Grandfather lit his pipe and puffed smoke towards the ceiling, the fumes turned from a chain of rings into nothing. The light seemed to sizzle and dance its way into his mouth as he inhaled deeply. I hated tobacco, because every time when I smelt it, I choked and coughed, and it stung my eyes, making them blurry.

Whenever grandfather told me stories, he always smoked; I sat on the other side of the living room but still felt dizzy. I didn’t went away to play with friends because I enjoyed listening to his experience about serving as a member of the PLA in Tibet and guarding the border for five years, though I couldn’t fully grasp the meaning of it at that time. Grandfather also told me that he never fought in the Battle of Cahmdo.

Through his words, I imagined the sky and lakes in Tibet, imagined grandfather, in his twenties, standing among his comrades. It was like gazing into a mysterious place I could never reach. And for days, I wanted to experience the life and meet the local people in grandfather’s story.

At night in my bedroom and by day in the classroom the image of Tibet came between me and the page I strove to read. The syllabus of the word Tibet were call to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated. I asked whether I could spend my summer vacation there, but mom never allowed me to go. I tried all the tricks to get the permission—crying and refusing to get up from the floor, locking myself in my room and not eating or drinking, or trying to do the housework to touch my mom—but none of which worked. Mom was surprised and hoped it was not some romance story that grandfather bewitched me, and her explanation never changed, saying that it was a dangerous place.

On a Saturday afternoon, just like any other time, my grandfather was telling me stories about Tibet after lunch.

“Can you tell mom that I really want to visit Tibet? Please!” I listened quietly but couldn’t control myself from asking, my throat still feeling soared from the smoke.

“You can talk to mom about that,” Grandfather's muffled voice came from across the room.

“You help me ask.” I answered.

“Why can’t you ask?” Grandfather asked, raising his voice.

“Mom said that you wouldn’t allow me to go there, because seven-year-old kid can’t breathe there.” I explained, lowering my voice.

“Huuu, did I say that? I’ve always seen children younger than you traveling to Tibet. Go tell mom that you got the permission from me.”

“Really?” I asked energetically, and my heart was thumping as if a train had trodden across it. Then I burst out laughing and threw myself into grandfather’s arms. His pipe almost touched my face and burned my eyebrows.

“I love you grandpa! You are the best! Love you!”

Then I rushed to find my mother and told her the news. Though I could sense that mom still held back something, she seemed to know what I was coming for. I could also interpret these signs. When she was midway through her chores, I pointed to grandfather’s direction and she saw him standing beside the door, looking at us with a warm smile.

“Fine...I’ll take you there, grandfather’s too old for Tibet. He cannot go,” She said.

Just like adults, children have wishes that they had longed to fulfill, but sometimes it could be a simple thing. As simple as a ticket to Tibet, and that kept a child excited right up to the moment she got on the plane and kept her wide awake days and nights.

The flight to Tibet made me tired. Coming out from the terminal, I was hit by the heat wave of June. The sun stabbed at my back, the heat ran straight into my scalp as if my head were bare metal. In the distance, mountains, streaked with the shadows of clouds, seemed abandoned to dust and neglect for a thousand years, to struggle as they could against the heat and the sun of summer. To the vast landscape, the wind came gently, lifting the leaves quickly and combing through grass and flowers and thorns along the sides of the roads so that the earth began to disappear under a green cover, and that reminded me of my grandfather’s stories which he told me when I was young: young men riding horses in the fields, old men tending lambs, and children playing with dogs.

Namgyal, our guide, drove us to the guesthouse, and on the way he kept reminding us every now and then to walk and move slowly. He used to be a herdsman when he was young, and had grown to a lean Tibetan man with prayer beads in front of his chest, his eyes reflecting a love for this land, as if every inch of it was connected to his soul.

“Namgyal, have you ever herded the cattle?” I asked, breaking the silence in the car.

“Of course! I was one of the best herdsman!” Namgyal turned around, laughing with passion, his eyes flickering.

“Then why aren’t you herding now?” I was curious why he quitted the job that he seemed so proud of when he talked about it.

“Hmmm, it’s a complex story... I need to support my family.” Namgyal replied with a smile, but it was somewhat full of melancholy.

I sensed that there was more to Namgyal's story than he was letting on, but I didn't want to press him too hard. "It must have been a difficult decision," I said, hoping to encourage him to share more if he felt comfortable.

