After lunch, I walked towards the lake, and when I reached it I could see through the water into the pebble-filled bed. The water was transparent, as clear and pure and cool as the air at sixteen-thousand feet. Tiny, tiny waves gently lapped at the shore. I started walking along the shoreline, exploring its lengths and curves, collecting smooth pebbles of different shapes and color.
Where the shore meets the descending ridge of a hill, a narrow trail breaks away from the lake and climbs up. It weaves along for some time on the rock-strewn hill before going over the ridge. And there near the top I saw an ancient man, walking his herd of five scraggly sheep and one yak. He was dressed in rough garments, made from the skin of assorted animals and held together by a thick, dirty rope around the waist. He himself was dusty, and as barefoot as his herd. On his back he carried a bundle of wood. With his right hand he gripped a thick stick for support, and with the other he frequently adjusted the rope that held his attire. Curious, I increased my pace to reach him. As I approached, I could see that his face was tough and lined, weathered like old leather, and a grizzly white beard grew from his chin in small tufts. Hearing my labored breathing, he turned around, and I paused, suddenly apprehensive. His eyes were fire. They pierced at me for a brief second with a glance that cut the distance between us. In that shared glance he seemed to allow me an explanation of his life. But quickly the old man turned away and disappeared over the ridge. Hesitantly, I followed until I came to a halt at a small security post, beyond which travelers were not allowed, but beyond which I could see the old man ambling away.
The height of the ridge offered an overview of the lake and the surrounding hills and mountains. I could see the greater shape of the lake, and had the sudden sense of the imaginary boundary that hovers somewhere over the middle of the lake that divides it into two; between India and Tibet.
To a small bank made by the separation of lake and hill, I saw the man descend. His yak followed without argument, a slow, patient and rumbling creature of wool and warmth. There, leaning against the face of the hill, was a small, wooden hut. Looking at the old man walk slowly down, patiently herding his wayward sheep, I wondered if he was affected by the idea of nationality, seeing that he was living at the edge of two countries. Did he even think that far? I wondered if the idea of nations entered his daily routine or affected where he would find his next meal from. When he reached the hut, he pushed the flimsy door open, and sheep and yak and man rushed into its warmth.
In time, smoke began to rise from an opening in the hut, and I imagined man and beast settling in for the evening in the warmth of a wood-fuelled fire. What will he eat tonight? What serves as his dinner? Perhaps a cup of yak milk. But there are other questions, like does he question his existence, the way we question ours so often? And in his questioning, does he ask what the meaning of life is, and what is the purpose of his life? Does he ask himself if there are other ways of living?
I have never asked myself that question.
I returned to my friends and saw them wading into the lake. I joined them quickly, shivering as the waters of the lake rose higher and higher up my legs. A little distance away from where I stood knee- deep in the lake, a duck, or a bird that looked like a duck, floated calmly. It would, from time to time, dip its head underwater, and would come out to swallow something. In the hours that were swallowed by our play at the lake the Sun had traveled west and had begun to set behind the mountains near Pangong-Tso, and the driver hollered at us that it was time to leave. Drying ourselves, we looked back at the lake, and noticed in astonishment that the orange-lavender hue of the setting sun had suffused the lake with a new color.
Night is falling, and inside the taxi, we have become kids again. Moham is trying to catch a mosquito that is trapped in the van, unable to find its way to the windows, and is buzzing around complaining. The guys are razzing me about the girl we saw in the morning and another girl back home, and are trying to trap me into marrying her. Our unshod feet hang from the windows, reveling in the cool air of the night. And as there is nothing to do but talk or sleep, we do both. Stories from trips and escapades and high school are repeated, and they cause a great ruckus in the van. The driver is listening to local songs on the radio that all sound the same to me, and surely are all woven with one single tune and instrument. I am worried those songs will put him in a deep stupor and he will run us off the hill. We are descending slowly though, and there are no lights except that of the taxi. Outside, all is darkness. The stars dimly pierce through the thin fabric of the night sky and, far below in the valley beneath, we see lights from small hamlets and villages respond to them. Until we reached Leh, nothing moved except us.
Inside the van, stretched in the backseat, staring up at the stars from one window while legs dangled from the other, I asked myself that question for the first time, but not the last. Are there other ways to live a life? The sight of the old man and the image of a non-existent boundary over the lake have made me wistful. Both striking realizations are working in parallel in my mind, digging towards a truth I don’t yet see. And both realizations seem to be speaking with each other and helping each other gather steam. What these parallel voices seek is unclear to me now, but I know it will come to me slowly. This has happened before – I’ve been split into two voices before - but wandering helps me unite my two voices.
