Horses, Healing and the Wisdom of Experience

A conversation with Subhadra Cherukuri of Miracle Equine Center, Bengaluru

Subhadra Cherukuri’s journey has taken her from corporate management consulting to a life centred on horses, animals and human well-being. The founder of Miracle Equine Center in Bengaluru, she works with children and adults through therapeutic riding and equine-assisted activities. In this conversation, we discuss her early association with horses, the making of the centre, and the practical knowledge she has gained as a horsewoman. I also bring in questions from my study of the Aśvaśāstra tradition—the Sanskrit literature concerned with horses, their characteristics, care and training.

The audio interview can be found here:

• Growing up with horses and wildlife in Hyderabad

How did your association with horse riding begin?

My father was a rider. Although he could not join the army because of his eyesight, my grandfather was in the army, as were several of my uncles and aunts. There was considerable exposure to horses in the family, and my father introduced us to riding when I was about ten.
I grew up in Hyderabad, where there were riding facilities such as the Army Riding School and the AP Riding Club. Hyderabad still retained much of its old Nawabi character, and horse culture was visible in the city. I continued riding through school and college.

You have also spoken about your interest in wildlife and nature. Where did that come from?

That interest came largely from my mother, Asha Cherukuri. She worked with Doordarshan throughout her career and was actively involved in making wildlife documentaries during the 1980s and 1990s. She often took us along when she went on shoots, so we had opportunities to experience wildlife and the natural world at close quarters.

An injury, a break from riding and a change of direction

Did you continue riding after moving to Bengaluru?

After moving to Bengaluru, I had to take a break because of a knee injury that eventually required surgery. I was 21 at the time. The injury may have been connected to something I had done while riding a few days earlier, but I also fell while climbing a wall. I was apprehensive about surgery and stayed away from riding for almost ten years, although I did ride occasionally whenever I had the opportunity.

How did you move from corporate consulting back to horses?

I spent many years in the corporate sector as a management consultant, including working with EY. By the time I was around 35 or 36, I was experiencing burnout and had begun to feel certain that I did not want to spend my entire working life in the corporate world. I wanted to return to animals and nature.

I had been training dogs for years, mostly my own dogs and those belonging to friends. My daughter’s school in Bengaluru asked me to help train two dogs as therapy dogs. Through that experience, I came across therapeutic riding and equine-assisted therapy. I had heard of therapy dogs, but I knew very little about the work that could be done with horses.

Around the same time, a riding school where my daughter had begun lessons had children with special needs who had been referred by doctors. The school was equipped for ordinary riding lessons but did not know how to work with these children through horses. I offered to help, and the experience made me realise that this was the work I wanted to pursue.

• Building Miracle Equine Center

How did the idea become a centre of your own?

I began working towards becoming a therapeutic riding instructor. After about two years, I left my corporate job and established Miracle Equine Center alongside Wagville, a dog boarding and training centre. Both ventures began towards the end of 2018. I started them on my own, investing my life savings.

Where did you receive your training?

At the time, there was very little formal training of this kind available in India. I pursued certifications through PATH International (Professional Association of Therapeutic Horsemanship International) and EAHAE-the European Association for Horse Assisted Education. The pandemic meant that much of the learning had to be done remotely. The certifications generally take at least a year. When I travelled in Europe, I also visited therapeutic riding centres and equine-assisted learning centres, where I gained some hands-on experience.

I continued learning by volunteering with schools for children with special needs and by listening to the parents of the children I worked with. Practical experience and an understanding of each individual are essential in this field.

• Working with children through therapeutic riding

What kinds of needs can therapeutic riding address?

We work with individuals with a range of needs, including autism, ADHD, cerebral palsy and Down syndrome. The challenges are different for every person, even among people with the same diagnosis, so each programme has to be designed individually.

Therapeutic riding is not simply about teaching someone to ride. Some children may never ride independently. They may sit on a horse while it is led at a walk and take part in activities designed around particular goals. These might include placing cones on poles, putting balls into baskets or doing exercises that help develop balance. Activities can also be adapted for individuals who experience sensory overload or have sensory-processing challenges.

The movement of the horse can provide sensory and physical input even when the person is simply seated on the horse as it walks. Where balance, cognition or speech are areas of difficulty, we devise activities that may help address those challenges directly or indirectly.

What riding can offer adults

Does riding have benefits for adults who do not need therapeutic support?

