Historical proof by textual criticism?

Cathy and I are very gratified by the positive reception of our work in critical editing, even though I am certain I do not deserve it, and remain acutely aware of the many failings in my work. We are above all gratified because a lot more hangs on the quality of our editions than mere vanity. For if our latest edition of an early rNying ma tantra stands good, then so too does our proposed historical proof for a greater antiquity than previously demonstrable of the Noble Noose of Methods, the Mahāyoga tantra so closely associated with Padmasambhava. But if our edition proves faulty, then so too will our proof that this tantra predates the Dunhuang text by at least two copyings, and therefore might indeed date back to the late Imperial period. For these reasons, since real history depends on it, we made every effort to apply the same standards of professionalism and rigour that are commonally required in the editing of Western texts, as did such excellent scholars before us as Helmut Eimer, Paul Harrison and Jonathan Silk in their own pioneering editions from the Kanjur. And perhaps that is why, despite my personal ineptitude, van der Kuijp not long ago singled out our work as ‘truly superb’ in the field of Tibetan critical editing,[1] and others like Wedemeyer have concurred.[2] Per Kvaerne has described our edition of the Noble Noose of Methods as a ‘remarkable scholarly achievement’, and ‘a massive and highly important contribution to Tibetan studies’, that ‘cannot receive anything but the highest praise’, [3]  while for the same work Helmut Eimer warmly congratulated us on ‘ein beeindruckendes Werk der Bearbeitung’ (‘an impressive work of editing’).[4]  Hopefully, these positive reviews from such great scholars will prove to be good omens that our historical proof by textual criticism will stand the test of time!

More recently, there has also been a review from Giacomella Orofino, in what might well prove to have been the final issue of the finacially beleagured JIATS, who also makes positive remarks about our work: she says, for example, that we ‘have undertaken a very complex and important work that has the great merit of being a pioneering study’,  and she describes the monograph as, ‘a dense, important work that offers valuable sources of information on the development of the Rnying ma pa tradition’. But Orofino’s review is at the same time vitiated by a great deal of confusion, including at several key and even elementary points, and especially when attempting the more technical aspects of our dense and lengthy monograph. Even in seeking to praise us, she makes surprisingly inaccurate statements of both fact and interpretation, and her two or three points of criticism are no less muddle-headed.  Regarding the latter, we fully hope and expect that in due course, some truly learned scholar might propose real improvements to our undoubtedly imperfect work, and although this might prove a somewhat chastening experience, it should also be enlightening. However, Orofino’s present criticisms are as difficult to take seriously as her praises, because she is so manifestly confused in both instances.

Yet the beauty of the scholarly life lies not in the exchange of bare assertions and opinions, but in the submission of all protagonists to the gentle light of truth, and in the final analysis, that can only be established through evidence and reasoning. It is in such a spirit that we offer the list of comments numbered below, that correct Orofino’s misunderstandings. And moreover, writing this response gives us a further opportunity succinctly to encapsulate several key points about what is, unavoidably, a highly complex work. Normally, such a response would appear within the JIATS itself, and their editorial board did indeed invite me to make such a response. However, since this wonderful journal is now facing severe financial problems, and might never appear again, or at the very least will take many months or even years to produce its next issue, I decided to present my response here, very much more swiftly, rather than await an uncertain appearence in JIATS.

The book in question is: Cathy Cantwell and Robert Mayer, 2012: A Noble Noose of Methods, The Lotus Garland Synopsis: A Mahāyoga Tantra and its Commentary, Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Vienna. The review of it in question is by Giacomella Orofino, in JIATS Issue 7, August 2013.

[1] pages 454-455: Complimenting our courage in attempting such an arduous and complex task, Orofino portrays us at the outset of her review with an opening quote about the great difficulties of “reconstructing…..the original text of a literary work”,  which implies that we actually attempted to reconstruct the original Thabs zhags Root Tantra text. Alas, not so! We pursue, of course, only the very much more modest task of reconstructing its archetype, that is, the closest ancestor of all extant versions, not the original Tibetan version. And we do not even attempt a critical edition of the Commentary, although, for some unknown reason, Orofino clearly seems to think that we do (page 460).

[2] A major part of the introduction to our book concerns Padmasambhava, and Orofino likewise seems pleased with this work. Yet, unfortunately, she somehow manages to misunderstand, almost to the point of reversing, the main thrust of our argumentation. On page 456, she writes:

‘[Cantwell and Mayer] have concluded that the Padma rGyal po of the .. [Thabs zhags Commentary] cannot be identified with the eighth-century historical figure of Padmasambhava; he might rather correspond to the mythologized tantric master of the later period.’

We nowhere conclude that the Padma rGyal po of the Thabs zhags Commentary cannot be identified with the eighth-century figure of Padmasambhava. Since we are aware from the ethnographic record that gurus of Padmasambhava’s type are often mythologised within their own lifetimes, we cannot accept without further analysis that Padmasambhava too was not mythologised in the 8th century. Hence we seek to complicate the facile assumption of an 8th century historical Padmasambhava and a later mythologised one, by presenting evidence that Padmasambhava is already highly mythologised in such a very early text as the Thabs zhags Commentary, in precisely the same terms as later employed by Nyang ral. Moreover, the Dunhuang version mythologises him yet further in its unique marginal annotations.

[3] In the following sentence, also on page 456, she compounds the confusion by misreading our analysis of Padmasambhava’s putative authorial relations to the Man ngag lta ba’i phreng ba and the Commentary on “A Noble Noose of Methods”:

‘This [non-identity of the Padma rGyal po of the Thabs zhags Commentary with an 8th century historical Padmasambhava] can also be confirmed by the fact that it is not possible to observe remarkable similarities between the Commentary on “A Noble Noose of Methods” and the Man ngag lta ba’i phreng ba, the famous early work attributed to the historical Padmasambhava.’

We have in fact shown something entirely different, because we question the popular modern presumption, deriving originally from Ken Eastman’s tentative comments which were magnified uncritically by subsequent scholars, that the Thabs zhags Commentary is attributable to Padmasambhava. We are certainly not saying that some later Padmasambhava composed the Thabs zhags Commentary; rather, we are saying that the text itself does not by any means make clear that its references to Padmasambhava should be taken as authorial attributions at all. On the contrary, Padmasambhava seems to be presented not as the merely human author of the Thabs zhags Commentary, but more likely as the transcendent enlightened inspiration for the Root Tantra itself.  In her above statement, Orofino seems to miss this, our key point, implying that we believe the Padma rGyal po who is eulogised at the end of the Thabs zhags Commentary must be its human composer. Moreover, we do not even assert (or deny) that the Man ngag lta ba’i phreng ba is by the historical Padmasambhava. We simply observe that if there is any written work which might, according to the criteria of the modern academic historian, possibly be by the historical Padmasambhava, then the Man ngag lta ba’i phreng ba seems to be the best candidate so far. But there is nothing in the Thabs zhags Commentary which might suggest it to be by the same author.

[4] On page 457, Orofino seems to misconstrue the relevant findings of Zimmerman and Skilling about the Bathang Kanjur. These are not, as Orofino says, that the Bathang collection as a whole might even possibly predate the 14th century Tshalpa Kanjur. Their relevant findings are, by contrast, that on close examination, some of Bathang’s individual constituent texts preserve very old readings indeed, even (Zimmerman on the Tathāgatagarbha Sūtra) predating Ralpachen’s 9th century reforms. That is why we make the point that Zimmerman and Skilling’s finding is consistent with our stemma, in that the Bathang Thabs zhags also shows readings of great antiquity, predating the Dunhuang text.

[5] On page 458, Orofino writes as though we never intended to make a full-on stemma codicum, even though this is quite clearly exactly what we do intend to do:

“One should notice, though, that rather than constructing a stemma codicum in a strict Lachmanian (sic) sense, the two scholars [Cantwell and Mayer] have outlined a complex diagram of the possible transmissions of the Noble Noose of Methods, displaying the relationship between them. In this diagram the length of the lines of descent has no significance from a historical point of view.”

Since it is said that Lachmann never made a stemma codicum himself (Greetham 1994:323), and since her statement was incomprehensible to us, we asked Orofino for clarification. She confirmed that she meant we had not attempted or intended to make a stemma codicum in the classic tradition of Lachmann’s main modern interpreters and intellectual descendants, such as M. L. West and Paul Maas, and that she should have said, “in the classical Lachmanian sense”, rather than in “a strict Lachmanian sense.” On the contrary, let us assure our readers that: (i) we have in fact made a stemma codicum; (ii) it is in the style of Lachmann’s main modern disciples, Paul Maas, and Martin L. West, our emeritus colleague at Oxford; (iii) it does have historical significance, allowing us to recover archetypal readings (but yes, the length of diagram lines is of course immaterial); (iv) it is the most salient, prominent outcome of our text critical efforts in this monograph.

[6] On page 458, she writes that

“Unfortunately, one should notice that the severely truncated form of the Bstan ’gyur versions sets limitations to a clear-cut examinatio.

We do indeed say (p.47) that almost 40% of the bsTan ‘gyur root text lemmata are lost.  Moreover, the lemmata are lost for some of the critical readings which demonstrate a number of the indicative errors of the sub-branch descending from “c”.  So we cannot know whether they might in fact have been indicative errors of the whole branch descending from “b”.

Yet Orofino’s statement is misleading if the reader might get the impression that this loss hampers our main overall picture of five separate branches from the archetype.  It does not – that is clear.  The main limitation is in terms of our understanding of the status of “b” – whether it only had a limited number of distinctive readings, or whether it was already riddled with many of “c”‘s errors as well.

[7] On page 459, Orofino confuses our own stemmatic critical text with part of its apparatus. She says:

‘The authors assert that their aim is (25) “.. accepting and even celebrating the ongoing permutations of these texts, but still finding value in stemmatic techniques as a way of recovering both their original archetypes and also significant moment in their history.” Given such premises, one might wonder whether this ambivalent approach might not cause some confusion in establishing the critical text.’

Our resolve to show alongside our own stemmatic edition full data sets of how the textual tradition has ebbed and flowed through long periods of its history, has had no bearing whatosever on the establishment of our own ‘critical text’. It has bearing only on the non-critical unedited text we choose to append as various types of apparatus. These include separate text-envelopes, presenting the many commentarial intrusions into the root text that characterise the transmitted canonical versions from the most popular bKa’ ‘gyur and rNying ma’i rgyud ‘bum editions. Our own ‘critical text’ for the root text is based on  stemmatic principles, and is not in itself ambivalent.  Yet, our theoretical standpoint, that it is important to recognise all the historically significant presentations of the text, is indeed built into our presentation of the wider data sets that comprise the monograph as a whole, and we make no apology for this.  There is no confusion beteween this and our stemmatic reconstruction. It is important to recall that the purpose of an edition is to facilitate further scholarship by providing various data sets, and for this reason, we consider it inadequate simply to construct our own edition without also representing the versions that Tibetans have in real history actually relied upon. Yet we do not muddle these historical traditions with our own edition. Instead, what we do is highlight the readings and whole passages of text which differ in the Tshal pa bKa’ ‘gyur and in the Bhutanese rNying ma’i rgyud ‘bum versions, including separate clearly marked text envelopes with passages of text given in these widespread and historically important traditional transmissions of the text.  We consider critical editing neither to be about producing monoliths, nor about producing abstract aesthetic artifacts: we consider critical editing to be about presenting a range of useful and comprehensive data sets.

[8] On page 459, Orofino says we claim to have reconstructed the entire archetypal text (contradicting her implication elsewhere that we were reconstructing the original; nor is it clear how we could have achieved any reconstruction at all, if, as she says elsewhere, we had not even attempted a full-on stemma codicum). Be that as it may, we nowhere make any claim to have reconstructed the entire archetypal text. We cannot quantify exactly how much has been reconstructed. We hope it is a good proportion, but certainly cannot claim everything, and were at pains never to claim this.  Out of this basic confusion, Orofino consequently criticises our decision to preserve archaic orthography in the apparatus.  On the contrary, to place uncertain reconstructions of archaic orthography in the main body of what is in the final analysis our own text, would be a misleading affectation—better present them in the apparatus.

She then adds some largely tangential comments about the need to study Old Tibetan.

1. As we say, we draw attention to all readings which might possibly have been in the archetype, including many cases of very minor variants where our five groups descending from the archetype are divided, so that stemmatic logic will not establish with certainty the the precise spelling or particle in the archetype.  We still draw attention to readings which might have been in the archetype by italicising them in the apparatus, so we are not ignoring or belittling the evidence of the possibly earliest readings.

2. These possibly archetypal readings which are in the notes rather than the body of our edition unfortunately do not represent a distinctive form of Old Tibetan which could give us any great breakthrough in research into Old Tibetan. There are in any case not a lot of them, as browsing the apparatus of our edition will make clear (perhaps Orofino, like some non-specialists, tends to overestimate a priori the degree to which the formal chos skad of canonical texts has changed since early times; yet one must be mindful that the modern editions of the Kanjur and Tenjur remain to this day packed with translations made in those early times). One example of our possibly archetypal readings (Ch. 37) is rngul, instead of dngul; it is well-known that the head letter ra is often used instead of da prefix in archaic texts.  But even this kind of example is extremely rare in our text.  A more typical example is pa’i as opposed to pa yi (various instances); or gcig du as opposed to gcig tu (Ch.16) or krō dha instead of kro dha in mantras (Ch.14), or the particle, ste instead of de (Ch.12).  Should we be accused of failing to apply academic research on Old Tibetan by our italicisation of these minor variants in the apparatus, rather than their inclusion in our edition?

3. We give detailed information on the codicological features and orthographical peculiarities of the Dunhuang ms. (a detailed section p.32-34), the only edition of which the copy itself is very old (in the other versions which inherit the earliest readings, it is quite likely that some archaic features were dropped).

