountain Snows

Out of one hardship and into another. The next day brought merciful sunlight, allowing me to dry my sodden robes and sutras. The Lotus Sutra and other scriptures bearing those water stains remain preserved in my hands as mementos to this day. Each time I behold these relics, wonder arises anew at how I survived that ordeal. Around one o'clock, having organized my gear, I began making my way toward the northwestern mountains. Yet yesterday's exhaustion lingered fiercely, and though my luggage had nearly dried, its pervasive dampness made it crushingly heavy. To compound matters—now obliged to lighten the sheep's burden—my own load grew heavier still, while pain flared sharply where riverbed stones had gashed my feet.

Progress was exceedingly difficult, but since each step forward meant drawing one step closer to my destination, I resolved to press on bit by bit. Advancing at a leisurely pace for about two ri, snow began to fall and the wind grew fierce, so I reached the edge of a small pond where I sought shelter for the night—but there was no time to gather firewood or anything else. A tremendous thunder began to roar, unleashing a violent blizzard and gale; because of this, my clothes and luggage were soaked once more—completely drenching what I had painstakingly dried—so the next day I had to dry them all over again. Since I hadn’t drunk any tea, I was quite hungry. But since there was no firewood, I couldn’t do anything about it. I ate only dried grapes, dried my clothes until noon, and then set out. This day truly marked

This was the day when a great calamity occurred—something I had never imagined even in my wildest dreams. Now a high mountain loomed in the northwest; yet surveying other directions revealed no discernible path forward. Thus I conceived this plan: if I crossed that snowy northwestern peak, I would assuredly reach the vicinity of my destination—Kang Rinpoche, that is to say Mount Kailas. Later inquiries would reveal this snow-clad summit to be Kong Gyui Kanri—a mountain soaring to twenty-two thousand six hundred and fifty shaku.

Gradually advancing toward that mountain and having climbed a steep slope of about four ri, it was already around five in the afternoon when another blizzard arose and heavy snow began to fall. What I realized then was that if I were to keep relentlessly climbing this mountain now, I would likely freeze to death tonight under the deep snow of these high peaks. Therefore, I decided to put off heading toward my destination for later and first make my way down toward the river at the mountain’s base. Then, changing direction to descend northeastward, the snow fell ever more fiercely, and the day gradually grew dark.

Moreover, the slope was an extremely steep cliff face that proved difficult to descend. Since there were no suitable rocks for shelter nearby, I resolved to keep descending until finding such a place. Wherever I looked stretched nothing but snow—no rocks visible nor any discernible shelter. Though at my wits' end, there remained nowhere to sit down. The snow had already piled about a foot deep. Determined to press on until finding some refuge, I drove the sheep forward—but they appeared utterly spent and refused to budge. Small wonder—burdened with heavy packs and having grazed only until noon before ascending this high mountain where no more grass grew. Even so, I couldn't remain stationary despite their immobility—pitiful as it was—so I shoved them forcefully from behind and tried every means imaginable... yet still they wouldn't move; simply settling into the snow... After much struggle, by pulling on the ropes around their necks I managed to advance them some twelve feet before—

The sheep had settled into the snow and refused to budge an inch. There was nothing I could do. What on earth should I do? If I slept in this snow, I would certainly die. My hands were already numb beyond sensation from the cold, making it agonizing to even extend the one gripping the sheep's rope. Yet since remaining stranded in this snowdrift was impossible, I resolved to rouse the sheep and press forward. Summoning all my strength to wrestle them onward for about fifty meters, they collapsed again with labored, pitiful breaths. Would I freeze to death on this mountain tonight? Was there no way to manage this? If only I knew where a tent might be—I would abandon the sheep and set out—but given what I had heard earlier about facing fourteen or fifteen days without encountering anyone, wherever I went would surely lead nowhere inhabited. Must I truly perish here with the sheep? I stood utterly at a loss. Finding no recourse, I unloaded the sheep's luggage, took out my night garment and draped it over myself, then pulled my raincoat over my head before crawling into the space where the sheep lay.

I settled into zazen in the snow, prepared to freeze to death alongside the sheep. Zazen amidst the accumulated snow—I steeled myself for it. The sheep too seemed to prefer this arrangement, silently drawing close to my side to lie down. This likely provided significant help in retaining warmth. As these sheep had grown thoroughly accustomed to me, both nestled against my sides like children as they slept. They appeared both endearing and pitiful; when I gazed silently at them, both let out mournful cries. Though I felt profoundly lonely, there was nothing to be done. Even had I wished to help them, no grass grew anywhere nearby. Adhering strictly to my rule of consuming nothing after noon, I retrieved clove oil from my pocket and applied it to my body within the cramped confines of my night garment. Then substantial warmth began radiating through me.

Applying oil seemed to serve both to block outside air intrusion and preserve body heat. This clove oil in particular—having been prepared specifically for retaining body warmth—made me feel remarkably heated. I then regulated my breathing through mouth and nose nearly to suppression, reasoning that normal respiration exchanging air with the exterior would hinder heat retention. Though I maintained considerable warmth this way, around midnight the cold gradually seeped in—my senses numbed alarmingly until my mind turned strange and vision blurred. A thought surfaced: Is this how one fades at life's end?

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

In a dreamlike haze amidst the snow—this was truly perilous. But fretting now would be futile—there remained nothing but to die as I was. To perish buried in these peaks' snows without fulfilling my purpose of entering this land for Buddhist practice—this too must have been my karmic fate. To fall upon this path for Dharma practice held no alternative. Though lamentation served no purpose, I keenly regretted being unable to repay my parents' kindness and my benefactors' grace. Through dream-fogged consciousness arose the thought that I might repay this profound debt in future lives—but beyond that moment I knew nothing more. Had any witnessed this plight they'd have deemed me utterly insensate. I had become bereft of self. Later I would imagine I'd entered a state indistinguishable from death itself. At that time absolute oblivion claimed me. Then—movement near me—my eyes snapped open to see—

The Sheep’s Trembling Awakens Me from a Dream: The two sheep were trembling and shaking off the snow. This action was precisely what shook the snow from my body. I snapped back to reality, yet my mind still wandered dreamlike paths—a most uncanny sensation. With the sheep having finished dislodging their own snow, I tried moving to brush myself off, but found my body strangely stiffened and resistant. Then came my usual routine—rubbing my limbs and gazing skyward—where remnants of last night’s storm still loomed: ominous black clouds scudded across the heavens, pierced intermittently by sunlight that transformed the firmament into a terrifying tableau. Having regained some composure, I checked my watch—10:30 a.m., though whether this marked the next day or the one after remained unclear through time’s haze. I resolved to eat roasted barley flour, but lacking water as ever, scooped nearby snow and kneaded in butter to choke down a bowlful. To the sheep too I fed generous portions of the flour.

At first, they ate 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 great quantities of it. Then, making the sheep carry their loads while shouldering my own baggage, I began trudging steadily downward through the snow. I no longer possessed any courage to press upward. Having developed the conviction that unless I rested my body in the valley before proceeding further I would surely collapse, I gradually descended until after covering over two ri, a river came into view. Just before reaching that river's edge, thick snowflakes like cotton tufts began tumbling down in earnest. As I wondered whether this night too would find me freezing to death in the snowdrifts, there suddenly arose amidst the swirling flakes a voice of surpassing beauty crying out. Wondering what manner of voice this could be, I peered intently through the snowfall.

A Flock of Cranes by the Snowbound Riverbank: Seven or eight cranes were walking slowly along the river’s edge. This scenery truly comforted me amid the hardships of my journey. Afterward, recalling that scenery, I composed a humble poem and kept it as a memento. That poem was:

From Brahma’s riverbank sands, amidst peony-like clusters of pure white snow piled where they fell, The resonant calls of “Ko-ho”—when I sought their source, it was cranes stepping quietly through drifts. After crossing that hundred-meter river and descending into the valley’s even terrain, I saw what appeared to be dozens of yaks ahead. As had happened before with deceptive rocks, these shapes began moving across the slopes. Convinced they must be yaks at last, I pressed toward them—and there indeed were yak herders stationed nearby. When I asked about shelter, they told me: “We just arrived here yesterday evening. Keep going—you’ll find four tents where people live. Likely they’ll take you in tonight.” With relief like finding Buddha in hell’s depths, I trudged onward as directed until tents appeared. True to form, snarling dogs greeted me at the first tent where I explained my plight and begged lodging for the night.

However, whatever the tent owner thought, no matter how much I pleaded, he would not let me stay. Of course, my appearance must have been fearsome at that time—my hair had grown out after two months unshaven, my beard wild and unkempt, my frame emaciated from constant hunger with cheekbones protruding sharply. They likely refused shelter out of fear. When pleading proved futile, I fought through the dogs again to beg at another tent. Yet they too turned me away. Then I desperately approached a third tent. “I haven’t met another soul in seven or eight days—please, save me,” I implored, clasping my hands as if in prayer. But the more desperately I begged, the more coldly they drove me out, leaving me utterly helpless. “Even a corner of your tent—if I sleep outside tonight, I’ll freeze to death in this snow! Won’t you spare my life?” I pleaded. Instead of relenting, they finally snapped: “You’re coming to my house—”

“Are you planning to burgle us?” I was asked. With that single remark, I could no longer plead further. Having no other choice, I went back outside—the pain so acute it brought me to tears. Another tent stood pitched ahead, but disheartened, I lacked even the courage to beg there. As I stood blankly in the snow, the sheep too cried mournfully. Pitying them, I went to plead at the fourth tent—whereupon its owner, upon seeing me, said “Please come in” and welcomed me with genuine kindness. I had thought these nomads utterly heartless people, but having chanced upon this compassionate soul, I rejoiced greatly. Promptly making my way into the tent, I unloaded the sheep’s baggage, tethered them in their designated spot, and stayed there for the night. My body lay utterly exhausted, my shoes terribly worn—yet by the warm fire’s edge, this state truly felt like paradise itself. The next day, I requested my host’s permission to remain and rest. Thus did I set about documenting what I had long desired in accordance with Buddhist teachings—to exert myself fully for all sentient beings—

I had drawn up Twenty-six Vows and was committing them to paper. When immersed in documenting these vows, I would forget both my aching feet and bodily fatigue—this truly became an effective means to alleviate suffering. Thus I rejoiced, anticipating these vows might also serve others as a method to ease their afflictions. At five o'clock the next morning, I set out northward, changing course this time to trek four ri through snow-covered plains. Patches of grass sprouted where snow had melted. Reaching a large pond's edge, I took my midday meal there while gazing across at a sandy expanse beyond. Dunes rose here and there across the terrain. This sandy expanse was larger than the one we'd encountered earlier by the Chema Yunzun River. The thought struck me that should a sandstorm arise here, I risked being buried alive again—I resolved to hasten through. This urgency too sprang from hard-won experience with such perils. Summoning renewed resolve, I drove the sheep onward across that vast sandy wilderness.

Chapter Thirty: Approaching Human Habitation

**Bon Religion** Having traveled about two and a half ri through that sandy plain, I arrived at grassland once more. Proceeding a short distance through this grassland, I came upon a wilderness crowded with bizarre stones where a solitary mountain rose abruptly. Later when I inquired about this mountain's origins, I learned it was said to be where the deities of Bon dwelled. This Bon religion had been practiced by Tibetans as their faith before Buddhism's arrival in Tibet. Though still observed on a minor scale today, its teachings generally resembled those found in India. This was because after Buddhism took root, Bon declined severely, whereupon a Bon monk appropriated Buddhism's organizational structure wholesale to create what became known as New Bon. Thus modern Bon remains nearly identical to Buddhism doctrinally, save for practices like sacrificial offerings, clerical marriage, and alcohol consumption. As these teachings require specialized explanation, I shall refrain here—in essence, Tibet's ancient faith lacks distinct shrines housing its deities. They typically manifest as stone mountains, snow peaks, ponds or lakes instead. When I passed beyond that mountain area and advanced further ahead, two wild asses came approaching from the distance. Here at this point—those

I wanted to provide a brief explanation about wild asses here. In Tibetan, wild asses are called kyang and considered wild horses of the northern plains, but they are actually wild donkeys, with English retaining the Tibetan term kyang. Their scientific name was said to be Equus hemionus. Their size matched that of large Japanese horses, with reddish-brown backs and white bellies. Their spines were jet-black, their tails as slender as a donkey's with manes. In all aspects they differed little from horses except in their tails. They possessed remarkable strength and speed but never appeared alone. They usually formed groups of two, five or six, or even dozens when emerging. These peculiar creatures would approach from half a ri away while circling continuously, coming within four or five chō before suddenly whirling around like foxes glancing over their shoulders, then bolting away in apparent fright. Just when I thought they had fled, they would come circling back near me again. They kept endlessly circling and watching around people's vicinity. When these wild asses appeared, I simply continued onward without particular concern since this was routine.

The Sheep’s Flight — But then, for some reason, the sheep, startled by the wild asses’ charging momentum, broke free from the reins I held and bolted away. So I chased after them. The more I pursued them, the faster they fled. Being in that vast plain, I circled round and round following their tracks but couldn’t catch up. The sheep were astonishingly swift runners. Since I was racing against them, the wild asses—delighted by the commotion—began circling around us, making it impossible for the sheep to halt. I had grown utterly exhausted and finally teetered on collapse. Yet abandoning them was unthinkable—I even discarded my staff and ran with desperate vigor. Still they evaded capture. With no alternative, I collapsed where I stood and let them flee unchecked for a time. Losing the sheep meant losing my food supplies—yet there was no help for it. When I fixed them with an unblinking stare, the wild asses too stood motionless watching. Then the sheep likewise halted and stared back. Ah—this was indeed my failing. They’d fled because I’d chased them recklessly. A madman pursuing what’s called madness—I rested then, acknowledging the folly.

Strange Behavior of Wild Asses and the Sheep's Flight After a while, when I quietly went to seize the sheep’s reins, this time they were caught without any trouble. That was all well and good, but one side of a sheep’s load had either fallen off somewhere or disappeared entirely. That contained the most important things for me, so thinking "This is a problem," I pulled the sheep along while circling around here and there, thoroughly searching the area. This was quite a messy business—having chased after them without knowing how far I’d run or where I’d searched, I had absolutely no idea where to look.

It was like having cast something into the sea—I could find no trace of it. What it contained was a watch, a compass, forty or fifty Indian silver rupees, along with an eating bowl, dried grapes, and numerous Western trinkets that would astonish people if given as gifts. At this I paused to reflect: I must already be nearing Lake Manasarovar, where encounters with others grew imminent. Carrying such Western articles would only invite suspicion and court disaster—perhaps the Buddha himself had willed their loss. Since I'd lost only this one bundle containing chiefly foreign goods, there seemed little purpose in searching further. True, the missing silver posed some difficulty, but those coins had been set aside merely for immediate needs—no great hardship after all. Thus resolved, I ceased my search. After rearranging the sheep's loads once more, I pressed gradually northwestward into the mountains. Yet this proved an immense alpine wilderness; having traversed some two and a half ri, the path began descending through flatlands where I steadily covered another half ri.

I emerged onto Lake Manasarovar's bypath to find a single trail stretching before me. "This is peculiar," I thought, and upon recalling earlier accounts I had heard, realized this must be a detour branching from Tibet's main road toward Lake Manasarovar. Ah, this was fortuitous.

Thinking I might now encounter people, I gradually pressed onward until I came upon a large black tent at the edge of a great river. I promptly headed there and requested, "As someone of my sort, I humbly ask for lodging for one night," whereupon they very kindly allowed me to stay. They too were pilgrims, with five companions—two women and three men among them. The men were all brothers, one woman was a brother’s wife, and another was a daughter—which put my mind at ease. Having heard that pilgrims accompanied by women generally do not kill people, I concluded it was probably safe.

However, those people came from a country known as the true home of bandits. When I asked where exactly this "home ground" was, I heard it referred to people from Dam Gyasho near Kam, which stirred some apprehension. For in the proverbs of that region: "If you do not kill, you cannot eat; if you do not visit temples, your sins will not be expiated. Killing people as they go, visiting temples as they go; killing people as they go, visiting temples as they go—advance, advance!" People from a land with such sayings—where even women consider killing others as casually as slaughtering sheep—were not ones around whom one could easily lower their guard. Yet having already arrived there—like stepping into a tiger's maw—escape was utterly impossible. If I were to be killed, I resolved there was nothing to do but become rust upon those pilgrims' blades and accept my fate with equanimity.

Chapter 31: The Myth of Anavatapta Lake (Part 1) Though I had resolved to become rust upon the pilgrims' blades, I could not simply lie down as I was. After speaking at length about the pilgrims and the temple's sacred affairs, I finally managed to sleep deeply that night.

The following day was none other than August 3rd. Since the five pilgrims were also heading in their intended direction, the next morning we set out together toward the northwest, proceeding along a large river. The river flows out from the southeastern snow peak and empties into Lake Manasarovar. It was about two chō (approximately 218 meters) wide and appeared quite deep.

After traveling approximately one and a half ri and climbing up the mountain, I found a crystal-clear sacred spring. That spring was called Chumik Ganga (translated as "Source of the Ganges"). After drinking water there and climbing the northern mountain, I came upon a large white marble formation. Beneath this marble-like rocky mass lay another great sacred spring. It was named Chumik Tongaa Ranchun (Natural Spring of Joyous Sight). Just as its name suggested, I felt truly delighted to behold it, and a natural surge of joy welled up within me.

Since a jewel-like sacred spring was gushing forth from within the marble, my heart truly could not contain its joy. All of these were the primary source waters of India's Ganges River. This water was said to be true sacred water and had been passed down among Tibetans and Indians. Leaving that place, I gradually proceeded northwest until reaching the riverbank, where I crossed at the river's widest point. After crossing, I spent another night there, though that day I had walked only about three and a half ri.

When I gazed far into the northwestern sky, a great snow peak stood towering. That peak is what in Tibetan is called Kang Rinpoche, and in India, it is known as Mount Kailas. In ancient times, it was called Kang Tise. That snow peak was such that it is called the world’s sacred site, gathering the essence of the Himalayan snow mountains, truly—

It forms a natural mandala. Facing toward that sacred site, I first repented my sinful karma and performed 108 prostrations; then I recited aloud the twenty-six vows I had prepared beforehand and made my pledges. A feeling arose within me—what immeasurable fortune it was to be able to make vows before such an august sacred site—and in that moment I composed this poem: Of all trials of hardship endured,

May this be the path to save others. However, when the people I had stayed with the previous night asked, "Why did you perform such prostrations and recite Chinese texts?" I explained part of its significance to them. They were greatly impressed and rejoiced immensely, moved to tears of sympathetic joy, exclaiming, "Are Chinese monks truly so profoundly devoted to moral virtue—that is, bodhicitta?" That night, they pleaded, "Please give us a sermon," so I explained the teachings to them in an easily understandable manner. They greatly rejoiced, exclaiming, "How fortunate we are to have met such a venerable one! For these two months of circumambulating Kang Rinpoche, we wish to serve you." They began telling one another that by doing so, their sins would be expiated. At least now I could rest assured. How truly precious the Buddhist teachings are. That people who regarded killing others as casually as cutting radishes could come to appreciate Buddhism's value and wish to undertake ascetic practices together was truly splendid—I too shed tears of joy alongside their overflowing tears. The following day, after proceeding about five ri through undulating mountains of moderate height, the distant snow peak called Manri stood towering ahead. This peak rises above sea level,

Anavatapta Lake and Mount Kailas

A snow peak of 25,600 shaku stood majestically above undulating mountains—a truly magnificent sight. As we reached that area, lightning flashed incessantly across the sky while thunderclaps roared deafeningly enough to split our ears. Simultaneously, gritty hail began pelting down, harmonizing with the thunderous peals that shook heaven and earth with such force the snow peak itself seemed ready to burst apart. The sublime terror and exhilarating intensity of that fearsome spectacle nearly defied description, and I found myself rejoicing greatly at having advanced to that awe-inspiring sacred site in self-forgetful rapture. How could I possibly describe it? The state of things at that moment remains unforgettable in its profound exhilaration. Within less than an hour, that ferocious intensity ceased abruptly. Then—as if scrubbed clean—Manri Snow Peak reappeared in its former majesty, mere fragments of white clouds now darting before its slopes while sunlight shone as brightly as before. This miraculous transformation left me utterly astonished.

The ever-shifting spectacle of such circumstances was indeed so profoundly moving that I myself could scarcely endure the emotion.

Then, advancing a little further, I reached the edge of what seemed like a pond or marsh and lodged there together with the party. Never had I felt such joy as I did in that moment. When lodging, I could properly sleep inside the tent, was given the seat of honor, and had neither need to collect yak dung nor trouble to fetch water. My work was to sit still reading sutras and practicing zazen, and at night I would give them sermons. With just those duties keeping my mind at ease, I felt my body had grown considerably stronger. Now, since the following day—August 6th—required crossing an extremely steep slope, this time I heeded their advice—"Riding this yak will make crossing the slope much easier, so please mount it"—and was treated with great hospitality. Not only had the members of the party carried all my luggage, but they had even lightened the sheep’s burden for me. Thus, after advancing about five ri, I reached the edge of the aforementioned

I arrived at the edge of Lake Manasarovar. The splendor of this scenery was truly as I beheld it now—a grand, majestic spectacle of purity and divinity vividly manifesting before me along the lakeshore. The lake's shape resembled an eight-petaled lotus in full bloom, its contours undulating like the sinuous surface of the sacred Yata Mirror, while waters of crystalline clarity reflected the azure sky above, emitting a light as pure as polished crystal. Then across the vast expanse from my position at the northwestern edge rose Mount Kailas' sacred peak, towering majestically against the cerulean void while smaller snow-capped summits layered themselves around it like clustered jewels. The scene appeared as if five hundred arhats

The scene appeared as if they were gathered around Shakyamuni Buddha listening to his sermon. Indeed, that this formed a natural mandala could also be discerned through its shape. When I arrived there, all manner of hardships—the trials of starvation and thirst, near-death river crossings, freezing on snow peaks, bearing heavy burdens, traversing desolate plains alone, and the exhaustion and wounds upon my body—were utterly washed away by these sacred waters, leaving me in a refreshed state where I seemed to forget myself. This sacred site of Lake Manasarovar (Heart Lake) is the highest lake in the world, its surface truly lying over 15,500 shaku (approximately 15,446 feet) above sea level. In Tibetan this lake is called Mapham Yumtso (Unconquerable Mother Lake). In Sanskrit it is known as Anavatapta Pool, while its Chinese translation designates it as the Wu-re [No-affliction] Pool—a renowned body of water. (The name Jambunada gold from Jambudvīpa also derives from this lake.) Buddhism offers various explanations about this lake, with the Avatamsaka Sutra in fact providing a poetic description of it. The manner of that exposition is truly fascinating. According to it, the origin of the name Jambudvīpa—by which certain regions of India and Tibet are known—also stems from this lake. Jambu represents the sound "jambu." This sound arose because there stands a great treasure tree at the lake's center bearing fruit upon its branches.

The fruit was like a wish-fulfilling jewel, and for devas and asuras alike, obtaining it brought immense joy. Yet when this fruit ripened and fell into the water, it made a "jambu" sound. The Indian region came to be called Jambu Province through its connection to this aquatic resonance—a name explained by the ancient belief that India's four great rivers sprang from this very lake. These rivers bore Tibetan names: Tamchok Kambab ("descending from a horse's mouth") flowing eastward; Mapcha Kambab ("descending from a peacock's mouth") southward; Lanchen Kambab ("descending from an elephant's mouth") westward; and Sengé Kambab ("descending from a lion's mouth") northward. Four mouths lay at the lake's cardinal points, from which these mighty currents had poured into India. Since these waters nourished the land, it seemed only natural to name the entire region after their source—thus Jambu Province. To this day, Indians revere these rivers as sacred vessels of divine spirit. Even according to the sutras' poetic accounts,

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 those rivers were said to circle seven times around this lake before flowing away in the aforementioned directions. Though invisible to the eye now, within this lake bloomed a great lotus—its size akin to those in the Pure Land—and upon this lotus dwelled both bodhisattvas and buddhas. Moreover, in the nearby mountains grew a hundred herbs while kalavinka birds sang of the Pure Land's Three Jewels. As for its beauty,

Not only was it the world's sole Pure Land, but within Mount Kailas standing on the river's northwestern shore were said to dwell living bodhisattvas and buddhas, along with the Five Hundred Arhats residing there in their living forms. Moreover, on Manri—a sacred peak along the southern shore—there were said to dwell five hundred living sages who indulged in supreme heavenly pleasures within this Southern Jambu region. With many such explanations existing, I found myself truly longing to visit such places when reading these accounts. Yet when I actually came to see for myself, none of these descriptions proved accurate. Still, the grand and pure scenery I had previously described did indeed exist, marking this as a sacred site. A profound feeling arose that this was a mystical divine realm. That night, a bright moon shone in the azure sky, its reflection shimmering upon Mapham Yumtso's waters while Mount Kailas sat imposingly beyond like a meditating Buddha. The mysteriously sublime scene nearly stole away my very soul—even now when it surfaces in memory, I feel unable to bear this sensation as if all dust in my heart were being cleansed away.

Chapter 32: The Mythology of Anavatapta Pool (Part 2)

Captivated by the magnificent view of Lake Manasarovar, the source of the Four Great Rivers, I composed a poem to commemorate the occasion.

How joyous to behold the eastern eight-span mirror within the Anavatapta Pool of snow-capped mountains!

How pure the peaks of Chise in the Himalayas, their shadows dwelling in Anavatapta Pool

The moon lodging over Lake Sarwa in the Himalayas—could it be the shadow of Akashi Bay? Now while the Four Great Rivers are poetically described in this manner, in truth none of them actually flow directly from the lake. That is to say, since they originate from mountains surrounding the lake, nowhere can one see them flowing from this lake's so-called "horse's mouth" or "lion's mouth." Of course, this applies to the sources of those Four Great Rivers as well. The sources of Lanchen Kambab flowing west, Mapcha Kambab flowing south, and Sengé Kambab flowing north are generally known, but where Tamchok Kambab flowing east emerges remains somewhat unclear.

Then in Indian languages they call the eastward-flowing one Brahmaputra. The southward-flowing they call Ganges, the westward Sutlej, and the northward Sita. As for surveys of this Lake Manasarovar—though I cannot say whether Westerners had ever properly measured it—according to maps made by Westerners that I had seen up to then, it was rendered remarkably small. Lake Manasarovar was no such trifling body; its circumference measured approximately eighty ri. As for its shape too—while maps showed some distorted form—it truly appeared exactly as I have just described: like an eight-span mirror with ridged edges forming a lotus shape. It became clear that many maps produced by Westerners contained significant inaccuracies.

That night, I arrived and lodged at a temple called Tsekorou by Lake Manasarovar, but from the head priest of this temple I heard one...

I heard a remarkably fascinating story. This lama was a man of fifty-five or fifty-six who, though uneducated, was extremely gentle and not at all prone to falsehood. As he listened to my discourses on Buddhism, he remarked, “These days I’ve been utterly confounded by our country’s monks’ misconduct.” When I asked what he meant, he explained that while misdeeds by ordinary monks might escape notice, Archu Tsurugu—meaning “Incarnation of Archu”—a renowned lama from one of Lake Manasarovar’s most celebrated temples, had taken a beautiful woman as his wife, diverted all temple assets to her family, and finally absconded with whatever remained. When I pressed for details, he added that Archu was said to have gone to Hortsho—and asked whether I intended to meet him. I was truly astonished. That this lama—who had married the very woman who had shown me kindness—had not only shamelessly funneled temple property to his wife’s kin but fled to the countryside with every last scrap of its wealth left me dumbfounded at how appearances deceive. Since I too cannot bear falsehoods, when I expressed gratitude for their hospitality in sheltering me under such circumstances, he interjected, “Ah, but that lama—for all his gentle, compassionate airs—is a frightfully wicked man.” To call him a bodhisattva’s incarnation was beyond absurd—

A union with beauties amounts to nothing less than demonic incarnation—this I had come to regard as their true nature. The demons who ever devour Buddhism are found precisely among those who don such Buddhist robes, shave their heads, and piously chant sutras and prayers—this he declared with tears streaming down. Hearing this, I grew yet more astonished. In Japanese society, no matter how corrupt monks might become, I thought there surely could not exist such unethical individuals who would embezzle temple funds to support their own wives and their wives' parents. That night I stayed at the temple, and the next day as I went out to the lakeshore—gazing at the scenery in all directions while strolling about—Nepalese and Indian devotees of Hinduism arrived on pilgrimage, performing worship in the lake from around ten in the morning. These were not Buddhists but Hindus, who revere this Lake Manasarovar as a sacred site and worship Mount Kailas visible in the distance as the divine embodiment of Shiva, one of India's three great deities.

Those people, upon seeing me, said, "That person seems to be a venerable lama of the Buddhist teachings," and gave me various rare dried tree fruits. That night, I stayed again at the temple, and the following day, proceeded along the lake northwest into the mountains for approximately four ri until Lake Rakugal came into view ahead. This is called Rakugal Tso in Tibetan and Lake Rakus Tal in English. The shape of the lake somewhat resembled a gourd, though it was considerably smaller than Lake Manasarovar. As I gradually advanced in that direction and climbed about three ri up the mountain, the lake's surface became clearly visible.

Between the two great lakes lying before and behind the mountains—Lake Manasarovar and Lake Rakugal—a mountain range about one ri wide stood like a fence, demarcating their boundaries. In certain parts of these mountains, valleys had formed where water appeared as though it might connect the two lakes. However, since no water actually flowed through, they remained entirely separate. Observing this configuration, Lake Rakugal seemed to have a significantly higher water level than Lake Manasarovar. Later, I heard that during periods of extraordinary rainfall occurring once every ten or fifteen years, the waters of these lakes would merge through the valleys. At such times, it had been proven that water from Lake Rakugal would flow into Lake Manasarovar. This gave rise to an intriguing Tibetan myth portraying Lake Manasarovar as a bride and Lake Rakugal as a groom who visits his spouse once every decade or so. Furthermore, the chronicle of Kān Chīse—that is, Mount Kailash—records that these two lakes lie together like husband and wife, though this description too appears rooted in popular mythology.

Then, while gradually gazing at Lake Rakugal, I descended about five ri through the mountains and arrived at a plain where a large river flowed. It was an extremely deep river with a width of over half a chō. This river must undoubtedly have had places where its width reached three or even five chō if one went to certain locations. This river was none other than what is called the Mapcha Kambab, forming the source of the Ganges River. It flowed southward and onward to the mountain town called Purang on the border between Tibet and India. Then, emerging beyond, it passed straight through the Himalayas and converged with the great flow of the Ganges River coming from Hardahar in India. While modern Indians revere the river flowing from Hardahar as the source of the Ganges, in ancient times there were instances where this Mapcha Kambab had been regarded as its source.

I set up my tent by that riverbank and stayed there for the night. In this area, four or five tents were scattered here and there, but all those people had come from a mountain town called Purang for trade. It was precisely during July and August that nomads and pilgrims would gather here in great numbers to trade, and their trading methods were quite fascinating.

Chapter 33: Mountain Trading Ground

Tibetan Trade Calculation Methods: In Tibet's (remote regions), all transactions were conducted through barter of goods for goods, making purchases with money an exceedingly rare practice. Tibetan inlanders supplied items such as butter, salt, wool, sheep, goats, and yak tails, while Nepalese and Tibetan locals from snowy mountain regions obtained cloth goods, sugar, and woolen fabrics from Indian territories to trade for butter, wool, yak tails and similar commodities, which they then resold to Indian regions. When selling wool or butter however, they occasionally accepted payment in money—typically Indian silver coins. Moreover, the Tibetan method of calculation proved extraordinarily cumbersome, as they employed neither written arithmetic nor abacus reckoning. When performing calculations with prayer beads—even for something as simple as adding two and five—they would first count out two beads and set them aside, then count five beads separately; only after completing this would they painstakingly recount all beads one by one to verify the total of seven. This process naturally required considerable time, yet remained their standard practice—if we demonstrated self-evident arithmetic operations like addition or division, they flatly refused to accept the results. No matter how we attempted to explain, they would invariably produce their prayer beads and begin laborious calculations anew, transforming what took us mere seconds into hour-long ordeals. Consequently, conducting even moderately substantial trade with Tibetans became intensely frustrating. When faced with more intricate calculations,

Black and White Stone Particles and Monk's Shells: They kept white stone particles, black stone particles, and thin bamboo splinter-like objects. When ten white particles accumulated, they converted them into a single black stone particle; when ten black particles amassed, these became one bamboo splinter; ten bamboo splinters transformed into a white monk's shell-like object; and ten of those shells equated to a Tibetan silver coin. Through this method, they performed calculations ranging from tens to hundreds and thousands. While we could complete arithmetic operations—addition, subtraction, multiplication, division—in about an hour through quick reading and counting, four Tibetans laboriously working for three full days on the same calculations made it an excruciatingly roundabout process, one must admit. Since they conducted trade this way, it proved exceedingly time-consuming. I had stayed observing these trading activities for three days when a rather trivial incident arose. The pilgrims who had long accompanied me revered me profoundly. In their excessive veneration and praise,

I found myself being adored by the female pilgrims. Among them, a young girl who had not yet come of age seemed to have developed deep feelings, as she began displaying rather suspicious and peculiar behavior toward me. Therefore, I quickly perceived her intentions. Ah, I see—since it is generally women's nature to admire power or wealth, I concluded that her traveling relatives must have repeatedly extolled this monk's great learning and virtue, causing her to become so carried away that such feelings began to stir within her. Therefore, I promptly erected a barrier against that affection. This barrier consisted of Buddhist principles: I explained to all present—not just that girl alone—that monks must maintain purity to become fields of merit for the world; that those committing impurity would rightly fall into Avīci Hell; that such occurrences stem from profound karmic hindrances; that beautiful young women must vigilantly guard themselves if praised by monks; and that indulging in fleeting pleasures only to endure lasting suffering would prove irrevocable. However, that girl likely did not harbor such malicious intentions as some women who would deceive a monk into leaving the priesthood and make him sell kokera-zushi (a type of pressed sushi) or the like.

That girl was around nineteen years old. She wasn’t exceptionally beautiful but was more attractive than average. There was absolutely no ill intent; rather, since people praised me so excessively, it seemed she had conceived the idea that bringing someone like me back to her hometown would be splendid. Afterward too, I was approached with quite a number of such trivial matters, but having previously struggled considerably with such situations myself, I managed to navigate through them with reasonable tact. Now, this region is called Ngari in Tibetan, which the Chinese phonetically transcribe as Ali. It forms a vast territory extending west to Ladakh and Kunub, with its most renowned site being the mountain town of Purang located south of here. As I mentioned earlier, there exists a magnificent sacred site there said to enshrine three Buddha statues. These are namely Manjushri Bodhisattva, followed by Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva, and then Vajrapani Bodhisattva.

There was a legend that these had been transmitted from Ceylon long ago, but just half a year before my arrival, a great fire had occurred, leaving only Manjushri Bodhisattva among the three statues—the other two having burned down. I wished to make pilgrimage there, but going would mean encountering checkpoint officials and suspicious merchants in the mountain town. Deeming it unnecessary to invite trouble by seeking out flaws where none existed, I resolved not to go. However, my companions went to worship there while I remained behind; during their two-day pilgrimage, I did nothing but practice zazen. After their return, we gradually proceeded westward until reaching Lake Rakugal's western edge, then advanced northeast along its shore. From that vantage point looking west across Lake Rakugal, three islands formed a shape precisely resembling the legs of a trivet. Thus I named them Gotoku Island. Several days later on August 17th, we arrived at a market called Gyaa Nima.

Gyaa Nima Market—this market was a summer market operating for two months, open from July 15th to September 15th according to the solar calendar. Most of these market people were residents of the Himalayan regions within Indian territories, with their counterparts being Tibetans; here, the market appeared remarkably bustling, with about 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 were items of the kind I had previously mentioned—wool, butter, and yak tails—and what Tibetan inlanders purchased likewise remained nothing beyond those same commodities I had already described. I stayed at that market and did some shopping. After remaining there one additional day, I set out the following morning for the market called Gyaa Karuko, retracing my steps westward. This place called Gyaa Nima marked the farthest point I had reached in my northwestern advance.

Up until now, our journey toward the destination had involved taking a wide detour; in truth, after leaving Lhasa behind, we had gradually advanced northwest. However, from this point onward, each step bringing us closer to Tibet's main road simultaneously meant approaching Lhasa once more. Upon arriving at Gyaa Karuko, I stayed there for three or four days. This Gyaa Karuko too had some 150-160 tents, with business conducted even more briskly than at Gyaa Nima. This served as a trading ground between a region of Tibet's northwestern plateau and Himalayan peoples from India. Up to this point, even Indian Himalayans had been permitted by the Tibetan government to come here. At this place called Gyaa Karuko were numerous merchants from Himalayan tribes, among whom was an English-speaking merchant from Milum. When this man secretly invited me under pretext of offering a meal and I went there, he conclusively branded me as a British secret agent.

Chapter 34: Facing Feminine Temptation Having branded me as a “British secret agent,” the man declared: “As I am under your nation’s dominion, I would never act against your interests.” “In return, when you return to India, I ask that you support my business dealings.” I found this proposition dubious, but as our conversation progressed, it became evident he had arbitrarily concluded I was conducting this Tibetan expedition under commission from the British government. When I claimed to be Chinese, he demanded: “If you’re Chinese, do you speak Chinese?” “I know the language,” I boldly asserted... whereupon he summoned someone purportedly versed in Chinese. Though troubled by this development, I recalled my prior encounter with Gyaa Lama in Nepal and resolved to engage calmly—only to discover the man spoke no Chinese whatsoever. I proceeded to vigorously scribble Chinese characters, challenging him: “Can you read this? Can you?” The man laughed dismissively and said, “Enough of this! Let us speak Tibetan.”

Thereupon, that merchant was greatly astonished and said, "So you are Chinese after all! Then it's even better—China is a great nation, and my father currently back home has been to China before. If there's any business advantage you could provide us, I would ask that you grant it." As I wrote out land deeds and other documents in English while stating, "I am here for this purpose," his demeanor appeared genuinely intent on revealing truth to me rather than attempting deception, so I too considered the matter. Since this person was returning to India, I should have him send a letter from there. I could not write the details, but I wanted Venerable Sarat Chandra Das in India to know that I had come this far into Tibet’s interior, to Gyaa Karuko. Not only that, but I had also conceived the idea of having Venerable Sarat Chandra Das inform Mr. Tokujūrō Hiede of Sakai and Mr. Ichirō Itō that I was still alive. When I mentioned the matter of the letter, he promptly agreed to handle it.

First Correspondence to the Homeland: There, I enclosed a letter bound for Japan inside one addressed to Venerable Sarat Chandra Das of Darjeeling, India, securely sealed it, gave the man a certain amount of money, and had him dispatch it. When I later returned and inquired of Messrs. Hiede and Itō, that letter had indeed arrived. He appeared to be quite a reliable person. Then, while staying there, the two sheep I had been leading for a long time ended up disappearing. While it was claimed that the sheep had simply wandered off somewhere, in truth, it could be surmised that the youngest brother of the three siblings—a rather unscrupulous man driven by desire for money—had stolen and sold them. Yet I maintained an air of complete ignorance, thinking to myself that letting go of such a trifling matter would be acceptable.

Now then, the most troublesome matter proved to be the girl called Dawa—meaning 'moon'—whom I had previously mentioned. In Tibet, those born on Monday are generally named Dawa, those born on Friday Pasan, and those born on Sunday Nima. The detailed circumstances I shall relate later. That

Facing Feminine Temptation The girl named Dawa skillfully approached me with various matters. It seemed wholeheartedness indeed gives rise to clever methods, for she gradually began speaking only of the good things about her hometown. Her mother was an exceedingly compassionate and kind person. In her hometown, there were around 150 to 160 yaks and approximately four hundred sheep. Truly an abundant livelihood—they led a truly blissful livelihood with Chachan Pemma. She had been giving various explanations—from being an only daughter who had yet to find a husband to her liking—and so on. The term Chachan Pemma means alternately drinking tea and alcohol; in Tibet, they considered the supreme pleasure to be alternating between that butter-infused tea and weak barley-made liquor. This was something that could not be done unless one was very wealthy. Moreover, their social mores not only tended toward indulging in the pleasures of butter tea and liquor but also regarded them as virtually life’s very purpose. To express the ultimate state of pleasure in ordinary society, the single term "Chachan Pemma" sufficed. This may seem like a slight digression, but this...

The method of preparing butter tea was fascinating. Into a wooden barrel measuring about three shaku in length, they put butter, tea water, and salt. Then, using a stick whose tip was rounded like a mushroom cap to match the barrel's dimensions, they would churn it up and down with whooshing sounds—the motion resembling that of operating a Japanese ryūdosui pump handle. The force required was tremendous, something we could never manage. During this churning up and down, the tea and butter became blended through friction to produce a kind of tea broth. Tibetans said they could discern whether it would turn out tasty or unpalatable by the quality of the sounds made during this churning motion. Returning to our story, Dawa persistently emphasized not only that her household was in such favorable circumstances but also that in her region, even lamas all had wives. That lamas had wives and lived joyfully in this world was truly commendable, and I thought it was indeed a clever way for those people to pass their days so pleasantly. "Why won't you become my partner?" she pressed, her words stopping just short of declaring, "You're a fool." At that very moment, I suddenly recalled something.

Recalling Shakyamuni at Bodh Gaya: When Shakyamuni Buddha sat serenely upon the Vajra Seat at Bodh Gaya, certain to attain Buddhahood, the Great Demon King Māra grew fearful and dispatched his three daughters. They assailed him with every manner of temptation - through gestures, glances, and all forms of sensual allure - exhausting what were known in that age as the thirty-two methods of seduction. Yet Shakyamuni Buddha remained unmoved. Thereupon those daughters sang a song. As this song conveyed matters akin to what Dawa had told me, I shall here attempt to relate them through translation from Tibetan scriptures.

O gentle lord of comely grace—your form like swaying patrinia flowers, With lips fragrant of wondrous song, Blissful master of love’s embrace— In my homeland’s paradise beyond compare, No joy surpasses what I offer here. To spurn such bliss would mark you as a fool, No greater folly exists beneath this sphere. This was their song. Though I—unlike Shakyamuni Tathagata who attained enlightenment—was undoubtedly a fool already, I resolved to become an even greater fool if needed, straining with single-minded determination to reject her advances. Yet somehow I found myself in a predicament worthy of fiction, feeling more pity for the girl’s earnest heart than resolve in my own. At that moment, I composed this verse:

Let me become a fool surpassing fools, The shrewd heart that lures toward desire Yet the girl grew increasingly emboldened, her gestures ever more overt in urging me to accept her proposal. At that moment, her parents and siblings having all gone to market—leaving only the girl and myself in the tent—she seized this opportune time to press her suit with mounting persistence. I was adjusting my footwear then. As I tended to my sandals, I endured her ceaseless entreaties. It was utterly vexing. Though no man of stone or root—and thus not wholly impervious to stirrings—the knowledge that such folly would betray my sacred vows and invite dread before Shakyamuni Tathagata's gaze left my heart's depths entirely undisturbed. "However splendid your household may be," I addressed the girl, "can you say whether the mother left in that fine home yet draws breath or lies cold in death?" "Do you even know this?" I fired back sharply. At this, the girl's face contorted in profound astonishment.

Chapter 35: Evading Feminine Temptation

“Admonishing the Woman with Mystical Means” The girl looked startled. “I don’t know whether she’s alive or dead.” “It’s been about a year since I left home, traveling around like this with Father.” “My mother was ill when we left, so I begged her through tears to stay alive until I returned—but now I don’t know how she fares,” she said. Seizing this opening, I replied with deliberate gravity: “Hmm, so you don’t know? You think your home is splendid and grand, but *I* know exactly whether your mother lives or dies.” At this, her amorous feelings abruptly transformed into dread and melancholy, as she began to fear her mother might already be dead.

In Tibet particularly, the notion that lamas possess supernatural powers had become a superstition among laypeople; thus they projected this same delusion onto me as well, abruptly altering their emotional stance. At this I first felt reassured, and said, “Well now, it’s not that your mother has necessarily died, but in this world, it’s unclear whether she will die before you or you before her. I don’t know whether I’ll die tomorrow either.” “In such a perilous, impermanent world,” I earnestly admonished, “to regard trivial pleasures as supreme bliss is truly an absurd notion.” Then she pleaded, “Tell me the truth—is my mother back home dead or alive?”

She burst into tears. This was somewhat troublesome, but after I somehow managed to navigate the situation, the girl became entirely absorbed in thoughts of her mother and completely forgot about me. I felt greatly relieved. After staying there several days, we departed together on August 26th and headed northeast—the entire area being a marshland with patches of shallow water visible here and there. After advancing about one ri, we encountered an extremely deep marsh. When I attempted to measure it with my staff, the staff wouldn't find solid footing. Judging this marsh utterly impassable, we turned back again, retreated about half a ri, then took an eastward path and proceeded. This time we found what seemed a river flowing from the marsh; after crossing three of its channels and traveling roughly four ri, we left the marshlands behind and reached the mountains. There we stayed that night.

In that area, many people traveled back and forth for trade to Gyaa Nima and Gyaa Karko, their tents dotting the landscape here and there. Since it was said one should undertake ascetic practices in such circumstances, I performed the mendicant's discipline. Though offerings were meager, visiting five or six households yielded enough food for a day. The next day too, wherever possible I practiced this ascetic begging, spending each evening delivering sermons. These teachings proved remarkably effective in softening my companions' hearts. Had it been otherwise, I would surely have been slain by those very people. Yet for now, such mortal fears rarely arose. For this area teemed with travelers, and even its uninhabited stretches were hallowed ground where none—however violent—would dare commit robbery or hunt once entering these sacred precincts. Thus while we remained safe within this spiritual realm, I knew we'd face certain peril upon leaving it—making thorough moral instruction imperative. For these reasons I preached with utmost vigor. My words were also received with great delight.

Now, on August 28th, as we crossed an undulating mountain range stretching about eight ri, there was not a single drop of water to be found. I had managed only a single cup of tea before departure and couldn't even eat roasted barley. Though my throat burned with thirst, compared to when it had dried before—

I did not find the hardship comparable to having endured the torments of the Hungry Ghost realm. So that evening I arrived at the upper reaches of the Lanchen Khambab. This Lanchen Khambab—called “River Storage” in English—is, as I previously mentioned, the source of a river flowing far westward into India where it joins the Shita River to form the Indus before emptying into the Arabian Sea. Yet according to local explanations, this river originates from Lake Manasarovar. When I countered, “But Lake Manasarovar is entirely surrounded by mountains—there’s nowhere for a river to emerge,” they responded: “True enough, but this river’s source springs from crags east of Chukor Gompa Temple northwest of Mount Kailash—water that comes directly from Lake Manasarovar itself.” Their explanation held that it flows out from Lake Manasarovar as a hidden river in this direction.

Admittedly, it was a somewhat intriguing notion, but when I considered the elevation levels and realized this river appeared to flow from a point higher than Lake Manasarovar’s surface, I found myself unable to admire the locals’ explanation. And so, arriving at the edge of that river, we pitched our tent as was our custom and stayed there. The following day being when we would visit the renowned sacred site called Pretapuri in this area, we left behind all our luggage including the tent and two caretakers there, then set out—the four of us being myself, the girl, her relative, and another woman. So, descending westward along the Lanchen Khambab, when we passed through an area where large rocks continued for about three chō, there was another river flowing in from the north. Since there are three such rivers in that area, they are called Tokpo Lapsang (meaning "Three Channels of Companion Rivers"). After crossing that single channel and ascending a slope of about one chō, there was an extremely vast plain. On that plain,

There was a thicket of thorns resembling a tea plantation. When I surveyed it, a notion arose as if I had visited the tea fields of Uji, making me profoundly long for my homeland. Then, gradually advancing a little over half a ri, we encountered another river. This one too bore the same name as its predecessor; we crossed it only to find the depth again reaching our waists, both channels bitterly cold. As it carried flowing ice, we froze terribly. We tried climbing upward and progressing gradually but found ourselves utterly unable to advance. Turning to my three companions, I said: “I need to rest here awhile. Since I can’t walk without applying moxibustion first, I’d like you all to go ahead.” They were meant to complete their pilgrimage that day and return to guard our belongings while I stayed overnight at the sacred site. When I explained that they could simply ask directions along this route if needed, they went ahead. However much I prided myself on rigorous training, I simply couldn’t match Tibetans’ physical robustness and swift gait. My legs refused to move, making walking with them truly impossible—so I declined. Taking out matches and moxa wool, I applied moxibustion to my legs’ three-li points until they began feeling considerably lighter. After resting there an hour, I gradually proceeded two ri westward until the plain ended; following the river downstream revealed a temple in the distance. It stood truly magnificent with its stone mani platform—a structure resembling linked railway carriages. These platforms exist not only here but proliferate throughout the Himalayan mountains. Especially in those peaks...

There were strange birds whose calls sounded exactly like steam whistles. Seeing the mani platform resembling a train, I suddenly recalled those birds—though no steam-whistle birds inhabit this area—and felt as though I had emerged into the lands of a civilized nation.

Chapter 36: Circumambulation of the Natural Mandala (Part 1)

The majestic mountain temple made me feel as though I had entered a truly civilized land. Looking ahead, I saw a main hall, monks' quarters, and numerous stone pagoda-like structures standing imposingly splendid. In the Tibetan highlands, constructing stone buildings proves extraordinarily difficult and costly; yet this place called Pretapuri (City of Hungry Ghosts) earned its name when Pandita Atisha came from India long ago to transmit authentic Buddhism's essence to this land—bestowing upon it this designation meaning "City of Hungry Ghosts." Now this strikes me as a most curious name—but just what are Tibetans—

They should be called dung-eating hungry ghosts—well, among all the races I have seen or heard of, I think there are none as filthy as they. Of course, such customs have remained unchanged from ancient times to the present, and since conditions were just as filthy when Pandita Atisha visited, it appears he bestowed upon it the name "City of Dung-Eating Hungry Ghosts." Since Tibetans are unaware of the meaning in the Indian language term, they proudly declare their gratitude that Pandita Atisha bestowed such a venerable name upon their town. Then temples were erected and various revered lamas—holy ones—gathered here. After that, a lama of the Drukpa Kagyu school named Gyalwa Götsangpa established a complete training hall at this site. And so it still stands to this day, with four or five monks' quarters. I arrived at one of those quarters and borrowed lodging. And then my companions, who had gone ahead, had already completed their pilgrimage and returned. After finishing lunch at that lodging, I requested the temple’s monks to guide me to the sacred sites. The main hall they first took me to was approximately four ken in frontage and five ken in depth—a stone structure built remarkably sturdy. It was not constructed as a two- or three-story building like other Tibetan-style temples. It was a single-story building, but within it, what was most reverently enshrined was

They were portraits of Shakyamuni Buddha and Lobon Rinpoche, founder of Tibetan Buddhism's ancient Nyingma school. Regarding this Lobon Rinpoche, there were truly so many unspeakably strange matters that I cannot discuss today, but he was such a bizarre figure in Buddhism that even Japan's most degenerate monks would surely marvel at his deeds. Now, seeing these two enshrined solemnly side by side, I felt an indescribable revulsion. For Lobon Rinpoche was a heinous criminal who assumed the guise of a demonic monk to corrupt true Buddhism. The Sumeru altar enshrining them had a curtain hung beneath. They claimed there was a truly sacred object behind that curtain, saying they would show it for one tangka (equivalent to twenty-five sen). I promptly paid twenty-five sen and had them show it to me. They explained it was the natural imprint left when Lobon Rinpoche, founder of the ancient sect, had faced this rock upon visiting the area.

Of course, Tibetans do not fix their gaze and stare unabashedly at the statue. They hold the foolish belief that since it resembles a living Buddha, staring at it too intently will cause their own eyes to burst. I examined it thoroughly and clearly understood that it had been crafted by an ancient deceitful monk who carved the rock and applied crude pigments. Had it been crafted with great artistry to appear naturally imprinted—even as an artificial object—detecting its artifice would have proven difficult to our eyes. Yet since Tibet is a country where artistic techniques remain undeveloped, this statue too was crudely fashioned. Therefore, its artificial nature was quickly discovered. That such cunning schemes—using these things to deceive people and extract money—were being carried out in Tibet, a country where Buddhism flourishes, struck me as truly bizarre. I had heard there were many demonic monks in Japan and similar places who engaged in such deeds, but when I considered how Tibetan monks and Japanese monks alike uniformly performed these acts to deceive the ignorant masses, I truly could not help lamenting for the sake of Buddhism.

Natural sacred site. Yet this training ground was remarkably well-suited by nature, as evidenced by the Tibetan proverb: "If one does not visit Pretapuri, one has not truly encountered Chise Snow Peak; unless one circumambulates Korgyal Lake, Anavatapta Lake remains unvisited."

To the extent that such a saying exists, it was an exceedingly venerable sacred site. The meaning of this proverb was that even if one made a pilgrimage to Chise Snow Peak, unless one visited this Pretapuri, it could not be considered a true pilgrimage to Chise Snow Peak. It meant that even were you to circumambulate Anavatapta Lake, it counted for nothing unless you also circumambulated Korgyal Lake lying southeast of that Anavatapta Lake. From its natural appearance too, it formed quite an impressive sacred site, with the great Ranchen Kambab River flowing majestically westward below. Across the river on the opposite bank rose strange rock walls in layered formations, their colors manifesting various hues—yellow or red, a truly refreshing blue, then green, and tints faintly tinged with purple. They displayed indescribably beautiful patterns as though brushed by rainbow hues or misty veils. Particularly being rocks, the sharpness of their towering forms contrasted with their beauty to appear strikingly fascinating. Near the temple on this side there also existed natural

There were numerous strange rocks and bizarre crags taking on various forms. The foolish monks had assigned these rocks names like Demon-Subduing Stone, stone statues of Horse-Headed Myōō and his consort, Chise Snow Peak's effigy, Avalokiteshvara's natural image, and Kāśyapa Buddha's great stupa—bestowing such seemingly plausible titles to beguile the ignorant masses. However, still agitated from seeing Lobon Rinpoche's fabrication earlier, I found myself unable to appreciate this magnificent natural scenery, with every word from the guide monk grating on my nerves until I nearly felt like thrashing him—yet ultimately I listened to each explanation without protest. From Divine Rock Cave, following the river downstream some two chō, there stood roughly three large hot springs.

There were also two or three small hot springs, some of which were so extremely hot that one couldn't touch them. I didn't know the exact temperature, but they were indeed hot springs exceeding 100 degrees Celsius. There were none that felt particularly cold. All were transparent clear water. Then in that area there were crystallized deposits from the hot spring's mineral components. When observing the colors of these crystallized deposits, there were white ones, red ones, green ones, blue ones, and so forth. They had all solidified in a manner resembling hardened lime. And pilgrims took these home, saying they were medicinal substances from the sacred site. Indeed, they would likely serve as some kind of medicine. After hearing all these various explanations, I again lodged at the temple that night, spent the night in zazen meditation, and set out on the return journey the following morning.

Losing the Path on the Plateau: In that vast plain—how exactly had I lost my way?—no matter how far I walked, I could not reach where the river lay. This is truly strange—I should have reached the riverbank in at least three hours, but even after walking for five hours now, there’s still no sign of the river. As I observed more closely, I realized I was heading toward the northern mountains. Realizing this was dire, I changed course and proceeded in a southeastern direction. Then I arrived at the river. As I was crossing that river, dusk fell without me having eaten any food that day. Later, when I heard about it, the people at the tents had been greatly worried, saying, "That lama must have been taken by the water and died," and when dusk approached as I returned one by one, the young woman came out leading sheep. When they saw me, they were overjoyed and said, "We thought you must have died! We were just about to go search for you." The following day as well, I proceeded toward the eastern mountains and arrived at the plain northeast of Rakgar Lake and northwest of Manasarovar Lake. This plain was the plateau of the great snow peak Chise; proceeding south from there for about one and a half ri toward the lake brought me to Tarchen Tarsam. From Chise Snow Peak, where the plateau slopes into a gently inclined plain, it forms a triangular-shaped plain that gradually lowers as if mountains were streaming down toward the lake. That night we stayed there and resolved that from here we would finally make our pilgrimage to the great Chise Snow Peak.

Chapter 37: The Natural Mandala Circuit (Part 2)

Route: However, during that night's discussion, those people would not consent to circle this Chise Snow Peak together. They said they would each make the circuit separately. The reason was that during their four or five days here, those people wanted to circle this mountain three times. And the circuit path spanned over twenty ri (approximately 78.5 kilometers). Since I couldn’t possibly circle over twenty ri in a single day and return with those people, I would have to stay somewhere and make my pilgrimage gradually. However, those people would rise at midnight and continue circling until around eight o'clock the following evening, thus aiming to complete approximately three circuits during their typical five-day stay. The daughters had also circled it twice. I was truly astonished.

Since one circuit would suffice for me, I first shouldered four or five days' provisions and set out along that pilgrimage route. To clarify what this circuit entailed: at the center of Chise Snow Peak stood the snow peak embodying Shakyamuni Buddha's form, encircled by peaks representing celestial deities and bodhisattvas, with those symbolizing the Five Hundred Arhats forming the outermost ring. A path traced around this outer perimeter. This circuit route contained such steep slopes that at times one nearly had to ascend to the mountain's summit. Yet through these peaks wound a complete looping path. This was called Chikor (meaning "outer circuit"). Then came Palkor—the second circuit—and Nangyi Kor ("inner circuit"), said to be traversable only by gods or buddhas. The standard practice was Chikor; those completing twenty-one circuits gained permission for Palkor. Lying within heretical sect territory, its paths were well-established yet perilously rugged—impassable for ordinary folk. Many sections reportedly became blocked by snowdrifts or rockfalls. Nangyi Kor teemed with myths as insubstantial as grasping clouds. Upon reaching that Chikor, I first visited temples from the conventional approach. At each cardinal direction along this circuit stood one temple. These were collectively named...

the Four Great Temples of Chise Snow Peak. I first visited Nyenbo Lhakhang, a temple enshrining Amitabha Buddha located at the western corner. This temple had the highest revenue among all in this sacred site. While temples enshrining Amida Buddha in Japan similarly tend to have substantial incomes, it struck me as peculiar that even here in Tibet such circumstances prevailed, making it a place of remarkable financial significance. It was said that within merely three summer months, this temple's revenue amounted to approximately ten thousand yen. For such a frost-scorched land, this had to be deemed an extraordinary income. All of it was paid to the King of Bhutan. This seemed curious. The temple complex of Chise Snow Peak lay entirely under Bhutanese jurisdiction. Though one might assume this mountain should naturally belong under the Tibetan Dharma King's domain, due to the extensive historical involvement of Bhutanese Drukpa sect monks with this peak, its governance was considered to have consequently been transferred to Bhutan. Upon entering the temple and beholding Amitabha Tathagata, I saw this Buddha had been fashioned from pure white gemstone with lustrous brilliance. As Tibetan craftsmanship went, it had been executed with exceptional skill. The countenance had been rendered in distinctly Tibetan style with such gentle delicacy that one felt profound reverence. Before it stood two erected elephant tusks. They measured about five shaku in length and were remarkably thick. Circling around behind it, I found one hundred volumes from the Buddhist section of the Tibetan Canon placed on bookshelves. These scriptures were not arranged there for reading purposes, but rather for offering votive lamps

They were placed there for the purpose of making ritual offerings. It was truly absurd—sutras are prepared to be read, yet making ritual offerings by lighting votive lamps before them was exceedingly strange. Of course, if there were people who treated sutras carelessly, using them as tissues or waste paper, one would have to say they lacked common sense; however, making votive lamp offerings was also quite unusual. Still, compared to Japanese temple buildings that stored sutras in their scripture halls without ever reading them, merely offering votive lamps seemed more considerate. I paid my respects to that Amitabha Tathagata, recited one volume of the Amitabha Sutra, then inquired about the temple's sacred sites and departed. From there lay what was truly the pure realm within this natural mandala. Its name was Serushun—that is,

It was called the Golden Valley. Of course there was no gold there—only strange and marvelous rock walls standing toweringly austere as though cleaving through empty space. Beyond those rock walls emerged a jewel-like snow peak. The mere sight of its form evoked such overwhelming valor that one could scarcely endure it—yet from between those sword-like rocks piercing the azure sky cascaded several waterfalls plunging a thousand shaku. I found that spectacle utterly beyond comparison. Though many waterfalls were visible—some with considerable breadth—selecting only the largest among them numbered about seven. The peculiarity of their forms defied description—

Seven Waterfalls of Kailash Snow Peak From the thousand-ren snow peak came a majestic sight as if a flood dragon had leapt forth and plunged beneath the rocks. There were waterfalls that descended like unfurling cloth and others that meandered like flowing white banners. For some time I sat motionless there, gazing at this scenic beauty until entranced, I entered a state of blank selflessness. Thus I tentatively named these seven waterfalls the Seven Dragons of Chise Snow Peak. It was truly delightful. Though waterfalls cascaded and snow peaks rose on the path's left side too, they paled before the spectacle on the right. I thought enduring all those hardships had been worthwhile just to behold this view. At this point I desperately wanted to compose verse, yet nothing came. Then as I gradually circled the mountain, I reached what might be called the northern direction from its central axis.

There stood a monastery called Ri-Ra-Puri (meaning "Place of the Yak's Horn"). This name derived from the legend that Vajravarahi transformed herself into a yak to guide the first lama who came to pilgrimage this mountain; having completed her guidance, she concealed herself within a rocky cavern. As she hid, one horn struck against the rocks and broke off, remaining there to give the site its name. This temple ranked second only to Amitabha Temple in revenue and housed more monks than the previous one—though even so, it held merely fifteen residents. The former temple had contained no more than four. When I arrived at dusk seeking lodging, a man resembling the temple steward—who had come to trust me greatly—opened his private quarters. "This room affords an excellent view of Chise Snow Peak," he said, "and at night reveals an exceptionally beautiful moon. Please rest here." Delighted, I settled into the room where he prepared tea for me. Having mentioned I took no evening meals, he prepared the tea with extra butter, skillfully blending it.

Then the steward explained to me about the mountain standing far across from us. "The great snow peak towering at the center south of its gate is none other than Chise Snow Peak - that is to say, the very embodiment of Shakyamuni Buddha. The small snow peak to the east before it manifests Manjushri Bodhisattva. The central one represents Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva, while the western peak embodies Vajrapani Bodhisattva." He went on to describe various other minor peaks visible in the distance, though he refrained from elaborating details here, saying they would become clear when translating Chise Snow Peak's sacred chronicle. That night I felt truly content. The waters flowing before the snow peak murmured softly as they passed. Moonlight cast its reflection upon the ripples, shattering into countless fragments that revealed its exquisite form. Hearing the water's sound, my thoughts grew profoundly still. It felt as though this sound played Buddhism's sacred music, much like how wind through Pure Land trees is heard as Dharma's voice. Gradually my mind entered a deep mystical state. Though Shakyamuni Buddha long taught that true sacred realms exist within one's pure heart, we ordinary beings still find our hearts sanctified when visiting such holy sites, receiving profound spiritual influence.

Chapter 38: Circumambulation of the Natural Mandala (3)

Having crossed Sanzu-no-nukarizaka*, I stayed at that temple again the following day to research various matters about the area**, but at night I continued my enjoyment by entering meditative absorption***. The joy**** of that time***** is something I will never forget****** in my lifetime*******.

The next day, I had to cross an extremely steep slope called Sanzu-no-nukarizaka. However, the steward—an exceedingly kind man—offered to lend me a yak. It seemed we shared a deep karmic bond, for he extended every possible kindness and even provided me with various provisions. Mounting the yak and guided by one attendant, I ascended the fearsome slope. Whether called blind faith or religious devotion, the Tibetans' fervor was astonishing—confessing sins to Buddha and accumulating merit through grueling practices like circumambulating the mountain with a bow at each step. These acts were mostly performed by young men and women; elders could not manage them. Even mere climbing proved arduous for the aged—they could never match the youths' vigor. Though riding a yak, I too suffered greatly during the ascent. The thin air left me gasping; after climbing two ri up Sanzu-no-nukarizaka, exhaustion forced me to rest and take medicine. There I heard a curious tale. A man was prostrating before Chise Snow Peak—revered as Shakyamuni Tathagata—while making confessions. He hailed from Kam, that notorious bandit stronghold. His appearance alone marked him as exceptional even among outlaws: ferocious yet imposing, with eyes that chilled the blood. This villain was loudly confessing his sins.

A confession of future misdeeds—the absurdity of that confession defied description. For confession fundamentally entailed recognizing the evil of one's past sinful deeds, repenting those transgressions and begging for their forgiveness—the guiding principle being that one would not commit evil deeds henceforth. Yet the confessions those people performed were truly bizarre, astonishing me when I heard them. Later, when I asked someone about it, I learned this was indeed customary among people from Kam. They said everyone practiced it this way. Therefore, I felt truly astounded. The reason became clear when I heard them declare:

“Ah, O Kang Rinpoche!” “O Shakyamuni Buddha! O all Buddhas and Bodhisattvas of the three times and ten directions!” “Here at this slope I have sincerely repented all my grave sins: killing several people, stealing numerous goods, abducting others’ wives, engaging in quarrels, and beating people.” “Therefore I believe my sins have now been completely eradicated.” “Henceforth I shall also properly confess here beforehand any future sins I may commit—killing people, stealing others’ belongings, taking others’ wives, and beating people.”

