The Kailash-Mansarovar Sojourn

Part 1: Bengaluru to the Himalayas 

Bengaluru airport. All set to take off. 

Huffing Even Before Hiking!

I was 47, on the cusp of 48, when my life decided to stage a hostile takeover. This major upheaval forced a deep, painful, yet necessary reflection: What exactly was I doing with the years I had left? The answer, apparently, was making lists—lots of lists. Not one, but several: things to learn, things to achieve, places to travel, and, most ambitiously, things to do before I hit the big 5-0.

Looking at life this way wasn't just rediscovering the desire to live; it was practically a resurrection of happiness. One of my first triumphs was dragging my parents on travels, a long-held, long-feared desire. The "before 50" list, naturally, was completely decimated by COVID-19. Yet, here I am now, acting like a determined accountant, reviving those old spreadsheets and ticking off one box at a time from the many, many buckets I’ve created (before I kick the bucket)! 

Smiles hiding the anxiety!

The Call of the Mountain (and the Knee)

Trekking to Mount Kailash was the most insane of these dreams. I first eyed it back in 2010-11 when my elder brother (technically my first cousin—Mom's sister's son, because clarity is important, even when you're being ridiculous) made his trip successfully. I, meanwhile, was recovering from my first knee surgery and was mostly known for my ability to sit still. Confidence (or fitness) was not my strong suit.

But things change! When Rambabu, a friend and a senior from the Service, completed his third Parikrama in 2019, I threw caution (and my knee's objections) to the wind. I sent the message: "When you head out next, I would like to join. Please let me know." He kept his word, proving some people are gluttons for punishment.

The Yatra was then suspended for five years—thanks to COVID-19, then an international standoff. We were worried the mountain itself was getting bored! When relations finally thawed this year and the dates for the Yatra were announced, Rambabu promptly sent across messages about, and added me to the group of the trek enthusiasts. Our travel date was finally set for September 5th. We were a beautifully random, slightly anxious collection of humans: bureaucrats, scientists, journalists, businesspeople, and homemakers—or as I like to call us, "a focus group for high-altitude anxiety."

Anxiety and Logistics (The Two-Headed Monster)

Rambabu, our fearless leader, advised me to secure my leave early. Done. Then came the long, detailed packing list a week before we left. I stuck to it diligently. I packed. I checked. And yet, I still managed to forget a few key things despite owning them. (Turns out, my organizational skills also need a Parikrama.)

We deliberately avoided the 21-day government route—because who has three/four weeks? Instead, we found a tour operator who promised to get us in and out, safely and swiftly, in under ten days. It also helped that Rambabu had previously travelled with the operator and found him super efficient.  This was either efficient planning or sheer madness.

Our plan was simple: meet in Lucknow, travel to Nepalgunj (a border town in Nepal), and then, weather and political goodwill permitting, fly and drive into Tibet.  As the travel day approached, my fears began their daily performance. The starring roles were played by: 

1. My joints (Will they survive?); and 

2. My lungs (Will I be able to breathe, or will I be reduced to a wheezing fish?). 

I Googled Diamox so much I think I paid for the manufacturer’s next marketing campaign. To add a little spice, our passports were still vacationing at the Chinese embassy. The tour operator’s message was reassuring: "The permits and passports will hopefully arrive by the time we reach Nepalgunj!" Just what you want to hear before an international trek.

A Casino and a Crisis

On D-Day, we all congregated at the DRDO guesthouse in Lucknow. The mission: reach Nepalgunj before dinner. We set off at 3 PM in four SUVs, a total of 13 people, with the 14th (the passport guy!) meeting us at the border. Despite all our military precision planning, we arrived at the border well after it was closed. I watched in awe as phones were worked, contacts were woken up, and diplomatic miracles were performed just so the 13  nervy samurais could cross a closed gate without being hampered.

Our hotel in Nepalgunj was... interesting. The place even had a casino! The perfect place to either win your trekking money back or lose the will to live before the altitude sickness even starts.

Our abode in Nepalgunj 

Post-dinner, we had the detailed briefing—the whole itinerary, "weather and God willing." This briefing made me realize the brutal truth: I must write about this. Every itinerary I had read online was incomplete, flowery, or written in such technical jargon it felt like reading a tractor manual. Having survived the trek, my resolve to write a clear, no-filter guide for future victims (I mean, pilgrims) is stronger than ever. And thus, this piece.

(To be Continued….)