(PART 3)

Desideri found Lhasa to be a densely populated city. There were, in addition to the Tibetans, a great variety of nationalities. These people had traveled from regions of Mongolia and China, from those of Armenia and Hindustan. Visitors became wealthy merchants in this cosmopolitan city. They, as did the natives themselves, inhabited two and three-storied houses solidly built of stone, with well-planned rooms which were large and spacious. Every home had a chapel where religious images and sacred books were kept. Before these icons were placed small metal containers with offerings of water and food.

The city had a great square which hosted a fair every day, where anything could be purchased. It was a tumultuous place, filled with people al day long. On the northern side of the square was the King’s palace, built by the now-dead Great Lama, called the House of Dancing. An ancient temple called the Palace of the Gods was on the western side. Many chapels within it were dedicated to the various idols, and lamps using melted butter as fuel burned night and day. Bells which hung from the edges of the rooftops sounded with the touch of the wind, and their melodies joined the sounds of continual prayer services, offered by the monks for the lay people, which were held below.

The broad street which surrounded the temple was filled with a flow of traffic moving clockwise around it, thus accumulating religious merit.

The city stood in a great plain, surrounded by mountains, with a river which flowed from the west, starting at Kailash, past Shigatze with its stone fortress, to Lhasa. In the city, gardens, parks and camping grounds were sprinkled about, adding beauty to the entire place.

It was to the palace near the square that Desideri was eventually brought, to have an audience with the King. First he had to pass the scrutiny of the commander-in-chief of the army, a Mongol named Tondrup Tsering. It was quickly determined by the general that Desideri spoke the truth about why he had come to Tibet — that he wanted to save souls, and that was his only reason for his difficult travels.

Tondrup listened carefully, and Desideri felt that this general encouraged him in his mission, as he not only gave the Jesuit permission to proceed with his work, but also indicated that the King himself would like to interview him. Another Mongol, the Prime Minister, Targum Trescig, spoke to Desideri after that, and said he would also help in any way he could.

Sincere friendship was offered to the monk, much more than he had expected, and Targum followed through with favors to the stranger that astonished even his own followers.

The King heard of Desideri’s visit to Targum, and wanted to meet with him privately. But the Jesuit begged off. He said that he had no gifts with him for the King. He knew the King’s curiosity would be whetted if he did not come immediately, and waited a few days before seeing him. By then he had bought some gifts from merchants in the square, and brought these with him to the palace.

This time, he and Targum were joined by a large group of lamas, officials, and others. All of these people went to the audience with him. The King inspected the presents offered to him, and received them himself. He was pleased and had the Jesuit sit near the throne.

When the ruler also asked about Desideri’s purpose for his journey to Tibet, Desideri answered well, and thus received permission to speak freely of his foreign religion, publically or privately, to the court or to the populace at large. The King, Lhazang Khan, praised his visitor before the entire audience and promised to care for him as a son, cautioning everyone that Desideri was under his protection and had permission to visit the King at any time.

This impressed all present and, seeing the favor bestowed upon Desideri, they immediately afterwards attempted to get into his good graces. However, it was not lost upon the Jesuit that the lamas had extremely stern expressions when they left the palace. What was lost upon Desideri was that this was a Mongol king, who had forced himself upon the Tibetans, and who was not universally respected. Without knowing it, Desideri had joined one camp as opposed to another.

He also did not know the reasons for his successful audience. For one thing, his persuasiveness as a speaker had been greatly aided by the interpreter. For another, the Buddhists generally were quite liberal in allowing others their religious views. And, last but least suspected, and ignored if it had been known, the mission of the Capuchin monks, although no longer in Lhasa, had broken ground for him. His message was not entirely new.

Desideri followed the King’s suggestion and began to devote his efforts to studying the language so that he could speak with Latzang Khan without an intermediary. He studied from dawn to sunset, making a vow not to eat during the day, except for tea. This was a curious parallel to Buddhist vows of similar nature. He kept this vow throughout his stay in Tibet.

After sunset, Desideri would eat in the company of the old Portuguese. But that Jesuit did not speak to him. He glared at walls. He muttered to himself that Desideri thought he was the Pope, that he thought he was St. Peter spreading the Gospel.The old man thought about Christ in the Himalayas. The Muslims said that Christ had gone to Kashmir, to Ladakh. Perhaps to Tibet. That he had not died. He found that he muttered Desideri’s name over his beads and not the name of Jesus.

One sunny day, the elder monk left his prayer books and the makeshift chapel in their quarters during his prayers, closed his eyes, and stumbled to the rooftop. Unseeing, he only sensed the rooftops of Lhasa. Lifting his face to the sun, facing the intense blue sky, he opened his mouth but made no sound. His eyes were still closed.

At night, anguish in his lungs was his bedmate. He felt his eyes were not in their sockets, his teeth were those of a rat. He tried to bite into the darkness. In the morning he avoided Desideri and his political preparations.

