Courtesy of vis.ualize.

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One evening three of us sat around a smoky fire in a drafty, broken down shed at a retreat center of Chadral Rinpoches, called Lhakang. This place amounted to little more than a motley collection of lean tos, dotted about a clearing, set amid a Rhododendron forest in Helambhu, a mountainous area north of Kathmandu. We were a very focused little group, huddled around the fire cum stove. All of us were holding long bamboo prongs above the embers and turning them over, relishing the extraordinarily delicious aroma of mushrooms roasting in butter. That day we had found a stash of Asharmo, a rare and very tasty mushroom that grows in the forests at altitudes above 8000 feet. All the retreatants had become experts on Himalayan mushroom varieties. By trial and error they knew what could safely be eaten and what should be carefully avoided. Food was scarce in these parts. Everything was carried up on the backs of porters from the Kathmandu valley, some three days walk away. Anything that grew locally was a very welcome addition to the generally spartan diet. It was a pitch black night, mist hung low over the sighing forests blocking out the starlight and shrouding everything in a heavy, damp blanket. Only the light from our fire and the flickering flame of a single, smoky kerosene wick broke the inky darkness. Our little shelter was on the outskirts of the camp and about 50 meters from any one else. It bordered the forest and was somewhat set apart. Some people even said it was haunted... Some rather odd things certainly did happen there from time to time, but they are the substance for another tale to be told elsewhere. That evening, our visitor, Tsering, had caught the mood of the place and been inspired to recount an incident that had happened to him some years previously. Tibetans are notoriously superstitious folk, and given the current surroundings i was able to enter the spirit of the tale with equal enthusiasm and intensity. It was a perfect

setting for a spooky tale, and we listened to our speaker with wrapped attention. He was quite a gifted orator and spared no efforts to portray both verbally and with gestures, the various moods and nuances of each facet of his tale. And what a tale it was... Tsering had spent some years in a small village not far from Darjeeling. He had been ordained as a monk early on in life and had some training in the rites and traditions of the Lamas in the local monastery. When he was older, both he and the other monks were often called upon to recite prayers in the homes of village families. There were many and varied occasions when a few of them were called in to perform ceremonies to commemorate different events such as births, anniversaries, deaths etc. Occasions both happy and sad. For the execution of these duties they were often well rewarded, and during their stay, which could extend to several days, they were generally comfortably housed and well fed. In these small Buddhist communities, when someone passes away, Lamas are called in to recite prayers and undertake ceremonies which can last for many days. During these times, one or other of the monks always stays near the corpse, reciting a liturgy and chanting mantras, all of which are said to guide the spirits of the departed through the treacherous 'intermediate state' between this life and the next. These recitations are supposed to be continuous and unbroken, so the monks took it in turns to perform this duty which would continue night and day. None of them relished the lonely night hours when the one on duty was left alone with the deceased. Tsering in particular had an inexplicable horror of the 'dead'. He could never admit this weakness to any of his colleagues though, for fear of being taunted and teased. So he kept it to himself and silently suffered his dread until he was called upon to perform one of the night watches. Despite his silence, the other monks had sensed his weakness in this regard and knew from previous experience that Tsering would not complete his night watch unless forced to do so. On the particular occasion that he was speaking of to us around the camp fire, there had been four Lamas, including himself, in residence at the home of a wealthy village family. Their stay was to be a prolonged one and they were expected to perform the rites, and ceremonies night and day. Therefore they were all taking turns to keep the recitation of prayers unbroken. This had been a particularly tragic case. A young woman, only in her early twenties, had died in child birth. It was an all too frequent happening in these remote parts, where doctors and hospitals were not easily reached or accessible. This young woman had been giving birth in her village home. A local midwife had been bought in, but this case was beyond her capacity and there was little she could do. She could not even alleviate the suffering of the poor dying woman, due to shortage of basic medical supplies. The ordeal had dragged on for three agonising nights and days. Without being able to receive proper medical attention both mother and child died.

The wretched screams and cries of the woman had wracked the whole village, hers was a terrible death. The family were distraught, the husband inconsolable. The Lamas were called in to perform the rites for mother and child and during the nights and days that followed their prayers were aimed at safely guiding the spirits of both through the terrifying bardo realms towards a more favourable rebirth.

On the fourth day of their stay, Tsering was assigned to the night watch. He could do nothing to get out of this duty, so he did not even try, but his companions being rather leery of his antics, decided that they should lock to door behind them, as they departed for the night. That way he would not be tempted to slip outside and shirk his duties. They were all sleeping on the second level of the house, the family members were all on the ground floor, while the ceremonies that were being performed were taking place in a large puja room that was housed on the roof. At 9pm, they had all departed for their nights rest, bolting the door firmly behind them. Suddenly Tsering found himself alone with the white shrouded corpses of mother and baby. He steeled himself as best he could, there was little else he could have done as it was impossible for him to leave that chamber, even to relieve himself from the calls of nature. Settling himself down on the carpet near the alter, he tried to swallow his fear and began the long liturgy, following, in his minds eye the journey that was so carefully described there. As he chanted the stanzas he tried to concentrate all his attention on the words on the page in a desperate attempt to distract himself from the discomforture of his situation.

