Unlike most professionals, tulkus are not given job descriptions. All they have to go on are centuries of insidiously accumulated expectations and mountains of unfair assumptions. Once a child has been labelled a ‘tulku’ (a recognised reincarnation of a Tibetan Buddhist master), it is automatically assumed that they will uphold the lineage, its traditions and whichever spiritual legacy they have inherited by investing all their time and energy in personal study and practice. When they are not studying or practising, tulkus are expected to build new temples, print books and commission legions of statues and thangkas. In my case, after I was labelled Dzongsar Khyentse Tulku, it was taken for granted that the task of rebuilding Dzongsar Khamje Shedra – which, until its destruction during China’s cultural revolution, had been one of east Tibet’s most celebrated centres of Buddhist learning – would fall to me. But as the volatile situation in Sichuan at that time made reconstruction of the old shedra virtually impossible, a new shedra was founded in a place called Bir, in northern India, where a handful of Tibetan lamas and their followers had established a Tibetan refugee settlement.
Bir was a tiny, sleepy village surrounded by tea gardens and paddy fields. As its only shops sold groceries, the lamas had to travel to Delhi to buy many of the materials they needed to build their temples – nails, screws, sandpaper, paint, paintbrushes, glue, and so on. When we began to build the shedra – Dzongsar Institute – in the early 1980s, money was so tight that, to avoid paying for hotel rooms, we would take the overnight DTC (Delhi Transport Corporation) bus to Delhi, run errands during the day, then take the same bus back up to Bir that night. After twelve long hours in the bus, twisting and turning at unimaginable speeds along tracks that were barely recognisable as roads, we were dropped early the next morning at Majnu-ka-tilla (MT[1]), where we hired a tonga (a horse drawn cart) to take us to places like Chandni Chowk in Old Delhi.
It was during one of those shopping trips that I stumbled across a stunningly beautiful, life-sized statue of Saraswasti that was sitting in the window of the statue shop at Tamil Nadu House. Cast in the traditional alloy of ‘five metals’[2] (bronze) in the Chola style, her huge eyes, “waist small as gathered lightning[3]” and unimaginably voluptuous breasts “fresh as new-born lotus buds”[4], might to some eyes look a little exaggerated – more like a comic book character than a real person. In modern India, this style of beauty is now unfashionable and rarely seen. But every so often, if you are lucky, you may catch a glimpse of such a woman, her dark velvety skin a stark contrast to her trendier, light-skinned sisters, her kohl-blackened lids framing the brilliant white of thickly-lashed eyes that seem to blink in slow motion.
The first time I saw the statue, I didn’t even consider negotiating a price for her because we needed every penny we had for nails, paint and brushes. Instead, whenever I went to Delhi, I would make a special trip to Tamil Nadu House just to gaze at her through the shop window. Fortunately for me, no one showed the least interest in buying her for more than a decade, by which time my financial situation had improved enough for me to start thinking about opening negotiations. But, as luck would have it, the day I finally strode into the shop, determined to strike a bargain, my Saraswasti statue wasn’t there. And although I have not forgotten a single detail of her face or form, the sense of loss I felt that day remained with me for many years.
The Chola dynasty ruled over south India from the city of Thanjavur in Tamil Nadu, for nearly four and a half centuries (855- 1280). As art historian Vidya Dehejia writes in her book, The Thief Who Stole My Heart:
Chola Royalty proved themselves to be politically shrewd and ambitious; their kings and queens were refined and cultured, and deeply invested in the religious ethos of Hinduism, especially in the devout worship of god Shiva. They encouraged the building of temples and sponsored some of the most inspired images of their deities in the medium of bronze. There is nothing quite like these sacred bronzes anywhere else in India; there is no parallel tradition of bronze processional images in northern, western, or eastern India.
Followers of monotheistic religions and Communists have never understood India’s relationship with their deities. Even the language they use to describe India’s sacred statues is demeaning; statues are ‘idols’ and devotion is reduced to ‘idolatry’. The destruction of such idols was their excuse for ransacking and destroying so many of Asia’s temples – as if their crosses, crescents and stars, and hammers and sickles were anything other than objects of their own form of idolatry.
