The once upon a time Silk Road winds its way up with hair pin bends snaking through the stark treeless timeless rugged mountains.
Deep down in the narrow gorge one can sometimes see a white and blue truck floating upside down.
The Harka Bahadur bridge across the rushing foaming river Suru tells the glorious tale of a soldier’s immense courage.
This is hallowed ground.
Soldiers in olive green stand sentinels guarding the route on which once caravans rumbled and camels swayed trailing silk.
Not very long ago artillery guns had boomed here .
Two decades and more years have passed.
Soldier blood and memories splatter the craggy hills of Kargil.
The battle was short and brutal.
Today a victorious Tricolour flag flies high.
So many centuries have gone by.
So many have walked these precious miles.
So many have trudged these rough routes carrying bolts of silk bags of heady spices and boxes full of china ware .
Prayer wheels whirring, Buddhist monks had stopped at bone chilling Drass for a cup of salted chhang.
Icy cold winds sweep across the memorial to our soldiers.
Beyond the call of duty they had laid down their limbs and life.
In Leh monks at Hemis , Lamayaru and Thiksey monasteries move about in silent communion.
Wind fluttered prayer flags combat the quiet spartan life of meditation.
Scattered everywhere are prayer stones for the dead.
Dissolution of mandalas and chanting rent the air.
The haunting moonscape of Lamayaru stands still as an authentic witness to the passage of time.
In the moonlit silence it whispers many stories.
The silk route they say brought many this way.
In Batalik and Darchik live the blue-eyed fair skinned pure Aryans.
Out of another time inhabiting another world with flowers in their hair, they sway in a slow circular dance.
Ageing Ladakhi women bedeck themselves in many strings of pearls, turquoise, silver, and coral.
Turquoise snake hoods cover their heads as they sell pink pearls on street corners.
Haunting stories of Zorawar the legendary brutal military commander who looted Ladakh like a brigand circulates even today.
Pashmina wool and shawls, apricots, oil, and delicate china ware, and yards of colourful brocades spill out of small wooden kiosk shops.
Once upon a time camels and ponies and caravans stopped here in Ladakh to trade .
The town was then pregnant with people and ideas.
Brigands and thieves lurked impatiently to loot the precious wares.
Lovers hid in caravans panting with passion and fear.
The Silk Road with its many routes fans out across the Zanskar and Nubra valley to faraway destinations .
People and cultures , gods , humans and animals met and mingled in a melting pot called the Silk Road.
Somewhere here deeply and quietly flows the emerald Indus.
Soldiers on either side watch each other eagle eyed into the dark night.
Bio
Roopali Sircar Gaur, Ph.D. served as Associate Professor of English ,Delhi University and taught Creative Writing at the Indira Gandhi National Open University.
Widely published her poetry is archived in the Stanford University Pandemic digital archives.
Dr Roopali is editor of a number of prestigious writing forums and has edited six international poetry anthologies.
As Founder President of YUVATI a not for profit organisation she runs a special initiative called Mera Kitab Ghar :The Backyard Book Club.
She has travelled extensively and is passionate about the welfare of military families.
She lives in Meerut India with her veteran husband and their three rescued dogs.
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