“The season when the roads are open, the lakes are blue, and the apricots are sweet,” Aryan said. “The season when Ladakh lets you in, but doesn’t swallow you whole. Summer. June to mid-September.”

He visited Tso Moriri, the sister lake to Pangong, which fewer tourists attempt. The silence was absolute. He could hear his own heartbeat. A wild kiang (Tibetan wild ass) watched him from a ridge.

Aryan had listened. And now, as he stood on the Shanti Stupa at 9 PM under a canopy of stars so thick they looked like spilled milk, he understood. Winter was for monks and survival. Summer was for the soul’s exploration. June, Aryan discovered, was Ladakh shedding its armor.

That was the difference. In June, Ladakh is awake. People often ask: Does it rain in Ladakh? It does, but not like in Mumbai or Kerala. Aryan experienced a “cloudburst” near Hemis National Park in late July. For twenty minutes, the sky turned gunmetal grey, and hail the size of marbles bounced off his helmet. Then, as suddenly as it started, the sun returned.