On Earth as is Vaikuṇṭha: A Journey to Upper Mustang and Muktinath
by Saran Suebsantiwongse
Published on 15 October 2025
Upper Mustang, in northwestern Nepal on the fringe of the Tibetan Plateau, is often described as a land of Buddhist monasteries, fortress-like villages and windswept Himalayan deserts. For centuries, it remained hidden from the outside world, a closed kingdom preserving a way of life untouched by modernity until the 1990s. Scholars and explorers such as Giuseppe Tucci in the 1950s and Michel Peissel in the 1960s drew the world’s attention to Mustang, portraying it as the mysterious “Forbidden Kingdom.” Yet long before these accounts appeared in travel literature, the region was already sanctified in Hindu imagination as a tīrtha—a sacred pilgrimage site, where mortals draw near to the divine.
At the heart of this geography is the Hindu pilgrimage site of Muktinath, revered in the Muktikṣetra Māhātmya of the Varāhapurāṇa. The Purāṇic text proclaims that whoever undertakes the arduous journey to this high Himalayan shrine and bathes in its 108 sacred waterspouts will cast off the bonds of saṃsāra and attain liberation. Equally sacred is Kagbeni, where the rivers converge like the Triveṇī of Prayagraj. Here, generations of Hindus have performed śrāddha for their ancestors, convinced that such offerings bring their forebears release and peace in the higher worlds.
Flowing through the heart of Mustang is the Kali Gandaki River, considered not only for its life-giving waters, which eventually merge with the Ganges, but also as the sacred source of the śālagrāmas—the fossilized ammonite formed millions of years before the age of the dinosaurs, venerated as manifestations of Viṣṇu. Many Puranic myths are associated with the śālagrāmas. The most well-known, recounted in multiple texts such as the Skandapurāṇa, Padmapurāṇa, Brahmavaivartapurāṇa, Agnipurāṇa and Devipurāṇa, tells how the demon Jalandhara cursed Viṣṇu, turning him into a śālagrāma, in retribution for having deceived his wife Vṛndā, thereby violating her chastity.
My own journey here was both a pilgrimage and a research expedition. Walking its banks, speaking with local priests and tracing the river’s course to the upper reaches where the ammonites are said to originate, I sought to understand how geography, geology and devotion converge in the making of these sacred icons. Discovering the origins of the śālagrāmasbrought new depth to my understanding of Mustang as a sacred landscape, where rivers and rocks are not merely natural formations, but also vessels of divine presence.
For Hindus, Mustang is far more than a remote valley of rugged cliffs and colorful hills. It is a threshold—a place where myth and devotion converge and where scriptures find material form. It was with this sense of devotion, curiosity and scholarly interest that I embarked on my own journey into Mustang. What follows is not merely a travelogue, but a diary of discovery: a record of landscapes crossed, temples visited, rituals performed, and sacred stones encountered, woven together with stories, memories and self-reflections.
Kathmandu – Pokhara – Kagbeni
After offering my prayers at a local Bhairava temple in Kathmandu (Bhairava being revered among other things as a protector of safe travels), I set off on the first leg of my journey: a six-hour bus ride to Pokhara. I was fortunate to board one of the city’s “sofa buses,” luxuriously equipped with reclining, lazy-boy–style seats that made the winding Himalayan roads surprisingly comfortable.
At Pokhara, I was immediately greeted by crisp mountain air and the awe-inspiring view of the Annapurna range, its snow-capped peaks glowing in the afternoon light. I met my guides Shankar and Sagar, both seasoned, professional men who knew the region well.
The next day, we set off early in the morning by land cruiser toward Kagbeni, our first stop along the Kali Gandaki. The river below was in full force, its current strong and, like its name, the water dark and muddy. The landscape here was lush, almost rainforest-like, with a heavy humidity in the air.
We paused at Tatopani for lunch, a kind of resort town where Nepali and Indian tourists stop for the hot springs before continuing toward Muktinath. Along the riverbanks, busloads of Indian pilgrims were already scrambling for śālagrāmas. Shankar guide shook his head—he explained that nothing would be found here anymore because the current was too strong and the lower reaches long since exhausted. For centuries, pilgrims had scoured these easily accessible banks, leaving little behind. There was also another reason. Entry to Upper Mustang, where riverbeds are less exploited by tourists searching for śālagrāmas, requires a special permit of $500 per person, which is applicable even to Indian pilgrims. In contrast, Lower Mustang, which includes Muktinath, requires only a $50 permit.
