Reflective Trails

A companion reflection, for the same journey my mother wrote about with such love

Introduction

Last month, I sat down and wrote out my mother’s account of her Kailash-Manasarovar Yatra, in her voice, from her journals. Reading it back, I still feel the wonder she felt: the stillness of Manasarovar, the north face of Kailash rising in silence, a mind emptied of every worry for a few precious hours. I don’t want to take any of that away from her, or from anyone who has stood before that mountain and felt something larger than themselves. But this week, watching the news of a glacier breaking away along the very stretch her group once travelled, villages gone, hundreds of families still waiting for word of the missing, I found myself sitting with a quieter, harder feeling. Not that God had punished anyone: I don’t believe in a God who punishes. But that perhaps we, as humans, have confused our longing to reach the remote and the sacred with our readiness to actually be there.

The mountain isn’t angry with us

I want to be careful here, because it would be easy to turn this into a story about divine retribution, and that isn’t what I believe, and it isn’t what happened. I know how quickly people reach for that explanation: so many pilgrims, so much traffic through a sacred place, and then a tragedy nearby; it starts to feel like cause and effect, like the mountain finally had enough of us. But that isn’t what the science says, and I think it matters to say so honestly rather than borrow a tragedy to make a point. Scientists studying the collapse near Langtang point to something specific and measurable: a warming climate weakening the glacier’s ice over years, until a piece of it simply could not hold. This kind of glacial collapse has been recorded in mountain ranges with no pilgrims at all, no tourists, no human footfall for miles. The Himalayas are warming, and their ice is thinning, everywhere, regardless of who walks below it. So this isn’t the mountain lashing out at the faithful. It’s something gentler and sadder: a landscape already weakened by a warming world, and separately, wearied by how many of us have been asking it to carry us across it.

What we carry in, and what we leave behind

I think of my mother’s own account: the winter jackets waiting at the airport, the night at the Hyatt, the ten-hour bus ride, the porters, the yaks carrying the bags so pilgrims wouldn’t have to. None of this is a criticism of her, or of anyone who went with her. It’s simply the shape the yatra has taken now, a once arduous, self-chosen trial for a handful of ascetics turned into a scheduled itinerary for batches of forty-eight, several times a season. I read recently that pilgrims on the comparable Char Dham yatra in Uttarakhand leave behind seven to nine kilograms of waste each, over just nine days, with nowhere for it to properly go. It settles into the same streams that, this August, became the rivers that swept through Rasuwa and Nuwakot. I don’t think any of us mean to leave the mountain worse than we found it. But Bhakti, when it comes with buses and bottled water and plastic-wrapped snacks for hundreds of people at a time, still leaves a mark whether we intend it or not.

A pattern I can no longer look away from

This isn’t the first time the mountain has pushed back against our plans, gently or otherwise. Landslides, monsoon floods, sudden border closures, they’ve delayed or cancelled batches of this yatra again and again in recent years. I used to read about these as simple bad luck, weather doing what weather does. Now I wonder if it’s something closer to a landscape trying to rest, and being given no season in which to do so, one group barely leaving before the next arrives.

What I would ask, gently

If I could ask anything of those who plan and long for this journey, it would be small things, said with love rather than blame. Let fewer of us go, and let each of us carry back out whatever we carried in. Let the fees we pay go toward healing the land, not just housing us on it. Let the monsoon months belong to the mountain alone, without exception, however much we want to go. Let small, quiet groups be given priority over large commercial ones. And for those of us who feel the pull to seek the divine but are not built for glacial passes and freezing camps, perhaps the temple down the road, the one we pass every day without really seeing, deserves the same reverence we save for the remote and the difficult. God did not make Himself harder to reach for the old, the unwell, or the simply cautious among us; we did that by deciding that only the arduous counts as devotion. And for the rest of us, myself included, perhaps our tradition already gave us the answer long ago: the Manasika Parikrama, the circling of the mountain done entirely within, in stillness, without ever leaving home.

Conclusion

I’ve come to think some places are loved better from a distance now, held in memory, in scripture, in the accounts our mothers write for us, rather than in the constant tread of new footsteps. Leaving Kailash to itself doesn’t feel to me like turning away from the divine. If anything, it feels like the more devoted thing to do, trusting that the sacred doesn’t need our presence to remain sacred. Only our restraint.

Written by Ishwarya Divakar for my mom, from the personal experiences and meticulous journalling of Mrs Mahalakshmi

Introduction

For several years, I heard from many people about their experiences of the Kailash Manasarovar Yatra. I was always enraptured by their accounts, but never really considered the possibility of undertaking such a Yatra myself. And when the Kailash knocked on my door and demanded my presence, I could only humbly submit to Its divine will and experience divinity in all its might.

Decision

My Kailash Manasarovar Yatra began six months before the actual journey. I would say the most important part is the preparation and the anticipation. My brother Muthukumar initiated the discussion, and my sister and Athimber joined in with all their enthusiasm. It was decided that we siblings, along with my Athimber, would take up the Yatra. From that moment on, everything felt like a dream.

Preparation

There is a beautiful Hanuman temple near my house, with the Prathishta done by Muralidhar Swamigal. Lord Hanuman, in all His glory, is resplendent and waits to shower His blessings from the sanctum. To prepare for my Yatra, I took a Sankalpam to visit Lord Hanuman every day, on foot — almost 8 to 10 km each day. The initial days were tiresome, and I would get fatigued easily, but by the end of two months, I felt much stronger and confident of my health.

