I was still in the company of the party of pilgrims I have already referred to. It appeared that some of the party had come to form a rather high opinion of me as a person of reverend qualities. Among them was a young damsel who, it was not difficult to perceive, had conceived a passion for me. The moment the thought dawned on me, I said to myself: “It may be; it is nothing uncommon, rather is it quite usual for women to cherish vain thoughts. She must have heard her elders talking well of me, and have taken a fancy to me.” I at once set about raising a barrier between us, which was none other than the teaching of our common Bu??hism. When occasion allowed, I explained to her all about the vows with which all true priests bind themselves and why they do so. I depicted to her the horrors of hell that sinners create for themselves even in this world, and which follow them into eternity as the price they pay for momentary pleasures. These things I taught, not only to the girl but to the whole party. For all that, I could not help pitying the little innocent thing. A maiden of nineteen, with few or no restraints on her romantic fancies, she must have thought it a grand thing to be able to go back to her folk with a bride-groom of whom all spoke so well. She was not beautiful, and yet not ugly: a comely little thing was she. But I, though not old, had had my own experiences in these matters in my younger days, and I was able to conquer temptations.

Here I may stop to observe that the country through which we were travelling is called Ngari in Tibetan and Ari in Chinese. The region is an extensive one, and includes Ladak and Khunu.

Purang, of which mention has been made more than once, is its central mart and enjoys great prosperity, though located rather to the south. Purang also forms a mid-Himalayan post of great religious importance as a sacred spot for Bu??hist pilgrims. The town boasts, or rather boasted, of its possession of three Bu??hist images of great renown—those of the Bo?hisa??va Mahasa??vas Manjushri, Avalokiteshvara and Vajrapani. According to tradition these were brought thither from Ceylon in olden times. Unfortunately about six months prior to my arrival in Ngari a big fire broke out and destroyed two of these idols, the image of Manjushri alone being saved. Much as I wished to visit Purang, I was apprehensive of many dangers to my impersonation if I went thither, as the Tibetan Government maintains there a challenge gate. My companions went there, however, leaving me behind, and I spent the days of their absence in religious meditation. Joining them again on their return, I continued my travels westwards, coming out in due time to the north of Lake Lakgal. We next took our way along the lake towards the north-west. Facing west and looking over the lake, I saw islands spread out on its surface like the legs of a gotoku, or tripod. So I gave them the name of Gotoku jimu, or Tripod islands. Several days afterwards we arrived at a barter port called Gya-nima; it was the 17th of August, 1900.

At Gya-nima barter is carried on only for two months in the year, that is to say from the 15th of July to the 15th of September. The traders chiefly come from the Indian part of the Himalaya mountains and meet their Tibetan customers there. I was just in good time to see brisk transactions going on. I saw no less than one hundred and fifty white tents covering the otherwise barren wilderness, and some five or six hundred people rushing about to sell and buy in their own fashion.

The Tibetan articles offered for sale here were wool, butter, yaks’ tails, and the like, while the purchases consisted of about the same category of goods as I gave when speaking of the Mabcha Khanbab mart. I stayed over night and spent the whole of the next day at the fair, making a few small purchases. On the day following we went back to Gya-karko, another barter port. Gya-nima was the most north-western point I reached in my Tibetan journey. So far as reaching my destination was concerned, I had hitherto been proceeding in an exactly opposite direction to it, steadily going north-west instead of towards Lhasa, the capital of Tibet. But from that point—Gya-nima—onwards, each step I walked brought me nearer to the main road into Tibet, as also to its capital. In Gya-karko I stayed for three or four days. Here there were about one hundred and fifty tents, trade being carried on even more vigorously than at Gya-nima. Gya-karko is a trading port for people coming from the north-west plains of Tibet on the one hand and the Hin?us inhabiting the Indian Himalayas on the other, who are allowed by the Tibetan Government to come as far as this place.

