God of Ki
By Arun Gaur

ON the road to Ki, our scooter pants again and shrieks again. But we know, we would make it. Both the vehicles and the riders are experienced enough. They shriek, but they make it. We have petrol, and moreover our engine turns! Moreover, my young companion is the greatest assuring factor — his weightlessness, his manoeuverability, mental as well as physical, his navigating intuitions, his telescopic eyes, his composed ascending of steep slopes with both hands languidly resting in his jacket pockets, brim of his cap drooping over his eyes nonchalantly, and above all his culinary skills. As we gather height, towards the 4,000 metre mark, at first gear, our scooter roars, thumps, and irregularly pulsates.

We bend down as much as possible over it, trying to lower our centre of mass for optimum stability and streamline the system to have the least possible aerial resistance. We give it a wider arch at every turn, as much wide as possible on that narrow strip of unmetalled road and then finally reach the gateway of the Ki monastery.

It is a pyramid — its faces studded with white cells. At a specific distance, the impression is of Ki as a small but formidable fortress. As we approach the monastery, its impregnable appearance becomes less acute. Undoubtedly, in the past it was not as porous as it appears today from close quarters. At that time it had to act as a real fortress, defending itself against the forces that emanated not only from the principalities that lay in the still higher Tibetan terrain but from the lower plains too. As a fortress should be, it is eminently positioned, some say, on an extinct volcano, and strategically commands a view of the country before it. Its back is defended by the steep rocks from the human aggressors as well as from the violence of winds.

From the monastery, we can see the wide bed of emerald Spiti divided into many channels. Mostly, it is dry and gleams like silver. On the other bank, there are clusters of prodominantly white, box -like houses at one or two places with overhanging steep pale cliffs and the snow-line. Seldom does one find a settlement on the other side of the river. The right bank, particularly from Tabo to its confluence with Satluj at Khab, doesn’t offer enough of the level ground to permit any clustered habitation. Immediately below, there is a huge stretch of level arid soil, and the bridle-paths run across them. On the edge of this vast wasteland of the cold desert. There are a few rare cultivated patches, dark green and black.

Though this ancient Ge-lug-pa monastery — possibly its roots go to the 11th century — has been repeatedly assaulted, surprise has often been expressed if it was worthwhile to annex such a territory. Besides its stark beauty, what could these arid, rugged deserts offer to the conquering armies? To their best, monasteries like Ki resisted, and whenever the plunderers did overcome them, they retreated with the plunder to their native lands. But many did not go back. Particularly those, who came from the higher reaches like Ladakh or Tibet could easily settle here. These new settlements did affect the iconography and Lama system of the monasteries.

Monasteries like Ki, in the past, were not as secluded or isolated as they appear today perched on the rock-heads. The dwellers of these cells were drawn from every family of the villages scattered around. Usually in one cell, the full-fledged uncle-monk received, under his tutelage, his own young nephew who had just been initiated into monastic life. The monks received their share of the family income, offered their services to the village folk on every important occasion and even indulged in economic transactions and scholastic activities.

These monks became experts in magic and could pin-point the stealers, sending shudders down the spines of many violators of law in the comparative warmth of the spring season, they remained busy among the inhabitants of villages, and when the snow came, they locked themselves up in the monastery that had enough supply of food and wood for fire. While the snow gnashed and clattered its teeth all around, they churned their salted butter tea with a divine rhythm and waited patiently for the turn of the season.

On the roof of the top-most cell, grin the demonic deities as the tufts of coloured flags wrapped round poles quiver. Silvery white skulls, red-eyed, golden crowned, with flowing strands of black apparel stirring down their scrawny necks in the forenoon deceptively composed puffs of wind restraining its fury yet. These deities and the narratives woven in the thankas of the dim rooms fly in the face of positive gods.