Amay doesn’t just “go” there.
He ascends into thinness.
Most Indian yatris travel via Uttarakhand through Lipulekh Pass or via Nepal. The landscape gradually transforms:
* Pine forests fade.
* The air dries.
* Oxygen thins.
* Vegetation disappears.
* The world becomes rock, sky, and silence.
As he crosses into the Tibetan plateau, everything changes scale.
The plateau sits at an average elevation of **4,500 meters (14,800 ft)**.
The sky is unnaturally blue.
Clouds look closer than mountains.
The road becomes barren stretches of ochre and rust-colored earth. Wind moves like something alive.
And then—
Kailash appears.
Not the tallest mountain in the Himalayas.
But unmistakable.
A near-perfect pyramid of black rock with a white snow cap, standing at **6,638 meters (21,778 ft)**.
It doesn’t look climbed.
It looks guarded.
No successful summit has ever been recorded.
Pilgrims don’t conquer Kailash.
They circumambulate it.
---
## Lake Mansarovar
Nearby lies Lake Mansarovar at around **4,590 meters (15,060 ft)**.
It’s one of the highest freshwater lakes in the world.
Its water changes color with light:
* Morning: steel blue.
* Afternoon: turquoise.
* Sunset: molten gold.
* Night: ink black mirror.
The lake is almost perfectly round — like an eye.
Local belief says it was first conceived in the mind of Brahma before it manifested physically.
And now he stands before a lake believed to have been imagined into existence.
The symbolism is heavy.
---
## The Camp
Their tents are pitched on the cold gravelly banks.
The wind at night is merciless.
Temperature drops below freezing even in summer.
The silence is absolute.
No city hum.
No traffic.
Just:
* Wind.
* Occasional yak bells in distance.
* Prayer flags snapping sharply.
* The sound of one’s own heartbeat.
The stars are violent at this altitude.
The Milky Way isn’t faint.
It spills across the sky like torn light.
---
## The Night & The Dreams
Amay lies in a sleeping bag inside a thin tent.
Altitude headache pulses behind his eyes.
Oxygen feels insufficient.
His body is exhausted.
His mind is unguarded.
And he dreams.
---
### Dream One: College Anvi
She’s in a college courtyard.
Hair loose.
Laughing.
Chirping.
Arguing about something trivial.
He watches her from a distance.
He has never seen this version.
He never knew her in college.
Yet it feels painfully real.
The way she tucks hair behind her ear.
The way she swings her bag.
The way sunlight hits her face.
He feels like an outsider in her life.
Again.
---
### Dream Two: The Proposal
He sees himself going to her house to ask for her hand.
She’s getting ready.
Nervous.
Adjusting her dupatta.
Looking into the mirror.
Breathing deeply.
He has never seen that moment.
He was not there when she prepared.
He only saw the final version.
But here…
He sees her anticipation.
Her doubt.
Her quiet hope.
It feels like memory.
But it cannot be memory.
---
## He Wakes
The cold air hits his face.
The tent fabric flaps violently.
His heart is racing.
For a few seconds he doesn’t know where he is.
Then—
Kailash silhouette outside.
He rubs his forehead.
“Altitude,” he tells himself.
Low oxygen can cause vivid dreams.
Hallucinations are common at high elevation.
The brain plays tricks.
That’s rational.
That’s safe.
But something unsettles him.
Because the details were too precise.
Too intimate.
Too… lived.
And he knows:
He never saw her like that.
So how did his mind construct expressions he had never witnessed?
He tells himself:
Grief reconstructs what it misses.
The brain fills blanks.
Imagination is cruel.
He drinks water.
Steps outside.
The lake is dark.
Kailash stands unmoving.
And for the first time—
He doesn’t think about altering timelines.
He feels small.
Very small.
As if whatever he did…
Whatever he believes he did…
Means nothing before this mountain.
And that frightens him more than the dreams.
This is excellent psychological–cosmic disorientation territory. I’ll continue in your tone and emotional temperature — dark, intense, slightly surreal.
