The Birth of Lama Tenzin Osel
Vicki Mackenzie
from the book Reincarnation: The Boy Lama
---o0o---
On 12 February 1985, in the state
hospital of Granada, Spain, Osel Hita Torres was born. He came into the
world without causing his mother any pain, his eyes wide open. He didn't
cry. The atmosphere in the delivery room was charged–very quiet and yet
momentous. The hospital staff were unusually touched. They sensed that
this was a special child.
 |
Outside, the heavens opened. Maria, the mother, lying with
her newborn child, was scared. Lightning flashed, the rains
poured down, filling the streets with so much water that
they looked like a river in full flood. This was the first
time she had been alone at a birth. Her four other children
had been born at home, which was how she liked it, but for
some strange reason she had been advised by a Tibetan lama
to have her fifth child amid the gleaming technology of a
modern hospital. In spite of all the apparatus and the cold
formality of the hospital ward, the birth had been
ridiculously easy. Just one contraction and the baby had
been there. Now she was alone waiting for her husband, Paco,
to come. When he arrived, he took one look at his son and
said with some awe, "He's so serene, his face is full of
light." Maria suggested he find a name for him. When he
returned the next morning, he said he was to be called 'Osel,'
which means 'clear light' in Tibetan.
This was the child who was destined to become one of the
most unusual spiritual leaders of his time. For Osel Hita
Torres was soon to be officially recognized by the Dalai
Lama himself as the reincarnation of Lama Thubten Yeshe, who
had passed away in California eleven months earlier. It was
later said that it was typical of Lama to engineer both an
archetypal Western death and an archetypal Western
birth–just for the experience.
|
From the moment they took Osel home to their small
house, which had been built by Paco himself in the simple, charming
village of Bubión, high in the Alpujarra mountains, Maria noticed that
he was not like her other children. He never cried. When she forgot to
feed him because she was busy with her other children, she'd race
upstairs to find him lying in his cot wide awake, looking and waiting.
He let her sleep all through the night, every night, from the day he was
born. It was as though his entry into the world was not intended to
cause inconvenience or trouble to the family in any way.
In fact, from the time he was born, Osel seemed to
bring them luck. For the previous six years, life had been tough for
Paco and Maria–with so many mouths to feed and money extremely scarce.
They were badly in debt, and the strain was beginning to tell. Theirs
was a good marriage, but the relationship was beginning to crack under
the strain. Now a new hotel was to be built in Bubión, and Paco found
work as a builder. He worked all hours, and the money came in fast. Soon
they were able to add more badly needed rooms to their cramped house.
The strain lifted. Life suddenly began to improve. For a baby who hadn't
been planned for, Osel wasn't doing too badly. But this unpretentious,
hard-working Spanish couple had no idea of the galvanic changes their
newborn son was about to bring to their lives.
Paco and Maria had met on the island of Ibiza in
1976. Paco, a shy, self-effacing man with a gentle, kind face and
piercing blue eyes, came from a poor family and had left school at the
age of nine to work in a factory. Later, seeking something more from
life, he had thrown in his job, gone to Ibiza, and met François Camus, a
Frenchman who had met Lama Yeshe and Tibetan Buddhism on his travels in
the East. Paco listened to what François had to tell him, intrigued at
first, then deeply interested. Maria, dark-haired, dark-eyed, vivacious,
and extremely attractive, had taken a week off from her job buying and
selling stamps to come for a holiday in Ibiza. She met Paco and François
and never went home. Middle-class and convent-educated, she had no
particular interest in Buddhism, but she certainly liked the people who
practiced it. "They were so calm and peaceful, good to be around," she
said. In particular, she liked Paco. Their relationship was soon
established.
Their easygoing island existence lost much of its
appeal when Lama Yeshe arrived in 1977 to teach a two-week course there.
Maria had never met anyone like him. "We'd had some teachings from other
more traditional lamas who had come with Lama Yeshe, and although I had
an open mind, I thought all the adoration, the prostrations before them,
a bit too much. Then Lama Yeshe came. More than twice the number of
people turned up to see him–the excitement level was very high. He came
in smiling at everyone, looking so kind. Then he started to laugh. He
kept on laughing, laughing.
"I'd never seen anyone like him. His energy, the
power coming out of him, was incredible. He was transmitting with his
face, his hands, his whole body–every way he could to make us
understand. I didn't understand a word that he said, but something
happened inside me. I can't describe the feeling, but it was very
strong. Spontaneously, I put my hands together. I knew this was a man I
could dedicate my life to," she said.
And so Maria, Paco, and François approached Lama
Yeshe with the idea of starting a retreat center on mainland Spain. Lama
listened to their plans and agreed. Ibiza was good for initiating
interest in Buddhism, but somewhere more 'serious' was needed to
consolidate the practice. Lama contributed his own suggestion–the
retreat center should be open to people of all religions who wanted
time, space, and peace to develop their interior life. After a long,
arduous search they finally found the right spot, a plot of land on top
of Spain's highest mountain, Mulhacén, 11,407 feet above sea level in
the Alpujarra mountains, south of Granada. The air was pure, the view
sensational, there was no noise, no disturbance from human or machine.
It was also totally remote and inaccessible. For six years, Paco and
François put all their energy and money into making it habitable,
building not only the retreat cabins and meditation house but also the
road leading to it–by hand. It was a Herculean task, a creation inspired
by their devotion.
Their efforts were rewarded by the sudden unsolicited
arrival of His Holiness the Dalai Lama, who went first to Bubión, where
he made a point of meeting the local priest and celebrating Mass with
him, and then to the retreat center which he named Osel-Ling ('Place of
Clear Light'), meaning the clear light of the purest, most subtle mind,
the final goal of meditation. No one was quite sure what had prompted
the Dalai Lama to make this curious detour from his busy European tour
to visit a remote Buddhist outpost run by keen, but utterly unimportant
Buddhist students. Later, when Paco, inspired by the light he had seen
in his son's face, came up with the name Osel, Maria initially
hesitated. It seemed pretentious, too much to live up to. Here François
stepped in. "You have put so much into the center, it's right that the
center should now be part of you," he reasoned. Maria relented.
While Paco had physically made the center she had
physically made the children, living across the mountain in Bubión where
amenities were more suitable for bringing up babies. Her union with Paco
had been remarkably fertile, much to her own alarm. She had never wanted
children, her maternal instinct not being at all strong and her desire
for independence enormous. She complained loudly to Lama Yeshe–bemoaning
the fact that she wasn't free to engage in long spiritual retreats like
her unattached friends. "Your children are your retreat," he answered.
"You should relate to each one of them as though they are a buddha,
because you never know who they are. Even if they are not buddha, it is
good for your mind to think like that. Besides, it is true that everyone
has the potential to become buddha, and so it is good for the children
for you to treat them that way," he told her.
Nevertheless, when Osel was conceived, she was
furious. She had four children under six: Yeshe, five years old;
Harmonia, four; Lobsang, two; and Dolma, only five months. She was alone
most of the time with the children (Paco being busy at the center) in an
overcrowded small house, with no help and large financial worries. A new
child was just what she didn't want. Ironically, a few weeks previously
Paco had tried to persuade her to have an IUD fitted–the other methods
of contraception having singularly failed–but the idea had been
repugnant to her. She'd been to the doctor but had come away knowing she
could not go through with it. Lama Yeshe had just died, and Maria,
trying to think of some way to appease Paco, said to him, "Well, maybe
Lama Yeshe is looking for a mother." Paco was not convinced. Three weeks
later, she discovered that she was pregnant yet again (in spite of their
usual contraceptive methods), and as she ranted at Paco, he acidly threw
her joke back at her. "Maybe it's Lama," he sarcastically retorted.
The thought that maybe it could be Lama inside her
was, however, the only thing that kept Maria from total despair. "It was
a fantasy, the only thing that gave me energy to cope. I never believed
it for a second," she said.
At this point, all the FPMT centers around the world
got a letter from Lama Zopa saying there was no need for the students to
continue to pray for the quick return of Lama Yeshe since a woman was
already pregnant with him. Maria and Paco received the news with mixed
feelings. On the one hand, they were delighted at the thought that they
might see their beloved Lama again. On the other, they were naturally
dubious about the whole issue of reincarnation. They had the
intellectual knowledge, like so many of us, but no personal experience.
On balance they considered this a golden opportunity to see how it
worked. They didn't realize how close they were going to get.
