Driving to Sam-ye Ling in Scotland I had plenty time to reflect on my previous visits to Samye Ling. I had first gone there with our newly founded Dundee Buddhist Group in 1973, when I was 21. I had been a Buddhist for about five years and had not met another Buddhist in Scotland until the recent forming of the Dundee Buddhist Group under the inspiration of Ray Truesdale. Although I was voted Chairman at the first meeting it was really Ray’s group and, as Secretary, he ran it. He had organised eight meetings, three of which were visits to outside groups – Edinburgh Buddhist Group, Glasgow Buddhist Group (which we discovered had transformed into FWBO Glasgow and the woman in charge of it, Mrs Turpie, had herself changed into Mallika) and Samye Ling. I no longer remember in which order the visits went. In fact there were two visits to Samye Ling - one to the famous ‘Garden Party’ and another weekend visit.
As I drove up the motorway I realised that except for the most important memories there were very few memories left of those two visits. The first of the two visits, whether the Garden Party or the Weekend visit, was the crucial one. It was one of the main turning points in my life as a Buddhist. We were visiting Samye Ling when Kalu Rimpoche was there. I hadn’t known about Kalu Rimpoche until, Lorraine, one of our group, started telling me about him. Her closest friend, June Campbell, had become Kalu Rimpoche’s attendant and English translator and had been travelling with him for a several years. It was through June that Lorraine had learned of Kalu Rimpoche. Kalu Rimpoche, I was told, was one of the most senior of all the monks from Tibet and that he was a great master of meditation. He had led in Tibet three cycles of the three, three-year retreats – a total of twenty-seven years. What this must have meant to a twenty-one year old who until just a few months before had never met another Buddhist you can hardly imagine. I had spent the previous five years struggling to practise mindfulness of breathing from a book and had been preparing myself patiently for the Guru to appear! I can still remember the feelings I had of excitement, expectation, wonder, awe, reverence – it’s almost impossible to encapsulate the feeling in words.
There in the garden was the old guru sitting at a table with a few people surrounding him. He was the archetypal guru: old and wizened, emaciated to the point of being skeletal. His high cheekbones seemed to lift up his lips and lend his face a benign smile. It was hard tear my eyes away from him. He was an ideal figure for all my positive projections – but at the time I didn’t know that. He just appeared so special and, at the same time, so ordinary sitting at the table. I was thankful that he had come in such a humble way and that there were no great fanfares of trumpets (unlike when I met the Karmapa shortly afterwards and which had left me cold). There he was just sitting quietly in the garden being introduced to a few people now and then. No great scrabble to see him. No great hordes of Lama worshippers. Just an old man who was a meditation master and a guru. When Lorraine insisted that go up to him I was quite clear I didn’t need to. I had seen this old monk and it was enough just to be near him – what need to go and speak to him, to bother him and so on. What would I have said? I felt no regret afterwards that I had not been one of the ones to go forward ,although Lorraine could not understand it. On our second visit to Samye Ling I again saw Kalu Rimpoche and was just happy that such a man existed. Although I had been naively preparing myself patiently for the promised Guru to appear I did not feel personally ready, nor that this was the mythical promised Guru. (In fact, I had a fair idea, even then, that Sangharakshita was my guru although he looked nothing like a Guru and that it would be five years before I would meet him face to face.) However such was the effect of seeing Kalu Rimpoche on that first occasion, and closely followed by the second, that for the first time in five years I was able to establish my meditation practice on a regular basis which resulted in significantly deeper experience of meditation. Now that I could actually see with my eyes that meeting wise men was possible in this world I began to take my practice of the Dharma more seriously.
Many years later, not long before Kalu Rimpoche died I was able to visit him in his Gompa at Sonada, near Darjeeling. He was much older – I think in his nineties – frailer than ever. There was only bone under the translucent skin. His shaking hands continuously fingered his pale pink coral mala but he could no longer count individual beads - he had to take them in great swathes. Fifteen years or so had intervened since I had first seen him at Samye Ling and although in the intervening years I had found my own ‘Guru’ I still harboured strong appreciation and gratitude to this Lama. His little bedroom cabin had windows on two sides covered with thin cloth of a warm colour and as the sun sank the room filled with unearthly amber light. He was giving a talk to a few Westerners on the various hells. The contrast could hardly have been greater: the heavenly light in the room and the dark descriptions of hot and cold hells. At the end of the session, since there were so few of us I was able to go forward and say a few words. I told him that I had seen him twice before at Samye Ling but I had never before spoken to him or even heard him talk. I told him that the effect of just seeing him, all those years ago, was such that my Buddhist practice had deepened so that it had become the guiding force in my life. I told him that I just wanted to thank him for being there. He accepted my thanks and took a white scarf and placed it around my neck. His outstretched bony hand blessed me on the crown of my head with an amazing strength for such an old man. He muttered a few words of blessing and smiled at me as I departed.
