When all thats gold, glitters

It is amazing how a city can surprise you when you do not expect much from it. On an otherwise regular journey that comprised of Agra, Varanasi and Dharamsala, we expected to be awed every time we went somewhere. The Taj was expected to be the Taj. Varanasi was expected to be excellent for photo-ops and Dharamsala was expected to be what it was. However, on this journey of comparative religion, we had quite a surprise waiting for us.

The evening Arti in Varanasi. Image Courtesy: Ann Raets

I have never been a great fan of religion. I was never quite keen or quite against it. To each his own. And to me, religion was more of a subject than something that I could actually follow. Moreover, in a country with 6 major religions and a million minor traditions, you would have to forgive my skepticism towards elaborate rituals that are more a show of wealth than a show of faith. Faith itself is hidden somewhere deep inside.

In this aspect, Varanasi itself is quite interesting. Although quite cliched, I have found Varanasi to be quite a fascinating collage every time I have visited the old city. Moreover, taking the boat down the ganges, I see Hinduism for what it really is – a way of life. The fact that it is meant to be this way makes me both proud and ashamed – proud of the fact that such a concept exists, and ashamed of the fact that those in power had twisted it to its current avatar just to suit their profits. Apart from this, it is amazing to see how life revolves and bows down to a river. Maybe Varanasi is one of the few cities to pay homage to something that is so essential. Most great cities are built around a river or a major water source. But most cities have quite forgotten where their water comes from or used to come from. Varanasi is one of the few cities that acknowledges and prays to this fact – and does nothing about it.

From Varanasi we had moved on to Agra and then Amritsar. We had not really expected much from Amritsar. Apart from the symbol or Sikhism, it is not supposed to have much. It does have a symbol of the freedom struggle. But the freedom struggle was in the last century. We have almost forgotten and taken our freedom for granted. Like most places of worship, I had already forecasted what I would see.

Or so I thought. For the Golden Temple is a different world on its own. Gone is the feeling that there are wars going on in some parts of the world. Gone is the memory of the petty squables that we had considered insulting. Gone is the rage that we felt during traffic hours. Gone is the greed we felt when we asked for the salary hike. This was something else altogether – and if I may say so, the closest definition to the divine.

The Golden Temple, Amritsar

The first thing that strikes you is the absence of elaborate shows of faith. Apart from the basic courtesies, everyone prays in the way he or she would like. Some take a dip in the holy water. Some stand in queue to see the holy book. Others just note down the teaching of the day. All that you see are men laughing, women helping the children, people praying in silence and occasionally, the priests reciting verses from the book. The elements of faith to be followed are of one's personal concern and do not need to be shown to others. The people did not jostle for one more minute at the shrines. They did not get any special treatment on account of their wealth. They did not believe in such things. Instead, they went about doing whatever the eye-in-the-sky meant them to do. In a large dining room serving 50000 people a day, you could see people from all walks of life serving and eating. Physically old and mentally young, newlyweds and old couples, the rich and the poor, everyone did his bit to serve food to the other person. Everyone sat on the ground and next to each other. Anyone peeled the vegetables. Anyone cooked the dal or boiled the rice. Anyone made the tea. It was as if “class” had suddenly lost all meaning or reason for existence.

While we were leaving for Dharamsala, my friend told me that it is an amazing feeling to sit there with your eyes closed for 10 minutes and listen to everything around you. He said that he had felt quite at peace after that. Unfortunately, I missed out on that. But it was already quite baffling. The fact that there could be such a utopian practice did not baffle me as much as the fact that such a utopian practice was so simple. Gold itself, seemed to be so crystal clear and simple.

Loitering in Ladakh

Ladakh is a fantasy of the subconscious. You don't just make plans and go there. This is not Agra or Jaipur or Manali where you know what you will get when you get it.


