The Light of the Day Star opens with a brief but interesting statement of
Mipham's nonsectarian motives for the composition of the Ketaka. He does
not mention the injunction of Jamyang Khyentse Wangpo but explains
instead the quite natural origins of his attachment to the Nyingma tradition. It was, first of all, a question of birthright. He had been born in a
Nyingma family, and this had allowed him to imbibe at firsthand the teachings from great masters of the Old Translation school, and thereby come to
a devoted appreciation of their value. His writing moreover was prompted
by concern for the defense and preservation of that tradition at a time when
the Nyingma school was endangered and denigrated. He explains moreover
that, given the prevailing situation, an exposition of the scriptural tradition of the Nyingmapas could scarcely be done without at least implicitly
contrasting it with the conflicting—and probably well-known—opinions
of other schools. This was, he says, simply a matter of expository necessity.
It did not imply polemical intentions against the views of those schools and
still less against the great masters who had expounded them, whose pure
motives in teaching exclusively for the benefit of their disciples, and according to their needs, Mipham contrasts with the narrow, bigoted squabbling
of "the majority of people nowadays." This then leads into a plea for intellectual honesty and tolerance of the views of others.
Mipham then goes on to express appreciation for Drakar Tulku's composition. Whereas to the modern reader, there are several places in the Pleasurable Discourse that suggest that Drakar's reading of the Ketaka had not been especially meticulous, Mipham is nevertheless appreciative of someone who
had at least taken the trouble to compose a reply that was a faithful defense
of his own school, the teaching of his fathers—as contrasted with others
(mentioning no names) who go off and study the traditions of others.
The Light of the Day Star is divided into eight main sections, mostly
introduced by passages, sometimes quite lengthy, drawn from Drakar's critique. The first question concerns a rather unclear statement by Drakar to
the effect that phenomena are the imputations of thought. Mipham interprets this as essentially a question about the identification of the object of
negation, and this leads into a wide-ranging discussion about the two truths
and the kind of reasoning appropriate to each. This, in turn, raises the question of the difference between the Svātantrika and Prāsaṅgika approaches
and Mipham's general contention that a great deal of confusion has arisen
because they are not properly distinguished. This was, as we know, an area of
fundamental importance for Mipham, who considered that the proper distinction between the two truths is muddled in a
system where the profession of a Prāsaṅgika orientation is combined with, and (in the view of the ngarabpas) compromised by, the adoption of a methodology more typical of the Svātantrika approach. On the other hand, Mipham concludes, if one were to
distinguish the Prāsaṅgika and Svātantrika approaches correctly, in a manner that assessed the latter according to its true validity and utility, instead
of dismissing it as an inferior view, "all the different disputes of Tibetan
scholarship, on whether conventional phenomena are established by valid
cognition or not, resolve themselves quite naturally. The criticism made by
certain people to the effect that the scholars of the earlier period mistook
the genuine Prāsaṅgika view, and that they failed to understand correctly
the view of Nāgārjuna and his son, is likewise naturally dissipated."[1]
The first question constitutes a fairly self-contained discussion. This is true
also of the sixth question, which is a consideration of the two truths, and of
the seventh, which deals with the Gelugpa refutation ofthe self-cognizing
mind. The latter, it will be remembered, is one of the eight great difficult
points of Prāsaṅgika, which are themselves briefly reviewed in the eighth
question. By contrast, the second, third, fourth, and fifth questions are thematically connected. They center around the question of the realization of
the Hīnayāna Arhats, explicitly discussed in questions 3 and 4, but spreading out to other connected topics discussed in questions 2 and 5. The subject
of question 2 is the problem of self-clinging, both personal and phenomenal,
in relation to the aggregates, while question 5 concerns the classification as
an obscuration through defilement (nyon grib) of the apprehension of the
real existence of phenomena—which is also one ofthe eight difficult points.
Questions 3 and 4 of the Day Star are by far the most difficult sections
of what is already a very demanding text. Mipham's language is sometimes almost impenetrably intricate, and the subject itself, which turns
about the minute interpretation of a text full of ambiguities, is of mind-boggling complexity, which often places the translator in considerable difficulty. Although, when the time comes, attempts are made by means of
well-intentioned endnotes to guide the reader through the labyrinth, it will
perhaps be prudent to survey the matter in more general terms here so that
the reader is at least forewarned.
