July Ju-leh :: The Ladakhi Sojourn

Joydeep Choudhury
If Munsyari, the beautiful hill town that we had visited two years ago, was sensuous and
seductive, Ladakh oozed raw sexuality; if Munsyari was sublime poetry, Ladakh was the
bold brushstrokes of an angry artist; if Munsyari was feminine beauty epitomised,
Ladakh was brutish masculinity. The comparisons between Munsyari in upper Kumaon
and Ladakh in Kashmir cannot be made precisely for these reasons. However, where
Munsyari and Ladakh both converge in unison is in the human minds appreciation of
Natures unmatched beauty. Both the places are breathtakingly beautiful and
immensely enjoyable as vacation retreats. And, both the places host Nature at her
pristine best, in her raw untouched form.
As our aircraft hovered above Leh airport - bearing quite a mouthful of a name, Kushok
Bakula Rinpoche Airport it was an exhilarating feeling that one is unlikely to
experience while landing at any other airport in India. Looking outside the aircraft on
either side, we could see the mighty Himalayan mountain range rising higher than the
elevation of the aircraft. Below, the Indus River meandered sinuously through the Leh
valley. From above, the airstrip looked frightfully short as our Jet Airways plane flew
over it before returning to land. The plane circled the airport a few times, the pilot
skilfully manoeuvring the aircraft through the valley, before finally touching down. The
gush of adrenaline abated as the aircraft actually came to a halt within the limits of the
tarmac!
We had landed at Indias highest airport!
The weather outside was very pleasant and sunny. Snow capped peaks oversaw the
airport from a distance. The ranges in the vicinity were brown, rocky, barren and devoid
of any form of vegetation. The valley of Leh, on the other hand, looked lush green and
fertile, in stark contrast to the surrounding mountain ranges.
The airport terminal in Leh was a small one, but its size sufficed the half dozen flights
that landed and took off every day. We were driven from the aircraft to the terminal
building in a bus, a short distance of about 100 metres. Presently, we collected our
baggage from the only luggage conveyer and exited the building. Outside, the
representative of Padma Guest House and Hotel held out a placard for us.

Surreptitiously, I clicked a photograph of the airport building, an act that was prohibited
by a prominently displayed notice of the authorities! We climbed into two waiting cars
and drove to our hotel, a quick 10 minutes drive from the airport.
We had discovered Padma Hotel through Tripadvisor. The raving reviews of the hotel
influenced us into making very early bookings, almost 3 months ahead of our travel.
This was one decision that we never regretted during our entire trip. Padma Hotel lived
up to its reputation and beyond.

There was a short distance of about fifty metres to

Padma Hotel from the main road, where we
disembarked the cars and walked through a narrow
winding alley lined with tall poplar trees on one side.
The entrance of the hotel presented itself at the end of
the alley. Poplar trees, we were soon to observe, had
a ubiquitous presence in all the valleys in Ladakh that
we visited (or saw aerially from the high mountain
passes) and were indeed the feature that imparted a
sort of majestic beauty to the fecund valleys. In fact,
many a time during my stay in Ladakh, I tried to
imagine the valleys sans poplars. I have to admit that

the imagination was visually disturbing. It seemed to somehow rob the scenery of its
USP. The image of the tall, sprightly poplar trees is one that I have carried back with
me, probably to forever associate with Ladakh in my minds eye. The other two images
are of craggy, brown mountains and colourful Tibetan prayer flags.

Padma Hotel offered us a very homey ambience

during our stay there. The owner, Mr Tsewang,
happened to be a very hands-on person, effusing
loads of affability and always being around whenever
needed. The hotel was essentially an extension of his
residence, which was built in utilisation of spare land
available on the property. A large part of the property
was used as garden space, wherein a variety of
vegetables was planted that was tended from morn till
dusk (dawn lights up Leh at 5:00am and dusk arrives
only at 8:00pm!) by the seemingly untiring Mrs
Tsewang. She once even invited us to her kitchen
and offered to serve us tea. Such hospitality is
generally unheard of in the business of hotels and guest houses in India. Speckled
among the cabbages and carrot plants were apple trees that had just about begun to
blossom. We were early for the apple season by about a month. The cynosure of eyes

