The pilgrimage

 As you travel on the impressive roads of Ladakh, enjoying the barren beauty, the rich silence and the redolent emptiness of this high-altitude desert, almost on the roof of the world, you come across many workers along the way, working on road repairs.

These are contract labourers hired for keeping the roads in shape. They work across the seasons. In winters, they remove snow to allow mobility on the roads. In summers, they pick up stones that have glided down the slopes from above, repair cuts made by glacial melts, or work at places where the valley-side support and embankments of the roads have given way.

They are working day in and day out.

A majority of them are women—broad in structure, short in stature, but mountainous in spirit and willpower to add something extra to their meagre incomes and run their homes.

These Ladakhi women, ranging from the young to even those in their sixties, can be found working in groups at intervals along roads throughout Ladakh, in almost every direction.

They wear dark clothes, trousers, heavy jackets and sunshades to protect themselves from the biting winds and dusty conditions.

They are so diligent in their work, going about it slowly and steadily.

Since we have been exploring Ladakh, we have seen them in many avatars—mostly working, picking up stones, handling shovels and pickaxes; sometimes taking their lunch, sometimes having tea, sometimes resting and chatting while the mountain winds howl around them or vehicles speed past.

But on this particular day, when we travelled from Padum towards Phugtal Monastery, there was something special in the air.

Apart from the work they had been doing, there was something celebratory in nature, almost as if it were a festival.

In the morning, as we passed these groups, we could see the little ornate low tables that Ladakhi people use for having tea while sitting on the ground. Little carpets had been laid beside the road. There were baskets of eatables and bundles of clothes.

The women were working, but we thought that perhaps something interesting was going to happen later in the day. It seemed as though they were waiting for something special during the latter half.

And all along the route, for fifty or sixty kilometres until we reached the point where we had to leave the main road towards Phugtal Monastery, we found groups of women waiting in anticipation—working, but working with a pleasant casualness, as if they were looking forward to something special later in the day.

Along the little hamlets and villages, we also came across groups of men attired in their traditional Ladakhi dresses, carrying musical instruments and drums, preparing for something.

So we thought perhaps there was a wedding they were going to attend.

At a small restaurant on the way, run by a very energetic Ladakhi woman who was sharp in tongue and good in humour, everybody seemed to be in a hurry.

It was around eleven in the morning, and when we asked whether something was available for breakfast, they said, “We are in a hurry today.”

But they did not explain why.

So there must be something special, we thought.

But we had no clue about what was going to come.

The woman running the place was short, with a very smart face, perhaps in her forties. She had the tongue to give it back to anyone, but always with a smile. She had that smartness.

She ordered her helper to at least serve us tea.

So we had tea there.

We were carrying our own biscuits and snacks, so we had them with the tea and then started our journey onwards into the inner valley.

From near the village, the Tsarap River system carried its waters down through the mountains, and farther inside lay Phugtal Monastery.

We went there, and after spending three or four hours amid the beautiful majesty and mysticism of Phugtal Monastery—where generations of monks had lived through snowbound seclusion and kept the sanctity of Buddhism and its traditional knowledge alive and thriving to this day—we came back in the afternoon, rich and fulfilled in a beautiful way.

And when we returned to the same little cafeteria-cum-restaurant, the place had completely changed.

It was buzzing with dozens of men and women in a festive environment.

There was music.

Ladakhi men were dressed in robes of maroon and other dark shades of red. The women were in their extensively embellished and ornamented traditional wear—exquisite dresses—and everybody was moving around with such anticipation and joy.

It was the kind of joy little children have when they know they are going to participate in games, or when they are going to enjoy a day at a fair or a fun park.

I took permission from them to make videos and take photographs, and they were so happy to allow it.

There is hardly any insecurity or inhibition in that part of the world.

They seem free from many of the modern bugs that we, the people from the plains, frequently encounter. Here, we often look at anybody approaching us with a request with suspicion and a sense of separation. There is so much cut-throat competition that we almost take it for granted that whoever comes to us must have some ulterior motive.

But there, in that openness, the Ladakhi people, with their beautiful culture of accommodation and their religion promoting loving-kindness, do not seem to have been bitten by this bug.

And we had a free hand at photographing and videographing the little festival.

Then I asked someone what the occasion was.

He told me that a very senior lama, a Rinpoche, was travelling from Manali to Padum that day.

