I carried my bird on my shoulder, where he perched all day. During the night we kept him safely locked up in his cage, which proved beneficial to him. Twelve hours of mountain air and light improved his body, yet not once did he make the effort to fly off my shoulder and return to his mate to help her hatch the eggs.
The Himalayas in the spring are unique. The ground glittered with white violets, interspersed with raspberries already ripening here and there in the hot moist gorges where the ferns were spreading their large arms as if to embrace the white hills lying like precious stones on the indigo-blue throat of the sky. Sometimes we passed through thick forests where stunted oaks, prodigious elms, deodars (cedars) and chestnuts grew in such numbers that their branches shut out all sunlight. Tree against tree, bough against bough, and roots struggling with roots fought for light and life. Below them in arboreal darkness many deer grazed on abundant tall grass and saplings, only to be devoured in their turn by tigers, leopards and panthers. Everywhere life grew in abundance, all the more intensifying the struggle for existence among birds, beasts and plants. Such is the self-contradictory nature of existence. Even insects were not free of it.
When we emerged from the forest darkness and beheld the open spaces, the hot tropical sunlight suddenly shot its diamond points of fire into our helpless eyes. The golden tremble of dragonflies filled the air; butterflies, sparrows, robins, grouse, parrots, papias (Indian thrush), jays, and peacocks clamoured and courted from tree to tree and peak to higher peak.
Now in the open space between tea gardens on one side of the road and pine forests on our right, we strove and staggered up inclines almost straight as knives. There the air was so rarefied that we could hardly breathe. Sounds and echoes travelled very far: even a whisper could not escape being overheard from a distance of yards, and men and beasts alike became silent. Save for the clatter of their hoofs the ponies as well as the men moved with a sense of reverence for the solitude and stillness that shut down upon us. Here the indigo-blue hollow of the sky remained untainted by clouds, and untroubled by any movement save the sighing flight of cranes going northwards, or the deep-toned plunge of an eagle into declivities nearby. Everything was cold, keen, and quickening. Orchids burst out almost overnight and opened their purple eyes upon us; marigolds brimmed with morning dew, and in the lakes below, blue and white lotuses opened their petals to the bees.
Now we were near Singalele. The Lamasery raised its head and beckoned us from the hillside. Its wing-shaped roof and ancient walls floated like a banner against the horizon. I was encouraged to quicken my pace and another hour's time found me climbing the steep pathway of the monastery.
What a relief it was to be there among men who lived above the battle of our everyday life! It being noon, I went down with Ghond through a forest of balsam to the spring in which we bathed ourselves and gave Gay-Neck a thorough wash. After he had had his dinner in his cage, Ghond and I went to the dining room where the Lamas were waiting for us. The room looked like a colonnade of ebony whose capitals were decorated with dragons of gold. The teak wood beams, grown quite dark through many centuries, were carved into broad clear lotus designs, delicate as jasmine but strong as metal. On the floor of red sandstone, orange-robed monks were seated in silent prayer, which was their grace before each meal. Ghond and I waited at the entrance of the dining room until the prayer was concluded with the chanting in unison, like the Gregorian chant:
Budham mē sáránām
Dhārmám mē sáránām
Ōm Manī pádmē Ōm.
"In wisdom that is the Buddha is our refuge