Written in Stone

For years, the Himalayas has been both my refuge and sanctuary. In these untouched landscapes, where silence speaks and the natural world hums with primal energy, I’ve felt a deep resonance with the Earth’s rhythms—an irresistible pull that has drawn me back time and again since my first journey there as a teenager. 

As an adventurer and lover of the mountains, my sojourns have profoundly shaped my understanding of our bond with nature. In these remote corners of the world, I’ve felt a deep connection to the Earth’s pulse, where each trek through rugged terrain mirrored a journey through the landscape of my own being. These revelations unfolded in mysterious and profound ways alongside my documentation of Ladakh’s rock art, and became a profound awakening, one that continues to echo within me and grow to this day.

Central Asian Steppic-style stag at Thang-juk.

Ladakh, in the trans-Himalayas, with its vast, uninhabited landscapes and stunning vistas, has captivated me since my first visit 20 years ago. In 2011—my fifth time in Ladakh—the region’s rugged beauty held an entirely different pull—one that seemed to hum with an ancient energy, a force I hadn’t noticed before. Lost in plain sight, embedded in the very bones of the land—its stratified rock—lay a collection of prehistoric imprints known as petroglyphs. These engravings, created with stone tools, turned out to be the only remnants of prehistoric human presence in the area. In the same way that nature utilizes accretion and erosion to craft the landscape into a magnificent artistic spectacle, our ancestors chiselled, pecked, and engraved into these very rocks, liberating forms captive within the recesses of their minds.

Two humans in a celebratory pose at the Lehdo village site

My journey that led me to these stones began as an intellectual pursuit, sparked by my anthropologist friend Viraf Mehta, who introduced me to rock art. It soon became much more. When I first saw a rock gallery by the Indus River, nearly consumed by the landscape, I was struck by how the art was rooted in its origin, lying in situ. The connection was immediate, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was witnessing something far more profound than I had imagined. There was an urgency to document them, as centuries-old carvings—depicting hunting scenes, mysterious symbols, and handprints—were eroding under the pressures of development in Ladakh. As a mountain enthusiast always seeking offbeat experiences, this intriguing art drew me in, like a moth to a flame, beginning a decade-long journey of discovery and documentation.

Some of these markings were more than 5,000 years old. These were not just carvings on rock but reflections of an ancient culture we know little about. I was riveted by the finesse with which they were executed on such an unforgiving surface, where error correction was impossible. Even in the harshest of conditions, these ancient people left their mark on the world, using the only canvas available to them—Ladakh’s vast landscape of rock. At a time when survival might have seemed more urgent than creative expression, these hunter gatherers still found ways to convey their beliefs and observations through highly stylized forms. Their art reflected the deep, inherent artistic impulse that has always been a part of the human condition—long before the rise of civilized society as we know it. As artist and anthropologist Desmond Morris aptly put it, “It is as if the human species was incapable of being artless irrespective of material circumstances.”

A quiet hamlet, surrounded by the wind-eroded crags of the Zanskar Range on the Lamayuru to Padum trek, Ladakh

The idea that art could flourish in such a challenging environment struck me deeply. Nature was both mentor and muse, guiding these hunter-gatherers with its rhythms and forces. The sun, the moon, and the stars were not mere celestial bodies but vital markers that shaped their lives, decisions, and survival. The animals they hunted were not seen simply as food, but revered as larger-than-life beings—often depicted on a scale greater than humans. In these depictions, humans appear small, interacting with creatures of almost divine stature, reflecting a profound reverence—a recognition that the natural world was a force that shaped and defined human existence. In return, nature’s wisdom was immortalized in rock, reflecting an eternal bond between them and the land.

Homestay in Lingshed village;

Travelling across Ladakh’s vast desert was an experience unlike any other, enriched by the warmth, generosity, and indomitable spirit of its people who opened their homes to me in many out of the way locations. I traversed its expanse through every possible means—trekking for days, navigating rugged roads, rafting the wild currents of the Zanskar, and even soaring above the mighty ranges on an aerial sortie. No season was left unexplored. It felt like traveling through time, navigating between echoes of an ancient past and the pulse of the present, always revealing something new.

From the towering heights of Saser La in the north to the windswept wilderness of Changthang, from Kargil and Zanskar in the west to the vast, stony plains of the upper Indus Valley, I left no stone unturned in my quest to immerse myself in Ladakh’s timeless artistry. Along the way, I made extraordinary discoveries—one in Changthang, a region once thought barren of rock art, that proved to be a site of remarkable significance.

Prayer flags stand frozen in the frigid winter landscape of Yaye Tso Lake (4800 m), Changthang

Many of these sites had been noted by researchers in the past, starting with the father of Ladakh archaeology, A.H. Franke, who first noticed and wrote on his findings in 1902. Many researchers added to the numbers in later years yet they remained largely confined to academic journals. My goal was to bring these open-air galleries of rock art to a wider audience—creating a curated collection that would serve as both an illustrated travel guide and a gateway to these remote, hard-to-access locations. I wanted to create something that had not been attempted before by using specialised photography techniques with my focus being on distribution, styles and creative range. It was no small feat, given the vastness of Ladakh, my ambition to capture art from every region, the limited windows of opportunity, and the harsh conditions I faced. Not to mention, all my trips were personally funded. It was a grueling process, photographing a subject that was difficult to capture under the best of circumstances, but ultimately, it pushed me to challenge myself. In many ways, the landscapes I traversed through this project mirrored my own personal journey.

Over the course of a decade spent in Ladakh, my work became inseparable from my life. After facing three cancer diagnoses, I found that trekking through harsh, remote regions—enduring long days in freezing temperatures and navigating rugged terrains—became not a hardship, but a form of healing. In the quiet moments of solitude, when I allowed myself to connect with the land, its rhythms, and its stories, I experienced a deeper understanding, one that transcended physical struggle and linked me to something far greater. In the solitude of these mountains, I realized that true growth often comes not from finding answers, but from the journey itself. Nature, in all its raw beauty and unforgiving power, was a constant presence, offering comfort in its silence and wisdom in its rhythms.

The author next to a hunting scene from the Alchi petroglyph site, Lower Ladakh

By 2020, after 18 visits to the region, I entered the most challenging phase—finalizing and assembling the book. Curating this work from my vast field research, alongside the extensive study it required, designing the visual and graphic elements to do justice to the subject, and navigating the entire publishing process became a fascinating, albeit demanding, test of my own capabilities. I was my own taskmaster, best friend, and fiercest critic!

When my book—Speaking Stones: Rock Art of Ladakh—was named a finalist for the Banff Mountain Book Award in 2024, I was honoured, but the recognition was secondary. The true reward lay in the transformation I underwent through this journey. I discovered the boundless potential within me—potential often hidden beneath layers of self-doubt. This journey reaffirmed that we are, indeed, multi-potential beings and that everything is figureoutable if one is willing.

As the stones whispered their stories, I began to sense a deeper connection—a vast, unbroken thread weaving through time and nature, binding us all together. This experience, with all its challenges and rewards, taught me that the most profound discoveries are not always those we seek but those that reveal themselves unexpectedly. I consider myself fortunate to have been called to such a task—one that was challenging, captivating, and, above all, deeply rewarding.

Ahtushi Deshpande is a photographer, independent researcher, and writer. Her self-published book Speaking Stones: Rock Art of Ladakh released in June last year and was shortlisted for the 2024 Banff International Mountain Book Award. Visit www.speakingstonesladakh.com to learn more