Reinventing Advait............
On the fourth day of his solo trip through the quiet lake trek near Uttarkashi which offered solitude and scenic views, Advait found himself atop a quiet mountain, the sky appeared to be only a few feet away from where he stood. The trek had been long, winding through mossy trails and whispering forests, but the reward was sublime, a panoramic view of layered hills fading into mist, the air crisp and laced with the aroma of eucalyptus. He dropped his backpack, sat on a flat rock warmed by the sun, and let silence settle around him like a warm shawl.
Advait had always been a man of structure - meticulous notes, spreadsheets, schedules, and neatly folded shirts. But something had shifted in him lately. The mountain, with its unhurried rhythm and unapologetic wildness, mirrored the disarray he had been feeling inside. He closed his eyes and asked aloud, “What am I really chasing?” The question hung in the air, unanswered, until a voice which was his own, but different, responded, “Maybe not what, but who.”
He chuckled, surprised by the clarity of that thought. “Who then? I’ve been Advait the manager, the husband, the father. Is there someone else?” The voice within replied, “There’s Advait the wanderer. The one who scribbles his thoughts in pieces of paper, in the vast notebooks of the mind, who once dreamed of building a farmhouse with a winding dusty road tucked away deep in the cover of trees, who feels more alive watching the clouds and the flowing stream than closing deals.” Advait felt a strange warmth in his chest, like meeting an old friend he had forgotten.
The conversation deepened. He remembered his childhood in the suburbs of Bombay, climbing the big stacks of hay in the cattle farm behind his school, running and playing in the narrow lanes and drawing maps of imaginary farmhouses. He remembered the thrill of his first solo cycle ride, the wind in his hair, the sense of boundless possibility. “I buried that boy under responsibilities,” he murmured. “But he’s still breathing. I can feel him now.” The mountain seemed to nod in agreement, the breeze kissing his cheek like a beloved lover.
Advait stood up and walked to the edge of the ridge. Below was the river snaking through the valley like a silver thread. “I’ve lived like a dam,” he said, “holding back dreams, emotions, even tears. But maybe it’s time to be the river.” The voice inside him laughed gently. “You already are, its just that you forgot how to flow.”
He sat again, this time cross-legged, and pulled out a small notebook he had carried but never used. The pages were blank, but his mind wasn’t. He began to write, not plans or to-do lists, but reflections, sketches, fragments of a story. Each word on the paper felt like a stone lifted from his chest. “This is me,” he whispered. “Not the polished version. The raw, real one.”
As the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in hues of amber and rose, Advait felt a shift, not in the world, but in himself. He wasn’t escaping life; he was rediscovering it. The mountain hadn’t given him answers. It had given him permission, the permission to question, to feel, to change. “I’m not just Advait the achiever,” he said. “I’m Advait the seeker.”
He stayed until the stars began to peep from the grey sky, each one a quiet witness to his transformation. When he finally descended the mountain, he carried no souvenirs but only a new sense of self. The man who had climbed up was not the same as the one who came down. He was lighter, fuller, more whole.
Back at his homestay, he didn’t rush to check emails or plan the next leg of his journey. Instead, he brewed tea, sat by the window, and watched the moon rise. The solo trip wasn’t about solitude anymore, it was about reunion. Advait had met someone on that mountain. Himself. And he liked who he found.
As the steam curled from his cup and the moonlight spilled across the tiled floor, Advait’s thoughts turned inward again, this time toward the people he loved but felt most distant from. His wife, once his confidante and co-dreamer, now seemed like a stranger across a chasm of silence. He remembered their early days - the shared laughter, the soft pecks, the longing for each other, the unspoken words. But somewhere along the way, the warmth had cooled, replaced by clipped conversations and unspoken resentments. “We stopped seeing each other,” he whispered, “even when we were in the same room.”
The hurt wasn’t one-sided. He knew he had retreated into work, into his friends, into the safety of routine. But he also knew that others had meddled - friends who sowed doubt, relatives who judged without knowing, voices that whispered poison into already fragile spaces. “They saw our cracks and widened them,” he thought bitterly. “And I let them.” The realization stung, but it was honest. He hadn’t fought hard enough to protect what mattered.
His children now felt distant, like faint reminders of a once joyful connection. Now, they barely spoke unless necessary. Their words were laced with sarcasm, anger, resent and their eyes guarded. “They think I don’t care,” Advait murmured, “but I care too much. I just didn’t know how to show it when everything was falling apart.” The guilt sat heavy on his chest, a weight he had been carrying silently for years.
He had tried in many ways to mend things - apologies, gestures, attempts at conversation, but the walls had grown thick, layered with misunderstandings, misinterpretations and one sided information. Every effort felt like shouting into a void. And the taunts, subtle digs, dismissive tones, repeated reminders of his failures had begun to chip away at his spirit. “I’m not made of stone,” he thought. “I feel every word, every glance. I just don’t show it.”
Physically, the toll was visible. Sleepless nights, a persistent ache in his back, a fatigue that no amount of rest seemed to cure. Emotionally, he felt like a man adrift, yearning for connection but afraid of rejection. “I’ve become a ghost in my own home,” he admitted. “Present, but unseen. Heard, but not listened to.” The mountain had given him clarity, but it was not able to erase the pain.
In this reflection, there was a flicker of hope. The notebook beside him held more than words, it held intention. “Maybe I can write my way back,” he thought. “Not to who I was, but to who I want to be.” He imagined sharing his thoughts with his wife, his children - not as a plea, but as a window into his heart. Vulnerability had always scared him, but now it felt like the only path forward. The lion had to show his underbelly, let his guard down. That was the only way he could win recover that was lost. Of course he was not expecting instant healing. The gorge was deep, and the bridges fragile. But he could start with honesty with showing up, not as the perfect father or husband, but as Advait the seeker. The one who had climbed a mountain not to escape, but to remember. “I’ll try again,” he said aloud, voice steady. “Not because I’m strong, but because I still believe in us.”
Outside, the moon hung low, casting silver shadows across the quiet courtyard. Advait sipped the last of his tea and gently closed the notebook, its pages now etched with reflections. Tomorrow, he would call home - not armed with answers, but open with vulnerability. The journey wasn’t ending; it was just beginning. A new beginning.
His thoughts, like beads, continued to string themselves into a necklace of clarity and intention. And as the first light of dawn kissed the horizon, Advait understood: he couldn’t rewrite the past, but he could shape the story of what came next.
With every breath, he chose courage over comfort, truth over silence, and love over pride. This wasn’t a retreat from life but it was a return. A return to feeling. To healing. To becoming. This was the quiet, powerful start of something deeper.
This was the moment of Reinventing Advait.