[9] On page 460, Orofino opens her discussion of the Commentary text with the words

“As regards the critical edition of the Commentary…”

We made no critical edition of the commentary, and have never called our edition of it critical. We made a simple diplomatic edition based on the Dunhuang ms, the most complete version, straightforwardly collated against the Tenjur version without any choices of individual spellings on our part, and to complete the data set, collated also those commentarial intrusions found in the various root text versions.  In the few places where the Dunhuang text was missing, we continued to present the Tenjur text, and very rarely when it too was corrupted, the Tshal pa Kanjur version (clearly marked off so that it could not be confused with the Dunhuang manuscript transcription). It is important to grasp at the outset that there are no recensional variations between the Dunhuang and Tenjur witnesses of the Commentary (the Tshal pa fragments are of course derivative of the Tenjur version): they only differ in transmissional errors and in the sections of them that survived. Orofino has palpably not understood this fundamental consideration. Our diplomatic edition was thus an informed and well-judged strategy, based on the consideration that there are no recensional differences between these versions, and on the overwhelming importance of making this unique commentary readily available for study in terms of its meanings and doctrines. See also the next point:

[10] On page 460, Orofino continues her discussion about our presentation of the Commentary text by saying that

“Collating witnesses that have a gap of more than seven hundred years between them is…not without controversial aspects from a methodological point of view.”

She means the Tenjur is seven hundred years later than the Dunhuang text. Actually, for what is primarily a diplomatic transcription like this of two versions with no recensional variations between them, it might well be described as quite uncontroversial. Be that as it may, our stemma of its lemmata has shown the Tenjur to have older indicative readings than the Dunhuang witness by at least two generations of copying, a finding that Orofino herself accepts elsewhere. It is therefore not only self-contradictory, but also naive and misleading, for her here to assert so simplistically that the Tenjur text is seven hundred years later than the Dunhuang text (cf recentiores non deteriores, the more recent copyist may have copied an older manuscript).

[11] On page 460, Orofino says about our Commentary edition that

” the great linguistic lack of homogeneity between the two lines of witnesses [Tenjur and Dunhuang]….makes the authors’ choice of reconstructing the overall shape of the text…problematic.”

This statement is factually mistaken. There is no “great lack of linguistic homogeneity” between the Tenjur and Dunhuang texts, and in fact, there are no recensional variations between them, merely transmissional ones. Hence these texts are abundantly suited to be collated together.

[12] Moreover, Orofino’s idea that it is problematic that we decided to reconstruct the overall shape of the text, is absurd.  The Dunhuang text omits a few lines here and there, or gets the order of a passage of text muddled (as in one section) or omits a couple of very short chapters, perhaps by eyeskip.  Yet there is little doubt that these corruptions are due to scribal lapse, not to design: they are transmissional, not recensional.  Where they survive in the Tenjur, we therefore very correctly supply the reader with the missing lines or passages, and correct the order. Of course, all this is transparently marked and suitably signalled with headings in the main text (such as the opening to Chapter 31), not only hidden in the apparatus, so that it is entirely clear where the Dunhuang manuscript lacked the text, and from which source the text is continued.  Not to include the omitted passages at all, for the sake of avoiding an imginary “variance between different methodological procedures”, seems in this case an absurdity. As we have already pointed out above, the Dunhuang and Tenjur texts are the same basic recension, not different ones, varying only in transmissional error; and, as we have also pointed out above, the indicative readings of the Tenjur text’s lemmata are slightly older, not 700 years younger, than the Dunhuang text.

Finally, we should mention that this remarkable text is the most important source so far known to scholarship for an understanding of early rNying ma tantrism. Our task is to present comprehensive and transparent data sets of it useful for scholars. We must in the final analysis consider what textual criticism can do for rNying ma studies, not what rNying ma studies can do for textual criticism. We aim not at abstract aesthetic perfection, but at the most complete, transparent, presentation of functional data.

Orofino herself has never attempted an edition outside of the Kanjur, nor a stemmatic textual reconstruction. One of Orofino’s two published editions is a very brief diplomatic transcription of part of the Mañjuśrīnāmasaṃgīti (Orofino 2007). The other is a parallel presentation with minimal apparatus of two different Tibetan translations of the Sekkodeśa (1994), in which she seeks, controversially, to emend the root text to conform with various of its later commentaries. Hence she writes (p. 38): ‘my aim was to present a text [of the Sekkodeśa] conforming with the readings and meanings of the various commentaries, prātikas etc. both in Sanskrit and Tibetan’.

A very major consideration in editing Kanjur texts, especially the more famous ones, is the existence of multiple Tibetan translations of the same text from Sanskrit, as also of Tibetan translations of differing Sanskrit versions. Such recensions are thus inherently open, not closed, and therefore problematic for stemmatic reconstruction, since there is no single archetype from which all versions descend. The variant versions can moreover interact further within Tibet, complicating matters through contamination. Such factors create a proliferation of variants that are recensional (made deliberately) rather than transmissional (arising by accident), and at a very deep and imponderable level.

Yet rNying ma tantric texts are in many cases quite different, and Orofino seems unable to envisage this; in fact, she does not make it entirely clear if she is even considering the crucial distinction that must be made between redactional and transmissional variants. The largely indigenous, Tibetan-produced texts of the NGB have a very much smaller proportion of translations from Sanskrit at all, let alone multiple ones of any kind. The five rNying ma texts we have investigated so far moreover each appear to originate in a single moment of origin within Tibet, whether redactorial, or, in one case, possibly translational. And in the case of these five Mahāyoga texts, we can also see there is a much lower proportion of recensional differences.

This is not a statement we make idly. We are not simply assuming these variations are transmissional rather than recensional. Over the years, we have devoted a great deal of energy to minutely analysing the nature and causes of textual variation as found in rNying ma tantras. In our unpublished work sheets from editing two major NGB texts, which we hope to publish electronically when the technology is developed, we exhaustively analyse every single variant in every single witness of the texts to ascertain as exactly as possible what the probable reason for variation was, be it eyeskip, haplography, dittography, homophony, etc. etc. Some indication of the scope of this work can be seen in our article of 2006, “Two Proposals for Critically Editing the Texts of the rNying ma’i rGyud ‘bum”, Revue d’Etudes Tibétaines, Vol.10, April 2006: 56-70.

Interestingly, Orofino seems to accept our analysis of the earliest reconstructable readings—her main criticism seems in fact to be that we should keep to it more rigidly in the main text of our edition! But she is confused in points of detail and basic principle as set out above, and also more generally by the transmissional environment of the  Thabs zhags and its Commentary, where transmissional errors predominate over recensional ones, where there is no multiple translation from Sanskrit causing an open recension, where a very early witnesses from Dunhuang is available, and where the recension has proven closed.  Hence it is unsurprising that at several points in her review, she palpably seems to misconstrue what we do, and inadvertently projects the more familiar problems of her previous Kanjur editing onto the rather different rNying ma works we have attempted. Above all, she seems to be constantly deceived by an a priori expectation that recensional variation must necessarily prevail at all points: yet it does not. In addition, she seems to have neglected some of the basics of textual criticism, such as the distinction between an archetype and an original, or the principle of recentiores non deteriores.

Maas himself conceded that where there was substantial contamination, stemmatics could not reconstruct the archetype, although of course it still remained an indispensible tool for identifying the separate descents of different groups of texts, and bringing out the evidence for contamination. It is equally clear that stemmatic analysis also runs into limitations where recensions are open, rather than closed; but even here, one can still often use stemmatics to establish hypearchetypes, or even to establish the archetypes for each of the various versions. Many Classicists might agree that most transmissions of Greek and Latin texts from Classical Antiquity are so complex and rich, so full of contamination and so cloaked by long periods of transmissional obscurity, that in all likelihood few if any them is in truth amenable to stemmatic reconstruction of the archetype. This situation applies even more to the great majority of Buddhist Sanskrit texts. Likewise, it seems that most (and possibly all) Kanjur texts so far edited have similar conditions, so that the Maas-style system of stemmatic reconstruction of archetypal readings cannot be unproblematically applied to them either, as Harrison, Eimer, Skilling, Silk and others have pointed out. Thus, these authors have sometimes used stemmatics only for examining variants, and figuring out the stemmatic relations among witnesses, identifying hypearchetypes, and so on, although others might try to stemmatically reconstruct multiple archetypes. Jonathan Silk (1994), for example, uses stemmatics to reconstruct the archetypes of both Tibetan translations of the Heart Sūtra, his Recensions A and B, although he notes complexities in the case of Recension A.

But we submit that at least some of the rNying ma tantra transmission is fundamentally different. After critically editing five rNying ma Mahāyoga tantras, each one in an exhaustive manner designed to reconnoitre and explore this hitherto unknown territory in as much detail as possible, we became struck by how fundamentally the recension of these five Mahāyoga texts differed from the Kanjur findings so far. Firstly, their recensions were closed, rather than open. Secondly, when compared to the Kanjur findings so far, their transmissions were neither rich nor complex. In the case of the Thabs zhags, with its Dunhuang witness, we avoid long periods of obscurity. Even when, as with the Thabs zhags, a wide variety of witnesses were available that spanned huge expanses of time and geography, their transmissions in fact seemed so narrow and so simple by comparison to the Kanjur, and their differences so much transmissional rather than recensional, that we began to suspect wholesale reconstruction of archetypal readings might even be applicable. I am reasonably convinced that Pasquali himself would have agreed, for he was a neo-Lachmannian, not an anti-Lachmannian. He did not reject stemmatic reconstruction per se, but rather pointed out that it could only really work under particular conditions. Since we believe its transmission does enjoy precisely such conditions, the Thabs zhags, extant in so many witnesses from different times and places, became our second test bed for this theory. Our first test bed, using the same methods and for the same reasons, was the edition of the Kīlaya Nirvāṇa Tantra (Cantwell and Mayer 2007), which was received with critical acclaim from Leonard van der Kuijp, amongst others (Van der Kuijp 2010: 448-449).

 

Bibliography:

Cathy Cantwell and Robert Mayer, 2006. “Two Proposals for Critically Editing the Texts of the rNying ma’i rGyud ‘bum”, Revue d’Etudes Tibétaines, Vol.10, April 2006: 56-70

Cathy Cantwell and Robert Mayer, 2007. The Kīlaya Nirvāṇa Tantra and the Vajra Wrath Tantra: two texts from the Ancient Tantra Collection, Vienna, The Austrian Academy of Sciences Press.

Leonard van der Kuijp, 2010 “Faulty Transmissions: Some Notes on Tibetan Textual Criticism and the Impact of Xylography”, in Chayet, Anne (et al., eds), Edition, éditions. l’écrit au Tibet, évolution et devenir. Indus Verlag, München.

Per Kvaerne, Compte-rendu de “Cathy Cantwell, Robert Mayer: A Noble Noose of Methods, The Lotus Garland Synopsis: A Mahâyoga Tantra and its Commentary”, Revue d’Etudes Tibétaines, no. 28, Octobre 2013, pp. 127-129.

Paul Maas, Textual Criticism (Oxford: Clarendon, 1958), 49; trans. of Textkritik (3rd ed.; Leipzig: Teubner, 1957; 1st ed., 1927).

Giacomella Orofino, 1994. Sekoddeśa. A critical edition of the Tibetan Translations. Rome, IsMEO.

Giacomella Orofino, 2007. “From Archaeological Discovery
to Text Analysis: the Khor chags Monastery Findings
and the Mañjuśrīnāmasaṃgīti Fragment”, in Discoveries in Western Tibet and the Western Himalayas, eds Amy Heller and Giacomella Orofino. PIATS 2003: Tibetan Studies: Proceedings of the Tenth Seminar of the International Association for Tibetan Studies, Oxford, 2003. Brill, Leiden.

Jonathan Silk 1994 The Heart Sūtra in Tibetan: A Critical Edition of the Two Recensions Contained in the Kanjur. Arbeitskreis für Tibetische und Buddhistische Studien, Universität Wien.

Christian K. Wedemeyer, 2010. Review of The Kīlaya Nirvāṇa Tantra and the Vajra Wrath Tantra: two texts from the Ancient Tantra Collection, by Cathy Cantwell and Robert Mayer. Religious Studies Review, Volume 36, Issue 1, March 2010, Page: 101.

 


 


[1] Van der Kuijp 2010: 448, here referring especially to Cantwell and Mayer 2007, which was made using identical technical methods and theoretical approaches as Cantwell and Mayer 2013.

[2] Religious Studies Review Volume 36, Issue 1, March 2010, Page: 101,

[3] Kvaerne 2013: 128, 129

[4] Personal communication, 8/10/2012

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Early guru yoga, indigenous ritual, and Padmasambhava

Numerous guru yoga liturgies are found throughout the many schools of Tibetan Buddhism, far more than one can hope to enumerate.  A few of them are very famous, for example, the guru yoga Tsongkhapa wrote for himself known as the dGa’ ldan lha brgya ma, the ‘Hundred Deities of the Land of Joy’, with its famous prayer the dmigs brtse ma. Jeff Watt tells me that this in turn is said to be modelled on an earlier one developed by the Sa skya pa master g.Yag ston sangs rgyas dpal (1348-1414) in which the great Sa skya Paṇḍita (1182-1251) is identified with the Bodhisattva Mañjuśrī. bKa’ brgyud pas too have many famous guru yogas. For example, the Karmapa school have the Thun bzhi bla ma’i rnal ‘byor or ‘Four Session Guru Yoga’ written by the  8th Karmapa, Mi bskyod rdo rje (1507-1554) in which he is visualised surrounded by dakinis in several colours, and which includes numerous prayers, offerings, empowerments, and the famous mantra Karma pa mkhyen no. The rNying ma pas too have innumerable guru yogas, many but by no means all devoted to forms of Padmasambhava, and employing Padmasambhava’s famous Seven Line Prayer and his Vajra Guru mantra. Amongst the most famous is ‘Ja’ tshon snying po’s (1585 – 1656) gter ma dKon mchog spyi’i ‘dus, a highly elaborate guru yoga that encompasses the complete practice of all three roots of Lama, Yidam and Khandro, as well as the entire development and completion stages of meditation, and which has its own complex sngon gro, fire pūjas, protector rites, completion stage practices, and so forth. The tradition of writing guru yogas within a lama’s own lifetime still continues unabated, for example, the complex guru yoga the late Dilgo Khyentse wrote for himself, or the simpler one by the 16th Karmapa. Many guru yogas have their own empowerment rites and cannot be practiced without them, although some of the simpler ones can be practiced without empowerments.

Given the ubiquity of guru yoga sādhanas throughout Tibetan Buddhism, and their sometimes great complexity, not to mention the richness of their commentarial literature and the great wealth of their religious art, it can be surprising to recall how little equivalent practice is recorded from Indian sources. I am not aware of any comparable guru yogas of Indian origins for Vimalamitra, Hūṃkāra or Mañjuśrīmitra, for Saraha, for Tilopa, Naropa or Maitrīpa. There are none even for Āryadeva or Jñānapāda, founding masters of India’s immensely well-documented Guhyasamāja lineages.

