It was a late autumn day in 1993, if you count in human years. The Lord of Death, having just reviewed and signed his name to one last document, lifted his head, stretched his arms, and with a satisfied yawn thought, Time for a break. It was nearly noon.
At just that moment, however, a staff member walked in with a sheet of paper and addressed him, standing at attention:
Are you free, Your Majesty?
There is a man whose time is up
today at one o’clock.
Lozang Gyatso is his name,
the Tsezhung County Governor,
in China, on the realm of Earth.
If you could authorize this soon …
He handed the paper to the Lord of Death and stepped aside.
The Lord of Death, with the utmost attention as always, read the document thoroughly and even verified Lozang Gyatso’s age using the calculator on his desk. He then signed his name and returned the paper to his aide.
It was one o’clock sharp when Lozang Gyatso finished lunch. He figured he would quickly go to the bathroom. But as he stood up, the room went dark and before he knew what was happening, two burly men from the Public Security Bureau were leading him away by the shoulders.
“Huh? What’s this? Hey! Have you gone mad? Assuming a crow hasn’t plucked out your eyes, take a good look! I’m Lozang, the county governor!” he shouted fiercely, but the two forced him on without heed.
“Hey! You two sons of bitches! I’m Lozang, the county governor! Do you realize that the head of the PSB is a friend of mine? Do you realize that Sherap—the judge—is my brother-in-law? Let me go! Ya. Okay—you just see if I’m not a man! I’ll break your rice bowls and turn you into a couple of stray dogs!”
The two messengers laughed. “Friend, even if you were the queen of England or the president of the United States, it wouldn’t do you any good. Don’t make it any harder on yourself. Come on. We are going to see the Lord of Death. If you were good, you’ll be happier than before. If you were bad, no one can save you. We are the Lord of Death’s messengers.”
Slowly, it dawned on Lozang Gyatso that these two “PSB officers” were not, in fact, of this world. Rather, they were the Lord of Death’s two aides, the ones mentioned in mythology: Boarhead and Bullhead. He felt a certain terror, as if molten lead had been poured into his lower legs. He couldn’t take another step. With quivering lips he asked, “What? My time is up? Oh, Three Jewels! Is life so short? Really, it can’t be.” He shook his head.
Bullhead replied, “What? You’re sixty years old, aren’t you? That’s not so short, as far as human lives are concerned.”
“Oh … I still haven’t found jobs for my two sons! That’s why I’ve been waiting to write my resignation letter, even though I’m old enough to retire. Alas. My sons aren’t good students. If I go now, they’ll never get jobs.”
He clasped his hands and began to wail loudly, singing this strain as might a howling dog:
Gracious brother messengers,
for a moment pity me.
Give me one year and I’ll find
jobs for both these sons of mine.
Let me then collect my due,
for my wife will need help too.
After these deeds, then I’ll come.
Whatever you need, I’ll bring you some!
He beseeched them with repeated prostrations.
“What’s this?” the two messengers retorted. “Stop your nonsense!” They continued steering him ahead. He grew despondent. Feeling the urge to smoke, he slid his hand into his pocket, where lay a pack of good cigarettes. He lit one, inhaled, and offered a cigarette to each of the messengers. He lit theirs as well, with a deferential show of respect.
Slightly taken aback, the two messengers nevertheless savored their cigarettes. “Tastes good. Very good!” they said.
Lozang promptly offered the rest of the pack to Bullhead. (He sensed that of the two messengers, Bullhead probably had the higher position.) “If you think so, brothers, help yourselves to more.”
He adopted the bobbing head and ingratiating smile that he had used before assuming his present position, and after some sweet and sundry talk, he proposed, “Brothers, if you like these cigarettes, I have all you could want at home. Why don’t I just go back and get them?”
The two messengers considered this for a moment, but replied, “No. Forget it. Once we hit the trail leading up to the Lord of Death’s place we won’t be able to bring anything else, not even a needle.”
“Whether we bring them or not is up to you. What are you afraid of?”
“Friend, you don’t understand, There’s a guard at every post on the way to the great king’s place. And especially now that he has that thing that looks like a glass box, one of those many computer devices that the Lord of Death imports from your world. On its face you can clearly see—even better than in the mirror the Lord of Death used to have—every last virtue and fault of any sentient being. If we let you return, there’s a good chance that the king would see it. So we’d better not.”