To begin with, let us summarize the debate as it appears in stanzas 40-48
of the "Wisdom Chapter." At this point of the text, Shāntideva is dealing
with general objections made against the Mahayana, and the discussion
is dramatized as a confrontation between the Shravaka upholders of the
Hinayana and Shantideva as a spokesman for the Mahayana. Briefly, the
Shravakas begin by declaring that they achieve liberation through medita¬
tion on the sixteen aspects ofthe four noble truths. They therefore have no
need, they say, for the Mahāyāna doctrine of emptiness. Shāntideva replies
by pointing out that the (Mahāyāna) scriptures say that no liberation is
possible without the realization of emptiness. This then gives rise to a brief
dispute about the validity of the scriptures in question, in which Shāntideva
endeavors to show that the Hīnayāna and Mahāyāna are of equal validity.
Then, after a brief exchange on the nature of the monastic state, regarded
as the basis of the Dharma, Shāntideva turns the debate into a confrontation between the Hīnayāna and Mahāyāna on the subject of the result of
the Hīnayāna path, namely, the state of arhatship. So far so good, but from
this point onward, the difficulties begin. For with regard to the purpose of
Shāntideva's debate with the Shrāvakas, two interpretations (that of Tsongkhapa and the Gelugpas and that of Mipham and the ngarabpas) confront
each other in irreconcilable disagreement.
As a preliminary observation, it should be noticed that the Hīnayāna and
Mahāyāna differ in their understanding of arhatship. Shāntideva's Shrāvaka
interlocutors insist that the realization of the sixteen aspects of the four
noble truths results in nirvana, in arhatship: the complete and irreversible
liberation from samsara. It should be understood, moreover, that from the
point of view of the Shrāvakayāna, the nirvana of the Arhats and that of
Shakyamuni Buddha himself is exactly the same: the complete cessation
of samsaric suffering. It is true that the title of "Buddha, the Awakened
One," is exclusively reserved for Shakyamuni, but this title does not reflect
a difference in the quality of his nirvana—which, as an absolute value, is the
same for all. According to the Hīnayā na, Shakyamuni is called "Buddha" in recognition of the fact that he was the Universal Teacher who first set in
motion the wheel of the Dharma in this world.
Given that the attainment of nirvana does not entail the immediate disappearance of the physical body of the adept (the Buddha himself remained
in the world for a further fifty years after his awakening beneath the tree of
enlightenment), it is customary to distinguish two kinds of nirvana. On the
one hand, there is nirvana with remainder, which is the continued existence,
following the attainment of arhatship, of the material body, propelled as
this is by karma from the past. When this karma is exhausted, and the causes
that propel the existence of the body cease, the Arhat dies and enters nirvana without remainder. The Hīnayāna scriptures affirm that the nirvana
without remainder of the Buddha and the Arhats is exactly on a level, in
being the complete extinction of samsaric existence. By contrast, these same
scriptures record that, at the time of their nirvana with remainder, manifest
differences were observed between the Buddha and his Arhat disciples in
terms, for example, of their clairvoyant powers and their ability to detect
objects of knowledge far removed in space or time. Whereas Shariputra,
for instance, was unable to perceive where his mother had been reborn, the
knowledge of the Buddha was totally unimpeded. Once again, the superior
ability of the Buddha did not imply a superior kind of nirvana. It was simply
a consequence of the immense reserves of merit that he had accumulated in
the course of his Bodhisattva path, which, unlike the much shorter path of
the Shrāvakas, had extended over countless immeasurable kalpas of time.
The Mahāyāna understanding of the two nirvanas is different. Here, the
conditions of the Buddhas and the Arhats are distinguished not only on
the level of nirvana with remainder but also on the level of nirvana without
remainder. The Mahāyāna teaches that whereas Arhats attain liberation
and no more, Bodhisattvas evolve further into a state in which the subtlest
obscurations have been removed, with the result that when buddhahood is
achieved, all objects of knowledge are present to their omniscient minds.