Past Tatopani, the air shifted suddenly. It grew cooler and drier, and the vegetation changed with it; rainforest giving way to pine forests and the flora of higher altitudes. This is also the branching point for the famous Annapurna Circuit, where trekkers peel off into another valley.
We reached Jomsom next, the last real town before entering Upper Mustang. Its airport, renowned for sudden winds and treacherous landings, is one of the most difficult in the world.
By late afternoon, we arrived in Kagbeni, a sleepy village during the low season. Since it was during a low season, not a single foreign trekker was in sight. Shankar took me to the saṅgam, the muddy confluence where three streams meet. Like Prayagraj, it is believed that one river here is invisible, and it is at this site that śrāddha rituals for the ancestors are performed. I spoke with two resident priests, Govinda Acharya and Pratap Acharya, who stay throughout the year, conducting rites for visitors. They told me most pilgrims come during Pitṛpakṣa in September–October; otherwise, the place remains quiet, and in the harsh winters, almost deserted.
(The Triveṇī Saṅgam at Kagbeni)
In the evening, I stayed at a hotel, owned by a Tibetan man, Chandan. He showed me his private collection of enormous śālagrāmas—some unlike anything I had ever seen, whether in person, in books or on the internet. His collection runs into the thousands, with some stones weighing several tonnes. The rarer forms can fetch thousands of dollars.
Chandan explained how he acquired them: local Tibetan villagers, who often see these stones less as sacred objects than as commodities, scour the riverbeds and sell them to him. As a well-known hotelier, he is the first point of contact for both villagers and Indian dealers. Over years of trade, he has developed a keen eye for which forms and markings are most prized by collectors in Kathmandu and India. At times, dealers arrive with trucks, buying up everything they can, but Chandan prefers to sell carefully, knowing which stones command the highest value. For him and the villagers alike, śālagrāmas are as much a livelihood as they are sacred symbols.
As a researcher, I found myself reflecting on this dual life of the śālagrāma. For Hindu pilgrims, these black ammonite fossils from the Kali Gandaki are revered as direct manifestations of Viṣṇu; each spiral a cosmic mark of eternity and each stone a portable temple. Yet here in Mustang, I saw how these very same objects circulate in markets, changing hands through negotiation, trade and speculation.
This is also what drew me to Mustang: the chance to follow the river upstream, to trace the origins of these sacred stones not only in myth and scriptures, but in the lived practices of those who collect, worship and exchange them. Somewhere between the river’s currents, the pilgrims’ prayers and Chandan’s storerooms lies the story of how faith travels, how divinity takes form in stone, and how the sacred finds its way into the most human of transactions.
Kagbeni – Lo Manthang
From Kagbeni, we embarked on a strenuous three-day trek to Lo Manthang, the ancient walled capital of Mustang. Almost immediately, a striking black dog with a thick, shiny coat appeared, trotting alongside us with quiet authority. My guide told me she was a Tibetan Mastiff, one of the most prized and expensive breeds in the world. I named her Bhairavī, after the fierce sixth Mahāvidyā goddess, who transcends space and time. She seemed to know the trails instinctively, occasionally sprinting ahead to chase foxes before looping back to check on us.
The paths unfolded through landscapes that felt suspended between time and legend. We passed apple orchards, their fruit heavy on the branches, reminding us of the valley’s reliance on orcharding and goat herding. Ochre-colored cliffs rose dramatically on either side, their jagged faces etched by centuries of wind and sun. Along the trail, small clay stupas, painted in earthy red and orange, lined the way.
The villages we encountered were nearly empty, inhabited only by a few elderly Tibetans. Mud-brick houses, built in the traditional style, stood as monuments to a simpler era. In corners of some villages, clay effigies of local protective and fertility deities watched over the abandoned streets.
After lunch at a local inn, we climbed our first mountain pass. The trek was challenging: the altitude began to press on our lungs, the sun scorched our backs, and the dry wind parched our throats. Bhairavī, seemingly impervious, darted down steep slopes and back, leading us through the rocky terrain with flexibility and confidence.
That evening, we camped near Chhusang village, the cliffs glowing like gold as the sun set. Early the next morning, we crossed another pass and descended into a secluded valley where a Buddhist cave monastery is located. It is said to have been a meditation retreat of Padmasambhava (Guru Rinpoche), the tantric master who introduced Vajrayāna Buddhism to Tibet in the 8th century CE.
