But It Matters In Reality

A true heart is to be enlightened on but not to look back for confirmation; a true heart is a gem among overrunning mass of sandy grains; a true heart is stark novel among ordinary entities--always vulnerable but resilient and winner ever. Its shadow known as 'unconditional heart' is 'an integrity put to test' among strained commoners. Its impressionism close-up grained or ephemeral and distorted thereafter in a feeling commoner. To live is to learn, contemplate and seize it lastingly...

Only It Matters

Why a makeshift society can't cushion the impact of a fall, a personal dilemma? 

Self-interest looms predominant for the monotonous course of 'to love or hate'--to feel close or distant in terms of supporting it or not given the fact that why one loves one and hates the other. Neutrality means absolute aloofness. So one hits this daily chore, such complex but naive scrimmage, melee of achieving it through means sham and farce--a commoner's day in his or her life. It's nothing other than 'myopic' set of goals so achievable for not being truly noble and farsighted through being unbiased, sincere and diligently disciplined. So the case of one among thousands means 'it's getting over', this world by it that breeds such foul paranoia so destructive. Lets see!

Pilgrimage to Paro Taktsang

Part: II

June 1, 2011

After enjoying the towering view of the precipitous dark walls, the pounding and dashing freefall of the lovely fall of such pristine water, a miniature shrine perching up there in the corner like wedged into the forced space by the fall and so on, we climb up the winding steps of crude stone-slabs up to the main site. The landing, a Drupchu (blessed spring-water in the rock with the projecting cap like rock) by it, where one’s belongings except materials for making offerings have to be left behind and one’s body is searched of any like inflammable materials, cameras, etc. The body-search done by a uniformed cop with his bare hands and a few stationed cops in navy blue uniforms can be the precaution after the last incident of arson unidentified yet like done by who and that caused a heavy loss but the prime, the most sacred idols and holy artefacts were fortunately recovered. It’s said the only single monk then as the only curator was feared burnt to death or escaped; the speculation leads to the latter that sparks the guess that the curator as the one who absconded away and with something. Now there are more monks and the whole temples have been renovated with such spending for both the temple-buildings of stone-built walls with the fat wooden doorsills and the other parts covered with protective copper-jackets and the copper heads (Tok) on the top of the main temples, and the internal idols, murals done on a sort of detachable thin ply-materials fixed against the walls and other things like those brocade hangings.

Then to climb up the proper and wide but steep steps of stone-slabs to the main entrance that leads up again along the same steps to the internal landing that leads to the main Guru shrines on the far edges of the precipice. The breathtaking but chilling view down across the stretch of greenery of coniferous forests and the steep chasm down from the narrow small place protected by almost knee high wall. The prime Guru shrines at the far end built against the rocky walls: the ground floor accommodates the Guru’s core hermitage-den now barricaded, draped with multi-colored cloth-strips and sealed with a bronze plate with etched inscriptions. It is opened only on the certain holy day in the fifth month of Bhutanese calendar, once in a year. The dark anteroom to the sanctum is floored with polished wooden planks nailed down on the laid rafters below, the bronze covered door with inscriptions, the plain bronze covered doorsill, the murals telling the life story of Guru. It’s really surprising to find such enough spaces for the whole buildings on the spared ledges.

The grand holy bronze idol of Guru next to the hermitage-den, a pair of crooked ivory tusks set before the altar, the one facing the other (there are some such pairs decorated before the altars in the other temples as well), those brocade canopies and hangings down the well-sawed timber-ceiling painted with colourful motifs, the wooden windows painted with the same, those dark bronze bells hanging pendulously and so on speak how such expenses the royal government has bear as for the importance of the site, now a major tourist attraction.

Taking the narrow wooden staircase, we move up on to the second floor Guru shrine that houses the core idol of the site, Guru Sungjonma (Guru idol that once happened to talk to a certain blessed one). The pair of ivory tusks decorated on the counter before the altar; those brocade hangings, the old ones among the new exude an air of antiquity. The room is more spacious and so the altar here. It seems Guru Sungjonma is right above the sealed hermitage-den below. Karchung later whispers to me that when the whole site was on fire, it was found in the den below without incurring any damages; his voice with the struggled touch of proving it as a miracle.