This in turn raises an interesting question. Since the Arhats, being liberated,
cannot return to samsara, and since theirs is not the state of buddhahood,
what happens to them when they enter nirvana without remainder? The
answer given in the Mahāyāna is that Shrāvaka arhatship is qualified by an
extremely subtle and undefiled conceptual clinging (to the notions of samsara and nirvana), and this prevents them from going beyond the absorption of cessation. In this state of profound absorption, the Arhats must remain until the undefiled causes of their blissful condition are exhausted, at which point it is said that they are roused by the Buddhas. They then enter the Mahāyāna and continue on the path to the omniscience of full
enlightenment.
Mipham and the thinkers of the earlier tradition consider that this disagreement between the Shrāvakayāna and Mahāyāna on the question of
arhatship is the subject of the debate in stanzas 40—48 of the "Wisdom Chapter." As a follower of the Mahāyāna, Shāntideva is demonstrating to
the Shrāvakas, who think that they attain full enlightenment on the basis
of their realization of the four noble truths, that while the Shrāvaka Arhats
are indeed liberated from samsara, their arhatship is not the same as the full
attainment of buddhahood.
According to this interpretation, Shantideva's argument proceeds as
follows. If, he says in stanza 45, the Shrāvakas are completely liberated
(through the removal of defilement that comes from the realization of the
four noble truths), their liberation should occur at once. On the other hand,
Shāntideva continues, we know from the scriptures that great Arhats like
Maudgalyāyana continued to experience the effects of karma. The Shrāvakas
accept this but reply that once arhatship, that is, nirvana with remainder, is
attained, the effects of past karma are felt, though "only for a while," that is,
until the karma propelling their continued physical existence is exhausted.
We should note from the start that, in this discussion, the interlocutors
employ the technical language of the Abhidharma, referring to the twelvefold chain of interdependent causation. The Shrāvakas say that the Arhats
with remainder are exhausting their residual karma but they do not create
the cause of further birth in samsara. They do not, for example, exhibit the
link of craving (sred pa) that will lead eventually to further existence (yang srid). It is here that the Shrāvakayāna and the Mahāyāna part company.
Shāntideva contradicts his Shrāvaka interlocutor, saying that the Arhats with remainder do have craving. We know this, he says, because craving
arises on the basis of feeling (tshor ba). And the stories recounted in the
scriptures demonstrate that the great Arhats did indeed have feelings. They
felt hunger and thirst for example, as a result of which they experienced the
impulse to eat and drink. Nevertheless, Shāntideva's argument continues,
Arhats are indeed definitively liberated from the defilement of samsara
through the realization of the emptiness of the personal self. These two
points (craving on the one hand, liberation on the other) the Shrāvakas
must accept, and therefore, the consequential argument continues, they
must accept that the Arhats have an undefiled craving—a craving that must lead to a continuation of existence, even though it is not, and cannot be, a
samsaric existence. The Shrāvaka adepts do not, as they think, pass into
the peace of nirvana like lamps that are extinguished. But since they cannot fall back into samsara, it follows that when they enter their nirvana
without remainder, they pass into an intermediary state of cessation. It is
by this argument, implied in telegraphic shorthand in stanzas 45-47, that
Shāntideva attempts to convince the Shrāvakas of the Mahāyāna teaching
on the state of arhatship. Such is the exegesis of Mipham and the earlier
Tibetan tradition, supported by the Indian commentators, whose works,
notably that of Prajñākaramati, are preserved in the Tengyur.
Tsongkhapa and the Gelugpa commentators disagree with this interpretation. They strongly deny that Shāntideva is referring to the Arhats with
remainder and explain these stanzas quite differently.
Once again, it will be remembered that as one of his eight difficult points
of the Prāsaṅgika tenet system, Tsongkhapa had stated that liberation from
samsara requires not only the realization of the personal no-self but also the
complete realization of the emptiness of phenomena. Despite the counterintuitive implication that in attaining such a level, the Shrāvakas must realize
the truth of a doctrine not set forth in their own scriptures, except in summary and inchoate form, Tsongkhapa nevertheless insists that the Hīnayāna
Āryas enjoy the same level of realization that the Bodhisattvas achieve on
the Mahāyāna path of seeing. For him, the Mahāyāna and Hīnayāna paths
are distinguished, not according to the level of wisdom to which they give
access, but only according to the presence or absence of bodhichitta.
