Under Angels' Wings: Leh to McleodGanj
Flat tire and rock slide—Leh-Manali Highway, India; Wednesday, August 17, and Thursday, August 18, 2011
The return trip from Leh to Manali was two days by a government bus. With that mode of transportation, the four legs of my two round trips on the Leh-Manali Highway have now been in a private car, with a hired driver, in a commercial 11-passenger bus, and now with a government operated vehicle that holds 27 passengers.
My seat is Seat #1, first row, on the aisle, behind the driver. Sitting here, I’m the closest passenger to the swinging door that connects the driver’s compartment with the passenger cabin, so when Kashev, the driver’s assistant passes through or attends to other duties, leaving the door open and free to swing, I hold it so it doesn’t.
My seat is Seat #1, first row, on the aisle, behind the driver. Sitting here, I’m the closest passenger to the swinging door that connects the driver’s compartment with the passenger cabin, so when Kashev, the driver’s assistant passes through or attends to other duties, leaving the door open and free to swing, I hold it so it doesn’t.
My view is limited, and the only way for me to take photos is to slide a glass window directly in front of me then shoot through the bus’ front windshield. Walter, my seat mate from Switzerland, is able to open his passenger window and, with a very nice camera, take photos of scenery on that side of the bus. He speaks little but does chastise me for shooting through glass, saying that it distorts the images. “It’s better than having no photo,” I reply.
Day One
Day One
A Border Roads Organization sign near Leh reads: “Only our best friends and worst enemies want to visit here.” This seems to support a statement that I heard about the Leh-Manali Highway last year—that it’s intentionally kept in poor condition to inhibit a Chinese invasion by land. Maybe. I still think that Mother Nature is the overriding force here.
With a pop then a series of “whoosh, whoosh, whoosh” of escaping air, a rear tire blows. Subhash, the driver, proceeds another couple of kilometers to a safe wide spot in the road, then he and Keshav, the assistant, change it in 15 minutes, standing and bouncing on a long pry bar to loosen and tighten the lug nuts.
In Sarchu, near the same dhaba where a bit of human drama occurred on the way to Leh (see Drama in the dhaba story in the Delhi to Leh chapter), they have the tire repaired by a roadside mechanic who has a gas-powered air compressor and all the basic hand tools for the task. This is the same technology that I and my dad’s mechanics used to repair truck and tractor tires 70 years ago when I was young. Watching him touches my heart.
With a pop then a series of “whoosh, whoosh, whoosh” of escaping air, a rear tire blows. Subhash, the driver, proceeds another couple of kilometers to a safe wide spot in the road, then he and Keshav, the assistant, change it in 15 minutes, standing and bouncing on a long pry bar to loosen and tighten the lug nuts.
In Sarchu, near the same dhaba where a bit of human drama occurred on the way to Leh (see Drama in the dhaba story in the Delhi to Leh chapter), they have the tire repaired by a roadside mechanic who has a gas-powered air compressor and all the basic hand tools for the task. This is the same technology that I and my dad’s mechanics used to repair truck and tractor tires 70 years ago when I was young. Watching him touches my heart.
Stories within this chapter:
Flat tire and rock slide (posted September 5, 2011)
Sunil, the Brahman (posted September 23, 2011)
Hidimba Devi Temple (posted September 23, 2011)
Tree Temple (posted September 23, 2011)
Utopia Complex (posted September 23, 2011)
Atia, Dubi, and Anu (posted September 23, 2011)
International interns (posted September 23, 2011)
In which hotel did I stay? (posted September 23, 2011)
Abridged history of Rewalsar Lake (posted September 25, 2011)
Roaming Rewalsar (posted September 25, 2011)
Rewalsar temples (posted October 7, 2011)
Nuns and beggar women in Buddhist caves (posted October 8, 2011)
Remote Hindu temple (posted October 9, 2011)
Another change in plans (posted October 9, 2011)
The road seems much rougher in more places than what I recall from ten days earlier. The relatively smooth gravel sections in Morey Plains are now a wicked, wicked washboard. At higher elevations, the road is littered in many places by square-edged rocks that range in size from a loaf of bread to larger than a microwave and some like a couch. Often, Subhash veers the bus one direction then another to avoid them. At one place where it’s apparent that a rock slide recently covered the road and has been only partially cleared, he gets out to move three or four microwave-size rocks out of the way. Still, the rear bus tires brush the edge of the hundreds of rocks that remain.
There’s an amazingly few number of oncoming vehicles. So few, in fact—no more than a dozen—that they probably didn’t originate in Manali. What do drivers at the other end of the road know that we don’t know? And there’s snow. Even at relatively lower elevations. A lot of it. Six to eight inches where the bus stops so we can take photos at Bara Lacha. Mother Nature is at bat.
That night, we sleep on cots in tents at Hotel Chandra Bhaga, accommodations provided as part of our fare by Himachal Tourism.
Day Two
The morning reveals that we've been sleeping on the side of a picturesque valley, opposite seven sequential peaks, mostly covered by clouds, known as the Seven Sisters of Keylong.
We leave close to 9:00, nearly an hour after the departure time announced the night before. A rock slide at Rhotung Pass has blocked the road. Maybe it’ll be cleared by the time we get there.
Getting back in the bus, Keshav invites me to sit in the driver’s compartment with him and Subhash. “Sure,” I respond with no hesitation. One of my objectives on the Leh-Manali Highway had been to view the inside of a truck or bus cab, and the opportunity just fell into my lap.
The cab has a bucket seat for the driver, a bench behind him that runs from side to side and is piled with gear, and a third seat that runs fore to aft on the left side of the vehicle.We fill the bus with diesel at a non-commercial bus garage that services only these government-sponsored vehicles. The sweet smell of oil mixed with dirt is everywhere.
I am the only one drawn to get off the bus, and I take photos with enthusiasm. Two of the men there question me, but they speak no English, and so I cannot use words to explain. When Subhash is finished with his business, I ask him to explain: “When I was a boy, my father owned a place like this to repair tractors. I grew up doing what these men are doing with engines and tires. My heart is in a place like this.” Subhash translates, and the men smile and nod.
Here, I sit behind Keshav, who understands and speaks little English. When we encounter a flock of goats on the road, I have to reach sideways to take photos.
When I touch his shoulder for a second time so I can take a photo through the open window at his side, he stands and gestures for me to switch place with him.
With that move, I’ve got the best seat on the bus: with my left knee inches from the dashboard, I'm directly beside the driver, looking through the front windshield from above the bumper (and over the edge of precipices on right-hand hairpin turns) with an open window to shoot through for side views. Honestly, I have to curb my ego as I look to the rear in to the passenger compartment and think of Walter’s now more inferior position.
Near Koksar, we come upon the end of an Indian army convoy. One of the passengers, who served three years in the military, says it’s an entire division on the move. From there to near Rhotung Pass, we bounce our way past dozens of army trucks filled with men and supplies.
About three kilometers from the top, the highway widens with two comfortable lanes of new asphalt, and we slide by the last six or seven trucks. There’s no oncoming traffic, so we have the right lane, the passing lane to ourselves. Less than 300 yards on the other side of the pass, the asphalt ends. “Good road gone. Bad road ahead,” says Subhash. He’s prone to understatement.
Within a few minutes, we encounter the on-the-road parking lot that I’ve been observing for the past three or four kilometers of switchbacks. The government bus that left Leh two days before is there, along with hundreds of other buses, trucks, automobiles, and motorcycles.
The rock slide hasn’t been cleared. The army convoy, now behind us, is coming to clear it. Knowing how Indian drivers like to crowd to the head of the line—even if the line isn’t moving—I wonder just how on earth a convoy is going to get through.
Apparently Subhash and Keshav have posed the same question. “We walk,” says our driver. He’s been on his mobile. The government bus organization has another bus waiting for us some distance below. We’ll not walk the road, of course, but descend a foot path down the side of the mountain.
With gear and luggage on our backs and shoulders, we start. Walter hires an Indian youth to carry his two suitcases. Subhash totes a heavy canvas bag for Maile, a woman from France who is recovering from a leg and back injury.
I’m one of the last to leave—and the slowest. My descent takes 75 minutes as I pick my footing carefully. There are many places to twist an ankle, and this is no place to twist an ankle.
Amazingly, someone is making this descent astride his motorcycle—with a lot of help from others pushing and pulling.
Busloads of others are coming up, most of them also carrying their gear. Vigorous youth are sweaty and strained. Middle aged and elderly, chests heaving with exertion, stop often. “The top is just around the next switchback,” I tell a group. They smile in relief. Unable to see the top due to the steep incline, they will walk many steps before discerning that I’ve lied—just to give them hope.
Some young Indians run down. Show-offs. A few minutes later, I see some of them coming back up, carrying rucksacks and suitcases that apparently belong to others. Entrepreneurs are everywhere. These include food vendors who serve spicy hot sandwiches of potato, chickpeas, and onion, wrapped in torn pieces of used notebook paper, from a portable tripod that holds a shiny tin bowl of mixed ingredients and seasonings.
About 300 yards from the bottom, Keshav comes to greet me. He takes my backpack, and I continue with my computer pack now on my back. I am forever grateful. The way is steepest and slipperiest here with the footing being more like crushed gravel than flat rocks and boulders. Twice, I nearly fall and probably would have if I were still carrying all of my gear.
“You sit upfront again,” says Subhash. This bus holds 49 passengers, two dozen more than our bus out of Leh, now abandoned a few thousand feet above us. It’s full, and I don’t recognize many of the faces. Apparently, many have come this far and decided to turn back.
I climb into the cab. Walter is there—in the best seat in the house. He’s grinning—and shooting pictures through the glass of the front windshield.
“That was good,” says Subhash, now at the wheel. “After five, it gets cold there (at 3978 meters or 13,050 feet). One small car slips (off the edge?), and we wait for hours.”
Or longer. In Manali that night, rain pours for many hours. Water rushes through a channel outside my hotel window. It’s good to be off the mountain.
There’s an amazingly few number of oncoming vehicles. So few, in fact—no more than a dozen—that they probably didn’t originate in Manali. What do drivers at the other end of the road know that we don’t know? And there’s snow. Even at relatively lower elevations. A lot of it. Six to eight inches where the bus stops so we can take photos at Bara Lacha. Mother Nature is at bat.
That night, we sleep on cots in tents at Hotel Chandra Bhaga, accommodations provided as part of our fare by Himachal Tourism.
Day Two
The morning reveals that we've been sleeping on the side of a picturesque valley, opposite seven sequential peaks, mostly covered by clouds, known as the Seven Sisters of Keylong.
