Ajja
Appa calls at 1330 hours on Friday, the 20th of July 2007.
“Smitha, I’m afraid there is some bad news. Ajja…”
His voice breaks. “Ajja is no more.” I listen to Appa sob as I try to absorb this news. Try to cope with it, so I can arrange to leave to Siddapur to see my Ajja for the …for the last time.
They have laid him out in the outer living room. Sandalwood and rose garlands are draped on him, incense scents the air and the Vishnu Sahasranama plays softly. He looks peaceful and calm - dignified as always. Ammamma sits by his side, dry eyed, but she bursts in to tears when she sees me.
“Where can you find a man like this?” she sobs, as I hug her very tight. “Where can you find someone like him?”
She describes his last moments.
“He was very breathless, so we gave him oxygen and suddenly his body jerked and it was over.”
Vijayatte tells me Ammamma kept shaking Ajja, telling him to talk to her, and when the doctor came, she fell at his feet and asked him to make Ajja ok.
“What might have happened?” she asks me. “He was breathless, but not unusually so.”
“A sudden cardiac arrest, probably. But Vijayatte, I would pray for a death like this for someone I loved. Sudden, with no time for pain or fear. He was continent, oriented; his memory was sharp till the very last breath”.
Shashi says, “Yes, he died like he lived. With dignity.”
Ammamma sits next to Ajja. She refuses to eat or drink anything, does not lean on the wall. We beg her to rest for a few moments but she says, “No, this is the last seva I am doing for him.”
She repeatedly reaches under the covering sheet and massages his right forearm. I ask why.
“He was saying this morning that this hand hurt. ... So ...”
Vijayatte has helped nurse Ajja for so many years. She has given him his tablets, taken him to the doctor – Ammamma says “Vijaya is my right hand.” Perhaps this is why Ajja’s death hits her so hard.
She tells me - “I was giving him oxygen today. He wanted to tell me something, but I thought that talking was secondary - he needed his oxygen. I did not let him speak, and now, Smitha, I can't bear it, I can’t stop wondering what he wanted to say.” she breaks down.
So much heartache. Medhakka and family arrive from Bangalore, and she holds on to Ammamma and cries.
“He just wanted another six months.” Ammamma sobs to Medhakka. “Just six months more, so that he could meet Suranna.” Rahul sits quietly behind Ammamma. He finally persuades her to lean against a cushion for a moment. Prabha chikki and Ramesh chikkayya arrive. Prabha chikki is wailing, holding on to Ajja, touching his face.
Appa, Rachana, Rajesh, Seemu, V.N. Mava, Samit, Amod reach around 3am. Amod and Samit sob outside, trying to compose themselves before Ammamma sees them. Ammamma holds on to Appa and cries “Subraya, it is over. He has left us.”
Seemu weeps to me “Smithakka, he wanted to meet me, and I kept putting it off. It’s too late now. I can’t stand it.
The night wears on. We try to cope by remembering Ajja. These are some of the things that I hear. There are so many more memories discussed that night that I do not hear, so many more that are unvoiced.
Viju mava tells me “Dr Sattur in Hubli wanted to examine him, and asked him to take off his shirt. He removed it carefully, shook out the sleeves and hung it neatly on a peg. The doctor shook his head in amazement at Ajja’s discipline.”
Medhakka tells me he used to come home at 8 pm, and from eight to nine, he would read the Rudra. Then he would have a drink.
“I was so immature then, I used to argue with him, tell him that following worship with alcohol was hypocrisy, but now I know his character had many facets. He was very spiritual but he enjoyed his drink too. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.” Medhakka says.
Prabha chikki remembers Shubha’s wedding day.
“He was sick just before the event, and we were worried whether he would have the strength to get through it. But he woke up before everyone, and by the time we saw him, he was seated in the living room, neat as a pin in his starched white kurta and dhoti.”
“How did he do it?” I ask Medhakka.
“How did he manage to do everything he did over the last 5 years with a failing heart and lungs?”
