by Liz Harris
On their heads, Deki and the other wives wore their jewelled perak, the turquoise and coral stones catching the gleam of the fire and shining like brightly coloured stars. The necks of all the women were encircled with necklaces, their arms with bracelets and their fingers with rings. Their jewels danced in the golden light of the lamps.
The music and laughter in the kitchen almost drowned out the sound of the monks who were in the family’s altar room above the kitchen. Chanting to the rhythmic beat of the drums, they offered prayers for the happiness and prosperity of Kalden’s family and for all the families in the world, and placed before the altar pyramids of barley dough that they’d made and decorated with butter and flower petals.
Below them in the kitchen, Kalden tried not to hear them as he and his brothers moved among the guests, pouring butter tea and chang, offering further refreshment and waiting patiently while their guests went through their refusals before finally accepting it. When at last everyone had something to drink and eat, and the singing and dancing had begun, Kalden took himself over to his bench in the corner of the kitchen and sat there nursing a cup of chang, a solitary figure at the edge of the crowd.
‘Ju-le, Kalden. Khamzang?’ Kalden looked up and saw that Wangyal, who lived with his wife in the post house just outside the village, was standing in front of him.
‘I am well, thank you, Wangyal,’ Kalden said. ‘Please, sit and drink your chang with me.’
‘Ju-le,’ Wangyal said, and he sat down on the opposite side of the low table. He glanced across at Kalden, and pulled nervously at his wispy white moustache.
Kalden looked at him curiously. ‘What is it, Wangyal? You seem to be worried.’
‘I have something to ask of you,’ Wangyal said. He took a sip of chang.
‘What is it you wish to ask me?’
‘Two people are coming to us from the country England. They will be staying in my house, the post house. They will arrive at the start of the next sowing season and will leave after the harvesting.’
Kalden’s heart missed a beat. ‘Do we know these people?’ His hands tightened around his pot of chang.
Wangyal shook his head. It was a father and daughter, he told him, who had asked to be found a house in their area. A mail runner had brought a message about them from someone important in Leh. The person had asked if they could stay in the post house, and he had agreed. He and his wife would move into their sons’ house as soon as the visitors arrived. Their sons’ house was close by, and they would be able to cook for the visitors each day, and look after them and the post house during their stay.
The important person in Leh had also said that the visitors would need a pony-man to be their guide for the whole of their stay. Kalden knew well the mountains and plateau, and he was greatly hoping that Kalden would agree to be the visitors’ pony-man for the summer and would take them everywhere that might be of interest to them.
‘I do not want to,’ Kalden said bluntly.
‘No one in our village speaks English.’ There was a note of urgency in Wangyal’s voice. ‘Only you. Please, will you help me with these English people?’
He looked down at the pot in his hand. Inside his head, an accordion and a recorder started to play. Pages of books flashed before his eyes. His heart began to race, and he looked across the table at Wangyal.
‘I must go into the monastery next year after the sowing is completed, Wangyal,’ he said quietly, struggling to stifle the strains of the music that threatened to fill every corner of his mind. ‘You know that.’
Wangyal leaned forward eagerly. ‘You can choose when you want to go into the monastery. Your brothers will be happy for you to stay longer with them, and their children, too. Ladak ma-ldemo duk. We know that Ladakh is very beautiful. We will all want them to see that beauty and to have a joyful time in our village. Please, will you be their guide, Kalden, and stay with us until they leave?’
Kalden raised his eyes and stared beyond Wangyal to the wall behind him, and through the wall to the stone house that stood alone on the vast plateau, through the front door of that house where he’d been needed, through into the fullness of the life enclosed within its walls, and his face broke into a slow smile.
‘Kasa. I will,’ he said. The music in his head swelled to a crescendo and broke around him into a mighty euphony of glorious sound. ‘Yes, I will.’
Chapter Nine
To Ladakh, May to June 1962: Patricia, aged almost 18; Kalden, aged 18
Major George Carstairs surveyed the four people standing in a small group near him and turned to Patricia.
