................................................................................................
................................................................................................
One Life to Ride:
A Motorcycle Journey to the High Himalayas;
By Ajit Harisinghani.
................................................................................................
................................................................................................
Interesting in its many aspects, chiefly that of journey to and in Himaalayan regions, all the way from Pune.
For whatever reason, the writer is anxious to impress the reader with his attitude, that of derision of majority of India and extolling minorities. Is it just to counter the experiences he had during his journey, or does he feel afraid of being seen as someone not quite sophisticated, is unclear.
He speaks of meeting a Muslim trying to bicycle his way to Mecca, of his spiritual stance that can only be called Indian heritage; he speaks later of meeting two Hindu monks who attempt to fleece him for money.
While it might all be genuine experience, that it gives a certain impression about his attitude is undeniable.
Later he repeatedly speaks of the feeling of exaltation that comes over as he sojourn through Himaalayan regions, and the dismay as he enters the Muslim majority valley of Kashmir.
Both feel true.
But he is askance about the military, without which Kashmir would have be Afghanistan decades ago, with other states of India at peril of the same, one by one.
................................................................................................
"The highway is dotted with toll booths but in India, I’ve discovered, two-wheelers do not have to pay toll. I like that. The laws of this country are generous to the poor.
"At one such tollbooth where, in spite of not having to pay toll, I still have to pass through the gates where other cars and trucks awaited their turn, I suddenly find myself being nudged off the channel into the cement embankment on my right. A white car is crowding me, not allowing me the few inches of space I need.
"‘Arre saale’ the driver’s yell is loud enough even through my helmet. Preventing a small collision, I regain my balance and look at my tormentor. Maybe it is the smallness of their car that made them seem to fill it up, but I see a grossly fat couple inside, both about 40 years old.
"‘Abbe gaddhey, marna hai kya?’ (Hey you donkey. Want to Die?). I say nothing but the fat man isn’t ready to give up.
"‘Kyon bey? Sunta nahi kya?’ (Why? Can’t you hear?), he challenges me again. I think he is only trying to impress his wife, who is smiling appreciatively at her brave spouse.
'I decide to try something. The Enfield is also a motorcycle much favoured by the police and the military and I have been often mistaken for a senior officer of these two services.
"Looking at him steadily, I open the visor of my helmet and notice his surprise as he sees my ancient face. Then, in a soft, non-threatening tone, deliver my threat. I simply ask him if he has ever been beaten by an army man.
'‘Fauji se kabhi maar khaya hai?’ as if it was something he had missed in life; something I could well deliver.
"His expression changes as if a switch had been flicked. He stops speaking. His overflowing wife has also assumed a tense expression on her ample face. The man is now in an abnormal hurry to move. He looks straight ahead and takes off a bit too fast for the ten rather big rumble strips ahead.
"Six words can be a potent force. It’s the tone that is important here. Being a speech therapist has its advantages!
................................................................................................
"My mother came from an affluent doctor’s family. Her father, with his medical education from the Grant Medical College, Mumbai, in the early 1900s, had prospered doctoring the nawabs of Larkana, Sindh. My mother had many stories to tell of the extravagant gifts that followed each home visit my nana made. The nawabs paid in trunks full of clothes and baskets of fruit.
"One of mother’s stories: She was 16 years old when this happened. They had just moved into the new house that her father had built in Larkana. She remembers it was coloured white and had a dome and a basement where she played with her friends. Late one night, there was a loud knocking on the door, which got the entire household out of bed. This is how she told the story:
"Your nana unlatched the door. Four burly Pathans stood beyond the threshold. To my young mind, the big men, clad in dark salwaarkurtas, standing in the faintly lighted porch, were an intimidating sight.
"What scared me were the daggers strapped around their waists and the very long-barrelled guns in their hands. The turbaned one, who appeared to be their leader, was Vazir Sonu Khan, and said he had a message from his master Nawab Gaibi Khan.
"Gaibi Khan, who was then lord of Gaibi dera, a village about 40 kilometres from Larkana, wanted the daaktar to be quickly summoned to save the apple-of-his-eye, his six-year-old grandson Ahmed Sultan, who had suddenly taken very ill and was now writhing in pain. It was an emergency and would the respected daaktar please hurry.
"The driver of the nawab’s car had not even switched off the engine, but Dada was not to be rushed. He asked Sonu Khan to describe the child’s symptoms and then packed his bag with everything he would need.
"They left and we didn’t see Dada for seven days. There were no telephones then, not in Gaibi dera. We had no way of knowing what had happened. Zamindars were like absolute monarchs in their fiefdoms. Had the boy died? Were they blaming my father? Where was he? Seven days later he came back in a large car, one of the Nawab’s prized possessions. Two large metal trunks were unloaded from the rear of the car by the same four men who had come to fetch him the week before. There was also a huge degchi, which we were told contained cooked venison.
