The legend of Lamayuru

Ladakh's famous Lamayuru monastery has a most extraordinary back story which ends in moonland. The mountain paradise of Ladakh is a must visit for philosophers and philistines

FROM 3u00b0C to 0u00b0C, in 15 minutes flat. One of the first things that struck us at 11,500 feet above sea level in Leh, the mountain capital of Ladakh. As we shivered in our light clothes waiting for the heavy woollens to arrive on the conveyor belt, it started snowing outside.

And when we stepped out, the incredible lightness of snow melted in our outstretched palms, sending a sensuous chill down the spines.
u00a0
Since we had flown in from Delhi, directly to Leh, we were advised to take our time to acclimatise. Taking our cue from the snowflakes descending slowly from the heavens, we too did everything in slow motion. Yes, in Ladakh, do as the snowflakes do.

Our guide Rigzen was waiting in the car park. As we drove down to his house, we saw entire stretches of land covered in a white, endless shroud transforming the houses and farmlands into an amorphous snowscape.

Rigzen's mother was waiting outside her beautiful ancestral house, and she greeted us saying 'Joo-ley!' Her greeting had the same tingling warmth which we were to later experience in the Ladakhi tea she served. Joo-ley, explained Rigzen, is a loaded Ladakhi word that means 'Hello', 'Goodbye', 'Please' and 'Thank You' all in one breath! You have to pick up the meaning from the context.

We had our dinner at the guesthouse, and as Rigzen opened the door to bid goodbye, a sharp chill entered the room and decided to stay the night.

The next day, we started at the break of the Himalayan dawn, as it was a long drive to Lamayuru. The moment we crossed the outskirts of Leh, a grand spectacle started to unfold in front of our eyes. Mountain after mountain of the great Himalayan splendour passed us by. Every one kilometre the scenes changed dramatically, and every frame looked like a picture postcard. Making even a novice photographer like me look like a master!

Moonland at Lamayuru

As the road turned, there was a surprise waiting to reveal itself at every turn, we saw a magnificent monastery, nestling in the bosom of a barren mountain.

And to its either side, as far as the eye could see, there was an undulating series of mountains that's so unlike anything on earth that the Ladakhis call it 'moonland'. And verily they resemble the surface of the moon, with an ethereal look about them.

That's when Rigzen explained the mythology behind Lamayuru. A Buddhist lama by the name of Yuru was looking for a place to set up his monastery. When he reached this spectacular spot, he paused and said, 'It'll be here, my monastery.'

But at that time the entire place was submerged under water, with just a few craggy peaks floating above it like glaciers. Lama Yuru, invoking his immense spiritual power, ordered the waters to recede and make place for his monastery. And recede they did.

The moonscape in Lamayuru looks exactly as if a massive river that was flowing through these mountains receded in a hurry, leaving behind uncanny forms of solidified silt.

When we reached the guesthouse, our legs were aching from the arduous trek on the slopes of Lamayuru. Rigzen got a few large tumblers of boiling hot water. As I dipped my tired legs in hot water, I remembered the 14 km mountain trek from Joshimath to Gangriya on our way to Hemkunth Sahib.

At Gangriya too, our tired legs felt rejuvenated with a hot water dip, and our bodies energised by the delicious food at the langar, we had continued our trek to the gurudwara of the last Guru of the Sikh panth, joining in the chant of the Sikh pilgrims 'Satnam, wahe guru!' From the blue placidity of the lake in Hemkunt Sahib, we had descended into the serene beauty of the Valley of Flowers.

There we had gazed upon a breathtaking valley clad in a delicate drapery of red, white, blue and yellow. Only the dried up rhododendrons stood there as a sad reminder that we had come there three weeks late.

And that night in Rigzen's guesthouse, the memories of my first trip to the Himalayas bloomed into a colourful dream that I suspect had a predominant dash of pink. The missing pink of the rhododendrons.

Breathless at Khardung La

The next day in Ladakh, we set out on our much-awaited trip to Khardung La. Of the 17 mountain passes in Ladakh, Khardung La is situated at a height of 17,486 feet, and it's the highest point in the world that's accessible by a motorable road. As we started our climb from 11,000 feet, the drop in temperature and the reduction in oxygen levels were palpable.

So much so that when we reached the summit, we were completely out of breath. And as we started communicating with each other in monosyllables, I remembered my son's pet theory of how the names of the Chinese came to be invented. His theory was, to save precious oxygen while addressing each other, they kept their names monosyllabic: Hu, Lao, Li, Kiang, Wang, etc; rather than an oxygen-draining Anantapadmanabhan!
But the sight from the pinnacle was worth every breath we lost.

In the distance, way below, was the road we travelled. It was winding around the blue mountain sides like the snake around Shiva's blue-throated neck. And above us were the multi-coloured prayer flags strung across bamboo poles by Buddhist monks, and they fluttered in the cold breeze, celebrating the joy of existence. Or were these festoons actually fluttering in our minds, I wondered.

After one last glimpse at the ephemeral expanse, and after a moment of rest upon the freezing wind, we moved on.

Zero gravity dance at Hemis

When we reached Hemis Gompa the next day, a deserted structure, with the main wooden door slightly ajar, beckoned us. On either side of the door, Buddhist monks were seated on their pedestals, along with their entourage, facing the stage in front. And on the stage, lit only by shafts of afternoon sunlight beaming through the roofs, there was a dance drama being performed.

Characters with elaborately painted masks and flowing colourful costumes were moving slowly, and with such measured grace, that it looked as if they were performing in a land where there was no gravity.

We don't know how long we were cocooned in that trance. When we did emerge from it, we were greeted by the compassionate stares of a hundred monks, which clearly meant that we witnessed something that outsiders are not allowed to.

Thiksey Fest

In stark contrast, Thiksey was bubbling with life as the Thiksey Festival was on in full swing. Ladakhi men and women, young and old, had ventured from their homes in their festival finery, and were milling about in colourful confusion, as they climbed the steep slopes of the Thiksey hill.

When we reached the top, a grand performance was being played out in front of a large embroidered curtain they call Tangkha, which is unfurled only once in 12 years. It looked like the audience was having the time of their lives, as wave after wave of giggles swept across the courtyard. An animated tapestry of vivid colours filled every nook and crevice. Young faces, wide-eyed, looking at every passing moment with the wonder of innocence, and old octogenarian faces, adorned by deep wrinkles of compassion.

Across the mountain sea

Our next trip was to Pangong Tso, a massive lake of iridescent blue and green, reflecting the blue-green expanse that stretched right across the Roof of the World. The edge of the lake was a crusty white, caused by the salt drying up in the sun. Believe it or not, at 17,000 feet above sea level, there was a lake with salt water! Probably proving that the great seismic convulsions that Mother Earth went through, during her labour, swept up the sea to such great heights, where it remains today as Pangong Tso, also known as the Mountain Sea.

As I gazed at the arid mountains that circled this lake and stretched beyond, I realised that oriental mysticism was born right here, in the cradle of the mystical mountains of the Himalayas. As we made our way back to Leh, we saw those magnificent mountains for one last time.

An awesome array of mountainscapes being sculpted by the raw forces of nature: the sun, wind and water. It was then that I realised why I believed in rebirth so passionately. Yes, it's only to witness the ever-changing grandeur of the ever-changing Himalayas, birth after birth.