Along with the explosion of Tibetan historical writing and the development of a truly Tibetan Buddhist philosophy, the literary arts underwent a gradual transformation from a foreign, imported form of discourse into a naturalized Tibetan medium for creative expression, philosophical exploration, and moral reflection. Three major Indian influences loom large behind the selections in this chapter: the narrative ethical literature of Hindu, Jain, and Buddhist folktale anthologies; the dohā, spiritual songs of the late Indian Buddhist saints such as Saraha, Tilopa, and Nāropa; and the ornate poetry of the kāvya tradition descending from the poetic theorist Daṇḍin. The tradition of dohā songs had been available to Tibetan writers since at least the early eleventh century; Sakya Paṇḍita introduced the poetic theory of kāvya in the first half of the thirteenth century. Between the late thirteenth and the early sixteenth centuries, there was a shift from India to Tibet as the locus of the literary imagination. Indian imagery receded as Tibetan mountains, rivers, and valleys came to dominate the visual imaginaire of Tibetan literature. Narrative motifs drawn from centuries of Hindu, Jain, and Buddhist folktales and myths were replaced with tales of Tibetan families, monks, farmers, and sorcerers.
This chapter presents the literary efforts of five major writers who lived between the thirteenth and sixteenth centuries, and who belonged to three of the four major Buddhist schools then thriving. Martön Chögyel (thirteenth century), a student of Sakya Pa
ṇḍita (1182–1251), comments on his master’s famous verse, the
Treasury of Eloquent Advice, with a narrative of the Indian hero Rama
ṇa, thereby establishing this pan-Asian story in Tibetan literature. Rangjung Dorjé deploys the song form in conflict negotiation. Longchen Rapjampa (1308–64) plays with both the
dohā song tradition and the
kāvya tradition. Metrically his poems resonate with the songs of Saraha or Milarepa, while his uses of imagery and metaphor are drawn from ornate poetry. Shakya Chokden (1428–1507) writes prose, but like a
kāvya poet who is well steeped in the mystical philosophy of the Nyingma school, eschewing straightforward doctrinal exegesis in favor of evocative metaphorical narrative. Tsangnyön Heruka’s (1452–1504) life and songs of Milarepa (ca. 1040–1123) are presented as a Buddhist s
ūtra, but the narrative is essentially a Tibetan family epic. They all have in common a synthetic vibrancy; each descends from a distinct form of Indian literature, yet in the centuries following the translations of the songs of Indian saints and Sakya Pa
ṇḍita’s foundational rendering of Indian poetic theory, Tibetan writers utilized distinctly Tibetan motifs. In early periods it might have been the twelve acts of the Buddha that prompted someone to write about a Tibetan Buddhist master; now a Tibetan place (see the account of the origins of the
Life of Milarepa below) prompted a writer to follow an Indian blueprint for biography. Tibet had become the source of literary inspiration, even when India was the subject. Indian philosophy might be the topic (see Shakya Chokden’s work below), yet the Tibetan landscape would bring it to life in creative literature. KRS
The exile of King R
āma, his wife, S
īt
ā, and his faithful brother, Lak
ṣma
ṇa, is among the most famous tales in Asia. Known primarily from the
Rāmāyaṇa, one of the two great Indian epics (the second being the
Mahābhārata), the story circulated throughout South, Southeast, and East Asia, where it was rewritten, retold, edited, elaborated, and adapted to regional tastes countless times over the past two millennia. In Tibet there have been three principal versions of the epic, one dating to the ninth or tenth century and found only in manuscripts discovered in the great cave library of Dunhuang (see
chapter 4), one brief prose retelling dating to the mid-thirteenth century, and one lengthier version in ornate verse. The second of these was authored by a scholar of Sakya monastery in southwestern Tibet, Martön Chögyel. Martön was a student of Sakya’s most famous scholar, Sakya Pa
ṇḍita (1182–1251; see
chapter 12), whose most popular work was a collection of poetic verses on various moral themes, the
Treasury of Eloquent Advice. The
Treasury remains a classic of Tibetan literature centuries after its creation, and people often memorize its verses to recall and recite in moments of ethical reflection. The verses have a standard form: a moral principle is stated in the first two lines, then illustrated by reference to a metaphor or character from Indian or Tibetan popular narrative. It was left to Martön to explain these many references and allusions, and his “commentary” consists primarily of brief versions of narratives on which the verses are based. The subject of the present verse is desire and the negative consequences that ensue from giving in to it. The “great ones” of the first line are none other than R
āma, Lak
ṣma
ṇa, and S
īt
ā, who have given up their kingdom out of strict adherence to royal codes of honor, while R
āva
ṇa, the great ten-headed demon of the island of La
ṅk
ā, meets his fate as he seeks to gain the object of his desire at all costs. The storyline follows closely the model of the earlier Dunhuang version, but the history of the transmission of the work from ninth- to tenth-century Dunhuang to Sakya three hundred years later remains a mystery. KRS
SAKYA PAṆḌITA’S VERSE
Great ones abandon attachment to
Amusement, pleasure, and food:
For the fault of attachment to desires
Rāvaṇa was killed in Laṅkā.
MARTÖN’S COMMENTARY ON SAKYA PAṆḌITA’S VERSE: THE TALE OF RĀMA
Rāvaṇa was the king of Laṅkā. For a long time he had propitiated the deity Maheśvara Śiva, yet he had not obtained results. Tormented by this, he cut off each of his ten heads and offered them as fodder for the sacrificial fire. The recipient Maheśvara heard this, and said to the goddess Umā, “You go and grant a boon to Rāvaṇa.”
