Dharamsala February 14, 1981, 6:00 a.m. The Dalai Lama sits on his throne in the Central Cathedral. Outside, the night is black and still. A cold breeze blows down from Mun Peak. Two old women, up before dawn, circumambulate the temple. They cannot see within. The buildings curtains have been tightly drawn, its front door locked, its side doors guarded by a watchful group of monks. Only a hint of the bright electric light inside appears around the border of each window.

The morning's proceedings are of the utmost secrecy. No outsider, Tibetan or otherwise, is permitted to view them. Except for the participants, few even know they are taking place. The principal monk has already engaged in extensive preparations.

For two days the members of his monastery have recited prayers while he has labored to purify mind and body. His daily meditation practice has been conducted with special care. Fish, pork, garlic, onions and other impure foods have been eliminated from his diet. He has eaten from his own set of plates, kept separate from the others in the monastery. To complete his cleansing, blessed saffron water has been poured over the crown of his head and mantras recited.

On rising this morning, four attendants help the monk dress. His plain habit is put aside for an elaborate costume stored in two trunks. Ordinary pants are donned, followed by red brocade trousers, whose legs are six feet wide. It takes seven folds before the pads sewn into the garment are positioned at the knees. Fastened at the ankles, the trousers bulge a foot to each side. Matched by a red silk shirt placed over an undershirt, they are followed by two heavy robes loosely fastened with a belt and covered by a thick piece of brocade with an opening for the head.

The monks knee high white leather boots are then tied on, toes curled up, wrathful eyes of crimson silk appliqued on the ankles. So attired, he is helped into a jeep parked between his monastery and the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives in the Secretariat compound.  In darkness, the jeep slowly winds its way over the back road, through McLeod Ganj and down the approach to the Central Cathedral. From here he is escorted up the buildings front and into a small room in the rear, where preparations continue.

A triangular jerkin fashioned of gold-leafed ringlets and styled in the manner of ancient Tibetan mail is put on, its points, front and back, ending in a twist. Next, a type of backpack is securely fastened about his middle. It supports four flags interspersed with three victory banners. The flags, made of doubled-up brocade, hang from flexible metal poles and run the full length of the monks back; the banners, shaped like a roll of umbrellas ascend from mid-thigh to above the head and are crowned with the golden points. His sleeves are now bound with strips of red cloth; the left one, padded with archery, is stitched with three more scarlet eyes. Then a front piece of exquisite yellow, gold and red silk, its base exploding in hundreds of rainbow-hued threads, conceals all. At its center lies a golden mirror, the cardinal points dotted by clusters of turquoise around an amethyst, its polished silver core emblazoned with the Sanskrit mantra of a tantric deity.

A three-foot-long silver sheath and sword are buckled on the left side, a golden quiver filled with arrows on the right; a golden thimble, used when drawing back a bowstring, is slipped over the right thumb. These are the accoutrements of an epic Tibetan warrior, a hero from the days of Gesar of Ling, Tibet's legendary king. But despite the martial nature of uniform, the monk is not going into combat. Rather, in a few minutes time, as he sits beneath the bright lights of the cathedral, his consciousness will be cast aside in trance and replaced with that of Dorje Drakden - The Renowned Immutable One, chief spirit minister and bearer of counsel for the State Oracle of Tibet. More than a week ago the three days of the New Year's celebrations were concluded, and now, as it has for centuries, comes the first official trance of the year.

His Holiness the Dalai Lama with the spirit minister

Nechung Dorje Drakden in full trance of the monk medium.

Inside the Cathedral's main hall, the Dalai Lama remains wrapped in silence. A giant statue of the Buddha rises behind his throne; images of Tibet's patron saints crowd the raised level at the head of the hall, where he sits. They are illuminated by large butter lamps, yet the chamber's darkness is far more radically dispelled by one hundred electric bulbs arranged, as offerings, in the shape of tiered cones on either side of the throne.

Under their exacting glare, the varnished floorboards of the lower level give an almost antiseptic definition to the cathedral, but not entirely. Seven-foot spears, painted with scarlet eyes, are roped to the halls front pillars. Behind them, two files of young monks from Nechung Monastery bear musical instruments at the ready, while a table nearby supports dough offering or tsog and another holds a long bow and sword next to a banner-festooned helmet.

The helmet, made of gold-coated iron, is almost three feet high. Five pearl-toothed ruby-eyed skulls adorn its facade beneath a crest of bear fur, surrounded by peacock feathers, and fronted by a flaming sword symbolizing penetrative insight into the ultimate nature of reality. The helmet's rear supports nine three-foot-long flags and banners stitched with silver bells. The top of the highest is crowned by a small group of golden bells and framed by aureoles of white cotton circling the three jewels of the Buddha, Dharma and Sangha, engraved in gold.

