I was headed to Skurbuchan Gompa. The rickety bus left the town of Leh and drove along the Leh-Srinagar Highway. At a junction, the highway crossed a bridge leading to Lamayuru, while continuing along the Indus River led to Dar-Hanu. Our bus didn’t cross the bridge; it headed towards Skurbuchan Gompa on the way to Dah-Hanu. The road descended slowly, with the Indus River to the left. Every green patch along the narrow land by the river was a village. This area, from Domkhar to Skurbuchan, Achinathang, Sanjak, Dah-Hanu, and Garkun, would be covered in apricot trees bearing juicy, orange fruit in a month and a half. The air would be filled with the sweet scent of ripe apricots, marking the season for apricot picking in late summer and early autumn. Many Ladakhis, myself included, were eagerly anticipating this year’s apricot harvest, wondering which village to visit.
Before long, the bus arrived at Skurbuchan Village. I took a short rest at the family with whom I was staying. They served me tsampa and lassi, with the lassi being particularly noteworthy. It had chopped vegetables, and the aroma and taste were reminiscent of cilantro, like the kind that comes with pho in Vietnam. I remembered this herb well from my stay in Kalsha Village in Zanskar, where it was packed into the momos. I loved this cilantro-like herb of Ladakh and thought it would taste even better if added to thukpa with thin noodles.
After the rest, I decided to climb to Skurbuchan Gompa, perched on the hillside behind the house. At the base of the gompa, there was a large prayer wheel, which I circled clockwise before continuing up the mountain path. Looking up, I could see the gompa complex, its white walls contrasting beautifully with the blue sky. I followed the winding path and finally reached the gompa.
The roof of the gompa was a small plaza, overlooking Skurbuchan Village below. The village was surrounded by lush greenery, with the Indus River flowing leisurely through the valley beyond. To the right, the white buildings of Skurbuchan Palace stood in terraces against the rocky mountainside.
Inside the gompa, I found artists working on renovations, painting intricate Buddhist murals on the white walls. The delicate underdrawings were being filled with colors, and I was amazed by their technique, which used shades to create depth. The brushwork was smooth and rhythmic, and the artists’ concentration reminded me of monks meditating in silence, battling their inner selves. These Vajrayana-style murals and sculptures were unique to this part of India, and I imagined the artists had been trained at the Central Institute of Buddhist Studies in Choglamsar, where such art was taught. The institute, with its modern campus incorporating Ladakhi designs, was open to both monks and laypeople. If you’re interested, it’s worth a visit. Despite the renovations, the gompa housed ancient statues, including one with multiple faces and a thousand hands, eagerly awaiting restoration.
Leaving Skurbuchan Gompa, I wandered through the village. A walking path arched from the gompa to Skurbuchan Palace, bordered by wheat fields. Small shops lined the path, and this small market formed the village’s heart, where elders and housewives gathered to chat while children played around them. A clear stream flowed beside the path, its sparkling water looking fresh and drinkable. Though the village was old, many new houses had been built on the flat land, a consequence of the massive flood in 2010 that had swept away the older buildings. Today, there was no trace of the devastation.
I followed the arched path, and looking up, I saw the white Skurbuchan Palace atop the rocky mountain. I climbed the zigzagging staircase carved into the steep slope. The steps were in good condition, making the ascent manageable. Pausing halfway, I saw the beautiful expanse of Skurbuchan Village, but I pressed on, eager for the summit’s view. Reaching the top, I turned and gazed out. The view was breathtaking. The Indus River, winding its way from the distant Himalayas, cut deep into the earth and flowed past the village. The far-off mountains and wilderness turned into lush green nearer the village, a testament to human cultivation. To the left, the gompa complex clung to the vertical cliffs, with the old village of Skurbuchan spread below. This place, with its spectacular cliffside gompas, was a treasure close to Leh, rivaling even the beauty of Lamayuru Gompa.
I heard from a Japanese photographer that there is a sacred ritual in mid to late February, after the Noble Silence ends, where people travel from Skurbuchan Village to Lamayuru by prostrating over two weeks. I plan to witness this next year.
Finally, at the mountain’s peak, I found myself alone at the pristine, white Skurbuchan Palace, blending seamlessly with the Himalayan backdrop.
