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Nepal, a landlocked nation characterized by its rugged mountainous terrain, faces significant challenges in maintaining reliable transportation networks, particularly during the monsoon season. The annual monsoon, typically spanning June to September, brings torrential rainfall, landslides, and flooding, which severely disrupt road connectivity across the country. Major highways, such as the Tribhuvan, Prithvi, and Araniko, frequently become impassable, isolating communities and disrupting the supply of essential goods. The Hetauda-Kathmandu Ropeway, a 42-km cargo transport system operational from 1964 to 1994, offers a proven solution to these challenges. Reviving this ropeway is imperative to ensure resilient, cost-effective, and environmentally sustainable transportation in Nepal, especially during the monsoon season.

Monsoon disruptions and highway vulnerabilities

Nepal’s highways are critical arteries for trade, tourism, and daily commuting, yet they are highly vulnerable to monsoon-related disasters. In Sept 2024, torrential rainfall—the heaviest since 1970—caused widespread flooding and landslides, blocking 37 highways and damaging 25 bridges across the country. The Bagmati River in Kathmandu rose two meters above its safe level, flooding the capital and disrupting key road networks. The Narayanghat-Mugling section of the Prithvi Highway, a vital link between Kathmandu and the Terai region, is frequently obstructed by landslides during the monsoon, delaying commerce and impacting the economy. Similarly, the Araniko Highway, connecting Nepal to China, and the Pasang Lhamu Highway have faced closures due to floods and landslides, exacerbating trade disruptions.  These disruptions have significant economic and social consequences. In 2024, floods displaced thousands, destroyed infrastructure, and caused over 224 deaths, with 37 in Kathmandu alone.

Historical significance of Hetauda-Kathmandu ropeway

The Hetauda-Kathmandu Ropeway, originally built in 1922 by Chandra Shumsher Rana as a 22-km cargo system from Dhorsing to Kathmandu, was extended to 42 km in 1964 with support from the United States Agency for International Development (USAID). During its peak, it operated for 10 hours daily, transporting 220 tonnes of goods—equivalent to 24 truckloads—at half the cost of road transport. The ropeway proved its utility during crises, such as the 1993 floods and the 1988-89 Indian blockade, when highways were impassable. However, institutional mismanagement, underutilization, and a policy shift prioritizing roads led to its closure in 1994. Today, its rusting towers stand as a reminder of a missed opportunity to leverage Nepal’s topography for sustainable transport.

Why revive Hetauda-Kathmandu ropeway?

Reviving the Hetauda-Kathmandu Ropeway offers multiple benefits, particularly in addressing monsoon-related transportation challenges.

• Resilience against monsoon disruptions

Unlike highways, ropeways are minimally affected by floods and landslides. Requiring only towers and stations, they occupy little ground space and avoid the need for extensive road construction in landslide-prone areas. The 1993 floods demonstrated the ropeway’s ability to maintain supply chains when highways failed. Reviving the ropeway would ensure year-round connectivity, especially during the monsoon, safeguarding the supply of essential goods to Kathmandu.

• Cost-effectiveness

Studies indicate that building ropeways is six times cheaper than constructing roads in Nepal’s hilly terrain. The Hetauda-Kathmandu Ropeway cost half as much as the Tribhuvan Highway to build, and its operational costs were significantly lower, with goods transported at Rs 346.80 per ton compared to Rs 480 by trucks. Additionally, gravity goods ropeways (GGRs), which use the terrain’s natural undulation, cost approximately Rs 2 million per kilometer to build and can reduce transportation costs by 70 percent, as shown by Practical Action Nepal’s projects.

• Environmental sustainability

Nepal’s road-building boom has caused significant environmental damage, including deforestation, soil erosion, and habitat loss. Unplanned road construction exacerbates landslides, as seen in the Narayanghat-Mugling section, where gully erosion and unengineered slopes have triggered disasters. Ropeways, by contrast, have a minimal environmental footprint, requiring less land alteration and preserving fragile ecosystems. With Nepal’s growing hydropower capacity, electrically operated ropeways align with the country’s clean energy goals, reducing reliance on fossil fuel-based transport.

