Why Do We Love the Himalaya?

When breath seems out of reach, reach for the Himalaya. When everything turns upside down, turn to its valleys. When routine strips your life bare, grieve not an ache more. But clothe yourself with this eternity. It has been, it is, and it will be.

Now, those who have to ask will probably never get it. And those who get it will in all likelihood never ask. So it seems we’ve reached an impasse. However, allow me to break the conundrum and put some things into perspective.

What is the Himalaya, exactly?

For some, the Himalaya is but a group of mountains – nameless, snowy, green, rugged and all kinds.

For others, like me, Himalaya is the physical manifestation of the heaven they say exists within, or outside. The one thing that makes all the sense in the world. A lasting remedy for the “Hurry Sickness”, a sickness that has chained many. The genesis of many stories, mysteries and myths, and legends.

Himalaya is winding roads and the jungles, the clouds and the mist, the rugged terrain and the far off homes and the smoke emanating from their chimneys. It is the journey that keeps you wide awake because of its inherent, easily-missed beauty. And at the same time, it makes you want to close your eyes for a little while because all this is just so peaceful.

Because no matter what the season or place, there’s always that one scene that sticks out, that makes you fall in love with a thousand things, all over again. And you begin to understand that as many times as you’ll come back, you’ll always be welcomed with more love, and leave with more to love.

Walk. Talk. Don’t talk. Think. Think out loud. Don’t think at all. Everything can happen here when you’re in the Himalaya. All at once!

Why do we love the Himalaya? A Few Parting Thoughts

“What’s your purpose in life?” They ask. Some wonder themself.

To earn money? Or fame? Perhaps both?

Nothing matters when you are in the Himalaya and have seen them with eyes closed. Take a stroll on a monsoon evening after dark. The rays of light escaping from a broken window, piercing through the mist that has made itself at home, on the surface, and breathing it in and out.

“What’s your purpose in life?” They ask.

“What’s your life worth?” I say.

“Not even the rust on an old penny.” I add.

The worth of your life is around you where life still means life. Where life doesn’t mean one hundred metre dash a day. or where time isn’t measured in seconds or minutes or hours or days or weeks or months or even years. Where every moment that has truly taken your breath away counts a blink of an eye.

“How many seconds have you lived, then?” I end.