Tag / Travelogue

by whatsonsidsmind

Discovering the Land of High Passes: Ladakh | A Travelogue | Part 7

At Dal Lake

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 15 Min Read

Day 10: 29th August 2025 – Cruising on the Dal

Unlike the earlier nine days of this long trip, we weren’t expected to wake up early or prepare for another long drive. For once, we had all the time in the world and no real agenda. Except for the two children, everyone in the group was feeling the fatigue of the journey.

It’s funny how our bodies respond. During those long, grueling drives we hardly felt tired, carried forward by the adrenaline and the wonder of what lay ahead. It’s only when we finally stop and allow ourselves to rest that the fatigue truly sets in.

To make things worse, Subho woke up with a high fever that morning, and I with a stubborn headache. Any chance of drawing up a list of places to visit was now out of the window. We had a slightly late breakfast, and while Subho was clear he wouldn’t be venturing out in that condition, I was foolish enough to try. The earache I had seemed like a small, manageable discomfort. I thought I could handle at least a half-day plan.

The good thing was that our hotel stood right next to Dal Lake — perhaps the most iconic landmark of Srinagar. A shikara ride on the lake is almost a ritual for every visitor. How could one miss such an experience, especially when all it took was a short walk to the water’s edge?

I popped in a painkiller and set out with the others, hoping the pain would eventually fade over the course of the day. Yet, somewhere at the back of my mind, faint memories of earlier bouts of ear pain began to resurface.

A Tea Seller at Dal Lake

We crossed the road towards Dal Lake, bracing ourselves for the inevitable rounds of bargaining with the boatmen. But it turned out to be easier than expected. Ever since the terror attack at Pahalgam earlier this year, tourism in Kashmir had taken a severe hit. Local businesses were struggling, and the absence of tourists had left deep scars on the economy.

The first boatman we met offered a 90-minute ride across the lake for ₹1,500. We declined and walked on casually. He followed, lowering his price by two or three hundred each time we paused to listen. We kept walking, until he finally asked what we were willing to pay. “₹500,” we said — sticking to the golden rule of any bargain: begin low, even if it sounds absurd. To our surprise, he agreed almost instantly. As we followed him to the boat, he mentioned quietly that he hadn’t earned a rupee in the last three days.

As we stepped onto the shikara, I noticed three small fish hanging from a hook near where he sat. He caught my curious look and smiled. “My catch for the day,” he said softly.

The boat drifted away from the shore, and soon the lake began to open up before us. There’s something timeless about lakes in the mountains. Though Dal Lake wasn’t as clear as I had imagined, the sight of the surrounding mountains mirrored in its gentle ripples more than made up for it.

Cruising on the Dal Lake

The Dal is an urban freshwater lake, often called “the lake of flowers” or “Srinagar’s Jewel.” Its 15-kilometre shoreline is lined with Mughal-era gardens, parks, houseboats, and hotels. During peak winters, the lake freezes, turning into a vast sheet of ice.

Dal also has floating gardens, and in July and August, lotus flowers bloom here in their full glory. The lake is believed to have been mentioned in ancient Hindu texts, and during the Mughal era, when Srinagar became their summer retreat, emperors built exquisite gardens such as Shalimar Bagh and Nishat Bagh to enjoy the cool mountain air.

Today, Dal remains one of Kashmir’s main attractions, drawing visitors from across India, especially in winter when the valley lies under a thick blanket of snow. The sight then is breathtaking.

Kashmir in winter was something we had always wanted to experience. So, on this unplanned trip to Srinagar, we decided not to overdo things, choosing instead to explore only the areas in and around Dal.

As we drifted further into the lake, the boulevards along the shoreline came into view, as did clusters of blooming lotus flowers. Our boatman was full of stories — about the history of the lake, and little anecdotes from its past and present. At one point, he pointed toward Kabootar Khana, a small island on the lake said to have been a feeding ground for pigeons, associated with Raja Karan Singh, whose summer palace stood nearby.

As our boatman moved from one story to another, a boat pulled up beside ours. A floating cafe. We were about to get a taste of Dal’s vibrant floating market — a first for me.

My wife dressed up in a traditional Kashmiri dress

We settled for a cup of Kashmiri kahwa — what better accompaniment while drifting across Dal Lake like royalty? The fragrant tea, infused with saffron and almonds, perfectly matched the languid rhythm of the shikara. Before we could finish our cups, another boat glided up beside us, this one with a cameraman offering to dress us in traditional Kashmiri attire for a quick photo session. We hesitated at first, not particularly in the mood to pose, but eventually gave in to his persistence. Soon, we found ourselves hopping onto his boat, getting draped and dressed for the part.

We were told that our photos would be ready by the time our shikara ride was over. It’s one of those things tourists usually do at Dal Lake, so we went along for the experience.

As our little cruise resumed, we realized we were the only tourists in that part of the lake that afternoon, which instantly made us the center of attention for every seller in the floating market.

Soon, a young man paddled up with a collection of wooden handicrafts. His boat was filled with intricately carved pieces that included trays, boxes, and decorative panels, each displaying the finesse that Kashmiri artisans are known for. Woodcraft here, especially in walnut wood, is an age-old tradition that includes techniques like deep carving, shallow carving, lattice work, and undercut detailing. The motifs often draw from local elements — the Chinar leaf being the most iconic.

The craftsman spoke with an easy charm. His enthusiasm was infectious, and his artistry hard to resist. We ended up buying a few pieces.

Exploring Kashmiri woodcraft

Time on the lake slipped by unnoticed. There was barely a moment to pause, reflect, and take in the serenity around us. We did so only in the brief intervals between one seller’s boat leaving and another gliding up beside ours. The conversations with these young Kashmiri salesmen were engaging — they were skilled at what they did, drawing us in with their charm and genuine warmth. Yet, beneath their ever-present smiles, one could sense the quiet strain. The lack of tourists following the terror attack earlier this year had clearly taken a toll on this fragile floating economy. Every now and then, the desperation surfaced — subtle but unmistakable. Still, they remained unfailingly polite, never aggressive or overbearing.

The attack in April had shaken the trust between locals and visitors. The brutal act of violence targeting innocent tourists succeeded in casting a long shadow over an entire community that depends on tourism for survival. But perhaps that was the intent all along — to sow fear, mistrust, and isolation. In my view, the only way to counter such acts of violence is to continue living, to travel, to engage, and to keep the spirit of the valley alive. Fear and silence are what they seek to spread; normalcy is our quiet defiance.

Easier said than done? Maybe.

Kashmir remains one of the most heavily militarized regions in the world. Armed soldiers are everywhere on the streets of Srinagar, standing guard with loaded guns, scanning every movement, every passing face. Their presence is unmistakable even amid the city’s constant hum. It’s heartbreaking to see such a breathtaking land weighed down by the fear of sudden unrest, by the shadow of uncertainty. When will peace return to the valley? And what does normalcy even mean here? These questions kept circling in my mind.

At Dal Lake

An hour had passed since our ride began when our boatman rowed the shikara towards a small café floating on the lake. Its menu was simple but inviting. The children happily settled for plates of Maggi and ice cream, while the adults chose mojitos and lemonades — much needed on that warm August afternoon. The cool drinks were refreshing, offering a brief pause to soak in the calm of the lake and take a break from the endless stream of floating vendors.

From where we sat, we could see a line of houseboats moored near the café, some of them run by well-known hotel chains, their carved wooden exteriors gleaming under the sun. Yet, most appeared unoccupied.

After the short break, we resumed our cruise. No sooner had we set off than the next set of sellers approached. It was clear they followed an unspoken order. Each taking their turn, never overlapping, as if guided by a silent code of conduct.

