The Annapurna Base Camp (ABC) trek in Nepal is one of the most beautiful and accessible Himalayan treks in the world. Nestled inside the Annapurna Conservation Area, this trail takes you through diverse landscapes — from subtropical forests to high alpine terrain — finally leading to the breathtaking Annapurna Base Camp at 4,130 meters.

This blog holds an emotional account of everything I experienced while doing this trek.
If you are only looking for the technical details — route, itinerary, gear, expenses, and planning — click here.

Day 0 — The Beginning ( Delhi –> Kathmandu–> Pokhara flight)

I went on this trek with ten boys ( 21 – 32 year old ).
Three of them asked me, “Weren’t you scared?”

I smiled and replied,
“I don’t see boys. I see human beings.”

And honestly, where do I even find girls who want to do such things?
If you think I never tried finding them, you are wrong.

I have always longed to see the world with my own naked eyes — to stand before mountains and feel blessed.
For me, this is God.
This is religion.

I reached Pokhara at 6:30 PM, filled with hope and excitement.
I wanted to rush to the market because I still had things to buy for the trek. I thought I would quickly finish shopping and return by 8 PM.

Because even if I choose to see people simply as humans, I also know I am a woman.
And my safety will always remain my responsibility.

That’s when I met Urvish ( the only person I had spoken to before reaching Pokhara)
“Wait for me 15 minutes,” he said.

He came after twenty.

He confidently told me he knew the shop, and I assumed things would get done faster.
Instead, he began window shopping.

I wasn’t interested.
But I only realised how much time had passed when it was already 8 PM.

So I decided to go on my own.
I took my time, bought what I needed, and finally finished by 9 PM.

Then the Hyderabadi boy( Vamsi ) said,
“Help me buy a jacket.”

I should have said no.

But I knew they were decent boys. Respectful towards women. So I stayed back and helped him search through shops.

By the time we found the jacket, it was already 10 PM.

I was hungry.
And suddenly, I didn’t feel comfortable going back alone.

That night, I realised something uncomfortable — on Day 1 itself, I had unknowingly handed over the power of my personal security to the boys around me.

I was angry at myself.
But the damage was already done.

They ordered dinner. I ate quietly.
By then, it was 10:45 PM.

I was exhausted, sleepy, and irritated.
All I wanted was to return to the hostel.

But they still wanted to order more food, sit longer, linger around.

And I kept wondering —
How do I tell them that I am scared to walk alone at night?

At forty, I still do not feel safe.

Finally, I got up, expecting the Chennai boy( Sanjay ) to walk back with me.
Instead, the boy from Noida immediately said,
“I’ll come.”

And in that moment, I reminded myself — equality also means allowing yourself to seek help when needed.

I finally reached the hostel and went to sleep.

Day 1 — Learning the Rhythm — Nayapul → Ulleri( by cab) – Ulleri — > Ghorepani ( Trek)

I was still trying to get to know everyone.
Remembering names has always been a task for me.

While the boys spent time bargaining for the cab to Ulleri, I quietly sat down with my omelette and tea instead. Somehow, that felt like a better use of my energy.

Finally, we started the journey.

I was still trying to understand the pulse of the people around me — figuring out personalities, energies, comfort zones.
Even something as small as deciding whether I should stand in the group pictures or quietly stay out of them felt unfamiliar.

I was trying to break the ice with everyone.

When we finally reached Ulleri, I felt alive.
I was so ready to begin the trek.

The boys were excited about reels, photos, and content creation.
And I completely respected that.

But I had come here for something else.

I had come to feel the mountains.
To live inside the moment instead of capturing it.

For me, reaching this place itself was a big deal.

Very soon, I realised the Noida boy and the Rajasthan boy( Chirag ) were naturally fast trekkers, while the others were more interested in slowing down, laughing, clicking pictures, and enjoying the journey differently.

And somehow, I found myself somewhere in the middle.

But strangely, I was completely happy walking alone — meeting everyone here and there along the trail, exchanging small conversations before slipping back into silence.

There was peace in that rhythm.

When I finally reached the homestay, I noticed something unexpected.

I did not feel scared.

In fact, the people of Nepal carried such warmth and gentleness that I felt completely safe — almost protected.

I got a room to myself, and I loved the solitude.

That night, away from noise, away from expectations, surrounded by mountains and silence…

I slept like a baby.

Day 2 — Between Solitude and Safety ( Ghorepani–>Poon Hill sunrise → Tadapani )

I woke up early that morning, and we headed towards Poon Hill.

It was cloudy. The mountains kept hiding behind layers of mist, revealing themselves only for brief moments. But strangely, I did not mind.