in the garden, however, was a lovely pink (almost delectably pink!) rose plant in full
bloom. Rarely have my eyes feasted on such big roses as the ones in Mrs Tsewangs
garden!
The rooftop Padma Caf served a host of choice of cuisines. A jovial young man,
Prakash, not only ensured quick service at the caf, but also kept the guests in good
humour with his joie-de-vivre and prankish ways. Adjacent to the caf was a small,
private library that had a reasonably good collection of books.
From the rooftop caf, we received a clear and unhindered view of the snow-capped
Stok peak (6100 metres) on the south, as well as Leh Palace up north. A little way
above the palace, perched precariously along the faade of the mountain overseeing Leh
town was a Gompa (Tibetan Buddhist monastery). In the distant mountain, beyond the
Gompa, a string of colourful prayer flags fluttered in the wind.

Armed with loads of information from the Internet on possible high altitude sickness
(Leh is located at 10,682 feet) and strips of Diamox tablets, we were determined to not
fall prey to the malaise. The trick, we were told, was to take the first day very easy and
to sleep it off, if possible, in order to acclimatise. After a quick breakfast of toast and

omelettes, and special Ladakhi bread that we tasted for the first time, gulped down with
some vitalising black coffee, we hit the bed and woke up not until it was late in the
afternoon. Earlier that morning, our flight to Leh was delayed by an hour due to a
systems breakdown at Delhis T3 terminal, which had left us standing in check-in queue
for almost two hours, while the airlines officials issued boarding passes manually. So,
the good sleep was not altogether uninviting!
After a late lunch at the rooftop caf that consisted of noodles and chicken, we slowly
ambled out of the hotel, into town. A short walk uphill took us to the main marketplace.
Most shops in the market sold curios and artefacts, a routine feature in any touristy
town of India. The remaining were eateries. While at Leh, we were spoiled for choice of
food, with a huge range of eating joints scattered all over the town [Food in Leh, we
discovered, was inexpensive and aplenty, but the restaurants were miserly with drinking
water].
We walked past the marketplace and gradually
made our way towards Shanti Stupa, an
imposing white Buddhist prayer structure
located atop a hill on the outskirts that
required one to climb up 560 steps to reach it.
Although it wasnt exactly what the rule book
had said about how to spend the first day in
Leh, we nevertheless climbed our way to the
top, alternately panting and pausing for
breath. The rare atmosphere of Leh easily
fatigued us and left us breathless, but the
periods of pausing were well utilised in
capturing some lovely photographs of the
spectacularly beautiful Leh town that lay
beneath us, showered in the diffused light of
the setting sun. The green poplars cast their long shadows on the grounds in the valley
while the surrounding mountains continuously changed their shade as the shadows
deepened within their myriad folds. The walk downhill from the Shanti Stupa was a lot
easier than the climb, but the muscles of our legs had already started to shake
uncontrollably from the rigours of the climb. It was only after we had rested our tired

limbs while enjoying a scrumptious dinner of piping hot momos and delicious thukpa at a
restaurant that we felt fit enough to resume our walk back to the hotel.
Jishnu and I began our next morning on an
early note, strapping our shoes and slinging
our camera bags over our shoulders. Dawn
had just about lit up the town and the two of
us walked unhurriedly through a sleeping
street towards Leh Palace. Frankly, the
palace wasnt really much in terms of
architecture. There was almost nothing regal
about it and looked like a muddy structure
from a distance. For those who had been to
palaces in Rajasthan, Leh Palace wouldnt
offer much attraction. But, it was a palace,
nevertheless, and it presided over the goings
on of the town from a height. At the base of
the palace, in the foothill, lay a hamlet,
constructed out of similar clay and stones as the palace itself. We walked through the
labyrinthine narrow alleys, skipping over dung and dog poo, gradually making our way
up towards the palace. Once we got past the village, we found steps leading to the
palace. The steps were in a state of disrepair and we had to tread carefully as we
climbed up. Presently, we reached the lower parapet of the palace. The main entrance
was locked at that hour and a caf stood deserted near it. We met a young man who
had come there for his morning exercises. Anchuk, as he introduced himself, was a
mountaineering guide and had climbed the Stok peak many times. He also frequently
accompanied tourists on various hiking expeditions in the Ladakh valley, he informed us.
Besides Anchuk and a teenaged Ladakhi boy who suddenly appeared on the scene, and
whom Jishnu promptly photographed, the only other beings in the palace premises were
a pack of dogs in a high state of libido, this being their mating season. Leaving the dogs
alone to carry on with their procreating business, we clicked some photographs of the
sleepy town and slowly made our way back to the hotel.