And these people, wherever there was a Ladakhi Buddhist settlement—whether on this side of Shinku La Pass or on the other side towards Himachal Pradesh—had been lining up since morning, full of joy and reverence, to welcome the honoured and learned man, the revered Rinpoche.

Suddenly, everything we had seen in the morning made sense.

When we started back on our journey towards Padum, the women whom we had earlier seen sitting in anticipation and working casually had now put away their working clothes.

They had changed into their traditional costumes, so deeply symbolic of their ancient culture.

The same women whom we had seen handling stones, shovels and pickaxes in the morning were now sitting beside the road around little ornate, colourful tables, having tea ceremonies, bantering and joking.

There was so much lightness in the air.

Whenever we reached a little hamlet, there would be a larger gathering of people. Pickups and jeeps stood waiting for the honoured Rinpoche to arrive so that they too could join the convoy.

The men were beating drums.

The women were singing.

And we witnessed the same spectacle for fifty or sixty kilometres, almost all the way back towards Padum.

Wherever there was even the smallest human habitation, people had gathered along the road in their best traditional costumes, enjoying those moments as though it were a festival.

It was such a lively thoroughfare in the wilderness.

The brown stones looked tiny in comparison with the indomitable joy and faith of these people, as if these mountains had not been successful in subduing their spirits for generations.

Nature might give them the harshest of conditions, but these people would stick to their ancient culture, their religious beliefs, their respect and almost godly reverence for their Rinpoches and lamas, and their ancient identity that defines their uniqueness as such a distinct culture.

It was a lovely experience witnessing all this on our journey back towards Padum.

Ladakh is full of mysteries.

The more you wander, the more it opens up.

But the more it opens up, the more questions it puts on the platter.

It is almost like a teasing, mischievous beauty, seductively pouting and always inviting:

“Come after me. Come after me.

You will not get me in totality.

But the pursuit will be worth it.”

And pursuing we have been this beautiful landscape.

Every answer Ladakh gives seems to produce another invitation to wander farther.

A place where Mahadiddha Naropa meditated

 Ladakh is a beautiful landscape—a high-altitude desert. It is very appealing to souls that feel congested, overcrowded and stuffed into narrow boxes in urban landscapes.

The moment you step into Ladakh, you feel its vast emptiness. There is no competition. There is silence speaking through the mountain winds. It seems to embrace you, giving you the peace that is so much required.

You feel decongested.

So no wonder modern humans, who have been pushed into crowded corners by the competitive edges of modern society, are flocking to Ladakh like never before.

My brother and I visit Ladakh every year during the summers—to recharge our batteries, to feel the emptiness, to experience the unmanifest divinity prevailing everywhere. Its unique culture, its peace-loving people, the joy on their faces, their contentment—you can feel it.

So this is about my experience in Zanskar Valley this time.

Earlier, the road to Zanskar was a long, circuitous route from Leh to Kargil first, and then from Kargil to Zanskar Valley. It was a very long journey through treacherous roads. It would take almost the entire day, possibly even requiring a stopover at Kargil, so that you would reach Zanskar the next day.

But now the Border Roads Organisation, which has been doing a wonderful job developing infrastructure in this high-altitude, lofty desert adorned with high mountain peaks, passes, snow-clad slopes, rocks and challenging barrenness, has transformed connectivity.

It is a very tough job.

Now there is a smooth road connecting towards Padum in Zanskar, the main town of Zanskar Valley. What was once a formidable journey has become a matter of a few hours of comparatively smooth riding through this magnificent landscape.

The Zanskar River cuts through the mountains before eventually reaching the Indus near Leh, at the famous Indus-Zanskar confluence.

Zanskar is a completely different kind of cultural and geographical entity, even within Ladakh. It has its own unique culture, which has been retained to a remarkable extent, even in comparison with the rest of Ladakh.

One major reason is its historical isolation.

Till relatively recently, people would walk along the frozen Zanskar River. They would travel for almost two weeks and stay in caves along the route. I met so many people who had taken this journey during their childhood or youth, walking for almost fifteen days on the frozen Zanskar River.

Since Zanskar remained so isolated even from the rest of Ladakh, you can still see ancient Ladakhi culture in its houses, costumes, in the way people look at life—in the entire cultural landscape. It appears still more distinct and ancient-looking than much of the rest of Ladakh.