Maria had well and truly dropped her fantasy about
Osel being Lama Yeshe after he was born. She was far too busy with all
her domestic chores to indulge in such daydreams. She did notice,
however, that Osel continued to be a 'different' child. He didn't seem
to need to be with her, or his siblings. He was very self-contained,
almost meditative, and could spend long hours contemplating unlikely
things. "He used to hold and look at subtle things, like a single hair,
for a long time. Most children don't have the physical ability, nor the
interest in such things," mused Maria. "He had strong powers of
concentration, too.
When Osel was five months old, Paco and Maria took
him to Switzerland in a small basket for the Kalachakra initiation being
given by the Dalai Lama. Later, they all went to Germany to attend the
FPMT meetings, now being presided over by Lama Zopa, who had succeeded
Lama Yeshe as head of this rapidly growing organization. When Lama Zopa
spotted the baby, he asked his name, and when told, "Osel, from Osel-Ling,"
he burst out laughing. Later, during a ceremony he was giving, he
cryptically remarked, "Lama is very close to us at this moment. He might
even be in the room with us." Maria spotted a pregnant woman in the
audience and wondered. Or was Lama Zopa referring to the spiritual
presence of Lama Yeshe which was close at this time! No one thought he
was talking about the little figure in the basket.
Two months later, Lama Zopa came to Osel-Ling to give
a course. During a tea-break Maria left the meditation room, and on her
return found, somewhat to her astonishment, that Lama Zopa had lifted
Osel on to the throne with him, and her child was busy playing with the
dorje and bell–ritual implements used by Tibetan lamas. That lunchtime,
Lama Zopa summoned Maria to him and questioned her thoroughly about
Osel's conception and several other issues. He didn't pass any comment.
Instead, just before he left, he held a long-life ceremony for Osel,
explaining to the parents: "Osel is a very special child. He has the
karma to benefit many, many sentient beings in this life. Thousands
maybe. Look after him well. Don't put him in any polluted place. Don't
let people smoke near him. Take great, great care of him." Then, he gave
Maria Lama Yeshe's mala (rosary), the one he'd had with him when he
died. Maria was nervous. Had she influenced Lama Zopa in some way by her
crazy fantasies while she was pregnant! Had Lama Zopa somehow picked up
on her thoughts and been subconsciously directed by them!
But then life proceeded in its domestic humdrum way,
and Maria, surrounded by five small children, pushed the things Lama
Zopa had said to the back of her mind.
The Search
Meanwhile,
Lama Zopa had been conducting his own extremely diligent search over the
past few months for the rebirth of his precious guru, who he was sure
would honor his promise to return again to this earth to continue his
great work of guiding sentient beings out of the wheel of uncontrolled
birth and death.
In accordance with Tibetan tradition, which has its
own precise procedure for tracking down reincarnated lamas, he'd
consulted various oracles. There had been a variety of pointers. One had
indicated a Western child born to a couple of Lama Yeshe's students
living in Kopan itself. Another had actually predicted that the child
would be born in Osel-Ling and that the mother's name was Maria, or the
Tibetan equivalent. And a clairvoyant nun, a student of Lama Zopa's, had
looked in a mirror and come up with the name Paco and seen the profile
of the mother. At the time, it had meant nothing to her. Lama Zopa took
note, but not too much notice. He said oracles were not always reliable
and much stronger proof was required in this case.
He paid attention to his dreams. One poignantly vivid
dream revealed Lama Yeshe declaring that he was about to take another
human form. He'd heard the cries of his students calling out to him in
need and suffering and could no longer stay in the realm of bliss,
ignoring their plight. A later dream showed Lama as a small child with
bright, penetrating eyes, crawling on the floor of a meditation room. He
was male and a Westerner.
So Lama Zopa, in his new role as successor to Lama
Yeshe and head of the rapidly growing FPMT, traveled around the world
visiting the various centers, giving teachings, guiding meditations,
bestowing initiations–and keeping a watchful eye for any baby who, to
his clairvoyant mind, was in any way 'special.'
When Lama Zopa came to Osel-Ling in the autumn of
1985, he saw Osel crawling on the gompa floor. He had clear far-seeing
eyes. He was a Westerner. His face was exactly the same as the child in
his dream. Lama Zopa sat up. He brought Osel onto the throne with him to
have a closer look. Yes, it was definitely the child of his dream. He
noted the child's familiarity and liking for the dorje and bell. That
could have been a coincidence. More subtly he recognized that Osel was
leaning against him in a manner similar to the way Lama Yeshe had done
when he was paralyzed with a stroke in California just before he died.
He also watched the way Osel rubbed his head round and round, a habit
Lama Yeshe had always had.
Interested, he called Maria to him. When had Osel
been conceived? Maria thought back. It was the exact date when Lama Zopa
had had his first dream of Lama Yeshe announcing he was going to be
reborn. He asked Maria if she had had any notable dreams during that
time. She replied that one had, in fact, stuck in her mind. She had been
in a large cathedral where Lama Yeshe was giving teachings to a huge
crowd. Many were Christians, and they were all kneeling rather than
sitting cross-legged on the floor. With everyone else, she went up to
Lama to receive his blessing, and when he touched her, she felt as
though water, blissful golden-white water, was pouring through her,
purifying her. Lama Zopa made no comment.
He asked when was the last time she had seen Lama
Yeshe and whether he had said anything significant to her. Maria
remembered the occasion well. It was a full year before he died, in
February 1383. Lama had come to Spain, and she, Paco, and François had
gone to him with practical questions about running the retreat center.
He had given them advice on nothing else except Osel-Ling, as this was
all they had talked about. But Lama Zopa could hear for himself what had
been said, since they had videotaped the meeting for future reference.
Lama Zopa replied that he'd very much like to see it.
Watching the video, he was struck by some fairly
incongruous remarks Lama Yeshe had made in the context of giving
practical advice. At one point, he had said, "Osel-Ling is such a
beautiful place. It reminds me very much of the Himalayas. At some point
in the future, I'd like to spend a lot of time there." More
significantly he'd remarked to Maria and Pace, "I know how much you have
done for the center, how dedicated you have been. I shall never forget
you. Even if I die, I will never forget you. We have much business, much
karma business between us." At the time, the words had meant nothing to
Maria and Paco, and they had promptly forgotten them. Now Lama Zopa
began to glean their true meaning.
In fact, Maria and Paco were ideal candidates for the
job of parenting a reincarnated Tibetan lama–with all the demands and
controversy it would inevitably bring. They were both down-to-earth,
no-nonsense, stable, hardworking, honest people. They already had a
large family, and so a fifth child who would be separated from them for
long periods of time would not be the same wrench as if it were their
only child. More importantly, Maria was not a clinging mother. Quite the
opposite. While she was conscientious in looking after her children, she
could quite happily let them go. Maria had openly stated to Lama Yeshe
several times that she did not need children to fulfill her life. It was
an ideal quality for the mother of a son who needed to get on with his
mission in life, unhampered by maternal possessiveness. And then there
was Paco–steady, strong, gentle, utterly devoted to the Buddhist path,
and with a natural affinity for children, a quality that was to come in
very useful.
The case for Osel Hita Torres was growing. At this
point, Lama Zopa wrote to His Holiness the Dalai Lama, who all this time
had been doing his own prayers and observations for the rebirth of Lama
Yeshe, with a list of possible candidates whom Lama Zopa had observed,
all of whom showed favorable signs. There were ten children in all,
including, amongst others, three Tibetans from Nepal; two children from
Tibet who were born near the area where Lama Yeshe's family lived; and
two Western children, one with an Indian father and a Western mother.
After a while, the Dalai Lama replied that he had meditated on the
names, and one of them definitely was Lama Yeshe's reincarnation, but he
wanted more time to make sure. Two months later, the Dalai Lama
contacted Lama Zopa again and said that the name that repeatedly came up
was Osel's. The evidence now seemed conclusive. Lama Zopa's own
convictions had been ratified by the person whom he, and 14 million
other Buddhists, consider to be the most holy being on earth, a living
buddha, His Holiness the Dalai Lama.
The call came at breakfast time on 18 April 1986.
Maria, surrounded by the chaos and noise of her large family squabbling
over the cereal packets, could hardly hear the soft voice of Lama Zopa
calling from India. Would she please come to Delhi next week and
bring Osel with her for some tests? The money could be acquired from the
resident geshe at the retreat center who happened to be holding on to
the exact amount for some unspecified purpose. Maria could hardly take
it in. What was Lama Zopa intimating? Was Osel going to be tested along
with other children to see if he was, after all, Lama Yeshe! With her
mind in a complete whirl in the rush to get ready, she hardly had rime
to think about the ramifications of her journey.
