Mi-pham on Juggling Balls

Ms. Theresa Bachhuber, a student of mine, is proposing to study Mi-pham rNam-rgyal-rgya-mtsho’s (1846–1912) Decalogy consisting of the Ut pal lnga (“Five Blue Lotuses”) and Ral gri lnga (“Five Swords”), for her doctoral research. The Decalogy, if I may, has been characterized as rjes gnang gi bstan bcos, which insinuates that the ten works actually constitute Mañjuśrī’s Word, or, de facto a revealed teaching of Mañjuśrī, and hence a kind of buddhavacana, somewhat like the Maitreyic Pentalogy (Byams chos sde lnga), but de jure “permitted/granted/authorized to be passed on as composed treatises.” The insinuation, in other words, is that these are actually revealed scriptures in the guise of śāstras. Of these, the Shes rab ral gri has been the topic of her MA thesis. One of the Five Swords, the brDa shan ’byed the tshom drwa ba gcod pa’i ral gri, which may conveniently be called the “Sword that Severs the Net of Doubt,” or, “Doubt-Severing Sword,” is actually a small work on the Buddhist philosophy of language based mainly on Dharmakīrti. This small work is terse and is written in verses. The composition is dated: 4th day of the 4th month of the Fire-Horse (me rta) year. The year should be Fire-Male-Horse (me pho rta) and should correspond either with 1846 or 1906. He was born in 1846 and so the year of composition must be 1906. Perhaps because of its terseness, Mi-pham appears to have felt the need to compose a commentary with topical outlines. Despite the auto-commentary, the work remains quite difficult. For this reason, mKhan-rin-po-che Padma-shes-rab (henceforth: Khenchen), one of my most revered teachers, wrote a commentary on it. His commentary too is dated. It was completed on the 8th day of the 11th month of the Water-Monkey (chu sprel) year. The year can be specified as Water-Male-Monkey (chu pho sprel) and would correspond with 1992. It was composed on the occasion of the establishment of the Shug-gseb-o-rgyan-rdzong nunnery in Dharamsala. I do not think Khen Rinpoche’s autograph has been preserved. My friend, Thinley Dorji, made the initial copy based on the autograph. And later the commentary was published in the form of computerized print.

