When someone moves from a village to a city, they always remember what they left behind. In the city’s rush, they miss the open skies, the snow-covered mountains, the fresh air, the kind people, and the love of their parents.
Yesterday, I suddenly started missing my village. While lost in memories, I received a message—earthquakes had been shaking my village for the past fifteen days. My heart filled with worry, and I became restless, thinking about my parents. I quickly called a friend, who sent me a picture of my father to reassure me. I felt a little relief, but the village was still trembling.
Schoolchildren were not allowed to move to Skardu due to the unsafe conditions. I asked my cousin to send me some pictures from last year’s pasture trip. When I received them, I felt fresh and alive, as if I were there again, reliving those moments.
A close friend had sent these pictures and shared his travel story with me. He and his companions had spent a night in an old hut at the base of K2. It was freezing, yet they were smiling. They laughed at their struggles, collected wood, and lit a fire. They had hot tea, noodles, and a cold soda. There was nothing but simplicity, friendship, and nature’s beauty—this was real life!
These are the people who know how to live in the mountains, who face hardships with courage. When I see those pictures, I feel as if I am there with them, part of those moments filled with nature’s peace and the warmth of friendship.
Some journeys are not ours, yet we feel them deeply, as if they are our own stories.