by Ruskin Bond
We talked leisurely and spoke of the future. Tibet will not be able to remain a passive spectator. She must change. The old traditions of the fifteenth century, even that which is best of them, must give way to the culture of the twentieth century. I am fortunate to have grown up within the framework of an ancient and beautiful culture. But I was later re-molded by a modern education, with its qualities and defects. At present, I feel it will be difficult to re-adapt myself to this world where nothing seems to change.
At this time, all our family lived in areas which had escaped colonial domination and the impact of modern civilization. The two older sons of Faruq Radhu, Haider Shah and Nasr Shah, had established a flourishing commerce in Ladakh. His third son had settled in Tibet where he had married a Chinese Muslim. Relations remained very close between the cousins of Tibet and Ladakh, and intermarriages were common. My paternal grandfather, son of Haider Shah, had married a Buddhist of Tsethang, a town located several days’ walk from Lhasa.
Members of the two older branches had also developed their commercial exchanges beyond Karakoram, in Sinkiang or Chinese Turkestan where some took women and acquired property. Thus did the blood of the principal races and nations of Asia mix in the Radhu veins.
Those who had gone through Western-type schools, as one of my cousins and I had done, remained very rare exceptions. The contact which the others were able to establish with the outside world was still very limited.
Residing initially at Stok, some fifteen kilometers from Leh, after the family became important they built a beautiful house in the little capital very near the royal palace and on the same crag. Still called Khangpa Nyingpa (old house), it has remained the property of a cousin. I was born in one of the houses which was built later and located a little farther down.
In Leh, the Radhus held an eminent and envied position. They were wealthy, possessed beautiful property, and large amounts of merchandise passed through their warehouses. Everyone in Ladakh knew them and their reputation spread to neighboring countries, in particular to Tibet where they maintained relations with the best families of the nobility and even the direct entourage of the Dalai Lama.
Several members of preceding generations attained high social positions and were even granted official distinctions. It is thus that Ghulam Muhammad, who was on the best terms with the court of the Maharaja as well as with the British resident at Srinagar, was authorized to add the title of Khan Sahib to his name. He was introduced into the leadership circles of Tibet where the English political agent had wanted to make his son, who unfortunately died prematurely, a sort of head of the Muslim community of Lhasa.
As for my great uncle Ghulam Rasul, he had received the title of Khan Bahadur from Lord Minto, Viceroy of India, in recognition of services rendered to the Swedish explorer Sven Hedin, who often mentions our family in his work Trans-Himalaya. Known for his simplicity, piety, and generosity, out of loyalty to the tradition, he had refused the offer which the famous traveler had made to him to send his son to the West to give him a modern education. It was in the same spirit that my grandfather Haji Muhammad Siddiq had tried in vain to oppose my departure for Srinagar where I was to follow courses in an English-type school.
On this issue, my grandfather disagreed with his cousin Abdullah Shah, who, on good terms with the British administration, had been named aksakal which means in Turkoman language “the man with the white beard.” This function consisted mainly of overseeing the activities of the Turkmenian merchants of Ladakh. To carry out his duties, he depended on the official called charas officer, “charas” meaning hashish, a grass which Chinese Turkistan cultivated in great quantities and which circulated in India. It was an officially controlled traffic and, as aksakal, Abdullah Shah was part of this system of control.
A supporter of modern ideas, he was of the opinion that young people should have a Western-type education and this drew the reproaches of my grandfather. “You are going to give these young people over to the Shaitan” (devil), he told him.
Haji Muhammad Siddiq, my grandfather, was a patriarch who reigned over a household of some twenty people, members of the family and domestic help. He himself was one of the most eminent and popular persons of Leh where he was happy enough to have been able to preserve the family traditions intact until his death.
His prestige and authority had won him the privilege, sometimes shared with the Buddhist family of the Srangnara, of directing the Lopchak caravan. Every time he led the caravan, he recorded a description of the journey in Urdu or Persian upon his return. These notebooks were veritable guides for Khwaja Abdul Aziz when it was his turn to direct the Lopchak. He accompanied us in 1942 and in the evening of the journey’s lap or during the long days of inactivity which the vicissitudes of the expedition imposed upon us, I consulted these notebooks, often beneficially.