My sister shows me the gold butter-lamp offering bowl set in a glass-panelled case with whitish metal frame before the altar; it is alight with the flickering flame. It’s almost 7 inches high with the inscriptions. As to pour a few drops of melted butter-oil in it from one’s container brought with from home, one has to wait after requesting the same to the concerned caretaker. Everyone wants to pour a tiny share in it. We can do so from the Chinese flask with us after the request made to the elderly monk and waiting.

We again move down the wooden staircase and take the other way around to see and worship the boulder below. It is said as enshrined with Tsebum (Life Bowl), the amulet for protection against evils, and blessed by Guru Rinpoche. There is an engraved eye painted, which is taken as naturally appeared on it. When Choedon later asks Karchung about the engraved eye on it, he says, “It’s Yeshi Chen (sublime consciousness eye).”

“What does it mean?” She asks again.

“Rangyi Mig (your eye)”, he says ignorantly, but the source of later joke when shared by my sister on our way back.

The contiguous shrines are more spacious with the same decorations on the counters before the carved wooden altars, the same brocade hangings. There is a wooden throne in each shrine, may be the seat of Jhe Khenpo, the supreme religious head of Bhutan. The murals done on the detachable ply-materials as for the walls being not plastered and rough. I pay more homage to the texts, the ancient ones, a set of bound ones with white cloth-covers labelled as Gyu (must be Buddha’s own teachings on Tantrayana, the final revised ones as well) and to idols. There is a giant bronze idol of Guru and such one of Buddha of Eternal Life: both holding a Bumpa (Tsebum) in their left hands rested on their laps. They are flanked by three-faced deities of the same sizes with the seemingly obscene postures but only for the attained and eligible ones to be followed so.

There is an old some 12 inches high idol of the deity with the greenish paint. Our friendly and talkative mate, the young Bhutanese, Sharchokpa, in a maroon sleeved jacket and monk-like garment (but he is with his wife, not a monk now), who knows little Tibetan as for his studying at a monastery in Kalimpong and Karmapa Rinpoche there being his Guru, introduces the old idol of the deity knowingly to us that before the reconstruction as for the fire it was the prime one here in the deity chapel. The next by chapel with the inscribed bronze covered pillars and the same altar and the decorations... Our Bhutanese mate knows a secret place here. There is no one here who looks after and introduces us so, as there seems to be the shortage of manpower at such time like today or more are huddling around those a few foreigners as we are the local ones. (Some minutes earlier when I was standing outside leaning my hands on the banisters, I found a Bhutanese guy calling me from the below as to attend there thinking that I was a caretaker here for being in this maroon robe. When I told him that I wasn’t one, he asked me to call one. I asked the young monk, who accepted and went down. An elderly cop knew the case, approached me and asked, “Tourists?”

I answered in a broken Dzongkha, “No, a Bhutanese guy”.

“The door to the ground floor shrine, the prime one with the sealed hermitage-den, must be closed”, he said. I was on the left side.)

Yes, the secret place he knowingly shows us is the doorway with the hinged wooden door set in the polished wooden planked floor. The dark door way down the rock, like an abyss. Someone has a flashlight, not working first. Choedon makes it work. I see a deep hole down with jagged rocks, the hole seemingly tapering down. There are those money notes offered by devotees, just lying there. The Bhutanese mate makes a joke of taking them as there is none present.

As said as the real Tiger Den, the site named after, at the hidden angle of the dark wet rock, སྟག་ཚང་།  written on the rock above the entrance hole in Tibetan or Dzongkha characters. The narrow opening can be entered by crouching low, which leads down the crude wooden steps done on a single trunk of a cut tree and the wider opening to the edge of precipice on the other side. We don’t venture to go that far to the creepy edge.

Then to step down bare footed to the last shrine here with the stupa: Kudung Chorten (the one enshrined with the sanctified body of one of the core late disciples of Guru here) and a hole down the rocky floor next by: the wooden banisters around the opening and many notes down there that hide the inscribed dark rocky bed, a deity den. Walking clockwise around the giant stupa, I find the dark bare rocky walls at the back chilling and wet with the drippings, a small pool at the foot on floor level: again Drupchu to be drawn with the scoop, a tin container nailed to a wooden shaft. There are such ones at some points here. (There is one between Thimpu and Paro, a pipe stuck into the hill base by the main road. Karchung stopped for the same, cool and refreshing Drupchu of Drupthob Thangong Gyalpo, the sage, the founder of Tibetan spiritual operas. A temple, now a museum, of the Drupthob can be seen from the road across the river over the other side just ahead off Chuzom to Paro.)

