THIS WEEK, DEAR READERS, I attempt a travelogue of one of my recent trips to Nepal, the wonders of trekking in the Himalayas and the cheap thrills of trying to flee the country somehow. This column has only as much law as there was in my life these last two weeks. Rest is devoted to life and existence.
The column, however, is not about the mediocre self-discovery from a lone walk in the woods or the sad parallels between litigation and an uphill climb. I promise to not do that to you. There’s enough of that slop being spewed on LinkedIn.
The hill I will die on – small rebellion
Immigration at the Delhi airport makes sure to put me on the defensive. A distrusting young official looks me in the eye and goes – “Are there no treks in India that you need to go to Nepal?” After I smile coyly (by now I know not to respond to these baits), he asks why I am travelling alone.
Better sense does not prevail anymore. I launch into a retaliatory offensive – “Yes, I just murdered my uncle and now I’m fleeing to the Himalayas to take refuge in the shrines like those European white ladies who shave their heads and disappear. No one can tell where they came from. Or maybe I’ll don saffron robes as a baba ji and spend my days as a refugee on the ghats of Pashupatinath. Better still, I may get on the millennial bandwagon and set some hotel on …”
