42...0...56...0...120...
The numbers lie to me. The speedometer must be broken. My gut tells me I'm doing 50 kilometers an hour, perhaps a shade more. Our path snakes downward. As we run a bend, a collage of beaten and broken meets our eyes. I take that back. Broken perhaps, but certainly not beaten, for it exists. Ancient structures that have and will have seen more than I. Structures that tell a story, if only you care enough to listen.
We've hit Lamayuru. I glance only briefly at the rubble, pixellating anything that looks mildly interesting, to be submitted to consumption on a future, unspecified date. The visuals don't interest me in this present moment. It is the subject of Aman that plagues my mind. We have expected to see him here. We don't.
Could we then conclude that he has chosen to continue riding towards Leh? It seems to be a fair assessment. We cannot communicate with him though; for the cellular network does not follow us beyond Srinagar. It will wade into our beings only on our entry to Leh. We have since relied on traditional lines to reach out to those concerned.
We are now in a bind for we realize darkness will be onto us soon and we've been advised to break where we now stand, to tackle Leh the day hence. And yet, concern for he who now rides alone suggests we try to catch up with him for if misfortune were to chance upon him, he should not have to deal with it without us by his side.
Against advice, we decide to continue riding. We are quick to realize our mistake for in the meters to follow every semblance of a tar road evaporates from beneath us and gravel sends our steeds fish-tailing at every curve. We struggle to stay on course even as the course conspires against us with a deadly concoction of gravel, sand and stone. Our progress is uncomfortably slow; the sun is getting impatient.
Spiderweb, in the lead, has hit a particularly tricky curve. We watch as he slides down most of it, angling his body against the slide, using his foot to gain traction for the tyres seem disinterested in doing their job. He gestures us to stay put; wheels his steed around and returns to where we wait. What he says next is probably isn't surprising, for I know we are all thinking it. "Let's turn back. We don't know the condition of the roads ahead and these curves will get the better of us once the sun sets. It's way too dangerous."
And return we do; still wondering what became of Aman and still hoping that we might, through some stroke of cosmic luck, manage to find him wandering the streets of Lamayuru. As it turns out, we won't.
With no place to go, we pixelate more before the sun shines out.
As we return, we are met with a group of cage drivers who head to Leh. They ask us about the conditions ahead. We tell them. They ask us about our plans. We tell them. They ask us about our journey thus far. We can only summarize. They surround us, listening in awe as we relate our experiences. We share stories, we wish each other luck, we head in opposite directions.
Spiderweb is keen on nestling in the hotel that juxtaposes the gompa up top. "The view from up above will be mind-blowing.", he says. And right he is. For no sooner do we ascend a narrow path up to the Gompa, the hills give way to a magnanimous landscape kissing the sun goodbye. The sun blushes a scarlet red; the winds sigh deeply. It will return tomorrow, and things will all be happy again. For now, we must make do with each other's company.
Spiderweb has found us a room. As always, we pay extra for we are three. A large crowd of monks has gathered outside. We are not vain enough to assume it is for us that they gather. They seem interested in the happenings down below, from whence we came. Something's amiss but we cannot be sure of its nature. As we unbuckle our bags, there is a sudden burst of activity as a male, bleeding from every conceivable pore is carried into our midst. Tourists, not unlike us, gather around. Someone asks for a med kit. A tattoo artist within the group predictably has antiseptics which are used to cleanse the wounds. One tourist tells me the story. It turns out that the man in question lost control of his four-wheeler over a bend, skidded off the road, the vehicle sumersaulting twice before it hit the sandy edge breaking its fall. There were 5 others with him in that vehicle and they all survived with minor injuries. The monks were down there trying to rescue them from the vehicle. The man in question claims his brakes had failed him. Somehow I do not believe him. I had noticed this bend even as we entered this landscape. It was a tricky one for it curved in quite briskly, an unpleasant surprise at our speeds, but a lethal one as greater speeds. I suspect the man in question did what everyone else does in the roads below, drive irresponsibly. But that's just my guess. I'm asked if I can help ferry a few monks from down below. I accept. Motorbreath and Spiderweb get our luggage into the rooms while I ferry a monk to the spot and ferry one back to the Gompa. The monk spends time with me, asking me about my origins, my history, my plans for the future. It's like having a conversation with a grandfather who doesn't judge you and offers nothing but peace, friendship and understanding.
As the day dawns to a close, I head on to our room finding the two boys resting their tired bodies. I join them as I allow the events of the day to sink in. Spiderweb suggests we go down and get something to drink, have dinner and sleep early so that we can wake up to marvel at the sunrise. I'm thinking "Yeah, like that's gonna happen."
The hotel has a rather large cafeteria. The tourists we met before, American it would seem, have nestled into one large table. They seem to be having a good time as one of them paints moustaches and fake eyebrows and patterns on their faces using a marker. I'm glad they are there for their presence brings life to an otherwise dull cafeteria.
We decide to call home before getting down to drinking and dining. I'm too tired to ride; Spiderweb takes control of the R-15 while Motorbreath brings his Pulsar along. I ride pillion. We find a telephone booth in the main market which comprises of two stores. Motorbreath makes unending calls while Spiderweb and I admire the scape and ogle at some local maidens. Many calls later, we return.
Motorbreath begs for a swig of Old Monk. But they don't have any. The best they have is a rum called Chinar. Retailed price Rs. 125/- Price offered to us Rs. 450/-. Spiderweb takes two (!) one for the night and one as part of our survival kit. The hotelier appeals to the Indian within us to not share the rates with the Americans. I presume they are being screwed for a much larger amount than we are. We agree.
An Indian amidst the Americans joins our table. He asks us where we come from. We tell him. He shares that he is from Goa. That he spends time running a restaurant there during peak season and spends some of the remainder in Lamayuru, with the rest being spent pretty much wherever he wants. The tourists, he says, he found them in Leh, convinced them that he could show them a good time, helped them hire Enfields and guided them down to Lamayuru. We are told they plan on heading back the next day towards Leh and we could join them if we so preferred. We politely decline claiming we must leave early. Truth be told, we firmly believe the Enfields and the riders on them would impede our progress.
As the night progresses and the rum takes effect, the discussions turn deep. We share stories of life, of death, of love, of love lost, of hate, of anger, of resentment, of disillusionment, of the futility of it all and of hope. We share thoughts on God and the Universe. We bond, we breathe, we bitch. We drink some more. The cuisine is delicious. We run up quite a bill. But none are remorseful. For the first time, in a long time, we sit comfortably at a table together as one; no grudges, no complaints, no anger; just the pure excitement of being deliciously close to our destination... Leh.
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