“When I was a boy,” he said, “I travelled far and went to India. There I saw the hermits encloistered within their caves, and some of them appeared to have attained to enlightenment.” He shook his head; “The ordinary people were very lazy, spending their days beneath the trees. Ah! It was a sad sight!” “Holy Sir!” I interrupted, “I should much prefer to hear of the hermitages of Tibet.” “Eh? What’s that?” he asked feebly. “Oh yes, the hermitages of Tibet. I returned from India and went to my native Peking. Life there bored me, for I was not learning. I took again my staff and my bowl and made my way, over many months, to the borders of Tibet.” I sighed to myself in exasperation (sterk irritasjon) . The old man continued, “In course of time, after having stayed at lamasery after lamasery, always in search of enlightenment, I reached Chakpori. The Abbot permitted me to stay here as I was qualified as a physician in China. My speciality was acupuncture. For a few years I was content, then I conceived a great desire to enter a hermitage.” By now I was almost dancing with impatience. If the old man took much longer I should be too late – I could not miss evening service!
Even as I thought of it, I could hear the first booming of the gongs. Reluctantly I rose to my feet and said, “Respected sir, I have to go now.” The old man chuckled. “No, boy,” he replied, “you may stay, for are you not here receiving instruction from an Elder Brother? Stay, you are excused from evening service.” I seated myself again, knowing that he was correct; although he was still a trappa (sort of student), and not a lama, yet still he was considered as an Elder because of his age, his travels, and his experience. “Tea boy, tea!” he exclaimed, “we will have tea, for the flesh is frail and the weight of the years press heavily upon me. Tea, for the young and for the old.” In response to his summons (tilkallelse), a Monk Attendant to the Aged brought us tea and barley. We mixed our tsampa, and settled down, he to talk and I to listen.
“The Lord Abbot gave me permission to leave Chakpori and enter a hermitage. With a monk-attendant I journeyed from this place and ascended in to the mountains. After five days of travel we reached a spot which may be ascerned from the roof above us.” I nodded, I knew the place, a solitary (eneboer) building set high in the Himalayas. The old man continued, “This place was empty, the former occupant had recently died. The Attendant and I cleaned out the place then I stood and looked out across the Valley of Lhasa for the last time. I looked down at the Potala and at Chakpori, then turned and went into the inner chamber. The Attendant walled up the door, cementing it firmly, and I was alone.” “But Sir! What is it like inside?” I asked.
Old Wu Hsi rubbed his head. “It is a stone building,” he replied slowly. “A building with very thick walls. There is no door, once one is inside the inner chamber because the doorway is walled up. In the wall there is a trap (falldør), entirely lightproof, through which the hermit received food. A dark tunnel connects the inner chamber with the room wherein lives the Attendant. I was walled in. The darkness was so thick that I could almost feel it. Not a glimmer of light entered, nor could any sound be heard. I sat upon the floor and began my meditation. First I suffered from hallucinations, imagining that I saw streaks and bands of light. Then I felt the darkness strangling me as if I were covered in soft, dry mud. Time ceased to exist. Soon I heard, in my imaginati6n, bells, and gongs, and the sound of men chanting. Later I beat against the constraining walls of my cell, trying in my frenzy (opphisselse) to force a way out. I knew not the difference between day or night, for here all was as black and as silent as the grave. After some time I grew calm, my panic subsided.”
I sat and visualised the scene, old Wu Hsi – young Wu Hsi then! – in the almost living darkness within the all-pervading silence. “Every two days,” said the old man, “the attendant would come and place a little tsampa outside the trap. Come so silently that I could never hear him. The first time, feeling blindly for my food in the darkness, I knocked it off and could not reach it. I called and screamed, but no sound escaped from my cell; I just had to wait for another two days.” “Sir!” I asked, “what happens if a hermit is ill, or dies?” “My boy,” said old Wu Hsi, “if a hermit is ill – he dies. The attendant places food every two days for fourteen days. After fourteen days, if the food is still untouched, men come and break down the wall and take out the body of the hermit.”
Old Wu Hsi had been a hermit for seven years. “What happens in a case like yours, when you have stayed for the time decided upon?” “I stayed for two years and then for seven. When it was almost time for me to come out the smallest of small holes was made in the ceiling so that a very minute shaft of light entered, Every few days the hole was enlarged, permitting more light to enter. At last I could withstand the full light of day. If the hermit is suddenly brought out into the light he is immediately struck blind as his eyes have been so long dilated in the darkness that they can no longer contract. When I came out I was white, bleached white, and my hair was as white as the mountain snows. I had massage and did exercise, for my muscles were almost useless with disuse. Gradually I recovered my strength until at last I was able with my attendant to descend the mountain to reside again at Chakpori.”
I pondered his words, thinking of the endless years of darkness, of utter silence, thrown upon his own resources, and I wondered, “What did you learn from it, Sir?” I asked at last, “was it worth it?” “Yes, boy, yes, it was worth it!” said the old monk. “I learned the nature of life, I learned the purpose of the brain. I became free of the body and could send my spirit soaring afar just as you do now in the astral.” “But how do you know that you did not imagine it? How do you know you were sane? Why could you not travel in the astral as I do?” Wu Hsi laughed until the tears rolled down his furrowed cheeks. “Questions – questions -questions, boy, just as I used to ask them!” he replied.
