The night before the trek, Shree couldn't focus on anything properly.
His textbooks lay open on the desk, pages marked with underlines and folded corners, but his attention kept drifting to the half-packed bag resting against the wall. Clothes were folded neatly—too neatly, as if order might calm his restlessness. He checked his water bottle again, twisting the cap until it squeaked, then loosened it slightly. A small first-aid kit sat in the side pocket, forced in after his mother's insistence, along with a power bank instead of a charger.
Where would I even charge it on a mountain? he had argued earlier, before quietly agreeing.
He told himself he would revise one last chapter. His eyes skimmed the same paragraph three times without absorbing a word. His fingers tapped against the wooden desk, a soft, impatient rhythm.
I'll study tomorrow on the way back, he lied to himself, fully aware of how unconvincing the lie was.
From the kitchen came the sounds that defined home. The steady chop of vegetables against a cutting board. The sizzle of mustard seeds bursting in hot oil. A pressure cooker let out a short hiss before settling into silence. His grandmother's voice drifted through it all, humming an old tune slightly off-key, the kind Shree had heard his entire life without ever learning the words.
The smell of cooked rice, spices, and ghee crept into his room, warm and familiar, settling somewhere deeper than hunger.
"Shree!" Vrushali's voice cut through his thoughts. "If you keep staring at that bag, it won't pack itself."
He looked up to find her leaning against the doorframe, her hair still damp from a shower, a towel slung over one shoulder. There was a teasing smile on her face, but her eyes flicked briefly to the open books.
"You're acting like you're going to war," she added. "Not a trek."
"Easy for you to say," Shree replied. "You're not the one who'll have to hear Mom's instructions every five minutes tomorrow morning."
Vrushali laughed, sharp and genuine. "Oh, trust me. I'll hear them too. Just because you're leaving doesn't mean I'm spared."
Dinner that night stretched longer than usual, the way it always did when no one was in a hurry to be anywhere else.
They sat together around the table—parents, grandparents, siblings—steel plates filled and refilled. His mother moved between the stove and the table, placing hot rotis directly onto plates. His grandmother kept adjusting the bowls, nudging more vegetables toward Shree without asking.
"Eat properly," she said. "Walking in the mountains takes strength."
"I will, Ajji," Shree replied automatically.
"Don't overeat and then complain your legs hurt," Vrushali added, earning herself a sharp look and a laugh at the same time.
His father talked about work, about traffic that never improved and deadlines that never waited. His grandfather interrupted him twice, correcting small details from stories that everyone had heard before. No one minded. The argument was familiar, comforting.
At one point, Shree caught his mother watching him—not openly, just a brief glance that lingered a moment longer than usual. When she passed behind his chair, her hand rested on his shoulder, light but steady.
"You've packed warm clothes?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Water bottle?"
"Yes."
"Power bank?"
"Yes."
She hesitated, then nodded, as if the answers reassured her only halfway.
Later, as the house settled into quiet, Shree lay on his bed staring at the ceiling fan. It spun lazily, the soft whirr blending with distant street sounds—an auto passing, a dog barking at nothing, someone closing a gate down the lane.
Sleep came slowly.
His thoughts drifted—not to exams, not to expectations—but to the road ahead. The early start. The laughter. The mountains he'd only seen in pictures. The simple freedom of stepping away from routine, even if only for a short while.
Just before dawn, a gentle knock woke him.
His mother entered quietly, careful not to turn on the light. She placed a small folded note and some cash on the table near his bag.
"For emergencies," she said softly.
Then she paused, as if reconsidering, before pulling out a thin black thread with a small charm tied to it. Old. Worn smooth by time.
"Wear this," she said. "It doesn't matter if you believe in it or not. I do."
Shree smiled, a little embarrassed, a little touched. He slipped it around his wrist without arguing.
"Okay."
Outside, the early morning air was cool and faintly damp. The city was only beginning to stir. An old man walked past with a cloth bag of flowers for morning prayers. A newspaper boy pedaled by on a cycle, the papers thudding softly onto doorsteps. Somewhere nearby, birds argued loudly from a tree that hadn't yet been cut down.
At the meeting point, his friends were already there—backpacks scattered, voices loud enough to cut through the quiet morning.
Karan was mid-joke, laughing before finishing it. Shreyash and Prajwal argued about routes, each convinced the other was wrong. Rutu had already started taking photos, capturing everything except the thing he was supposed to remember.
"Finally!" Prathamesh shouted when Shree arrived. "Doctor saab decided to bless us."
They laughed, pushing and teasing each other, energy spilling everywhere.
The journey itself felt easy.
Music played too loudly. Someone sang badly on purpose. A wrong turn led to exaggerated curses before dissolving into laughter. They stopped at a roadside tea stall, steam rising from small glasses as they stretched stiff legs and argued over whose fault the delay was. Locals read newspapers nearby, glancing at them with mild amusement.
As the city slowly faded behind them, replaced by open roads and quieter landscapes, Shree felt something loosen in his chest.
When the mountains finally appeared, conversation died down on its own.
They were larger than pictures.
Stepping out, Shree took a deep breath. The air felt different—cooler, heavier, cleaner. Sounds were fewer but sharper. Wind brushing leaves. Water moving somewhere unseen. Footsteps crunching on gravel.
"This feels… real," someone murmured.
The trek tested them in honest ways. Legs burned. Sweat soaked through clothes. Breath came harder with every incline. They laughed when someone slipped, helped without comment, shared water without counting.
At one point, Shree paused and looked back.
The path they had climbed already looked small.
He felt light. Not powerful. Not important. Just present.
That evening, resting near a clearing, exhaustion mixed with quiet satisfaction. Food tasted better than it ever had. Laughter came easily, without effort.
Shree sat slightly apart, watching his friends argue over something meaningless.
This, he thought, is what normal life feels like.
He didn't know how fragile that normalcy was. Only that, for now, the world was kind enough to let him rest.
And the mountains watched in silence.
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