The Second Homecoming in Shillong

As the pre snow hail, called “hyumun” locally softly patters outside my window and on the tin roof, I am taken back to the rolling green hills of Meghalaya. Most often, a flight can be the tedious wait toward a destination. Not so in the case of Delhi-Guwahati, where one is blessed with views of the Himalayas and the mighty Brahmaputra river barely twenty minutes post take-off.

My second trip to Shillong was a homecoming, the first being last year in September for recuperation from illness, perhaps more recuperation from life in a metro city.

I spend two hours gazing at the pure white of the peaks against the woolly white hue of the clouds. Nanda Devi, the Uttrakhand peaks and then the Kanchenjunga range keep me glued to the window. Just as I’m setting into a monotony, thinking other thoughts (similar to the effect of classical music), the mighty river makes itself visible through the clouds.

I don’t care much for Guwahati since it reminds me of the plains I grew up in but I’m sure it has as much beauty to offer as the hills that beckon me.

Shillong town’s beauty lies in its rolling hills, vast lakes (Umiam lake on the way up is a must stop) and it’s people. As the car passes through the city’s roads, I see women dressed in long aprons called "jainkyrshah" over their clothes, a tradition in Shillong; people munching on kwai (betel leaf and nut); liquor shops lined up alongside an impressive four lane highway and a scarred hillside baring deep red soil, recovering slowly from the onslaught of human infrastructure.

My home for a week is a Khasi home in upper Lumparing. Light green walls, linoleum floors and dainty white lace curtains greet me as does the loveliest flower I have ever seen—the “Lady Slipper”.

I’m tired from a long journey and after enjoying a breathtaking view from the terrace of the town, a monastery fluttering my heart with its prayer flags and a church swept clean next door, I retreat for a nap.

Khasi people are obsessed with cleanliness. Even dustpans are washed, wiped and kept away. Community cleaning on national holidays ensures that most streets are clean, grass cut short and fences painted. Despite the kwai chewing culture here, there are little or no spit marks to be seen.

The Khasis have a matriarchal society and it’s an interesting contrast for a North Indian girl to see—women donning the mantle of head of the house and men living with the wife’s family, children taking on the mother’s surname.

Music lies at the heart of Shillong. It is quaint to see how the people have combined tribal tradition with modern life. Church sermons are held in Khasi which as a language has a Roman script; western dresses are covered up with the checkered long apron, songs strum out of nearly every house and life is lived in harmony.

Food here is simple, like the people. “Jadoh” or a plateful of rice, meat, lentils, salad and hot chutney is served in special “Dukan Jadoh”, the answer to North Indian “dhabas”.

It is sad to see the effects of alcohol here though. A number of youth have no jobs and spend their time drinking away the monotony of a seemingly purposeless life.

I attend a traditional Khasi wedding where the beautiful dresses, the understated materialism and yet incredible happiness on all faces sweep me off my feet. Food is served in small guest rooms and no one complains. Everyone is happy, everyone is satisfied.

The people here are not very expressive. They’re shy and they’re a mystery, atleast to me. It’s not necessary that a Khasi person will smile back at you, or immediately come to your assistance. But it’s not because they’re rude. Their actions become generous with time; and no words are ever spoken when they do a kindness to another. I experienced this when as a vegetarian I was struggling with the food and when my hostess learnt of this, she quietly woke up early one morning and cooked me a North Indian meal of lima beans curry, eggplant and rice.

Most love, affection, anger, hurt is expressed in their eyes. And I’m slowly learning to appreciate the beauty of these people.

Religion is big here and Sundays are spent dressing up their best for church, where young love begins to sprout in shy smiles, elderly people chanting on their rosaries for heaven and animated sermons by dedicated pastors. One such pastor was so warm toward me, I could have convinced my atheist self to attend a sermon just to hear him speak.

After the madness of a wedding, I am invited to help at the bride’s house. All the women are here, while the men are sent to clean up at the guest house. Having been a single child with no siblings or cousins, I’ve always wondered what family truly feels like. In a tiny kitchen, eleven people squeezed in on small wooden stools, sipping “sha” (red tea) around a small coal stove, I now begin to understand what “family” really means. Being invited to share in the intimacy warms my heart to tears but I hold them back, smiling and wishing I could kiss each one of these ladies to show my affection toward them. Bahun, my friend, politely translates what her five aunts and mother are trying to convey to me in a mix of Khasi, Hindi and English—“we hope you’re not thinking we’re fighting; this is how sisters talk. We wish we could talk to you more”… I cannot explain the beauty of being in a community beyond such a simple statement. The feeling of inclusion is immense.

