Away from the tourist traps, Ladakhi women redefine the region—and their own livelihoods

From textiles to ice hockey, local women in Ladakh are taking longer strides than ever before

On an approach road to Leh from Manali, travellers are met with a series of funny, even thoughtful messages on journeys through roads as a metaphor for life. One of them reads: “Laziness is nothing more than the habit of resting before you get tired”—a rather fitting parable for the “Land of High Passes”, where working with the stark and extreme terrain requires an exceptional kind of resilience. It’s the kind that’s written into the genetic make-up of the natives of Ladakh, especially the women, who, over the years, have fought for their visibility and agency.

In 1987, when anthropologist and scholar Monisha Ahmed first set foot in Ladakh from Mumbai, it was unusual for women—whether from within or outside the province—to lead enterprises. This, however, did not deter Ahmed from dreaming up a cultural renaissance led by and for the locals. That’s how the Ladakh Arts and Media Organisation (LAMO) was born 1996 in Leh—a not-for-profit organisation that would go on to become a springboard of ideas and entrepreneurship in the years to follow.

“Before we go into the aspect of women in the workforce, we have to take note of women’s education too,” says Ahmed. “Through the years, a lot of Ladakhi men were joining the army right after school without pursuing a college education, because one doesn’t need a college degree to join the army.”

This created more space for women to receive formal education beyond secondary levels, equipping  them to take up jobs in both organised and unorganised sectors, especially in various crafts that the region has to offer. “Men were the primary custodians of several professional crafts like weaving, while women got subsidiary roles like spinning the wool. With women getting more educated, that trend gradually began to shift, and women found their own niches,” explains Ahmed.

Today, there are conservation architects from Ladakh who have worked on restoring and preserving the built heritage of the place, besides many leading the textiles and garments sector. “Of course, you have a Jigmat Couture, but you also have labels like Zilzom, Lena Ladakh, Looms of Ladakh, Utpala, and so many others working with local weaves led by the women of Ladakh.”

How women took charge of the local looms

Pashmina, which is synonymous with Kashmir, has struggled to be sustainably profitable for the locals who work with it, despite the cashmere (a fine shawl crafted with the pashmina) industry being highly solvent, globally. This visible gap led to the formation of Looms of Ladakh in 2017, a farm-to-fashion, herder- and artisan-led cooperative headquartered in Leh. It was founded by social entrepreneur Abhilasha Bahuguna along with her husband Prasanna Ramaswamy G., the then Deputy Commissioner of Leh.

Today, its operations are spread over 16 villages across two districts, with over 427 women from different self-help groups partaking in the enterprise. In order to boost their efforts and the local economy, organisations like Royal Enfield have partnered up with several local communities to amplify their work and put the word of their wares out there. With Looms of Ladakh, one such creative and social collaboration titled “The Himalayan Knot” brings local textile traditions to the fore.

In 2022, as a part of this ongoing endeavour, one of the three capsule collections was jointly innovated by Eka Design Studio and Looms of Ladakh. Woollen mittens, jumpers, and caps made with Changthangi sheep (a local species of sheep from Changthang Valley in Ladakh) wool have allowed the women at Looms of Ladakh to expand the purview of their artistry.

Padma Tashi, 24, is a local who has been working as a product manager at Looms of Ladakh’s Leh outfit since September 2023. She oversees the training and capacity building of the ladies, lending a hand at the looms once in a while. “I love my job,” she says. “I started volunteering with weavers in 2019. In 2022, I joined a local programme where I also started teaching children of the local tribes to weave. I fell in love with the process of weaving and working on looms, maybe also because growing up, I saw my mother weave carpets and rugs at home,” says Tashi.

The money Tashi has been earning for the past five years has helped support her parents, whom she lives with; it’s a duty she does not take lightly. “Kids of my generation don’t seem to care much about these native traditions. Some are 26 and 27 years old—including men—and continue to be dependent on their parents. I don’t understand how they do that, because I simply can’t,” says Tashi, underlining the evolving nature of a once closed society that frowned upon women stepping outside of their homes.

