Sangye Migyurling, Tiger’s Nest and The Sisyphus
Stories from the recent trip to Bhutan
After a long journey of 16+ hours, immigration and more, I finally reached the vibrant border town of Phuentsholing in Bhutan. Colourful prayer flags fluttered in the wind, and the aroma of momo shops filled the air, instantly lifting my spirits after the exhausting journey.
The next day, after a good night’s rest, we visited Sangye Migyur Ling Lhakhang. Here’s the story as it goes.
Sangye Migyur (Milarepa) was a Tibetan yogi and poet who, after a troubled youth involving black magic and harm to others, sought spiritual redemption. He became a disciple of Marpa the Translator, who tested him relentlessly—making him build and dismantle a stone tower repeatedly. These gruelling tasks were said to purify Milarepa’s karma and instil humility and perseverance. Eventually, Marpa initiated him, guiding Milarepa to transform into one of Tibet’s most revered spiritual figures.
Resting on the steps opposite the tower, I met Jo. We started talking about the seemingly cruel nature of Milarepa’s punishment—building and dismantling the tower again and again. “It sounds horrible,” she said, to which I replied, “But isn’t that what humans do all the time? Build something, watch it fall apart, and then start over?”
Jo didn’t seem entirely convinced by this take. To offer another perspective, I brought up the story of Sisyphus.
Sisyphus, a cunning king in Greek mythology, was infamous for his deceit and trickery. He cheated death twice—first by chaining Thanatos (Death) and later by escaping the underworld through a clever ruse. Angered by his defiance of the gods, Zeus condemned Sisyphus to an eternal punishment: he was forced to roll a massive boulder up a hill, only for it to roll back down every time it neared the top.
This endless, futile labor symbolises the absurdity of human struggle, inspiring existentialist reflections, most notably by Albert Camus, who argued in The Myth of Sisyphus that one must imagine Sisyphus finding meaning in his endless task.
Jo seemed to pick up on the existential undertone and, with a hint of curiosity, asked if I was planning to hike to Tiger’s Nest (Taktsang Monastery) on December 30th.
The hike itself isn’t considered technically difficult, but for me, it was bound to be a challenge. A week before the trip, I was diagnosed with a foot fracture. Adding to the complexity, the hike was scheduled to start at 6 a.m. in -5°C temperatures, with the possibility of taking up to 12 hours due to my injury. The risk of descending after sunset—on an unlit mountain path—meant starting early was my only option. Difficult, yes. But also, like Milarepa and Sisyphus, maybe it was just another boulder waiting to be rolled.
I told Jo that I was planning to do the hike, not because it was logical or necessary, but because humans must do hard things—just like Sisyphus and his boulder. 2024 had been a tough year for me. I had faced a major loss, and, honestly, I just needed a win. There wasn’t any deeper reason beyond that.
So the day finally came. I joined a group of hikers where I was still learning everyone’s names, but there was a quiet comfort in knowing I wasn’t alone. The early start in freezing cold wasn’t as punishing as I’d imagined, and to my surprise, the ascent turned out to be easier than expected. By 1 p.m., I had reached the top.
We paid our respects to Guru Padmasambhava at Taktsang Monastery.
Padmasambhava, also known as Guru Rinpoche, is a legendary figure in Tibetan Buddhism, credited with bringing Vajrayana Buddhism to Tibet in the 8th century. Known as the "Lotus-Born," he is said to have been miraculously born on a lotus flower in the land of Oddiyana.
One of his most profound teachings is the idea of integrating outer obstacles and inner afflictions into the path of enlightenment. More on this later.
After our visit to the monastery, it was time to descend. The ascent had been quick, and I completely underestimated the challenge of the way back down.
As the day wore on, it started to get dusky—the sun sets at 5 p.m. in Bhutan—and I found myself out of food, running low on energy. The terrain became steeper, and the path started looking unfamiliar, different from the one I’d taken on the way up. It became clear: this wasn’t going to be easy.
For someone with a fractured foot, the descent was particularly unpredictable. I wasn’t supposed to put any pressure on the injured foot, but I was determined to keep moving. Every step was a struggle, and my face must’ve shown the pain. That’s when the people I had met on the trek started telling jokes and sharing stories to distract me from the agony and keep me moving forward.
The kindness of strangers came to my rescue. One person held my hand through the difficult stretch, another shared stories of running marathons despite a slipped disc injury, and Jo quietly observed how my mind was managing the pain. In hindsight, it wasn’t just physical support—it was the emotional and mental solidarity that made this journey feel less isolating.
Right then, the inevitable happened. I lost my balance and fell. The willpower I had left drained from me. I sat there, overwhelmed by disappointment, feeling like I had failed once again. It’s in those lowest moments that the mind can be the harshest, and as I sat there, that downward spiral of self-doubt began to take hold—just when I needed motivation the most.
I was teary-eyed from frustration, knowing the urgency of finishing the hike before it got completely dark. With only my phone light, the descent would become nearly impossible.
Jo looked at me and said, “Can I tell you something?”
“I don’t agree with your philosophy of Sisyphus and doing hard things for nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
She replied, “The stories (and jokes) we shared, the piggyback rides, someone holding your hand down the descent—none of that was for nothing. It all means something.”
Jo looked at me and said, “You got to know us all, and we got to know you.”
When you do tough things, the people you do them with become your friends for life. You share a moment of struggle that bonds you.
I had started the hike alone, but by the end, I wasn’t alone anymore. The three people who helped me through the toughest moments made all the difference. Without them, the hike would’ve been just a physical challenge—but together, we shared something far more meaningful.
I was half convinced that as humans, we must do new, uncomfortable or difficult things, but the other half of that realisation came to me later, in my room that night.
While climbing and descending the mountain, exploring Padmasambhava’s teachings, and relying on the kindness of strangers, something else hit me: I discovered more about myself. I learned that I didn’t give up when things got tough. I still have it in me to do hard things, and do them well, despite the obstacles—weather, injury, fracture. This experience wasn’t just a hike; it was a core memory, one that will help me prepare for the rest of my life.
Padmasambhava’s teachings now carry a timeless reminder: the challenges we face—whether external obstacles or internal struggles—aren’t meant to be avoided or fought against. Instead, they are the raw material for our growth. He believed that every hardship, every uncomfortable emotion, is an opportunity to deepen self-awareness and transform our mindset.
Rather than labeling obstacles as “bad” or “unwanted,” Padmasambhava invites us to see them as invitations to evolve. The fear, anger, or resistance we feel in difficult moments can be turned into clarity, resilience, and compassion if we sit with them, instead of running from them. It’s a teaching about radical acceptance: what we perceive as problems are actually pathways, if we’re willing to meet them with curiosity and courage.
And as for Yogi Migyurling and Sisyphus’s punishment? It turns out, it isn’t a punishment after all. Humans aren’t being punished when they repeatedly do hard things to cope with loss and restart. The act of lifting the boulder only to drop it again, or building and destroying the tower repeatedly, may sound cruel—but it’s an act of self-reflection and hence an opportunity to grow and evolve.
And just like that, in doing hard things, like this hike, I was given a moment of self-reflection in which I truly found myself again.
Wish you all a happy 2025!
Doing difficult things to develop new friends is something Dale Carnegie must have not written about or recommended.
When climbing next time with injured foot next time, please avail my private jet.