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Chapter One

Born in Lhasa

I was born into the Tsarong family on the 22nd day of the fifthmonth of the Water Horse year in the Tibetan calendar (1942).My family members told me that it was a joyful and auspiciousday not only because I was the first Tsarong grandchild, but alsobecause the monthly supply of oil, barley, peas, and wheat hadarrived that day from our family estate in Tsang. I suppose mybirth would have been more welcome if I had been a boy—theheir of the Tsarong family. I could have followed my ancestorsand taken a prestigious position in the Tibetan government.Nonetheless, I was lovingly received.

    My mother often told me about my birth. She was only sixteenand had been married just a year. As was the custom inTibet, the birth was a family affair; no modern doctors or nursesattended. Assisted by my two grandmothers and a maid, mymother suffered through thirty hours of labor. Her only comfortswere sweet words from her relatives, strong butter tea, thesmoke of holy, sweet-smelling herbs, and her inner strength. Asthe excruciating pain prevented her from lying quietly, she pacedaround the room, willing me to arrive. When the moment came,I slipped into my maternal grandmother's hands.

    In contrast to the efficient, sometimes impersonal hospitalbirths in the West, births in Tibet required special rituals. To keepevil spirits from carrying away the soul of the mother or of thechild, the mother was made to inhale smoke from a burningmixture of incense and juniper branches, different herbs, andbarley powder. Pieces of hair or cloth from holy lamas were alsoburnt with this mixture,and the smoke was carried around theroom. Butter and barley dough were mixed with water and thenshaped into a dice or a fish, which the expectant mother wasmade to swallow while one of her maternal male relatives wascalled on to recite a special mantra to facilitate the delivery.

    In some homes, peacock feathers and hair from a bear wereburnt and the ashes were added to a bowl of water. A male relativeof the mother was made to say a special mantra, blow onthe water, and then urge the mother to drink it. According toTibetan beliefs, the child is usually born soon after this ritual.Medicines from herbs, roots, and minerals were also given tothe mother to ease her delivery.

    Tibetans are very superstitious by nature, and there are manysuperstitions about births. For example, a birth is auspicious ifthe child is born in an unbroken amniotic sac. My youngerbrother, Tseten Gyurmey, was born this way, and he was laterrecognized as a reincarnated Buddhist teacher, the DrikungKyapgon Chetsang Rinpoche. He was born on the fourth day ofthe sixth Tibetan month, a very special day according to TibetanBuddhism—the day when Buddha taught the Four Noble Truths.When my brother was delivered in the sac, he did not seem tobe alive. By chance, the English physician of the British TradeMission, Dr. Guthrie, had been called to attend the birth. Whenthe family thought that the baby was dead, Dr. Guthrie took over.After hanging my baby brother upside down and whacking himon the bottom, Dr. Guthrie displayed a wailing baby boy. Mymother is forever grateful to this physician.

    After any delivery, a new baby was bathed or oiled and dressedin a soft loose gown and wrapped in a blanket. A tiny piece ofbutter was put on the baby's tongue before the child was broughtto the mother's breast. To revive the mother, relatives fed herhot soup from bone or lamb meat, and melted butter. TraditionalTibetan doctors say that the mother's wind energies are disturbedby the birth and must be resettled with warm food and rest.

    Two days after my birth, my maternal grandmother hosted aspecial purifying ceremony, or bahng sel, for me The family priestchanted prayers and carried a branch of kusha grass that wasdipped in milk and shaken over my mother and me and thenaround the room. Bowls of boiled rice with raisins and droma (atiny sweet-potato-like root) and butter tea were served to myparents. As they showed me off to their friends, they receivedtraditional white greeting scarves called khatas and gifts of silkclothing for themselves and for me.

    Because my parents observed Tibetan customs, I was takenon a special outing the first time I left our house. My motherconsulted an almanac to see which day would be most auspiciousfor this jaunt. She dressed me in my best robes, wrappedme in a silk blanket, and embellished my costume with charmboxes, sea shells, specially blessed strings from holy persons anda silver pendant called a melong. I was then protected from evil.A smudge of soot was streaked on the tip of my nose as anotherform of protection from menacing spirits. My mother dressed inher finest silks and jewels and embarked on a day of visits tovarious temples and to her family home. These same rituals, Iam sure, were repeated by my mother with my younger sister,Norzin, and with my three younger brothers.