She went to him and said, “I will grant whatever you desire.”
Rāvaṇa said, “This is a propitiation for Maheśvara.”
Because Maheśvara had sent Umā, Rāvaṇa said, “I do not desire a boon from a woman.” Umā was angered, and said, “In the future your kingdom will be destroyed by a woman.” Then she left.
So the great deity sent his son, who went and related his offer to Rāvaṇa. Rāvaṇa spoke as before, and thus the son was angered and said, “In the future your kingdom will be ruined by the form of a monkey.” Then he left.
Then Maheśvara came, fierce, to Rāvaṇa and said, “Whatever you desire.” Still Rāvaṇa was angry, and said, “You have little compassion.” Then he performed the sacrificial fire. “I am the one who has come,” said Maheśvara. “Now you will get what you desire.”
To this Rāvaṇa replied, as was taught to Lama Martön in accord with what Sakya Paṇḍita had heard before the Most Venerable Drakpa Gyeltsen:
A fortified castle with an ocean for a moat,
The physicians of the gods, the Aśvins in the form of a dog,
A demon army, desires exceeding the God of Wealth,
A wall of indestructible iron.
And Mahe
śvara saw that R
āva
ṇa desired these as well as immortality.
Īśvara placed the goddess S
ārasvat
ī upon R
āva
ṇa’s tongue, thereby twisting it so that the words “I desire a boon: not to be killed by anything” became “I desire a boon: not to be killed until my horse head is cut off.” Thus he was made to accept this.
Then, while Rāvaṇa stayed in his kingdom, a daughter was shown to him. Then she was presented to the Brahmans, who opined, “She is a bad sign, so it would not be good to keep her here.” King Rāvaṇa listened to this, and put the daughter in a copper box and gave it to the waters. That box came to the human world of Dzhambuling. In the spring, the box emerged in an irrigation channel through which farmers were drawing water. From out of the opened lid came the daughter, whom they called Rölnyema, “Found in a Furrow.” She became a special youth, so the farmers discussed the matter, and offered her to the king of that land, Ramaṇa. Her name became Sītā.
King Ramaṇa was happy, and he encouraged his younger brother Lakṣmaṇa. Ramaṇa offered the kingdom to Lakṣmaṇa—if translated into Tibetan, Yidupa—who was of little worldly disposition. So he said, “King, if the likes of you are not attached to the kingdom, how can the likes of me be attached? I will contemplate the Dharma in your presence.” The kingdom was given to the youngest of the three brothers, Bhīmasena, and the two older brothers went with Sītā to the Ascetic Forest.
At that time, Daśagrīva the “ten-necked,” i.e., Rāvaṇa, was pleased at the beauty of his wife. To others he said, “Is there anyone more beautiful than this in the world?” But they said, “There is someone like this in Dzhambuling.” This captivated Rāvaṇa’s mind, and he went to the Ascetic Forest in Dzhambuling. He presented the form of a beautiful deer as an illusion to Ramaṇa, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa.
Queen Sītā begged and begged the king to capture it, but he said, “It will bring harm to living beings. If your mind can be changed, let it be.”
Sītā said, “You say this because you will not catch it.”
This struck the king’s weak spot, and he chased but did not catch the deer.
Some time after that, Rāvaṇa called out, “Sītā, Lakṣmaṇa!” and the woman said to Lakṣmaṇa, “You go. The king sounds weary.” But he said, “Who can subdue the power of my king? I was told to stay here.”
Again the woman said, “Lakṣmaṇa, could it be that you wish the king to die so that you may take me?”
He could not bear this improper conduct. “Since I do not want even the kingdom, what will you do? Until we return, do not move from here.” Lakṣmaṇa encircled Sītā with a fence and left.
In that place Daśagrīva appeared as a Brahman and begged for alms. “You have leisure,” said Sītā, “but I cannot move from here.” As Rāvaṇa grabbed Sitā, he could not bear her radiance. He carried her together with the ground beneath her.
Then the two brothers met and conferred, and King Rama
ṇa knew that it was a demon appearing as a deer. They returned and saw that S
īt
ā had been carried away along with the ground. They searched for her in all directions. For some time they traveled near a strong river. At the head of that river they saw two monkeys in battle. The monkeys looked at them, and one monkey, Sugr
īva, came to them. When they asked why they were fighting, the monkey said, “We are fighting for our kingdom. We have fought for three days. Now it looks as if he will win.” At that King Rama
ṇa agreed to assist him.
The next morning during the fighting the king was distracted at the spectacle, and the sun set. When this happened Sugrīva said, “You made a mistake.” Ramaṇa said, “Not so. I fear to mistake the two opponents.”
“If that is so, I will hold up a mirror.” He fixed the mirror to his forehead, and when they battled again, King Ramaṇa shot an arrow at the other monkey. He said, “Balin and Sugrīva battle; if I shoot Balin in the distance, Sugrīva readily takes it.” And Balin died.
Then his wife said, “I am a white queen monkey. If I carry a dead dog, I carry it like this.” She carried Balin’s corpse to the snows.
Then Sugrīva was pleased. “It will be done as you desire.” And the king explained their purpose to the monkey.
Sugrīva said, “Well then, I have one minister; he will go with you.” The two of them traveled, and after quite a while, amid the hosts of monkeys in the mountains and valleys they met a skinny three-eyed monkey[, Hanumān,] and explained the previous matter to him.
