It was at twelve-thirty of a late June day
with light showers through the sun’s soft rays,
we set out to climb on foot – the narrow, steep
mountainous trail at Paro’s heart:
driving past her white-pebble lined arterial river Pachu –
that flows eloquently through her rustic
frame, is then flanked by flower-lined cottages
and bridges – on uphill picturesque paths.
After peering over numerous handicraft
stalls displaying mostly stone-jewellery
of every colour and form, under the wood,
and tin canopied shopping enclave –
we crossed it to step on to the narrow, rarely used trail:
foregoing the broader, safer, beaten track –
people climb on colourfully dressed ponies
or trudge uphill – to reach the fog draped
mysterious cliff: At 3,120 ft. above sea level –
that cradling Bhutan’s holiest monastery
majestically beckons one to its amorous heart.
Wanting to save on time, we’ve risked
a tedious climb, as our group of six –
of four local Bhutanese youth comprise:
who’d take us up in two hours by a short-cut
instead of the ascertained three to four hours –
reaching us well before the monastery gates
close at five – barring us from the peace
of the sanctum we seek; relieving our sins
as popularly believed – through the toil
of the wearying, challenging climb.
I was excited over the first few yards, by
the picturesque view of dainty bridges, tiny stupas,
also varied Rhododendron around hill-water crests
from which by the hand-full we thirstily drank:
till a colourfully saddled, rider-less horse –
came gawkily strutting downhill;
with his coir reins in his front hoof entangling –
he ensnared my attention, wilting my heart
with his helpless plight, to trot off straddling my steady breath –
to gasp terminally the rest of the precipitous
climb; a native girl by hand, sturdily lugging me up.
After a three hour climb and a half-hour halt
in steady drizzle – once Tiger Nest’s white stone walls,
golden tiered roofs are visible: our Bhutanese friends
now in respect drape their Gho and Kira
the traditional dress: as I bid my last dash of strength
to press on, though my breath soon threatens to desist
on the final 350 steep stone steps – on which
the air is so sharply thin and crisp
I gasp ominously – alarmed it’s my Death Whistle!
Once inside the temple, as if floating between life
and death, I bow my head to the floor to Guru Rinpoche –
the patron sage, and this manifestations: till I interpret ‘nirvana’
on viewing the mystical glow on Buddha’s striking golden face.
Shuvashree Chowdhury 