Rampa Lobsang The Saffron Robe

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rode a horse up the path outside our window. The night
dragged on. Time stood still. Life was an eternity of
waiting, waiting, where nothing moved, where all
was still save for the snores, the click of the Prayer
Wheel and the muffled steps of the horse. I must have
dozed.
Wearily I sat up. The floor was hard and unyielding.
The cold of the stone was creeping into my bones. Some-
where a boy muttered that he wanted his mother. Stiffly
I climbed to my feet and moved to the window, carefully
avoiding the sleeping bodies around me. The cold was
intense and there was a threat of snow to come. Over the
vast Himalayan ranges the morning was sending forth
tendrils of light, colored fingers seeking our Valley, wait-
ing to light up yet another day.
The spume of snow-dust always flying from the very
highest peaks was illumined now by golden light shining
on its underside, while from the top came scintillating
rainbow crescents which wavered and blossomed to the
vagaries of the high winds. Across the sky shot vivid
beams of light as the sun peeped through the mountain
passes and gave a promise of another day soon to be. The
stars faded. No longer was the sky a purple vault; it
lightened, lightened, and became the palest blue. The
whole of the mountains were limned with gold as the sky
grew brighter. Gradually the blinding orb of the sun
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climbed above the mountain passes and shone forth in
blazing glory into our Valley.
The cold was intense. Ice crystals fell from the sky and
cracked on the roof with a musical tinkle. There was a
bitterness, a sharpness in the air that almost froze the
marrow in one's bones. What a peculiar climate, I thought,
sometimes too cold to snow, and yet sometimes at mid-
day it would be uncomfortably hot. Then, in the twinkling
of an eye, a great wind storm would rise and send all flying
before it. Always, in the mountains, there was snow, deep
snow, but on the exposed stretches the winds blew away
the snow as fast as it fell. Our country was high, and with
rarefied air. Air so thin and clear that it afforded scant
shelter from the ultra-violet (or heat generating) rays of the
sun. In our summer a monk could swelter miserably in his
robes, then, as a cloud momentarily obscured the sun, the
temperature would fall to many degrees below freezing
all in a few minutes.
We suffered greatly from wind storms. The great barrier
of the Himalayas sometimes held back clouds that formed
over India, causing a temperature inversion. Then howling
gales would pour over the mountain lips and storm down
into our Valley, sweeping all before it. People who wan-
dered abroad during the storms had to wear leather face-
masks or risk having the skin stripped from them by the
rock-dust torrenting down, wind-borne, from the highest
reaches. Travelers caught in the open on the mountain
passes would risk being blown away, unless they were alert
and quick to act, their tents and other possessions would
be blown in the air, whirling ragged and ruined, playthings
of the mindless wind.
Somewhere below, in the pale morning a yak bellowed
mournfully. As if at the signal, the trumpets blared forth
from the roof high above. The conches lowed and
throbbed, to echo and re-echo and fuse into a medley of
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sound like some multiple chord played on a mighty organ.
About me there were all the myriad sounds of a large com-
munity awakening to a new day, to another day of life. A
chant from the Temple, the neighing of horses, muttered
grumbles from sleepy small boys shivering naked in the in-
tensely cold air. And as a muted undertone, the incessant
clicking of the Prayer Wheels located through the buildings,
turned and turned eternally by old, old monks who
thought that that was their sole purpose in life.
The place was astir. Activity increased from moment to
moment. Shaven heads peered hopefully from open win-
dows, wishing for a warmer day. A dark blob, shapeless,
formless, wobbled from somewhere above and crossed my
line of vision to crash with a sharp crack on the rocks
below. Someone's bowl, I thought, now HE will have to go
without breakfast until he can obtain another! Breakfast?
Of course! We have started another day, a day when I
would need to have my strength up because I was hoping
that my beloved Guide would be returning this day, and
before I could see him there were morning classes, temple
service but before all BREAKFAST!
Tsampa is unappetizing stuff, but it was all I knew about
except for very rare, very infrequent delicacies from India.
So I trudged off down the corridor, following the line of
boys and monks wending their way down to the hall where
we ate.
At the entrance I hung about a bit, waiting for some of
the others to settle down because I was shaky on my legs,
somewhat uncertain in my steps, and when everyone was
milling about it posed a definite threat to my stability.
Eventually I walked in and took my place among the lines
of men and boys sitting on the floor. We sat cross-legged
(all except me, and I sat with my legs tucked under me).
There were lines of us, perhaps two hundred and fifty of
us at one time. As we sat there monk attendants came and
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ladled out tsampa, passing along the rows, giving each of
us our fair equitable share. Monks stood at the sides of [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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