And that was how it was. How could I not be utterly astonished?!

And then I ascended—

As it was called Gedatsu Mother’s Slope (Buddha), when I ascended that slope, there stood Norsang Peak—meaning “the peak where Sudhana dwells”—to my right. Following along that mountain and gradually reaching the summit of Gedatsu Mother’s Slope (Buddha), I found a naturally formed rock image of the Mother of Liberation there. To its northeast towered strange crags and boulders like banks of clouds and mist—something jutted up abruptly from nature’s handiwork, resembling a statue. They explained that this rock was revered as representing the forms of twenty-one Mothers of Liberation (Buddha). This place stood highest among heretical realms, nearly equal in elevation to Chise Snow Peak. Thus the area proved bitterly cold—and with air so thin that even when keeping perfectly still—

My heartbeat grew fierce and violent—a truly painful sensation arose within me. Fortunately, having ridden up on a yak, I did not suffer extreme hardship; yet I felt certain that had I climbed on foot, reaching this point today would have been impossible. Of course, Tibetans possess remarkably robust lungs that allow them to traverse such precipitous mountains with ease, but we who had lungs scarcely half as capable could never have conceived of ascending by foot. After descending some three hundred meters down that slope, I came upon a large pond. The pond lay entirely encased in ice. There exists an intriguing mythological tale concerning this pond. Long ago, Sudhana washed his hands in its waters. In those days during summer months, no ice covered it; yet later, when a pilgrim woman came carrying her child on her back and bent to wash her hands in the clear water, the child slipped into the pond and drowned. Thereafter, the mountain deity decreed this unacceptable and ordained perpetual ice to seal its surface. This thick ice spread by divine virtue to protect us—so runs the explanation given. Hearing these tales, I descended an exceedingly treacherous slope. Though many wondrous rock formations bearing names exist in that area, I shall refrain from describing them lest this account grow overlong. The slope proved so precipitous that descending while mounted on a yak became utterly impossible.

When I gradually descended to the eastern area of Chise Snow Peak, I came upon a historic site called Zuntrui Phuk (Illusion Cave), associated with the Venerable One. This temple served as a training ground established by Venerable Tsangnyön Heruka—the most revered and praised figure in Tibet—though its many fascinating stories pertain to specialized religious matters beyond our current scope. Tsangnyön Heruka had been both an ascetic of severe discipline and a great poet who propagated Buddhist truths across regions. Such a peerless poet had never before emerged in Tibet, nor has one since. The biography of this venerable figure had naturally taken shape through truly peculiar means, structured entirely as a poetic chronicle. Not only were portions of his life rendered poetically, but his very philosophy possessed an intrinsically poetic profundity. Consequently, certain Western scholars of late had been selectively translating accessible portions of his poetry into their own tongues. Moreover, a Russian academic I knew—after hearing my interpretations upon my return to Darjeeling—produced a Russian translation of these works. He declared it utterly complete and took great delight in it. Having lodged one night at this temple, I descended the following day along the Hamhungichu River (Boot-Dropping River) and reached the lower southern area where Gyanta Temple stands. There enshrined was Dorje Karmo (White Vajra Mother). Situated about fifteen or sixteen chō off the main path into mountainous terrain, the usual route contained a station called Tarchen Tarsam. Here stood some thirty stone-built houses, with twelve or thirteen tents visible in the vicinity—this area being...

It was a major market and also a place where tax goods were collected.

I lodged at a house in that market town and there dismissed those who had escorted me along with the yaks. That night I passed in my customary meditative observance, but around ten o'clock the next morning, my companions who had parted from me earlier arrived. Tarchen City lies on a diagonal plain between Lake Manasarovar's northwestern corner and Lake Rakgal's northeastern corner. Proceeding southeast along this diagonal plain west of Lake Manasarovar, I continued in the same direction the following day and reached the foot of Ponri Snow Peak. This was the sacred site of Tibet's ancient Bon religion that I had previously mentioned. Yet here stood a large temple which I had naturally assumed to be Bonist, but which in fact belonged to a new sect of Tibetan Buddhism. A splendid structure had been erected among the mountains. However, I never quite reached that temple itself. Now in this area grow various mushrooms - water mushrooms and yellow mushrooms sprouting in wetlands devoid of trees. Since these fungi were said to be exceptionally delicious, the women in our party gathered them to fry in butter and salt - truly exquisite fare indeed. As this region lies quite removed from sacred sites,

Land and Pilgrims' Hearts—The pilgrim hosts declared we must now begin our true work. This "work," they explained, meant going out for sport hunting. Though hunting local deer would have been ordinary enough, I suspected those three brothers might use their excursion to shoot unsuspecting travelers and steal their belongings. I continued onward nonchalantly, yet acutely aware my life hung in precarious balance—I needed to separate from them somehow. But fleeing abruptly would only invite suspicion and likely death. Clinging to hopes of devising a safer plan, I reached a mountain's edge by next dawn. There my companions fired upon and slaughtered a beast called Chanku before my very eyes. They killed it not for sustenance, but purely for cruel amusement.

This beast was a large dog-like creature without particularly thick fur. In summer its coat becomes a reddish-brown of remarkable beauty. When I saw it, it indeed bore this hue, though Tibetans say it turns pale gray in winter. Having never witnessed this gray phase myself, I found their accounts credible based on universal testimony. Its sharply erect ears and ferociously cruel countenance appeared truly fearsome—so much so that lone travelers were said to risk sudden mauling. When I observed the three brothers firing across the valley to kill five or six such beasts gathered at the mountain's edge, their faces glowed with unholy delight. Seeing their cruel features brimming with such pleasure, I realized men who took such joy in killing beasts would likely relish murdering humans—a perception that filled me with mounting dread.

Chapter 39: Sibling Quarrel

Farewell to the Sacred Site — The following day, as snow fell again, we ended up staying there. At that time, the hunting dogs brought by the hosts went rabbit hunting—killing and devouring their prey before returning—resulting in a scene of utter brutality. On September 15th that followed, gradually heading eastward, I crossed undulating mountains and nearly reached the summit. When I asked why we were parting here as the hosts insisted we must now bid farewell, they pointed to Lake Manasarovar visible far to the west and Manri Snow Peak rising southward from the lake's center, explaining that having left behind the most sacred sites, we would now devote ourselves to our true work. They performed worship here to bid farewell while making vows that we might meet again when next pilgrimage brought us to this place. Following their example in worship, I found myself profoundly moved in that moment.

Having crossed thousands of miles of mountains and seas and braved extreme hardships, I arrived at this Lake Manasarovar as the first Japanese person.

Yet now, when I thought I must bid farewell to this sacred lake, I was struck by some unknowable, infinite emotion. Then descending once more and crossing the undulating mountains several times over, I arrived near a hamlet containing twelve or thirteen tents affiliated with Ponri Temple, first making my way to that settlement to undertake ascetic practice—that is, to beg for alms. This was not merely about receiving provisions. Begging as observational practice—I held the intention to investigate what sort of people dwelled there, how they sustained their livelihoods, or what local customs and human sentiments might exist, while also seeking to understand other aspects of their circumstances. Since aimless wandering proved impossible, adopting the guise of a beggar allowed me to thoroughly study the area regardless of whether alms were given or withheld. Maintaining this mindset consistently meant that whenever venturing out, I would set forth to beg while surveying my surroundings—such became my established pattern. The following day too, those hosts remained encamped there and departed for sport hunting.

I was reading the Lotus Sutra in Chinese characters inside the tent. Then the eldest brother’s wife and a girl called Dawa—the middle brother’s daughter—were talking about something outside. At first I couldn’t fully grasp what they were discussing, but hearing repeated mentions of “lama-lama”—clearly referring to me—I found myself listening despite myself. Dawa was saying: “That lama told me my mother seems to have died. Do you think she’s really dead?” pressing her inquiry insistently. The other woman laughed. “What nonsense could that be?” “You’re so obsessed with him that he fed you some convenient lie.” “Hearing such talk isn’t going to help you one bit.” “Besides, just the other day my husband said—if that lama won’t become my niece’s husband, we’ll butcher him for meat.” “Truth is, my man’s furious too—you’d best explain things properly and get together with him,” she declared loudly enough for me to hear.

I was utterly astonished. Yet in that moment I resolved: If I should be slain for such a cause, this would indeed be most auspicious. To perish while upholding my monastic vows—this would be truly blessed. Though I had stumbled into error many times before, repenting each lapse, still I had pressed onward to this day. But to let fear render void all merit thus accumulated—to fall into that demonic abyss through dread of death here—this would betray my deepest vow. Holding fast to the conviction that Shakyamuni Buddha would accept this offering and grant me serene passage into nirvana, I devoted myself utterly to chanting the Lotus Sutra. Yet that day passed without incident.

The next day, after traveling about two ri further and reaching the edge of another mountain, I looked into the distance and saw what appeared to be some sort of structure. When I asked what that place was, they told me it was Tokuchen Tarsam—a station. As was my custom, I went there to beg and finished that task. Upon returning, I found only Dawa remained; the others had vanished. When I inquired where they had gone, she answered that they had all left for recreational hunting and no one remained. I understood. Ah—now it was finally—

Whether I'd be cooked tonight—I didn't know. In any case, the conviction that a crisis was imminent had taken hold. Yet this girl too must have become entangled through some karmic bond, so I resolved to fully instruct her in Buddhism's profound truths. With firm determination to persist in earnest admonishment until she realized the grave error of her impure thoughts toward me, I settled into position. However, since morning that girl had been gathering water mushrooms and now offered them to me kindly, saying, "You seem so fond of mushrooms." After eating my usual roasted barley flour along with those mushrooms and finally opening the Lotus Sutra to read, the girl interrupted me: "I must tell you something dreadful I overheard—something you absolutely need to know." "For your own sake...it would be too cruel not to tell you......" she continued. "I already knew full well about it all," she said, "but when I pretended ignorance and asked anyway, he repeated exactly what I'd heard before."

“This is splendid,” I declared. “Truly splendid that I should be killed by your own kin rather than unite with you. Having now completed my pilgrimage to Chise Snow Peak and fulfilled my life’s purpose, death holds no terror for me. Rather, it is glorious. From the Pure Land of Ultimate Bliss, I shall protect you all so you may live in peace.” Charging forward, I demanded: “By all means—kill me tonight!” The girl recoiled in shock, stammering excuses. Yet she pressed closer, protesting: “Wouldn’t your death be meaningless?” and other such arguments—all of which I shattered through rigorous Dharma logic. At four o’clock, the four hunters returned. No sooner had they arrived than the vilest of the three brothers—the youngest—berated Dawa: “This wretch clings to some man’s sleeve, spouting nonsense!” He must have eavesdropped outside our tent. Then her father rounded on him: “She’s not your daughter! I don’t beg barley flour from you! My girl’s fate is none of your concern!” Thus began their fraternal quarrel.

Chapter 40: Parting with the Brothers

The Brothers' Quarrel

The brothers' quarrel grew increasingly heated. They began hurling abuse—"You're a thief who murdered someone over there!" "You're the one who tried to steal Tibetan government funds and fled when caught!"—whether these accusations held any truth or not mattered little. Finally, the younger brother, in a fit of rage, struck his elder brother with a powerful blow. He ended up hurling a large stone. I could no longer bear to watch, so I rushed out to restrain the younger brother—but he struck my temple with a tremendous punch. Because of that, I collapsed. The intensity of that pain truly permeated through my entire body. Then the girl began to cry. The wife began to cry. A man tried to restrain them, resulting in a scene of utter chaos. There was nothing I could do. I lay fallen where I had collapsed, convinced I had suffered a terrible ordeal, and remained sprawled on the ground. As night gradually fell and the quarrel eventually subsided, we spent that night as it was, but from the next day—

The brothers scattered as each declared their intended path—the eldest brother went with his wife, the daughter with her parent, the youngest brother alone, and I too resolved to go alone. The immediate difficulty I faced was having no sheep to carry my luggage. Therefore, paying six tangkas (one yen and fifty sen) per head, I purchased two sheep. After parting ways with those people, I set out southeastward. Some among them headed northward while others turned back. I had long heard one should take the eastern route rather than southeast. Yet driven by the thought that someone from their group might pursue me with murderous intent, I advanced into the southeastern mountains.

If I could escape their murderous hands, I thought, then having taken but a single punch in their brothers' quarrel would truly count as good fortune. That night I reached a mountain's edge and took shelter on a snow-dusted grassy plain. Though I had always slept in tents until then, the sudden exposure to open snow left me racked by cold, unable to sleep a wink. The next day—September 19th—I pressed southeast across the snowfield and arrived at Sha Chen Kamba, a small temple in Nyokche. There I stayed the following day to mend my boots and patch my clothes. The temple housed about two monks, so up to this point—

With the thought that there was likely no need to worry about being pursued for murder, I proceeded at a leisurely pace. Then one of the sheep I had bought from them died. I truly felt pity for it and performed appropriate memorial rites. Then, since the other one absolutely refused to move forward, I sold that one to another person at half-price and gave away the carcass of the dead sheep. The person who had given me the sheep was said to have gone to Tokuchen station to deliver wool tax goods; when I gave the meat of the dead sheep to those four people who happened to be lodging at that temple, they greatly rejoiced and asked, "Which direction will you be heading now?" When I replied that I intended to go toward Hortsho, they said, "Then since we're also advancing in exactly that direction, we'll carry your luggage for you."

They had brought many yaks with them, so they loaded all of my luggage onto those yaks. After departing that temple and proceeding southeast for about one and a half ri, we arrived at a place where there was a small circular pond measuring approximately ten chō in circumference. Following along the right side of that pond and proceeding southeast again, we soon came upon another large pond. This pond was a lake called Kongyu, stretching very long from southeast to northwest and extremely narrow from northeast to southwest; its circumference was said to be approximately fifteen to sixteen ri. The surrounding mountain ranges, with snow sparsely accumulated between black rocks, presented a rather striking shape. When we climbed up a mountain along the edge of that lake and observed both its shape and the state of a small circular pond below, Kongyu Lake’s form—winding northwest toward that round pond—appeared precisely—

There lay a natural tableau resembling a flood dragon toying with a jade disc. The snow forming mottled patterns between black rocks along both banks made me imagine scattered white clouds drifting across the sky—a sight I found deeply fascinating. Keeping that pond to our left, we proceeded southeast for about seven ri until reaching the lake's edge. However, lacking tents, those people still had to sleep in the snow. Yet sleep eluded me completely. I felt utterly drained of strength. At such times, seated meditation became my supreme refuge from suffering—here I keenly appreciated the Tathagata's merciful provision of expedient means. The following September 22nd demanded that I climb a steep slope into southeastern mountains. This proved an exceptionally treacherous ascent; even seasoned travelers gasped for breath while climbing. My fortune in riding a yak upward brought modest comfort amidst hardship. After descending southward another ri and a half, we again reached level ground. This entire area lay within Kongyu Province. There upon the plain spread something resembling a pond turned pure white. Though no snow could linger here, its whiteness came from putoo—natural soda deposits—meaning

It was said to be a pond of natural soda deposits—putoo (natural soda). When we arrived there, our entire party gathered large quantities of it, packed it into bags made from yak hair, and loaded them onto the yaks. This is added when boiling tea. After repeatedly climbing up and down the undulating, low-lying mountain range, I finally reached the mouth of the Chema Yunzun River—the very place where I had once narrowly escaped death. By that time, being late autumn, the water had significantly receded, making the crossing manageable. Moreover, since we crossed mounted on yaks, we forded the river without incident.

Around this time, we were covering about ten ri each day. Had I not obtained the aid of yaks, I could never have traversed such distances across this thin-air high plateau. As usual, the nights were so cold I couldn't sleep. On September 23rd, proceeding southeast again with those people for about ten ri, we reached the Brahmaputra River I had crossed before. The river here is called Marutsangichu in one tongue and Kobeichu in another. These names were given according to local geography. The Brahmaputra too had greatly receded by then, making crossing effortless. As always, they ferried me across while I rode a yak. There by the riverbank stood their tent, where I resolved to spend the night. Though utterly exhausted, when I stepped outside after dark,

The nightscape along the Brahmaputra held no moon, yet countless stars glittered in an azure sky, their reflections shimmering on water that flowed carrying celestial light. When I gazed toward distant horizons, Himalayan snow peaks stood veiled in haze. This ethereal nocturnal vista bore such solemn and unassailable dignity that I found myself overwhelmed by boundless awe, composing five or six poems - of which I shall now recite two.

The river flowed, bearing myriad stars. "Is this the Brahmaputra, or perhaps the Heavenly River?" The Himalaya of the land where heavenly deities dwell - Above the Brahmaputra (Pure Heaven) River shines

The next day, as those people were heading out in a different direction, I parted with them and, alone again, shouldered my heavy load. Proceeding southeast along the river for about two ri, the luggage indeed grew heavier. Having been relatively comfortable until then, the weight now felt excruciating. I would advance for a while and rest again, until finally I could no longer move forward.

Chapter 41: The Bandit Ordeal (1)

Encountering Bandits in Broad Daylight — As I rested there wondering what to do, a nomad leading a single yak fortuitously appeared. Then I asked that person, "Could you please carry this luggage to wherever you're going? I'll give you some reward," and he readily agreed. After advancing about one ri, three men astride exceptionally sturdy horses came toward us from the opposite direction. Observing their appearance—each carrying a gun on his back, a spear in his right hand, and a sword at his waist, all wearing Tibetan-style hunting caps as they approached triumphantly—their visages were unmistakably ferocious, their physiques so robust that even among Tibetans they stood out as exceptionally strong; no matter how I considered it, I could reach no other conclusion but that they were bandits.

For if they were pilgrims, they would be leading packhorses or yaks carrying necessary provisions for their pilgrimage—but there was nothing of the sort. If one were to think them merchants, they were not. Because merchants would at least be leading some horses. The larger ones led eighty or even a hundred head of packhorses. However, here there was nothing beyond the three of them. If they were nomads, then being nomads, they would not present such an impressive appearance. It became completely clear that these were indeed bandits. Indeed, my fellow traveler accompanying me also appeared extremely frightened, so there I thought— There was nothing to be done. If I handed over everything from my clothes to my luggage to these bandits, then the matter would be settled. There was no particular need to argue or do anything. At this point

The most important treasure was life—but to them, human life meant nothing. I resolved there was no choice but to relinquish everything completely. Thus while my cowering companion tried desperately to stay beyond their sightline, I strode directly toward the approaching bandits. The three men came before me demanding, “Where’d you come from?” To which I answered, “I am one who made pilgrimage to Mount Tise.” “When you came from Tise,” they pressed, “did you meet any merchant types?” “Truth is, my buddy’s been lurking round these parts. We’re searching for him.” “No,” I replied. “I encountered no such person.” “Aha! You’ve the look of a lama.” “If you’re a lama, you’ll do divination.” “Quick now—divine where my friend’s hiding!”

I understood their meaning perfectly. It was not about searching for a friend, but rather determining in which direction they should go to encounter merchants carrying money so they could slaughter them and take it. They meant that they wanted me to use divination to show them that direction. When encountering such formidable bandits, there was nothing particularly frightening. The reason was that they did not set their minds on small jobs. They would find a large merchant and—

Their objective was to slaughter victims at midnight, seize all their possessions, and flee; whenever they encountered solitary travelers like us monks, they invariably demanded divination services. After determining their course through this means to pursue significant undertakings, they showed particular gratitude toward monks. It might seem strange to receive gratitude from bandits, but they themselves offered their thanks. Having no alternative, I reluctantly gave a vague answer and pointed toward a direction where no people were present, explaining convincingly that if they went to such a place, they would likely meet their friend. They rejoiced greatly and said, “We shall meet again someday—we cannot properly thank you now. Farewell,” they said and departed.

Even as we spoke, my fellow traveler kept trembling uncontrollably. He turned to me and asked, “What were those bandits saying?” “They wanted me to perform divination, so I told them,” I replied. “Did you actually tell them the truth?” “If I’d told them the truth, others would’ve suffered for it,” I said as we trudged three ri along the riverbank until a tent came into view. This tent served as that man’s dwelling, with two or three others still standing nearby. We stayed there that night. Still exhausted the next day, I rested fully before setting out at dawn on September 26th—having bought a single pack goat as they advised—to shoulder my belongings once more.

A blizzard so thick that even a hand before my face was indistinguishable; then the snow began falling in earnest. The storm grew increasingly violent until I could no longer advance no matter how I tried. The Tibetan clothes I wore were completely soaked through, their wetness having seeped into my skin. With snow falling so heavily that I couldn't see ahead at all, I no longer knew which direction to take. Had I possessed a compass, I might have checked my bearings, but having lost mine long ago, this blind advance through the whiteness became truly perilous. Yet in this hellish circumstance—as if meeting Buddha in the underworld—I encountered a lone horseman.

The man saw me and said, “If you keep going like this in the snow, you won’t survive the night.” “Well, given the season, you probably won’t die here—but this cold will make you suffer like you’re dying.” “I hear you’re bound for Lhasa.” Though it meant a detour, when he offered shelter at his tent, I felt reborn—I no longer cared about backtracking, though truthfully, in this blizzard, I couldn’t even find my way back. “Please lead me,” I said, obeying him. After loading part of my luggage onto his horse, I braved the snowstorm with my goat and reached his tent. The next day, as the tent people were also moving in my intended direction, the kind man went elsewhere. With the others, I trekked six ri southeast through deepening snow.

Although they had come together, they remained utterly silent. But amidst this heavy snow, I had joined them thinking someone might shelter me in their tent. Yet those people swept aside the surrounding snow and pitched their tent on a cleared patch of ground. I stood motionless outside the entire time, gazing at the scenery while rooted in the snow. When they all finished setting up their tents, I begged, "Please let me stay tonight," but they refused outright. Even when I pressed my plea, they would not yield. Then I went to another tent and entreated them too, but still they denied me shelter.

I approached five or six tents, using every possible argument and explaining my circumstances as I pleaded, but none would provide lodging. This was dire. They seemed to be nomads with no ties to me. I came to the very last tent and obstinately pressed my plea with fierce urgency. If I sleep in this deep snow, I'll freeze to death. "I can't say it won't snow tonight—please grant me shelter." "I'll offer payment if needed," I entreated desperately, nearly prostrating myself. "But there's only an old woman and her daughter here!" she retorted. "Do you force your way upon us because we're mere women? There are seven or eight tents here!" "You should've begged at a tent with men! Barging into a place with only women is outrageous!" "Won't you leave?" "If you don't go, I'll beat you senseless!" she cried, snatching the Tibetan fire tongs she'd been using to tend the yak-dung flames and lunging at me.

Chapter 42: The Bandit Ordeal (Part 2)

Reciting sutras for the salvation of all beings—but with nowhere willing to take me in, there was nothing I could do. I walked four or five ken closer and gazed at the five or six tents pitched there, thinking of how Shakyamuni Buddha taught that "those without karmic connection are difficult to save"—and indeed, these people had not the slightest connection to me, thus being utterly rejected. To sleep outside tonight while seeing these warm tents before me struck me as truly wretched. However, even those without karmic connection—through this pleading of mine—might form a bond, for who could know what connections might arise hereafter. Thinking I should chant sutras so these people might later enter Buddhism, I recited the scriptures. This arises from Buddhism's true and expansive compassionate principles, and for us Buddhist monks, performing such acts is only natural.

So when I earnestly recited sutras for them, the daughter from the tent I'd entreated peeked out and watched awhile; then suddenly ducked inside to tell her mother: "That lama's furious we refused him lodging—he's chanting evil spells to kill or sicken us!" She must have reported me appearing wrathful indeed. True enough, the mother proved deeply superstitious—likely ordering her daughter: "This won't do! Go invite him in at once to stop this mischief!"—for she soon emerged to implore: "Please cease such doings and come rest properly inside." They finally offered shelter under pretext of making Buddhist offerings that night. However laughable it seemed, my good intent had salvaged matters; though their understanding erred grievously, our swift deliverance from peril still owed to Buddha's grace—a realization that heartened me greatly. As ever, I passed that night in meditation before departing at dawn southeastward into mountains where none should dwell—until two figures emerged from beyond the crags.

They called out to me—though they didn’t look like bandits, both had swords at their waists. Thinking they were likely locals heading somewhere, I absentmindedly stopped. They descended from between the rocks toward me and demanded, “What are you carrying?” When I replied, “I carry Buddha’s teachings,” they didn’t understand—these men... “What are you carrying on your back?” “This is food.” “What’s bulging in your breast pocket?” “This is silver coins,” I said. Then the two men stood before me and suddenly snatched the staff I was holding. “Ah,” I thought, “these must be bandits.” Having quickly resolved myself, I asked, “Do you want something of mine?” “Of course we do!” they declared vehemently.

“Oh, in that case, there’s no need to hurry.” “I’ll give you whatever you want—just take it slowly.” When I asked, “What do you want?” they barked, “First, hand over your silver!” So I surrendered the pouch containing silver coins exactly as it was. Then came their next demand: “That pack on your back looks suspicious—take it down!” “Certainly,” I replied, lowering it. “And what’s that on the goat? Show us!” As I complied, they rummaged through everything but returned the heavy items—scriptures and spare robes—untouched. “We’ll be keeping these,” they declared, seizing all my provisions. If they took everything, I’d be ruined—I resolved to reclaim at least a portion.

The Ordeal of Banditry and Stolen Goods

The Rules of Tibetan Banditry: Indeed, there are established protocols for when encountering thieves in Tibet. I had heard about that before. When encountering bandits, one must hand over everything they desire; then recite sutras and plead, "Please give me just some food"—whereupon they would provide about three days' worth. Having resolved to follow this procedure, I declared: "Among the items in my breast pocket is a silver pagoda enshrining relics of Shakyamuni Buddha. "This is something Layman Dharmapāla of India once requested be conveyed to the Tibetan Dharma King—please do not take this one," I said. To which he demanded: "Won't you hand that over to me?" "No—you may take that," I replied, "but if you take this one, you'll face hardship. "For ordinary laypeople cannot properly protect these sacred relics—they will bring you no good whatsoever. But if you want them..." With that, I promptly produced it. "Go ahead—open it and see," I said, handing it over. My approach must have taken them by surprise, for they refused to accept it. Instead, they entreated: "If it's such a blessed thing—place it upon my head! Grant me its sacred merits!" So I placed it on the man's head and administered the Three Refuges and Five Precepts, praying for the eradication of his evil karma. Then, as I stood up this time and was about to demand two or three days' worth of food—from the distant mountain slopes ahead once more—

Two riders appeared. The moment I noticed them, the bandits must have too, for both men sprang up and fled into the mountains with only what they'd seized. They ran like hares across the slopes—even had I pursued them, it would've been futile. Nor did I consider giving chase. Instead, I tried calling out to stop those newly arrived riders, hoping to secure provisions for the coming days—yet for reasons unknown, they veered away and retreated up into the distant crags.

So I raised my voice and called out in the Tibetan manner, rotating my right hand inward, but whether they didn’t hear me or had other business to attend to, they did not come over. However, the eight Indian gold coins I had kept close to my body were not taken. My belongings had become considerably lighter, and the goat’s load had vanished entirely, so I loaded part of my belongings onto the goat and proceeded into the mountains. In the extremely rugged mountains, after advancing about three ri, the day ended. As usual, I bivouacked among the mountains that night. Now, if I were to head northeast the next day, I should reach a station—but having no compass, I could not discern the direction.

Gnawing on snow—it seemed that though I had intended to head northeast, I had instead advanced southeast. Later, it appeared I had moved entirely southward. Judging by where I ultimately arrived, I realized I had indeed been advancing precisely as described. I had covered considerable ground when around three in the afternoon, the snow began falling anew. I pressed on until sunset, yet nowhere could I discern signs of human habitation. Ravenously hungry and parched beyond endurance, with no sustenance available, I resorted to eating snow.

If eating just once daily sufficed, going entirely without food made me feel the hardship even more acutely. As daylight waned and hunger gnawed, advancing became nearly impossible. With snow still falling, I deliberately crawled into a pool-shaped depression between hollows, sweeping snow inward to make my bed. To freeze to death on an open plain under both snowfall and blizzard seemed certain—thus taking every precaution by entering this hollow pit, I regulated my breathing as usual, isolating it from the external world as much as possible before entering meditative absorption. This method proved most effective for sleeping in snow. When I awoke the next day, though heavy snow still lay piled about, the fall had ceased and sunlight emerged. Surveying the surrounding mountains,

The plateau I had come from—the shape of the mountains closely resembled those around where the nomads called Narue had previously camped, making me wonder if this might indeed be the same area. As I pressed onward, there at its edge lay the Kyanchu River, whose course I recognized from before. This looked promising. Thinking that heading toward Narue—where nomads gathered—might lead me to someone, I deliberately took a detour and advanced about two ri. Yet there was nothing. Nothing but endless snow stretched before me. In that moment, I nearly succumbed to despair. For my stomach stood utterly empty. My throat grew parched. The agony became unbearable. True, my luggage had been lightened considerably after the thieves took their share, sparing me the burden of heavy packs—yet the pangs of hunger proved unendurable. With no alternative, I trudged onward while chewing snow, but to no purpose—finding not a soul there in the end, I felt truly crushed.

Chapter 43: The Ordeal of Eye Disease

Hunger and Thirst in the Snow. Yet if I were to turn back now and cross the Kyanchu toward its far bank, I would surely emerge in the direction where Archu Lama had been stationed. That man does not wander about like other nomads. Having heard he merely shifted position slightly within that vicinity, I reasoned he might still be there. Thus deeming it urgent to advance toward that quarter first, I crossed over to the Kyanchu's opposite shore. The crossing point lay approximately three and a half ri upstream from my previous ford. But at that time, the waters had dwindled to barely a fifth of their former volume and were beginning to freeze over—since it was midday, I managed to traverse them by deftly striking and fracturing the ice with my staff. Thick ice would have served admirably, but this thin melting crust rendered passage exceedingly perilous. For jagged edges could slice one's feet or inflict other injuries—truly hazardous indeed.

Barely managing to cross the river, I pressed steadily southward. Then the goat I was leading—the meager luggage loaded upon it: a sheepskin mat, footwear, what passed for medicine—all had fallen off somewhere along the way. I combed the area thoroughly, but having lost them in trackless snowfields, there was no way to know where to look. It felt precisely like losing something at sea—with no choice but to continue onward, desperate to reach some tented settlement by nightfall. To keep bedding down night after night in the snow meant certain death; thus resolved, I forced myself onward despite gnawing hunger, covering over eight ri by eight o'clock that evening—only to be stricken by snow blindness from the glare. The pain defied all description. At any moment—

It felt as though my eyes might rupture; I truly couldn't stay motionless like this. Outside, heavy snow already lay piled high when nightfall brought fresh snowfall. The brutal cold and pain left me drenched in icy sweat - such agony made meditative focus utterly impossible. Attempting to lie sideways only made snow cling to my head, worsening the torment. Pressing handfuls of snow against my eyes did nothing to dull the throbbing. As numbness gradually crept through my freezing limbs, I blindly slathered clove oil over my body while keeping my eyes shut tight. Though sealed against the world, sleep wouldn't come - I could only cling to Buddhist recitations. Then unexpectedly, a song welled up within me. How strange that melody should surface in such extremity, yet with its emergence came an inexplicable easing of suffering.

That song:

A plain of snow, a mat of snow, a pillow of snow Devouring snow, tormented by snow In the charm of that song, I found solace in my own heart and took delight. Through this, I came to truly experience the profound virtue inherent in our Yamato language's native spirit—how it could comfort a person in such dire circumstances.

The next day was October 1st.

Since remaining seated there served no purpose, I resolved to depart around six in the morning—the snow had already ceased and the sun was shining. The glittering rays reflecting off the snow into my eyes made them ache even more intensely.

Blindly advancing across the open plain—I tried proceeding with my eyes closed but found advancement truly difficult. When I slightly opened my eyes to move forward, the pain intensified until it felt my eyes might rupture at any moment. My body kept tumbling over uncontrollably, collapsing heedless of whether it fell into snow or grass. Moreover, having eaten nothing for three or four days, my body suffered excruciatingly. Staggering like a drunkard who had overindulged and would collapse at once, I fell even when tripping over small pebbles in the snow. Yet I sustained no injuries—the surrounding snow cushioned my falls, and my emaciated body weighed little enough to matter not. Reduced to hunger gnawing my stomach, eyes throbbing with pain, and legs trembling beneath me, I found myself cornered. Unconsciously sinking into the snowdrifts, the conviction seized me: death alone remained. Yet my mind stayed resolute; not a shred of my spirit inclined toward perishing in that snowscape. Though certain that advancement remained possible if only I could devise means to escape this bodily torment, no solution presented itself. Then, strangely enough, far in the distance—

I could see a horseman in the distance. Then, prying open my painful eyes and wondering if I might be mistaken, when I looked closely, there indeed was a man riding a horse approaching. I immediately stood up and beckoned that person with hand gestures. I tried to call out, but no voice would come out at all. It was as though my throat had been strangled—as if its passage had constricted—leaving me utterly voiceless. With tremendous effort, I managed to emit two hoarse cries and gestured frantically with my hands to hail him. Evidently noticing this, the rider spurred his horse toward me. At that moment, I was overjoyed.

The rider quickly came to my side and asked, “What happened to you in this snow?” so I replied, “No—the truth is I encountered bandits and lost absolutely everything.” Moreover, the small amount of luggage that had remained was also lost along the way, and having eaten nothing for three or four days, I finally managed to ask if he might have any food to spare. Though he was a young man, he showed admirable consideration by tilting his head in thought for a moment before saying, “I’m afraid I don’t have any roasted barley or such things with me now, but here’s something I do have,” as he pulled an item from his robe—cream that forms thinly atop boiled and cooled milk, collected and mixed with brown sugar, a confection highly regarded in Tibet’s Changtang as the supreme sweet, given as gifts or offered to rare guests, of which he gave me one piece.

I promptly devoured the sweet without even tasting whether it was delicious or not, then asked the young man if there might be somewhere around here for me to stay—and food too, as I needed some—whereupon he replied: "No, I too am a pilgrim, but over by that mountain ridge, my parents and many others in our group are camped. You should go there." "I suppose that will have to do," I said. "As I am in a hurry, I will return ahead," he called out as he spurred his horse and departed toward that mountain. Now, the distance from where I stood to that place was barely one ri, but in making my way there I collapsed several times, attempted to rest due to my aching eyes, and resorted to eating snow out of hunger and thirst—all manner of desperate measures—so that it took me a full three hours before I finally arrived just past eleven in the morning. Then promptly, that boy came to greet me and guided me into the tent.

Having narrowly escaped death, they—out of pity—served me Tibet's finest feast: rice they had prepared, drenched in simmering butter and topped with sugar and dried grapes. At that moment, I felt profound gratitude. I ate about two bowls of it. Thinking that eating too much at once might harm my body, I stopped there and instead drank a little milk they gave me. That night, the pain in my eyes kept me awake. But with no medicine available, there was nothing to be done. Though wrapping snow in a scrap of cloth brought some relief to my eyes, the agony remained so intense that even with a proper bed, sleep eluded me.

However, the next day, since they were pilgrims preparing to depart, I too had no choice but to set out. They took a considerable amount of time preparing to depart. This was because they had to dismantle the erected tents, load their luggage onto yaks, and then gradually set out—a process that was anything but simple. When I finished drinking tea and stepped outside, they were busily engaged in packing up the tents. Then, when I went to the area around the fourth or fifth tent being dismantled at the outer edge, those same seven or eight ferocious dogs surrounded me, barking wildly.

The fierce dogs attacked and surrounded me, but with my eyes in such pain, I couldn't manage them as I usually would. While keeping my eyes open and fending off the dogs closing in from both sides with two sticks worked temporarily, the moment I instinctively shut my eyes from the pain's intensity, one of the dogs somehow wrested away the stick from my rear. Then another dog came at me from behind and sank its teeth into my leg. I collapsed immediately, but managed to cry out for help, prompting the tent-packing people to come running in alarm. They pelted the dogs with stones and drove them all away. When I looked at my leg, blood streamed freely with fresh red flows surging out. Pressing the bite wound on my right leg with my left hand while sitting motionless, an old woman applied medicine she claimed was best for dog bites. Yet when I tried standing after bandaging it, I couldn't rise at all.

Chapter 44: Visiting the White Rock Cave Again

Due to the pain from the bite wound, I couldn't stand at all. However, since I couldn't remain sitting there indefinitely, I asked those people if they might devise some solution—inquiring whether Archu Lama might be in this area. When they asked, "Do you know Archu 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 Archu Lama is on my horse. That lama is a doctor—he'll properly treat your wound and cure your eye disease." So declaring that proceeding there first would be most prudent, they kindly lent me a horse.

Then, forcing myself up by clinging to my cane—though one stick had snapped and become useless—I rode the horse to where two tents stood. When I opened my eyes to look ahead, they appeared far smaller than Archu Lama's tent. Finding this strange, I dismounted and went to inquire, only to learn this wasn't Archu Lama's tent but his wife's parental home. When I insisted on being taken to Archu Lama's house, his wife—who had come to her parents' dwelling—heard my voice and emerged, declaring, "That's the revered lama who recently pilgrimaged to Mount Chise."

Then I met her and asked, “Where is your lama?” “He’s staying on the plain about one ri east from here.” “I want to go there today—could someone guide me?” “Since I no longer go to such places, I cannot provide a guide, but if you wish to go, I will instruct the man who brought this horse so you may go with this horseman.” “Why do you not return to your own home?” “There’s no one as awful as him, so I intend to take my leave,” she said. “That won’t do,” I replied, and after discussing various matters over the midday meal she provided, we then reached the lama’s house about one ri away.

**Reuniting with Archu Lama** When I arrived there [at his residence], only servants were present. But that night, Archu Lama returned home. I explained how I had encountered thieves and later been bitten by a dog in such circumstances [or place], asking if he had any good medicine. He kindly provided excellent medicine but cautioned that in this condition [or state], I would need to stay several days before being able to walk again. Since one of the dogs carried potent venom [or was highly poisonous], they advised administering an antidote first to prevent the poison from spreading through my body. Consenting to their proposal [or So agreeing], during my stay there both [or both] the medicine’s effects and my eye pain gradually began to subside. Up to this point [or Until now], I had repeatedly piled hardship upon hardship.

I had experienced nothing but misfortunes like bees stinging a tear-streaked face, and I had no idea what further hardships still lay ahead. Yet from the thought that simply to keep moving forward was truly pleasant, I composed a poem: Every conceivable form of suffering, Lick them all clean—may suffering’s roots be severed. The next day, when I asked the lama why his wife was staying at her parents’ home, he explained in detail about her various failings. “Both accounts sounded perfectly reasonable,” I said, “and I couldn’t discern right from wrong. But regardless, a man must cultivate magnanimity of heart—it is the Way to comfort a woman. Therefore, you should send someone from your side to fetch her.” When I gradually framed this through Buddhist teachings, he agreed, “That is so,” and dispatched two men to retrieve her.

I mediated the couple's reconciliation—through this effort—the wife finally returned home at dusk. The next day, when I mentioned that the Five Evils section explained in the Larger Sutra of Immeasurable Life—one of the three primary sutras of the Jōdo sect—was absent from Tibetan scriptures, the lama earnestly requested: "That is truly commendable. Please give lectures on this Five Evils section from the Sino-Buddhist sutras without fail." Thus I came to deliver daily lectures on the subject at his request. This Five Evils section aptly and admirably explains how the wicked people of this defiled world commit various evils through all manner of means, condensed into five categories. Therefore, upon hearing this explanation, the couple shed tears daily in repentance of their sins—at times so overwhelmed by remorse that they both wept and begged me to pause the lectures for a while.

Being tormented by one's own heart over sins committed was truly agonizing, yet also profoundly beneficial—for when one's heart suffers thusly, one becomes inclined toward virtuous deeds. Therefore, repentance stood as something deeply moving. Having stayed there about ten days—nights when I even found visual solace in magnificent snow-and-ice vistas—there in the azure sky hung a moon shining with crystalline clarity. So-called

The cold moon within ice's luminous clarity Gazing upon the cold moon within ice's luminous clarity, I found myself longing for my homeland - or perhaps contemplating its austere purity - when several poems came to me. Of these, I shall recite one or two: On an unblemished plateau where moonlight reigns clear, The sacred realm's visage fills my thoughts here. Where parched plains deny pampas flowers and clover, The dwelling moon's solitude stretches forever.

In this manner I spent my days pleasantly, and fortunately my wounds healed completely, my eye disease was cured entirely, and my body regained its robustness. Then at Archu Lama's urging, it was decided we would visit Gelong Rinpoche again at that White Rock Cave where he resided. We loaded my luggage and offerings for the Venerable One onto horses - with three servants accompanying us and seven horses in total - forming a party of six that advanced southward. We maintained remarkably vigorous progress.

Urged by some inexplicable impulse, we dashed ahead and covered five and a half ri of road in brief time. It still being before eleven o'clock, we learned more time must pass before being granted audience. When eleven arrived, over thirty pilgrims had come there. They all performed worship, asked necessary questions, made their offerings, then departed. Though my companions were meant to return with me, the Venerable One declared: “Wait here today—I have matters to discuss with you.” “Then let us bid farewell here,” said the lama couple. “You should now take the path toward the capital Lhasa,” they advised, exchanging formal courtesies before parting.

The Great Dialogue with the Venerable Cave-Dwelling Lama || Wondering what matter he wished to discuss, I sat at the edge of the Venerable One's seat where he seemed deeply lost in thought. I had not entirely failed to grasp the reason for this. For during my stay at Archu Lama's house, I had heard certain things. To explain what this meant: "The person who claimed to be a Chinese lama and made a pilgrimage to Mount Chise is not Chinese. He is undoubtedly British." "I heard from that lama that rumors claiming 'He has come to investigate Tibet's national conditions' had become quite widespread." Of course, he trusted me—thinking "What could these ignorant locals possibly know?"—and continued dismissing this region's people as beneath consideration. Truly, those who would spread such malicious rumors about someone like you—who earnestly practices Buddhism—are utterly troublesome; having concluded that "there's nothing to be done about fools," I thought this matter must have reached the Venerable One's ears—that perhaps he was now sunk in contemplation, seeking an opening for some inquiry.

Sure enough, the Venerable One raised a practical question: “For what purpose do you deliberately endure various hardships to go to Lhasa?” To this I responded, “I have come to practice the Buddhist path and save all sentient beings”—thereby evading his concrete inquiry with a metaphysical Buddhist explanation. The Venerable One immediately followed up: “By what cause do you seek to deliver sentient beings?” “There is no cause within me.” “It is because sentient beings suffer various hardships.” When he then posed an idealistic question—“Then do you actually see these so-called sentient beings in this world?”—I too offered an idealistic, parrot-like response. “How could one who lacks self perceive these sentient beings?” At this answer, the Venerable One smiled faintly and changed his line of questioning: “Have you ever been tormented by carnal desires?”

Chapter 45: Toward the Public Road

The Venerable One’s Sarcasm: To the Venerable One’s question about carnal desires, I responded: “I once suffered greatly from such desires, but it seems I have now been liberated from them.” “I also expressed my hope to be entirely free from them,” I replied, whereupon his questioning immediately turned to how I had felt when encountering those bandits. The Venerable One said: “When you encountered those bandits, did you feel hatred toward them? After parting from them, did you resent those thieves or perform curse rituals to take revenge?” To this I immediately responded: “Since I myself had sufficient cause to be robbed by those bandits, there is no need for me to hate them.” “It is rather I who should be hated for possessing the cause that brought such misfortune upon myself.” “I am rejoicing that this debt has been settled.” “Therefore, there is no need for me to perform curse rituals against them.” “I explained, ‘I have prayed that through the karmic connection of that man robbing me, even if not in this world, he may at least enter the true path in the next life and become either a splendid human being or a bodhisattva.’” To this he said: “That is indeed most reasonable. However, since you may encounter such bandits frequently from now on, it would be best for you to abandon your journey toward Lhasa.” “For if you are killed by bandits, your own—”

“You will not achieve your aim of saving all sentient beings either. Therefore, it would be best for you to return to Nepal now. To return to Nepal, there is a good road entering through a place called Lo—you should make haste there. If you continue onward like this,” he said with ominous weight, “I see no path for you but death.” Then with heightened severity, he declared: “To achieve one’s objective, any means must be employed. You must not take merely reaching Lhasa as your goal. If your purpose of saving all sentient beings is sincere and true, then you must return to Nepal.”

I was truly astonished. “I cannot engage in such equivocal matters,” I responded. “I cannot agree with your teaching that one must employ any means necessary to achieve one’s objective. The Mahāvairocana Sūtra states that skillful means are none other than the ultimate—thus, to practice sincere methods is precisely to achieve that ultimate purpose. Neither is reaching the Pure Land the achievement of human purpose, nor is arriving in Lhasa the fulfillment of one’s aim. By taking the execution of sincere methods as the purpose itself, and performing only sincere actions in all matters—it is through this directness that the purpose is achieved.” “Then which path will you take and where will you proceed?” “I will of course take the mountain path to reach Tibet’s capital.” At this, the Venerable One became greatly agitated. “This is absurd! Rather than taking a perilous path fraught with mortal danger, you should return to Nepal where you can travel safely. You speak with such recklessness! I have clearly discerned the future outcome—if you proceed like this, you will undoubtedly—”

“You will die—I know this,” he threatened. “Is that so? But I know nothing of death. Nor do I know anything of being reborn. I know only of practicing sincere methods,” I responded. The Venerable One lowered his head slightly in contemplation, then abruptly shifted the discussion to Mani—the esoteric teachings of Tibetan Buddhism.

As these doctrinal discussions had delved into specialized matters, I omitted the subsequent portions. Gradually, the Buddhist discourse intensified until evening finally fell. The Venerable One, having thoroughly dispelled those doubts, declared: "No—it is the vulgar folk around here who have fabricated various theories from their vulgar thoughts. You are truly one who seeks Buddhism with sincere faith." With great delight, he then gave me twenty tangkas of Tibetan silver coins, a brick of tea, a large sack of roasted barley flour, a Tibetan copper pot, and various other items essential for travel.

Since their value was fifty to sixty tangkas, he gave me what amounted to about fifteen yen worth of goods all at once. "It's truly difficult to carry so much. Please give me a little less," I said. "No—wherever you go from here," replied the Venerable One, "you'll find only my disciples. If you show them this bag, they'll all know I gave it to you. They will surely carry this luggage for you." "There's no need to worry." After receiving those items, I returned here. He had already promised at that time, saying he would secretly impart the secret power of Mani to me the next day. Considering this a most gracious opportunity, I prepared myself for the following day...

With the intention of receiving Mani's secret power, I rested that night. As I pondered deeply that night, I realized that while I had told the Venerable One I would take the mountain path to enter Lhasa in Tibet, this route was dangerous due to his numerous disciples along it. Even if he himself had come to trust me, some among his followers might still harbor doubts. Therefore, I resolved to take the public road instead, even if it meant a detour. The next morning, I received Mani's secret power as promised and departed around noon with my luggage. After descending about two ri under the heavy burden, I truthfully abandoned the mountain path the Venerable One had advised and pressed steadily northward toward the public road he had warned against. Having traveled another two ri, I came upon two tents from which emerged a man bearing the dignified air of a local nomad, who respectfully welcomed me.

It was strange. Though there was no one known to anyone in this area, no matter whose face I looked at, I didn't recognize that person. Being welcomed by strangers left me unsettled, but I entered inside as they led me. There sat Archu Lama. He had stayed overnight here and relayed to the tent's occupants the various edifying Buddhist teachings I had shared on a previous night. Knowing I would come this way, they welcomed me and requested to receive the Three Refuges and Five Precepts, which I administered. Soon after departing from there—escorted by two pack horses and one attendant—I proceeded eastward along the river called Ngar Tsanggi Chu.

This river was the downstream section of the one I had crossed when departing from the Venerable Cave-Dwelling Lama’s abode to advance toward Snow Peak Chise. Following that riverbank downstream for about three ri, I made camp around six o'clock in the evening at a place where there was a tent by the riverside. The person who had escorted me promptly unloaded the luggage and withdrew from there.

That night, when I inquired about various ways to reach the public road, they informed me I would have to cross the Brahmaputra River again. Since crossing that river required porters and a guide, I arranged to hire them, and the following day proceeded approximately four ri east across the marshland. After crossing a steep slope with over one ri of ascent and descent, we reached the Brahmaputra River. Guided by these people to the opposite bank, we found a humble tent there.

Yak retrieval guard: This tent was a place to round up stray yaks that wandered there—in other words, they kept watch there. An old woman and her daughter lived there, and I took shelter in their tent. The next day I spent mending undergarments and such, then on October 16th set out eastward across the marshland once more. This marshland had water pooling in muddy depressions where grass grew. Some marshes were quite deep while others remained shallow, though none formed proper ponds. It was an utterly sodden plain. After trekking about four ri across that plain, I reached another river. That river was called Nau Tsangpo. This great river flows northward from this region onto the plateau before joining the Brahmaputra. Though I had prior knowledge of the crossing point, the sandy mud proved treacherously deep—my feet sank in, making passage arduous—yet I somehow managed to ford it safely.

The river's width was about two chō, but its depth reached chest-level and had a somewhat swift current; burdened with heavy luggage, I nearly toppled over at times. After crossing the river and proceeding a short distance, there was a rather large tent. I pleaded with them, and fortunately, they allowed me to stay. That night, when I inquired about the paths in that area, I learned that there was a public road about two ri to the northeast. There was a station called Tokusen Tāsamu at that public road. In this highland region, stations were generally placed at intervals of about four or five days’ journey along the route. Four days’ journey before that Tokusen Tāsamu, in the direction closer to Snow Peak Chise, there is another tāsamu station. That is called Samtsang Tāsamu. From this point onward, since I would be taking the public road, the locations of those tāsamu stations would naturally be accounted for. And so, on the following day, I proceeded eastward once more. If I were to proceed northeast, I could reach Tokusen Tāsamu, but as that would be an unnecessary detour, I took the path eastward to reach the public road. On the following October 19th, I continued in that same direction, but here yet another great difficulty befell me.

Chapter 46: Finally Reaching the Public Road

Sinking into the Marshlands of the Plateau

Sinking into the Mud. Since I was traversing a marshland plain with pools, I had no choice but to cross through shallow waters and enter muddy areas. When I came upon a muddy bog, I tentatively thrust my staff into it and found the depth considerable. This—if I were to drown here, it would be intolerable—so I selected the narrowest crossing point and began my attempt. Naturally, with shallow water and sand overlaying the mud surface, it didn't seem particularly deep. When I probed with my staff, though it sank somewhat, there appeared no real obstacle to crossing. Moreover, since the span measured less than two ken, I judged it safe—but when I leapt into the mud, disaster struck. On my second step came a glutinous gurgle as I sank deep, collapsing diagonally forward. By fortune of having my staff, I managed to brace myself—yet now found movement impossible. When I tried retreating, the mud had slid me too far forward; turning back proved unfeasible.

Then, using the staff as a shield, I exerted all my strength to lift my body upward. With a mighty heave, I managed to rise somewhat. Now I slowly lowered the luggage into this mud, reaching around to my back to throw each piece one by one toward the far side—then tossing the next remaining item. In that manner, all the luggage was thrown to the far shore. Then, though the clothes I was wearing were soaked through, I untied my obi, stripped off those garments too, and flung them to the far shore—doing likewise with my undergarments until I stood utterly naked—but the cold defied all description. Yet one never knows what might prove useful—I suddenly recalled having seen foot acrobatics as a child.

Utilizing Foot Acrobatics: Now, in such a situation, rushing would surely lead to missteps, so I thought it best to proceed cautiously and slowly focused my strength into the staff to begin lifting my body upward. However, as my body—which had been diagonal as intended—straightened, I laid a short staff horizontally far ahead of myself, estimated the distance to place my rear foot upon it, then firmly planted the long staff with my right hand. Lightly hoisting myself up, I gently placed my rear foot onto the staff and secured my weight upon it. Simultaneously lifting my rear foot, I nimbly leaped between the staffs without sinking deeply into the mud and, taking advantage of my lightened body, easily vaulted onto the far bank.

When I vaulted up, I was cold and trembling, but it felt immensely satisfying. Strange how the foot acrobatics I'd seen as a child had proved useful at such a crucial moment—I felt immense satisfaction. Since my clothes were soaked, I first wrung them out to dry. As I couldn't afford to wait for them to dry completely, I finally put them on while still soaked and proceeded toward a tent visible near the public road. Fortunately, pilgrims were there too, and that night I was able to stay there. And so, on the following day,

I had finally reached the public road. The public road may sound quite grand, but it was not some road constructed through public works—merely a path where many horses and people had passed through easily traversable terrain. To put it plainly, they call it a public road simply because merchants, government officials, soldiers, or nomads frequent it most—resulting in sparse grass growth and few scattered stones. When I entered the desert, even what they called a public road would have every trace—footprints and all—vanish with one gust of wind. In Tibet, proper roads exist only near Lhasa; beyond that lie no roads worthy of the name. They amount to nothing more than paths formed naturally by people and horses having traversed them. One might imagine a public road as something carriages could use—but Tibet has no roads passable by rickshaws or horse-drawn vehicles. There exists an amusing tale regarding this. The King of Nepal had purchased a splendid European-style four-horse carriage from Calcutta and presented it to Tibet's present Dalai Lama. Yet in Tibet—having received such an object—they found no use for it and requested its return. But since they had brought it all that way, they presumably deemed it best to keep it as decoration—and so that carriage remains within the Dalai Lama's palace—

The carriage still remained as a decoration. That had been a story from just four years prior. Thus, the wretched state of roads was hardly unique to this region. Even in Lhasa and Shigatse—Tibet's most developed cities—proper roads scarcely existed.

In any case, now that I had reached the public road, I could feel somewhat at ease from here on, and having come upon a path where I could stride boldly along this smooth public road without encountering any checkpoints until reaching Lhasa, I found it rather intriguing. And so, that day, after traversing through a desert and emerging on the other side, there was a single tent. That was the liquor store in that area. I found it quite strange that there was a liquor store in such a place, but it turned out that people had come from a mountain village called Mondan in Lo Province to sell here until around the end of that month.

In this area where trade in salt, wool, yaks, horses and such thrived, they sold liquor catering to those merchants. Though it was barley-brewed liquor—not that it mattered—having reached this tent at dusk seeking lodging, I found its keeper strangely familiar. It turned out to be an old woman I’d befriended during my stay in Lo-Tsāran. “What relief!” she exclaimed. “We’d worried where you’d gone—how marvelously you’ve come all this way without straying outward.” “Do you return now to Lo-Tsāran?” she pressed. “My plans remain uncertain,” I replied, yet stayed the night. While this seemed a great boon—for grand conveniences ever bring grand complications—the crone’s artless nature spared me any true quandary.

The Residence of the Second Tribal Leader The following day, escorted by the old woman's servant with my luggage loaded onto yaks as before, I arrived at the dwelling of a man named Gyal Pun about five ri southeastward. This was arranged through the old woman's introduction—she had vouched that "this lama is a venerable person, so you must let him stay at your place." This Gyal Pun ranked as the second wealthiest man across Bumba Province, possessing two thousand yaks, five thousand sheep, and substantial other assets. His main tent measured thirty ken on each side—roughly fifty-four meters square. Adjacent stood a stone-walled Buddhist altar room. There was also one standard-sized tent and a smaller structure resembling a recreational hut arranged in a row. When I entered the largest tent, I found countless goods serving as counterweights along the hem of the canvas, each pile covered with a Tibetan woolen blanket.

What lay beneath them was unclear, but for the most part, items such as butter, barley, wheat, or wool occupied the majority. I stayed there with a host named Gyal Pun who was seventy-five or six years old, his wife being around eighty and blind. He had no children. One might ask if there was an adopted child, but there was none of that either. In such cases in Tibet, inheritance is always handled by having succession carried out through Gyal Pun's closest relative or a child of his sibling—the most closely related individual—as adopting an outsider as heir is not permitted. Therefore, if left unattended, naturally the closest relative would emerge to inherit. Though no specific law mandated this, custom had become natural law, with none raising objections against it.

Forty-Seventh Installment: Advancing on the Public Road

Posthumous Rites: When the two poor old people asked me various questions about Buddhist teachings, I explained them earnestly. They were overjoyed, saying, "This is truly splendid! Please recite sutras for our posthumous memorial services—we have no desires left beyond matters after death." As I was thoroughly exhausted and rushing the journey would only ruin my health, I decided—seizing upon their request—to spend several days reciting sutras. However, the chief expressed his wish that if I could stay there, he wanted me to remain for half a year or even a year to provide extensive teachings on Buddhism, but complying with this was naturally impossible. Were I to stay long, not only did I fear unexpected rumors from my time in Lo Province of the Himalayas might spread and endanger me, but I also realized that no matter how many layers I wore, I likely couldn't endure the piercing cold of this land's harsh winter.

Even then, the cold had already become nearly unbearable—though I wore two fur garments borrowed from the elder, the nighttime chill still pierced through to my skin so thoroughly that I found myself thinking: how could I possibly endure living in such a tent once true winter arrived? No matter how earnestly they entreated me, I could not remain there; yet the elder’s desire at that time was so fervent that refusing him weighed on my conscience like true cruelty.

Spitting Blood Clots: However, during my stay there, a severe, illness-like change began to occur in my body.

One day when I went out for a walk, I felt something like a lump stuck in my throat. Without thinking much of it, I tried to spit it out and coughed up a clot of blood. The blood that had gushed out all at once flowed uncontrollably from my nose and mouth. Good grief—had I contracted tuberculosis? I had always believed my lungs were strong, so why had I fallen ill like this?—such thoughts came to me, but the bleeding simply would not stop. Yet in such moments, being able to sit perfectly still and silent was due to what I had learned long ago from that Zen master—

The merit of having been struck on the head—it brought an almost painful excess of stillness. There, sitting motionless in the grassland with a sensation of severely obstructing my inward and outward breath, I found the blood flow diminishing considerably. It finally stopped, but the area had turned crimson where the expelled blood pooled in alarming quantity. Startled by how much blood I'd coughed up—my own face now ashen—I returned to find elder Gyal Pun observing, "Your face looks deathly pale. What happened?" When I explained, he nodded: "Ah yes—we've heard Chinese folk spit blood here from bad *iki*." (They mistake it for foul air rather than thin atmosphere.) "There's good medicine for that," he assured me, handing over the remedy.

There, having been instructed by the experienced elder, I realized for the first time that it was not tuberculosis—indeed, this harm had befallen me due to prolonged travel through lands with thin air—and at last felt relieved. However, after about three days had passed, I coughed up blood again. This time, it was considerably less. The elder said that after two occurrences, there would likely be no further concern about coughing up blood, and indeed, as he predicted, after that—and even when I was in Lhasa—I never spat blood again. That made sense. This area stands at an altitude of 15,000 shaku (approximately 16,395 feet) above sea level, while Lhasa is at 12,000 shaku (approximately 13,116 feet), so naturally there was never any occurrence of spitting blood in Lhasa from the start. And so, having received a generous amount of milk and other provisions from the elder, I stayed for seven days to recuperate.

When the day came for me to depart on the eighth day, the elder said to me, "Nothing I give you would be of use, but let me give you this pelt from a beast called Ee."

The beast had a form resembling a cat in the snow—though its torso was slightly longer than a cat’s—its fur was exceptionally soft and warm. That was the most expensive fur sold even in Tibet. He gave me a hat made from its fur that covered down to the shoulders. I later heard from others that this hat would be worth about twenty-five yen if new, and even when sold off as old, it would fetch over ten yen. He gave me that hat, a small amount of butter, and ten tangka of money, then had a horse and servant accompany me on my way. After traveling about four ri, I arrived at the house of a village chief named Ajopu in that area and stayed there that night. In any case, staying at Gyal Pun’s house for about a week had been an extremely fortunate thing.

If such bleeding had occurred during the journey, I might have died from blood loss. For if I were to lose blood without obtaining nourishment, there would be no means of replenishment... On October 29th, I departed that house and proceeded alone southeast through the desert bearing my luggage for approximately four ri until I reached the banks of the Brahmaputra River. By that time, the ice had already formed quite thickly, and the sunlight reflected off it, glittering intensely. In truth, this was not the direction I was supposed to be heading. This path was a side road, and to follow the public road required heading east. The reason I had come southeast was that Ajopu—the man with whom I had stayed the previous night—informed me proceeding eastward would lead to Tazun-Tasamu, a completely uninhabited region devoid of nomads. Thus believing this way might lead me where nomads resided, I followed his advice—and indeed found nomads by the riverside.

I borrowed lodging at that tent from an exceptionally kind host named Gyalpo. He explained that since we would be heading in my direction the next day, we should depart together—and that he would load all my luggage onto yaks. Accordingly, the following day I had my belongings loaded onto yaks as arranged, and we gradually descended southeast along the river. The area remained a gravel-strewn riverbed transformed into marshland. After traveling about one and a half ri, we reached a white sandy plain. As I struggled through sand so deep my feet sank irretrievably, Gyalpo—unable to bear watching—said sympathetically: “Though a saddle would be ideal, perhaps you could try riding that bareback horse? I don’t know if you can manage without one.” To this I replied, “That would work splendidly,”

Riding a bareback horse through the desert—I mounted that bareback horse. After riding for a while, my tailbone was injured by the horse’s spine. The intensity of the pain was beyond description. So I arranged my legs over the horse’s spine like Western women ride—but even then, after barely two-thirds of a mile had passed—my legs began to ache. Having no choice, I dismounted once more and proceeded to walk along that difficult path. Though arduous—since I wasn’t carrying any luggage—the going proved manageable; after walking about two ri across that sandy plain, we arrived at the Brahmaputra River flowing between abruptly towering cliffs. The river's width had narrowed into a fierce torrent. When we passed through the rocks flanking the cascading waters and emerged on the other side, there stood three mountains shaped like clenched fists, each separated by three streams, and the Brahmaputra flowed into the southeasternmost channel between these peaks.

We did not proceed toward where it flowed in, but instead made our way out into a northeastern valley. Thus having parted from the Brahmaputra River there, we gradually advanced northeastward until crossing a large mountain revealed an astonishingly vast plain beyond. At the mountain's edge stood a single tent where I took lodging. Having walked some seven ri that day, those called Gyalpo who had accompanied me declared they would venture further out and parted ways that same day. That night when I inquired whether a river lay between here and Tazun-Tasamu, they affirmed there was one. Since they warned this river was perilous without a guide, I hired one the next day. After advancing three ri southeast across the broad plain, we encountered another river over one chō wide. It being still around ten o'clock, the ice had not properly thawed. According to the guide, were we to cross now—

“Your legs might get cut by the ice.” While waiting for the ice to melt as we boiled tea and ate lunch, we drank our tea and around noon broke through the river’s icy edge to plunge in. The melting ice struck my hips and legs, and despite my efforts, I sustained minor injuries. When I finally reached the far bank, the cold had penetrated to my marrow, leaving my skin numb. We advanced another three ri that day before spending the night in a small tent. Departing after nine o’clock on November 1st, we crossed a minor glacier shortly past noon after traveling two ri, then continued over two more ri to reach Tazun—the most celebrated site on Tibet’s northern plains—(meaning “Seven Hairs,” so named for the seven Buddha hairs enshrined within its temple). The temple stood atop a hillock, with a government tax office at its periphery. Being one of the northern plain’s tāsamu (waystations), it resembled a modest town where numerous merchants gathered. This was an exceptionally large temple housing many rare [treasures].

Chapter 48: Hardships Along the Way

Encountering a ruffian on the road; the next day I stayed there to view the treasures and statues within the hall. This place lay exactly twenty-five ri due north from Tsaralam in Lo Province of the Himalaya Mountains, where I had previously resided for about a year. Thus people from Tsaralam and its neighboring regions came here in great numbers for trade. Yet I remained largely unaware of these circumstances. After viewing the treasures and strolling around the temple grounds, just as I thought to return to my lodgings, I unexpectedly encountered an acquaintance on the road. He was a heavy drinker and notorious gambler even among Himalayan locals—a man who persistently spread malicious rumors about me, claiming I was a British official or spy. Though I maintained civil relations with him, even providing medicine when his household fell ill, he remained a troublemaker who would seize upon any pretext to pick fights and fuel his drinking habits.

Having encountered such a man, I devised a plan. Thinking that if left alone he would surely inform the government and obstruct my great purpose, I deliberately softened my words and addressed him: "Since we meet after so long, I wish to offer you a drink. Though I don't drink wine myself, they say there's good wine at this station—I'll get you the finest and renew our long-severed camaraderie. Won't you come to my lodgings?" Being one who could show no restraint upon hearing "wine," he came immediately. Then I instructed the host to purchase a large quantity of the finest wine, and though I naturally did not drink a single drop myself, I acted as his drinking companion, doing my best to feign drinking and drunkenness, keeping him imbibing until around four o'clock that night. As he had drunk copiously, he collapsed in drunken stupor and slept deeply.

