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road to khardung-la

By Author: Ajit Harisinghani
E-mail: singingyogi@yahoo.com

Submitted on Friday 22nd April 2005

A Solo Motorcycle Journey to the Higher Himalayas It has rained the night before and the morning air retains a degree of chill. Sunrise is still an hour away. I open up the visor of my helmet to welcome the feel of cold breeze rushing over my face but in the bargain also have to contend with the loud gushing sound that accompanies it. That doesn’t feel too comfortable so I cast my vote for silence and pull the visor down to again become enclosed in my capsule-like helmet which cuts off noise and lets exhaled air, circulating in an enclosed space, warm up my face. A faint wisp of mist all around limits visibility, and traffic is sparse this early in the morning. I am headed north on NH4. The highway is taking me through a suburb in the making. Yellow excavators and other building equipment await another day of hectic activity. Roads are being laid. New buildings, which look like boxes of blue glass sprouting on a lawn of concrete, dominate the landscape on either side of the highway. “Times….. They sure are a’changing…..” What was green and brown agricultural land a few years back; where ears had once heard the tinkling of bells as oxen helped plough the farmland, it is now the reign of the internal combustion engine. A fast moving Volvo bus is overtaking me on my right and abruptly my focus shifts to the NOW. ***

These initial minutes of a ride are a period of adjustments. I stand up on the footrests and let the trousers settle to their natural fall. The thin chamois leather gloves take their time settling down comfortably over my fingers. These gloves are old and shaded dark with patches of dried grease and sweat accumulated over previous rides. I have a brand new pair waiting to be used but they need to be broken in and for a long trip such as the one I’m on, I’ve preferred to play conservative and put my faith in this old pair. The heart, at its own 72 beats a minute cannot, at first, keep pace with the much faster beat of the engine, but I try out a variety of mental calibrations and soon the equation is adjusted to read 1 heart beat=4 engine beats. There… the ‘dhuugh… dhuugh… dhuugh…” of the 4-stroke engine is now also the beat my body is synchronized to. The soothing, low frequency sound forms the background canvass on which thoughts are allowed a free run. One cluster of thoughts settles down to monitoring the overall health of the motorcycle on a real-time basis and remains alert to any sign of deviation from its current peak mechanical condition. I am glad I opted for the streamlined saddlebags, which have been loaded and checked for balance on a sample ride the previous evening. The heavier spares and tools have been divided and packed for easier accessibility. On the highway, you don’t want to open up the entire bag because the small spanner you need to tighten the brakes is inconveniently packed. The mechanic in me is processing a variety of other inputs. Do the tires maintain the right amount of spring in their step? Are the clutch and accelerator cables gliding smoothly in their casings? Do the brakes feel okay? Are the tappets still on friendly terms with the actions of the piston? It is too early in the ride for things to start going wrong with the motorcycle and such monitoring will gain importance only as the days add on. All questions answered for now, these motorcycle-connected thoughts fade from center stage to be replaced by another cluster, which is focused on rider-status. Is the body sitting in natural bilateral alignment? Are the muscles of the forearms holding the handle with more than necessary effort? It’s going to be a long ride and tiny muscular stresses can build up over a period of time to become major points of contention. The intelligence, innate in any ‘body’, can handle such issues quite easily. All I have to do is allow it, and trust it, and not get too involved in ‘body-gossip’. To this end, I have delegated all ‘body’ duties, so each organ can take care of itself and move in synchrony with its ‘colleagues’. No complaints or pleas for help will be entertained, be they from tired muscle groups, finicky taste buds or sore eyes. I have declared that all such queries will be considered only a month from now, when I am sleeping in my own bed, back in Pune. Sometimes such ‘martial law’ announcements are required to keep all the millions of cells (which constitute this miracle of a body) functioning in some sort of physiological harmony. I cannot have mutiny on board! But neither will I push my ‘subjects’ to their limits of endurance. I am a benevolent, loving dictator (doesn’t every dictator think that?). I will rest frequently. Every fifty minutes or so, I will stop to re-hydrate the body machine. Body moisture will evaporate more rapidly in the dry heat of the plains of central India. Water is an elixir that I carry in adequate supply. Food is to be kept simple and to a minimum. Too much food can make the stomach and its satellite organs work harder, and the heart and liver are not going to like that either. I carry a supply of supplementary vitamins but two days into the ride, I realize I am not taking any and discard them along the way. No, I don’t throw them away. Just hand them over to a passing soul who can use them to better advantage. Also, I have promised Meena I will not liter! Other fundamental commandments have been agreed upon. I will ride only in daylight and will let the progress of the day’s ride decide where I will sleep for the night. I remind myself that I’m not in a race and there is no one awaiting my arrival anywhere!

*** Anything can happen when one is planning to take a motorcycle over 4300 kilometers of roads from sea level to Khardung-La, the world’s highest motor-able road at 18,380 ft. But nothing did! Happen, I mean. Not to the bike, anyway. With only minor carburetor re-adjustments for the rarer air supply at high altitudes and some brake tightening, my lovely black beauty performed with precision and without complaint over smooth roads and rough roads and even where there were no roads – only slush.

But I came back from the trip an old man. I had been brainwashed! And almost everyone I met on the road seemed to be part of an unspoken national conspiracy! The young army jawan who was back in his Himachal village and couldn’t stop emphasizing how unique it was for him to see a ‘buzurg’ (elderly person) riding an Enfield all the way from Pune and going on to the wild terrains of Ladakh; the 3 German guys in the Srinagar parking lot, riding in a group were amazed that I was doing the 4300 kms. bike ride alone; and a host of army personnel, tea-shop owners, dhaba-cooks, and everyone else’s cousin too - all, in their own way, made me feel I was doing something very unusual for someone “my age”. It took me 2 weeks after my return home to de-brief myself. *** In April 2004, as the plan began to take shape, my 12-year old daughter Juhi asked me why I was doing it. Was I trying to prove that I was still ‘young’ enough? What exactly was propelling me on to this long journey? I didn’t know the answer to that one myself. It was just a thought that grew on itself. A weeklong bike trip to Goa when I had ridden from Calangute Beach to Pune (450 kms.) in 12 hours had triggered the desire for a longer ride. Gradually the idea hatched. “Go to Ladakh” the hatchling whispered! In retrospect, I realize that I never did ask myself whether or not I’d actually be able to do it. I don’t know what my answer would have been. Ask no questions and be told no lies! Just Do It! (Thanks Nike). Age…is a mysterious entity… and although it has a lot to do with the natural state of progression of the body-material as it moves from birth to death, ‘age’ is only a concept for the mind. In today’s world, obsessed as it mostly is with the physical, we look upon our bodies as indicators of our self-image. A 50 years old man looks in the mirror, sees his thinning white hair and tells himself he should now act and behave like a grown-up. He drops his spontaneous child-like qualities, curtails singing romantic songs in the bathroom, and begins to develop a serious demeanor. Society encourages him in this role by providing ‘perks’ due to the elderly. Young women touch his feet and ask for blessings! And the most comfortable chair always becomes available to him! All this quietly but surely reinforces the idea that one has indeed grown old. It’s a sweet, comfortable honey-trap, easy to fall for. But it is a trap which first overpowers the mind. The body then follows suit and begins to respond as an ‘old’ man’s body would.

A group of elderly men were asking a doctor whether or not they should go for a complete health check-up, ‘just to make certain they were in good physical shape’. The experienced doctor responded, “Do you feel passionate about something or someone? Because if you do, you are in great shape. But if there is nothing that thrills you or makes you laugh, if you no longer sing in the bathroom, if all you are concerned about is security, you might as well have already expired (but don’t know it!)”. There are many dead men walking the earth, only apparently alive.