The realization that there are other ways of living life makes me question mine, and I realize there are things like patriotism that I cannot relate to anymore, because my patriotism towards my country is someone else’s idea. Again the thought comes, more powerful, more persistent and stronger, that these few boundaries that we call our nation are illusions. They are transitory – In 1946, India’s boundaries included Pakistan and Bangladesh. In 1947, Pakistan separated to become an individual country. In 1971, Bangladesh separated from Pakistan to become independent. What has changed but ideas – a way of thinking in the minds of its peoples? Are those people who live now in Pakistan and Bangladesh any different, any more or any less, because they are no longer included within an imaginary definition of India? This doesn’t sit well. Borders are, at the very best, metadata. Borders are drawn there where the strength of an idea begins to fade, and there where the strength of another idea takes charge. Borders between two nations are a semi-physical expression of the boundaries between their two ideologies. And so are borders between two religions.
Distances and mountains have never been the issue; men and women have always found ways to conquer them. To strip and divide the wholeness of the planet into states and countries for administrative purposes seems logical, but to do so to divide its peoples is not, and we must find ways in the coming century to do away with these concepts and begin the long march towards a united planet.
The more I travel, the more I am affected by the vast geography of our endless planet. I spend half my time gazing at the extravagant sceneries of this world – From the great stretches of the icy Andes to the great swathes of the Sahara sands, from the enchanting mystery of the Canadian north to the range and diversity of the islands of New Zealand. These are places I have already visited in my mind. My body awaits its turn, impatiently. And the more I witness the encircling infinity of our planet, the more I wonder why humanity decided to divided itself on the notion of nations; why we insist on belonging to cities and states and countries instead of belonging to an entire planet. Why not belong to something larger? The planet is bigger than us. Earth is an extravagance of the sky, a concentration of space. It wasn't born with countries. But we can't see that - all those dark lines so neatly drawn between each country - they seem natural to us. Have you ever seen a globe without borders? You must do this. Go to Google Earth and uncheck the ‘show borders’ option. You'll see how India melts into Afghanistan and Pakistan and stretches into Iran. You'll see how China and Mongolia melt into Russia. You will see how Asia is formed. You'll see her shape - from ocean to ocean, coast to coast, bordered by the country of the Sea, and undivided by borders – undivided by
a mere attitude of humanity.
When I expressed similar thoughts to a friend he was surprised, and asked me if I wasn't proud of my country. Proud of what - of her ten thousand year old heritage, of her geographical and social diversity, of her economic and intellectual prowess, of her bountiful lands, of her rivers and mountains? Of course I am. But then, by extension of the very same idea - in the same breath - I am proud of Earth. Am I not proud of India's humanity, of her collective struggle against the odds she faced and still faces and her shocking, passionate zeal to succeed? Of course I am. But by extension of that very sense I am proud of Earth's humanity that has struggled and fought and succeeded against a greater collective evil. When you ask me to be patriotic towards India, when you ask me to even remain enamored by this idea of fracture, you ask me to remain enthralled to a small portion of the Earth. And that I cannot do. There is a growing feeling that it is no longer enough for me to be a citizen of a country. To be a traveler is to know the difference between one’s country and one’s home, and I am no longer satisfied in calling myself a citizen of a country. There is a growing feeling that perhaps it is time for countries to lose their shapes. This immense geography, once part of the spinning Sun, calls upon me, and I must answer its call as a citizen of the world.
This is why everyone must travel. Everyone must get up and get away from their routine and explore this world, this home we share with so many life forms. They should go out and really observe people and their culture, their food, their music, their language, their art. They should observe their way of life. The realization that there exists another way of life is nothing short of an epiphany. You suddenly realize you have not chosen to live the life you live, but over years and years of conditioning you have been forced by society to pursue a certain predefined path, a mechanized path. And maybe you are happy with it, but maybe you are not. But only the realization that another way of life exists will make you question your own, and perhaps that is the way to a more complete form of happiness. Question everything. You will see things in a new light, and you may decide to make some changes, or you may not. Either way, the most important effect of travel upon our psyche is the perspectives it changes; the prejudices it shatters; the elevation it causes. In all change there is the possibility of revelation, and for this we must travel – for the revelation of thoughts and for the elevation of thought, and simply because the higher we go, the more we will see.
This is why everyone must travel. Travel is destruction. It is a destruction of the traveler, of his senses, of his sensibilities, of his routine, of his perceptions, of his prejudices. To travel is to permit the deconstruction of your soul. Traveling is important because it is important to destroy yourself from time to time. Because sometimes you have to destroy yourself to redeem yourself. Because sometimes you need to mine through the tunnels of your psyche and find the foundations, and then light a stick of dynamite at a weak spot and watch yourself crumble as the explosion rocks you to pieces. Then through the billowing black smoke and the acrid smell of your own burning filth you pick up the nuggets of gold that has always been the true you. And you wonder to yourself how you let this happen - how did you let a mine appear where there once was only gold? And as you walk out of the depths of your psyche holding pieces of yourself with care, you promise to never let it happen again. And perhaps you live by that promise, and perhaps you don't. But because of this one experience there will be more of you than before.
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The Anatomy of Journey Page 31