We leave close to 9:00, nearly an hour after the departure time announced the night before. A rock slide at Rhotung Pass has blocked the road. Maybe it’ll be cleared by the time we get there.
Getting back in the bus, Keshav invites me to sit in the driver’s compartment with him and Subhash. “Sure,” I respond with no hesitation. One of my objectives on the Leh-Manali Highway had been to view the inside of a truck or bus cab, and the opportunity just fell into my lap.
The cab has a bucket seat for the driver, a bench behind him that runs from side to side and is piled with gear, and a third seat that runs fore to aft on the left side of the vehicle.We fill the bus with diesel at a non-commercial bus garage that services only these government-sponsored vehicles. The sweet smell of oil mixed with dirt is everywhere.
I am the only one drawn to get off the bus, and I take photos with enthusiasm. Two of the men there question me, but they speak no English, and so I cannot use words to explain. When Subhash is finished with his business, I ask him to explain: “When I was a boy, my father owned a place like this to repair tractors. I grew up doing what these men are doing with engines and tires. My heart is in a place like this.” Subhash translates, and the men smile and nod.
Here, I sit behind Keshav, who understands and speaks little English. When we encounter a flock of goats on the road, I have to reach sideways to take photos.
When I touch his shoulder for a second time so I can take a photo through the open window at his side, he stands and gestures for me to switch place with him.
With that move, I’ve got the best seat on the bus: with my left knee inches from the dashboard, I'm directly beside the driver, looking through the front windshield from above the bumper (and over the edge of precipices on right-hand hairpin turns) with an open window to shoot through for side views. Honestly, I have to curb my ego as I look to the rear in to the passenger compartment and think of Walter’s now more inferior position.
Near Koksar, we come upon the end of an Indian army convoy. One of the passengers, who served three years in the military, says it’s an entire division on the move. From there to near Rhotung Pass, we bounce our way past dozens of army trucks filled with men and supplies.
About three kilometers from the top, the highway widens with two comfortable lanes of new asphalt, and we slide by the last six or seven trucks. There’s no oncoming traffic, so we have the right lane, the passing lane to ourselves. Less than 300 yards on the other side of the pass, the asphalt ends. “Good road gone. Bad road ahead,” says Subhash. He’s prone to understatement.
Within a few minutes, we encounter the on-the-road parking lot that I’ve been observing for the past three or four kilometers of switchbacks. The government bus that left Leh two days before is there, along with hundreds of other buses, trucks, automobiles, and motorcycles.
The rock slide hasn’t been cleared. The army convoy, now behind us, is coming to clear it. Knowing how Indian drivers like to crowd to the head of the line—even if the line isn’t moving—I wonder just how on earth a convoy is going to get through.
Apparently Subhash and Keshav have posed the same question. “We walk,” says our driver. He’s been on his mobile. The government bus organization has another bus waiting for us some distance below. We’ll not walk the road, of course, but descend a foot path down the side of the mountain.
With gear and luggage on our backs and shoulders, we start. Walter hires an Indian youth to carry his two suitcases. Subhash totes a heavy canvas bag for Maile, a woman from France who is recovering from a leg and back injury.
I’m one of the last to leave—and the slowest. My descent takes 75 minutes as I pick my footing carefully. There are many places to twist an ankle, and this is no place to twist an ankle.
Amazingly, someone is making this descent astride his motorcycle—with a lot of help from others pushing and pulling.
Busloads of others are coming up, most of them also carrying their gear. Vigorous youth are sweaty and strained. Middle aged and elderly, chests heaving with exertion, stop often. “The top is just around the next switchback,” I tell a group. They smile in relief. Unable to see the top due to the steep incline, they will walk many steps before discerning that I’ve lied—just to give them hope.
Some young Indians run down. Show-offs. A few minutes later, I see some of them coming back up, carrying rucksacks and suitcases that apparently belong to others. Entrepreneurs are everywhere. These include food vendors who serve spicy hot sandwiches of potato, chickpeas, and onion, wrapped in torn pieces of used notebook paper, from a portable tripod that holds a shiny tin bowl of mixed ingredients and seasonings.
About 300 yards from the bottom, Keshav comes to greet me. He takes my backpack, and I continue with my computer pack now on my back. I am forever grateful. The way is steepest and slipperiest here with the footing being more like crushed gravel than flat rocks and boulders. Twice, I nearly fall and probably would have if I were still carrying all of my gear.
“You sit upfront again,” says Subhash. This bus holds 49 passengers, two dozen more than our bus out of Leh, now abandoned a few thousand feet above us. It’s full, and I don’t recognize many of the faces. Apparently, many have come this far and decided to turn back.
I climb into the cab. Walter is there—in the best seat in the house. He’s grinning—and shooting pictures through the glass of the front windshield.
“That was good,” says Subhash, now at the wheel. “After five, it gets cold there (at 3978 meters or 13,050 feet). One small car slips (off the edge?), and we wait for hours.”
Or longer. In Manali that night, rain pours for many hours. Water rushes through a channel outside my hotel window. It’s good to be off the mountain.
Sunil, the Brahman—Old Manali, India; Thursday, August 18, 2011, noon
“Sit here. Sit here,” the Indian man keeps saying.
“I’m checking out,” I tell him.
“Yes. Yes. Sit here.”
The clerk at the Monol Hotel enters. “Seven hundred rupees,” he says.
“Last night, the man told me 600 rupees.”
“Second floor is 600 rupees. You on third floor. Seven hundred rupees.”
“Last night, the man said 600 rupees for third floor.”
“No. No.”
“Yes.”
He looks at me and the 600 rupees I’m holding in my hand. “Okay, 600 rupees.”
I pay him. “Will you call an auto for me?”
“Where you go?”
“New Manali,” I say, making the distinction between this location, known as Old Manali, and the newer part of town where most of hotels are located and most tourist cluster. To look at the buildings the two parts of this municipality, the physical characteristics are much the same. The difference is in Old Manali’s higher elevation, about 1,000 feet gained in a five-minute auto or taxi ride, and New Manali’s bustling bazaar. The pace here is more in sync with nature, while, down there, commercialism prevails.
Yesterday afternoon, I had almost stayed in New Manali, enjoying conversation with Maile, a fellow-traveler on the government bus from Leh, and where I would be close to Internet cafes. But getting away from the clatter and the crowd had appealed to me. And I was amply rewarded as rain cascading from even higher mountain elevations provided a peaceful backdrop to a full night of story writing. This morning, the view out my window included green mountainsides and tame yaks with their keepers ascending and descending a set of steps that ran close to the side of the hotel building.
Having taken my 600 rupees in exchange for a receipt, the clerk runs out the hotel door. He hasn’t made a telephone call for an auto.
“Sit here. Sit here,” the Indian man says, pointing at the couch in the hotel lobby, which is small, about the same size as my room on the third floor.
I don’t feel like sitting, so I stand at the door, looking out. “Where did the clerk go?” I ask the Indian.
“To get auto. Where you from?”
“America.”
“Ah, America. How long you in Manali?”
“One or two days.”
The Indian walks past me down the steps. “There is my house.” He points to the rather large, three-story building with ample windows next door. A woman is leaning out one window. “That is my mother.” She hears him and waves. I wave to her.
“Were you on your roof this morning?” I ask.
“Yes. You were in your room. You sit by your window. Computer on your lap.”
I nod. So much for privacy even with a mountainside view.
“You want to see temple?”
Having learned to pay attention to unplanned invitations, I ask, “Where?”
“Up there.” He points toward the steps between the buildings, the same steps where I had seen the yaks and yak keepers walk this morning.
“Tell me more.”
“Very famous temple.” He mentions the name of a deity. “Very big deity. Very powerful. You will see temple,” he states matter-of-factly in the Indian way of asserting it is so, no questions asked. This way of speaking, I’ve learned, is not a discourteous directive but the way of many Indians of not familiar with English words that convey courteous questioning.
“What about the auto?”
“It will come.”
The man whose name is Sunil and I are standing at the base of the hotel steps when the tuk-tuk sound of the auto’s air-cooled engine precedes the three-wheeled vehicle—also known as a tuk-tuk—up the steep incline to where the road ends in the small hotel courtyard.
With a little negotiation, the auto driver agrees to take us to the temple and wait for us while Sunil and I go inside. The fare will be 150 rupees rather than 100 rupees I would have paid if he had taken me alone back into New Manali.
“I’m checking out,” I tell him.
“Yes. Yes. Sit here.”
The clerk at the Monol Hotel enters. “Seven hundred rupees,” he says.
“Last night, the man told me 600 rupees.”
“Second floor is 600 rupees. You on third floor. Seven hundred rupees.”
“Last night, the man said 600 rupees for third floor.”
“No. No.”
“Yes.”
He looks at me and the 600 rupees I’m holding in my hand. “Okay, 600 rupees.”
I pay him. “Will you call an auto for me?”
“Where you go?”
“New Manali,” I say, making the distinction between this location, known as Old Manali, and the newer part of town where most of hotels are located and most tourist cluster. To look at the buildings the two parts of this municipality, the physical characteristics are much the same. The difference is in Old Manali’s higher elevation, about 1,000 feet gained in a five-minute auto or taxi ride, and New Manali’s bustling bazaar. The pace here is more in sync with nature, while, down there, commercialism prevails.
Yesterday afternoon, I had almost stayed in New Manali, enjoying conversation with Maile, a fellow-traveler on the government bus from Leh, and where I would be close to Internet cafes. But getting away from the clatter and the crowd had appealed to me. And I was amply rewarded as rain cascading from even higher mountain elevations provided a peaceful backdrop to a full night of story writing. This morning, the view out my window included green mountainsides and tame yaks with their keepers ascending and descending a set of steps that ran close to the side of the hotel building.
Having taken my 600 rupees in exchange for a receipt, the clerk runs out the hotel door. He hasn’t made a telephone call for an auto.
“Sit here. Sit here,” the Indian man says, pointing at the couch in the hotel lobby, which is small, about the same size as my room on the third floor.
I don’t feel like sitting, so I stand at the door, looking out. “Where did the clerk go?” I ask the Indian.
“To get auto. Where you from?”
“America.”
“Ah, America. How long you in Manali?”
“One or two days.”
The Indian walks past me down the steps. “There is my house.” He points to the rather large, three-story building with ample windows next door. A woman is leaning out one window. “That is my mother.” She hears him and waves. I wave to her.
“Were you on your roof this morning?” I ask.
“Yes. You were in your room. You sit by your window. Computer on your lap.”
I nod. So much for privacy even with a mountainside view.
