Travel Memories

The smell of incense, the thankas hanging off the walls, the clicking of the broken fan on the ceiling, the sound of cow hoofs outside. The defined and strong echo of “Om” through the temple. It reached out to you from the outside in and you felt it deeply, but gently. You were moved, yet you stayed stationary all in one; eyes shut, cross-legged on your cushion. The silence was so deep, yet so fragile: a fly buzzing by your ear could destroy the moment; the sneeze of a monk could make you jump out of your skin.
This is a beautiful place: archaic, yet plentiful. A place where children play and dogs raise their pups, a place where wildlife and modernization collide. A hot, dusty, humid place, where rain feels like a steam bath rather than the Earth’s shower. But then, it is a shower and a blessing, and a natural phenomenon, which, love it or hate it, is there for 2 months of every year. It is a place without a lot of luxuries, but a place of transition and a place of peace.
This place does not have saris or Hindu temples. This place is not decked out with jewels or stories of old heroes and kings; this place is not colored with Holi paint or with the steps to the Ganges River. This place is a story of immigration and hiding. A story of crossing over, of oracles and gurus, of the Dharma and the Buddha, of the search of peace and of finding comfort. A story of death and a story of reincarnation. A story of life and home. This place is not India, but this, too, is India. And it is beautifully hidden in the skirts of the Himalayas.
I did not expect what I saw here, but what I saw here was meant for me. I listened to the noises of the silence and I learned to understand with my senses. I learned to think with my brain, but feel with my heart. When I came I was foreign, literally, but I was also alien to this. I was alien to relief, to momentous experiences, to freedom. I was afraid, I wanted concrete promises, and I needed proof. Yet, I was accepted and taught and was tolerated and I learned, that the best things do not need explanation; cannot be proven. Today, I carry a piece of this place with me, of its colors and noises, and of its feelings and emotions. I spread it through me in my world and I am richer for it. I talk about the smell of incense, the thankas hanging off the walls, the clicking of the broken fan on the ceiling, the defined and strong chant “Om Mani Padme Hum”. And I hope to give a little blessing to everyone in the world.