Perspective and commentary

Kargil at crossroads: Unplanned urban growth and a fragile future

Posted on by Dr Fayaz Hussain

Historically, Kargil (Purig) was known for its simplicity, resilience, and close-knit community. Over time, this high altitude Trans Himalayan region grew within strict ecological limits marked by harsh climatic conditions, limited resources, and an agrarian economy. Population growth was gradual and livelihoods were localised. A delicate balance was maintained between nature and society. Nowadays, Kargil is experiencing a transformation. In recent years, it has witnessed rapid population growth and urban expansion. Recent administrative changes have improved some infrastructure, especially bridges and buildings, though the transition has taken place without scientific planning.

One of the most visible and pressing transformation is unchecked construction across the town. Buildings are constructed on fragile slopes and small plateaus that are vulnerable due to climate change. Many structures are being built along riverbanks and in congested areas. This is often being done without adherence to building norms. As a result, increased density and overcrowding has intensified while parking and resting spaces continue to shrink. Many of these sites are historically prone to avalanches, landslides and flooding, which makes the town’s layout unsafe and poorly organised.

Buildings constructed on fragile slopes in Kargil town. Photograph by Dr Fayaz Hussain

At the same time, basic civic infrastructure especially roads are struggling to cope with growing demand and urban in-migration. There is growing water scarcity, inadequate or absent sewerage systems, and inefficient waste management. Electrical infrastructure remains unreliable and often unsafe. Public utilities that were designed for a much smaller population are now under immense pressure.

The seriousness of this issues was highlighted by recent remarks by the Hon’ble Lieutenant Governor of Ladakh, Vinai Kumar Saxena during his visit to Kargil. While inspecting the main market area, he stressed on the urgent need for major changes in the town’s urban management and infrastructure. He observed that the present condition of the market was not satisfactory and pointed to challenges of congestion, poor planning, and lack of parking in the market. He also emphasised the need to clean and restore Suru river, which flows through the town and faces many problems such as pollution due to unregulated waste disposal, washing of clothes and cars, and urban expansion.

Traffic congestion has also become a serious issue in Kargil town, especially near schools, markets, and administrative centres. The concentration of institutions combined with a sharp rise in private vehicles and school buses has created chronic bottlenecks that undermine mobility and public safety. Despite its rapid urban growth, Kargil’s economic base remains weak and fragile. Local production is minimal, and it continues to depend on goods and services sourced from outside. This has created a growing imbalance where population growth exceeds economic capacity, making development increasingly unsustainable.

The core issue remains Kargil’s ecological fragility. It is located in a high altitude and ecologically sensitive zone and is vulnerable to environmental disturbances. Even small disruptions can trigger soil erosion and water depletion while increasing disaster risks. In such a landscape, unplanned urbanisation is not just a developmental challenge but also a question of long-term survival and sustainability.

This needs political urgency. Policymakers must recognise the seriousness of the situation and act decisively. It requires incorporation of traditional ways of life, scientific urban planning, strict enforcement of building regulations, zoning, sustainable water and waste management systems and expansion of town in safer zones. It requires improved traffic planning, decentralisation of institutions, and stronger urban governance mechanisms. Area based commercial planning model will be help urban management by reducing congestion and organising the market.

At the same time, the responsibility for sustainable development cannot rest solely on the government. Local citizens must play an active role by following building norms, reducing environmental damage, responsible citizen and supporting sustainable practices, and cooperating with planning efforts. Kargil is at crossroads. The path it chooses now will determine if it emerges as a model of sustainable mountain development or becomes a victim of unchecked urban chaos. The time to act is now; before today’s challenges become tomorrow’s irreversible problem.

By Dr Fayaz Hussain

Dr Fayaz Hussain is Assistant Professor of History at Government Degree College, Kargil’s Sankoo Campus.

(Top photograph of Kargil town by Mohd Hussain)

Why Kargil’s tourism needs empathy not obstacles

Posted on by Muzammil Hussain

For decades after Ladakh opened for tourism in 1974, Kargil remained an afterthought: A place to halt for a night on the way to Leh or Srinagar. That reality is finally beginning to shift. The apricot blossom season, amplified by the reach of social media, has become a turning point. For the first time, travellers are not just passing through and are choosing to stay for several nights.

What is striking is not just the increase in footfall but also the effort that travellersare willing to make. Despite expensive flights, unpredictable weather, and complicated travel routes through Srinagar, Delhi, and Leh, visitors are determined to reach Kargil to witness the valleys in bloom. That level of intent is rare. It signals something important: Kargil is no longer a stopover. It is a destination.

This enthusiasm among tourists is doing more than just generating business for hoteliers and tour operators. It is creating a profound mind-set shift. Homestay owners, guides, and small local entrepreneurs, many of whom once saw limited opportunity in tourism, are beginning to recognise its potential. This psychological shift may be the most valuable outcome of all. And yet, just as Kargil is starting to find its footing, we are at risk of holding ourselves back.

 

Suru valley in Kargil (Photograph by Roots Ladakh)

Bureaucratic bottleneck

Traveling to Ladakh is already an expensive and logistically challenging endeavour. The last thing visitors should encounter on arrival is confusion and obstruction. Let’s be clear: Security protocols are necessary. Ladakh is a sensitive border region, and safety is non-negotiable. But there is a fundamental difference between ensuring security and creating friction.

At present, tourists and operators face a system defined by inconsistency. Rules are often unclear, undocumented, or communicated informally. Enforcement varies from one checkpoint to another. What is allowed one day is questioned the next. The consequences are not theoretical, they are happening on the ground.

Recently a group that had come to Kargil to witness the apricot blossom included a guest from Mauritius who held a valid Indian employment visa. She was abruptly denied a permit to visit the Dardic region along the lower Indus. The reason given was a year-old rule that was never officially notified nor communicated to local operators. The result was embarrassment, logistical disruption and an avoidable loss of experience for the guest.

