The King of the World
This story is also available as a book with color photographs from East Tibet. Read the book online!
Friends often ask me: “Have you really met the king of the world?”
The story of the king of the world is a fiction. It was inspired by true events and encounters with truly living people, yet it grew in the womb of imagination and inner inspiration. But the richness, of which it tells, is true. Therefore, the journey in the company of the imaginary king of the world is perhaps more real than many of the journeys truly taken.
It happened not so long ago, in a land far, far away…
The winter in Shechen, a remote monastery in East Tibet…
I had enough of it. Boredom reached its peak in the dull days after the Tibetan New Year. I decided to leave as soon as possible, to go on holiday to the nearby village of Tsar Tsar.
“You can not go now”, my hosts tried to convince me, “Nobody goes anywhere after the New Year; you will not hitch a ride and our motorbike is broken.”
I followed their advice and stayed at home one more night. But the next day nothing happened once again, and I was getting more and more restless. In the evening I took my final decision:
regardless of the hardships,
even if I have to walk,
even if I have to fight against mad cows on the way,
even if I never arrive.”
And so, the next morning I departed from our house, carrying only a small backpack filled with presents for kids in the temple of King Gesar in Tsar Tsar. In the spirit of our Christmas I got them fountain pens, wooden paper holders and some good sweets. Tibetans never exchange gifts on such occasions and despite the multitude of various deities, they know nothing about Santa.
I assured my family that I would return to the house in case I didn’t find a ride, even though I knew that I was not coming back. If I had told them about my intention to walk, they would have worried and would not have let me go.
I walked down the slope through the monastic settlement to the grassy plain leading to the village and the road.
There was not a living soul to be seen in the village. Without waiting I started to walk, thinking: “If somebody drives by I will hitch a ride, otherwise I will walk. In any case, before evening, I will reach my destination.”
A gravel road connects Shechen and Tsar Tsar. It runs through the valley, beside a river. The river had thick layers of ice on both sides. Water could only be seen running in the middle.
There I was, walking alone on this cold day through the empty Tibetan landscape. Occasionally, I passed prayer flags waving in the chilly wind, or piles of stones carved with mantras, marking holy places. Perhaps they were placed there in the name of the deceased. My only companions were the sound of the wind, the humming of the river and bird song.
When all of a sudden, a distant human voice joined the sounds of nature;
a song was being sung in a strong high pitch, with the characteristic style of the Tibetan mountain farmers. Only such a voice can be heard across the empty expanse of mountains and valleys.
The further I went, the louder and the clearer the singing became. Soon, I saw
a human shape in the distance, sitting beside the road.
It was an old man. When I reached him, he stopped singing and observed me with curiosity. Not many foreigners pass here during the winter days. His hair was gray, clipped short, his face wrinkled and his eyes dark, full of life.
“Are you tired?” I greeted him.
He was surprised that I could speak his language: “Oh, you understand Tibetan! Where are you going?”
I explained to him that I was walking to Tsar Tsar, to visit my friends. He was glad to hear it: “I am heading in the same direction. We can walk together.”
He got up with the help of his walking stick.
He wore the traditional winter coat. Even nowadays, most locals wear such clothes. It is a kind of jacket, extended to the knees. His was made from thick woolen cloth, dark colored, lined with white lamb fur. The coat has no zipper or buttons. It is wrapped around the body and tied around the waist with
a cloth ribbon. Long sleeves, stretching to the knees, make it look funny. Yet, they provide warm shelter for bare hands. When staying in the house or working, the wearer takes the right hand out of the sleeve, baring the right shoulder and letting the empty sleeve hang behind like a tail.
Despite his old age, the man was fit, and we continued on the way with brisk steps.
He began to sing again; reciting the mantra of Guru Rinpoche, as the ancient Indian Buddhist master Padmasambhava is known here. He brought Buddhism to Tibet in the seventh century and is famous for his miraculous powers. He had visited this area, meditated in remote caves and overcame calamities plaguing the local population. He left a lasting impression and people still remember him with devotion.
The old man was singing: “Om ah hung benza guru pema siddhi hung…”
His cheerful company made me happy.
