By Vartika Sharma Lekhak
Beyond the towering mountain ranges that separate the northernmost reaches of our country from the mainland, there exists another India. This hidden realm, nestled amidst the peaks, holds stories and secrets waiting to be discovered.
It has its own beats and rhythm. That doesn’t mean that this part was secluded from the world. History tells us of the glorious route, silk route, that passed through this land and reached further to Central Asia. Hiuen Tsang, a seventh-century Buddhist pilgrim, tastefully mentions this route when he traveled from China to India, crossing the mighty mountains on foot. For many years, this land lay inaccessible and overlooked, hidden away from the rest of the country. However, the shifting political landscape with our neighbors in the early 1950s and 60s transformed its fate. This once-forgotten region became a pivotal cornerstone of India’s foreign policy, its significance growing with each passing year. And suddenly, the two worlds were connected through a foolhardy but gallant network of roads.
One of these modern-day highways connects Leh Valley with Manali in Himachal Pradesh. The risk factor of the road has become its TRP as it attracts a hoard of motorists every year in pursuit of conquering and taming this road. Harsh weather permits this highway to be operable only for four to five months in a year. The road snakes like a crazy serpent, forming dangerous curves and bends. On one of the treacherous bends, a small white canopy stands solemnly. Beneath it rests a marble bust of a young captain, a poignant reminder of his tragic fall into the deep gorge below.
The gorge, with its perilous depths and treacherous curves, presents a challenge that adventurers wear as a badge of honor. Stopping here to capture a selfie has become a rite of passage. Over time, this tiny memorial has gained a near-mythical status, revered as the guardian of the road to Ladakh. Following suit, even the trucks stop here briefly and take the blessings of the lost soul to protect them during this treacherous journey.
*
Captain Sahab’s soul watched the umpteenth truck stopping by his abode. He watched in a feeling mixed with contempt and uneasiness when the driver and co-pilot got down, gave a limp salute, and kneeled before his marble bust.
‘Oh, even after death there is no peace. What utter foolishness! Do they even know my story, remember my name? Do they know I died a common death? How can I protect them when I couldn’t save myself?’
A giggle penetrated his train of thought. He looked sharply at the souls of a group of laborers sitting near a milestone. A young boy was staring at him abashed. His sparkling white teeth stood out on his dark face when he opened his mouth. Sensing the stare on him, the boy looked away. The captain recognized the boy; he had seen him earlier. During his morning walks, the boy would often follow and mimic his stride.
‘Is he laughing at me? This little imp. What would a laborer know of the sacrifices of a soldier?’
Tirkey was a migrant laborer from Jharkhand. He had got the tip about this road project from a fellow villager that he would be able to earn in one month what he would earn in one year in Delhi’s slums. Next, he knew, he was packed along with twenty-five other workers in the contractor’s truck who supplied labor for a Border Road Organization project. After a fortnight they reached the construction site. The high altitude and constant wind gave him a woozy feeling in his head for months. Whether it was the delirium from the medicines he had taken or his naivety about India’s geography for many days, he believed that he had been transported to another planet.
Well, he was not completely wrong. The exceptional colors of the mountain changed like a chameleon. Devoid of vegetation, the hills were exposed to the winds, which played on their curve like an artist. It carved them into breathtaking sculptors. When he looked at these giant forms, it appeared as if they were watching over him. He felt so timid. One of the structures looked like a giant Lion and cub, and another one resembled a temple. He recalled the tales his mother told him about the ancient sages who traveled to the Himalayas for enlightenment. Maybe during these travels, the sages carried the inspirations from these heavenly designs and passed them onto the less-traveled ignorant ones. And these memories inspired the divine architecture of the temples and mighty forts.
The initial spell of the land was soon worn off by the hardship of survival. Local cuisine was an acid to his palette which was so used to the abundant nature’s bounty of his hometown. There was almost nothing to eat. The ruthless wind was capable of peeling off the top layer of skin. Even after layers and layers of clothing, the night temperature still managed to numb his body. He would cry at night with the deep hunger to return home, but the hopes of his family to secure their future with wages somehow made him lull those cravings. Maybe when I have earned enough to pay the landlord to buy back our land, I will return. He would tell himself every night.
The funny thing is that Mother Nature is compassionate but also vengeful. When it had the power to grind the mighty mountains into its wishful doodle art, how could it leave these powerless people unscathed who were challenging its authority? One day, when Tirkey and his group were trying to hammer down a piece of rock, a sudden landslide flicked them into the gorge like flies. For days, their corpses kept on lying there when finally, they were pulled up with the help of the Army.
*
Tirkey watched the captain sitting under the marble dome. ‘What a lucky bastard that his death has not gone wasted. He is not wiped off like us.’ He looked down at his chipped fake leather boots and worn-out jacket and looked at the shiny brass on the captain’s ironed uniform.
