Part 25

With regard to the season called Vassa, it should be noted here that since there is no rainy period of the year in Tibet which corresponds to the Indian ‘Rains,’ certain seasons of abstinence from food are observed either before, or at the same time with the great Festivals. These periods of fasting are distributed equally throughout the year—one in February, one in May, one in July, one in November or December.

The festivals and holy days thus briefly described, are by no means the only festivals of Buddhism. There are numerous other special and local ones. For example, in Ceylon, the Sinhalese celebrate the coming of the Buddha to their island and his victory over the Rākshasas and evil demons by a festival in March or April, when the greater number of pilgrims flock to his supposed foot-print on Adam’s Peak, or to the sacred Bodhi-tree at Anurādha-pura (see p. 519). Other Southern countries have festivals connected with the worship of special foot-prints and relics of their own.

Then the Lāmas in Lhāssa keep the day of the worship of the Dorje (see p. 322) on the 27th day of the first month, while those in Sikkim celebrate as a festival the day on which the Lepchas make offerings to the spirit of the mountain Kinchinjunga.

Then, again, at the beginning of the third month an exhibition of sacred vessels and pictures takes place at Lhāssa, accompanied by processions in masks, the Lāmas appearing as good genii, and the laity as tigers, leopards, elephants, &c.

In other places, too, there are special festivals. For example, a singular festival, called ‘Chase of the spirit-kings,’ is kept by Northern Buddhists on the 30th of the second month, when there is a vast amount of religious dancing (with tediously slow movements), masquerading, mummery, and buffoonery, not unlike the devil-dancing which goes on in Ceylon, and closely connected with the universal belief in demons and evil spirits.

The most hideous masks are used on these occasions. In 1884 I had an opportunity of inspecting in a Buddhist monastery near Dārjīling a most singular assortment of religious masks, which for distortion of feature and horrible unsightliness, could scarcely be matched anywhere; for indeed mask-making is an art which Buddhism has brought to the greatest perfection. I also witnessed a religious dance performed by a party of masqueraders which struck me as a remarkable example of the utter debasement of Buddhism in Northern countries.

Mrs. Bridges describes a similar religious dance in Ladāk thus:—

‘A group of grinning masks—lions’ heads and harlequins’ bodies—came down the steps, and whirling slowly round, retreated again into the gloom and came out dragon-headed. Then a band of skeletons, the skulls (masks) admirably painted, gnashing their hideous jaws and shaking their lanky limbs, rushed out into the sunshine and executed a real “Dance of Death” before us.’ (‘Travels,’ p. 101.)

Yet all true Buddhists are prohibited from dancing and masquerading (p. 126 of this volume); just as Manu (II. 178, IV. 15, 212) prohibited Brāhmans from engaging in similar frivolities.

Then the religious dramas performed on some of the Buddhist festive days are not the least interesting examples of the present prevalent superstitions.

I witnessed part of a dramatic performance at a Burmese Theatre in Calcutta (during the Exhibition year), when the story of the Hindū Epic, called Rāmāyaṇa, and especially that portion of it which relates to the carrying off of Sītā by demons (see ‘Brāhmanism and Hindūism,’ p. 42, and ‘Indian Wisdom,’ p. 337), was dramatically represented. The theatre was a rude wooden enclosure open to the sky, with the exception of a portion roofed over for a band of musicians, whose noisy performances appeared to constitute an important element in the proceedings. The chief musician sat on the ground in the middle of a circular frame-work—about two or three feet high—hung round with drums of different sizes, which he struck with his hands, and occasionally tuned by the application of moist clay in larger or smaller lumps. In the centre of the open area of flat dusty soil which served for the stage, a big branch of a tree was stuck upright, possibly to represent the forest in which Rāma lived with his wife. Then the hero and heroine of the drama—Rāma and Sītā—kept up a tedious colloquy, interspersed with jokes, for hours. The former—who, be it remembered, was supposed to be a god—smoked a cigar all the while, and occasionally ejected saliva with perfect indifference to all appearances and to all laws of congruity, while every now and again Sītā, in spite of a tight dress, varied the monotony of the dialogue by executing a slow dance, characterized by strange contortions, twistings, and wrigglings of the limbs. Hideous masks were at intervals assumed by the actors, and, of course, by the demons who intervened at odd moments with much ludicrous gesticulation. The action of the play went on continuously for about ten days, during which period people came and went as they liked, and the last comers entered into the progress of the plot with as much interest as if they had witnessed the whole. There is never much originality of invention in these religious plays. The Indian heroic poems and the five hundred and fifty birth-stories (see p. 63) of the Buddha furnish the basis of all.

