The Wind Rider, Milarepa: Milarepa's family origins on his mother's side.

The Wind Rider, Milarepa: Milarepa's family origins on his mother's side.: The high pastures were ablaze with colour, covered in an ephemeral carpet of wild flowers where the goats, for once, had an abundant choic...

Milarepa's family origins on his mother's side.

The high pastures were ablaze with colour, covered in an ephemeral carpet of wild flowers where the goats, for once, had an abundant choice of juicy vegetation. Kargyen sat down contentedly on a flat rock, set her spindle in motion and drew out a long fine thread.

She and her brother, Jigme, had arrived in the village four years earlier, driven there by chance as they wandered the roads far from their homeland. They were the last survivors of a noble Tibetan family, the Nyang, who had vied for power in the tumultuous years after the demise of the kings and had lost everything. All their male relatives, including their father and elder brothers, had ridden out one day to meet a marauding band of mercenaries who were rampaging through the valley. They were drawn into an ambush and slaughtered down to the last man, leaving their land and stronghold defenceless.

It was only thanks to their mother’s wits that Jigme and Kargyen were still alive. She spotted the pall of smoke rising from the torched farmsteads as the looters advanced towards them. Only too aware of what they would do to herself and her two remaining children, they had loaded what they could onto some ponies and escaped up into the mountains.

A few days later, a herder told them what had happened to their men; he had seen the battle unfold before his eyes and gave them all the gory details. Unable to tend their dead, they had followed the high trails, stopping only to snatch a few hours sleep until they had left their homeland far behind them. Out of necessity, they had taken to the nomadic life with none of the comforts that their position had previously afforded them. Their grieving mother, unused to such hardship, had fallen sick and died.

Kargyen had taken on the woman’s burden while her brother, Jigme, drowned his grief in beer. He could not forget how he had pleaded with his father to let him go with them on that fateful morning. The old man had not budged; at thirteen his youngest son had been left behind to become the last male survivor of the Nyang family. Jigme would have preferred to die with his brothers rather than live with the guilt of being alive.

They had arrived in the village of Kya Ngatsa or Tsa for short, by chance and finding the locals friendly enough, had stayed over the winter. Spotting an opportunity to settle down, Jigme had taken the jewellery his mother had left his sister and exchanged some for a small house and a couple of fields, one of which he gave to Kargyen. He had apportioned the larger field and the house to himself and had bought some goats and milk cows. Never having done a hard day’s work in his life, he had no stomach for working the land and let his sister take charge of everything.

At fourteen, Kargyen had become Jigme’s most valuable asset, though she was not aware of it; he had made friends with all the young men from the best local families and entertained them well with an eye to selling his sister to the highest bidder.

Generation after generation of Kargyen’s female ancestors had been chosen for their beauty and breeding and, as luck would have it, she had taken the very best features from them all. Both her grandmothers had been daughters of Nepalese nobles, while her great, great grandmother on her father’s side, had come all the way from China, or so the story went, as the devoted handmaiden of a princess betrothed to a Tibetan king. Her beauty had a quality so rare and refined that even the other girls, ever critical of their rivals, had to admit that she was in a class of her own.

Oblivious to her brother’s schemes, Kargyen treated his friends with equal coolness earning herself a reputation for being haughty and proud. Having no authority to keep him in check, her brother bullied and tyrannised his sister, who fought back as best she could. Theirs was not a happy home.

The Wind Rider, Milarepa: The historical origins of Milarepa's story

The Wind Rider, Milarepa: The historical origins of Milarepa's story: This book is historical fiction based on the published biography on the 'Namthar', the Life of Milarepa and the 'Grubum' or Hundred Thousan...

The Wind Rider, Milarepa: Milarepa's own predictions

The Wind Rider, Milarepa: Milarepa's own predictions: Milarepa himself predicted that his name would, in the future, be known throughout the world and that many people would be inspired by his s...

Milarepa's own predictions

Milarepa himself predicted that his name would, in the future, be known throughout the world and that many people would be inspired by his story.  He also spelt out some very particular benefits for those who hear his name or read his story. But you have to read the book to find out what they are......

The power of the mind is, for most people, entirely untapped but the potential is there inside us. We just have to wake up to the fact that we have possibilities that we can't begin to imagine.

The historical origins of Milarepa's story

This book is historical fiction based on the published biography on the  'Namthar', the Life of Milarepa and the 'Grubum' or Hundred Thousand Songs of Milarepa as it was first published in Tibet in 1488 CE.  These two works were based on the material and notes collected by Milarepa's adopted son Rechung during his life.  They were kept very secret until a colourful character, often referred to as the Mad Yogi from Tsan, but whose real name was Tsangnyon Heruka, collated the materials and published both books.  He was considered to be the reincarnation of Rechung himself and claimed to have direct visions of Milarepa.  The Wind Rider, Milarepa closely follows the original story but makes it accessible to modern readers unfamiliar with Tibet or Buddhist philosophy.  It is up to the reader to decide what to believe or dismiss as fantasy.

