My Time In Ladakh Taught Me How To Love, Let Go, And Love Some More

The idea of loving something only because I am going to let it go is so cowardly. But knowing that my trip has to end only makes every name, place, animal and thing so much more enriching. I have to love unabashedly in every trip I take so that when I leave, I know I have experienced my all. I am a coward who runs away to find a purpose and always, always falls in love.

It was my last day in Ladakh, and I'm not ready to be back in Mumbai. In the past two years, I've roamed a lot. Every place has started to feel a little bit like home, but I don't know if any of them truly are.

The little girl in my homestay, who could barely say a few words, started calling me aunty. Mind you, I am twenty-three years old. But if a tiny girl who can barely keep her face up because her cheeks are strikingly similar to those of a chipmunk wants you to chase after her while she calls you aunty, then you always comply, however breathless you are from the thin air of the mountains.

I came to Ladakh to teach at a local school, convinced that six weeks of purpose would finally make everything in my life make sense. The lesson I learned: baggage is better packed for a trip, not dumped on it. Why did I expect my time in Ladakh to solve a dilemma that my reality couldn't answer in twenty-two years?

So I decided to walk away from seeking a purposeful life and just live.

Finding Home In Unexpected Places

In the first two days, I became the fun aunt for the homestay's little girl. We would scream and run and wear flower crowns. We would also go play with the many stray huskies outside.

I heard the tales of the grandpa. He told me about how, for the longest time, Ladakh has had an administrative void. "Everyone is on contracts; no one knows what permanency is." The sarcastic woman who ran the house told me that I should always come back home. "We need at least someone crazier than us here."

When I was not at home, I was teaching at the school. The kids who were barely a few years younger than me kept telling me to stop looking outside the window. How should I teach them about law when the clear sky outside makes me want to leave our society behind and give in to the laws of nature? I would ask the other teachers for guidance, and they said they were also taking it one class at a time.

The Science teacher was a strong believer in dharma. She took me to her guru and told him that I had run away from reality. He told me that in Ladakh, everyone finds themselves. "You have to sit with yourself because time calms down here. Chaos is within you, so sit with it. There is nowhere to go from here, just be." He is a guru who often goes biking across Ladakh and runs a school for former drug addicts. I think he knows a thing or two about being.

But my heart couldn't rest. I had to learn Ladakhi. I had to go see the river beside the Language teacher's house, and I had to know what books he reads. I had so much to know about him. I had so much to know about where he came from.

He told me Ladakhi treks are about perseverance. "You learn the frustrated side of the people around you." So I went for the school excursion trek to Nubra Valley. The language teacher told me that Shama Gonbo is a holy mountain and the two monasteries that we cross in the trek bless every person who makes it there in one piece. I don't know if I made it in one piece, but I learned how to say "I love you" in Ladakhi: Nga Rang Ngs Thada Rak.

I went out with other teachers to see a Ladakhi wedding. How beautiful it must be to promise a forever under a blanket of stars. They dance the night through, drunk on butter tea and chhang. I saw the groom getting ready to stay at his wife's house; he beamed brighter than the Orion star (it's the only one I could confidently name).

In a Ladakhi funeral, they have colourful processions to celebrate the person. They have lived. They have learned. They have been. Butter tea and chhang are again abundant, and the people are drunk on life. Everyone I met seemed to really enjoy being, and it was contagious.

The Gifts I Carried Back

Even when no one was around me, the world became alive. Dragonflies and my thoughts buzzed around. I knew I was going to leave, and maybe that is why I fell in love completely and ardently. I fell in love with every name, place, animal and thing, and I almost wanted it to be my reality. But if it were my reality, would I run away from here, too?

On my last morning, the little girl gave me her stuffed horse, the sarcastic woman “lent” me two of her kurtas and the language teacher handed me a letter, “you ran here alone, but I hope you leave with us all.” Isn’t that the beauty of a solo trip, it's never really just about you. 

I hope I didn’t leave a burden behind, and I hope I took something with me. 

Maybe I took the understanding that running away isn't about the places I leave. It's about learning that I can make anywhere feel like almost-home, even when I know I'll have to go. Maybe the cowardice is not loving something just because you have to leave it. Maybe I am not a coward after all. 

Article by Akriti Kanodia | Views expressed by the author are their own.