In another instance, American tourists returning from a four-night Himalayan brown bear expedition in Drass were stopped at the Khaltse check post and asked to produce a permit for travel along a national highway. This is something unheard of in my 12 years in the industry. They were halted for three and a half hours until someone pulled strings with senior police officials to finally let them continue.

Adventure tourism faces similar uncertainty. The likes of Nun and Kun expeditions, the Warwan valley trek, and the Kalapari lake trek are gaining immense popularity, yet permit protocols remain opaque. Operators are left guessing requirements based on nationality, often leading to arbitrary last-minute denials and damage to one’s reputation. When operators have to rely on personal connections to rescue guests from arbitrary detentions or sudden permit rejections, the system is fundamentally broken. This is not just a logistical problem. It is a perception problem. For many visitors, these interactions form their first impression of the region. And in tourism, perception is everything.

 Opague rules have undermined Kargil’s rich potential for nature-based tourism

Bridging faith and cultural heritage

Alongside administrative challenges, there is a more nuanced, internal conversation that Kargil must confront. Our region possesses a multi-layered cultural history, but there remains hesitation in fully embracing and presenting it. Concerns rooted in conservative interpretations of faith often lead to an underrepresentation of our broader heritage.

This is a false dilemma. As a practicing Muslim and a local, I firmly believe that religion and cultural tourism do not have to be mutually exclusive. In fact, they can coexist beautifully and in many places, they already do.

From Malaysia and Indonesia to Iran and the Central Asian republics, societies have successfully preserved their religious identity while showcasing their historical and cultural diversity. Even regions culturally closer to home such as Gilgit-Baltistan have demonstrated that heritage can be presented with dignity, without compromising belief.

There is no reason why we cannot achieve the same harmony in Kargil. By viewing our cultural heritage not as a threat to our beliefs, but as a celebrated community asset, we open the door to a much richer, more sustainable model of tourism.

The path forward

Kargil has incredible potential. Between the apricot blossoms, brown bear expeditions, world-class trekking and mountaineering, and our diverse cultural roots, we have all the ingredients of a premier destination. But to harness this potential sustainably, more than promotion and infrastructure, Kargil’s tourism needs empathy from its stakeholders.

At the administrative level, there needs to be a shift in approach from control to facilitation, supported by transparent and publicly accessible guidelines on permits and travel protocols. This must be matched by consistent enforcement and better coordination across departments to eliminate contradictions and arbitrary decision-making. It is equally important to sensitise frontline officials to engage with visitors as welcomed guests, rather than treating them as an administrative burden. At the same time, we as a community must take ownership of our narrative; not just by embracing our cultural identity with confidence but doing this in a way that is open, inclusive, and welcoming. Empathy for tourism begins with how we present ourselves, and by sharing our heritage with pride rather than hesitation. This way, we create deeper and more meaningful experiences that allow travellers to truly connect with Kargil. We have finally convinced travellers to stay back and explore Kargil. Now, we must ensure our systems and mind-sets are ready to welcome them.

By Muzammil Hussain

Muzammil Hussain is Co-Founder of Roots Ladakh.

New districts, old tricks: Ladakh deserves better than administrative theatre

Posted on by Ummul Huda

On 27 April, 2026, the Hon’ble Lieutenant Governor Vinai Kumar Saxena approved the creation of five new districts in Ladakh: Nubra, Sham, Changthang, Zanskar and Drass. This takes the total number of districts in Ladakh from two to seven. The administration called it historic. However, it is not historic. It is a pattern. And the people of Ladakh, who have seen it before, deserve to say so plainly.

In 2019, when Ladakh was designated a Union Territory, it was initially welcomed in Leh as a fulfilment of a long-pending demand for separation from J&K. The initial satisfaction was soon replaced by the realisation that UT without legislature meant that the local population had lost democratic representation and authority over their own affairs. What was described as liberation was a transfer of authority from elected local leaders to unelected bureaucrats in Delhi. Seven years later, and the government’s response to a populace that has been demanding restoration of its democratic rights is to give them more bureaucrats.

The geography of discontent

To understand why the creation of five new districts is insufficient, one must first understand the singular nature of Ladakh as a political and geographical entity. Ladakh is the largest UT in India in terms of area as it is spread across 86,904 sq km along India’s borders with China and Pakistan. Yet, its population is merely 274,000 people according to the 2011 census. It is a land of extreme altitude, frozen passes, and communities separated from each other and from administrative centres by distances that most people would find difficult to imagine.

For decades, this remoteness was the primary lens through which Ladakh’s governance challenges were understood. The argument was simple: People live far from district headquarters and so services do not reach them. It was a reasonable diagnosis, and for a long time, it produced reasonable policy responses: Road construction, digital connectivity, mobile health units. However, somewhere along the way, the government seems to have confused the symptom with the disease. The problem in Ladakh today is not merely that people live far from a district office. The problem is that the people of Ladakh live far from power itself and no amount of re-districting can close that distance.

2019 and its aftermath

When Ladakh became a UT without legislature in 2019, the local population realised that UT status meant they had lost democratic representation and control over their own affairs. Prior to 2019, Ladakh had four elected members to the erstwhile J&K Legislative Assembly. It was imperfect representation in an imperfect system but it was representation nonetheless. It was people who could be voted out, lobbied, pressured, and held to account. Today, Ladakh has no representation.

Its administration is led by a Lieutenant Governor appointed by the Centre, advised by bureaucrats answerable to the Centre, who are implementing policies designed by the Centre. The people of Ladakh did not merely lose representation in 2019. They lost a fundamental democratic right to shape their own lives. The Ladakh Autonomous Hill Development Councils, which had previously served as the primary vehicles for local self-governance, found their powers steadily diminished under direct central rule. Decision-making shifted from elected locals to unelected bureaucrats, creating what observers began calling a representation deficit. Jobs that had previously been accessible through local recruitment channels became entangled in central bureaucratic processes.