Gyatso pleaded, tears streaming down his face. “Even if he can see a person’s every action during our lifetime, he can’t possibly pay that much attention once we’re dead. Besides, I didn’t even have time to write a will for my family, my death was so sudden. Brothers, please show me some compassion!”
At that, the two messengers looked at each other and said, “It really is sad. Anyway, there’s no place for him to escape.” They nodded assent. “Okay. We’ll give you twenty minutes. Go now, but come back at once. We will wait here for you.”
In a flash, Lozang Gyatso was back at home. His wife and younger son were clutching at his corpse, sobbing loudly. They couldn’t see him, nor could they hear when he addressed them. He was sorely disappointed.
Meanwhile, his elder son had arrived and was calling his office manager. “My father has died. It was unexpected. We need a vehicle right away.”
The manager paused for a moment and then replied that he’d made plans to go somewhere with the vice-governor and since the other cars were already in use, none was available.
Lozang Gyatso’s son grew angry. “Have you no shame? Do you recall that it was my father who promoted you? Have you forgotten already?”
To which the manager merely sniffed—“Pfft!”—and slammed the receiver down.
His son continued to call their family and friends. Lozang was quite sure that if he had offered any one of them his piss while he was alive, they would have drunk it. But now, they were all searching for an excuse in order to avoid any commitment.
The elder boy tried again and again to reach his younger brother and sister, who lived elsewhere. When he finally managed to inform them that their father had died, they showed not the slightest remorse. Moreover, they reminded him, “All of us have rights to Father’s money and things. You can’t hoard them all yourself. We all need to meet and divide them up fairly.” His daughter even added, “Father told me before he died that he was going to give that gold watch of his to my husband. Nobody else should take it.” (This was, in fact, a lie.)
Taking all this in, Lozang Gyatso lost any sense of attachment to the world. He took as many of his valuables as he could carry and returned to where the two messengers were waiting. Lozang treated them with the utmost courtesy and offered a gift to the guards at every post. As a result, he was spared the usual hardships along the way and soon found himself standing before the Lord of Death.
When Lozang Gyatso glanced about and noticed that the Lord of Death was alone with no staff, he began to smile. “Heh, heh. Reverend king, how are you? Healthy, right? You may have some years on you, but you’re in great shape!”
Saying this, he pulled out a bottle of quality chang and a pack of good cigarettes, as well as some musk, white herbal medicine, butter, and droma [wild miniature sweet potatoes], and placed the lot down on the desk in front of him. “Heh, heh. I had to walk that long road, so I couldn’t carry any more than this. These are merely a token of my goodwill.”
“Good grief! Merciful Buddha!” The Lord of Death’s jaw dropped as he stared wide-eyed at the items on his desk. Lozang Gyatso thought, Now everything will be okay! As the saying goes, “A bribe will always do the trick, even with the Lord of Death.” Surely he too must lust for material things, and I doubt anyone has ever brought him this many gifts. But, “One has a lot of dreams if the night is long.” I’d better leave now before I miss my chance.
He got up to go. “Hey, reverend king, look after your health. ‘However important our affairs might be, health should be our priority.’ I’d best be getting along now. Oh—is Paradise still where it used to be?”
But as Lozang made motions to leave, the Lord of Death’s eyes flashed red as lightning and his voice roared like thunder. “Sit down!” He pounded the desk with his fist. “You, you, you …” He pressed a button on his desk, and two of his aides walked in, armed with some modern-looking contraptions. (Lozang Gyatso had only seen such devices in foreign films.)
“This man is really something else! Take him away for now, and keep him under close observation.” The great king dismissed Lozang Gyatso with the two aides and picked up a yellow phone into which he barked, “Send for some staff from Special Investigations—immediately!”
Ministers from the Lord of Death’s Special Investigations Committee began to stream in. As soon as they had all taken their seats, the Lord of Death made the following pronouncement:
Gathered staff, now listen up.
This afternoon a man from Earth
named Lozang Gyatso walked in here.
His crafty eyes are never still.
His talk is sweet, the nectar spills!
He brought these gifts—in fact, a bribe.
My royal eyes have never seen this type.
That’s why I’ve called you here. You see,
he’s not your normal sort of guy.
Good or bad, I still can’t tell,
but we should really test him well.
Such is how the case strikes me.
Tell me now what you believe.
In unison, the ministers resolved, “As the king has decreed, so be it!” Seeing the objects that Lozang Gyatso had brought, they were embarrassed for the man.
