Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 20 Min Read

Day 8: 27th August 2025: In for a Shock

What was meant to be our final day in Ladakh turned out to be our most testing one.
For seven days, we had believed that Lady Luck was smiling on us. On the eighth, she seemed to have taken a holiday.

The Leh airport, which had once been alive with the excitement of arriving travellers, now resembled a sea of anxious faces. Some had endured multiple flight cancellations over the past two days—many of them foreign tourists who had already missed their connecting flights from Delhi.

For reasons I couldn’t quite place at first, the lyrics of Hotel California drifted into my mind. Only when I softly hummed the refrain did I understand why:
“You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”

That line felt almost prophetic. What were our chances of actually boarding the flight to Delhi? The long queues at the counters hadn’t moved in ages.

We decided to go and find out for ourselves.

We were told by the ground staff that the airport’s software systems had crashed, and the only way to issue boarding passes now was by hand—literally handwritten ones. Given the sheer number of passengers and the limited airline staff, that seemed near impossible. It felt, at first, like an excuse to placate a restless crowd. But soon we realized the problem was real. Nothing was working—neither the phones nor the internet. People had no way to check alternate routes, book new tickets, or even let their loved ones know where they were.

And then, amid all this chaos, came a small ray of hope—my phone. Anticipating that my regular connection wouldn’t work in Ladakh, I had bought a local SIM on the day we arrived. By some stroke of luck, it was still functional, even as most networks around us had gone silent.

That meant my phone was easy prey for everyone around. It probably changed more hands that day than it had in its entire lifetime. People were desperate to get a word across to their families — and that’s something you simply cannot say no to.

Within an hour, it was clear that no flights would take off that day — none had landed either. Visibility was dangerously low, and the airport, hemmed in by high mountains, had turned into a nightmare for pilots. The runway too was rendered unusable, with sand washed over it after the rain. With more showers predicted for the next two days and a growing backlog of flights, uncertainty loomed large.

We called our drivers back and returned to the hotel to regroup and reassess. It was only 8 a.m.

There was no time to rest or reflect — it was time for action. We knew there were hundreds like us, anxious and desperate to find a way out of Leh. With no network and no sign of when communication might be restored, the sense of isolation was suffocating.

Each of us reached out to our respective networks — friends, relatives, anyone who could help us find a route home. I won’t deny it: after everything we had experienced in Ladakh, the memories of that dreaded morning of the 27th of August still sting. I was yearning for the warmth of my bed and the comfort of a simple home-cooked meal — both felt impossibly distant.

The airline offered to cancel and refund our tickets but had no seats on any of the next flights to Delhi. The earliest option was five days away — which meant being stranded in Leh till then. With more rain predicted, that wasn’t a risk we could take. As the hours went by, our choices were slipping away, one by one.

Soon it was lunchtime. Our driver suggested a restaurant nearby called Kartse Cafe & Food, one of the few still open that day — and we decided to head there, hoping it would help calm our nerves. Most shops and establishments had downed shutters; with the internet still out and ATMs not working, the town wore a quiet, uncertain look.

The restaurant offered a peaceful setting, with an outdoor sitting area. But we were too restless to soak in its charm. We placed our order hastily, and as always, the food took its time. Between repeated calls to the airline’s customer care and anxious glances at our phones, it became evident that there would be no flights for the next couple of days.

After lunch, my friend and I dropped everyone back at the hotel and decided to make one last attempt at the airport. But when we reached, we found its gates shut. Leh airport closes by 3 p.m., operating barely 5–10 flights a day — only during the summer months. That sealed it for us. Flying out was no longer an option.

The only way out now was by road — a 400 km, 12-hour drive to Srinagar. But that route too had its perils. A recent landslide had blocked a section of the highway, making both travellers and drivers wary of attempting the journey.

Back at the hotel, the hustle resumed. We reached out to every contact we could think of — friends, acquaintances, and local drivers — but nothing worked out. Some leads came close, only to fall apart minutes later. Evening crept in, and the air in our room grew heavy with tension. Yet, amid all the uncertainty, we managed a few jokes to keep our spirits from sinking completely.

The only bright spot was the children. Over the course of the trip, they had become inseparable — lost in their games, unbothered by the grown-ups’ worries, and almost thrilled at the idea of spending another week in Leh. A feeling, of course, that we didn’t share with them.

And then, just as the sun began to set behind the mountains, my phone rang. It was our driver. He had found two others willing to take us to Srinagar. Their rates were steep — ₹22,000 per car — but with daylight fading and no other options in sight, we agreed without hesitation.

For the first time that day, we felt a wave of relief wash over us.

After an hour or so, the hotel staff informed us that a car from Srinagar had just dropped off two tourists. Curious, we decided to check on them. They were an elderly couple, warm and eager to talk, needing only a gentle nudge to share their story. As the man spoke, we realized their experience was the mirror image of ours. While we had been struggling to get out of Leh, they had been struggling to get into it ever since the rains had begun three days earlier.