Riding is not an activity performed by the horse alone. The rider’s whole body is involved in managing the horse and guiding it from one point to another. In movements such as the rising trot, trotting and cantering, the rider engages many muscle groups. From a physical perspective, riding can provide cardiovascular exercise and help develop core strength and general strength.

Subhadra also spoke about the experience of being close to an animal and the effect this may have on mood. She associated this with vagal nerve stimulation and changes in chemicals such as serotonin and cortisol. These comments reflect her perspective from practice, rather than a conclusion established by this interview.

• Choosing a horse: temperament, health and gait

When you select horses for the centre, what qualities matter most?

Our requirements are different from those of a racing stable or a school focused on competitive sport. We need horses with a calm, workable temperament and stable behaviour. The children and adults who come to the centre have different needs. Some may talk continuously; others may become distressed or have a meltdown during a session. The horse must be able to remain steady in such situations.

Health is equally important. We try to understand the horse’s medical history, including previous injuries, recurring illnesses and any known susceptibility to particular conditions. We speak to the owners and, wherever possible, to the veterinarians who have treated the horse.

We also watch the horse walk to assess its gait. If the gait is not suitable, the horse may not be appropriate for our work. When a person is seated on a horse, the horse’s movement is transmitted through the rider’s body. Subhadra explained that this is particularly relevant to therapeutic work with people who have cerebral palsy or spinal and other physical challenges. The movement of the horse can help support physical work with the rider.

• The Aśvaśāstra, coat colour and whorls

Traditional Aśvaśāstra texts give considerable attention to coat colour and whorls. Do these features influence your choice of a horse?

Subhadra observed that animals have often been selectively bred for particular characteristics. In some breeds, coat colour may therefore be relevant to the purpose for which the animal was bred. She mentioned the white horse commonly referred to as a 'Nukra' and noted that white horses may have been bred for ceremonial purposes. She also suggested that a completely white animal could raise questions about albinism and associated health issues, such as hearing or vision problems. These observations should not be taken to mean that every white horse is albino.

From a practical point of view, a white horse may require more grooming because dirt is more visible. Subhadra also offered the view that, in the Indian climate, lighter-coloured horses may be less prone to heat stroke than darker ones. She did not, however, regard coat colour as a reliable guide to behaviour. For her, the horse’s individual temperament matters far more.

What about whorls, sometimes discussed through the idea of “whorlology”?

Subhadra described the study of whorls as an old area of interest that has at times been dismissed as superstition. She referred to more recent research that, in her view, may suggest a connection between the formation of whorls and the nervous system. At the same time, she stressed that there is not enough research to establish that whorls can determine an animal’s temperament. She regarded it as an open question, somewhere between established science and pseudoscience.

This is an especially interesting point of contact with the Aśvaśāstra tradition. The texts record detailed observations about the external features of horses. The challenge today is to examine such descriptions carefully and ask which observations have practical value, which remain untested, and which may belong to the realm of inherited belief.

White hooves: a traditional warning reconsidered

Some traditional manuals treat white hooves as undesirable. Do you share that concern?

Subhadra did not consider white hooves inherently problematic. Some breeds naturally have white hooves without any apparent difficulty. She suggested that an injury may be easier to notice against a white hoof, which could make it easier to monitor. In her experience, hoof colour alone is not a sufficient reason to reject a horse.

This exchange raised an important question for my own research: when a traditional manual repeatedly warns against a particular feature, does that warning reflect accumulated practical experience, a regional preference, or a belief that became established through repetition? Contemporary practitioners can help us frame such questions, even when they cannot settle them on their own.

• Foals and early conditioning

How do you begin working with a young horse?

The approach is different when a foal is born at the centre. In that case, conditioning can begin from the very beginning. Because the horses at Miracle Equine Center work around children and many different people, it is important for them to become comfortable with human touch and human presence. Children can be noisy, and the horse needs to be accustomed to a range of sounds and situations.

Subhadra explained that foals born at the centre are exposed to people from the time they are born. She began to emphasise the importance of the first four hours after birth, but the supplied recording transcript ends at that point. I have therefore not attempted to complete or interpret the rest of her explanation.

Bringing texts and living practice into conversation

This conversation brought together two kinds of knowledge that I am interested in exploring: the practical experience of a horsewoman working today, and the traditional Indian literature on horses, particularly the Aśvaśāstra texts. The comparison is not always straightforward. A practice described in an old text and a similar practice followed today may represent continuity, but it may also be a case of two generations of practitioners arriving independently at a similar conclusion.