“Strength of character.” She replies.
I remember him calling me up when I was carrying. I had already lost a pregnancy, and the second time around, I was terrified. I wasn’t certain at all about the outcome. Ajja used to tell me over the phone. “I am doing gana homas, I am praying for you and I know that very soon, a little Ganapathi will be born to you.”
Ajja, why didn’t I tell you how much that meant to me? Why didn’t I thank you for the courage you gave me?
We all smile for a moment, thinking about Ajja’s characteristic departures. It did not matter how much time he spent with us, the moment he sat in his car on the way to the next destination, he was off. Eyes straight ahead, mind set ahead and no time for messy sentimental goodbyes or long winded farewells.
It is morning now, and Ammamma has not rested for a second. People from the town trickle in to pay their last respects. An old man hobbles in wearing a woollen cap and thick glasses. He touches Ajja’s feet and whispers softly. Then a sleek, well-fed gent in a khadi kurta and Nehru topi pays his respects and lays a sandalwood garland at Ajja’s feet. Then walks in an old lady dressed in rags. A Christian, a Muslim, a rich man, a poor one … the list goes on. How many lives did Ajja touch?
It is time for the last rites. Ajja had told Nani mava that he did not want his sons to go through the trauma of having their heads shorn, but they all shave their heads anyway. I’m sure these rituals have a meaning and a purpose – but it hurts so much. The placing of gold in the mouth, the pouring water over the cold body…words can not describe the pain. Finally, the pallbearers try to remove the body, but Ammamma does not want to let Ajja go. She holds on tight to the body… at this point, everyone in the hall is sobbing. Sixty-seven years together – how can she let him go? She falls back and Ajja is carried to the place where he will be cremated.
We all follow. Ajja is laid on the pyre, and his body is covered with a silk sheet, and then more wood. The chanting of mantras and the drizzle muffle the occasional sobs. Ajja’s wife and his children and grandchildren and the rest of the family lay wood on his body and the fire is lit.
After this, some measure of calm returns to us. The pain is still there, however it is bearable now. But there is a terrible bleakness in Ammamma’s eyes.
“What will I do with my time now?” she asks. “With myself?”
As the fire consumes him, we start back home. I turn back once to see my Ajja – a shrewd politician, a successful businessman, a respected and loved father, husband and grandfather, a man with a spiritual side, a man who above all, lived life and savoured it. The smoke rises to the rainy sky.
It’s all over now.
But as we walk back home, this is what I hear:
“He kept my family fed.”
“He started me in my career.”
“He helped me get my daughter married.”
“I started my business with the money he loaned me.”
“He gave me courage to face a lifetime.”
“He educated my children.”
“I am what I am today because of Ganesh Hegde.”
When a life is lived like this, the fact of death becomes irrelevant.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Leh - the land of the high passes
TRAVELOGUE – LADAKH THE LAND OF THE HIGH PASSES
I’m traveling to Leh with a bunch of ladies – I’m armed with woolens, the funda about altitude sickness, my trusty Nikon and nestling in a corner of my heart is something ... perhaps anxiety? My first trip without my baby…and it’s so far away….
Well, here we are on the plane, 18 women in varying shades of pink, just getting to know each other. And that’s the nice bit about being female – we don’t really take too long to break the ice. For example, 5 minutes on to the flight, I already know Niru has a deadly sense of humour, Meera likes to wake people up, Meenakshi has the mind of a poet and so on and so forth.
We’re women, we chatter, but even the most voluble of us is silenced by the sight of the great Himalayas below us.
The pilot does a little tricky maneuver to get between the mountains, and we are flying very low indeed, the Spituk monastery on one wingtip, the hills on the other.
