Dhurandhar opens with an unusually long disclaimer, firmly announcing itself as a work of fiction. What follows therafter is a mingling of fact and fiction, a narrative that is “inspired by” rather than “based on” real events. From the very first scenes, which reference the Kandahar hijack and the 2001 Parliament attack, where real life footage is juxtaposed with fictional scenes, the director makes his position clear: that creative liberties have been taken. However, I choose to take him at his word and engage with Dhurandhar for what it claims to be: a film, not a documentary. The real question then is this. As a film, is Dhurandhar any good, and does it live up to the hype?
The Story:
Dhurandhar starts off with a bang, referencing historical events, and then gradually transporting us into a world we have only glimpsed through news reports and documentaries. It is a landscape of terror, dirty politics, and hardcore brutality, where morality has long collapsed. Power, money, and domination are the only currencies that matter. The story unfolds through the eyes of Hamza (Ranveer Singh), an Indian spy tasked with infiltrating the very heart of terrorism in Pakistan by Ajay Sanyal (R.Madhavan) from the Indian Intelligence. He enters a dog-eat-dog world where survival demands savagery. Hamza must learn how these men think, identify their strengths and vulnerabilities, and make his moves with calculated invisibility. The two-hour-long first half patiently builds the world of Lyari, where crime is a way of life and rogue men commit despicable crimes. To earn their trust, Hamza must first become one of them.
Despite its longish first half, this is where the film is at its most engaging. The introduction of characters is riveting. Enter Rehman Dakait, played with chilling restraint by Akshaye Khanna, a Baloch leader determined to conquer Lyari, carve a path into Karachi’s political corridors, and secure long-denied respect for his community. Standing in his way is the vile minister Jameel Jamali, portrayed by Rakesh Bedi, a man willing to align with the devil to cling to power.
Then there is Major Iqbal, played by Arjun Rampal, a crafty ISI operator who will stop at nothing to unleash chaos in India, relying on a toxic alliance of gangsters and politicians to do his bidding. Completing this volatile quad is SP Chaudhary Aslam, played by Sanjay Dutt, a man driven by a deeply personal vendetta against Rehman Dakait and thirsting for blood. Trapped within this ruthless ecosystem, Hamza must navigate the dark alleys of Lyari, becoming an invisible presence that quietly works towards dismantling Pakistan’s terror networks from within.
Screenplay:
The screenplay, written by director Aditya Dhar, is intelligent and perfectly paced, offering several edge-of-the-seat moments. The one that lingered with me is the montage where the top goons of the rival gang are wiped out with chilling brutality by Rehman Dakait’s men. Dhar, skillfully crafts these big moments, and when they arrive the action choreography, camerawork, background score and editing operate in complete sync.
Despite the heavy use of expletives, which feels organic to the milieu and not gratuitous, the dialogue delivery remains cold and restrained, recalling the stark realism of Satya or another RGV classic, Shiva. This restraint lends the narrative a strong sense of authenticity. The only element that does not fully land is the love story between Hamza and Yalina, where the conviction that defines the rest of the film feels slightly diluted. Still, this remains a minor blemish in an otherwise tightly written film that is thrilling, dark, often funny, and unquestionably entertaining.
Technical Aspects:
From a technical standpoint, even the harshest critics will find little to fault in Dhurandhar. Lyari emerges as a character in its own right, recreated with remarkable authenticity in Thailand by the production design team. The stark landscapes of Ladakh convincingly stand in for Baloch tribal regions, while stretches shot in Mumbai and Punjab blend seamlessly into the film’s geography. Costume, hair and make-up departments show meticulous attention to detail, with several actors, notably Arjun Rampal and R. Madhavan, appearing almost unrecognizable in their transformations.
The action of Dhurandhar is another of its highlights. There is a fine art to staging brutal action. In Hindi cinema it often tips into excess, and even big-budget Hollywood films do not always make the violence feel grounded or raw. It begins with strong writing and is sustained by precise choreography, cinematography, prosthetics and sound design working in unison. Dhurandhar achieves this balance with assurance. Shashwat Sachdev’s music plays a crucial role in shaping the film’s impact. The background score is fresh, experimental and finely attuned to the film’s shifting moods. The songs too integrate naturally into the narrative.
