Back to the Nature

Arav was once a simple boy from the hills — a dreamer with sun-kissed cheeks and eyes full of wonder. His village, nestled in the folds of the Himalayan valley, was a place where time moved slowly. He spent his childhood chasing butterflies, climbing trees, and listening to his grandmother’s stories under starlit skies.

But like many young dreamers, Arav yearned for more. He wanted the world — the shimmering city lights, fame, fast cars, and endless applause. And so, one monsoon morning, he packed his dreams and boarded a bus to the city.

The city was everything he imagined and more. Glittering buildings towered above, music blared through neon-lit streets, and people bustled with a sense of urgency. Arav became a fashion photographer — admired, envied, and celebrated. His face appeared in magazines, his name sparkled on billboards. He had what most people would call success.

Yet, something was missing.

He found himself surrounded by noise, yet deeply lonely. His laughter was rehearsed. His photographs were praised, but they lacked soul. The boy who once captured fireflies now captured fleeting moments of artificial beauty. In the pursuit of everything, he had lost something precious — himself.

One sleepless night, as Arav scrolled through old pictures, he stumbled upon a photo of him as a child — barefoot, laughing by a riverside, a garland of wildflowers around his neck. Tears welled up. That was the real him. And in that moment of silence, he made a decision.

He left the city behind.

He didn’t tell anyone. He simply packed a small bag, turned off his phone, and took the first train back to the mountains. The air, crisp and pine-scented, greeted him like an old friend. The mountains stood tall, unchanged, whispering stories to the clouds.

Arav trekked for hours until he reached his childhood home. It was worn, but familiar. His grandmother was gone, but her spirit lingered in the scent of her old books, the rustle of prayer flags, the creak of the wooden floors.

He spent days reconnecting — walking barefoot on damp grass, bathing in icy rivers, and watching birds sketch stories in the sky. He began photographing again, but this time, the pictures breathed — a drop of dew on a leaf, a child’s laughter echoing in the hills, a yak herder humming an old tune.

His work changed.

People noticed. Not for its gloss, but for its truth. Exhibitions called. Magazines featured his nature diaries. Yet Arav no longer chased fame. He had found his rhythm — one that beat in sync with the earth.

He was no longer lost.

Back in the heart of the hills, amidst the soft hum of nature, he found the boy he had once been. And with him, he found peace.

"Contrary to popular belief," Arav wrote once in a letter to a young fan, "great opportunities don’t just rely on sheer luck. Sometimes, they hide in the quiet corners of your soul — waiting for you to go back and find them."