TRYST WITH THE MOONLAND
My Days in Leh
On 30 July 1986 — a crisp Wednesday — as the Indian Airlines aircraft descended to land at the Leh Airport, the rugged terrain outside my window seemed to conspire against a smooth landing — rocks and boulders strewn across the barren landscape, with imposing mountains encircling us. The touchdown was bumpy. The runway remained hidden from view. I thought we had crash landed over a rocky terrain. For a fleeting moment, fear gripped me until I heard the airhostess’s reassuring voice: “We have landed safely.”
Stepping out of the aircraft, I surveyed the scene. The terminal building was modest — a testament to the remote location of one of the world’s highest airports, perched at a staggering 10,682 feet (3,256 meters) above sea level. The 5-kilometer road from the airport to the town awaited — a steep ascent devoid of buildings, commercial or residential. No traffic hummed; no pedestrians strolled. Not a single tree or blade of grass softened the starkness. It felt like traversing a wilderness. My boyhood memories echoed — a legacy passed down by my uncle, a Food & Supplies Department employee whose duty involved stocking food supplies in Ladakh for the harsh winters. He would tell stories of the place, sealed off by the snow-cloaked Zoji La for six long months, climatic challenges, isolation and hard life. Once, he returned home, and we discovered an unsent letter in his pocket — a silent witness to the isolation one endured there. Air service between Leh and Srinagar was non-existent then. Government officials who had served their tenures in Ladakh would share tales of endurance — the unforgiving winters, the solitude, the resilience required to thrive in this high-altitude desert.
I had arrived in Leh as the Assistant Director Information, and the place welcomed me with a rugged embrace. I stood at the threshold of an arid desert, also known as the Moonland. I had an idea that it would challenge my comfort zones. It was my first posting outside my hometown of Srinagar, breaking the familiar rhythm of my career. Earlier, bureaucratic twists had toyed with my fate: transfer orders to Calcutta (Kolkata) cancelled, then reinstated, only to be revoked again. In 1982, my order of transfer to the West Bengal capital as Public Relations Officer of the Government of Jammu & Kashmir, issued a day after the death of Chief Minister Sheikh Mohammad Abdullah, was cancelled by his successor, Dr. Farooq Abdullah, as it was issued without his consent. Again, in 1986, on the day of ouster of Ghulam Mohammad Shah Government, I was transferred to Calcutta, and, again, the order was not implemented, this time by the Governor Jagmohan’s administration that also wound up our public relations offices in Calcutta, Bombay and Jallandhar.
Leh, the district headquarters, stood on the banks of the Indus River. With its cold desert climate, the town held secrets etched into its rocky contours. It had been the capital of the ancient Ladakhi kingdom. Leh town, with few paved roads and basic amenities, had small population — around 10,000–15,000 people, predominantly Buddhists. Many traditional buildings including the Leh Palace–a place with a storied past, and in ruins after the 19th century Dogra invasion–adorned the skyline. The local economy was primarily based on agriculture and livestock. The Buddhist majority and the Muslim minority had historically lived in harmony along with an insignificant percentage of Christians and Hindus. Although early 1980s witnessed some tension between the two major communities, the place was untouched by strife, such as the one that rocked the town in 1989. Inter-community marriages were happening.
Being the first Kashmiri officer of my rank in the Department of Information to have been posted in Leh, I faced a blank canvas. No contacts, no acquaintances — just the vast expanse of Leh. With little bag and baggage, I stepped out of the airport and hired a taxi, a pickup van, to straightaway drive to my new office. The driver of the vehicle, a relative of my immediate subordinate, his tone betraying displeasure, asked matter-of-factly, “Why have you come here?” Before I could respond, he made himself clearer by informing that my arrival would displace his kin who was managing our Leh office. I did not see any merit in convincing him that his fears were farfetched. My worries extended beyond office politics. I had reluctantly left home, leaving behind an ailing mother, a patient of chronic blood pressure with left bunch block, and my two elder brothers were serving in distant lands. Father had died when I was a class 10 student. My own health — recurrent jaundice — loomed over me. Outside home, luxuries like boiled water — water purifiers were not in vogue — and observance of food chat were impossible. My mother, a courageous woman despite her frailty, had always shielded me from inconvenience.