• Economic and social benefits

The ropeway can boost rural economies by connecting remote settlements to markets. Practical Action Nepal’s gravity ropeways have doubled cash crop production within two years and saved over 100 person-days of travel time per household annually. Reviving the Hetauda-Kathmandu Ropeway could similarly enhance trade from the Terai to Kathmandu, particularly for goods from the Birgunj dry port to the Chobhar dry port. This would reduce economic losses from highway disruptions during festivals like Dashain and Tihar, when demand for goods peaks.

• Alignment with modern infrastructure needs

The Investment Board Nepal (IBN) has been studying the revival of the Hetauda-Kathmandu Ropeway since 2017 to transport goods from Birgunj to Chobhar. With the Chobhar inland container depot (ICD) under construction as part of the Nepal-India Regional Trade and Transport Project, the ropeway could serve as a vital link, keeping cargo vehicles out of Kathmandu and reducing urban congestion. A modernized ropeway could also integrate with Nepal’s growing tourism sector, complementing cable car projects like those in Chandragiri and Manakamana.

Challenges and solutions

Reviving the Hetauda-Kathmandu Ropeway involves several challenges. The high initial investment, need for technical upgrades, and bureaucratic delays pose significant obstacles. The original infrastructure, unused for over two decades, is irreparable, requiring entirely new construction. To address these issues, public-private partnerships (PPPs) can be utilized, drawing on private sector expertise as demonstrated by the successful Manakamana Cable Car project. The Ninth Five-Year Plan’s emphasis on private sector involvement in ropeways provides a replicable model. Additionally, international support from organizations like the World Bank, which funds the Chobhar Inland Container Depot, or technical assistance from countries like Switzerland, renowned for ropeway expertise, can help overcome financial and technical barriers. Furthermore, conducting comprehensive geological and environmental impact assessments, as advised for ropeways in the fragile Himalayan ecosystem, will ensure sustainable development and reduce risks, such as those observed during the 1999 monsoon flooding caused by a poorly planned ropeway.

Policy recommendations

To revive the Hetauda-Kathmandu Ropeway, the government should implement several policy measures. First, transportation policy should prioritize ropeways over road-centric approaches, as the World Bank’s 1976 Nepal Country Report noted the high cost of road construction in mountainous terrain. Second, the Investment Board Nepal (IBN) should accelerate technical feasibility studies to evaluate the ropeway’s suitability for heavy cargo transport, ensuring integration with the Chobhar Inland Container Depot (ICD) project. Third, private sector participation should be encouraged through tax incentives and streamlined approval processes to support ropeway development. Fourth, Nepal’s hydropower capacity should be leveraged to power ropeways, lowering operational costs and environmental impact. Finally, public awareness campaigns should highlight the ropeway’s resilience, cost-effectiveness, and environmental benefits to promote its adoption.

Conclusion

The Hetauda-Kathmandu Ropeway, once a lifeline for Nepal’s capital, holds immense potential to address the country’s transportation challenges during the monsoon season. Its revival would ensure resilient supply chains, reduce economic losses, and minimize environmental damage compared to road-based transport. By learning from past successes, such as the ropeway’s role in the 1993 floods, and addressing modern infrastructure needs, Nepal can build a sustainable transport system that complements its rugged topography. With coordinated efforts from the government, private sector, and international partners, the revival of the Hetauda-Kathmandu Ropeway can pave the way for a more connected and resilient Nepal.

The discord between CPN-UML Chairman KP Sharma Oli and former President Bidya Devi Bhandari has further escalated, with both remaining adamant in their respective positions.

Prime Minister Oli and a majority of leaders in the party’s Central Committee (CC) believe that a former head of state should not return to active party politics. However, Bhandari has shown no signs of heeding the suggestions from Oli, UML leaders, or even opposition parties. A day after Oli instructed the CC members not to act as a ‘spokesperson’ for the former president, Bhandari warned against attempts to ‘terrorize’ her supporters. Speaking to a group of journalists, she reiterated her return to UML politics and firmly stated that she would not back down.

Whether out of deference to Oli or genuine concern, most CC members have echoed the view that a former president re-entering active politics would have negative implications for the nascent republic. Only a few leaders spoke in her favor during the CC meeting, and even they refrained from explicitly endorsing her political comeback. Meanwhile, most CC leaders have rallied behind Oli’s bid to lead the party for a third consecutive term at the upcoming general convention. To facilitate this, the UML is preparing to amend its statute at the upcoming statute convention. Some party leaders have even suggested that the ongoing CC meeting should unanimously propose Oli as party chair for the next five years.