He understood this and with a single leap arrived at the kingdom of the wind gods. He asked and they said, “This is it.” His uncle was a wind god, so he met with him and started to go inside. “You cannot enter; there is a vow. But you can stay here and I will go into the guest house and get food for your labors.” He grabbed a plow, but was unable to move it and became irritated. His uncle came out of the guest house and Hanumān asked about the plow. He said, “Your great strength could harm the serpents below, so they are holding on to the plow.”
Then he again made a single leap and arrived in Demon Laṅkā. He looked around; Sītā was imprisoned in an enclosure of fruit trees. He asked the reason for this, and was told, “This one does not like our King Rāvaṇa. She says, ‘You are a king of demons and I am the queen of a king of humans.’ Rāvaṇa put her here.”
Hanumān went to where she was and said, “I am sent by King Rāma. He searches for you.”
The woman said, “That is not true.”
“Here is this,” he said, and showed King Rāma’s ring to her. The monkey said, “Now, may I have some food?”
But she said, “I have no food; these trees are the king’s.”
Hanumān said, “Though it may be, since I have forsaken taking what is not given, I will take just a little.”
“You, so-called monkey, are a very greedy one,” said S
īt
ā.
At that Hanumān ate some, and stuck all the fruit trees in the ground on their heads. Demons gathered, saying, “There is a trespassing monkey in the fruit tree garden!” Hanumān entered into the middle of their circle, and leaped away many times. Finally the demons caught him. As they were about to kill him, he said, “You possess royal law; there are two ways to kill me, so please do whichever is right.”
They asked about this, and he said, “The two ways are the father’s way and the mother’s way. According to the mother’s way, one is placed in the treasury, given all tasty foods, and thus chokes and dies. According to the father’s way, my tail is wrapped in cotton and dipped in butter, and that is lit on fire.” So the demons decided on this and they wrapped Hanumān’s tail with cotton. All the cotton in the kingdom was used up, yet still there was more tail to wrap. They poured oil on that cotton and set it aflame. Hanumān dragged his tail through the demon’s capital, and parts of it went everyplace else, and the fire of the tail melted all the palaces. Finally, as he was about to put the tail in the ocean, all the serpents hindered it and extinguished the fire with vapor.
Then he leaped and came before Ramaṇa, and related the circumstances of Sītā’s whereabouts. Ramaṇa said, “I will lead an army to defeat Rāvaṇa.” He went to the shore of the ocean, while Hanumān assembled a host of monkeys.
As they erected a bridge over the ocean, Ramaṇa questioned the great sage, Vālmiki: “What sorts of beings live in the great ocean?” The sage said, “There is a fish called Timing, which is one hundred leagues wide. There is a fish that swallows that fish, and there is also a fish that swallows that one.”
Then the monkeys were making the bridge. King Ramaṇa approached with troops, and when he met with Rāvaṇa and his host and battled, Ramaṇa chopped off his horse head.
Then King Ramaṇa went back to his own kingdom. Daśagrīva’s younger brother was Kumbhakarṇa, “Pot Ear.” He was deep in a trance. Some of the remaining demons poured molten metal in his ear, and he awoke and said, “What is this?” They related the story of the killing of his elder brother. He beheld this, and inhaled the wind in his nose. All but King Rāma and the monkey Hanumān became skeletons. At this Kumbhakarṇa was satisfied, and resumed meditation.
At that the king called the monkey Hanumān, and sent him to collect medicine at the snow mountain of Tisé [Kailash], though Hanumān mistook the medicine. When he was sent a second time, he picked up the mountain and returned. Then all the soldiers were cured. Rāma said, “Now carry the medicinal mountain back,” but the monkey said, “It is too big!” Hanumān tossed Mount Kailash from a distance, and it is said that because of this the top of the mountain is somewhat slanted.
Then King Rama
ṇa was pleased, and he found S
īt
ā and was very happy. R
āva
ṇa came to be like this because of the two curses on his former actions.
[Dmar ston Chos rgyal (13th c.), Legs par bshad pa rin po che’i gter zhes bya ba’i ’grel pa, in Legs par bshad pa rin po che’i gter dang ’gre l pa (Lhasa: Bod ljongs mi dmangs dpe skrun khang, 1990), 96–208, 190.2–195.24. Trans. KRS.]
This song was directed toward a specific group of people with whom the fourteenth-century Buddhist leader Rangjung Dorjé (
chapter 12) was quite angry. He was so disgusted with them that he addressed his spoken words to the sky rather than to the actual residents of Kolati. “Though no one will listen,” he lamented, “I sing to the empty sky.”
Leading intellectuals and religious figures such as Rangjung Dorjé composed songs throughout their lives and in a variety of settings—hermitages, monasteries, palaces, and points en route to somewhere else. Occasions that called for song might include a ritual performance, a retreat, a mediation session, a sermon to groups or an individual, and auspicious or lamentable events. Their audiences could comprise students, peers, rulers, benefactors, and laypeople. The songs were composed in writing, orally, and, at times, spontaneously in front of audiences. The topics could include devotion, philosophy, meditative experience, instruction, inspiration, ethics, and spiritual realization.
