Where the River Begins

A Post-Pandemic Journey to the Origins of the Ganges

Part 1: The Trek to Tapovan

The climb had fallen into a rhythm—each breath sharp, each step deliberate, the crunch of boots on loose scree biting into the silence. The trail to Tapovan twisted higher, narrowing to a thread, disappearing into boulders and jagged rock. The path was treacherous and offered no mercy to those who stumbled. I placed each foot deliberately, feeling the pull of the present moment grow stronger with every step. Mountains have a way of stripping your thoughts down to their barest elements until all that remains is the next step, the next breath, the next patch of earth beneath your feet.

Although I had been hiking for only two hours, the vastness of the landscape was beginning to dwarf time, rendering it meaningless. The spires of Bhagirathi Mountain I, II, and III loomed behind me, their presence towering over this endless ascent. They watched over my slow ascent, ancient sentinels marking an endless journey.

Twelve months.

It had been twelve months of confinement, working from home without pause, drowning in the artificial rhythms of screens and meetings, my world reduced to walls and a flickering screen. For those like me, the pandemic had ground existence into a mechanical cycle: wake, work, sleep, repeat. Little room remained for anything else. No space to breathe, no time to think beyond the next task, the next problem to solve. But underneath it all, a deeper unrest began to take shape—quiet at first, but growing louder as the months dragged on. It gnawed at me, this sense of estrangement from the world and, more unsettlingly, from myself.

In June, seeking an escape from the monotony of my days, I decided to visit Varanasi—a sacred city on the banks of the Ganges, where much of my childhood had unfolded. Revered as the holiest river in India, the Ganges shapes the cultural and spiritual fabric of North India. I watched life unfold around its banks, the noise and chaos interwoven with the river’s sacredness. The early morning aartis, the chants of priests, the sight of funeral pyres burning on the ghats—everything felt familiar. In Varanasi, death is ever-present, woven into the very fabric of daily life. And yet, the city is not one of sorrow. It pulses with energy, buzzing with a chaotic, sacred hum that feels timeless, eternal. The sacred river flows through it all, steady and unbroken, a reminder that life is as transient as the ashes scattered into its waters.

However, during that visit, the river felt different—older, heavier, as though it carried the weight of everything the world had endured. Standing on its banks, I felt the gravity of this change, the silent witness to the lives of millions. It was there that I decided to make a pilgrimage, to seek the source of this river that touches over 400 million lives. I would trace its path backward, journeying to the place where it began, high in the frozen lands above Gangotri, Uttrakhand.

A month later, I found myself here, on the fifth day of the Gaumukh-Tapovan trek, climbing the ancient trail along the Bhagirathi River. Here, the river roared, as it rushed over rocks—wild and pure in a way the Ganges of the plains never could be. I spent four days following its path, watching as it cut through the valley, its waters cold and crystal clear.

On the trek, I realized that I wasn’t the first to turn to the peaks in times of crisis. After every great calamity, humanity had always sought refuge in the mountains. I had read about soldiers after the world wars in Europe, the way they returned to the Alps, the Pyrenees, and the Himalayas—to make sense of the senseless. COVID had been no different. A global war without gunfire, but the wreckage was just as real. And in its aftermath, we too were turning to the mountains, believing their calmness could offer something the world below could not.

The group I was trekking with climbed beside me. Fifth day into the trek—we weren’t strangers exactly. Each of us moved through the rocky terrain with quiet focus. Each step had to be placed carefully, with our eyes scanning for areas prone to rockfall. Ahead, I could see a few sadhus (saints) and pilgrims inching towards Tapovan. They moved like shadows across the rocks, their pace unhurried. Some of these men had been coming here for decades. To them, this was a pilgrimage—an ascent not just of the body, but of the spirit.

I envied their calm.

I wasn’t sure if I had come seeking enlightenment or something else entirely. After twelve months of relentless work and isolation, I needed to make sense of what had happened, to piece together the fragments of who I had been. Like so many before me, I turned to the source of the Ganges, hoping that in the river’s origins, I might rediscover my own.

I was lost in my thoughts when I saw her.

At first, she was just a figure in the distance, a flash of silver against the granite rocks. She was climbing ahead of me, her pace steady, sure. Nothing unusual—just another hiker, part of the silent procession making its way toward the high-altitude meadow. But something about her tugged at the edges of my memory.