If only they could understand that ours is a paradoxical path. As the man responsible for this path, the man we know as the Buddha, said:
Those who see me as a form,
Those who hear me as a sound,
Have set out upon a mistaken path.
Such people do not truly see me.[5]
Buddhism’s sacred images, especially Tantric Buddhist images, are not just symbols that represent the divine. No matter how immeasurably small or immeasurably large a thing may be, everything we can see, touch, smell and hear lies within the sphere of the deity, sometimes known as ‘rupakaya’. Therefore, to make a connection with the rupkaya (the sphere of form) is the goal of the aspiring tantrika, for it will liberate you from your fixation with size, colour, shape and so on. But you can only reach that goal by taking one step at a time. Just as by drinking one drop of sea water you can claim to have drunk from the ocean, an aspiring Tantric practitioner can claim to have had a direct experience of the sphere of the deity using nothing more than a tiny statue or painting.
Although I was born high in the Himalayan mountains in Bhutan, I was quickly uprooted then shunted around northern India for much of my childhood. So it wasn’t until I was in my late 30s that I managed to visit the south. By that time, balding, middle-aged and shrewd, I had enough life experience to know that if I bought a Saraswasti statue from a shop, even the most expensive shop in India, I would be settling for second best. Instead, I chose to do things properly, which in this case was to order my statue from a reputable south Indian foundry. A few weeks after my request for a life-sized statue of Saraswasti had been sent to the master sculptor, I was invited to visit his foundry in the dense coconut forests near Tanjore in Tamil Nadu, on an auspicious date determined by his astrologers.
Having grown up in the northern part of India where Mogul invaders and British colonizers had injected nuances of their own peculiarities into the culture, I was curious to see the south and eager to experience the India of the Vedas. I therefore decided that on my way to the foundry, I would take the opportunity to have a look at a few of south India’s great cities, like Chennai, Tirupati and Pondicherry.
Until then, fully immersed in the study of Tibetan Buddhist philosophy and practice, I had been unable to do more than scratch the surface of Indian’s rich culture. Like most Tibetans, Bollywood films and Tandoori cuisine were the only aspects of Indian culture I had been exposed to. Everywhere we looked, forests of hand-painted billboards, some six-storeys high, crowded in on us, advertising popular movies like Sholay (1975) Bobby (1973) and Guddi (1971). At Diwali, at Indian weddings, in tea shops and anywhere that counted as ‘Indian soil’, Bollywood songs blared out of radios, hi-fis and television sets – and we loved them! But then, what choice did we have?
My contemporaries have never understood my fascination for ancient Indian culture and tradition or why I admire people like Mallikarjun Mansur and Bhimsen Joshi. I put my interest down to a karmic connection. Karma always plays such a big role in what we like and dislike. Why else would I have been willing to wait for hours in sweltering heat to hear giants like Mallikarjun Mansur and the great Pakistani singer, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan perform at Humayun’s Tomb in Delhi? It wasn’t the influence of the people who were close to me at that time because they were all utterly oblivious to Indian culture and philosophy. And I wasn’t brought up in an art gallery. So my interest must have been sparked by a karmic link.
The great Sakya master and one of the pillars of the Lamdre teachings, Khyentse Wangchuk (1524-1568), said that his spirits soared whenever he saw anything that looked even remotely like dhal or a chapati, and that just a glimpse of an Indian yogi, a dzoki, always made his day. Perhaps, he speculated, he had been an Indian in one of his previous lives? Which makes me wonder if my almost irrational love for almost everything Indian, and my conviction that what the British did to India simply wasn’t right, are the karmic result of having been a punkhawallah to the Indian elite under the British Raj?
Before long, attentive friends began to notice just how much I admired classical Indian dance and music. As luck would have it, one of them knew a famous Bollywood actress and dancer who lived in Chennai, the magnificent Vyjayanthimala. I don’t know precisely what was said, but somehow my kind friend managed to persuade Vyjayanthimala to grant me an audience, and I finally made my first trip to Chennai.
