A Lhasa Girl's Chronicle: Playing Truant in the 1930s

In 1941, Tsarong·Yekyi Drolka (ཚ་རོང་དབྱངས་ཅན་སྒྲོལ་དཀར།) married Dundul Namgyal (བདུད་འདུལ་རྣམ་རྒྱལ།), the eldest son of Tsarong Dasang Dündul. Born in 1927 into the Doga family (མདོ་མཁར།), she had Phuntsok Rabgye (ཕུན་ཚོགས་རབ་རྒྱས།) and Rigdzin Butri (རིག་འཛེན་བུ་འཁྲིད།) as parents. Her father, a Kalön, later attained the rank of lieutenant general in the People's Liberation Army; her mother was the eldest daughter of the Cheyring family, a branch of the Sikkim royal family.

When I turned seven, my family enrolled me in a private school. In Lhasa back then, it was a common practice for middle- and upper-class families to send their children to private schools once they reached a certain age. The Lhasa urban area had four notable private schools. One of these, Dakang Private School, was run and instructed by the monk official Chudan.

I enrolled at Nyagrongsha Private School (ཉག་རོང་ཤག་སློབ་གྲྭ།). At the time, our instructor Rikdzin Lhundrub Paljor (རིག་འཛིན་ལྷུན་གྲུབ་དཔལ་འབྱོར། 1897–1979) was a well-known physician in the Lhasa region. That school, along with Kyire Private School and Pala Private School, enjoyed considerable renown. Because of its strict rules and disciplined approach, it was commonly seen as an institution for boys. As for the opening day, one was required to set off from home only after selecting an auspicious date.

Our school was coeducational, with about fifty students. Upon our arrival, after presenting a khata to the teacher, we prepared sweet rice and butter tea for all the teachers and students. Only once we had readied our own cushions, strong star writing boards, ink, brushes, line-ruling strings, and other learning tools could we formally enroll.

In winter, the classroom in the Nyagrongsha courtyard was especially cold and dimly lit, situated on the first floor. Every morning at five o'clock, we assembled there for prayers, and after that we practiced handwriting until midday. Adapting to sitting for long stretches cross-legged on a cushion, with a writing board balanced on my knees, was genuinely tough for me, since I was a lively and naughty child. When school let out at five in the afternoon, I always raced straight home.

The exams took place every month, with students sorted into groups of ten and arranged in line based on their grades. Each student then took turns using a small bamboo stick, roughly 30 centimeters long, to strike the palm of the student behind them. In the case of boys, the blow was directed at the cheek instead. Within every group, the student who scored the lowest was required to hit a bundle of items with the stick and then perform three kowtows. Classmates frequently ridiculed these students. Meanwhile, anyone who broke school rules was subjected to whipping.

The procedure for taking leave was not at all complicated. You simply needed to send someone over to the teacher with a khata or some money and state the request for leave, and the teacher would normally agree right away. I, however, was extremely afraid of those rules, and because I also disliked waking up early for school every day, I often went running to my parents' bedroom and begged them to let me skip school. Out of concern for their daughter, my parents would sometimes agree; but if this happened too often, they would tell the servants to take me directly to school.

On my daily route to school, I would always come across various street stories along Barkhor Street, as our school stood on the east side of that street and my home on the west. Occasionally, my brother and I would keep it a secret from our parents and have someone go to school to request leave for us. Those days away from school brought me immense joy, letting me play freely to my heart's content.

Besides practicing handwriting at school, the female students would occasionally help the teacher with his medical tasks—for instance, stripping various herbs or ushering patients into the consultation room in an orderly fashion. For us young girls, that work was quite fascinating. Around twelve patients came for treatment each day, and the teacher showed equal dedication to every one of them.

When the Doga children were growing up, companions and study mates were brought in from affiliated estates for them. After their education ended and they started overseeing family matters, those companions were viewed as prospective stewards, treasurers, and other managerial personnel. My brother and I had three such companions each. As for the doctor, if a patient required closer inspection, he would go so far as to examine their excrement closely and analyze it carefully prior to making a diagnosis.

For every private school student in Lhasa, the warrior monks (རྡབ་རྡོབ།) of the three major monasteries were an ever-present shadow. They roamed the streets, spreading fear, and even took delight in abducting children on their way to school. Consequently, when these mendicant monks were active, students were not allowed to leave school during lunch and rest periods, and the teacher managed them all uniformly. Having companions to walk to school with, however, made me feel that attending school was far less dull.

At our school gate, two warrior monks were frequently stationed on opposite sides. Each morning and afternoon, we had to walk between them, and the experience terrified us. Whenever townspeople saw these monks seizing children, they would scream for help, yet no one dared to step forward. Within the three major monasteries, warrior monks were known for their infamous reputations. Their main duties involved manual labor and logistical work, and they showed no regard for monastic discipline.

