Tag: Alchi

Narrative and photographs by Shivani Shrivastav

I pulled my cap a little lower as I started for Alchi, after getting a full can of petrol from the Leh petrol pump. It was a very new thing for me — I marvelled at how a city could have just one petrol pump, and that too for miles around. Moreover, it served the neighbouring villages as well.

To reach Alchi, I had chosen the Delhi-Srinagar route. The distance would be approximately 66 kilometres from Leh, and would perhaps normally have taken two hours, but because of my propensity to stop and admire the rivers, trees and clouds, I knew it would be more than that.

The ageing two-wheeler I had rented was the last one available, but I was just grateful just to go, even though it was with prayers in my heart for a safe journey. The interesting part was, if I wanted to go straight, I had to aim the scooter a little to the right, which in itself was a scary thing, because if I lost myself in admiring the natural beauty too much, I could end up veering to one side, risking an unwanted encounter with the huge army trucks that passed through the remote roads from time to time.

As I started, I noticed the Himalayas in the distance, the white peaks were getting covered in the fresh falling snow, right before my eyes. It seemed propitious, and I started with a smile. Passing through the straight road, repeating the simple directions in my head — follow the road, reach the village Nimmoo, then just keep going on the same road — I felt at peace somehow. It was just me, the long, straight road, the puffy white clouds and the endlessly stretch of brown mountains. And of course, the blue sky that seemed to travel with me everywhere I went.

The journey to Nimmoo was smooth, with just the sound of the wind in my ears and no network on my cell phone. At Nimmoo, I stopped for a cup of tea and some biscuits. I saw the confluence of the Indus and Zanskar rivers on the way, near Nimmoo. I paused to take in the scene — the mixing of the greenish Indus and the bright teal-coloured Zanskar creating a mesmerising palette against the browns of the mountains. Some trees created a layer of green too – I think they are poplars and willows.

As I turned around to restart the drive, across the way, I saw a lady bent over by the side of the road. She was sweeping the road free of small stones that fell from the mountains onto the path. She stopped for a drink from a metal bottle from a backpack that she was carrying. I took the opportunity to talk to her about her motivation for this hard work. She said, “I am a government servant. It’s my job to clear the roads of small stones so that travelers can drive safely. For larger stones, I call other workers who work with shovels and machines.”

I asked, “No one is watching you here; why don’t you rest for a while?” She replied with an open smile, “But I know what I’m doing; I’m watching myself. I have already taken my lunch break. I will stop before it is dark and go back to my village.” Saying this, she pointed to a place not visible from where we stood. I’m reminded that I too, should reach Alchi before dark. Bidding her a respectful and heartfelt “Julley[1]”, I again started on my way.

I passed under mountains extending over the road. I was so hypnotised by the sights and the river and the song of the wind in my ears that I did not notice the huge army truck until it passed to my right. Another foot or so and I would have been history. A little shaken, I anchored myself more firmly to the task at hand and took the final left turn towards the village. I passed a beautiful small bridge made of metal, on both sides of which were poplars turning their leaves yellow and orange. A little further, I reached a huge prayer bell mounted by the side of a road, beyond which were mountains standing like sentinels, and yaks grazing the fields.

It was idyllic and pristine. After a quick drink of water and some photos, I was on to the last leg of the journey. Finally, just as evening was about to fall, I reached the village. Entering it, I could see hay bales, shingled houses and the boundaries of houses made of grey and brown stones stacked together, and rosy-cheeked children playing under trees. With a sigh of relief, I stopped my vehicle some distance from the monastery, taking it as close as I could get. The monastery was the main reason for my visit here. It was supposed to be one of the oldest in Ladakh; made around the year 1024 by hand. Somewhere in my mind, I was also worried about the fact that the seat of the vehicle would not lock, so I could not leave anything in it. By this time, I was famished that I decided to eat first and ask at the restaurant for a homestay nearby, trusting the goodness of the human heart and leaving some of my basic stuff inside the seat of the vehicle.

The restaurant was called ‘Alchi Kitchen’ and appeared to be the only one there. As I climbed the stairs with my backpack and my camera bag, I could see the mountains, the village stretched out below and the monastery. It was surprisingly comfortable, with low seating and gleaming brass and copper cookware in the open-plan kitchen inside. I ordered a plate of Manchurian and rice and watched them make it. The owner and her two young assistants were laughing and chatting as they cooked, their actions precise and practised.

Nearby was a group of youngsters, who appeared to be done with their meal. While waiting, I walked out to the balcony, in front of which was a mountain with the setting sun glinting off it, and prayer flags on its summit waving in the wind. After a few pictures, I just stood and gazed, absorbing the peace radiating from the mountains. Nature is always a balm for the soul. The mountain seemed like an old friend somehow, familiar, whom I was meeting after a long time.

