Join our writer’s remarkable journey up the Kali Gandaki River, source of the Shalagrama fossil stones sacred to Lord Vishnu, and onward to the famed Muktinath Temple revered by both Hindus and Buddhists. The river valley’s history stretches back thousands of years, once connecting India to the Silk Road across Asia and later being a center of Buddhism.
By Hurditya Deva, Nepal
All Photos: Hurditya Deva
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 sacred to Hindus.
Flowing through the heart of Mustang is the Kali Gandaki River, revered not only for its life-giving waters, which eventually merge with the Ganges, but also as the source of the Shalagramas. These fossilized ammonites, at least 65 million years old, are venerated as manifestations of Vishnu for their resemblance to His divine discus, the Sudarshana Chakra.
The most sacred place along the river is near Kagbeni, where the Kali Gandaki and Johong Khola rivers converge. Here, generations of Hindus have performed sraddha for their ancestors, convinced that such offerings bring their forebears release and peace in the higher worlds.
Near Kagbeni is the Hindu and Buddhist pilgrimage site of Muktinath, revered in the Muktinatha Mahatmya of the Varaha Purana. The text proclaims that whoever undertakes the arduous journey to this high Himalayan shrine (elevation: 12,000 feet) and bathes in its 108 sacred waterspouts will cast off the bonds of samsara—the endless cycle of rebirth—and attain liberation.
My own journey here, from June 30 to July 14, 2025, was first and foremost a pilgrimage, with research coming only secondarily. 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 Shalagramas brought 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, where scriptures find material form. It was with this sense of devotion, curiosity and scholarly interest that I embarked on my own journey. 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 to 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 (#2 on the map on the right). 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 (#4), our first night halt along the Kali Gandaki. The river below the highway 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 for lunch at Tatopani, 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 Shalagramas. My 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 Shalagramas, requires a special permit of $500 per person, which is applicable, even for 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. The vegetation changed with it, the 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 (#3) 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—another reason we drove there.
By late afternoon, we arrived in Kagbeni, a sleepy village during the low season. Not a single foreign trekker was in sight. Shankar took me to the sangam, the muddy confluence where the Gandaki and Johong Khola streams meet a third. As at Prayagraj, it is believed the third river is invisible. It is here that sraddha 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 Pitru Paksa in September–October; otherwise, the place remains quiet, and in the harsh winters, almost deserted.
In the evening, I stayed at a hotel owned by a Tibetan man, Chandan. He showed me his private collection of enormous Shalagramas, some unlike anything I had ever seen—not in person, in books or even on the Internet. His collection runs into the thousands, with some stones weighing several tons. 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, Shalagramas are as much a livelihood as they are sacred symbols.
As a researcher, I found myself reflecting on this dual life of the Shalagrama. For Hindu pilgrims, these black ammonite fossils from the Kali Gandaki are revered as direct manifestations of Vishnu; 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, exchange and worship 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 to Lo Manthang
From Kagbeni, we embarked on a strenuous three-day trek on foot 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 Bhairavi, after the fierce sixth Mahavidya 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. Many appeared quite ancient.
The villages we encountered were nearly empty, inhabited only by a few elderly Tibetans. Seeking better opportunities, the youth had moved to Kathmandu and even overseas. 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. Bhairavi, seemingly impervious, darted down steep slopes and back, leading us through the rocky terrain with agility and confidence.
That evening, we camped near Chhusang village (#5), 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 Vajrayana Buddhism to Tibet in the 8th century.
From there, we continued down to the Kali Gandaki riverbed, where we set aside the day for the task of searching for Shalagramas. 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 Puranic texts, Shalagramas are living embodiments of Lord Vishnu, each stone carrying its own unique power. Beyond the familiar forms such as Chakrapurna (Sudarshana Chakra), Padma, Kaustubha and Hiranyagarbha, some are linked to specific avataras, from Kurma (the Tortoise) to Rama, Buddha, Narasimha and more. Locals speak of their “values” with reverent certainty: Kurma brings wealth and stability, Narasimha protects, Padma and Hiranyagarbha bring fertility, and the Chakrapurna, Vishnu’s very discus, wards off malevolent forces.
As the sun rose higher, glinting off the ochre cliffs, a perfect Chakrapurna Shalagrama caught my eye. Smooth, dark, its spiral unbroken, it felt weighty yet alive in my palm. This was the first complete Shalagrama 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 chakra inside, which I discouraged, because broken Shalagramas 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 Shalagramas at the riverbed, we finally reached Lo Manthang (#8) 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
The town felt quieter than I expected. It sits in a wide valley, 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 1500s ce. The paintings are impressive and vivid with figures of Buddhas, protector Deities and mandalas.
Mahakala is central here, especially in the Sakya tradition followed by many of the monasteries in Mustang. This 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, Mahakala and Bhairava are arguably the same protector Deity in both religious traditions, and both are widely worshiped 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. The three-day Tiji festival in May reenacts the stories of Padmasambhava and Dorje Jono (a local name for Mahakala) 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.
Bhairavi 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.
Lo Manthang to 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 Shalagramas the previous day. We brought Bhairavi along at no cost, and she joined us in the car. It seemed to be her first time traveling by car—she was clearly nervous and probably nauseous, as she kept salivating profusely.