Land protection, which were guaranteed under the previous arrangement have been lost. And crucially, the BJP, which had championed UT for Ladakh, had also promised inclusion in the Sixth Schedule of the Indian Constitution during the 2020 Hill Council elections. That promise has been quietly shelved. Since 2021, the people of Ladakh have been demanding statehood and inclusion in the Sixth Schedule of the Indian Constitution. These are not radical demands. Over 97% of Ladakh’s population belongs to Scheduled Tribes, yet the current governance framework provides no permanent constitutional safeguards against land alienation to outsiders.

These were not street agitations driven by momentary anger. They were organised, sustained, and articulate movements led by two representative bodies: Leh Apex Body and Kargil Democratic Alliance. Together, they represent Ladakh’s religious and political diversity especially the Buddhist and Muslim communities, which have historically been divided on many issues but have found common cause to demand democratic rights. This unity tells us something important: What is at stake in Ladakh is not a communal or partisan grievance; it is a constitutional one. People are not protesting over district boundaries. They are protesting over land, identity, livelihoods, and the right to have an elected representative who is answerableto them.

The protests turned tragic on 24 September, 2025 when four people were killed when demonstrations turned violent in Leh. A shortage of district offices did not cause the violence of September 2025. It was caused by years of accumulated frustration at being governed without being heard. Redistricting does not address that frustration. It does not even acknowledge it. If the government is serious about addressing Ladakh’s grievances—and there is no reason to assume it is not—then the path forward requires more than administrative reorganisation. It requires political courage of a different order.

At minimum, a genuine resolution would involve three things. First, a serious and time-bound engagement is needed on the question of statehood. Ladakh need not immediately become a full state, but a clear roadmap with defined milestones and legislative backing would signal that the demand is being taken seriously rather than being deferred indefinitely. Second, constitutional protections for tribal land and identity, which could be through inclusion under the Sixth Schedule or an equivalent mechanism to provide permanent, justiciable guarantees instead of revocable regulations. And third, the establishment of a Ladakh Public Service Commission, which would give the people of Ladakh genuine control over local recruitment and reduce dependence on central bodies that are indifferent to local knowledge and priorities.

Ladakh is not asking for more offices. It is asking for dignity of self-governance, of constitutional protection, and of democratic participation. It is asking for the kind of political standing that every other region of India, however small, takes for granted. Sikkim is a state with a population of 700,000 people and it has an assembly, a chief minister, a public service commission, and elected representatives who must answer to their voters. Ladakh, with a comparable population and far more complex challenges, has none of these. Making five new districts is meant to decentralise governance, cut travel time, and provide public services more quickly and effectively. For administrative reasons, reorganisation makes sense. However, if distance from governance is the problem, the solution is not to have more district offices but to give Ladakhis a legislature of their own. An elected assembly sitting anywhere in Ladakh would do more for the people of remote areas than a freshly-appointed Deputy Commissioner who reports upward rather than to the people. His loyalty and accountability runs vertically to the central government. The local people have no power to question him, vote him out, or hold him responsible.

By Ummul Huda

Ummul Huda is a Research Scholar at University of Kashmir and is studying Ladakh’s governance systems.

Pal and Zin: A reflection on Bhoti/Ladakhi language

Posted on by Lhundup Gyalpo

This edition of Stawa was supposed to contain the twelfth episode of the serialised story. Instead, I am writing a reflection on it. Readers, I apologise for the interlude. The episodes of Pal and Zin tale are piecemeal in scope. Nevertheless, this article marks a year-long engagement between Dr Thupstan Norboo, Stawa, and me. Therefore, it felt fitting to relate the story behind its origin and writing about the process so far.

The genesis of the bilingual serialised fiction could be traced back to a conversation between Editor of Stawa, Sunetro Ghosal, and me about Bhoti/Ladakhi/Tibetan language. We discussed many facets of the language, including its dwindling fortune, seeming irrelevance in an increasing mono-cultural and mono-lingual world and blatant policy jinx. The rampant linguistic and cultural purge in Tibet and seemingly benign and yet chronic political apathy in India are only hastening its inevitable extinction. Nevertheless, the hour-long peripatetic exchange brought to the fore the dearth of fiction or literature in Bhoti/Ladakhi language. A jarring gap, we realised, could be addressed at our station instead of lamenting over its dismal situation.

The Tibetan plateau, the linguistic fountainhead of Bhoti language, culturally gave precedence to philosophical undertakings through a concerted royal patronage during historical times and spiritual reverence of the populace, in general—a collective choice that effectively relegated Bhoti literature to a lesser kind. In effect, the corpus of literature in Bhoti is largely philosophical in content with a typical terminology that is technical and specific, firmly embedded into the structural mores of Buddhism. The monolithic set of philosophical vocabulary, thus, serves the purpose of thought well, but not so much when it comes to the evolution of the language.

Akin to any other language, Bhoti is inherently fluid and amorphous incorporating a multitude of human experiences beyond the concerns of a marshalled philosophy. Yet, it lacks a literary platform, in terms of production and consumption, where those experiences could be experimented, exercised and expressed, facilitating a dynamic lexicon accrual in keeping with the changing world. Consequently, in the shared memory of Tibet and contiguous regions abutting the Himalayas, serious written works of fiction in Bhoti is sparse, save a few recent publications from Library of Tibetan Works and Archives, Dharamsala, India and Kham region of Tibet, which emanated during an ephemeral cultural revival period beginning the 1980s, under the vigilant watch of Chinese Communist Party.

Understandably, the existential threat for Bhoti is not peculiar to Ladakh. The larger Tibetan community, in exile or otherwise, is also reeling in its wake. Yet, Bhoti literature, the bedrock for the language, is still a second thought in the social consciousness of its linguistic demography despite its conspicuous absence and the central role it could play in its survival, though, the odds of which is fretting away each passing day. It is in this backdrop ‘Pal and Zin’ was conceived and written. The narrative is addressed to children in the hope of attracting young minds, but more so to keep the complexities of its language, plot and translation to its bare minimum.

