Lobsang T Rampa - Chapters of Life.doc

TO THANK .  .  .

    Mrs. Valeria Sorock (a language purist!) for her noble action
in typing extra copies of this manuscript, bravely ignoring and
unaltering fractured English and graceless grammar.
    Victoria Harvey of Brighton,  Sussex, England, for the

delicate feeling and understanding so adequately displayed in

these illustrations by her.

    ‘Ma’ for reading and criticising (always kindly) my first

thoughts, and ‘Buttercup’ for such hard work in typing from

my dictation.

    The Misses Tadalinka and Cleopatra Rampa, the Repre-

sentatives on Earth of the Lady Ku'ei and Mrs. Fifi Grey-

whiskers who, in spite of being only six months old, NOBLY

entertained and sometimes tore up the pages before they were

finished with.

    Ladies—good gracious! They are ALL ladies!—THANK

YOU!

                                                                  T.  LOBSANG RAMPA

                        CONTENTS

Chapter One    A Coming World Leader          11

Chapter Two    Many Mansions                        27

Chapter Three   Many More Mansions             44

Chapter Four    Many Dimensions Too!            63

Chapter Five    Painting with Words                  81

Chapter Six     A World We All Must Visit        99

Chapter Seven   End of a Chapter                      118

Chapter Eight   Meditation                                 142

Chapter Nine    Is Astral Travel for YOU?        161

Chapter Ten     The Works of Man                    179

Chapter Eleven   YOU Write This                     196

Chapter Twelve Religion and Science               214

                              CHAPTER ONE

           COMING WORLD LEADER

    THE tall, rank weeds at the edge of the unkempt vacant lot
stirred slightly.  The broad leaves of the ragged old dock plant

waved sideways, and the two unwinking green eyes stared out

into the gloom of the dismal street.  Slowly, and with consider-

able caution, a gaunt yellow tomcat emerged on to the uneven

sidewalk.  Carefully he stopped to sniff the night air for signs

of enemies.  Friends—he had none, for cats in this street lived

a near-jungle existence, with every man's hand against them.

    Satisfied at last that all was clear, he sauntered across to the

centre of the roadway and there, sitting, he commenced a

meticulous toilet.  First the ears, then the back of the neck with

a well-moistened paw.  Finally, with the left leg pointed sky-

wards, he continued his careful grooming.  Pausing for a mo-

ment to draw  breath, he looked about him, looked at the

dreary street.

    Dirty brick houses of another era.  Tattered curtains at soot-

smeared windows, with paint peeling from the rotting window

frames.  Occasionally there came the loud blare from some dis-

cordant radio, to be quickly turned down as a screamed curse

testified to some other occupant's disapproval.

    Yellow glimmers of light came from such street lamps as

had escaped being broken by the local children.  Great patches

of black shadow sprawled across the area of the broken lamps.

The yellow tomcat turned again to his toilet, unmoved by the

garbage littering the sidewalks.  From far away, from the

better area, came the muted roar of the traffic and reflected

from the sky came the glow of many neon signs.  But here, in

this street, all was desolate, a street of the hopeless.

    Suddenly the yellow tomcat was all alert, ears erect, eyes

staring into the gloom, muscles ready for instant flight.  SOME-

THING had impinged upon his awareness.  Springing to his

feet, he gave a warning HISS before merging into the gloom

between two houses.  For a moment all was normal in the

street, the fretful wail of a sick baby, a man and woman

quarrelling with lurid anatomical overtones, and the distant

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screech of brakes suddenly applied in an adjacent street.

At last, there came the faintest of unusual sounds, slow,

shuffling footsteps—not a drunk, that was normal here!—but

aged, halting footsteps, the footsteps of one who was tired of

life, who was hanging on by the merest thread to a miserable

and uncertain existence.  The shuffling came nearer, like the

slow grating of sand beneath sandaled feet.  The dark chasm

of the gloomy street, but poorly relieved by the infrequent

street lamps, made seeing difficult.  A vague shadow moved

feebly across a lighted patch and was swallowed up again by

the darkness.

