The Road Back

by Liz Harris

  The Major turned to look at her. ‘You are a good daughter to me, Patricia. I may not have said this often enough over the years. Grief does strange things to a person. But I want you to know that I am very happy to be sharing this experience with you.’ He gave her a small nod, and turned back to survey the view.

  ‘Thank you, Father.’ Her vision blurred, and she blinked several times.

  ‘Move now, acho-le,’ Sonam said, coming up to them with a wide smile. ‘Snow. Ice. Must get Rest Hut soon.’

  Their short break over, they struggled on foot up a tortuous track that took them into dense snow and ice. When they reached the first of the rivers that they had to cross, they found that thick snow had formed a bridge beneath which the water rushed. Sonam led the way across the snow-bridge, cautiously followed by the Major and Patricia. The bearers and cook brought up the animals, food and baggage in the rear.

  Once over the bridge, they trudged through snow and waded through icy streams for what felt like an eternity, until at last they crawled up the hill that led to the Rest Hut at Machoi. Their cook quickly put together a meal, and as soon as they’d finished eating it, they fell into their beds and slept.

  Kalden closed his eyes tightly, shutting out the light. The sun was already up, but as the seeds had been sown and there was nothing left to do but water the crops, he didn’t feel the need to get up for a while, especially as he’d had a restless night. He sank lower into his bed and pulled the blanket over his head to block out the sound of the voices outside.

  But the muffled tones of the churpon and his brothers reached him through the blanket. They were standing right under the carved balcony that hung from the front of his bedroom, discussing the irrigation canals.

  The churpon had only just been appointed by the village to be their churpon for that year, and he was keen to make a start on controlling the flow of the water that ran from the stream into the canals, and from there to the crops in the fields. His brothers were offering advice about the order in which he should block and open the canals to make sure that all of the village households had an equal share of the water.

  Kalden’s mind went back to Mr Henderson’s irrigation channels and to how hard he’d had to work to plug the leaks and keep the water flowing.

  He threw back his blanket and sat up. All that belonged to the past, and he refused to think about it. And when the two visitors came, he’d have to work extra hard to ensure that they didn’t make him remember what he was trying so desperately to forget.

  They must now be only days away from his village, those English people. His heart beat faster: he was dreading meeting them. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Yes, he was dreading meeting them, but he couldn’t wait for them to arrive.

  Patricia’s aching muscles were beginning to ease when they left the Rest Hut early in the morning and headed for the Dras Valley, which lay on the far side of the Zoji-la Pass.

  To their great relief, they soon left the snow and ice behind them and found themselves crossing one area after another of treeless, rocky ground, interspersed with patches of coarse grass. The journey being easier, they reached the top of the slope that led down to the River Dras in unexpectedly good time.

  The Major got down from his pony, walked to the edge of the ridge and stared in front of him. ‘We are now looking at Ladakh,’ he said. He coughed and patted his handkerchief pocket. Patricia saw that his eyes were glistening.

  Sonam came up behind them, his face anxious. ‘We go now.’ He pointed to the sky. ‘Many times blizzard here. Is good now. But better must go now.’

  They climbed back on to their ponies and continued along the trail. The scree-like surface of the slopes gradually gave way to gently undulating lush green pastures that were carpeted with wild flowers, and they were able to relax and ride side by side.

  ‘Look, there’s a dzo!’ Patricia exclaimed as they passed a field in which a wooden plough was being pulled by a large animal that looked like a bull.

  ‘That is correct,’ the Major said. ‘And we’ll see many more of them before our trip comes to an end, I’m sure.’

  When they reached Dras, they left their bags at the white Rest House, and wandered among the scattered village houses until it was time to return for their evening meal.

  ‘This is a pretty little house, isn’t it?’ Patricia remarked as they waited for their food to be brought to them.

  ‘Indeed, it is,’ the Major replied. He gave her a slight smile and pointed to the wall beside their table. ‘Do you see any names that you recognise?’

