My first ever sight of the river was when the flight to Leh banked sharply and began its corkscrew down to the runway. I was on an aisle set and was craning desperately to make out the details. The monks sitting next to me gave wide grins, and leaned back a bit so that I could get a better view. It was shimmering a colour that was (and continues to be) hard to describe. But I could sense the cold in that hue. An intense cold that can come only from the snow melt of the highest mountains in the world.
“The best way to experience it is to walk next to it”, said the monk in the middle seat. “On its banks, in its valleys and high up above it.”
Try as I might, it has proven near impossible for me to capture the meditative romance of all the walking in words — that hue, that invigorating cold of a splash on the face, that swift current, that gentle curve, that big sky, those deep gully’s and the seven thousand metre peaks forming the walls.
So I take pictures (and occasional time-lapse videos).
