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 announces our landing in Leh.

The runway appears like a thread stitched into sand. There is no green here, no softness. Only ochre, dust, shadow.

When the doors open, the air stabs me awake. My lungs expand nothing. Expand again still not enough. It is as if someone has turned down oxygen at the source.

My first step into Leh is not a stride. It is a gasp.

10:30 AM: “Hospitality here begins with instruction.”

The guesthouse courtyard smells faintly of juniper smoke. Wooden beams hold up prayer flags that have long since faded into threads. Stanzin, the young man who checks me in, sets a kettle on the low table. His movements are careful, measured, as though conserving energy is a way of life.

“Small sips only,” he warns, filling my cup. “Not too much water. Slowly, slowly.”

I nod, embarrassed. I don’t understand. Water has always been something to gulp, to swig at bus stops, to gulp after runs. Here it becomes a ration.

The tea tastes of butter, salt, and something ancient. Each sip coats my mouth in fat. Strange, alien, and comforting all at once.

02:00 PM: “Every incline is an education.”

Old Leh town begins where patience does. The alleys are sun-scorched and narrow. Doors lean into each other as if in conspiracy. Children chase a ball past me, laughter ringing sharper than temple bells.

I pause often. Not because the heritage demands it, but because my lungs do. Ten steps, and my heart is a hammer. I lean against a mud wall, scribble a note to disguise my gasping.

Heritage here is not only in stone but in gesture. An old woman smooths the prayer wheels outside her doorway as though tucking them in. A man rearranges apricots on a stall with reverence. The smell of dried yak cheese wafts sharp from a basket.

Every moment feels like something to document, but mostly I am documenting my weakness.

03:30 PM: “Markets are museums without labels.”

In the bazaar, wool shawls are folded in neat towers, copper pots shine in patches of light, apricots glow like suns trapped in baskets. Women in gonchas haggle softly, men sip tea, soldiers pass with boots heavy enough to shake dust loose.

I sit on the steps of the Jama Masjid. Around me, the living archive of Leh: shop shutters painted in peeling blues, whispers of Ladakhi and Urdu, diesel fumes curling into the thin air.

I jot: heritage = continuity of gestures.

The headache begins like a drumbeat in the back of my skull.

 

06:45 PM: “The silence here makes your own pulse louder.”

The mountains are orange at first, then bruised purple, then shadow. Prayer flags above the courtyard stretch taut, whispering mantras into the wind.

My headache thickens, spreading into jaw, into teeth. Even chewing feels like an exam. Stanzin laughs at one of my clumsy Ladakhi words, but I barely manage to smile back.

The air does not want me here yet.

09:00 PM: “Nights are long when your lungs are restless.”

Dinner is thukpa, simple broth, tangled noodles, steam rising like incense. I eat like an old man, each spoon slow, cautious.

Street dogs bark. A chant floats from somewhere unseen. Under my quilt, I listen to the echo of my heart in my ears. I count breaths like beads. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

Sleep does not come. Not yet.

Day 2  Humility in Thin Air

07:00 AM  “Morning arrives, but oxygen does not.”

I wake dizzy, tongue dry as paper. My notebook from the night is filled with broken lines: lungs at work even when still … water echoes inside me.

Outside, sunlight pours like gold coins into the valley. Soldiers march in formation on the distant road. Their discipline feels impossible to me. Brushing my teeth leaves me panting.

09:15 AM  “The mountain teaches slowness.”

At Sankar Gompa, the whitewashed walls gleam against the sky. An old monk, face creased like riverbeds, greets me with a smile.

I confess, haltingly, that the altitude is hard. He laughs softly, holding up his prayer beads.

“You breathe too fast,” he says. “The mountain will teach you slowness.”

The words sink into me heavier than stones. I underline them in my notebook three times.

01:00 PM  “Work bends before air.”

We attempt to map. I note down courtyards, doorframes, stupas. But the air has its own gravity. My sketches wobble, my photographs blur.

I stop often. Lean on walls. Pretend I am studying carvings when I am only begging for a pause.

Heritage is survival. Every cracked beam, every mud wall still standing is proof.

03:20 PM  “Headaches are reminders, not punishments.”

Sitting near the bazaar again. Children kick a faded football. Men sip butter tea from metal cups. A vendor hands me momos, steam rising fragrant with garlic. I close my eyes and let the warmth rise to my face.

The headache surges sharp behind my eyes. I press my temples, whisper again: respect the air. Respect the pace.

It feels less like punishment, more like instruction.

 

06:10 PM  “Leh does not bend to you. You bend to it.”

The sunset stretches shadows across the valley floor. The mountains do not move, do not soften. They wait. They have always waited.

I realize I am not here to conquer with clipboards or cameras. I am here to surrender.

09:45 PM  “Even headaches can be companions.”

Back in the guesthouse. Quilts heavy, air thin. The headache has dulled into something almost familiar. Like a roommate. Like a reminder.

I sip water, counting it like prayer. Slowly, slowly. Whisper the monk’s words back to myself. Breathe as if learning for the first time.

Sleep comes in fragments, but this time, it comes.

 

Reflections After 48 Hours  Notes to Self

• Time is not measured in hours here, but in breaths.
• Heritage is not stone alone, but gesture, survival, rhythm.
• Humility arrives not in triumphs but in headaches.
• To be breathless is to be taught patience.
• Leh will not greet you with ease. It greets you with truth.

I leave these two days with little mapped on paper. But everything has been mapped inside me.

And even now, years later, when I rush through city life, I return to those 48 hours. I remember sipping water like prayer, breathing as if it mattered, watching mountains that do not bend.

I whisper again: slowly, slowly. Respect the air. Respect the moment.