27/10/2025
At my home, set along a quiet hillside at 3,740 meters, the nights have begun to carry the sharp chill of approaching winter. By morning, the water left outside has turned into a firm, glassy disc—wide and smooth, about the size of a classic pizza. The air at dawn feels light and pure, brushing against the skin with a clean, cold touch. Frost clings to the grasses, and as the first sunlight spreads across the slope, everything glimmers with a quiet, fleeting brilliance.
Far below, in western Ladakh at around 2,860 meters and below, autumn has settled in with its familiar grace. Poplars, willows, apricots, walnuts, pears, apples, and tamarisks stand dressed in their finest colors—golds, coppers, and deep crimson tones that shimmer against the pale blue sky. When the wind moves through, the leaves whisper softly, their rustle blending with the steady murmur of the Indus as it winds through the valley. The river glows in shades of turquoise and jade, its surface shifting gently with the light, as if echoing the season’s quiet transformation.
Over the years, visiting lower Ladakh twice a year has become a cherished ritual. I go once in early spring, when the valleys awaken and the apricot orchards bloom—clouds of delicate pink and white flowers that seem to breathe life back into the landscape. The air then carries a faint sweetness, and the world feels freshly painted. The second visit is now, in autumn, when the air turns crisp and the pace of life slows. The light softens, the colors deepen, and the mountains seem to breathe more deeply. There’s a stillness to this season that draws me in each time—a reminder that beauty here is never fixed, but moves gently with the turning of the year, always changing, always renewing itself.
