20-Jun-2014
When Rashmi finally stood at the summit of Panchachuli Peak, the world unfolded before her, like a painting come alive in best of the nature’s colours. The early sun poured light over the pointy ridges, while clouds drifted below like tides on a distant ocean. She closed her eyes, breathed in the sharp, clean air, and let it fill every part of her. A quiet, overwhelming joy bloomed within her, deeper than any medal or applause.
“Each breath was a quiet victory.”
10-Dec-2013
Months earlier, Rashmi sat in her apartment, grieving over her failed attempt to win the singing competition. This was the competition that her mother had always wanted her to win, and this was her third failed attempt at it. Disappointment weighed heavily on her, blending with a quiet longing for something more. Her eyes kept drifting to a photograph above her desk: Panchachuli Peak, her grandfather standing tall, hair wild in the wind. She’d found it while helping him organize his cupboard.
“I’m going to climb that mountain,” she confessed to her best friend, Aparna, surprising herself as much as anyone.
Aparna blinked. “What brought this on?”
Rashmi just smiled, a spark flickering. “It’s calling me. I can’t explain why, but I have to go.”
Aparna reached for her hand. “If anyone can do it, Rashmi, it’s you. Just promise you’ll be safe.”
Her friends called the plan reckless; Panchachuli’s reputation for fierce weather and punishing slopes was no secret. But for Rashmi, the mountain was more than a physical challenge, it was a chance to reclaim something within.
She threw herself into training. Mornings meant running city streets, evenings scaling rocky hills. On tough days, her body threatened rebellion, knees ached, resolve wavered. Yet with each run, each practice climb, the distance between her and her dream grew smaller. She noted every small gain, adjusted her diet, studied trekking experts online, devoured survival tutorials, and even enrolled in a wilderness course—each effort a brick in her growing confidence.
2-Jun-2014
One afternoon, only weeks from her scheduled climb, her grandfather pressed an old, folded map into her hands. His fingers trembled.
“This is the trail I took, fifty years ago,” he whispered. “It’s more than paper—it’s wisdom. Keep it with you.”
“It’s more than paper—it’s history, wisdom.”
Rashmi traced the faded lines. Corners curled, ink faded, but in its margins, careful script whispered advice:
“Avoid this slope if the winds are strong.”
“Water source below the third ridge.”
Holding the map, she felt the warmth of belonging—a living connection bridging generations, pulling her forward toward her goal and her roots.
10-Jun-2014
The morning of her departure, Rashmi kissed her parents goodbye, bowed for her grandfather’s blessing, hugged Aparna tightly, and set out. The trail greeted her with unyielding tests: gusts that threatened her balance, rocks sharp and slick, fatigue striking sooner than expected. Still, she pressed on, one determined step after another.
Midway up, dark clouds gathered, thunder growled, and then it started pouring, soaking her gear and chilling her skin. Even after hours, when it seemed as if the rain was not going to stop, Rashmi considered turning back. She stood there, doubt eating away at her determination, her breath misting in the cold air. Then she remembered the map and unfolded it. One note stood out:
“If caught in a storm, follow the east ridge and seek shelter near the old pine.”
Trusting the memory of her grandfather’s words, she changed course. Eventually, she stumbled upon the pine tree It was huge and ancient, its roots clutching the earth. Beneath its dripping branches, Rashmi shivered and realized: her training had brought her far, but so had the invisible care and wisdom of others.
“Her journey wasn’t hers alone.”
When the storm passed, Rashmi resumed her climb. Hours later, she crested the final ridge and saw the summit, “sharp and triumphant” against the sky. Tears filled her eyes. She had made it.
Pride surged: raw, electric, undeniable. Yet paired with it was something softer, steadier: gratitude. Gratitude for the mountain, for the map, for every lesson passed down, for every coach, friend, stranger, and family member, present or unseen, who had helped her find her way.
She stood still and whispered into the wind: “Thank you.”
The descent tested her in unexpected ways. Yet she carried something new: a quiet confidence, anchored in humility. Back home, Rashmi didn’t just unload her backpack, she unpacked stories, lessons, and memories, sharing them over tea and laughter. When friends asked if pride was the strongest feeling, she smiled.
“It’s complicated,” she said with her eyes shining.
“Pride, because I put in the effort. Gratitude, because I never walked alone.”
Rashmi’s climb became more than a mountain journey, it was a living metaphor for all of life’s meaningful pursuits. Pride honors the strength it takes to push upward; gratitude reveals the invisible hands that steady us along the way. On every meaningful journey, neither walks alone, both rise together and towards the light.
With Love, Amit
Meri Writings 
Your words breathe life into the mountains and whisper the secrets of the walk trail. With each verse, you’ve captured nature’s silent majesty and its quiet, powerful embrace, reminding us that every step taken in the wild is a step closer to understanding our own hearts.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you so much for such beautiful words. Really humbled to read it.
LikeLike