The Lord of Death rose, and his two aides led Lozang Gyatso in. “Ya! Our enigmatic fellow! Once upon a time, in the country of China on planet Earth, people of all nationalities were oppressed by the three mountains of imperialism, feudalism, and corrupt capitalism. They were bowed down by these, and the country was a virtual hell realm. But the great Mao Zedong studied well the theories of Marx and Lenin, and in accord with the reality of conditions in China he championed the working class, established a united front with the peasants, and utterly smashed the three mountains. Differences between rich and poor were eliminated. With no distinctions between the strong and the weak or the high and the low, the country became a virtual Western Paradise ruled by the deities of earth and sky. As we know, the Communist Party—savior of those oppressed by imperialists and otherwise weak—devotes its life to the truth, thinking only of the welfare of human beings.
“And you are not only a member of the Communist Party but also a high official. In particular, having been born in the Land of Snows, the realm of Avalokiteśvara, surely you value the laws of universal love, compassion, and justice. I imagine you must be a conscientious sort. Now, tell us. Your salary having come from the country’s coffers, what bit of good did you do for the people? With the authority of the Party, what just deeds did you perform? Having been granted this golden stupa—a human body—what legacy did you leave for sentient beings? At the same time, please tell my Special Court today—frankly and honestly—what acts of nonvirtue you have committed.”
Lozang Gyatso blushed, as he couldn’t recall having accomplished anything of such value during his sixty years. They knew he had been a Party member. That wasn’t good, he figured, given that the Party was atheistic. He felt fearful, but taking heart when a few religious acts he had performed came to mind, he began this ingenious song:
Listen, brothers gathered here.
Your Majesty, please lend your ear.
Though I may look materialistic,
actually, I am pure Buddhistic.
Ten years after I was born,
I said my vows, my head was shorn.
But later, liberation came
and I disrobed. What’s to blame?
Seeing that I was fair and square,
they offered me the accountant’s chair.
Though chances to steal were many,
I never took a single penny.
For this reason I was retained.
Join the Party! they refrained.
I thought not joining would be best,
because the Party’s atheist.
Yet, when some higher-ups insisted,
into the Party I was enlisted.
They made me governor, and from the start,
I served the masses with all my heart.
Once the revolution passed,
religious policy relaxed.
Only then were our minds at ease
to foster spiritual activities.
So that all might benefit from their bounty,
I called countless lamas to our county.
To help fulfill the people’s every wish,
to Lhasa I have made three trips.
As for my prostrations—they’re in the millions.
My circumambulations total zillions.
Khatas, money, and much more, to temples I have offered these,
whether they were large or small, Tibetan, Mongolian, or Chinese.
What haven’t I done for religion’s sake?
But you have asked what role I played!
Given what I’ve just outlined,
you should rush me to the realms sublime.
“All right. Ya. And so it is,” The Lord of Death replied. “By your talk one would think you only did good and no bad. But you Tibetans have a saying, ‘The one who knows his faults is a buddha.’ Those who can admit their shortcomings are few enough, but those who can offer a self-criticism are even rarer. Now, let’s hear from your personal lha and personal dü, who have accompanied you since birth. The former will present evidence of the virtuous acts you performed; the latter will present evidence of your wrongdoings.”
At this, Lozang Gyatso’s personal lha—a white karma cherub—hesitantly slid down from his right shoulder. Taking a seat on the right labeled “Defense,” he uttered meekly:
If I may have a word, dear king, and ministers of the court.
I’d like to say they’re mostly true—the claims he’s just put forth.
To Śākyamuni he bowed low, and offered prayers and khatas.
To prove his religiosity, I have supporting data.
Once the court has looked at these, I’m sure you will agree
to send him on to Paradise, perhaps immediately.
“You’ll never go to Hell,” they say, “if once you’ve been to Lhasa.”
Since Lozang’s been there many times, this shouldn’t be a hassle.
He placed a white metal box on the Lord of Death’s desk and returned to his seat.
Next, Lozang Gyatso’s personal dü—a small black demonic-looking figure—descended from his left shoulder. With head held high and a steady step, the dü took the chair on the left labeled “Prosecution,” surveyed the room, and declared:
If anyone knows this man, it’s me.
At birth he became an orphan and was abandoned like a pup.
But a kindhearted woman took him in and made sure he grew up.
She fed him every crumb she had and clothed him as she could.
But by the time that he’d turned ten, he dreamed of better goods.
Knowing what monastics get,
he donned monk’s robes and shaved his head.
The vows of refuge scarcely uttered,
he swindled nomads for feastly suppers.
