What the West has Won

India is different out of “tourist season”; it’s hotter. By late May it was nearly 50C in Jalgaon, so we fled north to Ladakh. I couldn’t believe how different the two places were.
Time runs slower in the Himalaya; life is more relaxed. Put it down to Buddhism or the lack of crowds, or the inevitable slow-down of oxygen deprivation.
At this time of year, the mountains are surprisingly drab, but they make the fields even more eye-catchingly green in the short growing season of this cold, high desert; and though the place is chilly, the people are warm. Everywhere you go people smile as they greet everyone else with the magic word julay, which seems to mean almost anything cheerful. To be julayed all day is intoxicating: there may not be much oxygen here, but there’s plenty of happiness to go around.
But if the mountains lack color, traditional dress makes up for it. Especially the hats.
Ladakhi hats are colorful things, embroidered toppers whose brim has been split, opened at the front and turned up to reveal a bright red lining. Sitting improbably high and resolutely on the back of the head, they seem as poised as the people, but a noisy parade outside our guesthouse proved that Ladakhis also know how to celebrate. Curious, we stepped outside to discover it was the day of Buddha Purnima, the annual festival of Buddha’s birth and enlightenment.
Led by drummers, men with prayer wheels preceded women clutching flowers, all hats now tied with white ceremonial khatas. Then came monks in saffron and burgundy robes under crests and hats like inverted lampshades, hooting and banging and clashing cymbals ahead of uniformed schoolchildren and their floats, on which the lucky few sat as Buddha and also-rans stood as demons.
They were heading for the stupa, one of those Buddhist mausolea that serve as places of meditation and, through their slow decay, stand as testaments to the impermanence of all things.
Shanti Stupa, however, is still new, and its great dome, containing relics of Buddha, is still dazzlingly white. On Buddha Purnima, there could be nowhere else to go.
Bareheaded locals stood at the roadside as the monks passed; palms together they bowed in respect to receive a blessing, a tap on the head with a piece of wood-bound scripture. I wouldn’t feign belief for a spiritual selfie, so I looked up the road instead.
I got a blow to the back of the head anyway (it’s a Buddhist thing). I gasped: I'd been blessed! I grinned, I was dizzy – but not for want of air.