What ultimately stands out is the synchronicity between departments. Nothing draws attention to itself. Every technical element serves the storytelling, allowing the film’s world and its scenes to unfold with controlled, unsettling effectiveness.
Performances:
Mukesh Chhabra’s casting is spot on. Every actor fits their part so organically that, after a point, you stop seeing the performer and only see the character. This level of immersion has been rare in mainstream Hindi cinema in recent years. Unsurprisingly, the performances emerge as the film’s biggest strength.
Much has been said about Akshaye Khanna’s role as Rehman Dakait. The real stroke of genius lies in the casting itself. There is an element of surprise in seeing him in this role, but it also plays perfectly to his strengths. The character demands restraint, menace, and control, with much of the emotion conveyed through silence and expressive eyes, something Khanna handles with chilling precision.
That said, Dhurandhar is ultimately carried on Ranveer Singh’s shoulders, and he delivers a performance that hits it out of the park. As Hamza, an Indian operative working in the shadows, Ranveer completely inhabits the role. The physical transformation is impressive, but it is his internal work that truly stands out. He captures Hamza’s vulnerability, intelligence, and quiet resolve with remarkable balance. Present in almost every frame, yet required to remain invisible within the narrative, Ranveer approaches the part with restraint, maturity, and exceptional control. This is easily among the finest performances of his career, possibly his best so far. With a second part slated for release in March next year, promising deeper revelations about Hamza, it is a prospect that cinegoers can look forward to with genuine excitement.
Conclusion:
Despite the controversies surrounding it, Dhurandhar emerges as one of the finest films of the year. Does it pander to a certain degree of propaganda? Yes, it does. But so have countless films in the past, across ideological spectrums. The question then is not whether propaganda exists, but whether one kind is deemed more acceptable than another. In my view, a film should be watched for what it is: a film. It is not the place to seek historical or political truth. For that, there are books, research papers, and documentaries, many of them available on this very subject.
As a reviewer, I do not believe in bringing personal ideology into the act of criticism. The responsibility is to engage with the film on its own terms. If one wishes to be an activist, that is a different calling altogether. Film criticism demands a certain distance, and an honest evaluation of craft.
The past few years have seen several so-called hyper-nationalistic films fail at the box office, not because of ideology, but because they were poorly made. No narrative can rescue a bad film. Dhurandhar succeeds because it is a well-crafted piece of cinema that delivers exactly what it promises. From its trailer, the intent is clear: a specific worldview, a hard-edged language, unflinching violence, and an adult-only viewing experience. Approaching such a film with a fixed confirmation bias is the surest way to miss what it is trying to do.
All said, it is difficult to deny the film’s technical and narrative strengths. Across departments, Dhurandhar comes out triumphant. While it may momentarily lean into a particular narrative, these instances do not derail the momentum of its gripping screenplay. The only caveat is a wish for greater honesty in its disclaimer.
Ultimately, Dhurandhar deserves to be seen for its taut writing, commanding performances, experimental score, and sustained edge-of-the-seat drama. This is cinema designed for the big screen.
Verdict:
IMDb rating: 8.6/10
My Rating: 4/5
Watch Dhurandhar in a theatre near you.
Recommended watch:
If you are interested to know more about Lyari and its gang culture watch this documentary by Vice made 13 years ago – Pakistan’s most violent city.
Weapons (trailer) uses a narrative structure inspired by the Rashomon style of storytelling, where events unfold through multiple viewpoints. The technique is familiar, ever since Kurosawa shaped it in his 1950 film Rashomon. But Weapons does not aim for the classic Rashomon effect, where perspectives diverge so sharply that the truth becomes elusive. Instead, it shows the same moments from different angles, offering variations of truth but within a narrower field of vision.
The story unfolds in Pennsylvania, where 17 children from the same third grade class wake in the dead of night, leave their homes at exactly 2:17 am, and vanish. CCTV footage shows them running into the darkness, yet no one knows where they have gone. Only one child returns to class the next morning. As police and parents search desperately for answers, Alex, the lone child who is safe, may hold the key to the mystery.
