Mountains are a way of life for me. I was hardly four or five years old when I first went to the Rohtang Pass in the Himalayas. My parents were fond of travelling and my father often took us to the mountains of Himachal Pradesh. At that time, there were no roads to the Rohtang Pass - we had to walk up. I have pahaadi blood in me. I am part Dogri and part Punjabi, though I don't hard press the Punjabi side of me!
I feel that the mountains are my emotional homeland. I keep going back to them and when you feel so strongly about something, it comes through in your medium of expression. So, you can find out what the mountains mean to me through my poetry, painting and photography.

I like taking risks.
I remember the first time that I came to India from the US to join films. I landed in Mumbai and then immediately took off for Kashmir! Of course, it wasn't as risky then as it is today, to travel there. But I have never been one to play it safe. So, I am off again to Kashmir soon.
I have always enjoyed going to the mountains, unplanned. I like the idea of exploring remote places. I love to take off on my own. That is my way of connecting with myself, of unwinding, of exploring the terrain within me.
I believe that you never really get to feel the place unless you walk through it, touch it and feel it. I love trekking through the wilderness and am addicted to walking! Though my left knee was injured in a road accident and I can't climb too well, I love to walk through stark terrains and enjoy the solitude.
For years, I wandered in the Himachal region, visiting remote areas of Kinnaur, Lahaul and Spiti…till I discovered Ladakh.

Barren landscapes are peaceful...
I first went to Ladakh in 1995 with Vinod, my fiancé. We drove all the way from Mumbai, sometimes each taking the wheel for 12 hours at a stretch. We were there for nearly two months. We would go and shack up in little villages; five or six hamlets with one gompa would often be termed a village. We also stayed in border areas outlining China and Tibet. That's how Ladakh entered my spiritual, mental and creative landscape. Since then, I have been to Ladakh several times, often on my own. I reach there and take the help of locals to navigate my way around this awesome terrain.
Ladakh is breathtaking in winter. The colours change. There are unimaginable shades of greys and browns in the landscape. It has starkness, serenity and soul. It is more spaced out, intriguing. Maybe, as a rule, starkness appeals to me. Barren landscapes, with the wind howling through them, somehow bereft, alienated and yet soothing and peaceful in their isolation.

I was filled with a child's curiosity.
The most exciting and memorable journey I have taken till date is the Frozen River Trek - the Tchadar Expedition. Tchadar means 'sheet of ice' and this trek takes you across the Zanskar River.
When you travel from Leh to Lamayaru, two rivers - Indus and Zanskar - meet. When you stand on a particular strip of road, you can see the confluence point - the Indus River coming from your left…and from the front, going down into the Indus Valley, is the Zanskar River. I would often stand at this point several times and wonder what lay in the valley. I would invariably stop there, take pictures, watch the light change on the water and reflect across the landscape. I was filled with the immense curiosity of a child. What would the bend in the river reveal to me?
On a trek in January 2004, I landed in Leh. I was fortunate to get two experienced and skilled guides - Lobzan and Rigzin. Lobzan was particularly adept at traversing the terrain at a very fast pace. He was a Zanskari and his family - wife and three daughters - lived across the river. So, he crossed it every now and then.
We had carried dried spinach, Maggi noodles and I, for the most part, lived off the packet of muesli which I had carried with me. We would spend the entire day trekking, wading, finding our way across the precarious sheet of ice. At night, we would discover a cave or rather a shelter along the river bed - little gouges in the rocks which keep you protected from the harsh winds.
The first night, I was scared to venture out and even attend to nature's call. I was afraid of snow leopards or bears attacking me. I soon reasoned that if animals came up to the area, they could easily find me in my tiny shelter. In fact, the guides showed me the paws of a snow leopard embedded in the ice.

I may look fragile...but I am tough.
I am the first non Ladakhi Indian woman to have done this expedition. People ask me how I could venture out all alone with just two guides for company. Wasn’t it dangerous and risky for a woman? Initially I had these reservations too. I soon wondered why I needed anyone to take care of me. Once I had changed my way of thinking, I wasn’t apprehensive any more.
At night, after dinner, the porters would be talking in Ladakhi. I would hear the sound of the water gurgling and flowing within the bed of ice – water clinking on stones and the ice gently shifting to let the water flow on.
And the stars! I have never seen such luminous, huge stars twinkling in the clear open night sky. I felt I could reach out and touch them with my fingertips. The entire landscape glistened and glimmered – the dark shiny rocks, the moon, the water and the white stretches of ice.

Walking on water, walking with life...
Walking on the ice bed is a very precarious and sometimes, treacherous experience. You have to wear crampons on your shoes to get a grip. Sometimes, the ice is just a sliver separating you from the water beneath and there are points where it is extremely fragile. The entire stretch is not uniformly thick. The surface of the river was at times solid and clear like glass and one could see the stones all the way down. They were the colours of grey, brown, white, even turquoise.
The river was frozen, mostly over the entire surface. When you put your foot down on it, the shiny white film of ice shattered like crystals. At times, it was thin and flaky, making it difficult for us to walk. The sound of our tapping would tell me where I was putting my foot. A blunt note meant that it was solid old ice and thus safe to step on. A deeper note meant it was waterlogged ice. A high-pitched sound warned us to move away. At times, the stick plunged right into the water and we missed by a breath! We had to pull back instantly otherwise we could go into the water and be caught under the ice. Everything else seems so small there – the issues in your head, the fragility of life itself. For, one wrong step could spell the end of it all.

Travelling has changed the way I look at existence. Life in Mumbai is so unaesthetic. Earlier, I used to get hassled easily. The traffic, the pollution, dealing with my staff, just about everything used to get to me, making me angry and impatient. Now, I am more accepting of my situation. We make such large issues over petty things. I have learnt to embrace the present moment fully and to live in it totally. I like the fact that when I am in the mountains, I can let things happen, go with the flow rather than constantly try to design my life.
What may appear as harsh living conditions in the mountains, without the material comforts that we take for granted here, has actually heightened and stimulated my creativity. I always carry my camera and a notepad, where I often make notes.

Other people go to meditation classes, spas, spiritual retreats to get in touch with themselves. This is my way. On the river expedition, the porters would be either walking ahead of me or behind me. I was essentially walking alone. That’s the way I like to travel. More often than not, I drive all the way to the mountains. I take my driver along, but once there, I prefer driving myself. I have taken the route from Manali to the Rohtang Pass several times. I don’t trust anyone else’s driving in the mountains!
I carry the river, the mountains, the starry sky and the open stark spaces within me. When they call out to me incessantly, beckoning me again to their folds, I will go. Go home to them once again.’