Home.

A thousand words assail me every time I have thought of that realm. A profusion which has prevented me from putting down a single word on paper. Trying to write about yesteryear has led me to a mind empty of suitable words.

It was a year! ago. I had set foot on the sacred lands of Spiti. It is difficult to acknowledge that it has been a year already. Spiti never leaves. And that is what I have been trying to tell people. Everyone that I have talked to about my trip, know that I have failed miserably in conveying how I feel.

Spiti is home. I carry it in my bones. I have breathed in its winds. Every fold, every crevice felt like I’ve been there before. When I think back and see those mountains rising above me, I realise that is where I’m alive, that is where my breath lives.

I have never felt more inadequate with words than now.

I think of that place, and it manifests itself like another reality. An existence which isn’t. Until you have crossed the Rohtang pass, Spiti isn’t. For all I knew, Spiti was just in my mind.

Now, it always is. Spiti will endure. Time flows differently here. Time flows through everything that is still.

I know I’ll find it exactly as I left it. The sheer cliffs; the goats, the horses, grazing high up; the great river, the monastery, the sunset. The wide expanse which your sight can never span. The travelers you meet. The energy.

My Home.