I, the young artillery captain, re-joined the unit after a brief leave at home. In a few days, my unit was to leave for the Siachen Glacier in Ladakh, India. I was to take the convoy to the Base Camp. The day before, I was so homesick that I couldn’t sleep until midnight. Having joined the Sainik School at Lucknow at thirteen, I got to spend time with my folks only during the summer and winter breaks. Later, I did training at the military academies in Pune and Dehradun. Long absences from home solidified my homesickness into a hard rock that melted a bit when I sat by the window of my bachelor accommodation and remembered my grandpa, parents, aunts, uncles, and half-a-dozen cousins. The sugarcane field, the mango orchards in my native village, and the taste of hot jaggery sweetened some of those memories and misted my eyes.
I could put them in the back of my mind because of the frenetic activities in the regiment. The men packed the stores and made the vehicles and the guns roadworthy. The married soldiers steeled their hearts to leave mothers, wives, and children behind. Nobody was sure when we would return. The commanding officer asked us to prepare for a long stay in the high-altitude area. The bachelors were excited to see the Kashmir Valley and Ladakh, about which they had heard from their seniors and read in the books.
On the day of the departure, the vehicles lined up on the parade ground. The families were present to see us off. Women shed silent tears. Children cried aloud, clinging to their fathers and refusing to let them go. After an hour’s tearful farewell, the convoy moved out for Srinagar. On the second day, we traversed through lush-green valleys and stopped at Srinagar.
On the third day, we moved out early to cross the treacherous Zozila Pass in daylight. When the vehicles halted on an incline, the Regimental Havildar Major, a six-footer, burly Keralite, jumped out of his vehicle, ran to pick up the biggest stones, and put them behind the wheels.
His action invited smiles, snide comments, and chuckles. And he hid his fears behind his
grimaces and mock threats.
We crossed the Zozila Pass and reached Drass, a quaint settlement, by noontime. The barren, cold landscape shocked us. We took the photos in front of a signboard, ‘Drass is the Second Coldest Inhabited Place after Siberia’. A sense of pride surged into our hearts, giving a much-needed motivation. The dry, icy Ladakh wind was far from welcoming, and the cold desert looked unforgiving. Their hostility sent a chill down our spines, and a year in that place seemed like an eternity. Battling the frigid wind and homesickness, we pressed on.
After the lunch break, we moved out from there. I halted the vehicles on the convoy ground in Kargil. A day’s journey from there was Leh town, where the troops were to acclimate to the high altitude before moving to the Base Camp. The soldiers set up makeshift cookhouses and shelters. A half-hour later, the sun hid behind the lofty, jagged mountains in a jiffy, and the dusk melted. Suddenly, the endless white expanse turned into charcoal black, consuming every trace of human existence. Standing outside my guestroom, I took a peek around. The dim lantern lights emanating from the convoy ground assured me that we were safe. The night was cold and lonely.
The next day, I awoke to a frigid morning and hot tea from the cookhouse. Outside, the icicles had painted the earth white. The sun was yet to come up. We got some relief from the predawn chill after the first few rays fell on the ground. The drivers burned the fire under the diesel engines that were so hard to start at the sub-zero temperature. We ate a hot breakfast, struck up the temporary camp, and moved out to Leh. The shiny, black serpentine road cut through the undulating brown, white land with many stretches of moonscape. Lung
ta prayer flags fluttered along the trails and peaks. For miles, there was no hut or habitation.
Like Lord Buddha, the silence here was omnipresent. It glowed with the sunrise that painted the peaks red. It glistened with the dewdrops that clung onto the eaves and the tree branches. It gurgled with the currents of the Suru River. It flashed with the smiles of playing children and froze on the faces of praying adults. It lifted my heart and soul.