Of course there is ample evidence that guru lineage, guru devotion, and the guru’s empowerment, were just as important for Indian Tantric Buddhists as for Tibetans. Gurus were undoubtedly understood in India as the embodiment of all enlightened beings and of all enlightened qualities, and they were regularly visualised as such, for example in various preliminaries to other practices. Yet it seems that in India, however widespread, such practices did not generally or very often attain the status of complex, stand-alone sādhanas. The very term guru yoga seems unattested in India as the name for a canonical genre of tantric liturgies. Indian compendia such as the Sādhanamāla, or canonical translations from Sanskrit such as the Tenjur, are not filled with numerous guru yoga liturgies, as we find in Tibetan compendia such as the Rin chen gter mdzod. Rather, they are filled with numerous deity liturgies. It would seem that in India, with the obvious exception of the Śākyamuni Buddha himself and his attendant entourage, complex and complete tantric sādhanas were predominantly addressed to a-historic or trans-historic figures, such as Buddhas from other world systems or pure realms, transcendent cosmic Bodhistattvas, and exotic tantric deities. They were less addressed to human teachers identifiable in current or recent local history.

Nor is this insight limited to modern academic scholarship alone. The present Dalai Lama writes “I think that in India there was no manual exclusively for guru yoga practice, although you will find in many Indian sadhanas a guru yoga at the beginning, for the purpose of accumulating merit. In Tibet, however, there are many guru yoga practices” (Tenzin Gyatso, Union of Bliss and Emptiness, page 16).

Clearly then, the guru yoga that we now know first became ubiquitous in Tibet, not in India. That is not to say that Tibetans were unable to claim scriptural support for the practice: Christian Wedemeyer recently sent me Sakya Pandita’s Lam zab mo Bla ma’i rnal ‘byor, which goes to some length to justify his practice of guru yoga on the basis of scripture. But as far as I am currently aware, guru yoga liturgy as a flourishing independent genre seems to have first developed not in India, but in the early phyi dar in Tibet, where it appeared more or less simultaneously within several closely interlinked religious circles. The earliest I currently know of is a very short one indeed for the Indian siddha Virupa, written by the founder of the Sakya tradition Sachen Kunga Nyingpo (1092–1158), which Jeff Watt recently sent me. However I am unconvinced this is really a guru yoga proper in the Tibetan sense. It seems more Indian in style, occuring only as the brief preliminary basis for a special upadeśa on invoking the guru’s blessings into liquids, which were then touched to the three places of body, speech and mind. Only two and a half lines of the text refer to meditation on the guru, followed by three and a half lines on using the blessings to empower the liquids.  The early Kagyu were renowned for the emphasis they placed on the guru, and a more convincing guru yoga that Marta Sernesi recently sent me is attributed to Phag mo gru pa rDo rje rgyal po (1110-1170), the famous bKa’ brgyud master and the brother of the great rNying ma lama Kathog Dampa Deshek, who for many years had been Sa chen Kunga snying po’s disciple. This has many of the hallmarks of later guru yogas. And as Dan Martin points out, other only slightly younger 12th-century bKa’ brgyud figures like Zhang G.yu brag pa (1123-93) and Gling ras pa (1128-1188) are also significant in the development of early guru yoga.

The earliest known Padmasambhava guru yoga sādhanas I have looked at are by Nyang Ral Nyi ma’i ‘od zer (1124 to 1192).  Unfortunately, these are now only extant in 17th century re-editions from Mindroling, so we cannot be sure of the originals. Yet in their current form they are truly full-scale and complex, describing both peaceful and wrathful forms, much longer than Phag mo gru’s. It seems unlikely that later redactors would have invented all of this out of nothing. However, Dan Martin tells me that the Bka’ rgya ma texts attributed to Nyang Ral’s contemporary, the ostensibly bKa’ brgyud pa Zhang G.yu brag pa, were actually written slightly earlier than Nyang ral’s, and are equally Padmsambhava-centric. I have not been able to find any such texts so far, and moreover it would seem that much of the Bka’ rgya ma was written after Zhang’s death by his disciples, but if Dan is nevertheless right, then such a scenario could suggest that both drew on an earlier already existent tradition of Padmasambhava devotional ritual.

A generation later, Nyang ral’s successor, Guru Chowang  (1212-1270), developed the Padamsambhava guru yoga still further, into the magnificent complexity we know nowadays.

On close examination however, something unique can be seen in these early rNying ma guru yogas. They do something which the Sa skya and bKa’ brgyud guru yogas do not attempt. Nyang ral and Chowang and, according to Dan, Zhang G.yu brag pa as well, seek to embed the entire rNying ma ritual path within a particular Tibetan historical narrative centred on Padmasambhava.  All its treasures and  treasure discoverers, all its yidams and protectors, are inextricably woven together with the narratives of hagiographies and dharma histories. Central to all of this is the person of Padmasambhava and his place in Tibetan history. If in the Sakya and Kagyu guru yogas one was merely invoking the blessings of an enlightened guru and his lineage,  in the Padmasambhava guru yogas, as in many of the related yidam, ḍākinī and protector practices, one was in addition invoking an archetypal moment in Tibetan national history, a moment in which the worlds of the Buddhas and of the Tibetan peoples and their empire uniquely intersected. The ways in which this works are too numerous to mention in a blog entry, but as just one example, one might mention the gter ma tradition, in which successive generations of treasure discoverers are understood as the reincarnations of Emperor Trisongdetsen and of Padmasambhava’s 25 disciples, and the treasures they find are understood as teachings given them originally by Padmasambhava during his 8th century visit to Tibet. Since most rNying ma ritual is terma, the implication is that the greater part of the rNyingma ritual tradition is seen as the ongoing re-enactment through later Tibetan history of the prototypes first established during Trisongdetsen’s reign.

In future blogs, I want to explore a somewhat heuristic hypothesis I have been developing that seeks to help us find out how, why and when the rNying ma Padmasambhava cult took such a distinctive shape. My hypothesis locates these developments within the dynamic interplay between imported Indian Tantrism and indigenous Tibetan ritual. I will suggest that they first crystallised around the person of Padmasambhava as the result of his special role as the convertor of Tibetan deities into Buddhist protectors. I will further speculate that a set of well-defined indigenous Tibetan ritual preferences for a particular style of integrating narratives (rabs, smrang) within ritual, might have contributed to a background cultural climate that favoured the development of the Padmasambhava cult in Tibet in the particular form that it took.

 

 

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Padmasambhava in early Tibetan myth and ritual, Part 4: so who was Śāntigarbha?

This belated blog is, as promised, for Dan Martin, who had questions for me some weeks ago about the way Śāntigarbha is thought about in the later rNying ma tradition.

 So just who was Śāntigarbha? Śāntigarbha, an Indian paṇḍit whom some traditional sources locate in Khri Srong lde’u btsan’s era as a prominent translator of and commentator on Yogatantra, or even as consecrator of Samye Monastery, and others associate closely with Padmasambhava, has acquired some topical historical significance in recent years specifically because he has become rather surprisingly described as relatively insignificant. To be more precise, a recent academic assertion is not so much that he is insignificant in the eyes of Western scholarship (could anything really be insignificant for Western scholarship?), nor necessarily that he was particularly insignificant to the ancient authors of the Dunhuang texts, but rather, that he is comparatively insignificant in the eyes of later rNying ma tradition, and certainly not a person of sufficient stature to venture opinions on the great Padmasambhava. This supposed relative insignificance of Śāntigarbha in the later rNying ma tradition has been juxtaposed with his portayal in a specific Dunhuang text, and the supposed contrast used, via a convoluted and to my mind elusive logic, to support the historical conclusion that for the particular authors of this specific Dunhuang text, Padmasambhava was considered merely an average (albeit respected) kind of guru, and not a uniquely mythologised being.[1]  The precise context is the referencing of Śāntigarbha in a marginal note concerning a praise of Padmasambhava in IOL TibJ 321, the Dunhuang ms of the Phags pa Thabs kyi zhags pa padma ‘phreng gi don bsdus pa’i ‘grel pa, a tantric text on which Cathy & I have just published a 375-page tome, so we feel well-placed to address issues relating to it. In our book, we come to the opposite conclusion: While much of the Padmasambhava devotional literature had of course not yet been written, and while important sections of early proto-rNying ma literature do indeed not make Padmasambhava into a uniquely important figure, we believe this particular Dunhuang text does do precisely this. Like PT44, we believe it is crucial textual evidence for an already uniquely highly mythologised Padmasambhava, a trope found in some proto-rNying ma tantric documents but clearly absent in others. But before we begin, let me point out for those who might already feel bewildered, that these discussions of the interconnected referencing of Śāntigarbha and Padmasambhava in an old manuscript are not as trivial as they might appear. The extreme paucity of genuinely old surviving textual evidence means that our understanding of the development of the historically important Padmasambhava tradition depends quite a lot on our interpretation of just who Śāntigarbha was and what his relationship to Padmasambhava was, in this one particular text.

In this brief blog, I am therefore not primarily interested in discussing a historical Śāntigarbha for modern historical scholars—anyone interested in that is referred to Dan Martin’s monumental TibSkrit, which remains as ever the starting point of choice. Rather, I am interested in the Śāntigarbha envisaged by later rNying ma tradition, because it is his status in the later rNying ma tradition which has been used to construct, by means of a comparison, an historical argument about the early Padmasambhava tradition. Actually, I’m not entirely sure if the argument is logically coherent even if its premises were true, but that is another question—here, I will only examine its premises, to see if they are philologically supported. So, is this recent academic assertion actually true? Was (or is) Śāntigarbha really so insignificant in the later rNying ma tradition, as has recently been claimed? To my mind, the answer is ‘no’: Śāntigarbha should not in any meaningful sense be described as insignificant to the later rNying ma tradition, because I believe the Śāntigarbha of IOL Tib J 321 is intended to be the same Śāntigarbha as the ‘Great Vidyādhara of India’ who occupies such a prominent and privileged niche within the unique octadic formations that structure so much of rNying ma pa thought. I am not so far aware of Tibetan tradition specifying more than one prominent tantrist called Śāntigarbha living simultaneously—on the contrary, some traditional sources do specify that Padmasambhava’s teacher Śāntigarbha and the one who consecrated Samye etc are the same person. Nor has any modern scholar suggested such a distinction. As a result, I think the there is only one Śāntigarbha, and the elusive argument based on his mention in IOL Tib J 321, which we present in note 3 below, simply falls down.

While some seem to see rNying ma tantrism as narrowly Padmasambhava-centric, this  is clearly not the case, and never has been. There are other founding figures too, like Vimalamitra and Śāntarakṣita. Moreover, as Jeff Watt has recently reminded us in a fine series of lectures at Oxford University, later rNying ma Tantrism, in its texts, its rituals, and its iconography, is unlike that of any other Tibetan tradition because it has a symmetrical patterning running through it, consisting of densely interelated sets of eight. Although individual members of these interelated sets can vary a little from text to text, the sets themselves remain reasonably constant as structuring devices, and lend a unique shape to rNying ma tantrism. The sets include Padmasambhava and in many ways can be seen to revolve around him, but notwithstanding the hyperbole of some devotional literature, even they are not entirely or exclusively reducible to him.

Perhaps the most fundamental octad is the set of eight major yi-dams, the famous bKa’-brgyad or Eight Pronouncement Deities: Yamāntaka (‘jam dpal sku), Hayagrīva (padma gsung), Śrīheruka (yang dag thugs) Vajrāmṛta (bdud rtsi yon tan), Vajrakīla (rdo rje phur pa), Mātaraḥ (ma mo rbod gtong), *Lokastotrapūjā (’jig rten mchod bstod) and *Vajramantrabhiru (mod pa drag sngags). Thangkas often show these eight major yi-dam deities sharing a basic iconographic appearence of three heads, six arms, four legs, and two wings, differentiated only by the sets of hand symbols they hold and a few other particularities. Such a uniformity of conception across a whole set of yi-dam deities is not found in the other Tibetan traditions.  Since they are nominally at least the main meditational deities of the rNying ma school, the arrangement of their tantric textual sources also lend a structuring device for organising the sections of scriptures in the rNying ma canon (NGB), as also the treasure texts within Kongtrul’s famous collection the Rin chen gter mdzod.  Despite recent claims to the contrary, all these eight deities are moreover normally understood by the rNying ma tradition as transcendant enlightened forms of Heruka.[2]

Connected with these eight meditational deities are the Eight Great Vidyādharas of India, often known as the Rig ’dzin gyi slob dpon brgyad, and it is here that Śāntigarbha features so prominently. The Eight Great Vidyādharas of India are often described as living in the Eight Great Cemeteries of India, and they are key sources in this world for the lineage transmissions of the Eight Pronouncement Deities (bKa’-brgyad). Lineage is extremely important in Tantric Buddhism, and the Eight Great Vidyādharas play a roughly equivalent role for the rNying ma pa to that played by Tilopa and Naropa for the bKa’ brgyud pa, or Virupa for the Sa skya pa. Thus the Eight Great Vidyādharas of India are at different moments the gurus, teachers, spiritual brethren, and disciples of Padmasambhava, his spiritual contacts several of whom remained in India but whose teachings he brought to Tibet. Each one of the eight is the teacher of one of the Eight Pronouncement Deities, and as such, these eight Vidyādharas are constantly celebrated at the level of ritual, hagiography and art. Although the lists vary a little, Śāntigarbha is normally included, often as Padmasambhava’s guru for *Vajramantrabhīru (mod pa drag sngags). Being an important Guru of Padmasambhava, illustrations of Śāntigarbha are therefore quite widespread, either as an individual, or as seated above Padmasambhava’s head in position of honour as his guru. For example, Śāntigarbha is prominent as part of the central visualisation for the Rig ‘dzin ‘dus pa, the most popular of all Padmasambhava rites that was revealed by ‘Jigs med gling pa (1729-1798), where Śāntigarbha is placed with the seven other Vidyādharas in an arc directly above and around Padmasambhava (the very name of this sādhana of course refers to the Vidyādharas, Śāntigarbha included). Likewise in a famous set of illustrations of another rNying ma set of eight, the Eight Aspects of Guru Rinpoche (gu-ru mtshan brgyad), Śāntigarbha is shown seated above Guru Rinpoche’s head as his revered guru, when Guru Rinpoche takes the wrathful form of Dorje Drollö (rdo rje gro lod). There are initiation cards showing Śāntigarbha, and needless to say, Śāntigarbha is also mentioned in numerous life stories of Guru Rinpoche, as one of his important Indian teachers.