Choedon looks so fittingly good in the checked Bhutanese half-Kira put on with the help of my sister Tsomo at the entrance as prompted by the presence of those a few security personnel, who inspect sign of such respect obeyed by a local one or not.

It’s to take the same way back up to the point on the adjacent semi rocky hill, but not till the beginning point from where to ascend down. A turn to take next by the wooden shack and along the winding foot path meandering up the hill with some trees, shrubs and a gurgling brook. After some walk we come to a solitary shrine, to be reached by the steps off the path, built against the rock housing the hermitage-den of a sage or shaman. Only an elderly monk in a grubby pink coat looks after it; he has got more to say. We’re the only visitors at the time. The proper wooden shrine houses the standing idol of the sage in the carved wooden altar, a pair of ivory tusks here too. We do the prostrations and offering in notes. The potion poured in our right palms from bronze vase like done at every shrine at Taktsang. The hermitage den at the back can be reached by the wooden steps. A den in the rocky wall. As on the notice the monk says that any wishes can be fulfilled made before the den. So I introduce the same to Choedon, who I find a moment later standing before the den and praying. I stand behind her and try to configure a better thought to pray for. A foot impression left on the rock next to the den; the monk says it’s of the sage and the other one is on the other distant spot in the other place—a sign of sublime mysticism. After having Drupchu at the right corner of the shrine and Karchung filling a plastic bottle, we hit the road.

And up again along the winding path across the sloping face of the hill. At last we can make to the top, the temple on the edge of the rocky quay. But it isn’t that dangerously perching as seen from the below; it isn’t higher than the adjacent rocky hill nestling Taktsang on its waistline-ledge and a temple on the top as seen from below. There is more space here, but the temple was seemingly erected out at the edge for a reason to be visible from below or any. Entering the entrance gate with the heavy wooden door and fat doorsill painted tawny-red, we step on to the narrow compound paved with soft-stone-slabs that leads around and up to the temple by a wooden staircase. The altar, a pair of crooked ivory tusks adorn here as well. My sister asks the elderly caretaker monk for the favour to do dice-divination and he does: a pair of dices should be tossed by my sister, the devoted seeker, on to the holder like a disc; the monk inspects and says the message is so favourable.

The creepy path around the temple for clockwise circumambulation, especially at the far edge behind the temple. Taktsang below can be viewed magnificently and mystically perching on the ledge with its maroon painted sloping corrugated iron roofs glaring.

After the visit we have our packed lunch by the stupa a few steps from the temple. A drizzle for a moment doesn’t trouble us at all. I find it really refreshing after a long walk and invigorating for the further walk up to the next top through the pine forest dotted with fragrant cedars. I walk ahead all the way along to the top. The flat-top here is more spacious, more space for walking around the temple, the three storeys one known as Zangdok Palri (copper-colored hill of glory) each floor housing different prime idol, the top housing the giant bronze idol of Lord Buddha. Those mud sculpted ferocious deities around the temple like protecting it; the front part is almost ground level only for the short stone-slab-steps. We wait for the caretaker monk, as he later shows up after Karchung walking some far for him, as there isn’t anyone else and the door padlocked. A wooden shack on the raised spot just off the temple; it must be the caretaker’s home with those stacked fire-woods by it. There isn’t anyone here as well.

There are three Bhutanese women as our companies, who arrive at the site just after us. An aged one and the two young in Kira; as we talk, they are from Punakha. As from their complexions and hands they are from a village, farmers. When we talk to leave after deciding to put the offering materials in a handbag and hang on the door from the bolt, Karchung can find the caretaker, a young monk in a brown T-shirt who doesn’t talk more than a few words during the entire visit inside. The dust coated wooden planks of the ground floor, those wrathful deity-idols standing side by side and armed with weapons on either side of the entrance. Each floor spares walking space around the prime idol set in the mid on the throne for its being a shrine in the form of mentally erected Mandala.

I am the first to get near the ground floor entrance after the visit. A knock on the door, even if it isn’t locked from inside, and I find when opening the creaking door our frank Bhutanese mate with his demure wife are by the door. I introduce them how to take the way up by doing the round from here, the ground floor.

And to take cruder and steeper paths down the slopes with those sprouting bamboo saplings as the only means for a grip as to save from rolling down freely. We’re to reach the other side of Taktsang by climbing down from the other side after making to the tops of both the adjacent semi-rocky hill and and the rocky one nestling Taktsang. It’s to suffer painfully from astringency till reaching the base camp after visiting the deserted ante-shrine and crossing over to the next vegetated hill to follow the winding path down.

