Trip to Leh Ladakh: A Summer of Self-Discovery
Tall, metal skyscrapers tower above people rushing to office buildings, clad in suits and ties. They return each day to the walls of their grey cubicles and piles of work. Drivers impulsively honk on the streets, each blaring their horn as if it was a way to express their discontentment with the world.
This scene could be used to describe numerous cities across the world, but for me, this is New York City. Nicknamed the “Concrete Jungle,” it is a place where one lives a “prosperous and achieved” life filled with constant motion and self-centered drive. As a society, we have become content with moving alongside other individuals, some that may even have experiences that parallel our own lives without any concern for the others’ presence. Each individual is more isolated by the governing idea that has shaped society and the self-serving pursuit for success. This begs the question, as a society and as an individual, what have we become?
In the pursuit of the answers to these questions, last summer, I traveled with my father to a remote part of the Asian continent to a city called Leh, Ladakh. Geographically located in India, close to the Himalayan mountains, the scenery and culture of the people felt like an anomaly compared to the rest of the world. As soon as the plane touched down on the runway, we were greeted by an airport so small that it had likely never held more than fifty people at one time. Despite being at an airport, only on occasion could man-made sounds be heard, such as the slight conversations of people nearby or an occasional car driving by. Barren rocky lands stretched out in each direction with patches of vibrantly colored flora. In the distance, we could see colossal snow peaked mountains. Everything, from the buildings to the land they were built on, felt as though this city had been left untouched by the grasps of modernization. In that moment, I recognized how remote and special this city was compared to any other city I had been in before, especially compared to the Concrete Jungle.
That night, we settled into our hostel and walked around Leh. Ancient monasteries and a palace overlooked the surrounding areas of the city. It was almost as if the enlightened sages were keeping guard. All of the buildings were simple and compact. We strolled through streets and alleys to find dogs happily chasing one another as passersby occasionally stopped to pet the strays. We digested the sight before us, because tomorrow would be the start of a sixteen day period of staying in a monastery in a secluded village several hours from the city.
The next day, as we sped away from the hostel, the scenery began to shift. Barren rocky soil became replaced by lush green fields and crystal blue streams of water. Wild goats and cows ambled about, munching at any tufts of grass that stuck out. The ever distant mountains now felt to be within arms reach as every twist and turn in the road made the snow peaks more visible.
After a short few hours of driving and soaking up the beauty around us, the monastery came into view. A river lay intertwined with a quaint village sprawled around a large hill where the monastery stood. Fiery reds, bright yellows, deep blues and various colors covered several ornate archways leading up to the building.
Once the car made the final turn, standing at the top of the hill was a monk draped in bright red, maroon and orange garb. I greeted him in a typical American fashion, with a big smile and a handshake. With a solemn expression that appeared utterly peaceful and content, he returned the greeting by saying “Jullay (The Ladakhi word for “Hello”), my name is Lama Gyatso, it is very nice to meet you.” He led us towards his house, which was built out of white mud bricks on the side of the monastery. Inside, there was a short hall with three carpeted square rooms for sleeping, eating and praying on the right. At the end of the hall was a concrete washing area and to its left, a path to the roof, which came to be my favorite place in the house.
My trip to Leh, Ladakh was an amazing experience as much because of what was there as to what was not. Throughout the travels was an utter sense of quiet. There was no television or internet connection in such a place. The only distant contact that could be made had to be through a flip-phone. With this experience, a childlike joy returned—a joy with the world and its experiences and not with the materialistic things in it. Every day was filled with face-to-face interactions as I became more genuinely interested in the lives of the people I came across. Some of the memorable interactions worth noting were as follows.
Two shaggy dogs and brothers with matching coats of browns, greys and black. Once members of a military base, their home had moved on without them. However, in its place came the monastery. Now every day they would find meals to eat, a warm place to rest, and a plenitude of young monks to throw sticks and play with them.
A white woman in her early forties with a clean shaven head. Many speculated about the life she left behind and her motivation to relocate to this part of the world. Most, including myself at the time, would be shocked to learn that she left her old life behind in America. A good job, a house, a car, all replaced by happiness on the face of a converted monk before me.
An elderly Asian man with a clean shaven head. One could see the wrinkles etched on his face by numerous years of life and hardships however his eyes were aged by wisdom and sparkled with joy of which could only be born from so many years of life. His words, spoken with the knowledge gained in his life, etched a valuable lesson unto me. In an increasingly competitive age one should not get lost in the pursuit of success in life. Success should be accomplished through meaningful actions of helping others. In these actions one must use their heart and mind, as putting one without the other can be fruitless.
The elderly man who I met was the Dalai Lama. The words he said still reverberate in my mind, and I hope reflect them in my actions.