    The sound of wheezing, asthmatic breath smote harshly on

the ears as the shrouded figure approached.  Suddenly the steps

halted, and there came the raucous noise of harsh expectora-

tion, followed by a painfully hissing intake of breath.  A heavy

sigh, and the tottering steps resumed their weary cadence.

    Dimly a whitish shadow materialized out of the semi-dark-

ness of the street and came to a halt beneath a feebly flickering

street lamp. An aged man clad in dirty white robes and with

tattered sandals upon his feet peered near-sightedly at the

ground before him.  Stooping, he fumbled to pick up a dis-

carded cigarette end lying in the gutter.  As he bent the burden

he carried reflected the light; a placard on a pole, with the

crudely printed words: ‘Repent, Repent, for the Second Com-

ing of the Lord is at hand.  Repent.’  Straightening, he moved a

few steps farther, and then climbed painfully down some stone

steps to a basement apartment.

    ‘Don't know why ye do it, Bert, that's a fact I don't.  Ye

only get's laughed at by the kids.  Give it up, will ya?’

    ‘Ah, Maudie, we all got our job to do.  Guess I might plant a

seed of thought somewhere, you know.  I'll keep at it a while

longer.’

‘A while is all it'll be, Bert, ye'r eighty-one now, time you

give it up I say, afore you drop dead on the street.’

             .        .        .        .        .        .          .

'The old lych-gate was gleamingly resplendent under the

weak afternoon sun.  The fresh varnish brought new life to the

age-old wood.  Farther along the path the ancient grey stone

church of St. Mary's looked mellow and benevolent.  The great

iron-studded doors were open now, waiting for worshippers to

the Eventide Service.  High above the bells clanged their

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eternal message, ‘Hurry now, hurry now, or you'll be late.’  A

thousand years of history was locked in the old churchyard. 

Great stone tombs of bygone days, with their archaic spellings,

vast stone angels with wide-spread wings.  Here and there

broken marble columns signified a life ‘broken’ in its prime. 

    A vagrant shaft of light, bursting unexpectedly from sud-

denly parted clouds, shot through the old church and threw the

stained-glass windows into vivid life, laying the shadow of the

castellated tower across the graves of those who were buried so

long ago. 

    People were converging on the church now, coming from all

directions, talking animatedly, dressed in their Sunday best. 

Young children, self-conscious in their finery, and embarrassed

by freshly scrubbed faces, tagged along behind their parents. 

An old Verger appeared briefly and gazed worriedly down the

path before retiring into the dim coolness of the church.

    From over the stone wall came a burst of laughter, followed

by the Rector and a clerical friend.  Skirting the old tomb-

stones, they followed a private path leading to the vestry.  Soon

the wife and children of the Rector appeared, making their

way to the main entrance so they could mingle with the in-

coming throng. 

    Above, in the bell tower, the clang-clang, clang-clang con-

tinued, urging on the tardy, reproaching the churchless.  The

crowd thinned to a trickle, and came to a stop as the verger

peered out once more, and, seeing no one, closed the main

door. 

    Inside there was the hallowed atmosphere so common to old

churches of any Faith. The great stone walls soared upwards,

to give way at last to massive rafters.  The sunlight shone

through the stained-glass windows, throwing shifting patterns

across the pale faces of the congregation.  From the organ loft

came the lulling strains of a hymn whose history was lost

in the mists of antiquity.  A last peal from the bells, and as

their echoes were still dying away a door creaked faintly,

and the bell-ringers came into the nave to find seats at the

back. 

    Suddenly thc organ changed its music.  People stiffened with

an air of expectancy and there was subdued commotion at the

rear of the church.  The tread of many feet, the rustle of vest-

ments, and soon the first choirboys were filing up the aisle, to

take their places in the choir stalls.  There came the fidgeting

                                             14

and murmuring so common to such occasions as the con-

gregation prepared for the service to start.

    The Reader droned on, reading the Lessons as he had done

for years past, reading automatically—without a thought.  Be-

hind him a bored choirboy with a rubber band and some

pellets of paper proceeded to find amusement.  ‘Ouch!’  said

the first victim, involuntarily.  Slowly the organist-choirmaster

ferocious glare that he dropped the rubber band and shuffled

uneasily.