    I treasure my earliest memories of Tibet—my childhood daysseem to have been washed in the gleaming Kyichu River, the"River of Happiness," and left to float in the crisp, pure Lhasaair. My four siblings and I were swaddled in familial love andsweet comforts. An active child, I loved to be outdoors or withthe adults in my family. I was not popular with our servantsbecause I kept them running. Sometimes, when they needed arest from the five of us, they locked us in our rooms. I often outsmartedthem by finding a knitting needle or some other sharpobject and jimmying the door open. Once, when that trick didnot work, I climbed out onto a window ledge and shouted at apasserby to help me down outside.

    My sister Norzin, who is a year younger than I am, was mucheasier to handle. Quiet and patient, she never uttered a harshword toward anyone. Although she was not a pretty child, shebecame an elegant and beautiful woman. Tsewang Jigme, whowas born a year after Norzin, was also quiet and obedient—dubbed"our golden boy" by all of the servants. Next in linecame Tseten Gyurmey, who, as I have said, was recognized as areincarnated lama. He was far more intelligent than the rest ofus. The last in our brood was the naughtiest—Tseten Paljor.Seven years younger than I, Paljor was very cute and forevermischievous. He too gave our maids tremendous trouble.

    We five grandchildren did not spend much time with ourparents or grandparents, because they were often busy. Our eldersdid have, nonetheless, a great impact on our upbringing. Ialways think of my father as a man of few words, very kind,gentle, and polite. He was a gentleman with everyone. Oftenhidden away in his office or his darkroom, he spent hours takingand developing photographs and making films of Tibet. Healso loved to tinker with mechanics; he took apart and rebuiltradios, motorbikes, and even a jeep imported from India.

    My mother was more outgoing than my father and spent moretime with us—often disciplining us and keeping us on a tightrein. Amala (as Tibetans call their mother) was very pretty withtranslucent skin, a fair complexion, and a small nose. The bridgeof her nose was very flat, and she loved to tell the story of howcats had once danced on it and flattened it. She spent hours lookingin a hand-mirror, trying in vain to stretch the skin on thebridge of her nose to make it more prominent. She had a passionfor make-up, and outlined her small eyes with eye liner fromIndia. Married at age fifteen, she was not educated abroad aswere my father and his sisters, but she loved to listen to Westernand Indian music. She liked to feel modern and fashionable, andshe went to great lengths to dress up for festivals. Glamorous inher brocade gowns and full set of jewelry, she looked like aglittering, movable statue encrusted with precious stones.

    Also in the Tsarong house were my paternal grandmother andgrandfather: Mola and Pola Tsarong. The management of thehousehold was in Mola's generous hands. Ever busy, Mola couldalways be found knitting, praying, writing in her account book,surveying the house, or working in the garden. She alwaysdressed in a simple, black hand-woven wool dress known as asherma, and she was so kind and dignified that everyone adoredand respected her.

     The Tsarong family could be traced to my maternalgrandmother's family, who were descendants of Yuthok YontenGonpo, one of Tibet's renowned physicians. However, mygrandfather, Tsarong Pola, was the man most respected andconsidered the pillar of the family. Dasang Dadul, as he wasknown, was neither a celebrated physician like some of my forefathers,nor a genuine blue-blooded nobleman. He was a commonerfrom Penpo, a village in central Tibet. It is believed that he wasborn to a peasant family; his father died early and his motherremarried an arrow maker. Dasang Dadul was commonly knownas the son of an arrow maker. At a young age, Pola, as we calledhim, was engaged as a retainer in the summer palace of the ThirteenthDalai Lama. The Thirteenth Dalai Lama was so impressedby Pola's intelligence that he made him one of his personalservants.