“First I was overcome by panic. I cursed (forbannet) the day I became a monk, cursed the day I entered the cell. Gradually I was able to follow the breathing patterns and to meditate. At the start I had hallucinations, vain imaginings. Then one day I slipped free of my body and the darkness was dark no more to me. I saw my body sitting in the attitude of meditation. (from the astral body one can see independent of light). I saw my sightless, staring, wide-open eyes. I saw the pallor of my skin and the thinness of my body. Rising, I passed through the roof of the cell and saw below me the Valley of Lhasa. I saw certain alterations, saw people with whom I was acquainted and, passing into the Temple, I was able to converse with a telepathic lama who confirmed my release for me. I wandered far and wide and beyond the borders of this country. Every two days I returned and entered my body, re-animating (besjelet den) it that I might eat and nourish it.” “But why could you not do astral travelling without all that preparation?” I asked again.
“Some of us are very ordinary mortals. Few of us have the special ability given to you by virtue of the task you have to undertake. You too have travelled far by the astral way. Others, such as I, have to endure solitude (ensomhet) and hardship before one’s spirit can break free from the flesh. You, boy, are one of the fortunate ones, one of the very fortunate ones!” The old man sighed, and said, “Go! I must rest, I have talked long. Come and see me again, you will be a welcome visitor in spite of your questions.” He turned away, and with a muttered word of thanks I rose to my feet, bowed, and slipped quietly from the room. I was so busy thinking that I walked straight into the opposite wall and almost knocked my spirit out of my body. Rubbing my aching head, I walked sedately along the corridor until I reached my own cell.
The midnight service was almost over. Monks were fidgeting slightly, ready to hurry off for a few more hours of sleep before returning. The old Reader up on the podium carefully inserted a marker between the pages of the Book and turned in readiness to step down. Sharp eyed proctors, ever alert for disturbances, or for inattentive (uoppmerksomme) small boys, relaxed their gaze. The service was almost over. Small chelas swung the censers for the last pass, and there was the barely suppressed hum of a large gathering preparing to move. Suddenly there was an ear-splitting screech (øredøvende, skingrende skrik), and a wild figure bounded over the heads of the sitting monks and tried to seize (gripe) a young trappa holding two sticks of incense. We jerked upright with shock. Before us the wild figure whirled and spun, foam flying from writhing lips, hideous screams pouring from tortured throat. For a moment of time the world seemed to stand still; police-monks frozen into immobility with surprise, officiating (forrettende-) priests standing with arms upraised. Then violently, the proctors (inspektørene) swung into action. Converging on the mad figure, they quickly subdued him, winding his robe about his head to silence the evil oaths (ed/banning), which streamed in a torrent (strøm) from his mouth. Efficiently, speedily, he was lifted and removed from the Temple. The service ended. We rose to our feet and hastened out, anxious to get beyond the Temple bounds so that we could discus that which we had just seen.
“That’s Kenji Tekeuchi,” said a young trappa near me. “He is a Japanese monk who has been visiting everywhere.” “Been around the world, so they say,” added another. “Searching for Truth, and hoping to get it handed to him instead of working for it,” remarked a third. I wandered off, somewhat troubled in mind. Why should ‘Searching for Truth’ make a man mad? The room was cold, and I shivered slightly as I wrapped my robe around me and lay down to sleep. It seemed that no time at all had elapsed before the gongs were booming again for the next service. As I looked through the window I saw the first rays of the sun come over the mountains, rays of light like giant fingers probing the sky, reaching for the stars. I sighed, and hurried down the corridor, anxious not to be the last one to enter the Temple and thus merit the wrath of the proctors.
“You are looking thoughtful, Lobsang,” said my Guide the Lama Mingyar Dondup when I saw him later’ in the day, after the noon service. He motioned for me to sit.
“You saw the Japanese monk, Kenji Tekeuchi, when he entered the Temple. I want to tell you about him, for later’ you will meet him.” I settled myself more comfortably, this was not going to be a quick session – I was ‘caught’ for the rest of the day! The Lama smiled as he saw my expression. “Perhaps we should have Indian tea . . . and Indian sweetcakes . . . to sugar the pill, Lobsang, eh?” I brightened up a bit, and he chuckled and said, “The attendant is bringing it now, I expected you!” “Yes,” I thought, as the monk-servant entered, “where else would I have such a Teacher?” The cakes from India were my special favourites, and even the Lama’s eyes sometimes widened with astonishment at the number I could ‘put away’!