The religious dramas of Tibet are of a somewhat different character. The following description is founded on Dr. Schlagintweit’s account (p. 233), and on that of Mrs. Bridges in her interesting ‘Travels’ (John Murray, 1883, p. 130).

The dramatis personæ consist of three classes.—1. Tutelary deities or good genii, called Dragshed (Dragṡed), who ward off the assaults of evil demons; 2. Evil demons; 3. Men. The actors of each class are distinguished by their masks. The first class—that is the Dragsheds or good genii—wear masks of enormous size and terrific aspect[159]. The second class—that is the Evil demons—wear larger masks of a dark colour, and their garments are well padded to deaden the force of the blows showered upon them. The third class—that is the Men—wear the usual dress of human beings, and masks of a natural size and colour, while under their clothes they carry heavy wooden sticks, with which at times, during the progress of the drama, they belabour the demons. The gods also get well knocked about by the demons, much to the amusement of the spectators.

The drama is preceded by the recital of hymns and prayers and by noisy music. The Dragsheds occupy the centre, the men are on their right and the demons on their left. At short intervals the men and the demons execute slow dances, each group by itself. At last, an evil spirit and a man step forth. The evil spirit then tries, in a plausible speech, to tempt the man to violate some precept of morality, while other evil spirits approach and chime in. The man at first stands firm, but gradually gives way and is about to yield, when other men come forward and entreat him not to be seduced by the artful suggestions of the demons. He is then closely pressed by the two opposite parties, but in the end takes the advice of his human counsellors. Upon this all the men break out into praise of the Dragsheds, to whose presence and assistance they ascribe the victory. The Dragsheds now proceed to punish the evil demons. The leading Dragshed, who is distinguished by an unusually large yellow mask, advances against them surrounded by about a dozen followers. Other Dragsheds next rush out from the back-ground, shoot arrows, throw stones, and even fire with muskets upon the demons, while the men belabour them with their sticks, hitherto concealed under their clothes. The demons are routed, and run in every direction pursued by the good genii. The drama concludes by all the actors (men and demons included) singing hymns in honour of the victorious tutelary genii.

Among the spectators (at the performance witnessed by Mrs. Bridges at Leh) were six deities, represented by six Lāmas seated on a bench with umbrellas over their heads. They had incense swung before them by attendant priests.

This curious dramatic performance is paralleled in India by the Hindū drama called Prabodha-ćandrodaya, ‘Rise of the moon of true knowledge,’ in which we have Faith, Volition, Opinion, Imagination, Contemplation, Devotion, Quietude, Friendship, &c., on one side; Error, Self-conceit, Hypocrisy, Love, Passion, Anger, Avarice, on the other. The two sets of characters are, of course, opposed to each other, the object of the play being to show how the orthodox faith of the Hindūs became victorious over the erroneous doctrine of the Buddha—the Buddhists and other heretical sects being represented as adherents of the losing side.

Then—to take a parallel nearer home—we find similar religious dramas acted in England not so very long ago (about the time of Henry VIII). For example, in the old English morality play, called ‘Every-man,’ some of the dramatis personæ on the one side are—God, Death, Every-man, Fellowship, Kindred, Good-deeds, Knowledge, Confession, Beauty, Strength, Discretion; while on the other are personifications of the opposite qualities. Then, again, in ‘Lusty Juventus,’ we have a medley of Good Counsel, Knowledge, Satan, Hypocrisy, Fellowship, Abominable Living, God’s Merciful Promises.

