Padampa Sangye: A History of Representation of a South Indian Siddha in Tibet
by DAN MARTIN
Portraiture is a problem. It may have much to do with cultural perceptions of the person who forms the subject, and perhaps this was even more the case before the days of photographic precision. Iconography, which is a kind of religiously motivated portraiture of divinities as well as persons, much more than photography, brings an image of a person and their life to mind, not simply or even mainly their surface appearance. I would like to aim for something a little more complex than a bare historical iconography of a specific figure, although of course that is the main purpose. This will not be the simple typology of visual
forms one might expect to correspond to the word iconography. Ideally, what we ought to achieve is a sense of what the figure stood for in the minds of artists and their communities throughout history, what they, not we, thought was most important to convey. The art should be, as it was meant to be, a window on the artistic subject (and yes, on the subjectivity of the artist as well), just as more knowledge about the artistic subject could open a window that will allow light to fall on the art so that it may be appreciated all the more. Padampa
In our times, be they modern or postmodern, we have renegotiated the boundaries between self and others, between self and environment. The sense of self that seems to emerge from this cosmological gerrymandering is one of the bulletproof glass bubble. Our lives are increasingly transparent, constantly put on record, exposed to a public evidently patient and interested enough to look into every detail. Therefore shame and embarrassment are with us always. Of guilt and responsibility we will have none. Society, environment, education, and genetics are responsible for forming us. If something goes wrong, if we sense some inner affliction, then external viruses, infestations, contaminants, or pollutants must be at fault, while we remain just and thoroughly justified in our pristine
bubble. On the social level, we have the “abuse excuse.” If something seems wrong with me it is because I have been, or must have been, wronged. Being so strongly wronged, there is no possibility that I might wrong others. If they could only see how badly I have been wronged, they would soon understand that I am blameless, that the responsibility for the wrongs I might seem to do actually belongs with others. We have no need to work on anything within ourselves that a regular dose of antidepressants cannot accomplish with greater efficiency. This new officially approved psychotropic drug epidemic is about institutional
control, not just of prison populations, but of young school children, and finally society as a whole. While these drugs may deaden the hurt, they considerably dampen, or rather block, the passions. In more than one way, modern subjects are deprived of agency. If someone does something that bothers you, just check the medication levels.1 This sketch of the modern self, rough and overbearingly caricaturing as it admittedly is, may bear truth sufficient to go on to remark that it would sit as uncomfortably with early psychoanalysis in Vienna in Austria as with meditation-based Great Sealing (Mahamudra) teachings in Tingri in southern Tibet.2 Freud and Padampa (see figure at viewer’s left in Fig. 6.1) may even have in common some aspects of their views on psychodynamics, although we will not go very far into this interesting possibility. Freud was not a mahasiddha. He
put his patients on a couch and gave them his ear. Padampa taught his precepts both on the meditation seat and in the daily life of his community, and his followers were generally the ones who did the attentive listening. Both were mainly concerned about inner turmoil —the suppression, repression, and expression of passions, of conflicted emotions. Neither of them would have considered drugs as a primary or lasting prescription for overcoming problematic psychic states. Psychoanalysis aims to reintegrate the wounded subject, the self, into society, or at least to lend the ability to cope with social pressures. Padampa, like
other Great Sealing teachers, advocated a voluntary but radical disentanglement from social ties as a prerequisite for eventually seeing through the delusions of conventional life. Padampa negates the self, rather than attempting to patch it up. For this very reason Padampa cannot be reduced to a psychoanalyst, but this does not prevent him from displaying considerable insight into the human psyche. Some evidence for this may be noticed later on, and much more could be offered.3 This is an important point for present purposes. Given that relatively few will appreciate Padampa as a spiritual teacher, more people can assess his
psychological insight. His rather remarkable teaching methods might seem on occasion extreme or even unkind, unless their psychological validity and perhaps their higher aims are first acknowledged. The women and men in Padampa’s circle voluntarily and even eagerly submitted themselves to his therapeutic methods. There is no record of any malpractice suit, not one dissatisfied student. They recognized that he acted out of compassion. He was widely recognized as a saint,
and ordinary people sought him out for his blessings, but his serious meditation students were relatively few, perhaps numbering one or two hundred in all. His serious disciples believed in his psychic abilities, including the ability to read minds, and even if references to miracles are rare, they do occur. To illustrate all this with selections from the introduction to The Great Sealing Symbol Cycle, written by Padampa’s disciple Kunga: His mind had the great virtue of possessing the five
1 For similar ideas, from a recent Freudian perspective, see Donald L. Carveth and Jean Hantman Carveth, “Fugitives from Guilt: Postmodern DeMoralization and the New Hysterias,” American Imago 60, no. 4 (2003): 445–79. For a modern Freudian’s comparison of classical Freudian and Asian views on psychodynamics, with an argument that Freudians have something to learn from Asia, see Sudhir Kakar, “Psychoanalysis and Eastern Spiritual Healing Traditions,” Journal of Analytical Psychology 48 (2003): 659–78. For arguments that the common view of Freud is not the entire truth, that Freud accepted that quests for self-knowledge and scientific understanding do not of necessity stem from egocentric motivations, see Rachel Blass, “Wissbegierde: Freud
