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.
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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!
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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 articles, essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).
All rights reserved by http://www.whatsonsidsmind.com
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