As we were all quite tired from travelling the 230km from from Nyalam to Saga in over 8 hours, there was no Satsang at the Saga Hotel that night. Instead, however, we got a full two hours to devote to the exciting task of rearranging clothes and personal items from our big red duffel bag to our backpacks to our hearts content. While this was necessitated partly to make sure that the people who were not enjoying the soaps on Chinese television in their rooms had something slightly more interesting to entertain themselves with, it was also motivated in part by the fact that the red duffel bags would not be returned to us the following night in Paryang, but two days later in Manasarovar. But even more importantly, this was done so that the twin geriatric trucks - aptly named Laurel and Hardy by the Appaji family - one of which would carry the larger duffel bags, while we carried the backpacks with us in the jeep - would have plenty of time to play cat and mouse with each other in the vast desert sands and tease their young drivers, without ever being disturbed by yatris desperately calling for their bags. It was a master plan, and it worked.
We check out of our rooms at Saga Hotel shortly after 7 the next morning, with some of the more enterprising yatris among us like Gaurav-ji, enjoying a warm shower taking advantage of off-peak demand conditions. As we got into our cars, we noticed a small group of young boys and girls in some kind of uniform jogging past us on a morning drill, leaving no doubts about Saga’s status as a mililtary town. We set off slowly, driving north through a sleepy market neighborhood and then heading west, after crossing a bridge over the Brahmaputra river. While we drove along one bank of the river, across on the other side we saw at least two dilapitated ruins of ancient monasteries, the remnants of an era when Tibet’s rich culture had thrived in this area, also serving as sombre reminders of the impermanence of life and Time as the all-consuming fire that spares none.
Shortly thereafter we stopped to take pictures on a picturesque mound along the Brahmaputra, where we also had some oily bread bajji for breakfast. I remember this particular breakfast well, because on hindsight, the bread bajji was a bad idea, as it did not agree well with some yatris, who took ill after that point. But we drove on, over gravel roads and sandy plains,with most jeeps staying atleast 20m behind the one in front, in order to avoid being directly in the wake of the dust cloud that inevitably got kicked up, while only occasionally rolling the windows down to allow for some semblance of air circulation. Sometime before noon, one stretch of the gravel path was blocked off for ongoing construction and the trucks ahead of us were forced to take a detour into the welcoming embraces of the sand dunes, with largely predictable consequences. It took at least half an hour and a dozen drivers to push the truck out while a jeep towed it from the front to break the sand’s strong grip, that too, after some of the drivers first used shovels around the truck tires to clear its path. In the next couple of hours, this process would be repeated a few times, as the trucks continued to joyfully play in the sand, even being joined in the fun by a jeep at one time as well, just for a change. While the “rescue team” jeeps were pressed into action repeatedly, the yatris on those jeeps eventually resigned themselves to the delays and began obliging the small kids with cute, sunburnt faces and running noses that would invariably arrive to ask for gifts or money. Other yatris just wandered around a little farther from the road to take close up shots of the yak and horses that were grazing in isolated grasslands. Eventually, the route then took us up another major pass and into the plateau on the otherside, where we drove for nearly an hour before we stopped for a late lunch at ‘old’ Zhongba, a small settlement with a few mudhouses and restaurants. Faced with the prospect of another four hours of travel for the day, we did not take the 20km detour north to the actual town of ‘new’ Zhongba, which has a famous monastery with a shrine to Guru Rinpoche, also known as Padmasambhava.
As we proceed further west from Zhongba over the next few hours, even the last traces of vegetation begin to disappear leaving the earth around us largely barren, with only the different hues of the hills in the distance and the interplay of the shadows from the puffy clouds above rendering any sort of scenic variety to our weary eyes. Fully anticipating the fatigue and monotony that such long drives would entail right at the start of the trip, all the Swamijis - except Br. Suvedh Chaitanya, who was quite ill during this time - took turns to travel in a different jeep every day, or every other day. Now, whether this scheme was designed by them to bless and entertain the yatris, or conversely, to be entertained by them, or indeed to break the spells of mutual boredom, I dont know - but I think this is one of those questions that is best left unanswered. As for me, whenever I was in a vehicle together with one of the Swamijis, I was just grateful to be in their presence - and also, that there were no bathtubs or hot water around.
