Where the Hills Know My Name

Where the Hills Know My Name

I didn’t plan to fall in love —

I just packed a bag and left.

Left the noise, the rush,

the version of me that forgot how to breathe.

The mountains weren’t calling,

but they opened their arms anyway.

It began with a dusty trail,

where silence walked beside me

and the sky bent low to listen.

Somewhere between the rustling deodars

and that first glimpse of snow,

I forgot the city — and remembered myself.

Uttarakhand doesn’t speak in language.

It speaks in rivers.

In the hush of Ganga at Gangotri,

where water feels wiser than time.

It speaks in the bells of Kedarnath,

each chime a memory someone left behind.

I stood barefoot in Haridwar one evening,

and watched the aarti flames rise —

not just fire,

but something softer. Something sacred.

Rishikesh was a whisper —

a place where even my heartbeat felt too loud.

And when I reached Nainital,

I saw the stars float in the lake

like wishes that never needed words.

Badrinath, Bageshwar,

they’re not just places —

they're stories carved in stone.

Old men with silver beards

told me of gods who walked these paths.

And I believed them.

In the Valley of Flowers,

I didn’t see heaven.

I felt it.

A quiet pulse in the petals,

a stillness that made me weep without knowing why.

Roopkund was different.

Ghost stories in the snow,

bones beneath my boots,

and the cold that didn’t just freeze skin —

it froze time.

But it was there,

among glaciers and ghost trails,

that I laughed like a child again.

No filters, no photos — just sky,

and me.

This land…

it’s not a destination.

It’s a mirror.

And when I came back,

people asked what I saw.

I smiled.

Because how do you explain

a place that didn’t just show you beauty —

it showed you you?