I quickened my pace, my heart now pounding in my chest. As I drew closer, her form became clearer—the silver jacket, the way her hair moved with the wind. Her face.

It couldn’t be. Could it?

But it was.

I stopped, my breath caught in my throat. She was only a few feet away now, resting against a rock. For a moment, I couldn’t move. The years melted away, and all I could see was the woman I had once known, the one I thought I would never see again.

She turned slowly, her eyes scanning the landscape before locking onto mine. A flicker of recognition passed between us. Disbelief, then shock.

“Is it really you?” I asked, my voice rough from the climb.

She smiled, the same smile that had stayed in my memory. “It is me, Chaudhary.”

Part 2: An unexpected reunion

She was only a few feet away now, pausing to rest against a rock, unaware of my presence. For a moment, I couldn’t move. The years fell away, and all I could see was the woman I had once known, the one I had thought I would never see again.

She turned, slowly, her eyes scanning the landscape, and then they found me. Her face registered the same shock I felt—a moment of recognition, of disbelief.

“Is it really you?” I asked, my voice rough from the climb.

She nodded, a smile forming on her lips. “It is me, SirJi,” she said cheerfully.

We stood there, caught between past and present, time folding in on itself. Our groups continued climbing ahead, growing smaller against the rocky terrain.

I smiled, trying to ground the moment in something familiar. “Well, Madam,” I said, half-joking, “it’s great to see you again.”

Her smile softened, and for a fleeting moment, the familiarity between us returned. But there was distance now, time that had separated us. We had become strangers again. How well do you truly know someone when the time spent without them eclipses the time you spent together?

“We’re camping in Tapovan as well,” I added, suddenly aware of how formal I sounded. “I’ll see you soon.”

She nodded, that slight smile lingering. “I’m sure you will.”

She turned and continued climbing, disappearing into the jagged rocks ahead. I stayed behind, replaying the encounter in my mind. Seeing her again brought back memories I had long buried—memories of another trek, another time, ten years ago.

Her smile softened, and the familiarity between us flickered for a moment. But I felt us retreating into the safer spaces of polite conversation. We weren’t the same people anymore, after all, and perhaps we were strangers again. How well do you really know someone when the time you spent with them is eclipsed by the time you spent without?

“We're camping in Tapovan as well,” I added, suddenly aware of how I sounded. “I’ll see you soon.”

She nodded, a slight smile still playing on her lips. “I’m sure you will.”

She turned and continued climbing, disappearing into the jagged rocks ahead. I stayed behind, replaying the encounter in my mind. Seeing her again brought back memories I had long buried—memories of another trek, another time, ten years ago.

Meeting her again on another trek had seemed impossible. Ten years. That’s how long it had been since we last saw each other, during that trek in Sikkim, inching closer to the Kanchenjunga range. Back then, everything had seemed brighter, more possible. Each day spent with her felt like an unfolding story—shared glances, laughter, and that unspoken connection that only happens when you’re young and un-tethered from the weight of time.

Meeting her again on this trek was a chance event. Ten years. That’s how long it had been since we last saw each other, during that trek to Goechala, inching closer to the Kanchenjunga range. Everything had felt brighter then, more possible. Every day spent with her had felt like a new chapter of a story unfolding. Shared glances, laughter, the unspoken connection that exists only when you’re young and untethered from the weight of time.

I stll remembered how she had pulled me toward her as we crossed that narrow stream, laughing as if the world had no boundaries. I remembered how she had waved goodbye from the bus window, and how I had thought then that there would always be more time. More chances to reconnect. But life had gotten in the way. One job, then the next. Higher education. Ambition. And then, COVID. The world kept moving, and so did we.

Half an hour later, I finally reached Tapovan. The air was thinner here, purer. The peaks of Bhagirathi towered above, sharp and jagged, their snow-capped ridges glowing in the soft evening light. Behind me, Mount Shivling stood like a perfect cone, glowing softly in the dusky sky.

The landscape was vast. Indifferent. Beautiful.