Padma Cafs breakfast menu was modest bread toast & freshly baked ladakhi bread,
cornflakes & milk, butter & jam, tea and coffee. And, eggs (omelettes or scrambled or
poached on choice). Not much really in terms of variety, but filling nevertheless. The
second morning in Leh began in this culinary fashion, with the manager of the hotel,
Bickey, urging us to hurry as our Qualis was already roaring its engine, waiting to take
us to the Alchi and Liker monasteries in the lower areas of Leh.
The drive to Alchi monastery took us through a vast expanse of arid mountainous
region. The road was remarkably good and our car cruised along smoothly. We
travelled along the Indus River for a while before swerving off into the hills. On the
outskirts of Leh, we crossed an Indian Oil LPG bottling plant that proclaimed itself as the
worlds highest. The scale of mountain ranges all around us was awe-inspiring. The
difference between hills and mountains became apparent to us pretty soon.

Considering the topography of Ladakh, the Border Roads Organisation (BRO) have done
a commendable job in constructing good roads through a hostile terrain, connecting far
flung places, including building the highest road in the world Khardung La. Friendly,
sometimes humorous, signs cautioning drivers against speeding were visible
everywhere. I was very impressed with the BROs work, nicknamed Himank project.
However, there was this small bit of treachery played out on tourists by BRO.

On the way to Alchi, in the midst of barren mountains, a signboard had been erected
alongside the road, indicating that it was the location of a Magnetic Hill. The board
carried instructions on where to place the car and turn off the engine in order to observe
a gravity defying phenomenon the car would roll uphill, apparently pulled by the
magnetic field of the hill! We stopped our car on the designated spot on the road and
indeed the car rolled uphill. But, a slightly careful observation from a location about
thirty metres away from the road revealed that the road wasnt really inclined upwards,
as it had appeared while standing on the demarcated spot. In fact it looked quite
horizontal. A simple experiment involving pouring a bottle of water on the road
demonstrated that the water actually flowed in the same direction as that in which the
car had rolled apparently uphill, but not quite. It proved that the road was actually
downhill, as evidenced by the direction of flow of water, and not uphill as claimed. The
myth of the magnetic hill was easily busted! BRO had created an optical illusion. This
was the only element of kitsch that we encountered during our entire stay in Ladakh.
Everything else was genuine, most of all the simplicity and hospitality of the local folks.
We came upon a place on the way from where
we could see a union of two rivers Indus and
Zanskar. We stopped and clicked photographs.
Across the river in the distance, on the opposite
hill, was an army truck that trudged along
excruciatingly slowly. We left the place and
drove on towards Alchi. In time, we arrived at
the village of Nimmu a green, beautiful,
verdant village, containing patches of bright
yellow mustard crop. An old lady came along
on the road, bearing a basket of crop on her
back. As she crossed us, her furrowed face
broke into a beatific smile of greeting, with no
betrayal of the burden that the heavy basket
placed on her old back. Such affability we
encountered numerous times throughout our stay in Ladakh. It was a place where the
superciliousness of modern civilisation had not yet corrupted the simple ways of a simple
people.

Alchi monastery happened to be one of the

oldest in the region, ranging back to almost ten
centuries ago. A crowd of colourful prayer flags
swarmed the entrance to the monastery.
Inside, housed within a wooden building,
Buddhist monks were engaged in singing
hymns. About a dozen old monks sat on the left
of the aisle singing incantations and swaying in
rhythm. On the other side of the aisle sat an
equal number of young boys, apprentice monks
all of them, many less than ten years of age,
visibly disinterested in following the activity of
their seniors. The inner walls of the monastery
bore paintings of Buddha in his various avatars,
faded and worn by the ravages of time. I stood
there for some minutes viewing the paintings, under the influence of a constant
humming of incantations coming from the monks. The singing began to get intoxicating
first and then it started making me giddy. I quickly exited the building through a short
door that was barely four feet tall and immediately felt a huge sense of relief.

