The Writers' Circle

As far as the eye can see, the entire region seemed to be just acre after acre of uninhabited desert. The beige-brown sands would occasionally twinkle as the sand crystals reflect the light of the unforgiving sun.
	As our jeep drove on, under the watchful eye of this bright afternoon sun, mud houses seemed to emerge from the desert followed by the magnificent Tikse monastery which swelled to its dazzling proportions, leaving a visitor in awe as he looks up at the monastery from the town at the bottom of the hill.
	Tikse monastery is an architectural phenomena of white with uniformly aligned windows and topped off with a layer of rich earthy red. Its location on a hill, overseeing the dry Ladakhi terrain below and looking up to the majestic Himalayan mountains above the already high altitude of the region, provides one with a breathtaking panorama that is not to be forgotten too easily.
	As we climbed up to the monastery, also known as gompa in Tibetan, we first came upon a row of white pagoda-like structures called chortens. They stood proudly in front of the gompa, as if protecting it or providing one with an introductory glimpse of the architecture that was still to come.
	Climbing further led us to the tiny cubical cabins of the monks which were built next to the gompa. At this stage, the monastery temple was looming before us and it was grander than ever, with its twelve floors staring down at us. There were ladder-like stairs leading one up and down the many levels and rooms within it. The most impressive room for me, however, was the library. Although this library was not big, it made up for this with the numerous shelves of ancient Buddhist scriptures and texts wrapped in cloth and packed meticulously according to their topics.
	Walking out from the library onto a huge terrace, we noticed a monk standing in a corner. His face was a dark reddish brown that resulted from the daily beating of the blistering desert sun. He had many deep wrinkles on his forehead and lining his thoughtful eyes. He was wearing the maroon-coloured robes of a Tibetan Buddhist monk with a bright yellow shirt inside. On his head, he wore a woollen cap, of the same shade of maroon as his robes.
	Although we did not share a common language, we smiled and said, "Tashi Deleg" which meant "Hello" in Tibetan.

	The following week, we flew in to Delhi. It was a huge contrast to the serene and peaceful surroundings in the regions of Jammu and Kashmir.
	As far as the eye can see, old Delhi is covered by throng after throng of people meandering around the many dark and mysterious alleys that twist and turn as a complicated labyrinth would. In the early mornings, this crowd can still be seen, but they would be covered by a layer of "mist" that has descended on the capital and mingled with the exhaust fumes that spill out of the trucks and auto rickshaws. This is the part of Delhi where the vibrant bazaar lies.
	Along the main thoroughfare, makeshift stands selling fruit and vegetables could be found alongside shops carrying odds and ends that one might use in the kitchen. As you proceed further into the market, butchers and street barbers make their appearance. There are also many guest houses and restaurants here housed within the old and long-unpainted buildings, catering to the needs of the backpacking crowd.
	In this same area, the Old Delhi train station stands proudly, reminiscent of the colonial days when it was the only major train station in Delhi. At this station, men balancing luggage on their heads vied with women carrying babies, to get onto the very efficient trains that come and go punctually. A family of six could be seen waiting patiently for their train to arrive, and while waiting, they made camp by a pillar outside the station. They had food, mattresses and a multitude of bags and personal belongings wrapped in large pieces of cloth with them.
	As we were walking along the streets of Old Delhi, we saw a holy man - a saddhu - posing with some tourists. His age could not be determined as his hair was black with streaks of white and his eyes twinkled like those of a much younger man. He was dressed in a bright orange robe and had a red dot painted on his forehead. He was not wearing shoes and was carrying a walking stick of bamboo in one hand and a tin can with a handle in the other.
	Although we did not share a common language, we smiled and said, "Namaste" which meant "Hello" in Hindi.