By Lhundup Gyalpo
Buddha Purnima, the full moon day of the 4th month of the lunar Calendar, is celebrated as the birth, enlightenment and passing away of the Lord Buddha. Of the many celebratory events that mark the day, one, in particular, is peculiar to Ladakh; the procession of Buddha’s scriptures. People carry thick and heavy volumes, usually wrapped in saffron cloth, over their heads and shoulders and tread across the rugged expanse of Leh town for almost a whole day!
That night before the festivity, in 1987, the whole town was asleep. They had to wake up before dawn the next day, for they were to assemble in front of Gonpa-Soma, the temple, for preparations of the procession.
Samdup Thapkas, a boy of fifteen, half-witted and frail, laid on his bed apprehensive. He just couldn’t fall asleep even though the night had entered into its second quarter. It was his first time joining the procession. The occasion was highly sort after amongst the youth as it enabled them to display their respect and gratitude towards the lord. Besides, it was great fun as they got to loiter the market for a day without any questions being raised.
Samdup was no different, but for his inborn failings. He was not sure, if people would believe in him to carry the task. “Will…will (he even staggered in his thoughts as he did while talking)…will…I…I get…a chance?” This hesitant thought made incessant rounds of his head however much it was broken in itself. He laid facing the roof, his eyes wide open and stoned–sleep was miles away, miles away for him.
All this while in the temple, three monks were conversing heartily over a, or maybe a few cups of butter tea. They seemed indifferent to their surroundings. The friends, one hefty, the other skinny but younger and the third somewhere in between and restless in his demeanour, were indifferent to the ungodly time of the day. A large butter lamp, an offering to the statues, oozing its soot lingeringly into the dark space, was lighting the room with its dull crimson hue.
“Ha, ha, ha….” The temple echoed with the fat monk’s laughter. The silence of the night only aided his baritone voice, vibrating through the wooden windows.
“No seriously, I am not kidding,” said the younger one, insisting.
“What? Come on, that’s not true.”
“Gen, I can demonstrate my point to you.”
“How…how would you do that?” interjected the third, pouring more tea for himself.
“You know, tomorrow morning, the villagers will come to the temple…”
“Yes, so!” said the other two together.
“So, by that time, I will replace the scriptures with blank papers and bind them up in yellow cloths.”
The three looked at each other in a cold stare. While the thin monk was waiting for his friends to infer from his hint and respond accordingly, they were waiting for an elaboration. The monks hung into this predicament for a while when the lamp flickered shy due a sudden whiff of the spring breeze.
Dogs were barking outside, around the temple.
“Wait…are you saying..,” pondered the older monk. The thin monk looked at him in anticipation when the third broke in, “Are you saying they’ll still carry the fake volumes?”
“Exactly,” said the thin monk vindicated and continued, “no matter what they carry on their backs for their whole life, it makes no difference. They are utterly ignorant of the content of the scriptures and hopelessly blind. Like I said Gen, our people are blind in their faith. Blind!”
The other two monks, the fat and the third, listened to him in silence. The third even had his jaw dropped to the floor, which had a layer of soot from ages of burning lamps. The moist and black substance that makes socks stick and produce a shearing hiss while walking over it.
“No, no…I understand it the other way round,” said the chubby one, “you know, our people have learnt the scriptures to such an extent they value even a symbol of its presence. In this case, the crimson cloth that covers volumes. They have such conviction, based on their extensive and intense study and reasoning on the validity of the texts that they feel obliged to honour even a suggestion of it. They may lug the blank pages tomorrow, but in their hearts they are carrying the real ones and know their worth.”
He gasped and said, “how do you think we have been doing this for centuries, if not for reason?”
“Ha! Now that’s a perspective,” said the third one, pouring some more tea into his cup.
The three fell silent.
“And, the house is hung,” pronounced the third. He continued realising something, “Wait, wait for morning, we shall see what happens.”
“Aye, Aye,” retorted the others in assent.
II
Suddenly, a thud vibrated the assembly hall. Someone was at the gate, unlocking it. Sumdup entered. He had stolen the keys to the temple so that he could get hold of one of the scriptures. A bright red glow lit the whole temple. It pricked his eyes, blinding it for a moment. Meanwhile, the monks vanished into thin air. Puff! Sumdup thought he heard someone, but there was no body. In fact, everything seemed to be in its place, and the large lamp had exhausted its fuel. The boy reasoned, “the glaring flash must have been the last glow of the lamp before it dozed off.”
The temple room soon got vaguely lit at dawn. Samdup heard a Redstart chirrup. In a hushed steps, he reached for a scripture. It was heavy, very heavy for his modicum composition. Since he had some time to spare, he carefully rested the fragile pile on the wooden table where the curious monks had been sitting. He untied the cloth covering and flapped the first page of the volume. The opening line read, “Gya Ghar sKat du…” or “In the Indian language (Sanskrit) …”
By Lhundup Gyalpo
He is the author of ‘Betty’s Butter Tea – Stories from Ladakh.’ Gyalpo has contributed to Indian Literary journal of SahityaAkademi, India. His literary works have been published in Sheeraza magazine of Jammu & Kashmir Academy of Art, Culture and Languages. He is a columnist at Stawa magazine, Ladakh. Gyalpo was one of the twenty-five finalists at LitMart(a pitching platform for writers), Bangalore Literature Festival, 2018. He is an alumnus of Indian Institute of Technology Bombay.