My work involves facilitating attitudinal changes in young adults and I frequently encounter some very ‘old’ men aged 25! But I’m digressing (must be getting old!). Let’s get back to the trip. ***

Everyday, I found myself ticking off one more item on my list of “Things to do”. Two months of cycling with a regular half-hour at the University gym; eating lots of nutritious food to store up energy, and surfing the web for information on the Manali – Leh road kept my thoughts centered on the journey. Not being particularly clever with motorcycle mechanics, I spent some hours at the workshop where Ramesh instructed me on basic, on-the-road emergency maintenance. Like most motorcycle mechanics in India, Ramesh is a self-taught, hands-on guy who showed me how easy it was to replace snapped brake, accelerator or clutch cables. Together we installed the new electronic timing device, which made setting the points redundant. Even the fairly involved process of changing worn-out clutch-plates now looked like something I could handle, if I needed to. I also learnt how to replace a punctured tube. My spares included two extra tubes and a special lever needed to snap the tire off the wheel rim. I bought a new foot-pump.

On the web, I met a group of young bikers who also wanted to ride to Leh. An itinerary evolved through e-mails and phone calls. The plan was to meet up with 4 other riders in New Delhi and ride together all the way to Leh and then on to Srinagar and finally Jammu. By a series of coincidences, the plan did not work for me. The other bikers moved as a group all the way but I found myself riding alone throughout the trip. Riding with a group provides tremendous support to each member and the reasons are obvious. Aside from being mentally reassured that help is available in case of an accident or mechanical malfunctioning of the bike, a group provides evenings full of entertainment. Songs, humour, and good company can do wonders for the fatigued body after a hard day’s ride and I missed out on that. Stopping on the side of a long and isolated stretch of a Himalayan road, I frequently felt the need to have someone to exchange ideas with (and to take pictures with me in them!!). But it was only me, my bike and a sky named blue!

But there were some advantages in riding alone too. And these revealed themselves slowly, in subtle and mysterious ways. At times, riding those high-altitude, snow-laden mountain passes, with not a soul in sight; a feeling of alone-ness cast its spell over me. I felt like the only person on Planet Earth! As when I passed a pristine Suraj Tal lake, nestled in the crotch of snow-topped mountains, just before the Baralacha-La pass at 16,500 ft. An ethereal scene, with me to experience it, all alone! There was no one around to applaud my ascent and no one for me to tell how thrilling it felt. No one, but the wind, blowing in firm gusts, which touched my chilled skin and welcomed me to participate in a cosmic dance. The awesome peaks, stark against the background of an amazingly blue sky, littered with tufts of angel-white clouds, no life forms in sight, - no birds, no insects, nothing.

Stillness. My consciousness vibrating to the celestial beat. Powerful yet benevolent natural forces, which could crush me without effort but chose not to! At such moments, I could only surrender to the bliss and be enthralled. Someone later suggested that this euphoria could be altitude-related (by now I was at 17,600 ft.), and maybe it was, but being alone was an integral part of the experience.

Riding alone one can think in the singular! And feel secure in the singular! One doesn’t have to think conventional thoughts. Traveling in a group, one inevitably develops a group think-ism, always conscious of being accountable to the group and in return, expecting similar accountability. A group is a life-support system… Maybe that was what I was running away from! My insured life-style in Pune, where I went to bed feeling safe and woke up feeling secure! In his book ‘Keynote’, JRD Tata says : “Live Life a little dangerously”. And there were some moments of such ‘little dangers’. Being stuck in the 2 feet deep, icy cold river (formed by glacier-melt as it rushed over the road to Khardung-La); and being rushed at by a horde of dangerous looking men on the Srinagar-Jammu highway were two such times. But my perverse desire to be kidnapped by “militants” and held for ransom was to remain unfulfilled! Well…win some, lose some! Up in the Himalayan passes, I had stumbled upon the reason for my trip! *** Back on the road:

Only two hours into the ride, I pass through the Western Ghats. These hills are densely forested with steep slopes that make it ideal for silvery white rainwater to cascade and leap downward towards the gradually swelling river below. The valleys are verdant green with a smattering of rich crimson Flame of the Forest trees. The day has started to warm up. The old tar highway gleams, intermittently flashing brilliance when its broken stone edges catch the slanting rays of the rising sun. *** At Charoti Naka (crossing), I get off the highway and turn westwards towards the sea. Groves of tall palms line both sides of the road and with the sun playing hide-and-seek behind them, I am highlighted in strobe. Caught as it also is in the fast-ranging current of ‘development’ that is sweeping across this region, Dahanu seems to be trapped between two worlds. Only two hours away is the bustling metropolis of big-city Mumbai and Dahanu cannot remain immune to its influence. With faster trains and better roads, Dahanu now takes pride in calling itself a suburb of Mumbai. At least, that’s what the real-estate brochures say. With the Manor forest on its east and the Arabian Sea to its west, Dahanu has a sizable tribal population. I pass through a crowded market where colourfully decked up Adivasi women with baskets full of chickoos vie for attention with the boisterous fisher women who have platters of fresh fish to sell. Brilliantly white teeth framed in sun burnt black reflect light off the setting sun. There is a vibrant energy in the air. What is it that makes laughing so easy for these women? Surely they have their poverty and alcoholic husbands to contend with? Every spiritual leader speaks of the magical powers of living in the present. Discourses extol the virtues of living in the NOW. But we, the educated and prosperous who have elephantine memories of our pasts and big plans for the future can only grasp this ‘be here now’ philosophy as a theoretical concept and are unable to convert this knowledge to everyday reality. In contrast, those uninitiated into our modern, improvement-obsessed world, are always in the NOW. Their lives are lived on a day-to-day basis. With simple needs easily met (on most days), these tribals find it easy to smile. They have no thought of the future because they know their tomorrow will not be much different from the day they’ve just lived. Every evening, the men and the women imbibe the potent palm liquor (toddy) which helps them round off yet another day in their lives. As I walk past the now empty market place later in the evening, I see a prosperous, but worried-looking shopkeeper scowl at a young tribal girl who wants to buy just 50 gms. of oil to cook her family’s evening meal.

The second day’s was a longer 440 kms. ride to Ahmedabad. After an initial lovely 100 kms., as the widened highway passes through

I came on to the chemical-industrial towns where the Narmada begins to break down into a delta carrying effluent waste of vivid colours into the Arabian Sea.

The ride to Ahmedabad is filed under ‘insipid’ in my cerebral hard disk. The weather was hot, those two days in Ahmedabad and I was glad to leave it on the 14th., bound for Mt. Abu about 150 kms. away. Except for the fact that it was cooler, Mt. Abu was a disappointment. Commercialized to cater to tourists who come to drink the alcohol they cannot in neighbouring, ‘dry’ Gujarat; the one redeeming feature of Mt. Abu is the fabulous Dilwara Temple – an ancient marvel of carved marble. It opened for visitors everyday 12 noon but the riding-fever was on and it propelled me to move! I descended Mt. Abu at 6:30 am, bathing in the early morning sunlight on the state-highway to Ajmer - a fabulous ride. Around noon, it got toasting hot at 45 degrees C but these roads, winding through the blazing desert sands, are a biker’s delight. Stopping frequently to quench my thirst with cups of superb tea, I met people I normally wouldn’t in my city avatar. My digital camera became a popular attraction at road-side tea shops and made me friends, fast and easy. Everyone loves to see his own picture instantly!