The next day, we celebrate Bahun’s birthday and I try and memorise the “bah” names of all the men in the family. It is an exhausting and boggling process and here’s what I’ve grasped- Bahbah, bahdeng, bahrit, bahdon. All the “bah” names mean eldest son, middle son, youngest son etc. Names like Hame, Wanna, Daphi, Adorea, Daker, Lit, Nahmar make my list longer but my love for them grows as I am fondly called Kong Deng. I did secretly want a Khasi name!

The last two days of my visit now appear and I feel heavy, having to leave so soon. We decide to go camping. My fellows in this are Mark (bahdeng) and Andrew (bahrit). Andrew’s dog Brunzi is my special friend and obliges me with a perfect camera pose.

We go camping near the local airport of Umroi. It’s amusing to see a road running right through the airport parking lot. Our camp spot is next to a deep, green stream and no human establishment in sight. We walk through fields of ginger and sweet potato to reach a pebbled, sandy bank, lush green grass and fresh running water.

Bahun, bahbah and a little girl called Dama help us carry tents, food and utensils to our spot. They leave and we begin to set up camp. Bahrit has promised to teach me how to catch fish with local techniques and although I know I won’t eat fish, I’m eager to catch one. Angling as a sport also has many, many takers in Shillong.

Mark and Andrew begin to set up the tents while I busy myself with the task of collecting firewood, deeply enjoying the process of chopping wood with a large khukri (knife/dwarf sword).  We light a fire and evening hunger pangs are satiated with red tea and Maggi (I doubt our country would survive without these two minute noodles).

Two little cowherds now drop by the campsite and I have a rather funny, exasperating conversation with them since they know only Khasi. I do manage to give them food, know their names (Damanbha and Khlembok) and am asked to name their new calf who I promptly call “Pitkoo”.

Bahrit uses the presence of the cows to get fresh cow dung which mixed with wheat flour is excellent bait for fish. I, however, refuse to touch it, watching Bahrit make the dough and fix it on our fishing rod and bamboo poles used for angling, locally.

I am now told that in the middle of the stream lies a whirlpool and many have drowned here. So, it’s not surprising to hear sounds of walking right outside our tents in the middle of the night.

Bahrit, for a while becomes a little boy, when he burns his hand (rather badly) on a hot stone from the stove and I mother him, fixing him up with toothpaste rubbed onto the burn.

Beer and homemade sohiong (Meghalaya cherry) wine makes all three of us happier as our country chicken roasts on a makeshift bamboo barbeque and we prepare to make curry and rice. After the drive and hours spent setting up camp, we’ve all got ravenous apetites and silence descends for a while as we munch.

Now, Khlain (meaning strong), a middleaged man from a nearby village visits us. He is Bahrit’s friend and he also conveys a message to me—“ you and I don’t share a language but we have love in our hearts and that should be enough”. He smiles after saying this, baring betel stained teeth and a heart of gold. He regales me with Hindi songs he picked up (laughing hysterically at the end of each one) but has no idea of what they mean.

I go to bed happy, leaving the men to converse late into the night.

I re-visit Shillong café, an uptown little retreat in town where I met Lou Majaw, a maverick rockstar whose mutlicoloured, unmatching socks , leather cuffs, waist length silver hair and short pants have him etched in my memory.

It’s nice to meet work colleagues in a place where none of us work. It’s different and amusing, especially when we are kicked out of a bar because women are not allowed (and I’m the only one).

My visit ends and I leave with a heavy heart. Mark and Bahrit drop me off, with a bottle of hot local chillie pickle. I know I will be back again; to unearth this place’s secrets and mine too.

Shillong, nga ieid ia phi (I love you).

If you're interested in camping holidays in Meghalaya, message me and follow us on Instagram: Tented_Tribals

This is My Story

Four years old, plucking white jasmine flowers in a tattered, tiny wicker basket

Hoping to spread a fragrance into the slowly rotting lives of a fighting couple

A year passes by and now visuals include broken beer bottles thrust just an an inch away from flesh

Threats, tears and fights as she sits by the courtyard door, gulping down fear

Wondering when she will see them hug and smile again.

