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The Son Who Came From Heaven

From the moment of by birth in 1901, in the Amdo province northeastern Tibet, close to the Chinese border, I was loved by my grandparents, because some premonition told them I was to be a special child and an even more special adult.

In my earliest years, they formed the nexus of my world. I slept with them, ate with them, was cajoled and petted by them. They seemed to fill up my entire little self. They lavished such affection on me that I felt cherished. They enjoyment of like that resulted has never left me.

As I grew, I became the charge of my mother, who began to train me in household duties in preparation for marriage. I had to learn to make noodles, brew tea and bake bread for the entire family. Aged seven, I could scarcely reach the top of the cooking table, so I would have to stand on a chair to prepare the dough.

At the back of our house, there was a courtyard with a high, think wall. When my parents went to the farm, I was put there with instructions to prepare the lunch. They would leave, bolting the door of the house from the outside. It was unheard of for girls to go to school, to learn to read or write.

In summer, the weather was very warm and pleasant, but in winter, it was so cold that, if we left any tea in our cups overnight, it froze and cracked the cups. As much 10 feet of snow would fall, which came up to the second floor of our house. Without the kang (a raided platform bed which sleeps the whole family), we would all have frozen to death.

The kang was made of clay brick and was hollow. We filled it with dry glass and dried manure or wood, then lit the fire which burned through the day. On the surface of the structure we would place a carpet, and over that, our bed clothes.

Since nothing would grow in winter, we stored our vegetables below ground. We dug a cellar about 10 feet deep and 20 feet wide, with steps leading down. The lid to the cellar had to be sealed firmly, or everything would freeze.

During childhood, despite the fact that I had a lot of chores and work, I was extremely happy. But after I got married at the age of 16, I had a most difficult time. Marriages were settled when we were very young. My husband was the nephew of Takser Rinpoche (Rinpoche, meaning "precious one", is the honorific title for lamas who are reincarnations of great teachers). I was recommended through a neighbor who was acquainted with them. My grandmother was pleased and said she would like me to marry into Takser Rinpoche's family, as they were well know as good people.

Daughters-in-law were treated like servants. My mother-in-law never did a stroke of work. She was bossy and domineering. For the first few years after my marriage, I often had to make do with three or four hours of sleep at night. I got up at one in the morning to fetch water for the servants and farmhands. It was less crowed at that hour, but we still had to queue. We had to bring the water up from the well very slowly in order not to disturb the sediment. Sometimes, I had to go to the well 10 times a day. Occasionally, under severe strain, I would shed a few pitiful tears, but I had my pride and would never week in public.

During those years, I never told anyone I was suffering, not even my husband. He was an upright and honest man, straightforward but powerful and domineering, with a hot temper. He was fond a gambling and having a good time. Like his mother, he did no work.

I had my first child at the age of 19. I had a very easy labor because, as a peasant woman, I led an active life. Throughout each pregnancy, I had to work as usual, even on the day of the birth. I ate special foods and never had morning sickness.

In those days, all women were their own midwives. Only with my first child did a maidservant assist me. She heard the whimpers of the child and came to cut and tie the umbilical cord. But with my other children, I did everything myself. I had all my children in the stables, not in the house.

My mother-in-law gave me one week's rest after I gave birth to my first child. But she died before I had my other children - I had 16 in all - and, as there was no one to do the work, I could rest for only a day or two. I would take my babies to work on my back.

When she dies, two years after my father-I-law, she was 58. I was 20. All the family members gathered during the three weeks of mourning to pray. For three days, monks came to say prayers so the soul of the deceased would have a beneficial transmigration - and to prevent the spirit remaining in the house.

Astrologers determined the best method for disposal of the corpse - fire, burial, casting into the water of being fed to the birds. The latter was supposed to be the best method, because it was the cleanest.

When children died, the rites were simpler. Lamas came to say prayers, and the astrologer made his calculations. I had three sons who died. One was buried, while the other two were taken to a high hill and left there for the birds of prey and wild animals. I used to tell the corpse-bearers to bring my children's clothes back with them; they came into this world without clothes and I wanted them to leave the same way.

So I always controlled myself when my children died, no matter how intense my suffering, and I would tell my husband not to cry for the same reason.

I was 34, and already had one daughter and three sons, when in July 1935, I have birth to Lhamo Dhondup, who would become the Dalai Lama. A month before his birth, I had a strange dream in which two green snow lions and a brilliant blue dragon appeared, flying about in the air. Later, I was told the dragon was His Holiness, and the two snow lions were the Nechung oracle (the state oracle of Tibet) showing His Holiness the path to rebirth.

After my dream, I knew my child would be some high lama, but never in my wildest dreams did I think he would become the Dalai Lama.

Right from the start, Lhamo Dhondup was different from my other children.

A sombre child, who liked to stay indoors by himself, he was always packing his clothes and his little belongings. When I would ask what he was doing, he would reply that he was packing to go to Lhasa, the Tibetan capital, and he would take all of us with him. One day, he told us he had come from heaven.

In 1937, when he was little more then two years old, the search party for the 14th Dalai Lama visited our home. They did not tell us of their mission or that they had been searching the region for three years. They said they had taken a wring turning and asked for rooms for the night. It never entered out heads that there was a purpose in their visit. When they arrived, there was about four feet of snow on the ground. They had been told they would find His Holiness in the early morning in a place that was all white.

There were more visits over a period, and finally a party came which included a government official and Khetsang Rinpoche from the renowned Sera monastery. As we sat, Lhamo Dhondup stuck his hand Khetsang Rinpoche's heavy fur robes and tugged at one of the two brocade vests, saying it was his. I scolded my son, but later learned this vest had been given to Khetsang Rinpoche by the 13th Dalai Lama.

