Part 32

They say when the migratory cranes come to the
Phobjika Valley, they circle the monastery three
times. They fly around it again when they leave
after winter. The places we go to sink deep into
our bones. I can still feel Jomolahri gleaming white
in the evening sun, Dochula Pass with its head
stuck in a cloud, Punakha Dzong at the confluence
of the male and female rivers. It was the spring

of 2007. The young guide wanted to turn back
about half-way up the mountain. All tourists don’t
climb to the top, he shrugged. Men with heavy loads
and women with babies on their backs overtook us
with ease. Eventually, we made it to the monastery
that clings to the edge of the cliff. Taktsang Lhakhang.
Tiger’s nest. They say the great guru flew to Paro
on the back of a tigress. Faith and folklore elevate

the seen and unseen into wonder. I can stay here
forever, I told the guide. I want to visit Bangalore,
he countered. I thought of traffic and crowds and
concrete. He smiled, as we entered the tiny airport.
I want to travel by train. I thought of butter tea
and incense and the wise eyes of the holy man in
Thimpu. Cranes and monks and rivers and guides —
and poets. We all have our own journeys to make.

(Paro/ Thimpu/ Gangtey, Bhutan)