Beside it lies a second helmet, belonging to the Gadong Oracle, who will also appear in trance this morning. The Dalai Lama's contemplative mood is matched by that of the ministers of his Cabinet, the Chairman and Vice-Chairman of the Peoples Deputies and their secretaries, all seated on low cushions to his left.  A select group of abbots and lamas, their demeanour equally subdued, face them from across the way.

The ceremony begins. Two ten-foot thungchen or long horns produce a shattering blast. They are followed by the shrill notes of the gyaling, accompanied by cymbals, drums and monks recitation, invoking the oracular deity to descend into the kuden or receiving body. A maroon curtain at the side of the temple parts.

Three assistants appear, supporting the medium. He can barely walk. Altogether the eight layers of his clothing weigh more than a hundred pounds; the helmet, though only a third the weight of that used in Tibet, another thirty pounds. But it is not only his costume that makes it difficult for the Nechung kuden to move unassisted. He is already starting to enter the first levels of trance. A slight quivering rolls up and down his body. His breathing is short and loud. Between gaps in the music and prayers, its sound fills the room.

As he walks forward, the kuden's close-cropped head looks small and fragile above the costume's great bulk. His cheekbones jut out fiercely; his eyes are tucked in on the shelf of the skull and have a wild, startled look. The bushy left eyebrow points at an angle to the bridge of the nose, suggesting a crooked gaze of an Iroquois false-face mask. Like a false face, the cheeks also balloon above a large overbite, the lips protrude and the entire left side of the face has slipped a notch below the right, except where the mouth curls subtly up to produce a soft, quizzical smile. Soon a more severe distortion sets in. The skin draws tight on the skull, effacing the features. The whole countenance becomes clear and pure. The medium assumes a piercing, distant look. He is immersed in the visualization of himself as a tutelary deity standing at the center of a celestial mansion; without this meditation, he is unsuitable for possession.

Nechung Dorje Drakden

Minister of Pehar Spirit Kings

Guided down the steps of the cathedral's main floor, the kuden sits on a brocade-covered camp stool placed over an imitation tiger skin in the middle of the room. An attendant bolsters him beneath either arm and the third man, holding the helmet, presses hard against his back to give further support. Legs wide apart, the Nechung kuden looks up to the Dalai Lama twenty feet away, whereupon his breathing quickens.  The moment has come. The first prayer cycle concludes, the second commences, once more summoning the spirit minister Dorje Drakden to descend from the inconceivable mansion of the protective deity at the heart of illimitable space and enter the receiving body. The long horns' thunder shakes the temple's walls and the trance deepens profoundly. The kuden begins to be possessed.

Abruptly, his head jerks back to the right and he commences to hyperventilate, at an immense rate. Each breath is ejected in a compressed hiss, like a radiator venting. The speed increases and he starts to gag violently. It is as if a long cord, running the length of his torso, is being tightly twisted, pushing breath and mind further out of the body with every bend. Suddenly both legs spring off the floor and begin to leap up and down. The medium's figure visibly expands, swelling two inches, so that the belts of the costume, purposely left loose before, now cut into the robes. The heartbeat is such that, in a separate movement all to itself, the mirror on his chest bounces.

Recognizing that the Choekyong or Protector of Religion has come, the attendant holding the helmet quickly places it on the medium's head. As he does, the medium's face turns bright red, his legs stick straight out and his head falls backwards. All three monks struggle to secure the helmet while the umze or chant leader brings the recitation to a quick stop.

For a minute or two, only music is heard. When the trance concludes, the special slipknot used in tying on the helmet must be instantly released or the medium will die; it is a skill the attendants practice for days at a time, tying knots and releasing them around their own knees. But now the body itself is as though dead.

Close up, the tiny golden bells atop the helmet can be heard tinkling; not from the shuddering of the head, they move even in the brief lapses when it is still but from the presence of Dorje Drakden himself. The Protector is here, in the room, and as the attendants struggle to tie on the helmet, he shakes his borrowed legs and switches his head fiercely from side to side. Beneath the helmet's red silk brim the eyes open and close in staccato blinks, as if taking in an alien environment bits at a time, before briefly relapsing into their own thoughts. Minutes pass before the cords of the helmet can be secured. When they are, they are pulled so tight that if it were only the medium acting, he would he instantly choked. But as the helmet is finally fastened, the Protector shows himself to be in full possession. Leaping up, he swings a long sword in his right hand and begins to dance.

His movements are martial, wrathful, dignified. They are executed with supernormal precision. Where the kuden could not even walk for the constricting weight of the costume, Dorje Drakden can barely be contained by the body he is in. Bending straight down from the waist, he bows low, crossing both arms over his chest, then instantly springs back, the helmet's mass counting for nothing. Waving the heavy sword in the air, he first lifts his right leg and arm, the knee and elbow bent, and then his left. This is the basic step of the cham or ritual dance, interspersed with bows offered out of respect to the Dalai Lama. Spinning from side to side, he repeats the gestures with such alacrity that the attendants, hovering two feet away, appear to be in another dimension of time, their steps sluggish, their movements coarse in comparison to the frenetic agility before them. They remain where they are only to keep him inside the open space at the center of the room.