I apologize for taking this autobiographical detour. In 1991, I must have been in my fifth year of studies in the Ngagyur Nyingma Institute (NNI), Namdroling monastery, Mysore, South India. It was the year Rajiv Gandhi was assassinated. I used to stay with late mKhan-po dBang-phyug-bsod-nams, one of the first and best mkhan pos that the NNI procreated. In the beginning I really had to struggle with my studies. Getting used to both levels of Tibetan language (i.e., spoken and written), getting used to the intricacies and complexities of Tibetan Buddhism, and the like, were very challenging. Note that my oral entrance examinations were conducted in English. mKhan-rin-po-che Tshe-dbang-rgya-msho translated the questions and answers. Gradually I felt increasingly confident. I remember having done extremely well in my fifth year. I was looking forward to studying in the sixth year. One evening, however, in the beginning of the term in 1992, a monk came to my room, and said: “Rin-po-che (i.e., sKyabs-rje Pad-nor Rin-po-che) is asking you to come to his residence.” My heart started pounding. I hurried to his residence. There I saw Khenchen and others with Pad-nor Rin-po-che. Rin-po-che simply said, “You are going to Dharamsala to teach this year.” mKhan-pos present there simply exchanged knowing glances. I do not recall if I uttered any word. I had no information whatsoever about my new mission. Whom I am going to teach? Where I am going to stay? So I ended up consulting Khenchen a great deal. He was my main contact person (Bezugsperson). I had never been to Delhi or Dharmasala. My dear friend, Thinley Dorjee, was sent to Bir to teach. So the two of us travelled together. We were greeted by the searing April heat of Delhi and the coolness of the Himachal mountains of Dharamsala. My struggle in Dharamsala taught me a great deal of things about life and responsibility. In short, it turned out that my mission was to establish the Shug-gseb-o-rgyan-rdzong nunnery and impart monastic education to approximately three dozens of Tibetan Buddhist nuns. With the support of intuitions such as the Tibetan Women’s Association and Department of Religion and Culture; individual such as Rinchen Khando Choegyal, who also happens to be the consort of Ngari Rinpoche, the youngest brother of His Holiness the Dalai Lama, Ven. Lobsang Dechen, Representative (later Minister) Ven. Tsering Phuntsok; and above all Khenchen, we (i.e., the Shug-gseb nuns and I) set up the nunnery and through sheer persistence managed to lay a strong foundation for academic study of Buddhism. As soon as Khenchen completed his teaching obligations for the 1992, I requested Khenchen to come to Dharamsala and spend some time with us giving teachings on Mi-pham’s Nges shes sgron me until we all leave for Bodhgaya to attend the Nyingma Monlam Chenmo. Khenchen graciously accepted the invitation. We had no proper accommodation for him. So I moved to a dingy cellar-like room and whitewashed my room to accommodate him. In the meantime, my friend Thinley had also completed his teaching obligation in Bir and he came to Dharmasala to stay with us. We all attended Khenchen’s classes. We followed Khro-shul ’Jam-dpal-rdo-rje’s commentary. I acted as a “Revisory Teacher” (skyor dpon). By then, nuns have made tremendous progress. They had not only memorized Mi-pham’s mKhas ’jug sdom byang, they could write them down without any spelling mistakes, and explain the texts in their own words. Mastery of the mKhas ’jug gave them a solid foundation in the field of non-Tantric Abhidharma and general Mahāyāna doctrines. They gained a great deal of confidence they needed. They dared to challenge some monks in a debate and to outwit them. They recited daily what they have memorized. Khenchen occasionally would stop explaining certain complicated issues saying that it would be too difficult for them. They would protest saying that their teacher had already taught these things to them and that Khenchen should not withhold anything from them. They were also happy to learn that they could now follow the teachings of His Holiness, the Dalai Lama. It was such a rewarding experience to witness all these.

It was on this occasion that Khenchen composed a commentary on the Doubt-Severing Sword. The author’s colophon mentions the place, time, and the occasion. Khenchen separated the basic text from the commentarial text. This is necessary because it the basic text and the commentary seem often mingled. He based himself on Mi-pham’s own annotated commentary (mchan ’grel) and the topical outline (sa bcad). He merely added “minor clarifications” (gsal byed phran bu) for the sake of enabling easy access (’jug par bde ba’i ched), that is, for “those whose intelligence is fresh/new” (blo gros gsar bu rnams), i.e., for beginners. Khenchen’s goal is thus quite modest. He makes it explicit. It is not a full-fledged commentary. I recall Khenchen asking me then a couple of things. One of these questions being the term sgong used by Mi-pham both in the basic text and the commentary. I do not think I had any meaningful suggestion then. In 1992, we did not have the luxury of the digital sources that we have access today (2022). Khenchen has graciously consented to give a reading transmission of Mi-pham’s Decalogy to Ms. Bachhuber. On this occasion, Khenchen asked me again if I could shed some light on this term sgong.  