And here with reference to the supposed contest continually going on between good and evil, and the participation of human beings in this terrible struggle, we may note that the mystical thunderbolt called Dorje (p. 322) is not the only implement of spiritual warfare employed by the Lāmas against the demons[160]. Another important weapon is the Phurbu or ‘nail,’ described as triangular and wedge-shaped, with the thin end very sharp-pointed, and with the head of Tamdin (a particular Dragshed = Haya-grīva, noted for his power) emerging from the broad end and surmounted by a half-thunderbolt for a handle.

According to Schlagintweit, this weapon is often made of cardboard, on which mystical sentences (Dhāraṇīs) in Sanskṛit are inscribed, some against the demons of the South, some against those of the East, and some against those of the South-east. In case of illness a Lāma goes round the house turning the point of the Phurbu in all directions and uttering magical spells.

Most of the Dhāaraṇīs end with the syllables Hūm phatṭ, the potency of which in scaring evil demons is irresistible. Many charms begin with Ah Tamdin.

Those Phurbus are considered most efficacious which are inscribed with mystical syllables and words composed by either the Dalai Lāma or Panchen Lāma. These are sold for large sums. It is said (Schlagintweit, 260) that such Phurbus form an important article of trade for the Mongolian pilgrims returning from Tibet.

I was fortunate enough to meet with a remarkable specimen of a magical weapon of this kind (called Phur-pa by Jäschke) made of metal, and shaped like a dagger with three edges, one for each of the three classes of demons inhabiting the three quarters. The handle is composed of a Dorje (p. 322), and is surmounted by carvings of the heads of the three most powerful Dragsheds. I here give a representation of it[161].

It may be easily understood that among a people, steeped in superstition, a man armed with such a weapon as this—composed of the heads of three potent genii, a divine thunderbolt and a triple-edged dagger—would be regarded as a match for the whole demon-host.

In Burma the tattooing of mystical squares, triangles and cabalistic diagrams and figures on various parts of the body, seems to be regarded as a sufficient substitute for the use of magical weapons, and is held to be highly efficacious.

Obviously we may contrast the Christian armoury described by S. Paul (Ephes. vi. 11), ‘the shield of faith and the sword of the Spirit.’ We might also contrast the words of Christ, ‘Rejoice not, that the spirits are subject unto you; but rather rejoice, because your names are written in heaven’ (S. Luke x. 20).

_Domestic Rites and Usages._

I now pass on to domestic rites and usages, which are as numerous and important in Buddhist countries as in India. It is said, indeed, that in Tibet and Mongolia no one is so poor as not to possess an altar in his dwelling on which he daily lays his offerings, and before which he performs devotions.

In Ceylon and Burma certain ceremonies take place soon after the birth of a child. Mr. Scott, describing those in Burma, says that a fortnight after birth a fortunate day and hour is fixed by an astrologer for the naming of the infant. A feast is prepared, and all the friends and relations of the family are invited. ‘The child’s head is usually washed for the first time on this day,’ and some one suggests a name.

The name actually given appears to be a matter of choice, but this is not so. The consonants of the language are divided into groups, which are assigned to the days of the week, Sunday having all the vowels to itself. ‘It is an invariable rule in all respectable families that the child’s name must begin with one of the letters belonging to the day on which it was born, but within these limits any name may be chosen.’ A common belief is that, according to the day of the week (or rather the constellation representing that day) on which a child is born, so will its character be.

In this way every person’s probable characteristics may be inferred. For example, a man born on a Monday is likely to be jealous; on Tuesday, honest; on Wednesday, hot-tempered—but soon appeased—this characteristic being intensified under the influence of Rāhu[162].

