My original version of the story which was published in HT Brunch Magazine. Tell me which one’s better?
Turtuk had been planted in my mind on a random conversation at the Spituk Gustor(Annual Masked dance). I toyed with the idea while on a stroll coupled with icy winter winds blowing in the markets of Leh.
It was a whim which took me across the snowed out Khardung La (5600m) far into Nubra Valley in the unbearable cold of Ladakh. The only mode of transport were the shared taxies that plied from the Polo Ground in Leh to Diskit for four hundred Rupees per person. We set off at 9 in bright sunshine and in no time were amidst a white landscape. It seemed as if the mountains on the other side were beckoning to us.
We stop at Khardung – a yak rearing village at 4000m for the ubiquitous butter tea or cha-cha as called locally. The landscape is stark and barren with not a shrub of grass growing; the green & yellow of the summers feel like a distant memory.
The turquoise green waters of the Shyok river (literally river of death) are visible in the far distance cascading through narrow gorges and dramatic Grand Canyon type scenery. On the contrary it could only instil life in me, this so called river of death. We reach Diskit, the largest settlement in Nubra Valley and immediately rush to the only functional restaurant, a Dhaba run by a Punjabi family serving basic rice & rajmah.
‘Turtuk’ has a nice ring to it, an almost perfect, exotic romantic feel. Suddenly I hear the sounds of ‘Turtuk, Tyakshi’ in my tranquil reverie; and as luck would have it I get a seat in the only minibus of the day!
The majority on the bus are Balti people, culturally and physically a far world away from the handful of Ladakhis. The bus is run by the army as a gesture of goodwill and employs local youth.
The exquisite sand dunes of Hunder pass by and a stray bactrian camel is spotted. Numerous chortens dot the landscape devoid of snow, as the waters of Shyok glisten in the sunlight which has begun freezing at the edges. Prayer flags flutter furiously, perhaps symbolizing the state of my heart going in to the unknown.
Skuru is the last Buddhist settlement amid the wilderness of the landscape.
I am the only outsider in the bus as the menfolk clamour to be with me and share their knowledge. Suddenly the music changes to Balti songs, lending an almost Arabic feel to my unaccustomed mind. Soulful & beautifully woven words bring tears to my eyes, although I know not head or tail of it.
Read : Kids of Markha Valley
Our bus and the Shyok river seem to be the only moving things in the static, almost lifeless surroundings. Bogdang, a village situated on a hillock was the last Indian village till 1971. Talk about being conservative, this town borders on being eccentric with no televisions allowed as decided by the village administration. The violators have to bear a Rs. 5000 fine and also the ignominy of the television set thrown on the road to break it. There are no hotels or restaurants in the village, effectively preventing contact with the outside world.
Sunlight is rapidly failing & fresh snow greets us as we drive into Turtuk, into the heart of Indian Baltistan. I am nonplussed arriving; with seemingly nowhere to go. As in the bus too, the people of Turtuk strike me as friendly and have a unique mix of Aryan & Mongoloid features. Chiseled faces, beautiful eyes peer from everywhere to see ‘a madman who has come in the winter’.
The town is a short walk from the main road and is divided into two parts, viz. ‘Youl’ & ‘Pharol’, a pretty bridge separating them. As all the guest houses are closed, a frugal home is my abode for the night. It is the dwelling of a young couple, who i later learn are credited with Turtuk’s first love marriage.
Turtuk, in the ancient times used to serve as a gateway to Gilgit in Baltistan & also to Yarkand via the Karakoram Pass. Apricots & walnuts are spread out before us; happily gorged upon. After being opened for Tourism in 2010, Turtuk has since become famous for the finest quality of Apricots known as ‘Halman’.
I express my desire to have a simple local dish for dinner. A very nourishing apricot stew is made, called ‘phudinichu’. I relish the sweetness, and they sing praises of its anti-oxidant properties. The traditional bathroom (a hole in the floor) is shared by a braying donkey kept by the family for mundane work.
They tell me that Balti Language is unique as it has no script; and that it is similar to Ladakhi in some ways. Life is indeed hard in the winters, where water freezes and has to be bought from the stream that divides Youl & Pharol. A haircut is a luxury few can afford, the nearest barber being a mere 90 Km away in Diskit.
The government provides electricity for four precious hours per day. Cell phone reception is limited to BSNL at the top of the village if the winds blow in your favour.
The morning is colder, with cloudy skies taking over the sunshine. The villagers decide that I be shown a museum showcasing the lineage of the Balti kings. Grape- vine scatter in the compound, it is hard to believe grapes grow at such a great height. Buckwheat is grown and is of exceptionally good quality. Organic is the only way of cultivation they know here.
There are people of rare artistic abilities in Turtuk. A stone sculptor draws – Snow leopard pouncing on an ibex; pressure cookers and other things made entirely out of stone. Bronze utensils & wonderfully aromatic rose sticks are made by another man as per order; apparently famous going by the crowd he had attracted.
It is a cultural surprise to find a monastery in 100% Muslim Turtuk. Kids are playing everywhere as it is winter and schools are closed. The boys play cricket & the girls huddle and giggle.
They show me a polo ground on the Pharol side. I’m intrigued to know Turtuk celebrates the festival of ‘Navroz’ on 21 March. Polo and archery are played in the present times as the entire village gears up to celebrate, dressed in their traditional finery. The origins of a mystical past of Turtuk take another interesting turn when ‘Buzkashi’ (Ancient Central Asian sport) is mentioned as having been played on the occasion of Navroz in a distant past. They regale me with stories over cups of endless butter-tea to keep us warm.
A wooden tower stands tall, pretty carvings inside inviting me to come and explore. Alas, it has been closed due to – (hold your breath), some suicide attempts!
There is also a fort, and only its ruins remain. The way is highly unapproachable and as in life, sometimes you just trust your instinct and let go.
There is an undated mosque which is an enigma, swastika patterns mingle freely with Iranian designs. It is a huge structure with walnut wood used as pillars and is exquisitely designed.
Balti food is largely based on buckwheat preparations & they oblige with ‘Kissir’ & ‘Zaan’. Delectable flavours of Zaan make it an instant favourite.
‘Prakoo’ has delicious undertones of walnut & almond paste in a momo shaped filling.
The only bus leaves at 7 in the morning, storm clouds are gathering around Khardung La. There was the small matter of an unfulfilled wish to see a land in the throes of a fierce winter, in the middle of a snowfall. As they say the universe has a strange way of acting, my wishes were about to come true. I was given a ride in one car as we were stuck in a snowstorm at some 5300m; fierce winds blew carrying fresh powdered snow with it. Perhaps there is a thin line between adventure and death. And i realised it there at the highest road in the world at -40 degrees C.
‘What you seek is seeking you.’ ~ Rumi