Ladakh & Me: A Bond Forged in the Mountains

For me, life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming, "Wow, what a journey it was!"

Ladakh and I share a bond that words often fall short of expressing. It’s not just a destination—it’s a sanctuary. A silent force that embraces me, heals me, humbles me. Over the years, I’ve come to believe that Ladakh looks out for me, in its own quiet, mystical way.

My tryst with this high-altitude desert began with a journey that never happened.

In August 2010, sitting in my office, I was on a call with my long-time trekking companion, Ravi. A spontaneous decision was made—to head to Ladakh during the Independence Day week. But fate had other plans. Ravi had to cancel, and not wanting to go solo, I backed out too.

As it turned out, that decision may have saved my life. Ladakh was struck by a catastrophic cloudburst that week—torrential rains and resultant mudslides swept across the region, leaving hundreds dead and the landscape devastated. That was my first real glimpse into the unpredictable, raw power of these mountains.

That near brush with fate stayed with me. The mountains had spoken—and a year later, they called again. This time, my uncle and I planned the trip together. But again, the plan faltered—his doctor advised against travel due to a prior bypass surgery. I hesitated, but something deep within told me I had to go. Alone.

That solo trip changed everything.

Clueless about high-altitude trekking, armed with no fitness and wearing—of all things—jeans, I decided to take on Stok Kangri, unaware of its notorious difficulty. Unsurprisingly, I had to give up well before the halfway mark. Breathless and beaten, I sat down on a rock and stared out at the mountains. I came chasing a summit but found something far more enduring—reverence for the mountains.

Since then, Ladakh has become a recurring chapter in my life. Over the last 15 years, I’ve made 12 trips, each one peeling back a new layer of this enigmatic land. On many of those journeys, Kalyan and Ravi, my trek buddies, have walked beside me—equally enchanted by Ladakh’s spell.

Me Kalyan & Ravi

My explorations have gone far beyond wildlife. I’ve completed some of Ladakh’s most spectacular and punishing treks—the frozen Chadar trek, Ganda La in winter, the rugged Parang La trek that starts in Spiti in Himachal and ends at Tso Moriri in Ladakh, and a second (still unsuccessful) attempt at Stok Kangri, this time cut short by weather. But as every trekker knows—it’s never just about the summit. It’s about the surrender.

Perhaps the wildest of them all—a solo 6,000 km motorbike ride from Mumbai to Leh and back. Just me, my motorbike, the road, the cold wind, and the vast, untamed spine of the Himalayas.

But Ladakh is more than just beauty. It is bravery, sacrifice, and spirit. My visit to the Siachen Base Camp was a deeply emotional moment—standing on ground guarded by soldiers who survive in the harshest conditions imaginable, many of whom never return. Equally stirring was my time at the Rezang La War Memorial, where 120 Indian soldiers fought till their last breath in the 1962 war. As I bowed my head in silent homage, I felt my heart swell with pride—and grief.

That visit to Siachen itself was unexpected—made possible only because our Chadar trek was cut short when the ice sheet flipped. But Ladakh wasn’t done surprising us. On the way back to Leh, we encountered a snow slide at Khardung La and were forced to turn back. As we headed toward the nearest village, Khalsar, the mountains offered a moment so surreal, any wildlife lover would give an arm and a leg for it. Right there on the road sat a mother Snow Leopard with her two cubs. By the time our car screeched to a halt and we snapped out of our stunned silence, the mother and one cub had already clambered up the mountainside. But one curious cub remained, watching us. I managed to get a few shots of him—and later, of his sibling, perched on the slope, perfectly camouflaged. And though I own lenses of every focal length, that day I had only my 24–70mm. No regrets, though. I remain forever grateful to the jungle gods for blessing me with such a sight.

And then came the winters—Ladakh in its most magical, merciless form. On my very first winter visit, I spotted the elusive Snow Leopard. It was distant, barely a silhouette against the snow, but it was mine. Since then, I’ve been blessed with many more sightings of this magnificent ghost of the mountains. I’ve photographed nearly all of Ladakh’s wild inhabitants, including the Pallas’s cat and the Eurasian Lynx, which I managed to see for the first time in 15 years. I am yet to make a specific trip targeting the Himalayan Brown Bear—a dream I still nurture.

Across all these journeys—through the bone-chilling winds, the star-strewn skies, the roaring rivers and silent valleys—one person has been my constant: Jigmet, whom I met in 2013 on my first wildlife trip. This diminutive, unassuming man walked up to me before that first snow leopard expedition and confidently assured me that he would show me the Snow Leopard. What began as a guide-client relationship soon turned into a treasured friendship. Jigmet knows Ladakh like no one else—and more importantly, he knows me: my pace, my instincts, my silences.

In 2021, life threw me another curveball—a heart attack. For a while, I feared I’d have to say goodbye to the high passes and cold deserts. But thanks to the incredible care and encouragement of Dr. Kulkarni—my heart surgeon and now a motivator—I was back. Stronger. Hungrier. Grateful.

I continue to answer the call of these mountains—as long as my legs can carry me and my heart beats with wonder.

Ladakh isn’t just a place I visit. It’s a place that lives inside me.

And through my photographs—each one a whisper of time—I hope to share a sliver of what these mountains have given me.