For me, the value of such conversations lies in the questions they open up. Which observations in the texts remain useful? Which need to be tested against contemporary knowledge? Where do modern practitioners agree with traditional descriptions, and where do they challenge them? The aim is neither to accept every statement in an old text uncritically nor to dismiss it as a relic of the past. It is to read carefully, ask questions and learn from the encounter.

A note on health claims: During the conversation, Subhadra described therapeutic riding in terms of vagal nerve stimulation and its possible effects on mood and other bodily processes. These are her explanations as a practitioner; the specific physiological and therapeutic claims would need to be considered against clinical research and should not be read as medical advice.

Kailash Mansarovar – Part III

Kailash Manasarovar Part I
Continued from Kailash Manasarovar Part II

28 June – Crossing Dolma La

The night at Diraphuk was bitterly cold. Fortunately, the heated mattress kept me warm enough to sleep. We were awakened well before dawn. Around us, several pilgrims were struggling with Acute Mountain Sickness. Some had headaches and nausea, while others were debating whether to attempt the crossing of Dolma La or return to Darchen.

I had a mild bout of diarrhoea, something that often happens to me under stress. Yet, to my surprise, my oxygen saturation was still around 91%, remarkably good for the altitude. My porter and horseman arrived at 6:30 AM, and after a brief moment of hesitation, I decided to continue.

North side of Kailash in golden glory

Pilgrims had already begun walking in the darkness. Wearing my head torch, I mounted the horse as a light drizzle fell. It was too gentle to warrant a raincoat. After about an hour, dawn slowly illuminated the valley. I longed to get off and walk, but my young horseman firmly refused. He had one responsibility—to deliver me safely across Dolma La.

Sitting in the saddle for so long made my legs sore. At a small rest stop, I finally managed to dismount for a few minutes. The snow-covered summit of Kailash gleamed in the early morning light, and I quickly captured the moment before we continued.

The trail climbed steadily in a series of steep switchbacks towards Dolma La, the highest point of the parikrama at about 5,630 metres(18,471 feet). Because we had started early, the route was not yet crowded. The climb demanded slow, deliberate breathing. Around me, many pilgrims paused frequently, some relying on portable oxygen cylinders as they battled the altitude.

At Dolma La

I found myself turning inward. The mantra of Green Tara—"Om Tare Tuttare Ture Svaha"—kept pace with my breathing. I was not praying for miracles; I was simply breathing, walking, and absorbing the immensity of the landscape.

Dolma is the Tibetan name for Tara, the bodhisattva of compassion. Tibetan Buddhists regard Dolma La as a place of profound transformation—a symbolic passage from one life to another, from ignorance to wisdom. Hindu pilgrims too see the crossing as a moment of spiritual rebirth. Remembering the Green Tara pendant I had bought in Darchen only the previous evening, I felt an unexpected sense of connection. Whether coincidence or grace, it seemed fitting that Tara should accompany me across the pass that bears her name. Here is my research paper on Tara.

A beautiful image of Tara at Patan museum, Kathmandu

Soon we crossed the summit of Dolma La and began the descent. I pleaded with my horseman to let me walk. He finally agreed, partly because another pilgrim on horseback was exhausted and desperately needed his attention.

After a quick drink of water and a little food, I started down the rocky trail. Without looking back, I descended carefully, one step at a time. On the way, I caught sight of the frozen Gauri Kund, nestled far below the pass, and paused only long enough to take a photograph.

Glorious Gauri Kund

A little later, I found myself walking alongside a few Buddhist nuns. We exchanged smiles but very few words before our paths gradually separated. The remaining eight or nine kilometres downhill, which I had imagined would be lonely, turned out to be deeply peaceful.

As I walked, another Buddhist chant arose naturally in my mind—the closing line of the Heart Sūtra: Gate Gate Pāragate Pārasaṃgate Bodhi Svāhā—"Gone, gone, gone beyond, gone completely beyond, awakening, svāhā." The words seemed to echo the journey itself.

By around 11 AM, I reached the point where the horses regrouped. Although my horseman was waiting, I chose to continue alternating between walking and riding. At one of the tents along the trail, I finally found something I had been hoping to taste throughout the journey—butter tea. Warm, salty, and unfamiliar, it felt wonderfully comforting in the cold mountain air.

Butter tea in my cup...