After several failed attempts, they had finally managed to fly into Srinagar and then drive down to Leh. They spoke highly of their driver, which prompted us to check with him about the condition of the route. He admitted there were a few blocks along the way but said the diversions were manageable. He even offered to take us to Jammu and Kashmir at a much cheaper rate and arrange for another car so that all of us could travel comfortably.

It sounded like a good deal. But the moment I shared the news with the Ladakhi drivers I had spoken to earlier, all hell broke loose. I tried to reason with them, suggesting we could use one of their cars along with the Srinagar car, explaining that their rates were steep and that we had already exceeded our budget. Besides, we needed an experienced driver familiar with that stretch of road.

But they refused to budge. They threatened to block the J&K car in the morning if it dared to leave with us, invoking the power of the local taxi union. What had started as a polite negotiation quickly turned into a heated argument. I knew I had made a mistake by initially agreeing to travel with them, but the window of time available to me was shrinking fast. It was already nearing 10 p.m., and the commotion was disturbing other guests in the hotel.

In the end, we had no choice but to settle for a deal with the local drivers, who reluctantly agreed to a small discount. The entire fiasco left me with a throbbing headache, and sleep eluded me that night.

Those lines from Hotel California came to mind again but this time I smiled.

It had been a long, bruising day — one that tested our patience, our judgment, and our resolve. But we did get through it, somehow finding a way out of Leh. There were scars to show for it — including a sharp exchange with my wife that would need some healing the next day. Yet, looking back, I knew we had done the right thing. We hadn’t given up. We had kept thinking, collaborating, and searching for a way forward.

It was our collective hustle that carried us through that night. And as I lay awake, replaying the chaos in my mind, one thought brought a measure of comfort — in places like these, it’s best to travel as a group. When things fall apart, it’s the shared will to endure that keeps you going.

Day 9: 28th August 2025: Getting Out

Remarkably, that morning the rain had finally receded after three relentless days. It was exactly the break we had been praying for. We set off sharp at 5 a.m., mindful of the long distance ahead and the ever-present risk of fresh landslides or roadblocks.

The tension from the previous night’s heated exchange with our new driver still lingered. The air inside the car was heavy with unspoken words. But we chose silence over conflict — it was going to be a long day, and the journey couldn’t be endured in hostility.

As we left, there was a quiet resolve among us — we hoped for the best but were prepared for the worst. We knew one of the two routes to Srinagar could be closed, and all we could do was trust the mountains to show us mercy.

Two hours into the journey, we reached the village of Khalsi. A few small restaurants there were serving North Indian breakfasts. We ordered aloo parathas — they turned out to be surprisingly delicious. The drivers advised us that we wouldn’t find any decent restaurants until lunchtime, so we made the most of that break and had a hearty meal.

It was also a good time to check in with other taxi drivers about the road conditions ahead. The news was encouraging — the Batalik route was open. The weather, too, was beginning to clear up, with the sun now shining brightly. Everything felt positive. Just ahead was a check post, where we’d finally know for sure which route was accessible.

We reached it in ten minutes. Our drivers took their documents into a small office. They were gone for a while, and for some reason, I had a feeling something was off. The driver of the other car — the one carrying my friend and his family — signaled our driver to take the lead. Our driver drove ahead confidently. But at the barricade, an army officer stopped our vehicle, which was attempting to speed past. He firmly instructed the driver to take the diversion to the right.

Our driver, a sly man, began negotiating, trying to talk his way through. Since I couldn’t follow the local language, I stepped in and asked the officer in Hindi. He explained that the highway ahead was closed due to a landslide, and that the diversion to the right was the only open route.

I had been expecting this. What I hadn’t expected was my driver trying to pull a fast one.

For the uninitiated — there are two routes from Leh to Srinagar. The regular one, along NH1, passes the famous Lamayuru Monastery. The other is a narrow, longer route that eventually connects with the highway and passes through Batalik, Kargil, and Drass. The NH1 route is shorter by about 40 kilometres, but because of the landslide, it had become dangerous. The Batalik route, slightly longer and rougher at the start, was the safer choice that day.

Our driver had been attempting to sneak us onto the shorter route — a move that could have put us at serious risk. I gave him an earful, and quickly explained the situation to my friend in the car behind. We both agreed that we would take no chances. This was the only route we’d follow that day.

In the end, the drivers didn’t have much of a choice. We turned right. It was now clear that with the extra hour added to our journey, we wouldn’t reach Srinagar before sunset.

That turn also meant something else — we were now headed into the parts of Ladakh that weren’t originally on our itinerary, except for Lamayuru Monastery, which lay along the closed route.

