All is well that ends well. But on that occasion one thing was not quite satisfactory, for I soon discovered that one of my sheep had lost a part of my luggage from its back, no doubt during that memorable race. I then set out to hunt after the lost bundle; but it was all useless, for we had not run the race over any regular course, and it was impossible to follow our footsteps. One may as well look for a parcel lost in the sea, as try to hunt up a small bundle, lying hidden under grass and leaves, somewhere in an immense plain. Besides, I argued with myself thus: the missing bundle contained some fifty rupees in cash, my watch and compass, and an assortment of western trinkets; it would have been better not to lose the money, certainly, but it was, after all, a small portion of what I had with me, and I could do well without it. It was hard to part with the watch and the compass, and the trinkets would have been of service in making friends with the simple natives; but, looked at from another point of view, the possession of these things might arouse the suspicion of the more intelligent Tibetans, and it was most likely that the Lord Buḍḍha, in His wisdom and mercy, had caused me to be rid of them. Arriving at this conclusion, I gave up my search in a spirit of meek resignation.
[CHAPTER XXV.]
The Power of Buddhism.
I had now walked about six miles to the north-west after the singular proceedings which I described in the last chapter, and I emerged upon a well-trodden road, which on consulting my store of information I was able to identify as the path that, deviating from the Tibetan national high-way, led to lake Mānasarovara. The discovery was as unexpected as it was pleasing, for I was now within a pilgrim-frequented zone. A few more steps, indeed, brought me in sight of a dark tent, standing on the banks of a large river, named Gaṅgā by the Tibetans, where my appeal for a night’s lodging was cheerfully granted. I found the occupants of the tent to consist of three men and two women, the men being brothers, one of the women the wife of the eldest brother, and the other a daughter of another of the brothers. My first inclination on being received into the tent was to feel easy in mind, for I had been told that parties comprising women, even in Tibetan wilds, seldom commit murder. But when I was informed that these people were from Dam Gya-sho, I thought I was rather hasty in feeling so secure, for that country, like the neighboring one of Kham, is noted for its production of professional robbers and murderers. I had heard before that they had even such a saying in that country as: “No murder, no food; no pilgrimage, no absolution. On! onward on your pilgrimage, killing men and visiting temples, killing men and visiting temples!” Even women of that country, I had been told, think no more of committing homicide than of killing a sheep. These reflexions did not bring much cheer to my heart; but what could I do, since I was now in their hands? I could only bide my time. Fortunately, they did not butcher me that night.
Early on August 3rd, that is to say, on the morning of the following day, I proceeded in a north-westerly direction along the great stream, with my newly-made companions, for such had the occupants of the tent become, as they were heading for the same temporary destination as myself. This river, I ascertained, had its rise in one of the snowy peaks that I saw to the south-east, and emptied its waters into Lake Mānasarovara. I judged it to be about two hundred and fifty yards wide and fairly deep. Following the stream for about three and three-quarters miles and then making an ascent, we came to a clear, bubbling spring, which went by the name of Chumik Gaṅgā or the source of the Gaṅgā, and we drank deep of the sacred water. Then we continued our climb, now facing north, and arrived at another spring, which was welling up in a most picturesque way from under an immense slab of white marble. The natives call it Chumik thong-ga Rangchung, or the fountain of joy, and it really made one’s heart glad to look at the crystal-like water gushing up in all its purity. Both these springs are regarded by the Hinḍūs, as by the Tibetans, as forming the sources of the sacred Gaṅgā, and are both looked up to with religious reverence.
After leaving the springs, we proceeded north-west again, and came once more to the river Gaṅgā, which we forded at the point where it was at its broadest in that vicinity, and passed the night on its banks. We had travelled only about nine miles that day. From the place of our bivouac I saw to the north-west a great snow-clad mountain: it was the Kang Rinpoche of Tibet, the Mount Kailāsa of the Hinḍū. Its ancient name was Kang Tise. As far as my knowledge goes, it is the most ideal of the snow-peaks of all the Himālayas. It inspired me with the profoundest feelings of pure reverence, and I looked up to it as a ‘natural maṇdala,’ the mansion of a Buḍḍha and Boḍhisaṭṭvas. Filled with soul-stirring thoughts and fancies I addressed myself to this sacred pillar of nature, confessed my sins, and performed to it the obeisance of one hundred and eight bows. I also took out the manuscript of my ‘twenty-six desires,’ and pledged their accomplishment to the Buḍḍha. I then considered myself the luckiest of men, to have thus been enabled to worship such a holy emblem of Buḍḍha’s power, and to vow such vows in its sacred presence, and I mused:
Whate’er my sufferings here and dangers dire,
Whate’er befalls me on my onward march,
All, all, I feel, is for the common good