The narrative moves through six characters. Justine (Julia Garner), the class teacher whose students have disappeared. Archer (Josh Brolin), the father of one of the missing children. Paul Morgan (Alden Ehrenreich), a police officer and Justine’s ex-boyfriend. Andrew (Benedict Wong), the school principal. James (Austin Abrams), a homeless drug addict and burglar. And Alex (Cary Christopher), the only child who returns to class the next day.
It is difficult to call Weapons a classic horror story. It does not try to scare you in the conventional sense for much of its run time. The first half moves at a steady pace, with each chapter revealed through a different character, as if they are passing a baton in a relay or placing pieces of a puzzle together. This portion of the film leans into emotions like paranoia, distrust, helplessness, trauma and psychological strain. There are touches of humour and moments of ambiguity that add to the sense of confusion. A quiet dread runs beneath the surface, but it never pushes into full suspense or horror until Gladys, Alex’s aunt, appears midway through the film. From that point onward, the story shifts entirely.
Weapons is deceptive, even though its storytelling carries a quiet simplicity. Many scenes are layered with allegory and symbolism, and almost everything carries meaning. The film explores themes of addiction, grief and loss, and the failure of communities and institutions to protect the vulnerable. But watching it with the urge to decode every moment can diminish the experience. It is best approached with a clear mind, allowing the film to work at its own pace. At no point does it force its ideas on the audience, and it remains an engaging and entertaining film despite its intellectual weight and nuanced narrative.
In Aunt Gladys, Weapons brings to life one of the most despicable characters in recent memory, rivalled perhaps only by Dale Ferdinand Kobble from Longlegs (2024), played by an unrecognisable Nicolas Cage. Amy Madigan’s performance as Gladys is menacing in a way that can give the faint hearted sleepless nights. Awards buzz already suggests she might be headed toward Oscar and Golden Globe nominations for Best Supporting Actress.
Cary Christopher, who plays young Alex, also delivers a terrific performance. Much of the second half unfolds between Alex and Gladys. Their scenes together are terrifying and oddly entertaining, and they hold the film in a tight grip.
It is believed that Weapons is a deeply personal story for director Zach Cregger, drawing from lived experiences as a child, and this is where the film’s allegories and symbolism originate. Yet while watching the film, these ideas never intrude. It is easy to experience Weapons exactly as it presents itself and be fully drawn into its world. The world building, camerawork that shapes moments of dread, and the performances create an absorbing film experience.
Along with Ari Aster, Robert Eggers and Jordan Peele, Zach Cregger brings a sense of novelty to the horror genre, creating films that are thought provoking as well as entertaining. If you enjoy horror, this is not a film you want to miss.
Verdict: IMDb rating: 7.5/10 My rating: 4/5
You can rent Weapons on Amazon Prime Video or BookMyShow for Rs 89.
Homebound deals with a heavy subject: discrimination. Not just in one form, but through caste, class, religion and gender, even though caste-based discrimination remains central. It takes a filmmaker of rare maturity to handle such themes with the skill and nuance it deserves. While Neeraj Ghaywan’s directorial debut, the exceptional Masaan was more purist in its approach and leaned heavily on visual language, his second full-length feature, Homebound is more conversational. It rests on deep, lived-in exchanges between its characters.
Although, the film is India’s official entry to next year’s Oscars in the Best International Feature category, it struggled to secure a theatrical release at home. The CBFC ordered 11 cuts, amounting to just 77 seconds, yet enough to potentially blunt the emotional force of certain scenes. Did it dilute the film’s impact? Perhaps. But a film, beyond its hype, its controversies, its festival run, and the reputation of its creators, must still move its audience. It must linger and become a conversation starter. That, for me, is the mark of a great film. And when such films endure, they become classics.
So does Homebound belong in that realm?
The film draws from true events, inspired by a 2020 New York Times article by Basharat Peer. It follows two childhood friends from a small North Indian village, Chandan (Vishal Jethwa), a Dalit, and Shoaib (Ishaan Khatter), a Muslim, who share a dream: to become police constables. They believe that the uniform will become their escape from the poverty, discrimination and loss of dignity that have shadowed their families for generations.