‘They’ll do,’ he said. ‘Two bearers, a cook and a leader should be sufficient for our needs. We are, after all, only two people, and our stay in Ladakh is merely for the summer months. I suspect that the bearer leader – Sonam, I believe he’s called – may prove to be ganda, which means lazy, Patricia. That wouldn’t surprise me in the least.’
‘Well, they all look very pleasant to me, especially the one who’s also going to be doing the washing-up. He’s obviously shy, but he seems quite charming.’ She smiled at the bearers and they beamed back at her.
‘What you mean is, they all smile a lot,’ her father said tersely, following her eyes. ‘Not quite the same thing, I regret to say. I saw any number of smiling people at the Assistance Board. They would smile week after week as they turned up for their handouts, perfectly able-bodied people, living off the workers of the country. Don’t allow yourself to be influenced by appearances, Patricia. You need to remain on your guard at all times.’
‘I will, Father.’
They waited until the bearers had finished loading the donkeys with the food for the journey, their luggage and camping equipment, then they stepped forward and let themselves be helped on to the back of their ponies by the bearers.
She looked around her from her elevated position. ‘It’s hard to believe that we’re almost in Ladakh at last. I’m so glad you brought me with you, Father!’
A smile crossed the Major’s lips. ‘I, too, am looking forward to our trip, Patricia. I have nothing but the happiest of memories of my time here in ’45, and I’m very much looking forward to retracing my steps. This is the realisation of a long-cherished dream.’
‘I know that, and I’m ever so pleased that I’m going to be sharing it with you. I still can’t get over how lucky we are that your friend was able to find us somewhere to stay in the area that you stayed before. That’s the icing on the cake.’
‘Indeed, that was a stroke of luck,’ the Major nodded. ‘But I wouldn’t go as far as to say that Gordon is a friend. He lives in Northumberland and I only ever see him at the annual regimental dinner. But you’re right. We are, indeed, fortunate that Gordon was able to put me in touch with a contact of his in Ladakh, who has managed to find us suitable accommodation. And we’re somewhat privileged, too, in that we’re going to be allowed to fly back to England from Leh Airport, even though we aren’t diplomats or official personnel. The fact that we may have to wait a few days for a flight home is a small price to pay for the convenience it’ll afford us.’
‘I hope the village house is nice.’
‘I am sure it’ll be satisfactory. Of course, we mustn’t expect home comforts, and our food may well prove rudimentary, but that will all be part of our experience.’
‘I wonder if Mother wishes she was with us.’
‘Your mother will be far happier going to her little bookkeeping job each day than she would be here,’ the Major said stiffly. ‘She’s never shown any interest in Ladakh, and she wouldn’t have had the stamina for the travelling involved. That said, we shall write to her regularly. Our first letter will be when we reach our destination. We can relate the high points of our trip. I imagine that staying in a post house will facilitate our contact with England, although any postal service relying on runners is bound to be haphazard.’
Patricia turned to watch the last of the bearers get on to his pony. ‘Thank goodness the head beare
r speaks some English. I wish he was going to be our pony-man for the summer. It would have made everything so much easier.’
‘His English is very basic. We’ll be better off with someone who knows the region thoroughly, even if they don’t speak English. The Ladakhi words we’ve learnt should serve us well, and we have books with us. I pride myself on having a degree of common sense, and I’m sure we’ll manage very well when Sonam has left us.’
‘Leave now. Short ride on pony. Long rest,’ Sonam called out, signalling to the other bearers to follow him as he moved his pony forward.
‘I fear that Sonam’s choice of adjectives rather supports my initial impression of our head bearer,’ the Major murmured dryly as his pony started moving.
