The beating wind bellows, screams and pierces through my riding jackets. My knuckles freeze and my fingers ice up. I feel a churn in my belly - not of hunger - but one of anxiety. My face, hidden behind the helmet, has cracked under the prolonged exposure to the fierce cold.
So cold that a cup of hot tea freezes in half a minute.
Chocolates can become as hard as steel plates.
And a minute's walk can leave you breathless for the next quarter of an hour.
Far away a few yaks dart across the plateau, scurrying for cover from the freezing cold. And here, I hang on to the thin air, latching on to the remaining oxygen.
In this primal and hostile environment, stands the massive Giagong plateau, one that fades into the horizon everywhere. I know I haven’t hit the plateau yet, but the flat nature of the land and reducing number of turns tell me that I am almost there. Edges of mountains, precipitated by snow are visible in remote distances.
It is the fag end of autumn and winter has set in the high plains of the Eastern frontier. It is a pilgrimage - one of the different kind. There are no Gods to be praised, no demons to be exorcised. The pilgrimage is a journey, to the high mountains on a motorcycle that drones under the lack of air, but does not stop. Ruts, dug by the military vehicles and telephone cables serve as pointers in these high plains.
I pull the jacket closer with one hand and grip the handlebar of the motorcycle with another. I miss the comfort of the windshield and the protected cabin of the car. For, in a motorcycle, you are in flow with the nature, a part of the scene. You are a surging wave that it out there to conquer what nature throws at you.
The thoughts die fast. For all I can hear now is the screaming gale and the drone of the running engine. Whereas at times, it feels too deaf and silent.
So cold that a cup of hot tea freezes in half a minute.
Chocolates can become as hard as steel plates.
And a minute's walk can leave you breathless for the next quarter of an hour.
 |
| At Thangu |
In this primal and hostile environment, stands the massive Giagong plateau, one that fades into the horizon everywhere. I know I haven’t hit the plateau yet, but the flat nature of the land and reducing number of turns tell me that I am almost there. Edges of mountains, precipitated by snow are visible in remote distances.
It is the fag end of autumn and winter has set in the high plains of the Eastern frontier. It is a pilgrimage - one of the different kind. There are no Gods to be praised, no demons to be exorcised. The pilgrimage is a journey, to the high mountains on a motorcycle that drones under the lack of air, but does not stop. Ruts, dug by the military vehicles and telephone cables serve as pointers in these high plains.
I pull the jacket closer with one hand and grip the handlebar of the motorcycle with another. I miss the comfort of the windshield and the protected cabin of the car. For, in a motorcycle, you are in flow with the nature, a part of the scene. You are a surging wave that it out there to conquer what nature throws at you.
The thoughts die fast. For all I can hear now is the screaming gale and the drone of the running engine. Whereas at times, it feels too deaf and silent.
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