Travels with the Head

Each curve in the road takes one deeper into silence. Here, it is said that silence is sound. Here, even the demons which live at these heights hold their tongue. Here, one can see the cold stealing in and sculpting the earth with ice and snow. This is summer, and the air crackles and pops. For the romantic, to ascend to these heights is to leave behind low terrestrial sentiment and to exalt: Now I really am alive! Here, the world was not meaningless. For the prosaic, this is but an old trade route from Leh to Tibet and central Asia. The winding road to the Nubra valley beyond now traversed by the snaking convoys of the military. It now beckoned India’s growing restless middle-class. They pause to preen, pose and snap. At the summit, Khardung La, on a marker is etched the legend; the highest motorable road in the world. It is not true. But it does not matter. Even being part of the Instagram world now does not diminish its aura. A view of the Karakoram can only be magical. The clouds, heavy with snow, lift and there is a glimpse of an ethereal rolling sea of mountains, at times shimmering like silk, or brooding with menace. It is said, we read into landscapes who we are.