In my post about the Spring Equinox I asked people to refrain from making any human sacrifices while celebrating this event. I hope I did not offend the Neo-Druids among my readers.
Neo-Druids at StonehengeSunday, March 22, 2009
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Mongolia | Autobiography of the Diluv Khutagt | Part 2
Stupas of the “Nine Famous Khutagts”—including Diluv Khutagt—in Uliastai, Zavkhan Aimag. Diluv Khutagt was born in what is now Zavkhan Aimag.
Part 2
This is the story of how I became a human being as well as of how I became a lama; and so I shall first tell about the circumstances of my birth and about the poor family into which I was born, and then relate how is was that I became the Diluv Khutagt, the fifth of my incarnation since it first came to Mongolia in the reign of the Emperor K’ang Hsi [r. 1662–1723].
My grandfather’s name I do not know, but I do know that the name of my clan was Onhit and that my father was born when my grandfather was 86 years old. For this reason he was always called “Pa-shi Liu”—Chinese for “Eighty-Six.” The foreign language was used to avert bad luck. I was born when my father was 67.
I was born in western Outer Mongolia at a place called Oigon Bag, after Lake Oigon, on the south side of the mountain called Bayan Aimag, in the Banner of the Tüshee Gün in Zasagt Khan Aimag. The name of the ruling prince was Tsogtsambar. (Outer Mongolia was then divided into four aimags, or provinces). I was born in the cyclical year of the Monkey, the ninth year of the Emperor Kuang Hsü (1884) on the eighth day of the tenth moon, in the hour of the Dragon, according to the 24 divisions of the day, about sunrise. I had an elder sister and an elder brother, who were 14 and 10 years old respectively at the time of my birth. My mother was then 48.
The family into which I was born were poor sheep-herders, living in a round felt-covered tent. In the year after I was born we had only 20 sheep, four cows and two horses. Camels were very rare in that district and we had none, but we also had no yaks, which were common. The year in which I was born was a difficult one for everybody. There had been a jud (an ice frost, sheathing the grass) that winter, and the cattle had died in large numbers. We had more cattle before this bad winter. My father did all the herding. He died when he was 85. In that winter it was said that many people saw emanations of light coming out of the tent in which I was born. People thought that something mysterious must be going on, in that winter, with strange emanations of light and with a baby born to such an old man, and so I was called “The Lord of the Ice-Plague,” but my given name was Jamsranjav.
The place where I was born was about 300 miles from the large monastery of Narvanchin. In this monastery there were two Khutagt [or “Living Buddhas”]—one the Narvanchin Khutagt, the other the Diluv Khutagt. The one with the longer seniority in the monastery was the Narvanchin Gegeen, but the one with religious seniority was the Diluv. They both died the year I was born. When the emanations of light began, people began to think that the Narvanchin Gegeen had been born. The people of the monastery began to say, “Where shall we seek the Narvanchin Gegeen? And where is the Diluv Gegeen to be found?”
The Diluv Gegeen (my predecessor) died at the age of 28, in the first month of summer. He had been on a pilgrimage to the caves in the mountains called Tsogt. Some of the branches of these caves have never been entirely explored. On the way back he stopped at the town of Uliastai, where, because he was fond of liquor, he spent several nights. It happened that there was at Uliastai at the same time another important lama, known as Gün Bandid, who came from the Banner in which I was born. (A Banner was the traditional territory of a tribe. Each of the four eastern aimags contained about 20 Banners). Although this Bandid Lama had some reputation as a healer, he was also known as a drinker.
Mongols do not like to drink alone. Like Chinese and Tibetans they like to drink competitively, urging on their companions and proud if they can drink them under the table. Getting drunk is sometimes psychological. My predecessor used to drink with a high official from Zasagt Khan Aimag. Once when this official was visiting him in Uliastai they both had a long bout of drinking, and the visitor was not only not drunk but it looked as if the supply of liquor was going to give out. If the visitor had drunk his host dry and was still on his feet, my predecessor, a great drinker himself, would never have heard the last of it. He was saved by a quick thinking steward who got hold of several of the huge wicker jars lined with oiled paper in which Chinese merchants used to bring fiery grain liquor by caravan to Mongolia, and had them filled with water. They were so heavy that it took two men to carry one of them. He had several carried to a storage shed next to the room where the men were drinking. Then the visitor was invited out to look at them. They still smelled strongly of the liquor with which they had been saturated on the long caravan journey. Then the visitor was slapped on the back and jovially urged to return to the drinking bout. “Come on,” was the cry; “There’s a lot to be drunk up yet.” The psychological effect on the champion drinker was that what he had already drunk rushed to his head and from being apparently sober and on the edge of a great triumph he became so drunk that he could not go on and the Diluv Gegeen’s reputation was saved.