Tsongkhapa based his understanding of the realization of the
Hīnayāna Āryas on the eighth stanza of the first chapter of Chandrakīrti's
Madhyamakāvatāra, which states that whereas Bodhisattvas on the first
ground of realization outshine the noble beings on the Shrāvaka path by
their merit, they do so by their wisdom only on Far Progressed, that is,
the seventh ground.[2] Tsongkhapa therefore interprets Chandrakīrti as
implying that until the Bodhisattvas reach the end of the sixth ground, the
Hīnayāna Āryas (that is, those who have attained the Hinayana path of seeing) are their equals in wisdom. And since the Bodhisattvas on the grounds
have already passed through the Mahāyāna path of seeing and therefore have
a direct realization of the emptiness of both the person and phenomena, the
irresistible conclusion follows that the Shrāvakas also gain a full realization of emptiness. When, in his commentary on the Madhyamakāvatāra,
Tsongkhapa gives this exegesis of Chandrakīrti's text, he pointedly refers to stanzas 45—47 of the "Wisdom Chapter," which he interprets as a corroboration (by another Prāsaṅgika) of this uncommon position of Chandrakīrti.
For Tsongkhapa, therefore, Shāntideva's stanzas are an important proof text.
This means that for the Gelugpa commentators, the debate recorded in
stanzas 40—48 is not an argument between the Hīnayāna and Mahāyāna
on the nature of arhatship. On the contrary, it is intended to demonstrate
that since arhatship requires the full realization of the emptiness of the two
selves, and since the Shrāvakas reject emptiness, it follows that although they
claim to attain liberation through their realization of the four noble truths,
they in fact fail to do so. They are mistaken. And whatever Shāntideva's
interlocutors think they achieve on the basis of their meditation on the four
truths, the truth is that they fail to attain liberation and are thrown back
into samsara.
The Gelugpas are perfectly aware that their exegesis diverges not only
from that of the earlier Tibetan schools but also from that of the Indian
commentaries preserved in the Tengyur. This does not discourage them, for,
as Drakar says, even the Indian authorities must answer before the tribunal
of reason, and if reason disproves them, they are to be rejected. Instead,
the Gelugpa exegetes have faith in Tsongkhapa's explanation, which is ultimately grounded, as they believe, in a superior understanding of Madhyamaka that traces its origin not to the Indian texts but to the instructions
received directly in visionary communications with Mañjuśrī. Needless to
say, Tsongkhapa's critics reject such claims, which they find outrageous and
which, in their view, fly in the face of venerable tradition, resulting in an
interpretation that overturns the plain meaning of Shāntideva's words and
that cannot be squared with the text itself without far-fetched glosses and
the introduction of extraneous qualifications. As the reader of the Ketaka and Day Star will discover, a great deal is made of the fact that, in order to
disambiguate the argument as they understand it, the Gelugpas assert that
"what Shāntideva really means" is that the Shrāvakas succeed only in temporarily dissipating manifest defilement. And Mipham goes to great lengths
to show that such interpolations are not only unwarranted, in the sense that
the Shrāvakas clearly do not themselves believe that they achieve no more
than the temporary removal of manifest defilement, but also completely
disrupt the logical flow of Shāntideva's arguments, which as a result lose
their cogency and create the impression that their author was foolish and
inept in the art of debate.
The reader will discover that the examination of the disagreement
between the Gelugpas and the earlier interpreters exposes crucial ambiguities in the Tibetan translation—ambiguities that are not found in the
Sanskrit, a highly inflected language that, like its Latin cousin, is intolerant of imprecision. A Tibetan commentator of the caliber of Mipham is
able to demonstrate beyond doubt that in trying to establish scriptural
support for their novel ideas conceived in independence of the tradition,
the Gelugpas are manifestly obliged to force the text. Furthermore, a
comparison of the Sanskrit original with the Tibetan translation, which
was of course the only source to which the Tibetan commentators had
access, reveals places—admittedly not perhaps very important—where the
Gelugpa interpretation leans on the meanings of terms that are viable in
Tibetan but are ruled out in the Sanskrit.[3] This was undoubtedly one of
the hazards of pursuing an interpretation that manifestly diverged from
the Sanskrit commentarial tradition. Mipham, for his part, was as much
dependent on the Tibetan translation as the Gelugpa commentators and
was no doubt equally ignorant of the—in any case, inaccessible—Sanskrit
original. He considered, on the other hand, that the Indian commentators
were in principle far better placed to understand Shāntideva's meaning;
and since they were all in agreement, there was good reason to think that
they possessed the explanatory lineage of Shāntideva himself.[4] Moreover,
Mipham remarks ironically, there was no reason to suppose that the Indian
commentators were less intelligent than their Tibetan counterparts. Their
interpretation was therefore entirely trustworthy and could not be open
to speculation.
