After 35 Winters Of Wandering

Shankaracharya Temple (also called Jyeshteshwara) sits on top of Shankaracharya Hill in Srinagar, and for the common folk it is a mix of awe, faith and a bit of everyday magic. The temple isn’t just stone; it is a breath of calm, a place where the mountain, the lake and faith all meet, and where everyday hopes get a moment of elevation, both literally and spiritually.

After thirty years of exile, I finally stood not on the stone steps of the temple, but at the base where the hill fell away into a sigh of dusk and memory. The hilltop, crowned by the ancient Shankaracharya shrine, rose like a silent sentinel watching the valley that had once been home.

My eyes were wet, tears spilling like melted snow. 

The climb that should have been a prayer felt impossible; my feet, heavy with loss, refused to rise and sank into the cold earth, the wind whispering through pine needles, carrying fragments of a past that no longer belonged to me.

Around me, visitors laughed, their faces lit by sunrise, sharing stories of peace and of wishes offered to Shiva.

Their joy shone bright and unburdened, a contrast that cut deeper in. 

I listened to their chatter, their easy reverence, and felt a knot tighten in my chest: happiness that didn’t belong to me.

I spoke to strangers, their smiles warm, their words gentle:

You should go up, feel the view.”  

I could only smile back, a smile cracked by grief, and say,

Maybe someday.” 

The valley below stretched, Dal Lake shimmering, mountains hugging the horizon, a reminder that beauty persists even when you are stuck. 

My sorrow was a quiet hymn, a prayer not of words but of silence reverberating through rocks.

Three women, dressed in the modest attire of another faith, approached, their smiles soft, eyes full of curiosity and kindness.

One of them extended a small cloth bundle of prasad, sweet, fragrant, blessed by the mountain’s shrine; without a word of hesitation I took it, feeling the warmth of their hands seep into my palm.

I looked at them, heart heavy yet humbled, and said,

I am just a visitor like you, soaking in the scenic beauty of Kashmir.”

 

“I wish I could have taken you home, shown you how hospitable we truly are.”

Their laughter was gentle, their reply simple. 

In that instant, the contrast sharpened: their joy, my sorrow, their belonging, my displacement. 

The prasad, a symbol of peace crossing faiths, rested on my tongue, sweet and bitter at once.

I realised hospitality isn’t bound by religion or history; it lives in the hand that offers and the heart that accepts.

I wanted to give them a piece of my story, a glimpse of the Kashmir I carry inside, a mix of loss, love and lingering hope.

Yet all I could offer was a grateful nod, a whispered prayer for their well-being, and the promise that someday, perhaps, I will climb these steps with them beside me.

Left with fragmented memory, the stone steps I never tread, the bell I never rang, the incense I never smelled, all turned to ash in the wind.

Yet the temple stands, indifferent, majestic, as if waiting for a return that may never come.