Ladakh is a mystery - a mystery that everyone wants to unravel, but very few rarely do. They say that a car is pulled up the road by magnetism. They say that the river flows in a direction opposite to expected. They say that you can have one foot in the sun and get sunburnt and have the other in the shade and get frozen. They have said a lot.


Whatever follows does not really solve the purpose of solving the mystery but is just a mere attempt at a few short stories involving the place and the people.


Phase 1: Upto the Singula

A fort on the way to Keylong

We started off at Darcha having spent the night in Keylong. The mountains were'nt anything like I had seen before. The Garwhal hills are just amateurs in front of these. The last trek that I had done in the North-East went up to a maximum height of 3. Here, we were starting at 3.5. These were huge. There may not have been a word developed in the dictionary to describe their grandeur. Stark and sometimes covered with snow, they made us feel like ants. Small patches of green could be seen where the God's had mercy to make way for some life. The rest comprised of jagged rocks and huge masses of snow. Now I know what Tom Thumb must be feeling in the real world.


One small river here and there lent dimension to the landscape. We were supposed to camp at the Zanskar Tsungo. But then again, thats for mere mortals. We were in the land of the Gods. And when in the land of the Gods, do what the Gods do. We were supposed to take the more dangerous extension into a valley while the wind blew snow at us. This was like an action comedy. A couple of city people trying to play ball with the mountains. While we braved the elements and faced them like warriors of a lost era, an old man went past us whistling a local tune. Apparently that was not enough to give us a complex. Our guide had to tell us that it would take us 10 days to reach Padum but he would be coming back in 5. All these hill people and their egos. We camped near the river, had our dinner and went off to sleep, vowing never to talk to him again. 5 days it seems. Hauz Khas to Chandni Chowk takes 5 days.


The next day was a short and unusually relaxing one. Since it was snowing, the horses would not go any further and we had to camp somewhere close and pray that the third day runs off smoothly.


The third day was supposed to cross the Singula pass/glacier/whatever. Situated at 5.1, according to our guide it was a "gentle pass" where only a few people die every year. Death itself seems to be a part of life and something worth joking about. Our horseman told us stories about the same, about how he fractured his knee while skiing and fractured the other one three days later, about his shooting experiences with the grizzly bear, the snow leopard and the ibex, about his rescue mission of Belgian woman trapped 23 years earlier, about death and everything nice.

The Singu La: The small black patch in the lower left is us

The pass was daunting. The air was thin. We were constantly being pulled by the snow and sinking in it. The horses were sinking. We had to camp Every 10 meters was a miracle. And every 10 meters was a nightmare. For the pass seemed to grow in size every time we looked at it. The prayer flags on top of it seemed to smirk at us. Losers!! they seemed to be saying. A trapped cow doomed to its own death and the corpse of a donkey did not seem to help. The white beauty seemed cold. When we did finally reach we were humbled - by what we had somehow managed to conquer.


Phase 2: Post Singula


It is interesting how things can change drastically in a matter of hours. As soon as we descended from Singula and came down to dry or rather, non-snow land, we were on a patch of fgreen with the river flowing beside. As per Yuri, "From the look of our campsite it is hard to imagine that we had crossed the Singula". There were patches of green. We could see a few birds around. A media shy yak tried to avoid our Italian friend's prying camera. There were signs of life around us - life and socialising. The remainder of the trek was supposed to be easy - like a stroll in the park - a long stroll.

Our tent before Kirgyak

The next day we moved on to Kirgiak - a day long walk to one of the most picturesque little villages on earth. On the way we met the women and their pashmina-yielding goats and their yak-hair tents. I so wished to steal one of them. The meat would give me a good Sunday brunch and the wool would get me a good woman. Trust me, if there was a secret to good life then this would be it. The village seemed to be straight out of the National Geographic archives. The yoghurt and the tea would make the Hiltons of the world jealous. And the Taj could learn something from the hospitality of the people. The children were excited. The people were smiling and with a small "Juley" you could make them open up their world for you. English is also a good ice-breaker as I found out while photographing a small kid. "The other one is small. This one is big: came from the little connoisseur. Oh, by the way "My name is Tenzin".