The Diluv and the Bandid Lama sat up drinking for three nights. Then the Bandid Lama called in the Diluv’s followers and retainers, and said, “Your master is about to depart. You must beg him not to depart.”
This caused the Diluv’s people to be very worried, and they went to him and cautioned him because they took the Bandid Lama’s words to mean that their master was near death; but the Diluv was not worried. “We will go back to Narvanchin,” he said, “and I am going to live to be 40.”
Not long after the Diluv got back to Narvanchin, he fell sick and died. It was discovered that he survived, according to his prophecy, not by 40 years, but by 40 days.
The Bandid Lama, who had gone home in the meantime, lived near the place where I was born, 300 miles, or three day’s ride on fast horses, from the Narvanchin monastery; but the morning the Diluv died he got up and said to his attendants, “The Diluv has arrived,” and went into his prayer-tent to welcome him. Word was sent to Narvanchin immediately that the Diluv’s spirit had come into the district of the Bandid Lama. This was just before I was born.
Messengers were sent to all the other Living Buddhas to ask help in finding the new Diluv. Some recommended the best direction in which to search by the casting of dice, some by a system of divination based on the rosary of 108 prayer beads and some by contemplation and inspiration. Sorcerers called “Choijin” were also consulted, who speak when inspired, and after recovery do not remember what they have said. In this way the direction of search was determined, and with it a list of about 40 children born shortly after the Diluv’s death in circumstances thought to be miraculous. The list came from the monasteries of the region. Sometimes an investigator is sent out to corroborate such a list, sometimes it is merely accepted and left unquestioned.
The people of Narvanchin monastery considered the list over a period of about three years, during which it was narrowed down by a process of elimination by the drawing and casting of lots; but according to the regulations of the time the naming of the new Living Buddha had finally to be done by the Manchu Emperor at Peking, to whom a final list was submitted.
At this time I was between two and three years old. I liked to play by sitting astride the fence of the corral and pretending to ride horse-back. Then I would say, “I am going back to Zavkhan Tsagaan Tokhoi.” My parents asked their neighbors, who asked other people, but no one had ever heard of such a place. There is such a place, however. It is a big hollow near the Zavkhan River and near the caravan road from China to Uliastai. Many people used to camp here in the autumn. The hollow is about five miles across and holds pasturage for 5,000 horses and 10,000 sheep.
At this time there was a man called Gonchig, who was the stepfather of the incarnation of the Diluv who had just died. As there was some talk that I might be the new incarnation, Gonchig came to visit my family and to enquire. On the day he came, but before he had arrived, I was heard to say, “A man is coming today from my home.”
I personally can remember Gonchig’s arrival, and that he was a thin man with a thin wispy mustache, wearing a fur-lined vest over his gown. He had two attendants with him, one his familiar servant, the other an official guide. Seeing this man, I thought of him as someone I knew very well. I approached Gonchig and he took me on his lap, as he sat cross-legged in the tent. My mother started to pour tea for the three visitors and Gonchig took from the breast of his gown a small silver-lined bowl from which to drink. “Why, that’s my bowl!” I said. Gonchig wept. Picking me up, he placed me on a small stool on the carpet before the family altar at the back of the tent, where I liked to sit. It was only a common little wooden stool with all the paint worn off, but I have always kept it. Gonchig prostrated himself before me and bowed three times. He gave me a khadag and the little silver-lined bowl, filled with raisins from Sinkiang. I had this bowl up until the time I left Outer Mongolia, when I left it at the monastery. It had belonged to my predecessor.