on the Passionate Desire to Know as Seen in His Study of Leonardo da Vinci,” paper presented at the conference “Autognosis: A Theology of Self-knowing” held at the Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, Jerusalem, January 4–6, 2005. I would like to thank Christoph Cüppers, Franz-Karl Ehrhard, Amy Heller, and Roberto Vitali for their various kinds of kind assistance with obtaining and choosing texts and illustrations, and for commenting on earlier drafts. 2 Great Sealing, or Great Seal, means the nonduality of the enlightened mind and the external world as experienced by it. We, the unenlightened ones, are forced to resort to the inappropriate vocabulary of subject-object dichotomies in our attempts to speak
about it. There are now a number of good English translations of Mahamudra works available; see Takpo Tashi Namgyal, Mahamudra: The Quintessence of Mind and Meditation, trans. Lobsang P. Lhalungpa (Boston: Shambhala, 1986), esp. pp. 92–116. For the general history of Padampa and the Zhijé school, there is no finer source in English than chap. 12, in ’Gos Lo tsaba Gzhon nu dpal, The Blue Annals, trans. George N. Roerich and Gendun Choephel (Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 1976), 867–979. To my knowledge, the only substantial iconographical study of Padampa to date is that in Lokesh Chandra, Transcendental Art of Tibet (New Delhi: International Academy of Indian Culture and Aditya Prakashan, 1996), 97–98; revised in Lokesh Chandra, Dictionary of Buddhist Iconography (New Delhi: International Academy of Indian Culture and Aditya Prakashan, 2003) 9: 2619–20. For a new and considerably improved translation of Padampa’s most famous legacy, his last will and testament pronounced shortly before his death, see Padampa Sangye, The Hundred Verses of Advice from Padampa Sangye to the People of Tingri (New Delhi: Shechen Publications, 2002). This publication includes lucid explanations by the late Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche. For the best general discussion of portraiture in Tibet and surrounding cultures, see Jane Casey Singer, “Early Portrait Painting in Tibet,” Function and Meaning in Buddhist Art, ed. K. R. van Kooij and H. van der Veere (Groningen: Egbert Forsten, 1995), 81–99. We
extraordinary psychic abilities [[[divine]] sight, divine hearing, knowing others’ minds, memory of past lives and knowing the future]. Because of the greatnesses of his insights into interdependent connectedness [a way of speaking about his skillful means] he made experiences of the absence of troubling thoughts dawn through radical (or forceful) methods (btsan thabs) and was able, by his very presence, to transform appearances. . . . While he stayed in Tingri there were many who had appearances transformed by his blessings. However, those to whom he gave teachings and precepts were few. His exceptional method was to teach through symbolic
expressions. Those unfortunate ones who did not enjoy the results of prior cultivation [in previous lives] could not understand these expressions. Some people found fault in this, while others laughed. (ZC II 138)4 Padampa was never aware of founding a school or sect of Buddhism, something called Zhijé. As far as he knew, his main teaching was the Great Sealing, which promises relatively fast, not therefore necessarily easy, achievement of Buddhist Enlightenment. When he arrived in Tingri in the course of his third and final visit to Tibet, he did not hang out a shingle advertising his presence. To the contrary, much like the
early church fathers in the Judeaen desert, he settled in an isolated spot where wild foods, such as dandelion greens and droma (gro ma) roots in his case, were sufficient to sustain him during his meditation practices. People from surrounding areas and eventually from the entire length of the Himalayan ranges gathered around him, a building was built, and gradually more accommodations were added. The school he never intended to found would eventually be named after a phrase derived from the Heart Sutra, sdug bsngal zhi byed, “alleviating [or bringing peace to] suffering.”5 According to a text from the tradition, written around 1200 CE, “nowadays this teaching is called by the general name “Holy Dharma” [that is, what
we would call ‘Buddhism’], although when examined in its particulars, it would seem to require a special endearing name, ‘Alleviating Suffering.’” (ZC IV 324) In the early texts, this label is scarcely ever used, and when it does occur, it is the full phrase, “Alleviating Suffering,” or even “Holy Dharma Alleviating Suffering,” that is used. Then at some point, perhaps beginning with Kagyupa writers late in the twelfth century, one begins to find the shortened term Zhijé
(Zhi byed), or “Peacemaking,” for the teaching and Zhijépa (Zhi byed pa), or “Peacemakers,” for its followers. Padampa Sangye (Pha dam pa Sangs rgyas)—not an original or proper name, but an epithet that eventually became the only name by which he was well-known in Tibet—was unquestionably Indian. The names Kamalasila and Kamalasri are often used, particularly in the colophons of texts found in the Tibetan Tanjur. Other rarer names for him are Karu[asiddhi (Compassion
Attainment) and Ajitanatha (Unconquerable Lord). He was born the middle of three sons in a Brahmin family, at an indeterminable date, in South India, very likely in a port city in coastal Andhra Pradesh. He died in Tibet in 1117. At about fifteen years of age, he traveled north to study at Vikramasila Monastery, where his mother’s brother, the Brahmin Aryadeva, was already a monk. He was ordained by K4emadeva, very probably the same K4emadeva who wrote a commentary on Santideva’s Life of the Bodhisattva that has been preserved in its Tibetan translation.6 He studied grammar and reasoning with his uncle, took the Bodhisattva vows from