In the distance, the great peaks of Bhagirathi rose into the sky, jagged and ancient, casting long shadows over the valley. From Tapovan, you could see the Gaumukh glacier as it stretched below the Bhagirathi peaks, a frozen river of ancient ice, running 40 kilometers through the valley. The glacier had been receding for years and was once in Gangotri itself. Its sheer expanse was awe-inspiring, a reminder of the forces that shaped this land long before we ever set foot here.

On my left was Meru. I had wanted to see this mountain ever since watching the famous documentary featuring Jimmy Chin, Conrad Anker, and Renan Ozturk. The documentary had shown how they were drawn to the mountain, facing personal demons within their own lives before conquering it.

I set my pack down near our camp, where the rest of my group was already settling in. I decided to join them for a snack and then took a nap beneath a boulder. When I woke up, the sky had turned from bright blue to dusky purple. As I sat there, watching the light fade, I couldn’t shake the thought of that chance encounter. She was out there, somewhere among the other trekking groups perched beneath Mount Shivling.

She was out there somewhere, among the other groups perched beneath the looming peaks. I asked at a few camps, but no one had seen her. I could see one last campsite, the farthest one, and decided to go there. As I approached the last group of tents, I asked one of the guides if they had seen a woman in a silver jacket.

“She’s with us,” he said, “but she went somewhere else. Not sure where.”

I thanked him and made my way back to my own camp, disappointed but happy that I had gone to look for her.

I returned to my own camp, frustrated but resigned, only to be greeted by one of my group members.

“She came looking for you,” he said, grinning.

I blinked, surprised. “Who?”

“The woman you were searching for. She came by earlier.”

A strange mix of frustration and relief washed over me. She had been looking for me, too.

Determined, I headed back toward her camp, the air now colder, the final light slipping away behind the mountains. Just as I was beginning to wonder if I had missed her again, I saw her. She was standing by a stream—a tributary of Mount Shivling—her figure framed by the fading light. I recognized the silver jacket instantly. She was looking down at the water, lost in thought, but when she saw me approaching, her expression shifted—part surprise, part amusement, maybe even relief.

“You came back looking for me,” she said, smiling, as if seeing me twice in one day was a surprise even the mountains had conspired to create.

“You were looking for me too,” I replied, my voice lighter now, the tension from earlier slipping away. The moment felt softer, easier.

We stood there in silence for a few moments, neither of us rushing to break it, both perhaps searching for the right words. The sky was darkening, the peaks of Bhagirathi still bathed in the last light of the day, like the final sands of an hourglass slipping away.

“Do you want to walk?” I asked, pointing toward the edge of the ridge, where the view would open up, offering a panoramic glimpse of the glacier below. “The view from up there should be worth it. But we don’t have much time before dark.”

She nodded, and we began walking, side by side, our steps slow, deliberate, as if neither of us was in a hurry to end the silence.When we reached, the mountains loomed large above us, their icy peaks glowing faintly against the dimming light.

“How have the years been for you?” I finally asked, breaking the quiet.

She smiled, a flicker of something—nostalgia? —passing through her eyes. “They’ve been good to me,” she said softly. “I’ve been working with the government, doing what I love. Making a difference, I hope.” She glanced up at the peaks, their sharp ridges glowing faintly in the dying light. “I’ve never stopped coming to the mountains. They’re a part of me. I need them.”

?I nodded, not surprised. Even back then, her love for the mountains had been a constant. While the rest of us looked for escape, she had always found home in the jagged landscapes.

“And you?” she asked, turning her gaze toward me. “How has life treated you? Achieved everything you set out to?”

I laughed softly, shaking my head. “Nobody does,” I said. “You start with all these possibilities, this idea of who you could be, what you could achieve. But life doesn’t always line up with that. I’ve had my share of jobs, I’ve got the degrees, the promotions, but...” My voice trailed off, I sighed, the weight of the last year heavy in my voice. “And then the pandemic hit,” I continued. “Spent the last year and a half working non-stop, like most of the world. At first, work felt like a refuge. But over time, it became...everything. The lines blurred. I got lost in it.”

She was quiet for a moment, her eyes studying me. “That doesn’t sound healthy,” she said finally. “The constant chase. Using work as a way to avoid...what, exactly?”

I shrugged.

She nodded, as if that made perfect sense. “One should build a life where work is part of it, not all of it. There’s balance to be found.” She paused, her gaze wandering to the peaks above us. “Balance is beautiful.”

