“It’s critical you give this to Geshe Wangpo personally,” Tenzin emphasized, handing a sealed envelope to ten-year-old Tashi, the elder of the two.
“Yes, sir!” Tashi repeated.
“No delay, no diversion,” said Tenzin sternly, “even if you are called by a senior monk. This is official business of His Holiness’s office.”
“Yes, sir,” the boys chorused, their faces glowing with the importance of their unexpected mission.
“Go, now,” Tenzin commanded.
They turned to each other briefly, before Tashi said in a piping voice, “Just one question, sir.”
Tenzin raised his eyebrows.
“How is HHC, sir?”
Tenzin turned to where I lay sprawled on the filing cabinet. I blinked my eyes open, just the once.
“As you can see, still alive.” His tone was droll. “Now hurry!”
No sooner was I back from the café that afternoon and up on the filing cabinet giving my charcoal ears a quick wash than who should appear on the other side of the office but Geshe Wangpo himself. Geshe Wangpo was not only one of Namgyal Monastery’s most revered lamas but also one of its most intimidating. An old-school Geshe—the title refers to the highest academic degree for Buddhist monks—he was in his late 70s and had studied in Tibet before the Chinese invasion. He had the round, muscular build typical of a Tibetan, as well as a penetrating intellect and little tolerance for slothfulness of body or mind. He was also a monk of immense compassion, whose love for his students was never doubted.
Such was Geshe Wangpo’s commanding physical presence that the moment he appeared at the door, Tenzin rose from his chair and greeted him, “Geshe-la!”
The lama waved for him to sit down. “Thank you for your message two days ago,” Geshe Wangpo said, his expression grave. “Chogyal was seriously ill.”
“So I heard,” said Tenzin. “He was fine when he left here. Perhaps he picked up something on the bus?”
Geshe Wangpo shook his head. “It was his heart.” He didn’t elaborate. “He deteriorated overnight. He was much weaker but remained conscious. When I called him again early this morning, however, he was unable to speak and barely alive. Unfortunately for us, his time had come. He couldn’t move, but he could hear my voice. His physical death was at nine o’clock, but he remained in clear light for more than five hours.”
It took Tenzin—and me—the longest time to digest this news. Chogyal, our Chogyal, dead? He had been bustling around this office only three days ago. And still so young: he couldn’t have been much older than 35.
“He had a very good death,” said Geshe Wangpo. “We can be confident that his continuum has moved forward in a positive direction. Even so, there will be special prayers in the temple tonight, and you may find it useful to make offerings.”
Tenzin nodded. “Of course.”
As Geshe Wangpo looked from Tenzin to me and back again, his usually stern demeanor softened into an expression of great tenderness. “It is natural to feel sadness, grief, when we lose someone we care for. And Chogyal was a very, very kind man. But you do not have to feel sorry for Chogyal’s sake. He lived well. Even though death came unexpectedly, he had nothing to fear. He died well, too. He set a good example for us all.”
With that, Geshe Wangpo turned and left the office.
Tenzin leaned forward in his chair and closed his eyes for a while, then got up and came over to the filing cabinet. He reached up and stroked me. “It’s hard to believe, isn’t it, HHC?” His eyes welled with tears. “Dear, kind Chogyal.”
A short while later Lobsang appeared. He crossed the room to where Tenzin was still stroking me. “Geshe-la just told me the news,” he said. “I am very sorry.”
The two men embraced, Lobsang in his monk’s robes, Tenzin in his dark suit. As they separated, Lobsang said, “Five hours in the clear light!”
“Yes, that’s what Geshe-la said.”
The process of dying is the subject of detailed preparation in Tibetan Buddhism. I often heard His Holiness talk about clear light as the natural state of our
mind when it’s free of all thought. Because it is a state beyond concept, words can only point to the experience of it; they cannot describe the indescribable. But the words sometimes used to suggest this state are boundless, radiant, blissful. It is a state imbued with love and compassion.
Seasoned meditators can experience clear light while still alive, so that when death comes, instead of fearing the loss of their personal identity, they are able to abide in this state of blissful nonduality. With such a level of control that it is possible to direct the mind to what happens next, rather than being propelled by the force of habitual mental activity, by karma.
Even though someone has been declared dead from a medical point of view, while abiding in a state of clear light their body remains supple and their healthy coloring remains. There is no putrefaction of the body or loss of body fluids. To others, it looks as if the deceased is simply asleep. Great yogis have been known to remain in clear light for days, even weeks.
Geshe Wangpo’s assurance that Chogyal had been able to abide in the clear light was therefore news of the utmost significance. His life may have been short, but what he had done with it was beyond measure: he would be able to assume some control over his destiny.
Tenzin reached into his drawer, taking out a mobile phone and putting it in his pocket—always a prelude to his leaving the office.