One of the bedrocks of Mi-pham’s intellectual edifice is Dharmakīrt’s ideas. He even composed a guruyoga manual to invoke Dharmakīrti. Unlike some of his works, which were posthumously completed, his commentary on Dharmakīrti’s Pramāṇavārttika, the Legs bshad snang ba’i gter, is a work to which he paid great deal of attention and caution. He had consulted several Indian and Tibetan commentaries and tried his best to come as closest as possible to Dharmakīrti’s own ideas. Mi-pham’s context in which the term sgong is used seems to be clear. I try to understand his ideas by only using his own words found in the basic text and the commentary: “It is difficult to distinguish/differentiate/discriminate (dbye tshul dka’ = dbye bsal dka’) the referents (i.e., dngos po’i tshul = “modes of reality, modes of entity”) by ascertaining “This is it; this is not,” and so on, namely, on account of being confused in the convention of how terms are applied/employed” (sgra ’jug pa’i rnam gzhag la rmongs nas = sgra ’jug rmongs nas).” Why is it difficult? The reason he gives is: “on account of the influence” (shan gyis). The reading shan gyi, found in some editions, should be deprecated. The auto-commentary reads shan gyis and so does Khenchen’s commentary. I propose to paraphrase the phrase shan gyis here as “through or because of the contamination/adulteration of accidental/coincidental causes of errors” (’phral gyi ’khrul rgyus bslad pas). We can in general think of all kinds of external or internal factors that could trigger, for example, perceptual, conceptual, or, cognitional errors. Now the pertinent phrase that needs clarification is sgong bzhin (basic text), or, ji ltar sgong bzhin du (commentary). All elements of a formal syllogism seem to be present in this statement: A is B because of C, for example, D. The crux here is: How are we to understand the example or case expressed by “like D”? First, let us be clear that etymologically the Tibetan word sgong seems to be cognate with gong bu. In fact, I feel that the latter is more common than the former. Thus Khenchen’s literal explanation of the word sgong as spungs pa’i don  “having the sense of ‘heap/heaped’” is actually correct. The question here is thus not so much about the meaning of the word sgong per se but its pragmatic use in the given context. Second, there are several Sanskrit words that have been translated as sgong or gong bu: golaka, leṣṭu (as in sa’i gong bu), piṇḍa, guḍikā, śimbi (as in til gyi gong bu = tilaśimbi). But we can be quite sure that our sgong here is a rendering of golaka in the sense of a “ball” or “globe” for playing with. Third, it seems also worth keeping in mind that not all translators chose to translate golaka as sgong (or gong bu) but as ri lu, which etymologically seems to mean something like “that which rolls,” and hence a “ball” or “pill” (which is globular in shape). Fourth, we should rule out that our sgong here refers to “crystal ball” (sphāṭika/sphaṭika: shel sgong) although the analogy of “crystal ball” is often used in Buddhist sources. Fifth, our sgong is clearly a rendering of the Sanskrit māyāgolaka, which has been employed by Dharmakīrti in the Pratyakṣa-Chapter (verse no. 104) of his Pramāṇavārttika (Miyasaka 1972: 54–55): kvacit tad aparijñānaṃ sadṛśāparasambhavāt | bhrānter apaśyato bhedaṃ māyāgolakabhedavat ||; Tib. ’dra ba gzhan ni yod pa’i phyir ||  la lar yongs su mi shes te || ’khrul phyir sgong gi tha dad bzhin || tha dad mthong ma med phyir ro ||. Naturally post-Dharmakīrti Indian authors employed this term as well. I cannot go into these details. As I mentioned above, the reason for rendering māyāgolaka simply as sgong seems to be the metrical constriction in the Tibetan translation. Indeed, we do find the translation sgyu ma’i sgong and sgyu ma’i ri lu in the Tibetan translations of other commentaries in prose (Negi: passim). Sixth, I do not seem to find the word māyāgolaka recorded and explained in the Sanskrit lexicons available to me. We can only hope to learn from our Sanskritist colleagues. But I feel that the word māyāgolaka, which seems to mean something like “balls of illusion,” actually mean “juggling balls.” Mi-pham’s commentary on this verse clearly seems to support this understanding (Beijing, 1995, p. 277). His rtsed mo mkhan should be our “juggler.” He mentions only two balls (gong bu gnyis) but a skilled juggler can throw many more balls. Note his formulation: dper na rtsed mo mkhan gyis gong bu gnyis ’dor len myur bar ’phangs pa’i sgong gi tha dad pa. The edition I use reads ’dod len but it should be, in my view, emended to ’dor len “throwing and catching.” Seventh, the use of the analogy of māyāgolaka in the Pramāṇavārttika and the one in Mi-pham’s Doubt-Severing Sword are not totally identical. The general context of the former seems to be the refutation of the position that recognition is a valid perceptual cognition. For Dharmakīrti, however, recognition may look like a valid perceptual cognition but it is not. Recognition seems to be understood as an erroneous blend of recollection and the current perception of something else. It is a kind of conceptual association/integration. The actual point of the above Pramāṇavārttika verse is that owing to causes of error, one may not always cognize the separateness/difference of the juggling balls although the balls are undeniably separate/distinct. In the Doubt-Severing Sword, however, the difficulty in distinguishing one referent of a certain term from the other is compared to the difficulty in distinguishing one juggling ball from the other. Thus the verse may be translated thus: “It is difficult to distinguish the [specific] referents on account of being confused in the application of term, [that is,] owing to the impact [of the causes of error] just as [it is difficult to distinguish] juggling balls [from one another for the same reason].”