But the Zanskar River provides an amazing, curvaceous flow through valleys and floodplains where you find surprising stretches of greenery. In fact, a few villages were so green that it was almost unimaginable to look at those green patches from the top of a hill and remember that you were travelling through a high-altitude desert.

Then there are the famous monasteries, like Shongdey Monastery, standing high on a cliff. The famous Phugtal Monastery is also reached through this wider Zanskar landscape.

We visited many of these monasteries, and travelling around on a mountain bike is an unparalleled experience. You roam through Zanskar’s valleys and villages and ride along tough mountain roads—some maintained, some just unmetalled—until you reach a monastery on the top of a high hill.

And from there, you simply look down into the panorama.

One place, however, stands out.

Dzongkul Monastery

It lies roughly thirty to thirty-five kilometres from Padum, and we rode our bike towards this place through a beautiful passage across villages and open landscapes.

After the opening of roads, everything has picked up such a fast pace of development that you can already see that Zanskar will soon become much more connected and urbanized.

Poetically, you might think that we are losing the pristine touch of nature.

But merely for our poetic sentiments, we cannot deny these people the opportunity to enjoy the modern amenities and facilities of life.

These are people whose ancestors spent their entire lives in snow-bound, inaccessible recesses. For generations, their gateway to the outside world could involve the frozen river during winter or difficult routes during summer, journeys that could take many days.

You can imagine how limited and how tough life must have been.

And now they are happy to see this change.

You can see their happiness and joy. There are new buildings, hotels, tourism and new sources of income. They are opening up.

Yes, this isolated part of the world is losing some of its solitude.

But we cannot expect these people to remain in ancient times just for us tourists, so that we can occasionally arrive and enjoy their remoteness and ancient feeling.

That is not justified.

They deserve modern amenities as much as anyone travelling from the plains does.

So we have to accept this fact: things will change everywhere, in every nook and corner of this planet, even in high-altitude deserts full of solitude.

Things will change.

There will be more crowds. There will be development.

That is inevitable.

These are simply the forces of change, as Buddha says.

Travelling towards Dzongkul Monastery, the road passes through beautifully spread-out parts of Zanskar Valley, through big villages, some of them quite prosperous because agriculture is possible there. The river system takes definite shape nearby, its streams broadening as they move through the landscape.

The Tsarap River comes through the lofty mountains, and on one of the remote tributary valleys associated with this river system stands one of the most remote monasteries in the world—Phugtal Monastery.

The waters eventually become part of the Zanskar River system. From here onwards, the Zanskar cascades down through its magnificent valley to reach the Indus—to submit its ferocity, submit its fluidity, submit its flow to the Indus River.

As we rode our bike on recently metalled, smooth roads, enjoying the beautiful ribbon of road spread between high mountains on both sides and the river nearby, we crossed little hamlets.

And then we came across a stone crusher belching stone dust into the pristine Ladakhi skies.

That stood as a contrast.

A dusty stone crusher, stones being crushed, that crunching sound of human endeavour to tame nature.

It appeared very, very odd in that landscape.

Poetically, there can be a feeling of sadness, of losing something. But again, you cannot deny these people what the rest of the world is enjoying.

So we have to accept change.

And we moved onward.

The last phase of the road towards Dzongkul Monastery goes across a very remote hillside overlooking a fast, glittering glacial stream. As we rode, we saw groups of yaks along the way, because this monastery is located in a very deep corner full of solitude.

When we reached there, we could see construction going on.

The monastery, of course, has every right to add to its facilities. The monks deserve the facilities that the rest of humanity enjoys.

There were migrant labourers from the North Indian plains working there, while the monks were supervising the work.

We met a young monk, almost a teenager. He was from a village down in the valley. The monasteries traditionally have disciples and monks from surrounding villages. Earlier, there was a tradition in which a family would give one of its boys to a monastery, helping keep the monastic lineage alive and the monasteries functioning.

We had a nice conversation with him.

Then he pointed towards the cave of Mahasiddha Naropa, high on the hill at some distance from the monastery.

It is here that the great Buddhist yogi Mahasiddha Naropa is believed to have meditated about a thousand years ago.

The path to this cave, set deep within a stony recess high on the hill, was very steep, ascending through a long flight of rough stone steps. Some had simply been cut into the surface, while others had been laid with cement and mortar.

It is a tough climb.

But it is worth it.

As I reached there, the cave stood out with its ancient imprint.