As the reader is aware, each episode of the serialised narrative is published in English and Bhoti/Ladakhi, and the latter comes with an appendage of word-meaning section. While a language is multi-faceted with aspects such as syntax, style, voice and so on, this article primarily concerns itself with vocabulary. The idea is to accentuate the nature of language through the admixture of words that Bhoti/Ladakhi acquired over a prolong exposure to a potpourri of cultures, languages and ideas criss-crossing Ladakh. 

Most of Bhoti/Ladakhi language words have their origins in native language drawn from pre-historic Trans Himalayan linguistic roots. Before Thonmi Sambhota codified it in the Seventh Century CE, the Tibet plateau (Zang Zung) spoke the language for centuries. It also acquired words and expressions from foreign languages such as Chinese, Kashmiri, Arabic, and Persian. These indigenised foreign terms are yet to find their place in its lexicon. In this regard, etymological research could prove an effective contribution towards Bhoti/Ladakhi development.

The list of Bhoti/Ladakhi terms discussed so far in the story includes words that are familiar in the written form of the language; some have their secondary or tertiary meanings faded away due to disuse; those which have been forgotten in spoken language altogether and have been replaced by unassimilated loanwords from languages such as Hindi, Urdu and English; colloquial words have firm roots in the written language albeit with pronunciation alterations; those which are purely spoken; and new words that were devised by me using portmanteaus. In fact, many of the names of the characters have been inspired from blends, such as Skardha (a blend of Skar: star and Dha: arrow), Gothgyal (Goth: vulture + Gyal: king) and Dojom (Dud: evil + Jom: subdue), revealing aspects of the characters such as their species, personality, role in the story and so on. Blend words, therefore, play a prominent role in Bhoti language in creative expression, linguistic efficiency and, importantly, in invention of new words. This demonstrates the inherent flexibility and adaptability of Bhoti/Ladakhi language, which is a tool that is enriched and receives a renewed lease of life when we start exploring its potential for expression.

Bhoti was a phonetic language that has increasingly deviated from its original makeup. In its spoken form, the language has various pronunciation schemes prevalent across the Tibetan plateau. As we move eastward from Baltistan to Central Tibet, diglossia becomes pronounced. Even in Ladakh, we have a rainbow of dialects. Some of them still retain the puritan sounds, where some communities pronounce words true to their written forms, as in Kargili/Purgi dialect. In central Ladakh, it begins to metamorphose, while the Changthang region in the east uses a diglossic form of the language. The word-meaning section of Pal and Zin also discusses some words that have undergone different degrees of phonetic transformation. It is pertinent to stress that Bhoti/Ladakhi language needs a phonetic transcription system that could account for such a diverse set of its dialectic variations and would go a long way in unifying the language.

Finally, the role of literature cannot be over emphasised in preserving and promoting a language. It is an open secret that spoken language is learnt through listening, while written through reading. Without either of them, a language is rendered incomplete and destined to die. Think of the prominent languages of the world such as English, French, Chinese, Spanish, Hindi, Urdu, Bengali, Assamese etc.; they all have a rich literary traditions. Literature is a necessary condition, if not a sufficient condition, for a language to flourish. Bhoti/Ladakhi language, therefore, needs a body of serious literature that is drawn on mundane experiences and narratives as it has done extensively with esoteric and analytical realms. I hope, this small experiment with Pal and Zin not only provides a source of entertainment and occasional inspiration, but also initiates a conversation on Bhoti/Ladakhi language and its practices.

By Lhundup Gyalpo

Lhundup Gyalpo is the author of Betty’s Butter Tea – Stories from Ladakh.

Sketch by Tsetan Angmo

Tsetan Angmo is a visual artist, a passionate illustrator and an animator with a flair for bringing characters to life through motion with a keen love for storytelling.

Book review: Refreshing and unsettling

Posted on by Phuntsog Tsering

What treasure house exists in this world?

World has a treasury abundant with gold.

But if the radiance of noble gold is unknown,

Then gold and brass are indistinguishable in hue.

‘dzambuling la, Ladakhi song

Most books about Ladakh speak of monasteries, passes, and politics. Ladakh: The Land of Gold does something far more unsettling: It asks whether an entire civilisation can orbit around a metal that barely existed in economic abundance.

The most striking contribution of Samphel’s work is how he successfully deconstructs the ‘ant gold’ myth, moving the conversation far beyond the literal, and often exhausting, search for marmots or ancient insects. Instead, he treats the myth as a grand historical distraction, a ‘golden veil’ that for centuries blinded the outside world to the true geography and social fabric of the Trans Himalayas. By peeling back this veil, Samphel exposes the profound disconnect between the ‘Shangri-la’ fantasies of emperors and explorers and the harsh reality of the actual gold-washers’ lives.

While the world dreamed of a land where gold was dug by ants, the Ser-pa (gold-washers) were enduring a brutal existence, battling freezing glacial melt-water and social marginalisation to extract a mineral that their own culture often viewed as a spiritual violation. This isn’t just a history of a metal; it is a long-overdue humanisation of a landscape that the West has too often treated as a mere fable.

While many non-local scholars have historically eulogised Ladakh as a ‘Himalayan Heaven’, a place of serene contentment where everyone lived in peaceful harmony with ‘enough for all’, Samphel’s research provides a much-needed reality check. He reveals that the ancient situation in Ladakh was far from the idyllic projection often sold to the West; in truth, for many, it was profoundly dikparik (a Ladakhi term for a situation that is pitiable or heart-wrenchingly miserable).

The most powerful evidence of this is the history of gold prospecting itself. While the ‘ant gold’ myth painted a picture of effortless wealth, the actual history of gold digging in Ladakh reflects hardship rather than prosperity. It was not a pursuit of riches, but a desperate struggle for survival. The Ser-pa were not contented citizens in a paradise; they were marginalised individuals performing back-breaking labour in freezing glacial waters for returns that were often negligible.