    In 1904, when the British army besieged Tibet under ColonelYounghusband, the Tibetan government implored the DalaiLama to leave Tibet for his protection. Pola demonstrated hiscourage and loyalty as he traveled among the Dalai Lama's smallentourage to Mongolia and China. In 1909, Pola became a nationalhero when Chinese troops came to invade Tibet. This time,the Thirteenth Dalai Lama fled to India to fight for Tibet's independence.At Chaksam Ferry, the Chinese troops were on theheels of the fleeing party when Pola and a small band of Tibetansoldiers fought the Chinese back and kept them from capturingthe Dalai Lama. Later, Pola was appointed commander-in-chiefof the Tibetan army.

    When my grandmother's father, Tsarong Shapey, and herbrother were assassinated in political turmoil in 1912, the Tsarongfamily was without a male heir. A close attendant of His Holinessthe Dalai Lama who was a Tsarong family friend appealedto His Holiness that Dasang Dadul marry Tsarong Shapey'swidow and become the head of the Tsarong family and estate.The request was granted, and His Holiness even gave Pola adowry.

    Eventually, because Tsarong Shapey's widow was not a directdescendant of the family, the senior family retainers insistedthat Pola also marry one of the four daughters of Tsarong Shapey.He married the oldest—my grandmother. Later, Pola also marriedtwo of my grandmother's younger sisters, one of whomhad become a widow at a very young age.

    Pola was a man feared and yet loved by all. He was a forward-thinkingman who believed in the importance of a moderneducation and who, like few Tibetans of the era, sent his childrenand grandchildren to schools abroad. He always madehimself available to relatives and friends seeking his good advice.Like most families in Tibet, my grandfather, as the oldestmember of the family, was the head of the household. Instead ofmy parents making the decisions about the children, it was Polawho had the final word.

    Pola, however, was more than the family strong arm. He hada tremendous sense of humor and frivolity. He entertained usall and was able to cheer anyone's spirits. A strong man of averageheight and weight, he had broad, slightly stooped shoulders. Hiscomplexion was tan, and his eyes were delightfully expressive.When he was informally dressed, he wore baggy, Western-stylepants and coats and a floppy hat. He was very industrious, alwayswriting letters, greeting business partners, planning thenext crop of fruit trees, or pruning tomato plants. Pola woke routinelyat 3:00 in the morning, lit a kerosene lamp to do somepaper work, then washed up and inspected his estate beforedawn. The rest of us did not even wake for another four hours.

    Our day began with breakfast in bed at seven o'clock. We atebowls of roasted barley meal (tsampa) or boiled rice, and drankhot butter tea. Sometimes, we filled up on leftover fried meatpastries (sha-bhalib) or steamed meat-filled buns (momos). Afterbreakfast, we were scrubbed and dressed by our maids beforewe greeted our grandparents and parents. We would then receivea daily supply of treats from my grandmother, who kept atiny storeroom of delicacies—Tibetan sweet cheese, dried meat,dried fruits, preserved fruits from China, and candies and biscuitsfrom India. Once in a while we would have candy, chewinggum, and chocolate sent all the way from the United States bymy grandfather's pen pals-Mr. and Mrs. William Englesmanfrom St. Louis, Missouri. The boxes took four or five months totravel from St. Louis to Lhasa, and we were always excited toopen them. Bubble gum was sent with instructions in Englishthat my father translated for us. I remember our servants cheeringwhen my grandfather, my parents, and all the grandchildrenheld contests to see who could blow the biggest bubble. To me,America was another planet and bubble gum came from themoon.

    We children spent most of our time with our nurses and withthe children of our staff in our garden and courtyard. For mostof the day, our large garden became a fantasy land. We fashionedrags into dolls, drawing their faces with charcoal. We outlinedour houses in the ground and decorated ourselves with hats,headdresses, and necklaces of willow branches and wild irises.We romped carefree for hours in our world of stones, twigs,branches, and dirt.