A Houseboat at Dal lake

This time, a jewelry seller paddled up. His collection shimmered in the light — delicate necklaces, bangles, and earrings, each showcasing an intricate craftsmanship called filigree. A decorative design technique that uses thin metal wires to create intricate lace like patterns. What caught our eye, though, was the use of Lapis Lazuli, a semi-precious blue stone with a storied past. Revered since ancient times, it finds mention in Persian texts and is believed to have been brought to Mesopotamia from Afghanistan in 4900 BCE. During the Renaissance, European artists ground it into a powder to create the vivid ultramarine pigment for their paintings. Sourced from the Badakhshan region of Afghanistan, it was once a prized commodity, even during the era of the Indus Valley Civilization.

We picked up a simple bangle inlaid with the stone — a small but meaningful souvenir to keep as a memory.

Just as we passed a row of beautifully crafted houseboats, another boat pulled up beside ours — this time carrying a man selling spices, herbs, and medicinal substances found only in the higher reaches of the Himalayas. He spoke with quiet confidence as he demonstrated how to distinguish pure shilajit from its imitations. We didn’t intend to buy anything more, but his sincerity and knowledge won us over. We picked up a small box of saffron as a token of appreciation for his effort.

Exploring jewelry made using filigree technique

Our final stop was a handloom and textile store on the lake, where we had to step out of the shikara. The artisans here specialized in Kashmiri Aari work, a traditional form of embroidery done with a hooked needle called the aari. The technique creates intricate motifs — paisleys, florals, and the unmistakable Chinar leaf. Once reserved for royal garments, it is now used to adorn shawls, stoles, and home décor items.

This particular stop caught my wife’s and my attention more than the others. The craftsmanship resonated with us, especially since we had started a small handicraft business a year ago. We found a few pieces that would fit perfectly into our product line, and the store owner, noticing our genuine interest in bulk purchases, offered us a fair deal.

Lotus blooms at Dal

With that, our shikara ride on the iconic Dal Lake came to an end. Back at the shore, the photographer who had captured our portraits earlier was waiting, holding out our prints. The pictures had turned out surprisingly well capturing lighthearted, colorful memories of the afternoon.

We paid the boatman more than we had agreed upon, and the wide smile that lit up his face felt like a fitting close to the experience.

It was half past two — well past lunchtime. Fortunately, one of the best restaurants in the area was right next to our hotel. I was craving something traditional, something unmistakably Kashmiri.

However, by the time our shikara ride ended, the earache had worsened considerably. Yet, during those two hours on the lake, caught up in conversations with the boatman and the sellers on the floating market, I hardly had the time to dwell on it. It felt as though the pain had been trying to tell me something all along, and I, quite literally, hadn’t given it a listening ear. Now, it was shouting for attention.

Even so, my focus quickly shifted to the Kashmiri pulao and Dum Aloo we had just ordered. The sight of those fragrant dishes was enough to momentarily silence the throbbing pain.

Thankfully, the food was excellent. In the end, it felt worth the effort, or perhaps, worth the pain.

A bed cover made using Aari technique

After lunch, all I wanted was to collapse onto the bed. Given my history with earaches, (one particularly bad episode from childhood still vivid in memory) I decided I would see a doctor once we got back home. For now, I hoped that another painkiller and a good night’s rest would do the trick.

But it didn’t.

That evening, while our wives and kids stepped out for dinner, Subho and I stayed back in the hotel room, settling for a simple meal of hot soup and bread. Hardly the perfect way to spend the last night of a trip our families would remember for a long time — but perhaps that’s how it was meant to be. The memories we had gathered over the past days were worth far more than the aches our bodies were enduring that night.

Day 11: 30th August 2025 – Final Goodbye

By the next morning, Subho had recovered a little, but my earache remained stubborn. A late breakfast, a short nap, an hour of packing — and just like that, it was time to leave. Our flight to Delhi was at 5 p.m., but as is customary in Srinagar, we were required to reach the airport three hours early. The long security procedures here are part of the routine, yet they always carry a certain gravity, a reminder of where we are.

Kashmiri Pulao at Lazeez restaurant near Dal Lake

We gathered one last time at the hotel restaurant for lunch before departure. Though all of us were visibly drained, the conversation that afternoon had a quiet warmth. We found ourselves revisiting moments from the journey, the laughter, the awe, the unpredictability, even the discomfort, and realized that each had its own rightful place in the story of this trip.

As I sat near our gate waiting for our flight, after the long check-in process, my right hand pressed against my ear, a handkerchief wrapped around it for comfort, every wave of pain drew out a soft, restrained sigh. In that moment, I realized that writing this travelogue would take time. I wanted to tell this story in all its detail, the beauty and the strain, the joy and the discomfort, because isn’t that what makes a great story? One that holds truth in all its layers.

Royal Comfort Regency, the hotel where we stayed in Srinagar just across Dal Lake

The earache stayed with me for nearly a month. My hearing dulled, the pain lingered far longer than I expected, as though the memories of Ladakh were refusing to let go. And now, as I sit with this twenty-thousand-word travelogue, I find that the act of writing it has been as rewarding as the journey itself, perhaps even more so.

I wonder what I will feel when I revisit these words years from now, in a quieter season of life. Maybe that is why I travel, and perhaps that is why I write, to go in search of stories, to live them, to give them form and breath, and to release them into the world. So that one day, when I return to them, they may carry me back, not just to the places I have seen, but to the person I was when I saw them. And maybe then, my loved ones will find a part of me there too, in the echoes of these journeys, and in the stories that chose to stay.

Us enjoying a view of the Shyok river

***

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

Discovering the Land of High Passes: Ladakh | A Travelogue | Part 6

Scenic view near Zoji La Pass

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.

Video description: On the way to Leh airport at dawn on 27th August 2025

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.

27th Aug – My boarding pass to Delhi that had no future

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.

27th Aug – Us at Kartse Cafe, Leh

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.

View from our hotel room in Leh

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

Video description: 28th Aug – Getting out of Leh

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.

28th Aug – Breakfast at a restaurant in Khalsi village

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.

Video description: Heading to Batalik via the diversion on NH1

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.

Scenic view of the Indus on the way to Batalik

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

Video description: Entering Batalik village

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.

At Hambuting La Pass

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.

At Kargil War Memorial

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.

Memorial stones at Kargil War Memorial

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.

Tiger Hill visible on the way to Drass

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.

At a roadside eatery in Drass

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.

Road blocked by a flock of sheep near Zoji La Pass

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.

At Radisson, Sonmarg

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.

Video description: Crossing the Sonmarg Tunnel

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.

Scenic view after crossing Zoji La Pass

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

***

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

Discovering the Land of High Passes: Ladakh | A Travelogue | Part 5

Pic: Scenes enroute Pangong to Leh

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 14 Min Read

It was a mixed bag of emotions that Monday morning as we made our way back to Leh. For five days in Ladakh, everything had gone exactly as planned—until the unprecedented rain of the previous day. Yet, even with the sudden turn in weather, we had managed to cross two of the highest mountain passes in the world. It often felt as if the ghosts of everything that could go wrong were right at our heels, and we were just an hour ahead—avoiding getting stranded, staying healthy, and escaping the dozen other mishaps that could so easily unfold in a place like this.

Our driver told us that many tourists who reached those passes after us either got stranded or were forced to turn back. We knew then—we were lucky, without question. Still, a faint ache lingered in our hearts at having to give up on visiting Hanle. But as the realization set in, it was clear: being adventurous is not the same as being reckless, especially when traveling with children and a senior citizen.

