“Initially you’re overwhelmed. But gradually you realize it’s like a wave. Resist, and you’ll be knocked over. Dive into it, and you’ll swim out the other side.”
“Everything will be all right in the end… if it’s not all right then it’s not yet the end.”
In the film ‘The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel,’ amidst the dust and bustle of Jaipur, India, there’s a scene that paints India as follows: “Initially, India overwhelms. But gradually, it feels like a vast wave. Resist it, and you’ll be quickly brought down. At such times, dive into it. Eventually, you’ll reach the other shore.”
Also, in the movie ‘3 Idiots,’ the phrase “All is well” is repeated numerous times. In India, this phrase holds a kind of magical quality. Yet it’s also endearing that even the Indians under its spell have never witnessed its efficacy. And I’m sure I’ll say it again somewhere today: “All is well.”
The morning to depart from Chiktan Village had arrived. While the sun remained hidden, the edges of the mountains, floating in the clear morning air, slowly began to brighten.
I waited for the bus.
Probably around 7 a.m. The bus, surely running an hour behind schedule, rattled along with its worn-out body, arriving promptly to pick up four or five villagers besides me. We set off immediately, tracing through several villages along the Kanji Nala, a pristine stream from the Himalayas. By the time I finished humming Louis Armstrong’s ‘What a Wonderful World’ for the sixth time in my head, we reached a village named Kangral. I got off the bus here. It was a hub village, marking the junction between the Leh-Srinagar Highway and the road to Chiktan Village. I’d switch to a Leh-bound bus here.
The morning sun peeked fully from behind the mountains, casting its glow over the village and fields, yet somehow still seemed sleepy.
At the bus stop, a mother and her daughter awaited the bus, munching on Takis, a Ladakhi bread, pulled out from their bags. Time flowed lazily here. Sometimes time seemed devoid of reality, and questions like “What time is it now?” or “How many minutes until the bus arrives?” felt inconsequential. It didn’t really matter. I didn’t know what day it was today, nor did I know the day of the week. Even if someone asked me the month, I wouldn’t have had a clue. I’d figure that out once I reached Leh.
What approached from the end of the road wasn’t a bus but a flock of sheep and goats. Following them were young shepherds, each holding a twig of poplar. I greeted them with “Assalamu Alaikum,” and they replied with “Waleikum Assalam.” Asking them where they were going, they pointed to the summit of the tallest mountain around here. The tinkling sounds of bells around the necks of goats and sheep, their melodious “Neeee” and “Meeee” voices, created a peaceful scene as if they had never seen a natural enemy in their lifetime. They nibbled on roadside weeds as they leisurely passed by me in a line. After they passed, there were plenty of droppings scattered around.
What approached from the end of the road was an old, dilapidated bus. Even from a distance, the bus seemed slightly bloated, and it came to a halt right in front of me. It had no doors, and passengers clung to the handrails, spilling out to the extent that some were hanging outside. But don’t worry. This is India, where amidst the chaos of everything, there’s always room for you. Even if the bus seems overcrowded and you can’t find a place, if a hundred more people are picked up along the way, regardless of whether the bus breaks down or not, those hundred people will always find a spot. And I got on. After hoisting my large bag onto the bus’s roof, just like parting the sea, a gap opened up among the passengers, and the bus swallowed me into its depths.
The gears shifted dramatically, and the bus, with a growl, slowly began to move. I managed to stay in the aisle somehow, and though the jolts were strong, being surrounded by people acted as a cushion, so the impact wasn’t too harsh. It wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t uncomfortable either. However, the window’s position wasn’t ideal for enjoying the scenery, and I was too exhausted to indulge in daydreams. The change in gravity inside the bus gave me a vague sense of our route. Tipping backward meant we were climbing uphill, and tipping forward meant descending. Tipping back heavily indicated we were crossing a pass named Fotu La. As the bus roared uphill, the downhill was accompanied by the engine’s brake squeals mixed with the smell of oil.
Midway, the bus stopped to drop off a few Western tourists. This was Lamayuru, a place known for a massive monastery perched like it belonged on the moon, built along the cliffs, a popular spot among tourists. Whether the bus knew this or not, it started moving, kicking up dust. Passport check at a checkpoint followed, and then the bus stopped for a break in the next village, Kalsi. After shoving chai and bread into my stomach, pulling my hat low to shield myself from the intense sunlight, using two chairs where I sat shallowly on one and propped my feet up on the other, I settled in.
I was drifting off to sleep when the bus’s horn blared loudly. It was the signal to depart. As I took a step onto the bus’s step, the driver said, “If you’re going to sleep, the roof of the bus is the place to be.” I hesitated for a moment but decided to climb onto the roof. At the back of the bus, there was a ladder for loading luggage onto the roof, and I used it to climb up. As I reached for the last rung of the ladder, someone from the roof reached out and firmly grasped my arm, pulling me up. As the engine rumbled, the bus, with a low growl, set off. The person who pulled me onto the roof said, “I’m Hamit from Pargyu village.” I introduced myself as “Hongjo from Japan,” to which he replied, “I know. You’re a famous one,” and chuckled.
The view of Ladakh from the bus roof was incredibly exhilarating. It was a luxurious natural world, different from walking, cycling, or viewing from inside a car, flowing endlessly around me. The vivid blue and brown landscapes extended all the way to the horizon and the ridges of the Himalayas visible on the sides, occasionally interspersed with green. Upon entering a village, stark white chortens dotted the mountainside. In this vast expanse of Central Asia, there was nothing to avoid, so a strong wind constantly buffeted against me. The wind would go “Gah,” and my new companion’s hat flew high into the air. We observed its twirl, akin to silk caught by an angel, waltzing in the breeze, swiftly dwindling to a speck, blending into the heavens.
I felt alive.
I wondered when I first noticed the hues in the Himalayan air. I realized there were pure colors without filters. When pure mountains, pure earth, and pure wind mix, the air becomes remarkably pure. I felt like nature was whispering to me, showing me a side I hadn’t seen before. In fact, it wasn’t a different side; it was perhaps the true face of nature. Sometimes, I think Thoreau experienced this sensation in the woods.
Leh town is right around the corner.
Once, there was a young man named Christopher McCandless. He perished during his Alaskan adventure in the summer of 1992. In the movie ‘Into the Wild,’ based on him, there’s a memorable quote:
Test yourself once.
Place yourself in an ancient environment like our ancestors.
Face harsh conditions where only your head and hands can help you.
He used the name Alexander Supertramp during his journey. There are many young people like him worldwide, and sometimes, I feel like I’m one of them. I want to challenge myself thoroughly, in anything. It might be beneficial to immerse yourself in a world or actions opposite to where you are now. It could become an invaluable experience for you, leading you to discover a new world.
“Everything will be all right in the end… if it’s not all right then it’s not yet the end.”
All is well – everything will work out.