Chennai is home to one of India’s oldest dance traditions, the Bharatanatyam. When we first arrived, the streets were filled with young girls in traditional dance costumes on their way to their dancing lessons. It was an enchanting sight that made me even more determined to attend as many dance performances, recitals, classical music concerts, shows and workshops as I could during our stay. It was a magical time.
On the day Vyjayanthimala agreed to meet me, I made my way to her home in the very centre of Chennai and knocked at the door. An elderly man who must have been her husband, ushered me into the living room. Vyjayanthimala greeted me with the broadest and warmest of smiles. She was a very sympathetic person, but also curious about why this strange, Bhutanese-Tibetan man had insisted on meeting her. I could almost hear her thinking, “What can he want with me?”
At first, I only had eyes for Vyjayanthimala – she was radiant. But once I became aware of my surroundings, I realized that nothing in the house had been changed or remodelled since it had been built. It was like stepping back into a time when neither IKEA nor Fendi Casa were even twinkles in their founders’ eyes. The furniture was old and heavy but lovingly cared for, and the hardwood panelling glowed with a warm patina of beeswax.
Vyjayanthimala offered me the customary glass of water and Indian tea as we settled down to talk. After a few minutes, our conversation was interrupted by the moo of a cow – the last sound I thought I would hear in such a built-up, well-heeled neighbourhood. I have often seen cows sleeping peacefully in air-conditioned silk and carpet shops in various parts of India, but a cow in Vyjayanthimala’s house was unthinkable.
Noticing me noticing the cow, Vyjayanthimala opened a window. And there, in her garden, stood four or five cows placidly chewing hay. “These are my cows,” she said in a matter of fact tone of voice. “We keep them mainly for the milk we offer during pujas, but we also make our own butter, buttermilk and paneer.” As she spoke, the unmistakable aroma of cow dung insinuated itself through the open window and filled the room, but she barely noticed. Thinking back through the years, I feel a nostalgia for that genteel, comfortable, down-to-earth style of living.
From Chennai, we drove for eight hours through forests of coconut trees and banana plantations. Just before lunch we arrived at a village near the foundry. Like so many places in India, it was as if time stood still. Cows roamed everywhere and in far greater numbers than we see up north. Right at the centre of the village was a beautiful, deep pond where the villagers would bathe. Intricate rangoli[6] patterns had been drawn on almost all the door steps in the village – the pattern was never washed away, but simply refreshed each morning.
After we had introduced ourselves to our host and eaten lunch with the family, I decided to explore the village. As I walked past the open doors of a nearby bungalow, I recognized one of our host’s children who seemed to be painting something on the floor. As I drew a little closer, I realized it was a larger than life-sized painting of Kali Devi. The image had been superbly drawn and the colours were dazzling – it must have taken hours. I watched for a minute or two, then continued on my way through the village, under the shade of the coconut trees.
About half an hour later, as I returned to our homestay, the sound of Sanskrit chanting and ringing puja bells caught my attention. I love listening to Sanskrit shlokas and the sounds that accompany Indian pujas, so I followed my ears to the bungalow I had walked past earlier. The painting of Kali Devi had been finished and a priest was now holding a lamp and some incense as he performed an offering puja. I quietly sat down to watch until the puja came to an end and the painting was rubbed out. Later, I was told that our host’s family had performed this ritual on a daily basis for several generations, and not once had they missed a single day.
That night, as I lay on a hard coconut bed, I heard the pit-a-pat of large drops of rain beating down on the banana and coconut trees. As I listened, I breathed in the aroma of wet soil as the rain drenched the earth, and I thought to myself, “The world should pay India to stay just as it, to prove to future generations that there is another way of living.”
We rose well before dawn the next morning to keep our appointment at the foundry. When we arrived, the team of craftspeople were already at work, most of them almost naked, their mundus[7] tucked up around their waists. Beneath an open-sided, pillared roof lit by a combination of harsh neon strip lights and ancient hanging oil lamps (that I instantly coveted), stood clusters of moulds and statues in various stages of fabrication. Some of the figures were fresh from their moulds, others were half-finished, and a few just needed polishing. A charismatic old man in his seventies who exuded a terrible authority was very obviously in charge of the whole operation – the entire team was terrified of him. This was the master sculptor. As he could neither speak Hindi nor English, we found a go-between who understood both and could translate everything we said into Tamil.