The hours dragged by, the house was shrouded in silence. The flickering light from lamps on the alter were his only source of warmth and comfort during those lonely hours. Shortly after midnight, as his eyelids were becoming heavier and heavier, he began to drift off for a few minutes every now and then, but would always wake soon after. Jolted by his innate anxiety over being alone with the inert figures. This constant remembrance gave him little desire to welcome even a short nap, although his body ached for it. Even though the young woman's face was covered with a sheet, one could still make out her features. There was no sign of peace in that face, the contortions of her agony lingered on. Tsering did all that he could to avoid noticing it and continued as well as he was able to chant and read in the flickering light. However, it was well past the midnight hour when, from the corner of his eye, he began to notice a movement on the woman's face beneath the sheet. A kind of twitching or spasm near her left nostril. This apparition struck him numb with terror. Tibetans have many traditions and tales throughout their history in which those who have died may yet be restored to life. The consequences of such an occurrence, although extremely rare, were something deeply feared. And that fear seemed to follow them like a kind of atavistic shadow, a sort of group memory, to which they were all acutely sensitive. Our friend Tsering, had this particular sensitivity developed to the highest degree, and so his horror at the unfolding situation was extreme. Knowing that he was locked into the room only exacerbated his reaction. He leapt up and began to pound frantically on the door, shouting out as best his parched throat could manage. It seemed a long while before any one stirred and by the time they had come and unlocked the door, he had fainted away and was lying in a heap on the floor. A cup of freezing cold water was poured over Tsering's face, and bought him quickly to his senses. This was an unwelcome awakening, and as his memory returned, he struggled and mumbled and tried to get out of the room. Bleary eyed, half dressed inhabitants of both the lower floors of the house, crowded around him, every one talking at once. It took a good while for calm to be restored. When at last Tsering was collected enough to explain himself, all was soon revealed. With the greatest trepidation the head Lama walked over to the corpse of the dead woman and lifted the veil. All held their breath and watched from a safe distance, with a mixture of curiosity and rising panic. There, beneath the sheet, on the woman's face was a large worm wriggling about at the entrance of her left nostril. A ghastly scene. All looked on, trying to contain various feelings of horror, disgust and consternation. There was much mumbling of prayers and family members, one by one, slipped away to nurse their own thoughts and discomfort in private.

Dawn was quick to arrive. Buddhists normally cremate their dead, and the auspicious time for this occasion was fast arriving. Within a few days the cremation and ceremonies were all completed and the monks returned to their monastery. Everything seemed to slowly settle back into its normal routine. Village life went on much as it always had, peace seemed restored. Yet somehow, just beneath the surface of normality, there was a restless stirring in the minds of all who had been present that night. In the east 'death' is a fact of life. One cannot avoid seeing it, confronting it, living with it. All the uncomfortable aspects associated with this process are there in plain view and broad day light. One is constantly reminded of the uncertainty and precariousness of life. In the west, it is almost as though a whole civilization has shunned this fundamental part of living. We are sheltered from witnessing it, and we are protected from gazing upon this most natural process. It is almost as though, 'death' is a dirty word, something to be avoided at all costs. And when it strikes us directly, and those we love and are close to are snatched away, we are left bewildered, shocked, and completely out of our depth and experience. Tsering had nursed an intense fear of death since his earliest memories. Even though he had been forced to be present on many occasions to take part in the performance of rites and ceremonies that were being conducted on behalf of the deceased, he had not really been able to confront this inexplicable fear that would arise in him each time he was in the presence of 'death'. The event that took place that night, shook him so profoundly that he was forced to take hold of himself and look deeper and closer at the whole cycle of life and death in all its various facets and stages. This was a turning point for him, and marked his entrance into adulthood and full maturing as a qualified 'Lama'. It was like a personal 'rite of passage' for him, even though he had been anything but 'heroic'. Tsering had always had a taste for the dramatic, and so this occurrence seemed almost to have been sent to him by the 'powers that be.' Tailored, as it were, almost too perfectly, in order to create a catharsis in him. It was so grotesque and yet also a striking reminder of what our 'bodies' actually are. 'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, earth to earth.' (From the Book of Common Prayer) These bodies, and these 'lives' are as transient as the patterns formed by snow flakes on a window pane. Each life is so unique and fragile. It dances, its dance for just the flash of an eye and then is gone forever, leaving barely a trace. What remains, and what is always present, we have each of us to discover for ourselves. Life can assist us greatly in this enterprise. Its unspoken wisdom is available to us at all times and requires only our sincere interest and attention. We can delay our inquiry but we cannot prevent the inevitable.

Will we be prepared when our own time comes...