Then, again, if born on a Thursday, a man will probably be mild; on Friday, talkative; on Saturday, ill-tempered and quarrelsome; on Sunday, parsimonious. Saturday is a bad day for everything. Not only has every day its special character and its fixed letters, but there is also (according to Mr. Scott) a particular animal assigned to symbolize it—for example, a guinea-pig stands for Friday; a dragon for Saturday; a tiger for Monday—and red or yellow wax candles are made in the forms of these animals to be offered at the Pagoda by the pious. Each worshipper offers the creature-candle representing his birth-day.

Then a careful note is made of the exact hour of birth, with the important object of drawing up the child’s horoscope. This may be delayed till the fifth or sixth year, and a Brāhman astrologer may be called in for the purpose. He records the year, the month, the day and hour at which the child was born; the name given to it and the planet in the ascendant at the moment. All this is scratched neatly on a palm-leaf with a metal style. On the other side are a number of cabalistic squares and numbers from which future calculations may be made.

A person born on Monday remains under the influence of the moon for fifteen years. Then he passes under Mars for eight years. At the age of twenty-three Mercury presides over him, and so on through all the planets to the end of his life, which may be protracted to 108 years.

Rāhu, and especially Saturn, have a particularly sinister influence. A man does most of the stupid and wicked things in his life while he is in Saturn’s house. Other details will be found in ‘Shway Yoe.’

The horoscope is carefully kept by the parents until the child is old enough to take care of it himself, and thenceforward it is guarded as a valuable possession.

All these Buddhist customs have their counterpart in the ceremonies of Brāhmanism and Hindūism.

For example, the Hindūs have their birth-ceremonies (Jāta-karman), and their name-giving ceremony (Nāma-karaṇa[163]), and the latter is a solemn religious act fraught with momentous consequences in its bearing on a child’s future. Hence Hindū boys are generally called after some god, or the name indicates that the child is the god’s servant. Horoscopes, too, are as important in India as in Buddhist countries[164].

In India, too, all Brāhman boys go through the ceremony of tonsure and cutting off the hair.

Among the Buddhists of Burma a boy is sent to the monastery school at about the age of eight. Before he can become a novice he has to undergo the hair-abscission ceremony, followed by shaving every fort-night (as before described). But those who afterwards elect to lead a secular life wear long hair, to wash which is regarded as a kind of religious ceremonial, and only to be performed about once a month, partly, says Mr. Scott, because the washing of a Burman’s luxuriant hair takes a long time, and partly because too frequent ablutions ‘would disturb and irritate the good genius who dwells in the head and protects the man.’

It is considered unlucky to wash the head on a Monday, Friday, or Saturday; and ‘parents sending their boy to a monastery must remember not to cut his hair off on a Monday, or on a Friday, or on his birth-day.’

It is noticeable that a kind of baptism is practised in Tibet and Mongolia. It is usual to sprinkle children with consecrated water, or even to immerse them entirely on the third or tenth day after birth. This is called Khrus-sol (according to Jäschke).

The priest consecrates the water by reciting some formula, while candles and incense are burning. He then dips the child three times, blesses it, and gives it a name. After performing the ceremony, he draws up the infant’s horoscope.

Then, so soon as the child can walk and talk, a second ceremony takes place, when prayers are said for its happy life, and an amulet or little bag is hung round its neck, filled with spells and charms against evil spirits and diseases.

The use of _amulets_ (Sanskṛit kavaća), charms and spells in Northern Buddhist countries is universal.

At Dārjīling I noticed that among the crowds of persons who frequented the bazaar—many of whom were travellers from Tibet, Nepāl, Bhutān, and Sikkim—almost every one wore an amulet, or a string of amulets round the neck. Most of these amulets are simply ornamental boxes or receptacles for supposed relics of saints, or for little images, or pictures, or for prayer-formularies, worn like breast-plates or phylacteries. They are composed of wood, bone, and not infrequently of beautifully-worked filigree silver, embossed and ornamented with turquoise. The shape is sometimes square, sometimes circular or curved, and brought round to a point[165]. I purchased several specimens, but the vendor of any amulet in actual use invariably removed the contents before consenting to part with it. Here is a specimen of one of exceptionally beautiful design which was given to me by Mr. Sarat Chandra Dās. It was taken from the neck of a woman in the bazaar, but not purchased without much difficulty.