The captain was dusting his bust as if it were the most important task in the world at that moment. Using a dry twig, he scratched clean yellow dust from the arches. This was his daily ritual, a training well-grilled into his system from his Academy days. Even if the war is upon your head, a soldier should go with shining boots and a beaming face. Another reason was that he could keep those torturous thoughts out of his mind. The memory of his fiancé still haunted him. It was almost ten years. She must have got married by now. He thought of his sister and mother. How were they managing without him? He was due to go on leave for his sister’s marriage when they got a call for a rescue operation. Some workers had got trapped in a landslide. He single-handedly pulled out two women and a child from under the rubble. The thrill of saving lives made him ignore his instincts when he tried to push off a boulder and it rolled down with him into the gorge.
It was now time for his evening walk. He wiped his shoes clean for a walk into the wild. He crossed the group of laborers smoking beedi, his eyes lingered on the young boy who kind of nodded at him sheepishly. Oh, he is a lucky chap that he has people to keep him company even after death, he thought as he returned the nod.
*
It was a big stormy night. The blizzard and avalanche had cut off the valley from the mainland. Tirkey huddled with his cronies under a rock, which was hardly giving any protection. He looked at the Captain who was sitting with his back rested against his bust.
For a moment he thought of picking up the courage and move under the shelter, but the difference between their attire and status weighed him down. The Captain had turned away his face to hide the tears. He was not supposed to cry, he was a soldier. But the ache in his heart was now too much for him to bear. This memorial was a constant reminder of his failure. It was a mockery. These laborers were so lucky that their death was forgotten. They were truly liberated.
The biggest fear for a soldier is to die a simple death. For him, the dream is to kill the enemy and take the bullets on his chest. The Captain was in their early twenties. His patriotism was ripe and undaunted by complexities that the years of service added gradually. One day, before he could realize his life aim, he fell into that deep gorge that divides death and martyrdom. Another secret guilt that kept piercing him was depriving his widowed mother of the honor of being a martyr’s mother.
The blizzard was growing stronger. The captain looked at the group. He envied their bond. They were fortunate that the lonely thoughts did not give them sleepless nights. He saw the young boy looking at him. In desperation of a company, he waved at him to come closer. Unsure of the gesture of the cold Saahib, Tirkey looked sideways to make sure it was him he had beckoned. Never before, he had directly addressed anyone of them.
‘Come, boy, sit here. The weather is hellish today.’
Tirkey got up gingerly. He rubbed his dusty shoes against the trousers before setting foot under the canopy.
‘Yes Captaan Saab,’ he imitated a salute he had observed some people giving to the memorial.
‘Sit down. Do you plan to stand the whole night like this? ‘Captain smiled seeing Tirkey’s attempt to puff his chest like a pigeon to give effect to his salute.
They sat down together in an uncomfortable silence but were also glad of each other’s comforting presence.
‘You must be missing your family. Do you worry about how they are managing without you?’ The Captain asked.
‘So many of us die every day Sahab. It doesn’t make much difference. One gone is one less mouth to feed.’
‘Hmm.’ The Captain half-listened to the emotional rant of the boy.’
‘But you know, a poor man is like an elephant. His dead body is more precious when he is dead than when he was alive.’
‘Oh, you mean the compensation amount.’
‘No, Captaan Sahab. I am not even sure whether my parents got a dime from the contractor. Be it a contractor or a politician, for them, we are just numbers in a logbook. Next time, they will quote this number to get more votes. Death will erase us, but it can’t erase the politics on it.’
Captain looked at the boy. He must not be more than seventeen and eighteen, but he was talking like a wise old man.
How different was his death from that of the young boy? Who truly benefited from his sacrifice? Was it the Commander who earned more accolades, or the politician who used the numbers to bolster his speeches? The Captain felt his soul constrict as if his very ideology of patriotism was about to be expelled.
What if he was martyred? A state funeral, a promise of a job for his family a land grant, or a petrol pump. But the promises would have been forgotten in no time. For the first time, the Captain was glad that he died a simple death. At least my mother was saved from the humiliation of knocking on the doors to get the promises fulfilled, at least on Martyr’s Day she would not be used as an object for the selfies. Except for this marble toy, there was no difference in their circumstance.
He needed fresh air. He desperately needed to move out of this memorial.
‘Get up boy, let’s go for a walk.’
‘But captain saahab it is windy. The wind will throw us into the gorge again. Why not we sit here and save our wretched souls?’
‘Tch Tch!! You sissy lad!’ The captain teased the boy while pulling him by the elbow. ‘Don’t worry, I will catch you if the wind tries to take you away. Let’s go, I will teach you how to glide in this wind.’
That night, the howls of the gusty wind were mixed with the youthful giggles of the Captain and the young boy.
**
By Vartika Sharma Lekhak
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