By documenting this harsh reality, Samphel effectively deconstructs the ‘Shangri-la’ façade. He proves that the ‘Land of Gold’ was actually a landscape of extreme deprivation, where the golden glitter of the riverbeds served to mask the severe, often desperate conditions of those forced to scavenge it. This echoes with the reality we find in the records of Ladakh’s royal ledgers. I remember reading elsewhere that when Zorawar Singh invaded in 1834 and demanded a war indemnity of Rs 50,000, the ‘Kings of the Land of Gold’ were so bankrupt that they had to surrender household tea kettles and personal ornaments to meet the debt. This episode captures the gulf between the legend of abundance and the reality of scarcity, which Samphel describes vividly.

Ultimately, Samphel’s work reveals that the ‘Land of Gold’ was a dangerous hallucination. The myth invited centuries of invaders who expected a treasury but instead found a population struggling for survival and a monarchy that traded its sovereignty for a debt it could not pay. This work is a sobering reminder that behind every ‘heavenly’ projection is a very human, and often very painful, history of endurance. An empire of illusion built on a handful of dust.

Ladakh the land of gold: A history of prospecting in the Trans Himalayas of India by Rigzin Samphel (M/s Bishen Singh Mahendra Pal Singh, INR 750, p. 249)

Phuntsog Tsering is an entrepreneur from Leh and manages MIGSAL Woodworks.

By Phuntsog Tsering

Book review: Quietly evocative

Posted on by Dr Spalchen Gonbo

Some books are read. Others are felt. Ruler of the sky firmly belongs to the latter category. As one reads, it lingers, unsettles and quietly transforms. Beneath its words one senses the vulnerability, fatigue and a quiet enduring and suffering.

At first, the voice feels deeply personal almost like a confession of someone who has endured much. What strikes one almost immediately while reading the collection of poetry and prose is a peculiar and persistent question: Who is speaking? As one moves further, the boundary starts to dissolve. The ‘I’ no longer feel singular. It expands and shifts and eventually seems to embody something far greater than an individual voice. One begins to sense that it is not merely the author speaking but perhaps nature itself observing, grieving and reflecting through human language. Or perhaps it is the reader.

The book gives an emotional account of the extent of destruction humans have wrecked on nature. It raises an unsettling question: Who is the ultimate sufferer? The answer, it seems is collective. By all the destruction humans have done on Mother Nature for ephemeral gain, humans have invited unending suffering on everyone including themselves.

Pieces like False spring, a phenomenon we have just experienced, echo this reality. The piece September snow talks about the disturbed natural rhythm and draws parallel with a bee colony experiencing collapse and disorder. As nature speaks of suffering and agony from humans, it also reminds us that it is in fact the ruler of the sky. Indifference speaks about what nature can do, and reminds us that it will not hesitate in showing its wrath either. Birds of paradise warn that humans can also go extinct just like unicorns—which it claims were not mythical creatures as humans have been led to believe. The book ends on a rather positive note. There is a quiet, almost surprising sense of hope.

Although the ‘I’ sounds timid, worn, almost faded, there is a quiet strength that cannot be dismissed. Between the lines, it reminds us that unchecked human greed carries consequences not through anger but though calm and inevitable reckoning. This duality of tenderness and quiet authority makes the voice powerful. It reminds us that nature is beautiful, mysterious and occasionally refuses to explain itself.

Like all pieces of poetry and prose, it is sometimes difficult to understand many of the layers of the text but then again this is also true for the weather, mountains and clouds that suddenly decide to disappear just when you need shade. You may not always get it, but you feel it and perhaps that is the point.

The voice may feel like nature: Gentle, vast and quietly powerful. And the deeper you immerse yourself, it begins to speak in ways that feel very personal, almost as intimate as love itself.

My favourite pieces in the book include False spring, Don’t fix me, Be a bee, Friend, and In the end. I would recommend reading this book slowly, and if possible, aloud. Each poem and prose piece carries multiple layers as complex as nature itself. There is no single meaning to the text in this book and it invites personal interpretation and reflection.

Ruler of the Sky: Poetry and Prose by Padma Angmo (Bluerose Publishers P Limited, INR 599)

Dr. Spalchen Gonbo is a Paediatrician based in Ladakh.

By Dr. Spalchen Gonbo

Development with dialogue: Charting Ladakh’s future

Posted on by Rishi Suri

Ladakh is undergoing significant administrative and developmental changes within the Union Territory framework with several decisions being made to bring governance closer to the people. Among the most notable steps is the approval for the creation of five new districts: Nubra, Sham, Changthang, Zanskar, and Drass, which takes the total administrative units in Ladakh from two to seven. This move is expected to decentralise governance, improve delivery of services in remote regions, and create fresh opportunities for employment and local entrepreneurship. For a region defined by difficult terrain and scattered populations, such administrative restructuring can play an important role in ensuring that governance is more accessible, responsive, and efficient. 

Beyond the creation of new districts, the broader intent appears to be a strengthening of institutional mechanisms to support Ladakh’s long term development. Improved connectivity, better access to welfare schemes, and more localised decision making are expected outcomes of decentralisation. In Ladakh, where distance and geography often shape access to opportunity, such steps can have a meaningful impact on everyday life. 

In addition, there are continued efforts at political engagement. Union Home Minister, Amit Shah is scheduled to reach Ladakh on 30 April for a two-day visit. He is expected to participate in key engagements and interact with various stakeholders. Such visits along with scheduled interactions between government representatives and local stakeholders reflect an attempt to address the region’s aspirations through dialogues. These engagements serve as platforms for the government and local stakeholders to articulate concerns, expectations, and pathways forward. 