Other rNying ma sets of eight include the Eight Great Vidyādharas of Tibet, close students of Guru Rinpoche who practiced, realised and propagated the Eight Pronouncement Deities in Tibet, as well as further sets shared with other Buddhist traditions, such as the Eight Gaurī Goddesses and the Eight Great Bodhisattvas (nye-sras brgyad). There are various ways in which the different sets of eight are made to inter-relate and correlate, but these need not concern us right now.

Rather, I want to pose the question, if Śāntigarbha has such a central and abiding presence in the underlying mythological architecture of rNying ma ritual life, can we really describe him as insignificant in the eyes of later rNying ma tradition? Was he really a person of insufficient stature to venture opinions on the great Padmasambhava?  I think not, for reasons shown above, and especially because he is universally accepted as one of Padmasambhava’s gurus.

Even more interesting, and very importantly for our understanding of the early rNying ma, is the fact that a special association between Śāntigarbha and Padmasambhava is already indicated in a Dunhuang text, to be precise, in the marginal note attached to IOL TibJ 321 that we have already mentioned. Here we find in the main text of the commentary a verse of praise for Padmasambhava in his Padma rGyal po form, a verse taken up verbatim in later centuries by Nyang ral nyi ma’i ‘od zer into his Zangs gling ma (see blog entry below, Padmasambhava in early Tibetan myth and ritual, Part 2: IOL Tib J 321). In a marginal note at this point, Śāntigarbha is described as praising Padmasambhava, which (pace Dalton) would appear entirely unremarkable to a later rNying ma readership,  who would understand it as being exactly what one would expect from a close spiritual friend or Guru. [For a presentation of Dalton's argument which we seek to refute, see footnote 3].

But putting traditional perspectives aside, could it actually be that some such tantric connection between Padmasambhava and Śāntigarbha was already being indicated in this early text from Dunhuang? From the cumulative circumstantial evidence that such sources as IOL Tib J 321, Bu ston, the ‘Phang thang ma and mKhas pa lde’u give us on Śāntigarbha, Padmasambhava, and even their respective teachings of Yogatantra and Mahāyogatantra—as we show in our book, the Thabs zhags bridges both tantric genres and mentions both personal names—it is not at all impossible and not even particularly unlikely. Note also that in the Dunhuang text PT44, a similar close tantric relationship is albeit rather briefly indicated between Padmasambhava and someone who might transpire to be Prabhāhasti, another of the Eight Great Vidyādharas of India. We might investigate that in a future posting.


[1] This rather surprising proposal comes from one whom I consider amongst the most intelligent, subtle and thought provoking of the younger generation of rNying ma pa scholars, Jacob Dalton. While I disagree with him on these specific points, and also on several further important points where the interpretation of original sources in Tibetan is concerned, I nevertheless find a great deal of interest and value in several other aspects of his work, and anticipate numerous notable achievements from him over the length of a long future career.  His proposal is discussed in the final footnote.

[2] Jacob Dalton has described the last three herukas of the bKa’-brgyad or Eight Pronouncement Deities as considered by rNying ma tradition to be mundane deities that were tamed by Padmasambhava. From the point of view of tradition, this is not a trivial issue, because it calls into question the very nature of the rNying ma yi dam deity octadic system. If it were true, it would raise some pretty fundamental doctrinal issues for rNying ma exegetes. In fact, this is certainly not what the rNying ma tradition believes: see for example the late Dil mgo mKhyen brtse Rin po che’s well-known gter ma, Rang ‘byung pad ma snying thig, in which all eight herukas are undoubtedly enlightened aspects. Dalton presents his idea as a bare assertion with no citation or supporting evidence, so it is hard to know where he got it from. It is most likely that he arrived at this mistaken conclusion via a simple misunderstanding of the traditional rNying ma Mahāyoga category of the ’Jigs rten pa’i sde gsum, or the ‘Three Deities of the Mundane’, a category that designates the last three of the bKa’-brgyad.  Far from being mundane beings in themselves, these three deities are in fact classified as equally exalted members of the bKa’ brgyad as are the other five, who are known as the ‘Five Wisdom Deities’, or ye shes kyi lha lnga. Despite the distinction, both categories are equally considered to be transcendent aspects of enlightenment, versions of Heruka, albeit the one category conferring wisdom and the other category conferring protection evil forces. So, despite their ostensibly worldly-sounding names, the herukas of the cycles of Ma mo rbod gtong, ’Jigs rten mchod bstod, and Mod pa drag sngags are normatively envisaged as enlightened forms, who protect the Dharma by coercing local spirits. As such, they are not in themselves mundane deities tamed by Padmasambhava. Quite the reverse, they are important forms of Heruka, aspects of enlightenment with which Padmsambhava yogically identified himself, or manifested himself as, in order to tame the mundane deities.  See Dalton, Jacob. 2006. “The Early Development of the Padmasambhava Legend in Tibet: A Study of IOL Tib J 644 and Pelliot tibétain 307”. The Journal of the American Oriental Society 124.4: 759-772, Page 768. My thanks to Changling Rinpoche, Lopon Ogyan Tanzin, and Gyurme Dorje for their detailed and learned explanations of these issues.

[3] It is in his discussion of this section of IOL Tib J 321 that Jake Dalton tries to characterise Śāntigarbha as relatively insignificant to later tradition, and uses this in turn as the main support for his mistaken theory that Padmasambhava had comparatively little mythic standing for the annotators of IOL Tib J 321 (see Dalton ibid; and also the same argument repeated unmodified on page 67 of his book The Taming of the Demons, Yale University Press, 2011). He therefore constructs a rather convoluted argument in which the status of  Śāntigarbha has major implications for how we understand the early evidence pertaining to Padmasambhava. Dalton began his discussion by saying that rather little is known about Śāntigarbha (which is not altogether true, since he is well known to Bu ston as a Yogatantra authority, to the ‘Phang thang ma Catalogue, and so on and so forth). However,  Dalton makes the logical jump, found also in his catalogue of Dunhuang texts,  of simply assuming that Padmasambhava is the human author of the commentary: yet this is nowhere said in the text itself, nor is there any colophon that asserts it, and so I refer readers to our discussion of this complex issue in our recent book. Based on this misunderstanding, Dalton then further dragoons the highly ambiguous marginal note of IOL Tib J 321 into meanings that  are not necessarily there: the Dunhuang text simply says slobs dpon shan ting gar bas brtags nas ma nor nas/ sam ba bha la stod pa’o/. Thus it does not make clear exactly what it was that Śāntigarbha mused upon, the cause  for his giving praise, and to actually ascertain this becomes something that needs to take account of the precise situating of the note on the page, among other factors (we discuss these issues at length in our new book, pages 95-96). In fact it could equally well be Padmasambhava as a person,  the fact that this is indeed an authentic tantra revealed by the great Padmasambhava, the divine nature of the root tantra teachings per se, or the words of the commentary that are the cause for praising Padmasambhava, but Dalton simply interpolates into his translation, with no square brackets or any discussion of the ambiguities, the words ‘this work’, meaning the commentary.  He then concludes from that, that Śāntigarbha’s praising of Padmasambhava’s ‘work’ here in IOL Tib J 321 indicates the comparatively lesser mythic significance Padmasambhava must have had for the text’s authors: for had Padmasambhava been considered greatly mythically magnificent then as now, it would not be appropriate for someone so inconsequential as Śāntigarbha to examine and praise his work. Dalton sums up his thinking in the following words: ‘From the perspective of the later Tibetan tradition, it is remarkable that the opinion of a relatively insignificant figure like Śāntigarbha would have any relevance for one with the stature of Padmasambhava’ (Dalton 2006: 768, and again in exactly the same words, Dalton 2011: 67). There are some ambiguities in the logic of this argument. I’m not clear that it would be unthinkable for a modern master to examine a Padmasambhava teaching before praising it: what for example if provenance first needed to be ascertained, to see if it really were by Padmsambhava? In Buddhism, critical faculties are in any case encouraged. But even leaving all such quibbles aside, the fundamental premises of the argument are patently untrue, because from the perspective of the later Tibetan tradition, Śāntigarbha is Padmasambhava’s guru, no less, a fact that Dalton was completely unaware of. Surely this was a hazardous speculation for Dalton to make before actually reading the text of IOL Tib J 321 in full, since a close reading of it shows it does not necessarily portray Padmasambhava as a human historical author of the commentary at all. The matter is ambiguous, but on the contrary, it might well even portray Padmasambhava as the divine utterer of the root tantra, and thus add to the other evidence for this to be among our strongest extant testimony yet for an early cult of a highly mythologised Padmasambhava, perhaps as much so as the well-known PT44, and by some specific measures, even more so. I suspect that Dalton has simply failed to recognise the differences between gNubs chen Sangs rgyas ye shes’s position in bSam gtan mig sgron, where, as Dylan Esler’s recent work has shown, Padmasambhava is no more or less mythologised than any of the other great gurus, and the Dunhuang texts PT44 and IOL Tib J 321, where, as we can all see, Padmasambhava is undoubtedly singled out as a uniquely magnificent being.

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Padmasambhava in early Tibetan myth and ritual, Part 3: ‘miraculous births’ and ‘womb births’

In her seminal work on the Padmsambhava hagiographies, Anne-Marie Blondeau (1980) has famously described how the traditional narratives of Padmasambhava exist in parallel ‘womb birth’ (mngal skyes) and ‘miraculous birth’ (rdzus skyes) versions.[1] Deservedly, her work has been inspirational for later generations of scholars, and she has been cited numerous times. But after a further thirty two years of scholarship, might her pioneering work now at long last deserve some slight further clarification, or a slightly different nuancing? We think so, and here is why.

In brief, Blondeau was the first to to make it widely known to Western scholarship that a ‘womb birth’ account of Padma’s birth existed in parallel to the more widespread and familiar ‘miraculous birth’ accounts. In addition, she mentioned Kong sprul’s association of the ‘womb birth’ accounts with the bKa’ ma rather than the gTer ma, and in particular, with the Phur pa transmission accounts (phur pa’i lo rgyus). Blondeau added that the account given in the Testament of Ba is more commensurable with the traditional bKa’ ma transmission of the ‘womb birth’ version of Padmasambhava’s life. As she further points out, we do not know exactly when the formalizing of the distinction between ‘womb-birth’ and ‘miraculous birth’ Padmasambhava biographies began, but we do know that the categories of ‘womb-birth’ and ‘miraculous birth’ derive from the abhidharma, and we also know that both types of Padmasambhava narratives share a very long parallel history in Tibet.

What needs revising is the occasional interpretation of Blondeau as implying that the ‘womb birth’ accounts are somehow less miraculous and more realistic than the ‘miraculous birth’ accounts, in the sense that while the one describes a natural process, the other describes a miraculous process (in fact, we don’t believe Blondeau really comes to any such simplistic conclusion, but her findings might sometimes be interpreted in this way). Be that as it may, as Cathy has been pointing out for many years now, closer analysis shows that this is not really the case at all: the ‘womb birth’ narrative is not in any way seeking to describing an ordinary event, and the’womb birth’ and ‘miraculous birth’ accounts are in fact both equally supramundane, equally miraculous, above all, both equally derived from the symbolic world of tantric ritual and its visualisations of pure perception.

If one reads the actual sources, it becomes abundantly clear that the ‘womb birth’ narratives found in the Phur pa literature that Blondeau mentions are completely integrated with the ‘miraculous birth’ accounts, occuring together within the very same sources. Both are embedded side by side within the same cycles of tantric deity teachings and practices, in which their presentation by the guru on any specific occasion is designed to generate guru devotion and a pure vision (dag snang) of all phenomena as the tantric maṇḍala. Thus, exactly like the ‘miraculous birth’ accounts, the ‘womb birth’ stories are highly symbolic and connected with tantric imagery, and so do not necessarily represent a more ‘rationalist’ strand of thinking at all. For example, Sog zlog pa’s Phur pa lo rgyus[2] forms part of the cycle of texts for the Rong zom Phur pa tradition. Its focus on a ‘womb birth’ can best be seen as expressing a Mahāyoga visionary perspective equating the physical body with the tantric deity. Hence in this account, Guru Padma is born in a physical body which is none other than the Phur pa deity and his maṇḍala: his waist is a knot like the middle section of a phur bu ritual implement, his lower body triangular in shape, again like the phur bu, while his hair is reddish brown like that of the Phur pa deity, and his eyes and mouth are semi-circular, thus resembling the three semi-circular shapes outlined by a circle around the central triangle, which is the standard graphic depiction of many Phur pa maṇḍalas. Here is Sog zlog pa’s full description:

“Called, Śāntarakṣita, (he) had a complexion of white with (a tinge) of red, the sign of the Lotus family, and his head perfected every wondrous ability. His waist was a knot, his upper body shaped to go inwards, while his lower body was triangular. His mouth and eyes were semi-circles, and his hair was reddish brown. (He was thus) born as one disfigured, (but) endowed with the phurpa’s characteristics.” (śānta rakṣi ta bya ba kha dog dkar la dmar ba’i mdangs dang ldan pas padma’i rigs kyi mtshan dang ldan zhing / sgyu rtsal thams cad rdzogs pa mgo dang sked pa rgya mdud / ro stod bcum gzhogs / ro smad zur gsum/ kha dan mig zla gam / skra kham pa ste / mi sdug pa phur pa’i mtshan nyid can zhig skyes so /, p.12)

In the ‘womb birth’ account given in the reputedly very old Bum pa nag po, a major source for all the Phur pa bKa’ ma transmissions, the accounts of the two types of birth are given together (bDud ’joms bKa’ ma version, Volume Tha: 221-225; Boord 2002: 113-115).[3] First, the ‘womb birth’ is presented, with a slightly different version of the features of the Guru’s body from Sog zlog pa’s, equally replete with potent tantric symbolism, and then there is a variant of the same story of his early years which is given in the following ‘miraculous birth’ story. The two accounts merge for the Guru’s later deeds.