Here I saw many merchants from the towns and villages of the Himalayas. Among them was one from Milum, who spoke English. This man invited me to dinner on the quiet, so to say. I accepted his invitation, but the moment I had entered his tent I at once saw that he took me for an English emissary. When left to ourselves he immediately addressed me thus: “As I live under the government of your country, I shall never make myself inconvenient to you. In return I wish you would do what you can to help my business when you go back to India.” I thought that these were very strange words to speak to me. On interrogating him, I found out that he had conjectured that I was engaged in exploring Tibet at the behest of the British Government. When I told him that I was a Chinaman, he said: “If you are Chinese, you can no doubt speak Chinese?” I answered him boldly in the affirmative. Then he brought in a man who claimed to understand Chinese. I was not a little embarrassed at this turn of affairs, but as I had had a similar experience with Gya Lama in Nepal it took me no time to recover sufficient equanimity to answer him, and I felt much re-assured when I found that he could not speak Chinese so well as I had anticipated. Then I wrote a number of Chinese characters and wanted him to say if he knew them. The man looked at me and seemed to say: “There you have me.” Finally he broke into laughter and said: “I give up; let us talk in Tibetan.” Then my host was greatly astonished and said: “Then you are indeed a Chinaman! What can be better? China is a vast country. My father, who is now living in my native country, was once in China. If there is any business to be done with China I wish you would kindly put me on the track;” and he gave me his address written in English. His manner showed that he was in earnest, and that he was a man to be trusted. So seeing that this man was going back to India, I thought it would be a good idea to ask him to take with him my letters and deliver them for me in India. It would have been imprudent for me to write things in detail, but I scribbled just a few lines to my friend and teacher, Rai Sara? Chan?ra Das, informing him that I had penetrated the interior of Tibet as far as Gya-karko, besides asking him to post some letters for Japan which I enclosed, addressed to Mr. Hige Tokujuso and Ito Ichiso of Sakai. A few coins put into the hand of the Milum man secured a ready response to my request. The man proved the honest fellow I took him for; for after my return to Japan I found that my letters had been duly received by both Mr. Hige and Mr. Ito.

To return to my romance. We were still staying at Gya-karko, and I was much embarrassed to find that little Dawa—for that was my little maiden’s name—had by no means given up her affection for me. Dawa, I may perhaps mention here, though I shall have occasion to refer to the matter at greater length in another chapter, is a Tibetan name meaning moon, given to persons born on a Monday; those born on a Friday being named Pasang, and those on a Sunday, Nyima.

Well, my little Dawa proved herself to be an adept in the art of love-making. It is wonderful how a little spark of passion, when once kindled, burns up and fashions daring schemes and alluring pictures. The maiden was always at my side, and spoke only of the good things she would make mine, if I would only accompany her to her native country. She said her mother was a lady of an exceedingly kind heart; that her father owned about one hundred and sixty yaks and four hundred sheep; that therefore her family was very rich and their life one perpetual chachang pemma or round of pleasures. She added that she was their only daughter, and that she had not yet come across a man to her heart, save one. I may perhaps explain that chachang pemma means drinking tea and intoxicants alternately, and that in Tibet one is considered to have attained the highest pinnacle of happiness when he is able to indulge in a perpetual symposium—drinking, in turns, tea with butter in it and then a spirit brewed from wheat. Only rich persons can enjoy the luxury: but the mass of Tibetans consider this to be the main object of life. Consequently chachang pemma is generally used in the sense of earthly beatitude. By the way, the method of manufacturing the butter-tea is very curious: butter, boiled juice of tea and salt are first thrown together into a nearly cylindrical tub of three feet in height; then a piston, if I may so call it, with a disc large enough to fit the cask exactly, is worked up and down, to obtain a thorough mixing of the ingredients. This pump-like action of the piston is carried on by sheer force of hands and arms, and, as may be imagined, requires a large amount of strength. The motion of the piston transforms the mixture into a new beverage which the Tibetans call solcha. It is said that these people can tell whether the solcha, or butter-tea, will prove good or bad by listening to the sound produced by the piston as it works up and down.