In this regard, certain issues voiced by civil society groups and local representatives remain central to this discourse. This includes demands related to statehood and inclusion under the Sixth Schedule, which are seen by some groups as mechanisms to ensure greater political representation and protection of local identity and land rights. Environmental concerns have also been a part of the conversation given Ladakh’s fragile ecosystem and the negative impacts of rapid development. 

Furthermore, the events of 24 September, 2025 in Leh, when protests escalated into violence and resulted in injuries, loss of life, and damage to property, continue to cast a shadow on current dialogues. Different stakeholders provide varying interpretations of what transpired. Civil society groups have called for withdrawal of cases against protestors, compensation for affected families, and more immediate and visible political engagement. These demands reflect underlying concerns about justice, accountability, and trust. 

In response, institutional processes have been set in motion. A judicial inquiry has been commissioned to examine the events in detail. Legal proceedings continue, and many of those who were detained have been granted bail. Such steps highlight the role of formal mechanisms to address complex and sensitive situations, while also providing space for grievances to be examined in a structured manner. 

Another area of discussion has been the format and pace of dialogues between stakeholders and the government. Civil society groups have demanded more immediate engagement at the highest levels, while the government has adopted phased consultations through designated committees and institutional forums. This approach seeks to balance the need for timely responses with the importance of detailed deliberation and consensus building. It also reflects the challenges of addressing multiple demands in a region with diverse perspectives. 

The broader challenge for Ladakh lies in aligning multiple priorities such as development, representation, environmental sustainability, and cultural preservation within a framework that ensures stability and inclusivity. The region’s strategic location adds another layer of importance, making it essential that governance and development are handled with sensitivity and foresight. Efforts to improve infrastructure, tourism, and economic opportunities must therefore be accompanied by measures that safeguard Ladakh’s unique heritage and ecological balance. Ultimately, Ladakh’s future will depend on sustained cooperation between the administration and civil society. Development initiatives such as new districts, infrastructure expansion, and improved governance frameworks can bring tangible benefits, but their long term success will depend on trust, participation, and continued dialogue. A balanced approach that combines administrative reform with responsive and inclusive engagement offers the most promising path forward.

Rishi Suri is Senior Editor of The Daily Milap.

By Rishi Suri

(Image: Minister for Home Affairs, Government of India Amit Shah arriving in Leh on 30 April, 2026. Photography courtesy: PTI).

Changthang district: India’s quiet assertion on the LAC

Posted on by Phuntsog Tsering

On 27 April, 2026, The Ladakh Gazette (SG-LD-E-27042026-1712) carried a seemingly routine four-page notification. However, it was anything but routine. Under the Jammu and Kashmir Land Revenue Act, the Union Territory of Ladakh created five new districts: Sham, Nubra, Changthang, Zanskar, and Drass. To the untrained eye, this was administrative housekeeping. To those who follow the slow, often opaque contest along the Line of Actual Control (LAC), it marked a calculated step in statecraft.

This was not merely redrawing of administrative boundaries. It was India institutionalising its frontier. At the centre of this move lies Changthang District, headquartered at Nyoma. By formally enumerating 24 revenue villages including forward locations such as Nyoma, Chushul, Koyul, Damjok, and Anlay, the notification converts ambiguity into administrative fact.

A territory that exists only as a patrol zone is prone to contestation. A territory that exists in revenue records, with defined jurisdiction, administrative oversight, and civilian presence, is much harder to question. In strategic terms, this is a shift from claimed space to governed space.

It also marks a shift from episodic patrol presence to institutionalised governance embedded in the terrain itself. With Nyoma serving as the district headquarter and a high altitude airbase, civilian administration and military capability are now closely aligned. The result is not just presence, but continuity of control. However, administrative consolidation alone is insufficient unless it is also anchored with durable human presence, which in frontier geographies ultimately depends on viable local economies embedded within ecological limits.

Furthermore, in frontier statecraft, even names carry strategic weight. The notification adopts local phonetic renderings common in revenue records. For instance, ‘Damjok’ for the Demchok sector, ‘Anlay’ for Hanle, ‘Kungaym’ for Kungyam, ‘Kariy’ for Kerey, and ‘Hemya’ for Himya. These variations arise because historical revenue records in Ladakh were not maintained in the Tibetan script or Changthang dialects. They primarily used Urdu and were often documented by officials from outside the region. This created inherent limitations in capturing the precise phonetic and tonal nuance of Tibetic languages spoken on the plateau. Subsequent transliteration into English further distorted original sounds.

While these renderings reflect an attempt to integrate remote Changpa settlements into formal administration, they also underscore the urgent need for toponymic standardisation. In contested regions along the LAC, where nomenclature itself can acquire strategic utility, consistency across revenue records, Survey of India maps, military documentation, and historical cartography is essential. Precision in naming, grounded in authentic local phonetics, is not cosmetic. It is foundational to durable sovereignty.

The deeper challenge, however, is demographic. The Changpa nomads have long sustained human presence across this harsh plateau. Yet younger generations are drifting away to Leh and other urban centres, drawn by education, income, and stability. If this out-migration accelerates, India risks a paradoxical situation with stronger administrative structures but thinner human presence on the ground; a gap with direct strategic implications.

The answer lies in making Changthang economically viable for its own people. The pashmina economy must evolve from raw wool extraction into a value-added ecosystem encompassing design, branding, processing, and global marketing anchored locally.

A promising livelihood model lies in value-added yak dairy production, particularly hard and soft yak cheese (locally Churpey). Nepal’s highland communities have already demonstrated how the same product can be transformed into a global export success, marketed as ‘Himalayan Dog Chews’ and ‘Bone Candy’, which sustain pastoral economies at scale.

Ladakh has begun to show similar potential. Thenlay Nurboo of Nordic Farm, Durbuk, recently won a Gold Medal at the Mundial do Queijo do Brasil 2026 for his Yak Churpey (soft). With proper scaling, quality certification, and locally-anchored processing and branding that preserves authentic nomenclature, Churpey-based products, whether for gourmet consumption, wellness markets, or premium pet nutrition, can become a high-margin export ecosystem. More importantly, they can generate stable income to anchor habitation in this frontier region.