Our Leh office sat near the Polo Ground, its elevation mirroring the challenges ahead. As I entered, the staff members greeted me with warmth. A quick introduction, a cup of solja — as tea is called in local language — and I signed my joining report, sending it to the District Development Commissioner, Shyam Singh Kapur, later the Chief Secretary of Jammu & Kashmir. The immediate concern was accommodation. A room at the Government Circuit House provided temporary respite, but its three-day limit loomed. And so began my tryst with Leh. On the second day of my stay at the Circuit House, I received an unexpected visit. Abdul Ahad War, an employee of the J&K State Cooperatives Bank, arrived, accompanied by Ghulam Jeelani Khan, in-charge officer of the Khadi & Village Industries Board. I had known War through our common friend, Tahir Mohiuddin, a journalist colleague of my days at the daily Aftab, Srinagar. Jeelani and I had crossed paths, but this was our first face-to-face meeting. Word had spread among the Kashmiri community officials — a fellow Kashmiri officer had arrived in town. War, too, had heard about my posting. He and Jeelani found me settling into a temporary room, my head throbbing from the high-altitude effect. The Leh altitude — 3,524 meters (11,562 feet) — was a stark contrast to my hometown, Srinagar, at 1,585 meters (5,200 feet). I realized that road journey of two days from Srinagar, with a night halt at Kargil, rather than a direct 35-minute flight, would have been appropriate to gradually acclimatize with rising altitude. My guests assured me that it was a temporary inconvenience and would go away in a couple of days. They advised me to take adequate rest, desist from any strenuous activity and have sufficient intake of butter. Ah! I had never developed taste for butter.
My transfer to Leh was not routine — it carried an undertone of punishment. The reason? An alleged role as the “ghost editor” of a newspaper. A new Urdu weekly, Ishaet, had hit the stands in Srinagar in mid-April 1986. The newspaper, with its serious and critical content, had stirred curiosity. My friend Mohammad Yasin Wani ran it, alongside his cosmetic shop, Halo Store. My friend, Javed Azar, and I contributed. The editor’s identity remained a mystery. At an Information Department-hosted dinner at the Srinagar Club, amid spirited conversation and flowing liquor, a local scribe blurted out — the host and my director, Arun Kumar, was all ears — that Khalid Bashir was the elusive ghost editor of the Ishaet. Soon, thereafter, my transfer order to Leh materialized. The order was issued on 12 June 1986, and, within a day, I was served with marching orders. My office, it was obvious, was in real haste to send me packing to Leh — a place considered a tough posting, both in terms of altitude and isolation.
Prior to my departure, I informed my department — with supporting medical reports — about my health issue and the undesirability of serving at a high-altitude place. Doctors at the SKIMS had asked for six to eight weeks for further assessment, including a liver biopsy, to ascertain suitability or otherwise of my serving in Leh. My request to rejoin duty till investigations were concluded was denied. Instead, I was asked to proceed on leave. As July neared its end, I sensed the government’s impatience. I purchased an air ticket — Rs. 335 — for the 35-minute flight from Srinagar to Leh. The Indian Airlines operated twice a week — Tuesdays and Sundays. There were no private airlines then. So, on that last Wednesday of July 1986, over the Kashmir Himalayas, I soared towards Leh — and into its embrace.
As I settled into this high-altitude desert, finding a roof over my head became my first challenge. Government accommodations were scarce, and private rentals even scarcer. Abdul Ahad War and Ghulam Jeelani Khan, my newfound friends, offered refuge. They shared their space, their camaraderie. I stayed with them for a few days, and then Ghulam Ahmad Mir, an employee of the Government Arts Emporium, appeared. He had been asked by my cousin, Mohammad Rafi, who was once the secretary of the same emporium, to ensure that I did not face hardship in Leh. Mir’s home became mine, and alongside him, two more companions: Manzoor Ahmad Rather and Mohammad Maqbool. In our cozy abode, we laughed, talked, and shared stories. Manzoor’s jolliness lifted our spirits. Maqbool, who had likely worked as a daily wager in the power development department, had a favourite refrain: “Jigmit said this, Jigmit did that.” His loyalty to an officer named Jigmit was unwavering. The trio enveloped me in familial warmth, their care extending beyond mere hospitality, as if I were the honoured patriarch, shielding me from even the mundane chore of washing my cup or plate. In their eyes, I was more than a guest — I was kin.