I too had been pretending to sleep there for a while. When the host arose around half past five, I too got up and addressed him: "The person sleeping here is someone very important to me. I'll give you this much money, so make sure you keep him drinking today with your skills." "In return, I'll give you this as a token of gratitude," I said, handing over more money to the host. "You must not let that man leave." "If he wakes and asks where I've gone, tell him I went to Tsaralan," I instructed, then prepared my luggage and departed around six o'clock. Claiming to head toward Tsaralan was a strategic ruse; in reality, I proceeded southeast along the public road toward Lhasa.

What continued to weigh on my mind was this: he being one of the cleverest rogues among Himalayan folk, should he awaken and inquire where I had gone—only to be told I went to Tsaralan—might he not realize, "Ah! That fellow actually went to Lhasa! He tricked me into drinking!" and report this to Tazun's tax officials? If he were to do so, the tax officials would immediately give chase on horseback, so no matter how desperately I tried to flee, it would be futile. I thought of trying to spend all the money I currently had to hire someone to carry this luggage or secure a horse, but of course, in this wilderness, there was no possibility of obtaining a horse or anything else, so there was nothing to be done. As I steadily advanced southeast along that public road, a large group came raising a cloud of dust from behind with their horses and men. Wondering what it could be, I looked closer, but the situation somehow...

It appeared to be a large caravan. As I drew nearer and looked more carefully, there were eighty to ninety horses and sixteen people. I stopped one of them and explained how extremely difficult it was for me to carry this luggage, offering to pay if they could load it onto a horse for me while I ran behind it. However, the man—appearing to be a servant among them—declined, saying he couldn’t make such decisions. Then I made the same request to someone who seemed to be their leader when he emerged later, but he couldn’t agree immediately. “In any case,” he said, “we’re camping in those mountains today—why don’t you come there?” “It might be hard on you,” he added, “but if you hurry and reach that spot, we might work something out among ourselves.” This being excellent luck, I resolved that no matter how grueling it proved, I must reach those mountains that very day. Steeling my courage with this thought, I pressed onward and arrived around eight in the evening at a mountain’s edge where two large white tents stood. There sat a lama who appeared to be their commander-in-chief. Beside him was another lama who seemed second in command. It seemed—

It appeared to be a monks’ caravan. They promptly served me tea they had prepared and offered meat cooking there, but when I refused the meat, they demanded, “Why won’t you eat meat?” so I explained my reasons in detail. Then the lama, looking deeply impressed, asked, “Where are you from?” When I replied, “I am a Chinese monk,” he—evidently knowing some Chinese—addressed me in that language. To deflect this, I stated, “Your Chinese is the Beijing dialect,” and as was my custom, declined politely while continuing our conversation in Tibetan.

However, the lama then demanded I produce Chinese characters and read them aloud. When I read them and explained their meaning, he seemed to finally accept me as Chinese, though traces of suspicion still lingered in his demeanor.

Now, as for who these people were—there existed a country called Ruto that bordered Ladakh on the eastern frontier of Kashmir in the northwestern corner of Tibet. They were lamas from Huntub Chöten Temple in that country. The foremost lama was called Lobsang Gendun, and the next in line was named Lobsang Yangpel. And there was a man called Tsongpon who managed these people’s business affairs. Tsongpon means "merchant commander." It was actually that Tsongpon who guided me here by saying "Come," so all the others were monks and lay servants.

This caravan was transporting Kashmiri products—dried peaches, dried grapes, silks, and woolens—to Lhasa, then bringing back tea, Buddhist statues, and religious paintings from Lhasa. Since this arrangement proved extremely convenient for me, I conceived a plan to negotiate with these people—though having them carry my luggage all the way to Lhasa would create complications—to at least travel together through Changtang, that great pastureland's wilderness. The chief lama then inquired: "What Buddhist teachings have you studied? What knowledge do you possess?" gradually posing questions about Tibetan-style Buddhism. Fortunately, as I had previously mentioned, I had thoroughly studied Tibetan Buddhism under Dr. Gyaltsen in Lo and Tsaralam, while devoting particular attention to grammatical texts myself. Thus not only could I readily answer the lama's queries, but I also provided extensive explanations about Tibetan Buddhism that covered matters even these people didn't know.

However, he was greatly surprised and began asking numerous questions about Tibetan grammatical texts. He had studied Tibetan grammatical texts quite extensively but not comprehensively. Especially something like scientifically classifying and analyzing them was utterly beyond their capabilities—naturally there was no way they could grasp it. As I progressively applied grammatical interpretations, he said: “Please accompany us from now on. Though we proceed by horse daily until around two o'clock in the afternoon, we always make camp by then and have ample leisure. Having someone like you provide explanations of grammatical texts would be most valuable. I shall show proper gratitude in due course and will provide all provisions during this journey—will you not consent to this?” This was no mere question of whether he would provide for me—

Since I was the one who desired it, I promptly agreed.

Chapter 49: The Companion's Difficult Question

The Caravan’s Camp When I awoke around four o'clock the next morning, the tent people were already burning dried yak dung to prepare meat and tea. After a while, everyone else awoke too, and seven or eight among them went to search for the mules and horses that had been let loose the previous night. These animals had been released to graze on the surrounding grass all night—some might have wandered beyond nearby mountains, while others could have crossed range after range to distant slopes. They went to retrieve them. The retrieval would take at least an hour, sometimes even three. Of course, whenever these searchers went looking, the horses never failed to return. When the animals caught sight of human faces, they knew it was time. The prospect of being treated to tasty bean mash upon return made them come back readily enough. The members gathered the scattered herd, tethering them to stakes before giving each horse a large lump of bean paste—softened with hot water and kneaded with roasted barley flour. As the horses ate, they loaded the luggage. Caretakers appeared assigned at one per five or six animals.

These people would finish their meals in turns before loading the luggage, their diet consisting mostly of mutton, yak, and goat meat. When reaching urban areas, they would occasionally eat pork as well. Once they had loaded the luggage and finished eating, they would dismantle the tents pitched at dusk, have the horses carry those too, then saddle their own mounts to ride after the five or six horses under their charge. My companions numbered sixteen people—fifteen rode horses, while one exception was a monk bound for Lhasa to pursue his studies, who rode neither horse nor any other beast. In short, having hailed from the same region, he had simply joined their company. Since both that monk and I were proceeding on foot, we deemed it best to depart early. Together we drank tea before they finished packing their luggage, left the tent area behind, and gradually advanced southeastward.

There is a saying: "Judge a man by walking alongside him; test a horse by riding it." This companion prided himself on being quite the scholar and considered himself exceptionally learned. He was indeed erudite in many ways, yet remained utterly ignorant of Buddhism's essential principles. Nor would he acknowledge the existence of its finer distinctions. His understanding appeared broad yet nebulous. Nevertheless, having found agreeable company during our travels, I took genuine pleasure in our conversations as we journeyed together. But despite my contentment, he gradually developed a growing resentment toward me—one that seemed to intensify with each passing day. The root of this animosity lay in my exposition the previous night on Tibetan grammatical systems. Though he boasted scholarly credentials, he knew nothing of Tibetan grammar. Then came his declaration: "Mastering trivialities like grammar means nothing without grasping Buddhism's true essence." His demeanor and phrasing—implying I possessed merely "a fool's pedantry"—made clear his envious disposition, prompting me to handle him with deliberate restraint.

That day we crossed a great mountain and traveled about seven ri before camping in marshland, where I again lectured on grammar that night. The fifth day found me still traversing sandy plains with that monk. Though this would occur later, after reaching Lhasa this monk faced dire hardships when his provisions ran out completely—whereas I conversely had ample supplies—so I extended what aid I could. But during our journey, after various engaging Buddhist discussions arose, he became determined to uncover my true identity. He must be British. If not British, surely European stock. This suspicion grew from observations like my fair complexion. Yet since I already grasped the limits of his inquiries, I carefully explained matters to allay his doubts. After two ri across those sands, we reached the Brahmaputra's banks once more. By then the ice had thawed, flowing silently downstream while—

The sound of ice chunks colliding—when those ice masses crashed together with a deafening roar—felt utterly exhilarating. The sunlight's play across that ice looked truly magnificent. We descended east along the riverbank for about three ri before leaving the waterway, then climbed northeastward along the Brahmaputra's inflow channel for over three ri before mounting horses to cross again. Slightly north of that riverbank stood a station called Nyuk Tarsam. Yet without reaching Tarsam, we turned left at the station and traveled eastward one ri before making camp on a mountainside. That day we'd covered nine ri total—throughout this journey, our caravan never once lodged near stations or villages until reaching Haruje Station's outskirts, for camping near stations meant poor grazing grass for our horses.

Therefore, they would find a place somewhat removed from stations where there was plentiful good grass and camp there, which is why in this northwestern plateau region they did not stay at stations or such places.

It was on this very night that I realized. By now I had come about twenty-six ri from Tazun, so there was no longer any fear of being caught by those ruffians—though that time had been truly perilous. Had that man suddenly come to his senses and reported me, he would have received substantial money for such a denunciation and surely would have pursued me without fail. But imagining he had fortunately spent a day or two in frenzied oblivion from drink, I felt somewhat relieved. As usual when the lectures on grammatical texts and Buddhist topics concluded, the monk who harbored deep suspicions toward me—the monk who styled himself a scholar—persisted in...

Glaring at me with suspicious eyes, he suddenly turned to face me and said, "You claim to have been to India—there’s a man called Pandit Sarat Chandra Das who once attempted to explore Tibet." He pressed further: "You must have met him?" "I knew him well enough—he was my Tibetan teacher," I replied carefully. "But where could such a man be found? In India’s three hundred millions?" Feigning ignorance I asked instead: "What sort of person was he?" The monk leaned closer. "That very Pandit deceived our officials twenty-three years past—obtained travel permits through guile! Stole our Buddhist teachings clean away!" "When this treachery came to light," his voice hardened like river ice cracking underfoot,"Chenyen Dorjechang—Great Lion Vajra Treasure himself!—was executed! Scores more monks slaughtered! Whole families stripped bare!" He jabbed a finger at my chest."Now don’t play simple! A man so famed across India—you couldn’t not know!"

His manner of speaking was detestable, but to those words I responded: "Why, even the famous Queen of England—I've yet to have the honor of seeing her face." I remarked that such a vast place was truly troublesome and deflected the matter with a laugh. The story of Pandit Sarat Chandra Das comes up wherever you go in Tibet, so even children know it well. Yet among Tibetans, those who know the name Sarat Chandra Das are truly few. They call him E-School Babu (meaning "head of the school"). Various strange tales have been added to that matter. This is because parents tell their children these stories like fairy tales—that any Tibetan who guides a foreigner into Tibet will be put to death, and anyone who knows of such an act but fails to report it to the government will have their property confiscated—so their descendants may thoroughly understand these laws. Thus everyone knows of them no matter where you go. And since Pandit Sarat Chandra Das's activities were exposed,

The Tibetan populace 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 fact, so I took utmost care with every single word—even those seemingly innocent remarks uttered with a laugh—exercising full caution. But he was quite skilled in his questioning methods; whenever I tried to deflect with laughter, the monk would begin probing from various angles. Thus, given that Tibetans are inherently suspicious by nature, all of them now driven by that suspicion, I found myself in a state akin to a lone defender holding a solitary fortress against countless foes.

Chapter 50: A Path of Terror

Shifting the Cunning Discourse — Since I too sensed danger, I swiftly shifted the conversation by asking, "Do you revere Shakyamuni Tathagata more, or Lobon Rinpoche, founder of this land's old sect?" thrusting forth an entirely different topic. In Tibet, there exists a saying: "Pemachenne, more revered than Shakyamuni Buddha." This means Pemachenne, founder of the old sect, is held in higher regard than Shakyamuni Buddha. Now, since heated debates normally occur in that country, my question served as a spark that gradually caused arguments to blossom into further debates—until finally the arrows of their questions aimed at me were deflected back. This is dangerous, I thought. Having come all this way with such effort, being exposed must not happen. I resolved that extreme caution would be necessary.

There exists a term called Semnak Poepa that Mongolians use to describe Tibetans. The meaning of Semnak Poepa is that those with black hearts are Tibetans—indeed, prying into internal affairs is a Tibetan habit; moreover, even when seething with anger, they will smirk slyly only to exact harsh retaliation later, another facet of their disposition. Not all are like this, but many do lean toward such tendencies. The term Poepa in this proverb means Tibetans; allow me to explain why they are called thus. Pö is what Tibetans call their own country. The name Tibet itself remains unknown to Tibetans. Therefore Pö means 'to call' in Tibetan—the origin of this name dates back to when this land was first founded,

The founding ancestors of this country were a man named Téwu Tonmaru (meaning "red-faced monkey") and a woman named Taku Shinmo (meaning "rock ogress"). Téwu Tonmaru is said to be an incarnation of Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva, and Taku Shinmo an incarnation of a yogini. It is said that this yogini entreated Téwu Tonmaru to become her husband; thereafter, they summoned one being each from the six realms—hell dwellers, hungry ghosts, animals, asuras, humans, and devas—to create six children. From this act of "calling" (poe), they gave their land the name Pö. This is likely a myth fabricated by some later lama to align with Buddhism, but such a theory does exist. By the way, Indians do not say "Tibet" but call it "Boda". Boda has a meaning akin to "path," and another meaning—"awareness"—as well. As to which etymology it originates from remains unclear at present, but according to Indian scholars' theories, they state that Pö is a contracted form of the sound 'Boda'.

Moreover, Indians also refer to this country of Tibet as the land of hungry ghosts. As I mentioned earlier, this can also be understood from Panden Atisha having bestowed the name Pretapuri (City of Hungry Ghosts). Regarding the names of this country of Tibet, there are still two other names which would yield various interesting matters if researched further, but as this would become too specialized, I shall stop here. The character "pa" in Poepa means "person," thus Poepa signifies "Tibetan people"... On November 6th, we took a southeastern path, ascending and descending undulating mountain ranges multiple times over eight ri before finally lodging at the foot of a great snow-capped mountain. The following day, the 7th, we headed east, climbing and descending along the snow mountain's edge for over two ri until reaching a river called Chaksham Tsangpo (Iron Bridge River). I imagine that in ancient times, there must have been an iron bridge built across this river. But even so, it was not a proper iron bridge—merely a single

The iron rope bridge was likely nothing more than a single cable fastened from rocks on this bank to those on the opposite bank, with people swinging across it to reach the other side. According to what I had heard, near Lhasa two of those iron ropes had been stretched across, and by passing between them, one could cross over in good order. Though such bridges were no longer used these days, they had been employed in ancient times. While it remained unclear whether the current iron bridge at Chaksham River was one of those two [ropes], it was certainly one of them, and thus it seemed the name was derived from that connection. The river was a raging torrent with masses of ice flowing downstream, but I crossed over quite comfortably on my mule and proceeded through the mountain plains; however, these mountains bore no trees.

That said, there was no sign of thick grass growing either. Well, where there was water, grass grew; beyond that lay nothing but bare rocky mountains. However, in areas that formed plains, water pooled and some grass grew. The scenery presented a truly dreary and unpleasant sight that offered no comfort to ease travel hardships. After journeying about one and a half ri through such mountains,I came upon another stream; advancing southeast through similar terrain for another ri and half,I lodged at a marsh's edge west of Sakka Zong fortress. Sakka Castle was a fortress built atop a mountain,and though its construction method differed little from temples,the altered appearance stemmed from its martial purpose. Yet no government troops were stationed there.

Indigenous soldiers—whenever trouble arose, all two hundred-odd inhabitants would become soldiers. Speaking of such times, just two years prior, a tribe from Kitahara in the Northern Plains had attacked, culminating in a great battle that left twenty to thirty dead and saw some two thousand yaks seized—a matter now under litigation in the Tibetan government's courts. This fortress, then, appeared designed to guard against these so-called nomadic raids. It also housed a tax collection office. That day I walked approximately six ri; that evening I again lectured on grammar (and so forth). The next day, advancing three ri southeast through similar mountain plains, we came upon the great snow-capped peak of Chomo Lahari to our left. Passing through its foothills southeastward for two ri, we lodged there—a day with nothing noteworthy to report. On the ninth day thereafter, traversing six and a half ri of similarly barren, desolate mountains southeastward, we crossed a ridge and reached a valley.

Bald Mountain's Monstrous Creature: However, in the distance appeared an enormous animal. It resembled a yak in form, but clearly was no ordinary yak. When I promptly inquired about it, they called this creature "Donyak" in Tibetan—a mountain yak of truly fearsome nature. Its size measured two and a half to three times that of a common yak, standing approximately seven shaku tall though smaller than an elephant. Those eyes glaring piercingly toward us were truly terrifying. The circumference around its horn bases measured two shaku five or six sun, their length about five shaku, with thickness matching their girth. This understanding came later when I saw mountain yak horns in Lhasa—I hadn't actually taken measurements at the time. They described how this yak grazed on grass normally, but when enraged would charge to gore humans or beasts with its horns—not to mention its tongue lined with small blades that could shred anything licked.

Encounter with the Desolate Valley's Monstrous Beast

I later saw the dried tongue; since it had dried out, they had been using it as a brush to groom horses' hair. They said this tongue had been from a mountain yak calf, but even so, it was still quite large. Thereupon, a certain honest man among my party became terribly frightened and turned to me, pleading, "Please perform a divination—will we pass through tonight safely?" I wondered if they were afraid a mountain yak would appear, but that wasn't why.

“It was just last year, a bit below this mountain…” he said, pointing to a spot one or two chō away, “that six merchants were killed by bandits there.” “I’m so terrified that I think we might have to stay awake again tonight—could you please perform a divination for us?” “Well, I explained that such a thing would never happen—it was merely a means to calm their minds—but given how mountain yaks were lumbering about in the area, it was truly a dreadfully unpleasant place.” However, that night passed without incident, and the following day, after advancing six ri southeast through mountainous terrain, we lodged in a marshy plain. When making camp, we would choose a marshy plain where there were ponds whenever possible. For in marshy plains there is more grass…

On the following 11th, we similarly proceeded six ri through mountainous terrain; on the 12th crossed a steep slope called Kuru La with about three ri of ascent and descent, headed east for approximately seven ri, and again lodged at a marshy plain.

This occurred during that time. The monk traveling with me began showing an increasingly amicable disposition toward me, for even such an arrogant monk could not help fearing criticism from these allies—many honest and devout Buddhists who had come to sympathize with me had become my supporters. Of course, whatever their motives might be, it would have been improper to spurn their kindness, and opposing them would have been most unwise; thus I treated them with even greater kindness than they showed me. From this arose great harmony, and I felt reassured there would likely be no misfortune of exposure.

Chapter 51: First Glimpse of Wheat Fields

"Residents with a Metropolitan Accent": On the following thirteenth [of November], we crossed two formidable slopes and lodged at the foot of a mountain crowned with jutting rocks. The next day, we proceeded three ri southeast along a stream flowing between those towering rocks, ascended a gentle slope of approximately five ri, and camped by the riverbank. On November fifteenth, traveling two ri southeast along the river brought us to a plain; crossing this open expanse eastward for about three ri, we arrived at a station called Gyatö Tasham. That station had far more stone-built houses than the previous station. There were quite a number of people as well—altogether said to be about four hundred. There were some sixty houses, and the customs differed considerably from those of the so-called nomadic regions like Changtang we had passed through until now, showing signs of having adopted some metropolitan characteristics. The nomads are extremely uncouth, being blunt and truly rough in their manner of speaking about people and things, but the residents of this region were completely different from nomads, their manner of speech having somewhat taken on a metropolitan style. Though they had not escaped their local dialects...

There, after purchasing provisions and such, we advanced about two ri southeast into the mountains and lodged by the riverbank. However, as it was already mid-November by the Gregorian calendar, it was quite cold. Yet in a truly fortunate turn of events, when those numerous people arrived, they immediately gathered abundant yak dung and kept a fire burning all night inside the tent—not only that, but as I gave lectures on grammar texts to them, the host and ranking lamas treated me with great hospitality, lending bedding and night garments, so I felt no cold at all. The following day, after crossing two large steep slopes (a total distance of less than six ri), we emerged onto a plain and had traveled about one and a half ri when—

Temple on the Rocks: At the center of that plain, two massive rock pillars soared sharply into the sky as if embracing each other, upon which stood a single temple. The height of those rocks was said to be approximately three chō. Since a temple had been built atop them, it paled in comparison to something like the Ryounkaku in Asakusa. It was truly tall. The name of that temple was Sesum Gompa, belonging to the Nyingma sect. Passing beneath it, we lodged in an eastern marshland; the following day after traveling approximately eight ri southeast through mountainous terrain to reach San-San Tasham, we camped not at that station but on the plain to its east. Even with a blazing fire that burned through the night, the cold in this area proved particularly severe after dark. When I awoke the next morning and looked around, though no snow had fallen at all, frost lay thickly upon the withered grass exactly as if snow had blanketed it. At that moment, a trivial verse came to mind.

Withered grasses—frost flowers bloom on the lofty plain.

As usual, proceeding about one and a half ri through the southeastern mountain plains, I arrived at a three-house settlement at the foot of a mountain. However, when I looked up at the eaves of those three houses, I was shocked. The skinned bodies of numerous slaughtered sheep hung in dozens upon dozens. And there, they were also slaughtering yaks. In Tibet, originally, when late autumn arrives, they slaughter all their livestock to preserve the meat, which is then made into dried meat. Since Tibet is a cold country, the meat does not rot even when dried and left out. According to what Tibetans say, there is nothing as delicious as this dried meat. Some people would become greatly worried when summer came and their dried meat ran out—a situation I frequently witnessed afterward. Therefore,

It appeared to be something quite delicious. To prepare such delicious meat, they slaughtered a great many animals in late autumn, which was said to be an excellent time for slaughtering livestock. The reason given was that during summer, the livestock ate plenty of good grass and their meat became fully fattened; when slaughtered at that time to make dried meat, it was said to be exceptionally delicious. However, since slaughtering near their own villages or tents was considered improper, they would deliberately bring the livestock all the way to this three-house settlement, where the nearby residents carried out the killing. They did not slaughter them household by household but gathered the entire village’s share and slaughtered them there.

When I inquired about the number slaughtered that day, there were two hundred fifty to sixty sheep and goats, and thirty-five yaks—of which only twenty had been killed, leaving about fifteen remaining. They were now going to slaughter those. They said, "Seeing yaks bellow like this is quite rare—you ought to take a look." How could I bear to watch such a thing? Yet as I kept watching—wanting to know what would happen—the yaks trudged along, two men pushing them forward from behind where they were being led. When they finally reached the killing spot, their four legs were immediately bound. The yaks, now dragged into the stench where their companions had been slaughtered and copious blood flowed, appeared to know they too would soon be killed.

Their eyes had tears welling in them. I could not bear to watch. Had I possessed enough money, I would have wanted to save them all—so pitiful did they seem—but there was nothing to be done. Then a monk emerged holding sutras, murmuring incantations as he placed the scriptures and prayer beads upon the yak's head to perform the last rites. By doing this, they explained, though sin remained in the killing, one need not fear the yak's resentment—for it would be reborn in a favorable realm after death. Cruel as slaughter was, they believed chanting sutras might bring some measure of karmic benefit.

But seeing them perform those chants only made it more sorrowful—my tears flowed, and since I could not bear to watch them sever its head, I fled into the house. And so I pitied them, tears streaming down my face, when after a while there came a heavy thud—evidently the yak’s head had been severed and fallen. They would sever its head in one stroke with those sharp Tibetan swords, causing blood to gush forth in great quantity, but they collected it in bucket-like containers to prevent spilling outward. The blood was thoroughly boiled down and formed into a gelatinous substance resembling yokan. It is also said to be exceptionally delicious. Of course, even without killing them, they would occasionally inflict wounds on their necks, squeeze out blood from those wounds, boil that blood, and then—

They prepare and eat this jellied blood, but it is said that what's made during slaughter is particularly delicious. I thought slaughtering such vast numbers was truly dreadful, but after arriving in Lhasa and residing there, I realized this scale was trivial—for in Lhasa, during October, November, and December alone, over fifty thousand sheep, goats, yaks, and such are slaughtered. Thus, this amounted to nothing. Then I departed, sorrow weighing upon me, climbing an extremely steep slope of about three and a half ri before descending three ri to lodge by the riverside. The next day, the nineteenth, I passed through the foothills housing Tasan Gompa—a large Nyingma sect temple—and camped beside a mountain stream (that day's journey: eight ri). The following day, after traveling two ri through mountains again, I reached Larung Village on Manuyui Tso Lake's western shore. This lake stretched approximately five ri around and appeared profoundly deep. Until reaching Larung Village, there had been no cultivated fields whatsoever, but from here onward, wheat fields lay under cultivation and village houses became numerous.

Chapter 52: Passing Through the Third City

Adherence to Custom: Since it was already winter at that time, I could not see what state crops like wheat were in; however, I heard that wheat cultivation in this area typically yields about four *to* per one *to* of seeds sown, and if they harvest as much as six *to*, it is considered an exceptional bounty that brings great joy. In the vicinity of Lhasa, there are years when one *to* of seeds yields eight *to* or even one *koku*, but they generally consider around six *to* acceptable. From this alone, I could see how undeveloped their farming methods were. And when I looked at those fields, I could not help being even more astonished. The fields were so strewn with stones that it was as if they had sown rocks there—resembling stone fields. This was by no means meant as criticism. Wherever I went, it was just the same.

So when I once advised Tibetans to remove these stones, they said they wouldn't do it because there was no such custom from ancient times. The Tibetans perceived their age-old customs as innate commands that governed all circumstances. While urban dwellers possessed a somewhat progressive disposition and even imported Western goods, the general populace held ancient customs in such high regard that they refused to remove even the numerous stones currently damaging their own fields, citing the absence of such tradition. It was a truly fascinating practice, but I heard something even more peculiar from the village elders in that area. At the time, I thought they were just spouting nonsense about such an absurd thing existing, but later, when I inquired about it in Lhasa, everyone without exception was saying the same thing. That was truly

It was a strange land measurement method, and its procedure unfolded as follows. Whenever fields existed, the government had to levy a land tax on them. Yet when imposing this tax, they could not determine the actual size of the fields. As I had explained earlier, Tibetans were truly deficient in mathematical concepts—indeed nearly devoid of them—making proper field measurement utterly impossible. Their solution was to have two yaks pull a plow across the land. If the plowing took half a day, that area became their standard "half-day field" for tax assessment; a full day's plowing defined a "full-day field." The government then collected taxes based on these units. It was an extraordinarily peculiar system. After hearing various tales about Tibetan customs and monastic conduct, I followed the lakeshore for approximately five ri before reaching a confluence of mountain streams where I lodged that night.

On November 21st, after proceeding about two ri along an extremely narrow valley path between mountains, I arrived at another large lake. This lake was also exceptionally clear with a circumference of about five ri, and its name was Nam Tso Goga. I proceeded southeast along the northern shore of that lake and passed through a gorge called Sengé Lung (Lion Gorge). However, as the rocks on both sides of this gorge had peculiar shapes, the Tibetans likened their forms to lions, and thus—

It appeared they had named it Lion Gorge. After progressing about three ri through the gorge, we reached another village called Sengé Lung. Without staying in that village, we continued to a village named Nakusē where we lodged, having walked over ten ri that day. The reason we traveled in such an irregular fashion specifically that day was because we needed to alter our travel method henceforth. Until then, we had been passing through areas of Changtang (pasturelands) rich in grass, where we would stop early to let the horses graze and properly nourish them. But upon entering regions with many dwellings where fields were abundant and pastures scarce, we now had to purchase fodder. When arriving at an inn, we needed to buy fodder—wheat straw, barley straw, bean stalks—from that establishment to feed the horses. However, this fodder proved exceedingly costly in Tibet.

If one were to fully feed a single horse for one night, even in inexpensive areas it would cost fifteen sen, while in pricier locations it would surely amount to around thirty sen. On top of that, they sometimes feed them beans or melt butter into grease and pour it into the horses’ mouths. Therefore, engaging in commerce in Tibet is not only quite a difficult endeavor but also said to incur considerable expenses.

On November 22nd, after crossing another exceedingly high mountain pass and advancing about five ri through mountainous terrain, I once again reached the northern bank of the Brahmaputra River. The Brahmaputra River in that area was nothing like what I had crossed before. The width measured about two chō [approximately 218 meters], but its depth bore a bluish cast that made discerning its true measure impossible. It was utterly unfordable even by horseback. In summer especially, they say the river's breadth swells enormously while its depth increases yet further. And though there exists a ferry upon this river, that ferry—

It was an Indian-style square boat. The bottom formed a flat rectangle, with a carved snake's head slickly protruding from its neck affixed at the center of the bow. The vessel was large enough to carry some twenty horses and thirty to forty people; crossing to the opposite shore brought us to Haruje, Tibet's third major city. Having reached this point meant we had fully entered Tibet's interior, with only a five-day journey remaining from here to Shigatse—Tibet's second city. Upon crossing the river, we found an inn facing south that had been built by Chinese people. This so-called inn did not function as proper lodgings, but merely served as temporary quarters for Chinese travelers, completely lacking any dedicated innkeeper.

It was an ownerless inn. It had been built for the convenience of Chinese people conducting business in Tibet and for soldiers during military marches. The structure was quite large. Our party too arrived there and took lodging. Yet the group members—wildly elated at having safely traversed that terrifying stretch of Northwest Plains without encountering bandits or wild beasts—deemed this arrival auspicious enough to warrant celebration, drinking heavily and hiring women to carouse through the night. Such scenes appeared no different from what one might witness in Japan. I remained another day, now approaching my parting from these people, and spent that time expressing gratitude for the kindness they had shown me thus far.

I read the Chinese text of the Lotus Sutra. That day, our companions were indeed indulging in bestial pleasures; however, I shall refrain from recounting their state as it was truly too unbearable to describe. On the 24th of the following month, I finally set out with two or three people, taking the path toward the main temple of the Sakya Sect, while that caravan took the public road via Puntsoling to Shigatse. At our parting—as gratitude for the grammar lectures I had delivered until then—the head priest presented me with ten tangkas, while others also showed their respect by giving some money, remarking that I was an admirable pilgrim lama. Thus, as only the chief lama, his deputy lama, and a single servant had decided to accompany me to the Sakya Sect’s main temple—and since they said, “We’ll carry your luggage to that temple; you should ride horses with us”—we came to make pilgrimage comfortably toward Sakya’s great temple. That day we traveled south through wheat fields for two ri—the land being exceptionally fertile there; however, as I had previously mentioned, Tibetans lack knowledge of farming methods and thus cannot obtain sufficient harvests—though the soil itself remains remarkably rich.

The main region for wheat crops—in any case, in Tibet, this place called Haruje was where wheat, barley, beans, butter, and such things were cheapest. This was likely because they were produced abundantly in this area. Passing through those fields, we crossed a steep slope of about two ri and traveled southeast through the fields for approximately four and a half ri before lodging in a small village called Renta. The next day, after proceeding seven and a half ri along the river, Sakya’s great temple came into view. It was an imposing sight—when viewed from our approach, a grand structure stood within high walls measuring about two chō and four ken. As we drew closer, everything proved to be stone construction: the main hall rose some ten ken in height, thirty-four ken east-west in length, and forty ken north-south in width. The stones were all whitewashed, with walls curving upward in arched formations, upon which a black-lacquered castle-like structure had been built in a manner resembling stacked tiles. At the very top of the roof, victory banners and balustrades stood towering all around, emitting golden light. Regardless of its interior's condition, when viewed from the outside, it had been constructed with such solemn dignity as to inspire reverent awe in all who beheld it.

Chapter 53: Sakya Great Temple

The temple’s structure—so after arriving near the temple, I sought lodging and, under guidance from that inn, paid my respects at the main hall and other halls. First, passing through a stone-walled gate about two jō (6 meters) in height and six shaku (1.8 meters) in thickness, I entered inside and proceeded through various temple halls until arriving at the main hall. When viewed from the outside, the main hall appeared square and entirely sealed off; however, inside there was an open space designed to draw light from a central courtyard. Upon proceeding through the entrance—approximately thirteen ken in frontage and six ken in depth—two Vajra Warriors over two jō and five shaku tall, one blue and one red, stood on either side. These warriors differed in appearance from Japan's Nio guardians—their right legs slightly bent at the knee while their left legs thrust diagonally forward, right hands raised skyward and left hands extended with concentrated power. They seemed crafted with considerable artistic skill, their muscular tension rendered quite effectively. Upon closer inspection, even we laypeople could discern their technical limitations; nevertheless, they undoubtedly represented remarkable achievements within Tibetan art. Next on the right side stood four large statues of the Four Heavenly Kings—each about three jō in height—while to the left, grand paintings of various devas and bodhisattvas covered the walls. The paintings had been created by first applying earth over the stone walls, then coating them with what resembled Tibetan natural lime; employing every technique to splendidly complete them. Despite their grand scale—three and a half ken in height and four ken in width—the walls showed no cracks whatsoever, evidencing truly exquisite craftsmanship.

The buildings were quite old but had been well preserved. When we passed through that hall, there was a courtyard at the center measuring approximately five ken east-west and six ken north-south. This courtyard too had been entirely paved with flagstones—a place where lower-ranking monks gathered to chant sutras, drink tea, and eat roasted barley. High-ranking monks ate inside the main hall while all lower-ranking ones remained in that courtyard. After passing through that spacious courtyard, we entered what might be called the main hall within the main hall complex—the western structure containing the principal sanctuary. Though this entire area constituted the main hall complex proper, we tentatively referred to this western section as such since it housed the venerable principal image. When entering this inner sanctum through its two entrances—the southern one reserved for resident monks and our northern path for pilgrims—we found ourselves overwhelmed by an indescribable resplendence of gold and azure.

The scene inside the main hall was so intricately complex that one hardly knew where to begin describing it—yet it remained undeniably splendid. Regrettably, the manner of displaying the Buddhist statues proved so unskillful that visitors felt little reverent awe. It rather evoked the sensation of wandering through a disorderly exhibition of carelessly arranged Buddhist images and sutra texts. Yet when one looked upward, the ceiling lay covered in five-colored gold brocade and fabrics like figured damask. Below hung over three hundred statues—Buddhas, bodhisattvas, Wisdom Kings, Vajra deities, and Mahasattvas—all radiating golden light. The gold appeared meticulously chosen, with pillars swathed in brocade, while at the center stood enshrined a golden statue of Shakyamuni Buddha measuring three jō and five shaku. Though said to be molded from clay, it had been splendidly gilded. Before the Buddha stood seven water bowls, lamp stands, and offering tables—mostly of pure gold, with even the inferior pieces crafted from silver. The statues, ritual implements, and golden embroideries reflected each other's brilliance in blinding fashion—a dazzling splendor whose magnificence could truly shatter one's composure. Yet I remained unimpressed. The excessive ornamentation and lack of order left me distinctly ill at ease.

The Sutra Hall's Appearance - When I entered the hall behind where that Buddha statue was enshrined, I now encountered something truly splendid. It lacked the blazing radiance of what came before but stood as an authentically magnificent sutra hall. The hall measured over ten ken in height and forty ken in width, its space entirely filled with scriptures. These sutras were dark blue paper manuscripts with gold ink and Sanskrit-inscribed palm leaves. Since Sakya Pandita—who had founded this temple in antiquity—procured many texts from India, and later monks were specially dispatched there to gather more, I imagined this collection must hold numerous scriptures invaluable for our studies. Though there were no printed Tibetan sutras here, I learned that only handwritten manuscripts existed in such abundance within these walls. Upon exiting and surveying the main hall's expanse, I at first noticed little—until an intensely foul odor assailed me.

A foul odor assaulted the nostrils—this was a stench found in every temple across Tibet, one that would surely have proven unbearable to Japanese people encountering it for the first time. In Tibet, all lamps were lit with butter. Then, when monks came here to drink tea, they would spill butter and tea. However, since the courtyard was paved with flagstones and something akin to plaster, it remained damp and humid, allowing the rancid stench of butter to permeate the hall. This odor, while perceived as pleasant by Tibetans, was extremely disagreeable to us. When exiting the main hall, one found halls on both sides decorated with various Buddhist statues.

Among these, what particularly stood out was the statue of Pemma Chune, founder of the Old School. The statue, from its pedestal to the figure itself, had been entirely crafted from gemstones. The surrounding walls and courtyard too had gemstones laid out. However, they were not fully paved but merely arranged in patterns with gemstones—a truly splendid sight astonishing to behold. When I exited the main hall, there were many monks' quarters where about five hundred monks were said to reside. In the large multi-storied building to the south resided this temple’s great teacher, Chamba Pasan Chinley, who guided those five hundred monks.

Chapter 54: Arrival at Tibet's Second Capital

At the main hall of Sakya Temple, our party went to meet the great teacher. It was quite an impressive room where he sat upon a two-tatami platform. His demeanor appeared thoroughly venerable at first glance. I intended to ask this lama about how the Sakya Sect differed from other schools and attempted to initiate conversation, but he told me to return tomorrow as he was busy today. Having resolved to visit again the next day, I took my leave that same day. Descending from the second floor and stepping beyond the tall stone wall, I saw what appeared to be numerous palace-like structures visible amidst a withered willow grove far to the south. The party members insisted we must pay respects there since it was where Sakya Koma Rinpoche—the chief priest of this great temple—resided. Therefore I too set out for that place.

Koma Rinpoche means "superior treasure," and Tibetans similarly refer to the Emperor of Shina as Koma Rinpoche. In the east was Shina's Koma Rinpoche, and in the west Sakya Koma Rinpoche—these two were revered among the people like sun and moon, so it was said among the common folk. Being such a revered figure, all who met him would worship him and receive various blessed offerings; yet in reality, he was a layperson. As he belonged to a lineage continuing from Sakya Pandita to this day—and being a layperson—he naturally engaged in meat-eating, marriage, and alcohol consumption; yet Tibet being an odd land, even pure monks still went to pay him homage. However, since this entirely differed from Shakyamuni Tathagata's teachings, though I showed respect when visiting, I did not perform the three prostrations. The reason being there exists no rule requiring monks to prostrate thrice before laypeople—thus I refrained. Yet when meeting him, he appeared a nobleman of such dignity and venerable bearing indeed.

Not Performing Worship - On the return journey after meeting him, since the lamas accompanying me reproached me, asking, "Why didn't you perform worship toward that Koma Rinpoche?"—it wasn't that I held any contempt. I had merely adhered to Shakyamuni Tathagata's teachings and therefore did not perform worship. When I answered that since he was a layperson and I was a monk, I could not possibly perform worship, the Chinese monks expressed astonishment, remarking, "These Japanese priests are truly obstinate!" The following day, when I went to Sakya Great Temple at the appointed time, there was an adorable twelve- or thirteen-year-old novice monk beside the venerable teacher. The child was playfully teasing the teacher. The child's overly familiar manner truly made me think he might be the teacher's own son, but since that person was a pure monk, it stood to reason he had no wife. However, their behavior was by no means that of an ordinary relationship. I thought it was truly strange, but after arriving in Lhasa, that doubt had been completely resolved.

Truthfully, I had intended to stay at this great temple for about two weeks to learn at least the fundamental tenets of the Sakya Sect's Buddhism. However, as I found studying under such corrupt monks distasteful, I departed the following day. Once again shouldering my luggage alone as before, I headed southeast along a stream, climbing about one ri. Then crossing a steep slope of roughly two ri eastward, I proceeded southeast through the mountains this time, traveling over four ri along a river before lodging at a two-house settlement. While carrying my luggage, I was able to walk about seven ri regardless, which I thought was due to my body having become considerably sturdy. The following day, I climbed another steep slope of one ri and descended two ri. As the snowfall had soaked my luggage, making it unbearably heavier, I lodged at a house in the area. The next day, November 30th, I fortunately encountered seven or eight transporters leading forty to fifty donkeys. After paying their fee and entrusting my luggage to them, I descended north along the Tār River for two ri. As the river then turned southeast, I followed its bank downward for six ri before lodging at the edge of a village. And these donkey transporters still did not lodge within the village. They headed into the field, unloaded all the donkeys' luggage there, stacked it in three directions to create an enclosure, and people entered inside. As was their custom, they gathered three stones to set up a pot and lit a fire using yak dung collected from the area—this was their method. This caravan was considerably inferior to those I had traveled with until now.

On December 1st, I descended and ascended along the river for four ri, then left the river to climb four ri into the eastern mountains until reaching an extremely steep red cliff known as Ranra in Tibet. After camping there again and crossing a two-ri precipitous slope through stone cliffs the next day—then traveling another two ri across mountain plateaus—we came upon Kanchan Temple. We lodged in its southern plain though all around were cultivated fields. Yet the transporters plowed through those fields without restraint anywhere they pleased. When I asked, “Won’t the field owners raise hell if we do this?” they retorted, “Nah—they’d never complain.”

It was because they were fallow fields. When I asked what "fallow fields" meant, they explained that it referred to cultivating wheat for one year and then letting the land lie fallow for another year without growing anything. This wasn't the practice in Lhasa Prefecture, but here they had one harvest every two years. Moreover, even were that not so, during winter no one would protest no matter where one walked through the fields—anywhere within them might as well be considered a path. Camping in that wilderness, I delivered a sermon for the transporters that night. The next day, after advancing 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 had constructed a temple for itself, they replied there was said to be a spring beneath its foundations. A certain kamioroshi—akin to our Shugenja ascetics—had declared this spring to be a dragon's maw, warning that should it rupture, all Tibet would drown beneath the sea. Therefore, they said he'd insisted a temple must be built to seal it shut. Moreover—precisely when this declaration was made—from China—

A strange prophetic document had arrived. That was likely created by a monk with some purpose in mind, I thought. I read through this document to find it filled with dire predictions: that due to rampant immorality, the world would drown and perish; that great famines would precede this catastrophe; that devastating wars would break out. The text claimed heavenly origins, warning that anyone calling it false would immediately vomit blood and die. Yet when I denounced it as lies upon reading, no blood came forth. Though probably not crafted with ill intent, its abundance of absurd claims made its falsehood obvious to anyone possessing basic discernment.

However, many Tibetans believed in it, and the prophetic document had been translated into Tibetan and was scattered everywhere throughout Tibet. At the very time I was reading that book, a kamioroshi was going around spreading such absurd claims; thus, I could not help but be astonished at the sheer foolishness of the august government hearing these kamioroshi’s words and spending vast sums of money to build a temple. However, listening to the kamioroshi’s words was not limited to this alone; since the people would consult the kamioroshi’s pronouncements for nearly every matter beyond their own judgment, the superstitions were so rampant that I thought if someone like the revered Tenrin’ō of Japan were to go there, he would likely thrive immensely.

Passing beneath the newly constructed temple and proceeding a little further, I saw five or six Cha Gopo (vultures)—stipend-receiving birds—perched at the mountain’s edge. When I then inquired about the reason, they explained that since there were few devotees in this area who brought corpses for them, these vultures were largely starving, and thus these eight vultures received a stipend from Tashilhunpo Monastery’s kitchen. That stipend was said to be meat. The notion of birds receiving stipends might seem peculiar, but these birds consume the flesh of the human corpses they bring during funerals. As for how they eat, how they are fed, and what the funeral practices entail, I shall now relate what I witnessed after arriving in Lhasa.

Having passed through that area, I arrived at Nyungne Hākan (Fasting Hall) near Narthang Temple and lodged there, while the rest of the party handed my luggage to me and headed off toward Shigatse Prefecture. As I needed to conduct some research here, I planned to stay another day and thus parted from them to specifically lodge at this place. This Fasting Hall was established for local monks and laypeople to observe the Eight Precepts—practices such as completely abstaining from meat for a full day or refraining from speaking to others at all. It is not that all Tibetan monks are forbidden from eating meat; however, while upholding their precepts, they take particular care to observe them. The following day, I visited Narthang Temple and viewed its most prized treasure—the woodblocks. These woodblocks comprised the Tibetan Buddhist Canon, which in Tibet is divided into the Buddha Section and Patriarchs Section. There were also numerous woodblocks containing discourse collections compiled by Tibetan lamas. The hall housing these woodblocks was quite large, with a frontage of thirty ken and depth of about ten ken, filled completely with woodblocks inside, while several other halls of similar size and smaller ones stood nearby.

As this temple served as the publisher of the Buddhist Canon—where woodblocks were printed—the three hundred resident monks were effectively its printing craftsmen. I met that temple's great teacher, specially dispatched from Tashilhunpo Temple and remarkably skilled in dialectic methods. Not only did I spend the entire day discussing Buddhism to great benefit, but I was also treated with exceptional kindness.

On the following December 5th, I headed southeast across the plain for five ri when, beneath a rocky mountain, I saw a palace-style roof glittering with golden light, alongside which stood numerous white-plastered monk quarters. Moreover, vermilion-painted halls were also interspersed among them, presenting a truly magnificent and splendid sight. This was

This was the great temple called Tashilhunpo, located in Shigatse, the second capital of Tibet. Tashi means “glory,” Lhunpo means “mass”—this name was conferred by its founder Genzun Tsubu because it takes the form of Mount Sumeru. The temple housed three thousand three hundred monks. However, it was not Tibet’s largest temple. Though considered second-class, its rank equaled that of the Dharma King’s temple. Beyond the temple lay Shigatse’s urban district. The city appeared to have some 3,400 to 3,500 households, with a population said to exceed 30,000 including monks. This could not be taken as reliable. Since Tibetans knew nothing of compiling statistics, they spoke only in approximations. I entered that grand temple and inquired about Pītsuku Kamutsan—the quarters where devotees and lamas from the Northwest Plain lodged—announcing I too had come from those plains. I had taken up residence there intending to stay awhile at this great monastery, meeting scholars and virtuous figures to receive Buddhist teachings. The current master of this temple

This temple's master might be termed Tibet's Second Dharma King. Though wielding no political power whatsoever, he held higher rank than the Dharma King himself under the hierarchy bestowed by China's emperor. Until such time as the Dharma King passes from this life and is reborn to reassume his throne and governance, this Second Dharma King might occasionally exercise regnal authority—though he took no part in routine administration. The grand lama of this temple was commonly called Panchen Rinpoche; the present Panchen Rinpoche bore the name Khyapkön Chenpo Chökyi Nyima (Great Lord Protector of the Dharma Sun). At my arrival he stood precisely eighteen years of age, born in a Year of the Sheep, and was proclaimed an incarnation of Amitābha Tathāgata. I had hoped to meet this eminence, but found myself thwarted—he had withdrawn to his detached palace.

Now, I made it my daily task to visit numerous lamas, scholars, and academics and ask them various questions about Buddhism.

Chapter 55: The Great Lama and the Grammarians

One day, I visited Tsang Chepa, an elderly monk who served as attendant teacher to this Great Lama. That venerable one, at the advanced age of seventy-four, explained Buddhist matters to me with considerable kindness. I then heard that he was the foremost scholar in grammar and rhetoric within this great temple. Since I too had devoted no small effort to the study of grammar, when I posed various questions on that subject, he replied, "I know nothing of such difficult matters, but there is a place called Enkhil on the road to Lhasa Prefecture from here. There is a person working as a doctor there who is a great scholar." He said that if I inquired about that person, I would likely understand most things.

Tashilhunpo Great Temple

I was not asking about things I did not understand. I had asked for reference, wondering what kind of explanation they would provide. However, as matters stood thus, I simply took my leave. Now Tibet had received what are called the Five Sciences (pañcavidyā) of ancient India: Śabda-vidyā (the complete science of linguistic phonetics), Cikitsā-vidyā (medicine), Hetu-vidyā (logic), Śilpa-vidyā (engineering), and Adhyātma-vidyā (religious science and philosophy). Yet very few people had thoroughly investigated and clearly mastered them. Indeed one might say there were practically none—so those who applied themselves to grammar and such studies were exceedingly few. At best, those within government circles who found it necessary to write documents might study a little for that purpose, but even that was limited to learning the most elementary grammars. Thus despite their profound ability to expound Buddhist philosophy and their rigorous study of it, there existed these grand scholars who knew absolutely nothing when questioned about matters of history or science. Having stayed several days—and thinking there was little need to remain longer—on the very day I resolved to depart, word came that the Great Lama would return from his detached palace. Thus I went to observe what manner of person he was and how his procession would appear.

The Great Lama’s Procession Now, there was of course no proper road to speak of, but the broad area trodden by people’s footsteps served as a path. On both sides stood rough-textured round objects resembling postboxes. These turned out to be incense-burning platforms. Even before the Great Lama emerged, monks and laypeople had already lit incense and were waiting in anticipation. Rather than gazing intently at the procession, most of these people ended up prostrating themselves on the ground in worship. As I watched intently, about three hundred horses appeared, and the Great Lama arrived riding in a palanquin adorned with brocade and other extraordinary silken fabrics. It was truly a magnificent sight. The procession began with Tibetan-style music—akin to Japanese shō flutes, hichiriki double-reeds, and drums—as they advanced in formation. Of course, there were absolutely none in this procession carrying weapons like guns, spears, or swords. However, I observed a considerable number of people holding ritual implements.

It was an exceptionally grand affair, and staying a full day to witness it proved thoroughly worthwhile. That night at the lodge where I was staying, I delivered a sermon on the Ten Virtuous Precepts in accordance with the monks' request. They then remarked that those who could explain Buddha Dharma so clearly were exceedingly rare. "When made to listen to nothing but dryly logical and difficult matters," they said, "we're told things that induce drowsiness—so though we're Buddhist monks ourselves, we'd grown weary of it." Yet through what they'd received that day, they declared they'd come to understand Buddhism's profound value and were truly delighted. This reveals how little middle- and lower-ranking Tibetan monks know of Buddhism. However, I later heard this temple's monks maintained quite strict conduct... But drinking alcohol had become their particular vice—they truly imbibed copiously.

Alcohol and Tobacco: An amusing story concerning these relates to an occasion when the Dharma King of Lhasa Prefecture and the grand lama of this temple had joined forces. At that time, it was said the Dharma King of Lhasa Prefecture remarked, "The monks at my temple are causing trouble by smoking copious amounts of tobacco." However, the grand lama countered, "The monks at my temple cause trouble by drinking copious amounts of alcohol." Discussions had arisen about whether alcohol or tobacco constituted the graver sin, but since these vices had already become open secrets that even the Dharma Kings knew full well about, there was nothing to be done. To prevent alcohol consumption, guard monks stationed at the gate would make returning monks open their mouths to sniff for scent when they came back from town. If alcohol's odor was detected, they would be detained. Yet the monks proved cunning. Even when thoroughly drunk—legs unsteady and eyes drowsy—they took care to let no liquor scent linger on their breath. They achieved this by eating large quantities of garlic, using its pungent smell to mask the alcohol's aroma.

Having heard both such unsavory matters and valuable lama teachings, I left behind this temple of jumbled worth, departed at 10 o'clock in the morning on December 15th, crossed through Shigatse town, and after nearly one ri arrived at a large bridge called Samba Shar (Eastern Bridge).

Samba Shar measured approximately three chō in length (about 327 meters) and four ken in width (7.2 meters). Unlike Japanese bridges built by driving piers from bank to bank, this structure featured large stone embankments erected at four-to-five ken intervals (7.2-9 meters) within the riverbed. These embankments—entirely stone-built—supported lengthy wooden beams matching their spans, over which flagstones were laid and topped with soil. Wooden handrails completed the construction, enabling crossing of this three-chō-wide river known as Tsangchu. After fording this river and traveling northward some one-and-a-half ri, I reached the Brahmaputra's banks again. Following its eastern course for about five ri brought me to a destitute farmhouse in Pe village. What caught my attention inside was the fuel stacked beside the hearth trivet—not yak dung as customary elsewhere, but turfgrass roots. The locals would cut these roots soil-clad, dry them thoroughly, and burn them—the prevalent firewood in these parts.

*Wooden Board Practice* By the burning fire, an eleven- or twelve-year-old child was practicing handwriting. The child wrote using bamboo on a black wooden board sprinkled with white powder. When they finished writing completely, they would show it to their parent to have mistakes corrected, wipe off the characters, sprinkle fresh powder, and continue practicing in this manner. I was deeply moved and inquired why such a poor household would have their child practice writing. They explained that in this area—where all were farming households—not knowing characters when paying tenant fees meant getting cheated by landlords. That was why they diligently learned characters and studied calculation methods. As for calculating numbers, as previously explained, there was no method beyond counting with stones, sticks, or prayer beads.

Among the poor, literacy training was practiced solely by farming households in this region; were one to go toward Lhasa Prefecture, paupers there knew neither characters nor even rudimentary calculation methods. In this respect, this area proved far superior. That night I preached to those people; the following day, descending along a great river for some two ri, then keeping the river to my left as I followed an exceedingly precipitous rocky mountain eastward along a narrow path for about one and a half ri, I reached a somewhat open area. When I looked to my right, two large temples stood visible atop the mountain.

Engon Temple: This was the temple called Engon where resided the grammarian whom I had been informed about earlier by the elderly monk from Tashilhunpo Monastery. Therefore, without taking the public road, I deliberately ascended to Engon Temple. After climbing the slope for about one ri, I arrived at the temple. The temple higher up on the peak was for male monks, while the temple slightly below was for female monks. At these temples, there were 230 male monks and 72 female monks. It was quite a historic temple, but since there is 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 wished to meet the scholar immediately, they replied that it would have to wait until tomorrow, so I stayed an additional day and met with the scholar. However, that scholar provided some explanation about Buddhist matters but suggested I inquire with a physician named Amdo Khasan regarding grammar or rhetoric since he did not know much about those subjects. This Amdo Khasan was precisely the scholar of grammar and rhetoric whom I had been informed about earlier by the elderly monk.

Tibetan Grammar Interrogation “Yes,” I answered, “I studied it for about three years.” That was because I had been extremely attentive to Tibetan grammar from the very beginning of my study of the language—that’s why I answered that way. However, the scholar remarked, “But even after three years of study, depending on one’s approach, one might understand nothing at all,” and proceeded to ask two or three questions. They were exceedingly simple questions, and I answered them immediately. When I then said, “Why don’t you ask me something truly challenging from rhetoric?”, the scholar replied, “I do not know rhetoric.” When I asked what school’s principles he followed in explaining Tibetan grammar, he answered that in Tibetan grammatical studies, they used the incomplete grammar of someone called Ngultru. Suspecting he might be lying to me, I inquired whether he followed the Sithu Lama’s school that precisely explains Tibetan grammar. To this he replied that while he had heard of Sithu, he had never actually seen the texts.

I then inquired about the vowels of the Tibetan script—a topic vigorously debated among Tibetan grammarians. First, I asked how many vowels exist in Tibetan. This might seem an insignificant issue, but to properly interpret Tibetan grammar's true essence, one must begin by resolving this very question. However, he appeared somewhat perplexed and began enumerating the sixteen vowels of Sanskrit, claiming there were sixteen vowels. Thinking him to be making an odd assertion, I asked whether he didn't agree with the theory positing five Tibetan vowels. "Ah yes," he said, greatly embarrassed, "these are indeed Sanskrit vowels. Tibetan vowels are certainly five in number," and retracted his statement. Yet this claim of Tibetan having five vowels itself constitutes a profound error; Western scholars have transmitted this five-vowel theory, translating it wholesale and preening themselves over it—

The vowels of Tibetan numbered four characters—in truth, Thumi Sambhota’s original texts that created the Tibetan script stated that beyond these four characters, no additional vowels existed within Tibetan writing. This was entirely true. An erroneous theory insisting there must be five vowels had also emerged, causing debates to divide Tibetan grammarians in various ways. It remained utterly incomprehensible how priests who lacked even basic knowledge of such elementary matters were acclaimed as great scholars of grammar and rhetoric. Suspecting deception, I pressed him with other simple grammatical questions but found he knew nothing at all. He understood nothing beyond the most rudimentary and trivial matters.

Thinking how such a man could be called Tibet's great grammarian and rhetoric scholar—truly a bat reigning supreme in a birdless village—I was astonished at the shallow depth of grammatical and rhetorical knowledge here. When I returned to my lodgings at the monks' quarters, the chief monk asked what I had discussed with that physician. Upon my replying that we spoke of grammar, he declared with great solemnity: "That physician is Tsang Province's sole scholar of grammar and rhetoric—no ordinary person could grasp his teachings after merely meeting him once or twice. If you truly wish to understand grammar, you must remain at this temple for two or three years and study under him daily—only then would you comprehend." "Even someone like me, who's been by his side listening all this time, doesn't understand a thing."

Hearing such an absurdity, I burst out laughing heartily, but the chief monk looked puzzled by my uproarious laughter. On the following eighteenth day, heading southeast, I ascended a slight slope and then descended over two ri to reach the Brahmaputra River. As I gradually proceeded eastward across the great plain along the riverbank, the Old School temple called Pombō Rīuche came into view atop a mountain in the distance. When I was still about one ri away, someone suddenly called out to me from within the plain.

Chapter 56: New Year's Day in a Foreign Land Wondering if I was about to encounter bandits again, I looked around to see two burly men approaching. Both advanced toward me with Tibetan-style swords laid across their path. When I asked if they required something as they drew near, one young man snarled, "What're you blabberin' about?" and hefted a large stone from the ground as if to strike me. As I kept staring fixedly, he growled, "Try runnin'. I'll bash your skull in if you do." "Ah—so these must be those notorious bandits," I realized, settling onto a roadside boulder.

Then both men stomped over to me and snatched away the staff I was holding. They barked, “Out with what you’ve got! Where the hell did you come from?” “I am a pilgrim who came from around Mount Chise,” I replied, but they pressed, “You’ve got money though.” “I do have some,” I said, “but bandits took most of it on the northwest plain. There’s nothing left here now.” “What’s that on your back?” “Sutras and provisions.” “Open it up—might be gold in there.” “The money’s in my robe. There’s none in the luggage. I’m a monk—I don’t lie.” “Take the money then, or the gear too if you want it,” I said, reaching for my purse—when three horsemen came galloping from beyond.

Then the two men threw down the staff and scattered in flight. Thus I unexpectedly escaped the bandit threat, whereupon the three horsemen turned to me and asked, “What were those people just now?” To which I replied, “They came demanding money and goods.” They then said, “Hateful wretches,” and stood there awhile before continuing, “If you go to the village below that temple, you’ll find a settlement—make haste there. “I’ll keep watch here until you reach it,” they assured with kindness. Thereupon, as I proceeded toward that village, the horsemen too eventually departed westward after some time had passed.

That night I did not stay in that village but proceeded east about three ri to arrive at a small village called Nyamo Hotter where I lodged; the next day I took lunch in a village called Teshok and that night lodged in a village called Taktsuka. On December 20th, as heavy snow had fallen overnight, I set out before dawn treading through the snow while ascending southeast along the river. When I reached the Brahmaputra's sandbars, remnants of the night's snow lingered patchily across the sandy stretches. Amid this scene, several cranes paced leisurely while uttering pure high-pitched cries. Forgetting the cold in this vista, I composed several poems. Let me share two.

Marvelous! The jade-like sands of the riverbank— Amidst the scattering snow, the calls of a flock of cranes. Slowly treading through the snow, the marvelous cranes— The timeless path revealed through endless ages. Descending along this beautiful stretch of the river's southern bank for approximately three and a half ri, I arrived at a village called Kurumu Namusee. After eating lunch here and proceeding eastward along the river for about two ri more, the river diverted northeastward while the main road began ascending into the southeastern mountains. Ascending that slope for approximately one and a half ri, I arrived at a village called Shabu-Tontsubu and lodged there. The following day, climbing eastward along a clear, small stream for another one and a half ri, upon reaching the riverbank’s edge, there stood a great rocky mountain. At its base was Cham Chen Gompa—the Great Maitreya Temple—which, true to its name, houses a statue of Maitreya Buddha measuring over three jo and five shaku (approximately 10.6 meters). Although Maitreya is a bodhisattva, since it is said that he will be reborn as the next Buddha, in Tibet they do not call him "bodhisattva" but rather "Buddha." After paying homage to Maitreya Bodhisattva, I then visited the great halls of the Buffalo-faced Wrathful Sublime King and Shakyamuni Buddha located beside it, and lodged at the monks’ quarters there. This temple has two hundred monk quarters with a monastic population of approximately three hundred, making it the largest temple between Shigatse, the second administrative seat, and the capital Lhasa.

**The Chief Monk Tormented by Ominous Dreams** The chief monk at my lodgings had apparently been haunted by a succession of ominous dreams and was deeply unsettled. What terrified him—despite his considerable wealth—were relentless visions of death that had plagued him recently. "Could you recite sutras to ward off this misfortune?" he entreated. "I know no specific calamity-averting sutras," I replied, "but since the complete canon resides here, reciting portions might calm your spirit and accrue merit." Thus beginning the next day, I commenced recitations from the Tibetan Lotus Sutra and other scriptures.

It happened to be December 28th, and since a monk from this temple was going to Kathmandu in Nepal—which I thought extremely convenient—I made arrangements to send letters to my hometown. Since it was addressed to my close friend Tokujuro Hikashita back home, I told him, "Please take this letter to Nepal and send it by registered mail at the post office," and gave the monk a considerable sum of money for the task. He seemed quite an honest man, but what became of him? The letters I entrusted to him have not reached me to this day. Since I could tell he wasn’t the sort to lie, I could only surmise that he had likely perished along the way. On the afternoon of the thirty-first of that month, they came by horse to fetch me, saying I should come to the family home of that monk.

Loading the luggage onto that horse and mounting another horse myself, I traveled about one and a half ri east and arrived at a village called Tamira, where it was decided I would perform sutra recitations again. As I rode toward the village on horseback, I thought: “Today marks the end of the thirty-third year of Meiji—well, this year I’ve finally reached central Tibet after enduring all manner of hardships.” “This is entirely due to the protection of my original teacher, Shakyamuni Buddha,” I thanked him for his grace and resolved that no matter what hardships might arise hereafter, I would press on through them all to fulfill my aspiration of serving the Buddha Dharma in even the smallest way. Of course, since Tibet does not use the Gregorian calendar, even the following January 1st held no particular significance. Nevertheless, on that day I arose especially early, around three o’clock in the morning and faced east as was my annual custom.

I began the New Year's sutra recitation. For this was our Buddhist doctrine's outward-facing principle: to pray for His Majesty the Emperor of Great Japan's eternal reign and longevity, while simultaneously praying for Her Majesty the Empress and His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince's eternal reign and longevity, deeply wishing that our Imperial Nation's august radiance might shine ever brighter across all nations. To faithfully implement this principle, no matter how deep in the mountains I dwelled, I invariably faced eastward on January 1st to recite sutras, worship, and offer these prayers. Having completed these devotions, I composed a poem.

The first sunlight's glow upon Tibet's high plains

The Eastern Lord’s august might—this I deem it to be.

In that village, I recited sutras until January 5th, and on the following day departed and proceeded about three ri to a village called Omi where I lodged. In that village's temple resides a Bodhisattva called Sun Chun Dolma (Speaking Liberation Mother). Her form measures about three shaku, exquisitely beautiful, carved with such lifelike presence that she appeared to have once spoken—indeed, even now seems poised to speak. According to Tibetan accounts, there was indeed a time when she truly spoke. When asked by the temple's monks, I read sutras for two more days, whereupon they gave me a considerable amount of alms. Though I had encountered bandits and lost my money, afterward various people bestowed funds upon me, and even when receiving alms through sutra recitations, I scarcely used that money. Since food was provided by others, I had managed to accumulate a considerable amount of money.

Chapter 57: Two Months of Sutra Recitation

Hot Spring in the River — On January 12th, I departed at five in the morning, had the porter carry the luggage, and ascended along a mountain stream through the southeastern ranges. The entire area lay covered in snow turned to ice—so treacherously slippery that losing one's footing seemed inevitable without utmost caution. After journeying approximately five and a half ri, I reached a village called Choe Ten. This settlement boasted hot springs with three bathing spots currently in use. Though uncertain of their precise medicinal properties, they appeared notably effective against rheumatism. Hot springs bubbled up through multiple points in the riverbed itself, steaming alongside the flowing waters. Having taken lunch there, I continued eastward along the same stream for another three and a half ri before arriving at a beautiful small temple nestled among willows along the riverbank.

The temple was called Mani-Hakan. "Mani" meant "like the heart/mind." They gathered numerous papers inscribed with mantras embodying this heart-like essence, rolled them into long cylindrical shapes, neatly covered the exteriors with copper plates adorned in gold and silver decorations, and inserted iron axles at their cores so they could be spun clockwise. They enshrined an especially large one there—hence the name Mani-Hakan—making this temple particularly renowned throughout Tibet. That is to say,

The founder of Tibet’s New School, Je Tsongkhapa, was said to have created this mani wheel, and thus it was held in the highest reverence. I lodged at this temple, but the monk guarding it appeared thoroughly avaricious. Upon seeing my face, he declared: “You are no ordinary person.” “I can discern fortunes through physiognomy,” he insisted. “Let me examine you.” Though I had never practiced face-reading, I thought it might serve as a lesson given Tibetans’ deep superstitions. Turning to the man, I said: “Yours is a pitiful lot—even when money and goods flow abundantly, you suffer losses from others or meet accidental misfortunes that drain your hard-saved funds, leaving you forever debt-ridden.” To my surprise, my words struck home with uncanny precision. Astonished, he cried, “No—this is truly astonishing!” and stood dumbfounded. He reportedly went straight to the house of Dorje Gyalpo (Vajra King), the wealthiest man in the area, and recounted everything about me. That very night, an elegant woman who appeared to be the lady of that household emerged with a child in tow, pleading: “Please read my fortune.”

