Mountains, Rivers, and Realisations: Shambhavy’s Uttarakhand Trip with Thrillophilia
The bus wound its way through the winding roads of Uttarakhand. Shambhavy gazed out at the mist-covered peaks and her thoughts lost somewhere between surprise and uncertainty.
“Why now?” she wondered, not for the first time.
The Char Dham Yatra had been her mother’s dream for years, a pilgrimage she spoke of with firm devotion. But for Shambhavy, this trip was a reluctant pause in her fast-paced life in Amritsar. Yet, something had stirred within when her mother mentioned the trip this time. Maybe it was the strange dream she had - a glowing river, a figure silhouetted against tall mountains. Or perhaps, it was the way her family’s eyes sparkled with anticipation.
“Shambhavy, don’t overthink,” her brother teased as if reading her mind. “Maybe the mountains are calling, and you must go.”
The First Step in the Mist of Yamunotri
The trek to Yamunotri began with nervous excitement. Shambhavy, her parents and siblings had opted to walk rather than take ponies or palanquins. The trail snaked upward, covered in mist and lined with fluttering prayer flags.
“Can we stop for a second?” Shambhavy gasped, leaning on her trekking pole.
Her father paused and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Tired already? Imagine how the sages did this barefoot!”
As they neared the temple, the air grew colder with the fragrance of incense. The sound of rushing water filled the valley, and it was the YAMUNA RIVER, wild and untamed, flowing through the mountains.
Shambhavy hesitated at the entrance of the temple. Her mother noticed and touched her shoulder gently. “Come, just one step.”
The moment her hands touched the freezing waters of the Jamnabai Kund, Shambhavy felt a strange warmth bloom inside her. The water was icy and biting into her skin, but it left behind an unexplainable calm.
Beneath the Stars in Gangotri
The journey to Gangotri brought with it - the raw beauty of the Harsil Valley. Snow-dusted peaks appeared overhead, their pointed edges piercing a sky so clear it felt like a window to infinity. Shambhavy was drawn to the riverbank, where the Bhagirathi’s waters rushed past with an energy that seemed alive.
“Do you think the river remembers?” she asked her father.
“Remember what?” he replied, puzzled.
“Everything,” she said, staring at the water. “All the prayers, the people, the lives that have passed by here.”
Her father smiled. “Maybe that is why the Ganga is called the giver of moksha. She carries everyone’s stories, freeing them as she flows.”
That night, after the evening aarti, the family sat by the river and the stars above seemed closer than ever.
The Heart of the Journey
The trek to Kedarnath tested every ounce of Shambhavy’s patience. The rain turned the path into slippery mud, and the altitude made every breath a challenge.
By the time they reached the temple, the cold had seeped into her bones. But the sight of the ancient stone structure, standing proud against the backdrop of snow-clad peaks, took her breath away.
Inside, as the family stood before the lingam, the temple bells began to ring. The sound resonated deep within her chest. Without warning, tears slipped down her cheeks. Her mother noticed but said nothing. She only squeezed her hand gently, offering her comfort.
Where Heaven Meets Earth
The road to Badrinath was a journey through valleys and pine-covered hills that seemed to touch the heavens. The brightly painted facade of the temple stood in sharp contrast to the surrounding wilderness.
As the family approached the temple, Shambhavy noticed a group of pilgrims chanting softly under their breath. She could not understand the words, but the rhythm of their devotion filled her heart with warmth.
Inside, the sanctum radiated energy, unlike anything she had felt before. The idol of Lord Vishnu, decorated with fresh flowers, seemed to glow with a quiet and knowing grace.
“Do you feel it?” her father asked quietly.
She nodded, her voice caught in her throat. “It feels… everything else has fallen away.”
When they dipped their feet into the icy Alaknanda River, her mother turned to her and said, “This is why we come here - to let go of what does not serve us and to remember what truly matters.”
Leaving, But Changed…
Before returning back, they spent time by the Ganga in Rishikesh and watched diyas float downstream. The energy of the city was electric, yet the river retained its quiet grace.
Sitting on the steps of a ghat, Shambhavy turned to her mother. “I did not think I would feel this way.”
“What way?”
“Lighter,” she said after a pause. “Like I left something behind up there.”
Her mother smiled knowingly. “That is what the mountains do. They do not just take your prayers; they take your burdens too.”
As the family crossed the Laxman Jhula, the bridge swayed gently beneath their feet. Shambhavy looked down at the river one last time.
Read more: Thrillophilia Uttarakhand Reviews