Before I was sent away to Sikkim for my training, I was raised in remote villages in Bhutan, mostly by my grandparents and my mother. My father was away working in Kurseong, near Darjeeling, as an All India Radio announcer and newsreader. The only radio around was owned by my grandfather, who rarely used it, so there were few distractions in the village. In the evenings, my grandparents would tell stories and this is how I started to learn about the world.

My grandmother liked to tell stories about the lamas and great practitioners. These were not just history lessons, she would really go into detail about how the great masters lived, what kind of rooms they stayed in, what they ate, how many attendants they had. The institution of the Dalai Lamas and others in Tibet were not only spiritual, there was this grandeur, a byproduct of generations of lamas playing an important role in both spiritual and secular matters. I remember stories of silk carpets and jade cups. Maybe it’s easier for ordinary people to relate to the glittering worldly side of things because it was more immediate and apparent. Mind you, the tales my grandmother told me may not have been correct since everything she told me she had heard third- or fourth-hand.

My grandfather Lama Sonam Zangpo also liked to tell stories. He told me that when he was young he once made 100,000 mandala offerings in front of the Shakyamuni Buddha statue, known as Jowo, at the Jokhang Temple in Lhasa. Jowo means elder brother or noble or high-ranking man. It is so touching that the ancient Tibetans used such a personal and human label when referring to Shakyamuni Buddha. This particular Jowo statue was brought to Tibet by King Songtsen Gampo as part of the dowry of the Chinese Princess Wencheng of the Tang Dynasty. Tibetans believe that it is not just a statue made of stone, but that in fact it is Shakyamuni in flesh and blood. Even today, pilgrims from the ten directions prostrate for months and miles, aiming to reach Jokhang to pay homage to Jowo. My grandfather was no exception.

One time when my grandfather was doing this 100,000 mandala offering, the 13th Dalai Lama, Thubten Gyatso, with all his tshedung (secretaries), came to pay homage to the Jowo. My grandfather had a perfect memory and could convey everything about this encounter with vivid detail – the secretaries with their beards and mustaches, the impressive robes, the display of majesty. The Dalai Lama was surrounded by burly dopdops (monk bodyguards), who were selected not for their spiritual or academic merits but for their height. He also described seeing Sikyong Reting, Thubten Jamphel Yeshe Gyaltsen, who later recognized the 14th Dalai Lama. My grandfather said that Sikyong Reting was a very handsome boy in his teens, although years later, he faced many tragedies.

 

These were the stories I grew up with, the way some children grow up with fairytales, and I still feel their influence. As I recall these stories, I am realizing that there is a lesson to be learned. Even though my grandfather was an ascetic in the lineage of Milarepa, who taught simple living and lived as he taught, he never looked down condescendingly on the majestic style and splendor of many of the great bodhisattvas. My grandparents valued both ways of living, the simple and not so simple. They told tales of grand entourages with just as much respect, or even more, as tales of cave dwellers. They appreciated the serene and pure vinaya path followers, with their emphasis on decency and celibacy, just as they revered the path of the great yogis who were seemingly wild and unconventional. We were taught to regard Kashyapa, Shariputra, Tilopa, and Naropa as heroes. At the same time, stories of the divine madman, Drukpa Kuenley, tying up his penis and posing as a nun so he could live in a nunnery, were told with humor and reverence.

One story that most intrigued me as a child was about the flying hat of Rangjung Rigpe Dorje, the 16th Karmapa. A few people I was hanging around at that time pointed out that there was something special about how the Karmapa held his hat during ceremonies. They said that if he didn’t hold on to it, it would fly away. As you can see in photos of him on the throne, he is often seated with one hand lifted to his black crown. One theory was that it had been woven from the hair of 100,000 dakinis, and since they are creatures of flight, the hat could fly.

After I was enthroned as a tulku, I had the great fortune of meeting the 16th Karmapa in person. I was 6 or 7 years old. Rumtek Monastery was quite near where I was being groomed at the Maharaja of Sikkim’s palace monastery in Gangtok. (In the late 1960s, Sikkim was still an independent kingdom.) My tutor, Lama Chogden, and my attendant, Tashi Namgyal, spent days before my first visit teaching me how to prostrate and the proper way to offer a ceremonial scarf to His Holiness.

On the drive from Gangtok to Rumtek, there was a feeling of butterflies in my stomach. As we approached, I had a natural impulse to check my robes and make sure that everything was proper, even though no one had told me to do so. The Karmapa was such a stainless embodiment of the blessings, he exuded a majestic quality that reached us even as we were still on the road to the monastery. Later, I learned that there was another side to this quality.