As we came around a bend, we saw a small stone bridge. It was built recently by Rabjam Rinpoche, the abbot of Shechen monastery. The year before the bridge was built twelve people perished while crossing the river in leather boats or walking across the ice.
Here the valley widens; hills become oval shaped, covered only with dry yellow grass. Pastures at the bottom of the valley are dotted with yaks and horses. The river goes through a long bend at this point; by crossing it and walking on the inner side, one can save some distance.
The old man changed his repertoire on the other side of the bridge. He sang with a beautiful slow melody:
“This ground, anointed with perfume, strewn with flowers,
With mount Meru, four continents, the sun and the moon,
I see as a pure land and offer it to the Buddhas.
May all living beings be reborn into this pure realm!”
I knew these words well. Last summer I recited the same verse 111.111 times in the mountain above Shechen monastery. I was curious as to why he chose to sing precisely this one.
“Why are you singing the mandala offering?”
Suddenly he stopped, gazed at me in silence for a few moments and then broke into laughter: “Because I am the king of the world!”
He continued to sing with even more enthusiasm. His answer surprised me and offered a starting point for an interesting conversation.
“So then, Mount Meru and all four continents must be your property?”
According to the one of Buddhist explanations of cosmology, our universe is a huge square plain surrounded by iron mountains, with seven concentric oceans and mountain ranges. In the center of it stands mount Meru, shaped like upturned pyramid with four faces of different colors. Four continents where human beings live surround the mountain.
Our continent is supposed to be the southerly one. Its characteristics are an unpredictable life span and a mixture of experiences of happiness and suffering. It is said that people on the other three continents live in higher certainty and well-being. The south face of the mount Meru is blue, therefore our sky is blue. The top of the mountain is the home of heavenly beings.
“Of course!” he affirmed, “Otherwise, how could I be the king of the world?”
Certain of easy victory in this debate I confronted him with the naivety of his ideas: “Don’t you know our world is round? People with powerful ships flew high in the sky and clearly saw that we live on a sphere circling around the sun. They did not see any mountain, or the three other worlds. You must be the king of made-up worlds!”
I drew a diagram of the solar system, using a stick on the dust of the road. But my scientific arguments did not disturb him at all.
He was laughing: “What do I know what kind of people flew in the sky and how they looked to see only one round world! From where I am looking, it is obvious that the sun rises behind those mountains and sets in the valley on the other side. Every day I see it with my own eyes. Did you fly in the sky and see the things you are telling me about?”
“No,” I had to admit.
“Do you really believe that the world is what you just drew here? In just a few moments the wind will sweep your drawing away. Nothing will remain of it. Yet, the ground where we stand will still be here. When people build better ships and fly higher in the sky they will be able to see other things as well, the things they can not see now.”
He was very determined:
round, square or triangular.
Whatever it is, I am its king.
King of every stone on this road,
of every cloud in the sky,
of every drop of water in the river.”
The old man spoke with such enthusiasm I felt he might really believe it. The conversation made the journey shorter, so I continued: “If you are the king of the world, you must certainly have a lot of money, mustn’t you?”
“Not at all!” he burst into laughter, “I don’t have a dime in my pocket. You know, small kings need money to buy things they don’t own. I am a great king. Do you need money to take food from your own storage room? What use is money to me if I already own everything?
Besides, how could I walk around with the weight of all the coins of the world in my pockets?”
To demonstrate he lightly jumped in the air and turned around and around.
I pulled all the money I had from my pocket, about ninety Yuan in small change. I waved with it in front of his face:
“See! This is my money. Until I give it to you or you steal it from me, it won’t be yours. Even if all of the world’s treasures belong to you, this is mine and you are not the king of these ninety Yuan!”
“Ah, you are not listening at all to what I am saying,” he shook his head.
“I am the king of the world! Everything that exists belongs to me, including you and of course all your money and everything else you own.”
of the flower on which it grew,
yet both flower and its blossom,
belong to the meadow.”
“Why would I steal from my own wallet? It doesn’t matter if the money is in your or my pocket. Every pocket is a part of my kingdom.”
