Losar in Leh: Three Winter Days of Ladakhi New Year Scenes

Three Winter Days in Leh: Losar Scenes from Market to Courtyard By Sidonie Morel Lead: Morning light, practical footsteps Old town lanes before the shops fully open Losar in Leh begins without announcements. The lanes in the old town hold a thin layer of grit where yesterday’s snow has been kicked into powder. At the edges, ice stays in narrow bands, dull and compact. A broom moves in slow strokes near a doorway, pushing dust into a small ridge. Someone throws water from a metal bowl, a quick arc, and the splash becomes a dark patch that tightens and pales within minutes. Footsteps mark the cold stone, then fade as the sun climbs past the rooftops. On the same street, shutters lift partway. A shopkeeper tests the hinge, sets a wooden wedge, and leaves the metal half-raised while he arranges boxes inside. The first sounds are small: a latch, a bucket dragged a short distance, a kettle lid tapping once, then still. Down the lane, a dog lies in a sun patch with its nose tucked under its tail. Prayer flags, stretched from roof to roof, pull hard in the wind; their movement is crisp, almost mechanical in the cold air. In Losar in Leh, the early hours are full of these ordinary tasks, repeated with a steadier pace than usual. Near the bazaar side, tea stalls start to work. Cups stack in columns, rinsed quickly, wiped with cloths that hang from hooks. Steam rises in brief plumes, more visible here because the street is shaded. Hands warm around glass tumblers. A taxi creeps past with headlights on even in daylight, tires crunching softly at the roadside where snow remains. A few schoolchildren pass, scarves pulled to their cheeks, notebooks under their arms. Losar in Leh is not a performance at this hour; it is a town moving into the day with clean intentions and full bags waiting to be carried. What the camera would catch in five seconds If you stop in Losar in Leh and hold your phone up for a moment, the frame fills easily: a sky so clear it looks rinsed, ridgelines sharp and pale, rooftops with tin sheets catching a hard white glare. In the foreground, a wall of sun-baked brick shows winter’s detail—chips, old paint, soot marks where a stove pipe has worked all season. A woman steps out with a basket, adjusts it once, and disappears into a doorway. A boy runs past with a plastic bag that snaps in the wind. These are the small scenes that repeat throughout Losar in Leh, different corners, the same bright cold. At the market, the color is practical: orange peels, red packaging, green sacks, and the dull shine of metal trays. A vendor lifts a weighing scale by its hook and sets it down again. A coil of rope sits on a counter beside neatly stacked cartons. Flour sacks lie on their sides with their seams facing outward, ready for quick lifting. Someone counts notes with bare fingers, then presses them into a pocket. Nearby, a motorbike idles; the exhaust is a short cloud that dissolves quickly. This is the visible shape of Losar in Leh: preparation, movement, and a kind of careful order. In the same five seconds, you also catch what the camera cannot hold for long: the smell of apricot wood smoke in a narrow alley; the dry bite of air when you inhale; the warmth that gathers in a doorway where the sun has reached the threshold. Losar in Leh is built from these quick impressions, and they return again and again across three days. Day One: Buying, carrying, sorting Leh market: late morning preparations By late morning, Losar in Leh becomes visible in the market. People arrive with lists that do not need to be unfolded. The stalls carry winter’s stock: flour and rice in large sacks, cartons of oil, tea bricks, biscuits, nuts, dried fruit, and oranges arranged in pyramids. A shopkeeper taps the side of a metal tin to show it is full. Another folds paper into a cone for spices, tying it shut with string. Prices are spoken quickly, the numbers simple, the decision made in a nod. The pace is not hurried, but it is steady, as if there are many doorways to pass through before evening. Bags fill fast. A plastic sack stretches around a box of sweets. A cloth bag takes flour, then is knotted twice. A man shifts a sack onto his shoulder, steps carefully to avoid the icy edge, and moves with the practiced tilt of someone who has carried weight in winter for years. In Losar in Leh, carrying is part of the day’s rhythm: from counter to bag, from bag to taxi, from taxi to threshold. The street shows it clearly—people walking in short loops, returning for one more item, then one more. Near a vegetable seller, winter greens sit in small piles, tied with string. Someone checks them by lifting the bundle slightly and setting it back. A boy carries a tray of eggs carefully, elbows tight to his sides. Tea stalls do brisk business; cups are refilled without ceremony. There is a constant soft rustle: paper, plastic, rope, cloth. A short horn, a quick apology as two people pass in a narrow space, then the flow continues. Losar