Suddenly called back from my reverie by the owner’s call, I returned inside.  The meal was simple but had layers of flavours. I devoured it feeling grateful towards the people who prepared it. Once I had eaten, refusing the offer of dessert, for I truly was stuffed, I thanked the owner and her friendly assistants and asked about a homestay. They guided me to a house just to the left of the monastery complex, saying that I should tell them that Padma had sent me.

I went to the house as directed. It was a beautiful old wooden three-storied house, with a big courtyard and trees all around. All the evidence of the busy and full household could be seen in the yard – a child’s bicycle, many pairs of shoes, sandals and rubber slippers, flowers planted in pots, random jars and even cut-off plastic bottles, clothes drying on a clothesline and some puppies and chickens playing in the lawn. Such a scene of blissful domesticity!

I asked the homeowner who was just coming out of the house if it was indeed Tsering Dolma’s house. He confirmed and asked if I needed a room. I affirmed that but added a request to see the room before I finally decided. He led me inside, up two flights of stairs, and showed me to a room which had windows from top to bottom, along two walls. These opened out into the backyard, that had a view of the monastery, the river Indus flowing behind it and the mountains beyond it.

I immediately said “Yes!” In all my 30 years of age, I had never once travelled or stayed alone anywhere, let alone at such a remote location, where even the mobile reception was sketchy! However, there was something about this place that seemed so comforting and welcoming, with a feeling of déjà vu.

Smiling, the friendly Tsering asked if I would like some butter tea. Although it was slightly late to be having tea, I could not resist his sweet smile and graceful manner and agreed. He asked his grandson to request his mother for two cups of tea for us. Having kept my stuff in the room, I washed my hands and face and came out. Tsering was sitting in the upstairs sitting room, which had beautiful low seating in front of hand-carved windows. The windows looked out over their lawn studded with apple and apricot trees.

Somehow, it was very easy to talk to Tsering, regardless of his age – he was a grandfather, and we were from such different backgrounds and our life experiences were diverse, yet there was a common thread of humanity and communion that linked us. I had found that people in Ladakh were open-hearted, warm and welcoming if we were friendly. I had never been very outgoing myself, but faced with such spontaneous acceptance, it was hard not to be receptive and equally responsive. Tsering told me about his family and his children’s studies, and we were discussing Ladakhi culture and life at Alchi when his daughter-in-law brought our tea. Smiling shyly, she placed the teacups on the hand-carved table. Tsering asked her to join us, but she said that since dinner was almost ready, she had better take care of that. She did stay, however, to tell me proudly about the children, aged five and two. The older boy I had already met; the younger — a daughter — was playing with her grandmother. After chatting with them both, I asked them if I it was safe to stroll outside for a while. He said that it was perfectly safe and that I could walk around, but to be sure to take a flashlight, or my mobile, as there were no streetlights there.

I took my phone and went outside. The street had small houses on both sides. In one, some women were lighting a clay lamp in a small alcove in front of their house, while chanting something which seems extremely melodious. The scene seemed out of this world, so removed from my usual life. I slipped into this new reality, which seemed far more real than from what I had left behind.

I looked around. The sky was full of stars. The chill breeze was interrupted with the scent of food being cooked in kitchens all around. I took a deep breath and rooted myself deeper into the present moment.

From somewhere came the smell of incense. I walked slowly through the short lane, looking up at the endless sky from time to time. After a slow walk around the monastery walls, I was back at the homestay. Skipping dinner in favour of a light soup served in their kitchen, I chatted a little with the family and then slept early, for I planned to catch the morning light for my photographs.

In the morning, I am woken up by birds outside my window. There were only three sounds I heard – the birdsong, the sound of chanting, and the sound of bells from the monastery. I got up and after freshening up, went out to find Tsering waiting outside in the hall. He said that breakfast could be ready soon and that if I went to the monastery early, I might catch the morning prayers there.

After a sumptuous breakfast of homemade khambir [2] and homemade apricot jam (made by Tsering’s family and even supplied to many shops and emporiums at Leh), along with piping hot butter tea, I went down to the lawn. I found Tsering’s grandchildren playing there with their friends. Enchanted by their animated play, I sat there for a while, clicking them after taking Tsering’s permission. Then I went to the monastery.

The street en route was being readied for the day’s market — people were setting up tables and taking out handmade wares — jewelry, masks, bronze statues, shells and more. As I entered the grounds of the monastery, a deep silence seemed to calm my being. Walking straight down to the main temple, I could feel the history of the place, soaked in the meditation and prayers of so many people.

