come.’
‘You … knew him?’ Lobsang enquired, embarrassed to use the past tense.
‘Long before you were born. For many years I was his translator and adviser. And also his friend.’
‘But he looks so … alive,’ Lobsang exclaimed. He knew that death was corruption, rotten flesh, decay. Yet the Dalai Lama looked as if he were simply asleep.
‘Great Lamas don’t die like the rest. They pass on. Their spirit leaves their body so gently that the body barely notices. So it doesn’t decay, not for a long time.’
Lobsang was gripping the monk’s hand for comfort, too distressed to notice that it was little more than a formless mass of bone and skin.
‘Remember that in death there is always new life. And new hope. The spirit is reborn in a new body,’ Kunga encouraged – just as the Dalai Lama had encouraged them, the three he had gathered together. He had explained his purpose the following day as they sat in his garden, a garden that he himself had planned and planted, a place where they could be overheard only by the birds and the Lama’s favourite cats.
‘My task is simple, my friends. To die. There is nothing simpler. But your task will be far more hazardous. Your task is to live. If you can. To ensure that my rebirth is safeguarded, to seek out and protect my incarnation.’ His voice tightened in sadness, as though a screw were being turned within. ‘In that search you will encounter many dangers. And great pain. You may come to envy the peace with which I shall pass from this life.’
The Searchers had argued with him, passionately, and with more than a little fear.
‘We want to serve you alive, not dead.’
‘Without you – we’re lost.’
‘And without you Tibet is lost!’
‘More than ever we need you …’
Until at last he had grown exasperated. ‘No more! Enough!’ The Lama raised his voice, a rare event, his passion more than a match for theirs. The cats scattered in alarm.
‘Listen to me. For a thousand years in Tibet we hid behind the great walls of the Himalayas. Untouched – but also untouching.
We guarded our truths selfishly, reluctant to share them. Yet look around. Our world has more wickedness than it has ever known. The people suffer. They need us.’
‘So does Tibet,’ Gompo responded defiantly.
The Lama raised his hand and pointed beyond the mountains, his voice burning with emotion. ‘Our Tibet, that ancient homeland we loved, is no more. It is gone. Perhaps for all time.’
He challenged them to deny it, but no one spoke. What was the point? Hope might spring eternal yet it had no more strength than a summer breeze. And the People’s Liberation Army wasn’t going to be blown away by a puff of wind.
‘We can’t go back, not to the way things were. But Tibet is more than just mountains and monasteries. It is a faith, a way of life.’
‘And of death?’
‘Think of our exile as an opportunity. A chance to send down new roots, to find new strength. And think of my death as a new beginning, not just for me but for all our people.’
‘A new beginning? For that we need an army!’
‘Perhaps there is another way. A way in which Chinese and Tibetan can be brought together, not in confrontation, but in reconciliation.’
‘Reconciliation? How?’ demanded Gompo, as ever sceptical.
‘Reconciliation … through reincarnation!’
The Lama had laughed, a deep booming drum of hope. And cautiously the cats had begun to creep back …
Now, as Kunga stared into the shadows of the cave, where the Dalai Lama had taken himself to meditate and to die, he struggled hard to recapture the Lama’s optimism. Beside him Lobsang began to shiver.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ Kunga encouraged, placing an arm around the boy’s shoulders.
‘It is the end.’ Lobsang’s voice was mournful.
‘It is also a beginning. The body is like a set of clothes. When it gets old, you discard it for a fresh one. That’s all he has done, decided to discard his body. But not
‘You … knew him?’ Lobsang enquired, embarrassed to use the past tense.
‘Long before you were born. For many years I was his translator and adviser. And also his friend.’
‘But he looks so … alive,’ Lobsang exclaimed. He knew that death was corruption, rotten flesh, decay. Yet the Dalai Lama looked as if he were simply asleep.
‘Great Lamas don’t die like the rest. They pass on. Their spirit leaves their body so gently that the body barely notices. So it doesn’t decay, not for a long time.’
Lobsang was gripping the monk’s hand for comfort, too distressed to notice that it was little more than a formless mass of bone and skin.
‘Remember that in death there is always new life. And new hope. The spirit is reborn in a new body,’ Kunga encouraged – just as the Dalai Lama had encouraged them, the three he had gathered together. He had explained his purpose the following day as they sat in his garden, a garden that he himself had planned and planted, a place where they could be overheard only by the birds and the Lama’s favourite cats.
‘My task is simple, my friends. To die. There is nothing simpler. But your task will be far more hazardous. Your task is to live. If you can. To ensure that my rebirth is safeguarded, to seek out and protect my incarnation.’ His voice tightened in sadness, as though a screw were being turned within. ‘In that search you will encounter many dangers. And great pain. You may come to envy the peace with which I shall pass from this life.’
The Searchers had argued with him, passionately, and with more than a little fear.
‘We want to serve you alive, not dead.’
‘Without you – we’re lost.’
‘And without you Tibet is lost!’
‘More than ever we need you …’
Until at last he had grown exasperated. ‘No more! Enough!’ The Lama raised his voice, a rare event, his passion more than a match for theirs. The cats scattered in alarm.
‘Listen to me. For a thousand years in Tibet we hid behind the great walls of the Himalayas. Untouched – but also untouching.
We guarded our truths selfishly, reluctant to share them. Yet look around. Our world has more wickedness than it has ever known. The people suffer. They need us.’
‘So does Tibet,’ Gompo responded defiantly.
The Lama raised his hand and pointed beyond the mountains, his voice burning with emotion. ‘Our Tibet, that ancient homeland we loved, is no more. It is gone. Perhaps for all time.’
He challenged them to deny it, but no one spoke. What was the point? Hope might spring eternal yet it had no more strength than a summer breeze. And the People’s Liberation Army wasn’t going to be blown away by a puff of wind.
‘We can’t go back, not to the way things were. But Tibet is more than just mountains and monasteries. It is a faith, a way of life.’
‘And of death?’
‘Think of our exile as an opportunity. A chance to send down new roots, to find new strength. And think of my death as a new beginning, not just for me but for all our people.’
‘A new beginning? For that we need an army!’
‘Perhaps there is another way. A way in which Chinese and Tibetan can be brought together, not in confrontation, but in reconciliation.’
‘Reconciliation? How?’ demanded Gompo, as ever sceptical.
‘Reconciliation … through reincarnation!’
The Lama had laughed, a deep booming drum of hope. And cautiously the cats had begun to creep back …
Now, as Kunga stared into the shadows of the cave, where the Dalai Lama had taken himself to meditate and to die, he struggled hard to recapture the Lama’s optimism. Beside him Lobsang began to shiver.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ Kunga encouraged, placing an arm around the boy’s shoulders.
‘It is the end.’ Lobsang’s voice was mournful.
‘It is also a beginning. The body is like a set of clothes. When it gets old, you discard it for a fresh one. That’s all he has done, decided to discard his body. But not
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