He continued: “Small kings rob neighboring countries and collect taxes from their subjects. In reality, they are not kings; they are not masters of their lands or their people. Things are ceaselessly slipping out of their grasp.
If you are truly the owner of a fruit tree, you don’t need to pick its fruits and lock them in your cellar to make them yours. You can just as well leave them hanging on the tree. Why would I tire myself with moving my property from one part of my land to another part of my land?”
“This is just a nice theory,” I answered, “But, imagine that you fall ill and you can not afford a doctor. Even though the whole world is yours, you will die in the cold outside the gates of the hospital. How can something like this happen to a real king?”
He found the answer immediately: “Are you saying that something like that can not happen to a real king? Tell me, how many kings from the past are still here today? What happened to them?”
“A small king spends his whole life looking after his body, he has an army to protect it, he spends a fortune to nourish it. Yet in the end, it turns out that such a king is not even the master of his own body. If he is not killed by an enemy, sooner or later he falls sick and dies in pain. This is the end of the small king and his kingdom. Only hair and bones strewn on the meadow remain of him.
Tell me, how can something like this happen to a true king?”
I didn’t find any argument to contradict him. What he said had sense to it.
The old man continued to speak: “I am a great king. This body of mine is only one of the countless things in my land. Why should I spend all my time worrying about it? Everything is ruled by the laws of nature. I am old, my hair turned gray, my teeth are falling out. My knees are sore from walking in the mountains every day. I can only eat tsampa and cooked meat, everything else gives me stomach pains. This flesh will soon become food for the vultures.
Why should a king of the world be upset about this? Man lives because of death and dies because of life. How can he cherish one and be afraid of the other?”
We reached the first village on our way. Simple mud houses stood on both sides of the road. Nobody was outside; everybody kept warm inside, celebrating New Year holidays.
“Dogs are not probably celebrating anything and are waiting in boredom for something to spice up their day,” I worried, “Well, the king of the world is with me, but what’s the use of him, if he is so great that he does not even have a bodyguard…”
As feared, two dogs came running towards us. I picked up two stones, threw one at the dogs and held the other one in my raised hand. This stopped them, they barked from a safe distance. But towards the end of the village another dog appeared, different from the first two. A big brown mastiff ran from a distant house without barking even once, climbed through the wire fence and jumped towards me in attack.
I threatened him with a big stone raised in my hand, ready to throw it at him if necessary. This stopped him a mere meter in front of me. When I moved aggressively toward him he backed up for a moment, only to attack again. Meanwhile I was progressing backwards along the road. The duel lasted until we came out of the village. There the dog stood and barked, taking pride in having successfully protected his village against a stranger with a big nose.
Dog wars did not disturb the king. As a native he was probably used to it. And of course, he was the king of the world.
“Looks like those dogs didn’t recognize you as their king,” I remarked.
“Ha, ha, ha… Didn’t you notice they only barked at you? Did I have to throw stones at them? Hee, hee, hee…”
When he stopped laughing, he added: “You see, a small king needs respect from others to feel like a king. He needs people to bow down to him; he needs soldiers, castles, expensive clothes and jewel crowns to be a king. He needs someone who crowns him. Without all of that he can not be a king. And what does this tell you? That by himself, he is not a king at all!
A true king is a king by being alive. Can you think of some greater way of being enthroned than simply by being endowed with this life? Compared to this everything else is just small potatoes.”
not on the army, not on castles,
not on the power against others,
not on money or the crown.
I am such a king.
Nobody made me a king, so nobody can fire me.
I have no hope of getting something more
and no fear of losing anything.
So, I can be brave and without worries and rule like a true king.”
We were already walking for hours. We reached the point where the stream flows into a larger river. The road continues alongside it, now in the opposite direction of the current.
Here, dimensions of the landscape expand. The valley becomes even wider, view reaches further, hills are bigger and the river goes through a huge bend, at least ten miles long.
It is said that a shortcut forks from the main road at this point, but if you do not know the way it is not worth risking getting lost in the frozen mountains.
