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It’s a cold, damp afternoon in the Himalayas, where I’ve trekked 22 kilometres in six hours. I’m tired and short of breath. The path is narrow and slippery. One wrong step and I could topple into the swift River Kali, 300 metres below.

Our path is abruptly blocked by a mound of muddy rocks. “A fresh landslide,” explains Daulat, my porter. “Cross quickly! More rocks could fall.”

At Dharchula, our base camp near Nepal’s western border, we had been warned of these. Why have I come here, leaving my home and family? I wonder. And it’s just the first day. A businessman with my own hotel in Goa, today I’m a pilgrim with a group of 43 others from all over India, doing the Kailash-Manasarovar yatra.

It’s arduous and dangerous. It’s also the most enchanting pilgrimage in the world and, for a Hindu, the ultimate one. Our destination: Mount Kailash in the Tibetan Himalayas, abode of Lord Shiva. The 6714-metre-tall mountain is also holy for Tibetan Buddhists, who identify it with Mount Meru, cosmic centre of their universe. The foot of Kailash is sacred to Jains, who believe that their first Thirthankara attained nirvana there. Not far from the fabled mountain lies Lake Manasarovar, circumference 88 kilometres. The great lake is so named because, Hinduism maintains, it was conceived in the mind of Brahma, the Creator. The Mount Kailash region is known to be the source of four of Asia’s greatest rivers, the Brahmaputra, Indus, Karnali and Sutlej. “There are no mountains like the Himalayas,” says one of the Puranas, “for in them are Kailash and Manasarovar.”

Pilgrims have undertaken the rigorous Kailash-Manasarovar (K-M) yatra for centuries. After the Chinese invasion of Tibet, travel to these sites has been guaranteed in the Sino-Indian Treaty of 1954, but the trail had been closed for 20 years after the war of 1962. Access to the area from India is via a high pass, north of Uttarakhand. And today, at about 1pm on August 14, 2007, I’m faced with a rock fall on that very pass.

Stones, large enough to crack our heads are still hurtling over. It’s the luck of the draw—had we been passing just minutes earlier, we might have been in trouble. An August 1998 landslide in Malpa, not far from here, killed over 200 people including many pilgrims and porters. The noted dancer Protima Bedi was among them. And, I am told, as we scramble over the heap, Daulat’s father, who was also a porter.

I’m no saint or big sinner, nor overly religious, but the scriptures claim that those who pray before Kailash and bathe in Manasarovar’s holy waters are cleansed of sin and delivered from the cycle of death and rebirth.

When I told my family about my wish to take the yatra, even my wife Rajal didn’t object. But then, she too didn’t realize how treacherous the journey really is. The Ministry of External Affairs (MEA) would let me go (they send 16 groups every year*), if I passed their medical fitness test. But even that’s no guarantee I’d return alive—four yatris (pilgrims) from previous batches had died en route only recently. Although yatris consider such deaths a blessing, the medicals were made stricter after that. I trained regularly for two months at a gym.

River Kali runs through deep valleys, and pilgrims trek on a narrow path high above it. Click to enlarge

By the time I faced a government doctor in Delhi, I’d lost a few kilos and was feeling really fit.

“Your blood pressure is high,” said the doctor. “In high altitudes, you could have a stroke.”

“My mum too has high BP. Give me some tablets,” I pleaded. “You know I passed all the other tests.”

“All right,” said the doc, prescribing some pills. “BP runs in my family too.”

But ten others were rejected—mostly because of high BP. Thirty men and 14 women pass. I wonder how I got through.

“If God has willed it, nobody can stop you from this yatra,” Uttamchand Bardiya, 65, the group’s oldest member, told me. We fondly call the retired businessman kaka (uncle). This is his third K-M yatra; he has plans for two more. Our journey started on August 12, 2007, when we were taken by bus from Delhi to the Dharchula base camp.

>>August 14
My trek begins at a hamlet called Mangti. The ladies and a few older men opt for ponies, but Uttamchand Kaka and the rest of us decide to walk the 40 kilometres uphill. It is here that I get young Daulat, the porter. This path above the River Kali is the most treacherous, with icy knee-deep streams and muddy landslides to cross. Even my new pair of sneakers and a walking stick aren’t helping my balance. I turn to see Daulat—in his wornout shoes, no stick, and burdened with my bag—walking as effortlessly as a mountain goat.

“This is our livelihood,” he says, “I do this route five times a year.” By 1:30pm we’re in Malpa, site of the 1998 tragedy. “I was a boy when Papa died here,” Daulat tells me sadly. “My mother raised us with great difficulty, on her own.”

Mountains move, give birth, and have a mind of their own. I can see the landslide that took those lives—it is now yet another small mountain. You can’t bring earth-moving machinery here, so all those lost were never found. I say a silent prayer for the departed souls. Hours later, we reach our 2740-metre-high camp at Budhi, where it’s minus 6 degrees C. There’s an icy wind sneaking into the tent.

My every bone is aching—and, as I wonder what’s in store tomorrow, it isn’t easy to fall asleep.

>>August 15
Starting at 5:30am, it’s a 60-degree, 18-kilometre, four-hour climb. At the summit, the path levels out into the spectacular Chiyalekh Valley, the yatra’s most scenic patch. It’s covered with wild flowers, some rare: cobra flower, iris, May apple flower, and kasturi kamal. The earth is decked in blue, purple, red and yellow.