I simply stood there quietly, trying to absorb the vibrations of the place.

And I was happy.

On the way up, one of the boys asked me for water. I offered it without hesitation. In my head, we were a team. A group looking out for one another.

At the top, the cold became harsher. The boy from Noida noticed and offered me his shawl along with some water.

I accepted.

Not because I needed saving, but because I believed we were equals — humans helping humans.

We came back down and began walking towards Tadapani.

By now, the rhythm of the group had become clear.

The two fast boys walked far ahead.
The remaining eight stayed somewhere behind.
And I kept finding myself in the middle — alone, but not lonely.

I was completely content.

The forest felt magical.

I noticed everything — the flowers, the tangled mesh of branches overhead, the soft crunch of dry leaves beneath my feet, the different shades of green wrapped around the trail.

It felt less like a trek and more like a deep cleansing of the soul.

The earth under my shoes, the silence of the woods, the cold air touching my skin… everything felt deeply personal.

At one point, I saw a girl from Japan — Akino.

I wanted to start a conversation with her, but she knew almost no English. So we simply smiled and continued walking.

And somehow, that felt enough.

At the lunch stop, I waited almost one and a half hours for the ten boys to finish eating.

By 3 PM, reality struck me.

I still had nearly three hours of trekking left, and I wanted to reach before dark — with some margin for safety. Sunset happened around 7 PM, and in my head I kept calculating time, distance, light, risk.

So once again, I started walking alone.

Two boys ahead.
Eight behind.
And me somewhere in between the mountains and my thoughts.

Completely content.

Around 5 PM, I came across a waterfall.

And for a moment, my heart stopped there.

I wanted to leave my bag aside and step into the freezing water. The setting was so beautiful that it almost hurt. The forest, the sound of water, the fading light — it all felt unreal.

But my mind immediately started calculating again.

Too late.
Too cold.
Too dark.
Too risky.

The Noida boy sensed my hesitation and kindly said he could wait while I took a dip.

But how do I explain something so difficult to men?

I would have happily stood there alone — with the forest, the waterfall, and myself.

But not with strangers.

In that moment, I remembered my mistake from Day 1 — the moment I had slowly given away control over my own sense of safety.

So I let the moment go.

And I kept walking.

I finally reached the stay around 5:45 PM.

We negotiated prices, laughed, shared stories, and spent one of the warmest evenings of the trek together.

And despite all the conflict inside me — between freedom and caution, trust and fear — the mountains somehow continued to bring me joy.

Day 3 — Rain, Silence, and the Weight Women Carry (Tadapani → Lower Sinuwa)

It was raining that morning.

I have never liked rain.
Not as a child. Not even now.

Rain has always carried a strange loneliness for me, even on otherwise happy days. And getting wet in cold mountain weather only makes it harder.

So I layered myself carefully — gaiters, raincoat, backpack cover, every possible shield against the cold.

As we started walking, I asked the boy from Noida if he could stay within visible distance for some time. Just enough for me to feel safe.

But something changed within the next thirty minutes.

I slowly became comfortable walking in the rain.

In fact, I began to love it.

The silence around me felt sacred. The forests had become quieter, softer, almost meditative. And somewhere between the sound of rain hitting leaves and my own footsteps on wet stones, I felt in charge of myself again.

If I slipped, I knew I would get back up by myself.

So once again, I walked mostly alone through the day.

And strangely, that loneliness brought happiness.
It brought contentment.

By the time I reached Chomrong, I was hungry. I ordered an omelette and coffee. The place was beautiful, and after walking in the rain, the warm food tasted heavenly.

The others decided to eat somewhere else.

At one point, I accidentally guided the boys at the back toward an upward staircase that we eventually realised was the wrong route, forcing them to return. We laughed about it later, but in that moment, I quietly disappeared back into my own thoughts.

After lunch, we continued walking towards Lower Sinuwa.

Somewhere during the trek, the Noida boy repeatedly tried to direct me with phrases like,
“Just follow me and don’t ask questions.”

I tried to stay calm.
I genuinely tried not to react.

Maybe he meant efficiency. Maybe concern. But something about the tone unsettled me deeply.

Still, I kept walking.

Alone.
Quiet.
Yet strangely content.

When we finally reached Lower Sinuwa, I got a room without any view.

And honestly, I laughed inside.

This would have never happened had I planned the stay entirely on my own.

But after spending the whole day surrounded by the most breathtaking landscapes, I made peace with the room quickly.

At least I had a room to myself.

I was not interested in sharing my personal space.

