The Siddhi of a Sober Mind

Clouds can hang dark and low in the Kathmandu Valley.  It can feel somber there and a bit chilly even in August after a string of thoroughly wet days, and especially nights of heavy rain.  On the particular morning in question it looked like the weather and the general mood would turn out pretty much along the same lines as yesterday and day before yesterday: darkness, downpours & all quiet in Boudha – except of course for the honking on Mahankal Road and the kids in Sunshine School next door, who during break time with unchanging regularity erupted into what sounded like a thousand boys and girls running, screaming, laughing, playing.  Not only did they not mind they rain, they loved it. 

And yes, there would be a dakini tsok at Rinpoche’s, and I would need to attend, as I had just finished three months of intense practicing in four daily sessions, as they say in Indian English: ‘under him’.  According to Indian understanding and probably Tibetan thinking, too, one is always ‘under’ a teacher, not ‘with’ a teacher.  I have no problem with the hierarchy of values involved in this particular use of preposition but even today it sounds funny to my ears and mind.  

In this case, however, not only was attending a must, I also had already cooked the tsok meat for the feast because Kunzang Dorje found my marinated buff (as in buffalo) sausage preparation irresistible.  And as long as I was going to be there, which would be about two more weeks, naturally I would offer it to him whenever he would ask for it.  In addition to the meat I had purchased a liter bottle of Jamison Irish whiskey, which I likewise intended to offer.  Although Kunzang Dorje in his long life by then had already completed over 35 years in strict retreat (of course not in one go) he had always also been a true householder Ngakpa of the white robed lineage, meaning: fond of alcohol.

So there I was at his doorstep shortly before eight in the morning, as the puja would inevitably start exactly on the hour.  I put the tsok meat and other offerings on the shrine, including the Jamison.  Anila, his wife, did not look too happy when she saw this.  She never was fond of Rinpoche drinking, as she had to sometimes suffer the consequences of his irascible temper when fueled by booze.  And in order to make sure she would not snatch and hide it somewhere, I had tied a white scarf around the bottle’s neck, which transformed it into a formal gift to the Lama and thereby was declared off limits for anyone but him. 

Yet, when I saw her face, the sense was that the scarf might not be sufficient to deter her from taking corrective action.  I needed to dedicate the gift to the Lama in front of everyone.  So after prostrating I said something like, “I know that whiskey is not good for your health, and I agree with Anila on this point but I also know that you enjoy drinking.  Furthermore, I have never seen you drunk, although I have seen you playacting the drunk. I am offering you this bottle so that we can celebrate this feast, as we should, and it is my wish that only good will come of it.”  This was translated for Rinpoche.  He didn’t speak a word of English, although I knew that when he wanted, he could read everyone’s mind, like you and I read the newspaper

As I took my seat, I was surprised to hear him answer, also through the translator. He said that “what I had observed was true, it was not the alcohol that made us drunk.  It is always and only the mind that makes us drunk.”  This being stated rather cryptically, Rinpoche signaled the umdze to start with the ceremony.  From eleven to two, we had a long lunch break and then after lunch started with the tsok part of the puja.  When we reached the point when the amrita or dutsi (in the form of blessed and transformed alcohol) is offered first to the vajramaster and then to everyone present, Rinpoche interrupted the proceedings and ventured to explain, speaking to me again,  “It is indeed not alcohol that makes us drunk, but our minds, and now I will prove this to you.  You and I will share this bottle.  We will empty it together, half I half you. “  No inner comment arose in my mind, like “come on, half a liter of Jamison and I’ll be under the table.”  To my surprise, without this thought even forming, I just kept an open mind and took him by his word.

It happened as he said it would.  He was one of the greatest storytellers that I have ever known, and while we all were sharing the tsok feast, he told some of his outrageous tales (I think it was about some confused yogi from Rinpoche’s home area in Tibet who was so eminently clever as to chase after some elusive fox that he totally forgot that he had actually wanted to go into retreat and practice).  All the while Rinpoche had his and my glasses filled in between, and kept on speaking, laughing, gesticulating – in short: he acted exactly like Kunzang Dorje sometimes did during such gathering when he was on a roll. 

The tsok concluded at around five.  The bottle was empty.  He and I both had had half a liter of whiskey – and he and I were stone sober.  And he made his point again. “Now, I have proven to you and you have experienced if for yourself that it is not the alcohol that makes us drunk.  It is only and only the mind.  If the mind is sober you’ll always be sober.” 

What he had said and what had happened did not sink in right away.  I was too busy to make arrangements to go out for dinner with friends who had also attended the tsok and witnessed everything.  We went to the Radisson, where I had two margueritas on top of the Jamison and a few beers over some pasta dish or whatever I ate.  I only remember that the conversation was lively, the food typical non-descript, i.e. tasteless hotel fare – and it became so chilly on the roads and in the room that they turned on the heating in the dining area. 

Only when I went to bed at Rinpoche’s house at around eleven the same night did I ask myself, “What the fuck happened today?  How come you had so much alcohol and absolutely feel no effect, not in the body (that typical sense of unease in my skin that I usually get when I had too much to drink), and not in the mind? No bloody sign of drunkenness whatsoever, not outside not inside.  What did he do?  And how did he do it?  Isn’t it amazing that Rinpoche, when he chooses, can not only have control over his own body and mind, but also over the body and mind of another (in this case what I usually would define as ‘my’ body and ‘my’ mind, obviously separate from his)?”

Anyway, this truly happened as it was told.  I leave it to the reader to draw their own conclusions.