No sooner had we reached the shores of the Mansarowar than the heavy clouds, which had been hanging over our heads, poured forth such torrents of rain that in a moment we were drenched to the skin. We were marching fast, as our heavy loads were now on the two yaks. Night was well advanced. The darkness was such that we could only see a few inches in front of us. We were actually walking in an inch or two of water. A fierce south-east wind drove the rain and hail so hard into our faces and hands as to cause us considerable pain. We were chilled in our wet garments, and our teeth were chattering. We walked quickly, keeping close together. From time to time a bright flash of lightning shone on the lake, and was followed by a terrific crash of thunder. We took advantage of what we could see during those few seconds of light to steer our way toward Tucker Village and Gomba.

The rivers, swollen by the rain, were extremely difficult to cross. The water seemed to flow so rapidly on the inclined bed that it was all we could do to keep on our feet. So wet were we that we did not even take the trouble to remove our shoes and garments, and we splashed, clothes and all, across the streams we encountered. Three times we went into the freezing water above our waists, and then marched on for endless miles on the pebbly and stony incline. We could no more see where we were going. The storm seemed to grow worse every minute. We stumbled on amid large stones and bowlders, and fell over one another on slippery rocks. Farther on we sank up to our knees in mud, which stuck in lumps to our feet and made them as heavy as lead. It was a downpour such as I had seldom before experienced.

"Are you quite sure that this lake is the home of the gods?" I inquired of Kachi. "Why, even on the Devil's Lake we had better weather than this."

"Yes, sir," replied Kachi. "But you make the gods angry, and that is why they send thunder, hail, and rain to stop your progress. You are going on against the gods, sir."

"Never mind, Kachi. It cannot pour forever."

At midnight we had no idea where we were; still we pushed on.

"Have we passed the Gomba? Have we not yet reached it?" were the questions we asked one another. It seemed to me that, at the rate we were going, we should have been near the place, and yet after another hour's tramp we had not struck it. I was under the impression that we had gone about nine miles. I expressed the opinion that we had passed it, but the Shokas insisted that we had not, so we again proceeded.

We had hardly gone five hundred yards when we heard the faint, distant, and most welcome bark of a dog. It came from the north-west, and we surmised that it must come from Tucker. We had steered too far south of the place, which accounted for our missing it in the darkness.

Guided by the yelping, we hastily directed our steps toward the settlement. Suddenly the first dog was joined by fifty others, all angry and noisy; but though we knew by the sound that we were approaching the village, it was so dark and stormy that we could not find the place. Only when we found ourselves close to the mud huts could we be certain that we had at last arrived.

It was then between 2 and 3 a.m. The rain still came down in torrents. There was no sign of the inhabitants being willing to give us shelter. It was quite out of the question to pitch our little tente d'abri, for our things were already wringing wet.

We knocked on a door so hard that the door itself nearly gave way. This was a shelter-house, a serai for pilgrims, and as we claimed to be pilgrims, we had, by the laws of the country, a right to admission. Nattoo, who had once before reached this lake by a different route, led us to this house.

"You are bandits," said a hoarse voice from inside, "or you would not come at this hour."

"No, we are not," we entreated. "Please open. We are well-to-do people. We will harm no one, and pay for all."

"MiddÙ, MiddÙ!" (Cannot be, no!) "You are brigands. I will not open."

To show that we were not what they imagined, Chanden Sing and Dola tapped again so gently at the door that the bolt gave way. The next moment ten strangers were squatting down round a warm fire drying their shrivelled-up, soaked skins by the flame of dried tamarisk and dung. The landlord—a doctor, by-the-way—was reassured when he saw that we had no evil intentions, and found some silver coins in the palm of his hand. Yet, he said, he rather wished we would go and sleep somewhere else. There was a capital empty hut next door, he suggested.

On our agreeing to this, he conducted us to the place, and there we spent the remainder of the night—or, rather, the early morning.

Our abode was a one-storied flat-roofed house built of stones and mud. There were two rooms—the first lighted by the door, the second and larger having a square opening in the ceiling for the triple purpose of ventilation, lighting, and outlet for the smoke of the fire, which burned directly underneath in the centre of the room. The beams and rafters supporting the roof had been brought over from the Indian side of the Himahlyas, as no timber was to be found in western Tibet.