Serlingpa (the Sumatran), and learned tantras from the mahasiddha Virupa.7 He stayed in Tibet three times—not five or seven as is often claimed—during his very long life, gaining native or near-native fluency in Tibetan. He also stayed in China, meditating at Wu-t’ai Shan for some twelve years, and seems to have traveled throughout the entire Indian subcontinent. Although not exactly an “explorer,” he certainly belongs in the annals of world travelers, as much or more so than such later figures as Marco Polo. What motivated him to quit India and cross the main
1 For similar ideas, from a recent Freudian perspective, see Donald L. Carveth and Jean Hantman Carveth, “Fugitives from Guilt: Postmodern DeMoralization and the New Hysterias,” American Imago 60, no. 4 (2003): 445–79. For a modern Freudian’s comparison of classical Freudian and Asian views on psychodynamics, with an argument that Freudians have something to learn from Asia, see Sudhir Kakar, “Psychoanalysis and Eastern Spiritual Healing Traditions,” Journal of Analytical Psychology 48 (2003): 659–78. For arguments that the common view of Freud is not the entire truth, that Freud accepted that quests for self-knowledge and scientific understanding do not of necessity stem from egocentric motivations, see Rachel Blass, “Wissbegierde: Freud
on the Passionate Desire to Know as Seen in His Study of Leonardo da Vinci,” paper presented at the conference “Autognosis: A Theology of Self-knowing” held at the Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, Jerusalem, January 4–6, 2005. I would like to thank Christoph Cüppers, Franz-Karl Ehrhard, Amy Heller, and Roberto Vitali for their various kinds of kind assistance with obtaining and choosing texts and illustrations, and for commenting on earlier drafts. 2 Great Sealing, or Great Seal, means the nonduality of the enlightened mind and the external world as experienced by it. We, the unenlightened ones, are forced to resort to the inappropriate vocabulary of subject-object dichotomies in our attempts to speak
about it. There are now a number of good English translations of Mahamudra works available; see Takpo Tashi Namgyal, Mahamudra: The Quintessence of Mind and Meditation, trans. Lobsang P. Lhalungpa (Boston: Shambhala, 1986), esp. pp. 92–116. For the general history of Padampa and the Zhijé school, there is no finer source in English than chap. 12, in ’Gos Lo tsaba Gzhon nu dpal, The Blue Annals, trans. George N. Roerich and Gendun Choephel (Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 1976), 867–979. To my knowledge, the only substantial iconographical study of Padampa to date is that in Lokesh Chandra, Transcendental Art of Tibet (New Delhi: International Academy of Indian Culture and Aditya Prakashan, 1996), 97–98; revised in Lokesh Chandra, Dictionary of Buddhist Iconography (New Delhi: International Academy of Indian Culture and Aditya Prakashan, 2003) 9: 2619–20. For a new and considerably improved translation of Padampa’s most famous legacy, his last will and testament pronounced shortly before his death, see Padampa Sangye, The Hundred Verses of Advice from Padampa Sangye to the People of Tingri (New Delhi: Shechen Publications, 2002). This publication includes lucid explanations by the late Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche. For the best general discussion of portraiture in Tibet and surrounding cultures, see Jane Casey Singer, “Early Portrait Painting in Tibet,” Function and Meaning in Buddhist Art, ed. K. R. van Kooij and H. van der Veere (Groningen: Egbert Forsten, 1995), 81–99. We should be excused from the demand to supply a
complete inventory of Padampa images (there are more than those mentioned here) and the demand to supply an exhaustive bibliography (publications are only cited when considered the most relevant sources of information). 3 Padampa, perhaps even more than most other Buddhist teachers, was especially concerned with deeply hidden and latent (in Freud’s and our language, “unconscious”) afflictions, and he consciously employed counterintuitive methods for which he used the rare term gya log, similar to what we would call “reverse psychology.” 4ZC (Zhijé Collection) in source citations refers to The Tradition of Pha Dampa Sangyas: A Treasured
Collection of his Teachings Transmitted by T[h]ug[s] sras Kun dga’, ed. B. Nimri Aziz, 5 vols. (Thimphu, Bhutan: Kunsang Tobgey, 1978–79). 5 In Tibetan, sdug bsngal zhi byed, or in the Sanskrit text, du˙kha prasamana. The Sanskrit word prasamana also has meanings of bringing peace, bringing relief, assuaging, and curing. Of course there was no such thing as a “Prasamana” school in India itself. This act of naming took place in Tibet only. In this essay, I use the Tibetan name Zhijé. I prefer as English translation “Peacemaking” rather than “Alleviating,” which suggests something that falls short of a cure, or “Pacifying,” which inevitably carries with it militaristic connotations. Zhijé recommends neither the mere palliative nor the direct frontal attack as
effective ways of dealing with afflictions. 6 For both the ordinator and the author we have no other form of the name than the Tibetan translation, Dge ba’i lha. There is no certainty that the reSanskritization K4emadeva is the correct one, and it is possible that his real name was Kusaladeva, Kalya[adeva or Subhadeva. 7 This information that Padampa studied with Virupa, one of the eighty-four mahasiddhas, would seem to connect him with the Path Including Result (Lam ’bras, an abbreviation of Lam ’bras bu dang bcas pa) lineages, now largely associated with the Sakyapa school, of which Virupa is considered the Indian founder. For another it may suggest connections with particular yogic Nath teachings that entered Tibet several
times, the first time in about the twelfth century. For more on this Nath lineage with its root text by Virupa, see Kurtis R. Schaeffer, “The Attainment of Immortality: From Nathas in India to Buddhists in Tibet,” Journal of Indian Philosophy 30 (2002), 515–33. Iconographically speaking, Padampa and Virupa may rather closely resemble each other. The identity of the Sumatran is problematic, but I believe he ought to be the same Dharmapala (“Dharma Protector,” a very common name) who was a teacher of Atisa and author of several commentaries on the works of Santideva, including The Life of the Bodhisattva, that have been preserved in the Tanjur.
