Kailash Mansarovar – Part III

Continued from 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 a.m., and after a brief moment of hesitation, I decided to continue.

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.

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.

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.

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 11:00 a.m., 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.

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 a.m. I was almost ready. After informing our organisers, I set off at around 6:40 a.m., 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 a.m. Soon the others joined us. In the clear Himalayan 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.

Walking with Kailash (Part II)

 

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.

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 3:00 p.m., just beyond a 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. 

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.

En route, we stopped at a small teahouse for lunch. A simple meal of steamed rice and stir-fried vegetables tasted wonderfully satisfying in the crisp mountain air. Sometimes, hunger and fresh air are the best seasonings. Suparna joins me at the restaurant briefly but I am mostly on my own. 

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. 

Kailash: A Secular Pilgrimage (Part I)

 Walking Through Mountains, Memory, and History

"Some journeys begin with a booking. Others begin decades before, in books, classrooms, mountain trails, and quiet dreams."

People often ask why anyone would willingly spend nearly four lakh rupees, endure uncertain roads, high altitude, freezing temperatures, and physical discomfort simply to walk around a mountain. It is a fair question. For me, the answer is neither simple nor singular.

I was born into a Hindu family, and like millions of Hindus, I grew up hearing that Mount Kailash is the abode of Shiva. Yet, my curiosity has never been confined to one religious tradition. Years of studying ancient Indian history introduced me to Buddhism, and through it to Tibet—its monasteries, philosophy, art, and extraordinary resilience. The mountain I was travelling to is not sacred only to Hindus. It is equally revered by Buddhists, Jains, and followers of the Bön tradition. Few places on Earth carry such a remarkable convergence of faiths.

Preparing for Kailash

Perhaps the journey had begun long before I booked my seat with the Maitri Group.

Every book I had read on the Silk Route, every lecture I had delivered on Buddhist history, every encounter with Tibetan art and philosophy, and every trek through the Himalayas had quietly nudged me towards this sacred landscape. The pilgrimage was not an impulsive adventure. It was the natural culmination of decades of learning, curiosity, and reflection.

I knew, however, that intellectual preparation alone would not be enough. Kailash demands physical endurance, mental resilience, and the ability to adapt to altitude. For several years, I had maintained a regular routine of jogging. In the months leading up to the pilgrimage, I added yoga and prāṇāyāma in a systematic way, hoping they would improve both my stamina and my breathing.

My husband, Vinay, shared my love for the mountains, and our treks gradually became part of my preparation. In 2025, we completed the treks to Hemkund Sahib (about 14,000 ft / 4,270 m) and Sandakphu–Phalut (about 12,500 ft / 3,810 m). A month before leaving for Tibet, we revisited the Pindari Glacier trek. Besides being one of my favourite Himalayan trails, it served as an excellent opportunity to reacquaint my body with higher altitudes just a month ahead. 

At Sandakphu- October 2025

There was one more skill I needed to acquire. Since horse riding would almost certainly become necessary during the Kailash kora, I enrolled for a couple of riding sessions at Gorai Creek, where my cousin Mandar trains horses. Learning to keep my back straight while rising rhythmically with a trotting pony was far more demanding than I had imagined. Although I attended only two sessions, the experience proved surprisingly useful during the parikrama.

At Gorai equestrian centre 

Books formed another part of my preparation. On the recommendation of my friend Sujata, I read Colin Thubron's To a Mountain in Tibet. His account, written from the perspective of a thoughtful, secular traveller, resonated deeply with me. I also read Kailash Manasarovar by Pilot Baba (Rajrishi Kapil Advait). While its descriptions of the region are interwoven with spiritual experiences, yogic traditions, and accounts of immortal siddhas that belong to the realm of faith rather than history, the book offered a valuable glimpse into how Kailash has been understood by many Indian seekers.

Looking back, I realise that preparing for Kailash involved much more than booking flights, packing warm clothes, or improving my fitness. It was an education of the body, the mind, and the imagination. By the time I set foot in Kathmandu, the pilgrimage had already begun.

Was I seeking a miracle? Not really. I was seeking an experience. I wanted to stand before a mountain that has inspired sages, monks, pilgrims, and explorers for thousands of years. I wanted to understand why generations of people, separated by geography and belief, considered this remote peak to be the centre of their spiritual universe. I wanted to see Tibet—not merely as a place on a map, but as a living cultural landscape whose history has fascinated me for years.

