It began like all ordinary things do—quietly, without announcement. One evening, as the office lights dimmed and screens began to shut one by one, a colleague turned to me and said, almost casually, “Come with us for a trek.” A trek. The word meant nothing to me then. No images of mountains, no sense of distance, no understanding of what it demands or what it gives. It was just a word—light, harmless, almost forgettable. And yet, something in me said yes. That same evening, we found ourselves walking into the YHAI office in Ahmedabad. It felt like stepping into a place filled with stories I had not yet lived. Walls spoke of mountains. Brochures carried glimpses of distant valleys. Names of places I had never heard of suddenly felt like invitations. We asked questions—endless questions. Which trek is best? How difficult is it? What should we expect? The volunteer smiled, as if he had seen this curiosity a thousand times before. And then we chose it. Har Ki Doon. I didn...