At seven, life becomes about fooling the creche nanny into believing she is asleep.

Forcing dreams to come to her, asking the mind to play movies as she does even today.

Teenage meant DOS games, cheap English music and telephone conversations held in incandescence

In a hot study room, far off from the main house where grandmother fought off asthma to cook a square meal.

School meant making chart drawings that could never compete with the straight lines drawn by mothers.

Embroidering with vengeance, for an extra grade, knowing deep down she was the only one in the classroom doing this alone.

Silence would come naturally, the only alone time coming in the toilet where she spent hours scanning newspapers for happy stories.

Stories became essential to living, they still do; except now, she creates them to bely reality.

Invitations to birthday parties were joyous occasions; Junk food satiated the need for a mother’s love

And yet, she drifted away from the biological mother—wanting to act cool when she visited as the whole classroom stared in confusion and relief at having their own mothers back home.

Homework was about individual struggles and when a teacher got her homemade cookies, she lit up.

Food was so essential, and still remains; except now she cooks with a vehemence—my child will never suffer this.

As the years passed, sports became the punching bag against bitterness, drugs and alcohol.

Each “takk” of the ball against the racquet, raising up dust and tiny hairs was revolt.

Stories became so essential, she sometimes altered her own reality and smiled when people walked away intrigued.

Pity was hated, pity was scorned. So were those that gave it to her liberally.

This is my story and I am not ashamed to share it anymore.

Moving to the mountains because

City noises were so loud she thought she was shrinking.

In poems, came out words, expressing feelings she never knew she really had.

In crowds, she still stands in a corner, puzzled at moving jaws, hidden smiles and open politics.

She cringes away from all of it—social behaviour, not something she ever grasped.

She can’t sing or chant or speak with the rest, in unison.

And she wonders, why it’s so. Her voice never matches that scale. Perhaps, its nothing.

Perhaps, she is only tone deaf. To voices too.

She spends hours gazing at people, wondering what stories lie within and around them.

She needs to be alone to express and the air around her is all that listens.

So do her dogs. She likes to talk to them. Their responses, unworded, speak more to her

Than the daily phone calls of her father.

Deaths have taken away people from her and now?

Now, she only shrugs and says “all right”

Is that rude, she wonders?

She feels most keenly when she is alone and yet she craves human touch, human love

Human words that whisper to her, “it’s going to be okay, I’m here”.

She wants to walk away and yet she is drawn in.

Peace lies in puppies and walks and staring blankly at the wall.

This is what life is about now.

Instead of work presentations, heels and thoughts of “settling down”.

She’s okay with it, but are you?

This is my story and I am not ashamed to share it.

Life is a snow flake and you’ll never see its million shapes till you really open your eyes to it.

Life is a tree—standing still but really, constantly changing, moving.

To her, life is this and this is what it might remain.

This is my story.

When Guides Become Nainital's Tourists

Hasty plans, crinkled shirts and over-used down jackets always make for a good holiday. It’s an untold delight to become a customer in your own profession; here is the story of when two guides take a holiday to one of India’s most beaten down tourist destinations—Nainital.

Usually, I spend my precious off days in Kasar Devi, a small ridge hidden in the lower Himalayas; time is spent drinking cups of hot mint tea with friends, sharing stories of quirky travellers we welcome and singing songs for bonfires to come. However, this time, I decided to visit Nainital, a place I spent delightful childhood summers in, untainted by the wisdom of being bored or being judgemental.

Nainital, a hotspot destination for all classes of people has two sides to the lake- Tallital and Mallital. Tallital is where one usually enters from and Mallital sits comfortably close to public grounds called “The Flats” and a mosque at the lake front.

Since Nainital is also a summer home to more than a few governement officials, the roads leading to it are phenomenally good. On the way, I stop for a “malta” (type of orange) under a tarpaulin sheet where a man eeks out a living from home-grown maltas and corn. There is an old cemetery here too, which one can miss in the blink of an eye. Walk around, amidst climbing skullcaps, broken graves and lovingly engraved tombstones for those long gone; one feels an eery magic in the place, guarded by handsome cedar trees.