"‘Dada, what happened?’ I asked as soon as he had a wash and a cup of tea. ‘Oh… everything was fine,’ he had replied. ‘Dada… I want to know what happened right from when you drove off that night,’ I had pestered him. He said they had reached Gaibi dera at 2 a.m. Roads were narrow and rough and they had taken two hours to cover the distance. The old nawab was waiting for them. He was a big man even by Pathan standards. He wore a white kaftaan and his salwaars were reputed to be made from nine yards of poplin latha. And his hair and beard were dyed red with henna. Known to treat both his Hindu and Muslim ‘subjects’ with equal justice, the nawab was respected for his fairness.
"At any other time, it would be his warm broad smile with which he greeted his visitors, but that night his face was grim. ‘Daaktar, save my grandson,’ were the only words he spoke as he led Dada towards the child’s room. Dada said that the boy, who was lying on a large bed surrounded by his mother and three other women, was in obvious pain which seemed to be spasmodic, occurring at intervals of about two minutes. The child was clutching his stomach and crying. Dada said it was a simple case of a severely constipated digestive tract. The boy had not passed stools for four days but had continued to eat, causing a kind of traffic jam. Dada said he had administered an enema and retired to the room they had allotted him in the guesthouse which was in a separate building.
"Early next morning he was awakened by an old woman who said the nawab wanted to see him. Gaibi Khan was waiting near the door of his haveli. Ahmed Sultan was going to be all right. A miraculous recovery had occurred. Awash with relief, the nawab was grateful beyond words. He wouldn’t hear of letting Dada go back to Larkana so soon, wanting him to supervise the child’s recuperation. A majlis to celebrate his grandson’s return to good health was planned and Dada was the guest of honour.
"Much later, when the partition of the country became a certainty and Hindus began to leave Larkana, Gaibi Khan sent Sonu Khan and four armed men to safely escort our family to Karachi. Even train journeys were becoming dangerous with frequent reports of passengers being massacred. The Pathans came with us on the train from Larkana. They kept watch as we stayed in Gaibi Khan’s house in Karachi for the four days it took to finalise travel arrangements. The Pathans booked our seats on the ship to Bombay, escorted us to the docks and left only after making sure we were safe.
"This story, however, did not have a completely happy ending. We heard later that Gaibi Khan had been arrested because he was sympathetic to the plight of Hindus and had helped many escape the wrath of the marauding killer gangs. Those were times when tempers ran high on both sides of the religious divide. The Khan was seen as a traitor and a sentence of prolonged imprisonment was passed. But this prisoner was never imprisoned. The Khan, unable to take the fact of his sentence, had a heart attack when he was being taken to Sukkhur Jail and was dead before he entered it."
................................................................................................
"By 6 p.m. the sand begins to blow across the road and in spite of the visor, its grains find access to my nose and eyes. I’ve been riding for ten hours since I’d left Mt. Abu. As the golden evening begins to turn into twilight, I start to look for a lodge.
"After 7 o’clock it becomes dark, which dramatically decreases odds of survival. With high-beam halogen lights from trucks coming the other way blinding me, the dark visor is now a hindrance and has to be drawn up to improve visibility and prevent the motorcycle from hitting any of the many potholes or in some places, large rocks left lying on the road. The sand is still blowing and hits my eyeballs with disturbing impact. This, I tell myself, was what I got from breaking my own rule of not riding after sunset. Now I am caught on the dark highway with not an exit in sight. The unmade road seems to go on and on with nowhere to stop. Truck after laden truck, at times crawling bumper to bumper. Sometimes without warning, a driver breaks out of the orderly convoy in a burst of impatient speed. I could have died ten times but ten times I didn’t. I become one up on cats. The old Sufi’s blessings are doing their job!"
"Karol Bagh which is a Mecca for the Enfield enthusiast with entire shops devoted to this particular brand of motorcycle."
................................................................................................
"The road from Manali to Rohtang La is nicely paved and it is an easy ascent to Rohtang La (3,980 metres). This historic pass between Kullu and Lahaul valleys offers the first spectacular view of the higher Himalayas and is a popular northernmost stop on the tourist itinerary.
"The atmosphere at the top of Rohtang is carnival. Noise from tape recorders mingles with fumes from a hundred diesel vehicles, the smell of chhole-parathe from the dhabas, the cries of balloon-sellers, the excited yelps of children enjoying their pony rides. But once I crest the Rohtang, the ambience changes as if by magic. Silence takes over. Not a soul in sight for long stretches."
