Up to now, like any other pilgrim, I had enjoyed only fleeting glances at the temples and gardens. My friends took me to one of the numerous standard- pattern stone houses, where I was given Spartan lodgings. Pema, a monk who was soon to take his final examinations and already had pupils of his own, acted as my guide to the monastic city and explained to me the layout and organization. No comparison can be drawn between this and any of our religious institutions. The thick gray walls of the buildings have an age-old appearance, and the overpowering smell of rancid butter and unwashed monks has sunk deep into the stonework.
Every house has from fifty to sixty inhabitants and is divided into tiny cells.
There is a kitchen on every floor and plenty of food to eat. The average monk has no other mundane satisfaction, but the more intelligent ones buoy themselves up with the prospect of reaching high positions to reward their zealous studies. They have no private property except for their butter lamps and an icon, or maybe an amulet box. A simple bed is the only concession to comfort. Absolute obedience is the rule.