I was standing at the base and had no idea where the peak was. I had no idea how long it would take us to get there. All i knew that this was going to be tough but will be worth it. The clouds roamed above us, we sat in hope, wishing for them to pass by but they didn’t. They rained and rained and we slept in the thunder. We woke up the next morning to a slight drizzle. We did not have a spare day now, it was today or never. We prayed to the gods and decided to go for it and thank god we did, because that was the only day it did not rain in the five day period. We lived to tell the tale.
This memory from ten years ago was running in my mind as I was hustling at work, my bus was leaving in three hours for the mystical Parvati Valley in the Himachal. This trip had been a dream for all seven of my friends traveling along. For some, it was the excitement of a first trek, for some it was an escape from their mundane jobs, for some it was the mysticism of the place and for some it was their chance to update their Instagram profile. I was excited the most, could barely contain myself. Why? My heart couldn’t answer. I had a feeling that this trip would offer me something from the beyond.
Office that day was particularly bad; I came home with less than an hour left for the bus to depart.
My friend called, “Bro, I am all set, shall we leave?”
In a solemn voice I said to him, “You go ahead; I will see you at the bus stop. I still have to start packing”.
In his pause I could sense that there was a chance I might miss the bus. His fear struck mine. I rushed, huffed and puffed. I roamed around half naked, putting on clothes while frantically putting things in my backpack. It started to rain and my dad panicked. He told me that I have no sense of time, I will miss the bus and I should plan better. I shouted, we fought and he left me at the metro station.
Fifteen minutes later, I called him “Dad, I am sitting in the bus.”
I was half awake when the morning rays hit me. I was in the mountains and everybody around was sharing theirstory. I too did mine; on Snapchat; ‘My mountain story’. Our camps were laid next to the thunderous Beas River in the village of Choj a little ahead of Kasol. We reached, ate, showered and then set out to explore kasol only to return in the light of our phones, later that night. The night would have been fine, if only we weren’t that drunk, if only our camps were not across an old bridge over this scary river. Our trembling hearts and shaky feet found the camp and we slept in the sound of the rain.
