Insights
Alchemist

I went into Sandhan Valley solo. Not because I planned it that way — just how it worked out. The kind of decision that sounds slightly mad and turns out to be entirely right.

Sandhan is the valley of shadows for a reason — a deep canyon slot, walls rising on both sides, sunlight arriving in narrow strips. You're not walking through nature, you're walking inside it.

The friends I made in Sandhan are still in my life. That's the thing nobody tells you about solo trekking — you're never actually alone for long, if you're paying attention.

My second trek in the Sahyadris — and me being me, I picked the lesser-taken trail. Rajgad to Torna: a ridge traverse between two historic forts, completely exposed to the mountain and the sky.

It rained the entire time. Proper monsoon rain — soaks through everything, makes the trail slippery and alive. The mist moves around you. The rocks shine. The forest smells like it's breathing.

My father grew up in a rural area — saw fireflies every summer, nothing special. When I told him I was going all the way to Rajmachi specifically to see them, he looked at me like I was slightly mad.

But I grew up in the city. Fireflies — hundreds of them, blinking in a dark forest — that's not ordinary to me. That's extraordinary. I don't apologise for that wonder.

Leading a trek is completely different from being on one. When you're the lead, you're responsible for everything — the trail, the people, the timing, the energy of the group.

I loved the people in my Harishchandragad groups. Watching someone experience the Konkan Kada cliff for the first time — that feeling doesn't get old.

The Kallu Waterfalls circuit runs through the same region. Beautiful — and a reminder: be safe near water. Don't risk your life for content. The falls will be there after you've found your footing.

This trip wasn't about sightseeing. It was about finding my footing — a journey I needed at a specific point in my life. Some days I questioned every decision I'd ever made. Other days I found a peace I still can't fully describe.

I walked every ghat. All of them, on foot. There's no better way to understand Varanasi. Attended Ganga Aarti at Dashashwamedh Ghat — the famous one. But the morning Subah-e-Banaras aarti at Assi Ghat was something else entirely. Quieter. More real. I had time, so I did darshan three times.

Next morning: boat ride on the Ganga with Ashish's boat. Apple pie with ice cream at Vatika Pizzeria — I was slightly ill, had a cold. Had it anyway. Ginger and black tea for a few days after. No regrets on the pie.

I went to do the Giripradakshina — the circumambulation of Arunachala hill. Simple enough intention. What I didn't plan for was the hostel.

Rented a bicycle and explored locally. Did a trek with the host into the nearby mountains. Then the Giripradakshina — walking the base of Arunachala as the sun moved.

These are a few from many more. There's no version of this story where I stop.

I've been to Hampi twice. Both times I left with the same feeling — that I'd barely touched it. Hampi isn't a place you finish.

Boulders the size of buildings. A river that bends without hurry. Ruins in every direction — temples, market corridors, royal enclosures — all just sitting there under the sky, unbothered by the centuries.

Hampi is one of those places you return to. The first trip shows you what's there. The second shows you what you missed. The third is when you actually live in it.

Pondicherry has a quality that's hard to describe. It's not quite India in the usual sense, not quite French either. It's its own thing — which is exactly what makes it work.

I went with a friend, part of a batch — and came back with more friends than I arrived with. That's a Pondy thing too. The unhurried pace, the long evenings, the kind of conversations that only happen when nobody's in a rush to be anywhere. You meet people properly there.

The French Quarter, the seafront promenade, the quiet streets in early morning — there's a pace here that feels intentional. Like the city decided long ago that rushing wasn't interesting.

Kids have no ceiling. That's the thing you notice first. They don't arrive at a trek thinking about their limits — they just go. They complain, sure. They stop. They cry sometimes. And then they keep going anyway, because the person next to them is going too.

Watching a group of ten-year-olds figure out teamwork on a steep section — not because someone told them to, but because one of them reached back and the others followed — that's not something you can teach in a classroom.

What I'm watching in these kids: new friendships built in five days that feel like years. Meals shared with strangers. Gear taken care of because someone showed them why it matters. A relationship with nature that no screen could have given them.

I'm learning alongside them — Kolb's experiential learning cycle, CLP frameworks, non-violent communication. How to stay calm when something goes sideways on trail. How to hold space for someone having a hard moment without making it bigger than it needs to be.

The outdoor learning model — structured, intentional, nature as the teacher — is something I want to keep exploring. There's something here worth building on. Will see how it goes.