Author / whatsonsidsmind

by whatsonsidsmind

Discovering the Land of High Passes: Ladakh | A Travelogue | Part 3

Pic: Sunrise at Nubra from our hotel balcony

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 12 Min Read

Prologue:

At the edge of the mountains, silence deepened.

Beauty and unease walked side by side.

We were stepping into the borderlands.

***

We woke up to a spectacular sunrise in Nubra. The river, the mountains, the sand dunes, and even the apple orchard within our hotel grounds all came together to frame a view that felt almost surreal. From our balcony, the morning unfolded as a dance of colours in perfect harmony.

Our stay at Sand Dunes Retreat was easily the most luxurious of this journey. We had booked all our accommodations in advance, but chose to indulge a little in Nubra for three reasons: our two-night halt here, the fact that the valley offers some of the finest stay options in Ladakh, and the belief that after acclimatising in Leh, we’d be better positioned to relax and enjoy a comfortable property. It was the reason we gathered around the bonfire the night before, soaking in the warmth under a starlit Nubra sky.

Tucked away in Hunder village, the retreat sits close to both the Shyok river and the sand dunes. The property offers four types of stays to suit groups of different sizes. Its architecture blends traditional Ladakhi design with modern touches, lending a distinct charm. A multi-cuisine restaurant and in-room dining options cater to different palates, while an attentive staff looks after all your needs. The rooms are well-kept and cosy, some with a spacious balcony that opens to sweeping views of the landscape. Within the property itself, apple trees stand in quiet rows, adding to its charm.

That morning, after an unhurried breakfast, we set off around 9am. This was a day dedicated not to monasteries or mountain passes, but to explore the northernmost border village of India, to glimpse the rhythms of life at the edge of the frontier.

Video description: A bridge on the way to Turtuk from Nubra

Day 4: 23rd August 2025 – Going to the Frontier

For the fourth day in a row, we were greeted by a cloudless sky and the blazing Ladakhi sun. Unlike the previous day, there was no steep ascent ahead—our destinations lay at roughly the same altitude as Nubra, around 3,000 metres. But what set this day apart was not the climb, but the promise of a new landscape and culture. The villages we were heading to were said to be greener, with fertile fields stretching across the valley floor, and their way of life distinct from that of Ladakhi culture. More importantly, this would be our first journey into a border village—an experience not only to be seen, but to be felt through its people, history, and traditions. It came highly recommended, and we were eager to see why.

The road to Turtuk, along the Diskit–Turtuk highway, demanded some off-roading in patches, though nothing that slowed us down significantly. What stood out instead was the quality of the highways. Maintained by the Border Roads Organisation (BRO), these roads wind through one of the harshest terrains in the country, constantly threatened by landslides, snow, and rain. Yet, they remain impressively motorable. Our driver mentioned that since the Galwan clash of 2020 with China, road infrastructure and connectivity to remote border regions had been further strengthened. Driving through this stark landscape, the effort and precision behind these roads was hard to miss.

On our way to the border, we passed the Thoise Air Force Station—a sprawling military airfield set on an isolated stretch of flatland. It serves as a vital lifeline, enabling the steady inflow of men and material to Siachen. Just about thirty minutes from Nubra, its sheer scale amidst such remoteness is striking.

Pic: At Shyok Valley War Memorial

Shyok Valley War Memorial:

Roughly an hour further lay our first halt of the day—the Shyok Valley War Memorial. Nestled close to the Shyok river in a picturesque setting, the memorial honours soldiers who served at the Siachen Glacier, those who fought in the Indo-Pak wars, and the brave martyrs of the 2020 Galwan clash with China. Like the other memorials in Ladakh, it preserves artefacts from the battles and chronicles their history, lest the sacrifices fade from public memory.

These memorials are solemn spaces, not tourist attractions. They deserve respect, silence, and reflection. One of the exhibits was an army bag, placed with a challenge to pick it up and walk. We tried, and in that instant grasped what it means—literally and figuratively—to carry the weight of a nation on one’s back. At this altitude, doing what our army men do every single day is beyond humbling.

We spent some time in quiet contemplation before moving on.

Video description: Entering Thang Village

Ten minutes from the war memorial, we entered Bogdang village. The landscape had softened, with a touch more greenery and a faint humidity in the air. Bogdang once marked the northernmost edge of Ladakh along the Chorbat valley until the war of 1971. After the conflict, when the Indian Army took back the villages of Thang, Turtuk, Chalunka, and Tyakshi, Bogdang was pushed inward into Indian administered Kashmir. It is here that the cultural shift begins to show—villagers speak Balti, and many of them follow a Sufi sect of Islam.

The road ahead led us through the very villages that had changed hands during the war. Along the way, we paused at a striking sight: a waterfall fed by glacial streams, tumbling down the rocks into a pool of clear, icy water. It was an idyllic halt, perfect for a few quick photographs before moving on.

Soon after, we passed Turtuk. Our plan was to first reach Thang—the last Indian village on this frontier—and then return to explore Turtuk at leisure. Twenty minutes later, we turned right and crossed a bridge over the Shyok river. This was the entry into the village and in five minutes we were close to the border.

Pic: At Thang close to the LOC

Thang Village:

What strikes you instantly here is the energy of the place. It is nervous, almost restless, laced with intrigue. A surge of patriotic pride wells up, but so does a sobering awareness that this is ground where both soldiers and civilians have lost their lives. The air itself feels watched, as if unseen eyes from across the border are trained upon you.

From the large parking area, two mountains rose on either side. Somewhere among their ridges, invisible to the naked eye, Pakistani soldiers manned their bunkers on one side, while Indian soldiers held their posts on the other. A flight of steps led us to the terrace of a one storeyed building. There, a local woman greeted us warmly, offering to be our guide for a nominal fee. We agreed, and she handed us a pair of binoculars.

Video description: A lady (guide) from Thang village taking us through history of the place

Through her words and gestures, the landscape came alive with layers of history. She spoke of how the village was taken back by the Indian Army in 1971, pointing out what was under Pakistan occupied Kashmir, and what lay within Indian control. But beyond geopolitics, her stories also revealed the deeply human cost: families divided overnight by a border that now seems immovable, separated by a stretch of land officially marked as “No Man’s Land.”

Standing there, gazing across the landscape, it felt surreal to be at this edge of India—so close to another world. Words cannot do justice to this feeling.

Pic: Trying to locate the bunkers in the hills

It was almost noon by the time we quenched our thirst and set off toward Turtuk, a short drive away. The village comes highly recommended, not just for its beauty, but because it offers a rare chance to experience life in a border settlement up close. Situated on the banks of the Shyok river, the approach itself is memorable—you cross a narrow foot bridge before stepping into the village.

Turtuk Village:

Pic: Crossing the bridge to enter Turtuk village

Turtuk has much to offer—museums, a waterfall, a monastery, and even jungle trails. But there is only one way to explore it: on foot. An interlocked pathway winds its way through the settlement, with signages at intervals to guide visitors. Yet, the layout felt a bit like a maze, and if you are not mindful, you could easily lose your way. Unlike a tourist attraction created for visitors, this is a living, breathing village where life goes on as usual. The people here trace their roots to the Balti culture and language, and that influence is visible everywhere—in their homes, attire, and traditions.

We weren’t interested in ticking boxes or racing through the sights. What drew us in was the curiosity to know more about the culture of the people. They were welcoming, conversed in fluent Hindi, and were more than happy to answer our questions.

Pic: At Turtuk Village

As we walked deeper into the village, we noticed several small shops lining the pathways. They sold a range of items—handcrafted woollen shawls, carpets, traditional jewellery, and other local handicrafts. Turtuk is also well known for its food products made from the produce of the region. Apricots, mulberries, jams, and oils are especially popular, and you will find them everywhere. There are also a number of cafés and small restaurants scattered along the way. Some of the bunkers built during the Kargil war by the Indian army have now been converted to cafés.

We stopped at one of the shops and picked up some food items to take back with us.