range of the Himalayas was not a quest for wealth, nor a reconnaissance mission, nor even a mission to spread Buddhism. He traveled in order to meditate in solitude. His failure to keep his solitude was history’s gain. Indeed, if he had not broken his retreats to become a teacher during his second and final sojourns in Tibet, his existence would have been long forgotten. A uniquely early source both for the iconography and the life of Padampa is a set of texts that I call the Zhijé Collection (Figs. 6.1–6.5 illustrate selected pages). It is formed of layers of texts added in each generation of the early Zhijé tradition over a
period of one century. The physical manuscript was made in about 1250, by an obscure figure, but I believe it to be a faithful copy of an earlier gold-ink manuscript made in 1207 (meaning specifically that, apart from a few added colophons and some random doodlings, the texts in the 1250 manuscript are the same as those in the earlier one). The core of the onion is formed by the Indic texts of the tradition, beginning significantly with the Heart Sutra, but including an interesting tantra and anthologies of songs by Padampa’s fifty-four Indian teachers. The layer that most concerns us here is the next one, in which Kunga records
the deeds and words of Padampa. A photographic reproduction of the Zhijé Collection was published long ago as a five-volume set.8 It was only in recent years, after receiving a microfilm version of the same from Nepal that I realized that the manuscript that formed the basis for the reprint in fact has four volumes (the page numbers were erased and replaced prior to publication). I also discovered that many of the title lines had been effaced in the reprint. Even more
important for our purposes, almost all of the title-page miniatures of the original had been rendered nearly invisible (although one exceptional miniature, identical to Figure 6.2, served as a frontispiece for the first volume of the reprint). In effect, four of the miniatures that are reproduced here appear for the first time in the public domain, with kind permission from the Nepalese National Archives in Kathmandu. Most of the remaining discussion will be devoted to the art and rel
evant literary content of the Zhijé Collection. My assumption is that the art has its own story to tell, that the evidence the art offers, while different in kind, is at least as important as the written evidence of the texts. It ought to be “read” on its own terms as artistic documentation for the early Zhijé, but not in isolation from the writings, which have much to tell us. Even if the full-bodied character of Padampa does not exactly or immediately leap out at us, seeing the mirroring back and forth between icon and text does make us see him better. For instance, the bag that appears in a number of representations, both
inside and outside the pages of the ZC, might not even be recognizable to the innocent viewer as such, and even then, we would still want to ask what meaning it might have held for Padampa and his circle. The texts provide invaluable hints. Just as there exists no better textual source for entering Padampa’s workshop, as it were, than the ZC, there exists no better source, certainly no better datable source, for the earliest iconography of Padampa than the ZC’s manuscript illustrations (Figs. 6.1–6.5).9 Many illustrations depict subjects other than Padampa. There are drawings of a number of deities in the first volume and, in later volumes, of the twelfth-century members of the Zhijé lineage. Almost all of these drawings display fine draftsmanship. Unfortunately, the scoring lines
used by the calligrapher continue straight across the drawings. The artist has treated the pedestal and throne in a variety of ways, all quite simple, without any of the elaborate animal-figures. They have in common, however, the pair of triangular shapes above shoulder level. Art historians have not reached consensus on what this might represent. Some call it the “royal fold,” believing it represents the fold of the cloth covering the throne-back. Others think it is part of
the architecture of the throne itself. In any case, it is extremely common in early Tibetan paintings, in the subsidiary figures of tangkas, but much less so by the fifteenth century. One may observe it in artworks from Bihar to Pagan to Kharakhoto during the same general time period. This, along with the type of tongue-shaped cloth drapery falling over the pedestal, may truly be seen as belonging to an international style of twelfth- through fourteenth-century Buddhist art.10 Thus, even if in a very approximate way, the artistic evidence is consistent with the early date of the manuscript as a whole. The ZC was clearly intended to
reflect in its every detail a set of sacred scriptural volumes: the space left for string holes (a necessity for Indian palm-leaf manuscripts), the wonderful calligraphy, the large format (approximately 22 x 69 cm), and the miniatures (Figs. 6.2–6.3).11 Therefore one initially notices with some dismay that it was scribed without attention to standard spelling conventions, making reading difficult, although with time one starts to see some method in it. A more serious obstacle is the fact that much of the vocabulary is dated; some of the words are not recorded in any pub
lished dictionary (to give just one example, the word gal te in the meaning of “bag”).12 The texts put together by Kunga will be our main sources. Since Kunga kept almost daily notes on Padampa’s teachings, they may be our only primary documentation for knowing what was happening in Tingri at the time. We will start with the bag (the symbolic actions and utterances of Padampa follow introductory explanations of Kunga). As a symbolic way of saying that all kinds of things can serve as causes and conditions for the emergence of Dharma He held the Interdependence Bag in his hand. (ZC II 140) As a symbolic way of saying that, if without reason you blurt out the experiences that show your degree of real
Padampa ization, they will fade away — He would never open his Interdependence Bag in people’s presence. (ZC II 143) As a symbolic way of saying that sangsara has no independent existence —He laughed at the shadow of his Interdependence Bag. (ZC II 167). There are basically two ways of explaining why Padampa’s bag, which was probably a rather small but ordinary provisions bag, or “lunch sack,” was called an Interdependence Bag. First and most simply, as a food bag, it indicates that nourishment is necessary to human survival. Although during Padampa’s twenty-year-long residence in Tingri he no longer required this bag, he
evidently continued to keep it as a symbol of the homelessness of wandering contemplatives. Secondly and most certainly, the name recalls the universally and profoundly Buddhist idea of interdependent origination. (Things have no independent existence in themselves, but they arise due to combinations of different kinds of conditions.) Less obviously, yet very probably, it refers to a kind of divinatory sign, since “interdependency” here may be understood as synchronicity, both being possible implications of the Tibetan expression. It could even be a bag for containing objects used in divination. Padampa’s name is in fact sometimes
connected to divination techniques employing pebbles. But more generally speaking, everything Padampa did, every glance, movement, and utterance, was imbued with symbolic power. His disciples were constantly straining their faculties to the utmost to divine his intentions, since the symbolic actions themselves were his main way of transmitting the teachings. Reviewing the images of Padampa in which he holds a bag (Figs. 6.3, 6.5, 6.7) after being informed by the texts, we begin to understand why it became one of the characteristics by which he might be recognized. Padampa lived quite frugally, asking the same of his students, and the
provisions bag was probably the only object that was constantly at his side. Just before his death, Padampa bestowed two objects on Kunga that might have symbolized the transmission of teaching responsibilities. One was a special round black stone,13 while the other was his Interdependence Bag. Three other main lineage holders and his main woman disciple, Gyagomma (Rgya sgom ma), received objects as well. Padampa’s students employed what was called an Interdependence Wheel, the exact nature of which remains a mystery. It was probably some kind of chart that served as a focus for concentration in meditation exercises. While
this is little more than a guess, it might have contained at its center the letter “A,” since such devices are well known in early tantra, from Japanese Shingon practice to Tibetan Dzogchen in both its Bön and its Nyingma varieties. Elsewhere in the ZC, we may see just how important letter mysticism, the letter “A” in particular, was for Padampa and his circle. Indeed, Padampa might with good reason be considered the most kabbalistic of Buddhist teachers. Note, too, that his undoubtedly quite small residence was known as the Interdependence House. Padampa probably wore no jewelry, even if quite a few images do have them and even if
large round earrings did become the norm. He wore neither hat nor shoes, and although he satisfied himself with a single item of clothing, it was usually only more or less loosely placed around his lower body (Figs. 6.1–6.4, 6.7). In effect he generally taught naked, which we know impressed his audience a great deal.
