# 17 On the Chinese Border

I’m at the Jaipur Literature Festival, back after 2 years of COVID.

Between attending sessions, and chairing two, I have to confess I haven’t had much time to think about this newsletter.

But, I do have a small back-up of unpublished pieces. Here is one about the unexpected end to a long trek from Spiti to the gorgeous Tso Moriri lake in Ladakh.

On The Chinese Border

We were under house arrest.

We had staggered out of a bus from Mahe bridge, and the PWD rest-house in Nyuma was easy to find. A senior government engineer and his family had two rooms, but the chowkidar was happy to give us the third. “It’s the family from last night” - Kai pointed to the jeep parked by the wall. 

We’d arrived in Korzok the previous night, after a 10-day hike over the Perang la, at 18300 ft.. As we crested the last hump above Tso Moriri, we swallowed the last of our rations, and began looking out for Annu, Jaideep, and the promised duffel bag full of goodies.

We asked around the tiny cluster of tents at the shore, but none of the campers had seen a white Tata Safari in the last few days. This was 1994, before the shores of Tso Moriri had joined the menu of day-trips from Leh, and the only establishment in view was the PWD rest-house, where a government jeep suggested a touring official.

We asked the caretaker if he could cook us a meal. “This is not a restaurant”.  A middle-aged lady in a sari peeped into the corridor leading to the kitchen. “What is this about?” We looked at each other and mumbled something about being hungry.

“You certainly look it.” Clearly the boss man’s wife; in her no-nonsense Punjabi manner, she instructed the chowkidar to cook for 6, instead of for 3. It was strange, yet comforting, to eat dinner at a table, with freshly cut salad, hot rotis, and electric lighting.

As we got up from the table,  “If you want, you can sleep here tonight”  

After 9 nights in a flimsy tent meant for 2, we most definitely wanted. By the time we awoke, the official jeep was gone.

Leh, and our flight home, seemed very distant. We scrounged among the campers for a ride, somewhere - anywhere - out of here. Between two jeeps, we got a ride down to the fork, where one road climbed up to Tso- Kar, and the other continued down to Mahe bridge and the Nyuma- Leh highway. Yet again, we strapped on our backpacks, and trudged 15 km down the tarmac to Mahe, in the intense sun of a Ladakh August. 

“There’s only one bus a day to Ladakh”, the lone sentry told us, “and it’s long gone.”

“Can we camp here?”

“Yes, but there’s no food available.”

We looked imploringly at him, but he was impassive. 

“The bus to Nyuma is still to arrive; there are restaurants in Nyuma - you can spend the night there, and take the same bus to Ladakh tomorrow morning.”

Perfect. Which is how we ended up - once again - in the care of the Superintending Engineer’s wife. “Tonight, you’re only going to get dinner if you shave, though.”

While we took our turns at the bathroom sink, coffee arrived in delicate china cups; two Nice biscuits were perched on the edge of each saucer, their sugar crystals achingly familiar from

family picnics and the green room at Kamani auditorium. I wanted to be home.

“Somebody’s here to meet you.” The chowkidar announced.

Us? In Nyuma?

Our visitor was a well-groomed man of about 40, who instantly made himself comfortable on the sofa next to me. He wanted to know what brought us to Nyuma. We told him about the bus ride to Leh we missed, the car ride to Leh that never was, and the Mahe bridge sentry’s useful advice.

“I’m second in command of the ITBP here at Nyuma. You need an Inner Line permit to be here. Do you have one?”

We didn’t, because we never intended to visit Nyuma.

“Still - you are in a restricted area without authorisation”

But we didn’t know that - the Mahe sentry who sent us here should have warned us.

“Please explain to me what you are doing here”.

In that uniquely Indian way, the conversation lurched from the facts of our journey to the connections that bound us. 

He had just escorted a group of mountaineers to their base camp. We knew them well.

Kai joined us, his freshly shaved face showing up his deep high altitude tan. 