As a general principle, differences of interpretation are the consequence
of ambiguity; and ambiguity is often inevitable when moving from the precise and elaborate structures of a
language like Sanskrit into a much more fluid and elliptical idiom like Tibetan. This is why commentary and, for
that matter, lineages of interpretation, are an important component of
Tibetan learning. For it is often only by such extraneous means that the
sense of a Tibetan text can be fixed and made explicit. The complicating
factor is that, when working on Tibetan commentarial literature, one is
bound within a world not of original texts but of translations. And different interpretations, and traditions of interpretation, may be rooted in
ambivalences in the Tibetan translation that are not present in the Sanskrit
of the original. When such situations arise, and given the availability of
the Sanskrit, it might of course be possible to resolve the conundrum by consulting the author in the original language. Then at least it is possible
to see what he actually said (assuming he spoke clearly) as opposed to what
subsequent readers of the translation thought he said. Yet even here the situ ation is delicate. Entire traditions of thought may be based on translations,
traditions that develop and take on a self-authenticating life of their own.
And when this happens, we may be driven to the strange conclusion that
the "root text" of a given exegetical tradition is not the original text but its
translation. It may well be, for instance, that the amount of leeway necessary for the two interpretations of stanzas 40-49 of Shāntideva's "Wisdom
Chapter" exists only in the Tibetan rendering. Certainly, nothing remotely
resembling the Gelugpa interpretation ever seems to have occurred to the
Indian commentators.
To be sure, the experience of trying to translate Mipham's debate with
Drakar has demonstrated very clearly the difficulty of translating a root text
that is the common basis of diverging interpretations. Given the fact that
the Sanskrit authors of root texts had a strong predilection for terse and
cryptic expression, and given also that the Tibetan language is often only
approximate in its handling of the complex system of Sanskrit declensions
and conjugations, the result can only be an obscurity that, in the absence of a
commentarial tradition, is completely impenetrable. Therefore, when faced
with the task of translating a root text, the translator is forced not only to
rely on a commentary but also to choose the commentary and commentarial
tradition on which to rely.
Given that the understanding of a root text is closely dependent on commentaries and lineages of interpretation, this same dependence must also
apply to its translation into modern languages. For it is impossible to translate a text that one does not understand. And if, in order to understand, it
is necessary to follow a commentarial tradition, it follows that any translation made on the basis of such an understanding must be also be grounded
in that same tradition. When therefore the Padmakara Translation Group
translated the Bodhicaryāvatāra as The Way of the Bodhisattva, it did so
on the basis of a commentary by Khenpo Kunzang Pelden, who followed
the commentarial tradition of his masters Patrul Rinpoche and Mipham.
Of course, the meaning of much of the Bodhicaryāvatāra is unequivocal
and is interpreted in the same way by all traditions, but as we have seen,
there are places, particularly in the "Wisdom Chapter," where divergent
interpretations follow the philosophical and traditional allegiances of the
commentators.
The Way of the Bodhisattva was professedly—but to a even greater degree
than was evident at the time—a "Nyingma" translation. And in the case of
the passage that we have just been discussing, the translation was made as
though the reading of it by the earlier tradition was the sole and unproblematic interpretation. In the present case, however, where two exegetical traditions are placed in direct confrontation, it was obviously impossible to use a
translation that is patently slanted in favor of the Nyingma understanding.
The stanzas in question have consequently been retranslated, much more
literally and in a way that, it is hoped, will serve both parties. There is however at least one place where this is actually impossible. Occasionally, when
a word in Tibetan has two meanings and when one side of the debate uses
it in one sense and the other in another, the translators are placed in an
impossible position. They have no options but to make a choice, and to plot a
perilous course between Scylla and Charybdis, knowing full well that their
destiny is probably to be devoured and drowned at the same time.