We land in Ladakh – cold thin air, very blue skies, prayer flags fluttering in the breeze. I pick up my mountain of luggage, and we all drive to the Hotel Spic and Span, staring open mouthed at prayer wheels and little kids off to school and the far away horizon. Our hotel is curious mixture of carved wood windows and cement bricks that should look incongruous but does not. The staff is friendly – they welcome us with white scarves, ‘jooley!’s, tea and cookies. We (Sampreethi from Katmandu and I) walk up to room 212, and our climb is rewarded by the sight of snowcapped maintains through the windows. Today, I’m very careful – 4 litres of water, paracetamol and plenty of rest.
View from our room
Post lunch we are all feeling a little sick. It’s a kind of light-headedness, something like there is too little oxygen or too much alcohol in your blood stream. We feel much better after a nap and we drive to Shanthi Stupa.
Shanthi Stupa
The drive is interesting – curving streets, lined by the usual tourist traps, interspersed with some gems. The view is breath taking. Schools perched on high hills, green valleys, snow capped peaks in the distance, and the wind eroded Moon Mountains. The monastery near Shanthi Stupa is old and beautiful – pictures of Manjusri, a golden Buddha, two huge drums. The Stupa itself is a little new, white, and brash, but the view makes up for it.
I learn a little about the life in Ladakh from our driver – that the ubiquitous white structures lining the roads are called ‘Manis’, , the fact that prayer flags flutter above all Buddhist homes and how they handle the hibernation – 3 months stuck at home during winter
17.06.07
I wake up at 6a.m – perhaps because of the early night, the sunlight, or the altitude. Sampreethi and I walk to the terrace – what a view! Gold sunlight waking up the mountains, men nimbly leaping up the rock face to pray at the gompa, prayer flags fluttering in the breeze. We meet for breakfast, and we are finally getting to know each other. Ladies, do I have this right?
1. Sumitra – our unflappable, calm leader.
2. Vijayalakshmi – the banker from Delhi
3. Meera – the SBH banker now in Bangalore
4. Rachana – from Delhi
5. Monica – the shoe entrepreneur from Spain
6. Meenakshi – the gynaec from Delhi
7. Smitha – that’s me – the physician from Mangalore
8. Sujatha – the IT gal from Delhi
9. Anu and Niru – the cool sisters from Bangalore and Delhi respectively
10. Tasneem – from Bombay
11. Lubaina – the socks kiddo
12. Nishreen
13. Arwa
14. Nadia
15. Renuka – the finance lady from Bombay
16. Aradhana – the NPO lady from Bangalore
17. Sampreethi from Kathmandu
Then we set off on our trip – me, Anu, Monika, Meera, and a sweetheart of a driver. What a lovely world this is! Today, I express my gratitude to
God, for making these mountains.
The border road builders.
The regiments – Himank, HU, Chushul Eagles and so on that are posted here.
Zanskar meeting the Indus
A straight road in the middle of the desert, surrounded by a ring of mountains – those in the distance are topped by snow. Far below us, in the distance, flows the Indus, and the army trucks and soldiers standing by them are made tiny by the distance. “I hope you dance” is on the music system – everything comes together and it is an epiphany. I cry softly behind my shades. Monica hands me a tissue quietly - female bonding at it’s’ best. Female bonding again at an improvised loo stop on the curve of a road. Five girls, their faces carefully expressionless, stand guard while others creep behind them to pee. It is hilarious.
During a long drive through jagged peaks and wind-eroded mountains, we sing along with the music on the deck. The driver, Tondup) looks beleaguered. I wonder how our collective musical effort sounds. Four women singing at the top of their voices, in accents ranging from Spanish to Kannada, in pitches ranging from approaching earthquake to Pomeranian bark. Tondup has had enough. Inspiration strikes and he switches the tape to Ladakhi music, which he can safely assume no one knows.
Monica does not like the way some drivers overtake us on the twisty streets. “Ayayay! Loco! Loco!” she shrieks. I love the way she does this, and resolve it to use on the rickshaw drivers back home.
After a long drive indeed, we reach the Alchi monastery. And we are so fortunate that we happen in on a welcoming ceremony for a great guru, the Dalai Lama’s brother. It is incredibly moving - watching these exiled people sit by the side of the road patiently waiting for their leader. Soon the lama walks in - wise and dignified in his maroon and orange robes. The people rise, murmuring, bending forwards, reaching out to just touch his robes…it is so poignant.