Reading Physiognomy — To be honest, I was perplexed myself, but observing the child—not only did he appear utterly frail and near death—I resolved to admonish them against slaughter, given Tibetans' strong propensity for killing. "This child has no longevity—truly pitiable," I declared, expounding on the karmic causes at length. When they pleaded if there wasn't some remedy, I thought privately: If I could access this wealthy household's complete Buddhist canon for extended study, it would prove invaluable. Once reaching Lhasa, I'd be too occupied for thorough reading anyway—reciting sutras leisurely in this mountain retreat now would yield extra research materials later. Addressing the lady, I suggested, "Reciting numerous sutras might bring improvement." That night they departed unchanged, but by morning the child had fallen gravely ill. The family panicked, astounded by my prediction's accuracy, and came begging: "Please chant sutras for us—however many days required."

I then said I would move to their household to recite sutras, but they had no complete Buddhist canon there. A short climb up from there was a station called Ron-Ramba. Given that the complete Buddhist canon was at that station, they ended up going there to borrow the texts. During that time, while I was practicing zazen, a woman’s loud crying voice came from the direction of the kitchen area. This was most peculiar—thinking perhaps a quarrel had broken out, I pricked up my ears to listen, but it did not sound like a quarrel. It seemed something profoundly sorrowful had occurred. But being in a household I had only just entered for the first time, I could not simply go inquire about the matter. As I listened intently, the family’s bride came running to me and cried: “The young master has died—just as you said he would! Please help me!” Though I had made those remarks because his vitality seemed faint—never imagining how uncannily accurate they’d prove—when I rushed to check on him, he had already lost all sensation and gone cold.

The accuracy of my medical assessment became evident when I checked his pulse—it was barely perceptible—and upon inserting my hand into his abdomen, I detected a faint warmth. When I examined the nape of his neck, it had become extremely rigid. Though I had studied medical texts to some extent, I concluded this must be cerebral congestion. I had them bring cold water, soaked a cloth in it, and while cooling his head, applied strong compressive force to both his neck and brain. After about twenty minutes had passed—though it had seemed like a momentary cessation of breath—the young master began to open his eyes. At this, the grandmother's joy knew no bounds—she cried out in delight that her beloved grandchild, who had just died, had returned to life—so I instructed her to remain quiet while I gradually massaged the stiffened muscles along his brainstem and spinal cord until he fully revived. Thereupon, they were greatly astonished, concluding I was no ordinary person, and entreated me to remain there long-term to recite sutras for them.

During the cold season, living in such a mountain house abundant with yak dung seemed quite prudent, and thinking I could read books there undisturbed, I resolved to take up residence. My stay lasted just over two months—a period marked by various incidents—but as recounting every trifle would grow tedious, I shall share only matters of likely interest. As I spent days reciting sutras while strolling through mountains or along riverbanks, the child I had saved and his elder brother began accompanying me like devoted sons. Truly endearing—it seems I possess not so much a tendency to dote on children myself, but rather a quality that draws their affection. My daily routine became reading sutras interspersed with leading the children in play—moments that held Tibet’s purest joy during my sojourn. Yet unpleasantness abounded too—chief among them being Tibetans’ truly...

There existed a filthy custom. I will relate two or three instances of this: in the household where I stayed, there were about twenty servants. These servants brought Tibetan tea daily. The teacups remained exactly as they had been emptied the previous evening. They would humbly explain: “This vessel is perfectly clean. Since you drank from it last night,” they would say, presenting the teacups with butter residue still adhering to their rims. By “impurity,” they meant that while cups used by inferior castes required washing, those used by oneself or one’s own caste were considered pure—thus in Tibet they never washed them. Yet teacups crusted with butter residue were truly repulsive to behold. When I asked them to wipe a cup clean, they would promptly take it up with “Very well,” and wipe it using the end of their long cylindrical sleeves—the same sleeves that had wiped their own snot. Having declared it perfectly clean, they would set it down and pour the tea. I could not bring myself to drink it, but protesting too vehemently would only rouse their suspicions—so I forced myself to endure and drink.

Chapter 58: Filthy Peculiar Customs

Utterly base—wiping dishes with their own garments was something they did without a second thought. Yet as utterly base as they were, they never wiped their behinds after defecating. Nor did they bring water to wash themselves with their left hand as Indians do. They left it completely scattered, just as cows leave their dung. However, this was not at all strange, for from the Dharma King above to the shepherds below, all did the same. Thus, if someone like me carried paper to a hidden spot, I would not only be greatly laughed at but also viewed with suspicion. When children found it, they would burst into loud laughter and run away in the opposite direction. This truly posed a problem, but since I couldn't simply go to the hidden spot and return unchanged, I would hide the paper as best I could, take it with me, somehow dispose of it deftly while they remained unaware, and emerge from the privy. I was truly at a loss with this. In places with houses, there were toilets, but in tent areas, there was nothing resembling a toilet.

The toilet was the dogs’ mouths. When I relieved myself at the edge of a tent on the Northwest Plateau, four or five fearsome dogs would surround me and watch from nearby. What proved most unsettling was how difficult I found it to relieve myself at first. But even this I naturally grew accustomed to. When I finished and returned, the dogs would scramble to devour the human waste. Thus while there were no toilets on the Northwest Plateau, neither was human waste left strewn about. But that was not all. They had never washed their bodies since birth, leaving many exactly as they emerged from their mothers’ wombs. Urbanites were not quite so extreme, but rural dwellers took greater pride in never washing. Should anyone wash their face or hands, they would laugh uproariously and mock such lack of restraint. Therefore when speaking of white parts, these would be the palms of their hands and their eyeballs. Everything else was completely black.

However, even among rural folk, those considered local gentlemen or monks did wash their faces, mouths, and hands to some extent—so they were not quite as filthy—yet from their necks down to their backs and bellies, they remained completely black. There were some even blacker than Africans. As for why their palms were white—there, when kneading barley flour, they used their hands to knead it within bowls. Therefore, the grime adhering to their palms ended up getting mixed into the barley flour. Thus their palms retained no grime. Well, it made for a fine delicacy—kneading together grime and toasted barley to eat. This very dish they devoured—opening foul-smelling mouths encrusted with dark red plaque between their teeth. The sight alone turned one's stomach. When asked why they never washed from birth, they claimed bathing would diminish their accumulated fortune and virtue. A peculiar superstition—though Central Tibetans did not adhere so strictly, those in remote Himalayan regions took this to extremes.

The amount of grime served as a criterion in marriage negotiations—when taking a bride, one might ask what sort of face the girl across had, only to find her buried under grime, turned jet-black with the only white parts being her eyes. Her fingertips and everywhere else were covered in grime, shining with a black luster. As for her garments—composed of grime and butter, shining black like lacquer—describing them thus revealed the girl’s auspicious countenance. If they heard that a girl had a pale face or washed her hands and face, such a girl had had her fortune washed away, so they refused her—that was how it went. This applied not only to men but also to women choosing grooms—they similarly judged one’s measure of fortune by the amount of grime, thus determining who became a bride or took a groom. Indeed, these matters existed nowhere but in the imaginations of those who had not witnessed them firsthand in that land; even we ourselves had initially disbelieved what we had merely heard. Yet after traversing various regions, we came to verify that the stories we had previously heard were indeed factual accounts.

Those of middle rank and below had no spare garments at all, so when their clothes grew old, the grime would make them flake off in tatters. Then, whether before others or anywhere else, they would hike up their hems, blow their noses, and deftly smear the snot onto them. When there was too much mucus, they would rub it onto their cylindrical sleeves too. Once the hem hardened like a wall of snot and became unusable for wiping, they would next blow their noses around the knee area—thus their garments became triple-layered walls of snot, butter, and grime. These practices were most common among people of middle rank and below. However, those of middle rank and above did not sink to such extremes. Though still caked with grime, parts of them remained somewhat clean. As for monks—since monastic officials frequently admonished them to wash faces, hands, and keep robes clean—they were comparatively cleaner, though even this varied by type. I shall elaborate on these realities after entering Lhasa, but in any case, being invited by such people to drink tea and share meals meant enduring no small number of revolting experiences.

Sutra Chanting Amidst White Clouds and a Flock of Cranes Of course, even during my time at Tsālan in the snowy mountains, I had resolved to grow thoroughly accustomed to such matters through diligent study—yet unpleasant things remain unpleasant however much time passes, and I felt this keenly. But while there were disagreeable matters, nature's scenery brought exceptional solace to my heart. This occurred just before the Tibetan New Year. Though the household members bustled about preparing for its arrival, I had placed my sutra desk by the window and read scriptures while gazing outside at the falling snow. Some distance away, snow had accumulated on a willow tree, revealing a truly exquisite figure—slender and supple. Nor was this all: Tibet's famed cranes, adding yet another dimension of beauty, wandered here and there through the snowfall with evident delight. When I beheld this scene, I found myself compelled to compose even a humble poem.

Snow falls, and withered trees bloom with flowers.

The voices of a flock of cranes rejoicing in the scene

At the window where I chanted sutras in my hermitage, cranes came, The path, having unraveled, was mysteriously proclaimed. In such a manner, amidst the unpleasantness there were also many enjoyable things, and particularly on Tibetan New Year’s Day, there were most fascinating ceremonies.

Origins of the Tibetan Calendar: The Tibetan calendar was neither the Indian calendar nor China’s lunar calendar. They had adopted the Turkestan calendar, so while it closely resembled China’s lunar calendar, it was not entirely identical. Even something like a leap month—which in the Chinese calendar belonged to the current year—was considered part of the previous year in the Tibetan calendar. Though both systems added a leap month every fourth year, this was not merely a one-year shift in timing. The Tibetan calendar employed an extremely peculiar method of counting days within a month—one might encounter two days labeled as the seventh, or see the tenth day abruptly cut short, leaping directly from the ninth to the eleventh. We could not comprehend this system at all initially, but later, upon meeting a calendar scholar and inquiring about it, learned that in timekeeping calculations, there were instances when an extra day had to be inserted or a day entirely omitted. It was under such necessities that this method of calculation had developed.

Moreover, among days there were good days and bad days. During bad days they would remove those days entirely, while during exceptionally good days they would double them—a most convenient calendar indeed. Though this system was universally practiced throughout Tibet, regional inconsistencies arose in how days were counted or when New Year’s Day was observed. This was hardly surprising, of course. The Tibetan government had appointed four calendar officials. These four would calculate each year’s calendar using white stones, black stones, sticks, and shells—though it was said each official’s results differed slightly from the others’. They would take two of the better versions and consult a divination ritual to determine which one to adopt—truly a pitiable method employed by semi-civilized people devoid of mathematical understanding, laughably foolish in its execution. New Year’s Day ceremonies were generally conducted according to the government calendar, yet even so, no one could discern the true New Year’s date. Rarely did the Chinese lunar New Year and Tibetan New Year coincide—this peculiar calendar might shift dates forward or backward by one or two days, sometimes even differing by three days.

Chapter 59: New Year’s Auspicious Customs

The New Year’s ceremony began with piling roasted barley flour into a mountain-like heap upon waking in the morning, inserting five-colored silks—handkerchief-like pieces arranged as flags—on top, and sprinkling the barley flour with butter and dried cheese before scattering dried grapes, dried peaches, and small black dried persimmons resembling Shinshū persimmons over it. First, the host would take a bit of the fruit with his right hand, recite an incantation while scattering it three times into the air, then take a portion into his palm to eat. This too was taken and eaten with those same grime-blackened hands. After proceeding from the mistress of the house and guests down to the servants in order, they distributed Tibetan tea along with fried dough twists resembling sticks and tile-shaped crackers piled onto trays. The trays were not like Japanese ones but resembled copper plates with white plating inside. They drank tea while eating these sweets, though unlike in Japan, there was no custom of exchanging New Year’s greetings beforehand. Eating itself was their foremost pleasure; afterward came consuming great quantities of meat. The meat came in three varieties—dried, raw, and boiled—for roasted meat held no place in ceremonial occasions.

New Year’s Feast: Tibet does have river fish. However, ordinary people do not eat much fish, considering it deeply sinful to kill them. Their diet consists mainly of yaks, sheep, goats, and similar animals. While the Chinese residing in Tibet do eat pork, only those Tibetans who associate with Chinese consume it—others rarely do. When the morning ceremony concluded around ten o'clock, they drank tea and ate sweets or fruit-like items. Then around two in the afternoon came the proper midday meal, where affluent households prepared udon noodles containing egg. They ate this with evident relish, using broth made from mutton. At night—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 during the night.

However, this order was not strictly followed every day. There were times when the porridge they ate during the night was also consumed in the morning. While by no means fixed, such dishes constituted the feasts of Tibet's upper and middle classes. Those of the lower classes found it difficult to include cheese or meat even when speaking of porridge, so they added fat instead. Daikon radishes were quite difficult to come by. Adding wheat dumplings was considered a luxurious touch—something they might eat only on New Year's or when guests visited at best. Ordinarily, they simply mixed roasted barley flour into a mud-like thickness, tossing in wildflowers. In winter there were of course no flowers or plants. They only used those dried in summer, though regions abundant in daikon radishes added those instead. The ordinary food across all Tibetan social classes was roasted barley flour kneaded into dough and eaten—this was actually preferred over rice. Tibetans who had come to areas near Darjeeling claimed that eating only rice for too long caused illness, so they specially procured roasted barley flour from Tibet to eat.

It was said that eating roasted barley flour during illness gave one considerable vigor and proved beneficial. To be sure, India wasn’t without its own roasted barley flour either. But since Tibetans claimed theirs was far superior—even going to the trouble of importing it from Tibet proper—this remained their most suitable staple food.

And so the New Year concluded in this fashion; as I chanted sutras while contemplating the splendid scenery, my cohabitation with that family had granted me particularly rich material to study Tibetan customs' true nature—when suddenly beneath the window arrived a small bird, mottled black and white, perfectly crow-shaped yet smaller than a crow. In Tibetan they call this bird kyāka. These birds proved remarkably intelligent, discerning humans with precision while adhering strictly to established patterns of movement. Once when I peered intently from the window, what seemed their leader grew incensed at some quarrel among its flockmates and proceeded to kill and devour one. Thinking this an atrocious act, I recounted it to my host, whereupon he—

Bird law is more just than human law—as you may well 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 bird law were broken even by the measure of a horse's tail-tip, human law would be shattered by the measure of a great tree.' Thus did he explain how stringent bird law truly was, recounting various illustrative anecdotes—all of which I heard firsthand."

I had been reading sutras for a long time when the weather grew considerably warmer. When my departure from their house was set for March 14th, all members of the household began entreating me from dawn to confer upon them the Three Refuges and Five Precepts, which I solemnly administered. Having taken midday meal at their home, I received alms of money and one Buddhist robe. This robe—a magnificent crimson garment fashioned from wool—was said to cost approximately thirty-five yen if purchased commercially.

They wanted to send me off by horse, but since all the horses had been taken out for trade, a servant shouldered the luggage and escorted me. We then proceeded east along the Yakchu River for about four ri upstream, reaching a station called Chesun where we lodged that night. Departing at six o'clock the next morning, we followed the river eastward for three ri—throughout which we traversed extremely narrow valleys flanked by towering mountains, their depths buried under heavy snow while river ice stretched unbroken. After emerging three ri onward, we came to a slightly broader area. When I looked up at the mountain to my left, I glimpsed a solitary white hall crowning its summit. How peculiar. It was neither a main worship hall nor a temple housing monks. Wondering what it might be, I inquired of my traveling companion—

The answer came that it was the Hail Prevention Hall. The meaning of this "Hail Prevention Hall" had eluded me until then, but upon first hearing of it from that person, I thought to myself, "Could such a bizarre thing truly exist?" When I initially heard this, it struck me as so utterly strange that I couldn't bring myself to believe it. However, after reaching Lhasa and making detailed inquiries with various people, I confirmed that what I'd heard was entirely true. Having now seen this hall with my own eyes, I shall recount that peculiar tale here. In Tibet's farming regions, hail was indeed their greatest terror. When summer hailstorms struck, their once-a-year or once-every-two-years harvest of barley or wheat would be completely ravaged, making Tibetan farmers dread these downpours as intensely as if facing invasion by a mighty enemy nation. Thus they had no choice but to devise methods against this menace. The techniques they employed proved so fantastically absurd that one couldn't help but laugh aloud.

Chapter 60: Extraordinary Hail-Prevention Techniques

**Subjugating Malevolent Deities of the Eight Legions** Given how profoundly religious Tibetan people inherently were, a certain monk proposed an outlandish theory. The reason enormous hailstones fell year after year was that the malevolent deities of the Eight Legions—devas, nagas, yakshas, gandharvas, asuras, garudas, kinnaras, and mahoragas—took great delight in harming the populace by unleashing hailstones and hailstorms, thereby destroying the harvests. Thus arose monks devoted to this defense through their insistence that one must wage battle against these malevolent deities of the Eight Legions, slaughter them, and thereby prevent the hailstorms. These were mostly practitioners of the Old School.

Now, as for the methods by which these ascetics engage in battle with these malevolent deities and emerge victorious—they must first determine when exactly the malevolent deities of the Eight Legions manufacture the hail. It is said that during winter, when snow falls most abundantly, these malevolent deities of the Eight Legions gather at a certain location, compact snow to manufacture copious hailstones sufficient to devastate crops and kill people; they then stockpile this hail in one part of the heavens to rest, and when summer arrives—just as the grains near ripeness—they hurl these stockpiled hail pellets from the sky. Therefore, the people cannot endure it. As weapons to defend against those hail pellets, they must create sufficiently formidable weapons. As for those weapons—first, when they are manufacturing hail pellets, we too must secretly enter a mountain valley, and then

They had to manufacture anti-hail pellets. As for what these anti-hail pellets were made of—they made numerous pellets by hardening mud to about the size of sparrow eggs. Nor was this task undertaken by a single ascetic practitioner. Accompanied by one or two attendants, they would enter remote mountain sanctuaries and, through secret methods, produce these pellets in quantity while chanting incantations to imbue each one with spells. These pellets served as weapons to repel the hail when summer storms arrived. In Tibet, these ascetic practitioners were called Ngakpa—meaning "mantra practitioner." Only those born into an ascetic practitioner’s lineage since ancient times were permitted to practice this profession.

Therefore, unlike New School Lamas where anyone could become a monk, since these ascetic practitioners were inherited from parent to child through lineage succession, there was typically one per village. During winter, they performed prayers, cast curses, or offered blessings for people's happiness; thus it was Tibetan belief that at times they also conducted harmful curses through prayers meant to kill others. Therefore, stories about how someone had defied an ascetic practitioner from such-and-such place, been cursed, and ultimately died were something one could hear everywhere. In winter they performed such tasks, and when summer arrived, they devoted themselves to combating hail. Incidentally, I should note that,

Tibet has two seasons: summer and winter. In Tibet, there are no four seasons of spring, summer, autumn, and winter. It is divided solely into two seasons: summer and winter. Though Tibetan texts preserve the names of all four seasons—spring, summer, autumn, and winter—in practice only two exist. Thus Tibetans too follow the actual climate by using just two terms throughout the year: Yarkha (summer) and Gunkha (winter). Accordingly, summer spans from around March 15th to September 15th in the solar calendar, with all other months constituting winter. By March or April in the solar calendar, they begin plowing fields and gradually start sowing barley. At this time, those ascetics make their way to Hail Prevention Halls built atop Tibet's highest mountains. These halls stand on elevated sites to facilitate detecting the approach direction of hail-bearing clouds—hence their construction on each region's loftiest peak.

When the barley sprouts emerged, the ascetics mostly resided there, though they would occasionally return home since there seemed little work initially. By around June, as the barley gradually grew taller and the need to prevent hail became urgent, they would station themselves continuously in that hall day and night, making offerings and praying to guardian deities—the Horse-Headed Wonderful King, Vajra-Wielding Wonderful King, or Adamantine Lotus-Born—performing these rituals three times a day while reciting countless mantras daily. Curiously enough, the heaviest hailstorms most frequently occurred precisely when the barley had ripened considerably. When that time came, the ascetics would devote themselves with desperate earnestness to warding off the hail.

The ascetics hurled anti-hail pellets into the void.

First came the battle against the mountain clouds. When those clouds began to gather thick and menacing, it became a dire situation. The ascetics composed their dignity and stood tall on the rocky ledge with solemn demeanor. Chanting mantras while swinging their rosaries like military batons, they assumed a stance to drive back the approaching mountain clouds and engaged in fierce battle against them. Yet when the cloud army swelled ominously—its thunder rumbling to shake the mountains, lightning flashing with ghastly radiance, hail pellets pelting down like volleys of arrows—the ascetics grew desperate. Their defensive fervor now mirrored General Guan brandishing his great sword against vast forces. Chanting divine incantations fiercely, they thrust their right index fingers skyward, slashing through air as though wielding blades. Still the hail battered the plains unrelenting. Enraged, the ascetics themselves seized their stockpiled anti-hail pellets and hurled them wildly into the void, battling the storm in frenzy.

When even that failed, they would tear apart their own robes and fling the shredded garments skyward—a spectacle of madness—in their efforts to stop the hail. If fortune willed the hail to veer elsewhere and spare their lands severe damage, these ascetics would proudly proclaim victory while the people rejoiced. Yet should misfortune bring hailstorms that ravaged crops, the ascetics faced penalties predetermined by law—punishments proportionate to the destruction wrought. In compensation, whether these ascetics succeeded or failed in their duties during years when hail either did not fall or was successfully repelled, they received ample income through collection of this fixed annual levy. In Tibet, this was called the Hail Prevention Tax. Truly, such unfathomable levies existed.

Chapter 61: The Ascetics' Penal Code

The so-called hail prevention tax—this curious levy required farmers to pay approximately two shō of barley per one tan of land to the ascetics. Moreover, there were cases where particularly good harvests mandated payments of two shō and five gō instead of two shō. This proved an immense burden for Tibetan farmers—not only did they pay this hail prevention tax to the ascetics, but they still had to remit standard taxes to the government too. Through this very mechanism, they ended up paying these unnecessary and incomprehensible levies. An even stranger custom emerged: since summer harvests were believed to depend entirely on the ascetics' power, all judicial authority in those regions became vested in these practitioners. Namely—

The summer judicial officers were ascetics who, beyond collecting hail prevention taxes, received substantial income from their judicial duties. While such individuals should logically have been wealthy, curiously in Tibet most Ngakpa remained poor. It seemed ill-gotten gains—wealth acquired through deceiving others and exploiting blind faith—never truly clung to its possessors. Yet their authority remained formidable, earning them the title Lha Rinpoche—"Treasure of the Lamas." Thus even when encountering a shabby, beggar-like ascetic on the road, distinguished gentlemen would protrude their tongues, bow deeply, and offer profound obeisance. But despite this lucrative position, Ngakpa faced catastrophe when hail struck. The local governor would then impose fines proportionate to crop damage across the cultivated fields. They might also suffer judicial penalties—including beatings upon the buttocks.

In this regard, Tibet proved quite fascinating; even nobles were not dismissed with excuses like "They're nobles—what can you do if they commit misdeeds? Just let it be." Such aspects held a certain intriguing quality.

This concluded the matter of the hail prevention tax. Having proceeded eastward about three ri from below that Hail Prevention Hall, we reached a village called Yāse; from the mountains slightly east of this village flowed a river named Yakuchu, which ran northwest to join the Brahmaputra River. Yet certain Western maps depict this Yakuchu River as issuing from Yamdrok Lake. This representation is erroneous.

Proceeding eastward from that village for about one ri brought me face-to-face with what could only be called Earth’s sole miraculous lake—a wonder without parallel worldwide. In Tibetan speech-form this water bears Yamdok Tso for its name. Western chartings mark it Lake Palté upon their sheets—yet know this: “Palté” claims no kinship with these waters. That term clings instead to a stationhouse squatting on western shores. Some cartographer’s blunder had grafted waypost-name onto lake-body thus.

Though its exact circumference remains uncertain, Yamdok Tso Lake spans approximately seventy ri with mountain ranges floating continuously at its center. This phenomenon of massive mountains rising from a lake's depths was said to be unparalleled worldwide. While many lakes contain small islands, Yamdok Tso's geological marvel remained renowned in geographical studies for having no equal. Toward the southern end, two locations connected the outer shores to these central mountains by land bridges. The ranges floated upon the water's surface like a great dragon writhing through azure heavens—a truly magnificent sight. Beyond this, majestic Himalayan snow peaks radiated sublime light from southeast to southwest across the lake's expanse. Even this breathtaking vista paled when black clouds raced in with gales, churning the waters into roaring waves that crashed with exhilarating fury. Transfixed by this awe-inspiring spectacle, I stood upon the lakeside precipice gazing at distant snow-capped summits flickering through clouds—solemn white-robed immortals trembling in the firmament—their grandeur awakening boundless emotions within me.

After traveling east along the lakeshore for about one and a half ri, the route then turned northeast. On our left stretched continuous mountains, while across the lake to our right lay the mountain range floating upon its surface. We traveled northeast along the fairly wide lakeshore road for about two and a half ri before arriving at a station called Palté. There stood a low hill facing the lake, crowned with a castle. The castle's inverted shadow reflected in the water created an evening scene of indescribably fascinating charm. We lodged at a house beneath that castle. Though we had walked over ten ri that day, the splendid scenery left us feeling scarcely fatigued. At 4:00 AM on March 16th, we again proceeded northeast along the lakeshore through snow and ice—mountains remaining to our left, the lake to our right. The path trended northward but wound serpentine through undulating mountains, ascending and descending such that we often slipped on ice or sank into deep snowdrifts. Though formidable, these dangers proved mere child's play compared to our Himalayan crossing, allowing effortless progress.

**The Crescent Moon Over Yamdok Tso and Dawn’s Snow Peaks** Having climbed a small hill through dawn mist where scenery proved exceptionally beautiful, I looked out across Yamdok Tso Lake—from between hazy mountain ranges floating upon its azure surface rose a crescent moon on the twenty-sixth day of the first lunar month... Its faint light cast upon waters that somehow took on an eerie quality even as night gradually brightened; simultaneously atop southern snow peaks blazed morning stars whose radiance mirrored itself across Yamdok Tso’s expanse. Absorbed in these subtle visions—my journey’s hardships momentarily forgotten—I stood gazing vacantly when red,yellow,and white waterfowl began calling from sandy shores below while mandarin ducks drifted upon waters. Flocks of cranes too raised splendid cries as they advanced solemnly. This beauty—as though freshly cleansed—contrasted starkly with yesterday’s fearsome vistas,further heightening my wonder. To travel such places before dawn breaks remains journeying’s purest joy. After following Yamdok Tso’s shore five ri we reached a mountain stream near five o’clock morning. There we boiled tea and ate roasted barley with streamwater—though Yamdok Tso itself brimmed full—

That water was what they called poisonous water. There was an intriguing tale behind this. The circumstances of its poisoning were thus: the renowned British Mr. Sarat Chandra Das—who was actually Indian—had once come to this lake from India (Tibetans deem even twenty-year-old events "ancient") and allegedly blew some curse into its waters. Whereupon the lake's water had turned crimson as blood. However, a certain lama later came and dispelled only the redness, yet they claimed the poison lingered, rendering it undrinkable. This was a baseless fabrication by Tibetans, unworthy of consideration—though it remained true the water had reddened, which Mr. Sarat Chandra Das in no way caused. Some change within the lake must have temporarily reddened its waters. As this occurred shortly after Master Sarat's return, rumors spread that he had performed this deed.

Of course, Master Sarat Chandra Das was Indian, as you know (he remained in Darjeeling at that time). However, in Tibet, only those versed in worldly affairs knew Master Sarat Chandra Das was Indian; ordinary people all claimed he was British. In any case, the water of Yamdok Tso Lake must have been poisonous since ancient times. For not only did this water not flow out anywhere—merely accumulating there—but various elements existed in the surrounding area. Indeed, there were places in these mountains where what appeared to be coal could be found, and I had seen various strange mineral-like substances within the soil; it was thought these dissolved and made the water poisonous.

In some Western maps, I saw depictions showing Yamdok Tso Lake's waters flowing directly north into the Brahmaputra River, but these were completely incorrect. There, not only were we eating our midday meal, but many others were also having theirs using water from these mountain streams. After all, this was a public road connecting Tibet's second city to the capital Lhasa, so travelers passing through were exceedingly numerous. There I encountered a Nepalese soldier—quite a frivolous yet amusing man. We then became traveling companions and journeyed together.

Chapter 62: Gazing Distantly Upon Lhasa

_The Soldier with Lingering Attachments_ The soldier had originally gone to guard the Nepalese ambassador stationed in Lhasa. However, overcome by longing for his mother, he set out to return to Nepal and had already reached Shigatse when he suddenly remembered the woman in Lhasa who was his de facto wife. Abandoning his plans regarding his mother, he turned back—a truly capricious fellow. As our conversation continued, I asked how many soldiers the Nepalese government maintained in Lhasa. He explained they had only begun stationing troops there five or six years prior. Until then, they had kept no soldiers at all. When I pressed him about the reason, he recounted a major incident that had occurred in Lhasa twelve or thirteen years earlier. To summarize his account: Approximately three hundred Nepalese Parbate merchants operated in Lhasa at that time. Among Nepal’s populace, these Parbates were renowned as the most commercially astute while remaining devout Buddhists—though they followed scriptures written in Sanskrit rather than Tibetan Buddhist texts. Their trade in Lhasa flourished vigorously, dealing chiefly in woolens, cottons, silks, coral beads, gemstones, Western sundries, rice, beans, and corn.

**Inspection of the Girl's Naked Body** Now, about thirteen years prior to this time, a woman from Lhasa went shopping at a large store belonging to those Parbate merchants and was said to have stolen a coral bead. The store owner became enraged and investigated, but since he couldn’t find where she had hidden it, he dragged her into his house against her will despite her vehement protests and weeping, stripped her completely naked, and searched her—yet found nothing. When the woman came out, the people outside who had been watching asked her what had happened, whereupon she reportedly recounted every detail of being stripped naked. The warrior monks of Sera Monastery heard of this matter and immediately confronted the Parbate merchants, declaring, "To forcibly strip a woman naked and humiliate her when she clearly refused—this is utterly unconscionable behavior!" When pressed about whether they had truly done such a thing—since they had indeed done exactly that—it’s said they replied, "Yes." “Then that’s fine,” said those warrior monks as they departed, but

The Attack of the Warrior Monks: After returning to Sera, they reported this matter to their boss and assembled a group of about a thousand warrior monks. The warrior monks were overseen by a single boss, with arrangements ensuring immediate assembly upon his command. Though their numbers weren't particularly large at that time, it was said they still managed to gather roughly a thousand men. As they prepared that night to invade Lhasa and beat every last Parbate merchant to death—the distance between Sera and Lhasa being merely one and a half ri—rumors of their plan reached the capital. Upon hearing this, the Parbate merchants abandoned all their possessions in shock and fled. While some reportedly stayed behind without fleeing, most had escaped.

Before long, the warrior monks of Sera—each carrying swords or large keys—invaded Lhasa. Finding all Parbate merchants' houses locked tight, they smashed through doors, forced their way inside, and made off with all of the merchants' property. Those committing violence weren't solely Sera's monks but included many rogue warrior monks—ruffians loitering around Lhasa—who had mixed with them to storm the shops. They ran amok until daybreak, withdrawing at dawn with their spoils. When Parbate merchants returned home next day, they found nothing left to eat—of course they owned no fields or paddies. Their goods being their sole wealth meant everything—merchandise and sales money—had been seized, total damages reportedly reaching ¥230,000.

The Tibetan Government’s Compensation: 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, arrangements were made to station twenty-four or twenty-five Nepalese soldiers specifically in Lhasa. The person who became head of these diplomatic negotiations was Jibahdor—the very man from whom I had received a letter of introduction through a Nepalese lama in Calcutta. That is to say, he was Nepal’s Chief Secretary and at that time served as Minister to Tibet.

As we advanced while listening to such stories, we climbed the steep slope called Genpara ("ra" meaning slope) for about one ri and reached the mountain summit. When I looked far to the northeast, the Brahmaputra River flowed southeastward. There was a large river flowing into this great river from the northeast. That great river is called the Kīchu River [(Happiness River)]. When I gazed along this river into the distant sky, there stood a mountain jutting abruptly from the valley plain. Atop that mountain, something emitting golden light glittered as it reflected the sunlight. That was none other than Lhasa’s

It was the Dharma King’s palace, called Potala. Beyond the Potala lay what appeared to be urban structures in the distance—temples with golden roofs still radiating light skyward. That was Lhasa’s city proper. From this vantage point, it looked distinctly small. After resting briefly there, we began descending a steep slope. Having traveled three ri (about 11.8 kilometers), we lodged at a station called Pache—though my feet had been chafed raw by my boots and pained me greatly. The day’s endless march through snow and ice...the ten-and-a-half ri traversed along that brutal path...left me utterly spent. At four o’clock on March 17th—the following morning—after descending another ri or so, I reached the Brahmaputra’s banks. Following its southern bank for two and a half ri brought us to Chaksam ferry crossing. This crossing led to the river’s north bank—where an iron bridge had once spanned these waters. Nowadays, slightly downstream from the ferry point lay remnants of that bridge’s chains. Yet paradoxically preserved in name alone—the site was still called Chaksam [(Iron Bridge)]. Indian-style rectangular boats now ferried people across during winter months—though come summer’s torrents, even these sizable vessels could not reach opposing shores.

Therefore, There were boats made from yak skin. It was quite ingenious—they gathered skins from three yaks, stitched them together, coated the seams with a waterproof substance, and floated them on the water. Thus, even in winter, if there weren’t too many travelers, people crossed using these skin boats. Therefore, in Tibet, the word for "boat" is sometimes represented by the character for "skin." In other words, when you say kowa, it means both "skin" and "boat." Of course, since they were made of skin, they would soften and grow heavy when humidity became severe. Therefore, if left soaked in water for about half a day, people promptly hauled them up again to dry in the sunlight—these boats could be carried by a single person. Therefore, they would carry these boats far upstream, load them with cargo or passengers there, descend for about a day or two, and after unloading everything, haul up the boats again to dry them as mentioned—a highly convenient system. Since we had many companions, we boarded a rather large boat and crossed to the opposite shore.

Chapter 63: Arriving Beneath the Dharma King’s Palace

Strange Willow Leaves: After journeying about one and a half ri across the sandy riverbed within the river's course, we reached a place of picturesque beauty—rocks one might call scenically exquisite, alongside willows and peach trees. These trees all stood along the water's edge, their shadows resting upon the river. This proved an exceptionally warm area, its climate far superior to Lhasa's. The Yamdrok Lake region I mentioned yesterday sits upon considerably higher ground. It supposedly rises some thirteen thousand five hundred shaku (about 4,091 meters) above sea level. Yet here the elevation measured approximately eleven thousand five hundred shaku (3,485 meters), creating distinct differences in altitude. Being waterside with ample sunlight besides, the willows here had already put forth green buds. To eyes long accustomed to barren mountains and withered trees alone, these fresh willow leaves seemed wondrously rare and particularly beautiful.

Of course, since the porter carried the luggage, I did not suffer under its burden as I had on the northwest plains. However, the old wound on my foot had reopened, the pain growing so severe I could scarcely walk. Just then, a horse handler happened to come along, so I gave him some money and paid him to let me ride his horse. After proceeding about one ri further, we arrived at a station called Chusul. This station was situated in the delta between the Kīchu River flowing from the northeast and the Brahmaputra River flowing from the northwest—a prosperous stop along the route.

Thieves’ Town. Yet among all those encountered on the road before reaching Lhasa, none matched the wickedness of the people at this station. They were utterly callous and supremely adept at pilfering travelers’ possessions. They stole indiscriminately—luggage, shipments, anything—but their methods proved so cunning that even their victims could scarcely grasp how it had been done. Nowhere in Tibet lacked notoriety for harboring thieves as prolific as those in Chusul, and I myself had long been warned by many to exercise utmost caution should I pass through there. Given their deftness and the station’s role as a bustling crossroads where money flowed freely, I expected to find considerable wealth here. Yet when I inquired, they claimed this village held far more paupers than any other—a most peculiar circumstance indeed. After dining with heightened vigilance at the station, we set out on foot across the northeastern plains along the Kīchu River. But as we ascended upstream, my feet—already raw—grew so agonizingly painful that movement became impossible. I collapsed onto the open plain until fortune brought a donkey driver approaching from behind. Mounting his beast, I rode some four ri until reaching Jan Station. There, an unavoidable matter compelled me to dismiss the porter who had accompanied me thus far—a reluctant but necessary parting.

My feet were aching increasingly, and there was simply nothing I could do about them. That day, fortunately aided by a donkey, I had managed to travel about ten and a half ri, but there remained no prospect of proceeding tomorrow. However, since there were people lodging at this station who were delivering tax meat to the Lhasa government, I requested their assistance, and it was decided we would depart the next day. Yet though they carried goods for the government, this didn't mean they brought horses from their own villages—instead requisitioning station horses at each post to continue transport, so they could cover only about three ri daily, four at best. Thus reluctantly entrusting my luggage to them and proceeding on horseback myself, I lodged with them in a small village called Nam to rest my exhausted, throbbing feet.

The following day, after proceeding about two ri along the Kīchu River, I emerged onto its riverbed, and having traveled another two ri across that riverbed, I arrived at a station called Nētan.

Hall Established by the Founder of the New Sect: At Nētan Station stood the hall of Vajravarahi, revered as Tibet's most sacred site. This temple gained fame as the place where Pandita Atisha—the Indian Venerable whose teachings inspired Tibet's New Sect—founded his monastery. I made pilgrimage to this temple and venerated its twenty-one Vajravarahi statues. Their forms radiated profound sanctity, while their artistic execution struck me as truly magnificent.

On the following 20th, proceeding northeast along the riverbank for about two ri through fields, I came upon a large bridge. After crossing that bridge and proceeding northeast for about one and a half ri, there was a station called Shin Zonkā. We arrived at that station and lodged there again.

March 21st. Today was finally the day we would enter the national capital, Lhasa.

I hired a horse from that station, entrusted my luggage to those delivering tax meat as before, and proceeded less than one ri along a path winding through strange and wondrous scenery of mountains and rivers—whereupon a magnificent temple appeared on the left mountainside. But no—at first glance, it didn’t look like a temple. It was so vast that one might have mistaken it for a large village. It was indeed a full-fledged temple, named Rebun, and was the largest temple in the vicinity of Lhasa. However, within Tibet under the jurisdiction of the Dharma King, this temple was the largest, with seven thousand seven hundred monks. That was the regular number, though at times it could reach eight thousand five hundred or even nine thousand. However, during summer when monks left for seasonal work in rural areas, their numbers might decrease to around six thousand—but regardless, it remained remarkably prosperous, and there too existed a university. In Central Tibet, there were three locations where university courses were offered: one was this temple, another was where I took up residence,

Sera University; another was called Ganden. Sera University had an official capacity of 5,500, and Ganden had 3,300, but these were merely called official capacities, and of course they fluctuated from time to time as with Rebun Temple. Beneath that temple—along the roadside we were then passing—there was a place where they slaughtered yaks, sheep, or goats. Since the meat consumed by the Dharma King was supplied from there, seven sheep were used each day solely for offering to his meals. Therefore, since those sheep were consumed by the Dharma King, Tibetans said it was truly an auspicious thing and greatly envied those sheep, taking their wool and such home with them. However, the Dharma King did not consume only sheep. Since he also consumed many other meats, those too were slaughtered and supplied there.

There’s no need to have it specially delivered from such a distant place—it would seem far more convenient to procure it from within Lhasa city—but Lhasa was too nearby. If done under the pretext of killing for the Dharma King, that could not be countenanced. Therefore, under the policy of procuring from somewhat distant places—in other words, to obtain what they called Buddhist pure meat, where they themselves did not directly order the slaughter—they engaged in such practices. This principle had originated from commendable intentions, but since it was decreed that the meat consumed by the Dharma King must be supplied from here, it amounted to covertly commissioning the killings—and from our perspective, I thought it differed little from procuring it in Lhasa. Passing beneath Rebun University and proceeding about two and a half ri, we arrived at the foot of the Dharma King’s palace, which had been visible earlier from Genpara. (The name of the Dharma King’s palace was Tse Potara. Tse means "summit," and Potara refers to a harbor, signifying "ship-bearing." Potara denotes Avalokiteshvara’s Pure Land—Ceylon Island in the seas off southern India—and adopts the Chinese name Fudaraku. This place was called Potara because it was where the Dalai Lama, Avalokiteshvara’s incarnation, resided; since it stood upon a mountain, it was named Tse Potara.)

Chapter 64: Claiming to Be Tibetan

As for the Dharma King’s palace—it was truly splendid, and since its magnificence would be evident even from blueprints, there was no need to elaborate here. However, there was one interesting story. A certain country person had once loaded a great amount of butter onto donkeys and come to Lhasa to sell it, or so the story went. However, upon seeing this magnificent Dharma King’s palace, he was utterly awestruck. Could this be a divine palace from the realm of gods? he wondered, standing dumbstruck and gazing at it for some time. But then he suddenly came to his senses—Wait, where have my donkeys gone?—and when he looked around, they were scattered here and there. Then, after gathering those donkeys—there had been ten of them altogether—he realized they were nowhere to be found. When he counted them, there were only nine donkeys.

Greatly startled, he began frantically searching like a madman—“Where could that other donkey have gone?”—when a man from Lhasa approached and asked, “What’s all this commotion about?” He replied, “Well, you see, I had ten donkeys, but one’s gone missing. I’m looking for it.” “I thought someone must have stolen it—I’m beside myself with worry.” “While I was so absorbed in gazing at this Dharma King’s palace that I let my guard down, it seems someone stole it,” he said, utterly dejected. Then, when the man counted them all the way through, there were indeed ten donkeys. “What foolish talk are you spouting? There are exactly ten donkeys right here!” “No, there are only nine donkeys.” “Exactly—there are nine over there, so with the one you’re riding, that makes ten, doesn’t it?”—and only then did he finally realize. Indeed, this is a story that speaks to how truly splendid the Dharma King’s palace is—so magnificent that it captivates the hearts of all who behold it.

The Tibet Dharma King’s Palace

When we proceeded southeast past the mountain before the Dharma King’s palace along a wide road for seven chō, there was a bridge approximately twenty ken in length and three ken in width, with a Chinese-style roof atop it. Passing beneath it and proceeding a little over one chō, we arrived at the western entrance gate of Lhasa. The gate was built in a somewhat Chinese style. Then we proceeded further inward and followed the broad road to the left for a little over two chō, arriving at a place with a large open square. We had come this far on horseback, and here stood the great hall of Shakyamuni Buddha, the most sacred and revered in all of Tibet.

When inquiring about the origin of Shakyamuni Buddha enshrined here: during the time when King Songtsen Gampo—who first introduced Buddhism to this country—had yet to believe in Buddhism and decided to marry Princess Wencheng, daughter of Emperor Taizong of Tang from China, Princess Wencheng requested her father, saying: "I hear Tibet is a land where people kill and eat others—please have them promise to spread Buddhist teachings there. Additionally, I wish to bring along the statue of Shakyamuni Buddha that had been transferred from India to our country." This agreement was established, and thus Princess Wencheng escorted this Shakyamuni Buddha statue to this country, where it has been enshrined in Lhasa ever since.

The Origin of Tibetan Buddhism and Its Script: In truth, after Princess Wencheng came to this country, she recognized the necessity of Buddhism and a writing system. To pursue Buddhist practice and to create Tibetan script, she selected sixteen gifted individuals and sent them to India. As a result, the Tibetan script was created in Tibet, Buddhist scriptures were translated using that script, and gradually Buddhism began to flourish thereafter. This occurred approximately thirteen hundred years ago—an event of profound auspiciousness both historically and in terms of Shakyamuni Buddha’s legacy. This Shakyamuni Buddha statue was not crafted in China, but rather transmitted from India to China and then from China to Tibet—the original image having been created by Bishkamma, an Indian Buddhist sculptor.

Having paid homage at that Shakya Hall, I first rejoiced greatly at having safely arrived in Tibet. Reflecting that I had met Shakyamuni Buddha at Bodh Gaya’s Mahabodhi Temple in India yet now met him again at this temple—a truly blessed event in this world—I was overwhelmed by boundless emotion, tears streaming down my face from sheer joy. Needless to say, I have always held profound faith in Shakyamuni Buddha. While other Buddhas are indeed venerable, I believe Shakyamuni Buddha alone should be revered as my true teacher; thus I devote myself single-mindedly to his teachings and offer sincere reverence to Buddhist statues.

Setting that aside, I will now

The issue was where to settle. In truth, even within Lhasa there were many dubious boarding houses akin to cheap lodgings, and I had also heard of taverns that swindled people out of their money. Thus, if at all possible, I wanted to reach a place I knew. The place I knew of was the young master of the Par family (Regent), whom I had become acquainted with in Darjeeling some time ago. When this person had come to Darjeeling, we had interacted quite closely, and he had promised to take full care of me upon my arrival in Lhasa. He seemed thoroughly decent, and moreover I had done things that were sufficiently beneficial for him. Of course, I was not going to his house to flaunt having placed him under obligation and demand repayment of that favor—but with no other options available, I went to seek out that household. The house in question was called Bandesha, with an estate spanning approximately one chō on each side—a rather splendid compound. When I went and inquired,

“Even the shelter I trusted leaks rain,” they might as well have said—for they told me the young master I sought was not there. When I asked where he had gone, they replied that he was mad and they didn’t know his whereabouts. Startled, I pressed, “When did this madness begin?” They answered that it had afflicted him for two years already. “Is he truly mad?” I inquired further. “There are times when he’s sane and times when he’s not,” they said. “We can’t make heads or tails of it.” When I demanded, “Then where is he now?” they responded, “He has gone to Namsairin—his elder brother’s separate residence.” Compelled to seek him there, I found him absent once more, with the household members repeating the same evasive answers.

However, since they said he would likely come if I waited a while longer, I waited about two hours. But upon reconsidering—meeting someone in a state of mental confusion wouldn’t be particularly helpful after all—I concluded that the most practical course would be to proceed directly to Sera Monastery, secure provisional admission there, and then at an opportune time take examinations to formally enter the university. Thus, I immediately hired porters and set out northward toward the great monastery called Sera.

Just like Rebun Temple, this temple too had been built on terraced slopes ascending ever higher up the mountainside, appearing from this vantage like an entire village spread across the terrain. Guided by porters toward that temple, I arrived around four in the afternoon and sought out the monks' quarters called Pitsuk Kamtsang. Though according to prior arrangements I should have gone to Pate Kamtsang as a Chinese national, visiting those quarters risked exposing my disguise. Instead, capitalizing on my journey from the northwest plains, I claimed affiliation with a certain district there and thus reached Pitsuk Kamtsang. By then my beard had grown unshorn for months, my hair lay matted untouched by shears, and my body—unwashed in any proper bath—had grown filthy enough to pass for a Tibetan's. With this physical transformation complete, I resolved to establish myself at this temple as a Tibetan. Truthfully, passing entrance examinations as a Tibetan would prove challenging—yet my command of colloquial speech already neared indistinguishability from native speakers...

I was often treated as a Tibetan wherever I went—seeing how things stood, I decided there would be no harm in claiming Tibetan identity myself. To ensure safe temporary lodging, I entered Sera Monastery under this pretense. Each Kamtsang had a single head who served an annual term. During my stay, this position was held by Ratepa—a guileless old man of exceptional kindness. After taking up residence in his quarters, I asked about provisional admission procedures to the temple, and he thoroughly explained everything to me.

First, regarding the organization of Sera University—I needed to provide a brief explanation here, as certain matters would otherwise remain unclear. Thus I outlined its general structure. When broadly divided, Sera University consisted of three colleges: Jé Tarsang, Mé Tarsang, and Ngakpa Tarsang. Jé Tarsang housed 3,800 monks, Mé Tarsang 2,500 monks, and Ngakpa Tarsang 500 monks. Furthermore, the other two colleges besides Ngakpa Tarsang each contained eighteen kamtsang (meaning monk quarters).

Among them were both large and small ones—some large Kamtsang housed as many as a thousand monks, while smaller ones might have only about fifty—divided in various ways. The Kamtsang where I stayed accommodated two hundred monks. Now, each Kamtsang maintained its own assets, but when these were combined into a single entity, they were collectively called Sera. This was already a very broad classification; while there existed various finer distinctions within it, since these pertained to specialized matters, I shall refrain from discussing them.

Chapter Sixty-Five: Warrior Monks

Scholarly Monks and Warrior Monks: Another matter I wished to address was the classification of monks. They were broadly divided into two categories. One category consisted of scholarly monks, and the other of Warrior Monks. Scholarly monks, as their name suggested, came to pursue academic studies, which required a certain amount of tuition fees. It wasn’t an exorbitant amount, but no matter how one economized, it cost about three yen per month, and if done properly, as much as eight yen. These scholarly monks used their tuition funds to study the Buddhist dialectics that formed Sera University’s curriculum, thus coming to graduate from this university after twenty years. Since they usually studied common matters at their own temples, most people graduated from the university around thirty or thirty-five to thirty-six years old. For exceptionally bright individuals, there were rare cases where one completed their studies around the age of twenty-eight and received a doctorate.

Now, Warrior Monks naturally lacked the tuition funds needed to pursue scholarly training. Yet being monks who had entered the temple nonetheless, their duties involved carrying loads of yak dung gathered from fields on their backs, or transporting firewood brought from southern Samyae or Kombo all the way from the Lhasa riverside to Sera. They also served as attendants to the scholarly monks. These tasks counted as relatively respectable work; moreover, playing large flutes and reed pipes, beating drums, or preparing ritual offerings likewise formed part of the Warrior Monks' responsibilities.

The duties of Warrior Monks—while these were occupations not beneath their station as lower-ranking monks—included some who undertook truly peculiar tasks befitting their title. Their daily regimen required venturing into specific mountains to hurl large stones. They tested their muscular development by measuring how far they could throw these rocks or by setting targets to strike—practices actively encouraged as training. They also practiced high jumps, performing feats like running up mountain slopes to leap onto peaks or jumping down from rocky ledges. Between these exercises, they would bellow folk songs at tremendous volume. The Warrior Monks took pride in voices so powerful and resonant they boasted could pierce through paper windows stretched across buildings. To complete their training, they would then begin hurling sticks at one another.

These constituted the daily training regimen of the Warrior Monks. When there were no fixed duties at the temple, they would invariably form small groups in threes and fives, heading to their chosen locations to diligently practice those disciplines without fail. One might well question what use such monks could possibly serve, but these monks prove to be quite indispensable in Tibet. When lamas traveled to places like the northern plains or uninhabited regions, Warrior Monks served as their guard soldiers, making them remarkably formidable, it was said. Since they had no wives or children to care for, they faced death with indifference and fought as reckless warriors without hesitation—so much so that in Tibet, it was said there was simply no managing these unruly monks.

Moreover, the Warrior Monks frequently got into fights. However, it was rare for them to start fights outright upon meeting someone; they didn’t engage without reason unless some incident occurred. Such incidents rarely involved financial matters. It was always the pretty young monks who became the seeds from which peculiar problems sprouted. In situations where those base desires—akin to what once occurred at Koyasan—were either fulfilled or not, that is, when they had stolen another’s novice or had their own stolen, they would openly challenge each other to duels. When challenged, none would ever retreat. If one retreated, they would immediately be cast out by their fellow Warrior Monks and could no longer remain at the temple. These Warrior Monks too had proper masters, and their ranks maintained well-established rules, with someone tasked with enforcing those regulations. This was an open secret within the temple: when incidents occurred, even the temple’s high-ranking monks would order the Warrior Monk leaders to handle various tasks. Thus, the conduct of these leaders and their Warrior Monks—unbecoming of monks—was tolerated as a public secret.

The Duels of Warrior Monks: Once both parties consented to proceed with the duel, they would designate a location and typically set out at night. Then, each wielding swords, they engaged in decisive duels. There would be witnesses present who judged whether each side’s methods were fair or foul. If someone employed too underhanded a method, they said the one who did so was left abandoned until he was killed. However, when both parties engaged in balanced combat and sustained equally matched wounds, the witnesses stepped in to halt the fight. Then, having told them to settle it at that, they dragged them off to Lhasa to drink alcohol. Of course, alcohol was strictly prohibited within Sera Temple—it could never be consumed there—but if one went to Lhasa, it was said that among the Warrior Monks there were many who drank alcohol and engaged in reckless behavior.

After unexpectedly gaining a reputation as a doctor, I came to be deeply respected by the Warrior Monks. This was because whenever they injured or dislocated limbs during their high leaps, they would immediately seek me out. When they came, I would administer proper treatment, and their injuries would heal remarkably well—strangely so. The ailments and wounds of such semi-barbaric people appeared to mend with particular ease. Dislocated arms especially healed swiftly, leaving them astonished as they lavished praise: "You're precisely the doctor we Warrior Monk brethren need!" Yet I never accepted gifts from these men. I routinely provided medicines free of charge. I treated their injuries without compensation. Even when they insisted on bringing goods in gratitude, I would only rarely consent to take them.

This too greatly pleased the scholarly monks—those who had lost arms in duels or had their faces slashed, men who would have been doomed to lifelong crippling had they gone to other Tibetan physicians. When they came to me, I applied wound ointments, cleansed their injuries, set their bones, and tended to them in every way possible. None were left disabled; they healed properly somehow, and this made them overjoyed. Thus I earned

I gained the acclaim of the Warrior Monks—wherever I went, they would salute me by sticking out their tongues, and those very Warrior Monks became my unseen and seen protectors, providing me with many conveniences. Now, these Warrior Monks were men of unwavering integrity; compared to noble monks who spoke kindly on the surface yet ensnared others with their sinister hearts while pursuing only their own gain and pleasure, their rough ways—being devoid of malice—were rather endearing. I often felt there were many other quite admirable qualities about them as well.

Yet among lamas swathed in soft fabrics or fine woolen blankets, there were many base and cunning individuals, making interactions with them deeply troublesome at times. Through this, I trust you now clearly perceive there exist two distinct classes of monks. Now, as I was naturally to become a monk of the academic division, I needed to pursue that course. By this point, both my hair and beard had grown alarmingly long. Having gone nearly ten months without shaving, they'd reached extraordinary lengths. This profusion proved supremely warm and practical for journeying through frigid lands, so I'd simply let it remain.

The next day, when it came time to shave my head, I asked if he would shave my beard too. But the monk shaving me grew alarmed and protested, "Don't make such troublesome jokes!" He explained: "Shaving your beard would be utter madness! How could you destroy such a splendid growth? Everyone here would call you insane! Are you truly serious or just jesting?" He absolutely refused. Thus this unremarkable beard remained from that day onward—a living souvenir of Tibet.

Provisional Enrollment Procedures: Pure Tibetans do not grow beards. People from Kham or remote areas do grow beards, though... Thus Tibetans would marvel at any beard as something exceedingly rare, and they themselves ardently desired to possess such beards. Even after I had become a doctor, a great many people beseeched me, saying, "Give us medicine to make beards grow!"—which became quite a predicament. People would press me with remarks like, "You probably used some medicine to grow such an impressive beard," but that day I purchased and prepared the temple's formal cap, boots, rosary, and such items. As for the Buddhist robe, I had already received one beforehand, so there was no need to purchase it. And then I went to meet the Great Teacher of Jé Tarsang in my academic division.

This Great Teacher was one who personally inspected each individual and granted provisional enrollment. At this time, there were no exams or anything of the sort. When I came to meet him bringing only a bottle of the finest ceremonial tea prepared in Tibet, he immediately demanded, “Where are you from? You seem Mongolian—are you not?” “No, that is not actually the case. When I said, ‘I came from the northwest plains,’ he—being quite knowledgeable about Tibetan geography—proceeded to ask me various questions. But since these concerned regions I myself had traversed with great difficulty, I was able to answer every query splendidly.” Therefore,

Provisional Enrollment Granted: Having been granted provisional enrollment, I stuck out my tongue in salute to the lama, whereupon he placed his right hand to his head and hung around my neck a torn red cloth strip roughly two shaku long. Receiving that cloth served as definitive proof of my provisional enrollment. However, in Tibet it has become customary for people visiting revered lamas to wear such red cloth strips around their necks. Having accepted it, I now needed to meet the legal monk official overseeing monastic law and obtain further permission. With the Great Teacher’s approval already secured, this process faced no complications and concluded swiftly. Now provisionally enrolled, I had to commence preparations for the university debate division’s entrance examination. This necessitated selecting instructors—the following day I petitioned one teacher and rigorously studied his teachings, but recognizing a single mentor’s limitations, I ultimately engaged two scholars to review the material with me.

So I was occupied day after day solely with these preparations when a strange coincidence occurred. On the opposite side of where I resided, there lived in large monastic quarters a portly lama who appeared to be a scholar. One day when this lama summoned me for a talk and I went to his quarters, he said, “Aren’t you the one who came from the northwest plains to Sakya Temple with the Rutou merchant group?” “Ah, yes.” “Now I understand—my disciple belongs to that merchant group.” “Who might that be?” I inquired, only to learn it was Tobten—the exceedingly kind man who had shown me great kindness, the very person who had initially asked me, “Won’t you eat meat?” to which I had replied, “No, I do not.” That man turned out to be this scholar’s disciple. Thus my pretense of being from the northwest plains—

The facade had been stripped away. "Then you aren't actually from the northwest plains?" he challenged. His cross-examination continued: "My disciple claims you're Chinese—fluent in their tongue and script. What say you?" "That much is true," I admitted. He leaned forward. "Persist in this deception and grave troubles will follow! As a Chinese man you belong at Pate Kamtsang! Should I harbor you here against custom..." A legal storm brewed. "Why commit such fraud?" he demanded. "My Chineseness stands undisputed," I countered. "But Pate Kamtsang demands exorbitant fees from its Han initiates—fees stolen from me by northwest bandits." "You speak of Tobten's report about your robbery?" "I do." "A wretched predicament indeed," he conceded.

“Moreover, if you go to Pate Kamtsang, Chinese must perform that Kamtsang’s duties within a year.” “They say fulfilling those duties also costs a fortune.” “So since I couldn’t go to my proper dormitory,” I pleaded, laying bare my secret, “might I beg your permission to remain here?” “If that’s your circumstance,” he replied, “we’ll table this until matters clarify. Explain you lack funds to go, and we’ll contrive a solution.” With that, the affair reached provisional resolution. From my true standpoint as Japanese, claiming Chinese here became a second layer of secrecy—thus I maintained this dual concealment while openly persisting as a northwest plainsman. The ceaseless nightly studies left my shoulders knotted with tension until I developed chronic stiffness. Desperate, I performed bloodletting on myself, then sought medicine at a Chinese apothecary in Lhasa. The draught brought swift relief.

Chapter 66: Tibet and the Boxer Rebellion

On April 7th, there was to be a grand prayer ceremony related to the war for the Great Qing Emperor—said to be quite a splendid affair—so I went to observe it. This was not conducted solely at Sera; all major temples throughout Tibet performed it, and the temple where I resided had already carried out seven days of secret rituals through specialized practitioners. When I inquired why war had broken out in China—as they claimed this ritual sequence would secure victory—a senior figure at my temple replied, “It’s nothing complicated. Many nations attacked Peking together. Since China appears to have lost after all—though our prayers will likely arrive too late—we’re simply performing rites to ensure His Majesty remains unharmed and secure.” That was their reasoning.

He was someone who knew the circumstances quite well, and though I tried asking him various things, he kept saying it was a secret and he couldn’t tell me. And—(as I later came to understand thoroughly—it was the war against the Boxers. When I observed that prayer ceremony, the sight of what resembled war preparations being marshaled from Sera’s great main hall, Tsochen, was truly a valiant spectacle. At the very front were shō mouth organs, hichiriki reed pipes, taiko drums, and large flutes, all in step, followed by golden incense burners. These were carried solely by the most comely Tibetan children—selected from those aged twelve or thirteen to fifteen—dressed in splendid ceremonial robes adorned with five-colored Chinese crepe silk, who were made to burn incense. About ten of these [children] were followed by spear-shaped objects arranged on both sides, their upper parts resembling Chinese-style swords with blade tips that fluttered restlessly. Beneath the blade tip was something resembling a tsuba guard, from which brocade or Chinese five-color high-quality crepe silk hung down about sixteen shaku in length. The total length was approximately two jō and five shaku. Even robust warrior monks could barely manage to carry them, and even when slung over their shoulders, it took two men just to walk with them—so heavy were they. Of course, their hilts were decorated with silver or gold plating. They were quite splendid things.

Spears adorned with such decorations—fifty on each side—were followed by boards fashioned into long triangles approximately six shaku in height, bearing various patterns made with butter, which were then brought forth. Next came roasted barley flour formed into long triangles about four shaku tall, along with red molded objects made by kneading together butter, honey, and other ingredients. All these were carried by seven or eight people each, followed by monks clad in Tibet’s most splendid ceremonial robes with silk vestments draped over them—all so costly that they astonished Tibetan eyes. About two hundred such monks arrived, half carrying drums and half cymbals. Behind them advanced the high lama—chief officiant of this secret ritual—clad in resplendent vestments and wearing a ceremonial hat befitting his ecclesiastical rank. A great multitude of disciples followed in their wake, making the procession a truly extraordinary spectacle in Tibet.

Therefore, a great number of citizens from Lhasa came to watch. When they marched out from the main hall and descended about two chō between the monastic quarters to emerge beyond the stone wall, there lay a broad courtyard. This was a spacious courtyard offering an unobstructed view all the way to Lhasa. When we descended about two chō down that broad courtyard, there stood a structure resembling a thatched hut constructed from bamboo, wood, wheat stalks, and similar materials. When they reached the front, the chief lama chanted incantations before three types of offerings: triangular butter-marked ones shaped like swords, spear-shaped forms, and triangular objects crafted from roasted barley flour. Around them beat drums and rang cymbals as about two hundred monks surrounded the area. During this sutra chanting, a monk holding cymbals danced through the crowd of monks, his movements remarkably entertaining as they followed the rhythm of drums and cymbals. This resembled exactly the role of a dance leader. But the vigor of his cymbal-striking dance and the intriguing nature of his gestures differed considerably from what other countries might call dance or music.

While they were engaged in this, when the chief officiant raised his prayer beads as if to strike them down at precisely timed intervals, the spear-bearing monks thrust their spears into the thatched hut. Then, striking the hut with long triangular pieces of roasted barley flour, they simultaneously set it ablaze. As smoke and flames roared skyward, both monks and spectators clapped fervently while chanting "Lha gyalo! Lha gyalo!" repeatedly in thunderous voices—the phrase meaning "the true god prevails." With this, the ceremony concluded, presenting through Buddhist doctrine a spectacle both austere and martial in nature—a display that may indeed typify the characteristics of esoteric Buddhism.

The following day, all the monks of this temple relocated to Lhasa for a prayer ceremony called Chöen Jöe (Dharma Practice Festival). This prayer ceremony was a grand ritual conducted to ensure that the Tibetan Dharma King would pass the year in peace, lasting about one month. In Tibet, this grand prayer ceremony was said to be the second most important prayer ceremony. For this reason, I too went to Lhasa and rented lodging on the second floor of a Palpo merchant's establishment.

The Talk of the Boxer Rebellion—Thus, even in the capital itself, rumors about the war in China ran particularly rampant. This was likely hearsay brought by merchants who had returned from China or come from Nepal. Of course, merchants who went to trade from Tibet to India also brought back some rumors. The rumors were quite intriguing. They were like grasping at clouds—some said the Chinese Emperor had abdicated in favor of the Crown Prince and fled somewhere, while others insisted, "No, that’s not it—he lost the war and fled to Xin’anfu." As for why they lost the war—it was because there was a wicked minister who took a British woman as the Chinese Emperor’s bride. Then there were rumors that a disturbance had broken out, leading to their eventual defeat and flight; or that there was a country called Japan, which was quite formidable and had finally seized Peking; or that China was struck by famine, leaving nothing to eat, so people were killing and eating each other. There were also countless rambling rumors—such as that it had nearly transformed into a land of Rakshasa demons—running wild. After that, in Lhasa, they had come to know a little about Japan.

Until now, they hadn’t even known the name Japan. In particular, merchants—though I don’t know whether these events were factual or not—spread word that Japan was a country exceptionally rich in moral integrity: though it had won the war and seized Peking, when famine struck Peking, Japan brought vast quantities of rice, wheat, and clothing by ship from its own land and thereby saved millions of people. There were also favorable reputations that it was such an esteemed country. On the other hand, some dismissed such deeds as mere deception, asserting that Japan was in fact a nation capable of waging war alongside Britain, and thus ultimately aimed—like Britain—to seize foreign lands. There was no such moral integrity. In short, there were all sorts of rumors—that they were simply skilled at their methods—and while it was impossible to make sense of which was which, it was at least confirmed that there had indeed been a war between China and the Allied nations.

As it happened, the Palpo merchant with whom I was staying was planning to return to Nepal around that time, so deeming it fortuitous, I composed letters addressed to Dr. Sarat in India and Mr. Hishita in my hometown and entrusted them to him. Fortunately, those letters arrived safely. Entrusting such correspondence was no simple matter—for unless one thoroughly knew the bearer’s character to ensure they would never divulge secrets, or unless they placed complete trust in me, I could not rashly impose such a responsibility. But as he was a man of utmost reliability, I entrusted the letters to him and had them dispatched.

