Eastern Himalayan Trek

I still remember the smell of damp forest soil when I reached Yuksom in 2014, backpack heavier than usual, heart lighter than it had been in years.

The elections had just ended in India, posters still fluttering on walls, and the village felt like it was taking a long, quiet breath after weeks of campaigning.

It had been three years since I had last seen my trekking brothers — Yatinji and Sankalp. We had started doing Himalayan treks back in 2010, and somehow, despite life pulling us in different directions, we kept finding our way back to the Himalayan mountains again and again.

I had coordinated this entire Goechala expedition barely five months earlier, planning, meeting points — a ritual I had grown to cherish more than I admitted.

My daughter Jagriti was just one year old then, and leaving home wasn’t easy. My family was proud, nervous, and silently terrified each time I stepped into the mountains.

Mobile networks barely worked. Sometimes we spoke after three days, sometimes four. Each call was just enough for them to breathe again.

But the Himalayas have their own pull — one that doesn't loosen, no matter how life changes.

And so, on April 20th, 2014, we began.

The trek that tested us, held us, and changed us

From Yuksom to Goechala, the trail wound through deep forests, wooden bridges, and the kind of silence you cannot hear anywhere else. We ate steaming momo at tiny rest stops (before the treak started), hot veg soup that tasted like medicine for the soul, and Maggi cooked at high altitude — a taste every trekker knows becomes more heavenly with height. Instant noodles, tea so sweet it revived the coldest fingers — food on treks has its own meaning.

We were a group of 16 trekkers from different parts of the world, but the mountains make strangers familiar very quickly.

The first few days felt like floating — the air crisp, the views almost unreal, laughter echoing through the campsites.

But the last three days… the last three days belonged to something deeper.

Altitude started tightening its grip on Sankalp. His steps grew slower, breathing heavier, eyes tired but determined. And without even thinking, I stayed with him — matching his pace, encouraging him, reminding him why we started. Each step felt like a small victory. Each halt, a meditation.

He cracked jokes even when struggling, dropping hilarious one-liners only he could think of. Even in the hardest moments, he made us laugh.

We finished together.
Not fast. Not perfectly. But together.
And that is what remains.

Nights we will never forget

At every campsite, just after dinner, a small ritual began.

Yatinji — with his calm face and old-school charm — would start singing Kishore Kumar classics.

“Aane Wala Pal… Jaane Wala Hai…”
His voice blended with the sound of wind brushing the tent walls, the faraway rumble of the river, and the quiet breath of the mountains.

Before sleeping, I would play
“O Palanhare…” on my phone — soft, devotional, comforting. Inside our tents, wrapped in sleeping bags, cold around 4 to 2 degrees, we listened together. Somehow, that song made every campsite feel like home.

Those were simple nights, but I still feel them in my bones.

Chilling Stormy Winds

It was Me and Sankalp for the Strom

Service 7 star for this cup of Tea - Saved Him

On the Way - The Snake Turn Velley

Campsite Beside Frozen Lake

Frozen Lake

Gratitude that stays forever

I owe so much — to the people we met on the trail, the guides who walked ahead like guardians, and the strangers who became temporary family. The Himalayas teach humility without saying a word.

And I owe something even deeper to my own people — my family — who waited anxiously, checking their phones every few hours, counting the days, trusting that the mountains would return me safely.

The journey home

The return was a long chain of familiar places — Darjeeling’s misty mornings, Kalimpong’s quiet roads, Siliguri’s heat, Jalpaiguri’s endless greenery, Howrah station’s chaotic heartbeat of India. We carried stories more than luggage.

On the way back, Yatinji handed me a trekking stick — simple, wooden, and priceless. I still have it today. It stands near my cupboard, a reminder of a younger version of me who walked through clouds with friends who felt like brothers.

A trek that lives inside me

Goechala - Sikkim Himalayas was not just days of Trekking in the mountains.

It was a reunion.
A test.
A memory carved into snow and stone.
A chapter of youth I will carry forever.

Even now, when life gets busy, I close my eyes and see us — three men, three old friends — walking slowly through a wall of white clouds, laughing, struggling, singing, surviving… and finally standing on the heights of Sikkim, grateful for every breath.

We Played the best Possible Shots (Upper Golf) in the Grass, on Snow and on Rock - and Every Shot is incredible when Yatinji and Sankalp joins.