Day five of our yatra, and there we were—ready at five in the morning to meet Lord Badrinath and Maa Lakshmi. It was my birthday, and something about being there, in the heart of the Himalayas, felt so aligned—as if God himself had invited me. Badrinath is called Moksh Dham, the land of liberation. And honestly, I couldn’t have asked for a better start to my new decade.
The sacred air was cold, but it didn’t matter. My heart was warm. Grateful for the delays, for the detours, because they led me right here. Right on time. As I stood there, taking in the mist and the quiet anticipation of the morning, I saw my fellow yatris from last night coming toward me. One by one, they hugged me tightly, whispering Happy Birthday into the stillness. Strangers, now soul-friends. That moment made my eyes well up. I felt held by people, by the mountains, by the divine.
The sky was a dream—clouds gently resting on snowy peaks, and the sun just beginning to rise. A friend walked up to me and said, “Look at the sunrise and the light—it rises every day. I wish that same light and rise in your life. Happy Birthday.” That blessing lingered.
As we began our journey, the first golden rays of sunlight kissed the snow-draped mountains, and for a fleeting moment, the light formed a silhouette that resembled Ganesh ji himself. It was surreal, as if the divine had chosen to walk with us. We stood in silence, hearts stilled in awe. In that moment, it felt like even the mountains were bowing, and nature itself was deep in prayer. Soon, we arrived in Badrinath—a town that feels like it’s been carved from myth and memory. The temple stood tall and radiant against the Himalayan backdrop. Badrinath Temple, located at 10,200 feet, is believed to be where Lord Vishnu meditated. To protect him from the freezing cold, Maa Lakshmi is said to have taken the form of a Badri tree—hence the name Badri-Nath, Lord of Badri.
The streets buzzed with chants and bells, yet a serene calm lingered in the air. As we waited in line for darshan, a middle-aged woman beside me smiled and asked softly,
“Is this your first time here?”
I whispered back, “No, this is my second visit, but it’s my birthday today.”
Her eyes lit up warmly. “Ah, then you’ve already received your gift. Not everyone gets to see him on a day like this. You must have done something good.”
That sentence stayed with me. Simple. Profound. I held it close, like a quiet blessing.
And then, it was time.
An hour passed, and there I was, standing before him. The black shaligram murti of Lord Badrinarayan radiated an energy that can’t be described, only felt. In that sacred stillness, our eyes met—or at least it felt that way. No words were needed. My heart spoke its gratitude for the past, the present, and whatever is to come. That moment felt whole, like a blessing wrapped in silence.
We stepped out slowly, hearts full. During the climb towards the temple and again while walking down, something had shifted in me. There was no grand realisation, just a quiet sense of knowing, like a layer had peeled away. We visited the sacred kund of hot springs nearby, where the steam rose gently in the morning air. Bowing to Maa Alaknanda, who was flowing in full force, I felt the raw energy of the river—the feminine power, the fierce grace.
Near the bridge, I paused. In front of the temple, I stood still, holding a video call with my family. They whispered “Happy Birthday”, the echo of chants in the background, the beauty of Badrinath wrapped in clouds, the roar of the Alaknanda—it all felt surreal. In that precise moment, everything aligned. Something truly shifted inside me. A silent transformation. The kind you don’t explain in words—you just carry it with you.
Then, we continued onward to Mana Village—the first Indian village before the Tibetan border.
Mana isn’t just a village—it’s a living epic. The narrow stone paths led us to Vyas Gufa, where Ved Vyas is believed to have composed the Mahabharata, and Ganesh Gufa, where Lord Ganesha transcribed it. We crossed the legendary Bhim Pul, a natural stone bridge that Bhim is said to have placed for Draupadi to cross the roaring Saraswati River. It’s one of the few places where the Saraswati is still visible—rushing, sacred, and untamed. Walking through Mana felt like walking through a story. Every stone whispered myth, every breeze carried an ancient truth. And yet, my heart was still anchored at the temple. Every time I looked back and saw the dwaja—the temple flag swaying high above—I felt a tug, a silent pull, as if Kanha was still calling me.
Before we left, I turned back for one last look. My eyes wouldn’t leave him. I had so much to say, but no words came. Just presence. Just peace. As we began our return to Dehradun, I carried more than memories—I carried something sacred. I had planned a special evening for my birthday, and it did turn out lovely. But the real celebration had already happened—at 10,200 ft, in the arms of the divine.
With strangers who became soul tribe.
With sunrise blessings.
With legends and silence.
With Kanha.
And with a new version of me, reborn in the Himalayas.