Now, this

The grand prayer ceremony called Chöen Jöe was unlike any we had ever witnessed; within the two-chō-square Buddha hall shown in the diagram stood a one-chō-square main Buddha hall at its center. Between them stretched a wide stone-paved circumambulation path. Ordinary monks gathered along this surrounding path, with additional congregation spaces existing on the second and third floors. None could enter the inner Buddha Hall unless they were figures like the Dharma King or high-ranking lamas. Since such dignitaries attended only intermittently, the ceremony typically drew about twenty thousand monks. This number sufficed for the second-ranking ritual, though during Monlam—the foremost prayer ceremony for the Chinese Emperor—twenty-five thousand monks would reliably assemble. At five each morning, monks lodging throughout Lhasa would depart at the summoning flute's call. Through sutra recitations lasting thirty minutes between servings, they received three rounds of that customary butter tea.

Since there was about thirty minutes between each serving of butter tea, they had to spend that time reciting sutras. Now, even though twenty thousand monks would gather, those who could truly be called genuine monks were exceedingly few, with a great many being warrior monks or those who came for an easy livelihood or to receive butter tea. Therefore, they were not reading sutras. Some would be humming through their noses, while others would be enthusiastically engaging in arm wrestling right there among them. That was quite entertaining. If one were to go where the most solemn ceremonies were being performed, all would be reading sutras with solemn faces and appeared truly devout; but if one were to go where ordinary warrior monks gathered together, the main topics would be sordid tales of male liaisons, war stories, and thief stories, culminating in talk of worldly quarrels—with some even starting actual fights and brawling. Such commotion was no simple matter.

Chapter 67: Becoming a Sera University Student

Guard Monks for Warrior Monks: Given this state of affairs among the warrior monks, guard monks were appointed to maintain order—adhering to the principle of mutual culpability, they would beat both parties involved in a quarrel without distinguishing right from wrong. If anyone so much as muttered complaints, they would immediately pummel them. Thus, whenever the warrior monks spotted the guard monks, they grew wary of one another, tugging at sleeves and signaling with their eyes as if to say, “Hey, they’re coming!” Yet even then, when least expected, the guard monks would suddenly appear and thrash them mercilessly—heads or bodies made no difference—so that some had their skulls split open or vomited blood, while in extreme cases, men were occasionally killed outright. Those slain were treated as inconsequential. Nor did the killers face legal repercussions of any kind. The corpses were simply fed to vultures. Returning to our narrative—in this manner, the warrior monks passed roughly two hours there each morning.

During that time, they would of course prepare roasted barley flour with tea and fill their stomachs. In the end, they each received a bowl of porridge, but the competition to obtain that porridge was truly unbearable. Most of that porridge was cooked with rice. This porridge was provided by donors and contained a considerable amount of meat. The bowls used to receive this porridge or tea came in small sizes that held about three gō and large ones that held around five gō. With that bowl, filling it once with porridge and scooping three bowls of tea sufficed; then, on their way back to their quarters, they would receive ge (ge meaning "bestowing virtue"). Certain believers would offer twenty-five sen or fifty sen each to those twenty thousand monks, and in such instances, Tibetan merchant magnates, large landowners, officials, and others with abundant wealth resolutely contributed donation money. In peak times, there were people who donated eight or nine thousand yen. This was not merely one or two households—there were many. In particular, there were those who brought a great many such donations from Mongolia—Mongolians already under Russian territory.

A Russian secret agent-monk—a great scholar and official of Tsannyi Kembo (the Definitive Teacher) named Dorjiev—bestowed such ge (acts of virtue) multiple times. Thus his reputation in Tibet rose like the morning sun, remaining prominent even now (this matter will be discussed in detail later). Though one might make such lavish donations alone, they received no special privileges—they simply rejoiced at having accumulated merit through their offerings. Naturally, there seemed to be merchants who considered it honorable to give these offerings even without Buddhist faith, turning the donation of large sums into a commercial enterprise.

After all, since they received such things in abundance, this was when money flowed most freely among the monks. However, whenever there was extra money and food, numerous complaints arose and quarrels would break out all the more frequently. Therefore, this was when duels occurred most frequently, but since they could not immediately engage in duels within Lhasa’s city streets, they ended up directing them to some other place. They would sometimes make arrangements here to duel and then carry it out after returning to their own temples. This was because the judges at this time were not the judge monks from each temple, but rather those from Rebun Temple who oversaw everything, and their methods were exceedingly brutal. The imposition of fines was truly brutal. Therefore, fearing this aspect, they would try their best to avoid doing so at this time, often carrying out duels that originated at this temple only after returning to their own temples.

Procession: On the final day of the prayer ceremony, there was a grand procession. It defied simple description. First came those clad in the robes of the Four Heavenly Kings, followed by the great kings of the Eight Legions—all wearing masks corresponding to their kind, each group accompanied by five hundred or three hundred members. All those groups wore similar masks and proceeded in various bizarre manners. The fascinating nature of that spectacle was not easily described. Unlike Japan’s strictly organized processions, they did not proceed with rigid precision; instead, each group frolicked about as they pleased, with some even playfully engaging with spectators. During this time, they carried various instruments—drums, sheng pipas, Indian sitars or Tibetan dranyens, flutes—alongside treasures.

Among these, what particularly stood out were the dragon types; as it was said that the Dragon Palace abounds with various treasures, there were numerous treasures crafted in their likeness. In essence, representations of all manner of tools, treasures, garments with patterns passed down from antiquity, customs and lifestyles of Tibet, and the diverse ethnic traditions of India continued for about one ri.

Since I had only seen that procession once and was now speaking of these matters by recalling my memory, I could not possibly recount all the minute details.

Origin of the Procession: It is said this procession originated from a peculiar notion. The fifth incarnation of Tibet's new sect—the Dharma King Ngawang Gyatso—had beheld in a dream a ritual procession of the Pure Land, and first instituted such processions by following that dream's sequence. Indeed, it unfolded like a mirage surging forth—a spectacle of utmost marvel. Unlike other monks who diligently attended sutra readings and tea gatherings, I refrained from joining them, for I sought to observe secret matters and gather intelligence. Though I occasionally went simply to witness the spectacle, I otherwise remained secluded, engrossed in study. This was because I wished to pass the university entrance examination before these events concluded. Yet as before, I fell ill from excessive study. Following prior practice, I purchased medicine and drank it, whereupon I promptly recovered.

The people close to me had observed and come to know such matters well. On such occasions, they would ask me various things. “Do you know the way of a physician?” “No, in truth, I know nothing of being a doctor.” “There’s no way you don’t know. Since you go buy medicine yourself and heal your own illness to that extent, you must know.” “Well, I suppose I know a little about such things, but nothing so profound,” there was also this kind of exchange. Such matters later became the reason I was compelled to work as a doctor.

Passing the Entrance Examination. However, as there was an exam scheduled midway through the prayer ceremony, I returned to the temple. It was precisely April 18th when I went to take that exam. There were about forty examinees. For various questions, there were two components: written responses and oral answers. Additionally, there was recitation of memorized sutras—these three subjects were structured such that those who had completed middle-level studies in Tibet would naturally fit into them. Unexpectedly, the questions proved manageable, so I passed promptly. Yet it must have been evidently quite challenging, as seven out of forty candidates failed. I was fortunate to be granted admission to that university. Now, admission to this university was not restricted solely to scholar-monks. It also extended to warrior monks.

Among warrior monks, the ambitious ones studied desperately hard—even going into debt—until they could gain admission. Enrolling did not mean entering for academic pursuits; rather, upon entering the university, there existed what was called a stipend for university monks from the government, where one might receive one yen or fifty sen per month, and sometimes even two yen. (At wheat harvest time, one to of wheat was distributed per person.) This was highly irregular, but in any case, there was an income of about ten yen per year. To receive that money, many warrior monks took those exams. I finally entered the first level as a university student. There were monks ranging from fourteen- or fifteen-year-old children to those in their forties or fifties practicing dialectic debates there, so their method of debate differed entirely from that of the Zen sect in my country. It was quite fascinating. They were also extremely lively. In the most extreme cases, to an outside observer, they appeared to be engaged in actual combat, so fiercely were they applying themselves.

Chapter 68: Dialectic Debate Training

The way these dialectic debates unfolded—their inherent fascination, the intensity of effort applied, the projection of voices, their rhythm, and overall manner—proved truly captivating. To explain how this worked: first, the answerer would sit as depicted in the diagram. Then the questioner would rise, take prayer beads in their left hand, and advance slowly to stand before the answerer. Spreading their hands upward and downward facing each other, they would boom out "Chī! Chī! Tawa! Chö! Chang!" before clapping their palms together with a resounding smack. This "Chī! Chī! Tawa! Chö! Chang!"—the first "Chī" being—constituted the seed-syllable mantra of Manjushri Bodhisattva's heart essence. With this invocation meant to awaken the wisdom embodying Manjushri's true nature, they then uttered "Chī! Tawa! Chö! Chang!"—signifying debate conducted "within this Dharma," that is to say, within the universal truth of reality itself—and thus commenced their dialectic.

These dialectic debates followed the methodology of Buddhist logic. According to its principles, someone would first pose a proposition such as, “The Buddha must be human,” to which the respondent would answer either “Yes” or “No.” If they affirmed it, the questioner would advance a step and retort, “Then the Buddha cannot escape birth and death.” When the respondent answered, “The Buddha has escaped birth and death,” the questioner countered: “The Buddha has not escaped birth and death. For precisely because he is human—because humans cannot escape birth and death—and because you have stated thus!” pressing in rapid succession. Then, when the respondent parried skillfully—“The Buddha is human yet has escaped birth and death”— they would come to understand through statements like “the Buddha’s birth and death are provisional manifestations” that he possesses three forms: the Dharma Body, Reward Body, and Manifestation Body. If one denied it instead, the questioner would persist: “But Śākyamuni Buddha of India was indeed human—how do you explain this?” pursuing relentlessly. Whichever way one answered, they pressed forward with their interrogation, gradually advancing the debate—so vigorous were their exchanges that they seemed capable of rousing even the most timid soul.

Scholar-Monks' Dialectic Debates To give one example: the moment the questioner uttered his words, he would raise his left leg high, spread both hands upward and downward facing each other, and as he clapped his hands, slam his foot forcefully onto the ground. This had to be performed with such force that it might shatter the very lid of hell. Moreover, the debate teacher continually instructed his disciples that the resounding clap must demonstrate power sufficient to rupture the gallbladders of demons throughout the three thousandfold world system through a single utterance of Manjushri's wisdom. The underlying intent of these dialectic debates was thus: to shatter one's mind of afflictions and annihilate the hell within one's heart, practitioners manifested a form brimming with courageous dignity, extending this form to their innermost being as a method toward liberation. When a country person came to observe these debates, they happened to be arguing about Kansa. While "Kansa" generally refers to matters of human physiognomy, in Tibetan vernacular speech it specifically denotes a smoking pipe.

So while the monks were ardently debating physiognomy at that time, the country fellow—though he couldn’t grasp what was happening—found these dialectic debates utterly strange. It seemed to him that some quarrel over a smoking pipe had broken out; they were making an enormous fuss over a single pipe! What with them violently throwing their heads about, hurling sand, others jeering—it was a tremendous uproar, all shrieking and clamor. "What in heaven’s name is going on here?" he wondered in bewilderment before heading home.

About three years later, when that country person visited Sera Temple again and saw them conducting their dialectic debates, they were still ardently arguing about Kansa—which had now escalated into a great commotion with them even beginning to hurl things at each other. Thinking, "These monks are truly hopeless! To quarrel over a single smoking pipe for three years is utterly pointless," he declared, "I must mediate this fight!" and pulled out his own waist-pipe to bring straight to the monks.

When the monks saw the country person and scolded him, saying, “This is no place for you all to come,” he reportedly retorted, “What nonsense! I can’t bear to see you venerable monks arguing over a single smoking pipe for three years. Here, I’ll give you this pipe of mine, so please stop this quarrel.” That incident remains a humorous anecdote to this day. Well, they conducted their dialectic debates with such vigor that it was by no means some ceremonial performance. However, to engage in this practice, one could not proceed without knowing Buddhism from the outset. Yet there existed numerous textbooks and reference materials for dialectic debates. Year after year, students underwent corresponding examinations, passing each annual trial until they accumulated twenty years of training—only then did they finally attain the rank of doctorate.

When speaking of the primary educational method for Tibetan monks, it was first and foremost this dialectic debate method. Since this approach possessed considerable appeal and was richly endowed with elements that guided people, many students from distant Mongolia would deliberately traverse arduous paths to come here—and indeed, at Sera University alone, there were over three hundred Mongolians. Furthermore, at Rebun Temple as well as large temples such as Ganden, Tashi, and Lhünphu, many students had come from Mongolia. The fact that the New School had been able to maintain its prosperity to this day without losing its dignity like the Old School was ultimately founded upon this dialectic debate method.

Indeed, it was precisely because these dialectic debates spurred the indolent Tibetans and enlightened the ignorant Tibetans—driving them somewhat toward Buddhist truth—that even these semi-civilized people were endowed with a wealth of logical thought contrary to expectations. Now, while there were many among scholars who were most rich in logical thought, ordinary people—since they did not receive such education—remained truly ignorant. Now, the place where these dialectic debates were conducted was also truly excellent. Tibet was originally a place without trees, but fine trees had been planted there. There stood large trees such as elms, willows, walnuts, peaches, cypresses, and other species not found in Japan. Beneath them lay beautiful silver sand thickly spread. And when one round of debate concluded there,

Hōrin Dōjō’s Dialectic Debates: This time, they all gathered at the training ground called Hōrin Dōjō—a place where splendidly lush trees grew and flowers bloomed. There too, silver sand was spread. The surrounding area was enclosed by a stone wall five to six feet high, and the entrance gate was an elegant Chinese-style structure. They all gathered inside to chant sutras. When they finished chanting the sutras, the dialectic debates began again, so at that time, both higher-level and lower-level monks crowded together to engage in debates. They freely engaged in various debates on topics not found in textbooks, worldly affairs, and so forth. Those dialectic debates also exerted considerable power in contributing to the development of human intellect. When conducting dialectic debates outdoors, whether a class had fifty members or a hundred, there was first one questioner and one respondent while all others merely observed—though at times the questioner and respondent might change roles, this remained limited to a single pair.

However, upon entering this Hōrin Dōjō, each and every one of them would engage in it. Thus, without regard to senior or junior rank, it became a scene where old monks engaged in dialectic debates with novices. The sound of their clapping hands was as lively as hail scattering down, resonating like the crackle of gunfire across a battlefield. As I was engaged in a dialectic debate beneath peach blossoms, snow began fluttering down. Since this scene struck me as utterly fascinating, I ceased debating and spent some time observing my surroundings while lost in thought—when abruptly, an entirely new perspective emerged.

Flowers bloom upon the Dharma assembly's floral mat— How mysteriously they glow—the heart unravels swift! Peach blossoms open in third-month spring as snow descends.

Kōyagahara blooms flowers upon flowers. Studying in such a manner proved quite engaging. I studied day and night. Yet with only one teacher, I found myself with too much idle time to conduct investigations as desired, so I enlisted two others to make daily inquiries. At times they would come from their side to instruct me under such arrangements, and I felt my progress accelerated remarkably. There existed an odd custom whereby becoming a university student required one to collect firewood in Lhasa as proof of enrollment. This was none other than—

This was the firewood-gathering ascetic practice. One had to engage in this for about two days. That is to say, it was established as an obligation for those who had entered the university to perform. One day, a novice monk in my neighborhood got into a fight with another novice monk and was struck by a stone. However, his upper arm was dislocated. Now, since the teacher particularly loved this novice dearly, he was deeply worried and kept saying that this would leave him permanently disabled. This was because in Tibet, they did not know the methods of bone-setting. Tibetan doctors, when faced with such cases, merely applied moxibustion, administered plasters, or gave medicine—none of which did any good. When the arm was dislocated, had they simply reset the bone into its original place, it would have healed; but because they performed unnecessary treatments that left him disabled, the teacher was deeply grieved.

As I was taking a walk, I heard the child wailing intensely; thinking something must be wrong, I went to investigate and found his arm had been dislocated. When I proposed calling a doctor, they insisted that summoning one would only result in exorbitant fees without achieving anything. "Whether we have moxibustion applied or leave it untreated, he'll end up disabled either way," the teacher kept lamenting despairingly. "Better not make him endure searing pain or anguish for nothing."

Chapter 69: Summoned by the Dharma King

"The Efficacy of Layman’s Treatment" Then when I said, "Do Tibetan doctors not know how to reset dislocated bones back into place?" they kept saying, "Do you think they can perform such skillful work?" Since there was no other way, I said I would try to heal him, whereupon they asked if it could be cured. “No, it will heal. It’ll be cured soon,” I said. Then, approaching the child, I had others hold his head and left hand steady, grasped his right hand, and effortlessly restored it to its proper place. And since there was slight swelling in the muscle, I applied needles there, and indeed, it healed immediately. After that, I became quite renowned, and patients began arriving in droves.

This was a problem. With this many patients coming, I couldn’t focus on my main work. Moreover, when I tried refusing them by saying I had no medicine, the Tibetans only came flocking in even more the more I refused. The more I tried to conceal myself, the more they desired to meet me; they came pleading with such desperation, practically clasping their hands in supplication, leaving me at a complete loss. When I went to a Chinese pharmacy called Tenwadō in Lhasa, bought medicine, and administered appropriate remedies for their illnesses—whether they recovered due to the strength of their faith or because the medicine happened to suit their ailments—since I had some rudimentary knowledge of Chinese medicine, I managed to prescribe within the limits of my understanding, and strangely enough, the patients recovered. In Tibet, there existed a disease regarded as the most severe intractable illness—one that was certain to prove fatal once contracted. The disease was edema; while it resembled beriberi, its manifestation differed somewhat. As for the medicine that cured that disease, I had once heard of it through a strange circumstance—from a certain Tibetan hermit.

Since no one around Lhasa appeared to know about using this medicine, I prepared it and administered it to patients suffering from edema. However, six or seven out of ten miraculously recovered. Of course, those who had progressed too far could not be cured, but this outcome became widely renowned—first known only to everyone within my temple, then gradually spreading throughout Lhasa city, afterward reaching rural areas, until finally my reputation had reportedly reached as far as Shigatse, Tibet's second city.

With a reputation as a "Living Medicine Buddha"—one that grew to such heights it astonished even me—commotions began where people would specially come to fetch me from places as far as three days away, bringing two horses along. In particular, I provided medicine to the poor without accepting any gifts. Those actions may well have become a significant factor in further enhancing my reputation. For it was said that since the poor would receive medicine and have their illnesses cured without paying any fees, this was a true Medicine Buddha come among them. Moreover, lung diseases were quite prevalent in Tibet. For patients in the early stages of lung disease, since even Chinese medicine could provide considerable treatment, I administered medicine; however, to those with chronic diseases that were utterly incurable, I did not give any. I simply recommended zazen or advised them to chant the nembutsu, teaching them solely to attain peace in the future and resolve not to be lost at the moment of death.

Therefore, it seems there were those who feared coming to me. Patients to whom that doctor gave medicine recovered, but if he didn’t give them medicine, they were certain to die. For instance, there was a certain person who received a diagnosis but was only counseled about securing peace in the afterlife and not given any medicine—and indeed, that person ended up dying. Apparently, there were cases where women, claiming that knowing they would die made them feel uneasy, would not come even when they fell ill. In Tibet, there existed a peculiar custom when people fell ill: first, they did not go to seek a doctor’s help but instead relied on a spirit medium. Then the spirit medium would say various things—which doctor was good, what medicine was suitable, or that medicine should not be used at all.

Thus, there were apparently even some unscrupulous doctors who tried to campaign by offering bribes to spirit mediums in hopes of having them speak well of them. I was initially unaware of such matters, but as my reputation grew excessively, the spirit mediums—realizing that declaring illnesses cured under their recommended doctors would greatly enhance their own prestige—began enthusiastically directing patients to me, sending word that "You must see that doctor, or this illness won’t be cured." I had never campaigned to spirit mediums, nor did I know any of them by face. The fact that they, without even knowing my face, sent people my way based solely on reputation must have ultimately stemmed from their own desire to protect their honor.

As matters had come to such a pass, whenever high-ranking government officials or senior monastic authorities fell ill, they would first consult spirit mediums or diviners; yet since these practitioners—following what might be termed a temporary fashion—persistently recommended me, they would ultimately send horses to fetch me all the same. Those dispatched to retrieve me would have a single servant ride one horse while leading another for my use, always bearing something resembling letters of introduction from certain parties; when such letters were lacking, they came carrying written entreaties from their masters phrased with particular urgency. There being no alternative, I would mount the horse and depart. Upon reaching our destination, the reception proved remarkably splendid; wherever I went, being regarded as a doctor entrusted with lives, the hospitality shown me was truly excellent.

My medical reputation reached the palace—truly, how trends spread in a semi-open society was unexpected—and once this matter had reached even the most exalted quarters, I was summoned for an audience one day. The Dharma King naturally had no serious illness. It seemed he simply wished to see what manner of person I was—such being his intention—due to my excessively high reputation. In Tibet, securing an audience with the Dharma King was an exceedingly difficult matter. While anyone might manage to glimpse His Holiness passing by, even ordinary monks—let alone high-ranking monastic officials—found it tremendously difficult to truly meet him and hold conversation.

For someone like me, being granted an audience with the Dharma King was an unparalleled honor, so I immediately obeyed the summons and rode the horse sent from the palace. At that time, the Dharma King was not residing at Potala—the principal palace—but rather at a detached palace called Norbu Lingka. This palace stood slightly southwest of Potala, a grand edifice built within a forest along the banks of the Kichu River. It was a newly constructed detached palace where he would always reside during summer months. However, the present Dharma King particularly favored this retreat and seldom stayed at the main palace.

The Structure of the Detached Palace As I proceeded straight along a broad path through the forest for about three chō, a stone wall approximately two jō in height and three chō in perimeter on all four sides rose before me. In the center of that stone wall stood the main gate. When one entered westward through that main gate, white round structures resembling postal boxes were erected at three-ken intervals along both sides of the path. These were for burning incense when the Dharma King came and went. On both sides of this path, large trees grew lushly verdant in the spacious gardens. Yet within some areas there stood no trees at all—only expansive grassy fields resembling spread-out woolen carpets. After advancing about one chō further, there appeared an inner wall enclosing an area roughly one and a half chō on all four sides. Outside this wall stood numerous stone-built official residences. These served as dwellings for monastic officials. The residences of those monastic officials proved quite splendid, each possessing its own garden. Within those gardens lay gathered and artfully arranged every variety of flower, tree, and grass obtainable in Tibet.

What struck me as even more peculiar was that at every corner and at intervals along this stone wall enclosing an area of approximately one and a half chō on all four sides, terrifyingly large Tibetan mastiffs were growling and howling with deep, resonant barks from atop the roofs. All of them were chained with iron chains, numbering forty to fifty in total. This Dharma King had a rare habit—he was exceedingly fond of dogs. Since those who came to present strong, fearsome large dogs were given abundant rewards, people would specially select dogs from distant places to offer to the Dharma King. However, for previous Dharma Kings, loving dogs had been an unprecedented thing. The gate leading into this Dharma King’s palace was built at the eastern and western corners, facing south. Opposite that gate, at a distance of fifteen or sixteen ken, there stood a large house. They led the horses to the rear of that house. First, I was taken by those who had come to fetch me to the residence of Tekan, the Dharma King’s Chief Physician.

Chapter 70: Audience with the Dharma King

As it was the residence of the Chief Physician within the detached palace, it was not particularly large but had a reasonably spacious guest room, study, servants' quarters, and kitchen—four rooms in total. Passing first through a garden where many flowers were arranged and arriving at the residence, one found a clean white cloth curtain hanging at the entrance. Lifting this curtain to enter revealed another garden whose side entrance opened to a guest room with Chinese-style shōji screens—white cloth pasted over their latticework with glass panes set at their centers. Inside the room atop a chest platform with a gold-leaf ground depicting dragons, peacocks, and floral patterns were enshrined Je Tsongkhapa, founder of the new sect, alongside Shakyamuni Buddha. This was the principal image upon the ordinary Buddhist altar of the new sect.

In front of it stood a Tibetan silver lamp stand upon which three butter lamps burned even during daylight. The Chief Physician was seated on a Tibetan-style thick rug—a woolen tapestry with floral patterns—spread out before it，two tall elegant desks standing before him. That being said，on the front side facing the garden too lay another thick leather mat. As guests were seated upon that rug—when I had been invited to take my seat—the servant monk promptly brought forth the highest grade of tea，first pouring into his master’s teacup placed upon the desk before turning to mine. The Chief Physician was said to be an exceedingly kind and compassionate man. Strangely enough，his features so resembled mine that people later speculated we might share blood as brothers. Not merely our faces but even our laughter bore resemblance—a peculiar sensation welling within me at this.

The Chief Physician’s Greeting: Now，according to Chief Physician Tekan’s explanation，the Dharma King had no particular illness. “However，” he said，“having heard that you，Venerable Monk，have saved many people，His Holiness was greatly pleased and desired an audience—hence my invitation.” “But today His Holiness remains exceptionally busy；there will likely be scant opportunity for lengthy discourse.” “I shall attentively hear your words，” he added formally，“and relay matters requiring consultation between us.” After concluding our conversation with Chief Physician Tekan，we proceeded under his guidance toward the Dharma King’s palace. Advancing north toward the south-facing gate and entering through it，we found a single guard monk stationed beside the gate.

Ordinary monks were not permitted to wear tube-sleeved robes, but guard monks donned tube-sleeved monastic garments and carried long staffs. When we entered inside the gate, there was a cobblestone-filled garden approximately ten ken on each side, surrounded by corridor-like structures all around. There was also what appeared to be a continuous row of bench-like objects there, and facing directly from that gate stood another small entrance gate about one and a half ken wide. At this inner gate stood four guard monks on either side, though these particular ones did not carry long staffs—they merely held short objects instead. When I passed through this small gate into a courtyard about five ken deep and stood quietly observing, the walls to my left and right depicted scenes of vigorous Mongolians pulling on tigers' reins. These walls had roofed corridors with open courtyards at their centers. Without proceeding straight through these open spaces, we advanced along the left-side corridor and waited for some time at the western wall's edge—

Audience with the Tibetan Dharma King

**The Dharma King’s Emergence in State** The Dharma King emerged from the inner sanctum in full state. As the vanguard guide, Zünyer Chenmo (Chief Chamberlain) advanced first. Following behind came Chö Bon Kenpo (Master of Ecclesiastical Affairs), then the Dharma King himself, with Yongzin Rinpoche (the Dharma King’s Great Teacher) bringing up the rear. When the Dharma King took his seat at the right-hand position of the dais, the other two remained standing at its periphery while Yongzin Rinpoche settled into a slightly lower chair. Before them stood seven or eight high-ranking monastic officials in attendance.

Thereupon, the Chief Physician led me to a position slightly to the front and side of the Dharma King, then had me perform prostrations. I reverently performed three prostrations, removed my kesa from one shoulder, and hurried forward to stand before the Dharma King, whereupon he placed his hand upon my head. The Chief Physician likewise performed the same ceremonial rites. Then we stepped back and positioned ourselves about two ken apart, standing side by side.

**The Dharma King’s Words** Then the Dharma King spoke: “You, staying at Sera and saving impoverished monks who are ill—this is truly commendable. “I command you to remain long at Sera and treat the illnesses of both monks and laypeople.” To this gracious command, I humbly answered, “I shall act precisely as Your Holiness decrees.” Now, I had long heard that the Dharma King was proficient in Chinese, so if he were to address me in that language, my false identity would undoubtedly be instantly exposed.

If His Holiness were to address me in Chinese at that moment, I would reveal my Japanese identity and demonstrate our people's courage once and for all. Whatever consequences might follow, I resolved to stake everything on this gamble before the honorable Dharma King. Fortunately, however, no Chinese conversation materialized. When His Holiness instead questioned me in Tibetan about Chinese Buddhist clergy and I responded, he seemed thoroughly satisfied. "Truly commendable," he remarked. "I intend to appoint you to a suitable official position in due course." With this instruction—"Remain prepared accordingly"—His Holiness concluded our audience. Afterward, tea was graciously served before him, which I received with gratitude. Yet before I could finish drinking, His Holiness had already withdrawn to his inner chambers. Then I...

Observing His Holiness the Dharma King’s attire, I noted that it differed from ordinary monastic robes. Though His Holiness wore the twenty-five-strip silk kasaya, beneath it lay putsek—the finest Tibetan woolen fabric—while below his waist he wore a garment called thema, fashioned from superior Chinese-made woolen cloth. Moreover, on his head, he wore a magnificent dharma crown. Of course, there are times when he does not wear the dharma crown and simply appears with his shaven head exposed as it is. For some reason, he was wearing the dharma crown at this time. And in his left hand, he held prayer beads. At that time, His Holiness was twenty-six years old, and is now twenty-eight. His Holiness’s height was approximately five feet seven inches. In Tibet, he was not particularly tall, but

The Dharma King’s countenance could colloquially be described as fiercely resolute—his eyes, to speak plainly, slanted upward like a fox’s, with eyebrows arched in matching fashion, creating an undeniably keen visage. A Chinese physiognomist later informed me that while His Holiness bore a dauntless expression, his inauspicious eye features portended great calamities for Tibet, likely even war—though whether this prophecy held truth was another matter; to any student of faces, his was a countenance that seemed to court reproach. His voice carried crystalline clarity weighted with authority, compelling instinctive reverence. Subsequently, I made thorough inquiries about the Dharma King and obtained audiences where he imparted esoteric teachings to me. When I synthesized the words he had spoken on these occasions,

The Dharma King’s Political-Strategic Thought: The Dharma King abounded in political-strategic thought rather than religious thought. Of course, having been raised solely in a religious environment, His Holiness possessed profound faith in Buddhism and appeared resolved to propagate Buddhism throughout his country while purging clerical corruption. Yet political-strategic considerations far outweighed these religious intentions. What he feared most was Britain—how to repel that nation’s designs on Tibet, how to deflect the spearhead of its ambitions—matters he ceaselessly contemplated. Through my subsequent research, I came to understand these matters, recognizing how richly he was endowed with self-preservationist ideology. Had he lacked such defensive thinking, this Dharma King would have long since been poisoned and killed by his close retainers. Yet owing to his remarkable astuteness and meticulous self-protection, whenever retainers inevitably attempted poisonings, their crimes were mostly detected—with many perpetrators meeting conviction over the years. From such evidence alone, one clearly perceives this Dharma King’s considerable wisdom.

Five Generations of Dharma Kings Poisoned: In Tibet, from the eighth to the twelfth generation—five generations of Dharma Kings—not a single one had lived past the age of twenty-five. The current Dharma King was the thirteenth generation, but from the eighth to the twelfth generations, they had all been individuals said to have been killed by poison at eighteen or twenty-two years old. This had become such an open secret in Tibet that there was virtually no one unaware of it. To explain why they did such things—when a wise Dharma King ascended to the throne, his close retainers could not siphon off sweet benefits. This was because they could not fully secure their own interests, and all Dharma Kings who had appeared thus far seemed to have been quite remarkable individuals. It was said that among those individuals were some who had received special education until the age of twenty-two or twenty-three. This could be understood from seeing how each had left their writings and guided the people. This was sufficiently substantiated by historical evidence.

Chapter 71: Recommendation of the Court Physician

Court Sycophants: Afterward, when I heard from the former Finance Minister—with whom I had been lodging—about matters concerning the previous Dharma King and such, there were things that brought tears to one’s eyes. There were far too many disloyal traitors among the close retainers. It was said that occasionally there might indeed be two or three loyal retainers, but the disloyal ones—though lacking in influence—were so rich in cunning that they skillfully formed factions and maneuvered to make themselves impervious to easy removal, spreading pervasively through the court—rendering the situation utterly intractable. The Finance Minister, with whom I had been lodging, was apparently also one of those dismissed. However, if disloyal individuals openly displayed their treachery to the populace, they could hardly maintain their positions. Thus, on the surface, they displayed such profound reverence toward the Dharma King that even true loyalists could scarcely conceive of it, feigning utmost devotion.

It was remarkably skillful work, and indeed, even now there remained many such fellows. When some minor incident occurred or matters affecting their interests arose, these disloyal felons—knowing they alone held no sway—colluded with their usual factions, overtly and covertly echoing one another to voice things too vile even for traitors of their magnitude to utter openly, thereby harming loyal retainers on one side. They would clamor that someone had committed disrespect toward His Holiness the Dharma King—what an utterly outrageous scoundrel he was—claiming he harmed innocent scholars and commoners; such was the talk of those insidious retainers who abounded at court. Therefore, the true loyal retainers and people could not endure it. Since these terrible demons surrounded the Dharma King under the facade of loyal retainers, even when His Holiness partook of his meals, one had to attend to the minutest details lest poison had been introduced. I found it truly pitiful. As for this court where such true demons had transformed into loyal retainers, I secretly shed tears, thinking surely no other country could harbor such a thing.

The Inner Chambers of the Dharma King's Retreat Palace

However, the current Dharma King was quite a decisive person, so it was said that such demons greatly feared him. They had already attempted to poison him multiple times, but since those attempts failed and many had been executed, even these demons had grown fearful and now trembled in terror. However, even the current Dharma King was in danger because he remained among such demons. Be that as it may, the current Dharma King was truly an admirable individual. Despite his youth, he proved remarkably attentive to even the most trivial circumstances of the common people. When local officials harassed or oppressed them, he vigilantly intervened—expressing sympathy for the populace, punishing the officials by confiscating their property or imprisoning them. Such occurrences happened with such frequency that many among the bureaucracy detested him like caterpillars. However, the local people spoke of the current Dharma King as a truly admirable person and believed him to be like a bodhisattva or Buddha.

The Appearance of the Retreat Palace’s Inner Chambers: Having moved into the Finance Minister’s residence around that time, I was permitted to visit the inner chambers of the Dharma King’s retreat palace. When I visited, I found it truly splendid—its structure seemed to blend three architectural styles: Tibetan, Chinese, and Indian. Many gardens followed Chinese designs with artificial hillocks, while outside lay an expansive lawn garden featuring a distinctly Indian-style arrangement—a small cluster of flowers at its center. This area had been exceptionally well-designed to facilitate movement. The palace interiors remained thoroughly Tibetan in style, though some roofs adopted Chinese designs, while others bore completely flat Indian-style roofs.

The garden contained various stones and trees; planted here and there were willows, cypresses, peaches, elms, and other peculiar Tibetan trees. In Tibet, while summer-blooming flowers flourish abundantly, in winter one could scarcely glimpse any blossoms at all. The flowers were chrysanthemums, poppies, mother-of-liberation blooms, small magnolias, tulips, and others—many potted along the palace veranda. Within the inner hall's packed-earth courtyard lay precious stones arranged in floral motifs; on its flanking wall hung an exquisite painting by Tibet's most skilled artist; directly ahead rose a Tibetan-style dais spanning two tatami mats (the Dharma King's seat), flanked by heavy Tibetan floor coverings. These were all overlaid with Chinese-made woolen carpets bearing floral designs, before which stood a beautiful high desk of sturdy exotic hardwood.

There was, of course, no tokonoma alcove, but here stood a tea cabinet with a gold-leaf image of Je Rinpoche hung upon the front wall. There were many such chambers, along with numerous others whose interiors we were forbidden to see. As for what lay within them—since the Dharma King currently resided there, we could not enter—but even viewed from without, they appeared truly magnificent. Thereafter, I frequently received summons from the Chief Physician and would visit his residence periodically to receive instruction on medical matters previously unknown to me. Yet during that time, having been compelled by necessity to study many Chinese medical texts extensively, I managed to hold conversations with this physician. Thereupon did the Chief Physician treat me with exceptional hospitality and earnestly

“I wish to recommend you for the position of court physician,” said the Chief Physician. “For this purpose, I will make sufficient efforts myself, but you should also approach other Shabdrung [Prime Ministers] and ministers.” I replied, “I cannot remain long in this country—as one devoted to Buddhist practice, I aspire to go to India to study Sanskrit. It is utterly impossible for me to stay here.” The Chief Physician responded, “That will not do. If someone like you leaves for another country, there will be no good physicians left in this capital. You absolutely must remain here—it would be disastrous otherwise.” “No,” I said. “I am not one to spend my life as a physician. Nor is medicine my true vocation. My calling lies in Buddhist practice—I cannot linger indefinitely in this capital as a healer.” To this, the Chief Physician offered a reasoned argument: “Is not the ultimate aim of Buddhist practice the salvation of sentient beings? If you save lives through medicine and guide people toward Buddhism, is that not also salvation? Whether here or elsewhere, saving beings remains one and the same. Therefore, would it not be permissible for you to stay in this capital?”

Therefore, by working as a doctor to save people, one only alleviates their suffering in this present world—a suffering that cannot be fully saved in any case. When fixed karma reaches its fullness and death approaches, even Jivaka or Bian Que would be powerless to intervene. How much more so for quack doctors like us—those barely acquainted with medical arts might ultimately cause more harm than good through their ministrations. Even were a physician perfectly capable of saving lives physically, they remain powerless against the suffering born of fixed karma that sentient beings must endure. In Buddhism, it falls to monks like myself—as our fundamental duty—to save beings from their gravest maladies: the deepest agonies and most persistent afflictions. To train in curing this disease of ignorance stands as more urgent work than any medical practice.

Training to cure the disease of ignorance was a more urgent task than practicing medicine. Therefore, I could not remain in this capital as a physician. Truly, the Tathagata is the Great Physician King. Since that medicine saves sentient beings from their eighty-four thousand defilements through eighty-four thousand Dharma medicines, we as disciples had to train in that healing method. When I stated that I must decline becoming a court physician, he said, “Does this mean you are determined to go to India?” “Well, yes.” “That won’t do. “You absolutely cannot go to India. “Should you insist on departing for India or some distant land, His Holiness the Dharma King will promptly issue orders to have you apprehended and detained here. You would do well to abandon such notions. “Should you deign to work alongside us, you would attain great happiness.” At these words, I suddenly realized I had divulged my innermost secret. Having grasped that excessive insistence on India would complicate my eventual departure, I settled the matter amicably.

Though there remained much more to discuss regarding medical matters, I set that aside for now—for here, a most peculiar incident occurred.

Chapter 72: The State of the Monks

The Privileged Treatment at Sera University: As for what this peculiar incident entailed—the elder monks of Pitsuk Kamtsang at Sera, where I resided, had begun contending that a physician of such distinction—one personally summoned by the Dharma King or received by nobles and ministers—could not possibly remain lodged in shabby monastic quarters like mine. Gradually this argument gained momentum throughout Kamtsang until they resolved—though unprecedented—that any physician deemed worthy of royal summons warranted exceptional accommodations, and thus allocated me superior chambers. Accordingly, it was settled I should relocate there. At any rate, inhabiting a superior room seemed preferable to remaining in that foul-smelling dark cell by the latrine—so I directed my move to those quarters.

The first time I had an audience with the Dharma King was on July 20th, and my relocation to the room occurred around the end of that same month. Speaking of standard procedures, those who came to this university for the first time could not receive a separate room. Though one had to stay with someone else, those with a little money could obtain a dirty room upon entering the university. Even this was not guaranteed. Since my financial circumstances were relatively favorable, I secured a dirty room immediately upon matriculation. After about ten years, one could generally move up to a fourth-class room. After three years passed, one could move to a third-class room. But even that required money.

Then, upon becoming a doctor, one could move to a second-class room. This too ultimately came down to money. First-class rooms were occupied by those incarnate lamas who came to study. I was granted a second-class room—quite splendid, with one living quarter, one kitchen, and one storage room. It was a trim two-story structure; though three-story sections existed elsewhere, my lodging had only two floors. In two-story buildings, the second floor counted as finest, while in three-story ones the topmost room held prestige. Residing in such chambers naturally required proper furnishings and servant monks to maintain. Much like a student establishing his first household—I had to procure various items—but given my ample funds, I acquired all necessities befitting the room in good quality.

Here,

Now, I shall briefly explain the life of monks. The lives of monks were divided into various strata, but could be broadly categorized into three types: upper-class monks, ordinary monks, and lower-class monks. As for ordinary monks' living conditions, monthly expenses for food and clothing per person amounted to about seven yen. Since housing was of course provided by their affiliated temples, no money was needed for that. However, some Kamtsang institutions themselves carried debts, so they collected room fees from monks in small increments. When many monks came to a single Kamtsang, naturally not all could be accommodated within.

At such times, those monks who could not be accommodated had to go themselves to another Kamtsang monastery section, make arrangements, and borrow a room there to take up residence. For this accommodation, some rooms indeed cost one yen per month while better ones ran about three yen. The very worst ones cost around twenty-five sen. Their clothing consisted of a kesa robe made from ordinary woolen cloth, a shantabu waist-wrapper undergarment, a formal monk's hat, and medium-quality footwear. Even so, assembling a complete set cost around twenty yen. For food, mornings consisted of butter tea and roasted barley flour—though one could receive three large bowls of tea each morning by going to the main hall, most ordinary monks with means prepared and drank tea in their own rooms daily. A little past noon, they would again eat roasted barley flour with butter tea while also consuming meat at this meal. The meat was mostly dried though they occasionally used raw meat.

In the evening, they typically prepared a wheat flour porridge, skillfully adding bits of dried cheese, radish, and fatty meat before sipping the mixture. Butter tea was customarily poured into cups on the table until no space remained. Tibetans indeed drank tea constantly—a necessity given their meat-heavy diet and scarcity of vegetables. Their teacups remained perpetually covered with silver lids; they would drink when the tea had cooled sufficiently, then refill and let it steep under the lid for about twenty minutes. In winter however, they couldn’t wait so long—within five or six minutes, some conversed while drinking, others recited sutras, and still others did craftwork between sips. Such were the customary food and drink of ordinary monks.

As for the property of monks, they generally owned fields. Among them, in some regions there were those who engaged in livestock farming of yaks, horses, sheep, goats and the like; however, these cases were not particularly numerous. As for livestock, they typically had around fifty yaks and ten horses; as for fields, as I mentioned before, even with two yaks plowing it took a full day to manage ten fields at most. Since their food and pocket money came from these properties, the stipends provided by ordinary temples and the general offerings called ge received from believers toward monks alone were insufficient to maintain a middle-class lifestyle. Thus, upon receiving from temples or believers, they sustained their livelihood through their own property and side work.

Monks' occupations: Among monks, those who did not engage in trade were rather rare. If not commerce, then agriculture; if not that, livestock herding. Then there were artisans: those crafting ritual implements, painting thangkas, tailors, carpenters, plasterers, shoemakers, stonemasons—there was no occupation among the Tibetan populace (excluding only butchers and hunters) that could not be found among the monks. Not only that, but there were also many tasks which laypeople could not perform and which monks conversely undertook. These existed not only among middle-class monks but also among lower-class monks.

The clothing, food, and dwellings of upper-class monks were remarkably splendid. To begin with their property: some possessed yaks ranging from five hundred to four thousand head. As for horses, they owned from one hundred to five or six hundred head; fields—measured by the area two yaks could plow in a day—ranged from one hundred to five or six hundred plots; and among those engaged in commerce, some operated with capital ranging from ten thousand to five hundred thousand yen. However, it was said that among monks, there were only three or four merchants in all of Tibet who possessed capital of around five hundred thousand yen. The standard of living among these monks was splendid; while not exactly clad in silk robes, they wore monastic garments made from the finest woolen cloth produced within Tibet, and each morning consumed butter tea thickened to the consistency of gruel. This tea was prepared exceptionally well in Tibet.

**Preparation of Premium Butter Tea** First, they would roast the tea leaves for half a day, thoroughly remove the dregs, then add extremely fresh yak butter to the jet-black liquid with a slight reddish tinge. Following the customary method, they would incorporate salt and churn it twice in a cylindrical vessel—this produced the highest grade of tea. Preparing one jar of this tea cost about thirty-eight sen. The term "one jar" referred to a single earthenware vessel shaped exactly like a Japanese chamber pot. They would pour the tea into this jar and decant it into cups from the spout—a sight I initially found rather disconcerting. It appeared as though thick, oily liquid was flowing from a chamber pot, making me reluctant to lift the cup to my lips. Drinking this variety of tea remained an exclusive privilege of upper-class society.

That is to say, upper-class monks would every morning knead premium roasted barley flour with that tea, adding something called tsu. This tsu was made by solidifying dried cheese, butter, and white sugar into a form resembling Japanese imitation tofu. They would mix in this tsu thoroughly, then shape the dough into firm lumps with their right hands to eat. Naturally starting with breakfast meat—which came in three varieties: dried, raw, and boiled—they maintained this carnivorous diet. For their midday meal, they boiled expensive Nepalese-imported rice costing over fifty sen per shō, though never consuming it plain. Instead, they stirred sugar and raisins into butter until blended, devouring this mixture by the bowlful. Sometimes afterward came egg noodles or another serving of roasted barley flour.

At night, they would prepare wheat dumplings in a stew-like porridge and eat them. In Tibet this was called porridge, containing meat, radish, dried cheese, and of course butter as well. However, mornings did not necessarily mean roasted barley flour. When guests were present, their meals might vary in different ways, but fundamentally these dishes formed the standard diet of upper-class society. Upper-class monks could not go a single day without eating meat. If any tried maintaining abstinence from meat-eating through fasting rituals, it would cause an uproar - everyone would clamor about how they'd grown emaciated or seemed near death. It was truly pitiful.

Chapter 73: Lower-Class Student Monks

**A Pitiable Life** Now, upper-class monks not only received first- or second-class residences from their affiliated temples but also included those who built their own villas or even owned temples. Therefore, upper-class monks were truly splendid. As for where the money sustaining such lifestyles came from, it was supplied from the properties I had mentioned earlier. Thus, upper-class monks' households generally maintained anywhere from five to seventy or eighty servants. From among them, they selected stewards, chief accountants, merchant commanders, or lama's attendants—each differing widely in their scope of duties. While upper-class monks lived comfortably, attended by numerous servant monks and sheltered from harsh winds, lower-class monks existed in circumstances entirely opposite—so pitiable that merely describing them brought tears to one's eyes.

Their pitiable state was nearly beyond description, but I shall begin by explaining it. Even among those called lower-class, warrior monks could earn money by working as farmhands for villagers elsewhere, engaging in side jobs, or becoming guards, thereby meeting their needs. Thus, they did not face circumstances where they had nothing to eat that day. Here, the most pitiable and most deserving of compassion were the lives of lower-class student monks. They had no tuition funds sent from their own homes. They also had no money earned through their own labor. Since they were so busy with their studies, they could not go anywhere. As for what they relied on for their tuition, there was the one to two yen per month received as "ge" offerings from believers, plus about one yen as a stipend. With just two or three yen, they absolutely could not make ends meet.

In the morning, they went to the main hall where tea might be freely available, but the crucial roasted barley flour never came without cost. Without at least one yen and thirty to forty sen per month, no one could fill their stomach. During debate training periods, they would go to Tarsan daily, receiving three cups of tea each to manage their midday meal—though this training required taking equal time off afterward; a month of debates meant a month of rest for review and preparation. Thus these monks had to attend their teachers’ quarters again to learn dialectics. Unless one paid at least fifty sen monthly in tuition fees, no instructor would teach them. Since only exceptionally compassionate teachers offered lessons without proper compensation, nearly all two yen went toward roasted barley flour and tuition. That said, they couldn’t very well sit through freezing nights without lighting fires in their quarters.

At night, they still had to prepare a little tea and eat roasted barley flour. However, they had no money to buy that tea. Of course, they could not possibly afford such extravagances as adding butter. Therefore, lower-class student monks would obtain the used tea leaves from upper-class monks, brew them again, and drink the infusion. However, the fuel for brewing—yak dung—wasn’t freely available either. The price for one bale (approximately five to capacity) was as much as thirty-five sen. If one burned even a little extra, a single person could go through three or four bales in a month—yet those impoverished student monks had to endure making one bale last nearly an entire year.

When entering the room of such a student monk, their possessions consisted of a sheepskin, one wooden bowl, one set of prayer beads, and a single shabby mat. As that mat also served as their bed at night, in the corner stood a hearth belonging to the room, upon it an earthen pot and an earthen jar for holding water. Hanging in the corner of the wall was a single stitched bag; inside lay the roasted barley flour that sustained the monks’ lives. Even that was rarely full. But if one were to ask what among these constituted their most crucial possession, it would be their dialectic textbooks. These books—no matter how lowly the monk—were generally possessed in five or six volumes. However, once their coursework was completed, they promptly sold these books to purchase new ones needed next, so they were never kept as permanent possessions.

At night, the kasaya and undergarments they wore served as their bedding, and while having an old blanket over them would have been far better, many lacked even that. Even so, having a room to oneself was still considered quite resourceful; typically, three people lived together in a single room measuring nine feet square. And so it came to be that a single earthen pot was shared among three. So then, I would wonder how they endured such bitterly cold Tibetan winter nights in those quarters, and whenever I went to treat people like that for illnesses, tears would spill unbidden—I could not even think of charging for medicine. A sensation arose within me so intense that I wanted to give them money. This is the reality of life for lower-class monks.

Therefore, these monks could hardly obtain any food when there was no ge, and there were times when they went without eating for three or four days. However, when they managed to receive twenty or thirty sen in ge, they immediately set off for Lhasa—a distance of one and a half ri—on empty stomachs to buy roasted barley flour. If they bought it and returned right away, that would have been fine. But sometimes their hunger grew so unbearable that they rushed into noodle shops and spent all their ge on udon or such, only to end up hungry again with nothing left to eat for two or three days. Then I would occasionally witness the pitiful sight of them finally having to go out begging. In such cases, I would spend as much of my own money as possible or do what I could. As a result, the student monks came to hold me in such high esteem that eventually, even when passing me on the road, few dared look directly at my face.

**The Circumstances Behind My Close Relationship with Tenwadō's Owner** To backtrack a bit: as my medical practice gradually grew more prosperous, I found myself needing to purchase ever more medicine. Thus, I began making occasional visits to the residence of a merchant from China's Yunnan Province—a man named Li Zhiji whose shop was called Tenwadō. In Tibet, all medicines are administered in powdered form. Unlike the Chinese method of cutting herbs to store and decoct into brews for drinking, here every grass root and tree bark is crushed into powder to prepare remedies. Horns and various minerals are also utilized.

In order to have such medicines powdered, I often stayed at that house for a day or two. Since I bought such large quantities of medicine, I became an exceptionally valued customer, and they began treating me with considerable favor. From that person I borrowed a medical text called Jingyue Quanshu, and by studying this text alongside what I had previously heard and the little I already knew, I became able to treat most common ailments. Quite.

Though I believed myself to be a questionable doctor, in this place lacking proper physicians, I had no choice but to make do—a bat in a village without birds. Even so, I was far more competent than Lhasa's doctors, and when it came to debates on physiology, I never lost. In that regard, trust had indeed come to be placed in me over Lhasa's physicians. So I would occasionally visit that house (Tenwadō). The house had many rooms. In Lhasa there were three Chinese pharmacies, but that house being the largest—its owner still around thirty years old—was an extremely kind person who treated me with great warmth. His wife was also quite attentive, and between the couple they had one girl and one boy each, along with the wife's mother and three servants—this entire household lived together. And everyone came to treat me as one of the family. The reason for this was that people originally gave me a great deal of food. I couldn't eat it all by myself. Well, since there was surplus, I gave it away indiscriminately.

Among these, whenever I received particularly good sweets, sour milk, white sugar, or dried grapes, I would always bring them to that house. The children would be overjoyed, and whenever I went out, they would wait expectantly, certain they would receive something. If I didn’t go for two or three days, they would begin waiting anxiously, saying, “For some reason, Sera’s Doctor hasn’t come lately,” until I came to be treated almost like one of the family members. The children and I grew intimate with astonishing speed—so much so that it appeared as if I had been involved with them for ten or even fifteen years. When occasional visitors saw us, people would often inquire whether our relationship was closer than when I had first arrived from China or if we were perhaps relatives. This intimate association proved of immense assistance when I departed Tibet, so I shall recount this matter in its proper sequence later.

Chapter 74: Tenwadō and the Old Nun

Secretary to the Resident Commissioner — Tenwadō, a gya-mi men-khang (Chinese pharmacy), was located in Wanshu Shinkan (a district of Lhasa), so among those who visited the house was a man named Ma Quan, secretary to the Resident Commissioner (China’s plenipotentiary envoy). This man was a scholar of considerable standing among the Chinese people, a man of experience, and an honest individual. He was originally born in Tibet, and his mother was Tibetan. Therefore, while his Tibetan bore no trace of a Chinese accent, he was nevertheless highly proficient in Chinese and well-versed in Chinese texts. He was a man more versed in Chinese texts than Tibetan ones, having gone to Peking about twice and likewise made business trips about twice to Calcutta and Bombay in India, becoming quite knowledgeable about foreign affairs. He went to work at the yamen. His duties occupied very little time, and he spent the rest of it at leisure. Since he was very close with the owner of the pharmacy, he would always come here to engage in various conversations.

As I grew acquainted and gradually conversed with him, I found it quite engaging. Through this man, I came to learn of various secretive and unsavory customs practiced by Tibetans. When I carefully observed after hearing these accounts, I indeed recognized the truth in his words. There were many matters one would remain oblivious to without such information. Moreover, being the Secretary to the Resident Commissioner, he possessed extensive knowledge about confidential affairs between China and the Tibetan government, which he freely discussed. This secretary was by nature an extreme talker, generously sharing information even when unasked. Thus having gained this immensely valuable friend, whenever I grew weary from studying texts at Sera Monastery, I would visit him for conversation during my walks—even without needing to purchase medicine—and this became my greatest pleasure.

One time, when I was standing at the entrance of Tenwadō, a nobleman accompanied by a servant came walking in this direction. This pharmacy was located at the triangular corner where the road to Panangsho met the road to Kachehakan. Then from beyond Anisakan, that gentleman appeared heading toward Panangsho. When he caught a glimpse of me standing at the shop and walked a little past—then turned back to look, or so I thought—the attendant servant cried out, “It’s him! It’s him!” Then that gentleman approached me and said, “Ah, you are—” When I looked closely at his face—now terribly emaciated—I recognized him as none other than the son of the Para Regent’s family whom I had encountered earlier in Darjeeling. Judging by his demeanor, he bore no resemblance to the madman I had been told about.

He then spoke about how it had truly been a long time since we last met and remarked on how well I had managed to come here. When he said there was no use talking here and suggested going inside, I replied that though pressed for time, I would come in briefly—and so we entered. Then, the mistress of Tenwadō, appearing to have been acquainted with him beforehand, promptly pointed to chairs and urged, “Please have a seat.” Since it seemed she was about to say something about me, I signaled with my eyes, then initiated a casual remark: “It’s been about half a year since I last met you in the second capital.” There, of course, the other party also knew full well that revealing my time in Darjeeling here would bring harm upon themselves, so they skillfully aligned their account with my story.

Observing such behavior, he didn’t seem like a madman at all. We spoke at length, but his words were no different from those of a sensible person. In his account: “Though I shouldn’t be this emaciated, three months ago my manservant stole something. When I reprimanded him for it, he flew into a rage and stabbed me right here in the side. Part of my intestines came out—I suffered terribly. If I’d known you were here back then, it wouldn’t have been half so bad.” “How dreadful,” I said, and after discussing these matters at length, they took their leave. Then the mistress of Tenwadō spoke suspiciously. “The young master of Para spins such smooth tales. He got himself stabbed in the gut through his own misdeeds, yet spins transparent excuses to deceive you—but I know the whole story,” she added with a laugh.

“As for how I know such things—well, I was once married to that elder brother,” she said. “Because my family was of low social standing, his parents wouldn’t permit us to remain married long-term.” “After he divorced me and was adopted into Namsailin, I came to know everything about that household.” “The truth is, that young master’s a womanizer who entangled himself with women and racked up huge debts. After carousing with liquor and lovers, some quarrel broke out where he slashed his own belly—so it’s no noble tale as he claims.” When I asked, “Then he’s a madman, isn’t he?” she replied, “He conveniently acts mad when debt collectors come or troubles arise, but otherwise he’s perfectly sane—a truly vexing man.” “Even if you take him for a madman, never lower your guard.” “He’s fiendishly clever at borrowing money—unless you’re careful, you’ll meet terrible misfortune.” With that, the matter concluded.

My interactions with the pharmacy would appear frequently hereafter, but I set them aside for now.

Now, I shall relate an incident from early August that followed—an invitation from someone with whom I would later develop a profound relationship.

Going into detail about which distinguished person invited me or whether such-and-such illness was cured or not proved uninteresting, so setting those matters aside, I must now speak of someone with whom I became profoundly connected here.

The Old Nun’s Invitation: There was an old nun residing at the home of Tibet’s Finance Minister. She was staying at a wheat-field villa due to illness. In Tibet, if one spoke of going flower viewing, there were only peach blossoms—and even those quickly faded away, making it rather uninteresting. Thus when summer came, they would typically hold what they called *linka* (banquets in groves or flower gardens)—erecting tents among the wheat fields or spreading mats in the woods to enjoy their preferred amusements: feasting on delicacies, drinking liquor, singing songs, and dancing. For Tibetans this represented the ultimate pleasure—so much so that they could scarcely wait for summer’s arrival each year to go hold their *linka* retreat banquets.

When I was invited and went to that wheat-field villa, there resided a nun over sixty years old. Accompanying this nun were seven or eight attendants—nuns and maidservants of that sort. The house was quite splendidly constructed. It was not a tent but skillfully built with boards, its exterior covered with cut cloth. The interior too was lined with various splendid patterned fabrics. Though a temporary residence, it was kept quite clean. I had been invited there. According to the Old Nun’s words, she had been ill for fifteen or sixteen years—an ailment of old age with no hope of cure—but she earnestly entreated that someone as renowned as I might at least take her pulse; even if it brought no cure, some slight relief from the pain would suffice—thus she begged me to examine her. After hearing her symptoms and conducting examinations, I determined it was rheumatism. I promptly prepared a Kampo tincture for her.

Moreover, as there also seemed to be a slight stomach ailment, I administered that medicine as well. It was not particularly excellent medicine, but due to her formidable spiritual conviction—that fearsome power of faith—the rather mediocre remedy proved remarkably effective. The pain that had kept her awake nightly through fifteen or sixteen years of torment 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 former Finance Minister’s common-law wife. It may seem strange that his common-law wife was a nun, but the Finance Minister himself was also a monk. Moreover, he belonged to the new sect. Though it pains me to speak of this matter, I must state the truth plainly—for otherwise it would remain incomprehensible—I resolved to present 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 their society scarcely permitted—though when it came to noble monks, they generally kept wives. Though unable to have wives openly, they concealed common-law spouses in remote locations or brought them into their households—for this purpose, having a nun serve as a monk’s wife proved most convenient. Thus, this Finance Minister too had a nun as his wife. However, she had by then become an elderly woman—white-haired and stooped—though her large frame retained the robust constitution she had always possessed.

Chapter 75: The Former Finance Minister and the Supreme Lama

A towering elder statesman of seven feet four or five inches—the Finance Minister’s household naturally had many retainers and servants. When those people fell ill, they would all come to me for treatment, insisting they would only see the Sera doctor. Their faith cured their illnesses. Being revered in this manner—this was not by my own power. It must have been Buddha arranging things this way that inspired their faith—a notion I found utterly bewildering even as I contemplated it myself. From there, I gradually became acquainted with the former Finance Minister. As we conversed on various matters, I came to see him as not only a genius of remarkable erudition but also a man who resolved crises flawlessly and handled diplomatic affairs with complete competence.

At that time he was sixty-two years old, but in Tibet I had never seen anyone as tall as him. He measured seven feet four or five inches. When I stood beside him, my head only reached his chest. Walking together along a road with him, we looked exactly like parent and child side by side. Making robes for him always required enough cloth for two garments. Though gifted with sharp discernment of character and worldly wisdom, he remained exceedingly kind and principled, never resorting to deceit. The sole flaw one might note was how in his youth he had taken up with this nun, thereby ruining his own life.

A room in the Finance Minister's annex During our intimate conversations, I would occasionally hear penitent tales from him and the nun as they shed tears together—stories of how, if that incident hadn’t occurred back then, such foolishness would never have come to pass. Even considering such points, he was not a man of inherently bad character. Due to a moment of youthful indiscretion, he had been unable to fulfill the proper conduct of a monk. However, since the prevailing customs of society as a whole were already of that nature, I think he had become somewhat tainted by those societal trends. "In any case," he said, perceiving my circumstances, "'You must be in a pitiable state. Merely dealing with those patients at Sera while residing there is no easy task.'" “On top of that, patients come from Lhasa and even arrive from the countryside—so you must have no time at all to read books.”

“I am utterly troubled by my inability to read books.” “That is a pitiable situation. Moreover, if you continue like this, your very life will be in danger first and foremost.” “What danger?” he replied. “Since your arrival, the other doctors can no longer make a living. There’s no telling whether they might send someone to poison you.” “‘You’ll likely be killed,’ he concluded.” “That’s troublesome. I wonder if there isn’t some way to manage it,” I said. “As long as you can eat and clothe yourself, that should suffice.” “Oh, if I can manage just that, it would be more than sufficient.” “I shall provide for those needs myself. The residence may not be splendid, but I can offer you a room more comfortable than the temple. How would it be if you moved into my home to study here?” “You’d study far better this way.” “Only the most desperate patients would come here.” “‘Though unfortunate for the sick,’ he said, ‘consider it helping Lhasa’s doctors while you study here.’ At these words, I was truly overjoyed.” Having come to Lhasa specifically to study Tibetan Buddhism, I had found it deeply regrettable that worldly observations occupied me while my true purpose remained unfulfilled. Thus, when this proposal came, my joy surpassed even the happiness of reuniting with a parent.

Residing at the Finance Minister’s Residence — Everything proceeded without a hitch: funds became available, and the Finance Minister declared he would fully provide for my clothing, food, and lodging. Thereupon, I had all provisions and daily necessities transported from Sera, left only the young acolyte to watch over my former residence, and instructed him: "Never say I am staying at the Finance Minister’s residence. Even if gravely ill patients come, tell them to consult other doctors for the most part—I must devote myself to study henceforth." After giving the acolyte food and establishing proper arrangements for his studies, I came to reside entirely in the Finance Minister’s annex. However, when debates commenced at Sera, I would occasionally attend the debate practices.

However, the mansion I received was not particularly spacious. Three bays in length and about two in depth, the room was partitioned into two bays. Yet being originally built in aristocratic mansion style, the patterns adorning its interior walls were truly splendid. The walls were entirely painted a glittering green, upon which lay a thick carpet with Tibetan-style floral patterns in gold thread, an exotic hardwood desk, and a modest Buddhist altar. It was an immaculately maintained mansion where every detail had been attended to, with another large mansion standing beside it. That mansion—a three-story structure—housed the new Finance Minister. Former Finance Minister Champa Chöesang (Maitreya Dharma Sage) resided in a two-story mansion. Given both its tranquil setting and status as the Finance Minister's residence, even my monk friends from Sera became too intimidated to visit. While convenient for study, commuting to my teacher's quarters proved difficult. Truly, one cannot have two perfect advantages at once.

Taking Tibet’s highest monk as my teacher—however, here the finest instructor was none other than the former Finance Minister’s elder brother, a man named Chi Rinpoche. This was his father’s half-brother and was said to be the child of a Chinese person. This Chi Rinpoche was also from Sera and had become a monk around the age of seven. At this time, he was sixty-seven years old and had assumed the position of Ganden Chi Rinpoche, Tibet’s highest-ranking monk, the previous year. The title "Chi Rinpoche" means "Throne Jewel," and the throne upon which Je Tsongkhapa, founder of the new sect, sat is located at Ganden Monastery. In all of Tibet, only two individuals could sit upon that throne. They were the Dharma King and that Chi Rinpoche. However, it was not the case that the Dharma King could always sit upon that throne. When Chi Rinpoche resided at Ganden (during formal ceremonies), he always took his seat upon that throne.

Now, the Dharma King occupied his position by birthright, but this Chi Rinpoche had to engage in nearly thirty years of study in the secret teachings after learning Buddhist philosophy and becoming a doctor. It was less academic study than ascetic practice. Only after accumulating the merits of such ascetic practice and achieving perfect balance between scholarly knowledge and virtuous conduct did one become a high monk whom Tibet deemed the sole worthy occupant of that throne—and only then, upon invitation from the Dharma King, did one assume this position. However, the children of butchers, blacksmiths, hunters, and watchmen naturally could not attain this position. If one was but a child of ordinary people, anyone who accumulated fifty or sixty years of ascetic practice and became an eminent monk endowed with both learning and virtue could attain this position.

Therefore, when considered in terms of practical learning and virtue, he was indeed more venerable than the Dharma King himself—and thus I was fortunate enough to have obtained the happiness of serving such a revered master as my teacher. This was no easy matter in Tibet. Especially since Tibet is a land of strict class distinctions, he was a venerable person whom even meeting was no easy task. Even if one managed to meet him through some connection, it would still be exceedingly difficult to hear anything from him. However, that I came to receive teachings from him as my teacher was entirely through the former Finance Minister’s goodwill, by which I obtained this fortunate opportunity. Therefore, I was able to fully learn both the exoteric and esoteric aspects of Tibetan Buddhism from this master. However, this Chi Rinpoche was a rather peculiar individual, for he treated me as though he had discerned my true background at first glance. However, he secretly hinted that it would be acceptable for me to remain here for the time being, as there would likely be no harm.