From the point on the slope it’s to take the path across the rocky face to the ante-shrine. The path is well-made with rails at the dangerous points, the concrete slabs joining the other sides where there are gaps. The stone steps with raised almost shoulder-high walls on the one side leads up to the shrine with a tiny front yard. The youngest Bhutanese woman of the three as our companies has been talking sort of indulgently on her cell phone like to her lover. We have to wait here for almost half an hour but in complete vain. Both the simple shrine and the caretaker’s shack are locked. The old Bhutanese woman of the three expresses her frustration that I can’t get so clearly. Our Bhutanese mate, the monk like guy who speaks little Tibetan, and his wife are here as well. And so I am going to meet them later at Paro. One among us says the wooden bridge made out of a single trunk of a tree connecting the Taktsang proper with this ante-shrine was taken away after a monk had cost his life while crossing it to go to the ante-shrine.

Back again to the point to make the final knee-paining descent with the help of the crude but helpful walking-stick made by Karchung. Choedon is robust and makes her way ahead to the base camp with Karchung without taking any rest after the first. I follow my sister and can make there trying to be at her heels. Our Bhutanese mate and his wife are out of sight, but the three Bhutanese women are at one time ahead of us and the other time behind us. Later we can give them a lift up to Kyichu temple after resting at the camp for some minutes.

A satisfying sense of a real pilgrimage has been made with the taken hardships is with me while passing aback along the same road to the staying place by the river or across the river from TTC, my childhood school when learning was shunned through every means. 

Self-Mirroring

Through picking up on its way those random signs of hopes and smiles that now like mosaic sand figures falling apart and apiece this illusion-inflated entity is now no more than a nail-biting nut, an invalid, a nihilist yet not developed a complete renunciation to find the other way illumine. Though being deranged numb, yet sprightly willing for a deeper gash enlightening forever.

Though lost this far, bewailing over poor and praying for those blind sinners it’s daily prayers, a feeling telepathy that matters yet like an unarmed savior. A silent drop its source of ease. Through self-deprecation-languish it can now take more than triple-punch at a time. A dissonant conceit can’t make a single attempt at encroaching into its grey domain for now.

Through diffidence marked by an autism as a medium of equanimity it yet asks, ‘Is it fated to be so ever?’ Through monotonous continuum of fraying and choking breaths in this cyclic existence it yet longs for ‘Can I make it after all?’ Through such fall it yet wishes such not be of an endless gravity, summons for a timely savior to lay a landing to walk again…

Yet, a miracle for only a dream sweet. A mercy it can’t seek for now, the probation set by the faith at stake. All blurry murky yet a beacon there; phantasmagoric muted yet tethering. 

A Personal Dilemma

A blow, a contingency yet untoward, sometimes lands with such pressure as the-triple-punch that pummels the scraggy breath like at a point blank distance. The foray, the havoc ravages the pre-restive entity to such frayed pathetic—I have now lost my parent like distant paternal uncle—if to be named here for a reason Geshe Tenzin Dookda La—who breathed his last on 13 March in the early chilly morning hours in Elista, the capital of The Republic of Kalmykia under Russian Federation. Yet, I have this pride for his worth-being there as the ‘mentor’ and Buddhist master since his leaving for there in 1995, when I was at the time being able to deal with my life so far. Yes, for his predestined needy presence there that did turn out to be far helpful and fruitful as per his conscience regarded the matter as of top priority for being there and helping in his best ways. So I feel this pride and I have been feeling so since learning about the same. So it can be proved by how the bright and loving Kalmykian people have taken his demise, post physical death musing till the clear light ༼ཐུགས་དམ་ལ་བཞུགས་པ།༽ and the ceremonial cremation plus mass prayers with such gravity as can be got at http://www.khurul.ru/?p=10049. So, for the same, I would like to extend my sincere gratitude and heartfelt thankfulness.

Yeah, the blow, on personal level, has come that I happened to write in my note as follows:

13 March

Almost past noon I had a call from Dhati Lobsang, a senior member of our Khangtsen, telling me about Gen Dookda La passing away in the early morning of the day. For his being like my parental guardian after my joining the monastic university back in 1985 it is a loss that leaves me far alone as to test why I was born for… As from his undergoing heart surgery years back and having strokes, the last one only a couple of months ago, as for his hard works there in Kalmyk, sort of unbridled burst of temper and the same laxity in dietary precaution for his case, the news isn’t a sort of unexpected one despite the recovery after the third fatal stroke that spared a lull only. But I find myself at my wit’s end. I can mouth prayers with a sense that draws me to tears, if I let it carry me away. I am going to do my best.