Their arrival in Delhi hardly seemed auspicious. The
pre-monsoon heat was suffocating, and Osel, used to the fresh, spring
air of the high Spanish mountains, began to wane visibly. And he was
jetlagged into the bargain. The quarters they were living in were
crowded. He got horribly bitten by mosquitoes, and then he fell down,
cutting his eye.
Maria didn't feel too good either. She was anxious
about what was happening (still harboring guilt feelings about the part
her subconscious thoughts might have played in the matter) and her
fourteen-month-old son was fractious. Then she was told that the reason
they had come to Delhi was that the Dalai Lama was there and wanted to
see Osel before he went overseas. They got ready: Lama Zopa, his
secretary, Jacie Keeley; Yeshe Khadro, the Australian nun, Maria, and
Osel. Bouquets of flowers were bought (Yeshe Khadro purchased a solitary
white rose for Osel to give) together with traditional white scarves by
way of offerings.
At the appointed hour, they were ushered into the hotel room where the
Dalai Lama was staying, the traditional scarves were offered, and the
bouquets of flowers were piled on a nearby table. The Dalai Lama took a
long look at Osel and kindly took him up into his arms. Osel's face was
transformed into a picture of pure rapture. He wriggled to get down and
ran over to the table where, amongst the pile of flowers, he found his
one white rose, pulled it free, ran back to the Dalai Lama again, and
gently hit him on the cheek with it. The Dalai Lama laughed in delight.
The others were amazed. No one had told Osel that the white rose was his
gift, and certainly no one had prompted this spontaneous act. The Dalai
Lama looked at Maria and told her that Osel would give further evidence
of his identity as he got older.
Still nothing definite had been said. Instead, Lama Zopa announced
that they were all going to get into cars and drive some 250 miles to
Dharamsala. They drove for fifteen hours nonstop, Osel becoming
increasingly testy. Maria had no idea what was going on. Unbeknown to
her, the Dalai Lama had counseled Lama Zopa that announcing Osel's
identity at this stage might be courting problems. Fourteen months was
an exceptionally young age at which to recognize a reincarnated lama,
most tulkus being officially instated at four or five years old. Lama
Zopa was in a dilemma. Nothing on earth would induce him to bring
trouble to his beloved Lama's life, yet he knew how badly his Western
students needed not only the proof of reincarnation, but the living
presence of Lama Yeshe in their midst once more. On that long car
journey to Dharamsala, he was meditating on the right course of action.
When they arrived, his mind was made up. He called
several of Lama Yeshe's students, monks and nuns who were studying or
retreating at Tushita Retreat Center, dressed Osel in one of his own
yellow shirts, placed him on Lama Yeshe's throne in Lama Yeshe's room,
did three prostrations before him, and made a mandala offering to him.
"Here is your guru," he said.
With that, Osel, who until then had been beyond
exhaustion, flopped back against the cushions, threw aside his bottle,
suddenly fired with energy. His whole demeanor changed. He sat bolt
upright, wide awake, eyes shining, his face full of vitality He picked
up the dorje and bell in his small hands, the correct hands, and with
tremendous gusto waved them in the air as a Tibetan lama should. He put
them down and repeated the action again, and again. Seven or eight
times. And all the time laughing, laughing. People began to cry. It was
so like Lama. He had come back to them. Maria felt paralyzed inside.
Finally, she understood. The child she had carried and borne was being
hailed as the reincarnation of the great Lama Yeshe–the man who had
shown such extraordinary skill and dedication in guiding Westerners to
enlightenment. How could this be?
Later, she spoke to Lama Zopa. Why hadn't he warned
her beforehand? He replied he had to be completely sure and then asked
if she believed. "I don't know. It's difficult. I think I want more
proof," she answered honestly.
More proof was forthcoming. Osel still had to
undertake the traditional tests, given to all reincarnate lamas. And so,
as Tibetans have done for hundreds of years, Lama Zopa collected some of
Lama Yeshe's possessions; he mixed them with others of similar type and
asked Osel to pick out those that were rightfully his. Starting with a
mala (rosary), a fairly ordinary one made of wooden beads that had been
a favorite of Lama's, he placed it on a low table along with four others
almost identical in style and one made out of bright crystal beads
intended as a natural red herring for a baby of fourteen months.
Then, with Maria and a few Western disciples as
witnesses, he requested Osel, "Give me your mala from your past life."
Osel turned his head away as if bored. Then he whipped it back again and
without hesitation went straight for the correct mala, which he grabbed
with both hands, raising it above his head, grinning, in a triumphant
victory salute. An Australian monk, Max Redlich, was ready with two
cameras, a brand-new one and an antique device belonging to Lama Yeshe.
"Use the old one," charged Lama Zopa. Max ignored him, reaching for the
sophisticated camera instead. It jammed. Max missed the shot.
After a break, Lama Zopa set up the bells–there were
eight of them. This time Osel dallied. He picked up the bells in pairs,
ringing them and setting them down. Lama Zopa instructed again, "Give me
your bell from your past life." Maria, watching the spectacle, never
believed her child could perform the same miracle twice. He was so
young. Such a feat must surely be beyond him. Osel continued to play
with all the bells, picking them up and putting them down again. To the
onlookers it looked as if he were teasing them all. Lama Zopa repeated
the instruction. "Osel, give me your bell." Osel delicately, but
with great determination, picked up Lama Zopa's hand and put it on the
correct bell. This time Max was ready with the functioning camera.
Osel had passed the tests and could now be formally
recognized as the legitimate incarnation of the late Lama Thubten Yeshe.
The Western monks, nuns, and disciples in Dharamsala, who had all been
intimately acquainted with Lama Yeshe, could not take their eyes off the
fair-haired toddler running in their midst in diapers. Here again, they
were told, was their great guru–but in such a different form. For most,
it was hard to accept totally. They watched, looking for yet more signs.
Osel gave them.
At the top of the mountain above Tushita Retreat
Center is the house where the great Kyabje Ling Rinpoche, senior tutor
to the Dalai Lama, and Ninety-seventh Throneholder of Je Tsong Khapa,
once lived. He had passed away in December 1983, and in tribute to this
eminent scholar and spiritual master, the Dalai Lama had decreed that
his body be preserved according to the ancient Tibetan method. It exists
to this day, placed in the drawing room of this rather unremarkable
colonial house, sitting in the lotus position, the hands in the
mudras (symbolic gestures) of giving teachings and with a look of
utter serenity on the ancient, wise, and consummately compassionate
face.
Osel was taken up there with Maria and Max Redlich.
When he saw the figure, he threw himself on the ground in a full
prostration. He got up and did it again. Three times. Maria and Max were
astonished. Where had he learned such things! There was more to come.
Later, he came across the stupa dedicated to his former root guru,
Trijang Rinpoche. Without prompting, Osel set off at a trot around the
stupa, circumambulating it in a clockwise direction as every good
Tibetan pilgrim should. He stopped occasionally to do prostrations, and
to make sure that the others were following and doing likewise. For a
fourteen-month-old child his behavior was extraordinary, to say the
least.
Perhaps the most touching scene of all was when Osel
was taken to meet the reincarnation of Trijang Rinpoche, a four-year-old
with a commanding presence and a wisdom far beyond his years, who was
already receiving hundreds of Tibetans for blessing. Lama Yeshe had Seen
devoted to his great teacher and had wept openly when he died, saying
that everything he had been able to do had come from the kindness
ofTrijang Rinpoche. Now Osel was told whom he was going to meet. The
child could hardly contain himself–his whole body shook with excitement.
Bearing gifts, they drove to the new Trijang Rinpoche's house–Osel still
quivering with anticipation–and there, the two tiny figures met, beaming
at each other with obvious delight. Osel then reached for some money
that was meant as an offering and with great joy handed it over to
Trijang Rinpoche who, with equal delight, handed it back again. This
exchange went on for several minutes, the two participants clearly
enjoying their game enormously. When Osel left, he was walking on
tiptoe, his feet hardly touching the ground.
Those who were witness to Osel's behavior watched in wonder. They
talked among themselves, musing on the strangeness of this small child
who had suddenly come among them. Word rapidly spread about the
extraordinary phenomenon of the baby Spanish lama.
The Enthronement
The next time I saw Osel was
in the middle of March 1387 on the occasion of his enthronement. The
enthronement had originally been planned to take place in Kopan, and
after not too much deliberation, the thought of seeing Lama Yeshe's
reincarnation once again installed in his headquarters was sufficiently
enticing to overcome misgivings about the extravagance of flying so far
for just one event.
 |
I arrived in Kathmandu and for the first time headed not for
the monastery on the hill but for the relative luxury of a
small new hotel in among the winding alleyways of Thamel,
the colorful bazaar area of Kathmandu. Having showered and
changed, I eagerly telephoned the FPMT Central Office for
final details of the enthronement. The embarrassed tones at
the other end immediately indicated that something was badly
wrong. After a lot of discussion, it emerged that it wasn't
definite that the enthronement was going to be held at Kopan.
