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We
are in Padum, truly a one-yak town that comes alive just for
about three months every year. Sitting astride a gurgling Zanskar
River — also called Chador in these parts — Padum, the capital of
Zanskarin Ladakh, is probably the remotest town in India, inaccessible
for nine months in a year. The road is open only from July to
September. One has to fly to Srinagar, drive through Kargil, Suru, and
Panikhar, cross the Parkachik glacier and Penzi la to reach Padum,
which at least four days before you can arrive at this outpost. Of
course, the locals, the intrepid and the insane can access Padum in
winter, too, provided they have at least 10 days and are prepared to
walk on the slippery surface of frozen Zanskar River.
We spend an enthralling fortnight in the sprawling valley, dwarfed by outsized massif outcrops on which perch jewel-like gompas. We are rocked by swaying bridges across tempestuous rivers, deafened by the roar of the wind and calmed by a complete sense of disconnection from the rest of the world. This is one journey which itself is the destination. Our drive takes us from
velvety Srinagar to rugged Kargil via Sonamarg and teetering Zoji la,
blanketed in snow throughout the year. Kargil is a town perched
precariously on a narrow ledge along Suru River and the slopes are
studded with a profusion of ripening fruit. Suru valley is golden with
ripening barley. Women engaged in harvest pause to look up, while
children set up a chorus of Juley (meaning hello) as your
vehicle passes by. Every home in the village has its own ingenious
system of water supply – one for washing and another for drinking
– from two separate channels that carry melted water through their
homes.
The road to Padum is watched over by two snowy sentinels – Nun and Kun –which beckon you from every bend and turn. The silvery crowns turn golden as the rays of the sun caress the peaks and all day you’re mesmerised by the alchemy wrought by sunlight. Up to Panikhar and Parkachik, the villages are largely Shia sporting small but impressive imambaras, but as soon as you cross the most rugged moonscape of Parkachik, you enter Buddhist territory. The route to Rangdum is one of the most difficult roads. It is just a very narrow dirt track with a creek in the canyon on one side and steep mountains on the other, winding impossibly with too many twists and turns. There are many landslides and huge boulders often block your path. During the five-hour drive, you don’t come across a single other vehicle.
Penzi la, the gateway to Zanska, goes unnoticed except for the fluttering of prayer buntings, but what follows is a truly otherworldly sight — of a meandering snow glacier wrapped in gossamer mist and wending its way sensuously through the mountains. Standing in front of Drang Drung glacier, you almost expect Mahavishnu to emerge from this ocean of milk. Padum is a one-street wonder where shops and restaurants stock stuff that would make our city malls blush. You can buy varieties of goat cheese, gorge on pasta drizzled with olive oil and finish your meal with a mouth-watering apple crumble, all brought here for foreign travellers who seek out this remote corner of the world to spend their vacations. During the fortnight we were there, we did not spot a single Indian traveller except ourselves. Padum has a regulation prayer wheel, separate schools for boys and girls and shops galore that sell exquisite turquoise and coral jewellery. There are a number of gompas, which showcase the native Buddhist culture, as also the drop-dead gorgeous views from their vantage location. Karcha is a dramatic gompa, perched on a magnificent slate-grey slope with birds-eye view of the Zanskar River yonder in the valley. As we stand in the gompa and survey the surreal land around us, a supreme sense of exhilaration overtakes us.
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Rangdum, the Buddhist
village en route to Padum sits amidst mind-blowing and desolate
scenery in an expansive valley. Surrounded by a stunning snow-clad
mountain loop, the valley is criss-crossed by myriad pebbly streams
all of which seem to congregate at the foot of the gompa. In the
middle of the village, young women milk their eri (a variety of
yak), tend to their meagre crop and collect dung for fuel. A gorgeous
monastery sits atop a hill, a jewel destined to be hidden from
everyone except the most adventurous. Marmots, the size of large
rabbits, scurry here and there.