A myes zhabs’ Phur pa lo rgyus, given within his commentary on the Sa skya Phur pa practice,[4] also discusses the two types of birth together. He draws a rather Levi-Straussian symbolic opposition between the two. In this case, the womb birth is said to have taken place in the eastern region of the country of Zahor, while the miraculous birth took place in the western region of the country of Urgyan, so that the residents of the two both held the Guru to be the son of their King. He stresses that there is no contradition, since both types of birth are examples of an inconceivable array of enlightened emanations which accord with the beings to be tamed.[5]

Our conclusion: rather than making a primary analytic or ‘etic’ distinction between the ‘womb birth’ and ‘lotus birth’ accounts, both of which after all are in essence closely related lo rgyus narratives often pertaining to the same tantric rituals, a better primary analytic distinction might be between such ritual narratives on the one hand, and the more historical narratives of a text like the Testament of Ba on the other hand.  The dBa’ bzhed for example refers to itself as a bKa’ mchid (royal discourse), while the sBa bzhed refers to itself as a bKa’ gtsigs (royal edict). Both titles thereby indicate that their proper context is the sphere of state, not the sphere of religious devotion or ritual. By contrast, the traditional lo rgyus accounts of ‘womb birth’ and ‘lotus birth’ alike are part of the transmission of religion. A note of caution, however: it remains a bit unclear how exactly to assess the Padma sections of the Testament of Ba, since we do not yet know who wrote them, when, or why. But that is not for now: more on that in a future blog!

 

 


[1] Blondeau, A.M. 1980. “Analysis of the biographies of Padmasambhava according to Tibetan tradition: classification of sources”, in Tibetan Studies in Honour of Hugh Richardson, eds. Michael Aris and Aung San Suu Kyi, Warminster: Aris and Philips: 45-52.

[2] Sog zlog pa. dPal rdo rje phur pa’i lo rgyus ngo mtshar rgya mtsho’i rba rlabs, version from the bDud ’joms bKa’ ma: Rñiṅ ma Bka’ ma rgyas pa  (see below), vol. nya: 8-116.

[3] bDud ’joms bKa’ ma. Rñiṅ ma Bka’ ma rgyas pa, compiled by Bdud-’Joms ’Jigs-bral-ye-śes-rdo-rje.  Published by Dupjung Lama, Kalimpong, 58 volumes 1982-1987. An electronic version is available from the Tibetan Buddhist Resource Center, New York (The Expanded Version of the Nyingma Kama Collection Teachings Passed in an Unbroken Lineage, W19229, 0448-0505); and Boord, M.J. 2002 A Bolt of Lightning From The Blue: the vast commentary of Vajrakīla that clearly defines the essential points. Annotated translations, including Phur ’grel ’bum nag as transmitted to Ye-shes mtsho-rgyal.  Berlin: edition khordong.

[4] A myes zhabs. ’Jam-mgon A-myes-zhabs, Ngag-dbang-kun-dga’-bsod-nams: bCom ldan ’das rdo rje gzhon nu’i gdams pa nyams len gyi chu bo chen po sgrub pa’i thabs kyi rnam par bshad pa ’phrin las kyi pad mo rab tu rgyas pa’i nyin byed, published in, ’Khon lugs Phur pa’i rnam bśad, ’Chams yig brjed byaṅ, The Vajrakīla rites as practiced by the ’Khon Lineage of Sa-skya, reproduced from manuscript copies of the ancient Sa-skya xylographic prints by Ngawang Sopa, New Delhi, 1973 (TBRC W30340). [It is also available as vol. 8 of TBRC W29307.]

[5] shar phyogs za hor gyi yul mngal skyes kyis ’dul bar gzigs nas/ grong khyer gzi brjid ldan zhes bya ba na/ yab rgyal po thor cog zhes bya ba la btsun mo gnyis yod pa las / btsun mo nges ma zhes bya ba la sras thod gtsug can zhes bya bar sku ’khrungs par bzhed / brdzus skyes ltar na / nub phyogs urgyan gyi yul brdzus skyes kyis ’dul bar gzigs nas / dhana ko sha’i gling du padma’i sdong po las brdzus te ’khrungs par bzhed / de ltar mngal skyes dang brdzus skyes kyi lo rgyus mi ’dra ba las / shar phyogs za hor ba dang / nub phyogs urgyan ba gnyis mi mthun te / za hor pa na re / slob dpon padma nged kyi rgyal po’i sras yin / mngal skyes yin zhes zer / urgyan pa na re nged kyi rgyal po’i sras yin brdzus skyes yin zhes zer te / sprul pa’i bkod pa yin pas gnyis ka bden pa yin te /… ’dir gang la gang ’dul du sprul pa’i bkod pa bsam gyis mi khyab pa bstan pa yin pas / de’i yon tan gyi rnam par thar pa phyogs re tsam mthong ba la brten nas / lo rgyus ’chad tshul mi ’dra ba rnams ’byung ba yin te / gang ltar yang ’gal ba med do (A myes zhabs: 33-34).

 

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Did Vairocana have lice?

According to Pasang Wangdu and Hildegaard Diemberger’s translation of the dBa’ bzhed[1]  Pa gor Vairocana, the great translator and Buddhist culture hero of Imperial-period Tibet, might have been absolutely crawling with the repulsive little creatures. There is a passage in the dBa’ bzhed which Wangdu and Diemberger found too obscure to translate, thus leaving some words of the original Tibetan within their English translation, with a footnote tentatively suggesting the elusive meaning could possibly be that Pa gor Vairocana’s beard was infested with lice.

The context  is the Zas gtad kyi lo rgyus, a famous appendage at the end of the dBa’ bzhed that narrates a lively debate between various groups of Tibetans about how to conduct the funeral ceremonies of the recently deceased Emperor, the great Khri Srong lde btsan himself. Some, described in the text as Bonpos,  argued for the time honoured bang so funeral, the ritual interment of the deceased Emperor within a vast tumulus filled with grave goods which would become the focal point of ritual in future years, a magnificent and elaborate system of burial that had by then already defined a great part Tibetan ceremonial life for some hundreds of years. But since such a tumulus burial entailed animal sacrifice, others, described in the text as Buddhists, strenuously disagreed: they preferred funerary rites based on such Buddhist systems as the Sarvadurgatipariśodhana and Uṣṇīṣa.

The passage that suggested lice to Wangdu and Diemberger occurs near the beginning of the story. Arriving at the debate in good time, the proponents of Bon had taken up all the rows of seats (gral), leaving no place for the late-coming Buddhist champions, headed by Vairocana. The Buddhists were facing a serious humiliation: in this important debate, they did not even have a suitably dignified seat at the table, so to speak (it seems the hierarchical arrangements of the gral were as significant indicators of status then as now).  It is at this point that Vairocana intervenes. He stood himself behind the opposing minister seated at the head of the row to the right, thus inducing the hapless minister to glance behind him;  and this is what the minister saw [the Tibetan continues as follows]:

bai ro tsa na’i smra ra’i gseb na khro chung nyungs dkar tsam shig shig snang  ba dang/ shin tu skrag nas kog gis langs pa’i shul du bai ro tsa nas bzhugs pas ban de la g.yas gral shor/ [26v7-27r1]

Wangdu and Diemberger attempted the passage as follows:

“[he] saw khro chung nyung dkar crawling around in the beard of Vairocana, and got up with a start. He was immediately replaced with Vairocana, and lost the whole right row.” (p. 96) A footnote is added, suggesting khro chung nyung dkar might indicate lice, as follows (note 381, page 96): “khro chung nyung dkar seem to indicate some peculiar seeds. Nyung dkar is in Tibet a not very common vegetable species from the seeds of which oil is obtained. Khro may stand for khra in which case it would indicate a multicoloured gathering. Perhaps the minister was scared by these seeds looking like parasites. Possibly this expression is a euphemism for nits (in which case khro = sro) and nyung dkar could be a polite form for shig, i.e. louse (in Mustang the polite form for louse is lug).”

As one can see, this is a very highly convoluted argument, based on the opinion that the words khro chung nyung dkar do not exist in the lexicon, and so must be interpreted. It also requires one to accept a number of other quite complex admitted speculations.

Is this memorable rendering, of lice in Vairocana’s beard startling a Bon po minister, accurate? It seems, alas for those who have come to love it, not. As Cathy has been reminding us for some time now, the words khro chung nyungs dkar tsam refer to something altogether less amusing, less repulsive, and more awe-inspiring, something as familiar to specialists in certain kinds of tantrism as the term ‘front-side bus’ might be to computer manufacturers, but equally obscure and misleading to anyone else. Nevertheless it nowadays only takes a quick look at the THDL or Rangjung Yeshe Dictionaries under khro chung to get a clue: khro chung nyung dkar is in one of these dictionaries usefully if tersely signposted as: “small wrathful ones; yungs dkar – nyung dkar – Mustard seeds.”  In fact, the ‘wrathful ones as small as mustard seeds’ of the Zas gtad kyi lo rgyus are a well known category notably in Mahāyoga wrathful deity systems, and indicate the emanation of vast hosts of tiny spark-like wrathful forms from the hair pores or the skin to create an awesome display. Deities or great yogis are described as doing this. In rituals, the emanation of such tiny deities is often indicated by the casting of mustard seeds (mustard seeds are commonplace in Tibetan ritual), and hence they are sometimes termed khro chung and identified with nyung dkar,  which conveys both their tiny size (as small as mustard seeds), and their ritual analogue (the throwing of mustard seeds during a ritual). These tiny wrathful forms are attested in Dunhuang texts such as IOLTibJ401, in numerous later medieval traditions such as the great Sakya Phurpa cycles, and in numerous contemporary texts such as Dudjom Rinpoche’s treasures. They have been a continuous well established feature of Mahāyoga from Dunhuang times until the present. Hence in a book we published in 2008, Early Tibetan Documents on Phur pa from Dunhuang,  we re-translated this passage from the Zas gtad kyi lo rgyus as follows:

“Amongst Vairocana’s whiskers, miniature wrathful [deities] the size of mustard seeds were appearing and amassing and, they so much terrified [his opponent that he] abruptly arose, leaving Vairocana behind, who sat down, so the right row was lost to the Buddhist monks” (p. 50).

Finally, apparent parallels to this ancient story seems to occur in other literature, including the ‘Dra ‘bag chen mo, the most famous traditional biography of Vairocana. Ani Jinba Palmo’s translation (The Great Image, page 219) mentions Vairocana arriving late at an Imperial funeral, and emitting fierce sparks, to the awe of the other attendees (no lice!). I have not yet located the original Tibetan wording.  The late Khetsun Zangpo Rinpoche’s Biographical Dictionary of Tibet also has an account of Vairocana’s life, which became a basis of A. W. Hanson-Barber’s PhD on Vairocana, and there too we find Vairocana arriving rather abruptly at the Emperor’s funeral with his student gYu sgra snying po, emitting an awesome display of sparks—clearly a version of the same story, and although Khetsun Zangpo naturally makes clear references to the ‘Dra ‘bag throughout his text, some variations in detail indicates he might in fact have drawn this section from a different source, or a different version of the ‘Dra ‘bag (A. W. Hanson-Barber, Madison-Wisconsin 1984, Life and Teachings of Vairochana, page 89).

Is this the end of the line for Vairocana’s mythical lice? I’m reasonably confident it is in the minds of Wangdu and Diemberger, who were never much convinced by the lice idea in the first place, and who, as first-class scholars, are entirely likely to be delighted by Vairocana’s belated liberation from an eternity of itching [in fact, Hilde recently emailed us, with the words "Thankyou for getting a more plausible solution to this obscure passage.."]. But I doubt its the end of the story elsewhere: the idea of Vairocana’s lice is simply too funny, too quaint, and too downright memorable, to die quietly.  Once unleashed on the global imagination, I estimate it has many decades, maybe even several centuries, to run. If there’s one thing any English language reader remembers about the dBa’ bzhed, its likely to be Vairocana’s lice.

***

Finally, for any hard-core nerds who might be mad enough to read our foolish blog, here are some examples of khro chung from the ritual literature:

[1] This first passage is from Dudjom Rinpoche’s gNam lcags spu gri bsnyen yig, found in the section commenting on the Command (bka’ bsgo ba), which is at the beginning of the ritual.

གལ་ཏེ་མི་ཉན་པའི་རིགས་གདུག་པ་ཅན་ཡོད་སྲིད་པ་ལ་རང་ཉིད་ཧེ་རུ་ཀའི་སྐུ་གསུང་ཐུགས་ལས་སྤྲུལ་པའི་ཁྲོ་ཚོགས་མཚོན་ཆ་སྣ་ཚོགས་ཐོགས་པ་གྲངས་མེད་པར་འཕྲོས་རྣམས་ཀྱི་ཞལ་ནས་དྲག་སྔགས་རྡོ་རྗེའི་གད་མོ་འབྲུག་ལྟར་སྒྲོགས་ཤིང་མཚོན་ཆས་གཟིར།

But, in case there are some evil beings who do not obey, and who remain, from the body, speech and mind of yourself, the heruka, innumerable wrathful deities emanate, carrying various kinds of weapons.  They roar out the destructive mantra [oṃ sumbhani etc.] with vajra laughter like thunder, and they stab with their weapons.

རོལ་པའི་སྟངས་སྟབས་ས་གསུམ་གཡོ་བའི་ཉམས་དང་བཅས་ཏེ་བགེགས་རྣམས་འཇིག་རྟེན་གྱི་ཁམས་མང་པོ་བརྒལ་བའི་ཕ་རོལ་ལྕགས་རི་ཆེན་པོའི་རྒྱབ་ཏུ་བསྐྲད།

They manifest (various wrathful) postures with the thought of shaking up the three worlds, and the obstacles cross over the many worldly realms, and are expelled outside the great iron mountains.

སྤྲུལ་པའི་ཁྲོ་ཚོགས་ཚུར་འདུས་ནས་སྟེང་འོག་ཕྱོགས་མཚམས་རྣམས་དང་བདག་གི་བ་སྤུའི་བུ་ག་ཀུན་ནས་ཞལ་ཕྱིར་ཕྱོགས་པས་གཏམས་ཤིང་དྲག་པོའི་ཧཱུྂ་སྒྲ་དང་བཅས་ཏེ་ཚམ་རྔམས་ཆེན་པོས་རོལ་པར་བསམ།

The host of wrathful emanations are reabsorbed back (into yourself as the Great Glorious One), and then meditate that above, below, and in all directions, and from every hair pore of your skin, they again emanate, facing outwards, and pervading everywhere.  With a really fearsome cacophony, they roar forth the destructive sound of hūṃ.