Although, at the time, I had no idea what was going on[8], I was later told that the master sculptor had carved a wax statue of Saraswasti from which a mould had been taken. That morning, the mould had been buried in the ground, leaving a hole for the molten metal to be poured into, and garlands of flowers were arranged around it.
The master sculptor indicated that I should sit down next to the hole as he began to chant Sanskrit shlokas, pausing only to bark at his young, mundi-clad assistants. Every so often, he closed his eyes in prayer for what seemed like a long time. Only then did I realize that this man was not merely running a business. For him, making statues of deities was more than just his livelihood, and a far bigger deal than merely keeping the lost-wax method of creating bronze statues alive. For him, his art was his spiritual path, his spiritual practice.
By the time the ritual was over, the sun had risen, its rays filtering through the coconut and banana leaves as patterns of brilliant greens and oranges played all around us. The aftermath of the ritual was messy and beautiful.
I was left with the impression that not much about the process of making Chola-style statues had changed over the centuries. The figures produced by this 21st century, south Indian foundry were being made using exactly the same techniques as those used a thousand years ago to make the famous Chola bronzes that now fill the world’s museums. For a moment, it was as if all the ancient bronze statue artists and craftspeople of south India were there with us.
And that was that.
The master sculptor told me that it would be a few months before the statue was finished and that I would have to be patient. I thanked him and asked if I could look around the workshop on the off-chance I might find some smaller statues to give as gifts to friends. A small Ganesh perhaps? And, I added, my eyes fixed on the glorious hanging oil lamps, perhaps the master sculptor would sell me some of his lamps?
After striking a deal for two lamps, I wandered around the workshop. In the midst of all the dust and chaos, I caught sight of an image of Nataraja, Dancing Shiva, the Lord of the Dance, and instantly knew it was special – a feeling that Buddhists would say arose from my connection with this deity. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
He wears a woman’s earring on one ear;
riding on his bull,
crowned with the pure white crescent moon,
his body smeared with ashes from the burning-ground,
He is the thief who stole my heart.[9]
Even the thought of negotiating a price for this magnificent deity never entered my head. But having seen that I was interested in this image, my friends and assistants started bargaining with the master sculptor. To everyone’s surprise, he quietly declared that the statue was not for sale. “I made this Nataraja for myself,” he said. So my friends changed tack and begged him to sell us the statue at any price. Meanwhile, I gazed at Nataraja.
When I finally dragged my eyes away from the image, I turned to face the master sculptor. Perhaps my enthusiasm for Nataraja aroused the sculptor’s compassion because, for the first time since we arrived, he smiled at me. Then a moment later, he agreed to sell me the statue. At this point he could have taken full advantage of my enthusiasm and asked for an exorbitant sum, but he didn’t. He simply named his usual price. Such is the dignity and integrity of a true artist and devotee.
Shiva is also known as Mahadeva and, in the Tibetan tradition, Mahadeva is a protector of the Buddhadharma. Many sutras list Shiva among those who listened as the Buddha taught 2,500 years ago, so we can think of him as our Dharma brother.
Several members of my family are very fond of Mahadeva and do all they can to become better acquainted with him. As always in the mesmerizing world of Tantra, one is all and all is one, bad is good and good is bad, the master is the slave and the slave is the master. Just as Mahadeva can be found at the seat of the mighty Vajrakumara, he can also be seen as Avalokiteshvara. In the Chime Phagme Nyingtik, one of the most celebrated of Jamyang Khyentse Wangpo’s treasure teachings, the principle deity is Arya Tara and her consort is none other than Nataraja.
Many fascinating stories are told about the mischief Shiva gets up to, and about his great power and compassion. Especially intriguing are the stories about why, how and when he, as Nataraja (loosely translated as the Lord of the Dance) danced his never-ending dance. This is one such fable:
Today, Lord, grant my wish
Take the form of a dancer, and show me your dance.
You don’t know what you’re asking!
There will be problems. Don't ask me to dance.
If I dance
Drops of nectar will spill from the moon on my forehead
And the tiger skin I wear will come alive.
That tiger will frighten You.