Somewhere along life, I have learned to love solitude deeply.
Not always.
But often enough.

Later, everyone gathered around the dining table waiting for dinner. I couldn’t really enter the flow of conversation, so I quietly sat near the charging station, forwarding photographs everyone had clicked through the day.

Ironically, I hate having too many pictures of boys on my phone. So much so that while sending them pictures, I avoided even looking properly at my own because I had to scroll past theirs.

I got lost in that small world of photographs and silence.

Then Urvish came looking for me and asked,
“Aren’t you joining for dinner?”

I was surprised no one had noticed earlier that I wasn’t there when food had already been served.

But then again, I told myself it was okay.

I had stopped expecting too much from people anyway.

After dinner, everyone started discussing breakfast plans for the next morning. In the middle of it, Raghav called, so I stepped outside for fifteen minutes to talk.

When I returned, I asked the Noida boy what had been decided.

He explained once.
Then again.

I still didn’t understand.

And then he scratched his head in irritation.

Something inside me snapped.

Not because I hadn’t understood.
But because of that tiny gesture, I suddenly felt small. Stupid. Dismissed.

And I was not ready to accept that.

I had come on this trek as an equal.
And I would never be okay with being insulted or made to feel lesser.

I raised my voice. Loudly. Emotionally. Angrily.

And then I walked away to my room.

I called Raghav( my husband ) and told him everything. He tried to comfort me. He listened patiently.

But that night, something inside me broke.

I felt sad.
Dejected.
Not just for myself, but for every woman who experiences these tiny dismissals every single day.

My heart kept asking only one thing:

“Why?”

Why do women constantly have to prove they deserve respect?
Why do safety, dignity, and equality still feel negotiable?

I cried uncontrollably that night.

I do not know whether I was crying for myself or for all the women who silently endure such moments every day.

The difference was — I had the option to walk away.
Many women do not.

I could not sleep.

At around 11:30 PM, I even tried calling Megha ( my friend)

Thankfully, she did not pick up.

Because that night, all I really did…
was cry myself to sleep.

Day 4 — Learning to Walk Alone ( Lower Sinuwa → Deurali )

I woke up early that morning and quietly got ready by myself.

My eyes were moist from crying the previous night, but somehow, I gathered myself together.

A part of me felt guilty for seeking help earlier during the trek. Somewhere deep inside, I worried that maybe my vulnerability had made the Noida boy believe I was weak.

That thought angered me.

Not just for myself, but for women everywhere.

Why does asking for help so easily become a weakness when women do it?

I decided I would have breakfast alone that morning.

I sat quietly with my thoughts, replaying everything in my head. Many times, I considered separating completely from the group and trekking on my own. But every time that thought came, I remembered Urvish’s words:

“I would want you to stay.”

And I thought to myself, what was his fault in all this?

So I made a decision.

I would walk alone.
But stay with the group in the evening.

That day, I was not interested in conversations.

I started trekking earlier than everyone else.

And honestly, it felt beautiful.

The trail was magical — wet leaves scattered across the ground, tall trees arching over narrow paths, tiny flowers blooming quietly beside stones nobody noticed.

For the first time in days, I was no longer scared.

My backpack had become a part of me now. My body had adjusted to the weight, and with it came a strange new independence.

My heart was no longer waiting for anyone.

I was answerable to no one.

And yet, even while surrounded by such beauty, my mind kept questioning God:

Why place me in a world so beautiful, while women still ache under inequality?

Then suddenly, the clouds parted.

And for the very first time, I saw a glimpse of Machapuchare peak.

The sacred fishtail peak stood there silently, almost unreal against the sky.

I stopped immediately.

I wore my goggles, pulled my sleeves tighter, took out my diary… and burst into tears.

Not soft tears.

The kind that shakes your entire chest.

I cried remembering my female friends, relatives, strangers — all the women who have spent lifetimes trying to be treated as equals.

I looked at the mountains and silently asked:

“Why are we treated this way, when women are among your most beautiful creations?”

I sat there writing in my diary, completely lost in an internal conversation with the mountains, unaware that a line of trekkers had started forming behind me.

Around the same time, Pranshu arrived and kept insisting gently that I should walk ahead with him.

But how do you face a boy fourteen years younger , when tears are rolling down your cheeks?

Finally, someone politely asked me to move aside because they wanted to record a video there.

And strangely, that brought me back to reality.

So I got up and started walking again.

And after speaking to the mountains, I truly felt lighter.

I walked carelessly after that — free, peaceful, smiling to myself while observing the tiniest details around me.

Every leaf.
Every stream.
Every gust of wind.

Then I came across a beautiful river.

