THE INCREDIBLE TRUTH
Few books have aroused more controversy in recent years than Lobsang Rampa’s THE THIRD EYE, and the other works which have come from his pen.
The reason is simple enough. When an Englishman claims that his body has been taken over by the spirit of a Tibetan Lama, he can reasonably expect mockery. When, in addition, he recounts extraordinary, highly detailed experiences which pre-suppose the possession of personal powers quite outside the laws of nature as we understand them, the reaction not surprisingly becomes an uproar.
But uproars of this kind do sometimes spring from ignorance. To glimpse what was previously unknown is always disturbing. The fact that Dr. Rampa now has many thousands of readers throughout the world is evidence that not all minds are closed against the unfamiliar.
It is for this great body of readers—and, no less, for the skeptics who have been able neither to disprove his story nor to explain how he came by his knowledge if his story is untrue—that Dr. Rampa wrote this, his third book.
THE RAMPA STORY is Lobsang Rampa’s reply to all his critics, and every page carries his own unswerving guarantee of the truth.
DEDICATED
to my friends in Howth, Ireland
They were my friends when the "winds blew fair."
They were loyal, understanding, and greater friends
when the unfair winds blew foul, for the people of
Ireland know persecution; and they know how to
judge Truth. So-
Mr. and Mrs. O'Grady
The Loftus Family
Dr. W. I. Chapman
and
Brud Campbell
(to mention just a few)
THANK YOU!
(Published in 1960)
AUTHOR'S FOREWORD
“No bitterness,” said Mr. Publisher.
“All right,” I thought to myself, “but why should I have
any bitterness? I am merely trying to do my job—writing a
book as directed.”
“Nothing against the Press!” said Mr. Publisher.
“Nothing!!”
“Dear, dear,” I said to myself “What does he take me for?”
So it shall be. Nothing against the Press. After all, they think
they are doing their job, and if they are fed incorrect infor-
mation, then I suppose they cannot be held wholly responsible.
But my idea about the Press? Tut, tut, No. Nothing more
about the subject.
This book follows on from The Third Eye, and from Doctor
from Lhasa. At the very outset I am going to tell you that this
is Truth, not fiction. Everything that I have written in the other
two books is true, and is my own personal experience. What
I am going to write about concerns the ramifications of the
human personality and ego, a matter at which we of the Far
East excel.
However, no more Foreword. The book itself is the thing!
CHAPTER ONE
The jagged peaks of the hard Himalayas cut deeply into
the vivid purple of the Tibetan evening skies. The setting
sun, hidden behind that mighty range, threw scintillating,
iridescent colors on the long spume of snow perpetually
blowing from the highest pinnacles. The air was crystal
clear, invigorating, and giving almost limitless visibility.
At first glance, the desolate, frozen countryside was
utterly devoid of life. Nothing moved, nothing stirred
except the long pennant of snow blowing high above.
Seemingly nothing could live in these bleak mountainous
wastes. Apparently no life had been here since the begin-
ning of time itself
Only when one knew, when one had been shown time
after time, could one detect—with difficulty the faint
trace that humans lived here. Familiarity alone would guide
one's footsteps in this harsh, forbidding place. Then only
would one see the shadow-enshrouded entrance to a deep
and gloomy cave, a cave which was but the vestibule to a
myriad of tunnels and chambers honeycombing this austere
mountain range.
For long months past, the most trusted of lamas, acting as
menial carriers, had painfully trudged the hundreds of miles
from Lhasa carrying the ancient Secrets to where they
would be forever safe from the vandal Chinese and traitor-
ous Tibetan Communists. Here too, with infinite toil and
suffering, had been brought the Golden Figures of past
Incarnations to be set up and venerated in the heart of a
mountain. Sacred Objects, age-old writings, and the most
venerable and learned of priests were here in safety. For
years past, with a full knowledge of the coming Chinese
invasion, loyal Abbots had periodically met in solemn con-
clave to test and pick those who should go to the New
Home in the far distance. Priest after priest was tested,
without his knowledge, and his record examined, so that
9
only the finest and most spiritually advanced should be
chosen. Men whose training and faith was such that they
could, if need be, withstand the worst tortures that the
Chinese could give, without betraying vital information.