But as he approached maturity,
he made a move for his security.
He broke his vows and took a wife,
intent on enjoying a secular life.
Ousting the old woman who’d fostered him, Lozang sealed her fate.
Due to his cold-heartedness, she starved in the famine of ’58.
At that time, with China’s liberation,
the poor were held in veneration.
Because with learning he’d been anointed,
as village accountant he was appointed.
He took all the yaks and sheep he pleased,
and cheated still others for butter and cheese.
When the winds of the Cultural Revolution came,
he pointed, “This one chants mani—he’s insane!”
Or “He slanders the Party!”—of good men this was said.
He framed the innocent and became village head.
Then to all sorts of schemes he put his name,
while to countless monasteries he set flame.
Into the rivers he threw statues and pechas,
treating religious paintings as he might a mattress.
He straddled a lama as he would a horse,
and mounted Dharma wheels like a yak—or worse.
He made old monks serve as beasts of burden,
and ordered the common people to serve him.
He even pissed into the mouth of Alak Drong,
seeing no difference between right and wrong.
When his tongue had nothing else to do, harsh words crashed like thunder.
When his hands should otherwise be still, his fists tore things asunder.
Some people fled their homes, others took their lives,
unable to bear his cruelty or be wrongly criticized.
As you can see, this man was mean
and weaseled his way through the Party machine.
He first assisted Pema, governor of the county,
who mistakenly promoted him, an undeserved bounty.
Suddenly, the governor found his fortunes changed;
his assistant began to criticize him like a man deranged.
In struggle sessions, Lozang Gyatso wielded strong didactics
and framed the kindly governor with rabble-rousing tactics.
The people’s praise for him was thunderous,
no accolades could be too wondrous.
“Lozang Gyatso’s revolutionary stance
is more stable than South Mountain.”
In a single bound, Lozang leaped to stellar heights
and managed to secure what was Pema’s post by rights.
Ever since then, he’s been filled with arrogance
and from the masses has kept a distance.
As he tossed their proposals over his shoulder,
his official demeanor grew ever bolder.
He rode the finest horses and drove expensive cars,
and using the most premium guns, on the landscape left his scars.
Musk deer, stag, and beasts of prey
fell to his poaching, day after day.
While his family and friends filled the county posts,
those who spoke their minds vanished like ghosts.
Lozang liked to spread rumors and sow dissension,
setting factions against others to divert their attention.
The easy tasks he did himself and bragged of his accomplishments,
while those who failed at harder tasks were doled out serious punishments.
To intellectuals he was especially cruel.
Yet he himself gambled with thugs, as a rule.
At one point, his avarice grew more and more.
He gave to superiors what he swiped from the poor.
He was quick with the bribes when he took ’em and made ’em.
Hailing “uncles” and “aunties,” their votes he would gain them.
In meetings with some folks, their palms he greased.
Others he threatened, and his rank increased.
Though he wore the Party flag, he corruptly used its forces
to embezzle all he could of the country’s own resources.
Secretly, he supported Buddhism, despite the Party’s oath.
So, in effect, he harbored a disloyalty to both.
He satisfied a few high lamas by cranking up the taxes.
Feigning it was “the people’s wish,” to others he gained access.
His thoughts, in fact, were solely focused on his reputation,
the Party and the people’s needs were just an irritation.
Lozang Gyatso shirked his work and traveled where he pleased,
the costs of which necessitated public funds be seized.
With claims that it was for the country’s economic good,
he set up private businesses in any town he could.
Your messengers allowed him to return to Earth unaided.
When Lozang offered cigarettes, they finally were persuaded.
Even your own gatekeepers he similarly coaxed,
offering bribes along the way at each and every post.
Great king—you saw it!—he offered you many gifts as well,
figuring he’d use the back door as a way to escape from Hell.
Doesn’t this prove that he is one beyond redemption?
Lozang Gyatso’s few good deeds are hardly worth a mention.
If I were to detail his every endeavor,
all of us gathered would be here forever.
Your Majesty, if you want to reach a conclusion,
you can shut the door for months of seclusion.
But when you examine every document here,
the deeds he has done will be all too clear.
Whatever he’s done is recorded—I have no secrets.
I swear by my father’s flesh.
If he hasn’t done it—I haven’t made it up.
I swear by my mother’s blood.
If I’ve added or omitted a single thing,
I will cut my own son’s throat.