Saturday, 14 March 2009
Suvajra and the Eunach
Number Six
He often sat on a doorstep in the lane by the level crossing, his tanned face and bob-cut hair reflecting the gold and black of his sari. In a way he was quite attractive – if you like that sort of thing. Perhaps I should say, “She was quite attractive,” but the trouble is I never know how to refer to them, these ‘Number Sixes,’ or Hijaras, as they are more properly called.
Whenever I passed I tried to not look. Partly I didn’t want to be seen by others to look at him…her? Partly I didn’t want to be seen by him to be looking. But due to quite irresistible forces, only some of which were unconscious, I was always aware whether she was sitting there or not and I could no more help the furtive glances than I could help scratching an itch.
She was a sad sort of figure I thought. Lonely and isolated. I never saw her with anyone. She never talked to anyone. I saw no one talking to her. And I never saw her ‘do the rounds’ – all that hand-clapping stuff they do, demanding money under threat of social embarrassment. I often had to pass his doorstep in the lane… her doorstep… on the way to the market or the station. And the rickshaw stand was in the same lane.
Once I came down from the local train and went to the rickshaw stand. It was the hottest part of the day and therefore the slackest time. Most drivers were sound asleep, curled up in the passenger seats and I had to wake the driver of the front rickshaw. He was a young guy, maybe in his early twenties. Reluctant and bleary eyed he dragged himself into consciousness. I sheltered from the blazing sun under the canopy of the back seat while he poured water over his head and shook himself like a dog coming out from a dip. He swirled water round his mouth and spouted an arc across the lane and then tried to bring his unruly hair under control. He was a bit of a lad, a young rogue, you know, but with a likable face – that sort. And these rickshaws are the shared rickshaws. They never go off with less than three passengers, not unless you pay a bigger fare that is, and at this time of day one was never certain of a full compliment.
A woman in a dark sari appeared by the rickshaw and I was glad. In she came and sat next to me. But it was him. Yes, him…her…the ‘Number Six’. It was the first time I had seen her close up. Who knows if she had been an attractive lad or not? It was hard to tell. Shaved she was but also with face powder, eyeliner, plucked eye-brows and dark red lipstick. A few light gold chains hung round her neck and glass bangles on her wrists completed the picture. Yes, it was a young man dressed as a woman.
What to do? I had never before been in a rickshaw with one of them. What will people think? Maybe they will think he is with me? Maybe he will threaten me for money. I looked anxiously up and down the lane for another passenger. None. What to do? Just wait. Play it cool.
The driver and she passed some comments back and forth. It seemed to be a mix of insult, banter and flirtation. At least flirtation on the part of the young driver. He received a great fisted thud on his back. Yes, if there was ever any doubt it was now settled…’she’ was a young man dressed as a woman. The driver just laughed and turned to me, “This is my wife!” he said. I laughed. The driver stepped out of the rickshaw and stretched, deliberately exposing his bare smooth midriff. A soft, gentle line of dark hair traced a path down from his stomach into low slung jeans. What a flirt I thought, an outrageous flirt! She nudged me. Her face expressed disgust at the bare midriff. I laughed to myself.
Another passenger arrived, a smart young man and, seeing who was in the back seat, backed off as if he had just seen a poisonous serpent. He tried to share the driver’s seat but Flirt was having none of it. The new passenger screwed his face up and gingerly let himself onto the seat next to her. Anyone who has ever shared a rickshaw will know what it means to have three people on one seat. Three is an intimate number in a rickshaw and there is no getting away from it. Knees, hips, buttocks and arms and shoulders all touch. Although she was the picture of decorum and Flirt behaved himself and attended to his driving, the new passenger’s face remained screwed up.
“Last stop!" Flirt called out, "‘Water Tanky’ ”
We debouched and the other passenger paid his fare and left as quickly as possible. I tried to pay my five rupees but the driver demanded double.
“Ten?”
“Yes, five rupees for you and five rupees for her!”
“No way!”
“No. This is standard. You have to pay ten.”
They both insisted and were set for an argument. Other passengers I was told had to pay for the ‘Number Sixes.’ They always did! No doubt they did. I refused point blank. I put five rupees on the driver’ seat.
“She is your wife,” I said, “you pay for her!” and I walked off with s smirk on my face!
Just a little down to road I caught up with the other passenger. He was still clearly rattled. “Bloody Hell!” he said. “Bloody, bloody, bloody Hell!”
He was a young man, the vicar of one of the local Christian Churches. He was so very rattled that it set me thinking about his reaction, his Christianity, and the bible. It was almost as if today, Adam and Eve and the Serpent had in the mind of the vicar been combined into a potent and threatening mix in the person of this sad young Eunach.