“You want to see temple?”
Having learned to pay attention to unplanned invitations, I ask, “Where?”
“Up there.” He points toward the steps between the buildings, the same steps where I had seen the yaks and yak keepers walk this morning.
“Tell me more.”
“Very famous temple.” He mentions the name of a deity. “Very big deity. Very powerful. You will see temple,” he states matter-of-factly in the Indian way of asserting it is so, no questions asked. This way of speaking, I’ve learned, is not a discourteous directive but the way of many Indians of not familiar with English words that convey courteous questioning.
“What about the auto?”
“It will come.”
The man whose name is Sunil and I are standing at the base of the hotel steps when the tuk-tuk sound of the auto’s air-cooled engine precedes the three-wheeled vehicle—also known as a tuk-tuk—up the steep incline to where the road ends in the small hotel courtyard.
With a little negotiation, the auto driver agrees to take us to the temple and wait for us while Sunil and I go inside. The fare will be 150 rupees rather than 100 rupees I would have paid if he had taken me alone back into New Manali.
Hidimba Devi Temple—Old Manali, India; Thursday, August 18, 2011, afternoon
Both Sunil and the driver assure me that my backpack, tucked out of site behind the auto’s rear seat, will be safe, but, as is my practice, I carry my smaller pack with laptop and electronic gear with me. And, as is the practice of any intelligent traveler, I don’t pay the driver now—that part of the transaction will occur at the end of the ride.
Sunil leads me to a table outside the temple gate where he says we are to obtain parshad as a gift to the deity. There are options: For 20 rupees, we can buy a bag of what looks like puffed white rice, wrapped in a red ribbon, tinged with gold metallic fringe. Or, for 50 rupees, we can purchase the deluxe version that includes a coconut. I choose the economy model.
Sunil says, “You buy mine.” His inflection includes only a hint of a question, not like telling me to sit on the couch in the hotel, and I quickly decide that the amount—equivalent to about 45 U.S. pennies—is a miniscule financial gesture on my part for this man who is taking his time to show me the temple.
Sunil leads me to a table outside the temple gate where he says we are to obtain parshad as a gift to the deity. There are options: For 20 rupees, we can buy a bag of what looks like puffed white rice, wrapped in a red ribbon, tinged with gold metallic fringe. Or, for 50 rupees, we can purchase the deluxe version that includes a coconut. I choose the economy model.
Sunil says, “You buy mine.” His inflection includes only a hint of a question, not like telling me to sit on the couch in the hotel, and I quickly decide that the amount—equivalent to about 45 U.S. pennies—is a miniscule financial gesture on my part for this man who is taking his time to show me the temple.
Inside a narrow gate, a sign informs that this is Hidimba Devi Temple, “a protected monument … almost hidden by giant deodars (trees) … dedicated to the goddess Hidimba … caused to be built by Raja Bahadur Singh in the year corresponding to A.D. 1553.”
The temple has a three-tiered roof of wooden planks, a large metal umbrella at the top, and a verandah on three sides. The façade, windows, and doorframe are carved with “various deities and decorative devices such as knots, scrolls, plait works, animal figures, pot-and-foliage etc.”
“I am Brahman,” Sunil states proudly.
“Of the highest class, those who appoint kings.”
He smiles with a slight surprise. “I come here every day.
We sit under the verandah on the entrance side of the temple to remove our shoes. Sunil also removes his leather belt and makes sure I’m not wearing a belt or anything made with the skin of a cow.
He rises and walks to the edge of the verandah, directly in front of the entrance to the temple. He slaps the knocker of a large overhead bell with his hand, an action that produces a loud, distinctive clang and proclaims his Hindu belief that “God is one.” I follow, also ringing the bell, both as a courtesy to this faith tradition and because I also believe God is one with everyone.
We bend our knees and bow our head and shoulders to pass through a doorway that only a child can enter erect. Inside, where photography is not allowed, Sunil introduces me to his grandfather and grandmother who volunteer here.
The temple is no more than 40 feet by 40 feet on the interior, and the altar, made of a large slab of dark, well-worn wood—about seven inches thick and several feet in length and width—is only about four feet from the entrance door.
Unlike any altar I’ve seen, the sacrificial area is not above but below. The altar top serves as a platform for candles and special papers and stones. Underneath, in a pit in the floor about 18 inches deep and not large enough to unroll a small blanket, a light glows and incense burns. The dark wood is even darker here, having been exposed to centuries of candle and incense smoke.
An elderly woman rises slowly from the pit, being careful to not hit her head on the altar wood above. When she clears, Sunil descends and bids me to join him, squatting to his right. There’s not enough room to be comfortable.
Sunil places his bag of parshad on a small platform made of wood then drapes the red-and-gold ribbon on a pair of prongs above that. He gestures for me to do the same, but when I start to place my ribbon atop his, he indicates that I’m to keep it. He also takes two pink roses from the altar and hands one to me.
He touches a stone carving of two feet at the center base of this sacred area. The feet are huge, more than three times the size of his adult hands. “Hadimba Devi is a very big deity,” he exclaims. Sunil puts his hand on my head. “God will bless you.”
Then he rises. I follow, willing my awkwardly bent knees to straighten while being careful to not strike the top of my head on the wood close above.
Sunil’s grandfather, who is positioned at the edge of the altar, hands each of us a few pieces of parshad to eat, a symbol of spiritual health. Using a watery dye, he places a red mark, a tilak, on the center of Sunil’s forehead and on mine. Sunil explains that this symbolizes blood and also means “God will bless you.”
Sunil invites me to sit toward one side wall while he performs more sacred acts in other parts of what appears to be the only room in this only. Watching another elderly woman feeble her way in and out of the sacrificial pit below the altar, I want so much to take photos—but don’t.
Exiting the temple, we both ring the bell.
With our shoes now on, Sunil makes sure I have a pink rose. He puts some of the petals inside the band of his cap. He instructs me to place the ribbon around my neck and then wraps his hands around my hands, which still hold my flower. “This is for your children,” he says.
The temple has a three-tiered roof of wooden planks, a large metal umbrella at the top, and a verandah on three sides. The façade, windows, and doorframe are carved with “various deities and decorative devices such as knots, scrolls, plait works, animal figures, pot-and-foliage etc.”
“I am Brahman,” Sunil states proudly.
“Of the highest class, those who appoint kings.”
He smiles with a slight surprise. “I come here every day.
We sit under the verandah on the entrance side of the temple to remove our shoes. Sunil also removes his leather belt and makes sure I’m not wearing a belt or anything made with the skin of a cow.
He rises and walks to the edge of the verandah, directly in front of the entrance to the temple. He slaps the knocker of a large overhead bell with his hand, an action that produces a loud, distinctive clang and proclaims his Hindu belief that “God is one.” I follow, also ringing the bell, both as a courtesy to this faith tradition and because I also believe God is one with everyone.
We bend our knees and bow our head and shoulders to pass through a doorway that only a child can enter erect. Inside, where photography is not allowed, Sunil introduces me to his grandfather and grandmother who volunteer here.
The temple is no more than 40 feet by 40 feet on the interior, and the altar, made of a large slab of dark, well-worn wood—about seven inches thick and several feet in length and width—is only about four feet from the entrance door.
Unlike any altar I’ve seen, the sacrificial area is not above but below. The altar top serves as a platform for candles and special papers and stones. Underneath, in a pit in the floor about 18 inches deep and not large enough to unroll a small blanket, a light glows and incense burns. The dark wood is even darker here, having been exposed to centuries of candle and incense smoke.
An elderly woman rises slowly from the pit, being careful to not hit her head on the altar wood above. When she clears, Sunil descends and bids me to join him, squatting to his right. There’s not enough room to be comfortable.
Sunil places his bag of parshad on a small platform made of wood then drapes the red-and-gold ribbon on a pair of prongs above that. He gestures for me to do the same, but when I start to place my ribbon atop his, he indicates that I’m to keep it. He also takes two pink roses from the altar and hands one to me.
He touches a stone carving of two feet at the center base of this sacred area. The feet are huge, more than three times the size of his adult hands. “Hadimba Devi is a very big deity,” he exclaims. Sunil puts his hand on my head. “God will bless you.”
Then he rises. I follow, willing my awkwardly bent knees to straighten while being careful to not strike the top of my head on the wood close above.
Sunil’s grandfather, who is positioned at the edge of the altar, hands each of us a few pieces of parshad to eat, a symbol of spiritual health. Using a watery dye, he places a red mark, a tilak, on the center of Sunil’s forehead and on mine. Sunil explains that this symbolizes blood and also means “God will bless you.”
Sunil invites me to sit toward one side wall while he performs more sacred acts in other parts of what appears to be the only room in this only. Watching another elderly woman feeble her way in and out of the sacrificial pit below the altar, I want so much to take photos—but don’t.
Exiting the temple, we both ring the bell.
With our shoes now on, Sunil makes sure I have a pink rose. He puts some of the petals inside the band of his cap. He instructs me to place the ribbon around my neck and then wraps his hands around my hands, which still hold my flower. “This is for your children,” he says.
Two women come close, and Sunil rises to speak to them. “These are my cousins,” he says when I approach, seeking permission to take their photo.
The auto driver finds us. He’s been waiting an hour, he tells us, and he’s ready for us to leave. I’m not ready. Sunil says something about visiting his grandparents and indicates that he still has more to show me. So we walk back to where the auto is parked and where fruit vendors now ply their trade and a yak is tethered.
I retrieve my pack and pay the driver. Then Sunil and I walk back to the temple. For several minutes, he tends to business in what appears to be ancillary administration building while I observe others—Hindus and foreigners—who have come to worship or view this tree-enshrined holy place.
The auto driver finds us. He’s been waiting an hour, he tells us, and he’s ready for us to leave. I’m not ready. Sunil says something about visiting his grandparents and indicates that he still has more to show me. So we walk back to where the auto is parked and where fruit vendors now ply their trade and a yak is tethered.
I retrieve my pack and pay the driver. Then Sunil and I walk back to the temple. For several minutes, he tends to business in what appears to be ancillary administration building while I observe others—Hindus and foreigners—who have come to worship or view this tree-enshrined holy place.
Tree Temple—Old Manali, India; Thursday, August 18, 2011, afternoon
Sunil leads me past the temple and along a fenced walkway. We walk through a park where vendors have set handcrafted wares, hawkers offer games of skill and luck, and yak keepers extend rides to children.
