Postcards from the Edge

Ladakh the last Shangri La

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?