 *

Yeah, the blow is doubled with the current cases of how our beloved compatriots in Tibet suffer in the ‘undeclared martial law’ draconian but veiled and aloof (The whole world pretend not learning as such by casting the whole attention to Syria instead. Why? Because the ruthless tormentor is Red China, the emerging bully as many thoughtlessly succumb to her robot-minded regime’s precarious yet sound guise of promising shares in pillage-business earned by only military threats, brutal actions and deceptions. The farsighted and prudent global project known as Sustainable Development seems to be just sweet lip exercise when it falls on quick cheap gains by every heartless means in an annexed or neocolonized territory.) like a sniper takes his targets anonymously yet authoritatively. The lives cost by those self-immolators, the hanging trepidation that a fresh one—there was one only yesterday by a young monk in Ngaba and one even today in Rebkong—may come up and how many more would be tortured and incarcerated pain this desperate heart even more.

The third blow, restive it has been ever, now seems to be nothing in the face of them. But penitent I have been ever for being that foolish not being able to pursue my dream. A prospective life is like a distant dream. Yet, I won’t bow ever as not to let it remain in dream only. Then to fight them with a honed talent far well-greased and functioning: I happened to update my facebook status as:

'Nothing lasts forever' that speaks a true heart seeks amid the flurries of timeless alternate flights of convergence and divergence--what the living moment shapes what to ensue whether pleasurable or not. A folly, a simple idea, a futile attitude have the same latent potential to be capable of developing into a grand entity. That proves 'even to live is an adventure'. A forlorn one's claustrophobic cry can be heard one day; the same has the potential to strike the enlightening chord as to release the last shuddering and reverberating current that orientates it towards self-mirroring: seeing how foul one's impatience costs and thereby to develop the true sense of empathy, the true beacon to be summoned now and ever as to win in true sense. So, nothing lasts forever! Have a great life!

Gorkarn, Kudle and Om Beaches: Finding Time on the second day of Losar

February 23

How true it’s a nearby place of any significance is always neglected by like saying can be visited anytime later and kept deferring absent-mindedly… But to exert a practical notion into action, as I find this time, needs the same willing support and accompaniment to be able to pack up the tooth paste and hit for the excursion. Thanks for the Indian government rural transportation services cheap, learning and reliable and here Karnataka state government. Thanks also for Phuntsok Lambu’s opening up the idea almost a couple of weeks aback.

Our express bus parked by a stopover en route for Ankola

Three of us, with K. Namgyal nicknamed Jabra by Phuntsok, carry out as preplanned to catch the morning bus from Camp # 6 to Hubli at 6.45am. We can do it despite Jabra arriving at the rendezvous bit later, by Kalasang Lhakhang (the village shrine in the narrow compound) which stands over the road like monopolizing the part of virgin field estate or occupying the raised spot like being the head of the village standing precisely off by the T-shaped intersection, like watching over the sleepy hermit with the overlapping mud-tiles roofs. I don’t have the least idea now when seeing him arriving at the spot with an expression of concealed guilt that he’s going to let Phuntsok burst into his incorrigible lasting laughter at the beach, when Phuntsok can’t hold the camera and take the shots of his postures, especially the way he flexes his undeveloped muscles over his short but broad nice structure with an air of innocence or pride and with those mimicking postures of a builder at his show time. So both of us find it really funny. But I can take the shots by taking the camera from Phuntsok, who by then is almost impossible to raise up his plunging head down the sandy ground and laughs with a low deep like chuckling sound. Now he looks serene with a black bigger backpack.

Gorkarn beach

We have to alight at Kalgatti bus stand and have a time to have a brief breakfast at the narrow oblong restaurant in the compound before catching a better bus to Ankola. The bus stand here, not like ours at Mundgod, has seemingly recently got a facelift both the façade of the core building and within the compound. And from here, as having a front seat by the wide windshield, along the major smooth wide road and to enjoy the thick rain forests but now rather pale on either side of the road. A small idling group of small stunted monkeys can be seen by the road one after another. Being an express bus, it doesn’t stop like a local one at every minor stand or hand-waving sign. It guns forward confidently with the young sturdy driver. But he spares his considerate thought at a point by letting in a group of school students mostly girls in pale pinkish skirts and white half-sleeved shirts and dropping at Yellapur, a village town. A taller girl sits by me. I can have a swift angle view of her dark lanky hands with smooth furs resting on her lap. Bit later an opened book in English on her lap; at second try I find it an English grammar book: ‘Direct and Indirect Speech’ I can make out at one shot scanning over the pages. But I find her not actively going over them but keeping it open as to gratify her wish or to flaunt what she is.