There was also a more personal reason. Some journeys are measured not by the distance travelled but by the questions they allow us to ask ourselves. The physical hardships of the Kailash Mansarovar Yatra strip life down to its essentials. At high altitude, one cannot rely on comfort or routine. One walks slowly, breath by breath, discovering both one's limitations and one's resilience. Such journeys rarely change the mountain; they change the traveller.

In the end, the money spent, the difficult terrain, and the weeks of preparation were not the cost of the journey—they were the price of an opportunity that may come only once in a lifetime. Kailash was, for me, a meeting point of history, faith, philosophy, nature, and self-discovery. That was reason enough to go.

Two days before my flight to Kathmandu, I travelled to Mumbai and stayed with my in-laws. They live by themselves now, managing their daily lives with quiet determination. Watching them go about their routines reminded me of how ageing gradually changes one's world—not dramatically, but through countless small adjustments that become part of everyday life.

The following day offered a striking contrast. I met three of my classmates from IIT. Each of us had travelled a very different path over three decades, and each carried a unique life story. We met at an elegant restaurant in Bandra Kurla Complex (BKC), where conversation flowed effortlessly from college memories to careers, families, health, and the unexpected turns life had taken. There was laughter, nostalgia, and an unspoken recognition that time had shaped us all in different ways.

From there I travelled to Borivali to spend time with my parents. Every visit now carries a different emotional weight. One becomes acutely aware that parents are growing older, and that time with them is no longer something to be taken for granted. Sitting with them, talking about ordinary things, sharing a meal—these simple moments acquire a quiet significance.

Looking back, I realise that even before my pilgrimage began, I had already been reflecting on the different stages of life. In the span of two days, I had witnessed old age in my in-laws, shared the companionship of peers who had journeyed through the middle decades of life, and returned to the comforting presence of my parents. It felt as though life itself was gently preparing me for a journey that was not merely across the Himalayas, but also inward.

The day was not over yet.

As I returned from Borivali to Dadar, I chose to take a cab, thinking it would be a comfortable and relaxed journey after an emotionally fulfilling day. When I got down and started crossing the road, I waited for the pedestrian signal to turn green. Confident that I had the right of way, I stepped forward.

In an instant, everything changed.

A motorcycle, travelling from the opposite direction, struck me. The impact was strong enough to leave me shaken, but somehow I did not fall. I remember standing there, stunned, with bruises beginning to appear on my legs and knee. For a brief moment, time seemed to stop. My first bewildering thought was, Am I dead? It took a few seconds to realise that I was still standing, still breathing, and astonishingly, able to walk.

Once I regained my composure, I quietly made my way home.

I told no one. There seemed little point in worrying the family, especially when I had escaped with only bruises. Perhaps I also needed time to process what had happened. It was only much later, during the Kailash Mansarovar Yatra, that I recounted the incident to the six wonderful women who had become my companions and friends. As they listened, I realised how narrowly I had escaped what could have been a far more serious accident.

Looking back, I do not see the accident as an omen or a miracle. It was simply a stark reminder of how fragile life is. We often imagine that our plans unfold because we are in control. In reality, life can change in a matter of seconds. That unexpected collision made me appreciate, even before the pilgrimage had begun, that every step of the journey ahead was a gift rather than a certainty.

20th June The Yatra begins

On the morning of 20 June, I arrived at Terminal 2 of Mumbai Airport, where my Kailash Mansarovar Yatra was to begin. Weeks of preparation had finally culminated in this moment.

After locating the Maitri Group, I met fellow yatris who, until then, had been only names on a WhatsApp group. Though we came from different walks of life, we were united by a common destination. As we waited to board our flight to Kathmandu, I couldn't help wondering what had brought each of us here. My own reasons were a blend of faith, history, curiosity, and a lifelong fascination with the Himalayas.

Soon, we boarded the flight, leaving behind the familiar and setting out on a journey that promised to be unlike any other.

At the airport, each yatri was given a duffle bag, a backpack, a sling bag, and luggage tags. We were told that once we reached Kathmandu, all our belongings would have to fit into these bags for the rest of the journey.

The kit also included a poncho, some savouries for the road, and, most importantly, a small brass Shivalingam along with the puja materials that would be used during the rituals at Mansarovar.

As I held the little Shivalingam in my hand, I instinctively decided that I would bring it back for my brother. Somehow, even before the pilgrimage had begun, I knew it belonged with him.

The Circle of Friends

Every pilgrimage is remembered not only for the places it takes us to, but also for the people we meet along the way.

