Read Online A Smile in the Mind's Eye by Lawrence Durrell - Free Book Online Page A

glad that it was snowing, for in my memories it always snowed and always the white fangs of the Himalayan Alps across the valley held the blue glass-glitter of ice all the year round. Plaige was like a small yet faithful miniature of those grandiose landscapes of my extreme youth – it was the stage version, so to speak, of an epic scenery.
    In the evening, just before dinner, there had come the sound of some pretty smart drumming and crashing and I was told that the resident lamas – the dignitaries had not yet arrived to preside over the major ceremonies – practised a little in the evenings for the morning service. It is an unforgettable sound, this mixture of tooting and booming, of mice and elephants. It brought back so many forgotten impressions of the past – for this was the ordinary musical scheme of Nepal, Bhutan and all points north. It contrived to combine the sounds of an Alban Berg concerto with that of a goblin being castrated. But the noise did not last, it died away as the dinner gong sounded. Apparently the resident lamas enjoyed quarters on the third floor. Theirs was the music and prayer which would draw us inexorably towards this galloping continuum – the natural force of the cosmos: the Tao!
    Most everyone was up before dawn; I saw the kitchen lights switched on and heard the pop of the gas stove which manufactured strong tea for the visitors. I was glad of it, for it was mighty cold, and a heavy dew had turned into frost on my windscreen which I would have to scrape. I tried hot water but it froze as fast I cleared it. The opening service was early also and the virtuous were already abroad, all creased and yellow and yawny from a night of icy sleep in the outbuildings. I was not going to miss the morning service for anything – I knew it would be full of memory-soliciting sounds and shapes. Irrationally I heard the voice of F saying: ‘Our cosmology is a skandah short in their terms.’ There was the smell of incense and muddy gumboots and milk on the stairs. The house was very warm and the friendly throne room as yet almost empty. It is pleasant to arrive a little early and prepare oneself by a quiet breathing and concentrating exercise. (There is nothing specially Tibetan about it: it is equally true for religious services in hallowed places consecrated to this kind of psychic activity, like cathedrals or Christian shrines. You have to make an effort if you want to suck out the marrow of things!)
    Gradually the little chapel filled up, the doors were opened, the congregation took up its dispositions on the floor, many adopting the lotus pose. And then the gay body of lamas entered, their square humorous faces smiling, their tough square little bodies bustling forward with an irresistible momentum – the energy of mountain folk who have come to terms with cold and wind and who enjoy rude peasant health. The head lama was brimming with good nature and light and he took his routine in a competent and relaxed way. The youngest lama was a boy of twelve or so. It reminded me a little bit of a Greek Orthodox service where you are apt to come upon a couple of fine, if piratical-looking, old priests assisted by a dissolute-looking beadle and a shaky-looking adolescent who from time to time strikes a triangle and looks around with cretinous joy and astonishment. It was not quite that, for this little Tibetan was in charge of drums which would have rejoiced the heart of ajazz drummer. The chief lama paid the preliminary obeisances to the various goddesses and gods of the various shrines. He walked round the altar, so to speak, bending down to croak a prayer, barely audible, to the divinities, yet on a deep raucous note which reminded one of a tree frog at mating time. There was also something minatory about this serious survey – he was rather like a mastiff checking that all was well. You felt his scrupulous attention and awareness. Then he swept us with a glance and took