Our next halt was the village museum, housed in a preserved traditional Balti home. Spread across two floors and a terrace, it had several rooms, each designed with a specific purpose in mind. What struck us most was the unusually low ceilings—a practical design meant to retain warmth during the long, harsh winters. The museum offered a concise glimpse into the history of the region, the cultural identity of its people, and the architectural logic behind their homes. It turned out to be an enriching experience.

Pic: The museum in Turtuk

One particularly fascinating takeaway was the evolution of the people’s spiritual beliefs over time. Before the arrival of Islam, Turtuk’s inhabitants are believed to have followed the ancient Bon religion, a belief system that even predates the arrival of Tibetan Buddhism to this region. Interestingly, it is believed that Tibetan Buddhism as it is practised here today still carries traces of Bon traditions.

Islam reached this region through the influence of the Sufi poet and preacher Syed Ali Shah Hamdani, who introduced the Sufi order of Noorbakshia. Over time, other Islamic sects also spread through the region, gradually drawing people away from the Noorbakshia order. Yet, even today, the community here retains subtle elements of the Bon tradition within their practice of Sufi Islam, resulting in a unique synthesis of belief systems found nowhere else. However, to understand this fully and to check the accuracy of this information we had to spend more time in this place. And that is one thing we didn’t have enough that day.

To us, Turtuk felt like a place suspended in time, unlike anything we had experienced before.

Video description: Exploring the museum

By the time we stepped out, it was well past lunchtime. We made our way back to the restaurant near the entrance of the village. On the way, we noticed several homestays tucked away within the village. These are mostly frequented by foreign tourists, many of them Israelis, who often spend days on end here. Perhaps it is the lure of the Shyok river with its striking blue glacial waters, the adventure of living in a border village, or simply the slow rhythm of rustic life that draws them in.

The restaurant at the entrance of the village, right by the river, was a cosy spot to unwind called Nomad Hunger: The Riverside Café. The name left little to the imagination. Like most eateries in Ladakh, the menu was simple, but when you are hungry, simplicity is more than enough. We ordered the usual suspects—paranthas, noodles, fried rice—but the highlight turned out to be a glass of fresh mulberry juice, cool and refreshing after all that walking.

Pic: Enjoying a glass of Mulberry Juice in Turtuk

With our stomachs full, we wandered down to the river, dipped our feet into the icy waters, and splashed some on our faces. It was nearly 4 pm by then, and the golden light was perfect for photographs. The day wound down in a way that felt both surreal and deeply satisfying. One thing became clear to me that afternoon: in Ladakh, no two days are alike. Each one unfolds with its own challenges, and surprises.

This was the conversation starter later that evening, back at our hotel in Nubra over a few drinks. The question hung in the air with quiet excitement—what next, and how would it all unfold?

Video description: Shyok River flowing through Turtuk

Coming up in Part 4:

We travel 160 kms from Nubra Valley to witness the majestic Pangong Lake, a lake so vast that it stretches across two countries. The journey takes us over two high passes, with the weather shifting dramatically along the way. We catch our first glimpse of snow, but with it come challenges of an entirely new kind. All this and more in the next chapter of the Ladakh series. Stay tuned!

***

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 articles, essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).

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

***

by whatsonsidsmind

Lokah: Chapter 1 – Chandra | Movie Review | A Visionary Cinematic Universe Born from the Love of Cinema

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 2 Min Read

Finally, a film that restores faith in the magic of cinema and the art of storytelling. Lokah proves you don’t need an extravagant budget to create a visionary film—passion is enough to drive creativity, and sheer audacity.

Several moments left me wondering: How did they shoot this? How did they even think of this? Especially, some of the transitions! For the first time in a long while, I walked out of a theatre with a genuine smile.

At its heart, Lokah is powered by strong writing—something Malayalam cinema is consistently excelling at. Though described as a “female superhero film,” it is far more ambitious: an entire universe has been conceived, with its characters, its world, its politics and the arcs of how it may all unfold. Nothing feels improvised; it feels as though every beat was already on paper. That’s the mark of great storytelling and intelligent screenwriting.

The performances add to this conviction. Not once do the actors veer into the over-the-top theatrics that superhero films often invite. Kalyani Priyadarshan, in the titular role, completely owns her part, grounding the story with both power and restraint.

Yes, the film has its flaws. The first half moves at a slightly measured pace as the makers take time to set up the world and its players. Yet sharp, well-written comedic moments keep the audience engaged, nudging them towards an interval that immerses you fully into the universe of Lokah.

Rooted in Kerala’s folklore and myths yet reimagined with modern conviction, Lokah: Chapter 1 – Chandra delivers a fresh, powerful, and deeply satisfying cinematic experience. Kudos to the makers for daring—and succeeding.

Go watch Lokah in a theatre next to you.

IMDb rating: 8.2/10
My rating: 4/5

Pic credit: Wayfarer Films

***

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 articles, essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).

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

by whatsonsidsmind

Discovering the Land of High Passes: Ladakh | A Travelogue | Part 2

Pic: A river stream on the way to Khardung village

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 12 Min Read

Prologue:

At these heights, every breath is a test.

The road ahead was more than a journey; it was a measure of ourselves.

***

Video description: On the way to Khardung La Pass

There is a reason Ladakh is called the land of high passes. Of the world’s ten highest motorable mountain passes open to civilians, a staggering six lie here. During our journey, we were set to cross two of them, along with a third that doesn’t figure in the top ten but still holds an impressive 13th place.

All these passes soar well above 5,000 meters. The ones on our route were nearly at the altitude of the Everest Base Camp (5,364 meters above sea level): Khardung La (5,359 m) ranked 10th, Chang La (5,360 m) ranked 9th, and Wari La (5,312 m) ranked 13th. As you can see, the difference in altitude between them is negligible. The current highest motorable pass in the world, Umling La (5,799 m), is also in Ladakh.

But in these mountains, altitude alone isn’t the challenge—it’s the thin air. At Leh (3,500 m), we had already begun acclimatising to just about 65% of the oxygen available at sea level. At these passes, that drops to around 50%. That is why travelers are always advised not to linger too long outside at the top.

On Day 3, our adventure was about to take flight—quite literally—as we prepared to cross our first high pass, Khardung La. Until now, on our second day in Leh, we had traveled nearly 150 kilometres, but the journey was through valleys, without much ascent. The real climb was about to begin. Excitement mingled with nervous energy—we had butterflies in our stomachs—but this was what we had signed up for. And now, there was no looking back.

Day 3: 22nd August 2025 – Scaling Up

We set out after breakfast, a little earlier than usual, around 8:30 a.m. There was much ground to cover before reaching Nubra Valley, where we were to spend the next two nights. The distance wasn’t daunting, about 130 kilometres, but with several planned halts along the way, the drive was expected to take five to six hours. Realistically, we weren’t going to reach our hotel before sunset. The most significant stop en route, of course, was Khardung La, just 40 kilometres from Leh.

A few winding turns through Leh’s streets and within ten minutes we were on the Khardung La road. Since our arrival in Ladakh, the daytime sun had been relentless, blazing down with an intensity that seemed at odds with the altitude. That morning was no different. Yet as we began the climb, the air turned noticeably cooler, and thinner too—we could feel its grip tightening with each breath. The ascent was steep and swift: from 3,500 meters in Leh to over 5,300 meters at Khardung La, all in the space of just ninety minutes.

Pic: Viewpoint on the way to Khardung La

Soon, we arrived at a breathtaking viewpoint and paused to take a few photographs. From there, the vast expanse of Ladakh’s deep valleys stretched endlessly before us, framed by the enormity of towering, snow-capped peaks in the distance. The winding road snaked through the rugged hills, and the cars crawling along it looked like miniature toys scattered across a giant canvas. The sheer scale of the landscape humbles you, a stark reminder of how small we truly are in the lap of nature’s raw and unyielding beauty.

We lingered there for a while, lost in awe, before continuing our ascent. With every turn, that prominent snow-clad peak—always within our sight—drew closer, as if beckoning us higher. Soon, we were level with it, and the smooth tar road gave way to an interlocked one typical of high mountain passes. We had reached Khardung La! The sun blazed brilliantly above, the sky an uninterrupted blue, and a lively crowd had already gathered at this iconic pass.