With these concluding oaths, he stacked upon the Lord of Death’s desk eighteen black metal boxes with all the records of wrongdoings that Lozang had committed during his life. The pile cast a shadow on the Lord of Death’s massive figure, like the shadow of the sun’s eclipse.
Two of the king’s court attendants took the boxes of documents from the desk, and the Lord of Death became visible again. With a white handkerchief, he wiped beads of sweat as large as peas from his face. “Oh my, Merciful Buddha!” He looked agitated and took a couple of sips of coffee. Feeling a bit calmer, he said, “Ya. You’re a smooth talker. Is what the public prosecutor claimed just now true? According to section 3, chapter 8 of the Lord of Death’s Litigation Code, if you, the defendant, have anything to say for yourself, you may do so. But tell the truth!”
However, Lozang Gyatso said nothing. Only when one of the judges nudged him and Lozang Gyatso toppled out of his chair did they realize he had fainted. The Lord of Death’s doctor arrived and placed a pill into the defendant’s mouth. Lozang Gyatso’s body convulsed, and he eventually revived. The trial continued.
The Lord of Death repeated his words for a second time, but Lozang Gyatso did not reply. He prompted him once more. “Does the defendant have anything to say?”
The personal lha raised his hand to speak. “It is true—as the prosecutor has just stated—that during the Cultural Revolution, our man Lozang Gyatso tortured lamas and monks, accused the innocent, and burned down monasteries. However, because of historical forces at that time, most of the population was engaged in such activities. Countless numbers of people even struggled against their own parents, and so forth. Since history is also at fault, it is not fair to place the blame entirely on my client.
“Furthermore, as for my client taking government money, accepting bribes, and so forth, during these last few years—that is the fault of the current bad social climate. It is not just my client. Many people are under bad influences, and there are even such men in the Lord of Death’s own realm. This is a social condition, not something for which my client alone can be held responsible.
“Finally, my client performed many good acts. In any case, he has committed no serious crimes, and the wrongdoings we mentioned earlier were rather minor.”
As soon as Lozang Gyatso’s lha had finished speaking, his personal dü raised his hand to talk. “The defendant has made the following claim: ‘Though I may look materialistic, actually I am pure Buddhistic.’ As everyone knows, according to the Lord of Death’s constitution, whether one is a Buddhist or not, whether one is a Party member or not, does not matter. What is important is one’s own faith and that one holds one’s tenets purely. As a member of the Party, which adheres to no religion of any sort, the defendant, Lozang Gyatso, in fact, opposed the Party by secretly engaging in religious activity. This clearly demonstrates that he is a criminal who cannot be trusted. And he said it wasn’t his fault that he had to give up his robes after his homeland was liberated. That was a lie. Just look at human history! In 1948 he broke his vows and gave up his robes. But the defendant’s homeland was only liberated in 1950.
“The defendant also lied when he said that he fell under the Party’s control gradually. He actively and ambitiously sought out positions and wrote seven letters for the purpose of joining the Party.” After presenting the Lord of Death with several documents, the dü continued. “Furthermore, he said that he thought the Party wasn’t good because they were atheist and therefore he didn’t want to stay in it. This expresses his resistance to the Party.
“Moreover, one cannot blame history and society, as the defense has just claimed in explaining this man’s wheelings and dealings during the Cultural Revolution. As everyone knows, if a person has good principles and stands up for them, even when such social transformations occur, he knows the difference between right and wrong and would quite possibly even give up his life for the truth without regret. No-brains like this man, who are indifferent to the laws of karma, will lean whichever way the wind blows, like grass on a wall.
“It is true the defendant made offerings to many monasteries, invited many lamas to receive empowerments, and went to Lhasa to prostrate before Jowo Rinpoché. But it is a sad fact that all of the money he used was from exploiting the toiling masses’ flesh and blood. Not only were these not the fruits of his own labor, but he also pocketed much of the money, and the amount the monasteries received was but a sliver of the total he collected.”
When it was apparent that Lozang Gyatso could again say nothing, or had nothing to say, the little lha seized his last chance. Hanging on by a horsetail, he asserted: “With regard to my client offering cigarettes to the Lord of Death’s messengers and carrying these gifts with him, may I remind you of the saying: ‘There is no seller without a buyer.’ Likewise, no one can offer a bribe without somebody to accept it. Given that the Lord of Death’s own messengers are at fault in this matter, how can my client alone be blamed?”
It was as if these words opened the door of the Lord of Death’s mind. “Hmm … how was it that you carried these things here?”
