Stories from Ladakh is a project born from our curiosity about Ladakh and our verve to explore this beautiful land and its people through their stories.
A collaborative project with Richa.
Kangs
Kangs: ice
In the winter, we used to go up to the hole in the frozen stream to get water. Once, when I was quite young, I was wearing my goncha and sikiting up there, and I fell into the hole!
As soon as I got out, which was difficult, I struggled. I was soaked! From head to toe,
I became ice!
Storyteller: Rigzen Mingyur, Gya
Pomo
Pumo | Pomo | Bomo: 1. daughter. 2. girl, woman, female.
When I was in 8th grade, I saw beautiful ladies coming out of the radio station. I do not know what was kindled within me but a year later, I walked in there and asked how I can contribute. Soon, I was researching, writing and recording for a morning show. By working thrice a month, I earned Rs. 3,600. I quickly learned that economic freedom, especially for women, is a game changer.
When I moved to Jammu, I earned by working as a radio jockey. After finishing school, I realized that I craved competition. On a whim, I applied to colleges in Delhi. When I got into Miranda, I thought, great! I travelled to Delhi alone and managed the admission. Then, I started to figure out the finances.
A former teacher helped me, and the rest I managed by teaching tuitions. The first year, I stayed in a dingy PG where I shared a room that the landlord also used as a storeroom. In the summers, I came back to Ladakh and worked as a guide. I also taught and interned. Whatever money I earned, I saved for the coming year.
I think it was on women’s day that I learnt I got a full scholarship for the Young India Fellowship. It was the happiest day of my life. I got into Oxford after that, but I was not willing to take a loan for a degree that I was not sure would be able to pay me back. So, I started a Masters in Liberal Studies at Ashoka University.
I was recruited as Deputy Manager for a department at the university. I wrote emails from 9 to 5. When I was not doing that, I was watching YouTube videos. I saw the absurdity of sitting somewhere even when there was no work. I did not like the general apathy and the mechanization of human labor. I was also bitten by the rustic bug of Ladakh. I missed it, and so I came back.
Now, I juggle my life between tutoring, training for my organization - Ladakh Academy of Excellence, and sensitizing young girls about the menstrual cup. Initially, I was skeptical about the cup but as soon as I used it, I felt so good that I posted about it on Instagram! Did you know that one pad takes 400 years to decompose?
Storyteller: Namgyal Angmo, Mangyu
Khampa
Khampa: House
What makes a home?
Is it the earthen walls on which shadow puppets chase each other, or the laughter that bounces off them as a mother’s hands transform from goat to bird to deer?
Is it the carefully harvested willow branches that make up the roof, or the stories grandparents tell as soft moonlight drizzles through them?
Is it the floor that is sometimes littered with apricot kernel shells, or the people moving upon it like graceful black necked cranes intertwined in an intimate dance?
If it’s just me inside, is it still a home?
Bak
Bak: grove of trees, city park, orchard, enclosure with trees and grass
I was born here, but because my father was serving in the air force, we never lived here. When we visited in the summer, my grandmother would constantly ask me- Are you going to come back? Are you going to help your people? Those questions got stuck in the back of my head.
After finishing college, I actually came here and spoke with my grandmother. She had this orchard and she wanted me to do something there. She was really excited about it. But then, I got a job in Japan. Everybody said it’s a big opportunity and I thought, I can always come back to Ladakh later.
I went to Japan and worked as a game designer, but I wasn’t happy. You just feel like a screw in a bigger machine that can be replaced. I quit my job and joined a startup in Delhi. Then, my grandmother passed away suddenly. Something struck me and I knew I wanted to go back to Ladakh. Maybe I shouldn’t have delayed whatever plans I had.
There was this fear my grandmother had. That her orchard would be abandoned. She would come at night with her sleeping bag and sleep in the orchard to make sure that the trees were getting watered. That’s how attached she was to the place. It has apple trees, apricot trees and one walnut tree. She really took care of it.
So, I decided to transform her orchard into a place where people can stay. I think what drove me was the thought, if my grandmother was here, how would she want me to do it? We used traditional architecture and our materials are locally sourced. Our carpenter is local. Our contractor is local. We went around and looked for local artisans to make things for the place.
