Travelogues Tales from the Nubra
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There are valleys in the Himalayan range that take your breath away because of their sheer beauty and magnificence. Many of these are, however, on trekking routes beyond the reach of those unable to walk to these heights. Those that are approachable by road are, more often than not, one of those tourist attractions that despite their beauty are pockmarked with tourists walking all over the place during the 'season' months. Don't we really wish we had a vale all to ourselves? |
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After the lunch halt at Khalsar (10,080ft) at the mouth of the valley, we entered a flat stretch of road with the enormous valley unravelling itself like a plot from a Hitchcock novel. We followed the turbulent and muddy Shyok. As it grew wider, so did the valley. We soon came to a bifurcation - the right fork leading to the villages of Sumur, Tegar and Panamic and onwards to the Siachen glacier; the left fork going to the villages of Diskit and Hundar. We took the left fork. Over the next few days I stayed with local families and explored the valley on my own, my trusted backpack and camera slung across my back, my worries and moods scattered beyond the Saser glaciers…beyond Turtuk…beyond the mighty Siachen hidden behind the mountains to the north. At Diskit, the little children were a revelation. Five tiny ones emerged from the forest. Prancing around me they led me to their school, introduced me to their teachers and little friends. Their permanently flowing noses would put the Shyok to shame. Later they ran with me to their waterhole, where the clear stream water collected for a while before slipping over the log into the adjoining fields. Here, they stripped naked and jumped into the pool - their innocent laughter reverberating across the valley and right to my soul. Bidding them a fond farewell, I moved in deeper towards the end of the pasture, past farms hidden from sight by tall thorny shrubs. Suddenly the path opened and an amazing sight unfolded! A rolling meadow with a stream running through it! Horses and cows grazed peacefully. This was no man's land. Here nature danced to the tune of chirping birds, trees swayed in the breeze echoing a haunting whisper across the meadow. Rocks whispered magic words that made the stream gurgle with laughter. I sat and watched the sun setting gradually over the distant peaks, casting long shadows in the valley while removing some from my mind. The days came and went. I clung on to each moment, as I hoped against hope with every passing hour that the sun would never set and my long carefree walks would not end. I just didn't want to arrive anywhere. Each day began early and ended well after the village lights would flicker off, one by one. I'd walk out of the room with a blanket wrapped tightly around, gaze at the stars that shone so brightly, seemingly so close and so gently, that I wondered why I searched for my God in a temple when he stared at me all the while from above. And so it went. One hour overlapping the next, one mile extending into another. I hiked to the gompa at Hundar perched high above the bridge with a mesmerizing view of the valley beneath. I saw the monastery at Diskit and the impressive Shamstelling gompa at Sumur, rode across the dunes on the double humped bactrian camel that I hired from Abdul Razzak for a paltry Rs.150, got invited (and later drunk) at the delightfully amateurish Tegar village festival, and devoured the not so tasty 'skiu' and the unpalatable 'khambhir' served by my newfound friends. T. Dorje taught me how easy it is to make friends and how a wonderful friendship can last all of one day. Perched precariously on his Bajaj Chetak, I went all over Panamic village and to his small dwelling where we shared his lunch and his many stories of Ladakh. He walked me to the hot springs, to his workshop where he taught the locals carpentry and introduced me to the locals as 'mera Bambe ka dost.' TI left Sumur early one morning at 6am. I kept my money on a makeshift table in my room and slipped out of the house quietly so as not to wake up my wonderful hosts. I walked over to the village bus stand across the road. For an hour I sat on a culvert watching a remote mountain village wake up to the sounds of a new day. I drifted in and out of moments that made up my days in the valley. The distant drone of an automobile jerked me from my reverie and slowly I stood up, dusted my pants and as the jeep rumbled towards me I stuck my thumb out in the direction of Leh. Snippets for the traveller:
Photo credit - Abhik Dutta
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Editor: Romola Butalia   (c) India Travelogue. All rights reserved. |