Don’t eat the yellow snow

Every few minutes I pass by a spot where the white powdery snow has been drip-painted an unmistakable deep yellow. Sometimes it is a couple of feet away, but other times it is right in my way which forces out a silent curse to those particularly lazy men from me.

Walking in three feet of snow with four layers of special clothing and a rucksack that seems to weigh fifty kilos isn’t easy. And when it is a thin layer of ice you’re walking on which breaks like a million shattering glass under every step, it is even more unnerving.

The frozen parts of Zanskar appear tame and placid next to its flowing parts that race downstream with incredible energy, even in February. The nine of us, who have left behind nine different lives to come together and live the same way for 12 days, are overwhelmed by what we see before us. None of us are unmoved. But Ladakh tends to do that.

Back in Bombay after almost a fortnight, I’m experiencing withdrawal symptoms. My fingertips have lessened sensation, my body can’t figure out whether it is feeling hot or cold, and my hands and feet have taken a liking to swelling. A friend has a theory for this. She says that when the body, which is used to continuous physical activity for over a period of time, suddenly experiences a period of inactivity, the endorphin levels plummet leading to dullness of mind, depression even.

Maybe so. At the moment, though, I find cold comfort in Zappa.