It’s 3 hrs drive between Kalgatti and Ankola in the express bus, distance at almost 250 kms, bus fare Rs.80.00 per head. Fortunately, we can immediately catch a local bus to Gorkarn after alighting from the express bus. Just off the station along the road the rancid fish-like odor and thickets of coconut groves with lush green fronds are the herald to the nearing coastal point. Nearing Gorkarn, the drive along the dark wide smoothly flowing creek off below the low ridges. The musty smell is stronger. The created creek must be for the approaching salt-fields maintained with those mud-barricaded pools so wide and spacious; those piles of whitish stuff must be crude salt.

Om beach

But, unfortunately, at the certain turn, when our bus is blaring languidly to take the turn by taking the circuitous left side, an auto-rickshaw darts suddenly forward by taking the wrong (right) side and hit the bus. Really just like an egg hitting a boulder. I hear it hits ours but ours, both heavy and moving slowly, not making a slight abnormal movement. But it halts right away. Then those curious passengers like displaying a commoner’s instinct get up and rush out to be the added onlookers around the ill-fated light three-wheeled vehicle turned upside down and its frontal part smashed wedged under the part of the bus bonnet that doesn’t seem to incur any damage conspicuously there. Phuntsok is actively engaged with the crowd outside but has less to tell us. He points us to the injured driver back to us being led by someone else; he is in a dark purple full-sleeved shirt and dark cotton trousers and walking achingly; he is of normal height and must be bearing a paunch from his being well-built.

The small cute Indian girl with dark lovely eyes at my back cranes her dainty head curiously ahead to learn about the mishap, but she can’t leave the place by following her young mom who is standing by the door and looking ahead through windshield. I ask her name in Hindi but she just stares on and remains silent. I don’t press on. Thanks, we’re, only a handful inside when I look around, moved on to the other stopped bus behind ours. It’s only 20 minutes drive in a local bus, fare at Rs.18.00 per head.

After having a brief refreshment at the rather shabby restaurant within the terminal compound we, as Phuntsok knows the place well so far from his earlier visit a couple of years aback, walk to the nearby Om Hotel with the attached Om Restaurant and Bar on the first floor with the open waist-high walls, those rolled up green painted stalk-veils. We settle on a three bedded one on the second floor for Rs.600.00 per day on 24 hrs check out basis. Or it can be for the time now with those a few foreign guests and Hindu festival for worshipping Shiva. We’re going to learn later Gorkarn, with those major Hindu temples, is a sort of Mecca.The room and the bathroom are okay for not that clean white bed sheets and pillow covers. The single corridor and narrow verandah with marble floorings and tiled walls seem to be the sign of luxuries vindicating what is written on the painted metal sign-board standing on two vertical stands just by the hotel and at the turn off the hotel.

Kudle beach

We leave for the beach around 3.30pm. The sun is still high. Coming on to the main broad way, the main street, after the narrow packed littered road it’s to face the main things of the worshipping festivities ahead rather than giving eyes to those gaudy cheap wares on either side. The two stationed wooden chariots with the round holy fretworks grimy with a dark sticky lacquer may be of offering oils are far ahead like in the middle of the broad road and by the entrance way, from where winding along by a number of temples till coming on to the causeway over the gulley with dark rancid water stagnant and sandy floor of the beach. For the festival the above openings of the winding ways are covered with colorful awnings that make the walking pleasing and cool. Of the two fully decorated chariots the one is smaller. Both are adorned with plywood framed holy images of Hindu gods up around the dark oil soaked fretworks and above them the inflated red-white wide patterned striped cloth-domes so high and the spires topped with pieces of triangle red cloth (ceremonial flags) coming up from the top miniscule cloth-domes. Approaching close, I find the structures seemingly so heavy from the hard wooden fretworks rested on the strong closely set rafters and the large wheels. Those Indian devotees touching their hands on the oil darkened greasy fretworks and doing their worship. I spot three or more Western Hindu devotees standing at a turn in their ceremonial saffron garbs, may be monks. But I can’t look at their hair and find time to study if their foreheads bear the ritual pastel signs.