A one-on-one meeting between Oli and Bhandari on Sunday failed to narrow the rift; instead, it appears to have widened it further. Outside the UML as well, the political environment remains largely unfavorable for Bhandari’s return. The largest party, Nepali Congress, has reiterated its stance that former presidents should refrain from active politics. “We have a clear position that the former president should not engage in active politics,” said NC leader Gopal Man Shrestha.

The main opposition, CPN (Maoist Center), has not taken a clear position, partly due to its own moral quandary, as former Vice President Nanda Kishwor Pun has already joined the party, ignoring similar objections about returning to active politics. Speaking from her private residence, Bhandari made it clear that there is no turning back. Oli and Bhandari have long shared a cordial relationship. Oli played a key role in securing her presidency in 2015.

At that time, there had been intense debate within the UML over the party's presidential nominee. Senior leaders like Madhav Kumar Nepal supported Jhala Nath Khanal or Astha Laxmi Shakya, but Oli stood firmly behind Bhandari. During her tenure, Bhandari and Oli maintained a close working relationship, with Bhandari often criticized for approving Oli’s decisions, including the controversial dissolution of Parliament, without any scrutiny. 

Tensions began to surface when Bhandari publicly expressed her intent to return to active politics. Initially, Oli did not oppose her. However, in her Nepali New Year message, Bhandari hinted at the need to review the party's current leadership, an indirect challenge to Oli’s position. This statement was widely interpreted as a signal that she aimed to displace Oli.

Despite the tension, the two leaders continued to meet regularly, either at Baluwatar or at Bhandari’s residence. In June, Bhandari visited China for a week, and the two met both before and after the trip. Her supporters claimed that China sees Bhandari as a future leader of the UML, potentially uniting the broader left. According to Bhandari, she had informed Oli of her intention to return to politics even while serving as president.

Relations soured further after Bhandari declared in an interview last week that she wishes to lead the party. In response, Oli reminded her that her party membership renewal is still pending. Bhandari had relinquished her UML membership after becoming president in 2015, upholding the principle that the head of state should remain impartial.

After her term ended in 2022, Bhandari submitted an application to renew her party membership. She claims to have done so six months after leaving office, and at the time, no UML leaders raised objections. However, party leaders now argue that the issue is political rather than technical. It remains unclear how the UML will resolve the matter of Bhandari’s return to active politics.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have another mind operating our current one, or to playfully place our mind somewhere “outside” the body for a while? This line of thought carries a profound implication: how can we detach the mind from the body? In some traditions, this “outside” is described as “Universal Consciousness.” But keeping the mind at ease doesn’t necessarily require abandoning the body.

Now, you might ask: if the mind has been removed from the body, how can it be brought back? And then wonder wouldn’t it be easier if there were yet another mind to govern this second mind? If such questions frequently arise in you, it may indicate a deeper quest: the search for awareness or higher consciousness.

It’s widely accepted that we do, in fact, possess a second mind to oversee the first—what we call “consciousness.” Beyond this, there is yet another level of mind, often termed “super consciousness.” If our mental consciousness is but a small component of the vast “Universal Consciousness,” then your original idea—of placing the mind into the “Cosmic Mind” and drawing from it as needed—may reflect a deep metaphysical truth.

I’ve had similar thoughts since childhood. And now, after years of teaching, research, reading, and writing, I find myself fully immersed in mindfulness and Vipassana meditation. With that practice has come a sense of urgency to express these reflections. Whatever we have accomplished in terms of development, innovation, and civilization stems from our mind, especially its rational faculties. Yet the mind has also been misunderstood by many and has become a burden for nearly one-third of the global population. One in three people suffer from unhealthy stress, and one in six children live with the trauma of war.

Even today, many including spiritual gurus harbor misperceptions about the nature of the mind. Some assert that the mind’s nature is to “ruminate on the past” or “project into the future.” But the true nature of the mind, perhaps, is to dwell in the present. The mind longs to be present and to act in the present. It is our thoughts, especially those that are conditioned or manipulated, that propel the mind into anxiety or fantasy.

