Predicaments, Presumptions, and Procedures

AN EMPTY NEST

Tsering Lhamo labored up the steep incline leading to her village. A taut sling pressing against her forehead bore the weight of a sack filled with grain she had just roasted and ground into flour at a water mill down by the river. Her slow, methodical steps contrasted with strenuous breathing and rivulets of sweat running down her cheeks. The hint of a smile crossed Tsering Lhamo's face when she encountered us on the trail. We helped steady her load as she slipped the sling over her head, lowered the sack onto a rock, and exhaled loudly in relief. Friction marks across her forehead bore witness to the arduous labor that embodies her daily subsistence. As we would learn, such a mark epitomizes the contrast parents foresee between their lives and the potential lives their children can achieve through education, a disparity captured by the oft-recited expression "Better a pen in hand than a rope across the forehead."

"Are you well, elder sister?" we asked. "I'm fine," she murmured without much conviction. Tsering Lhamo was widowed at a relatively young age. Now she lives alone in the village because years ago she sent her only daughter to a boarding school and her only son to a monastery in Kathmandu, the nation's capital that takes days to reach on precarious footpaths. Neither of her children envisions returning to the village, yet Tsering Lhamo never complains about the substantial workload she now shoulders. Her suffering is a direct result of the decision she made to create pathways for her children toward more comfortable and less physically demanding lives.

Tsering Lhamo is both an anomaly and a harbinger in her village. Her status as an elderly person who lives alone is not unprecedented. Some couples have no children; others endure the tragedy of witnessing all their children die before reaching maturity. Some men and women, born into poverty, remain single their entire lives because they lack the requisite assets or social status to marry. Tsering Lhamo's case is unusual today because she is a mother, yet neither of her children lives nearby. Most people her age live with, or near, adult sons or daughters who can be counted on for support. Given today's outmigration trend, it is reasonable to predict that more parents will end up like her.

We later met Tsering Lhamo's son, Dzamling Dorje, who is a monk living in a large, well-endowed monastery in Kathmandu. Slight of frame and sporting a wispy beard, he bears a striking resemblance to Nubri's lamas of yore whose images are carved on stones marking auspicious sites along mountain trails. In fact, some of those images are his ancestors, for he comes from a lineage of lamas that first migrated to Nubri five generations ago. Unlike his father, who resided in the village as a ngagpa (householder lama), Dzamling Dorje took a vow of celibacy and now lives in a community of monks pursuing the study of Buddhism at its highest level. It was not his choice to become a monk, for he was sent to the monastery by his mother right after his father died. Dzamling Dorje explained to us,

It was very difficult in the beginning. I came down here a few months after my father passed away and I was sad about the loss of my father. The journey from the village in those days was very difficult because the trail was very bad so it took ten to twelve days. Then there was the problem of language since I spoke only Nubri dialect. My mother returned to the village a few days after I became a monk. I had to part with my mother not long after I lost my father, and I was in a totally new place. I had a very hard time. It was very hard for about a year, so I could not focus too much on my education. But as I became used to the new environment, it became less difficult. Eventually the thought of returning home was not that strong, but I missed my mother very much.

Dzamling Dorje adjusted to his new environment and now thrives as a teacher of younger students. When we visited him, he invited us inside and offered us tea with the grace and refinement of a man who devotes his life to learning. His spartan room contained a mattress on the floor flanked by a low table supporting rosary beads, an open scripture book, and his personal tea cup covered by a silver lid to keep flies at bay. We removed our shoes and sat on the mattress as he placed a small, square carpet on the ground, where he then sat cross-legged. After exchanging small talk, we began the interview with our usual questions regarding his pathway to religion. Eventually we came to the matter of household succession and asked if he was concerned about his mother being alone in the village. Dzamling Dorje replied,

Yes, I am definitely concerned about this. On the one hand, I am a monk and have my own monastic obligations, while on the other hand I am the only son of my mother. Therefore, it is like one person having to fulfill two different responsibilities in life. It is a difficult situation. I can't stay in the village because my place is in the monastery and my responsibility is to teach the younger monks. Living in the monastery, I am reminded often about my filial duties to my mother. I try to help her in whatever way I can. It becomes especially problematic when she gets sick. For instance, one time my mother suddenly fell ill. It was a serious health situation requiring medical rescue by helicopter. She ended up staying at the hospital for one month, and only returned to the village after resting in Kathmandu for another three months. It was very difficult under such circumstances. She is alone in the village and must take care of the large landholding that my late father left behind. She complains sometimes about the difficulties she is facing. But I can't be of much help since I am a monk.

My mother sometimes asks me to visit her in the village and says it is okay if I don't want to come back for good. So, I try to visit her in the village whenever I find time. When I do visit, my mother does not mention marriage to me. But most of the elders raise this issue because, in our village tradition, the continuation of the lineage is highly stressed. Since I belong to a lama's lineage, if I don't marry, our lineage will come to an end. Although I have a sister, we only count paternal descent when it comes to the continuation of the lineage. That is why people in the village are highly concerned. I have taken a religious vow of celibacy and would very much like to continue this religious life. So, there is a clash of interest between religious and worldly life.

Dzamling Dorje's reluctance to take on the leadership of his household, the customary duty of an eldest son, has left his...