Meanwhile, Jeelani and I scoured the town for a joint private accommodation. One day, standing at a stranger’s door, Jeelani called out. No response. In Kashmiri, I suggested he knock. His stern reply caught me off guard: “Don’t repeat the word.” Apparently, it was a serious insult in Ladakhi. Lucky no one had heard my innocent utterance. Finally, we secured a one-room set with a small kitchen. One of my office colleagues arranged a liquified petrol gas (LPG) connection and a gas stove without any hassle. His acquaintance or kin had newly started an LPG agency at Leh, the first in the heart of the town. Our new home lacked lustre. I got my small black and white television set — comically named Disco — from home and it brought life to our evenings. Four hours of diesel-generated power in the evenings from 6 p.m. to 10 p.m. allowed us to watch the Doordarshan national channel — Hindi films on Sundays, dramas, and a weekly program, based on replies to the letters of viewers, hosted by the eloquent Prabhjot Kaur with flawless Urdu pronunciation. We even penned an appreciative letter to her. A mini hydel power project at Stakna, inaugurated that year, faced serious silting problems, and frequent shutdowns.
Ghulam Qadir’s Delight Cinema stood as Leh’s entertainment hub, giving its owner the sobriquet–Qadir Delight. Located within the residential area, overlooking the Leh Palace, the approach to the cinema was narrow and stinky. Many passers-by substituted the lane for a urinal. The cinema mostly screened B-grade films. There was a catch: if you sat in the balcony, a stubborn beam obstructed your view. Yet, we watched Govinda’s debut in “Love 86”. A couple of video parlours had also arrived in the town, drawing rush of Hindi movie buffs. We ventured into their dimly lit rooms, craving escape. Radio Kashmir Leh–another source of entertainment–with intervals between its morning, midday and evening transmission–broadcast programmes based on Hindi movie songs, cultural and social packages, and relayed news from All India Radio and Radio Kashmir Srinagar. Programme Executive Tsering Angmo–later, Director Radio Kashmir Leh–recorded a few of my Urdu ghazals for an evening transmission. At the appointed hour, a female announcer, her voice distinctively tinged with the characteristic nasal inflection of the local dialect, made the announcement in a seamless, uninterrupted flow: Ye Radio Kashmir Leh hai Bashir Ahmad ki shayiri (This is Radio Kashmir Leh Bashir Ahmad’s poetry). Jeelani and I had a hearty laugh.
Walking up and down the Leh Bazaar, the centrally located main market of the town, provided a healthy entertainment. The most attractive and busy spot — the heartbeat of the town — the bazaar hosted all sorts of shops–Tibetan handicrafts, artefacts, jewellery, Ladakhi and Chinese crockery, woollens, grocery, vegetables and fruits. Foreign tourists flocked here, curious and wide-eyed. Leh was thrown open for foreign tourists in 1974. There were not many hotels then. Locals converted homes into guesthouses, welcoming these wanderers who liked mixing with the natives and study their life and culture. Some of them preferred trekking in the mountains. Domestic tourists were far and few. The shopkeepers were of the native stock, with a few from north Indian state of Punjab. Among the latter, Aggarwal’s grocery shop attracted customers like honey draws flies. Nazir–the butcher–sold mutton of Changthang sheep fetched from a high-altitude plateau of the same name, 213 km southeast of Leh. Another had set half a kilogram as baseline for a customer to buy meat.