Sitting on a charpai at one such tea-stall,

I saw an old man, dressed in green, cycling away and decided I wanted to meet him. I finished my tea and soon overtook him, rode on a bit ahead to a culvert and waited for him to arrive. Soon I sighted him cycling towards me with effortless grace. At first glance, it would be easy to mistake him for a bone-thin, weak old man. But as he got closer, it became apparent that his wiry, muscled limbs appeared thin only because there was no fat on them. His hard muscled legs pedaled the cycle, but in the hazy glare of the sun reflecting off the shiny road, he himself seemed to be floating towards me with the ends of his long white beard fluttering in the slight breeze. After some initial hesitation, he alighted and put his cycle up on its stand. His cycle, an older model of the most common design, with its traditional handlebar curved at each end and its old-fashioned rear carrier caught my interest. It said so many things about the personality of its owner. Spotlessly clean and well lubricated, it had space for a jerry can of water, rolled up bedding and a large bag, which surely held all the tens of small, but important items a traveler would need on an Indian road. A hammock made of an old gunnysack was ingeniously suspended below the front bar and carried his food without squashing it! A rear-view mirror and an Indian flag shared the space on the front handle with a largish written notice on a tin plate, which had information about his trip. He was 66 years old and cycling from Vasai (near Mumbai) to Ajmer and then on to Mecca. His entire demeanor exuded loving peace. A bubble of bliss seemed to hover all around him. But it was his eyes that held my attention. I felt locked in their benevolent gaze. “Baba”, I said to him, “kuch kahiyee (say something)” He began to talk of the benevolence of the Almighty and I realized that I was in the presence of a saint. He refused to take money and only after some heart-felt, but hindi-filmi-sounding-dialogues (“Babaji, Kuch mera nahi hai…Aatee, jaatee maya hai”, etc.) did he accept what I gave him.

That day he was planning to cover 100 kms. at 15 kmph. all the way to Pali. Before continuing on his journey, the venerable man raised both arms heavenwards and said a prayer for my safety. A genuine Sufi king, traveling incognito! Oh.. wondrous India! Where else would I have met someone like this Babaji? But not all ‘sadhus’ I met were saints! Later on, that same day, I felt the brakes needed some tightening, and stopped under the shade of a wide banyan tree, squatted to take out my tool-kit and looked up to see two ‘sadhus’, complete with ash and iron chains staring at me. These two were at the business end of wearing saffron. Not satisfied with the money I gave them anyway; they started hounding me for more. Enough for one kilo of pure ghee, which they promised to use in a yagna to generate good luck for me on the trip! Exasperated, I told them I’d bring them the finest Yak ghee from Ladakh and kick-started the engine to ride on. The ride from Ajmer to Jaipur became a test of endurance. With much of the new highway still under construction, ‘diversions’ were the flavour of the day. Traffic was heavy. NH-8 is the lifeline of the country and brimming full with heavily laden trucks carrying everything from steel and stone to finished industrial goods. By 4 pm, the sand began to blow across the road and found access to my nose and eyes! That day, those hot 480 kms. from Mt. Abu to Jaipur had painted me black in skin and spirit. Too tired to find better accommodation, I settled for a seedy highway lodge. An un-remembered dinner later, slumber land opened its gates and let me enter. My last thought that day was “Phew…what a ride!” But I did not know what was in store. The Manali-Leh road was waiting! The 250 kms. ride from Jaipur to Delhi was uneventful; the road being nice, wide, flat and not quite so interesting. Delhi was a hot-house at over 40C and I was anxious to leave it almost as soon as I had arrived! My host in Delhi told me about a fantastic chalet in Kasol (near Manali) where his friend had rooms available and I gave in to the temptation of an easier ride via Chandigarh to spend a restful 3 days in the lap of Mother Nature. Riding past Chandigarh on the by-pass, I got a feel of the prosperous and aggressively generous ambience of Punjab. The roads were good but not wide enough for the light and heavy vehicles, zipping past each other with not much room to spare, Not the kind of riding a biker enjoys. The sight of 3 fresh accidents (one fatal) did nothing to make me alter my defensive-minded riding and by the time I approached the foothills of the Himalayas, I was anxiously looking for a place to stay the night. Hotels along the road, sparse as they were, had rates I didn’t feel like affording, so I kept on riding. At a chai shop, the sardar-owner interrupted the brushing of his long hair, his cupped palm holding hair-oil, and told me about the gurudwara at Kirtanpuri where I could stay the night for free. And so I did. The beautiful white gurudwara was placed across a small gushing river and just as I passed over the bridge, a swarm of craig-martins did a fly-past over my head. A good omen! The guy who gave me my room-key advised that I park the motorcycle with me in the room – I first thought he was joking but he wasn’t! I had thought that a gurudwara would be a safe place and he assured me it was. The actual reason became apparent when at around 9 pm, ten bus-loads of Sikh families from various locations in rural Punjab descended on the gurudwara and pretty soon occupied every inch of the corridors ( no rooms were available by then). After an initial settling-in hour, they all quietened down into sleep. The silence disturbed only by a lone snorer who sang his hoarse lullaby to the rest of us! Kirtanpuri is at the very base of the first climb towards Manali and just 20 minutes into the climb, the bike began to demand attention. The engine was being starved of air. I stopped to adjust the carburetor settings with over 50 small and big langoors for an audience! Some made faces at me while others sprinted around to get a better seat. It was a panoramic setting; rolling green hills, interspaced with ploughed brown farmland and with the snow-laden higher mountains, white in the backdrop. Then it began to rain and the road became messy. I detoured through a longish tunnel and came up to the turn off which would take me to Kasol – 30 kms. off the road to Manali. This being my first experience of the rough, mountain roads, a sense of apprehension came over me. The heavy rain did not help and I crawled up the stony mountainside road at a snail’s pace, finally reaching Kasol in the early evening. Kasol delivered all it had promised, and more. Alpine Crest was right next to the River Parvati, which was in gushing form. The roar of the river masked all other sounds and formed a canvass even for my dreams! Those three nights in Kasol, I dreamt of oceans and waterfalls. And made frequent trips to the toilet! Next day’s ride took me to Manikaran, only 4 kms. away, where hot springs and the massive gurudwara are the places to visit. The narrow bridge connecting the gurudwara to the road, hung over my dream-mate: the Parvati river.

‘Tranquil’ is the word to describe the road to Manali. Through dense forests of towering trees, with the fragrance of Deodars in the air, this ride had ecstasy written all over it. I slow down to let a large, plump mongoose mother with two young ones cross the road but halfway across, she loses nerve and turns around to rush back to where she started from.

Frequent stops to flirt with the cows and sheep (which were crossing the road) and an omelet/paratha and two cups of tea later, I entered Manali.

Manali could very well be re-named “Hotel-Alley”. Every standing structure is a hotel! But the ambience was good and the rates reasonable and I found a room, next to the River Beas for only Rs.150/- a day.

Spent a joyous day strolling the streets of this tourist town. The road from Manali to Rohtang Pass is nicely paved and so packed with tourist traffic that it could very well have been the busy Ring Road of the capital. The atmosphere was carnival. Noise from tape-recorders mingled with fumes from 1000 diesel vehicles, the smell of chole-parathe from the dhabaas, the cries of balloon sellers, the excited yelps of children enjoying their pony-rides! But once past the Rohtang, the ambience changed as if by magic! A lone silence took over. Not a soul in sight for long stretches of the road, I was alone at last! And now I could think.

A pair of large white eagles circles overhead in an aerial ballet, often merging with the white of the clouds, which only emphasized the absolute blue-ness of the sky. I had mentally traveled this road when reading the write-ups previous travelers had posted on the internet. But now that I was actually on it, the road spoke to me one-to-one. I didn’t know roads could talk. This one did, exuding warmth and welcome. Moving away from habitation at 30 kmph, with the next town Khoksar still hours away, my new friend kept me entertained through road-signs to make me laugh and keep alert. With my mind almost tranced-out, overwhelmed by the newness of the locale, I came to Khoksar, a sparse habitation with a few shops and shelters on either side of the road. Here, I had my first of the ‘dal-rice’ meals, which is staple food on the road to Leh.

