We spent the evening at Temi Kothy the way such evenings are meant to be spent—without watching the clock.
Dinner slowly turned into conversation, and conversation into something warmer, more open. The family spoke to us as if we weren’t strangers anymore. There was no hesitation, no guarded distance.
Sikkim people, we concluded, are simply… different.
Kinder. Softer. More open to letting you in.
At some point, the conversation drifted—as it always does in the mountains—towards stories you don’t tell in cities.
Ghosts.
Ahmad, surprisingly, leaned into it.
With unusual interest, he spoke about how the hills carry their own presence. How silence in the mountains isn’t always empty. How certain places feel… occupied.
The daughters listened, half amused, half serious.
And I sat there, somewhere between missing my protein-heavy dinner and trying to piece together the history of Sikkim from fragments of conversation.
It was all light.
Playful.
Unstructured.
The kind of banter that doesn’t aim anywhere—but stays with you anyway.
Outside, the night had deepened.
The cold had sharpened.
The wind coming down from Kanchenjunga wasn’t just cold—it cut through. It carried a kind of rawness that went past skin and settled into bone.
Still, no one wanted to get up.
No one wanted to end the moment.
But the next day wasn’t going to be easy.
And eventually, fatigue made the decision for us.
I quietly said what no one wanted to say—it was time to sleep.
We stepped out, walked back to our cottage, and within minutes, sleep took over.
Deep. Immediate. Undisturbed.
Morning came gently.
Breakfast was simple, warm, grounding.
And in our quiet rush to leave, we unknowingly carried something with us.
The cottage keys.
It was a small mistake—but for Ahmad, it became another reason to reconnect. A quick call, a shared laugh, a promise to return it.
Somehow, even that felt like part of the experience.
And then began the part of the journey that would test our patience more than our endurance.
The ride to North Sikkim.
Our agent had suggested we take a full cab.
It wasn’t expensive.
It wasn’t inconvenient.
It was… sensible.
But I chose otherwise.
Saving money felt like the smarter move at that moment.
And that decision—
was about to cost us.
And earn me the silent irritation of Ahmad.
We were put into a shared jeep.
Cramped would be an understatement.
Ten people.
One vehicle.
And barely enough space to breathe, let alone sit comfortably.
And then came the real irony.
Two people who value silence. Space. Privacy.
Now packed into a moving box full of strangers.
Elbows negotiating territory. Knees adjusting angles. Conversations happening inches away, whether you wanted to be part of them or not.
We—who could drive for hours without saying a word—
were now surrounded by voices, languages, laughter, phone calls, and someone’s music playing endlessly in the background.
There was nowhere to go.
Not even into your own thoughts.
At one point, I looked at Ahmad.
He looked back.
No words.
But the message was clear—
“Yeh kya kar diya tune?”
And honestly—
I had no defense.
Just the quiet realization that my “cost-saving decision” had turned into a full-blown social experiment.
But somewhere in that chaos, there was humor too.
Because sometimes, discomfort doesn’t break you—
it just gives you a story you’ll laugh about later.
And this—
this was definitely one of those.
And then there was the driver.
Young.
Unpredictable.
And quite possibly the most unsafe driver I have ever encountered.
Later, we understood why.
He was constantly on the phone—with his girlfriend.
And somehow, the car responded to her mood.
Every emotional shift in that conversation translated into the way he drove.
Acceleration. Braking. Sudden turns.
It felt less like we were on a road—
and more like we were inside someone else’s emotional turbulence.
I had to intervene.
A quiet negotiation.
A small bribe.
And we secured the two front seats.
That changed everything.
At least we could breathe again.
Though even then, space wasn’t enough.
In the middle row, a couple had cleverly booked all four seats—buying themselves comfort we hadn’t thought of.
In hindsight, I should have done the same.
Two seats for two people in that kind of terrain?
Not enough.
The journey continued.
Uncomfortable.
Unpredictable.
Compromised at every step.
The food stops were poor. The pace was uneven. The lack of control over our own movement made it worse.
Ahmad was clearly not pleased.
And I couldn’t blame him.
So I did what I could.
I tried to shift his attention.
To the views outside.
And that, at least, helped.
Because the mountains don’t fail you.
No matter how chaotic the journey gets, one glance outside—and everything slows down.
The valleys opened up. Waterfalls appeared out of nowhere. Clouds drifted across peaks like they had nowhere else to be.
The driver, in between calls, played the same hill songs on repeat—
Kanchi re, kanchi re…
Again and again.
At some point, it stopped being music.
It became background.
There were moments, though—
when even the beauty outside couldn’t mask what was happening inside the vehicle.
At one sharp turn, the driver took a curve so aggressively that for a split second, it felt like the end.
The kind of moment where time pauses.
Only to realize, a second later, that he had simply shifted onto a downward mountain track—one we hadn’t even seen.
Because in the hills, roads don’t always announce themselves.
They just… appear.
Somewhere along the way, Ahmad had enough.
There was an exchange.
Firm. Direct.
The driver calmed down after that.
I’ll leave the details out.
But let’s just say—the rest of the drive became more controlled.
After what felt like a very long day, we finally reached Lachung.
Our stay for the night.
Lunch was served.
Simple. Functional.
And after everything the journey had been—
it was enough.
We didn’t talk much.
Didn’t need to.
We just rested.
Because sometimes, the hardest part of a journey isn’t the distance.
It’s giving up control—and learning to endure what comes with it.
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