September 23, 1942
It is around five in the afternoon and I am in Gya where we arrived around one o’clock. Our watches stopped last night in Miroo probably due to the altitude. We reset them according to the projection of the shadows on the ground.
Gya is a large and beautiful village. The Lopchak is well received here according to custom. The new gopa belongs to a wealthy family of the area. His welcome is in conformity with the traditions, notably that of the kalchor.
This latter term, borrowed from Ladakhi dialect, refers to the welcoming ceremony or of leave-taking celebrated for a guest of note and includes offerings like milk, chang (a light beer in countries of Tibetan culture) or even cool water sometimes, dried fruit, rice, or barley flour used to make tsampa. It was usually the children and elderly people of their grandparents’ generation who brought food and drink on beautiful, brass-wire trays and offered them to the travelers. The latter, in exchange, gave a few coins as symbolic payment. Moreover, the entire kalchor ceremony was symbolic since the guests hardly touched the offerings. But at that time I saw in all this mainly a sort of tribute due to the persons responsible for a caravan as important as ours on the part of the villagers.
September 24, 1942
We left Gya with kalchor and other traditional greetings of the local people. This is the last village of permanent habitation before the deserts of western Tibet, the immensity of which we have now penetrated, although politically the highlands of the Rupshu, which we shall have to cross these days, are attached to the state of the Maharaja of Jammu and Kashmir.
On this twenty-fourth day of September I reflected a great deal. However, it was the hardest day since our departure from Leh. Normally the day’s walk ended at Debrengma, but the Rupshopas (nomads of the region) were not able to receive us. We therefore had to continue to Zara. We are at the foot of the Taklang pass where the track goes through leading to Gartok in Tibet. I found the road terribly difficult. We were walking against a wind of sand that fustigated us. I then recalled the ideas of Rousseau on natural education. He taught that it is by instruction and experience of the natural elements that we become true men. In any case, I feel that nature has just taught me a lesson. Pass after pass, valley after valley, all this walking has made me unbearably tired. And at such an altitude—probably approaching 5,000 meters—we are suffering from altitude sickness. Almost everyone has colic or vomiting. We can barely drink or eat.
I feel worse than last year when I easily climbed the peaks to the west of Toklang whilst taking mountain walks in that same region. Today a few steps takes a great amount of effort. My health must have weakened, undoubtedly because of my prolonged stays in India. Physically I led too easy an existence there and now I am no longer able to live normally as a Tibetan.
We arrived in Zara at about four in the afternoon. We were received according to the Lopchak traditions but the Rupshopas refused to set up our tents. We had to do it ourselves, at the same time feeling the difficult effects of the altitude.
This evening I understand how important it is to have a good ten
t. Outside the wind is blowing in a rage. Tomorrow is the fifteenth day of the eighth Tibetan month and the night promises us a splendid full moon. The Rupsho gopa (chief of the camp) invites us to stay here in Zara tomorrow to watch a horse race. We’re obliged to accept because no one will provide us with horses to continue our journey. We can already hear music and drums in the evening.
September 25, 1942
The night was bad and we slept restlessly. Khwaja Abdul Aziz is suffering from a severe migraine and I myself feel dizzy. No one feels well but uncle has experience of these regions and, knowing the cause of these discomforts, is not worried.
The gopa came to have a talk with us. He notified us that an officer from the mines sent by the government is in the region because the mountain chain which extends into Tibetan territory is rich in sulfur and borax. In spite of the difficulties in exploiting these minerals, there is a lively competition amongst rival companies, each one attempting to obtain the monopoly.
The music reminds me that the horse race has begun. I can’t resist going. Our two servants Lobzong and Rabgyas accompany me.
I’ve returned from the festival. This magnificent spectacle gave me an impressive glimpse of the life of the Rupshu nomads. What a hard life they have! They appeared to me at once innocent, dirty, and happy.