The Yatra Day 1: We began our Kailash Manasarovar Yatra on June 23rd, from Bangalore to Kathmandu, and returned on 7th July. Earthbound Expeditions, our travel partner, took care of everything through this divine trip - porters, transport, chef, water, and every other need of a traveller. The company welcomed us at the airport, gave us winter jackets and rain gear, and arranged accommodation at the Hyatt. Day 2: Pashupatinath Temple The day began with a visit to the Pashupatinath temple, where a grand homa and Shiva puja were performed to set us off on a safe journey. Guhyeshwari, a Shakti peeth, was so powerful, and the sight of the huge Jal Narayana was resplendent to human eyes. Our Kailash Yatra properly began after a prayer by the organiser, followed by a 10-hour bus ride that brought us to the Langtang region north of Kathmandu, at an altitude of 2,380 m (7,808 feet). Day 3: The start We set off for the Rasuwagadhi border in Nepal, on our way to Tibet. After an hour’s bus ride, we reached Gyirong, also called Kerung or Kyirong, the international entry point in Tibet, an autonomous region of China, directly across the border from Rasuwagadhi. This stood at an altitude of 3,000 m (about 8,200 feet).

Day 4-6: Acclimatisation

We travelled from Gyirong to Saga, a wonderful stretch that took us ascending and descending the passes of Thong La and Lalung La, before settling in Saga. We reached an altitude of 4,400 m (14,432 feet), slowly acclimatising as we went. Our tour guide was caring and responsible, making sure we took Diamox daily.

Day 7: Manasarovar Lake We reached Manasarovar, at the southern foot of Kailash, at an altitude of 15,100 feet — the holy, serene lake, and the world’s highest freshwater lake, sitting right beside the saltwater Rakshastal. How the two opposing lakes have coexisted for millions of years is a wonder to the thinking mind. We meditated at 2:35 am on the poornima night and watched a beautiful sky full of stars. It is believed that in these early hours, all the devas come for a holy dip; we ourselves were not permitted to bathe, as the Tibetans hold the lake to be too sacred and divine for that. We completed the parikrama of Manasarovar by bus - a circuit of 412 km around a lake whose crossing distance is about 90 km.

Day 8: The trek to see the Kailash A grand recitation of the Rudram Chamakam, along with an abhishekam for the Shiva idols and the Yatra shlokas, was performed by the eight pandits in our group. We then proceeded to Darchen, a village near Mount Kailash, at an altitude of 4,575 m (15,000 feet) — 6 km from Manasarovar. Our tour guide gave each of us a small 3 kg bag to carry, holding only the bare essentials for the parikrama; the rest of our luggage was carried by yaks. From Darchen, we drove 6 km to Yamadwar — the “Gates of the God of Death” — the symbolic point where pilgrims begin the parikrama. Of the 48 pilgrims in our group, some chose to ride ponies, some walked, and others hired porters for their bags.

Dirpauk: The first leg of the trek, 12–13 km, took 6 to 8 hours and brought us to Dirapuk, on the north face of Kailash, climbing from 4,600 m at Darchen to 4,950 m. The path opened into a wide valley along the Lha Chu river, with a steady, gradual incline over loose rocks, gravel, and river stones. The sacred walls of the valley unfolded before us, so precise they looked carved. As we neared Dirapuk, the massive, dark rock of Kailash’s north face came into full view, ringed by peaks - its magnificence struck us. I sat there for a few hours, absorbed in the divine presence around me. My mind, for that time, was empty of every worry, thought, and emotion. That night, we camped at Dirapuk, right opposite the north face of Kailash, in temperatures of -4°C and freezing rain, where the mountain itself was completely covered in ice. ‘Kaana kankodi vendum ayya’. Because of the cold and snow, we were not permitted to go on to Dolma La pass. We returned to Darchen by van around 9 am, and made our way back to Kathmandu the same route we had come.

Conclusion The Kailash Manasarovar Yatra was not just a pilgrimage to a sacred place - it was a journey within. Every step on that rugged terrain taught me patience and surrender. At those altitudes, you learn quickly that your own strength only takes you so far; every breath is a reminder that it is Lord Shiva’s grace that moves you forward. The silence of Kailash, the stillness of Manasarovar, and the sheer scale of the Himalayas gave me a peace I still find hard to put into words. Standing before the north face, I felt small before something so much larger than myself, yet closer to the Divine than I had ever been. We could not complete the full parikrama as the snowfall closed Dolma La pass, but there was no disappointment in that. We took it as Lord Shiva’s will. This Yatra taught me that devotion isn’t about finishing a journey exactly as planned; it’ s about accepting whatever is given, with faith. One of the greatest gifts of this Yatra was the company we kept. Pilgrims from different states, languages, and walks of life became one family along the way. We looked out for each other, shared the hard moments and the joyful ones. Making this journey with my brother, my sister, and my Athimber made it even more precious, and it’s a memory the four of us will carry for the rest of our lives. I came home changed - steadier, quieter, and deeply grateful. Kailash left me with something I try to hold on to every day: simplicity, humility, and surrender. The Yatra itself has ended, but the journey it began in me hasn’t.