Complementing this, the cultivation of high-value Sowa Rigpa medicinal plants such as Resilient Stonecrop (Rhodiola imbricata), Ephedra (Ephedra gerardiana), and Pink Arnebia (Arnebia euchroma), species adapted to the plateau’s extreme ecology, offers a parallel livelihood pathway. Supported by institutions such as the National Institute of Sowa Rigpa, these plants can be integrated into nutraceuticals and traditional formulations, creating culturally resonant income streams while reducing pressure on wild populations.

Similarly, Changthang’s geothermal assets, particularly the hot springs at Chumathang, Demchok, and Puga valley, the latter representing India’s most significant geothermal energy prospect in the region, extends this logic further. Alongside their therapeutic role, they open a long-term pathway toward high altitude energy experimentation and sustainability. Integrated with efforts to conserve dark sky through the creation of Hanle Dark Sky Reserve can evolve into a rare convergence of ecology, energy, and astronomy-linked tourism.

Equally critical is how development is structured. While Changthang’s solar potential is widely recognised as a strategic asset, large-scale installations can disrupt fragile grazing ecosystems by altering solar radiation, soil moisture patterns, and wind flow to change microclimates. Elevated solar infrastructure is not ecologically neutral and should not be assumed as a viable model for pastoral landscapes. Evidence from similar cold steppe and desert systems, including the Mongolian plateau, suggests that fixed arrays can impose long-term constraints on the nomadic pastoralism practiced by the Changpas.

A more cautious pathway would be to carefully explore site-specific, grazing-sensitive agrivoltaic designs. These would require high clearance structures, wide spatial spacing, and clearly defined migration corridors, supported by genuine community-led pasture mapping, co-management frameworks, and multi-year ecological monitoring to determine its continued viability. Energy security and livelihood security must therefore be treated as co-dependent objectives, not competing imperatives.

The elevation of Nyoma is deliberate, not incidental. A remote administrative unit is now positioned as a forward node where governance, logistics, and air power converge. This reflects a longer-term effort to consolidate presence. Through Changthang district, India is signalling a shift from guarding borders to structuring them.

The notification is only the first step. Its success will depend on execution, including clean revenue records, systematic toponymic harmonisation rooted in local phonetics, economic anchoring of local communities, and ecologically-informed development. India has drawn the lines. The real test lies in sustaining them through consistent governance, presence, administration, and continuity. In the high altitude expanses of Changthang, sovereignty will not rest on declarations alone. It will depend on whether governance takes root and endures. The map has been written. The task now is to ensure it holds.

By Phuntsog Tsering

Phuntsog Tsering is former Deputy Advisor, Ministry of Defence, Government of India.

The Piprahwa Buddha Relics

Posted on by Stanzin Dechen

In January 2026, I visited Delhi. Along with seeing many famous places, I was fortunate to attend a special exhibition that displayed the sacred Buddha Relics. Being a Buddhist, this particular visit felt like a pilgrimage.

The exhibition explained that after the Mahaparinirvana of Gautama Buddha, his body was cremated. The sacred relics that remained were then divided into eight portions. Each portion was given to a different kingdom and clan that deeply revered the Buddha. They built stupas to enshrine these sacred remains so that people could offer prayers and pay homage. These stupas became important sites for pilgrimage and a reminder of the Buddha’s teachings of peace, compassion, and enlightenment.

The exhibition was devoted to the Piprahwa Relics, whichwere unearthed from a stupa in Piprahwa in present-day Uttar Pradesh. It is believed to be the portion given to the Sakyas of Kapilavastu. It was unearthed in 1898 by British Engineer, William Claxton Peppé and it was subsequently taken overseas. In May 2025, descendants of Peppé tried to sell the sacred relics at an auction in Hong Kong. Government of India’s Ministry of Culture managed to halt the auction and declared the relics as India’s inalienable heritage. Thus, in July 2025 the relics returned to India after 127 years.

As I watched the relics, I felt that Government of India has made a sincere effort to bring these precious relics back from various countries around the world and saved them from being auctioned. I read that this was done through a unique collaboration between the Godrej Group and the Ministry of Culture, Government of India. I have often heard the word ‘secular’ being used to describe our nation and in connection to our Constitution. However, during this visit, I felt that I was witnessing true secularism in action.

The exhibition venue itself felt very special. It was set on a large green lawn near the Qutub Minar. A beautifully designed structure had been constructed, which looked like a chorten (stupa). Later, I learned that the design was inspired by the famous Sanchi Stupa.

When I visited, there were very few people present at the site. Because of this, an attendant personally guided me and showed me the sacred relics and other precious articles displayed at the exhibition. This made the experience even more personal and memorable.

I also came to know that the exhibition had been inaugurated, a few days prior to my visit, by the Hon’ble Prime Minister of India, Shri Narendra Modi. As a Buddhist, I felt deeply grateful for the effort taken to organise such a meaningful exhibition. The visit left me with a sense of peace, pride, and spiritual connection. It was an experience I will always cherish.

Stanzin Dechen is currently studying in Class 10 at Ladakh Public School.

Samstan Sponbo is passionate about photography, with a keen interest in wildlife and astrophotography.

Text by Stanzin Dechen

Photograph by Samstan Sponbo

Why we need EVS in Ladakh’s schools

Posted on by The stawa team

The recent transition of government schools from J&K BOSE to the CBSE curricula marks a significant step towards standardising education in the Union Territory of Ladakh. However, the lack of a dedicated environment science (EVS) subject in the CBSE curriculum poses a big challenge for students, subject teachers and society as a whole. This change not only impacts the quality of education but also undermines the efforts to build an environmentally literate society and undermines the government’s Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) framework. The absence of EVS significantly impacts ecologically-sensitive regions like Ladakh where environmental consciousness is not just an academic course but a survival imperative.