When I first laid eyes on His Holiness the Karmapa, I was overwhelmed not just by him as a person but by all of his surroundings. Special care and attention had been paid to every detail for his endless visitors, from commoners to dignitaries. Even at that age, I had a strong feeling of awe.

After that first time, we made frequent visits. Sometimes we were received in groups, and several times there was no one else but me. We would meet in his chambers where he sat on something that was like an bed but also a throne, elaborately painted and diagonally situated. He had a table in front of him and on one side there were rows of Tibetan style seating. In the center was a very big carpet, the biggest I had ever seen. His whole setup at Rumtek was just amazing. He had so many precious things in his room. Lama Chogden and Tashi Namgyal would always make such a big deal out of these meetings, just like the first time. Visiting the Karmapa was always something to look forward to, partly because the meals were so elaborate. Our Khyentse Labrang was not well off and we never saw that kind of food. But also at the back of my mind I knew that there might be a chance for an “audience with the hat,” and that was so exciting for me.

Hat ceremonies took place in a beautiful room at the monastery, permeated with the scent of burning incense. We chanted prayers to Avalokiteshvara as we waited for His Holiness to arrive, for he was known to be Avalokiteshvara in the flesh. First came a procession of his attendants—so dignified—including highly-ranked tulkus like the third Jamgon Kongtrul Rinpoche and many others. Then came the trumpeters who led His Holiness into the room. He wore his dakshu, the Karma Kagyu hat, made out of shiny golden thread. He was followed by another attendant, who carried the famous black-hat box, wrapped in beautiful silk. The attendant wore a scarf on his shoulder and respectfully covered his mouth with his robe, lest he breathe on the hat.

The opening of the box was done by His Holiness and no one else. This was the moment I so eagerly awaited. In my kid’s mind, I was convinced that when the hat box was opened the hat would fly out on its own. I went to several of these hat ceremonies, and every time, just as His Holiness opened the hat box, I watched closely for the hat to make its move. But somehow the Karmapa moved with such grace, swiftly and seamlessly replacing his yellow hat with  the black hat; there was never a moment when he wasn’t in control. For a long time, I had no doubt that the black hat would fly, if only it were set free.

Another fascination to me as a child was that this majestic, stainless embodiment of the blessings could also act so normal. He used really foul language. If one of his attendants made a mistake, he might say “paro saju,” which means “eat your dead father’s body.” And he would address other respected rinpoches with familiar or base language, like “khorey,” which is similar to saying “hey you.” And he would do this even with Kyabje Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche.

Even more shocking was something else that came out of his mouth. One of my most distinct memories of the Karmapa was how, from time to time, he would take a piece of paper from under his table and collect his spit. The spit was black. I was so intrigued. The Dudjom side of my family, my father’s side, has always been very anti-tobacco, and here was this high lama chewing tobacco in public. I asked Lama Chogden, “Why would the Karmapa chew tobacco? Isn’t it a really bad thing to do?” Lama Chogden replied, “Ordinary beings like us, even if we tried for eons to understand how and why these great beings walk in this earth, we will never understand.” He told me that I should not have a judgmental mind.

This was not difficult for me to do. I don’t know whether it was devotion, but without effort and without a single doubt I felt that His Holiness would always protect me. That feeling has never waned. He was not only a great lama, he was also a powerful king.

Once I visited His Holiness in Nepal at Ka-Nying Shedrup Ling. We were sitting alone in his quarters and suddenly he stared at me for a long time. He then lifted a small wooden statue of a deer and gave it to me, saying, “I hope that you will be as compassionate and loving as this deer.” After some time he selected a marble lion and said, “I hope you will be as fearless as this lion.” I still have the lion, but the deer is lost. Probably I have lost the compassion too.

But I try to placate myself with this bird story:

The Karmapa collected many exotic birds. Once when I was visiting him in Nepal, one of his birds escaped from its cage. This very small expensive blue bird had been offered by a wealthy patron and it needed a special cage and air conditioning and all kinds of special treatment. All the monks and tulkus were chasing it around like crazy trying to catch it.  I was just standing near the Karmapa, just watching. Suddenly the bird flew down and rested on my shoulder. The Karmapa was so happy, like a child. He thanked me as if I had actually intentionally done something to catch the bird. He said, “This means you have practiced bodhicitta in the past.” That made a deeper impression than all the philosophy that I studied for years and years.

Being around His Holiness, and also having this particular upbringing, ingrained in me the importance of not falling into extremes. Exposing children to different kinds of heroes is not about confusing the child, but about laying a foundation of nonduality.