Just after a fierce shower, clouds sieved in orange warm sunlight making it perfect weather to explore this quaint little town. I asked her if she wants to see monasteries around?

I met Belen in Dharamshala, Himachal Pradesh. A girl in her thirties, solo-travelling India, from Argentina. She had a funny accent as if singing a Spanish song. The highs and lows of pitch and the crescendo of tone, from the depth of her heart, felt like a melody to my ears.  She would talk about most mundane things about life and if felt like watching a telenovela. It was a coincidence that we were in the same hostel in Dharamshala but a bigger co-incidence was we shared the same cab to Bir after. There was an uncanny similarity between us I can’t keep a finger on. We connected on the instant when the hostel manager introduced Belen as our third co-passenger for the shared ride. Music and conversations flowed through our entire two-hour journey. We decided to stay at the same hostel again in Bir.

“Good Idea Meg! I too have a café on my list. Let’s go out”, Belen chuckled. So we ditched our third friend and my co-traveller, Karthik.  He was too lazy to step out after a sumptuous Indian meal.

Dainty little cafes and monasteries and paragliding summed up this whole town. The tranquillity of the valley in the off-season with few gliders looking like birds in the magnificent blue sky

Strolling around the lanes, we made our way to a magnificent Monastery at the heart of the Bir Colony. The huge nineteenth-century castle-like structure stood in front of us. Fluttering colourful prayer flags, giant prayer inscribed stones at the entrance and colossal stairway lead to the entrance. Passing visitors and few young monks we made our way inside. Monks, young and old, gathered around the open area outside the praying premises. Strange as it sounds, they were cleaning their swords and medieval war costumes. Perplexed, I looked at Belen. An old monk, standing next to us explained, “ Oh. This. There is a festival tomorrow and they are preparing for a sword dance”

“Ah, Meg. We are leaving tomorrow. Sad.” Belen frowned. “We won’t be able to see it.”

We sat on the porch, outside the residential complex absorbing the beauty of the place, one last time. I looked around. Kids were playing, Monks chatting with each other, women giggling, engaged in conversations, a pup struggling to catch a ball. Aren’t we all same? Lost in our own world?

Suddenly, there was a loud thump, the sound of a gong. All monks formed a circle outside. The clank of swords, moving gracefully in a circle, balancing each pose, they started practising for their big performance tomorrow. What a delightful surprise. Has someone heard we are leaving the next day?  The universe acts in surprisingly strange ways sometimes.

We were strikingly calm. The magnificent performance left a mark on us. Rhythmic clanking and coordinated movements were like a meditation. Belen googled the way out to head to Nyima café on her list. While we were waiting for our coffee Belen asked: “Meg, Can I ask you something?”. “Oh Sure”, I said.

“In India can you marry someone you love? I mean, what you say in English…. like only meet the girl or boy through parents? I read this about India”

“Arranged marriage, you mean?” I chuckled. “Yes. We sure can marry anyone we love. It just that we should have the audacity and courage to preserve the one we love, for some, to convince parents and maybe both for some of us.

Her eyes lightened. Oh, Meg, you explained it differently but in a way, it works similarly for us.

“Aren’t we all the same?”  She gleamed.