PONDERINGS OF A PONGO 4

The Amarnath Expedition

As the evening of life sets in, one must periodically clear out the clutter — discard the nonessentials, as it were.

On one such mission of ruthless condemnation, I found myself sifting through a pile of tattered, fungus-ridden photographs. Just as I was about to consign them to their well-earned demise, a few black-and-white negatives caught my eye — potshots from my trusty old Agfa Super-Isolette bellows camera. Curiosity, that persistent old comrade, nudged me to develop them. And there they were — frozen moments from my ‘Amarnath Expedition’, more than half a century ago.

Holy Amarnath Caves! Back then, reaching the sacred cave via our steep approach wasn’t just a pilgrimage; it was a test — an unyielding qualifying trial for the Mountain Warfare Course at the High-Altitude Warfare School (HAWS), Sonamarg. The mission was straightforward: scale the heights, install a bell — secured with a piton and carabiner — and return to base. Many set out; fewer returned. Those deemed unfit for the rigors of the course were RTU’d (Returned to Unit) — their dreams of mountain warfare glory left to dissolve in the snow.

Our route was not for the faint-hearted: Sonamarg — Kargil — Draz —then up through treacherous glaciers, yawning crevasses, and raging streams to the Amarnath Cave. Civilians were (and still are) forbidden from taking this path due to its perils.

Reaching the cave was like stepping into myth. The Shivling of solid ice stood resolute, oblivious to time. Snow blanketed the surroundings in a solemn hush. The cavernous abode of Lord Shiva itself was a geographic wonder.

Without delay, we got to work, securing the heavy holy bell we had solemnly humped along in turns. Scores of bells clanged in the icy air – a tribute to the efforts of our predecessors. After seeking the blessings of Mahadeva, we were finally granted a much-needed break for rest and recuperation.

And then, there were the Naga Sadhus — enigmatic, half-mystic, half-mad, and wholly impervious to the bone-chilling winds. Clad in nothing but holy ash, their sun-darkened ebonite skin bore the unmistakable hue of relentless ultraviolet exposure.

They squatted in the snow and chilling wind, puffing away at their crude ‘chillums’, seemingly in deep communion with the cosmos — or at least with their stash of Ganja. The rhythmic gurgling of their pipes was oddly hypnotic. With warm, if slightly alarming, smiles that revealed an impressive collection of crusted yellow teeth, they offered their chillums to us.

Now, one does not simply refuse a Naga Sadhu’s hospitality, lest you invite their wrath and a curse. I took a cautious drag. Then another. And yet many ‘another-s.’ Before I knew it, my feet were no longer firmly on the ground, my head was making a brave attempt at defying gravity, and the snow felt suspiciously like a soft mattress. Sublime! Bliss! Questionable life choices! And there I was, floating and sliding back over the snow with a comic smile pasted on my face….

Since most of us were in the same state of sublimation, no charges could be initiated. The goal was to reach base camp before last light, which we accomplished in record time. There were no stragglers too. And most of us hit the bed that night with that same sublime smile. The boon of the sacred Naga Saints.

As I stare at these old photographs now, memories flood back — the cold, the climb, the Sadhus, and that floating sensation.

And somewhere in the background of my mind, I hear a familiar tune…

“O bring back, O bring back,
bring back my Bonnie to me…”

Shambho Mahadeva!
Har Har Mahadeva!