Echoes of the Mountain Bells: A Summer at Dechen Choekhor

The Dechen Choekhor Mahavihara Monastery in Kullu Valley. (Credit: Jennifer William)

I wake before sunrise. The bell echoes across the monastery grounds, low and steady, vibrating through the stone paths and into the mist curling around the prayer flags. The air smells of wet earth, wood smoke, and lingering incense from last night’s prayers. It smells of summer, but somehow, with the mountains so close, it doesn’t feel like mid-July.  

I breathe it all in, but my mind doesn’t settle. I am restless. I didn’t come here for retreat or reflection. I didn’t come for silence. My faith is different; my life is different. I came for the mountains, but with the Himalayas pressing in on all sides, the warmth feels distant, held at bay by altitude and stone.

The monastery's entrance bursts with colour. Colour erupts from every surface: thangka paintings thick with gold leaf and deep reds, blues, and greens.  

Figures of bodhisattvas and protectors crowd the walls, their eyes alert, their gestures frozen mid-blessing. Tibetan script runs along the borders, looping endlessly, a language I can’t read but somehow feel.

At the centre of the courtyard sits an enormous Buddha, seated and unmoving, his face calm, his presence heavy with time. The space around him feels dense, as if centuries have settled there. I have travelled far to stand here, planes, buses, winding mountain roads, to arrive at a place that feels indifferent to my arrival.

By 4:30 a.m., the monastery is already alive. Robes brush softly against stone floors, deep maroon and saffron catching the first thin light. Tenzing, an acolyte who joined the monastery at seven, sits quietly in the shade of a tree. I see him almost every morning, cross-legged, eyes lowered, hands folded, waiting with the rhythm of the courtyard.  

Later, around midday, he is still there, calm and steady. I watch him from a distance, noting how the sun moves across his face, how small movements, a blink, a shift of weight are almost the only indication that he is human at all, not part of the stones, the flags, or the bells. 

(Credit: Jennifer William)

Outside the monastery, the village is waking. Women walk up the path with baskets of flowers, rice, and seasonal fruits, offerings for the altars. A father carries his daughter on his shoulders, and she squeals as they reach the courtyard. Their sandals scuff against the dirt paths, their voices lively among the solemn chant of the monks.  

An elderly villager in a weathered coat drives his old sedan slowly down the narrow road, the car creaking and groaning, loaded with trays of fruit and other offerings for the day’s prayers. The presence of these villagers reminds me that this is not just a place for monks; it is alive with people, history, and practice, rooted in everyday gestures as much as devotion. 

I find a patch of grass under a large tree and sit, the shade warm against my skin. The air is thick with the faint scent of incense and the distant chill of the mountains. The bells echo again, irregular, fading in the wind. My legs ache, my mind jumps, but I slow my breathing, listening.  

Slowly, the courtyard reveals itself, the small curve of a prayer wheel spinning in the hands of a monk, the rustle of flags, a distant caw of a crow perched on a roof. The sounds layer together, chaotic yet ordered.

Silence is not emptiness. It is awareness, paying attention to what is happening now.

Days pass. Nearly a month settles into repetition.  

Monks sweep the same paths each morning. Sunlight slides across the thangka paintings, pulling different figures into focus, fierce protectors one hour, serene Buddhas the next.

I become aware of scale: the 31-foot Buddha Sakyamuni, the towering Guru Rinpoche, the Green Tara watching from her alcove. Patience seems built into the walls. The sacred and the ordinary blur. A monk carries a metal tray stacked with bowls of rice and butter lamps.  

Villagers pass quietly, sometimes pausing to light incense or bow before the statues. The acolytes, young and old, follow their routines with an exactness that I cannot replicate. Even Tenzing, whom I watch most days, seems like he has been shaped by this rhythm since childhood. One morning, I see him wash the steps, sun glinting off the broom, the water catching the light like tiny stars. 

One of the afternoons, I sit near the edge of the courtyard, the sun high, and see the villagers again. A father kneels with his daughter, hands pressed together, offering rice, incense and mangoes to the altar. They whisper to each other, laugh softly. Another woman spreads lotus and jasmine flowers across the stone altar, careful not to disturb the shadows of the statues. I watch, and my impatience fades. Time stretches. My body slows to match the rhythm of the day. 

On the last day, I finally exchanged words with Tenzing. I asked if I could take his picture.

He nods quietly, almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t move, doesn’t adjust his posture, his eyes focused downward. The bell rings again, sunlight flickering across the thangka paintings, and I realize that I have been learning from him not by words, but by patience, attention, and presence. 

As I leave the monastery, the mountains rise sharp and steady, glinting gold in the afternoon sun. The bells echo faintly, the prayer flags flutter, the smell of incense drifts lightly on the wind. I pause, noticing it all: the smell, the sound, the light. The experience is not dramatic, but it lingers. Slowing down, paying attention, noticing the life around me, it is difficult in ordinary life, but here, it is possible. 

The journey to Dechen Choekhor was not about retreat or enlightenment. It was about being awake to the world as it moves, the mountains, villagers, monks, the sound of bells, the sway of flags, and the patience of Tenzing.  

Back in Fredericton, weeks later, the wind moves through the trees outside my home. For a moment, it sounds like prayer flags. I pause. I breathe. Slowing down, noticing, and being present, these are not practices reserved for monasteries. They are difficult anywhere. But now I know they are possible.