While the diversion was a bit testing at first, with its uneven and bumpy stretches, it wasn’t unbearable by any stretch of the imagination. The road wound through quiet little villages that sat gracefully beside the Indus River. That’s the thing about Ladakh — no matter where you go, the landscapes look like they’ve been painted to perfection.

It took us about an hour and a half to cover the 40-kilometre diversion that eventually met NH1. Despite missing out on visiting Lamayuru Monastery, we were simply relieved to have come through safely — largely thanks to the improving weather. A short but tricky section still remained, one notorious for shooting stones that tumbled down the mountainside right beside the Indus. It reminded me of that tense stretch on our way back from Pangong, when our car had been struck by a shooting stone.

Soon after crossing that perilous section, we reached a point where the Indus spread wide and calm. The sight was irresistible. We stopped for a few photographs — and perhaps, just as much, for a quiet moment to soak it all in.

Batalik

Ten minutes later, we entered Batalik village. This beautiful region, with its deep valleys and snow-capped mountains, had once witnessed fierce battles during the Kargil War of 1999. Pakistani forces had infiltrated the area, attempting to seize high-altitude positions that threatened India’s territorial integrity. The Indian Army fought back with immense courage, reclaiming control under the harshest of conditions. Batalik stands as a solemn reminder, not just of bravery, but of India’s strategic and military prowess in mountain warfare.

From here, the route to Srinagar only grew more breathtaking. In about thirty minutes, we reached the first of the two passes on this route — Hambuting La. At 13,380 feet, it was modest in height compared to the mighty passes we had crossed earlier in Ladakh, yet no less stunning. We paused there for a while — to breathe in the crisp mountain air, to release the frustrations and anxieties of the past day, and to feel a little lighter.

Our next stop was Kargil — a name forever synonymous with the war of ’99. We reached it about an hour and a half later. Once again, the landscape was unbelievably scenic — a paradise where unspeakable things had once unfolded.

“Oh, human… when will we ever find a way out of this?” I whispered to myself. It was heartbreaking to stand there, to witness this contrast first-hand — how such beauty could be stained with human blood.

Kargil War Memorial

We entered the Kargil War Memorial, humbled by the serenity of the surroundings and the weight of the history that lingered in the air. The place demanded silence.

The memorial is impeccably maintained, with Tiger Hill visible in the distance — the site of some of the fiercest battles fought in the Kargil war. Standing there, it felt both near and far at once. Near, because we stood on the same soil where those events took place; far, because we could only imagine what those moments must have been like.

As I looked at the memorial stones, each bearing the name of someone who had given their life so that we could live ours in safety, I found myself asking again — what is the price of peace?

I kept clicking pictures of Tiger Hill, while we wound our way through the roads to Drass. A realisation slowly sank in — no photograph, whether taken on a phone or the most expensive camera, could ever make me relive the hostile moments that once unfolded in this paradise. It felt like a futile attempt by a lesser mortal — to capture what can only be felt, not seen.

Soon, we reached the town of Drass — another name deeply intertwined with the history of the Kargil War. Yet here, life seemed to move at its own gentle pace.

Drass

Drass holds immense strategic importance as it safeguards the Srinagar–Leh highway — a vital supply lifeline for the Indian Army. During the Kargil War, the region witnessed heavy infiltration by Pakistani forces disguised as militants, prompting Operation Vijay — a large-scale counteroffensive launched by the Indian Army. After weeks of intense combat, our soldiers reclaimed every inch of this rugged terrain by July 1999, restoring India’s control and pride.

Beyond its military significance, Drass is home to a multi-ethnic community with Dardic, Balti, and Brokpa ancestry. This diverse lineage reflects centuries of migration, trade, and cultural exchange across the Himalayas, blending Indo-Aryan and Central Asian influences into a unique local identity.

We found a small roadside eatery with a modest but steady crowd, most of them seated outside in the open. We chose to step inside. The restaurant looked like an old ancestral home — weathered, crumbling in parts, yet full of character. It served both vegetarian and non-vegetarian fare. Despite its humble appearance, the food turned out to be exceptional — the paneer and chicken dishes were simply irresistible. There was something earthy, almost homely about them, as if they had come straight from a farm kitchen. We ate to our heart’s content.

As we left Drass, the rugged, arid terrain of Ladakh slowly gave way to greener mountains and sprawling meadows. The air no longer felt dry and harsh; it carried a hint of moisture and the scent of pine. Our convoy wound its way along an interlocked road leading to the second and final pass on our route to Srinagar.

Before we could reach it, a massive herd of sheep brought us to a halt. The animals had completely taken over the road, and the shepherds were struggling to steer them aside. Subho, ever the cheerful one, jumped out of the car to lend a hand. What followed was a hilarious few minutes of chaos and laughter as we tried to make our way through the woolly blockade. Eventually, with smiles all around, we found a path through.

