My Short Experiment with Vegetarianism

Until high school, I never ate chicken and mutton (i.e. goat’s meat). This has partly to do with my direct witness of how some Indian teachers slaughtered goats or cocks or hens. Once they even demanded that I helped in the act. I refused and locked myself in in an empty classroom. Our family did eat dried beef, pork, and fish but often only on special occasions such as the New Year. We also used to eat meat of a cow, for example, that died a natural death. We never reared animals for meat. As children we were forbidden to mention the word “meat” in front of our domestic animals, especially cows. “Meat of killed animal” (bsad sha) used to be a taboo and meat of a just-killed animal even a greater taboo. Once my mother almost killed me for daring to eat sausage made from such a kind of meat. 

In the high school, I ate meat (probably buffalo meat) on Tuesdays and Fridays because the school provided it. As a monk in a Tibetan Buddhist monastic seminary, I tried to be a vegetarian for a few months. In those days, monasteries and monks were very poor and resources very scarce. An ex-monk of Paṇ-chen-bla-ma cooked for the monks in the seminary. He used to smoke biḍī (a kind of cheap Indian cigarette). As a dGe-lugs ex-monk he had no sense of guilt in consuming the intoxicant. “The Buddha did not prohibit smoking,” he would say. “It was Slob-dpon Rin-po-che who did.”  He did not feel obliged to heed to the instructions of Slob-dpon Rin-po-che because, according to him, he had “women” (skye dman). He despised all bla mas who had “women.” He would show his little finger to vent his detestation for them. Dil-mgo-mkhyen-brtse Rin-po-che was no exception. He despised him too. He used to say that “a Bhutanese bla ma with woman scratched everything away from Pad-nor Rin-po-che and that monks were left with nothing to eat.” He was referring to the offerings Pad-nor Rin-po-che made after Dil-mgo-mkhyen-brtse Rin-po-che bestowed initiations and transmission of Mi-pham’s works. In order to tease him, I would tell him “Paṇ-chen Rin-po-che, too, had woman.” He would stand there fuming with biḍī and anger. He had tremendous respect for Pad-nor Rin-po-che not the least because he was a a fully-ordained Buddhist monk (bhikṣu: dge slong). So he volunteered to cook for Pad-nor Rin-po-che’s monks in the seminary. Of course, provisions were provided by Pad-nor Rin-po-che. Most monks dedicated to acquiring Dharmic knowledge were full of gratitude for receiving knowledge, accommodation, and food for free. Mi-la-ras-pa could have only dreamt of such a facility! Note that Mar-pa told him very sternly that he can expect from him either Dharma (chos) or food-and-clothes (lto gos) but not both! The cook turned out not to be the kindest person or the most competent cook on earth. The tea he would prepare would smell and look smoky. Its temperature would be either cold or lukewarm. The tea and the rice porridge he made would contain biḍī butts. Rice would often be half-cooked or burnt. The roasted maize-flour would be full of sands. Two monks were assigned to assist the cook for two weeks. If those two monks made better food or tea, he would become jealous. To spoil their work, he would, for example, even pour a bucket of cold water into a caldron of ready-to-eat rice porridge. To minimize the damage, the two monks had to somehow keep the cook happy. Only two things could make him happy. (a) Let him cook as he wished. (b) Buy him a bottle of ara (i.e. alcohol) and a packet of biḍī. Hardly anyone would complain. Even teachers would mix some sandy tsam pa with some lukewarm biḍī-smelling tea, turn into a brew and sip at it. If one slightly shook the dented steel-bowl with the concoction, one could hear the sound of sand-sediments rubbing against the steel. Only once I heard a senior teacher reprimand the cook saying the Rin-po-che is providing the provisions for the saṃgha and that these should by no means be wasted. Another teacher, however, would reprimand any monk who complained. “The door is open in both ways,” he would say. “Nobody invited you to come. If you are displeased, you may leave the seminary any time.” He was right. Some monks would leave; others would stay behind biting their lips and biting sandy tsam pas. I stayed. Occasionally there would be meat. If one is lucky one might be able to fish out a piece of meat or bone in the porridge or cabbage or potato dish. There would be no vegetarian alternative. Once I told the cook that I don’t eat meat. He told me that I should then only take the soup or put aside the meat pieces (in any). Under such circumstances, the only way one could be a vegetarian was to buy one’s own vegetarian food. I had no money and so vegetarianism was a luxury for me. So I relinquished my short-lived vegetarian diet. Since then I eat meat but I try not to eat meat so often. I know I have no other excuse for my meat-eating except my greed and my inability to relinquish “exquisite” food. I am often guilt-ridden for eating meat and have much respect for those who relinquish meat for whatever motives. One thing seems clear: If I had to kill an animal myself to obtain its meat for myself, perhaps I would never eat meat.