Sunil stops at a low slab of slate that has been crafted as a holy place. He touches his hand to several pieces of slate, then, after each touch, moves his hand to his face to complete the sacred gesture. He stops, however, where a dog lies on one slate. He calls for someone to move the dog but no one comes forward. After some hesitation, Sunil walks on, visibly frustrated that the dog’s presence prevented him from completing this holy gesture,
We cross a road where another large bell hangs from the branch of a mature pine tree. Reaching up, Sunil clangs the knocker. He repeats the gesture a few feet later were three bells are clustered. Their sound is lower-pitched, more melodic.
“This is Tree Temple,” he says. “For Ghatotkacha. Hadimba Devi’s son. Very powerful deity.”
Being outdoors, there’s no prohibition on photography.
Sunil asks me for 40 rupees. When I hand it to him, he hails another man sitting on a park bench and sends him away with the money. In a few minutes, the man returns with a package of four thick, tarry incense sticks. Sunil removes two from the box and hands one to me. In color and size, it’s like a Tootsie Roll candy, the nickel size, from when I was boy. When lit, it produces a large plume of aromatic smoke.
We take our incense sticks to the altar where others smolder and various religious symbols— deific medallions, ribbons, metal tridents, some of them wrapped in red cloth, and other items—hang or are piled.
Many people gather in this park-like setting. One particular child has an engaging smile, as does her mother. The entire family is happy to speak and pose with an American.
Sunil stops at a low slab of slate that has been crafted as a holy place. He touches his hand to several pieces of slate, then, after each touch, moves his hand to his face to complete the sacred gesture. He stops, however, where a dog lies on one slate. He calls for someone to move the dog but no one comes forward. After some hesitation, Sunil walks on, visibly frustrated that the dog’s presence prevented him from completing this holy gesture,
We cross a road where another large bell hangs from the branch of a mature pine tree. Reaching up, Sunil clangs the knocker. He repeats the gesture a few feet later were three bells are clustered. Their sound is lower-pitched, more melodic.
“This is Tree Temple,” he says. “For Ghatotkacha. Hadimba Devi’s son. Very powerful deity.”
Being outdoors, there’s no prohibition on photography.
Sunil asks me for 40 rupees. When I hand it to him, he hails another man sitting on a park bench and sends him away with the money. In a few minutes, the man returns with a package of four thick, tarry incense sticks. Sunil removes two from the box and hands one to me. In color and size, it’s like a Tootsie Roll candy, the nickel size, from when I was boy. When lit, it produces a large plume of aromatic smoke.
We take our incense sticks to the altar where others smolder and various religious symbols— deific medallions, ribbons, metal tridents, some of them wrapped in red cloth, and other items—hang or are piled.
Many people gather in this park-like setting. One particular child has an engaging smile, as does her mother. The entire family is happy to speak and pose with an American.
Utopia Complex—Old Manali, India; Thursday, August 18, 2011, afternoon
Sunil says he’s thirsty and walks out of the park in the direction of a restaurant and hotel across a narrow road. This place, the Utopia Complex, also includes a Museum of Himachal Culture & Folk Art,
He sits at a table, drinking a beverage and engaged in conversation with a young man who introduces himself as Anu. Soon, a bubbly Indian woman in her 30s and an older Caucasian man enter. They are Atia and Dubi. She, the leasing “owner” of the establishment, asks in very good English, “Where are you staying tonight?”
“In town, near an Internet café.”
“You can stay here. We have wifi.”
“Free?”
“Yes, Free.” Of course.
“How much?”
“Dubi and I were just going out. But, come. I will show you a room. Then you tell me how much you want to pay.”
Atia and I exit the dining area and ascend one flight of stairs. Her reception clerk follows with keys to three rooms. All are nice. One, with a view of the valley and mountain on the other side, is particularly attractive.
“How much?”
“Our rate is 1500 rupees. What can you afford?”
“I paid 600 last night.”
“Then you pay 800 here. Is that good?”
“With free wifi?”
“Yes. Free.”
We seal the deal and I return to the dining area to tell Sunil of this change in plans. He is disappointed that I am not going with him to visit the home of his other set of grandparents.
I take his hand in mine in a common Indian gesture of gratitude. “You have helped me much today. Now it’s time for me to say goodbye.”
Reluctantly and still protesting, he accepts this new development—something not in sync with his plans for me.
Angels come in various forms. They lead us—if we are receptive—into unexpected territories and onto unknown paths. Having seen the yaks and yak keepers on those hillside steps earlier this morning, I had wondered about them. I had wondered where those steps lead. Sunil, a Brahman clearly accustomed to having his way, provided the answers—and more.
Ultimately, he led me here to Utopia, a more serene environment and location than I would have found on my own in New Manali’s bazaar—within sight and sound of the sewer construction, the crowds, and the horning drivers. Here, thanks to Sunil, I’m at an elevation above that, on a quiet mountain hillside, in a room with wifi, and in the company of three new friends who also offer to take me under their wings.
He sits at a table, drinking a beverage and engaged in conversation with a young man who introduces himself as Anu. Soon, a bubbly Indian woman in her 30s and an older Caucasian man enter. They are Atia and Dubi. She, the leasing “owner” of the establishment, asks in very good English, “Where are you staying tonight?”
“In town, near an Internet café.”
“You can stay here. We have wifi.”
“Free?”
“Yes, Free.” Of course.
“How much?”
“Dubi and I were just going out. But, come. I will show you a room. Then you tell me how much you want to pay.”
Atia and I exit the dining area and ascend one flight of stairs. Her reception clerk follows with keys to three rooms. All are nice. One, with a view of the valley and mountain on the other side, is particularly attractive.
“How much?”
“Our rate is 1500 rupees. What can you afford?”
“I paid 600 last night.”
“Then you pay 800 here. Is that good?”
“With free wifi?”
“Yes. Free.”
We seal the deal and I return to the dining area to tell Sunil of this change in plans. He is disappointed that I am not going with him to visit the home of his other set of grandparents.
I take his hand in mine in a common Indian gesture of gratitude. “You have helped me much today. Now it’s time for me to say goodbye.”
Reluctantly and still protesting, he accepts this new development—something not in sync with his plans for me.
Angels come in various forms. They lead us—if we are receptive—into unexpected territories and onto unknown paths. Having seen the yaks and yak keepers on those hillside steps earlier this morning, I had wondered about them. I had wondered where those steps lead. Sunil, a Brahman clearly accustomed to having his way, provided the answers—and more.
Ultimately, he led me here to Utopia, a more serene environment and location than I would have found on my own in New Manali’s bazaar—within sight and sound of the sewer construction, the crowds, and the horning drivers. Here, thanks to Sunil, I’m at an elevation above that, on a quiet mountain hillside, in a room with wifi, and in the company of three new friends who also offer to take me under their wings.
Atia, Dubi, and Anu—Old Manali, India; Thursday, August 18, through Monday, August 22, 2011
For the next four days and nights, I reside at Utopia Complex. Atia, Dubi, Anu, and I dine together with the few other guests there. My lodging is comfortable, the service staff is great, and the wifi is consistent enough to get some work done—if I sit in the lobby where conversation is also abundant and enjoyable.
At night, Anu plays blues on his red, solid-body, cut-away electric guitar, running through classics from Stevie Ray Vaughn, Jimi Hendrix, Dire Straits, and others. Am I still in India? Or Houston? Chicago? Nashville? LA? London?
In her regular profession, Atia manages several human resource offices in Chandigarh. She mentions the name of an American company that I recognize as a temporary employment agency. This hotel and restaurant complex is an experimental side venture that she’s able to undertake by managing the HR offices from afar and with the help of competent on-site supervisors.
Dubi, who speaks rapid-fire English, is from Israel. He says he wants me to help him write a story but won’t say what the story is about. Yet, it’s easy to surmise, from the banter and chiding between him and Atia, that it might be a love story.
“I found Dubi and took him in,” Atia says to offer another hint. “We met on the Volvo bus three months ago. We sent emails and telephoned. Then he came back.”
On Sunday, the 21st, I’m getting anxious to move on. My next destination is a spiritual village for Buddhists, Hindus, and Sikhs that goes by two names: Rewalsar in Hindi and Tso Pema in Tibetan. First, I need a bus to Mandi.
Atia has broken her glasses. She and Dubi are going to Chandigarh to get them fixed. Mandi is on the way. I pay 800 rupees for my ticket, and Bier makes the arrangements for all of us.
On Monday evening, we share a taxi from Utopia, down the hill, into New Manali. There, Atia shows her generosity to beggar children who seem to be everywhere and we board a Volvo bus.
Atia and Dubi share a seat across the aisle and one row back from my front-row seat on the boarding side. While he’s outside checking on a last-minute detail, I share a good-bye conversation with Atia. When he returns, standing in the aisle, he says, “That story I want you to help me write. It’s about Atia and me.”
“Sure. Keep in touch.”
They’re asleep when I get off the bus in Mandi at 10:00 that night. I don’t waken them.
At night, Anu plays blues on his red, solid-body, cut-away electric guitar, running through classics from Stevie Ray Vaughn, Jimi Hendrix, Dire Straits, and others. Am I still in India? Or Houston? Chicago? Nashville? LA? London?
In her regular profession, Atia manages several human resource offices in Chandigarh. She mentions the name of an American company that I recognize as a temporary employment agency. This hotel and restaurant complex is an experimental side venture that she’s able to undertake by managing the HR offices from afar and with the help of competent on-site supervisors.
Dubi, who speaks rapid-fire English, is from Israel. He says he wants me to help him write a story but won’t say what the story is about. Yet, it’s easy to surmise, from the banter and chiding between him and Atia, that it might be a love story.
“I found Dubi and took him in,” Atia says to offer another hint. “We met on the Volvo bus three months ago. We sent emails and telephoned. Then he came back.”
On Sunday, the 21st, I’m getting anxious to move on. My next destination is a spiritual village for Buddhists, Hindus, and Sikhs that goes by two names: Rewalsar in Hindi and Tso Pema in Tibetan. First, I need a bus to Mandi.
Atia has broken her glasses. She and Dubi are going to Chandigarh to get them fixed. Mandi is on the way. I pay 800 rupees for my ticket, and Bier makes the arrangements for all of us.
On Monday evening, we share a taxi from Utopia, down the hill, into New Manali. There, Atia shows her generosity to beggar children who seem to be everywhere and we board a Volvo bus.
Atia and Dubi share a seat across the aisle and one row back from my front-row seat on the boarding side. While he’s outside checking on a last-minute detail, I share a good-bye conversation with Atia. When he returns, standing in the aisle, he says, “That story I want you to help me write. It’s about Atia and me.”
“Sure. Keep in touch.”
They’re asleep when I get off the bus in Mandi at 10:00 that night. I don’t waken them.
