The world is a book and those who do not travel, read only a page.
Such was said by St. Augustine.
I haven’t found this quote more fitting in my life until the time I had the profound self-realization trip to the desolate terrains of Arunachal Pradesh.
We live by the notion in this millennium that India is an emerging symbol of the new world. A dynamic nation brimming with hope and aspiring nation-loving youth. That it is. But then if we fathom deeper into the world we live in, we’ll know that there is a macro-civilization in the very womb of our “otherly” macro-world. That world which is far away still from the glaring and chasing media, newspapers, analysts, rationalists and others. It is one world, dark but quiet, beautiful but bare, where young men and women are given away by their families in search of spiritual quest.
In my first trip to Tawang, the biting cold withstanding, we first visited the Tawang Monastery called the Galden Namgyal Lhatse founded in the year 1860-61 A.D. There were tourists just like us absolutely amused seeing the smiling faces of the resident Lamas. The monastery was on the mountain-top from where the layered snow seemed like soft cotton complimented by the fresh brush strokes of green.
The monastery is well-maintained with ample space for a group of Lamas to live together. The courtyard inside had enough sunlight for a good couple of hours for all to feel the warmth.
Tourists were flocking in, me amongst them, looking and clicking around the premises. The monks were quite taken aback, considering that they are shy and introvert. Daily prayers, a decent meal and meditation in the laps of the snow-capped mountains constitute their day.
We like many other tourists spent sufficient time looking at the gigantic Buddha, his serene golden face clearly shining as the scant sunbeams shone on Him. The top bamboo poles were coloured in blue and red. The prayer hall was faintly fragranced with unperceived notes. Probably sandal and amber, not quite sure.
At the open ground nearby the atmosphere was bright and cheery with a few children, the future Lamas, who were playing cricket, quite oblivious of the glaring eyes and smiles.
My visit to this nunnery called Brama Dung Chung Ani Gompa, a good 10-11 miles from the monastery for the lamas, although a chance experience, completely changed my perception on the possible power-plays of spirituality.
Young women, teenagers and a few fatigued old women were together like a clan, separated from everything and everyone. They shared smiles, yak’s milk, soup and probably agony too. Little children and youthful women absorbed into the higher world for a “higher purpose”- the attainment of truth and self-realization.
I write this little note not to her but to my self and to those who probably have felt the same on meeting people who are the unsung heroes of far-flung territories. This is an introspection to the very “afamiliar” world that I once visited and that which separates two different realms of the grim and the glorious.
As someone once said, “It is not down in any map; true places never are”.
Lhamo,
Remember me? I know it is not even remotely imaginable to recall a traveler you got a glimpse of on a cold, dark, December night 9 years ago.
Someone who just saw you then as a strange aberration from the human race. It feels beautifully awkward to write to you for the first time in these long 9 years.
That late evening in Tawang has been one of the most intriguing moments of my life. Years have passed by. I have seen more of you in other environments and in different faces. But for some strange reason it is your face that keeps coming back to me. That late evening the snow cut through my skin like a knife. I remember having visited the main monastery atop the mountain where the male monks reside. A few steps down the mountain led to the small market square. After carelessly browsing through the shacks, we were heading back for Bomdila. A local man then told us about the nunnery a few miles on. Night had fallen already and the wind was deadly. At the entrance of the cavernous tunnel there were a few yaks grazing some strands of withering rue nearby, a few mules braying and the chiming of bells, the sound flowing through the valley like an incessant surge.
I do not know if you are still there or put up in some even more dolorous space many light years away from human civilization. I remember how my small figure was struggling to cram in through the dark damp caves with a few lanterns hanging against the rufous walls of the cave; the light occasionally crystallizing my shadow as I creeped through like a snake. The water trickled down from the ceiling to the sides. We then entered a tiny enclosure to the left, the stodgy grayish walls smelling of faint incense. Just after a while, an old lady came in with three small earth-brown cannikins of tea which was made of yak’s milk. I watched the old lady as she stood half stooped sipping tea nonchalantly. Then, you came in with a mat which you unfolded meticulously, placing it in front of the fireplace- the only source of light the room had. There were two broken lanterns that hung carelessly at the entrance and one to the ceiling at the centre.
Do you still put the mat out for the “once in a blue moon” visitors? Do you still stand against the wall of the entrance with the same serenity and composure and look at the faces sipping tea? Do you still offer the piquant milk toffees when they leave?
There is nothing more that I know of you and yet I feel I know a lot. I have read your face. You told me how you were the youngest in your household and your kinfolk gave you away because they aspired you to be closer to god. I saw how you stared at the book I had in hand and told me about your secret passion of writing and reading. Your eyes were glued to my book just like a starved person who could pounce on a piece of bread, if she could. I knew that after all you weren’t a stranger. We became friends for long because we connected even if we are many miles across the country. But then distance doesn’t matter.
I still remember the saffron robe – that dreggy piece of cloth barely draped around your wrinkled, chapped body. The creases had started clocking near your brows which were visible as you carried a lantern as dimly lit as the look on your face.