So, eventually, from a Communist over-run Lhasa, they
had come to their new home. No aircraft carrying war
loads would fly this high. No enemy troops could live off
this arid land, land devoid of soil, rocky and treacherous
with shifting boulders and yawning chasms. Land so high,
so poor in oxygen, that only a hardy mountain people could
breathe. Here, at last, in the sanctuary of the mountains,
was Peace. Peace in which to work to safeguard the future, to
preserve the Ancient Knowledge, and to prepare for the time
when Tibet should rise again and be free of the aggressor.
Millions of years ago this had been a flame-spewing
range of volcanoes erupting rocks and lava over the chang-
ing face of the young Earth. The world then was semi plas-
tic and undergoing the birth-pangs of a new age. Over
countless years the flames died down and the half molten
rocks had cooled. Lava had flowed for the last time, and
gaseous jets from the deep interior of the Earth had ex-
pelled the remnants into the open air, leaving the endless
channels and tunnels bare and empty. A very few had
been choked by rock falls, but others had remained intact,
glass hard and streaked with traces of once-molten metals.
From some walls trickled mountain springs, pure and
sparkling in any shaft of light.
For century after century the tunnels and caves had re-
mained bare of life, desolate and lonely, known only to
astral-traveling lamas who could visit anywhere and see
all. Astral travelers had scoured the country looking for
such a refuge. Now, with Terror stalking the land of
Tibet, the corridors of old were peopled by the elite of a
spiritual people, a people destined to rise again in the full-
ness of time.
As the first carefully chosen monks wended their way
northwards, to prepare a home within the living rock,
others at Lhasa were packing the most precious articles,
and preparing to leave unobtrusively. From the lamaseries
10
and nunneries came a small trickle of those chosen. In
small groups, under cover of darkness, they journeyed to a
distant lake, and encamped by its bank to await others.
In the “new home” a New Order had been founded, the
School of the Preservation of Knowledge, and the Abbot
in charge, a wise old monk of more than a hundred years,
had, with ineffable suffering, journeyed to the caves within
the mountains. With him had traveled the wisest in the
land, the Telepathic Lamas, the Clairvoyants, and the
Sages of Great Memory. Slowly, over many months, they
had wended their way higher and higher up the mountain
ranges, with the air becoming thinner and thinner with
the increasing altitude. Sometimes a mile a day was the
most their aged bodies could travel, a mile of scrambling
over mighty rocks with the eternal wind of the high passes
tearing at their robes, threatening to blow them away.
Sometimes deep crevices forced a long and arduous detour.
For almost a week the ancient Abbot was forced to remain
in a tightly closed yak-hide tent while strange herbs and
potions poured out life-saving oxygen to ease his tortured
lungs and heart. Then, with superhuman fortitude he
continued the appalling journey.
At last they reached their destination, a much reduced
band, for many had fallen by the wayside. Gradually they
became accustomed to their changed life. The Scribes care-
fully penned the account of their journey, and the Carvers
slowly made the blocks for the hand printing of the books.
The Clairvoyants looked into the future, predicting, pre-
dicting the future of Tibet and of other countries. These
men, of the utmost purity, were in touch with the Cosmos,
and the Akashic Record, that Record which tells all of the
past and of the immediate present everywhere and all the
probabilities for the future. The Telepaths too were busy,
sending messages to others in Tibet, keeping in touch tele-
pathically with those of their Order everywhere—keeping
in touch with Me!
“Lobsang. Lobsang!” The thought dinned into my head,
bringing me back from my reverie. Telepathic messages
were nothing to me, they were more common to me than
11
telephone calls, but this was insistent. This was in some
way different. Quickly I relaxed, sitting in the Lotus
position, making my mind open and my body at ease.
Then, receptive to telepathic messages, I waited. For a
time there was nothing, just a gentle probing, as if “Some-
one” were looking through my eyes and seeing. Seeing
what? The muddy Detroit River, the tall skyscrapers of
Detroit city. The date on the calendar facing me, April 9th,
1960. Again—nothing. Suddenly, as if “Someone” had
reached a decision, the Voice came again.