But to return to my story: Dawa never tired of telling me that her family was prosperous; that even Lamas were allowed to marry in her country; that it was really an excellent thing for every Lama to live happily with a wife in this world; that it would be wise for me to do so, and so on. Seeing that all her words were only wasted on me, she seemed to imply that I was an incorrigible fool. Wiles of temptation now came thick and fast upon me: but in such moments I happily remembered the triumph of our Lord Shakyamuni at Bu??hagaya. The wise One was about to attain to the state of Absolute Perfection. The king of all that is evil was very much afraid of this, and sent his three daughters to tempt him. The women tried all manner of allurements to secure the fall of the Enlightened One, but in vain. When all had failed the daughters of the King of Devils sang thus:

So sang the Sirens, but even they were powerless to conquer the Lord. My Dawa could not of course approach the charms of the arch-devil’s daughters, but her plaintive pleadings were there. And I—a common mortal struggling on, but far from the gate of emancipation—I could not but pity the poor little creature, though I strengthened myself by saying: “Let it be so—a fool let me be.” I composed an uta then:

It is true that women never let their mouths be the doors to their mind; but they know a language unspoken, which is far more telling, appealing and enticing, than that which mere sound and articulation can convey. And my Dawa had never yet said in so many words what she yearned to say. It happened, however, that Dawa’s father and brothers were out shopping one day, and that the girl and I remained alone in the tent. She thought probably that she could not get a better opportunity for her purposes and she tried to make the most of it. Just then I was mending my boots, and she almost frightened me with her boldness. I am neither a block of wood, nor a piece of stone, and I should have been supernatural if I had not felt the power of temptation. But to yield to such a folly would be against my own profession. Moreover I remembered with awe the omnipresence of our Lord Bu??ha, and was thus enabled to keep my heart under control. I said to the maiden: “I have no doubt that all is excellent at your home; but do you know whether your mother is still living or dead?” The question was unexpected and almost stunned her, put as it was at a moment when she had allowed her mind to wander so far away from her dear mother. She was just able to say: “I do not know whether my mother is living or dead. I have been on a pilgrimage with my father for one year and perhaps more. My mother is a weak woman, and I parted with her in tears, asking her to take the best care of herself, so that she might be preserved. I do not know how she is faring now.” Here was my chance—a chance of diverting the girl’s attention from me. “H’m! you don’t know that?” said I; “only now you were telling me of the bliss of your home, and yet you don’t know how your mother is faring now?” Poor little maiden, her mind became disturbed. I almost scolded her, pleaded with her, warned her. She, who claimed to be a good daughter, to be so intent in the pursuit after ephemeral pleasures as to let her thoughts wander away from her dear, good mother; could it be possible? This somewhat highly colored statement of mine seemed to cool down her passion and change it into fear and apprehension. Nor was it extraordinary that she should have become so affected. For in Tibet nothing is supposed to be too great for the Lama; he possesses superhuman powers and can work miracles. Instead of an object of love, I had now become an awe-inspiring Lama to my little Dawa. As such, I counselled her with a good deal of earnestness, and finally succeeded in subduing her passion and conquering the temptation.

We prolonged our stay at Gya-karko for several days more, and on the 26th of August I started again with the pilgrims. As we travelled on in a north-easterly direction we came to a marshy plain interspersed with pools of water. Farther on the marsh became deeper. I tried to probe its depth with my stick, but the solid bottom was beyond my reach. Knowing then that the marsh could not be forded, we retraced our steps for about three miles and proceeded thence due east. Further on we found that the waters flowing out of the marsh formed themselves into three streams. We waded across them, and about ten miles further on the marsh came to an end and we found ourselves among mountains, and encamped for the night. Here there were many merchants on their way to Gya-nima and Gya-karko, and many were the tents they had pitched all round. While there I went on a begging tour amongst the tent occupants—a practice which I put into execution whenever possible, in pursuance of the Bu??ha’s teaching. A day’s round, besides, generally earned me enough to carry me through the next day. I may add that the evening, whether after a day of journeying or of begging, I used to spend in preaching among my travelling companions. I had my own reasons for being painstaking in these preachings. I knew that religious talks always softened the hearts of my companions, and this was very necessary, as I might otherwise have been killed by them. I do not mean to say that my life was in any immediate danger then, for there were numbers of people always about, and besides, the region we were going through was a country sacred to Bu??hism, and, once within the holy zone, even the most wicked would not dare to commit either robbery or murder. But it was necessary for me to take precautions in anticipation of dangers that might befall me as soon as I should be out of this sacred region. Such were the reasons why I did so much preaching, and fortunately my sermons were well received by my companions.