International interns—Bus from Manali to Mandi, India; Monday, August 22, 2011, evening
My seat mate on the Volvo bus is Arda, a young man from Turkey who’s in a six-month internship in the marketing department of Telecom in Delhi. His job is to learn about companies his office serves so he can begin to make marketing presentations to them.
He’s traveling with six other people: Afnane from Algeria, Noor from Bahrain, Ali from Egypt, Katherine from Germany, Emily from China, and Rebecca from Malta. They’re members of the volunteer organization AIESEC, which is giving them this international experience.
He’s traveling with six other people: Afnane from Algeria, Noor from Bahrain, Ali from Egypt, Katherine from Germany, Emily from China, and Rebecca from Malta. They’re members of the volunteer organization AIESEC, which is giving them this international experience.
In which hotel did I stay?—Mandi, India; Monday, August 22, 2011, overnight
The Volvo bus stops in Mandi. The two driver’s assistants know this is my destination. They help me exit and remove my pack from the under-body storage area. In a flash, they and Arda, Atia and Dubi, and the bus with all its other passengers are gone.
The bus stand is nonexistent. It’s a stop at the side of the road in front of a dozen eateries that serve propane-cooked food and small shops that sell the standard array of soft drinks, potato chips, candy, water, toilet paper, soap, cereal, and whatever locals and travelers might need.
Two autos are nearby. One driver shows me a photo of a hotel that he recommends. It’s a nice looking place, so we go there. A kilometer—surprisingly away from Mandi—he stops. The hotel is here. It looks okay. He leads me to the check-in desk. The rate is cheap enough at 500 rupees. The room is acceptable—for one night. The volume of noise from other guests partying down the hall is tolerable. It will do.
The next day, I want a taxi to the bus stand so I can catch a bus to Rewalsar. The reception clerk tells me to wait “five minutes.” I ask about a taxi that’s standing ready at the curb. “Not that one. Wait five minutes.”
The bus stand is nonexistent. It’s a stop at the side of the road in front of a dozen eateries that serve propane-cooked food and small shops that sell the standard array of soft drinks, potato chips, candy, water, toilet paper, soap, cereal, and whatever locals and travelers might need.
Two autos are nearby. One driver shows me a photo of a hotel that he recommends. It’s a nice looking place, so we go there. A kilometer—surprisingly away from Mandi—he stops. The hotel is here. It looks okay. He leads me to the check-in desk. The rate is cheap enough at 500 rupees. The room is acceptable—for one night. The volume of noise from other guests partying down the hall is tolerable. It will do.
The next day, I want a taxi to the bus stand so I can catch a bus to Rewalsar. The reception clerk tells me to wait “five minutes.” I ask about a taxi that’s standing ready at the curb. “Not that one. Wait five minutes.”
Within the next 15 minutes, the taxi at the curb is washed by hand inside and out, a group of eight businessmen on holiday from southern India want to know all about me, and a man emerges who says he’s my driver. We get in the freshly cleaned car that wasn’t available earlier.
He offers to take me all the way to Rewalsar for 800 rupees. “Forty-five minutes by taxi. More than an hour by bus. Plus you wait.” Agreed. He says he’s the owner of the hotel where I stayed that night.
“The Paras,” I confirm, noting the sign immediately at hand that matches the name on the photo the auto driver had showed me last night.
“No. Durgas.”
I turn and face the other direction. Sure enough. A small sign above the reception desk and confectioner says “Hotel Durgas.” The two establishments are attached. The Paras has a very clean white façade with scalloped, rose-trimmed balconies. The face of the Durgas is similar but, in the daylight, noticeably different. And not as clean. I wonder what the Paras would have been like inside.
But, of course, that question is irrelevant now, and hiring this driver proves to be a good decision. Rain is falling when we arrive in Rewalsar. We drive past the bus stand where a bus would have dropped me and proceed on the village’s narrow, hilly streets to one hotel after another—all are full—until we find a pleasant guest house with a choice of rooms. This process takes nearly an hour, and the driver asks for an extra 100 rupees. Agreed—and worth it.
He offers to take me all the way to Rewalsar for 800 rupees. “Forty-five minutes by taxi. More than an hour by bus. Plus you wait.” Agreed. He says he’s the owner of the hotel where I stayed that night.
“The Paras,” I confirm, noting the sign immediately at hand that matches the name on the photo the auto driver had showed me last night.
“No. Durgas.”
I turn and face the other direction. Sure enough. A small sign above the reception desk and confectioner says “Hotel Durgas.” The two establishments are attached. The Paras has a very clean white façade with scalloped, rose-trimmed balconies. The face of the Durgas is similar but, in the daylight, noticeably different. And not as clean. I wonder what the Paras would have been like inside.
But, of course, that question is irrelevant now, and hiring this driver proves to be a good decision. Rain is falling when we arrive in Rewalsar. We drive past the bus stand where a bus would have dropped me and proceed on the village’s narrow, hilly streets to one hotel after another—all are full—until we find a pleasant guest house with a choice of rooms. This process takes nearly an hour, and the driver asks for an extra 100 rupees. Agreed—and worth it.
Abridged history of Rewalsar Lake—Rewalsar, India
From a sign at Nyingmapa Monastery (English grammar errors and typos included):
OM AH HUNG VAJRAGURU PADMA SIDDHI HUNG
A singe drop out of the endless ocean of marvelous deeds of our second Buddha Padmasambhava displayed at Rewalsar revealed here.
It was the beginning of the 8th century (A.D.) when Padmasambhava emancipating devoted Khandomas by his sublime teachings at Dhanakoshal Lake in Odiyana (SWAT). There he was through Daramakaya eye that a flourishing kingdom in Western India (present Mandi) can be devoted to the transcendental way of Buddha. So he come miraculously to that kingdom particularly to visit kings renounced daughter Mandhrava to preach her profound teachings of Buddhism. But confiding on a hearsay, the king ignorantly burnt him alive on his very spot of Rewalsar.
To his astonishment, the second Buddha converted that indomitable flame to a clear and deep lake sitting himself unaffected upon a lotus stalk amidst the lake.
The king amazed at his splendid power who with his ministrs & people devoted to the sublime teaching of Padmasambhava & Mandharava who had been put into a deep trench wrapped in a bed of thorn was exempt to mediate.
Truly it has been said that to a clear eye smallest fact is a window through wich infinite can be seen.
I emphatically assert that whosever visit this lake & pay homage to Padmasambhava his life would be purposeul ending to wards the realization of Buddha hood.
—Prop: Ven Gejong Tsultim Namdhak, Head Lama Budhisth Monastery Rewalsar, Mandi
OM AH HUNG VAJRAGURU PADMA SIDDHI HUNG
A singe drop out of the endless ocean of marvelous deeds of our second Buddha Padmasambhava displayed at Rewalsar revealed here.
It was the beginning of the 8th century (A.D.) when Padmasambhava emancipating devoted Khandomas by his sublime teachings at Dhanakoshal Lake in Odiyana (SWAT). There he was through Daramakaya eye that a flourishing kingdom in Western India (present Mandi) can be devoted to the transcendental way of Buddha. So he come miraculously to that kingdom particularly to visit kings renounced daughter Mandhrava to preach her profound teachings of Buddhism. But confiding on a hearsay, the king ignorantly burnt him alive on his very spot of Rewalsar.
To his astonishment, the second Buddha converted that indomitable flame to a clear and deep lake sitting himself unaffected upon a lotus stalk amidst the lake.
The king amazed at his splendid power who with his ministrs & people devoted to the sublime teaching of Padmasambhava & Mandharava who had been put into a deep trench wrapped in a bed of thorn was exempt to mediate.
Truly it has been said that to a clear eye smallest fact is a window through wich infinite can be seen.
I emphatically assert that whosever visit this lake & pay homage to Padmasambhava his life would be purposeul ending to wards the realization of Buddha hood.
—Prop: Ven Gejong Tsultim Namdhak, Head Lama Budhisth Monastery Rewalsar, Mandi
Roaming Rewalsar—Rewalsar, India; Tuesday, August 23, 2011
The mountain village of Rewalsar appears by that name on Indian maps. Tibetans know the place as Tso Pema, the Lotus Lake. And the lake, encircled by shops, hotels, eateries, a public park, and temples, is the center of attraction. Here, people roam casually, monkeys scamper, often stealing food or whatever objects catch their fancy, and cattle stand nonchalantly except when accepting food from strangers.
Brightly adorned Buddhist, Hindu, and Sikh temples share this holy space. Tibetan prayer flags are strung and draped in voluminous clusters. And a 123-foot statue of Padmasambhava, also known as Guru Rinpoche and considered the second Buddha of this age, at an exquisite, hilltop Buddhist temple oversees it all.
I talk with people from Ukraine, Russia, Italy, Bhutan, and Korea who came to do a kora. This walking prayer of circumambulating the lake, always in clockwise direction, takes about 20 minutes—once around—at a contemplative pace.
Brightly adorned Buddhist, Hindu, and Sikh temples share this holy space. Tibetan prayer flags are strung and draped in voluminous clusters. And a 123-foot statue of Padmasambhava, also known as Guru Rinpoche and considered the second Buddha of this age, at an exquisite, hilltop Buddhist temple oversees it all.
I talk with people from Ukraine, Russia, Italy, Bhutan, and Korea who came to do a kora. This walking prayer of circumambulating the lake, always in clockwise direction, takes about 20 minutes—once around—at a contemplative pace.
The holy place closest to my guesthouse is the Buddhist Nyingmapa Monastery, marked by a gated entrance arch adorned with numerous religious symbols in red, gold, blue, and green.
The marble courtyard features a temple surrounded by prayer wheels, enclosed kiosks where huge butter candles—nearly three feet in diameter—burn with multiple wicks, a large silver bell hanging in a golden arch, and a spiked fence from which prayer flags hang.
The spiritual adornment theme is that of stylized white-and-green lions. A sign indicates that, in 1957, both His Holiness the 14th (current) Dalai Lama, Tenzin Gyatso, and Lobsang Trinley Lhundrub Chokyi Gyaltsen, who was, then, the 10th Panchan Lama visited here.
The marble courtyard features a temple surrounded by prayer wheels, enclosed kiosks where huge butter candles—nearly three feet in diameter—burn with multiple wicks, a large silver bell hanging in a golden arch, and a spiked fence from which prayer flags hang.
The spiritual adornment theme is that of stylized white-and-green lions. A sign indicates that, in 1957, both His Holiness the 14th (current) Dalai Lama, Tenzin Gyatso, and Lobsang Trinley Lhundrub Chokyi Gyaltsen, who was, then, the 10th Panchan Lama visited here.