With no college degrees, the police exam is their only opportunity for a different life. Failure means returning to the same manual labor their forefathers endured. The road ahead is unforgiving. Their friendship strains under the pressure of circumstance, while a system stacked against them keeps pushing them back. Yet they do not break. They adapt, endure, and hold on to hope, until Covid arrives and alters their fate in ways they could never have imagined. What unfolds after forms the emotional core of Homebound.
Though sparked by a newspaper article, the screenplay is deeply personal to Ghaywan. In an interview to the Indian Express before the film’s India release, he spoke of hiding his Dalit identity for 35 years. “When you masquerade, your confidence dies,” he said. While watching Homebound, you sense that what plays out on screen is born from lived experience. There is an honesty in the storytelling that you cannot turn away from.
In conversations following its festival run, Ghaywan has been clear that the politics in his films can never overshadow the filmmaking. If that happens, he believes he risks becoming a propagandist. During a Cannes interaction, with the Hollywood Reporter India, co-producer Karan Johar echoed this sentiment, stating, “There is no activism in the film, there is just filmmaking.” Legendary filmmaker Martin Scorsese, who joined as an executive producer and mentor, also spoke highly of the script and of Ghaywan’s craft.
What truly stands out is the film’s quiet simplicity. The narrative is layered and nuanced, yet expressed with clarity. In a film like this, it is easy for dialogues to become preachy. But Ghaywan, along with Varun Grover and Sreedhar Dubey, keeps a firm grip on realism. The film never overexplains its ideas. The scenes feel textured, unpolished in the best sense, and deeply human. This quiet authenticity is the film’s true strength. It does not sermonise. It simply holds up a mirror to society and leaves it there. As an audience, what you choose to see in that reflection is entirely up to you.
One of the film’s most powerful moments arrives when the exam results are announced. Chandan has passed. Shoaib has not. Chandan’s concern is genuine, but Shoaib, shattered and ashamed, cannot receive it as anything but pity. What begins as an argument soon turns into a fight. Yet it is the reason behind that confrontation that reveals who they really are. It is heartbreaking, but also deeply revealing. Until that moment, they appear to have risen above every identity imposed upon them. In this scene, Ghaywan strips them back to their most human selves, grounding the film in its deepest intention: humanism.
Made on a modest budget of ₹3–4 crore, it reportedly took nearly three years to ready the script for production. The shoot itself was completed in approximately two months. That care in the writing is visible in the way the scenes land, and there are several that are likely to linger. The attention to detail, in both costumes and locations, is equally precise. Much of the story unfolds in a North Indian village, filmed largely in and around a village near Bhopal, Madhya Pradesh.
The cinematography is restrained and grounded, never departing from the characters’ world. Every frame feels rooted in their reality. The color palette and lighting choices subtly enhance the film’s shifting moods without drawing attention to themselves.
In a performance driven film like this, the actors had to deliver, and they do so with conviction. At no point do they feel out of place. The two leads, Ishaan Khatter and Vishal Jethwa, bring the artistry, maturity and nuance their roles demand. Even with limited screen time, Jahnvi Kapoor makes her presence felt. Shalini Vatsa in the role of Chandan’s mother, was exceptional, anchoring the film with a quiet, heartbreaking authenticity.
Conclusion:
Homebound speaks to everyone, cutting across class, caste, religion and social standing. It draws the viewer into a world that unsettles, challenges the conscience, and forces a confrontation with uncomfortable realities. Yet, it does so with rare grace and empathy, making the experience feel deeply cathartic rather than overwhelming.
Homebound easily qualifies as one of the finest Indian films of the year and stands tall as a worthy Oscar contender. It has the depth and craft to endure, much like the director’s debut. Whether it will be remembered as a true classic, only time will tell.
When you think of the great war films of the past, you remember their sheer technical power: the sweeping cinematography, the visceral action, the stirring background score, the meticulous production design, the prosthetics and of course the performances. Yet beneath all that craft, those films endured because they moved you. A war film cannot afford to falter there.