100 kms. from Manali is Tandi, a significant dot on the map because here is where one tanks up on petrol. An ominous sign has warned me that there is no petrol available over the next 375 kms. but I have been alerted to this through the grapevine on the web and have come prepared. The gas station is a desolate single-pump affair but the attendant is friendly and helps me top up 14.5 liters in the tank and also fills the two extra cans I’ve been carrying on the special carrier I got fitted in Karol Bagh, New Delhi. River Bhaga keeps me company as I enter Keylong just 8 kms. away from Tandi. Keylong surprises me with its size and modernity. There is a BSNL tower to give good connectivity on my mobile. There are shops selling just about everything – from food, fruits, vegetables, to consumer goods like TVs and refrigerators. There are Chinese-food restaurants and schools with smiling children dressed in vivid uniforms. Keylong looks like a ‘happening’ place. I would have liked to stay here a while longer, but Darcha which is to be my halt for the night, is still 40 kms. away and I want to reach it before night-fall. Darcha will never qualify if its ‘night life’ one is talking about! With just about 2 tent–hotels and a police check point (another tent), Darcha was a desolate place. The Himachal policeman asked me to go inside the police station to register my passage. When asked why, he explained that it helps them trace riders in case they are lost. Since time was all we had, he elaborated with a story of the month before when two foreigners had been killed and their embassies had wanted such details.

My accommodation that night was a large tent operated by a Tibetan couple. The menu for dinner again listed the same dal-rice combo but I facilitated that with some Old Monk rum and was content to go into sleep before the clock struck 9. Getting up at 2 in the morning to purge myself of some liquid, I walked towards the river with light from the nearly full moon. The scene was ethereal – the peaks all around highlighted against the golden lit sky! But it was cold and I had to return to the warmth of the tent within the hour. When morning dawned, I quickly ate a noodle breakfast and kicked my faithful Enfield to life. Everyone I had read on the web had said that the ride from Darcha to Sarchu was a tough one. Apprehensive as I was at the beginning of the day’s ride, I would later be able to classify it as one of the most exciting of the trip.

The road took me to barren Patsio before beginning to climb. Suraj Tal, a lovely blue lake appeared rather suddenly after one of the bends on the gravel-topped road. Glacier melt had washed out some sections of the road, and icy water ran over some patches, but I had covered my socks with plastic bags and my feet were warm and dry as I crossed the Baralacha-La Pass (16,500 ft.), surrounded by 12 snow-laden mountain peaks which had given it its name. On the north lay the Lake Yunan Tso.

With these peaks for company, the road guided me to the wide-open spaces of Sarchu. Sarchu had a few tents that beckoned the weary traveler. But it was still early afternoon and I continued to ride ahead to the 21-Gata Loop road, which took me heaven-ward rather quickly. Riding the Gata-Loops was easy and enjoyable- the curves sharp but safe. An army tow-truck was waiting at one corner to assist any vehicle unable to execute the steep climb and I felt secure as I finally reached the top. Soon I was at the Lachlang-La Pass (16,500 ft.) where I stopped to soak in the silent scenery. It was cold up there even at 3 in the afternoon. Cupping my palms, to light a cigarette, I heard the wind shout out my name. “Ajit?” it enquired. For a while I was certain the altitude had altered my brain cells (they had warned me about this!) but the call was repeated. I looked around to see a young woman coming towards me with a smile on her face. The specter seemed packaged in flesh and skin and wasn’t transparent! “Hi” it said. Taiyaba and her husband Idris were on a smaller 100 cc bike and she had had to walk up the steep road to relieve the load on the engine. She had recognized me from my picture on a write-up of a previous biking trip, which was posted on the web! Idris soon chugged towards us and finally I had someone to take a picture with me in it!

Later, at Pang, I would share the tent with the couple and Martin (who was traveling with them on his own 100 cc). The freak meeting had released palpable good vibrations between the four of us. The trio was from New Delhi and we had much to talk over our dinner that evening. Pang had 4 tents and we chose the first one in line. The Tibetan women operating this Pang-Hilton(!), quickly and cheerfully dished out a meal (the inevitable dal-rice special) while at the same time taking care of their smiling chubby 1 year old. It was a healing experience to see such happiness in this cold and desolate land. When I woke up the next morning, my roommates were still asleep. Loading and securing my bags was by now an oft-repeated, streamlined operation and with just one cup of tea in my belly, no breakfast, I was on the road, climbing towards Tanglang-La, the highest pass on the Manali-Leh road at 17,680 ft.

But first there were the Morey Plains to cross. The 45 kms. road ran arrow straight on a wide tableland between two mountain ranges with broad stretches of sand on either side. The ride lured me with initial promise; it was bright and sunny to begin with. But within minutes, the scene changed. Sand began whirling itself into tall thin dust devils over 50 feet high. In retrospect, it was a miraculous sight but that morning, I was hungry and looking for a place to breakfast and overwhelmed by the scale of it all. I was also a bit scared. Midway through, I saw a lone Tibetan man, dressed (as they all are) in a maroon gown, sitting all by himself by the roadside. Probably a shepard, but there were no sheep in sight. A snow cloud was forming up ahead which seemed to have a life of its own. It approached me rather quickly and soon my jacket changed colour from brown to white! I was covered with wispy light snowflakes, which melted almost as soon as they landed on me. Frequently wiping the visor of my helmet with my gloved hands, I slowed my pace and crept up.

The narrow, gravelly road lined with snow, seemed endless in its steep climb to the Tanglang-La peak, which became visible from a distance. When I finally stood the bike on its stand at T-top, it was only 11:30 in the morning but I had been riding 5 hours on an empty stomach and I wanted food! Digging around in the numerous pockets of my high-altitude jacket, my fingers discovered some half-eaten chocolate, which I munched rather greedily!

The army-man who took my picture told me I’d get lunch at Rumtse, which was only 30 minutes away. Making quick obeisance to the deity at the temple nearby, I rode down to my first meal of the day. After Rumtse, the ride became easy. I had reached the higher plains of Ladakh. Upshi was 60 kms. away and Leh another 50, but after Tanglang-La, this well maintained, flat road was a breeze and it was only 5 pm when I entered the capital city of Ladakh. Hey! I had reached Leh!

Another set of cosmic rules seems to apply here. More benign, but aloof, the Buddhist denizens of Leh seem to be at peace with themselves and the world around them. Ancient faces etched with history glide by, whirling the Tibetan wheel, lost in their private Shangri-Las. Friendliness is in the air and smiles are easy to come by, but hotels are not! I have planned my arrival to coincide with the annual Hemis festival and Leh is packed with tourists from all over the world. Nowhere to stay! As a contingency plan for just such a situation, I have army support to fall back on and within the hour, I am comfortably ensconced in the officer’s mess of the Indian Air Force Station. Ah! The luxury of a hot bath! The mess-orderly assures me the dinner won’t be dal-rice tonight! And there is a broad, clean bed to sleep on! Life feels good, these first hours in Leh, where the evening stays lit – first by the slow fading sunlight and then by the emerging moonlight which filters in through the window of the warm, insulated room. Seems like a lifetime ago that I was in ‘big city’ Manali. I can actually feel the stress draining out from my muscles. I drift into a state of blissful delirium. I am a river flowing past forests and mountains. I am the wind sweeping through snow-laden peaks. I am silence. I am …… asleep. *** When I wake up early next morning, it is the 28th. of June, the last day of the Hemis festival. This year, the golden Buddha tapestry is to be unveiled, an event, which happens only once every 12 years. So with a hearty army-breakfast tucked under my belt, I kick-start the now unloaded Enfield into action. Karu is 30 kms. away. From here the road climbs up for 10 kms. and lo! – aaa gaaya Hemis! It takes some time to find parking even for a motorcycle – all available space is packed with vehicles. Everyone is in Hemis today, and why not? This is what they have come for. With the deep-throated drums punctuating high-pitched chants, masked Tibetan dancers prance about the grounds of the three-storeys high Hemis monastery. Colour. Rust and red and yellow and green. Tall poles with flags spear the blue sky.