(note:) With the destructive mantra recitation, music and bdellium incense, the vajra master casts mustard seeds (“thun rdzas”, power substances) at the obstacles, which symbolise the miniature wrathful deities.  

[2] The Sa skya Phur chen example is mentioned in our book. The Sa skya Phur chen (15v.4) speaks of the twenty-one thousand (body) hairs of oneself as the deity, filled with miniature Vajrakumāras.  In this example, it is in the main deity visualisation.  It is also included, word-for-word, in the short Sa skya Phur pa practice, the Nges don thig le of the Sa skya Throne-holder, Ngag dbang Kun dga’ blo gros (1729-1783):

རང་གི་ཕུང་པོ་ཁམས་དང་སྐྱེ་མཆེད་སྐྲ་ཉི་ཁྲི་ཆིག་སྟོང་བ་སྤུ་བྱེ་བ་ཕྲག་ཕྱེད་དང་བཞི་ལ་སོགས་པ་ཐམས་ཅད་ཀྱང་རྡོ་རྗེ་གཞོན་ནུ་རང་དང་འདྲ་བས་གོ་མཚམས་མེད་པར་རབ་ཏུ་གཏམས་པར་གྱུར།

All my own skandhas, dhātus, āyatanas, twenty-one thousand hairs, and thirty-five million pores of the skin are entirely* filled with Vajrakumāras like myself, leaving no gaps in between.

*The Kun dga’ blo gros Vol. Ga edition omits, rab tu, entirely.  (Note that the Sa skya Phur chen, f.15v.5, also omits it, but there is of course no need for the text to follow the Sa skya Phur chen exactly, and a copyist’ familiarity with the Sa skya Phur chen might have been responsible for such a scribal omission.)


[1] Pasang Wangdu and Hildegaard Diemberger. dBa’ bzhed. The Royal Narrative Concerning the Bringing of the Buddha’s Doctrine to Tibet. Verlag der Österreischischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Wien, 2000.

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The great Khu tsha zla ‘od

Much has been written about many Tibetan lamas in recent years, but one who has received perhaps less attention than he deserves is the great Khu tsha zla ‘od.

According to Kongtrul (1813-1899), he lived during the second rab byung, which ran from  1087 to 1146, although some sources put his birth date earlier, in 1024. He was certainly one of the most brilliant and prolific treasure revealers of his time, and his influence on Tibetan religion remains impressive to this day. With the help of Ven Tenpa Yungdrung, Jean-Luc Achard, and others, we have been translating one of his most celebrated treasures, the Ka ba nag po or Black Pillar, which lies at the core of the contemporary Bon Phur pa tradition.

Yet Khu tsha zla ‘od did not only reveal Bon treasures: his treasure contributions to Buddhism, medicine and astrology were significant enough for him to find a place in the great collection of Buddhist treasures, the Rin chen gter mdzod, to feature in some Buddhist lineage prayers, and even to become considered a major Buddhist incarnation. Kongtrul for example saw him as the reincarnation of Vairocana, while Jamyang Khyenste Wangpo (1820-1892) saw him as one of the thirteen prophesied reincarnations of the royal figure rGyal sras lha rje, and hence a primary past incarnation of the great treasure revealers Orgyan lingpa (14th century) and Khyentse Wangpo himself, amongst others (this information from Matthew Akester’s outstanding but so far unpublished translation of Khyentse Wangpo’s biography).  Thus it was Jamyang Khyentse Wangpo who rediscovered as a yang gter Khu tsha zla ‘od’s otherwise lost treasure, the rTsa gsum rigs bsdus spyi spungs chen mo. It was also Jamyang Khyentse Wangpo who believed that one of his own treasures, the rTsa gsum gtso bsdus spyi ‘dus snying thig, along with Jatson Nyingpo’s famous dKon mchog spyi’i ‘dus, were further iterations of Khu tsha zla ‘od’s rTsa gsum rigs bsdus spyi spungs. Nevertheless, the only arguably Buddhist treasure from Khu tsha zla ‘od that survives uninterruptedly, unmediated by a 19th century yang gter, is a very short bcud len text. In addition however, Khu tsha zla ‘od was a famous doctor, and hence sometimes known as Ku sa sman pa. He was also a philosophical or doctrinal thinker. His commentary on Dzogchen, the mKhas pa mi bzhi’i ‘grel pa, has recently been studied by Matthew Kapstein, who shows him to have been a highly creative early adopter within Tibet of the logical thought of rNgog Blo ldan shes rab (1059–1109) (as Kapstein points out, it is the chronology implied by this feature of his thinking which serves to support the second rab byung dates as given by Kongtrul, rather than the first rab byung birth date of 1024 given in some other sources).

The Ka ba nag po comes in 125 pages, but it is only a small fraction of Khu tsha zla ‘od’s Phur pa revelation:  in addition to this root text, there are also eight other explanatory tantras, as well as commentarial and practice texts, together covering the entire gamut of Phur pa learning and performance.  Contemporary Bon Phur pa practice, including the rituals done at year-end (dgu gtor) in the Bon monatery of Triten Norbutse, are still based on Khu tsha zla ‘od’s all-encompassing Phur pa revelations, achieving a degree of integration between root text, practice text, and interpretation, that might well have delighted the late Steve Jobs. Some 600 photos and several videos of the year-end rituals at Triten Norbutse, specially made for us by Kemi Tsewang, will soon be visible on further pages of this blog.

There is a lot that could and should be said about Khu tsha zla ‘od. One could talk about the interesting stories of his childhood and family background; his prolific treasure recoveries, especially those found at sPa gro in Bhutan; the great fame of his medical practice; his mention in the biography of Guru Chos dbang; what evidence there is for him serving both Buddhist and Bon communities; the evolution of later beliefs linking his treasures with those of the 17th century Buddhist terton Jatson Nyingpo (1585-1656); his innovatory uptake and adaptation of pramāṇa; the way his Phur pa treasures relate to the Buddhist Phur pa tradition; why, when so many other details differ, the gTing ‘dzin gsum or Three Samādhis in his Phur pa treasures are exactly the same as in Buddhist Mahāyoga; and so on.  But in this short blog article, we are going to mention only one particular aspect of his ouevre: the way in which he envisages and presents a great many minor Tibetan deities within his Ka ba nag po root tantra. Our method of analysis depends substantially upon paying fine and close attention to subtle nuances and differences in the sphere of ritual, yet it seems to us that it might yield useful historical conclusions. Once again, we are reminded of the point we have made elsewhere, that ritual texts and liturgies can offer important data to the historian, if one knows what one is looking for.

The Ka ba nag po is remarkable for its presentation of unusually long and detailed lists of minor deities, including, for example, numerous species of female sman. In Buddhist Phur pa rituals, such deities would most likely come with a taming narrative attached, either implicit or explicit. We would understand how Padmasambhava had tamed them in days gone by and appointed them as guardians of the dharma, and how we should in our own time, as the authentic dharma heirs of Padmasambhava, remind them of those vows, and reassign them to their appointed tasks with an offering.  Yet in the Ka ba nag po, the emphasis is subtly but tellingly different.  In Khu tsha zla ‘od’s treasure, such deities do not need taming, since they have been an integral part of the nirvāṇic maṇḍala of the main Phur pa deity since beginningless time. In short, it is made quite explicit that they are nothing less than the emanations of the main Phur pa deity, and have never been anything else, an interpretation which is still upheld by the contemporary commentarial tradition.

Of course, Buddhist Phur pa can and must also adopt such a perspective on occasion: there are many ritual moments when pure vision is emphasised and all phenomena whatsoever are perceived as primordially pure according to their ultimate nature. But this is balanced by a relative viewpoint, in which such worldly spirits and demons do indeed exist on a conventional level as potentially problematic forces in need of careful management.  It is in the interpretation of the relative viewpoint that the Ka ba nag po differs: here the sman (and all other suchlike categories, such as bdud) are clearly described as direct emanations of the central enlightened Phur pa deity even from a relative point of view, and thus in no need of taming at any level.

What might  Khu tsha zla ’od be intending with this?  To approach this question, let us first turn to Sam van Shaik’s recent blog entry, in which he revisits F.W. Thomas’s work on one of the wooden sticks from Miran (IOL Tib N 255). These inscribed sticks have been shown to be older than most of the Dunhuang texts, and so the analyis of IOL Tib N 255 can offer us, among other things, chronologically reliable evidence that the sman were amongst the categories of deity recognised by Tibetans as early as the 9th century. In IOL Tib N 255, the sman are in fact mentioned alongside such terms as yul lha and g.yang, within the context of funerary rites in which Bon and gShen priests worked together in partnership. In other words, this and other such evidence suggest a strong probability that the sman were a component part of a ritual belief system that pre-dated the accelerated uptake of Buddhism subsequent to the visit of Śāntarakṣita and the promotion of Dharma by Khri Srong lde’u btsan.

In now valorising the sman as fully enlightened emanations of the nirvāṇic maṇḍala of the central Phur pa yidam deity, and by refusing to accept that they needed to undergo the humiliation of taming before being worshipped, Khu tsha zla ‘od in the 12th century seems to be making a powerful statement. He is asserting the value and dignity of those deities and beliefs that were present and flourishing in Tibet before the great flood of Indian Buddhism became so dominant a few centuries earlier, and rejecting their complete relegation to the folkloric margins. This strategy in the Ka ba nag po is quite possibly of a piece with his strategy in the mKhas pa mi bzhi’i ‘grel pa, as reported by Kapstein. In that more doctrinal text, Khu tsha zla ‘od inserts as an equal partner the indigenous intellectual category of bla into his discussion of the prestigious Indian philosophical category cluster of kun gzhi’i rnam shes (Sanskrit: ālayavijñāna), yid (Sanskrit: manas) and sems (Sanskrit: citta), thereby asserting the equal profundity and value of the indigenous category to the Indian ones.

It seems that Khu tsha zla ‘od’s followers were intended to have the best of both worlds. On the one hand, they could fully enjoy excellently made calques upon Indian-style Mahāyoga, and Buddhist logic-inflected commentaries on Dzogchen, that promised to offer, in ritual and contemplative terms, everything the Buddhist equivalents could offer.  On the other hand, they could enjoy these without the need to repudiate their ancestral culture, deprecate their native gods, or disparage their indigenous intellectual categories. We can only surmise that Khu tsha zla ‘od was adressing an audience for whom such considerations were important­—who knows, perhaps even an audience including some proud and loyal descendents of the once great Bon and gShen priests of old.

 

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The wonderful Orgyan Ling Manuscript Kanjur

Tibetans, especially Nyingmapas, recount numerous legends of ‘Hidden Lands’ (sbas yul). These are places of refuge where the Dharma can be safeguarded in times of political danger and religious persecution, when temples are vandalised and religious books burned. Such ‘Hidden Lands’ are often characterised as obscure valleys in the remote Himalayas to the south of Tibet.

Although remote enough, Himalayan, and to the south, I can see why the Orgyan Ling temple in the Mon Tawang region in modern day Arunachal Pradesh might not have any such legends attached to it. It was not nearly obscure enough, and it ended up being sacked by a hostile army, with its many Nyingmapa treasures destroyed or carried away. Yet despite this rather serious setback, I would like to suggest that albeit in a rather tortuous way and perhaps inadvertently, it did nevertheless achieve one of the prime purposes ascribed to a ‘Hidden Land’. My reasons for proposing this have nothing to do with mystical revelations from Guru Rinpoche nor signs from the dakinis, but derive instead from the prosaic practice of philology. Orgyan Ling temple succeeded in preserving intact for posterity an important and famous Nyingma tantra in a considerably purer and more complete form than anywhere else in Tibet. Not only that, but it also preserved a number of other very rare Nyingma tantras not so far found anywhere else in the Tibetan cultural world.

Orgyan Ling was founded in the late 15th century by Orgyan Zangpo, the younger brother of the famous Bhutanese terton Pema Lingpa (1450-1521). In 1683, Orgyan Ling subsequently became the birthplace of Orgyan Zangpo’s famous descendent, the Sixth Dalai Lama Tsangyang Gyamtso (1683-1706).  Thus it was that in 1699, the Fifth Dalai Lama’s regent, the great Desi Sangye Gyatso, greatly extended Orgyan Ling’s buildings and commissioned new volumes for its library.  So despite its remote situation at the very edge of the Tibetan cultural sphere, its galactic network of family and personal connections enabled Orgyan Ling’s library to acquire some very fine books indeed, including a copy of the Ancient Tantra Collection (rNying ma’i rgyud ‘bum), and two Kanjur manuscripts.

The older of the Kanjurs was made in silver and gold, and both Kanjurs contained a quota of sixty Nyingma tantras freely intermingled with their Sarma tantras. This number greatly exceeds the merely twenty-four squeezed into the carefully segregated doxographical ghetto that had been reserved for them by Situ Gewai Lodro (1309-1364) in his Tshalpa Kanjur catalogue. Yet the Thempangma Kanjur traditions don’t have any Nyingma Tantra section at all. Orgyan Ling was evidently such a Nyingma stronghold that even its Kanjurs unashamedly sported unusually large numbers of Nyingma tantras, unsegregated from the Sarma tantras. We can only dream about what its long lost Ancient Tantra Collection might once have contained.

But fame is a two-edged sword which can prove fatal to any Himalayan valley’s chances of successfully qualifying as a ‘Hidden Land’. Not content with merely deposing him in Lhasa, after his death Tsangyang Gyamtso’s Mongolian enemies extended their sectarian vendetta to his birthplace, sacking the monastery of Orgyan Ling around 1714 in the course of a campaign against Bhutan.

Fortunately however, a quantity of the monastery’s surviving valuable books and artifacts were transferred to the Geluk establishment of Ganden Namgyal Lhatse in Tawang, even though the gold and silver Kanjur was partially destroyed, and the Ancient Tantra Collection disappeared.

Among the volumes transferred to Ganden Namgyal Lhatse was the Kanjur manuscript commissioned by the Desi Sangye Gyatso in 1699, beautifully calligraphed by master scribes especially hired from the E region of Central Tibet. Fortunately, this Kanjur still survives, together with its full complement of sixty Nyingma tantras. But it is not its master calligraphy that concerns us (although that is certainly impressive), nor its fine thick paper: rather, it is the presumably lost exemplars from which the master scribe must have made his copy, and the textual traditions they represented.

