LAMA TSERING PALJOR REMEMBERED

Lama Tsering Paljor

In 2012 Donal Creedon led a one month retreat in BMC in Sikkim.  He taught from Tsele Natsok Rangdrol’s Lamp of Mahamudra, not an easy text by any means.  In order to retain some sort of equilibrium to the teachings which often left me confused about some of the complicated techniques propounded, I often found solace in talking to the resident monk, Lama Tsering Paljor who passed away at 7 pm on 15 October.

I’m not sure how old Lama La was; he had that youthful appearance, which many Tibetans have, and a calm deportment that affected all who came in contact with him.  His easy manner of speech and his openness with others put them immediately at ease, and one felt that they were in the company of an exceptional individual.

During his time in retreat in Pharphing near Kathmandu in Nepal, he told me of his practice of tummo and how he wore three sets of wet robes consecutively and dried them with the heat of his own body.  This he performed in the winter. He also joined me in qigong, together with others early in the morning after performing his ritual offerings at the fire house on the roof of the gompa. We also enjoyed watching a film about Milarepa on the laptop and he would explain each part of the story to me, especially the power of his sorcery and his later tutelage under Marpa.

Lama Paljor also liked to demonstrate his skills in singing and dancing and once led an extended session of chanting the mantra om mani peme hum in the shrine room. 

            

In his little kitchen at the top of the building, he made chai and offered sweets.  These times provided welcome moments of relaxation.

To us, the first knowledge of his problems came about half-way through the retreat.  Lama La was experiencing a burning sensation in his chest and decided that he wanted to seek medical advice.  My wife and I took him to consult a homeopathic practitioner in Gangtok and he was prescribed various ‘remedies’, but to no avail.  He was later diagnosed with cancer and the prognosis was not good.

Lama La was a gentle man and enjoyed our company.  He showed us his photographs and it was surprising to see him stand out with his long hair and beard while the others had shaved heads.

However, he was able to travel back to Tibet and passed away amongst his family and friends.

Lama Paljor will be remembered fondly by all who met him and he will live on in their thoughts.

[Please refer to Annie Dibble’s article published in Bodhicharya Ireland, Remembering Lama Tsering Paljor.]

SIKKIM RETREAT

SIKKIM RETREAT

RETREAT FROM THE ENTRANCE GATE

A couple of days in hilly Gangtok and we finally make it to the retreat.  The climb in the jeep seems endless and I wonder just how high we are.  I find out later Ringu Tulku Rinpoche’s gompa is built on some disused terraced fields at over five-thousand feet.

Surrounded by lush, green jungle, the retreat is set in a beautiful clearing with views of the capital in the distance.  At night, the lights from the city sparkle and occasional fireworks with bursts of coloured lights can be seen and heard.  This is the build-up to Diwali, the festival of lights, in a few days’ time. Jackals howl at the full moon.

A NEARBY HOUSE IN THE JUNGLE

Fifteen people are attending the retreat, English and Irish with only two-Scots (apart from Fulmaya who I guess is Nepalese-British), myself and a rather outspoken nun who has lived for donkeys in Glasgow, Ani Sherab, and who managed to sustain a cough throughout the whole length of the teaching, despite sucking on ayurvedic honeyed sweets and imbibing various other ‘medicines’.  Although, I suspect a glass of hot toddy and a day in bed sweating it out would have done the trick.

RETREATANTS

Having read the text, The Lamp of Mahamudra, (I’m not sure when it was written) by Tsele Natsok Rangdrol before the retreat, I had my doubts about being able to manage the level of difficulty. And so it was!  The text seemed to be beyond the understanding of not only the retreatants, but also seemed to present difficulties for the teacher, Donal from Ireland:  although I think it was really a problem of teaching methodology more than a lack of understanding of the text.  

Nevertheless, it’s a relief to escape the pollution of Kathmandu and breathe the clean mountain air.  Most of the people I’ve met seem to be of Nepalese origin though other ethnic types live in the state including Bhotia and the indigenous Lepcha-speaking inhabitants.

AN INTERESTING SIGN ON THE SIKKIM BORDER

Mahatma Gandhi Road (MGR) is an interesting place, traffic-free with shops on either side of the road and benches, trees and flowers down the middle.  You can sit there for a while and watch people passing.  Close your eyes for a minute then watch again.  It’s as if a kaleidoscope has been turned and a whole new scene is before you.  What is remarkable is that everyone seems to know everyone else.  There’re lots of smiles and shaking of hands and how-do-you-dos before they move on with a smile on their faces.

Amongst the group there’s Bernard from outside Dublin.  He’s in his seventies but still canny with lots of good crack but difficult to stop once he starts.  He tells me his family waited years for a corporation house and were eventually given one four-miles outside of the city.  They were so poor that for shopping they would walk into town with an empty shopping bag so that they would have enough money for a bus ride back home with their full shopping.