Khardung La Pass:

Video description: Nearing Khardung La Pass

For travellers on a shorter or weekend visit to Ladakh from Delhi, Srinagar, or Jammu, Khardung La is an unmissable stop, thanks to its proximity to Leh and the promise of snow. For those on longer journeys, like ours, it serves as the gateway to some of Ladakh’s most celebrated destinations. There was no snow that day, but the view more than made up for it. We spent about fifteen minutes soaking in the panorama from the mountain top, quietly proud of having scaled this altitude without a hitch.

It was, in fact, the highest point I had ever been to—surpassing Zero Point in Sikkim at 4,700 metres, which I had been to last year. Naturally, we took plenty of photographs to capture the moment, though we were careful not to overdo it. Our driver had reminded us that fifteen minutes is all one should ideally spend here, given the thin air and low oxygen levels. With that in mind, we began our descent down the Khardung La road toward Khardung village.

Pic: Our group at Khardung La Pass

As we ventured deeper into Ladakh, one striking aspect became clear—the near absence of humanity. The extremes of altitude, terrain, and climate make this vast region thinly populated. Even liberal estimates place Ladakh’s population at just over 3 lakhs, spread thinly across the Union Territory. At present, there are two operational districts, Leh and Kargil. In August 2024, the government announced the creation of five new districts—Zanskar, Drass, Sham, Nubra, and Changthang—but these are yet to become fully functional.

Leh city accounts for around 45,000 residents, while the district as a whole has over 1.3 lakh people, making it the most populated in Ladakh. Scattered across the countryside are small villages, usually clustered near rivers, with a Buddhist temple standing prominently at a vantage point. For those of us used to the bustle of cities, the isolation and silence can feel almost unsettling. This is why I’d recommend experiencing Ladakh in the company of a group—unless, of course, you’re someone who thrives in complete solitude.

Khardung Village:

Video description: At Khardung Village

About forty-five minutes after beginning our descent from Khardung La Pass, we reached the quiet hamlet of Khardung. Our driver pulled over at a roadside eatery on the right called Hor Lam Restaurant. The kids were yearning for a plate of Maggi, while we were longing for a hot cup of coffee. What took us by surprise, however, was not the food but the place itself. For a restaurant tucked away in a nondescript mountain village, it was tastefully done up—exactly what we needed at that moment.

The menu was modest but the service pleasantly efficient. It was here that we stumbled upon something unexpected—a juice made from sea buckthorn, a wild orange berry native to Ladakh. Rich in vitamin C and omega fatty acids, it is known locally for its nutritional benefits. The flavor was distinct—tangy, citrusy, with a sharp tartness—unlike anything I had ever tasted before.

Pic: At Hor Lam restaurant in Khardung village

For half an hour, the place became our little oasis—perfect to unwind before we continued our journey on the Khardung La road towards Nubra.

Khalsar:

About an hour later, we neared the village of Khalsar, where the cold deserts of Ladakh began to reveal themselves. Despite the name, it wasn’t particularly cold at one in the afternoon, but the stark, sweeping dunes made their presence felt. Our cars pulled into the Desert Himalaya Adventure Park, a hub for adventure activities ranging from ATV rides to ziplining. Hunger pangs made us hesitant at first, but the sight of the dunes was too tempting to resist.

Pic: ATVs on the sand dunes in Khalsar

The kids were thrilled by the ATV rides across the sand dunes, which offered just the right mix of excitement and challenge. The desert landscape here has even caught the eye of filmmakers—it was one of the shooting locations for the film Bhaag Milkha Bhaag. For photography enthusiasts, the afternoon light provides endless opportunities for dramatic frames.

But beauty here comes with its own demands. The climate is harsh, and the dry desert air can dehydrate you quickly. So keep sipping water regularly.

Pic: Shooting location of Bhaag Milkha Bhaag

After our little adventure, we were now completely famished. Thankfully, the village of Khalsar was just ten minutes away—and so were its restaurants. All we craved for was a patch of shade and something cool to drink. But before we could give in to hunger, our driver reminded us of a go-karting track in the village. That was enough to send the kids into a fresh wave of excitement.

At the counter, we learned that children had to be accompanied by adults and couldn’t drive on their own. Which meant the reluctant fathers suddenly found themselves behind the wheel. The track looked inviting, but what followed was perhaps the slowest set of laps ever recorded. Our efforts were met with jeers and amused smirks from our wives, while the kids looked delighted just to tick off another item from their own little bucket list.

Pic: Pit stop at Khalsar

Finally, we decided we had earned our right to shade and food. Khalsar has a line of restaurants, and we picked the one with the biggest crowd, assuming that meant better food. The downside, of course, was the wait—we spent nearly an hour before anything reached our table. That’s something to remember in Ladakh: unlike in cities, most restaurants don’t keep dishes pre-cooked. Everything is made fresh, which makes sense given the unpredictable flow of visitors. Menus, too, are usually simple and familiar—fried rice, noodles, momos, parathas, dal and rice—though this particular place offered a few extras. The food itself was decent enough; given our state, we would have gladly eaten anything that day. The kids, being more adventurous, ordered pancakes but regretted it soon after and returned to the comfort of noodles.

By the time the clock struck three, we still had two more places to cover. Our next stop was the Diskit Monastery, about thirty minutes from Khalsar.

Diskit Monastery:

Pic: The Buddha statue at Diskit Monastery

Perched at a vantage point, the monastery is both imposing and serene, offering sweeping views of the Nubra Valley. Founded in the 14th century, it belongs to the Gelugpa sect—the youngest of the four major schools of Tibetan Buddhism. The highlight here is the towering 33-metre statue of Maitreya Buddha, which seems to watch over the valley with calm benevolence. Cars can drive right up to the parking area near the entrance, and from there a short walk leads into the sanctum. Even so, the afternoon heat had left us drained, and we found ourselves reaching for cold drinks and fresh juices after exploring the monastery.

Sand Dunes, Hunder:

Pic: Our boy dressed up as a cute Ladakhi boy at Sand dunes, Hunder

The final stop for the day was the famous sand dunes at Hunder, just ten minutes from our hotel in Nubra. It was 4 p.m., and we decided to visit before checking in. The heat had softened by then, and a cool breeze swept across the valley. The dunes stretched before us, but with a water body, this place was an oasis. Near the parking area, a small stall sold souvenirs, and a group of local women greeted us warmly—though rather assertively—by dressing my wife, son, and me in traditional Ladakhi attire. Any hesitation on our part quickly gave way to laughter, and in the end, it turned into a delightful photo-op. My son, I must admit, looked the part best, while I found myself distracted by a playful puppy that insisted on my attention. As a dog lover, I was only too happy to oblige, even if it meant fussing over a pup while dressed head-to-toe in Ladakhi clothes.

As we wrapped up our impromptu dress-up session, the women broke into local songs, turning the place into a little carnival for the evening tourists who were starting to arrive. Our legs, however, had given way after a long day, so joining in wasn’t an option. But there was still one more experience we couldn’t leave without—a camel ride on the sand dunes.

Pic: Bactrian Camels at Sand Dunes, Hunder

Nubra Valley was once a vital artery of the Silk Road, connecting India with Central Asia and Tibet. Caravans passed through here centuries ago, carrying goods, stories, and traditions. The Bactrian camels—with their two humps—are living reminders of that past. Brought here in the 19th century by traders from Yarkand in present-day China, their descendants still roam the valley today.

For ₹500 per person, tourists can take a twenty-minute camel ride across the dunes. The children were more than eager, and after some gentle persuasion, even my mother decided to give it a try. The only tricky bit is holding on when the camel rises to its feet or lowers itself for you to disembark—but otherwise, it felt surprisingly safe. In the end, the riders returned with wide smiles and a sense of contentment.

Video description: Camel back ride at Sand Dunes, Hunder

By now, the sun was dipping behind the mountains, casting the valley in shades of gold and pink. We had covered everything on our list for the day. All that remained was rest and a hearty meal. We reached our hotel—Sand Dunes Retreat—just at sunset. Check-in was quick, and before dinner, we gathered around a bonfire. Under a canopy of stars, with a cool night breeze and a few drinks in hand, we spent an hour recounting the adventures of the day and talking about what awaited us next. It was the perfect end to a long, eventful day on the road to Nubra Valley.

Pic: Bonfire at our hotel in Nubra

Coming up in Part 3:

We visit the last northern most village of India, Thang, near the POK border, which was seized from Pakistan in the 1971 war. We also visit the famous Turtuk village, not too far from the border, that gets many foreign tourists, known for its Balti culture that is distinct from Ladakhi culture. This and more in the next part. So stay tuned!

***

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 articles, essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).

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

by whatsonsidsmind

Discovering the Land of High Passes: Ladakh | A Travelogue | Part 1

Pic – Viewpoint en route to Khardung La from Leh

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 14 Min Read

Prologue:

There are journeys that take you to a place, and then there are journeys that take you out of yourself. Ladakh is one of those rare lands where every turn of the road feels like a threshold into another world. This is the story of our 10 days in that otherworldly realm.

***

Preparing for the Worst:

In the weeks leading up to the journey, we found ourselves oscillating between excitement and unease. Doctor consultations, a small pharmacy of medicines, and contingency Plans A, B and C became our safety net against the unknown. Yet, the more we read, the heavier the anxiety grew. None of us—my wife, my mother, or I—were in the pink of health, and that only deepened the doubts. Should we begin Diamox two days before the flight? What if the side effects hit harder than the altitude? Would our bodies withstand the sudden plunge into rarefied air? And beyond health—what if landslides or floods cut us off mid-journey? These questions clouded our minds right until D-day. In the end we had none of those medicines before leaving.

Day 1: 20th Aug 2025 – Learning to Breathe All Over Again

Pic – View from our hotel in Leh

Landing at 3,500 meters above sea level, you realize almost instantly that the normalcy you take for granted has to shift — beginning with something as fundamental as breath. We touched down at Leh’s Kushok Bakula Rimpochee Airport around noon, the sun blazing overhead, and even the short walk to the parking lot felt like a slow trudge. Our cab driver, Sonam, gave us the first and perhaps most important piece of advice: keep sipping water. In the dry, cold air of high altitude, fluid loss happens faster, and dehydration is a quick trigger for AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness) — something we’d read about extensively before setting off. His reminder was a gentle nudge that here, you have to listen to your body, respect its limits, and ease into the 2-day process of acclimatization in Leh.

We were four: my wife (Kavita) and I, our ten-year-old son (Advay), and my 62-year-old mother (Meera) — who wears sweaters even in Bangalore’s 20°C nights. Here, we were bracing ourselves for sub-zero nights. But this wasn’t a solitary adventure. A classmate (Subhajit) from my MBA days had made a last-minute decision to join, arriving with his wife (Swati), and daughter (Adrija) that very morning. Together, our little group was about to begin a journey that we weren’t going to forget in our lifetime.

Pic – Our stay at Leh – Ladakh Himalayan Retreat

As we stepped out of the airport and into Leh, the landscape unfolded in all its stark grandeur. An expanse of arid land stretched out before us, hemmed in by rocky, rugged mountains. Those in the distance rose higher still, their snow-capped peaks gleaming under the sharp sunlight. During our descent, we had caught fleeting glimpses of the mighty Karakoram and Zanskar ranges, though heavy clouds had veiled them from view. But here, under the blazing Leh sun, the mountains stood unveiled—clear as day.

Having left home at 4 a.m., all we craved by then was a hot shower and the embrace of a warm bed. Fortunately, our hotel, Ladakh Himalayan Retreat, was barely ten minutes from the airport. A smooth check-in, a cheerful hello to our friends—already refreshed from their siesta—and we were ready for a quick lunch before surrendering to sleep. The first day in Leh is never about adventure; it is about yielding to the altitude, slowing down, and letting the body find its rhythm. Light meals, steady hydration, and deep rest became our only itinerary.

The key during acclimatization is to stay alert to the body’s whispers before they grow louder. Discomfort can surface in many forms—an innocent headache, a wave of dizziness, a touch of fever, or nausea. Each body responds differently, and it’s often the smallest symptom that goes unnoticed. The best remedy is simple: rest, eat light—preferably a fluid-based diet—and give the body time to settle into this alien altitude. Calmness is half the cure. Listen to the advice of drivers and hotel staff; they’ve seen enough stories of travelers struggling at this height to know what matters. Still, remember—such cases are the exception, not the rule. One in ten, perhaps. And in the rare event of trouble, you are never far from help. Drivers carry oxygen cans and basic medicines, can arrange for oxygen cylinders on request, and most hotels in Leh keep these essentials within reach.

After an hour’s rest, we gathered in one of the rooms over tea and snacks. It had been a while since we had last met, and in many ways this trip was a reunion—my wife, my friend, his wife, and I had all been classmates during our MBA days. The air was laced with a restrained excitement, waiting to spill over, yet undercut by a quiet nervousness. We were all past forty now, no longer as sprightly as in our college years, and altitude is a risk that spares no one. That evening, we drew up a plan together—with the unspoken caveat that if anything went wrong, we had each other’s backs. Better to be cautious than reckless. We agreed to scale down our ambitions if needed and follow the itinerary suggested by our cab drivers for the next day: a measured round of sightseeing spots close to Leh, spread over a manageable 150 kilometers.

Pic – At the dinner table on Day 1

Our hotel, just a few kilometres from both the airport and the charming Leh market, was tucked away in a maze of alleys lined with similar lodgings. It had come recommended by our driver, and we decided to give it a shot. The choice turned out well—spacious, clean, and cosy rooms with all the essentials, and a meal plan that included breakfast and dinner. Like most hotels in Leh, it had neither ceiling fans nor air conditioning—hardly necessary in this climate—but a portable standing fan helped with the warm afternoons. When we arrived, the sun was sharp and the air unusually hot, but Leh’s weather is a fickle companion; it can swing dramatically, with temperatures plummeting without warning. That evening, we settled for an early dinner. The buffet was far from extravagant, yet the food was hearty, tasty, and thoughtfully inclusive of dishes for children—enough to leave us content.

We turned in early for the night, hoping to catch up on some much-needed rest after spending the better part of the day in airports. But sleep proved elusive—at least for me. I found myself waking up multiple times, restless and uneasy, without immediately understanding why. It was only later that I realized how the thinner air at this altitude affects even the simple act of breathing during sleep, leading to what I later learnt—thanks to a quick search—as hypobaric hypoxia. There wasn’t much to do except wait it out until sleep claimed me again. By morning, I discovered I wasn’t alone—my friends too had been kept awake by this subtle but unnerving reminder of Leh’s rarefied air.

***

Day 2: 21st August 2025 – Stepping Out

The breakfast buffet the next morning was simple yet satisfying. Hunger pangs kicked in, and we ended up eating more. After a relaxed, unhurried meal, we set out around 9 a.m.

One of the first things you notice in Leh—and across Ladakh—is the unmistakable presence of the Indian Army. It’s hardly surprising, given the region’s turbulent history and the fact that this newly declared Union Territory shares sensitive borders with both Pakistan and China. We were to learn much more about this in the days ahead, but our first stop that morning set the tone: the Hall of Fame, the War Memorial located right in the heart of the city.

Hall of Fame: War Memorial

Video description: Entrance of the Hall of Fame, War Memorial at Leh

The museum is a tribute to the soldiers who laid down their lives in the Indo-Pak wars. Inside, it houses preserved artefacts, weapons, and equipment seized in battle, along with a poignant section dedicated to Siachen. For anyone with an interest in war history or the Indian Army, the place is a trove of stories and relics. Yet, it’s only one of several war memorials scattered across Ladakh, each with its own story.