This nudism also had meaning; it was not done out of lewd exhibitionism. Nakedness, the Interdependence House, and his shocking teaching style are all evident in the following: As a symbol touching on our inability to block troubling thoughts —He said to Dregomma (’Bre sgom ma), “Sleep with brother! If you don’t, I’ll hit you on the head.” Then he rose up naked brandishing a stone. “You prostrate naked or I’ll sick jackals on you!” She said, “Where would you keep your jackals?” “I
have some in the Interdependence House,” he replied, coming back with two jackals. Then, frightened, she prostrated naked, and at that very instant the blessing entered in. Dampa said, “Now you are freed of suffering from freezing.” (ZC II 141) Lack of clothing often signifies the ability to generate inner heat, a yogic ability cultivated in all Tibetan sects, and this may be hinted at by the words “freed of suffering from freezing.” Certainly it was often freezing cold on the
Tibetan plateau, just above Nepal, where Tingri is located. That Padampa could go naked there was quite astounding. This jackal story is the most extreme example of Padampa’s shock therapy (unfortunately we are not well informed about the context14), and if some might imagine Tingri to have been a sexually liberated nudist colony, there is really nothing to justify this in the ZC. Nakedness was both a symbol and expression of simple living, a matter of asceticism, not libertinism. As a symbolic way of saying that, in the phase of ascetic practices, service provided by others is a detriment —He pared down his food and clothing
to the bare necessities and did not deliberately look for them. (ZC II 143) As a symbolic way of telling how it is suffering that pulls the nose down the path of comfort — “The person that didn’t do the work doesn’t get the pay. If the uncourageous Tibetans could only make themselves naked, bolts of silk, balls of wool
and tsampa would rain down from the sky.” (ZC II 147) Tsampa, the basic staple of the Tibetan diet, is made by roasting and grinding barley corns. Simplicity in food and clothing is part of renunciation, but Padampa promises that after renunciation these basic needs will be more than adequately met. Padampa’s nakedness clearly was not entirely accepted by his disciples, who sometimes asked him to put something on. As a symbolic way of saying that awareness is not covered by
obscurations —He sat there naked. (ZC II 169) Someone said, “Wouldn’t it be good if you wore some clothes?” As a symbolic way of saying that Mind Proper has no cause or conditioning, was not made by a creator —He said, “Bring me a garment not formed in formation, not woven in weaves.” (ZC II 169) But Padampa did not do entirely without clothes. He satisfied himself with a woolen robe, in Tibetan bal thul, basically nothing more than a plain unpatterned blanket, which may be
seen in almost all Padampa images, leaving at least the upper part of his body uncovered.15 As with his bag, everything Padampa did or did not do with his woolen robe was weightily symbolic. To demonstrate that there is no necessity for distractions by the sense spheres of the six heaps [the consciousnesses pertaining to the six sense faculties] —He wrapped his head in his woolen robe. (ZC II 143) As a symbolic way of expressing how the myriad things emerge from nothing, at the
same time displaying the greatness of his understanding of interdependent origination —He hung up his woolen robe in [[[empty]]] space. (ZC II 151) Then once again, at a later date, that [already mentioned trader] from Kham offered him a large bolt of antique silk brocade. As a symbolic way of saying that the best wealth is
satisfaction — Dampa said, “The Atsara is satisfied wrapped up in his woolen robe, so he doesn’t need it. Give it to someone who wants it.” (ZC II 163) The texts do not seem to have anything to say about what would become Padampa’s most usual seating posture, crouching with the knees raised high, sometimes with the ankles crossed (although this feature may be obscured by the woolen robe). A comparable seating posture is noted twice in the ZC (Fig. 6.5, see also Hausner Fig.
