End of road, where are we to go now?

There was no history before me, and there would be no future after me.

One late afternoon in Leh, allowing the naked amber sun to bake my skin red, I walked down to the polo field from where one could stand and raise his head to witness the Leh Palace.

One late afternoon in Leh, allowing the naked amber sun to bake my skin red, I walked down to the polo field from where one could stand and raise his head to witness the Leh Palace. In the position, the palace looked about to be toppled from the short hill where it was perched. With back damped in sweat and sticking to the almond brown tees, and eyes pinching behind the dark sun shades, I clicked a few pictures only to get bored with the whole act of stupidly standing among similarly acting fellow tourists. I walked to the other end, kicking the sand on the field and licking the thin layer of salt that had settled on the lower lips.

Carefully stepping on thrashed Styrofoam white streaked red Coca Cola cup that swirled in the mild air vortex, I examined the foolish play of a drunk on the road in the front. A few girls had stopped by and showed equal eagerness in learning about mad human behaviour from the drunk. For a moment it crossed my mind, which had now become soft red in the boiling air, to jump into the scene and kick the mad man and end the show. My traveller’s shyness absorbed the rising instinct.

I tucked away the camera, cleaned my eyes to arrange the shades back again neatly, ran fingers through my hair a few times, stretched, and got ready to walk the town. In the immediate grey around me, red optimism dripped my traveller’s eyes. I scouted for a little trouble.

The road to Ladakh had ended, and I now stood in the middle of the little town that I had struggled for five days to reach. I walked the little lanes, relieved at the expected disappointment. I could now use the phone, take another shower, wash dirty denims, and fly back if I wanted, none of which appealed. I longed for the road back, keeping at bay the disappointment that I may face travelling the same road back. In any case, I was stuck in the beautiful little nursery for a day more.

The lanes were empty; the crowd had gathered to watch the polo match that was to start soon in the stadium that I had just left behind. I kept walking as the crows fly, in a neat straight line, tossing random thoughts, thirsty, with a backpack swinging on one shoulder, carelessly noticing the mild details. The town seemed to be enveloped in a thick pale that often covers ransacked towns. It looked like a cross between remnants of an old mystical town and a vulgar, irregularly carved out tourist cave.

I walked past an old car bearing “Free Tibet” sticker, an old tramp lying half naked on the side of the road, empty beer cans, a local wine shop, orphan notes from a guitar, a flowery smell wafting from the nearby corner, three school kids carrying a bat, some asphyxiated hopes, red faces, woody smell of army leather, a donkey, imitation paintings, and amputated limbs.

In the long brumous hours of the evening, I sat sipping tea next to the small tree oasis overlooking the Potala lookalike palace. The t shirt had dried and the sun had turned comforting orange. Shopkeepers sat out and smoked hashish, escaping small town defeat and tedium with each blow onto the pipe.

I like a mute silent inspector of weirdness watched the proceedings. I would soon step out, walk the narrow lanes again, go back to the old guest house decorated in ladakhi theme, take a cold water shower, scout for a place to eat and sleep; the same rhythm will repeat for every second person with tees and shades on and carrying a backpack. Like seekers of Varik, perennially tired and foul mouthed, we all walk through ghost towns in search of little peace in the history. Often, we end up swapping travel stories over beer in some derelict shady bar.

Like a hopeless leftover breed, we travel on pretext of souping history and understanding culture; rather, what we look for is a sound board to stand on, and in the process filling emptiness inside with stories of worthless adventures.
A traveller’s story is as disappointing as those of defeated towns he travels to.

Author: Nitin Chaudhary