“Kenji Tekeuchi,” said my Guide, “is – was – a very versatile (allsidig) man. A well travelled one. Throughout his life (he is now over seventy) he has wandered the world in search of what he calls ‘Truth’. Truth is within him, yet he knows it not. Instead he has wandered, and wandered again. Always he has been studying religious beliefs, always he has been reading the books of many lands in pursuit of this search, this obsession. Now, at long last, he has been sent to us. He has read so much of a conflicting nature that his aura is contaminated. He has read so much and understood so little that most of the time he is insane (sinnsyk). He is a human sponge, mopping up all knowledge and digesting very little.” “Then, Sir!” I exclaimed, “you are opposed (er imot..) to book-study?” “Not at all, Lobsang,” replied the Lama, “I am opposed, as are all thinking men, to those who obtain the brochures, the pamphlets (småbøker), and the books written about strange cults, about so-called occultism. These people poison their soul, they make further progress impossible for them until they have shed all the false knowledge and become as a little child.”
“Honourable Lama,” I asked, “how does one become insane; how does wrong reading sometimes lead to confusion?” “That is quite a long story,” replied the Lama Mingyar Dondup. “First we have to deal with some fundamentals. Possess yourself in patience and listen! Upon Earth we are as puppets, puppets made of vibrating molecules surrounded by an electric charge. Our Overself vibrates at a very much higher rate, and has a very much higher electric charge. There is a definite relationship between our rate of vibration and that of our Overself. One can liken the process of communication between each one of us on this Earth and our Overself elsewhere to a new process on this world (“new process” – remember this was said almost 100 years ago), the process whereby radio waves are sent across continents and seas, thus enabling a person in one country to communicate with a person in a far distant land. Our brains are similar to radio receivers in that they receive the ‘high frequency’ messages, orders and instructions, from the Overself and turn them into low frequency impulses which control our actions.
The brain is the electromechanical-chemical device, which makes us useful on Earth. Chemical reactions cause our brain to function in a faulty manner by perhaps blocking part of a message, for rarely, on Earth, do we receive the exact message ‘broadcast’ by the Overself. The Mind is capable of limited action without reference to the Overself. The Mind is able to accept certain responsibilities, form certain opinions, and attempts to bridge the gap between the ‘ideal’ conditions of the Overself and the difficult ones of Earth.”
“But do Western people accept the theory of electricity in the brain?” I asked. “Yes,” replied my Guide, “in certain hospitals the brain waves of patients are charted, and it has been found that certain mental disorders have a characteristic brain-wave pattern. Thus, from the brain waves it can be stated that a person does or does not suffer from some mental disease or illness. Often an illness of the body will send certain chemicals to the brain, contaminate its wave-form, and thus give symptoms of insanity.”
“Is the Japanese very mad?” I asked. “Come! We will see him now, he has one of his lucid spells (-sine klare perioder).” The Lama’Mingyar Dondup rose to his feet and hurried from the room. I jumped to my feet and sped after him. He led the way on
down the corridor, down to another level, and to a distant wing where lodged those undergoing medical treatment. In a little alcove, overlooking the Khati Linga, the Japanese monk sat looking moodily (lunefull) outwards. At the approach of the Lama Mingyar Dondup he rose to his feet, clasped his hands and bowed low. “Be seated,” said my Guide. “I have brought a young man to you that he may listen to your words. He is under special instruction by order of the Inmost One.” The Lama bowed, turned and left the alcove. For some moments the Japanese stared at me, then motioned for me to sit. I sat – at a discreet distance, as I did not know when he would become violent!
“Do not cram your head with all the occult stuff you can read, boy!” said the Japanese monk. “It is indigestible (ufordøylig) matter which will impede (forsinke) your spiritual progress. I studied all the Religions. I studied all the metaphysical cults, which I could find. It poisoned me, clouded my outlook, led me to believe that I was a Specially Chosen One. Now my brain is impaired and at times I lose control of myself -escape from the direction of my Overself.” “But Sir!” I exclaimed, “how may one learn if one may not read? What possible harm can come of the printed word?” “Boy!” said the Japanese monk, “certainly one may read, but choose with care what you read and make sure that you quite understand that which you are reading. There is no danger in the printed word, but there is danger in the thoughts which those words may cause. One should not eat everything, mixing the compatible with the incompatible; nor should one read things which contradict or oppose others, nor should one read things which promise occult powers. It is easily possible to make a Thought-form which one cannot control, as I did, and then the Form injures one.” “Have you been to all the countries of the world?” I asked. The Japanese looked at me, and a slight ‘twinkle appeared in his eyes.
“I was born in a small Japanese village,” he said, “and when I was old enough I entered Holy Service. For years I studied religions and occult practices. Then my Superior told me to leave and to travel in countries far beyond the oceans. For fifty years I have travelled from country to country, from continent to continent, always studying. By my thoughts I have created Powers which I could not control. Powers that live in the astral plane and which at times affect my Silver Cord. Later maybe I shall be permitted to tell you more. For the present, I am still weak from the last attack and thus must rest. With the permission of your Guide you may visit me at a later date.” I made my bows and left him alone in the alcove. A medical monk, seeing me leave, hastened in to him. Curiously I peeped (tittet) about me, peeped at the old monks lying there in this part of the Chakpori. Then, in response to an urgent telepathic call, I hastened away to my Guide, the Lama Mingyar Dondup.
The story continues in part 5:
