Manali to Leh

The Manali–Leh Highway is quite famous in the itineraries of national and international tourists. It is a wonderful journey, full of challenges, but side by side giving you beautiful vistas of the hard as well as soul-aching face of Mother Nature in her raw, naked avatar.

We have taken almost all the possible means of reaching Leh so far.

We have flown in and out of Leh from Delhi.

Of course, air travel saves time. But this convenience comes at the cost of a tremendous number of experiences that travelling by road provides. On the road, you cross so many milestones as a wearied journeyman that the journey itself gives you a treasure trove of experiences.

It gives you many life lessons on the road.

Of course, the elderly and those who cannot take up this arduous journey are always welcome to fly into Leh. And, as I have said elsewhere, every means of transport and every type of carrier has its own unique specialties.

Air travellers can enjoy the vast majesty and extensive sprawl of the Himalayas from above. They can watch the transition from the plains to the Siwalik foothills, then the Middle Himalayas, the lofty peaks of the Greater Himalayas, and finally move into the Trans-Himalayan landscape—the ancient, rugged, stone-faced mountains leading towards the barren mountains and cold desert on the roof of the world.

That has its own charm.

But to us, the real charm lies in the road journey from Manali to Leh—about 400 to 450 kilometres of amazing, throbbing, pulsating journey.

And we have used almost every means available on the road.

We have taken roadways buses.

We have travelled in taxis.

We have even travelled in trucks.

Every means of transport provides you with a different perspective from which to look at things and enjoy nature. The kind of vehicle you are using while travelling towards Leh builds a different platform, and from every different platform, the surrounding landscape presents itself to you in a unique way.

From Manali into the Mountains

Earlier, as one moved from Manali, the first lofty mountain pass was Rohtang La.

Rohtang has long been a darling of tourists, but it has also been a nightmare for regular drivers.

These days, the journey avoids the difficult ascent over Rohtang because we have the Atal Tunnel.

As you travel through approximately ten kilometres of this ultra-modern tunnel, built with modern techniques of tunnelling through mountainous terrain and equipped with numerous safety measures, you realize how much India has progressed.

We might talk about shortages.

We might talk about unemployment.

We might talk about so many other challenges that we face on a daily basis.

But we cannot deny the fact that a lot of infrastructural development has taken place during the last two decades, and the Atal Tunnel stands as testimony to that.

The swiftness and ease with which you travel through this tunnel, cutting through the womb of a massive stony mountain, suddenly delivers you into Lahaul—the beautiful Lahaul of Himachal Pradesh.

There you still enjoy the greenery of Himachal.

But as you slowly move onward towards Baralacha La, a crucial doorway into the higher ranges, you begin transitioning from the green vegetation of Himachal Pradesh towards the barrenness of Ladakh.

It is a very subtle change.

The pines and other conifers slowly become stunted.

The lush greenery gradually hands over its territory to sparse tufts of grass upon barren mountain faces.

This transition can be observed so closely when you travel by road.

Gata Loops

Then come the increasingly rugged stretches of the highway.

At places such as Darcha, Sarchu and Pang, small eating points provide welcome halts to tired travellers. Some are run by Buddhist families, full of smiles and grace.

The food is simple, but it is served with a welcoming spirit.

You can feel the loving-kindness.

And then comes one of the most dramatic stretches of the road—the Gata Loops.

These are a series of twenty-one hairpin bends climbing steeply across an absolutely barren mountain face.

It is a terribly winding climb on a narrow road, with hardly any scope for a mistake.

Here you have massive trucks.

Tourist vehicles.

Bikers.

Cyclists.

Sometimes they appear almost locked together, trying to find inches of space.

It is quite wonderful to watch seasoned drivers who regularly negotiate these roads managing enormous trucks laden with heavy cargo.

The margin for error sometimes appears to be only a few inches.

When you look at the traffic from a distance, the vehicles appear almost glued to the straight rock face.

And, of course, the Gata Loops have their famous ghost story.

According to a local road legend, a truck helper was once stranded here during the off-season after the route had effectively closed. He is said to have died of thirst.

Stories subsequently arose among drivers about somebody appearing beside the road, asking passing vehicles for water.

And so, according to the tradition, truck drivers and other travellers began leaving water bottles and even cigarette packets at one of the sharp loops as offerings to the restless spirit associated with the Gata Loops.

Whether one believes such stories or not, these legends themselves become part of the personality of these lonely roads.

The Happiness of Reaching a Summit

From the Gata Loops and Nakee La, the road moves onward through Lachung La and farther into the old, rugged terrain leading towards Ladakh.

You encounter barren majesty on those high winding roads as you move towards Tanglang La.

Whenever tourists reach the summit of one of these great mountain passes, something interesting happens.

They stop.

They run towards the landmark displaying the name and altitude of the pass.

And everybody wants a photograph.

There is a wonderful feeling in having reached the summit.

It does not matter whether you reached it walking, cycling, riding a motorcycle, sitting in a car or travelling in a bus.

Reaching the summit becomes symbolic.

Perhaps somewhere within us it represents our aspiration to reach a high point in life.

People look genuinely happy simply standing beside that board announcing the name and height of the mountain pass.

They have reached a height.

Perhaps it says something about the human aspiration to go higher and higher.

Into Ladakh

After the great passes, you eventually descend into the broad open landscapes of Ladakh.

Now pure Ladakhi beauty begins waiting for you.

There are the magnificent open plains, stretches where the road seems to run endlessly through a beautiful high-altitude desert. If you are attentive enough, you may see wild asses moving across the landscape.

In between are nomadic settlements, with yaks, goats and sheep.

Now it begins to feel unmistakably like Ladakh.

And everywhere you encounter the enormous work done by the Border Roads Organisation.

Sometimes even the names given to pieces of infrastructure can make you laugh.

You may come across an iron-girder bridge on a difficult stretch with a name such as Whiskey Bridge.

And somewhere else, another called Rum Bridge.

It gives a little jest to an otherwise stern landscape.

Military and road personnel face some of the harshest conditions imaginable, and perhaps through tiny gestures such as these they lighten their own spirits and make passing travellers smile.

Why I Prefer the Bus

We have used most of the means available for reaching Leh, but the Manali–Leh road trip stands out among them.

Here you experience a throbbing vibrancy, a pulsating excitement, redolent with risk at different stages of the journey.

And among all the means that a visitor can take on this road, I would personally rate the public transport buses operated by Himachal Roadways as number one.

They open up an entirely different dimension of experience.

You are travelling with a group of people.

Foreigners.

Domestic tourists.

People of different classes and age groups.

Lamas.

Locals.

Migrant labourers travelling to Ladakh in search of work.

Suddenly the bus becomes a completely different world.

The Himachal Roadways staff and drivers we have encountered have generally been friendly, helpful and caring. I particularly remember Mr. Sharma, whom we met more than once around Keylong.

These people know the mountains.

During the journey, conversations begin.

The staff sometimes point out interesting things along the road.

And then the passengers themselves begin turning into stories.

Rama and Krishna

On one journey, there were two cousin brothers travelling to Ladakh for the first time.

I have forgotten their actual names, but their names somehow reminded me of Rama and Krishna.

So in my memory they became Rama and Krishna.

One of them, who appeared to be the senior and leader of the pair, was extraordinarily well researched about Ladakh.

He pulled out sheets of paper upon which he had carefully written the itinerary, important points and other details.

Everything had been noted down.

He was guiding the quieter cousin with tremendous enthusiasm.

Both appeared to be in their forties.

One, I think, was a manager in the private banking sector, while the other was in private business.

Rama was chirpy and ebullient.

Krishna was quieter—the follower.

And they were great foodies.

We discovered that at Manali.

We had arrived there on another bus, while they had travelled for hours in ordinary public transport.

At around two in the morning, we found them happily gorging themselves on large portions of bread and omelette.

That itself demonstrated their great spirit.

Although I wondered how wise such enthusiastic eating would prove when, without proper rest, we began climbing towards the high mountain passes.

And, as I had half expected, altitude eventually began affecting them.

Their faces lost colour.

The two men who had initially been clicking photographs of almost everything along the road were no longer looking outside with the same enthusiasm.

On that journey, Diamox was used by some of the passengers for altitude-related symptoms, including these two, and they later told me that they felt better.

The mountains had begun teaching their own lesson.

The Sikh Ex-Soldier

There was also a burly Sikh ex-soldier travelling with his family.

His son was travelling towards Ladakh for an Agniveer recruitment-related examination.

The young man spent almost the entire journey looking at his phone.

Ninety-nine percent of the time, I hardly saw him look outside.

Here was this magnificent Himalayan landscape unfolding outside the window, and here was this young man glued to his screen.

His father was quite different.

He was very happy because he happened to be sharing his allotted seat with a foreign woman.

His wife, a large woman, was seated farther back in the bus with their daughter.

And from there, I could see her throwing daggers at her husband with her eyes.

But those daggers seemed to have no effect upon him.

He had pleasant company, lovely proximity and an upbeat experience—a fellow traveller from another part of the world sitting beside him.

That must have been exciting for him too.

Sometimes he even attempted to strike up a conversation in his broken English.

That is how people open themselves with excitement to new experiences in life.

That too is the beauty of travelling on roads.

As the bus climbed higher, however, some passengers began struggling with altitude. The ex-soldier himself appeared to be concentrating simply on remaining composed while dealing with headache and discomfort.

His wife too was having difficulty.

Rama and Krishna had lost their earlier enthusiasm.

The high mountains were having their effect.

On that particular journey, I happened to have Diamox with me and shared it with some of them when they were struggling. They later thanked me.

These are the little interactions that happen when you share a bus for such a long journey.

You cease being entirely separate passengers.

When the Journey Goes Wrong

Road travel gives you beautiful experiences.

It also gives you experiences that are beautiful only after enough time has passed for you to laugh about them.

On another occasion, we travelled overnight from Delhi to Manali on a private bus.

We had planned the journey very carefully.

The bus was expected to reach Manali at around five in the morning.

I had found a booking online for what was shown as a twenty-four-seater traveller from Manali to Leh. Seats appeared to be available.

Everything seemed perfect.

I booked two tickets.

The boarding point was shown as the operator's office or lounge in Manali, and the vehicle was supposed to leave at around six in the morning and proceed towards Leh.

We paid around seven or eight thousand rupees for the two seats.

We were delighted.

We thought we would simply transfer from one vehicle to the next without losing any time.

But the road had planned something else.

A Wet Morning in Manali

When we reached Manali at around five in the morning, the sky was overcast.

It was drizzling.

We hired an auto and reached the bus lounge, expecting our traveller to be waiting there, ready to carry us towards Ladakh.

Much to our surprise, everything was closed.

There was no vehicle.

There was no passenger.

There was no staff member.

Even the office itself was shut.

So we waited.

And waited.

It continued raining.

Eventually, at around eight, somebody arrived and opened the office.

We explained our booking.

Then the mismatch became clear.

We were told that although the online booking had appeared to show a traveller, passengers booked for this journey were sometimes adjusted into shared taxis operating between Manali and Leh.

Because we had booked very late, there had apparently been no proper coordination.

And so we had simply been left stranded.

The staff member apologized and tried to find a shared taxi that might still be leaving late that morning.

Nothing suitable materialized.

I requested a refund.

And we realized that we would have to spend the day in Manali and find transportation to Ladakh the next morning.

When your mind is already looking towards Ladakh, somehow you do not feel like staying in Manali.

Manali is beautiful in its own way.

For families arriving from the scorching plains, its coolness provides wonderful relief.

But when your mind is seeking the solitude and emptiness of Ladakh, crowded Manali can feel like a disappointment.

And that particular morning was gloomy, overcast, drizzling and wet.

A Day of Small Losses

We took a taxi towards the Mall Road area.

We were exhausted after the overnight journey and disappointed by the failed connection.

So we simply booked the first hotel that came our way.

That was another mistake.

The moment we entered the room properly, we noticed that the bedding, bedsheets and coverings were covered with spots and stains.

Normally, cleanliness of the bed is one of the first things I check whenever I enter a hotel.

That day, because of exhaustion and disappointment, I had been careless.

We had already paid.

I looked at my brother.

“It will be difficult even to sleep here.”

The condition of the bedding was enough to make us imagine all kinds of messy things that previous tourists might have done there.

So we checked out.

They did not refund our money.

It was turning into a day of losses and disappointments.

We found a cleaner hotel and finally rested.

Then, as they say, sometimes going somewhere and eating something good can uplift your spirits.

That became the saving grace of the day.

We found a South Indian restaurant.

The food was good.

Slowly the mood improved.

Then we met a few friendly and helpful people at the tourist reservation centre.

The way they talked to us again lifted our spirits.

By evening, crowded and chaotic Mall Road was transforming into its bright nighttime personality.

Thankfully, it was no longer raining.

We walked around.

And somehow, even as tourists stranded somewhere we had not intended to stay, we realized:

Yes, we learned something here too.

Into the Unknown

Early the next morning, we finally started for Leh in a shared cab.

It was a small car.

There were four of us—my brother and I, and two friends from Rajasthan who worked in the automobile sector.

They were going to Ladakh for the first time.

Whenever I remember them, they bring a smile to my face.

There was such curiosity.

And such innocence.

They knew almost nothing about Ladakh.

To them, Leh and Ladakh were almost the same thing.

And perhaps that is understandable these days.

You see beautiful and exciting snippets on Instagram, Facebook, WhatsApp groups and other social-media platforms.

Lofty mountains.

Snow.

Deserts.

Motorcycles.

Blue lakes.

The glamour of these images attracts your attention and suddenly you feel driven to visit the place.

But these two had almost no idea where to go once they reached there.

They seemed to imagine that once they arrived in Leh, all the beautiful things they had seen in social-media reels would somehow present themselves in the immediate vicinity.

Slowly we explained:

“Leh is only your launching point. Ladakh is the larger territory. You have to explore it.”

That came as a surprise.

You have to take time.

You have to devote money.

You have to devote spirit.

In fact, you have to devote mind, body and spirit if you really want to explore Ladakh.

But there was something beautiful in their lack of preparation too.

There is one kind of travel in which you research everything, prepare itineraries and know almost exactly what you are going to encounter.

And then there is another kind.

You simply open yourself to curiosity and walk into the unknown.

That too can give you a completely different experience.

I hope those two friends enjoyed their four or five days there.

Ikra

Another person I remember belongs to a different journey, this time while travelling from Leh back towards Manali on a roadways bus.

The bus started very early in the morning, at around four.

We had reserved our seats a day in advance.

On the three-seater side were my brother, me, and beside the window, a young woman.

She slept.

And slept.

And slept.

She must have been extremely tired.

Rarely have I seen anybody sleep with such intensity on such a bumpy, winding mountain journey.

But at the first proper breakfast halt, she suddenly came into her element.

The little establishment was run by a Buddhist family with the help of a few migrant workers from the plains.

Inside were large platforms covered with mattresses and round pillows. You could almost lie down like a king while enjoying the simple food served there.

My brother and I sat down for tea.

The girl approached us.

She must have been somewhere in her mid-to-late twenties.

I was eating biscuits and offered her some.

She accepted them with such natural friendliness that conversation immediately began.

Her name was Ikra.

She was a Muslim girl from Kerala.

And she had gone absolutely crazy about Ladakh.

I could feel how sorry she was to be leaving.

During the tourist season she had found part-time work connected with a motorcycle group, helping manage their activities. The work gave her some money and, more importantly for her, an opportunity to ride and roam around Ladakh.

She was still preparing for examinations and trying to build her future.

She had spent quite some time in Ladakh that summer, and leaving it was visibly hurting her.

She told me that she was short of money.

She was still a student.

She needed to find a permanent job.

I encouraged her:

“First work very hard. Build a good career. Earn some money. Then you can roam around Ladakh.”

With a little tint of sadness, she smiled and said something like:

“Yes. This is what seniors always advise the younger ones.”

Then we laughed.

Something Beneath the Surface

We talked a lot during that journey.

She wanted to visit Spiti Valley as well.