10.9).16 I imagine that this posture, so frequently seen in India today, was considered unusual by Tibetans, and so it became a very common element in his iconography. The texts do have something to say about his piercing gaze, another near constant in Padampa images. His eyes usually seem to stare directly ahead, sometimes turned slightly upward. In The Blue Annals he tells Kunga, “You should meditate gazing upwards, this being an auspicious posture peculiar to the
Prajñaparamita.”17 The teaching texts are full of recommendations for all kinds of yogic gazes, often given very colorful names, such as Turtle Gaze and Lion Gaze. Yogic gazes seem to be almost as important as letter visualizations for Padampa’s meditation practices. Gazes were believed to focus awareness, to counter specific emotional states, to reroute the internal energy system, to freeze thought processes, and the like. Not only yogic gazes, but Padampa’s eye movements of all kinds were considered significant. As a symbolic way of saying that the Great Sealing proceeds from freshness (“the untampered-with”) —With his gaze of wrath
he could destroy the process of successive cognitions. (ZC II 139) As a sign that when perceptual cognition is left to its own devices, the meditative experiences will not dawn in the mind —He would at times look at the palms of his hands. (ZC II 145) As a symbolic way of saying that, when awareness is free of
support, it overcomes the internal imbalances [of the bodily elements in sickness] —He gazed into the center of space. Someone said, “A sick person is requesting a blessing.” “Make a prayer to that circling, circling star up there. That star up there is the one that has blessings.” (ZC II 150) As a symbolic way of saying that these momentary perceptions have no precedent or subsequent, and so, like the practice — He performed a yogic gaze and said, “Is this Buddhahood? Is there
an easier method for reaching this level?” (ZC II 166) As a symbolic way of saying that when awareness is projected outward it overcomes the pulsations (doubts) of perception (knowledge) —He fixed his awareness in the yogic gaze of a wrathful deity. (ZC II 174) As a symbolic way of saying that when awareness is fixed on a phenomenal object, it arrests the restless troubling thoughts —His angry eye of a wrathful [[[deity]]] he raised to the sky. (II 174) Hand gestures (mudra) are
generally one of the most important iconographic aspects to look for when attempting to decide the identity of a Tibetan Buddhist deity or saint. While there is a great range of variability, especially in earlier times, in the hand gestures of Padampa, the most common one in Zhijé representations is unusual and difficult to explain. So far no explanation for it has been found in the ZC. The “teaching” gesture in which the tips of the forefinger and thumb are joined, is generally done with the right hand only, but in Padampa’s case the right and left hands mirror each other, and are held quite close together. A similar gesture is
noticeable in only one of the ZC miniatures (Fig. 6.4. see also Hausner Fig. 10.9). The most reasonable explanation is that it refers to Padampa’s “double” teaching style, with a deep symbolic meaning reflected in his every bodily and verbal action. The following description of Padampa’s physical appearance might suggest another meaning for the hand gesture, although it may not be referring to this gesture at all, since the reading is not very certain. Imagine the precious holy Indian Dampa with a body of dark brown color with a reddish cast, his hair rising up like elm tree[s?], wearing a varicolored loincloth, his
wise hands held in a cross-pointed (tips crossed?) gesture [capable] of pressing down all of phenomenal existence if he pressed down with them or raising it up if he raised them.18 The source of this quote dates to about the middle of the thirteenth century, and while remarkable as a literary description of how Padampa ought to appear in visualizations, not much of it is found in the ZC (for example, there is no mention there of his wearing a loincloth), apart from descriptions of Padampa’s skin color, which are quite frequent. The earlier texts never use the word translated here as “dark brown.” They simply refer to him as black.
Throughout the twelfth century, even in works by Kagyupa authors, Padampa’s most common epithets make reference to his blackness, together with his small stature, calling him Little Black Holy Man (Dam pa Nag chung or Nag gu). In the ZC, he is very frequently called Black Atsara. “Atsara,” a Tibetanized version of Sanskrit acarya (“teacher”) was the term in local usage for all the Indian sadhus who from time to time wandered through Tingri. It is true that Padampa called himself Atsara, but he also called himself by the names of all the main foreigners known to Tingrians: the warlike Khotanese and the southern hunting and
gathering peoples Tibetans know as Monpas. Padampa spoke Tibetan quite fluently, had become well acclimatized to the culture, but still he could never escape, nor did he try to escape, the fact of being a foreigner. Surely both the color of his skin and his hair “rising up,” due to his south Indian and no doubt Dravidian origins, were features Tibetans found different and therefore remarkable, so once again we see an aspect of his person or his behavior getting “written into” the iconography. The bunches of hair “rising up” from his head, which might with some reason be recognized as typical Buddha curls or a somewhat unkempt
version of the same, are clearly depicted in ZC and in most later icons. However, the ZC also shows what look like dreadlocks or braids falling behind his ears and splayed out on both shoulders, a feature largely absent later on. In fact in a different type of Padampa icon popular in the Cutting lineages, he never has the “rising” hair but instead is shown with a single topknot. Very likely, Padampa was instrumental in the origins of the Tibetan movement called Cutting
(Gcod). During the second of Padampa’s three stays in Tibet, he gave special teachings to a Tibetan lama who then passed them on to Tibet’s most famous woman religious figure, Macig Labdron. She may, with arguable justice, be called the founder of Cutting. Cutting quite naturally employs the central metaphor of cutting, meaning to sever links with delusion, which is personified by four demonic powers. Part of the meditative practice of Cutting includes making mincemeat or soup of one’s own body and feeding it to the spirits as an offering of either food or medicine. Like the early Zhijé, Cutting was an esoteric movement,
perhaps best described as a cluster of lineages, not tied to any of the established sects. It nonetheless eventually entered into almost all the Tibetan schools (with the exception of the Sakyapa, which has similar practices of its own). Certain monasteries, particularly of the Kagyupa and Gelugpa schools, came to specialize in Cutting in varying degrees. In effect, Cutting was more successful than Zhijé over the centuries, since it preserved its distinct identity within
institutions of other schools. The core Great Sealing tradition of Zhijé was less fortunate. It survived during the last five hundred years largely because of the interests of Cutting practitioners. The Cutting tradition has its own different way of portraying Padampa, exemplified by the features of Figure 6.6 (see also detail of Padampa in Cat. no. 80)(see page XX).19 In Cutting artworks, he is portrayed with a single topknot (although part of his hair might also cascade
over his shoulders). While in the ZC his hands are most often empty, in Cutting portrayals the right hand is invariably flourishing and apparently playing the double-headed drum called the damaru used in Cutting practice. His left hand is at chest or stomach level, holding one of several objects, most frequently a
bell, sometimes a thighbone trumpet (another trademark of Cutting practice), or still another object. Even this rule has its exceptions. One tangka shows him holding Cutting implements including bone ornaments and thighbone trumpet, but not the damaru, otherwise with all the characteristics of a Zhijé image (see Hausner Fig. 10.9). We may be sure it is a Cutting image since it is paired with a “sister” tangka depicting Labdron, who is scarcely even known to the early
Zhijé tradition, as the central figure (see Hausner Fig. 10.8).20 It is unclear when the Cutting representations of Padampa were first made, although over time they came to predominate. Given what we know so far about the variables and parameters of his iconography, it may be interesting to consider three images and two paintings that could be characterized as “possible Padampas.” Among them is an unidentified yogin portrayed in a copper alloy stat
