Snowfall and Second Chances

Snow fell in thick, silent layers across the Himalayan town of Leh, blanketing the world in a shimmering white silence that made every rooftop, tree, and car look like slices of cake under powdered sugar. The roads disappeared under snow drifts, and only the occasional wisp of smoke from a chimney betrayed life inside shuttered homes. It was the kind of winter that made people curl deeper into their blankets, reluctant to leave the warmth of their beds to face the biting cold.

But not everyone was hiding from the winter.

Eighteen-year-old Laini was out on the streets, her boots crunching through the snow, a sturdy broom in her gloved hands as she cleared pathways with focused determination. Her cheeks were flushed bright pink, eyes narrowed into thin lines under her cap, the cold air brushing against her skin like icy feathers. She wore a maroon gown layered over thick sweaters, the hem brushing the snow as she worked.

For most in Leh, winter was a season of waiting, of shops closed and empty streets, of survival until the sun returned with its promise of bustling markets and tourists eager to experience Ladakh’s beauty. But for Laini, this season was a chance to help, to earn, and to feel alive. She had spent too many days inside, enduring her father’s sighs as he tried to convince her to go to Delhi for college or help him run his small shop in the Main Bazaar. She loved her father, but she could not leave the snow, the mountains, the crisp air that smelled of pine and prayer flags.

During summers, Laini drove a taxi, taking tourists through winding mountain passes, telling stories of gompas perched on cliffs and lakes that reflected the sky. But in winter, when the tourists left and the roads turned treacherous, work became scarce, and the cold crept into their bones and hearts alike.

Yet Laini embraced the snow. She found a strange comfort in the rhythmic motion of sweeping, the scrape of the broom against icy roads, and the way people would nod gratefully as they passed her cleared paths. Sometimes, when she paused for lunch, she would visit the nearest Mane and spin the prayer wheel, listening to the soft chime of the bell with each rotation, whispering “Om Mane Padme Hum” under her breath to send blessings into the cold air.

One afternoon, as the sun dipped behind clouds heavy with more snow, a car skidded on an icy slope and struck a pole nearby. The driver stepped out, his frustration steaming in the cold air, blaming the snow, the road, and for a moment, Laini. She listened, then returned to her work, letting his words melt away like frost on her breath. The only scolding that stung came from her father, who wanted her to become more, to find a life beyond clearing snow, beyond Leh.

He had left his own village as a young man, moving to Leh to build a life with Laini’s mother, whom he had met at a festival in a hilltop monastery. She had worn a deep purple gown with golden embroidery, turquoise stones glinting in her jewelry, a smile that had made his heart skip. He had named Laini with hope, after a monk who predicted she would grow up to be known, to bring pride to her family.

But all Laini wanted was to stay.

As dusk painted the sky with hues of orange and pink, Laini continued her work, sometimes sliding and laughing as she skated across the snow in her gumboots, a childhood joy that never left her. She loved the snow, loved how it turned the world into a quiet, white expanse where every step left a mark.

It was during one of these slides that she noticed a young man approaching, leaving deep footprints behind him. He was taller than her, dressed in warm layers, his presence steady and calm even as the cold winds blew. She glanced at him, curiosity sparking, then turned back to her broom, telling herself he was just another passerby.

But he stopped.

“Juley,” he greeted her with the warmth of the Ladakhi way.

“Juley,” she replied, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes.

“My name is Yangchen,” he said, his breath misting in the cold. “May I know yours?”

“I’m Laini. Do you need some help?”

He smiled. “Actually, yes.”

Yangchen Wangdoo was no ordinary young man. A national-level skier, he and his team had brought home gold after gold from tournaments in Gulmarg and Auli. But the team’s spirit had dimmed after Eido, their star skier, suffered a terrible accident during a race, breaking her leg so severely that the doctors said she would never ski again.

The team needed someone new, someone who could learn fast, someone with a natural ease on snow.

Yangchen had seen Laini a week ago, gliding across the snow as she swept, moving with a grace and confidence that caught his trained eye. He had watched her since, noting the way she balanced, the way she seemed to dance with the snow rather than fight it.

And now, he was here to ask her to join them.

Laini listened, stunned as Yangchen explained everything, from Eido’s injury to the training they could offer, to the salary that would help her family, and the chance to represent Ladakh on a national stage.

Her broom slipped from her hand as she stared, her breath catching in the cold air. This was more than she had ever imagined for herself, more than she had ever dared to dream. She thought of her father, of his tired eyes, of his hope for her. She thought of the snow, her constant companion, now offering her a future.

She closed her eyes, pressing her palms together. “Om Mane Padme Hum,” she whispered.

Yangchen understood. A promise had been made.

In the months that followed, Laini trained with Yangchen’s team, learning to ski with a speed and precision that surprised even the seasoned athletes. She fell, she got up, she pushed herself until the cold wind felt like freedom against her skin. She honored Eido’s spirit, promising to carry forward what she had left behind.

Then came the day of the competition in Auli.

Laini stood at the starting line, ski poles in her gloved hands, knees bent, heart racing as she scanned the cheering crowd. Her parents stood among them, her father clapping so hard his palms must have stung, his smile wide, pride shining in his eyes. For the first time, she felt like she was where she belonged, carrying her family, her mountains, her snow, with her.

The whistle blew.

And Laini leapt forward, the snow parting beneath her as she raced down the slope, the cold wind kissing her cheeks, her eyes bright with determination and joy.

The snow that once was her playground was now her path to a future she never imagined, a future built not by running away from her mountains but by embracing them fully.

Moral of the Story:
Your path may already be beneath your feet; all you need is the courage to glide forward.