We passed a good part of the bend without saying a word. The king found pleasure in singing; I was tired and was carried away by a multitude of thoughts. Clouds were thicker, gusts of cold wind carried dust. The big river was completely frozen; ice was thick enough for motorbikes to cross. The landscape was wild and empty.
When we finally reached the end of the bend, it was already late afternoon. The low winter sun returned and colored the landscape with its warmth.
We met the first people. Three young girls were climbing the slope, on the way to get their yaks. In the morning they led herds to the pastures and in the afternoon they chase them back home. It is not an easy job. There are no fences in the hills that would prevent yaks from climbing further up in search of a perfect grassy meal. The girls saw us and waved us to stop and join them. The invitation was tempting, yet the late hour and tired legs dissuaded me from the additional climb. Still, the meeting was a pleasant refreshment that awoke me from thoughtfulness and provided inspiration for conversation.
“As the king of the world, you certainly have a very beautiful queen, don’t you?”
He stopped singing: “You are right! When I was young I had a wife. A beautiful girl from this area. She had a pure heart and was very devoted to me. One day, as usual, she went to the mountains to fetch the cows. She fell to the ground and died… Nobody knows why… It was twenty years ago.”
Sadness came to his eyes.
Until he continued: “You know, but with her death I didn’t lose my queen. A human wife comes and goes. A king has to have a more reliable queen. A queen that always stands beside him, a queen that inspires him in every moment, and ceaselessly brings him only joy and satisfaction.”
He glanced into the distance, then turned towards me: “My queen is the beauty of this world.”
There was something profound in his words; I could only be silent.
“What about all ugliness and pain the world is full of, wherever you look?” I finally spoke.
With a warm expression on his face he answered: “You know, beauty does not come from the outside. Beauty is the way of seeing things. A small king looks with his narrow eyes, stained with projections and fears. He mistakes the dirt in his own eyes for defects of the world.
In the heart of everything, be it alive or not alive, lies indescribable beauty. It is not the artificial beauty of a young girl with red cheeks who weaves precious stones in her long black hair. No. Her beauty is transient and people argue about it.
True beauty does not come and does not pass. It is the substance from which this universe is built. One only needs to know this, to be the king of the world.
This natural perfection is the only crown suitable for a true king, the only coat he wears, the only castle where he lives, his only army and his only queen; with her he spends all of his days and nights. Do you understand?”
I answered: “Yes, I can sense that something lies below the superficial appearance of things, something like you have just described. But it is very difficult to touch it, everything else is more apparent.”
“Ah!” he made a gesture with his hand, “You are so complicating! Of course it is difficult if you make it difficult. Believe me, there is nothing simpler, nothing more obvious, nothing more true than this. Do you think, the world with all its limitless phenomena, colors, forms and experiences can come from something that is dull, cold and dead?”
stop telling it what it is.
Put your judging thoughts aside for a moment;
and just listen.
The world and your own heart
will reveal themselves to you in all their beauty.
Without using a single word,
you will understand;
and tears of joy will wash your face.”
Meanwhile we had reached the next village. A middle-aged man stood on the road. He greeted us warmly and invited us into his house for tea. Tired, hungry and thirsty, we gladly accepted his invitation.
He lived in a simple one-storied house built from mud, together with his wife and four young children. Two sons are expected to become monks and attend school in Shechen monastery. The other son and daughter will help at home; they get no education at all. The house had no furniture, only a fireplace, two shelves and straw on the floor instead of chairs. The roof was made from pressed earth and cypress branches supported by wooden beams. When a strong gust of wind blew, some soil from the roof fell into my cup.
Yet, the goodness of its inhabitants made this house more beautiful than many of the luxurious palaces I saw before. Maybe I felt some of the beauty the king was telling me about.
Filled with tsampa and tea we bid farewell to our hosts and continued on the way.
I was thinking about the lives of the people I now know here, about the pain which is such an inseparable part of their existence. I asked him: “There is so much suffering and pain in this world. If you are the king of the world, what can you do about it?”
He suddenly stopped, turned towards me and, visibly moved, spoke: “You know, the king of the world has only one job: to love his kingdom. All the pain and all the joy of the world are his own pain and joy.
