Mythical Mustang: A Memory of a Pilgrimage

Escaping the confines of Kathmandu is a huge relief in itself. Like the thick air that perpetually hangs inside the mountain valley, there is something suffocating about city life: the daily grind, the ceaseless race against time, and the sense of artificiality bereft of fresh air and meaningful connections.

We, the city-dwellers, almost invariably are tormented by a lingering feeling that something has gone amiss in our modern life. This collective experience must have something to do with our evolutionary psychology, largely shaped by our erstwhile itinerant existence in nature. This yearning for greenness is perhaps a memory ingrained in our collective consciousness of our prehistoric ancestors' chlorophyllous existence. This should explain why we seldom opt for bigger cities when we need to wind down.

November 2023: On a Journey to the Sacred Land

We are on our four-day road trip to Mustang, the mythical land beyond the Himalayas wherein lies the adobe of Muktinath, a deity revered by Hindus and Buddhists alike albeit by different names. It has stayed at the top of our travel destinations wish list for a long time. With every passing year, my mother's yearning for this sacred place has grown more intense. In the Hindu belief system, you are supposed to go pilgrimaging the holy shrines as you grow older.

"Looks like going to Muktinath will remain my unfulfilled wish," she has been complaining.

There cannot be a better time for this journey. Our Dashain Vacation has just begun and we have got plenty of time on our hands. With the rainy season over, the weather is clear and the roads are less busy.

Our travel mostly goes winding along the bank of the Kali Gandaki River. The river, its water tinted black and its banks covered by blackish sands and pebbles, holds a special significance in the Hindu belief system, as it happens to be the only source of shaligram, a manifestation of?Vishnu in fossil form.

Traveling in a Tata Sumo, we reach Pokhara before evening. Once we leave the city—a captivating world of its own to explore—behind, we keep coming across numerous herds of chyangra goats, a domesticated version of Himalayan Thar, on their way to Pokhara. Mutton is a special delicacy during the Dashain festival in Nepal.

We spend our first night in Beni, the district headquarters of Myagdi which seems to be the starting point for all kinds of journeys: travels, trekkings, pilgrimages, adventure sports. The hotel we have stayed in has bustled with holidaymakers like us. The food we are served in the hotel is mass-produced and bland, no better than the food you are likely to get on the highway stops. We regret to have chosen the wrong place to stay the night.

"I'll take you to the best Thakali kitchen for lunch," Prem Darshan, the SUV driver, assures us as we leave Myagdi early in the morning. He is a friendly and knowledgeable person who knows places like the back of his hand. He says he has lost count of his trips to Jomsom and back.

"Get your cameras ready. We're stopping for a stunning view of a waterfall. It's called Rupse Falls," he says when we reach Dana, traveling along the scenic Kali Gandaki corridor.

Lete: A Magical Point of View

When we reach Lete, an eye-catching mountain view of Dhaulagiri and Nilgiri in the Annapurna range suddenly appears before our eyes. The view is beyond beautiful. It is simply an experience of the sublime. We stop at a roadside cafe.

"Just imagine spending your entire life here, creating your art or writing your books," I say to my siblings. "Imagine you see this scenic view from your windows all the time."

"This is the kind of place where I'd like to spend my retired life, watching snowfall when it snows and wandering in nature when it doesn't.," my sister says. "I've never got the opportunity of touching snow."

"On my last visit, I had reached this place at night. I had no idea what kind of place I had arrived at until the next morning. When I woke up at sunrise and looked out of the hotel window, I was blown away by the beauty of the place," my brother says. "If I could, I'd develop one of the research stations here."

Unwilling to leave the place, we linger for yet another glimpse of the magical mountain. It appears so close that it feels like we could touch it.

Tibetan Plateau: The Windswept Highland

The landscape dramatically changes with the change in topography, and, with that, the distribution of and variation in foliage. Soon after driving into the clumps of conifer trees, we arrive at land canopied by Himalayan Poplar.

The higher we ascend, the more barren the land becomes, giving the appearance of the giant prehistoric mudhills. Apple orchards cover the riverbanks near Johmsom which look like a long stripe of green ribbon. From the smooth black-topped roads in the highlands, we observe the windswept grey mountains dotted with ancient settlements and green oases.

As we drive along, I remember reading The Third Eye, a novel claimed to be written by Lobsang Rampa, a Tibetan monk. As a teenager, I had no idea the story was a blatant fabrication, a hoax. Reading the story alone in my village field in Terai while herding buffalos, I remember my imagination soaring over the barren hills on the other side of the Himalayas.

The scenes on the way take me back to my student years in the US and remind me of the mountain states I extensively visited, traveling on Greyhound buses or railway lines for several days.

"This is exactly what Mustang looks like," Tshering had informed us in August 2007.

Tshering was a fellow Nepali student who had come to study in Colorado from Mustang. We had an expansive view of the Colorado prairie and the Rocky Mountain range ahead of us. There are striking similarities, especially in the carving of the landscapes by nature over the millennia.

Kagbeni: Reconnecting with the Ancestors

On our way, we stop at Kagbeni—the threshold to Muktinath and a sacred site for pitri puja—to offer ritual prayers for our deceased ancestors. The proverbial winds of Mustang whip us as we descend into the gorge of the Kali Gandaki River.

