Reflections in the Haze
When the road swung away from the last village on the list, I imagined we would head towards some far flung guest house in the mountains -not that any such quarter was visible from the innards of the Innova that was shuddering and shaking after ten days of moving us around in Leh, Ladakh. This was my third trip. After visiting Leh for the first time when in my twenties, and being wonderstruck and overwhelmed for months afterward, I chanced upon a random quote from some modern (I mean contemporary) guru of well being who said ” take wonderful trips, visit unimaginably beautiful places, just don’t tell anyone about it – people ruin beauty”. Taking this to be true of Ladakh, I did not, rather could not, revisit the place for a while – a long while – enough for the terrain and the bare, barren desert landscape at that altitude with its mystical rock formations and poster colour lakes thanks to the myriad varieties of minerals abundantly available but still largely unknown.. the rocky lunar terrain remained the same for a long spell in my mind… long enough for me not to want to pick up my camera, to just stare into the browns and blues filling my gaze until the colours merged and became an ageless, archaic tapestry of their own, of my own making, my eye having created its own patterns from the reflections in the haze..
It was early afternoon when the speeding Innova ground to a stop at a small market town that turned out to be just that one road – one long stretch that would blur into the infinity that was the mountains with the road snaking in between them like a long endless carpet on it entrails. There were shops – an electrical repair and goods shop with a wooden counter , a long piece of wood covering its surface. Bits of junk and pieces of repair items and products around the place, all in use -nothing was new or packaged. A young girl in a slacks, wearing a kaftan over it, had her head covered in a shawl and wearing a bright cardigan over the kaftan, jumped over the counter and stood outside the shop to make more direct contact with the car’s passengers who were photographers like me, weary travellers not really going anywhere, just hoping to capture a few images of everyday life in these remote parts, have some hot tea at best. From my vantage point inside the Innova, I attempted a few shots of this girl who appeared to be the shopowner’s daughter. The owner had left to read his daily morning prayers, his house was attached to the shop as its backend . 
The girl was joined by more girls her age- all around fifteen or sixteen years of age. They smiled and posed with what looked like medieval instruments but on closer look, were farm tools for cutting the tall grass and the vegetables that grew in between them.
Just around the corner from the shop and the house attached to it, was a patch of farm land with a drain running along it. A rooster followed by a few hens were making their way noisily towards the road to check who we were. Their owner, an elderly lady was walking along the side of the embankment of the drain that ran along the village, holding a baby in her arms and making loud clucking noises to control the rooster and the hens. After inspecting me and my camera their lot turned and marched away towards a pump not far away. I followed them, also walking along the embankment until I arrived at the pump where a few Himalayan magpies sat around. Seeing me appear out of nowhere they flew away towards a power line and settled on the thick black cables.
On the way back towards the main road, the elderly lady smiled as she made way for me to pass her on the embankment. I jumped off into the soft earth around it to let her pass at the last minute, she was holding a baby after all and my guess was that she could be anything from seventy to eighty years old. In theses parts, exposure to the sun and the elements, not to mention the hard water, made the people age far ahead of their old age. Crinkled skin, sunburnt ruddy cheeks wasn’t unusual on a young thirty year old. When I reached the main road, the car was idling and the driver, a local, was having a conversation about the vegetables and produce. He opened the boot of the Innova and made space so that he could load bagfuls of some spinach and dhania to prepare later in their local style to have with millet rotis, something we had tried the previous day.
Turtuk
Driving onward, about an hour on, we crossed a couple of bridges made by the Indian army. The driver explained that the area we were driving towards was Pakistan territory until a few decades back when India fought to get them back. The village we were going to was one such rescued territory where people belonged to Pakistan had become a part of India as the village was brought under the district administration of Leh. This village is called Turtuk, he said.
