Freedom In Exile: The Autobiography Of The Dalai Lama
Chapter 10 - A Wolf In Monk's Robes
Just before actually moving in to Bryn Cottage, I became very ill for a
number of weeks. On returning to Dharamsala in early 1966, after the
cessation of conflict between India and Pakistan, I had taken
enthusiastically to my new, vegetarian diet. Unfortunately, there are
few dishes in Tibetan cuisine that do not use meat and it was some time
before the cooks learned how to make them taste good without it. But
eventually they succeeded and began to produce delicious meals. I felt
really well on them. Meanwhile, several Indian friends told me of the
importance of supplementing my diet with plenty of milk and nuts. I
followed this advice faithfully - with the result that after twenty
months I contracted a severe case of jaundice.
On the first day, I vomited a great deal. Thereafter, I lost my appetite
completely for two or three weeks, and fell into a state of utter
exhaustion. To move at all required tremendous effort. On top of this,
my skin turned bright yellow. I looked like the Buddha himself! Some
people used to say that the Dalai Lama lives as a prisoner in a golden
cage: on this occasion, I was golden-bodied too.
Eventually the illness, which turned out to be Hepatitis B, cleared up,
but not before I had consumed large quantities of Tibetan medicine (about
which I shall say more in a later chapter). As soon as I began once more
to take an interest in eating, I was intructed by my doctors that not
only must I take less greasy food, cut out nuts and reduce my consumption
of milk, but also I must start eating meat again. They were very much
afraid that the illness had caused permanent damage to my liver and were
of the opinion that, as a result, my life has probably been shortened. A
number of Indian doctors I consulted were of the same opinion, so
reluctantly I returned to being non-vegetarian. Today, I eat meat except
on special occasion required by my spiritual practice. The same is true
for a number of Tibetans who followed my example and suffered a similar
fate.
>From the start, I was very happy in my new home. Like Swarg Ashram, the
house was originally built by the British and stands at the top of a hill
in a small garden of its own, surrounded by trees. It has a fine view
both of the Dhauladar mountain range and of the valley, in which lies
Dharamsala itself. Apart from having sufficient space just outside to
address over a thousand people, its main attraction for me is the garden.
I set to work on it immediately and planted many different types of
fruit trees and flowers. This I did with my own hands: gardening is one
of my great joys. Sadly, few of the trees did well and they produce
rather poor, bitter fruit, but I took consolation from the great variety
of animals, and particularly birds, that came to visit.
I enjoy watching wildlife even more than gardening. For this purpose, I
constructed a bird table just outside my study window. It is surrounded
by wire netting to keep out the larger birds and birds of prey, which
tend to scare off their smaller brethren. This is not always sufficient
to keep them awya, however. Occasionally, I am compelled to take out one
of the air guns that I acquired shortly after arriving in India, in order
to discipline these fat, greedy trespassers. Having spent a great deal
of time as a child at the Norbulingka practising with the Thirteenth's
old air rifle, I am quite a good shot. Of course, I never kill them. My
intention is only to inflict a measure of pain in order to teach a
lesson.
My days at Bryn Cottage were taken up on much the same way as before.
Each winter I toured the refugee settlements, and from time to time I
gave teachings. I also continued my religious studies. In addition, I
began to try to learn something about Western thought, particularly in
the fields of science, astronomy and philosophy. And in my spare
moments, I rediscovered my old enthusiasm for photography. As a thirteen
or fourteen year old, I had acquired my first box camera through the good
offices of Serkon Rinpoche, the lame _tsen-shap_.
At first, I entrusted the exposed films to him for development. He then
pretended that the films were his own (to save me from embarassment if I
had photographed anything that might be considered unworthy of the Dalai
Lama) and took them to a merchant. They were then processed in India.
This procedure always caused him anxiety - because if my subject matter
really had been unsuitable, he would have had to take responsibility!
Later on though, I constructed a darkroom at the Norbulingka and, from
Jigme Taring, one of my officials, learned how to do this work myself.
Shortly after moving to Bryn Cottage, I was able to refound Namgyal
monastery, whose monks were previously living in a small house above
Swarg Ashram. Today it occupies a bulding not far from my own residence.
A little later, in 1970, work was also completed on a new temple, the
Tsuglakhang. This meant that I now had the opportunity to take part in
the various ceremonies of the traditional Tibetan calendar in an
appropriate setting. Today, adjacent to the buildings at Namgyal, is
housed the School of Buddhist Dialectics, which helps to keep alive the
art of debating within our monastic community. Most afternoons, the
courtyard outside the temple is now full of young monks in maroon robes
clapping their hands and shaking their heads and laughing as they
practise for their examinations.
In 1963, I had called a meeting of all heads of the different traditions,
together with representatives of the Bon religion. Together we discussed
our common difficulties and strategies for overcoming them in order to
preserve and propagate the different aspects of our Tibetan Buddhist
culture. At the end of several days, I was satisfied that, if we could
only provide ourselves with the right facilites, our religion would
survive. And now, soon after reinaugurating my own monastery, I
re-established Ganden, Drepung and Sera, in the souther state of
Karnataka, initially with a complement of 1,300 monks - the survivors
from Buxa Duar.
Today, as we begin our fourth decade in exile, there is a thriving
monastic community over six thousand strong. I would even go so far as
to say that we have too many monks: after all, it is the quality and
dedication of these people that counts, not their numbers.
Another cultural enterprise begun towards the end of the 1960s was the
Library of Tibetan Works and Archives, which not only contains more than
forty thousand original Tibetan volumes but is also involved in
publishing both English-language and Tibetan books. This year, 1990, it
published its 200th English title. The Library building is constructed
in traditional Tibetan style and, besides housing literature, also
contains a museum that is stocked with many items brought to India by the
refugees. Of the few possessions that people were able to bring with
them, a lot took _thangkas_, books of scripture and other religious
artefacts rather than things of a more practical nature. Many of these
they characteristically offered to the Dalai Lama. I in turn passed
items on to these organisations.
Foreword
Dalai Lama means different things to different people. To some it means
that I am a living Buddha, the earthly manifestation of Avalokiteshvara,
Bodhisattva of Compassion. To others it means that I am a 'god-king'.
During the late 1950s it meant that I was a Vice-President of the
Steering Committee of the National People's Congress of the People's
Republic of China. Then when I escaped into exile, I was called a
counterrevolutionary and a parasite. But none of these are my ideas. To
me 'Dalai Lama' is a title that signifies the office I hold. I myself am
just a human being, and incidentally a Tibetan, who chooses to be a
Buddhist monk.
It is as a simple monk that I offer this story of my life, though it is
by no means a book about Buddhism. I have two main reasons for doing so.
Firstly, an increasing number of people have shown an interest in
learning something about the Dalai Lama. Secondly, there are a number of
historical events about which I wish to set the record straight.
Because of constrainsts on my time, I have decided to tell my story
directly in English. It has not been easy, for my ability to express
myself in this language is limited. Furthermore, I am aware that some of
the subtler implications of what I say may not be precisely what I
intended. But the same would be true in a translation from Tibetan. I
should also add that I have at my disposal only limited resources for
research and my memory is as fallible as anyone else's. That said, I
wish to offer my thanks to the concerned officers of the Tibetan
Government in Exile and to Mr. Alexander Norman, for their assistance in
these areas.
Freedom In Exile (c) 1990 by Tenzin Gyatso,
the 14th Dalai Lama of Tibet
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