Arunachal Pradesh: On the road to the edge of the world

Sub-zero temperatures and snow-covered terrain at Sela Pass in Arunachal Pradesh are common through the year. (Photo by Malavika Bhattacharya)

At 13,700 feet, Sela Pass is a patchwork of ivory and russet. As we approach the high-altitude pass in Arunachal Pradesh, fresh snow falls, covering the stark mountainous terrain in a soft white dust. An ornate gate adorned with bright Buddhist motifs stands out in the monochromatic landscape. It seems almost like the gateway to another realm: beyond it lies a lake, ringed with prayer flags stoically frozen in place, mid-flutter; to our right, the narrow road falls away into vast swathes of nothingness engulfed in swirling mists; icy peaks poke out of the clouds; signs of life are all but absent, save for the handful of men in fatigues and army trucks.

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Sub-zero temperatures and snow-covered terrain at Sela Pass are common through the year. Settlements along the way are few and far between: at roughly 17 people per square kilometre, Arunachal Pradesh is among the least densely populated regions in India. Except for a handful of military camps and army trucks, we drive endlessly without spotting a person or vehicle – truly uncharacteristic and even unnerving in a country like ours.

Giant Buddha Statue, Tawang. (Photo by Chandra Sen via Wikimedia Commons 4.0)

The stretch from Sela to Jang, a settlement 40 kilometres before Tawang, is most spectacular. The vegetation changes drastically as we descend to a dramatic river valley. Icicles hang down from the red lichen-covered rock and bare trees rise, snow-covered, towards the sky in bizarre skeletal formations. The sparse grass is frozen, creating crystallised formations that creep over the mountainside. Lone yaks stand sentinel, gazing solemnly into the distant mountaintops.

En route, we cross the Jaswantgarh War Memorial, a solemn reminder of the 1962 Indo-China war. All through the journey, we’ve heard tales of how Chinese troops infiltrated as far as the outskirts of Tezpur and how a single man defended the outpost for three days.  The monument commemorates Jaswant Singh Rawat – a fallen soldier who single-handedly held off a Chinese military contingent at an altitude of roughly 10,000 feet. His personal belongings are kept in a shrine here, and the story of the war is engraved on the walls. At the gates, there’s always a hot flask of tea and a lovely view of the valley for cold and weary travellers.

(Photo by Indian Navy via Wikimedia Commons)

When we arrive at Tawang at 4pm, it’s black as night. The eastern fringes of India, where the sun often sets as early as 3pm, should ideally operate on a different time zone. In the bitter cold with rain beating down on us, we walk past dark shops bathed in flickering candlelight – power cuts are common – and soon realize that the town turns in early. In search of a warming concoction, we wander into a store asking for something warm and local.

The friendly owner brings us a 500ml Pepsi bottle from his home above the shop, filled with home-brewed raksi (pronounced ‘roxy’), which he parts with “because we are visitors”. Made with millets, the colourless, odourless drink is best had mixed with hot water and accompanied by a plate of steaming momos.

The next day is golden. Sunshine bounces off the bright colours at the ancient 17th-century Tawang monastery perched on the brow of a hill nearly 10,000 feet high.

This is India’s largest monastery and the second largest in the world, with more than 400 monks in residence. Yellow-roofed living quarters are situated in a warren of narrow lanes below the monastery. The expansive compound houses a library of Buddhist culture, a Lama medical centre, and a Centre of Buddhist Studies. Little monks clad in maroon robes carrying bright ochre satchels walk solemnly to their classes, rubbing sleep out of their eyes. Outside, a group of young teenage monks sit in a circle, debating under the watchful eye of a teacher. I observe this scene play out from the roof of the House of Butter Lamps – another structure in the compound where lamps are lit and offerings are made. Tawang valley spreads out below, ringed by a semicircle of snow-covered peaks.  It is strange to think that this peaceful haven was one of the many triggers that led to the 1962 war. The monastery has always been a bone of contention between the two countries – an area that China lay claim to, and also where the Dalai Lama took refuge when he fled Tibet in 1959.

The Dalai Lama took refuge at the Tawang Monastery when he fled Tibet in 1959. (Image: ANI)

Far across the valley on the opposite hill is the Thukje Chueling Ani Gompa, or nunnery, also known as the Gyangong Ani Gompa. We go by a road that climbs higher into the mountains, and as civilization falls away, so does the sunshine. The nunnery is far more remote than the monastery – an isolated enclave of about 50 nuns living in harsh conditions. Narrow whitewashed alleys set in the forested mountainside are lined with sparse living quarters. Bright flowers poke their heads out of spotless balconies. In the biting cold and under grey skies, nuns of all ages go about their daily chores. A young nun, aged barely 10, is tasked with locking up the main hall after prayers. She can’t wait for us to leave so she can complete her chore. Two other little ones are rushing up to the kitchen carrying large pots of food. Everyone has her defined task. A spritely nun named Sonam is washing dishes with water from an icy stream that flows down the hillside. She asks us if her two visitors can hitch a ride back to town with us. It’s about to rain and walking will take them nearly two hours. When we say yes, she beams and invites us in for tea.

Her carpeted, wood-lined living quarters are exactly the respite from the bone-chilling cold we’ve been hoping for. A roaring fire is going in the tandoor and around it, seated on mattresses, are a handful of others – nuns, locals and travellers. Sonam plies us with salty butter tea and cream cheese biscuits, chatting non-stop as we slowly peel off our heavy layers and settle in to the warmth of the room. There are four mattresses, so I assume four nuns share the space, but Sonam says this is her room. Each nun has their own living quarter, with a tandoor for warmth and a kitchen where they cook their own meals. The oldest nun here is 66 years old, and Sonam’s aunt. It’s common for families in the region to send at least one child to a monastery or a nunnery.

By this time, we’ve decimated the packet of biscuits. In that moment, cold and starving, the thin layer of cheese between two salty crackers tastes like the best meal we’ve ever had. When we appreciate her snacks, Sonam hurries out and returns with two packs, which she presses into our hands. We can’t possibly accept her limited rations, but she insists, saying, “I always bring travellers in here to give them tea. It’s so cold outside and they’ve come from so far. I have many friends now.”

Back in town, in the centre of the Old Market is a circular compound ringed with prayer wheels. Women dressed in brightly coloured wrap skirts, chunky traditional jewellery and yak hair headpieces sell strings of hard white yak’s cheese, kernels of dried maize, packets of dried river fish, and bunches of fresh green lai patta – a type of local spinach.

Nearby, at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant called Tak, we find our share of local cuisine. Young Dorji welcomes us, takes our order, cooks, serves and bills us. We try a soupy then-thuk with wheat ribbons, a pungent churpa with noodles in a broth of dried yak cheese and spicy local chilli, accompanied by fat chunks of tingmo. The bright red interiors are adorned with black and white pictures of the region post the 1962 war.

Later that evening, we wander in to the war memorial in time for the sound and light show. I’m iffy about attending, not normally a fan of sound and light shows. But the half hour display proves to be a good introduction to the culture of Tawang and the Monpa people, and an interesting history lesson on the Indo-China war, which still casts a long shadow over the region. In this discovery of unique cultures and surreal landscapes, it’s apparent that Western Arunachal remains a fragile zone, hanging in a delicate balance.