(This is the tenth and the last chapter of the series ‘Parikrama and Other Trips: In Tibet’ which started with ‘Border town: Kodari’)

It is what we know as ‘off season’ which makes the terrain. By letting guide books, tour agents and other general flock mentality decide your itinerary you miss the land in its unadorned, naked beauty. The way it was made, meant to be, seen. July and August account for half the total annual rainfall in Tibet – the official ‘off’ season, if you can’t help it. We were there in August – the peak monsoon – when most of the roads would be washed away and the rest under water. Fortunately for us the roads were intact – having so far lost only two days to landslide. The glistening green valleys play peek-a-boo through clouds quivering with rain. Frothy embroideries are fastened on to garrulous waterfalls. Shivering rainbows hang from the most unexpected places and the purple ridges of granite the mountains where mythical figures come to life get an ethereal sheen.
The closest view of the Mount Kailas during the parikrama is from Dera Phuk where we had camped the previous night. The thrill of journey usually keeps me awake or I am up early morning. Even before the sun, I was on the balcony of the room, staring intently, unblinking at the north face of the Mount Kailas. I couldn’t see anything but I could feel a magnificent presence wash over me. As dawn broke unhurriedly, I was looking directly at the shiny black face of the holy mountain which was covered with a fine sheet of powdery snow. Between me and the holy mountain hung a single strand of prayer flags as if put there to speed up my supplications.

Across the valley from the building where I was standing was the famous Dera Phuk monastery; Dera Phuk meaning ‘cave of the female yak horns’. This monastery, at one time, was the richest one around Kailas and celebrates the parikrama; ‘kora’ for Buddhists. It is believed that the first person to circumambulate the mountain was the sage Gotsangpa who was shown the way by a female yak. He followed her into a cave where she disappeared. It so transpired that the yak was really a dakini or a sky fairy / seductress. The sage stayed put in the cave to meditate and thus the tradition of kora began among the Buddhists. Just like the cave of Milarepa, here too is a gilded statue of the Gotsangpa. Buddhist travellers and pilgrims still light an occasional tsampa lamp here. Rebuilt with better facilities in 1985, beds are available for overnight camping. However, to reach here you have to walk down a slippery valley cross the bridge and then climb a steep ascent to the other side. It also has to be booked well in advance. The views accorded by the guest house where we were staying were same as the monastery: the Kailas peering nonchalantly through its magnificent vanguards, the Vajrapani and Avalokiteshwara.
Our yaks were piled up and were already on their way; we had taken some tentative steps towards the Khangkhyam Glacier which is between the Chenresig and the Chana Dorje, along the steep descent of the north face of the Kailas. What spurred us was a brief lull in the rain to undertake this eventually aborted attempt. On a clear day, the trek would have taken only three hours; the locals told us under the given conditions we would take anywhere up to half a day to return. A local boy, in a black pony whose hair was tied in multi-coloured ribbons began to gesticulate animatedly while speaking, pointing in the general direction we were about to take. Apparently the previous night’s rain had swamped a large part of the descent making it infinitely dangerous. He knew it as he had just come up that way. He also wanted to know whether we wanted to hire his pony to go up the Drolma La. And it would cost only one thousand Yuan. No? Tourists have been slipping and falling up there including one German who survived a near-fatal fall just yesterday morning.
Sahil, who was with me, told him that more people had died at the Drolma La due to lack of oxygen. Through Kumar, the cook, Sahil asked him whether his package of one thousand Yuan included oxygen canisters as well.
“No brother,” Henri joined the party, swabbing his still-bleeding nose. “His horse is trained to give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.” Probably Kumar didn’t understand what Henri said so it remained un-translated. Turned out to be quite fortunate as later, with all the exertion, Henri began to cough blood. He was forced to hire the same pony to climb the 5,630-metre Drolma La.

