Mountains have an old complaint against me. That I used to visit, and then I stopped.
I have an old complaint against them. That they stopped calling.
I spent the best years of my life with them. Ghurdauri shaped my soul. But somewhere between industry and deadlines and a life that moved to flat ground, I let the distance grow. And they let me. So when I found myself returning to the mountains of Uttarkashi - to Raithal, to the trails leading up to Dayara - it wasn't just a trek. It was two old friends deciding the silence had gone on long enough.
Woh battein sunani thi mujhe, kuch battein kehni bhi thi. Kafi der se…
Creative Master
It started on a WhatsApp group before anyone had met.
Indiahikes had put us all together, and there was this one person - handle name "Creative Master" - who just wouldn't stop posting. Messages after messages. Excited about everything. Tagging Yagnesh, one of the Guju boys, like they were old friends. My group of friends watched these messages individually, silently, not saying a word to each other about it.
Then we met in Delhi to travel to Dehradun, and Sabu randomly asked, "So what do you guys think about Creative Master?"
We hit a wall of relatability. Everyone had been watching. Everyone had thoughts. We couldn't stop laughing. Either this man would have the energy of ten people or the worst jokes imaginable. Possibly both. We started teasing Yagnesh - "Bhai, tu toh Creative Master ka best friend hai."
Creative Master was Swaroop. And he turned out to be the soul of the entire trek.
Raithal
We traveled from Dehradun to Raithal in the Indiahikes traveler, reaching base camp by evening. Raithal sits in the mountains of Uttarkashi - quiet, tucked away, the kind of village where you can feel the altitude in the air before you even start climbing.
That evening was the trek briefing. Our leader asked everyone why they came.
One by one, people started saying the same thing: "I came because Ayush asked me to come."
My entire set of friends. Sabu, Rajdeep, Aditya, Yagnesh, Richa. One after another. It became the funniest running joke of the trek before the trek had even started.
Richa deserves her own line here. She is one of my best friends, my former boss, and a creature of comfort in every sense. She had just resigned from her job and could spare the time, but I am still amazed that she joined us. Of all the people on that trek, she is the one I am most proud of. She prepared, she showed up, and she did the trek so gracefully - as if the mountains had always been waiting for her.
The climb to Gui
The trail opened up, and so did the conversations.
I found myself talking to Uma Mam as we climbed. She was trekking for the first time - a mother whose family had been worried the mountains would be too much for her. But she walked with such steadiness. We talked about how she manages her household, how she takes care of her fitness, how she has basically a herb or medicine for everything growing at her home. She was so excited to be there. By the end of the trek, her family wasn't worried anymore - they were saying, let's go together next time.
I was sharing stories from Hindu history along the trail, talking to anyone who would listen. When we reached camp at Gui, people found out I had done the Kashmir Great Lakes trek. I haven't done a lot of trekking, but they asked questions as if I knew everything about mountains. I just shared my honest experience - and since the mountains are mystical to me, magical to me, that's the feeling with which I described them. That's the only way I know how.
The starry night
After dinner at Gui, the tents were there - made for two. But before sleeping, we gathered in Sabu's tent, and somehow six people ended up inside a space meant for two.
Sabu opened the outer rain cover - not the inner mosquito lining - and suddenly we could see the sky.
Stars. No light pollution. Nothing between us and them.
We lay down, six bodies crammed together, and just looked up. The conversations went everywhere - mountains, mythology, ghost stories, nonsense, everything and nothing. The tents around us were quiet, but the next morning we found out everyone had been listening. They didn't say anything that night, but they were there, taking in every story.
It may seem trivial. Six people in a tent made for two. But there is nothing trivial about lying beneath a sky so clear you can see the stars breathing, surrounded by people who came because you asked them to, sharing stories that nobody planned to tell.
Agar is trek se kuch yaad rakhna ho - toh woh starry sky hai. Bina kisi light pollution ke. 6 log ek do logon ke tent mein. Aur woh feeling ki yeh log mere saath hain.
Swaroop
I talked to Swaroop throughout the trek. He started a game early on - Alisha had asked him his age, and he turned it into a challenge. Whoever guesses right gets a prize. Two guesses each.
Nobody came close.
He did not feel a year older than 60. He was happy, cheerful, playful - joking with everyone, trekking alongside us, never once showing that the trail was exhausting for him. His niece Amita and nephew Avi were with us too. Avi shared stories about leading companies and people, about what he learned and how growth isn't defined only by money, but by purpose, freedom and camaraderie.
But it was Swaroop who stayed with me.
For a long while, I have held a picture of the life I want. Jab tak zinda hoon - happy, cheerful, climbing mountains, active, living as fully as possible till the last day. But I was always confused - is such a life actually possible? Can I really be that person at 70?
We found out later that Swaroop is 74.
He became the proof. That living such a life is not a dream. It is a choice you make every single day, no matter the age. And that is who I would like to be - at 70, at 80, at whatever age life gives me.
Dayara
The meadows where the pace slowed.
