by Ruskin Bond
My room was at one end of the house. Lying on my bed I could see, through the uncurtained windows, the distant snowy peaks shimmering dimly in the starlight. Sometimes, at what hour I could not make out, I, half awakened, would see my father, wrapped in a red shawl, with a lighted lamp in his hand, softly passing by to the glazed verandah where he sat at his devotions. After one more sleep I would find him at my bedside, rousing me with a push, before the darkness of night had passed. This was my appointed hour for memorizing Sanskrit declensions. What an excruciatingly wintry awakening from the caressing warmth of my blankets!
By the time the sun rose, my father, after his prayers, finished with me our morning milk, and then, I standing at his side, he would once more hold communion with God, chanting the Upanishads.
Then we would go out for a walk. But how should I keep pace with him? Many an older person could not! So, after a while, I would give it up and scramble back home through some shortcut up the mountain side.
After my father’s return I had an hour of English lessons. After ten o’clock came the bath in icy-cold water; it was no use asking the servants to temper it with even a jugful of hot water without my father’s permission. To give me courage my father would tell of the unbearably freezing baths he had himself been through in his younger days.
Another penance was the drinking of milk. My father was very fond of milk and could take quantities of it. But whether it was a failure to inherit this capacity, or that the unfavorable environment of which I have told proved the stronger, my appetite for milk was grievously wanting. Unfortunately we used to have our milk together. So I had to throw myself on the mercy of the servants; and to their human kindness (or frailty) I was indebted for my goblet being thenceforth more than half full of foam.
After our midday meal, lessons began again. But this was more than flesh and blood could stand. My outraged morning sleep would have its revenge and I would be toppling over with uncontrollable drowsiness. Nevertheless, no sooner did my father take pity on my plight and let me off, than my sleepiness was off likewise. Then ho! for the mountains.
Staff in hand, I would often wander away from one peak to another, but my father did not object. To the end of his life, I have observed, he never stood in the way of our independence. Many a time have I said or done things repugnant alike to his taste and his judgment; with a word he could have stopped me, but he preferred to wait till the prompting to refrain came from within. A passive acceptance by us of the correct and the proper did not satisfy him; he wanted us to love truth with our whole hearts; he knew that mere acquiescence without love is empty. He also knew that truth, if strayed from, can be found again, but a forced or blind acceptance of it from the outside effectually bars the way in.
In my early youth I had conceived a fancy to journey along the Grand Trunk Road, right up to Peshawar, in a bullock cart. No one else supported the scheme, and doubtless there was much to be urged against it as a practical proposition. But when I discoursed on it to my father he was sure it was a splendid idea—traveling by railroad was not worth the name! With which observation he proceeded to recount to me his own adventurous wanderings on foot and horseback. Of any chance of discomfort or peril he had not a word to say.
Another time, when I had just been appointed Secretary of the Adi Brahma Samaj, I went over to my father, at his Park Street residence, and informed him that I did not approve of the practice of only Brahmins conducting divine service to the exclusion of other castes. He unhesitatingly gave me permission to correct this if I could. When I got the authority I found I lacked the power. I was able to discover imperfections but could not create perfection! Where were the men? Where was the strength in me to attract the right man? Had I the means to build in the place of what I might break? Till the right man comes any form is better than none—this, I felt, must have been my father’s view of the existing order. But he did not for a moment try to discourage me by pointing out the difficulties.
As he allowed me to wander about the mountains at my will, so in the quest for truth he left me free to select my path. He was not deterred by the danger of my making mistakes, he was not alarmed at the prospect of my encountering sorrow. He held up a standard, not a disciplinary rod.
I would often talk to my father of home. Whenever I got a letter from anyone at home I hastened to show it to him. I verily believe I was thus the means of giving him many a picture he could have got from none else. My father also let me read letters to him from my elder brothers. This was his way of teaching me how I ought to write to him; for he by no means underrated the importance of outward forms and ceremonial.
I am reminded of how in one of my second brother’s letters he was complaining in somewhat Sanskritized phraseology of being worked to death tied by the neck to his post of duty. My father asked me to explain the sentiment. I did it in my way, but he thought a different explanation would fit better. My overweening conceit made me stick to my guns and argue the point with him at length. Another would have shut me up with a snub, but my father patiently heard me out and took pains to justify his view to me.
My father would sometimes tell me funny stories. He had many an anecdote of the gilded youth of his time. There were some exquisites for whose delicate skins the embroidered borders of even Dacca muslins were too coarse, so that to wear muslins with the border torn off became, for a time, the tip-top thing to do.
I was also highly amused to hear from my father for the first time the story of the milkman who was suspected of watering his milk, and the more men one of his customers detailed to look after his milking, the bluer the fluid became, till, at last, when the customer himself interviewed him and asked for an explanation, the milkman avowed that if more superintendents had to be satisfied it would only make the milk fit to breed fish!
After I had thus spent a few months with him my father sent me back home with his attendant Kishori.