The opening verse of this song suggests that Rangjung Dorjé did not have very specific knowledge of the problems in Kolati (or perhaps avoided naming names, in order to save face for the troublemakers!) and thus was called upon to evoke more general Buddhist ethical principles. He begins by lamenting that moral conduct is difficult at best in these degenerate times, and highlights a host of negative emotional states that must be identified, reduced, and ultimately eliminated if communities are to flourish, including pride, vanity, lethargy, and anger. Each verse offers advice to a specific group, including the “spiritual friends” who lead communities, would-be monks, ordained monks, tantric practitioners, and patrons. The final verse hints that the root cause of the troubles at Kolati was a dispute over material goods, which plunged the members of the community into conflict. Here the religious leader becomes a mediator, and the song a tool of conflict resolution. KRS
Homage to the Master.
I pay homage to the esteemed masters.
I beseech them to bestow their blessings.
Here, in the northern world, in the country of Tibet,
East of the snow-peaked mountains,
On a small ridge jutting up in a corner of the earth,
Right here in this temple of Kolati,
I, the meditator Rangjung Dorjé,
Do not know the full scope of others’ minds.
Still, these are a few of the actions that I see
That degenerate the Doctrine in these bad times.
Spiritual friends who wish for greatness
Have fallen under the influence of impious laziness.
They have sunk into the mire of wealth and fame,
And long for the taste of meat and beer.
Does this not bring harm to the teachings?
I have seen those desiring to take vows
And dwell in the teachings of the Victor
Acting hypocritically and deviously.
Have they not created the seeds of evil destinies?
Those monks who desire to meditate
Are by day carried away by the agitation of material goods,
And by night overcome with drowsiness.
Reeling about like this,
Chasing after food and sensual gratification,
How at all can you free your own mind?
Those tantric practitioners who are vain with power,
Base their foolish chatter on arrogance,
And bring harm to others.
Are they not setting their own minds ablaze?
Those benefactors who desire wealth and fame,
Do not promote the contentment of faith,
But carry out unwholesome activities.
Will they not fall into the three unfortunate births?
Though no one else may listen,
I, spurred on by thoughts of disillusionment,
Speak these words
To you, the empty sky.
Now, do not foment agitation
For material goods of any type.
According to the advice of the holy masters,
May you take this into your experience completely.
This was spoken by the Lord Rangjung Dorjé on the twenty-eighth day of the twelfth month of the sheep year in the temple of Kolati, during the reconciliation of a dispute between the Ngotrö.
[Rang byung rdo rje, the Third Karmapa (1284–1339), Rang byung rdo rje’i mgur rnam. A collection of poetic songs of Buddhist experience given on various occasions by the Third Karma-pa Rang-byung-rdo-rje. Reproduced from a rare manuscript from the Library of Bla-ma Seng-ge of Yol-mo (Kunchhap, Bidung, Tashigang, E. Bhutan, 1983), 55.1–56.4. Trans. KRS.]
Longchen Rapjampa (1308–63) is most famous today as a philosopher rivaled by only a handful of other Tibetan intellectuals (see
chapter 12), but he was also an accomplished poet. Elsewhere in this volume (
chapter 15) is an example of his more relaxed religious poetry, a style inspired by Tibetan folk songs and by the well-known spiritual songs of Milarepa. In the following passage Longchenpa shows his mastery of another verse form, the ornate poetry that is based upon the Indian
kāvya tradition. Longchenpa’s “Words of Joy in a Forest Grove” is a poem of eighty verses (of which the first fifteen are given here), quatrains composed in the classical Tibetan metrical scheme of nine-syllable lines. Its subject matter is ostensibly the growing existential malaise said to befall one who considers the failings of the search for short-term human gain. Yet the imagery brings this didactic poetry to life. At times visceral, at times fantastic, yet always visually engaging, these verses integrate the imagination deeply within the process of moral development. People who come to understand what truly matters in life are as rare as a star in daytime. Cities are full of fiery pits. The world is a fickle autumn cloud, never to be relied upon. From all of this Longchenpa turns away. And where does he turn? To the “forest,” a paradise of unperturbed natural beauty. KRS
Salutations to the Guru and the Three Precious Jewels!
To you, whose body bears boughs with fresh blossoms of peace,
Pleasing under compassion’s cooling moonlight,
A panacea healing beings long fatigued—
To you, unprecedented, wondrous grove, salutations!
My thoughts worn out with worldly towns,
These words of flight to the peaceful forest,
I offer to the tribe of the Dharma path’s seekers,
With all my heart, mind to mind, from within.
This life, fleeting, is fast destroyed;
This cherished body must be left off
To wander alone in parts unknown;
Seeing this, I flee to the forest.
Distractions whereby freedom’s path is lost,
And the round’s sorrows multiply;
Seeing their sole cause as this plague of conceptions,
I flee to rest in the unborn peace of the forest.
The busy town is a conflagration of craving
Where you’re stricken with an epidemic, worldliness,
And wander in the worldly abyss evermore;
Seeing this, I now flee to the forest.
Worldly beings are emotionally afflicted,
Bound in the fearsome grip of grasper and grasped;
But as none of them have not been my parent,
It is to free beings that I really flee to the forest.
Looking out to outer objects,
It’s all impermanent, thought never can rest;
Seeing movement like that of an autumn cloud,
With all my heart, I really flee to the peaceful forest.
The sun of past good times has set,
The moon of bad folk rises now;
All parts are engulfed in the demonic darkness of evil;
Seeing this, I now flee to the forest.
It’s most difficult to rely on people;
In the good times they’re gone, in the bad ever present,
Weaving to and fro in between.
Whatever you do, they’re never happy,
So now I’ll not stay, but flee into the forest.
