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.
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