The word quickly got round that I had recognized my predecessor’s step-father and his drinking-bowl, and with it the rumor spread that I was the new Diluv. I do not remember the things that happened between Gonchig’s visit and the time I went to the Monastery, but it was in this time that I was confirmed by the Emperor at Peking.
The monastery took me when I was five years old. It was in the third month of spring (about April), when the ground was still lightly covered with snow. When the monastery envoys arrived, they made their camp next to my father’s, and I remember that my mother was very busy preparing their welcome. During the daytime I would play about the camp of the envoys, but at night I would cry and ask to return to my mother’s tent. Sometimes I wanted to go with them. sometimes I didn’t.
I do not remember exactly what happened in the ceremonies of invitation that preceded my departure, except that part of it was the placing of an amulet around my neck and that one of the local officials got very drunk. When I left the whole family came along, bringing all their cattle and possessions with them, even the family dogs. Later they settled near the monastery. I made my trip in a camel cart.
It was the first month of summer when we reached the monastery, and I was greeted outside its precincts with such ceremonies as are made for high lamas. Omens were consulted to determine the best day for my entry. I know now what these ceremonies consist of, of course; but I do not remember the actual event.
Shortly after my arrival came the ceremony called Mandal, which in the Narvanchin monastery was held on the fifteenth day of the sixth lunar month, very close to the time of the big Summer Festival. (Elsewhere Mandal occurs at different times; at Khüree [Urga] it comes in the autumn.) I remember the horse races and the great excitement of the occasion.
When I was first taken to the monastery and my family was camped near by, naturally I wanted to return to my family. The monks gently restrained me and soon I became used to seeing my parents less and less and accustomed to being in the monastery. The family stayed rather close to the monastery in summer and moved somewhat farther away to winter quarters.
I began to learn Tibetan immediately and at the age of five I could recognize the Tibetan letters. At six, with no feeling of hard work, I had committed to memory 3,000 sholog of text, (a sholog is about 36 words so this would be roughly 108,000 words), and at seven I could translate most of this into Mongol. From the time I was six years old I began to attend religious ceremonies, to memorize the proper forms of prayer, and to have religious instruction, and by the time I was 12 I could translate scriptures from Tibetan into Mongol and from Mongol into Tibetan, although I had no speaking knowledge of Tibetan, which was only a written language to me. Of course knowledge of the meaning of religion came to me only gradually, partly through having texts explained to me by a tutor . . . to be continued . . .
My grandfather’s name I do not know, but I do know that the name of my clan was Onhit and that my father was born when my grandfather was 86 years old. For this reason he was always called “Pa-shi Liu”—Chinese for “Eighty-Six.” The foreign language was used to avert bad luck. I was born when my father was 67.
I was born in western Outer Mongolia at a place called Oigon Bag, after Lake Oigon, on the south side of the mountain called Bayan Aimag, in the Banner of the Tüshee Gün in Zasagt Khan Aimag. The name of the ruling prince was Tsogtsambar. (Outer Mongolia was then divided into four aimags, or provinces). I was born in the cyclical year of the Monkey, the ninth year of the Emperor Kuang Hsü (1884) on the eighth day of the tenth moon, in the hour of the Dragon, according to the 24 divisions of the day, about sunrise. I had an elder sister and an elder brother, who were 14 and 10 years old respectively at the time of my birth. My mother was then 48.
The family into which I was born were poor sheep-herders, living in a round felt-covered tent. In the year after I was born we had only 20 sheep, four cows and two horses. Camels were very rare in that district and we had none, but we also had no yaks, which were common. The year in which I was born was a difficult one for everybody. There had been a jud (an ice frost, sheathing the grass) that winter, and the cattle had died in large numbers. We had more cattle before this bad winter. My father did all the herding. He died when he was 85. In that winter it was said that many people saw emanations of light coming out of the tent in which I was born. People thought that something mysterious must be going on, in that winter, with strange emanations of light and with a baby born to such an old man, and so I was called “The Lord of the Ice-Plague,” but my given name was Jamsranjav.