Shortly after, we crossed a few more impressive bridges -not that they were hanging between mountains or anything -but their architecture and construction were notable because it was evident in their design. The struts and rivets holding together the iron grids, the same iron grids along the side of the road going over streams, or was it the bare expanse of the place and its endless line up of mountains, that made the bridges noteworthy, I can’t say. We arrived at a clearing along the side of the highway. The view from the clearing reminded me of Kashmir and its bright blue skies and tall coniferous trees and skiing slopes. The clearing led to several other parking bays where a tourist cars were parked at a height that made it seem as though the busy cafe serving momos and Maggi was below the parking area. The walk to the parking and the cafe turned out to be an hour long. And it had looked like a short stroll away. From the deck of the cafe a massive wooden bridge appeared to loom over the entire landscape. Me and my cohort, Pia, decided to skip the tea and Maggi break and keep walking . The walk to the bridge, a steep upward slope, took nearly an hour. Crossing the bridge felt like we were crossing over to another alternate dimension. There was a fierce and furious river rushing past below the bridge – the stream that those powerful large bridges went over had gathered enough force to become a guessing powerhouse. Some photography experiments here were legit – shoot the water at high shutter speed and slow shutter speed to see how the water could become smokey and ethereal at slow speed but a white gash at high speed. What was more interesting was watching how the locals of Turtuk crossed and walked across the bridge, their one main connection with the outside world.
The bridge took us into the actual Turtuk village which was on the other side. What we realised is that the start of the village on the other side of the bridge was also the start of the mountain it was built on. The base of the bridge gave way to large stone steps made out of the rocks of the mountain. We continued to climb up for about ten minutes until we got to the first few rows of houses that started along the left side of the mountain. Their doors were mostly locked but for the first one where a boy in school uniform was unlocking to get in. He was carrying a satchel and a water bottle and when I turned to take a photo, he opened the door of the house to allow me a full view of the naturally airy well lit Turtuk homes. Out of nowhere a flash of pink appeared on my side. About three feet high and covered in a warm pink wooden kurta and shawl the apparition in pink smiled and showed me her wet sticky hands covered in juices of a big peach she was having while holding another one in her hand. Pia and I both turned to her in surprise as the elf dressed in pink had a quick chat with the boy in uniform . But we had almost forgotten him, so riveted we were by this girl in pink. I asked her to sit on one of the rocks as I took a few pictures of her – she sat calmly and gladly after having run around the mountain which was her home all morning. Trying to make conversation with her we realised that the gushing sound under the bridge we had left behind was continuing far away from it on this side of the mountain where the houses were. Even the rock the girl perched on had a stream of water gushing around it. Through the din, we understood that the mountain was sitting on top of this gushing stream which flowed over, above and right through it.
Ayesha
Her name – Ayesha. Her home – Turtuk. Age – 8 years. From that point on, Ayesha became our friend, leading scout and guide as we navigated the rocky treacherous mountain village with its slippery slopes and rocks with a powerhouse stream gushing away beneath. We walked behind her past a cafe that was perched higher up on the mountain. Here we decided to make a pit stop and wander. It was different from the cafe lower down, along the bridge. A large tree ran through the length and breadth of the cafe, its branches spread wide around providing a canopy to the tables and chairs placed around the room in its centre that was both kitchen and cash counter with a charpoy parked in front on which sat a three brothers, all collectively the owner of the cafe. 
A black board that ran along the length of the wall of the kitchen had a list of all the items available for consumption there. In a neat, European style slant, the board proclaimed dishes made from amaranth, mountain millets, walnuts and apricots. Seabuckthorn juice was mentioned as was natural apricot juice. But it was that odd time after breakfast and lunch and the cafe was empty but for the three brothers trying to catch signal on their mobiles. We had some tea as Ayesha ran around the cafe waiting trying to upturn the turned over chairs leaning on round tables that had holes cut in the centre to allow the branches of the tree to tether them. These tables pegged to the branches down the centre resembling some sort of weird mushrooms growing out from the cafe on the mountain. When I went up to wash basin to wash my hands, the water was the same water that gushed past in the streams below and alongside the mountain. Talk about eco-friendly organic plumbing and sewage disposal !
