Posted by: Wanderer in Search of Silence
There are journeys one plans—and then there are journeys that summon you.
Mine began not with a map, but with a murmur—a quiet longing that echoed through the monotony of everyday life. The mountains called, not with thunder, but with the hush of snowfall and the scent of pine drifting through dreams.
Day One: The Road Begins
I left the city at twilight, when its chaos still shimmered on the horizon, but my heart was already miles ahead. The road curled like a question mark through Uttarakhand, each bend revealing more sky and less noise.
By the time I reached Bhimtal, the lake mirrored stars. Still. Silent. Sacred. I sat by its banks, the cool stone beneath me grounding thoughts that had floated too long in digital clouds. Somewhere across the water, a temple bell chimed. In that moment, I was not a tourist. I was a pilgrim of peace.
Day Two: Corbett Whispers
Dawn in Corbett is not sunrise—it’s an awakening.
Birdsong threads through the air like silk. Mist hangs low over the earth, softening the growls of the unseen jungle. On a safari, I didn’t see the tiger, but I felt it—like a myth breathing behind the trees. Nature here isn’t a backdrop. It’s a presence. Watching. Breathing. Knowing.
That night, under a sky embroidered with stars, I whispered wishes to the wind. Who knows what ancient ears heard them?
Day Three: Mango Bloom Dreams
The next morning carried me to Mango Bloom, where trees wore sunlight like gold shawls. Breakfast was fresh papaya, laughter with strangers, and the kind of tea that tastes like stories passed down by grandmothers.
There was no agenda. Only stillness. And in that stillness, I found clarity—like dew settling on a leaf.
Day Four: La Perle of the Moment
At La Perle, nestled between forest and forgetting, I met silence not as emptiness, but as a friend. I walked barefoot through grass wet with memory. I scribbled poems in a notebook I’d nearly forgotten to pack. I remembered how it feels to exist without performance.
The Final Day: Banyan’s Embrace
The journey closed beneath the ancient banyan trees—roots like timelines, branches like destinies. Here, everything connected: the people I’d met, the solitude I’d embraced, the self I was slowly becoming.
Epilogue: Return, But Changed
I returned not with souvenirs, but with scents, echoes, and soft awakenings. Cities no longer scare me—they’re just places where I wait until the next mountain calls.
For in every journey, we leave something behind. And if we’re lucky, we find something too—often something we didn’t know we’d lost.
To travel is not to escape, but to remember. And in the remembering, we are reborn.