The place where I was born was about 300 miles from the large monastery of Narvanchin. In this monastery there were two Khutagt [or “Living Buddhas”]—one the Narvanchin Khutagt, the other the Diluv Khutagt. The one with the longer seniority in the monastery was the Narvanchin Gegeen, but the one with religious seniority was the Diluv. They both died the year I was born. When the emanations of light began, people began to think that the Narvanchin Gegeen had been born. The people of the monastery began to say, “Where shall we seek the Narvanchin Gegeen? And where is the Diluv Gegeen to be found?”
The Diluv Gegeen (my predecessor) died at the age of 28, in the first month of summer. He had been on a pilgrimage to the caves in the mountains called Tsogt. Some of the branches of these caves have never been entirely explored. On the way back he stopped at the town of Uliastai, where, because he was fond of liquor, he spent several nights. It happened that there was at Uliastai at the same time another important lama, known as Gün Bandid, who came from the Banner in which I was born. (A Banner was the traditional territory of a tribe. Each of the four eastern aimags contained about 20 Banners). Although this Bandid Lama had some reputation as a healer, he was also known as a drinker.
Mongols do not like to drink alone. Like Chinese and Tibetans they like to drink competitively, urging on their companions and proud if they can drink them under the table. Getting drunk is sometimes psychological. My predecessor used to drink with a high official from Zasagt Khan Aimag. Once when this official was visiting him in Uliastai they both had a long bout of drinking, and the visitor was not only not drunk but it looked as if the supply of liquor was going to give out. If the visitor had drunk his host dry and was still on his feet, my predecessor, a great drinker himself, would never have heard the last of it. He was saved by a quick thinking steward who got hold of several of the huge wicker jars lined with oiled paper in which Chinese merchants used to bring fiery grain liquor by caravan to Mongolia, and had them filled with water. They were so heavy that it took two men to carry one of them. He had several carried to a storage shed next to the room where the men were drinking. Then the visitor was invited out to look at them. They still smelled strongly of the liquor with which they had been saturated on the long caravan journey. Then the visitor was slapped on the back and jovially urged to return to the drinking bout. “Come on,” was the cry; “There’s a lot to be drunk up yet.” The psychological effect on the champion drinker was that what he had already drunk rushed to his head and from being apparently sober and on the edge of a great triumph he became so drunk that he could not go on and the Diluv Gegeen’s reputation was saved.
The Diluv and the Bandid Lama sat up drinking for three nights. Then the Bandid Lama called in the Diluv’s followers and retainers, and said, “Your master is about to depart. You must beg him not to depart.”
This caused the Diluv’s people to be very worried, and they went to him and cautioned him because they took the Bandid Lama’s words to mean that their master was near death; but the Diluv was not worried. “We will go back to Narvanchin,” he said, “and I am going to live to be 40.”
Not long after the Diluv got back to Narvanchin, he fell sick and died. It was discovered that he survived, according to his prophecy, not by 40 years, but by 40 days.
The Bandid Lama, who had gone home in the meantime, lived near the place where I was born, 300 miles, or three day’s ride on fast horses, from the Narvanchin monastery; but the morning the Diluv died he got up and said to his attendants, “The Diluv has arrived,” and went into his prayer-tent to welcome him. Word was sent to Narvanchin immediately that the Diluv’s spirit had come into the district of the Bandid Lama. This was just before I was born.
Messengers were sent to all the other Living Buddhas to ask help in finding the new Diluv. Some recommended the best direction in which to search by the casting of dice, some by a system of divination based on the rosary of 108 prayer beads and some by contemplation and inspiration. Sorcerers called “Choijin” were also consulted, who speak when inspired, and after recovery do not remember what they have said. In this way the direction of search was determined, and with it a list of about 40 children born shortly after the Diluv’s death in circumstances thought to be miraculous. The list came from the monasteries of the region. Sometimes an investigator is sent out to corroborate such a list, sometimes it is merely accepted and left unquestioned.
The people of Narvanchin monastery considered the list over a period of about three years, during which it was narrowed down by a process of elimination by the drawing and casting of lots; but according to the regulations of the time the naming of the new Living Buddha had finally to be done by the Manchu Emperor at Peking, to whom a final list was submitted.
