The tale of the heaven !! (Part I)

Once again, my soul whispers, “Explore the world”; thus, have to descend on the path again. After brief arrangements, it was time to wait for. And, the day came sooner than expected. I start my journey again to Kashmir—the Paradise in the Earth. I have never travelled to the core of Kashmir valley; only seen images and dreamt through the tales. What a wonderful place it is—the land of beauty! Losing into reverie, I remember not when I have fallen asleep. I wake up with an unusual announcement in the flight, “Please do not open the window until asked for.” I can understand it to be a special security advisory. The flight is about to land at Srinagar. I start dreaming again. Kashmir, security, beauty, so more, all jumbling up inside my small brain. While I engage myself in getting out of those entangled thoughts, my flight has already landed.

Coming out of the airport, I find the smiling face of Kazimbhai. “Madam, Namaste!”, he moves on with my luggage once he has finished his brief welcome address. We drive through the city—the road sketching through nicely arrayed colourful houses—and every house has a garden, smaller or larger, adorned with vibrant roses in prime of their bloom. Rose, a simple name, that has fascinated me since my childhood. But it couldn’t have meant closer to its name unless I were in Kashmir. I have been in delight of seeing them in abundance in so colourful, youthful and fragrant varieties. The name gets its true meaning as the beauty honouring its beauty unfolded.

After a quick round of breakfast at a roadside tavern, we move on. The army vehicles are passing by more often. Again, the word “security” start reigning in my mind. We continue to ride with security interrupting my brain and our movement as frequently as our saner senses can tolerate. I have travelled so many times to Ladakh—covering almost every corner of it from every possible road—and even traversed through the long border road along Pangong lake via Chusul and Shayok valley beyond Nubra towards Siachen with special permits, but could never make it through Srinagar side. We shall be going to Sonmarg today.

A faint rain has started drizzling. White clouds are getting smoky beyond the window pane. The earth is hiding behind an opaque mist. Kazimbhai says, “Look, madam, Dal Lake!” A dense mist blankets the surface of the lake. A little ahead, it is little clearer and I can see the lake being cleansed; removing plants and weeds. After a brief pause, raining has again been harsher. Nothing is visible, as if the world has shrunk inside the car and we are driving from nowhere to nowhere without any purpose of experiencing anything, even the time. And, with time frozen within the darkness of shrunken entity, we have driven past miles after miles to reach Sonmarg a little later than expected.

Sonmarg, a small mountain town, with more cars than houses tucked in between the sleeves of a verdant mountainous valley, has been little brighter. The daylight is faint enough though the invisible sun has enough life before retiring for the day. We enter into a small restaurant; it is late lunchtime. The owner is someone between a youth and a man, with an elegant smile rippling upon his breaded face. He has a hotel too for the night to spend. It is indeed a good option for me as I have the plan to stay at Sonmarg after a long hectic journey from Kolkata since early morning. But he informs that Zojila pass will be blocked if snowing continues further. I have planned to cross Zojila a day after to reach Dras, but the information makes me to decide to to move without a halt at Sonmarg. Kazimbhai says it may be quite late to reach Dras as it is already 3.30. We are instantly out on the road—snow and rain together climbing down from sky. As we drive a little away, some snags develop in the car; it will be risky to take a high-altitude journey without getting it repaired. It takes another hour and half to get things done. In the month of June, day is longer enough in Kashmir valley, and on the way, we enjoy the view of the distant valley of Baltal, the entry point for Amarnath cave trekking.

It is around nine, when we have finally reached Dras—the high security military base in Kashmir. I have never expected a very welcoming scene in Dras as it always happens in highlands of the Himalayas; the shops, hotels, houses are all closed and sleeping in darkness. Only option left to us is to knock the Government’s door. The Tourist hut is open, but none is found anywhere. After toiling efforts, we can see a trembling light approaching us through the darkness of the long corridor. The shadow comes closer, opens the window and pops his head out and asks, “Who?” “Tourist, want rooms.” Everything gets arranged soon. A boy with chubby cheeks gets in with a water jug. He keeps it on the table and smiles. Silently asks, “Food?” I am delighted to have such an unexpected boon. “Yes, whatever!” The boy says, “Roti and tea?” “Okay, for me two roti and tea, ask the driver about his choices.” “Kiun baki log nahi khayenge?” “Hum akele hai” A 20 seconds pause has been long enough. Then, he smiles again, “Koi dar nahi. Hum hai na. Jorse awaz denese hum aa jayenge.” Dras is famous for its cold weather. After having roti and tea, I slide into two layers of quilt and blankets.