That is why 120 Bahadur, a film about one of the Indian Army’s greatest battles, feels incomplete. Its heart is in the right place, but it needed a sharper mind to match the intelligence and spirit of its own protagonist.
Critics have largely called out the first half for being slow and occasionally dull. The common verdict is that the film takes too long to warm up before it starts landing its punches. That may be true, but for me the issue ran deeper. Something felt missing throughout, even when the second half gathers momentum. And that missing piece was emotional force. The makers seemed to play it too safe when the story needed a touch of madness, especially in the latter half where the stakes demanded bolder choices.
The story of the Battle of Rezang La is the stuff of legend. It is so astonishing that one could easily mistake it for fiction. Having recently visited the Rezang La War Memorial in Ladakh, standing on the very land where the 120 brave soldiers of the 13 Kumaon Regiment’s Charlie Company (almost all from the Ahir community in Haryana) were cremated after facing a 3000 strong Chinese force with outdated ammunition, the enormity of their sacrifice still feels impossible to grasp. They fought till the last man, taking down nearly 1300 enemy soldiers before falling. None of the bodies were found with a bullet to their back. It sounds unreal, yet it happened.
Though this story is well known within the Army, it is tragically unfamiliar to most citizens. And in that sense, I understand the instinct to sanitise the violence so the film can reach a wider audience. On that front, the film succeeds. It is technically strong, shot on real locations, with a powerful story, a capable ensemble cast and in Major Shaitan Singh Bhati a protagonist who stands taller than a hero, almost mythic.
But this was a story that demanded the brutality of war to be shown. It was an essential part of the narrative, unlike many recent Hindi films where violence is used merely as a stylistic choice. If the film had focused solely on camaraderie, bravery and sacrifice, the restraint would have worked. But with an entire second half devoted to the battle, the raw, unforgiving truth of war was needed for the script to fully come alive.
Another criticism the film faced was its restrained performances. I felt this was not a flaw but a conscious and sensible choice by the makers. Imagine a group of soldiers at sixteen thousand feet, in minus twenty four degree cold, conserving every last ounce of energy during a battle that stretches through the night. Shouting stirring lines in such conditions is not only improbable, it breaks authenticity. In choosing restraint, the makers chose truth, and it was the right call.
Where the film does falter is in its dialogue. While avoiding loud, jingoistic monologues was the correct direction, the lines still needed to carry weight, to leave you with the lingering ache that a war film should. They fall short of that. Even the constant humour does not fully land.
Farhan Akhtar, as Major Shaitan Singh, is another important anchor in the film. His performance is balanced and mature, yet there is a sense of something missing. The issue again lies in the screenplay, which does not create enough intrigue or deliver the emotional shocks the story deserves. This is a true event, one that can be easily looked up online. The power, therefore, had to come from how the story was told. Instead, the makers chose a conventional, familiar template seen in films like Border, Shershaah and LOC Kargil.
This story needed a treatment closer to Saving Private Ryan, where the war itself becomes a visceral and shattering experience. A more immersive and relentless portrayal could have left the audience shaken. But the film takes a simpler and more straightforward route, and the impact is not as deep as it could have been.
To conclude, 120 Bahadur is not a bad film by any measure. It approaches one of the Indian Army’s greatest battles with sincerity. But the creative decisions, especially in the screenplay, keep it from reaching the heights it was capable of. Despite its shortcomings, I would still urge audiences to watch it. It is a story of exceptional courage, sacrifice and the true cost of war, one every Indian should know.
Good Boy (2025) runs on a slender plot, and on an emotional theme that is deceptively simple. But what it delivers both visually and technically is something the makers can genuinely be proud of.
Written and directed by Ben Leonberg, in his feature debut, and featuring his own dog as the protagonist, Good Boy follows Todd, a young man with a chronic lung disease, who moves from New York to his late grandfather’s isolated house in the woods. His sister Vera believes the place is haunted, and could even have played a part in their grandfather’s death. Todd disagrees. For him, the wilderness is sanctuary. His dog Indy though senses something darker, a presence Todd cannot see. What follows is a battle of instinct versus ignorance. Will Indy keep his master safe, or will both be consumed by something hiding in the shadows?