We just have seven cottages, and the place is called Dolkhar. My grandmother’s name is Dolkar and Dolkhar means Dol’s palace.
Storyteller: Rigzin Lachic, Leh
Logot
Logot | Lhogot: electricity, power, electric light.
An old micro hydro project was mentioned in our textbooks. That the Stakna project was being developed in Leh. When I finished studying and started working, that project still wasn’t done.
When I was in the power department, I was assigned a micro hydro project scheme to generate 3 megawatts. Back then, it was enough to supply all of Leh. That entire project was constructed by my hands. I worked on it from when we lay the foundation till the first light bulb went on. There was a lot of shortage of funds, so it took a long time. But even then, I didn’t quit. The day it was completed, I felt so much satisfaction that people were going to get light. It’s still operational.
You might have seen His Holiness Dalai Lama’s residence in Choglamsar. I constructed that. I was a junior engineer and would stay there 24 hours during construction. Like that, there are so many projects. In Hemis gonpa, the head lama wanted to construct a separate structure for a sermon, so I designed it.
Even as a child, I used to like playing with earth. I would flatten a path to make a road for my toy car. If I saw a pothole, I would add small sticks to it. I used to do things like this in my childhood and with civil engineering, I got to do it for real. I enjoyed it.
It’s nice that you both feel inspired, but people here don’t feel inspired. I don’t know why. I have spent 30-40 years in the engineering field. People could learn something from me if they wanted. Our life’s wealth is our experience, and I try to share it. For the first time, someone asked me, so I shared all that is in my heart.
Storyteller: Wangial Tsering, Sankar
Ragan
Ragan: brass.
“Three generations of my family have made brass utensils. My father also used to do this work but I could not learn it from him.
My brother was unwell, so my parents took him to a nearby village to get medicine. This was in 1971. Suddenly, a war broke out. My brother was 8 years old then, and I was 12. When the war ended, my family was in Pakistan, and I was left here with my uncle. I used to think that we would never meet again. But then the situation between India and Pakistan got better, and my father was able to get a visa to visit. It took way too many years.
My father visited me in 2014. He had gotten old; he was 86 years old. He stayed with me for three months and then went back. They don’t give visas for longer than that. Someone told him to overstay his visa but he said that would be a betrayal to all the other people who want to visit their families. He did not want to make their visa process more difficult. Inshallah, he is still alive there in Pakistan. I never got to meet my mother again.
My uncle taught me this work. In the beginning, I used to worry whether my work was good enough. These brass utensils are made to be sold, so they have to be of good quality. I use this stencil to mark the shape of the utensil on the brass sheet. When we used to make them before, they were never the same size. So, I made these stencils. There are no machines used in the entire process. It is all done by hand. I cut the brass with scissors. My arms are very strong! Then, I place the brass sheet on this mold and hammer it into the shape I want. After, I use another tool to engrave designs on the utensils.
See this design, I have made this design from my own idea. The tools to shape the utensils and the tools to design them, I have made all of them from my mind. Over here, I have engraved the word ‘Turtuk.’ I didn’t used to engrave this before, but then tourists started telling me to put the name there. They said, ‘people should know where we bought this from.’”
Storyteller: Abdul Rehman, Turtuk
Tsha
Tsha: salt.
Salt used to be the most precious commodity in the entire region of Ladakh. Since we are very far from the ocean, our only sources of salt were Tso Kar, Pangong and Tso Moriri. None of these brackish lakes are in the Balti region. There, they drink a lot of salt tea but they did not have salt.
Back then, we used to have a barter system. So, the Changpas used to get the salt. All their sheep would have small small bags on them filled with salt. And the Balti, they would bring their delicious apricots. They grew the best apricots. Then they would trade.
The Balti were willing to give anything for the salt. That’s why we have a saying, “like Balti finding salt." Suppose, you are coming to work and on the way you find something interesting and get totally engrossed in it. You forget about everything else. Then I can say, it’s like Balti has found salt.
Storyteller: Dr. Nordan Otzer, Hundar
Skaps
Skaps: opportunity, chance (= HndUrd moka).