“Bloody Hell!” it came again.
He often sat on a doorstep in the lane by the level crossing, his tanned face and bob-cut hair reflecting the gold and black of his sari. In a way he was quite attractive – if you like that sort of thing. Perhaps I should say, “She was quite attractive,” but the trouble is I never know how to refer to them, these ‘Number Sixes,’ or Hijaras, as they are more properly called.
Whenever I passed I tried to not look. Partly I didn’t want to be seen by others to look at him…her? Partly I didn’t want to be seen by him to be looking. But due to quite irresistible forces, only some of which were unconscious, I was always aware whether she was sitting there or not and I could no more help the furtive glances than I could help scratching an itch.
She was a sad sort of figure I thought. Lonely and isolated. I never saw her with anyone. She never talked to anyone. I saw no one talking to her. And I never saw her ‘do the rounds’ – all that hand-clapping stuff they do, demanding money under threat of social embarrassment. I often had to pass his doorstep in the lane… her doorstep… on the way to the market or the station. And the rickshaw stand was in the same lane.
Once I came down from the local train and went to the rickshaw stand. It was the hottest part of the day and therefore the slackest time. Most drivers were sound asleep, curled up in the passenger seats and I had to wake the driver of the front rickshaw. He was a young guy, maybe in his early twenties. Reluctant and bleary eyed he dragged himself into consciousness. I sheltered from the blazing sun under the canopy of the back seat while he poured water over his head and shook himself like a dog coming out from a dip. He swirled water round his mouth and spouted an arc across the lane and then tried to bring his unruly hair under control. He was a bit of a lad, a young rogue, you know, but with a likable face – that sort. And these rickshaws are the shared rickshaws. They never go off with less than three passengers, not unless you pay a bigger fare that is, and at this time of day one was never certain of a full compliment.
A woman in a dark sari appeared by the rickshaw and I was glad. In she came and sat next to me. But it was him. Yes, him…her…the ‘Number Six’. It was the first time I had seen her close up. Who knows if she had been an attractive lad or not? It was hard to tell. Shaved she was but also with face powder, eyeliner, plucked eye-brows and dark red lipstick. A few light gold chains hung round her neck and glass bangles on her wrists completed the picture. Yes, it was a young man dressed as a woman.
What to do? I had never before been in a rickshaw with one of them. What will people think? Maybe they will think he is with me? Maybe he will threaten me for money. I looked anxiously up and down the lane for another passenger. None. What to do? Just wait. Play it cool.
The driver and she passed some comments back and forth. It seemed to be a mix of insult, banter and flirtation. At least flirtation on the part of the young driver. He received a great fisted thud on his back. Yes, if there was ever any doubt it was now settled…’she’ was a young man dressed as a woman. The driver just laughed and turned to me, “This is my wife!” he said. I laughed. The driver stepped out of the rickshaw and stretched, deliberately exposing his bare smooth midriff. A soft, gentle line of dark hair traced a path down from his stomach into low slung jeans. What a flirt I thought, an outrageous flirt! She nudged me. Her face expressed disgust at the bare midriff. I laughed to myself.
Another passenger arrived, a smart young man and, seeing who was in the back seat, backed off as if he had just seen a poisonous serpent. He tried to share the driver’s seat but Flirt was having none of it. The new passenger screwed his face up and gingerly let himself onto the seat next to her. Anyone who has ever shared a rickshaw will know what it means to have three people on one seat. Three is an intimate number in a rickshaw and there is no getting away from it. Knees, hips, buttocks and arms and shoulders all touch. Although she was the picture of decorum and Flirt behaved himself and attended to his driving, the new passenger’s face remained screwed up.
“Last stop!" Flirt called out, "‘Water Tanky’ ”
We debouched and the other passenger paid his fare and left as quickly as possible. I tried to pay my five rupees but the driver demanded double.
“Ten?”
“Yes, five rupees for you and five rupees for her!”
“No way!”
“No. This is standard. You have to pay ten.”
They both insisted and were set for an argument. Other passengers I was told had to pay for the ‘Number Sixes.’ They always did! No doubt they did. I refused point blank. I put five rupees on the driver’ seat.
“She is your wife,” I said, “you pay for her!” and I walked off with s smirk on my face!
Just a little down to road I caught up with the other passenger. He was still clearly rattled. “Bloody Hell!” he said. “Bloody, bloody, bloody Hell!”
He was a young man, the vicar of one of the local Christian Churches. He was so very rattled that it set me thinking about his reaction, his Christianity, and the bible. It was almost as if today, Adam and Eve and the Serpent had in the mind of the vicar been combined into a potent and threatening mix in the person of this sad young Eunach.
“Bloody Hell!” it came again.
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