And once again, I sat down with my diary to finish writing what I had started earlier.

I was still crying.

But this time, I knew my goggles hid everything.

Soon, the rest of the boys also arrived there and decided to sit beside the same river for a break.

For a second, I wondered — why here, of all places?

But then I let the thought go.

I continued writing quietly, and once I felt lighter, I got up and started walking ahead alone again.

The young boy from Madhya Pradesh asked if he could borrow my goggles.

Honestly, I had never really liked him much. And at that moment, my eyes were still moist.

I initially refused.

But then I reminded myself — he is just a kid. Maybe I need to be the more mature person here.

So I wiped my tears, handed him the goggles, and continued walking ahead.

And slowly, I started feeling better.

By the time I reached Dovan, the others had caught up. We clicked a few pictures together, and later at Himalaya, we stopped for coffee and carrot cake.

That moment stayed with me.

I was trying to find happiness through other people’s happiness.

And maybe it is true — when you make others happy, a little of that joy reflects on you too.

The coffee tasted comforting.
The carrot cake tasted warm.
And for the first time in two days, my heart felt slightly softer.

Then once again, I started trekking alone.

And this time, I genuinely preferred it.

As I walked towards Deurali, I met Kirino.

He looked exhausted and asked if I could walk with him for a while.

Within minutes, I realised he was struggling badly with fatigue.

It was already 4 PM, and I knew I personally had enough daylight margin to comfortably reach before dark. The endurance athlete inside me could not leave someone struggling alone.

So I slowed down.

As we talked, I learned he was from China, while his friend barely knew English.

At one point, I quietly admitted to him:

“I am sad today. Patriarchy is still so deeply real among Indian men. Women are still seen as weaker.”

He listened quietly.

Then he shared that his girlfriend had recently left him, and his heart was broken too.

But honestly, I was not looking for an emotional exchange anymore.

I had made peace with my own silence.

I was content within myself.

A little later, I saw the Gurgaon boy passing by. I asked him to slow down and join us so we could help Kirino together. He offered to give him medicine, and I gently told him, “Not all problems need medicines; some need conversation”. And this brought so much laughter in me, for he proved his innocence in just one line.

Soon, the whole group slowly gathered around us again.

Oddly enough, I no longer felt angry.

Maybe because most of them were simply honest people, unaware of the emotional storm I had been carrying within me.

And maybe that honesty softened me, too.

That evening, I finally let my guard down.

I decided I would stop wherever I wanted, for however long I wished.

Also, maybe Kirino’s seeking help proved to my broken self-esteem that I was worthy of helping someone.

So we stood beneath caves.
Stopped beside rivers.
Paused on bridges hanging over roaring water.

And with every step, every mountain view, every icy breeze…

I healed a little more.

I felt beautiful.
I felt free.

And most importantly, I felt that I alone would decide how I wanted to live my life.

By the time we finally reached Deurali, I got a tiny room which was more like a storage area.

And strangely, I loved it.

Fear had completely left me by then.

I was deeply happy simply to have my own space again.

Because sometimes, solitude feels less like loneliness and more like peace.

Later that night, after dinner, a Chinese woman arrived.

She was forty-three years old, and her friends had already gone ahead to ABC, and she looked visibly scared. The room was covered in cobwebs, the cold was harsh, and she was anxious about whether she would even make it to the top and back in time for her flight back to China on Saturday.

So I sat with her quietly.

I comforted her the best I could.

I told her to stop looking at her phone and try to sleep.

And before leaving, I told her one final thing:

“I believe you can reach the top and still make it back for your flight.”

And for the first time in days, while comforting someone else…

I think a small part of me felt comforted too.

Day 5 — Annapurna, Anger, and Healing Under the Stars ( Deurali → MBC → ABC)

I woke her up at 5 AM and told her to get ready quickly if she wanted to reach ABC comfortably.

Before leaving, she hugged me tightly and said,
“If you ever come to China, I would love to buy a beautiful coat for you.”

I smiled.

I had never come on this trek looking to build relationships or exchange contacts. So I never asked for her number. But I silently wished with all my heart that she would reach the top safely and make it back in time for her flight.

And somewhere inside, I hoped she would carry back one memory from India — that Indians are kind at heart.

That morning, while I was still trying to be this strong, independent woman, the Gurgaon boy suddenly asked me if I had something to eat.

He was hungry.

I checked my bag.

I had exactly six protein bars for the seven days of my trek(I did not eat on day 1). Nothing more.

Sharing one felt expensive.

But then I looked at him again.

He was just a boy in his twenties.

How could I say no?