I went to a few different schools, but I kept getting kicked out. I was spending my time just roaming around and hanging out. One day my grandfather said, “let’s go somewhere.” I went with him and we ended up at the SECMOL office. There was some kind of selection process happening and my grandfather insisted that I participate. That’s how I got into SECMOL.
When I got to the campus, I was like, shit! I have to spend another year in the hostel. I thought that it was going to be just another school. Like all the other schools that I had been kicked out of. So, I started to plan my escape. For the first couple of weeks, I would go up to the hills and look for a way to leave. But the route was so long, and my bags were so heavy. Also, the environment at SECMOL was so different.
There were no designations like teachers and students. We were all equal. They treated me like a person and not like someone who fails all the time. They were like, you are good at this so go and do it. They gave me responsibility and thought me capable of living up to it. I slowly began to like it there. I started to realize that there are things that I am talented at. That books aren’t the only things of importance. This was life changing.
My first month, I was elected class coordinator. This gave me a good feeling within myself. Eventually, I even worked for the school and became the Campus Manager. I am an entrepreneur now. I run a place called Ladakh Fine Foods, which is an organic food production unit for local produce. I also make the Himalayan Rocket Stove, a sustainable and ecofriendly heating stove. It’s interesting how a second chance can change a life.
Storyteller: Chozang Namgial, Saspol
Nat-yok
Nat-yok: nurse, person taking care of the ill.
When I first heard about Covid-19 in China, I was very scared. I thought that if it ever reached Ladakh, I would quit my job and run away. But the more I learned about the virus and its transmission, the less scared I was. Then, on March 8th, two patients admitted in our hospital tested positive for Covid-19.
The hospital matron was working on a roster to assign duties in the corona ward. I knew that the rotation of staff would be risky, so I walked straight up to the district commissioner and the director of the hospital and volunteered to work in the corona ward. I told them that I would stay with the patients until they were healed. A student nurse, Angmo, volunteered to join me. I went home, told my husband that the hospital had sent an order for duty, left my daughter with my sister and returned to the hospital.
One of the patients was 75 years old and the other was 60. They had high fever, cough and breathlessness when they returned from Iran. They didn’t even know that the coronavirus had spread outside of China. We had to explain the situation to them. It was more difficult with the older uncle because could not hear very well. We used to act out what we wanted to say.
After a few days, I started getting a lot of phone calls. From the villagers. From family and relatives. They all wanted to know why I agreed to work in the corona ward. They thought that they would have to socially distance from us our entire lives. How many times could I explain? So, I made a whatsapp audio recording and sent it to my village. I explained the disease and how we had isolated ourselves. I told them that they did not have to worry about us spreading the infection and that the patients were doing well.
Within two hours, the audio message went viral. It went everywhere and people started responding to it. A Ladakhi Muslim leader in Iran sent a video message commending us for not differentiating between Buddhists and Muslims. He said that we had risked our lives to help our Muslim uncles. He was very kind and he sent us his blessings.
Then more religious and political leaders responded. People started saying that when we finished our duty, they would host a reception for us.
I started to regret sending the audio message because I did not want all this publicity. Some people were very negative too. They said that everyone is working, why are these two nurses getting all the credit? We didn’t ask for any credit. If people were giving it to us, what could we do? Angmo and I started to plan that when our duty finished, we would take the back street from the hospital and leave quietly.
We were in the corona ward for 23 days. The younger uncle treated us like his daughter. We used to sit and talk with them. Sometimes, Angmo and I would go into the veranda. In all those days, we did not let the uncles feel alone. When they left, they invited us to their homes. They still call.
Storyteller: Tsering Yangzom, Skurbuchan
Pholong
Pholong: boulder, large stone.
I have a story to tell. A story that dates back to a time when girls in Ladakh were not encouraged to study.
It is a story about a girl from the Nurla village in Sham. A girl who dreamt of studying further than post matriculation, even when studying till Class 10 was an uphill battle for her. She used to plead with her father, “Let me study till Class 10. At least till Class 10.”
