A Winter Story From Hikkim & Langza

What I Learned About Warmth in the World’s Highest Villages

If you want to find out what “cold” really is, **Hikkim or Langza **is the place to go during peak winter. The cold here is not just temperature, it is a character. It slowly enters your socks, crawling up your spine, and keeping you company like an unwelcome guest.

But what I found most remarkable was not the cold… it was the incredible way in which people live with it.

I reached Hikkim the next day, just when the sun was giving a soft golden goodbye. Smoke spirals rose from the rooftops, the mountains looked partially awake, and the atmosphere was like it had tiny needles in it. Mine first reaction was:

“How do people manage to live here day in and day out?”

In the first house that I went into, the answer was there waiting for me.

The family greeted me with tea, the kind that feels better not due to sugar, but due to the fact that it is served with utmost care and love that cannot be faked. In the center of the room was their stove — not the old smoky traditional one that I had imagined.

Instead, I saw a clean-burning modern-looking unit.

The aunt casually said:

“Yeh naya wala heater sahi hai… kam lakdi mein zyada garmi deta hai.”

Later, I discovered that it was an HRS (Himalayan Rocket Stove) — a device that I had only heard about but never seen in actual use so openly in the homes of ordinary people.

And honestly saying, I did not even consider it a “product.”

It was simply… an accessory of the house.

An accessory to their survival.

An accessory to the warmth that was shared by all.

The next day in Langza, the same story unfolded. Another house. Another cup of butter tea. Another room heated by the same type of **rocket stove**. Kids were busy with their school homework next to the stove, their grandmother was drying her socks on the railing above the stove and everyone was moving around the stove as if it was the king of the house.

Not the television, not the decor; Only the stove.

That scene somehow left a memory with me.

In the regions where winter prevails over summer, where traffic is more likely to be blocked than opened, where pipe water gets frozen but laughter remains with the people, warmth it’s not a luxury. It’s a matter of identity. It’s a matter of culture.

And I began noticing some similarities:

• Smokeless stoves in the houses gave notably less smoke stains on the walls.
• People experienced less coughing.
• The heater room stayed warm for a longer time.
• Children around the heating unit looked and felt comfortable with no eye watering.
• Firewood consumed was markedly lesser.

Nobody gave me a scientific explanation.

They were not required to do so.

Their life itself is the bigger proof.

One night, when the sun was going down behind the large Buddha statue in Langza, the temperature dropped so rapidly it felt like the world’s heater was switched off. But the homestay still had a different atmosphere — soft, warm, glowing.

And it highlighted to me something that was simple but very powerful:

In the world’s highest villages, warmth is not solely a matter of fire; it is a process of innovation that slips into daily life without drawing attention.

The next morning when I set out for Kaza, the aunty from Hikkim gave me two pieces of dried yak cheese for the journey and said:

“Jab phir aana, garm rehna.”

(“Come again, and stay warm.”)

And during my travels, it was the first time I came to the realization that warmth is not merely a matter of temperature —

it is technology, tradition, people, and love… working together at 14,000 feet to help you survive.

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Instagram: @pahari.musafir YouTube: Rohit Anomad Traveler