Three bows are completed within thirty seconds. Dorje Drakden throws the sword down and rushes up the steps to the Dalai Lama. Glancing over the seated members of the Tibetan government, he comes directly to the foot of the throne and, taking a scarf from an attendant, offers it. The Dalai Lama swiftly accepts it while the three assistants rush to place the mendel tensum, the traditional offering of the Buddha's body, speech and mind, into his hands. The ritual cord placed over his shoulder, the Protector clasps the reliquary, scripture and image of the Buddha one at a time and offers them upwards to the Dalai Lama, who, touching them with only slightly less speed to his forehead, passes them back down to a monk on his left.

In the interval, the two make direct eye contact. In that brief moment, Dorje Drakden looks up with a gentle, caring gaze, his pupils brilliantly dilated. A polished silver cup on a long silver stand, containing dark black tea, is given to him. He raises it to the Dalai Lama, who takes a small sip. In communion, he then drinks himself and steps to the right side of the throne, so that the Dalai Lama can lean over to whisper in his ear. This is the first, most secret question asked. It is quickly answered by Dorje Drakden, who then moves away to offer scarves to the main images. Rushing into the cramped space behind the throne, he hurls one twelve feet into the air, directly onto the Buddha's begging bowl. The force and aim are astonishing, given the obvious difficulty projecting a scarf so far without it coming unraveled. The offering is repeated to the other images, and then, at the same scurrying pace, he returns to the camp stool at the centre of the temple's floor.

While he continues to drink tea in short sips, Cabinet ministers, the Chairman and the Vice-Chairman of the Peoples Deputies descend to him. The immense physical upheaval of entering a small human frame has stabilized. Now the hissing breath comes in precise, neatly calibrated spasms. As the officials file by offering scarves, Dorje Drakden takes red protection cords from an attendant and knots, blesses and places them around the neck of each man. They assemble in a group on his left, and Venerable Tara, the Dalai Lama's chief private secretary, reads from a two-foot-long scroll. It is the official petition, composed in verse, requesting the Protector to reveal specific aspects of the Dalai Lama's, the Tibetan people's and the government's future. It contains no more than three questions.

On this occasion the questions and the ensuing answers are public, heard by all. At other times, however, greater secrecy is required and the questions are written on small pieces of paper, which the Protector pushes under his helmet. When he is ready to respond, he throws them to the floor without reading them. Now, before the answers are given, a further cham is performed. The officials return to their seats.

Again Dorje Drakden takes a sword in hand and dances, flags and white cotton-topped banners fluttering in the air behind him. Helmeted, bracketed by the bristling array of wing-like pennants, standing jauntily in the white upturned boots, his golden gown and polished shield sparkling, he display the proud character of a mythic hero, an ancient warrior chieftain of the Tibetan highlands. As the second cham draws to an end, he twirls to his left, sword circling over his head, and arriving at the table holding the conical dough offerings, lops off the top of the tallest one in a swift blow. Then, flinging the weapon to the ground, he strides forth once more to offer counsel.

Three secretaries, one holding a clipboard and red ball-point pen, are waiting to the left of the throne. The Protector is offered tea, but this time he pushes the cup away and begins to speak. His voice is startling. Each word is crisply enunciated, yet in an ethereal, halting, hollow tone suggesting immense age and distance. Because of its high, wavering pitch, it has been thought that Dorje Drakden is female, but the timbre is that of a spirit.

As he speaks, his eyes appear to blaze, split open with a riveting sharpness reflected in the taut skin of the face. Though it is composed overall, the secretaries can see his entire body seething with energy, vibrating like an electrified filament, which, it is said, has merely to touch an object unawares to shatter it. Yet Dorje Drakden takes hold of the Dalai Lamas hand with the most refined and intimate gesture. Shifting his face to look up, he speaks humbly, with endearment, out of comradeship whose origins reach far beyond the present.

As the words are pronounced, the Dalai Lama assists, repeating them slowly back, followed in chorus by the secretaries. In this manner the message is received word-by-word, spelled out like a telegram. It is by no means easy. The Protector works hard, straining to pronounce exactly, pulling the meandering plastic mouth, prone to gaping open, into the design of each word, looking up to the Dalai Lama afterwards to ascertain it has been correctly understood. The transmission is undertaken in an informal spirit of warmth, distinct from the rest of the ceremony. The message itself is delivered in a lilting metered verse. Each line is prefaced by a high, wailing eh sound which trails off into the short stops of the following words. This year the New Years message commences with a two-verse poem honouring the Dalai Lama as "Holder of the Lotus" the emanation on earth of Chenrezig, the Lord who looks with compassion in a thousand directions:

"Surrounding destitute beings who are without a Protector
Are a thousand benevolent eyes
Acting to guard all suffering creatures.
To the One with Lotus in Hand I pay homage.