This building was in charge of a young, half-crazy Lama, who was most profuse in salutations, and who remained open-mouthed, gazing at us for a considerable time. He was polite and attentive. He helped to dry our things in the morning, and, whenever we asked for anything, he ran out of the house in frantic fits of merriment, always bringing in what we required.

The heavy storm during the night had flooded our room. There was only one corner of the floor slightly drier than the rest. There we all slept huddled together. These serais have no claim to cleanliness. On this occasion all the minor animal life that inhabited the floor had, with a view to avoiding the water, retreated to the higher portion of the room, which we also had selected, so that one more trial was added to all our other miseries. We were simply devoured by a swarm of insects. This, indeed, was a dreadful pest, and one from which we suffered indescribable agonies, not only on this occasion, but whenever we halted near Tibetan camps.

When we rose in the morning the room was full of Tibetan men, women, and children, who seemed good-natured and friendly.

"Tanga chick!" (a silver coin equivalent to half a rupee) cried an old woman, who stuck a dried fish under my nose, professing volubly that it had been caught in Mansarowar, and that it would make its possessor the happiest of mortals. Others unrolled, from inside pieces of red cloth in which they were wrapped, jewellery in the form of brooches, rings, and ear-rings of brass or silver, inlaid with malachite.

"Gurmoh sum!" (Three rupees!), "Diu, diu, diu!" (Yes, yes, yes!), "Karuga ni!" (Two two-anna pieces!), "Gieut-cheke!" (A four-anna piece!), and so on, they called out the price of each article, all talking at the same time, in their anxiety to dispose of their goods.

The jewellery was of local manufacture. In some cases the pieces of malachite were firmly set, but usually a kind of paste was used for holding the stones, and, consequently, pretty as the jewels were, they soon broke.

The ear-rings were usually better made than the brooches. The most interesting of all, because simpler and more characteristic, were the flat silver charms, ornamented with a primitive design.

Several Lamas came to call on me in the morning, and professed to be pleased to see us; in fact, they asked me to go and pay them a visit in the Lamasery and temple. They said there was much sickness in the village, and as they believed me to be a Hindoo doctor, they wished I could do something to relieve their sufferings. I promised to do all I could. I was glad to have this unique chance of visiting a Lamasery. During this friendly visit to the Lamas I carried my rifle in my hand. The Tibetans were too friendly to be trusted.

When I came out of our stuffy, dark room, preceded and followed by a crowd of inquisitive natives, I had a good look round the village. After the storm of the night we fully expected that the weather would clear and that we might see a bright blue sky, but we had no luck. Over us hung again threatening clouds. The waters of the sacred lake, softly moved by the wind, washed gracefully upon the beach. Chanden Sing and Mansing, the two Hindoos, without any clothing except a loincloth, were squatting near the edge of the lake having their heads shaved by Bijesing, the Johari. I must confess that I was somewhat annoyed when I saw them using my best razor for the purpose. I repressed my anger on remembering that, according to their religion, the fact of being at Mansarowar absolved them from all sins. My two Hindoo servants, with heads turned toward Kelas Mount, were praying so fervently that I stood to watch them. They washed themselves repeatedly, and at last plunged into the water of the lake. On coming out, shivering with cold, they each took out of their clothes a silver rupee, and flung it into the lake as an offering to the God Mahadeva. Then, with hairless faces and heads, they dressed and came to pay their salaams to me, professing to be now happy and pure.

"Siva, the greatest of all gods, lives in the waters of Mansarowar!" exclaimed Chanden Sing, in a poetic mood. "I have bathed in its waters, and of its waters I have drunk. I have salaamed the great Kelas, the sight of which alone can absolve all sins of humanity. I shall now go to heaven."

"I shall be satisfied if we get as far as Lhassa," grumbled the sceptical Mansing, out of ear-reach of the Tibetans.

