An eventful trek to Tiger’s Nest
AS we trudged along the steep and treacherous trail to Tiger’s Nest Monastery in Bhutan, I jokingly shouted to a group of American tourists, “Long live Trump!”
“Oh no! I don’t like Trump!” most of them responded with a laugh. This banter helped ease the fatigue of trekking through the high-altitude jungle surrounding Tiger’s Nest.
The three of us — my wife, son and I — pushed our exhausted legs uphill. We encountered many descending tourists, mostly Americans, returning from the sacred monastery — the sanctum sanctorum — of Bhutanese deities.
With limping limbs and walking sticks in hand, we somehow managed to reach the peak around 5 in the evening. The hour we spent in those serene temples was nothing short of magical. It was an ethereal, almost otherworldly experience!
However, we started our descent rather late — around 6 pm — which, as any seasoned trekker knows, is far from ideal. The hills turn dark quickly, and an eerie stillness settles in, broken only by the occasional chirping of crickets. Our guide kept urging us to move faster.
And sure enough, the descent soon became not only challenging but also nerve-wracking. Trekking down in the growing darkness was no mean task. My wife, who had injured her leg earlier, struggled the most. Feeling exhausted and helpless, she muttered more than once, “You both go. I am not going. I’ll stop here.” I kept encouraging her, “It’s easy now. Soon, we would be in our hotel at Paro.”
As we were going down, a group of Buddhist child monks started following us. One of them approached my wife and sweetly said, “Auntie, take some fruit,” holding out a bag filled with a variety of fruits. She managed a smile. The cherubic child repeated his offer. She took an apple and thanked him warmly.
We each took a bite or two of that apple, savouring its sweetness. In that moment, we regarded it as prasad from none other than Lord Buddha. Refreshed, we continued with renewed vigour. In one hand, I held a mobile torch; with the other, I supported my wife. Though a marathoner myself, even I was tired — and uneasy about the possible presence of wild animals around us.
Our son was leading the way, lighting the path with his mobile torch. Around 8 pm, a faint glimmer of light appeared in the dense jungle. My wife, who had twice declared she’d rather crawl than walk, pressed on with quiet determination. At 8:45 pm, we finally touched solid ground.
Sitting in the safe, comfortable confines of home, I am tempted to say today: I have been to heaven and back — from the Land of Happiness to the ordinary world.
Musings