Apropos, I am tempted to share this story. It is said that once a German lady witnessed the Dalai Lama eating a piece of steak onboard a plane. She went up to him and said: “I thought Buddhists do not eat meat.” The Dalai Lama retorted: “Those are the good Buddhists.”

Anti-Fatalism?

I have encountered the legend of how Pāṇini came to learn Sanskrit Grammar several times in Tibetan sources (e.g. Co ne’i bstan dkar, p. 179). I will leave to the Sanskritists to teach us whether the story has its Indian or Indic antecedent. I am, however, not so much interested in the story as such but rather in its implicit message of anti-fatalistic attitude or anti-fatalism or anti-determinism (karmic or otherwise). The story goes like this. Pāṇini wishes to learn Sanskrit grammar and goes to a palmist to let read his palm. The palmist flatly tells him that he is destined not to know Sanskrit grammar. He, however, is determined. He takes a sharp instrument and etches in his palm the palm-lines conducive to grammar knowledge and goes in search of a grammar teacher. He does not obtain one, and so invokes Mahādeva until the deity reveals to him and asks: “What do you wish?” “I wish to know grammar,” he replies. And he just utters “a, i, u” and lo! He comes to know Sanskrit grammar. The interesting point here is, on the one hand, the idea of intervening one’s fate or destiny through one’s sheer will, and on the other hand, the idea of divine intervention or help. The story reminds me slightly of the cutting of the “Gordian Knot.” There is nothing specifically Buddhistic in the story, but I have an impression that also some Buddhists would perhaps share the idea that one can change the course of one’s destiny through the sheer force of one’s will. Because karmic mechanism is defined by volitional impulses, one has the choice to set or upset one’s volitional impulses and thereby redefine the course of one’s destiny (even without the help of divine intervention). If one is not born with the right line of destiny on one’s palm, one corrects it and creates it! But please don’t try this yourself!

Padmaism or Padmology

According to the Tibetan lunar calendrical system, today (i.e. 26.6.2015) is supposed to be the birthday of Padmasambhava. Leaving aside the issue of the dateability of this figure, I wish to, on this occasion, reflect a little on the phenomenon of Padmasambhava, which Helmut Hoffmann (The Religions of Tibet, translated by Edward Fitzgerald. London: George Allen & Unwin, London 1961; cf. Seyfort Ruegg 2008: 170–171, n. 232) once called “Padmaism.” 

Except for some Tibetan Buddhists, for whom he is an iconic representation of heterodoxy and heteropraxy, Padmasambhava is, for many Tibetan Buddhists, the Second Buddha. (There are, by the way, many other Second Buddhas.) And to the utter disbelief, disdain, and disgust of those who are opposed to Padmasambhava phenomenon, Padmasambhava is accorded by their devotees with a status higher than that of the historical Buddha himself! While it might sound outrageous for any Buddhist to place anyone above the historical Buddha, the idea that one’s guru, though equal to the Buddha in terms of the qualities of elimination and realization, is higher than the Buddha in terms of the beneficial spiritual value that one can derive from one’s benevolent and competent teacher, is not unknown in Tibetan Buddhism. For Rong-zom-pa, one of my Tibetan mentors, one’s guru may be seen a semblance of the Three Jewels; as the embodiment of the Three Jewels; as the Fourth Jewel; or even one higher than the Three Jewels. Needless to say one is most grateful to one who benefits one the most. Occasionally, I tend to personally see my guru as my foster Buddha (Zieh-Buddha) not because I have less respect or appreciation for the historical Buddha but because I have been less fortunate in being a direct spiritual son of his. Although the word Lamaism is misleading for a number of reasons, it does seem to accentuate an important aspect of Indian and Tibetan Mahāyāna (and especially Mantrayāna) Buddhism. Many Tibetan Buddhists saw and still see Padmasambhava as a guru par excellence, and is often seen by some as superseding the historical Buddha himself. A possible factor for this elevation seems to be the primary association of Padmasambhava with Mantric form of Mahāyāna Buddhism, which is, all in all, accorded with a status higher than that of the Sūtric or non-Mantric form of Mahāyāna Buddhism. Padmasambhava’s domain of salvific activities, for example, is said to be larger than that of Śākyamuni’s. See, for example, Mi-pham’s line: mi mjed ’jig rten so drug la sogs par ||.

