Leh Ladakh, erstwhile west Tibet, truly lives up to its moniker, 'roof of the world'.

Atop an elevation of nearly 6000 metres , it is indeed one of the remotest, rugged and sparsely populated region in the world. The geography is mountainous with little or no vegetation, sparse cultivation, and absence of animal livestock, save a few Yaks, Marmuts and donkeys. 

This is indeed the cold desert, home to the Ladakis, with the tourist season open just between April to September, before the land is plunged into sheets of snow rest of the year.

To travel around Ladakh, one has to travel on roads cut across the sides of the mountain. The road are basic, and quickly damaged with clay and rubble that fall continuously from the mountain sides. Often with light rain, boulders fall across and block the roads. The absence of vegetation allows constant soil erosion. For several miles roads give way to dirt tracks, even worse rubble tracks and some tracks even submerged under running water streams that pass through.  

Driving on these roads are treacherous: on one side is the sheer drop to the valley below. On the other side are rock outcropping, blind spots and always, the roads are narrow just a few feet wide. Driving speed does not exceed 20 kms an hour, and driving speed drops to a crawl as cars pass each one by. For larger vehicles, one would have to halt completely, even as one would have to select a wider section, to allow a truck to pass. Loose gravel and dust on the road with occasional boulders always required the driver to be attentive at all times. These were roads that needed to be navigated and traversed carefully; certainly not just to be driven over.  

A drive to Nubra valley (and you have to pass the Khardungla Pass, the highest motorable road in the world! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GG1vNTelJGc
or to Pangong Lake, a distance of 120 kms would take around 5-6 hours. As always, it was bumpy and jerky all of the time. The temperature would be around 17 Celsius yet the sun rays would be harsh and the glare blinding requiring content use of sunscreen and UV protected sunglasses at all times.  Yet the wind was sharp and cold, at times biting cold. The air at these heights is thin and rarefied with less oxygen. Walking a few feet up a slope would have you breathless and gasping for air. It is not unusual to have bouts of nausea, headaches even in some cases occasional vomiting. For prolonged head aches the best cure would be to drive down to lower slopes Occasional patches of wild flower would dot the edges of the road, providing the only colour to the black winding bumpy roads, that crisscrossed the brown mountains, exposed most often to grey shale rock, as its frontal cover, would get shorn off. Once it snowed briefly, but thankfully just briefly, for a minute or two at maximum. That helped: the dust settled in, and the next few miles were pleasant.

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Roads signs were few dotting the routes. Some provided the obvious caution: drive carefully.  One said: accidents hurt, safety does not . One said rather ominously, 'drive slowly to avoid grave below' I enjoyed one, on the way to the hot springs that proclaimed' drinking whisky makes driving risky' :) Mountains are a pleasure if you drive with leisure. Be soft to my curves

Far across the horizon enchanting as always were blue mountains in the distance as they nested below white clouds that seemed to only move imperceptibly and at moments casting its shadows on some of the mountain slopes. Occasional milestones signalled distances to the nearest village and flagged off the height: usually at 15500 feet and above. One is always driving up or down all the time.

Not born into this world, but born of it seems to be a constant reminder the past ten days. Truly, man is a part of nature, and must exist in true harmony with it. A short episode of taking refuge in a nomad's yak tent, on the way to Pangong made this point admirably well.  Here was a family that truly lived in the midst of nature and yet they seemed happy even though they had nothing except for a few meagre belongings of a few rugs, pot and pans, and a mobile stove. Yet food was always plentiful: thanks to the yaks milk that produced tea, butter and cheese. With roasted barley mixed with yogurt, a favourite food     

Even as we sat in the tent, it began to snow, but it was wam inside. Surprisingly, the yak hair tent kept the snow from entering inside. A Ladakhi couple, with a small child and the parents of one of them lived altogether.  Although, they had very little, their home was warm, inviting and cheerful. They offered everything they had, with the greatest of generosity, that would put a city dweller to shame.  When it stopped snowing and we moved off, they did accept the small contribution we made in cash.  

Living together in one tent, I was struck with the thought, how necessary it would be for all members to be sensitive to each other's needs at all times. I could see all five (even the little child) were very caring to each other. A relationship of love, care, nurturance, trust and communication. In our homes today, with separate living quarters, TV sets and books, how easy it seems for each one to be physically present but mentally absent.