As the sun went up, it blinded our eyes. A couple of hours later, a monastery on the hillock caught my attention. Some distance away was a lone shop. My gaze fell on the huge space in front of it. A sign, ‘Welcome to Lamayuru’ and ‘Don’t be a Gama in the Land of Lama’ passed by. I smiled. We had reached Lamayuru. Ladakh has a distinct identity, history, and culture very different from the rest of India. The Buddhists live in Ladakh and share ethnicity with the Tibetans. The convoy halted on the open ground. The drivers got down and checked their vehicles. Everyone stretched their limbs and sat on the rocks to enjoy nature. And some soldiers smoked cigarettes to beat the cold and the fatigue.
A teashop built of mud, wood, and straw made me smile. I turned back and touched the thermos. It was cold. The icy winds had sucked the heat off it. I walked towards the shop for a hot cup of tea. The owner, an old man, welcomed me with a curious smile and asked if I wanted to have tea. I nodded.
“Would you like it with yak milk or milk powder?” he asked, giving me an intent look. “I’ll use milk powder,” he said on second thought. Perhaps he’d read the distaste for unknown milk in my eyes and the dilemma on my face.
I sighed and looked at the lush-green valley where the junipers stood out among the clumps of apricots and almonds. A little later, with tea, we sat outside on the rocks that he’d chiseled into stools. The first sip sent a wave of absolute joy into my body. I told him we were moving toward the border, and it would be hard for the troops to stay so far away from their families for a long time. He knitted his brows and pressed his lips.
“The homesickness hits everyone. The soldiers are humans, too,” he said, gazing at the
distant mountains. “Sometimes, it can be extremely painful and unbearable.”
“You are lucky to be with your family,” I said impulsively.
He laughed. His eyes narrowed. A film of mist covered them. Wiping them with his hard, coarse hands, he turned to me and said, “My village is beyond those mountains on the horizon.”
“It’s closer than mine. You can go there whenever you want,” I said.
“I can’t,” his voice deepened. “A long time ago, I left my village, my animals, and my friends and relatives. My father with his family escaped from Tibet with His Holiness, the Dalai Lama, crossed the Himalayas, and later came to Dharamshala. My father promised me every night that we would go back to our homeland soon. But that day never came. He died with that dream in his heart. After his death, I became lonely and felt homesick. So, I moved here because it’s very much like my native village. I get to feel and smell the winds from my homeland now and then. But I still miss my birthplace. I’m not sure when or whether I’d ever be able to go back home. The Chinese have occupied our lands, and it seems they have no plan of vacating it in the future. Thank God you’re in your own country, and one day you guys will return to your families.”
For a brief while, we fell silent. He was so right. Until I met him, I’d thought that only my yearning for home was a massive mountain that weighed me down during the journey. But now it looked petty and insignificant. His situation humbled me and made me think about mine. We finished our tea and shook hands. He wished us good luck. ‘Remember, don’t be Gama in the Land of Lama, ’ he laughed and walked back to his shop. The noon’s waxing heat had melted the snow on the peaks. I stood up and felt lighter. My mountain of homesickness, too, had melted into a pebble.
I gave the tea seller a grateful look and left Lamayuru.
____________________________________________________________________
The Tea Seller of Lamayuru
by SP Singh
BIO- SP Singh is an army veteran, a novelist, a short story writer, and a painter. His debut novel, ‘Parrot under the Pine Tree’ was shortlisted for the Best Fiction Award at the Gurgaon Literary Festival and nominated at the Valley of Words Literary Festival in 2018. A collection of short stories, ‘Mist, Dew and Raindrops,’ was published in 2019. His short story, ‘Palak Dil,’ won the South Asian Award for Micro Fiction in 2019. ‘The Broken Window’ was published in UNSAID, An Asian Anthology by Penguin Random House SEA. ‘Cherrapunji’ was published in an anthology, ‘No One Should Kiss a Frog’. ‘Parrot under the Pine Tree’ was republished as ‘First Song of the Dawn’ in 2022.
His second collection of short stories, ‘Palak Dil and Other Stories’, was published in May 2023.
Follow at:
https://www.facebook.com/sp61singh/
Comentários