I was truly frightened, but it seemed he had seen into my heart and taught me Buddhism sincerely. That profound gratitude remains unforgettable to this day. During my time in Tibet, I heard various teachings from many scholars, academics, religious figures, and hermits and benefited from them—yet I received no influence as profound as that which I received from this master. It was due to having such a revered master that even when his younger brother, the Minister, had mistakenly fallen into wrongdoing, he ultimately came to devote himself to sincere repentance and seeking great peace of mind in the future—or so I surmised. Moreover, the old nun who was the wife of the former Minister possessed a temperament no less vigorous than the Minister’s. Though being a woman, she had a certain gentleness, yet she maintained a way of thinking akin to that of a man.

Chapter 76: Japanese Goods in Lhasa The Current Finance Minister: This old nun had journeyed on pilgrimage to Kathmandu in Nepal some twenty years prior to atone for karmic transgressions. As her accounts of those hardships often intersected with my own experiences during my time in Nepal, I would listen intently whenever she spoke of them. Yet what struck me most was how profoundly her sense of righteousness mirrored that of her husband—truly exemplifying what they call “like-minded spouses.” Thus I found myself less inclined to condemn these two—a venerable monk and nun—for defiling Buddhism’s dignity through their marital union than to pity their human frailty. At times I even recognized how easily such carnal desires might ensnare me too—their fallen cart serving as warning for my own path ahead.

As our intimacy deepened—from matters concerning his household to the disposition of his retainers—I gradually came to understand even the most trivial details. Though the Current Finance Minister resided in the mansion adjacent to mine, his heavy official duties made substantive conversation difficult. This man was named Tenjin Chögyal (Dharma King of Doctrinal Maintenance). He possessed remarkable gentleness yet an iron will that brooked no compromise. During our talks, his warm smiles and friend-like demeanor made me forget his ministerial status—a informality he reciprocated by setting aside his official capacity. I concluded this kindness stemmed from how both the former Finance Minister and old nun had cared for me like their own child, their affection undoubtedly influencing his conduct.

When we engaged in candid conversations—given that he was the Current Finance Minister—matters concerning the government’s inner workings would occasionally arise. Now, whenever a difficult problem arose in the government, this man would not state his opinion on the spot but would return home and consult the former Minister as if he were his father. When he would say, "Today we had such a problem—what should be done?" the former Minister would advise appropriate measures based on precedents or in response to the particular incident. Fundamentally speaking, the former Finance Minister was said to be someone who would now be positioned either as Prime Minister or as Minister of the Imperial Household among the high-ranking monk officials. The reason he did not ascend to such positions was that taking the old nun as his wife became somewhat of a subject of attack even in Tibet, leading him to inevitably withdraw into seclusion, it is said.

If he had been governing Tibet's politics, I believe the present shrewd Dharma King and this seasoned Finance Minister would have complemented each other splendidly, achieving truly remarkable work through their collaboration. During these nightly discussions between the former and current Finance Ministers, I came to sit among them—listening to various matters and occasionally venturing my own opinions—until our relationship grew genuinely close. This very intimacy made me abandon any thought of conducting research; even had I attempted it, I became convinced of its fundamental impossibility.

Regarding diplomatic matters concerning Tibet, I had secured ample means to fully understand them. While temple life proved supremely convenient for studying Buddhist doctrine, government secrets remained utterly unknown within scholarly circles—only dimwitted monks who blindly revered the Dharma King’s administration as infallible devoted themselves to scholarship. What fools! They remained ignorant simply because no one informed them. In any case, having obtained such advantageous circumstances, I resolved to later disclose the diplomatic secrets I had learned concerning China, Britain, Russia, Nepal, and others when opportune.

Moreover, strange occurrences kept piling up—there were what one might call an extraordinary number of coincidences. I had previously encountered the Para Regent's son before Tenwadō pharmacy, and this time I came across a Darjeeling merchant named Tsarumba (a man who took his name from his homeland). This man would later prove instrumental in helping me leave Tibet, so unless I record this meeting here, subsequent events will remain incomprehensible. One day, I found myself walking through what might be called Lhasa's main thoroughfare—

I walked around Barkhor Street, which could be called Tokyo's Ginza-dori. In that street, all merchants had set up shops whose arrangements showed no particular difference from those in other countries. Particularly in the wider sections of the road, there were numerous street stalls whose wares consisted mostly of daily necessities. Items for clothing and food along with daily utensils—of course Tibetan goods formed the majority—but next came articles imported from India, Calcutta and the Bombay region. Among these, what struck me most were Japanese matches. Matches made by one Doi (Kitaro) of Osaka had penetrated into Lhasa, Tibet. Other items had also entered though their brands remained unrecorded and thus unknown. There were wax matches showing two elephant faces or one face, and others depicting an elephant being pulled from a house—all bearing the words 'Made in Japan.' These designs featured white patterns carved out against a red background. Though Swedish-made matches had also entered to some extent—

Having been overwhelmed by Japanese matches, they now existed only in small quantities. In addition, Japanese bamboo blinds with pictures of women drawn on them were also present. As for ceramics, Kutani ware—though not displayed as merchandise in shops—could be found in noble households. Moreover, Japanese paintings were also occasionally hung as framed works in noble households. Looking at those Japanese goods, I found it amusing myself to think that inanimate objects were greater than humans with hearts. Particularly upon seeing the abundant Japanese matches, I conceived a foolish notion—that these might be an auspicious sign of Japan's flame of wisdom becoming the instrument to illuminate the benighted darkness of this country—and thus arrived at a shopfront while wandering absentmindedly. By the way, I found some excellent soap. Such items had never been seen in Lhasa before, so thinking this was an excellent find, I decided to buy it and asked the price—whereupon the shopkeeper stared sharply at my face.

When I looked without particular thought, it appeared to be the merchant named Tsarumba whom I had become acquainted with in Darjeeling. Why was he running a shop in such a place? I wondered. Or perhaps there was someone here who closely resembled that man—I couldn’t tell. I wondered if he might be a brother or something, but no matter how I looked, it was Tsarumba. However, because my face and attire had completely changed, it seemed they didn’t recognize me at all. Yet he kept staring at me with quite a suspicious look. When I had been in Darjeeling, I mostly wore Japanese clothes, and even on the rare occasions when I did wear Tibetan attire, I had seldom gone out in public. Since coming to Tibet, I had been wearing purely Tibetan garments, so my appearance must have changed considerably. In Darjeeling, I hadn’t had a beard, but by that time my beard had grown long—hardly surprising he couldn’t recognize me.

The shopkeeper said, “That soap is rather expensive—you might want to pass on it.” “There’s a cheaper one over here that’s just as good.” When I replied that I disliked the cheaper option and wanted the finer one despite the cost, he chuckled and told me the price. I bought two cakes of it and later showed them casually to the Current Finance Minister, who remarked, “This has an excellent fragrance and fine quality indeed—might you spare some for me?” “Not at all—please take both,” I said, and handed over both of them.

Chapter 77: Crisis of the Secret Being Exposed

Another Chance Encounter. Two or three days later, I went out to Barkhor Street again, thinking that if I didn’t buy two or three of those soaps now, 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 intently at my face. As I took out money, saying I’d buy the soap at the previous price, Tsarumba’s unmistakable voice interjected, “Wait a moment—don’t you recognize me?” To which I replied with a laugh, “I do.” Then, with a greatly surprised expression, he said, “Please, come inside,” and since it was already dusk, he instructed the shop boy to close up and entered his house. When I also entered the house following him, he said, “Please, do come up—it’s been so long, though the place is rather shabby,” so I followed the host through the house and found it to be quite a neat and splendid merchant’s residence. Passing through about two rooms and ascending a ladder-like staircase, we arrived at his main hall room.

In that room was his wife Peton (Lianxian), who had come from Darjeeling with him. I recognized her immediately, but they showed no sign of knowing me at all. The master laughed and asked his wife, “Do you know this gentleman?” but when she looked at me, she answered, “I do not.” “How could you not know?” he pressed. “You ought to know him well—he’s the one who helped us!” At this she peered at me intently, yet still seemed unable to place me. “I don’t recall where this gentleman is from,” she said. “If he had helped me, I would surely remember.” “This is why you’re impossible!” he snapped. “Didn’t you receive precious medicine from him and recover when that trouble struck us in Darjeeling?” “Ah!” she exclaimed. “Say no more—I understand now.” Turning to me, she bowed deeply. “Forgive my earlier rudeness.” “I never imagined meeting you again in such a place after all these years.” “This truly gladdens my heart,” she concluded warmly.

Seizing the Initiative in a Second Chance Encounter

Then the two of them spoke in unison: “Oh, where have you come from? Even we Tibetans find coming and going so difficult that we’d use secret paths if they existed—so how did you get here? Did you fly through the sky?” “I don’t know about flying—I came from the Northwest Plains,” I replied. “What Northwest Plains?” they retorted. “For three or four years now, soldiers have guarded every secret path. There’s no way through.” “If you didn’t use secret paths,” they pressed, “you must have flown here through the sky—there’s no other explanation.” “That’s impossible,” I said. “I struggled through trackless wilderness.” But they appeared unconvinced.

If I erred by even a hair’s breadth here, my being Japanese would be exposed, potentially bringing great calamity upon my benefactors—the Finance Minister and Sera University. Merchants are creatures particularly prone to profit-seeking; they might well scheme to report me to the government for monetary gain through some pretext. Then came the thought: in all matters, “he who seizes the initiative claims victory”—at this critical juncture, I must devise a stratagem.

Chapter 78: The Tibetans’ Oath

“Well now—you two live quite splendidly, but reporting me to the government would earn you a tidy profit, wouldn’t it? On the contrary, that would actually be very convenient for me.”

When I spoke up about myself, the truth somehow became doubted as if it were a lie—a frustrating situation. "So the Japan Lama you both saw in Darjeeling has sneaked into this country. It would be best if I reported discovering this myself. Then you could profit handsomely, and it would suit me perfectly. I’m already prepared to be arrested," I declared sharply. At this, the wife began trembling faintly, while her husband exclaimed in astonishment: "What are you suggesting? Even if we made fortunes through such wickedness, what purpose would that gold serve? We’re not such despicable people! We’d rather starve than commit such acts. Even if this matter were exposed and ruin befell us, we’d accept it as karmic destiny from past lives. Though merchants through and through, we’ve no desire for such tainted wealth. You speak these things for our sake—it pains us," came their dignified reply.

“Well, that may be so,” I said, “but since you could make money and it would be convenient for me, I thought I’d mention it.” “Or are you absolutely determined not to report me to the government?” “Not only would we not”—they invoked Chöö Rinpoche, the oath—“we would rather die than do such a thing.”

This was the Tibetans' final oath in Lhasa. Chöö Rinpoche means "Savior Treasure" and refers to the Shakyamuni Buddha of Lhasa. That is, they made an oath so strong to Shakyamuni Buddha as to say, "If I speak of this matter, I may die—please kill me." Then, invoking Chöö Rinpoche, they spread their left hands toward where Lhasa's Shakyamuni Buddha resides and swore their oath as if praying fervently yet trembling with fear. Their demeanor showed not the slightest hint of deceit. It could only be seen as arising from the deepest recesses of their hearts.

Then his wife also invoked Chöö Rinpoche and declared, “I will never do such a thing. Even if you were to plead with me a thousand times to tell, such a request is something Chöö Rinpoche would never permit.”

In Tibet, securing such an oath proved more binding than any notarized document. “Then there’s no need to insist further,” I declared, bringing the matter to its conclusion.

Here，I should briefly

I will now discuss the types of oath phrases used in Tibet. In Tibet, there are several types of oath phrases: “Namu Sanbō” (Homage to the Three Treasures) is common, while another involves swearing, “If my words prove false, may I be parted from my beloved mother in death.” In regional areas, they instead invoke their local earth gods or renowned Buddhas and Bodhisattvas of that locality to swear by. In Lhasa, "Chöö Rinpoche" is primarily used; when a price is finally settled in business transactions, they invoke this phrase to swear. This oath is often merely verbal, lacking strict gestures like pointing toward the Jokhang Temple, so even if someone inserts “Chöö Rinpoche” like an interjection during business dealings or trivial conversations, many such cases cannot be reliably trusted. However, when one formally utters this vow—whether by pointing to the Jokhang Temple or placing a sutra upon their head—to finalize a matter, breaking it is considered a graver sin than killing one’s own parent.

The oath phrases commonly used in ordinary circumstances were inserted like interjections between words to confirm one’s statements; thus, women’s speech employed an abundance of oath phrases. In Tibet, the number of oath phrases I knew amounted to forty-five types alone, but as they were tedious, I omitted them. Next, the host asked about my current residence, so I replied that I was staying at Sera. After pondering for a moment, he said, “Then—are you not that Serai Amchi—meaning ‘Sera’s Doctor,’ though your true name is Séra Gyamtsho, that is Ekai—who has been frequenting the palace of the illustrious Dharma King these days?” “Yes,” I replied, whereupon he exclaimed in astonishment, “Lately, society has been saying you are—

“They are saying [you are] like either Yakushi-sama or Jivaka. ‘We too have frail constitutions and were just on the verge of requesting an audience to see whether any grave illness might arise,’ came such remarks, after which we became exceedingly close with you. As I was staying at that Finance Minister’s residence, there was an overabundance of food left over that I couldn’t possibly manage—there was nothing to be done about it. It was still through introductions from the ministers that there were noble patients I absolutely had to examine. When I went to see them, on top of many gifts, they would give me various rare foods.”

Since I couldn’t possibly eat all those things by myself, I would take them to the pharmacy and that place to distribute among everyone. I would also distribute it to the disciple monk keeping watch over my room. Even if I didn’t have much food for myself, there was such an overabundance of feasting at the Minister’s residence that… Thus, as our familiarity gradually deepened, it became the true cause that saved me from calamity. Therefore, since I was still a student at that university, I could not neglect my studies. From time to time, I had to return to Sera and participate in the dialectic debates. Of course, being a doctor, the instructors somewhat overlooked this—so even if I didn’t attend every day, I didn’t get scolded—but since I enjoyed it myself, I went from time to time.

Here, I shall now discuss the general tendencies of monks, the ideals that scholars aspire to, and matters such as the racial distinctions among monks.

Chapter 79: The Purpose of Monks

The Characteristics of the Three Ethnic Groups — In the three great universities, Tibetans were not the only ones present everywhere. Though referred to as Mongolians and Tibetans, there were also people from Kham who belonged to a slightly different ethnic group. These differed somewhat in nature according to their countries of origin. While Tibetans appeared gentle and thoughtful in demeanor, they were fundamentally averse to study and utterly indolent by nature; their unclean way of life also seemed to stem partly from this laziness. For a Tibetan monk leading an ordinary livelihood in winter, they would go to the main hall to read sutras or drink tea. During such times, they would strip naked in sunny spots before their lodgings, drying their backs like turtle shells. Then they would blow their noses with scraps of woolen cloth, place those snot-stained rags atop their heads to dry, and sit drowsily basking in the pleasant warmth of their slumber—truly a sight to behold.

If they had been elderly, one might still have understood, but seeing quite young people engaging in such behavior made clear the indolence of Tibetans. In contrast, there were no Mongolians who engaged in such behavior.

Since they had come all the way from distant lands for study, they not only studied diligently but also conducted debates and other practices with remarkable intensity. If there were roughly five hundred of them, up to four hundred would become decent ordinary people, with only about a hundred turning out worthless. Yet among five hundred Tibetans, four hundred fifty were indeed worthless, and those so-called warrior monks consisted mainly of Tibetans. Among both Kham people and Mongolians, warrior monks remained scarce.

The Mongolians studied diligently and were quite enterprising, but they were truly quick-tempered people who would become angry at even the slightest provocation. This stemmed from their ethnic pride; they took immense arrogance in their superiority as Mongolians—how splendid they were, how they all studied hard and returned home as many doctors, entirely unlike Tibetans or Kham people—and thus they haughtily raged over trivial, unreasonable matters toward others. When I saw such points, I 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 people would find it difficult to accomplish great undertakings through perseverance. Even if someone like Genghis Khan could achieve temporary success through battle, it seemed they lacked sufficient power to shape the nation’s civilization over time and guide its society toward ever-greater progress.

The Kham people were considerably better compared to the others. To be sure, while Kham was the heartland of bandits and its people were quite short-tempered, they did not fly into rage over trivial matters like Mongolians did—in that regard, they possessed considerable patience. In terms of physical robustness as well, they were foremost among the three ethnic groups. Their sense of chivalry was also considerable. Even among those who committed robbery, I heard there were some who worked quite zealously to save others. Among the monks residing in Sera, I observed that those who were free of unpleasantness and rich in what was called a chivalrous spirit—such gallant individuals—were often of the Kham people. They detested excessive flattery as part of their nature.

Mongolians would at times utter what seemed like contrived flattery. In that regard, Tibetans were the worst. As for Kham people who had become thoroughly Tibetanized and corrupt—leaving those aside—unless they were such individuals, they would almost certainly be expelled from the Kham tribe. The women of Kham seemed rather lacking in charm and had not a single lovable trait. Tibetans presented such a docile exterior that even their men appeared gentle on the surface; consequently, their women too seemed remarkably kind in outward demeanor. However, it remained an undeniable fact that they harbored a fearsome blade within. This represented the general classification of temperaments, but even within Kham itself, there existed places like Mankam (a place name), Baa, and Tsarung. There were many others with somewhat differing characteristics, but I omitted the detailed matters here.

The Ideal of Monks and Scholars — When considering what they hoped to become as monks and scholars, it was generally that they wished to elevate their reputation widely and highly within that closed-off country and accumulate great wealth as their objectives, rather than practicing Buddhism for the salvation of sentient beings. To avoid hardship themselves, to gain abundant wealth, and to live comfortably in this world and the next—even these aims were still considered considerably better. For 999 out of 1,000 people, the inclination lay in using their scholarship to elevate their reputation in society, amassing vast fortunes to live in comfort, with little regard for how the future unfolded.

As for how matters had come to this state—in that country, when judging the value of monks and scholars, it was not determined by their erudition, virtuous conduct, or how they benefited the world, but rather by the amount of wealth they possessed. Therefore, a scholar with a thousand ryō of assets was valued only at a thousand ryō. Even if someone possessed knowledge more precious than that of an unscholarly person with a hundred thousand ryō, it was the unscholarly person with a hundred thousand ryō who instead received praise from society. Thus without money, nothing could be achieved. They fixed their gaze upon the notion that money alone resolved all matters, and devoted themselves with great exertion to amassing wealth.

Thus, monks engaged in various activities such as business, farming, craftsmanship, or herding livestock, and furthermore, as part of their fundamental duties as monks, it was also widely practiced for them to visit lay households to recite sutras and accumulate alms money. Pitiable were the student monks who studied without any scholarship funds; yet even they, assimilated into the prevailing customs, pressed onward with their present hardships solely to attain future ease—never motivated by aspirations to use their suffering to benefit society or as capital to alleviate sentient beings’ anguish. There may perhaps have been some who acted with such noble intent, but unfortunately, I never encountered any such commendable individuals.

**Offering of Meat Porridge** When such monks studied diligently for twenty years straight, they could eventually become doctors. Becoming a doctor required spending at least five hundred yen. This cost arose because one had to offer meat porridge to all members of their academic department. Though it was just one bowl per person, each bowl inevitably cost about twenty-five sen. With various other necessities required, the total expenses inevitably reached five or six hundred yen. These impoverished student monks didn't possess even a single mon of that sum, but upon reaching that position, there were monks who would lend them money. These affluent monks lent money at interest, thereby doing them a favor while earning interest themselves. This was because even those who became doctors without real ability could earn substantial sums simply by reciting sutras under that title alone. So what became of those who somehow endured twenty years of ascetic training and obtained the title of doctor?

They had to spend their entire lives in servitude repaying debts—to those who had lent them the money... If things went well, they said the debt might be cleared in five or eight years, but if not, they ended up in such a wretched situation of lifelong servitude. To have labored so diligently in their studies only to keep toiling afterward for that vain reputation—though one might call this a social sanction, the folly of Tibetan monks, dominated by such sanctions, was also a pitiable state indeed.

Let us leave the matter of the monks at that.

Now, since 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 Prime Minister named Shō Kanwa (family name). By tradition in Tibet, there were four individuals holding the title of Prime Minister and three holding that of Finance Minister. However, there was only one true Finance Minister, and since the individual who had served the longest assumed all responsibilities, the others were essentially akin to vice-ministers. The Prime Ministers were likewise structured similarly: the most senior individual held actual authority, while the others were essentially akin to vice-ministers, to the extent that their own opinions were almost never implemented.

This Shō Kanwa was second among the Prime Ministers, and I had often met and conversed with him; his daughter was to be wedded to an aristocratic youth named Yūto. I personally observed that wedding ceremony. As it was regarded as an especially proper marriage rite even within Lhasa, I wish to relate that affair.

Chapter 80: Marriage (Part One)

**The Peculiar System of Polyandry** — Before discussing marriage itself, I believed it proper to first explain the differences between regional and Lhasan marital practices, along with spousal relations and authority in Tibet. Marriage ceremonies varied so greatly by region that no sweeping generalizations could be made. Up until then, Westerners had not reached Lhasa itself but only Tibetan checkpoints under the Dharma King’s jurisdiction—so-called China’s Tibet—resulting in numerous published works under the name of Tibet. While these books contained various marriage accounts—some based on firsthand observations and others on hearsay, all credible—none provided exhaustive details about marriages conducted within Lhasa proper. This compelled me to address Lhasa specifically.

Regarding these various points of difference, if I did not explain each region individually, it would ultimately be impossible to exhaustively detail every minute aspect; however, such an endeavor was far beyond my reach. Moreover, I myself had not personally witnessed the marriage ceremonies of each and every region. As I had only observed two or three ceremonies in Lhasa, it was most convenient for me to describe these. Tibet is, as is well known, a land of polyandry. There are also various types: one where brothers take a wife together; another where unrelated men agree to take a wife together; and then many cases where it begins as monogamy but transforms into polyandry when the wife, wielding considerable power, brings another man into the marriage with her original husband’s consent. And though the disorder in their human relations was at times nearly unbearable to speak of, Tibetans remained utterly unashamed.

Thus, in cases where a mother died in a parent-and-child trio, when they took a wife for the father or took a wife for the son, there was not the slightest legal impediment to one woman becoming the wife to both parent and child. Given how disordered this was, one might think there were no restrictions no matter how far it went, but that was not actually the case. For cousins to become husband and wife was akin to dogs—since it was the same as siblings becoming spouses—not only did society greatly condemn it as unforgivable, but the offenders had to be executed as legal criminals.

Wives’ Authority — In Tibet, generally speaking, wives’ authority was exceptionally strong. For example, money earned by a husband would typically be handed over to his wife. If there were three husbands, the wife would take all the earnings from each of them, and if their income proved meager or insufficient in some way, she would rebuke them. When a husband needed funds, he had to explain his reasons and request the amount from his wife’s hands. If it was discovered that a husband had secret savings, the wife would grow furious, instigate a quarrel, and in extreme cases, there were even instances where she struck him across the face.

Admittedly, this was an extreme example—such cases were rare—but wives generally held considerable authority. For instance, when a husband went elsewhere and some negotiation neared settlement, he would say, "With this, I have agreed." Even if he declared, "I must return home once to consult my wife—if she consents, I shall give you a reply," no one laughed. One had to consult one’s wife in precisely this manner. Therefore, wives’ authority proved exceedingly strong, and in most cases business outings were undertaken under their orders. When three brothers shared one wife, they all strove to win her favor. Though they couldn’t brush dust from beards they didn’t possess, they nonetheless exerted considerable effort to attend to her whims—a truly pitiable sight.

However, monogamy also existed in Tibet. In those cases, the husband's authority was relatively strong. Then there were also temporary marriages—that is to say, marital agreements where couples remained husband and wife only as long as they pleased, parting ways as soon as they grew weary of each other. Such women kept many men and became incorrigible sorts who extorted money from each one. These were rare in rural areas but abounded in places like Lhasa and Shikache. In Tibet, those referred to as prostitutes or courtesans were generally of this nature. If I continued expounding on such minutiae at length, it would never end, so I shall first discuss Lhasa's

Let me now speak about formal marriage. In Tibet, the marriage age was generally the same for both men and women, typically between twenty and twenty-five years. In rare cases there were early marriages, with some occurring around fifteen or sixteen years of age. There were also late marriages conducted after thirty years of age. However these were exceptions; ordinarily, as previously stated, ages matched between spouses. Yet there were instances where the woman's age was notably younger. Among late marriages significant age differences sometimes existed. When a wife bore children, even with five brothers present, only the eldest could be addressed as "Father" - the others were strictly forbidden this title. They were called Uncle.

In a certain European’s book, it was written that in Tibet, the eldest brother is called Great Father and the next one Lesser Father. This error likely arose because Tibetans told falsehoods which that Westerner earnestly accepted as truth. Addressing someone as “small father” or similar terms was absolutely never permitted. Perhaps they do such things in the Kam region of the northeast that I did not visit, but in the regions through which I traveled, nothing of the sort existed. When a Westerner writes about Tibet being thus-and-so based on lies heard from Tibetans without firsthand observation, such mistakes occur—one cannot help feeling truly sorry for such an author.

Marriage was at the parents’ discretion; therefore，marriages based on daughters’ free choice were almost nonexistent．All marital arrangements emerged entirely from parental will，with children granted no participation in discussions．They held no right to interject opinions．Daughters were never consulted through proposals like “There’s a suitable son—why not meet him？” Marriages were compelled through absolute parental coercion．Thus，encounters with divorce’s misfortunes proved exceedingly common．Yet this arose precisely from such oppressive practices—with not even a whisper of “caution needed” toward them．Even now，this coercive custom remains firmly entrenched．

However, in remote regions or even in Lhasa, many secret unions were conducted. There were also those who, after a secret union, informed their parents in advance and held a marriage ceremony upon obtaining approval. However, these cases were more the exception, as it was generally customary for the children’s parents to handle such matters. Typically, when the parents of a marriageable son identified a household with a daughter of matching property, lineage, and social class, they dispatched a mediator to formally request her hand from the daughter’s parents. If the daughter’s parents firmly refused the mediator at the outset, the mediator would declare the matter impossible and inform the son’s parents, causing the marriage arrangement to collapse.

If the daughter’s parents responded to the mediator with “Let us try to work it out through thorough discussion,” the mediator would thereafter visit their home five or six times, employing what was termed “mediator persuasion” to convince them. Even when the daughter’s parents tentatively agreed by saying “Then we shall send our daughter,” they first had to request judgments from diviners or high-ranking monks—or consult spirit mediums about the match’s auspiciousness. In Tibet, one could scarcely find instances of parents sending their daughter merely because they themselves deemed it suitable. If these diviners or spirit mediums pronounced favorable omens, only then was the marriage arrangement swiftly concluded.

Marriage negotiations were utterly secret; however, the children’s parents kept these discussions completely hidden from their sons and daughters. It was truly an oppressive system—during these negotiations, they never once engaged in practices common to Japanese or European customs, such as presenting betrothal gifts, stipulating how much property would be brought, or offering a set number of luggage items. Nor did they determine marriages by declaring how much property the husband possessed versus such-and-such for the wife. While there was no fixed amount for what must be brought, they understood that unless their daughter carried items befitting their household’s standing—objects worthy of boasting to others—the bride’s parents would face disgrace. Even on the receiving side, they paid milk money to the daughter’s mother.

This milk money referred to compensation for the milk provided during the daughter’s upbringing, and they brought an amount befitting their household’s status to avoid disgrace. This differed from Japanese betrothal gifts. Of course, there was no specific prior agreement whatsoever. Thus, as was customary, the parents of both the daughter and son consulted diviners or spirit mediums to select an auspicious day and made preparations to finally conduct the marriage ceremony. First, the daughter’s parents had carefully anticipated when a mediator from the groom’s side would arrive. Then, shortly before the appointed time, they would instruct their daughter: “The weather is splendid today—let us visit the temple,” or “We shall hold a linka feast at such-and-such place, so you must wash your hair beautifully.” Some daughters would adorn themselves without realizing they were being prepared to be sent off as brides, while others—clever girls who had been cheerful until then—would discern the truth and burst into mournful tears.

The girl wept upon suddenly hearing about the marriage from her parents.

Chapter 81: Marriage (Part Two)

Sudden Adornment At this time, she would wipe her face and wash her body. Though Tibetans did not consider washing absolutely improper, their general custom tended to look down upon it. However, the nobility did wash themselves to some extent every morning upon rising. Their method of washing was amusing. To elaborate further: First, a manservant or maidservant would draw water in a dipper and bring it. They would cup their palms to receive the water, take it into their mouths, then spit it back into their palms while washing their faces. When the water in their mouths ran out, they would go *pfft-pfft*, blowing spit to wash themselves—a method I found truly peculiar. To be sure, there were also those who fetched water in golden basins and washed thoroughly, but a considerable number of gentlemen washed by spitting on themselves.

Putting that aside, the daughter, unaware of anything and overjoyed at the prospect of going out to play that day, washed her hair and was combing it thoroughly with an old comb when, at just the right moment, the mediator appeared. Alternatively, arriving beforehand, the mediator would surreptitiously hand over the hair tools sent by the groom’s parents to the daughter’s parents, who then brought these items to their daughter and said: “Your comb has grown quite old—discard it and use this fine new one to arrange your hair. Here is good oil as well—use this to adorn yourself properly.” When her preparations were complete, her parents informed her for the first time that a marriage agreement had been settled, and she must now go to be wed into such-and-such household. This was commonly practiced in Lhasa, Shigatse, and other urban areas.

As I mentioned earlier, there were rare cases where quick-witted daughters realized their hair-washing was for marriage and wept while refusing to wash it. “I don’t want to go. Dad and Mom are lying and sending me off to some horrible place!” she wailed. In such instances, the daughter’s friends who had come beforehand skillfully consoled her and forcibly made her wash her hair.

The 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, lasting anywhere from one or two days to five days, ten days, or even half a month. During these banquets, the daughter’s parents’ relatives, acquaintances, and friends all presented gifts. The gifts differed depending on the giver’s wealth and their degree of closeness to the family, ranging from money and clothing to food and drink. To those who brought gifts, they first served Tibetan-style tea and cold barley wine. In Tibet, alcohol was never warmed before drinking. As I had mentioned earlier, they drank tea and alcohol ceaselessly day and night. This practice—called *cha-chang penma* (alternating between alcohol and tea)—represented, as I had previously explained, the Tibetan people’s blissful state of existence. They did not serve snacks to accompany the alcohol.

At midday meals, they first served roasted barley flour and meat. The meat mostly consisted of yak, goat, and mutton; in rare cases, some households in Lhasa also used pork. Beef was hardly ever used. Beef was especially avoided at weddings. The methods of preparing meat were threefold: raw, dried, or boiled—grilled meat was not permitted during formal ceremonies. Generally, meat was boiled with oil and salt, though sometimes it was boiled with water and salt. Alongside these three types of meat came a tofu-like preparation made from three ingredients: dried cheese, butter, and sugar. After finishing this dish came rice mixed with butter, sugar, dried grapes, and small persimmons; at evening meals or final banquets, some households served egg noodles or Chinese cuisine.

In this manner, they served three or four elaborate meals each day, during which tea and alcohol were continuously consumed, and amidst the eating and drinking, people shared amusing tales. Tibetan dance involved singing folk songs while performing. The dancers aligned their feet to the song's rhythm, stomping resoundingly in the courtyard as they leapt up. The discipline was so perfectly maintained that it resembled military drills. However, since men and women intermingled freely in this dance, a certain affection permeated the movements, making it appear quite entertaining. Musicians played the damnyang—a Tibetan stringed instrument—to synchronize with the singing and foot-stomping. Dozens of men and women whirled about in jubilation like rotating prayer bead circles; I imagined my country's ancient utagaki song gatherings must have resembled this. As I had previously noted, while banquet durations varied according to a household's social connections and wealth, only utterly destitute families with no social standing conducted bridal transfers immediately after the matchmaker's arrival.

Now, after several days had passed and it was finally the day before the bride was to go to the groom’s house, the groom’s father and mother dispatched a dozen or so people—the mediator, their proxy, and a welcoming party (the number varying slightly depending on wealth)—to fetch the bride from her home. Thereupon, the matchmaker and proxy first presented to the bride’s parents a sum of money called nūrin—that is, milk payment. The larger amounts were 1,000 or 500 yen in Japanese currency, while smaller ones could be as little as two or three yen. However, the daughter’s parents did not immediately accept this. First, they declined and pushed it back. The matchmaker would insistently urge them until they accepted it.

There were also parents who absolutely refused, and in such cases, the daughter’s parents would say: “Since we are offering our beloved daughter to your household, we have no desire whatsoever to receive any milk payment.” “But if you would only love this daughter we have sent to you and ensure this child finds happiness in your home for years to come, that alone would be more than enough.” “We earnestly hope for that.” However, it had become nearly customary that even when initially refused, they were generally compelled to accept it eventually. At the same time, they received all the clothing to be used at the daughter’s wedding ceremony and

they received the kekkon gyokuyu (marriage jewel ornament). The kekkon gyokuyu was an ornament worn by women of Lhasa at the center of their foreheads. It was said to signify becoming someone’s wife, though in Lhasa this distinction remained unclear. Even unmarried women still wore it as decoration. However, in Shigatse and surrounding regions, the marriage jewel ornament was worn atop the back of the head, allowing one to immediately recognize a married woman at a glance. Should divorce unfortunately occur, the man would grow furious and tear the marriage jewel ornament from her headdress. Once ripped away, this act alone finalized the divorce. Rather than issuing a three-and-a-half-line divorce notice, they took away this marriage jewel ornament.

In addition to these, there were numerous other lavish ornaments requiring considerable expense—necklaces, pectoral ornaments, jeweled garlands, ear pendants, earring pagodas, bracelets, and rings—all given to the daughter by her parents. Only the ceremonial attire for the wedding site—robes, sashes, undergarments, and footwear—was presented by the groom’s father and mother. Regardless of quality, they were forbidden from wearing anything else during the ceremony. The matchmaker and proxy who had come to fetch the bride then stayed overnight at her home, hosting a banquet to fully savor the festivities. This banquet proved particularly entertaining.

Banquet Thievery — Well, it was a battle-like commotion where attempts to make them drink just a little alcohol led to resistance against being made to drink. The matchmaker and proxy who had come from the groom's side remained thoroughly vigilant that night, never drinking alcohol excessively. The reason for such vigilance lay in this country's peculiar custom: if they drank copiously that night, fell into a deep oblivious sleep, and lay unaware of their surroundings, friends or relatives staying at the bride’s home would watch them as they slept and steal one of the items they had brought. It mattered not whether it was a good item or a bad one. Then the thief would announce, "Last night I managed to steal this successfully," and present it to everyone the next day. At this point matters turned grave. The person who had been stolen from would have to pay twenty tangka of Tibetan silver—equivalent to five yen in Japanese currency—to the thief as a penalty for their own negligence and carelessness.

As a penalty for negligence and carelessness, twenty tangka of Tibetan silver—equivalent to five yen in Japanese currency—had to be paid to the thief. Due to this peculiar custom existing, the matchmakers remained thoroughly vigilant and tried to drink as little alcohol as possible. Yet the bride’s friends and relatives skillfully attempted to coax them into drinking. Thus, the dispute over whether to drink or not became almost warlike; however, all words and gestures used to offer alcohol had to be artfully performed according to customs passed down from ancient times in this land. If there were any deviation from ancient practices, the groom’s matchmaker or proxy would declare, “You do not know our ancestral customs.” “You lack knowledge of proper etiquette.” “Truly, you are utterly ignorant!” they would roar in condemnation. This brought great shame upon the bride’s family, making it no trivial matter.

Moreover, the people on the groom’s side also had appropriate phrases prepared for declining alcohol. If they failed to refuse by reciting various metaphors, admonitions, or prepared refrains—such as “alcohol is the chief of all poisons,” “no, alcohol breeds quarrels,” or “drinking robs one of wisdom”—they risked being harshly rebuked by the matchmaker. Then there were occasions when they launched into endless debates—arguing whether the bride’s side served poor-tasting liquor, whether the meat was good or bad, or whether other dishes were well-prepared or poorly done. Such disputes over who prevailed or faltered, along with mutual boasting, became standard wedding ceremony fare—matters then spread through society as so-called news items by the bride’s friends, relatives, or neighbors.

82nd Installment: The Strange Custom of Sending Off the Bride

**Ceremonial Send-Off and Offerings** — When the day finally arrived, the bride’s father and mother first held a farewell banquet early in the morning, and then had monks of the Old School sect—the so-called Red Hat sect—officiate rituals for the village deities and household gods. The purpose of this ceremony was to address the deities as follows: “This time, a daughter from a certain family is to be wedded into a certain household.” “Therefore, we humbly beseech the village deities and household gods: please grant this daughter leave, and do not become angered that we have sent her elsewhere to refrain from bringing harm.” “In exchange, we humbly offer the solace of sutra recitations and offerings today as we bid farewell.” Following this protocol—as the ritual was typically conducted at the monk’s resident temple—they simultaneously invited a priest of Tibet’s ancient religion, the so-called Bon religion, to their home. The household *lu* (dragon king)—in Tibet, *lu* refers to deities governing a household’s treasures, with the dragon king particularly safeguarding its fortune—was believed to cause the family’s wealth to vanish if angered. Thus, when the dragon king, deeply attached to their daughter, threatened to depart with her for the groom’s household—a scenario that would plunge her family into immediate poverty—they had to devise means to prevent it from accompanying her.

The wording of the scriptures used in that ritual was intriguing. This was a Bon scripture. The phrasing remained largely consistent everywhere: "The household into which this daughter is to marry will by no means prove as fortunate as our own. Moreover, should you deign to accompany the young mistress to her new household, such conduct would by no means befit a Dragon King." They would recite this scripture—"If you instead remain here to safeguard this household's fortunes, O Dragon King, the blessings bestowed upon you shall never cease"—and conducted grand offerings to the Dragon King. Such practices were not mere formalities of ancient custom. As I had previously explained, these rites stemmed from an unshakable conviction that should the Dragon King depart with the daughter, her family would assuredly fall into destitution. When these offerings concluded, next—

Admonishment to the Bride — There existed what was called an admonisher for the bride. First, this admonisher would stand before the bride and deliver warnings structured from maxims. For these admonishers, they would hire someone who had memorized the admonitory phrases—a person with some grasp of reason—to perform this duty. The wording of these admonitions was largely fixed. Moreover, they were crafted in an extremely accessible manner so that anyone could understand them. The words went: “When you go to their household, apply yourself earnestly to all matters with kindness. “As it is a woman’s duty to serve her elders, once you marry into another home, you must dutifully attend to your father-in-law and mother-in-law. Show utmost kindness to your husband, serve his elder siblings well, cherish his younger siblings as your own, and treat the servants with compassion as though they were your children.” Such were the words spoken.

They admonished her by weaving in parables, doing so in a profoundly affecting manner. When this concluded, her father and mother then solemnly seated themselves in the same spot to deliver similar admonitions. They spoke these words through trembling voices choked with tears. Relatives and friends too knelt before the bride with tear-streaked faces, clasping her hands as they spoke earnestly—as though both reproving and exhorting her in equal measure. With these rituals completed, the bride at last prepared to depart from her home. The property she brought to the groom’s household followed no fixed measure, varying by social standing: affluent families bestowed manor fields upon their daughters, while those of modest means provided only such garments as their circumstances allowed.

The Tearful Farewell of the Bride — When leaving her home, the bride would typically weep bitterly and refuse to mount the horse. Prostrating herself on the ground, she could scarcely stand. All these behaviors manifested her sincere grief at departing from her parents' household. These were not merely ceremonial tears—she wept from genuine anguish at leaving the parents who had raised her so long. In such cases, her friends would intervene and forcibly help her onto the horse. The saddles differed from Western styles, closely resembling those of ancient Japan. Tibetan women rode horses skillfully. They never rode with elongated stirrup straps, keeping them extremely short instead—legs bent as if sitting on a low veranda. Both men and women rode in this same manner. We too found it terribly difficult at first. Prolonged riding made the bones in our legs tingle painfully.

Now, the bride was forcibly placed on horseback and finally set out on the path to her new husband’s home. The bride’s attire consisted of clothing gifted from the groom’s household worn on her body, along with ornaments—from headdresses to armbands—bestowed by her own parents. Furthermore, the area from her head to her face was covered with Rinchen Nangga (Five-Treasure Cloth), a woolen fabric woven in stripes of blue, yellow, red, white, and black. Therefore, her face could not be seen. And then, a dartar (auspicious banner) was set up behind the bride’s neck. The auspicious banner was made of five-colored thin silk, resembling in shape the smaller temple banners found in our country’s shrines and temples. The length was made to be about one shaku two sun; this meant to invite auspiciousness—that is, happiness—and was set up behind the bride’s neck.

**Roadside Welcoming and Send-Off Banquets** — The many people welcoming the bride and the many people sending her off all rode on horseback, leading the bride toward the groom’s household. Along this route, the bride’s relatives or acquaintances held farewell banquets three times in total at various points—spaced either once every three *ri* or once every five *ri* depending on the journey’s length, though in shorter stretches, some were conducted every two or three *chō*. In turn, the groom’s household and relatives also held three welcoming banquets at various points along the route. After passing through six welcoming and send-off banquets each, they finally reached the groom’s household; however, during these roadside banquets along the journey, they did not drink alcohol to excess. This was because they had an obligation to safely escort the bride to the groom’s household; thus, even if pressed, they drank only a little, and even when urged by the other side, they merely exchanged brief greetings.

In Tibetan hospitality customs, it was generally customary for one party to show extreme reserve while the other pressed insistently; if someone readily partook of what was offered, they were derided as foolish, akin to a Chinese person. The banquets held along the road were sometimes conducted within village homes or in borrowed houses of acquaintances, but more commonly followed the general custom of setting up separate tents in convenient locations across the plains for these gatherings. 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 afar to welcome her and she ought properly to have been admitted at once, here manifested one of Tibet's bizarre customs—even when attempting entry, one found the groom's household gate firmly closed against all comers. I was truly astonished by this strange practice.

Chapter 83: Polyandry

The Secret Sword of Exorcism — Many people stood before the groom’s gate, and among them were those performing peculiar acts. This was an established fact—there existed demons or pestilences that had followed this bride. They held concealed in their right hand a torma (secret sword) that tore apart those demons or pestilences into eight pieces. As for what it was made of, roasted barley flour was kneaded and hardened with butter and water, and its surface was dyed with plant-based red juice. Its shape was a right-angled triangle, resembling that of a sword. That sword, it is said, was crafted by monks who sealed it with secret rituals.

The identity of the person holding the torma remained unknown, but since they were among that group, upon seeing the bride arrive at the gate, they would seize the opportunity to hurl it at her face. At that very moment, someone would open the gate, allowing them to dart inside as if flying through. No sooner had that person entered than the gate was shut tight again. It was truly a peculiar sight—the butter and roasted barley flour stained with red juice crumbled into fine pieces upon the bride’s face, leaving her beautiful garments speckled. However, as previously mentioned, the bride’s face was covered with the Five-Treasure Cloth, so while the torma did not strike her directly, it appeared as though she were speckled with fragments. Now, you may wonder why they performed such a bizarre act—there was indeed a reason for it.

The reason for this was that the bride had lost the protection of both her homeland's gods and her household gods. This was because she had departed after being granted leave. Therefore, when she arrived at the groom’s household, neither her homeland’s nor her household’s deities accompanied her—in other words, there were no protective gods for the bride. Consequently, numerous demons and plagues attached themselves to her during the journey, following her into the groom’s home to bring harm upon both bride and groom. To drive these away and subjugate them, they hurled this secret sword. Now, as for why the person who threw [the sword] would rush inside the gate and immediately close it—it was because if this person lingered after throwing the sword, they risked being caught by the bride’s escorts. If caught, it would be dire—for there was also the custom that at this time, one had to pay a fine of twenty tangka (yuan) in Tibetan silver to whoever caught them. That was why they immediately fled inside.

The secret sword was hurled at the bride.

Praise at the Gate — Then those who had been waiting inside said: “Give shepa to this gate.” “Then we shall permit entry,” they declared. This eulogy involved extolling auspicious origins through ornate phrases and noble epithets celebrating prosperity. When the bride’s orator protested—“We would deliver praise but lack a *kata* [ceremonial silk for rites]”—the gatekeepers flashed a scrap of *kata* through the gap, crying “Here!” before yanking them inside. The haste stemmed from custom: any escort grasping that silk’s edge could claim twenty tangka silver from the thrower.

Upon merely glimpsing the *kata*, the eulogist solemnly composed himself and declared: “This gate marks the entrance to a treasury—its pillars of gold and doors of silver guard halls within where seven treasures arise naturally, where jade palaces stand. Those who dwell therein possess truth, goodness, and beauty akin to gods or bodhisattvas.” “To pass through such a splendid gate truly marks the genesis of supreme fortune and joy,” he proclaimed at length. When the eulogy concluded, the gate creaked open. Here I must briefly mention an occurrence. Occasionally, when brides passed through villages en route to their grooms’ homes, the villagers would seize them. As pretext they declared: “Since she left without her homeland’s guardian deities, demons and pestilences have accompanied her.” “And having entered our village, she will undoubtedly bring harm to our community and ruin this year’s harvest.” “Therefore this bride—”

“—as a guarantee for compensation for damages, we have to take her!” they declared, seizing her. “And we won’t hand her over at all,” they stubbornly maintained. Thereupon, the bride’s escorts provided a portion of the demanded compensation money, first seeking safe passage through negotiation—only then were they permitted to proceed. Of course, this custom was not practiced in the cities. In other words, while such practices were occasionally carried out in remote regions, most people generally avoided engaging in them. If one happened to earn others’ enmity, such things would be done to them.

At the very moment when the gate of the groom’s household opened, the groom’s mother brought sour milk and chemar. Chemar refers to a mixture of roasted barley flour, butter, sugar, and small potatoes. The small potatoes were a wild variety native to Tibet—about the size of a pinky fingertip, sharing regular potatoes’ flavor but far firmer and more delicious. This blend of four ingredients was called chemar. In Tibet, people used this sour milk and chemar to convey profound congratulations.

Thereupon, the groom’s mother distributed these two items—beginning with the bride—to the escorts little by little, and they each received them in their palms and licked them. After this ritual concluded, they entered the hall under the mother’s guidance. Here, another banquet was held. Meanwhile, the Bon priests turned to the village gods and household gods and declared: “This bride has been received from so-and-so and from this day forth has become a member of our household. “Therefore, we beseech the village gods and household gods to become this bride’s protectors from this day forth,” they declared. When the banquet commenced, the groom’s father and mother presented the customary one strip of *kata* each to the groom, the matchmakers, and the escorts. This was a ceremonial rite signifying that the groom and bride had formally established their marital discourse.

The bride and groom were moved 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 three-times-three ritual.

These escorts and relatives continued to stay at the groom’s household, holding banquets daily. During this period, the groom’s relatives, acquaintances, and friends were all invited to these banquets, bringing appropriate gifts. The shorter banquets 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 outings. Moreover, Tibetan feasts consisted solely of extremely heavy dishes—they ate nothing but greasier meats than even the Chinese people did. A light meal such as tea over rice with pickles was something one could not even dream of being served as a feast. They held lengthy banquets with such heavy dishes. After the banquet concluded and the escorts had departed, it remained customary for the bride’s friends and maidservants to stay at the groom’s household for several more days.

For the most affluent families, it was generally customary for the bride to be accompanied by a maidservant from her household who would serve her for life. This did not mean the marriage proceedings were entirely concluded. After a period of one month, six months, or one year had passed, the groom and bride would then come together to the bride’s household again. In such cases, though a large number of people did not come together, they brought along two or three individuals. The groom generally stayed at the bride’s household for several days before returning to his own home. As for the bride, she would stay at her parental home for one month to three months, with the duration varying according to her wishes. However, since the specific month and day of her stay were promised to the groom, when that date arrived, the groom would come to fetch her and take her to his home.

Marriage with the Younger Brother — If the groom had a younger brother, generally six months or one year after the initial marriage, they would hold a modest ceremony within the household to marry him to the bride. Generally, during such a ceremony, the elder brother would be away on a journey or out for leisure, and they would hold the ceremony to marry her to the younger brother in his absence. It was the mother who acted as the matchmaker. Even if there were three or five younger brothers, they would all be properly married in the same manner. Alternatively, there were cases where they would marry the bride and younger brothers freely without holding any ceremony. In this manner, the marriage ceremonies were concluded. In Tibet, this polyandry was referred to as Sarsum. When a child was born in a Sarsum family, it might be unclear who the biological father was, but regardless of who the true biological parent might be, as stated before, the eldest brother was called “father,” while the others were referred to as “uncles.”

In such strange households, it was rare for all brothers to live together simultaneously. Generally, when one of them remained at home, the others would go out through various means—engaging in business or, if they were officials, leaving on official duties. This custom of polyandry remained truly prevalent in Tibet even then, and the people of that country firmly believed it to be a most virtuous practice. Occasionally, there were merchants who had gone abroad and knew this custom was undesirable, voicing various criticisms; however, all such arguments were dismissed with the single phrase "Lukso Minz" (meaning "an ancient custom without precedent"), which had been used since times of old.

This phrase wielded particularly formidable power, trampling even precious truths beneath its single utterance. These bizarre marriage ceremonies and spousal relations were customs that originated from Tibet’s ancient Bon religion and had been vigorously maintained under the phrase "Lukso Minz"—persisting even after authentic Buddhism took root. Indeed, they continued to thrive through the ages. Few Buddhists paid attention to social issues; traditional monks clung to reclusive ways, preoccupied solely with worldly Buddhist practices. They neglected to promote dynamic forms of authentic Buddhism that could invigorate society, failed to dismantle harmful customs, and left them unchecked—all while engaging in actions that marred Buddhism’s true essence. These were shortcomings of traditional Buddhist monks, never of Buddhism itself.

Chapter 84: Publicly Exposed Criminals and Torture

Cursing the Dharma King — In early October, I set out from my residence in Lhasa toward Parkor (the circumambulation path). This was Lhasa’s most prominent thoroughfare, where criminals would be publicly displayed along the roadside whenever they were condemned. The methods of exposure varied in form. Some were merely shackled with handcuffs and leg irons, but this time I witnessed an extreme form of public humiliation. About twenty individuals were being exhibited—one at each intersection and pillar along the way. All wore splendid garments. Around their necks hung boards of exceptionally heavy wood—three shaku square (approximately 90.9 cm x 90.9 cm) and 1.2 to 1.3 sun thick (3.6–3.9 cm)—each pierced with a hole just large enough to admit a neck. The boards split into two halves joined by crossbars and secured with a lock. On their surfaces, papers inscribed in Tibetan detailed the charges. Depending on the offenses listed, each person would remain thus exposed for a specified number of days before facing either exile or flogging. The lashes ranged from three hundred to seven hundred strokes.

Since there were a great many recorded here, I could not read each one individually, but upon reading one or two examples: In Lhasa, there was the rather renowned Tengerin Temple, whose members were candidates qualified to become Dharma King during periods when there was no incumbent. Among those residing in this temple were both laypeople and monks, but its master was originally called Temo Rinpoche, and its steward was named Norbu Cheling. It was said that this steward began conducting extraordinary secret rituals in an attempt to curse the current Dharma King to death. These secret rituals were reportedly not conducted through Buddhist means; rather, they performed a curse to kill the Dharma King using Bon rites, then stuffed the completed curse papers into shoe soles and crafted fine footwear to offer him.

When the Dharma King wore those shoes, it is said he fell ill. After thorough investigations revealed Bon ritual incantations inside the footwear, the matter came to light and all involved were arrested—including Temo Rinpoche himself due to his connection to the affair. There were those in society who claimed Norbu Cheling had attempted to kill the Dharma King under Temo Rinpoche’s orders—since Temo Rinpoche stood to inherit the Dharma King’s position should he die—and denounced him as a truly detestable lama for committing such evil deeds. Regardless of these claims’ veracity, Temo Rinpoche had indeed been the Dharma King until the current incumbent assumed his position.

The Tragic Public Exposure of a Beautiful Woman

During that period, a man named Norbu Cheling seized power as Prime Minister and ruled with extreme oppression; it is said he had also killed many innocent people—a fact confirmed beyond doubt. When the current Dharma King ascended to the throne, someone provided a detailed account of those events. Thus it was said that even privately, the Dharma King harbored no goodwill toward Temo Rinpoche or Norbu Cheling. It was through the presentation of those shoes that all were imprisoned—Temo Rinpoche having already perished in his cell by then—while Norbu Cheling remained confined within a stone prison. The upper part of that stone cell held a window through which food was delivered to these grave criminals; during interrogations too, they were made to pass through this aperture. Thus trapped and suffering within those walls, whenever they glimpsed daylight from this world, they would invariably be beaten or subjected to horrific tortures—or so the accounts went. As for the torture methods themselves—having never witnessed their actual implementation—I cannot describe them precisely. Yet even secondhand reports were enough to chill one’s blood.

The Cruel Torture — The method involved first inserting split bamboo between the flesh and nails of the fingers to pry off the nails, then inserting bamboo between the flesh and skin. All ten fingers were subjected to this treatment in turn, and though tears of blood streamed down his face from the agony, Norbu Cheling stubbornly maintained that this had been his own doing—that Temo Rinpoche, his master, had never ordered him to act. Yet even as they pressed him severely—insisting it must have been his master’s command—he refused to comply.

Since Temo Rinpoche had been fully aware during his lifetime of the suffering [Norbu Cheling] would endure, he declared it had been entirely his own command—that [Norbu] had merely carried out his orders and thus bore no guilt—or so it was recounted. Temo Rinpoche then urged his steward: “I’ve already confessed everything this way—now you must do the same.” But Norbu Cheling replied, “You are a noble lama.” “Even if you try to save me with a temporary lie, it’s utterly futile,” he insisted, refusing to yield as he endured his suffering. Even after enduring such torment, he still would not confess. By the time I arrived in Lhasa, it was said he had already suffered two years of such agony under interrogation.

Even so, given that he never spoke a word against his master, one might suppose Temo Rinpoche had no part in the affair—yet it was also said that for Norbu Cheling, Temo Rinpoche was in truth an elder brother. From this, it seemed he had shielded his brother from blame, perhaps taking the guilt upon himself. Whatever the case, as he endured such excruciating torment—persisting in bearing the torture and upholding his duty despite the world’s relentless slander—I found myself secretly pitying him and offering my sympathy.

The people being publicly exposed there were all followers 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 substantial. Of those now exposed here, half faced exile, while the remainder—after three or seven days of public display—would be beaten three hundred or five hundred times with thick green willow rods. I felt as though hell itself had materialized in our world. Sensing these people's inner anguish with pity, I made my way around to the other side. There, upon a stone platform at a sunlit southwestern corner of Shakyamuni Hall—the broadest section of Parkor's circumambulation path—

There was a beautiful noblewoman among the publicly exposed criminals. The noblewoman, just as I had seen before, was fastened with a thick, three-shaku-square pillory. The pillory pressed down on the delicate noblewoman’s shoulders, making her appear truly anguished. On her head, she wore a small Bhutanese-made red wild silk headdress, her eyes closed with a somewhat downcast demeanor. At one end, there were about three policeman-like individuals guarding this noblewoman. It appeared they were to feed her roasted barley flour, for a container of it lay at one end. It appeared that provisions had been sent in, as some slightly better food was also placed there. The food had to be fed to her piece by piece by someone else, for her own hands remained shackled, making it impossible for her to eat on her own. As for who this delicate and noble woman was—she was the scion of the distinguished Dorling family, revered in Tibet as its oldest lineage and most prominent among aristocrats.

Chapter 85: Types of Punishment The Noblewoman’s Charges — This noblewoman had become Norbu Cheling’s wife. Before her husband Norbu Cheling was confined to the stone cell, she had been held in a somewhat more lenient prison. By giving the jailer a small sum of money, one could visit there. Thus when it was discovered that this noblewoman had brought delicacies to visit her husband—weeping and sharing words of grief with him—she too was imprisoned. That morning at the prison gate, they had struck her delicate buttocks some three hundred times with thick green willow rods, leaving her unable to walk. In this wretched state, they fastened the pillory about her neck and exposed her upon a roadside stone—so it was said.

She appeared to have lost all consciousness, presenting a truly pitiful sight that brought tears to one’s eyes. What further deepened the pity was that it was not merely jeering onlookers gathered at the scene—nobles too were joining in, loudly reciting the charges pasted to the noblewoman’s pillory. This woman, having committed such crimes, was beaten X number of times with rods and made a publicly exposed criminal here for seven days; thereafter came this cruel verdict stating she would be exiled to such-and-such place, where on that island she would again be bound in prison with handcuffs and leg irons. If only they had read them silently, but they did not stop at merely reciting them aloud. They were jeering spitefully. “Look at you now!” In tones like, “Look at you now—this is what you get for all those times you tormented people!”, the jeering crowd hurled abuse while the nobles sneered.

Their expressions suggested they derived great pleasure from witnessing her misfortune. The extent of their heartlessness and these detestable actions made me think, "Could Tibetans truly be such unfeeling people?" and I could not help but feel enraged. These people now hurling abuse—these sneering individuals—were undoubtedly the very ones who once kowtowed and brushed the dust from his beard when he and his wife held power as Prime Minister. Seeing those people laughing without a hint of discomfort at this pitiable sight, I could not help but feel the superficiality of human compassion.

Even if someone had committed crimes, one should never hate that person. Much less did this woman bear any guilt at all. Through political dealings between families, they had become enemies and allies. That even an innocent wife should suffer such misery under her enemies' oppression—to those who knew the truth, it proved truly unbearable to witness. As I walked along the path feeling this way, a poem came forth.

To flowers beginning to bloom—are they but flowers scattering away?

This body, holding dew of fathomless sorrow, Having returned, I met with the former Finance Minister and asked, “Today I saw such a person and returned feeling deeply pitying—what in the world is this all about?” To which he replied, “Ah, it is indeed a most pitiful matter.” “In their days of glory—when their power could make even birds fall from the sky—none dared raise a finger against them. Yet now that matters have come to this wretched state, it is truly pitiful.” “In particular, people speak all manner of ill about Temo Rinpoche.” “Some claim he kept mistresses or committed such misdeeds—but as I myself am a sinner capable of keeping women, I am quite sharp in discerning others’ sins.” “I can see it all too clearly.” “Yet against Temo Rinpoche himself, there was not a single flaw one could strike at.” “Truly his moral conduct was pure, and in his compassion to save others, he was truly admirable.” “It was solely due to the wickedness of his retainers that such a situation arose—I understand all too clearly that this absolutely never stemmed from that man’s own intentions.” “I cannot speak of such matters publicly,” he explained in detail, “but in truth, that is how it stands.”

In the first place,

The methods of torture in Tibet were extremely cruel. Moreover, their executions were carried out in an extremely barbaric manner. As for prison cells—they were places so unimaginable in this world that one might think them otherworldly. To mention one or two of their torture methods: there was the previously described technique of using split bamboo to tear off fingernails, or alternatively, the method of placing stone-carved hats upon heads. They would first place a hat weighing about one kan on [the victim's head], then stack five or six more of the same kind atop it. At first, this would bring forth scalding tears, but by the end, it was said to make the eyeballs nearly burst from their sockets. There was also that method. Then, when it came to beating, since they struck with thick raw willow rods, in the end, the buttocks tore and blood gushed forth.

Even so, they had to keep striking however many blows had been set—whether three hundred or five hundred—until completed. When delivering three hundred or five hundred blows, they would apparently pause halfway to let the victims drink water before resuming the beating. Those who were beaten inevitably fell ill. Urine came out bright red like blood. I administered medicine to such people. I also closely examined the wounds on their buttocks, which were truly horrific. Even the most comfortable prison cells had nothing beyond earthen walls and plank floors. In that cold land, they were confined in places where no sunlight reached—so dark that even at noon it was nearly pitch-black—leaving neither hygiene nor even a scrap for washing.

As for food, they only gave two handfuls of roasted barley flour once per day. With just that, one could not possibly survive. Therefore, it had become customary for acquaintances to send provisions to those who entered prison. Even of those provisions, more than half would be taken by the jailers, leaving them with only a meager amount to eat themselves. The lightest punishments were fines, flogging, and then—

The punishment of gouging out and removing eyeballs; the punishment of severing wrists. They would not sever them immediately. Both wrists would be tied with a cord, and for about half a day, children would gather to pull them up and down. In the end, their hands would become completely numb—it was said they could no longer tell whether the hands were their own or someone else’s. It was at this point that they would sever them before watching onlookers. This punishment was mostly inflicted upon thieves. When someone had entered prison five or even six times, they would end up subjected to the wrist-severing punishment. In Lhasa, there were many beggars who had been subjected to such punishments.

The most common were beggars with gouged-out eyeballs, followed by ear-cutting and nose-cutting punishments; these were inflicted on adulterous men and women, as when a wronged spouse discovered and reported them, the man and woman might face such penalties. Moreover, in Tibet there existed something peculiar. Even if a husband cut off the noses of that man and woman in anger without filing a complaint, he himself would not be punished—for it was considered he had acted as the government's proxy. Exile too had two varieties. One type confined the condemned to a specified region without imprisonment, leaving them unrestrained; another kept them imprisoned within exile boundaries. Then,

The death penalty was carried out through drowning. There were also two types. In one method they would throw people alive into leather bags and cast them into water; in another they would take them by boat to midstream bind them submerge them in water and sink them with stone weights. They would submerge them for a while and after about ten minutes lift them up; if they were still alive they would submerge them again then after another ten minutes or so lift them to check—if dead all was well but if alive submerge them once more. After repeating this process several times to confirm death they would cut off heads and limbs dismembered bodies into separate parts cast them into currents bringing back only heads here. There were cases where heads would be publicly exposed three or seven days and others where without exposure heads would be placed into jars thrown into halls collecting only such heads. This hall was called Hall of Unsalvation Tibetans performing such cruelty from belief that heads placed there could never be reborn again.

Chapter 86: Astonishing Burial Rites

Innocent snowball fights—these punishments were truly cruel methods, hardly befitting a country where Buddhism was practiced. If they simply killed them, that would erase their sins—so in that sense, they thought punishment must be administered—yet to restrict even the notion of their future seemed to me truly contrary to the principles of penal law. It was a barbaric method indeed. There were still quite a number of such cruel practices, but I resolved to leave it at this for now. I had been staying in Lhasa until mid-October when it was decided I should return to Sera for study. Riding back on the horse provided by the minister, I found that light snow had been falling continuously since the previous night, leaving roads still thickly blanketed. This marked the first snowfall.

After leaving Lhasa and passing through Shönké Lamkha (Monks’ Road), there was a single river about half a mile before reaching Sera Monastery. In winter, the river had no water, so snow had also accumulated within the riverbed.

Then, five or six young monks from Sera Monastery gathered and were enthusiastically engaged in a snowball fight. Everywhere it was the same; to the young monks, it seemed immensely amusing—the sight of them battling with such innocent abandon vividly displayed their selfless vigor, so that I found myself involuntarily comforted by this scene. Children are truly innocent beings; when not being scolded by their masters, they must find it quite delightful to play in this manner, so absorbed in their enjoyment. I composed a verse upon seeing that scene.

Throwing white snow, children meet in the snow The wondrous white snow keeps piling up,

Encountering an old acquaintance—as I stood watching, a large man came up from behind. The man peered up from beneath my mounted position and stared intently. Wondering what he was looking at, I turned to face him—there was no mistaking him; he was unmistakably the youngest of three brothers with whom I had made pilgrimage around Manasarovar Lake in the Northwest Plains, the very man who had once struck me across the face and knocked me down. Seeing that I was no longer the insignificant pilgrim of old but now sat mounted with the dignified bearing of a nobleman, he seemed greatly frightened and averted his gaze, attempting to slip past me.

There, I called out to stop him: “Have you forgotten me?” “No, I haven’t forgotten you.” “Then you should come with me to my place. Where are you going?” “I’m going to Sera.” “Since you’re headed to my temple, come with me,” I said, bringing him to my quarters. I instructed a young monk to prepare the finest possible feast for the man and served it to him. Afterward, I packed provisions for his journey and said, “I’m grateful for all your help in years past,” before sending him off. As he left, he prostrated himself in worship, tears streaming down his face as though repenting his sins. At that time, according to the man’s account, though the three brothers had been separated, they later reunited and returned safely to their hometown, where they all lived unharmed.

Putting that aside, this time there happened to be fourteen or fifteen days of doctrinal debates at Sera, so I resolved to fully engage in them this instance and was residing in my quarters there when an acquaintance of mine passed away, necessitating my attendance at their funeral. I attended that funeral, but

Mysterious Funeral - Here, I witnessed a funeral of such extraordinary strangeness that I thought there might be almost no parallel in the world.

