Mystery at Sakya Monastery Tibet

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Away from the Friendship Highway in southern Tibet, there are legends of magic and mystery within the fortified walls of the Shakya Math. From flying scriptures, which make sense of the events of the world, speak to statues and paintings, which exalt the Khatak (silk ceremonial scarf) on pillars carried from India on the backs of pilgrims and yaks, after its foundation There are mysterious forces to connect Shakya. In 1073.

The air was heavy with incense and prayers, an environment that helped ease the doubt from my group’s sceptical minds through our visit. it had been hard to not trust the monk-guide as he explained the strange phenomena with such earnest passion. Belief in magic is common in Tibet, but however there are few places which will rival Sakya for sheer number of magic events reported there. If you’re getting to become a believer, this is often the place.

Visitors can’t help but feel the difference in Sakya, compared to other monasteries in central Tibet. When the opposite large centres like Drepung, Sera, Ganden, Tashilhunpo, and therefore the Jokhang were being ransacked, bombed or became stables during the Cultural Revolution of the 1960s, Sakya Monastery’s main halls managed to flee intact. When others were torn down and rebuilt, Sakya remained original and authentic.

I felt minuscule as our small tour group skilled the monastery’s main gates. The fortified walls are so thick that they appear sort of a whole building instead of just a wall. As Sakya was the centre of power in Tibet during the 13th and 14th centuries, the monastery was designed for strength, a top quality that little question aided its survival through history.

We crossed the brilliant inner courtyard to step into the most auditorium , and leave our normal world behind. it had been dimly lit by small dirty windows and butter lamps, which also supply an overpoweringly rich smell that hung like curtains across the front of every altar. The butter lamps are kept burning day and night, topped up by visiting pilgrims who pour butter out of plastic thermos flasks, or spoon it out of plastic bags.

I paused to observe the dance of incense smoke rise through the butter lamps, when an extended proud tone brought all activity within the hall to a standstill. A monk, seated on the tertiary throne within the centre of the hall, blew firmly into a sacred white conch shell—a gift from Kublai Khan to the monastery within the 13th century—while an area woman wept ahead of him. Whether we visitors believe them or not, these relics stir powerful emotions within the faithful.

Even the foundations of the monastery are steeped in power and magic. the most auditorium during which we stood is delayed by 40 pillars made up of whole tree trunks, four of those are integral to the first legends of the place. Our guide appeared to start with the foremost believable story, before testing us to stretch our imaginations and open our minds to the stories of the latter.

We’re told that the most important pillar, over two metres in diameter, was carried from China after being gifted to the monastery by Kublai Khan . We’re impressed, and simply believe this. The second pillar, we’re told, was carried from India on the rear of an enormous tiger. Legends say that the tiger had once been the protector of the tree, fiercely defending it against anyone who tried to chop it down, until a talented tantric practitioner intervened. They convinced the tiger to not only allow them to chop the tree down, but also to hold it to the location of the new monastery, where it dissolved into the tree once its mission was served.

The third pillar was carried during a similar fashion by a yak, who began to cry when crossing the ultimate pass to succeed in the monastery. Where his tears fell, a sacred spring appeared that reputedly cleanses the karma of a lifetime for any who drink from it. Our group were breathing scepticism, with raised eyebrows and twisted smirks because the stories mounted.

Finally, the story of the fourth pillar: the tree was once home to a naga (water spirit) who became angry when it had been hamper . The tree oozed black blood for days until ceremonies might be performed to appease the spirit. to the present day it’s believed that cutting into the pillar will cause sticky black blood, which may cure any illness. For this reason, there’s now a plastic protective layer round the lower section of the pillar, to guard it against curious pilgrims.

Murmurs around us revealed that we were not the sole ones taking note of these stories—a swelling assemblage of local pilgrims had been captured by the chance to listen to the legends from a monk of the monastery. They tailed us as we made our way round the hall, from statue to stupa to painting and relic. With the pilgrims joining us, the balance within our group shifted, as more people were listening with receptive minds to our guide’s magical stories.

He led us to the rear corner, where there are two images of the Buddha: one painted on the wall and one statue cast in gold. One is understood because the Buddha that spoke, one because the Buddha that blessed khatak scarves. I stared up at the other , the painted Buddha, and imagined what it must have seemed like because it reached bent receive a white silk scarf from a pilgrim then return it across his shoulders, sanctified.

Meanwhile to our right, Buddha that spoke was damaged, lopsided across the shoulders, and was been left that way intentionally. many years ago, while workers were constructing the ceiling above it, a beam fell and knocked the statue on its shoulder, leaving a clear dent and breaking its perfectly-proportioned symmetry. When struck, the statue cried call at pain: “Ah Rah!” The monks and workmen present knew they’d just witnessed a miracle, and refused to repair the statue, believing it to be inhabited by the Buddha’s spirit.

Our pilgrim friends were greatly impressed, and heaped spoonfuls of butter into the lamps ahead of those two Buddhas.

Leaving our local tow behind, we retreated deeper into the monastery to an area that felt like midnight, lit only by simmering butter lamps. there have been no windows back here, and thick curtains to stay the heat in blocked the sparse light that attempted to succeed in through the door.

This was the library, the treasured legacy of the Sakya sect’s dominance in Tibet over several centuries. Across many shelves the length of a gridiron and therefore the height of a two-story building, many thousands of volumes are stored. Some are famous for being the sole surviving copy of a text, some for being the oldest remaining version, one for being the most important handwritten sutra in Tibet, written in gold ink on a scroll made from leather.

The magic here isn’t within the magnitude of the library, but in what happens when no-one is watching. If all those films we see about museum artefacts that wake up and move within the night were real, it’d happen here. consistent with our monk guide, the manuscripts shuffle themselves close to reflect the state of the planet . When the planet is during a state of peace, the scriptures appear straight and orderly, but as bad events occur, the volumes slip or shake themselves out of their shelves.

Along the most wall of the library some scriptures stick as far as 20 centimetres from the shelf, looking like they could topple out completely if the bottom shook. We’re told two of these go back to war II, and despite efforts by the monks to re-position them, they always return to those positions.

As we walked down the library, the monk acknowledged more scriptures for instance his point: “When the Red Army entered Tibet… Chairman Mao’s death… the bombing of Hiroshima…” The monks have long ago given up trying to push them back or reorder the shelves, and now fancy hanging white scarves from the protruding volumes, as a mark of respect for whatever forces propel them to maneuver .

I looked around our group, now hushed and earnestly admiring the traditional library. Their objections appeared to have finally dissipated, allowing them to believe even just a touch that these stories could be true.

At Sakya you'll stray in time if you allow your sceptical mind at the door. For a true slice of Tibetan history, enter with an open mind and see where the magic takes you.