Namgyal nodded, his mind seemed to wander back through memories. "Yes, it was. Herding was my life, my connection to the land and the sky. But circumstances changed. My father fell ill, and the medical expenses were overwhelming. I had to find a more stable source of income."

He paused, looking out over the rolling hills as if feeling that heavy spirit come and weigh down his eyelids and the back of his neck so that he was pinned down under it, motionless.

"I miss my good old days. The early morning light, the sound of the sheep, the peace of the mountains. How simple life seems to be! What a freedom that I’ve had that you wouldn’t find it anywhere else," he said, his eyes smoldering with pain.

I could see the conflict in his eyes—the love for a way of life he had to leave behind, and the sense of duty that had pulled him away. "Do you ever think about going back?" I asked.

"Almost every day," he admitted with a wistful smile. "But life moves forward, and we have to move with it. My family needs me, and you know, that’s my priority. Sometimes, we have to make sacrifice for our loved ones."

His words lingered in the air, carrying a weight in them. As we sat in silence, I couldn't help but notice the strength in Namgyal, a man who had given up his passion for the sake of his family, yet still held onto the memories of a life he cherished deeply.

It was much later when I knew that Namgyal's decision to leave his village was also influenced by the needs of his younger brothers and sisters. As the eldest child in a family of six, he bore the weight of responsibility from a young age. His siblings looked up to him not only for guidance but also for basic necessities. With little opportunities in the remote village, Namgyal knew that the only way to ensure his family's basic needs and his siblings' future was to find work in big city. His brothers needed money on school, his sisters proper clothing and nourishment. Each day away from home was a sacrifice made out of love and duty, as Namgyal worked tirelessly to send money back home, ensuring that his siblings had the chance at a better life.

On the second day, we reached the Wenbu South Village. Sitting by Nierong Co Lake, I was fascinated by the pristine beauty and learned that the Tibetans treated the water as god and never fish or disturb it.

Then the tranquility was interrupted by the sound of hoof beats. I saw Namgyal’s figure on horseback, slowly meandering along the horizon, and next to him was a woman, wearing traditional Tibetan robe, the lines of her clothing flickering in the sunlight. Dismounting the horseback and picking up the hem of her long robe, she stood there. She wore red coral earrings which jingled in the sunset. And her gaze was burning like embers, commanding attention from everyone

This is my best friend Lhamo; we have known each other since childhood and herded livestocks together,” Namgyal said. Lhamo’s eyes carried a wild strength, and whenever our eyes met, I quickly duck and pretended that I was looking at something else.

       “Don’t wash your feet in the lake!” Lhamo frowned, an anger flashing across her face.

“What a strange rule,” I muttered.

Lhamo gazed at me, wrapped a colorful khata around my neck, and then burst out laughing all of a sudden, perhaps thinking that I looked strange with the khata.

“Friends from afar! Welcome to Wenbu South Village!” she said warmly, pulling my hand.

In front of Lhamo’s house stood a yak wool tent, emitting a mix smell of yak dung, barley, and freshly brewed tea. Lhamo sat across from me eating, her movements filled with wild grace. Sunlight streamed in, mingling with the rising steam from the teapot. I sat cross-legged, mimicking my parents’ posture, holding a small bowl with both hands as Lhamo poured us butter tea. I accepted it with both hands and took a big gulp, and the tea leaped up to meet my throat and crawled down my lung, bringing a peculiar comfort.

That evening, we sat around the campfire, talking. A few years ago Lhamo had discussed with a friend about going to Lhasa to study and work at the same time. She approached her uncle, who owned a restaurant in Lhasa, and told him she wanted to come to Lhasa. Her uncle asked, “You have to work during the day, right? How can you attend classes during the day? Even if you work at night, you'll be there until 4:00 or 5:00 a.m. Are you going to sleep in school?” Her uncle told Lhamo not to think about working in Lhasa anymore. Lhamo felt disappointed by his words but to her surprise, her former classmates gave her an information that there were factories in Guangdong recruiting workers, so she bought a train ticket, but when she arrived in Guangzhou, she realized things were different from what she had thought.

 “One day I ate fich and immediately threw up.” She said with a slight disgust.

 “Fich? “ I asked.

 “Oh, fish. I couldn’t even think about it; it was the fish that made me puke.”

Tibetans don't eat fish. They eat beef most of the time, because a cow is big and they could eat the beef for a year. So I supposed that she didn’t get use to the flavor of fish.