As we left the monastery, I couldnt help but pity those young boys whose childhood had
been robbed from them and on whom religion had been imposed long before they were
of age to realise what religion meant and long before they were of the maturity to even
opine whether they really wanted to have such assigned holiness officiated to them, or
to have anything to do with it.

I suspected that for the parents of these children it was

an age old cultural conditioning that gave them a sense of successful propitiation in
consigning their young sons to the religious fold. To me, this represented just another
form of slavery - a form of celestial slavery, if you may - that was not just odious and
repugnant but one that degraded the dignity of a child. I also realised that I was
affected by the sounds of the incantations of the monks while I was standing inside the
monastery. It had made me feel uneasy. I had no knowledge whatsoever of the
language in which the hymns were being sung, yet I was affected. I am sure that many
would explain such an experience as one that was deeply spiritual. I would be inclined
to pass it off as a phenomenon of audio resonance, one that was physically
uncomfortable to say the least.
We drove back towards Leh on the same road that we had arrived by and somewhere
near the midway mark, we detoured into a beaten hilly track, devoid of any sign of
macadam, towards Liker monastery. Ladakh draws its name from its high mountain
passes. It could have as easily been named after its numerous monasteries. There are
so many of them all over the place!

Getting to Liker monastery involved climbing a few

hundred metres up an inclined road after parking the
car. This was a better looking monastery compared to
Alchi with a grand view of the green valley below. I
took a clever shot of the valley through a broken
window that had long lost its panes, which I thought
gave the photo some character. In the foreground of
the monastery was a huge colourful statue of Buddha,
facing the opposite hill.

There was another monastery named Gazbo that fell on our way, but we were not really
inclined to visiting it. Instead, we stopped at a restaurant near the monastery and
ordered tea and snacks. The kids had Maggi noodles. I tasted Viveks leftover noodles
and was really amazed at the wonderful flavour that a sprinkling of coriander leaves had
imparted to the dish. It was a combination that I had never tasted earlier, but I will
henceforth insist on fresh coriander leaves to be added whenever Maggi noodles are
cooked at home.
The rest of the evening was uneventful. Our limbs were weary after the days travel.
While my family and I chose to stroll down to the main road for dinner, Jishnu and his
family opted for a quiet dinner at Padma Caf. We ordered chicken sizzler steak and
momos at a restaurant named Sunbeam, a combination of western and Tibetan cuisines
that might make an epicure wince at the choice. Our choice of restaurant turned out to
be poor as the food was served almost an hour after we ordered it. The food, however,
was quite tasty and compensated for the delay in service.
We retired for the night, the second of the tour. I passed off as soon as I hit the bed.
Buri spent a sleepless night, Vivek complained of breathlessness and Mili of nausea.
Altitude sickness had struck them. I was spared.
The next morning we left the
hotel for Pangong Tso at the
crack of seven, as ordered
by our driver, Rigzen. It
would be a long drive, he had
cautioned us and we would
need to be back before dusk.
We left Leh behind and drove
past Thiksey monastery,
located on a hill by the side of
the road. Rigzen informed
that this monastery was also called Little Potala due to its resemblance to the Potala in
Lhasa. Rigzen turned out to be quite an informative and communicative driver as he
patiently answered a host of queries that Jishnu posed to him about the Ladakhi society
and its customs.

The road meandered alongside the Indus River for a

few kilometres before swinging away towards the
mountains. As we gained elevation, a beautifully laid
out green valley emerged below, almost straight out
of an oil painting. This was Shakti valley and it surely
had to rank as the most beautiful of all the valleys
that we saw. From the top we could see houses that
were well spaced from each other, separated by
stretches of cultivated land. Rigzen proudly
proclaimed that most people were well off and poverty
was virtually unheard of in Ladakh.