One day, her father warned her not to go to school anymore and insisted that she get married. She felt very sad and started walking towards her family orchard that was a mile away from her home. On the way, she cried and had unending conversations with herself. In her despair, she decided to cut her hair and become a nun. She found a huge pholong, laid her hair across it and attempted to chop it off by striking a small stone against it. Alas! she failed. She cried so much that she fell asleep under that pholong and woke up at dusk.
She was a rebel and refused to get married. She even broke an engagement, the offer of which was accepted by her father without her knowledge. For this, her father had to pay a sack of barley to the boy’s side in return for the barley wine they had brought for the marriage proposal.
When her name was taken off the school list because she was unable to attend classes during the summer field work, her Kashmiri Pandit teacher stood up for her. He said that she is a smart student with the potential of doing good in the future and allowed her to sit for her exams. Despite all odds, she finished her matriculation and got a job as a school teacher.
Although her dream of studying further remained a dream, eventually other things fell into place. She met a jolly man, got married, and worked tirelessly for the education department for forty years. In those days, when traveling outside Ladakh was a big deal, she took her parents for trips around India and Nepal. Her father, who had always thought that education was not important for girls, realized just how wrong he was.
She eventually retired after a contended work tenure, but the memory of the pholong is still etched deeply in her mind. She revealed this to me recently when I asked her about the biggest disappointment in her life. She is my 71-year-old lovely mother. Maybe that is the reason that she has always pushed my sister and I to pursue all of our dreams.
Storyteller: Dr. Tundup Dolker, Hemis Shukpachan
Inju
Inju, enju: interjection by listeners of a traditional storyteller, to indicate their continued attention.
My father passed away when I was 8 years old. My grandfather raised me after that. We were 5-6 brothers and sisters. When we lay down to sleep at night, my grandfather would say “Yot yot tsuk ju…” That is how we start a traditional tale. We would all respond with enthusiasm, “enju!” We would continue to say it until only I was left. Everyone else would fall asleep. My grandfather noticed my interest and took me everywhere songs had to be sung. I learnt so much from him.
The first time I sang was at a wedding in Wanla. In Ladakhi tradition, when the wedding procession arrives there is question and answer in song form. It was going well until people on our side did not know what to sing anymore. Someone said, “Eashay Tsambha’s grandson, you sing.” I was sitting far from everyone but I sang my question, “Who is it that made these vast glaciers?” Everyone was stunned because they had not heard this song before. They did not know how to respond, so I sang again, “No one can make these vast glaciers. When the cold season arrives, they form by themselves.” Hearing this, an elder stood up and gave me yal. That was my first award.
Over the years, I sang and collected folk songs, composed music, wrote and acted in plays. In 2004, the government of India honored me with the Padma Shri for my contributions to Indian music. This was one of the most precious moments of my life. When I came back from Delhi, my family was waiting at the airport. They sang and they danced. They were so happy. My grandfather was no longer alive. It would have been nice if he could have seen that.
When people speak with government officers, they ask for roads and bridges. I talk about ways to keep our songs and dances alive. Without these traditions, Ladakh is incomplete. How do we define Ladakh? There are mountains, but we cannot call that Ladakh. The mountains with folk songs, folk dances, indigenous languages, and traditional art - that we can call Ladakh. Minds that are clean and people that are rich at heart - that we can call Ladakhi.
Storyteller: Morup Namgyal, Wanla
Luyangs
Luyangs: 1. music 2. melody, tune
Back when I was a child, we had a tape recorder at home. I would rewind songs over and over again to write down the lyrics and try to sing along. We did not have any platform for singers in our village, so on Republic Day and Independence Day, when all the villagers would gather together to celebrate, I would make sure that I had an opportunity to sing. I had that desire within me.
We spoke Balti at home, so I only learnt Ladakhi when I joined Navodaya Vidyalaya in Leh after 6th standard. Children from different castes and faiths from all around Ladakh came together to study there. The atmosphere was such that the barriers that are often created by these differences dissipated. We got to know each other. I used to sing a lot in school.
After I joined DU, my seniors encouraged me to participate in everything. At the end of the first year, I started to post covers of old Balti, Ladakhi and Hindi songs on YouTube. Around that time, our Rimpoche said that he will produce my first music album. Making a whole album was such a big opportunity for me. The music video, which was made with the help of friends and on an incredibly small budget, went viral.
