The journey to Rezang La was the most scintillating pilgrimage for me, like the Kailas yatra. Interestingly, the best route to Kailas also goes through Chushul and connects Demchhok (on the Line of Actual Control, within Indian territory) to Nyari province of Tibet, running alongside the Indus river. There has been a longstanding demand from Ladakhis, supported by J&K leaders like Dr Farooq Abdullah, to have this route opened for the Kailas yatra.
The 80-minute flight from Delhi to Leh is itself a memorable one, and passes over Manali, Rohtang pass and snow-clad mountains before touching down at Kushok Bakula Rinpoche airport, Leh. The outside temperature was minus eight degrees and I straightway drove to a friend's house for a couple of hours of acclimatisation. At an altitude of 11,000 feet, it's mandatory to acclimatise before moving to another destination, and any violation may prove fatal. 'No Gama in the land of Lama', says the Border Roads Organisation's roadside advisory, meaning don't show undue haste and bravado in this land of high mountains and Buddhist lifestyle.
It would be seven hours to Chushul, said my guide Dorjey while putting my rucksack into the Innova. We left Leh early morning and passed through Stakna, the summer palace, Thikse Gompa, Sindhu Darshan, Upshi, Hemis Gompa, Karu and negotiated the tough Chang La Baba pass at 17,800 feet, saying hello at Chemday monastery. At Chang La jawans offer a cup of 'love tea' free to all travellers -- a kahva with cashew nuts and roasted almonds. It's really invigorating.
Next was Tsoltak, and Luking was a further 65 km and Chushul another 124 km away. Post Chang La, a continuous descent along the Tangtse took us to the breathtaking expanse of a mesmerising empire of salt water called Pangong Tso lake. It's a magic God created for the gods. Tourists are allowed only up to this point, and all non-resident Indians need an Inner Line Permit issued by the district magistrate, Leh, to enter this area. The lake is 134 km long and five km wide. Another 40 km, alongside this blue, turquoise green world of water, and we will be at Chushul.
The road is really a patchwork of scattered stones and pebbles, though a board announces that the Luking-Chushul road is under construction. A little before dusk we finally arrived at Chushul, which looked every bit a sleepy, dreamy-eyed village. It has a population of 993 persons to be exact, as informed by its 'numberdar'.
The wind was getting wilder by the minute. It was chillingly cold outside and it seemed almost impossible to push the shutters of the camera with bare fingers, frozen and numbed they were. At 4 pm the wind got ferocious and the waves it created in the lake were great fun to watch.
Chushul has hardly changed since 1962. There is no electricity, though solar power connection is given to the villagers with a dose of subsidies. "But we can't run colour TVs on that low voltage connection," complained the villagers. Lights are off early, usually there is only one bulb lit in each home, for cooking, evening gupshup and studies for the kids. So the usual schedule is to have a heavy peg of local rice brew, early supper and go to sleep. The dependable sources of news are transistors and B&W TVs, with Doordarshan's unchallenged monopoly. Though a few enterprising households have bought Dish TV receivers, and access other channels.
I had hardly taken the prescribed and mandatory rest at Leh, so the dreadful headache began at a deadly pace and soon the world turned colourless to me. The wintry chill coupled with a lack of oxygen, and horrific wind, made my task truly 'adventurous'. I cursed myself at leaving the comforts of electioneering in Delhi and other states to reach a place that no one even thinks about in winter.
Forgotten warriors
Suddenly 1962 flashed before my eyes. It's 2008, we have better woollen jackets, comfortable sleeping bags, well-connected communication system, a strong political opposition and an awakened and vocal leadership in the forces. But 1962 was different. Ill-equipped jawans, bad communication system hardly worth its name, poor clothing; the Chinese attacked in this very month, in this chilly winter, in the wee hours of the day.
In such sub-zero atmosphere I was unable to operate my camera, but they had to operate .303 guns, fire mortars and keep fighting! I was at a lower level in the village with comparatively warmer temperature. They were at the top of Rezang La, facing Trishul, at 17,000 feet. They defeated death and kept the flag high, but New Delhi forgot them and sang in praise of the defeatists.
Do the inhabitants of Chushul remember that story, I asked with excitement and waited for a reply. No one could say yes or recount what perhaps was told by his father or grandfather. There is hardly any remembrance of the battle the nation feels so proud of, in this village which once stood as the 'sword of the nation'. The Army's valour has hardly been passed on to the villagers, to the new generation. Like an unconcerned machine, some men in uniform come to the Rezang La memorial every year, perform rituals and go away. Without touching the lives of those locals who carry the burden of that great legacy.
Text, images and audio: Tarun Vijay
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