Sharp honking pierced through my eardrums, bright red brake lights blurred in front of me, the air inside the autorickshaw was filled with fumes and anger. We hadn’t moved in over an hour.

If I could be anywhere else right now, where would I be?

The answer came faster than I expected — in the mountains.

I closed my eyes and saw the mighty Himalayas. It had been a few years since I last stood before them in complete surrender, but somehow, whenever I needed to escape, they were always there, waiting.

The Himalayas, Kashmir: Love at First Sight

The first time I saw them was in Kashmir, stretched like a brave wall, as far as my eyes could see. Wherever I went, they were there, steady and watchful, making me feel protected.

What struck me were the subtle layers of colour, grey merging into blue, blue into white, gently giving way to the next.

They stirred some emotions while also settling some at the same time. I didn’t quite understand what it was on my first trip. But I kept returning. First for the awe-inspiring beauty, then for the stories and finally simply because it lured me. And slowly, something began to change.

I could sit by myself longer in one place staring at the mountains, without reaching for the phone, without reaching for the camera. Just watching the light move across the mountains, feeling the presence of nothing else but the mountains. My mind, usually crowded with thoughts and words, would slowly grow quiet.

Somewhere along the way, I realised I was no longer only looking at the mountains. I was also, without quite meaning to, looking at myself.

Jammu to Ladakh: The Road That Quietened Me

A few years later, I returned to the Himalayas again, this time on a road trip from Jammu to Ladakh. The landscape kept changing; the mountains showed me their different avatars. Brown slopes gave way to stretches of green, then to mountains dusted with snow and finally to something that resembled a lunar landscape.

I couldn’t believe that the same range of mountains could change its form depending on where it was. We also behave in a similar fashion, isn’t it?

Though the mountains changed, the chirpy blue sky remained a constant. Somewhere along the way, I forgot that winding mountain roads made me nauseous. My body had surrendered to the sights. Nothing else felt important at that moment, even my thoughts had taken a back seat.

Through the slightly rolled down window, I let the cold air hit my face. My mind was mesmerised by its sheer scale and vastness. But mind you, they were not intimidating at all. The mountains were comfortable in their own skin and reminded me also to be.

Alone with the Mountains

By the time I went back again, I knew I wanted to be alone with them. So, the third time I visited Kashmir, it was a solo trip and this time I chose to visit only two places — Gulmarg and Pahalgam. I had planned the trip in January when freezing temperatures hit the mountains, so fewer tourists and only people who are interested in skiing visit. I knew that I would have the mountains to myself and I wanted to spend time to know why they lured me.

Packed in layers of thermals, I made my way in the Gondola, which is one of the highest cable car rides in the world. As it began its slow climb, the trees grew smaller. A postcard perfect sight everywhere I looked — a pristine white sheet of snow with people like dots scattered on it, pine trees peeking out, a cerulean blue sky with clouds joyfully hanging around.

When we reached the top, my city lungs could instantly feel the sharper and thinner air. Apharwat Peak, one of the highest peaks in India, offered its unending view to me. Ridges after ridges, folding into each other seamlessly. With just a handful of people there, I could easily find a perfect spot to sit and adore the mountains. When even those handful of people left, it was finally just me and the mountains. The wind danced around me in waves, and my lungs inhaled with ease. The more I looked at the mountains, the more I was aware of its magnificence. All the worries that I carried in my tiny head didn’t seem to matter anymore. The ‘I’ that I had carried with me from Mumbai to this peak, slowly dissipated.

Uluru, Australia: In the Presence of Something Older

Some years later, the mountain, or what passed for one, quietly drew me in was in Australia, at Uluru, a giant sandstone monolith rising out of the desert.

I had seen the pictures when I was planning the trip. A large red-coloured rock formation in the middle of a national park. But I didn’t think much of it except that the colour was stunning. 

The drive towards it was long and quiet. The landscape stayed mostly flat, and the vegetation was sparse, and then, without warning, it appeared. A single massive form rising out of nothing. It didn’t seem to belong to the land around it, and yet it felt impossible to imagine it anywhere else.

We parked our car, got out, and came face to face with it. For a moment, no one spoke.

A big red rock standing softly in the middle of nothing. It felt as if someone had intentionally picked it up from a hidden magical forest and placed it there — forcing people to stop, pause, look at it, and feel its presence.

The constant buzz of bush flies tried its best to distract my attention, yet no matter where I stood, it held the centre of everything.

The Anangu people believe that this is not just a rock, but a living place, where their ancestral spirits still reside. The stories passed down generations tell us about the deep connection of the land and its people and also the unmistakable connection between the past, present and future. 

As the sun began to lower, the colours shifted dramatically. And at that moment, I understood why it’s sacred.

When we finally drove away, I kept looking at it through the rear-view mirror, as if I had left something unfinished behind. I still couldn’t name what it had stirred in me. Only that it had.

Mt. Fuji: The Mountain That Never Leaves You

Another mountain that made its way permanently into my heart was Mount Fuji.

When I was planning my trip to Japan, I knew I had to see it. Most people had told me I would get to see a clear view of it only if I was lucky, as it’s mostly covered by clouds. I kept my fingers crossed.

The first sight I got was when I was on the Shinkansen, it appeared shyly at a distance. There was something mysteriously appealing about it. Its perfect conical shape, with its top covered partly in snow. It felt like nothing could disturb it. As the train left it behind in a distance, my anticipation to see it closely kept growing.

When I reached Kawaguchiko station, I realised I didn’t have to put in much effort to find Mt Fuji — it was right there and everywhere. You couldn’t miss it.

It is a volcanic mountain, and yet it emanated calmness. Even knowing there is constant activity inside it, nothing about it feels restless. It stood there holding both things at once, quiet and powerful, fragile and indestructible.

 During my visit, I was lucky to see multiple views of Mt. Fuji from different places. Sometimes it stood completely clear. Sometimes clouds gathered around its shoulders, sometimes they swallowed it whole. I would catch it in fragments, then lose it again, and then find it once more, as if it were playing a slow, patient game of hide and seek.

I saw it in the orange light of dawn, and also as light gave way to night. I saw it from parks, from quiet streets, from places designed to frame it and from places that I stumbled upon by accident. And somehow, each time felt like the first.

When I finally left Kawaguchiko, I realised I had grown used to looking for it.

I have seen many mountains in my lifetime, and yet each time I leave one behind, it feels like I am leaving a part of myself there too. Maybe that is why I keep returning to them, in memory, and sometimes in my journeys. Because the pull towards the mountains feels very much like the pull to return to myself.

P.S. If you are a mountain person, tell me in the comments which is your favourite one to visit.

Next read: Tokyo’s literary charms from Murakami to Bookstores