ue that has been dated to about the twelfth or thirteenth centuries (Cat. no. 78). Even though certain aspects of this image might detract from this identification, in particular the robe being pulled up over the left shoulder and the fearlessness gesture of the right hand, this must be Padampa because of the small bag held at waist level in the left hand, the yogic gaze, elongated ears, and the “hair rising up.”21 Still another image, dated to the twelfth century and now in the collection of Robert Hatfield Ellsworth, is completely naked and unadorned with both hands in meditation gesture. It has the yogic gaze, elongated ears, and “hair rising up” and therefore could very well be Padampa. X-ray technology has revealed that it contains with
in its hollow core a metal phallus.22 Still a third very possible Padampa is shown in Catalog number 79. This gilt copper image, with an added silver skullcup in front, has been dated to about the fifteenth century. While the right hand has an unusual gesture—flourished above the figure’s head with palm forward—the left hand is holding a bag at waist level. (Fig. 6.7) This bag bears an enigmatic inscription in a recent Indic script quite close to Devanagari (now the script most
used for publishing both Hindi and Sanskrit). The figure is basically naked, although there are incised marks evidently representing the tantric bone ornaments, plain bands of armlets, and a cloth bunched up behind him. The bag, large round spiraling earrings,23 yogic stare, near nakedness, and “rising hair” all indicate that it really ought to be Padampa. Apart from these three cast metal images are two painted ones. The first has been published in a sale catalogue of Rossi and Rossi of London (see top right figure in Fig. 6.8).24 While the implements held in his hand (Vajra and skullcup) seem uncharacteristic, still the “mesmeric”
gaze, piled-up hair, skin painted brown, spiral earrings, and clothing are consistent with Padampa images. This probable Padampa might be compared with another, dark blue-gray-skinned yogi depicted in a small tangka in the Jucker collection. This figure also has uncommon gestures and implements (the right hand holds something not identifiable, perhaps a bell).25 Although unidentified in the catalogue, this figure is in fact identifiable as Padampa by the inscription on the
reverse (“Dampa Gyagar” or “Holy Man Indian” is a common epithet of Padampa). The dark blue-gray Padampa is facing another Indian teacher, of Orissan origins, named Vairocanavajra (active in Tibet in the mid-twelfth century), whose flesh is a pinkish cream color, and in a shade close to the Tibetans in the same
tangka.26 Among all the unidentified images of Indian siddha-figures that I have noticed, I consider these three metal images and these two paintings to be the very best candidates for Padampa-hood.27 Padampa’s fifty-four male and female siddha teachers have an interesting relationship with the better known group of eighty-four mahasiddhas. In one tangka (incongruously and anachronistically) the eighty-four mahasiddhas are even depicted surrounding Padampa in his Cutting form as the prominent central figure.28 Although Padampa’s siddha teachers are never called mahasiddhas, I believe this is a moot point, since a large percentage of figures are common to both lists. Padampa himself is very often called a siddha, and occasionally a mahasiddha, while a later member of the Zhijé lineage, named Tenné (Rten ne, 1127–1217 or 1221 CE), is very often called by an epithet, “Lama Mahasiddha” (Bla ma Grub thob chen po). The most prominent group of Padampa’s Tibetan
disciples, after the four main lineage holders of course, is a group called the twenty-one male and female siddhas. Although there are a number of different Padampa texts (some of them included in the Tanjur as well as in the ZC) with different numbers of siddhas included in them, the texts of the ZC, are unanimous in referring to the fifty-four male and female siddhas when talking about Padampa’s Indian teachers. Their names include such prominent ones as Óryadeva,
Nagarjuna, Luyipada, Santideva, Tilopa, and Naropa.29 These figures would seem to be of widely different dates, even assuming that we may well be dealing with later figures named after the earlier more famous ones. While Padampa could have met Tilopa and Naropa (better known to us as teachers in the Sakyapa and Kagyupa lineages), it is highly unlikely that he met Santideva, author of the famous work on the life of the bodhisattva. Such a meeting could only have been possible if we accept that Padampa lived an impossibly long life (estimates ranging from 560 to 9,999 years in various Tibetan sources). He must have encountered some of
these teachers in visions rather than real life. Padampa’s group of fifty-four teachers is probably historically prior to the texts that speak of eighty-four mahasiddhas. Crucial to this argument is the dating of the available Tanjur texts that enumerate the eighty-four mahasiddhas. Most or all of these texts must
postdate Padampa’s death in 1117 CE. The most famous work is the collective biography by Abhayadattasri, which the author translated into Tibetan together with the Tangut Mondrup Sherab. Abhayadattasri is surely the same as Abhayakaragupta, while the Tangut Monlam Sherab is most likely identical to Tsami Translator.30 This would place the composition and translation of this work somewhere in the period between 1120 and 1150 CE. The iconographical work on the mahasiddhas by Srisena (evidently a Newari) that is found in the “artistic craft” section of the Tanjur, has a “Nepali Samvat” date of composition, a date that must correspond
to 1160 or 1161. The mahasiddha prayer by Vajrasana31 presents more difficulties, but the “Lama Dorje Danpa” named as author in the colophon is very likely to be none other than Tsami Translator. As abbot of the main monastery in Bodhgaya, he had the title Vajrasana, or Dorje Danpa, just as his teacher and predecessor Ratnakaragupta, who is sometimes called the Middle Vajrasana. Tsami, although from the far northeastern part of the Tibetan plateau—a Tibetan speaker and by
nationality a Tangut (Minyag)—settled in India and composed works in Indian languages, ultimately gaining one of the highest honors in the Indian Buddhist world, abbacy of the monastery on the site of the Buddha’s Enlightenment. The recently resurfaced biographical works by Zhang Rinpoche (1123–1193 CE) identify Abhayakaragupta as the student of Tsami—the Indian sitting at the feet of the “Tibetan,” just the opposite of what one might expect. In any case, this text was
translated by Vairocanavajra in Tibet in about the 1150s or 1160s.32 The only remaining eighty-four mahasiddha work that needs accounting for is the one by Viraprabhasvara. Its date is uncertain, although it would appear to be somewhat earlier than the works associated with Abhayakaragupta.33 Still, the evidence
tends to suggest that the grouping of eighty-four mahasiddhas came to be known in Tibet only later, and so Padampa’s group of fifty-four male and female siddhas should be the earlier one, at least as far as Tibet is concerned. Most of Padampa’s true physical features will forever elude us. It was not the Tibetan icon maker’s first concern to provide informal “snapshots.” Padampa’s “true” portrayal exists in a place that is somewhere beyond the reach of both the text and the art, beyond fixed iconographic rules even while there are certain relatively stable
constants. No single formal characteristic is carried by all of his representations. Identifying an image as Padampa on the basis of iconographic criteria alone (in the absence of inscriptions or “context”) must be done with caution. Still, I believe such identifications are possible. The elements of his iconography are largely rooted in his life in Tingri, as a founding figure of the Zhijé. The typical Zhijé image, which certainly had come into being by the fourteenth century,
is still alive, at least in copies of older images, as we may see in a modern Newar imitation of an image now kept in the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (Fig. 6.9).34 One variant stream of iconography belonging to the Cutting school visualizes and portrays him with a topknot and a rattle-drum. We might say that Padampa is remembered in two different forms, which are only rarely mixed or confused, in effect two distinct Padampas, depending on the lineage within which he is being portrayed. Our views about him today are likely to be at least as conflicted and double-visioned as they were in the past. Rather like the ordinary townsfolk of
Tingri who either respected or laughed at him, people today might see him either as a spiritual mentor (or psychologist) or as an archetypical cult leader. In this he is probably no different than any of the other siddha figures in the history of the Indian Buddhist Vajra Vehicle. Or then again we might say that there is one very important difference, which is that no other such figure had a student who, like Kunga, jotted down notes in the evening before going to sleep. For no other do we have anything as close to a diary.