My introduction to the Kailash Mansarovar Yatra came through Deepa, a school friend of my sister's. We had studied in the same school in Borivali, Mumbai, though we had not known each other well then. Through her, I found myself welcomed into a close-knit group of Deepa's friends from Pune—Suparna, Manasi, Madhura, and to that Himagauri from Sangali was added. She was technically Deepa's daughter-in-law from Sangli, affectionately called the "Snow White".  We were also joined by Shital from Thane.

Most of them were in their forties and fifties, seasoned trekkers and fitness freaks with grown-up children. Suparna had brought along her young son, while the rest of us were travelling on our own. Shital and Himagauri were a bit younger and they gelled well. Shital was doing the Kailash Yatra for the second time! She knew what to expect.

As the days passed, we naturally gravitated towards one another. We shared meals, exchanged stories, and looked out for each other during the journey. At the same time, I also cherished my solitary walks and moments of quiet reflection. The companionship was comforting, but the pilgrimage remained, in many ways, a deeply personal journey.

21 June – Temples of Kathmandu

Our first full day in Kathmandu was devoted to visiting two of Nepal's most revered shrines—Budhanilkantha and Pashupatinath.

At Budhanilkantha, I was struck by the magnificent stone image of Lord Vishnu reclining on the coils of the cosmic serpent, Shesha, in the middle of a water tank. Carved from a single block of black stone, the serene expression on the deity's face seemed untouched by the bustle of the devotees gathered around.

Later, we visited Pashupatinath, one of the most sacred Shiva temples in the Hindu world. The temple, built in the distinctive Nepali pagoda style with its tiered roofs and exquisitely carved wooden struts, immediately caught my attention. As someone interested in the history of architecture, I found myself admiring not only its religious significance but also its craftsmanship.

Behind the temple flows the Bagmati River. The stone ghats lining its banks were remarkably clean and well maintained. Pilgrims performed rituals, priests conducted ceremonies, and life unfolded at an unhurried pace. Despite the temple's importance and the steady stream of visitors, the entire complex retained an atmosphere of dignity and calm.

It was a fitting beginning to the pilgrimage. Before venturing into the stark landscapes of Tibet, we were introduced to the rich religious and artistic heritage of the Kathmandu Valley—a reminder that the Himalayas have long been not just a geographical barrier, but a meeting place of cultures, faiths, and traditions.

In the evening, Ishwar from ABC Adventures conducted a detailed briefing about the Kailash Mansarovar Yatra. He patiently explained the itinerary, the challenges of high altitude, the importance of acclimatisation, and the discipline that the journey demanded. It was reassuring to know that we would be travelling with an experienced team.

He also introduced us to the land we were about to enter. Rising to about 6,638 metres (21,778 feet) in the remote Trans-Himalayan region of western Tibet, Mount Kailash stands isolated from the surrounding ranges, its nearly symmetrical, snow-clad pyramid making it one of the world's most recognisable sacred mountains. Unlike most famous peaks, Kailash has never been climbed, out of respect for its profound religious significance.

At the foot of the mountain lies Lake Mansarovar, one of the highest freshwater lakes in the world, at an altitude of nearly 4,590 metres (15,060 feet). Not far away is Lake Rakshastal, a striking saltwater lake whose deep blue waters contrast sharply with the calmer expanse of Mansarovar. The region is also remarkable because the headwaters of four great Asian rivers—the Indus, Sutlej, Brahmaputra (Yarlung Tsangpo), and Karnali, a major tributary of the Ganga—originate in the vicinity of Kailash.

For Hindus, Kailash is revered as the eternal abode of Shiva and Parvati. Buddhists worship it as Kang Rinpoche, the "Precious Snow Mountain," associated with Demchok (Chakrasamvara), the embodiment of supreme bliss. Jains believe it to be the place where the first Tirthankara, Rishabhadeva, attained liberation, while followers of the ancient Bön tradition regard it as the spiritual centre of their universe. Few places on Earth are held sacred by so many traditions with such deep reverence.

Listening to the briefing, I realised that I was not merely travelling to a remote mountain. I was about to enter a landscape where geography, history, mythology, and faith had been intertwined for thousands of years.

As Ishwar spoke, I found myself mentally replacing the modern political map with the ancient cultural landscape of the trans-Himalayan world—a region through which pilgrims, monks, traders, and ideas had travelled for centuries. 