Looking back, I realised that crossing Dolma La was not my greatest physical achievement. It was a lesson in surrender—trusting my breath, accepting my pace, and allowing the mountain to decide how the journey would unfold. 

The guesthouse at Zuthulphuk was much like the one at Diraphuk, simple and functional. One major difference, however, was the absence of toilets inside the building. We had to depend on the public toilets outside, which were in a deplorable condition.

Despite the discomfort, I chose to use them rather than relieve myself on the pristine grassland by the river. Several pilgrims found the toilets unusable and opted for the open ground instead. While I understood their predicament, it saddened me to see such practices in a landscape revered by millions and so ecologically fragile.

The Kailash–Mansarovar region welcomes thousands of pilgrims every year. I could not help wishing that the Chinese and Indian authorities, along with the organisations that facilitate the pilgrimage, would work together to provide clean, environmentally sustainable sanitation facilities. Preserving the sanctity of this extraordinary landscape surely begins with caring for it in the most basic ways.

29 June – Completing the Kora

The final day of the Kailash kora began before sunrise. My horseman, Karma, and the mare, Muchu, arrived punctually at 6:15 AM. I was almost ready. After informing our organisers, I set off at around 6:40 AM, with my headlamp lighting the trail ahead.

Muchu was in high spirits that morning. She trotted along eagerly, and I found myself enjoying her steady pace. After about half an hour, dawn gradually illuminated the valley, and the trail opened into a broad, flat landscape. It felt like the mountain was gently easing us out of its embrace.

I decided to dismount and walk the remaining distance beside the river. In the distance, I could see the snow-clad massif of Gurla Mandhata and the shimmering waters of Lake Mansarovar. It was a fitting finale to the pilgrimage. The landscape seemed quieter now, as though inviting reflection rather than awe.

By around 9:00 a.m., I reached Zongzerbu, much earlier than I had expected. Months of planning, physical preparation, and quiet determination had culminated in this moment. More than anything else, I felt grateful. My health had remained remarkably good throughout the parikrama, allowing me to experience it exactly as I had hoped.

After taking a few photographs, we drove back to our hotel in Darchen for lunch. The members of our group who had been unable to complete the kora were already there. Later, some pilgrims chose to visit Ashtapad, traditionally associated with the attainment of liberation by the first Jain Tirthankara, Rishabhanatha. I decided to remain at the hotel instead, content to rest quietly in the lobby. After the intensity of the previous two days, doing nothing at all felt like the perfect way to end the pilgrimage.

After lunch at our hotel in Darchen, we drove back to our accommodation on the shores of Lake Mansarovar. This time, our dormitory was on a different part of the lake, where the shoreline lay a short walk away. The six of us shared a room, and it was easy to wander back and forth between the dormitory and the water whenever we wished.

That evening, nature treated us to a magnificent farewell. A brilliant double rainbow arched across the sky above Mansarovar, and we happily posed for photographs, capturing memories with the close circle of friends we had formed during the pilgrimage.

Later that night, we walked once again to the lakeshore to watch the full moon rise. Clouds partially veiled the moon, yet its silvery light spread across the still waters, creating a scene of quiet beauty. We stood in silence, each absorbed in our own thoughts.

Before dawn the next morning, Manasi and I returned to the lakeside at around 4:45 AM. Soon the others joined us. In the clear sky, countless stars shimmered above us. We identified familiar constellations and watched a few man-made satellites glide silently overhead. Standing beside the sacred lake, under a sky that seemed endless, I felt both very small and deeply connected to the universe.

The following two days were devoted to the return journey—from Mansarovar to Saga, and then from Saga back to Kathmandu. The roads were the same, but I was not. Somewhere along the way, between the silence of the plateau, the waters of Mansarovar, and the crossing of Dolma La, the pilgrimage had quietly transformed me. I carried home no dramatic revelations, only a deeper sense of gratitude, humility, and wonder.

I am grateful to Mahesh Shejwal, Swapnil Pandit, Shruti Sawant and the rest of Maitri team and ABC adventures from the bottom of my heart for making this adventure!

