But merely filling up the form is not good enough; it has to have a covering letter saying the same thing "" application for a permit. Then the official concerned has to initial it, after which the permit is signed by the same official. And that's not all "" the papers also need to be stamped. When you are finally through, you realise that no one asked to see any proof of your identity! |
Just outside, a good game of cricket is being played on a bare, grassless field; proof, if more is needed, that between altitude zero and 10,000 ft, bureaucracy and love of the imperial game truly make us one nation.
The road to Ladakh is covered in a jiffy by air. But to get to know it so that it remains permanently with you, the journey is best undertaken by the road from Manali, over three or four days. It is a pilgrimage, whether or not you are a believer. No part of the road it is complete without a couple of Buddhist monasteries, hundreds of years old, testament to man's belief that faith can take you across the most inaccessible of mountains, closer to God. Every bend and bridge on the road is festooned with countless flags calligraphed with prayers, every hamlet and monastery has its mani wall made of stones etched with prayers.
Ladakh is bleak, wintry and rarified, the mountain sides often unbearably grey and ready to crumble any moment. Yet, the permanently blue sky, the silent snow-covered peaks, glaciers with the patience of ages and barren slopes have a beauty that seems to emanate from being closer to the Gods. The endless turning of the prayer wheel, the silhouette of monks trudging up the slope to the gompas at impossible peaks and the cheerfulness of the traveller, despite the lack of oxygen, bear testimony to the search for stark and silent beauty and peace, that transcend progress as we know it.
Ladakh is like this through most of the year. But in the four months of summer, some valleys grow potato, barley and peas; the hardy willow and poplar trees are writing a new chapter in afforestation. The valley along the Chandra in Himachal's Lahul, on the way to Ladakh, is one such stretch of robust green. And Jispa, where most halt for the night, has white sand next to the blue stream, with sentinels of towering mountains behind.
By the time you reach Ladakh, you have encountered more passes than you care to remember, but perhaps the most beautiful comes early on this well-trodden route. The road through Baralacha La, at 16,000 ft, is chiselled out of the snow banked high on both sides. The odd truck behind you seems to emerge straight out of the caverns of snow; the glacial valley on one side seems to have been taking shape over a million years. Suraj Tal, the glacial lake that gives birth to the Bhaga, has off-white and ice-blue colours. The Bhaga meets up with the Chandra to become Chandrabhaga.
You haven't experienced Ladakh without nearly freezing, which you can do to your heart's content if you spend the night in a tent on the green meadows at Sarchu. As evening approaches, the wind gathers speed, to test your mettle. You need determination to go up to the tent that serves as a dining hall also. And at daybreak, just as we eagerly ventured out of the tent to sample the new day, a wetness was added to the cold by a gentle snowy drizzle.
By the time you reach Leh, passing places that have not more than a couple of dozen houses, the capital seems like a huge city. Its main bazaar street is filled with modern cars, cheerful tourists, women selling fresh lettuce on the pavement, at three times the price in Bangalore, and young, trendy girls with Tibetan features who can hold their own in any beauty contest.
Does the little stream by the airforce guest house where we are staying have a name, I ask. It is the Indus, I am quietly told. The river that became a cradle of civilisation starts here, at the roof of the world.
The permit that we sought the first day at Leh was to go to Pangong Tso. It is an incredible lake at 14,500 ft, that you get to after traversing one of the highest wetlands in the world. The 140 km-long salt water lake "" one-third of it is in India and the rest is in Tibet and China "" is a geological marvel, bearing testimony to a prehistoric churning, when the earth folded up to create the Himalayas and took with it a part of the seabed and the sea to boot. The emerald waters change colour as the sun travels across the lake; an army tug gave us a view at sea level as a lone gull tried, and failed, to break the stillness all around. We got up at 4.30 am to see the lake's water catch the sun's first rays. The scene could not have been very different at the end of creation in this corner of the earth.
