Thus spake the hills of Ladakh

“The hills are alive with the sound of music”, or so I always thought. My visit to Ladakh changed that perception forever. The ear-splitting silence of the brown, rugged mountains echoed throughout the journey, opening my eyes to a lot more than the snow-capped peaks in the distance, the lush green patches of grasslands around Thikse and horses strutting along a crystal stream near Pangong Lake.
I was meant to visit a sister lost in her calling helping special people cope with the rigours of existence in the mountains. But from the moment the Jet Airways airplane touched the tarmac at Leh and the pilot announced the altitude, the cold morning breeze that passed through me was full of a message... here was something that would change my life.
After a rest that seemed to stretch into eternity more because of my excitement than the prolonged three hours, the hot gur gur chai (a pink tea with salt and Amul butter that makes a gur gur sound as it is made!!) pulled me back to my feet. With utter disregard for the blazing July sun, I set out to explore the house. Now, that was some fun. What with a ‘sun room’ (with what else but access to bright sunshine on a cold afternoon), bright, pretty flowers, wooden walls and a nice well-kept garden, it seemed like a house out of a picture book.
The first day was devoted to the neighbourhood, because of what my sister claimed could be an attack of altitude sickness. And then, there was no stopping us. We walked around the city of Leh, meeting her friends, sipping gur gur chai where offered and licking softees at other places. The quaint homes, the view of the mountains no matter where you stood, and at nightfall, the dense carpet of stars spreading across the universe — every step was a revelation.
But what was most disquieting at first, and which I grew to love by the time I was ready to leave, was the silence.
The people, though, were far from silent. The shopkeepers greeted tourists, particularly foreigners, with a friendly ‘juley (hello!)’, loudspeakers blared rhythmic chants, drivers blew horns as they sped through the narrow zigzag roads. But despite that, the mountains seemed to have enveloped the whole world in a shroud of stillness.
At night, the old fort in the middle of the town sent off eerie lights, as if twinkling with the reminiscences of the lives of kings and queens long dead and gone.
When we went visiting villages in Ladakh, there was more thand the scenic beauty to be enjoyed. There were some lessons to be learnt as well.
I met a differently-abled 10-year-old who had to be carried to and fro her house and school by her brother, until the students decided to get together to make it easier for her and her parents by building a path across the intermittent streams and the stony slopes.
I visited a village where people had to hike four hours across a mountain to reach any semblance of civilization. Loads of wood on their back only contributed to the strength of their spirit. I miserably failed when it came to transporting my little knapsack on the same journey!
I also met a man who had lost all his limbs when he was a child. For a living, he made paper packets with his mouth; and for life, he taught others to do the same with a smile on his weather-beaten face.
(Today, Ka Iqbal is one of the recipients of the CNN IBN Real Heroes Award for his role in helping make physically challenged people self-dependent. http://ibnlive.in.com/videos/111527/handicapped-ladakh-man-seeks-new-challenges.html)
I met children who carried huge buckets of water day in and day out from a stream almost two kilometres from their house. I also met people young and old, travelling on foot, no matter whether it was hot or cold. And through it all, they smiled and sang, in a language I tried hard to relate to. But probably, the comfort of an urban upbringing had dimmed my vision and closed my ears.
Watching over all this, were the huge, barren mountain ranges, towered over by azure skies, each more lifeless than the other. Yet, each seemed to be belittled by the power of human courage, which had strived not just to survive the difficult terrains and weather, but also to live a meaningful life.
Oftentimes I wonder if I am insensitive to not want to go back to Ladakh and serve these Titans of courage. Then, a voice calls out from the depths of my existence. Every time I crib about the heat or the pollution, about a headache or a muscle pull, I give silent thanks to the almighty spirit of humanity that I do not have to trek across an endless mountain with a huge bundle of logs on my back to return to the warmth of a gur gur chai and a cozy bukhari.

(Written some time between my Ladakh trip in June 2002 and August 2006)