Chanden Sing, who was well versed in religious matters, explained that only Hindoo pilgrims who had lost both parents shaved their heads on visiting Mansarowar, as a sacrifice to Siva. If they were of a high caste, on their return to their native land after the pilgrimage it was customary to entertain all the Brahmins of the town to a banquet. According to Chanden Sing, a man who had bathed in Mansarowar was held in great respect by everybody, and commanded the admiration and envy of the entire world.

The Mansarowar Lake is about forty-six miles round. Pilgrims who wish to attain a great state of sanctity make a kora, or circuit, on foot along the water-line. The journey occupies from four to seven days, according to circumstances. One trip round will absolve the pilgrim from ordinary sins; twice the circuit clears the conscience of any murder; and three times will make honest and good a person who has killed his or her father, mother, brother, or sister. There are fanatics who make the tour on their knees; others accomplish the distance lying flat upon the ground after each step.

According to legend, Mansarowar was created by Brahma. He who shall bathe in its waters will share the paradise of Mahadeva! No matter what crimes he may have previously committed, a dip in the holy lake is sufficient to purge the soul as well as the body of any criminal!

When they had finished purifying themselves by washing, I ordered Chanden Sing to take his rifle and follow me into the Gomba. Having committed no crime, I thought I had better do without the holy bath, although the temptation was great to go and have a swim. The Lamas were so polite that I feared treachery on their part. To please my men and perhaps bring myself some luck, I hurled a couple of coins into the lake.

The large square building, with its walls painted red and its flattish dome of gilt copper rose by the waterside, and was both picturesque and handsome in its severe simplicity.

There came sounds from inside of deep, hoarse voices muttering prayers, of tinkling of bells and clanging of cymbals. From time to time a drum was beaten, giving a hollow sound, and an occasional and sudden touch upon a gong caused the air to vibrate until the notes faded away as they were carried over the holy lake.

After Chanden Sing and I had entered the Lamasery, the large door, which had been pushed wide open, was immediately closed. We were in a spacious court-yard, three sides of which had two tiers of galleries supported by columns.

This was the Lhaprang, or Lama's house. Directly in front of me was the Lha Kang, or temple, the floor of which was raised some five feet above the level of the ground. A large door led into it. At this entrance were, one on either side, recesses in which, by the side of a big drum, squatted two Lamas with books of prayers before them, a praying-wheel and a rosary in their hands, the beads of which they shifted after every prayer. At our appearance the monks ceased their prayers and beat the drums in an excited manner. There seemed to be some disturbance in the Gomba. Lamas old and young rushed to and fro out of their rooms, while a number of Chibbis, or novices (boys between the ages of twelve and twenty), lined the railings of the upper veranda with expressions of evident suspense and curiosity upon their faces. No doubt the Lamas had prepared a trap for us. I warned Chanden Sing to be on the alert, and set him on guard at the entrance of the temple. I deposited a few silver coins on the drum of the Lama to my right, took off my shoes in sign of respect, and—much to the amazement of the monks—quietly entered the house of worship. Partly astonished at the sight of the silver, and more so at my want of caution, the Lamas, of whom there were a good number in the court-yard, remained motionless and dumb. The High Lama, or Father Superior of the monastery, at last came forward stooping low. He placed one thumb above the other and put his tongue out to show his approval of my visit to the many images representing deities or sanctified Buddhist heroes which were grouped along the walls of the temple. The largest of these figures were about five feet high, the others about three feet. Some were carved out of wood, their drapery and ornaments being fairly artistic in arrangement and execution, while others were fashioned in gilt metal. There were images in a sitting posture and some standing erect. They rested either on ornamented or plain pedestals painted blue, red, white, and yellow. Many wore the ancient Chinese double-winged cap, and were placed in recesses in the wall decorated with stuffs, wood-carvings, and rough paintings of images.

At the foot of these images was a long shelf, on which, in bright brass vessels of all sizes, were oblations of tsamba, dried fruit, chura, wheat, and rice, offered, through the Lamas, by devotees to the different saints. Some of the ears of barley were ornamented with imitation leaves modelled in butter, and colored red, blue, and yellow.