The fish in the lake are of the carp family, and a few display the bright orange of goldfish. But these are not of the house-pet-in-a-small-glass-bowl variety. Rather they are voracious consumers of food tossed by numerous people along the shore. The fish are conditioned to come forward with open mouths when a human shape approaches the water’s edge. Tossing anything that might be food in their direction causes the fish roil the water as they slap and slip over each other in a fin-to-gill feeding frenzy.
People make fish feeding a family affair as well as a spiritual practice, rolling dough into easily tossed, bite-size balls that, if not watched carefully, will be consumed by quicker-than-a-wink, mischievous monkeys.
People make fish feeding a family affair as well as a spiritual practice, rolling dough into easily tossed, bite-size balls that, if not watched carefully, will be consumed by quicker-than-a-wink, mischievous monkeys.
As in other cities and villages I’ve visited, the shops are small and the skills varied. Here, cobblers, seamstresses, tailors, metal carvers, and others work diligently to produce hand-made wares of either beauty of practical value. When customers aren’t present, shopkeepers engage in conversation or games of cards or dice.
School children wear uniforms and fill the narrow street when classes are dismissed.
At Mandarava’s Cave, a Tibetan nun awaits an opportunity to show visitors the altar of Guru Padhamsambhava inside a “cave” house built by Ven Ontul R. Drikung K.M. in 1994. Inside, she uses Tibetan words to explain the significance of large finger impressions and Tibetan characters that mark a large, dark, moist piece of stone.
Five or six steps farther, she places a pair of cushions on the threshold of a small opening in a stone wall that separates the altar from her sleeping space. She invites me to sit and gestures that we are before the altar. The room is so tiny that, by stretching my legs, I can reach it with my feet.
Clasping my hand in hers, she again tries to communicate her story in Tibetan. My understanding of her words pales in comparison to the smiling joy that she exudes. Living in a dark, dank environment with her bed surrounded by religious icons, butter candles, and images of His Holiness the Dalai Lama, she is clearly happy and at peace.
Outside, a school boy insists that I take his photo. Then he leads me across the road to meet his good friend Hans. Hans is the local handyman who came here from Denmark 16 years earlier. He is a beautiful, photogenic man with distinctive blue eyes, white hair that still presents wisps of blond, a flowing white beard, unkempt moustache smeared with dirt and grease, and a face permanently wrinkled by smiling. His Danish accent is equally distinctive and charming. And the love shared between this man and boy of diverse cultures is clear.
His shop and workbench are dirty and disorganized, yet equipped with tools to fix any mechanical problem this small community might present: a 60-ton metal press, lathe, drill press, welder, acetylene torch, air compressor, grinders, vices, punches, hammers, wrenches, and numerous hand tools.
An Indian woman brings a small broken item to him, and he fixes it in minutes with a tap hammer and small screwdriver. This is a minor diversion from a larger task of soldering a crutch for a man who is missing a leg. When finished, the boy, clearing enjoying having his picture taken, gathers his family for a posed photograph of all.
Five or six steps farther, she places a pair of cushions on the threshold of a small opening in a stone wall that separates the altar from her sleeping space. She invites me to sit and gestures that we are before the altar. The room is so tiny that, by stretching my legs, I can reach it with my feet.
Clasping my hand in hers, she again tries to communicate her story in Tibetan. My understanding of her words pales in comparison to the smiling joy that she exudes. Living in a dark, dank environment with her bed surrounded by religious icons, butter candles, and images of His Holiness the Dalai Lama, she is clearly happy and at peace.
Outside, a school boy insists that I take his photo. Then he leads me across the road to meet his good friend Hans. Hans is the local handyman who came here from Denmark 16 years earlier. He is a beautiful, photogenic man with distinctive blue eyes, white hair that still presents wisps of blond, a flowing white beard, unkempt moustache smeared with dirt and grease, and a face permanently wrinkled by smiling. His Danish accent is equally distinctive and charming. And the love shared between this man and boy of diverse cultures is clear.
His shop and workbench are dirty and disorganized, yet equipped with tools to fix any mechanical problem this small community might present: a 60-ton metal press, lathe, drill press, welder, acetylene torch, air compressor, grinders, vices, punches, hammers, wrenches, and numerous hand tools.
An Indian woman brings a small broken item to him, and he fixes it in minutes with a tap hammer and small screwdriver. This is a minor diversion from a larger task of soldering a crutch for a man who is missing a leg. When finished, the boy, clearing enjoying having his picture taken, gathers his family for a posed photograph of all.
The Ziga Drukpa Kargyud Institute is a colorful, ornate temple and monastery with several large residence buildings that house numerous monks young and old. Chanting and music, the louder part of morning prayers, emanates from this complex and is audible throughout much of the community.
From a clothier near the bus stand, I buy a pair of cargo pants made of very nice material and with a beneficial number of pockets. The waist size is good, but the legs are too long. “No problem,” says the merchant. He measures the pants I’m wearing, along the side (not the inseam) from the top of the waist band to the bottom of the hem at the ankle. We decide to trim the new pants by three inches. “Come back in 20 minutes,” he says, running out of his shop and across the road to another line of shops.
I casually follow and find that a tailor already has scissors in hand, cutting the second pant leg. He and another tailor, who is working with a large piece of beautiful blue material, sit on thin cushions on a well-worn wooden floor, their sewing machines and fabric nearby.
(Unfortunately, the pants, apparently made with what some call India’s “invisible thread,” don’t hold up. The right hip pocket rips the next day. Two other pockets rip the day after I leave Rewalsar. And the waistband begins to disintegrate after that. In McleodGanj two weeks later, I donate them to a secondhand shop where the owner says his seamstress can fix them and pass them on to someone else.)
The goods in other shops include household items of shiny metal or plastic, textiles, finished clothing, pharmaceuticals and ayurvedic medicines, paper goods and pens, novelties and over-the-counter hygiene products, and general store items from candy to shoes—plus an occasional English wine shop that sells beer, wine, and whiskey.
From a clothier near the bus stand, I buy a pair of cargo pants made of very nice material and with a beneficial number of pockets. The waist size is good, but the legs are too long. “No problem,” says the merchant. He measures the pants I’m wearing, along the side (not the inseam) from the top of the waist band to the bottom of the hem at the ankle. We decide to trim the new pants by three inches. “Come back in 20 minutes,” he says, running out of his shop and across the road to another line of shops.
I casually follow and find that a tailor already has scissors in hand, cutting the second pant leg. He and another tailor, who is working with a large piece of beautiful blue material, sit on thin cushions on a well-worn wooden floor, their sewing machines and fabric nearby.
(Unfortunately, the pants, apparently made with what some call India’s “invisible thread,” don’t hold up. The right hip pocket rips the next day. Two other pockets rip the day after I leave Rewalsar. And the waistband begins to disintegrate after that. In McleodGanj two weeks later, I donate them to a secondhand shop where the owner says his seamstress can fix them and pass them on to someone else.)
The goods in other shops include household items of shiny metal or plastic, textiles, finished clothing, pharmaceuticals and ayurvedic medicines, paper goods and pens, novelties and over-the-counter hygiene products, and general store items from candy to shoes—plus an occasional English wine shop that sells beer, wine, and whiskey.
Work at a large construction site is done by hand. Young men wield pickaxes and shovels to break dirt and dislodge rocks that’s then carried away by women, young and old, who tote the material in large metal bowls atop their heads.
The carriers use a relay system with one person bringing the discard material up a slope from the dig site to a concrete walkway. Another person transports the dish a few feet to a third person who hands it off to a fourth. This last person carries it to a wagon hitched to a modern tractor.
The carriers use a relay system with one person bringing the discard material up a slope from the dig site to a concrete walkway. Another person transports the dish a few feet to a third person who hands it off to a fourth. This last person carries it to a wagon hitched to a modern tractor.
On a slope near the lake’s shoreline, a woman harvests tall grass with a small hand scythe. She gathers it in a large bag woven with strands of white plastic. Though slender and possibly somewhat elderly, she hoists it on her back and walks quickly away. A man nearby says she’s taking the grass to her cow. “To get milk,” he adds.
Later, I see her on the steps that lead to the Buddhist temple where the tall statue of Buddha Padmasambhava visually dominates the hillside. She has set the bag, now filled to a greater volume than before, there on a stone railing and walked back down the hill. I heft the bag. It’s heavy, heavier by far than my backpack, heavier than a bale of green hay that I’ve lifted as a teenager in Michigan, USA.
I follow her down the hill. She walks fast, with a purpose. At a corner market, a man helps her hoist a second bag atop her head. She grips it and strides smartly—uphill—in the direction from which she had just come.
Her action—taking two bags of fresh, green grass for her cow—reminds me of stories my father told of my grandfather, Gottfried Weir, a large, strong man of well over six feet in height, who was born in 1890 and who labored on a farm and at odd jobs in the early 1900s. “Dad would walk to town (a distance of six miles) for two 50-pound bags of flour. He would carry one halfway then, to rest, he’d walk back for the other one,” my dad had often said.
Later, I see her on the steps that lead to the Buddhist temple where the tall statue of Buddha Padmasambhava visually dominates the hillside. She has set the bag, now filled to a greater volume than before, there on a stone railing and walked back down the hill. I heft the bag. It’s heavy, heavier by far than my backpack, heavier than a bale of green hay that I’ve lifted as a teenager in Michigan, USA.
I follow her down the hill. She walks fast, with a purpose. At a corner market, a man helps her hoist a second bag atop her head. She grips it and strides smartly—uphill—in the direction from which she had just come.
Her action—taking two bags of fresh, green grass for her cow—reminds me of stories my father told of my grandfather, Gottfried Weir, a large, strong man of well over six feet in height, who was born in 1890 and who labored on a farm and at odd jobs in the early 1900s. “Dad would walk to town (a distance of six miles) for two 50-pound bags of flour. He would carry one halfway then, to rest, he’d walk back for the other one,” my dad had often said.
Dark is settling in when I finish roaming Rewalsar, and I sit on the balcony of a Tibetan restaurant across the narrow road from the arched entrance of Nyingmapa Monastery where this roaming began seven hours earlier. Monks sit by the gate, talking and praying. This high-level seating provides an opportunity to view the detailed, colorful carvings that beautify the arch—and a monkey who enjoys them too.
Rewalsar Temples—Rewalsar, India; Wednesday, August 24, 2011
The Buddhist temples in Rewalsar outnumber the Hindu temples and the single Sikh temple. Yet, together, they heighten the spiritual impact and popularity of this holy place where people of all three faiths work, pray, and visit.
