#1: A Mangalācharaṇa to start

In India, it is a tradition to invoke the divine while undertaking any new activity. Indian literary and philosophical texts usually dedicate the opening verse, called Mangalācharana, to seek the blessings of God. The author of the text usually invokes a personal deity of his/her choice. The main purpose of the invocation is to seek the completion of the intended work, free of any hurdles. This is also the reason behind the Indian tradition of invoking Ganesha - the Vighnarāja, the giver and remover of hurdles - at the start of any occasion. So, in the first post of this newsletter, I felt it was apt to discuss this tradition, based on an interesting experience on a climbing expedition.

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Earlier this year, I had an opportunity to learn a few concepts of Indian logic (Nyāya) in the Gurukula of Sode Shri Vādiraja Matha. It is a traditional Matha (monastery) situated near Sirsi, amidst the picturesque forests of the Western Ghats in northern Karnataka. In the first session, my guru Shri Vādiraja Jambukhandi spoke exclusively on the first verse of the text - the concept of Mangalācharaṇa and its necessity. It was a fascinating discussion for me as this tradition of invoking God at the beginning was a practice that is followed by climbers before every Himālayan climbing expedition. We conduct a Pūja ceremony at Base Camp before we actually set foot on the mountain. The entire team comes together to pray to the mountain and mountain Gods, for safe passage to the summit and back. We even distribute sweets - Suji ka halwa, the North-Indian Kesribath, being the popular choice.

Coming back to my lesson at the Gurukula, I was asked if invoking the divine and the removal of hurdles was sufficient to complete an undertaking. In fact, this is a question posed by early Indian logicians (pre-10th century CE). They argue that Mangalācharaṇa by itself would not suffice, that there is a need for buddhi and pratibhā - intellect and spark. This reminded me of my conversation with a senior Sherpa during the early days of my Himālayan guiding career.

It was the 14th of October 2015, exactly six years ago, when I had just finished guiding a 12-day trek to Bara Banghal in Himachal Pradesh and was heading to Gangotri to join a climb to Satopanth, a formidable 7000m/23,000ft peak in the Garhwal Himalaya. I had to go from Bir to Chandigarh, then to Rishikesh where I would collect my climbing gear in the morning, then reach Uttarkashi in time to catch the last available transport to Gangotri - a gruelling 700km drive changing 4 busses to reach Gangotri within 24 hours.

At 10 pm as I boarded the Chandigarh bus, I received a call from Gangotri. It was the expedition leader Tashi, who asked me to buy prayer flags for the Pūja ceremony as the team could not find them in Rishikesh. To find the flags, I was supposed to reroute to Dehradun, which meant one extra bus to change and the risk of not reaching Gangotri on time. I threw a tantrum (obediently :) and argued that the Pūja could be done by whatever was available at Gangotri, after all, the outcome of the expedition was dependent on our skills and not on how we do the Pūja. Tashi quietly gave the call to Mingma, a senior Sherpa with multiple ascents of Everest and other 8000m mountains. Mingma politely told me to keep my logical arguments with myself and instead to make an honest effort to find the prayer flags, depending on my schedule.

A week later we had reached our basecamp at 5000m and the Pūja ceremony was underway on a windy morning beside a partially frozen Vāsuki Tāl. As the prayer flags were fluttering away in the cold autumn wind, I took the opportunity to ask Mingma Dai why he was so adamant about the flags. I reiterated my argument on the success of the expedition being dependent on the skills and capability of the team. Mingma, poised as he always is, replied with a wide smile, almost a giggle. He then pointed to the rocks above the basecamp and asked me if I could control those rocks if they started falling, if my skills would help me. Like any other 20 year old, I replied back, saying that while I cannot control the rocks, our intellect and our skills have made us set-up our tents away from the rock-fall zone, that the rocks would not reach the camp even if they fell. By the time Mingma broke his silence to reply, I had already realised what he was trying to say.

Prayer flags fluttering in the wind as the Pūja ceremony takes place at Satopanth Base Camp. Vāsuki Parbat ridge is seen in the background.

While I cannot write what Mingma said verbatim, the gist of it was this. In the mountains - and even in life - we hardly ever have absolute control. We can react to the challenges and minimize damage based on our skills, but we can never control the hurdles or challenges that might arise. Praying to the mountains and mountain Gods is an act of acceptance of this reality, acceptance of your place on the mountain, acceptance of the limitations of your control. So, the success of an expedition would indeed require the blessings of the mountain Gods, irrespective of one’s intellect or skill.

This was one of the more interesting conversations I have had. This was not about learning to respect the mountains, or to pray to them - that I was anyway doing before this incident happened - but this lesson was about understanding our place in the scheme of things, understanding our limitations and bowing down to the forces higher than us, with complete humility regarding our aswatantra - lack of complete control. It was a lesson that took its time to truly sink in, but one that I can never forget.

So, as I start this newsletter on the auspicious day of Vijaya Dashami, it is an occasion for a Mangālacharaṇa. Today, I seek the blessings of Udupi Shri Krishna, in front of whom I write this. I seek the blessings of the mountains and mountain gods that have nurtured me - the mountains of the Himālaya and the Sahyādris - as I take on this daunting task of writing about them with my limited ability. I also bow to Nanda Devi and Kumāra Parvatha, mountains that have evoked a sense of divinity, whenever I see them. I also seek the blessings of Shri Madhvācharya and Shri Vādiraja Tīrtha - hearing their stories of walking to Badarinath all the way from southern Karnataka from my family is what aroused my curiosity and fascination for the Himālaya as a kid. Salutations to my Gurus and mentors, specifically Avilash Bisht, without whose guidance I wouldn’t be here. I also seek the blessings of you, the reader. Ki Ki So So Larghyalo - Victory to the Mountain Gods!

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In the next post, I will write about the interesting topography of the first ridge of the Himalayan range, what makes it special and its place in Himalayan mountain tourism. See you soon!