That day’s highlight, however, was an impassioned address by an army veteran who had himself seen action in these mountains. With a fiery voice and deep conviction, he recounted tales of courage from the ’71 war and the Kargil conflict of ’99—both etched in the landscape of Ladakh. His words stirred goosebumps in the crowd and drew tears from more than a few eyes.

Pic: Enemy weapons seized by the Indian Army in battle

If you happen to be in Leh in the evening, the memorial also hosts a sound-and-light show that is well worth attending. Managed and maintained by the Army, the Hall of Fame is not just a museum—it’s a living reminder of the sacrifices that continue to shape this land.

We spent about an hour at the museum, and even picked up tickets for the evening sound-and-light show. Soon after, we were back on the road, taking NH1 as it gradually led us out of the city. With every passing kilometre, the landscape seemed to expand around us. The sheer magnitude of it all suddenly struck—the vast, arid stretches of dusty land, rugged mountains rising on every side, and the mighty Indus flowing alongside, twisting and turning yet somehow keeping pace with us throughout.

The climate, much like the terrain, is a study in extremes. Even at a modest 22°C, the sun scorched the skin, reminding us why sunscreen and sunglasses are not optional but essential companions here. There’s a rawness, almost a brutality, to the elements in Ladakh—yet all of it is wrapped in a breathtaking beauty that commands both awe and respect.

Guphuk’s Viewpoint:

Pic – Guphuk’s View Point

After a short drive, we arrived at Guphuk’s Viewpoint, a vantage spot that opened into sweeping views of towering mountains and lush valleys. Serene and picturesque, it’s the kind of place that seems made for photographers and nature lovers alike. We lingered a while, soaking it in and capturing a few candid moments against the backdrop of this grand, untamed canvas.

We continued along NH1 under the blazing sun as it edged closer to midday. About half an hour later, we arrived at Pathar Sahib Gurudwara.

Pathar Sahib Gurudwara:

Pic – At Pathar Sahib Gurudwara

According to legend, Guru Nanak himself visited this site. Folklore tells of a demon who once tormented the people of this region. When the Guru was deep in meditation, the demon hurled a boulder at him in an attempt to kill him. But instead of causing harm, the stone turned soft like wax. In a fit of rage, the demon kicked it—only to find his leg trapped. Realising his folly, he sought forgiveness, and Guru Nanak advised him to dedicate his life to serving mankind if he wished to find peace.

Even today, devotees can get a glimpse of this sacred stone inside the Gurudwara. Photography is strictly prohibited within the sanctum, and as with all Sikh places of worship, visitors are expected to cover their heads and wash their feet before entering.

Magnetic Hill:

Video Description: Reaching Magnetic Hill

Just a stone’s throw from the Gurudwara lies the curious Magnetic Hill. Here, the terrain creates an optical illusion—what actually is a gentle downhill slope appears to rise uphill. Park your car in neutral at the marked spot, and it seems to defy gravity by rolling uphill—only, in reality, it’s moving downward, masked by the deceptive topography and lack of a visible horizon. Scientifically, it’s a classic “gravity hill,” not magnetism at work.

Sangam Point:

Video description: At Sangam, the confluence of the Indus and Zanskar Rivers

About ten minutes from Magnetic Hill, we reached Sangam Point, the confluence of the Indus and Zanskar rivers. What makes this spot truly special is the opportunity to view the meeting of the rivers from strikingly close quarters. On most days, the Indus carries a clear shade of blue while the Zanskar flows in a muddier green, creating a dramatic contrast where the two merge. But in August, with rains and landslides feeding the streams, the Indus too had taken on a muddy hue—yet the sight was no less captivating.

We lingered for nearly half an hour, letting the quiet energy of the place wash over us. Watching the waters of these two mighty rivers mingle felt almost like witnessing a natural symphony. For those seeking adventure, activities like zip-lining, rafting are also offered here, adding another dimension to the experience.

Alchi Kitchen:

Pic: Our table at Alchi Kitchen

Our last stop for the day was Alchi Monastery, about an hour’s drive away. But before that, we paused for lunch at a charming little restaurant just beside the monastery—Alchi Kitchen. Run entirely by women, it has carved a niche for itself in Ladakhi cuisine, offering a true farm-to-fork experience with creative twists on traditional dishes. For a group of famished travellers, it felt like stumbling upon exactly what we needed. We sampled a variety of vegetarian and non-vegetarian dishes, each exquisitely presented and bursting with flavour. It was a one-of-a-kind experience, one my wife had long kept on her Ladakh bucket list, and it turned out to be every bit as rewarding for all of us. The restaurant buzzed with a steady flow of visitors, conversations flowing easily over food and the shared wonder of Ladakh’s landscapes.

Alchi Monastery:

Video description: The lane leading to Alchi Monastery

With contented stomachs, we took a short walk to the monastery. Unlike many others in Ladakh, Alchi does not demand a steep climb to reach its temple. Instead, a quaint lane led us in, lined with little shops offering souvenirs and local handicrafts. The monastery itself exuded serenity, its Tibetan Buddhist architecture radiating a quiet grace. In the stillness of its courtyards and prayer halls, we found the perfect note on which to end our first day of exploration.

By 4 p.m., we were back at our hotel. That evening, we attended the Sound and Light show at the Hall of Fame War Memorial. Spanning an hour, the show takes you through the many battles fought in Ladakh, honouring the courage and sacrifice of the soldiers who laid down their lives to protect our borders. While it was engaging, I felt that listening to such stories firsthand from a soldier, as we had that morning, carried a deeper impact. Yet, with army jets roaring into the night sky as the backdrop, the show still stirred a profound sense of patriotism within us. It was good end to the day.

Our bodies, though tested, were holding up well. We felt ready—cautiously so—for the adventures that awaited in the days ahead. Ladakh had already begun to reveal its stark beauty and quiet challenges, and we couldn’t wait to discover what lay beyond.

Coming up in Part 2:

Next, we travel to Nubra Valley passing through the famous Khardung La Pass at an elevation of 5359 meters above sea level. We see the cold deserts of Ladakh and take a ride on Bactrian camels which was introduced to the region in the 19th century from Central Asia. The valley is part of the ancient silk roads that connected this region with Central Asia. Later, we go to Thang the last village of India, near the LOC (POK-India border) and also visit Turtuk, another village close to the border with its own unique history.

Coming soon! So stay tuned!

***

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 articles, essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).

All rights reserved by whatsonsidsmind.com

by whatsonsidsmind

Man’s Oldest Ally, Humanity’s Newest Betrayal

(Pic description: the remains of a faithful dog of a long-vanished breed who was buried more than 8,400 years ago beside his master in a grave in Sweden. Pic credit: dailymail.co.uk)

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 5 Min Read

The story of human evolution is incomplete without the story of the dog. Few realise how profoundly this animal has shaped our journey from hunter–gatherers to modern society. At every stage of our history, they have been there, watching, guarding, and walking alongside us.

Dogs were not a gift from the heavens; they were a creation of our own making. We took one of nature’s most formidable predators, the wolf, our competitor for food and territory, and reshaped it. We played God. Through selective breeding, we transformed the wolf into a companion uniquely suited to human needs. The result was a creature that could guard our homes, protect us from wild animals, charge into battle with us, detect illnesses we did not know we had, and lift our spirits when we are at our lowest. Caregiver, protector, sentinel, confidant, above all, friend.

This is not a short chapter in our shared history. Scientific evidence traces dog domestication back at least 15,000 years, with some archaeological finds suggesting it could be as far back as 30,000 years. Dogs were the first species we domesticated, long before livestock or crops entered the human story. In evolving with us, they have learned to read us in ways we can barely comprehend, sometimes better than we understand ourselves.

And yet, for all this history, we are in danger of betraying them. In a deeply unsettling move, the Supreme Court has ordered that every stray dog across Delhi-NCR be rounded up, sterilised, vaccinated, and permanently housed in shelters within eight weeks—no dog may be released back into the streets. The directive comes amid alarming rises in bite cases and rabies threats, especially to children.