So I handed him a bar, which he immediately split and shared back with me.

It melted me slightly.

He was the same quiet boy who had barely spoken to me so far. I could always sense hesitation in him. But honestly, I never took it personally. I had not come here expecting friendship from everyone.

A little later, he asked if he could have some water too.

I only carried 800 ml — barely enough for myself.

Still, I shared.

And sometime after that, while I was applying lip balm, he looked at me hesitantly and asked if he could use some too.

That moment unexpectedly touched me deeply.

Here I was trying so hard to prove strength and independence all the time… while this boy casually asked for help without shame, without ego, without fear of appearing weak.

Because men are rarely taught that dependence reduces their worth.

They are not questioned for needing help.
Not judged for vulnerability.
Not forced to constantly prove capability before entering the world.

And then, somewhere on the trail, he suddenly stood waiting for me, and the moment I reached him, he handed me his phone and asked me to click pictures for him.

That cracked me up.

Of course, I refused most of the time.

But somewhere along the way, the ice had finally broken.

And honestly, I bless him for that innocence.

From Deurali, we started towards MBC and eventually ABC.

Once again, I began alone.

Urvish did ask me to wait and walk together. But how could I explain to him that I genuinely loved my own company? That they all felt too young for me emotionally. After the previous days, I was also scared of being hurt or disrespected again.

So I walked alone.

And it felt heavenly.

On the trail, I met Veena and her husband. She warmly suggested we walk together.

For a moment, I felt happy to meet another woman.

But strangely, the conversation did not hold me.

So I slowed down intentionally and let them move ahead.

Because once again, I realised I was happiest alone — walking quietly through the mountains, speaking only to God.

Every turn revealed the Annapurna range standing gloriously around me.

And every glimpse filled me with gratitude.

I bowed internally to those mountains for bringing me there.

At one point, I sat alone in a valley beside a flowing river, writing in my diary while surrounded by gigantic mountains.

Trekkers passed by continuously, but I felt no urgency.

I sat there for almost forty minutes on a large rock, completely content with my own existence.

And when I finally resumed walking towards MBC, I still felt deeply happy.

Alone.
But whole.

Nature felt impossibly beautiful that day.

Purple flowers.
Dry golden grass.
Roaring rivers.
Snow-covered peaks towering above silence.

Everything looked too perfect to be real.

At MBC, the others ordered pizza and tea while I only had tea because I wasn’t hungry.

And for a moment, I missed my own friends deeply.

Not because these boys were bad people — they were not. But their conversations, interests, humour… everything belonged to a completely different world than mine.

So while they laughed and ate, I lay quietly nearby, imagining how beautiful this moment would feel if shared with people who understood my silences too.

From MBC onwards, I once again walked alone.

We stopped at Mirror Lake, but the weather was heavily cloudy, and no mountain reflections were visible. Still, I felt strangely peaceful.

We clicked a few pictures and moved on.

After Mirror Lake, the 23-year-old MP boy started walking beside me.

From the very first day at the hostel, I had never really liked him.

So, I remained reserved.

But he kept trying very hard to start conversations.

I responded mostly with one-word answers, hoping the interaction would end naturally.

Still, he continued.

Eventually, I thought perhaps I was being unnecessarily rude. Maybe he was simply young.

So to keep things harmless, I asked him to teach me some Gen Z slang words.

It felt like a safe topic.

Then suddenly he asked me:

“Do you know what body count means?”

I knew.

But for a second, I genuinely hoped he meant something else.

So I asked him to explain.

And he casually replied:

“It means how many women a guy has slept with.”

Something inside me exploded.

It was no surprise that he knew the term.
It was shocking that he felt comfortable discussing it with me.

A woman almost double his age.
A woman who had clearly shown no interest in conversation with him.
A woman simply trying to walk peacefully through the mountains.

That moment became the final crack.

I felt rage rise through my entire body.

I wanted to slap him so hard that his face would remember it forever.

But even that felt beneath me.

So instead, I shouted.

Loudly. Fiercely. Uncontrollably.

In that moment, I was no longer speaking only for myself.

I felt like I was speaking for every woman who has ever been misunderstood the moment she stepped outside traditional boundaries.

If women stay confined to their homes, they are called weak.
If women travel alone, they are suddenly considered “broad-minded,” available, and open to inappropriate conversations.

I was shivering with anger.

And then I walked ahead without stopping until I reached ABC camp.

The weather outside was cold, cloudy, and stormy.

But the storm inside me was far worse.

I did not even feel like clicking a picture at the famous ABC signboard.