* * *
THE LOPCHAK CARAVAN TO LHASA*6
Abdul Wahid Radhu
[My] first notebook opened with an especially important event in the life of Ladakh, my native land: the departure of the “Lopchak caravan.” Every two years this official expedition left Leh, our small capital, to go to Lhasa to deliver gifts to the Dalai Lama. This caravan thus contributed to maintaining good relations between Ladakh and Tibet, two countries which in reality formed one nation, even if the former was politically answerable to Kashmir and, after October 26, 1947, therefore, to independent India, whereas the latter looked for ways of officializing her de facto independence. This event marked my effective entry into the family profession. With the passing of the years, I have realized that it was the beginning of a very long journey which was never to end since it would allow me an almost uninterrupted inner journey from that time on.
In the evening of this memorable day, after having gone a little more than twenty kilometers, we arrived at Matho. Having settled down for the night in one of the village houses, I inaugurated, by candlelight, my diary, the first page of which is transcribed here:
Today, September 19, 1942, the twentieth day of my life as a married man, I left my family, my wife, aunt, and sister. I left for Lhasa to learn the trade of being a merchant, supervised by my Uncle Abdul Aziz, head of the Lopchak caravan. In the seventeenth century the king of Ladakh, Delek Namgyal (1675–1705), signed a treaty with the Lama Mipham Wangpo, representative of the Dalai Lama, at the end of which it was agreed that a Zhungtshong (government trade) caravan would go every year from Lhasa to Leh to maintain good relations of friendship and commerce between Ladakh and Tibet. Reciprocally, it was agreed that a Lopchak (biannual) caravan would be sent to Lhasa every two years by the gyalpo (king) of Ladakh. Both caravans would have the right to freely transport merchandise within the territories of the two countries.
The government of Kashmir had put an end to the treaty a few years previously. At the request of the Tibetan authorities, it was reestabl
ished in 1938. This is the caravan that my uncle is now directing. However, no official of the State of Kashmir could give us the least bit of information as to the real objectives of the mission. The authorities concerned seem indifferent to its political and diplomatic implications. Every time my uncle tried to question an official such as the wazir-i-wazarat (the first agent of the government) or the local tehsildar (administrator of the district), Uncle found that they preferred to avoid talking about the caravan. The authorities in Lhasa, on their part, take a keen interest in these caravans and they wish to see them continue. As for the commercial and political agents of the British government in Lhasa and Leh, they are also favorably disposed toward the caravans.
The head of the preceding Lopchak had written a detailed report of his journey to Tibet and about his contacts in Lhasa. He had sent a copy to the government of Kashmir by intermediary of the wazir of Leh and another to the British resident in Srinagar. Whereas the latter immediately testified to the importance he gave to the Lopchak, we learnt at the beginning of the year that the other copy had not even left the wazir‘s office in Leh!
This morning before the departure, lively activity animated the courtyard of our house. The baggage that our servants had prepared was carried out but we lost time waiting for the respas (pack animals). When they finally arrived there weren’t enough of them, which forced us to leave six loads and these should reach us tomorrow here at Matho, our first stop.
Upon leaving the courtyard of our house, musicians, singers, beggars, and other bearers of good wishes crowded against both sides of the doorway to greet us. Finally we got underway. And there we were, embarked on a journey which is to last three to four months until we reach Lhasa…
The day was very difficult. It was hot. A strong wind was blowing and all sorts of thoughts went through my mind, dominated by the pain of separation.
We arrived in Matho at five o’clock in the afternoon. In spite of the excellent welcome waiting for the caravan from the gopa (village chief), the sadness of having left my home didn’t loosen its grip on me.
Today, re-reading these notes thirty-eight years later I again see the young man, full of contradictory feelings, who wrote them. Aware of the commercial and political importance of our expedition, I still suffered a good deal for having had to so quickly interrupt the happiness of a marriage which had been celebrated less than three weeks earlier. The profession of caravaneer in Central Asia had certainly not made our elders sentimental, and if I wanted to follow the family vocation I would first of all have to learn to get over many attachments. I was still far from this and my eyes were wet with tears as I put out the candle to forget my sorrow in sleep.
Matho, the terminus of the first lap of our journey, is a typical Ladakhi village with a Buddhist monastery perched like a citadel on a rocky spur with numerous chortens or stupas rising in layers on the foothills of the Zanskar mountain range. This Himalayan chain closes in the high Indus valley to the south to form Ladakh, properly speaking. To the north, the peaks of the mountain chain called Ladakh rise more than 6,000 meters, passable by an ascending track up to the Khardung La pass above Leh and opening onto the valleys of Shyok and Nubra from where one can see the gigantic peaks of the Karakoram range. To the west, the valley slopes gently down toward Baltistan and Gilgit, today administered by Pakistan. To the east, the valley narrows, rising toward western Tibet where the river has its source.
Forming a slope of the “Roof of the World,” Ladakh at this time was one of the most isolated countries of the globe. Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir and the nearest city, was twelve days’ journey away on ponyback. The road, or rather the carriageable track which now allows lorries and jeeps to cover the same distance (434 kilometers) in two days, didn’t exist and nobody dared land by plane in such a high and lost land (3,400 meters).
