Escaping from the sweltering heat of Delhi, the airplane flew over the snowclad mountain ranges of Himachal Pradesh, and then ascended to the higher altitudes of the Himalayas.
As it reached Ladakh and landed at Leh, the highest civilian airport in the world, mercury dipped dramatically. From 3°C to 0°C in 15 minutes flat. As we shivered in our light clothes waiting for the heavy woollens to arrive on the conveyor belt, it started snowing outside.
And when we stepped out, the incredible lightness of snow melted in our outstretched palms, sending a sensuous chill down our spines.
Since we had flown in from Delhi, directly to a height of over 11,500 feet, we were advised to take our time to acclimatize. Taking our cue from the snowflakes descending slowly from the heavens, we too did everything in slow motion. Yes, in Ladakh do as the snowflakes do.
Our guide Rigzen was waiting at the car park. As we drove down to his house, we saw entire stretches of land covered in a white, endless shroud that transformed the houses and the farmlands into an amorphous snowscape.
Rigzen's mother was waiting outside her beautiful ancestral house, and she greeted us saying 'Joo-ley!' Her greeting had the same tingling warmth which we were to later experience in the Ladakhi tea she served. Joo-ley, explained Rigzen, is a loaded Ladakhi word that means 'Hello', 'Goodbye', 'Please' and 'Thank You', all in one breath. You have to pick up the meaning from the context.
She took us around her house, and showed us the family's favourite corner that had a large glass window facing the east. It's here that the family would sit basking in the precious rays of the morning sun, sipping the tea that would make them warm within and warm without.
Later she took us to her farm, and shared her family secret. She opened a large wooden lid that was fixed on the ground, and inside we saw dozens of potatoes she had saved for the days of extreme winter. Once the lid was closed, the snowfall would convert her storehouse into nature's own refrigerator, preserving her stock till the next summer.
We had our dinner by 7 in the guest house itself, and as Rigzen opened the door to bid goodbye, a sharp chill entered the room and decided to stay the night. When we asked Rigzen for an electric heater he said he had none as his guest house is given out only in summer. But he brought a stove from his house, and after lighting it, he kept an empty pan on it. Soon the pan became red hot and began spreading warmth. When the room was sufficiently warm, Rigzen said 'Joo-ley' and retired to his house which was a good 200 metres away.
Within 30 minutes, everything changed dramatically. My wife Anita was the first to succumb. In spite of taking deep breaths, she was feeling suffocated. As she felt nauseated, she tried to walk to the wash basin, but couldn't. She was feeling so giddy she couldn't even take one step. She sat down and tried to crawl. Akash, my son, felt as if someone was choking him. I too couldn't breathe and was feeling delirious. I wobbled across to my wife and son, and all three of us lay down on the floor thinking our end is near. We couldn't shout, and in any case it was futile because Rigzen's house was far away, and the lights there were already switched off. We were all about to be knocked off cold, when Akash realized what the problem was.
As we were at an altitude of over 11,000 feet, the oxygen in the room was very little. And whatever little was there, was consumed by the flame of the gas stove leaving us with precious nothing. Akash somehow managed to crawl to the stove and put it off. Then he went to the door and opened it. And a massive blast of cold wind entered the room and after about 10 minutes, we got our breath back. That never-ending night, we lay awake thanking God for helping us live another day.
When Rigzen came to wake us up with the salt-tinged Ladakhi tea, we were dead to the world. It was at around ten that we finally woke up and went to his house, and we told him about our night of horror. He immediately made arrangements for us to move to a hotel with an electric heater.
After that fateful night that was so scary that you don't want to relive even one moment of it, we had a holiday that was so fabulous that you want to relive every moment of it. Such is life.
The next day, we started at the break of the Himalayan dawn, as it was a long drive to Lamayuru. The moment we crossed the outskirts of Leh, a grand spectacle started to unfold in front of our eyes. Mountains after mountains of the great Himalayan splendour passed us by. Each range with a distinct character of its own. There were blue mountains, black mountains, red mountains, white mountains, and a thousand shades in between. With a thousand textures to match.
Every one kilometre the scenes changed dramatically, and every frame looked like a picture postcard. Making even a novice photographer like me look like a master.
As the road turned, we saw a magnificent monastery nestling in the bosom of a barren mountain. And to its either side, as far as the eye could see, there was an undulating series of mountains that's so unlike anything on earth that the Ladakhis call it 'moonland'. And verily they look like the surface of the moon, with an ethereal look about them. That's when Rigzen told us about the legend of Lamayuru. A Buddhist Lama by the name of Yuru was looking for a place to set up his monastery. When he reached this spot, he paused. And said, 'It'll be here, my monastery.' But at that time the entire place was submerged under the waters of the Sindhu river, with just a few craggy peaks floating above it like glaciers. Lama Yuru, invoking his immense spiritual power, ordered the waters to recede and make place for his monastery. And recede they did. The moonscape in Lamayuru looks exactly as if a massive river that was flowing through these mountains receded in a hurry, leaving behind uncanny forms of solidified silt.
When we reached the guest house, our legs were aching from the arduous trek on the slopes of Lamayuru. Rigzen got a large vessel of boiling hot water. As I dipped my tired legs in it, I remembered the 14-km Himalayan trek from Joshimath to Gangriya on our way to Hemkunth Sahib. At Gangriya too, our tired legs rejuvenated with hot water, and our bodies energised by the delicious food at the langar, we had continued our trek to the gurudwara of the last guru of the Sikh panth, joining in the chant of the Sikh pilgrims: 'Satnam, wahe guru!' Soon I was to discover that this chant set in anapaest metre, or the metre of the soldiers' march, does wonders to the rhythm of your climb.