From the very beginning, we had kept our trip to Hanle flexible. There were two reasons for that—unpredictable weather and our own health. So, we had only booked hotels up to Pangong. But once we reached Pangong safely, in good health, the urge to push further to Hanle was strong. Still, with the skies cloaked in clouds, the decision not to go was a no-brainer.

Pic credit: India Today – Indian Astronomical Observatory at Hanle

Hanle, about 160 km from Pangong, is renowned for its crystal-clear, dark skies. It is home to one of the world’s highest astronomical observatories—the Indian Astronomical Observatory—and is the site of India’s first Dark Sky Reserve, created to protect the night sky from light pollution. The result is an unparalleled stargazing experience. Accommodation here is simple: modest cottages with basic amenities, but for astrophiles, that is more than enough. Hanle also serves as a base for those attempting Umling La (5,798 m), the highest motorable road in the world, just 75 km away.

But this was not meant to be. We consoled ourselves with the thought that something should always remain unfinished—reason enough to return one day.

Pangong Lake stayed with us for a good half an hour into our journey back. It only grew more beautiful and more expansive with every bend, until a sudden diversion cut it from sight. I bid a silent farewell—it was, without doubt, the most breathtaking lake I had ever seen.

We were now headed toward Rezang La—a place etched in my checklist, waiting to be crossed off.

Video description: On the way to Rezang La

It was freezing that morning, just a notch above zero. We were driving along a single-lane road, the arid landscape stretching endlessly before us like an ocean of brown. The blazing sun that had been a constant companion through our first four days in Ladakh had now given way to a persistent drizzle. From Pangong, Rezang La lies about 60 kilometers away—depending on which part of Pangong you stay in—and the drive takes roughly an hour and a half.

Video description: A lone wild ass roaming in the wilderness

About an hour into the journey, we spotted movement in the distance—wild asses grazing on shrubs. Known locally as Kiang or Khyang, these are the largest species of wild ass in the world. Even from afar, their sheer size was unmistakable. Their rich chestnut coats and upright manes stood out strikingly against the arid landscape.

As we continued towards Rezang La, herds of Kiangs appeared at regular intervals. But since they always kept their distance, I couldn’t capture a good photograph of them.

Pic: At Chushul Village

Soon, we reached the police checkpoint at Chushul village. The Line of Actual Control with China lies just 5 km east of here, making Chushul a strategic location during the Battle of Rezang La. Today, it serves as a logistics hub and a designated meeting point for border personnel. The village also has a war memorial that honours the soldiers who fought valiantly in this region. Chushul is equally known for its ancient petroglyphs—rock carvings that speak of the area’s deep historical roots.

As we drove ahead, two stark black mountains rose to our left, standing apart from the surrounding ranges that were coated in dust and scattered patches of green. “The one behind is China, the one in front is No Man’s Land,” our driver explained. We were quite literally at the doorstep of the border.

A minute later, the gates of the Rezang La War Memorial came into view.

Like the other war memorials we had visited across Ladakh, this one too carried a somber energy. A cold, unrelenting wind swept across the barren landscape that morning.

The memorial stood in isolation, far from any settlement—a stark reminder of the remote, unforgiving terrain where some of the fiercest battles of our army were fought. At Rezang La, the structure faces the mountain where one such unbelievable battle unfolded.

Video description: Nearing the India-China Border

Rezang La War Memorial

The story of Rezang La is the stuff of legend—so extraordinary, so improbable, that it almost feels like fiction. On 18th November 1962, during the Indo-Sino war, Major Shaitan Singh and 120 soldiers of the 13 Kumaon Regiment’s Charlie Company faced a massive Chinese assault. The enemy advanced in human waves, launching up to eight attacks on the Indian positions. Singh was given the option to retreat. He refused—and so did his men. Armed with just Lee Enfield rifles, light machine guns and grenades, against a technologically more advanced Chinese force, they fought until the ammunition ran out, and then engaged in hand-to-hand combat. By the end, 114 of them had fallen, but not before inflicting staggering losses: over 1,300 Chinese soldiers were killed. Though the Chinese eventually overran the post, they were unable to advance further into Ladakh. It was this resistance that helped force a ceasefire. For his leadership and sacrifice, Major Shaitan Singh was awarded the Param Vir Chakra, India’s highest military honour.

Video description: At Rezang La War Memorial

It was only three months later that the bodies of the fallen were found, still frozen in their trenches, some clutching their weapons. The Indian search party was stunned—not only by the sight of their comrades who had fought till their last breath, but also by the number of Chinese bodies scattered across the battlefield. In a rare gesture of respect, the Chinese had reportedly covered the Indian soldiers with blankets.

The Rezang La War Memorial is the resting place of 113 of the 114 martyrs, earning it the name Ahir Dham. Major Shaitan Singh’s body was sent home for burial.

Standing there, listening to soldiers recount this tale, was deeply humbling. My eyes welled up. Moments like these strip away the illusions of daily life—our ambitions, our complaints, our problems—making them feel so small, almost trivial.

Pic: At the Rezang La War Memorial

I stared at that mountain for a long time. It felt like staring into an abyss. As someone who believes peace is every human’s birthright, a question rose in me: what is the true price of peace? All living beings fight over territory, but only humans mobilise thousands, armed with guns and bombs, in the name of stories—money, religion, ideology, nations. These constructs exist only in our world; the rest of nature doesn’t need them. If stories can create war, can’t stories also end it? Perhaps I’m an idealist, even a fool, for thinking this way. The realist in me knows that we are as territorial and as savage as wolves or tigers—but unlike them, we struggle to see ourselves clearly.

With these thoughts weighing on my mind, I stepped back into the car. We began our long drive back to Leh, with no real stops in between. It was quarter past noon.

Pic: The mountain on which the Battle of Rezang La was fought

An hour later, we reached an intersection where the road split. To the left, a bridge led towards Hanle; to the right, the highway curved back to Leh. Hanle was less than 90 minutes away, and for a moment the option tempted us. But the weather was worsening, and the risk too great. We turned right. Leh was four hours ahead.

An hour into the drive, we stopped briefly at a roadside cafe for a light lunch. Without lingering, we pressed on, deciding against any more breaks. The rain was intensifying, and with it came the threat of slippery roads, landslides, and shooting stones.

Not long after, we witnessed the first reminder of how unforgiving this terrain could be. An army vehicle had toppled onto its side, crashing against an electric pole and now hanging dangerously close to the river. We arrived just minutes after the accident. Thankfully, the three soldiers inside had escaped unhurt, with locals rushing to pull them out. We stood nearby, ready to help, but they were rescued quickly. It had been a narrow escape.

A few minutes later, our own nerves were tested. At a bend in the highway, the Indus River thundered on our left, while the mountains loomed on our right. Our driver tensed up. “Shooting stones, sir. This stretch is infamous,” he muttered. Almost on cue, something struck the car with a deafening thud. We froze. The impact was on the driver’s door—a falling stone. Luckily, the damage was minimal. He exhaled heavily and pressed on. This was no place to linger.

Video description: Reaching Leh amidst heavy rain

The rest of the journey passed without incident, and by late evening we rolled into Leh. The city’s weather was a sharp contrast to what we had experienced on arrival—temperatures had dipped, the air heavy with rain. We returned to the same hotel we had stayed at before. With a spare day in hand before our flight on the 27th of August, we chose to rest and save our energy. We had a full day, to explore whatever corners of Leh still remained unseen.

