In continuation of:
Part 1: Nomadic Hymnal: Ladhhak: A Godless Pilgrimage
Part 2: Nomadic Hymnal: Leh: Realm of the Indus
An hour from Leh, the Magnetic hill stood establishing literally, what in metaphoric sense Leh has always been—magnetic. With engines off, our motorcycles moved uphill at 45 kmph, defying gravity, surrendering to the rebellious hill in its silent mutiny against the earth's force. Once released from the magnetic field, switching loyalities again, the bikes ran on horse power, occasionally speeding on the surprisingly well-maintained NH1.
The Indus, by now huge enough to command the reverence reserved for a goddess, moved parallel to the road, occasionally crossing it beneath feeble bridges in its haste to reach the Arabian Sea. At one such crossing, I collected a handful of silt and a bottle of water from the river as a memento of the journey.
Apart from a few rough patches, the road to Kargil, was "easy." The word easy, however, in this part of the world never comes without inverted commas; and in present context it only means, not as hard as the Manali-Leh highway. The mountain passes on the road, with the highest one being 'just' 13500 feet above sea level, appeared like routine tourist spots in the hills, again, only in comparison. However, one phenomena exclusive to this road were the local kids, who in amusement or naive anticipation high-fived us every time we went past. Perhaps, they considered the arrival of bikes as good omen, for it coincided with the beginning of the pleasant summer season. Reminding me of my naivety as a child, they appeared like projections of my own conscience, framed eternally in time, living a life I once wanted to. They still haunt me when I feel the need of a vacation just to stop being an impostor for a while.
Tender, jittery hands, under my benign childhood sky
wave in solitude from where a tight-rope walk began
over abyss, on the rope of aspirations, and helmed by the same jittery hands
I wave back and keep walking towards the end unexplored.
Vistas changed, as we entered Kargil, from a hostile desert to a lush green valley, inundated by the river Suru. After a brief stop in front of a medieval Maitreya Budhha statue, we headed straight to Kargil town, and checked-in in a hotel near Ayatollah Khomeini chowk at around 6:00 pm. Violating Khomeini's fatwa against Salman Rushdie, I read 'Satanic Verses' until I slept that night. Khomeini, turning in his grave, cursed me to fall off my bike in Jawahar tunnel, which I later did.
To Srinagar: An early start at 7:00 AM made sure we didn't get stuck among army vehicles, and moving swiftly on broken roads, we came across a road-sign that said "You are under enemy's observation." The signboards that followed were all memorials built in honor of the soldiers killed in 1999, on the road by the 'observant' enemy. Replacing the deceased names, new nameless soldiers now stood guarding the road and bridges against the Pakistani army's shells. Their reward—if they fell, they would no longer be nameless, at least in the Indian Army's annals. Paying our homage to the martyrs, we went past Tiger hill, to have breakfast at Dras—the second coldest inhabited place in the world.
Moving quickly we went past shepherds and vagabonds, occasionally conversing and sharing greetings, on our way to Zoji La—the most scenic part of the Leh-Srinagar highway. The road, rough as the lunar surface, went through meadows, appeared to have materialized straight out of a Wordsworth classic, before giving way to a beautifully laid tarmac. A spectacular view of the Jhelum river greeted us on our arrival in the Kashmir valley, and we reached Srinagar by 3:00 pm. After finding a hotel, we spent the evening riding Shikara and sipping kehwa in the Dal lake. Watching the sun set over Dal, was an emotional moment since it marked the end of our last day in 'Paradise.'
The next day, back on the roads of the civilized world, riding through heavy traffic, we reached Jawahar tunnel. Riding pillion on my bike, Khomeini's curse made its presence felt right in the middle of the dark tunnel. To give way to eagerly honking cars behind me, my motorcycle skidded as I tried to steer left in invisible mire at 50 kmph. The motorcycle wasn't hurt, and after nursing my elbow wound, we rode through traffic all day before encountering the last adventure of our trip— being stuck in torrential rainfall and landslides at 11 in the night and, and having to take a longer alternate route, while risking running out of petrol. Eventually we made it to our destination for the day—Pathankot. The journey next day from Pathankot to Ambala was mostly spent in veneration of the journey that it had been thus far.
Forsaking sleep when mind incredulously rejected time-travel, we left restlessly stinging mosquitoes half fed, and checked out of our hotel in Ambala at 2:00 AM in the night. In what was our last chai stop of the journey, we congratulated each other before gradually transforming into impostors once again.
Part 1: Nomadic Hymnal: Ladhhak: A Godless Pilgrimage
Part 2: Nomadic Hymnal: Leh: Realm of the Indus
An hour from Leh, the Magnetic hill stood establishing literally, what in metaphoric sense Leh has always been—magnetic. With engines off, our motorcycles moved uphill at 45 kmph, defying gravity, surrendering to the rebellious hill in its silent mutiny against the earth's force. Once released from the magnetic field, switching loyalities again, the bikes ran on horse power, occasionally speeding on the surprisingly well-maintained NH1.
 |
| Simply Magnetic |
 |
| Indus: The Farewell |
Tender, jittery hands, under my benign childhood sky
wave in solitude from where a tight-rope walk began
over abyss, on the rope of aspirations, and helmed by the same jittery hands
I wave back and keep walking towards the end unexplored.
 |
| Changing Vistas: Kargil |
Vistas changed, as we entered Kargil, from a hostile desert to a lush green valley, inundated by the river Suru. After a brief stop in front of a medieval Maitreya Budhha statue, we headed straight to Kargil town, and checked-in in a hotel near Ayatollah Khomeini chowk at around 6:00 pm. Violating Khomeini's fatwa against Salman Rushdie, I read 'Satanic Verses' until I slept that night. Khomeini, turning in his grave, cursed me to fall off my bike in Jawahar tunnel, which I later did.
To Srinagar: An early start at 7:00 AM made sure we didn't get stuck among army vehicles, and moving swiftly on broken roads, we came across a road-sign that said "You are under enemy's observation." The signboards that followed were all memorials built in honor of the soldiers killed in 1999, on the road by the 'observant' enemy. Replacing the deceased names, new nameless soldiers now stood guarding the road and bridges against the Pakistani army's shells. Their reward—if they fell, they would no longer be nameless, at least in the Indian Army's annals. Paying our homage to the martyrs, we went past Tiger hill, to have breakfast at Dras—the second coldest inhabited place in the world.
 |
| Kargil: In Sight of the Enemy |
Moving quickly we went past shepherds and vagabonds, occasionally conversing and sharing greetings, on our way to Zoji La—the most scenic part of the Leh-Srinagar highway. The road, rough as the lunar surface, went through meadows, appeared to have materialized straight out of a Wordsworth classic, before giving way to a beautifully laid tarmac. A spectacular view of the Jhelum river greeted us on our arrival in the Kashmir valley, and we reached Srinagar by 3:00 pm. After finding a hotel, we spent the evening riding Shikara and sipping kehwa in the Dal lake. Watching the sun set over Dal, was an emotional moment since it marked the end of our last day in 'Paradise.'
 |
| Another Day in Paradise: Srinagar |
Forsaking sleep when mind incredulously rejected time-travel, we left restlessly stinging mosquitoes half fed, and checked out of our hotel in Ambala at 2:00 AM in the night. In what was our last chai stop of the journey, we congratulated each other before gradually transforming into impostors once again.
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