“The harness would break, and they would meet their death below,” says Amit, pointing downwards. “When this road was being constructed, some workers fell to their death from here. So the elders said that the only way to stop these deaths was to build a temple here. So that's how this temple got built.” Amit had stopped our car beside the temple, where a lot of other vehicles were already parked. All the drivers were paying their respects to the goddess for a safe journey. Some of the tourists joined them, while others stood on the mountain's edge to admire the scenery in front of them.

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The temple stood on a curve on the mountain, and the road had been widened to accommodate the temple. A small temple, painted white, narrow at the top, with a small saffron flag on a flag pole fluttering in the ever-present breeze. The temple's interior was just wide enough to hold the marble idol and a pujari, who was distributing the prasad: small pieces of coconut. The temple stood on the very edge of that mountain, confident of itself, the vertical fall just a foot behind. “Once this temple got built, the deaths stopped, and they easily completed laying this road,” Amit concluded.

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I stand beside the shrine staring at the mountain range a few kilometers away, spreading itself in front of my eyes. It was a massive range with no end in sight on either side, with many tall snow-capped dark mountains. In the Himalayas, the mountain ranges don't end. 

Below my feet was a narrow valley in which Sutlej flowed. We were at such a height that the murmur of Sutlej didn't reach us. On my right was the road continuing its torturous journey over multiple mountains before it turned a corner on one of them and vanished from sight. Amit pointed to the road and said, “After a few kilometers on this road, we will cross to the other side.” Now he is pointing to the mountains on the opposite side.

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“What lies beyond those mountains?” I ask Amit.

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“If you cross those mountains, you will get into Rupi Bhaba sanctuary. From there, you can trek to the Rupi Bhaba pass, crossing which you will enter Mudh, one of the villages in Pin Valley. From there, Kaza is a two-hour drive," says Amit.

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That was the trekking route to Pin Valley, but we took the circuitous road route, which would pass through Reakong Po, Kalpa, Khab, Nako, Tabo, and Dhankar monastery before reaching Kaza.

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We are back in the car and driving towards Reokong Po. The overcast sky covers everything with a coat of gray. The dark clouds merging with the snow peaks give a menacing and unapproachable look to the whole range. Pointing to one of the snow peaks, Amit comments, “It's either raining or snowing there .” I see a foggy white sheet covering that peak. I think of trekkers caught in such weather and shudder.

After a few kilometers, we cross the bridge over Sutlej. We then turn right, and the car climbs up slowly to the place where Baspa meets Sutlej. The clarity of Sutlej and Baspa turns to milky white, the waters frothing, as the rivers embrace each other and proceed downstream as a single river, Sutlej.

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We are crossing a dam site now. The air is dusty, the ground is slushy, and the noise from the heavy earth moving equipment drowns the sound of the river. There is constant din all around. Workers drill through rocks, and a gigantic machine scoops up rubble and deposits it elsewhere; diesel generators with their rhythmic thud-thud give out thick diesel fumes. Workers from South India move around with clothes and bodies entirely covered with dust. Some wear yellow colored helmets; some others cover their heads with a dirty handkerchief. We raise the windows to escape from the dust. It takes us around 20 mins to cross this site. Then, as the cacophony of the dam site recedes, we hear the silence. Slowly we start hearing the ever-present sounds of nature: The bird calls, the rustling of the leaves, the murmur of the river.

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