Emma Gershun-Half

Ladakh is a place where dust settles and blows and is a general nuisance, but belongs just the same. It coats the nose and throat but also is the stuff that age old mountains, stream beds, and gompas are made of.
Living in Ladakh means becoming one with the past and living in history. The mountains are proof of the incremental creeping of the Indian subcontinent, which somehow results in a majestic collision of earth and stone and peaks three miles above sea level. Trekking through the mountains, it is possible to see how the layers of rock converged and mutated to become the austere guardians of the valleys they grew out of.
At the homestay, the Abba-ley (father of the household) sits by his barrel shaped woodstove praying with prayer beads. In the background on a color television is a Hindi sitcom with flashy nose rings and bright saris, but it does not deter him. This meeting of the old and the new appears contradictory at a first glance, but upon further consideration it seems that the east and the west are bound to meet, and if this happens without the east casting its culture to the side then perhaps this paradox (as viewed by a westerner) can exist harmoniously. After all, Buddhism has survived in the regions of Ladakh and Tibet since the time of the Buddha himself, 2500 years ago. Dogras and Mughals (Hindus and Muslims, respectively) invaded Ladakh throughout the years and imposed their religions, but because Buddhism survived in Tibet, Ladakhi monks were able to travel over the Karakoram Pass to learn in Tibetan monasteries and bring the religious teachings back to Ladakh, where, after the second spreading of Buddhism, the religion survived despite outside influences.
Ama-ley (the mother) is cooking dinner: potatoes and carrots in a sauce spiced with chili powder and other herbs, with dough twisted into little rolls to accompany. This meal is a meal any household would be cooking, save for one characteristic. The timok, or rolls, are made from a white flour, an expense many families would choose to forgo. Households usually grow their own food and grain for their animals, and sell the excess, especially apricot products, in Leh or to the army. Rice and fuel are the largest household expenses, although with the government subsidizing solar panels for villages without a preexisting diesel generator, the only fuel these families need to buy is for cooking on a propane stove.
I go to bed with two tremendously heavy and warm yak hair blankets covering me. Even though the room itself is cold, due to no centralized heating and the February night air, I sleep quite well and cozily. In the morning, water is heated to bathe in, and this means the washing of hands and faces. Over the years, full body baths have become more frequent, but in the winter it would be crazy to undergo this process more than is absolutely necessary. When one does bathe, it happens quickly, in a bucket, during the part of the day when the sun is shining most strongly and hair is most apt to dry.
Breakfast is served. As a foreigner, I am served the delicacy of a fried omelet, accompanied by chipates, a thin, tortilla like bread and some orange marmalade. Even though the smell of eggs cooking at home makes my stomach turn, here it growls in anticipation of the much-needed protein. Sweet tea is offered, and I am told to eat again and again. Ama-ley will not be satisfied until my plate is clean.
After this experience, I feel enveloped in the warmth of Ladakh, a place that is barren, yet full of otherworldly life. A place where the concepts of emptiness, oneness and om came into being and are still active in the evolution of life.