At this time I was between two and three years old. I liked to play by sitting astride the fence of the corral and pretending to ride horse-back. Then I would say, “I am going back to Zavkhan Tsagaan Tokhoi.” My parents asked their neighbors, who asked other people, but no one had ever heard of such a place. There is such a place, however. It is a big hollow near the Zavkhan River and near the caravan road from China to Uliastai. Many people used to camp here in the autumn. The hollow is about five miles across and holds pasturage for 5,000 horses and 10,000 sheep.
At this time there was a man called Gonchig, who was the stepfather of the incarnation of the Diluv who had just died. As there was some talk that I might be the new incarnation, Gonchig came to visit my family and to enquire. On the day he came, but before he had arrived, I was heard to say, “A man is coming today from my home.”
I personally can remember Gonchig’s arrival, and that he was a thin man with a thin wispy mustache, wearing a fur-lined vest over his gown. He had two attendants with him, one his familiar servant, the other an official guide. Seeing this man, I thought of him as someone I knew very well. I approached Gonchig and he took me on his lap, as he sat cross-legged in the tent. My mother started to pour tea for the three visitors and Gonchig took from the breast of his gown a small silver-lined bowl from which to drink. “Why, that’s my bowl!” I said. Gonchig wept. Picking me up, he placed me on a small stool on the carpet before the family altar at the back of the tent, where I liked to sit. It was only a common little wooden stool with all the paint worn off, but I have always kept it. Gonchig prostrated himself before me and bowed three times. He gave me a khadag and the little silver-lined bowl, filled with raisins from Sinkiang. I had this bowl up until the time I left Outer Mongolia, when I left it at the monastery. It had belonged to my predecessor.
The word quickly got round that I had recognized my predecessor’s step-father and his drinking-bowl, and with it the rumor spread that I was the new Diluv. I do not remember the things that happened between Gonchig’s visit and the time I went to the Monastery, but it was in this time that I was confirmed by the Emperor at Peking.
The monastery took me when I was five years old. It was in the third month of spring (about April), when the ground was still lightly covered with snow. When the monastery envoys arrived, they made their camp next to my father’s, and I remember that my mother was very busy preparing their welcome. During the daytime I would play about the camp of the envoys, but at night I would cry and ask to return to my mother’s tent. Sometimes I wanted to go with them. sometimes I didn’t.
I do not remember exactly what happened in the ceremonies of invitation that preceded my departure, except that part of it was the placing of an amulet around my neck and that one of the local officials got very drunk. When I left the whole family came along, bringing all their cattle and possessions with them, even the family dogs. Later they settled near the monastery. I made my trip in a camel cart.
It was the first month of summer when we reached the monastery, and I was greeted outside its precincts with such ceremonies as are made for high lamas. Omens were consulted to determine the best day for my entry. I know now what these ceremonies consist of, of course; but I do not remember the actual event.
Shortly after my arrival came the ceremony called Mandal, which in the Narvanchin monastery was held on the fifteenth day of the sixth lunar month, very close to the time of the big Summer Festival. (Elsewhere Mandal occurs at different times; at Khüree [Urga] it comes in the autumn.) I remember the horse races and the great excitement of the occasion.
When I was first taken to the monastery and my family was camped near by, naturally I wanted to return to my family. The monks gently restrained me and soon I became used to seeing my parents less and less and accustomed to being in the monastery. The family stayed rather close to the monastery in summer and moved somewhat farther away to winter quarters.
I began to learn Tibetan immediately and at the age of five I could recognize the Tibetan letters. At six, with no feeling of hard work, I had committed to memory 3,000 sholog of text, (a sholog is about 36 words so this would be roughly 108,000 words), and at seven I could translate most of this into Mongol. From the time I was six years old I began to attend religious ceremonies, to memorize the proper forms of prayer, and to have religious instruction, and by the time I was 12 I could translate scriptures from Tibetan into Mongol and from Mongol into Tibetan, although I had no speaking knowledge of Tibetan, which was only a written language to me. Of course knowledge of the meaning of religion came to me only gradually, partly through having texts explained to me by a tutor . . . to be continued . . .
Friday, March 20, 2009
Mongolia | Spring Equinox
The Spring Equinox occurs today at exactly 7:44 pm UB time. Retire to the mountain top of your choice for appropriate ceremonies. Far be it from me to preach to you, but in keeping with Buddhist principles you should try your best to abstain from any animal or human sacrifices.
