Sir, you have come from Delhi, please tell the government to upgrade our school to the higher secondary level,'' said Sonam Paljor, ex-sarpanch, and Phunchuk Namgyal. ''Our children have to go to Leh for higher studies, we can't afford that, so no one has graduated from this village except one so far. '' I was surprised to hear that.Chushul is not as far as some would like us to believe. It's not an impossible country as politicians would like to offer as an excuse for not bestowing small mercies to this famously brave last frontier. No roads, no electricity, no upgraded school, no landline, no mobile, no hospital. This is how we honour the people and the village that fought our fiercest battle and is responsible for providing local infrastructural support to the armed forces, so vital and critical in times of crisis.
There is only one InmarSat telephone, with the local army post, and it's made available to 'civilians' only for two hours a day, in the afternoon. Suppose there is an emergency, someone is sick and has to be taken to Leh, I asked naively. ''Here no emergency, no one can do anything, the army post is closed after the evening and we can't reach them,'' said Phunchuk. There is a local, government-run public health clinic, but the doctor is hardly available, and even when he is there, few medicines, and no equipment. I saw some textbooks of the primary school; nothing is mentioned in it about the soldiers' lives. Or the Rezang La saga. How do we expect them to have respect for the armed forces unless they are introduced to them properly?
That night my roommate in the Buddhist guesthouse was Sonam Tsering, the man who has the glory of being the first post-graduate from Chushul, and the only one so far. He is an elected councillor in the Ladakh Autonomous Hill Development Council from Chushul on a Ladakh Union Territory Front ticket. His father ran a transport business, and hence could afford sending him to Leh and then Chandigarh for higher studies. But his two younger brothers and sister couldn't follow him and have remained confined to Chushul. The local high school is a gift from the army.
It's a hundred percent Buddhist village and there is a permanent complaint that no one visits them from Delhi -- no politician, no minister has ever spoken to them about their lives and demands. Sometimes a minister comes in an army helicopter, stays with the army officers and goes back immediately. ''They come here to take pictures,'' smiled Phunchuk. An old village monk told me in the morning that his grandpa used to tell him stories about how they had brought the dead bodies of the Rezang La warriors from the mountaintop That's it. Nothing more. Even the village doesn't celebrate November 18, Rezang La day.
Sonam said, ''Sir, before the Chinese attack in 1962 Chushul was the sub-divisional headquarters and the sub-divisional magistrate used to have his office here. He was shifted after the war, and it's causing great difficulty to the villagers. Why was the office of the SDM shifted?''
The village depends solely on the army for everything; still the cordial touch is missing. It's too mechanised.
I had to recharge my camera batteries and there was nothing to help. Solar power won't do it, giggled Sonam. ''Sir, it's no use here, we sometimes hire a generator whenever there is an election meeting or any government officer arrives from Leh.'' Somehow the sarpanch brought an inverter as a cherished treasure and that worked well.
The darkness settled in a bit too early and in the thick of night I felt almost dead. I had two thick blankets underneath and a 'Siachen quality' sleeping bag covered with another heavy quilt. Yet the chill pierced through my bones and the headache rose to newer heights. Besides, the toilet was old-fashioned Tibetan type, with a hole in the floor and freezing water to wash. Do our soldiers at the mountaintop observation posts have heated bunkers to keep better watch on Chinese activities, I asked Sonam and the sarpanch. No one could answer. Perhaps I had asked a foolish question.
But the villagers had a lot to say. The Chinese look at them with contempt, and in flag meetings with their Indian counterparts they complain about how the Chushul villagers and shepherds often 'violate' the Line of Actual Control.
Saluting the martyrs
A dose of Paracetamol helped and the morning was a little comfortable. We set out for the Rezang La memorial at 6 am, bidding adieu to a hallowed village. I was thrilled and felt I should have taken some flower to lay as a wreath at the memorial. But nothing was available. Having taken the turn from Chushul, at every second mile I saw a board put up by the army showing the direction and miles to the memorial. Dorjey indicated the beautiful Trishul mountains on my left, bathing in the first rays of a nascent sunrise. The fields are vast and grand, we were cruising in a sea of openness, roads are either invisible or it's a sporty challenge to you to create your own path! Yet the danger looms large as the heights on our left are under Chinese control and they monitor our activities comfortably.
The Rezang La memorial is a simple marble pillar with names of all the 114 martyrs etched on two sides, in Hindi and in English. The third side has these inspiring words:
How can a Man die better than facing Fearful Odds,
For the Ashes of His Fathers and the Temples of His Gods,
To the sacred memory of the Heroes of Rezang La,
114 Martyrs of 13 Kumaon who fought to the Last Man,
Last Round, Against Hordes of Chinese on 18 November 1962.
Built by All Ranks 13th Battalion, The Kumaon Regiment.
The pilgrimage to the village that once was the 'Sword of India' was coming to an end. I had to go further, on the road to Demchhok, the route that finally reaches Kailas Manasarovar alongside the majestic Indus river. That's another story, another time.
Text, images and audio: Tarun Vijay
Also read: Military nonsense
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