Dayara is a very different experience. Not a summit to conquer, not a pass to grind through. Just an expanse - wide, open, unhurried. It reminded me that not everything is earned the hard way. Not everything demands a grind. One can find beauty in the simplest joys of life. In walking slowly. In looking around rather than pushing ahead.
The mist hadn't fully lifted. We couldn't see the entire meadows in their glory. But what we could see was enough to make you stand still. And what we couldn't see - that became a promise. A reason to return. To see this place as it truly is, in all its fullness.
Someday, I'd like to go back alone. Solo trekking. Solo camping. Just me and the meadow and whatever the mist decides to reveal.
The rain
The monsoon was kind to us at first. Then it wasn't.
The second night, rain hit hard. Water came into my tent - enough to soak my sleeping bag, everything. I slept with a little bit of water. You adjust.
The next day was beautiful. We trekked, the views were there, the trail opened up. But coming back to camp, the swamp had taken over. Just moving from our tent to the kitchen tent became an expedition.
That night, it rained even more. Since my sleeping bag was soaked through, Indiahikes was courteous enough to give us the kitchen tent to sleep in.
And then Smriti and Aarav's tent started filling with water. Smriti was panicking. Aarav, her son, was calm - practically sleeping through it. But the water kept rising.
Aditya and Yagnesh - the Guju boys - were awake. They made sure Smriti and Aarav were safe, that Smriti was calm, that no one was panicking. No fuss. No drama.
Actually, if I think about it, those two were doing this the entire trek. Walking behind the ones who were struggling, motivating the ones losing steam. They were fit enough to be at the front every time. But they chose the back. They chose to make sure everyone else finished. That stayed with me.
I don't know if the rain came as misfortune or adventure. Probably both. But it became a memory I'll carry.
Rajdeep and Swaroop, again
On the final stretch - coming from the second campsite straight to base camp in one go - Rajdeep got confused. He thought Gui was still ahead. We'd already crossed it.
Swaroop looked at him and said, "Rajdeep, I saw you touching that leaf back there. You didn't eat it, right?"
He was talking about cannabis. I did not anticipate a 74-year-old casually joking about cannabis on a mountain trail. It was perfect.
And Rajdeep - his thing was this conversational, playful energy that sometimes landed on people at exactly the wrong time. Sampadaa was genuinely struggling on the trail, half-jokingly saying she felt like she might be having a stroke. And Rajdeep would walk up to her with the brightest smile: "Hello! How are you? How is it going? I hope you're having a nice day!"
Bringing his absurd positivity to someone who was suffering. You had to laugh. Even if you were Sampadaa.
The mist
During the trek, our leader had asked us something: As you walk through the jungle, pick any element from nature that you relate to. At the end of the day, we'll talk about what you picked and why.
I picked mist.
Maine apni zindagi mein bahut kuch socha tha - kaise hogi, kya hoga. Bahut kuch waisa nahi hua. Lekin jo hua, kafi acha hua.
I have imagined certain things at certain points in my life. They didn't turn out like that. But my life today - I love it. I love how it turned out. And because of that, I have learned to embrace unpredictability. The mist hides what's ahead, and what it reveals when it lifts is often more surprising and more beautiful than what you planned for. If everything happens according to your plan - good. If it doesn't, then maybe there's a better plan unfolding. One you just can't see yet.
People who break narratives
At the debriefing, I spoke about something I had been watching the entire trek.
Every person there had broken a narrative in their own head.
Some had brought their families to the mountains for the first time. Some were unfit and didn't know if they'd finish. Some had never traveled alone, never done anything like this, but still somehow made it. Some decided after the trek to do something even scarier.
Theju is a middle-aged doctor who wasn't fit for the trek. She knew it. She did it anyway. And then, after the trek, she decided she wanted to go bungee jumping in Rishikesh. She was scared of heights. Didn't matter. She is a total beast.
Richa, who had never done something like this, prepared and finished with grace. Uma Mam, whose family thought the mountains would break her, proved them wrong. Smriti and Aarav, who weathered a flooded tent and kept going. The friends who came because I asked.
They all broke a story they were telling themselves about what they couldn't do.
I talked about them during the debriefing - how they prepared, how even without the required fitness level, they did the trek so well and so gracefully. That just brings a lot of joy to me.
A conversation with the mountains
The debriefing was done. We stayed the night at Raithal. The next morning, we were leaving.
I woke up early and decided to stroll through the village alone.
And that's when I talked to the mountains.
I told them there is no other place like this in the world. I told them I missed them. I asked them why they didn't call me for so long. I told them I spent my best time with them, and I don't understand how the distance grew so much.
The complaint is two-way. They'll say I stopped visiting. I'll say they stopped calling. Dono galat hain. Dono sahi bhi hain. That's how it is between old friends - the distance belongs to both, and so does the return.
But standing in Raithal that morning, I could sense something. From the wind, from the quiet, from the mountains themselves. That I needed to bring back the old me. The person who was confident, full of life, at home in these places. I need to get that version of myself back.
And they need to do their part too. Keep the wind ready. Keep the stars out. I'll show up.
Main lauta, battein kari. Yaadein batori, phir chal pada. Lekin iss baar, lautne ke waade ke saath.