Before concluding the briefing, Ishwar shared a simple yet profound thought: "यातना के बिना यात्रा नहीं होती"—Without hardship, there is no pilgrimage.

He explained that a pilgrimage is not meant to be comfortable. Unlike a holiday, it demands endurance, patience, and acceptance of uncertainty. The hardships are not interruptions to the journey; they are part of its purpose.

At that moment, the saying sounded philosophical. In the days that followed, I would come to understand just how true it was.

22 June – The Road to Timure

We left our hotel in Kathmandu at around 9:00 a.m. for Timure, the last major halt in Nepal before crossing into Tibet. Although the distance was only about 126 kilometres, the winding mountain roads meant that the journey would take almost the entire day.

Barely an hour into the drive, I was seized by an urgent need to urinate. The road snaked through steep hills with no rest areas and hardly any place where the bus could stop safely. I somehow managed to hold on until we reached Nuwakot. Similar moments occurred a couple more times during the journey, making me acutely aware of my own vulnerability. On a pilgrimage like this, one quickly learns that even the simplest bodily needs cannot always be met at will.

We stopped for lunch at a restaurant called Bandre Jimbu. Feeding hundreds of pilgrims every day must have been a formidable task, yet the meal was wholesome and surprisingly delicious.

By evening, we finally reached Nurpu Hotel near Timure, a village close to the Nepal–China border. Though physically tiring, the day's journey was a gentle introduction to the patience and adaptability that the Kailash Yatra would continue to demand.

23 June – Crossing into Tibet

We had an early breakfast and reached the Nepal–China border well before the crowds. Once across, we would switch to Beijing Time, which is 2 hours and 15 minutes ahead of Nepal, and continue to Kerung (Gyirong), our first halt in Tibet.

Crossing the border proved to be an exercise in patience. We were repeatedly asked to line up according to our permit lists, only to be rearranged again. Finally, the large green gate spanning the Trishuli River—the symbolic boundary between Nepal and China—opened, and we walked across. Immigration took another couple of hours, but by noon we had officially entered China.

Our Sherpas, who had looked after us throughout the Nepal leg of the journey, were not permitted to cross the border. Their absence reminded us that from this point onward, we would be travelling under a completely different administrative system.

One scene stayed with me. A large number of women porters carried heavy luggage through the immigration complex, moving briskly between the two sides. Nearby, a few toddlers played contentedly while their mothers worked. Amidst the formalities of an international border, this ordinary picture of working women and carefree children was both touching and memorable. It was a quiet reminder that even at the edge of nations, everyday life continues.

Our hotel in Kerung, the Pilgrim Inn, had large windows overlooking snow-clad mountains. The view was inviting, and I longed to step outside and explore. However, we were advised to remain indoors, keep ourselves warm, and rest well to aid acclimatisation. It was our first reminder that, at high altitude, conserving energy was more important than satisfying curiosity.

That night, we were given our first Diamox tablet as a precaution against altitude sickness. The pilgrimage had truly begun.

With our Sherpas unable to accompany us into Tibet, we had to become more self-reliant. At dinner, the women in our group naturally stepped in to help—serving food, arranging the tables, and ensuring everyone had eaten. Without any discussion or planning, our little "girl power" team had begun to take shape.

24 June – Crossing Landscapes and Centuries 

After breakfast, we visited the nearby Paba Temple, a small but historically significant Buddhist monastery. Tradition associates it with the 7th century and the time of the Tibetan king Songtsen Gampo. What fascinated me most was its architecture, which bears a strong South Asian influence. The lower level is built of earth and stone, the next of red bricks, while the upper storeys display the characteristic Nepalese pagoda style. The temple stands as a reminder of the close cultural and artistic links that once connected Nepal and Tibet.

Paba Temple has also witnessed the changing currents of Tibetan Buddhism. Originally established in the Nyingma tradition, it came under the Gelug school in the sixteenth century and is today maintained by the Kagyu tradition. Its architecture and religious history together reflect the many layers of Tibet's past.

Inside the temple, a couple of nuns were chanting in deep, sonorous voices. I did not understand the words, but the rhythm of their prayers filled the hall with a profound sense of peace. For a few moments, history, architecture, and spirituality seemed to merge into a single experience.

Around 12:30 p.m., our Sherpa team finally arrived, having completed the formalities at the border. Their arrival brought a wave of relief. Over the past day we had realised how much we depended on them—not just for handling luggage and logistics, but also for the quiet confidence their presence inspired. We welcomed them back with genuine warmth.