As we climbed higher, the road turned bad as did the weather and in time we detected
with a lot of excitement tiny flakes of snow floating down on the windscreen of our car.
The scenery changed fast and soon we were driving through hills covered by snow. At
17,586 feet, we stopped at Changla Pass. It was cold, white and still snowing, albeit
sporadically. After a brief stop at the pass, we resumed our journey. The road dipped

and we drove on through a landscape that was more white than brown. A few miles
downhill, we stopped at a roadside tea stall that had been erected in the middle of
nowhere, near a lake that had frozen into ice. We took out the lunch packets that
Padma Caf had packed for us and consumed the food with hot cups of tea. The stall
also had an archery target with bow and arrows for entertainment of the visitors. We
tried our hand at some archery and left. We crossed the village Durbuk and arrived at
Tsangtse, alongside a beautifully flowing river. Here, Rigzen went into a nearby army
office and submitted our inner line permit, a document that was required in the form
of permission to visit Pangong. Another forty kilometres of drive over rugged mountain
roads brought us to Pangong Tso, made famous by Amir Khans film, The Three Idiots.

Pangong Lake is about 150 kms long,

with one-third of it lying within the
Indian territory and the balance inside
China. However, the road ended after
only about two kilometres along the side
of the lake. Beyond this rose
inaccessible mountains on either side.
We spent two hours at Pangong, mainly
taking photographs. The hills on the
sides of the lake changed their hue by the minute as the sun played hide and seek
behind the clouds. In the photos that I took, I can now see the lake and the mountains
framed in various moods fluid and subtly blue in the foreground; stark brown and
barren a little way off; calm and icy white in the distant, silhouetted behind a transient
mist upon the hills; and the deep crevices within the mountain folds on the opposite
bank frowning angrily at us. While there, I amazed at the splendid landscape that
unfolded before my eyes, changing its character with every fleeting moment. In my
minds eye, I have carried back with me multiple images of the lake and its

surroundings, each vastly different from the other. I also tasted the water of Pangong
lake. It was brackish. The lake hosts no form of aquatic life and is quite barren like the
mountains that supervise it from all around.
There were none of the popular Indian touristy trappings at Pangong. There were no
boating rides on offer, no balloon sellers, no pani-puris or roasted corns on sale, no
scrawny teenagers offering pony rides. Even visitors were few. There was just one
eatery operating from within a makeshift tent that served rice, vegetable and of course,
Maggi noodles. We partook of some food at this joint before making our way back to
the car. Pangong was unlike any other lake that I had been to (which are quite a few) in
my life. If I have not written well enough about the beauty of Pangong in the preceding
lines, it is purely because I find my ability to articulate it quite inadequate.
The drive back to Leh was quicker, mainly because we stopped at fewer places than
during the onward drive. Surprisingly, much of the snow at Changla Pass that we saw in
the morning had already melted. We witnessed black yaks grazing peacefully on the
grass in the meadows near the valleys. At that hour, the Shakti valley was bathed in
the soft light of the setting sun, almost tempting us to take a detour into the valley
instead of driving past it. Shakti was serenity on display.
That night, we had a quick dinner at Padma and called it a day quite early. The
following morning we would leave for Nubra valley.
We had a new driver the next day. Rigzen
apparently had taken ill and in his place, Murup
would drive us around over the next two days.
We started from the hotel at 9:30am after
breakfast, a little behind schedule, as Aradhana
had a fitful sleep at night, plagued by a
headache. This delay proved to be a blessing
because the clouds favourably conspired with
the mountains to unleash a spell of snowfall on us as we reached Khandung La, the
highest driveable pass in the world at 18,380 feet. This was our first experience of
proper snowfall and we found ourselves shivering at sub-zero temperatures quite a

novel experience in the month of July! I overheard a driver of another car remark that
the temperature was minus 5OC.
We had no means of verifying the
accuracy of the figure, but he could have
well been correct. It was indeed very
cold. Everything around us was white
and there was a thick blanket of snow on
the road. Breathing became heavy and I
dismissed the idea of going up to temple
on an adjacent mound after climbing just
a few steps. There were colourful prayer
banners all over the pass and a general feeling of gaiety abounded the place. At a caf,
we had momos and hot tea. The momos were disappointing and did not taste very
good!
After a brief stop of about half an hour, we started
towards Nubra. As our car descended, the snow
covered white gradually made way for the craggy
brown. The mountain faces had been carved up by
centuries of weather vagaries and bore a resemblance
to the terrains in Clint Eastwood westerns. We
remarked that McKennas Gold could have well been
shot all over again here in Ladakh! We went past
North Pullu, a base station north of Khardung La and
stopped at a restaurant in the village of Khalsar for
lunch. Alongside the restaurant flowed a mountain
stream extremely beautiful. Lunch was noodles and
thukpa. The food was cooked and served by a very
amiable lady who owned the restaurant as well.

