Being born in the Kashmiri Shaivite tradition has its peculiarities. To start with, there are very few of us, not even a million. But, it is not the numerically ‘exclusive’ bit about this club that makes it unique. There is a lot else. To start with, Kashmiri Hindus are known to have the earliest recorded history anywhere. All thanks to Kalhana, the author of Rajatarangini , literally ‘A River of Kings’, in 1050 CE. But the one who did the most seminal work on our Shaivite identity, by turning it into a philosophical discipline, is Abhinavagupta (950-1020 CE). Arguably the foremost Shaivite master ever, he was prolific with his precepts and writings. The profundity of his ideas, and their impact, is such that even a millennium later, he engages intellectuals and scholars.

Little wonder, the relics of this Shaivite tradition are strewn all over Kashmir Valley. And, over the centuries, have become important landmarks and pilgrimages.

To some they evoke religiosity and lead to a regimen of rituals. To others they are a part of the culture they grew up in. For many though, they represent an ancient continuous tradition that grows in value with time. For not an insignificant few, they are, purely, a fountainhead of spiritual energy.

No matter how you look at them, it takes prarabdham (destiny) to visit any of those places. That is what I, perhaps, lacked. All that I had gone to was the hilltop Shankaracharya Temple, which was right at the edge of Srinagar and did not take even half a day to trek to and return. By the time I grew old enough to decide for myself about the other places, we lost our homes in the Valley. I was left with mere stories from those who were luckier.

That is why when I met someone who visited Kailash every year, I was truly tempted. I had known about the annual group-treks that were going on for decades, under a government-run programme. But those treks were arduous, took 40 days and, to top it all, you had to be lucky in the draw of lots. This one was simpler. A package of three weeks, including the to-and-fro flight, via Kathmandu (four nights), hotel stays, bus ride to the Tibetan border, four-day road journey to Mansarovar (two nights) and then, a day-journey to the base camp for Kailash. All the acclimatising, walking, exhilarating, grunting, enduring, experiencing, exploring, gathering, picking, clicking, drenching, shivering, hurting, praying, meditating, crying and, finally, ‘connecting’ was left to you.

A good start

It all started after three nights at Kathmandu, with an early breakfast and a five-hour bus ride to Kodari town, also called Tatopani, at the Nepal-Tibet border. The border was defined by the noisy and frothy Bhotekoshi river. On the other side was the Chinese immigration point at Zhangmu, connected by the Friendship Bridge. After the long and elaborate check at the immigration, we hit the perfect tar-road through misty woods, an occasional waterfall and scanty human presence. We were headed further ahead, towards Nyalam, at 11,700 ft.

At Nyalam, a small Tibetan town of a few hundred people, we practised climbing. It was the first day of withdrawal from the world as we knew it. There were 15 more to follow. Ours was a motley group — engineers, CAs, traders, techies, retired bureaucrats; from avid trekkers to rank first-timers, from restless youngsters to calm twilighters.

We spent two cold nights at Nyalam. After another night at Prayang, a village of sorts, we left for Horche, a camp at the edge of the sacred Mansarovar. It was 270 km away, which would take barely four hours. But, the patience to wait for Mansarovar had worn thin. The drive took us through Mayum-la, a high pass with a steep climb at the top. Driving down the pass offered a great view of the magnificent Mayum-tso Lake. That further whetted the craving for the Mansarovar. It took us another 80 km to reach Horche. The snow-capped peak across the lake, Gurla Mandhata (over 25,500 ft) was a stunner. Our eyes searched for Kailash, but the clouds did not oblige. Rajinder Raina, the man responsible for my yatra, was overwhelmed. We sat there, looking at the gentle waves in the turquoise waters, without a word spoken for what seemed like a lifetime.

When we eventually spoke, it was to decide to take a bath in the lake. Braving the water (calling it melted-snow would be more appropriate), we walked in a few metres along a gradual gradient, till the water touched the waist. Kailash, as if pleased with our resolve, showed up from behind the clouds.

The parikrama (circumambulation) of Mansarovar takes almost a hundred kilometres. We decided to attempt it after the Kailash parikrama, on our way back. I was told that the Tibetan Buddhists too revere the Mansarovar and conduct parikrama on foot. The more devout do it by prostrating every step of the way, often in sub-zero temperatures. The reason, I was told, was that the lake froze and shrank substantially in winters, so the parikrama toobecomes shorter.

Circle of life

Our stay in Horche was followed by two nights at Tarchin, the base camp for Kailash.

After two nights of rest, and in-between, last-minute shopping for walking sticks, umbrellas, torches, gloves, caps and bottles, we were set to begin the parikrama. An early breakfast, followed by a drive up to ‘Yama-dwar’ was how the trek usually began. To avoid this drive, Raina had started three hours earlier to reach in time. There, we were instructed afresh and given our personal porters for the next three days. I was put under the guidance of Tashey, barely out of his teens.