Led forward by our elf we moved up further this time along a winding circuitous narrow lane that wound its way around the Turtuk village homes – one top of another like in some medieval European painting (maybe Flaminck) and none single storied either. All along the walk, the stream following us like a shadow gushing away. It was the middle of the day and most of it inhabitants had settled in for the afternoon siesta, the gurgling sound of the streams running around and over them to sleep. Ayesha scampered along ahead of u, picking up a stick here and a stone there, showing us the sights she felt were most unique – her tour guide’s perspective. Lucky us. A few people passed by and waved or nodded to Ayesha and to us. Up and down, down and up the mountain we went with the stream leading us more by sound than sight. Ayesha would run further ahead and wait for us around a corner. At one point we reached a house at a dead end – we walked right through this house – a long narrow corridor and came out at the other side of the mountain. This part was west facing and better lit. The slanting late afternoon sun cast a glow over the apricot grove past what looked like a fancy slightly more upscale village house that had green mirrored glass as windows. It felt odd looking at ourselves reflected back to us, I tried to capture a pond this house faced which led to another stream that gushed downwards through many waterfalls and canals – this stream had large broad grey rocks atop it and when we reached one particularly big broad rock, Ayesha nearly disappeared into a crack in the rock.
A few minutes later, her small apricot stained red-pink hand appeared and waved to us. We were being called to the crack. On approaching the crack – a large rock that was blocking the entrance to what looked like a cave deep in the heart of the mountain, Ayesha pointed to a natural shelf on the rock face – on it were various bowls and dishes and bottles of stored food. “Fridge!” said Ayesha, looking at us sceptically, as if to question our understanding of what a fridge is in itself. So it all made sense, scientifically and geologically speaking. The water work that flowed around and below the mountain cooled and heated and froze and the people of Turtuk used this water the way it stood depending on the season. This was peak summer in June and the water was cool and it kept the food items stored here cool as well. We were staying on a flat rock facing the refrigerator cave and a little further away was a whole network of rocks and waterfalls and canals allowing passage for village folk. A little further was a flat piece of land where all the animals of the village were housed – a few goats and yak stood by absently chewing on their feed which was kept on the ground, the animals kept gated by clay walls and wooden doors with big latches. No roof -just a large bale of hay to cover the enclosure in case of rain.
A few steps further and we were walking through an apricot orchard, the trees below us – the network of canals had led us to a cemented path, a walkway that seemed constructed and allowed passage between the apricot trees that were planted deeper down on uneven sloping mountainside. The cemented path allowed us to walk level with the tree tops as though on boundary wall or a ledge and pick apricots as we walked. Ayesha has moved well ahead of us and was already using the long end of her woollen pick kurta to gather apricots and eating them as she made her collection. Her apricot reddened dry hands were shocking pink in broad daylight and looked almost raw. Had it not been for her impish expression and eyes, one would have imagined that those tiny hands stung and hurt. As I tried to take a photograph of Ayesha and her collection of apricots, I heard the sound of something fall and crash as I myself lost balance and fell down into the base of an apricot tree. The cemented side of the ledge had given way beneath me and along with it, I too had fallen on soft earth and a wet patch of soil around the base of the tree. No damage done and no hurt. Using the branch of the tree, I clambered up and managed to get back on the ledge and was on top of the apricot trees again.
Ahead of me, my cohort, Pia, had finally managed to cross the orchard and was walking along another long ledge that seemed to go along millet crops. I could hear her coaxing a local woman and her daughter to stop for a second so she could focus and take a photograph of them collectively. As I approached, I saw the daughter of the local, about the same age as Ayesha, stick her tongue out as far as possible and widen her eyes into saucers and pose with that look into camera for a good minute and a half. We waited for her to stop making faces and for a better picture but she continued that way and turned around and walked away. Her mother who had covered her face with her hand told us “no photos please”. This is the response we got from all the other villagers we encountered thereafter, not that we met that many. 
