Rambling on the Moon | Ladakh

There’s comfort in the deafening silence, chaos in the silent sky, mysteries in silver in the blue distance and beauty in barren moon-like grounds. There’s peace in monasteries, childishness in ghost stories in bed, thrill in a newfound friend and understanding in things unsaid. Our plane is drifting, floating in a pool called sky, outlined by a golden line- sunrise. The sun beautifully highlighting bits of brown, turning it to purple as we hit every curve of the barren state. In restless dreams and anxious realities, I travelled yet again, the only familiar thing being a faithful leather jacket. I’m reminded of a childhood tale; darker than we realized it to be, Beauty and the Beast. Such contrast, yet so spectacularly aligned. Amidst crater like mountains, after driving for 4 hours, an electric blue greets the eye and increases as we approach Pangong Lake. The fluttering of the flags when the wind hits, a glistening sun, the coolness of the lake, the harshness of the rocks, the sound of gentle waves, the comfort within, the sturdy mountains and the ever-changing water. They don’t speak to each other, the mountains and the lake, yet one would be ordinary if not for the other. I walked through the shallow, and its strange how with the colour, even the sound of the lake changes. Where are we, I asked. Somewhere, he said, with a cheeky smile. And we drove into the nothingness. We hopped across the hanging bridge, the only light coming from the stars and from his eyes, of course. Underneath us, rushed the dark river, surrounded by stillness, the only other movement the prayer flags and the wind in my hair. Still holding on to the faithful leather, leaning into nothingness. I knew I was in Ladakh and living the dream, but there was a part of me, the part that dominates most of my actions in life, that screamed and said- you need to sit on a bike and go down the mountains, to feel the silence and the madness of this place. And so a stranger’s pillion was thrown into our car and I was put on the Enfield. In that moment, I knew I was living, not breathing, traveling, not holidaying. A bonfire at my feet, flames that danced to the fire. I miss dancing, I thought. Staring down at the valley, I was reminded of how small I am, but not insignificant. I don’t want to leave, I thought. But I don’t think it heard me, the airplane. It rose right above the wonder, as the skies grayed in goodbye.