We reached Mastuj as the day began to fade, the sun casting a warm golden glow across the rooftops. The village rested quietly between towering mountains, its wooden homes slightly tilted, as though they had risen naturally from the land itself—anchored in both earth and history. Thin streams of smoke drifted from chimneys, carrying the comforting scents of lentils, fresh bread, and burning wood. The evening air was sharp and cool, brushing against the skin with a crisp bite, yet softened by the warmth of life within the village.
As our jeep rolled through, children paused mid-play to watch us. A few lifted their hands in shy waves, their smiles hesitant but genuine. Others simply stared, eyes wide with curiosity, as if strangers were rare enough here to become stories later. One boy stood still, a worn football clutched in his hands, his expression caught somewhere between wonder and caution. Around us, the mountains felt closer, almost attentive—like silent witnesses to our arrival.
We stopped near a modest teahouse. Its sign, painted in Urdu, was uneven but inviting. Stepping inside, we were greeted by an immediate wave of warmth. Steam rose from kettles in slow curls, mingling with the rich aroma of mutton curry cooking over charcoal. The air held a blend of metal, spice, and the faint scent of pine drifting in from outside, creating an atmosphere that felt oddly soothing, almost reverent.
A man approached us—likely in his fifties—wearing a neatly tied pakol. His face was lined from years under the sun, and though he smiled, there was something restrained about it, a quiet caution beneath the politeness.
“Travelers?” he asked, his voice steady, shaped by the cadence of the region.
Diljeet nodded. “We’re on our way to Kailash.”
At the mention of that name, his expression shifted—just slightly, but enough to notice. His eyes flicked toward the window, where the last light touched the mountain peaks. He recovered quickly, gesturing for us to sit.
“You should rest,” he said carefully. “The journey ahead… is not easy.”
We settled at a table, grateful when steaming chai and bowls of shorba were placed before us. The warmth seeped into our hands as we held the cups, and the fragrant spices brought a sense of comfort. Around us, conversations continued in low tones, though now and then, glances were cast in our direction—subtle, fleeting, but unmistakable.
Peter leaned in. “They’re definitely talking about us.”
Amit shrugged lightly. “Of course they are. We’re the only outsiders here.”
But something about it didn’t feel so simple. The atmosphere in the room seemed heavier, as though the word Kailash had settled into the air itself. The faint creak of wooden boards, the flicker of candlelight—it all felt heightened, as if the space had grown aware of us. Even the humor between Peter and Amit felt like a thin barrier against something pressing quietly from beyond.
After a while, the man returned with another pot of tea. This time, his hands trembled slightly—not from age or cold, but from something less visible. His gaze rested on me for a moment, steady and intense, before he spoke in a low voice.
“The mountains remember those who come.”
I wanted to ask what he meant, but the words refused to form. There was something in his eyes—cold, observant, like stone—that made me hesitate. Without waiting for a response, he turned away, shoulders slightly hunched, as if burdened by what he had already said. He disappeared into the back, leaving behind only the faint scent of tea and wood.
Outside, the last traces of sunlight slipped away, and the valley fell into deep shadow. The mountains rose around us, dark and imposing, like ancient guardians that had witnessed countless lives and losses. A soft wind drifted down the slopes, carrying sounds that could have been distant voices—or simply the imagination at work.
Peter moved closer to the window, fogging the glass with his breath. “I thought I saw someone up there,” he murmured. “On that ridge. But when I looked again… nothing.”
Abdul placed a steady hand on my shoulder. “It’s just the wind,” he said. “This place plays tricks on the senses.”
Still, the feeling lingered. The mountains didn’t feel empty—they felt aware. Every shadow, every subtle movement in the distance seemed intentional. The fading light clung to the ridges in strange ways, reflecting with an almost unnatural precision.
Amit pulled out a chocolate bar, forcing a grin. “If the mountains are watching, I hope they appreciate good snacks.”
Peter gave a faint laugh. “I’d offer them chai, but I doubt they’d settle for that.”
Diljeet remained quiet, his gaze fixed on the peaks. His jaw tightened slightly. “We leave at first light,” he said. “Before the snow comes. Before anything else… wakes.”
We all understood. This stop had been a brief refuge—a moment of warmth before stepping further into the unknown. Beyond Mastuj lay the road we had come for: narrow, winding, and filled with uncertainty.
Night settled quickly over the village. The streets emptied, and smoke from chimneys drifted low, like whispered prayers rising into the dark. The mountains seemed even closer now, their presence pressing in from all sides. Somewhere, a dog barked—a lonely, echoing sound—and for a moment, it felt as though the mountains answered in silence.
Back at the inn, we lay down in uneasy rest. The wind brushed against the shutters, carrying a steady, hollow rhythm. Beneath it all, I could almost feel the valley itself—quiet, waiting.
Somewhere out there, the path to Kailash stretched onward, holding its secrets close.
And as sleep slowly claimed us, one thought lingered—
By morning, the mountains would remember us.
And we would have no choice but to remember them.
What we didn’t realize… was that something else had already noticed us.
Something patient.
Something waiting.
If you want to know who it chose first… the next chapter holds the answer.
ns216.73.216.98da2This work is my own concept and I have done enormous amount of hardwork on it. However the grammar is corrected with AI because it is not my native language.
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