The sun blazes away in ultra-violet glory. The skin of my face and arms resembles burnt toast, well beyond reaping the benefits of skin lotions offering UV-protection. These creams only make me feel like burnt toast with lots of butter on it! Back in Leh, a day passes and then another. Walking around downtown, eating exotic meals by the roadside, visiting the gompas scattered all around, I savour the rich aroma of this ancient city.

The streets are full with travelers from foreign lands and I make friends with a few. German Frau Ingrid is on her own and would like to ride with me on a side-trip to Nubra Valley. This trip to the villages of Deskit and Hunder travels over the highest motorable road in the world – the fabled Khardung-La! But a special permit is needed from the commissioner’s office. Being a citizen of India, I get it easily. Ingrid can only travel in a group with at least 3 other foreigners, so I say ‘tschuess’ to her over a cup of sweet Ladakhi tea and return to the air-force station located far away from the main city. The ride from Leh towards Khardung-La provides a spectacular feast for the eyes. First in patches, and soon in unbroken lines, the road becomes lined with clear white snow, glowing in the morning sunlight. Permits are checked and tea drunk at the South Puli Check-post and now the climb is steep.The Enfield can handle it easily and soon I find myself on the top of the world. Khardung-La!

It’s bright! It’s dazzling! Atop a mount of silver, bathed in diamonds that flash sparkles of light. Exhilaration! The mighty mountain has granted me access and allowed me to stand where I do. I am on Khardung-La.

I look up and raise my arms heavenwards to murmur my thanks to the cosmic powers. In a moment of affection, I touch the chilled metal tank of my bike and whisper another ‘thank you’. I cast a furtive look around. A group of army jawans is sunning themselves near by and I don’t want them to hear me talking to a motorcycle, because by this time, my unshaven scraggly face looks unkempt and a first impression may not inspire an onlooker’s confidence about my absolute sanity! But the soldiers are a friendly lot and as I approach the group, one of them goes inside the bunker to return with a tray, laden with glasses of hot tea and hotter pakodas! Ah! Luxury! Relaxing, literally on top of the world at 18,380 ft. altitude and warming my palms around that glass of hot tea I couldn’t have asked for more. Lesser peaks play peek-a-boo around the white of the clouds, which hang below us. A pair of huge vultures has spotted some carrion and swirl down towards their goal in a graceful spiral. It is a rare enough sight to spot even scavenging birds here. These look like high fliers and I wonder what altitudes they cruise at. All around me are rocks of various colours. From absolutely black through the various shades of brown, to vivid patches of dark green, blue and also yellow and white. But there is no vegetation here. The breeze has no leaves to rustle through, so it uses the crevices between rocks and snow to create the cosmic sound of ‘OM’, which seems to reverberate all around me. A spirit of awed reverence engulfs me. Maybe I’ve been reading too much of the ‘new age’ stuff and am psyching myself into forced spiritual awareness; and maybe to someone else who came here, the wind would sound like a demon’s shriek or even a banshee’s wail, but all I hear is ‘OM’? Didn’t someone say that there are as many worlds as there are people? That each of us perceives the same reality differently? I close my dazzled eyes, but the sun still shines through my eyelids and plunges me into a sea of deep red. Some micro-particles of the sand in my eyes add whirlpools of black which flit about in spurts and jerks in their thick liquidy world. Suddenly…a strong chilling breeze is blowing my gloves away and I sprint from my seat to catch them before they fly off. This reminds Subedar Mohan Nair of his home-town in Kerala where every evening, they have to herd their chickens back into their coup. He mimics my actions of catching my gloves as if they were his hens and with the accompanying cackling sound effects from the others, it is a hilarious sight. But the laughter soon peters out. The spectacular beauty of these stark Himalayan heights might hold great appeal to the transiting traveler’s eye but to be marooned here in an isolated, cold concrete bunker for weeks and even months can dull the vigour of the toughest of men. Subedar Nair’s body has been raised in the 50 degree C heat of Cochin. He says he’s waiting for October, which is when he gets his 2-month annual leave. I ask him what is the first thing he will do when he gets back home and his reply is not what I had expected he’d say. “I want to get back to wearing my lungi”, he smiles his answer and re-buttons his heavy woolen parka at the same time. ***

As I descend on to the northern side of Khardung-La towards Nubra Valley, the road suddenly becomes hazardous. Its cover of tar has been washed away and boulders of various sizes sit strewn all over my path. There is water everywhere. It’s too early in the day for the bigger snows to melt, but it’s already warm enough for the process to have started, as I carefully splash through 6 inches of flowing water, afraid to raise my feet too high in case the bike slips, but not really wanting to get my shoes wet either. 90 minutes (22 kms.) of this focused riding fatigues mind and body and when the tar road reappears, I am glad to stop and get off to flex my stiff legs and stretch my arms wide. Someone else seeing me might think I was trying to embrace the Himalayas. But I am alone. A dark brown, jagged mountain peak hovers right next to where I’m standing. I’m glad its only early afternoon and sunny bright. The same sight would be foreboding in a darkened sky. I am near the extreme north border of India. Siachen is not too far away. But limitations imposed by the Ladakh commissioner’s permit prompt me away from the large steel bridge, which guards the road to Siachen. Travelers only have access to the Nubra Valley villages of Deskit and Hunder, which is where I’m planning to stop for the night. The valley of Nubra, with its grassy meadows and a variety of fruit and other trees, is one of the few fertile green places here, almost flaunting its beauty to a generally arid Ladakh. An apology of a river meanders in a shallow delta over sands of the most vivid of pastel shades. Emerald greens merge with sunflower yellow only to turn subtle pink. Is there no end to the magic of the Master weaver?

The village of Khairnar appears just around one of the numerous bends and I stop at a Tibetan Dhaaba for lunch. The menu… you guessed it…but I had to eat it! If I die today, they’ll find me stuffed with dal and rice! As if in compensation, I have company for lunch. She is 24 and from England while he is a young architect from Australia. They’re traveling on a motorcycle too but are headed back towards Leh. I can’t figure out how they’ve managed to look so sparkling clean when I my own face resembles burnt bread, which has been kneaded with dirt and grease. The mystery is solved when Helen tells me they’ve just spent 2 hours under a nearby waterfall and encourages me to do the same. But …. Brrrr… an icy water bath doesn’t hold great appeal for me. “You look like you need a bath”, she remarks with a chuckle. “I was a white guy when I started the journey from Pune” I say and this feeble attempt at humour is rewarded by a bright sparkling smile from Helen. She is beautiful. Her shoulder length blonde hair highlights the tan of her face and her aura stands out in contrast with this otherwise stark locale. I try and filter out desire from my glance and look at her with a mellow look that encourages her to continue her conversation. She is telling me about the countryside of her native England where she’s headed after having spent 3 years teaching in an Australian school. I must have said something ridiculous or something funny because, there she goes flashing her brilliant smile again and…. Whoosh….

Older hearts are known to tumble to lighter bait.

And I realize mine has got hit in an unexpected ambush. For the 21 days that I’ve been riding, I’ve kept myself entertained in a self-sufficient kind of way. I have had numerous conversations with myself, sung aloud many songs inside the dark bubble of my helmet, crooned out to lovers past and lost, and lately, I’ve been romancing with the gods. But now I am empty of all internal dialogue. Memories of past events lose their allure with each progressive repetition and I’m thirsting for some stimulating new thoughts. Helen and Tom have provided me with this much-needed social interlude. After they ride off in the other direction, I miss their vibrancy and feel even more isolated. This feeling of aloneness intensifies as I pass the large breast-shaped sand dunes before Deskit, which are spread out over a few hectares on my right.