We enjoy our time till the late evening. Those makeshift shanty stores and eateries just adding to further litters, or can be for the festivities now. The large tent-hall with the raised dais for presenting classical dances or plays relating to Hindu holy myths. There are many foreigners engrossed in their beach rites and those with children as well. Yeah, this time I have a concrete impression of why people like holidaying at beach. Apart from other merits whatsoever it can be that the vastness of the ocean view has its mesmerizing effect on driving away all those flurries of discriminating thoughts and letting rest on its grandeur alone at ease—so we find relaxed, calm and concentrated on it alone. Or, in other words, it just stupefies the way one yields to off it. It is, however, relaxing and pleasant.

February 24

With the tired but trained limbs for yesterday’s long swimming, playing and jogging at the beach we begin to walk to Kudle beach beyond the rocky ridge. After taking the flight of steps up to the top it’s to walk on the parched rocky but with dried grass, those fragments of charred stones with tiny holes tell what the ridges are formed of like lava-hills. From the point, where there is a building with bright hoardings of yoga-posture and massage alongside the crude road running by it, it’s to walk down to the beach. Those parked vehicles in the crude lot next to the building. Some young Indian tourists, more girls in jeans, are coming up from the beach; their Indian English accents and merry faces.

We have a brief refreshment at the deserted café raised up from ground level. Those printed police-notices are rife and seems to be threatening like a junkie can’t bear being here or there after spotting them. Yes, I have heard about the isolated beaches here as hubs for junkies. This crescent narrow beach is rather suffocating after the long Gorkarn, but it’s cleaner for being more remote. The gentle tide of low waves breaking along the crescent line; I find here rather at ill-ease for finding it like a narrow creek. The view of low ridges and the planted forest. I don’t have a mind to dip, wait for them on the beach and read on Anna Karenina on my Kindle instead. There are foreigners here, those lounging in the thatched cafes, basking and reading…

Then around 1.00pm or being here for not more than hour, as Phuntsok and Jabra hold the same notion as walking to a secluded beach and not having a bath is a pity, we again set off for Om beach, the last one beyond the same looking rocky ridge along the same parched terrain. But the somber view of the overrunning dark water below, as can be come to a glimpse now and then while walking along the slopes, is both exciting and petrifying. Here at the vantage the construction of a sort of pavilions and small garden with concrete pavements on the slopes are in progress. We lounge for a while in the round-roofed pavilion with varnished wooden-paneled ceiling and round columns, on the red painted concrete seats. An Indian boy holding a steel plate in his hand is walking to the temporary shack of corrugated irons next by the almost finished small compact house with ridge-roof of corrugated irons. I raise my right hand to greet him; he does the same aback and gesticulates with his hands asking me to come for something to eat. I thank him for his good Indian way despite his being a labor here at the site.

The reason for naming it Om can be made out from its partial formation of the Hindu mantra Om letter: dual curves and the mid rocky patches spare so. Casting afar at the similar blurring lines along the bases of green-layered ridges, I wonder how many more beaches can be there.

The café next by the step on the sandy floor of the beach is the only well-equipped one here. We have a good lunch here before going out to explore the curves. I spot three Asians, a guy and two ladies, dining on a raised part. The guy has that countenance towards me when one is in such companions, but I can retreat by not looking at them as not to trouble him further. A so chubby white guy in his late fifties or sixties walks in the café naked for his dark underpants revealing his bulging red patches; he looks like a giant here. It bears a holidaying vibe of gaiety so far.

Jabra in his outfit like a Vietnamese, as he has such bearing in that loose T-shirt, knee-level ripped old jeans and the white round-brimmed cloth hat like worn by a cricket umpire, especially for his short broad physical features. He is again anxious here to go out sooner. But Phuntsok looks more relaxed in his synthetic NBA shorts and red T-shirt that accentuate his lanky furry legs and towering height. For Jabra’s appearing like stubble by Phuntsok he is ready to ask Phuntsok to be at the lower level when posing for a shot with him.