Ladakh offers only scanty resources and the inhabitants lead hard lives. At the end of that September of 1942 the scenery was austere. The barley having been harvested and the meadow grass yellowed, almost all the green had disappeared. Only the willows and poplars which grew near the streams still kept their leaves, as well as the apple and apricot trees which surrounded several farms. Snow already powdered the peaks. In two months it would cover even the bottom of the valley but with only a light layer because the climate is relatively dry behind the Himalayan barrier. At that time we would be crossing even higher and more austere lands, through frozen deserts where the mere thought of the Ladakhi homeland would conjure up the sweetness of living.
An important crossroads of the caravan tracks of Central Asia, it was due to its geographical location that Leh became the capital of Ladakh, if the title of capital can be applied to such a modest township. This, then, explains my family’s vocation.
However, it was not in order to trade that our ancestor Sheikh Asad Radhu came to settle in Ladakh two centuries ago. This religious man had left the pleasant valley of Kashmir to preach Islam to the inhabitants of this high country whose climate is so harsh. Some people, it seems, were receptive to his words. In any case, his memory is not totally forgotten and a Persian inscription in the Sunni mosque in Leh mentions his name.
His father, Sheikh Muhammad Radhu, had been an eminent religious figure since he had the honor of displaying the reliquary containing a hair of our holy Prophet in the celebrated sanctuary of Hazratbal in Srinigar. This sacred relic is still there. The Radhus were descended from a Hindu-Brahmin family belonging to a sub-caste of “Kashmir pandits” named Trakou, a name that still exists in India. They were converted to Islam at a time difficult to specify.
The first Radhu who settled in Ladakh, Sheikh Asad, had left brothers in Kashmir whose descendents still live in Srinigar. His son, Faruq Radhu, was the first to become a caravaneer merchant. Thanks to this long-distance commerce, our family was to acquire great fame on the tracks of Central Asia.
Faruq Radhu seems to have maintained close relations with the gyalpos, the reigning princes of Ladakh. The memory of his name which became Phorokpa (Ladakhis aren’t able to pronounce “F”) has remained attached to the village of Stok near Leh where a royal castle is located and still inhabited by the rani, a highly respected descendant of the former dynasty. Faruq had received a piece of land there where he had a house built in pure Tibetan style.
The deep, ancient roots of our family thus permit us to affirm our adherence to the country as much as our co-patriots of the Buddhist religion. Although the Muslims remain in the minority in the high valley of the Indus, it is false to claim as certain observers have done that they make up a foreign element in Ladakh. In fact, Muslims have been present there for centuries. An integral part of the population, they have lived in perfect harmony with the tenants of other religions and have even often realized a harmonious symbiosis of the two cultures, Buddhist and Islamic. My grandfather, Haji Muhammad Siddiq, beloved patriarch and respected by everyone, was a particularly remarkable illustration of this typical Ladakhi synthesis: his face, his clothing, his manners, such as the way he had furnished and decorated his home which was always welcoming, and where he always appeared in garments quite similar to Tibetan dress but wearing a white turban.
I can affirm that in Ladakh I never experienced any animosity due to the difference in religions. In the villages Buddhists as well as Muslims called us Akhon Pa, a Central Asian expression which originally designated mullas, or religious teachers of Islam. The title of Khodja, or khwaja, which we normally bear, comes from Kashmir and is used mostly in Leh. Moreover, a fact which seems incredible in Indian society compartmentalized into castes; there even exist alliances amongst families of the two communities.
The Lopchak caravan bore witness to these excellent relations. Directed by a Muslim, it was carrying the official homage to the Dalai Lama from the Ladakhi Buddhists who recognized him as their supreme spiritual authority. In addition, amongst the servants of the caravan appeared two or three youths who were commit
ted to becoming admitted as novices in the monasteries of Tibet.
The day after our departure was already a day of rest and inactivity since we had to wait for the six pack animals which had missed our departure the evening before in Leh. My diary also notes that Khwaja Abdul Aziz received a telegram from the wazir of Leh authorizing the caravan to carry a certain quantity of grain for our use. In fact, the government of Kashmir had just decreed the prohibition of exporting cereals to Tibet, a probable consequence of the war which had turned the world upside down but which nobody thought of behind the Himalayan barrier.
September 21, 1942
We took leave of the gopa of Matho. Climbing the length of the track to Martselang, we took a last glimpse at Leh. The weather is fine and sunny and we are traveling at a pleasant pace.
We stopped at three in the afternoon at Martselang where we were offered tea, then we left for Upshi, the end of this lap. We arrived at six and the luggage not until nine when we had already had supper. Everyone was tired. We only set up the small tents and the servants slept under the stars.
September 22, 1942
I awoke after a good sleep but it was terribly cold early in the morning. After having shaved, prayed, and had breakfast, I was ready. Our cook left first. With the head of the caravan, the servants, and the mule drivers, we did not leave until eleven o’clock. The day was very hot. At two o’clock we arrived at Miroo and found a warm welcome with the gopa. The cook had had time to prepare everything. We had tea and savored all sorts of sweets.
An old family friend came at five o’clock with a teapot and some gifts. What a fine way to greet guests! There is something very admirable about the manners of these people toward each other.