Nain Singh Paces Out Tibet
Nain Singh Paces Out Tibet — a biography. 10 illustrated pages, narrated, on the kids shelf, free to read on Wonder People.
Page 1
The crisp mountain air of the Kumaon Hills bit with a promise of colder climbs ahead, but Nain Singh Rawat remained focused, his skilled fingers moving with deliberate precision. He sat cross-legged on a thick woolen blanket, meticulously preparing for the journey. His 'prayer wheel,' a stout wooden cylinder taller than a child's forearm, lay open, revealing its cleverly hollowed core. From within his deep pilgrim's robe, he carefully retrieved a long, coiled measuring rosary, its hundreds of beads strung tightly, and a small, brass compass that gleamed in the morning light. He gently nestled the compass into the bottom of the hollowed wheel, then began to wind the rosary around it, ensuring it fit snugly and silently. Kundan, kneeling close, watched with wide, intent eyes, his small frame leaning forward, utterly captivated by the clandestine preparations. "How many paces is that rosary, Nain Singh?" he whispered, his voice barely a breath. Meanwhile, Doma, ever practical, was on her feet, wrestling with a large, lumpy travel sack that reached her waist. She pulled a worn leather strap taut, her small hands tugging firmly, trying to secure the bulky contents. "Hold this end, Kundan, it keeps slipping! We can't lose our dried apricots!" she called out, her braids swaying as she strained, her brows furrowed in concentration. Nain Singh glanced up, a soft smile touching his lips. "Soon enough, little one, you'll both know exactly how many paces it takes to reach our destination."
Page 2
The air in the forested foothills of Nepal hung thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. A rushing river, its waters a churning silver-grey, roared through the valley below. Spanning its breadth was a truly rickety log bridge, little more than a single, slippery trunk. A tall man, disguised as a pilgrim, took the first cautious step, his heavy pack shifting precariously on his shoulders. He clutched his intricately carved wooden prayer wheel tightly in one hand, using the other to steady himself against an imagined current. Behind him, a lively boy, no older than nine, hesitated at the edge, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and excitement. His own pack, though smaller, seemed to weigh him down considerably. A quick-witted girl, barely seven, saw his apprehension. "Just watch your feet, Kundan!" she called out, her voice barely audible over the river's roar. The boy, Kundan, took a deep breath, his small worn leather boots scraping lightly on the rough wood. He wobbled almost immediately, his balance betraying him. The girl, Doma, swiftly reached out, grabbing the back of his patched mustard-yellow tunic. She braced herself, planting her feet firmly on the log, her small hand a surprisingly strong anchor against his sway. The pilgrim, Nain Singh, glanced back, offering a reassuring nod before focusing again on the treacherous path ahead, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, each step measured and deliberate. The bridge groaned under their combined weight, its ancient wood protesting with every movement. They were crossing a formidable obstacle, inch by arduous inch, the roar of the river a constant, powerful reminder of the danger below. "Keep going," Nain Singh encouraged softly, his voice calm amidst the chaos. "Almost there."
Page 3
The bustling market in Thak Khola Valley hummed with the lively chatter of merchants and the earthy aroma of spices. A tall, lean man, cloaked in a dark red pilgrim's robe, was deep in negotiations with a stern-faced merchant over a pile of dried yak cheese. His wide-brimmed hat shaded his calm, wise expression as he gestured politely, trying to secure a fair price for their meager supplies. Beside him, a small, bouncy boy, his mustard-yellow tunic bright against the drab market stalls, bounced impatiently. His bright, curious eyes scanned the array of goods, particularly drawn to a precarious pyramid of intricately woven baskets stacked hip-high near their feet. With a sudden surge of energetic curiosity, the boy reached out to point at a particularly colorful basket on the top. His hand, however, misjudged the distance, and instead of pointing, he accidentally *slammed* into the side of the stack.