People living around the world wrote to say how wonderful it was to experience Balti songs in a beautiful way despite being far from home. I even got messages from across the border. They said that although we have been separated for years, listening to my music made them feel like the distance between us had reduced. That made me feel nice because music is universal. It goes beyond any boundaries.
When I started out, there was no internet in Ladakh. But when I went back home, a small boy came up to me in the market and asked me if I was the boy who fell off his bicycle after seeing a girl. He had seen my music video! I realized that Ladakhi students went back home and shared my work with family and friends. It made me realize that if you work hard, are persistent, and make something with the right intention, it will find its way to people.
I had never imagined that a Ladakhi artist would find so much acceptance. To get so much love from other places, to have people wanting to take selfies with me, these are big things for me. When I started out, many people told me to not sing Ladakhi songs because they thought that the audience would be limited. But when I sing Ladakhi songs in Tibetan communities, Nepali communities, they sing along with me. Like when we sing Despacito. Music has no language.
Storyteller: Faisal Khan Asoor, Turtuk
Nya
Nya: 1. fish 2. the zodiac house Pisces
I study but I don’t study very properly. I like to go out and play. In the summers, I go swimming. It’s not very far. My brother taught me how to swim. I get scared sometimes but I still go. I wish I had fins like fish, so I could swim very fast.
Storyteller: Jigmet Lachok, Sabu
Mishe-gushes
Mishes-gushes: versatile, multi-skilled, talented at many different things.
I was just an eleven-year-old Ladakhi kid with red cheeks when I went to Sanik School in Jammu. The only things that mattered there were being good at sports and studies. I used to imagine a small Smanla trapped inside my heart, banging at its walls. The problem was that I did not know why that someone within me was screaming.
Sanik School made me physically and mentally strong, but I knew that I did not want my whole life to be like this. Fortunately, I could draw and was selected to go to the School of Planning and Architecture. When I got to SPA, people were like – I paint. I play the guitar. What do you do? I would say that I can do push-ups. Frankly, I was surrounded by so much talent that I used to feel inferior.
SPA gave me the freedom to explore and I became a Jack of all trades. Theater boosted my confidence. Architecture classes gave me an eye for detail, proportion, scale, and color. My friends and I would make funny videos and called ourselves Jobless Studios. There was no film making club on campus, so I started a short film competition.
About a year after SPA, we registered Jobless Studios - Busy Making Films as a company. We put our heart and soul into our first project, a film about an architect. Our work was appreciated, and we started getting more jobs. Then, in 2018, I realized that I was not happy. We had built a well-oiled machine but most of my time was spent on excel files.
That is why I started Safarnama with Smanla. One day I got a call from Ka Tsephel at BORDA. He was like, what are you doing? Ladakh needs you! That is how I came back. I used to think that the universe was making good things happen to me. Like SPA. Like theater. But after coming back to Ladakh, I realized that it did not just happen. There was a desire. It might not have been clear, but I was always working towards this.
Storyteller: Smanla Dorje Nurboo, Likir
Dokshes
Dokshes: to be startled, to be alarmed, to be scared or frightened suddenly.
Trigger warning: war scenes.
We were sitting in class when suddenly, we heard a loud bang. You will not see it in Leh, but a lot of roofs here are made with tin. We thought that a strong gust of wind had made one of them come loose. But shortly afterwards, there was an even louder bang. This time we all knew that something was wrong. I must have been in 3rd or 4th standard.
Many of us burst into tears. Children, when they are startled with fear, they cry. We asked ma’am to take us to the ground floor where some of our younger brothers and sisters were, but she refused. Instead, she went into the corridor to join the other teachers that had gathered outside. Their eyes were fixed on the courtyard. We were scared and curious, so we peeked outside. That’s when we saw people carrying something.
One of my classmates screamed, “They are bringing Ka Abdullah’s body.” He was our peon. Ma’am tried to reassure us that he had only fainted, but we could not stop crying. We still wanted to be with our brothers and sisters. Later, we found out that Ka Abdullah had been hit by a mortar shell and had passed away immediately. He was only seventeen or eighteen years old.