At the Alchi Monastery
The guru walks down the lovely monastery paths to the temple within, and the people follow, with us in their wake.
We walk down the cobbled paths, admiring the lovely Tibetan women in blue and white silks, the Ladakhi men with patient, ageless faces, the apple cheeked children who troop behind their leader. Perhaps we irritate them, with our queries and our curiosity and our endless requests for photographs – but they are extraordinarily gentle to us – the intruders who have barged in to what surely must be an important function for them.
They reluctantly let us into the temple proper – a small dark room where there are 4 idols of Buddha. Lovely woodcarvings decorate the doorway, and the interior is dark and incense scented. We leave this most unusual and beautiful of monasteries with reluctance and head onwards to Likkir. We stop on the way for a picnic lunch by a brook. We offer some of our food to two lovely little girls who smile shyly at us from a safe distance. They accept the food, but it is later eaten by their cow, which eats our sandwich –thepla - pastry lunch with relish.
Resplendent Buddha at Likkir
The rest of the trip is a blur, possibly because we are so tired. The Gurdwara Pather Saheb is maintained in apple pie order by the army and has an intriguing history. A rakshas apparently threw a rock at the meditating guru, and the rock, far from injuring Nanakji, moulded itself around him; took his shape.
The Spituk monastery is interesting – a flirty monk shows us pictures of white Tara and Shakyamuni Buddha. We descend steep stairs and enter a small wonderfully evocative room. Low benches where the monks pray line the chamber- they are covered by thick colourful rugs. Thin yellow curtains flutter at the tiny windows. And in the midst of the incense scented darkness a beautiful ten foot Buddha smiles down at us. I remember the lines of a popular book ‘This place has known magic.’
18.06. 07
We drive to Chilling for rafting, and we’re not really deterred by the vehicles heading towards us, their occupants warning us saying the water is turbulent, too choppy, too rough. Eighteen of us, stuffed in to life jackets and waterproofs stand on the banks of the Zanskar listening to a spirited safety briefing by the utterly lovable Babu. Finally we divide ourselves on to three rafts, our feet anchoring us to the boat, our bums sticking out inelegantly. It’s such fun!!! Babu’s staccato orders of “Forward paddle” “Backwards, left” the gorges towering over us on both sides with caves and holes in the stone letting in blue sky, the pure rush of using your muscle and nerve to fight the strength of the water, the sudden shock of the ice cold river splashing on your face – oh this is a sport you can easily get addicted to, and I sure am.
And the al fresco lunch on the banks of the Indus is the perfect end to the adventure. Hot cups of chai, wholesome soul food – rajma chawal and fresh veggies, low key chatter while we warm ourselves in the sunlight – it’s simple, it is simply beautiful. The life jackets dry on a clothesline – orange and red, the colours of the Buddhist monks – and I reflect as I watch the wind on the water, that these two pursuits – meditation and rafting - are not dissimilar.
19.06.07
We make an early start today – a cold, lovely morning. The first stop is at Thikse monastery – it is stunning. Perched on top of a hill – white and ochre walls and a view of the mountains that makes you breathless.
Thikse Monastery
A monk shows us the long lavishly decorated puja room. At one end is the Shakyamuni Buddha with shelves of Khanjur and Thanjur behind him, at the other end are huge ceremonial drums. I climb up a steep flight of stairs to see a young monk performing puja, oblivious of my presence.
He reads with concentration, intermittently striking a drum. I wish I could escape in to some place like this, free from distraction, the mind fixed on one object to adore.
Then to the abode of the Maitreya Buddha.
We walk into the room, and are calmed. Trigger happy tourists sit still, chattering women are silent. People sit quietly to watch the Maitreya, to absorb some of his ineffable peace. What is it that makes him so special? What makes the peace that emanates from him almost tangible, his love palpable? He sits cross-legged, fingers in the teaching Mudra. His cheeks are golden, his eyes compassionate. Ours fill.