ADDENDUM A 23 These particular earrings, often seen in Padampa images, are apparently made from cross-sections of a conch or another large seashell. Might they be meant to recall Padampa’s childhood near the sea, since his father was a sea-captain? Earrings (Sanskrit ku[[[dala]] means “earring” in general although it also means “coil”) were marks of initiation among the Nath siddhas who surely already existed by Padampa’s time. Their center has for several centuries been located
in Gorakhpur, just south of Nepal, and from the beginning they had a strong presence in Kathmandu. One of their founders Hadisiddha, is said to have made the sun and moon into his ku[[[dala]], his earrings; see Shashibhusan Dasgupta, Obscure Religious Cults (Calcutta: Firma KLM Private Ltd., 1976) 238. At least one group of these Nath yogins used the conch-shell earring as their special symbol; see George Weston Briggs, Gorakhnath and the Kanphata Yogis (Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass,
1989), 8. It is tempting to speculate about some connection, since Nath implements may be noted in the iconography of the mahasiddhas, for example, the peculiar chin-crutch used by Nath Siddhas while meditating (Briggs, Gorakhnath, 22) is depicted being used by the mahasiddha Gaurak4i (Gaurakhnath himself?) in a Mongolian woodblock print illustration, for which see Alice Egyed, The Eighty-four Siddhas: A Tibetan Blockprint from Mongolia, Fontes Tibetani II (Budapest:
Akadémiai Kiadó, 1984), 32, the first figure, left. One clay image of Padampa kept at Tingri Langkor has earrings that are almost as large as its head, completely covering both shoulders. See the illustration in Edou, Machig Labdrön, p. 14. However, these earrings seem to be attached to a rope that loops behind the head, so it is not certain that they were always a part of the image. They could have been added in recent times. It is possible that this is the very image that was in Tingri when it was visited by many fifteenth-century Gelukpa hierarchs, although it shows some damage, and repeated repainting has undoubtedly obscuring its earlier features.
ADDENDUM B 27 It may be important to point out that, among all the mahasiddha images that might be mistaken for Padampas, there are certain forms of Virupa which show him with the robe loosely wrapped around the lower part of the body, elongated ears, a yogic gaze, and locks of hair over his shoulders. Not only that, but the gestures of his hands may also closely resemble Padampa’s,
although they are not usually held at the same level, the left hand being lower than the right. For examples, see Detlef I. Lauf, Eine Ikonographie des tibetischen Buddhismus (Graz: Akademische Druck-u. Verlagsanstalt, 1979), 65, pl. 21b; Detlef I. Lauf, Secret Revelation of Tibetan Thangkas: Picture Meditation and Interpretation of Lamaist Cult Paintings (Braunschweig: Aurum Verlag, 1991), 83, pl. 21; Valrae Reynolds, From the Sacred Realm: Treasures of Tibetan Art from the Newark Museum, with contributions by Janet Gyatso, Amy Heller, and Dan Martin (Munich: Prestel, 1999), 186, pl. 105; David Jackson, “The Dating of
Tibetan Paintings is Perfectly Possible though Not Always Perfectly Exact,” in Dating Tibetan Art: Essays on the Possibilities and Impossibilities of Chronology from the Lempertz Symposium, Cologne, ed. Ingrid Kreide-Damani (Wiesbaden: Ludwig Reichert Verlag, 2003), 105, detail of Fig. 1, third figure from left. Most of these Virupa images may be easily distinguished from Padampa by their flower garlands, the small book at the top of his hair, and his unusually large stomach.
Still, it is worthwhile placing the image in Lauf, Eine Ikonographie, sideby-side with the Padampa statue, provisionally dated to about the fifteenth century, illustrated in David Weldon and Jane Casey, Faces of Tibet: The Wesley and Carolyn Halpert Collection (New York: Carlton Rochell Ltd., 2003), pl. 57. Apart from
the differing positions of their left hands, these two images are iconographically indistinguishable. Note still another very probable Padampa in V. Reynolds, From the Sacred Realm, p. 137, pl. 136, the figure on the right. This carved wooden book cover shows Padampa’s typical attire and his “double teaching” gesture, but no “rising hair”; the hair is combed straight back instead.