It took us five hours to reach a quiet village called Yara (#9), 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 steep terrain. Moreover, we would have needed to bring tents, cooks and provisions, since there are no lodgings along the way. The guides said more Shalagramas could still be found there, as the place remains remote and rarely visited.
Even in Yara, however, we encountered a remarkable Shalagrama at a pilgrim’s rest house—an enormous Kurma avatara (tortoise) weighing several tons. The caretaker performs a simple abhiseka every day with a water hose over the sacred stone and conducts minimal pujas.
The following morning, we prepared to continue our journey. As before, I tried to lift Bhairavi 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 arrive in a few months and Yara is many miles from Kagbeni, where she first found us. Our return trip would take us again to Kagbeni where we would have let her go; but reluctantly, we had to part ways. 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 (#11) by evening, just in time for the auspicious day of Guru Purnima the following day.
Muktinath
Perched high in the Himalayas at 12,300 feet above sea level, Muktinath stands as one of the holiest shrines in Hinduism. Counted among the 108 Divya Desams revered in the Srivaishnava 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 Periyalvar and Tirumangai Alvar, 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 Tenkalai sect, formalized by Ramanuja of the Srivaishnava Sampradaya in South India, are seen on Deities, Shalagramas, 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 Desams, 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 Vishnu holding sankha and chakra is flanked by Lakshmi and Sarasvati—an unusual triad, for elsewhere Bhudevi typically takes Sarasvati’s place. Here, however, the local tradition venerates Sarasvati too, as a consort of Vishnu, 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 archana baskets from pilgrims and blessed each devotee with a touch of kunkuma on the forehead. It was a simple yet intriguing moment—Hindu pilgrims receiving blessings from a Buddhist nun at a Vaishnava 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 Tara (female Bodhisattvas) as well as Dakinis, or female Deities embodying various energies and elements in Vajrayana Buddhist cosmology. Thus, the bronze Vishnu in the sanctum is seen by Buddhists as Avalokitesvara, the Bodhisattva of Compassion, while Lakshmi and Sarasvati are understood as Bodhisattvas of wealth and wisdom. In the sanctum, I also noticed smaller bronze figures of two male Deities. The nuns explained that they were images of Chepame (Aparamita) and Dorje Semba (Vajrasattva), or cosmic Buddhas representing boundless merit and purity.
The Shaktas, too, lay claim to Muktinath. According to their tradition, it is one of the fifty-one Sakti Pithas—sacred sites where parts of Sati’s body are said to have fallen. Her right cheek is believed to have fallen here following Daksa’s sacrifice. The Sakti Pitha shrine stands in a modest nearby temple, seldom visited, with its central image a simple Sivalinga.
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 moksha. Each spout pours freezing glacial water, said to represent the sacred streams of all tirthas. 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 Lakshmi and Sarasvati. 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 Vaishnava priest had arrived for the morning puja. At Muktinath, the daily rituals are performed by a Hindu priest, while Buddhist nuns tend to the temple during the non-puja hours. The priest performed the arati 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 Purnima. Laksman Regmi, a young priest who performs daily homa for pilgrims, explained the significance of Muktinath-ksetra, the benefits derived from worship here and the sacredness of the Shalagrama stones. Laksman reminded me, as many have before, that these sacred stones should never be bought or sold. Traditionally, a Shalagrama is meant to be received as a gift from a guru, worshiped 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 sadhus who dwell 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 Shalagramas. 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 Shalagramas in existence—surely a contender for a Guinness World Record: a colossal Kurmavatara Shalagrama 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 Shalagramas, with the temple of Muktinath standing at its sacred heart.
It is intriguing to consider that the Shalagramas 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 Puranic narrative that Vaikuntha, Vishnu’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 Vaikuntha on Earth.
The Shalagrama Museum
The next day, we began our return to Pokhara, stopping at the Shalagrama Museum run by a local Vaishnava pathasala. As we arrived, a few students were struggling to roll a huge Shalagrama 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 Vishnu temple built in a distinctive South Indian style complete with a dvajastambha (flagpole) and vimana (sanctum crown), 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 Shalagramas of different shapes and forms. They are at least 65 million years old.
The priests told me they receive most Shalagramas from villagers or from those unable to care for them through daily puja. The museum’s mission is to promote correct worship, protect the sacred stones and educate people about their significance.
Our Return
After visiting the museum, we made our way back to Pokhara. As we descended from the cold, windswept passes, I kept thinking of Bhairavi, 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 Bhairavi. 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, Bhairavi 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.
Ancient Sea Fossils
An ammonite is an extinct group of marine mollusks that lived throughout the world’s oceans from about 400 million to 66 million years ago, spanning the Paleozoic and Mesozoic eras. They perished along with the dinosaurs when an asteroid struck the Earth at the end of the Cretaceous period. At that time, what is now the Himalayas lay beneath the Tethys Sea, where ammonites flourished and deposited their shells in thick layers of sediment. When the Indian subcontinent later collided with the Asian landmass, the uplift transformed this ancient seabed into the world’s highest mountain range, now rich in marine fossils.
Ammonites were relatives of modern squids, octopuses and nautiluses. Their coiled, spiral shells were divided into internal chambers; the animal lived in the outermost one, while the inner chambers contained gas or liquid to regulate buoyancy. The wavy dividing lines between chambers—called sutures—form intricate patterns that help scientists distinguish among species.
Trekking the Kali Gandaki River is a trip through ancient to modern times
Visiting the great Muktinath Temple high in the mountains