Maitreya Buddha
After this, breakfast by the wayside, and off to the Hemis monastery. It is a co-old – and lovely place. Wild roses grow on the hillside; snowflakes float down gently to land on our upturned faces. Here we see monks dancing – rehearsing for the Hemis festival at the end of the month. One man beats the cymbals, the other sings a low-pitched song, and the monks do this slow, rhythmic leap from foot to foot. It is quite funny, actually.
Monks at Hemis
We drive on narrow roads on huge mountains towards Pang Gong Tso – the precipices heart stopping, the jooleys on the way heart warming. We cross the Changla pass. At 17,800 feet high, it is the third highest motorable road in the world. Then down the mountains – desolate, desert landscape – melancholy memorials to soldieries slain in the Indo China war on the roadside, bursts of white flowers on the hills.
In quick succession, we cross terrifying mountains with rocks poised to topple over us, green meadows (we lunch on one of them) and arid beach scapes.
We finally reach the Pang Gong Tso. What a beautiful freezing lapis lazuli lake, so changeable in mood and colour. At times, she is frisky and clear green, at others mysterious and sapphire blue. Sometimes we see the sky in her calm surface, sometimes the snow topped peaks. Sometimes, the face of the Maitreya Buddha.
It’s very, very cold near Pang Gong; after all, we’re 15,000 feet up. We huddle around a bonfire and introduce ourselves to a Cypriot brother and sister. “We heard you were a bunch of Indian Airlines stewardesses.” Stefanio says.
“No.” we clarify.
“We’re a women’s travel group – Women On Wanderlust.”
“Wow.” they say.
“That’s us.” we answer, laughing.
The next morning, we drive back through snowy Changla to reach the hotel. We drop in to LedEg where we do some shopping. I venture out on my own for the first time that evening. I buy stuff at the Buddhist Tangkha house, have Kashmiri Kahwa at the ‘desert rain cafe’ and generally home a whale of a time.
The last day of the trip and we drive up to Khardungla top. This is the world’s highest motorable road. We follow a convoy of army trucks - soldiers off to spend months on the Siachen glacier, and once more, I am flooded with respect for these men who stand on our wall, and guard us. K top is special. There is a temple, big views, and cold winds. One of the gals has AMS and I’m very, very glad that Sumitra had the foresight to bring oxygen.
On the way back, Tondup plays old love songs, and we sing along. We take a couple of snaps next to the very cute Khardungla frog.
We halt for refueling black market diesel at a busy smelly market place. We wait for Tondup, a little grumpily. A jeep stops by us, and a man leans out, smiling. A pretty lady walks to him, and they hold hands. He tilts his head, smiles shyly, she blushes, looks up at him.
Awww. They are so sweet. In the distance a prayer wheel spins.
The trip ends too soon, and we’re flying back to Delhi.
This time, I have with me: Pashmina shawls and apricot jam and new friends, and nestling in my heart is...I think it is gratitude.
Info:
Visit Leh between June and August. Jet airways and Air Deccan have daily flights to Leh from Delhi. We traveled with a women only travel group and a had a great time – visit WOW at http://wowsumitra.com/. Hotel Spic and Span and Hotel Shambhala are two of the many good stay options. Carry woolens, abstain from alcohol, walk around beautiful Leh, and have a great time!!
I’m traveling to Leh with a bunch of ladies – I’m armed with woolens, the funda about altitude sickness, my trusty Nikon and nestling in a corner of my heart is something ... perhaps anxiety? My first trip without my baby…and it’s so far away….
Well, here we are on the plane, 18 women in varying shades of pink, just getting to know each other. And that’s the nice bit about being female – we don’t really take too long to break the ice. For example, 5 minutes on to the flight, I already know Niru has a deadly sense of humour, Meera likes to wake people up, Meenakshi has the mind of a poet and so on and so forth.