A great compassionate treasure is the Lord of the Migrators in the Land of Snows
With compassionate activities that fully encompass all directions,
Whose kind, skilful methods are like those of a mother for her only son,
This compassionate care is a vast excellent gathering.
I am well pleased."

The prophetic answers to the questions follow, given in the order in which they were asked.

The long horns emit a resounding boom. The canvas stool is brought forward by attendants, and Dorje Drakden sits, still gyrating from side to side, before the Dalai Lamas throne. As the maroon curtain parts again, he glances toward the doorway. The medium of the Gadong Oracle enters, supported by attendants. He is starting to undergo trance. The spirit possessing him, known as Shinjachen or Wooden Bird, sometimes called Black Vulture Hat, is also a minister, like Dorje Drakden, of one of the main protective deities of Tibet, Pehar Gyalpo, the ultimate source or the oracular pronouncement.

Unlike the Nechung mediums, however, those of the Gadong monastery are not monks. The mediumship is passed in a lay lineage from father to son. The present medium is a man in his mid-thirties employed as a secretary to the Dalai Lamas private office. He has served as kuden for little more than a year and is still finding it difficult, the process of clearing the psychic channels of tsa by which the Protector will enter him, extremely painful. In addition, Shinjachen is more abrasive, manifestly wrathful spirit. Because of these factors, the two spirits have been summoned together, so that, using special methods, Dorje Drakden can assist in breaking in the new medium.

As the Gadong kuden enters the hall, his breathing sounds dense and heavy. Unlike the Nechung kuden's proficient acceptance of the deepening levels of trance, his chest heaves thickly, erratically. He is dressed in full-length gold robes, and his long black hair contrasts with the cropped head of the monk kuden, though just like the latter, as he sits on a second canvas seat five feet from the door, his breathing abruptly accelerates and grows rougher. Shinjachen appears to take possession all at once.

With each inhalation the medium starts to scream in sharp pain; his eyes bulge, his body shudders wildly. Attendants strain to place his helmet on and rush him forward to offer the mendel tensum to the Dalai Lama. In a few chaotic instants, the offering is made, after which the Dalai Lama struggles to place a green blessing scarf between the kuden's helmet and neck. But the trance is too violent; choking and convulsions have increased dangerously. The Dalai Lama delivers a curt command; the kuden's helmet is immediately loosened and in the next moment he collapses, the trance suddenly dispelled.

Unconscious and totally rigid, the Gadong medium is lifted into the air. Dorje Drakden leaps off his seat and grabbing handfuls of yellow barley grain from a monk, showers them across the medium's prone form. And then, as the lifeless frame of the Gadong kuden reaches the door. Dorje Drakden himself vanishes; the monks body stretches out stiffly and is caught before it crashes to the floor by his attendants, who carry it out. The session is finished.

There is silence. In the recovery room, the two mediums lie on adjacent low beds wrapped in golden brocade blankets and orange silk covers. The Gadong kuden continues to shudder and breathe spasmodically. The Nechung kuden lies perfectly still, his face placid. The aides have loosened his costume and are massaging his body. In time, he briefly opens his eyes: he is at peace. He closes his eyes and rests. Now the Gadong kuden, his trance less deep and lengthy, has fully emerged, and sits up in bed, his head in his hands, leaning forward breathing evenly.

After changing their costumes, the two kudens and their staffs walk to the front door of the cathedral, enter and prostrate three times before the Dalai Lama. Dressed in plain maroon robes, the Nechung kuden seems to have been only slightly jarred his hands do not quite match up in prayer as he prostrates yet, as always, he has no memory of the event. The Gadong kuden, dressed in handsome green khaki chuba and red sash, looks a perfectly normal Tibetan layman. He follows the Nechung medium up to the Dalai Lama, where all receive protection cords and scarves and then return to seat themselves, looking freshly decorated, in two rows, a kuden at the head of each.

The Dalai Lama continues to look down in silence. Tea is served, and the gathering of twenty drink from their bowls, each man staring at the floor by his feet. Draining the cup, the Dalai Lama leaves his throne, ties on his brown oxfords in the anteroom and, as the Indian guards snap their rifles to attention, exits the building to return to his residence. Outside, the precincts of the Central Cathedral are as empty as they were forty minutes before. A blanched grey light is filling the sky. The night has passed; it is Saturday. Within the cathedral the bright yellow barley seeds thrown by Dorje Drakden are collected, one by one, from the floor, to be kept and treasured as blessings of the protector.