Beneath the ethereal simplicity of Ladakh

Everyone has an opinion on Kashmir. I never had one until that evening when I went walking along the deserted roads of Ladakh, bordered by beautiful poplar trees, occasionally welcomed by mini-streams of water against the backdrop of the sunlit mountain caps. Ladakh hit me with its ruthless chill and despite my jacket, gloves & snow boots, my face had turned a strange shade of crimson. The skies were an array of red, orange, yellow and blue; the sun was retiring for the night. Instead of admiring this rare peaceful sight, my solo traveller instincts kept telling me something bad was about to happen. I spotted a lone woman shutting down her vegetable shop at the corner of the otherwise busy Leh market. “Jhulley! Is today a bandh?”, I asked her, trying to smile and be non-intrusive at the same time. “Jhulley! Yes, everything is bandh”, she responded coldly. “Some tension at the village. Get back to your hotel.” “What happened?” I inquired. “Go”, she said, sharply cutting me off, and continued to pack up. I was not aware Ladakhis had the ability to be rude. I turned around to get to my homestay, a good fifteen-minute walk away when I saw three middle-aged women marching across the road hurriedly. Before I realized it, I had changed direction in order to follow them. I followed as fast as my feet would take me, hauling my seven-layer winter wear along the rough terrain of Leh. I could hear sounds, a group of people mumbling, that turned into shouting as I inched closer to the spot. The three women had come to join a mob of people, as part of a protest. They spoke in the local Ladakhi language, but I could sense rage. I cut through the crowd and realized there were a lot more people than I imagined. There were men, women and many teenage girls. The mob was in front of a mossy building that looked like it belonged to the Government. There were some barricades laid out to prevent people from getting too close to the entrance. A dozen uniformed men with guns, stood poised to strike. Another aggravated senior officer was having a dialogue with a few men. There was palpable tension in the atmosphere, and I could feel the powerlessness of the mob though they were larger in numbers than the force. My instincts told me to walk away and find shelter in a safe place. But something else told me I needed to find out what happened, and witness this. I was not afraid of the mob; if you have ever met people from Ladakh you would know they mean no harm. I realized I was afraid of the guns, and the uniforms. It struck me then that I was just a naive tourist who thought she knew the place, the people, their kindness, and their lives. I didn’t expect to find this. A life of constant turmoil in a disputed land where innocent people were trapped between terrorists and the military. I suddenly realized my travels had not prepared me for this. The harsh reality of the mountains. Years of living around security forces and barely remembering what normal life was. Always having your guard up. Always staying out of trouble. Giving up childhood way too soon to become confused teenagers and then embattled adults, all victims of circumstances. I found a teenage boy staring curiously at me and asked him if he could explain what was going on here. As he spoke coldly, I could feel a different kind of chill spreading through me. “A girl from our village was molested by one of them. She is fifteen years old and not the first one to go through this.” At that exact moment, I heard people screaming and running across the road, away from the building. I turned and saw tear gas shells being thrown to diffuse the mob. It was mayhem. I looked around frantically, not knowing which way to run when a cold, firm hand grabbed my wrist. I turned around and heard a familiar female voice speak, “I told you to get home! This way.”