From there, we continued down to the Kali Gandaki riverbed, where we set aside the day for the task of searching for śālagrāmas. The riverbed, exposed by the retreating waters, was littered with dark stones glinting in the morning sun. Shankar and Sagar crouched over the gravel, scanning for the telltale smooth spirals. Initially, we found only broken fragments, yet even these were treated with reverent curiosity.
According to several Purāṇic texts, śālagrāmas are living embodiments of Lord Viṣṇu, each stone carrying its own unique power. Beyond the familiar forms such as Cakrapūrṇa (Sudarśanacakra), Padma, Kaustubha and Hiraṇyagarbha, some are linked to specific avatāras, from Kūrma (the Tortoise) to Rāma, Buddha, Narasiṃha, and more. Locals speak of their “values” with reverent certainty: Kūrma brings wealth and stability, Narasiṃha protects, Padma and Hiraṇyagarbha bring fertility, and the Cakrapūrṇa, Viṣṇu’s very discus, wards off malevolent forces.
As the sun rose higher, glinting off the ochre cliffs, a perfect Cakrapūrṇa caught my eye. Smooth, dark, its spiral unbroken, it felt weighty yet alive in my palm. This was the first complete śālagrāma I had collected with my own hands. Further down the river, Shankar and Sagar tried to break a few pieces with another stone, revealing the cakra inside, which I discouraged because broken śālagrāmas are considered unsuitable for worship. They argued that foreigners often prefer them as souvenirs, and I recalled seeing similar fragments displayed in natural history museums in the USA and Europe.
After a long day of trekking and hunting śālagrāmas at the riverbed, we finally reached Lo Manthang in the evening. The walled town rose ahead of us like a fortress suspended in time, its warm orange-colored walls catching the last rays of the sun.
Lo Manthang
When we arrived in Lo Manthang, it felt quieter than I expected. The town sits in a wide valley, its simple mud walls enclosing narrow streets lined with mud-brick houses and small monasteries.
The Royal Palace stands at the center of town, modest compared to what one might imagine of a kingdom, yet it retains an elegance in its carved windows and layered terraces. Nearby, monasteries such as Chokhang Gompa and Thubchen Gompa preserve centuries-old murals, dated to about the 15th century CE. The paintings are impressive and vivid with figures of Buddhas, protector deities, and mandalas.
Mahākāla is central here, especially in the Śākya tradition followed by many of the monasteries in Mustang. The deity is primarily revered as a guardian of the monastic community and the spiritual path. Its iconography depicts a dark-skinned figure, crowned with skulls and wearing a garland of bones. In fact, Mahākāla and Bhairava are arguably the same protector deity in both religious traditions, and both are widely worshipped in Nepal. They represent a fierce energy directed toward the welfare of the devotee or the community.
The quiet town of Lo Manthang becomes festive only once a year. During Tiji in May, the three-day festival reenacts the stories of Padmasambhava and Dorje Jono (a local name for Mahākāla) through masked dances that depict the triumph of dharma over adharma. The highlight of the celebration comes when a large sacred thangka is unfurled from the palace wall.
Bhairavī met many other Tibetan Mastiffs as we wandered through the palace complex and the surrounding monasteries. I considered leaving her with the monks so she would have company and be well fed, but she refused to stay. Each evening, she found her way back to my hotel, sitting by the front door, keeping watch, and sleeping there through the night—as if guarding my room herself.
Lo Manthang – Muktinath
The next day, we decided to hire a car to complete the second part of our journey. The weather had turned increasingly hot, and we were still exhausted from collecting śālagrāmas the previous day. We brought Bhairavī along at no cost, and she joined us in the car. It was her first time travelling by car—she was clearly nervous and probably nauseous, as she kept salivating profusely.
It took us nearly five hours to reach a quiet village called Yara, where we spent the night. Yara serves as the gateway to Damodara Kund, the sacred source of the Kali Gandaki River. We decided not to venture there this time because it would have required an additional four days and could only be undertaken on horseback due to the rugged and steep terrain. Moreover, we would have needed to bring tents, cooks, and provisions since there are no lodgings along the way. The guides told me that more śālagrāmas could still be found there, as the place remains remote and rarely visited.
Even in Yara, however, we encountered a remarkable śālagrāma at a pilgrim’s rest house—an enormous Kūrmāvatāra (tortoise) weighing several tonnes. The caretaker performs a simple abhiṣeka every day with a water hose over the sacred stone and conducts minimal pūjās.