The corpse was neither placed in a coffin nor interred in a jar. They laid two sticks horizontally side by side and set them vertically, then placed two smaller sticks crosswise over them, binding them in a net-like fashion. After spreading a mat over this structure and placing the corpse atop it, they carried it off with only a fragment of white cloth covering the body. Even when conducting a funeral procession, one could not simply hold it tomorrow because someone had died today. In some cases it could be held immediately, but usually it took three or four days.

This is because even when conducting funerals, there are auspicious and inauspicious days; after carefully determining the appropriate day, one must consult a lama about which funeral method to choose and how to dispose of the corpse. This was because the lama would meticulously consult religious texts, recite specific sutras, and issue detailed instructions—such as designating an auspicious day and hour to send off the corpse for water burial, or alternatively ordering cremation, earth burial, or sky burial—all of which had to be strictly followed. In Tibet, what they call "bird burial" is termed "wind burial" in Buddhist terminology; Tibetans consider feeding corpses to vultures (chagoé) to be the most esteemed burial method. Next came cremation and water burial, while the worst was earth burial.

Earth burial was not practiced for deaths from ordinary illnesses. Tibetans greatly disliked earth burial; they performed it only when someone died of smallpox. This was forbidden because giving corpses to birds risked infecting them, while casting bodies into rivers risked spreading contagion to others—hence it was not permitted. Cremation was considered relatively favorable, but given the scarcity of firewood—and since they could hardly burn corpses with yak dung—it was only performed for people of considerable high status. Water burials were generally conducted along large rivers. They did not simply throw corpses into the river as they were. They would sever the head, hands, and feet of the corpse, cutting them all away before casting them into the river. By doing so, the remains would neither lodge on sandbanks over there nor cliffs here, while also making it easier for fish to consume them.

As for what is called sky burial—interring in the heavens by offering corpses to birds—I shall now describe this based on my own observations. When consulting lamas about these four burial methods, they would issue instructions suited to each individual's station. The reason for these four methods lies in Indian philosophy's teaching that the human body consists of four elements: earth, fire, water, and wind. Thus there exist four paths of return—to earth through burial in the ground; to water through river interment; to fire through cremation; and to wind through being devoured by birds, as this explanation holds. Generally speaking, all monks were given to the birds. However, exceptions were made for the Dharma King, the Second Dharma King, and revered incarnate lamas—ordinary monks alone were consigned to avian consumption.

The funeral I attended this time was also a sky burial. Departing from Sera University and heading east, I reached the riverbank. Following that riverside northward along the mountain’s edge for two or three chō, there stood by the same riverside—amidst the mountains—a large, flat natural rock measuring some six or seven ken in height. The flat area measured fifteen or sixteen tsubo in size. This was indeed the graveyard. On the surrounding mountain peaks and rocky crags around it perched many large monk vultures with terrifying eyes, waiting for human corpses to arrive. First they removed the cloth fragment from the corpse and placed it on the rock. When the monks on this side began beating drums, ringing bells, and reciting sutras, a man appeared holding a large sword.

Preparation of the corpse: First, they cut open the abdomen of the deceased. Then they removed the intestines completely. Then they cut off the head, both hands, and both legs in succession. Once all parts were separated, the many people handling the corpse—among whom were monks—began processing it. When they finished separating the flesh from flesh and bone from bone, the monk vultures perched on mountain peaks or rocky crags gradually descended lower and gathered near the burial ground. First, when they began distributing the thigh meat and other choice cuts, a great number of vultures all came swooping down.

They had left a small portion of the meat. As for how they fed the bones to the vultures—they brought a large stone and smashed them with tremendous force, pounding repeatedly with heavy thuds. The crushing locations were strictly designated. On the rock were about ten holes where crowds of people pounded bones, skulls, and brains together into fine fragments. Upon these they sprinkled roasted barley flour, haphazardly kneading the mixture into dumpling-like lumps to feed the birds. The vultures devoured them voraciously, leaving behind nothing but strands of hair.

They dissected the corpse.

Descendants of Cannibal Tribes — Now, the scraps of cloth and other items used to cover the corpse were taken by the monks. The person in charge was a layperson, with monks assisting in the work. Crushing the bones took considerable time, so during that interval they had to eat roasted barley flour. Moreover, since Tibetans were a people who drank tea incessantly, they brought along a great quantity of it. Yet though their hands were smeared with corpse flesh, bone fragments, and brains, they remained utterly unfazed. When the moment came to say, “Now drink your tea and eat your roasted barley flour,” the layperson in charge or assisting monks would drink without washing their hands—merely clapping them briskly to shake off debris. With those same soiled hands still clinging with brain matter and meat scraps, they would immediately grab roasted barley flour, drop it into their bowls, and knead it with those very hands.

Thus, the flesh and brains of the corpse clinging to their hands would mingle with the roasted barley flour, yet they ate it utterly unfazed. I could not help but be astonished. Deeming their methods both excessively cruel and unsanitary, I said, “Instead of doing such unclean things, why not wash your hands once?” To this they retorted, “How could someone as faint-hearted as you fulfill a monk’s duties?” “In truth, this is the proper way,” “If you eat like this without shunning filth, Buddha himself will rejoice greatly,” they said, wholly unperturbed. Indeed, Tibet was once a land where Rakshasa demons dwelled—a nation of man-eaters—and though its current people are said to be their descendants, I was truly astounded to witness humans who lived up to this demonic lineage without shame.

Chapter 87: The Mysterious Wonder Drug

Funerals of the Dharma King and High-Ranking Lamas — When the funeral concluded and they returned home, their families were still reciting sutras throughout the proceedings. They would prepare meat porridge or egg dumplings and serve an elaborate feast. For monks, these were presented without alcohol, while laypeople invariably added liquor when serving such dishes. I shall now describe how burials were conducted for figures like the Dharma King, the Second Dharma King, and high incarnate lamas upon their passing. When an esteemed lama died, practitioners prepared a large box filled with Tibetan natural marsh salt and laid the corpse atop it. They then packed every surrounding space tightly with more salt. As they performed these tasks—packing salt around the body—others blew reed pipes and flutes, beat drums, and chanted pious sutras in a display that seemed profoundly reverent.

The box containing the corpse was placed within the hall, where it typically remained for about three months. During this period, they performed rituals akin to making offerings to a living person, while disciples—without pause, day or night—chanted sutras in groups of three or four. Before the coffin they placed a Tibetan-style pure gold lampstand bearing butter lamps, flowers when in season, seven silver water vessels containing what was called *arka*—water for ritual purification—along with numerous other offerings. All who came to pay their respects added one ritual offering cloth and a few coins to these tributes. After three months or a hundred days had passed, all moisture in the corpse was absorbed by the salt, leaving the remains completely desiccated. This salt, unlike Japanese salt, contained a considerable amount of soda and similar substances.

As for what other components were present, I cannot say since I did not conduct a chemical analysis, but it certainly contained soda. When they removed the corpse from within, it had become completely rigid, like something carved from wood, with the abdomen fully sunken, eyes hollowed out, and not a drop of moisture remaining. They then took out the corpse, kneaded together good-quality mud and powdered sandalwood, and applied this mixture to the emaciated body; blended within this mixture was some foreign medicine from beyond Tibet. With that, they first restored the face precisely to its former appearance, then shaped the body into a splendid wooden figure. After applying gold leaf and completing it properly, they enshrined it as an image. Next, they erected a separate seven-treasure tower within the hall. At the center front of this tower, they constructed a shrine-like structure into which they placed the current...

They enshrined the corpse statue. Halls constructed in this manner existed five at Shigatse's Tashi Lhunpo Monastery at that time, their roofs all emitting a golden radiance. The so-called gold-plated roofs resembled China’s double-layered palace-style roofs. Of course, the decoration, the size of the halls, and the ornamentation of the towers—whether gold or silver—also differed according to the lama’s rank. This statue was enshrined in perpetuity; when the people went there to worship, the monks too went to pay their respects. Thus, a certain Chinese person once laughingly remarked: “Tibetans detest earth burials—they mourn as if descending to hell when someone is interred—yet isn’t their most exalted Dharma King or so-called Second Dharma King still subjected to earth burial? “They neither feed the corpse to birds nor bury it in water.” “They properly salt-preserve it and then coat the dried corpse with mud, so it’s still an earth burial after all.” That was rather an amusing observation. And as for the salt that had been placed inside the coffin,

This salt was considered exceedingly precious, and ordinary people could not easily obtain even a small amount of it. Even when offering money, it would rarely circulate their way. Those with connections could generally acquire it—the salt was distributed chiefly among nobles and high-ranking monastic officials. Even the most prominent patrons or major merchants with special ties could obtain only a limited quantity. The reason for its preciousness lay in having absorbed the lama’s sacred fluid—or so they claimed—which rendered it invaluable. They said this salt also functioned as medicine; when one caught a cold or fell ill, drinking it dissolved in hot water would purportedly effect an immediate cure—a most peculiar remedy indeed. Speaking of such medicines, I suddenly recalled—Tibet possessed...

There existed strange and bizarre medicines. I believed that anyone who learned the true nature of these remedies—save for Tibetans—would find themselves unable to ingest them. The excrement of high-ranking lamas such as the Tibetan Dharma King or the Second Dharma King was never discarded. Nor did they ever discard their urine. Both excrement and urine were considered great necessities of the world. The excrement was dried, mixed with various medicinal powders, then kneaded with the urine of the Dharma King or high-ranking lamas to form pills. These were coated with gold leaf or painted red for medicinal use, leading them to bestow upon this concoction the peculiar name *Tsa Chen Norbu* (Jewel).

It was absolutely not put on sale. By no means was it even easy to obtain. First， one had to have good connections and pay a great deal of money to finally acquire it; even when obtained， Tibetans would take just one dose when gravely ill or on their deathbed. If they recovered， they praised its efficacy， and even if they died from it， Tibetans were satisfied， declaring， “This is truly a blessed occurrence.” “In any case， since they died after drinking the Jewel， that person will surely reach paradise，” they said， regarding it as an honor.

Truly, these were utterly bizarre customs, and through such practices could one come to understand just how deeply steeped in filth the Tibetan people were.

However, the fact that such materials composed the Jewel remained almost entirely unknown to the general populace. They knew only that this medicine was an exceedingly sacred substance crafted by the Dharma King through secret rites. As for the true nature of this drug, it was understood solely by those acquainted with Tibetan affairs—officials or monastic dignitaries who frequented the Dharma King’s palace, or others who had heard whispers from such individuals.

In early November, I returned to Lhasa and took up residence once more in the former Finance Minister’s villa—during that period, even the current Finance Minister had some leisure time. This gentleman was the nephew of this household’s nun and, as I mentioned earlier, an extremely mild-mannered man of few words. Yet even amidst my busyness, whenever I returned home, conversations would always commence among us four—the former Finance Minister, the nun, myself, and one other. At times, I would visit the current minister’s quarters to converse. During these discussions, talk once turned to a British female missionary—allow me now to briefly recount that story.

Chapter 88: Tibetan Explorers

Regarding the female missionary—during one discussion, the current Finance Minister remarked: “The British are truly peculiar. Why do they so persistently want to look into my country’s affairs?” “It’s utterly baffling.” “Regarding this—it happened eight or nine years ago,” he began by saying, “a British woman came all the way to Nakchuka, at the border between Chinese territory and the Dharma King’s domain, with two servants in tow aiming to enter our country.” The woman was a British missionary named Miss Taylor who had come from the Chinese regions via the north with the aim of crossing Lhasa to reach Darjeeling. Though the Minister did not know Miss Taylor’s name, I had heard of this intrepid woman since my time in Darjeeling and had become acquainted with the man who served as her guide there through a chance meeting.

Thus, though I knew the entire story down to its last detail, I could not let it show on my face and instead listened as though hearing a novel tale. The Minister continued: “When that woman reached Nakchuka, she was detained by the locals. “Fortunately, since their tribal chief was a man of profound compassion, she escaped being killed by the natives—though they did send word from that region to consult our government about what should be done.” “At that time, the government resolved to dispatch me and two of my retainers to that territory.” “Though we had some thirty others handling luggage and horses, in essence there were three principal figures—with myself as the one in charge.” “Upon arriving there and making inquiries, I found the matter utterly baffling at first.” “The woman spoke Tibetan, but not the Lhasa dialect—this made comprehension exceedingly difficult.” “Yet by stilling my mind and listening with full attention, I gradually came to grasp her meaning.”

“According to what she said,” he continued, “she had truly come to learn about Buddhism’s sacred teachings and wished to visit Lhasa’s holy sites before proceeding to Darjeeling—thus she earnestly pleaded for permission.” “Moreover,” he added, “she produced a permit from His Majesty the Chinese Emperor and demanded entry at all costs. While I could sympathize with her plight and might have wished to grant it, I had received orders from the Dharma King’s government and thus could not possibly permit it.” “Should you enter,” I warned her, “you would face hardships severe enough to get yourself killed.” “Naturally,” I clarified, “we would offer no protection.” “You may enter if you accept those terms—but rather than invite unnecessary international complications through such recklessness, my orders were to firmly persuade you to turn back. Therefore, entry remains impossible.” “I regret this,” I told her gently, “but you must return from here.” Yet she refused to yield, pressing her demands with increasing urgency. “This persisted not merely a day or two—she hounded me for four or five days.”

“Since there’s no other way,” I said, “are you truly resolved to enter the interior only to meet your death? You cannot possibly survive intact.” “Knowing this, isn’t it senseless to force your way in?” “Rather than that, I shall grant you adequate protection to return along your original path. If you insist on entering regardless, that will be entirely at your discretion,” I concluded decisively. The woman retorted, “But is your nation not subordinate to the Chinese Emperor?” “In that case,” she pressed with logical rigor, “shouldn’t those bearing the Chinese Emperor’s edicts necessarily be granted passage here?” “Of course our country falls under the Chinese Emperor’s jurisdiction,” I replied, “but we do not receive commands from him in all matters.” “Especially regarding this isolationist policy,” I asserted, “even were the Chinese Emperor to dispatch troops demanding foreign admission, we would absolutely refuse entry—this being our nation’s declared principle. Moreover, since those servants are Tibetans, we must take them into custody and administer due punishment.”

“When it comes to this isolationist policy,” he asserted, “even if the Chinese Emperor were to send troops demanding that foreigners be admitted, we would absolutely refuse entry—this is our nation’s declared principle. Moreover, since those servants are Tibetans, we must take them into custody and administer appropriate punishment.” “However,” he continued, “I explained that if they were to return later, it did not necessarily mean they would face punishment, and gradually persuaded them over half a month until they finally agreed to turn back. But as they had encountered bandits along the way and lost their belongings—leaving them in considerable distress—I decided to provide them with appropriate gifts before sending them back.” Having recounted the full account of the matter, he then asked, “Why do you suppose foreigners come here so eagerly wanting to see?” To this I responded, “Well, I cannot say I understand that myself, but haven’t foreigners been coming to this country since ancient times?” When I posed this question, the current Finance Minister—who was remarkably well-informed on the matter—began his reply: “From about six hundred years ago...”

Foreign explorers of Tibet—if we consider this from our perspective—in 1328, a monk from Pordenone named Odoric first entered Tibet with the aim of spreading Catholicism, though he never achieved this objective. "In other words," he continued, "Tibet had many monks performing various strange miracles akin to those of Jesus Christ described in the Bible." He recorded all these matters and brought them back, but since making such things public would have compromised Christianity, he burned that report—thus none of the accounts survived. Yet there are scholars who argue as follows:

Odoric did enter this secret land, but there are those who posit that he burned his manuscript because he disliked transmitting to posterity the errors contained in his account of that secret country’s conditions. Most people believe only in that theory and remain unaware that his report was burned precisely because Tibet’s actual conditions at the time—with miracles even more abundant than those of Christianity—rendered its contents too dangerous to preserve. Therefore, after that period, while the Roman Catholic Papal government vigorously proselytized in China, they ultimately determined that Tibet lay beyond the reach of Catholic influence and reportedly decided against conducting missionary work there. Then, in 1661, Gribé and Dolbüll—I believe they were Frenchmen—though it seems these two brothers did not reach Lhasa itself, apparently entered somewhere in its vicinity.

Among Europeans, there was only one person who entered from India, passed through Lhasa in Tibet, and exited to China. “That would be a man named Van de Putte.” “Then, during the time when Warren Hastings served as Governor of India, he sought to establish trade between India and Tibet and dispatched an envoy named George Bogle to Tibet in 1774.” “He was essentially an envoy, accompanied by his wife.” “He could not enter Lhasa but went as far as Shigatse, the second city, where he remained.” “There exists a diary from his time in Shigatse, and that book remains preserved to this day.”

“After that man returned, in 1781 Warren Hastings again dispatched an envoy named Captain Turner. That man stayed for two years before returning to India, and from that time onward, trade between India and Tibet began to flourish. However, after Warren Hastings resigned as Governor of India and returned to Britain, this too fizzled out like a dying flame, until trade and travel had dwindled to almost nothing.”

Now during that period, Christian missionaries—though they did not reach as far as Lhasa in Tibet—entered its surrounding regions and strove to propagate Christianity while undermining Buddhism, which led the Tibetan government to become considerably vigilant. "In 1871, a Russian colonel named Przhevalsky entered from the eastern Kham region and advanced to within five hundred miles of Lhasa before being driven back. Presumably, this was because he had only traveled through Chinese-controlled Tibet and was stopped upon reaching the borders of the Dharma King’s domain." However, that man appeared to be quite a determined operator, for he seems to have attempted entry again—this time from the north. At that time, he reportedly advanced to within one hundred seventy miles of Lhasa before being halted once more. This time as well, when approaching from the north, he reached precisely the border between Chinese territory and the Dharma King’s domain but was unable to enter within the latter’s jurisdiction.

“In 1879, a British man named Captain Kil attempted to enter Tibet from Tatsanglu but was likewise driven back upon reaching Bari-tan—the border between Chinese territory and the Dharma King’s domain.” “Venerable Nōkai Kan of our country also reached that point but was ultimately turned back.” “Regarding this matter, my close friend—the current Finance Minister—recounted how two monks from a country called Japan had come and entered as far as Bari-tan. However, since their status as monks couldn’t be verified conclusively, they were driven back from there.” Therefore, in 1881 and 1882, an Indian—namely my teacher—

“Sarat Chandra Das obtained a permit through skillful means from the Tibetan government to enter Tibet. In 1881, he reached Shigatse, the second city, where he stayed for about two months before returning. When this was reported to the British government, they decided he should make another journey in 1882. That time too he secured a permit, arriving near Shigatse before proceeding to Lhasa. He proved exceptionally cautious, rarely venturing outside during daylight hours. Even when compelled to go out, he took meticulous care to avoid being seen or seeing others—ordinarily remaining secluded in a temple chamber devoted entirely to his research.”

“I have heard that this gentleman remained in Lhasa for approximately twenty days. Afterward, it is said he conducted investigations here and there—completing all inquiries within less than a year between departing Darjeeling and returning. As I mentioned earlier, following a major treason case in Tibet where every checkpoint, village, and household that had lodged Master Sarat during his passage had their properties confiscated, and those deemed most culpable were executed—as previously recounted—the nation of Tibet thereafter became a fully isolationist state.”

Chapter 89: The Cause of Isolationism

“Explorers’ Failures: Subsequently in 1888, Rockhill—a secretary of the United States legation stationed in Beijing—likewise attempted entry but failed utterly.” “After that came numerous attempts by Christian missionaries—all ending in similar failure.” “In any case,” he continued, “the number of exploration attempts during that period—those I can personally confirm—reaches twenty-five or twenty-six individuals.” “If we include unverified cases, there might be forty or fifty. But as for confirmed instances, they align with what I’ve stated. Yet among accounts published in Japanese magazines and newspapers thus far, one finds remarkably peculiar errors.” “Since these writers know nothing of Tibet, they compose books through haphazard conjecture—hence such mistakes proliferate.”

As one example, let us consider Chōmā—the man who first compiled a Tibetan-English comparative dictionary. He resided for over ten years in Ladakh, a British territory situated along Tibet’s northwestern border. There, by studying Tibetan under a Lama in Ladakh and receiving his explanations, he managed to compile a dictionary for the first time—albeit an imperfect one. Yet precisely because he found it unbearable—this frustration of trying to scratch an itch through one’s boots without firsthand experience of Tibet’s interior—he conceived the idea to enter the heartland. However, as the route from Ladakh into Tibet’s interior remained firmly closed, he found himself utterly unable to proceed. Thinking that perhaps he might gain entry if approaching from Darjeeling, he journeyed there at that time. Alas, he fell victim to the miasmic fever lurking in Darjeeling’s nearby woods and ultimately perished. This occurred around 1840, and indeed, this gentleman’s grave remains preserved in Darjeeling’s vicinity.

However, certain newspaper or magazine journalists claim that this person entered Lhasa in Tibet, studied the Tibetan language, and compiled a dictionary. Furthermore, after that, a man named Yesky also did not go to Tibet but similarly used Chōmā’s dictionary as a foundation to compile another complete dictionary. This man too never actually went to Tibet, yet there are numerous writings by some people claiming he certainly did visit or even stayed in Lhasa for an extended period. “It’s not just Japanese newspaper and magazine reporters who can be blamed for this.” “It appears that many such falsehoods have circulated even in the West as well, and one often encounters numerous instances of these erroneous matters being recorded in the works of unreliable scholars from time to time.”

In this manner, numerous individuals attempted to infiltrate Tibet, with border surveillance by British and Russian agents occurring frequently. This deeply embittered the Tibetan people. Even without such provocations—being mountain dwellers inherently prone to suspicion—their wariness only intensified further. Though Tibetans had been naturally disposed to treat foreigners hospitably, Chinese political strategists warned them: "If you permit outsiders into your realm, Buddhism will be destroyed and Christianity propagated—you must remain vigilant! You must seal your borders without exception!" The sincere Tibetans took these admonitions to heart and vigorously promoted isolationism. Yet twenty-two years prior—that is, until Master Sarat Chandra Das successfully infiltrated and returned to India—this isolation had not yet hardened into absolute seclusion. However, after Master Sarat's return made these incursions known,

The entire populace had become like police officers or detectives, making Tibet’s entry something Europeans had to practically abandon all hope of achieving. Not only do Europeans generally differ in complexion, eye shape, and even hair color, but they also arrive in large groups with numerous companions and camels—so they are immediately driven back. Indeed, even Hedin attempted several times to breach Tibet’s northern border during my stay in Lhasa, but he was always intercepted and ultimately forced to retreat.

“Given that so many people are eyeing Tibet in this manner,” they wondered, “why on earth do foreigners want to know about this country?” “Government officials also harbored suspicions along the lines of ‘They must surely want to seize this country—isn’t that so?’” “The common people claim the British desire Tibet because of its numerous gold mines—that they covet this land solely for such prospects.” “In my opinion,” I said, “Britain does not harbor such petty intentions.” “For if Russia were to descend upon Tibet and use it as a base against India,” I continued, “India’s peace would clearly become untenable. Thus we imagined Britain’s keen attention stemmed from strategic consideration of this threat.”

The current Finance Minister's account proved most engaging. "To have our country seized would indeed be a national disgrace," he continued, "but for our religion to be destroyed would constitute an unspeakable humiliation for Tibet—this we must prevent at all costs." "If foreigners were to learn of this internal discord—of factions within our government harboring mutual animosities—they might immediately launch an invasion." "Therefore," he concluded, "we must skillfully bar those foreigners' entry to keep such matters concealed." "In former times," he reflected, "Tibet's Dharma King government had indeed promoted isolationism for purely religious reasons." "But what we now term—"

Due to this shift toward political isolationism—where isolation was now encouraged for strategic reasons as well—no foreigner had entered Tibet’s interior since Master Sarat Chandra Das’s incident came to light. Now, regarding the arrival of my teacher Master Sarat Chandra Das, the current Finance Minister gradually spoke about various matters: “After that incident, our country was truly roused from its slumber.” “Vigilance toward foreigners had been greatly heightened,” he remarked. Though there were various other matters discussed with the Minister at that time—as only what remains in my memory now are those things mentioned—I shall set aside that account here.

At that time, I walked around Lhasa’s Lingkor (circumambulation path) together with the former Finance Minister. Lingkor, as documented in Lhasa’s city plans, forms the outermost circuit encircling Lhasa. This sacred path measures approximately three ri (twelve kilometers). Completing one full circuit was considered equivalent to having circumambulated all Buddhas and Dharma treasures—the sutra repositories—within Lhasa itself, thereby accumulating immense spiritual merit. The methods of circumambulation varied: some walked the entire path without pause, others bowed once with each step taken, while still others progressed by bowing once every three steps.

The former Finance Minister, one attendant, and I—three of us—set out to stroll leisurely around this circumambulation path. As we circled while conversing half in enjoyment, though His Excellency moved at a measured pace, I found myself having to walk considerably faster just to keep up. That made sense. Because the Minister was exceptionally large, I had to take one and a half steps to match each single step of his. The Minister maintained his leisurely conversational gait, but since I had to hurry so much, it was rather trying.

Chapter 90: City of Filth

A wall of yak horns—beside that path, precisely on the eastern side of Lhasa—stood an oddly tall wall. This towering structure had been constructed by stacking yak horns so numerous they could number in the millions, with sections stretching approximately one hundred meters in some places and over fifty meters in others. There were also portions extending about two hundred meters. Thus, the horns could easily amount to tens of millions in total. Within the enclosure formed by this horn-studded wall lay a slaughtering ground for yaks, and it was with the horns from these slaughtered animals that the wall itself had been built. I stood truly astonished before this structure. Of course, I had seen it before, but that day—being particularly at leisure with my mind unoccupied—I observed such details with fresh clarity.

When I remarked to the Minister, "The scale of yak slaughter here appears quite extensive," he replied, "How pitiful they are," as we walked on. After some time, we reached the gate of that high wall. Peering inside, we saw about thirty yaks tethered for slaughter. At the far end, one was tied up and appeared ready to be killed imminently. However, in Lhasa, whenever they slaughtered animals, there was no practice of placing sutra books upon their heads to let them hear auspicious teachings. For those who slaughtered yaks and sheep in Lhasa were not Buddhists. They were Chinese Hui Muslims. They were all butchers. Therefore, those Hui Muslims did not administer Buddhist last rites to the yaks and immediately beheaded them. The large companion yak watched the scene of slaughter with terrified eyes.

After standing and gazing at their pitiful state for a while, the Minister remarked that seeing such a sight made one unable to eat meat. Indeed, eating meat seemed to be a grave sin, but we ordinary mortals were such fools that when we returned home and found no meat upon our dining tables, nothing would go down our throats. Because we ate while casting aside this pitiful reality, we must indeed be descendants of rakshasa demons—so we confessed in penitent discussion. The number of yaks, sheep, and goats slaughtered in Lhasa was indeed very large, as I had mentioned earlier. As for that circumambulation path, road maintenance had been provided by the government. Given that there were people who went out of their way to prostrate themselves by pressing their foreheads to the ground in worship, the road was quite well-maintained. There had been no need to walk with particular care to avoid stumbling. However, the deplorable state of Lhasa’s city streets defied description. In areas of uneven terrain, deep ditches had been dug through the middle of the town.

The ditches served as cesspools for excrement and urine—into these ditches, all the women of Lhasa and all travelers would discharge their waste, resulting in human feces lining up in rows along the edges. The stench was beyond description. Well, in winter the stench wasn’t quite so severe, but come summer, it became truly unbearable. When rain fell, human feces melted and flowed into the muddy streets, resulting in such a degree of stench and filth that the very sight induced vomiting. The name "Lhasa" itself means "Land of the Gods," derived from the notion that it was an exceedingly pure land where Buddhas, Bodhisattvas, and protective deities—the so-called guardians—resided, thus earning it this appellation. Yet when beholding its filth, one could only perceive it precisely as Pandita Atisha had described—a city of dung-eating hungry ghosts. It was truly filthy.

I had often heard of China’s filth, but I imagined there could be no place as foul as this—where one walked through excrement-filled fields as if they were the grand thoroughfares of a capital city. Of course, Lhasa had many dung-eating dogs, but even they could not possibly consume it all. Dogs would gladly eat fresh feces but refused old ones. Thus, the old ones inevitably remained in great quantities. Beside paths teeming with excrement stood wells from which people drew water to drink—one might think nothing could be worse for public health, yet it did not seem to cause as much harm as one would expect.

This was certainly harmful, but the climate of Lhasa was truly excellent. The winters were quite cold, yet more manageable than those in Hokkaido. At night it dropped below freezing, but during the day remained between forty or fifty degrees Fahrenheit. In summer, it never exceeded eighty degrees. Thus among all places I had traveled or heard described, its climate stood foremost. I supposed that even in this filthy city—with its people steeped in squalor and humans perpetually caked in grime—they did not fall ill so readily. These reflections came to me during walks along the circumambulation path or through Lhasa's streets in the Minister's company. Here I would like to briefly

Statue of Je Tsongkhapa, founder of the sect

I wished to explain Tibetan Buddhism. Since that country's government was founded upon Buddhism, one could not properly elucidate governmental matters without first explaining Buddhism. As diplomatic matters could not be explained without addressing governmental affairs first, I decided to follow this sequence and begin by providing an overview of Tibetan Buddhism. Of course, without discussing the intricate details in specialized terms, I could not fully cover the subject.

Tibetan Buddhism is broadly divided into two types. They are the Old Sect and the New Sect. The Old Sect is commonly known as the Red Hat Sect, while the New Sect is called the Yellow Hat Sect. Within the Old Sect itself exist further divisions bearing various names. These include Sakya, Karma Kagyu, Drukpa, and Zhungpa among many others—though their doctrines remain largely consistent. As their methods of attaining Buddhahood also show fundamental agreement, these are collectively referred to as the Old Sect.

The founder of the Old Sect, Lotus-Born—the very first person who established this was an Indian named Lobon Pema Chunné. This man, hailing from the land called Baluchistan, was said to have emerged from a lotus in the Danakosh pond within the royal court of Urken—a kingdom of old—and thus bore the name Pema Chunné [Lotus-Born]. However, his biography consisted almost entirely of suspiciously imaginative accounts, with very few graspable facts. There were far more dubious elements than ancient myths, and the chronology of those histories and biographies was utterly chaotic. Therefore, the truth remained unknown. Yet this person, despite being a monk, had vigorously practiced meat-eating, marriage, alcohol consumption, and other such things. He did not merely practice these things vigorously. He skillfully connected his own hedonism to Buddhist doctrine, interpreting it in such a way that monks must keep women, eat meat, drink alcohol, dance, and sing as the supreme secret method—the sole means to attain Buddhahood. It was taught that this very method constituted the profoundly deep and subtle means through which one could achieve Buddhahood and liberation on the spot, even in this evil age of the Five Degenerations.

Chapter 91: The Old Sect and the New Sect As for their explanation that fulfilling carnal desires was necessary—declaring "great desire is great Bodhi-nature"—they asserted that the greatest desire among humans was the pursuit of female beauty. It was through loving carnal desires that one reached the essence of non-self and attained great Bodhi-nature. They further taught that people inherently desired to eat meat. By eating this meat, one caused the spirit of that animal to be guided toward one’s own Bodhi, then dispatched it so the consumed animal might attain its Bodhi—this too being declared the path of compassion. Alcohol was proclaimed a means to obtain pleasure. By receiving that pleasure and mutually harmonizing with one another, their peaceful coexistence in this world became precisely what manifested true wisdom. That is to say, they claimed that by drinking alcohol, eating meat, and indulging in carnal desires while practicing meditation, one could immediately attain Buddhahood in this very body.

Regarding these detailed matters, there was not only the risk of harming public morals but also many things too obscene to disclose to the general public. In any case, they were methodically aligning Buddhism's noble tenets with objects of worldly desires, applying various contrived explanations. In Japan as well, long ago within the Shingon sect, a school called Tachikawa-ryū had arisen, combining Onmyōdō with secret rituals to propagate similar doctrines that greatly corrupted society. It appeared these practices had once been quite prevalent in certain regions of Japan too, though given how few of their sutras and treatises survived today, their exact nature remained unclear. Still, I thought it unlikely they had ever reached the scale seen in Tibet.

In Tibet, those teachings transmitted from India were practiced very widely, and even now a great many of their sutras still existed. A considerable number of Sanskrit sutras—composed in India in the Brahmic language—along with translated texts already existed in Tibet as well. Then regarding those teachings, the lamas subsequently devised doctrines of their own fancy—teachings that instead corrupted Buddhism—and proliferated them throughout the world under Buddhism’s name. It would not be an overstatement to say that even now, half of Tibetan Buddhism was filled with those sutras.

Among the scriptures I had already brought back existed numerous secret texts considered most reliable and trusted by this sect. This was merely something I examined in secret—so obscene that making it public would prove nearly impossible. Such doctrinal teachings had been practiced in ancient Tibet and remained quite prevalent until about five hundred years ago. By then those teachings had become utterly corrupt, plunging even Tibet—a land accustomed to disordered ethics—into such irredeemable degradation that nothing could be done. Thus arose the New Sect.

The foundation of the New Sect originated with Pandita Atisha from India. Later emerged Je Tsongkhapa in Amdo—a region within Chinese-administered northern Tibet. Born in a house nestled among Zonka’s onion fields, he rose to purge Tibetan Buddhism’s corruption, thereby earning the honorific “Je” (Venerable/Saintly) and becoming known as Je Tsongkhapa. Having fully grasped the Old Sect’s depravities, he asserted that monks must be grounded entirely in precepts—that without precepts, none may bear the name of monk. Among these precepts, he deemed the prohibition against sexual misconduct most vital.

If a monk kept a woman, he was undoubtedly a layperson—or rather, a demon who brought about the destruction of the Dharma. This was conclusively determined and implemented by he himself. Thus, the majority of secret teachings were addressed through exoteric sutras and treatises, establishing that all monks must receive pure precepts. Yet when these precepts needed to be received, Tibet still lacked qualified teachers to confer them. By what force then did this movement arise? It was through those of strong, sincere devotion—through multitudes gathering—that what might be called the seedlings of the New Sect gradually took form. The raising of their banner occurred at Ganden Monastery, located fourteen or fifteen ri (approximately fifty-five to fifty-nine kilometers) from Lhasa. However, not a single school of Tibetan Buddhism had ever been established solely upon exoteric sutras and treatises. The New Sect too adopted secret teachings.

The statue of Lobon Pema Chunné, founder of the Old Sect

However, their secret teachings had adopted those of the so-called Orthodox Sect, but the Old Sect's secret teachings belonged to the Heterodox Sect—doctrines that utterly destroyed true Buddhism. In the secret teachings of the Orthodox Sect, there were almost no Buddhas or deities depicted in male-female union. Yet in Tibet, whenever one spoke of secret Buddhist teachings, there were invariably Buddha forms depicted in male-female union. Among the secret paintings I had brought back, there existed many such images—so many that they could not easily be shown to others.

However, initially, even after smashing all the revered statues of the Old Sect’s secret Buddhism that pervaded such a society, it seems they could not gain acceptance merely by declaring them not to be true Buddhism. It was then that Je Tsongkhapa, founder of the New Sect, skillfully reinterpreted these doctrines and rendered them into abstract forms.

Men represented skillful means; women represented wisdom. Generally speaking, "man" signified skillful means and "woman" signified wisdom. The union of skillful means and wisdom gave rise to a Buddha. It was interpreted that this by no means implied Buddhahood could be attained through engaging in carnal desires. Furthermore, meat merely symbolized compassion—it did not mean one should eat it. They taught that one should practice compassion. Nor did it mean one should drink alcohol as something that disrupted this tangible spirit. Alcohol was framed as symbolizing inherent wisdom—merely urging practitioners to apply this self-nature’s wisdom diligently each day—and in this manner, all teachings were explained to align with true Buddhist doctrine. Thus they appropriated the Heterodox Sect’s iconography wholesale for Orthodox Sect interpretations.

Therefore, in terms of its true essence, it certainly represented Orthodox Buddhism; yet since it still employed Heterodox Sect iconography on the surface, it struck one as rather peculiar. However, this might have been unavoidable for that era. While this did not amount to a comprehensive overview of the two sects, Buddhism contained many matters difficult to grasp without specialized study. I shall therefore conclude here and now speak of Tibet’s most extraordinary religious phenomenon: incarnations. Now, what exactly was meant by "incarnation"?

The term “incarnation” means that its essence is a Buddha or Bodhisattva whose true form remains formless and invisible to sentient beings. By manifesting a physical body endowed with these virtues, they are temporarily born into this world to deliver all living beings. That is to say, it is called an “incarnation” from the meaning of a form that has transformed into this world provisionally. In Tibet, however, it is not only Buddhas and Bodhisattvas who incarnate—there exists a belief that even minor lamas, upon death, will be reborn to work for the world’s sake. Regarding these incarnations, those of the past differ considerably from those of the present. As for ancient ones, they remain only in historical records; since I have not personally observed them, I cannot guarantee their veracity. Setting aside older matters accepted as reliable in Tibet’s history, I shall discuss incarnations that arose in the medieval period.

The 92nd Selection of the Dharma King

The Dharma King’s Government’s Divine Oracle System — About four hundred years ago, there was a man named Gendun Drup. Gendun Drup was a disciple of Je Tsongkhapa, founder of the New Sect, but when nearing death, he reportedly declared, “I myself shall next be reborn in such-and-such a place.” However, a child born at that designated location began insisting he wanted to return to his temple not long after birth.

When asked which temple [he meant], they reportedly answered, "Tashi Lhunpo Monastery." Thus concluding he must be Gendun Drup's reincarnation—since the testament aligned with the child's words—they brought him to be raised. As he matured, he became the Second Dharma King. With his passing, the Third and Fourth incarnations continued with high certainty. Yet when examining records of the Fifth and Sixth incarnations, extremely dubious events emerge. These suspicious occurrences essentially formed the modern rules for certifying incarnations. The Fifth Dharma King Ngawang Gyatso (Yanlihai), though belonging to the New Sect, deeply studied the Old Sect and integrated its interpretations into New Sect doctrine. During his reign, employing divine oracles became profoundly fashionable. At this time, four official oracles of the Dharma King's government were established—all temples enshrining deities yet staffed not by priests but monks. Their names were Nechung first, Samye second, Ramo third, and Gatong fourth. The institutionalization of these oracles during this period originated precisely under this Dharma King's rule, marking...

This was because it became necessary to unify religious and political governance. Up until this Dharma King, they had been what might be called purely religious Dharma Kings who did not engage in politics whatsoever. This was because they possessed no domain through which to exercise political authority. However, from Mongolia emerged a king named Shri Gomi Tenjung Chögyal, who subjugated all the kings scattered among Tibet's various tribes. According to calculations from that period, there were said to be thirteen tribes of ten thousand households each, amounting to a total of 130,000 households. Yet even now, as if the population had not increased at all since those days, Tibet's household count—proverbially known as Poe Chikor Chusum—is said to remain at 130,000 households. This figure likely refers only to Tibet under the Dharma King's domain as surveyed during that time.

Now, although this Mongol king had subjugated all regions of Tibet, he did not assume the title of king himself, instead surrendering his authority to the Dharma King. The Fifth Dharma King received that authority and, from that time on, established the unification of religious and political governance. Therefore, in Tibet, it has been less than three hundred years since this unification was instituted. Now, when an incarnation did not declare on its own—as was done in former times—statements like “I was reborn from such-and-such a place” or “When I die this time, I shall be reborn in such-and-such a location,” how was this determined? According to Tibetan belief, once forty-nine days had passed since the death of a revered lama, it became fixed that their soul would be reborn somewhere. After some time had passed, they would go to inquire where [the lama] had been reborn. The place they went to inquire was what was called the house of the divine oracle. When asked, the divine oracle summoned the deity and proclaimed.

The method of summoning deities differed considerably from that of Japanese Inari shrines. It was truly a bizarre method—one might have thought madness had suddenly taken hold. First, regardless of purpose, when someone went to consult the divine oracle, about four monks would beat drums while another four struck gongs and cymbals and chanted sutras; during this cacophony, the deity would descend. The officiating monk wore an enormous hat. From its rear hung a long cloth strip reaching his feet—a magnificent five-colored silk. They used gold brocade or figured satin for these adornments. His robe resembled Japanese monastic vestments—gaudy yellow or red damask embroidered with floral patterns. The sash's knotted ends dangled absurdly long, creating an uncanny yet splendid spectacle.

When the divine oracle, thus prepared, closed his eyes and crouched motionlessly in a half-standing position, those beside him fervently chanted sutras. Then, gradually, he began to tremble, and as the trembling grew increasingly violent, he might suddenly collapse backward or else rise up abruptly. This varied depending on the deity’s disposition, it was said. Collapsing backward while trembling violently, he would declare such matters as: the lama had been reborn in such-and-such a place; the orientation of houses in that region faced which cardinal direction, with only a married couple residing there; or how many members inhabited a household where a child born on such-and-such a month and day was the reincarnation of a lama who had died some time ago. However, when they stealthily went to investigate there, strangely enough, a child had indeed been born exactly as described.

However, they left the child with its mother at that household until weaning, then brought it back to the temple to provide special education that strengthened its self-belief. That is: "In my previous life, I was such-and-such a splendid lama." They conditioned the child to fully embody the mindset of "Since I am the reincarnation of such an eminent person, I will never be mocked by others!" In this state of robust self-confidence, those around them respectfully provided thorough education as they proceeded. Even if one was an incarnation of the Dharma King, there were times when their buttocks were struck if they did not apply themselves diligently to their studies. Some monks defended this by claiming such things never occurred, but that was a lie—in truth, they still suffered considerably harsh treatment during their studies.

In any case, starting from the Fifth Dharma King, this divine oracle system emerged, and it became customary to consult this oracle regarding all matters. Whether facing international disputes or unprecedented domestic incidents—even when they struggled to reach judgments internally, or when logically sound decisions still left them hesitating over which course to take—they would consult the divine oracle. This applied even to seemingly straightforward matters requiring no deliberation. After the deity descended, sending the oracle into a frenzied state where he raved like a madman foaming at the mouth, they would heed his pronouncements and act accordingly. As I have mentioned before, the Dharma King’s government had four deities that protected it. They were Nechung, Ramo, Samye, and Gatong. Among these, the most influential was Nechung.

Now, to explain how they determined where the Dharma King would be reborn after his passing: the Dharma King’s government would issue orders to those four temples within a year of his death, commanding them to come and properly ascertain his rebirth location. Upon this directive, the divine oracle monks from these four temples all emerged. Then, after these four divine oracles invoked through prayer the deities they customarily worshipped and each declared where the Dharma King had been reborn this time—since their respective deities differed—there were instances where their statements diverged significantly. At times, about two might agree while the other two diverged. There usually ended up being about three candidates. In such cases, how did they determine the next Dharma King?

Chapter 93: Children’s Selection Searching for Names in the Jar — When investigating with utmost secrecy the candidates said to be incarnations born as the Dharma King’s successors, they would obtain three or four children. However, until those children reached about five years of age, the government would not afford them significant protection. They also took care not to neglect them. When a child reached about five years of age, they were finally welcomed to Lhasa’s government. The procedure required the attendance of the Qing Dynasty’s Imperial Resident Commissioner in Tibet and the Acting Dharma King—who governed politics after the Dharma King’s passing—alongside the Prime Minister; ministers of Finance, Army, Palace, and Religious Affairs; and their vice-ministers, all of whom gathered for this purpose.

As for the clergy, even the most senior high-ranking monks all attended as witnesses. First, they wrote the names of the children—three names if there were three children, four if there were four—and placed them into a golden urn-shaped vessel. They properly sealed it, then held grand prayers and chanted sutras for seven days. In other words, they held this grand prayer assembly with the intention of obtaining the true incarnation from within this urn. When the prayers concluded, the aforementioned high-ranking officials gathered as witnesses. After thoroughly inspecting the sealed urn, breaking its seal, and opening the lid, the Imperial Resident Commissioner of Tibet—holding ivory chopsticks—covered his eyes, plunged them into the urn, and extracted one name alone. Whose name had been picked—the child whose name matched would become the Dharma King.

While this method seemed to leave little room for abuses in practice, according to what I heard from Ma Quan—secretary to the Imperial Resident Commissioner—there were indeed instances of considerable abuses. For if their child were to become the Dharma King, they reasoned, not only could they receive a dukedom from the Chinese government as royal kin of the Dharma King, but also amass great wealth—thereby attaining perfect worldly happiness. Thus, there were apparently those who zealously worked to achieve this end through lavish bribes. Thus, they first lavished gold upon the Imperial Resident Commissioner, then also bestowed abundant bribes upon Tibetan high-ranking monk officials. Thus, it appeared there were indeed instances where methods had been established to ensure that only the children of those who had received bribes would be selected. It could not necessarily be substantiated. However, I often heard stories that such things did indeed occur.

As for determining the Dharma King’s incarnation, as I had described above, it was quite difficult. However, when it came to those high-ranking lamas below him, there were also some troublesome aspects. Yet most of these so-called divine oracles were truly wicked scoundrels whose greed in taking bribes was outrageous. Therefore, the divine oracle monks possessed tremendous wealth. Indeed,

Nechung of the Dharma King’s government were likely considered the wealthiest institution in all of Tibet. Therefore, most incarnations of high-ranking lamas tended to be children of nobles, wealthy families, or major merchant clans. Isn't that strange? Given that incarnations of lamas almost never dwelled in the children of the poor—to the extent that nearly nine out of ten such incarnations emerged from wealthy and noble households—there had undoubtedly been some manipulation occurring in the process. This was evident even from superficial observation, but in reality, utterly bizarre practices were being conducted, and I had frequently heard many disturbing accounts.

First, even before their own child was born, they would go to the divine oracle’s place and give bribes in advance. Then they would have someone arrange for that child to be admitted to a good temple somewhere by claiming he was the incarnation of a certain lama. Since good temples possessed abundant assets, by applying in this manner, their child would become entitled to inherit that temple’s wealth from the moment of birth. From a strictly commercial standpoint, you could argue that even spending a great deal on bribes would hardly be considered a loss. That was why there were those who lavished large sums of money. This was something I had frequently witnessed and heard firsthand; it was by no means mere conjecture based on superficial observation. Therefore, it was already abundantly clear that these incarnations were unworthy of belief. As for matters of old, I cannot say, but the present incarnations were not true incarnations.

I once declared them incarnations of bribery. Yet since they instilled confidence and rigorously educated those children after all, eight out of ten so-called incarnate lamas turned out passably competent. About two became utter failures. Their educational method required both teachers and attendants to use honorifics when addressing the child recognized as an incarnation. For example—even if the boy did something trivial—they never rebuked him outright. Instead they’d say: “You’re an incarnation! How can you indulge in such behavior?” thus prompting self-reflection... This led me to ponder: I became convinced that any teaching method which wantonly calls children “idiots” or “blockheads,” or derides their poor memory and judgment until confidence withers—such methods unquestionably stunt a child’s growth.

The idea that it was necessary to educate children in such a way as to instill in them the notion that they could fully progress by building their confidence—this was something I conceived during my time in Tibet.

The Tibetans knew nothing of such matters. Moreover, such acts as bribery were conducted solely among the wealthy and noble, while ordinary people remained entirely unaware of them. It was truly foolish—even when the government flip-flopped its policies, the general populace stayed almost entirely ignorant. Among the common people circulated tales—how children born into aristocratic families would declare from birth, “I am such-and-such lama from such-and-such place,” or how attendants brought two objects to the child, one genuine and one counterfeit from the previous lama’s possessions, asked “Which is yours?,” and when the child carefully discerned between them—“This is real, that is false”—it supposedly proved he was undoubtedly an incarnation. Such stories prevailed in lay society.

This superstition was practiced throughout Tibet, but when one delved 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 a certain noble family, there were instances where the oracle—while under that family’s protection—engaged in such acts through flattery without necessarily receiving special bribes. There were still a few more things I wished to discuss regarding these divine oracles.

Ministerial Blunders and Divine Oracles — When, for example, a minister within the government committed an error in his duties, the astute ministers immediately recognized this and took tens of thousands of yen—or sometimes less depending on the severity of the offense, though generally no less than a thousand yen—to Nechung, the government’s protective deity, to make their plea. Before long, the true nature of the minister’s error came to light, and when the matter escalated into an internal government issue—whether to reprimand him or impose severe punishment—they promptly summoned Nechung, invoked the deity, and consulted on whether it would be proper to punish this man.

The divine oracle Nechung, cornered by a major problem, resorted to deception and collapsed. Then, if Nechung had received a large sum of money at that time, they would say: "Do not punish them at all. Excessive punishment would affect the nation’s fate—it would be better to just issue a reprimand." "He was originally a good man, but this time he erred unintentionally—it would be best to show him mercy," they would declare. Conversely, even if one performed any good deed, should it displease Nechung, they would immediately invoke a deity before the Dharma King and twist that good deed into an evil one, subjecting the person to reprimands or punishments. Thus, within the Tibetan government, while officials feared the Dharma King, they feared Nechung—the divine oracle—even more. It would hardly be an exaggeration to say that the Tibetan government’s authority lay entirely at Nechung’s mercy. That said, as the current Dharma King was an exceptionally decisive man, while there were instances where he refused to heed Nechung’s counsel, he generally acquiesced to their words so as not to defy long-established customs.

Chapter 94: Education and Ethnicity Nechung could clearly determine right and wrong in such minor matters, but when confronted with major national crises—such as diplomatic quandaries where no solution seemed possible—this very Nechung divine oracle became truly absurd. First, clad in garments and a hat so radiant they seemed to emit light, the oracle would stand before the Dharma King, ministers, and high-ranking monk officials to pray—whereupon the deity would descend. At the moment of descent, if they inquired by saying, “Given that we now find ourselves on the brink of war with the British government for such reasons, what should we do?”, the deity would say nothing but instead tremble violently, leap up, and collapse with a thud, feigning unconsciousness. Then those nearby would exclaim, “Oh no, this is terrible! “This is because we asked something disrespectful to the deity, making them angry so they’ve fled!” Thus, whenever the most difficult problems arose, Nechung would simply claim that the deity had run away—and that sufficed without further explanation. It was truly so preposterous I could scarcely endure it.

Even among conscientious scholars and monks who discern right from wrong, there were those who secretly abhorred the oracle's detestable conduct and deeds harmful to society and nation—they would rage vehemently, declaring, "He is a demon! He guards not Buddhist teachings but destroys them!" However, when it came to the Dharma King, there had been numerous instances where he emerged not from wealthy families but from poverty and low status. Thus, one could not categorically state that even the Dharma King or Second Dharma King could be determined through the oracle's influence. Indeed, even the current Dharma King had been born into a truly poor family.

The Second Dharma King likewise came from humble origins—his mother was a mute woman, and his father’s identity remained entirely unclear. There were various theories: that a hermit had lain with the mute woman, or that a monk had done so—each positing a different scenario. According to one credible scholar’s account, there had been a scholar called Metok Kesang (“Chrysanthemum Flower”) among those at Sera Temple where I resided. This man had practiced the Buddhist teachings of what was called the Old Sect until finally succumbing to madness and drifting away into the countryside. It was during that period that he sired a child with the mute woman’s daughter. Indeed, it was said that the Second Dharma King’s face bore striking resemblance to Metok Kesang’s. However, this theory found no acceptance among the general populace; being merely the claim of a scholar acquaintance of mine at Sera University, its truth remained difficult to verify. Let us leave the matter of divine oracles here.

Here,

I would now provide a brief explanation regarding schools and education. In Tibet, education was not very widespread. However, in Shigatse—the second capital—fairly basic education such as writing, counting, and reading materials was conducted; but outside of monasteries, children of ordinary people were hardly educated at all. Therefore there were naturally few schools. The only school-like institutions were one at the Dharma King’s Palace in Lhasa and Tashi Lhunpo Monastery in Shigatse. All others resembled private tutoring establishments, and monastic schools were where education was most widely conducted.

Children of common people could not pursue education beyond elementary level unless they became monks. Ordinary people could not enter government schools. Beneath these ordinary people existed what was called the Lowest Class. The Lowest Class consisted of four groups: fishermen, ferrymen, blacksmiths, and butchers. As for why blacksmiths were included in the Lowest Class, this custom was also found in India. Since blacksmiths forged the swords and cleavers that butchers used to kill animals, they too were deemed guilty and thus placed among the Lowest Class.

These two groups—common people and the Lowest Class—could not enter government schools. Members of the Lowest Class were not even permitted to become monks. Yet some would travel to distant regions, concealing their status as members of the Lowest Class to take monastic vows—though in their hometowns, where everyone knew their background, they were never allowed to join the clergy. In this regard, commoners could become monks and thus held a considerably higher position. Now then, one might ask—what ethnic groups could enter government schools? Well,

Types of Nobility: First was what was called the Gelwa nobility. Second came Ngakba (Mantra Clan), third Pönbo (Old Teaching Clan), and fourth Shego (Ancient Noble Clan). The First Nobility consisted of descendants of ancient ministers or generals, among whom was included those called Yabshi—the Dharma King's lineage. This Dharma King lineage was not particularly numerous. It referred solely to relatives connected to kings across thirteen generations from antiquity—all being ducal houses. Among ducal houses existed two types: the Dharma King's lineage and the royal lineage. What I had just described was the Dharma King's lineage; the royal lineage traced from Tibet's first king Nyachi Tetsan through Songtsen Gampo—the great king who introduced Buddhism to Tibet—and had continued through hereditary succession to that day.

The legitimate successor was called Lhakhangri, and even today that house remains splendidly preserved—though it holds no political power. Their rank nevertheless permits them to occupy seats equal to the Dharma King's. As for those called Yabshi of the Dharma King's lineage, these consist solely of surviving ducal houses related to previous Dharma Kings; whenever capable individuals emerge from such houses, they typically become Prime Ministers or ministers overseeing departments like the Army or Finance. Even without attaining such positions, they perpetually retain appointed official duties. However, while Yabshi primarily refers to those connected with Lhasa's Dharma King, Tashi Lhunpo Monastery's Second Dharma King also has Yabshi affiliates—though these lack comparable influence to their Lhasa counterparts.

While it would have been appropriate to refer to these two as the royal lineage, they were nevertheless categorized within the Nobility because there existed many similar groups outside that would otherwise have caused confusion. Among these similar nobility groups existed one called Debon Chekā (Great General Clan). This was the lineage of those who, since ancient times during periods of great wars, had achieved remarkable military feats and rescued the nation from crises. They were treated with great favor. Furthermore, they were treated far more favorably than the Nobility one tier below them. Moreover, even the children of such houses had come to be addressed by people with honorific titles such as "Your Highness."

The last category comprised the ordinary Nobility—those from families of great lineage since ancient times, or descendants of ministers who had performed meritorious deeds for the nation. Among these Nobility, when someone possessing talent surpassing the ordinary emerged and worked sufficiently for the nation, such a person could certainly become Prime Minister. If one today were endowed with a talent for skillfully wielding bribes rather than governing ability, it was not impossible for such a person to attain 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 not much questioned. For even if one possessed talent, it tended to become more of a hindrance than anything. When a single competent person existed among a multitude of fools, they became nothing but a hindrance—for whenever such a competent person emerged, they would inevitably be envied and cast out by others. In other words, those prevailing at the time were the people who had purchased government positions with bribes and occupied many key posts in the government. These three were collectively referred to as the Nobility.

The Second Ngakba (Mantra Clan) consisted of those whose ancestral lama had been an extraordinary figure who performed various miraculous deeds. This lama took a wife and fathered children. However, in transmitting these wonders, they disclosed them to none outside their lineage, passing down their family's unique traits exclusively to their own descendants. Thanks to this practice, they still occupied essential positions in the state even today. As I mentioned earlier, they held authority to collect hail taxes and serve as summer magistrates, while receiving reverence from both rural and urban populations as secret adepts.

This was because Tibetans generally believed that if one incurred their displeasure, they would perform heinous secret curse rituals and thereby cause harm; thus, they were held in great reverence. As I had mentioned before, since the Mantra Clan operated in this manner, a great deal of money flowed in. They received many offerings from people and collected substantial taxes like the hail levy; by ordinary standards, they ought to have been exceedingly wealthy—yet there were many impoverished individuals among them. When speaking of the Ngakba in Tibet, they were thought to be confined to poverty; yet when speaking of the Ngakba, the general populace believed they had to be respected above all others regardless of wealth. Even members of the Nobility, upon seeing a Ngakba who looked like a beggar, would dismount from their horses to pay respects.

Chapter 95: Nobility and the Lowest Class

The Pönbo Clan: Third is Pönbo. This was an ancient teaching transmitted since before Buddhism entered Tibet, whose priests still took wives. Their descendants formed what was called the Old Teaching Clan, who likewise worshipped local deities and performed rituals to prevent those deities from punishing the people through anger or other misfortunes. However, in all marriage ceremonies, people relied on this Pönbo clan to worship the village deity. Additionally, the Pönbo clan made their living by conducting prayers or curses upon request. Yet in extremely remote areas like the Himalayan village of Torubo, all thirty households of an entire settlement belonged to the Pönbo clan. Such places were exceptions, but in villages or regions with only one Pönbo member, that individual was respected as the chief administrative and judicial authority of the locality. Even those who held no official position, performed no prayers, and engaged in other occupations were still highly revered for maintaining proper lineage.

Therefore, while Pönbo had once been a religion, by this time it was merely that the clan members themselves represented the Pönbo doctrine, with no teaching of its tenets to outsiders or explanation of its principles. They merely remained that the descendants of Pönbo passed down their teachings to successive generations. Those engaged in secular work among the Pönbo were not lamas. The lamas, like Buddhist monks, shaved their heads and wore monastic robes, occupying the highest position within their clan. In short, those called Pönbo were respected not only for their lineage but also received the social respect befitting their position as monks when they possessed appropriate scholarly merit and became clergy. Fourth was Shego. That is,

As for the Ancient Noble Clan (Shego), this clan, as its name suggests, consisted of descendants of ancient wealthy landowners or prosperous merchants and still held considerable property and land, wielding power in the regions. The people of such mountainous countries were highly conservative, so they preserved their property as it had been since ancient times. Particularly as they focused solely on maintaining their property through the custom of polyandry, wealthy families from ancient times remained wealthy families to this day. However, even then there were rare cases where some had lost their property and land, becoming empty shells of what were called wealthy families; yet they still received the same social respect as members of the Shego (Ancient Noble Clan).

In Tibet, even if the lower classes—commoners or the lowest class—acquired as much wealth and social influence as possible, they could never act arrogantly toward the impoverished members of the Ancient Noble Clan. It was much like how, in the past, even the wealthiest merchants and artisans in Kyoto could not act arrogantly toward the court nobles. Commoners are called Tomuba. Within Tomuba, there exist two: Tomuba and Tomzü.

Tomuba referred to lineages that had held ordinary property and land since ancient times without becoming slaves to others, while Tomzü—that is, lower commoners—referred to the descendants of those who, under the commoners, had engaged in nearly servile labor. However, they were not entirely slaves. They were akin to extremely bad tenant farmers. In ancient times, they had maintained a relationship entirely of landlords and tenant farmers. Yet it could not be said that all remained like that now. There were those of Tomuba lineage who had fallen into poverty worse than the lower commoners, or those of Tomzü lineage who possessed extensive land and wealth far surpassing commoners. However, these were not the most common cases and might well be considered exceptions. Generally, commoners were greater and lower commoners lesser.

Class and Treatment: No matter how much wealth or land those of lower commoner lineage acquired, and even if commoners fell into poverty, their lineage and class were never disrupted. Therefore, society clearly differentiated in its treatment of these two groups, never allowing commoners and lower commoners to share meals together. Moreover, marriage between them was absolutely forbidden. The lowest class, as I had mentioned earlier, consisted of four groups—ferrymen, fishermen, blacksmiths, and butchers—and among these, ferrymen and fishermen held a slightly higher status. They were by no means like blacksmiths or butchers.

Blacksmiths and butchers were absolutely never allowed to eat or drink in the same room as other commoners. Although ferrymen and fishermen could not share eating utensils, they could sit together in the same room to eat and drink. They were limited to eating their own food from their own bowls. These four lowest classes were absolutely unable to marry members of other clans. If a child from a clan of commoners or higher engaged in unsanctioned unions with someone from these lowest classes, that child of the superior class had no choice but to be stripped of status and reduced to the lowest class. Furthermore, they were not permitted to return to their parents' home. Even if those children repented their mistake and divorced members of the lowest class, they could never return to their former superior class. The most absurd case was that of children born between members of the lowest class and commoners who became husband and wife. They were called Teku-Ta-Riru in society. Teku-Ta-Riru referred to

In the sense of being a "mixed black-and-white rope clan," they were given this name and existed as those considered even worse than the lowest class. Thus, even if blacksmiths or butchers among this lowest class amassed money, quit their trades, and took up agriculture or commerce, they would forever remain as the lowest class and could never be accepted into ordinary social interactions. However, when someone from another superior caste possessed skill in blacksmithing techniques and willingly engaged in blacksmithing, since it was not due to tainted lineage but solely their technical proficiency, they were called Riku-Sō (craftsman). Within the hierarchy of hereditary class, by law or custom, the superior classes held special rights over the inferior classes. For example, if a child of the Nobility and a child of the Commoners engaged in an argument or fight, and if the commoner’s child—in the heat of anger—used equal or derogatory terms instead of respectful language toward the noble’s child, then regardless of the right or wrong of the matter in dispute, under the law, the commoner’s children would invariably be deemed at fault.

Moreover, even the children of wealthy Commoners had to bow in respect to those of the Ngakpa or Pönbo clans—classes one rank above their own—under any circumstances. When seated together, even a Ngakpa of the poorest means still had to yield the proper seat to their clan. When speaking, they were always required to use honorific language. Of course, since marriages and such matters were all kept separate according to their differing classes, their character, appearance, nature, and manners naturally came to differ as well. Therefore, as this country’s proverb says,

As the saying went—"Social standing was discerned by manners; urban and rural folk were distinguished by their speech"—so too did the Nobility possess uniquely dignified appearances, their every mannerism refined and composed. Many among them deeply disciplined themselves, thinking, "As we are of the Nobility, we must not commit shameful acts." While other groups such as the Shingon Clans, Old Sect Clans, and Ancient Noble Clans were not as splendid as the Nobility, compared to Commoners they possessed a degree of nobility, and even we could generally discern at a glance that their nature was not base. The fact that these people were not Commoners but of the superior class could be discerned even from their manner of wearing clothes.

Commoners had base appearances and qualities such as their demeanor, but their nature was somewhat honest and not prone to theft. Commoners, no matter how impoverished they became—even if they turned to begging—were still trusted by society at large based solely on the fact that they generally did not steal. Among the Lowest Class, criminals who committed serious crimes such as robbery and murder were the most numerous. It could rightly be called a den of serious crimes. Furthermore, many beggars also belonged to this class. Moreover, within this class there existed those known as the beggar clan. For those who had continued begging for generations were called the beggar clan; thus, even if there were good people among this Lowest Class, society did not trust them. Their appearance alone made it immediately clear they belonged to the Lowest Class. Cruelty, harshness, baseness, and filthiness—their nature also mirrored their appearance.

They strike children, considering it a sound educational method.

The purpose of education: As I had mentioned before, the government permitted the upper classes to enroll in schools. The subjects taught in those schools were three: memorization, penmanship, and arithmetic. The first was memorization and the second was penmanship; in terms of time allocation, the greatest amount was spent on penmanship. As for arithmetic, they were taught methods of calculation using small stones, wood chips, or shells, as I had explained earlier. As for what they memorized, it included portions of sutras, extremely simple—and highly incomplete—grammar books, and then they studied rhetoric. In Tibet, rhetoric was considered even more essential than grammar.

This was because they loved to embellish everything extravagantly, much like how Chinese people tend toward excessive description. Whether Tibetans had become overly influenced by the Chinese in this regard or whether it was simply their inherent nature remained unclear to me, but even in documents addressed to the Dharma King or those slightly superior in status, they would indiscriminately lavish elaborate honorifics. Thus rhetoric became necessary. They particularly delighted in inserting extremely convoluted and incomprehensible characters into their letters.

When it came to official petitions, they excelled at gathering such difficult characters that even sutras did not contain, taking great delight in crafting documents people could not comprehend. Moreover, this was precisely how they taught in their schools. Within rhetoric studies there existed essays so arduous they required a full day to compose—texts one could only decipher by laboriously consulting original treatises. Some were essentially written in cipher. Thus, since they considered mastery of characters incomprehensible to ordinary folk as education's ultimate aim, one truly had to call it a most peculiar pedagogical objective.

Chapter 96: Methods of Encouraging Education

Harsh Methods of Encouragement: Since they taught such difficult rhetoric, it proved quite unbearable for the children. Above all, memorization formed the core, and the texts to be memorized were themselves difficult. Therefore, they could not easily commit them to memory. The sole method of compelling memorization through what they called encouragement was thrashing, which they employed as the supreme and excellent method. The relationship between teacher and student became akin to that between a jailer and a prisoner; whenever students approached their teacher, they trembled violently, terrified of being beaten at any moment—a truly pitiable sight.

The Finance Minister with whom I was staying was a man quite conscientious in matters of education; however, the foremost method he employed in teaching the children of his own household remained thrashing. Therefore, whenever that child came before the Minister, they would tremble violently and always hesitate, wondering if they were about to be thrashed at any moment. The thrashing was always done with flat bamboo, striking the child’s left palm about thirty times with a whizzing sound. If they withdrew their hand, thirty strikes would become sixty; thus, no matter how excruciating the pain—even as they shrank and curled up—they had to wait trembling, hot tears streaming down, silently enduring until the thrashing concluded, as shown in the previous illustration. The pitifulness of it was truly unbearable to witness.