“The water in Guangzhou is also undrinkable, it has a strange taste.” Lhamo continued.

“Really? What does it taste like?” I asked.

“I don’t know, but it smells bad, and I throw up when I drink it.”

“You did't drink the water straight from the tap, did you?”

“I did.”

“Then of course it has the strange taste, there's chlorine in tap water, it's not like you can drink it straight from the springs here.”

Lhamo's eyes widened.

There were other days when I heard Lhamo saying sometimes her shoulders and backs were sore, so I decided to teach her yoga.

The heavy manual work gave her physical pain, but she told me that the cold winter was what she couldn’t bear. She had to keep the house, get up at 3 a.m. to milk the cows and make yogurt. Sometimes she ate only one meal for a whole day because she had to run between the grassland and the valley to graze the cows and then drive them back.

“You should do some exercise,” I said.

She gazed at me, confused, as if she didn’t know what I was talking about.

 “No? Then let me teach you how to stretch yourself.”

The confused expression on her face became more visible, “What is stretching? “

I started teaching her with some simple movements, like stretched out legs a little and then arms and twisted the waist back and forth. But it was obvious that these little exercises were too difficult for Lhamo. Sometimes unable to follow me, she just stood there, doubling up, and then said, “Look, my arms are too short, how I can stretch like you do?”

The night before our departure, Lhamo took me to the sacred mountain to make a wish. That was the tradition. It was nine o’clock. Having taken two turns and passed some deserted houses, we arrived at the mountain. At night, the landscape seemed more powerful, the sand sodden with rotten leaves clinging to my heels. In the daytime this place would no doubt be choked by tourists, but now there was only a constant car passing by with its headlight sweeping through.  The wind had the quality of a looming leviathan, droning under stones, tearing the leaves, and starting small avalanches in dunes. It blew her robe like a balloon, which immediately doubled her frame. A couple of minutes passed in silence as we stood there, under the vast sky, as if unseen spirits were listening.

The next day, as we were about to leave, my heart felt heavy as if a stone was stuck in my chest which I could not get it out. Tears streamed down my face as Namgyal dragged me away, forcing me into the car. I saw from the back view mirror Lhamo standing there, her figure slowly fading into the distance. As the car moved forward, I saw the sunlight resting on her hair and then falling onto her shoulders, and a faint, glowing aura surrounding her, as if she were being blessed by the spirits of the mountain.

Memories came to my mind, warm, nice, and sad, the sort of moments that you felt the urge to share with people, but I realized that time was not something that could be rewound.The journey seemed to stretch on endlessly, and I felt a chill in the air, as if the spirits were guiding us toward somewhere.

Three hours later, we arrived at the temple. The air was thick with the smell of incense. The sound of chanting filled the hall, which captivated us and swept me away into a mood of pleasure and appreciation. I followed Namgyal, my eyes wide with wonder at the beauty of the interior and the mysterious atmosphere that permeated the place.

Suddenly, the crowds were murmuring and pointing towards a figure at the front of the temple. I pushed through them to see what was happening. My heart skipped a beat when I saw Lhamo.

She was kneeling in front of the Buddha statue, her hands clasped in prayer. Her eyes were closed, and her face had a look of serenity, bathing in the warm glow of the lamps. A soft, radiant light surrounded her head, as if the divine presence of the Buddha was blessing her. I stood there, transfixed, unable to believe that she was there. How could she get here? If she wanted to come with us, why didn’t she get into the car?

Tears welled up in my eyes. It was as if our journey had led us to this moment, in this holy and otherworldly place. I felt a deep sense of peace and connection, as if our souls met in the moment of prayer.

When Lhamo opened her eyes and saw me, a smile spread across her face. She stood up and walked towards me, her mouth half opened as if wanting to call my name. Without a word, she handed me a small flower, the same one that she gave me the night before. I took it, feeling the warmth in my hand, and a surge of something came to my throat. I realized that this simple gesture held all the love and understanding between us, connecting us in a way that I couldn’t even have word to describe. As we stood there, surrounded by the ancient walls of Jokhang Temple, I knew that our bond was unbreakable, blessed by God.

I also noticed the pilgrims who made their journey to the holy place. Dust-covered and weary, they prostrated themselves, moving forward little by little in a difficult way because it was so hard to move the bodies with hands.

"Have you seen the pilgrims? They may look dirty, but their hearts are particularly clean. Some come from far away, like a young man from Sichuan who took five months to get here by prostrating," Namgyal said.

