Within a ball’s distance

I was in the midst of pouring the po cha that I had made for Pala and myself into the ceramic cups that one of our neighbours had gifted us for Losar when I heard a noise that made me drop the saucepan I was holding. Pala got up too, and not just because I had spilled boiling butter tea over his leg. It sounded to me like a long string of wailing, though Pala insisted there were words as well. The source of the sound, as well as its contents, became clear when we stepped out of our cave and looked up towards the summit of the mountain; there were a group of women from the village crowded around the hermitage of Crazy Uncle, and one was shrieking, “DEAD, DEAD! HE IS DEAD!”

They say one should not speak ill of the dead, but I, along with everyone else in the village, have been calling the man “Crazy Uncle” since I was first made aware of his existence. Of course, he had already been living as a hermit for at least a couple of decades at the time my parents and I had come to the village. A few of the elders claim to have known him when he was but a young boy. Some say he was a geology student from Nepal who originally came to the village for work and ended up staying because he fell in love with the daughter of a farmer. Others say he was a Chinese spy gone rogue. Others yet claim he was a tantric practitioner who had been in a deep meditative state for ten years. Finally, there are those like Pala who believe that he was about as extraordinary as the average yak herder — simply a man who had grown tired of life, possibly (and probably) a drunkard.

Although I have never actually interacted with Crazy Uncle face-to-face, I would not hesitate in saying that he played a crucial role in my growing up. As a kid, there would be many occasions where despite Pala’s incredible hospitality, I would find myself longing for the life I once had — life with my parents. Not wanting to worry or trouble Pala, I would sneak out of our cave at night and cry by a nearby stream, so as not to be heard. One night, as I was doing just that, something landed at my feet, a ball. I had no way of telling where the ball had come from, so I simply threw it into the trees ahead of me. Much to my surprise, the ball somehow made its way back to me. This time, I threw it off to the side, and yet again, someone had thrown it back. This continued for a while until I finally drew the courage to call out to whoever was there. The voice that responded told me he was a friend. Although he would not reveal himself, he told me to remember that in life, despite how lonely one feels, one is never completely alone. Love and companionship would always be a ball’s throw away.

Pala was not pleased when I told him of my encounter. He knew at once that the man I was speaking about was Crazy Uncle and told me that it would be in my best interests to keep my distance from him. To this day, I do not think I disobeyed Pala’s orders. My interactions with Crazy Uncle were always conducted at a distance, so much so in fact, that if he were to ever stand in front of me, I would not be able to recognize him. That being said, I regret not having had the courage to meet him. I knew where he lived, yet I never felt the need to see him, to thank him for what he did for me and now, well, now I would never have the chance. This last thought was what did it for me. I knew I had to make it up to Crazy Uncle.

The entire village was buzzing with a morose sense of confusion. Because no one knew the true nature of this man or his progress on the path to enlightenment, no one knew how best to handle his body. What they did agree on, however, was that on account of Crazy Uncle being as old as he was, his karma had rightfully run its full course. His death was nothing to be sad about or to fear, for this was not to be the ultimate cessation of his life. His death in this realm simply marked the transition point from which he would enter a different form.

That being said, I wanted to ensure that his soul be sent directly to Dewachen, the heavenly paradise presided by the Buddha, just as I would if any member of my family had died. This process would involve calling upon a lama to cut the hair from the head of Crazy Uncle, allowing his soul to escape and thus commence the transmigratory process to a new body. The villagers and I would then burn a fire of juniper branches in the courtyard of his home as an incense offering to the deities above, praying for his successful reaching paradise. Then, with the help of the lama, we would prepare the body for cremation by wrapping it in a white funerary shroud. Before the final cremation, we would all pay our last respects to the body, bringing gifts of white scarves and arak. The lama would then read from the Tibetan Book of the Dead and perform rituals that would assist Crazy Uncle in making it past the dangers of bardo. Following this, the males of the village would gather and drink arak until sufficiently intoxicated, at which point they would adorn masks and arm themselves with the likes of long-bladed knives and blunt axes and partake in shidur. This would involve creating mayhem in the village at pre-determined intervals whilst the lamas perform rituals in the courtyard of Crazy Uncle’s home — the entire thing meant to symbolize the actions of messengers of death who have come to disrupt the lives of the living. Finally, after all this, Crazy Uncle would finally be ready for cremation. Men of the village, one of whom being me, would carry his cotton-wrapped body on a palanquin to the grounds of the monastery where a site would be chosen for the construction of a funeral pyre. Upon deciding, the group of us would depart, leaving only a lama and his assistant at the site to tend to the fire and recite scriptures meant to assist the deceased on his journey to a new incarnation.

When I first pitched this idea, no one could understand why I would want to treat the hermit man the way I would a family member. I then explained that had it not been for this man, I never would have opened my heart up to the possibility of making the village my family. In fact, had it not been for him, I would have never realized that each living, breathing thing within the radius of a ball’s throw was my family and as such, should be treated with kindness and compassion.

I did not know the extent to which Crazy Uncle was a devout Buddhist, but somehow, it did not surprise me that like Milarepa, he was able to impart upon us teachings of the Dharma even after his passing.