Part II
It’s my first early morning in a while and as my alarm rings
at 4.30am, realization dawns with a smile that today, I will embark on a long,
long journey that I know nothing of as yet.
Leh is peaceful and beautiful in the early morning. As the
huge white moon bids goodbye, the sun rises up too bright to look at directly.
In the twilight, the tall poplars guard the wooden carved windows from the
menacing barren mountains and the prayers flags, like shadows, whisper along encouragement.
Stanzin Denmo is a slight man who looks like a 15 year old
teen. This trip will be interesting since I fit the teen look too; we head out
and an hour into our journey, we stop at a little brook on the roadside, out of
town. A small bridge adorned with bright prayer flags brings us across to a
breakfast of packed sandwiches, hand rolled cigarettes and fresh water.
We are now heading toward Khardungla and I am torn between
taking photographs for future keepsake and just letting the images register
themselves in my mind. I go with the latter, and settle back into my seat.
Barren brown mountains are interspersed with long, grey
roads and a lot of army trucks. Barring the dust, I could almost convince
myself to imagine being a war journalist in a remote no man’s land.
Khardungla arrives, with my need to use the restroom. Ladakh
is too barren to hide behind a tree and you just have to hold it in!
I see little boards talking about the invention of maggi
noodles, this being the highest motorable road in the world at 18390 feet and a
warning to not stay for longer than 30 minutes as it is injurious to health.
That’s when I instinctively look at the young men selling cups of hot, black
tea to all of us and wondering how it doesn’t affect them.
After the usual photo taking, I realize that I cannot stop
giggling and my heart is thumping as if I’ve just run a mile. This is unusual
and funny. Laughing is not an easy task at this height, with the low levels of
oxygen and Denmo hurriedly gets us out of here.
On the way down from Khardung-la (La meaning mountain pass),
I spot a bunch of army men at the roadside and stop to take what I call my
coolest picture up here! Doing little, insignificant reckless things such as
these make my heart widen with happiness that no pint of beer, award or man can
do.
Today, we are driving to Turtok village, located barely 10
kms from the Indo-Pakistan border. The locals say that it only became a part of
India, after the war ended in 1967. I am yet to confirm these claims. Perhaps,
I won’t. I’d rather keep the charm of the place through the voices of its
people than give in to concrete details; I’ve never been a fan of anything
concrete.
On the way to Turtok, we cross several tourist destinations,
as we descend into the famed Nubra Valley. Diskit monastery, Hundar’s sand
dunes with its double humped camels and the army airport at Thoise pass by, but
I resolutely refuse to stop, somehow convinced that Turtok will show me
something.
Nubra valley is, in every sense of the word, surreal. The
wideness of the valley stuns one; it makes me feel like a tiny grain of dust on
a desktop of a wide ocean picture. The mountains can remind chocolate lovers of
cookies, fudge cake and all kinds of chocolate. The Shayok river looks like
wet, flowing, raging cement but in places it meets clear blue waters. The
landscape is mighty and ever-changing and I can only sigh and pinch myself, as
if in a trance.
Along the last few miles to Turtok, we stop for maggi
noodles (the only lunch available; there are no restaurants/tourist stops in
the area) at Changmar village. The dhaba owner is a strikingly good looking man
who fills up a jug of water from a fresh spring to make the noodles and also to
offer as a refreshing drink. Trust me, I had my qualms about it but I’ve never
tasted water so delicious.
A little road brings us to a part of Turtok. The place
smells of apricot and hay and has some very playful, noisy children. I see a
little hotel and tented accommodation but they are the drab type you find along
the rafting areas of the Ganga. This is when Denmo and I realize that the major
part of Turtok has no road and can only be accessed via a steep ascent along a
half-dry waterfall. We clamber up and walk to the first home stay we spot- Maha
Guest House.
The owner is also a strikingly good looking man who offers
me a cup of delicious butter tea which does me a load of good since after our 8
hour drive through the barrenness of the valley, I can feel dust particles
literally flowing in my veins.
After freshening up, I walk all over the village. A kind
lady invites me to pluck ripe apricots from her garden and I must admit, some
tasted as sweet as jaggery. I find myself gaping at a goat and a donkey who are
ignoring the ripe apples and apricots lying right in front of them. A local man
senses my confusion and laughs; he tells me that travelers are welcome to pluck
and eat as much fruit as they like since the locals and their cattle are fed up
of them! I make a personal note that these people must be crazy.
Turtok’s little stone lanes run alongside a small canal of
fresh, clean water. The village is populated by the Balti tribe and their women
must be the most beautiful ladies one can lay eyes on. The village has a number
of peculiar, awe-inspiring things like their “natural refrigerator”, “stone
pressure cookers” and a little gompa that boasts of a phenomenal view of Turtok
village and Mount K2 in the distance. Behind the gompa is a room made from
jerry cans and my wandering soul only wishes to live here, where each can tells
me an individual story, and each mountain visible ahead only adorns K2 further.