The dawn breaks at usual time. Opening the window, I can now feel the intensity of the gusty cool wind. There has been nothing significant change in weather. It is still raining incessantly. I see Kazimbhai cleansing the car. I come out on the frozen road. Kazimbhai and I got into a teashop, just opened. I need to explain my plan to him as we have not discussed it in details before; I have not booked anywhere. I propose if we move to Kargil today, but not following the usual Highway; we shall take the road on the left from Ghangrail, which runs through the Aryan villages till Batalik. There are not much of staying options in that route; may only get some village accommodation.

We take the Highway to roam around Dras town and villages around. We drive to Mushku valley. It is that untrodden valley, where Kargil war started in 1999. The valley has been silently laid beneath a tall mountain, Tiger Hill. The mountain got the fame through newspaper and television. Through the valley, another road stretches to Gurez valley in northern most LAC of Kashmir, but has been closed due to security reasons. The valley is fascinatingly beautiful. Verdant field has been activated by the presence of women reaping vegetables. I get off and walk towards them. There have been no expressions on their faces. But I must to speak to them. How are they? I seem to be arriving from an alien land. What an amazement in their eyes; or is it a vacant look that I have misperceived to be amazement? Two ladies are coming down the hills. I keep waiting. Once they have come nearer, I smile. They smile in return. It prompts me to ask, “Where have you been coming from?” They replied patiently, “Up, there.”, showing the top of the mountain. Wild mushrooms grow there. They have collected a few. My natural question, “How are you all?”, stupefies the environment and their faces seem to have hidden behind a curtain. After a long pause, closing the eyebrows, one of the ladies responds, “We are not well at all.” We are so accustomed to listen to mindless utterance of “We are fine” in the cities, something different answer makes me shudder. She continues, “Nothing will be good for us ever. We are destined to live like this. Our children will also live like this.” No, her voice is not trembling. She was talking like a machine, unperturbed by cold wind and mind. “Why; what troubles are there now?” She vacantly looks up to the sky and says, “It’s raining, madam.” Yes, the sky has become densely dark and clouds hovering close to my nose. She asks, “Where have you come from?” “Kolkata” A long batch of children is treading on the narrow mountain path; their uniform tells that they are going to school. It starts raining heavily. We cannot move farther, so has to take the reverse route.

Once back in the car, my thoughts have still been lying in the wide meadow of Mushku valley. Kazimbhai breaks the silence, “None can feel their pains. They stay so close to the border. Fear is their closest neighbour. They are the sole witnesses of Kargil war. But who listens to them? Their testimony carries no worth anywhere. They live like this and die like this. When shells of the intruders started landing during 1999 war, some people died in the field, a few more were injured. Army started evacuating villages. Run, run; but where will they go. Someone has ailing mother in home, children away to school, men working up in the hills; how could they alone flee? Shells hammering; yet was it easy to abandon a home for so many years of toils and memories? None cared for who has lost what, whose son died, whose mother couldn’t leave; children couldn’t understand what was happening and what would happen. Amidst all such events of ignored loses, the village was emptied. Madam, are you listening?” I cannot bear it anymore, “Then?” “What more, the war began; there had been news and debates in the country and world. Who had time to see what happened to them? They were all ravaged.”