Patricia laughed. ‘Long ride or short, this is going to be the best leg of our trip so far. I felt sick for the whole of the bumpy bus journey from the airport to Lahore. The train to Rawalpindi was so noisy that I couldn’t sleep a wink, and then that awful taxi drive to Kashmir, with all those hairpin bends. The only easy bit so far was the lovely avenue on the way into Srinagar, the one with poplar trees on both sides. But I’m not complaining. I couldn’t be enjoying myself more.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. As you say, the pony will be the most pleasant mode of transport thus far. Quite how comfortably you’ll be able to sit down in a day or two is, of course, another matter,’ he said with a slight smile.
‘I know that the next stop is Gagangir. How far away is it, do you think?’
‘According to my calculations, about forty-five miles. If I recall correctly, it’s a very lovely forty-five miles that takes us through the valley of the River Sindh. But it’s a testing track for a novice rider and you should prepare yourself for some awkwardness of movement at the end of the day, Patricia, whether the day has been spent in walking or riding on the pony. We shall ride for most of the way, but I’m hoping that we’ll be able to cover some of the ground on foot, just as I did in 1945. When we stop, I’ll get the camera out of the bags – we must take a few photos of the journey for the book.’
One behind the other, they followed Sonam along a narrow trail that led them past groups of small wooden houses, their long upper verandas overhung by eaves and a sloping roof, deep into the heart of the Sindh valley. Surrounded by the beauty of the mountains, they rode in silence.
When they reached Gagangir, they had a short rest and then set off on foot for the eight-mile trek to the Sonamarg, their destination for the first night. One steep track led to another, and they soon needed their long hiking sticks. By the time they reached Sonamarg, Patricia was exhausted.
‘I can’t believe how unfit I am,’ she said, panting. ‘That hiking in Scotland doesn’t seem to have helped at all. And you were right about getting stiff after several hours’ riding. I hurt where I didn’t know that I had anything to hurt.’ She leaned heavily on her stick and stared across the fields of gold to the snow-covered mountains that rose up against the clear cerulean sky. ‘It’s easy to see why this is called the golden meadow. Seeing it was worth every single difficult step to get here.’
Her father smiled warmly at her. ‘I suspected that you’d feel the same appreciation of the landscape as I. But now may I suggest that we see what that rascal of a cook has been up to since he went on ahead,’ he said, and he started to stride across the meadow towards the cluster of tents that had been erected at the foot of the pine-clad slopes of the mountains.
She stared at his back, a glow of happiness spreading through her. Then she hurried after him, her energy renewed. As they drew near to the tents, they saw that the cook had set up their camp at the edge of a crystal stream that was running swiftly along the base of the mountain.
‘Excellent,’ the Major said, eyeing the blazing camp fire and the tea of buns and cakes that had been laid out for them. ‘Excellent,’ he repeated. ‘And I do believe that I can detect the smell of our supper cooking.’
The next morning, they set off early on the nine-mile journey to Baltal.
‘Baltal lies at the foot of the Zoji-la Pass,’ the Major told her. ‘The entrance to Ladakh is on the other side of the Pass. We are nearly there, Patricia.’
The terrain was easier for the ponies, and they had time to enjoy the sight of the wild spring flowers that stretched back from the snow-bordered path along which they rode. All around them, the scented air was filled with the music of cuckoos and larks.
When they reached Baltal, they ate their sandwiches while the ponies and donkeys had a rest. After lunch, Patricia decided to walk a few steps along the trail they’d be taking when they set off again. ‘It’s a very steep track,’ she called back to her father a few minutes later. ‘And very foresty, too, by the look of it. It’s not going to be as easy as it was this morning.’
‘It is a difficult path,’ the Major said, coming up behind her. ‘We’re about to enter the Pass itself, and we’ll be traversing pine forests for the next few miles. But this is not altogether surprising since we’re in the rain shadow of the Himalayas. Enjoy the richness of the vegetation here, Patricia – Ladakh is much more barren. There’s very little rain at Ladakh’s altitude.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Time to set off, I believe, if we’re to get to the Rest Hut at Machoi before nightfall. Tomorrow, we’ll be in Ladakh.’