Leonberg got the spark for this film while rewatching Poltergeist (1982), specifically a scene involving a dog. As a lifelong horror fan, having consumed every conceivable sub-genre, I can say with conviction that there is nothing left in horror that is truly new. Innovation now lies in how familiar tropes are reimagined, in how writing and craft can twist the known into the uncanny.
Good Boy is that kind of horror.
Writers Alex Cannon and Ben Leonberg are smart with their writing. They find ways to keep the audience guessing, even with a deceptively thin storyline. One criticism the film has received is that it is too convoluted. I see that as a strength. The writers play with the viewer’s mind. It is entirely possible to have multiple interpretations of the scenes that unfold, especially the slightly bizarre ending that leaves you with many questions. Despite its narrative limitations, Good Boy challenges you as a viewer. The real genius is in showing everything from the dog’s point of view. It makes the scenes tense, emotionally charged, and keeps you uncertain because you are never fully sure what is happening inside Indy’s mind.
The film’s editing is one of it’s strong points. The interplay of past and present, the use of dream-like sequences before snapping back into present reality, is impactful. It adds to the intrigue. There is also a clever rhythm in the cutting. Quick jump cuts are broken by long pauses and silences. This creates mood, dread, and a constant expectation of something evil about to reveal itself.
Just like the editing, the cinematography does not follow a single pattern. For most of its seventy-three-minute runtime, the camera is focused on Indy’s face. It is the need of the script. The camera follows him wherever he goes. The angles are fluid, constantly shifting to capture his expressions and the subtle changes in his behaviour. The action on screen demands that the camera be quick and kinetic in some moments, and completely still in others.
None of this feels like the work of a first time director. There is a visible sense of craft and confidence in how frames are composed. The static shots are haunting and atmospheric. When the camera moves, it injects energy and adrenaline. There are a few sharp jump scares as well, which add to the film’s thrill.
From a technical standpoint, I believe the editing, the sound design and the camerawork elevate Good Boy beyond its limited story. They give the film its power.
But all said and done, the true star of the film is the dog, Indy. It is through his eyes that the entire story is told. The writing and the technical craft would not have saved this film if the performance had failed at this level. As an audience, you are glued to his face. He has the most expressive eyes and a deeply innocent presence. You start rooting for him. You fear for him. You are fully invested in his journey. Although it looks effortless on screen, there is clearly a lot of preparation behind this. The training, the timing, the precision of camera placement, all of it has been done with care.
IndieWire says this about the canine’s performance: “one of the most emotive actors of his generation, regardless of species.” I agree. I cannot remember another dog performance that has left me this stunned. Dog films usually make you laugh or cry or feel a sense of warmth. They often carry messages of loyalty, companionship or healing. But here, I was engaged because of the dog’s sheer emotional pull. I could not take my eyes off him. That is the magic of this film.
Made on a modest budget of $750000, Good Boy, went onto gross $8M worldwide from its theatrical release. Commendable for a small film with high ambitions.
Verdict:
Despite its limitations, Good Boy challenges you as a viewer and keeps you emotionally invested. It is technically inventive, smart in its writing, and more layered than it first appears. At the heart of it all is a protagonist, a dog, whose emotive ability is mesmerizing. Indy carries the film like a star.
IMDb rating: 6.2 out of 10 My rating: 3.5 out of 5
Good Boy is currently running in select theatres in India.
Kantara (2022) arrived quietly as a small film with a big heart. Made on a modest budget of around ₹16 crore, it went on to storm the box office, grossing nearly ₹450 crore worldwide. It wasn’t just a commercial phenomenon; it was a cultural one. In my review (read here) of the first instalment, I had written that it was “a film that broke the mould.” One that made audiences rethink what ‘rooted in culture’ truly means. What I meant was that unless a filmmaker stays true to the world they are creating, there can be no originality or authenticity.