The baskets, made of tightly wound reeds, immediately began to wobble and then *tumbled* down with a soft, rustling sound, scattering across the dusty ground. The merchant's stern face hardened further, his mouth tightening into a thin line. Before the tall man could fully react, a quick-witted girl, wearing a sturdy blue jacket and with long, dark braids, *sprang* into action. Her nimble fingers *grabbed* the fallen baskets, expertly *scooping* them up two at a time and *re-stacking* them with surprising speed and precision. She worked silently but efficiently, her bright eyes focused on the task. The tall man, observing the merchant's growing irritation, quickly stepped forward, *bowing* slightly and *muttering* apologies in a low, soothing voice. While he continued to *pacify* the merchant with earnest words and a reassuring gesture, his right hand subtly *slipped* inside the folds of his robe, *clutching* his hollowed prayer wheel. His thumb *traced* the familiar carvings, a silent, discreet check, ensuring his hidden instruments remained secure and undisturbed amidst the sudden flurry of activity. The boy, mortified, *ducked* his head, *muttering* apologies of his own as he helped the girl gather the last few stray baskets.
Page 4
A sudden, ferocious gust of wind ripped through the high mountain pass, a chilling breath from the vast, open expanses of Upper Mustang. Nain Singh Rawat, his sturdy pilgrim robe flapping violently, instinctively threw out a hand to brace himself against a jagged rockface that rose taller than two adults. His wide-brimmed hat, secured only by a loose chin strap, was snatched upwards from his head by the powerful updraft, threatening to carry it away into the swirling, dusty air.
Doma, ever watchful and quick, immediately reacted. Her small frame, usually so nimble, leaned hard into the wind as she lunged forward, her arm reaching high above her head. With surprising speed and grace, her fingers *grabbed* the brim of the hat just as it was about to be lost, pulling it down firmly. She *clutched* it to her chest, her eyes darting to the inner lining to ensure the tiny, folded notes remained securely tucked within their hidden seam.
“Woah! That was close, Nain Singh!” Kundan exclaimed, his own yellow tunic whipping around him. He had stumbled slightly when the wind hit, but quickly *regained* his balance, his focus now shifting away from the immediate drama. He *pointed* an excited finger with his drawing stick towards a distant, faint track winding its way along the base of a towering, craggy peak. “Look! Is that the trail we need? It looks like a ribbon on a giant’s coat!”
Nain Singh Rawat, now steady, reached out and gently *took* his hat from Doma, offering her a grateful, warm smile. He quickly *secured* it properly under his chin, then *squinted* into the distance, following Kundan's enthusiastic gesture. The wind continued to buffet them, but the immediate crisis had passed, and the next leg of their journey lay before them.
Page 5
The treacherous Salt Route Pass, dusted with fresh snow and riddled with hidden ice, demanded every ounce of concentration. One moment, the tall man in the pilgrim robe was carefully placing his foot, his wide hat shadowing a brow furrowed in focus. The next, a sudden, slick patch of black ice betrayed him. His boot skittered wildly, and he let out a sharp gasp, arms flailing for balance. He stumbled heavily, his body twisting to avoid a full fall, but the precious, intricately carved wooden prayer wheel slipped from his grasp. It clattered once against a stone, then tumbled with alarming speed down a small, rocky incline, perhaps a man's height in steepness.
"The wheel!" Kundan shrieked, his voice sharp with alarm. Without a second thought, the small boy in the yellow tunic launched himself forward, his small boots kicking up snow as he scrambled down the icy slope. His hands grabbed for purchase on the loose stones and frozen tufts of grass, his breath puffing out in white clouds. "I'll get it, Nain Singh!" he yelled as he rushed.
Meanwhile, the nimble girl in the blue jacket, Doma, didn't hesitate. Her head snapped up, and her sharp eyes began scanning the distant, wind-swept horizon. "Yak herders!" Doma called out, her voice low and urgent, "Approaching from the east!" Her braid swung as she turned her head, keeping vigilant watch. The tall man, now regaining his footing with a grunt, watched Kundan's rapid descent, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and admiration. He knew the prayer wheel held more than just prayers; it held their very journey. Kundan reached the rolling wheel just as it was about to tumble over a larger rock, his small fingers closing around its smooth wood with a triumphant cry.
Page 6
The biting wind of the Changtang Plateau whipped around Nain Singh's wide-brimmed hat as he knelt low, his tall frame almost blending with the ochre earth. His fingers, agile and accustomed to precision, were deftly adjusting a small brass compass, its needle trembling as he took a clandestine reading. He held it steady against a flat rock, his gaze fixed on a distant peak, meticulously noting its bearing. Just as he finished, a glint on the horizon caught his eye – a cluster of dust rising, then the unmistakable shapes of mounted riders, quickly approaching across the vast, treeless expanse. His heart gave a quick jolt, but his movements remained calm and efficient.
