[Red Liner]

In this story we call life, one knows not where our friend, death lurks.

A Kiyang stands testament to a full meal enjoyed by the more carnivorous residents of the world’s highest plateau. This was either the work of wild feral dogs, or the endangered Himalayan wolf. The stench from the carcass was surprisingly bearable, thanks to the biting cold and scanty oxygen in this rarified atmosphere. Life is both brutal and beautiful here.

The gravel road to Kurzok village winds imperceptibly around the highest mountains in the world. On one side is Tibet, on another sits Himachal Pradesh, and where I am riding my motorcycle from is Ladakh. Kurzok was an important way point in past centuries, lying on the Central Asian trade route, an ancient trail used by merchants from Persia to trade and barter with China.

But the first views that greet the eyes are not the village itself, but the banks of that gleaming turquoise jewel on which Kurzok and its citizens dwell, TsoMo Riri, translating to Mountain Lake. Within a few minutes we find ourselves in front of a derelict mud house, the only sign of life being an equally derelict but charming old man waving us down. Having stayed here on prior visits, I wait to see if the old chap will recognise me. I pull off my helmet, and he does — both our dusty faces grinning at each other. We hug like long lost friends.

After we settle down in our musty rooms, I take a walk around town as is customary in all my travels. There is much commotion around me. I observe more people than usual here in Kurzok, a village that began with just 9 little houses almost a thousand years ago. Monks file past, chanting feverishly under their breath. It is an ancient six syllable mantra, Om Mani Padme Hum, or Praise to the jewel in the lotus of your heart. The chanting quickens with their pace and I hasten to join them.

[Red Liner]

The well beaten path leads me straight to a towering structure to my right, possibly the highest in the village. I walk up the solid stone stairway and I arrive into a central courtyard. This is the Kurzok monastery, of the Drukpa lineage and home to over seventy full time monks of varying ages. There are another set of stairs that lead to the inner sanctums of the temple. I leave my shoes outside, as is customary, and step into a large dark room only lit by flickering butter lamps. I hear more deep chanting and I squint in the darkness to make out a shape from where the recitation ensues. Almost without warning, drums are beaten and a chorus of Tibetan horns originally belonging to the heads of yaks are blown at full tilt to the accompaniment of clanging cymbals. The evening puja is now complete. I sit for a while in silence and step out onto the terrace to catch the last of the evening light. Tsomo Riri gazes back at us, the monastery and myself, almost benevolently.

A monk sits cross legged as is the norm in front of a wooden chest housing prayer books, and that also functions as a reading table. In the foreground on the table is his vajra and bell set, an indelible part of his prayers. Old murals depicting the gods adorn the walls in the background.

Later that night as I sit for dinner with our host and his wife, he tells me the story of how the lake came to be called by its present name. Mountain Lake, isn’t that what it translates to, I ask him. He shakes his head laughing as he tends to the cooking pot on an old wood stove. The smells are delectable in the cold mountain air.

He leans back against a wall as he begins. “A long long time ago, a girl was given the responsibility of looking after her father’s yaks whilst they grazed by the lake. This girl was a buddhist nun, and buddhist nuns are called Chomo in our language. She was bringing all the yaks home, it was quite late in the evening you see, but there is always this one stubborn fellow who will refuse. She yelled out to him, Ri! Ri!. This is how we call out to our yaks. Now this was winter time, and the entire lake is frozen thick. The yak had meandered onto the ice. The little chomo lost patience and walked onto the ice to bring her yak back. But the ice broke, and both drowned to their deaths. That is why the lake is named Chomo Ri Ri”.

One has to travel far beyond Korzok, seen on the left to get a picture of Tsomo Riri and the village in one frame. I am standing in front of a Chorten, a buddhist shrine possibly paying homage to the deity of the lake.

[Red Liner]

I spend the first night at almost four and a half thousand meters tossing and turning in bed. I am unable to sleep. I wonder if its because of nightmares about the little chomo and her yak drowning, but I soon realise it is not. I have altitude sickness. And it is bad. Now beset by a head splitting ache, I make my way gingerly to the only hospital in the village (I am pleasantly surprised there is even one here!). The doctor is in, and he is a man from the plains. Bengal, he tells me. “And many people who come here straight from Leh suffer from AMS. That is one reason why the government actually sanctioned this hospital”. But I have already been living in Leh for months now, I try to reason with him from the patient’s chair his assistant has guided me into. “No matter. We are significantly higher than Leh, and your body has simply not been able acclimatise properly this time”, he retorts as he stabs me with an injection that miraculously almost instantly brings relief.

I step out with new found vigour and rush back home to grab my camera. It is the first day of the Korzok Gustor, the sole reason why I returned yet again this year. But I have already missed the first of a series of ceremonies. A long line of forlorn dogs, yaks, and goats adorned with flowers greet me down the road from the monastery. Once a year, these animals are worshipped and thanked for all their hard work as part of the Korzok Gustor. I wheeze as I run up the stairs of the monastery wondering what else I’ve already missed. “The next set of ceremonies is a few hours from now after all the high lamas have arrived”, titters an old Changspa woman looking resplendent in her clothing. But what really drew my attention was her headdress.

