An Adventure to Remember: Oshin’s Ladakh Trip with Her Friends and Thrillophilia

I was not expecting to fall in love with a place so much.

It was supposed to be a quick trip, a kind of impromptu bachelorette getaway for Yamini, my best friend, who was getting married in two weeks. It started one evening while we were knee-deep in bridal trials and swatches of lehenga fabric.

“I want one last adventure,” she said, tying up her messy bun and flopping onto my bed. “Just us. Before everything changes.”

That is when the word just slipped out of me. “Ladakh?”

None of us said anything for a moment. Then Nandini laughed. “Are we actually doing this?”

Turns out, we were.

The Village That Spoke in Apricot Trees

We had barely recovered from the stunning cold of Nubra Valley when we set off for Turtuk, the last Indian village before the Pakistan border. I did not know then that I would leave a little part of myself there.

The road to Turtuk was unlike anything I had seen before in Ladakh. The desert terrain began to change. The mountains grew closer and steeper, but in between those tall brown walls, there were some green meadows, winding streams, and blooming apricot trees.

The air smelled different here. Softer and sweeter.

We stopped at a small orchard and tasted the fresh produce straight from the trees. “This is unreal,” Yamini said with juice dripping from her chin. I just smiled. I did not want to break the moment with words.

We wandered through cobbled paths, waved at shy children peeking out from behind doors, and ended up sharing butter tea with an elderly man who sat under a walnut tree. He told us stories of borders and how his village once belonged to a different country.

“We did not move,” he said, “the lines did.”

That sentence stuck with me.

When we returned to our camp in Nubra that night, I sat outside, wrapped in a thick shawl, and watched the stars. I was full of questions and wonder.

The Road to Silence

The next day, we left behind the green valleys and began our journey to Hanle. On the way, we stopped at the Rezang La War Memorial, and I swear, the air changed the moment we stepped out of the car.

You could hear the wind, yes, but also something more… a hush that felt alive.

We read about the soldiers who fought there in 1962. 114 soldiers against thousands. Most did not survive, but none of them gave up.

I felt my throat tighten as I looked at the memorial wall. So many names, etched into silence.

We did not talk much on the ride after that. Each of us was lost in thought. The road to Hanle was long, barren, and hauntingly beautiful. At one point, we did not see another soul for almost an hour. There were just wild horses and distant clouds grazing the mountain tops.

By the time we reached Hanle, the sun had already set. The sky turned deep blue, and the cold set in fast.

But then came the stars.

I had read about the Indian Astronomical Observatory being one of the highest in the world, but nothing prepared me for what it felt like to stand there, with galaxies moving above you.

A local guide pointed out constellations, and we even peeked through a telescope. But the real magic was in the stillness.

I remember Yamini whispering, “This place is so far from everything. And yet, I feel so close to myself.”

Mountains and Back to Leh

We left Hanle for Leh the next morning with the weight of wonder and silence in our backpacks. The road took us through Chumathang Valley, which was a soft contrast to the past few days.

The green returned.

We stopped by the hot springs and laughed as the steam fogged up our glasses. “Nature’s spa day,” Nandini called it. Yamini dipped her hand in and closed her eyes.

“I don’t want this to end,” she said.

Neither did I.

By the time we reached Leh and checked into our hotel, the sun had dipped behind the mountains. We ordered kahwa, changed into our warmest clothes, and just lay there on the bed like sea lions, letting everything catch up to us.

Later that night, Yamini looked at both of us and said, “I thought I wanted adventure. But I think I needed peace.”

Circles and Full Stops

On our last day, as we packed up and prepared to fly back to Delhi, something tugged at me.

I opened my gallery and scrolled past the pictures of Pangong, the endless sky of Hanle, and the cold dunes of Nubra. And then I saw a photo I had taken of an old wooden door in Turtuk, with apricot blossoms peeking through the gaps.

It made me feel something I could not explain.

Later, as we sat at the Leh airport waiting for our flight, I turned to Yamini and asked, “What was your favourite part of the trip?”

She did not hesitate. “Turtuk.”

Same for me.

Thank You, Ladakh. Thank You, Thrillophilia.

Back at home, I wondered if I could go back in time and relive any trip, and it would be this one. Because Ladakh gave us:

Time. Space. Stories. Silence.

Thrillophilia made everything so smooth, be it transport, stays, or routes. We never had to worry about a thing. 

But more than anything, it reminded us to say goodbye to one chapter before we step into another.

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