“Lobsang. You have suffered much. You have done
well, but there is no time for complacency. There is a
task for you yet to do.” There was a pause as if the Speaker
had been unexpectedly interrupted, and I waited, sick at
heart and wholly apprehensive. I had more than enough
of misery and suffering during the past years. More than
enough of change, of being hunted, persecuted. As I
waited I caught fleeting telepathic thoughts from others
nearby. The girl tapping her foot impatiently at the bus
stop below my window, “Oh, this bus service, it's the worst
in the world. Will it never come?” Or the man delivering
a parcel at the house next door: “Wonder if I dare ask the
Boss for a rise? Millie will sure be mad if I don't get some
money for her soon!” Just as I was idly wondering who
“Millie” was, much as a person waiting at a telephone
thinks idly, the insistent Inner voice came to me again.
“Lobsang! Our decision is made. The hour has come
for you to write again. This next book will be a vital task.
You must write stressing one theme, that one person can
take over the body of another, with the latter person's full
consent.”
I started in dismay, and almost broke the telepathic con-
tact. Me write again? About that. I was a “controversial
figure” and hated every moment as such. I knew that I
was all that I claimed to be, that all I had written before
was the absolute truth, but how would it help to rake up a
story from the lurid Press's silly season? That was beyond
me. It left me confused, dazed, and very sick at heart, like
a man awaiting execution.
12 “Lobsang!” The telepathic voice was charged with con-
siderable acerbity now; the rasping asperity was like an
electric shock to my bemused brain. “Lobsang! We are in
a better position to judge than you; you are enmeshed in
the toils of the West. We can stand aside and evaluate.
You have but the local news, we have the world.”
Humbly I remained silent, awaiting a continuation of the
message, agreeing within myself that “They” obviously
knew what was right. After some interval, the Voice came
again. “You have suffered much unjustly, but it has been
in a good cause. Your previous work has brought much
good to many, but you are ill and your judgment is at
fault and warped on the subject of the next book.”
As I listened I reached out for my age-old crystal and
held it before me on its dull black cloth. Quickly the glass
clouded and became as white as milk. A rift appeared, and
the white clouds were parted like the drawing aside of cur-
tains to let in the light of the dawn. I saw as I heard. A
distant view of the towering Himalayas, their tops mantled
in snow. A sharp sensation of falling so real that I felt my
stomach rising within me. The landscape becoming larger,
and then, the Cave, the New Home of Knowledge. I saw
an Aged Patriarch, a very ancient figure indeed, sitting on
a folded rug of yak wool. Although a High Abbot, he was
clad simply in a faded, tattered robe, which seemed almost
as ancient as he. His high, domed head glistened like old
parchment, and the skin of his wrinkled old hands scarce
covered the bones which supported it. He was a venerable
figure, with a strong aura of power, and with the ineffable
serenity which true knowledge gives. Around him, in a
circle of which he was the center, sat seven lamas of high
degree. They sat in the attitude of meditation, with their
palms face-up and their fingers entwined in the immemorial
symbolic clasp. Their heads, slightly bowed, all pointed
towards me. In my crystal it was as if I were in the same
volcanic chamber with them, as if I stood before them. We
conversed as though almost in physical contact.
“You have aged greatly,” said one.
“Your books have brought joy and light to many, do
13
not be discouraged at the few who are jealous and evilly
disposed,” said another.
“Iron ore may think itself senselessly tortured in the
furnace, but when the tempered blade of finest steel looks
back it knows better,” said a third.
“We are wasting time and energy,” said the Aged Patri-
arch. “His heart is ill within him and he stands in the
shadow of the Other World, we must not overtax his
strength nor his health for he has his task clear before
him.”
Again there was a silence. This time it was a healing
silence, while the Telepathic Lamas poured life-giving
energy into me, energy which I so often lacked since my
second attack of coronary thrombosis. The picture before
me, a picture of which I seemed to be a part, grew even
brighter, almost brighter than reality. Then the Aged Man
looked up and spoke. “My Brother,” he said, which was
an honor indeed, although I too was an Abbot in my own
right. “My Brother, we must bring to the knowledge of
many the truth that one ego can depart his body volun-
tarily and permit another ego to take over and reanimate
the vacated body. This is your task, to impart this know-
ledge.”
This was a jolt indeed. My task? I had never wanted
to give any publicity about such matters, preferring to re-
main silent even when it would have been to my material
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