The old man climbed the stairs of a hermitage at nearby Medicine Hill. He found it empty, and sat inside on a mat of grass. He tried to scratch a cross upon a painted wall, but since he had only a piece of wood for a tool, it did not work. He tried to kneel and pray away the influence of the ghosts of the previous hermits, but his knees hurt too much. Instead he sat with folded legs, and made asthmatic mumblings as he fingered his shining beads. Villagers came and left him food. He did not think this strange.

Meanwhile in the palace sat Latzang Khan.

Who was he?

Latzang had been a most devoted servant to the previous Tibetan Regent. He was a brave warrior who had led the armies on successful campaigns to extend and maintain the kingdom. Due to his fame and rising popularity, jealousy instead of gratitude grew in the Regent’s heart. He tried to rid himself of Latzang as well as the Prime Minister with poison. This almost worked, but they only became ill. It did not take much consideration to discover who the culprit was — the man who was Regent under the Fifth Dalai Lama — the very man who had lied about the death of that lama, called the “Great Fifth,” in order to extend his own rule.

After a number of decades of rivalry, and the building of the Potala Palace, war was in the offing between these two men.The Panchen Lama tried to intervene in the dispute, but through shrewd treachery and with a false promise to leave the country, Latzang succeeded. The Regent paid with his life for the unsuccessful attempted poisoning, and Latzang became king.

The Sixth Dalai Lama, the so-called rake, was spirited out of Lhasa after the monks of Drepung Monastery futilely tried to prevent his kidnapping. He died mysteriously near Litang, where he had earlier forecast that his new incarnation would one day be found.

Latzang tried to pass off a young man, Ngawang Yeshe Gyatso, as the true Sixth Grand Lama, but the Tibetans would have none of it. They called this puppet lama, “Kushab” (“Mister”) as a sign of their disrespect. This was a signal that they did not accept Latzang’s heavy-handed dealing with their lamas and their religion. “Mister” was retired out of the political scene, alive or dead it is unknown.

The Chinese came to the aid of the bungling Latzang, and required payment for their backing of him with armed forces to keep the Tibetans in line. These bribes, paid by a Mongolian sitting on the Tibetan throne, were later pointed to as being tribute paid by a vassal to his emperor, to justify the twentieth century annexation of Tibet by the Chinese Communists.

The poison had not done its job well, but it did give the two men recurring difficulties. In this area, Desideri, with his secret medicines, was able to give them some relief. They were most grateful for his simple opium mixtures, with the King being especially generous and amiable to the Jesuit, allowing him to own a house in Lhasa, which to other foreigners was unthinkable, undreamable, and impossible by law.

— • —

The old priest only stayed in Lhasa for twenty days.

He would not go with Desideri to see people of influence. He refused to join him at his audience with Latzang. He thought even less of the Mongols than he did of the Tibetans.

He was also impatient to leave Tibet. The high altitude of the plateau made his internal images too sharp. When he closed his eyes, it was as if he was looking at crisp scenes from his memory bank. He wanted none of that. To use up time, he would walk the street called the Barkhor, which went around the Great Jokhang Temple. Circumambulating in a clockwise direction were the religious Tibetans, counting the beads of their malas.

The Jesuit held his rosary, from which dangled the silver cross, but he said no prayers. He looked intently at the people. sometimes he had to squint through the great clouds of smoke which billowed from burning juniper in front of the temple. He wondered where the princess might be. Was she in this crowd somewhere?

Before the great gateway, everywhere people were doing full-length prostrations before they entered the building. Images of guardian deities glared down from huge murals as he entered the dark doorway passing a large metal “prayer wheel” at the entrance.

Within, there were many-armed bodhisattva sculptures. That face! Was it princess Casals? No. He turned to look at the seated figure of the future Buddha, Maitreya. No, it was not she either, although it might have been.

He bypassed the crowds at the deepest holy of holies, averting his eyes. In the process, they were caught by the eyes of the ferocious dharmapala, painted on the walls nearby. Instead of cringing, as did many of the pilgrim when confronted by these images, he smiled. The display of genuine terror that existed there he found to be as familiar as an old friend.

The temple monks began praying, seated in rows on cushions before the Maitreya figure. He paused in weariness at that point, and they gestured that he should sit with them. Thus, for an unmeasured, but long length of time, he sat with the chanting lamas. He began to sway to the drone of their prayers, just as they did. His eyes rolled, looking at the cloth paintings hanging in mid-air hanging from the rafters. That face was not Mother Mary. That one was not Jesus. He did not know if it was Avalokitesvara or others. But he did see the face of Tara, the mother goddess.

Then there were no faces at all, for it grew darker outside. The flames of butter lamps burned after-images into his eyes and he began to feel dizzy. The fumes from those lamps, the accumulated smells of centuries of smoke from burning butter began to grip at his lungs. With a determination to breathe, he struck his fists upon his folded knees and gave a great exhalation, which startled the monks sitting to either side of him.

But they were even more startled by the wind that shook the building. The darkness outside had been a gathering storm. There was a flash of lightening which lit dark corners of the chapel, followed by a very great clap of thunder. Rain began to strike the rooftop heavily as if from a celestial waterfall. The younger monks looked about in surprise, but rejoined in the prayers with the undisturbed abbots and seniors, who continued chanting, now barely audible against the tumult of falling water. Wind ran through the temple, driving the smoke of the lamps out of their secret hiding places. The lamps flickered, but did not go out.