  She looked at him questioningly, then leaned forward and peered closely at the wall. ‘Only one,’ she said, and she sat back and smiled broadly at her father. ‘And, funnily enough, the surname is the same as mine.’

  ‘It’s a tradition that all Europeans who stay here sign the wall. As you can see, when I was last here, there were approximately forty names ahead of mine. Not surprisingly, the list is somewhat longer now.’

  ‘Yes, but not that much longer, considering the number of years since you were last here.’

  ‘This is not a journey that everyone could, or would, make.’ He glanced again at the names. ‘We must both sign the wall before we set off for Kargil tomorrow.’

  ‘I bet you’re the first person to sign twice.’ She laughed.

  ‘That would, of course, be a distinction of some sort,’ the Major said in quiet satisfaction.

  The following morning, they left early to cover the fifteen-mile journey to Kargil, riding first on pony-back through willow-fringed glades and hamlets, and then walking with the aid of their sticks along undulating, stony tracks. The afternoon trail took them deep into the narrow, rocky gorges through which the River Dras roared, and then past cultivated strips of land, separated only by lines of wild irises and the occasional willow or poplar.

  As soon as they reached the outskirts of Kargil, their cook went on ahead. By the time that they reached the polo ground where they were to spend the night, their camp had already been set up and their food prepared.

  ‘We’ve now travelled one hundred and twenty miles from Srinagar,’ the Major remarked as they sat outside the tent in the dying light, each wrapped in a blanket against the cold night air.

  ‘I can’t believe how far we’ve come,’ she said, pulling the blanket more tightly around her. ‘I expect I will tomorrow, though, when we explore the Bazaar. All the books said it was quite amazing.’

  ‘Then to ensure that we’re in a condition to do justice to the sights we’re going to experience, I suggest that we turn in now.’

  As they walked along the narrow winding streets of the Bazaar the following morning, Patricia’s eyes darted from one stall to another as she struggled to take in everything around them. Occasionally they paused to peer into the open-fronted shops or at the stalls displaying cheap cloths, trinkets, knives and assorted knick-knacks, or the Major stopped to photograph something unusual.

  While she stood waiting for her father, her eyes followed the young girls of her age with interest. They all wore a woollen hood over their heads and a long-sleeved, full-length dress, belted at the waist, and they all had several strands of brightly coloured beads hanging around their necks. Suddenly realising it was her eighteenth birthday, she turned to her father. ‘I know we don’t normally make a fuss of birthdays,’ she said, ‘but I’m glad I was in Kargil for this one. It’s been unforgettable. Now I can’t wait to see what our village is like.’

  ‘We still have a few days of travel ahead of us, I’m afraid,’ the Major said as they resumed walking. ‘They’ll be difficult days, with a number of streams to cross. You’ll need to be alert for stones hidden beneath the water. A couple of bearers tripped over concealed stones in ’45 – one of them was hurt quite badly, as I recall. And you must also approach the bridges that span the gorges with caution. It’s not uncommon for Ladakhi people to lose their lives by falling off such a bridge.’

  ‘I will be careful,
don’t you worry, Father. And now I want you to choose something I can get you as a souvenir – not that you’ll need it. We’re going to remember this summer forever.’

  ‘Kalden!’ Tashi shrieked, running after Kalden as he was walking through the village on his way back to his house, pulling a dzo behind him.

  ‘You are in a great hurry, young Tashi,’ Kalden said. He stopped and smiled down at his nephew. ‘Is anything troubling you?’

  ‘Skyot! Kalden. You must come with me,’ Tashi said, and he pulled at Kalden’s robe.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Wangyal has an important message from Leh. It’s about the visitors from England.’

  A wave of fear swept through Kalden.

  What if they didn’t come after all, those English people who would be able to tell him about England! He’d been planning to talk to them about the books he’d read and to have the sort of conversation that he’d had with his missionary friends. They had to come; he’d prepared for their visit; he longed for their visit. They had to come.