If you cannot grasp your own mind with your mind,
You’ll never grasp or guide the mind of another.
It’s to give my mind some great advice,
That I’ll not stay, but really flee into the forest.
Befriending the childish, virtue’s whittled away,
While unvirtue really becomes present.
So that I may practice virtue alone,
From this day forth, I really flee to the forest.
Nowadays, when you associate with folk,
They may be friends for just a minute,
But in an instant become savage foes;
So, not resting, I flee into the forest.
Alas! These days, the Sage’s teaching
Is about to set behind the western peak;
Because, when it vanishes, the lion’s roar
Of sacred Dharma falls silent, I flee to the forest.
You speak sweetly, without meaningful striving,
Speak coarsely and against sacred Dharma;
Except for the Victor, whose speech delights beings,
There’s no other way, so it’s said.
Holding to this, explain Dharma’s path and all hate you,
But speak irreligion and people are happy these days.
It’s all a cause for hell, so I’ll not try to find what to do,
But seeing what’s so, to benefit beings,
I’ll not rest, not rest, but now flee into the forest.
[Klong chen gsung thor bu, ed. A ’dzom ’brug pa, vol. 1, 137–141. Trans. MTK.]
This short piece is more reminiscent of Jorge Luis Borges’s fantastic tales than a work of Buddhist philosophy or didactic literature. Its author, Shakya Chokden (1428–1509, alias Mapam Gawé Shenyen in the colophon below), was among the most famous scholars of the Sakya school in fifteenth-century Central Tibet (
chapter 12). He is also the most iconoclastic thinker in the school’s history, primarily because of his unorthodox views on the nature of enlightenment, which many felt were perilously close to those of the Jonang school. Among his twenty-four volumes of writing, this brief work stands out as one of his most creative efforts. It begins as a letter sent out to the countryside by messenger from a castle. But this quickly turns out to be a fiction, as images from daily life among mountains and fields of the Tibetan countryside merge seamlessly with Buddhist ontological keywords. The servant goes out looking for helpers to plant seeds, but this is only an allegory for the process of straying from the natural, enlightened state in which each person primordially dwells. Seeds are planted in fields resting under the eternal presence of the mountain; this refers in the end to the cultivation of enlightenment, which is necessary even though it takes place with the enlightened expanse of reality looming ever present behind all our daily activities, ready to emerge if only we would let it. Shakya Chokden sounds more like a Nyingmapa philosopher than a Sakyapa here, and perhaps even in this minor work we can see reason for his Sakyapa contemporaries to look askance at his doctrinal position. Shakya Chokden’s Tibetan combines metaphorical images and philosophical terms seamlessly into single, flowing sentences, but this is barely possible in English. The translation below distinguishes the metaphorical components by placing them in italics. KRS
Oṃ! May you achieve supreme bliss.
From the palace of the spontaneous realm of reality, glorious certain peace, by decree of supreme magnificent attainment, natural radiant light, come tidings from the great messenger, conceptualization, to the whole of the valley of living and dying: You called mind, person of illusion who draws great waves with the machine of negative emotions, listen with great heed.
You, illusion come from nowhere, living nowhere, cannot be identified at all. Always cavorting with the four bad external friends, you have come under their sway. Wandering everywhere day and night, roaming about, you take no place as yours. You seize the selfless as self.
The magnificent glacial mountain of natural radiant light remains, the essence of the enlightened body, with a nature unblemished by the filth of mental elaboration, while you plant seeds of potential for dualistic error.
The head servant, incorrect attention, searches for the many serfs and slaves, the varied sorts of afflictive emotions. Soaked with the sweat and filth of one hundred thousand extreme acts, he is beaten down.
The forest, full of the ripened fruits of suffering, darkens. Diverse amusements amid the sundry pleasures of change—the peak of a large pile of leaves forming a distinct pattern, the play of illusion as they are buffeted in the wind—draw his attention, the naturally luminous expanse of reality, through the door of the six developed senses. Led astray by visible distractions, the sheer variety of existence, his essence cannot rest as unfabricated, spontaneous wisdom.
If you recognize these phantom people as created by the mind today, right now, you will ask yourself, “Where did I first come from? Where do I dwell? Where will I finally go?” And when you do this you will dissolve into the essentially luminous expanse of reality. You will grasp the luminously appearing nature of the illusion.
Now come quickly,
my hardworking friend, discerning intelligence.
Like a great river falling, we must work unceasingly.
Upon the fertile soil, the naturally luminous expanse of reality,
we shall plant seeds, the good habits of learning that are given out from the scriptural treasury belonging only to the utterly and completely Enlightened One. I rouse
my fine and wonderful companions, uncontaminated wisdom, magnificent compassion, a commitment to supreme enlightenment. I shall bring
the harvest in on time, the spontaneously perfect ten strengths, four braveries, eighteen unique qualities, and unceasing enlightened activity.
Through the virtue of sketching this with conventional words on the unchanging ultimate meaning in the year of spontaneous magnificent pleasure, at the waxing moon of ineffable simplicity, on the day of the full moon of self-arising illusion, may I quickly behold the natural countenance of reality, magnificent pleasure. Mapam Gawé Shenyen composed this at Serdokchen retreat, the center point of Tsang Yeru. The scribe was Chökyi Gyeltsen.
[The Complete Works (Gsuṅ ’bum) of Gser-mdog paṇ-chen Śākya-mchog-ldan (Thimphu: Kunzang Tobgey, 1975), vol. 17, 97.4–99.4. Trans. KRS.]