The Wind Rider, Milarepa: The young Milarepa aka Toga.

The Wind Rider, Milarepa: The young Milarepa aka Toga.: Later that morning, Dorje and Toga drove the dainty long-haired goats up the mountain path. Progress was slow as they scattered, trotting h...

The young Milarepa aka Toga.

Later that morning, Dorje and Toga drove the dainty long-haired goats up the mountain path. Progress was slow as they scattered, trotting here and there, tempted by whatever took their fancy. Dorje handed a switch to his friend with orders to keep the stragglers moving; the little boy, power mad, chased the goats ruthlessly. Every now and then he managed to whack an unsuspecting victim who took to the air from all fours as if on springs. Laughing wildly at that irresistible effect, Toga redoubled his efforts until the wary goats scattered at his approach. The high pasture was nothing more than a barren slope where thorny shrubs grew stunted amongst the shale. The high peaks, like great chimneys, smoked as the ferocious wind blew plumes of snow high into the deep blue sky. Spreading out the goats’ bells tinkled in the crystalline air while the boys enjoyed the sun.

Toga rolled onto his back losing himself in the blue expanse above him. As his eyes went out of focus, he saw squiggles like little worms of light dancing in front of him; fascinated, he wondered what they were but before he could formulate the question, Dorje jumped up.

‘Come on, let’s go to the cave and see if anyone’s in,’ the cave in question was at the top of the steep cliff behind them. Not waiting for a reply, Dorje negotiated the very narrow path as nimbly as a goat, leaving Toga to scurry after him as best he could. A filet of green snot dangled from the little boy’s nose; he caught it with his lower lip, sucked on it, then smeared a green trail across his dirty face with the back of his hand. He climbed steadily until the path widened out into a little ledge where a flat slab of rock protruded over the cliff. Wiping his nose once more, he edged gingerly out along it until he was lying flat on his stomach with his face hanging over the end. Far below him, the patchwork of brown fields had, in places, a thin veil of pastel green as new barley sprouted. A fierce breeze whistled down the cliff whipping his long hair into a tangle, screaming in his ears.

There was something hypnotic in that wind; Toga yawned. He was floating on top of the world, like an eagle soaring above the mountains. Below him a pair of kites turned in the void, hardly moving their wings, suddenly, one dropped like a stone and disappeared into the rocky pasture. The boy peered over the ledge straining to see the bird on the ground, but it was well camouflaged. Then he spotted it again as it took off somewhat clumsily and flapped off towards a rocky ledge where it had a nest.

Toga was the kite; the wind blew back his hair as he swooped down to the valley. Laughing with delight, he soared up again, up and up, higher than the mountains. Feeling the resistance of the wind on his outstretched his arms he plunged towards the village; skimming the slope, he soared up above the roof tops, shrieking with pleasure. People had seen him, they were waiving at him, calling to him to come down; he just laughed at their startled faces and flew higher. Turning his face towards the high peaks, he climbed higher and higher, skimming the shimmering white fields until he soared above the great frozen wave hanging above the precipice. Pummelled by an icy blast, a blizzard caught him in its embrace before tumbling him head over heels, tossing him up then letting him fall. Still laughing, he willed himself up, out-racing the wind, faster and faster until he broke through the white swirling cloud and headed into the immense blue void.

‘Toga,’ Dorje pulled him back, ‘what are you doing sleeping on there, you could have fallen off?’ It had taken him a while to realise that the little boy was not following him, calling out, he had waited but not getting an answer, he had gone looking for him. Toga had given him a fright.

‘I was flying over the mountains,’ laughed Toga impervious to Dorje’s scolding, ‘everyone was shouting at me to come down! I was up there.’ he waved towards the mountain, ‘you should have seen the snow storm!’

‘If you want to come out with me,’ Dorje shouted dourly, ‘you follow me and don’t do silly things; otherwise I won’t take you out again. Come on now,’ he grabbed Toga’s hand and yanked him up the path. At the top of the cliff a wide ledge sloped gently up to another sheer wall of rock. No one knew if the cave was natural or if it had been dug out of the cliff, either way it was perfectly situated for a stream of icy water gushed from the cliff and tinkled into a rocky pool before disappearing over the precipice.

Dorje pushed aside a ragged skin that was hung across the entrance and peeked inside; it was very dark except where a ray of light hit the floor through the gap. He could just make out the shape of a man sitting cross-legged, perfectly still. Before Dorje could stop him, Toga barged in.

‘Anyone in?’ he yelled.

The Wind Rider, Milarepa

I have just finished this book, an historical novel based on the Life of Milarepa and the Hundred Thousand Songs of Milarepa.   I hope to put some extracts up here shortly.