After a relatively event-less remainder of the journey, we all make it to Paryang by 7pm. Located at a rough evelation of 16000 ft, it is a decent sized village, where we had to cross several blocks of mudhouses and shops before entering our guest house on the western edge of the village. Even as most of us were tiredly settling into our rooms, one indefatigable yatri was still doing the rounds of the rooms, not waiting around for people to come to her, but actively looking for people who she knew needed care, medicines and a doctor’s attention. That was Dr. Seethadevi-ji, truly a Godsend on this trip, as she stayed fit and took adequate care of herself throughout the journey and made sure that she was always there for all of us whether someone fell sick, wanted specific consultation or was just feeling uneasy.
It fell dark quickly in Paryang, and the generator-powered electricity came on a little late in the evening, after which we all gathered in a large dorm room on one of the flanks of the guest house. We began with Swamijis helping us chant several Kavacha mantras and a few Bhajans, which was followed by another bhajan led by the youngest member of the group, 11-yr old Varsha Appaji. After which came decision time: all the yatris had to decide at this point whether they were going to do the Parikrama (circumambulation) around Mount Kailash, or stay back at Manasarovar, from where, on clear days, one can get a nice darshan of Mount Kailash, as well. It was also decided by the Acharyas that everyone going on the Parikrama would mandatorily hire a porter (to carry the backpack) and a horse (to ride), with the twin goals of making sure that every yatri would be in a position to independently complete the yatra, and also as a well-intentioned means of supporting the Tibetans locals, whose only source of income all year long is tourists like us. While five yatris decided to stay back at Manasarovar, for personal or health reasons, the remaining contingent - including several sick and elderly yatris - decided to go for the Parikrama.
We woke up the next morning to an unpleasant reality that we were specifically warned about - while the guesthouse had an operational toilet and bath, it wasnt exactly the most hygienic place on earth. And so it was that some of us grinned and bore it, while some others ventured outside under the open skies to relieve themselves - armed with the necessary paraphernalia for the challenge, like nervous foot-soldiers navigating a dangerous minefield. But soon, we’d be on a jeep coasting the vast plains on a gloriously clear and sunny day, getting ever closer to our destination, and that’s what mattered. We had hardly stopped for a break near a small settlement by the road, when we found out that the trucks were up to their usual tricks, getting stuck in the sands several kilometers behind us. As luck would have it or Mr Murphy would have planned it, the pre-cooked lunch was conveniently loaded in the rear of two of the “rescue jeeps”. As a result, it was after a delay of around three hours, lunch was served to the patient and impatient alike. While the treat was late, it was nice to take our seat on the plateau,and eat from a paper plate.
Post-lunch, we begin to see true desert-like conditions dominate the foreground - vast sand dunes with an odd few small lakes thrown in for good measure - while far in the background toward the southern border with Nepal, the snow-capped peaks of the northern ridge of the Himalayas appear and disappear from the horizon. While I had some vague idea what the Tibetan plateau would be like, I had never imagined that it would have conditions as so dry and arid as this, with sand dunes, in some parts, rising well over twenty feet high on either side of the road. After seeing how Tibet’s location in the leeward, rain shadow region of the Himalayas causes such extreme dry weather and desert conditions far into the plateau, I am ever more thankful to the very same Himalayas that make India’s monsoon rains on the windward side possible. A painful irony becomes blatantly clear to me: One Indian’s blessing is another Tibetan’s curse.
A littel further on, we stop behind a line of jeeps waiting for security clearance at a checkpost that specifically monitors access into and out of the Manasarovar area. On this all important last stretch of 20km to Lake Manasarovar, I was lucky enough to be in the jeep with Br. Uddhav Chaitanya-ji, Br. Vinayak Chaintanya-ji and Swarn-ji. The afternoon skies now turned cloudy and dim, and there was also a change in the landscape, with the concentration of grass and vegetation increasing appreciably, and driving further, we saw a trickling creek flowing eastward, in the opposite direction of our convoy, which was likely feeding down into the Brahmaputra. As the caravan proceeded steadily, one of the most prominent things that we would see was the snow capped Gurla Mandhata mountains emerging from between the hills on the south. At this point, I was told by Br. Uddhav Chaitanya that Mount Kailash would be diametrically opposite to Gurla Mandhata across Lake Manasarovar, and that when we got close enough, we’d be able to see it quite suddenly - becoming unblocked to our eyes, as it were - after a turn on the road that would lead us up a small hill.
There is something about the heavy air of anticipation of seeing Mount Kailash or Manasarovar for the first time which I cannot fully comprehend, much less describe. It is a playful restlessness that teases your mind knowingly, with every turn of the road seeming like it might be the final turn. The mind assumes an almost child-like attitude, wanting to imagine seeing everything and feeling every emotion, just one second prior to actually seeing it or experiencing it (again) for the first time! I was chanting, I was panting. And the wheels rolled on.