There are so many stories about Mahasiddha Naropa possessing mystical powers and developing extraordinary capabilities through yoga and Tibetan Buddhist tantra.

Tradition says that wherever he meditated, whether in Ladakh or Tibet, he could place his hand against the hard stone wall of a cave and leave an imprint of his hand there.

So many places associated with him carry this kind of spiritual branding.

Inside that approximately thousand-year-old cave, the stones have been blackened by centuries of incense and lamps. A brass idol of Mahasiddha Naropa looks upon you with spiritual intensity.

I sat down there to meditate.

And I could make out that it was a very high-energy place.

I feel that caves have the potential to retain the original frequency of a Mahasiddha who has meditated there, because there is greater stability in the earth element in comparison with air, water and the other elements.

Once a Mahasiddha has established himself at a certain frequency, a certain lightness of being, and has gone into profound meditative trances at a place, the entire cave can become a kind of yantra—a spiritual yantra, a spiritual tool—where energy has been stabilized and established in a specific form.

It then becomes a spiritual tool capable of energizing and providing energy to those who approach it with openness, with good intention and with full faith.

The moment you start meditating at such a place, you are plugging into that spiritual machinery, that spiritual yantra.

And it does for you whatever needs to be done for your evolution, for your consciousness, for the evolution of your consciousness.

At whatever platform of your evolution you are, you will get what you specifically need.

That is the beauty of such places.

So as I sat down to meditate, within a few minutes I could feel the energies pleasantly taking over my system, reshaping my energetic structure, aligning it in a better way so that my spiritual journey could become smoother.

It was a very blissful experience.

I felt a very strong and powerful energy overtaking my conscious system, like a mother cradling her child, taking utmost care to keep the child safe while still nourishing it.

The same was happening to me.

I spent about one hour there and allowed the energies to restructure, realign and reshape my energetic structure—to give me better chances on the path of evolution, on the path of understanding and wisdom, so that I could get more light in life.

Naropa cave at Dzonkul monastery in Suru valley of Zanskar.

Luscious Ladakh

 Ladakh is a beautiful landscape, a high-altitude desert. It is very appealing to souls that feel congested, overcrowded and stuffed into narrow boxes in urban landscapes.

The moment you step into Ladakh, you feel its vast emptiness, without any competition, silence speaking through the mountain winds. It seems to embrace you and give you much of the peace that is required.

You feel decongested.

So no wonder modern humans, who have been put into crowded corners by the competitive edges of modern society, are flocking to Ladakh like never before.

My brother and I visit Ladakh every year during the summers to recharge our batteries, to feel the emptiness, the unmanifest divinity prevailing everywhere. Its unique culture, its peace-loving people, the joy on their faces, their contentment—you can feel it.

So this is about my experience in Zanskar Valley this time.

Earlier, the road to Zanskar was a long, circuitous route from Leh to Kargil first and then from Kargil to Zanskar Valley. It was a very long journey through treacherous roads. It would take almost the entire day, possibly even requiring a stopover at Kargil, so you would reach Zanskar the next day.

But now the Border Roads Organisation has been doing a wonderful job developing infrastructure in this high-altitude, lofty desert adorned with high mountain peaks, passes, snow-clad slopes, rocks and a challenging barrenness.

It is a very tough job.

With the coming of new roads, travelling towards Padum, the main town of Zanskar Valley, has become much easier. You travel through this extraordinary landscape with the Zanskar River cutting down through the mountains before ultimately meeting the Indus near Leh at the Indus-Zanskar confluence.

Zanskar is a completely different kind of cultural and geographical entity, even within Ladakh. It has its own unique culture, which has still been retained to a remarkable extent, even in comparison with the rest of Ladakh.

Earlier, there was no easy direct road access, and till relatively recently people would walk along the frozen Zanskar River. They would travel for almost two weeks and stay in caves along the route.

I met so many people who had taken this journey in their childhood or during their young age, walking for almost fifteen days on the frozen Zanskar River.

Since Zanskar was so isolated even from the rest of Ladakh, you can still see the ancient Ladakhi culture in its houses, its costumes, in the way people look at life—in the entire cultural landscape. It is still more distinct and ancient-looking than much of the rest of Ladakh.

But the river valleys and floodplains also provide an amazing amount of greenery.

The beautiful Zanskar Valley is dotted with lush green barley fields surrounding villages, particularly around Padum and along the gentle streams in its upper reaches.