In fact, it wasn't definite that the enthronement was going
to happen at all. At the moment, Osel was in Dharamsala with
his family, and Lama Zopa was sorting out what was best for
everyone. I was rendered speechless by this bombshell. I'd
come so far, spent so much money, and even had a commission
from a German magazine to cover the event, just to be met
with what appeared to be typical Eastern inefficiency and
vagueness.
For the next week, I and many other people, including
several journalists who'd flown in from across the world to
witness the event, were kept in suspense. One minute it was
announced that the enthronement was going to be held in
Dharamsala, the next that Osel was coming to Kopan. The
tension was excruciating. I became increasingly exasperated
and upset, and when I eventually met Lama Zopa on the path
outside the gompa one afternoon in Kopan,
|
I complained. He laughed. "It will all
make for a richer experience,"' he said cryptically. Unbeknown to me,
the dilemma was not caused by some capricious whim on the part of Lama
Zopa but by visa complications for Osel (which were later sorted out).
After a few more days of shifting venue–during which time we were
mollified by some wonderful teachings given by Lama Zopa–it was finally
announced that the enthronement was definitely on, in Dharamsala.
Panic! We rushed to various travel agents and the
Indian visa offices, our hearts in our mouths in case we didn't make it
to Dharamsala in time. It was a long, complicated journey, across India
and north through the turbulent Punjab into the very topmost peak of the
subcontinent. To make matters worse, it was Holi week, one of the
largest religious festivals in India, and it seemed that every seat on
plane and train had been booked up weeks before. Every day, we dashed
over to the travel agents to see if there were cancellations, and at the
eleventh hour I miraculously got on a plane to Delhi. The cost of this
trip, along with my anxiety, was rapidly mounting. There were two days
before the ceremony was planned to begin.
After a few hours' sleep in the bustling, noisy
capital, I rushed through the streets to Old Delhi station to try to get
a seat on a train that would take me and my traveling companions to
Pathankot, the nearest railway station to Dharamsala. Stepping over
countless sleeping bodies who seemed to have taken up permanent
residence in the station, I made my way to the reservation office, which
already had a sizeable crowd waiting outside for the doors to open.
During Holi week all the mighty millions of India were obviously on the
move. When the doors were finally unbolted, we surged forward as one. In
the mêlée I was somehow pushed to one desk, where a patient railway
clerk consulted a timetable which looked as complicated as a computer
manual, and much to my astonishment offered us the last remaining six
seats in a train leaving that night–just enough for me and my traveling
companions. It was a sleeper–third class, non-air-conditioned.
Returning that night with my fellow travelers to the
unbelievable chaos of Old Delhi station, I clambered aboard the
filthiest train I'd ever seen and discovered to my horror that our
'sleeping' compartment consisted of wooden seats that converted into
beds. It also had no door and, in fact, no division from the countless
other bodies all crammed like cattle into the corridor. Attachment to an
inner-spring mattress once again rose in my mind. I was now finally
beginning to believe the fundamental Buddhist tenet that attachment, any
attachment, only causes suffering. Through the night we trundled along
in enforced intimacy with Indian humanity (who in the way of their race
accepted all life's conditions with uncomplaining passivity), the
journey broken by frequent stops and a constant- stream of food vendors
offering their wares in vessels that hadn't seen dishwashing liquid for
the best part of a year.
The lavatory was another experience–a fetid enclosure
where you balanced your feet on either side of a gaping hole, watching
the railway tracks swinging perilously beneath. At least I didn't have
Delhi belly. Instead, I'd come down with the flu. I was hot, and my nose
was running like a Delhi railway porter. Memories of those romantic
films and travel documentaries extolling the mysteries of going by train
through the Indian countryside flashed before my eyes. Were we in the
same country!
At 10 the next morning I stepped out at Pathankot
station, my red nose coordinating nicely with my eyes. After a 'safe'
breakfast of boiled eggs in the restaurant at this friendly station,
with bougainvillea climbing the pillars and orange-sellers on the
platforms, we piled into two taxis and negotiated the fare for the four-
hour drive up the mountain to Dharamsala. Inevitably, one car broke down
and the other ran out of oil, as is the way with Indian taxis, but since
we were traveling in tandem, we came to each other's rescue, and I was
by now resigned to the traumas of travel on the subcontinent. At last we
drove past the little English church where Lord Elgin is buried, and
entered a world of little Tibet. Here, the thousands of Tibetans who
followed their leader into exile, choosing to become refugees rather
than suffer under Chinese rule, have over the past twenty-five years
resurrected their own culture with considerable success.
With the Dalai Lama's residence as its spiritual
centerpiece (a modest bungalow contrasting starkly with the mighty
Potala Palace where he once lived), Dharamsala now boasts a large,
golden-roofed temple, housing a giant statue of Chenrezig, the Buddha of
Compassion (with His thousand arms reaching out to help all sentient
beings), of whom His Holiness is said to be an emanation. There are
several thriving monasteries, where monks of the four schools of Tibetan
Buddhism continue to keep alive their rich spiritual heritage of
learning, debate, and meditation. Down the hill, the Library of Tibetan
Works and Archives (LTWA) houses many priceless ancient texts that were
smuggled out of Tibet and were thus rescued from the atrocities of the
Chinese invasion; nearby is the Tibetan Medical Institute, now headed by
Dr. Tenzin Choedak. Dr. Choedak is the Dalai Lama's personal physician
and was recently released after twenty years' imprisonment and torture
by the Chinese for unspecified 'crimes.' He is now busily engaged in
preserving the ancient science of Tibetan medicine. Dharamsala also has
a school of arts and drama and a thriving crafts industry where carpets
and artifacts are made and sold.
It was good to be here again. The air was pure, and
the view of the plains below and range upon range of snow-capped
Himalayas behind was breathtaking. But the best thing of all was that we
had arrived in time. The enthronement was to take place at the Tushita
Retreat Center the next afternoon.
At the appointed hour, we all solemnly filed into the
main meditation room of Tushita, wondering what was in store. There were
about sixty of us in all, a motley crew, comprising monks, nuns, former
students of Lama Yeshe, and a large press corps representing some of the
most influential newspapers, magazines, and press agencies in the world.
All had trekked up the steep mountain road to witness and record an
event which was by anyone's standards big news–the investiture of the
world's smallest and most unusual lama ever. Osel Hita Torres, aged two
years and one month, was about to make his official world debut.
The gompa had been specially festooned for the
occasion. Richly colored tangkas (Tibetan scroll paintings), depicting
aspects of the Buddha, covered every inch of the walls. The throne,
three feet high, was draped with bright brocades. On the floor on either
side of the central aisle sat two rows of Tibetan lamas in full
ceremonial regalia. Behind them sat the Western monks and nuns, and in
whatever space was left sat the rest of us.
Long horns boomed, cymbals clashed, drums and damarus
sounded, conch shells trumpeted in the eerie and evocative ritual of
dispelling evil forces and summoning the buddhas and protectors of the
ten directions. And as the lamas began their massed chorus of
deep-throated mantra–that sound which reaches far beyond ordinary
emotion and thus touches the very inner core of your being–Osel arrived,
carried in his father's arms.
I, for one, wasn't prepared for what I saw. Osel was
dressed in full coronation regalia. He wore ceremonial lama's robes and
on his head was the high, crested, yellow pandit hat, the badge of
office. perhaps it was because he looked so little under that grand
yellow hat, or maybe it was the silence that fell on all of us as he
entered, but the moment was undeniably moving. I noticed as he went past
that he was sucking a sweet and under his arm he carried a fluffy
clockwork owl–a reminder that he was, after all, hardly more than a
baby. He nodded to the posse of photographers gathered in one corner,
like one who is used to dealing with the press, and after a second of
protest allowed Pace to seat him on the throne.
There he perched, a tiny figure, the focus of all the
attention, with his big hat endearingly slipping over his eyes from time
to time and his owl rocking incongruously to and fro beside him. At his
feet to his right sat his closest disciple, Lama Zopa, his face solemn
with the import of the occasion. Beside the throne sat his parents,
looking both proud and anxious. Staging a public ceremony with a
two-year-old as its centerpiece was for them not only nerve-wracking but
fraught with potential disasters.