Instead, I wandered silently, asking God:

Why place me in such beautiful surroundings while making women fight endlessly for respect?
Why does solo travel automatically invite assumptions?
Why must women constantly guard their dignity while simply trying to exist freely?

I was angry at the boy.
Angry at society.
Angry at myself for joining a group at all.

I thought:

I should have come alone.
I was enough.

Eventually, overwhelmed and exhausted, I booked myself a room separately in one of the guest houses and messaged Urvish not to worry about my stay.

Inside the room, I met Maryam from Mumbai, with whom I would be sharing the space.

But I was in no emotional state to speak.

I quickly changed into warm clothes — two jackets, 2 woollen socks, cap, bandana — and curled into my bed.

And then I cried again.

This time, uncontrollably.

Not delicate tears.
The kind that leaves your body empty.

I cried because I felt deeply wronged by the way women are looked at.

After nearly an hour, I suddenly heard Urvish outside negotiating room prices with the owner.

I almost laughed bitterly.

Why here too?

I stepped outside and told him I had already arranged my room.

He asked me to come out properly and talk.

I did not want to.

But he insisted gently.

And despite everything, I still felt responsible towards these younger boys. So I wiped my tears and stepped outside.

I sensed he was upset that I had not bargained for his room too.

And somewhere inside me, a tiny broken piece laughed.

I finally told him honestly:

“I felt disrespected. I don’t want to go around with everyone anymore.”

He replied calmly,

“But only 20% people disrespected you. The other 80% respected you.”

And I remember thinking:

How do I explain this to a boy?

Respect cannot be 80%.

It must be 100%.

People are free to dislike me, disagree with me, even hate me.

But respect is not optional.

Women are among God’s most beautiful creations. We bring life into this world. We turn houses into homes. We nurture, build, sacrifice, and endure.

I demand respect.
I scream for respect.

But I did not want to argue anymore.

How could he fully understand?

He had just become a lawyer.

And I felt like I had been fighting the case for women for the last three decades.

Will I ever retire from this battle?

I honestly do not know.

So I quietly returned to my room.

And cried until I felt dehydrated.

By 5 PM, shivering from cold and emotional exhaustion, I finally forced myself to get up and drink some hot water.

When I entered the dining hall, all the boys were sitting together laughing around one table, completely unaware of the emotional collapse I had gone through.

They waved warmly at me.

And I smiled back.

But I did not sit with them.

I was too tired to risk getting hurt again.

So I carried my cup and sat quietly near the window — once again speaking silently to the mountain Gods.

Soon Urvish and Pranshu came and sat near me.

I did not want to talk.

I felt too raw, too vulnerable, too exhausted.

How could they possibly understand how much courage it took for me to come here alone?

How could I explain that I am not just a solo traveller — I am also a daughter, a mother, a wife, a sister, a friend, deeply loved by people waiting for me back home.

All I have ever wanted is respect.

I kept talking emotionally, incoherently, almost nonsensically.

Yet they stayed.

Neither of them left.

And then suddenly, something magical happened.

The clouds parted.

The setting sun appeared on Machapuchare peak — the sacred fishtail mountain.

The entire peak glowed golden.

It was one of the most breathtaking sights I had ever seen.

The child inside me instantly came alive.

“Look at the mountain!” I exclaimed.

Everyone from the dining room rushed outside immediately.

Everyone except Urvish.

For some reason, he kept insisting that I should come out too.

Honestly, I was happy just watching from inside.

I had no desire to click pictures.

But eventually I stepped out — partly because I did not want to selfishly deny a young boy the joy of sharing beauty.

And slowly, the entire Annapurna range revealed itself.

Clouds disappeared.
Snow peaks shone from every direction.
The sky transformed into pure magic.

Everyone started calling me to look at different peaks, different angles, different sights.

And suddenly, a realisation hit me:

Why was I distancing myself from everyone else?
Most of them had done nothing wrong.

So slowly… I melted.

I let myself laugh again.

We wandered outside holding cups of tea and coffee beneath a sky full of stars, surrounded by glowing mountains.

Later that night, the boys excitedly came to tell me that the Hyderabadi boy had found a girl he liked.

And somehow, that made me genuinely happy.

Because love, to me, will always remain beautiful.

At night as, I returned to my room.

There were four beds inside, all occupied.

I knew 2  belonged to another woman, but I could hear someone speaking in what sounded like a male voice on the phone from the 4^th bed.

For a moment, I listened carefully, almost suspiciously.

Then I reassured myself that the women and the men were together and related somehow.

And finally, after one of the longest emotional days of my life…

I went to sleep.