We cut across the Lha Chu towards the east, climbed the Valley of Incense; our ascent to the Drolma La had begun. After almost an hour of steady climbing, it started to rain again. We had to hastily pack up our equipments: we had just begun to film a group of French Buddhists who had done 12 koras over 12 days. The place, called Jarokh Dokang, was an auspicious stop for the Buddhist devout. From here, there is a shortcut which leads to the east face of the Mount Kailas, which cuts the distance through the Drolma La by a few hours. However, this bypass is to be used only by those who are onto their 13th kora. And the French were. They were unshaven, looked haggard, unnaturally thin and one was limping. But all of them exuded an air of celestial grace, their faces looked marked out for benevolence, with smiles so saintly you almost checked for the halo.
“You have to be on your 13th kora to be able to take this shortcut,” told Pierre, who was limping with a ballooned blister that was his left toe. “The same dakini, who led the saint Gotsangpa into the cave, ensures that.” Pierre didn’t elaborate on how she ensured it. But the power wielded by the dakinis was immeasurable, revered by Buddhists across sects. These sky fairies were also the fierce protectors of the mountains. They had their own secret passages traversed only by the enlightened ones, to whom the dakinis bestow the power to pass through rocks, or in some case, even fly. The French were, understandably, in a hurry to leave: tents were dismantled with clockwork precision, and in less than five minutes, Jarokh Dokang was again a meadow. As they bounded across the soft grass, icy sheets of rain pierced their sunburnt faces, I stood there, agape: 13 koras in 13 days!
The French guys and their superhuman feat inspired us no end. Sahil swore that one day he would do it himself. I, not-so-gently, reminded him that at the Rum Doodle Bar in Kathmandu he had promised Yog the manager that he would climb the Everest someday; so which would he go for first? Henri had carried on when we stopped for the filming and was nowhere to be seen. The other members of the pilgrim group hadn’t started when we left Dera Phuk; we left early as this was the toughest day – 20km and the Drolma La. Our new-found energy and enthusiasm lasted us till the next point – the Shiva Tsal.

While it is more popular as the Shiva Tsal, the Buddhists call it the Vajra Yogini burial ground. The plateau above this rocky expanse was once a place for sky burial – the ritual Tibetan burial where bodies of the dead are chopped up, bones pounded and fed to vultures. Numerous cairns cover the area to please the dakinis. Even today unclaimed bodies of dead pilgrims are left here for the birds and other animals. For many pilgrims, this is the heart of their kora: they are expected to undergo a symbolic death here to be reborn as they reach the Drolma La. This symbolic death is achieved by leaving a piece of clothing, shock of hair or some other material possession close to them. More fervent ones are also known to leave behind drops of blood and some even a tooth. These offerings are for Yama, the god of death. Everything that could possibly be in the possession of a pilgrim or a trekker was arrayed there: from rucksacks to shrivelled socks, partially worn-out shoes to imitation North Face jackets. One cairn even had a boxer shorts draped around it like a window display. I put on a facemask around one of the very few unadorned cairns. Looking around I saw Henri kneeling down beside one of the bigger cairns and was digging with his bare hands. His wallet lay open next to him on the ground from which he took a photograph and placed it in the dugout and covered it with a new set of stones. I joined him and together we built up a neat cairn. My eyes began to well up with tears and I stole a glance at Henri. He kept a stoic calm throughout, keenly intent on the cairn.
“I cannot walk anymore,” he said as if to himself, standing up. He wasn’t looking at me, I could say; I continued to avert my glance as my tears were still wet fresh. Henri sat down on a boulder still glistening wet from the rain. He coughed into his by now reddish brown hanky.
“I will wait with you till you get a horse,” I offered.
“No, don’t. You guys have work to do. Please carry on.” He sounded like he wanted to be left alone.
“Alright, I will wait for you at the Drolma La.” I said and walked on.
Sahil had just finished filming the Shiva Tsal and as he packed the camera, he took out his unopened pack of Marlboros and placed it on the ground as his offering.
“You know what,” he said very casually without even looking at me, “I am going to climb the Everest.” His tone was so dead-serious and I dare didn’t mock it this time. He walked a distance away, turned to me and said, as if the conversation never stopped.
“But that will be after the 13 koras. You can join me if you want.”