"Look, Kundan, I found another one!" Doma's voice, bright and clear, cut through the silence. She was crouched a few yards away, her nimble fingers gathering a handful of smooth, thumb-sized pebbles. Kundan, sprawled on the ground, his yellow tunic almost camouflaged against the dry grass, arranged a small circle of stones with intense focus.
Nain Singh wasted no time. With a swift, practiced motion, he grabbed the compass and other tiny measuring tools, swiftly stuffing them back into the hollowed interior of his wooden prayer wheel. The lid slid shut with a soft click, and he clutched the sacred object tightly, his knuckles white against the dark wood. He then pulled his pilgrim's robe tighter, rising slowly, casually, as if merely stretching tired limbs after a long journey.
"Mine's bigger!" Kundan declared, bumping Doma's shoulder playfully with his own. "See? I've got the biggest one in the whole game!"
Doma giggled, nudging his carefully constructed pebble fort. "Oh, no you don't! Mine's not just big, it's strong! It can't be knocked down!"
Their playful squabble, loud enough to carry on the wind, was a deliberate diversion. Nain Singh watched them, a flicker of appreciation in his eyes, as the approaching riders drew closer, their silhouettes growing against the pale sky. The children continued their game, oblivious to the subtle tension that had just momentarily gripped their elder. They were a perfect shield, their innocent play drawing all attention away from the secret work he had just completed.
Page 7
The vast, echoing hall of the Rongbuk monastery hummed with the low chant of monks and the rustle of robes. Tall, ancient pillars, easily twice the height of any adult, rose from the cold stone floor, their intricate carvings softened by centuries of incense smoke. Nain Singh, his dark red pilgrim robe blending into the shadows, stood near a magnificent, stationary prayer wheel. He was subtly adjusting a small, hidden latch on his own hand-held prayer wheel, making sure the precious contents—his measuring rosary and compass—remained secure. Kundan shifted his weight slightly, quietly observing the scene, his drawing stick tucked securely into his belt, ready for any idle moment.
Suddenly, a small, curious figure darted from behind a towering pillar. It was a young monk, no older than Doma, his eyes sparkling with innocent mischief. He reached out, his tiny fingers gripping Nain Singh's prayer wheel, and twisted it playfully, pushing it with surprising force. Nain Singh, startled but quick, gently pulled back his prayer wheel, his hand covering the top to prevent accidental opening. He offered the monk a polite but firm smile. "Ah, young one, this one carries very old prayers. It needs a special touch, meant only for its master."
Before the monk could try again, Doma, who had been quietly watching from a few paces away, quickly fumbled in her small woven pouch. Her nimble fingers scrambled for a moment, then pulled out a small, shiny, river-smoothed stone. She instantly stepped forward and held out the gleaming pebble towards the curious monk. "Look, brother! See how the light dances on its surface! I found it by the river." The young monk, momentarily distracted by the new glinting treasure, released Nain Singh's prayer wheel and reached out eagerly, his small hand grabbing the stone from Doma's palm. Nain Singh quietly secured his prayer wheel once more, giving Doma a subtle, appreciative nod.
Page 8
Nain Singh Rawat paced with deliberate, measured steps along the muddy bank of the Kyichu River, his wide-brimmed hat casting a moving shadow over his calm face. Each stride was uniform, a silent tally in his mind. Beneath the folds of his pilgrim robe, his right hand subtly grasped a string of prayer beads, not for devotion, but for precise measurement. He smoothly shifted a bead with every set number of paces, his eyes occasionally flicking towards the distant, majestic city walls of Lhasa, which shimmered faintly in the morning light. After completing a significant stretch, he halted by a cluster of smooth river stones. With practiced ease, his left hand slipped into the deep, hidden pocket sewn into his sleeve, extracting a small, leather-bound notebook, barely wider than his palm. He quickly unsheathed a tiny, blunt pencil and swiftly marked a small 'X' on a fresh page, then returned the notebook and pencil to their secret alcove. His movements were swift, efficient, and almost invisible.
