There is an India we know well. An India of colorful fabrics, powerful incense and ascetic devotion. But there is another India. An older India. An India of ancient imaginations, the kind recorded not in art and architecture but in mountains that scrape the sky and in banyan roots that plumb the deeper layers of the earth. I would not find this India in the cityscapes of Jaipur and Mumbai, or even in Varanasi. Instead, I flew to Ladakh.
Ladakh is India’s curled hand above the Himalayas, a red an...
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