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In the misty dawn of a 2004 September, the Punakha dzong ( a 16th century fortress that still houses the government offices and residences of monks) stood like an early hawk preparing to soar. I saw the golden pinnacle of the dzong after a 30-minute walk. I stopped at a huge boulder to whose presence the narrow road had given way. It is not uncommon in Bhutan, where highways give way to a tree or a rock.

"Are you tired?" asked James, my friend and a former college marathon champion from Kerala.  James, in his early 40s, is a brisk walker. It is difficult to keep up with his pace.  Before we began the walk from three kilometers down the valley, I was apprehensive. I thought of my heart beats which had quickened after a run across the maddening zebra crossings in Thiruvananthapuram, where I studied. Sweat running down from behind my ears, I had then decided that I was a weak man.

' Few minutes later, seeing the dzong from across the river, a fear started gripping me, a feeling of wanting to be afraid, I should admit. James asked me to follow him across the dilapidated hanging bridge to the dzong. "Later," I told him. In the morning sun that has risen across a ridge that looked like a reclining elephant, it felt as if the dzong would soar any moment into the golden rays.. But walking all the way, in the land of the thunder dragon, has only energized me. "Fresh Himalayan air," James told me the secret. Sitting cross legged, on the rugged coolness of the rock, I closed my eyes for a moment. A sense of urgency occurred when I heard a branch rustle with the rhythm of the mighty Punatsangchhu River that ran beside the rock.

"Breathe in the winds sweeping down the mysterious glaciers, Breathe in the music that lazily plays around a pine twig,  Breathe in the prayers that you have forgotten to chant." "Breathe out the dust, the smoke, and the fears you have nursed in you, Breathe out the noise of your self and inhale these moments of silence."

No one asked me to do it. Perhaps the Buddha residing on the centuries old dzong might have asked the river to bring me this prayer. Perhaps the rock, which locals believe was once the resting place of a Tibetan saint, asked me to chant it. Perhaps, it must have been his prayer.

A few minutes later, seeing the dzong from across the river, a fear started gripping me, a feeling of wanting to be afraid, I should admit. James asked me to follow him across the worn out hanging bridge to the dzong. "Later," I told him. In the morning sun that has risen across a ridge that looked like a reclining elephant, it felt as if the dzong would soar any moment into the golden rays.

The dzong, perched at the confluence of two glacial rivers, like a magnet, attracted and repelled me. In the awe-inspiring-fear of being in divine presence, I looked at the pinnacle, the high windows through which a young monk peeked and waved his hand, and at the fish in the river beside that jumped to the mossy rocks without the fear of being caught. That September morning, Bhutan welcomed me into its heart.

© travelbird