Epilogue

Somewhere on the way to Manasarovar, my sister Aditi sent me a recording of the bhajan "Shankar Sankat Harna" in her own voice. (She is one who connected me with Deepa and her friends. And she is there near my parents whenever they need any help.) The verse lingered in my mind long after the journey had ended:

तेरे कैलाशों का अंत ना पाया,
अंत बेअंत तेरी माया,
ओ भोले बाबा,
अंत बेअंत तेरी माया।

The line "अंत बेअंत तेरी माया" ("Your mystery is endless") resonated with me on several levels. As a historian, I saw centuries of pilgrims, monks, traders, and diplomats whose lives had intersected in this landscape. As someone interested in Tibetan Buddhism, I encountered Tara, Milarepa, monasteries, and chants that enriched my understanding of the region. As a Hindu, I experienced the deep symbolism of Yamadwar, Mansarovar, and Kailash itself. Yet none of these perspectives could claim to explain the mountain completely. Each offered only one way of approaching an enduring mystery.

As I reflected on my journey, I realised that "Kailash" in the song is not merely a peak of rock and snow. It is a symbol of the infinite. During the parikrama, every bend in the trail revealed a different face of the mountain. The changing light transformed its appearance from hour to hour, making it seem as though there was always another Kailash waiting to be discovered. Even after completing the kora, I felt I had only glimpsed a tiny fraction of what the mountain represents.

Perhaps that is why Kailash continues to draw people of different faiths and cultures. It cannot be possessed, conquered, or fully understood. It can only be approached—with curiosity, humility, and gratitude.

After standing in the shadow of Kailash, I finally understood those words.

The mountain is finite; its meaning is not!

Walking with Kailash (Part II)

 

Continued from Part I

26 June – The Long Road to Darchen

Our day began early. By 7:30 a.m., we had set out from Saga for Darchen, a journey of nearly 500 kilometres across the Tibetan Plateau. Breakfast was simple but nourishing—puris with potato and soya chunk curry, accompanied by semolina porridge.

By now, the effects of altitude were becoming evident. Many fellow pilgrims looked tired, groggy, and restless. Some struggled with headaches and nausea, while others could barely manage a few bites of breakfast. Watching them, I realised that the mountain tests each traveller differently.

By lunchtime, however, we were treated to an excellent meal—rajma chawal, tofu curry, fresh salad, and slices of sweet watermelon. My appetite remained good, and I ate heartily, conscious that I would need every bit of strength for the demanding parikrama that lay ahead.

As the journey continued, I found myself increasingly appreciative of our Sherpa team. While we rested in our seats, they worked tirelessly behind the scenes—loading and unloading luggage, coordinating meals, checking on everyone's needs, and quietly ensuring that the pilgrimage progressed smoothly. Their dedication was easy to overlook, yet it formed the backbone of our entire journey.

Food truck being loaded

The long drive across the plateau was slowly carrying us towards Darchen, the gateway to Mount Kailash. With every passing kilometre, the anticipation within the group grew stronger.

The road from Saga was remarkably smooth. The buses moved swiftly across the vast plateau, where the terrain was mostly flat with only gentle undulations. The kilometres seemed to pass effortlessly.

At around 3 PM, just beyond one security checkpoint, our guide announced that we were about to catch our first glimpse of Mount Kailash and Lake Mansarovar. Everyone instinctively turned towards the windows.

There it was.

Before us rose two magnificent landmarks of the sacred landscape. To the south stood the majestic, snow-clad Gurla Mandhata, its massive presence overlooking Lake Mansarovar. Fed by glaciers from the surrounding mountains, the lake shimmered in shades of emerald and turquoise beneath the brilliant Tibetan sky. Beyond it, serene and unmistakable, stood Mount Kailash. Though not the tallest peak in the region, its striking symmetry and spiritual aura made it instantly recognisable.

For a few moments, the crowd fell silent. I found tears welling up in my eyes. After months of preparation and years of dreaming, the sight before me seemed almost unreal. I hugged the organisers in gratitude, overwhelmed by the realisation that I had finally reached this sacred landscape

Soon afterwards, we arrived at the western shore of Lake Mansarovar. The water was icy, though not unbearably so. I splashed a handful over my face and head, and a sudden shiver ran down my spine.

A little away from the pilgrims, I sat cross-legged by the lakeside. I gathered a few stones and built a small cairn before settling into meditation with open eyes. There was nothing to seek and nothing to imagine. The mountain, the lake, the vast sky, and the silence were enough.

Around me, many pilgrims took a ritual bath despite the cold and performed worship with the small brass Shivalingam we had received at the beginning of the journey. I chose simply to sit and gaze at the ethereal beauty of the lake. Its crystal-clear, emerald waters shimmered in the afternoon light, and for that moment, quiet contemplation felt like my truest form of prayer. 