" ... The BRO (Border Roads Organization) must have a wry sense of humour. They must need it too. All along the route from Manali to Leh and northwards towards Siachen, then westwards to Srinagar, the BRO maintains these high altitude roads, some of which get washed away by glacial melt every afternoon and have to be rebuilt every evening."
"Afternoons are a glorious time to be riding a motorcycle on narrow gravel roads which snake through the Himalayas. With the sun already close to the peaks, the play of light colours the landscape in shades that vary from bright yellow to gleaming gold. At this altitude, I’m now moving much above the tree line and there is not a patch of green to be seen anywhere."
" ... Suraj Tal, a lake like no other I’ve seen. It fills the valley almost to the brim and its blue waters look absolutely still. No fish plops, no butterflies flutter over it. Snow-laden peaks stand reflected in it with crystal clear certainty."
"... Baralacha La (4,950 metres). Surrounded by 12 snow-laden mountain peaks, including Nunkun – the highest peak in Ladakh – this pass is a junction with a trekking and mule/yak path which leads southeast down into the Chandra valley and onwards into Spiti. On the north lies Lake Yunan Tso."
"... Lachlang La (5,065 metres) where I stop to soak in the silent scenery. The sun shines bright but it is still cold up here even at 3 o’clock in the afternoon. Unlike Baralacha La, where one is protected from the wind to a certain extent by the higher peaks of other mountains all around, here the unhindered breeze is strong and chilling and seems to penetrate into my head through my ears, nostrils and mouth."
" ... Tanglang La, the highest pass on the Manali-Leh road. It is only 6:30 a.m. The road is covered with a layer of sand and seems to hold to a perpetual 30-degree incline. Every view on every side is spectacular and I have to, I just have to stop and take a few pictures."
"The road is arrow straight on a wide tableland between two mountain ranges with broad stretches of sand on either side. The high Tanglang is visible towards the north.
"I feel like a speck in this grand landscape where things change by the minute. One minute it is bright and sunny. And then a large grey cloud hides the sun. Then the sand begins to whirl itself into tall thin dust devils over 50 feet high that have a life of their own, moving around briskly, maybe by some intelligent design.
"In retrospect it was a miraculous sight but this morning I am overwhelmed by the scale of the strangeness all around me. My senses are saturated with awe.
"The dust devils have run away from me and now a snow cloud begins to form up ahead. It approaches rather quickly. I am covered with wispy light snowflakes which melt almost as soon as they land on me.
"Midway through, after an hour on the road, I see a lone Tibetan man, dressed in a maroon gown, sitting all by himself by the roadside. Probably a shepherd, but there are no sheep in sight. I am in no mood to stop and chat.
................................................................................................
"It’s been snowing lightly all this while. Frequently wiping the visor of my helmet with my gloved hands, I slow my pace and creep up the now narrowing road. At a point, I get a panoramic view of what lies ahead. Snow-laden mountains spread out all around as far as the eye can see. The road, a thin line hugging the mountain ahead of me, winding on and on towards what I presume must be Tanglang La (5,360 metres). From this distance, the majestic peak stands tall, like a monarch wearing a crown of white."
"Another set of cosmic rules seems to apply here. 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 prayer wheel, lost in their private Shangri La. Friendliness is in the air and smiles are easy to come by but hotels are not.
"Leh is packed with tourists from all over the world. Absolutely nowhere to stay. Unless, as one hotel manager tells me, I am ready to shell out Rs. 3,000 for a day’s stay. I’m not. That’s way over my budget. I walk to a nearby restaurant and ponder over my situation sipping a cup of some kadak chai."
The breeze has no leaves to rustle through, so it uses the crevices between rocks and snow to create the universal sound of ‘OM’, which seems to reverberate all around me. Awed reverence is all I feel."
"I am riding along the banks of the river Indus. At a point, just before I enter the wayside village of Mulbekh, the mountains seem to close in on me. With the frothy Indus gushing powerfully in its suddenly confining channel through the rocks, the blue green waters make a deafening roar and mask out all thoughts except an awed awareness of the strength of the myriad forces which rule our planet Earth."
"The government tourist lodge is located on the western edge of the Dras valley, right under Tiger Hill. This is where the short war was fought a couple of years ago. It is also the second coldest place on earth. The temperature had dipped to minus 60 degrees Celsius some years ago – a feather in its cap. But it is Tiger Hill that dominates the ambience here."
"Zoji La (3,529 metres). This pass is not as high as some of the others I had crossed but it is the coldest. Crowded around by peaks, which on the Ladakh side are naked brown with no greenery and on the Kashmir valley side lush with pine, this is a spectacular place. A thick mantle of snow covers all peaks even this early in July. If this is summer, what must winter be?"
