Sometimes a wrong turn takes you exactly where you need to be.

Lately, many of my stories seem to begin with me arriving somewhere unexpected. I mention this not to give them a more compelling narrative, but because I have begun to notice a pattern: many of the coincidences in our lives are not entirely accidental.

That is how I found Stakmo Monastery in Ladakh. That day, I had intended to visit a completely different place. But shortly after leaving Leh, I realised that I was travelling in the wrong direction. For some reason, the route on my map had been set to Stakmo Monastery. Since I had somehow ended up on this road, I decided to follow it and see where it would take me.

Most of the journey passes through Shey and by the famous Thiksey Monastery. Between them lies a vast field of ancient white stupas, known in Ladakh as chortens. Against the snow-capped mountains, they form an extraordinary landscape.

In Buddhism, a stupa is not a temple in the usual sense. You cannot enter it. It is a sacred receptacle that may contain relics of spiritual teachers, scriptures, images, mantras and other ritual objects. Its form is itself symbolic, representing the order of the universe and the path towards enlightenment.

Stupas have always reminded me of mountains shaped by human hands, and here the resemblance becomes especially clear. The white structures seem to continue the outlines of the mountains behind them. The architecture does not compete with the landscape but becomes part of it. The result is a truly mystical scene in which it is difficult to separate the human from the natural, or the material from the spiritual.

Stakmo lies several kilometres from the main road. The route gradually climbs higher into the mountains before reaching a small village, where a barely visible sign points towards the monastery. The final stretch is quite rough, but exceptionally beautiful.

The monastery itself is very small. At its centre stands a yellow temple called Lhakhang Serpo, which literally means "Yellow Temple." Its colour alone makes it unusual in Ladakh, where most monastic buildings are whitewashed.

The temple was built in 1427 by the Ladakhi scholar and monk Sherab Zangpo, a disciple of Tsongkhapa, the founder of the Gelug school of Tibetan Buddhism. Its construction was supported by Drakpa Bumde, the king of Ladakh at the time. This small temple is considered the first centre of the Gelug tradition in Ladakh. A few years later, Sherab Zangpo’s nephew founded Thiksey Monastery nearby, which eventually grew into one of the largest monastic complexes in the region. In a sense, the vast and celebrated monastery of Thiksey grew out of this almost hidden yellow temple. Ancient murals painted with mineral pigments still survive inside.

Yet what stays with you most is not the temple’s age or even its rare murals, but its intimacy. It is tiny, perhaps only three metres long and three metres wide. Within this small space, there is a feeling of complete peace. A vast temple can sometimes make you feel insignificant; here, the opposite happens. The space seems to bring you closer to yourself.

After seeing Lhakhang Serpo, I noticed several other rooms and temples nearby, all of them locked. I wanted to go inside, so I began calling out, "Julley! Julley!"

Julley is one of the most important words in Ladakh. It is used to say hello and goodbye, to thank someone and to show respect. Its meaning changes with the situation and the way it is spoken. For me, the word has come to express something essential about the Ladakhi people: their kindness, openness and natural warmth.

After a while, I heard a rustling sound and saw a solitary monk walking nearby. We could barely understand each other, so I gestured that I would very much like to see the other temples. He smiled and opened them for me.

But it was the man himself, rather than the temples, who left the deepest impression on me. He radiated an extraordinary calm. There was depth and kindness in his eyes, along with an almost childlike joy.

I have always felt that warmth and a ready smile are among the clearest signs of genuine spiritual growth. Perhaps the purpose of a spiritual path is, at least in part, to preserve our simplicity, compassion and capacity for joy, despite everything we have experienced and come to understand.

The monk told me that only five monks now live at Stakmo. I immediately asked whether I could attend their morning prayers. Surprised that I wanted to come, he suggested that I visit Thiksey instead, where there are many more monks and the ceremony is far more impressive. But I wanted to return here. I told him I would come the following morning. He then explained that they would all be travelling to Matho, where the Dalai Lama would be attending a major gathering.

And so, thanks to an accidental route and my meeting with this monk, the following day I found myself in Matho for the final day of Yarchos Chenmo, the Great Summer Debate. In 2026, it took place from 21 to 23 August, bringing together monks, scholars, students and people from across Ladakh. It is more than a prayer gathering: it is a tradition of philosophical debate and discussion devoted to Buddhist teachings, ethics and relations between different religious communities. The Dalai Lama attended the closing session, during which monks and young students presented philosophical debates before him.

But today I felt an inexplicable urge to return to Stakmo for the morning prayers. I woke at five, got on my motorbike and followed the now familiar road back into the mountains.

Three of the younger monks had gone to attend a ceremony at Thiksey. Two senior monks remained at Stakmo. With me, there were three of us. I have always loved the number three and the principle of the triad, which appears in so many religions, philosophical traditions and patterns of the world. I was therefore especially happy to become part of this small gathering, formed entirely by chance.

The ceremony felt like a meditation. I understood none of the words, but at that moment it did not seem to matter. What mattered was the resonance of their voices, the rhythm of the prayers and the sense of human presence that has filled this space for centuries.

Temples, like people, have their own atmosphere. Some feel heavy despite their beauty and historical importance. At times, they can even make you uncomfortable, as though the space carries too much fear or pain. Stakmo is entirely different. It is filled with light, kindness and warmth.

I have a simple way of knowing whether I feel truly at peace somewhere: I ask myself if I could lie down and fall asleep there. At Stakmo, I felt I could sleep deeply and peacefully.

The morning ceremony was a powerful experience for me. Yet I do not particularly like writing in detail about spiritual experiences. The moment we try to put them into words, they begin to lose their meaning. Such experiences belong to a realm that language cannot fully convey. Perhaps that is why some part of them should always remain private.

Still, I wanted to share the story of this place, perhaps because it began with another wrong turn. I was travelling in the opposite direction from where I had intended to go, and as a result I discovered a small yellow temple, met a kind monk, found myself at a gathering with the Dalai Lama, and eventually returned to greet the dawn in prayer with two lamas.

We often see a wrong turn as an inconvenience that must be corrected immediately. But some roads seem to lead us away from our plans for a reason. Perhaps we should not always be in such a hurry to turn back.

If you ever find yourself in Ladakh, make time for Stakmo. Do not expect the scale of Thiksey or the renown of Hemis. Its power lies elsewhere: in a small yellow temple, ancient murals, morning voices and a silence in which you can hear yourself.

_{Frol Burimskiy}