Widespread confusion also exists around the mind-brain relationship. Many people equate the brain with the mind. Even neuroscience is still ambiguous on this matter. Western paradigms often misconstrue the nature of the mind. While the brain may be studied in a lab, the mind must be observed within oneself. You cannot understand the mind through brain scans or mouse experiments alone; you must observe your own mind with deep awareness.

More than 2,500 years ago, the Buddha explored the nature of mind, describing it as a process composed of consciousness (viññāṇa), perception (saññā), sensation (vedanā), and reaction (saṅkhāra). Later Buddhist teachings expanded on this, describing “chitta” (mind) as encompassing sense perception, thought (verbal and abstract), emotions, joy and sorrow, attention, concentration, and intelligence.

Some spiritual traditions argue that the subjective mind and objective brain are interdependent, linked by the “nature” and “culture” of information processing and neural activity.

But where does the mind come from? What are its components? How does it function? While you may examine your own mind, can you truly observe someone else’s? Neuroscientist Antonio Damasio poses two vital questions: “How does the brain construct a mind?” and “How does it make that mind conscious?”

Current understandings may still fall short of explaining the complexity of the mind-brain connection. That’s why I encourage you to observe your own mind with careful awareness before accepting external theories.

A thorough understanding of how your mind works—what it prefers, what it resists—can resolve nearly half your life’s problems. All human minds attempt to discern right from wrong. Some are more aware, others less so. Unaware minds struggle to confront their mistaken beliefs, which leads them to generate even more distorted thoughts. This creates a web of negativity—a feedback loop that becomes hard to escape.

In such cases, the mind lashes out, blames others, and becomes abusive. The brain, under such conditions, starts to release harmful chemicals, weakening both mind and body. Yet, escape from this toxic cycle is possible with passion, patience, perseverance, and a deepening awareness.

Buddhist teachings say: one who realizes that negative thoughts harm the heart will only understand that positive thoughts bring joy once the curtain of consciousness is lifted. How often do you feel angry with yourself or others? Anger, after all, is a symptom of a weakened and mistaken mental state.

Those with weaker mental states often harbor malicious thoughts, criticize harshly, and express themselves through anger, aggression, and suppression. Buddha said that those who harbor anger toward themselves and others are incapable of loving themselves. They suffer deeply—mentally, emotionally, psychologically, and eventually physically.

Many of you reading this may have experienced rude or uncivil behavior from teachers, bosses, elders, or partners, whether in academic, professional, or personal life. These interactions may still be sapping your energy, attention, and enthusiasm. I, too, have faced such moments in my life. And at times, I may have also behaved unconsciously. For this, I offer my humble acknowledgment.

Christine Porath, in Mastering Civility: A Manifesto for the Workplace, highlights how incivility at work and in schools is eroding our emotional well-being and weakening human connection—threatening both present vitality and future prosperity. Unfortunately, South Asia’s spiritual marketplace isn’t immune to illusion either. Some self-proclaimed gurus, adorned in dyed hair and beards, glistening with makeup, preach mantras like “Accept the Self” or “Know Yourself,” even though they may not understand their own minds. Still, crowds gather, wash their feet, and revere them as deities.

But “accepting the self” means embracing who you truly are—not who you appear to be after layers of cosmetic manipulation. If you manipulate your appearance, your thoughts and mind are manipulated as well. A manipulated mind can hardly understand or meet the authentic self, let alone attain true awareness. Have you ever felt your mind or body being manipulated, or sensed a thought not your own entering your awareness? In subtle ways, we often receive thoughts as sensory messages. During challenging times, whether in professional, academic, or personal life, the way you manage your thoughts, emotions, and intelligence will shape your growth.

Ultimately, the only person who can truly uplift you selflessly is you. Others may exploit, control, mock, or drain you. But as they grow weaker, your resilience strengthens. Their mental fragility is the root of their negativity.

Emotions and consciousness, or unconsciousness, have deeply shaped world politics too. From the Westphalian order to World Wars, from the Cold War to 9/11 and beyond, mistaken or unregulated minds have played a role. The rise and fall of empires, the unpredictability of leaders like Donald Trump, and today’s global chaos may be less about rational statecraft and more about emotional dysfunction.