    I cherished afternoon tea times when the entire family gatheredwith guests in our garden or in our grandparents' quartersand sat down to sweet Indian tea, pancakes, buns, and pastriescooked by the chef, Tsering Wangchuk. The adults recountedtales of personal gossip, of business, and of politics, and I achedto hear stories about unknown, faraway places like India, China,and the United States. I was very curious about the outside world.

    In autumn, we watched the kite-flying competitions. Kite-flyingwas a serious sport in Lhasa. If someone was caught flying akite out of season, he was fined or forced to build roads or publictoilets. During open season, the whole town turned out incelebration. Wandering through the market place, or Barkhor, afew days before the start of kite season, you could see all thenew kites laid out in preparation. Made of square bamboo framesand handmade Tibetan paper as delicate as Japanese rice paper,these kites were painted in several different patterns: the"bearded one" had two solid borders painted on each side ofthe kite; the "screwed-eyed one" had two circles of different huespainted on each side of the kite; and the "tailed one" sported along paper tail. I remember the menacing fighting kites whosestrings were coated in glue and powdered glass. When they weresent aloft, they dove and swirled into a tangle of bamboo, shreddedpaper, and sharp string—the last kite to stay in the sky earnedits owner great applause and wads of gambled money. Thesekite-flying adventures were never without a few mishaps. Duringall the cheering and running about, many spectators tumbledoff rooftops onto the hard, dusty earth.

    For an unfailing source of entertainment, my siblings and Ioften tried to catch Pola in his storeroom. He would set up shopfor us and display semiprecious earrings and rings, old tin boxesthat once held fancy British cookies, notebooks from India, pencils,penknives and other wondrous knickknacks. He would notgive us his goods for free, so we begged our parents or Mola formoney and then learned the art of bargaining. Pola was greatfun. Once he told us that he was in a trance, and that an oraclespirit had entered his body. He huffed and puffed and chased usall over the house. I remember the time he caught my brothersJigme and Rinpoche and swatted them forcefully on the bottom.They escaped in tears and ran for comfort to the rest of the family.

    Sometimes, we wrapped ourselves up in Pola's loose cloak,and he would tell us dirty tales of the notorious "Uncle Toenpa"of Tibet. My mother used to be furious on such occasions, butshe held her tongue out of respect for the head of the family.

    On holidays, we often visited my mother's childhood home.My mother's family was descended from one of the oldest noblefamilies in Tibet. The Ragashar family (also known as Dhokar)could be traced from the Ghazie lineage. According to Tibetanlore, the Tibetan people originate from the union of a monkey,an emanation of the deity of compassion named Avalokiteshvara,and an ogress, an emanation of Arya Tara. They had sixsons, and the Ghazie family descends from one of the sons; thefamily is traced back through the male descendants only.

    My grandfather, Ragashar Pola, was serious and taciturn, andhis behavior set the tone of the house. Whereas the Tsarong houseservants (except for the older ones) kept their hair short and werecasual, the male servants of Ragashar house were stiff and formal,keeping their hair in long braids and wearing gold and turquoiseearrings. Ragashar Mola came from the Sikkimese royal family.She was a tall, heavy woman—very frank, cheerful, and kind.Always in motion, she marched throughout the house with aheavy ring of keys. When she dressed up for holidays, she wasmassive in her tall headdress and bulky jewelry of the Tsangregion—a monument in Lhasa society.

    We loved these visits to Ragashar. Mola fed us our favoritedishes and sent us home with special treats. When we were lowon pocket money, Pola would reach his hand under his beautifulbrocade seat cover and draw out cash notes to give us.

    Ragashar House was in the center of the city, and my grandparents'rooms faced the Jokhang Temple and looked right downto the Barkhor. We would spend hours observing the differentkinds of people prostrating or circumambulating the temple. Wewatched as nomads clad in sheepskin robes carried ancient silverprayer wheels. There were peasants from nearby villages inwhite woolen robes and crushed felt hats, and women and childrenin black woolen robes. Many monks and nuns strolledaround the temple in a mix of maroon and yellow. The fine ladiesof Lhasa were dressed to attract attention.