Upon entering Nainital, I was hesitant. A noisy bustop, dozens of vehicles and people, and crude hotel agents hound us and chaos seems not far from the cities of the plains. I decide to stay at the “Lake and Woods” guest house, perched atop a steep road, just above the Tallital rickshaw stand. Priced at Rs 1500/- a night for a lake view room, this place is for the budget traveller who also likes to soothe her aesthetic sense and keeps away from the gaudiness of other hotels that mark each alternate building in Nainital.

The room is basic and clean. After a hot shower, I decide to walk alongside the famed “Mall Road”, keenly turning a deaf ear to the men offering boat rides on the lake. I want to experience Nainital for what it was before it became a noisy cocoon for summer burnt city people.

Lunch at the “Café de Mall” is average but the impromptu dance of a little girl seems to brighten more than my palate. I spend the evening listening to music and watching the lake front bejewelled in fairy lights as evening sets in. A great thing about Nainital is that Mall Road closes to all traffic after 7pm and one can walk at leisure, without the fear of being run over.

Next morning, the bright sun awakens me and the glittering green waters of the lake pull me out to the town. I begin my day with a ride on the cable car to “Snow View”. At Rs 150/- a person, the cable car and waiting areas surprise me with their cleanliness and punctuality. I am delighted to give in to the giddiness of this fragile ride and watch the boats and yachts turn into ants as I climb higher.

At “Snow View”, the only things of attraction are the old government guest house and a horse named Gulfam. While the guest house reminds me of doll houses (that I never had or played with as a child), Gulfam is a handsome young creature, well trained and well groomed. It’s nice to see people treat their animals well, in a country such as mine. I leave smiling, having fed Gulfam a packetful of biscuits, the stickiness of his tongue still tingling on my hand.

“Snow View” has the usual tourist trappings of gun games, video games, joy rides, binocular views of the Himalayas and shops where you can dress traditionally and pose for photographs, guaranteed to be delivered, printed, “in 20 minutes”.

I have a fascination for animals so my next pit-stop is the zoo. Two Royal Bengal tigers, leopards, a Himalayan black bear, barking deer, pheasants, mountain goats and blue sheep keep me wide-eyed although seeing the unusually small enclosures for the tigers hurts me. Why must we live in mansions and these grand creatures in cages so small that the proud tiger can only speak out a cry of sheer helplessness against the teasing, noisy crowds and its imprisonment. I leave, lest I pick a fight, muttering to myself that I’d rather go back to the wildlife sanctuary I live in, than interact with humans so bereft of humanity. I firmly believe, animals have more character and life than any human.

My next stop is Gurney House, Jim Corbett’s home in Nainital. Lovingly restored and well maintained by a Delhi-based Indian lady, the house proudly shows off Corbett’s trophies, old photographs and even his bed! Visiting Gurney House is a dream come true. A place, hidden so well in the chaos of a tourist town, is truly a well found gem and I’m sure to come back to its sunlit porch and green armchairs, to daydream and shut out the noise around, to imagine it as it was in Corbett’s lifetime.

Noise and I do not sit very well, so I head to Kilbury. A 13km drive from Nainital (above the High Court premises), Kilbury has no “destination” for a tourist, but is a seamless road in the midst of thick forests for the traveller looking for more. The view of the Himalayas from this road is as vibrant, beckoning and mystical as it is from the Binsar Wildlife Sanctuary (considered by many to be the best view of the snow peaks from Kumaon). Kilbury feels like home, in its hidden wisdom, in its call to only a few, in its winding roads leading nowhere. For bikers, this road is sheer heaven; I promise you it can be more rewarding than a motorbike circuit (those F1 like things).

I end my sightseeing activities with boiled gram and instant noodles at a roadside shop which a disabled young man runs with determination and an exuberance worthy of note.

I feel delight at having discovered a book store amidst the shops selling trinkets, gifts and candles. Narain Book Shop is on the main Mall Road and its owner, a quiet old man, seems like a man of a few words. He gives me a knowing smile when I pick up a copy of Himalayan folk tales and strikes a conversation. If you’re good with words and can recognise a photo of Corbett pasted on the wall behind his chair, he might even show you a second edition copy of Corbett’s books—his prized possession in this mania of boating, eating tourists who cannot live anything but the noise of humans, even in Nainital’s quiet hills.

I end my day with dinner at The Machan—nothing worthy of note, but on a budget, the food is passable. As I leave, I smile, remembering my childhood days spent at the Commissioner’s residence, exploring gardens and forests, watching boys play football at St. Joseph’s, being accompanied by the “gunner” to the Tibetan market, walking the dogs on guarded streets.