Morning arrived without warmth.
The sun rose over the frozen skin of the lake, scattering fractured gold across the water. The camp slowly came alive — pilgrims chanting softly, utensils clinking, prayer flags fluttering violently in the sharp wind.
Amay stepped out of his tent with heavy eyes. The dreams still clung to him like mist that refused to dissolve in daylight.
He watched the mountain in silence.
It looked closer today.
Or maybe he felt drawn toward it.
After a brief breakfast he approached the guide.
“I will explore alone today,” Amay said calmly.
The guide stiffened immediately.
“Sir, no one explores this region alone. Even experienced trekkers avoid leaving the designated path. Altitude sickness can strike without warning. Weather shifts in minutes. You must stay with the group.”
Amay nodded, as if he heard him.
But the stillness in his eyes unsettled the guide.
“I will meet everyone here by evening,” Amay said quietly.
“Sir, please understand—”
“I will be back.”
It wasn’t stubbornness.
It was something heavier.
Like a man walking toward something already decided.
He began walking along the rough trail circling the sacred mountain.
The terrain was brutally uneven — loose gravel, frozen mud, patches of old ice hiding beneath thin dust. Each step demanded effort. The altitude pressed against his chest like an invisible hand tightening slowly.
Breathing became deliberate.
Measured.
Painful.
The air felt unfinished… like it lacked substance.
The wind howled through barren slopes carrying dry snow particles that scratched his skin.
There were no birds.
No insects.
No sound except wind and his own boots crushing stone.
As he moved further, the landscape grew stranger.
The mountain seemed to shift angles without him changing direction. The slopes repeated themselves. A particular jagged rock formation appeared again and again.
His watch said two hours had passed.
But the sun remained fixed at the same height.
Not rising.
Not setting.
Just hanging.
Time felt stretched… diluted.
His heartbeat grew louder inside his ears.
He stopped and looked back.
The trail behind him looked unfamiliar.
He continued forward.
Because turning back suddenly felt impossible.
The altitude worsened.
A dull pressure crawled behind his eyes.
His vision blurred slightly at the edges.
His legs trembled from exhaustion, but he kept walking with mechanical determination — like something beyond willpower was pulling him forward.
Then he noticed something disturbing.
The snow patterns.
They looked identical.
As if he had walked through this exact patch minutes ago.
He turned sharply.
Nothing.
Only endless stone and wind.
He walked faster.
Breathing turned ragged.
His lungs burned like he was inhaling shards of glass.
And suddenly—
He saw his camp.
Right in front of him.
The same tents.
The same prayer flags.
The same shoreline.
He froze.
He staggered forward in disbelief.
His legs nearly collapsed beneath him.
He checked his watch again.
It showed late evening.
The sky above the lake glowed with sunset hues — deep orange bleeding into bruised purple.
He turned back toward the mountain.
Dark.
Cold.
Shadowed.
But when he had stood near it moments ago…
The sun had been bright.
Blinding.
Afternoon light.
His throat dried instantly.
He stumbled toward his tent like a man returning from somewhere forbidden.
Inside, everything was unchanged.
His sleeping bag.
His backpack.
His half-finished water bottle.
Nothing indicated hours had passed.
Nothing indicated he had gone anywhere unusual.
But his body told another story.
His muscles ached as if he had trekked for days.
His pulse throbbed violently in his temples.
His hands trembled uncontrollably.
He stepped outside again.
Pilgrims were returning from their own short walks.
Laughing.
Taking photographs.
Chatting about weather and exhaustion.
Normal.
Grounded.
Linear.
No one looked confused.
No one seemed to have noticed time behaving strangely.
He looked toward the mountain again.
And for a fraction of a second—
He felt something unbearable.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Like the mountain had allowed him to walk…
But not to reach.
Like he had been turned around deliberately.
Placed back.
Returned.
He sat down near the lake, staring at the darkening water.