From kirgiak we moved on to Gha Zumthang a village comprising of only one home where a maze leads you to one of the coziest little rooms and where the only sound was that of the flapping of the prayer flags. and which almost seemed untouched. The only problem is, according to Geoffroy, that once the road from Darcha to Padum is built, Taj would take over the place and charge 16 grand for a room. The place seemed pristine at present. And with a bidi and plastic chair, you felt like you had just returned from an afternoon of golf (our guide's handicap was 4). Life seemed to be quite settled with golf, cigars/beedis and writing.

The 3 monkeys of Kirgyak

The next day was pretty hectic as we had to cover two stops and end up at Raru by the end of the day. But that did not mean that Zanskar would not give us surprises. A little turn here and a short climb there and out before my eyes unrolled a beach in the middle of the mountains. The beach had not been touched by anything - vodka or russian. It was small, a little like our own private island in the middle of the Caribbean. With the river lapping the shores gently. No matter how much in a hurry we were, we had to sit there and heal our soles (and souls). The cold water was ideal for my sore ankle and the lunch was exclusive with not a soul around to disturb us. Irritated by the fact that we had to leave early, we trudged along to Raru. The village had everything that you would expect from a Mexican village - dusty roads, one sho[, bright kids with a quick thank you, and a few pick-up trucks. We took one to Padum seeing the Bardeng Gompa on the way. The monastery was built on a single hill and inspired awe at the feat of engineering that was the 200 year old structure. We moved on to Padum where the streets had been opened only 12 days earlier.


Phase 3: The drives

Vistas on the way

You know you are in Kashmir when the women are as beautiful as the wild flowers and yellow roses that surround them. When the children are less bothered about the latest fashion & toyas and more about yesterday's cricket match. When fashion is inspired by not how short your clothes are but how they make your face sparkle. When the army can suppress everything bt innocent integrity. When you can take the backseat in respect. A village en-route to Kargil showed us just that. Everything seemed beautiful and pristine enough to be fragile. From the language, to the hospitality, to the women, to the peace. One visit and you realise that the place should be left as it is. May that be the increasing importance of the role of women in work - agriculture, education or religion - as we found out in Kargil. The soothing voice of a lady-imam calling the faithful was as refreshing as the Chelo Kabab, mutton curry and Qawa at "City light surya".Kargil is good to look at during the day, shady at night but the way one would imagine Kabul to be. War seems meaningless in these surroundings.


From Kargil, we moved on to Leh, a city much like Shillong in attracting tourists but different from it in the numerous monasteries surrounding it. The region is dotted by the works of a monk who wanted to build 108 monasteries starting from Tibet on his way into India. Each is unique in design and colour and feel. While one makes you feel like you're on the sets of "The last Samurai", the other makes you feel on top of all you survey. Life is relaxed and every monastery seems to have its own monk-dog, one that does not say anything and is not bothered by worldly matters but spends its time meditating, walking and sleeping.


Leh is dotted by people from around the world trying to seek Nirvana in a variety of ways - cycling from Manali and back, travelling to the Nubra valley, tripping to the monasteries, or just eating momos and drinking beer. Its interesting to talk to random people around and here their stories. Pilgrims from everywhere seeking solitude in the mountains.


Endnotes


There is a lot that has not been said about my trip. There is a lot that has to be still seen in the region. There is a lot of the place that is incomplete. There is an entire lifetime that I can spend in this place. Zanskar and its peripheral regions have a pull that cannot be put down in words. It has to be seen, to be felt. Before the trip everyone had told me mysteries about the place. I knew it would be a marvel in terms of spirituality and otherwise. At the end of the trip all I have to say is this - If you have the availability of going to Vaishno Devi then go to Ladakh. Why walk all the way to see an insignificant idol when you can marvel at the work of Gods. The journey will be in a different world and life will not remain the same again. Julaiy