Travel
It was September 2022, and things between us weren’t exactly falling apart—but they weren’t right either.
Work had taken over our lives. I was constantly glued to deadlines, and she was dealing with family pressure about “what next” in our relationship. Conversations had become functional—“Did you eat?”, “When will you be home?”—nothing more. We weren’t fighting loudly, but the silence between us had started to feel heavier than arguments.
One evening, after another dull dinner, she said,
“Let’s just go somewhere. Not a vacation… just go.”
We chose Leh-Ladakh almost impulsively. Maybe because it felt far enough—from the city, from expectations, from everything we were trying to avoid. We weren’t looking for adventure. We were looking for space.
We booked a flight from Delhi to Leh about 10 days in advance—nothing fancy, just a basic early morning ticket we found on MakeMyTrip.
Planning, as expected, showed our differences.
I wanted everything sorted—hotels booked, itinerary planned, cab pre-arranged.
She just said, “Let’s not over-plan this. Let’s figure things there.”
That led to small friction.
Packing night was chaotic. I had a checklist. She didn’t.
I got irritated when she started packing at midnight.
She got annoyed when I kept reminding her about medicines and thermals.
We barely slept.
At 4:30 AM, we were in a cab to the airport—silent, tired, and already slightly drained.
The flight was short, but not comfortable.
She got the window seat. I didn’t. That annoyed me more than it should have.
She noticed, smiled, and said, “Take it, you’ll regret not seeing this.”
I didn’t admit it, but she was right.
As the plane descended into Leh, the view changed dramatically—brown mountains, sharp edges, and almost no greenery. It felt raw. Almost unreal.
But the landing hit us physically.
Within minutes, we both felt it—the altitude.
A slight headache. Dry throat. Breathing felt heavier.
She whispered,
“Why does it feel like we ran a marathon?”
We laughed, but it was uncomfortable.
Stepping out at Kushok Bakula Rimpochee Airport, the air felt completely different—thin, cold, and dry.
It was sunny, but not warm.
We hadn’t arranged a cab beforehand, so we stood outside negotiating with local drivers, both tired and slightly irritated.
After 15 minutes, we agreed on ₹600 for a ride to our guesthouse in Leh town.
The ride itself was quiet.
Wide roads, scattered houses, mountains everywhere.
No noise. No rush.
Just space.
At the hotel, we faced our first real issue—early check-in wasn’t available.
We had to wait 2 hours.
Sitting in the lobby, exhausted, slightly breathless, and hungry—we didn’t talk much.
We had booked a budget guesthouse—₹1,500 per night.
Nothing fancy. Clean bed, basic washroom, slow Wi-Fi.
The owner immediately told us:
“Rest today. Don’t go out much. Acclimatize.”
We followed that advice, mostly.
Our first meal in Leh was simple—veg thukpa and butter tea at a nearby café.
It wasn’t love at first taste, but it felt comforting.
Over the next few days, we explored slowly:
- Shanti Stupa – quiet, with a panoramic view of Leh
- Leh Market – small shops, cafés, tourists bargaining
- Magnetic Hill & Sangam Point – part of a shared cab ride
- Monasteries – peaceful, almost grounding
Nothing felt rushed. And maybe that’s what we needed.
The trip didn’t magically fix us.
We still had moments.
Like when I got annoyed about spending too much on a cab, and she said,
“Not everything has to be optimized.”
Or when she went quiet for hours, and I didn’t know if I should ask or just let her be.
But there were also softer moments.
One evening at Shanti Stupa, watching the sunset, she said,
“We don’t talk like we used to.”
I didn’t defend. I just nodded.
That conversation didn’t turn into a fight.
It just stayed there—with us.
And somehow, that felt more honest.
On Day 4, we decided to go to Khardung La Pass.
We booked a shared SUV—₹2,000 per person.
The journey was tough.
Rough roads. Sharp turns. Increasing altitude.
Around halfway, she felt nauseous.
I felt a strong headache.
We barely spoke.
At the top—18,000 ft+—it was freezing.
Wind hitting hard. Oxygen low.
But the view…
Not magical in a dramatic way—just vast, silent, and overwhelming.
We stood there for maybe 10 minutes.
She held my hand—not tightly, just naturally.
No words.
And for the first time in a while, it didn’t feel forced.
This trip didn’t “save” our relationship.
We didn’t come back as a perfect couple.
But we understood something important:
We were still choosing each other—even in discomfort, silence, and confusion.
Leh didn’t fix our problems.
But it removed distractions.
No office calls.
No family expectations.
No constant noise.
Just us—and everything we had been avoiding.
And that clarity was uncomfortable, but necessary.
On our last day, sitting in a small café near Leh Market, we weren’t having a deep conversation.
We were just… normal.
Talking about random things. Laughing occasionally.
It felt simple. And real.
As our flight took off the next morning, I looked out at the mountains again.
Nothing about them had changed.
But something in us had shifted—slightly, quietly.
Not a dramatic transformation.
Just a small step toward understanding.
And maybe, for now, that was enough.
