blinding white

Wandering through the jungle grass, with the constellation of red welts on my legs in a maddening itch, we navigated our way past nonchalant water buffaloes toward the golden spire in the trees. Passang's crimson robe gathering barbed grass seed, our foreheads running, the sweat stinging our eyes. We followed the flash of gold, which appeared then disappeared, like a sun behind passing clouds. It seemed so sudden and unexpected, this blinding white dome, its mathematical perfection contrasting with the wild, twisting trees.
The Japanese Peace Stupa.

We hid in the shade of a nearby café, sipping on cool mango juice and soda, Passang meticulously pulling at the grass seed, which studded his robe. A crane flew silently above, and every so often, the sweet, heady fragrance of gardenias wafted by.

Too hot to eat, I left Passang with the ramen noodles he ordered, to circumambulate the stupa. The silence was thick, the heat of the ground burning its way through the soles of my shoes. A young boy in white called me over to a tamed bush, pointing to an unfortunate frog being swallowed by a snake. His excitement melted into great seriousness.

images of lumbini

the birthplace of buddha

It was here in Lumbini, somewhere around the sixth and seventh century BCE, that Queen Maya gave birth to Siddhartha Gautama under a sal tree while grasping a bough for support. The young prince would later be known to the world as The Buddha. Ancient ruins and a stone marker of the very spot where Buddha was born are safely housed within the stoic, white walls of the Maya Devi Temple, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Passang and I followed Acharya K.S. in silent wonder as he recounted the story, explaining the holiness of this site.

I am still at a loss for words.
There's a peace that vibrates in the soil, in the air and in the light here.

the terai in july

Whenever I travel, I feel a great widening, or inner expansion occurs. The more I experience and grow to understand, the more I realise there is so much more to experience and understand. I feel like I'm unfolding, layer by layer, spreading out, extending little green vines. I believe travelling alone opens you up to deeper personal experiences and allows you to meet people you otherwise never would have met, had you been with a group or travelling partner. You have all the time in the world to have those great, rushing rivers of conversation, to reflect, and turn strangers into friends. You learn to see through different lenses, you learn that there are as many colours in the spectrum as there are thoughts and perspectives in the universe.

I was lucky, so very lucky indeed that Acharya K.S. offered me a ride to Lumbini. He, a young monk named Passang and I climbed into his comfortable, air-conditioned car and began the seven hour journey to the Terai, the southern flatlands of Nepal. We flew down the Prithvi Highway, swerving and twisting around massive hillsides that dropped off into nauseatingly deep valleys. As we weaved past scars of landslides and ramshackle tea stops, I found my thoughts drifting off to last year's roadtrip to Pokhara. The scenery zipping past my eyes had remained unchanged, but an entire year had past, and though my sense of awe and wonder had not diminished, I was being carried in the arms of familiarity.



We arrived in darkness, and though I could not see the landscape, I felt its flatness— as though the heat and humidity had somehow ironed out the hills of the north. The night was heavy and thick, the stillness broken by the whining of mosquitoes. I spent a restless night seized by the heat and a rattling cough, occasionally startling myself awake with a slap to my face in some unconscious attempt to slay the tiny flying terrors who attacked any inch of exposed skin.

The Terai in July.

foggy-headed and gummi-legged

I just returned from Lumbini yesterday evening, and after the eight or nine hour bumpy, twisty, beautiful microbus ride, I'm still foggy-headed and gummi-legged. I had a great time in Lumbini, and though it was only a few days, it felt like a week. I'm a shade and a half darker and have lost what feels like a kilo from all the sweating— the Terai in July is truly, very hot indeed.

I tell you, the flip of a coin can really point you in wonderful directions.
More stories and pictures to come, once I wake up!

off to lumbini!

The afternoon burst of rain has soothed the blistering air. I wonder what kind of heat lies in store for me in Lumbini. I have, through the help of my friends at Shree Mangal Dvip, secured a ride down to Lumbini with a very kind and generous monk. I feel quite lucky and grateful. I'll be going unplugged— so I'll see you in a few days time, hopefully with loads of pictures, sketches and stories.

Until then, my friends— namaste!

by the flip of a coin

I have a week coming up when the students at Shree Mangal Dvip are taking exams, during which I can go on a little adventure. Last summer I went to Pokhara, where I met the most wonderful people, and finally got to see the mountains I had fantasized about ever since I was a little girl. I could not decide between Lumbini, the birthplace of the Buddha, and Ilam, land of stunning hills and tea plantations. Both had captured some part of my imagination; Ilam for the landscape, and Lumbini mostly because of a strange dream I had about six months ago. I dreamt I was walking on the banks of a river upon which stood a weathered building with large steps outside it. Rows of monks in crimson robes were lined up upon the steps, facing the river and me. I have it in my mind that this building, a monastery, is in Lumbini— though I have never been there, nor seen any pictures of the place.

So I flipped a coin.



I head out to Lumbini next week.