The blinding sun – brilliant and tepid. The thin air – invisible and piercing. The soft slopes – A glittering carpet of white. The sharp pointed peaks – magnified against the deep receding blue. The prickly pine trees, proud and lean. The last village of India, Chitkul, is 22 kms from Sangla. In terms of elevation, it is at a modest height of 830 metres (roughly the height of Burj Khalifa) above Sangla. It takes us nearly 3 hours to cover that distance, not because the terrain is challenging (which in some places it is), but primarily because it is impossible not to pause every few turns and gaze in wonder at the spectacular landscape. We start at around noon and reached Chitkul around 3 PM. I am not sure how many stops we make along the way, but I am sure everyone resents not making more.
The first sounds that greet us at Chitkul are the soft gurgle of a water stream and the silent flutter of prayer flags. There is absolutely no sound of human activity. The shops are closed and at first sight the village seems deserted. The first sign of life comes in the form of a perfectly still donkey who has the witless expression of a stoned junkie.
I decide to separate from the group and take a short walk through the village. The objects of interest that catch my eye are the little wooden huts with no doors but only windows. They rest on top of stacked rocks. Many of the huts have tiny wooden ladders leading to the shuttered and locked windows. If these are houses, they could only be for a civilization of dwarfs. In my reverie, I start imagining a civilization of smurfs and dwarfs, when a reasonably tall man hurrying down the street shatters my fantasy. I greet him politely and ask him what these little huts are for. Turns out they are grain stores. Every house has at least one.
A little further ahead is a gathering of cows and yaks. They are all standing at a landing that overlooks part of the village beneath. They give me a side glance as I approach them but as I get closer, they lose interest in me and resume staring at the village. Standing stationary, looking stern and grumpy, and armed with their pointed curved horns, they look like soldiers on a lookout post. A little deeper into the village, I come across a tall and imposing temple gate with intricate wood carving, which opens into a spacious courtyard. At the end of the courtyard is a beautiful temple built in the traditional style with a slate roof and wooden walls. It is dedicated to the Goddess Kali, referred to simply as Mata (mother) by the villagers.
I circle back to the street and then cross over to another village street from where I can hear the chatter of children. 2 boys and a girl, all aged between 8-10 years, are out in the street. The boys are carrying a small structure made from wood and plastic tubes. I ask one of the boys what he is carrying. With some difficulty he explains that it is a sort of sleigh that he had built himself to race on the icy slope with his friends. My interest is piqued at the strange and precarious looking contraption and I ask him to demonstrate. The girl, who is probably a year or so older than the boy, is his elder sister and for the moment, she is in charge of him. Her strict instruction to him is that he is not to slide too fast. This he nonchalantly ignores as he speeds down the slope. I am truly impressed by how confidently and expertly he steers his strange contraption. To me, it is more ingenious and fascinating than anything found at Hamleys.
Further up the street, I come across a small group of women knitting, chatting and soaking up the sun. Bikash, the photographer from our group, is deep in conversation with them and he invites me to join the conversation. Two of the three women leave as I approach, explaining that they need to finish their chores before nightfall. The third lady smiles and continues knitting as we both indulge her in a chat about her life in the village. We learn that her husband works for the security forces and her children study in the city. She takes care of the elders of the family, the fields and the animals. Then as I ask her about how cold it gets in the village in peak winter, she springs a surprise – She beams with pride and answers that she knows all about the weather because she works in the meteorological station at the village! At the last village of India, situated at an altitude of 11,340 feet, sitting on the wooden ledge of a village house, breathing a frigid air – under a tepid sun, and surrounded by majestic peaks and stunning gorges and valleys, my heart leaps at the thought of meeting a working woman!