My thoughts have travelled to a different world. Is country just a piece of land? Right only? We are now on the road that climbs straight up the mountain from Dras to reach Sankoo in Suru valley via a high-altitude pass. It crosses the village and the lone bridge over an arrogant stream and we are now steadily driving up. On the other side of the scape, I can see the Tiger Hill, Tololing, Mushku valley. The silver stream of Dras is flowing little far. The earth, my dearest blue planet, is so beautiful as I can now see her revolving alike the little elegant ballet dancer with colourful dress. Over the top of Tololing mountain, the curtain of clouds is being gradually lifted to let the late rays of sun shine it gloriously. We are move up, circling around a lone mountain; on one side of path lies a scattered hamlet, classified down with houses on the slope and enclosing it are the steps of cultivable land. The sowing has started. The children are walking back home. A lady is moving up; holding a rope fastened to two calves in one hand and her daughter in school uniform in the other. I waive hands. The kid also waives her hands. She proudly tells that she reads in class 2. She looks at her mother when I offer a few toffees; her mom nods and the smile upon the face of a little girl has wiped all smoky veils from the face of the valley and it is shining in a dazzling golden light. The Tololing mountain starts smiling; the saplings of those newly sown meadow begin to dancing. The azure sky starts showering colours in abundance upon the valley down. Fondling with fistful of such amazing colours I move on; the meadows have grown fresh grasses—perfectly suiting for grazing now—and pink, yellow, blue, purple tiny flowers have covered the slopes of the mountain. My eyes and my camera have no time to relax. Suddenly on a turn, the road vanishes. The giant tale of a glacier has peacefully laid upon the invisible road. The dazzling sunlight has made its surface sufficiently intense to cause blindness. The warmth of the day has generated numerous streams of melting snow—turquoise to blue as they turn into water—moving downwards. Kazim says, “The streams, you see, irrigate the land in natural way; Yeah kudrat ki den hain.” There is no possibility to move farther. We take the reverse route, touching the nearby hamlet, known by a sweet name, ‘Monmon’, to return to Dras again for overnight stay.

The morning in Dras breaks in and its turns into a day soon while rain doesn’t agree to stop. The inaccessibility of yesterday’s route has already impacted the plan I had in mind and needs to be recast. I think it’s better to move to Kargil first. On way lies the Kargil War Memorial. The car has not been well in health since we left Sonmarg. It needs an expert consultation. I am now free to roam around my very familiar Kargil town on foot.

Kargil is neither a big nor a small town.  Raised from the bank of river Suru, Kargil stands arranged in layers—from lower bank to the upper slope of the mountain. It looks deserted today. Shops and markets are closed. People are seen walking silently. I come out to the main market road. The Army and Police patrols are on. A long queue of vehicles is stationed along the road. Whatever a few numbers of cars moving are carrying something like a Govt notice pasted on the windshield. I am negotiating to understand why it is so unusual in my known space of Kargil. I move ahead and ask the policeman on duty if the market is closed today. He only whispers that it will be opened an hour later.

I sit on a vacant staircase in front of a shop—trying to understand things. One vehicle passes through. As it leaves, I notice something on the clean face of the metal road. Blood! Yes, it is blood, I am sure. Something like feathers or cotton soaked in fresh blood is confronting the blackness of the road. My nerve is straightened up. Along the blood-line I start walking; keeping myself alert as it is expected in an always charged environment there. The road takes a right turn some hundred metres ahead. On the left side at the bend, one medical camp has been set up. Two big drums are placed in front of the camp—closer to it, I find both are full of blood-soaked cotton balls. A man passes by holding the hand of his son, perhaps—whispering “Sovanallah”. The Masjid is just a little ahead. There is a large gathering in front of it. The vehicles are coming up to this point. A few people are carrying a young bright boy; completely drenched in blood. Once he is put into a stranded jeep, it speeds fast. And, motionless I stand there to witness repetition of same events in numerous successions. Amidst the coming and going of cars and people, I decide to return. Coming back to hotel, I ask the owner about the events I have witnessed. He speaks on the death of Hazrat Ali, the son-in-law of Nabi Hazarat Mohammad. So long a past! Still, people remember the pain, anguish, the brutal events of life; and they share the pain, silently in self-flogging. The deeper of pain of thousand years that they so soulfully remember and pay tribute. The pain has journeyed through centuries, through veins of body, emotion and faith. The agony of losing the near one, the dearest one, the deep wound of losing the core of love; it erases the wounds and blood of self-flogging. It is not harming self, but sharing the pain that their dearest one endured. My own Tagore, can you tell once again, “Where and when shall the stream of pain will cease to flow? What lies at its end?”

I wonder how patiently, solemnly, heartily and silently such a mass ritual has been performed; sans much ado, sans noise, sans lustre. Only hearts sing the dirge.

(to be continued)