The murmur of Prayer Flags

It was the first time that I travelled to the highest pass in Bhutan, and probably the first time that I ever crossed the tree line, while still on land. And this is as legitimate as my adult memory allows it to be. It was also the first time that I had ever driven that route.

cropped-dsc02778.jpgAlthough the thought of waking up at the crack of dawn to make it to Chelela before the demon winds stirred, was as exciting as eating stale bread, I did it! Much thanks to Train waiting for me in the car, asking me to marry them:)
It is such a beautiful drive up to the pass, in spite of the never-ending twists and turns. The love of my life says there are 62 turns, in all, till we reach the pass…I’ll remember to count the next time!

What really got me to write my first and much overdue post would have to be the prayer flags.

I had never before really, really thought about prayer flags. It was like the sky is blue. So, today was an eye-opening experience, the opening of a small third eye. I learnt that the flag poles never stay empty because there’s always someone making sure that the old and tattered ones get burnt, and get replaced by new ones. Never mind that the flags are for different people. All that matters is that the prayers never stop…that every letter fades, literally eroded. It matters that there is a certain way to put up a flag, facing a certain direction, with the flag pole complete with all its parts. That cotton flags are always better, because the words do not fly as easily from silk ones. Important.

Roots touched. I feel like I returned to myself, today.

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