Day 6 — A Quiet Kind of Day ( ABC –> Lower Dovan )

I woke up at 4:25 AM and stepped outside by 4:30.

The mountains were still wrapped in darkness, standing silently under the cold sky.

I called Subranshu to come outside and see the view. I even woke up all my roommates because the beauty unfolding outside felt too magical to miss.

And yes, by then it was confirmed — the fourth bed in the room had indeed been occupied by a boy.

I laughed inside me. I am not afraid of sharing space with a man/boy for they are humans just like women are.

I wandered out alone, completely happy and content within myself, surrounded by mountains that felt larger than life and yet deeply comforting.

I lay on a huge rock overlooking the entire valley.

And for once, I did not click even a single picture.

Because somehow, photographs no longer felt enough.

I wanted to first absorb the scenery through my eyes…
and then carefully store it inside my heart.

From 4:30 AM until almost 9:30 AM, I simply remained outside watching nature transform itself.

I saw the dark night slowly dissolve into dawn.
I watched the first rays of sunlight touch the peaks.
I watched the mountains glow brighter with every passing minute.

And through all of it, my heart felt deeply content.

At around 8 AM, I drank nearly one and a half litres of electrolyte water because I realised I had become quite dehydrated.

But despite the exhaustion, despite the emotions of the previous days…

I was genuinely happy.

Finally, we started descending back from ABC.

And as usual, I was happiest walking alone towards MBC.

At MBC, we stopped for food, though I personally was not hungry.

The boys were chatting loudly among themselves while I quietly lay down on a bed nearby with my eyes closed.

And then I overheard them whispering:

“We should scare Minal and wake her up.” They don’t know me enough. They can’t scare me.

Another one immediately replied,

“No, don’t bother her. She’s older. She won’t like it.”

And honestly, that small exchange melted my heart a little.

I would not have minded them joking around at all. But the fact that they paused to think about my comfort felt unexpectedly thoughtful.

It was such a tiny thing.
Yet it carried warmth.

Later, we walked back from MBC to Deurali, where heavy rain forced us to stop for lunch.

The mountains, once again, set the pace for us.

After lunch, we continued towards the Himalaya.

And there, I had another cup of hot latte coffee that tasted unbelievably comforting in the cold weather.

At Himalaya, I also met an Australian woman who was studying astronomy and had come for the ABC trek.

I genuinely enjoyed speaking with her.

Something was refreshing about meeting another woman who loved both mountains and the universe.

We even played cards together — a simple game of bluff — laughing and passing time while the rain continued outside.

Eventually, still walking through rain and fading daylight, we finally reached Lower Dovan around 6:45 PM.

It was already dark by then.

So we decided to stop there for the night.

And honestly, after days filled with storms both outside and within me…

Lower Dovan felt peaceful.

Day 7 — Coming Back Home to Myself ( Lower Dovan→ Jhinu hot springs → Pokhara )

That morning, I wanted to start early.

By then, it had already been three days since I had taken a proper bath, and honestly, I felt filthy.

So I woke up at 4:45 AM, and before doing anything else, I took a bath.

After breakfast with everyone, we started walking again.

I had company here and there, but I still loved being by myself the most.

I had already told everyone that I wanted to reach Pokhara before 6 PM — preferably during daylight. So naturally, I was walking fast.

Somewhere near Bamboo, I saw a group of Korean girls doing yoga.

And something inside me immediately softened.

I don’t know why, but I had subconsciously manifested doing yoga on this trek.

Without thinking much, I removed my shoes, kept my bag aside, and quietly joined them.

And they welcomed me with open arms.

I miss my mother deeply.
And that feminine energy around me — gentle, warm, nurturing — felt like medicine to my soul after everything I had emotionally gone through over the last few days.

One of them gave me a sound bath. We practised a few yoga poses together. And before leaving, I hugged her tightly.

That hug felt different.

It felt like hearts meeting.

Like I was silently begging for warmth, softness, positive energy… and they were willingly giving it to me.

I walked away from there recharged.

Completely content.

I love you both, wherever you are.
May life remain kind to you.

By the time I reached Lower Sinuwa, Urvish called and asked me to wait for him.

Honestly, that wait felt endless.

I did not want to stop.

Because somewhere deep inside, waiting for others still felt like surrendering control. Like risking dependence again.

But Pranshu requested me gently to stay.

So, I waited.

From there onward, we walked together.

And strangely, walking with them never felt uncomfortable.

I stopped often to admire terraced fields, mountain dogs lazily resting along the trail, tiny temples near Chomrong, and random conversations with strangers passing by.

And somewhere along the trail, I met the Australian ladies I had spoken to earlier in the trek.