Mipham's Adversary
As a conclusion to this introduction, some words are in order concerning
the "villain of the piece." As it turns out, Drakar Tulku's biography is an
intriguing story, full of unexpected and edifying surprises.
Lozang Pelden Tendzin Nyendrak, the third Drakar Tulku, composed
the Pleasurable Discourse for Those of Clear Understanding, his first criticism
of Mipham, probably toward the end of his twenty-second year. The text
seems to have taken the best part of a year to reach Mipham, who, as we
have said, replied at once. The events that followed this first exchange are
not clear. As we have said, Drakar composed two rejoinders, but we have no
way of knowing whether Mipham received them. All we know is that they
received no answer.
The third of Drakar's critiques, which, as we have seen, bears the colorful
title An Emetic for Extracting the Bloody Vomit of Wrong Views, is a lengthy
text of nearly three hundred pages. In its introduction and colophon, Drakar lays out the order of events from his own point of view. In keeping perhaps with its title, he begins his Emetic on an aggressive note, revealing that
whenever it was that he composed his text, he remained an unrepentant
opponent of Mipham. After repeatedly examining Mipham's Day Star, he
says, he came to the breathtaking conclusion that it was nothing but a tissue
of confused argument and mistaken scriptural interpretation: a collection of random, ill-considered, and senseless explanations. Therefore, he declares
in a lofty tone that he felt no inclination to continue the discussion, apart
from merely reiterating, in his brief Profound Discourse, the essential points
of correct reasoning and scriptural interpretation that he had expressed
somewhat more fully in his original critique. Having done this, he said, he
could remain with a quiet conscience. For if anyone skilled in analysis were
to examine his two refutations, they would find that he had supplied all the
necessary answers to Mipham's onslaught. "And consequently, I made no
great effort to compose any further reply." But alas, Drakar tells us, with
the tiresome rhetoric typical of this kind of literature, his repose was soon
disturbed by other scholars who, with a concern for others less intelligent
than themselves, who were in danger of being swayed by Mipham's specious dialectic, repeatedly importuned him with requests to take up his pen
once again and this time at greater length. And so, Drakar declares, with a
sigh of resignation, his text will be divided into three sections: an answer
concerning the recognition of the object of negation, an answer concerning
how refutations are to be made, and an answer concerning the manner of
asserting the two truths. He comes back, in other words, to the three most
crucial areas in which the Gelugpa tradition distinguishes itself from the earlier tradition.
It is frustrating that we know so little of the date and circumstances of
the composition of the Emetic and are therefore at a loss to assess with any
confidence its position in Drakar's intellectual development as a scholar and
teacher of wide-ranging interests. It is possible, on the other hand, to piece
together at least in outline something of Drakar's extraordinary and varied
career. According to Alak Zenkar Rinpoche's brief biography,[5] Drakar
entered Drepung Loseling in 1882 at the age of sixteen. There he remained
for about ten years following the traditional curriculum, toward the end
of which time he composed his Pleasurable Discourse, "in my twenty-third
year, while living in glorious Drepung."[6] His critique of Mipham, Alak
Zenkar tells us, added luster to an already prospering reputation, and seems
to have inaugurated a period of wide-ranging study of other traditions. We
learn, for instance, that Drakar studied medicine. He received empowerments and instructions on the practice of"severance" (gcod) as well as the
secret treasure teachings of the Fifth Dalai Lama. He received the empowerments, transmission, and explanation of the Longchen Nyingtik, as well as
the writings of Longchenpa. He received also the Thirteen Golden Teachings of Sakya and the transmission of the Lamdré, on which he composed a commentary. Alak Zenkar then tells us that he returned home to Dokham at the age of twenty-two.[7] If this is correct, it means that Drakar left Drepung immediately after his composition of the Pleasurable Discourse, in which
case, the two texts that Mipham said he received from Lhasa cannot possibly
be his. On the other hand, there are other accounts that say that he returned
to Kham at the age of twenty-six.