We’re women, we chatter, but even the most voluble of us is silenced by the sight of the great Himalayas below us.
The pilot does a little tricky maneuver to get between the mountains, and we are flying very low indeed, the Spituk monastery on one wingtip, the hills on the other.
We land in Ladakh – cold thin air, very blue skies, prayer flags fluttering in the breeze. I pick up my mountain of luggage, and we all drive to the Hotel Spic and Span, staring open mouthed at prayer wheels and little kids off to school and the far away horizon. Our hotel is curious mixture of carved wood windows and cement bricks that should look incongruous but does not. The staff is friendly – they welcome us with white scarves, ‘jooley!’s, tea and cookies. We (Sampreethi from Katmandu and I) walk up to room 212, and our climb is rewarded by the sight of snowcapped maintains through the windows. Today, I’m very careful – 4 litres of water, paracetamol and plenty of rest.
View from our room
Post lunch we are all feeling a little sick. It’s a kind of light-headedness, something like there is too little oxygen or too much alcohol in your blood stream. We feel much better after a nap and we drive to Shanthi Stupa.
Shanthi Stupa
The drive is interesting – curving streets, lined by the usual tourist traps, interspersed with some gems. The view is breath taking. Schools perched on high hills, green valleys, snow capped peaks in the distance, and the wind eroded Moon Mountains. The monastery near Shanthi Stupa is old and beautiful – pictures of Manjusri, a golden Buddha, two huge drums. The Stupa itself is a little new, white, and brash, but the view makes up for it.
I learn a little about the life in Ladakh from our driver – that the ubiquitous white structures lining the roads are called ‘Manis’, , the fact that prayer flags flutter above all Buddhist homes and how they handle the hibernation – 3 months stuck at home during winter
17.06.07
I wake up at 6a.m – perhaps because of the early night, the sunlight, or the altitude. Sampreethi and I walk to the terrace – what a view! Gold sunlight waking up the mountains, men nimbly leaping up the rock face to pray at the gompa, prayer flags fluttering in the breeze. We meet for breakfast, and we are finally getting to know each other. Ladies, do I have this right?
1. Sumitra – our unflappable, calm leader.
2. Vijayalakshmi – the banker from Delhi
3. Meera – the SBH banker now in Bangalore
4. Rachana – from Delhi
5. Monica – the shoe entrepreneur from Spain
6. Meenakshi – the gynaec from Delhi
7. Smitha – that’s me – the physician from Mangalore
8. Sujatha – the IT gal from Delhi
9. Anu and Niru – the cool sisters from Bangalore and Delhi respectively
10. Tasneem – from Bombay
11. Lubaina – the socks kiddo
12. Nishreen
13. Arwa
14. Nadia
15. Renuka – the finance lady from Bombay
16. Aradhana – the NPO lady from Bangalore
17. Sampreethi from Kathmandu
Then we set off on our trip – me, Anu, Monika, Meera, and a sweetheart of a driver. What a lovely world this is! Today, I express my gratitude to
God, for making these mountains.
The border road builders.
The regiments – Himank, HU, Chushul Eagles and so on that are posted here.
Zanskar meeting the Indus
A straight road in the middle of the desert, surrounded by a ring of mountains – those in the distance are topped by snow. Far below us, in the distance, flows the Indus, and the army trucks and soldiers standing by them are made tiny by the distance. “I hope you dance” is on the music system – everything comes together and it is an epiphany. I cry softly behind my shades. Monica hands me a tissue quietly - female bonding at it’s’ best. Female bonding again at an improvised loo stop on the curve of a road. Five girls, their faces carefully expressionless, stand guard while others creep behind them to pee. It is hilarious.
During a long drive through jagged peaks and wind-eroded mountains, we sing along with the music on the deck. The driver, Tondup) looks beleaguered. I wonder how our collective musical effort sounds. Four women singing at the top of their voices, in accents ranging from Spanish to Kannada, in pitches ranging from approaching earthquake to Pomeranian bark. Tondup has had enough. Inspiration strikes and he switches the tape to Ladakhi music, which he can safely assume no one knows.