Sikh Temple
The Sikh temple is on the opposite side of Lotus Lake from the majority of shops, merchants, and craftsmen. The property’s entrance for automobiles is marked by two tablets. There, a small crew of men constructs brick pillars for a gate under the direction of a sage-looking person with an intriguing face and beard.
The compound is about 200 feet up an incline that can be attained by a winding road for autos or a series of steps for pedestrians. The residence buildings are two or three stories tall, and the temple is a low-slung, one-story structure. All of the buildings are white, trimmed in pleasant sky blue. The arches are scalloped and the walkways between buildings are cast in shades of gray marble.
The altar inside consists of a canopied throne set off from the rest of the sanctuary by a short brass rail. Potted flowers, a chest, and symbols of religious warriors surround throne altar.
An imam holy man wearing a white robe, white turban, and a long black beard, enters and seats himself to one side of the altar where a low table holds books of scripture. A dozen young men, wearing turbans of various colors, soon enter, too, removing their shoes, paying homage at the front of the altar, and sitting on the floor in two groups to my right and my rear.
These are tourists, the imam later explains. They listen as the holy man tells of the temple’s history and speaks words of inspiration. Afterward, each comes forward and makes a financial offering. In turn, the imam places a handful of white puffed rice in their cupped hands.
This appears to be the same foodstuff as the pradash that the Hindu Brahman in Old Manali and I used as an offering to the holy man. The difference is that, there, the pradash was wrapped in plastic bags and, here, the imam uses his hand to scoop a bit out of a large tin can.
Outside, the young men assemble around the many motorcycles they’ve ridden here. A few monkeys have also taken interest in these two-wheelers. Then, seemingly from nowhere as though drawn by an inaudible signal, at least three dozen monkeys swarm the bikes. They are of all ages and sizes—some cuddly cute, riding atop their mothers’ back, and others large and strong enough to rouse fear of attack and bites.
One of the residents there removes his flip-flop sandals and hurls them at the monkeys, attempting to shoo them away. After several minutes and many thrown sandals, the monkeys tire of this game and decide to play elsewhere. En masse, they descend the long flight of steps that leads between the temple and the road below that circles Lotus Lake.
A boy who helps shoo the monkeys finds the experience to be great fun, and two men watching from a safe distance view the scene as humorous.
Sikh Temple
The Sikh temple is on the opposite side of Lotus Lake from the majority of shops, merchants, and craftsmen. The property’s entrance for automobiles is marked by two tablets. There, a small crew of men constructs brick pillars for a gate under the direction of a sage-looking person with an intriguing face and beard.
The compound is about 200 feet up an incline that can be attained by a winding road for autos or a series of steps for pedestrians. The residence buildings are two or three stories tall, and the temple is a low-slung, one-story structure. All of the buildings are white, trimmed in pleasant sky blue. The arches are scalloped and the walkways between buildings are cast in shades of gray marble.
The altar inside consists of a canopied throne set off from the rest of the sanctuary by a short brass rail. Potted flowers, a chest, and symbols of religious warriors surround throne altar.
An imam holy man wearing a white robe, white turban, and a long black beard, enters and seats himself to one side of the altar where a low table holds books of scripture. A dozen young men, wearing turbans of various colors, soon enter, too, removing their shoes, paying homage at the front of the altar, and sitting on the floor in two groups to my right and my rear.
These are tourists, the imam later explains. They listen as the holy man tells of the temple’s history and speaks words of inspiration. Afterward, each comes forward and makes a financial offering. In turn, the imam places a handful of white puffed rice in their cupped hands.
This appears to be the same foodstuff as the pradash that the Hindu Brahman in Old Manali and I used as an offering to the holy man. The difference is that, there, the pradash was wrapped in plastic bags and, here, the imam uses his hand to scoop a bit out of a large tin can.
Outside, the young men assemble around the many motorcycles they’ve ridden here. A few monkeys have also taken interest in these two-wheelers. Then, seemingly from nowhere as though drawn by an inaudible signal, at least three dozen monkeys swarm the bikes. They are of all ages and sizes—some cuddly cute, riding atop their mothers’ back, and others large and strong enough to rouse fear of attack and bites.
One of the residents there removes his flip-flop sandals and hurls them at the monkeys, attempting to shoo them away. After several minutes and many thrown sandals, the monkeys tire of this game and decide to play elsewhere. En masse, they descend the long flight of steps that leads between the temple and the road below that circles Lotus Lake.
A boy who helps shoo the monkeys finds the experience to be great fun, and two men watching from a safe distance view the scene as humorous.
Hindu Temples
The Hindu temples are clustered in a compound of holy structures close to the public park where people feed fish. Here, buildings of bright colors and sculptures of deific animals or stylized musicians predominate. Overhead bells to announce “God is one,” like those at Hidimba Devi Temple in Old Manali, hang from large overhangs by each doorway. These are populated by frequent visitors who also patronize nearby Indian food vendors.
The Hindu temples are clustered in a compound of holy structures close to the public park where people feed fish. Here, buildings of bright colors and sculptures of deific animals or stylized musicians predominate. Overhead bells to announce “God is one,” like those at Hidimba Devi Temple in Old Manali, hang from large overhangs by each doorway. These are populated by frequent visitors who also patronize nearby Indian food vendors.
Buddhist Temple at the top of the hill
The view of Lotus Lake’s deep green water and the village’s gold-capped temples is picturesque from the base of the massive Buddhist temple that towers above the village.
The temple is under construction. Ceiling work is being done atop scaffolding made of wooden poles. A man, wearing a Chicago Bulls t-shirt, sews tapestries by hand. But the parts completed are spectacular in color, detail, and size.
The view of Lotus Lake’s deep green water and the village’s gold-capped temples is picturesque from the base of the massive Buddhist temple that towers above the village.
The temple is under construction. Ceiling work is being done atop scaffolding made of wooden poles. A man, wearing a Chicago Bulls t-shirt, sews tapestries by hand. But the parts completed are spectacular in color, detail, and size.
Nuns and beggar women in Buddhist caves—mountains above Rewalsar, India; Thursday, August 25, 2011
The entrance to the mountain caves, home to about 60 Buddhist nuns, is marked by a white arch, trimmed in light pink, blue, and gold, with a scalloped underside and stylized animals—four-legged with the bill of a duck—atop.
A monk sits under a shaded canopy, surrounded by holy posters and icons, begging alms to fund treatment for his diabetes; point a camera in his direction, and he responds by posing with a dorje and a bell. Concessionaires offer hot and cold drinks, food and snacks, lung ta (Tibetan prayer flags, sang (incense), taxi and bus booking, and lodging even though no hotels or guesthouses are in sight.
The path ascends on white marble steps and allows an aerial view of one of seven lakes that denote this holy place. At the top, many strings of lung ta, strung between trees, flutter in a gentle breeze, an old, shoeless woman sits on a rock begging for rupees, and young nuns encourage visitors to look around …
… up to a point, according to one older nun who directs me to turn around after seeing not enough to make the journey worthwhile. Yet, judging from a path that she would not have me take, it’s clear that many others have gone in that forbidden direction. When her back is turned, I duck under several strands of lung ta and follow in their footsteps.
Soon, a man in a white dress shirt and khaki pants gestures for me to follow him along this well-trod path where well-faded lung ta cling to life in spite of their absence of color. He leads me to a road on the opposite side of this small peak and points to a set of neatly constructed stairs. His words are unintelligible, but he seems pleased when I start walking in that direction. A sign says “This step of holy foot print” was constructed, apparently as a gift, in 2008.
An old woman squats on the steps, sweeping them with pine boughs. When I take her photo, she extends her hand for alms.
At the top of about 200 steps, far away from where most people might trod, another woman squats on her heals, begging. When I squat to take her picture, she scowls and waves me off. Clearly, like the woman sweeping below, she wants money. When I attempt to tell her I no longer have any small currency, she says something that sounds like “Change,” and points to a small, close-at-hand building that looks like a cottage with a façade of white-painted bricks and windows framed in dark wood.
I walk up six steps and see that it houses a small altar, religious icons, and several dozen butter candles. I return to the woman. With some agitation, she again points at the building and says what I’m pretty sure is, “Change.” This time, I knock on the only door, and a young woman, dressed in nuns’ clothing, appears.
“Do you give change?” I ask.
“Yes. Please wait,” she replies in very clear English. She returns in seconds and counts out ten 10-rupee notes in exchange for my 100.
“Is this where you live?”
“Yes.”
“If I may be bold, may I see?”
“Sure.” She holds the door as I enter the small quarters. While this outer wall has been constructed like a house, the opposite wall is mountain rock with hints of chamber space in inner caves. She says that she and her friends are eating and allows me to poke my head into the next room where she sits down to join them. Here, also, the exterior wall is of square-cornered construction and the mountainside wall of natural mountain rock.
Back outside, the old woman with her wizened face accepts money with a gentle “I told you so” look and, then, allows me to take her photo.
A few steps farther up the mountain, another nun emerges from her cave home as I pass and leads me across an easily accessible rooftop, made of slate, where footholds are marked with caution-colored yellow paint. She escorts me to a small outdoor shrine where three butter candles burn and doesn’t leave until I place a 10 rupee note on the makeshift altar.
I follow stone steps up and over the top of this narrow peak, past more strands of lung ta, both new and weather-worn until reaching the other side. From there, I can see the first peak with the first set of caves. On the other side is the first set of steps that lead to the initial entrance, the vendors, and the taxi stand.
But …
A monk sits under a shaded canopy, surrounded by holy posters and icons, begging alms to fund treatment for his diabetes; point a camera in his direction, and he responds by posing with a dorje and a bell. Concessionaires offer hot and cold drinks, food and snacks, lung ta (Tibetan prayer flags, sang (incense), taxi and bus booking, and lodging even though no hotels or guesthouses are in sight.
The path ascends on white marble steps and allows an aerial view of one of seven lakes that denote this holy place. At the top, many strings of lung ta, strung between trees, flutter in a gentle breeze, an old, shoeless woman sits on a rock begging for rupees, and young nuns encourage visitors to look around …
… up to a point, according to one older nun who directs me to turn around after seeing not enough to make the journey worthwhile. Yet, judging from a path that she would not have me take, it’s clear that many others have gone in that forbidden direction. When her back is turned, I duck under several strands of lung ta and follow in their footsteps.
