CHAPTER ONE

Learning to Breathe

"Give the ones you love wings to fly, roots to come back, and reasons to stay."
— The Dalai Lama

For years, Ladakh existed only in my imagination.

It was one of those faraway places that seemed almost mythical—a land of snow-capped mountains, ancient monasteries and roads that disappeared into the clouds. I had seen countless photographs of its dramatic landscapes, read stories of high mountain passes and remote villages, and wondered what it would feel like to stand there myself.

Then, one clear morning, the For several days, Ladakh had revealed itself with quiet restraint.

Morning light crept across the mountains. Prayer flags danced in the wind. Monasteries overlooked empty valleys where time seemed to move at its own gentle pace.

Then everything changed.

As our vehicle followed the narrow road towards Hemis Monastery, the stillness gave way to the deep roll of drums. The mournful call of long Tibetan horns drifted across the valley, carried on the crisp mountain air. Even before the monastery came into view, it was clear that this was no ordinary day.

The Hemis Festival had begun.

By the time we entered the monastery courtyard, every balcony, rooftop and stone step was filled with people. Families had travelled from distant villages, dressed in their finest traditional clothes. Elderly women turned prayer beads with quiet devotion while children laughed and played, weaving effortlessly through the gathering crowd. Visitors from around the world stood shoulder to shoulder with local Ladakhis, all waiting for the same moment.

Then the monks appeared.

Clothed in richly embroidered robes and elaborate masks representing deities, protectors and mythical figures, they moved slowly into the courtyard. Every measured step, every turn and every gesture formed part of the sacred Cham dance—a tradition passed down through generations, where movement becomes prayer and ancient stories come alive.

The steady beat of the drums set the rhythm.

Cymbals rang through the mountain air.

The long horns answered from somewhere beyond the crowd.

For a while, photography became almost instinctive. I worked quietly, following the changing light, watching expressions, anticipating moments. Then, without really thinking about it, I lowered my camera.

Some experiences deserve more than photographs.

They deserve our complete attention.

I watched the dance unfold without looking through a viewfinder, allowing myself to become part of the moment rather than simply recording it. It reminded me that while photographs preserve memories, they can never replace the feeling of standing there.

The following morning brought an altogether different atmosphere.

Perched high above the Indus Valley, Thiksey Monastery welcomed the new day with quiet dignity. The sounds of the festival had faded, replaced by the gentle murmur of monks chanting morning prayers somewhere within its ancient halls.

Soft shafts of sunlight filtered through narrow windows, illuminating centuries-old murals, worn wooden pillars and the faint curls of incense rising towards the ceiling. There was no sense of ceremony here. Only an unhurried rhythm that had repeated itself day after day, year after year, for centuries.

At the heart of the monastery sat the magnificent Maitreya Buddha.

Towering above the prayer hall, its serene expression seemed untouched by the passing of time. Visitors came and went. Monks continued their daily rituals. Outside, the wind carried prayer flags across the mountainside.

Inside, nothing felt hurried.

I remained seated for a long time, the camera resting quietly beside me.

Perhaps that is what stayed with me most about the monasteries of Ladakh.

They never asked me to understand their beliefs or explain their traditions.

They simply offered a rare opportunity to sit in silence, to observe without expectation, and to appreciate a world that moved to a very different rhythm from my own.

It was another lesson from the mountains.

Sometimes the most meaningful moments are not the ones we capture.

They are the ones we choose to experience. quietly became reality.

As the aircraft descended through the Himalayas, the mountains rose to meet us. Jagged peaks stretched endlessly towards the horizon, their barren slopes broken only by ribbons of snow that lingered long after winter had passed. There was no gradual introduction to Ladakh. It revealed itself all at once—raw, immense and utterly unlike anywhere I had travelled before.

Leh sits at over 3,500 metres above sea level, where even the simplest task demands a little more patience. Stepping onto the tarmac, the first thing I noticed was not the cold or the landscape.

It was the air.

Thin, dry and startlingly clear, every breath reminded me that I had entered a different world.

For the first time in years, I found myself slowing down.

There was no choice.