The Land of the Thunder Dragon (Part I)
This new series journeys to Bhutan, a small, Buddhist country in the Himalayan Mountain region bordered on the north and northwest by Tibet in China and surrounded elsewhere by northeastern India. I had the privilege of exploring this striking Land of the Thunder Dragon with friends earlier this month and hope to share some of the most poignant encounters we had with the culture, religion, people, land, and history of this special place that is tied closely to its Tibetan lineage.
The peak of Mt. Jomolhari shone brightly with a new blanket of snow in the cloudless, early morning sky of our last full day in Bhutan. We are back in Paro, Western Bhutan, where our journey began. The sacred, Himalayan mountain now revealing herself to us straddles the Bhutan-Tibet border and is home to the Goddess Jomo.
The Goddess protects the people, the land, and the Buddhist faith in both Bhutan and Tibet. On the south facing side shown here, the Paro Chhu (river) begins its descent into the Paro Valley, a valley known as the rice bowl of Bhutan. On the north side, the Amo Chhu flows into Tibet. Her appearance was an exclamation point on an adventure already replete with serendipitous wonders.
Almost two weeks prior, we had been strolling along a dirt road that became a narrow trail through the countryside in Bumthang, Central Bhutan. Across a small covered bridge as the landscape opened up, a walled temple complex grew ever larger as we walked on. It is nestled up against a rising hill and close to the waters of the Bumthang Chhu.
Kurjey Lhakhang consists of three impressive temples standing side by side by side, one each from the 19th, 18th, and 8th centuries, with a large, grass area in front. Buddhism arrived in what is now Bhutan from Tibet with Guru Padmasambhava, aka Guru Rinpoche, in the 7th and 8th centuries. An imprint of a body in the back wall of a cave behind the oldest temple here is said to have been created as a result of his intense meditation. The country itself was then founded almost a millennia later when Zhabdrung Ngawang Namgyal, a Tibetan leader who lost a power struggle in 1616, fled south, and unified the disparate tribes of Bhutan.
From a distance, we could tell that something was happening. There were tents set up in the yard, one overflowing with offerings of fruits, vegetables, and grains. People were milling about. There was a buzz. Anticipation.
Rinzin, our guide, was unsure initially whether it was a celebration or solemn remembrance and asked us to wait before taking photographs. He quickly ascertained that we had arrived on an auspicious day. It was the first day of a special, three-day ceremony called by Chief Abbott Je Khenpo, the Buddhist leader of Bhutan.
The monks had that morning as instructed begun reciting each of Guru Rinpoche’s 100,000 prayers designed to pacify negative energies flowing throughout the world. With the ongoing wars in Ukraine and Israel, the turmoil in the United States in advance of next week’s election, and any of a myriad of other spiraling global hot spots, there is no shortage of negative energies in need of dissipation.
In hindsight, I might have misheard and they were actually reciting one set of prayers 100,000 times. I do not speak Dzongkha but like to think they were chanting the Six Varja Line Supplication:
Buddha of the three times, Guru Rinpoche/Lord of all siddhis, Great Bliss,
Dispeller of all obstacles, Wrathful Tamer of Māra/I supplicate you, bestow your blessings,
Pacify the outer, inner, and secret obstacles/and spontaneously fulfill all wishes.1
We were welcomed into the compound and led to a tent with padded benches to sit. We were served milk tea and snacks of fried dough and toasted rice coated with butter and sugar.
Shortly, we found ourselves waiting outside the stone, side steps leading up to the main floor of the center temple as the afternoon chanting was about to recommence at 3:30 p.m.
Suddenly, with five minutes to spare and a horn calling for attendance from inside, up to two dozen monks (boys and young men mostly) raced up or down to the entrance level from where they had been, threw off their flip-flops and sandals, and streamed into the temple so as not to be late. Even in one of the most laid-back places I have ever been, the monks were cutting things close.
Once they were inside, we were allowed in as well. There is rule in Bhutan — “no shoes no photographs.” This means that we went in, but our cameras had to remain holstered.
There were other foreigners sitting on pads against the right-side wall inside. I sat on the floor between them and the closest line of sitting monks. The older monks wore orange shawls. Two rows of monks sat in parallel lines in the center of the room arranged perpendicular to the leaders positioned along the front wall. Another grouping of monks sat at the far end of the room furthest from us.
One of our group tried to sit on the pads against the side wall, but a European woman pointedly blocked her. Karma was quick in this instance because after my friend moved next to me, a monk entered, went to the end of the same row along the side wall and everyone, European lady included, had to squish down tight to accommodate one more, rather large, person.
Today’s ceremony was even more blessed because seated at the head of the room in the place of highest honor was a young boy. He is the reincarnation of one of the five Treasure Discovering Tertons appointed in the 8th century by Guru Padmasambhava, the Second Buddha. Sitting immediately next to the Terton was an even younger boy who is the reincarnation of a senior holy person. Older monks (in years during this lifetime) made up the remainder of the seats of honor and seemed to be in practical charge.
The dark wood, thick columns, and richly colorful, hanging cloth decorations, as well as the limited light from the front windows, shadows from alcoves, and the sweet aroma of incense gave the room a tight, muted appearance. The chanting expanded and occupied every molecule of space between the four walls, floor, and ceiling. And it was a full room with several dozen monks and a couple dozen of us in the audience.
Many of the monks were reading from six-inch by two-inch, pre-printed prayer cards. The mantra began sedately, but then picked up tempo. Soon it was accompanied by long horns, bells, a cymbal (I think), and about a dozen throbbing drums. The chanting was cadenced and hypnotic. It reverberated through the air and crawled up from the floor boards. It took a hold of us in a meditative cocoon.
Boys, though, will be boys. Two of the younger ones sitting in front of us were thumb wrestling, while another somewhat older monk across from us appeared to be asleep (or in a trance?). He was holding one of the drums, but his question-mark-shaped-striker was the only one not moving.
The pulsing and tension increased. While this was taking place, other monks with white scarves covering their lower faces provided offerings at the table in front of the Buddhas lining the rear wall facing the Terton. Other than a glimpse of Shakyamuni in the center, I could not see around the corner for who the others were next to him. I wondered if one of them might be Zhabdrung Rinpoche, the nation’s founder. Also known as the Bearded Lama, he is himself often represented in temples alongside other principal flanking statues such as the Buddhas of the past (Amitabha) and future (Maitreya).
After twenty minutes being in the presence of the Terton and his chanting followers, we stood, shook our cramped legs, stepped over the raised lintel, and silently left the building. Outside, sunlight peaked through late afternoon clouds. All was quiet. On the third day the temple courtyard will be packed with people as the ceremony winds down and all of the offerings in the tents will be distributed to the public. As for today, we each left feeling more fulfilled in spirit for having briefly shared in this special ceremony.
Notes
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