Their studies of the scriptures were set aside in favor of physical training. Various warrior monk groups held competitions in the summer as well. On one summer trip, our whole family went to the Darlung area in Lhünzhub. In the countryside, my father did teach us to read sometimes, but it was much less effective than the private school. Since my brother and I played all day, our academic performance declined. We went back to the private school once we returned to Lhasa.

I often daydreamed in class. The private school possessed just one textbook, with its contents taught over and over, a repetition I found deeply tiresome. I also strongly disliked the rule that female students had to write in small characters. On one occasion, the teacher summoned me into a room, rebuked me for failing to pay attention to my handwriting practice, and struck me over ten times with a whip, which left severe wounds on my buttocks.

The Moment of Playing Truant: Early the next morning, while pretending to go to school, we quietly left Doga Mansion and walked upstream along the Lhasa River. To avoid the main roads where we could easily be seen, we went through the vast estates east of the city, using the "Drolma Risur" (སྒྲོལ་མ་རི་ཟུར།) near the Re Estate as a landmark, and proceeded slowly. Villages were scattered along the banks of the Lhasa River. Seeing this, my parents were heartbroken, and my mother applied egg whites to my wounds to help them heal.

As we made our way, groups of curious villagers would appear to observe us whenever we drew near, which left us on edge. A pack of wild dogs also crossed our path, forcing us to climb onto post-harvest straw stacks in the fields for safety. It was not until we got close to Drolma Risur that the anxiety caused by the strange surroundings finally began to subside. Once we had crossed the mountain pass, we came to the home of the Re Estate’s manager, where he served us breakfast and gave me a horse along with a groom.

I took the mountain path to the Rani Nunnery, where my aunt lived, while Dorje went back to his own home. My heart filled with immense joy at the sight of my aunt Padma Yekyi (པད་མ་དབྱངས་ཅན།) and my sister Rigdzin (རིག་འཛིན།). But my aunt was immediately taken aback to see me. After I told her everything, she was deeply amazed and promptly wrote a letter to my parents, letting them know I was at the nunnery and asking them not to worry. She gave the letter to the groom, who then hurried back to Lhasa on horseback.

After learning that I had skipped school, my parents grew deeply worried and dispatched numerous servants to comb the area for me. When these search efforts proved fruitless, they sent out a mounted party toward the suburban Re Estate, where they encountered the groom bearing my letter. In this way, they discovered where I was. Rather than reprimanding me, my parents permitted me to remain at my aunt's residence for the time being. It was along this route that I chanced upon two of those servants who had been sent to find me.

About ten kilometers from Lhasa, at the foot of a towering mountain peak, stands Countryside Years Rani Nunnery. A river flowing out of the deep mountains runs along its left side, with roaring waters that never cease. In summer, wildflowers bloom on both banks of the mountain stream, and fertile farmland occupies the valley bottom. On the second floor of the nunnery is the bedroom shared by my aunt and sister, featuring south-facing glass windows that render the room warm, bright, and endowed with outstanding views. And so, my life in the countryside began anew.

An elderly woman (མ་མ་རྒན་མོ།) also lived with us, said to have been my aunt’s wet nurse during her youth. Every morning, she would go to the pasture, milk the cows, and then use a churn to create various dairy products. At the same time, two nuns—Metok Yekyi (མེ་ཏོག་དབྱངས་ཅན།) and Tsering Lhamo (ཚེ་ལྷ་མོ།)—were responsible for the nunnery’s day-to-day management, meals, daily routines, and producing dairy items at the pasture.

The mountain stream supplied all our drinking water. It rushed out of the deep valley in a swift current, and its water was clear, chilly, and sweet. We carried it home in buckets and poured it into the pots kept in the kitchen. As for the old woman, she was extraordinarily thorough in everything she did, especially when it came to the pasture—before every milking session, she would wash the cows with the utmost care and precision. At the main gate, two Tibetan Mastiffs were stationed, one on each side, and each dog occupied its own small kennel.

Because of their fierce temperament, the dogs' barking often gave pilgrims pause. Many asked us to move the animals somewhere else before they would step foot inside. I roamed the nunnery grounds daily. The nearby forest housed ancient trees that towered overhead, with meadows stretched out underneath and several brooks meandering across the landscape. These soft, gurgling waters created a soothing tune. Often, I would lie down on the grass to rest, and sometimes I'd search for smooth, flat stones to slide and play on. At night, my aunt would gently coax me into sleeping in her bedroom.

