Dolma

by Preethi Parthasarathy (India)

Making a local connection Bhutan

'I don't know if I can do it.' Rain poured steadily. Drops clung to my eyelashes, dripping into my eyes and making everything foggier than it already was. Beads of water mixed with sweat trailed down my face. I dragged the sleeve of my rain-jacket across my face in a fruitless attempt to dry it, creating tiny tributary trails instead. Short, sharp breaths escaped my lungs as I struggled to place one foot in front of the other without sliding back or straight up slipping and falling flat on my butt. 'Yes, you can.' I looked up at her, and through the rain, I saw someone who had offered a hand to a complete stranger and quite literally dragged her out of a pit of what I'm reasonably certain was horse poop. I saw warm, kind eyes regarding me and knew there was no way I could let that faith down. She smiled at me and said, 'You can't give up. You're almost halfway there.' I groaned. 'Another hour of this?' She chuckled. 'See? Almost done! Give me your bag.' 'What, no! It's not very light, and I couldn't let you.' I was alarmed at the very thought. 'I've done this loads of times before. Besides, you'll be faster without it.' My protests fell flat, and Dolma took my backpack. She was right; I was much faster without it. In a few minutes, I could hear the sound of bells ringing, and see the bright colours of prayer flags fluttering. We had reached base camp. My irritation with the rain faded away as I looked at Dolma and her cousins, all of whom had openly welcomed me to join their little family sojourn. She didn't have to stop and help me. But she did. They didn't have to share their food with me. But they did. One of the kids picked up my GoPro and stared at it with utter fascination. "Don't give it to him; he'll break it!' Dolma laughed. "That's okay, it's a tough camera," I said, and hit the record button. He took off, chattering excitedly, and we followed. I had never met a refugee before. Dolma dreamed of going abroad to study further, but she couldn't get a passport in Bhutan. Nor could she go back home to Tibet. "But this is a happy place." She said. "I can work in tourism, and I get to meet many like you." My heart went out to her. All this girl did was radiate kindness, and I wanted to hug her. "Look! We can see Taktsang from here!" Wangchuk, the more precocious of the cousins grabbed the hem of my jacket and dragged me ahead. But the monastery was playing a painful game of peekaboo with the clouds, and for the most part, I could see nothing - just a curtain of impenetrable white. My heart sank. I could've cried. Dolma felt it too, and so did her cousins. The whole hike leads up to that one moment when you see the magnificent Taktsang monastery nestled against the cliff. And we couldn't. 'Maybe it'll clear up on the way back..?' I was desperately clutching to strands of hope that threatened to slip away. Dolma nodded. 'Maybe.' We walked further to a viewpoint which was marked for taking photos, and stood there, silently hoping the clouds would move for JUST ONE MINUTE. And it happened in front of me. The wall of white was getting thinner and thinner by the second. I blinked. 'Dolma? Look!' I was transfixed. I couldn't believe what was happening. The clouds were moving far and fast, like a curtain unveiling, and what came into my view took my breath away. A memory forever seared into my heart. Taktsang revealed itself to us, and we stood there, hypnotised, emotional and beholden. Dolma looked at me. 'Guru Rinpoche has blessed you.' Later that day, I was sorting through my GoPro footage from the hike and saw shots of kids laughing and playing in the rain. I saw Dolma and me trudging up the hill. I saw us staring at Taktsang, tears in my eyes and unbounded joy on our faces. The kid did good.