rDo-grub-chen Rin-po-che (1927–2022) and My Mother: An Encounter

sKyabs-rje rDo-grub-chen Rin-po-che Thub-bstan-phrin-las-dpal-bzang-po aka  ’Jigs-med-phrin-las-dpal-’bar (1927–2022), a leading contemporary master of the rNying-ma school of Tibetan Buddhism, passed away on Tuesday, January 25, 2022. rDo-grub-chen seems to embody the Klong-chen-snying-thig tradition. We can no longer think of Klong-chen-snying-thig without thinking of rDo-grub-chen. He was a vajrayānikayogin, and not a bhikṣu. He did not make noise about Vajrayāna. He breathed Vajrayāna; embodied Vajrayāna; lived Vajrayāna. He was known for categorically and consistently distancing himself from secular and religious politics. To the extent possible, he also attempted to distance himself from politicians, thereby imparting an impression that he was not respectful to them. He obviously did not try to please all people. He did not please all people. But this is not my concern here. My concern here is something personal.

I did not have the privilege to see him in person and receive teachings from him. But rDo-grub-chen, somehow, remains deeply personal to me. Here is the reason. Without waiting for the results of my final high school examinations, I managed to get for myself a scholarship to study Buddhism in the monastic seminary, Ngagyur Nyingma Institute, Mysore; travelled to Mysore; got ordained as a novice; passed the entrance examinations; got enrolled; and started studying. All these happened within less than a month. With the fear that my family members, relatives, friends, and teachers would dissuade me from taking this step, I did not reveal my plans to anyone. Not even to my mother. I did eventually write to them. With my family, especially with my mother, I played the dharma-card. She had to give her approval and support. My elder brother, a military personal from the Royal Bhutan Army, knew what I was up to, and gave his support. He said, “So, you are studying the Thirteen Great Treatises (gzhung chen bcu gsum).” One night, after spending three years in the seminary, I saw my mother in a dream. I usually do not ascribe any significance to dreams. In the dream, I was talking to my mother. She was not facing me. I could see her face only from the side. She seemed a bit aloof. It saddened me. I woke up with a slight startle. As I lay there in bed, I could not help wondering about her wellbeing. That evening during the debating session in the park, the disciplinarian walked up to me and handed me a letter. It was from my brother. I nervously opened it. My mother has passed away. I considered my mother to be fortunate. Every week, last rites were performed for her sake. The most important one was performed in the third week (on the 21st day). The entire Saṃgha had gathered. The Saṃgha performed the zhi khro rites, involving also summoning my mother’s consciousness, giving initiations and instructions, and the like. Regardless of the efficacy of the last rites, these gave me comfort. Even more comforting was the news that I received from my brother.

My mother passed away in sGang-gzor, a village near lHun-rtse-rdzong in northeast Bhutan. The nearest cemetery or cremation ground is mKho-ma-dur-khrod, situated at the confluence of two rivers (i.e. sKu-ri-chu and mKho-ma-chu). This cemetery, for some, is the Śītavana of Bhutan. It is an ideal sacred spot for cremation. Just as preparations were being made for the cremation and the funeral rites, rDo-grub-chen and his entourage, who were visiting places such as the Seng-ge-rdzong, a famous sacred place associated with Padmasambhava and Ye-shes-mtsho-rgyal, dGon-pa-dkar-po, and so forth, arrived. rDo-grub-chen then naturally performed several quintessential rites for my mother, the most significant, in my view, being the ’pho ba ritual. I consider my mother to be extremely fortunate, and I shall remain forever grateful to rDo-grub-chen, not only for what he did for the rNying-ma school of Tibetan Buddhism and its devotees, but especially for performing the last rites for my mother.

