Tiger hill looms large in the distance. Should we admire its beauty or allow ourselves to recall its war-ravaged landscape, shelled from both sides of the border 15 years ago?
We are on our way to Ladakh and, as is customary, we’ve planned a stopover at Kargil. But first we reach Dras and settle down to a meal of mutton and rice sold at a roadside hutment by a couple in their 70s. They talk of the ‘great war’, remembering how even after a ceasefire was declared, officially bringing the conflict to an end in July ’99, sporadic shelling continued. They used to go to sleep every night thinking they would wake up dead.
Today, things appear to be different. There is a phone booth. And herds of bikers zip by on their way to Leh. Predominantly a Shi’ite town, there are posters of Ayatollah Khomeini displayed prominently at the crossings. And there are whispers about a local trust “importing the culture of Iran” to the place, where the Iranian cleric’s maternal family apparently has its roots.
As we ride along the Singa river, it is strange to see Pakistanis on the other side of the Line of Control (LOC), even as you’re greeted by Indian army signs that warn ‘the enemy is watching you’. Long disputed, the LOC keeps the army on its toes, so much so that a common form of greeting among them is ‘Tagra Raho’ or stay strong, stay alert. At one of the posts, we see Pakistani regulars of the Northern Light Infantry and men from Gilgit Scouts waving at us.
Later, an Indian Army captain tells us how at border meetings fatigues from both countries share food and stories. But situations often change overnight as bullets often puncture the fragile peace of the region. For the many villagers who live along the LOC, blasted shells and the smell of gunpowder have become part and parcel of everyday life, especially after the turn of the millennium.
(Shome Basu is a freelance photojournalist based in Delhi. He visited Dras and Kargil in 2009 and 2013)