A few doors along from him was a neighbour, Brenda Behan, author of Borstal Boy amongst other writings.  He tells the story of how one time his mother wanted the garden dug up but none of the sons were going to do it. So she called the police and anonymously told them that BB was seen burying guns in the back yard.  The police arrived and dug the whole garden over.  Aye, she was as sharp as a pin, said Brendan with a laugh.

What I like about the retreat is that there is an encouraging support network amongst the participants; an atmosphere of generosity and respect is there enabling one to open up knowing that there will be acceptance – nobody’s perfect.  (A t-shirt in K’du with the logo:  I AM NOBODY.  NOBODY’S PERFECT.  THEREFORE, I’M PERFECT.)

FULMAYA, RINPOCHE'S 94 YEAR-OLD MOTHER,
MARGARET RICHARDSON, FOUNDER OF RIGUL TRUST 

                                                                

LEAVING KATHMANDU

LEAVING KATHMANDU

READY TO BOARD OUR YETI PLANE

Scene:  domestic airport chaos on the outside and chaos on the inside.  This is the beginning of our trip out of the capital and on to the Terai – Bhadrapur on the outskirts of Jhapa.  There are four of us wading around boxes and people and trying to get information about the plane that’s taking us to the border with India.  At the Yeti Airline desk, nothing is happening and the milling around continues until we find a seat.  A desultory look around the three-stalls yields nothing worthwhile except some grossly over-priced maps of various trekking routes and some Harbro which I’m tempted to buy but they seem to be expensive.   So we sit around while the delay continues because of some stacking up on the runway.

A few weeks ago a plane crashed when a bird – a vulture it was said – got sucked into an engine and the pilot tried to bank too steeply when returning just after take-off.  19-passengers and crew were burned to death on the ground.  There were reports of them scrabbling at the windows to escape.  This is on my mind.

So we lollygag around watching other passengers watching us watching them till it’s time to move on to “security”, a cursive look at two-Thai inhalers in my pocket, ignoring a heavy rucksack containing a computer which I had had to expose in every other airport, and a bum bag (for some reason they’re always worn at the front) then we’re through customs and into a marginally calmer boarding area where nothing in particular is happening – except for the continuing watching game.

At this point I realise there is no seat number on my boarding pass and anticipate a general rush to the plane to board to get at the window – but  no chance.  I’m with my brother-in-law and his wife and they’re died in the wool amblers so we’re last on and I find myself at a seat at the front on the wrong side of the plane for a vide at the Himalayas to the north.  Nevertheless, I have an eagle’s eye view of the propeller and the peaks, meandering rivers and trails below.  Then I remember that one of the passengers who died in the crash was from Scotland and his name was…Eagle!

THE EASTERN HIMALAYAN RANGE

I’m continually peering across the aisle to get a look at the Himalayan range and a tall, skinny guy who reminds me of Ichabod Crane peers back with what could be interpreted as a smile. He’s from Dundee and about my age and asks if I want to have his seat as he can move into the empty seat behind. “Sure!” I say and I move into the seat. Having a conversation with him means swivelling my head round 180 degrees and back to the window trying not to miss the view. He’s a retired teacher and has opened a school in the area of Jhapa but he seems a bit over-enthusiastic about the boys in his school so our conversation dwindles a bit. 

Below, I see deep, narrow valleys, some of which have blue ribbons of rivers snaking through them, edged with white sandy beaches.

The further east we fly the more the valleys widen below and the rivers branch out into tributaries like a network of veins on the surface of the earth.  The Himal range tapers down and is hidden by the clouds.  The flat bed of the Terai is increasingly broken up into small farm-holdings with intermittent green carpets of forests.

VALLEYS AND RIVERS FROM THE AIR

A bumpy landing in Bhadrapur, last of the plane with the Lama amblers and we hire a 6-seater to take us to the border at Kakarbita.  The heat of the Terai – 29 degrees – is welcome.  Humidity is high and the warmth washes over us and seems to penetrate to the bone.  (Am I the only one not sweating?)  Through the Nepal customs and the forms and stamps on the Indian border from a lethargic clerk with piles of papers in front of him, stamp the passports and off to Gangtok from the plains to 5,800 feet as the sky begins to darken and the road starts to rise and wind ahead. 

We present our permits at the border of Sikkim as we are entering a protected area.  Ahead of us in the office is a crowd of aged Americans making a lot of noise even though some of them seem to be slouched and exhausted.  In the jeep the again and we continue on our way to the capital, Gangtok.

The driver is a 20-year old and he’s good on the windy roads, overtaking buses and lorries on blind corners.  I say he’s good because I’m still alive. On three consecutive days three-cars went over the precipitous bends.  We even saw a dead body wrapped in a shroud on a river bed far below.  There was a whole bunch of cars parked on the bridge to watch the spectacle.  Doesn’t do much for the spirit.

Stayed at the Pomera hotel for a couple nights then off to the BMC (Bodhicharya Meditation Centre) more about which later.