We have a nice time till the late afternoon. Yeah, the water is cleaner here. We bath and lounge and meet Thomas, a Science teacher of Science Meets Dharma from Swiss, basking on the hot sand. He, seemingly in his late thirties or early forties, seems adaptable and congenial from his long association with us teaching Science at the monastic schools at Mundgod. He says his term of teaching assignment at Mundgod is over and he is going back to obtain further visa to return back to Gyumed tantric university at Hungsur, a Tibetan settlement in South, to carry on his teaching Science. He expresses his wish to get enrolled at Snow Land School, recently inaugurated by His Holiness the Dalai Lama, and learn Tibetan Buddhism besides his teaching, as the school is solely aimed for Westerners willing to explore or learn about Tibetan Buddhism. Even if he offers us free ride in his hired taxi up to Goa airport, as Jabra has a relation there and has a sort of capricious mind, leaving tonight at 10.00pm, we have to thank him after some discussion that we can’t take it for fearing to trouble his relation at such hour late past midnight like around 3.00am, when we will be there. So we bid him farewell before departing from the beach.

As to venture on a petty luxury or fun-cruise we decide to pay Rs.450.00 for a boat ride back to Gorkarn; thanks Phuntsok pays for it. Those dark frowning precipices of the rocky walls can be studied well in this bouncing bobbing simple boat with the sputtering machine propeller at the stern, the single steering handle with accelerator like of a bike. It’s almost only 15 minutes ride passing by the two protruding edges of the rocky ridges into the water, which form the furrows of the two crescent beaches. For me, Gorkarn beach is long and freeing, letting gain the real air of what a beach should present for having the relaxing quality. So I have a bath here again, the last one as we’re leaving the next day.

Before returning back to our hotel we, as Phuntsok’s wish, have a long walk along the hardened sandy bed till the point, from where we find a crude shortcut path to our hotel. Only a nimble gait can carry on to the full length of this long beach, but our limbs are tired. It’s pleasing to walk bare footed along the path coated with smooth red dusts winding by the households of overlapping mud tiles roofs and with such rich vegetable plots. Those foreigners staying at such nooks and crannies; a group of them are active in the spacious yard putting up a tent or preparing around the seemingly smooth-polished dust patch capacious enough for some Yoga practitioners. Yes, I find one practicing himself alone in the open pavilion at the beach. Hinduism Yoga is as famous as Tibetan Buddhism these days, my impression.

February 25

We pack up our compact belongings and get ready to check out to catch the bus to Ankola, the end of an excursion with the aim of learning some about our neighboring parts.

A Mournful Tibetan Losar—2139 (Water-Dragon Year)

February 22, 2012

Yet again a fated year for us, we Tibetans always steadfast, staunch and jauntily self-engaged for our Birth Rights—how we can ignore on the pretext of having even grander issue by belittling these core rights that decide whether your creativities can be upheld or not? No, never by 99%. 

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,

Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land?

Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d,

As home his footsteps he hath turn’d,

From wandering on a foreign strand?

If such there breathe, go, mark him well;

For him no Minstrel raptures swell;

High though his titles, proud his name,

Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;

Despite those titles, power, and pelf,

The wretch, concentred all in self,

Living, shall forfeit fair renown,

And, doubly dying, shall go down

To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,

Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung.

~ Scott

We’re always united in expressing our heartfelt doleful solidarity plus prayers for those brave Tibetans, now counted as 23, who have offered their most loved lives as ‘the offering lamps or beacons’ as to illumine the dark sides of this cruel world and to mesmerize an individual conscience of the world at large to act for a better world. How cherishing one’s life is, for us all?

And so this New Year is not to brood over but to evoke one’s true heart at depth to sense a real novel being inside as not to be set awry like a heartless being as emphasized in the above pointing stanza… To defend the sovereignty of one’s nation is the top priority of every single citizen, but for our ill-fated case it’s to dedicate in every possible way to fight for regaining it as the top priority. We can see what it costs for being a mundane case in hand for being the question of survival, a commoner’s birth rights in terms of cyclic existence for honing his or her intuition under reliable protection! So we almost know how to recount what it costs to have an inner revolution as for the case of Jetsun Milarepa’s attainment of Nirvana in one lifetime. But here for now the question, as per the wish of every single Tibetan, is how to save Tibet from present gravity rather than how to evoke Bodhichitta, the sublime mindset, in such time, as the dire gravity falls on the others, our beloved suffering compatriots in Tibet under such draconian tyranny, but not on self, such thinker or commentator or who can say so in lofty tone. It’s time to act in any ways! So it’s time to work harder for Tibet, to come out real bright and responsible Tibetan both educated and loving one’s ‘native land’, Tibet.