Milarepa (ca. 1040–1123) was an acclaimed yogin and poet active in southern Tibet during a period of renewed Buddhist expansion throughout the region. He is most commonly identified as an early founder of the Kagyü school of Tibetan Buddhism, a tradition traced back to the great tantric adepts of India. Respect for Milarepa, however, transcends sectarian lines; individuals from diverse Buddhist lineages in Tibet revere him as an accomplished master and regard his life story as a model of religious dedication and practice. “Mi la” was his clan name; repa refers to the single cotton robe (ré) traditionally worn by Tibetan hermits. Milarepa is thus an epithet, literally “The Cotton-Clad Mila,” attesting to his ascetic lifestyle.
Milarepa was born into a family of considerable wealth, but lost his home and possessions to his paternal aunt and uncle following the death of his father. At the behest of his mother, Nyangtsa Kargyen, he trained in black magic in order to exact revenge upon his greedy relatives. He is said to have used this sorcery to murder thirty-five people in his village. He later felt contrition for these crimes, and set out to study the Buddhist teachings with his principal teacher, Marpa the Translator (ca. 1012–97), in southern Tibet. During this period, Milarepa was subjected to a series of grueling trials, famously including the construction of immense stone towers, in order to purify the negative karma accrued in his youth. Milarepa then spent the rest of his life practicing meditation in seclusion and teaching through spontaneous songs of realization.
The most famous version of Milarepa’s life story was crafted in the late fifteenth century by Tsangnyön Heruka (1452–1504). He developed an interest in promoting the tradition of Milarepa early in life. In his young adulthood Tsangnyön traveled to Ngatsa, the birthplace of Milarepa in southern Gungtang. He saw a small red temple, and Mila’s uncle’s house in ruins, and at a renovated temple containing a statue of Milarepa he met a steward who asked him to compose verses in praise of Milarepa’s life. Tsangnyön therefore composed an encomium to Milarepa modeled on the form of the twelve acts of the Buddha, which, according to canonical sources, are: 1. Descent into the world from Tu
ṣita Heaven; 2. Entry into the womb; 3. Birth; 4. Miracles; 5. Pleasures of marriage; 6. Departure; 7. Ascetic practice; 8. Going to the point of enlightenment; 9. Becoming Buddha; 10. Turning the wheel of Dharma; 11. Magical apparitions; 12. Death. There are some variations on this list, but the point is that to praise a Buddhist holy person in this manner makes an explicit comparison between that person and the Buddha—to say, in effect, that the person is not simply like the Buddha but is a buddha living in the present day. In the conclusion to his
Life of Milarepa, Tsangnyön states that Milarepa’s story is also composed of twelve acts.
In the first passage here Tsangnyön’s principal biographer, Götsang Repa (fifteenth–sixteenth century), writes of the benefits of publishing Milarepa’s life story by attributing these considerations to Tsangnyön himself. Tsangnyön’s Life of Milarepa takes the form of an autobiography in which the yogin narrates an account of his deeds to a group of disciples assembled before him. The next passage is an excerpt from chapter 2 of Tsangnyön’s work. It begins with Milarepa’s chief disciple, Rechungpa, requesting the master to describe his years of hardship as a child. The passage corresponds to the early acts of the Buddha prior to the renunciation, though in Milarepa’s case his family life was truly dystopian. AQ
There are currently many life stories and song collections of Milarepa. Still, since this extraordinary life story has not been a continuous tradition, it should be clarified and taught for the benefit of my disciples, for teaching its profound and vast Dharma and spiritual instructions will surely lead to liberation. They will collect merit. There are kings, ministers, nobles who think that they are great people, and commoners, none of whom has time to practice in accordance with the Dharma. Then there are those who do have the time and conceitedly think they are practicing the Dharma, but have not taken the spiritual instructions into their experience: they are stirring up bubbles with words. There are those who are conceited into thinking that they are masters who have found the means to achieve the status of a buddha in a single lifetime: in them all virtue is destroyed.
If this
Life of Milarepa were to be well known, sense pleasures and things desired in this life would become supports for undertaking ascetic practice, while entertainments in which one wanders would become supports for practicing single-pointedness. Milarepa’s life would become a perfect example for those who doubt that buddhahood can be attained in a single lifetime, or that they are meditating at the wrong time. They will have faith in the holy Dharma of certain meaning, and will be liberated in this life or in the intermediate state. Even those of mediocre capacity can have faith in those who are experienced and provide material support for them. With a pure vow they can go into retreat, gain meditative experience in the next life, and based on that, they may gain liberation. Even extremists will give up backward views and develop extraordinary faith, and they will certainly come to the end of sa
ṃs
āra. Thus, printing Milarepa’s life will be of benefit to all beings.
[Rgod tshang ras pa Sna tshogs rang grol, Gtsang smyon he ru ka phyogs thams cad las rnam par rgyal ba’i rnam thar rdo rje theb pa’i gsal byed nyi ma’i snying po, in The Life of the Saint of Gtsaṅ (New Delhi: Sharada Rani, 1969), 137.7–138.7. Trans. KRS.]
Then Rechungpa said, “O lama, with the death of your father long ago you encountered much hardship. Please tell us what that was like.”