(Pic credit: The Hindu)

However, this directive by the top court should not come as a surprise. It was in the offing, for it is convenient to round up strays, confine them to pounds, and without the budget to sterilize and vaccinate secretly cull them. Its easy because they cannot retaliate. Meanwhile, murderers, rapists, thieves, drug peddlers, and rioters walk our streets with impunity, protected by laws, political interests, and human networks. We tolerate that depravity. We can excuse that apathy. But stray dogs are easy targets.

The current directive to remove them en masse is the easy, lazy route. But here is the truth: it will not solve the problem. For as long as humans exist, dogs will remain beside us. In the remotest villages, in deserts and snowbound mountains, in tribal forests, and of course in cities, wherever there is human settlement, there will be dogs. They have evolved that way. They cannot live without us. What we fail to grasp is that, in many ways, we cannot live without them.

Dogs provide invisible services: guarding homes, deterring wild animals, alerting communities to danger. They protect us not only from other humans but also from the threats of the natural world. Yes, there are incidents of bites, even rare cases of mauling. But how do those numbers compare, percentage for percentage, to the violence humans inflict on each other and on every other species we share this planet with?

There is also the matter of education. Communities, especially children, need to be taught how to behave in the presence of animals. Much of what we call man–animal conflict is rooted not in aggression, but in ignorance. A lack of understanding of animal behaviour can turn an avoidable situation into a dangerous one. The absence of any sustained awareness programmes by civic authorities only aggravates the problem.

(Pic credit: National Geographic)

Most of us are unaware of what the Animal Birth Control (Dogs) Rules, 2023 mandate, what the Animal Welfare Board of India’s Housing and Society Guidelines require, or what the Board prescribes for the feeding and care of strays. Even fewer know the protections guaranteed under the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals Act, which makes harming an animal a punishable offence. This ignorance leaves people vulnerable to misinformation and strips animals of the protection the law already provides them.

We litter the streets, drawing strays to scavenge. We fail to enforce sterilisation, vaccination, and monitoring programmes that could humanely control their numbers. Some pet owners, out of negligence or convenience, abandon their animals, fuelling the cycle further. The fault is ours, not theirs.

To cast aside a dog today is like telling a childhood friend to leave because you no longer have the time or mental clarity to engage with them. The bond between humans and dogs is not a casual arrangement; it is one of the oldest partnerships in history. Breaking it is more than a betrayal of trust, it is a denial of who we are.

If we forget the dog’s role in our rise, we risk forgetting the very traits that made us human: loyalty, cooperation, and trust. In doing so we may be digging our own grave.

***

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

***

by whatsonsidsmind

Walking Back to Bhowanipore: A Memoir – Part 3 (Concluding Part)

Written By: Siddhartha Krishnan | 9 Min Read

The last time I wandered through Bhowanipore with any real leisure was nine years ago. I had returned to Kolkata a few times since the summer of 2006, but those visits were fleeting, focused on my parents, who lived there until the end of 2017. There was no space then to slip back into the rhythm of my childhood, no time to retrace the streets that once mapped my world.

But in the winter of 2016, on one such visit, I made time for an early morning walk—something I used to do every day as a student at St. Xavier’s College. The bus could’ve taken me there in under ten minutes, but I preferred the half-hour walk through waking streets. I’d arrive just before six a.m.—yes, that’s when our BCom (Hons) classes began, when the city was still stretching its limbs.

As I stepped out of my building and onto Gokhale Road, something shifted. The morning light had a softness to it, as if filtered through memory. Shapes from the past shimmered into focus. To my left stood my old gang in front of Yaseen Da’s shop, ready to dash off to Chowringhee Terrace. The bat, I noticed, was suddenly in my hand. “Bhai, chale?” Guddu grinned at me.

Just then, a school bus rounded the corner at Gol Mandir, the shouts of children echoing down the street. It was unmistakably Jugal Da’s bus—old, filled to the brim and noisy as always. I watched my father help my younger brother and a nine-year-old me into the backseat. I caught my father’s eye, and he smiled. Our smiles met briefly, suspended between the years.

I kept that smile, as the bus dissolved into the morning haze.

The next thing I knew, I was sprinting toward Chowringhee Terrace. A game of cricket was underway under a thick canopy of rain trees. Vicky hurled the ball; I met it with a square cut. The plastic ball smacked hard against the metal gate of the kindergarten school beside us. A familiar voice exploded in protest—the guard, roused even on a holiday. Guddu stepped forward to calm him down, throwing me a mischievous wink.

Then the sun vanished behind clouds, and the trees blurred once more into silhouettes. The street was quiet again.

I kept walking, but I wasn’t alone.

As I reached the point where Gokhale Road met AJC Bose Road, I paused. An unassuming man stood nearby, eyes fixed skyward, mesmerized by a crane shifting massive blocks of concrete. The flyover connecting Park Circus to Rabindra Sadan was taking shape or so it seemed.

Then a bus screeched past, jolting me back. The construction was long finished. The flyover, I realized, stood complete, humming silently above.

I crossed the road toward Nandan Cinema.

There, just outside the gate, I felt a familiar tug. My father’s little finger, gently locked with mine. It was a winter night in ’93. We were wrapped in jackets and sweaters, heading into a children’s film festival screening of Ray’s “Sonar Kella”. In my left hand was a vanilla softy, already melting slightly at the edges as the projector whirred to life.

Then, like a ripple across the screen, another image floated in—me again, slightly older this time, holding my first cup of fountain Pepsi. That too was at Nandan. The fizz, the chill, the magic of bubbles, I felt it all.

As I entered the gates of Victoria Memorial, a distant memory came rushing in. The manicured lawns stretched before me, dotted with mats and chatter. The annual picnic of our Malayalee group was in full swing on an autumn afternoon, filled with laughter, steaming containers of food, and a warmth that came not from the sun, but from the closeness of our shared roots.

Overhead, an eagle swooped low, its wings slicing the air, as it chased something in the shallow waters nearby. I flinched slightly, and the moment shifted. Just beyond the pond, I spotted the old wooden bench where we’d sit after college, me and my friends from St. Xavier’s, talking films, politics, heartbreak, and dreams.

I wandered further, exiting through the main gate. And there they were again—my childhood gang from Gokhale Road, gathered around a pushcart, gulping down glasses of shikanji. Their faces were flushed from the sun, their T-shirts soaked in sweat from a match at the Maidan. I could almost hear the clink of ice against glass, feel the burst of lime and salt on my tongue.

I let out a smirk as I walked toward the Birla Planetarium crossing. With each step, a steady smile settled on my face, and again, a bouquet of images bloomed.

Park Street unfurled before me—my school, my college. The football field echoed with shouts. The sip-ups and samosas at Panditji’s school canteen came back with startling clarity, as did the chops, rolls, and chowmein at Arun Da’s college canteen. Somehow, the footpath along Jawaharlal Nehru Road began to feel like our old corridor at St. Xavier’s Collegiate School. I could almost see Fr. Santos twirling his cane—half menace, half theatre, ready to chase down any student loitering during class hours.

I turned right at the planetarium to begin my walk back home. As I passed the Nehru Children’s Museum, another image flickered to life—miniature clay figures, narrating the tales of the Ramayana and Mahabharata. I remembered standing before them, hand in hand with my father, as he carefully explained the parts of the epics I found too complex.

When I reached the Elgin Road signal, I could almost feel a breeze drift in from Jadu Babur Bajar, thick with the smells of the morning market—fried spices, damp jute sacks, vegetables, meat and fish.

A memory rose, unannounced.

A hole-in-the-wall shop beside a mutton stall near Ganja Park—barely visible, easy to miss and still crowded. There, a man would serve mutton meatballs on a sal leaf, sprinkled with a magic masala that lingered on the tongue. If we happened to be shopping in the bazaar at night, my father would pause there without fail. One plate to snack on as we walked, and another carefully packed for my mother and brother back home.

It wasn’t indulgence—it was ritual. In Kolkata, walking and snacking are inseparable, like breath and talk. The mouth must never be idle, the stomach never left wanting. It was just the way of things.