She shared parts of her personal life.

I sensed something sad underneath her cheerful exterior, something she was perhaps trying to escape from.

And Ladakh—with its openness, its vastness and what I feel to be its healing touch—seemed to be giving her some solace.

It was a very nice interaction.

Then another young traveller gradually entered our little group.

He was from Karnataka.

I have forgotten his name, but he was a very nice Muslim boy, perhaps in his early thirties.

Initially he was shy.

He would listen to portions of our conversations during the stopovers.

So I encouraged him:

“Come, join us.”

Slowly he opened up.

And now we had become a little group:

My brother.

Me.

Ikra from Kerala.

And the young man from Karnataka.

We talked.

We shared food.

We exchanged stories.

I continued talking to Ikra about Ladakh, about travelling and about building a career—about first finding some stability and then enjoying travel with greater freedom, rather than roaming endlessly without building a secure foundation and facing difficulties later.

She was open to listening to the ideas of somebody senior to her.

And somewhere along the road, something else was happening.

A Little Chemistry on the Road

By the time we reached Keylong, I could see a definite chemistry developing between Ikra and the Karnataka boy.

In fact, I encouraged it a little.

Because that's how beautiful stories begin.

At Keylong, we again had tea at a small tea shop run by a woman.

The journey continued.

The conversations continued.

And by the time we finally reached Manali, I could see that a definite friendship had formed between the two.

Night was falling as the bus entered Manali bus stand.

And then I saw the two of them walking away together, perhaps looking for some lodging.

I had a smile on my face.

As a poet, writer and researcher, I could not help seeing something poetic in that little scene.

Because the girl, as far as I could understand, was troubled.

She was missing Ladakh.

She was worried about her career.

She was a young woman looking for her destiny, trying to establish a foothold in life.

And here was this young man.

If I remember correctly, he worked as a fisheries supervisor. He seemed to have a secure job and appeared relatively stable in his perspectives and views on life.

Perhaps each possessed something that the other needed.

Maybe they would become good friends.

Maybe something more.

Maybe nothing beyond the journey.

These things are secondary.

The main thing is how comfortable one feels in the company of somebody who is walking beside him or her.

And that was quite a nice experience to observe.

A poetic one.

With a little sweetness of love in it.

The Stories the Road Gives Us

These are the beautiful stories that you come across on the road.

You watch relationships forming.

You watch people opening themselves.

You see somebody arriving with meticulously prepared sheets of paper containing every detail of Ladakh.

You see somebody else arriving without even knowing the difference between Leh and Ladakh.

You see a young man staring at his mobile phone while some of the greatest mountains on Earth pass outside his window.

You see his father happily attempting broken English with a foreign fellow passenger while his wife throws imaginary daggers from the back of the bus.

You see initially excited tourists become quiet when the altitude reminds them of the power of the mountains.

You get stranded in a rainy Manali morning because a booking does not work out.

You lose money on a hotel room you cannot bring yourself to sleep in.

Then a plate of good South Indian food lifts your spirits.

The next morning, you start again.

On another journey, you offer a biscuit to a sleepy girl from Kerala.

A conversation begins.

Another young man joins it.

Food is shared.

Stories are exchanged.

Hundreds of kilometres pass underneath the wheels.

And by the time the bus reaches Manali, two people who began the journey as complete strangers are walking away together.

Perhaps they never met again.

Perhaps they remained friends.

Perhaps their story continued in some way that I will never know.

I do hope that they found a comfortable space in each other's presence.

Because ultimately, whether somebody becomes a friend or a partner is secondary.

What matters is whether, for however long the road allows it, you find somebody whose presence makes walking your portion of the journey a little easier.

That is what road travel gives you.

The mountains are magnificent.

The passes are intimidating.

The plains are vast.

The roads are sometimes dangerous.

The landscapes can leave you speechless.

But somewhere between Manali and Leh, I have increasingly realized that the road is not made merely of mountains, bridges, tunnels and milestones.

It is also made of people.

And every once in a while, among those strangers travelling beside you, the road gives you a little story.

Sometimes even one with the sweetness of love in it.

 A few moments from Manali to Leh journey.