Much Ado About My Date of Birth and Birthday

Two decades ago, I got a Bhutanese passport. I needed it to come to Germany. Once here, I realized that my passport had just the year of my birth, and no date, no month. This turned out to be a horror while wagging through the swamp of German bureaucracy. By the way, this was the reason why my wife and I got married in Denmark and not in Germany. In order to preclude further complications, I would fill in all kinds of forms by leaving the fields for date and month blank. After a week or so, I would receive the forms back. The reason would be that the forms have been filled in incompletely. So, I decided to put zeroes in places of date and month. Again I would receive the forms back. Why? The forms have been filled in erroneously. I dared not invent a date and month of my birth because that the data would no longer conform the data in my passport. So what do I do? I drafted a letter for my elder brother confirming that I was born on such and such a day and in such and such a month. It would take weeks to send and receive such a signed letter. But in the mean time, I happened to see in some official documents where it is stated that it would suffice if the date of birth is attested in some official documents. I dug up some old documents and discovered that my school leaving certificate issued by the high school principal had specified my date of birth. Thus I decided to get this date established as my date of birth in the entire German bureaucratic network. But by then already two dates of birth were in circulation. I would receive two social security numbers and the like. In course of time, however, I managed to establish one date of birth. But my passport still had no date of birth. My next goal was thus to get that settled date of birth into my passport. So while renewing the Bhutanese passport, it was ensured that it bore the date of birth. Finally, I had a consistent date of birth. Or, did I? Actually not.

In Bhutan, at least in those days, when a child is born, parents would ask an astrologer to calculate the “birth astrology” (skyes rtsis). By the way, there is also something like “astrology of the deceased” (gshin rtsis). I must have had my own birth astrology but after the untimely demise of my father, my mother had lost trace of it. But she remembered when I was born. When I was first enrolled in the primary school, the memorable day I still remember vividly, my mother told the  headmaster, who was a Bhutanese from Khaling in Eastern Bhutan, that I was born on the 10th day of the first month of Fire Sheep Year (of the lunar calendar). Obviously the headmaster must have made some rough guess and set my date of birth sometime in the beginning of February. I do not think there was such a thing as calendric conversion table. This date, reckoned by my headmaster, came to be transmitted in all my school documents, and finally into my passport. But one question still lingered. Was I really born in the beginning of February? 

In those days Bhutanese children had no birthday parties, no birthday presents, and in fact children are not supposed to be the central of attention. It is not that parents did not love their children. Parents loved their children without pampering and spoiling them. I still see wisdom in this pedagogy. My experience is that mothers as a rule tend to love their children more than fathers do. Of course, exceptions confirm the rule. There is even a somewhat sad saying in Bhutanese: “An unfortunate child loses its mother first.” If a child loses its mother, the father would remarry and the step-mother is proverbially suspected to be unkind to the children, who are not hers. But here, too, I have personally observed excellent exceptions. Bhutanese children those days had no Kindergarten, no expensive toys. But on the other hand, the whole forest, pastures, grassland, nay, the whole earth, stood there at their disposal as their play ground. They crafted their own toys, they invented their own games. I remember that we would build temples, perform religious rituals, festivals, marriages, funerals, and so on. But we had no birthday parties. I never had a birthday party until I arrived Germany as an adult twenty years ago. 

One evening in Germany, my wife informed me that we were going out to eat. I was not quite ready practically and psychologically. I was a bit reluctant. She seemed decided. So I hastily put on some shabby clothes and we set off. We went to the Eppendorf area. As we entered an Italian restaurant, I was surprised to see four German friends of hers waiting at a reserved table, and the table was strewn with flower petals and lentil seeds. It took a while for me to realize that it was my birthday. My wife has converted  my date of birth in lunar calendar (i.e. 10th day of the first month of the Fire Sheep Year) into the Gregorian system according to Dieter Shuh’s conversion table, and it turned out that my date of birth does not fall sometime in the beginning of February but sometime in the second half of February. So, now I have two birthdays. One is official and the other unofficial but real. The President of our University sends me a letter greeting me on my official birthday. Since then we celebrate my birthday on my unofficial but real birthday. At any rate, the first time I celebrated my birthday organized by my wife, I received several presents, and friends all started to sing in a chorus the birthday song. The cutest thing was a heart-shaped wooden candle stand with number standing erect. I soon realized its significance. That was my first birthday ever! It was as if I was only one year old! I was not used to so much love and so much attention! On the one hand, I felt so embarrassed to be the center of everybody's attention and on the other hand, I was touched to the core by the affection and attention!