    When I was about eight years old, Norzin and I enrolled in aprivate school in Lhasa. The government schools in Lhasa werefounded exclusively to educate men for jobs as monastery officials,lay officials, or doctors of traditional medicine. Co-educationalprivate schools were run by learned men of different backgrounds.Private schools did not charge any fixed sum for tuition,and they were open to children from all social backgrounds.There was no discrimination against anyone. On the day of admission,if the new student's family could afford it, they gave acash gift to all the students as well as to the teacher. Bags ofbarley, tea bricks, and clothing were also presented to the teacher.An auspicious day of entrance was chosen by an astrologer andthen in a small ceremony, the new student served tea and rice toeach student, and presented a ceremonial white scarf (khata) tothe teacher.

    I was not blessed with great powers of concentration, and Istruggled through the tedium and difficulties of school. Accustomedto running all over our garden and courtyard, I alwaysfelt confined in a school room. The curriculum was rather monotonous.We were taught reading, writing, grammar, and arithmetic,along with many, many prayers. Much of our early years were spentlearning the complicated Tibetan alphabets. Sitting cross-leggedand hunched over our work, we were made to draw lines onour chalkboards by pressing chalk-covered strings against theboard's surface and then copying letters over and over. As soonas we finished one board full of letters and were corrected bythe teacher, we started all over again. Eventually we graduatedto writing words and then sentences, and after a year or two, ifwe proved to have decent handwriting, we were allowed to writeon paper.

    The school administrator was a man named Phala ChantsoKusho, who was the treasurer of a noble family named Phala.Because Chantso Kusho was busy with his duties at the PhalaHouse, his eldest son looked after the affairs of the school andserved as headmaster. This headmaster was in his early twentiesand miserably strict and arrogant in his constant show ofpower. If any student giggled or whispered in class, he forcedthe guilty party to prostrate for an hour. If he was really angered,he would whip the boys and smack the girls on the palmsof their hands.

    One of his most bizarre rituals took place at the end of theexamination period. Students were lined up according to gradesand then hit with a bamboo strip—boys on the cheek, girls onthe palm of the hand. The student who received the highest markwas hit by the teacher, the second received a whack from theteacher and the student who came first, and so on down theline. The students with the worst grades would end up cryingand bleeding from this torture.

    Rivalry was very prevalent among the different schools, andstreet fights often broke out between the older boys after classes.We all carried knives to sharpen our bamboo pens, and thesebecame the weapons of the school wars. I remember one daywhen boys from the Ngarongsha school stood waiting in an alleyfor boys from my school. When they confronted each other,they argued and then began stabbing each other. Our maid arrivedin time to see the fight and scurried Norzin and I into thenext alley and away from the aggressors.

    At this time in our life, we witnessed a very important andmemorable event—both a happy and sad occasion. When mysecond brother, Tseten Gyurmey, was proclaimed to be thereincarnation of the head of the Drikung Kagyu sect of TibetanBuddhism, he was only three years old. There was great excitementwhen several important-looking monks called on the familyto request that my brother be released to their care and taken toDrikung. Several visits were made. There was whispering amongthe maidservants that my mother was reluctant to send our littlebrother to a monastery to live among strangers. After a few days,we heard that my grandparents, especially my maternal grandfather,had insisted that the child be given to the monastery, asthe Regent Thaktra had given the final approval for my brotherto be the reincarnation of the late Drikung Chetsang Rinpoche.Moreover, my mother recalled an incident that occurred on apilgrimage she made to a holy place when she was expectingmy brother. She met a holy man who told her that the child shewas carrying would have an early death or become a very famousman. Remembering this, she worried that if she did notallow my brother to go to the monastery, something harmfulmight happen to him.

    When the time came for Rinpoche to leave for the monastery,he was dressed in a monk's robe, a gold silk gown, and an intricatelydecorated flat papier-mâché hat. Not all little lamas werepermitted to wear this hat; this was special to the higher rankinglamas. It took a little coaxing to get him to wear the stiff leatherand brocade pointed boots.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Born in Lhasa by Namgyal Lhamo Taklha. Copyright © 2001 by Namgyal Lhamo Taklha. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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