How much of the accounts of Padmasambhava is historically verifiable  or plausible and how much of it is legendary or fictitious? In this regard, I contend that we should clearly distinguish two issues, namely, the historicity of the person or figure Padmasambhava (i.e. Padmasambhava as a historical person or figure) and the historicity of the idea of Padmasambhava. Importantly, my position is that any attempt to trace the historical kernels behind the person or figure Padmasambhava, or any figure for that matter, enshrouded in mysteries and legends, should presuppose a nuanced understanding of the history of the idea of Padmasambhava. While we may never fully succeed in unraveling the historical facticity of the person or figure Padmasambhava, we are most likely to be able to explain when, why, and how the idea of Padmasambhava originated, developed, and proliferated and this might help us to understand the spiritual and intellectual world of a civilization impregnated with Buddhism.

Tibetan Buddhists—be they be covertly or overtly anti-Padmasambhava or pro-Padmasambhava—would presumably cognize and recognize that not every account of Padmasambhava is purely historical or purely ahistorical. Perhaps one could state that Padmasambhava is somewhat like the historical Buddha himself. One could reasonably propose that both were historical figures but in both cases legends came to enshroud their historical kernels. Just as the development of the various conceptions of the Buddha (i.e. Buddhology) can tell us a great deal about the history of Buddhism and the spiritual and intellectual world of those who associated themselves with the Buddha, so would the conceptions of Padmasambhava, so to speak, Padmology, tell us a great deal about the history of Tibetan Buddhism and the spiritual and intellectual world of those who directly or indirectly associated themselves with mKhan-slob-chos-gsum (i.e. Śāntarakṣita, Padmasambhava, and Khri Srong-lde-btsan). I hope it is fairly correct to state that the initially historical figure Padmasambhava (limited to a certain time and place) gradually became an ahistorical (i.e. atemporal and aspatial) Buddhaic icon and idol. Padmasambhava has clearly come to take the role of an iconized and idolized embodiment of all buddhas, bodhisattvas, mahāsiddhas, vidyādharas, and paṇḍitas. He came to be viewed as the All-in-One Buddha.

In my view, just as it seems utterly futile for a student of the history of ideas to try and prove or disprove the existence of the creator God, it seems to make no sense in trying to verify or falsify, vilify or glorify, the doctrinal claims made by the Buddhist sources. But it does not mean that one should not try and understand the history of the idea of the Creator God and mutatis mutandis also the history of the idea of the Buddha or of Padmasambhava. Should such an idea be reproachable from a Mahāyāna doctrinal point of view? In my view, not really unless a Mahāyānist would boldly claim that all buddha and bodhisattva figures occurring in the Mahāyāna scriptures are historical figures (e.g. Amitābha or Avalokiteśvara), that is, in the same way, Tsong-kha-pa, for example, is. While one can defensibly claim that the idea of Avalokiteśvara is historical, one can hardly and defensibly claim that Avalokiteśvara was a historical figure born in a certain time and place. I am sure some of the most respected Tibetan Buddhist masters would agree in explaining that Avalokiteśvara is nothing but an embodiment, a representation (and hence a crystallization) of the compassion of buddhas and bodhisattvas! The very thought of Avalokiteśvara should invoke or provoke one’s compassion. The very sound of oṃ ma ṇi padme hūṃ should recall one of compassion. How can such a noble idea be reproachable? I would contend that such an understanding or interpretation of Avalokiteśvara or Padmasambhava is not a New-Age interpretation based on no historical-philological grounds but one that seems to make, historically and philologically, the most plausible sense. Also traditional scholars such as Mi-pham seem to view Padmasambhava in the same light, for which, see his Tshig bdun rnam bshad padma dkar po. We know that for centuries long, Tibetan scholars have debated regarding the mode of Padmasambhava’s birth. Was he lotus-born (i.e. born miraculously) or was he was born ordinarily from his mother’s womb? On the one hand, it is true that mystification, glorification, and amplification of the accounts of the Buddha and Padmasambhava have greatly undermined their reliability and credibility. While mystifications, glorifications, and amplifications certainly have their instrumental values, they seem to have little epistemic or historical value. Precisely because I have great respect and admiration for them, I must also say that one of the greatest weaknesses of the anonymous Buddhists in India and Tibet who were presumably behind the mass production of Buddhist scriptures might have been that they had little sense of (or interest in) history and they, in a way, did some disservice to the Buddha and Padmasambhava by mystifying, glorifying, and amplifying them and thereby veiling or obscuring them. The bottom line of Tibetan expression bstod mi shes pas smad pa rings a familiar tone in my ear. That is, one might dishonor someone by not knowing how to honor him or her. Similarly, like many Buddhologists, I do not believe that all those works ascribed to Nagārjuna were composed by the one and the same person.  A problematic question that keeps me bugging is: Assuming that there were more than one Nagārjuna, Vasubandhu, Āryadeva, Candrakīrti, and so on, did Nagārjuna II, Vasubandhu II, Āryadeva II, Candrakīrti II, and so on, pose themselves as Nagārjuna I, Vasubandhu I, Āryadeva I, Candrakīrti I, and so on? I hope that they did not and that they simply happened to bear those names just as we would have several persons with the name Hans Mayer. If they did, however, indeed make an attempt to pass themselves on as their earlier namesakes, one would doubt their sincerity or honesty. In short, the point I am trying to make is, strictly speaking, we have difficulties even with those figures which we consider historical, let alone with semi-historical and ahistorical figures!