Over the last few years, Cathy and I have been engaged in making a critical edition of an important Nyingma tantra called the  ‘Phags pa thabs kyi zhags pa padma ‘phreng gi don bsdus pa, which one might translate as A Noble Noose of Methods, the Lotus Garland Synopsis (hereafter abbreviated as Thabs zhags). In addition, we have simultaneously edited its commentary.

The Thabs zhags is a magnificent example of Mahāyoga literature, often juxtaposed with the Guhyagarbha in classic doxographies, and its commentary is one of the few remaining genuinely early word-for-word commentaries on a Mahāyoga tantra. While we don’t adhere to the unrealistically perfectionist dogma that every text in existence must be exhaustively critically edited as a matter of principle, as academic scholars we do share the perception of numerous learned Tibetan lamas of the past and the present, that a certain proportion of texts in the popular editions of the Tibetan canon can end up in rather bad shape, and are ideally in need of critical editing. It is specifically these damaged texts that we seek to restore.

The Thabs zhags and its commentary are among such damaged texts. The commentary survives in three different Tenjur editions, yet in all three instances, around a third of its text has become completely lost: for example, everything between Chapter Six and the end of Chapter 10 has disappeared, and there are other significant losses of text too.

In most of its more popular canonical versions, the root tantra has only slightly less serious problems. These more popular versions derive either from the Tshalpa branches of the Kanjur (which here must includes the Derge Ancient Tantra Collection, since it borrowed the relevant woodblocks from the Derge Kanjur), or from the Bhutanese Ancient Tantra Collection manuscripts. Yet they reveal a pattern of confusion: the respective renderings of the final section of the very long Chapter 11, for example, are so radically different in the Tshalpa Kanjur and Bhutanese recensions, that to the untrained eye it seems hard to credit that they are reproducing the same text at all.

To remedy this situation, we assembled twenty one different witnesses from every conceivable source, and began to try to piece together the evidence.

The commentary was reasonably easy to fix. Whilst the transmitted tradition of the Tenjur was irrevocably damaged, ‘new’ evidence in the form of a partially complete 10th century Dunhuang manuscript was discovered in the early 20th century and brought to London by Sir Aurel Stein. This enabled us to restore the text to its complete form, almost certainly for the first time in several centuries, since, by great good fortune, those parts missing in the Tenjur were preserved in the Dunhuang manuscript, while those parts missing in the Dunhuang manuscript were preserved in the Tenjur. It became a simple matter of splicing.

The root text proved more complex, but nevertheless exhaustive collation and stemmatic analysis permitted us a clear result. It became evident that the currently three most popular versions – those of the Tshalpa Kanjurs, of the Derge Ancient Tantra Collection, and of the Mtshams brag Ancient Tantra Collection from Bhutan – represented two distinct attempts to reconstruct the root text from out of the commentary. At some stage in its long history, the root text must have been lost in the main centres of Nyingma learning, perhaps during one of those periodic persecutions of the Nyingmapas that made them want to retire to the ‘Hidden Lands’ in the first place.  Two different attempts were then made to recover the root text by extracting its verses out of the word-by-word commentary, one attempt witnessed in the Tshalpa Kanjurs and the Derge Ancient Tantra Collection, and the other attempt witnessed in the Bhutanese Ancient  Tantra Collection manuscripts of Mtshams brag, Sgra med rtse, Sgang steng-A and Sgang steng-B.

Once we had the full commentary available to us together with the evidence from our twenty one witnesses, it became unfortunately evident that neither of these brave attempts at reconstruction had been entirely successful. Both in their different ways and at different junctures mistakenly introduced commentarial passages into the root text, whilst also excluding passages of root text through the mistaken assumption that they were commentary. Nor did they agree in their errors – hence for example their radically different interpretations of Chapter 11.

But this is where the ‘Hidden Land’ principle comes into play. While these famous mainstream texts of the Tshalpa Kanjur, the Derge Ancient Tantra Collection, and the Bhutanese Ancient Tantra Collection were uniformly confused about what was root text and what was commentary, all around that great geographical arc that comprises the southern Himalayan fringe of the Tibetan cultural zone, in sometimes obscure and ignored local monasteries, versions of the text survived that derived not from one or another attempt to reconstruct the root text from the commentary, but directly, from the original root text itself. In the forgotten ruins of an old library in Hemis, along the Nepalese borders, and even in far-off Bathang in the North-East of Tibet, ancient versions of the text, or their direct copies, survived. It was through studying these that we were able to restore the text to its original boundaries, differentiating root text from commentary with clarity and ease. Applying stemmatics to all the witnesses together, we were also able restore many other original readings.

But the last word belongs to the excellent Orgyan Ling manuscript. It can only be consulted in one place, in the library of the Central University for Tibetan Studies in Sarnath, and microfilm is not easily available. Hence we did not get to see it at all until a provisional version of our edition was already complete. To our delight and astonishment, it agreed with our stemmatic reconstruction at every significant juncture. Not only that, but its superior scribe from E had even eliminated spelling errors and many other small problems, just as our laborious edition had attempted to do. We found ourselves face to face with a beautifully calligraphed late 17th century version of the text that was virtually identical in all important respects to the one we had so painstakingly reconstructed over the previous three years. The only differences were that the Orgyan Ling manuscript preserved a few more archaic spellings than we saw fit, and its scribe had fallen for one minor slip of the pen when describing a mudra.

The moral of the story is this: we should not allow ourselves to become excessively swayed by the grand reputations and religious-political support invested in the few mainstream editions of the canons. Don’t forget the ‘Hidden Land’ principle, which tells us that just occasionally the most valuable editions can be located in the least expected places. This was something well understood by the great Tibetan critical editors of the past, men like Situ Panchen, Tsongkhapa or Kathok Rigdzin Tsewang Norbu, who became dissatisfied if they found reason to suspect that the standard canonical fare was deficient, and who left no stone unturned in seeking out rare witnesses in Sanskrit and Tibetan to complete their own critical editions.

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Padmasambhava in early Tibetan myth and ritual, Part 2: IOLTibJ321

Let me begin this reassessment of the early sources on Padmasambhava with IOL TibJ321. One of the most remarkable finds from Dunhuang, this manuscript in 85 folios[1] contains a complete Nyingma Mahāyoga tantra embedded within its commentary, with many marginal notes. The tantra is famous, still a mainstay of the Nyingma canon and found also in several Kanjurs, called The Noble Lassoo of Methods, a Garland of Lotuses (‘phags pa thabs kyi zhags pa padma ‘phreng gi don bsdus pa). Cathy and I have been editing and studying the tantra and its commentary for some time, and our work is nearing completion.

Current palaeographical knowledge locates the Dunhuang manuscript to the latter half of the tenth century. However the text itself must be older than its Dunhuang witness:  our critical edition can demonstrate that an ancestor of the versions from the local Kanjurs of Bathang, Hemis, and Tawang, and from the South Central Tibetan rNying ma’i rgyud ‘bum editions, was older than the Dunhuang manuscript by more than one copying at the least.

The Dunhuang manuscript mentions Padmasambhava four times: once in the marginal notes at the beginning, twice in the marginal notes near the end, and once within the main text of the commentary itself, also near the end. The references are somewhat enigmatic, and we will be publishing on them at greater length elsewhere, so here I will only review our findings in brief.

Ken Eastman in the 1980′s was the first to look at these references, and had tentatively suggested they might be presenting Padmasambhava as the human author of the commentary. Jake Dalton and Sam van Schaik follow him in taking much the same line, albeit quite assertively and no longer tentatively.[2] However, despite the difficulty of the materials and the rather complicated way in which the root text, commentary and marginal notes cross-reference, neither Ken Eastman, Jake Dalton or Sam van Schaik had time to study the text in much depth or for very long, and none have written more than a few pages on it.

After a much more detailed study, it now appears quite uncertain that Padmasambhava is being represented as the author of the commentary, and it is important that the scholarly community takes note of this fact. Rather, there is a distinct emphasis on portraying him as a sublime realised being with exceptional access to the Tathāgata’s secret teachings, and quite possibly even as the source of the root tantra itself.

The references it makes to Padmasambhava are not entirely clear and unambiguous, since they assume the reader already has such information, but what is clear and unambiguous is that these are references to an exceptional, mythologised being, and not to an ordinary human teacher. At its end, the main text of the commentary lavishly praises Padmasambhava as padma rgyal po, the ‘Lotus King’, in verses which the accompanying notes explain are being addressed by Śāntigarbha to Padmasambhava. It is fascinating that these verses comprise a precise form of laudatory words picked up two centuries later by Nyang ral Nyi ma’i ‘od zer and the wider hagiographical tradition in their own praises of Padmasambhava, and Nyang ral again specifically links these words to the Lotus King, a form which remains canonical as one of the famous Eight Aspects of Guru Rinpoche.

Figure 1: Padma rGyal po, as depicted in the Ritual Dance of the Guru’s Eight Aspects (gu ru mtshan brgyad ’chams), Jangsa Monastery, Kalimpong, 2009. Photo by Cathy Cantwell.

The praises from IOLTibJ321 and from Nyang ral's Zangs gling ma

As you can see in the diagram, the verses say that Sam bha ba is “he who has attained the supreme siddhi, of great wonder, Padma rGyal po [The Lotus King] (who) is not worldly; (he who) unravels from the expanse the tathāgata’s great secret pith instructions“. Note the use of the Tibetan word ma ‘gyur here in the Dunhuang manuscript. It is not a very natural Tibetan usage, and like many phrases in these old manuscripts, it’s not entirely clear what it means. Where ‘gyur ba occurs in Tibetan literature, it is often as a translation of the Sanskrit bhūta. Literally, both ‘gyur ba and bhūta mean ‘become’, but most often, the idiomatic meaning of the Sanskrit is simply ‘who is’. Tibetans tended to translate bhūta literally rather than idiomatically, thus giving ‘gyur ba (to become) simply to render ‘who is’.[3] So there is some albeit rather tenuous suggestion here that the verse of praise might have somewhere in its background or prehistory, something translated into Tibetan from Sanskrit.

The marginal notes attached to this praise are slightly ambiguous, explaining that after examination, Śāntigarbha finds either Padmasambhava himself, or his teachings, flawless, and is praising him.[4] Right at the start of the text, the notes already told us that while the Buddha has condensed (the meanings) of the root text (‘bu tas bsdus), it was Sambhava who produced or made (them) (sam ba bhas byas)—a similar meaning to Śāntigarbha’s praise of him here for unravelling the secret great pith instructions of the tathāgata from the expanse.

Finally, a page above this praise which ends the commentarial text, right at the end of the root tantra itself, a marginal note refers to Padmasambhava.  This annotation seems possibly to suggest that what has gone before, namely the speech of the tantra, which has emerged naturally out of sameness, was demonstrated by Padmasambhava without any personal fabrication or rang gzo.  There follows an explanation of how, given this natural emergence, when a noble being speaks with pure awareness, the resulting utterance is Tantra.[5]

Thus, Padmasambhava seems to be closely involved with the Buddha’s original teaching of the tantra, in terms that go some distance to making him sound like a treasure revealer of some kind, and so one might speculate if the name ‘Padma’ in the texts’s title might conceivably be referring to Padmasambhava.  This, however, is unlikely: the first chapter of the commentary, which discusses the title, gives no hint of the word, “padma”, having any such implication.

I should add, these findings in IOL Tib J321 have not been remarked upon by previous scholars, but we feel they might add significantly to our knowledge of 10th century representations of Padmasambhava. We will deal with them at very much greater length in our forthcoming book.

Finally, a note on the citation from Nyang ral Nyi ma’i ‘od zer: Lewis Doney of the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London, has worked on critically editing Nyang ral’s Guru Padma hagiography.  He argues convincingly that the earliest and historically most influential recension is that represented by two manuscripts in the National Archives in Kathmandu and two manuscripts from Bhutan, which he classifies as ZL3.  The version of ZL3 used here is Lewis Doney’s identification in the Kathmandu National Archives.  We have emended rtog in line 2 to rtogs, found in all the other witnesses of ZL3.  The Rin chen gter mdzod chen mo version (Paro: Ngodrup and Sherab Drimay, Kyichu Monastery, 1976, Volume Ka: 25), which has in modern times become the most widely used version, incorporates later material.  It gives a variant second line for this verse (rtogs ba bla med mchog tu gyur pa yis/).


[1] The folios are numbered up to 84, but there is one unnumbered folio so there are 85 folios in total.

[2] Eastman himself expresses some caution, finally concluding, “It appears… that we have one of the few surviving works of Padmasambhava” (1983: 50, my emphasis).  Jacob Dalton (2004: 763 note 17), states rather more positively that, “in the interlinear notes to the Dunhuang versions of the Thabs kyi zhags pa pad mo’i ‘phreng ba commentary (ITJ321), the commentary is attributed to Padmasambhava”.  An article from Sam van Schaik (2008: 47) also states that, “the Dunhuang Ms IOL Tib J 321 contains a colophon which states that Padmasambhava was the author of the commentary”.  However, van Schaik reassesses the evidence in his blog (dated June 2007 but presumably written after the article, ‘Padmasambhava I: the early sources’ at http://earlytibet.com/2007/06/20/padmasambhava/ ), where he no longer refers to a colophon and writes, “Finally, just in case I have given the impression that Padmasambhava actually wrote this manuscipt, let me be clear that he didn’t”.  However, it seems that he simply means that the manuscript is no autograph copy, since he continues to speak of , “the attribution of this text to Padmasambhava”, and interprets one of the annotations in this way.

[3] For a lucid discussion of this, see Prof Tillemans’ excellent lecture 84000 Lecture Series Video #1: Sanskrit compounds and methodological issues in translation, at http://vimeo.com/22734087

[4] slobs dpon shan ting gar bas brtags nas ma nor nas/  sam ba bha la stod pa ‘o/ (f.84r.5)

[5] mnyam las ‘phros te/ [marginal note: pad ma sam ba bhas rang gzor byas pa ma yin bar ston]  /byung ba’I don/ /skyes bu gang gis rig pa de //ngag gis ci skad brjod pa’i sgra / /thams cad ma lus tan tra zhes

 

 

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Padmasambhava in early Tibetan myth and ritual: Part 1, Introduction.

When did the figure of Padmasambhava first become mythologised, when did he first become incorporated into ritual, when did his apotheosis begin?