................................................................................................
"Tranquil Ladakh, the northernmost corner of my vast country. Frontier land. So unique. Unforgiving terrain with forgiving people. The air of the land sweetened with the compassion of Buddha. The quiet dignified stark honesty on smiling faces. Timelessness etched on the monasteries. And silences like I’ve never heard before. Here the wind is a palpable presence. It talks to you in cosmic whispers. The mountains of the Himalayas, although physically foreboding, seem to exude something other than just awe. All through my journey in Ladakh, I have felt safe amidst these giants of rock and ice. But this is soon to change. This is my last moment of peace. On the other side is the tumultuous vale of Kashmir."
................................................................................................
"Back at his post again, the soldier tells me that it is the time of the annual Amarnath yatra and the army is expecting militants to target this Hindu pilgrimage, as they do each year. Scores of people have been killed in attacks but thousands more keep coming. This year the army has made especially stringent arrangements and security has been beefed up to an unprecedented level."
"As I sip my tea, a covered half-ton truck packed with folded aluminium chairs, beds and mattresses is stopped at the military checkpoint towards my left. A jawan gestures for the driver and his companion to get down and let him inspect the truck. On seeing the cargo, he asks the driver to unload it. This angers the driver who yells that he cannot unload everything. It took him four hours to load the truck. Soon a crowd of locals collects and starts shouting slogans against the army. This brings a senior officer out of his cabin and he tries to reason with the crowd which is only getting more boisterous and vocal. This could turn into a full-fledged riot quite easily and I am worried my motorcycle, with its Maharashtra number,"
"All along the route, every 100 metres, I see an armed sentry keeping watch over vehicles that ply this route, carting pilgrims to the Amarnath caves. The road is nice enough and the setting is picture postcard perfect. The ingredients are all there. High mountains on either side, crowded with pine and crowned with snow which blazes white in the morning sun. The Indus – gushing strongly on the left along the road. A cool breeze is blowing gently. But I am not at ease. The strong army presence just cannot be ignored away. The tension between them and the local people is palpable."
"Decades ago, when Kashmir was free of militancy, it had been a different story. Streets crowded with travellers from every country in the world. A paradise for young backpackers.
"Today this is all changed. The security drills of the army and the police, the check posts, the frisking of the citizenry, everything contributes to creating a hostile ambience. There is no joy to be had around here."
................................................................................................
"He is a young man from somewhere in Bihar and hates his current posting. Raunaq Lal, standing there alone amidst a hostile local population, is bursting with a need to talk with someone whose national loyalty he could trust. Like everyone else, he is waiting for his annual leave. Anxious to get out of this vale of death, where every minute, there was the possibility of being blown up into smithereens. He’s seen it happen often enough. Only two days ago, a truck had been targeted on this very road, he tells me. Twenty-two soldiers had died."
"‘Khaana khaate samay kuchh bhi ho sakta hai.’ (Anything can happen while we eat our lunch.)
"These guys live from minute to minute. I say my goodbye and as I restart the bike,
"I feel guilty about heading home while young Raunaq yearns for his."
................................................................................................
"When I get up to leave, I realize I am weighed down with the unfamiliar feeling of guilt. It feels as if I am abandoning them to their fate. How many of these soldiers will survive the year in this hostile climate? Will I, sitting comfortably in my chair at home a week from now, sipping my coffee, read about an ambush or an explosion which had snatched away these lives? Will Shivnath get married and have a family? Or are his mother and sister destined to get that dreaded message which will tell them he was gone?
"These morbid thoughts do nothing to lift my spirits. I force a smile as I wish them goodbye. Only when I am back on the road with my face hidden under the helmet do I let my laden dam overflow. I am crying. I feel an empty void in my stomach. For the first time I have understood the soldier’s sacrifice for his country. Paying with his life for those who use nationalism or religion to keep the broth of human misery boiling."
................................................................................................
Patnitop
"Hotel Gulmohur is indeed lovely. Built with deodar logs, the small hotel has two suites. Mine is a two room affair with the front room furnished with a cosy sofa set with a centre table to rest one’s legs on. Inside is the bedroom with a queen size bed covered with quilts. An electric heater stands in the corner, ready to heat the room."
................................................................................................
................................................................................................
................................................
................................................
October 15, 2021 - October 15, 2021.
Purchased October 15, 2021.
First paperback edition published by
Bibliophile South Asia
June 2008
Reprint September 2008
Second Edition November 2009
(Revised text with colour photographs)
All rights reserved
ISBN : 978-93-80188-01-0
Typeset in Palatino
ASIN:- BOO7QRCX14
................................................
................................................
................................................................................................
................................................................................................
https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/4324050612
................................................................................................
................................................................................................