Milarepa continued:
When I was about seven years old, my father, Mila Sherap Gyeltsen, was stricken with a terrible illness. Doctors and diviners foretold that he would not recover and they abandoned him. Friends and relatives likewise knew he would not live. Even my father himself was resolved that he would not survive. Our relatives, including my paternal uncle and aunt, our friends, countrymen, and neighbors all gathered. My father intended to place his wife and children together with all his wealth in the care of a trustee. At last he prepared an extensive testament ensuring that his son would reclaim his patrimony. Then he read it aloud for all to hear:
“To summarize out loud, I shall not recover from my present illness. Consequently, as my son is still young, these are the arrangements through which I entrust him to the care of all his relatives, especially his paternal uncle and aunt. My wealth includes all the following: in the highlands, yaks, horses, and sheep; in the lowlands, various tracts of land, Orma Triangle foremost among them, of which the poor are envious; on the ground floor of the house, cattle, goats, and donkeys; in the upper rooms, utensils of gold, silver, and iron; turquoise, silk fabrics, and a granary. In short, my possessions are such that I need not aspire to any other man’s wealth.
“Spend a portion of these for expenses after I am gone. The rest I entrust to all of you gathered here until my son is able to support his own household. In particular, I entrust him to the care of both his paternal uncle and aunt. When my son is able to support his own family, he will marry Dzesé, as they were betrothed in childhood. You will then return to him my wealth in its entirety and ensure that my son thus takes charge of his patrimony. Until then may all their relatives, led by their uncle and aunt, know the joys and sorrows of my wife and children. Do not lead them into misery. I shall watch you from my grave when I die.”
With this, my father died. Our relatives performed the rites for the deceased. In agreement they said, “Nyangtsa Kargyen herself should take care of the remaining wealth, while we all should provide whatever assistance she needs as best we can from the side.”
The uncle and aunt said, “Although some people are family, we are sincere family. We shall not lead them, mother and children, into misery. In accordance with the testament, we shall assume control of the wealth.”
Without listening to the arguments of my mother’s brother or Dzesé’s father and brothers, my uncle took the men’s goods and my aunt took the women’s; the rest they divided in half. Having done so, they said, “You, mother and children, shall serve us each in turn.” Thus, my mother and we children no longer had control of our possessions.
In summer, the time for working the fields, we were our uncle’s servants. In winter, the time for spinning and weaving wool, we were our aunt’s servants. Our food was food for dogs, our work, work for donkeys. We wore strips of tattered robe over our shoulders, tied with a jute belt. Forced to toil without rest, our limbs became cracked and raw. With only poor food and clothing, we became pale and emaciated. Our hair, once dangling in locks of gold and turquoise, turned ashen and thin and became infested with lice. Sensitive folks who saw or heard us all broke down in tears. Gossip quietly circulated about my aunt and uncle, but they acted without restraint. As we, mother and children, were beset with misery, my mother said to the aunt, “You are not Khyungtsa Peldren (Glorious Leader of the Khyung tsa), you are Dümo Takdren (Demoness Leader of Tigers).” My aunt thus became known as Dümo Takdren.
In those days there was a proverb: “When the false master aims to be master, the true master is put out like a dog.” Such is what we, mother and children, had become. Previously, when my father, Mila Sherap Gyeltsen, was alive, everyone, both high and low, looked to see if we smiled or frowned. Later, when my uncle and aunt became rich as kings, it was their faces, smiling or frowning, upon which everyone gazed. About my mother the people whispered, “How true the saying, ‘Rich husband, clever wife. Soft wool, fine woolens.’ Now that no capable man is around, it is just as the proverb says. At first, while Nyangtsa Kargyen was sustained by a fine husband, it is said she was courageous and wise, and an excellent cook. Now her wisdom has dimmed and she is completely miserable.” Our inferiors all ridiculed us behind our backs just as the proverb says: “When one is beset by misery, gossip will follow in turn.” Dzesé’s parents gave me new clothing and boots and said, “When riches have vanished, you needn’t think yourself poor, since they are like dewdrops in a meadow. In the past, your ancestors did not acquire wealth until later on. For you too, a time of prosperity will come.” Saying this, they consoled us over and over.
In adulthood, having achieved vengeance through sorcery, and after years of training with his teacher Marpa and decades meditating in hermitages along the Himalayan borderlands, Milarepa had little tolerance for intellectual pretension or religious trappings. Instead, he emphasized the need for a simple life dedicated to yogic practice. As recounted in chapter 12 of his biography, toward the end of his life a group of disciples inquired how they should prepare his physical remains, conduct memorial services, and continue their religious activities in his absence. In response, Milarepa gave the following words of advice, which he then summarized in the form of a song. Here, as throughout much of the life story, he is referred to by the term Jetsün, an honorific title frequently translated as “Venerable Lord.”
The Jetsün said, “Through the kindness of gracious Marpa I exhausted all deeds of sa
ṃs
āra and nirv
āṇa. It is uncertain that a yogin whose three gates of body, speech, and mind have been liberated in the very nature of things will leave a corpse. There is no need to make clay
tsatsa figurines or to build a st
ūpa.
1 I have no monastery of my own, so there is no need to establish a religious seat. Keeping to uninhabited and isolated places, such as rocky and snow-covered mountains, you all should lovingly protect disciples, the six types of sentient beings. Do not slack in producing
tsatsa figurines, and the four-session yoga.
2 Atop the st
ūpa of all phenomena, erect a victory banner of accomplishment in the training of sacred outlook. For a memorial, pray sincerely in word and thought from the depths of your heart. For a system of practice, reject that which increases ego clinging and afflictions, and harms sentient beings even if it appears to be virtuous. Practice that which serves as an antidote for the five poisons and benefits sentient beings, even if it appears to be sinful, because it is in essence authentic Dharma.
