My enduring love for the Himalayas and the little towns and villages under its shadows took me back there again, much like revisiting sad, old photographs and cassette records. One evening stands out particularly. P called out to me excitedly, “come and see this quickly”. I came out of my room, which had large windows opening into a yard dotted with apple trees, wondering what could be of so interest on the other side, facing the road. As she pointed at a nearly full moon rising from behind the mountain, it struck me that this could be my last time. The mountains, the moon, and I will carry on in our chosen paths, but this moment frozen in time could be my last in Tabo.

The mountains have a way of wringing at your heart and unravelling thoughts you did not think you had. This might just be one such instance, like turning a corner and coming upon a brilliant sight that you didn’t know existed a second back.

And yet they beckon me as if from another life. Our journey was marred by the rains. We stayed in Shimla for three nights instead of the planned one, waiting for the rain gods to depart. But thanks to the incomparable kindness and hospitality of Uncle G, we found a most wonderful driver, Rajeev ji, to take us further uphill.

We set out for Kaza, stopping by at Sarahan, Chitkul, and Nako on the way. What made this trip different was the happy company I had throughout. I’ve learnt the hard way that no company is better than bad company, but P kept up a peppy chatter along the way, and we rarely disagreed on anything except on what songs to play. With the right company, you can let your guard down in a way that solo travel doesn’t allow.

My biggest takeaway in this trip was the realization that joy and agony can come at any time, and whilst in the middle of one, the other is still a very real possibility. And despite the challenges of life, there is a secret chamber in every heart where a bird sings in the deepest night of a new, unseen dawn.

The mountains make you feel small, and your worries even smaller. My prayer to the Himalayas is from the belief that somewhere nearby, but out of sight, there may be a God, listening to me. If I made a wish, it would be heard and fulfilled.

In every prayer I asked for this to be my last life. If only I could release myself into the wild nothingness of the universe, I would be in my best form.

I am willing to surrender myself to everything that life offers, if I could have this promise from God that I wouldn’t return in a cage of flesh again. I would rather be dust, light, or fire, and wander the spaces with no exhaustion.

I’m aware this sounds like a typical affliction of urban folks, but it is real. We met several heart-warming people in the small towns and villages, and I admire and envy their simplicity. Gopal ji in Sarahan runs a tea shop by the side of a protected forest. It’s a small tent where they make tea and Maggie and sometimes, their daughter joins when school is off. She wants to be a pilot. Gopal ji looked at me carrying a sad, drenched pine cone and offered to run uphill and get me some better ones. I insisted we have tea instead. As we chatted, we learnt they are apple farmers, and in-between looking after their orchard and dropping their daughter off to school and back, the tea shop was a time-pass activity. He made me smile, and a part of me wished we could exchange places.

In Kaza, we ate at the same restaurant two days on a row. The first day, I spilled coffee on the table, soiling all the drapes, and they graciously gave us another table. The next day, we ate, drank, and just as I came back from the loo, prepared to leave. The waiter seemed very perplexed, and called out to us “Madam!”, and I said, “Yes, you were saying something?” Turns out we didn’t pay, and he fumbled to ask. We nearly died from laughter and embarrassment, but we captured the moment along with his unforgettable words, “It happens in Kaza!”

By far, though, my favourite place in the trip is a toss between Sarahan and Chitkul. Probably more of Chitkul because it is raw, hauntingly beautiful, and the village still retains some of its medieval charm. Our host runs the Mannat homestay, and despite his rather strange taste in music, he turned out to be a surprisingly good cook. I will forever thank him for the warm food and the bonfire he made for us, that let us stay out in the chilly cold till late into the night.

When travel is fulfilling, it is hard to describe it in retrospect. I suppose that is why travelers keep journals. I did no such thing, and I’ve no regrets. I couldn’t possible capture all I saw and felt in words even in the moment. All I know is that despite the looming threat of rains, the Himalayas shielded us like a warm blanket, briefly, from the not so uplifting realities of life.

Post script: Prayers for those who are struggling in the raging rains and slush and for those who are lost forever. The mountains are sometimes harsh on those who least deserve it.