From the blue placidity of the lake in Hemkunt Sahib, we had descended into the vibrant beauty of the Valley of Flowers. Our first sighting was the serene Lotus of Brahma: a large, white flower with a tinge of green that stood out in stark contrast against the wet blackness of an ancient rock. There we had gazed upon a breathtaking valley clad in a delicate drapery of red, white, blue and yellow. Only the dried up Rhododendrons stood there as a sad reminder that we had come there three weeks late. And the grand efflorescence of the Himalayan slopes had already come to its seasonal end. My heart sank thinking that I had made up my mind long ago that I will not visit any place in India twice. Simply because there's so much to see, and just one lifetime to do it. But in the recesses of my heart I still carry a secret wish that for once I will break this self-imposed oath and come back to see the luxurious expanse of the Valley of Flowers covered with the exuberance of the Rhododendrons.
The next day was our much-awaited trip to Khardung La. Of the 17 mountain passes in Ladakh, Khardung La is situated at a height of 17,486 feet, and it's the highest point in the world that's accessible by a motorable road. As we started our climb from 11,500 feet, the drop in temperature and the reduction in oxygen levels were palpable. At the beginning of the last and the most difficult ascent, we came across a military outpost where a convoy of relief vehicles was parked. Those gigantic, olive green Shaktiman trucks, so much an identifiable part of the Indian Army, had a unique feature. They had massive iron chains that formed a net around the rear tyres to give them enough traction to pull out other vehicles that regularly get stuck at the permanent snowland near the highest point in Khardung La.
At the summit, we were disoriented. As the three of us, gasping for breath, communicated with each other in monosyllables, I remembered my son's pet theory of how the names of the Chinese came to be invented. His theory was, to save precious oxygen while addressing each other, they kept their names monosyllabic: Hu, Lao, Li, Kiang, Wang, etc; rather than an elongated, oxygen-draining Anantapadmanabhan!
The sight from the pinnacle was worth every breath we lost. In the distance, way below, was the road we had travelled. It was winding around the blue mountain like the snake around Shiva's blue-throated neck. And above us were the multi-coloured festoons strung across bamboo poles by Buddhist monks, and they fluttered in the cold breeze celebrating the very joy of existence.
Rigzen told us about the extreme weather in Ladakh. In summer, the temperature in one part could be as high as 30°C, and in another, it could be as low as -3°C. So on the same day your face could get a sunburn, and your feet a frost-bite! After one last glimpse at the ephemeral expanse, and after a moment of rest upon the freezing wind, we moved on.
When we reached Hemis Gompa, a deserted structure with the main wooden door slightly ajar beckoned us. And the sight we saw inside can barely be described in words. On either side of the door, Buddhist monks were seated on their pedestals, along with their entourage, facing the stage in front. And on the stage, lit only by shafts of afternoon sunlight beaming through the roof, there was a dance drama being performed. Characters with elaborately painted masks and flowing colourful costumes were moving slowly, and with such measured grace, that it looked as if they were performing in a land where there was no gravity. The mysticism of the whole experience was enhanced by the reverberations of the large Tibetan drums and the deep, sonorous drone of the 10-foot long trumpets.
We don't know how long we were cocooned in that trance. When we did emerge from it, we were greeted by the stares of a hundred monks, which clearly meant that we had witnessed something that outsiders were not allowed to.
In stark contrast, Thiksey Gompa was bubbling with life as the Thiksey Festival was in full swing. Ladakhi men and women, young and old, had ventured from their homes in their festival finery, and were milling about in colourful confusion, as they climbed the steep slopes of the Thiksey hill.
We joined in; and when we reached the top, we found a large number of people already assembled there waiting for the action to begin. Unlike in Hemis, here the performance was meant for public viewing. And perform the actors did, in front of a large, embroidered curtain they call Tangkha, which is unfurled only once in 12 years. It looked like the audience was having the time of their lives, as waves after waves of giggles swept across the courtyard. Young faces, wide-eyed, looking at every passing moment with the wonder of innocence, and old octogenarian faces adorned by deep wrinkles of compassion.
Our next trip was to Pangong Tso, a 130 km long lake of iridescent blue, the kind of blue you would see in the Mediterranean Sea, or nearer home in the Andamans. It was the reflection of the blue expanse that stretched right across the Roof of the World. The edge of the lake was a crusty white, caused by the salt drying up in the sun. Yes, believe it or not, at 17,000 feet above sea level, there was a lake with salt water! Probably proving that the great seismic convulsions that Mother Earth went through during her labour swept up the sea to such great heights, where it remains today as Pangong Tso or the Mountain Sea as the locals call it.
Three-fourth of this tranquil blue extends beyond the Indian borders into the neighbouring Tibet. As I gazed at the mountains that circled this lake and stretched beyond, I realized that oriental mysticism was born right here in the cradle of the mystical mountains of the Himalayas.
And as we made our way back to Leh, we saw those magnificent mountains for one last time. An awesome array of mountainscapes being sculpted by the elemental forces of Nature: the sun, the wind and the water. A never-ending effort that goes on and on, decade after decade, century after century. It was then that I realized why I so passionately believed in rebirth. Yes, it's only to witness the ever-changing grandeur of the ever-changing Himalayas, birth after birth after birth.
