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While I was engaged in the pleasant work of warding off the dogs, a woman, apparently roused by the loud barking of the animals, put her head out of the tent. Hers was a beautiful face, so beautiful that I was surprised to see it in such a wilderness. For a while the woman stood staring at me, and then, coming out of the tent, she scolded the dogs. One word from her was enough, and the beasts all ran away crest-fallen and with tails down, so that I could not help smiling at them. And, smiling, I asked the beauty of the wilderness for a night’s lodging. Her answer was that she must first obtain the permission of “her Lama,” and, so saying, she disappeared within the tent. At her second appearance I was admitted into the tent, and a very hospitable man “her Lama” proved to be. It was a great relief to me. That afternoon and evening I spent in pleasant conversation with my host and his wife. For two days more I was allowed to recuperate myself in their tent, and in the interval I learned a good deal about my future route. Among other things I was told that at half a day’s distance on horseback there was a river called Kyang-chu (wild horse river), a large tributary of the Brahmapuṭra, which I had to cross, but that it admitted of fording only by those well acquainted with its shallows. The necessity which thus arose of having a qualified companion compelled me to prolong my stay with my kind host till the 13th of July. It was on the night of the 12th that, at the invitation of my host, the occupants of the other tents, numbering about thirty men and women, came to his tent to hear my preaching, as they had been told by my host that I was a holy priest. My sermon to the assembly procured for me various offerings in kind. Among the audience was a young girl who insisted on my accepting from her a neck ornament, consisting of seven coral beads and a gem. I took it from her hand for a moment, but with sincere thanks I returned it her, as I really had no use for it. But she, with the support of her companions, insisted on my accepting it, and I was finally persuaded to take the gem alone, which even now I keep, valuing it as a memento of a dear little girl of the Tibetan wilds. The next day the owner of the white tent came to my host and gave him some raisins, dried peaches and dates, taking in exchange sheep’s wool, butter and other local products. This man proved to be a trader from Ladak and spoke but little Tibetan. Apparently a devoted Buḍḍhist, he asked me a great many things about my religion, and seemed to be highly pleased with all my replies; so much so that he begged me to come to his tent and dine with him. So at noon I went to his tent, where he regaled me with delicacies considered to be costly in those parts. It was this Ladak trader who was to start on the day following, and to be my guide in crossing the Kyang-chu.
ATTACKED BY DOGS AND SAVED BY A LADY.
As for my host the Lama, I learned that he was really a man of the order belonging to the new sect of Tibetan Buḍḍhism, which by the way strictly enjoins celibacy and abstinence on all its priests, so I was considerably perplexed at seeing him living with a wife. He called himself Alchu Tulku, which means ‘incarnation of Alchu’—the name of a place on the plateau. His wife was exceedingly beautiful, as I have already hinted. But it was none of my business to pry into the matter any further. It was enough for me that, after all my distressing experiences, he received me with open arms, treated me with the utmost kindness, and behaved in a manner bespeaking a large heart and deeply charitable mind. I noticed that he owned about sixty yaks in addition to two hundred sheep, and that he was very well circumstanced, though he might not perhaps be called a very rich man. Besides, his charming wife appeared to be thoroughly devoted to him, and he seemed in every respect the master of a very happy home. What more could I wish for them?
But I was much surprised at a discovery which I made on coming back to them from a visit to the white tent. When in the evening I approached the Lama’s tent, I heard noises inside which suggested a fearful quarrel at its height. On entering, I saw that a wonderful metamorphosis had come over the erstwhile beauty. Her face was burning red and undergoing the most disagreeable contortions I had ever seen, as she went on calling her husband names and otherwise insulting him in the vilest language imaginable. It was all about “another woman” and also about the husband’s partiality for his own relatives. A man of quiet disposition as the Lama was, he heroically maintained his self-composure and silence until she dared to call him “beast,” when he rose and feigned to beat her. He probably did so because he was irritated at my appearance on the scene just at that juncture. But that was a blundering move on his part, for the moment he raised his fist, the now thoroughly maddened termagant threw herself at his feet, and, with eyes shut, shouted, shrieked and howled, daring him to kill and eat her! What could I do? I played the part of a peace-maker, and it was lucky that I succeeded in the office. I got the woman to go to bed on the one hand, and persuaded the Lama to spend the night with the Ladak trader, to whose tent I accompanied him. And so the last night I spent with my kind host brought me a rude awakening, which caused me to shed tears of deep sympathy, not necessarily for Alchu Tulku only, but for all my brethren of the Order, whose moral weakness had betrayed them into breaking their vows of celibacy, and who in consequence were forced to go through scenes as I have described.
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Lighter Side of the Experiences.
On the 14th of July I bade adieu to Alchu Lama, and, riding on a horse he lent to me and in the company of the Ladak trader, I resumed my journey, now heading due north. My luggage was taken care of by my companion, who had six men under him and some ponies. First, we went through an undulating land where snow remained here and there, and grasses were struggling to grow. A ride of about fourteen miles brought us to the river Kyang-chu, whence, about fifty miles to the north-west, I saw a great snow-covered mountain. It was in that mountain that the river had its rise, and, following its course with my eye, I saw it flow into and disappear in the upper part of another elevation on the south-east. The Kyang-chu was about four hundred and fifty yards wide at places, while it narrowed to sixty yards or so at others, where its waters shot between walls of huge rocks. Before crossing the river we took our noon-meal. I was now a guest of my companion, and the latter’s men went about gathering fuel and getting things ready, while I sat down and read the Scriptures, and I had altogether an easy time of it. Before our parting, Alchu Lama had given me about five go, or about the fiftieth part of a peck of rice. I had this cooked, and invited my companion and all his men to partake of it. It was a grand treat; I had not tasted rice for a long time. Rice, by the way, comes to these regions from Nepāl, and costs about seventy sen per sho, or ten go.
The river had a sandy bed of considerable depth, and it was judged dangerous to make the ponies wade across it laden. All the baggage was therefore taken from their backs, and carried across the stream piece by piece by the men, who had stripped themselves naked. My companion and I also divested ourselves of all our clothing, and began to cross the icy stream. Where we forded it, the breadth must have been more than four hundred yards. The depth of the water was from three to four feet, and another danger was from the blocks of ice floating down from the upper reaches, which we had to take good care to escape, for fear of receiving serious cuts. After hard efforts we reached the opposite shore, where, in the warm sun, I had time enough to recover myself from the effects of the cold water while the men repacked the baggage on the ponies.
Once more in the saddle, we turned north-west along the river, and after a jog of about fifteen miles we came upon a nomad station, where seven or eight tents were visible. We were lodged in the largest tent, the owner of which was an elderly man named Karma. The intimation that I had come from Alchu Lama at once secured me most hospitable treatment from Karma. In the Karma family I observed a very singular type of married life, almost unique even in the wondrous land of Tibet, where (as I will tell more in detail later on) nothing is more common than three or five brothers with one communal wife. In Karma’s case it was quite the opposite, for he was
