Vignettes: a dawn water-turn at the khul, noon laughter over cracked apricot stones, a sunset lesson in headgear etiquette, and the night hum of the Indus in the rafters. I came to Dah carrying a notebook with more blank than nerve, a scarf that pretended to be warm, and the kind of restless curiosity that gets corrected by irrigation schedules

When the sky broke and strangers became company. I went up to Shanti Stupa because the air in Leh was too clear to waste indoors and autumn had set the valley aglow with a kind of restrained blaze poplars standing like paintbrushes dipped in brass, willows sketched in a quieter ochre, the river running colder, quicker, as if late for

The morning the salt made sense. Autumn arrives in Leh like an honest editor: it pares back, clarifies, refuses excess. The poplars put down their green vanity and lift their columns in a brassier truth. The river goes from gossip to deliberation, a colder silver. Prayer flags lose their summer theatre and return to the stricter job of speaking with

Day 1  The Thin Welcome of Air   09:15 AM: “The mountains rise before my breath does.” The plane’s descent is sudden, a swoop that cuts the stomach loose. Below me, the Himalayas ragged, merciless, eternal fold into each other like origami. The window glass is cold on my forehead. My pen rolls off the tray table as the captain

Notes from a switchback where I almost turned back. Autumn slipped into Leh like a quiet correction. Poplars flared to brass, willows drank the light and gave it back in a softer amber, and the river picked up a steelier hurry as if rehearsing for winter. The mornings were dry and exact. Even footsteps sounded more honest. I woke one

The Mountain in Me A Place Remembered Before It Was Ever Seen “Some journeys don’t begin when the ticket is booked. They begin when a place starts whispering in your bones long before you know its name.” – The Unwritten Road   It wasn’t the peak that pulled me in. Not the grandeur of Everest. Not the myth of Annapurna.