Lake Rakshastal Journey

At dusk I reached Ghost Lake, and the wind came down like a cold blade off Mount Kailash’s snow ridges. The sky wasn’t fully dark yet, but the water had already turned a metallic blue—opaque, almost unrippled, as if it were holding an ancient secret under its surface. Locals call it La’ang Co, and in contrast to its neighbor, the sacred Lake Manasarovar, this shore tastes of salt and emptiness. Birds rarely cross it; even sunlight seems unwelcome here. Legends say the demon king Ravana once practiced austerities on these banks, which is why travelers nicknamed it “Ghost Lake.” I think of it instead as a lake of shadows—leaving the light to Manasarovar and keeping the dark for itself.

Walk long enough here and a strange quiet appears. The wind is loud, but your mind is pressed into silence. On the stony beach, bones polished by weather and branches spat out by snow lie like the cleanup crew of time and geography. Far off, Mount Kailash stands like a seal that has stamped heaven and earth together—it never moves closer to anyone; it simply allows people to circle it. Most pilgrims walk on the other side, but on this shore every step feels like traveling with your own shadow. With each stretch of path, the lake seems to re-copy whatever you’re carrying inside, and the copy grows deeper, bottomless.

People say there’s a narrow channel between Ghost Lake and Manasarovar. In the right season, clear meets turbid there. I stood downwind and stared toward a faint silver thread, as if light and shadow were being sewn together. I remembered an old man at a temple earlier that day saying, “All waters return to the sky; they just take different routes.” I nodded then, but I understood it better in the wind and the dark.

By night, Kailash is only a silhouette, and the stars look like salt scattered across the water. Unlike Manasarovar’s bright reflections, Ghost Lake tends to swallow and conceal—your pride, your anxiety, your unfinished prayers—then quietly returns only the calmest part of you. I dipped my hand into the icy water; grains of salt clung to my skin like small scabs after an expedition. The wind kept blowing. Somewhere, a prayer wheel clicked softly, as if looping in from another time to remind me: this place isn’t about “good” or “bad.” It simply puts two forces on opposite shores.

At first light the next morning, grey brushed the summit of Kailash. I walked the lakeside again. Each step grated against the salt crust with a stubborn, whispering sound. It struck me that “ghost” here isn’t about horror—it’s about a presence without a name, one that makes you face what sacred brightness can let you ignore: desire, fear, the knots you haven’t untied. And then, after admitting them, the beginnings of peace. When I finally turned back, Ghost Lake and the holy lake sat side by side: sun on one side, shadow on the other, Kailash between them, silent. Pilgrimage, I realized, isn’t only done in the light. You have to learn to walk the dark as well. Only after passing through both does the road feel complete.