There he continued his studies, receiving all the texts and empowerments
of his own and other schools, becoming, as Alak Zenkar tells us, an impartial student of all traditions, old and new. He traveled to all the important
places of eastern Tibet regardless of their traditional affiliations and, in
short, became an intensely active and popular teacher. For example, we are
told that he gave the transmission of the Kangyur fifteen times, the Tengyur
six times, the collection of Nyingma tantras five times, the Seven Treasures
of Longchenpa three times, the collected writings of Tsongkhapa five times.
And the list goes on. We learn too that he gathered around him students of
all schools, including khenpos Damcho and Konme of Dodrupchen, Ngawang Khyenor of Mindroling, and "a host of great beings endowed with
learning and accomplishment of both the old and new traditions."[8]
Alas, Alak Zenkar's account is all too brief. Happily, more details of Drakar's extraordinary life can be found in a monograph by Nicola Schneider,
principally devoted to Drakar's considerable activities on behalf of Tibetan
nuns.[9] Drakar, in fact, distinguished himself as a compassionate protector
of women practitioners, whom he took seriously as students and scholars.
He not only accepted them as disciples but also organized them into communities and built monasteries for them. He composed a special rule for
them, which describes a discipline and way of life strikingly similar to the
practice of contemplative monasticism in the Christian Church. Drakar's
nunneries seem to have been essentially cenobitic: the nuns were encouraged
to regard their communities as a family, to which they owed a stable allegiance and on which they could rely for support. Drakar moreover stressed
the importance of learning and did not accept that the nun's lives should be
spent exclusively in the performance of pious rituals. He therefore supervised their studies and took great care with the nuns' education.
This is actually of some significance in our attempt to situate Drakar's Emetic, which concludes with a
lengthy colophon in which the author says:
Although many years (lo du ma) have now passed since I received the Light of the Day Star, and even though I had made no reply to it and had put it aside with an attitude of indifference, nevertheless, many people, who were versed in the arguments that savored of the supreme feast of scripture and reasoning, told me that if I were to compose [an answer] in the same manner, it would be of great service to the Doctrine in this decadent time when so many students boast that they have easily understood the meaning of the wisdom intention of teachings of the Conqueror, but who, having gained only a little understanding of the commentaries, become intellectually complacent, and act with arrogance and pride. On the other hand, if one does not examine the meaning of the texts with meticulous care, no understanding will result. And being stained by doubt and false opinion, one will fail to find—in the three activities of explanation, disputation, and composition—the path that is pleasing to the learned.
Compared with the opening of the text, the tone here is much less combative. It is not beyond the bounds of reasonable speculation that Drakar composed his Emetic years after the controversy with Mipham had died down. And in the light of what has just been said of Drakar s remarkable career as
a teacher, his words in the colophon seem rather to reflect the concern of
a sincere pedagogue. Compared with the Pleasurable Discourse, the principal significance of which for followers of Mipham was that it prompted a
detailed response from the master himself, the Emetic seems to have made
no impact at all on Nyingma circles, where even the learned seem scarcely
aware of its existence. On the other hand, for Drakar's Gelugpa students,
nuns included, it might well have been intended as an instrument on which
to sharpen their understanding of their own view.[10] If so, Mipham would
surely have approved of the continued efforts of a dutiful son to defend the traditions of his saintly fathers.
One final point that is bound to be of interest to Western readers is supplied in Schneider's fascinating essay. Amid all the labors of his busy life,
Drakar Tulku found time to receive European visitors. In 1907, he met
the famous French Tibetologist Jacques Bacot, graciously receiving him
in his retreat place on the mountainside above his monastery in Drango.
Bacot described a well-ordered community of three hundred disciplined
and learned monks, leaving us a brief vignette of Drakar as a man in his
middle age, welcoming, affable, and reassuringly corpulent. Drakar further
encountered two Western missionaries, the Norwegian Theo Soerensen and the Frenchman Francis Goré. The former left a
report of one of Drakar's nunneries, while the latter attested to the fact that, no doubt as a distinguished abbot and scholar, Drakar was drawn into local politics and uneasy relations with the Chinese authorities. Goré reported too that Drakar was
made the supreme abbot of the thirteen main Gelugpa monasteries in the
five principalities of Hor. Finally, Drakar was known to two officers at the
British Consulate in Dartsedo, who attested to his importance as a religious
leader as well as to his unwilling involvement in the volatile political situation of the region.[11]
