It was September of '23, my first trek ever. Around eight kilometers uphill to the Bhadraj Temple and the same distance back. I had no idea what I was getting into.

We parked our car a little earlier than we should have, not knowing that the road ahead would turn into hours of climbing. The trail started gentle but slowly tested every part of me; my legs, my breath, my patience. I remember laughing at how unprepared I was, yet somewhere deep down, I wanted to see what waited at the top.

The weather was something out of a dream. Going up, the entire path was wrapped in mist, the mountains half-hidden, the sound of wind soft and distant. We met sheep grazing on the slopes, stopped for Maggi halfway, and just kept walking, one slow step after another. Four hours later, we reached the temple. I still remember the silence there; the kind that fills you instead of emptying you.

The way back felt like another story. The fog cleared, and everything around us glowed. The sky was painted with cotton-candy clouds, and the mountains finally revealed themselves. But as the sun slipped away, darkness took over. The last two or three kilometers were the hardest. No light, no signal, and being trapped on an isolated mountain jungle with no idea how far the car was. My legs had almost given up. I could hear my heartbeat more than my footsteps.

And yet, somehow, I kept going. Maybe it was fear, maybe stubbornness, or maybe a faint survival instinct.

That night, when we finally reached the car, exhausted and silent, I realized something. Life is not so different from this trek. You never really know how far you have to go, or when it’s going to get easier. There are stretches of fog where nothing makes sense, and moments that take everything out of you. But somewhere in between, there’s beauty; in the clouds, in the silence, in the simple act of not giving up.

— photos clicked on my iPhone 14