About Soulova

At 16, I saw Tibet in a torn magazine. Pilgrims in snow, eyes brighter than diamonds.

I went. Stayed. Returned twenty times.
Nomads taught me to eat tsampa and laugh with cracked lips. Monks showed me stones carved with prayers older than cities.

At Rongbuk, the dzi bead carver’s granddaughter taught me this:
She grinds juniper and alpine herbs into incense—the scent of glaciers breathing at dawn.
Her hands roll each stick with barley paste and yak milk, drying them on monastery rooftops where wind carries old mantras.

When you light it, the smoke curls like pilgrims’ whispers.
When ash falls, it stains the air with mountain memory.

This is not a brand. It’s a bridge.
Their hands warm your home. Your heart guards their sky.