Her words lingered in the air between us, quiet and profound. Balance. A concept I hadn’t given much thought to in years.

We continued walking, the silence between us now more comfortable. It wasn’t just a silence of words; it was the quiet of mutual understanding. I realized that seeing her again was like holding a mirror up to myself—a reflection of who I had been and who I had become. Sitting there beside her, I could feel the years peeling away, revealing the younger version of myself—the one who had believed that love, ambition, and adventure could all coexist. That version of me felt distant, but being here, with her, in the shadow of these mountains, I could feel him stirring again.

Seeing her again now was a reminder of who I had been, and how far I had strayed from that person.I was simply glad that she recognized me and I was not a casualty of time.

We sat together, watching the light fade, and talked about the legend of Bhagirath—the king who had brought the Ganga to earth, and how the river had broken free, flowing down from these very peaks. It felt as though the lore lived in the landscape itself, woven into the rocks and the ice.

Yet, as we sat there beneath the shadow of Mount Shivling, I realized that time had changed us both. The years had hardened me in ways I couldn’t deny, just as they had softened her. But as we sat there, I realized that time had changed us. She had grown softer, more grounded, while I had grown harder, more distant. We didn’t need to speak of it. The past was a place we no longer lived in, and the people we had been back then were strangers to the people we had become.

When we stood to begin our descent, she reached out to steady herself, her hand brushing against my arm, just as she had done all those years ago on that stream in Sikkim. For a moment, I felt the weight of the years lift, as though we had stepped back in time.

“I should go,” she said quietly as we reached the base of the ridge. “My folks are waiting. We’re heading back to Gangotri tomorrow. I’ve already seen Gaumukh.” She smiled, though there was something wistful in it. “I know you’ll like it.”

I nodded, feeling the weight of the encounter slipping away. “All the best for your journey,” I said. “I’ll reach Gaumukh soon enough.”

She hesitated for a moment, as if there was more to say. Then she smiled again, softer this time, her eyes searching mine. “Just don’t go there looking for answers. You seem burdened by questions. I can see it in your face.” She paused, her words deliberate. “Simply absorb the moment. The answers...they’ll come, or maybe they won’t. But that’s not the point.”

With that, she turned and walked away, her figure disappearing into the growing darkness. I stood there for a moment, watching until the last trace of her silver jacket vanished into the night.

And just like that, she was gone.

Part 3: Another Pilgrim

The next morning, I descended from Tapovan, the journey back to Gaumukh taking over three hours. The air was colder here, sharper, as if the glacier itself exhaled its icy breath into the valley. When I reached the mouth of the glacier, I stood for a moment, staring at the water as it spilled from its frozen source, flowing down into the world below. Its journey had just begun, but there was a sense of inevitability in its flow. It would carve its way down the valley, into the plains, and eventually merge with the sacred Ganga, touching millions of lives along the way.

I knelt by the water, cupping my hands, letting the coldness sting my skin. My face was roasted from the climb, but the water felt purifying, absolute. I let it wash over me, feeling the sharp bite of its cold clarity.?

As I sat there, I felt a strange sense of calm. Was it closure? Or perhaps the sense of meaning that had eluded me for months, lost somewhere in the quiet, suffocating isolation of the pandemic?

I came here with questions. Like every pilgrim, my journey had begun with the weight of those questions—about purpose, fulfillment, balance. But standing here, at the source of the river, I realized something else.

I had been carrying those questions as a burden, not as companions. Yet here, at the source of the river, the world suddenly felt vast again, and I was just a small part of it—one person walking through it, one pilgrim among many.

Sometimes, the realization that you are a small part of something much larger is the answer you’ve been seeking. The beauty was in the movement, the journey, the act of seeking itself.

With my solipsm fading, I stood up and began the long walk back, leaving Gaumukh behind, turning toward the next two days of my journey back to Gangotri. Two more days of walking through this vast, unyielding landscape, and then back to the plains. Back to the noise, the routine, the life I had left behind.

But I had changed. The questions that had once weighed me down now felt lighter. They were still there, but their urgency had softened. Their edges had blurred.

By the time I reached Gangotri, I no longer felt the need to carry them so heavily.