For Tibetan tradition, the answers are simple. Padmasambhava was a peerless guru with the vidyādhara’s control over lifespan, who became revered in Tibet when Emperor Trisongdetsen invited him, by which time he had already been a living legend in India for many centuries.

Modern academics are denied such beautiful and easy answers.  In general we are permitted to accept as valid evidence far less data than traditional Tibetan historians, and in few places is this felt more acutely than the history of Padmasambhava: for modern scholarship, the admissible historical evidence for the person or even for his representation is very slight indeed.

Following the digitisation of the Dunhuang texts over the last decade, we have happily seen a small augmentation of the available evidence for the early representations of the great Guru, even if not for the great Guru himself. Part of that augmentation has come from the discovery of a new Dunhuang source, and part from a more intensive analysis of already known sources.  However, Cathy and I are not convinced that the implications of the new source have so far been fully appreciated, nor that the bigger picture as it should now stand has been properly assessed. In this multi-part blog I want to present a more thorough interrogation of the new source of evidence, together with a fuller investigation of the already known sources, to arrive at a more complete depiction of what we can now know about the prehistory of  Padmasambhava’s early representation if we put all the available evidence together.

The most convenient summary of how the historical Padmasambhava looked to modern scholarship before the digitisation of the Dunhuang texts comes from Matthew Kapstein. Writing in 2000, the only admissible evidence then available to him was fourfold:

(i) The early historical text, the Testament of Ba, which presents Padmasambhava visiting Tibet.

(ii) The 10th century Dunhuang text PT44, which narrates Padmasambhava bringing the Vajrakīla tradition to Tibet.

(iii) An early text attributed to Padmasambhava called the Garland of Views, or man ngag lta ‘phreng, and a commentary on it by the 11th century rNying ma sage, Rong zom

(iv) The termas of Nyang ral (1124-1192) and Guru Chowang (1212-1270), which present fully-fledged apotheoses of Padmasambhava as a fully-enlightened Buddha.

Based on this evidence, Matthew Kapstein concluded that:

(i) The Testament of Ba shows Padmasambhava quite likely did visit Tibet during Trisongdetsen’s reign.

(ii)  PT44 indicates followers of his tantric teachings were active in post-Imperial Tibet.

(iii) Rong zom’s commentary and the few Dunhuang references show that the Padmasambhava cult began its ascent during the ‘time of fragments’, between the end of Empire and the start of the gsar ma period in the late 10th century.

(iv) Nyang ral and Chowang’s termas suggest the most massive elaboration of Padmasambhava’s cult developed from the 12th century.[1]

Since Matthew Kapstein published that in 2000, there have been two further developments. Firstly, a new Dunhuang source, PT307, was felicitously discovered by Jacob Dalton, who published an article on it (this article also deals with another Dunhung text, TibJ644, that Jake Dalton had initially hoped related to Padmasambhava, but after some last-minute discussions between us, we decided was not yet so conclusively established as initially hoped).[2]

Secondly, Cathy and I are completing a much more detailed analysis than has hitherto been attempted of the evidence from the Dunhuang text IOL Tib J 321, looking at it more carefully than Ken Eastman’s short note from the 1980’s,  Jake Dalton brief survey in 2004/6?, or Sam van Schaik’s small blog entry in 2007. It is largely these two sources of evidence that will inform my paper today, together with a reassessment of the already well-known sources PT 44 and the Testament of Ba.

So what can the new and fully admissible evidence tell us different from what Matthew Kapstein wrote in 2000? It is a tribute to his historical discipline, and the caution with which his reasoning neither exceeded nor underrated the scanty evidence, that the advances we can now report consist more of detail than of substance. Kapstein wisely put no definite dates on any particular aspect of the Padmasambhava cult, which he understood as a gradual process developing throughout the post-imperial period, coming to some sort of culmination with Nyang ral three centuries later. What is new is that we now have much stronger evidence that the mythologisation of Padmasambhava, his incorporation into ritual, and it seems even his apotheosis, began within the earlier part of the very long time frame Matthew Kapstein suggested. In other words, when portraying Padmasambhava in his famous hagiographical and historical writings, Nyang ral was developing existent themes, rather than inventing new ones. Our new evidence suggests that Padmasambhava was already the object of religious myth and ritual worship, and was probably already seen as the enlightened source of tantric scriptures, as many as two hundred years before Nyang ral, even if not yet with so much poetic elaboration. An important proviso is that we have not yet ascertained if the evidence bears witness to a widespread veneration of Padma in the tenth century, or something narrower followed only by a few. This is because the evidence currently available suggests two different views of Padma in the early sources:

  • Firstly, in the context of the possibly early or mid 10th century rDzogs chen oriented bSam gtan mig sgron of gNubs sangs rgyas ye shes, he is cited as a great teacher and even mythologised, but no more so than his peers like Vimalamitra, and there is no sign of his integration into ritual (but of course, we cannot yet tell for sure if the sole available version of this text includes later interpolations or not).
  • Secondly, in the possibly late 10th century Mahāyoga texts from Dunhuang, he is mythologised, incorporated into ritual, and elevated above his peers, even apotheosized. The available versions of the testament of Ba seem to broadly concur with this.

Jake Dalton has in the last five years or so emerged as one of the most frequently cited interpreters of the early rNying ma pa, and is widely renowned as a highly innovative and interesting scholar. He has recognised, as many others such as Anne-Marie Blondeau and Matthew Kapstein did before him, that there is real evidence for some kind of a Padmasambhava cult from the 10th century or earlier. However, we think his work in this particular instance has not yet exhausted the possibilities for these sources, despite his early access to them. This is because Jake has not focused enough on the ritual function of the Dunhaung texts related to Padmasambhava, nor their connections with Mahāyoga; approaching them mainly in terms of their narratives divorced from ritual context, he has several times arrived at incomplete or even slightly inaccurate conclusions. By not recognising the ritual clues, he has significantly underestimated the full import of these extraordinary sources whose evidence for the early Padmasambhava cult is in fact quite a lot richer than he realises.

I was impressed to see on a YouTube interview made on his campus that Paul Harrison of Stanford University, although not a practising Buddhist, has learned the Diamond Sūtra by heart and recites it daily, to introduce a performative understanding into his academic research on this text.  In the same way, academic scholars of tantrism might benefit sometimes by actually performing tantric rituals themselves, to get a more nuanced view of things.

In the subsequent parts of this blog, I will set out in detail the further insights we can add to Jake Dalton’s, and indeed Matthew Kapstein’s and various other scholars’ earlier findings, by approaching the Dunhuang evidence for Padmasambhava through the lens of ritual. After all, it has never been doubted that PT44 and PT307 must be connected in some way with ritual. No one has ever suggested otherwise, because both comprise stilted narratives culminating in explicitly ritual passages. The reason they have not so far been studied through the lens of ritual is probably one of methodological tradition: in the short history of their subject, unlike the anthropologists, academic tantric textual scholars have quite simply never been expected to approach their materials from a performative perspective. I wonder if it might be time for that to change.

 


[1] Matthew Kapstein, 2000. The Tibetan Assimilation of Buddhism. New York, Oxford University Press. See pages 155-160.

[2] TibJ644 does not anywhere mention Padmasambhava by name, and we still need to clarify if the description it gives is simply a generic peice of Kriyātantra writing. See my article in the Journal of the International Association for Tibetan Studies, ‘The Importance of the Underworlds: Asura’s caves in Buddhism and Some Other Themes in Early Buddhist Tantras Reminiscent of the Later Padmasambhava Legends’, http://www.thlib.org/collections/texts/jiats/#jiats=/03/mayer/

 

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Authors, plagiarists, or tradents?

Time and again in modern studies of Tibetan literature of whatever sort, whether histories, technical treatises, tantric commentaries or treasure texts, we find the blithe, unreflective use of words like ‘author’ or ‘revealer’. Such words are a natural part of our modern lexicon, and at first glance they seem to be implied by Tibetan conventions too, for example in colophons or catalogues. Little wonder that we use them so freely. We happily say lama so-and-so ‘wrote’ a history, khenpo so-and-so ‘composed’ a commentary, or terton so-and-so ‘revealed’ a scripture. Yet on reflection, this is a rather hazardous way to talk about Tibetan literature, because Tibetan notions of literary production of any sort, be it of conventional compositions or prophesied revelations, can differ so markedly from the presuppositions of such terms in popular modern usage. It’s high time these differences were systematically investigated.

Anyone who has read much Tibetan literature will be familiar with one of its most salient differences to our own modern conventions: the ubiquitous verbatim repetition of phrases, sections, literary structures, and even entire chapters, across many different texts. Such repetition is commonplace even where these many different texts are written by ostensibly different authors. Some modern scholars have rather condescendingly (and stupidly) characterised this as ‘plagiarism’. They have entirely missed the point. Others avert their gaze in embarrassment from such features, and instead try to emphsasise the aspects of Tibetan literary culture that chime with our own values: originality, innovation, sceptical inquiry, and so on. But they have also missed the point to some extent, because although there is absolutely no doubt that such values do show themselves in Tibetan literature, whether in individual creativity or in the cultural generation of new genres, they occur against an established backdrop of quite different traditional literary norms.

What are these traditional norms? First of all, Tibetan religious literature, including Treasure, is sometimes (not always!) de facto collectively rather than individually produced: close inspection reveals that the final product has the input of more persons than the nominal ‘author’, often extending backwards (and even forwards) over considerable stretches of time. Much is also recycled, within a literary culture that normatively envisions contributors as tradents rather than innovators: in other words, the person producing a text sees himself as passing on existing knowledge, rather than creating new knowledge from nothing (I will elaborate further on the term tradent below). Texts can be substantially modified by other hands in subsequent re-publications, even while still retaining their original authorial (or revelatory) attribution. At other times, modification can be generated silently and less deliberately via the subtly transformative medium of memorisation: we must recall that Tibetan scholars carry huge tracts of literature around in their minds, which they can access instantly without recourse to a written book, but sometimes it comes out in a form ever so slightly different from other or previous iterations. I think one can even say that the Buddhist tradition often understands authorial attributions as a conventional shorthand indicating the accepted presiding spiritual authority in a given literary instance, rather than as the sole or exclusive literary agency that created it.

All this bears little resemblance to modern literary ideals, in which the author is constructed somewhat heroically as an individual creative source. Yet despite a vague general awareness of such differences, Tibetologists have never systematically addressed the issue, and we now have numerous detailed studies of works traditionally attributed to famous Tibetan sources, without further investigation into what such attribution might actually entail in each individual case. I have often felt that the time is long overdue for a new analysis of Tibetan religious authorship, and some new items of vocabulary to describe it.

After some years vaguely wondering how exactly to articulate such an approach and  vocabulary, in May 2008, I was rewarded with an answer. I invited Jonathan Silk to give a guest lecture, and aware of my interests, he obliged by delivering a wonderful paper entitled What Can Students of Indian Buddhist Literature Learn from Biblical Text Criticism? Although aimed at Sanskritists, it was obvious that what Jon was saying also applied to Tibetan studies. Suddenly, I came to the realisation that right here under my nose, in my own Wolfson College, Talmudic scholarship had already articulated much of the approach and vocabulary I needed – and yet I had not been aware of it![1]

Talmudic scholars no longer depend on the conventional modernist language of ‘authorship’ and ‘work’. Instead, they can speak of ‘tradents’, who  ‘re-anthologise’ existing ‘lemmata’ and ‘microforms’, sometimes anonymously, within the context of a culture of extraordinary textual memorisation and the ubiquitous synchronous interactions of written and oral modes of text.  We have a lot to learn from them, because Tibetan religious literature is in some important respects closer to Medieval Hebraic literature than to modern literature.

What do these terms mean, and why are they useful for us? Obviously, I can only give very brief answers here. Firstly, the word ‘tradent’ indicates a producer of text who sees as his main project the passing on of existing spiritual truths, rather than the invention of new ones ex nihilo. Since he is largely engaged in passing on existing truths, he tends to seek out existing materials of proven Dharmic worth, to use as building blocks with which to construct his new text. At the most elemental level, these building blocks comprise well established fundamental Dharmic categories, such as ‘The Three Jewels’, ‘The Four Activities’, ‘The Hundred Peaceful and Wrathful Deities’, and so on. Some Hebraists call such fundamental categories ‘lemmata’. Longer passages, such as a paragraph or chapter comprising composites of such lemmata, are also legitimately reproducible either approximately or verbatim, according to Tibetan norms. Some Hebraists would call such reproducible composites that are not yet a complete work ‘microforms’. Finally, a complete work, such as the Guhyasamāja Tantra, or a commentary upon it, is called a ‘macroform’. The way such literary constructions are put together resembles an ‘anthological’ model: tradents select existing lemmata and microforms and re-anthologise them to make new wholes.

I cannot agree with those modern scholars who find such literature lacking in creativity. A good analogy is Lego: imagine if you ask two persons to make a square palace out of Lego bricks, one a great sculptor and architect, the other just an ordinary person. Clearly, the results would not be the same in quality, notwithstanding the restriction placed on the materials used and the outcome required. In the same way, some Tibetan tradents can produce works of astonishing subtlety and brilliance, while others can be unremarkable and predictable (of course, if they follow their cultural template accurately enough, both will at least produce a work of some value).

Literary production in Tibetan Buddhism, as anywhere else,  is a process, and in order to understand it, we need to track its processes minutely, step by step, bit by bit, stage by stage. Fortunately, we have been awarded funding from the AHRC[2] to do just this, in an international project based here at Oxford. Our local personnel are Vesna Wallace and Cathy and myself, while our international partners and consultants include Janet Gyatso, Sarah Jacoby, Matthew Kapstein, Jonathan Silk, Lopon P. Ogyan Tanzin, and Antonio Terrone. Part of the project is simply to minutely track all the processes, over several generations, that gave us some of the terma literature we know so well today, while another part will be to achieve critically-aware knowledge transfers from Hebrew studies and the English medievalists into Tibetology. Through this, we aspire to help catalyse a broader debate on what authorship really means in Tibetan religious writing as a whole, in other genres beyond terma, so that our analysis might contribute to the understanding of Tibetan religious writings as a whole. I hope it will be a rewarding study for all concerned.


[1] Peter Schaeffer wrote much of his most important work at Wolfson, while I was a graduate student there, yet I never encountered it at the time.  Jacob Neusner, Martin Jaffee and others working in medieval Hebraic literature have of course contributed equally to the debate.

 

[2] The Arts and Humanities Research Council, the main source for Humanities research in the UK.

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