Ask me about a place where mountains pierce the sky. Or where the wind hums ancient lullabies through apricot orchards. And I’ll tell you about the mornings there, when the first rays of the sun kiss the snow-capped peaks, turning them into sentinels of light. Or the way the valley awakens, with the soft murmurs of the river, and the azan softly weaving through the air nearby.

Ask me about a village where unfamiliar paths lead to familiar hearts. Strangers destined to be your companions. Faces that wear the stories of their ancestors. Smiles that carry the warmth of generations untouched by haste. “Sit down”, they say. “Do you need anything?”, a chai or a conversation would follow. Else, the simplicity of shared presence becomes all that matters.

Ask me how I am cared for. Fragrant biryani. The warm, flaky chapati. Maybe the sweet, sticky apricot jam that tastes like summer in a jar. This wanderer comes from afar, but every meal takes centre stage whosoever roof I seek shelter in. Never just a form of sustenance, but an act of love. A sacred space I am repeatedly invited into.

Ask me about the peace that settles over the valley at dusk. Or the sense of stillness that wraps around you like a comforting blanket. Flowing gently in between, the rivers carve paths like forgotten love letters. It cradles the secrets of a thousand years. Traces of settlements I had hope to visit, now unfolding before my own eyes. Observing traditions, routines and ways of life that as enchanting as the first time my feet found me here. 

Ask me of a sanctuary where the soul breathes freely and I will point you towards Hunza.

View video travelogue here.