Wars in Ukraine, Gaza, and other regions reflect not just geopolitical rivalry but possibly the actions of minds clouded by hatred and fear, not balanced reasoning. While nations are not inherently enemies, statesmen, influenced by negative emotions, become antagonists. Realists often act out of fear and hate, while constructivists might lean on empathy and rationality.

India and Pakistan, for instance, have sometimes managed to de-escalate tensions with measured restraint. Meanwhile, powers like Israel and the US seem to navigate deterrence through over-rationalized emotions, which is perhaps the product of cognitive bias. Today’s belligerent global climate, from Iran to Taiwan, may be more a product of mistaken minds than deliberate balance between soft and hard power.

Imagine trying to meditate while fighter jets roar overhead, and the atmosphere thick with tension and the looming fear of war between two nuclear-armed nations. The contrast is almost surreal.

On April 22, terrorists killed 26 Hindu tourists in Pahalgam, a village in Jammu and Kashmir near the Pakistan border. Among the victims was a Nepali citizen. Just eight days later, on April 30, I boarded a flight to Leh, the capital of the Union Territory of Ladakh, which shares its border with both Kashmir and Pakistan. Leh is only 220 km by air from Pahalgam, and Pakistan's border lies roughly 200 km away, near the village of Turtuk in Thang. 

The SpiceJet flight started its journey from New Delhi with a little bit of turbulence while ascending through the thick haze of pollution hanging over the Indian capital. But soon, the plane leveled out and started to fly above the Himalayas. Luckily, I had a window seat which allowed me to look down at the vast expanse of the snow-capped peaks. The skies were crystal clear, offering a sweeping view of this pristine white landscape. White is peace. White is beautiful.

After some time, a river appeared in the scene. Soon, a brown, barren, desert valley became visible. Lying in the upper Indus River valley, the geography of Leh is totally different on the northern side of the Himalayas. It is barren, rugged with small peaks and a vast desert.

Ladakh is famous for its natural beauty, picturesque landscape and breathtaking views. Often called a hidden paradise, it is known as the Last Shangri-La—a sanctuary for Tibetan culture which has struggled to survive in its homeland since the Chinese invasion of Tibet in 1949. It is also known as the land of the three M’s—monastery, mountains and meditation. The aerial view of the valley was simply beyond words, breathtaking and sublime.

After an hour and 20 minutes, we touched down at the Leh Airport. Just before landing, a stern announcement warned passengers not to take any photos or videos, as the airport is shared with the military. Really? I thought. How can you stop me from capturing this mesmerizing sight? I was disappointed, like many other passengers, and slipped my phone back into my pocket.

What is interesting is, a regular Indian SIM card does not work in Ladakh. To use mobile services, one needs a local Ladakhi SIM card. It is an unusual restriction for a tourist destination. But it reflects the region’s sensitive geopolitical situation. India maintains tight communication controls in this region due to the ongoing Kashmir dispute.

After landing, I caught a bus from outside the airport and headed to the main market area, commonly known as Leh Market. In a small restaurant there, I met Nandi, a Nepali-speaking boy who grew up in Uttarakhand. He generously offered me a hotspot, and I was finally connected to the Internet.  

Online, I was immediately struck by the flood of content calling for war with Pakistan in response to the terrorist attack in Pahalgam. Many Indians believed the attack was supported or sponsored by the Pakistani government. News channels, online portals, newspapers and YouTube creators were all loudly demanding retaliation. I couldn’t help but wonder—why this craving for war? Is there a single aspect of war that is truly good for humanity? War is never beautiful. It is ugly in every possible way.

That evening, I stood outside my homestay on the banks of the Indus River and spotted lights moving across the sky. I assumed they were Indian fighter jets. The next morning, I entered a Vipassana meditation camp—and from that moment on, I was completely disconnected from the outside world. I had no idea what was happening in the skies above me.

The silence lasted until May 9, when the course ended and I came out of the camp. My phone, laptop, books and diaries all had been locked away. Communication with fellow meditators and servers was strictly prohibited to maintain noble silence.

Initially, I did not understand the purpose of noble silence—one of the most important rules of the Vipassana Meditation. Why can't meditators talk to each other or make small talk with servers and the management team? But after completing my first Vipassana course in February 2024, began reading more about Buddhist philosophy and gradually came to understand its significance.

