Meeting point Hemis

Peregrination follows ruination.

When Naropa decided to leave Nalanda it was because of a devastation of epic physical proportions – the ancient university lay razed by a series of invader ransacking and burning of texts that took Buddhism itself back by several centuries. Born into a Brahmin family in Bengal he was a dutiful son and a devout husband, living the family way for nearly a decade before giving it all up and embarking on a path of freedom and enlightenment. At the age of 28, he entered Nalanda University to study sutra and tantra and became a scholar of repute. His extraordinary debating skills won him many laurels and disciples. Following the attack and the decimation of his campus, Naropa decided to be the itinerant abbot and take his skills – and seeking – to the gompa, monastery, in Hemis 2000 kilometres away.

“Naro,” he told me his name and we shook hands, heavy work calluses, firm grip. “Naro in Tibet where I come from is Naro-pa.” 

Rendezvous at the gompa

Maybe it’s the rarefied air the Himalayan sun hits you unfiltered, hard. Just like the late evening cold can numb your bones, the daytime heat makes the earth acquiver, at first the senses tremble and then you aestivate. That was how we found each other, under the sparse shade of the poplar, on a culvert by the roadside. His maroon robes flapped like a trapped balloon when cars and trucks sped by. The faded saffron shawl with Buddhist slogans embroidered on it slipped to reveal a clean-shaven head with a chubby face and a friendly smile. Thin wisps of hair above full lips, Naro or Naropa was a good-looking bloke, with sensuous features.  

I was just 40 km out of Leh on my motorcycle and already feeling a bit enervated which made me stop for refreshments. Munching on an energy bar, I offered him another which he received into a bowl he was carrying. He stayed at the Hemis monastery which rose like a monument to monochrome against the shimmering blue of the mountain sky. One day of the week the monks were supposed to live off the alms they received from the countryside. I opened the emergency medicine box of my motorcycle where I keep more bars and offered him some more; he refused to take pointing to the one that I had given him which he was already chewing on heartily. 

Naropa and Tilopa?

What is not known for sure is whether Naropa set out for Hemis from Nalanda or whether he was directed there by a dakini. Dakinis are female spirits who wield enormous power from their otherworldly realm over men in this one. Generally women do anyway, but the lot of this tribe had the benefit of dimension and the ability to fly – which meant there was no escaping them. The dakini asked Naropa whether he really understood the teachings of the Buddha. The exemplary scholar that he was, he said he believed he did which sent the dakini into a fury. The monk was lying, she insisted. No one knew the teachings of the Gautama like Tilopa, her brother. He told the dakini he would go wherever Tilopa was and that was how he reached the Hemis Gompa.

Naro led me up the stairs of the monastery that lay skull white under the blazing afternoon sun. Colourful prayer flags with inscriptions fluttered with devotion in the breeze. Tourists huffed their way up, pausing longer than needed outside the ticket window. There were some motorcyclists too with their knox-type knee armour – which should be going under the trousers – glinting in the heat. I had passed the group riding out that morning from Leh city; urban slicks bent on crossing out an item from bucket list, definitely, by the way they were turned out in gear that left not an inch of skin or hair exposed to the sun. What joy, I wondered. Why ride at all if you are cocooned up in some fancy battle tank. Where is the view or air under all that Kevlar.

The monks are generally reticent and do not mingle much with visitors; a mostly mindful existence. But here was Naro, bounding up ahead and turning around now and then just to smirk at me like ‘you urban oaf’. Approaching the main entrance I heard the muted clash of cymbals and the echoing ‘wainnnn’ of pipes. In the huge rectangular courtyard there were more monks in maroon moving about in their typical slow motion, meditative dance. Naro sat by the side on the veranda briefly after bowing to those who were at the musical instruments. It was July and the year’s edition of the Hemis festival was over; the monks were already practising for next year. He excused himself soon and went and joined the dancers. Without missing a beat, he blended in with his own habile motions. The available light that shone off the mountains peering from above, the mystical music that reverberated skywards, colours swirling, limbs churning, instructions – or approvals, I didn’t understand – in measured cadences from someone watchful, the gompa is where time cuts you loose. I couldn’t find Naro in the maroon maze making me wonder whether he was actually sitting next to me at all. 

Tilopa, whom Naropa was hoping to find at the Hemis monastery, was a wild one. A monk at the famed Somapura monastery in Bengal, he was rusticated for his practice of union yoga which required frequent copulation. He was rumoured to have been working at a brothel even, probably for access to the pretty women. Tilopa maintained his own retinue of female consorts as he travelled all over India seeking out different gurus and learning from them. Some records say he funded his shenanigans and travels by grinding sesame seeds, til, which gave him the name Til-opa. Living along the Ganges with a bunch of women catering to his every need, he is believed to be the holder of all tantric lineages which brought him closest to the Buddha than any other.

It was at the Hemis where the two great minds embraced each other; the tantric master gave his new disciple sets of 12 great and small tasks which would reveal the illusory nature of life. Kagyu Buddhism or the ‘whispered lineage’ where teachings are transmitted orally, which was to give rise to several sub schools later, traces its origins to the meeting of Naropa and Tilopa at the Hemis. A lot of this history comes alive in the magnificent mural and thangka paintings on silk appliqué kept at the monastery museum. 

Window to the world

“You must come and watch the chams dance next year,” Naro said, appearing beside me just as suddenly as he had left. Probably I had dozed off and didn’t see him approach. The sea of sombre limbs lurching had ceased and some kind of bathos had slipped in – the younger monks seemed to be twitterpated, the senior ones engaged in chitchat, sipping drinks from dainty flasks. I had heard about the chams performance during the Hemis festival, the most voodoo-type part of the otherwise cheerful celebration with a lot of gaiety and animation. The festival took place in this very courtyard, venerating Lord Padmasambhava, a reincarnate of the Gautama, who took it upon himself to improve the spiritual lot of all humans. Apparently the dance, which involved a lot of masks of which some very macabre, is a big step in that direction. I would try my best, I assured Naro.

The gompa had served its purpose – two philomaths meet, intense debates and discussions later a new school of religion is started and Nirvana brought closer. It was now time to move on. Naropa set out for Magadha in today’s Bihar, another of ancient India’s famed centres of leaning.

He was joined by Tilopa this time. 

Let’s go