As someone who grew up not celebrating one’s birthday, I still feel awkward of celebrating my birthday. I still feel bad to be the center of people’s attention. Maybe it is a false humility of mine. Excepting the bodhisattvas, all of us ordinary people (pṛthagjana) are to some degree narcissistic. I have a feeling that celebrations of birthdays slightly feed into our narcissism. Just the other day, Facebook suggested that I should make my date of birthday public. I did not pay heed to it. Is it because I have a false sense of humility? May be. The main reason is that I do not want my Facebook friends to feel obliged to wish me a happy birth day! My wife thought we should celebrate my 50th birthday. But I was not quite excited. But at the behest of some members of her family and friends, we celebrated twice! All in all, so long as we manage to keep our inherent narcissism in check, birthday celebrations do also remind us the affection and attention that our loved ones give us and teach us to be grateful!

My Memory of sTag-lung-rtse-sprul Rin-po-che (1926–2015)

sTag-lung-rtse-sprul Rin-po-che bShad-sgrub-phrin-las-nyin-byed-bzang-po (1926–2015), the current head of the rNying-ma school of Tibetan Buddhism, passes away today (December 23, 2015) in Buddhagayā, where Siddhārtha vanquished Māra (“Death”) and attained the state of immortality (amṛta), a state untouched by the inevitable process of taking birth, ageing, becoming sick, and dying. Of the six principal monastic seats of the rNying-ma school since the seventeenth century, sTag-lung-rtse-sprul Rin-po-che was affiliated with the rDo-rje-brag Monastery in Central Tibet. I had the fortune to receive the reading transmissions of the Rin chen gter mdzod from him in rNam-grol-gling, to which he was invited by my master Pad-nor Rin-po-che. That would not be considered special or personal at all, for there were hundreds of other people receiving the transmission. One day, however, an attendant of his came to my cell to tell that rTse-sprul-rin-po-che would like to see me. So I went to see him. It turned out that Pad-nor Rin-po-che has suggested that I help him write some letters in English. During the months that followed, I wrote some letters for him. I took it as an honor to be able to be close to him in this way. What struck me most during my visits to his residence was his extreme sense of humility, which is, by no means, a mean quality of a master of his stature. I will be one of many who will miss him as a master.

gang la sems kyi dam pa rin chen de ||

skyes pa de yi sku la phyag ’tshal lo ||

A Rude Jolt

Just the other day, I happened to read the biography of Nyag-bla Padma-bdud-’dul (1816–1872) and his songs of experience (nyams mgur). He was a yogin. He lived a sincere yogic life. He met dPal-sprul, who was vividly impressed by him. He vehemently opposed meat-eating and alcohol and drug consumption. He also opposed sectarianism. For him, the Three Great Ones (chen po gsum) have one intention, one taste. All phenomena appeared to him as texts. This is a well-known Tibetan cliché. It usually means that all Buddhist scriptures and treatises, no matter of which school, appear to one as non-contradictory. This is a good thing. But he also talks about the possibility of all phenomena appearing to one as one’s enemies. That is, if one is not careful. What does it really mean? As an academic, as an intellectual, one can never compromise one’s prajñā (discriminating insight). Prajñā is by nature uncompromising. So is light with darkness. If the prajñā were to be compromised, it must cease to be itself. So the idea that we should see good or bad in everything is like telling someone to be color-blind. For a Prajñāvādin, seeing good in everything is as bad as seeing bad in everything. A Prajñāvādin wants to see things as they are; not better, not worse. But the danger is that there are all kinds of prajñā. The best is, of course, the prajñāpāramitā. She is the mother of all siddhas and buddhas. There is, however, duṣprajñā (“damaged prajñā”). People talk of duḥśīla but not of duṣprajñā. Actually duṣprajñā is deadlier than duḥśīla. Āryadeva would nod at me with consent. For me, the bottom-line seems to be this: The greater is one’s prajñā and the better is one’s prajñā, the greater control one should have over one’s intellectual-emotional defilements (kleśa). Why is it so? This is because prajñā tends to cut the root of kleśas. One’s prajñā tends to undermine one’s kleśas. Despite one’s supposed enhancement of prajñā, if one sees an aggravation or intensification of one’s kleśa, it can be a sure sign that something is not going on well with one’s prajñā. One might as well be brewing inside a deadly concoction of duḥśīla and duṣprajñā. It is becoming an incurable disease. Dharma is said to be an antidote for adharma. But if the antidote itself turns into a poison, no other antidote would be able to cure this disease. Adharma can be said to have developed resistance to dharma. One would then lose the ability to feel with the heart and think clearly with the mind. One would have lost one’s śīla and one’s prajñā. One would lose all sense of appreciation. Even when one directly encounters and witnesses attitudes and activities of compassion, benevolence, joy, and impartiality, generosity, ethical-moral integrity, forbearance, diligence, composure, and wisdom, one would not appreciate. Even when one directly encounters and witnesses malevolence, gruesomeness, pain, and misery, one would not be touched in a wholesome way. Instead, everything and everyone in the world would appear like a fuel for one’s kleśas. Even a piece of log or twig might instigate one’s anger, hatred, and other forms of negativity. The whole world would become a pretext and a context for the explosion of one’s kleśas. This is, what I believe, Nyag-bla is trying say, when he states that all phenomena would appear as one’s enemies.

A Lucky Draw

By pure chance, I had the privilege to have a festive lunch (to mark the end of Summer Retreat) with the ordained community of the Zhe-chen monastery together with mKhan-pos (such as mKhan-po Tshe-ring-rdo-rje who happened to be in Kathmandu and mKhan-po Zla-ba) and sPrul-skus (such as sPrul-sku Padma-rig-’dzin and A-’dzom-rgyal-sras). Following the lunch, there was a draw of lottery (or a kind of lucky-draw game). Every time someone’s number was called, he or she has to walk up to the podium to receive the prize from mKhan-po Tshe-ring-rdo-rje. After the prize was received the winner had to open it in front of all. The young monks cheered “Khol, khol (Open, open)!” The elder monks have gone to play football. I have never won a lottery in my life but this time my number was called. I went up to receive my prize. The monks cheered “Khol, khol!” There were all kinds of prizes ranging from plastic lunch boxes to blankets. A girl won a package of toilet-paper rolls and monks cheered: “Khol, khol!” I was lucky to win a liturgical collection with a handmade Tibetan book-holder! As I took my seat behind sPrul-sku Padma-rig-’dzin, he whispered in my ears: “It is such a good rten ’brel!”

My Short Experiment with Vegetarianism

[Initially on http://philosophia-buddhica.blogspot.com]

Until high school, I never ate chicken and mutton (i.e. goat’s meat). This has partly to do with my direct witness of how some Indian teachers slaughtered goats or cocks or hens. Once they even demanded that I helped in the act. I refused and locked myself in an empty classroom. Our family did eat dried beef, pork, and fish but often only on special occasions such as the New Year. We also used to eat meat of a cow, for example, that died a natural death. We never reared animals for meat. As children we were forbidden to mention the word “meat” in front of our domestic animals, especially cows. “Meat of killed animal” (bsad sha) used to be a taboo and meat of a just-killed animal even a greater taboo. Once my mother almost killed me for daring to eat sausage made from such a kind of meat. 