A little further along the bank, Kundan sat cross-legged on a worn blanket, his mustard-yellow tunic bright against the muted earth. He was deeply engrossed, sketching the same distant city walls that Nain Singh observed. His small, nimble fingers gripped a chunk of charcoal, dragging it across a roll of parchment paper spread on his lap. "This wall curves just so," he mumbled to himself, squinting. Doma, ever attentive, knelt beside him, her long braids swaying gently. She picked up a rough, flat stone and carefully took Kundan's charcoal stick, rubbing its tip against the stone with steady, circular motions. The abrasive surface quickly shaved away the dull edge, revealing a sharp, fine point. "Here, Kundan," she offered, handing him back the freshly sharpened charcoal. "A sharp point for sharper walls." Kundan grinned, taking it back and immediately resuming his drawing, his lines now more confident. "Thanks, Doma! Just what I needed to capture that watchtower." Nain Singh, watching them from a short distance, allowed a faint, approving smile to touch his lips before resuming his methodical pacing, his gaze once more fixed on the distant horizon, his mission steadily advancing.
Page 9
The air in Jokhang Temple Square hummed with the murmur of prayers and the shuffling of hundreds of pilgrims. A tall, lean man, disguised as a pilgrim, moved with an almost imperceptible rhythm amongst the throngs. His wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow over his face, hiding the intensity of his gaze. With each careful stride, his left hand subtly slipped beneath his dark red robe, his fingers delicately adjusting the tiny knots on his hidden rosary. This was it – the culmination of months of perilous travel, the final, crucial paces. He didn't just walk; he measured the very fabric of the city beneath his worn leather boots. A quiet determination set his jaw as he shifted his weight, planting each footfall with the precision of a surveyor. His right hand, seemingly relaxed, clutched the intricately carved wooden prayer wheel, its hollow interior now a repository of vital data. He glanced quickly, his sharp eyes sweeping over the grand facade of the temple, committing its scale to memory before resuming his silent count. Meanwhile, a small, bouncy boy, his mustard-yellow tunic a splash of color, was a whirlwind of energy. He leapt slightly on the balls of his feet, his small wooden drawing stick thrust upwards. "Look, Nain Singh!" he exclaimed, his voice barely a whisper against the square's din. "The carvings on that pillar are amazing! They look like dragons climbing right to the sky!" A small, nimble girl, her long braids swaying as she turned, quickly grabbed the boy's arm, pulling his attention slightly. "And the golden roof!" she whispered back, her finger tracing an invisible line against the vast structure. "It shines so bright, like a piece of the sun has dropped onto the temple!" The tall pilgrim offered a rare, soft smile, his eyes twinkling. "Just a few more steps, my little friends," he murmured, his focus unwavering, his mission nearly complete. He continued his meticulous count, the rhythm of his steps a silent, powerful song in the heart of Tibet.
Page 10
The biting wind whipped around the high mountain pass, a final, exhilarating embrace after months of relentless travel. Nain Singh Rawat stood at the precipice, his tall frame silhouetted against the vast expanse of the Himalayas receding into the haze. He slowly lifted his now-empty prayer wheel, its intricate carvings worn smooth by countless revolutions, but now silent, its true purpose fulfilled. His eyes, usually sharp with observation, softened as he gazed back, a profound satisfaction settling upon his lean face. Every painstaking step, every hidden calculation, every risk taken, had led to this panoramic vista, to the knowledge of what lay beyond.
Beside him, Kundan, ever restless, suddenly bounced on the balls of his feet. He quickly grabbed Doma's arm, pulling her attention skyward. “Look, Doma! Up there!” he exclaimed, his arm shooting upwards, finger stabbing at a distant, soaring eagle. Doma, nimble and quick, leaned in, her small hand grabbing his sleeve for balance as her own arm extended to follow his pointing finger. Her eyes widened with awe. “Oh! It’s so high! Is it a sign, Nain Singh?” she asked, turning her head slightly towards him.
Nain Singh smiled, a rare, gentle curve of his lips. “Perhaps, little ones. A sign of how far we have climbed, and how far we can still reach,” he responded, his voice carrying a quiet reverence. Kundan’s smile was wide and quick. “We truly crossed the mountains, didn’t we? All the way to the big river!” he announced, filled with a sense of triumph. Nain Singh nodded, his gaze sweeping over the vast valleys below. “Indeed. Every step counted. Every single one.” Doma, still pointing at the distant bird, added, “And now we see the world, from so high up! It's amazing!” A shared sense of quiet accomplishment settled over the trio, a silent testament to their incredible journey.
About this story
- Audience: kids (ages 6–12)
- Format: 10 illustrated pages, narrated, on the kids shelf, free to read on Wonder People
Read Wonder People on your phone
Wonder People is available on Android. Get Wonder People on Google Play.