Willow, poplar, apricot and juniper—these are the trees that sway to the mountain winds, symbolizing Mother Earth's undying spirit to manifest green even at the most arduous and challenging altitudes in barren deserts.

And then, across the streams, you have sea buckthorn.

These are wild, hardy, thorny shrubs. They have vitamin-rich orange berries, and they are much in fashion in the plains now. You have sea buckthorn teas and other drinks prepared from them.

Perhaps the attraction is also because something that grows in such hardy conditions must be carrying a very vital force of life.

So humans try to use it.

And around the monasteries you have juniper, locally known as shukpa. These are considered sacred, and their dried needles are put on live coals to give a purifying fragrance.

It is a lovely smell that you can find wafting across peaceful monasteries perched on hilltops.

The area around Padum is a broad valley between mountain ranges on both sides, and within it are the signs of habitation with their barley fields.

And now there is modernity.

New roads are coming in. Development works are going on.

After the opening of the roads, everything has picked up such a fast pace of development that you can see Zanskar changing before your eyes. Poetically, you might think that we are losing the pristine touch of nature.

But merely for poetic sentiments, you cannot deny these people the opportunity to enjoy the modern amenities and facilities of life.

These are the people whose ancestors spent their entire lives in snow-bound, inaccessible recesses, with their gateways to the outside world involving journeys along the frozen Zanskar during winter or difficult routes during summer, sometimes taking many days.

You can imagine how limited and how tough life must have been.

But now they are happy to see this change.

You can see their happiness and joy—new buildings, hotels, tourism, new sources of income. They are opening up.

Yes, this isolated part is losing its solitude.

But we cannot expect them to remain in ancient days just for us tourists, so that we can occasionally come and enjoy the remoteness and ancient feeling.

That is not justified.

They deserve modern amenities as much as anyone travelling from the plains does.

So we have to accept this fact that things will change everywhere, in every nook and corner of this planet, even in high-altitude deserts full of solitude.

Things will change.

There will be more crowds. There will be development.

That is inevitable.

Just the forces of change, as Buddha says.

Towards Dzongkul

One place that stands out in my memories of this journey is Dzongkul Monastery, roughly thirty to thirty-five kilometres from Padum.

We rode our bike towards it through beautifully spread-out parts of Zanskar Valley, through big villages, some of them quite prosperous because agriculture is possible there.

As we rode on recently metalled smooth roads, enjoying the beautiful road spread between high mountains, with the river nearby, we crossed little hamlets.

And then we came across a stone crusher belching stone dust into the pristine Ladakhi skies.

That stood as a contrast.

A dusty stone crusher, stones being crushed, that crunching sound of human endeavour to tame nature.

It appeared very, very odd.

Poetically, there can be a feeling of sadness, of losing something.

But again, you cannot deny these people what the rest of the world is enjoying.

So we have to accept change.

And we moved onward.

The last phase of the road towards Dzongkul Monastery goes across a very remote hillside overlooking a fast, glittering glacial stream. As we rode, we saw groups of yaks along the way because this monastery is located in a very deep corner full of solitude.

When we reached there, we could see construction going on.

The monastery, of course, has every right to add to its facilities. The monks deserve all the facilities that the rest of humanity enjoys.

There were migrant labourers from the North Indian plains working there, and monks were supervising the work.

We met a young monk there, almost a teenager. He was from a village down in the valley.

The monasteries traditionally have their disciples and monks from the surrounding villages. Earlier, there was this tradition of giving a boy from a family to the monastery so that they could keep the lineage alive and keep their monasteries going.

We had a nice talk with him.

Then he pointed towards the cave of Mahasiddha Naropa, high on the hill at some distance from the monastery.

It is here that the great Buddhist yogi Mahasiddha Naropa is believed to have meditated about a thousand years ago.

The ascent to this cave, deep in a stony recess high on the hill, is very steep, going through a very long flight of stone steps. Some have simply been cut into the surface, while others have been laid with cement and mortar.

It is a tough climb.

But it is worth it.

As I reached there, the cave stood out with its ancient imprint.

There are so many stories about Mahasiddha Naropa having mystical powers, having developed so many capabilities through yoga and Tibetan Buddhist tantra.

Tradition says that wherever he meditated, either in Ladakh or Tibet, he could put his hand on the hard stone walls of a cave and leave an imprint there.

So many of the caves associated with him carry this kind of branding of spirituality.

