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or changeable. So a man with a tulshuk nature would always be changing his mind—saying one thing in the morning, something else in the afternoon and contradicting both by evening. Though sober, he would get drunk, and when drunk he would act as if sober. Though a lama, he would have lovers, and when with them would still act as a lama. Though holy, he would be irreverent but while irreverent he would still retain his holiness.
    One day while Tulshuk Lingpa was in Pangi, he was called by a jinda , or sponsor, to the village of Triloknath, also known as Karshapapa. It is famous for its temple which houses a historically important statue of Chenresig, the Buddha of Compassion.
    The village was up the Chenab River Valley, a good day’s journey away by horse. Lamas make their living by performing pujas, or rituals, often at people’s houses. This was a big jinda , and the puja would last for days. Tulshuk Lingpa brought with him quite a few of his disciples, lamas in their own right who had gathered around him and now lived in his monastery in Pangi.
    In addition to the good food that would be served to the lamas at such home pujas, there would also be quite a bit of alcohol. While smoking cigarettes was strictly prohibited for lamas, many drank. Tulshuk Lingpa was famous for drinking more than anyone else and still being able to function.
    ‘One time, my father’s disciples tested him,’ Kunsang told me. ‘They plied him with so much alcohol that anyone else would have passed out. They set him up straight and put a pen in his hand and a piece of paper on his lap. Though he could hardly see, he commenced to write the words from an important scripture from memory—the Tibetan letters perfectly formed and even. Every time his hand strayed from the page and he dropped the pen without even being aware, they’d put the pen back in his hand and put the tip where he had left off—and he’d continue writing. To everyone’s amazement—including my own—he missed not a single letter or vocal mark. The words were formed perfectly across the page.’
    This was a theme Kunsang returned to repeatedly: his father’s drinking and subsequent craziness. Although I never saw Kunsang drink, his father’s prowess at drinking was an endless source of wonder and laughter for him.
    ‘Two of Tulshuk Lingpa’s closest disciples, Namdrol and Sookshen, were with him at the jinda’s house in Triloknath that time,’ Kunsang continued, warming to his story. ‘The jinda was plying them with meat and drink that night, and Tulshuk Lingpa got particularly drunk. He called Namdrol and Sookshen aside.’
    ‘“Tonight, we have big work to do,” he told them, “big work—but don’t tell anyone. We’ll have to stay awake half the night, so first you must sleep.” He produced a bottle of the jinda’s liquor and got his two disciples so drunk they curled up in a corner and fell into a death-like sleep.
    ‘At two in the morning, when everyone was fast asleep, Tulshuk Lingpa got up. He shook his two disciples to wake them but so much alcohol was still coursing through their blood they would not stir. He shook them harder but still couldn’t rouse them.’
    With this, Kunsang sprang from where he sat on his bed and jumped to his feet. He lay on the floor, curled up no doubt like his father’s drunken disciples, except that instead of sleeping he was shaking with laughter. Demonstrating with his own fist on his own skull, he continued his story from that vantage point.
    ‘My father made a fist of his hand and rapped on their shaved skulls as if he were pounding on a door, their heads resounding like coconuts.
    ‘Like this,’ he said, and he knocked his skull as if he were knocking a door. ‘This did the trick, and in a snap they were sitting up. Tulshuk Lingpa’s finger to his lips reminded them of the secret nature of their rude awakening.’
    This was a story Kunsang particularly loved to tell, and it must have been a dozen times that I