I fancy myself a modern day traveller – an explorer, an adventurer of sorts – uncovering no path not already trodden (the flipside of having a mapped world) but trying to live the joy of discovering them myself for the first time.  I strive to find that sublime balance of living and experiencing this new world and yet holding it at arms length to be able to appreciate it with respect to the other worlds it lives within. For this, I make it a point to steer clear of the mundane; conditioning the romantic and idealist in me to accept that the best of things are often lost and forgotten only to be rediscovered; and the worst of them linger for longer than they should, and then perhaps are never completely destroyed.

However, once in a while, there is a gross apathy towards something remarkable that forces cries of protest and disbelief with a vehemence I surprise myself to possess. The most recent and lingering issue has been the gradual but steady loss of petroglyphs in that awesome museum of natural history – Ladakh.

Petroglyphs are, very simply, ancient rock carvings. Derived from the Greek, petro meaning ‘stone’ and glyphien – ‘to carve’, they are found worldwide and are usually associated with prehistoric people, though not always. These carvings are often remains of lost cultures. A record by artists and scribes of the era and area and sometimes, even travellers – people who had a story to tell. They are probably the most ancient direct form of communication with which people carve through the barrier of ages and speak to us, telling of their way of life, their myths, legends, achievements, and the trends and fashions of their generation. While there are as many interpretations as there are petroglyphs and the divide over the meaning of any carving will perhaps never be bridged, it is impossible to not understand the common cultural heritage these scratches in the rock represent. One thing on which there can be no two ways is they stand as the ultimate testimonial – the message sent by humankind across the sands of time, like we send radio signals into space, proclaiming empathetically – “We were here.”

 “History”; says philosopher Will Durant in the same gentle way he illustrates profound truths,   “has been too often a picture of the stream. The history of civilization is what happened on the banks.” Metaphorically, he implies the sidelines of life – the normal, day-to-day life of people, against whose name no everlasting glories or permanent shame will be attached. People, who because they are forgotten, will truly cease to have existed. And literally, if the banks are the shores of the river Indus – the river that spawned civilization itself – there has to be a treasure trove of history to unearth.

Ladakh, with the formidable reputation as the crossroads of high Asia or the doorway to the Asian highlands, formed a significant part of an ancient cross-continental highway, we know as the Silk Route. The rock carvings attest to Ladakh being inhabited since at least Neolithic times (new stone age, approx. 9,500 BC). The carvings show definite connections with carvings in Kashmir, China, Mongolia and other parts of central Asia. Things as intricate as the flow of the lines and style of the art speak volumes about the people and their lives to those initiated in the secrets of these arts. While I am not an expert on either of the two topics – history and art – I am certain, that here too, there is a story to tell. 

The petroglyphs are the protagonist of this story supported ably by those crazy crusaders, who believe in something with such zest, that they simple cannot seem to look away or give up. The prime amongst them, who I met, and whose work, commitment and later evident frustration and disenchantment had me involved to the extent that compels me to share this story – his story of wanting to make history live on.

Tashi Ldawa Tshangspa is a college lecturer in Leh. His passion, however, has been the prehistoric rock art of his homeland. He has travelled extensively within Ladakh (over 2000 kms) acting on tip-offs and in search of these boulders, which became the papyrus of ancient people. Yet, he believes he has found only a part of all that must exist in the barren wilderness that is his birthplace. He painstakingly documents these rocks and their carvings, with the constant fear that the next time he comes by the same route, the rock would have become gravel to provide foundation for the great Indian road network or the background for an overzealous tourist wanting to superimpose his name on an ancient message.

His presentation about these boulders in a small room cowering under the looming dilapidation that the Leh palace has become, provided for the chilling realization that the boulders might go the same way as the palace is headed, or the way a large section of India’s cultural heritage is evaporating in the blaze of bureaucracy, apathy, ignorance and often smuggling. Another noticeable factor that led to this cynicism was the subtle, yet striking, chord of disillusionment and ‘being at wits end’ that stole into his voice as he tried to understand why during and even after a dozen years of his private, lone struggle, no funds, interest or even media attention has not found it’s way to him.

“There was great media coverage to a 12 km. stretch of almost uninterrupted rock art in Madhya Pradesh”, he dolefully remarks, “No disrespect, and I am certain that it too is phenomenal, but there are 60 kms here which only a handful of people have even seen.”

Yes, Mr. Tashi, it is only a small group of people you have, and the odds are heavily against you. Some rocks will be vandalized before you get to them, others broken and part of the same road that got you to where they once stood. People will laugh as you line up pieces of stone in your backyard. “Too few people care”, the pessimists will say. Remember then, the words of Gandhi, which speak in the name of many others like him who came before and will come again, “First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win.”