But despite all the difficulties, the textual sources dealing with historical, semi-historical, and ahistorical figures ought to be studied carefully. Most of the scriptures or literatures that have been transmitted to us were perhaps never meant as historical sources, at least not in the sense that we might understand “historical sources” today. But it does not mean that these are completely useless. Even seemingly ahistorical and non-historical sources and ideas have their own histories and they might even offer valuable clues for the historical events and entities.  

Returning to the Padmaism or Padmology, from a Mahāyānic perspective, Padmasambhava has assumed the roles of both figures such as Mañjuśri and the historical Buddha. All conceivable deities have eventually been, so to speak, “Padmaized” or “O-rgyanized” (e.g. O-rgyan-sman-lha and O-rgyan-lor-lha). Those Buddhists who cannot come to terms with mundane and supramundane deities found in Sūtric and Mantric Mahāyāna would and should find Padmaism strange. But those who feel at home with mundane and supramundane deities found in Sūtric and Mantric Mahāyāna should be, at least in principle, able to tolerate Padmaism.

PS. There are other names and forms of Padmasambhava in the Tibetan tradition but the name and monkish form of Padmasambhava is not particularly common in Tibetan tradition. How come then that in secondary sources the monkish form Padmasambhava seems to be the most standard name? I was told that Drung-pa Rin-po-che once gave an explanation. Tibetan clerics who were indisposed to Padmasambhava’s other non-monkish forms may have exercised some influence in this trend.

Kenotic Model of Buddhist Soteriology

We are told that “in Christian theology, kenosis (Greek kénōsis, lit. ‘emptiness’) is the ‘self-emptying’ of one’s own will and becoming entirely receptive to God’s divine will” (Wikipedia, s.v.). The term seems to be employed in various sub-areas of Christology in varying senses. But my concern here is whether we can use the term also in the context of Buddhism and specifically in the context of Buddhist soteriology. Although perhaps tempting, it does not seem to be suitable to use the term kenosis in the context of Buddhist ontology and axiology (e.g. in Buddhist ethics and morality). According to the Madhyamaka philosophy of emptiness (śūnyatā: stong pa nyid), phenomena are essentially and from the very outset empty of real or hypostatic existence and one does not somehow make them empty. Similarly Buddhist theory of the absence of a metaphysical Self (ātman: bdag) or Person (pudgala: gang zag) does not imply emptying of an existent Self or Person. If we consider particularly kenōsis in the sense ‘an emptying’ (from kenoun ‘to empty’), I think we can use it to characterize a model of Buddhist soteriology, which may be presupposed by more than one strand of Buddhism. We are told (Schmithausen 1969) that the absolute, according to the Yogācāra School of Dharmapāla, is conceived of as static (as opposed to the dynamic absolute of the Tathāgatagarbha School), and that the positive qualities of a buddha do not belong to the Wesen of the absolute and that thus they have to be generated additionally. It would thus seem that the Yogācāra School of Dharmapāla proposed or presupposed what one might call an Aufräumungsmodel/Ausräumungsmodel (i.e. clearance-model or riddance-model) of Buddhist soteriology. That is, to become an arhant or a buddha, one must clear or clean all the intellectual-emotional defilements (kleśa: nyon mongs pa) or all obscurations (āvaraṇa: sgrib pa). An important distinction between the soteriological model of a regular arhant and that of a buddha would be, however, that a regular arhant would not have additionally generated infinite positive qualities and what remains of an arhant in the end is mere tathatā, whereas a buddha would have additionally generated infinite positive qualities. The analogy of the Aufräumung bzw. Ausräumung einer Wohnung is actually apt here. What an arhant in the end gets is a cleaned and emptied flat (i.e. tathatā), whereas a buddha gets a fully and newly furnished flat. In either of the two cases, however, everything that was there in the flat of tathatā before have been totally emptied. Such an “emptying” model of Buddhist soteriology may be called “Kenotic Model of Buddhist Soteriology.” In my view, the soteriological model followed by the Prāsaṅgika-Madhyamaka or Sarvadharmāpratiṣṭḥānavāda school cannot be said to be kenotic, reasons I cannot afford to give here.