We pass on next to the Buddhist _marriage-ceremony_. This in Ceylon, Burma, Tibet, Mongolia, and indeed in all Buddhist countries, is properly a purely civil contract witnessed only by parents and guardians. We have already pointed out, that true Buddhism considers celibacy to be the only sure means of attaining real sanctity of character. Consistently with this idea, it has not prescribed any religious ceremony to be performed by monks or priests, as a condition of the validity of marriage[166].

Hence among Buddhists the ceremony of marriage is very simple, and has no religious character, or at any rate no complicated religious observances connected with it, as among the Hindūs[167]. In fact the celibate monks of true Buddhism would be much scandalized if they were asked to take part in the celebration of a wedding, or even to ratify it by their presence.

The principal ceremony consists in a feast given by the bridegroom or his parents, to which all the relations, friends, and neighbours are invited. Nevertheless, in most Buddhist countries in the present day the monks manage to have some remunerative work to do in connexion with weddings; for their business is to fix the most auspicious days for the performance of the ceremony, in return for which they receive offerings of various kinds. We know that in India astrology is a chief factor in all marriage-arrangements. Similarly in most Buddhist countries no wedding can take place till the astrologer, who is usually a monk-priest, has been consulted as to lucky and unlucky combinations, and the benign or baleful aspects of planets and stars. For example, in Burma, Saturdays and Thursdays are pronounced unlucky days, and it would be the height of imprudence to marry in certain months of the year. Then, again, a woman born on a Friday would be guilty of utter folly if she married a man born on a Monday, seeing that one or other would soon die[168]; and so on through a long list of auspicious and inauspicious potentialities.

It should, however, be set down to the credit of Buddhism that wives and daughters are not imprisoned in Zanānas, as among Hindūs and Muhammadans. I was present at an evening-party given by a rich native of Ceylon, when the ladies of the family were introduced to the European guests, and conversed freely with the rest of the company. Nor is the marriage of mere boys and girls insisted on in Buddhist countries as in India. The bridegroom is seldom of a less age than eighteen or nineteen.

Then, again, not only births and marriages, but illnesses and death are in the present day a source of revenue to the Buddhist monkhood.

First, as to _sickness_.

In Ceylon, when any one is dangerously ill, the monk-priest is summoned from the neighbouring Vihāra, after first sending offerings of flowers, oil, and food. Then a temporary preaching-place is erected near the house, and all the relatives and friends, and if possible the sick man himself, listen to the reading of the Law (Baṇa) for about six hours. The part especially read and intoned is the Ratna-valiya section of the Pirit (see p. 317). After the Baṇa a number of offerings are given to the reciting priest, including a piece of calico, one end of which is held by the priest, and the other by the sick man. Then the priest pronounces a benediction, and says words to the following effect:—‘By reverence do the wise secure health, by almsgiving do they lay up treasures for themselves[169].’

When the sick man is likely to die the priest repeats the Three-refuge formula (p. 78), the five commandments (p. 126), and the Sati-paṭṭhāna Sutta (p. 49).

In Burma, if an epidemic happens to break out in any village, the people begin by painting the supposed figure of an evil spirit on a common earthenware water-pot, and then solemnly smashing it to pieces at sunset with a heavy stick[170]. Then as soon as it gets dark all the villagers shout, yell, shriek, and make every kind of deafening din, with the hope of frightening away the evil spirit who has caused the disease. This process is continued for three nights, and if no good result follows the monk-priests are called in from the monastery. They recite the ten precepts, chant the Law up and down the road, and intone a particular sermon of the Buddha, by the preaching of which he once drove away a pestilence. These means are, of course, not effective unless abundant alms and gifts are bestowed upon the monastery.