What makes Buddhist philosophy, especially the teachings of the Buddha, is its focus on the human mind rather than metaphysics. In Tripitaka, an elderly woman asked the Buddha, “What is Dhamma?” (Dhamma is the Pali word for Dharma)? He replied, “Dhamma is to understand the cause of suffering and to find the path to liberation from that suffering—Dukha.”

According to Buddha, the mind (chitta), full of defilements, is at the heart of the cycle of suffering. To remove those defilements is to attain liberation. So, most of his teachings revolve around understanding how the mind works—how it controls our actions and influences our thinking. This is why a layman, without proper teaching, cannot find the way to end suffering. That is what made Siddhartha the Buddha, he discovered a way out.

So how do we purify the mind? The Buddha has prescribed a threefold path: Sila (virtue), Samadhi (concentration) and Prajna (Wisdom)—the essence of his eightfold path. Virtue prevents the mind from gathering defilements. A virtuous mind remains stable, which supports deeper concentration. And a concentrated mind perceives reality clearly, enabling purification.

Vipassana meditation is a training in this purification process. But for it to work effectively, the mind must first be made stable. If you engage with social media, watch YouTube videos, read news or books, or talk to fellow meditators, you are feeding the mind—keeping it active and restless. But if you stop feeding it, it settles. That is why meditators are not allowed to use mobile phones, laptops or books, or even speak to one another. The same rule applies to servers. Once you have learned the technique, you can practice it even amidst the chaos of daily life.

Buddha teaches us how to live peacefully in this world. Yes, he said that purifying the mind leads to better rebirths—or even ultimate liberation (Nibbana). But even for those who do not believe in rebirth or the afterlife, these teachings are valuable. They help us to live peacefully and happily.

One evening, during the meditation retreat, I suddenly remembered everything that had been unfolding in the outside world before I entered the camp. It struck me—there I was, learning peace in a war zone, under the roar of the fighter jets!

The Vipassana camp was set in a beautiful location, just eight kilometers from Leh town and two to three kilometers from the mighty Indus River. Interestingly, the Indus River itself had made headlines shortly after the Pahalgam terrorist attack, when India announced to hold treaty in abeyance.  The treaty had long stood as a rare symbol of cooperation between two bitter rivals.

Despite decades of hostility, including bans on sporting ties and cultural exchanges—like Pakistanis being barred from the IPL or working in Bollywood—the treaty had remained untouched. Signed in 1960 by Indian Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru and Pakistani President Ayub Khan, the treaty endured through three wars between the two nations (in 1965, 1971, and 1999). That longevity made it a model for transboundary water-sharing.

The Indus originates in the sacred Kailash-Mansarovar region of Tibet Autonomous Region. The region is traditionally believed to be the source of three great Himalayan rivers: the Ganges, the Brahmaputra and the Sutlej. The Brahmaputra flows eastwards across Tibet, then turns south into Northeast India and Bangladesh. The Sutlej flows westward from the southern slopes of the Himalayas and eventually merges with the Indus. The Indus itself flows northwest from Tibet, enters Ladakh through, and continues toward Gilgit-Baltistan, passing near the base of K2 Mountain, before curving southward into Pakistan. All five of its major tributaries also flow from India into Pakistan.

After the Vipassana retreat, I returned to my homestay in a small area called Zampa on the banks of the Indus. My host, Daya, told me that Zampa means bridge in the local language, and sure enough, there was a bridge nearby. He also told me that the water level in the Indus had dropped significantly in recent years.

Until 2019, Ladakh was part of the Indian state of Jammu and Kashmir. That changed when the Modi government revoked Article 370, stripping Kashmir of its special constitutional status and reorganizing the region into separate union territories.

While there is an interesting contrast between Ladakh and Kashmir, they share a long and intertwined history. Ladakh was part of the Kushana Empire some 2,000 years ago. The Kushanas belonged to the Yuezhi tribe, which had invaded the larger parts of Central Asia, northwestern South Asia and eastern Iran. They were the third Central Asian tribe, after the Shakas and Huns, to invade and control parts of northwestern South Asia.