Since this was not educating but ruining the child, I once thoroughly explained to the Minister that proper educational methods should be thus and that thrashing was not advisable. At first, he argued vehemently, but being a reasonable man who understood the matter, he thereafter ceased thrashing the children and reportedly settled for giving them mild scoldings when they struggled to memorize. Afterward, I continued advising him to teach by developing their minds as much as possible. However, the Minister remarked that since ceasing the thrashing, they had actually begun memorizing better. However, this thrashing was not done by the Minister alone. Others were worse than the Minister. They would either deprive them of meals or bind them overnight, tormenting the children to the point where they could hardly endure it. Now, one might ask: Does Tibet educate its children without an ounce of compassion, relying solely on strict punishment? Yet this was not entirely the case—that is to say,

When it came to the relationship between monks and their disciples, matters grew truly extreme—they would cast aside those who failed to learn despite instruction, as if declaring them hopeless, yet simultaneously showered those same disciples with constant kisses in a display of excessive affection. Their dynamic resembled that of a woman utterly infatuated with her lover. Thus consumed by this affection, they proved wholly incapable of providing proper education. One approach erred through excessive strictness; the other through affection so overwhelming it precluded effective teaching. While education demands a middle path—bestowing compassion while upholding strict discipline—Tibetan education persisted solely in methods that either overreached or fell short.

Among those I observed, almost none had attained this middle path. Given that monastic education was already conducted in such a manner, the emergence of truly virtuous individuals remained exceedingly rare. Conscientious monks considered kissing their own disciples improper. That is to say, there existed those who—claiming it would corrupt the child—bestowed kisses upon others' disciples yet educated their own acolytes without such physical affection. Such acolytes gradually developed.

The memorization of sutras advances, but since the difficulty lay precisely in that memorization itself, it was no easy task for students. Generally, within a year, children who had turned fifteen or sixteen had to memorize three hundred or five hundred pages of sutras and take examinations on those texts. Moreover, this was never learned through books, but only meaninglessly memorized as transmitted orally by the lama. They had to take annual examinations on those meaninglessly memorized sutras covering three hundred to five hundred pages. Even at the lowest level, they had to memorize at least fifty pages. This was special treatment for those with exceptionally poor memories—making them memorize fifty pages every six months, totaling one hundred pages per year, before taking the examination.

From ages eighteen or nineteen up to twenty-five or twenty-six—even thirty—there were those who memorized five hundred pages, eight hundred pages, or in extreme cases, a thousand pages. How they managed such feats of memorization remained nearly incomprehensible to us. For our part, even memorizing fifty pages over six months was something we could barely manage. As noted earlier, Tibetan teachers upheld thrashing as the supreme educational method, but there existed other means of encouragement—they would rain down violent epithets like "beast," "pig," "beggar," "hungry ghost," "donkey," and "parent-devouring dog" upon their pupils. Having been educated through such coarse language, those children inevitably repeated these very abuses when grown—a truly wretched cycle. I now turn to commercial matters. On November 18, Meiji 34 [1901], as previously mentioned, I resolved to entrust correspondence to Tsarumba—a merchant acquaintance from Darjeeling—for delivery to both Darjeeling and my homeland.

This Tsarumba was going to Calcutta, India under government orders to purchase iron. As for what this iron is used for—it is to manufacture firearms. The manufacturing of these firearms takes place in Checholin, located across the Kichu River south of Lhasa, where to the east lies Jibu, the site of the firearms factory. This

The firearms manufacturing enterprise 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 Hācherin in Tibet who had lived in Darjeeling for a long time. He was a rather peculiar man who, under orders from the Tibetan government, brought about ten Muslims from India and Kashmir—individuals engaged in firearms manufacturing—to Tibet and had them teach the Tibetans the methods of producing firearms. Of those ten men, some died and others returned to their countries, so by the time I was there, only two remained. Nevertheless, the Tibetan blacksmiths had thoroughly learned how to manufacture those firearms and became capable of performing all that those men had taught them.

In Tibet, importing firearms from other countries was truly difficult. Especially, they could not import good-quality items from the Indian region. Up until then, they had only matchlock guns, but when these so-called new-style firearms became producible and proved quite effective, they sought to procure a great quantity of iron to ramp up production. Consequently, Tsarumba received government orders to take a substantial sum of money and purchase that iron. He privately informed me of this matter. Since he was fundamentally reliable, I promptly wrote letters and entrusted them to him. These letters were addressed to Mr. Sarat Chandra Das in Darjeeling, with correspondence destined for my hometown enclosed within.

The foreign country that Tibetans most frequently traveled to for trade in those days was British India, followed by China. Next came relations with Russia; however, trade with Russia had not developed significantly. There was hardly any need to mention this. Although political relations had increasingly come to the forefront by that time, commercial relations might as well have been said to be nonexistent.

I first wanted to discuss a bit about trade relations with British India and its neighboring country Nepal.

Chapter 97: Products of Tibet

**Principal Exports**: The main products exported to British India were wool, followed by musk, yak tails, pelts, and hides, with minor items being exported in small quantities. As for items such as sutras or Buddha statues, even when earnestly requested from India, since such items were confiscated if discovered en route, they were rarely exported. Other daily goods were also exported in small quantities, but even Chinese tea—which had previously come through Tibet to Indian regions—had by then almost entirely ceased to be exported. Thus, the state of other items could well be imagined. It might seem strange that tea was sent from China through Tibet to India, but this tea was not consumed by Indians but by Tibetans residing near Darjeeling. Although the quantity had been small, even this had stopped being exported by that time.

The wool bound for Kalimpong—a mountain town east of Darjeeling—amounted to between five thousand and six thousand mule-loads annually. Next, there were over fifteen hundred mule-loads bound for Bhutan. However, this might well have exceeded that amount, but as there were no proper statistics to speak of—merely having made inquiries with merchants about their export volumes—the true figure remained unknown. The amount exported to Nepal was approximately two thousand five hundred mule-loads, while that sent to Ladakh was also thought to be around three thousand mule-loads. As for those bound for China and those heading west of Lake Manasarovar, since these were regions I neither traveled through nor had made sufficient inquiries about, their quantities remained unclear.

As for musk deer, musk was indeed abundant in Tibet. There were said to be animals called musk cats with cat-like forms bearing fragrant glands, but those in Tibet were not such creatures—they were a type of deer. They subsisted on nothing but grass. Their size measured roughly two and a half to three times that of a cat. In shape, they resembled deer but stood less tall. They looked like adorable Japanese Chin puppies, with dark gray fur that lay crisp and feather-light. The sheer loveliness of their faces made one instantly recognize their endearing nature. Most strikingly, two beautifully curved fangs protruded from each jaw—both upper and lower. While some theories claimed musk originated at the navel, this was incorrect; the musk swelled behind the genital area—specifically, behind the testicles. Thus, females naturally lacked it.

It was said that killing them on the fifteenth day of the month yielded the greatest quantity of musk. While the amount naturally varied depending on the deer's size, the fifteenth day of the lunar month was considered the peak period when the musk reached full potency. At this time, their urine carried an intensely musky odor. From the sixteenth and seventeenth days onward, the secretion would gradually diminish as the month progressed. When the new month began, the musk would slowly replenish from the start until reaching full abundance again by the fifteenth day—a cycle precisely synchronized with the lunar phases. Thus, harvesters would try to collect it between the thirteenth and fifteenth days whenever possible. Though they typically shot the deer with firearms to obtain the musk, Tibet contained numerous sanctuaries where killing was strictly forbidden—ironically, these very areas teemed with musk deer.

In the mountains behind Sera University where I resided, there were indeed considerable numbers of them. However, this area strictly prohibited killing—so stringently that discharging a firearm there would endanger one's life—so nobody engaged in hunting there, yet they employed remarkably clever methods to capture them. They would set traps made from yak-tail cords in densely vegetated mountain areas. When a musk deer came to graze and became ensnared—writhing in distress and emitting cries—the trapper would approach and dispatch it. They captured them in great quantities through this method. This practice occurred not only within Tibet proper but also throughout the Himalayan ranges between Tibet and Nepal where they thrived in abundance. Nevertheless, Tibet itself harbored the largest populations. Within Tibet, the prime habitats were Kombo, Tsāri, and Roba regions; purchasing there proved exceptionally inexpensive due to their extraordinary abundance.

Well, it was almost one-tenth the price one would pay in Japan. The residents of Roba were utter barbarians—a tribe that covered only their private parts. They could not be definitively identified as either Tibetan or Indian, but judging by their language, they appeared closer to Tibetan. The musk brought by such people was devoid of any impurities; they brought particularly large, high-quality pieces in great quantities, yet the price remained remarkably low. As for what they took to trade, they carried small mirrors, crystal beads, pots, kettles, kitchen knives, roasted barley flour, Tibetan sweets, and extremely cheap Western toys—using such items to deceive them in exchange.

**The Trading Method** — To explain how the exchange worked: When the barbarians presented one lightweight piece of musk—as was customary among such tribes everywhere—we in turn first gave them something resembling a seruko bead. When they protested, "That’s not enough—give us more," and we then added about three or four crystal beads, they gladly agreed to the exchange. Therefore, buying from such places made it seem as though one were getting the musk for free, but reaching those places was perilous indeed. Even if one managed to successfully purchase that musk—having to pass through areas teeming with bandits—whether it could indeed be brought back to Lhasa remained uncertain; during this time, it was said that many merchants were killed by bandits. There were cases where one went to buy cheap goods only to have to forfeit their most valuable possession—their own life—so those who ventured there were exceedingly rare.

Export Destinations of Musk: As for where this musk was exported most in those days, more was being sent to India than to China. In earlier times, merchants from Yunnan would purchase great quantities of musk from Tibet, but as exports to India increased and prices became exorbitantly high, bringing it to Yunnan reportedly no longer yielded profits comparable to before. However, even then some portion was still exported, though not as extensively as in former times. It appeared that this musk had been imported into our country and elsewhere under the brand name "Yunnan Musk" from Yunnan. Among items exported to China, the most splendid was Shā-i-Takurā—namely,

It was the blood antler of the treasure deer. This blood antler was said in China to strengthen the body, prolong life, and improve facial complexion; thus, so-called Chinese elixirs were concocted using it, and large quantities were purchased from Tibet for this purpose. The prices were indeed high, and when it came to the very best blood antlers, their value became extraordinarily high. In Tibet, the price that Chinese buyers paid for a single antler amounted to around five hundred yen in Japanese gold coins. However, when it came to the very worst specimens，there were also those that fetched only two or three yen. The reason was that the worst specimens were not medicinal. They were nothing more than decoration. Distinguishing between the inferior and superior specimens was exceedingly difficult.

Most Tibetans would carry on noisily at the mere mention of "blood antlers," acting as if anything by that name must be exorbitantly priced—five hundred yen, even a thousand yen. Yet among professionals, it was nothing of the sort. No matter how large they were, those lacking medicinal value fetched pitifully low prices.

As for where the treasure deer are found in large numbers, they are most abundant in southeastern Tibet. They also exist in considerable numbers in the northwestern plains. Their size nearly reaches that of an exceptionally large horse. Their form is exactly like that of an ordinary deer, though they are far more corpulent than deer. Their fur has a slightly grayish-white tinge. It is said there are also those with different colorations.

Sprouting Antlers — What proved wondrous was that these blood antlers sprouted new buds every year starting from the first lunar month. The exterior of these fresh sprouts was entirely covered in furry skin while containing nothing but blood within—no bone whatsoever (a specimen of which remains among the author’s possessions). Each month the sprout grew until around March or April, when a single branch would emerge. Upon branching out, the lower section would gradually harden into bone-like material while the upper portion stayed wholly blood-filled. As this sprout steadily enlarged—producing successive branches—it would reach full maturity by approximately September. The largest treasure deer antlers measured about one jō and two shaku in length (roughly 3.6 meters). I personally witnessed such antlers being brought to Tenwadō pharmacy for sale; upon measuring them from base to tip, they matched precisely these dimensions—reputedly the largest specimens ever recorded.

The trunk’s circumference was about one shaku seven to eight sun (approximately 51-54 cm), meaning the blood solidified into bone-like antlers, yet the entire antler—from root to tip—remained completely wrapped in fur-covered skin. The antlers gradually took on a withered appearance from October through November, and by around mid-December, they snapped off cleanly at the base. Every year in this manner, the antlers formed only to wither and fall off, then sprouted anew once fallen—they were truly peculiar antlers. Therefore, the optimal season to harvest these blood antlers for medicinal use was around April or May. At that time, the local people skillfully shot them to death after timing it precisely. The bullet had to be aimed at the nape of the neck to kill it instantly; otherwise, they could not kill the animal in time.

Crushing the Blood Antlers to Death — For if the bullet struck elsewhere, while still breathing, the animal would either smash the blood antlers on its head against nearby rocks, scattering the precious blood, or rub them against the ground—in any case, it inevitably died having lost those antlers. Therefore, unless killed with considerable skill by the hunters, one could not obtain those blood antlers. Moreover, though treasure deer did not venture far during April and May to protect their blood antlers, the local people skillfully shot down these antlered deer. This creature, though of a most gentle nature, frequently met the misfortune of being shot dead due to possessing those precious antlers. I too sought the finest blood antlers, but since those I found had not grown very large, their price was somewhat low. However, as medicine they were said to be highly effective; I had a major merchant dealing in Tibetan blood antlers appraise them before purchasing, so they were indeed genuine.

**Chapter 98: Imports, Exports, and Commerce**

**Exports** — The types of goods exported to Nepal were wool, yak tails, salt, saltpeter, woolen cloth, and similar items. The goods exported to the northwestern China region and Mongolia region were mostly types of woolen cloth. The types were Numpu (a low-grade thick woolen cloth made from sheep's wool). Pūtsuku (a high-quality satin-like fabric made from sheep's wool). Chimma (medium-grade thick woolen cloth). Chinchī (medium-grade thin woolen cloth). Dēma (vertically woven woolen thin cloth). Konbocherī (swirled woolen cloth). Tsukutsuku (wool damask-like fabric), and others; among other exports to Mongolia, the largest portion consisted of religious texts.

Next, Buddhist statues, paintings, and ritual implements were also being exported. However, at that time, the Buddhist statues and paintings produced in Tibet lacked any real artistic merit. Those from the past had been far superior, but they appeared to have gradually declined; what passed for Buddhist paintings were barely more than templates in name only. When one visited Tibet’s splendid temples and saw new Buddhist paintings or statues, there were indeed a great many that proved truly repulsive. Even the most obscene Buddhas or deities said to protect the Buddhist teachings—such as Wisdom Kings and Vajra clans—were equally unsightly, as they too were depicted in sexual union.

During my time in Tibet, I came to consider four principal shortcomings of the Tibetan people. First was uncleanliness; second, superstition; third, unethical customs such as polyandry; fourth, unnatural art—these were what I perceived as their deficiencies. Though I searched earnestly for redeeming qualities to counterbalance these, I found little of merit. If pressed to name some virtues, they would be: first, the truly favorable climate around Lhasa or Shigatse; second, the resonant sutra chanting that proved genuinely pleasing to the ear; third, the vigorous method of dialectical debate; and fourth, the somewhat naturalistic quality of ancient art—these stood as the foremost examples. There were still other exports as well, but I will omit them.

Imports — The largest portion came from India. Of these, plain broadcloth was the most common. Namely, the seven colors—blue, yellow, red, white, black, purple, and green—were not sold in large quantities but were instead mostly used for decorations in the main halls of temples and such. The most sold and consequently most imported was black shrimp-colored broadcloth. However, higher-quality goods were not preferred. Only cheap goods were being imported. Then there were silk handkerchiefs, Burmese crepe, Benares brocade, thin silk, and cotton fabrics. Among these cotton fabrics, there were sail-like thick materials as well as thin ones.

The colors were predominantly white-based or pale yellow. Among these, plain black shrimp-colored wide cotton muslin with floral patterns sold particularly well, though striped varieties were also fairly common. Additionally, substantial quantities of Indian muslin printed with depictions of people, trees, and temples were imported. When purchasing these goods in India, buyers naturally used British imperial measurements, but when selling them in Lhasa, merchants would fold the fabric cuts into squares called *ka* in Tibetan. They priced and sold each *ka* unit accordingly. However, Tibetan woolen cloth sellers occasionally employed peculiar methods during transactions.

Peculiar Transactions — This referred to a method of buying and selling where one spread their hand to its fullest extent and set the price accordingly. Since the price was the same whether the person was large or small, when a large person went to buy, we benefited while the merchant incurred a loss. There was also a method where each unit of length from the elbow joint to the fingertip determined pricing. This too meant large people were at a disadvantage, and when people like us went to buy, we likewise suffered losses. When purchasing such goods, if one hired a large person and had them take measurements at the seller’s location, one gained a considerable advantage.

However, there were virtually no sellers who engaged in such practices when dealing with those who had come from India. Moreover, Tibetans quoted quite inflated prices. There was not a single shop in Lhasa that sold at fixed prices from the start. They were certain to quote inflated prices. At reputable shops, the markup was around ten or twenty percent, but at those below them, they might quote double or triple, or even five or six times the price for items without clear market value. And what was amusing were the *monlam* (wishes) made during the buying and selling of those goods.

*Monlam*: When selling an item, merchants would say, "As you purchase this, may you live free from illness and troubles, may your household prosper ever more, may you acquire many such goods, and may you ultimately build storehouses aplenty," as they handed over the merchandise. This was commonplace enough, but the *monlam* uttered when selling sutras proved even more remarkable. Since scriptures were typically sold to monks, sellers would reverently lift the book with both hands to their foreheads and fervently intone: "May you who acquire this sutra not only grasp its true meaning but act upon its righteous teachings; may your wisdom and virtue grow until you become all beings' great refuge; may this text evermore benefit sentient life." Upon hearing this declaration, customers would lick their grimy silver coin briefly, wipe it on their collar edge, scrutinize it thoroughly with apparent reluctance before surrendering it.

The meaning behind this practice was that they did not wish to transfer even the good fortune adhering to the coin to the merchant; thus they would siphon off that fortune by licking and wiping it clean, then hand over the empty shell of a coin stripped of its blessings. Of course, tea merchants engaged in large-scale trade did not bother with such laborious rituals, but ordinary people universally practiced this custom, which grew increasingly prevalent the farther one traveled into rural regions.

Imports from China — Among the many goods imported from China, silk fabrics were the most numerous. Among these, gold brocade, habutae silk, crepe silk, satin damask, shantung silk, twill brocade, rinzu silk, satin, momi silk, Chinese crepe silk, white-based thin silk, silk thread, silk braided cord, as well as silver ingots, medicinal herbs, and others were also imported in large quantities. Accounting for the majority of imports from China and representing the largest expenditure on imported goods in Tibet was tea. However, I was unable to calculate just how much of this tea was being imported into Tibet as a whole. It was thought that even just the amount that reached Lhasa alone would amount to approximately 250,000 yen. Of course, I could not know anything for certain.

The tea sold in Eastern Tibet—that is, half of Tibet—was thought to be even more abundant than that imported into Lhasa. This was because the eastern region had the largest population, leading me to believe there must have been considerably more. By nature, Tibetans were in such a state that even the poorest among them could not go a day without tea, forcing most to purchase it regularly; those who could not afford to buy tea received used leaves from wealthy individuals and boiled those dregs to drink. As for rectangular tea bricks—made by compressing two kin of tea into blocks measuring 1 shaku in length, 6 sun 5 bu in width, and 3 sun in thickness—the price we paid for one in Lhasa was 2 yen and 75 sen. This represented extremely low-grade coarse tea. Tea consisting solely of leaves without stems cost five yen, occasionally reaching as much as five yen and fifty sen. When transported to the northwestern plains, tea priced at two yen and seventy-five sen in Lhasa generally increased to about three yen and seventy-five sen. Next,

Imports from Bhutan and other regions included cloth made from wild silk, wide-width woolen fabrics, and various types of wide-width cotton cloth imported in considerable quantities from Bhutan or Sikkim. Additionally, from India, Kashmir, and Nepal came grains, dried grapes, dried peaches, dried jujubes, medicinal herbs, and gemstones such as diamonds, lapis lazuli, carved amber（𤥭琥）, agate（瑪瑙）, amber（琥珀）, and jade varieties—though coral beads and jade stones used to adorn hair buns accounted for the majority. High-quality specimens were revered more than diamonds. On the other hand, even a stone of superior quality the size of a little fingertip could cost as much as 1,200 yen. Very few top-grade diamonds reached Tibet. Even noble households merely used the best quality among ordinary ones.

Coral beads were imported in large quantities, though few were flawless like those from Japan—many appeared pitted as if insects had eaten them. Even so, Tibetans were fond of wearing them. The colors included red—the shade most disliked by Japanese women—and pale pink varieties that appointed officials used to adorn their hair buns. These were quite splendid pieces, with larger ones costing as much as 120 to 130 yen each. However, such high-quality specimens did not come from India but from China. The coral beads that came from India were all insect-pitted ones, along with many prayer beads made by cutting cheap branch coral into elongated pieces with rounded tips and stringing them together. The coral beads entering Tibet annually reached staggering quantities—though no specific budget accounted for this scale—with most arriving from Nepal and Calcutta.

In the lower classes, since coral beads were expensive, they bought many glass beads. These glass beads were used to make prayer beads of various colors, which were displayed at stalls in Lhasa, and people from the countryside would come to buy them in large quantities and take them home. Furthermore, counterfeit coral beads manufactured in Japan were also imported in great numbers. Initially, people had been quite deceived by these beads and spent considerable money on them, but now that so many had flooded in that they could be distinguished from genuine coral beads, people were no longer fooled, and their market price had fallen. However, it appeared they were still being sold at a substantial price, for merchants continued to come from Calcutta to purchase them.

Additionally, a great quantity of silver ingots, copper, iron, brass, and similar metals were imported from India, along with Western sundries and Japanese matches that also entered in large quantities. From an economic perspective, since imports were exceedingly abundant while exports remained scarce, one would expect Tibet to face difficulties due to a shortage of money; however, in reality, this was decidedly not the case.

Monks' merchant groups loaded goods onto yaks.

Tibet’s financial resources came largely from Mongolia. That money came more from Mongolians making offerings to lamas than from those merely coming to purchase goods. That large amount of money ultimately became Tibet’s own, and thus they had managed to sustain their finances to some extent up until then. Although Tibet strictly maintained its political isolationist policy, it could never close off commercial relations. If trade isolation had been suddenly implemented then, Tibet would have faced either great famine or civil war. For until that time, a great amount of gold imported from Mongolia had sustained Tibet’s finances and economy, but recently little gold was arriving from Mongolia. This flow had already decreased considerably since the First Sino-Japanese War, and after the Eight-Nation Alliance’s invasion of Beijing, it had almost entirely ceased.

Even Mongolian monks who were already studying in Tibet found themselves in dire straits, as the tuition funds that should have been sent from their homes failed to arrive, with many reaching such desperation that they had to temporarily suspend their studies. Consequently, while Mongolians of old had devoted themselves solely to scholarship and never engaged in secular occupations, they now found themselves reduced to the pitiable state of having to take up worldly work like Tibetan monks merely to secure food. Given these circumstances, it went without saying that the Mongolian gold which ought to have been flowing into Tibet had ceased entirely.

Moreover, as living standards gradually advanced, even nobles who had not lived extravagantly more than twenty years prior increasingly came to imitate foreign ways through trade with other countries, striving to maintain appearances and seek conveniences, which naturally led to greater monetary expenditures. However, without engaging in trade, they could not obtain money. Even that trade alone, conducted solely within the country, would never have sufficed. Given that one had to venture abroad to secure greater profits, slightly influential wealthy individuals and monks were increasingly setting out on trading expeditions to China, India, and Nepal.

**The Pros and Cons of Trade Isolation** — Therefore, were Tibet to suddenly implement trade isolation now—though these days most goods came from India rather than China—those supplies would cease entirely, first and foremost disrupting daily necessities. Even if they endured this hardship, they would lose all means to sell their country’s surplus wool. Be that as it may, their largest market remained British India. They traded with Kashmir as well, but that too fell under British rule. They could not possibly sever commercial ties with India.

If they were to use their surplus wool solely within their own country, prices would have likely declined again as they had before. If prices fell, the nomads could not obtain money. Already at this time, when food prices had risen across the board, if the most numerous group—the nomads—could not obtain money, the consequences were inevitable: famine would undoubtedly have occurred. Therefore, they absolutely could not sever trade relations with British India. Even if gold from Mongolia had continued to arrive in former quantities, they might still have managed despite significant trade restrictions; however, as previously stated, the prospect of this gold arriving had now almost entirely vanished. Thus to reiterate, Tibet itself could not possibly have implemented trade isolation. It remained confined solely to maintaining political isolation.

Given that the necessity of commerce had thus gradually arisen in Tibet, by that time it would have been fair to say that nearly all Tibetans—excluding only those with disabilities such as muteness, deafness, or blindness, or perhaps children—were essentially merchants. If one were to ask whether even farmers engaged in trade, they indeed did. In summer they worked as farmers, but in winter when there was nothing else to do, they went to buy salt at the northern marsh salt flats and then took that salt to sell in southern regions like Nepal, Bhutan, or Sikkim. As I had mentioned before, monks also engaged in business. Not only did they engage in business as individual monks, but a large monastery also conducted trade in its capacity as a monastery. At such times, they organized quite large caravans, with perhaps one hundred to two hundred horses accompanied by twenty to thirty people, loading as much cargo as the horses could carry before setting out on trading expeditions.

Since the government itself also engaged in trade, its caravans often headed toward Beijing or Calcutta. However, the people belonging to these caravans never stated that they were government merchants. That is to say, while presenting themselves as individual merchants, these government merchants wielded immense influence within Tibet, requisitioning horses everywhere and collecting provisions from various regions as they set out on their trading ventures. Therefore, it stood to reason that the government’s business yielded greater profits than ordinary merchants.

The nobility also engaged in trade. Some sent caravans to foreign countries, while others subsisted entirely on what came up from their own domains without engaging in trade at all. However, even among these people, if one were to say they did not engage in buying and selling at all, they still did. In Tibet as a whole, there existed a rather peculiar custom: when we visited a noble’s house and saw something unusual that we desired, we bluntly asked, "How much is this?" "Well, this item costs such-and-such." "Then, would you sell this to me?" To which they responded, "No—if the price is settled, I might not refuse to sell." "Then how much would you lower it?" “No, that won’t do,” and after some back-and-forth haggling settled the price, they would calmly sell the very items displayed in their own home.

The person who asked harbored no thought of having embarrassed them. "I cannot sell this—it's something my household needs," came the reply. They responded with an unfazed tone of "Oh, I see," as if such exchanges were perfectly ordinary. Since this was how matters stood in every household, even young apprentices engaged in trade. When they went to Lhasa and found some peculiar Western trinkets to purchase, they would bring these items back to the temple, either deceiving other young apprentices into buying them or exchanging them for different goods.

In this way, everyone engaged in trade. The only ones who did not engage in trade were what might be called disabled individuals. Their trade was not conducted honestly; as mentioned before, they often engaged in overpricing and deceiving people. It seemed that the general populace of Tibet had been cultivated into an exceedingly cunning disposition. Although it might have been that true Buddhism was not flourishing in the uncivilized regions, leading to such circumstances, after all, a disposition that one could not live comfortably without engaging in trade had become widespread among the general populace of Tibet.

Chapter 99: Currency and Woodblocks

The currency consisted solely of silver coins; transactions were conducted through either barter or silver coin payments. In Tibet, there existed only one type of silver coin worth *24 sen*, rendering small purchases impractical. They therefore cut the coins for use. A half-cut coin became twelve sen; when divided into two-thirds and one-third portions, one part became eight sen and the other sixteen sen—these being the only possible divisions. However, their method of cutting these coins proved quite fascinating. Yet it remained exceedingly rare for a halved coin to maintain true half-value integrity. In most cases, they hollowed out the center or shaved the outer edges to create crescent-shaped pieces that still circulated as half-value coins.

Now, as for the smallest purchase amount one could make, it was four sen. To make a four-sen purchase, one had to bring a two-thirds silver coin worth sixteen sen and receive twelve sen in change—a half coin—from the seller. However, there were times when the seller did not have that half-coin. In such cases, one would then bring both a half-coin and a two-thirds coin (sixteen sen) themselves. Then they would take one tangka—that is, a 24-sen silver coin—from the other party and make a four-sen purchase. If it was an eight-sen purchase, you handed over one tangka to the other party and received a sixteen-sen piece in return. Thus in Tibet, four sen was called *Kakan*, eight sen *Karma*, twelve sen *Cheka*, sixteen sen *Shokan*, twenty sen *Kache*, and twenty-four sen *Tanger Chik*—this was how calculations were made. In the Dharma King’s Tibet, there had been no other way to proceed than this.

However, making a Kakan—that is, a four-sen purchase—was possible in Lhasa and Shigatse, but proved entirely impossible elsewhere. If one went to any other region, even half-value transactions became unfeasible. In other words, no purchases below one tangka (24 sen) could be made at all. Beyond this currency, there existed neither gold coins nor copper coins. There were neither larger denominations nor smaller ones. As for the silver coins circulating in that region—in areas along Tibet’s northwestern plateau bordering British India, territories under both the Dharma King’s rule and Indian jurisdiction—local kings in such areas still issued half-value silver coins. These coins circulated only within their respective regions and held no validity in the Dharma King’s Tibet. They were flat and circular in shape. Owing to such currency, even simple transactions required considerable time and caused great inconvenience.

Leaving matters of business aside for now, here in late November, the young lord of the Para Regent family—the one I had previously mentioned meeting in Darjeeling—apparently found himself in dire financial straits and sent someone to borrow money from me. Since he had requested an excessive amount, I concluded he would never repay it regardless and sent half the sum with a letter via my servant—whereupon he reportedly flew into a rage. I had not sent my servant as a beggar, nor had I done so to receive money—yet he had the audacity to return the funds while declaring he didn’t need such charity. Thinking there was no reason to act if he refused assistance, I abandoned the matter, but then he sent another letter demanding, "I require precisely the sum I first requested—you must lend it to me." In essence, though couched in arrogant demands, his true aim was to extract greater funds. I had no choice but to comply.

Not long after that, since the servant knew I was Japanese, he demanded fifty yen from me. However, as I also knew of his master’s disreputable conduct in Darjeeling, he did not dare to expose me or cause harm. From around December onward, I devoted myself entirely to purchasing Buddhist scriptures. While I had been acquiring texts even before that period, once December came and I found myself with ample funds, there was no longer any need to buy other items—I resolved to purchase scriptures exclusively, focusing on amassing as many as possible. Yet while ordinary sutras could be found in bookshops, those one might seek as reference materials or particularly intricate doctrinal works were never available through such channels. Now, regarding how one procures these—

The woodblocks secretly stored by each temple—those woodblocks were kept separately at various temples. For example, temples that had produced scholars of grammar preserved woodblocks for grammatical texts, while those associated with rhetoric scholars retained woodblocks of their authored works—this being the general principle—so historical and philosophical texts were all preserved in this manner. Since the woodblocks remained scattered like this, printers needed to be dispatched to each temple to produce impressions. First, I purchased and prepared the paper. This paper was not made from paper mulberry trees but from grass roots. The grass was a poisonous plant whose roots also contained toxins. The roots were white in color and contained abundant fibers. Paper was manufactured using these fibers. While the paper quality proved quite durable, there existed no pure white sheets. It appeared slightly darkened, resembling Japanese coarse paper known as *chirigami*. After procuring a large quantity of this paper, I provided printers with *kata* (thin ceremonial silk used for gifts) along with printing fees to take to the temples.

The rental fees for woodblocks varied by temple—some high, some low—but generally, printing a hundred sheets cost one tangka (twenty-four sen) or forty-eight sen, with the highest being around one yen and twenty sen. In this manner, they would dispatch three or six people to have them print from the woodblocks. Generally, two people handled the printing—one did the actual printing while the other organized the printed sheets. As for the printing process, it did not proceed as swiftly as that of Japanese people. Moreover, since they worked while drinking tea, they were extremely leisurely, and the work did not progress at all. Therefore, the expenses became comparatively greater. Thus I had to allocate fifty sen per printer from their designated stipends as labor fees.

Therefore, books ended up being quite expensive, but those that were properly printed were extremely cheap. However, the paper was of poor quality, with many areas where the printing blocks were defective. Even such books would have been acceptable if sold, but what was mostly available in bookstores were prayer sutras and catechism textbooks used in monastic schools. Apart from these, there existed only slightly interesting biographies or books akin to tea-time stories—not a single volume that scholars might desire. This was because in Tibet at that time, those aiming to become scholars entered monastic schools and studied textbooks, yet few undertook the troublesome task of consulting various books for reference.

Venerable Ekai Prays for the Imperial Court’s Eternal Prosperity on New Year’s Day

All bookstores were street stalls; none of these so-called booksellers operated shops in their own homes. There was a square in front of Chōkan, the Great Śākyamuni Hall. On the stones of that square, about ten booksellers spread out large cloths, arranged books on them, and set up their shops. They did not spread them out and display them as they do in Japan. They were all stacked and arranged in rows.

Apart from these, there were no other bookstores in Lhasa. In Shigatse, only two or three such street stalls existed in the market, and I did not know whether any others existed beyond that. In any case, among the cities I visited, I had only ever seen these two. Even when entrusting the work to printers, in cases where they were not permitted to use those woodblocks, I had to obtain letters of introduction from others and deliberately visit them to have the texts printed—a process through which books only became properly prepared, making the whole affair exceedingly difficult.

Well, in that manner, I managed to collect a considerable number of books. Since all those books were kept at Sera Temple, the monks near my residence were utterly astonished, saying, "What is he going to do with so many books he doesn’t even read?" "Indeed, since he has come from such a distant country, there’s no way he could possibly take back that many books." “Even scholars didn’t possess a third of the books he had,” they remarked with great suspicion. Having heard such talk, from then on I took all the books I purchased to the minister’s residence and kept them collected 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, I first sent my acolyte to offer butter lamps at the Śākyamuni Hall in Lhasa. This involved preparing butter oil and pouring it into the golden lamp stands arrayed before Śākyamuni Buddha of Lhasa as an offering. Although making an offering in golden lamp stands did not inherently become an especially meritorious act, ultimately, to directly present a lamp before Śākyamuni Buddha, one had to place it in a golden lamp stand—there was no other way to make such an offering.

When offering butter lamps to Śākyamuni Buddha, one had to pay two tangkas as the fee for borrowing the lamp stands. In my quarters, I first hung a hanging scroll of Śākyamuni Buddha, placed before it a stupa containing his relics, arranged three large silver lamp stands to light butter lamps, offered numerous other votive items, chanted the Buddha’s name in worship, and around what I judged 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 entailed solemnly praying for His Majesty Emperor Meiji—ten thousand years, ten thousand times ten thousand years—Her Majesty the Empress—ten thousand years, ten thousand times ten thousand years—and His Highness the Crown Prince—ten thousand years, ten thousand times ten thousand years; subsequently wishing that Japan’s power might illuminate all nations like the radiant rising sun. It was truly an auspicious prayer text. After solemnly performing the ceremony and reciting the prayer text, what I alone felt afterward was this: though nearly three thousand years had passed since the founding of the Empire of Japan, I believed this to be the first time anyone had ever offered prayers for ten thousand years upon ten thousand years to His Majesty Emperor Meiji of the Divine Nation, Her Majesty the Empress, and His Highness the Crown Prince within Tibet’s Lhasa. Overwhelmed with a profound sense of gratitude at this thought, tears overflowed unbidden from my eyes.

Tears shed upon the plateau—the Land of the Rising Sun's— dew upon grasses throughout the realm—ah, might they be? As I read the remaining Lotus Sutra while gazing out the window, the first sun began ascending between eastern snow peaks. To the beauty of dawn light reflected on snow was added several cranes pacing slowly in Sera Temple's great courtyard beyond my window, crying out repeatedly. The grandeur of this scene made me wish I could show it to my landscape-loving countrymen. Particularly auspicious it felt—hearing crane cries at sutra-reading dawn—

The voice that sang through dawn breaks upon Takano-hara, May the Lord of the East reign for a thousand generations—let us celebrate! Enduring—ah! In this garden where wondrous fruition blooms, With voices sublime, we rejoice in fulfillment.

Having composed these verses, I thus joyfully spent January 1st.

Chapter 100: Prayer Ceremony

Countless butter lamps—from January 4th, which corresponded to the 25th day of the eleventh month in the Tibetan calendar, the event known as Sangjö began.

This day marked the anniversary of the passing of Je Tsongkhapa, founder of the New Sect, and brought tremendous commotion—for all Tibetans made offerings of hundreds upon hundreds, thousands upon thousands of butter lamps atop their houses. Across Lhasa’s city center, Sera’s great monastery, Ganden’s great monastery, and even the rooftops of villages between them, tens of thousands upon tens of thousands of lamps were lit, their beauty beyond compare. On this day, they prepared lavish feasts, and during the daytime, everyone played about, danced dances, sang songs—truly a day of utmost merriment.

However, there was one particularly troublesome aspect here. To conduct this Sangjö, people in Lhasa typically began soliciting funds from social superiors visiting their homes after November 10th - even ostensibly respectable families would start demanding contributions under the pretext that festival alms-seeking was customary. We too had various acquaintances around town and consequently found ourselves compelled to pay out significant sums. One tangka here, two tangkas there - through such transactions, it ultimately amounted to about five yen in total. Someone had remarked that next year's costs might double or even triple that amount - a prediction that seemed quite plausible. After all, the more connections one maintained, the greater the financial impositions became.

Sangjö began at twelve o'clock at night on the 25th day of the eleventh month in the Tibetan calendar, signifying the Prayer Ceremony of Samantabhadra Bodhisattva. Starting from the night of the 25th, they conducted this event for fourteen days, reading sutras every night from midnight until morning. It was something everyone had to attend. I too attended the worship service as it was indeed a splendid occasion, but the main hall proved remarkably serene—compared to ordinary times, both monks and nighttime visitors were fewer in number. Moreover, the gentle manner of sutra chanting carried a solemn tone that somehow naturally possessed the power to calm people's hearts. Observing such scenes, I could not help but feel as though the Bodhisattvas of the Pure Land had gathered there to chant sutras.

The Hall’s Adornments—For unlike ordinary times, the interior of the main hall was adorned with splendid silks and brocades. There were pillars wrapped in five-colored Chinese crepe, while other large pillars were wrapped in crimson woolen cloth with blue and white arabesque patterns. On walls and pillars that usually bore nothing, numerous Buddhist painting scrolls—considered the highest rank in Tibet—were now hung. Not only were there various other decorations, but inside the main hall, three to five thousand butter lamps were lit. The light from butter lamps was much whiter than that of rapeseed oil, somewhat resembling gas flames and considerably brighter.

As I chanted sutras amidst this, I found myself struck by a profound feeling of gratitude. Generally, people are molded by their circumstances—when one enters such a place, they cannot help but become filled with gratitude. Moreover, contemplating the meaning of the sutra passages I recited, I found myself unable to hold back tears. Even at this sacred Prayer Ceremony of Samantabhadra Bodhisattva—must wicked men remain beyond transformation? How utterly perplexing this world is. When dawn broke and monks emerged outside, devotees brought forth alms called “ge.” Some gave one tangka each, others half a tangka.

The monks would receive alms when going out, but wicked ones—after taking their portion once—would circle around from the back to collect again, and if circumstances allowed, yet another time; there were those who ended up taking three or even four rounds. To curb such misconduct, they had assigned guardian monks. Yet those very guardian monks proved dubious. While ostensibly keeping watch, they would let them take as much as possible. Having permitted the taking, they then pocketed the money themselves. Junior monks, under orders from these watchers, would nimbly slip through the crowd, circle back to grab another share, and hand it over with a report like, "This is all I managed to get." To which the guardians would retort, "Couldn't you have done one more round?"—as if scolding their lack of effort.

If a junior monk refused when ordered, they would find some pretext to beat him severely with a thick stick. For junior monks, stealing was preferable to being beaten, so they obeyed the command and stole. Even when their deeds were discovered and they were caught red-handed and beaten, they remained unfazed. After all, it was merely a matter of being beaten—there was no risk of expulsion from the temple over such things. The temple authorities showed remarkable leniency toward such thieves during these times. Of course, these could hardly be called true thieves; yet if a monk were caught taking even a single item from someone's house, he would immediately be ordered to leave the temple. How strange then that in these specific circumstances alone—no matter if they stole twice or thrice—they got off with nothing more than a beating. However, at the temple where I stayed, they maintained extreme strictness regarding alcohol—anyone found to have drunk any would be expelled from the temple.

**The Eccentric Grooming of Warrior Monks** Those who most frequently committed such misdeeds were warrior monks—some kept their heads fully shaved, while others grew their sideburns four or five sun long in the manner of low-ranking samurai. They let this hair hang down to resemble dangling beards. However, if discovered by strict monk officials, the hair growing on their temples would be plucked out. Because the officials pulled out so much hair at once, blood would flow freely. A truly gruesome spectacle unfolded before one’s eyes, yet those subjected to it remained utterly unperturbed. Nay—it was said they conducted themselves thus precisely to project an air of dauntless valor.

However, to avoid being spotted by monk officials as much as possible, when coming to places like the main hall, some would coil that hair around their ears, while others would smear their entire faces with soot and butter to conceal any trace of hair. At first glance they resembled ghosts, but seeing such figures daily rendered them completely ordinary. As for why they went to such lengths to grow even a little hair—it was because among warrior monk comrades, this was considered extremely dashing and stylish, making others envious. What’s more repugnant was that during such solemn ceremonies—since they received substantial sums of money regardless—it became common for impoverished warrior monks to indulge in extra servings of fine meat, while others developed inappropriate attachments to young acolytes.

There were occasional instances of [warrior monks] seizing young acolytes heading to the main hall around midnight and dragging them off somewhere while gagging their cries. Even when discovered, this was not deemed a crime. Such cases were generally left unchecked. Since everyone engaged in such acts, those monk officials who raised too loud an outcry would themselves face backlash—thus matters were left unaddressed. Among the numerous acolytes, some went there half for amusement. Others went willingly out of greed, lured by promises of delicacies, toys, or money.

In extreme cases, when an acolyte saw a monk who had even a little money or lived comfortably in luxury, there were those who would dress themselves up as neatly and smartly as possible to entice that wealthy monk. They would then get them to prepare Buddhist robes and such. It was truly a sordid affair, but since it was something that actually occurred... As such things were frequently carried out, quarrels and duels often arose, making it truly an unsightly state of affairs.

**The Duplicity of Precept-Breaking Monks** These were men who committed grave sins without remorse yet lived in terror of killing even insects or lice. Moreover，they zealously and noisily upheld what they called trivial temple regulations， obsessing over minutiae—insisting，＂No，you must wear your robes in this specific way，＂ or loudly proclaiming，＂One must speak in this manner＂—believing such adherence constituted moral cultivation． When visiting halls or pagodas，they would loudly condemn anyone making a leftward circuit as if committing mortal sin．Thus even men wicked enough to murder would invariably circle rightward around such structures，never approaching from the left．

If there was even a small fragment resembling a stone tile that might belong to the Buddha, they would unfailingly circle around it to the right. This was by no means a bad practice. There existed karmic reasons for such observance. Yet despite maintaining such scrupulous attention to these trivialities, I could not fathom their true intent in calmly committing precept-breaking acts after abducting young acolytes under cover of night. Was this to be called muddled thinking or sheer foolishness? This, I concluded, exemplified what is meant by "deluded beings"—those who engage in utterly inverted conduct.

The Tibetan Ikkyū—there existed an intriguing story regarding this. In Tibet too, there was someone much like Japan’s Ikkyū Sōjun—a man known as Zuk Nyön. This name meant “a madman born in Zukpa’s land,” though he was no madman in truth. He was a deeply revered Lama who, seeking to awaken people to the delusions they held about various worldly matters, wandered like Ikkyū Sōjun and performed many entertaining deeds. Thus, reading his biography was akin to reading the chronicles of Ikkyū himself. While Tibet and Japan naturally differed in human sentiments—hence having certain disparities—in guiding others through humorous methods, they stood wholly aligned.

There was a time when this Zuk Nyön found himself traveling alongside New Sect Lamas. At that moment, Zuk Nyön noticed a small stone on the path and deliberately detoured widely around it to proceed onward. However, he encountered yet another considerably large rock. This was a stone that absolutely had to be circled, yet without doing so, he darted over it to the other side. Then the New Sect Lama, finding this strange, asked, “Why are you doing such a foolish thing? You have to go around big stones—isn’t that dangerous if you don’t? Shouldn’t you at least be concerned about leaping over a small stone so casually? You really do foolish things.” Zuk Nyön laughed and said, “But the lamas of your sect are doing exactly what I’m doing. If this is foolish, then you all are fools as well.”

“And why is that?” “You should think carefully. You take such pains to detour around minor sins like killing lice out of terror, yet indulge in sodomy and engage in livestock work that slaughters living beings! You commit such grave sins without a second thought—leaping over them as if they were nothing! That’s precisely why I mimicked your sect’s lamas!” When he declared this, his companion lama was said to have been thoroughly shamed. Now this Sangjö—Samantabhadra’s Prayer Assembly—appears profoundly auspicious on the surface; indeed, even in its hidden aspects it remains truly beneficial for earnest souls. Yet these very blessings become opportunities for wicked men to commit evil deeds—venues for perpetrating misdeeds.

Chapter 101: The Dharma King’s Government

Government Organization: We now turn to the structure of the Dharma King’s Government. The Dharma King’s Government was extremely complex, making it difficult to provide a full account. In particular, I had not made a specialized study of such matters. Even if I were to specialize in this—were I to investigate such matters professionally—then no matter how close my acquaintance with the Finance Minister might be, he would undoubtedly grow suspicious. Therefore, I took care not to raise such matters through direct questioning, instead seizing opportune moments during conversations with the Finance Minister to make gradual inquiries—conducting my research within bounds that would not arouse suspicion—though it was never going to yield anything comprehensive. Thus I inquired extensively wherever possible, but regarding minute details, many points remained unclear. I made sure to state this clearly from the outset.

Now, the organization of the Dharma King’s Government was established by laypeople and monks. Their numbers were nearly equal—first there were one hundred sixty-five appointed monk officials. There were also one hundred sixty-five lay officials. Monk appointees were called Che-zung, and laypeople were called Zung-kor. Those who generally oversaw these appointed officials among the monks were four Grand Secretaries called Tsun-ik Chenmo. Among these four, the one who held actual authority was whoever had assumed office earliest. Those who oversaw the lay appointed officials were the Shabbé (Prime Minister), of whom there were also four. Among these four, sovereignty lay with whoever had assumed office earliest—the other three merely participated in deliberations, with final decisions resting 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 Education, one Minister of Justice, and the Grand Secretaries of the monks. The family lineages producing these appointed monk officials were mostly predetermined, and they absolutely could not emerge from commoners. First, many originated from the Nobility, though occasionally they might come from the Mantra Clan, Bon Religion Clan, or Vajra Clan. This system proved difficult to definitively label as either a prefectural system or a feudal system. I shall now explain the reason for this.

At first glance, the relationship between the Nobility and the people appeared feudal in nature. This stemmed from how the ancestors of the Nobility—all individuals who had rendered meritorious service to the state—were granted regions as their own domains. In other words, they were essentially enfeoffed there, and within those domains resided commoners belonging to that land. Thus, the relationship between these Noble Houses, their family members, and the commoners was nearly akin to that between a king and his subjects—the right to decide life or death over those commoners naturally resided with those Noble Houses. Moreover, this Nobility collected a poll tax from the commoners. This poll tax required even the poorest to pay about one tangka. When it came to those of higher status, there were those who paid as much as ten or even a hundred tangka. For example, those who had achieved high status or possessed substantial wealth had to pay such large sums.

However, it was not merely paying the poll tax. Since they were in a position of having borrowed land from this Nobility, they had to pay the land tax. Thus, although this poll tax proved quite burdensome, because failure to pay it resulted in being flogged and having one’s property confiscated, even through great hardship, they had to pay the poll tax by year’s end. There were also many who, unable to endure the hardship of paying this tax, became monks. This was because once one became a monk, there was no need to pay the poll tax. Given that they became monks merely to avoid taxes, they had neither the intention to pursue scholarship nor any thought of studying Buddhism to work for others’ benefit.

There was an occasion when my teacher Chi Rinpoche lamented: "These days in our country, they rejoice greatly at the abundance of monks as proof of Buddhism’s prosperity—but what good is this? Would it not be more precious to have two or three diamonds than a heap of unnecessary stone tiles? It’s truly troubling." This was precisely because the aim of many monks already lay in avoiding the poll tax...

However, when viewed from another angle, Tibet's system was truly cruel—the poor were forced to suffer as they sank ever deeper into poverty. The state of suffering among the poor proved even more severe than that endured by impoverished monk students. To elaborate on their circumstances: though impoverished monk students ate irregularly, they were at least guaranteed a monthly stipend and received occasional alms. Since they needed only sustain themselves, they could somehow scrape through each day—but lay paupers had wives. Should a child come into this equation, their plight became truly dire. However they raised that child, some amount of money became necessary.

As for where they could borrow that money, there was no choice but to borrow from landlords. Even if they borrowed it, they could rarely repay it. One might wonder why landlords (Nobility) would lend money with no expectation of repayment—it was to enslave that child to their household when they came of age. They lent them money with that expectation. Even so, they never lent large sums anyway. Of course, they lent small amounts until it totaled around ten yen, and when the child reached about ten years old, they had to work for fifteen or even twenty years solely for that ten yen. Therefore, the children of the poor

Born slaves—truly pitiable. Given that the relationship between the Nobility and the commoners under their jurisdiction was as described above, from this perspective it appeared that under the feudal system, these Noble Houses occupied positions akin to what might be called feudal lords. However, when viewed from other angles, there were also aspects characteristic of a prefectural system. This was because members of the Nobility mostly resided in Lhasa and seldom visited their own territories. Even when maintaining houses in those territories, they left only caretakers behind while remaining in Lhasa. Conversely, there were also those who received orders from the government and went to govern certain districts. In addition to the commoners under Noble jurisdiction, there were also many people directly subordinate to the government.

Moreover, while belonging to the Nobility, they also had a portion of taxes levied upon them by the government. Therefore, the people had to pay double taxes. When adding the poll tax into the mix, they had to pay an exorbitant amount in taxes. These appointed monk officials, having received the Dalai Lama’s orders, went to the regions in groups of three or two wielding judicial-administrative authority to collect taxes. The taxes collected from the regions were, of course, submitted to the central government. These taxes included both goods and silver coins. In particular, among the taxes paid from gold mines and such, there was also gold. Additionally, taxes levied on imports were also submitted to the central government.

Regarding the allocation of taxes—when considering what the central government used the collected goods and taxes for, the majority was used to support monks. Namely, it maintained the twenty-four or twenty-five thousand monks residing in Lhasa and those scattered throughout various regions. However, this did not mean that the government took full responsibility for all monks at these temples or anything of the sort. It was through arrangements like the government covering half during incidents that they provided subsidies corresponding to each temple’s assets.

Next came maintaining Buddhist halls or making offerings to Buddha. For this purpose, a considerable amount of money was required. Funds were largely allocated to such purposes. Then, annual salaries were also given to imperially appointed officials, ordinarily appointed officials, and those below them. The amount was meager—even the Prime Minister himself received only about six hundred koku of barley annually, while the Finance Minister got three hundred sixty koku—and whether they actually received it in full remained rather dubious. There were also those who left their salaries untouched without collecting them.

The current Finance Minister with whom I was staying had apparently served in his position for about ten years by then—yet it was said he had not received a single koku [of barley]. “What on earth could explain this? When I pressed—“Do they perform their duties out of obligation alone? Or do they have other income?”—he answered: “Revenues from territories under my household’s jurisdiction suffice amply.” “I’ve no need to trouble His Holiness the Dharma King for such substantial sums,” he declared.

“However, when asked whether everyone does it that way,” he replied, “no—there are those who properly claim and receive their salaries, but those from slightly better-off households generally choose not to take them.” “Of course, among them are those who maintain such a virtuous facade while in reality taking substantial bribes.” “However, as for the Finance Minister with whom I resided—unlike those who refuse to act unless a certain amount of bribes are brought—he never engaged in such practices. He merely accepted what others offered out of goodwill and did not take nearly as much as other Prime Ministers.”

As for the duties of monk and lay officials—these 165 appointed monk-officials were ordinarily dispatched as regional governors. However, they were typically sent out in pairs—one layperson and one monk each. When particularly difficult court cases arose, monk-lay official pairs were sometimes dispatched to the regions in groups of two or four. They set out with full authority to conduct investigations and pass judgment on-site. According to past precedents, decisions had reportedly been made based on bribe amounts when handling local judgments. However, the current Dharma King was exceptionally capable—whenever such corruption was discovered, he immediately confiscated the offender’s property and stripped them of their position. This instilled such fear that judgments had recently become far more impartial.

However，in cases where it was absolutely necessary for the Dharma King to be involved—such as major incidents or imposing severe punishments on heinous criminals—they were always brought before the Dharma King. Thereupon，the Dharma King would adjudicate the matter and issue a decree—but when considered from this perspective，the very qualifications of the Dharma King were rather intriguing. The act of issuing commands to punish someone—whether to execute them or sentence them to exile—was，from a layperson’s political perspective，an entirely natural matter and not at all perplexing.

But when speaking of the Dharma King, he was a monk who had received the full monastic vows. From the standpoint of these precepts, regardless of whether an act was good or evil, one could not issue an order to kill people. Even if it were someone deemed permissible to kill. Those who had received the 250 precepts of Hinayana Buddhism were absolutely incapable of issuing commands to kill people. The Dharma King was naturally one who had received these full monastic vows. Therefore, from the perspective of monastic law, he should have been fundamentally unable to order killings. Yet the Dharma King did precisely this.

If one were to ask whether the Dharma King was a layperson, he was decidedly not. It was precisely because he had neither wife nor drank alcohol—strictly adhering to the precepts a Hinayana monk must uphold—that all monks of great monasteries like Sera, Ralung, or Ganden received their full monastic vows from this Dharma King. I too had been strongly urged by the Dharma King to receive the full monastic vows, but since I held the belief that I could not accept those precepts from someone whose conduct was flawed, I ultimately did not receive them. Even were one a king—if they had violated Buddhist law—they could not receive full monastic vows simply by virtue of being a king.

However, I did receive secret teachings from this Dharma King. The reason was that these secret teachings had no relation to the full monastic vows. Since the Dharma King himself was already such a dubious figure, there were many beneath him whose status as monks or laypeople became indistinguishable. There were laypeople imitating monks, and conversely, there was hardly a monk who did not imitate laypeople. As I had stated before, since they engaged in everything from farming and commerce to herding, they could practically be called laypeople. The only difference was that they shaved their heads and wore monastic robes.

Thus even among genuine monks emerged figures like warrior monks who made military duties their daily routine while maintaining their title as monks. Thus everything was in utter disarray, and Tibetan Buddhism's current state had become entirely contrary to Je Tsongkhapa's original principles when he founded the new sect—truly a pitiful sight to behold.

Chapter 102: Women's Customs

The Lavish Attire of Lhasa Noblewomen: I shall now discuss the customs, appearance, character, habits, temperament, and desires of Lhasa's women—considered most refined among Tibetan women. This was an exceedingly important matter, for women shape future citizens of the nation; thus one could not lightly overlook matters concerning their condition. One understood this by observing how George Washington—who secured American independence—had emerged from a wise mother of strong resolve. Therefore before analyzing Tibet's diplomatic strategies, it became necessary to examine her people's independent spirit—and to comprehend this required first explaining her womenfolk.

I began by discussing customs. However, since explaining everything in detail would have been impossible to cover in a single talk, I provided an overview. The manner of wearing clothing did not differ much from that of men. They simply wore it in a slightly softer manner, though its construction remained identical. The belt measured about one and a half sun (~1.8 inches) in width and eight shaku (~8 feet) in length—essentially resembling a thin sash. It was never tied; instead, the woven threads at its end formed tassel-like strands that were coiled tightly and tucked inside along with a scrap of cloth.

As for how they styled their hair—unlike the women of Shigatse or other tribes—those in Lhasa and its vicinity used large Chinese-made wigs, parting their hair from the center to both sides. In truth, as Tibetan women’s hair tended to be short, it was considered preferable to use ample hair. They parted it thickly to both sides like bundled yak tails, then gathered the divided hair at the back and braided it into four sections. The ends of the braids were bound with tasseled red or green silk cords, and where these cords connected, they used a clasp-like cord strung with about seven pearl-embedded strands to fasten both ends securely.

Then, in the center of those pearl strings, they inserted a large pearl or jade (emerald) as decoration. Atop the crown of their heads, they were adorned with expensive jade, coral beads, pearls, and other such ornaments. They wrapped a Partsuk (head ornament ring) around it and wore a Muchiuk-gi-Shamo (pearl cap) at its center. They wore Egoru—golden earring pagodas (flat golden pagodas with green jade ornaments inside)—on their ears, and Dosharu (ornamental necklaces) on their chests. This Dosharu (ornamental necklace), being the most expensive, apparently cost three thousand five hundred to six hundred yen. At times, even paying that amount apparently wasn’t enough to acquire one.

Next was the Keter (necklace), an assemblage of precious stones with a Serki-Kau (golden reliquary) attached at the center where it descended to the upper chest. Even one such reliquary was said to cost over two hundred yen—some reaching three hundred. On their right arms they wore small conch shell bracelets, while silver engraved bracelets adorned their left arms. Every woman wore an apron, with finer ones costing around thirty-six yen apiece. This made sense—they were woven from Tibet's finest wool in checkered patterns... Truly splendid things they were. However, rings were mostly silver except those worn by noblewomen.

They wore beautiful shoes all sewn with red and green woolen cloth. Despite such splendid attire, they occasionally applied a sooty black substance to their faces, creating a truly unpleasant appearance to behold. Yet to eyes accustomed to that country, the reddish tint beneath that sooty blackness was said to be considered highly stylish or spirited. This could well be called the customs concerning women’s personal adornment. Their features were often remarkably beautiful. Though their complexion was somewhat dark, their facial features were nearly identical to those of Japanese women.

However, they were more robust and considerably larger in build than Japanese women. In Tibet, one could hardly find women as small as those in Japan. Since they wore loose, large robes over their sturdy frames, their appearance gave an impression of magnanimity. As for the noblewomen, whether in their fair complexion or their beauty, they were in no way inferior to Japanese beauties.

The Beauties of Kham and Lhasa — In particular, many women of the Kham region had fair complexions and were quite beautiful. However, they possessed very little charm, and one could not find a face that might be called endearing. They presented a sight that was truly coldly pitiable. Moreover, their manner of speech had been shrill and utterly lacking in femininity. Though they seemed to have few ill intentions, they utterly lacked lovable features. In that regard, the women of Lhasa were truly charming individuals. Rather than merely being charming individuals, they were better described as endearing—though they may have lacked certain qualities worthy of respect—yet their looks sufficed to captivate the hearts of Lhasa’s libertine men, or rather, its ordinary men.

However, their general demeanor tended toward vulgarity. When one saw them walking along the street munching on food, they appeared thoroughly vulgar. As for middle and lower-class women, they all possessed a petty merchant mentality, with minds that fussed over trivial matters—a disposition that manifested in their very character, giving them an overall fretful and constrained appearance. Even the wives of nobles were no different; it was exceedingly rare to see someone possessing the noble character—the dignity expected of a wife of the nobility. They could not be said to be entirely nonexistent, but generally, most were like former geisha turned wives.

Admittedly, even among former geisha who became wives through social advancement, there might be those who grew accustomed to respectable society's customs over time and cultivated more refined character. However, in Tibet, since only women of such base character populated noble society, there was no indication of improvement no matter how much time passed. They might be easily liked by people, but their lack of dignity that earns respect was indeed a flaw. I considered that this likely stemmed from the custom of one woman serving multiple husbands, which gave rise to such tendencies.

Among women’s habits, what I considered the worst were their drinking of alcohol and uncleanliness. As for their daily work ethic—compared to Japanese women—they were indeed lazy beyond measure, but compared to women of other countries, one might say they worked considerably harder. Particularly among women of Lhasa’s lower and middle classes, since engaging in commerce had become second nature to them, they conducted everything through business dealings. They themselves chose their husbands in precisely that manner. As I had mentioned before, Tibetans—even their women—were utterly unclean.

The women of Lhasa did at least know to wash their faces and hands, but their skin appeared thoroughly blackened. In other words, they only washed the parts visible to others somewhat thoroughly—that was the extent of it. The upper classes were not entirely like that. This was because upper-class women had no work at all. Their only work was washing their hair or looking in the mirror to apply makeup. As for other work—whether they were helping or hindering their husbands' work, I didn't know—their job was to noisily assert themselves. Even among the upper class, wives who remained silent were exceedingly rare; they intervened in every matter. However, husbands did not merely obediently agree to such interference; on the contrary, it was often the husbands themselves who sought their wives' opinions.

Now, while upper-class women were somewhat beautiful, the most disillusioning thing was that when one recalled their secret of relieving themselves and returning unwashed, even the greatest beauty became instantly repulsive. The truth was that Tibetan women never engaged in sewing or similar tasks. Even for something as simple as mending, they still had to ask a tailor to do it for them. These tailors were men—there were no women tailors. Of course, in Tibet there were women who engaged in weaving. There were also those who spun thread.

Even when they spun thread, it wasn't as if they had proper spinning wheels. Attached to the tip of a thin bamboo stick was a round top-like object. They wound wool mixed with paste around that bamboo stick, then gradually drew it out with their mouths, adding twist when it grew sufficiently long—this method produced only thick yarn. Even those who had trained extensively and become highly skilled could at best make somewhat even thin thread, and even that bore no resemblance to machine-spun yarn, remaining beyond their imagination. In Tibet, there existed absolutely no other methods of making thread.

Chapter 103: Women and Childbirth

Women’s Work — Rural women engaged in both farming and herding. First, they boiled milk to produce butter and other dairy products. The method was as follows: when boiled milk was cooled at the right moment, cream formed on top. After removing that cream, they added sour milk into it, covered it, and let it sit for about a day (meaning to keep it warm), which turned it into *sho* (sour milk)—something like solidified tofu. They put the sour milk into a long tub, added a small amount of lukewarm water on top, then thoroughly churned it by moving a stick with a round lid attached to its end up and down. Gradually, the butter and tara (the remaining milk containing solids after butter extraction) began to separate. By adding more lukewarm water in accordance with the degree of separation and continuing to churn for about two hours, they eventually separated the butter and tara completely, allowing them to collect the butter on one side.

When they thoroughly boiled the remaining tara, this time it separated into sour water and its solids. The solids were exactly like strained tofu—softer than what Tibetans call *chura* (okara, or tofu dregs)—and entirely akin to crumbled tofu, with a remarkably delicious flavor. However, the water from the tara did not go to waste. Drinking it proved quite effective for quenching thirst. It had a slight sourness but was quite flavorful.

Chura could be eaten raw, but since it was produced in large quantities, they dried and hardened it for storage. That was dried milk. Women mostly did such work. Then they went out to herd sheep and yaks. Therefore,the labor of rural women was in no way inferior to that of men. From the perspective of labor alone,rural areas exhibited gender equality,and even in terms of family relations— The sovereign of the family was the woman. Even when hired elsewhere,men and women received the same wages. Just because they were women did not mean they were paid less. In return,they worked just as hard. This was because Tibetan women were physically robust and truly capable of enduring labor. Moreover,theirs nature appeared at first glance to be exceedingly gentle and remarkably amiable. One might think such women would never harm others or fly into violent rages,but when they did become angry，it was fearsome indeed,and they would not easily relent. I often saw cases where even when their husbands prostrated themselves on the ground to apologize，they would not relent.

When it came to such matters, they became utterly self-centered, presenting a fearsome appearance that could only be likened to witches or yakshas. Therefore, Tibetan women might as well have been called cats. Normally gentle, when the moment arrived, they manifested a tiger-like ferocity akin to a cat catching a mouse, leaving their husbands utterly bewildered. Moreover, they were utterly self-centered, trampling their husbands underfoot without a second thought about taking other men. Their indulgence in carnal desires was truly extreme.

Women from households with meager livelihoods would deliberately visit other men's dwellings, and even when discovered, remained utterly unperturbed. When one imagined what they might say to their husbands, it would be along the lines of: "Since you don't properly provide for me, I went to make money." This presented a truly deplorable state of affairs. Furthermore, their minds proved exceedingly keen in scrabbling after trivial profits. Through such conduct, they never once contemplated what consequences might arise in the future, nor how such relationships could affect an entire village or nation. While making such demands of women might be somewhat unreasonable, matters would improve considerably if they would at least consider how their actions impacted others' interests.

However, they did not care about others at all. In extreme cases, there were instances where even if their husbands suffered losses, they were content as long as they themselves profited. In that regard, they were indeed sharp. That very sharpness of temperament did them considerable harm. For by harming their husbands to gain personal benefit, they ultimately harmed themselves as well. But they paid no heed to such matters and were absorbed in devoting themselves wholeheartedly to pursuing petty gains before their eyes. Therefore,