After a collective prayer, and a ritual touching and lifting of the Tibetan prayer-buntings, the walk began. On our right was the rock-face rising high, several hundred feet, perpendicular to the ground we walked. On our left, in the distance was a deep gorge where a roaring river flowed. On the banks were the sprawling flat grounds.

After about three long hours of trying to keep pace with my agile porter, who was also carrying my sack, we reached the western face of Kailash. The view wasn’t too clear. We were far too low and the view was largely obstructed by the fortress-like cliffs. A narrow gap in between was all that we had for opportunity. And the cameras made most of it. Munching on nuts and sipping on Tang, we walked in silent contemplation.

Another three hours from the western face was Derapuk, which brought us face-to-face with Kailash. Shaped like a diamond, it is flanked by two massive mountains, Avalokiteshwara and Vajrapani of the Buddhist lore. As soon as I saw it, my knees gave way and I sprawled face down. Was it exhaustion, or climactic catharsis? I realised later that I didn’t move for a long time. On getting up eventually, I felt magically light, with no trace of the fatigue or aches that I was trying hard to divert my mind from not too long ago. I walked in that state of semi-trance, towards what looked like a two-storey structure for our night-halt.

Moving ahead

We started early next morning. The group had to split in three. One bunch had to return. They could not take the strain any more. The second bunch was for the outer parikrama , which goes via Dolma-la pass and Gauri Kund. It was longer, hence strenuous, but also predictable. We, the third group, had opted for the Inner Cora. This one was slightly shorter but challenging. The most challenging part, I was told, was the Khandsang-la Pass. That turned out to be a gross understatement. Reaching the very base of the wall turned out to be treacherous. Slipping and crawling on all fours, to cover barely a few metres in an hour, was intimidating.

At the base of the wall, we dug into the frozen rock to create a foothold so as to not slip down. Even as our guides made their way up to create a base at the top, to lift us by rope-harness, they would, inadvertently, let chunks of rocky ice fall on us. Climbing up with a rope-harness was even more daunting. None of us had any idea that we would hang, precariously suspended, staring at hundreds of feet of sheer drop to sure death, at the mercy of an unsure bunch. Several hours of a heroic struggle saw us all to the ‘top’, but exhausted and livid with our escorts.

The ‘top’ was a rocky and harsh ridge-line with wind, mist and poor visibility. We began our trek down. It was steep and therefore doubly punishing for the knees. We ran out of water. From the top, we’d seen an emerald spot smack in the middle of a caramel sandy terrain. That was Kuber Kund. The more we walked towards it, the more distant it seemed. After hours of laborious trudging we reached the waterbody.

As I sat down to share the packed lunch with Tashey, he seemed eager to move, while everyone else insisted on some rest. He’d sensed something that he couldn’t communicate due to the language barrier. He held my right hand and pulled me back on my feet. We must have run downhill for about half an hour. That’s when the skies opened up. By then, we had reached a cave-like shelter. The group we left behind would have been soaking wet.

The climb down brought us to the eastern valley of Kailash, through which flowed the Zhong Chhu river. We must have walked over 10 km in those five torturous hours. Once down in the valley, the walk was on a relatively flat ground, therefore boring besides being indescribably tiring. But I had never walked for so long and so fast, all thanks to Tashey. We reached Zutulpuk, our night-halt, at least two hours before the rest of the group. I did not even remove my shoes before collapsing on the camp cot.

Holding fort

Coming back from Kailash, even when it is a parikrama, and hence a different route, wasn’t a fraction as exciting. One, because having wrung out every joule of energy in walking, all that drove us was the greed to complete the circumambulation. And, this was when the walk refused to end. With the body in bits and the mind winding up, there was little to hold our interest.

Eventually, after four-odd hours of trudging, came a point overlooking the habitation of Tarchin at some distance. The Land Cruisers were waiting. People hugged each other in relief. But, wait, this is not from where I started. The parikrama, to be complete, must end from where it started. I asked for Yama-dwar. I am pointed towards a mountain-range in a vague manner by Tashey. I started in that direction. Tashey refused to budge. I asked him to dump my bags in the waiting cars for others to carry them to the base. I filled up the bottles, packed my pockets with nuts and raisins, took a deep breath and started walking in that vague direction.

It became my personal yatra. The sanctity of a Kailash parikrama helped me discover inner reserves of stamina and that streak of sheer ‘madness’. It was to keep me company for the next 14 hours. That is another story in itself, for some other time.

Sushil Panditis a Delhi-based advertising and communication professional

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