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was the creaking and crackling of rocks moving and contracting
now that the greater heat of the day had gone. Above us the stars
were vivid in the dark night sky. The Old People used to say that
Kesar's Legions had dropped their spears on the Floor of Heaven
at the call of Buddha, and the stars were but the reflections of the
lights of the Heavenly Room shining through the holes.
Suddenly a new sound was heard above the noise of the rising
wind, the temple trumpets sounding the close of yet another day.
Up on the roof, as I looked I could dimly discern the silhouettes
of monks, their robes fluttering in the breeze as they carried out
their priestly office. For us, the trumpets' call meant bedtime until
midnight. Dotted around the halls and temples were little groups
of monks discussing the affairs of Lhasa and of the world beyond.
Discussing our beloved Dalai Lama, the greatest Incarnation of
any Dalai Lama. At the sound of the Close of Day they slowly
dispersed and went their separate ways to bed. Gradually the
living sounds of the lamasery ceased, and there was the atmosphere
of peace. I lay on my back, gazing up through a small window. For
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this night I was too interested to sleep or to want to sleep. The stars
above, and my whole life ahead. So much of it I knew, those things
which had been predicted. So much had not been said. The
predictions about Tibet, why, why did we have to be invaded?
What had we done, a peace-loving country with no ambitions
other than to develop spiritually? Why did other nations covet
our land? We desired nothing but that which was ours: why,
then, did other people want to conquer and enslave us? All we
wanted was to be left alone, to follow our own Way of Life. And I
was expected to go among those who later would invade us, heal
their sick, and help their wounded in a war which had not yet
even started. I knew the predictions, knew the incidents and high-
lights, yet I had to go on like a yak upon the trail, knowing all the
stops and halting-places, knowing where the grazing was bad, yet
having to plod on to a known destination. But maybe a yak
coming over the Ridge of Reverential Prostration thought it
worth while when the first sight of the Holy City was: . .
The booming of the temple drums woke me with a start. I did
not even know that I had been asleep! With an unpriestly thought
in my mind I tottered to my feet, reaching with sleep-numbed
hands for an elusive robe. Midnight? I shall never stay awake,
hope I don't fall over the steps. Oh! How cold this place is! Two
hundred and fifty-three rules to obey as a lama? Well, there is
one of them broken, for I did excel myself with the violence of my
thoughts in being so abruptly awakened. Out I stumbled, to join
those others, also in a daze, who had arrived that day. Into the
temple we went, to join in the chant and counter-chant of the
service.
It has been asked: Well, if you knew all the pitfalls and hard-
ships which had been predicted, why could you not avoid them?
The most obvious answer to that is: If I could have avoided the
predictions, then the mere fact of avoidance would have proven
them false! Predictions are probabilities, they do not mean that
Man has no free will. Far from it. A man may want to go from
Darjeeling to Washington. He knows his starting-point and his
destination. If he takes the trouble to consult a map, he will see
certain places through which he would ordinarily pass to reach his
destination. While it is possible to avoid the certain places it is
not always wise to do so, the journey may be longer or more
expensive as a result. Similarly, one may motor from London to
Inverness. The wise driver consults a map and has a route itinerary
from one of the motoring organizations. In so doing the driver
can avoid bad roads or, where he cannot avoid rough surfaces, he
can be prepared and can drive more slowly. So with predictions.
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It does not always pay to take the soft and easy way. As a Buddhist,
I believe in reincarnation; I believe that we come to Earth to
learn. When one is at school it all seems very hard and bitter.
The lessons, history, geography, arithmetic, whatever they may
be, are dull, unnecessary and pointless. So it appears to us at
school. When we leave we may possibly sigh for the good old
school. We may be so proud of it that we wear a badge, a tie, or
even a distinctive colour on a monk's robe. So with life. It is hard,
bitter, and the lessons we have to learn are designed to try us and
no one else. But when we leave school, of this Earth, perhaps we
wear our school badge with pride. Certainly I hope to wear my
halo with a jaunty air later! Shocked? No Buddhist would be.
Dying is merely leaving our old, empty case, and being reborn
into a better world.
With the morning light we were up and anxious to explore. The
older men were wanting to meet those they had missed the night
before. I wanted more than anything to see these huge man-
lifting kites I had heard so much about. First we had to be shown
over the lamasery so that we should know our way about. Up on
the high roof we looked about at the towering peaks, and gazed
down at the fearsome ravines. Far away I could see a turgid stream
of yellow, laden with water-borne clay. Nearer, the streams were
the blue of the sky and rippling. In quiet moments I could hear
the happy tinkling of a little brook behind us as it made its swift
way down the mountain-side, eager to be off and join the tumbling
waters of other rivers which, in India, would become the mighty
Brahmaputra River, later to join the sacred Ganges and flow into
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