(Part 4 of 4 of the story of my tryst with destiny in running my first ultramarathon, in Ladakh)

I had done a 55 km run in the Himalayas.

I was letting that sink in, as I watched the mountains bathed in moonlight whizz past me. Irshad, our cab driver who I had grown so fond of, over so many days of driving us around Ladakh, played Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan to serenade our tired souls.

This, of course, was a stark contrast to the heartbreak-themed songs he played on our drive to Nubra a week back.

“O besharam, o behaya, o bewafa, tera ki haal hai (O shameless one, O scruple-less one, O unfaithful one, how are you doing?),” was one of them as I peered at him from the back seat, and wondered what pain has he gone through to listen to such songs.

So yes, Nusrat songs were a welcome break, and it almost felt like Irshad knew what would be apt for that moment. I thanked him for being with us from 5:00 AM that day—as our mobile fueling station, and for the encouragement that he and Stobgail ley together sent our way to boost us.

It was 9:30 PM by the time we reached our guest house, and Tsewang ley and Rikki, the manager, welcomed us with ceremonial Ladakhi scarves to congratulate us on our achievement. The smiles on their faces were beaming, and it felt that the victory was not just ours, but was felt and shared with so many, who have been with us on this journey since we arrived in Leh.

You would have thought that we would be ravenous, and would be excited to have a huge celebratory feast. I had at least envisioned that, but in the end it was a serving of rice and daal that we could manage to eat, and were happy with.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling for an hour, with nothing in particular brimming in the mind. I recapped the last few months, of life focused around training for this run, the determination, the early morning long runs starting at 5:00 AM through every season this year, continuing through the  grief and loss of the second wave, of  5 months of home remodelling that I was supervising disrupted by yet another lockdown and yet continuing to work through and making the home liveable. That  period brought with it its own set of stressors, heartburn, and sleepless nights, through which I persisted. As I reminisced, the painful cramp in the calf jolted me out of the reverie as I dragged myself through the fatigue to finally take a shower and then sleep. After all, the adventures were to resume the next day.

The drive to Tso Moriri was going to be about 8 hours long. Tso Moriri: a gorgeous lake where we planned on going for a short 15 km trek, and not as frequented as Pangong Tso were the reasons it was our chosen destination. The drive was through changing mountain faces, paved and unpaved roads, bouncing over small, gravely paths, passing hundreds of sheep and shepherds by, pausing to see some hot springs in Chumathang, as they bubbled through and the steam rose to make their presence felt. If one isn’t attentive enough, these natural wonders are so easy to miss, because people are just blindly driving to their next destination on their check list. We drove through an innocuous mountain pass, and finally reached as the full moon rose, shimmering over the lake, and spreading its light far and wide. It was a sight to see and I was transfixed.

The search for a place to say started when we reached Karzok, a tiny village whose length you can walk through within 7-10 minutes at an easy walking pace, and I wanted any place where I could get a fill of the lake and mountains. And so, a homestay where the sit out looked exactly over the most picturesque views was chosen. The owner knew only smatterings of Hindi which made it so humbling, but we were never lost in translation, because compassion, care, and kindness know no barriers of language.

There was silence all around, even when you stepped out and were among people. And as I stood out on the sit out for about 10-15 minutes, my eyes took in the moon-bathed lake, and the snow-capped mountains around them, and my nostrils picked up a faint dung smell, and I of course attributed it to the animals that would be around as the ones on whom the villagers’ livelihood depended.

Silence, all around.

I repeat that because as I took in the 360 degree view of the village around me, I happened to look just immediately below me, into the quadrangle of the adjacent home, and I saw about 150-200 sheep in their pen, quiet, some sleeping, some grooming themselves, and some nudging their friend lying next to them playfully. Not a bleat, not a sound. I know I sound like a silly city gawker making so much out of nothing, but it was the surprise with which they caught me, and how just like the humans in the village, they seemed to have a “speak only when you need to” code.

