Frontier Mail

Well, that’s slightly unfair. I’ve had a relatively unhindered passage from Lahaul-Spiti, where I’ve just completed a challenging mountaineering course, via Leh and Nubra into Kargil in various buses and SUVs. On the way I pass through Khardung La, the highest motorable pass in the world, three military towns—Diskit, Hunder and Panamik—even North Pollu, as the locals fondly call the northernmost checkpoint in the region.

As I near the border with both Pakistan and China, visions of the armies on either side become more vivid. Is it my imagination or is the nomenclature actually turning foreign? Names like Shyok and Tangtse, more Chinese than Tibetan, usher one into the Siachen base camp. More akin to the Central Asian landscape than anything the term ‘Kashmir’ evokes, the region between Diskit and Hunder is an ice desert littered with sand dunes and dromedary camels.

Conquered by Zorawar Singh for the Dogra Empire around the 1840s, the entire area was Buddhist before pockets converted to Islam. The distinction is most obvious on the way from the meditative, Buddhist Ladakh to Islamic Kargil, also known as Little Baltistan.

The former battleground of the Indian Army is rough, rustic and very hospitable—and completely unyielding when it comes to allowing pesky outsiders to visit the actual war zone. So at 1 the same bitterly cold night, I make my way to Drass, where I wait from 3 am to 8 am to visit the War Memorial by first truck.

Tololing, Tiger Hill, Mushkow, Zojila, Sheela Top, Anmala Junction, Najula Top. It’s been five years since the war, but the names of the peaks and passes roll off my tongue easily as each becomes associated with a particular geographical feature. Though quiet now, thanks to the ceasefire, the tension is still palpable, the memories of battle still fresh at the headquarters of the Mountain Brigade, which did most of the fighting.

Staring in disbelief at the 400-odd names of fallen soldiers at the Memorial, it’s impossible not to be overwhelmed by the sense of the folly of it all. Each name on the tombstones here has a story to tell, a distinct tale of heroism and patriotism. Each comes from a different family, each played a unique role in the war here.

The Pakistanis must have a different version of the same story. But as the two nations continue to face each other as adversaries 57 years after separation, I can’t help feeling the real victims are the common people and martyrs such as these. Before moving on, I pay my own homage to the fallen men of the Indian Army.

In a sombre mood, I catch the night bus to Srinagar across the Zoji La. Traffic plies only at night here, and all vehicles are herded into a valley for checking by the military. Once in Srinagar, my co-passengers and I are asked to alight and walk 20 metres in front of four machine guns for an ID check.

But while it’s easy to rage against the war machine, to protest the curtailing of civic freedoms, it’s impossible to leave the border areas without a renewed respect for the armed forces. The stoic courage of the soldiers under the harshest physical conditions is all it takes to inspire a prayer: for peace, for progress. For the people.