The latest talks over Ladakh’s political future raise a larger question: who gets to decide the future of a landscape whose consequences extend far beyond its borders?
But the immediate political contest hides a deeper story, one that connects Ladakh’s Constitutional future to the history, ecology, and water security of the plains.
A view of Pangong Tso lake in Ladakh region. (REUTERS)
Looking at history
This story began nearly two centuries ago, when a Punjab ruler decided to capture the high passes.
In 1834, Maharaja Ranjit Singh sought to extend his empire towards Ladakh to secure the routes to Central Asia. The campaign was led by the legendary Dogra general Zorawar Singh, who conquered Ladakh and subsequently put down a series of revolts by the Namgyal rulers. The Zorawar Fort still stands near the Leh Palace.
After Ranjit Singh died in 1839 and the defeat of the Sikh army in the First Anglo-Sikh War, Raja Gulab Singh Dogra signed the Treaty of Amritsar with the British in 1846. The treaty formalised the transfer of the territories that became the princely state of Jammu and Kashmir to Gulab Singh, including Ladakh, which had been conquered by his forces. The direction of power was unmistakable: the plains had started ruling the mountains.
Nearly two centuries later, Ladakh is questioning this rule.
More than a Constitutional question
The glaciers and snowfields of Ladakh sustain agriculture across the northern plains. Punjab and Haryana remain deeply dependent on Himalayan waters. This makes Ladakh more than a remote frontier or a Constitutional question. What happens to snowfall, glacial melt, and hydrological rhythms in the high Himalaya travels downstream. Himachal Pradesh, whose Lahaul-Spiti lies alongside Ladakh, is part of this larger ecological chain.
The Indus Waters Treaty of 1960, negotiated with the help of the World Bank, divided the Indus river system (which originates near Mount Kailash in Tibet and flows through Ladakh) between India and Pakistan: the eastern rivers (Ravi, Beas, and Sutlej) were allocated to India, while the western rivers (Indus, Jhelum, and Chenab) were allocated to Pakistan, subject to specified uses by both countries.
The Indus itself can be seen flowing through Ladakh before continuing into Pakistan. In April 2025, India announced that it was placing the treaty in abeyance following the Pahalgam terror attack.
The demand for Constitutional safeguards in Ladakh therefore should be understood beyond the language of identity and representation. For local leaders, autonomy is also about control over the pace and nature of development in a cold desert where cultivable land is scarce and water is precious.
Land has become one of the sharpest flashpoints. At the centre is Ailan No. 38, a regulation from the Dogra-Maharaja period (dating to the time of Maharaja Hari Singh) relating to the cultivation and ownership of barren land, known as nautor. Recent moves to place a ceiling on the land individuals can claim have outraged the locals.
Sonam Wangchuk (File)
The impact of outsiders
Leh Apex Body co-chairman Chering Dorjay Lakruk told The Indian Express that land prices in Leh town are skyrocketing because of development by outsiders. “One kanal fetches Rs 40 lakh. This proposal seems another way of making land available for outsiders,” he said.
The concern is not simply about changing ownership patterns but about what this could mean for the social and ecological character of the region. The very landscape that attracts outsiders is also one of the least equipped to absorb unlimited human pressure.
That tension is visible among younger Ladakhis. A woman working on contract for Rs 24,000 a month, who did not want to be named, spoke of the influence of “money power wielded by a leading party” on Ladakh and its people. “People in the city are educated, but it is easy to lure villagers by offering them pieces of land, government jobs or contractorship,” she said.
For Ladakh’s political groups, the issue ultimately comes back to power. Chering Dorjay Lakruk says their non-negotiables remain unmet: direct elections through separate constituencies, accountability of the bureaucracy (from the chief secretary downward) to the elected body, and a freeze on major decisions, particularly on land, until such a body exists.
The memory of the violence in Leh in September 2025, when four people were killed in police firing during protests over statehood and constitutional safeguards, still hangs over the political atmosphere. Activist Sonam Wangchuk, who was detained under the National Security Act for nearly six months after those protests and released in March, has now announced a symbolic 20-km march on September 23 to press the Centre to move forward on Ladakh’s demands.
Delhi has a tendency to view Ladakh through two lenses: security and development. Though important, neither is sufficient. Governance in a climate-stressed Himalaya requires thinking across administrative boundaries and across decades.
The question before the Centre and Ladakh’s political leadership is therefore more complicated: Can there be a model of governance for fragile regions that combines political representation with ecological responsibility?
For decades, the political relationship ran largely in one direction. The plains decided Ladakh’s political fate. The direction of consequence may now be changing. Ladakh’s ecological fate could determine the future of the plains.