Day 7: 26th August 2025: Wait and Watch

The next morning we woke to the sobering reality that the rain wasn’t going anywhere. If it persisted, our flights back to our respective cities could be in jeopardy.

There wasn’t much we could do except wait. The flight schedule still showed “on time,” though news had spread that several flights had been canceled the previous day. We had plenty of questions, but no real answers. It was too early to panic, but we didn’t have a plan B.

Pic: Rancho’s school in Leh from the film 3 Idiots

We decided to take the day as it came and make the most of what might be our last day in Leh. There were a few places we had missed earlier—the Leh market, Shanti Stupa, Thiksey Monastery, and Leh Palace. But with the rain showing no sign of relenting, we couldn’t step out until noon. The monasteries were off the table in that weather, so we began with a little detour: the school that had become famous as “Rancho’s school” after a scene from 3 Idiots was filmed there. Though no longer operational, it had turned into a tourist stop. We clicked a few photographs and moved on to Leh market for lunch.

Our first choice was a quiet restaurant that offered both vegetarian and non-vegetarian food. But the moment we tasted the veg manchow soup, we regretted walking in. It was terrible. We canceled the rest of the order and left in search of something better.

Video description: At Bodhi Terrace restaurant at Leh market

My wife had earlier suggested a café popular among foreign tourists called Bodhi Terrace. At the time, we had ruled it out since it was fully vegan, and everyone else in the group preferred non-vegetarian food. But with options running thin, we decided to give it a chance.

The place was buzzing with travelers. The indoor seating was packed, with a queue snaking by the entrance, but the outdoor section had a few empty tables. It was freezing, the temperature hovering close to zero, but we took our chances and sat outside.

We ordered generously, choosing from their best-rated dishes. What arrived was a feast—for the taste buds and the eyes. Despite the biting cold, it turned out to be the best decision of the day.

The experience felt like the perfect culmination to our journey. Everything we had hoped for from this holiday had been fulfilled—every box ticked, every wish answered. There was nothing to complain about. Here we were, sharing a vegan meal, blowing little clouds of breath into the cold Leh afternoon.

Pic: At Leh Market

A reunion of old friends after a long time. We ate together. We laughed together. We witnessed things we might never see again. What more could one ask for at this altitude? In this place as old as time itself, where the Himalayas were born. A land where history, nature, human endeavour, conflict, and the raw brutality of life all converge.

It’s hard to put such feelings into words—to find meaning in the madness of adventure, and in the quiet pursuit of something greater than ourselves.

Pic: Our table at Bodhi Terrace restaurant in Leh Market

We left Leh market that afternoon in good spirits, even though the rain meant we wouldn’t be able to see any more places that day. With our flights scheduled early the next morning, we returned to the hotel to pack and settled for a light dinner. A quiet prayer followed—that everything would go smoothly the next day.

Video description: Leaving for the airport early morning on 27th August

At 4 a.m., we woke to an unpleasant surprise: the network was down. No internet, no phone calls, no way of checking our flight status. By 5 a.m., we left for the airport, hoping for the best. Our flight was scheduled for 7, but the scene that greeted us was anything but reassuring. A large crowd had already gathered, faces tense, the air heavy with anxiety. No one’s phones were working—the culprit, we heard, was a network tower that had collapsed in a landslide. Soon after came another blow: the airport servers were down, and no flights had landed the previous day. It was clear things were going from bad to worse.

In the next chapter:

We were stranded in Leh, with no way out. Flights had been canceled, and the next available one was four days later—an option we simply couldn’t take. With the rain showing no signs of letting up, there was every chance more flights would be canceled in the days ahead. Ladakh, which had welcomed us with open arms, was now beginning to test us. The only way out seemed to be the road to Srinagar, a grueling 12-hour journey through uncertain weather. But was it the right choice?

Find out in the next chapter.

***

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 4

Pic: Striking the 3 Idiots pose at Pangong Lake

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 15 Min Read

Prologue:

Mist veiled the mountains, snow softened the earth—
and somewhere beyond, the lake waited in silence.

***

We woke up to an unusually cold Sunday morning. The weather felt different, almost unsettling. A chill hung in the air, yet it was oddly humid, and a drizzle had begun—though “drizzle” wasn’t quite the word for it. Drops fell one at a time, as if the heavens were testing the day with a hesitant touch. The blazing Ladakhi sun that had greeted us each morning so far was nowhere to be seen. In its place, thick clouds brooded over the valley, and the distant mountains lay veiled in mist.

It was on such a morning that we were to cover 160 kilometres, crossing two of the highest motorable passes in the world—Wari La and Chang La. Roads ahead promised to be unforgiving, and our journey to Pangong Lake was set to be the toughest yet.

Video description: It’s a wet day ahead. On the way to Pangong.

Our driver mumbled, “We could see snow today.”

I didn’t know how to respond. A part of me thrilled at the thought of fresh snow, of white flakes falling against a dramatic backdrop. But another part was uneasy—the risk of landslides, roads being blocked, the nightmare of being stranded at 5,000 metres with little but prayer for company. In Ladakh, you learn quickly that the mountains decide your fate. All you can do is whisper a God’s name, trust in luck, and carry on.

And so, after a quick breakfast, at half past eight in the morning, we set off.

Day 5: 24th August 2025: Trusting our luck

Video description: A detour that had us excited and nervous

As we hit the road, it seemed as though the rain had gathered strength. In truth, it was the wind creating that illusion, pushing the sparse drops harder against the windshield. Ladakh, part of the vast trans-Himalayan expanse, lies in a rain shadow region. The towering Himalayan wall blocks the moisture-laden southwest monsoon, leaving this land parched. What little rain does arrive is rare—and dangerous.

Even a short spell can wreak havoc here. Landslides are common, rivers swell in minutes, and shooting stones tumbling down mountain faces can turn a highway into a death trap. In Ladakh, so much depends on timing. An hour too early, or too late, can decide whether a road is safe or “destined to face the music.”

This is where the value of an experienced driver cannot be overstated. They know the terrain, anticipate the risks, and stay constantly updated—through WhatsApp messages from fellow drivers or official alerts about road closures. Higher up, on the passes we were headed to, avalanches add yet another layer of danger.

Still, for us, the sudden chill in the air felt almost welcome. At last, at this altitude, we were experiencing the kind of weather that felt true to the place.

An hour into the drive, the smooth highway gave way to stretches of gravel and half-built bridges. At places, the river had begun to swell, licking the edges of makeshift crossings. These detours, born out of road repairs and new bridges under construction to connect remote villages, brought with them a strange mix of excitement and unease.

Video description: Reaching Tangyar village

Two hours into the journey, we made our first real halt. Our driver, Sonam, had requested a short diversion to his village. He had been gathering supplies over the last three days—some picked up from friends, others from relatives along the way—and now it was time to unload them at his home. He graciously invited us for tea.

At half past ten, we turned off the main road. Just two hundred metres of a narrow track led us into the village of Tangyar, and right at its entrance stood Sonam’s newly built house. I was eager to step in, not merely for the break, but because this was a chance to glimpse life inside a Ladakhi village—something far more intimate than what any tourist stop could offer.

Tangyar Village

Video description: At Tangyar Village

The village was picturesque, cradled by mountains that would be snow-clad for most of the year. A gentle stream cut through its center. At a distance, perched on a vantage point, stood a Tibetan Buddhist monastery—an almost inevitable presence in Ladakhi villages. The houses were modest, single-storeyed structures, yet surprisingly spacious inside, with several rooms laid out for family and guests alike.