At around 4:00pm, we arrived at Diskit monastery. Just a few moments before that, as
we were driving there, we stopped at a small lake beside the road in which there was a
spectacular reflection of the surrounding mountains. These were the kind of views that
made for ideal picture postcard subjects.

We did not enter the monastery at Diskit, but saw it

from outside, instead driving to the top of the hill on
which the monastery was situated and then walking
down a long flight of steps over which a giant statue of
Buddha stood tall. From Diskit, we drove to Hunder.
In Hunder valley, presumably carved out by a moving
glacier when the ice age melted millennia ago, lay a
desert a real desert complete with sand dunes and
camels. At 10,000 feet, it was an unbelievable sight.
We had come to associate deserts with blinding
sunshine, hot weather and nomads in Bedouin
headgear. Hunder was a desert at a high altitude, in a
cool clime, hosting double humped Bactrian camels
minded by their keepers who possessed mongoloid features. Mili, Vivek and Raag fooled
around on the sand and slid down dunes (in an act that was participated by the elders
too), getting sand in their clothes and shoes. In the distance, snow capped peaks stood
in regal attention; on either side, hills rose high dwarfing both camel and man in the
desert.

Dusk was setting in and we left Hunder for our nights stop in the village of Sumur, some
forty kilometres from Hunder. We had been booked into Silk Route Cottages, a resort
that claimed to be the only one that had attached bathrooms in the entire Nubra Valley!

Quite a qualification, I thought! On the way to Sumur we witnessed a sunset that was
almost divine. The sun had just hidden behind the hills but there were distinct beams of
sunlight that fell upon the valley through openings in the range. It prompted Jishnu to
comment that the scene looked like Gods light from the heavens that was depicted so
often in films. When we reached the our resort in Sumur, we were received by a Nepali
manager named Gopal who immediately informed that Sumur had power supply for only
three hours every day, from 8:30pm till 11:30pm! We needed no power supply at all
except for charging the batteries of our mobiles and cameras and three hours appeared
adequate.
We were allocated two cottages made
out of bamboo. The attached bathroom
was only just about it was a Peeping
Toms delight! That apart, the property
was very beautiful, with idyllic cottages
and tents set at different elevations
amidst tall poplar and apricot trees. The
dining room was right near the entrance
where we ate a dinner that night that
was purely vegetarian fare. With very little else to do, we called it a day and fell asleep
before the lights went out for the next 24 hours!

The next morning in Sumur began early for us as Buri, Aradhana, Jishnu and I went out
for a stroll in the adjoining village. The kids slept on. Our outing was delayed by a
drizzle, but the clouds soon cleared and the snowy peaks in the distant ranges glowed in
the first rays of the morning sun. Outside the exit of the hotel a stream gurgled past, its
clear rolling water striking a melodious musical note in dawns silence.

Birds chirped and the morning air felt fresh and clean.
A road winded through Sumur village, past lovely
homes and farmlands. Besides mustard in the farms,
a variety of colourful flowers skirted the road. Our
driver, Murup, had told us the previous day that Nubra
was actually Dumbra in olden times, which meant
valley of flowers. We could see why. Sumur was a
dream village that we had only read of in storybooks
and fairytales. The setting had a dreamlike feel about
it and the pervading feeling in the air was one of peace
and tranquillity. An elderly man greeted us with a
juleh, the Ladakhi version of hello. After an hours
walk in these idyllic surroundings, we returned to the
resort to eat breakfast and pack our bags for the last trip of our journey back to Leh.

