At a tea stop 5km from Turtuk, we chanced upon two bikers from the Agra Bikers Club. We fell to talking and Vipul and Manoj chivalrously offered us a pillion ride for the rest of the way. The breeze on our faces, the skies a full blue and the towering Karakorams – glorious fun. We understood now first-hand why legions of motorists set out on these paths, bags on back, for weeks on end.
For Turtuk, we have to sit down and gather our thoughts and words. we could simply say charming, and it certainly is, but that is so pat. It is an inconsequential place of great consequence. A hillside village in two parts, Youl and Pharol, divided by a gurgling glacial stream and a bridge. As we trudged up the narrow pathways that separated the houses, a network of water channels serviced the whole habitation, sometimes even running under the houses. One particular cavern in the mountain-side is so cool the village stores its meat and perishables there! The Masjid occupies pride of place and, as we were in the holy month of Ramzan at the time, it was being put to active use, with men doing wazu, preparing to offer salat.
In the village, we sought out a man named Kacho Mohammad Khan Yabgo. Note the ‘Yabgo’, which is the dynastic name for the rulers of Chhorbat Khapulu of Baltistan, as also the ‘Kacho’, which indicates that this royal status was formerly held. We were led up to a fine wooden house, with an ornate entrance. This was once the summer palace of the Yabgos, built by Turab Khan in the 15th century. As he led us around, Mohammad Khan earnestly told us the history of his family and of this site. Once on the Silk Route, Turtuk was significant for being no more than five hours away from four crucial hubs. The wooden house retains echoes of its former life: the zenana chambers decorated with extra embellishments, the lock that catches on the inside so as to alert sleeping inmates of intruders, the historic orchard with its centuries-old fruiting trees… But we were most touched by the museum that Khan has taken the trouble to curate. He is an unassuming man, eking out a respectable livelihood from his zamindari fruit orchard and agriculture – it is a good life, but in an odd, bracing mixture of pragmatism, nostalgia and duty, he keeps various artefacts in good order, making sure to document the way things were.
We had a marvellous picnic in the upper fields of Turtuk. The chefs at the camp had given us salad, biryani with raita and a nice dessert smacking of orange and we rounded off the repast with blushy apricots plucked from the abundant trees in the village. Too many can give you the runs but really how many luscious apricots could you count as too many?