    The Guest Cleric, ready to give the sermon, slowly mounted

the steps of the pulpit.  At the top he leaned against the

wooden ledge and gazed out complacently at the congregation.

Tall, he was, with wavy brown hair, and with eyes of that

shade of blue which so appeals to elderly spinsters.  The

Rector's wife, sitting in the first pew, gazed up and permitted

herself to wish her husband could have such an appearance.

Slowly, taking his time, the Preacher gave as his text THE

SECOND COMING OF THE LORD.

    He droned on, and on, and on.  In a far-back pew an old

retired farmer found it too much for him.  Slowly he lapsed

into slumber.  Soon snores resounded throughout the church.

Hastily a sidesman moved towards him and shook him awake

before leading him outside.  At last the Visiting Cleric finished

his Address.  After giving the Blessing he turned and made his

way down the pulpit steps.

    There was a shuffling and stirring of feet as the organist

commenced to play the closing hymn.  Sidesmen moved along

the aisles passing the collection plates and shaking a reproving

head at those who did not give enough.  Soon they formed into

a group of four and marched up the centre aisle to give the

plates to the waiting Rector.  Later, in the vestry, the Rector

turned to his guest and said: ‘The Take, nineteen pounds,

three shillings, and eleven-pence halfpenny, one Chinese tael,

one French franc, and two trouser buttons.  Now, I am very

concerned about the poor fellow who has lost two trouser but-

tons, we must hope that he reaches home without untoward

event.’

    Together, Rector and Guest wended their way along the

little path between the age-old tombstones, with the shadows

lengthening and pointing to the East.  Silently they crossed the

little stile set into the wall between churchyard and Rectory

                                             15

grounds.  The Rector broke the silence: ‘Did I show you my

petunia beds?’ he asked.  ‘They are doing well—I planted

them myself.  We shouldn't talk shop, but I rather liked your

sermon.’

    ‘Seemed to me appropriate, with all this talk about God

being dead,’ replied the Guest. 

    ‘Let us look at the croft,’ remarked the Rector, ‘I must get

some of the apple trees pruned.  Do you obtain your sermons

from the same Agency as I?   I just recently started with them

—saves a lot of trouble.’

    ‘Rather a large acreage you have here,’ responded the Guest. 

‘No, I do not deal with the Agency now—they let me down

twice and I am not going to risk a third time.  Do you dig the

garden yourself?’

    ‘Oh!’ said the Rector's wife, as they were drinking a mild

sherry before supper.  ‘Do you REALLY believe in a Second

Coming as you said in your sermon?’

    ‘Now!  Now!  Margaret!’  interposed the Rector.  ‘That is

very much of a leading question.  You know as well as I that

we cannot preach nor say all that we believe—or disbelieve. 

We have subscribed to the Articles and we must preach

according to the Rules of the Church and the dictates of the

Bishop of the See.’

    The Rector's wife sighed, and said, ‘If ONLY we knew the
truth, if ONLY we had SOMEONE who could tell us what to

expect, what to believe, what to hope for.’

    ‘Tell me,’ said the Guest, turning to the Rector, ‘do you use

natural manure or chemical fertilizer on your strawberry

beds?’

                 .         .          .           .           .           .

    The grey, shifty-eyed old man sidled ingratiatingly towards

the thin-faced man sitting uncomfortably on the battered park

bench.  ‘Wha' time does dey give da 'andouts, Mate?’ he en-

quired anxiously, in a hoarse voice.  ‘I gotta get da food inside

me quick, or I croak, see.  Does ye 'av ter do them yimns first,

eh?’

    The thin-faced man turned and yawned elaborately as he             

eyed the other from head to foot.  Carefully manicuring his

nails with a broken tooth-pick, he replied languidly, ‘Jolly old    

Oxford accent, you have, old boy.  Old Borstalian myself,

Feltham House. So you want to EAT, eh? So do I—so do I. 

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Often!  But it is not THAT...