In memoriam of Tendar-la

Monday, 25 June 2007, 2:31 p.m.

By Tsewang Norbu

Tendar-la

“GODS PREFER TO have good people around them, just as we humans do” is what flashed through my mind when a fellow colleague rang me up that sad Monday morning to break the news that Tendar-la had left for his heavenly abode. My immediate reaction was to dial back his number and confirm what he had just told me. Heavy as I felt at that moment, it is hard to believe that Tendar-la is not with us anymore. Nobody in the know of the man had thought that he would bid farewell to us so early.

He was only 48 and was capable of contributing much more than what he had. Surely God must have something better planned for him!

While in harness, more than anything else, Tendar-la had carved a niche for himself in the ranks of the Tibetan administration as a highly skilful and peerless Lotsawa (Translator). What sets him apart is the simplicity in which he was able to convey the meaning of a Tibetan text in English with a tinge of Tibetanness. His immense contribution can be gauged from the wealth of literature brought out by the Translation and Publication Section of the Department of Information and International Relations (DIIR) under his editorship. And yet nowhere in these documents does his name appear; he even refused to print the name of the section he headed in these publications. Tendar-la used to say, “You shouldn’t expect a mountain of reward for a mole-sized deed.” He believed in making a real contribution, without expecting anything in return.

In him the Tibetan administration has lost one of its finest civil servants. The vacuum created by his absence will never be filled again: the so-called Lotsawas may come and go, but the Lotsawa in him will be remembered until kingdom comes.

I had the good fortune of working under Tendar-la during the initial years of my career as a Tibetan civil servant. Tendar-la literally adopted me while I was already engaged somewhere else – working under Kugno Dagpo-la who then headed a section called the Centre for Sino-Tibetan Studies, which was under the direct supervision of the Kashag, although housed within the DIIR building. Perhaps Tendar-la needed an assistant, because at that time plans were afoot to translate the two reports, China’s Current Policy in Tibet and 50 Years: Tibet under Communist China, into Tibetan. Thus began my apprenticeship under Tendar-la for a little more than two years – the most fruitful and rewarding years of my life. Apart from knowing the person behind this enormously talented and seasoned Lotsawa, it afforded me the rare opportunity to learn the things that I have not learned throughout the years of my schooling and college-ing put together. Everything and anything that I know about the “trade” today – albeit I must confess my knowledge is only rudimentary – I owe it to Tendar-la, my “root-guru” as I preferred to address him.

Those of us fortunate enough to be closely associated with Tendar-la would know that he was a one-of-its-kind. His character, or personality, reminds me of the truth about what neuro-scientists claim: that human brain functions not in a whole, but in parts; when one part is active, the others are dormant. While the Lotsawa-ic part of his brain was always visibly active, in everything else the dormant parts came out strong, often landing him at the receiving end of his better-half – Acha Lhakpa la’s furious bollocking for one or the other reason.

Uncharacteristic though for a man of his calibre, Tendar-la had an uncanny habit of forgetting things. He would often misplace important documents entrusted to him by the higher-ups. And when an enquiry was made of those documents, he would go completely blank like a school-going kid confronted by his or her teacher. Sometimes he would even retort by saying that he was not given any such documents. This invariably led all three of us – Tendar-la, Kaltop-la and myself – rummaging through our office to hunt for that important document. More often than not, we would find the document in a nearby trash can, crushed and drenched in his nose mucus! Strange as it may sound, Tendar-la used to have a streaming cold throughout the four seasons of a year.

Tendar-la seemed to have carried on this tradition even while he was transferred to the Office of Tibet, New York. Kungo Ngawang Rabgyal-la has many such interesting anecdotes to narrate.

Not many people know the bonhomie between Tendar-la and Kaltop-la – a confirmed bachelor and yet considered very eligible by many a lady staff in Gangchen Kyishong, the hub of the exile Tibetan establishment. They shared a special relationship: in his communications, Tendar-la always referred to Kaltop-la as “Jetsun Mila” and himself as “Bu Raschung”. Reflecting his spiritual bend of mind and what he aspires to do in life, “Bu Raschung” wrote in one of his last communications to “Jetsun Mila”:

“Cast away in this foreign country with no friends, your letter came as a source of great happiness. … Last Saturday, I met Bumo Tashi and her husband. The following day, on Sunday, I met Dhondup Dolma and Tsering Choedon. Every one of us seems to be suffering from one problem or the other; nobody is free from it. How true is the saying that ‘there is no moment of happiness in this Samsaric world, which is like the tip of a needle’.

“I pray that we live long enough to become spiritual friends, and together engage in deep meditative practices.”

This spiritual side of Tendar-la, a trait so inherent in him, was rarely visible while he was alive. After his retirement from the administrative service, Tendar-la indeed had plans to spend some time in the woods, or high up in the mountains, immersed in deep meditation with his adopted father-figure, Kaltop-la – the “Mila”. Alas, he did not live long enough to fulfil this noble desire.

Another person who had a rather long association with Tendar-la was Jane Perkins. The morning when the news about Tendar-la’s sudden demise was officially announced, I was summoned by Kungo Ngawang Rabgyal-la in connection with some administrative work. While I was climbing downstairs to his cabin, I met Jane at the front-gate of our office. She was, from top to bottom, dressed in black – a gesture of mourning for her deceased friend. She wanted to talk to me. As I then had to report to our Administrator immediately, I hurried her up to my office and asked her to wait there until I returned. It took quite a while in Kungo Ngawang Rabgyal-la’s cabin and when I finally got back to my office, Jane was not there. She had left a small note on my table, which read:

“This Monday morning, it is too sad sitting in Tendar-la’s office which we shared for so long. I will be back by 12 noon.”

When she did turn up at noon, she obviously looked very sad and grief-stricken. I felt very uncomfortable as to how I should behave with her. After speaking a couple of words, she began to choke and then suddenly burst into an endless stream of tears. I reached for her and tried to console her. But words seemed to evade me; I could only say, “Jane, please don’t cry.”

There was no stopping her, however. I knew she missed her old friend dearly.

One of Tendar-la’s most valued possessions in his office was that of a portrait of Manjushri in silver frame. Placed atop his computer, he would treasure it above everything else. Seated beside him, I always used to have a feeling that Tendar-la’s meditative deity must be Manjushri, or at least he had some spiritual connection with it. For, when the Lotsawa settled down in his desk, I could easily see the magic of Manjushri’s blessing working on him. Despite his knack for forgetting things, Tendar-la took the portrait along with him when he left for the New York Office.

Aside this, Tendar-la had a strong attachment for the small, old, worn-out, yellow spongy, rotating chair that he used to occupy in our office. He clung on to this chair until his last day at the DIIR. Even when the whole of our office saw a major physical transformation under the secretary-ship of Madam Kesang Yangkyi Takla, now Kalon for the Department of Health, he did not discard the chair. Perhaps Tendar-la did not wish to part with the “Yang (luck)” attached to it.

A couple of years later, I wrote at the end of one of my communications to Tendar-la, “Your old, worn-out chair is eagerly awaiting your arrival here in our office.” He did not respond then.

Last year, a reply came in the form of Tendar-la’s making a formal request to the Kashag for his transfer back to Dharamsala. It somehow did not materialise.

Tendar-la is no longer with us today. But his coveted chair still enjoys a special place in our part of the office, constantly reminding us of the Lotsawa who once occupied it.