My First Encounter with Vajrayana – Part 4

The Sakya Centre in Singapore is known as Sakya Tenphel Ling. Thanks to the welcoming attitude of Brother Thomas, I soon found myself attending Tara Puja every Sunday.

For someone new to Tibetan Buddhism, however, the experience can be rather intimidating.

There was no formal orientation programme to teach newcomers how to participate in the rituals. You simply walked in and tried to figure things out by watching everyone else.

At times, I felt like a kid again—standing outside an adult activity, wondering what everyone else seemed to know that I didn’t.

There was a lot to learn.

1. The Prayers Are Chanted in Tibetan

The prayer texts are mostly chanted in Tibetan, with romanised pronunciation provided for those of us who cannot read Tibetan.

The rhythmic structure of the chants is naturally suited to the Tibetan language. When the prayers are chanted by people who are fluent in Tibetan, they sound beautiful and effortless.

For me, however, it was another matter.

The good news was that the prayer books also included English translations. At least I knew what I was saying.

The pronunciation of Tibetan was another challenge altogether. Most of us could only imitate the way the Lama pronounced the words. Since there was only one Lama leading the prayers, our Tibetan pronunciation could probably best be described as “good effort.”

Personally, I was not particularly fixated on getting every syllable perfect.

For me, the more important thing was to understand what I was chanting and to bring my mind into the practice. Rather than trying desperately to sound Tibetan, I focused on the meaning of the prayers and on honouring Tara, whom I understood as an embodiment of loving-kindness and compassionate activity.

Perhaps that was enough.

After all, I was there to practise—not to audition for a Tibetan choir.

2. Throwing Flowers and Rice into the Air

Another thing that caught my attention was the practice of scattering flowers and coloured rice into the air as offerings.

This was not entirely unfamiliar to me.

In Mahayana Buddhist scriptures, there are numerous stories of devas scattering flowers upon the Buddha and Bodhisattvas as an expression of veneration. The Pali Canon also contains the story of Sumana, who offered flowers to the Buddha.

So the idea of throwing flowers or flower petals into the air so that they rain down upon an object or person of veneration is not something invented by Tibetan Buddhism. It has roots in the religious culture of ancient India.

What I found interesting was how this particular custom seemed much more prominent in Tibetan Buddhist ritual than in the Chinese, Korean, Japanese, Thai or Sri Lankan Buddhist environments I was familiar with.

Personally, I loved it.

There was something festive about throwing flowers and coloured rice into the air. When flowers thrown by the person behind me landed on my head and shoulders, I actually felt delighted.

I interpreted it as a blessing for myself—and, perhaps, as an act of veneration towards the Tara within me.

Not everyone felt the same way.

Some people were understandably unhappy when flowers and uncooked rice landed on them. Eventually, we were advised not to throw the offerings too high, but to scatter them more gently and closer to the ground.

I understood the practical reason.

But, personally, something was lost.

The ritual suddenly felt less like a celebration and more like a carefully controlled activity.

I remember thinking how sad it was that something so colourful and joyful had to be toned down because somebody did not want flowers or rice landing on them.

And then came the irony.

The same person who complained about flowers and rice landing on her nicely permed hair seemed perfectly delighted when the person throwing them happened to be a high-ranking Lama.

I couldn’t help thinking:

I guess everyone has Buddha-nature—but apparently some Buddha-nature are more equal than others.

It was an irreverent thought, but it made me laugh.

3. The Musical Instruments

Then there were the musical instruments.

Large drums.

Conch shells.

Huge cymbals.

And they could be very, very loud.

For someone encountering Tibetan ritual music for the first time, it could sound like a group of people randomly banging on percussion instruments whenever someone gave a signal.

Of course, there was more to it than that.

Coming from a Theravada background, I had been taught that monks should refrain from entertainment such as music. In Chinese Mahayana Buddhism, I was more familiar with musical instruments being used to provide cues for large groups of devotees—for example, signalling when everyone should chant or bow together.

Tibetan Buddhist ritual music was different again.

The instruments form part of the ritual itself and can be understood as offerings of sound and music to the deities.

But as a newcomer, I confess that there were moments when I was sitting there thinking:

“Are you sure Tara enjoys all that banging?”

Of course, I kept that thought to myself.

When in Rome, do as the Romans do.

Or, in this case, when in Sakya Tenphel Ling, do as the Tibetans do.

4. The Vajra and Bell

Then I noticed something else.

Some of the more experienced practitioners had their own ritual implements—the vajra and bell.

I would watch them using these during the puja and naturally wondered when I would get my own.

The answer was: not so fast.

I was eventually told that the use of certain Vajrayana ritual implements is connected with particular empowerments and tantric commitments. In other words, you do not simply walk into a puja, pick up a vajra and bell, and start using them because they look interesting.

That did not sit particularly well with me at first.

To a newcomer, it can feel like an exclusive club.

There appeared to be things that ordinary participants could do, things that senior practitioners could do, and things that only those who had received particular empowerments were qualified to do.

My initial reaction was:

Why all these levels of qualification?

Why couldn’t everyone simply participate?

Only later did I begin to understand that the vajra and bell were not merely ritual props. They carry symbolic meaning and are connected with particular practices, teachings and commitments.

The restriction was therefore not simply about privilege.

There was responsibility attached to the privilege.

That distinction took me some time to appreciate.

5. Mudras—A Kind of Buddhist Sign Language

Then there were the hand gestures.

In Vajrayana rituals, prayers and chants are sometimes accompanied by specific hand gestures performed with one or both hands. These are known as mudras.

To put it very simply, I initially thought of them as a kind of mystical sign language.

But there is a practical dimension to them as well.

Instead of simply sitting there and listening to someone else chant, your hands are also engaged in following the ritual.

Your body is participating.

Your voice is participating.

Your mind is supposed to participate too.

In that sense, the ritual engages more than just one part of you.

And that was something I gradually began to appreciate.

So Many Things to Learn

These were only the external elements of Tara Puja. I have not even touched on the mental visualisations and other practices that accompany the ritual.

Yet even without going into those deeper aspects, you can probably understand why the experience was bewildering for a newcomer.

I had to learn how to pronounce a foreign language.

I had to learn to appreciate an entirely different form of ritual music.

I had to learn a new set of hand gestures.

I had to learn unfamiliar customs.

Even the way people bowed was different from what I was accustomed to.

And, of course, I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to do half the time.

But there was another side to it.

It was exotic.

Every Sunday morning, going to Sakya Tenphel Ling felt almost like taking a short getaway into another culture—except this was not a cultural performance for tourists. These were living religious practices being performed by people who genuinely believed in them.

That made the experience much more interesting.

At times, it was confusing.

At times, frustrating.

Sometimes, even amusing.

But gradually, I began to realise that practice makes perfect.

The more Sundays I attended, the more familiar the chants became. I started recognising the sequence of the puja. I learned when to stand, when to bow, when to chant and when to simply watch what everyone else was doing.

Slowly, the strange became familiar.

And perhaps that is how entering any new Buddhist tradition begins.

First, you watch.

Then, you imitate.

Then, you understand.

And eventually, you participate.

I was still very much at the watching and imitating stage.

But I had already taken my first steps into the world of Vajrayana.

To be continued…

May all be well and happy.