Sonam’s wife had already left for the fields—it was harvest season—though not before preparing butter tea and khameeri roti for us. The house itself was still being finished, but inside it felt warm and inviting. Perhaps it was the traditional materials used in construction that held in the warmth. Carpeted floors, wooden-paneled ceilings with little outlets for stove smoke, and corner fireplaces gave the rooms a homely, lived-in charm. These were not luxuries but necessities, for the village would soon be under snow for much of the year.

Video description: At our driver Sonam’s house in Tangyar

I sipped the butter tea, its salty tang still something I was learning to appreciate, and my thoughts drifted. What would it be like to spend a few weeks here in winter? To sit by the fire as snow piled outside, waiting for a chance glimpse of wildlife—perhaps even the elusive snow leopard, which draws travelers and naturalists from across the world. Or to let the stillness help me finish the book I’ve been working on, while listening to the stories of villagers who live through such winters year after year.

Someday, I told myself. For now, it was time to head back to the car, carrying with me the quiet memory of Sonam’s village.

Pic: Cultivating a taste for butter tea

We were now on the steep ascent to Wari La Pass. Barely ten or fifteen minutes after leaving Tangyar, the landscape transformed. The winding road carried us through meadowed hills, slowly being swallowed by drifting mist. A persistent drizzle tapped against the windows, keeping us company as we climbed higher.

Wari La Pass: (5312 m above sea level)

Soon, the tarred road gave way to an interlocked one, a sign that we were inching closer to the mountaintop. And then it happened—the drizzle began to change. On the windshield, the wipers cleared away droplets that were no longer just rain, but half-snow, half-rain, slowly thickening with each passing minute. Excitement surged through the car.

Video description: On the way to Wari La Pass

Ahead of us, bikers had pulled over, huddling together to warm their hands. Within minutes, the world around us had transformed into a winter wonderland. The slopes, the road, the very air seemed to surrender to the snow. We had reached the mountain top. From every corner came shouts of joy as travelers, like us, stepped out to revel in this sudden gift.

We rushed out too, eager to capture the moment in photographs, our laughter mixing with the crisp mountain air. We made little snowballs and tossed them at one another. Though I had seen snow before, this was my first time witnessing fresh snowfall. And there is something profoundly different about it—like watching the ocean for the very first time, or catching sight of a tiger in its natural domain. It feels divine, almost spiritual.

That morning, destiny had favored us. We had arrived at just the right moment—after an hour or two of snow, but before it grew too thick to block the road. One more dream checked off the bucket list, one of those rare days when luck is undeniably on your side.

Video description: Rain turning to snow as we reach Wari La top

As we began our descent from the pass, I noticed two bikes ahead of us, riding close together as if on a planned journey. One bore a West Bengal registration, the other Kerala. Two states close to my heart—one where I had grown up, and the other my home state. Was it divine providence, or simply my mind succumbing to confirmation bias? How else could these two bikes appear before me, at this very place and time? Foolish as it might have been, I couldn’t help but see a story in that coincidence. For a while, the excitement carried me, until it eventually ebbed away with the winding road.

Few realize that descending can be just as risky for those vulnerable to AMS as the climb up. This road, in particular, was treacherous—zigzagging endlessly, testing both nerves and endurance. Kavita was beginning to feel nauseous, while my mother complained of a dull headache. Sensing their discomfort, Sonam agreed to slow down. Yet, there was no luxury of halting completely; heavy snowfall could close the next pass if we lingered too long.

Pic: At Wari La Pass

Our driver remained calm, assuring us that these were minor symptoms and nothing to be alarmed about. Severe cases, he said, were unmistakable—and he promised to stop should things escalate. I believed him. Over the past days, he had recounted stories of clients who could not cope, forced to abandon their plans midway and turn back. Quietly, I sent up a prayer that we wouldn’t share that fate.

It took us just under an hour to descend from the mountain top and reach the intersection at Sakthi village. From here, a right turn would lead towards Leh, Kargil, and the Manali highway, while a left turn would take us to Chang La Pass and onward to Pangong. At the junction, we spotted a small restaurant and decided to pause for a restroom break. One thing every traveler should keep in mind about Ladakh is that restrooms along the highways are few and far between—so it’s best to use them whenever you find one. My wife, given her condition, was especially grateful for the stop, even if it meant stepping out into the near-freezing cold.

Pic: At Sakthi village intersection

After a short ten-minute break, we turned left towards Chang La. At such intersections, if routes are blocked by landslides, avalanches, or heavy snow build-up, the police or army usually set up barricades, redirecting tourist vehicles to take a detour or return. Fortunately, the road was clear when we arrived, and we began the ascent to Chang La Pass.

As we gained altitude, visibility dipped. The drizzle had intensified, and the drive was beginning to feel treacherous. Inside the car, nervous excitement was at its peak, and for the first time, we noticed our driver showing signs of unease—though it never affected his steady driving. Soon, the rain turned to snow, and once again, we found ourselves in a snow-clad world. This time, the snowfall was heavier.

Chang La Pass: (5360 m above sea level)

Video description: Visibility dropping on the way to Chang La Pass amidst heavy snowfall

Just under an hour after leaving Sakthi village, we reached the summit of Chang La. Compared to Wari La, the crowd was smaller, which gave us the perfect chance to click photographs and take in the magical sight of fresh snow all around. Ranked the ninth-highest motorable mountain pass in the world, Chang La stands at a staggering 5,360 metres above sea level and serves as the crucial gateway to Pangong Lake. It was also the highest of all the passes we had crossed during our journey.

Being there was exhilarating, but also a stark reminder of how quickly the mountains can humble you. At that altitude, oxygen levels are nearly 50% of sea level, and the shortness of breath was unmistakable. We limited ourselves to just ten minutes at the top before beginning our descent towards Pangong.

Pic: At Chang La top

The descent took us about an hour, and by the time we reached the village of Durbuk, it was half past two. Hunger had caught up with us, so we stopped at a small eatery on the road to Pangong. The rain continued to fall, and the village was without electricity, though the daylight was still enough to keep things going.

As always, there was a long wait for the food. In the meantime, I sipped on a couple of glasses of warm water to ease my sore throat. I was beginning to feel slightly feverish, though not enough to slow me down. After about thirty minutes, our food arrived—the familiar fare once again, nothing special, but at that moment, all we wanted was to fill our stomachs. We finished quickly and got back on the road to Pangong.

Video description: Me all excited at Chang La top

Durbuk to Pangong is roughly an hour’s drive. Though the distance is about 50 kilometres, the road condition was excellent, allowing us to cover it in well under an hour. And then, just like that, we caught our first glimpse of the majestic Pangong Lake. It was a sight to behold, incomparable to any lake I had seen before. We stopped to take a few photographs at a viewpoint.

For tourists, accommodation is available in the villages that line the lake—most notably Man, Spangmik, and Merak. These villages have a range of hotels and homestays, though access to the lake varies; some are within walking distance, while others are farther away. We had chosen Pangong Heritage Resort, at Spangmik, a property just a short walk from the lake. As a bonus, it was only a stone’s throw from the famous shooting location of the film 3 Idiots, which had catapulted the lake to stardom.

Since it was still drizzling, we decided to head straight to the hotel and keep the visit to the shooting spot for the next morning. We reached our stay close to 5 p.m.

Pic: First view of Pangong Lake

From our faces, it was clear that the day had taken a toll on us. Whether it was the altitude, the long hours on the road, the cold weather—or a combination of all three—it was hard to say. We headed straight to our rooms for a much-needed nap.

When I woke up, it was half past six. We ordered tea and some snacks, though my friend Subho and I were more interested in the bottle of brandy tucked away in my suitcase. We figured it would do a better job of warming us up.

