A trek to Tungnath, the world's loftiest sanctuary at 4,000 meters dedicated to god Shiva, had been a decade-long echo in my heart, a silent promise finally finding its resonance. It was a whisper from the glacial source of the Ganges, a beckoning from the stoic embrace of the Himalayas, a vibration from the ancient hum of the Adi Yogi himself. Seven of my colleagues, fellow dreamers who dared to weave possibilities even amidst the financial yearend's workload, joined this unfolding reality. Life, I've come to understand, is akin to a river, its currents shifting between serene stretches and turbulent rapids. We navigate not through frantic paddling against the flow, but through the contemplative act of choosing our quiet eddies.
Beneath a Bangalore sun that felt like a benediction, my departure began. First destination is New Delhi. A subtle current of grace seemed to guide my steps. A kind Uber driver, an unexpected bloom in the city's concrete expanse, smoothed the initial moments. At the airport, the simple comfort of khichdi and the cool solace of buttermilk felt like the rediscovery of a cherished childhood trinket. Then, a flight upgrade, a gentle nudge from the cosmos, as if the very stars were aligning for this inner journey.
Rishikesh, a place that holds me with the familiarity of an old melody, always calls me back. Twenty years of returning, each visit a new verse in a lengthening poem. Though fresh waves of young adventurers now carve their own narratives in its swirling rapids, the ancient spirit of the place, a steady, grounding drumbeat, endures. The night bus from New Delhi ISBT to Rishikesh was a slow, unfolding dream, followed by the rugged embrace of a 4x4 ascending towards Chopta. Rudraprayag, the confluence where two rivers, like two distinct lives, merge into the singular flow of the Ganges, offered a potent metaphor for unity. Rishikesh, the very gateway to Himalayan silence, cleansed the soul like a plunge into a frigid mountain stream. The air, thick with a palpable holiness, the river's ceaseless whisper, the mountains' silent, watchful gaze – all spoke of a deeper, more profound truth.
The landscape began its slow transformation, verdant hills gradually giving way to the majestic, snow-crowned peaks. "Might be," someone mused, regarding the ascent to the highest temple. But after such a journey inward, I craved certainty. And yes, Tungnath was our destination. Along the winding path, we paused at Omkareshwar, the winter abode of the deities, a gentle reminder that even the divine bows to the rhythm of the seasons. To fall in love is an essential human experience, and its object matters little – be it towering mountains, the boundless ocean, the hushed wisdom of a forest, the silent purity of snow, or the intricate tapestry of nature itself. The weather, a master storyteller, narrated tales in the language of chill, deepening cold, and an intense, biting frost. The mountain people, their lives etched with the indelible lines of hardship, yet their smiles bloomed as brightly as the tenacious mountain wildflowers, a testament to an indomitable resilience. Life, I mused, is a mountain path, often steep and winding, but punctuated by moments of breathtaking, soul-stirring beauty.
The climb to Tungnath proved a more arduous undertaking than imagined. Seven kilometers, a seemingly modest distance, but the thin, high-altitude air lay upon us like a heavy, invisible cloak, making each step a conscious effort. Then, the silent revelation of snow, an endless white expanse, followed by the distant glint of the temple roof, a beacon in the vastness. Physical discomfort receded, eclipsed by a yearning as ancient as the mountains themselves. The temple, though its doors were closed for the season, pulsed with an undeniable spiritual magnetism. Finding a quiet corner, embraced by the boundless blue of the sky, the silent sentinels of snow-draped mountains, and the weathered wisdom of ancient stones, two hours dissolved like the morning mist. The descent to Chopta was a gradual return to the world below. Trekking, in its essence, is a communion with solitude, yet the boisterous crowds encountered on the path to Tungnath had, for a time, diminished its quiet charm. Disappointment flickered briefly, but the return journey, painted with the hues of a mesmerizing sunset, gifted me the solitude I had sought.
The following day, our path led us to Deoria Tal, a pristine lake mirroring ancient narratives whispered from the Mahabharata, a tranquil interlude. We bypassed the energetic rapids of Rishikesh, choosing Deoria Tal, a soothing balm for a travel-weary heart. Trekking, I realized, is a form of moving meditation, a rejuvenating therapy for the soul. If possible, I silently urged, let the digital clamor of phones recede into silence. Solitude and loneliness, I pondered, are distinct states, one a fertile ground for introspection, the other a barren landscape of disconnection. Fortune smiled upon us; the heavens were a flawless canvas of blue. The lake, a flawless mirror, reflected not just the sky, but a breathtaking 300° panorama of giants. Chaukhamba, Nilkantha, Bandarpunch, the Kedar Range, and Kalanag stood sentinel, their snow-dusted peaks piercing the horizon. I found a spot on the shore, the silence broken only by the gentle lapping of water, and surrendered to the vista. For nearly an hour, my gaze remained tethered to the Kedar Range. So tangible in the crisp air, yet separated by a mere twenty miles – a poignant reminder of life's inherent nearness and farness, the dreams that shimmer just beyond our grasp. A silent promise bloomed within me: I will return. Soon.
The air itself felt different here, a pure elixir that seeped into weary lungs, invigorating not just the body, but the very essence of being. Surrounded by such serene grandeur, a quiet alchemy occurred, a subtle recalibration of the spirit. It was a reminder that sometimes, the most profound journeys are not about conquering distances, but about finding those pockets of stillness where the soul can breathe and remember its own vastness. There is a bittersweet truth about moments of profound joy – their ephemeral nature. And so, the mountains receded, and the concrete jungle reasserted its presence, the relentless rhythm of people, clients, business, and the imperative of numbers. This, too, is an inseparable thread in the tapestry of life.
I've heard the yearning for perpetual escape into nature, but perhaps the true wisdom lies in finding a delicate balance between the two. The journey concluded, a brief chapter etched with the indelible ink of memory, scented with the crisp fragrance of the high mountains, and resonating with the quiet echo of the divine. It was, ultimately, a return to the self, a silent dialogue with the soul, leaving behind a profound sense of peace, of belonging to something larger, of a quiet, unshakable joy. And lingering still is a sense of wonder, a deep, abiding awe, and a gentle, lasting touch of the sacred, a whisper of something more, something beyond the reach of words, something that resonated deep within – a quiet, profound knowing.
The weight of days, a suffocating blanket of obligations and the gnawing fear of missing out, often casts life into a stagnant stillness. In those moments, the soul whispers for respite, a quiet peeling away from the clamor. The answer, I've come to believe, doesn't lie in frantic outward searching, but in the gentle art of pausing, a retreat that reconnects us to the quiet wisdom within. And what a profound paradox it is that the deliberate slowing of a trek, the measured rhythm of footfall on earth, stills not just the body but the very torrent of the mind. Where then are the rapid-fire calculations, the urgent strategic pronouncements of the everyday? Lost in the hushed reverence of no signal, no electricity, only the expansive embrace of peace. Trekking, in its unhurried grace, becomes a tender reintroduction to the self.