Everybody creates his or her own kingdom. People believe they are small. They raise narrow borders around their lands; then they lock themselves in. They do not see that their heart is pure, beautiful. They do not see the beauty of the world. How sad and unnecessary is all of it! What can you really do for others? Only, to treat them as what they truly are.”
Why would there be only one?
A small king rules alone over inferior people.
A king of the world rules in the company of all other kings and queens.
Only such company is suitable to him.
Regardless of what people think of themselves,
he sees their true beauty and goodness.”
“The best part of being the king of the world is that you can give your kingdom and crown to everyone else.”
he is left with nothing.
When a great king shares everything he has with all that lives,
he does not lose anything.
He is rich because he has so much to give.”
We walked for a while without speaking. Then he stopped and pointed with his hand to the hill: “Here, I will leave you. Do you see up there? Those are my cows. I have to get them home. It was nice walking with you. We are friends now, perhaps we will meet again one day.”
I found no words to form an answer. The old man took my hands in his warm palms. With a gentle expression he spoke:
at all these mountains, valleys and rivers.
Look above at the blue sky and the clouds.
Look at this world and at all that lives upon it.
This is your world.
Be a good king to it!”
For a while we stood motionless. Then he smiled and released my hands. Without a word he turned around and began climbing up the hill. I stood there, watching until he disappeared behind thick bushes.
I suddenly realized - the old man was the king of the world.
I looked ahead. Tsar Tsar was there in the distance, with Penyi monastery on the other side of the river. The red walls of the temple of King Gesar were in the middle between the two villages. My friends were waiting there for me. Richer for the experience of becoming the king of the world, I hurried towards them.
As I walked I sang:
“This earth decorated with meadows, forests, cities and villages,
With mountains, five continents, the sun and the moon,
I recognize as the pure land and offer it to all kings and queens.
May everybody enjoy this perfect world!”
- end -
This story is also available as a book with color photographs from East Tibet. Look inside the book!
About the story
The story about the king of the world was born at the end of the winter 2004/5 in Shechen monastery in the Tibetan province of Kham located in the hilly eastern part of Sichuan province in China.
At the altitude of 4000 meters there are no big cities; people live as nomads in the mountains, as monks and nuns in monasteries or as shopkeepers in small villages. Life is simple and raw - direct and unelaborated - just like the fresh and bloody yak meat that people consider as their favorite delicacy.
Shechen and Tsar Tsar, the birthplace of the great Tibetan warrior king Gesar, are 17 miles apart. In the spring of 2004 I arrived there for a few days and stayed for one year and a half. Local people accepted me as one of their own and shared with me everything they had, without once asking for payment. Because of their warmth and hospitality, I was able to stay so long in this otherwise desolate and cold area.
I lived most of the time with Gangshar Rinpoche, a young lama from Shechen monastery, and his colorful family: the father, with whom we shared passion for mountain girls, with cheerful and inquisitive bedridden grandmother, with three kind sisters and many others who passed through our house.
Gangshar Rinpoche is opening a home and a school for orphans of Kham with the name Shechen Charity Orphan School. I joined him in this endeavor.
Rural communities in Tibet nowadays face many challenges; mainly how not to lose the good sides of traditional life, their culture and values due to material development and globalization.
In general, people have only two options: either to remain prisoners of illiteracy and narrow mindedness or to use education as means of escaping from their homeland. If people are forced to choose between their tradition on one hand and modern life on the other, there is no bright future for the precious culture of Tibet.
With this school we intend to show another way, to enable children and their community to appreciate the unique qualities of their local environment and culture, to equip them with practical skills, so that they will be able to create a good life for themselves and others in their own homeland. You can find more information about the school at www.shechen-school.org.
Thanks to many friends who helped to get the English translation in order: Robert, Sandra, Peter and Monica, and to Ivona for her encouragement and support.
I am deeply grateful to all my Tibetan and Chinese friends who took care of me throughout my stay; grateful for their kindness and inspiration that have brought about many good things in my life - including this short story about the king of the world.
I hope that you will enjoy it as well!