His mind raced for logical explanations.
Altitude hallucination.
Time perception distortion.
Exhaustion.
Low oxygen affecting spatial orientation.
Every explanation sounded correct.
And completely insufficient.
The wind grew sharper as night fell.
The surface of the lake turned black, reflecting fractured stars.
He pressed his palms into the freezing gravel beneath him.
Trying to anchor himself to something solid.
But a thought crawled slowly into his mind.
Heavy.
Unwelcome.
What if he wasn’t walking in circles?
What if…
The mountain was refusing to let him approach in a straight line?
For the first time since arriving…
He felt watched.
Not by something hostile.
Not by something protective.
By something ancient.
And patient.
This is good.
Now we slow everything down.
Because repetition is what breaks a human being.
For seven days, it repeats.
Every morning he tells himself:
Today I will walk differently.
Every morning the guide looks at him with quiet suspicion.
Every morning the mountain stands unmoved.
And every day—
He walks.
He counts steps.
He changes direction.
He moves faster.
Slower.
Zigzag.
Straight.
It does not matter.
The sunlight near the slopes remains suspended in some eternal noon.
His watch refuses to agree with the sky.
The terrain loops in widening spirals.
The pressure behind his eyes grows worse each time.
And then—
He is back at camp.
Evening.
Tea being poured.
Same sunset.
Same wind.
As if the world politely pretends nothing strange happened.
By the fifth day, doubt enters.
Maybe it really is altitude.
Maybe his mind is fracturing.
Maybe grief is finally collapsing inward.
By the seventh day, something else enters.
Humility.
Because the truth settles quietly:
No one climbs Kailash.
Not because it is physically impossible.
But because it does not allow ascent.
He realizes something deeper.
He is not being blocked.
He is being measured.
And he keeps failing something he cannot define.
That night, halfway through the 15-day yatra, sleep refuses him.
The camp is silent.
Temperature below freezing.
The Milky Way spills violently over the black silhouette of Mount Kailash.
He steps out.
Walks slowly toward Lake Mansarovar.
The lake is still.
Perfectly still.
Like polished obsidian.
He sits on the cold gravel.
And looks at his reflection.
For a moment—
He does not recognize the face looking back.
The eyes look older.
Hollow.
Not in age.
In weight.
He studies his own expression.
And a strange thought enters him:
Which version of me is this?
The one who erased a branch?
The one who failed to save her?
The one who loves her in this timeline?
Or something else entirely?
The reflection flickers slightly with the wind.
He leans closer.
The water distorts his face.
And for a fraction of a second—
He sees grief in that reflection that he does not consciously remember.
A grief deeper than this timeline contains.
His chest tightens.
He whispers:
“Who am I trying to prove myself to?”
The mountain does not answer.
The lake does not move.
Only his own breathing breaks the silence.
Hope thins at altitude.
Confidence evaporates quickly at 4,500 meters.
Surrounded by emptiness, ego begins dissolving.
He finally accepts a truth he resisted:
It’s true.
No one treks Kailash.
You don’t conquer it.
You don’t reach it.
You walk around it.
You surrender to it.
And maybe that’s the point.
Self-doubt wraps around him tightly.
What if the loops are not punishment?
What if they are mirrors?
Every time he approaches with determination—
With force—
With the same intensity that once tried to control love—
The mountain folds space and returns him.
Maybe the mountain is not measuring strength.
Maybe it is measuring surrender.
He closes his eyes near the water.
The cold bites into his skin.
And for the first time in a week—
He stops trying to reach anything.
He simply sits.
Empty.
After a long time, he stands.
Looks at the silhouette of Kailash.
Not with challenge.
Not with frustration.
But with quiet acceptance.
“I will try once more,” he whispers.
Not to conquer.
Not to break rules.
Not to demand answers.
Just to walk.
One final time.
And if it returns him again—
He will stop.
Not because he failed.
But because he understood.
There are seven days left in the yatra.
And something has shifted.
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