Wednesday, 30 April 2008


No purpose for the flowered-carved narghile
The flowered-carved narghile was on the table at the time of my arrival, through the curtain one could see an eagle made of gold in the tree in front of the window. Nearby the Tibetan monk was reading sacred texts in silence, cross-legged sat, bowing and raising his head and his upper body, to the imaginary rhythm the lecture was imposing. The dhoop was burning slowly in one corner of the room, the scented smoke filled the air with its ephemeral remembrance. Everything was in its due place, still, quiet and without any intention or will, just standing and there with no purpose. Only a fly and the sound of the Buddhist bell coming from above, water was flowing at the Hindu temple down in the valley.

At the tea stall after one crosses the bridge, the old man or the young girl, prepare the milky tea for their guests. And if you go down to the river bed, dried during this time of the year, you can see small mule caravans crossing the rocks driven by men in turbans. The river flows widely when the snow melts up in the Dauladhaur Mountains but most of the time it’s a quiet fish pond that can be passed over with no major effort.

The walls at the entrance of the temple near the road are blinding white under the sun and the old fellow wrapped in his blanket waits for transport.

All students were sat on the floor on the top of the building, all gathered in open air, as it is usual in India and Nepal, under the surveillance of their Grammar teacher and a high Lama from Mac Leod Ganj, concentrated in doing their written exams, all facing west (for no reason it was just the most convenient way to dispose all the students). As it seems, they haven’t build a tent this time, everything in open air under the sun and at the foot of the 4000 meters of the Dauladhaur wall.

Himachal Pradesh - Musroor
I had to walk a few kilometres to get to Musroor, the rock temples were quite distant from the road. Fortunately a young fellow arriving on the same bus started to talk to me and offered his guidance to the site. So after we had a tea and Indian sweets at the stall, baksheesh once again, we began to walk. Luckily he was living near there.

I was afraid to get there after sunset, it was getting late, the bus took so long to make the trip, it followed a longer route as I understood, that´s why they were hesitating so long at the station to sell me the ticket. They haven’t been able to explain the situation. Indian policies, I suppose.

So when the young fellow stopped, he said he was home and pointed to the direction I had to follow, and then I started to climb a hill through the woods. Follow the track, they say.

When I arrived at the top I could perfectly see the stone constructions, the place was isolated and empty of people.

I felt the ancient wise men through the silence and solitude of the high carved stones of Musroor temple, their presence could be felt upon the top of the towers overlooking the greenish waters of the pool. The presence of their silent meditation whispered around the rocks at the end of this afternoon. Suddenly that fragment of time turned magical as time stopped and showed a glimpse of everlasting eternity emanating from this place.

I faced it in a second while the long-haired saddhu was standing at the entrance of his wooden house.

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