Yak Attack in Tibet!

by BANDANA KAUR (Singapore)

I didn't expect to find China

It was staring at me. The yak. Me. Midnight. How did I get here? A city girl in the middle of Tibet on a mountain staring into the soul of a yak that looked like it could swallow me whole. I needed to get out. I needed to feel the cold wind on my cheeks, needed to breathe the fresh air, needed to get the stench of said yak out of my hair and my skin and my lungs. It was freezing - I was wearing every piece of clothing I owned, and the clothes of my friends shamelessly piled on myself, but it was still so cold. I could feel the chill in my bones. Maybe the yak thought I was a friend. A midnight booty call. Maybe he was judging me for feeling so overwhelmed in such a peaceful place.   The big wedding was tomorrow - I needed to get some sleep.   How the hell did I get here?   Renzhen and I met in school in Boston. He was my first friend in the apartment building who turned out to also be my neighbour. On the first day of class we were assigned as partners. Our task was to introduce each other to the group. He told me to tell everyone he was hilarious. I thought he was weird. Now his yak was staring at me like a piece of meat. And not the hot-ass kind. Like meat, meat. Hang on, aren't yaks herbivores?  The sprawling Tibetan highlands are beautiful. It's vast and green with specks of snow, and you can feel the prayer in the wind. The atmosphere is thin forcing you to focus on your breathing. Everything slows down when you have to concentrate on taking in air - perhaps that's why meditation was born here. But it's also a hard life. A life defined by the sacred practices of the past and the yearning for modern facilities. Like basic heating and water pipes. When we entered the prefecture, everyone from the village came out of their homes to greet us. And then each one of them insisted on a selfie. In their homes we had tea brewed in traditional pots passed down generations, while watching cable tv. At night, we lit charcoal bowls for heat and candles for light, while the single electric plug was being used to charge a Samsung phone. I came expecting a village full of enlightenment and peace, and found a community of people just like me - wanting to enjoy modern comforts while struggling to hold onto fragments of the past. It was all so confusing. Maybe that's how I found myself staring at Renzen's favourite yak in the middle of the night.  My whole life I have been striving to be different. To be unique, seen, heard, appreciated. And here I was! In one of the remotest parts of the world, waiting to attend a traditional Tibetan wedding. It didn't get any more 'different' than this. And yet I still felt disconnected. I thought I would find some sense of understanding here, some spiritual connection, but all I realized was that geography didn't matter - the longing in my heart would always follow. The longing to just be me without expectations, judgement, makeup, accolades and fear.  Eventually I decided that I was in the most ridiculous situation a Sikh Singaporean girl could ever find herself in, so I did the only thing my half frozen brain could think of. I smiled sweetly at the beast, asked out loud for permission to share it's space, prayed to the universe and Oprah to protect me, and sat down on the warm hay. And then the most incredible thing happened. The yak also sat down. You see, he and me? We are just the same. We came from the Earth, and to the Earth we will return. No amount of money, fame or luxury can be taken with you. It’s the moments that matter, the impact you leave behind, the love you shared, the joy you brought.  In the thundering silence of the night, underneath a blanket of stars and an ancient creature for company, I found the peace I was looking for.