  ‘I’ll go to Wangyal as soon as I’ve tethered our dzo. You can tell him that, Tashi.’

  Tashi spun round to run to the post house, but stopped sharply. ‘Oh, he’s here!’

  ‘Ju-le,’ Wangyal said, hurrying up to them.

  ‘Ju-le, Wangyal. Is there any problem with the English visitors?’ Kalden put his arm around Tashi’s shoulders.

  ‘Not at all,’ Wangyal answered with a broad smile. Kalden relaxed his hold on Tashi. ‘I have just heard that they left Kargil a few sunrises ago. They will soon be in Alchi, and then with us. We are moving out of the post house today and into our sons’ house. You must now get the ponies and everything you will need for when you take the visitors into the mountains. That’s what I’ve come to tell you.’

  ‘I have done that, Wangyal. Relax, my friend. We are ready, aren’t we, Tashi, for the visitors?’

  Tashi nodded his head vigorously.

  ‘Yes, I am ready, Wangyal,’ Kalden repeated, and he turned and stared in the direction of Alchi.

  Their final overnight stop was in Alchi, an hour or so from their destination.

  Eager to bring their journey to an end, they left Alchi as soon as they’d finished their breakfast and in the middle of the morning they reached the outskirts of the village that was to be their home for the summer.

  As they approached the village they saw that some of the villagers were working in the fields outside the wall, laughing and talking as they bent over the furrows. When they saw the visitors arriving, they stopped what they were doing, stared at them, and then waved at them before turning back to talk excitedly among themselves. The Major inclined his head towards them and Patricia waved back.

  The moment they reached the post house, she slid down from her pony and started to walk back along the track. Her father followed a little way behind her.

  ‘They obviously knew we were coming,’ she called to him, stopping and waiting for him to catch her up. ‘They don’t seem at all surprised to see us.’

  ‘It’s a small village. Come, Patricia. We should go back and look at our house. We can meet our neighbours on another occasion. For the present, let’s see what the bearers are up to.’

  ‘We’re going to have a wonderful time here,’ she said as they walked past the bearers, who had started to unload the ponies. ‘I can just feel it.’

  When they reached the top of the short path that led from the stony track to the post house, they stopped and stared at the single-storey, whitewashed building that stood half way between the drystone wall encircling the village and the track that stretched across the plateau. Tiny wayside flowers grew along the edge of the road, breaking up the hard ground with sporadic patches of colour. On one side of the house there was a vegetable patch, and on the other, a well-trodden path led to a narrow gap in the wall.

  Patrica turned round and stared across the track to the ploughed fields. At the far side of the fields there was a small stream, and further away still, a second stream seemed to meander into the distance.

  ‘They will be glacial streams,’ the Major said, following her gaze. He turned back to the house. ‘This will be very suitable for our needs, I think. Now, let’s see if there’s anyone in the house.’

  He started down the path towards Sonam, who had taken some of their canvas bags to the front door and was standing by the door, the bags at his feet.

  ‘Ju-le,’ Sonam called out, and he pushed open the door. He hesitated a moment on the threshold, then took a few steps into the dark interior of the house. The Major and Patricia stopped half way down the path and waited for him to reappear. A minute later he came out, shrugged his shoulders in their direction and started to walk to the side of the house. He stopped and looked back at the Major.

  ‘Me go village, acho-le,’ he said, and he pointed to the narrow gap in the wall.

  The Major nodded his approval, and he and Patricia strolled back to the ponies and donkeys, and watched as the other men unloaded the rest of the bags and carried them down to the house.

  Just as the last of the bags was being lifted down, they heard Sonam’s voice. He was talking to someone on the other side of the village wall. They hurried back down the path and reached the door just as he rounded the corner of the house, accompanied by a short, elderly man with a sparse white moustache, who was wearing a maroon robe, belted at the waist, and a cream woollen hat.

  ‘This Wangyal,’ Sonam told the Major and Patricia. ‘Wangyal house.’

