“An archaeology of the ‘Asian contract’, as I personally refer to the peculiar Hindu institution of the ‘Master and Disciple’ relationship. Master, in this sense, is not directly related to the Spanish word ‘Maestro’, but it is more akin to the notion of the Spanish word ‘Amo’, a person in control, head of a household, or owner of a slave. Autochthonous word ‘Guru’ still prevails as more precise when referring to a master in an ‘Asian contract’ ” “Master and Disciple. An unshakable trust”, Symbols of Tibetan Buddhism, Claude B. Levenson, Paris: Assouline, 1999. All schools combined, Buddhism abounds with anecdotes demonstrating that finding a Master is no easy matter. Already in the time of Çakyamûni, when the Enlightened One was preparing to leave his companions for nirvana and his disciples wept at the loss of their spiritual guide, the Buddha commanded them to be “their own torch”. More so even perhaps than in other countries, in Tibet and in the Ch’an and Zen schools, the guru’s role is cardinal: it is upon him that rests the duty of leading the pupil by the most appropriate path to the threshold of knowledge, wisdom and Enlightenment. Nor, similarly, may the candidate for spiritual adventure pick just anyone to guide him on its narrow path. Besides, many famous masters have repeatedly warned against excessive haste in attaching oneself to a guru. This quest and relationship are ideally illustrated by the famous story of Milarêpa and Marpa, the lama with the pitiless requirements who made his pupil pay dearly for youthful misbehavior before granting him the keys that made him not only a famous ascetic, but also a poet whose songs enchant readers and listeners to this very day. The ‘man from Mar,” as his name indicates, lived in the eleventh century in southern Tibet. Born into a prominent family, he decided to study Sanskrit with the intention of travelling to India for training at the school of the wise. The sale of his personal property enabled him to undertake the voyage, and, for sixteen years, he followed the instructions of Nâropa, one of the great scholars of the time, a contemporary of Atisha, and also a teacher in Nâlanda. After returning to Tibet, Marpa led a family life, dividing his time between his lay obligations and a remarkable translation activity, interpreting the texts brought back from India. History has preserved a very accurate record of this and the Tibetans call him “Marpa the translator.” It was on his return from another trip to India that Mila begged him as a disciple. Marpa spared no trial for the aspirant, and only the remonstrances of his wife, Dagmema, dissuaded him from extinguishing the pupil’s enthusiasm. While his fame as a translator is not at all diminished, the “man from Mar” also symbolized the intransigence of the true guru, who, before granting instruction, exacts from his disciple a total gift of himself. In this sense, he is the image of the supreme trust that Tibetan Buddhism places in a master seen to be fully enlightened —even though this means sometimes overlooking the fact that he happens to be a human. The Marpa/Milarêpa relationship was also tumultuous because, when he arrived at this master’s, the seeker brought with him a weighty past. Having lost his father in infancy, the future ascetic became an expert in black magic to avenge his mother for the humiliations suffered on account of the greed of an uncle. Becoming aware of the villainy of his acts, he then sought forgiveness and applied to Rôngtôn, a renowned Nyingma master, who sent him to Marpa. Approaching the age of forty, Mila placed himself at his service and suffered whims and insults with hardly a murmur until his despair drove him to the edge of suicide. He failed to accomplish this fatal gesture, and, on the strength of this drastic purification of the past, Marpa finally agreed to initiate him into the arcana of the supreme knowledge. He taught him the most taxing exercises, including the tummo, or inner heat, which Mila practiced for many years in the solitude of the Himalayan caves, particularly at the foot of the sacred mountain of Kaîlash. There he earned the nickname of rêpa, “he who wears the cotton robe of the ascetics,” and once he had agreed to congregate with men, he attracted many faithful followers. One disciple, Rechungpa set down his exploits and related his life to the great joy of wandering bards and storytellers, who have passed it on from generation to generation. The example of the perfect yogin who travelled the hard road from the misdeeds of a turbulent youth to the most demanding ordeals, Mila composed The Hundred Thousand Songs, one of the brightest jewels of Buddhist literature. He is often represented seated on a gazelle skin posed on a lotus, dressed as a hermit, holding his right hand at his ear, as he listens to the silence. He and his master are considered to be the creators of the Kagyüpa school, founded on the teachings of the Mahâmûdra, or “Great Seal” and the “Six doctrines of Nâropa,” which Marpa brought back from India. As revelaing as the story of this uncommon relationship may be, extraordinary in the personality of its chief protagonists and through the light it sheds on the special bond that is forged between master and disciple, one cannot overlook the equally insightful words of the Buddha. He cautioned that when seeking a relationship with a guru to engage in the quest for knowledge: “You should not believe anything simply because a wise man has said it, because it is generally believed, because it is written, because it is presented as being of the divine essence, or because someone else believes it. Believe only what you yourself judge t be true after you have tested it in the flame of experience.” The poet-ascetic Milarêpa, prototype of the singular relationship between master and disciple. (See attached illustration.)
Posted on: Fri, 19 Sep 2014 19:36:54 +0000
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