Monica does not like the way some drivers overtake us on the twisty streets. “Ayayay! Loco! Loco!” she shrieks. I love the way she does this, and resolve it to use on the rickshaw drivers back home.
After a long drive indeed, we reach the Alchi monastery. And we are so fortunate that we happen in on a welcoming ceremony for a great guru, the Dalai Lama’s brother. It is incredibly moving - watching these exiled people sit by the side of the road patiently waiting for their leader. Soon the lama walks in - wise and dignified in his maroon and orange robes. The people rise, murmuring, bending forwards, reaching out to just touch his robes…it is so poignant.
At the Alchi Monastery
The guru walks down the lovely monastery paths to the temple within, and the people follow, with us in their wake.
We walk down the cobbled paths, admiring the lovely Tibetan women in blue and white silks, the Ladakhi men with patient, ageless faces, the apple cheeked children who troop behind their leader. Perhaps we irritate them, with our queries and our curiosity and our endless requests for photographs – but they are extraordinarily gentle to us – the intruders who have barged in to what surely must be an important function for them.
They reluctantly let us into the temple proper – a small dark room where there are 4 idols of Buddha. Lovely woodcarvings decorate the doorway, and the interior is dark and incense scented. We leave this most unusual and beautiful of monasteries with reluctance and head onwards to Likkir. We stop on the way for a picnic lunch by a brook. We offer some of our food to two lovely little girls who smile shyly at us from a safe distance. They accept the food, but it is later eaten by their cow, which eats our sandwich –thepla - pastry lunch with relish.
Resplendent Buddha at Likkir
The rest of the trip is a blur, possibly because we are so tired. The Gurdwara Pather Saheb is maintained in apple pie order by the army and has an intriguing history. A rakshas apparently threw a rock at the meditating guru, and the rock, far from injuring Nanakji, moulded itself around him; took his shape.
The Spituk monastery is interesting – a flirty monk shows us pictures of white Tara and Shakyamuni Buddha. We descend steep stairs and enter a small wonderfully evocative room. Low benches where the monks pray line the chamber- they are covered by thick colourful rugs. Thin yellow curtains flutter at the tiny windows. And in the midst of the incense scented darkness a beautiful ten foot Buddha smiles down at us. I remember the lines of a popular book ‘This place has known magic.’
18.06. 07
We drive to Chilling for rafting, and we’re not really deterred by the vehicles heading towards us, their occupants warning us saying the water is turbulent, too choppy, too rough. Eighteen of us, stuffed in to life jackets and waterproofs stand on the banks of the Zanskar listening to a spirited safety briefing by the utterly lovable Babu. Finally we divide ourselves on to three rafts, our feet anchoring us to the boat, our bums sticking out inelegantly. It’s such fun!!! Babu’s staccato orders of “Forward paddle” “Backwards, left” the gorges towering over us on both sides with caves and holes in the stone letting in blue sky, the pure rush of using your muscle and nerve to fight the strength of the water, the sudden shock of the ice cold river splashing on your face – oh this is a sport you can easily get addicted to, and I sure am.
And the al fresco lunch on the banks of the Indus is the perfect end to the adventure. Hot cups of chai, wholesome soul food – rajma chawal and fresh veggies, low key chatter while we warm ourselves in the sunlight – it’s simple, it is simply beautiful. The life jackets dry on a clothesline – orange and red, the colours of the Buddhist monks – and I reflect as I watch the wind on the water, that these two pursuits – meditation and rafting - are not dissimilar.
19.06.07
We make an early start today – a cold, lovely morning. The first stop is at Thikse monastery – it is stunning. Perched on top of a hill – white and ochre walls and a view of the mountains that makes you breathless.
Thikse Monastery
A monk shows us the long lavishly decorated puja room. At one end is the Shakyamuni Buddha with shelves of Khanjur and Thanjur behind him, at the other end are huge ceremonial drums. I climb up a steep flight of stairs to see a young monk performing puja, oblivious of my presence.