The colourful feature of the bazaar were the ladies — old women with wrinkles on their weathered faces as well as young girls — clad in vibrant gonchas, peddling fresh vegetables on the pavement. Cauliflower, turnips, potatoes, peas — the bounty of Ladakh grew larger than Kashmir’s. Home-bound Kashmiris bought sacks of turnips and packets of dried apricots — a summer delicacy to share with loved ones. Velvet cloth — black, green, maroon and turquoise — also figured in their shopping lists. Two bank branches — State Bank of India and Jammu & Kashmir Bank — anchored the market. The J&K State Cooperative Bank also had a presence. A stationery store — the only newspaper vendor — and timber shop were each a thread in Leh’s fabric. Newspapers arrived by air from Chandigarh, Jammu, and Srinagar, second or third day after their date of issue. Leh had no newspaper of its own, but its stories echoed through the market’s vibrant stalls. The makeshift sabzi mandi, a vegetable market, in the close proximity of the bazaar, hummed with life. The mandi was solely run by Kashmiri traders who brought fresh vegetables from Srinagar during summer. Occasionally, fish appeared, a rare treat in this high-altitude desert. But when winter descended, the market shuttered, waiting for warmer days to reopen. Nearby, the Leh branch of Kashmir Arts Emporium was a hub of the Valley’s handicrafts. There, besides Ghulam Ahmad Mir, Manzoor Ahmad and Mohammad Maqbool, I met its manager, Ghulam Mohammad Shalla and another employee, a soft spoken Muzammil Siddiqi, who played host during my occasional visits to the emporium. A few steps away from the Leh Bazaar, was the Tibetan Market where women presided over stalls laden with Tibetan jewellery, colourful fabrics, and intricate artifacts.
The Head Post Office in the Leh market, stood sentinel — its walls echoing longing. Here, letters and parcels bridged distances. You would visit, hopeful, to see if love had arrived in ink and paper. Telephones were scarce, their dialling system indirect. Trunk calls connected you to distant voices. Luck determined how soon — or late — you would hear familiar tones. Couple of restaurants in the market played host to young boys and outstation employees enjoying tea and snacks, especially in the evenings. A lady’s modest eatery offered hot drink as well as liquor, while another gained fame for its jasmine tea and the lingering aroma. A small lane taking off from the main market was known as Chhang Gali, after a local brand of liquor sold there. The Jama Masjid reconstructed and expanded, at the upper end of the market filled to the capacity during Friday prayers. Imam Maulana Mohammad Omar delivered sermons in local Ladakhi, then translated them into Urdu for the benefit of non-locals, mostly Kashmiri employees and traders. The history of the mosque — the biggest in Ladakh region — dates back to a 17th century agreement between the Mughal emperor, Aurangzeb, and the ruler of Ladakh, Deldan Namgyal.
Amidst this vibrant canvas, Jeelani and I forged bonds. We cooked food, made tea, washed clothes, cleaned utensils, swept the floor, laughed and watched television. I made dishes and Jeelani cooked rice. Tap water was not available. Sayeda, a middle-aged lady, delivered — on monthly remuneration — a jerry can of spring water in the mornings. Jeelani’s father had sent a bundle of nadur — lotus stem — and soon a discussion started on whether to cook it with pulse or carrot. I insisted we must try carrot. Jeelani would not agree but the chef had the last word. At dinner, I realized pulse would have been a better choice. Jeelani made faces. Mother had given me a packet of warimuth — black beans — my favourite lentil, father would equate with an antibiotic injection for cure of cough and cold. At dinner, Jeelani shouted, “Who eats this dal? It is a sheep’s food.” I emptied a spoonful on his plate. He returned a curious look, then ate quietly. “This is tasty”, he declared. It was my turn to make faces. Nadur with carrot and warimuth taunts lasted for days. With the TV set, mother had sent a sack of fresh vegetables. My cousin Ghulam Qadir, an official of the Mechanical Division, entrusted the consignment to a truck driver bound for Leh. The driver delivered the TV set but devoured the vegetables. It pained me to think of the amount of love and care mother must have put into the package that was stolen by the driver. A bittersweet lesson: love sent from home could be pilfered by strangers. A few days later, Jeelani confronted the driver, but it was crying over spilt milk.