The ploughing and sowing was about to begin. Spades would be breaking the ground, and ploughs turning the soil. But before the villagers shattered the peace of the worms, the spirits of earth and water had to be shown that they were honoured. A day had been devoted to pacifying them, a day without meat or chang, a day of prayers, but that day was now drawing to a close.
Kalden sat in the corner of the kitchen and listened to the sound of the monks in the altar room above him. Next year he would be up there, chanting the ritual prayers with them. By agreeing to help Wangyal with the English people, he was delaying the start of his life as a monk, but it was no more than a short delay. He glanced at the ceiling, stood up and ran down the stairs and out of the house.
As he went over to join his family and the villagers who were standing around the small heap of clay bricks that had been built for the spirits, he heard footsteps behind him and he realised that the monks, too, were leaving his house. Looking around, he saw monks coming out of the other houses as well. The light of day was fading fast and they needed to make the rest of the offerings before the sun fell behind the mountains.
The monks all gathered around the brick altar, offering yak milk to the spirits. Then they and the villagers moved to the nearby stream to throw more offerings into water which was swollen with melted snow. Standing at the rear of the crowd, Kalden watched them for a few minutes, then he turned and walked slowly back to his house.
The next day he rose early and made his way through the gap in the village wall to the edge of the fields beyond. Standing there, lost in thought, he stared with unseeing eyes in the direction of the women spreading manure into the furrows.
A sound from behind him jogged him from his reverie, and he turned and saw Anil and Rinchen approaching, carrying a wooden plough between them. Tashi and his brothers were just behind them, leading a huge dzo and holding bags full of seeds. Members of the paspun and some of the other villagers were following with large pots of chang and a number of silver-lined cups.
He watched as the children fastened the dzo to the plough and the villagers organised themselves into working groups. Then he glanced at the side of the field to where a monk in scarlet robes was chanting the sacred texts, unconcerned that his voice was lost in the laughter from the villagers, who were joking and singing as they threw handfuls of seeds into the newly ploughed furrows.
Surveying the scene around him, Kalden’s heart was heavy.
Higher and higher into the Zoji-la Pass they rode, the moss-green pine trees of the lower slopes gradually giving way to barren stretches of ground where their every step sent up a cloud of dust that reached their shoes and hid the small wayside shrubs that bordered the track
.
Once or twice, Patricia glanced down into the valley. Each time she recoiled in fear at the sight of the sheer walls of crimson scree which dropped from her feet into a dark void, and she swiftly looked away again.
‘It’s really scary when you look down,’ she told her father on one of their short breaks.
‘Not for those who have seen the whites of the enemy’s eyes on the field of battle, it isn’t,’ the Major replied, taking the can of water that the bearer held out to him and putting it to his lips.
‘Well, it’s pretty frightening to me. I think I’m finding out that I don’t like heights.’
Higher still they climbed. Just as she was beginning to wonder if they’d ever get to the top, they passed through a patch of yellow poppies and came out on a large crag of purple rock that overhung the valley. They got down from their ponies and gazed in awe at the panorama spread out before them.
A movement in the valley caught Patricia’s eye, and she knelt down to peer over the ridge. A solitary wild horse was running the length of the mountain stream that wound its way through the heart of the valley. ‘It’s all so beautiful,’ she sighed, and stood up again.
‘You can see now why I haven’t been able to get this journey out of my mind in all these years,’ her father told her. ‘And why I resolved to make the journey a second time, this next time with James. I’m confident that he, too, would have enjoyed it. But sadly that wasn’t to be.’
A lump came to Patricia’s throat.
‘You’re right, Father,’ she said quietly, her voice sounding strange to her ears. ‘James would have loved it, just as I do. Even though I’ve helped you with your book over the years and seen the photos and notes you made, nothing, absolutely nothing, has prepared me for the real thing. And James would have felt the same.’