Rampa Lobsang - Chapters of Life, ZNAM I WIEM, SZTUKA WOJENNA, Księgozbiór Wielkiej Pradżni
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TO THANK . . .
Mrs. Valeria Sorock (a language purist!) for her noble action
in typing extra copies of this manuscript, bravely ignoring and
unaltering fractured English and graceless grammar.
Victoria Harvey of Brighton, Sussex, England, for the
delicate feeling and understanding so adequately displayed in
these illustrations by her.
‘Ma’ for reading and criticising (always kindly) my first
thoughts, and ‘Buttercup’ for such hard work in typing from
my dictation.
The Misses Tadalinka and Cleopatra Rampa, the Repre-
sentatives on Earth of the Lady Ku'ei and Mrs. Fifi Grey-
whiskers who, in spite of being only six months old,
NOBLY
entertained and sometimes tore up the pages before they were
finished with.
Ladies—good gracious! They are
ALL
ladies!—
THANK
YOU!
T. LOBSANG RAMPA
CONTENTS
Chapter One A Coming World Leader 11
Chapter Two Many Mansions 27
Chapter Three Many More Mansions 44
Chapter Four Many Dimensions Too! 63
Chapter Five Painting with Words 81
Chapter Six A World We All Must Visit 99
Chapter Seven End of a Chapter 118
Chapter Eight Meditation 142
Chapter Nine Is Astral Travel for YOU? 161
Chapter Ten The Works of Man 179
Chapter Eleven YOU Write This 196
Chapter Twelve Religion and Science 214
CHAPTER ONE
COMING WORLD LEADER
THE tall, rank weeds at the edge of the unkempt vacant lot
stirred slightly. The broad leaves of the ragged old dock plant
waved sideways, and the two unwinking green eyes stared out
into the gloom of the dismal street. Slowly, and with consider-
able caution, a gaunt yellow tomcat emerged on to the uneven
sidewalk. Carefully he stopped to sniff the night air for signs
of enemies. Friends—he had none, for cats in this street lived
a near-jungle existence, with every man's hand against them.
Satisfied at last that all was clear, he sauntered across to the
centre of the roadway and there, sitting, he commenced a
meticulous toilet. First the ears, then the back of the neck with
a well-moistened paw. Finally, with the left leg pointed sky-
wards, he continued his careful grooming. Pausing for a mo-
ment to draw breath, he looked about him, looked at the
dreary street.
Dirty brick houses of another era. Tattered curtains at soot-
smeared windows, with paint peeling from the rotting window
frames. Occasionally there came the loud blare from some dis-
cordant radio, to be quickly turned down as a screamed curse
testified to some other occupant's disapproval.
Yellow glimmers of light came from such street lamps as
had escaped being broken by the local children. Great patches
of black shadow sprawled across the area of the broken lamps.
The yellow tomcat turned again to his toilet, unmoved by the
garbage littering the sidewalks. From far away, from the
better area, came the muted roar of the traffic and reflected
from the sky came the glow of many neon signs. But here, in
this street, all was desolate, a street of the hopeless.
Suddenly the yellow tomcat was all alert, ears erect, eyes
staring into the gloom, muscles ready for instant flight
. SOME-
THING
had impinged upon his awareness. Springing to his
feet, he gave a warning
HISS
before merging into the gloom
between two houses. For a moment all was normal in the
street, the fretful wail of a sick baby, a man and woman
quarrelling with lurid anatomical overtones, and the distant
11
screech of brakes suddenly applied in an adjacent street.
At last, there came the faintest of unusual sounds, slow,
shuffling footsteps—not a drunk, that was normal here!—but
aged, halting footsteps, the footsteps of one who was tired of
life, who was hanging on by the merest thread to a miserable
and uncertain existence. The shuffling came nearer, like the
slow grating of sand beneath sandaled feet. The dark chasm
of the gloomy street, but poorly relieved by the infrequent
street lamps, made seeing difficult. A vague shadow moved
feebly across a lighted patch and was swallowed up again by
the darkness.
The sound of wheezing, asthmatic breath smote harshly on
the ears as the shrouded figure approached. Suddenly the steps
halted, and there came the raucous noise of harsh expectora-
tion, followed by a painfully hissing intake of breath. A heavy
sigh, and the tottering steps resumed their weary cadence.
Dimly a whitish shadow materialized out of the semi-dark-
ness of the street and came to a halt beneath a feebly flickering
street lamp. An aged man clad in dirty white robes and with
tattered sandals upon his feet peered near-sightedly at the
ground before him. Stooping, he fumbled to pick up a dis-
carded cigarette end lying in the gutter. As he bent the burden
he carried reflected the light; a placard on a pole, with the
crudely printed words: ‘Repent, Repent, for the Second Com-
ing of the Lord is at hand. Repent.’ Straightening, he moved a
few steps farther, and then climbed painfully down some stone
steps to a basement apartment.
‘Don't know why ye do it, Bert, that's a fact I don't. Ye
only get's laughed at by the kids. Give it up, will ya?’
‘Ah, Maudie, we all got our job to do. Guess I might plant a
seed of thought somewhere, you know. I'll keep at it a while
longer.’
‘A while is all it'll be, Bert, ye'r eighty-one now, time you
give it up I say, afore you drop dead on the street.’
. . . . . . .
'The old lych-gate was gleamingly resplendent under the
weak afternoon sun. The fresh varnish brought new life to the
age-old wood. Farther along the path the ancient grey stone
church of St. Mary's looked mellow and benevolent. The great
iron-studded doors were open now, waiting for worshippers to
the Eventide Service. High above the bells clanged their
12
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