Every morning, when I opened the window, the herders could be seen slowly driving the Re Estate's cattle up the hillside. The sharp ring of bells and the distant lowing from the cattle pens were especially soothing. The mountain where they grazed was extremely steep. In summer, the cattle would ascend in single file, slowly following the mountain stream. Each evening at sunset, the herding team would gradually make its way back to the area near the nunnery.

Occasionally, snow leopards prowled around the nunnery, leaping from the roof into the cattle pens to seize calves. For meat, the nunnery relied mainly on a stock of air-dried beef, while fresh meat arrived on a regular schedule from the Doga Mansion in Lhasa. During the rains, herders sometimes carried mushrooms—including golden mushrooms (སེར་ཤ།)—down from the mountains and shared them with us. We would fry these on the stove with butter, tsampa, and salt, which gave off an irresistible aroma.

Because I ventured out on my own each day, my aunt worried and therefore hired a maid, Dawa, from the Doga Mansion. Dawa's father worked as a farmer at the Re Estate, while her mother served as a gatekeeper at the Doga Mansion. With Dawa around, I enjoyed even greater freedom in my activities and the area I roamed. Meanwhile, whenever anyone shouted "Snow leopard!", everyone would cry out in fear, and I felt the same terror. With no guns or firecrackers at hand, our only recourse was to build bonfires on the rooftop and yell together to scare off the snow leopards.

All day long, we devoted ourselves to ascending the lofty peaks that surrounded us. Nestled deep within the mountain stream lay a natural cave, a spot where we frequently carried our lunch to savor. Once the meal was finished, we resumed our climb, pressing onward until dusk drew near, at which point we made our way back down to the nunnery. From the summit, the panorama stretched wide and unobstructed before us, revealing Tsalgungthang Village on the far side of the river and Pangdü Village to the east. The sight was remarkably captivating. And during the sweltering days of summer, Dawa and I would often take to the streams close by for a swim.

The air-dried cow dung on the mountains, referred to as "yellow dry" (སེར་སྐམ།), was completely devoid of any smell. My interest in gathering this natural, odorless fuel was so strong that I asked my aunt to craft a small backpack exactly suited to me. From that point onward, Dawa and I devoted our days to collecting this dung, which we would regularly hand over to the old woman at the pasture, and her delight upon receiving it was unfailing.

Six yaks were regularly arranged by the Re Estate to carry cow dung to the Doga Mansion in Lhasa. As my own collection of dung increased, I decided to sell it and set aside some money for myself, so I gradually accumulated my own supply. On their route, I requested the transport team to stop at the nunnery and load my stockpiled dung for trading. The team members willingly agreed, as they would receive a share from this extra transaction.

By August, in the autumn, the manager of the Re Estate and the neighboring farmers began their harvest. The crops were transported one by one to the threshing ground, where threshing took place, and the scene was extremely animated. I would sometimes join in for amusement. As for the old woman, after that point I no longer set aside cow dung specifically for her. Occasionally I would even take some of the fine pieces from her unattended cow dung bags for my own use. Whenever she saw that the cow dung had diminished, she would cry out loudly, 'They've stolen my cow dung again...

At that time, numerous herders from the northern pastoral regions would drive their livestock to the estates surrounding Lhasa, offering cattle-threshing services in exchange for grain. On the threshing ground, the harvested crops were laid out in long rows, and the threshing was carried out by yaks treading upon them—a technique known as "driving cattle to thresh" (ཕྱུགས་ཆག).

At Re Estate, the threshing ground was particularly animated when twenty yaks arrived, as everyone linked hands in a circle while one person stood in the center urging the animals to tread on the unthreshed grain. This method of threshing with cattle was typically performed in the early morning or the evening, since yaks, being used to the bitter cold of the northern grasslands, can endure low temperatures but not heat. If the night happened to feature a full moon and clear moonlight, the work could go on well into the late hours.

After the threshing, the barley grains and forage would be sorted on the ground by some women, then packed and carried to the Re Estate and the nunnery. Next, they would painstakingly remove any impurities from the barley, wash it thoroughly several times, and then leave it to dry in the sun. Subsequently, it was roasted in an iron pan mixed with sand grains, and finally milled by a water mill into tsampa. As for me, I also took great pleasure in joining the effort to drive the cattle, holding hands and shouting.

Those six months in the countryside left me with the experiences I’ve described. When the New Year drew near that winter, my aunt and sister took me back to the Doga Mansion in Lhasa. At the Re Estate, in addition to grain, there were large rapeseed fields that supplied our cooking oil. The vegetable garden produced peas, potatoes, turnips, radishes, and other vegetables. The potatoes cultivated at the Re Estate were especially renowned throughout the Lhasa area and were particularly sought after in Barkhor Street.