It’s good to come back as a complete stranger, a grown woman, a traveller. And it helps to have a GoPro and a Desert Storm for company!

Memory Box

What do you do with the things people collect?

That kaleidoscope they emptied together, so full of sounds and suitcases and bees besides all the glittering broken bangles making images come alive

Those leaves she collected to bookmark the stories she read, hoping they would become real around and within her

That laughter out in the garden the wild cherry blossoms brightened and bent toward

That annoying habit of using his one favourite word each month, as he said

I’m going to shove my things into the room

I was bedazzled by the comic timing of it all

I want to eat some grub and buy some tuck for later

I always wish to help my chum with everything he needs.

What do you do with these things? These things that people collect.

The shoe box he used to keep receipts, paper clips and poems written on post-its, hoping to colour up the monotony within.

The old newspapers she used for bookshelves, keeping the botoxed faces downward and the pictures of landscapes facing the books that she held so dear

The stencils she bought and used on everything that had a blank—just so it would cover up the blankness she felt in the 9-5 job

The football matches he screamed during, wondering if he could do that in a glasshouse office

The way she flirted over a pint of beer, making men hate her

Who knew, she had dream catchers to help her sleep every night?

So, what do you do with these things that people collect?

What do you do with the pain of the beauty of quirks

The way he wiped each finger delicately on a tissue while bruised knuckles exhibited a hardiness in the boxing ring

The way she lay for days in bed in crinkly pajamas while the world outside never saw her without a pair of heels

The way he would allow vodka shots to let him dance while any day at the metro he was seen giving in to the crowd, always the last one inside.

The way he obsessed over a bicycle while expensive wines and liquers were what the world would remember him for.

The way he let out cries of pain, singing songs of love, singing songs of despair while all we saw was a man in hiking gear, droning out names of birds and trees.

What do you do with these things that people collect?

What do I do with these things?

When all these people leave or are gone, these things are all I have left.

I can only write about them, reminisce them and push myself.

Tell myself, it’s okay. These things can keep life at bay and smiles up front.

I can wait, leave this poem incomplete.

For someone, something, someday to finish it for the lines I collect.

Letter To My Grandmother

Dear amma,

Of all the things you taught me in life, you inadvertently taught me to take all calamities in my stride; to fight on, move on without grandeur notions of a "struggle" to be overcome.

You never gave me a chance to say goodbye. Old, frail yet resolute, you left quietly in your sleep.

I regret never asking you what you dreamt about; I regret a lot of things I said and did to you.

I have a story to share. I'm not sure the world is ready to hear it or that I am even remotely prepared to divulge it.

The irony lies in two languages- I lived in one with YOU; I live another without you. My expressions only comes in the language I now live.

I wish you could be here beside me today- for plenty of reasons. I'm also at peace to know that you lived long and left in peace, painlessly.

Life is asking of me a million questions. I wish I could answer them, like you, with a bag stitched from rags or platefuls of rice pudding- quite simply. No doubts.

I was friends with you when I was little, sitting on your room floor, making chalk drawings on a side of your large metal trunk, as you lay fighting asthma on your bed. That room is full of books now and remnants of your life- a cupboard full of your clothes we don't have the heart to give away and a bottle of hair oil that has not depleted in a year.

I miss you amma and the reason I will never forget you is that you are my heart. You hum inside of me and a little red thread on my right wrist is a constant reminder of that.

Your child-like voice of old age still asks me repeatedly, "Are you okay?"; except now, I cannot respond with a smile. I can only feel the question reverberating till it vanishes into thin, misty air...

With love,

Your grand-daughter

Ladakh Chronicles: Part II

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 8^th 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. 

Jennie Lives On In The Forest With Me

Cascading down a road

Divided naturally by gravel and pine needles

That have waited long to be a pathway

Of hope, of forgetting.

I wound down the drying grass of hope

I panted to keep up with the unyielding forest

I waited here with you

Making memories keep fears away

Of the future, of changing lives.

I looked upon the mountains stretched in a line

Old as time, new as me

I saw them build from small brown hills

Into snow-peaked wonders that challenge and mock

I waited, and worried about the wild boars of ambition

That dragged me to the city of lights

While the darkening silence of the forest beckoned and taunted

The price of my shades against the sunlight.