The following morning, we prepared to continue our journey. As before, I tried to lift Bhairavī into the car, but this time she refused. She must have had an unpleasant experience the day before. I tried coaxing her with treats, but she stood her ground. The guides eventually told me we would have to leave her behind.
Tears welled up in my eyes unexpectedly—I felt a deep, inexplicable bond with her. Sagar took a white shawl and gently tied it around her neck as a gesture of blessing. I pleaded with the hotel owner to care for her, as winter would soon arrive in a few months and Yara is hundreds of kilometers from Kagbeni, where she had first found us. Reluctantly, we had to part ways, though I promised to send food for her. I even considered adopting her or finding her a home, but we were far from modern civilization and on a tight schedule to reach Muktinath by evening, just in time for the auspicious day of Guru Pūrṇimā the following day.
Muktinath
Perched high in the Himalayas at 3,750 meters above sea level, Muktinath stands as one of the holiest shrines in Hinduism. Counted among the 108 Divya Deśams revered in the Śrīvaiṣṇava tradition of South India, it is also the only one located outside India. The temple’s sanctity has been sung by Tamil saints such as Periyāḻvār and Tirumaṅgai Āḻvār, whose verses continue to inspire generations of South Indian devotees to undertake the difficult journey to the remote valleys of Mustang in Nepal.
Everywhere, the sectarian markings of the Teṅkalai sect, formalized by Rāmānuja of the Śrīvaiṣṇava saṃpradāya in South India, are seen on deities, śālagrāmas, walls and even on the foreheads of the priests, suggesting that the tradition has had a pronounced influence at Muktinath. With its inclusion among the Divya Deśams, Muktinath was already well known as far south as Tamil Nadu by at least the 11th century CE. However, Tibetan Buddhists believe it to be older still, as Padmasambhava, who lived in the 8th century CE, is said to have meditated here.
When I arrived at the temple early in the morning, the mountain air was fresh and crisp. The first rays of sunlight gilded the snow peaks, and the faint aroma of incense drifted through the thin air. In the sanctum, a two-armed, seated bronze image of Viṣṇu holding śaṅkha and cakra is flanked by Lakṣmī and Sarasvatī—an unusual triad, for elsewhere Bhūdevī typically takes Sarasvatī’s place. Here, however, the local tradition venerates Sarasvatī, too, as a consort of Viṣṇu, symbolizing the union of wisdom, compassion, and prosperity.
To my surprise, the officiant at the temple was not a Hindu priest, but a Tibetan Buddhist nun. Seated near the sanctum door, she received archanā baskets from pilgrims and blessed each devotee with a touch of kuṅkuma on the forehead. It was a simple yet intriguing moment—Hindu pilgrims receiving blessings from a Buddhist nun at a Vaiṣṇava shrine. In that instant, Muktinath felt like a place where Hinduism and Buddhism coexist harmoniously, each complementing the other.
For the Buddhists of Tibet, Muktinath is known as Chumig Gyatsa, or “the Hundred Springs.” According to Tibetan tradition, it is the abode of twenty-one forms of Tārā (female Bodhisattvas) as well as Ḍākinīs, or female deities embodying various energies and elements in Vajrayāna Buddhist cosmology. Thus, the bronze Viṣṇu in the sanctum is seen by Buddhists as Avalokiteśvara, the Bodhisattva of Compassion, while Lakṣmī and Sarasvatī are understood as Bodhisattvas of wealth and wisdom. In the sanctum, I also noticed smaller bronze figures of two male deities. The nun explained that they were images of Chepame (Aparamitā) and Dorje Semba (Vajrasattva), or cosmic Buddhas representing boundless merit and purity.
The Śāktas, too, lay claim to Muktinath. According to their tradition, it is one of the fifty-one Śakti Pīṭhas—sacred sites where parts of Satī’s body are said to have fallen. Her right cheek is believed to have fallen here following Dakṣa’s sacrifice. The Śakti Pīṭha shrine stands in a modest nearby temple, seldom visited, with its central image a simple Śivaliṅga.
At Muktinath, it is customary to bathe beneath the 108 brass spouts shaped like bulls’ heads, whose waters are believed to cleanse one’s sins and guide one along the path to mokṣa. Each spout pours freezing glacial water, said to represent the sacred streams of all tīrthas. Once the sun had risen high enough, I decided the water had warmed sufficiently to take the bath. The air bit into my skin as I stepped beneath the jets. Most pilgrims rushed through the icy torrent, gasping, then dipped in the twin pools symbolizing Lakṣmī and Sarasvatī. I chose to move more slowly, steadying myself on the slippery stones, letting the cold bite deep until numbness turned into clarity. When I emerged, my body trembled, yet I felt a strange elation—a vitality that only a sacred bath can bestow.
