About LHARI | Founder Story & Tibetan-Inspired Jewelry

I remember how far I walked that day, and where I crouched, more clearly than any well-composed photograph.

At the end of 2022, while I was still at university, I stayed in a small inn near Lake Manasarovar. There were two quilts in the room, a thermos, and a window that would not shut. I folded up some paper and pushed it into the gap. I had come to gather material for a novel I was writing. Before I left, I made a list of places to see. When I arrived, I sat on the bed and worked out how many nights I could afford. I could buy instant noodles downstairs, and the owner lent me a bowl. With those two things settled, I took my camera to the lake.

The wind was strong. I tucked my hands into my sleeves and waited for the clouds to move away from the mountains. By the time they did, the sun was going down. Back at the inn, I had more than a dozen photographs that looked almost the same, but I couldn't delete a single one. In one, you can see the toe of my shoe and dust on my trouser leg. I still go back to it. I remember how far I walked that day, and where I crouched, more clearly than I remember the photographs I framed properly.

I hardly wrote any of the novel while I was there. I came home with a few receipts tucked into my notebook, the inn's phone number, and the name of a village someone had mentioned along the road.

I was born into a herding family in a remote part of Tibet. My parents died when I was little, and my uncle brought me up. He couldn't read, so when I came home from boarding school, I read the notices aloud to him. He would stop me to ask when I had to go back and who he needed to give the money to. The rest, he said, I could read slowly. On mornings when I was leaving, he was always up before me, packing food into my schoolbag. Once he packed it so full the zip wouldn't close. He took everything out and started again, lining up the corners of my books. In the end, one piece of meat had to stay home.

At school, the meat rarely lasted until the next day. We sat around the edge of a bed to share it. We complained that it was tough and made our jaws ache, but no one took a smaller piece. Sometimes I said what the others said, that there was nothing to do at home, not even a phone signal. But as the holidays got closer, I checked the bus tickets every day. Once the bus reached the familiar stretch of road, I stopped sleeping and watched for the roof of our house. Sometimes my uncle was waiting by the road. If he was busy, I walked home with my bag and lifted the lid off the pot as soon as I got in.

At university, I started writing novels. There were six of us in the dorm room. My desk was by the door, and in winter the papers lifted whenever someone came in. I weighed them down with a thick dictionary. Even when I wasn't looking anything up, it was useful. I took the writing seriously. I put “final version” in a file name more than once, then opened it again two days later to make changes. I had the most trouble with people who had seen more of the world than I had. I couldn't imagine what they would say to each other. But I could write for hours about a child going back to school while his uncle crouched on the floor and packed his bag. A roommate read that part and asked if the meat had made it into the bag. Most of it, I said.

Once I bought my uncle a coat. I cut off the price tag before I sent it because I was afraid he'd think it cost too much. He sent me a photograph of himself wearing it, zipped all the way up to his chin, his hands straight down by his sides. I told him to relax, so he took another one. He looked almost exactly the same. I kept both photographs. When I look for one I could show here, I always come back to those two. He looks so neat, and I can tell he doesn't want to keep posing.

Close view of fingers threading a small jewelry component onto cord

A handmade cord necklace arranged on black cloth

After graduation, I went to Medog. My first rented room had an old table by the window. The afternoon light was good there. I hung my clothes nearby, and when it rained for days, the cuffs always felt a little damp. I kept the computer I used for writing at one end of the table. At the other I kept my odds and ends, including a biscuit tin filled with beads, silver pieces, and lengths of cord I had gathered over the years. It was heavy to carry when I moved. I hesitated, then took two books out of my bag to make room. I could buy books again. I wanted that tin with me.

I often emptied it onto a towel and moved the pieces around, one by one. An old silver ornament had a fine pattern on the front and tiny marks from a tool on the back. Where the cord had rubbed against it, the silver was brighter. I liked turning it over and wondering where someone might have worn it. When I couldn't find out where something had come from, I left it at that.

At first I tried to use every color I liked. Then the whole thing looked too crowded, so I took the beads away one by one. Once I was left with only three. I sat looking at them for a long time.

I wore the first pieces myself. At the table, they seemed fine. Then I would walk out to buy vegetables and come back to find that a knot pressed against my wrist, or caught on my sleeve. I took the piece apart, shifted the knot, and wore it for a few more days. Some changes were so small that no one else could see them in photographs. I could feel the difference on my wrist.

There were usually half-finished pieces spread across the table. Before I could eat, I had to clear a space. Sometimes, as I moved things aside, two beads would land next to each other. Halfway through the meal, I would already be thinking about going back to try them together.

Later, I gave the work a name: LHARI. I started taking proper photographs of each piece, writing down its materials and measurements, and putting it on the website. The descriptions were harder than I expected. When I held something in my hand, I could turn it over and point to the part I meant. On a screen, I had to find another way to explain it. I wanted the photograph to show the little dents on the back of a silver piece. I also wanted you to know how to tighten a cord after loosening it. I opened the first finished page, read it over and over, then picked up the piece and compared it with the screen. One photograph had to be retaken. The color was wrong.

I still look at the photographs I took near Manasarovar. Sometimes I am looking for a particular blue. Sometimes I look for a long time and end up choosing another color.

You can bring me a photograph and tell me what happened that day, or tell me about the clothes you wear most often. We can take our time. We can put the colors next to each other first, then try the length. My favorite part is when someone isn't sure, then suddenly points to one bead and says, "That one."

The novel is still on my computer. Now and then I open it and delete a few lines I was once pleased with. My uncle calls and asks what I've been doing. I tell him I'm making jewelry. “Have you sold any?” he asks. “Some,” I say. Then he asks if the roof leaks. He saw on the news how hard it had been raining. I tell him I've moved, and this room is fine. He goes quiet for a moment, then asks me to take some pictures for him. I walk around with my phone and photograph the bed, the window, the stove. When I get to the table, I start to tidy it. Then I stop. He's known what I'm like since I was little.

A handmade bracelet worn on a raised wrist in sunlight

I Love the Folds of Distant Mountains

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