The eyes look out cravingly towards the north, the view still blocked by the hills.
Suddenly the road opens up ahead into a wide horizon, and there is a lot more sand on the road. The dust clouds from the jeeps ahead of us add to the hazy view outside, and that's when we see from between the flying plumes of the fine dust settling in front of us - an expansive body of water on the horizon. We were there.
The jeeps speed up toward a first landmark, a sort of welcoming rotunda with a sacred altar-like structure of stones in the center that has a spire with prayer flags of different colors. We drive around it once before coming to a stop. Directly in front of us, at a distance of a few kilometers, was the still vastness of Lake Manasarovar, as far and wide as the eyes could see between the mountains that covered it on all sides. Amid hugs, smiles and handshakes, we were all looking towards the north-west, trying to see beyond the clouds and catch a glimpse of Mount Kailash. But as the cloud cover persisited, the caravan acquired a renewed sense of urgency and drove down further to the edge of the lake, then turned left along the perimeter, driving several kilometers and going past Trihu gumpa - one of several Gumpas around the lake - before the jeeps pulled over at a point where there was a good, clean access to the lake. We wasted no time in getting our backpacks out and walk another hundred feet or so to the shore.
By the causeless mercy of God, we were just about to take a dip in the holy, legendary Lake Manasarovar. It was well past 6 in the evening, a good three hours behind our planned time of arrival, and we knew the water was going to be frigid. But there were no second thoughts. As the ladies and gents set their bags on the mud-laden stones fifty or sixty feet apart, the sherpas quickly erected a couple of tents as change-room for the ladies. I got into my swimming trunks and walked gingerly to the water's edge, feeling the strong breeze in my face and dipped my hands in the water to confirm what we already knew. After sprinkling some water on myself, chanting my prayers and looking in the direction of Mount Kailash, I walked on stones for several feet in the biting cold water to find a place where the lake was at least knee-deep. I stood there for a few minutes, looking around to see other yatris - some dipping in, some still walking on the shore, others standing in the water like me, with frozen legs, quivering bodies and an unwavering spirit. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, in what was the purest lungful of air I had ever inhaled.
Here was the moment. In one quick squatting motion, chanting Om Nama Shivaya, I plunged my head into the lake, and within a second, I recoiled in a fantastic spasm that ran through my body. It was so unbearable, yet so refreshing. Then again, another breath - above lips utter a stuttering prayer - and another dip. This time I stayed in longer. As I stood up again, I looked around to see the other yatris - with equally bewildered and sparkling looks on their faces, with water running down along their ears and temples. Then, I close my eyes and take one final, unforgettable dip, and come back up a few seconds later, and after praying silently for a minute, I walk back to my bag. I tried to dry myself with a towel as quickly as possible, with the unrelenting cold breeze rendering much of my body numb. In the next ten or fifteen minutes, as I saw yatris young and old - crying and smiling, speechless and ecstatic, calm and excited - and remember thinking to myself: what an unbelievable wonder it is that there is such a place in the world!
Several dozens of flashes of photographs later, we walk back to our jeeps, and continue driving clockwise along the lake to our rest stop for the night, at a small settlement at the base of Chihu Gumpa, a monastery on the west shore of the lake. On the way, we drive up small hills along dirt roads offering stunning scenic views of lake Manasarovar and Gurla Mandhata, after which come down upon a well-paved highway that runs right in between lake Manasarovar and lake Rakshastaal. By this time, the sun emerges from behind the clouds and a curious irony is immediately obvious: lake Rashastaal was exceptionally beautiful, with strong waves stirring through its shockingly pristine, turquoise blue water, though in contrast to its divine neighbour that was relatively colorless and serene. While hardly anyone visited the lake or shores on the Rakshaltaal side, lake Manasarovar's shore had endured abuse from years of litter from visitors, birds and animals. Apprearances are deceptive. Such, then, is life.
It was well past 8pm but not yet dark as we moved our bags into the rooms at the guesthouse. Soon after, the Swamiji's began a Homam (or Havan, a sacred fire) offering oblations to Mount Kailash. This was a prayer much requested by all the yatris, and as the night fell dark, the wind picked up great speed, making the fire leap towards the Swamijis sitting closest to the fire, or threatened to put the fire out completely. Undaunted and accompanied by several yatris chanting Vedic mantras including the Sri Rudram, the Swamijis completed the Homam culminating in a Poornahuti, a total and complete sacrifice to the Lord. We slept well that night.
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