Patseo Phiang was positively peeved!
The hardy Mongol had been compelled to take the route through Ladakh this summer of 1603 because he’d been commanded by his chieftain to transport some monks to the Lamaruyu monastery en route. He and his caravan usually took the route through northern China on their way to Central Europe. He knew that there was no point in losing his head with his chief because by arguing with him he would have ended up literally losing his head.
Besides that, the dozen double-humped Bactrian camels he thought he’d bought for a steal from the local tribesmen in the Nubra Valley, were most happily munching through his livestock fodder at an astonishingly rapid rate, and he hadn’t found any buyers yet. But more than all this, it was his bunch of 57 merry wives that were totally ticking him off. He’d chosen 14 of the youngest and nubile ones to take along and keep him company on those long cold nights. But his older wives, matronly and imposing had insisted on coming – it was a long and dangerous journey to the Barvarian Kingdom in Central Europe and should anything happen to the Patseo they didn’t want the young wives getting their hands on his fortune. And now every morning when it came to breaking camp and moving on old Phiang fretted and fumed as the wives inevitably got on the move 6 hours later than the ETD (expected time of departure).
He should have been in Istanbul by now and yet he was here standing on the summit of Zoji La as his vivacious mates cackled and gossiped as they finally started the days journey. Phiang cast a nervous glance at the huge cliffs of snow that hung above them, half scared that their high pitched voices might start an avalanche and half hoping that one would occur and bury all 57 of them and conveniently cut out this cacophonic concert once and for all.
So yes, Patseo Phiang was quite pissed off while he was descending from Zoji La, when, suddenly he rounded a corner of the cobbled road and his anger and bitterness dissipated into joy and pleasure. His heart skipped a beat as he shielded his eyes and looked heavenwards almost worried that his day of reckoning has come, how else could he explain the overbearing beauty he had just gazed at? He galloped back and asked his wives to hurry up and see what he had, surprising them because this was the first time in many days that they’d seen the laughter reach his eyes.
Patseo Phiang had just seen Sonamarg – the eastern gateway to Kashmir.
Four hundred years later, similar emotions had rushed through me when I stood at the very same place looking down upon Sonmarg. But of course I didn’t have a harrowing harem following me, nor was I plagued by constantly consuming camels, my troubles were restricted to trepidation and fatigue. I’d been riding my bike for over 7 hours, through the night, alone, on those stark and desolate mountain roads between Kargil and Zojila. The sharp rocks I’d ridden over were very capable of blowing my tyres out, and that had fuelled my fear. Also, I was weary with the effort of swinging around the heavily loaded bike, trying to avoid the worst of them. All along the line of control the constant crash and boom of enemy guns had jarred my head.
But the sight of Sonmarg simply sorted me out. With its rolling green meadows, pine forested gentle slopes giving way to lofty white caps, this oft ignored little hamlet of Kashmir was my first welcome to India’s prettiest state. And though I’ve been to Kashmir many times since, it is that dawn view of Sonmarg from high above that flashes in my mind whenever I think of Kashmir.
The hardy Mongol had been compelled to take the route through Ladakh this summer of 1603 because he’d been commanded by his chieftain to transport some monks to the Lamaruyu monastery en route. He and his caravan usually took the route through northern China on their way to Central Europe. He knew that there was no point in losing his head with his chief because by arguing with him he would have ended up literally losing his head.
Besides that, the dozen double-humped Bactrian camels he thought he’d bought for a steal from the local tribesmen in the Nubra Valley, were most happily munching through his livestock fodder at an astonishingly rapid rate, and he hadn’t found any buyers yet. But more than all this, it was his bunch of 57 merry wives that were totally ticking him off. He’d chosen 14 of the youngest and nubile ones to take along and keep him company on those long cold nights. But his older wives, matronly and imposing had insisted on coming – it was a long and dangerous journey to the Barvarian Kingdom in Central Europe and should anything happen to the Patseo they didn’t want the young wives getting their hands on his fortune. And now every morning when it came to breaking camp and moving on old Phiang fretted and fumed as the wives inevitably got on the move 6 hours later than the ETD (expected time of departure).
He should have been in Istanbul by now and yet he was here standing on the summit of Zoji La as his vivacious mates cackled and gossiped as they finally started the days journey. Phiang cast a nervous glance at the huge cliffs of snow that hung above them, half scared that their high pitched voices might start an avalanche and half hoping that one would occur and bury all 57 of them and conveniently cut out this cacophonic concert once and for all.
So yes, Patseo Phiang was quite pissed off while he was descending from Zoji La, when, suddenly he rounded a corner of the cobbled road and his anger and bitterness dissipated into joy and pleasure. His heart skipped a beat as he shielded his eyes and looked heavenwards almost worried that his day of reckoning has come, how else could he explain the overbearing beauty he had just gazed at? He galloped back and asked his wives to hurry up and see what he had, surprising them because this was the first time in many days that they’d seen the laughter reach his eyes.
Patseo Phiang had just seen Sonamarg – the eastern gateway to Kashmir.
Four hundred years later, similar emotions had rushed through me when I stood at the very same place looking down upon Sonmarg. But of course I didn’t have a harrowing harem following me, nor was I plagued by constantly consuming camels, my troubles were restricted to trepidation and fatigue. I’d been riding my bike for over 7 hours, through the night, alone, on those stark and desolate mountain roads between Kargil and Zojila. The sharp rocks I’d ridden over were very capable of blowing my tyres out, and that had fuelled my fear. Also, I was weary with the effort of swinging around the heavily loaded bike, trying to avoid the worst of them. All along the line of control the constant crash and boom of enemy guns had jarred my head.But the sight of Sonmarg simply sorted me out. With its rolling green meadows, pine forested gentle slopes giving way to lofty white caps, this oft ignored little hamlet of Kashmir was my first welcome to India’s prettiest state. And though I’ve been to Kashmir many times since, it is that dawn view of Sonmarg from high above that flashes in my mind whenever I think of Kashmir.
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