Mongolia | Chingis Khan Portraits
Paris-based scholar Isabelle Charleux, author of Temples et monastères de Mongolie-intérieure, has posted a Collection of Chingis Khan Portraits. Check them out. See more on Chingis Portraits.
One of some 200 portraits of Chingis Khan from the Collection
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Mongolia | Autobiography of the Diluv Khutagt | Part 1
Diluv Khutagt (1884–1965)Been reading the Autobiography of the Diluv Khutagt. Here is the Foreword to his autobiography:
Reincarnation = the Vehicle and the Passenger
Religion is not limited to knowledge of the scriptures. A man may be immensely learned, and still lacking in buyan (punya), or religious merit. Conversely, an ignorant and humble man may be deeply religious. It is here that time, circumstance, and transmigration interact. A man in unfavorable circumstances may still be carried forward on the religious path by the merit of his previous incarnations in various forms, just as a man in apparently favorable circumstances may be held back by lack of merit in previous lives.
Moreover there is an interaction between the individual, the community, and indeed the whole universe of living, sentient beings. This helps us to understand the changes and differences between saintly incarnations, whom you Westerners call Living Buddhas. When the Chinese began to use the expression Huo Fo, literally Living Buddha, they must have been trying to make a crude distinction between an image or statue of Buddha and a human reincarnation. Our Mongol term is khuvilgaan, from a root meaning “to change, to transform”, and so to be reincarnated; but this, of course, is also a translation that does not carry over the full inner meanings of the original Tibetan and Sanskrit terms.
Putting it very roughly to give a general idea to people who have not studied Buddhism, there are two classes of khuvilgaan or reincarnation. Those of the higher class, to which I belong, are reincarnations of Buddha. This does not mean that Buddha is divided up, with one part of Buddha manifest in one reincarnation, and one in another. Buddha is indivisible and pervasive. The fact of several reincarnations of Buddha does not diminish the unity or totality of Buddha.
Bodhisatvas are Souls that, by accumulation of buyan or merit could become Buddha, but elect to remain in the material world, contributing to the acquisition of buyan by all Souls until all souls become Buddha.
Now we come to the process of reincarnation. Here I think it will help laymen to understand if I say that on one hand there is the Soul, and on the other the body, which is like a vehicle in which a man travels. This helps to explain many mysteries. The body is material, and is bound up with the material world. That is why a reincarnation can act very differently in the different bodies in which it is reincarnated. It is as if a man should say, “this time I will take an express train, going straight to Washington and stopping nowhere;” but on the next journey he may say “I will take a slow train that stops at many places, or I may take a side trip.”
As an example, the body of my last incarnation was a worldly person who drank, but the body of my incarnation before that was a learned and pious lama who was everywhere revered and invited far and wide to visit monasteries and Banners and Aimags, because of the religious benefit of his presence. In the lives of human generations we must always remember the interaction between the individual and the totality of the community. We may also live in times that appear on the surface to be good and happy, but materialism, ignorance, and error are accumulating below the surface and will break out later. It may be that in my incarnation of two generations ago, when religious merit was accumulating elsewhere, partly because of the visits and prayers of my incarnation of that time, ignorance and error were accumulating in the monastery territory itself, and there, as far as our mortal eyes can see, the vehicle of my next incarnation was inferior to the one that had gone just before.
We must remember that illusion, the distortion of our understanding by material things, is always about us. To speak of “good” and “bad” incarnations is a very gross way of speaking. There are manifestations within manifestations. Take another example. In the time of my learned and pious incarnation of two generations ago, the body of the Diluv Khutagt was much senior in years to that of his parallel incarnation, the Narvanchin Khutagt. From the time he was about 16, this Narvanchin showed no inclination for the clerical life. (Eventually he lived like a layman, taking a wife and having children. He was even very fond of hunting, which means the taking of life, which is a breaking of one of the fundamental vows of a lama. There was much concern about his manner of life, not only among the clergy but among the laity.) The Diluv Khutagt counselled that, in order to bring the Narvanchin Khutagt back to the religious life, he should be sent to study in one of the great monasteries in Amdo [the part of Tibet included in the Kokonor territory, now the province of Chinghai], such as Kumbum. As the Diluv stood to the Narvanchin in the relation of teacher to disciple, this advice was authoritative. The Diluv began a religious ceremony of several days of prayer to confirm the decision; but immediately there broke out a deadly epidemic of stomach sickness. The Narvanchin had left the monastery territory and was living in Sain Noyon Khan Aimag, but when he heard of the epidemic he returned to the monastery. All that he did was to slaughter oxen and invite everybody to feast on beef—hardly a religious approach to the exorcising of sickness; yet everybody who ate of the beef was cured and the epidemic was at an end.