I wondered if I would be woken up at 4 AM with a few of them screaming to be let out, but the silence continued as I woke up to finally see the lake in its entire glory. It was surreal, like I was gazing at a photograph. The sky with the clouds, and a sun playing hide and seek, the lake and the horses grazing on its shore who appeared so still, that you had to look at them constantly to see any signs of movement. The placidity, the calmness was everywhere.

After having spent some time with the homestay owners’ 5-year-old daughter, we set off on our trek by the lake. Did we just run 55 kms a day before? It seemed so far away now, with new adventures looming ahead.

The trail had no other walkers, which made it so much more peaceful and personal. The sound of the crashing shores, gurgling brooks from the glacial melts, and the mountains as our companions, our feet did what they knew best now. Walk the distance.

I love surprise discoveries…Like the several Mani walls all along the length of the lake; and in some places they stood as cairns, one almost as tall as me. Manis: those beautiful plates, stones, and rocks that are hand inscribed with prayers offered to the higher power, with a sense of devotion, gratitude, and surrender. Everything about this place had such a strong spiritual connection, that it’s tough to not get drawn into its essence.

After having spent I don’t know how much time sitting by the lake, seeing the beautiful hues of the water, the way the clouds’ reflection brought out the light blue, or the clear sky with the sun shining brought on the dark turquoise, or the pebbles and rocks on the shore, changing it to a light green, we decided to head back.

And then I saw that lovely huge mountain dog in the middle of the field that I passed by. A white fur ball of love. I called out and he looked up, and his eyes shone through. And I called out again, and he bounded up and across the field, on his three legs; the fourth was a tiny stump that he lost to an accident perhaps. And so the meeting was as expected. He snuck up next to me, and plonked down as if saying, “here, love me as much as you want.” And I did, through his mud covered belly, and his floppy ears, and his wet nose, and repeat all over again 😊.

I had no idea what the next day’s plan was. All I knew was that it involved a “walk up a ridge.” Okaaaay, how tough can that be. And so our return to Leh was through a different route, through a salt lake called Tso Kar, Debring, and then through Tanglang La which is where that “ridge” was. I remembered Tanglang La from 2019, where I saw the beautiful ice stalactites that hung like chandeliers along the mountain faces. The ridge was my first.

Back to being on bumpy, gravely, paved & unpaved roads, sandy stretches, some road constructions, through detours, and “I don’t know how long” stretches of time which was also becoming a regular feature here, I was beginning to wonder if there would be an end in sight. In a place like Ladakh, even if the mind, by mistake, or even through a spirit of audacity, brings up a sense of impatience, or the urge to see the destination soon, it is soon quashed by what your eyes are treated to. Hot springs again, wild asses prancing around, the huge expanse of salt seen in an almost dried up Tso Kar, and a few dust devils. You are gently guided back to being in the present moment.

As we were approaching Tanglang La, Chetan pointed out to that ridge from a distance. I looked at it, and then I looked at him with disbelief, and back at it again, taking in the ginormous wall like ridge that I was being asked to climb; a km long, it rose from 17,480 feet to I didn’t even know what height, when I saw it inching closer.

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“This is your victory lap after your 55 kms,” he said.

Now, when you say something like this, how can you not get charged up by that? And so I decided to take this on, hoping the pass would let me. You can’t trifle with mountain sickness however well acclimatized you may feel.

It was a climb worth remembering, all along bunkers and trenches made by the Indian Army in 1962. Slow and steady, I reached the top, an altitude of 18,000 feet, the highest I have ever been on. The panoramic view of the mountains all around me was my reward, and felt so much more than a victory lap. Nothing beats the exhilaration, the indescribable joy of being cradled in the arms of nature.  Of truly knowing that you are capable of so much more than you settle for. I thought the 55 kms ultra was my peak, but here was yet another internal summit that I climbed, which pushed my limit even further. The sky is truly limitless, and so was I, the horizon was never ending, and the thirst in me to go on was just getting more unquenchable.

