It was the summer of 2018. It had been a while since I’d wanted a break from the usual rhythm of things. And then one weekend, I found myself packing for Lahaul and Spiti to join a group of friends who were already on their way. What followed wasn’t just a journey across places, but across states of mind.
We reached Narkanda from Delhi in an overnight bus journey and stayed there for the day. The next day, we started at dawn, chasing a quiet sunrise on the way to Sangla. The light was soft, hesitant, like it hadn’t fully decided to show itself yet. If you notice closely, that’s how mornings in the mountains are. They start slowly.
The brilliance within—let it shine.
The fire within—let it burn.
Let it reveal the scornful side of you.
Let it tell people what irks you.
Let it show the fury you carry when provoked.
Some people need to know so that they respect you, your space and your decency.
Some people need to be told they shouldn’t play with fire.
It felt like a strange thought to carry into a calm landscape, but maybe that’s the point. Some places make you more aware of what you’ve been holding in.
Sangla or Baspa Valley: a green and comforting beginning
Sangla is a place where you just exist, doing small things, creating memories, one experience at a time. You want to do this, do that and a lot in between. Or maybe you don’t want to do anything. We settled for a cup of tea to watch the cloudy sky and the cold rain from the hotel balcony.
The next day, we travelled through Rekong Peo and Kalpa to reach Chitkul. At a few feet above what the locals call the world’s highest dhaba in Chitkul, I remember wanting to recreate a cinematic scene — arms open, with a deep gorge as my background, but I didn’t. I settled for a standard pose instead. Some things are better imagined than performed.
Spiti doesn’t try to impress; it just stands there, vast and indifferent
As we moved higher through Nako, Tabo Monastery, Dhankar Monastery, the landscape began to change. That was the beginning of Spiti. Green faded and browns and ochres took over. Then came stretches where it felt like the earth had been left unfinished.
In our journey towards Tabo, we got stuck due to landslides. While I am here, I should mention that I have always enjoyed the beauty of getting stuck in a journey. It gives me the pause I probably want during a trip. A pause from the journey itself. It gives me the chance to absorb the essence of a place more than I would have if I had just passed by. I try to see the reason behind this as an amalgamation of three things — the place, the time and me.
The barrenness of Spiti is daunting but it makes the people who live there warmer at heart than we are. It makes us pause and question our own definitions of comfort. Standing at the edge somewhere in Komic, with nothing but the sky and silence, it felt like the world didn’t need any filters. Maybe we don’t either. The valley in Langza village stretched as far as we could see.
At around 10000 feet above sea level in Kaza, we were short of breath as we had traveled the whole day without proper rest, but we still didn’t miss a chance to laugh breathlessly at every joke one of us cracked. The Key Monastery is one of the most important attractions in Spiti, known to have existed for over 1000 years. People say you can find or connect with your past there. Although I couldn’t do that, we were lucky enough to have visited this prime place for Buddhism on the birthday of The Dalai Lama. We got to eat His birthday cake too.
Inside the monastery, as I sat by a door looking out over the wide basin of the Spiti River, I felt something which wasn’t entirely spiritual, but didn’t need an explanation: The last time I opened the door, I saw a place so beautiful that it was worth standing at the edge and feeling the emptiness beneath.
The journey from Kaza to Manali: between fear and acceptance
Between Pin Valley National Park and the climb towards Kunzum Pass, the journey dramatically changed. The roads became narrower and rougher. Crossing Kunzum La felt like leaving Spiti behind and entering another kind of terrain altogether.
Driving along the Hindustan-Tibet Highway, through the Kinnaur Valley, is not something you take lightly, more so in the monsoon. At points, especially near Batal, it felt like the road exists on someone’s goodwill. On one side, a wall of rock. On the other, a drop you don’t want to measure. I remember being scared. Real scared. The kind where you stop pretending you’re in control. You just trust the driver, the road and the Almighty. But in spite of the adversity, I didn’t look away; I was staring at the steep chasm next to us. It was a strange acceptance, a ‘come what may’ moment. That stretch was more than just a road. It was a journey of a lifetime.
Between Spiti and Ladakh trips, I realised I had crossed five of the highest passes in the world — three in Ladakh (Khardung La, Chang La and Taglang La) and two more in Lahaul and Spiti (Kunzum La and Rohtang La). But it’s not about the numbers. It’s the feeling of going where not many people have had the chance to go.
Lahaul and Spiti often get compared to Ladakh. In some ways, it is a quieter version. But the scale and the emptiness can feel just as overwhelming. While travelling through places like these, the thought that becomes prominent is you have to get over petty things if you want to connect with something larger.
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This is a poem that I wrote during the journey when I realised that not everything deserves to be carried forward. Some things don’t fit the story anymore. And holding on to them only makes the journey heavier.
The wrong turn
It’s ok to tear off the pages where the ink is spilled.
We can rewrite some chapters again.
Or maybe we won’t need them anymore.
They just weren’t fitting in the plot.
They made a strong character look weak.
They made a sorted person feel unsettled.
They made a reasonable person sound crazy.
It just doesn’t make any sense to take forward this mistake.
Let’s be more realistic, more judicious.
Let the brain do the thinking,
The heart gets it wrong every time.
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