The Glacier – Nubra Valley
At high altitude in Ladakh, in the Nubra Valley, at the base camp marking the mouth of the Siachen Glacier, the Nubra River burst free from beneath the ancient ice. The moraines were a dirty, weary grey, clogged with the silt and stones carried down over centuries of grinding, heaving movement. The glacier had chewed the mountains and spat their bones into these slopes.
There were ice walls nearby, sheer and blue, carved for three-point and four-point practice, where climbers bit into frozen faces with steel and stubbornness. A training camp clung to the rock, a small human outpost against endless white, dedicated to the quiet rituals of mountain warfare and survival.
A little downstream, a narrow bridge stitched the western bank to the rest of the world. Beyond it, on a slight rise, stood an ADS — an Advanced Dressing Station — where two doctors lived and worked. One was known universally as “Dental”. The other, with equal lack of delicacy, was called “Mental”.
Dental and Mental roamed together most of the time. Patients were few, and their work light, so they parted only for the most natural of functions — sleep, solitude, or the body’s quiet necessities.
They had a third companion — Psycho from Air Defence — and the Ration Boss, the quiet king of stone-hard chocolates of the cold areas.
Often, they gathered over a single bottle of rum. The bottle never travelled beyond the mouth of the glacier. It was banned there, anathema, almost sacrilegious. Alcohol caused vasodilation — an illusion of warmth that often ended in hypothermic collapse. Many men bore blackened tips of noses, blunt ears, pale skin frozen beyond healing.
While Dental and Mental were comfortable stereotypes of their professions, Psycho had shaved his head entirely. He feared hair fall and knew too well the slow betrayal of balaclava caps: traction alopecia.
The Ration Boss feared other legends — pulmonary hypertension, silent emboli, blood thickened by altitude. He sought monthly reassurance at the ADS.
Psycho preserved himself carefully — not for glory — but for his girlfriend in the plains.
The Signals Hut was a popular destination. Thin wires carried trembling voices to distant homes. For a few brief moments Ladakh dissolved into kitchens, courtyards and children’s laughter.
Some of the HAWS men roamed in shorts, sometimes ran. But the glacier recognised no heroes. The saying held:
“In the land of Gamma, don’t be a Gamma.”
Gama Pahalwan belonged to the plains. Up here, silence was strength.
One night, Psycho spoke of a friend at Sonam requesting helicopter evacuation. Bopa — called Mental — had served there at 21,600 feet. He agreed, in principle.
A diagnosis was shaped — pulmonary hypertension — enough to pass through official language. Otherwise the Brigade rule was simple: every man walked down the way he came.
To Bopa, this felt like cruelty dressed as discipline. He chose brotherhood over paperwork.
Katoch reached hospital. The ECG was normal. Anxiety. Discharged the next day.
Brigade was not pleased. An enquiry commission arrived already knowing its answers. Soon, orders came:
Bopa to Kumar Post. Second tenure. Three months.
Logic dressed the punishment. He was fit. Experienced. A vacancy existed. An example was needed.
He went laughing. Years later someone called it Adjustment Disorder. Bopa never felt disordered. He had only learned how to stand at the edge of obedience.