Soon, a man in a white dress shirt and khaki pants gestures for me to follow him along this well-trod path where well-faded lung ta cling to life in spite of their absence of color. He leads me to a road on the opposite side of this small peak and points to a set of neatly constructed stairs. His words are unintelligible, but he seems pleased when I start walking in that direction. A sign says “This step of holy foot print” was constructed, apparently as a gift, in 2008.
An old woman squats on the steps, sweeping them with pine boughs. When I take her photo, she extends her hand for alms.
At the top of about 200 steps, far away from where most people might trod, another woman squats on her heals, begging. When I squat to take her picture, she scowls and waves me off. Clearly, like the woman sweeping below, she wants money. When I attempt to tell her I no longer have any small currency, she says something that sounds like “Change,” and points to a small, close-at-hand building that looks like a cottage with a façade of white-painted bricks and windows framed in dark wood.
I walk up six steps and see that it houses a small altar, religious icons, and several dozen butter candles. I return to the woman. With some agitation, she again points at the building and says what I’m pretty sure is, “Change.” This time, I knock on the only door, and a young woman, dressed in nuns’ clothing, appears.
“Do you give change?” I ask.
“Yes. Please wait,” she replies in very clear English. She returns in seconds and counts out ten 10-rupee notes in exchange for my 100.
“Is this where you live?”
“Yes.”
“If I may be bold, may I see?”
“Sure.” She holds the door as I enter the small quarters. While this outer wall has been constructed like a house, the opposite wall is mountain rock with hints of chamber space in inner caves. She says that she and her friends are eating and allows me to poke my head into the next room where she sits down to join them. Here, also, the exterior wall is of square-cornered construction and the mountainside wall of natural mountain rock.
Back outside, the old woman with her wizened face accepts money with a gentle “I told you so” look and, then, allows me to take her photo.
A few steps farther up the mountain, another nun emerges from her cave home as I pass and leads me across an easily accessible rooftop, made of slate, where footholds are marked with caution-colored yellow paint. She escorts me to a small outdoor shrine where three butter candles burn and doesn’t leave until I place a 10 rupee note on the makeshift altar.
I follow stone steps up and over the top of this narrow peak, past more strands of lung ta, both new and weather-worn until reaching the other side. From there, I can see the first peak with the first set of caves. On the other side is the first set of steps that lead to the initial entrance, the vendors, and the taxi stand.
But …
Remote Hindu temple—mountains above Rewalsar, India; Thursday, August 25, 2011
… word is that there’s a Hindu temple at the top of the mountain, so I turn my back on the thoughts of returning and press on—upward.
A marker on this road with hairpin curves says the distance is one kilometer. That distance is shortened by periodic sets of steps, made of white marble, that enable pedestrians to ascend straight up rather than follow the switchback road. Hindi inscriptions on the risers hint that these steps might have been funded by donations, the Indian version of the American buy-a-brick fundraising concept.
When the steps meet the road for the sixth time, an arch and a small Hindu shrine is visible another 100 steps upward. Dozens of merchants line both sides of a narrow path, selling food and parshad. The temple itself is an older facility, mostly white with a distinctive arced red shikhara, (steeple and dome) and carved animals of Hindu holy places—and a small solar panel. The entrance to the temple is marked with an overhead bell, just as were those in Manali and Rewalsar.
I’m alone in the temple except for a holy man on the other side of an altar that separates an inner chamber—his sanctuary—from the outer chamber. I’m seated on the floor and just settling into contemplation when the overhead bell at the door resounds—again and again and again. Then other bells hung throughout the outer chamber ring also. Within minutes, the temple is filled with people standing between me and the altar. The adults are focused on the holy intent of their visit, but the children’s attention roams and includes curiosity about me.
Two boys, probably in their early teens, take a special interest and encourage their parents to pose for a photograph, which, as has often been the case, they are thrilled to see when I set my camera on review mode.
This opens floodgates for others, regardless of age, who take an interest in this pale-skinned foreigner and his camera.
The one boy who shows the greatest interest wants to take my picture, and I let him. He speaks English and asks many questions about where I live, what I do, why I came to India. To help answer, I give a business card to him. Immediately, I’m surrounded by six other children, all with their hands out, wanting a card, too. I’m glad I have plenty.
By this time, even the adults are accustomed to my presence. So, I approach the altar and document their worship.
Along with the people, thick incense smoke is the most noticeable feature. People pay homage with parshad and currency. The holy man places a tilak, a spot of red dye on their foreheads.
A small girl toddles away from her father just as he arrives at the front of the altar. His expression reveals quandary: to remain where he is or to go after his child? I reach my hand to the little girl who accepts it willingly and allows me to lead her back to her family. The man gestures with a smile then nods and assumes a serious look when I tacitly ask his permission to take a photo of them.
I roam freely as the worshippers begin to move toward the exit, taking photos of all willing to pause and pose. The boy to whom I gave my card is the most willing subject.
When everyone has departed, I remain alone in the temple with the holy man. Having converted his holy space into an impromptu photo gallery, I approach with a monetary donation in hand. He accepts it and smiles. Apparently, my actions were not sacrilegious.
He then gestures for me to lean toward him and, as he did with the others, places a tilak on my forehead, a symbol of the third eye, meditation, and spiritual enlightenment.
I exit the temple and roam the grounds. The building exteriors pale in comparison to the beautiful human experience within the temple.
Near the arch that marks the entrance to the temple grounds, I enjoy chai served by one of the vendors in one of the large, permanent serving areas constructed with a skeleton of poles and covered with and surrounded by plastic tarps.
After waiting 30 minutes, I board a bus, typical of public transportation abused by Indian mountain roads, that takes me back to Rewalsar.
A marker on this road with hairpin curves says the distance is one kilometer. That distance is shortened by periodic sets of steps, made of white marble, that enable pedestrians to ascend straight up rather than follow the switchback road. Hindi inscriptions on the risers hint that these steps might have been funded by donations, the Indian version of the American buy-a-brick fundraising concept.
When the steps meet the road for the sixth time, an arch and a small Hindu shrine is visible another 100 steps upward. Dozens of merchants line both sides of a narrow path, selling food and parshad. The temple itself is an older facility, mostly white with a distinctive arced red shikhara, (steeple and dome) and carved animals of Hindu holy places—and a small solar panel. The entrance to the temple is marked with an overhead bell, just as were those in Manali and Rewalsar.
I’m alone in the temple except for a holy man on the other side of an altar that separates an inner chamber—his sanctuary—from the outer chamber. I’m seated on the floor and just settling into contemplation when the overhead bell at the door resounds—again and again and again. Then other bells hung throughout the outer chamber ring also. Within minutes, the temple is filled with people standing between me and the altar. The adults are focused on the holy intent of their visit, but the children’s attention roams and includes curiosity about me.
Two boys, probably in their early teens, take a special interest and encourage their parents to pose for a photograph, which, as has often been the case, they are thrilled to see when I set my camera on review mode.
This opens floodgates for others, regardless of age, who take an interest in this pale-skinned foreigner and his camera.
The one boy who shows the greatest interest wants to take my picture, and I let him. He speaks English and asks many questions about where I live, what I do, why I came to India. To help answer, I give a business card to him. Immediately, I’m surrounded by six other children, all with their hands out, wanting a card, too. I’m glad I have plenty.
By this time, even the adults are accustomed to my presence. So, I approach the altar and document their worship.
Along with the people, thick incense smoke is the most noticeable feature. People pay homage with parshad and currency. The holy man places a tilak, a spot of red dye on their foreheads.
A small girl toddles away from her father just as he arrives at the front of the altar. His expression reveals quandary: to remain where he is or to go after his child? I reach my hand to the little girl who accepts it willingly and allows me to lead her back to her family. The man gestures with a smile then nods and assumes a serious look when I tacitly ask his permission to take a photo of them.
I roam freely as the worshippers begin to move toward the exit, taking photos of all willing to pause and pose. The boy to whom I gave my card is the most willing subject.
When everyone has departed, I remain alone in the temple with the holy man. Having converted his holy space into an impromptu photo gallery, I approach with a monetary donation in hand. He accepts it and smiles. Apparently, my actions were not sacrilegious.
He then gestures for me to lean toward him and, as he did with the others, places a tilak on my forehead, a symbol of the third eye, meditation, and spiritual enlightenment.
I exit the temple and roam the grounds. The building exteriors pale in comparison to the beautiful human experience within the temple.
Near the arch that marks the entrance to the temple grounds, I enjoy chai served by one of the vendors in one of the large, permanent serving areas constructed with a skeleton of poles and covered with and surrounded by plastic tarps.
After waiting 30 minutes, I board a bus, typical of public transportation abused by Indian mountain roads, that takes me back to Rewalsar.
Another change in plans—Rewalsar, India; Friday, August 26, 2011
Take a bus back to Mandi then another bus to Dharamsala. From there, ride a public Jeep or hire a taxi to take you up the hill to McleodGanj, I had been told.
“Why you do that?” asks Prabine, the owner of Ohm Cyber Café and Photo Shop where I’ve gotten online most nights in Rewalsar. “You take a car to Dharamsala. It’s quicker.” He shows me on a map and says he has a friend who will take me. The cost is 1600 rupees, negotiated down from 1700.
His friend, Suresh, isn’t a professional taxi driver and becomes unsettled when I ask for his driver’s license number, auto plate number, and mobile number—then tell him I’m going to give that information to the owner of the guesthouse where I’m staying as well as Nan with whom I’ll visit in McleodGanj. From having seen professional drivers verbally and physically attack private drivers last year, I understand his concern. Yet, I’m not going to get in a private car without someone knowing who I’m with.
The ride is pleasant, and we arrive in very good time—much faster on this shorter mountain route than the longer way back through Mandi. The change in plans is good—especially with the special, extra service that Suresh provides upon our arrival.
“Why you do that?” asks Prabine, the owner of Ohm Cyber Café and Photo Shop where I’ve gotten online most nights in Rewalsar. “You take a car to Dharamsala. It’s quicker.” He shows me on a map and says he has a friend who will take me. The cost is 1600 rupees, negotiated down from 1700.
His friend, Suresh, isn’t a professional taxi driver and becomes unsettled when I ask for his driver’s license number, auto plate number, and mobile number—then tell him I’m going to give that information to the owner of the guesthouse where I’m staying as well as Nan with whom I’ll visit in McleodGanj. From having seen professional drivers verbally and physically attack private drivers last year, I understand his concern. Yet, I’m not going to get in a private car without someone knowing who I’m with.
The ride is pleasant, and we arrive in very good time—much faster on this shorter mountain route than the longer way back through Mandi. The change in plans is good—especially with the special, extra service that Suresh provides upon our arrival.
