Impermanence

Only the stone carcass remains of what was once a majestic Himalayan fortress that towered on a mountain spur domineering the confluence of two rivers. In two days a devastating fire tore through the timber structures while a helpless community watched and saved what precious relics they could. 

A harsh example of a theme central to Buddhist thought and spirituality, the impermanence of life.

My first encounter with impermanence from a Buddhist point of view was in Washington DC, Summer of 2008. In that year, Bhutan was the guest nation of the Smithsonian Folklife Festival, and all aspects of Bhutanese life, from cooking, woodworking, dancing and singing, playing and praying was rallied together in a showcase that more than delighted the visitor.

One of the activities was the creation of a mandala. Two or three monks sat around the designated area with fists clutching a few grains of coloured sand that was dexterously trickled, grain by grain, to form the intricate geometrical and pictorial designs that made up the large sacred circle. Fifteen days of patient work was needed for the assembly, after which it was proudly held up to the admiration of onlookers. A person from the crowd enquired if the artwork was for sale, and to their surprise they were informed that it wasn’t. Once completed it was to be thrown into the river: such is the way with sand mandalas. The disappointed bidder, certain of its commercial and artistic value, was astonished that such painstaking work was with one toss returned to a primordial chaotic state.

The gentle monks - if bemused they were masters of composure - explained the true nature of their creation, a metaphor for the impermanence of life, that nothing is forever and everything in nature is subject to change.

We all know about transience in our everyday lives. A flower that is picked and placed in a vase soon looses its verve, the petals start to drop or it withers and shrivels before our eyes. Our dismay at mortality is tempered simply by obtaining another flower. On a vaster scale, much less easy to elaborate, is the loss of a Bhutanese Dzong, a lamentable disaster that pierces the very heart of a society to which it represents more than just a topographical landmark, and to the occasional traveller who has seen them, a feeling of shock and distress, a sense of loss to all humanity, if Bhutanese art and architecture can be counted as one of it's most beautiful creations.

For the visitor in Bhutan the long and winding drive from the capital Thimphu towards the east presents an astonishing variety of panoramas, from the majestic views of the Himalayan peaks towards Tibet to the sub-tropical lower lands of Wangdue Phodrang where mango and banana trees grow amidst rice paddies. After the clear terse air of the higher altitudes, the warm and humid climate in this area reminds you that the hot plains of the Indian subcontinent are not too far away.

The road winds gently down along the Punatshang Chuu river reaching a corner from where the first sight of the Wangdue Dzong opens to the spectator. Strutting a narrow mountain spur it dominates the rugged mountainous terrain. One can easily understand why it was founded in 1638 by Shabdrung Ngawang Namgyel. According to legend it was named after a young boy, Wangdi, whom he met playing by the river. Its role was military and strategic in hindering invasion of from the South and controlling the routes to Punakha, Trongsa and Thimphu.

Entering into Wangdue dzong for the first time three years ago, I was immediately struck by its peculiar atmosphere, quite different from the regal Punakha Dzong or the busy administrative centre of the capital’s Trashichho Dzong. In the first large courtyard, I was greeted by silence and emptiness and the only immediate apparent life forms was a magnificent rooster and a couple of hens. It was clear that this building was much the same as it had been for many many years and the sensation of a direct contact with the past, not yet altered by restorations, gave the building a sense of charm and fascination.

The second courtyard astounded, for it showed the legendary and virtuosic craftsmanship of carpentry techniques particular to the Bhutanese. Dzongs, like many other traditional buildings, use no masterplan during the construction phase; a high lama establishes the structure and its dimensions by means of spiritual inspiration. The complex woodwork is assembled without nails, wooden beams are cut to size and interlocked to produce the sturdy structure required for protection and shelter. The dzong is then painted and decorated according to specific traditional parametres, transforming the building into a colourful statement of Buddhist symbolism.

The dzong performs a dual function in Bhutanese society. It is both the political administrative centre of a region as well as the spiritual centre. The buildings around the first courtyard are normally reserved for the town’s municipality while the inner courtyards embody the spiritual activities. It is the part which fits the description of a monastery, inhabited by monks who perform their services in its sacred temples. The silence of the dzong was broken by the occasional group of young monks who appeared in their deep red robes and added to the spectacle of colour.

On June 24^th 2012, all this disappeared in a raging fire. Two things positive eventuated, there were no victims and, thanks to the restoration work that was already in progress, most of the precious sacred objects had been stored away in safety or were able to be saved before consumed by fire.

Impermanence implies a cycle of creation and destruction, life and death. Surely the end of things leave their mark in our hearts and memories, but we turn the page and look forward to the renewal of that which is lost. 

Restoration work, January 2012

© photos by Aaron Carpene