A Year in Tibet. Sun Shuyun

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СКАЧАТЬ news comes as a shock. We have never met Tseten's mother. Since the filming began, she has been staying with her daughter in Shigatse. I was told she had had tuberculosis for a long time, but that she was recovering. Her husband, Mila, went to see her a few weeks ago, and when he returned to the village reported, ‘I said to her I would be lost without her, so she has promised to get better.’ I was touched by the vulnerability in his eyes. How devastated Mila and the family must be now.

      My immediate response is to wonder if we might persuade the family to let us film the funeral rites, especially the sky burial. I know it is the most extraordinary custom, when the dead body is cut up and fed to vultures; I have seen an amateur video of it. To me it seems to embody something at the very heart of life and death as Tibetans see it; capturing it for our film would be incredible.

      But I know it is insensitive and crude of me even to think of it, when the family is stricken with grief. How would I react if I were in their position? I would think twice and then probably say no. Grief is so personal, and it is best left in private, with all the love, repentance, regret, or even relief pouring out without being observed or judged. The only reason I have the courage to ask is that we have been following the family for four months and have been treated as part of it.

      Of all the people we are filming, the Rikzin family have been the most open with us so far. They have been forgiving both of our intrusions into their lives and our scepticism about what we have seen. Once Tseten allowed us to accompany him on a visit to a pregnant woman, whose body he said had been entered by an evil spirit. He was not offended when we then followed her for a check-up in the hospital, where the doctor told her she was suffering from anaemia. Our doubts did not stop him from offering us treatment either. He tried to cure the spots on our handsome driver's face with saliva. The spots did not go away, and the driver pointed that out, but Tseten was, as usual, unaffected; he was never once defensive.

      I discuss the filming idea on the phone with Dorje, who is always thoughtful and sensitive. After much deliberation, it is decided that he should go on behalf of the crew to offer our condolences with a khata, the ceremonial white scarf, and 100 yuan. He can then judge the situation first-hand. Meanwhile I would rush back from Lhasa, leaving the filming there to our other cameraman.

      Dorje was turned away. He left the khata and money with a young man who was guarding the door, allowing only close relatives inside. I feel guilty. Am I pushing too hard? Am I as insensitive as the Chinese tourists that I am always complaining about? Just a week before, we were filming an obviously poor pilgrim who was giving money to some monks; they had been praying for his family's health and safety. Behind me, I heard a tourist remark loudly, in Chinese, ‘Look at the rags he's wearing! He could buy himself a new outfit with that money.’ Quite a few of the monks — who could understand Chinese — stared in disgust.

      As soon as I return to Gyantse, I go to see Phuntsog, one of Gyantse's two sky burial masters. I have been introduced to him by the street committee where we rented the house, and found that I already knew him: he comes to our house on a tractor once a week to collect our rubbish. He is a small, hunched man with an extremely dark complexion — possibly a result of the many hours he spends outside. He is friendly, and has a ready smile, but he seldom speaks unless spoken to. His manner is so humble that when I hand him our bin bags, he seems to consider it a favour.

      Phuntsog lives just five minutes from us. He has the simplest of mud houses, on the edge of an open space where the neighbourhood's rubbish and waste water seem to have ended up. He is sitting in the small but tidy kitchen, enjoying some chang — barley wine — after work while his wife is cooking. My arrival seems to startle him. He stands up, looking at me but not knowing what to say. I explain why I have come: I have told him before that I want to film a sky burial, and all he said was that it would be difficult. Now I really need his advice: how could we persuade the family? Might there be a way round it?

      ‘The trouble is it's a crucial time,’ he said. ‘The soul of the dead is still in the body. If you come to the house, if strangers come, you will disturb or even frighten the soul. That is why, when someone dies, we put a bunch of juniper twigs on the door to warn people to stay away.’

      So when does the family send for him?

      ‘They would call the shaman or a lama first. He works out the location and the right time for the sky burial. Then they let me know. Usually it is three days after the death. They put butter lamps near the body to guide the soul; it must not wander in the dark. The close relatives have to be told, and neighbours help to get a big feast ready — meat dumplings, boiled mutton, and rice with butter and dried fruit. We think this is the dead person's last meal. All this time, there will be a lama reading out mantras beside the body, praying for the soul.’

      So we cannot film during these three days?

      ‘No, most families won't want you there,’ he said. ‘It's too important. The soul has this one chance of finding its next life. They are not going to let you disturb it.’

      What about after the three days?

      ‘It is still hard. We do the sky burial and then the soul wanders. It is in the bardo, that is the time between death and the next life. If it is frightened, it might get stuck there. That would be terrible.’

      How long will the rebirth take?

      ‘It depends. It's all to do with your karma. But normally we think it takes forty-nine days.’

      He sees my face fall at that, and goes on: ‘Maybe there's a family who will let you. It costs money. They want to do it properly. If they are really poor and you can help them, they might let you film. Even then you will have to do it from a long way off.’

      Now I know I will not have a chance with the Rikzin family.

      I leave Phuntsog and walk back to the house, passing clusters of old men and women, silent and purposeful. They are doing their evening circumambulation of the whole town: it is to accumulate merit for a better reincarnation. Outside the No. 1 High School, they mingle with students walking up and down, memorising their lessons — their way of taking care of their future. I see the old people every day, and I always wonder whether this ‘merit’ will really help them; at least they are getting some exercise, I say to myself. But after the big blow I have received, I cannot let go of my disappointment. I find myself, not for the first time, disputing in my head the whole idea of reincarnation, however essential it is for Buddhists.

      It all started with my grandmother. Like most Chinese of her generation, she was a Buddhist. Her whole life was one of hardship — seven of her nine children died during a smallpox outbreak in a single year. Her sole consolation was the paradise she believed in. She used to describe it in great detail: the sun forever shining, flowers eternally in bloom, houses made of gold, no sickness, no infirmity — a world where everyone has whatever their heart desires, in which we are all reunited with those we love.

      It is the Buddhist ‘Western paradise’. To get there, Grandmother was told to pray and do good and no evil. She was eternally kind to everyone, even during the Cultural Revolution, comforting the so-called ‘enemies of the people’ who no one else dared to go near. When my father, a convinced Communist, told her not to pray or do her superstitious things, she took to saying her prayers wordlessly at night. As a child I always sided with my father, influenced by him, and set against Buddhism by my atheist education. Religion was an opiate; monks and nuns were parasites; the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas were just wooden statues. Mao was the saviour; Communism would bring paradise here on earth. I made fun of her beliefs. As Father СКАЧАТЬ