On the 28th of August we travelled about twenty miles over an undulating country. Throughout that distance we could not get a drop of water, and I had nothing to drink except a cup of tea which I took in the morning just before starting. We were of course all terribly thirsty; yet to me the suffering was not half so great as that I had felt during the former distressing experiences already narrated. Towards the evening we came upon the upper course of the Langchen Khanbab. This is the river called Sutlej in English. It is the head-water of a river which flows westward into India, and, after meeting with the Sita, forms the great Indus that empties itself into the Arabian Sea. My companions volunteered to tell me that this river started from Lake Manasarovara. When I pointed out to them that the Lake Manasarovara was surrounded by mountains on all sides and had no outlet, they replied: “True, but the river has its source in a spring to be found under a great rock, east of the monastery named Chugo Gonpa (the monastery of the source of the river), in a gorge on the north-western side of Mount Kailasa. That spring is fed by the waters of Lake Manasarovara that travel thither underground. Hence it may be said with equal truth that the river flows out of the lake.” This was indeed an ingenious way of accounting for the popular belief. But judging from the position of the river, it seemed to me that it must take its origin on a higher level than that of Lake Manasarovara and I was not (nor am I now) ready to admit the correctness of the native contention. On arriving at the bank of the river we pitched our tents as usual and passed the night. On the following day, we visited a sacred place of great fame in that neighborhood, called Reta-puri in Tibetan pronunciation, but originally in Samsk?? Pre?apuri. Having left our baggage, tents and other things with two men to take care of them, I went on the journey thither with Dawa, her father and another woman, four of us in all. As we proceeded westwards along the Langchen Khanbab, we saw large boulders of rock making a walled avenue for a distance of about 400 yards. Out of the rock region, we came upon a river flowing down from the north to the Langchen Khanbab. There were two others running parallel and at a short distance from one another. They are called Tokpo Rabsum, which in Tibetan means three friendly streams. We forded one of them and went up a hill for about a hundred and twenty yards, when an extensive plain lay spread before our view. I noticed that the plain was thickly covered with low bush-growths of some thorny family, and the sight reminded me of our tea-plantations of Uji. About a mile and a quarter further on we came to another stream, the name of which is identical with that of the one we had already crossed. Both these rivers were loin-deep and exceedingly cold, with small ice-blocks floating in them. In fording the river I was much benumbed, and on reaching the opposite banks I found that I had almost lost my power of locomotion. So I told my companions to go on while I rested a few minutes, and applied burning moxa to my benumbed limbs in order to recover their use. Off they went, after telling me that nothing could go wrong with me if I would only take the road in the direction they pointed out to me. Tibetans are strong and healthy, and extremely swift-footed into the bargain. I was no match for them in this respect, especially with half-frozen feet and that was why I told them not to wait for me. The smouldering moxa had its effect on my legs. I felt then more alive, and after an hour’s rest I proceeded westwards for five miles to a place where the plain came to an end. Thence I walked down stream along a river until the temple for which I was heading rose into view. The sight was a grand one, with its ma?i-steps of stone which looked, at a distance, like a long train of railway cars. Nor was this the only place where the ma?i steps could be found. Many of them are to be seen in the Himalayas. I should add that in that mighty range of sky-reaching mountains there lives a species of strange birds, whose note is exactly like the whistle of a railway engine. The ma?i-steps looking like a train before me made me think of the whistle of those birds, and I felt as if I had arrived once more in a civilised country!