When the Mountains Ask You to Pause: Reflections from Nathu La

There are some journeys that stay with you long after you return. Not because of photographs or sightseeing checklists, but because they quietly shift something inside you.

Yesterday’s visit to Tsongmo Lale and Nathu La felt like one of those journeys. The drive was breathtaking in the truest sense of the word. Snow-capped peaks stood silently against the sky while clouds played hide and seek around them. Every few minutes, another waterfall would appear unexpectedly around a bend, as though the mountains wanted to keep surprising us.

There was a certain rawness to everything around us. Nature untouched, unfiltered, existing in its purest form. And then we reached Nathu La. Almost on cue, snowflakes began to fall softly around us. It felt magical, almost cinematic. The universe seemed unusually generous in that moment.

But mountains, I realised once again, have their own language. And sometimes that language is restraint. The roads were heavily jammed. The climb upwards was slippery and difficult. Some people around us kept moving ahead, many falling back, some giving up half way. As many gathered around the shop selling oxygen cans to pick up one, I refused to feel defeated. Every few steps, my breathlessness increased. The higher I tried to go, the more the slope seemed to push back gently but firmly, reminding me who truly holds control there.

Everything was visible. The border was right there. Yet it somehow felt distant. And so I stopped climbing. Oddly enough, that decision did not feel like defeat. It felt like acceptance. A quiet acknowledgment that nature does not always need to be conquered, completed, or consumed fully to be appreciated. Sometimes, its greatest lesson lies in knowing when to pause.

As I stood there catching my breath, another image stayed with me - patches of fresh white snow stained black by diesel fumes from the endless line of vehicles below. That disturbed me.

We travel to the mountains searching for purity, silence, and escape. Yet in our attempt to experience these fragile places, we often become contributors to the very damage threatening them.

I have always loved the mountains deeply. But every time I visit them now, I carry a small sense of guilt alongside the wonder. The guilt of the carbon footprint I leave behind while chasing untouched beauty.

Perhaps sustainable travel is not just about carrying reusable bottles or avoiding plastic. Perhaps it also begins with humility...recognising that nature is not a backdrop created for our consumption. It is an ecosystem trying to survive despite us.

The mountains ask for very little from us. Just softness. Silence. Respect. And maybe loving the mountains is not always about reaching the top. Maybe it is also about learning when to stop climbing, when to step lightly, and when to simply stand still long enough to listen.

Somewhere Between the Mountains and Ourselves: Reflections from Sikkim

In Sikkim since the last two days. Gangtok.

Busy with tourists, traffic jams and chaos. But that’s India for us. Our India.

And yet, as we moved higher into the mountains, past endless trees and quiet new constructions, something kept making me feel this was another India altogether. People smile here. No one litters. Even the smallest roadside eateries feel clean.

Nobody honks endlessly. Nobody aggressively overtakes.If a vehicle breaks down, people stop to help. So I see that there is a certain dignity in how public spaces are treated here.

And then, in the middle of all this beauty and serenity, you hear loud screaming across hotel corridors, speakerphone calls in cafes, children running unchecked through museums touching everything, entitled behaviour disguised as tourists, unforgivable, identifiable as those from the Hindi speaking belt. 

You wonder why so many of us still carry this strange mix of arrogance, lack of civic sense and public indiscipline into every beautiful place we visit. In India and abroad, we are being labelled as uncouth and annoying, but we do not care. 

Rabindranath Tagore once wrote, and I read it today incidentally - “The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs through the world.”

Perhaps that awareness is what places like Sikkim quietly teach you...that nature is not just scenery to be consumed, but a space to move through with humility, softness and respect.

Children are NOT our Fixed Deposits

In the past week alone, we’ve lost too many young lives. Children who should have been laughing, learning, arguing, dreaming - all gone. It forces us to stop in our tracks and ask ourselves where are we going wrong? How are we still failing to see the storms our children are carrying quietly inside their minds and hearts? How are we ignoring the signs that they feel alone and need to be heard?

We need to look at the world we are creating around our children. The pressure does not just come from parents, but from everywhere around - the condo moms comparing marks like they compare recipes, from cousins competing as if childhood is a race, from social circles where a child’s score becomes casual gossip over chai. Why have we normalised turning children into talking points? Why must their achievements validate our pride? We need to stop this cycle asap as this silent, socially accepted pressure crushes young spirits long before they get a chance to grow. Our children deserve freedom from our expectations, not the burden of them.