Our days in Leh were stitched together with unexpected flavours. Our room hummed with gossip, laughter, discussions on politics and narration of stories of our homeland. Showkat Ahmad Fazili — Registering Officer Antiquities and a close friend ever since — would walk in to join the extensive sessions. It turned out that Fazili and I had faced the State Public Service Commission around the same time in connection with our job interview in 1980 and had stayed at the same accommodation in Jammu — my cousin’s official quarter — on different dates. I saw a solar powered cooker for the first time at the house of Fazili’s landlord. Our room lacked proper heating arrangements. Hard coke stoves posed risks, and electric room heaters were futile with limited low-voltage evening electricity. The minimum night temperature fell as low as minus 12 degrees Celsius. So, we kept ourselves warm with kangris — portable earthen pots filled with embers, wrapped in wicker baskets. One night, I woke choking on smoke. Jeelani, half-asleep, had emptied the kangri onto my bed. Few more minutes, and flames of fire would have leapt out and roasted us both. I had removed a glass pan of the room window to let some air in during the night, fearing a closed room might turn into a death chamber in an already low oxygen content atmosphere. Jeelani protested: “I’ll freeze to death.” In the mornings, one found, frost clung to latches and windowpanes inside the room — a delicate dance between survival and warmth. And so, in Leh’s quietude, we navigated life — kangris, frost, and midnight alarms. One day, Jeelani asked me to get ready for a trip to Cheshma Shahi. I was taken aback. Cheshma Shahi in Leh? I knew a Mughal Garden by this name — with a famous spring — in Srinagar. A replica in an arid desert sounded strange. Soon, my curiosity was gone when we reached a spot in the upper stretch of the town where a small stream flowed under a grove of tiny willows — with little patches of grass here and there — telling their story of survival in a not-so-friendly environment. It turned out that the homesick Kashmiris, for a feel-good factor, had named the place as Cheshma Shahi. They also used the stream to wash their clothes and take a bath.
Our office, too, had its rhythms — adequately staffed but more or less a dormant existence. Installation of public address system at official functions found preference over the main mandated activity — publicity of developmental activities. Very little information flowed in. Contact with district officers was near non-existent. I had to pull my sleeves up — contacted all district heads of government offices for regular supply of development news. The District Development Commissioner was also approached for a circular direction to the officers. Soon, information started flowing in. I edited and disseminated the news. Press releases danced across radio waves and newspaper columns. Abdul Gani Sheikh, the All India Radio’s Leh correspondent, came to say that my work had “facilitated” his job. I started a monthly bulletin — Newsletter — in English. It spotlighted developmental and cultural activities — the first of its kind in the district. The District Development Commissioner was impressed and asked his staff officer to issue a letter of commendation on his behalf, but alas, it never arrived. Years later, when he was the Chief Secretary of the State and I had joined as the Director of Information, I told -him that the letter had not arrived even after a quarter century. The response — a broad smile.
Lack of communication facilities posed hurdles. No fax machines or cell phones then. Trunk calls were our lifeline. Once, I urgently needed to relay a press release to Radio Kashmir Srinagar. The phone line stalled until the 7.40 p.m. news bulletin began. Assistant news editor Tej Krishen Raina saved the day, slipping our story into the on-air bulletin. In September 1986, Leh hosted an international seminar on Himalayan ecology. Helen Norberg-Hodge, a Leh based Swedish linguist, author, and activist, with her Ladakh Ecological Development Group (LEDeG), led the charge. Sir Edmund Hillary, Everest conqueror and New Zealand’s High Commissioner to India, graced the event. I covered the seminar, and it made national news. A photograph with Sir Hillary remains a prized possession. Other events included colourful annual Hemis Mela, archery competitions, vibrant cultural festivals that I covered with visual inputs provided by my cameraman, Nisar Hussain. Leh’s pulse beat at the Polo Ground — a venue for polo matches and cultural spectacles — the town gathered, cheered, and celebrated. The social and cultural scene of the town was thriving, boasting an array of prominent figures, including folk musician-composer Morup Namgyal, celebrated singer Tshushu Lamo, scholar-historian Tashi Rabgias, broadcaster-social activist Akbar Ladakhi, author-historian Abdul Gani Sheikh, writer Gelong Paldan, lexicographer Babu Abdul Hameed, educationist Elizer Joldan and writer-broadcaster Tashi Angdus, among others.
During one of those days, I heard Sat Paul Sahni, my former Director General, was in the town. I decided to pay a visit. He was surprised to see me in Leh. I told him about my posting. During our chat, he disclosed that the former Chief Minister, Farooq Abdullah, who had been ousted from power in 1984 after an in-party rebellion led by his brother-in-law, was soon returning to power. A deal with Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi was sealed. Sahni was Abdullah trusted aide. As I took his leave, he whispered: “After the transfer of power, I will get you back to Srinagar.” Soon after Sahni’s disclosure, Abdullah was sworn-in as the Chief Minister of Jammu & Kashmir, on 7 November 1986, and Sahni, too, returned to Information Department — this time as Advisor and Director General.