Lozang Gyatso reflected, Since they know everything anyway, there’s no use holding back now. He then related the entire story about how he had given cigarettes to Boarhead and Bullhead, how the two had sent him back, how he had offered the things he brought as bribes to each of the gatekeepers, and how he consequently didn’t have to face any great difficulties along the way.
Lozang Gyatso was dumbfounded, however, when his dü interjected with the following: “Everyone should think about this. If a person were good, it would be impossible for him to sell out on someone to whom he owed so much, even if he were on his deathbed. Yet this cheater, without a second thought, even sold out on the two kind messengers who let him go back because of their compassion for him. From this, one can clearly see that the defendant is an inferior sort who betrays those who have treated him kindly.”
In any case, the Lord of Death immediately summoned Boarhead and Bullhead before the court and questioned them. He then ordered a number of the gatekeepers to set aside their work and write statements regarding their actions.
Then, all who were gathered in the Lord of Death’s Special Investigations Court examined the small white cardboard boxes with their two videocassettes on which were recorded the merits Lozang Gyatso had accumulated in his life. Next, they turned to the seventy small black cardboard boxes whose contents documented his demerits. After every last videocassette had been examined, the Lord of Death sighed. “Okay. There is no need for further discussion regarding your merits and demerits. All can be clearly seen here. Now, in keeping with the Lord of Death’s Litigation Code, the public prosecutor, the defending attorney, and the defendant himself all have the right to make a final statement. So if you have anything to say, speak now!”
The personal lha spoke first:
Ministers and, above all, the Lord of Death, please hear me out.
It is true that my client Lozang has committed many crimes.
However, as I said before, he is a product of the times.
In a rotten social climate, one might as well be cursed.
Many people there on Earth behave like him and worse.
If you send this man to Hell, you’ll have to send the rest.
The eighteen realms will overflow, and that would be a mess.
So think about the future. What are you going to do?
Where will you put the others who’ve committed these crimes too?
The Lord of Death removed his glasses and furrowed his brow. He sat for a while, then let out a long breath and shook his head from side to side. “That’s true. This is really an issue.” And he continued pondering for some time.
Alak Drong had first received word of Lozang Gyatso’s death when he was offered a horse along with the request to offer prayers for the deceased. He spontaneously responded, “Ah ho! What a shame.” Why did he have to die just now? he wondered. Feeling a great deal of remorse, he tugged on his lower cheek. With his omniscient eyes, he had a look into the Lord of Death’s realm and saw that they were still deciding how to punish Lozang Gyatso. He immediately shed his Chinese clothes and put on his monk’s robes. Then he hopped into his car and drove off, reciting mantras. After some time, he arrived at the border of the Lord of Death’s realm.
The border guard was extremely respectful as he blocked Alak Drong’s path and asked the lama where he had come from, where he was going, the purpose of his travel, and to please produce his passport. Alak Drong leaned his cheek on his left hand, and while revving the gas pedal with his right foot, sang this short heroic song:
Aro, Border Guard for the Lord of Death!
With your ears of a pig and eyes of a pup,
turn them here and listen up.
This is a car, yet it flies through the sky,
and all because the driver is I.
In my first life, I was in the Buddha’s throng.
Now they call me Alak Drong.
At Tsezhung Monastery, I am a lama,
a devout protector of the Buddha Dharma.
Today, for the sake of every sentient being,
I have come to find the One All-Seeing.
I must speak to him without delay.
So do not dally. Clear the way!
The border guard didn’t understand Alak Drong’s song clearly, but he decided that the man inside this car that could fly through the sky was a living being, and certainly no ordinary one. This set him at ease, and he was happy to reverentially step aside and say, “Have a good journey.”
Alak Drong pulled up to the door of the Lord of Death’s court, applying the brake with a screech. After grabbing a khata and a few blocks of tea previously offered him by a faithful Buddhist, he moved to enter the building. Through the clear glass walls, however, he could see that the Lord of Death and the judiciary ministers were seated inside the courtroom, each absorbed in thought. Alak Drong paused. I need to meet with the Lord of Death alone. It’s not good to talk about such matters in front of a lot of people. But then, reconsidering, he thought: Once the Lord of Death makes a decision and stamps it with his seal, it will all be over, won’t it? He decided to proceed inside. At the same time, I am a lama, and there is little precedent for a person of my stature to make such an unfounded request amid a group of so many people. As opportunity would have it, while Alak Drong was wondering what he should do, the time came for the afternoon recess and the ministers emerged from the courtroom and headed home.