Now again it is with joy that I recall this gathering of Rupshu nomads and their horses. None of the races which I watched later in Calcutta or Darjeeling gave me as much pleasure. Here at nearly 5,000 meters of altitude in the austere background of the region near the lake which maps generally call Tso Moriri, the race represented an extraordinary performance of sport. The horsemen, young and of a mature age, were soaked in sweat as well as their intrepid little horses which, in the thin air, breathed like bellows and shared in the general excitement. The spectators, many of whom were women, clapped to the rhythm of the drums. Food and drink were served and our servant Rabgyas, who had swallowed large glassfuls of chang, the Tibetan beer, had difficulty returning to his tent. But the pleasure of the festival was not merely profane, because rosaries and prayer wheels were seen in many hands and the sacred mantra remained present.
September 26, 1942
The morning was very cold. Uncle seems to feel better, although he slept badly. As nobody was ready, we didn’t leave until noon. The lap went as usual. We stopped at Thukje where we had a splendid view of the lake formed by the accumulation of water coming from several valleys. As we approached we noticed many ducks and other beautiful birds. We arrived at Nganor at five o’clock. The moon rose and is reflected in the lake. A pleasant, light breeze is blowing. There is no one to help us here and we have to depend upon ourselves. Lobzang, Rabgyas, and Qadir have gone to collect wood so that we can heat our tents.
September 27, 1942
This morning a beautiful sun shone on the lake and the surrounding snow-covered peaks. A marvellous spectacle.
Whilst riding I reflected a good deal on the life which was already behind me—on my years of college and university and on the few months I had just spent at home. As for the future, far too divided between the high aspirations of my soul and my material ambitions, I can’t envisage it.
I was still absorbed in my thoughts when we arrived at Angano. It was two o’clock. I am writing these notes on a beautiful, sunny afternoon. We are waiting for our baggage to arrive to set up our tents. The Korzogpa have welcomed us warmly but the supplies destined for our caravan are hardly satisfactory. Nevertheless respa ponies have come from Korzog with yaks, so we won’t have to wait for them tomorrow.
September 28, 1942
Our departure was delayed because the Korzogpa had not sent enough men for the number of animals. Our servants had to go ahead by themselves with the load assisted by several Korzogpa who were present, so we weren’t able to leave until the beginning of the afternoon. Passing through Puga, I noticed workers on nearby mountains working at sulfur mining, an abundant mineral in this region.
Today’s lap was the longest since our departure and we arrived here at Langsham at 7:30. We were put up in the kotih (travelers’ rest house) which is nearly acceptable. We have two rooms, one for uncle and me, the other serving as a kitchen and dormitory for the servants. Padma Tsering, another of our servants, left Leh several weeks before us and has joined us here. He went all the way to Gartok (western Tibet) which he left seventeen days ago. He had to delay in Demchog (the first Tibetan town after the Kashmir border) waiting for news of our caravan. He also obtained some information as to the whereabouts of our merchandise expected from Tashigang (in the same region).
In effect, during the preceding Lopchak two years ago, the threat of the Hasakapa raids (a Tibetan term designating the Kazakhs) had forced Khwaja Abdul Aziz to delay considerably his journey to Lhasa and to leave most of his merchandise as well as a hundred horses in Tashigang. Now we had to collect them to take them to their destination. The people who were to assure our transport have made unacceptable demands and are charging double the normal price. This affair is going to oblige us to extend our stay here. While we were waiting, Rabgyas, Lobzang, Padma, and Rasul charmed us by singing very beautiful traditional songs of Ladakh and Baltistan, called zhunglu.
After crossing the Indus at the Choklamsar bridge several kilometers from Leh, our route had gone along the left bank of the river and left the river Upshi. From there we headed south. We went farther and farther away from the river until we reached Tso Moriri which my journal calls Nganor Lake. In fact, in these regions which have never been precisely documented, place names are irregular and the few maps at our disposition have considerable differences. Nevertheless, after having passed near Korzog along the bank of this lake our caravan continued east again and approached the Indus Valley as well as the frontier of Tibet, properly speaking. From then on we were entering the most hazardous phase of the expedition and were to face risks coming from men as well as nature.