That spot just below the snow peaks, hidden ever so discreetly by tall blades of grass

That spot, where you and I sat and had a conversation carried silently

By the wind whispering words to us.

You had laughed out then

The sound ringing out, like a pleasant tune

And I looked at you wondering, how you could be so mesmerizing.

I had looked at you in admiration, in love

I had felt pride and joy creeping in.

“That’s my brother”, thought I.

The one who held my hand with his

Maneuvering the motorbike with one hand alone

Just to keep my fingers warm

Just to keep the harsh gravel of the jungle roads away from touching me.

You are gone now. But your laughter continues to ring in my heart.

You are gone now. But that spot where we sat will remain ours

You are gone now. But my words will always be for you.

You are gone now, Jennie.

And I only wish I could whisper “happy birthday”

To that face that lit up smiles like butter lamps in a monastery.

Ladakh Chronicles: Part I

When I was 5 years old, two places registered themselves very strongly in my head, from geography text books that were beginning to bore and puzzle alike. Egypt and Ladakh—I had promised my knee-scraped, short haired and dungareed self that these would be the first places I would ever visit on my own.

For the last one year, I had been meticulously (I’d like to believe) planning my trip to Ladakh, which involved annoying friends who work in Ladakh, randomly checking flight rates online when insomnia struck in city nights and also staring at any photos I could find of the place on social media.

Three things caused me pre-travel worries: Ladakh is huge and impossible to see it all in one trip so how do I taste a little of all and also not just touch the surface? Secondly, transport seemed to be a big hassle here; as a woman travelling alone, how would I manage this aspect? Thirdly, what is high altitude sickness? Judging by what the internet and doctors say, there are way too many varied opinions on its intensity and its harmlessness (nearly), alike.

After several drafted itineraries from my fellows in the travel industry, I managed to achieve nothing. Armed with just my flight tickets to and from Leh, I set out on 1^st August to the land of my dreams of the last 21 years.

The dullness of city airports is soon forgotten when the Himalayas come into view from the sky. Surrounded by excited tourists and bored Ladakhis alike, I realized that eye contact reveals more than boarding passes when doubt surpasses and connects me to a father and child sleeping blissfully on the flight—an acute sense of family, even in the skies.

Men “stereotyped” as the lecherous ones are happy to sacrifice their window seat to me, only to promptly take it back half an hour into the flight. Passengers become children, gazing awestruck at the snow peaks below them. It’s almost like watching a movie in slow motion or perhaps that is an after effect of my medication of Diamox (for the dreaded high altitude sickness) kicking in. 

Nevertheless, knowing that this is the closest we can be to space and tower over the might Himalayas is quite exhilarating. The snow peaks appear quiet while we hum and buzz noisily in the air plane.

Rinpoche airport makes one feel like you just landed on the moon. Bare mountains surround this tiny airport which amusingly enough, has a couple on chairs bang in the middle of a road for weary travelers, also serving the purpose of being hounded by cab drivers.

As I wait for my friend Stanzin to pick me up in his Mercedes (a decade old Maruti 800 that runs like a top), I am afraid to even ask for a taxi. The drivers are all so young and handsome and immaculately dressed, that you’d think they were boys hanging out for a cold beer in a backyard!

My first stop in Leh is World Garden Café where, to my delight, I discover my favourite drink—fresh water melon juice! While Stanzin warns me against any drinking or smoking for the first two days, two of my friends drop in and we share a breakfast of smiles, laughter and fresh pita pockets (yes, Lebanese food on the rooftop of the world).

My home in Leh is Hinjuma Guest House on Upper Karzo road, where my mountain guide friends lodge themselves each year, for 5 months of the tourist season.

High altitude makes you feel woozy or hungover. That’s the simplest and best way I can describe it. If you take Diamox, you’ll need to pee like an infant and also have a funny tingling/ numbing sensation in your finger tips and toes. So while I amuse myself with these nitty gritties, my friends cajole me into drinking bottles of water and hot tea while a guitar strums in the background and the Stok Kangri range appears in the horizon, from our balcony.