Of the entire parikrama, the two hours’ climb from the Shiva Tsal to the Drolma La was the most spellbinding. The effect it had on me was narcotic. I had visions from my past – which even spoke to me, I saw my dreams wash through porous sand and darken the pristine blue waters of a lake, sound of crying babies shattered the still air, I flinched under a blow from a soft hand, and many a time I had this strong sensation that somebody was following me. If not walking behind me along the path, it was looking at me from over the maze of the boulders that were strewn all around. I kept looking over my shoulders. I had this feeling that it could be anything, didn’t even have to be human. Could even be a dog. I shuddered at what Henri told me about my lunch date the previous day. It was not just me who had an eerie experience; Sahil later told me that he was nearly pushed over the cliff by something he distinctly felt as two hands as he neared the Drolma La. Thanks to the walking sticks which Henri gave him – when Henri hired the horse – he managed to stop himself from falling over the edge. Seemed like the dakinis weren’t too happy with either of us. I was scared. Soon I espied the reassuring sight of a group of Tibetan pilgrims coming my way and I joined them. I walked with them, chanting their mantras, till Drolma La where I sat down next to Drolma Do or Drolma’ s rock. This rock marks your arrival at the highest point of the parikrama. It was a carefully chosen spot to rest and allay my fears.
When Gotsangpa, whose wandering led by a dakini was the original kora, was taken along a wrong path, there appeared 21 wolves who showed him the correct route. These 21 wolves were 21 manifestations of Drolma, the goddess of kindness and the protector of the pass. When Gotsangpa reached the pass safely, the 21 wolves merged into each other and formed the Drolma Do under which I was sitting now. Even today Drolma helps good people in their ascent. It was there, under the Drolma Do, I realised that I had never been so scared in my entire life.

From home you have reached
the Horizon here.
From here to another
here you go.
From ‘Horizon’ by Tenzin Tsundue

I was panting more out of relief than shortage of oxygen, I was glad to be alive. I peered over the precipitous ridge on the other side. It was a plummeting trail strewn with shale and pointy flints too dangerous for even yaks. Here, at the bottom of the valley, like a gilgai, was the emerald green tarn of Gaurikund or the Lake of Mercy – the water is equally powerful to cleanse the sin as that of the Manasarovar. But few try it for the dangerous descent and the adverse weather. This is where Buddhist sky fairies as well as Parvati, wife of Lord Shiva, perform their ablutions. As I turned back after taking my photographs, I saw Sahil sitting at the exact same place where I was moments ago. He looked pretty shaken up. That was when he told me the story of his near escape by the gulch. I opened a canister of oxygen and he took a few grateful gasps.
“I cannot walk anymore,” he informed me. I got a bit alarmed at his uncharacteristic languor. His face was ashen and his hands were shaking uncontrollably.
It was then that Henri trotted by on the black pony with multi-coloured hair bands, led by the boy who looked at us with the disdain of a hellion. Henri sat ramrod straight, mimicking the serious air of a comitatus on parade.
“Do you guys need a ride?” Henri asked. “This one knows first aid, like mouth…”
“We are good,” I replied holding up the just-opened oxygen canister.
“But he isn’t,” Henri said pointing at Sahil.
From the Drolma La while Sahil rode ahead, I and Henri walked to the second camp – tents set up by the banks of the river Dzong Chu, meaning ‘Fortress River’. Along we way, we crossed a frozen lake, gingerly – the flowing water was ominously visible through the transparent slab. We tried to scare each other by sharing the worst case scenarios; looking back, I guess it was one way of instilling courage. Later on we learnt that there was a safer path around the lake which everyone else used. It took us over six hours to reach the tent where we collapsed with exhaustion. Warming ourselves in the kitchen, we were revived by our cook Kumar over endless cups of salty tsampa tea. Somehow it didn’t seem strange that the warmest people were found in the warmest places. But what did seem strange was Henri’s nosebleed had stopped. Neither was he coughing. He was back to his sprightly self.

The third day was trot: We had to cover just 14km that too over mostly grassy plains where Mortu would be waiting to take us back to Darchen. We passed by many more Bonpos, carrying their swags with a discernible lour; some did reply to the last of my Tashi Deleys though. This day too we were overtaken by the yaks ferrying our luggage, kitchen utensils and grocery. I saw, on a discarded brown ampoule yet another one of those mysterious words which no one seemed to have any inkling about: GAOSHANHONGJINGTIANKOUFUYE. Towering on our right, almost touching the holy-blue skies, was an uninterrupted cobalt-coloured canyon. On a jutting purple crag was a gompa from where prayers fluttered out. Holes, quite deep ones, were dug out across the wall face. Exploring them with all the enthusiasm of a spelunker, I was told that these were made by pilgrims hunting for stones – to take home in memory of the parikrama. Somebody offered to dig out one for me.
No, I didn’t want to take anything with me. My memory of the parikrama was what I was leaving behind.