Children are not our fixed deposits for the future. We cannot put the weight of our dreams on our children. Parenting cannot be transactional. "We did so much for you, now you have to do your best"/ Their worth cannot be measured in marks, medals, or milestones. Our expectations should never outweigh their emotional safety.

As parents, we must tell our children again and again that perfection is not the goal. That success is not the only path. That what matters is the courage to try, the resilience to stand up, and the freedom to move at a pace that they are comfortable with. 

It is okay to be imperfect.
It is okay to score badly.
It is okay to fail.
It is okay to
It is never okay for a child to feel unloved, unheard, or unseen.

We need to build homes where children can breathe. Where they can speak without fear, break down without shame, and grow without the crushing weight of expectations. Homes where they know deeply and unquestionably that their life is worth more than any dream we hold for them.

No rank, no report card, no ambition is worth a life.

Let us choose empathy over expectations.
Humanity over pressure.
Presence over perfection.

Every single time. Please. 

(Image generated using Gemini)

Pain, Perseverance, and Pumpkin Latte

A night etched in my memory; one I will never forget.

Their arms steadied me, lifting me from the bed. I instinctively locked mine around their shoulders for balance. Together, they carried me to the car. As its tires screeched through the stillness of the night, my thoughts raced. Was this the end of everything I’d come here for?

The darkness wrapped around us. A&E (Accident & Emergency services) in Brighton stirred memories of Civil Hospital, Sonipat, where papa—who left us 14 years ago—once served as a doctor. The polished floors and white faces were the only differences. As Mohit handled my registration, I silently cursed my choice to skip travel insurance. Who even does that on an international trip?

Between deep breaths and sharp pangs, I explained to the staff how I’d tripped over the raised bathroom doorframe in my hotel. My left foot throbbed incessantly.

The hours in A&E unravelled a floodgate of emotions. I missed papa. I missed my son, Maulik - the only one in India who knew I was hurt. Guilt gnawed at me for waking Mohit in the dead of night. And then there was Abid, their employee, who was the first respondent to my cry for help. His calmness steadied my tears, his jokes – usually annoying – were a lifeboat.

In the hotel room, after the accident, while applying ice to my injured foot, Abid suddenly froze, his eyes wide as he stared at the wall behind my bed. “Oh my God,” he exclaimed. I followed his gaze to a painting of a woman with her foot perched on a pillow, eerily mimicking my position. “Did someone paint you before I arrived?” he joked. “Yes, Leo (Leonardo Di Caprio) was here to paint his Kate (Winslet),” I quipped back. We burst into laughter, and for a moment, the pain and absurdity faded.

(that painting on the wall)

Back in the A&E the night dragged on. Worry churned - about treatment costs, deadlines, and the impractical new heels I’d bought. My foot swelled with every passing hour, and my heart mirrored its urgency.

Picture this: I had flown to the UK to manage a company’s event, only to be in an accident, just three days before the big day. Mohit, the company’s founder, sat beside me, patiently waiting for X-ray results, and enduring seven hours on a rickety chair before wheeling me in himself.

After two hours, finally, relief came. “It’s not a fracture,” the doctor announced. The pain? I could manage. Uncertainty had been the real weight.

Back at the hotel, I spent the next day confined to my room, oscillating between prayers, quiet meals, and event planning. By evening, I decided it was time to reclaim control. Summoning courage, I willed myself to stand. Tears fell uncontrollably as I silenced both pain and emotion with a piece of chocolate - an absurd but effective balm.

The challenge was set. A Danish from M&S at Brighton Station. Just a few steps away, yet it felt like a marathon. I dragged myself, dodging sympathetic glances and polite offers of help. A bite of delight was more than a treat. It was a win. To celebrate, I perched at the hotel café with a pumpkin latte in hand. The warmth of the coffee, the hum of the café, the faint ache in my foot - it all amalgamated into the realisation that resilience isn’t loud. It’s the quiet choice to keep going.

When the big day arrived, I was tapping in my heels, moving as if the pain were endurable. The joy of overcoming, of succeeding despite the odds - had overpowered it all.

Resilience often begins as a whisper in the dark, growing louder with every small victory. That night in Brighton taught me this: joy, determination, and a damn good cup of coffee can get you through anything.