TRAVEL STORIES
Whispers of Our Souls — the Mountains We Once Were
Echoes of Forgotten Bridges
The mountains are calling me — the same mountains that glued us together and nourished our bond. Miniature mountains or hills at best yet their influence over us outsized their mass.
People call them the lowly distant cousins to the mighty Himalayas, forming the dying remnants of the Pir Panjal Range. From my perspective, these tiny hills represent the origin, evolving into the majestic Pir Panjal and the towering Himalayas — I guess, it depends on who you ask.
A shout-out to Anne Bonfert for the July monthly challenge.
Having traveled to various mountain ranges across continents, I was scrambling to choose between the Alps, Pyrenes, Wasatch, Karakoram, Adirondack, Appalachians, the White Mountains, and the Tehachapi. In the end, it’s the least sexy of them all — the ones close to where I grew up. Often the beauty of a mountain is not about how tall it is but how deep a connection it sows.
Like most siblings, growing up we were quite close. Our interests and hobbies intersected, and our favorite go-to activity was hiking in the nearby mountains and swimming in the river. We didn’t care for the raging sun or the unforgiving monsoon. We grew up exploring these mountains and our bond grew ever stronger.
None of us were particularly religious, however, we frequented a shrine located in the mountains. The Sufi folklore and the serene setting of the shrine were the perfect antidote to the storm brewing inside three young minds.
Our future aspirations and dreams were woven under the old banyan tree outside the shrine. The qahwa (black herbal tea) and biryani (rice with chicken) from the langar (free kitchen of the shrine) kept us through the afternoons. I don’t recall our exact conversations, but I remember it made us happy.
At times, our mother would accompany us to the shrine. She would light candles and bring food for the hungry. She prayed for the bright futures and well-being of her sons. Bright futures but at what cost?
Years went by, our interests changed, and the way we approached life altered — the one constant throughout this evolution was our love for rugged mountains — our mountains. The magnificent trees, the rushing streams, and the eroded rocks would tell us stories of the bygone era.
In a small place like ours, everybody knew everybody. We would often bump into older people who would spend the entire afternoon telling us stories of our late grandfather, who had embarked on the journey of eternal abode before we were born. In a way, we knew our grandfather through these mountains.
We took pride in the trails we walked with a foreknowledge of the generations who had traversed these paths before us. We dreamt together — dreams only these mountains could nourish. Dreaming together did not translate into having a shared dream.
I wanted to go beyond the confines of our valley and these mountains. I wanted to explore the world — and make a name for myself. For me, the sky was the limit. The youngest one was different, he was part of the mountains — the flagbearer of our ancestors. He was happy where he was and had little aspirations for leaving our hometown. The middle brother — true to his number was kind of in between.
Despite contrasting aspirations, we were trees of the same forest and like the fall foliage were exhibiting our distinct colors. The allure of adventure and exploring the unknown was my calling. My youngest brother was bound to duty and tradition — what we owe to the generations before us.
Like offshoots of the same river, our journeys were bound to take us apart. I wanted to carve my path beyond the confines of these mountains while he was destined to follow a path carved and nurtured through generations. Yet we knew through unuttered phrases — no matter what, we would remain connected like the bridge that connected our valley with the mountains.
We would always be there for one another in times of need. We would still share our happiness and sorrows, successes and failures. Most of all, we will continue to share our love for our mountains! We vowed to keep returning to our roots, to reawaken old connections by retracing our youthful steps.
Fast forward twenty years, we lead busy lives on three separate continents. Too busy to glance back at the mountains we once were. The memories are long adrift — we hardly ever talk.
Two years ago, massive floods hit our area and our beloved bridge was destroyed, severing the connection between our valley and the mountains. I heard they built a new one — apparently, much stronger than the previous one. Only time will tell.
I enjoyed reading about the magnificent Balkan mountains with a sprinkling of history by Krasi Shapkarova.
I loved how Claire Elizabeth Levesque fell in love with the Scottish Highlands like may before her.
