Postcards from the Edge
Ladakh the last Shangri La
Vaihayasi P Daniel
The aircraft swooped into a valley perched on top of the world.
Beautifully stark, the corrugated landscape stretches out as far
as the eye can see. Snow capped mountains fold away from the verdant
valleys like so many wrinkles of a rough burlap sack. An invigorating
breeze whistles about your ears -- the only sound that disturbs
the ringing stillness.
Where do you find a wee place located way up in the clouds where
life has a celestial flow to it?
Disembark Leh, Ladakh. Ladakh is Little Tibet. But a miniature,
remote and free Tibet. India's largest district, situated on a
barren dry plateau, is part of the troubled state of Kashmir.
Boundaries on a map is where the connection ends. l.
Ladakh... A Paradise not lost. There are no cockroaches in this
Happy Valley. No beggars. Or graffiti. Cholesterol is not found
either. Can anything be better? In summer, life has the brisk
pace of the gently gurgling greeny Indus. And by winter life freezes
up just like the good river. The towering snow-speckled mountains
do not cast mean shadows but only thick, velvety ones that are
so reassuring. And the wispy clouds roll along in the brightest
blue sky this side of the Khardung La Pass.
The month of August is like a spring of contentment in this vale.
The road to Manali opened a little while ago and trucks laden
with treasured goodies like pears, cheese, transistors, cauliflower,
Hindi film tapes and soft drinks are rolling in. The grassy meadows
are inhabited by somnolent, cud-chewing dzos and hairy goats and
the bands of farmers, lustily singing a lilting harvest song,
advance with their scythes. A few of the monasteries and prayer
memorials are getting a fresh white lime job. Monks are on the
move visiting various lama pals. Like bears out of hibernation,
Ladakhis are on the go this season. And even the lazy Stakna hydel
project is showing a little life and it not just the yak butter
lamps and diyas that provide the lights winking in the
ravines.
A flotilla of taxis wait beyond the doors of the squat low airport
building where hordes of singing monks in red habits are milling
around. "Joolay, joolay" is the hearty call of
greeting. The gentle hospitality of these hill folks begins to
warm you. Taxiwallahs rush to help you with your luggage.
Tiny apricot-cheeked children wave in delight as one progresses
down the bumpy spine-cracking roads to a hotel.
The land is hard and craggy. An unyielding brown. But in places
where water touches it - even tiny rivulets of the Indus - magically
it sprouts a rich green. Bright white prayer monuments and tombs
populate the countryside, ever present symbols of Ladakhi devotion
to Lord Buddha. Passers-by, clad in neatly tailored gonchas
(robes) wave ecstatic greetings, their weather beaten faces glowing.
Snug wooden palaces perch precariously on hilltops. Four century
old monasteries grasp the steepness of the rocky mountains. Safety
in the olden days and distance from the material world is why
monasteries hide themselves in mountains. These monasteries, or
gompas as they are called are occupied by giant idols of
golden, jewel encrusted Buddhas and smell of the faint scent of
yak butter and warm wood. Monks simply attired in rough, red robes
are obliging hosts and offer detail-by-detail descriptions of
the statues and multi-hued ancient tapestries that adorn the walls.
Baby lamas bound gleefully about the place happy to practise some
English or French that they have picked up, with you.
Sacred Write
Graffiti is scribbled on the barren mountain side in big bold
rainbow-coloured letters. The elegant Tibetan script looks almost
like Bengali. And what does the graffiti says? "Oh those
are prayers," informs the cabby cheerfully. A new revelation:
graffiti in Ladakh is sacred! Prayers are a pivotal part of Ladakh
life; the mainstay of their life.
Prayer flags in bright yellows and green or pinks flutter from
every roof top, from the emblem of Ambassadors' cars, from bridges,
from flag poles in accompaniment to yak hair. Even the electricity
wires sport a white or yellow flag making them probably the most
sacred electricity poles in the he world!
A strip of white gauze, that resembles a bandage is the most sacred
gift one individual can offer another. Drape a white gauze around
the neck of a visitor and he is the most welcome visitor. The
statues of Buddha statues, lamas, visiting Japanese monks, have
all been garlanded with the auspicious white gauze.
As one drives down the parabolic roads of Ladakh one often chances
upon a evenly arranged pile of rocks. Are they defence against
an enemy or the beginnings of a clumsily erected boundary wall?
Approach closer and it is evident that each rock has been carefully
engraved with Tibetan scripture. The pile of rocks are religious
offerings and inserted between the rocks is money! The crisp rupee
notes remain untouched by the side of the roads.
Shey
Climb almost a thousand steep steps and your each step forward
may loosen a mini rock avalanche, as you scale the mountain of
naked rock. And ahead, perched on top, the splendour of the Shey
palace rises before you. The palace is ancient, very ancient,550 years, enlightens the guide.
A giant prayer wheel sits in the courtyard. This wheel is a large
ornate cylinder, standing on end, that rotates on an axis. The
inside is filled with reams of prayers, scripted in Tibetan. If
the wheel is carefully rotated -- clockwise, mind you -- then
by that one turn of your hand, you are beckoning God to read every
single prayer crammed in the cylinder. God's reading of the hope
laden words is accompanied by the tinkle of a bell... an acknowledgment
chime from above.
Shey is a palace monastery combination, that belongs to the royal
family of Ladakh. Look out of one of the long windows with crumbling
wood frames and way below in a soggy marsh, a pair of fatted ponies
graze. Legend has it that the marsh was a lake once upon a time,
which reflected the beauty of the palace of Shey and hence the
word 'shey' means a mirror. And as the fable goes, (actually
it is a fact because it says so on the little hand written board
tacked on the wall), that Shey was a maternity palace where all
the pregnant Ladakhi princesses and queens arrived to give birth
to their heirs. But how did they climb those 1000 odd precarious
steps?
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