An experience with the moral - some risks simply aren’t worth taking
It was the winter of 2023, and the mountains were buried under a thick blanket of snow. Despite warnings about the weather, we decided to take the risk and hike to Kutla, our weekend retreat in the hills. The skies were deceptively clear when we set out, our spirits high as we reached
Barshaini. The snow-laden roads, however, defeated our 4x4, forcing us to continue the journey on foot.
With heavy bags of rations and layers upon layers of clothing, we started the long trek. Each step toward Tosh was a battle, the icy air biting through our gear, but the promise of reaching our destination kept us going. When we finally reached Tosh, a bowl of steaming Maggi gave us a brief reprieve. But as we prepared to leave, the drizzle turned into snow, and we knew we were in for a challenging climb.
The snow was already knee-deep, and my confidence faltered. My recent battle with cervical pain made me question if I should continue. My husband urged me to stay back, but stubbornness won over. I wanted to prove I could do it, even as the storm gathered strength around us.
As we pushed on, the snow deepened to four feet, and the cold sapped every ounce of energy. Our group split as those carrying the supplies moved far ahead, leaving me, my husband, and my brother struggling to keep up. Exhaustion and fear crept in, and when the pain in my neck became unbearable, my husband decided to go ahead to retrieve food and supplies.
The minutes stretched endlessly in the freezing dark as my brother and I waited. Every sound seemed amplified, every shadow ominous. I wrestled with guilt and fear—what if something happened to him? When he returned, his face etched with urgency, we resumed our climb. The storm had worsened, and by the time we reached Tosh, the snow was waist-deep, and every homestay we approached turned us away.
Finally, we saw a faint light glowing through the storm. It led us to a small, secluded homestay, and as we stepped inside, we were greeted by an atmosphere that was unsettling in every sense of the word.
As we stepped into the homestay, a strange stillness greeted us, thick and unsettling. The dimly lit room was cast in an orange glow from the lone tandoor in the center, its embers barely flickering against the biting cold. The walls were damp, their paint peeling in jagged patches that resembled shadows creeping upward. Drops of water trickled from the ceiling with an intermittent plop, each sound echoing like a countdown in the silent room.
The air inside was heavy—not just with the musty smell of wet clothes and melting snow but with a tension we couldn’t explain. The faint mew of a pregnant cat curled in a corner and the occasional whimper of a dog were the only signs of life, yet they seemed more like warnings than comforts.
The couple who owned the place were kind enough to let us in, but something about their hollow expressions added to the unease. The man’s eyes seemed distant, as though weighed down by years of hardship, while the woman, seated by the tandoor, stirred a pot of water with a slowness that felt almost ominous.
We were strangers in their home, and while their hospitality saved us from the storm, the environment made it clear we were uninvited guests in the mountains’ domain. Every creak of the wooden floor, every rustle of the wind outside, felt amplified in the cold, dark silence.
When the lights failed completely, plunging the entire village into darkness, the shadows grew bolder. The flickering tandoor now threw strange shapes across the room, shapes that danced like figures on the damp walls. The combination of exhaustion, hunger, and the storm outside blurred reality with imagination. It felt as though the house itself was alive, watching us, waiting to see if we would endure the night.
With no food of our own, the couple generously offered us their bread and butter. We accepted it with grateful hearts, but even as we ate, unease lingered in the air. The lights in the entire village had gone out, and the room was plunged into near-darkness. Shadows from the tandoor danced across the walls, creating shapes that looked unnervingly alive.
The cold was relentless, the water frozen, and the fear palpable. We huddled under musty blankets, trying to block out the unsettling sounds of the night. Sleep was fragmented and filled with uneasy dreams, but somehow, we made it through.
When morning finally arrived, it felt like a miracle. The storm had passed, and the sun bathed the snow-covered world in a golden light that was almost blinding. The beauty of the scene outside was in stark contrast to the fear and discomfort of the night before.
That experience left a lasting impression on me. The mountains are breathtaking but unyielding, a reminder of nature’s power and unpredictability. While I’ll always cherish the memories of Kutla, this adventure taught me a lesson I’ll never forget: some risks simply aren’t worth taking.
Comments