Whispers of the Himalayas

I don't remember the exact year, maybe 2009 or 2010. All I recall is the air in Uttarkashi being lighter than anywhere else, as though it carried the breath of gods. That morning, after spending a quiet night in the town, I began my first real trek to Doditaal. I had no idea I was stepping into a lifelong love story with a land I wasn’t even born into.

What followed were journeys that slowly stitched together a second home for me - Gangotri, Dayara Bugyal, Harsil, Chopta... the names roll off my tongue like lullabies. At times, I hiked twice a year. I couldn’t breathe without the lush green folds of the Himalayas wrapping around me. Their tranquility became my oxygen.

There is a small hamlet, Dhanaulti, near Mussoorie. I must have gone there four times or more. The visit I remember most clearly was on 15th June 2013. From Roorkee, we had gone for a casual overnight stay. But as the afternoon wore on and I looked up at the sky, something twisted inside me. The clouds weren’t just clouds. My gut warned me to return. People laughed, calling it “foolish female emotions,” but I insisted. We drove down that very night.

I don’t know why I understand that land so well, why it speaks to me when my own home state doesn’t stir such emotion. There is a rhythm in Uttarakhand’s silence, a language in its winds, and I, without trying, can read it. We are so deeply connected that every single trip of mine is welcomed by rain, the one element I love most.

The devastating news broke on the 17th: the Kedarnath disaster. I felt a strange stillness in my chest. I had narrowly escaped something my instincts had sensed long before it reached the headlines.

I still hear the terrified voices echo in my memory - “Please do something, Soumi!” But I was helpless, sitting in Delhi. I tried to reach out through all my contacts to share the last known locations of people whose families had approached me, trusting my connection with locals. It was the men in uniform, the army, the border security forces, who became gods in camouflage. One of my closest friends had their entire family rescued from a remote ridge. Soldiers carried elderly tourists on their shoulders, climbing peak after peak to bring them to safety.

And there I was, helpless, sitting in front of a television screen, whispering sympathies into empty rooms. I felt ashamed of myself that day. What are we really doing? Advancing engineering? Innovating technology? In truth, we are fueling the root cause of these disasters.

I had already learned what even a small landslide could mean. Back in late June 2012, we had hiked to the Valley of Flowers, and after returning from there, we visited Badrinath before descending. Then came the rains, and with them, landslides that blocked several sections of the route. We were stranded for a day and had to cancel our return ticket. The next day, we took a cab to Govindghat, continued partway to Rudraprayag, and then trudged 800 meters across a muddy, unstable landslide zone. As dusk fell and darkness began to engulf the surroundings, I stood in the middle of nowhere, waving desperately at an army van. I blocked their path and pleaded for a lift for life.

So, when the Kedarnath disaster unfolded the following year, I didn’t just watch, I felt it. I felt the fear, the isolation, and the aching helplessness of those who were trapped.

But what broke me even more were the faces of Uttarakhand’s own people - the innocent, hardworking hill folk who had no idea how cruel and complicated life beyond their mountains could be. While many tourists treated them like service providers, I saw them as guardians. As a solo female traveler, I never once felt unsafe. It wasn’t the city tourists who protected me; it was the locals - quiet, kind, and profoundly humane.

Today, tears blur my screen. The memories remain vivid. I can still see Dharali glowing in my mind, still feel the breeze in Harsil, where I once spent a week after the lockdown, trying to recover from months of confinement in concrete walls and years of inner turbulence.

There is a strange urge rising in me now. I feel like rushing back, leaping across paths, rescuing people like some kind of superwoman. I know I can’t. But I want to. Perhaps that’s what love for a land truly feels like.

When will people, especially those in positions of power, understand that short-term gain means nothing if we destroy the delicate balance of nature? How many more warnings will it take? Landslides, floods, vanishing valleys, nature is not punishing us. It is simply trying to restore itself.

And yet, I ache for Uttarakhand not because it's broken, but because it still stands. Fragile, beautiful, and endlessly patient. One day, I hope to have a home there, and spend the last chapter of my life in its quiet embrace.