“Hey, Old man, where have all your lovers gone?” Helen’s smiling countenance mocks me from behind one of the dunes and then disappears. I’m playing mind games now, trying to distract my depression away but I know it plans to stay for a while. It is going to take its time leaving and I’m going to have to allow it that time. It cannot be rushed out of the psyche with any semblance of force. That would only feed it with a kinetic kind of energy, which would replenish its power and delay its departure. I’m going to have to flow unresisting in this current and let it take me where it will.

Often in the past, when such moods have struck, I’ve tried pretending they didn’t exist and indulged in cover-up operations. Such procedures have never worked for me so now the evolved strategy is to just let it be. Enjoy it, even!

“Doctor, I feel quite fatigued these days” says a middle-aged man to his physician who advices him to cut his sex life in half. “Which half doc”, questions the patient, “Thinking about it or talking about it?”

I think I’m going crazy.

I am traveling back in time on a magic raft, flowing past a Californian forest where it is early morning and the blue tent I set up the evening before, has a translucent sheen to it, with the rising sun its backdrop. It half-hides Debbie from my view, but I know she’s sleeping inside. Soon, the light brightens and I can see her silhouette shift position. “Hi Jay” her sleepy soft voice calls me by my other name.

I savour these remembered delights and try to hold them in my mind’s eye for a while longer but the tightening knot reasserts its hold. The memories take on a vicarious sheen. Almost as if I was peeping in on some one else. That was a different me then.

“One is such a lonely number”, a voice is crooning inside my head.

And I fall back in the deep well of my present-time misery with a thud!

This will need some mulling over.

*** I have reached the northernmost point of my journey and as I enter the picturesque village of Hunder, my mileage-meter tells me that I am already 3,500 kilometers from home and hearth. All around in Hunder, I’m seeing green. There are small orchards thick with vegetation. There are irrigation canals, which bring clear icy water from the glaciers nearby, but if I had expected to find easy accommodation even in this remote Tibetan village in the middle of nowhere, I had another think coming. I roam through its tiny hobbled alleys for over two hours without success. The few places, which accommodate travelers, are all booked up. A couple of women are carrying hay back to their farm and as I stop to ask them for help in finding a place to stay overnight in their exquisite village, they smile, revealing darkened dentitions. What must they chew here? Their teeth are a cosmetic-dentist’s delight! And they look at me as if I had dropped in on Hunder in a flying saucer. I must look a sight too. I ask them about a hotel again and this time the stacks of hay they’re carrying on their heads move left and right as they nod me a twin negative. Eventually, I spot a farmer standing near the rickety gate of his farm, almost as if he was waiting for me. I ask him if he can put me up for one night. He nods yes without a moment’s delay and then escorts me up a stairway to a room with thick Tibetan carpets and colourful images of Buddhist Gods. Tsering Motup is the farmer’s name and he looks older than his 40 years. The extreme cold and the brilliant ultra-violet sunlight reflected off the mirror like surface of the snows have burnt his skin dark brown and added a permanent hood of thickened skin over his slit-like eyes. His Hindi is good enough for an exchange of basic introductions. But he is surprisingly non-inquisitive about me. Maybe he thinks I’m some kind of army spy? Or even an enemy agent? I remind myself that this is, after all, the state of Jammu and Kashmir.

Tsering tells me his family is away attending the celebrations in Hemis, which is why he could let me use this room.

And how does he make his living? Being a Sindhi, I have to ask! For a few months every year, Tsering finds work, carting loads up the Siachen glacier to keep the soldiers there supplied with the necessities of survival. They walk in a group of 5 and carry loads of up to 80 kgs. each, over altitudes above 20,000 ft. He makes enough money on these trips to last him the entire year. His farm provides the vegetables his family needs. He doesn’t need to tell me he also has a cow. I can smell it, parked, as it is, right under the window! A horde of flies buzzes around me. Night falls quickly in Hunder, valley that it is. It’s the first day of July and the early moon is a large ball of gold, which hangs limpidly over the tranquil valley. Two army jawans climb up towards where I sit and offer to sell me a bottle of rum. Tonight, I shall filter the gold of the full moon through the dark brown of my glass of rum. My gloved hands raise a toast to this golden eye in the night sky. Even though it is cold, I prefer to sit out under the canopy of the lit sky. I have to cover myself in layers of warm clothes. Tsering brings in the dinner he has cooked and we eat it together. Yawn! How does one say ‘good night’ in Tibetan? I am too tired to ask but two suppressed smiles are exchanged and Tsering goes into his room while I go to my bed. The moonlight filters in through the thin curtains and highlights a face. At least one of the gods on the wall is watching as I slip into the sleep of the emotionally fatigued.

I wake up to the sound of bovine mooing. Then hear Tsering singing an ode to his cow. The milk, which I later drink, is naturally sweet, flavoured as it is with his song. I ask him about the double-humped camels of Hunder, which everyone has told me I must see and he explains where they are. The road to this camel farm is a flattened stretch but it is under construction. There are so many round cricket-ball sized rocks, so densely strewn all over, that I have a torrid time balancing my loaded bike. It’s extreme acrobatics and footwork that keeps me from falling and one kilometer of this obstacle course is enough for me to decide to let the camels be where they are. In any case, watching something, which is ‘double-humped’, is hardly going to help me. In the state of mind I’m in, I have to be careful now even with the words I think about! Turning around is a tricky maneuver. Out of this road of the shifting balls, I stop to re-align mind and body to some semblance of functionality and get back onto the road to Leh. As the day heats up, these mountain roads become inundated with glacier melt. I must reach the North Puli check post before 1 pm if I am to reach Leh by nightfall. As I begin the steep upward climb, with snow packed on the roadside, I remember Juhi’s reply when I had asked her what she wanted me to get for her from Ladakh. “Bring me some snow,” she’d said which had then reminded me of the Ramayana story where prince Ram cried for the moon. His mother, the story goes, had shown him a reflection of the moon in a saucer of milk and the child-god had stopped crying. I stop and get off the bike. Picking up a sharp stone, I etch my daughter’s name in large capital letters on the almost vertical wall of angel-white snow; then move back and take a picture of it. That should make her happy! I’m being a good father.

I need to hurry now. I must get across Khardung-la within the next hour. And right until the moment the trouble hits, I have presumed re-crossing Khardung-La will be as easy as coming over it was yesterday morning. Across a sharp bend, a torrent of frothy water is rushing over the road. Actually there is no ‘road’. Only large boulders of polished rocks over which flows a ‘river’ 2 feet deep. On my left was the crotch in the mountains from where the water was gushing out with increasing vigour. The usable part of the road was only about 8 feet across and then sloped down to a deep chasm on my right where the glacier-melt plunged downwards in a waterfall. How deep was this chasm? I was afraid to look down, so I couldn’t tell. I should have kept the bike a couple of feet to my right where the boulders were smaller and would probably have made it across to the other side without much difficulty. But my fear of slipping off the edge makes me stay nearer the mountain side of the road where the larger rocks are and I lunge into the current with my loaded bike and get stuck almost immediately. Swearing is allowed when there is no one else to hear it and I let out a yell any yeti would have been proud of. But that doesn’t help. I stay stuck!

The rear wheel is embedded in a foot-deep pothole and the front wheel has got locked between two large white rocks. This looks like it’s going to be serious.

I am immobilized. I can’t nudge my bike by even an inch. It is impossible to get off because the bike can’t be put on its stand, what with those shifting rocks under it. So there I sit, with nothing to do but muse on the state of my current affairs. I shouldn’t have forgotten to cover my socks with plastic bags before wearing my shoes as I had done all through the trip so far. Within seconds my shoes, socks and feet are sopping wet.