Inside that roughly thousand-year-old cave, its stones blackened with incense and lamps over centuries, a brass idol of Mahasiddha Naropa overlooks you with spiritual intensity.

I sat down there to meditate.

I could make out that it was a very high-energy place.

I feel that caves have the potential to retain the original frequency of a Mahasiddha who has meditated there because there is more stability in the earth element in comparison with air, water and the other elements.

Once a Mahasiddha has established himself at a certain frequency, a certain lightness of being, and has gone into profound meditations there, the entire cave becomes a kind of yantra—a spiritual yantra, a spiritual tool.

Energy has been stabilized and established there in a specific form, so that the place itself becomes a spiritual tool to energize and provide energy to those who approach it with openness, with good intention and with full faith.

The moment you start meditating at such a place, you are plugging into that spiritual machinery, that spiritual yantra.

And it does for you whatever needs to be done for your evolution, for your consciousness, for the evolution of your consciousness.

At whatever platform of your evolution you are, you will get what you specifically need.

That is the beauty of such places.

As I sat down to meditate, within a few minutes I could feel the energies pleasantly taking over my system, reshaping my energetic structure, aligning it in a better way so that my spiritual journey could become smoother.

It was a very blissful experience.

I felt a very strong and powerful energy overtaking my conscious system, like a mother cradling her child, taking utmost care to keep the child safe but still nourishing it.

The same was happening to me.

I spent about one hour there and allowed the energies to restructure, realign and reshape my energetic structure—to give me better chances on the path of evolution, on the path of understanding and wisdom, so that I could get more light in life.

The Monasteries as Living Worlds

The monasteries themselves are beautiful.

Their sturdy walls are made of mud and stone, painted with white lime on the outside, with small windows having maroon-coloured frames. Then you have maroon-coloured borders along the roofs at each storey, colourful draperies, shiny yellow silk curtains and so many golden ornamentations.

The roofs are made using sturdy trunks and timber, with mud covering the wooden framework that forms the ceiling below. These structures have survived through generations in an extremely difficult climate.

And then you have the thangka paintings.

The more we can see about them, the less it seems, because these are masterworks of patience.

A painter may devote months, sometimes years, to giving elaborate detail to Buddhist stories—stories of avatars, yogis, yoginis and countless other local deities.

They represent an extensive network of human imagination and thought about what might constitute godliness and also the opposing, contradictory forces of evil, the dark ones, which challenge the rule of order and discipline in society.

Stand and look at a thangka painting, and it might take your entire day just to have a look at each and every character in it.

It is so full of life.

It is a world in itself.

In the main shrine halls, along the side walls, you find ancient cloth-bound manuscripts containing Tibetan and Ladakhi scriptures dating back centuries, preserving sacred knowledge.

Even today, the resident monks sit down in rows, chant those holy sermons and revise their lessons.

There are deities and Buddha idols in golden hues, and elaborate altars consisting of so many kinds of offerings.

You can feel that it is a world full of complete faith.

The monks have worked so hard over the centuries to give such extensive detail to each and every aspect of their religion that the environment itself becomes an experience.

That dimly lit environment.

The fragrance of juniper wafting through it.

You walk on the floorboards across this little space, past the low tables at which the monks sit during their routine learning and study sessions, and you feel so small and insignificant in the face of that extensive, devotion-based, comprehensive structure created by the human heart, full of faith.

And they keep continuing with the tradition.

They pray for world peace.

That is the most beautiful thing that I love about Buddhists.

They simply sit down, and a central focus of their meditation and prayers is the larger good, for the benefit of the world, for peace in this world.

I sometimes think that if not for such lovely souls praying for world peace in such seclusion, this world would fall apart.

They are a binding force of love, keeping things from going totally wrong.

An Evening Above the Valley

It was evening time.

From the terrace of a higher storey, we looked down into the central courtyard in front of the main shrine hall on the ground floor.

We could see dozens of monks, ranging from the very old to very young novices, swirling around in beautiful patterns.

It was a kind of devotional ceremonial dance accompanied by chanting.

And there was such an amazing, innocent, childlike playfulness about it.

The monks were dancing in the seclusion of their monastery courtyard, high on the hill, far away from the maddening crowd—their robes swirling in the air, laughter, little jokes.

And that is their play.

Their play still involves and centres around devotion.

Those are the steps they take for ceremonies.

It was a beautiful experience.