That evening we were summoned by the party. They were all seated, and in front of them was a bowl of sweets, two rosaries and two damarus (ritual hand drums). My son selected a rosary from the table and a damaru, both of which, it turned out, had belonged to the Dalai Lama.

Our guests said they were looking for the 14th Dalai Lama, whom they were certain had been born somewhere in the district of Tsongkha. There were 16 candidates, but, in truth, they had already decided upon my son. Lhamo Dhondup spent three hours with them. They later told me they had spoken with him in the Lhasa dialect, and that he replied without difficulty, though he had never heard that dialect before.

Four days later, envoys from the governor of the region, Ma Pu-fang arrived. They took photographs or our house and family, and told us to leave for Tsongkha the next day. I was in the eighth month of pregnancy, and said I was unable to go. They told me it was compulsory. The families of all 16 candidates had been summoned. It took eight hours on horseback to get to Tsongkha. I felt acute discomfort on the journey, and had to rest every hour or so. Once there, my husband and his uncle took my son, who was by now aged four, to Ma Pu-fang's residence.

All the children were told to sit on a chair in a semi-circle. The other children cried and refused to let go of their parents' hands, but my son went directly to the only vacant seat and settled himself. When the children were offered sweets, many of them grabbed handfuls, but my son took only one piece, which he immediately gave to my husband?ncle. Ma Pu-fang asked Lhamo Dhondup whether he knew who he was. Without hesitation he replied that the man was Ma Pu-fang.

It was now clear to Ma Pu-fang that if there was a Dalai Lama, then it was this boy, with his big eyes and intelligent conversation and actions. He dismissed the other families and told my husband and I that we were to remain in Tsongkha for a few days. On the 14th day, I gave birth to a baby who died soon afterwards.

We left for Lhasa on the third day of the sixth month in 1939. It was supposed to be a secret that my son had been selected as the 14th Dalai Lama, but word soon spread. Many villagers came seeking an audience. But while we were still in Chinese territory, none was permitted because it was too dangerous. The journey lasted almost three months. There were more than 1000 people in out retinue and thousands of animals. His Holiness was carried with his brother in a palanquin (covered litter) drawn by horse.

The crowds that greeted us as we entered Lhasa were overwhelming. Completely silent, they stood with palms together and heads bowed out of respect for their new Dalai Lama. I was close to tears. Here was I, a peasant women, now raised to the highest position a mother could hold. The government supplied us with staff members and abundant provisions. I was surprised to see His Holiness breaking the seals of the many trunks he found in his quarters, searching for something. Finally, he found what he was looking for ??small box covered in brocade. I asked him what he was doing, and he told me inside this box was a tooth. When he opened it, indeed there was a tooth, which belonged to the 13th Dalai Lama.

We had arrived in the eighth month, when all the fruits were ripening. Never before had I remained idle, and now I was living in heaven, a lotus land. One of my other sons, Lobsang Samten, resided in the chambers of His Holiness as a sort of companion. They had lessons and meals and played together, while we led a life of luxury. But after a while I began to find it frustrating to be waited on and not to do any work.

Five months after our arrival, His Holiness moved to the Potala Palace, home of the Dalai Lama, Namgyal monastery and government offices. It is an imposing edifice, made more so by its location on a hill. We were given some property that had belonged to the 13th Dalai Lama. It was called Changesar, meaning Eastern Garden, and was filled with trees. We also had many servants. Though great honor had now become my fate, I wept inside for my home. I was treated like a queen, but I was not as happy as I had been in Tsongkha. To succeed with my crops and my home and family was, to me, the epitome of a good life.

In 1950, the regency which had been exercising the Dalai Lama's rights as ruler of Tibet finally handed him control of the country. His Holiness was 15. However, as the new People's Republic of China had been declared a year earlier, fear was intensifying that the communists would now try to take over Tibet. Despite negotiating an autonomy agreement with China, life in Lhasa grew increasingly unbearable for the Dalai Lama. In 1959, following the bloody suppression of the Tibetan uprising, we were forced to flee for our lives.

In March 1959, we planned out escape to India, where the Dalai Lama could live in exile. My daughter and I were the first party to leave, disguised as soldiers. I borrowed my son-in-law's short dress so I looked like a man, and slung a toy rifle over my shoulder.

At 8:45pm, we left through a side gate. His Holiness followed 15 minutes later, also dressed as a soldier. He walked behind my son-in-law as his servant. Through we were surrounded by communists, fortune smiled on us that night. The mist was heavy, so we slipped out undetected. It seemed as if the gods had closed the ears, eyes and minds of the Chinese headquarters, we say that it was filled with bright lights; they were still in their offices, working and conducting meetings.

We crossed the Rover Tsangpo in skin boats. Our horses were waiting, but we were so afraid that we started off at a gallop. There were about 100 or us, and the gravel was like thunder. From midnight until the next day at nine o?ck we rode nonstop. I had no scarf or glasses and, since I had on a short man's dress, I froze. Thick dust caked my face.

On one occasion, we heard the roar of aircraft engines and lay flat on the ground. My daughter shouted to me to lie beneath my horse. The aircraft passed overhead. Later that morning, we heard it was a plane sent by the Indian government to see if they could spot us.

We arrived at Chidisho, a Tibetan town famous for its hand-woven woolens. His Holiness laughed when he saw me, as I was still dressed as a man.

Finally, with the Chinese far behind, we began to relax. Local oracles told us out journey ahead to India was clear.

*** Dalai Lama, My Son, A Mother's Story by Diki Tesering (Virgin, $39.95) ***