By the time I re-entered the temple, the Vaiṣṇava priest had arrived for the morning pūjā. At Muktinath, the daily rituals are performed by a Hindu priest, while Buddhist nuns tend to the temple during the non-pūjā hours. The priest performed the ārati and offered food to the deity, his Sanskrit chants interwoven with the low hum of Tibetan prayers outside. Here, sectarian boundaries seemed to dissolve. Theologies that elsewhere might clash found mutual resonance. Hinduism and Buddhism, bhakti and tantra, coalesced into a single existence.
Later that morning, I sponsored a homa to mark the auspicious day of Guru Pūrṇimā. Lakṣman Regmi, a young priest who performs daily homa for pilgrims, explained the significance of Muktinātha-kṣetra, the benefits derived from worship here and the sacredness of the śālagrāma stones. Lakṣman reminded me, as many have before, that these sacred stones should never be bought or sold. Traditionally, a śālagrāma is meant to be received from a guru, worshipped daily and passed from one generation to the next. To neglect such a stone, it is said, is to incur great sin.
In the afternoon, I spoke with the sādhus who stay around the temple. Some had walked for months from Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh, drawn by the same quiet pull of devotion. One of them, Kumar Baba from Tirunelveli, led us downstream to search for śālagrāmas. By then, my own bags were already heavy with stones gathered along the way, and I was beginning to tire of them. Yet, upon returning to town, I stumbled upon what must be one of the largest śālagrāmas in existence—surely a contender for a Guinness World Record: a colossal Kūrmāvatāra, embedded in the floor of my hotel, likely unearthed during its construction. It was more than five times the size of the one I had seen earlier in Yara. The sight made it clear that this land had once been abundant with śālagrāmas, with the temple of Muktinath standing at their sacred heart for centuries.
It is intriguing to ponder that the śālagrāmas date back over a hundred million years, to a time when the entire region of Mustang and Muktinath lay beneath the ancient Tethys Sea. What is now a dry, windswept valley was once the ocean floor, later pushed upward through the slow movement of the Himalayas.
Seen from this perspective, the Purāṇic narrative that Vaikuṇṭha, Viṣṇu’s abode, lies beneath the cosmic ocean takes on an unexpected resonance. The fossils found in the riverbeds of Mustang are, quite literally, remnants of the sea. The convergence of geology and myth here is remarkable—not because one confirms the other, but because both express, in different ways, the depth of time and the sense of the sacred embedded in this landscape. In this sense, Muktinath itself is Vaikuṇṭha on earth.
The next day, we began our return to Pokhara, with a stop at the Śālagrāma museum run by a local Vaiṣṇava pāṭhaśālā. As we arrived, a few students were struggling to roll a huge śālagrāma into the museum’s display—it had just been donated by a villager who found it while digging in his field. The museum, located in the vicinity of a Viṣṇu temple built in a distinctive South Indian style complete with a dvajastambha and vimāna, has a fantastical, theme-park-like entrance shaped like a tiger’s mouth, through which visitors walk into a cave. Inside, there must be over 100,000 śālagrāmas of different shapes and forms.
The priests told me that they receive most śālagrāmas from villagers or from those unable to care for them through daily pūjā. The museum’s mission is to promote correct worship, protect the sacred stones, and educate people about their significance.
After visiting the museum, we made our way back to Pokhara. As we descended from the cold, wind-swept passes, I kept thinking of Bhairavī, who had accompanied me throughout the pilgrimage, alert and watchful. The next day, we returned safely to Kathmandu, exhausted but revitalized by the spiritual journey of a lifetime.
Months later, I still thought of Bhairavī. I asked my guide to contact the guesthouse owner; she was still there, sometimes disappearing with passing trekkers, only to return a few days later. Before winter set in, I arranged for my friends Shankar and Sagar to bring her food supplies, knowing the region would soon be inaccessible due to snow.
In the land of Bhairava, beneath the gaze of the mountains, Bhairavī had been a steady companion on this journey, guiding me through the temples, streams and valleys of Mustang. This experience left a lasting impression—a reminder that it is devotion, tradition, and perhaps the simple presence of a cherished living being that ultimately may matter most in life.