The Kailash–Mansarovar region is often described as the "Water Tower of Asia." Within a relatively small area arise four of the continent's great river systems. The Brahmaputra (Yarlung Tsangpo) flows east across Tibet before making a dramatic turn through the Himalayas into Arunachal Pradesh and Assam. The Karnali, the largest tributary of the Ganga, descends through western Nepal before joining the Ghaghara in India. The Indus, which gave India its name, flows northwest through Ladakh and Pakistan before emptying into the Arabian Sea. The Sutlej also originates in this region and eventually joins the Indus. In striking contrast, Rakshastal is a landlocked saline lake with no outlet. Rich in dissolved minerals, its waters are unsuitable for drinking, yet they possess a stark beauty of their own. 

As we drove past, I found myself admiring both lakes equally. One is revered as a symbol of purity and spiritual renewal, the other wrapped in mythology and associated with Ravana. Nature, however, seemed indifferent to these labels. Under the clear blue sky, both appeared equally magnificent.

That evening, after dinner, I wandered into a small Tibetan curio shop opposite our hotel in Darchen. The shelves were lined with prayer wheels, beads, incense, and Buddhist artefacts.

Among them, I spotted a tiny pendant of Green Tārā. For just 25 CNY, I knew instantly that I wanted it. The shopkeeper threaded it onto a thick dark brown cord and added a small coral bead, transforming the little pendant into a simple yet beautiful necklace.

Green Tara has long been my favourite Buddhist deity. In Vajrayāna Buddhism, she is revered as the compassionate saviourress who responds swiftly to the sufferings of sentient beings and helps them overcome fear and obstacles. Her mantra, Om Tare Tuttare Ture Svaha, sung so beautifully by Ani Choying Drolma, has always been one of my favourites.

As a student of Indian traditions, I also find it fascinating that Tara occupies an honoured place in Hinduism. She is one of the Daśa Mahāvidyās, the ten great manifestations of the Divine Mother in the Śākta–Śaiva tradition, where she is revered as the compassionate guide who helps devotees cross the ocean of suffering. The Sanskrit root tṛ means "to cross," and the name Tārā itself suggests "the one who ferries across."

Only later did I realise another beautiful connection. The highest point of the Kailash parikrama is Dolma La, named after Dolma, the Tibetan name for Tara. The pass is regarded not merely as a mountain crossing but as a symbolic passage from one state of being to another. Wearing the little Green Tārā pendant around my neck, I wondered if it had found me at exactly the right moment.

27 June – In the Shadow of Kailash 

The bus dropped us at Yamadwar, the traditional starting point of the Kailash parikrama. A modest gateway standing against the vast Himalayan landscape, it marks the symbolic entrance to one of the world's most sacred pilgrimages. 

The allocation of horses and porters was done through a lottery. My horseman turned out to be a very young, inexperienced boy who was supervised by an older handler. They were understandably anxious that I should remain on horseback throughout the journey, especially since the most demanding stretch lay ahead. 

I, however, had a different plan. I had opted for a horse mainly as a precaution for the second day, when the climb to Dolma La would test every pilgrim. On this first day, I wanted to experience the parikrama on foot as much as I comfortably could. After riding for about a kilometre, I dismounted and began to walk at my own pace, using my trekking pole and paying close attention to my breathing. Later, as we approached Diraphuk, I mounted the horse again. 

At Yamadwar

In Hindu belief, Yamadwar—literally "the Gateway of Yama," the god of death—represents leaving behind one's worldly attachments before entering the sacred realm of Mount Kailash. Many pilgrims circumambulate the gateway before setting out, viewing the parikrama as a symbolic journey of death to the old self and rebirth into a life of greater awareness. For Tibetan Buddhists too, the circuit around Kailash is an act of purification, believed to cleanse the accumulated karma of countless lifetimes. 

The trail was a delight to walk. To our left flowed the Lha Chu River, its icy waters rushing gently through the valley. On our right rose the magnificent western face of Mount Kailash. As the hours passed and the sun moved across the sky, the mountain seemed to transform itself. The changing light revealed new ridges, shadows, and textures, making it appear almost like a different mountain every time I looked up. It was impossible to resist turning back every few minutes for another glimpse.

With every step, Mount Kailash appeared closer and more imposing. The pilgrimage had ceased to be an idea. It had become a lived experience. We reach Diraphuk in broad daylight and I find a room to rest. But I keep going out to see the north face of Kailash and Diraphuk monastery beyond the river bed. 

Continued to Part III