So when Rishab Shetty returned with the prequel, Kantara: A Legend – Chapter 1, the stakes were monumental. The first film was high on imagination yet grounded in simplicity. With a reported budget of ₹125 crore and nearly three years in the making, the director brings a mythic origin story that, ever since its trailer release, has caught the public imagination. But does it live up to its legacy? Does it take the world of Kantara somewhere new?
The Story:
The story unfolds during the reign of the Kadamba dynasty nearly 1500 years ago. The royal kingdom has set its sights on the rich spices that grow deep within the forests of Kantara, treasures that could open the doors to foreign trade and overflowing coffers. But these sacred spice gardens are protected by the Daivas, and when King Vijayendra of Bangra dares to trespass into them with his men, he is struck down by the gods of the forest.
His son, Rajashekhara, consumed by vengeance, bides his time, waiting for the right moment to annihilate the tribal guardians of Kantara. His heir, Kulashekhara, who ascends the throne next, is far less patient, self-absorbed, impulsive, and blinded by power. His sister, Kanakavathi, serves as a counterpoint, measured, empathetic, and intent on finding a middle ground where the royals and the natives can coexist in mutual benefit.
It is in this volatile landscape that we meet Berme, a native of Kantara whose origins are veiled in mystery. A man of fierce ambition and indomitable spirit, he sees through the injustice of the barter system that keeps his people in servitude. Determined to reclaim their dignity, Berme sets out on a perilous journey into the heart of the royal kingdom to demand their rightful share.
What unfolds is a tale steeped in fantasy, mythology, folklore, and magical realism, a layered narrative of resistance and belief, where the battle between the natives and the settlers becomes as much spiritual as it is territorial.
Production Design:
World-building has been the greatest strength of all the Shetty brothers’ films. They have an uncanny knack for getting their worlds pitch-perfect, regardless of budget or scale.
Such a feat is never the work of one man. It demands an expert team. Leading that effort is Vinesh Banglan, the art director, whose previous works include Home (2021) and Kurup (2022). In an interview with Cinema Express, Banglan said, “In the hands of Rishab Shetty, Kundapura became a living, breathing world in Kantara: Chapter 1. Every frame tells a story, every detail resonates, and the land itself becomes a character.” He went on to explain how Rishab took his time to walk him through the region’s culture, its landscape, and eventually the story itself. The focus, from the very beginning, was clearly on detailing — something no one can fault either instalment for.
Every frame feels carefully composed. Whether it’s the village of Kantara nestled deep within the forests of Tulu Nadu, the grand kingdom of Kulashekhara, or the bustling Bangra port, each space feels alive and tangible.
Banglan credits Arvind Kashyap, the cinematographer of both films, for introducing him to Rishab. Anyone who has seen the film would agree — this was a collaboration that elevated the franchise, perfectly matching its scale and ambition.
Cinematography:
Arvind Kashyap’s cinematography retains the visual brilliance of the first instalment and goes a step further, elevated by the prequel’s intense action scenes. His masterful play of light continues to define the film’s visual language, but what stands out here is his ability to capture high-octane sequences with remarkable control and intelligence. The camera is purposeful, never showy, reflecting a deep understanding of rhythm and movement. It is evident that Rishab and Arvind share a creative synergy, each attuned to the other’s instincts and the demands of the script.
Prosthetics:
The prosthetics and makeup department, led by Suresh Kumar and Ronex Xavier, also make a significant contribution to the film’s immersive realism. Their craftsmanship lends authenticity to each transformation, making the characters both believable and textured. The most striking example is the character of Mayakara, brought to life through a seamless blend of prosthetics and visual effects. The VFX never overwhelms; it remains subtle, serving the story rather than distracting from it.
Costume Design:
Another standout element of Kantara: Chapter 1 is the costume design by Pragathi Shetty, Rishab Shetty’s wife. In a film of such scale and ambition, it would have been easy to drift into excess, but her work remains grounded, meticulous, and true to the world of Kantara. Each garment feels lived-in and purposeful, reflecting a deep respect for period accuracy and cultural authenticity. It is a testament to how thoughtful design can enhance storytelling, deserving of recognition from discerning viewers.