He had visited the office of the Chief PR Officer of the ITBP in Delhi, to seek advice on our journey. Our visitor knew him well.

”Everybody in the ITBP knows him well.”

But there was the matter of the Inner Line permit.

“So what do we do?”

“You will have to appear before the magistrate on Monday, and he will decide how much to fine you.”

“But we have a flight on Sunday!”

He shrugged..

“Sir, do you think we are spies?”

“No.” He all but laughed.

“And what is the fine?”

“Anything from 5 rupees to 25.”

“Since you believe we are not spies, please charge us 75 rupees, so we can catch our flight”

“It’s not a joke. The proper process must be observed”

Kai was not liking the way this was going, and produced his Press card -

“The Chief PRO at ITBP said we didn’t need an Inner-Line permit”

“You will need to come to the office for more questioning. You don’t all have to come. I think it must be your turn to shave”, the officer looked at me.

Kai and Shubendu returned an hour later.

“We’re under house arrest. Not here - we have to move to the Forest Rest House.”

But what happened at his office?

“He asked us the same questions; we gave him the same answers. At least 3 times.”

And then?

“Nothing - we have to return there at 7 a.m.”

Screwed! If we don’t catch that bus at 8:15, we’re done for. Flights out of Leh are booked solid for 2 weeks…

”Our only hope is his call with his boss tomorrow.  He’s taken the family to Tso Moriri for the weekend, and they have a daily radio call at 8 a.m.” 

Dinner that night was not cheery. At all.

We left our scrappy rucksacks at the guard house by the welcoming arch of the ITBP camp, and were escorted to our jailor’s office. He was smartly dressed in crisp khakis; we were distinctly limp.

The same questions, the same answers… By 7:45, we could hear the clamour of the bus to Leh, people loading their bags, saying goodbye. Shubendu asked if he could excuse himself, and went out.

“Only 15 minutes before the curtain drops”, I muttered to Kai.

Before we went into yet another round of the same questions, I knew I had to change the tenor of our interaction. 

“Tomorrow is August 15th” I announced. The officer didn’t know what I was getting at.

“A day when we should feel proud to be Indian. But I’ve never been more ashamed to be Indian.”

“Arey, Arrey - what are you saying? You’re getting angry”

“I am angry, Sir. If you had even 1% suspicion that we were spies, please detain us for questioning. But you said we aren’t, so this is all harassment, when you should be looking out for enemies of India. Look at us - we haven’t eaten properly for several days, my friend's shoes are falling apart. He’s an accredited journalist, and needs to get back to his magazine. I need to get to work. I can’t believe we pay our taxes for you to question people who you’ve already said are no threat to the nation.”

“But we have to go through the proper process”.

“Process is for clerks and babus - you are an officer. You can exercise your judgement”

“Sir - 8 bajney ko hain”, His batman announced.

“Excuse me”, he rushed into his office, next door. 

Through the walls, we could hear one side of the radio call:

“Jai Hind, Sir….

Haan Sir. Teen log hain…

No Sir. Bahut gussa ho rahein hai Sir.’

The batman came running into the room.

“SIr keh rahein hai - Aap jaa saktey hain.”

We careened through the barracks, swept up our rucksacks, and sprinted for the bus. It was packed to the gills. Kids perched on adult laps, and an old man exhaled a cloud of beedi exhaust out of a window.

“Mo! Kai! Here!” Shubendu beckoned from the roof of the bus. We clambered up, and positioned our bags to provide cushioning  on the 5 hour journey to Ladakh. The bus honked again, and the driver revved the engine to signal that - this time -  he was serious about leaving.

We’d barely lurched to a start, when an ITBP jawan pelted out of the arch towards us.

“Stop, Stop!”

This can’t be true. 

The bus braked, and the jawan looked up the ladder at us.

“Sir, aapne naashta nahin kiyaa!”

He handed us aaloo and a stack of puris wrapped in a Hindi newspaper.

“ Nyoma phir zaroor aanaa”