In the high school, I ate meat (probably buffalo meat) on Tuesdays and Fridays because the school provided it. As a monk in a Tibetan Buddhist monastic seminary, I tried to be a vegetarian for a few months. In those days, monasteries and monks were very poor and resources very scarce. An ex-monk of Paṇ-chen-bla-ma cooked for the monks in the seminary. He used to smoke biḍī (a kind of cheap Indian cigarette). As a dGe-lugs ex-monk he had no sense of guilt in consuming the intoxicant. “The Buddha did not prohibit smoking,” he would say. “It was Slob-dpon Rin-po-che who did.”  He did not feel obliged to heed to the instructions of Slob-dpon Rin-po-che because, according to him, he had “women” (skye dman). He despised all bla mas who had “women.” He would show his little finger to vent his detestation for them. Dil-mgo-mkhyen-brtse Rin-po-che was no exception. He despised him too. He used to say that “a Bhutanese bla ma with woman scratched everything away from Pad-nor Rin-po-che and that monks were left with nothing to eat.” He was referring to the offerings Pad-nor Rin-po-che made after Dil-mgo-mkhyen-brtse Rin-po-che bestowed initiations and transmission of Mi-pham’s works. In order to tease him, I would tell him “Paṇ-chen Rin-po-che, too, had woman.” He would stand there fuming with biḍī and anger. He had tremendous respect for Pad-nor Rin-po-che not the least because he was a a fully-ordained Buddhist monk (bhikṣu: dge slong). So he volunteered to cook for Pad-nor Rin-po-che’s monks in the seminary. Of course, provisions were provided by Pad-nor Rin-po-che. Most monks dedicated to acquiring Dharmic knowledge were full of gratitude for receiving knowledge, accommodation, and food for free. Mi-la-ras-pa could have only dreamt of such a facility! Note that Mar-pa told him very sternly that he can expect from him either Dharma (chos) or food-and-clothes (lto gos) but not both! The cook turned out not to be the kindest person or the most competent cook on earth. The tea he would prepare would smell and look smoky. Its temperature would be either cold or lukewarm. The tea and the rice porridge he made would contain biḍī butts. Rice would often be half-cooked or burnt. The roasted maize-flour would be full of sands. Two monks were assigned to assist the cook for two weeks. If those two monks made better food or tea, he would become jealous. To spoil their work, he would, for example, even pour a bucket of cold water into a caldron of ready-to-eat rice porridge. To minimize the damage, the two monks had to somehow keep the cook happy. Only two things could make him happy. (a) Let him cook as he wished. (b) Buy him a bottle of ara (i.e. alcohol) and a packet of biḍī. Hardly anyone would complain. Even teachers would mix some sandy tsam pa with some lukewarm biḍī-smelling tea, turn into a brew and sip at it. If one slightly shook the dented steel-bowl with the concoction, one could hear the sound of sand-sediments rubbing against the steel. Only once I heard a senior teacher reprimand the cook saying the Rin-po-che is providing the provisions for the saṃgha and that these should by no means be wasted. Another teacher, however, would reprimand any monk who complained. “The door is open in both ways,” he would say. “Nobody invited you to come. If you are displeased, you may leave the seminary any time.” He was right. Some monks would leave; others would stay behind biting their lips and biting sandy tsam pas. I stayed. Occasionally there would be meat. If one is lucky one might be able to fish out a piece of meat or bone in the porridge or cabbage or potato dish. There would be no vegetarian alternative. Once I told the cook that I don’t eat meat. He told me that I should then only take the soup or put aside the meat pieces (if any). Under such circumstances, the only way one could be a vegetarian was to buy one’s own vegetarian food. I had no money and so vegetarianism was a luxury for me. So I relinquished my short-lived vegetarian diet. Since then I eat meat but I try not to eat meat so often. I know I have no other excuse for my meat-eating except my greed and my inability to relinquish “exquisite” food. I am often guilt-ridden for eating meat and have much respect for those who relinquish meat for whatever motives. One thing seems clear: If I had to kill an animal myself to obtain its meat for myself, perhaps I would never eat meat.

Apropos, I am tempted to share this story. It is said that once a German lady witnessed the Dalai Lama eating a piece of steak onboard a plane. She went up to him and said: “I thought Buddhists do not eat meat.” The Dalai Lama retorted: “Those are the good Buddhists.”