Last year after Pathankot, there were people across the country enthusiastically advocating war. The atmosphere in Kargil became so tense. We were scared not just for ourselves, but for our families too. We thought that we would have to run away again. During the Kargil war, my family and I lived in the cattle shed of my uncle’s house in a nearby village. The houses in the villages are small. Our schools kept shifting too, and we were taught out of make-shift tents.
There is a particular firecracker that makes a loud sound. It reminds me of those times. It affects not just me, but also a lot of other people who lived through those times. One day, that firecracker went off and I got scared. My little brother asked me what happened, and I had to tell him that it sounded just like shelling. He asked me what shelling was and I felt so grateful that he did not know that sound.
Storyteller: Parveen Fatima, Sando Chiktan
Yugdo
Yugdo | Hyugrdo: sling for controlling animals, shepherd’s sling, a simple rope tool for throwing small stones.
This one time, when my uncle was young, he was playing with the other children from the village. They were playing with a yugdo. Now, they didn’t really know how to use it properly. So, my uncle was spinning the yugdo and it misfired. It hit one of the neighbor’s children, damaging his eye.
My uncle was so scared, he ran away somewhere. When he came back home a few hours later, my grandfather picked my uncle up and carried him to the neighbor’s house. There, he said to the neighbors, you can keep him. Give me your damaged child, and take my son instead.
Storyteller: Enoch Spalbar, Leh
Khuyus
Khuyus: threshing; khuyus scorches: to thresh grain.
These horses and dzo will go to a different house. You see that farm over there, they will thresh there now and then at another house after that. Tomorrow, the machine will arrive so we will use that.
We have used the machine for seven or eight years now. It has made things a lot easier. In the traditional method of threshing, we are constantly at the mercy of the wind. With the machine, we don’t fear the wind.
I am threshing some of the barley the old way to prepare fodder. The machine produces very small husks, which makes good fodder for most animals, but not yaks. For yaks, I will use these bigger husks.
Storyteller: Nawang Tandar, Meru
Mentok
Mentok: 1 flower or ornamental part of a plant; mentok barches to bloom, to be in bloom. 2 ornamental plant, houseplant. 3 decorative design, decorative motif; mentok ṣulches to embroider. 4 HON body, corpse, remains, ashes after cremation. 5 a personal name.
“I used to like someone in a village across the Shyok river. We were together for 11 years, since we were in school. We didn’t meet very often, but we used to talk on the phone. He was in a good post at the Education Department, but his father had passed away when he was young. He lived with his uncle and younger brothers, and my father didn’t think that the condition in the house was good enough. My father was from a rich family and they weren’t… you understand, right? So he got me married to someone in our village.
When we broke up, he cried so much. The first couple of years were very difficult. I wasn’t able to adjust here. Now I have been married for over three years. He’s married too now. I have a child, so I stay for the child. But I don’t like it here. Once in a long while, we call each other. We check how the other is doing, that’s it. There is nothing now, it’s all over.
Now, I want to become a teacher. I enjoy teaching children. I also love gardening. I especially love roses. My father’s house had a lot of roses. We used to plant them ourselves. Everyone has hobbies, gardening is mine. I have made a small flower garden near our house. Whenever I want to be alone, I work in the garden. I want to make a collection of roses there. Right now, I have four different types. I have red roses and pink roses. One rose has petals that are both yellow and red. Two colors in the same flower! I will show them to you.”
Storyteller: Tahira Bano (PSEUD.), Turtuk
Mulkhor
Mulkor: Silver cup, cup or bowl lined with silver.
Like his father had done so many times before him, Thupstan grabs the silver cup from his jacket pocket and places it on the table. The story of this century old cup is as beautiful as the now fading tradition of Ladakhis travelling with their own eating utensils.
It was gifted to Thupstan’s mother by her mother on her wedding day, and his father carried and used it almost every day since. Thupstan’s one vivid memory of the cup that is now his constant companion is a rare argument between his parents when his mother thought his father had misplaced it.
His eyes glimmer as he sips from the only belonging he has of his late parents: a silver cup that looks so natural in his hands that it could be an extension of him.