PILGRIMAGE TO PHUGTAL
A long walk to a remote monastery in Zangskar, Himalayas
James Crowden and John Crook c 1993
Early morning beneath Nun Kun
Old carvings of ibex
The sound of boys driving sheep and cattle.
Their voices echoing in the clear air
Willow trees beneath steep snow
First light hits the mountain
At Rangdom old dogs and chough's.
Monks chanting above the water's shingle
The sound of a silver horse bell.
Ice gapes and lurches forward
Into the river, the toe of the glacier
Careers through the mind.
Yak dung burning in the dusk
Frozen peaks
The unmistakeable echo of silence.
Blue flowers at the window
Our bus careers into Zangskar
Inside
Improbability juxtaposed
The would-be inner travellers.
Village grove, slight breeze
Curious
How silently the sunlight
Makes the sparrows chirp.
At Rangdom Gompa
I am glad to see
The monks still sustain
The revolutions of the Universe.
Since I was here,
Yeshe Monlam, fine monk, has died
For me, remembering him, they chant
The aspirations of the blessed
Dust keeps falling
From the Buddha's nose
At Chushigzhal ,
Tea with an old friend
Sonam Wangchuk,
The Karsha Lonpo
Surrounded by memories
Old paintings, the moon rising
The valley far below,
Two rivers meet
Such friendship, such friendship.
And in this foreign monastery
Hoping to bribe villagers
They think naive
Invading Christian zealots hand out
The powerful drugs
Of Western decadence.
Without thanks the pills
Are grabbed and stowed away.
Later, some of them are sewn into hats.
Next week,
The yogins' turn.
How hot the valley
Pounding in the head
Heat and dust
Road blasting
In front of Bardan monastery
Old chortens and dog roses
Mani walls so beautifully carved
Our path, just there
Hanging above the river
Like a silk thread
The drumming of Mahakala Puja
Getting faster and faster
Old masks come alive
To the smell of rancid butter
In the darkness of an earlier Tibet.
Over the valley
Black mountain peers
Am I menaced or protected
I am not sure
"Juno Dunlak"
Do not say this name
Something like darkness
Touches my mind
Khatags and incense
Offerings to the lha
Nobody knows
What precautions we took
Do not ask the Gods
For favours here
Evoking our own powers
Alone we tread this precipice
With no intentions
The river merely waits.
Have you got what it takes ?
Opposite Pibcha
Water swirling, turning, twisting
Gliding, pummelling its way down
Dividing the mountain
The valley's pulse, carving the rock
A thin ribbon of silted water
Lugnag, the "Black Breath"
Linking village with village
The glacier's melt, sharpening its wits
On the water's edge
Each bridge
Crossing the eye of the river.
Clouds of dust, as horses are gathered
Driven down the mountain -.
Again the smell of dung fires
Silently communing with Gods
Roar of water, clarity of space
Air cooled by tumbling rivers
Blesses the desert with emeralds.
Fire dances in a blinding sun
Space cuts out my mind
Only these feet move
Elemental reverie.
Closed tents,
The sick and weary rest.
Outside the spirits of the mountain
Dance.
Above my sleeping bag
The slow churning stars.
Where the planets' rim turns down
Day begins.
Powered by farts
My morning stroll
In my guts
Disturbing immanence
At Purne in spate
Two more rivers join
The Lingti and the Tsarap Chu
Two more paths, one south one north
Footsteps from India.
Horses from Tibet.
At long last Phugtal ,
The jewel set in the cave
Hollowed out with lamas incantations
Prayer flags flutter
Emptiness through which choughs
Jive and plummet.
Beneath the juniper tree
The smile of offering
The spring of cold clear water
A small cell, home for the Gashes
Engraved on his memory
The flight from Tibet
The essential text
A photograph of His Holiness
The glance from Drepung
Water seeps from the cavern's floor
Refreshments for tired travellers
No witchcraft here
Sky drunk monks hide
In the deep recesses of the hills.
Old Gashes with fading mind
Probably, no longer
Remembers philosophy
Beyond his window
Choughs whirl and stall
In distant cells his brother monks
Intone their liturgies
With lowered eyelids
Over shining eyes.
For seventy six years
He's seen it move
In the evening down the valley
Songs and laughter of horsemen
From Kuru, Tablay and Kargiakh
At Purne, the wedding house
Waiting on the hill, the warm night
The valley of chang crowded with faces
The women crammed together
Like pilchards, leaning in their shawls
And finest jewellery, half drunk
Swaying this way and that
Ribald in the darkness, raucous laughter
Keeps pace with the drumming
From sperm to tsa-tsa
Momentary vision.
Let's hope they enjoyed it
Milarepa
Holds his hand to his ear
What does he hear ?
What does he hear?
Great Guru with blazing eyes
What does he see ?
What does he see ?
Sombre scholars with learned gaze
What does he know ?
What does he know ?
Touching the earth
The Buddha's hand
E-he - Whose fingers ?
Like a ship gliding through the mountains
Each caravan of horse and mules
Steady in its pace, the tide of trade
Rations for winter, sacks of atta
Lashed down onto wooden saddles
Sullen muleteers thinking of Manali.
And then the festival at Sani
In the shade of poplar trees
The monastic dance,
The music filtering through the courtyard
Monks clad in silk and black hats
Veiled beneath the mountain snow,
Stepping this way and that,
Chancing, glancing,
Backing and advancing
Twisting and gyrating,
The spirit's pulse transferred
The tantric colours, circling in a vortex
Hypnotic and shamanic
The exorcism,
The handling of unpredictable forces
The triangle of unwanted energy
Thrown out, thrown out
And the year's evil
Assuaged before harvest
The fear of famine reduced
The ritual stabbed and carried aloft,
The notion of sacrifice.
Sun fire blazes
Crackling figures circle
Surge like flames
Cymbals crash
Black hat wizardry
Kills the dark and evil thing
Pinioned beneath the tall flag
Bright night of the long knives
Before harvest, hearts are cleansed.
The blue glitter of perags
Ornate headdresses and white khatag's
The sense of relief. the sense of giving
Reaching far into the mountains
The rich pasture laden with horses
The freedom on the steppe
High above the swirling river
What do they see
One lammergeyer
And two eagles
Dry, dusty dry, fierce Central Asian Dry
Once more the wind pummels the valley
Pulling out, the old bus
Lumbers over ruts and rivulets
Tired strangers
Wave to smiling villagers.
"One pen -one pen- kaka -Julay"
What have they learned
These slumped and jerking figures
Dozing on the long way ?
Arid, the desert's pulse, the raven's beak
Think of the ibex and the snow leopard
The wolf trap and the conch shell.
James Crowden John Crook
Written in Ladakh 1993 some revision 1997
Given an airing. Bristol Sat 1st Nov 1997
Given another airing at Choglamsar July 2003