Moreover, the Sain Noyon Khan, the senior prince of Sain Noyon Khan Aimag1 in secular matters, had approved of the decision to send the Narvanchin to Amdo. He was in Uliastai at the time. When the epidemic (perhaps it was cholera) had ceased in the monastery territory, the Narvanchin announced that he would go to Uliastai. No sooner had he reached the town than both the Sain Noyon Khan and his princess were stricken by the dreaded sickness. The Narvanchin announced that he would hold the religious ceremony called Sor, in which there is a burnt offering of food: a sort of pyramid, moulded out of flour with water or butter, and sometimes with small pieces of raw meat stuck into it, is placed on the fire. The Sain Noyon Khan was unable to attend, because of his sickness. “That’s all right,” said the Narvanchin. “We’ll have you lifted up, so you can see it from afar.” So they lifted him up.
But then there was another strange thing. The priest who carried out the Sor ritual should carefully prepare himself, trying to purify himself of all material desires and lusts. But the Narvanchin said to the Sain Noyon Khan, “I can’t carry out this ceremony unless I get good and drunk.” The Sain Noyon Khan was sick, and could not but consent. So the Narvanchin, after drinking heavily, carried out the ceremony—and immediately the Sain Noyon Khan and his princess recovered.
Indeed, the Narvanchin of that incarnation, for all his worldly life, had the healing touch and worked wonders. He could use gun-magic, a kind of magic that I will mention later, and he could cure madness. He once cured a woman who was violently and uncontrollably mad. It took a number of men to drag her before him, but when he spoke to her, firmly but kindly, the madness was exorcised.
So we are made aware that there are mysterious things. In that generation the Diluv Khutagt was incarnated in a body that was of pious learning and pure life, and the Narvanchin in a body that led a profligate life; yet it was the Narvanchin who worked the wonders, and it was the Narvanchin’s decision not to go to Amdo that prevailed over the Diluv’s counsel that he ought to go to Amdo; and the fact that the epidemic broke out when the Diluv prayed, and was stilled by the Narvanchin, left no doubt about the matter.
Of myself in this incarnation I will say only this: I am not a man of great learning. On this journey through life my course has been in the main one of religion manifested in action, rather than in learning; and moreover the time in which this journey has been made has been one of great wars and much violence and evil.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Mongolia | Töv Aimag | Baganuur Woman’s Day
From the Chingis Statue we wandered on out to Baganuur, about eighty-five miles east of Ulaan Baatar, where we popped in to see Zevgee and wish his wife Tümen-Ölzii a happy Women’s Day.
Saka, Tümen-Ölzii, Zevgee and Yooton
Saka and Tümen-ÖlziiSaka, Tümen-Ölzii, Zevgee, Günj, and I once did a Horse Trip Together to Khagiin Khar Nuur. Just last fall Yooton, Tümen-Ölzii, Zevgee, and I did a Horse Trip to Khökh Nuur and Baldan Bereeven Khiid. So we had a lot of reminiscing to do .
Yooton and Tümen-Ölzii
Saka and Yooton wishing Tümen-Ölzii a Happy Women’s Day
Monday, March 9, 2009
Mongolia | Töv Aimag | Natty Chingis Rides Again!
Since March 8 was International Woman’s Day and Chingis Khan was a great admirer of women I popped out to the new Chingis Statue, in the Tuul River Valley about 30 miles west of Ulaan Baatar, not far from the Tonyukuk Türk Monuments. I had seen the statue numerous times when it was under construction but this is first time I actually drove over to the site. You can go inside and climb up into the statue itself but the 10,000 tögrög fee ($6.37) seemed a bit exhorbitant, so I passed on that.