They had no cause for worry. For the next three
hours, Osel sat on his throne watching the proceedings with a stillness,
composure, and majesty that went far beyond his years. Two or three
times he clambered down from his throne, once to sit on Pace's knee for
a minute, then to play with a small Italian boy he'd spotted in the
congregation; but he didn't object when Pace or his monk attendant
gently replaced him on his seat. More surprisingly, he handled the
photographers, who were flashing their cameras throughout the entire
three hours, with consummate ease. Occasionally when he thought they
were getting greedy, he’d hold out a commanding hand and say "No," but
for the most part he was astonishingly accommodating, at times even
posing for them. They, for their part, were beyond themselves with glee.
Children and animals win any reader, and this child was a natural. They
couldn't go wrong.
For those who understood the subtler points of
Buddhism, the event took on deeper significance when they realized that
here was Lama Yeshe's reincarnation, sitting on his former throne, in
his former house, sleeping in his former bed, walking round the garden
he had planted, and using the same religious implements. To the
believers, Osel was not just a novelty, a Spanish child being hailed as
a lama, but the living proof of the continuity of individual
consciousness. Here before us once again was the mindstream of Lama
Yeshe, albeit in another form, returned to this earth through his great
compassion to help us all on our way to the truth. To compound the
miracle, he had been recognized. How many saints, I wondered, had come
amongst us quietly, their works and worth unsung until, perhaps, the
moment they died! And that was fine, but somehow it did not give people
the opportunity to take full advantage of their hallowed presence–to
learn and perceive as much as they could.
Yet, how fraught with danger was the position that
Osel was now in. In publicly proclaiming his identity, the Dalai Lama
and Lama Zopa had exposed him to possible ridicule, controversy, and
even hostility from anyone who chose to attack him. How vulnerable he
was. And how brave of His Holiness and Lama Zopa to stick their necks
out in such a fashion-they must have been absolutely sure of what they
were doing.
Right now Osel was handling himself and the situation
as though he had indeed been born to it. He sat, dignified, on his
throne while the ritual was carried on before him. He was offered
Tibetan tea, which he drank with relish, and a host of other symbolic
gifts: a gold-plated dharmachakra (wheel of the Dharma), symbolizing the
request for the guru always to give teachings; the Kangyur and Tengyur
(the 108 and 225 volumes, respectively, of the teachings of the Buddha
and their commentaries); statues of Amitayus and Namgyalma (buddhas of
long life); the robes and pandit hat of a Tibetan lama; and the dresses
of the five dakinis, symbolizing the wisdom goddesses of the five
elements (whose robes are donned by Tibetan lamas when performing their
stylized, ritual dance).
The high point of the ceremony was when the lamas,
led by Lama Zopa Rinpoche, lined up before him, did prostrations to him
in homage, and then humbly offered the child their gifts. Without
prompting, Osel took each holy gift, placed it on the crown of his head
in the Tibetan manner of showing reverence, and then handed it to his
attendant. That done, he placed a chubby hand on the bowed head before
him in blessing. He did this again and again–through the entire ranks of
the Tibetan hierarchy and then the rows of Westerners. I noticed he
deviated once from this action when instead of reaching out his hand he
bent forward and touched crowns with a young, handsome Tibetan lama, a
mark of great respect. I later found out that this was Yangsi Rinpoche,
a recognized reincarnation of a former teacher of Lama Yeshe in Sera
Monastery in Tibet.
It was a staggering performance. By now Osel was
clearly getting tired (although one Westerner's gift of an ambulance
with a flashing red light obviously lifted his energy for a while), but
he sat through it until the end. When the last- hymns of praise had been
sung, and the dedication that all the goodness accumulated be given to
all sentient beings, Pace lifted him off the throne and took him out.
Lama Zopa had been right. In spite of or because of the hardships and
effort invested in getting there, the enthronement was a rich experience
indeed.
After that mammoth performance, Osel was spent. His
parents reported that he wouldn't go into the gompa where the
enthronement had taken place, let alone sit on the throne. I couldn't
say I blamed him. But a few days later, hoping for exclusive photographs
for the German magazine assignment, I dared ask if Osel would be
prepared to get back into his full ceremonial regalia and pose for the
photographer, Robin Bath (a student of Lama Yeshe), who had flown out
from England to cover the event. Much to our surprise and delight, he
agreed, and we were privileged enough to receive our own private photo
session.
If Osel had shone during the official enthronement,
he surpassed himself for Robin's camera. Back on the throne, he went
through the gamut of Lama Yeshe's facial expressions, all for Robin's
camera. He looked serene, holy, wise, mischievous, profound,
compassionate, and funny in turn. With extreme graciousness, he took
pieces of fruit from the offering bowl on the side of the throne, giving
one to each person in the room–a gesture of caring and concern that was
archetypally Lama Yeshe-but then to keep the proceedings from getting
too pompous, he hurled an orange at Robin and burst into giggles. At
another point he threw his robes over his head, just like Lama used to
do, and sat there–the ultimate clown. Then he got hold of a loose-paged
Tibetan text, placed it in front of him on the throne, and proceeded to
'read' it with the sing- song voice of a Tibetan lama, turning the pages
over and placing them in a neat pile before him. It was impressive!
After that he put his hands in the meditation posture, closed his eyes,
and began to say mantras. It was Lama Yeshe, synthesized and in
miniature.
The pictures revealed what a special moment it was,
but unfortunately, the German magazine didn't use them or the story.
They were too pressurized by Osel's story bursting into print across
Europe to wait for our exclusive material. Although the press coverage
overall was favorable and unbiased, inevitably, there were the
journalists who lapsed into sensationalism, or did not get the facts
right, and one who was downright scurrilous. An Indian newspaper said
that 'sources' in Dharamsala had revealed that Osel had not been
recognized by the Dalai Lama and that the whole story was, in part, a
ruse to get funds for Kopan. This was later repudiated by Lama Zopa and
the Dalai Lama himself, and the so-called 'sources' could not be
identified. It was the only brickbat hurled at Osel. I wondered how many
more he would have to face throughout his life.
---o0o---
Man's Work
Reproduced with permission from Telegraph Magazine,
London
27 April 1996
From the age of 19 months, when he
was identified as the reincarnation of a Tibetan lama, Osel Hita Tores
has lived like no other child. Transported from a Spanish village to a
Tibetan Buddhist monastery in India, he is now, at age 11, the subject
of what is described as 'potentially the most exciting experiment in
education, done
anywhere, at any time.' Mick Brown tells his extraordinary story.
Photographs by Peter Bialobrzeski.
A MONK'S LIFE Lama Osel
(centre), surrounded by friends, guardians and mentors at Sera
monastery: (from left) his teacher Geshe-la, his brother Kunkyen, his
father Paco, his friend Lama Kushu Palden, teacher George Churinoff and
Peter Kedge, who is overseeing Osel's education.
THROUGHOUT THE LONG AND exhausting drive from the city
of Bangalore to Sera monastery, I had been considering the protocol
involved in meeting Osel Hita Torres.
How does one behave towards an 11-year-old Spanish
boy who is said to be the reincarnation of a Tibetan lama - a boy who
already is the spiritual figurehead for tens of thousands of Buddhists
around the world? Do you bow? Shake hands? Bring toys? From the age of
two, Lama Osel has been accustomed to visitors prostrating themselves
before him and offering him the ritualistic white silk scarf - the kata
- which he in turn drapes around their necks. I have no kata, and I am
unsure about prostrating myself before an 11-year-old.
In the event my fears are groundless. Lama Osel
greets me at the door of his house, an unusually tall and sturdy boy for
his age dressed in maroon robes and a pair of flip-flops, his expression
of seriousness momentarily illuminated by a shy smile. Sensing my
hesitancy, he holds out his hand and shakes mine firmly. He offers tea,
which is brought by a Tibetan attendant, and which we drink on the
verandah.
As a reincarnate lama, the young boy occupies a
privileged position in monastery life. His home is a large, airy
bungalow, set in its own grounds. A housekeeper tends the flowerbeds,
and a blind, pet deer contentedly grazes the lawn.
The young lama offers a tour of his house; his
bedroom, decorated with Tibetan religious tapestries, and a large
shrine, with effigies of saints and a golden Buddha in a glass case; his
playroom, where there is another shrine, more hangings and almost
shockingly incongruous - the biggest Lego set I have ever seen.
In the lama's classroom is an old-fashioned school
desk and a table-top science laboratory with scales, a microscope and a
rack of test-tubes. The shelves are crammed with school text-books and
improving novels: Watership Down, Kidnapped, The Hobbit. Sitting on an
adjacent desk is his laptop computer (he is linked up to the Internet)
and a stack of software disks.
