“Stay for just 20 minutes,” cautions my driver Dorjee when we finally reach the summit at 18,380 ft.
Stepping out into the cold, I realise Khardung-La Pass looks like any other tourist destination — patches of snow cover the dry mountains; shutterbugs all around busy capturing the moment for posterity… Looking down, I see the treacherous roads snaking their way up, bringing a group of adventure tourists on bikes and bicycles. But Dorjee's warning, I realise, was not without reason. Although I see no trace of altitude sickness, my head is rather giddy with excitement. So, I continue my journey.
The starkness of the landscape becomes more pronounced as we drive down one of the ancient trading routes. However as we go downhill, it changes dramatically. Dorjee says we are lucky. “The road was closed last week due to heavy snow.”
We look around, and see the Karakoram Range, the Siachen Glacier in the distance, river Shyok flowing beside us, a few flowers here and there (which Dorjee calls ‘Ldumra', the valley of flowers!).
The Shyok joins the Nubra or the Siachen River, to create a lush valley bursting with apricot and apple orchards. The altitude drops suddenly, and we are amidst sand dunes. As we stop by to take in the moment, Bactrian camels make an appearance against the setting sun, lending a surreal feel.
Going back in time
We head to Diskit, where a 14th Century monastery awaits us. Dorjee gives us a brief on the various orders practised by the lamas here.
Most monasteries are founded by either the Drug-pa (the red hats) or the Gelug-pa (the yellow hats). Diskit monastery was set up by Changzem Tserab Zangpo, a disciple of Tsong Khapa, founder of Gelug-pa order.
We climb the stairs a tad breathless to see a mighty Maitreya idol, a few fierce-looking guardian deities and a wonderful fresco of the Tashilhunpo Gompa of Tibet.
A huge drum catches our attention. Dorjee explains that the monastery celebrates the Festival of the Scapegoat or Desmochhey with a mask dance that depicts the victory of good over evil. He then goes on to narrate the story of a Mughal demon who haunts this Gompa even after he was killed. Locals believe that the Gonkhang or the temple of the guardians still houses his wrinkled head and arm.
I shiver a bit (more out of the cold!), and head to Hundar, a charming hamlet by the river side dotted with mani walls and chortens.
The capital of the ancient Nubra kingdom, Hundar houses the Chamba Gompa, and is, perhaps, one of the last few Indian villages before the Pakistan border. Small streams and waterfalls are the few oases in this cold desert. I walk up to a prayer wheel, probably the last on the Indian border, and wish for peace.