In my opinion, environmental science is the foundation for nurturing environmentally-literate minds. It instils concern and sensitivity about the environment in young minds from the very beginning of their lives in school. In turn they grow into sensible and nature conscious adults who act as environmental stewards. In an era defined by climate crises, biodiversity loss, and pollution, EVS equips students with the knowledge to understand ecological systems, sustainable practices, and their role in protecting the planet.

More specifically, Ladakh, which is one of the most sensitive and fragile ecological zones in the world with its unique landscape and biodiversity, is disproportionately affected by climate change. For Ladakhis, environmental stewardship is not a choice but a necessity ingrained in their way of life. Thus, the lack of EVS in the CBSE curriculum undermines this sense of urgency. In turn, Ladakhi students, who will inherit this vulnerable landscape, are being denied the tools to understand and address these challenges. The absence of EVS in school curricula risks creating a generation of disconnected students from the region’s fragility and sensitivity, which could accelerate its ecological collapse.

Key topics like conservation, waste management, renewable energy, and climate change are not abstract concepts but real-world issues that future generations must understand and address. Removing EVS deprives students of critical literacy in a field directly tied to their survival and well-being. Moreover, EVS fosters interdisciplinary learning. It bridges geography, biology, chemistry, and social sciences, while also encouraging students to think more holistically. It cultivates problem-solving skills, empathy for nature, and civic responsibility in young minds. These are qualities that are essential for building a sustainable society.

It is ironic that on the one hand global leaders and climate activists emphasise the urgency of climate action. And yet, on the other hand, policymakers and people who develop and frame school education curriculum are paradoxically downplaying the role of environmental science and environmental literacy. It’s like organising a green conference for carbon neutrality by using hundreds of flights, lavish hotels and energy intensive venues, which significantly increases the carbon emissions. Likewise people are blamed for causing climate change with their lifestyle choices even as students in schools are deprived of environmental education.

It is possible that the people who make decisions and develop curricula at Central Board for School Education think that other subjects such as biology and geography cover these topics. However, at the senior secondary level, EVS offers a more dedicated focus, understanding and builds a rational bonding of students and the environment. Integrating it with other subjects might dilute the message and effectiveness in the real world.

Students are in their adolescence in the secondary and senior secondary level and are more likely to be drawn towards modern, lavish and carbon-intensive lifestyles. They are living in an age in which lavish, extravagant lifestyles are superficially attractive and aligned with aspirational social status. Therefore they might prioritise things that are trendy and give them a false sense of satisfaction and belongingness to their peers. In such a situation where people value such standards and lifestyles, why should they care about the environment? Without a proper formal environmental education, how could we blame them of being careless and negligent of the environment and the impact of their choices? Their present choices and environmentally irresponsible habits will have long-term impacts in the future. Therefore an introduction to the importance of the environment is important for students at their age to help them connect with nature and understand its importance to their lives. Through this subject, they can understand and realise that sustainability does not mean one has to abandon modernity. Instead, one needs to redefine it to include environmental processes in our decision-making. This helps them realise that lavish lifestyles are not desirable in a world threatened with environmental collapse.

Since CBSE recognises the value of subjects such as home science, fashion design, music, beauty and wellness, yoga etc, then why not environmental science? This is a discipline that is critical to the survival of humanity and other life-forms. If yoga nurtures physical and mental wellness and music fosters creativity and cultural preservation, then EVS teaches harmony between humans and nature, without which there can be no creativity or cultural value. Without pure and unpolluted air, the breathing exercises done in yoga are futile. It’s a call for parity. This contradiction is not to diminish these subjects but to demand balance, equity and fairness.

Without a structured EVS curriculum, students are deprived of opportunities to engage with pressing environmental issues and they graduate without understanding their ecological footprint. Ladakh is a rural, ecologically vulnerable region where livelihoods are dependent on natural resources and such a gap in the education system can be catastrophic. It also dissuades students from opting for a career in the environmental sector. The absence of this subject at the secondary level creates an uncertainty in the minds of hundreds of students who have dedicated years to master the subject. In addition, the absence of EVS demoralises skilled professionals and wastes human resources such as in-service EVS lecturers, who are frustrated as they are compelled to teach subjects in which they have no expertise. It is also disrespectful of their subject specialisation.

Environmental education is also a global and national priority. India has committed to the United Nations’ Sustainable Development Goals including SDGs 3, 6, 7, 13, 14 and 15, which can only be achieved through imparting environmental education to students. EVS aligns very well with national initiatives such as Swachh Bharat Abhiyan, Jal Shakti Abhiyan and renewable energy campaigns. Carbon neutrality in Ladakh was envisioned by Prime Minister Narendra Modi and it aims at restructuring development activities to minimise greenhouse gas emissions. This vision can only be achieved if the local populace is environmentally educated. This can be done only through their school education. By omitting EVS in schools, we undermine the government’s efforts of meeting the SDGs as well as the vision of making ‘carbon neutrality’ in Ladakh. The National Education Policy, 2020 also emphasises environmental awareness and critical thinking, and EVS is an ideal subject for it.

A lot of effort has been made to introduce this important subject in the CBSE curriculum at the secondary level in different ways but there has been no positive response so far. We, as lecturers of EVS in Ladakh, took up this issue with the Hon’ble Lieutenant Governor of Ladakh, former Member of Parliament, Jamyang Tsering Namgyal, and the two LAHDCs but no one has been able to re-introduce environment sciences in the curriculum. We once again appeal to all authorities to reinstate EVS in Ladakh’s school curricula—the future of our planet depends on it. Let’s not teach our children to breathe deeply through yoga while ignoring the polluted air they inhale. Let’s not teach them to sing the music of rivers, while those rivers are dry and let’s not teach them about a glacier trek while those glaciers continue to disappear.

Editor’s note: We have withheld the identity of the writer(s) to protect them from any potentially negative reactions and to focus attention to the issue they have raised.