  ‘Ju-le,’ Wangyal said shyly.

  ‘Ju-le,’ they replied.

  Beaming at them, Wangyal left Sonam’s side and started to go through the doorway into the house. ‘Skyot,’ he said, beckoning them to follow him.

  Patricia began to go after him, then stopped abruptly. ‘Do you think we ought to tell Sonam and the others that they can leave now, Father? They’ve still got a way to go before they reach Sumdo, and they want to be there before dark. We don’t need them for anything else here, do we? I don’t think there’ll be anything from now on that we can’t deal with ourselves.’

  ‘You’re right, Patricia. Everything seems to be in order and there’s no reason for them to tarry here. We have to start conveying our wishes by ourselves at some point, and that point might just as well be now. I shall pay them and then we can dismiss them.’

  He turned to Sonam and gestured to him that he wished to pay him, and that he and the other bearers could then go on their way. Sonam nodded his understanding and gratitude. After the Major had paid the agreed sum and he and Patricia had managed to convey their satisfaction with everything that the men had done throughout the journey, the bearers took the ponies and donkeys and rode off down the track to pick up the path for Sumdo.

  Patricia watched them leave, and then followed her father into the house.

  The light was dim in the sparsely furnished room, but she was able to make out a pile of brass pots and pans in one of the corners, and a large wooden barrel on the ground next to them.

  ‘I expect the barrel is for their barley drink – the chang that the bearers had each evening when they thought we weren’t looking,’ she said with a laugh.

  ‘I think you’re probably right.’

  ‘And those clay pots over there might be for milk and yoghurt.’

  ‘Yes, that must be so.’

  As she became more used to the light, she saw that there was a row of smaller clay pots on a wooden shelf that ran around the room, and that there were two large bins at the side of the kitchen stove. She went over to one of the bins and lifted the lid. ‘And this must be barley flour. I’m glad I’m not going to be doing the cooking. I wouldn’t know where to begin.’ Suddenly remembering that Wangyal was there, she smiled at him.

  A wooden bench ran along the side of the wall to the left of the entrance, and there was a long, low table in front of it. On the other side of the table, a large chair stood facing the stove, with a smaller chair at its side. Several stoo
ls were backed against the far wall.

  Sensing that Wangyal was looking anxiously at her, she smiled again at him and nodded her approval of the house. He smiled broadly back at her.

  ‘It’s fine down here, don’t you think, Father? Shall I go and look upstairs?’

  ‘No, I’ll do that,’ the Major said, and he picked up one of the canvas bags and began to climb the wooden stairs. ‘Maybe you’d like to make a start on sorting out the bags and seeing what stays down here and what goes upstairs. And perhaps you can make our friend here understand that I should like some refreshment as soon as possible.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ she said. She turned to Wangyal. ‘Food and drink?’ she asked, pointing to herself and then pointing up the stairs after her father.

  His brow furrowed. ‘Hamago,’ he replied, shaking his head and looking bewildered.

  ‘Chu skol?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘And cha?’ She couldn’t remember the word for food, but if she’d pronounced the words for boiled water and tea correctly, he might think of bringing some food with the drinks.

  ‘Hago.’ He chuckled, his brow clearing, and he ran out of the hut. In the distance, she heard him shouting, ‘Kalden! Kalden!’

  The Major’s footsteps sounded on the stairs as he came back down, an air of satisfaction about him. ‘In addition to our rooms, we’ve got a Spirit Room upstairs,’ he told her with a smile. ‘The room next to it is the latrine.’

  ‘I must go and have a look in a minute. I asked Wangyal for something to drink, and I’m sure he understood me. I think I said the words right – at least, I ought to have done, we’ve heard Sonam and the cook say them often enough. I hope he doesn’t bring any of that salty butter tea, though. It’d make me thirstier than I already am.’

  ‘I’m sure you were correct in what you said, Patricia. We have, after all, been learning Ladakhi for several months now, and furthermore, we’ve had a modicum of practice in the last few days.’