The cottages we stayed in weren’t exactly in top shape; they looked like they could use some maintenance. But for a night, it was fine. They were wooden cottages with a lovely view of the lake and the surrounding landscape.

We had chosen to stay close to the lake because we had been told that, on clear nights, the starry skies over Pangong are a sight to behold. The stars reflect on the lake, creating a breathtaking spectacle. That, however, wasn’t to be. The drizzle meant the skies stayed hidden. Still, we rejoiced at our stroke of luck earlier in the day: arriving at the mountain passes just in time to see fresh snowfall before the roads closed. We had not only witnessed snow but had also escaped the risk of being stranded like many other tourists.

Video description: Early morning at Pangong

The rain, though, came with its share of disappointments. It meant our planned trip to Hanle had to be cancelled. The charm of Hanle lies in its unparalleled night skies—an untouched canvas for stargazing, with no trace of light pollution. But with rain forecast for the next three days, that dream had to be set aside. We had no choice but to head back to Leh the next morning.

Subho and I spent an hour chatting on the armchairs placed in the balcony of the cottage, overlooking the lake. Despite the mist and low clouds, nature revealed itself in all its magnificence. The drizzle continued, each raindrop tapping on the wooden roof and reverberating through the quiet night. It went on without pause, ensuring that our sleep was far from restful.

Day 6: 25th August 2025 – Weathering the Storm

The cold lingered through the night, and when we woke up the next morning, the view before us was breathtaking. The skies were still overcast and the drizzle hadn’t stopped, yet the surrounding mountains had transformed—every peak now wrapped in a blanket of snow.

Pic: At the 3 Idiots shooting location in Pangong

After breakfast, we checked out of the hotel and headed straight to the 3 Idiots shooting spot we had skipped the previous evening. Even in the rain, a sizeable crowd had gathered there—many of the same tourists we had seen traveling along the road from Leh.

At the site, a few props from the film were on display—the yellow scooter, the colorful plastic (butt-shaped) stools, all arranged as photo ops for a small charge. Yet none of it could compare to the lake itself. Its grandeur overshadowed everything else, reminding us why Pangong remains the true star of the show.

As we drove back to Leh, it struck me just how vast Pangong Lake really is—and how many places along its shores offered better vantage points for photographs than the much-hyped shooting location that had first made it famous among Indian tourists.

Video description: The majestic Pangong Lake

The lake itself has an ancient origin, dating back approximately 50 million years. It was formed when the Indian and Eurasian tectonic plates collided, displacing the Tethys Sea. As the Himalayas rose, saltwater was trapped in the basin, eventually giving rise to the brackish lake we see today.

What makes Pangong even more captivating is its ever-changing palette. Depending on the day and the light, its waters shift from deep blue to green, and at times, even reddish hues. This play of colors is shaped by the saline content of the water, the surrounding mountains, and the angle of the sun. Yet beyond its colors, it is the lake’s sheer scale that leaves you awestruck. Stretching 134 kilometres in length—with one-third in India and two-thirds in China—its vast expanse feels endless. At its deepest point, it plunges 134 metres, and at 4,300 metres above sea level, it stands among the highest brackish water lakes in the world.

The lake is, in every sense, a beautiful beast.

Video description: On the way to Leh from Pangong

Coming up in Part 5:

We head back to Leh, disappointed that our trip to Hanle had to be canceled. But with rain forecast for the next 3 days, we didn’t want to take the risk of getting stranded on the road. On our way to Leh from Pangong, we visit the Rezang La war memorial where an unbelievable battle was fought by the 13 Kumaon Regiment in the Sino-Indo war of 1962. The drive back becomes treacherous as the rain intensifies.

We spend a day and half in Leh, hoping to catch the flights back to our cities thereafter. But nature has other plans. This and much more in the next chapter. 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 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

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.

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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

Wayanad Diaries | Banasura | Vythiri | Travelogue | YouTube Short

My family and I undertook a short trip to the picturesque hill station of Wayanad in Kerala last week. In this YouTube short I have tried to capture some of our experiences. This journey from Bangalore took us through 3 wildlife sanctuaries. Two of which were tiger reserves.

Please do have a look. (Click link)

YouTube Short

Thanks,

Sid

by whatsonsidsmind

Travel Diaries | Attappadi | Day 2

Pic description – Malleswaran Mudi as seen from a tribal hamlet in Attappadi

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 6 Min Read

We woke up to a bright sunny morning. All that traveling the previous day had battered our bodies a bit. A good night’s sleep was the perfect cure for it. We stepped out of our cottage to be welcomed by the cry of peacocks calling out to their mates. They wandered around the property as freely as us. Although shy, it was clear that they had lost their fear of humans. After a cup of coffee, we took a stroll to the neighborhood store to buy a few essentials. The sky was clear that day, and the fragrant smells of the foliage renewed our vigor.

Back at the hotel, breakfast was ready. ‘Chana Bhatura’ and ‘Puttu and Kadala curry’ was on offer. An unusual combination of North and South Indian dishes, but it worked well. The young tribal boy (not giving away names for the sake of privacy) who had told us about a tribal hamlet uphill was at our service. A conversation with him brought to light places deep in the forest which were off-limits to outsiders. He spoke of mesmerizing waterfalls, viewpoints, meadows, and river streams within the forest that far surpassed, in beauty, the places we had seen so far. We couldn’t substantiate his claims, but his description of these places sparked our imagination. Our only option was to create images of these idyllic locations in our minds.

Pic description – Treetop Silent Valley Resort

However, the boy had agreed to take us to a Muduga tribal village later in the day, and that was decent consolation for us, considering we were only on a two-day trip to this mysterious, forested region. We didn’t have sufficient time to win the trust of the locals and explore more.

The area around the Silent Valley National Park is mostly dominated by the Muduga tribe. Some of the staff working in our resort were from that community. However, in Attapadi as a whole, it is the Irula tribe who are in the majority. Government estimates suggest the total tribal population to be around 35000. Approximately 80% of them are Irulas, 10% are Mudugas and 8% are Kurumbas. Each of these tribes has its unique culture, religious beliefs, and dialect which distinguishes them from each other and the settlers.

As per the Census of 1951, 90% of Attappadi’s population was tribal back then. Now that figure has been halved to 44%. This was due to the mass migration of settlers from other parts of Kerala and the nearby areas of Tamil Nadu. The steady migration of tribal people to different parts of Kerala and elsewhere was also a contributing factor, but not a defining one.

The principal sources of income of the tribal people are agriculture and livestock rearing. They grow plantain, coconut, and cereals. Minor forest produces like honey, ginger, and cardamom also contribute to their income. This region is also known for its coffee and areca nuts, but these are mostly grown by the non-tribal population. Although they now have access to all kinds of foods, their staple as hunter-gatherers initially consisted of wild roots, tubers, seeds, fruits, and meat. They have an understanding of medicinal plants and heal their sick using methods passed down by their ancestors.

The tribals of Attappadi dwell within hamlets called ‘Ooru’ which is a cluster of small houses. There are an estimated 192 hamlets scattered around Attappadi. It is to one of these hamlets we were planning to go to later in the day.

The young boy also spoke about how his ancestors traveled in the past. The distances we see on GPS were meaningless to them. The understanding of states and borders was irrelevant. They traveled on ancient trails left by their ancestors, who had a deep understanding of the forest and its dangers. They gave the forest the respect it deserved and took only what was required from it.

