Is Traveling All About Moving or Getting Inspired

Ladakh

18th July 2021

I’ve just completed my trek in Ladakh, and as I rest on the bed in my room, I try to connect to the hotel Wi-Fi on my phone. The videos and pictures from the trek that I want to share with my parents are still uploading. Yet, somehow, everything sent to me has downloaded successfully.

Cloudburst in Dharamshala—my gallery is now flooded with videos and pictures of it. And all I can think about right now is returning to my home in Dharamshala.

Delhi

19th July 2021

The early morning flight to Delhi landed on time. The bus to Dharamshala is at 8:50 p.m., so I plan to spend some time at a nearby café close to the bus stand, and the remaining time at the station itself.

At 7:30 p.m., I decide to move down to the platform from the waiting hall. I spot a colorful lineup of books laid out on the floor. Unable to resist, I stop to check them out.

The habit of reading is quite new to me—almost as recent as COVID entering our lives. I’ve been reading regularly since March 2020, and thankfully, I’ve never stopped since. Reading is therapy. Just 15–30 minutes a day is enough to make you feel uniquely energized.

Books are a gift you can open again and again. Aren’t they?

As expected, I end up buying one: Karma by Sadhguru.

By 8:15 p.m., I’m waiting on the platform for my bus. Street vendors carrying small stacks of 10–15 books approach me, asking politely if I’d like to buy something. I already have three in my bag—two old, one new. I haven’t even started one, and another has just been added. So I resist buying more. Standing in a corner, I observe the bustling bus stand, while my mind drifts and draws its own quiet conclusions.

At 8:30 p.m., I notice a tiny old gentleman walking toward me, holding a pile of books.

“Koi book padhengi?” he asks politely. (Would you like a book?)

My focus shifts from my phone screen to this man. I reply, “Nahin, books hain mere paas.” (No, I already have books.)

A few minutes later, I catch a glimpse that prompts me to write this short story.

The same man who had just tried to sell me a book is now resting by a pillar, reading one from his collection. The title of the book is The Secret by Rhonda Byrne. I’m surprised. I quietly take a picture of him, still unable to hold back the curiosity. I walk over to strike up a conversation.

8:40 p.m. – “Aapko English padhni aati hai?” (Do you know how to read English?) I ask.

Startled, he smiles and replies, “I can read English. I can write English.”

Me: “Yeh dekhiye, aapki photo.” (Here, look—your photo.)

(I show him the picture I had taken.)

Man (with a dainty smile): "Yeh main hoon, aapka dhanyawaad."

(This is me, your thank you.)

Our five-minute conversation revolved around how unavailable and negligent the youth—and even other age groups—have become toward the gift of reading and the ability to read. Money wasn’t all he needed; he expressed a deeper love for books.

I couldn’t say much, but as I put my phone back in my pocket, I said:

“Yeh photo main hamesha apne paas rakhungi, kyunki yeh mujhe yaad dilata rahega ki kitaab aur insaan ke beech kitna pyaara rishta hai.”

(I will keep this picture safe with me forever, as it reminds me of the beautiful bond between humans and books.)

Man: “Main dua karunga aap zindagi mein jo chahein wo paayein, khush rahen.”

(I will pray that you achieve everything you wish for in life, and stay happy.)

(Tears rolled down his cheeks.)

(Trying to change the subject, he said:) “Chai piyengi aap?”

(Would you like some tea?)

It had started drizzling, and my bus had arrived. I boarded the bus, hoping to reach my little home in the mountains by the next morning.

Sayonara!