'Do you play SimCity?' he asks enthusiastically. 'Sim-Tower,
Sim-Farm, or I've got Doom2...’ Lama Osel's lessons begin at six in the
morning with prayers and the memorisation of Buddhist teachings; they
end at nine at night, when his Tibetan teacher carefully wraps the
loose-leaf religious texts in their binding of gold cloth. In the hours
between there is English, Spanish, history, science, geography,
mathematics, instruction in Buddhist philosophy and dialectics.
But now it is dinner time. The young lama switches
off his computer and comes to the table. We are seven: Lama Osel, his
father Paco and his eight-year-old brother Kunkyen who, like the lama,
is dressed in the maroon robes of a monk. There is the lama's Tibetan
attendant, Pemba; his American tutor, George Churinoff; and Peter Kedge,
from the Foundation for the Preservation of the Mahayana Tradition - an
English Buddhist and businessman who is in charge of Lama Osel's
education, and who is visiting from his base in Hong Kong to check on
his young charge's progress.
The boy leads grace, in Tibetan, and there is a
moment's pause as all around the table wait for him to begin to eat. The
conversation turns to philosophy. George Churinoff, a 50-year-old
American Buddhist monk and MIT physics graduate, expounds on the nature
of reality. What do we mean when we talk of a tree? A table? A body? Do
these things have an absolute reality? No, they are merely names for a
composite of parts, each of which is a composite of smaller parts,
breaking down to a degree where the parts cannot be measured; they are
simply energy. The Ii-year-old boy toys with his food, listening
intently, then picks up the thread of the argument. 'So a cup is
impermanent, the body is impermanent. Only emptiness is permanent...' He
pauses, and turns to me. 'You're like me,' he says, 'you eat very
slowly,' and laughs.
THERE IS A BUDDHIST SAYING ABOUT reincarnation. If you wish to know of
your past life, consider your present circumstances; if you wish to know
of your future life, consider your present actions. The present
circumstances of Osel Hita Torres were shaped some 14 months before he
was born, on the day that a 49-year-old Tibetan Buddhist lama named
Thubten Yeshe died from a heart complaint in a Californian hospital
ward.
His future can roughly be described as follows: by
the age of 19 he will have been tutored in both the centuries-old
teachings of Tibetan Buddhism and the contemporary teachings of the
technological West; he will be engaged in a degree course in, say,
nuclear physics, or perhaps psychology; at the same time he will be
travelling the world, lecturing and running an organisation that
embraces monasteries, retreats, hospices and homes for the destitute.
'I think what we are engaged in,' says Peter Kedge,
'is potentially the most exciting experiment in education, probably done
anywhere, at any time.' This, I say to Kedge, is a daunting prospect for
an Ii- year-old boy. He nods. 'Yes, Lama is aware he has a big load to
carry.' And is he happy with that? 'I've honestly never heard him
express any hesitation. It was Lama Yeshe's work, and Lama Osel has
always been quite clear that his role is to carry that on.'
ACCORDING TO TIBETAN BUDDHIST teaching, while
reincarnation is inevitable for everyone, there are certain beings who
have so trained their minds through intensive study and meditation that
they can influence the conditions of their next birth. These tulkus, as
they are known, are bound by their vow to return to lead others to
enlightenment. The Dalai Lama, whose lineage can be traced through 14
successive rebirths, is the best known. But within Tibetan Buddhism at
large there are many such tulkus. Sera monastery alone accommodates some
25 of them.
Traditionally, this recognition was confined to
Tibet, but the diaspora that followed the popular uprising against the
Chinese in 1959, when the Dalai Lama led thousands of Tibetans into
exile, brought countless lamas and teachers to the West, and in recent
years Western reincarnates have been identified in Canada, France, Spain
and America. Lama Osel is the best known of these, and his story was the
inspiration for Bernardo Bertolucci's film about a Western reincarnate,
Little Buddha.
Lama Yeshe himself had been identified at an early
age as the reincarnation of a Tibetan abbess. He spent his early years
in a monastery in Tibet, fleeing the country in 1959 at the same time as
the Dalai Lama. He eventually settled in Kathmandu, where he started to
gather Western students around him.
Peter Kedge was one of the first. Now 48, Kedge grew
up in a devout Christian family in Birmingham. He studied engineering at
university, but in the early Seventies set off with a group of friends
in a Land Rover on the hippie trail across Asia, eventually arriving in
Kathmandu. Meeting Lama Yeshe, he says, was 'a revelation. For the first
time in my life I was receiving crisp, clear, scientific answers to all
the questions I'd always been asking - why we are born, why we die, why
some people have good lives and others bad.
Kedge became Lama Yeshe's attendant for four years,
organising lecture tours and helping to establish the Lama's
organisation, the Foundation for the Preservation of the Mahayana
Tradition. It was Lama Yeshe's particular skill, he says, to extract the
essence of Buddhist philosophy and psychology 'what makes you happy or
unhappy, the purpose of life, and how to solve life's everyday problems'
from its Tibetan packaging and make it lucid and understandable to
Western students. The FPMT now has some 70 centres around the world.
When Lama Yeshe died, the
responsibility for finding his reincarnation fell to his student and
closest friend, Lama Zopa. In accordance with tradition, he consulted
several oracles mediums who are in touch with the guiding and protecting
spirits of Tibetan Buddhism. These indicated that in his next life Lama
Yeshe would choose a Western reincarnation to continue his work of
teaching.
Zopa studied his dreams. In one,
Lama Yeshe appeared, telling his old friend that he was about to take
human form. Much later, Zopa dreamed of a Western baby, crawling across
the floor towards him. Convinced that Lama Yeshe's reincarnation was now
in the world, Zopa began his search in earnest, visiting the centres and
monasteries that Lama Yeshe had founded in his lifetime. At length he
came to the small village of Bubión, high in the Alpujarra mountains
near Granada, where Paco Hita and his girlfriend Maria Torres, both
former students of Lama Yeshe, had helped round a Buddhist retreat. Lama
Yeshe had visited the retreat a year before he died and thanked Paco and
Maria for their work. 'Even if I die,' he told them, 'I will never
forget you. We have much business, much karma business between us.
Six months before Zopa's arrival
in the village Paco and Maria had had their fifth child, Osel: Lama Zopa
immediately recognised him as the baby in his dreams. He asked Maria,
when exactly was the baby conceived? It was the night of Zopa's first
dream. He said nothing then to the parents about reincarnation, only
that Osel was a very special child; that he should be kept in an
unpolluted atmosphere, and that nobody should be allowed to ruffle his
head.
Even when Maria had been pregnant
with Osel, says Paco, something had seemed slightly different. Paco’s
work as a builder had always been irregular and life for the large
family was difficult, yet during the pregnancy Maria seemed unusually
relaxed, and suddenly there was more work, more money. Paco was able to
build extra rooms on his house, with a nursery for the new child.
Paco practised his daily
meditation in the baby's room. 'I don't know why, he says, `but
sometimes I had these incredible feelings. I would open my eyes and many
times see Lama Osel looking at me with very wide eyes, and then
laughing. When I was first with Lama Yeshe, we didn't speak, but we had
incredible communication. And it was the same with this baby.
At length, the Dalai Lama
announced that he had made his own divinations. confirming the
recognition. Finally came the public affirmation, when Osel was
presented with a selection of hand-bells and prayer- beads and
unerringly selected those which had belonged to his predecessor.
Osel Hita Torres was just 19 months old when he
was proclaimed as 'the absolute and irrefutable' reincarnation of Lama
Yeshe. Paco says he did not know what to think.'I needed time to
meditate, to think about this. I needed to feel
ly installs hospitals, schools, a
police station. 'Perhaps we should raise taxes,' I suggest. 'The people
don't like it,' he says. 'We must keep the people happy.'
UNTIL NOW, PETER KEDGE ADMITS,
Lama Osel's upbringing and education has been largely a case of' trial
and error'. In Tibet, a young reincarnate would be given up to the
monastery at an early age; his parents would welcome it as an honour.
But what is appropriate for a Tibetan tulku is not necessarily
appropriate for a Western child; trying to strike a balance between the
requirements of tradition and the expectations of a normal family life
has not been easy.
From an early age Lama Osel led a
peripatetic life. In order for students of Lama Yeshe to 'reacquaint'
themselves with their reincarnated teacher, he travelled to monasteries
and centres in Nepal, America, Australia and Europe, usually in the
company of one or other of his parents.