I return to Maha Guest House an hour later and am served
grey pancake-like rotis, lentils and later, an apricot dessert. My sweet tooth
is happy and I manage to polish off two bowlfuls. As I get into bed, I grin to
myself, looking out the window, at the sky here. A panorama of a thousand
twinkling lanters in the deep, clean dark sky.
Next morning, we must set out for our journey back to Leh
but I delay this till noon. The home stay owner shows me the natural fridge—a
hole in the rocks, standing where one feels like being put straight in front of
an air-conditioning unit. The stone pressure cookers are another one I cannot
figure out since even the whistle is made of stone! I am also allowed to touch
a walking stick made from an Ibex horn—a beautiful contraption, with natural
designs that the Ibex has on its horn. On my clear suspicion of poaching, I am
hastily told that this is made from an old, naturally dead Ibex. I smile and
collect bottles of pure apricot oil as presents for my family.
On the drive back to Leh, I chat with Denmo and take
photographs. The army guards stationed near bridges brighten up as we wave to
them. Turtok is, I can safely say, not for the tourist but the traveler. It is
a place of magic that comes from simplicity; it belongs to a people whose
beauty comes from fresh fruit and diligence and not from surgery or diets; I
know I will come back one day. Soon.
As I arrive in Leh, I am now alone at the guest house. The
tiredness sets in but I have to embark on another long journey early tomorrow
morning, to Tso Moriri lake. I go to bed and dream fitfully of snow peaks,
baseball and poetry.
Next morning, we set out, more comfortable now with each
other and excited to see a lake at 14,000 feet. We visit Thiksey Monastery for morning prayers where I chance upon Connor (an American also on a solo trip) again and spend time with little Nawang, a monk who knows more about photography than I do. I'm not a religious person but I spend an hour in the prayer hall, letting the chants enter and reverberate inside me.
For most of the drive, I hang
my legs out the window and soak in the beauty of magical Ladakh. After a number
of security checks, curious questions from army guards about a petite 26 year
old girl from Uttar Pradesh travelling alone and some very dusty roads later,
we approach the hot springs of Chumathang.
I see a little dog running alongside the stream and a city-bred
person I cannot help but wonder why Pedigree (dog food) doesn’t shoot its
advertisements here.
I now spot a brilliant crystalline blue in the valley
between two hills. Just how I used to colour mountain landscapes with blue in crayon
drawings of my childhood. I do not know the name of this lake, but it’s my most
profound memory of Ladakh.
I felt like I was in a pastel crayon drawing, a tiny little
dot on a huge canvas of pastels. Grainy golden brown hills, a dark grey road
and sheer, utterly blue blue waters. It was magic running in my veins right
then, not different from any sense we can have of paradise but it daunted me
and something inside me could not wait to be at Tso Kar village alongside Tso
Moriri lake, where houses, people and human life would bring me back to normal.
At the village, we check into a homestay and make a futile
attempt to find a place for tea where men are not drinking. Under a massive
white canopy, I sit on empty crates covered hastily with cushions and drink tea
while being eyed inquisitively by men drinking and children chattering. I like
to believe my gaze on them was as intense as theirs! These people may not have
regular comforts of life, but they certainly live INSIDE magic. This place has
become my personal version of Marquez’s Macondo.
Walking in lanes littered with goat hooves, yak skins,
firewood and some very aggressive looking dogs, I come nearer to the lake. Apart
from the colours of tented accommodation, the lines and lines of Royal
Enfields, bonfires and the faint smell of biking jackets, the lake stands out,
almost god-like.
The clouds have set in and while parts of the enclosing
hills are bathed in golden sunlight, the clouds descending have a texture to
them, like thousands of grey threads bound together. I gasp, I gape, I stand in
sheer rapture while my hungry eyes devour the sight before me till I feel a tap
on my shoulder. It’s a local woman who takes me home to play with her children.
While I hug and clap with 3 beautiful little ones and a new-born calf, I spot a
bright blue out of the corner of my eye. It strikes me because it’s not the
river, it’s a man—another traveler, gazing out onto the lake. I sense an
instant connect with this man, another traveler, despite the distance between
us. We make eye contact for a minute and then wander off on our own ways and
yet, it was a conversation whispered silently to us, that I will cherish for
years to come.
The lake, ever since I left it next morning, has been
beckoning me to return and I know I will, soon. I reach Leh in the late afternoon
and after bidding goodbye to Denmo, I am greeted by an old friend in the guest
house. It is the 8th day of my trip and I feel melancholic at having
to leave early morning, the day after.
I buy prayer flags, beads and trinkets for friends and
family. Next morning, my friends take me to Stok Palace, home to the current living
king. I’m not too impressed, to be honest, but the queen’s headdress kept in a
safe glass house intrigues me. So does the tradition behind it; the queen
passes it on to her daughter and more gems are added each time. As I look down
the length of this beautiful piece, I wonder if silk routes, palanquins and
such headdresses will ever come back to life again.
I leave Leh in the quiet of the morning. The dullness of the
airport returns as I see city people,
cheerful and happy, leaving after a
vacation. To them it might be just another holiday destination but to me,
Ladakh has become another definition of home, home to my soul, home to my
writing and to things unknown that will reveal themselves to me in the future.
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