That was our dramatic entry into the majestic Kashmir Valley. We had arrived at Zoji La Pass — perched at an altitude of 11,649 ft — and the scene before us felt like it had leapt straight out of a Hindi film. The air was sweet and crisp, the meadows lush and endless, framed by snow-capped peaks that shimmered in the afternoon light. All our anxieties from the previous day seemed to melt into that gentle mountain breeze. Every few turns left us awestruck, jaws dropping at the sheer beauty that surrounded us.

Sonmarg

In less than an hour, we reached the picturesque town of Sonmarg, nestled in the Ganderbal district of Jammu & Kashmir — about 80 kilometres from Srinagar. It was 4 p.m., and the place seemed to beckon us to pause, to breathe, to simply take it all in. Subho and his family had been here before, so he led us to the Radisson Hotel, where he had stayed earlier. It was an ideal stop over because it did not demand any diversion from the route we were on.

We found ourselves a table in their open-air seating area, ordered tea and snacks, and finally allowed ourselves to unwind after the long drive. Cameras came out almost instantly — it was impossible not to capture the beauty that unfolded around us. What was meant to be a short tea break stretched to an hour, and none of us complained.

Subho told us that in winter, the entire valley turns white, blanketed by snow — a sight, he said, that words could never do justice to. Even without the snow, Sonmarg’s panoramic views were nothing short of breathtaking.

As we sipped our teas and coffees, we managed to book our flight tickets from Srinagar to Delhi for the day after. It was a moment of significant relief amid the splendour of the Kashmir Valley.

Five minutes after leaving the restaurant, we reached the Sonmarg Tunnel — a 6.5 km stretch that opened in January 2025. This modern engineering marvel bypasses a treacherous Z-shaped road that was once prone to avalanches and frequent winter blockades. With the tunnel now operational, connectivity to the Amarnath cave is ensured throughout the year, benefiting pilgrims and ensuring supplies to the armed forces, while also giving a much-needed boost to tourism in the region.

Beyond the tunnel, the Srinagar–Sonmarg highway unfurled into a smooth, wide stretch that meandered through some of Kashmir’s most scenic landscapes. By the time we reached the outskirts of Srinagar, the sun was beginning to dip, bathing the valley in hues of gold and orange.

Srinagar

Our drivers decided to take an alternate route to Dal Lake — where we planned to stay — but it turned out to be a poor choice. The route cut through a busy market, teeming with vehicles, vendors, and people. What should have been a short drive turned into an additional half-hour crawl through chaos. Eventually, at around 7 p.m., we reached Dal Lake. But even there, the crowd showed no signs of thinning.

Then began the arduous task of finding a hotel. Since this visit to Srinagar hadn’t been part of our original plan, we hadn’t booked any rooms in advance. A few recommendations from friends and relatives didn’t work out. We were on a tight budget, but at the same time, couldn’t afford to compromise on safety and comfort. What followed was an hour of frantic searching.

Ever since the Pahalgam terror attack of April 2025, security in Srinagar — already stringent — had tightened further. Soldiers stood guard at every corner, weapons slung and eyes alert. The presence was reassuring, yet it was hard to ignore the palpable tension that hung in the air. It was evident that tourism had suffered in the aftermath of the attack — several hotels looked poorly maintained, yet many charged steep rates despite low occupancy.

Finally, a stroke of luck — a staff member from one of the hotels we’d visited suggested another place nearby: Royal Comfort Regency, just across Dal Lake. We decided to give it a try. To our relief, it was just what we needed — clean, well-maintained rooms, courteous staff, a steady stream of tourists checking in, and most importantly, a reliable power backup — something rare in that area, especially during the off-season.

We checked in and exhaled deeply, almost in unison. It had been a long and anxious day — one that had tested our patience and resilience. But we had made it out of Ladakh. Now, all we hoped for was a smooth exit from Srinagar the day after — no more rain, no more surprises, just a safe passage home.

Coming up in the final chapter:

We had an entire day in Srinagar ahead of us — a chance to explore the city, its rich history, and its vibrant food scene. But fatigue had caught up with us. Two in our group were down — one battling a high fever, the other a stubborn earache. Still, we decided to step out, determined to experience Dal Lake and understand why it remains the very soul of Srinagar.

Even as we soaked in its beauty, a quiet hope lingered — that our flight to Delhi would take off without another twist in this already unpredictable journey.

All this and more in the final chapter of the Ladakh blog series.

Pic credits: Kavita Joshi Krishnan, Swati Sinha

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About the author:

Siddhartha Krishnan is the author of ‘Two and a Half Rainbows – A Collection of Short Stories’. An enthusiastic blogger he shares his essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).

All rights reserved by http://www.whatsonsidsmind.com

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