My father, now in his eighties, who as a staunch young Marxist used to readily dismiss such rituals as a primitive and superstitious practice, quietly follows the priest's instructions. Having gone through the travails of life, he too has come to recognize the profound mysteries of existence.

We cannot overlook the inadequacy of basic facilities in this place of great spiritual significance. It is quite disconcerting to see priests managing multiple groups simultaneously, reciting mantras through mini megaphones. Above all, they seem preoccupied with rushing through the rituals, often resorting to shortcuts. Nowadays, there seems to be a touch of commercialization in everything, including religious rites.

Muktinath: A Tale of Two Traditions

Muktinath, a small pagoda-style temple dedicated to Lord Vishnu and Padmasambhava, nestles gracefully at the foot of a barren mountain. It beautifully symbolizes the coevolution and coexistence of Hindu and Buddhist traditions in Nepalese society. The area is broadly referred to as Mukti Kshetra, the realm of mukti or salvation in Hindu mythology and nirvana in Buddhist mythology. Creating a scenic backdrop, the temple's surroundings are decorated with sparse yet resilient Himalayan poplar,

After offering our prayers at the temple's entrance, we strip down to our boxers—a rare act in public—and dash under the cascade of 108 holy spouts. The water is biting cold. This ritualistic bath is believed to purify body and soul, washing away the sins accumulated throughout life. The crisp air carries the aromatic blend of butter and incense. All the while, bells of varying tones ring ceaselessly, reminding us of the sanctity of our moment there. God knows when we will be back in this place again.

Shocked by the freezing cold, we hasten toward the hot-water ponds in the temple's front yard. The water, fed by underground hot springs, is warm and soothing. I am reluctant to step out of this thermal comfort zone. I remember the monkeys in the Snow Monkey Park of Japan that, when it snows, spend their days in a natural hot spring. Like those monkeys, I want to stay put and relax.

In a word, Muktinath Temple and its surroundings are simply awe-inspiring. As a shrine of Vishnu, the preserver of the world, the place emanates an otherworldly spiritual vibe. However, the encroachment of modern concrete structures is an eyesore. If modernization continues unabated and unplanned, the place is likely to lose its mythical aura in the next few decades. Walking around the temple, I try to imagine the ordeals my grandfather and his generation had to undergo on their pilgrimage to Mustang, a far-off secluded kingdom beyond the Himalayas.

With the expansion of motorways, many fabled trekking routes in the Himalayan regions have been stripped of their out-of-reach mythical significance and the sense of adventure they once offered to trekkers.

Marpha: A Night in the Labrithine Dreamworld

On our return journey, we reach Marpha surrounded by apple orchards before sunset. We are glad we planned to stay in this unique village for a night. Once in the village, we go sauntering back and forth in the slate-topped labyrinthine alleyways crammed between traditional stone-walled and whitewashed houses, their rooftops laden with firewood.

In the evening, the place is wrapped in the glow of otherworldliness, reminiscent of the mythical Shangri-La. For a moment, I feel like I have stepped into a magical land, the story of The Purple Rose of Cairo reversed. In the central part of the main alleyway, the housefronts glisten with gift shops teeming with apples and apple-related products, including Marpha brandy, locally produced winter wear, and souvenirs. Cozy-looking restaurants under the glow of dim lights add to the charm.

With local and international tourists, mostly from India, the shops and restaurants are filled with chatter and hubbubs, resembling an evening open market. We press ourselves against the walls when a small herd of mules and donkeys comes rushing towards us. They soon disappear into the alley, the clinks of their bells still audible from the distance. We quench our thirst with the green apples we have purchased.

"Remove your shawl, Ama. The photo would look better with your full face," a local lady who has volunteered to take our family photo suggests to my mother.

The ambiance of Marpha's uncanniness is bewitching. It reminds you of something you half-remember reading about or seeing somewhere: a scene from Arabian Nights, the mud-brick houses of Timbuktu, or the ancient city of Petra. In a sense, Marpha is a living museum, breathing its ancient culture with some 21st-century adjustments.

We are staying the night in a hotel with exquisite interiors, decorated with art and antiques, which give the hotel lounge a rustic charm and inviting aromas wafting from its kitchen. Where else can you expect a more authentic Thakali meal and hospitality?

We decide to get a taste of the renowned brandy of Marpha while we wait for our meals, the complete Thakali culinary set. The owner of the hotel is a cheerful person. She takes the two boys to show them around the hotel—a small museum in itself—and offers them a brief history lesson. The village, she says, was a vital stop on the ancient salt trade route between Tibet and Nepal. A foreigner sitting next to our table is fully absorbed in the thick book in his hand.

Needless to say, the dinner is a feast, rich in taste and flavor. After dinner, our parents and kids go to bed and we, three siblings, step out into the chilly night air. The sky is clear, and the stars are bright, unspoiled by city lights. One more time, we stroll through the village in the quiet of the night. We wish life could always go just like that, free of the hassles of modern life. Deep down, we are aware that this journey is just a momentary escape from the traumatic experience we have been dealing with.

Lying in bed, I remember a fragment of Rumi or Pablo Neruda.

Take bread away from me, if you wish,

take air away, but

do not take from me your laughter.

Do not take away the rose,

the lance flower that you pluck,

the water that suddenly

bursts forth in joy,

the sudden wave

of silver born in you ...