Posted by: AK
The road curled upward like a ribbon, carrying me from the chaos of the plains into the whispering silence of the mountains. As the bus wound its way past pine forests and tumbling streams, I felt the weight of the city slip off my shoulders.
Manali greeted me with the crisp bite of mountain air. The Beas River ran alongside, its waters restless and silver under the September sun. The marketplace was alive with colors — shawls woven in warm reds, the scent of steaming momos, and laughter spilling from tea stalls.
The next day, I set out for Solang Valley. Horses waited at the base, their bells tinkling softly, while paragliders sailed like birds against the canvas of the sky. I gathered my courage and soared above the valley — the world below shrinking into green patches and winding trails. In that moment, I felt infinite, stitched to the sky.
Later, in the stillness of Old Manali, I found a quiet café tucked beside an apple orchard. The walls were covered with notes left by travelers from every corner of the world. I added my own — “The mountains teach us not to rush, but to breathe.”
On my final evening, as the sun dipped behind the snow-dusted peaks, the sky blushed in shades of orange and violet. The mountains did not say goodbye; they simply stood, eternal and patient, knowing I would return.