The ceiling of the temple was draped in red woollen cloth similar to that of the clothes worn by the Lamas. From it hung hundreds of strips of silk, wool, and cotton of all colors. The roof was supported by columns of wood forming a quadrangle in the centre of the temple. These were joined by a balustrade, compelling the worshippers to make a circuit from left to right, in order to pass before the several images.

In a shrine in the central part of the wall facing the entrance was Urghin, or Kunjuk-chick (God alone). In front of it on a kind of altar covered with a carpet were to be seen donations far more abundant than those offered to other images.

The Lama, pointing at it, told me that it was a good God. I saluted it and deposited a small offering in the collection-box. This seemed to please the Lama greatly, for he at once fetched a holy-water amphora, hung with long "veils of friendship and love,"[6] and poured some scented liquid on the palms of my hands. Then, producing a strip of veil, he wetted it with the scent and presented it to me. The majority of pilgrims generally go round the inside of the temple on their knees, but, notwithstanding that, to avoid offending prejudices, I generally follow the principle of doing in Rome as the Romans do, I could not here afford the chance of placing myself at such a disadvantage in case of a surprise. The High Lama explained the different images to me, and threw handfuls of rice over them as he called them by their respective names, all of which I tried hard to remember, but, alas! before I could get back to the serai and scribble them down on paper, they had all escaped my memory. A separate entrance led from the monastery into the temple.

Lights, burning in brass bowls, their wicks being fed with melted butter, were scattered on the floor in the central quadrangle. Near them lay oblong books of prayers printed on the smooth yellow Tibetan paper made from a fibrous bark. Near these books were small drums and cymbals. One double drum, I noticed, was made from reversed sections of human skulls. My attention was also attracted by some peculiar head-gear worn by the Lamas during their services and ceremonies, when they not only accompany their chanting and prayers with the beating of drums and clashing of cymbals, but they also make a noise on cane flutes, tinkle hand-bells, and sound a large gong. The noise of these instruments is at times so great that the prayers themselves cannot be heard. Awe-inspiring masks are used by Lamas in their eccentric and mystic dances. The Lamas spend the entire day in the temple and consume much tea with butter and salt in it, which is brought to them in cups by Lamas of an inferior order acting as servants. They pass hour after hour in their temples, apparently absorbed in praying to the God above all gods, the incarnation of all the saints together united in a trinity, the Kunjuk-Sum.

Kunjuk-Sum, translated literally, means "the three deities." Some take it to refer to the elements—air, water, and fire—which in the Tibetan mind are symbols of speech, charity, and strength or life. One great point in Buddhism is the love and respect for one's father and mother, and the prohibition to injure one's neighbors in any way. The latter is preached, but seldom practised. According to the commandments contained in some eight hundred volumes called "the Kajars," the Tibetans believe in a heaven (the Deva Tsembo) free from all anxieties of human existence, full of love and joy. Their heaven is ruled over by a god of infinite goodness, helped by countless disciples called the Chanchubs, who spend their existence in performing charitable deeds among living creatures. With a number of intermediate places of happiness and punishment, they even believe in a hell where the souls of sinners are tormented by fire and ice.

"God sees and knows everything, and He is everywhere," exclaimed the Lama, "but we cannot see Him! Only the Chanchubs can see and speak to Him."

"What are the evil qualities to be mostly avoided?" I inquired of the High Lama, who spoke a little Hindustani.

"Luxury, pride, and envy," he replied.

"Do you ever expect to become a saint?" I asked him.

"Yes, I hope so; but it takes five hundred transmigrations of an uncontaminated soul before one can be a saint."

Then, as if waking to a sudden thought, he seized my hand impulsively and spread my fingers apart. Having done this, he muttered two or three words of surprise. His face became serious, even solemn, and he treated me with strange obsequiousness. Rushing out of the temple, he went to inform the other Lamas of his discovery, whatever it was. They crowded round him, and from their words and gestures it was easy to see they were bewildered.

When I left the company of the strange idols and came into the court-yard, every Lama wished to examine and touch my hand. The sudden change in their behavior was to me a source of great curiosity, until I learned the real cause of it some weeks later.