A friend in college once showed a picture of her home in Ladakh, a striking white house nestled amid a lush green field, framed by stark brown mountains that stretched into the horizon. A river ran close behind the house but was not seen in that photo. In my mind though, I could almost hear the stream gurgling around, the symphony broken occasionally by the bleating sounds of sheep. I was mesmerized to the extent that I immediately began saving up for a trip to Ladakh. The more I read about the place, the deeper my longing grew to experience the colors of the culture.
It wasn’t until two years after graduating that I finally made the trip. I returned to my alma mater in Jammu and Kashmir, and from there, set off for Ladakh. My friends, originally meant to join me, had to back out due to work obligations, and so, by sheer coincidence, I found myself traveling alone. That unexpected solo trip marked the beginning of a new chapter—one filled with solitary journeys and spontaneous adventures.
I hadn’t mapped out the trip in detail—just a rough plan sketched in my mind. Leh wasn’t even on the itinerary. The idea was to meet a friend and head straight to Tso Moriri. But looking back, I realize I was merely playing my part in a script the Universe had already written. After catching a mesmerizing street performance in the heart of Leh’s main market, I wandered aimlessly through the town. On a whim, I asked a local for a place to eat and ended up at a modest yet wildly popular restaurant. The wait was long—thirty minutes before I finally got a table. Just as I settled in, I overheard a group asking for a table for three. With three empty seats at mine, I invited them to join. That’s how I met Petr and Louis, who were traveling together, and a German traveler wrapping up his journey before heading to Delhi the next morning. Petr and Louis were preparing for a seven-day trek through the Markha Valley. It felt like more than coincidence—it felt like a sign. I nervously asked if I could join them. Sensing my hesitation, Louis kindly walked me through what I’d need to carry and what to expect. It would be my very first trek. I spent that night deep in thought, weighing the unknown. By morning, I had made up my mind. I gathered my gear and boarded a bus with them, bound for the trailhead—and the beginning of something entirely unplanned.
I hadn’t done any prior research about the trek, so I relied entirely on the guidance of my fellow travelers. The plan was to get off near Spituk Gompa and walk roughly 17 kilometers to the base camp of the Markha Valley Trek. We disembarked outside the imposing monastery and began searching for the expected dirt trail—but instead, we found a black top road. Still, we chose not to hitch a ride and committed to walking the entire stretch. It was around 10 a.m. when we began, and we finally reached the base camp close to 3 p.m. I had never felt so utterly exhausted and ravenous. The sun blazed overhead, and the road beneath felt like molten rock. It still felt exhilarating. I never imagined that the region’s earthy browns could hold such a vivid spectrum of color. It was breathtaking—at times, quite literally. I silently thanked my stars that I understood the need to acclimatize. Taking three days to reach Leh from Delhi, rather than flying straight in, had undoubtedly prepared me for the journey ahead. Once again, I felt like I was simply following a path laid out by the Universe, playing the role I was meant to.
He guided us to his humble home and showed us to our room—a simple space without a door or beds. The floor was almost entirely covered with mattresses and thick quilts. I picked a spot and collapsed into it, grateful for the rest. A gentle breeze drifted through the room, carrying the scents of the valley beyond. After a short nap, I freshened up in the shared bathroom. Louis and Petr had wandered off for a dip in the nearby stream. Hungry and curious, I headed to the kitchen where our host—the man with the donkey—was preparing dinner. I asked him if he could make something traditional, something that truly tasted of Ladakh. He obliged with a dish whose name, when translated, meant “Stew with Donkey’s ears.” Clearly, the locals have a deep fondness for their livestock. We chatted up a little about our families. I let myself absorb the stillness and serenity around me—unfiltered, untouched, and deeply grounding, a habit I would carry with me on all my trips. By then, Louis and Petr had returned. We gathered in the kitchen while our host prepared dinner, the aroma slowly filling the air. Conversation flowed easily—about our cultures, their impressions of India, and the journey that had brought us here. We laughed as we recalled the elderly man who had walked with us all the way from Spituk. Frail as he seemed, we feared he might collapse at any moment, yet he moved with the steady resolve of a tortoise, keeping pace with the rabbits. Every time I think of old age, I think of the old man, praying silently to be able to go on treks when I am 80 years young.
The dinner we waited for close to five hours lasted only minutes. We ate like barbarians, polishing off two big servings the man had prepared without a sound as we ate. Then came the best part of the trip. The whole reason that I started telling this story was to be able to describe the miraculous sight that followed dinner. As we stepped out, something incredible lay suspended in the sky. I had never seen such a colorful sky ever before in my life. It was blue and red and white and maybe yellow in places. I was in such disbelief, it didn’t seem real at all. I ended up asking, ‘What is this?’.
‘That’s the Milky Bay’, replied Louis in his accented English.
‘The milky way? For real?’
‘Yes! Have you never seen this beeefore?’
‘No’
‘And are those falling stars all across the sky?’
‘Yes Apaaarrna’
I stood there, utterly spellbound—probably looking like a fool, but I didn’t care. Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined witnessing something so miraculous. Despite having always longed to travel the world, I found myself unable to fully absorb the moment before me. Louis and Petr smiled, pleased they had brought me along. I had been hesitant at first, afraid of the unknown, but looking back now, I realize this was the most defining experience of my twenties. It made me stronger, more confident of myself and more like me. That night was a divine experience. It taught me to trust my instincts. It showed me that stories live in everyone—even in a humble man with his donkey. Over the years, I would go on to meet countless people and forge many friendships, but Petr and Louis will always hold a special place in my heart. We didn’t stay in touch after the trek, yet I hope that wherever they are, they remember me as fondly as I remember them.
We were joined by Ram from Kerala in India who also returned to the base camp with me the following day. I accompanied them till Yurutse, the fascinating one home village where a single family hosted countless trekkers in their big home. I found myself sitting at the edge of their farmland, which gently sloped down toward the riverbed. Petr lay beside me, speaking softly about Louis, who sat a little farther off, lost in his sketchbook. Later, with a spark of excitement, Louis approached and held out his drawing.
“Look, Appaarrna—you’re in my sketch!”
And there I was, captured in his rendering of Yurutse—a solitary figure perched at the edge of the land, gazing into the valley, watching her dreams unfold into reality. There’s something profoundly magical about becoming part of an artist’s world, immortalized in lines and imagination. That night I slept outside under the vast, open sky like my siblings and I used to on warm summer nights back home, when we were still only kids. But unlike those nights at home, under the Yurutse sky, I couldn’t could the stars that shimmered in quite brilliance all night long.
The Brown Wayfarer 