At the signal, I glanced toward Gift Centre on Elgin Road, less than a hundred metres away. Back in school, it had been our go-to place, for birthday presents, school stationery, and last-minute greeting cards for friends in class and from the para. It was also where I carefully built my collection of Hot Wheels cars, G.I. Joe and He-Man figurines. Sachets of Hajmola and Fatafat were impulse buys at the end, tucked into our pockets before we ran off.

Two years later, I would return to the same shop, this time looking for a toy for my four-year-old son. He was with me. The man at the counter looked up and smiled instantly. He recognised me, even with my beard. Some connections, it seems, don’t fade with time.

I turned right from the signal toward Shambhunath Pandit Street and stopped at Shitala Mandir, bowing my head to the goddess.

Just beyond, Ganguram was already open. It was 8 a.m., and the familiar pot-bellied uncle behind the counter was offering his morning prayers to the gods and goddesses lining the wall. The shop hadn’t changed. The paint was coming off the walls but the glass shelves still gleamed. The scent of chhena and sugar hung in the air like something sacred.

I packed a box of sandesh for my family in Bangalore and stepped out.

Sharma Tea House was only a short walk away. I stopped in for a cup of tea, and picked up two plates of their club kachoris to take home.

On my way back to Gokhale Road, I passed Nimki House. The warm, familiar aroma of fried savouries wafted out, tugging at me like an old friend. For a moment, I slowed down. But then I smiled and whispered to myself, “Next time.”

At Gol Mandir, I offered my prayers. A steady crowd had begun to gather. But that morning, by some quiet grace, I received prasad from Panditji without a wait.

And then, I turned the final corner.

Re-entering Gokhale Road felt like stepping through a portal. The air was the same, yet not. Familiar windows blinked open. In that moment, I became a shape-shifter, man to child, and child to man again, moving between selves, across time, as if none of it had ever truly gone.

A familiar scent drifted through the morning air—the unmistakable aroma of bhoger khichuri, just as it was served on Dashami at the Gokhale Sporting Club Durga Puja. It flooded my senses, stirring something deep and wordless. As I neared my building, I spotted Guddu. “Morning walk?” he asked, reading the contentment on my face. “Yes,” I replied. We smiled. No words were needed.

Before stepping into the pathway of 7A Gokhale Road, I turned once more.

There they were—my father in his safari suit, my grandfather in his crisp whites, both smiling, standing at the edge of memory. It struck me then: these streets and alleys weren’t just theirs, they are mine too. This place has shaped me, just as it had shaped them.

But if a young boy from Palakkad, who once walked barefoot across rivers to reach his school in the 1930s, hadn’t dreamt of a better life in a distant city, none of this would have been possible. Kolkata didn’t just hold our history—it became us. That is the true hallmark of a great city: its ability to absorb everything, hold fast to its values, and through that quiet, constant churning, shape a culture uniquely its own. An identity born not from erasure, but from embrace.

In the 1970s, if my grandfather, my father, Dr. Mathur, the barefoot historian of Kolkata P.T. Nair, and their like, none of whom are alive today, had met in our tiny Gokhale Road flat, I wonder what they might have dreamt for the city’s future, fifty years ahead.

***

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 right reserved by http://www.whatsonsidsmind.com

by whatsonsidsmind

Walking Back to Bhowanipore: A Memoir – Part 2

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 5 Min Read

My grandfather migrated to Calcutta from a small village in Palakkad, Kerala, two years before Independence. I’m not sure when exactly he made Gokhale Road his home. My father was born in the autumn of 1949. With quiet determination, my grandfather set up a small business and soon brought over relatives from Palakkad—young men with dreams of education, growth, and a better life.

Among them was Dr. P.R.G. Mathur, a relative of ours, who would go on to become a renowned anthropologist. He completed his PhD from Calcutta University, and in the 1990s, would often visit us during his tours. He’d bring along his close friend, P. Thankappan Nair, now fondly remembered as the ‘barefoot historian of Kolkata.’ Nair lived just a stone’s throw from our home, on Kansaripara Lane. My father, Dr. Mathur, and Nair would slip into long, meandering conversations on books, politics, and the city itself. I would sit nearby, a silent bystander. The topics were far too heavy for me, but the rhythm of those conversations stays with me still.

In the 50s and 60s, as old-timers tell it, my grandmother would cook for a gathering on humid afternoons. Our small flat never felt small back then. “When it got too crowded, we’d sleep out in the balcony,” my father used to say. Years later, I accompanied him to visit Dr. Mathur in Palakkad, not long before his death. Both men were frail and quiet, but the moment was heavy with feeling. Dr. Mathur kept recalling just one thing—how lovingly my grandmother used to feed him. Her begun bhajas were his favourite. In the end, perhaps it’s always the small things that matter.

Three generations of our family owe a quiet debt to this city, and to this locality in particular. We lived in Krishnapriya Mansion, a hundred-year-old building just across from the police barracks on Gokhale Road. Modest, weathered and slowly crumbling, but always full of life. We had rented two flats in the building. My father spent his entire active life there, anchored not just by familiarity, but also by the flavours of the city.

He was a true foodie—perhaps the most Bengali of all his traits. Nimki House with its crisp savouries, Sharma Tea House with its heritage chai and club kachoris, Tibetan Delight’s momos, the doodh cola and parathas from Balwant Singh Eating House, pastries and sandwiches at Sugarr & Spice, and of course, the mishti doi and sandesh from Ganguram. These weren’t just food joints. They were rituals. Each one just a few hundred steps from our door.

However, one of the strongest memories I carry from the 90s is of my father heading to Jadu Babur Bajar on Ashutosh Mukherjee Road. It was a daily ritual, folded neatly into his morning walk. But on weekends, it took on a certain flamboyance. He’d step out with a spring in his step and his trusted jhola in hand. I was usually forced to tag along.

Someone on the road would shout, “Sachi da kothai?”, and without missing a beat, he’d reply, “Bajar korte jacchi.” That reply, so casual, feels oddly alien now, meaningless almost, for a generation that shops with a swipe on Blinkit or Big Basket. But the way he said it, with a twinkle in his eye and a hint of anticipation, made it sound like he was off on a holiday.

I couldn’t understand it then. Jadu Babur Bajar or Jaggu Bazaar as we kids mockingly called it—was no picnic spot. It was chaos. A sensory overload. A maze, a tangle of stalls and sounds where the sense of direction went to die. Yet my father moved through it with the grace of someone who belonged.

To me, it was a noisy, crowded hellscape where we spent hours negotiating with fish sellers or chasing the “right” watermelon—never the ones conveniently on the way, but the one seller tucked away at the very end. He had a shop for everything, a logic for every detour, and zero patience for my protests. It was all deeply irritating then.

But memories are strange shape-shifters. What once felt unbearable now returns with warmth. The sight of his content face after a good day at the bajar, the pride in his choices, the quiet joy he took in the ritual—that image refuses to leave me.

Growing up, I had always seen my father as deeply spiritual. He’d often say he was a rebel in his younger days, but I never saw that version of him. What I did see was a man who was well-read, an All India CA rank holder, and a devoted book lover who never missed a single day of the boi mela. Years of recurring illness had slowly made him god-fearing. The first of these came early—a brain tumour diagnosis when I was just seven. He survived, but more such episodes followed.

On his way back from office, he would often stop by Gol Mandir for a quiet moment of prayer. Tuesdays, though, were more elaborate. He’d visit both Gol Mandir and Shitala Mandir, where the crowds swelled and the rituals took longer. For my brother and me, the devotion meant little at the time—our focus was mostly on securing the prasad from Panditji before it ran out.

My father could hardly speak Malayalam before he married a pukka Malayalee from Palakkad. His love for Calcutta echoed in all his choices, and in every conversation. I remember watching my mother struggle in those days—everything from the language to the culture and food felt unfamiliar to her. Yet, over the years, she quietly adapted and found her rhythm in the city. With a man so completely in love with Calcutta, I don’t think she ever really had a choice.

