NEW DELHI – It was the fourth flight since I’d left Delhi, and it was about to land. The seatbelt sign had come on, and I was strapped in, sitting one seat away from the window, craning my neck for a glimpse. And then, suddenly, there it was. Holy Mount Kailash. The reason I had embarked on this grueling six-day, eight-flight journey was to reach Kailash Mansarovar in Purang County, Tibet. I could hardly believe my eyes. And just as suddenly as it had appeared, it vanished from view. Had I really seen it? Or was it a mirage of anticipation? I didn’t know then, but the next few days would leave no doubt about it.
I’ve never been particularly religious, leaning more toward the spiritual essence of faith than rituals. Yet this trip was entirely devoted to visiting the revered Mount Kailash. It was also a major story. For the first time in nearly six years, Indian pilgrims were resuming the Yatra—a sign of thawing ties between India and China after relations had frozen following the deadly Galwan clashes, where 20 Indian soldiers lost their lives. Just a year earlier, I had covered the BRICS summit in Kazan, Russia, where Prime Minister Modi and President Xi Jinping held their first in-person talks since that incident. The resumption of the Yatra felt like a pivotal gesture of diplomatic normalcy.
A batch of Indian journalists had begun the journey just before us. The Ministry of External Affairs had held a lottery to select 750 pilgrims, divided into groups of 50, each accompanied by a doctor and two liaison officers. The first group was arriving at Mount Kailash alongside us.
Many of us had visited China before—some even to Lhasa—but for all of us, this was the first time visiting Kailash Mansarovar. Unlike the pilgrims taking a 21-day trek via the Nathu La Pass, our route involved four flights: Delhi to Bangkok, to Chengdu, to Lhasa, and finally to Purang.
Since Bangkok, the weather had been unpredictable. Heavy rains in Chengdu raised concerns about what awaited us at Mount Kailash. But as our flight touched down in Purang, the skies began to clear. On the way to our hotel, we caught our first distant glimpse of the holy mountain. Mesmerized, I forgot to take any shots. Awe and gratitude washed over me. Local officials assured us we’d be visiting the base of Mount Kailash that very day.
I had been preparing for the altitude by taking both modern and traditional Tibetan medicine, which had helped me during my visit to Lhasa 11 years prior. Still, the thin air made its presence felt. Labored breathing, quick fatigue. However, the excitement of being so close to Mount Kailash soon made me forget my concerns.
After a jarring bus ride, we reached the base. This, we were told, was the closest point accessible to visitors. There, I saw Tibetan Buddhist devotees engaged in prayer, tying prayer flags around a tall pole, chanting, lost in their rituals. And behind them, towering above all, was Mount Kailash—majestically still and utterly divine. I bowed low before the sacred peak, revered in Hinduism as the abode of Lord Shiva, and equally venerated in Buddhism, Jainism, and Bon traditions.
I completed my shoot, doing my best to capture not just the visuals but the weight of the moment. But it felt inadequate. Still, I wrapped up quickly and took a seat on a raised platform meant for prayer. I sat in silence, reflecting on the journey, letting the mountain’s presence envelop me. I had come as close as one could. And in that moment, a deep, wordless calm settled over me. I didn’t chant, I didn’t recite anything. Simply being there, seeing Kailash unhindered—it felt like prayer enough. A quiet surrender.
That evening, we met a group of pilgrims who had just completed the Parikrama, arriving at the base where they were setting up camp. The Chinese government had made the arrangements. One group after another streamed in—exhausted, yet glowing with joy.
I spoke to a few women pilgrims from the United States who had undertaken this incredible journey. When I asked how fit one needs to be for such a demanding trip, they smiled and said, “We were medically cleared, but what really carried us was our faith, our belief in Lord Shiva. Without that, we wouldn’t have made it.”
Their conviction moved me. Tired as they were, they spoke with strength and clarity: it was God, they believed, who had guided them every step of the way.
The next morning, we woke before sunrise to witness the first rays of light fall on Mount Kailash. That golden image had lived in our minds for years. I had become quieter by then. No longer anxious about the shoot or obsessed with view counts, as independent journalists often are. Something inside me had shifted. I didn’t know what it was, but everything felt as it should be.
As the sun rose, I recorded the golden glow on the sacred mountain, 18,000 feet above sea level. I attempted a small part of the Parikrama but couldn’t manage the whole circuit. Instead, I returned to the base, meditated, took a few more shots, and absorbed the atmosphere.
I often write about what I feel, not because facts aren’t important, but because facts are everywhere. You can Google the height of Mount Kailash or read about its location. But what no search result can give you is the feeling of standing in the presence of something eternal. Is it belief? Faith? Or the cumulative energy of generations of pilgrims that envelops you and makes doubt disappear? That’s why I write about the experience, not just the facts. Everyone’s journey may differ, but one thing was clear to every pilgrim and journalist I met: reaching Kailash and Mansarovar was not possible without faith and divine will.
Later, I visited Mansarovar Lake, one of the 51 Shakti Peeths, said to have first formed in the mind of Lord Brahma. Bathing is no longer permitted here to protect the pristine water and fragile ecosystem. Just as climbing Mount Kailash is prohibited, out of reverence and preservation, yet from across the lake, if the skies are clear, you can still see the peak reflected in the sacred waters.
And as I stood there, the myths came alive: Brahma’s swan, the blue lotuses, the sound of Shiva’s Damru in the waters of Mansarovar. These were not just stories anymore—they were part of the atmosphere, part of the place.
I cannot compare this experience to anything else. Everyone’s journey is different. But for me, this was something rare and precious. I came back with images, yes. But more than that, I came back with something I can’t quite define—an experience that will stay with me always.
(This trip was sponsored and facilitated by the Chinese Embassy in New Delhi)
Kadambini Sharma
Kadambini Sharma is a senior journalist covering international affairs and foreign policy. Follow her on X: @SharmaKadambini.
