For me, these magnificent mountains were a home to wonder, not just because of the breathtaking landscapes but because of the extraordinary people who have been calling them home for centuries. Unlike the tourists with transient lives, these mountain tribes lived with nature, undisturbed by the haste and avarice of civilisation. I had read tales and seen pictures, but that was not all; I needed to know what it was to walk in their shoes, to understand what it took to live in true simplicity.
With that thought in mind, I set off to Lahaul and Spiti, two far-off lands where ancient customs still survived. I went with no expectations in my heart, just a heart open and eager to learn. Little did I know that this journey was to pass onto me a new vision of life forever.
The Hospitality of a Stranger to Friend
The village of Langza was the first destination, a small settlement located between tall mountains, in which could be found only a few families. Upon my arrival, I was welcomed by a gentle-faced woman by the name of Ama Dolkar, clad in a thick woollen robe, her weathered hands carrying a basket of freshly plucked barley. Without a moment’s hesitation, she ushered me into her home, a small yet cosy mud-brick cottage with the smell of butter tea and wood burning.
In this land of mountains, hospitality was a way of life, not just a virtue. People had an inherent sense of generosity, knowing well the ruthless unpredictability of nature; no traveller was to be turned away. Warm butter tea was poured: the first time I hesitated to try it-I, took to it later and rich, while Ama Dolkar related tales of life on how yaks and barley fields were their existence, how long winters were unforgiving, festivals that were celebrated under a sky-the clarity of which permitted a view of the Milky Way with naked eyes.
They lived simply but with all the essentials: food, shelter, family and an amazing sense of community that made sure no one felt alone. I, an outsider from some faraway city, was treated as one of their own.
Less Is Better
The days stretched loose and easy, every minute filled with chores done in the same way for generations: carrying water up to the village well, learning to make tsampa-a roasted barley flour dish, watching the old men and women spin wool into thick, warm fabric.
Something was grounding about their whole way of existence. They peremptorily did not wake up to alarms and meet deadlines: they would rise with the dawn and go to sleep as soon as darkness fell. Their worries were different from Would the crops withstand winter? Would the yaks come home safely from grazing? But for all the hardship they faced inside such a circumstance, there remained a strong feeling of calm.
Some afternoons, I saw myself sitting with a shepherd named Sonam, who was ushering his flock along a wee narrow valley. He was just fourteen years old, but in wisdom, he was far beyond them.
“Do you ever wish for anything more?” I was taken up in expectations from him exploiting the comforts of modern existence.
“More of what?” was his puzzling reply to me.
“More… things. Phones, clothes, money.”
“It is enough for us.”
That one phrase lingered in my consciousness well after I left. The world was on a constant chase for more, here was this boy, happy to be alive, satisfied with what he had. And it finally struck me-it’s got nothing to do with possessions; real wealth is knowing when you have all you need.
Starry Celebrations
On the eve of my departure, the village had organised a mini-Losar, the Tibetan New Year festival. Bonfires were lit, and drums echoed their rolling music, summit glen rays of light through the men and women dancing in their regalia with another day waning.
I joined the troupe, being awkward at first, then eventually detached from the thought of fitting into their circle: swaying, spinning, laughing, feeling more liberated than I had grown to feel in years. Above us, the stars extended indefinitely, their glow untarnished by city lights. Quite humbling to put into context just how small we were but also how interconnected we remained.
Before I departed, Ama Dolkar pulled me aside and tied a red thread around my wrist. “‘This is for good luck,” she added, squeezing my hands. “But luck only matters in your hands.”
Going Away With Their Simplicity
As I made my way down from the village the next morning, the thicker atmosphere welcomed back the distant buzz of modern civilisation. I knew I could never stay in Langza forever, but a part of me wished I could.
In that strange land of mountains, the other way of life was shown to me: the one where ambition was subordinate to gratitude, connection, and simplicity. They had nothing, yet they had everything.
And as I walked away, it dawned on me that this was the lesson they had gifted me with all along:
Happiness is not found in what we pursue. It is simply the knowledge that we have enough.
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