Finally at Pangong: A Dream Realised

We finally arrived at Pangong Lake. By now, after days of mountain roads and endless scenery, the view almost felt normal—as if we’d become desensitised to nature’s drama. But this wasn’t just another stop. This was different. This was the exact spot where 3 Idiots was filmed—my dream location, the place I’d been waiting for all along.

I told T I’d go take some solo shots with the photographers while she rested in the car. Meanwhile, the photographers unpacked their drone, ready to capture the sweeping beauty of Pangong from above. But almost instantly, a few locals approached us, sternly ordering it to be shut down. If we continued, they warned, they’d call the police, confiscate everything, and end the shoot right there. One of them started to argue with us, and we told him to calm down. Then a friendlier gentlemen got up and explained that ever since Operation Sindoor, drone use in this region had been heavily restricted, and the rules weren’t something anyone dared bend. We understood immediately—no questions asked—and packed it away. With that, we decided to keep it simple and walked down towards the lake on foot.

As we walked closer, I spotted them—the famous scooters and the three bum seats from 3 Idiots lined up neatly, one after the other. Fifteen-year-old me would’ve been screaming with joy, and honestly, I was pretty close to it myself. I took a few solo shots and videos, grinning like a kid at Disneyland. Then, in the distance, I noticed three figures approaching. My heart skipped—was it T, her friend, and her mum? As they drew nearer, I realised it was, and my chest tightened with relief. She’d made it. I silently thanked her friend for pulling off the impossible. I’d left a couple of things in the car, so I jogged back quickly. When I returned, there she was—T, standing tall in her black dress, posing gracefully against the backdrop of Pangong. She looked stunning. Relief washed over me, and for the first time in what felt like days, I exhaled properly. For the next hour, we lost ourselves in photos, videos, laughter, and quiet awe. My bucket-list dream—Ladakh, and Pangong Lake—was complete. And yes, I even got my iconic picture sitting on the bum seat, beaming like a teenager again.

By now, the sun was blazing down on us. The chill of the morning felt like a distant memory as the heat pressed in hard. Even my own shortness of breath started to kick in, that familiar tightness in the chest whispering at me to stop. But I kept repeating to myself—almost there, just a little longer. This wasn’t the time for panic, or worse, a heart episode. We wrapped up the last of the shots, packed away the cameras, and made our way back toward the car.
Before leaving the lake, I went down a little further with the photographer to take a few more solo shots. T couldn’t handle it anymore, so I went alone. That’s when I really took in the view—Pangong Lake stretching out in front of me, its blue waters calm. The sunlight caught the ripples, making the surface shimmer like molten glass, surrounded by rugged mountains, some capped with snow. Standing there, I couldn’t help but think back to all the years I’d begged my mum, “When can we go there?” Her reply had always been the same: “It’s too dangerous.” And she wasn’t wrong—between the high altitude, the narrow mountain roads, and the constant risk of falling rocks, it was a journey that demanded respect. But here I was. It had been done. Every challenge, every obstacle, every tiny bit of discomfort had led to this moment. I took one last deep breath, savouring the lake and the mountains, before turning back.

T looked exhausted but relieved, and so was I. This chapter of the trip—this crazy, freezing, breathtaking, dreamlike chapter—was complete. All that was left now was the long drive back to Leh, with memories we’d never forget sitting heavy in our minds and hearts.

The journey back wasn’t nearly as long as I expected. The sun was hitting my arm, almost like a gentle heat massage, soothing me after the freezing chaos of the past 24 hours. For the first time, I felt I could actually see Ladakh. Sitting in the front seat gave me a whole new perspective. The mountains stretched endlessly, the roads curling like ribbons along the cliffs. One moment I was gazing down into valleys carved by time, the next, my eyes were lifted toward snowy peaks gleaming in the sunlight. The transition from raw, jagged rock to soft blankets of snow was nothing short of breathtaking.

I had been typing up these very blogs on my phone, but at some point, I stopped. I couldn’t take my eyes off the view. That’s when it hit me—amid all the chaos of arranging outfits, battling the cold, and making sure the shoot happened, I hadn’t been soaking in Ladakh the way I usually do on my solo trips. And yet, in that moment, I was grateful. Grateful to have caught myself before I went home with regret, grateful to simply be present. Everyone else was asleep in the back, so it was just me and the driver up front, quietly admiring the world outside. We passed locals chipping away at giant rocks with hammers, securing the cliffs piece by piece. Melted glacier water trickled onto the road, catching the light as it flowed. Cold mountain air brushed my face while the sun’s warmth wrapped around me—it was the perfect balance, the perfect reminder of why I love traveling. Then, as if on cue, a massive bird soared above us. Its wings stretched wide, gliding effortlessly with the wind. We thought it might have been an eagle, though I couldn’t swear by its colour. Red or not, it was mesmerising to watch it drift above the mountains, almost like it was enjoying the view the same way I was. For the first time since arriving, I felt like myself again—peaceful, present, and completely in awe of where I was.