After breakfast, we drove to the Malleswaram Temple which we had not visited the previous day. Located in Chemmannur, at a distance of 5 km from Mukkali on the Mannarkkad – Anakkatti road, it is a place, I was told not to miss. The temple was included in the Swadesh Darshan Project of the Central Government, and the Shivaratri celebrations there are a major attraction. The festivities had recently concluded; the remains of which could be seen all around the clear, open land on the opposite side of the temple.

Pic description – Malleswaram temple at Chemmannur, Attappadi

At Malleswaram, Lord Shiva is Mallan and Goddess Parvathy is Malli. Here, the Irulas are the keeper of traditions; they hold the right to protect the rituals passed down through generations. On a normal day, the Irula priests invoke the gods three times a day to bless their land and their ventures. Their pleas reach a crescendo on Shivratri night when a group of Irula priests, and young men, venture through an ancient trail to reach the top of a mountain called the Malleswaran Mudi—the highest peak in the Attappadi Forest Reserve at an elevation of 1664 meters. The Irulas believe the mountain to be a giant Shiva Lingam. On their way, sometimes, they are attacked by elephants. But they know how to fend them off, without being overly aggressive. The priests perform rituals at the top of the mountain and spend the night there; after which the festivities are brought to an end.

To us, the temple presented a humble image. Nothing grandiose or loud. We headed in, bowed before the deities, and sought their blessings. The Malleswaran Mudi could be seen clearly from the temple. We wondered how adventurous it would be to walk on that forbidden trail with the Adivasis and spend a night on top of the sacred mountain? What kind of stories would the Irulas tell us under a starry sky in the absolute wilderness?

With these thoughts in mind, we headed back to the resort.

Pic description – At Malleswaram Temple, Attappadi

We opted for a light lunch that day and thereafter took a short nap. At 4 pm we were fresh as daisies to venture to the Muduga Ooru. We took a left on the interlocked road leading to Mukkali Junction to head uphill. This road is only used by the tribal population and outsiders are strictly prohibited as confirmed by the boards that we saw on the way. The forest got thicker with every passing mile. To be honest the seclusion did feel a bit scary. However, our young guide assured us that we were safe. “As long as you are with me, you are safe”, he asserted.

The road snaked through the hill until we reached a meadow. Two old looking tribal men were sharing a beedi a few meters ahead. We got out of the car and took jittery steps towards them. They didn’t seem too pleased to see us. One of them called out to the boy and gave him an earful. A negotiation followed. It went on for a while.

We felt helpless because we couldn’t contribute in any way to pacify the irate natives as their language was alien. Moreover, we weren’t sure if opening our mouths was a good idea in the first place. However, a cheeky grin suddenly appeared on the old man’s face, suggesting that he was pulling the mickey out of us all this while. We were shaken; not having anticipated such dry humor in the middle of a jungle.

The boy led us to a mud path that led to the village. A few curious dogs rushed towards us, sniffed, and then went about doing their business. The old man who had his eyes on us broke into a dirge. At least that’s what it sounded like. The boy didn’t seem too bothered. “He’s had a tipple. That’s all. Moreover, he is not native of this village”, he assured. We smiled; more out of relief than anything else.

As we went past a cluster of small dwellings, we realized that the natives were shy. They maintained minimal eye contact with us. Their clothes weren’t too different from the settlers, and their language sounded like a mix of many languages. Some of the words, though, were familiar. The government had built one-room concrete houses with solar panels installed on roofs. The houses also had adequate water supply.

The boy told us that in the past his ancestors used to live in improvised bamboo huts. Back then, temporary shelters were the only option because as foragers they were under constant threat of being attacked by wild animals or being ravaged by bad weather. Now these structures are built to shelter poultry and goats. We had spotted a couple of them at the entrance of the Ooru.

Jeeps with government permits were the only mode of transportation for the natives, and on our way up we did see a few pass by. Over the years, measures have been taken by the government to educate the tribal population and employ them in government jobs; so that they could be brought into the mainstream. But this was a choice given to them and not a compulsion. So many had opted not to.

Despite the calm, I could sense the discomfort. It was apparent that the Mudugas didn’t want to be disturbed by us city dwellers. Some unwanted past experiences could have been the reason behind their wariness.

A short walk took us to a clearing. We soon realized that what we were standing on was a football ground. It was netted on all sides. The panoramic view was quite stunning. To our left and right were step farms belonging to the Mudugas. During summers the danger of being attacked by elephants is quite high. The pachyderms come down the hills in search of water and plantains often leading to a man-animal conflict.

Pic description – View from a Muduga Ooru near Silent Valley National Park

“Isn’t that the Malleswaran Mudi?”, I asked the boy exuberantly, pointing at a familiar looking peak. The boy nodded in agreement. I wasn’t expecting to see the mountain from there. It was the clearest view of the sacred mountain that we had got until then. It was then that the boy told us that the Irulas believe that Shiva or Mallan was from their lineage and the Mudugas believe that Parvathy or Malli was from their tribe. Their marriage was an alliance between two tribal communities. I didn’t know what to make of it. But it made for a fascinating story!

As I drove back to the resort, I promised myself that such unconventional destinations will be on my travel list going forward. That night under a starry sky at the resort, my cousin and I were in high spirits. We made a list of places that we needed to visit. After a few drinks, such lists were inevitable. But somehow, I felt, that another visit to Attappadi was on the cards.

The next day we left for Palakkad after breakfast. We reached close to noon and after a nice, wholesome meal cooked by Amma, I crashed onto my bed to take a long nap. There was just one more place that I had to visit to culminate my holiday. A reservoir with a spectacular sunset point.

Kava Island Reservoir in Malampuzha is not a place known to tourists. But it had gained popularity among bikers and locals over the years. I drove through the meandering roads of Palakkad flanked by florescent green paddy fields on both sides. My cousin, whom I trust more than GPS when in Palakkad was there to guide me, and my parents were enjoying the sights of nature from the rear seats. It had been a while since they had been out.

Onion, plantain and chili fritters, and hot cups of tea perfectly complemented the wonderful sunset that we witnessed that day. I couldn’t have asked for a better ending to my short holiday.

Pic description – Sunset at Kava Island Reservoir, Malampuzha, Palakkad

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About the author –

Siddhartha Krishnan is the author of Two and a Half Rainbows – A Collection of Short Stories. He is also a passionate blogger, and on his website, www.whatsonsidsmind.com, you can find his travel diaries, food stories, book recommendations, and movie reviews.

All rights reserved by whatsonsidsmind.com

by whatsonsidsmind

Travel Diaries | Attappadi | Day 1

Pic description – Night in Attappadi

Written by Siddhartha Krishnan | 5 Min Read

Attappadi, a tribal taluk in Palakkad district, is that corner of the town about which everyone has a story. But folks narrating them always do so in third person, and rarely as a personal experience. It’s not that these places have dubious histories; it’s just that they are mysterious. It was the mystique that piqued my interest at first; later it was the promise of solitude.

There was, however, another selfish reason to visit Attappadi. To recce a certain location; a river stream that I had seen on the internet, for a story that I had begun to write.

We often read about pristine rivers and virgin forests in the descriptions of nature by poets. Soon after, we realize that these places have to be dreamed into life because they are the creations of an imaginative mind. If we are lucky, we may stumble upon them by accident, and rarely by will. But this place seemed real. And I couldn’t leave it to imagination. So last month, I took a cousin along with whom I had been planning a trip to Attappadi for ages, to explore its wonders.

We left home at 7am, taking the NH 966 route, that goes via Mundur to reach Mukkali in Attappadi. The journey was 2.5 hours long, but we had planned to take a minor diversion to Kanhirapuzha Dam halfway into the journey. On this route, such diversions can take one to idyllic spots that are within touching distance of rivers, waterfalls and mountain ranges.