For my father, leaving Gokhale Road would have been like leaving a part of himself. He stayed on until 2017. After that, my parents split their time between my brother’s house in Rajarhat and mine in Bangalore, before eventually finding a house in Palakkad. But all through those years, the flat at Gokhale Road remained. We let it go only in 2023—after he was gone.

(Concluding part … in a few days)

***

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).

***

by whatsonsidsmind

Walking Back to Bhowanipore: A Memoir – Part 1

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 4 Min Read

The year was 1999. I was fifteen. Calcutta was still called that, though its rechristening was already on the horizon. That September, a single bout of torrential rain brought the city to its knees. From our third-floor flat, I watched nervously as the water on Gokhale Road rose inch by inch, swallowing the street below. Schools were shut, and office-goers hitched rides on hand-pulled rickshaws just to reach dry land, where a bus, a taxi, or the metro might rescue them. The spitting rain continued for two more days, and we rejoiced at the unexpected school holidays.

Floods were common back then, but school closures weren’t. This was as close to a bandh as we could get, which, in those days, wasn’t all that rare either. Unlike that brief celebration, most of my monsoon memories of Kolkata are murky: waterlogged streets, a constant stench, clouds of mosquitoes, and a sky that never cleared. I don’t think many liked the rains back then, except on weekends, when the smell of khichuri in the afternoons or telebhaja in the evenings drifted from one house to another, bringing momentary comfort.

Now, as I sit on my balcony in Bangalore with a cup of tea, watching a gentle drizzle fall, memories of Calcutta’s torrential monsoons and my childhood in Bhowanipore come rushing back. Unlike the rains, those memories remain warm and dear.

I grew up in Bhowanipore, largely unaware of the historical weight the neighbourhood carried. That awareness came much later. Back then, life revolved around casual addas with friends and weekend rituals: cricket matches at the Maidan in the morning, and evening strolls through the neighbourhood. These walks took us past some of the city’s iconic landmarks such as Nandan Cinema, Rabindra Sadan, Victoria Memorial, St. Paul’s Cathedral, and Nehru Planetarium, and were often punctuated by street food stops—Kolkata-style chowmein, Kathi rolls, puchkas, bhel puri, and, on better days, momos from Tibetan Delight.

Tucked between the bustling arteries of Shambhunath Pandit Street on one end and Acharya Jagadish Chandra Bose Road on the other, Gokhale Road offered a rare pocket of calm. Even as the neighbourhood around it pulsed with commerce and traffic, this narrow street remained something of an oasis: shielded and remarkably quiet.

But perhaps the most defining space of that time was a rectangular stretch called Chowringhee Terrace, a lane branching off Gokhale Road, opposite the Institution of Engineers, and tapering off near the police barracks. That quiet end hosted the Gokhale Sporting Club Durga Puja—familiar to locals but never crowded enough to descend into the chaos that marked the city’s more prominent pujas in South-Central Kolkata. At the other end, near the post office and Institution of Engineers, was where we spent most evenings in adda and gully cricket, using a heavy plastic ball that could travel the distance, and could wake the locality up if it hit a metal gate.

In many ways, though, Gokhale Road always felt dwarfed by the commercial and cultural landmarks that surrounded it. When returning from other parts of town, we often struggled to explain its exact location to taxi drivers. It was usually nearby landmarks such as Ganguram, Gol Mandir—that came to our rescue.

Yet Gokhale Road quietly held its own. It was home to several important institutions: the Institution of Engineers, the Army’s Recruitment Centre, Calcutta Club, the Police Housing Estate, and the Mahavir Digambar Jain Temple tucked into Chowringhee Terrace. And despite its proximity to the city’s beating heart namely Park Street, Esplanade, and Elgin—it somehow retained a hush, a kind of quiet that the grander, more restless parts of Kolkata could never quite manage.

My father never left Gokhale Road. Though we lived in a small apartment and could well afford a larger one elsewhere, he’d brush off the suggestion, saying, “This is where everyone wants to live. Why should we leave?”

Part of it, I think, was his deep resistance to change—he was never much of an adventurer. Although, as a chartered accountant working in a private firm in Old Court House Street, he had traveled extensively auditing banks. I believe it was memory that anchored him. His entire childhood was woven into the fabric of this neighbourhood.

(To be continued. Part 2 … this weekend)

***

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).

by whatsonsidsmind

Movie Review | Absurd, Unsettling and Hilarious: Sanctuary Hijacks your Brain in 90 Minutes

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 2 Min Read

It takes Sanctuary (trailer) about 40 minutes, from posturing as absurdist fiction, to transform into a no-holds-barred psychological revenge drama cum rom-com — if that makes any sense. It’s a template I haven’t seen before, a plot so out of whack it’s like discovering a dinosaur fossil on the moon.

The story follows Hal, who is about to inherit his father’s multi-million-dollar hotel chain after his untimely death. Before that, he wants to end his long-term, secret relationship with a dominatrix, Rebecca — something she had no clue was coming. What follows is a psychological game between the two, in a hotel room, where Rebecca seems to have the upper hand.

The screenplay is dominated by long conversations that take a while to make sense. But they’re entertaining, and above all, they are probes into the human mind and the lengths it will go to once the survival instinct kicks in.

For a film that was shot in just 18 days Sanctuary is hilarious, outlandish, unsettling, and jaw-dropping. Christopher Abbott and Margaret Qualley are brilliant in their roles. Most of the acting is shot in tight close-ups, and Qualley kills it whenever she’s on screen. Her range is truly a gift.

Make no mistake Sanctuary is not for everyone, but if you like absurdist fiction, mind benders, films that don’t fit into a specific genre, or ones that subvert genres, give this a go. At just 90 minutes, this is an intelligently written, brilliantly acted laugh riot that churns your stomach, leaves you in splits, and makes you question: What have I just watched?

Verdict:

IMDb rating: 6.2/10
My rating: 3.5/5

Sanctuary is streaming on JioHotstar in India.

***

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).

by whatsonsidsmind

Mountainhead | Movie Review | Whatsonsidsmind

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 2 Min Read

Mountainhead begins with four tech giants meeting at a remote mountain mansion, owned by Souper or ‘Soup’, the poorest among them, in the wake of a global upheaval caused by a new generative AI, launched by Venis, the richest among them, who is also the richest man in the world. The quartet is completed by Jeff, another AI wonderkid, and the older Randall, a sort of mentor to all. Though the gathering is meant to rekindle old bonds between the self-proclaimed ‘Brewsters’, each arrives with his own agenda. As they attempt to make sense of the chaos unfolding outside, they also vie to shape the future of humanity, drawing on each other’s minds, ambitions, and secrets.

One of the most brilliant scenes in the film unfolds when Jeff questions Venis about the sectarian violence and genocidal attacks inadvertently triggered by his new generative AI. Ven responds with a disarming analogy: he recalls how, when people first saw a train on a movie screen, they ran out of the theatre in fear. But filmmakers didn’t stop making movies—they made more. “Show more,” he says, “until everyone realizes that nothing is that f**king serious. Nothing means anything, and everything is funny.”

This moment captures the essence of Mountainhead—its dark, absurdist satire and the way it confronts our current anxieties with a disturbingly casual shrug. It’s both chilling and hilarious.

Directed by Jesse Armstrong, the Emmy and Golden Globe-winning creator of Succession, Mountainhead moves with the pace of a thriller, though what unravels isn’t action, but intention. It delves into the twisted psyches of four tech geniuses, forced into a tense chamber drama where tolerance is the only currency left.

Despite its psychological weight, the film’s tone remains largely satirical throughout its under-two-hour runtime. There’s plenty to read between the lines, but Armstrong, who also wrote the screenplay, deftly keeps the atmosphere light, even as the story descends into its darkest moments. What stays consistent is the film’s keen study of powerful, hyper-successful individuals who have grown dangerously detached from reality—mirrored perfectly by the opulent, isolated retreat where they’ve chosen to gather.

Verdict:

In the midst of ongoing discussions about AI, who controls it, and whether we have a future with or despite it, this film is an essential watch.

You can watch Mountainhead on JioHotstar in India.

My rating: 3.5/5

***

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 articles, essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).