The Place That Keeps Calling Me

Every morning, the city wakes before the sun.

Glass towers borrow the sky,
Traffic borrows our patience,
And calendars quietly borrow our lives.

In Bangalore,
Dreams wear ID cards,
Tea and coffee tastes like deadlines,
And success is measured in promotions, stock grants, and apartment keys.

I answer emails and chats before sunrise.
Measure time in meetings.
Celebrate promotions.
Count achievements.

The city applauds the person I have become.

We call it living.

Then somewhere beyond the last highway, The Himalayas wait.

Not to impress.
Not to compete.
Not to hurry.

A mountain never asks,

“Where do you see yourself in five years?”

It simply stands there,
Teaching that strength can be silent,
That stillness is not laziness,
And that peace doesn’t need an audience.

The city taught me how to build a career.

The mountains gently introduce me to the person I have always been.

Every year, I make plans.

Maps fill my screen. I consider beaches, islands, foreign cities, hidden cafés.

For a while, I believe them.

Yet somehow, without ever deciding, My ticket always points north.

Towards roads that twist through pine forests.
Towards rivers that have forgotten how to hurry.
Towards mountains older than every dream I’ve ever chased.

I’ve stopped asking why I keep returning.

Some call it wanderlust.

I think it’s recognition— As though a part of me never really left those mountains.

I don’t know what lives there.

But something inside me becomes quieter
The moment the Himalayas appear through the window.

As the overnight bus comes to a halt,
I never rush.

I simply stand there.

The mountains in front of me.
The river finding its own song.
The birds welcoming another morning.

The first rays of sunlight quietly rise from behind the peaks,
Painting them from grey to gold,
As though the sun is gently peeking over the mountains just to say,
“I’m glad you’re back.”

For a moment, I do nothing.

I breathe.

Sometimes, without even knowing why,
My eyes fill with tears.

Not from sadness.

From the quiet joy of returning somewhere that feels like home.

My first stop is never the accomodation.

It’s a small cup of hot tea,
A few biscuits,
and a place where I can simply sit,
Listen,
And let the mountains remind me how to slow down.

There, silence speaks without words.

The wind carries no expectations.

Even time walks slowly,
As though it knows that the best moments are never rushed.

I sit beside a river with a warm cup of tea,
watching clouds drift across ancient peaks.

The colourful prayer flags sway gently above the suspension bridges.

The cold breeze brushes past my face.

Wildflowers bloom along quiet mountain roads.

And suddenly,
The questions I’ve been carrying for months
No longer demand answers.

The mountains don’t solve my problems.

They simply remind me
That I am much smaller than them…

And somehow,
Much lighter because of it.

After a few days,
I stop checking my phone.

I sleep without effort.

I wake with the sunrise instead of an alarm.

The noise inside me fades.

The rush disappears.

Work no longer follows me.

For the first time in months,
I am completely present.

Fearless. Childlike. Free. Spiritual. Unhurried. Relaxed. Grateful.

The city gives me ambition. The mountains give me clarity.

The city rewards my work. The mountains reward my soul.

The city gave me the life I worked so hard to build.

The Himalayas gave me something I never learned how to name.

Dreams no longer feel like burdens to carry,
But companions to walk beside.

The strange thing is,
I never return from the Himalayas with souvenirs.

I return with myself.

When it’s finally time to leave,
I watch the mountains slowly disappear into the distance.

The rivers grow quieter.

The cities grow louder.

The silence slowly fades,
Until one day,
A mountain of tasks and meetings replace mountains once again.

It never feels like I’m travelling back from a vacation.

It feels like I’m leaving home.

Perhaps that is why,
No matter how many beautiful places the world offers,
My heart quietly chooses the same road again.

Some places become memories. The Himalayas became a feeling.

Some people chase destinations. I keep returning to a feeling.

And somewhere in the Himalayas,
Between the prayer flags,
The cedar and pine trees resting against with mountains,
A river playing peek-a-boo through the valleys,
And the endless mountains kissing the sky…

I always find the version of myself that the city almost made me forget.

Perhaps the greatest success isn’t living above the clouds in a city skyline—

It’s finding the kind of peace that even the tallest building could never offer.

When I’m not building iOS apps, you’ll probably find me somewhere in the Himalayas—with a backpack, a cup of chai, and enough silence to hear my own thoughts again or painting another world of my own.