At about 2:30 p.m., we left Kerung, marking the beginning of our journey across the Tibetan Plateau. Contrary to my expectation of a barren, windswept landscape, the route was surprisingly green. Rolling hills covered with grass stretched on either side of the road, dotted with grazing yaks and sheep. It was only later, as we travelled deeper into Tibet, that the vast, stark beauty of the high plateau would gradually reveal itself.

Before we reached Kaire Falls, my eyes caught a brown tourist information board that read: "Inscription of the Envoy of the Tang Dynasty." The words instantly transported me back to the seventh century.

I was reminded of Wang Xuance, the celebrated diplomat of the Tang court who travelled to India as an envoy of Emperor Taizong. As a student of history, I found it exhilarating to imagine those diplomatic missions traversing these very mountains on horseback or on foot, carrying imperial messages across the Himalayas to the court of King Harshavardhana. Long before modern highways and motor vehicles, these rugged passes had connected India and Tibet through an exchange of people, ideas, religion, and commerce.

For a brief moment, the landscape before me ceased to be merely scenic. It became a living corridor of history, where pilgrims, monks, traders, and envoys had journeyed for centuries.

Further along the route, I noticed a signboard pointing towards Milarepa's Cave and a monastery near Nyalam. As someone deeply interested in Tibetan Buddhism, I was instantly intrigued. Milarepa, Tibet's most celebrated yogi and poet-saint, had long fascinated me.

According to Tibetan tradition, Milarepa is the only historical figure believed to have ascended Mount Kailash. He is also remembered for his years of solitary meditation in remote caves, sustained largely on a diet of wild nettles, which, legend says, gave his skin a greenish hue. Whether history or hagiography, these stories have inspired generations of Tibetan Buddhists.

Unfortunately, there was no possibility of making a detour. Our itinerary, understandably centred on the Hindu pilgrimage to Kailash and Mansarovar, left little time to explore sites of Buddhist historical significance.

As the bus rolled on, I searched for information on my phone. The intermittent network and poorly loading maps made it difficult to understand where the cave lay in relation to our route. It left me with a quiet resolve: one day, I would like to return to Tibet, not as a pilgrim to Kailash, but as a student of its Buddhist history.

We reached Saga County at around 8:00 p.m. Beijing time. Yet, because we were so far west on the Tibetan Plateau, the sun was still shining brightly. It felt strange to see such daylight so late in the evening—a reminder that the entire country follows a single time zone despite its vast east-west expanse.

After a long wait, we finally received our room keys. There was only one elevator, with a queue of tired pilgrims waiting patiently. Eager to rest after the long day's journey, I made what, at that altitude, was perhaps a daring decision—I climbed five flights of stairs to my room. Breathless but relieved to have reached my bed, I realised that even the simplest tasks demanded much greater effort at high altitude. 

The night turns out to be horrible for several pilgrims. They start having vomiting, nausea and headaches. Surprisingly, my oxygen level and condition is totally fine. I sleep through the night without realizing that one of my roommates is sick and the other one is helping her. 

25 June – Learning to Walk Slowly

The next day in Saga was reserved for acclimatisation. After the previous day's long journey, most of the group preferred to rest. I, however, felt the urge to step outside and experience the town on my own.

Walking alone through the streets of Saga, I moved deliberately slowly, trying to understand how my body responded to the altitude. I was reminded of the Buddhist practice of walking meditation and began paying attention to each step and each breath. Instead of measuring distance, I measured my pace by the rhythm of my breathing. The walk became unexpectedly calming.

For a while, I felt like humming a familiar tune. Music has always been my natural companion, but I resisted the temptation. The silence of the plateau seemed complete in itself, and I did not want to disturb it. Nor did I feel the need to chat with my new friends or call home. There was a quiet contentment in simply being present, observing my surroundings and listening to my own breath.

Fortunately, I felt comfortable and did not experience any significant breathlessness. I bought a trekking pole and a wide-brimmed hat, both of which would prove useful during the Kailash parikrama. Small shops displayed local products and Tibetan souvenirs, and I spent some time window shopping. I was tempted to taste the local food, but unsure of how my body might react, I decided against experimenting so far from medical help.

The afternoon brought us back to the practicalities of the pilgrimage. We were asked to decide whether we would hire a porter, a horse, or both for the three-day parikrama around Mount Kailash.

It was a reminder that the most demanding part of the journey still lay ahead, and each of us had to make an honest assessment of our own physical abilities.

Read further- Part II