My body begins to loose heat and the possibility of hypothermia becomes real. I realize that before long I’ll have to let the bike fall and get myself out of this freezing water. But that would tilt the petrol tank and spill most of the precious fuel into the flowing water. I decide to just sit and wait for the issue to resolve itself. I think I am saved when I first hear a low rumble and then see a truck climbing towards me in low gear. But it doesn’t stop to help me out. As the wheels of the loaded truck pass not 6 inches from me, the lone driver yells out that the truck’s engine needs to be kept revved up or it would die and he didn’t dare stop. Any hope of quick deliverance recedes with the diminishing sound of the truck’s grinding gears, which fades out when the vehicle turns around one of the many bends ahead.

What could I do now? Pray? Wonderful idea! I close my eyes under the helmet and meditate on my cosmic mentor. Babaji! The ancient wizard appears in my visualization and smiles his blessings once again. This time he’s in the green garb of the old Sufi I’d met near Pali. He transmits a simple message. “Take off your helmet”. I open my eyes and do his bidding. How would taking my helmet off help me, I wonder? And what do I do with the helmet now? I need both my hands on the handle to keep the heavy bike upright. I hold the handle with my left hand for the 3 seconds it takes to toss the helmet across the waters where it lands with a metallic clang. Glad my head wasn’t in it! Presently, a genuine saviour arrives. He is a young Kashmiri youth who later tells me it was my white hair that impelled him to stop. Babaji’s advice works in miraculous ways! I reprimand myself for doubting my soul-guide. I’ve been left with an added gift. The knot of depression has been washed away in the cold road-rivers of Khardung-La. The sinking feeling which had weighed my psyche down has lifted and I’m now free to move upwards towards K-Top in a lighter state of mind. This time though, I’m not too anxious to stop for too long on the pinnacle. It’s early evening and the sky looks an ominous gray. High-altitude sickness is something I’ve only read about on the net. All through this Trans-Himalayan journey, my body has been spared any suggestion of dizziness, vomiting or nausea. But I don’t want to push my luck. I must not stay for longer than 5 minutes. My only discomfort is my wet shoes and wetter socks. I’ll have to open up my saddlebags to get at an old pair of shoes I’m carrying for just such an emergency and while I am at it, also dig out another pair of woolen socks, which don’t smell very nice but are dry. I look around to try and spot Subedar Mohan Nair and other jawans but they’re out on some sort of patrol duty. The wind, a constant presence here, flutters the saffron and red plastic flags strung across poles of a nearby temple, waving a vigorous good-bye, spurring me to leave. I make haste to begin the glide down towards Leh. The road after Khardung-La is absolutely fabulous all the way to Leh. I again stop to have a cup of tea with the guards at the South Puli checkpoint. Soon I see the white tops of the Tibetan gompas, which tell me I am on the outskirts of Leh.

This time, I decide not to go back to the Air Force Officer’s Mess. For one, it is located too far away from ‘down-town’ Leh. And comfortable though it certainly is, it cuts me out from the local populance. I want to be able to mingle with the ‘natives’ and do what Tibetans do. "

The guesthouse I’m ensconced in has a wonderful cook who can cook everything except dal and rice! Over the next two days, I re-acquaint myself with civilized living while keeping my body nourished with delicious food and drink.

I’ve been keeping a close eye on the motorcycle’s performance all through, regularly replenishing spent engine oil, and taking care of other basic maintenance. I still have about 700 kms. to ride from Leh to Jammu via Kargil, Drass, and Srinagar. The Jozi-La (pass), which separates Ladakh from the Kashmir valley, is known to be difficult terrain to cross. The clutch, brake and accelerator cables might need to be replaced, as might the clutch-plates and spark plug. I’ve got the spares but decide it would be best if I get the bike checked by an experienced mechanic. Juma is the only guy in Leh who understands the Enfield and he’s not too hard to locate. A crowd of onlookers is collected around his workshop, and as I approach it, I am witness to a strange scene. Juma is caught in a fight with one of his customers over cost of services rendered. The vehicle in question is unarguable the filthiest Enfield I’ve ever seen. The Royal Enfield is really a connoisseur’s bike and is almost always kept in sparkling condition by its loving owner. This guy here, as indeed his bike are another story. Shabby. By the time I had parked my bike, the two had graduated from verbal abuse to physical blows and I wondered if I wanted to do business with this establishment. A few minutes of this and suddenly the irate slob kicked his unloved machine into life, and moved out of the scene with a clumsy jerk. Juma smiled at me and explained his side of the story. His manner had switched into its ‘polite’ mode but I still felt apprehensive about trusting my bike into his care. After all, it was my life that was on line here. A glass of tea later, Juma gave my machine a cursory check, rode it around for two minutes and pronounced it healthy, all in quick succession. ‘Trust in God’ he said as he wished me a safe journey, which I thought was a strange thing for a mechanic to say. Unsatisfied but without other option, I acknowledged his greetings and rode back to my hotel to pack my saddlebags and prepare for the long ride towards Srinagar the following morning. It is my last evening in Leh.

***

It’s 6 in the morning and I’ve already covered 20 kilometers of the 450 kilometers, which separate me from Srinagar. My destination is Kargil, which is still 200 kilometers away. If I reach Kargil before 4 pm, I’ll still have time to cover the 56 kilometers to Drass and make that my night’s halt. The road-surface varies from the ‘okay’ to the ‘cratered’ kind and my average speed cannot exceed 25 kilometers per hour.

This stretch out of Leh is very sparsely inhabited with only a few fenced up military encampments. Stopping by the wayside, I de-shell the two boiled eggs I’m carrying and share only a small piece with a wayside mongrel, which has slowly approached me; having smelled egg in the cold, dry air. I wash down my breakfast with lots of water, and then I am ready to continue the journey. A large monastery in the distance reflects the morning sunlight off its whitewashed exterior and seems to beckon me towards it. I stop near the base of the mountain and look up at the monastery towering over me, perched halfway up the mountainside on my right. Two young Lamas are smiling as they approach me. “Welcome to Lamayuru” one of them says. I am pleasantly surprised by this bon-homie. “We didn’t know you were traveling on a motorcycle,” says the taller one and asks me where others in the group were? It is soon obvious to them that they have mistaken me for someone else. This realization of their confusion makes them break down in peals of laughter followed by apologies. They urge me to visit Lamayuru. “It’s a powerful place for miracles’, one of the monks tells me. Sensing my interest, he relates that mysterious gifts come to those on whom these gods smile. Would I be one of the lucky blessed ones? I smile and wish them a good day! But for today’s ride it is daylight which is at a precious premium and I decide to pay my homage from a distance and hope the Lord Lamayuru will forgive me my bad manners while not withholding his bounty from me. A miracle or two would sure be welcome!

The rough, mud-sloshed road now begins to demand added attention. It is winding its way through a lunar landscape. There are shards of sharp rock on this road and I have to prevent the Enfield from going over any of them. Their knife like edges can slit even new tires. I enter Mukhbel (? Ck.name) a village on the banks of Indus River which has been gushing alongside the road for a while.. I feel the presence of something alien in my mouth. A miracle has happened, I think! My eyes on the rough road, the tight neck strap holding the helmet in place and gloved hands occupied with matters of balance, I have only my tongue free to explore the nature of this object that has appeared in my mouth from absolutely nowhere! It is too hard to bite, like a pebble. Could it…oh! Could it possibly be a divine diamond that the Lords of Lamayuru have bestowed to me? I have to stop and find out. Maybe those monks were right after all? In the next few minutes, as I guess its carat value, I’ve already spent many of the millions of dollars the stone would fetch in an international auction. I’ve always wanted my own Lear and maybe even a yacht. “Lord Lamayuru….” I pray, “make it a big diamond…please”. I even promise to call it the Lamayuru Diamond, in his name. Bike on its stand, gloves off first, then the helmet and goggles, I reign back my anticipation and carefully spit out my celestial inheritance. Oh...ho…ha…ha… it is my wisdom tooth which, aided by the extremely rough road, has finally broken free of its roots and been caught in the enclosed cavity of my mouth! I am amazed by how painless this extraction was! I look at my dislodged tooth with gratitude for half a century of excellent service. It has been a part of this body for five decades and now it is leaving. How many places it had been! How many types of food it has chewed through! And how many words have flown past it! My fingers caress it for the last time and gently toss it into the Indus. Looks like I’ll have to keep on traveling on the bike. No Lear jets or yachts for a while!