As Buddhists and students of Lama
Yeshe, Paco and Maria had always acknowledged that, at some point, it
would be necessary for their son to enter a monastery in order to
continue his education. In 1991, at the age of seven, the young lama
left his parents in Spain and took up residency in Sera, some 50 miles
from Mysore.'
Sera is one of the three great 'monastic
universities' of Tibetan Buddhism that have been relocated in India
since 1959. Home to some 3,000 monks and growing, Sera is, in fact, a
small town, its temples surrounded by a tangle of houses and
accommodation blocks, narrow unpaved streets and pathways. It is a place
where the days are measured by the incessant sound of chanting and
recitations; the chatter of maroon-robed monks, many of them children,
scurrying along the dusty paths to their classes, and the mournful sound
of the Tibetan 'longhorn', echoing over the corrugated rooftops. It is
as far from Spain as could be imagined.
A Western monk served as Lama Osel's attendant, and a
classics scholar from Yale and her husband were employed as private
tutors. But after less than a year, things began to go wrong. The young
boy complained of missing his family and began to kick against the
strictures of monastery life. His mother travelled to India and took her
son back to Spain.
Back in his village the boy began to eclipse the
lama. It was, says Paco, 'a bad time.’ Lama became an ordinary b
it in my heart.'
And now?
'Now, I feel it.
Why, I ask Paco, does he think his family was
chosen? 'Not because I am a good person, no. 1 think because we are a
big family, we have many children and are less attached to them. That
way it is easier for Osel to follow the way to help many thousands of
sentient beings.
'Lama Yeshe's motivation was always incredible.
When I first met him in 1977 I didn't understand Buddhism, nothing - but
his compassion, his understanding reached me. And now we have Lama Osel
who speaks English, Spanish, Tibetan, he understands computer. It is as
if he has made this incredible body to help the world.'
At his enthronement ceremony at Dharmsala, in
northern India, the two-year-old lama, dressed in ceremonial robes and
the curved, yellow pandit’s hat, accepted ritual offerings, grinned,
yelled, chewed sweets and played with a toy car. At the end of the
ceremony, he wriggled off the platform and ran to his father, Paco, who
carried him out of the temple, his destiny changed forever.
LAMA OSEL SUGGESTS THAT HE, THE photographer and I
should play SimCity on his computer - a game that involves planning and
building a city from the power supply up. As much as this is
entertainment, it is also an ad hoc lesson in financial and social
management.
'OK,' Lama says. 'Before we build anything, we all
have to agree. If two say yes and one says no, we do it. If two say no,
we don't.' Such diplomacy is not normal behaviour in an Ii-year-old.
Lama allocates an area of
forestland 'for the animals to live in - do you agree?' He sensiboy
in the village. There was no studying; he speak bad words; he is
fighting and playing the pinball machine all night with the other boys.'
Things were complicated still further by the fact that Paco and Maria's
relationship had now ended; the young lama was caught in the middle of
an awkward separation.
Paco was working in London, refurbishing the
Kensington house where J.M. Barrie wrote Peter Pan. Lama came to see me
for three weeks and he was a completely changed boy, undisciplined,
unbelievable.'
A meeting was called between Paco, Maria and the
heads of the FPMT, in which the young boy declared that he would return
to Sera, on the condition that Paco and his younger brother, Kunkyen, go
with him. But the family difficulties were not altogether resolved. Last
year his mother, Maria, claimed to a newspaper reporter that her son's
monastic education was 'making him a Tibetan' and said that she wanted
him to spend more time with her family in Spain. The young lama
subsequently visited Spain for three weeks at the end of last year, and
a timetable has now been devised which allows for regular visits in
future.
Paco is in no doubt that Sera is the best place for
his son. 'He is happy here, and that is 'the most important thing,
because when he's happy his mind is open and he wants to learn. When
he's not happy, learning is so difficult. He has good health, good
teachers, a good environment. These are the best conditions for him to
become a very good person.' It is, by any standards, an unusual
household. Responsibility for the young Lama's discipline is divided
between his father and a Tibetan attendant, Pemba Tenzin Sherpa. There
is a cook and a housekeeper–both male.
It is the custom for tulkus to be kept apart from
general monastic activities until they are 13 or 14. For Lama Osel there
are occasional excursions to a nearby nature reserve, to Mysore and,
sometimes, to the seaside. Friends come to play. But for the most part,
his life is spent within the walls of his garden compound.
A timetable taped to the door of his classroom measures a 15-hour
working day six days a week. His lessons in English, science, history,
mathematics and geography are taken from an education package provided
by an English organisation and based on the National Curriculum. His
father, Paco, teaches Spanish. Lessons in Tibetan language are given by
Pemba, and in Tibetan script, memorisations and philosophy by a senior
Sera geshe (the Tibetan equivalent of a Doctor of Divinity), Gendon
Chombal, known simply as 'Geshe-la'.
It is a demanding regime; yet if you were to ask if
the young boy seems happy, I would have to say he does. In six days I
see no sign of distraction, tantrums or fractiousness. I arrive each
morning for breakfast, to the sound of the young lama chanting prayers
in his room. I leave after supper to the same sound, like a thread which
runs through each day, connecting it to the next, and the next.'ln a
world filled with suffering, please grant me the blessings to help all
sentient beings. In a world filled with suffering, please grant me the
blessings to help all sentient beings. In a world filled with
suffering...
ANOTHER REINCARNATE LAMA, a sturdy 13-year-old
Tibetan boy, has come to play. 'They are old friends,' Peter Kedge
explains. He means very old friends, for in his previous incarnation,
the Tibetan boy was Lama Yeshe's teacher. A noisy and energetic game of
football ensues in the corridor outside. Pemba, Lama's Tibetan
attendant, looks on disapprovingly–it is not seemly for lamas to play
football–but says nothing.
At supper that night we talk about food. 'In Spain,'
says Lama, 'I went to McDonald's and the people were eating all this
food and I couldn't understand it.' He wrinkles his nose in exaggerated
disgust. 'It's so plastic. So horrible.' In a curious way, this is one
of the most remarkable things I hear Lama Osel say. Is there another
Ii-year-old in the world who doesn't like McDonald's?
IN THE DAYS I SPEND WITH LAMA OSEL I become aware
that he is, in a sense, watching me watching him. And it occurs to me
that he is someone who has grown up under perpetual scrutiny,
perpetually aware of others looking to him for signs of affirmation or
progress.
According to Buddhist teaching, after death the
consciousness remains, carrying traces, or imprints, shaped by the
thoughts and actions of the previous life into the next one. This could
be one explanation, Peter Kedge believes, for child prodigies who
demonstrate an unusual facility for, say, mathematics or playing the
piano at a very early age. Our culture does not accommodate the idea
that these are 'imprints' from a previous life. But in the case of a
tulku, who has 'chosen' his reincarnation, the imprints of his previous
life are thought to be unusually developed, and are carefully looked
for.
These imprints are said to be more recognisable in the early years:
there are countless stories of young reincarnates crawling from their
houses towards the monastery where they used to live, or commanding
their playmates to make prostrations in front of them. As time passes,
the imprints fade. From an early age, Lama Osel is said to have shown
signs of unusual behaviour, enacting ritualistic gestures quite
spontaneously, and showing signs of 'recognising' former students and,
in one case, the reincarnation of an old friend.
Lama Yeshe liked gardening; Lama Osel, it is said, showed an early
enthusiasm for it, too. Lama Yeshe was often to be found in the kitchen,
lifting the lids on pots, tasting the food, checking on everybody's
well-being. The young Lama Osel displayed the same traits.
I read that Lama Yeshe had a habit of rubbing his head for no
apparent reason. At the dinner-table one night, I notice with a start
that Lama Osel is doing exactly the same thing. We are talking about the
Lama's studies. He has been reading about the Aztecs. 'It's so
interesting,' he says. 'I read about it and immediately go right into
it.' Why do you like them so much? I ask. Lama gives it some thought.
'It reminds me of Tibet.' He has never been to Tibet, although Lama
Yeshe, of course, was born there.
'Lama Osel is not Lama Yeshe, he is himself,' says Paco. 'In some
ways, there is no similarity. But I do feel that there is incredible
compassion and love there, and a very clear, lucid mind. I am surprised
sometimes. He'll ask me a question and then challenge my answer; he has
an incredible ability to show me aspects of myself. And his
relationships with others are interesting. I've noticed that when people
around him are proud, his attitude to them is very hard; he is not
impressed. But when people are humble, he responds with great sympathy.