“This’s the first time that I meet the pilgrims up,” I said. A woman, with deep lines on her face and a callus on her forehead, nodded to me. Her black hair was in a bun, and she wore a dirty, ankle-length deep blue apron. She had a cloth strap tied around her, connected to a small cart with a child inside. She stopped ever three steps and stood straight, muttering some words, and then raised her hands above her head. Her face was unusually calm, and it reminded me of the sky in Tibet.

The air grew colder. The light in the temple dimmed, and a strange, luminous fog began to fill the room. Pilgrims continued the ritual, unaffected. I felt something supernatural was looming. It was, again, Lhamo, but this time she was translucent, more like a spirit. She navigated through the pilgrims, touching their heads and shoulders. The fog around them seemed to shimmer and glow, and their faces lit up with serene smiles. It was as if she were bestowing blessings to them.

I watched in awe and lost words. When Lhamo approached me, her ghostly form radiated a soft light. She reached out her hand and touched my forehead, and I felt a warmth spread through my body. Her touch was gentle, and I felt a deep sense of peace and love.

"Lhamo," I whispered, tears streaming down my face. "Are you real?"

She nodded, smiling. "The spirits are always with us. They guide us, protect us, and bless us. Our journey together has been blessed by the divine," she said, her voice seemed disembodied, coming from another realm.

When she spoke, the fog began to dissipate, and the light in the temple returned to normal. The pilgrims were still there, as if nothing had disturbed them. Lhamo began to fade, but before she disappeared completely, she placed the flower in my hand once more.

"Remember," she said softly, "our bond is unbreakable. We are connected by the divine." After saying that, she vanished, leaving me standing there with the flower in my hand.

In the days that followed, Namgyal seemed different. He led us through the uninhabited land of Rongma Township, his enthusiasm infectious and invigorating. Each day brought new discoveries, landscapes that seemed untouched by time, and a growing sense of connection to the land.

At sunset, a little whirlwind formed on the grass and swept through me, dragging a carpet of dust. The last drop of light cast a warm, golden glow over the terrain. I noticed a white yak skull amid the high grass. Its hooves and legs were half-buried nearby, the hair and flesh long disappeared, leaving only the bleached bones. The natural elements had etched totem-like patterns onto the bones, creating a silent testament to the passage of time. Nearby, a few solitary yaks searched for the fresh sprouts.

As we paused to take in the scene, Namgyal broke the silence. "Do you see the beauty in this, my friend?"

I nodded, still holding the flower I had picked along the way. "Yes, but it's also reminded me of how fragile life is."

He looked at me thoughtfully, his eyes reflecting the wisdom. "According to Tibetan legend, the first ray of sunlight on Kangrinboqe Mountain brought forth the first yak. When the sky-blue turquoise on people’s necks changes color, it signifies that death has quietly enveloped it. This pristine, beautiful corpse was once called 'Nor' by the Tibetans, meaning 'precious treasure.'"

I listened intently as he continued, his voice carrying the weight of ancient stories. "At some point in the past, this yak grazed peacefully like its nearby companions. Now, it’s not even a complete corpse; the soft tissues and organs began self-digestion the moment life ended, transforming from an individual into a vast, complex ecosystem."

He gestured toward the sky, where a few vultures circled high above. "This alluring vitality attracted countless vultures, who observed from a distance, then swooped in to tear apart the slowly cooling body, feasting on the once-powerful heart. They are death’s servants and Tibet’s 'sacred eagles.' After all was consumed, death wholly reclaimed the yak."

Namgyal knelt beside the bones, tracing a finger over the intricate patterns. "It began to sink, rooting itself into the earth like a seed, extending towards the core, burying itself in the land that gave it life, skin, hair, food, water, and sunlight. Around it were the droppings and footprints of countless others of its kind."

I gazed at the remnants of the yak, my mind drifting back to Lhamo's words. They seemed to echo in the stillness of the scene, adding a layer of depth to the silence. The quiet was almost reverent, as if the land itself mourned the loss of one of its own while celebrating its return to the earth.

"So, in nature, what do you think death is?" Namgyal asked me, breaking my reverie.

I hesitated, unsure of how to respond. The concept felt too vast, too profound to capture in mere words.

He continued, his voice gentle. "It's a return, a transformation. The body becomes part of the earth again. It nourishes the soil, feeds new life, and continues the cycle. It's not an end, but a continuation."