By flying to Leh, I had missed the romance of travelling on the 434-km Srinagar-Leh Highway. Time to drive into the mysteries of this trade route of yore came on 21 September 1986. I boarded the State Road Transport Corporation (SRTC) bus — with Mohammad Amin Andrabi of PHE Department as co-traveller — to visit my mother in Srinagar. A day’s drive with a couple of brief stopovers, the first at Pathar Sahib — shrine dedicated to the founder of Sikhism, Guru Nanak, where tea was offered to passengers — another at Khaltse, 97 km from Leh, and then at Mulbekh, 32 km short of Kargil, where, perched at an elevation of 11,495 feet above sea level, stands a huge — 9 metres tall — statue of Buddha that scholars claim is older than the, now destroyed, Bamiyan statues of Afghanistan, and predates even Tibetan Buddhism. The passengers were overawed by the colossal image carved in a huge rock standing on the roadside. Here, sitting on a long bench spread across its length, we had tea at a modest tea shop. Shortly before day fall, we arrived in Kargil, a town nestled by the Suru River. The Dak Bungalow provided night shelter — Suru’s rapid waves composing a lullaby. The Kargil Bazaar mirrored the area’s underdeveloped state of a people firmly anchored in religion and living a simple life. Next morning, the onward journey to Srinagar began. Amidst the cradle of Ladakh’s sun-kissed peaks, where the Himalayan winds whisper ancient secrets, the highway from Leh to Srinagar danced with rivers — the Indus, the Zanskar, the Suru, and the Drass. High passes — Fotu La, Namika La, and Zoji La — wove stories of traders, pilgrims, and adventurers. Mountains, chameleonic in their hues, brightened up and faded with the game of hide and seek played by the sun. Enroute, tiny villages nestled in patches of green in steep valleys — miniature oases — breathed mystery. A yellow mountain, weathered by the vagaries of time, presented weird patterns, resembling a cluster of ruined buildings, and Kashmiri travellers talked about it as watis gemetch basti — a settlement frozen into stone.
At Drass — where temperature falls to minus 23 degrees Celsius in winter — we watched the Drass River, its stately flow, and two Japanese ladies capturing the landscape. I persuaded Andrabi to ask the ladies if it was fine with them to take a photograph of ours. They took a snap — and my mail address. Days after I had returned to Leh, the photograph arrived. We crossed Matayan, the last inhabited and the only Kashmiri speaking village in the Ladakh region, and the treacherous Zoji La — the 11575 feet (3528 meter) high pass connecting Kashmir with Ladakh — stared in the eye. The driver had a tough time navigating through the curves, the ascent and the descent, and — at 3 p.m. — Sonamarg greeted us with the familiar fragrance of Kashmir. A wayside restaurant beckoned. But alas, the food — stale and unwholesome — caused food poisoning later. Yet, it became a chapter in our tale.
After spending few days in the warmth of mother’s love and care, I had returned to Leh when a major tragedy struck the highway at Zoji La. On November 15, 1986, a blizzard engulfed a convoy of passenger buses and trucks. Rumours about major human loss and travellers swirled. Fear gripped Leh and Srinagar. Official reports put the death toll at 21 — unofficial at more than 60. Two dozen vehicles were buried under heavy snow and 500 people stranded on the snow bound highway. I knew my mother would be worried. I made a call to reassure her that I was safe and 300 km away from the scene of tragedy. My apprehensions were not unreal. She drew a sigh of relief.