Screenplay:
I watched the film with my family and friends, including my ten-year-old son and his best friend. One lingering concern before the screening was whether the children would be able to follow the story, and if the film might slow down into stretches that would test their patience. Thankfully, it never does. The boys were absorbed from start to finish, which speaks volumes about how effectively Rishab Shetty weaves folklore and fantasy to build the magical world of Kantara. It is easy to forget that he has also written the film, but his deep understanding of this world, its rhythms, beliefs, and conflicts, shines through every frame.
Action Choreography:
Another reason the film holds attention so completely is its thrilling action. Those who have seen it will agree that much of the runtime is devoted to some form of combat or confrontation, with the remaining portions dedicated to character reveals and plot turns. Given this structure, the action had to deliver, and it does. Choreographers Todor Lazarov, Arjun Raj, and the duo Ram-Lakshman have crafted intelligent, visually engaging sequences that keep viewers at the edge of their seats. The precision and scale of these moments elevate the film, making them impossible to overlook.
Performances:
The narrative centers around four key characters, Berme (Rishab Shetty), Rajashekhara (Jayaram), Kulashekhara (Gulshan Devaiah), and Kanakavathi (Rukmini Vasanth). One of the strengths of Rishab’s writing lies in how he ensures that each of them has a clear purpose within the story. Their arcs unfold rapidly but meaningfully, and every performance leaves a mark. Rishab is at the top of his game, while Gulshan Devaiah, as his formidable counterpart, delivers a standout performance that lingers long after the credits roll.
Flaws:
Where the film stumbles slightly is in its use of humor. A few jokes during the action sequences infused to lighten the mood feel misplaced and fail to land. This cannot be attributed to translation issues since I watched the film in Kannada, its original language.
The romantic thread between Berme and Kanakavathi is another weak link. It feels forced, underwritten, and unnecessary, echoing one of the few criticisms directed at the first instalment. Given the otherwise tight storytelling, this subplot could have been handled with greater depth or restraint.
But these are minor hiccups that hardly dull the impact of the final product. The pacing of the film, elevated by Ajaneesh Loknath’s stirring background score, keeps the audience engrossed throughout. There are several mythological references that might not be entirely understood by those unfamiliar with the culture of coastal Karnataka, yet the way these elements are woven into the narrative makes for a thoroughly engaging watch.
In an interview with film critic Baradwaj Rangan, Rishab mentioned that he prefers not to explain his interpretations of the story, especially the parts that leave the audience with questions. He said, “What I feel is that the audience should talk about it based on their perspective. I feel that’s beautiful. They will have many versions, think about it from many angles. I’m enjoying seeing all of that.” He even admits that, at times, it’s through the audience that he gains new insights into his own film, ideas he might carry forward into the next chapter.
This openness reflects Rishab’s evolution as a filmmaker, a sincere student of cinema who values how his stories resonate with audiences while remaining true to his craft.
Conclusion:
I watched Kantara: A Legend Chapter 1 in a packed Bengaluru theatre in its third week, hoping to be surprised and quietly praying that the creators hadn’t been swayed by their own artistry or the avalanche of acclaim that followed the first film. The fear, of course, was that Kantara: A Legend – Chapter 1 might become a noisy spectacle, all show and no soul. Thankfully, I was wrong. I walked out of the theatre happy.
This is a film made for the big screen, immersive, richly detailed, and deeply rooted in its world. It is a painstakingly crafted work that balances spectacle with sincerity, folklore with fantasy. The result is a worthy successor that draws the audience in and holds them captive until the very end.
It is a film that Kannada cinema can take pride in, not without its flaws, but one that never loses its heart. I enjoyed this long, immersive prequel, and not once during its runtime did I find myself bored. Because despite its expanded scope, Kantara: A Legend – Chapter 1 plays to its greatest strength: its rootedness.
With this chapter, Rishab Shetty once again proves his ability to blend myth, folklore, mystery, and emotion into something that feels both personal and universal. The film does not just expand the world of Kantara; it deepens it, leaving us eager for what comes next.
Verdict: IMDb rating: 8.5/10 My rating: 3.5/5
Kantara: A Legend – Chapter 1 is currently streaming on Amazon Prime Video.
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.
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.
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?
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!
