In a quiet corner of Leh, Ladakh, a sunlit room above a glacier stream becomes a sanctuary of stillness; where morning light dances, temple bells chime, and time gently slows.
In the heart of Leh, where the old city leans gently into the mountains and prayer flags flicker in the thinnest air, I found a room that felt like it had been waiting for me. Not grand, not new, just a quiet space tucked into a family-run inn, halfway between the dusty market road and the stone path that led up to a Buddha temple.
There was something about the light.
Every morning, it arrived differently, as if it had learned the shape of the room overnight. It didn’t just pour in through the windows, it played, slipped through the wooden shutters in soft ribbons, caught the edges of the bedsheet, moved across the walls like a story being told slowly. At a certain hour, it reflected off the glass of the framed photo above the desk and danced across the ceiling in gold patterns. I stopped checking the time, the sunlight became the clock.
Just beneath the window, a glacier stream ran clear and cold. Its voice was always present, steady, even in the hush of dawn, like someone gently reminding you they were still there. I’d sit by the window for hours with tea in hand, or a glass of seabuck thorn juice, listening to its unhurried rhythm. Sometimes a bird would land on the ledge and watch the water, just as I was.
And then there were the bell chimes.
From the temple across the lane came soft peals in the wee morning hours: light, metallic, never startling. They floated through the thin air and into the room as though they belonged there, there were bells for prayer, for time passing, for nothing at all. Honestly, they complemented the silence like they were made for each other.
The room itself was simple: two wooden chairs, a tea table, a bed that creaked kindly dressed with soft, fresh sheets, you know, the kind of place that doesn’t ask for your attention, but receives it anyway. I wrote more in three days there, than I had in the three months before.
When I left, the owner smiled and handed me a small sprig of juniper, dry, fragrant, meant for burning or for keeping, and I carried it in my pocket.
Even now, miles away, I still remember how that room held light, and I am not talking about just sunlight.
It was the kind of light that stays.
Where: The Puma House, Spang chenmo, near women’s alliance office, Leh, Ladakh 194101
When: Mid-September