I went inside, where there was a tall painting of the Buddha, decorated with gold leaves. I looked up at the wooden rafters. I thought how long ago, the common people would have crafted this by hand. I went around with my hand on the prayer wheels placed along one wall of one of the smaller buildings there.

Afterwards, as I stood there looking at a small boy praying with his mother, I tried to feel the stillness inside me. It was something new; a total contrast to the constant activity that was my norm. After sitting there to my heart’s content, I started to circumambulate. A local woman’s two-year-old was doing the same. The child was imitating her mother, who I noticed was not forcing the child to do anything.  Little Amo, for that was her name, smiled at me shyly from behind her mother’s legs. I photographer too. When I said that I admired that she was not pushing her child to do anything, she replied that she was proud of her culture and religion and would just like to present them to her daughter and let her make her own choices. It was okay if she chose a different life, but at least she would do so knowing the alternative.

Amazed and humbled by the generosity of spirit of a young mother in such a remote place, I followed her as she finished her circumambulations. On my third round around one of the corners of the monastery complex, I felt this sudden urge to go down to the river Indus flowing behind the building. After I was done at the monastery, saying bye to Amo and her mother, I asked for directions and people guided me to a tiny lane going down the hill, behind some houses, right down to the riverbed.

I was thankful I was wearing my sports shoes and not the pair of sandals I had also brought. Walking down was a little harder than I had thought, and I was slightly out of breath by the time I reached the grey, stony bed of the mighty Indus. Taking off my shoes, I descended to the edge of the river. It turned out to be a wise choice, for the stones were a little slippery, being rounded and shaped over centuries by the river. I scooped up some handfuls of the river water and drank, excited about being in aa place I had only imagined in my wildest dreams. The water, as I brought up my hand to my mouth, sparkled, giving off rays of reflected light from the morning sun. It cooled my hand. I took a few pictures. Then keeping aside my camera, felt like sitting and meditating beside the slowly flowing river.

The flow rushed and slowed down in certain spots as the river wound around big grey rocks on its path. I sat to listen to the gentle gurgle and sounds of the ebbs and flow and lost track of time. After some time, I sensed another presence and opened my eyes. I saw a stranger a little distance away, setting up his tripod and making slow changes by trying to balance it on the rocks. He was wearing an orange sweater with a loose black jacket over it, jeans and a pair of those sandals that serious trekkers wear. He had extremely curly black hair and appeared to be lost in what he was doing. However, as if he sensed my gaze, he turned my way and smiled. As I rose, I could sense my heart decide that I would trust this person; I felt as if we had already met, or rather known each other for ages. Something in his eyes spoke to my soul in a way that was both soothing and familiar. I knew I could trust this person; he was no stranger — my soul recognised him.

He simply said, “Nice to meet you. I am Kabir.”

“I am Shivani. Same here.”

“Sorry to disturb your meditation.”

“No, you did not disturb me; I just felt your presence.” I responded.

He smiled and asked if I could help him position the tripod and focus his camera for a few pictures and videos. I agreed to help, and sitting as he directed, let him set the focusing timer on this camera, so he could take my place and shoot himself sitting in meditation along the riverbank.

He asked me to arrange some flat stones that are symbolic of a prayer to the elements. I was a little hesitant but when he said that the video would only show the stones and my hands, not my face, I relaxed and let him take his shots. After he finished, we sat there for a long while, sometimes speaking, most often just sharing the silence.

I did not want the meeting to end somehow. I sensed that he was feeling the same; he asked me where I was staying. I told him; he said that he had just put his stuff there too, that very morning, and came directly to the riverside. He must have arrived after I had already left for the monastery.

This meeting had a sense of déjà vu, a synchronicity to it. As we got up to go back to the homestay for lunch, our eyes met. For some seconds, the sound of the rushing river, the insistent wind and the distant bird calls all faded away and it seemed as if I was in a vacuum stretching across time, with just the two of us. I knew that this was a new beginning of an old connection. He felt something too, and we started walking in companionable silence, comforted by the shared upswing of so many emotions. The sense of having done this before created a bridge between our souls, across time and beyond. I felt I was finally home.

[1] Greeting in Ladakhi (Hello/Thank you/Goodbye)

[2] Khambir – Ladakhi bread, ref. Khambir and Butter Tea | Butter Tea | Ladakh Cuisine | About Ladakh (ladakhdekho.com)

Shivani Shrivastav is a a UK CGI Chartered Secretary and a Governance Professional/CS. She loves meditation, photography, writing, French and creating.

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