We checked out of the hotel, after being regaled by the owner of the resort, a retired
army colonel, with stories of his life in Ladakh, his work in the north-east and his four
sons - two of whom were doctors, the third was an engineer and the youngest a hotelier
in Leh. He spoke with great pride about the achievements of Ladakhi youth and the
high level of literacy among the population. It was also evident that his hotel was doing
brisk business and he was prospering, what with it being the only one with attached
bathrooms!
Uphill from the resort, we arrived at the Sumur monastery, a five minutes drive from
the resort. We had already had enough of monasteries and did not enter this one
either. There were some monks clustered near the entrance, chit-chatting. One of
them said juleh. We returned the greeting. Nobody greets anybody in the cities of the
plains. We have very expertly learnt to ignore each others existence.
From Sumur, we drove further north to the village of Panamik, a mere forty kilometres
short of the (in)famous Siachen glacier, a lifeless chunk of ice over which India and
Pakistan have been foolishly fighting for decades. Frankly, there isnt much to write
home about regarding Panamik and had it not been for a solitary hot water spring,
Panamik would have never been known to the outside world. Historically, it was a
resting point for traders who travelled along the old silk route to China. A young lady
stood at the steps leading to the spring collecting Rs 15 per person as entry fee. Well,
they needed their resources for subsistence too, I said to myself, and paid for all of us.
At the spring, my reflexes saved me from some serious scalding. The impetuous me
unthinkingly put my feet in the water only to pull it out at once. It was very hot.
Downstream, the water had been neatly routed through a concrete channel into a
number of bathrooms where it poured, a lot less hot than at the source, through pipes.
For a small price, one could have a hot shower in the sulphur-rich water.
We turned back and on the way
stopped at a lake named Yerab
Tso, ensconced in a hollow
surrounded by hills. Getting
there involved trekking about
four hundred yards over a rock
strewn track. At the end of the

route, the lake revealed itself, totally enclosed by hills on all sides. We joked that bin
Laden would have still been alive had he chosen to hide here - so remote and so
secluded was the lake! Murup, our driver, told us that locals held the belief that if one
stared at the water with piety in heart, one could see the image of Lhasas Potala in the
lake. Truth be told, I tried hard but saw nothing save the reflections of the mountains
and the sky, and they looked immensely prettier than the reflection of any man made
temple in Tibet. Perhaps the keyword was piety and I lacked it. In reality, such are the
typical ways of a diaspora towards recreating a mythical image of the land of their
yearning and deriving a sort of vicarious happiness from the illusion that is created. The
failed myth apart, Yerab Tso was a wonderful experience.
The drive back to Leh took all of five hours. En route, we stopped at the same
restaurant at Khalsar as the previous day, for lunch. Khardung La, this time around had
fair weather and only a fraction of the previous days snow remained. We reached our
hotel at 5:00pm, tired and drained. The extremely dry atmosphere of Ladakh, totally
devoid of any form of moisture, tends to leave one dry and exhausted. The fact that the
content of oxygen in the air is less doesnt help either. Yet, one becomes oblivious of
these discomforts in the lap of Natures marvellous creations - unbelievably beautiful
consequences of Earths tectonic plate movements that gave rise to the Himalayas.
Words like majestic, ethereal, splendid, sublime and spectacular find their physical
manifestations in the mountains and lakes of Ladakh. The humdrum of our daily lives
appears a distant memory and the thought of the return trip back to the mundane
seems positively allergic.
We concluded our trip by treating ourselves to a tasty dinner at The Tibetan Kitchen in
Leh that final night. The food was cooked with a lot of care and the baked mountain
trout tasted especially delicious. Delayed service, however, seemed to be a normal
aspect of the restaurants in Leh. At the same time, dining under a clear starry sky and
pondering over the wondrous sights of the mountains and lakes that we beheld over the
past five days was immensely satisfying to the soul and a positively cathartic experience
for the spirits.
We left Leh on the morning of 4th July by Kingfisher airlines. For a long time after the
aircraft took to the sky, I continued to look below, capturing the last sights of the mighty
Himalayas, as the ranges slowly receded behind us and the flat stretches of boring,

monotonous, ugly plains unfolded underneath an ungainly reminder that the reality of
life would knock at the office the next morning. Now, we have thousands of photos,
hours of videos and loads of memories to last an entire lifetime to remind us of the five
days spent in sheer bliss in Ladakh.