He reads with concentration, intermittently striking a drum. I wish I could escape in to some place like this, free from distraction, the mind fixed on one object to adore.
Then to the abode of the Maitreya Buddha.
We walk into the room, and are calmed. Trigger happy tourists sit still, chattering women are silent. People sit quietly to watch the Maitreya, to absorb some of his ineffable peace. What is it that makes him so special? What makes the peace that emanates from him almost tangible, his love palpable? He sits cross-legged, fingers in the teaching Mudra. His cheeks are golden, his eyes compassionate. Ours fill.
Maitreya Buddha
After this, breakfast by the wayside, and off to the Hemis monastery. It is a co-old – and lovely place. Wild roses grow on the hillside; snowflakes float down gently to land on our upturned faces. Here we see monks dancing – rehearsing for the Hemis festival at the end of the month. One man beats the cymbals, the other sings a low-pitched song, and the monks do this slow, rhythmic leap from foot to foot. It is quite funny, actually.
Monks at Hemis
We drive on narrow roads on huge mountains towards Pang Gong Tso – the precipices heart stopping, the jooleys on the way heart warming. We cross the Changla pass. At 17,800 feet high, it is the third highest motorable road in the world. Then down the mountains – desolate, desert landscape – melancholy memorials to soldieries slain in the Indo China war on the roadside, bursts of white flowers on the hills.
In quick succession, we cross terrifying mountains with rocks poised to topple over us, green meadows (we lunch on one of them) and arid beach scapes.
We finally reach the Pang Gong Tso. What a beautiful freezing lapis lazuli lake, so changeable in mood and colour. At times, she is frisky and clear green, at others mysterious and sapphire blue. Sometimes we see the sky in her calm surface, sometimes the snow topped peaks. Sometimes, the face of the Maitreya Buddha.
It’s very, very cold near Pang Gong; after all, we’re 15,000 feet up. We huddle around a bonfire and introduce ourselves to a Cypriot brother and sister. “We heard you were a bunch of Indian Airlines stewardesses.” Stefanio says.
“No.” we clarify.
“We’re a women’s travel group – Women On Wanderlust.”
“Wow.” they say.
“That’s us.” we answer, laughing.
The next morning, we drive back through snowy Changla to reach the hotel. We drop in to LedEg where we do some shopping. I venture out on my own for the first time that evening. I buy stuff at the Buddhist Tangkha house, have Kashmiri Kahwa at the ‘desert rain cafe’ and generally home a whale of a time.
The last day of the trip and we drive up to Khardungla top. This is the world’s highest motorable road. We follow a convoy of army trucks - soldiers off to spend months on the Siachen glacier, and once more, I am flooded with respect for these men who stand on our wall, and guard us. K top is special. There is a temple, big views, and cold winds. One of the gals has AMS and I’m very, very glad that Sumitra had the foresight to bring oxygen.
On the way back, Tondup plays old love songs, and we sing along. We take a couple of snaps next to the very cute Khardungla frog.
We halt for refueling black market diesel at a busy smelly market place. We wait for Tondup, a little grumpily. A jeep stops by us, and a man leans out, smiling. A pretty lady walks to him, and they hold hands. He tilts his head, smiles shyly, she blushes, looks up at him.
Awww. They are so sweet. In the distance a prayer wheel spins.
The trip ends too soon, and we’re flying back to Delhi.
This time, I have with me: Pashmina shawls and apricot jam and new friends, and nestling in my heart is...I think it is gratitude.
Info:
Visit Leh between June and August. Jet airways and Air Deccan have daily flights to Leh from Delhi. We traveled with a women only travel group and a had a great time – visit WOW at http://wowsumitra.com/. Hotel Spic and Span and Hotel Shambhala are two of the many good stay options. Carry woolens, abstain from alcohol, walk around beautiful Leh, and have a great time!!
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