Pic description – Kanhirapuzha Dam site

At 8 in the morning, it was childish of us to expect the park adjoining the dam to be open. However, we were in the mood for adventure, so this little failure could not dampen our spirits. We drove on, once again, to be embraced by the sheen of tarmac and the green of the mountains. Kerala is God’s own country for a reason. Within every 100-200 kms, you get a hill station, a forest, a river and a beach, all close to each other. Nature wants to show off. So getting bored is not an option.

After crossing Mundur, we stopped for breakfast at Mannarkkad in one of the many ‘thattukadas’. These small eating joints in Kerala serve the most lip-smacking local delicacies (usually cooked on wood fire) that are unmatched in taste by the upmarket restaurants. What’s more, they don’t burn your pockets.

Egg roast, idiyappams and dosas were on offer. They were delicious.

Pic description – Thattukada at Mannarkkad

Recharged, we drove on and reached the foothills of the Western ghats to merge with the Mannarkkad-Anakkatti road. This road thereafter meanders through many hair-pin bends to reach Attappadi. It was spring, and we were told that these forests were at their magical best during monsoons. We may have missed out on that, but nothing stopped our wild minds from imagining those bright greens covered in mist.

We reached Mukkali junction at 10 am. A left from there took us to the entrance of one of the last undisturbed tracts of the Western ghats—Silent Valley National Park. They say that the sound of the cicadas is absent here, hence the name. Our car was now on the interlocked road that took us to a police checkpoint. The place is under constant vigil by the police, and rightly so. Attappadi and its reserve forests are home to three tribal communities—Irulas, Kurumbas and Mudugas. Each of these communities has their unique culture. The forest is also home to rare species of flora and fauna that need protection.

After finishing with the formalities, we headed to the only resort in that part of Attappadi—Treetop Resort, Silent Valley.

We checked into our rooms, freshened up, and took a stroll around the property. The resort had 12 cottages of varying sizes and three 3 tree huts. They offered non-ac rooms which were fairly spacious and clean. The property was sufficiently well-maintained. The amenities included free wi-fi, a swimming pool and a kid’s play area. For an extra charge, they arrange for campfires, jeep trekking and forest safari. The resort has a multi-cuisine restaurant, but the menu has limited options. Our cottage for two was at one end of the property, but we could drive right up to it.

A quick chat with the hotel staff revealed that all the major sightseeing places were at the other end of Attappadi. This included the location that I was in search of. GPS had painted a different picture; so this came as a shock. Two different places having the same name was the problem.

Pic description – Cottage at Treetop Resort, Silent Valley

Thankfully, we had an extra day at hand. So we could alter our plans. We made the expedition to the other end of town, right away, and planned to be back before sunset.

Back on the Mannarkkad-Anakkatti road, we were on our way to a viewpoint called Narassimukku. On the way, we saw the Malleswaran Temple, which was on my list of places to see. We had to get back to it later since the sun was blazing by then. Thereafter, we reached a junction where the sign board suggested a road to Ooty. The route was a scenic one; we were told. But at a distance of 95 kms, we knew that this trip had to be a standalone one.

Five minutes later, we saw a bridge. It was called the Bhavani River bridge. We parked the car by the roadside and walked towards it. It looked similar to the place I was in search of, but quickly realised it wasn’t. However, the place was breathtakingly beautiful. You couldn’t see human settlements there with the naked eye, but they are there. Hiding within a blanket of green. The place seemed quite famous, as passersby were taking the diversion to the bridge. A small crowd had gathered to savour the sight of mountains at a distance, and to take a dip in the Bhavani River that originates in the Nilgiri Hills and flows towards the neighbouring state of Tamil Nadu. The river was quite shallow. In the monsoons, it is at its fiercest.

Pic description – Bhavani River Bridge

We drove on and soon reached the scenic village of Agali. A short drive uphill from there took us to Narassimukku. We saw a few tourists at a distance taking a mountain trail to various vantage points. There were hardly any trees around. It was an open flat land on the top of the hill. We got a clear, panoramic view of the valley. Some scenes from the superhit Malayalam film ‘Ayyappan Koshiyum’, were shot at this location.

Since it was lunchtime, our stomachs had begun to grumble. We headed down hill to Agali to have lunch at a small restaurant that we had spotted on our way up. In places like these, you cannot expect a lavish menu, so we took what was on offer.

Pic description – View Point at Narissimukku

Thereafter, we were back on the Anakkatti road, The forest got thicker with every passing mile. A river stream suddenly appeared to our left, which lifted my spirits. ‘Chittur River Stream’ was the place I was in search. A low bridge characterized it. And, of course, a lot more. But the bridge was easier to spot from the road, so I was on the lookout. We passed by a hanging bridge, which happened to be someone’s private property.

GPS urged us to keep going. Could it be trusted in these forests? I wondered.

We halted now and then to ask the locals. But they hadn’t heard of a river stream by that name. My hopes dwindled. Maybe the place wasn’t as idyllic as I had imagined it to be? Maybe such places were too common for the locals to boast about?

GPS, though, was still pleading for us to go further. We drove ahead at a snail’s pace until it asked us to stop. “You have arrived at your destination”, it said. We looked around. Nothing.

“All of this for nothing!” I smirked. My cousin grinned back.

A herdsman with his goats passed by us. We showed him the pictures. He listened patiently to our description of the location. A smile appeared on his face. He pointed northwards and said, “A little more. Just walk”.

We walked.

100 metres ahead … finally, a glimpse of something that appeared like a bridge. We hurried down the gravel road to meet it.

A minute later, I let out a sigh of relief. The place was exactly as I had thought it to be!

No human settlements in sight. Just a clear stream; its sparkling waters were home to shoals of small fish. The low bridge invited us to sit on its edge and watch the stream flow into the abyss. The surrounding forest embraced us. And the sound of chirping birds nestled within them made us feel welcome.

A man on a scooter crossed the bridge and halted next to us. He was a farmer who grew areca nuts in the forested hills behind us. We were eager to know his story. And he was happy to tell us about the place, its people, their agricultural practices, the changes over the years and anecdotes from his personal life. We didn’t have to provoke him to give away these stories. It was as if he was waiting for someone to talk to.

We spent an hour drenching our feet in the cold, transparent water of the stream. Splashing some of it on our faces and gazing at the ethereal beauty of unspoiled nature. It had been a long day. And this was a fitting end.

Pic description – Chittur River Stream

We drove back to the resort, feeling contented. The air was much cooler as the sun had begun its descent. The farmers’ stories ignited our minds. We wanted to know more about the tribal communities of Attapadi. At the resort, that evening, we met a young tribal boy, who worked in the resort. He spoke of a small tribal village up in the mountains. The area was supposedly off-limit for tourists. But he assured us that in his company we would be allowed into the village.

We were thrilled at that assurance!

Before I went to sleep that night, I saw a creature that perhaps lent its name to this forested region. It was on the bathroom wall—a leech. Also called ‘Atta’ in Malayalam.

Pic description – An Atta in Attapadi

In the next chapter of the Attappadi travel diary …

  • Trip to a Muduga Tribal village
  • A visit to the Malleswaran temple – a place with a unique history.
  • Fun drive to Kava Island Reservoir in Palakkad with family.

About the author –

Siddhartha Krishnan is the author of Two and a Half Rainbows – A Collection of Short Stories. He is also a passionate blogger, and on his website, www.whatsonsidsmind.com, you can find his travel diaries, food stories, book recommendations and movie reviews.

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