Death of a Lama

One morning just after dawn I climbed the narrow stair case from the sleeping room up to the kitchen.  I grabbed a cup from from the shelf, took the kettle off the flames and filled my mug with tea sweetened with fresh milk.  The Sherpa family was unusually quiet. Dawa, the head of the household, was standing near the fire dressed in clean, fresh trousers and a collared shirt. I was told that a High Lama from the Taksindu monastery had passed away during the night.

The men, cousin Basong and uncle Dawa, were going to the monastery right away so we needed to gather the gifts. We all went down to the storage level of the house, dragged out several baskets of corn and stripped them of husk and hair.  We made two piles of corn on the cob,  one good enough to offer to the Lama's spirit as he makes his ascension, the other pile for the cows. We also gathered together a basket of pealed white beans and several white scarves. 

The hand made, bamboo basket for the Lama's corn was conical shaped with the narrow end toward the ground. A rope went through the lip in two places then up Basong's back, over his shoulders, and around his forehead. He carried the load from his head in the traditional Sherpa way. 

The basket, filled to the brim with corn that had yet to be dried out in the courtyard, must have weighed upwards of 50 pounds! Dawa, being an elder, carried a smaller load of white beans, other gifts as well as warm coats in a backpack that was given to him by one of the Sherpa family's several Trekking Guides, in case the weather changed on their way to the village of Taksindu. The weather did change! It began to pore by the afternoon but the two men did not return until dinner. 

The Taksindu Monistery is ninety minutes walk from the village of Cchulemu, on top of a hill, in a Himalayan jungle in the Solukumbu District of Nepal.  It sits low, only 6000 feet, in comparison to most Sherpa villages.  The Taksindu Monastery serves at least seven villages. It has a school for novices and all instructors are Buddhist monks. Outside the one-story, novice dormitory and classrooms is a beautiful grassy field that slopes down toward the valley, opening up to the sky and vast mountain views. The young novices study six days a week.  There is a volleyball court marked out in the grass for their breaks and for the day of rest. Some are as young as 5 years old! They act just like any other kids wanting to play games with their friends. 

Up the path from the dormitories is the grand temple. In the first room there are two rows of low tables facing each other with brightly colored pillows as seats behind. Colorful, silk "parasols" hang from ceiling to floor. The walls are painted with kind-faced deities such as the smiley Green Tara. The eight sacred symbols are cheerfully pained on the wall at the far end and above them, high up in a glass balcony, sits a gold leaf replica of the temples' patron Rinpoche surrounded by pink and purple flowers. 

Under the gold statue is a door leading to a second room. This room is small and dark. At the opposite side is a throne covered with gold and saffron velvet. In it sits a framed photo of the Rimpoche. On either side of the throne the sutras, prayers and writings by the Buddha, which are bound in wooden casings, covered with yellow silk and neatly stacked on small shelves that go up the entire wall. The remaining walls are painted with dark and harsh deities such as Vadra Kalia, the destroyer of all obstacles on the path to Nirvana. He is not a friendly face! Bloody fangs and welding a large dagger, this guy means business! 

Dawa and Basong returned after dark that night, soaking wet. The rain, thunder and lightning were furious! They asked if I would like to return to the monastery with them the next morning to witness the ceremonies leading up to the funeral pyre. 

Early the next morning we made the trek up the mountain, raining still! The path, paved with stones from over a thousand years of habitation in this area, was slick and water ran fast under our feet. 

The monastery was a buzz with mourners. The women kept their hands busy by pouring hot milk tea into bowls for monks and villagers alike, to warm our cold wet bodies from the inside. The men sat in small groups sharing stories. Then, suddenly, the older monks entered the grand temple to begin prayers to assist the Lama's spirit in its journey. They chanted in low, reverberating tones while cymbals crashed and horns bellowed. The Lama's body lay still in a wooden box on the floor, near the front of the room. He was dressed in his saffron robes and a red shall but his feet were bare. 

Prayer chanting lasted for an hour as we on-lookers peered through windows and doors at the monks. Then the Lama, in his box covered in gold brochette fabrics, was lifted by men from the villages and slowly carried outside the temple, down the stairs where the women were waiting in the courtyard to offer the Lama hot tea, a piece of bread, incense and flowers for his journey. Without word, all the villagers lined up and began to follow the Lama in his box, up a path marked by burning bundles of juniper branches. It smelled lovely.

We continued to the top of a hill over looking the monastery. The rain had not let up for nearly two days. I would later learn that the rain was coming from a late Indian typhoon that hit the Annapurna Mountains resulting in massive snows, avalanches and the death of over 20 trekkers.  

The pyre that was constructed two days earlier was drenched! Several men ran back down the hill and returned several minutes later with old beer bottles filled with kerosene to aid the fire making process. Women brought thermoses filled with hot tea for the shivering mourners and attempted to keep the Lama dry by positioning umbrellas over his head. 

When it came time to light the pyre two village men climbed on top of the ten foot pile of logs and branches, pulling the Lama up with them over the branches. His robes rolled up around his neck and the exposed flesh on his back and arms was ripped, torn and punctured from the violent tugging over the sharp sticks. The wounds were rashy and red but did not bleed. Once the Lama was placed in a sleeping position on top of the branches, his robes were unceremoniously yanked over his head and tossed back into the box from whence he arrived. Branches were laid across the top of his body and the fire was lit with kerosene soaked torches. 

On the slow slog back down the wet, slippery mountain I asked Basong why no one cried as the Lama's body became engulfed in the flames. "He was a monk with no family.  No one was close to him and so there is no one to cry for his passing."