I had noticed this. The young lama has a bearing, an awareness of
others' moods, and a mindfulness of their well-being–'Are you OK?' he
will ask at odd moments–which would be uncommon in an adult, let alone
an 11-year-old. Watching him at his studies, conversing at the
dinner-table and playing with his Lego, I am torn between wondering if
he is an 11-year-old pretending to be a grown-up, or a grown-up
pretending to be an 11-year-old.
Reincarnation adds a further imponderable to the timeless question of
nature versus nurture. To the outsider, it is impossible to tell how
much Lama Osel's obvious intelligence and composure, his readiness to
volunteer opinions, is 'karmic imprint' and how much the consequence of
being brought up in an environment which is, by any standards,
scholastic and serious-minded, There is 170 television, no videos, no
pop music. One senses that everything that is said to him–everything he
is exposed to–is carefully weighed and considered.
When I raise the matter of signs and wonders with the young lama's
Tibetan teacher, Geshe-la, his pensive expression suggests that these
things are not easily explained.
'For myself, I have no personal divination that Lama Osel is a
reincarnation, but there are things that I see. Sometimes when I explain
the teachings he grasps them very quickly and actually elaborates from
his own side, which is remarkable for one so young. For me, that shows
there is some imprint.' Geshe-la is an estimable figure, who has spent
45 years in monastic studies and is now responsible for the tuition of
1,000 monks in Sera. He arrives each s afternoon to take the young
lama's class in Tibetan : language and dialectics. The 11-year-old
Spanish boy and his 55-year-old Tibetan teacher face each other, cross-
legged, on the floor of Lama's room, overlooked by a portrait of the
Dalai Lama and a mask of the cartoon character Captain Haddock. They
enact a ritual with dorje and bell, make offerings to the Buddha and the
deities, then begin.
The lesson, in Tibetan, is on the law of karma the principal of cause
and effect which is the basis of all Buddhist teaching. Plant the seed
and the wheat grows, says Geshe-la. From a good seed, good wheat grows.
Merit arises from good actions; negative karma from bad actions. The boy
debates vigorously, chastising himself with a slap on the head when he
falters, then collapsing into laughter. The chirrup of a Mickey Mouse
alarm clock marks the end of the lesson. When he is 14 the young lama
will go to the debating courtyard, where as many as 500 monks at a time
gather to debate the most abtruse points of Buddhist philosophy in an
elaborate ritual of call-and-response, clapping their palms to emphasise
their arguments. This will be a severe test for the young lama. There
are those in Sera who still have reservations about a Western
reincarnate. Osel will have to be on his mettle. 'He must be good, says
Geshe-la.
My room overlooks the courtyard; at 5.30 in the afternoon, as the sun
begins to dip behind the roof of the main temple, turning the huge
relief of the Wheel of the Life on its roof to gold, the monks file in
to begin debating. They are still there at midnight. I lie in the
darkness, listening to the voices raised in raucous disputation,
argument and laughter, the sound of hands hitting palms, like waves
slapping against rocks, rising from below.
I ASK PACO IF I CAN HAVE A PRIVATE conversation with Lama. 'You must
ask Lama,' he says. 'It's up to him.' Lama says: '4.30 tomorrow.
It is his break period; he is playing SimCity and drags himself away
with palpable reluctance when I remind him of our appointment.
We sit on a sofa in his room, and he tells me about his studies, his
memorisations, what he enjoys (English, science, history), and what he
doesn't (Tibetan grammar). Does he understand, I finally ask, what
people say about him being the reincarnation of Lama Yeshe?
He nods gravely. 'Yes. I understand. And are they right? He laughs.
'I don't know.
Do you feel any particular connection?
He gives it some thought. 'I think, when I was younger perhaps, but
now I've forgotten.' Do his dreams give any clues?
'You know, I never remember my dreams.' Does he enjoy living in the
monastery, I ask.
`I remember the first time I came to India. I was seven. And when
they talked to me about coming here, I said, "Bah, India." But then I
came and I realised it was a very nice place. Now I think this is the
best place for me. It's a very good place to study. And is that what you
want to do, study?
His answer is immediate and emphatic. 'Yes, that's what I want to do.
So that in the future I can teach other people. That's what I want to
do. What do you want to teach? I ask.
'Buddhism,' he says. 'It's a good thing to teach. because I think it
would help to make people happier, and I believe that's my job, to help
people.' And how do you feel about that? I ask.
'I like it.' He pauses, and then smiles. 'Well actually, I've still
not tried it yet, but I think I'll like it.'
IF THIS 11-YEAR-OLD SPANISH BOY IS truly the reincarnation of a Tibetan
lama then it turns upside down every idea we hold in the secular West
about the extinction of consciousness at death.
If it is not true, isn't Lama Osel's life simply an experiment in
social and spiritual conditioning. But then isn't any choice we make for
ally child whether to send them to boarding-school or the local
comprehensive, whether to foster an interest in playing cricket or
learning the piano–similarly an experiment in conditioning'!
'If it is not true...' Peter Kedge considers the question. 'Then you
could say that we have made a terrible mistake. But I know that is not
the case.
But is the boy being deprived? 'Of what?' Kedge asks: mindless
television programmes? Pop music? Of normal family life, perhaps. 'But
any child who was getting the input, the education, the breadth of
experience of people around him that Lama is getting would be doing
supremely well, and getting the most phenomenal basis for leading their
life.' And what of his future? Peter Kedge says that Lama Osel will
spend at least six more years at Sera, undergoing his monastic
education. At the same time, he will be working towards a degree, either
at a Western university or through an Open University course. By then,
says Kedge, the Lama is already likely to be 'on the road', lecturing
and supervising FPMT activities.
'We are so materially sophisticated in the West, yet despite all that
we have tremendous personal and social problems as a result of people
not understanding what makes the mind happy, what makes the mind
miserable: it's that basic. We don't have the basic tools for healing
ourselves, but they are available in the Tibetan Buddhist tradition.
Lama Yeshe started the work of bringing that to the West, and I'm sure
that Lama Osel is going to continue that work.' But does he have a
choice?
In a sense, says Kedge, the choice has already been made. 'Any tulku,
in previous lives, has already vowed to dedicate their existence to
benefit others. So choice is conditioned by that wish. His purpose in
life is to benefit. Now how he chooses to do that is up to him.'
But what would happen, I wonder, if Lama Osel expressed a desire to
be something other than a universal teacher; what if he expressed a
desire more in keeping with usual 11-year-old ambitions to be, say, a
professional footballer?
'I don't know.' Kedge replies. 'We're pioneering something that
clearly you can pioneer only if you have some vision of the future. We
would have to try to be flexible to accommodate something that didn't
necessarily fit into that, but a professional footballer...? Ijust don't
know.
When I ask his father, Paco, the same question he considers it
carefully. 'I think it is not possible for him to go the wrong way,' he
says at last. 'Whatever he chooses, even if we don't understand it
immediately, he will have chosen it because it is the best way to help
people. This is what Lama wants.'
WE CRAM INTO A MOTORISED RICKSHAW and make an expedition to a nearby
lake, to feed the fish. On the journey back, Lama squats in the front
beside the driver, recklessly swinging out of the cab. Shortly before
entering the gates of the monastery he orders the driver to stop, and
climbs into the back. It would not be appropriate for a lama to be seen
by other monks riding shotgun in a rickshaw.
On our return, he receives two Western devotees in his room. Neither
his father nor Pemba is there; Lama Osel is quite capable of fulfilling
such duties on his own. He sits crosslegged on his bed-cum-dais, calmly
regarding his visitors as they prostrate before him. The woman, from
Switzerland, reminds him that she came to see him three years ago, when
she had no money. She was able to write and sell an article about their
meeting; now she wants to offer him some of the proceeds. The young boy
smiles at her. 'I don't need any money,' he says. 'Do something useful
with it.' He gives her a token of his blessing, a red silk cord, which
she ties around her wrist.
Afterwards I ask Lama, why does he think people prostrate themselves
before him? He considers the question carefully. 'Because they have
faith in Buddhism,' he says.'And I have a responsibility because of
that.'
At dinner that night, Lama proposes a conundrum: a father gives his
three sons a rupee each and tells them to come back with something
useful that will fill the room. The first son returns with straw. 'It
makes me sneeze,' says the father. The second son returns with cloth.
'It makes me itch,' says the father. What, Lama asks, did the third son
return with? I say I have no idea.
'A candle,' says the 11-year-old boy, smiling beatifically. 'To fill
the room with light.'
Lama Zopa & Lama OSel
Lama Tenzin Osel
Vietnamese version
____
Source:
http://www.fpmt.org
---o0o---
Layout: Tinh Tue
Update : 01-11-2005