It must have been about four in the afternoon when following Ayesha, we got to a lane that was relatively dry and more brown and arid. The sound of the gurgling stream was less here and upon walking further ahead we came upon a large sign that read “Welcome to Balti Museum – home to Balti cuisine”.Standing around this signboard, we were unsure whether to step inside or not. Voices could be heard from inside and Ayesha had already gone in. We could hear the residents of this home that belonged to former people of Baltistan, now Turtuk in India, greeting Ayesha and asking her what brought her there at this unholy afternoon hour. On entering this house, it became clear that the ground floor area was a museum to the Balti culture and its people. Artifacts, tools, implements and other objects of historical value and significance were placed carefully in the mud-clay niches of the house. Notices and signs hung around them explaining their origin and use.
Our Lady of Baltistan
A man was taking a small group of foreigners around and explaining the background of Balti culture and history. Baltistan, Gilgit, originally located in Pakistan and still is today, the people of Baltistan -who mostly still reside and are a part of Pakistan, some of them have been displaced after the war and live in Turtuk as a part of this border outpost of India touching the Pakistan border. The place was dimly lit save for the light from the open air courtyard that was at the centre of the museum with a bamboo staircase leading up. We followed Ayesha up the stairs and on the landing met a pretty young Balti woman behind a counter – the counter was stacked with dried apricots and walnuts and paper packets of the different varieties of millet available locally. Saira, called out to her father, an elderly gentleman, who was showing a few more foreigners around the top floor area of the house. From my vantage point on the landing, I could see another staircase leading up to a beautiful top floor verandah with summertime flowers growing from cane baskets. An elderly lady was tending to them with a large spray can and watering a few . As she moved between then flowers, she plucked the dead ones, the dried leaves and other bits from the cane hanging. I had a 70-200mm lens and I quickly changed my 24-120mm to the zoom to get a better set of images of the lady among the flowers.
As soon as I zoomed in, she sensed my camera lens zooming and turned sharply. Saira, who was making us a bag of apricots and walnuts turned to me as well, “that’s my great grandmother, she is a hundred and four years old.” I turned towards the lady again but I could tell that she was turning, hiding away from my camera and me, and waving one hand in my direction as if to say no. “She won’t allow herself to be photographed.”Saira was non committal about why but insisted that our lady of Baltistan was never in favour being photographed even when young. After a few attempts, I gave up and respected her wishes . That we had walked in, following Ayesha, into their home, was in itself a transgression but the family of Saira were surprisingly warm and welcoming . They pointed to their narrow long kitchen that had a door facing the mountainside but no actual door there, just a drop. “We are preparing our traditional meal today – walnut chutney and millet dosas. Would you two like some?” We spent the next hour enjoying the Balti meal and apricot shopping as Ayesha gave us more photo ops. Then, just as we were about to wash our hands in their bathroom behind the apricot counter, which consisted of a large drum storing the water and a pipe and a few large drums with more water, I saw from the corner of my eye, the elderly lady comes down the narrow steps from the rooftop verandah and settle down in front of a door covered by a curtain right in my eyeline. I quickly washed my hands and turned to look at Saira, who seemed to nod in approval. Did it mean that I could take a picture of the lady now? Shakily but surely, I pulled up the camera and took a photograph.
Saying our byes, we followed Ayesha through the same path we had taken to get to our Lady of Baltistan and our celestial Balti meal of millet dosas and the delicious cheesy walnut curd chutney. We passed the millet crops, the apricot orchard, the canal waterworks through the rocks below the many waterfalls, the large cave-refrigerator, the lane with the pond and the modern house in its path reflecting the pond in its green glass windows, the lanes that cut right through the middle of the mountain and the house at its centre and finally, the lane with the streams running alongside, their hushed gurgles making us walk slower and surer, taking it all in as we slowly made our way down the large broad grey slate steps that took us over the wooden bridge and far way from Ayesha until she was a pink speck on a grey mountain as the sun set behind it.
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