On a full moon day in September, nearly two decades ago, I was following a sherpa, I called him Dai(as a big brother). We were walking from Simikot, in far Western Nepal to Raling Gompa ( or Gumba) about 12 hours away.
“We must reach Raling Gompa, a Buddhist Temple high in the mountains, before dark,” I said anxiously. “Brother,” the sherpa replied, “If that is the case, then we must walk a littler faster. As you know Aani Dolma, the nun, says her evening prayers and does her worship at sunset. Then she eats her dinner and goes straight to sleep. If we do not move faster we will end up sleeping in a nearby cave, starving,” he added.
Since the time after my first visit few month before then, I had promised Aani that I would bring whatever she needed. She told me, “There is no need except enough blankets for guests. You know, people like you, and yes . . . we need packets of ready-to-eat noodles. They are easy to make and serve to those who arrive here too late for dinner. You know the villagers only bring food to share in the mornings. There is nothing here at night.” So there I was with a bundle of 12 blankets and four large boxes of noodles. Mostly Sherpa Dai but I was carrying a little bit of it all the way to Raling Gumba. It somehow seemed my duty and responsibility.
Thesherpa dai took the lead at the faster pace and I followed as best I could. But I asked him, “Brother have you ever seen a Yeti out here?” Sharpa Daireplied: “What is there to see, Brother? All the yetis have vanished or they are dead and gone. As I understand it they were killed when I was a small child. There is not a single one left. No, I have never seen a yeti. They are gone forever!” Then there was silence and only the sound of the wind rustling through the mountains.
The way to Raling Gumba is very hard. It sits at 4200 meters, nearly 14,000 feet in altitude from the sea level.
The steep climb takes one through dense green forests, craggy hills, across frigid streams and through cold rivers. It is a painful journey requiring great endurance. Even though I was born and raised in Nepal, I found the journey taxing, very taxing, due to both the rough terrain and the extremely high altitude.
Upon reaching Raling Gumba, one is struck by how simple and basic it is. It is like stepping back in time. Following the ancient tradition of Hinduism/Buddhism, it is not a temple in the the traditional sense. Inside the cave is a very traditional ancient depiction of the Buddha. It is flanked by statues of other Buddhist deities and the visage of the most revered and holy Guru Rimbushe, the Padmasambhava. In front of the statues are rows of small butter lamps. The scent of burning incense and the thick buttery aromas form the flickering lamps fill the air creating a heady experience. It is as if one has entered another world. And one perhaps had. Between the altitude and light from the lamps, one can believe that one is anywhere in the spiritual realms. It was there, in front of the Buddha one evening, arriving after dark for my very first visit, that I saw her. Aani Dolma, the old nun, as she reverently moved in her worship. In one hand she held the traditional damaru (a two headed drum used in worship) which she played by waving the drum, using a twisting wrist motion, the strikers beat on the drum-head. In the other hand, a ghanta (a bell), which she rang as she chanted her prayers. In the deep quiet mountain cave at Raling Gumba the sounds of the damaru and ghanta reverberated off the rock hard surfaces establishing a drone against which her mantra was chanted.Through the riveting sounds one can feel the heart opening. It is a curiously potent combination establishing its own sacred hum. Here worship becomes a total bodily experience of sound and chant, thrumming to the beat of the human heart. From the center of one’s being the vibrations move the chakras in the deeper recesses of the human soul.
ओंमणिपद्मेहुं, Om Mani Padme Hum
ओंमणिपद्मेहुं, Om Mani Padme Hum
ओंमणिपद्मेहुं, Om Mani Padme Hum
Sitting quietly, hands folded in an attitude of devotion, and feeling the waves of exhaustion from the steep climb and rapid pace now completed, I nearly feel to sleep. But was kept focused by the sheer power of the experience. After an hour or so the aani ceased her prayers, looked at me with the countenance of my own grandmother and said, “You must be very tired after your arduous journey. Does your body ache? Please come to my kitchen where I can feed you.” I nodded still nearly in a trance and followed her out into the night and back to her little kitchen some distance from Raling Gumba.
As we headed quietly to the kitchen she asked me again. “Babu (like ‘son’ in Nepali) you are hungry after you journey? And tired, too, I suspect.” I nodded again. She read my heart and body before I could summon the words to answer. With that she handed me a bowl of broth and shampa(roasted barley flour combined with sugar) and glass of hot tea. I wolfed them down, yet it was the sound of the aani’s words which provided healing for my heart and body as the pain diminished and then vanished altogether. Nothing specific was said, yet the way she said her words were a healing balm.The bright moonlight now shone through the doorway giving an unearthly light into the enclosure. The wind, now blowing fiercely, was icy. Adding wood to the fire and then stoking it by blowing through a bamboo pipe, Aani Dolma spoke again. “It must be hard for you to be here with this cold all around us. Most lowlanders do not understand how cold it can be in the mountains. Here is blanket. It is indeed very old and worn but it will keep you warm.” Wrapping me tight in the blanket we sat quietly in front of the warming flames. Amidst the crackling logs I became quiet enough inside to hear water moving in the distance, falling over rocks. I couldn’t tell whether it was a river or stream or waterfall. It sounded cold, yet rhythmic in its rising and falling. Then I began to perceive my own heartbeat and the movement of my own chest at its inhalation and exhalation. As my eyes began to force themselves shut, Aani Dolma handed me a traditional brass cup filled with rukshi (home-brewed wine). “Babu! Drink this. It will warm your bones, heal your body and grant you the deep rest and earned sleep you need.” I did. The warm wine coursing through my body sent it into a sleeping state.Then silently laid my head on the warm pavement of the floor, covered and wrapped in the warm blanket, and enveloped in a warm fog of wine and good food, I fell to sleep, gazing into the dancing flames.
Morning came long a cold splash of water. Awakened by the sounds of damaru and ghanta nearby in the Raling Gumba, I didn’t know where I was and what had happened. I was startled awake by the call to prayer. Uncovering my face, I was awestruck by the scene outside the door. Arising quickly, I kept myself wrapped with the blanket as a shawl, and threw on a hat. As the sun rose I cast my eyes across a transformed landscape. I was truly high up in the mountains, and all around from this vantage point I could see small villages on the laps of the hills. Bursts of color presented themselves as patches of flowers, forests and trees. The sounds of birds commingled with the sound of prayer, and the Karnali River flowing within the canyon below.