***

Military trucks plying in long convoys, slow me down considerably and it is already early evening when I park the bike next to the same Indus River flowing through the heart of small town Kargil, where the last war was fought and which now bears a fortified look. I ride through the main bazaar and get caught in the evening rush hour traffic that includes a collection of trucks, cars, scooters, donkey or horse-driven carts, and even one of the double humped camels of Hunder. I am hungry and tired, but it is essential that I ride on and get to Drass, which is still 56 kms. away.

Two voices call out my name and I glance around to see the smiling faces of Idris, Taiyaba and Martin who have just about finished their wayside snack of samosaas and tea and are getting ready to take off. Its like meeting long lost loved ones! Not much time to stop and chat. There’ll be time enough for talk later. We all want to get to Drass before nightfall. There is a reason for this haste. The next day’s journey will take us through the narrow, treacherous Jozi-La (pass), which allows for only one-way traffic and opens up towards Srinagar at 5:00 am. Since it is the gateway from Ladakh into the Kashmir valley, the army checks every vehicle crossing through this pass. That takes time. If we had stayed in Kargil, we would have had to get going at 3:00 am and ride in cold and dark – something that I have avoided so far. This road would have spelt suicide that early in the morning.

A convoy of yellow Indian Oil tankers blocks our way. The narrow road allows no room to overtake them and the next 20 kilometers are slow and smoky, as we crawl on behind them, breathing dust and diesel. Eventually, the truckers let us pass but the road being rocks and slushy mud, it is still slow going all the way to Drass. The LOC is not too far away from here. A dramatic plaque by the roadside warns me that the enemy is watching! Already, there is an undercurrent of tension in the air. But the months-long ceasefire is holding and the border, which runs parallel to my right, feels safe enough today. We ride through small villages where only a few of the faces are Tibetan. We are entering the Muslim belt of this troubled state.

The Indus, which has been flowing through the rocky desert terrain of Ladakh, now has some soil to feed and the results are all around us. Large patches of cultivated land add the long-missing dark green to the rust and gold, which have been the colours of the terrain for these last few days. The green soothes the eyes but not the mind. There is an emerging feeling of uneasiness ticking away inside me. I wonder why that is.

***

Drass! A huge plaque on the left claims it is the second coldest place on Earth! It had dipped to –60 degrees Celsius some years ago and that is now a feather in its cap! Etched it is in marble. But it is Tiger Hill that dominates the ambience here. The government tourist lodge is located on the western edge of the Drass valley, right under Tiger Hill. This is where the short ‘war’ was fought a couple of years ago. It still lingers thick in the air here. This is what Drass is now famous for. Police presence is all around. Their chief officer is on an inspection tour and is expected at the guesthouse any moment. After the grueling 260 kms. ride from Leh, I am tired to the bone and am only thinking of a hot bath, some food and sleep. Departure time tomorrow is still 4 am and I’m hoping to get at least 5 hours of slumber. Abdul Gani, the guest-house-keeper, is a tall lanky man, stooping a bit, eager to please and obviously desperate to talk with us. He tells us that only two rooms are available and assures us that he will allot them to us. He will also cook us dinner. But only after the big guy leaves. So the four of us sit on sofas in the porch and wait not for the ‘big guy’s’ arrival, but rather for his quick and uneventful departure! Abdul serves us some very good tea and I hungrily munch on fake branded glucose biscuits while my three friends digest the samosaas they ate in Kargil. A white Ambassador with a revolving red pilot light pulls in through the patrolled gate and its arrival jerks everyone around to alertness. I am almost impelled to get up and stand to attention myself but just in the nick of time, I remind my nervous system that I need not do so. I relax while everyone in uniform permeates an air of tense expectancy. The front doors snap open and both driver and co-pilot get out and open the rear doors. Conditioned as I have been to images of senior police officers who have hair to dye and paunches to belt up, I am absolutely surprised when out steps a young man not 30 years of age, dressed in a white shirts and blue jeans! His first act is to light a cigarette. Dressed in green silk, his young wife alights from the other door and both walk to a corner room, which has been set to serve them refreshments. They must be a newly married couple. I can tell by his gawky, eager-to-impress body language while she wants to looks impressed by her new husband’s position and clout. But she is actually bored. I recognize the expression on her face as the same one my wife has when I’m launching yet another copy of an oft repeated tale to a virgin listener. With a brain semi-numbed with diesel, with a spine stretched to its limits on the bumpy roads, with each body part crying out for rest, I was still looking forward to some conversation with the police chief and his young wife. Maybe he would invite us for a drink followed by some nice food. But he looks right through us as he walks to the tearoom. 15 long minutes later, the entourage snaps to attention the second time. The boy-chief lights another cigarette and within 30 seconds, everyone is gone. It is as if they had never happened. Abdul Gani, perched on the wooden railing of the porch launches into his ‘Kargil war’ story right away. I can see he has performed this one before and his narration is full of drama and suspense. Its still the top tale in town and the man is a born actor. “Sahib, it was the shepherd boy Ramzaan who saw them first. He saw the Pakistani soldiers creeping up Tiger Hill and ran back to report this to the Indian army captain.” I am amazed that the Indian Army, with all its intelligence networks and patrolling still needed the help of an illiterate shepherd boy to tell it about this major intrusion into the Indian side of the LOC. But I don’t want to fuel further conversation. It’s a bath I want. “Hey, Abdul, Can I get a bucket of hot water?” I interrupt him. “Fifteen rupees”. He replies without a blink. “Ten”. “Fifteen, but water very hot.” “Okay, Abdul. I’ll give you fifteen but I’d like to have it now.” “Jee Haan…” He says, then returns to his story. “ We have a spent shell they fired. Its 3 feet long and exploded right here”, he points to a depression in the foreground. “Destroyed this whole guest-house”. “Abdul… Can I have the hot water please?” “Sure.. Haan.. Haaan.. Abhi Laaya…” The guy can’t stop talking even as I spur him on to the kitchen where the wood fires are burning. It’s getting cold. The water, when it arrives, is scalding hot and I bless Abdul Gani as each mug full of the hot aqua spreads warmth through my knotted muscles. Now I am better able to give his Kargil war story the attention it deserves. But we all want food and move to the kitchen, which is warm with the fires blazing within it. Dinner is served. Unbelievably, its still dal-rice on the menu! Looks like I’ll have to wait till I get to Srinagar tomorrow for some ‘real’ food. Abdul Gani drones on till my eyes can no longer stay open. It’s pitch dark as the four of us wind our way towards our rooms for the night.

Vroom…Vroom…. Four Enfields cruise into the driveway at 9 in the night. I wish sleep good-bye. It’s the 60kph. group who have been riding in the dark the last few hours and they are obviously fatigued. But there being no more rooms available, Martin moves in with Idris and Taiyaba while I share the room with the new comers. I wanted sleep. I got song instead. When we finally fell asleep, it was already 1 am.

to be continued……