“Lost and Found at the Abode of Eternity: A Sensory Chronicle of the Kailash Manasarovar Yatra”

My arrival in Kathmandu brought a storm of anticipation—a riot of airport sounds, foreign perfumes mingling with jet fuel, and the saffron-hued welcome of a Rudraksha garland pressed into my waiting palms. The tactile coolness of each bead against my skin was grounding, like a quiet signal of protection. Stepping into the lush, bird-haunted gardens of the Malla Hotel, every leaf seemed to vibrate with the nerve of beginnings. The nervous energy inside blurred with the scents of moss and dew, as twilight folded gently around the city. Over a plate of steaming rice and softly spiced vegetables, stories and cautions about Mount Kailash and Manasarovar Lake roamed my head, each a horizon I had yet to cross.

The pre-dawn air on the jogging trail beside the Bagmati River was shockingly clean; my lungs drawn wide, every breath I took seemed sliced with icy promise. The mists curled above the water—sharp, damp, and charged—while distant chanting from a riverside temple set nerves humming. Soon, our feet found their way to the temple of Pashupatinath, where the air was thick with incense and prayer, and I saw the flames leaping like living spirits. Each rising tendril of smoke carried ancient blessings, and the rhythmic mantras pressed deeper into bone, leaving skin tingling as faith made its invisible mark. It was here, in these premises, that I saw the cremation and the scattering of ashes into the Bagmati River of those whose time on Earth had been completed.

Later, as we weaved through the traffic and bustle, we visited places that blurred myth and reality, whether it was Jalnarayan’s sprawling Vishnu, Budhanilkantha’s silent stone recline, or the strong pulse of Genyeshwari Shakti Peeth, each offered cold marble to touch, incense to wake, and the breath of legends that were caught in every corner. In the evening, the orientation that we participated in was a reality check— it showed the need to master layering against the cold, learn every feature of a large red jacket, make sure to tuck gloves into the sleeves, and ponchos into duffel bags given to us. Besides that, Diamox tablets, to ward off the altitude’s invisible but merciless hand. The stark mention of Tibet soon faced me as the police posts felt like silent sentinels, the omnipresent facial-recognition cameras watched us, and the chilling knowledge that each day would be measured in breaths of oxygen.

The trip to Kodari, began with the city’s sharp morning, as our convoy buses groaned awake and rolled over uneven roads. By midday, Totapani shimmered at us, with its traces of hot sulfur springs. A Buddhist temple’s bells provided some percussive clarity while the nearby Shiva statue loomed vast in the late sunlight. Night’s cold pressed against windowpanes. Shared sighs, whispers, and woollen blankets became comfort in their own right. (hot water spring here, went and took a dip at 6 am in the morning slipping into that warmth, our muscles softened—a fleeting luxury amid cramped rooms)

Crossing the border at dawn, every sense of mine braced for surprise—the flash of glacial rivers beneath crumbling bridges, the thunder of waterfalls pounding over cliff’s edge, the sudden heart-stopping vertical drop of roads carved from mountainous landslides. Nepali immigration was quick, however the black, broken walk into Tibet was unspooled beneath surveillance, every step of ours watched, every movement being logged by silent officials whose eyes flickered without warmth. By evening, in Nyalam, my world shrank to a small stony room without even a real closed bathroom. The dry air clung to my skin; comfort stripped to its raw outline.

Further travel toward the land of Saga was hypnotic; hours of undulating roads, we were driven through a landscape painted in shimmering blue streams of water, smooth black asphalt and vast cloud filled horizons. Saga’s shelter was modest, but twin-sharing and felt warm. Hot soup hit the tongue with a sense of earthy comfort, soft chapathis tore easily, daal’s aroma rose above pilgrims trading tales of their day, energy refocused by a purchased walking stick, palm-smooth and ready for tomorrow.

The 500-kilometer ride to Manasarovar Lake pressed us deeper into time, marked quietly by the switch to China’s hours. Manasarovar’s serene expanse was awe-inspiring, it’s waters that looked like weaving but smooth blue silk appeared in front of us, some of the pilgrims, including myself, chose to take home in bottles, the lake’s pure and serene waters that held plentiful blessings, others offered flowers in silent pooja as flames warred with the wind. Tibetan monks murmured blessings; the scent of juniper smoke lingered long on the skin. This was then followed by the appearance of the dreaded lake known as Rakshasthal, it’s crystalline-seeming saltwater did look beautiful however it felt foreboding—its dirty yet black gleam felt almost alien as compared to Manasarovar’s clear blue bliss. Stillness hung sweet and strange that the winds felt almost musical yet it kept biting at our cheeks, stealing any sense of warmth, yet somehow filling our hearts with a fierce reverence.