I had met her on Day 1 of my trek, I told them,

“I am so happy seeing you trek at this age.”

One of them laughed immediately and replied,

“We are not old! We are in our sixties — and that is not old.”

I felt embarrassed at first. I reminded them of the conversation from Day1 and apologised for calling them old.

But then I looked at them again… and suddenly they reminded me of my mother.

I told them quietly that I had lost my mum at sixty-four, and how deeply happy it made me to see women their age still exploring the world fearlessly.

Then one of the women told me she had lost her son and carried his photograph everywhere with her.

In that moment, I knew her grief was far greater than mine.

But the child inside me suddenly needed comfort.

Needed a mother.

So I softly asked her,

“Can I get a hug?”

And she hugged me so warmly that I felt so comforted. I was the needy person here.

She told me,

“When you are sixty-four, keep trekking… and remember me.”

Of course I will. I love you ma`am and I can never ever forget you!

And thankfully, Pranshu quietly captured that moment for me forever.

The climb from Lower Sinuwa to Chomrong tested me brutally.

By the time I reached there, my body was exhausted.

But I still continued towards Jhinu Danda because I desperately wanted to soak myself in the natural hot springs.

I rushed down those endless stairs almost impatiently, with only one thought in my head:

I wanted to relax in the hot springs

At one point during the descent, I finally admitted aloud:

“I am tired. I really am.”

And strangely, it felt freeing.

For once, I allowed myself to be vulnerable instead of constantly carrying the burden of being “strong.”

As I hurried down the slippery, rain-soaked steps, my foot suddenly slipped.

I instinctively planted my trekking pole into the mud, and at the same moment, Pranshu grabbed my arm to steady me.

But honestly?

I was never scared of falling.

Because somewhere in life, I have learned that even if I collapse, my spirit always gets back up again.

Finally, I reached the hot springs.

And the moment I entered the warm water, it felt heavenly.

All the exhaustion dissolved slowly.

I knew by then that we would miss the 4 PM bus and would have to hire a private taxi back later.

So I decided to stop worrying and simply enjoy the moment.

And I truly did.

Floating there in the warm, natural water, surrounded by mountains and rain and laughter, I suddenly saw two versions of myself.

The younger me — restless, responsible, always trying to prove strength.

And the present me — calmer, softer, finally learning to enjoy stillness.

After the bath, we changed clothes and climbed back up.

At the top, we stopped at a small hotel for sandwiches and fries.

I wanted to sit quietly one last time and write in my diary overlooking the mountains.

But Urvish sat beside me and refused to leave. I don’t know what he was seeking and why he sat there. But I knew through different moments of this trek that he had quietly kept my faith in humanity alive. So, I let him sit there with me.

We ate together and slowly walked towards the bridge.

At one point, I openly admitted:

“My legs are shaking.”

The boys immediately offered to carry my bag.

But I refused.

Because endurance running has taught me something important:

You do not quit when tired.
You learn to continue through tiredness.

So I picked up my bag again.

We crossed the long suspension bridge, and before leaving, I stopped for one last moment to thank the river flowing beneath it.

One last silent goodbye.

By the time we reached the jeep stand, I was beyond exhausted.

I literally lay flat against my backpack on the roadside steps, staring at the sky while the boys negotiated taxi prices.

And suddenly, in that moment of complete tiredness…

I missed Raghav deeply.

I love him.

I was done being strong for the day, for the week.

I wanted to go home.
I wanted to sleep on his shoulder.
I wanted him to carry my bag, tuck me into a warm blanket, and hold me close the way he always does at home.

For the first time during this trek, I no longer wanted to be the “strong independent woman.”

I just wanted to be loved.

I tried calling him many times in the jeep, but the poor network made it impossible.

So I sat quietly pretending maturity.

But inside, all I wanted was comfort.

Eventually, we reached Pokhara.

We had dinner and walked through the streets afterwards.

And strangely, I was no longer afraid at night.

I don’t know why.

But around Urvish and Vamsi, I genuinely felt safe.

Finally, we reached the hotel.

I was exhausted, dirty, and sleepy beyond words.

Yet before sleeping, I sat on the bed and wrote handwritten notes for Urvish and Pranshu.

The handwriting was messy.
The words imperfect.

But the feelings behind them were pure.

That night, I slept so exhausted.

And when I woke up the next morning, I felt only one thing strongly:

I wanted to go home.

I hugged them both goodbye.

And somewhere between the mountains, the tears, the anger, the healing, the strangers, the rivers, the rain, the silence, and the stars…

This trip had touched my heart in every possible way.