On one side, the monks dancing.

And on the other side, when you stand on top of the monastery, you can see the entire Zanskar Valley in its fullness, with its open charm.

The sun mingles with clouds. Snow-capped mountains stand in the distance. Lush green barley fields dot the valley below. The gleaming waters of the Zanskar sneak through the valley.

And the wind sighs and sings songs of solitude.

You just feel that message from the beyond in each and every pore of your skin.

Your entire cellular structure absorbs that peace.

And no wonder you feel so happy and good after that.

The Old Lama

During another monastery visit, we rode through a few hamlets and reached a green village below a monastery standing high against the barren cliffs. There were willow, poplar and juniper trees, and the white monastery façade, dotted with small maroon-framed windows, towered above the village.

It almost looked like a tiny replica of the Potala Palace.

As we reached the village, we saw a few little children playing.

Whenever Ladakhi children come across bikers, they often ask for biscuits, toffees, chocolates or stickers.

Unfortunately, that day we had nothing.

Then they said, “Okay, then give us a ride.”

So I got down.

And the moment I got down, my brother found three mischievous little Ladakhi children riding pillion.

They went off making ecstatic sounds and cries of joy.

After giving them their ride, we proceeded along the circuitous road towards the main gate of the monastery. There was a shortcut one could take on foot from the village, but since we had our bike with us, we decided to take the metalled road.

As we were parking our bike near the entrance, we came across an old Buddhist monk—a lovely lama.

We had such an amazing discussion with him, full of kindness.

He was from the village itself and had become a monk perhaps twenty or thirty years earlier. In his maroon robes, he was walking slowly back towards the monastery. He had gone to perform some ritual ceremony for a household.

Then we had a discussion.

He talked about the basic tenets of Buddhism that they follow in the monastery. One particular rule they abide by quite firmly is living a life of honesty and not telling lies.

And he was quite honest and true in sharing his own story.

He told us about the gastrointestinal problems he was facing. He had once been treated at a Buddhist hospital in McLeod Ganj, I think.

Then he spoke about his detachment from his family.

“Yes, I can see my brothers, their grandchildren, my cousins, my nephews and nieces. But they are just like any other villagers to me now. The entire village is my family. When I look at the village from here, from the higher ramps of the monastery, the entire village is one small family to me.”

Then, as a goodwill gesture, he opened his cloth bag and took out a big packet of biscuits.

They were quite nice biscuits. Maybe some foreigner had donated them to him.

He rubbed his hand over his stomach.

“I cannot eat them,” he said. “I have to eat very simple food—rice and pulses—just once a day. My stomach won't allow me to have these biscuits.”

So he gifted the packet to me.

And then he walked away in perfect detachment, as if he had merely been the carrier of this present from that unknown foreigner to us.

That little incident stayed with me.

Sani Gompa

On another day, we went to Sani Gompa, not very far from Padum.

A big statue of Master Padmasambhava stands there in its majesty, overlooking a small pond with a few ducks. Tourist tents are dotted here and there nearby, on a thick, soft carpet of grass.

It is a lovely sight.

Sani Gompa is an ancient monastery associated through tradition with great Buddhist masters such as Padmasambhava and Mahasiddha Naropa.

When you go there, you find little places associated with these ancient masters where tradition says they stayed and meditated.

It is quite an experience to stand in front of places where such Mahasiddha yogis of Tibetan Buddhism are believed to have stayed and meditated, yogis whose traditions helped shape the culture and religion of people across Tibet and Ladakh.

As I was coming out of the monastery, I found three beautiful old Ladakhi women in their traditional costumes.

Their costumes were so extensive and elaborate, making them look like exquisite vintage beauties.

I simply could not help myself from wanting to take their picture.

When I requested them, “I want to take your picture,” they cackled with laughter.

Then they said, “Will you give us something for tea?”

So I gave them some money.

Again they laughed.

A hollow-cheeked laugh, but such full laughter coming from deep down within a contented life that it can inspire you.

It can instantly make you happy.

They sat down on a low boundary wall and I took a few pictures.

Then they simply walked away in slow steps.

In any case, life here is so slow-paced.

And within such a slow-paced life, watching old people walking with their still slower steps is something quite wonderful and full of lessons, if you can just take some time out and watch them.

Stongdey Monastery

Not too far away from Padum is another monastery, Stongdey Monastery.

