There has been yet another spell of thundering showers and the verdant mountains are basking in dew and mist. It is the beginning of the monsoons in Bhutan and while the vistas are a sheer delight, our vehicle is not as blessed. The Southern West-East Highway, the primary thoroughfare of the country, is under construction and our car has to contend with cavernous potholes as it flirts with the non-existent tarmac. Our destination is Phobjikha, a glacial valley in central Bhutan, nestled on the western fringes of the Black Mountains at an altitude of 3,000 m. It is also known as Gangtey, after a 17th-century monastery built on a ridge overlooking the dale. The Nakey Chhu flows through the bowl-shaped valley, forming marshlands that are the winter nesting grounds of the endangered black-necked crane. We exit the highway towards Pele La, a pass at 3,420 m. Although the Himalayan peaks that the viewpoint affords are swathed in mist, we spot yaks grazing in the meadows. The burly creatures are rather wary and refuse to grant us a photo op. The Gangtey Goemba is easy to spot, but we are clueless about where the homestay we booked is. We knock on a few doors and make some phone calls, but the language barrier is strong. Suddenly, a monk walks up to us and, much to our surprise, begins conversing in fluent Hindi! He immediately takes us to one of the nearby cottages, where a board announces: ‘Pema Chhoden Homestay’. We walk into the room to the warmest smile. Pema Chhoden, a matronly lady, greets us with a “namaste”. We huddle around the wood-fired stove that doubles up as a heater and soon, a band of monks join us, all of whom are equally conversant in Hindi. My curiosity gets the better of me and I ask them how they speak the language so well. Over cups of tea, fried rice and crackers, they narrate their fascinating story — they are from Kinnaur and came to the Gangtey Goemba as children to study Buddhism. They have been living here since, with occasional visits home, and have completely integrated into Bhutanese society. They speak Dzongkha, have a Bhutanese alias and call Pema mummy — she has taken them under her wing — and now they are a large family. They, then, take us on a tour of the Gangtey Goempa. The recently-restored structure, with its sloping, tiered roofs, arched wooden windows and white walls, follows the codified architecture of Bhutanese shrines. Since it’s almost dusk, the prayer hall is shut and we make do with a peek at its imposing exteriors. The monks say that Guru Rinpoche, an eighth century Buddhist guru, concealed several terma (“hidden treasures” emblematic of the teachings of Buddhism) all over the Himalayas. Pema Lingpa, a “spiritual treasure-seeker”, discovered many of these, including one at Gangtey, where he prophesised his descendant would build a temple. His grandson built a Nyingma shrine on the hilltop in 1613. The tradition of Pema Lingpa is prevalent amongst the Buddhists of Kinnaur as well, and that explains the links between the two. I never imagined I would meet Kinnauris deep inside Bhutan, but then, religion has historically been a strong force spurring globalisation. On our return, the smell of datsi (Bhutanese cheese) assails us. Pema asks us how spicy we would like our meal to be. The thing with Bhutan is that spicy is not a mere word, but a world in itself. Chilli is not used for seasoning, but as a vegetable. The staple dish of the country is ema datsi (a chilli and cheese broth). We err on the side of “mildly spicy”, a word which, we realise, has many connotations. Dinner is a spread of matsutake mushroom datsi, boiled spinach, dal and red rice. The spice is perfect for my palate and the meal is one of the most flavourful I have encountered in Bhutan. The monks, in contrast to our gluttony, eat just rice that they shape into balls, with meagre helpings of datsi. The simple meal, they say, is a part of their ascetic lifestyle. Soon, it is time for them to return to the monastery, for the next day, they leave for India. The next day, we wake up to butter tea and fried rice. Over the meal, we chat with Pema. She lives alone and the homestay is her mainstay. Much of her day is spent in its upkeep — chopping wood, cleaning and preparing meals. She shows us photos of her former guests, many of whom were Bangladeshis. The monks had been translating for us all the while, but now, we must make do with gestures and the meagre repertoire of words we share. She advises us to saunter in the valley and make a stop at the Black-Necked Crane Visitor Centre. The centre, run by the Royal Society for Protection of Nature, has information panels, books and films on the black-necked cranes. The birds, like good Buddhists, circle the Gangtey monastery thrice before roosting in the valley and their departure for Tibet. The locals say the kora (circumambulation) is their tribute to Pema Lingpa. Over the past few decades, the habitat became endangered as land was being diverted to agriculture. However, the centre helmed conservation measures, which have been wildly successful and each year, the number of birds increases. To provide an alternative source of livelihood to Phobjikha’s residents, homestays have been established under the community-based sustainable tourism project. We hike around the valley, through marshlands and forests. The trees are webbed with lichen, a sign that the air is pristine. When we return home, Pema serves another lavish spread — potato and carrot datsi, pacha (a pungent curry with cheese and cabbages), dal, red rice and stir-fried greens. We conclude with a few swigs of ara, the traditional rice wine. Thoroughly satiated, I retire to my room. The next day, it is time for our departure, Pema enfolds me in a warm embrace and calls me her bhai. I don’t know if it is the effortless familiarity with which she had welcomed me or the love and care she lavished, but for those two nights, I felt I had found a home in another country. Perhaps, it is this homely feeling that spurs the cranes to return to Phobjikha every year.