The Kushanas made a significant contribution to the spread of Buddhism. Emperor Kanishka, whose capitals were in present-day Peshawar (Pakistan) and Mathura (India), had convened the fourth Buddhist Council in Srinagar. Renowned Buddhism scholars like Asvaghosa and Vasumitra participated in this council which marked the formal separation of Mahayana Buddhism from Theravada or the Hinayana.

Later, while Kashmir was invaded by Shikhs and Muslims, Ladakh managed to retain its autonomy. Apart from the southern powers, China and Tibet also tried to occupy Ladakh but never fully succeeded; largely due to high mountain passes, which made invasion extremely difficult.  The very name ‘Ladakh’ reflects this geography as ‘La’ means pass and ‘Dakh’ means in the local language which is closely related to Tibetan.

One fascinating discovery I made was about a Ladakhi named Utpala (likely a Sanskritized name) who invaded the Mustang valley of Nepal in around the 13th century. If you look at the map, try to imagine how many Himalayan passes he must have crossed to reach Mustang.

After visiting the Central Asian Museum in Leh Market, I learned that despite its rugged terrain and high passes, Ladakh was once part of the ancient Silk Route; as was Mustang. Interestingly, however, Buddhism did not arrive in Ladakh during those early trade days, nor even during Kanishka's reign. While some Buddhist structures from that era have been found, widespread influence only began around the 11th century. By then, Buddhism had travelled a long route, through China and Tibet, before reaching Ladakh.

The Namgyal dynasty later became key patrons of Buddhism in the region. Among its kings, the 17th-century ruler Singge Namgyal is most well-known. His horse-back statue greets visitors to Leh. Though the place is officially called Namgyal Chowk, locals fondly refer to it as Ghoda Chowk (horse square). Singge Namgyal built the Leh Palace above the Market, relocating it from Shey, and he also built the large monastery at Hemmis. He brought the revered monk Taksang Raspa to serve as the monastery’s chief spiritual figure.

I was curious to know how Ladakh became a part of Kashmir. The answer lies in the 19th century. In the 1830s, Dogra King Gulab Singh ruled a part of Jammu under the suzerainty of Sikh Maharaja Ranjit Singh. Gulab Singh sent General Zorawar Singh to invade Ladakh. Zorawar Singh defeated the Namgyal forces, bringing Ladakh under Dogra control. By the time of India’s independence, Gulab Singh's great-grandson, Hari Singh, was the ruler of Jammu and Kashmir, including Ladakh, and would become its last king.

When India gained independence in 1947, Pakistani raiders captured parts of Ladakh, including Zanskar and the Kargil Valley. But the Gurkha Regiment, composed of Nepali soldiers, fought bravely in the harsh high-altitude terrain to reclaim these areas. Since then, Ladakh remained under India-administered Kashmir until 2019, when it was designated a Union Territory.

Today, the western parts of Ladakh, such as Kargil and Turtuk, have a Muslim majority. Overall, Muslims make up 46% of the population, Buddhists 40% and Hindus 12%. But monasteries can be found throughout the region. Hemis is the largest, and Alchi is the oldest. Tibetan Buddhist culture is visible everywhere, earning Ladakh titles like ‘Hidden Paradise’ and ‘Little Shangri-La’.

This is the place I chose for meditation, and it brought me great inner peace. But I was also aware that I was in a region overshadowed by the looming threat of war between two nuclear-armed nations. When I left the meditation center, my taxi driver and friend Metta gave me unsettling news: India and Pakistan were at war. It was a terrifying moment.

Over 2,600 years ago, the Buddha taught the people of this land about peace. Even Emperor Ashoka, who once waged war from Afghanistan and Kalinga, realized the importance of peace and embraced Buddhism. Yet, the madness of war still haunts this region.

Globally, the relevance of Buddha's teaching is gaining recognition. So, why are we turning away from them? Why are South Asian leaders choosing war and confrontation instead of reflecting on the path of peace the Buddha showed? Today, fields as diverse as psychology, neuroscience and even quantum physics are engaging with his insights into the human mind. Yet here, in the very land where he once walked, are we choosing to ignore them?

The news of the ceasefire brought immense relief, not just to us but to the people of Ladakh as well. Now, they are hopeful that tourists will return. They just want to say, Ladakh is safe and peaceful.