[a sketch of the Stok peak across Saboo valley]

Visit to the monasteries

Quite recently, for some time I harbored the notion of taking a year's sabbatical to become a monk.  Frankly, I was disappointed with my visit to the monastery. Don't get me wrong it has nothing to do with the monasteries I visited: they were all beautiful, well maintained and informative. We visited the temple at Diskit, Hemis, Likir, and Alchi. 

From a historical and cultural perspective it revealed in resplendent grandeur its glory! We saw stunning thanka paintings, images of all forms of Buddha: Maitreya Buddha and the bodyguards who watched over the four directions. Yet everything seemed anchored in the past, the stories of a generation gone by, and I who had come to see a living religion experienced only one which was presented in its narrative. For me it did not seem contemporary, aligned to my current reality. It was difficult to co-hold this past narrative with the current Prakriti of my distance. As a narrative it was rich, full some and replete with rich treasure.

The Buddhist monastic life is frugal, replete with routine, and disciplined, and in what many would consider to be harsh living environment.  The monks seemed content, to the life they choose. I heard that most novices enter the monastery at the age of 6- 9 years. 

 I saw many young boys: playful.  Yet I could sense, they were training to be more disciplined, restrained, watchful. Reading the Dalai Lama own autobiography, 'Freedom in Exile' I read with interest his own narrative of the disciplined life he had to undergo as a child in the monastery under his two tutors. As he himself admits, his childhood was not one similar to Siddartaha the prince, who was to eventually become the enlightened Sukyamuni Buddha.

For me it seems, that religion needs to be alive, relevant ever more to the present. It must provide the experiences in the ' here and now' to shape our thoughts, feelings and actions. It must ever mor tap into our own abundance of deep presence, for spontaneous actions and choices. It must stay away from knowledge, but tap into our own intuition. Through this intuitive journey, that is detached from the mind, and free from clouded emotions, that reality becomes apparent: who we are, our purpose, the nature of our inter connectedness. Only then do we recognise the impermanence of our being, that thee is no fixed reality, that everything is in a state of 'ammness' , everything is evolving, there is no beginning nor ending. That we are all with an atmic soul but from an overall Brahman consciousness. That I am that.

For me then, the notion of being part of the community, is a restriction. Our individualism calls us to realise our beings, yet we do so in the canvas of humanity. Be your own light unto yourself said Buddha. Then it seems to me, that any form of organised religion, is but empty rituals, practices, whose meanings have been lost in obscurity. Thus lies the unfamiliarity of the Vedas, giving way to the Upanishads.  

Truth is one. It existed then at the time of Abraham, as it exist today.  For when a master declares, I come before Abraham even, he is not referring to chronology of age.  

As is apparent, the two weeks I spent at Leh ladakh has been very meaningful: a real break away from what is the usual 'been there done that' kind of vacation. I have savoured every moment, both physically and emotionally.

The mountains and valleys and streams speak to those who can hear, but the messages go not to the ears but to the heart!  

Two Birds on a Tree - A tale from Manduka Upanishad

Adam and Eve: The forbidden fruit

In the Genesis of the Old Testament lies the story of Adam and Eve, wherein God forbids that from the ‘tree of knowledge’ its fruit shall not be eaten. Eve ate first  (when Adam hesitated) and later he followed. With this, they were both banished from Paradise.

Quite similar, is the Upanisadic story (as told in the Manduka Upanishad) of the Pippala tree (representing the body), where two birds are perched, one (Jivatman, or individual self) who has eaten the fruit (sensual pleasure), and the other(Paramatman) who watches the first. The Upanishad eloquently describes the two birds: the former who has achieved Jiva (the individual self) and the other the Supreme reality, who knows himself as the Atman. 

Religious and philosophical truths have been shared through stories and parables. Through them rituals are performed to preserve this truth, but if the meanings are understood the ritual is not necessary, I would argue. Then, and now, this just points to one fact: the presence of a Universal Religion: one truth.

[Ram Nidumolu, someone who I met recently, wrote a book: Two Birds in a Tree, where he expounds on the story, and through his summary ‘tweets and seeds’ section provides pointers on lessons for Business Leaders].