Some monks looked startled, staring at the Jesuit, who sat there taking deep breaths of fresh air, smiling and smiling. After that, he did not stay long. He nodded to the monks and left through the dark entranceway, smiling at the grim images of protectors flanking the doorway. Most of the pilgrims were gone, so it was very easy for the old monk to approach the huge prayer wheel. With one hand, he gave it a great shove, causing the bell/circulation indicator atop it to loudly DING.

After that the laughing monk stepped out into the dark square. The downpour of rain soaked him through and through. In the now-fallen night darkness, the lightning from various parts of the valley allowed him to find his way home.

— • —

The old Jesuit walked clockwise about the Lingkhor, the long path about the base of the Potala, inevitably circumambulating with the pious Tibetans. They said their mani mantra, fingering their beaded malas, which appeared so much like his rosary that he was slightly bemused, if not amazed. sometimes he was slower, sometimes he was faster than others on the path.

Many of them made special pauses at images of stone, encased in the lower walls on the right-hand side, so he passed them by. Occasionally, he caught up to someone who, from a distance, he had thought to be the princess. He was not consciously looking for her, but he kept imagining that he saw her, here or there, nearby or in the distance. He was always disappointed that the mistaken figure was not she.

Somewhere near the Naga King park, in back of the palace, something else began to happen. He began to imagine that he saw Princess Casals in a young girl, as if this was what she would have looked like as a child. Then he saw her in an infant. He caught his mind doing this, and anticipated it happening again. It did, over and over, in all sorts of people.

He felt less anxious. He exhaled deeply. It was as if, everywhere he looked, he was seeing evidence of this holy mother, this Mary, this Tara. Everyone seemed to show, in their eyes, or in their movements, an intimate familiarity which spoke to him, revealing to him that they were his mother, whom he could not find now, but who had returned through the agency of the death-threatening snowstorm, when he had been lost.

Walking in the warm sunshine, he felt that he was living in the blue sky. Then he saw her — a very old and feeble woman. She was in rags, tottering along with a thin cane, almost stumbling on the slightest flaws in the pathway. His nostrils flared. She was one of that great unwashed horde of nomads that had so repulsed him previously. But as he came up upon her, he heard her whimpering voice chanting a prayer as she weakly fingered the worn mala.

Just as he was about to pass her stench, her cane broke, and she would have fallen except for his presence of mind. He caught her, and steadied her. She must have been expressing thanks, but all he could understand was her weakness, and all he could hear was an asthmatic gasp from her lungs. Although she could not stand without her cane, she kept trying to continue the circumambulation.

He looked at her and realized that the old woman was blind as well as feeble. Mother. She was someone’s mother. She was so old and feeble that she could have been everybody’s mother. He looked at the others on the pathway. Everybody. His concept of mother went from her to them. Everybody is someone’s mother.

The sun almost spoke. The blue remained silent. Everybody was his mother, he felt, with a shock of satisfaction. It did not matter, male or female, young or old. Everyone. The woman leaned upon him heavily and took another step. Her odors evaporated into subtle perfumes. Now he encouraged her to walk instead of trying to disengage from her. He helped her along the pathway.

At first he thought she was mumbling conversation of some sort, but focusing on her moving fingers on the mala, he realized that she was praying. Over and over it was the same. At first he tried to speak to her in Portuguese to comfort her, but he instinctively abandoned that, instead mimicking what she was gasping out, both of them repeating the six syllables over and over as they moved around the base of the Potala Palace. The gnarled trees in the Naga Park quivered in the same rhythm. The old Jesuit held his old mother with one arm and the fingers of the other hand clicked off sets of syllables he was reciting on his polished rosary.

— • —

They were whitewashing the great chorten which was the western gate of Lhasa. It sat on its pierced cubic foundation, rising in steps to a hemisphere mounted by a conical series of steps to moon and sun ornaments at the top. Its symbolism was beyond the Christians, but they knew it was important. People passed through it to enter the city as well as to exit.

The old Portuguese had watched the workers when he strolled near it. He squinted and nodded when he saw the notched log ladders, and the scaffolding which the workers were using. They were almost finished and about to dismantle these temporary devices. The whitewash was also dry.

He muttered something incomprehensible to the Tibetans, and with great difficulty climbed his way up to the hemisphere level, where there was a windowlike structure behind which was an image of a Buddha. There, he took off the cord and the wooden cross which hung around his neck, placing them on the highest ledge he could reach.

He started to cross himself but stopped, gazing intently for a moment at the whiteness facing him. He said goodbye to the Christ on the cross, and to the Buddha in the window, descending to the smiles and amusement of the Tibetan workers

The cross stayed there for centuries. It was gone only when the chorten itself, with its Buddha, was gone, destroyed by the Chinese Communists in the 20th century.

— • —

PART 4 OF DESIDERI cont’d