This story is part of our Your First Published Article series. After a road traffic collision in Ladakh, a traveler struggles to navigate India’s culture of law enforcement.
I rouse to the sound of someone calling my name, unzip my tent door to a hue of blues. Martin, my friend and travel companion for the last eight months, is still fast asleep. The Ladakh sky is dotted with snow white clouds. In the near distance, the surface of the turquoise Panong Lake shimmers under the rays of the morning sun.
“I think the lack of oxygen here is getting to us. We are going to leave soon to rest at a scenic spot at a lower altitude,” says Kes, rubbing his forehead, eyes red and heavy from restless sleep. We met him and Alex, a jovial pair of Lithuanians, only a few days ago in the hippie town of Kasol, and decided to hop on their expedition, despite having very little experience in motorbiking, let alone navigating rocky terrains at high altitudes.
At an altitude of 4250 meters, the air here is thinner. We have not given ourselves enough time to acclimatise along the way. Unfortunately, Panong Lake was breathtaking for the wrong reasons. So, after a quick coffee and a cigarette, Martin and I bundle our bags onto our Royal Enfield and follow Kes and Alex back on the route we only took yesterday, this time with a greater sense of urgency.
We whizz past sun-scorched lands featuring purplish-red mountains and cross an icy-cold stream, shuddering as the water splashes onto us. After almost four hours of riding, the motorway cuts through a Ladakhi village. Martin is thrilled, accelerating towards safety as I clutch on and feel one with the wind.
Suddenly, a foreboding sense of dread flashes through me: a man is darting across the road right ahead of us.
We try to brake, but it is too late. We have crashed right into him.
I land on the tarmac but almost immediately bounce back up on my feet, my ears filled with a deafening silence. Seconds later, Martin’s panic-stricken face appears in front of me.
He says, “I’m so sorry, Dani. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I reply with an exaggerated calmness. “But what about him?”
A few feet ahead, the man is groaning in pain, knee clasped to his chest, blood trickling down the side of his forehead.
A mob has gathered around him. Strangers ask each other questions about the incident while throwing quick glances in our direction. They collectively discuss the best way to proceed, considering the person riding the motorbike, Martin, is a gora–a white man. Ladakhi shopkeepers watch quietly from their shop windows, keeping a distance.
“I saw what happened. It’s not your fault. Why he had to cross the road like that?” A man behind me tuts, then adds as he kickstarts his motorbike, “These people are troublemakers. You have already called the ambulance, just leave.”
The ambulance does not arrive, and after much persuasion, some of the men from the gathering flag down a local bus and carry the wounded man up the stairs to be ferried to the nearest hospital.
“But how will he take any money from them?” Another passerby calls out from the street, and the men murmur in agreement and immediately bring the victim back down from the bus and lay him down on the tarmac.
Finally, a passing police car spots the commotion, and a policeman rushes over and gives instructions for the poor man to be put back on the bus (again). He storms over to us, ignoring my attempts at explaining the situation in Urdu, and ushers us into his van.
The police station is small and stuffy. The constable locks eyes with Martin and offers a solution: “You must pay £1000, or we will seize your passport, and you can go to court.” Martin gasps, highly defensive and nervous about parting with money that he doesn’t have.
“This is ridiculous,” Kes states. “You do realise he jumped from between two trucks and ran straight in front of the bike, don’t you? Who does that?”
“We are not giving the police any money,” Alex responds angrily. “In Europe, things don’t work this way.”
The constable huffs in anger and looks over at me, addressing me in Urdu, “You are from Hyderabad, yes?” He ignores Alex and continues, “He is correct, this is not Europe. I can understand English, but I don’t want to speak to him. Who is he to accuse me?”
The accusation he is referring to is that of taking a bribe. The constable is deeply offended, and the tension in the room is thicker than ever.
I know that I need to take matters into my own hands and urge our Lithuanian friends to leave. As soon as they exit, the constable’s expression softens.