in Leh feels most like itself here—public, useful, bright. Home threshold: shoes, bags, and a cleared floor Back at the house, Losar in Leh moves indoors. Shoes line up near the door: boots with dried dust, slippers waiting behind them. Bags are set down in a neat cluster. Items are sorted by hand, without labels. Flour goes to one side, sweets to another, tea and spices grouped together. A jar is checked for its lid, turned once, tightened. A packet of nuts is tapped flat so it will stack well. Someone wipes the table with a cloth, then folds the cloth and sets it aside, ready for the next wipe. The floor is cleared in a way that looks simple but takes time: shifting a stool, moving a bucket, placing a broom in its corner. A window is opened briefly to let smoke out, then closed again quickly. Cold air enters, sharp and clean. A kettle is put on, and while it heats, the room becomes a station: hands moving from bag to cupboard, cupboard to shelf, shelf to tray. The work is quiet. The sound is mostly packaging: the tear of plastic, the scrape of cardboard, the click of a tin lid. In Losar in Leh, the threshold is busy because it is the place where the town’s bustle turns into the household’s order. Outside, in the lane, a neighbor passes and calls a greeting. The door opens, closes, opens again; each time, a slice of bright winter light falls across the floor. Someone shakes a cloth outside, sending a small cloud of dust into the sun. Another person pours water into a basin and rinses a cup. Losar in Leh is full of these repeated gestures, and they create the feeling of a house being reset for the year. Day Two: Dough, oil, and winter sweetness Khapse and the frying rhythm The second day of Losar in Leh is often shaped by food work that can be seen and heard. Flour sits in a wide bowl. Water is added slowly. Fingers press and fold, then press again, until the dough becomes smooth and elastic. It is rolled out on a board dusted with flour, then cut into strips. Each strip is twisted or pinched into a shape that will hold its crispness. Trays begin to fill. A cloth is placed over part of the tray to keep the dough from drying too fast in the heated air of the kitchen. Oil heats in a deep pan. The first piece is dropped in to test the temperature; it sinks, then rises with bubbles. Another follows, and soon the surface is active. A pair of tongs turns each piece at the right moment. The color changes quickly: pale to honey, honey to gold. The fried pieces are lifted out and set on a metal plate to drain. The kitchen smells clean and warm, with flour and oil and a faint sweetness. In Losar in Leh, khapse is not a single dish; it is a process that fills the room for hours, and it leaves behind stacks of crisp shapes that look almost architectural when piled neatly. As the day goes on, the stacks grow. Some are dusted lightly with sugar. Others are left plain. Jars are filled and tapped once on the table so the pieces settle without breaking. Lids are tightened. A child steals a small piece, then another, and is told to wait, but the child smiles and keeps chewing. The work continues. The rhythm is simple: roll, cut, twist, fry, drain, stack. Losar in Leh often lives in this rhythm more than in any visible “event,” because it is the food that will travel from house to house when visitors begin. Tea, trays, and the house ready for visits Alongside frying, Losar in Leh brings the steady work of tea. A pot simmers with tea leaves. Salt is measured. Butter is added, and the tea is churned in a tall cylinder, the handle moving up and down with a soft thump. Cups are warmed first, then filled. Foam settles quickly. The tray that carries the cups is wiped with a cloth, then wiped again. Another tray waits with khapse, nuts, and sweets. Everything is arranged in small, practical groups so that it can be lifted and offered without fuss. A room is adjusted for sitting. Cushions are shaken and lined up. A small table is cleared, then set with a cloth. A corner is tidied: bowls placed neatly, a candle checked, a matchbox set beside it. Outside the kitchen, the broom returns to its corner, and the floor is swept once more. In Losar in Leh, the household looks freshly organized not because it is new, but because it has been worked on repeatedly, the same surfaces wiped and swept with patient attention. “One more cup, just now.” The phrase is ordinary, but it’s repeated often across Losar in Leh. Cups are refilled, not as a gesture, but as a practical hospitality that keeps hands warm in winter. A kettle is set back on the stove. A lid is placed carefully so steam stays in. A cloth is folded into a tight square and left within reach. By late afternoon, the trays are ready, the jars are closed, and the doorway begins to open more frequently. Someone knocks. Someone else steps out to answer. The second day finishes with the house set up to move smoothly into the third. Day Three: Courtyards, doorways, and quick

source https://lifeontheplanetladakh.com/blog/losar-in-leh/