Alak Drong got back into his car and slowly followed the Lord of Death. When they reached the king’s quarters, Alak Drong lowered his monk’s shawl out of respect and held out the aromatic tea packages with the unsullied khata, while singing this verse to the melody of chanted mani:
Respected king, Lord of Death,
in the fine glass house with no wooden beams,
in keeping with the customs of the Land of Snows,
please grant me consideration in accepting this khata,
an unsullied silk offering scarf.
I will tell you in detail my purpose for coming.
They call me Alak Drong.
I’m a lama from Tsezhung Monastery.
There are many fine things that I could offer.
Since we are already acquaintances, however,
I have come bringing only this splendid khata and tea.
We meet again through the fortune of good circumstances!
Though I am practically empty-handed with this simple tea,
recall that tea is known by all to sustain life.
But I will set aside the usual chatter and
slowly tell you all in a manner as clear as the full moon:
I am here about Lozang Gyatso, an official
who was a gentleman in name only,
a scoundrel who very much liked to smoke.
Until recently, he was alive and in good health,
and only just passed away.
Though it was time for him to die,
given that he had lived to a ripe age,
Please recall that in these last couple of years
he became a fervent believer in Buddhism
and fostered it with concern, as a father might a son.
He restored countless monasteries,
and converted many in his land to Buddhism.
He served the people as might a cow.
He invited lamas with motherlike compassion and
the characteristic sign of their hair growing in the reverse direction.
He fulfilled the wishes of sentient beings.
He collected merit by visiting Mount Tsari in Ü-Tsang
and established many religious reliquaries for tsakali images.
He established fine and splendid stupas, and
thought not about his nieces and nephews, but of the Dharma.
Though he burned valuable teachings during the Cultural Revolution,
if one thinks carefully about it now during this period of regret-lined
happiness, many beings behaved like cunning foxes then,
wearing their green military hats and red armbands.
Suppression of the Yellow Hat doctrine was the fault of the times.
Nowadays everyone is ambitious;
those who know their proper share are rare.
Compared to the truly evil officials, brother Lozang isn’t bad.
In these heartless times, if one doesn’t rely down there
on the officials who hold power,
the teachings of the Buddha that have gone numb
are hard to protect.
It’s like keeping a wolf out of the pasture.
Please, out of your great compassion,
give Lozang Gyatso back his life, his flesh and blood
for the benefit of all sentient beings everywhere,
so that they may quickly realize the teachings of the Buddha.
Send him back to Earth so that he might work a bit for beings there.
It is very difficult to ask you this.
Please don’t laugh, Compassionate One,
Please don’t say “No” to this poor old lama.
Respected king, please give this your consideration.1
Saying this, he prostrated, touching his forehead to the ground. At which the Lord of Death said, “Don’t do that. Please get up now, sit on a chair, and listen to my song”:
My dear lama—
Your words were spoken most eloquently.
Now I have something to say of my own.
Except for one Gesar Norbu Dradül,
you’re the finest man to approach my throne.
I never knew much about life on Earth,
but if the situation is really as you claim,
on the one hand it has some good points,
but it mostly sounds a shame.
In any case, I won’t send your man to Hell,
though Lozang Gyatso’s life was long.
He accumulated a lot of demerits,
but I am moved by your faith and song.
As a king who turns the Wheel of Dharma,
I’m not in the habit of sending them back.
We don’t let lice and nits live long.
Such is the world. But you know that.
My words here are not necessary,
because you are a lama.
But, for this reason, please return
and protect the Buddha Dharma.
Upon hearing these words Alak Drong was deeply ashamed, but he recalled the saying, “It’s important not to hold on to the tail of a tiger, but if you do, then don’t let go.” Figuring there was nothing else he could do, he began prostrating. Concerned that it would hurt the merit of one in monastic robes to prostrate so much, the great king urged him, “Don’t do that. Get up! Get up!”
However, Alak Drong persisted. “No. I am just taking orders. I am simply a messenger arrow released by the man’s family to look after his welfare, not to mention my accepting that horse. I can’t go back without fulfilling my task. So please, great king, if you can’t give Lozang Gyatso eternity, at least give him a little more time. If you can grant this, I swear on the Three Jewels that I will stop prostrating before you here today.” He bore on as stubbornly as a yak.
The Lord of Death grew even more perturbed. “Ah tsi!” he said, starting to pace back and forth. “This one is really something else.”
When it really looked as if the lama was not about to rise, the great king tried a last resort: “Okay. First, get up, and then the two of us can talk.”