Bathing in Manasarovar at sunrise was another experience to forever remember, the shock of the freezing-cold water bit deep into flesh, every inhalation of mine sharpened to prayer, every drop felt like an almost dizzying call to surrender.

Your feet soon will take you through the space of Yamadwar also known as the gateway to the Kora. By late morning, the land lay open—red jackets set vivid against the pale, sandy stretch, I saw ahead of me hundreds upon thousands of feet moving, all marching to rhythm of breath and gravel. During the initial phases of my walk, I was pleasantly surprised to be joined by a little being, a bird which perched itself pretty comfortably on my shoulder and then moved onto my head, and lastly, for some reason unknown to me, chose my phone as its next landing zone although this was for only a few brief moments, it felt memorable. Early on, I stood in absolute awe and amazement as I would witness headfirst the flanks of Kailash, gilding the mountain in an impossible to revisit but pure glory. Steep paths tempted shortcuts—locals warned of hidden dangers; stream crossings chilled calves, laughter and shouts echoing in crystalline air. Cameras snapped, not only for the scenery but for faces transfigured by awe.

My fatigue only grew as the walk wore on. Every pilgrim’s zeal was tested including mine, but our tears were the true witnesses— especially at the moment when Mt. Kailash loomed closest, when I saw that golden light spilling across stone, the sacred peak that felt almost near enough to touch. My knees shook with the weight of the journey, and my emotions ran free— full of compassion, humility, fullness. The dormitory at day’s end: a poorly lit, small cube with nine squeezed into a hundred square feet. This day was marked by a moderate trek of almost 17-18 kms from Yamadwar to Dirapuk. Waiting for bunk space was an endurance test, yet even discomfort seemed secondary to the sacred moments that followed.

I rose before dawn at 5:30 AM, the darkness outside stark as obsidian, yet the air pulsed with a sense of whispered readiness. The uphill climb started—a seven-hour tryst with what felt like the worst terrain ever known, boulders biting underfoot, snow slashing cheeks, cold wind stinging eyes. Every muscle of mine ached, mind battered by the high, thin air— yet when I set my eyes upon the almost surreal vision of Golden Kailash, the sun’s warm and pure untouched golden rays that softly caressed the peak of Mt. Kailash, kept us pilgrims walking. One noticed that oxygen dispensers were carried by Chinese pilgrims, not for Indian pilgrims, this felt like a secret small betrayal as we were not given this information nor given the choice. Furthermore, we also saw Tibetan pilgrims who chose an extreme form of completing this pilgrimage, they would walk a few steps, lie down on the ground completely flat with their palms folded and facing forward and repeat this harsh process all throughout the pilgrimage. Such was the levels of devotion one could witness.

Every step waylaid by doubt, the body forced forward only by stubbornness and the metronome of companions and the sights of the Golden Kailash. Dolma La Pass beckoned to us, now standing at the height of 18,400 feet: every breath tasted like iron, prayer flags shivered overhead, offerings were seen to be made, silent rituals performed, and the descent to Gauri Kund, a bone-shaking ordeal. The turquoise waters that flowed besides my every step glowed, silent, icy; the landscape stretched flat, knees throbbing, thoughts floating numb, This day’s trek is not for the faint hearted, the steep ascent of 1,500 metres, 7-8 kms, and the equally if not more, steep descent of 1,500 metres, but within 4 kms and then the long, flat and near endless walk to the Zhutulpuk Monastery.

The night at Zhutulpuk reeked of shared fatigue, the weight of memory settling onto every pillow. The next day’s walk back, the landscape more familiar yet somehow changed. Dawn cracked, aches chronicled each step. Bus waiting—a purgatorial shift, the journey’s harsh edge softened at last. Calm, quiet, final descent to the hotel.

Returning to Kathmandu poured noise, dust, and desperate urgency into the senses. Rumours of youth riots electrified the air, the city’s energy tight with tension, filtered through burnt police stations and thick uncertainty. The linens of Royal Singi Hotel felt like a cloud—comfort now shockingly rich, every thread a quiet testament to the transformation one witnessed.

Back in Chennai, it took me two days that were blurred between dreams and reality to adjust back to the normal—a heartbeat was spent reacclimating, but every sense still haunted by the strange clarity of Kailash. The journey lingered, the sacred mountain’s call echoes in my memory, stripping away the trivial and demanding a reckoning with the eternal.

The Kailash Manasarovar Yatra is not only a trek through myth and terrain—it’s a pilgrimage through sensation and soul. Each mile gnaws at the unnecessary; each step brings forth a shedding. When all is lost, what remains is vivid, elemental—a self, reawakened, open to the infinite beneath the mountain’s shadow. WRITTEN BY, R MAHIMA RAM (DAUGHTER OF GANESAN RAM SREENIVASAN)