On the Banks of the Wishing Lake

Surrounded by Buddhist prayer flags, in the shape of Buddha’s foot, lies the Wishing Lake. Kechopari, a small mountain lake in North Sikkim at a height of 6000 feet, is revered by Buddhists and Lepchas alike. Though circled by a dense forest, not a leaf touches the lake’s surface. The myth goes that the moment a leaf flutters down birds swoop to catch it. Thus the waters remain clean. And so clear that we can even see the scales of the black and gold fish that swim close to its bed.

It’s late evening when the State Transport bus from Pelling drops us at Kechopari and rattles off. It’ll be back next afternoon. The only sign of human habitation in this forest clearing on the hilltop is a small hut. Close-by shrouded in darkness stands the Sanga Choling monastery. The family staying in the hut are its caretakers and also serve food to the people who venture here.

Inside the hut an elderly lama dozes in a corner, a benign smile lingering on his lips. His companion, a younger lama looks around with interest. Small groups of foreign trekkers go native sipping chang from bamboo straws discussing the next day’s route. A matronly woman dressed in a bakku matter-of-factly tosses noodles in a soot-covered wok. Five children of various age groups take turns in helping her and doing their homework in the dim 25-watt light. A teenage girl moves from table to table with a coquettish gait. The next day, one of the kids tells me that she’s not a nice girl! Meanwhile, the husband scurries around taking orders and serving his customers. Wood-smoke mingles with that of cigarettes. Somewhere beyond lies Kechopari. The lake which makes all wishes come true.

The night is pitch-dark. A billion stars jostle for space. We can never see that many in the city sky. The monastery where we spend the night doesn’t have electricity. There are no toilets either. By candlelight people find some place to spend the night. Kechopari is a transit point. A place where trekkers halt for the night. Where lamas, intrepid travelers, rest their bodies before making it to Pemyangtse, one of the oldest monasteries in Sikkim.

In the early morning light, from the terrace of the monastery we catch the first glimpse of Kechopari. The lake is still. Except for spirals of mist that float skyward from its surface. All around there’s bird song. As numerous as the stars at night. The hill sides are covered with huge broad leaves of black cardamom. Rhododendron trees push up against the sky. The ground is carpeted with moist dry leaves. And hidden in between are leeches. Inconspicuous till they balloon with blood.

The brilliant mountain sun pours in through wooden slats as we breakfast on soupy noodles. The place is strictly vegetarian. The elder lama digs into his robes with a mischievous smile and nibbles on tiny bits of dried meat. He offers us too. The younger one looks on with indulgence and counts his prayer beads. The trekkers have already hit their trail. Outside a Bihari man sets up shop. A battered suitcase holding trinkets – colourful ribbons, gaudy plastic hair clips, cheap nail polish, etc. Soon his customers, the village girls will come this way.

A short walk away, in the forest is the Wishing Lake. It is serene. Like the Buddha’s gaze. In a tiny shrine by the lake a priest chants mantras. And floats bright flowers. There is religion in the air. Not one bound by scriptures or ruled by norms. But religion at the dawn of civilization. Steeped in mystery. Why is there not a single leaf on the lake’s surface when trees circle it? Why do birds act as custodians? No one knows. No one wants to know. In this enchanted space reason takes wing.

Here, on the banks of Kechopari nebulous wishes come to mind. Desire for things we hold so dear. Or, may be, for nothing concrete. What we wish for doesn’t really matter. What matters is the belief that impels our desire to make a wish. And the hope, against all logic that it will be fulfilled. And this, precisely, is Kechopari’s gift in the dark world of reason.