If I dance
The snakes which are my ornaments will unravel from their places
And slither on the ground.
Then they’ll attack your son’s pet peacock.
If I dance
The Ganga in my hair will spill to the ground
Become a thousand-headed stream.
Who can gather her together again?
If I dance
All the cremation grounds will come alive
The skeletons will begin their dance.
And that will frighten you Gauri.
Nevertheless, for love of all beings,
And to grant your wish,
I shall dance.
Today, Saraswasti stands in my garden surrounded by flowers, insects, and an infinite number of named and nameless sub-tropical Himalayan birds, and Nataraja stands in the inner courtyard of my home. In certain ancient Indian temples, elaborate rituals are performed for such statues, including rituals for waking up the deity, for offering morning ablutions, for offering each meal, and evening rituals for offering dance and music. Although I can only make prayers of aspiration that I might, in countless lifetimes, be able to follow the example of these temples, I try to ensure that at least one or two ritual offerings are made to both images each day.
Bir is especially wet during monsoon season and a few years ago, my attendants were extremely alarmed to find that two very large, very poisonous snakes were living in and an around my home. An army of Bhutanese and Tibetan monks and attendants descended on my house wielding sticks, intent on cornering the snakes, imprisoning them in a sack, then releasing them somewhere far away from the Labrang. Their argument was that poisonous snakes are dangerous and that they had to think not only of my safety, but the safety of everyone who lived and worked nearby.
The four local Indian women who tend my shrine, clean my rooms and tidy my garden were utterly bemused by all the fuss. “But there will always snakes in guru-ji’s house! Of course! Where else would they live? It’s the perfect place for snakes, if for no other reason than Nataraja, the Lord of the Dance, is standing right there, in the courtyard.” To them, it was obvious that the snakes – which could just as easily be seen as deities or as ornaments worn by deities – knew precisely where they should live. Just as a woman’s earring belongs on her ear, a snake’s home is with the Lord of the Dance. To them, the statue of Nataraja is not merely symbolic of the god Shiva, he is Shiva and should be treated as you would treat Shiva himself. He should be served with the food he likes, offered the opportunity to enjoy the music and dance that he likes, and he should live in a clean house and be well-cared for.
I felt ashamed. These women instinctively related to my statues in the same way Tantric practitioners are supposed to relate to tantric images. Sacred statues are neither merely works of art, nor are they merely symbols or reminders of the divine. The statue itself, the metal or stone used to make the statue, the statue’s height and weight, its shine, even the space it inhabits – therefore the whole house and beyond – are the deity.
Totally embarrassed, I quietly told the monks to go away. And that was that.
Both Nataraja photographs by Tejal Shah
[1] The Tibetan Colony that lies 5 or 6 kilometres north of the Red Fort.
[2] Pañcadhātu (Skt.), the alloy prescribed in the Shilpa Shastras for making sacred images that is approx. 90% copper, 10% tin plus gold, silver and zinc.
[3] My master who rules over Accirupakkam, displays two forms, having taken as half of himself the soft girl with waist small as gathered lightning. He has flowing matted hair like a mass of gold, in his body the colour of sea-coral mingles with the hue of fire, and on the expanse framed by twin shoulder-hills he wears the white sacred thread and the rich ash. 8. Appar IV.8.10
[4] These descriptions were originally used by poets to describe Shiva’s consort Uma, but could just as easily be applied to a Chola Saraswasti statue.
[5] from Vajracchedikā, the Diamond Cutter Sutra
[6] ‘Rangoli’ is a style of Indian art. Patterns are created on the floor or a tabletop using, for example, powdered lime stone, red ochre, dry rice flour, coloured sand, quartz powder, flower petals, and coloured rocks. Rangoli is used to “enlighten” or to welcome Hindu gods to the household.
[7] ‘Mundu’ is a long piece of cloth that men in Tamil Nadu wear wrapped around their waists.
[8] For those interested in the lost wax bronze casting process, the following short video takes us through the steps. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-IJoFq7Hk2s&t=42s.
[9] Sambandar, Hymn 1, Verse 1. Trans. Indira Peterson, Poems to Shiva: the Hymns of the Tamil Saints (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1989), p. 270f.
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