“India is about the heart, dear. You have injured a poor man; have they no heart? I suggest you go to the hospital and meet the man you have injured, but your gora friend stays here,” the constable says.
The hospital is a big, airy building that is mostly empty. Some patients can be heard from behind curtains, and a few visitors linger in the hallway. I climb a few flights of stairs to find the ward our victim is receiving treatment in, and peer inside. A white bandage around his head, his leg in a cast, he is speaking on the phone in a dialect that I cannot comprehend. There are several other men crammed by his bed.
I learn his name is Bilal and apologise.
“Look at me, how does your sorry help?” He asks in Urdu through slurred words, eyeing the door to see if Martin is here too. Bilal looks at a moustached young man holding yellow files to his chest, ‘speak to my brother.’
This brother leads me outside the room and tells me, “His real brother is downstairs. Speak to him.”
Down the winding stairs again and outside the hospital, a dozen of Bilal’s brothers appear, angry at the person who has hurt their friend. I am passed from one so-called brother to the next, each stating that I must wait for someone else.
At one point, I am in the middle of a dozen of his so-called brothers who won’t look at me while they talk, but when I try to address them, they respond with curses: Madarchod. Apne aap ko samajhte kya ho?! (Motherfucker. Who do you think you are?!)
The crowd swells as more ‘brothers’ jump off motorbikes to join team Bilal. An invisible line divides the two sides that have formed. About twenty of Bilal’s friends and brothers, migrants from other parts of India who have come here to find work. I’m with some other Ladakhis who work at the hospital.
A security guard arrives, adjusts his paunch over his belt, and clears his throat, asking me to go back.
“It is not safe for you here,” he sighs.
Back at the police station, a quick exchange ensues, and the constable’s eyes widen with anger when he learns how I was treated by the ‘brothers’.
“Come with me, sister. No man will dare to look at you. They will all be on their knees in apology.”
So off we go, back to the hospital, and Martin follows along.
Armed with a new sense of bravado, when the constable sees the group of men outside the hospital entrance, he suddenly grabs one of them by the collar and barks, “Apologise, you pig.” He then grabs another man and delivers a sharp kick to his shin that makes me wince.
“It was this one who swore at you, wasn’t it?” My cheeks turn red as he protectively hovers an arm around me. “Don’t you be scared. I am here now.”
Sitting outside the hospital room, the policemen mediate between me alone and another new set of the so-called brothers. The junior officer asks me, “Why is your gora friend dragging this on so much? Just ask him to pay, and you can leave.” Trying to explain to them that that is not possible is fruitless.
“Why is he travelling if he has no money?” Martin stares at me in confusion, and I am too tired to keep up with the translation and explain cultural nuances.
However, no consensus is reached as the conversation turns from compensation to a discussion about honour and power.
“They think we are stupid because we can’t speak English? I will file an attempt to murder case on him, and then we will see who is really powerful,” one of the men states to the constable, who chuckles in response.
“Calm down. You can’t prove the gora’s intent to kill; we all know it was an accident. Besides, do you really think you would get anything out of this if their embassies and families got involved?”
Finally, a calm voice cuts through the chaos: “Nice to meet you. I work in the local government and heard there was trouble.” He shakes my hand, and Martin’s hand, and sums up the solution: “You can pay him whatever you have on you as a form of apology, and I will take care of the rest.” Then, looking at us head to toe, he adds, “Have you seen the nurse yet?”
Ripped clothes stuck to half-dried blood on our joints, we have just minor wounds: a few deep grazes, a coin-sized chunk of flesh missing from my knee, and Martin needs four stitches on his elbow. The nurses look at us sympathetically and make a few jokes about the situation.
The policemen offer to drop us off at the hotel Alex has booked for us. Relieved that the day has come to an end, and eager to get away from the policemen, we spring out of the car as soon as we arrive at the hotel lobby. As we walk towards the reception, sore and suddenly in pain, the constable yells from behind us cheerily, “Why are you sulking? These things happen. Life is an adventure!”
