Behind him, on a low shelf, a clock ticked and ticked, forlorn and remorseless. He closed his eyes, as though to pray, but his lips remained tightly shut.
Kalimpong fell away from him like a dream. All the spired and domed and pillared cities of India fell away, leaving nothing but a thin ochre dust hanging in the air. He was alone, walking along a dirt road that led to the residence of the tsong-chi, the Tibetan Trade Agent. Above him, to the north, white mountains hung in the sky like castles of snow and ice. In the air above them, thick clouds like dragons’ breaths swirled in a tattered swarm.
As he looked at the mountains he felt descend upon him a sense of unease he had first experienced eleven years earlier, not long after his marriage. He had brought Elizabeth north to Simla for the summer season, and at one point they had gone up to the Himalaya foothills. On the second day, an icy wind had come down from the north, stirring the trees in their garden. They had stood on the terrace together, drinking cold whiskey in heavy glasses and watching the clouds shift and scatter above the mountains.
“Can you feel it?” Elizabeth had asked, and Christopher had known instinctively what she meant. All the crude power, all the vast material strength of their civilization was massing about the quiet places of the earth. Christopher could feel it now as he had felt it all those years before, but redoubled in its potency. Like an octopus, its tentacles were reaching into every corner of the world, stroking at first, then squeezing, and finally draining the very life from all it touched. Ancient places, sanctuaries, the dark and the untouched realms all were being turned into an endless battlefield where tanks roamed like black beetles and new men in new uniforms danced in a dim ballet.
He found the tsong-cki’s residence in a small valley about a mile from town. It was a small house built in Tibetan style, with touches of Chinese ornamentation on the roof. At the door, a tall prayer wheel stood like a sort of guardian, reminding the visitor that religion, not trade, lay at the heart of every Tibetan.
The tsong-chi, Norbhu Dzasa, was at home. Christopher had originally planned on getting an introduction from Frazer, but in its absence he had produced one for himself. It wasn’t much to look at, but he didn’t want it to be. Here in Kalimpong, he had to act the part he had imposed on himself.
He handed the letter of introduction to the tsong-chi’s grave little Nepalese servant and asked him to transmit it to his master. The little man looked at Christopher as if to suggest that his very existence was an impertinence and his calling without an appointment not far from a capital offence. He took the letter, harrumphed loudly, and disappeared down a dark passage.
Christopher thought he could hear a voice murmuring in the distance:
somewhere in the house, a man was praying. The sound of his voice was melancholy and remote, a single mantra endlessly repeated. Suddenly, he heard footsteps and a moment later the little servant reappeared out of the shadows. Without a word, he ushered Christopher inside and closed the heavy wooden door.
The room into which Christopher was shown was, in its way, as much a transplant as John Carpenter’s study, even if it had travelled rather fewer miles to get to Kalimpong It was another world entirely, a world within a world, wrapped, enfolded, miraculously set down: its colours were different colours, its shadows different shadows, its fragrances different fragrances. He stood on the threshold gingerly, for all the world like someone about to abandon one element for another, as a swimmer stands naked on the water’s edge or a moth turns about the flame that will in another instant devour it without trace.
He had stumbled somehow upon a hidden and finely constructed paradise of birds’ wings and dragons’ eyes, meshed in a manner at once mysterious and simple with the earth in which it inhered.
Like a bee drowning in honey after a season rich in blossoms, he felt himself grow heavy with sweetness.
Painted columns rose out of a bed of multi-coloured carpets to a ceiling intricate in ornamentation. Around the walls, thick curtains embroidered with red and yellow silk formed a sort of sofa. Low lacquered tables of Chinese manufacture sat among richly carved and gilded cabinets festooned with angry dragons and soft-petalled peonies. On the walls, naked gods made love, encircled by tongues of fire. At one end stood an altar of gold, studded with precious stones, on which were grouped the images of Tibetan gods and saints. Incense burned in little golden stands, filling the room with dark, intoxicating fumes. In front of the altar, silver butter-lamps gave ofFa yellow, ethereal light.
And then, as though he had just that moment materialized in the room, Christopher caught sight of Norbhu Dzasa himself- a man masquerading as a god, a human image fashioned from silk and coral and precious stones. His dyed jet-black hair was set in tightly coiled bunches above his head, and from his left ear dangled a single long ear-ring of turquoise and gold. His upper robe was of finely woven yellow silk, delicately patterned with dragons and held at the waist by a crimson sash. He was standing motionless in a corner of the room near the altar, his hands crossed in front of him, concealed by the long sleeves of his robe.
On his way, Christopher had found a stall in the bazaar that sold kfiatags, the thin white silk scarves used throughout the region as tokens of respect at formal introductions. He held out the scarf, loosely woven from strands of the finest silk, like gossamer, and approached the tsong-chi. Norbhu Dzasa extended his arms and took the scarf with a slight bow, placed it on a low table, and, with his hands free of the sleeves, lifted a second scarf, which he passed to Christopher. He looked bored. The two men exchanged stiff greetings, and the little Tibetan invited Christopher to join him on cushions near the window.
A moment later, the servant who had shown Christopher in opened the door and bowed low.
“Cha kqy-sho,” ordered Norbhu Dzasa.
“Bring us tea.”
The servant bowed, sucked in his breath, and simultaneously muttered ‘la-les’.
Abruptly, Norbhu Dzasa turned to Christopher, speaking in English.
“I’m sorry. Not ask. Take Indian tea or Tibetan tea?”
Christopher asked for Tibetan, and the tsong-chi spoke again to his servant.
To cha kay-sho - ‘bring some Tibetan tea.”
“So,” Norbhu Dzasa said when the servant had gone.
“Drink Tibetan tea. Been in Tibet?” He had learnt what English he knew here in Kalimpong, out of necessity.
Christopher was unsure how to answer. So many of his visits
there had been made illegally. With rare exceptions, Tibet was barred to foreigners and Christopher knew from personal experience that the ban was no mere formality.
“I was in Lhasa in 1904,” he said.
“With Younghusband.”
In 1903, Lord Curzon, the Viceroy of India, had been disturbed by reports of growing Russian influence in the Tibetan capital.
Determined to force the reclusive Tibetans to discuss the issue of commercial and diplomatic relations with Britain, he despatched a small force to Kampa Dzong under the command of Colonel Francis Younghusband. Ignored by the Tibetans, Younghusband obtained reinforcements 1,000 soldiers, 1,450 coolies, 70,000 mules, 3,451 yaks, and six unhappy camels and moved up the Chumbi valley in force.
Christopher still remembered the journey: the freezing cold, the misery of the foot-soldiers unaccustomed to the winds and the altitude, skin sticking to gun-metal in the frost, men tearing skin from their lips with frozen spoons, the sudden deaths, men and baggage plunging from narrow ledges into the abyss. Above all, he remembered the insanity of Christmas Day, when the men had been served plum pudding and turkey, and the officers had tried to drink frozen champagne.