Like a peacock excited by the sound of thunder, Alak Drong immediately replied: “Yes, sir. Thank you, great king.”
The Lord of Death relaxed upon hearing these words. He wondered at this person who—like a true bodhisattva—could offer such unselfish assistance to a man who had previously made the lama drink his piss. He was especially happy to accommodate this lama who, unlike others, still showed interest in the consciousness of the deceased, even after he’d received the horse offering. It wouldn’t be so bad, he thought, if I were to temporarily place Lozang Gyatso in this fellow’s stead so that he could clear himself of the karma he has collected from his wrongdoings. Is it not recorded in the legal code of the Lord of Death? “The verdicts made here are so that a good man might later come.”
“Ya, old monk. There is a Chinese saying: ‘Though you might not notice a monk on his own account, because of his lama you do.’ And there is a Tibetan saying: ‘Though you wouldn’t buy the horse for its looks, if the saddle is good you should.’ Like these, given that it is you who have come here, I really have no option. I permit you to temporarily take Lozang Gyatso back with you so that he might redeem himself. However …”
Before the Lord of Death had finished speaking, Alak Drong got up, thinking he had better head back: “If the night is long, one has many dreams.”
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir,” he said, making moves to leave. But the Lord of Death stopped him: “However, you must take back these gifts.”
When the king handed back the items that he’d been offered, Alak Drong protested, “No. No. You mustn’t. If you do that, I will end up in the otherworld. You mustn’t think like that.” Again, he got up and tenaciously prostrated before the great king, who ordered: “If you don’t take these back, I will not release Lozang Gyatso to you!” At which point, the lama relented and took the gifts back.
As soon as Alak Drong got back to Earth, he went straight to Lozang Gyatso’s house and with great conceit announced: “You needn’t suffer anymore! Take a look at this!” He then breathed on the corpse of Lozang Gyatso, who regained consciousness. Though Alak Drong tried to restrain him, Lozang Gyatso grabbed at anything and gulped it down as if within him had grown an insatiable hunger and thirst. The memory of all that had happened in the Lord of Death’s realm evaporated like a rainbow. However, sometime after the initial lapse of memory, he began to realize what had happened. And when his family told him about how Alak Drong had breathed on him, how Lozang Gyatso had revived, and so forth, he prostrated again and again to Alak Drong, beseeching: “Root Lama to whom I am so grateful, the one who has given me life again! Just tell me! Whatever you need in this world—the sun, the moon, the stars—anything at all, be frank. If I can’t get it for you, then I, Lozang Gyatso, am a dog!”
Alak Drong thought, Since this is a man who easily forgets those to whom he is indebted, it would be best to have him attend to some matters now. Being a clever man, however, Alak Drong merely replied, “County Governor Lozang Gyatso, sir, if you were to support the Buddha Dharma with all your heart forevermore, then my giving you life again would all be worth it. You don’t need to do anything for me.”
After a considerable length of time spent discussing various and sundry things, it seemed that Alak Drong suddenly remembered something. “Oh! That’s right. Though there isn’t any question that my nephew is the reincarnation of Alak Yak, in these degenerate times, so many people are wont to dispute a lama’s succession. You should be careful about this business,” he warned.
“Don’t you worry!” Lozang reassured him. “If your nephew doesn’t get approved, then I’m an old dog!” And the recognition of Alak Drong’s nephew as the reincarnation of Alak Yak was thereupon secured.
Some days later, it occurred to the Lord of Death to muse, “I wonder if there’s any information regarding Lozang Gyatso’s acts of atonement.” He looked down toward Earth. Ah kha! As if bitten by a rabid dog and gone mad, Lozang Gyatso had fired those who refused to help when he was dead, caused innocent others to be imprisoned, pulled into the workplace his own sons and even his grandsons who had not yet finished primary school, promoted or given positions to all of his relatives, and finally appointed his illiterate wife, who couldn’t spell her own name, as director of the Cultural Bureau. These acts, at which the official’s superiors had chuckled and his subordinates had wept, enraged the great king, who thereupon reached down and, grabbing Lozang Gyatso by the scruff of his neck, threw him into the cauldron of Hell, at which the masses applauded ecstatically.
Translated by Lauran Hartley
1. Alak Drong’s long verse was originally written using a version of “alphabet poetry” (ka rtsom), in which the first two lines each start with A, the next two lines with B, and so forth. The translator has omitted this convention in order to retain the meaning of the verse.