My office space in Leh was a glass room where in winter sunlight danced with subzero whispers. Of the 365 days, Leh has 300 sunny days a year, irrespective of spine-chilling cold winters. Once, in December when, after touchdown, the airhostess announced that the outside temperature was minus 10 degrees Celsius, I thought the crew was playing a prank with the passengers, for one could see through the window a clear sky and bright sunshine. When the door of the aircraft was opened, a gush of chilling gust greeted us. A Srinagar-bound aircraft taking off from the Leh airport was viewable from my office window, and how each time the homesick me wished to be onboard. My office guys were nice, cooperative and respectful. Sanaullah Munshi — Information Officer, and a name etched in Kargil’s winds — was a gentleman par excellence. He was a great host at whose Kargil residence I have had several sumptuous lunches and dinners. Our friendship lasted for 31 years — broken only by his demise on 10 August 2017. Memories linger. Nisar Hussain, the photographer — still in touch — captured in his camera Leh’s heartbeat — the mountains, the people, the whispers — building a large archive of transparencies, sadly, lost to 2010 cloudburst and flash flood in Leh. Abdul Qayoom, Assistant Exhibition-cum-Cultural Officer, was a man of literary taste who also wrote few books. Tsewang Norboo, Senior Mechanic, was a good typist and helped me in producing the Newsletter. Ghulam Rasool — innocence writ large on his face — was the driver of the office vehicle — a blue coloured flat-topped, flat-fronted van. His colleagues called him Rasool Ley. In Ladakhi, they address an elder brother as Ley. M. L. Koul, our office accountant — a tall, lean fellow — was posted at Leh for the last 15 years, making the town his home. Others, whose names are etched in memory — bridging a span of 38 years — include Mohammad Aslam, Hassan Ali, Ahsan Ali, Abdul Khaliq, Tsewang Dolma, Chhemet Yudol, Mohammad Bashir, Mohammad Hanief, Mohammad Iqbal, Urgyan and Tsering Namgyal, whom I called Danny for his resemblance with a film actor of that name. Leh gifted me some wonderful friends — Sanaullah Munshi, Ghulam Jeelani Khan, Showkat Ahmad Fazili, Ghulam Ahmad Mir and, not to miss, Abdul Gani Sheikh, a quiet gentleman, a respected author whose books etch history and fiction into Leh’s winds.
Leh’s climate took a toll on me. I suffered weight loss and bilirubin levels askew. I asked for my transfer. The medical board, headed by Dr. Tsering Norboo of the Sonam Narboo Hospital, opined: “Avoid staying at high altitude”. The District Development Commissioner wrote to the government, and, on 29 January 1987, my order of attachment to our divisional office in Kashmir arrived. Eleven days later, on 9 February 1987, I passed the baton to Sanaullah Munshi — a group photograph and goodbye to my colleagues in Leh — and in the afternoon, I drove to Shey, 15 km to the south of Leh — Nisar Hussain and Rasool Ley keeping me company — for a parting visit to the Shah-i-Hamdan Mosque and saying a unit of supererogatory prayers. The mosque — overlooking the old Shey Palace — sits on the banks of the Indus River as the legacy of a great preacher of Islam from central Asia, Mir Sayyid Ali Hamadani, who, on way to Kashmir, visited Ladakh in 1381–82. Nisar Hussain captured my movements at the mosque, at Thiksey Monastery, on the banks of a partially frozen Indus, at the Shey Palace, on the highway and with a group of small children along the road. Within no time, he developed the negatives and gave me the prints to take home for keepsake.
Next day, 10 February, Rasool Ley drove me to the airport to take the flight to home. As I entered the airport lounge — common for both incoming and outgoing travellers — the passengers of the just landed flight from Srinagar walked in. Guess who I saw among them? Arun Kumar, the new District Development Commissioner, Leh, had arrived in the town on — I imagined — ‘punishment posting’.
My return from Leh did not end my tryst with the Moonland. In the years thereafter, wearing different hats, I made umpteen trips to the place. The first visit happened in 1987 — to cover the Chief Minister’s address to the district development board meetings at Kargil and Leh. In 1989, I took a small group of journalists — my colleague, Mohammad Yasin Khan in tow — on a study tour of Ladakh. The Shanti Stupa at Chanspa, 5 km from Leh, had neared completion by then. I interviewed its Japanese Buddhist monk and builder, Bikshu Gyomyo Nakamura, and did a piece on the Pagoda which was carried by the India Express. Next visit to Leh happened in 2002 — the occasion: inauguration of the Sindhu Darshan, an ode to the Indus River, by the Prime Minister of India. Between 2003 and 2008, several more trips to Ladakh came about — this time accompanying the Chief Ministers on their official visits. Thereafter, I travelled to Ladakh as Director Libraries and Research and Secretary J&K Academy of Art, Culture & Languages. The last visit happened in 2013 in connection with an All India Painting Camp and an All India Sculptors’ Camp at Kargil and Leh, respectively.
I still look forward to an opportunity of listening to the magical whispers of the Srinagar-Leh Highway.