A female takeover of the ice rink

Thirty-four-year old Noor Jahan has been in the rink since she was a teenager. Since 2016—the year in which India’s national women’s ice-hockey team was formed—Jahan has been moonlighting as the goalkeeper while being an art conservator by day. Twenty-eight-year old Diskit C. Angmo, a defender on the team, has been skating on the ice since the age of 12. By day, she works for an NGO. While neither of them earns a penny from playing the sport they love, they have, in fact, spent a sizable portion of their savings on it. But they wouldn’t have it any other way.

For years, Jahan and Angmo, along with their teammates, have woken up in the dawn of Ladakh’s freezing winters to practise for hours through the months of November till February. “Back then, we did not have proper gear and equipment to play with and would use hand-me-downs from our brothers or the men’s hockey team,” shares Jahan. While Ladakh still doesn’t have an ice hockey rink, which makes practising through the year an impossibility, Royal Enfield’s social initiative over the past three years has granted them access to state-of-the-art gear.

“We see young kids training these days with shiny new gear and tell them that we walked so they could run,” laughs Jahan. For the seniors, however, several sacrifices are still being made to keep their passion and the sport alive. “Even if we have been playing for over 15 years, you have to understand that it’s only three months in a year, every year, that we get to play on ice,” says Angmo. This also means that the players either forsake their day jobs, the way Jahan does, to accommodate play time during the winter months, or work doubly hard to maintain a stream of livelihood while also playing the sport, like Angmo does.

A permanent rink would resolve many of those issues, but that continues to remain a pipe dream since 2006, when Jahan was still in school. “There’s a stadium, not far from my school, which has a board that states there's been an international-sized ice hockey rink, but ‘under construction’ since then! Can you believe it?” exclaims Jahan. 

However, in spite of infrastructural hindrances, some recent developments have inspired hope. For beginners, Ladakh’s Hill Council, or the local administration, put together a women’s ice hockey league in 2023—an initiative the players wish to see grow into a national league in the years to come. Moreover, Royal Enfield’s partnership with the Ice Hockey Association of India last year allowed them to organise 15 days of extra practice sessions on ice—an impossible proposition after February in Ladakh, since most of the ice melts—for the women’s team, before their Asia and Oceania Championship in Thailand. They reached the semi-finals, in which they played against the host country.

Jahan and Angmo don’t shy away from taking credit over their hard-earned triumphs that have paved the way for youngsters who aspire to be like them. “When we started playing, only two teams could be formed to try out for the tournaments or leagues, and even those were difficult to form. Last season, we had nine such teams, and that too, with our best girls trying out for the tournaments. That’s a huge change in a very small amount of time,” says Angmo, adding that most players, in fact, are from the smaller villages of the union territory. 

The ripple effects have moved beyond the sport to impact Ladakhi culture and society at large. Back in the day, when the current national-team players were starting out, only male members of the family would accompany the girls to the rink. Today, the mothers and women-folk are equal participants in supporting this growing tribe. “So many mothers have walked up to us to tell us that they want their daughters to be like us, so we must be doing something right,” says Jahan.

Food for change

What started as a pitstop for travellers with a public toilet and a water-refilling station three years ago has now evolved into a fully-functional cafe named Camp Kharu, located 40 minutes away from main Leh town. A part of Royal Enfield’s social mission, the regional lead Tsewang Dolma, a Ladakhi herself, says that the potential Camp Kharu holds is endless.

Being a completely women-run initiative means to account for the homes the women come from, and to work around everyone’s personal needs and strengths so that no one is left out. “Everyone works on a roster basis here, and everyone has been trained to do everything. It’s a team of six women at present, where all of them take turns to manage the kitchen and do cleaning duties,” explains Dolma.

The women were trained to operate a coffee machine, fix a sandwich, even bake simple confections. Fifty-year-old Chemet Lamo used to farm and weave until last year, when she joined Camp Kharu as the president. “I go home to my husband and two daughters (aged 22 and 26) after working here six days a week, and it’s a wonderful feeling. Earning money from this job has helped me and my family immensely,” she shares.

Lamo is relieved that she doesn’t have to ask her husband for money to spend during weddings or house-warming events. The additional income also helps with buying better farm supplies. “Earlier, the kids would have to contribute some money at home, but that need is almost completely gone now. Isn’t that just wonderful?” gleams Lamo.

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