A nonchalant scornful Himalayan Jackal crossing the street. 

Waking up to a cup of sweet hot black tea which half spills when your hands keep involuntarily shivering and surprisingly the scalding on your naked forearms feels good. 

A man who begged for underwear, trousers, lip balm and your phone, among other things. 

A woman who laughed so loudly and openly after everyone slept that the snow seemed to melt on the slopes. 

Waking up with no clue of time in the middle of the night gasping with a throat so dry that swallowing would cause the tongue to stick to the palate. 

Moving your one arm with another as if it was paralysed. 

Praying for clean toilets in the middle of nowhere with no water and no plumbing and whooping with joy when one is found. 

Promising yourself you won’t stop before 20 more steps and then breaking your vow at 7.

A first clean awestruck glance at the milky way, the cradle, the womb from which all of you has been created, the first look at the stardust, and the first surprisingly clear moment when you know this is never going to happen ever again. 

A huge dog following you all the way with fur so thick and so dark it could be a bear if only it didn’t adore everything on two legs as if they owned it for ever and ever. 

A teen without a single facial hair but with a bob of long curly hair parted in the opposite direction extending till his shoulders smoking ganja at 15000 feet with the ease of a whore giving head in a porn movie. 

A girl woman whose nipples couldn’t stop poking through 3 or 4 layers of fabric who knows because of the dense overbearing cold, yet couldn’t bring a single horny thought in your head. 

The boy with the childish face who skipped up and down on snow in normal sport shoes while you struggled with crampons, cheering everyone up, men women and dumbfucks with a single phrase – chalobhaiyya. 

The seemingly frail girl woman with a bandana on her head and kohl in her eyes carrying a glint which defied every definition of strength yet would skip down a mountain keeping pace with a mule while carrying a backpack twice her size. 

An exquisite green meadow larger than a hundred hills with not a single tree and not a single patch of brown as if nature has built a 180 hole golf course for the gods to play. 

1000 year innumerable human bones with skin stuck to them like leather in a crystal clear lake, sometimes with chappals on the feet, lying there undisturbed, telling a story no one can decipher. 

A green and yellow village with exquisite blue and orange cottages like you walked in a story written by Tolkien but where no one lives, not abandoned, not haunted, just left alone to find its feet for the time being. 

Grateful trails made in stone on seemingly extraterrestrial terrain by unknown hands an indistinct time ago which get blessed a thousand times every year by happy lost feet. 

Intense, unbearable, strenuous, untenable beauty which you know is unattainable – there – but not there, not in any tangible way that you can carry back with you. The realisation that you can’t. The disappointment at the realisation. The acceptance of the disappointment. The love story which never will be. 

The first Technicolor dream of your own death. Without fear or trepidation or anticipation, the undeniable bond between the milky way in the sky and the unspeakable firmly established, maybe never to leave again.