It is an important monastery standing very high on a rocky hill overlooking the entire valley.

The bike ride from the main Zanskar Valley road was quite challenging for us. It was a steep ride, and the road on the side we approached from was still under construction.

So it was quite tough to reach there.

And on top of that, the moment we reached the large complex on the hill and parked our bike, a yak appeared.

Possibly the yak thought the bike was a rival.

It came towards it and seemed on the verge of hitting it.

My brother had to raise quite an alarm, waving his hands and taking a stick in his hand.

Only then did the yak move away.

That was quite scary, by the way.

Stongdey Monastery itself is a big complex, and there is a large lodge nearby where visitors can stay.

It was surprising to come across an entire accommodation section outside a monastery that had seemed so difficult to reach.

I started thinking: life here seems to be busier than what this road suggests.

Then we found the reason.

From the other side there was a smooth, metalled road.

That road also connects with the main Zanskar Valley road, and that is what the monks and most other visitors use to reach the monastery.

Standing on top, you can see the entire Zanskar Valley.

It is an amazing sight.

Indescribable.

For that, you have to reach there yourself and feel it—the mountain wind sighing, the beautiful panorama unfolding in front of you, sunrays filtering through the clouds and giving everything a misty look.

The waters of the Zanskar gleam below.

The barley fields appear as rich green patches against the sandy brown of the rest of the landscape.

At Stongdey Monastery, I could also see that there was plenty of water available. They had redirected a little stream of glacial melt from the higher slopes towards the complex, and that had supported a beautiful plantation of poplar and willow.

Again, green manifesting itself in the middle of barrenness.

Towards Phugtal

Then there is the famous Phugtal Monastery.

It has been known as one of the remotest monasteries in the region.

It lies deep in the mountains in the direction of the upper Tsarap valley. Travelling from Padum towards Shinku La, separating Ladakh from Himachal Pradesh, you eventually come across the route from which you can proceed towards Phugtal.

The road is quite good for much of the journey now.

There are just a few places where you have to pass through water because, do whatever you may, glacial melt will still make a dent in a mountain road.

There you simply have to go through it.

But the journey is reasonably safe.

You keep travelling while enjoying the majesty of the Tsarap River, its muddy waters cutting across barren hills.

After travelling for many kilometres, you reach a small settlement where there is a cafeteria and you can have tea.

From there, the branch towards Phugtal begins.

It is a recently cut, unmetalled road full of stones and pebbles.

So it requires a cautious ride, whether you are travelling in an SUV or on a bike.

After negotiating roughly seven kilometres of rough riding over stony and pebbled hill roads along the river, you finally reach a point where you have to get down from your car or bike.

From now onwards, you have to cross a little bridge to the other side of the river and then walk roughly a kilometre along a steep hillside to reach the monastery.

It is tough going because the gradient is quite steep.

But you have beauty around you.

You can pause.

You can stop.

And you can enjoy the sight of huge wild bushes of roses.

They look so beautiful—big wild bushes carrying hundreds of roses, smiling at you.

When you have such a huge bouquet of wild roses against the backdrop of brown, lifeless, massive, intimidating rocks, it comes as a surprise.

It makes you wonder at Mother Nature blooming through flowers even among stones.

And once you reach Phugtal Monastery, you can feel the sanctity of hundreds and thousands of monks who have stayed here across generations, through centuries, when they would remain snowbound and cut off from the rest of humanity for months on end and would be required to walk over frozen streams.

It was quite an otherworldly experience.

The very point of establishing monasteries at such inaccessible places was to find an utterly peaceful corner, full of solitude, where monks could focus on their meditative practices.

And then the monks told me that there is another, even more remote monastery farther upstream, roughly a full day's journey on foot, because even now there is no motorable access to that point from Phugtal.

That is where a Vietnamese Buddhist friend of mine had stayed in a cave for almost three years. I have written about her experiences in another blog post.

So you can imagine how vast Ladakh is.

That is its beauty.

Even now, there are places you cannot access without taking the trouble of walking for a full day, trekking on foot across steep cliff slopes to reach them.

And there, too, somewhere in that vastness, you will find a little monastery with its resident monks.

That is the beauty of Ladakh.

Even while roads are entering its valleys and modernity is transforming its villages, somewhere beyond the last motorable road there is still another path.

And beyond that path, another mountain.

And somewhere behind that mountain, perhaps, another little monastery sitting silently in the wilderness.