It was time to bid Ladakh a farewell, with a heart filled with gratitude for all that the place and its people offered me, for being with me as I paid a silent tribute to Mom, for helping me see grief in a new light, as one of restoration and moving forward. A befitting farewell with a promise to return, to make newer discoveries, bring about internal shifts towards a better self, to let go, to carry the spirit of surrender, of being in the here and now, of life lessons that stay, and remind me that you carry all that you need, within you.

As I finished writing this today, I happened to see my “Memories” from this date, two years ago on Facebook (Oct 5th 2019), where I had been a contributor to a weekly running column in the newspaper. The topic was “Running Can Help Cope With The Loss Of A Loved One.” It dawned on me that just then I felt a strong sense of closure. I will share the post from that day here in its entirety so you know what I mean.

WHEN AIR BECOMES BREATH

While I grieved and tried to cope with Mom's loss to a progressive lung disorder last year, I realized that running took on a whole new meaning for me this year. My marathons have been in her memory, and will continue to be from here on, keeping her alive in me with each breath that I take.

As her struggles to breathe increased around this time a year before that date, she would often in despair say to me, "May one never to have to fight for one’s breath so much, baba (she used to call me that).”

And then, as if her illness wasn't enough, I was diagnosed with a mild ventilatory defect and I thought my running had come to an end. The pulmonary function test that both Mom and I had to do (hers was more frequent) was a tough one for her. She struggled in that glass box trying to breathe deep and hold her inhalations and exhalations as part of the test and I felt so helpless watching her while the technician told me to stop from going up to her. Mom came out and said she would never do that test again, and I agreed. She didn’t have to because a month later she passed on.

A few months after, I had to go through that test again for an annual review to see how my lungs were doing, especially with the strong family history. That same hospital, the same technician, that same glass box. I was filled with tears and a rage remembering what Mom went through, and I decided to kick that test’s butt, just for her. I had been working on strengthening my lung capacity so I was hopeful that the mild ventilatory defect wouldn’t have progressed. If anything, I should have gotten better. I just wanted to continue running, maybe even take it up a notch higher. With each breath I thought of her, fighting for her, thinking I was breathing for her. For all those breaths she struggled with in her last year, I wanted to take a million of those in for her.

And kick butt I did. My lung function test came out normal. I shed a few more tears reading the report.

“This one’s for you, Mom,” I whispered.

This is my tenth year of running, but this time I took to it with a vengeance. I started running more, training better and more sensibly, and returning to the basics of breathing. Now each time a breath pulsates through my body, it is for Mom. If ever I feel like giving up, I would remember her and would imagine her smiling face, egging me to go on. It isn’t even about crossing that finish line anymore, it is about taking that one step forward, keeping that momentum of moving onwards. It is about being at peace with myself, reconnecting with myself, feeling one with her. 

Have you read, “When Breath Becomes Air” by Paul Kalanithi? A surgeon, Paul wrote his story while battling with an inoperable stage IV lung cancer, and was faced with his own mortality, with finite days to live. He couldn’t complete the book but it was released after his passing with an epilogue from his wife. I wondered what the title meant when I read it years ago. It now made sense. As he struggled with his own breathing, having to use a BiPap at night to help him, he refused to be hooked to more life-saving machines so that he could spend time with his wife and kids. The title was based on a line from a poem by Baron Brooke in 1628.

“You that seek what life is in death,
Now find it air that once was breath.
New names unknown, old names gone.
Till time end bodies, but souls none.
Reader! Then make time while you be,
But steps to your eternity."

What does it symbolize? What is the difference between “air” and “breath?” Breath is what flows through us as living beings, and so when breath becomes air, it signifies the act of dying, with breath being the life force that comes to an end. Breathing is so automatic for most of us, we don’t even give it a second thought, till someone struggles with it often due to an illness. And we are now known to take life for granted. We don’t think of how meaningful our lives have been, of what difference we made to the world, be it with our words or our actions, whether we lived true to ourselves. It’s only when we are faced with our own mortality do these questions arise. Why wait for the face off with finite days? Why not live each moment now?

It’s two weeks to my full marathon for Mom. And I know who I will be thinking of when I run…

My breath, always for you, Mom…always for you.”