For two days, I do what people do in the cities, minus the alcohol—I lounge, go out for coffee and scrabble games, walk around Leh market munching on apricots and generally ponder if I should simply stay put here for the next ten days of my trip. Leh is crowded, dusty and bustling. The throttle of dozens of Royal Enfield motorbikes is a constant murmur against the gurgling canal waters on each street and the buzz of languages from all over the world. One does eye another curiously, knowing that not all would visit Ladakh for what it is; a special bond connects us all.

Interestingly, and quite democratically so, each travel agent’s office has a board outside that has posters and flyers announcing upcoming trips to nearby areas and seats up for grabs in the taxis.

On my third day, I decide to visit Stanzin’s village of Nimoo, located about 30kms from Leh. On the way, I am quite the excited tourist at Magnetic Hill where one can park their car inside painted lines, switch off the engine and wait. The car moves on its own, despite it being a plane surface! A few miles ahead, the confluence of the mighty Indus and Zanskar rivers greets us. The colour of the rivers is muddy, but different on account of their differing temperatures, I am told.

Colourful prayer flags adorn mountains, road sides and all vehicles. It’s almost as if one is trying to make up for the lack of colour on the bare mountains of Ladakh. The two most visible colours here in the summer are bright sky blue and all sort of brown.

Nimoo is a small little village, reached via an extremely noisy metal bridge. Nilza Guest House, a little haven of activity, run by Stanzin and his family is my pit-stop for tonight. I lunch at Shanti Nimoo House where a delightfully chatty Vindu, an Indo-French woman, tells me of her wedding plans in October to a local man.

If you’re a fan of apples and apricots, you must visit or maybe live in Ladakh. Apricot trees are in fruit in August and one can pluck and eat as much as one wants. I did, and had to bear the searing pain in my stomach, but who cares when there is fresh fruit for free?

We party at Nimoo tonight. A bonfire, popcorn, Godfather beer (that’s all you get here), lot’s of food and an army officer are our entertainment till Stanzin’s mother dresses me in a traditional “goncha” – an intricately woven gown, and suddenly, the men want photos with me. I’m definitely not complaining; only wondering if analay (aunty) is serious when she says she took photos of me on her phone for prospective Ladakhi grooms!

Next morning, I am supposed to go rafting but the partying at high altitude has left me tired. I regret partying and not doing the one thing I thought would be so much fun up here. Instead, I head out to see Alchi monastery, Likir monastery and Basgo fort.

My companion and driver for this trip is Tsetan, a shy man who fondly addresses me as “chochulay” (little sister) and is amused by all I say and do. Perhaps fortunately, Tsetan is not much of a guide. I discover that Alchi is the oldest monastery in Ladakh and also the only one built on flat ground. At the end of my trip, I decide it was my favourite, perhaps more so because my visit was not coloured by the monotone of a guide.

Alchi’s bright prayer flags, small doorways and huge Buddha statues leave me wide-eyes and quiet. I decide that I like Manjushree the best, the Buddha of knowledge because he wields a pen like a sword. As we head to Likir, I begin to realize, “I’ve finally made it here”.

At Likir monastery, I hold my breath for over a minute, as I watch monks working on a mandala—a coloured sand art work that I am later told, tourists have to be very lucky to see in the making. Mandalas are small, colourful works of art that require intense concentration, patience and above all, dedication. It teaches me a lesson of life—that passion is at the core of all things beautiful.

I now head to Basgo fort and although, I don’t remember much of it’s history, I do know that the sense of history and thousand-year old tales I felt here was empowering and humbling at the same time. Climbing up to its ramparts, I gaze out at the landscape—poplar trees dot the village of Saspol, long windy roads come out from nowhere, the skies shine a bright blue and the fort stands tall—old but authoritative even now, against it all.

I now realize that most of the views I saw, left me quiet. Almost as if my soul and my mind could barely fathom the meaning of it all, as if I needed to be quiet to hear the answers murmuring inside of me. You can be inside Ladakh, but you can keenly sense the distance this place keeps from tourists, below the surface.

Tonight I meet another Stanzin, the man who will drive me on an almost impossible trip. I am eager to cover Turtok village (near the Indo-Pakistan border) and Tso Moriri lake (near the Indo-China border) in the next four days. This means driving nearly 900 kms over the next four days; equivalent to 8-9 hour drives each day. He agrees to this as we dine in the lovely La Terrase café in Leh market.

Somehow, into my trip, an itinerary is emerging quite on its own. This is both liberating and confusing for me, how chaos weaves sense into our lives, each day.