As we walk on, there are beautiful aromatic trees like cedar and balsam fir. Jai Patel, 23, the group’s youngest member, is busy clicking pictures. “I’ve never seen such a beautiful place before,” he beams. By 4pm, when we reach the Gunji camp, we’re at 3500 metres and must spend two days there for high-altitude acclimatization.

The first rays of the sun cast a golden glow over the snow-clad Kailash. Om Parbat (right) gets its name from the shape of the snow pattern covering it. Click to enlarge

>>August 16 to 21
Having nothing to do at Gunji, I get to know the others better. I am amazed at their will to continue the yatra despite the hardships. Equally remarkable is their devotional fervour. I am a non-vegetarian and find the sameness of a dal-rice, local sabji and chapatti diet unappetizing after a while. My mother has packed some prawn balchao. But respecting their religious sensibilities, I throw the Goan delicacy away. Camp doctors, from the Indo-Tibetan Border Police, check our BP and almost everybody’s is high now. I get a stronger dose of new medication.

The next leg of our journey will take us three days of walking over what I’m told will be “a few mountains” and three camps before we reach Takalakot, a small trading town in Tibet.

The route reverberates with history and mythology. We are shown Veda Vyasa’s cave, about 300 metres above our path, where the sage and author of the Mahabharata meditated.

Reaching 4000 metres one day, I am breathing so painfully that I can hear my lungs whistle. But we are also eagerly looking out for Om Parbat, the mountain with snow patterns resembling a natural “Om.” Unfortunately, clouds veil our view.

At 5334 metres, Lipulekh is the highest Indian point on our path, and our descent into Tibet begins here. It’s a frozen and bare landscape that looks almost lunar.

>>August 22
We spend two days in Takalakot, while our immigration papers are prepared. Sonam, a frail, friendly Tibetan will now be our guide. Then it’s a bone-rattling 140-kilometre bus ride to Darchen. We pass Rakshas Tal, the salty lake beside which Ravana is believed to have meditated to seek Lord Shiva’s favour. It’s Shiva’s favours that 21st century pilgrims still seek.

>>August 23
We trek all day. The sky is overcast. I’m numbed by the cold and damp. While resting in Deraphuk village, I hear a bustle outside my tent and come out. The sun is now shining. Everybody’s excited. I finally have my darshan of Mount Kailash in all its splendour. It’s enormous and magnificent. Deep inside me, I feel something akin to a spiritual awakening.

“Sir, you are extremely lucky to view the mountain so clearly,” Sonam tells me. “Because at this time of year, it is usually cloudy here.” Indeed, many pilgrims have gone all the way and returned having only seen clouds. None of us can take our eyes off until the clouds cover it from view again.

The atmosphere is electric. “Om Namah Shivaya” is the mantra on everybody’s lips, and I can feel that ancient chant resonating. Somehow, all my numbness and body aches have disappeared. That night I sleep like a baby.

Early next morning, luckily, the sky is clear once again and we have our darshan of “golden Kailash.” The sun’s first rays illuminate the snow-clad mountain, turning it into a glowing gold, a momentary phenomenon that lasts only for five minutes, until the sun rises higher. Now I know why Kailash also means crystal in Sanskrit.

We have to circumambulate Kailash, the all-important 56-kilometre, three-day parikrama. For that we must get to the Drolma La pass, at 5550 metres. Although it is a tough climb, I’m surprised I can do it with relative ease. The Kailash darshan has changed everything. My mind is relaxed, so my body feels no pain.

Along the circular trail are a few points important to Hinduism: Shiv Sthal is a flat stretch strewn with discarded clothing, where Yama, God of Death judges people. It’s believed that leaving your clothes there will delay Yama’s summons, so some fellow pilgrims open their bags and do just that. The ambivalence is amusing: If it’s blessed to die during the yatra, why take the trouble to cheat Death? We then reach the beautiful Gauri Kund, an emerald-green lake, where Parvati, Shiva’s consort, is said to bathe.

Next, the 88-kilometre parikrama of Lake Manasarovar is done by bus in a day, and nobody complained about the icy-cold water while taking the holy dip. I marvelled at how Manasarovar changed mood, with myriad shades of green or blue, every few minutes—as if it were a giant flat monitor for the stream of consciousness in Brahma’s mind. And with the reflection of the sun, and of Kailash, in its waters, it’s a breathtaking scene!

For three days we camp by the lake, at a place called Qihu. There’s a silvery ambience created by a full moon reflected in the lake on our first night here. I sit alone listening to the ebb and flow of its waters.

Detached and free, I feel a peace that passeth understanding.

The return journey was easier, says the author, it being a descent most of the way. Unfortunately for him, Om Parbat was cloud-covered again. For more information and history, read A Mountain in Tibet by Charles Allen (1982). And Here Be Yaks by geographer Manosi Lahiri is a recent travelogue.

To enquire about the yatra, e-mail: kmyatra@mea.gov.in or write: Deputy Secretary (East Asia), MEA, Room 255-A, South Block, New Delhi 110011. This year’s first yatra started on June 2nd.