The headdress, the wise old woman had on, is called a Perak. Studded with turquoise and other valuable gems, these are handed down from mother to daughter through innumerable generations. They are usually only worn on important occasions like the Korzok Gustor, or weddings.

The word Gustor, quite literally means “Sacrifice of the 29th Day” and takes place once a year. The central element of this festival being the supernatural Cham dance.

Novice monks in training play central characters in the Gustor. With a whip in their hands and fearsome masks, they keep spectators behind the line so we don’t come in the way of the dancers. Culprits are whipped, a kathak or a scarf tied around the neck, and money collected as a sort of fine. Nobody is spared.

[Red Liner]

I enter the central courtyard where the Cham is to be enacted. The Cham is a ritual performed by monks, and accompanied by music on traditional Tibetan instruments. The monks dance in rhythm, keeping time using cymbals. Considered a form of meditation and an offering to the gods, the music is said to put the monks into a trance when enacting these ritualistic dances. Do you really go into a trance, I ask a monk who I managed to befriend. “Yes, we most certainly do. I cannot tell you how or why it happens, but it just does. Maybe it is the chanting or the dancing or just this mystical atmosphere that is created which puts us into the trance. But we know neither fatigue nor thirst when we begin dancing”, he answers. Images of whirling dervishes of the Sufi tradition come to mind.

I look around trying to find a place to sit. Almost every prized spot is occupied. Not so much by the locals, but by tourists. “These days such festivals have become more a tourist attraction than an important prayer to the gods”, laments an older monk in private. Still, the Korzok Gustor is one of the last places in the Tibetan buddhist Himalayas where one can be a part of an authentic tradition.

Almost without warning, figures of saints and demon-like beings emerge from the main temple, and descend the long flight of stairs down to the courtyard. Their appearance is accompanied by thundering blasts of horns and their steps by the slow rhythm of drums. The different masks represent beings called Dharmapalas, or divine guardian spirits. The monks enact stories from Buddhist teachings, every story concluding with the victory of good over evil.

One can almost witness Padmasambhava the patron saint of Tibet, who unified the ancient Bon beliefs with Tantric Buddhism through these dances.

“The most important lesson we hope to teach through these dances”, an elderly monk interjects while I am busy filming, “is the one from the Skeletal dance. You see, this particular dance performed by monks wearing dresses to look like skeletons teach you about the impermanence of all phenomena. What is born, must die. Life and death are simply two sides of the same coin”.

So then why is one afraid of death, I ask.

“Ah, fear. You see the coin is not just two sides. There is a third side, the edge of the coin which brings together both sides. Buddhism is this third side that acts as a bridge between life and death. This is the only way to conquer the fear of death!” he exclaims. Strangely, I seem to hear every word over the frightening din of cymbals and trumpets in our vicinity.

The masks themselves are all made by hand and probably hundreds of years old. Considered important Buddhist relics, these masks are passed on from lama to lama, one generation of monks to the next to continue this sacred dance. One monk tells me the personalities of the monks who used to wear this very same mask from centuries back are an intrinsic part of the mask and are therefore imbibed into the person wearing them today.

Have I glimpsed the secrets of conquering death after being a part of these mystical dances in such close communion? I am not so sure. But has it opened up my mind to things beyond the mundane, that we call the supernatural?

I flip a coin. Maybe it has.

[Red Liner]

Kat Ramana is an adventurer and explorer first.

His earliest memories of a true travel adventure was sailing around the world with his dad, a year’s journey on the great seas when he was all but five. In 2015, he walked over seven thousand kilometres from Kanyakumari to Kashmir, exploring India’s diverse cultures and ethnicities. His love of the great snow capped mountains have taken him tramping from India to Tibet and his search for authentic stories has seen him living in the distant North East for months at a time. His way of understanding cultural nuances is by meeting people, listening to their stories and living with them.

[Aditya]

Thread moved out from the Assembly Line. Thanks for sharing!

[vijayols]

@Red Liner.Its always a pleasure to read about your travels and way you keep the reader hooked on.

[NPV]

Wow, the Red Liner (Pied Piper) of Team BHP (Hamlin) is back! Awesome read and sharp pictures, thanks for sharing

Quite literally, you can draw the readers right in to the forum with your travelogues.

It’s so enthralling and refreshing to read your unique experiences!

[Kkumar]

Superb travelogue and excellent photos. You have great narrating skills which captivates the reader. Thank you for sharing and keep on munching miles.

[holls]

Superb Narrative. Korzok Gustor will be imprinted in my mind forever. The worship of animals brings us close to nature. The first photo reminds the us the relation of life and death through motor and a carcass. The north-facing bike reminds that whatever the odds, life should move on.

[MileCruncher]

And RedLiner is back! Look forward to the series with bated breath and the tale that ensues!

[Aakash]

Bravo! What a beautiful story.

I wish someday I might get to stay like a local and experience the calm and slow life.

On my motorcycle ofcourse.

Cheers.