“If, after hearing this, you disregard it and fail to practice, then your learning, however great it may be, is an obstruction that will cast you into the depths of the lower realms. Therefore, since life is short and the time of death is uncertain, devote yourself to meditation. Practice virtue and reject sinful deeds as best you know how, even at the cost of your own life. The meaning of this can be summed up as follows: act in such a way that you will not be ashamed of yourself. Do this and even if your actions contradict the letter of some texts, they will not contradict the intentions of the previous Victors. Collected here is their understanding of all aspects of study and contemplation, and through them, the intentions of this old man will be fulfilled. If my intentions are fulfilled, all your actions of saṃsāra and nirvāṇa will come to an end. On the other hand, any means for fulfilling worldly intentions are of no use at all. This is the way things are.” Then he sang this song of “what use.”
I bow at the feet of the Translator Marpa.
Disciples gathered in faith and assembled here,
Listen to this testament song, last words
Of me, your old father Milarepa.
Through the kindness of Lhodrak Marpa
I, Milarepa the yogin,
Have finished the whole of my works.
You followers, disciples, and sons,
If you listen, do then as I’ve done before.
My intentions and those of
The previous Victors will be fulfilled.
The great aims of yourself and others are thus gained in this life.
All actions contrary to this
Do no good for oneself or for others,
And thus my intentions remain unfulfilled.
Without training under lamas who have lineage,
What use is there requesting initiation?
Without mixing your mind stream with the Dharma,
What use is there memorizing tantras?
Without casting off worldly activity,
What use is there meditating on instructions?
Without the three gates aligned with the Dharma,
What use is there performing rituals?
Without accepting insults with remedies,
What use is there cultivating patience?
Without shunning attachment and aversion,
What use is there presenting offerings?
Without weeding the root of self-centeredness,
What use is there practicing charity?
Without seeing all beings as your parents,
What use is there keeping religious seats?
Without sacred outlook rising in your mind,
What use is there constructing stūpas?
Without ability in the four-session yoga,
What use is there molding figurines?
Without offering prayers from your heart,
What use is there offering memorials?
Without heeding the oral instructions,
What use is there practicing mourning?
Without faith and devotion while I’m alive,
What use is there viewing my corpse?
Without world weariness and renunciation,
What use is there giving things up?
Without cherishing self less than others,
What use is there in kind words of pity?
Without giving up afflictions and desire,
What use is there offering service?
Without holding what’s taught as authentic,
What use is there in many disciples?
Doing deeds that are of no use
Will harm you, so set yourself straight.
The yogin whose works are all done
Has no need for a pile of busywork.
The Life of Milarepa concludes with a prayer revealing the author’s intention to attract a wide and varied audience, including scholars, monks, mendicants, and laypeople. Following a tradition found in many examples of Mahāyāna Buddhist literature, the verses also describe the benefits not only of reading the story but also of worshiping the text.
This Life of Jetsün Mila, best of men,
Shines light of gemlike perfect deeds,
Brightening the teachings of all buddhas and
Fulfilling needs and hopes of all who live.
May it form the best of service, pleasing Victors of the past.
The
Life is graced with embellishments, poetry beginning and end.
May it serve a feast for scholars fond of grandiloquence.
The Life’s words arouse goose bumps of faith and devotion.
May it serve a feast for monks who renounce the world.
The Life’s meaning reveals the two truths indivisible.
May it serve a feast for fine masters endowed with experience.
Seeing the
Life, one is unshackled from the eight worldly distractions.
3May it serve a feast for renunciates who’ve relinquished attachments.
Hearing the Life, faith arises all on its own.
May it serve a feast for the fortunate endowed with good karma.
Recollecting the Life, entanglements are forcefully severed.
May it serve a feast for the omniscient, accomplished in this life.
Touching the Life, the two aims are spontaneously achieved.
May it serve a feast for doctrine holders who benefit beings.
Preserving the Life, the intent of the lineage is realized.
May it serve a feast for lineage holders who practice their master’s commands.
Sympathizing with the Life protects against suffering like nothing else.
May it serve a feast for all beings throughout the three realms.
The source of this feast is the life of Zhepé Dorjé that crowns the victory banner of the Sage’s teachings, a lapis lazuli gem endowed with the splendor and luster of the four immeasurables,
4 which thus lays out for all beings an abundance of delights throughout existence and peace.
When one presents it with offerings of completely pure intention and prays that it bestow what is needed and desired, the supreme medicine of the five wisdoms rains down, serving as a panacea for those lying in the sickbed of life’s round, tormented by the ailments of the five poisons.
May the supreme virtue of laying out such a feast, with delicacies like the seven riches of the Noble Ones,
5 for sentient beings deprived of such an unsullied gem and then caught up in great suffering, dispel privation for all beings throughout existence and peace.
Then in order that, by even hearing Milarepa’s name, they gain in this life the state of Lord Vajradhara and then attain the power and ability to establish through innumerable incarnations all beings vast as space in the splendor of the four bodies,
6 I dedicate such virtue—may it come to pass in just this way.
[J. W. De Jong, ed., Mi la ras pa’i rnam thar: Texte Tibétain de la Vie de Milarépa (‘S-Gravenhage: Mouton & Co., 1959). Trans. AQ. The translation has now been published in: Tsangnyön Heruka, The Life of Milarepa, trans. Andrew Quintman (New York: Penguin, 2010).]
