Elsewhere

Sunburnt face, twinkling eyes, a smile that runs from ear to ear, and wisdom itched onto his dimples.
Manjoor drives me to Srinagar from Leh. As we approach Kargil, a microphone-laden jeep ahead, blares out the declaration of eid.

He tells me of the constant conflict between the Buddhist dominated Ladakh and Shia Muslim dominated Kargil region.
“Well there are Buddhists and Muslims. Then there are Shias and Sunnis. It goes on and on. But there’s just one God, is not it?”
I stare right ahead and murmur, ‘of course’.
He senses the uneasiness, smiles kindly, and looks straight into my eye, “You believe in God?”
‘Not really’, I look away.
He seems to mask his disappointment, like I had let him down.
The image of the toothless, old monk at Sumar, unwrapping the golden yellow brocade to share his lunch of ripe apricots flashes before my eyes.
I try thinking of what having faith would feel like.

We stop by for lunch. As we polish off fiery red meatballs, and lamb curry with our rice, I ask him what he does after tourist season is over. Nothing, he says, I just stay home.
‘So you work all year around?’ He has stopped eating and is watching me with an amused look on his face.
’Well, yes, unless I am taking a holiday like this one’, I laugh.
‘I sometimes wonder what the outside world is like. If there is something to look for’ his voice trails off.
‘Would you want to see it, live outside maybe?’
‘I am not sure, this is the only world I have known. And it’s not bad, is it.’
‘Not at all.’
‘So will you ever come back?’
‘I think I will.’
‘We are all returning’, he murmurs and smiles his beatific smile.

We are back on the treacherous road. Every once in a while, we spot groups of wandering shepherds, almost biblical looking in their rough homespun wool coats held together by a rope around the waist. Finally at a bend, we catch the first glimpse of the Kashmir valley and soon descend to a riot of green.

In the night, in a houseboat on Dal lake, I read Rumi. Somewhere the radio plays an old Hindi song about becoming strangers again. The water hyacinth sways in the ripples of the shikara. Fairy lights of the houseboats dance merrily against the silhouette of the mountains.

At 17000 feet ASL, one thing you can clearly hear is the static in your head. Not the myriad voices muttering things that seem too far away. And in one of the quieter moments you can almost feel that slow drift. Towards something infinitely better.
Maybe, just maybe, we are all returning.