First of all, there were the famous Hasakapas or Kazakhs who made the track unsafe. Muslim nomads, they had penetrated into the high plateaus of Tibet, starting from Sinkiang. Usually native of the USSR, they had gone into Chinese territory to escape religious persecution. Small groups had also infiltrated Kashmir but the Maharaja, himself of the Hindu religion, didn’t look favorably upon these newcomers who didn’t fail to swell the Muslim population that was in the majority in his states. Some Muslim princes of India then agreed to receive them and it is for this reason that ever since then there have been small communities of Kazakhs in cities like Hyderabad and Bhopal.
In Tibet, the Hasakapas hadn’t come with hostile intentions. They were merely in search of pasture for their herds in the vast area of Changthang (or northern plains). Nevertheless, there were some run-ins with certain Tibetan nomads of a quarrelsome nature who claimed to be the only masters of these deserts. The scuffles degenerated into raids, then into punitive expeditions, and on both sides bellicose instincts took over. The result was a general impoverishment of the population, already much decreased in western Tibet, and for caravaneers, the risk of being pillaged, if not assassinated.
As for nature in the Trans-Himalayan highlands, she could be mercilessly rigorous. Our people had already had several bitter experiences such as that of 1932 which turned into a veritable disaster.
Snow fell that year in the Tibetan Changthang desert, the likes of which had never been seen before in living memory. Accompanied by an uncle and three cousins, my father, Khwaja Abdul Karim, had left for Lhasa with a caravan of mules loaded with merchandise. In the region of Kailash they encountered a layer of snow so deep that the animals were immobilized and all perished down to the very last one. By an almost incredible feat they managed to save their own lives and reach Lhasa, but they had lost all their cargo.
I was a child at this time and the image of my grandfather overcome with worry remains in my memory. He only had two daughters, and my father, wh
o had married one of them and for whom he had much affection, was his principal collaborator and successor assigned to head the family commerce.
In the morning and evening it was his habit to take a walk in the streets of Leh, and the people, knowing there was no news of the caravan, shared his anxiety. Finally a telegram arrived which announced that all the men were safe and sound. My grandfather’s face brightened, tears came to his eyes, and he immediately withdrew to pray.
He returned saying, “Let us rejoice. They are alive! And let the merchandise stay where it is!”
As for my father, his financial situation was jeopardized since his merchandise had remained under the Changthang snow. He returned to his brother-in-law of course who lived in Lhasa, but it wasn’t his relatives whom he turned to in order to obtain the necessary assistance for re-establishing his business. He took a lively interest in the culture and customs of Tibet where he had numerous friends, particularly amongst the Khampas whose dress he often wore. It was the Khampa merchants who lent him enough money to enable him to obtain some fifteen mules as well as servants. I still remember his return to Leh with his new caravan, himself dressed like a Khampa.
Now my father, resolved to persevere in the rectification of his situation, was above all determined to repay the Khampa merchants the money which he owed them. Against the advice of Haji Muhammad Siddiq who, aware of his poor health, would have liked to have kept him for some time in Ladakh, he left for Lhasa with his caravan soon after that. Suffering from a stomach ulcer which he had never taken care of, he was to die en route, in the middle of the desert, soon after crossing the Mayum La pass, which is located between the Indus and Brahmaputra basins.
After burying him, his servants, none of whom were Muslims, began to quarrel amongst themselves over the merchandise of the caravan. One of them, a particularly loyal and faithful Khampa, succeeded in persuading the others that the cargo should be transported intact to Lhasa where the opinion of Haji Muhammad Siddiq would be sought. At Shigatse some of my father’s cousins, knowing that his mules were carrying gifts that were destined for them, wanted to take possession of the caravan. The servants were absolutely opposed to this. They responded to the cousins’ insistence by threatening to use their weapons and did not allow anyone to touch the merchandise except a representative duly sent by Haji Muhammad Siddiq. The latter, informed of the situation, asked his other son-in-law, Abdul Aziz, who was in Lhasa, to take care of the cargo.